by Gray, Alex
‘Of course.’ Crozier threw her a suspicious glance. ‘I’m not the squeamish type, you know.’
Rosie laughed. ‘I bet you’re not! In my experience it’s usually the young guys who faint at the sight of me cutting open a cadaver.’
Crozier managed a smile, making Rosie see for the first time what might lie beneath that buttoned-down exterior. She was an attractive woman, probably in her mid-thirties, but the worry lines around her eyes and creasing her forehead made her seem older.
‘It isn’t the first post-mortem I’ve attended. There were cases in Lothian and Borders,’ she said.
Rosie nodded, waiting for her to elaborate, but no further information about the DI’s background appeared to be forthcoming.
‘Dr MacMillan is going to assist me,’ Rosie told her. ‘She’ll be recording all the information should it be required in court later on.’
‘Can she do that? I thought you needed two pathologists.’
‘She trained in surgery,’ Rosie explained. ‘Did pathology for a while then went back to hospital work after she was married and came to live up here in Mull.’
‘Oh.’ Crozier seemed nonplussed that Rosie had found out so much about the doctor from Craignure in the short time since she had arrived.
‘We had quite a chat, catching up on this and that,’ Rosie grinned.
‘And she told you all about Rory Dalgleish, I suppose?’
‘No.’ Rosie looked at the DI seriously, suddenly concerned at the bitterness in the woman’s tone. ‘I was waiting for you to tell me that, DI Crozier. All I know so far is what you told me on the telephone and by email.’
‘Well, that’s a surprise. Thought your friend Lorimer would have given you all the details.’
‘I know he found the body,’ Rosie said slowly, staring at the woman, disturbed by her sarcastic tone. ‘And I expect he will tell me how he feels about that, but I was expecting the SIO to be the one to give me all the necessary information about where the body was washed up, how it appeared. I take it you have photographs of the body in situ before it was moved?’
Crozier nodded, her expression almost miserable. ‘The local police took them. With Lorimer’s camera,’ she added.
Rosie hid a smile. Her friend’s helpfulness had not gone down well with the detective inspector from Oban and she guessed that Crozier would be more than relieved when the Lorimers’ holiday came to an end, taking them back to Glasgow.
Just then a door opened and Dr MacMillan emerged from her office.
‘Ah, good to see you again, Detective Inspector Crozier.’ She beamed at them both. ‘And you’ve met Rosie now?’
‘Rosie?’ Crozier looked at the pathologist, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘You know one another?’
‘Dr MacMillan was my tutor when I was at Glasgow Uni,’ Rosie explained. ‘Taught me all I know.’
The older woman threw back her head and laughed, a long whooping sound that echoed down the corridor.
‘Hardly that, my dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just glad I didn’t put you off forensic pathology. The drop-out rate was quite alarming,’ she added, turning to the DI. ‘Only hardened wee souls like our Rosie stuck it out.’
There was a look of relief on the DI’s face as she glanced from one doctor to the other.
‘Aye, well, look where it’s got me,’ Rosie laughed.
‘Only to the top of the tree, my dear,’ Dr MacMillan said. ‘A fine achievement to be director of the department at your age.’ She beamed at her protégée. ‘And I am so glad it’s you here, Rosie. I know we will all be in safe hands.’ She put an affectionate arm around Rosie’s shoulders. ‘Okay, shall we say a nine o’ clock start?’
‘Fine for me,’ Rosie replied. ‘DI Crozier?’
‘Yes, I’ll be here.’
‘Good, that’s settled then. Shall we see you tonight, Rosie? Martin and I were hoping to take you out in the boat after dinner. It’s been anchored most of the summer in Tobermory but he brought it back today.’ She smiled at Crozier.
‘My husband’s been photographing minke whales in the Sound for the last few weeks,’ she explained. ‘Sometimes I don’t see him for days if he sleeps over on the boat,’ she laughed, ‘but he’ll be with us tonight.’
‘That would be lovely. See you at six.’
‘Right.’ The tall woman consulted her wristwatch. ‘Time for me to do my rounds, then. See you later.’
Dr MacMillan shook hands with them both then DI Crozier and Rosie turned to walk back along the corridor.
‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ Rosie began. ‘Was everybody’s favourite tutor at uni.’
Stevie Crozier cleared her throat. ‘I wasn’t aware that she was a pathologist as well.’
‘No? Well, I suppose it’s been a long time since she practised, right enough. And she married a bit later in life. Martin and she met at Earls Court at the Boat Show when they were both there to suss out buying a yacht. Ended up buying one together and coming up here.’
‘Mr MacMillan’s retired, then?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘No. Martin must be well into his seventies now but I doubt he’ll ever retire. And he’s not Mr MacMillan. The doc still uses her maiden name for work. So do I, as it happens,’ she added. ‘Her husband is Martin Goodfellow. You’ve maybe heard of him? He’s a freelance writer and photographer. Does loads of wildlife stuff. You’ve probably seen some of it on television.’
‘Don’t get a lot of time to watch TV in my job,’ Crozier replied stiffly.
They were out in the sunshine once more and Rosie saw the woman shading her eyes as she looked towards the waiting Mercedes.
‘Well, I’d better be getting back to Leiter to pick up my family. Solly’s stranded there,’ she laughed. ‘He doesn’t drive.’ She grinned as the detective’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Says he has too much on his mind to concentrate on mundane things like roads and traffic.’
‘I’d better be off, too,’ Crozier replied, nodding her farewell but not enlightening the pathologist as to where she was heading or what the next stage of her investigation entailed.
High above the small car park, hidden amongst swathes of bright green bracken, a glint of sunlight bounced off twin orbs of glass that were trained upon the two women.
Nobody noticed the watcher, halfway up that hillside, nor the way those powerful binoculars turned to see the silver car leave the village and head back towards the north of the island. The man behind the field glasses nodded to himself then leaned back, an invisible figure, his camouflage jacket blending in with the sunlight playing across grasses and heather.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Of course I’d been drinking!’ the man in the battered panama hat scoffed. ‘It was a Saturday night and we were in the Aros Hall. What did you expect, young Jamie Kennedy?’
The police constable’s face reddened as he looked back down at the lines he had written on the screen of his laptop, his eyes shifting momentarily to the unopened Toshiba lying to one side. People had been coming to the caravan all day and he hadn’t yet had time to look at the dead boy’s laptop.
‘Would you say the drink might have affected any of your ability to recall details, though, Jock?’
Jamie Kennedy stifled a sigh. Jock Maloney was a man well known for his ability to drink all evening and still be blethering on in the wee small hours. The man’s mild boast at being able to drink any of the other locals under the table had been put to the test countless times in the police constable’s experience but he was also prone to embroider his stories. Not to lie, exactly, just to embellish truths about people.
‘You want to know if I’d seen that boy, eh?’
‘And did you?’
‘’Twould have been hard to avoid him,’ Jock Maloney grinned. ‘With his kilt swirling on the dance floor and these ridiculous boxer shorts showing underneath!’
‘Boxer shorts?’ Jamie murmured.
‘Aye. Emblazoned with a Union Jack, would you believe!’
The man’s face twisted in disgust. Jock Maloney might be half Irish but he was one hundred per cent Scottish Nationalist and could often be heard to declaim loudly on the incomers from south of the border who had made their first or second homes on the island. White settlers, he’d say to anyone who was willing to listen to his rant. From Englandshire, he’d add, as though that part of the UK was somehow tainted. It wouldn’t be the first time that PC Kennedy had had to warn him about his racist tendencies, something that Maloney brushed off with a joke and a disarming shrug of his shoulders as though he hadn’t really meant any offence.
‘So, did you see the lad leaving the Aros Hall, Jock?’
‘Aye, well, maybe,’ the man admitted, his grin fading a little. ‘He was there at the interval, downstairs with a crowd from the Mishnish Hotel, yachties by the look of them.’
‘Half-time drink?’
The man in the panama hat nodded. ‘That would be right.’
‘And did you see him afterwards? Was he upstairs dancing later on?’
A shadow of doubt crossed the man’s drink-reddened features, bristly dark brows drawn down as he considered the question.
‘I believe so,’ he said at last. ‘There was a Strip the Willow and I’m sure he was in the set next to ours. Dancing with the local lassie from the hotel.’
‘And which lassie would that be?’
‘Och, Fiona, your wee pal.’ He winked. ‘They’d all cadged a lift up with Lachie Turner in his van.’
Jamie added this to the paragraph he had already written down, making a mental note to tell the DI that his old schoolfriend, Fiona Taig, had been seen with Rory Dalgleish but had not yet come forward to tell them so.
‘And later on? When you were leaving yourselves?’
Maloney tipped back his hat and rubbed his weather-beaten forehead. ‘Naw, nae sign of the laddie out on the street when we were going home. And I’d have remembered.’
‘Oh? How’s that, then?’
Maloney grinned. ‘Only man wearing a kilt, wasn’t he? Typical bloody Lowlander!’
Jamie straightened up and gave the man the benefit of his harshest stare. ‘May I remind you, Jock, that we’re dealing with the laddie’s death. It’s a serious matter.’
‘Sorry.’ The grin on the man’s face turned to a twisted smile but there was nothing of contrition in his eyes. ‘Anyway,’ he blustered, ‘I would have expected you to have Detective Superintendent Lorimer up here working the case.’
‘You know him?’ Jamie’s face registered surprise.
Maloney tapped the side of his nose. ‘Old pals, aren’t we?’
‘Oh? How come?’
‘Fixed his old Lexus plenty of times before he bought that silver job.’ Maloney grinned. ‘Had some good craic with the man, too.’
Jamie shook his head wearily. This was getting them nowhere fast.
‘Look, I need to know about Rory Dalgleish. Did you happen to see who he was talking to during the evening?’
‘Not really.’ Maloney shrugged. ‘Just knew he was there; I mean who could help avoiding him? That thatch of red hair and yon loud voice? Well, you could hardly miss him.’
Jamie Kennedy swallowed his annoyance. Maloney just didn’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation at all.
‘And there was no trouble at the dance?’
Maloney frowned. ‘Trouble? What kind of trouble could there be? Everyone was having a right good time.’ He paused, staring at the policeman. ‘D’ye mean like a fight breaking out?’
Jamie nodded.
‘Naw, nothing like that. ’Twas a quiet enough night on that account, I’d say. No trouble.’ He paused for a long moment, staring over the policeman’s head as if something had indeed come into his mind.
Jamie waited, hoping that the man might have something, anything that would give a clue to what had happened to the boy. But Maloney simply shrugged.
‘That’s as much as I remember, young ’un. All done, are we?’
Maloney sketched a mock salute against the bent rim of his hat and opened the door of the caravan, letting in some of the sweet salty air and the sound of raucous seagulls.
‘Arrivederci, commissario,’ he said, slipping down the two steps to the ground.
Jamie Kennedy shook his head and sighed. Maloney was one of the leading lights in the Mull drama club and his Italian accent was nigh on perfect, reminding Jamie of Inspector Montalbano, his favourite Saturday night viewing.
‘Aye, arrivederci to you too,’ he muttered under his breath.
The cheery expression on Maloney’s face vanished as soon as he had closed the caravan door again, his usual jaunty stride slower and more measured as he walked back along the street towards the Mishnish Hotel. A dram or two was in order, he told himself, a shudder passing through his body. Just to clarify his thoughts, not banish them altogether.
Though the image that came into his mind’s eye was one that Jock Maloney would prefer not to see ever again in this life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lorimer was sitting beside the man and woman on a bench outside their hotel, saddened that the view of the gardens sweeping down to the shore and the hills beyond was lost to these grief-stricken parents. Would they always associate this island with death and despair? They had urged him to sit with them during this interview with the reporter from Glasgow: He’s known to you, Rory’s mother had said. And we don’t know what to expect.
‘He’s late,’ Douglas Dalgleish grumbled, looking at his watch.
‘No, dear, we’re early,’ Pamela chided. ‘Look, here he is now.’
The three people turned as one at the reporter’s approach. McGarrity gave a slight bow in the direction of Mrs Dalgleish; it was not an ostentatious gesture, just a brief courtesy and Lorimer knew that the man was prepared to be as sympathetic to these bereaved folk as he could be. Today he had discarded his tweeds and was wearing a light linen jacket over an immaculately pressed shirt that was open at the neck, a concession to the sunshine that was blazing down from an azure sky.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ McGarrity said, offering a hand to each of them in turn. ‘I understand how hard it must be.’
‘Do you?’ Pamela Dalgleish blurted out then gazed at her lap.
‘It’s part of my job to talk to people who have experienced some terrible things,’ McGarrity said gently. ‘Part of being a crime reporter.’
‘Suppose someone’s got to do it,’ Douglas Dalgleish grumbled, making it sound as though the reporter was little better than the lowliest street sweeper. ‘Well, let’s get it over with,’ he added testily.
Lorimer watched as McGarrity picked up a metal chair that was nearby, angling it so that he was near enough to the trio but not invading their space. He was being sensitive towards these poor people, but Lorimer knew that he was also a consummate professional who would not leave until he had all the information he wanted.
‘Let’s start with Rory,’ the reporter began. ‘Tell me about him. What he did at school, his friends, his hobbies, the things he excelled in.’ He smiled at them encouragingly. ‘Readers always like to think of the life that a young person has enjoyed. It helps to make them more real in their eyes,’ he explained.
Pamela Dalgleish stared at him then nodded. ‘Hard to know where to begin,’ she whispered.
‘Just take your time,’ McGarrity told her.
A shuddering sigh went through her body then she straightened her shoulders as though preparing for a hard physical task.
‘Rory was our youngest,’ she began. ‘He was at Hutchie like the rest of the children, but he didn’t particularly shine at school. Not like his siblings.’
‘Too many things had changed since they’d been there,’ Dalgleish put in. ‘Too much choice. All that extra-curricular nonsense.’
‘Rory did like to go to the after-school clubs,’ Pamela agreed. ‘Computer club was his favourite.’
‘Never away from the blasted thing!’ her husband r
etorted.
‘Well, he was good at it, dear. He could always show me what to do if anything went wrong with mine.’
‘What was he going to study at university?’ McGarrity asked, as though sensing that this line of questioning was not particularly fruitful.
Dalgleish cleared his throat noisily. ‘Ah,’ he said, then stopped.
The two parents looked at one another then Pamela nodded as though there had been an unspoken agreement.
‘He hadn’t exactly been accepted for a course,’ she said. ‘He was going to travel first then apply later on.’
‘And had he any course of study in mind?’
‘Media studies,’ Dalgleish said, shaking his head. ‘Fat lot of good that would have done him in the job market. Oh well, not a problem now —’ He broke off, his hand across his mouth, sudden tears filling his eyes. He rummaged in a pocket and took out a handkerchief then blew his nose as the reporter looked on, an expression of utter contrition in his eyes.
‘Is this too hard for you?’ McGarrity asked.
‘Sorry, sorry, no, please go on. It’s just…’ He stopped and swallowed hard.
‘Phillip and Jennifer chose such traditional professions,’ Pamela explained. She’s a doctor in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary and Phillip’s a lawyer.’
‘And Rory had his own ideas about what he wanted to do?’
‘Something like that.’ She attempted a tremulous smile. ‘He was good at designing things.’ She looked up as though she had suddenly remembered. ‘Games for the computer, I mean. He could have made a career out of that, couldn’t he?’ She turned towards her husband, a mother protesting her son’s worth.
‘Plenty of youngsters have made a fortune from the internet,’ Lorimer agreed.
McGarrity nodded. ‘Shall I say then that Rory had advanced IT design skills? That he hoped might lead to greater things?’
As the two parents nodded as one, Lorimer hid a sardonic smile. McGarrity would have the dead boy as some sort of technical genius who was a loss to the modern world. His piece would be exaggerated, as they all were, but hopefully harmless. Still, it was an interesting bit of information and he wondered just what the police had turned up on the dead boy’s laptop.