Lorimer put down the phone, staring at the instrument as if it could tell him something. There had been no trace of static or anything else, he thought. The man had deliberately made that up and cut the connection. For a moment he wondered about redialling the number but decided against it. Still staring at the phone, Lorimer shook his head. He was experienced enough to know when someone was lying. And he was sure that Henrik Magnusson had lied about not knowing the mysterious Anders Andersson.
‘But why would he do that?’ Maggie asked, settling herself into the seat opposite her husband.
‘Don’t know,’ Lorimer replied, spooning the second helping of chicken broth into his mouth. He paused, spoon in mid-air. ‘If Eva was trying to keep the lad a secret from her father then she wouldn’t have told her flatmates about him either, would she?’
‘She didn’t want Daddy knowing her boyfriend had followed her to Scotland.’
‘Something like that, maybe.’
‘You think this Swedish boy’s the real murderer?’
Lorimer laughed. ‘Whoa! You’ve been watching too many crime dramas on the television!’
‘Well, that’s the sort of thing that makes you think, isn’t it?’ Maggie persisted. ‘Stranger in town, secret lover…’
‘Yet he wasn’t a stranger to the other students at Strathclyde, was he?’ Lorimer mused, tilting his plate and scooping up the last of Maggie’s delicious soup. ‘And according to that Geordie lad Kirsty’s been speaking to they were merely pals, not lovers at all.’
‘And he wasn’t at the student party?’
Lorimer shook his head. ‘No. There were some of Eva’s class there, and other pals of Hastie’s flatmates. Plus the three lads from Merryfield Avenue. But no Anders Andersson. We’ve got a full list of names, addresses and the particular courses the students were on.’
‘You know what, though,’ Maggie said thoughtfully. ‘If this lad was an old friend from back home, Eva would have had his mobile number, wouldn’t she?’
‘Nothing on it according to the records. It’s one of the first things that’s checked,’ Lorimer replied.
Maggie chuckled.
‘What?’
‘You have to think like a teenage girl sometimes to get inside their heads,’ she said. ‘I wonder if Eva had the same scheme going as Daisy Taylor?’
‘Who?’
‘One of my third years,’ Maggie explained. ‘Inventive wee besom when it comes down to breaking the rules, is our Daisy. Thought she had cracked the no-mobile-phones-on-school- premises policy till I found her sim card taped inside her Macbeth folder. Wee rascal had her phone going red hot at lunchtimes till then. Charged her classmates sweetly to use it, as well!’
Lorimer stroked his chin thoughtfully. Just how thorough had the scene of crime officers been in scouring Eva’s room? And was this just the sort of tiny thing he had wanted Kirsty to find? A spare sim card to keep in contact with Anders Andersson while avoiding her father’s eagle eye might answer a lot of questions.
‘Here you are, Sir.’ The cheery-faced lady handed Lorimer the plastic bag containing Eva Magnusson’s phone.
‘Just sign here, please,’ she continued, handing him a clipboard with a sheet of paper attached. There were already several names and signatures appended for this particular production: it was an essential procedure that every person examining an object taken from a crime scene had to sign his name and give the date on which the object was removed from the store. Failure to do this could have disastrous results. One careless omission from the chain might bring the weight of a defence lawyer crashing down on an unsuspecting officer, the accusation of tampering with evidence throwing an entire trial into disarray.
It took just a few minutes to find what he was looking for. No Anders Andersson. He scrolled up and down, looking to see if there were any other names that might give a clue about the girl’s activities, noting any that did not tally against the list of friends from the Hastie boy’s party. And texts? What messages might she have kept stored in this phone? Lorimer’s gloved fingers moved across the tiny screen, seeking something that could give him a clue. He pursed his lips as he stared at the message boxes. They were empty. Had she been a fastidious girl, clearing every message that had been read? Or, he thought, had she been afraid to keep any messages lest her secrets be discovered? And was there a missing sim card somewhere in the Anniesland flat?
One way or another, Lorimer had the feeling that they needed to find this young man, wherever he was. And, as he re-signed the paper on the clipboard, another name came to mind — one that might just offer some explanations about both Brian Hastie and Anders Andersson.
Strathclyde University was situated to the east of George Square, a conglomeration of buildings that stretched from the old red sandstone of Royal College almost as far as the Royal Infirmary. Livingstone Tower was a rude finger of concrete and glass pointing skywards and, as he craned his neck to watch the clouds scudding past, Lorimer had the momentary sensation that the entire block was shifting sideways through space. He looked down at his watch, blinking to stop the whirling feeling in his head. It was just after ten o’clock, a perfect time to catch the lecturer before he set off for his next class at eleven.
Dirk McGregor’s office was near the top of the building. Lorimer squeezed into the lift beside a gaggle of girls who were all clutching laptop bags and chattering away, quite ignoring the tall stranger by their side. Had Eva ever stood here, joining in the gossip? Of course, she must have used this lift countless times, but somehow Lorimer imagined Eva Magnusson keeping a little aloof from the other students, watching them as if from the outside. Once again that face flashed into his mind, the dead girl like a sleeping angel. She had seemed perfect in death but now he was beginning to know the flawed reality so much better, this other Eva whose life had been full of secrets.
The lift doors pinged open and he followed the crowd out into the landing. A sign with room numbers was fixed to the wall and he made his way along a corridor, losing the noisy girls as they turned into a lecture theatre.
‘Come in,’ a voice called and Lorimer opened the door.
Dirk McGregor stood up suddenly. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Nice to see you too, Mr McGregor,’ Lorimer replied smoothly. ‘Mind if I sit down? Your office said that I might find you here between classes.’
McGregor’s face paled. ‘You told my office…?’
‘That I needed to speak to you concerning some of your students,’ Lorimer said, taking a seat opposite the lecturer who had sunk back into his own chair as though winded.
‘What…?’
‘Two students on the same course as Eva Magnusson,’ Lorimer continued, ignoring the man’s discomfiture. ‘Brian Hastie and Anders Andersson. Neither one of them seems to have come back this term. Thought you might know why.’
‘Is that all?’ McGregor leaned back, hands behind his head. ‘Come in all this way just for that? No wonder our tax bill’s so bloody high when a senior officer spends time on such trivial details,’ he declared, his handsome face twisted into a sneer.
Lorimer’s own expression remained completely impassive, the years of practice interviewing cocksure thugs paying off at times like this. ‘The two students,’ he said again. ‘Can you tell me why they have not returned to the university?’
McGregor was now swinging nonchalantly in his chair. ‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘Hastie’s on long-term sick leave with glandular fever. Might even have to repeat the year. And the Swedish lad was an exchange student. Probably not on the main lists you plods looked at,’ he added gleefully. ‘Only here till Christmas.’ He shrugged. ‘That all you wanted to know?’
‘Their home addresses and any other contact details would be useful,’ Lorimer replied mildly.