by Gray, Alex
She scrolled down, looking at the various types of twine, her cursor coming to rest on the orange strands marked out by her friend in the forensic lab. It was a type of twine that had once been sold by chandlers but had been discontinued more than twenty years ago. That was not to say, the report went on, that some of this brand of Courlene was not still in existence, rolled up in corners of fishing boat lockers all over the globe. She read on, taking note of the scientific properties of the twine and glancing from time to time at the photographs by the side of her laptop, seeing the marks around the boy’s limbs that even such long immersion in water had failed to remove.
Rosie stared past the screen for a long moment, wondering. Solly had told her all about the cold case from 1995. Had Lorimer been correct to imagine there was a connection between these two murders? Her glance fell onto the screen once again. And, she thought, a faint smile hovering over her lips, could this be the very thing to link them both together?
Detective Superintendent Lorimer handed back the book to the clerk behind the desk. It was important to sign and date any entry whenever a production was to be re-examined. Any failure to do so could jeopardise a future court case. He waited patiently while the woman went in search of the bag.
‘Just a few samples,’ she told him. ‘Was that all the deceased had on him?’
‘He was found naked in the water,’ Lorimer explained. ‘There were only ever the forensic samples taken at the post-mortem.’
‘Sad,’ she remarked, shaking her head. ‘There’s a story there somewhere, no doubt.’
Lorimer took the production bag from her hands and slipped it into the case file he was already carrying. Things had changed a lot in twenty years, he mused, but at least the evidence from old cases was still being preserved, even if it only amounted to the filth taken by a pathologist from under a victim’s fingernails or the water weeds that had been clinging to his body. The cadaver itself had long since been buried in an unmarked grave but there were plenty of photographic records from the post-mortem still in the file. He heaved a sigh, remembering that morning by the Clyde and the young student who had risen to become Head of Forensic Medical Science at the University of Glasgow. How young they had both been back then! And how things had progressed in both their professions. Nowadays Rosie could email him with the results of toxicology and other tests so that a case could be pushed along far more swiftly than in the old days when they were both just starting out.
He pushed open the door to his office and laid the file on his desk, a surge of anticipation making him shiver suddenly. What if…? He sat down and leaned forward, his hand resting for a moment on the front cover of the file, the date on its label filling his mind with so many memories.
When he opened the folder it was like turning back time itself. The photographs of the boy’s dead body lying on the grass, the notes that he remembered writing as a young detective constable and the rubber stamps from the Crown Office.
He turned the pages of the file, setting the photographs carefully to one side.
The drawing slipped out from between the pages of the file, so that Lorimer almost let it fall from his fingers. It was still in its plastic bag, taped down behind to keep it clean, he supposed, turning it over.
The pencil-drawn image of a young man stared out at him. Where had it come from? Lorimer wondered, brow furrowing. Then he remembered. Hadn’t he asked at the art school if an image could be created from the original photographs? Someone had done this, not an enhanced digital photo, but a carefully executed sketch. He stared at the pencil drawing of the boy as he might have looked before the murder. It had been the same day that Maggie had lost the baby. He’d gone on leave afterwards and the case had been put aside by the time he had returned. But someone had carried out his request and the drawing had been put into the case file along with all the rest of the notes. But he had never seen it, and, numbed with grief for the loss of their baby son, Lorimer had never even remembered that he had asked for such a thing to be done.
He stared at the drawing. It was a black and white pencil drawing but even so, the detective could recall the young man’s flame-red hair. He sat back, a sense of loss pervading him. Someone’s son, he thought. Someone’s friend? And yet not a single person had come forward and this drawing had languished unseen for twenty years inside these case notes, never seeing the light of day or being copied into thousands of newspapers where it might have jolted somebody’s memory.
It could still be done, he mused. Crimewatch might be interested in a cold case from twenty years back. Do you recognise this man? he could almost hear the blonde presenter ask.
Courlene, he reminded himself, picking up the file and sifting through the section where several photographs had been taken in situ at the post-mortem examination. That was what he had retrieved this file to see.
There were several close-up photographs of the marks around the boy’s ankles and wrists, good enough to see the pattern that the binding twine had made. Rosie’s friend in forensics would be able to judge now whether both young men had been bound up in the same type of synthetic twine, the identity of which had eluded the investigating team all those years ago.
Lorimer picked up his phone and tapped out the pathologist’s number.
It had begun over a cup of tea, a nice green pot set on a wooden stand, as he recalled. How such a simple object could be imbued with the bitterness that had followed!
The café in Kelvingrove had been quiet, few visitors about on that memorable weekday; the red-haired waiter had been chatty, smiling and catching his eye in a manner he recognised only too well as flirtation. It had been so easy after that, meeting along the pathway of the river, the excitement of a new clandestine relationship that was going to be just for fun, the lad had said, just for the moment. Except that he had given Rory other ideas.
There was pain, always pain, he’d told the boy as he’d pulled his bonds tighter, laughing as he’d heard his cries; that’s what made everything worth it.
He hadn’t expected the lad to follow up his suggestion of finding a post at Kilbeg, expecting the handwritten note with details scribbled down to be discarded after he had gone back home. And yet, Rory Dalgleish’s arrival on the pier at Craignure had filled his mind with images of what they might enjoy, images that were always accompanied by the sound of Rory begging him to stop the pain. Begging, but really wanting it too. Else why would he have come to work on the island?
The summer had been hot and sticky some days and the cool of the boat had given them some respite from their day-to-day work, different though it had been. There, as the waves had lapped against the hull, he and Rory had experimented with their lovemaking, passion driving them both to seek more adventurous ways of fulfilment.
And death had been the summit of his desire. Was this something he ought to have known? He felt that twitch in his fingers as though they were somehow apart from his body, entities that had a will of their own. Should he not feel exonerated from the guilt that tugged at his heart?
There had been moments when he had thought of confessing, wondering why another had taken the blame instead. But now Jock Maloney had changed his testimony and the investigation had begun all over again.
He could feel a shadow beginning to spread over his mind, blotting out the way his hands had grasped the boy’s neck, the old woman’s muffled cry as he had snuffed out her life. There was nothing more he wanted now than to sink back into its darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
She was standing on the edge of the jetty, staring out to sea, arms wrapped around her chest to keep out the wind. Something about the way her hair blew up from her face tugged at the girl’s heart. There was deep sorrow burdening those narrow shoulders, she thought, a story left untold.
‘Mrs Forsyth,’ she called out, but Maryka’s words were carried away by the gusts coming off the water, tips of waves turning white, crescent-shaped eddies licking the wooden timbers below the landing stage.
&n
bsp; ‘Mrs Forsyth?’ Maryka stepped forward and tapped the older woman’s shoulder, making her start. ‘It’s time for dinner. Archie sent me to tell you.’
The woman looked at her, uncomprehending, as she turned back from her contemplation of the expanse of water that lay between island and mainland.
‘It’s dinner time,’ Maryka persisted gently, tucking her arm under the woman’s cardigan sleeve and guiding her along the pathway back to the hotel. ‘Archie’s got a nice bit of sea trout baked with a salad, you like that, don’t you?’ she gabbled, aware of the blankness in the woman’s pale eyes and the way she allowed herself to be meekly led back to the hotel.
Suddenly, as though she had remembered something, Mrs Forsyth clutched at the girl’s arm.
‘Will Gary be there?’ she demanded. ‘Has he arrived back yet?’
Maryka opened her mouth to ask Who’s Gary? Had her suspicions been correct after all?
‘Your son, Gary?’ she asked, holding her breath for a moment to see the woman’s response.
Freda Forsyth wrinkled her brow for a moment then shook her head. ‘He’s been away for such a long time,’ she sighed. ‘But I think he’ll be back soon.’ She let the girl’s arm fall then turned to look out to sea, a strange wistfulness in her face.
Maryka bit her lip. Had their son perished at sea a long time ago? Was that why she came down to the water’s edge so often? Did some tragedy from years gone by explain her increasingly bizarre behaviour?
‘It’s just the four of us tonight,’ Maryka said at last. ‘Mr Forsyth, Archie, you and me.’
The woman gave no indication that she had heard, merely stepping obediently along the narrow path, eyes fixed on the daisy-strewn grass.
‘I think there’s a mystery here,’ Maryka whispered to the chef, handing back the reefer. Their dinner was over and the Forsyths had retired to their upstairs rooms leaving her and Archie to clear up. The chef had sparked up their usual after-dinner joint now that they were alone together and the back door was open wide to let the pungent scent of the cannabis drift into the night. They were standing side by side near the big kitchen sinks, Maryka slowly drying the last of the cooking pots, Archie Gillespie hanging them up on the metal hooks suspended from a small pulley fixed to the ceiling.
The chef gave her a look. ‘Like how we get our last wages?’ he grunted between tokes.
‘No, not that sort of mystery,’ Maryka huffed. ‘Listen, guess what I just found out?’
The chef made a face then yawned as though anything the girl could relate was bound to be of little interest. He took one last draw on the reefer then, deciding it was finished, threw it into the sink where it sizzled and died.
‘They had a son,’ she said, forcing as much drama into her voice as she could. ‘Did you know that?’
Archie Gillespie shrugged. ‘What happened? Did he see the light and scarper?’
‘I don’t know. Only,’ she leaned closer to the chef and dropped her voice, ‘poor old Freda was muttering about someone called Gary. Someone she was waiting to come back here. I bet you anything it was their son. And something bad happened to him,’ she added darkly.
‘Och, your heid’s fu’ o’ nonsense, hen,’ the chef snorted derisively.
‘No, really, listen,’ Maryka said slowly, the drying cloth forgotten in her fingers. ‘I’m sure that’s why her nibs goes down to the dock all the time.’
Archie turned and looked down at her, his attention caught.
‘See, she thinks he’s coming back. But d’you know what I think?’
‘Give me a clue? He went off to join the navy?’
Maryka shook her head. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘And she won’t accept it after all these years. I think,’ she continued, ‘that Rory’s murder has brought it all back to her. Maybe we should tell the police?’
For a long moment the chef glared at her, a dark frown tugging down the corners of his mouth.
‘Know what I think?’ he growled, jabbing a reddened finger towards Maryka’s face. ‘I think you want tae leave that poor woman alone. You think too damned much for your own good.’
He banged down the grill pan on the kitchen counter and, without another word, stalked out of the back door and into the gathering dusk, leaving the girl to stare at his retreating figure and wonder at the venom in his tone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Talking to parents who had lost their child was one of the hardest things that Stevie Crozier had ever done. And having the tall detective superintendent standing by her side did not make it any easier. She shifted from one foot to the other as they stood in the wide entrance porch of the house on Glasgow’s affluent south side. It was a large, solidly built home dating from the earlier part of the twentieth century, its grey stones looming up before them as they had walked from the car to the front steps of The Pines, the place doubtless named for the stand of conifers that screened the façade of the house from the main road beyond. It was, Stevie had been informed by DS Langley who knew Glasgow well, one of the most sought after locations in Newton Mearns. And, driving along from the roundabout that separated Kilmarnock Road from the Ayr Road, Stevie had to agree with that.
Stevie glanced behind her, noting the extensive lawns to the front. This garden showed someone’s careful hand, the edges deeply trimmed and not a weed in sight. She sighed longingly, remembering her own little patch of garden back in Oban, its grass left uncut far too often. Money could buy the best of gardeners to keep the place as smart as this. But, a little voice reminded her, no amount of money would ever buy back the Dalgleish’s youngest child.
‘You okay?’ Lorimer asked, looking down at her. Stevie turned back and nodded her silent reply, inwardly cursing herself for letting her feelings show.
The DI watched as Lorimer pressed a bell that was set into the sandstone wall above the brass nameplate in bold lettering: DALGLEISH. They were expected but she doubted if either of them would be welcomed.
The door opened after a few seconds to reveal a young woman in her twenties, her trim black suit and patent leather court shoes evidence of recently having come from work.
‘I am Detective Inspector Crozier,’ Stevie said, proffering her warrant card. ‘And this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’
‘Hello.’ The young woman looked them both up and down before stepping back. ‘Come in. I’m Jennifer, by the way, Rory’s sister.’
Stevie entered the house, followed by Lorimer, walking along a wood-panelled corridor and into a spacious sitting room.
‘Mum and Dad will be down in a minute,’ Jennifer told them. ‘I had a conference at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, that’s why I’m here,’ she explained.
‘Of course, you’re a doctor,’ Lorimer smiled, standing by the fireplace, hands behind his back.
Jennifer Dalgleish made a face. ‘Doesn’t make knowing all the details about what happened to Rory any easier,’ she said, looking from the tall detective to Stevie. ‘But I do try to spare the parents. Luckily my speciality is orthopaedic surgery. Don’t get too many opportunities to see anything other than living patients, thank God.’ She waved a hand towards the three-piece suite that faced a pale cream Georgian fireplace.
‘Look, please sit down. I’ll tell them you’re here.’ She gave a half smile and turned away, her long tawny hair swinging in its tortoiseshell clip.
Stevie perched on the edge of an armchair, taking time to look around at the room. It had been carefully designed by an expert eye, she decided. Either Pamela Dalgleish had some skill in this area or else the place had been decorated by a professional interior designer with no expense spared. Silver and blue patterned curtains screened the huge windows to one side of the room as well as the enormous bay windows to the front of the house, and underfoot were a thick sea-blue carpet and carefully placed lambskin rugs. A smoked glass table to the rear of the room held a tall vase of white regal lilies and stems of grey-blue eucalyptus, the colours in perfect harmony with the furnishings.
‘Nice place,’ she remarked, turning back to see that Lorimer was watching her with interest, a half smile on his handsome face. ‘Good room to relax in, I would think,’ she murmured.
‘It’s never as tidy as this in our house,’ he admitted. ‘Too many books all over the place.’
Stevie smiled back at him. It was a small enough piece of personal information but suddenly the man sitting across from her seemed endearingly human. Lots of books, she thought. But had he any time to read them?
The question would not be answered just then, however, as Pamela and Douglas Dalgleish entered the room, causing both police officers to stand up and greet them.
She was still showing all the hallmarks of grief, Stevie thought, as she took the bereaved mother’s hand.
‘Superintendent Lorimer, Inspector Crozier.’ Douglas Dalgleish gave a stiff little bow in her direction but Rory’s mother had come forward and was clasping Lorimer’s hands as though fastening herself to an anchor. She was conscious of a spurt of annoyance. He was the favoured one, not her, she thought, then immediately chided herself for such pettiness.
‘Detective Inspector, thank you for coming all this way to Glasgow,’ Pamela Dalgleish said gravely, ushering Stevie back into the armchair and settling herself on the settee beside her husband.
‘I apologise for the distress all this might cause you,’ Stevie began, ‘but we are reopening the case. I’m still senior investigating officer,’ she continued. Make that clear from the off, she thought. ‘But Detective Superintendent Lorimer has agreed to play a part in the ongoing investigation, given his personal contacts in Mull.’
‘I’m so glad,’ Pamela Dalgleish declared, a hand briefly covering Lorimer’s.