Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer)

by Gray, Alex

  Solly and he were walking up the single-track road behind the cottage, Maggie content to stay behind and read a story to her goddaughter who was sleepy after the long journey.

  ‘We never found the identity of the victim,’ Lorimer continued, looking at the moss-covered ground as he spoke. ‘Young man, maybe the same age as Rory Dalgleish,’ he mused. ‘I remember some of the details. He was a redhead as well. But it was the manner of his death that made me think about this one.’ He glanced across at the bearded psychologist who was walking, hands folded behind his back. Solly returned his glance, nodding the policeman to continue his narrative.

  ‘There were marks on the wrists and ankles that showed he had been bound up. Tightly. With stiff rope or something really strong. The marks had survived immersion in water. And this lad, Rory, had something similar.’

  Solly nodded sagely once more but said nothing for a few moments. Lorimer wondered if the psychologist’s mind had sprung to the same sort of conclusions as his own: had the victims been involved in some sort of deviant sexual behaviour? Were these bondage marks signs of earlier sadomasochistic activity?

  ‘Coincidence?’ Solly suggested at last, then he grinned, showing perfect white teeth against his black moustache. ‘Ah, but Detective Superintendent Lorimer doesn’t believe in coincidences, isn’t that what they all say?’

  ‘Do they?’ Lorimer stopped, a look of surprise on his face. ‘Goodness. I thought it was just me…’ He gave a laugh. ‘Anyway, I might just run this past DI Crozier, see if she wants to make anything of it.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? It was twenty years ago, after all, and your other case was in Glasgow, not the island of Mull.’

  ‘It isn’t always place that matters,’ Lorimer said. ‘It’s the MO that counts, especially when it’s recorded on a database as extensive as HOLMES.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Solly nodded. ‘Of course, it’s been updated since your earlier case. Lots of things have,’ he murmured.

  Lorimer walked on at the psychologist’s side, thinking hard. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System had been in place all right when he had joined the force, something that had been sparked off in the wake of the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Nowadays it afforded officers all over the country a basis for comparison of cases no matter where they had occurred, something that the professor also found interesting, particularly in cases of multiple murder when it paid to look at the geographical scatter of incidents.

  ‘She will look for another similar crime, though, won’t she?’

  ‘I would hope so,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘It’s standard practice.’

  ‘So, no need to risk putting her nose out of joint with a suggestion in that direction?’ Solly smiled meaningfully at his friend.

  ‘Do you think she’d mind my mentioning it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Solly replied. ‘I haven’t met her yet.’

  The vibration from his phone made Lorimer stop and take it out. Lifting it up to the light he read the text message and smiled.

  ‘Looks as though you won’t have long to wait. She’s on her way here now.’

  Stevie Crozier clenched and unclenched her fists, the anger she felt suffusing her cheeks with colour. These Forsyth people deserved to be reported for the way they’d spoken to her. The woman had hardly said a word, just nodding in agreement with everything her husband said, like some sort of puppet. A wee bit of a want, McManus had said, tapping his head meaningfully when she had asked him about Freda Forsyth. And she could see what he had meant. There had been a gleam of something fervent in the woman’s eyes, though, when she had looked at Stevie. It was as if there was a deep-seated resentment against the police and against this female officer in particular.

  He’d been overtly charming, the sort of Mine Host who talked into the wee small hours with his clientele, encouraging them to spend their money at his bar. But Hamish Forsyth hadn’t fooled Stevie for one minute. He had shown them the paperwork that comprised an agreement between Rory Dalgleish and themselves for his summer job at Kilbeg House, even drawing her attention to the original email that Rory had sent in response to the advertisement for seasonal staff. Didn’t know the lad well at all, he’d told her, avoiding her eye and looking over his shoulder as if to see what the weather was doing out on the Sound. Good worker, though, he’d admitted. The loss of eye contact had interested her. She was well enough versed in a person’s body language to tell when someone was lying, and for some reason Mr Forsyth wanted to give the impression that he hadn’t known the boy when in fact there may have been something between them. Yes, very interesting indeed. But then to dismiss them so hurriedly as if there were guests clamouring for his attention was just plain annoying. And the cheek of that Forsyth woman who had simply told her to go away and stop bothering them! Stevie had been lost for words.

  They would have to go back again, speak to other members of staff who might have been Rory’s friends. That was how it was done, after all. Look at the victim’s background, speak to family and friends then cast the net wider and wider, taking in things like his emails, his financial transactions, anything that could give a clue as to what had happened in the days leading up to his death. Pity the mobile was missing. Records of phone calls while they waited for the phone company to get back to them could be extremely useful.

  Stevie found herself gazing out towards the water. A fish farm of some sort lay just offshore, then they had passed it and a line of overgrown birches obscured her vision. The DI sighed. She couldn’t see too clearly in this case yet, but she was damned if she was going to ask that tall detective superintendent for help.

  Lorimer and Solly watched as the silver Mercedes turned from the main road and made its way along the single-track road below them.

  ‘Must be her,’ Lorimer said, quickening his pace towards the cottage.

  There were two main gates into Leiter, one that had to be swung open for cars to park on the pebbled drive, the other a smaller gate leading to the front garden. Most of the islanders enclosed their properties against the predations of sheep and deer. Traffic could often come to a halt too for a ewe and her lambs idly trotting along the road, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were blocking the way of vehicles.

  ‘They’re parking at the lay-by,’ Solly murmured, looking at the car turning into a large area just short of the cottage.

  ‘That’s all right, gives us time to get home before them.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘Wonder if Maggie can woo them with her latest batch of scones?’

  ‘If my daughter hasn’t finished them,’ Solly laughed, remembering the sticky raspberry jam around Abby’s face as she’d demolished her Aunty Maggie’s home baking.

  The cottage was quiet when they arrived and Maggie lifted an admonitory finger to her lips as she saw the two men.

  ‘She’s sleeping,’ she whispered. ‘Poor wee lamb was tuckered out.’

  ‘We’ve got visitors,’ Lorimer said. ‘DI Crozier.’ He tilted his head towards the open door and Maggie looked up, hearing the crunch of feet on pebbles.

  ‘Oh, I better put the kettle on, then,’ Maggie exclaimed, hurrying into the kitchen and closing the door behind her.

  Lorimer stepped out of the cottage to greet the two officers. A small wind had sprung up and the blonde woman had put a hand up to smooth her hair back in place as she approached the doorway. It was a small gesture, but one that made her seem suddenly vulnerable, reminding Lorimer how hard it could still be for senior female officers even in these enlightened days. Crozier stepped out in front of her colleague, her eyes shifting to the man standing behind Lorimer, her lips parted as though an unspoken question hovered there.

  ‘DI Crozier, DS Langley.’ Lorimer shook their hands in turn, beckoning them into the cottage. He turned towards the entrance where the bearded psychologist was standing just inside the porch.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Professor Solomon Brightman, Dr Fergusson’s husband,’ he said, stepping aside to allow for more pol
ite handshakes.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met before.’ Solly smiled benignly. ‘This is our first time here in Mull,’ he explained.

  ‘Well I’m sorry you had to be dragged up for a murder inquiry, sir,’ Crozier said, blinking hard as though she could not quite believe that she was seeing the man in front of her. Even the full black beard and horn-rimmed spectacles could not disguise this handsome and engaging man, Lorimer realised. Used as he was to Solly’s exotic appearance, it came as something of an amusement to see a new female reaction to his friend.

  ‘Please, come in and sit down, my wife will be bringing in some tea and scones. Or would you prefer coffee?’

  ‘Oh.’ Crozier seemed nonplussed for a moment. As they followed Lorimer into the lounge she said, ‘We weren’t going to stay long…’

  ‘She makes great scones.’ Solly smiled winningly. ‘And the raspberry jam’s home-made too.’

  ‘I’d love a cuppa, boss,’ Langley nodded, putting the woman at a sudden disadvantage.

  ‘Well, okay, then, fine. Tea’s fine, I mean,’ she agreed helplessly, sitting down on the edge of one of the ancient armchairs that were angled towards the fireplace.

  ‘Hello.’

  Lorimer smiled as Maggie entered the room, DS Langley immediately on his feet, Crozier hemmed in where she sat next to the coffee table. The DI’s discomfiture was all too apparent as she sat looking up at her fellow officer and the dark-haired, smiling woman bending to put the tea things beside her.

  ‘This is my wife, Maggie,’ he said, taking the teapot and beginning to pour tea into the four mugs that were on the tray next to a mound of freshly buttered scones and an old-fashioned china pot full of jam.

  ‘Sorry to butt in on you like this,’ Crozier murmured, taking a scone from the pile that Maggie was offering.

  ‘I’m used to it,’ Maggie said simply. ‘Being a policeman’s wife makes for lots of interruptions.’ She shrugged. ‘But we didn’t expect to be in the middle of a murder inquiry. Here, of all places.’

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ Crozier repeated. She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘There is something that I wanted to make very clear, though,’ she began, ducking her head to avoid their glances.

  ‘You don’t want me sticking my Glasgow nose into your case,’ Lorimer said softly, a wry smile on his face. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t intend to interfere. Or pull rank. You are the SIO, after all, and I’m supposed to be on holiday. There is one thing you ought to know, however.’

  ‘Oh, and what’s that?’ Crozier’s face was pink.

  ‘The Dalgleishes did ask me to take over.’

  ‘And what did you tell them?

  ‘That it’s your case. Though I could tell he wasn’t happy. I think coming here to see where Rory was found made them feel like that,’ he explained.

  There was an uncomfortable silence as they sat drinking tea, Maggie now perched on the arm of Lorimer’s chair, the psychologist gazing at each of them in turn with a faint contemplative smile on his face as though he were reading their body language.

  ‘Is this your own place?’ Langley asked at last, looking around the cottage, its old-fashioned decor in keeping with a bygone era, not quite what he may have expected from the Glasgow couple.

  ‘No,’ Maggie replied. ‘It belongs to the aunt of one of Bill’s colleagues, Mary Grant. We rent it as often as we can.’

  ‘Though if she were ever to sell we’d want to have first refusal,’ Lorimer chipped in.

  ‘It’s such a haven of peace and quiet,’ Maggie enthused.

  ‘You must have been pretty upset then when the body was washed up,’ Crozier said.

  ‘I was.’ Maggie nodded. ‘We both were,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘You know what householders say whenever they’ve been burgled?’ Lorimer asked. ‘They always seem to feel that they’ve been violated. That was how it felt to Maggie and me.’ He looked around the room with its low ceiling and deeply recessed windows. ‘Leiter’s special,’ he said, ‘even though it doesn’t belong to us.’

  DI Crozier nodded, a small frown on her face as though she were slightly embarrassed at this personal disclosure. ‘Well, thanks for the tea, your scones are lovely,’ she said, looking at Maggie with undisguised admiration. ‘I never learned how to bake.’

  ‘My wife makes great scones,’ Langley grinned. ‘Almost as good as yours, Mrs Lorimer.’

  There was an uneasy silence as DI Crozier appeared to bite back a retort. Then she rose from the armchair and laid her mug back onto the tray. ‘We’d better be going,’ she said. ‘I think your wife may be waiting for us at Craignure,’ she added, nodding to Solly. ‘Nice to meet you, Professor Brightman.’

  The psychologist had risen to his feet but remained where he was as Lorimer led the two detectives out.

  Maggie waited until she was sure they were out of earshot before whispering, ‘What do you make of her?’

  ‘Hm.’ Solly began stroking his beard and looking out of the window towards the lay-by where the officers had left their car. ‘She was certainly spoiling for a fight. But I think your tea and scones completely disarmed the detective inspector, Maggie.’

  Maggie laughed. ‘She’s quite a pretty girl. Reminds me of Laura, one of my younger colleagues at school. Husband and three kids. Not a path that DI Crozier seems to have chosen,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘So many female officers appear to be married to the job.’

  ‘Maybe she just hasn’t met anyone she wants to settle down with,’ Solly rejoined. ‘But I think you’re right. I would guess DI Crozier’s had to work jolly hard to get to where she is. I’m not sure she has much support from her detective sergeant, either,’ he mused. ‘I would guess he isn’t too happy about having a woman as his superior officer.’ He looked out of the window thoughtfully. ‘And this case must be a big deal to her. I’d guess she’s never covered a murder case on her own before.’

  ‘How can you tell that?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘She’s desperate to hold on to it,’ he replied. ‘Can’t be too many incidents of this nature, even in the wild town of Oban,’ he chuckled.

  ‘He seems a decent sort,’ Langley remarked as they drove back onto the main road and headed around Fishnish Bay.

  Stevie Crozier did not reply. She was thinking hard. Lorimer had agreed to meet them again tomorrow after the post-mortem and give them a blow-by-blow account of where and how he had found the boy’s body. He was cooperating so nicely, maybe too nicely, she thought darkly. His politeness and charm hadn’t quelled her suspicions that the detective superintendent might yet try to take over, pulling strings that would leave her sidelined.

  The views of the forest and the distant hills of Morvern were lost to her as they sped along the road, her thoughts now turned to the people who were expecting them in Craignure; she was curious to meet the wife of the enigmatic Professor Brightman.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Were there such doubts in his mind that to relate his thoughts might prove embarrassing at the very least, professionally risible at worst? He had rehearsed the words to himself several times before the DI’s arrival. There’s an old case you might be interested in… There’s something I wanted to run past you… But he had said nothing, seeing only too well that such a matter would be taken as blatant interference in her case.

  As Lorimer gazed out at the bay and the shadows chasing each other across the Morvern hills, he was seized with a sense that there had been an opportunity missed and that now it was too late to bring up the subject of the unknown red-haired boy who had come into his life all those years ago.

  It was a time he wanted to forget, of course. Wasn’t it, after all, part of the human condition to stifle all memories that surrounded profound grief? The days and weeks that had followed the discovery of that unknown victim were all a blur now; and perhaps, he told himself, there was a part of him wanting it to stay that way.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The tall blonde woman walking towards her reminded
Rosie of a former fellow pathologist, a stylish young woman who had always donned her highest heels and designer outfits after a post-mortem, insisting that wearing scrubs and plastic aprons for the day job made her all the more aware of her appearance outside the mortuary. Rosie grinned, recalling Dr Jacqui White, the woman who was now enjoying the television career she had carved out for herself.

  DI Crozier’s cream-coloured heels were modest in comparison and her sharp grey suit with a pale lemon blouse might have been purchased in any high street chain, but she carried herself with the same self-possession as Jacqui White. The DI’s attractive face might not grace the public’s TV screens but, as the senior police officer in the busy harbour town she would probably have been photographed often enough for the Oban Times.

  ‘DI Crozier? I’m Dr Fergusson.’ Rosie got up from the bench outside the hospital and smiled as the DI was almost past her.

  ‘Oh.’ The woman stopped in her tracks and stared at Rosie. What had she been expecting? Rosie wondered in a moment of amusement: a white-coated professional instead of a small woman dressed in jeans, open-toed sandals and a cotton top? Crozier towered over her as she took Rosie’s outstretched hand, trying to overcome her surprise.

  ‘I guess you’ve already met my husband and our little girl?’

  Crozier nodded. ‘Not your daughter, I only met Professor Brightman and the Lorimers,’ she replied.

  ‘Ah.’ Rosie smiled as they walked together into the shade of the hospital porch. ‘Abby would be down for a sleep, I expect. Bill and Maggie are her godparents,’ she explained.

  ‘Right.’

  Rosie hid a smile, watching the way the other woman’s lips tightened. It would be interesting to see what Solly had made of this woman. The very mention of Lorimer seemed to make her stiffen.

  ‘I’ve seen Dr MacMillan,’ Rosie began as they walked down the hospital corridor. ‘She’s fine for me to do the PM first thing tomorrow. Will you be there?’