by Gray, Alex
‘I will keep you both informed of any developments in the case, of course,’ Stevie told them. ‘I assure you that we will do everything in our power to find whoever did this to your son.’
‘Thank you.’ Douglas Dalgleish cleared his throat and nodded in Steve’s direction.
‘I would not have been involved at all but for my finding Rory that morning,’ Lorimer reminded them.
Stevie Crozier hid a self-satisfied smile; Lorimer was certainly trying to do the right thing, she had to admit, deferring to an officer less senior than himself.
‘We have to ask you more questions, I’m afraid,’ she said, her tone brisker than she intended. ‘First, I want to ask you about Rory’s friends; who his closest pals were, where they live, if there are any connections with Mull.’
Pamela and Douglas Dalgleish looked from one to the other.
‘Well, there’s Jimmy Fotheringham,’ she began. ‘Rory’s school chum,’ she explained, looking back at Stevie. ‘He lives in the house two along from here. Rory and Jimmy always went to school together, ever since they were little.’ She stopped for a moment and Stevie saw the lower lip being bitten, a sure sign that the memory of Rory as a child had brought tears to the mother’s eyes.
‘Jimmy’s at home just now,’ Douglas continued. ‘Waiting for the results of his exams.’
‘He wants to go to university next year. To study law,’ Pamela went on.
Stevie made a show of scribbling in her notebook. ‘Anyone else who might give us personal details about Rory?’
Again Stevie saw that doubtful look between the parents.
‘What about his workmates from the café?’ Pamela asked her husband.
‘Well, he was there long enough, I suppose,’ Douglas Dalgleish answered his wife.
‘The café?’
‘The one at Kelvingrove Art Galleries and Museum,’ Pamela explained. ‘Rory worked there for more than a year. If only he had stayed instead of —’ She broke off, putting both hands over her face. Stevie could hear the long sigh that became a strangled moan as the woman sought to control her grief.
‘Do you have any names or addresses for his friends there?’ Lorimer asked gently.
‘No, he never brought any of them back here,’ Douglas Dalgleish said stiffly. ‘Though he did tend to go out with some of them after work. To concerts and things,’ he added lamely, with a desultory wave of his hand that expressed how hopelessly out of touch he had really been with his younger son.
‘There was someone special,’ Pamela said, sitting up with a sniff and turning to her husband. ‘You know there was,’ she said, the accusatory tone of her voice making Stevie glance across at Lorimer. His slight nod was all that was needed.
‘Can you tell me who this was?’ he asked, turning in his chair to face the man and woman beside him.
Pamela shook her head. ‘I think it was an older man,’ she whispered.
‘How do you know that?’ Lorimer asked.
‘I heard Rory speaking to him sometimes on the telephone,’ she said, looking guiltily at her husband.
‘You never told me this,’ Douglas said gruffly.
‘He used to say things like “See you later, old man,” but not in the kind of cheery way he spoke to his pals,’ she said, turning back to Lorimer. ‘It was almost sarcastic. Gave me a funny feeling. It was as though Rory was meeting this person for something… clandestine.’ She shook her head as though the word didn’t fit what she was trying to say.
‘Do you think Rory was having a relationship with this older man?’ Lorimer’s tone was so matter-of-fact that it took Stevie’s breath away. He could have been asking about the boy’s work schedule rather than details about his private life.
Pamela Dalgleish nodded. ‘He never came out,’ she explained sadly. ‘But we knew without him ever having to tell us, didn’t we?’ She placed a hand on her husband’s arm and Stevie saw Douglas Dalgleish heave an enormous sigh.
‘Have you any idea who this man might be?’ Stevie asked. ‘Someone from work perhaps?’ she suggested.
‘We never knew,’ Pamela told them. ‘It was something that Rory kept secret from us.’
‘But you thought it had something to do with him going to Mull,’ Douglas said.
‘Yes,’ Pamela agreed. ‘He was excited. Said he had been given “a head’s up”. Those were his very words’ – she smiled sadly as though remembering them all over again – ‘about the job at Kilbeg Country House Hotel. We wondered if it was someone on the staff at Kelvingrove who had a contact there.’
‘That’s certainly something we will look into,’ Stevie told them.
‘This won’t come out, will it?’ Douglas Dalgleish asked them. ‘In the papers? About Rory’s preference, I mean?’ His face was suffused with colour, the embarrassment of being a father to a young gay boy so apparent that Stevie wanted to shake the man. Rory was gay, get over it! she wanted to shout. It’s no big deal! But, here in this stylish home in one of Glasgow’s finest properties, it was clear that their son’s sexuality had been more than these parents had been able to cope with.
‘There is absolutely no reason at present for the press to know about this,’ Stevie told them gently. ‘Now, if you can give us a little more information about Rory’s other friends from school and the immediate area?’
Lorimer looked over at Stevie as they drove across town. Jimmy Fotheringham had been a pleasure to talk to, a relief after the strained atmosphere at the Dalgleish home. It was an equally grand house from the outside but within there was evidence of the chaos of family life. Yes, everyone assumed that Rory was gay, Jimmy had said with a shrug that said ‘so what?’ No, he hadn’t seen him with anyone in particular. They’d not been out with the crowd for ages, the lad had explained.
Perhaps there had been few facts that were pertinent to a murder case but the two officers had been given more of an insight into the fun-loving red-haired teenager and his boisterous manner than anyone else had yet provided. Rory had been well liked by his peers, it seemed. Perhaps those who had known him from childhood were more accustomed to and forgiving of his loud behaviour?
‘I’ve never been here before,’ Lorimer heard Crozier confess as he turned from Kelvin Way towards the dark red sandstone edifice of Kelvingrove before them.
‘You’d like it,’ he assured her. ‘Maggie and I come here as often as we can. Which isn’t nearly often enough,’ he grinned ruefully.
‘You’re interested in art?’ There was surprise in the woman’s voice.
‘Began a degree course in History of Art up there,’ he replied, pointing towards the university building on the hill above them, its spire a jagged outline against the pale grey sky.
‘You’re a graduate?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘More like a drop-out,’ he laughed. ‘Completed my first year then joined the force. Not that I failed my exams or anything,’ he admitted, ‘it was just that…’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you about it some time. Long story,’ he added, glancing at the curiosity in Crozier’s eyes.
They emerged from the silver Lexus into a wind that was sweeping a flurry of early autumn leaves across the tarmac in front of wide stone steps that led to the entrance.
‘We always used to come in from the other side of the building when we were kids,’ Lorimer explained as they ascended one of the wide stone steps that led to the entrance. ‘Through an old revolving door then across the black and white floor.’ He smiled as if the memory was still fresh in his mind. ‘Big changes a few years ago, though,’ he admitted, allowing Crozier to enter in front of him. ‘Nice modern feel to a lot of it, like the café here.’ He turned to point at the sign. ‘But they’ve kept the essence of the place, I’m glad to say.’
The café was situated in the lowest level, one part looking straight out onto the grass and pathways with trees beyond and a railing that separated the grounds from the banks of the River Kelvin. The other, larger, area held several rows of tables and chairs for vi
sitors looking for a snack or a full meal. Several young waiters and waitresses were busily attending tables, their long black aprons sweeping past, trays held aloft.
‘Who did you speak to?’ Crozier enquired as they made their way to the serving hatch at the rear of the restaurant.
‘Manager’s name is Daisy McColl,’ he replied. ‘She sounded about fifteen,’ he added, raising one sardonic eyebrow.
‘Sign of you getting old, sir,’ Crozier said, risking an impish grin.
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.’
CHAPTER FORTY
‘Mona 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 doo
r.
‘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.