Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

It took just a few minutes to find what he was looking for. No Anders Andersson. He scrolled up and down, looking to see if there were any other names that might give a clue about the girl’s activities, noting any that did not tally against the list of friends from the Hastie boy’s party. And texts? What messages might she have kept stored in this phone? Lorimer’s gloved fingers moved across the tiny screen, seeking something that could give him a clue. He pursed his lips as he stared at the message boxes. They were empty. Had she been a fastidious girl, clearing every message that had been read? Or, he thought, had she been afraid to keep any messages lest her secrets be discovered? And was there a missing sim card somewhere in the Anniesland flat?

One way or another, Lorimer had the feeling that they needed to find this young man, wherever he was. And, as he re-signed the paper on the clipboard, another name came to mind — one that might just offer some explanations about both Brian Hastie and Anders Andersson.

Strathclyde University was situated to the east of George Square, a conglomeration of buildings that stretched from the old red sandstone of Royal College almost as far as the Royal Infirmary. Livingstone Tower was a rude finger of concrete and glass pointing skywards and, as he craned his neck to watch the clouds scudding past, Lorimer had the momentary sensation that the entire block was shifting sideways through space. He looked down at his watch, blinking to stop the whirling feeling in his head. It was just after ten o’clock, a perfect time to catch the lecturer before he set off for his next class at eleven.

Dirk McGregor’s office was near the top of the building. Lorimer squeezed into the lift beside a gaggle of girls who were all clutching laptop bags and chattering away, quite ignoring the tall stranger by their side. Had Eva ever stood here, joining in the gossip? Of course, she must have used this lift countless times, but somehow Lorimer imagined Eva Magnusson keeping a little aloof from the other students, watching them as if from the outside. Once again that face flashed into his mind, the dead girl like a sleeping angel. She had seemed perfect in death but now he was beginning to know the flawed reality so much better, this other Eva whose life had been full of secrets.

The lift doors pinged open and he followed the crowd out into the landing. A sign with room numbers was fixed to the wall and he made his way along a corridor, losing the noisy girls as they turned into a lecture theatre.

‘Come in,’ a voice called and Lorimer opened the door.

Dirk McGregor stood up suddenly. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Nice to see you too, Mr McGregor,’ Lorimer replied smoothly. ‘Mind if I sit down? Your office said that I might find you here between classes.’

McGregor’s face paled. ‘You told my office…?’

‘That I needed to speak to you concerning some of your students,’ Lorimer said, taking a seat opposite the lecturer who had sunk back into his own chair as though winded.

‘What…?’

‘Two students on the same course as Eva Magnusson,’ Lorimer continued, ignoring the man’s discomfiture. ‘Brian Hastie and Anders Andersson. Neither one of them seems to have come back this term. Thought you might know why.’

‘Is that all?’ McGregor leaned back, hands behind his head. ‘Come in all this way just for that? No wonder our tax bill’s so bloody high when a senior officer spends time on such trivial details,’ he declared, his handsome face twisted into a sneer.

Lorimer’s own expression remained completely impassive, the years of practice interviewing cocksure thugs paying off at times like this. ‘The two students,’ he said again. ‘Can you tell me why they have not returned to the university?’

McGregor was now swinging nonchalantly in his chair. ‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘Hastie’s on long-term sick leave with glandular fever. Might even have to repeat the year. And the Swedish lad was an exchange student. Probably not on the main lists you plods looked at,’ he added gleefully. ‘Only here till Christmas.’ He shrugged. ‘That all you wanted to know?’

‘Their home addresses and any other contact details would be useful,’ Lorimer replied mildly.

‘Ask the office.’ McGregor stood up once more. ‘Looks like you’re good at doing that,’ he snapped.

McGregor was only guilty of churlish behaviour, Lorimer told himself as he walked back across the city. Yet the fear in the lecturer’s eyes had been unmistakable. What had he expected from the policeman’s unheralded visit? And was the presence of a senior police officer in that office some sort of a threat to his safe little world? He had been anxious that his wife knew nothing of his affair with Eva Magnusson, something Lorimer had managed to contain so far but without any promise that such knowledge would not come out in the future. He gritted his teeth: someone would get the sharp end of his tongue for this. Failing to search all of the student databases was just sheer carelessness.

Kirsty would be disappointed: there were two reasonable explanations for the missing students. Yet there was still an unanswered question about Andersson: why had Eva Magnusson kept him a secret from her flatmates and, presumably, from her father?

Colin slipped back into his cell, used now to its confines, sometimes even welcoming the peace and quiet when his cell mate, or ‘co-pilot’ as they called them in here, was away on a work detail.

He had dreamed about Eva last night, a dream from which he had awoken with tears on his cheeks. It had felt so real, hearing her voice, as if she were really there again. He slumped onto his back on the bunk and felt under the mattress for his notebook. He had written The Swedish Girl on the front and in idle moments had decorated the title with lines and curls, the sort of thing that reminded him of doodling on his school jotters.

Pulling the pen from the spiral binding, Colin began to write.

It is her voice I miss as much as her very presence , he began. How can I begin to describe that voice? He paused, hearing the dream in his head once again. She sounded like a lady , he continued. Refined, but not in an English Home Counties sort of way, that was one of the beauties of it. Eva spoke like an actress, as if she had learned to wipe out any trace of an accent . He smiled to himself, remembering how they had all laughed one morning when the girl had come out with a really Glaswegian expression. What had it been? He shook his head, her exact words failing to return, only the memory of how funny it had sounded coming from her lips.

Hers was a soft voice, melodious, the sort of voice that a singer might have had, though we never heard her sing, not even when there was music playing in the flat . He stopped, pen poised, remembering another time, his cheeks flushing as the images flooded back, unbidden. And that husky tone , he wrote, hand shaking slightly, when she had me in bed, urging me on .

Colin stopped writing. He couldn’t go back there, no matter how much the professor wanted him to describe Eva. He simply could not relive any of that night. Yet the girl’s voice was in his head right at this moment in time, like a ghost visiting his brain.

Did the dead hover somewhere up there? Was Eva’s spirit still able to make him feel that anguish and pain? And, he thought, putting both hands over his ears, did he really deserve to suffer like this?

‘A sim card?’ Kirsty’s head turned towards the door of Eva’s room. ‘I could try,’ she said. ‘Okay. I’ll call you back if I find anything.’

Kirsty’s eyes gleamed as she put the phone down on the polished hall table. Now at least there was something positive to look for. Taking a deep breath she turned the key in Eva’s door and stepped in once again.