Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (25 page)

‘He’s retracted his confession,’ Lorimer said, his hands on the back of Crozier’s chair.

‘What on earth…?’ Crozier began but a warning hand from Rogers stopped her.

‘Tell us,’ Rogers commanded. ‘Sit down right now and tell us everything that happened at Low Moss.’

‘So,’ Joyce Rogers sighed as the detective superintendent finished describing the meeting that had taken place between Maloney and himself. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Find the real killer,’ Lorimer said bluntly.

‘But, Maloney —’ Crozier seemed too full of pent-up emotion to continue, or else that look from the deputy chief constable cut her short.

Lorimer looked at the blonde woman; she had seemed so full of life as he had entered the room but now the figure seated beside him appeared diminished, somehow; her face had crumpled as he had given details of the reason behind Jock Maloney’s confession and the new evidence that Richard claimed of hearing his father asleep as he’d crept out to find Rory Dalgleish.

‘It hardly bears thinking about, that sort of attitude, but we see it all the time, don’t we?’ Joyce Rogers commented. ‘An old-fashioned homophobia. Refusal to admit that your boy is different from the way you want him to be… although actually wanting to have him die rather than be locked up with hardened criminals is very extreme.’ Her sigh and shake of the head expressed the sadness that Rogers genuinely felt. The cups lay abandoned on the low table between the three police officers, their contents now cold.

‘What do you want me to do now, ma’am?’ Stevie Crozier’s miserable tone made Lorimer want to put a consoling arm around the younger woman’s shoulder; the DI was obviously crushed by his revelations. How must she be feeling? One minute she was a successful SIO and now her entire case had crumbled around her ears.

‘Go back to Mull,’ Rogers said briskly. ‘And take this fellow with you.’ She smiled up at Lorimer. ‘He can be quite useful at times.’ She raised playful eyebrows at the detective superintendent.

‘And who is to be in charge of the case?’ Crozier muttered.

‘Why, you are, DI Crozier. Detective Superintendent Lorimer is still officially on leave but I think I can arrange that he be seconded as your special adviser. If that’s what you want?’ She looked from one to the other quizzically. ‘I’m sure you two have already established a good working relationship? Yes? That’s fine, then,’ she continued without waiting for a reply from either of them.

‘We will see where the matter of Maloney’s imprisonment stands,’ she added. ‘There will be the usual delay until the fiscal and Maloney’s lawyers decide what is to be done. He is still charged with several other matters, don’t forget,’ she warned Lorimer. ‘Attempted murder of his own son being just one of them. So I hope you haven’t promised him an instant release from Low Moss Prison.’

The man from Tobermory was becoming used to the prison routine, his day punctuated by mealtimes when he could relax for a few minutes with the other prisoners. He rubbed the back of his neck as they were shepherded into the dining hall by the prison officers, feeling the tension that had been there ever since Lorimer had confronted him, his eyes roving over the tables, seeking out a friendly face.

Jock sat down opposite Eddie, the boy who had smiled at him from his first day in this part of the prison.
Ah’m Eddie
, he’d told Jock.
Ah may be gay but ah’m nae trying tae be ither than jist friendly, awright? No fear of me comin’ oan tae ye,
big man
, he’d chuckled.

It was hard to believe that this youngster was actually a thirty-four-year-old man.
See bein’ in here?
It either ages ye or keeps ye lookin’ young
, Eddie had told him when Jock had voiced his surprise.

‘Aye,’ Jock began by way of a greeting now. ‘You’re still here then?’

‘Ah’m oot o’ here the morra,’ the boy agreed, his smile revealing teeth that had been treated by several different prison dentists over the past two decades. ‘Cannae wait.’ Eddie jigged up and down in his seat at the dining table. ‘A’ these things that’ve changed since ah wis banged up, like. ’Sno’ the same as it wis afore.’ He shrugged. ‘See back then? Couldnae get ma heid roon bein’ gay, could ah? ’Swhat done it fur me.’ He looked down and away, the memory of killing another human being a burden he would always have to bear. ‘Huv tae say, if it hadnae been fur the officers and the medical staff I’d’ve topped maself lang since. Came tae terms wi’ ma ain sexuality, so ah did. Ma mammy’s okay aboot it and so’s ma old man.’ He shrugged and smiled.

‘You’re not worried about what people think, then?’ The words were out of Jock’s mouth before he realised. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean…’

‘Ach, ye’re all right, big man. See, ah’ve got it all sussed out noo.’ Eddie leaned forward and held Jock’s gaze. ‘Love’s love,’ he said softly. ‘It’s that simple.’

Jock sat back and stared at the meal the passman put down in front of him.

He had tried to protect Richard, hadn’t he? Wasn’t that out of love?

Tears stung his eyes as he thought of his son. What he would give to hug him right now, tell him that he was sorry.

Jock glanced at Eddie who was tucking into his helping of shepherd’s pie. Tomorrow this young man would be free to join the outside world and free to be himself in every way. Surely that was what any loving father would wish for his son.

It was as though the artist had painted it for him, the image burning in the young man’s brain as he stood staring at it.
 

The Bloody Tryst
had captured both their imaginations as they had strolled around together, ever mindful of the need not to stand too closely if one of the uniformed security guards happened to look their way. At other times, an illicit handclasp, a silent brushing of lips against the other’s cheek brought a familiar warmth to his loins that was always the forerunner of something sweeter to come.

But that was gone now, for ever, the
image before him like
an accusation. Had theirs been a fated love affair? Was it something that was destined to end in violence and tears? As he looked at the painting, the body of the lover lying sprawled on the ground, the man remembered only the dead eyes of the red-haired boy, not the passion that had gone before.
 

Why had he returned to the city? And what had drawn him back to this place where so many secrets remained? It was as though the spires of the art galleries had beckoned him like a hand as he had stood outside the university, looking down past the gardens, couples sprawled on the summer grass, to that place where he had found something that he had thought to be love. Of course he had made discreet enquiries about the boy, asking after him by name. No, he wouldn’t be back to finish his course, he had told his tutors up at Glasgow School of Art. Yes, he wanted to take all his folio work away, thanks. Were they still running the life classes on Saturday mornings? Was Gary going to sit for them again? No? Just didn’t turn up one day. Odd, wasn’t it? And, no, they couldn’t tell him anything about the red-haired model. They came and went, these fey types who sat for the art students, the woman’s smile seemed to say as she left him with a careless shrug.
 

And all the time that lump in his stomach like a lead weight, the knowledge that it was his own wilful act that had taken Gary away from them.
 

Nobody had missed the lad, it seemed. Even the young men who mooched about down near the playing fields at Port Glasgow had no idea where the red-haired boy had gone, nor had they displayed any interest. Want to do the business?
they
had asked hopefully, but he had shaken his head, too weary with his burden of guilt to summon up any notion for a sexual encounter. Gary had vanished and nobody had come forward to ask where he was. But he knew. That newspaper clipping burned in his pocket, the description of a body pulled from the Clyde and the request for anybody who had known the victim to come forward.
 

The man turned away from the painting, fists clenched by his side, a sudden need to be out of the building, to breathe fresh air. He almost ran down the marble staircase, feet hastening across the cold floor of the art gallery and museum in his desperation to leave the building.
 

Then he was walking past the rows of parked cars, the sun beating down on his head. Nobody would ever know what he had done. Nobody would ever care.
 

‘A
re you going out or staying in?’ The woman stood, arms folded, as she regarded the ill-shaven man standing in the doorway of the house. ‘Only I’ve the whole place to smarten up if we’re to start taking in a lodger.’

‘Don’t know why you can’t just do the B&B like everyone else,’ Lachie Turner said morosely, refusing to look over his shoulder at his sister, the cigarette in his hand almost smoked down to its filter tip.

‘Hm. If you were bringing in some money then we wouldn’t need to offer a room to let!’ Bella Ingram snapped.

‘Hardly my fault that Forsyth drank all his profits away, is it?’ Lachie replied, his reasonable tone making the woman humph even louder.

‘Well, you can finish your dirty fag and get in here and lend a hand,’ Bella retorted at last. ‘If the Tourist Office phone and say there’s an offer for the spare room then we cannae very well turn it down, can we?’

Her brother lifted bushy eyebrows to heaven then blew the last line of smoke from his unshaven lips.

‘Don’t know why you couldn’t have stayed on at the fish farming,’ Bella scolded crossly, her words aimed at her brother’s back. ‘At least there you had a decent wage!’

Lachie did not deign to reply. He took one last lingering drag on the cigarette then flicked it away into the fuchsia bushes, knowing that this small action would annoy his sister. Forsyth hadn’t sent the promised reference after all and the handyman-gardener was reluctant to begin offering his services until it had arrived.

‘I’m away on out,’ he said, pushing himself off the doorpost and sauntering along the pathway to the garden gate. The old van sat outside, its road tax disc dangerously close to being out of date. Tomorrow was the first day of August and with it came the realisation that he would be breaking the law by his failure to pay the necessary fee.

‘To hell with them all,’ he grumbled, kicking a pebble off the paving stones that he had laid so carefully all those years ago for his elder sister and her husband. Dougie was gone now; drowned at sea, leaving a bitter widow and a brother-in-law whose sporadic income was barely sufficient to cover his bed and board. Dougie Ingram had left the boat to Bella yet the widow had never sold it, preferring to hold on to the memory of her husband, the gilded lettering
BONNY BELLE
on the fishing boat’s prow fading over the seasons like its namesake.

He would drive back down to Kilbeg, demand the reference from Forsyth and maybe even hint about payment for the garden designs that were still in the man’s possession.

Lachie stumbled as his left knee bent under a sudden pain. He swore, cursing the fate that had made him a victim to the aches of arthritis that the doctor had diagnosed. It was the
downside of outdoor work
, the woman at Craignure Hospital had proclaimed, giving his knee what was meant to be a friendly slap, the mere touch of her hand making him wince. What did she know about outdoor work, the stupid bitch? he thought, gritting his teeth against the ache. Hadn’t he bent down on a kneeling pad to weed her own big garden often enough? And her with an able-bodied husband, though the man was more often on the hills lugging his photographic equipment than helping his hard-working wife.

She had been mentioned in the
Oban Times
as the doctor assisting in Rory Dalgleish’s case, Lachie recalled, putting the van into gear and setting off along the street. He turned the vehicle around a sharp corner, its engine protesting as the incline became suddenly steeper. In moments he was heading down Breadalbane Street, past Miss Hoolie’s green-painted house that was beloved of little children looking for
Balamory
landmarks, past the police station then heading out of the town, the van gathering speed. He would not think about Rory Dalgleish, Lachie decided. Or of any dead body lying on a cold mortuary slab. It was not a day for those sorts of thoughts.

The sun shone down on the winding road, a few clouds drifting high above the surrounding hills. Today was a day for new beginnings; once he had a reference in his pocket he would begin to look for work and perhaps a new place to stay away from the carping tongue of his embittered sister.

Hamish Forsyth was nowhere to be seen. Lachie had wandered from the empty reception area through the residents’ lounge and into the kitchens but the place appeared deserted. Even the bar was closed up, as if the owner had decided for once to keep temptation at bay. Lachie stood at the foot of the staircase, looking upwards and listening.

‘Are you looking for someone?’

‘Christ! Maryka. Dinna do that to a body!’ Lachie yelped, putting his hand to his chest as though to protect a fluttering heart.

‘Give you a fright, did I?’ The girl grinned, flicking the duster she held between her finger and thumb. ‘Sorry,’ she added, sounding anything but.

‘You still here then? They haven’t given you the push yet?’

The girl shrugged, an enigmatic expression on her pretty face.

‘And Elena? She still here too?’

Maryka shook her head as she stuffed the duster into her apron pocket. ‘Not any more. Her cousin in Fort William told her about a job in their hotel so she packed up and off she went.’

‘But did she get her wages first?’ Lachie asked slyly.

‘Think so,’ the Dutch girl answered. ‘Anyway, I’m not leaving until the end of August. And they’ll have to pay me what’s owing.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ Lachie scoffed. ‘I doubt if there’s enough cash left to pay any of us what’s owing.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Maryka said vaguely, examining her fingernails. ‘Must be money coming from somewhere. We’re not starving here yet. And Archie’s still here living in that old wreck of a boat of his so we’re still being fed.’

‘So, where are Lord and Lady Muck?’

‘Out.’ Maryka yawned as though it was of no interest to her. ‘There’s no guests left. I’m just doing out all the rooms,’ she added, nodding upwards. ‘Why? Did you have an appointment to see them?’

Lachie’s jaw hardened visibly. Cheeky wee madam, he thought; who did she think she was, acting as if she were in charge of the place! And getting paid for a month longer than the rest of the staff. Though why Archie Gillespie was still here was a mystery.

‘Tell Hamish Forsyth he needs to send me on that reference,’ Lachie said, stepping forward and wagging a finger in the girl’s face. ‘Okay?’

The Dutch girl took a step backwards, raising her hands in a defensive gesture. ‘Sure, Lachie, I’ll tell him. Sure I will.’

‘Aye, well, I’ll expect to hear from him sooner than later,’ he growled. ‘Be sure to tell him that too.’

As the gardener slouched away through the open door of the hotel Maryka walked slowly after him, waiting in the doorway and watching as he drove off in the old van.

It was one of those sultry afternoons when all the world seemed to stand still, not even the song of a bird disturbing the heavy silence. Leaden clouds sat over the Morvern hills, stealthily gathering a blurred veil over the previously blue skies. It would thunder later, she thought, looking up. And pour with rain. Shuddering despite the close atmosphere, the girl walked slowly back into the hotel, tempted to shut the heavy door behind her.

With the departure of the gardener, Maryka felt even more alone in the big house than before. Archie had gone for a sail somewhere, the jetty strangely bare without the old boat sitting at anchor. Perhaps he’d gone for good? She had no idea.

One by one they had all left her behind, she thought, one hand sweeping her duster over the banister as she climbed the stairs. Rory with his loud voice ringing out, Fiona who would share a giggle and Elena, who had cleared out of the caravan for better prospects elsewhere.

The Dutch girl had been selective with the truth, unwilling to share certain things with Lachlan Turner. Yes, she had an agreement to stay for another month, but whether there would be more than enough for her return fare to Amsterdam remained to be seen. Still, she wouldn’t be explaining to the gardener what really kept her on the island. No, that was a secret that Maryka hugged to herself.

Ewan Angus had been to see her only this morning, the fish placed hastily in the shed at the bottom of the garden, his strong arms around her, a whispered promise in her ear. The girl put a finger to her lips as if she could still feel the fisherman’s stolen kisses. There was something he had to do, he had told her, a serious look on his handsome face. Then he would return and they would go off together in his boat, just the two of them.

The girl smiled, remembering his voice and the expression in those sleepy eyes that told her he wanted more than just a few kisses.

Maryka was almost at the end of the upper corridor before she saw that her feet had taken her right up to the Forsyths’ own quarters. She felt for the can of polish in her apron pocket and shrugged. Well, their rooms would need cleaning too, she reasoned, turning the brass door handle and pushing open the door, a sudden curiosity to know more about the place where her employers lived. Mrs Forsyth had never expressly forbidden the girls to clean these rooms but it had been taken for granted that PRIVATE meant just that.

The first bedroom was large with dark burgundy wallpaper and a faded red tartan carpet like the ones in the public areas of the hotel. A job lot, Maryka decided, and not put down recently, that was for sure. She stepped towards the window and looked out the back of the house, seeing the long line of rhododendrons obscuring the driveway. It was Hamish’s bedroom; that was obvious, the girl thought, wrinkling her nose against the stale smell of booze and the heap of unwashed clothes lying across an armchair by the window. For a moment she was tempted to throw up the sash and let some fresh air into the stuffy room but a little voice of caution reminded her to leave well alone. It was better that nobody knew she had been there.

A second door opened into an ante-chamber where an ensuite bathroom had been built, obviously to be used by the occupants of each room. Maryka switched on the light, opened the door and sniffed. At least there was a scent of pine here, something fresh. Mrs Forsyth could not be faulted for not keeping this bit of their shared domain clean. Turning, she saw that her employer’s own bedroom was closed, a key in the outer lock.

A chill came as though from under the bedroom door, a draught from an open window, perhaps? Her hand stretched towards the key, yet Maryka was seized with an odd reluctance to enter her employer’s room.

No, she thought, I can’t go in there. That closed door held many secrets, she thought. But were they secrets that she really wanted to know? She shivered suddenly and found herself retreating hastily as though some unseen, malevolent presence were watching her.