Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (28 page)

Lorimer nodded back, glad to see that the woman by his side had thawed sufficiently towards him to crack a joke.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer and DI Crozier to see Daisy McColl,’ Stevie told the young man behind the bar area, holding out her warrant card for inspection.

‘Oh, hold on and I’ll get her. She’s just round in the kitchen,’ the lad replied, giving the two police officers a swift up-and-down glance as though curious to know why they were here.

Moments later a short, stout woman appeared, her lined face and greying hair twisted into a neat bun on the nape of her neck, giving her the look of a benign grandmother.

‘Hello,’ she said, extending a hand to Stevie Crozier. ‘I’m Daisy.’

The woman’s fluting voice did not match her appearance, Lorimer thought immediately; people usually lost that fine youthful timbre as age overtook them, but Daisy McColl did indeed sound like a teenager, now that he heard her once again.

‘Thanks so much for seeing us, Ms McColl,’ Stevie said, moving aside to allow Lorimer to take the woman’s damp hand in his. Not nerves, she decided, looking into a pair of steady grey eyes, more likely the manageress had just dried her hands in the kitchen.

‘You wanted to ask me about Rory. Can we go into my office?’ she suggested, pointing at a door next to the servery.

‘Now then,’ Daisy McColl said briskly, showing them both to a pair of bentwood seats beside a small wooden table that obviously served as a desk. ‘What can I tell you?’ She looked with shrewd eyes at the officers in turn.

‘Rory Dalgleish worked here until the beginning of the summer,’ Crozier stated.

‘That’s right. He did shifts, mostly at weekends. Had his exams to think of,’ Daisy added then sighed. ‘Much good they’ll do him now, poor laddie.’

‘I wonder, did you see Rory with an older chap on any occasion?’ Lorimer asked.

Daisy’s eyebrows rose. ‘Older? Well, none of our waiters are what you might call older. All students,’ she explained. ‘I’m the old one here.’ She chuckled, a merry sound that made the detective superintendent smile.

‘Did you ever see Rory meeting an older man, perhaps after one of his shifts?’ Lorimer persisted.

Daisy McColl folded her arms and sat back, looking into space. ‘There was someone, right enough,’ she began. ‘Came in here regularly for a week or so in the springtime, now that I recall. It was a week of dreadful weather,’ she said slowly as though dredging her memory for details. ‘
He
was an older man.’ She looked at Lorimer then nodded. ‘Rory always seemed to be the one to serve him,’ she said. ‘And I did see him waiting for the boy after work on one occasion. Never thought too much about it. Thought he might have been a friend or a relation.’ She shrugged. ‘We get so many in and out of here, it’s hard to remember any faces, but I do remember this man.’ She looked up into Lorimer’s face. ‘Medium height, dark haired, maybe a bit of grey? Not sure…’ She tailed off, biting her lower lip in an effort to remember. ‘Maybe in his late forties? I thought maybe he was an artist or something. We have lots of arty types in here, of course,’ she added.

‘What made you think that?’ Crozier had leaned forward a little.

‘Oh, the usual. Straggly hair over his collar, a bit unkempt really. Unshaven, as I recall. Designer stubble they call it nowadays,’ she laughed.

‘Would you be able to identify this man from a photograph?’ Crozier asked.

Daisy shrugged. ‘Probably. I’ve got good visual recall, if that’s what you mean.’

Lorimer frowned. There was no image as yet for this woman to see; Crozier’s remark was a bit premature. Still, it was good to know a little about Rory’s mystery friend.

‘Don’t suppose you have any other details about the man? Name, for example?’

‘No, sorry.’ Daisy smiled sadly. ‘And, now that you’ve brought it back to me, I remember that he always paid in cash so even if we kept receipts that long we wouldn’t have any card details. I watch all these TV crime dramas, you know,’ she added breathlessly. ‘That’s what you would do, isn’t it? Check to see whose name was on a receipt?’

‘Sharp as a tack, that one,’ Lorimer said as they crossed the road towards the car. They had asked several of the waiters and waitresses if they had any knowledge of Rory’s mysterious friend but only Daisy McColl seemed to have taken any interest in the comings and goings of her clientele.

As the silver car drove off, a figure watched from a window high above the winding terrace. Mona Daly tucked her mouse brown hair behind her ears and blinked. Daisy had told her about the visit from the police and it looked as though they had left now. Her heart thudded in her chest. The things she had seen from her office…

The secretary moved away from the window and crossed the room. It was a good time to break for the morning, she decided. And perhaps Daisy would have some nuggets of gossip to share.

‘Come and take a seat. The millionaire’s shortbread’s just cool enough to go with a cuppa.’ Daisy grinned as her friend’s face appeared at the serving hatch.

‘Police gone now?’ Mona asked.

Daisy nodded. ‘Nice big fellow. Woman wasn’t from around here. Couldn’t place her accent at all.’

‘He was found dead in Mull,’ Mona rejoined, the note of drama in her voice making it fall to a whisper. ‘Maybe that’s where she’s from?’

But Daisy McColl’s shake of the head was decisive. ‘No, that’s not where she originates. Nice voice, educated…’ She broke off, musing.

‘Anyway, never mind that,’ Mona continued, impatiently. ‘What did they ask you about Rory?’

‘Wanted to know about an older man.’ Daisy shrugged. ‘Big, dark-haired chap; arty type, I thought. Needing a shave. I’d seen them together a few times right enough but didn’t think anything of it. Why?’

The woman opposite had turned a queasy shade of pale. Daisy leaned forward and clasped her friend’s hands. ‘Mona? What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Mona Daly gave a faint groan and closed her eyes. ‘Oh, dear God,’ she murmured. ‘I remember a man like that. I saw him with Rory, doing things no decent person should see in public…’ Her eyes flew open in alarm. ‘Oh, Daisy!’ she exclaimed, one hand covering her mouth. ‘I… I think it was the same man I saw doing horrible things to another boy. A long time ago…’ she mumbled, staring wildly at the woman opposite.

Then, choking back a sob, ‘Daisy,’ she cried, ‘I think I’ve done a terrible thing.’

‘M
ona Daly.’ Crozier repeated the woman’s name to Lorimer. ‘She’s a friend of Daisy McColl, apparently. The two of them have worked at Kelvingrove most of their adult lives.’

‘And she has information about Rory?’

Crozier made a face. ‘Not just about Rory,’ she said. ‘Some garbled story about another red-haired boy with the same man. Sounded a bit frantic on the phone. Told her she needed to come in and make a statement. Poor woman yelped right in my ear. Bit of a panic merchant by the sounds of her,’ she added doubtfully.

‘Is that all…?’

Crozier shrugged. ‘Whatever she needs to say, you’ll hear soon enough.’ She nodded towards the clock on the wall. ‘She’ll be over here in half an hour.’

‘Okay…’ He paused for a moment and smiled. ‘Mind if we have someone else sitting in on this interview?’

The woman waiting in the reception area at Stewart Street police station looked up as Lorimer opened the door.

‘Ms Daly? Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’

‘It’s Miss…’ the woman replied tartly. She began to stand, then gave a gasp of alarm as her handbag fell off her knee, scattering its contents across the linoleum floor.

‘Oh, oh, I’m so sorry,’ she began, immediately down on her knees, scrabbling at the coins escaping from an old-fashioned tartan purse that had sprung open. Lorimer hunkered down beside her, collecting a half-open packet of tissues, a railcard (one swift glance showing that Miss Mona Daly did indeed qualify for senior concessions), a tube of cough sweets, several biro pens and a 2015 diary from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.

‘You’re a bird lover, too?’ he said, wagging the diary at her with a smile. ‘We’ve been members of RSPB for ever.’

‘Oh, yes,’ the woman enthused, a smile lighting up her pale blue eyes. ‘I love the wee birds. Always put out food for them in the garden.’

Mona Daly stood up, hooking the handle of her handbag across her arm in a manner that suddenly reminded Lorimer of a great-aunt, a smart, well-dressed woman who had always insisted that a lady is never properly attired without gloves and a hat. Those days were long gone, though he reckoned that Ms Daly might have adhered to those fashions had she been born in an earlier era.

Her dark grey two-piece suit and low-heeled court shoes were smart enough, he supposed, ushering her through the double doors and towards the stairs, but a woman with her mousy colouring needed something more vivid to bring her to life. A bit of red, a scarf, say, would have helped, he decided, thinking of a painting he had seen in Solly’s flat recently: it was one of the professor’s favoured abstracts, swirls of charcoal and grey with one sudden burst of scarlet bringing movement to the piece.

‘In here,’ Lorimer said at last, indicating the open door to his office.

‘This is Detective Inspector Crozier,’ he said as Stevie rose from a chair to greet the woman.

‘How do you do,’ Mona Daly said gravely, extending a hand in Crozier’s direction.

‘Please, take a seat. Can we offer you something? Tea? Coffee?’

‘Thank you, no. I… we… already had our morning break,’ she said, looking from one to the other in a flustered manner.

‘Right, then let’s begin. You called DI Crozier to say you had some information about Rory Dalgleish?’

‘Yes.’ Mona Daly blinked, clutching the handle of her handbag with both hands as though terrified to let it out of her grasp. ‘But that’s not the only thing I want to tell you. I am ashamed to say that I ought to have come forward to talk to the police a long, long time ago.’ She stopped anxiously, her front teeth leaving white marks as she ran them repeatedly over her lower lip.

‘It was a horrid thing to see,’ she said, turning to Crozier. ‘Two men doing nasty things to one another.’ Her voice fell as though the shame of what she had seen still lingered in her memory. ‘The newspaper asked for help,’ she went on, ‘and I didn’t come forward…’ She shook her head, eyes closed as though trying to blot out her misdeed.

‘Perhaps you could explain what this was about?’ Crozier looked mystified.

‘Oh, the boy who was found by the river. They never knew who he was?’ She turned to Lorimer.

‘When exactly was this?’ he asked, a frisson of something strange tugging at his emotions.

‘Summer 1995,’ she said, her voice more assured now that an easier question was being put to her.

‘The red-haired boy that was pulled out of the Clyde?’

‘Yes. There was a description in the paper but no photograph. Well there wouldn’t be if they didn’t know who he was,’ she said, her shoulders relaxing for a moment.

‘And you think you saw him?’

She hesitated, looking at Crozier then back to Lorimer. ‘Him or someone very like him. I used to see them together, outside the art galleries,’ she explained. ‘Then, one day I was in town. It was a nice evening, summertime…’ She stopped and looked into the middle distance as if recalling the memory. ‘I was coming from St Enoch’s. It was quite new then,’ she explained to Crozier. ‘Someone had told me that there was a family of swans on the Clyde and so instead of going straight for the Underground, I decided to walk along the riverbank.’ She paused, looking from Crozier to Lorimer as though to see that they were following her story. ‘That’s when I saw them. The man and the red-haired boy. All lovey-dovey.’ She gave a delicate shudder. ‘It was disgusting!’ she exclaimed. ‘Two men doing things like that in broad daylight!’

‘And you were certain that this young man fitted the description in the
Gazette
?’ Lorimer spoke firmly.

‘Oh, yes!’ The woman bridled instantly.

‘But you didn’t think to call the police?’

She reddened at that, pent-up guilt suffusing her face and neck with warmth.

‘I… I thought someone else might have seen him,’ she began lamely. ‘Didn’t want to get involved…’

‘So why come to us now?’ Crozier demanded testily.

‘Oh!’ Mona Daly was obviously taken aback. ‘Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ She looked from one officer to the other as though bewildered at their lack of understanding. ‘It was the same man,’ she said. ‘The one I saw with Rory. The same man who had been hanging around with that other red-haired youth all these years ago.’

There was a silence as her words were digested, then Lorimer opened a thin file that had been under his clasped fingers. He drew out the artist’s sketch that had been made almost twenty years before, the image that had never been shown to the public in the wake of the young man’s death.

‘Is this the boy you saw?’ He held up the drawing in front of her.

Mona Daly’s hands flew to her face, a sob escaping from her mouth as she nodded. ‘Yes, oh my dear lord, yes. That’s definitely the boy I saw.’ She sniffed loudly and began to open her handbag but Lorimer passed her a Kleenex tissue from the open desk drawer at his side.

He tried to catch Crozier’s eye as they listened to the woman blowing her nose noisily but the DI had picked up the sketch in its plastic covering and was staring at it intently.

‘Now, Miss Daly, perhaps you might be good enough to give us a description of this other man, the one you saw more recently with Rory Dalgleish.’

‘I
t’s got to be the same perpetrator!’ Lorimer insisted.

Stevie Crozier and Solly were sitting next to him as they pored over the original case file together.

‘And what’s the connection between Glasgow and Mull?’ she asked.

‘Well, we know from the Dalgleish parents that Rory had been persuaded by someone to take that job in Kilbeg,’ he told her. ‘And that is where I think we ought to begin looking again.’

‘I agree,’ the psychologist said slowly. ‘There must be someone on the island who has information about these two boys.’

The blonde woman shook her head. ‘I was wrong. Thought you were harking back to a cold case that couldn’t have any relation whatsoever to Rory’s death.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Ach, it was a long shot,’ Lorimer admitted. ‘But it was that unusual way they’d both been tied up. Which reminds me…’ He stretched behind him to pull another, thicker, file from the cabinet behind them. ‘Courlene,’ he said. ‘Rosie alerted me to this.’

He spread the post-mortem photographs across the desk. ‘Look here,’ he said, placing two images together. ‘This one’s of our missing person, that one’s of Rory. See the striations?’

‘They’re the same,’ Crozier said, bending to study the pictures.

‘Possibly made by Courlene, a polythene twine used in the fishing industry. You’d get it in any chandlery,’ he told them, looking from Crozier to Solly.

‘So, anyone who knew Rory and had a boat…?’ the psychologist mused.

He grinned at him. ‘That’s where we want to begin,’ he said, turning to Crozier. ‘Your team on Mull with me tagging along behind.’

Stevie Crozier gave him a silent look then dropped her gaze.

There was something in the way she refused to meet his eyes that gave Lorimer a frisson of concern; he could see that she was intrigued about the cold case from 1995. And, he hoped, just as eager as he was to find the killer. But something was still eating at her. He would have to tread gently around this woman or their uneasy relationship might prove to be an impediment when the case resumed.

‘Will you send this to the
Gazette
?’ Solly asked, nodding at the large buff envelope in his friend’s hand.

‘And
Crimewatch
, if they can slot it in,’ Lorimer replied. ‘We need to pull out all the stops now, make as much of a fuss as possible. Whoever is behind these two young men’s deaths must know that we are on his trail.’ He paused by Solly’s side as they waited to cross the road at Kelvin Way.

‘You don’t expect him to come forward and confess his crimes, surely?’ The psychologist’s crooked smile held the tiniest hint of derision.

‘What do you think, Solly?’ Lorimer turned, eyebrows raised as they moved towards the other side of the road and headed into the park.

There was silence for a time as the psychologist walked by Lorimer’s side. Once upon a time these lengthy pauses for deliberation had annoyed the policeman but he was used to them now and waited patiently for an answer to his question. Nobody could ever accuse the professor of being hasty; careful and considered, his pronouncements were usually the result of much thought.

They were at the pond and slowing down to look at the water before Solly spoke again.

‘He has certain tastes,’ he began, ‘for young men willing to participate in the bondage and discipline aspects of a sadomasochistic relationship. Perhaps he paid them? Perhaps they were the submissive partners in an ongoing sexual relationship.’ He stopped and smiled, watching some young coots bob their way across to the overgrown island that provided nesting sites for many of the waterfowl.

‘Once he was in this city of ours,’ Solly continued thoughtfully, ‘when he was a much younger man, possibly exploring the parameters of his own sexuality, perhaps he felt more freedom to carry out his relationship here than in other parts of the country?’

‘You mean he deliberately went to Mull to try to stifle these homosexual tendencies?’

Solly turned and looked at his friend. ‘As I see it, there are several possible scenarios. The perpetrator was living here in Glasgow and after the first boy’s death he wanted to escape from the sort of life he had been living. Whatever that may have been. Mull offered something that he needed, perhaps? A safe haven where he could work and live without arousing suspicions. He will have
wanted
to change his lifestyle, if that theory holds water.’

‘But Rory Dalgleish coming to Mull changed all of that,’ Lorimer insisted. ‘And we know that someone suggested the job at Kilbeg Country House Hotel to Rory. Someone wanted him to come away from the city to Mull.’

‘And perhaps this someone has links with both Glasgow and Mull?’

‘If the killer had a place in Glasgow, why would he need to lure Rory away from the city?’

‘True.’ Solly stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Which brings me to an alternative theory. You seem to want to find a person who came to the island about twenty years ago. But what if…’ He looked past Lorimer, a faint smile on his intelligent face as though his thoughts were taking shape.

‘What if…?’ Lorimer asked, a slight impatience in his tone.

‘What if the person you are looking for originates in Mull? What if his initial victim was a terrible accident?’

‘But what led him back to Glasgow? To Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum? That’s where we think he may have met Rory.’

‘We often revisit the scene of a place where we have loved,’ Solly mused. ‘Perhaps it was fate that led him to seeing Rory Dalgleish, a young red-haired lad who just happened to be gay. And,’ he looked at Lorimer with pity in his eyes, ‘possibly a young man who was rather lonely. From what you’ve told me of the parents, Rory never had the courage to come out to them. His relationships with other men may therefore have been furtive and guilty. Or,’ his bushy eyebrows were raised in speculation, ‘the aspect of hiding such things from them may have added to the spice of a sadomasochistic sexual relationship. The older man to whom he submitted may well have been a father figure of sorts.’ He shrugged. ‘I could go on in this vein for quite a while, my friend, but I don’t know just how helpful my ramblings might be in helping you find this man.’

‘Well,’ Lorimer began slowly, ‘you’ve certainly given me plenty to consider. We need to look at facts, of course, and evidence… if we can find any.’

‘Your killer needed a boat, you say.’ Solly nodded, stooping down to pick up a crust of bread that had been dropped by a child. He began to break it into crumbs, throwing the pieces one by one onto the grass verge where feral pigeons immediately congregated, gobbling and pecking.

‘There is a line of thought that Rory went off with someone after the dance. Someone who had a boat, a yacht, we don’t really know.’

‘And Rosie tells me that this binder twine…?’

‘Courlene,’ Lorimer supplied.

‘Yes, this Courlene was possibly the stuff used to secure each of these young men prior to their death?

‘It’s a possibility, yes,’ Lorimer agreed.

‘
If
’ – Solly stressed the word – ‘
if
the bonds were not removed until rigor had set in, does that not tell you something about your killer?’

Lorimer breathed in deeply. ‘Yes, I think I see what you’re getting at. Why did he not immediately dump these bodies after the boys had died?’

‘Why indeed?’ The psychologist’s smile was sad now. ‘Perhaps it was hard to let either of them go. And the memory of that first death must have been so difficult to put behind him.’

‘So why did he allow himself to become involved with Rory twenty years later?’

‘Why do any of us allow our emotions to overcome our better judgement?’ Solly said, turning to look his friend in the eye. ‘We had a lecturer at university. Nice man. His wife died of breast cancer. He was utterly devoted to her, spent hours at her bedside in the hospice, supported his children afterwards in such an admirable way.’

‘What happened?’ Lorimer asked, his curiosity piqued.

‘He married again less than eighteen months afterwards. To a nice lady who very much resembled his late wife. The children loved her.’ He shrugged.

‘The object lesson being…?’ Lorimer began to walk away from the pond towards the path that led to Solly’s home, the psychologist falling into step beside him.

Solly caught his sleeve and nodded. ‘The object lesson, if that is what you wish to call it, is that Rory Dalgleish evoked the same strong feelings that his lover had for his original victim.’

Once more the detective superintendent found himself haunted by the image of the nameless red-haired boy. The difference now was that there was some slight possibility that someone might remember him from twenty years before.

Lorimer turned the pencil sketch around and peered closely at the writing on the reverse.
P McGrain
was written in dark lettering, as though the artist had been using something like a Rapidograph pen. Lorimer frowned. He had no recollection of a P. McGrain from his visit all those years ago. A sudden urge to revisit the school of art made him rise from his desk and slip the picture into a leather briefcase. He had failed to follow up this important aspect of the dead boy’s identity, somehow. Nowadays their technical support would have created a digital image for the police. Things had been so different then, Lorimer mused, shrugging his arms into a dark linen jacket and heading out of the room.

The route to Glasgow School of Art was up a steep hill but the detective superintendent did not notice the slope as he walked briskly along the narrow pavements. Lorimer’s mind was still on the early days of his career: so many changes had taken place. Technology had made life easier for investigating officers in so many ways: emails could send information in seconds that had taken days to arrive twenty years before; digital imagery could recreate the face and body from the remains of a person dead for many years; forensic medical science had surged ahead too, so much more detail being given by DNA samples. Aye, he thought, it was a changed world.

As he approached the staircase leading to the door of the art school, Lorimer gave a half smile to himself, glad that there were some things that had not changed – like the hallowed building designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Here, he noted, seeing a boy race down the steps, clutching a huge burgundy-coloured folio under one arm, life and art were intermingled. Yes, there might be more emphasis nowadays on art installations but he hoped that the crafts of drawing and painting were still considered as vital skills.

‘Hello?’ He knocked on the receptionist’s door. ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer, Police Scotland, here to see the principal.’

‘Ah, yes, she’s just upstairs. Let me show you.’ The woman rose smiling from her seat behind an ancient carved desk that looked as if it might have been in the school since the heady days of Mackintosh and his cohorts themselves.

Lorimer followed, glancing at the pale statues that graced the dark corridors, survivors of the terrible fire that had threatened to destroy one of the city’s best loved and most iconic buildings.

The woman knocked on a door then pushed it open.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer to see you, Miss Hastings.’

‘Hello.’ A short stout woman wearing a grey shapeless dress, a mass of crazy red curls tied up in a green batik bandana, swept forward and took Lorimer’s hand in hers. It felt dry and warm, making the detective glance at the principal’s fingers: how many works of art had the celebrated Dora Hastings created in her lifetime? Yet she had chosen the path of teacher despite being one of the foremost painters of her generation.

‘It’s about this.’ Lorimer drew the sketch from his briefcase. ‘It was done about twenty years ago, possibly by one of your former staff?’

Dora Hastings reached for a pair of tortoiseshell over-reader spectacles and perched them on her nose.

Lorimer watched as she examined the sketch. At first she seemed to frown then the puzzled expression changed, her mouth falling open.

‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘It was supposed to have helped identify a murder victim twenty years ago,’ Lorimer said, a note of apology creeping into his voice.

Dora Hastings turned the sketch around.

‘P. McGrain,’ she said slowly, then took off her glasses and stared at Lorimer. ‘That’s Peter McGrain. He was one of my colleagues until his retiral a couple of years ago. So,’ she popped the glasses back on and studied the sketch again, ‘someone asked Peter to do this.’

‘Yes. But the original victim is connected to another ongoing case,’ he explained. ‘And I was hoping that Mr McGrain might give us permission to publish this image.’

Dora Hastings gave a long smile that made her eyes crinkle. ‘You want to find out who this boy was?’

‘That’s correct.’ Lorimer gave her a puzzled look.

Dora Hastings shook her head, making the silver hoops on each ear catch the sunlight that poured through the window behind her. ‘I can tell you,’ she said, looking back at the sketch.

Lorimer sat quite still, hardly daring to breathe. Was he about to find the answer he had sought in the case that had haunted him all of these years?

‘Ah, poor boy,’ she said, clutching at her throat. ‘We wondered what had become of him.’

‘You
knew
this boy?’

‘Yes,’ she said, continuing to stare at the sketch. ‘Peter would have known him too. I’m surprised he didn’t mention anything at the time.

‘He was one of our life models, you see.’ She paused for a moment, looking up as if to remember. ‘There must have been any number of sketches made of this boy before… you say he died?’

‘He was a murder victim,’ Lorimer replied.

He paused for a moment, desperately wanting the woman to give an affirmative answer to his next question.

‘Do you happen to have known his name?’