‘Hi, thought you’d want to know the results so far, in case Jo or Alistair discuss this with you,’ she began.
‘Yes, thanks. I appreciate that,’ Lorimer told her.
‘Well.’ Rosie took a deep breath before continuing. ‘We were right about the manual strangulation. But there are no fingerprints or sweat traces from the neck area so whoever did it wore gloves.’
‘Hm.’ Lorimer nodded, still listening intently. Not a moment of fury, then, but possibly a premeditated killing.
‘In all probability she was attacked from behind with something like a club. We’ve got photographs of the contusions but it’s hard to tell what might have made that mark. We’re working on it, though. And the other main thing to say is that she’d had sex some time in the evening. We’ve got good samples so our friends up at Pitt Street will be rejoicing about that.’
‘Any signs of bruising in that area?’
‘Nope. I’d say it’s been consensual sex. Her knickers were still on, remember, and there was absolutely nothing to suggest that she had been hurt in any way.’
‘Other than being choked to death.’
‘Other than that, yes,’ Rosie agreed drily.
There was a moment’s silence while Lorimer digested the facts. Had it been his case, he would have wanted to know all about the girl’s movements earlier that night but he trusted Jo Grant to have handed out actions that would result in answers to such questions. He would have to be careful not to interfere in another officer’s case, especially at this crucial stage in an investigation.
‘Well, thanks for that,’ he said at last. ‘You will let me know straight away if there are any developments, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘What about the girl’s family?’
‘Oh, the father’s coming in to see me tomorrow. Couldn’t get a flight from Stockholm any earlier. Not looking forward to that,’ Rosie sighed.
‘Okay, good luck,’ Lorimer said. ‘Want to speak to Maggie?’
He handed over the telephone to his wife who had been listening to the exchange, her Sunday supplement discarded on the table in front of her.
While the two women chatted, Lorimer sat back and thought about the case, and for a moment he wished for the days when he was a detective inspector, experiencing the familiar adrenalin rush that a new murder case always brought.
CHAPTER 11
Jo Grant ran her slim fingers through her dark hair, feeling the short gelled ends and wondering for the hundredth time why she had given that hair stylist such leeway. But it was a damn sight easier to wash and dry every morning and there would be no grubby little ned to grab a handful of her long hair as he was going out of the interview room. She could still remember the drug addict’s breath in her face as he’d lunged at her before being carted back to the cells.
Great job, being a polis, her pal Heather had said as they’d met for drinks. Good pay and early retirement. Aye, right, Jo had been tempted to reply. You don’t know the half of it. And you wouldn’t want to.
It had been one hell of a weekend, from the call-out in the wee small hours of Saturday morning to the post-mortem she’d attended later that same day, and now she was back at Stewart Street at her desk, rummaging to find the files she had begun on the four students from Anniesland. They’d given statements on the night, of course, but some of these were a bit incoherent. Kirsty Wilson had been stunned into silence and at least two of the boys had seemed too drunk to focus properly.
Only Colin Young’s statement had been clear and to the point. Eva had been at the same party over in Kelvinbridge but she had left before the rest of them. He had been in the bathroom at the precise time she had left and had remembered looking for her, only to be told that she had gone home. Someone had made the usual joke about her turning into a pumpkin so he knew it must have been around midnight. When asked how she had gone home he had replied that Eva usually took a taxi back whenever they were out late.
The time she had left the party fitted nicely, Jo realised. If the girl had left just after midnight then she could easily have been back in the flat ten minutes later. And it was after one a.m. when Kirsty had found her lying in the lounge. Plenty time enough for someone to attack and kill a slip of a girl like that.
After giving what statements they could, the boys had all agreed to stay at a hotel in the city centre and come in with Kirsty Wilson this afternoon ‘to have another talk’ as the scene-of-crime manager had undoubtedly phrased it. ‘Helping the police with their enquiries’ was way too official and off-putting for four youngsters who had seemed deep in shock at the murder of their flatmate. Well, she’d really been their landlady, Jo mused, flicking through the thin pile of papers she had been given. Though the father had probably bought the place for his daughter, Eva Magnusson’s name was definitely on the title deeds. They’d uncovered those, and other papers, in a large bureau in the main lounge.
What else did she know about the deceased? White female, about a hundred and five pounds, five feet three and a half inches, blond hair and — Jo bit her lip, remembering the girl’s body before the post-mortem had begun — she’d had a face like an angel’s.
‘Stick to the facts,’ she growled under her breath as she read her notes. Born in Stockholm to Maryka and Henrik Magnusson, mother dying shortly after the birth. How unusual in this day and age, Jo frowned. No siblings. So Daddy hadn’t remarried, then? Not quite twenty years old. She put the first sheet aside and looked at the details of the girl’s education. Home tutored, apparently, then summer courses at Jönköping International Business School before applying to study at the University of Strathclyde for a degree in business and economics.
Jo shook her head, wondering. Poor kid had hardly been out in the real world until she’d left home to come to Glasgow. She sighed. Eva Magnusson hadn’t had much of a chance to spread her wings. Had her sheltered upbringing made her a vulnerable sort of creature, then? Prey to some of the more dangerous elements in this city? Well, she’d soon be finding out answers to these, and other questions, once the Swedish girl’s flatmates came in to see her.
Kirsty Wilson stood in her old bedroom, a heap of clothes scattered on the floor at her feet. What the hell did you wear to a police station to discuss your friend’s murder? A manic laugh threatened to escape as she realised the absurdity of her thought. All of yesterday Kirsty had veered between weeping and an awful numbness that had developed into a band of tension across her forehead. Mum had given her a couple of paracetamol at bedtime and she had been astonished to find that she had slept soundly until almost ten this morning.
Most of her clothes were still at the flat since Mum had practically bundled her out with only her jacket and bag lifted from the bed where she’d left them. Kirsty felt a surge of gratitude as she caught sight of the thick black tights and clean knickers placed over the back of the bedroom chair. Ever practical, Mum had washed them out for her, but somehow Kirsty could not face putting on the same clothes she had worn when she’d found Eva’s body. There were her old black Levi’s that were too tight for her now, but maybe she could yank the zip halfway up, hiding her stomach under a baggy jumper? She sighed. Mum and Dad would expect her to be a bit smarter than that, though, wouldn’t they? Well, she could just keep her jacket on. Anyhow, who was going to bother about what she looked like? She bit her lip again. Did it really matter what sort of impression she would make for that detective inspector?
Colin had texted her earlier to ask when she was going to Stewart Street and she’d called him back to say that her dad was willing to pick them all up if they wanted. He’d sounded strange on the phone, bone weary, his voice heavy as though he had been doped up with something. And maybe he had, Kirsty thought, wondering how the three boys had coped together yesterday. Saturdays at the flat were normally great. Sometimes she would do a great big fry-up for them all, even Eva who would tuck into her French toast or scrambled eggs. Then one of them would race downstairs to the newsagent’s for a paper and they’d spend ages deciding whether to see a film or stay in to watch The X Factor. It had all been so normal, Kirsty thought. So how could it have gone so wrong?