Alex Gray - The Swedish Girl

The last time she had seen him, Kevin had twitched and fidgeted in front of her, his OCD worse than ever. She’d talked to him about Caitlin, encouraging him to express his feelings, but the harder she’d tried, the more bottled up he’d become. Then, as if he had simply had enough, Kevin had stood up, walked out of her room and she had not seen him again since that December day.

Professor Brightman was part of the investigative team, the officer had told her, and somehow that reassured the psychiatrist. Gwen laid down the pencil, her hand stretched out to the diary that sat to one side of her desk: all her patients’ details were there, safe from prying eyes. Her face was impassive as she flicked through the notebook, coming to a stop as she reached the page with Kevin Haggarty’s address.

DS Wilson turned up the collar of his winter coat as they left the warmth of the car. It had been a short drive across town, past the fancy new yuppie flats lining the banks of the Clyde over the Squinty Bridge towards the Glasgow Science Centre before reaching the old part of Govan, a remnant of the Dickensian streets that had been ripped apart and modernised in the eighties. There was still a vestige of dignity lingering on these Victorian red-sandstone tenements, at least from a distance. Close up they looked what they were: run down and dishevelled — even the graffiti was poor stuff. There was a black metal gate across the entrance to the tenement that swung open at the detective sergeant’s touch. A few stairs separated the pavement from an inner door, its dark red paintwork gouged out by scores of wilful kids trying out their knife skills.

‘Not exactly the place you’d choose if you were the depressive sort,’ Wilson remarked to Jo Grant.

The DI glanced upwards and shook her head. ‘There but for the grace of God,’ she murmured.

Haggarty’s flat was on the ground floor and Wilson pressed the lowest button on the metal keypad then waited.

‘Could be out,’ Jo Grant suggested.

Then, as though to give the lie to her words, there was a buzzing sound followed by a metallic click. She nodded at Wilson and they both entered the building.

There was a short flight of steps rising to the landing for the ground floor flats, lit only by a lamp fixed into the cement wall between the two houses.

‘Would you look at this,’ Wilson remarked, pointing at the door. Instead of nameplates there were several scraps of paper held by drawing pins, showing the names of whatever tenants happened to be currently in residence. One of them was Haggarty’s.

‘Here today and gone tomorrow,’ Jo Grant remarked.

‘Well, let’s hope our man’s here at any rate.’

A brisk knock brought the sound of scurrying feet and then the door swung open to reveal a rat-faced young man, a brown dressing gown wrapped hastily around his skinny body. He looked at the two police officers through dirty, lank hair that hung in strings across his waxen skin.

‘What d’youse want?’ he growled.

‘Kevin Haggarty?’ Jo held out her warrant card.

‘’S no’ here,’ the man replied. ‘What’re ye wantin’ him fur?’

‘May we come in?’ Jo asked, stepping into the hallway before the man had time to refuse. ‘Funny smell here, don’t you think, DS Wilson?’ she said, her nose tilting upwards as she sniffed. The unmistakably pungent smell of cannabis filled the flat.

‘Aye,’ Wilson grinned. ‘Been having a party or do you grow the stuff in the bathroom?’

‘Are youse here tae see Kevin or what?’ The man stood to one side now, shivering as he regarded the two detectives.

‘Och, aye, but maybe you could tell us a wee bit about Mr Haggarty, seeing as how you both live here,’ Wilson cajoled. ‘Is there a kitchen down this corridor? I’m fair gasping for a cup of tea, son.’ He nodded towards the end of the hallway.

‘Ye cannae jist come in here an’-’

‘And what, son?’ Wilson turned suddenly, his face darkening. ‘Ask questions? Maybe if we get the right answers we won’t mind that funny smell, what d’you think, Inspector Grant?’

The man eyed them in turn, then gave a resigned shrug before leading them along the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum.

‘Which one is Kevin’s room?’ Jo asked as they passed several closed doors on either side.

‘Wan nearest the kitchen.’ The man jerked his thumb at a badly painted door that had once been white and was now edged in greying patches where countless fingers had pushed it open.

‘Him and Caitlin stayed there,’ the man offered. ‘’Fore she OD’d.’ He shrugged off the girl’s death in a careless manner that made the detective sergeant shudder.

Wilson let the others walk ahead so that he could try the door but it was locked fast.

The smell of cannabis was even stronger in the kitchen, he decided, but at least it was warm.

‘What d’you call yourself when you’re signing on, son?’ Wilson asked the man as he leaned against the door jamb.

‘Rab Green,’ he replied, taking a dingy-looking kettle jug and filling it at the sink.

‘Well, Rab, maybe you’d be good enough to give us a few details about Mr Haggarty.’

The man turned and set the kettle back on its plinth. ‘Och, Kevin’s no’ well. Hasnae been great since Caitlin died. Ah mean, how wid ye feel, eh? Wakin’ up alongside a deid body?’

‘When did this happen?’ Jo asked.

Green twisted his mouth as he thought. ‘Cannae right mind. The funeral wis aboot the middle o’ December.’ He stood, a vacant expression in his eyes. ‘Naw, she musta died aboot the end of November or that. Sorry, cannae mind. Ah’m not very good wi’ dates anat.’ He grinned at them apologetically, showing uneven and discoloured teeth.

Green fished behind a bread bin where a pile of leaflets and letters were stashed, drawing out a leaflet.

‘Here,’ he said, holding it out for them to see.

It was an order of service for a funeral, the picture of a young smiling woman on the front page.

‘That’s her there. Caitlin. Least that’s how she musta looked at wan time.’ He sniggered. ‘Wasnae like that when she lived here, poor wee cow. Junkies don’t look that pretty after a while.’ He laughed again, but there was no real mirth in his eyes as he gazed over Wilson’s shoulder at the picture of Caitlin Alice Muir.

Alistair Wilson stared at the photocopied picture and swallowed hard.

The dead woman looking back at them bore an uncanny resemblance to both Fiona Travers and Lesley Crawford.

‘What now?’ Wilson asked as he fastened his seat belt.

‘Find Kevin Haggarty,’ Jo replied. ‘Dr Lockhart says she can’t predict what might happen once he stops taking his medication but he has shown erratic behaviour before when that happened.’

‘You think the girlfriend’s death has triggered something?’

Jo sighed. ‘Who knows? You know what Prof Brightman thinks about that one. And did you see that photograph?’ She glanced at Wilson. ‘Something weird going on.’

Alistair Wilson looked back at the DI who was biting her lip. She doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions this time, he thought. And who could blame her? But there was more than just a suspicion that they were after the right man this time.

‘Aye,’ he nodded, put the Astra into gear and pulled away from the pavement, glad to be leaving the dingy street behind him.

Then, as they turned away from the shadowy tenements and headed back towards the city, Alistair Wilson felt a sudden surge of gratitude for his own ordered life with a wife and home that awaited him at the end of every day.

‘This is the one.’ Corinne unbuckled her safety belt and turned to the old man beside her. ‘Look, Dad, see how nice it is, and look at the view we’ll have!’