by Gray, Alex
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
‘Are 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. Lea
den 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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ewan Angus twisted the orange twine nervously between his long fingers as he stood outside the back door of Calum Mhor’s house. Mrs Calum would be glad enough of the pair of sea trout dangling from his fist, he knew, but the big sergeant’s reaction to what he was about to tell him was another story.
‘Come away in, Ewan.’ Mrs Calum stood in the doorway, beaming. ‘You know where the kitchen is, lad,’ she said, taking the fish from the tall young fisherman’s hands and then stepping aside to let him enter the house. ‘A cup of tea? Kettle’s on.’
‘No thanks, missus.’ Ewan Angus bobbed his head then took off the flat tweed cap he was wearing. ‘Actually,’ he cleared his throat nervously, ‘I was wondering if Himself was at home?’
‘Calum?’ The woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Aye, he is, right enough.’ She stared at the young man for a moment then waddled off to the foot of the stairs.
‘Calum!’ Her voice boomed as she called out her husband’s name. ‘A fellow here to see you!’
There was the sound of a door closing upstairs and heavy footsteps descending then the big policeman came into view.
‘It’s yourself, Ewan Angus, what can I do for you, lad?’
‘I…’ He glanced furtively at Mrs McManus standing watching.
‘It’s a wee bit private, sir…’ he said, biting his lip and nodding apologetically at the police sergeant’s wife.
Calum Mhor raised his chin. ‘Aye, well. Come away ben the house. We can have a wee talk through in the lounge,’ he said, ushering the younger man along the hallway. ‘The visitors are all away out just now.’
Ewan Angus followed the policeman into a spacious room that was light and airy; to the fisherman’s eyes everything seemed very clean and bright. Glass-topped tables and a sideboard full of ornaments and silver-framed photos gleamed, a testament no doubt to Mrs Calum’s work with polish and duster. He looked past the flowered curtains drawn back against picture windows that faced the pier where the Isle of Mull was disgorging its final stream of cars for the day from below its raised bow.
‘Sit down, lad,’ Calum said.
‘Thanks.’ Ewan Angus perched on the edge of a cream-coloured sofa as though afraid that he might somehow leave a mark on the pristine furnishings.
‘There’s something on your mind,’ Calum observed, giving the fisherman a shrewd look.
‘Aye,’ Ewan Angus sighed volubly. ‘We should have come to you at the time,’ he began, looking down at the cap and screwing it between his fingers. ‘Only…’
‘Aye?’
‘Da was worried we’d lose the boat,’ Ewan Angus blurted out.
‘Ah, you were at the splash.’ Calum nodded. ‘Well. That’s something between thee and me, eh, laddie?’ The big man winked and grinned.
‘Well, it’s no’ as easy as that, sir,’ the young man replied. ‘You see… I’m here to explain about that poor boy, the one that Mr Lorimer found at Leiter.’
Calum Mhor watched the fisherman walk, head bowed, back along the road towards the car park where he had left his father’s van. It had taken a bit of courage to come and confess their small part in the discovery of Rory Dalgleish’s body. But had old Ewan Angus known that his son was making this visit to the police sergeant’s home in Craignure? Perhaps the lad was at this moment wondering how to explain his actions to his fisherman father.
Lorimer had been right after all, he thought, walking away from the window as he mentally admired the perspicacity of the Glasgow detective. The tide had been unnaturally high but even so, that had not explained why the body had been found on dry ground. But now that part of the puzzle was solved. The discovery of Rory’s dead body by the two fishermen and the old man’s fear that they would risk confiscation of their boat and nets accounted for that inconsistency. He was prepared to make an official statement, Ewan Angus had agreed, his head hung in sudden shame. He’d make sure of that. And, once the old man had been told that it was a fait accompli, he’d surely agree to do the same, despite the consequences.
What DI Crozier would do to the fishermen was anyone’s guess, Calum sighed to himself. He would do his best to mitigate the penalty placed upon them but keeping such information was bound to have repercussions of some kind. They’d be lucky to keep their boat but
perhaps Crozier could be persuaded to see reason? He hoped so. Things had been hard for old Ewan Angus after his partner, Dougie Ingram, had died. Bella had refused to allow the older man permission to use the boat after her husband’s death and they’d had to make do with illicit forays into other folks’ waters. It was something that the big police sergeant and others had overlooked, the feeling that Bella Ingram had wronged her husband’s partner outweighing any legal consideration.
His thoughts turned to what sorts of losses were inevitable. There was the net, for one thing. The fishing net that had caught the boy’s dead body would have to be examined as soon as Ewan Angus could bring it to the incident room in Tobermory. Calum Mhor sighed. Perhaps he would talk to the tall detective from Glasgow, see if he could persuade Crozier to go lightly on the father and son.
‘Courlene,’ the voice on the telephone told her.
‘What’s that exactly?’ Rosie enquired.
‘It’s all in my report, I’ve just sent it to you as an attachment,’ the forensic officer explained. ‘It’s a sort of twine used in the fishing industry. You can read up the whole things once you open my email.’
‘Courlene,’ Rosie whispered to herself, fingers busy at her keyboard. She sat back and read the report from the man who had just called her. The severe pressure marks on Rory Dalgleish’s body had been made with a sort of polythene twine, the scientist claimed. It was one of the most successful of Courtauld’s commercial twines developed for the fishing industry, mainly distributed by a company called Boris Nets and now used by fishing fleets all over the world.
Great, Rosie thought. Doesn’t exactly narrow it down, then. However the report went on to explain that the marks imprinted on the victim’s wrists and ankles were not made by the fishermen’s nets, which would have left a criss-cross pattern, but by lengths of the twine instead.