Kirsty and the three boys got out of Alistair Wilson’s car and made their way to the main entrance of A Division, a three-storey building surrounded by modern blocks of flats. The blue building was dwarfed by the high-rise tenements on several sides but it still managed to make an impression, the thistle badge sitting proudly over the front door.
Colin Young lagged behind the others, his hand sliding on the steel rail, his feet reluctant to follow his flatmates into the building. Yet, even once inside the foyer where there was nothing that ought to have intimidated him, Colin told himself, why did he have this peculiar sensation of dread? You know fine, a little voice whispered in his ear. You’re feart in case the other lads tell the police what happened at the party. The glass doors and that blue mat were welcoming enough and Pete the Penguin with its jaunty police cap should have made him smile the way it had for Gary and Rodge who were pointing at the poster as they waited for someone to come for them. Colin’s eyes were on other things, however: the bit of pale blue material that looked like a discarded curtain and those two polystyrene cups, one inside the other sitting at an angle as if waiting to be taken away. Colin composed the words in his head. Was there a story to tell from these objects? Even as his mind skirted their possibilities a woman in a blue overall emerged from behind the sliding doors and lifted them off, flicking a weary duster over the wooden seats.
It was comfortable enough sitting with his back against the dark wood, curved to make waiting less of a drag, he supposed. Some clever engineer of ergonomics had no doubt won a prize for that design. But the chairs curved around the wall were fixed firmly by bollard-like tubes, making Colin wonder about the need to secure the fixtures and fittings against vandalism. His musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from the adjacent corridor.
‘Miss Wilson?’ A pleasant-faced constable had appeared through the wooden doors and then Kirsty was being ushered out, leaving the three boys alone in the reception area.
‘I just don’t understand it,’ she whispered, her hands clasped around the glass of water that DI Grant had given her. The policewoman had been kind but efficient, asking questions slowly and writing down the answers as though everything that Kirsty said really mattered. But it didn’t, of course. Nothing that she said would ever bring Eva back again.
‘Did Eva have a boyfriend, do you know?’ the DI asked.
Kirsty shook her head. ‘Och, she could’ve had her pick. Boys were always falling over themselves for her, but there was no one special,’ she replied. ‘Not that I know of anyway.’
There was a silence during which she sensed a disquiet from the police officer. She frowned. ‘What is it?’
Jo Grant gave a sigh. ‘Eva’s post-mortem examination shows that she had had sexual intercourse some time before she was killed,’ she said at last.
‘Dad never told me!’ Kirsty exclaimed.
‘He can’t discuss the case with you, Kirsty. You are one of our main witnesses and so anything you say about it should be to us. You know that, don’t you?’
Kirsty nodded silently.
‘So, given that she was supposed to be at a party, can you think of anyone with whom Eva may have had sex?’
Kirsty shook her head. ‘Better ask the boys,’ she said shortly. ‘I wasn’t there. I was working, like I told you.’
‘I will,’ Jo said gently, holding out her hand. ‘And I’m sorry to have to ask you things that are so upsetting, Kirsty. But sometimes girls confide things in one another, know what I mean?’
Kirsty nodded, feeling the tears begin to smart under her eyelids again. Had Eva ever confided in her? They’d talked, all right, for hours sometimes, but even in the months since she had met her, Kirsty had only gleaned little bits and pieces about the Swedish girl. And now even these were about to be laid bare in this bleak interview room.
‘Roger MacDonald Dunbar,’ the tall red-haired young man said, his fingers clasped nervously on the desk between them.
‘And your date of birth, Roger?’
‘Eighth of July, nineteen ninety-three.’
Jo Grant glanced up at the boy who was visibly sweating although the room was not particularly warm. He was a big lad, looked a bit like a farmer’s boy in that waxed jacket, but the green eyes that met hers held a keen intelligence that warned Jo not to underestimate him. She tried not to give a second glance to the huge fists: they might easily have strangled a small girl like Eva Magnusson with not a great deal of effort. But why? Why would one of her friends kill her then go on back to continue partying the night away? Besides, Lorimer had hinted that each one of the boys had seemed genuinely shocked at their flatmate’s death when he had seen them.
‘Right, Roger, I’m DI Grant and I am the senior investigating officer in charge of the case,’ Jo told him briskly.
‘But I thought Kirsty’s dad’s boss…’ Roger trailed off, his face colouring pink in confusion.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer, you mean?’
Roger nodded, clearly uncomfortable at having made a gaffe right away.
‘We are all under his authority,’ Jo conceded, ‘but it’s quite normal for a detective inspector to carry out enquiries in a case like this.’
She could see the lad swallow and guessed that he was coming to terms not only with Eva’s death but with the whole police procedure.
‘Now, Roger, I need to ask you a few questions about Eva Magnusson and the night on which she was killed,’ Jo continued in a no-nonsense sort of tone that she saw had an immediate effect on the lad. Roger Dunbar straightened up and the fidgeting fingers became still. He looked at her gravely, watching her face as she asked questions about the location of the party, who had been there, whether he had seen Eva slipping off with anyone.
Jo Grant felt her pulse quicken.
The young man had taken his time to consider most of her questions, thinking hard as if to visualise the scene. But when she asked that last question she could see him immediately stiffen.
‘Eva left the party with someone?’ Jo asked.
The boy licked his lips and swallowed again. As he began to reply, Jo could see the faint impression of marks on his lower lip where he had bitten off an immediate reply.
A shrug was all the reply he gave but Jo was not to be put off so easily.
‘Come on, Roger, you can do better than that. Surely you remember a pretty girl like Eva getting off with someone, eh?’
The boy’s hands were under the desk now and his shoulders were raised in twin peaks of tension.
‘No.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I didn’t see anyone with her. I would probably have been drinking in the kitchen with my mates,’ he continued, a glint of bravado appearing in his eyes as he shrugged again. ‘I was pretty out of it later on anyway,’ he mumbled, looking down to avoid the DI’s steady gaze.
Jo tried not to make a face. It was true that the lad had been drunk as a skunk. He’d thrown up in the street, narrowly missing the floor of the police van, one of the officers had told her. And yet… he was no fool and even a night’s hard drinking hadn’t made him forget everything that had happened at that party. His reaction to her questions had told her that at least. And now there was a stubborn cast to his mouth that the DI recognised as a decision on the student’s part to clam up.
This wasn’t going anywhere. She was certain from his body language that Roger Dunbar was lying to her and she was pretty sure that she knew why. Whoever had left the party that night with Eva Magnusson might well have been the last person to see her alive.