Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

She’d gasped the first time that Eva had pulled aside these doors and now Kirsty recalled the Swedish girl’s uncharacteristic frown as she noticed her flatmate’s reaction. Kirsty had wanted to blurt something out about it, but had held her tongue instead: It was completely anal , she’d muttered later in the sanctuary of her own room. But Eva Magnusson had explained sweetly that she had been taught to keep her clothes tidy and it was easier to find something if it was arranged in a colour scheme. Kirsty had tried it for a bit but after a week the jeans and sweatshirts were back to their usual higgledy-piggledy mess, over the back of a chair or lying in a corner of the room.

Reaching out, Kirsty touched the cashmere cardigan that Eva had worn so often. She let the soft garment slip off its hanger then held it to her face, breathing deeply. The inhalation ended in a sigh as she recognised the girl’s favourite perfume, and with it the memory of that first night when they had all sat in the lounge drinking vintage champagne in the candlelight. The air had been redolent with that scent of sweet lime and cedar; it was the smell of new beginnings and autumn leaves. But now the perfume simply reminded Kirsty of death and decay. She shivered again, ready to leave the room undisturbed, to admit to herself that there was nothing she could do to change what had happened. With a sigh she put the cardigan back on to its silk padded hanger and replaced it on the rail next to a chiffon blouse of palest pink scattered with tiny embroidered rosebuds.

This wasn’t what she had come for but it was almost as if the dead girl’s influence still reached out from beyond the grave, her fey beauty beguiling the policeman’s daughter. Eva had fascinated her, an ordinary girl from Glasgow, there was no denying it, Kirsty knew. You were a good friend to her , Henrik had claimed, and Kirsty had nodded, but was it true? Had she been a good friend? Or had she merely acted as the house mother, cooking up lots of great food for them all, keeping Eva company whenever she wanted a girl to chat to? Blinking back tears of remorse as she looked around the room, Kirsty wondered for the first time if she had ever really got to know the Swedish girl at all.

Colin had known her, certainly in the biblical sense. Eva was — not was: had been, she told herself crossly — what? A gorgeous girl who might have enjoyed the odd sexual fling with her friends? Had she really fancied poor old Colin? Or had that been just something that had happened at a party? No boy had ever come up to the flat since they’d moved in, Kirsty realised, though God knows Eva could have had her pick of any boy at Strathclyde. Unless…? Who had been in the flat that night after the party? Not Colin; no, not Colin, she told herself, firmly. That was something she had to hold onto, that belief in the lad’s innocence. Had Gary or Rodge seen her with another lad? Surely they’d have said something to Detective Inspector Grant?

As the thoughts swirled around her head, Kirsty moved around the room, patting the lace-edged pillows, picking up and replacing the matching boudoir cushion, checking the bookshelves for something, anything that might provide a clue to what had really happened that terrible night. Trouble is, she thought gloomily, I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

‘Kirsty?’

‘Oh my God! You gave me a fright!’ Kirsty put her hand to her throat as she saw Roger standing frowning in the doorway.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, nodding into the room. ‘Thought that was all locked up after the police…?’

‘It’s okay, Rodge, Mr Magnusson said I could come in and sort Eva’s stuff out,’ Kirsty reassured him.

‘Funny kind of time to do it,’ Roger remarked, eyeing her askance.

‘Well, I didn’t want to disturb you or Gary…’ Kirsty began lamely. ‘Hey, seeing we’re both up, d’you fancy a cup of tea?’

Switching off the light and locking the door behind her, Kirsty followed the large figure of her flatmate into the kitchen, slipping the key back into the voluminous pocket of her dressing gown.

He would find it hard to get back to sleep now, Roger Dunbar realised, and it was nothing to do with all that tea swilling around inside his stomach. He closed his eyes but all he could see was the shape of a stretcher between the two undertakers as they carried Eva’s body out to the waiting van. Rodge had never understood that word ‘closure’, feeling it to be just so much American psychobabble, but now he felt an overwhelming need to see Eva just one more time, just to say goodbye to her. Was this what it meant, then: closing a door on images that refused to disappear behind tired eyelids? Seeing the room downstairs, that room flushed pink like a girl’s cheeks after sex… Bloody hell! What was he thinking? And why had that image suddenly come into his head?

Remember the good times , Kirsty had told him kindly. Though, God! It must be just as hard for her, harder, maybe, since she was adamant that Colin had nothing to do with Eva’s death. Yet he’d seen him with his own eyes, hadn’t he? Slipping out of the door not long after the Swedish girl had upped and left the party. He hadn’t told that police inspector woman, had he? And he’d bottled it tonight as well. Couldn’t bring himself to tell Kirsty that wee Colin had gone out after Eva, following her all the way home. Nobody had said that Roger Dunbar would be called as a witness so he didn’t have to worry about telling any lies, did he? Even if this was, perhaps, a lie by omission.

So why, lying here in his bed under the rooftop, was he feeling such a sense of guilt?

‘Your daughter came to see me the other night,’ Lorimer said, watching the man’s face to gauge his reaction.

‘Oh.’ The word dropped like a stone as the detective sergeant grimaced and looked down at his feet. ‘She’s still on about Young being innocent then? Look, I’m sorry she bothered you…’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it,’ Lorimer said, putting a reassuring hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘But I did want you to know. If anything should come up that suggests the presence of a stranger in the Anniesland house then the Fiscal would definitely want to take another look. And I wouldn’t want another team being involved.’

‘Kirsty had no right-’

‘She cares about the lad,’ Lorimer interrupted the older man firmly, ‘and what do we know about the relationships that went on in that flat? Kirsty is far better placed to make judgements of that sort. And besides,’ he broke off thoughtfully, ‘I reckon your girl is pretty sorted. She’s not the dramatic, emotional sort, is she? Struck me as a young lady with her head screwed on. And she has the knack of getting under the skin of the people she meets.’

‘Aye, well, neither Betty nor I go in for any kind of histrionics. And Kirsty was always a sensible lass.’ DS Wilson frowned for a moment. ‘There isn’t anything we can do though, is there? I mean, Jo Grant’s got it all done and dusted, hasn’t she?’

‘No, you’re right.’ Lorimer’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. ‘Unless something new appears, it looks as though Colin Young will have to face a trial in a few months’ time.’

The prison library was a lot smaller than he had imagined it would be, just a few shelves of books, really, when all was said and done. The librarian wore an ordinary jacket and trousers, a simple lanyard slung around his grey V-neck sweater, unlike the uniformed officers with bunches of keys attached to their belts who attended him throughout the day. The other inmates seemed to know the pack drill so Colin watched as they lined up at the little desk with their returned books. The librarian was perhaps in his late thirties, a thin man whose pallor was not helped by the harsh fluorescent light shining down on him from the ceiling. He reminded him of Mr Armitage, one of his history teachers at school. As the librarian chatted to each of the prisoners, Colin noted the way he swept a hand over his thinning hair from time to time, a nervous gesture that his history teacher had repeated during every lesson. Once all the boys in his Higher class had mimicked this but Armitage had been in full and eager flow about the Battle of Leipzig and hadn’t noticed a thing.