Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

Lorimer looked down at his coffee cup for a moment as though considering her words, leaving Kirsty to bite her lower lip, tense with hope.

‘What did you imagine I could do, Kirsty?’ he asked at last, his voice so gentle that the girl felt tears prick behind her eyelids.

‘I thought…’ She sniffed then gulped. ‘Thought you could investigate a bit more and see that it was all a mistake,’ she said quietly. But even as she spoke her words sounded foolish.

‘I can’t do that, Kirsty,’ Lorimer continued. ‘Now that Colin’s been charged it’s up to a court of law to decide if he’s guilty or not. Besides, I’m not even the senior investigating officer in this case. It would be quite impossible for me to go against a colleague,’ he explained. ‘And anyway, what grounds do you have for thinking that further investigation is needed?’

‘I know the sort of lad Colin is!’ Kirsty blurted out. ‘I just know he couldn’t have killed Eva. He… he really liked her,’ she stammered, colouring as though she had suddenly said too much.

‘Your loyalty does you credit, lass,’ Lorimer told her, ‘but if all you’ve got to go on are your feelings, how can that stand up in a court of law?’

Kirsty shook her head, too full of emotion to speak.

‘Listen,’ Lorimer continued. ‘If you really want to help Colin, then find something to substantiate these feelings.’

Kirsty looked up, a sudden hope flaring in her heart.

‘There would only be grounds for a further investigation if there was some kind of new evidence that pointed away from Colin. D’you understand?’

Kirsty nodded, looking at him intently, searching the light blue eyes for any sign that the detective might agree to help her. But there was only an expression of sympathy there, pity for a young woman who could not believe the worst of her friend.

Lorimer sighed as he rinsed out the mugs under the tap. She was a nice kid. Alistair and Betty had done a grand job with their only daughter, he thought, realising what courage it must have taken for Kirsty Wilson to have visited on the boy’s behalf. And it was quite her own idea; that much he believed. There had been no contact between the two flatmates since Colin Young had been taken to Barlinnie prison but Kirsty must have felt completely miserable to have lost not one but two friends so tragically. No wonder she was trying to salvage something from that emotional wreckage.

But it was absolutely true what he had told her: there really was nothing he could do for the boy now that he was on remand.

He laid the mugs on the draining board and picked up a towel to dry his hands, his eyes staring out at the darkening midwinter sky. There was something in that girl’s plea that gave him pause for thought. What if they’d got it wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been wrongly imprisoned, would it? Lorimer cast his mind back to a case where he had interviewed a young woman in Cornton Vale prison. That had been a hard one to decide, hadn’t it? But justice had prevailed in the end. It was all they could do, as police officers; bring the perpetrators of crime to the courts of law and let a judge and jury make the final decision.

The path outside the front door was slippery and Henrik had to put out a gloved hand to steady himself, catching hold of the edge of the wall before his feet gave way. For a moment he stood still, his breath coming in clouds before his face. Was this what it felt like to become old? Would he always feel this uncertainty beneath his feet, the lack of power in a body that was ageing day by painful day? The very air seemed to tremble as Henrik stood there, cold seeping into every pore of his being. Then, with a sigh, he pulled off his right glove to rummage in his coat pocket, and inserted the key into the big keyhole in the green door.

Even as he made his way up, Henrik Magnusson could feel his heart beating in his chest as though it was an effort to climb those flights of stairs. Was he coming down with some sort of an infection, perhaps? Marthe, his housekeeper, was forever telling him that air travel was notorious for spreading germs. But when had he last suffered any illness in his life? Henrik stopped suddenly on the landing below the flat, remembering. It had been shortly after Eva’s birth; he had fallen ill with a severe dose of flu, caught perhaps by standing at his wife’s graveside in the driving snow. He had taken to his bed, leaving the baby in the care of the woman who was to become Eva’s nurse throughout her childhood. He had not seen Marthe since the news of his daughter’s death: the telephone call to tell her had made him feel a physical pain as he heard the woman weep and Henrik was reluctant to repeat such an experience just yet. Perhaps grief did that to a man, he thought, made them weak and vulnerable, prey to any sort of virus that sought a host. He swallowed, feeling a rawness in his throat that seemed to confirm his thoughts, then, placing his hand on the ancient wooden banister, he pulled himself up the last few steps.

Kirsty was barely awake when she heard the door opening with a click. For one wild moment she sat up in bed, supposing it to be Colin, then the memories of what had happened came flooding back. Had it been the wind that night? Or had she been only feet away from the person who had killed her friend? Kirsty shivered, snuggling deeper below the duvet. She’d imagined it, right? That was what the senior investigating officer had implied anyway.

And right now it was probably Rodge or Gary coming back, and she wasn’t up to talking to either of them just yet.

‘Hello?’

The voice made Kirsty slide out of bed and grab her fleecy dressing gown from the peg on her door.

‘Mr Magnusson!’ Kirsty gasped as she padded into the darkened hallway. Then she stepped forward, seeing the big man slouched on one of the antique chairs. ‘Are you all right?’

She touched his coat sleeve, feeling the cold wrinkles of the sheepskin as she bent to look at him more closely. The handsome face was pale and gaunt, his brow beaded with sweat.

‘My God!’ she said. ‘You’re not well! C’mere. Let me help you. I’ll make you something hot to drink.’ She tucked her hand under his elbow as if to assist him up from the spindly chair.

‘Kirsty,’ he whispered, turning his face up to hers, and she could see the tears in his eyes as Eva’s father swallowed hard, unable to speak. But there was no need for words as the girl bent to hug the stricken man, feeling how cold his cheek was as she put her face to his.

Oh you poor, poor man! Kirsty wanted to say but she only sniffed back her own tears, determined not to upset him any further.

‘Come on through to the lounge,’ she told him. ‘I’ll light the fire and you can sit and get warm while I find you something to make you feel better. Okay?’

She watched intently as the big man heaved himself out of the chair and leaned against her.

‘C’mon, now, take it easy,’ she whispered, helping him along the hallway and into the big airy lounge at the far end.

‘Here,’ she said, ushering him into the wing chair nearest to the fire. Henrik sank into it heavily, his eyes refusing to meet her own. Was he embarrassed to be suffering this moment of weakness in front of a girl who was only his tenant? Perhaps it was her nightclothes, Kirsty thought, pulling the sash tighter around her body. What on earth must he be thinking, seeing her in those flannelette pyjamas decorated with cartoon cats and the white fleecy dressing gown that made her look like a big fat snowman?

She knelt down and lit the gas fire, turning the flame up to its highest before turning to check that he was all right. He sat as before, slumped into the chair, his face white and drawn, staring into the fire that had begun to burn quietly in the hearth.