Alex Gray: The Swedish Girl

‘So what made him…?’ Kirsty stopped, reluctant to put the image of the hanging man into words.

Lorimer shook his head. That was another story, one that he had pieced together in his own mind. An aged father and a grasping daughter, the one fearful of discovery, the other seizing her chance to hold his terrible crime over him for the rest of his days. Corinne Kennedy had wanted a life away from the drudgery she had endured for so many years and had seen her father as her only way out. The car, the bungalow by the seaside, the old man under her thumb as she reminded him daily that she knew what he had done. He’d never be able to prove it but the mendacious look in the woman’s eyes had told him more than any confession.

The old man had faced a different sort of imprisonment, Lorimer guessed. A life with his daughter would have taken away the last vestiges of his freedom. And in the end, a life not worth living.

‘Perhaps he just couldn’t live with himself any longer,’ Lorimer told Kirsty. It was a sort of truth, after all.

‘Professor Brightman was right after all,’ she said. ‘He didn’t think Colin had killed Eva or that it was some random stranger. He always said that she knew who her killer was. And she did, didn’t she?’

Lorimer sighed again. ‘Maybe none of you really knew Derek McCubbin,’ he said slowly. ‘Maybe that was the problem. He was an old cantankerous man who kept folk at a distance, imagining the worst of them. Not your fault,’ he added as Kirsty opened her mouth to protest.

‘Anyway,’ he said, glancing at his watch, ‘isn’t it time you were getting back to the flat? Thought you’d be baking a cake for your pal when he comes home.’

It was still dark when he awoke and for a minute or two Colin could not recall where he was. Then the bed creaked under him and he remembered. Home .

Outside his room he could hear the sounds of someone clattering pans in the kitchen. Of course. Dad had said he was taking the day off work. Can’t have my boy waking up all alone , he’d murmured as they’d said goodnight.

He and Thomas had sat in the living room, drinking beers and talking till the wee small hours. Not about Eva, nor about the weeks spent incarcerated in HMP Barlinnie. No, it had just been catching up with daft stuff like how Celtic was doing in the league and what was going on in the neighbourhood. There would be a few sorry-looking faces avoiding their stares, Thomas had told him grimly. The newspapers would be full of it today: already there had been online reports about Derek McCubbin’s suicide and Colin Young’s release from Barlinnie.

He was surprised the phone wasn’t ringing already, but then hadn’t Dad said something about unplugging it to give him a wee bit of peace?

Colin turned onto his side, relishing the feel of the duvet against his skin, breathing in the fresh newly washed smell of it. He sighed, remembering. Eva had always insisted on them using that lavender fabric softener in the laundry. Would there be any of it left in the cupboard under the kitchen sink? Funny how things like that popped into his head, wee reminders of how life was before…

Thomas had told him he was nuts wanting to go back to Merryfield Avenue but Kirsty and the others were there and he had to resume his lectures sometime soon if he were to stay on course. He’d texted her last night, told her he was fine. Colin’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile. That ubiquitous catch-all word: ‘fine’.

It would take a while, the prison governor had told him. It always did. He’d shaken Colin’s hand, wished him luck for his future. Tears had smarted in Colin’s eyes then, as he realised that he did have a future after all.

He’d said nothing to the governor about what he’d done for Billy Brogan or about Sam, the passman. That was all behind him now and he could forget them for ever if he wanted to.

The first rays of a cold January sun filtered through the curtains, hitting the notebook that lay on his bedside table. He had sent so many letters to Professor Brightman, opening his heart and mind about Eva Magnusson. The Swedish Girl would never be finished now but perhaps his weeks inside one of Scotland’s most notorious jails could provide material for a different story altogether…?

‘You’re going to do what ?’ Alistair Wilson’s jaw dropped in astonishment as Kirsty faced him, arms folded across her chest.

‘But you’re doing so well, pet,’ Betty pleaded. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to finish your degree first then think about it later?’

‘You have no idea what sort of life it is for a lassie in the police,’ Alistair fumed. ‘They need to work harder, do more to prove themselves as good as, if not better than, their male colleagues.’

‘I know, Dad,’ Kirsty said with a sigh. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t been exposed to the job in recent weeks.’

‘We thought you wanted to get away, go abroad to work in the hotel trade,’ Betty protested.

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind,’ Kirsty said firmly. ‘I’ve already downloaded my application and sent it away.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe they won’t take me.’

‘Oh, I bet they will. Determined wee madam like you!’

Alistair Wilson stared at her for a moment then his face changed as he nodded, remembering what Lorimer had said about his daughter: She has a knack of getting under the skin of people she meets. And wasn’t that just like the detective superintendent himself?

He grinned suddenly. ‘Ach, well, two polis in the family, why not?’