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
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
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