Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

Kirsty took a deep breath. Dirk McGregor. She had known it was his class, but somehow seeing him in the flesh made everything so horribly real. The image of Eva’s dead body flashed into her mind, then the idea of the Swedish girl rolling in this man’s embrace…

Kirsty shook her head as if to dismiss the pictures. Concentrate on the here and now, she told herself firmly. Remember why you’re here.

If Dirk McGregor noticed a stranger in their midst then he was keeping it to himself, Kirsty thought as she listened to him giving the lecture. He was good, she had to admit, even giving her a wee inkling about business economics despite the fact that she had expected it to be way above her head. And he could make the class laugh. It was obvious that they enjoyed his lectures. She glanced around her at the eager faces fixed on the figure at the lectern, giving a rueful smile as she watched the girls in particular, eyes shining as they drank in McGregor’s words; it wasn’t difficult to see what the attraction had been for Eva. McGregor was a bit old, right enough, but, looking at his lean body and that charismatic grin, she decided that the lecturer may have been sex on legs in his younger days.

But it wasn’t McGregor Kirsty had come to see today. And, as the buzzer sounded for the end of class, she shivered, wondering if what she had planned might bring her any nearer to helping Colin Young end his time in prison.

‘Trainers? For me?’ Colin looked up at the old man who was smiling back at him.

‘Aye, present from an admirer,’ Sam chuckled. Then, seeing the alarm on the lad’s face he patted his shoulder. ‘Dinna you worry, son, it’s no’ frae ony o’ thae shirt lifters.’ He tapped the side of his nose and nodded. ‘These are frae the big man in E Block.’

Colin was sitting on the bench outside the showers looking doubtfully at the pair of sparkling white trainers in his hands.

‘He wants a wee favour off ye in return,’ Sam explained. ‘Nothing that’ll get ye intae bother. Jist a wee help wi’ passing oan a message fur him.’

Colin frowned. ‘Like on the phone, you mean?’

Sam’s smile turned into a grin, his tombstone teeth showing yellow against his pallid lips. ‘Naw, son. Jist pass on a verbal tae wan o’ the visitors next time ye’re in the place.’

‘How will I know who to speak to?’ Colin looked puzzled. All visits were so closely monitored, prisoners being allocated particular numbered tables where their visitors would await them.

‘Ye’ll be telt nearer the time, okay?’ Sam’s smile had disappeared and the old man stood up, clearly irritated at Colin’s questions.

‘And if I decide not to pass on a message?’ Colin asked, looking up.

Sam shook his head slowly. ‘Naw, son, ye cannae decide onything like that. Wance the big man asks for a favour, ye do it. Simple as that.’ And, looking him straight in the eyes, Sam drew a finger across his throat, turned and walked away, leaving Colin with the accursed trainers on his lap.

He watched as Sam disappeared then closed his eyes. What had he expected; a nice old man looking out for him? This place was full of criminals, Colin reminded himself, men who were adept at gulling the unwary. It wasn’t enough, seemingly, to keep his nose clean for the officers who were present at every corner. Now he had to be wary even of people who were incarcerated in a completely different block from himself.

‘Hello.’ Lesley tried to smile at the woman by her bedside, a nurse of some sort, her white cap edged in lace, her blue uniform different from the nurses who had been in to take her temperature and blood pressure.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Tired,’ Lesley whispered. ‘Sore.’

The sister glanced up at the drip that was attached to the patient’s hand.

‘If it gets too bad, press this,’ she said, indicating a red button a few inches up the plastic tubing. ‘It monitors the painkiller and will give you some relief.’ She paused, looking a little more closely into Lesley Crawford’s face. ‘Do you feel up to talking to the police?’

Lesley frowned then let her brow clear when a jolt of pain creased her temples. ‘Police?’

‘You were attacked, Lesley. The police need to speak to you, ask you questions. Are you up for that, do you think?’

Lesley turned her head away, remembering. Christmas Eve. She sighed and bit her lip, reluctant to let the memories return, to relive again the moment when it had happened.

‘I suppose so,’ she answered dully.

‘Good, I’ll let Detective Inspector Grant know. I think she’ll be in quite soon to see you.’

Lesley watched as the sister left the room. Then, letting her fingers work their way up the plastic tubing, she found the button and pressed it once, praying under her breath that the drug would quickly take effect.

The slim dark-haired woman who entered her room was not Lesley Crawford’s idea of a police officer. Her initial impression was of a young, pretty woman, the sort that Lesley would expect to see in one of the city bars she frequented after office hours. The injured woman’s gaze took in the fashionable skirt suit and the flat-heeled leather boots before travelling upwards where her stare was returned by eyes that held an expression of both warmth and sympathy.

‘Detective Inspector Grant,’ the police officer said, showing Lesley her warrant card before sitting in the grey plastic chair next to the bed. ‘The ward sister said you were told to expect me.’

Lesley stifled a sigh. Those keen eyes regarding her solemnly; what did they see? Another woman, like herself? Or a victim of crime? Suddenly she wanted to be left in peace but the policewoman had folded her hands on her lap as though she were waiting for Lesley to take the initiative.

‘What do you want to know?’ This time there was no masking the sigh that ended in a yawn.

‘Everything that you can tell me,’ DI Grant replied with a faint smile. ‘We need to catch the man who did this to you, Lesley. And we may be able to do that sooner rather than later with your help.’

The woman’s voice was firm but kind and Lesley knew there was no way she was going to be allowed to escape reliving the worst Christmas Eve of her life.

‘Where do I begin?’

‘How about telling me where you had been and what took you to the vicinity of the church car park,’ the detective suggested.

‘I was at a party,’ Lesley began. ‘That’s where it all started.’

The cafeteria seemed to be the best place to begin, Kirsty decided, following a string of students from the lecture theatre and along to a ground-floor snack bar. She took a deep breath and looked across at a table where some of them had congregated, bags and haversacks slung carelessly on the floor.

‘Hi, mind if I join you?’

‘Sure.’ A girl around her own age pulled out a vacant metal chair then shuffled around to make space for her.

Five pairs of eyes regarded her quizzically.

‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ a dark-haired lad with pencil-thin sideburns nodded at Kirsty, a faint smile on his face. ‘New to the course?’

Kirsty drew in a deep breath. Here goes, she thought.

‘My name is Kirsty Wilson. I live in the flat where Eva Magnusson was killed.’

There was a silence around the table as the five students stared at her. Then the girl next to her who had offered her a seat leaned forward and placed her hand on Kirsty’s arm.

‘You poor soul. That must have been awful for you.’

‘God, yes!’ a pretty Asian girl broke in. ‘Poor Eva. That was a terrible thing to have happened. A nice lassie like that, coming over from Sweden…’

‘You knew her, then?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Oh, aye,’ the first girl nodded. ‘Everyone knew her. I mean, you could hardly miss her, could you?’