‘James Spencer,’ he said.
Kirsty grasped it, feeling the warmth and strength in the young man’s grasp. And there was something more, the way his brown eyes held a sort of sympathy for her as though he understood why she had come, that made Kirsty feel that she could trust this young man with the soft Newcastle brogue.
‘Thanks,’ she said, then dropped his hand, aware that she might have held it a little too long. ‘How about walking me across to Caley? That’s where I’m heading.’
‘You’re a student there?’
‘Aye. Hospitality management,’ Kirsty replied as they fell into step. ‘Eva used to devour my chocolate fudge cakes.’
‘She didn’t look the sort to munch cakes,’ James said in surprise. ‘That gorgeous figure…’
‘Know what you mean,’ Kirsty mumbled, suddenly aware of her own girth hidden under layers of jersey and duffel coat.
‘She was quite different from all of the other girls,’ James said quietly. ‘Seemed older — well, maybe not older, more mature, not as daft as a lot of the lasses. Eva was, well, dignified. You could imagine her giving tea parties in one o’ these stately homes, know what I mean?’
Kirsty nodded. She knew exactly what he meant.
‘She had plenty of friends, everyone seemed to take a right shine to that lass. Anyway, she did have an admirer,’ James told her as they waited on Cathedral Street for the lights to change to green. ‘There was a lad used to haunt her wherever she went. Weedy little chap, he was. Or, should I say, is. One of the girls back there used to refer to him as Eva’s puppy.’
Kirsty nodded encouragingly, willing James to tell her more.
‘Brian something his name is. Always sat right behind her in economics class. And I think they were in the same group for McGregor’s seminar.’
‘Have you seen him since… since it happened?’
James Spencer frowned. ‘Funny you should ask that, Kirsty, but I don’t think he’s been around since the new term began.’
‘Thanks,’ Kirsty replied, then she drew in a breath of surprise as James caught her by the hand and led her across the road.
‘There,’ he said as they reached the opposite pavement. ‘Safely delivered, Miss…?’
‘Wilson. Kirsty Wilson,’ she told him, laughing despite herself as the lad gave a mock salute.
‘And does Miss Kirsty Wilson have a phone number?’ James asked, a light of mischief in his eyes that Kirsty suddenly decided she found very appealing indeed.
Kirsty walked smartly along the road, wondering if he was standing there at the corner watching and willing herself to be cool; not to look back and see.
They had exchanged mobile numbers. So? She smiled to herself. It meant nothing. He was just trying to be helpful, wasn’t he? And, if he could find out more about the mysterious Brian, then that might just lead her a little further along her quest to find out more about Eva Magnusson and who she had been seeing in the days before her death.
As Lesley Crawford closed her eyes, Jo could see tears falling between the girl’s lashes. She reached out and squeezed the girl’s hand gently.
‘It’s all right, Lesley,’ the detective was telling her. ‘We’ll get him, I promise.’
Jo stood up and looked at the woman lying in the bed. Her head was swathed in bandages and it was hard to visualise this as the same woman whose photograph lay between the pages of her files back in Stewart Street. Her long blond hair had been shorn pre-surgery and her face was thinner, the cheekbones prominent, reminding Jo of some of the junked-up women she’d seen in parts of the city.
We’ll get him. Her words echoed in DI Grant’s brain as she headed towards the lifts, her thoughts already back at headquarters and the next stage in uncovering the man who had beaten this woman almost to her death.
CHAPTER 35
‘Hello?’ Kirsty was standing on the landing below the flat, mobile phone pressed to her ear, wondering at the unfamiliar number on the tiny screen.
‘Hello, Kirsty Wilson. It’s me, James, your new best friend.’
Her mouth arced in a smile as she listened to the Geordie accent. My new best friend, she thought gleefully.
‘Hi, James, how’s things?’ she replied, affecting a coolness that belied the sudden dryness in her mouth.
‘Oh, well, you know…’ The lad tailed off for a moment, leaving Kirsty wondering why he had rung her so quickly. ‘Completely forgot to tell you about Anders,’ he said at last.
‘Anders?’
‘Aye.’ There was a pause. ‘He hasn’t come back to uni either.’
‘Sorry, James, you’ve lost me. Who’s this Anders?’
‘Did you never meet him? That’s odd.’ James Spencer’s voice expressed surprise. ‘He was a pal of Eva’s from Stockholm. Hung about with her a lot, but they were just pals, everyone could see that. Are you sure she never had him up to the flat?’
‘James, I’ve never heard of an Anders,’ Kirsty replied firmly. ‘And there were never any Swedish boys up here. Worse luck,’ she added in a whisper.
‘I heard that, Kirsty Wilson,’ James said reprovingly. ‘Anyhow, do you not think that’s really strange? I mean, why would she keep a friend from back home a secret from you all?’
There was silence between them as Kirsty slowly climbed the final flight of stairs to reach the front door of the flat.
Who the hell was this Anders? And why had Eva never mentioned him?
‘Does this mystery man have a second name?’ she asked.
‘Oh, aye, Anders Andersson. Dead easy one to remember, eh? Oh and the other guy, the weedy chap? His name’s Brian Hastie.’
‘Right, thanks, James,’ Kirsty said slowly, fumbling with her free hand to find the key in her coat pocket.
‘Not a problem, Kirsty Wilson.’ There was a pause as Kirsty listened, waiting for him to say more, hoping that he would.
‘Any chance of meeting up some time?’ he asked, and Kirsty grinned, liking the wee hesitation in his voice.
‘Aye, sure, just not at weekends though, cos I work. But I’m usually free on Thursdays,’ she said.
‘Great. Can I come up for you then? Take you out for a drink somewhere?’
‘Yes. Thanks. That would be great,’ she said. ‘I’ll text you the address, okay? Got to go now, bye.’
Kirsty pulled the door open, trying not to let out a whoop of excitement. A date with a nice-looking fellow! She pulled off her duffel coat and hung it on the back of her bedroom door, heart thudding unreasonably.
‘But what the heck is all this about a mysterious Swede?’ she said aloud.
And, biting her lip, Kirsty knew the first person she needed to speak to about this was Detective Superintendent Lorimer.
Lorimer stood at the front of the muster room, leaning his tall frame against a table. It was the end of the day and the officers gathered for the meeting were all looking towards DI Grant who was fixing a new photograph onto the wall behind her. He would listen to her report first, before sharing what Kirsty had told him.
‘There,’ she said, turning with a glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘Lesley Crawford as she is now.’
‘Jesus!’ someone said as they all regarded the blown-up photograph of the injured woman.
‘Aye, grim,’ someone else remarked.
‘Well she’s lucky to be alive,’ Jo said, standing to one side to let them all compare the two images of the young woman; the smiling blonde on the left and, next to it, the puffy face full of bruises and stitches, head swathed in white gauze bandages, no sign of the blond tresses that had been clipped off for emergency surgery.
‘I’m just back from the hospital,’ Jo told them. ‘She remembers her assailant quite well, as it happens. Even though she was guttered and it was dark. She can’t give us much about his height, only that he seemed taller than she was. But he was white, about twenty-five to thirty, probably dark haired, though he was wearing a hoodie.’