by Gray, Alex
‘He was a murder victim,’ Lorimer replied.
He paused for a moment, desperately wanting the woman to give an affirmative answer to his next question.
‘Do you happen to have known his name?’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Peter McGrain was not at home when the officer from Police Scotland called at his address in Kilsyth. Portugal, I think, a neighbour offered helpfully. He’s got a house out there. Think he’ll be home tomorrow, she’d added.
Lorimer read the email and made a face. He had been expecting, well, hoping at least, to speak to the artist face to face today. It felt as though he were so near the end of this search that had been abandoned twenty years ago; so close to keeping his promise to that dead boy lying on the cold banks of the River Clyde. Well at least there wouldn’t have to be a search for a Peter McGrain in Portugal; yet he chafed at having to wait even one more day to question the man. Why had the art school lecturer failed to reveal the identity of the dead boy all those years ago? He must have known… was he somehow involved in the victim’s death? The investigation had uncovered some facts about McGrain: to all intents he had been a happily married man, a retired lecturer and keen watercolourist who spent a lot of time painting abroad. There were no children from the marriage, Dora Hastings had informed him; Mrs McGrain had been an art teacher at a Glasgow school before she too had retired. She had died quite recently, the director had added sadly. Peter was all on his own now.
The detective superintendent heaved a sigh, recalling summer holidays spent with Maggie in Portugal. Perhaps they would return there again, he mused. Were their days in Mull over now? Maybe Mary Grant would be reluctant to let them have the cottage again after all that had passed…? Well, he would be returning to Leiter the day after tomorrow. They were booked on the six o’clock ferry from Oban and he would be with his own dear Maggie again.
Peter McGrain ran a weary hand across his forehead as he opened the front door. He looked up at the tall man standing there and nodded. ‘You’ll be Lorimer then.’
‘Detective Superintendent,’ Lorimer replied briefly, holding out his warrant card. ‘I’m glad to find you at home,’ he said. ‘We were here yesterday looking for you. Mind if I come in?’
Peter McGrain stood aside with a resigned shrug. ‘Place is a mess already,’ he said. ‘Haven’t even begun to unpack…’
Lorimer inched past a pile of canvases stacked against the wall of the passageway.
‘Only came back at this time because I have to curate an exhibition,’ McGrain explained. ‘Usually spend the entire summer in Portugal.’
The artist led Lorimer into the back of the house and the detective found himself entering a spacious kitchen with slanting roof windows that flooded the room with light. There was an easel set up in one corner next to a scrubbed pine table covered with jars of brushes and a large cafetière of coffee with a Highland pottery mug beside it.
‘It’s still fresh if you want a cup…?’ McGrain offered, seeing the detective’s glance.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine. Just wanted to ask you some things about your time at Glasgow School of Art. It’s in connection with the death of a young man who was a model in the life classes twenty years ago. Summer of 1995.’
‘Aye.’ McGrain shook his head and sighed. ‘A long time ago now. Hoped it would always be forgotten about. I’m sorry you’ve had such bother finding me,’ he replied, looking up, his tone full of contrition.
‘Why didn’t you contact us at the time?’ Lorimer asked. ‘You knew we wanted to find out who he was.’
There was a short silence then Peter McGrain gave another sigh.
‘Things were a lot different back then,’ he began. ‘My wife was still alive…’
Lorimer waited for him to continue.
‘It’s not something I ever wanted her finding out,’ McGrain continued nervously.
‘And now?’ Lorimer asked.
The artist ran his hand through the mop of thick grey hair flopping over his forehead.
‘Now things are different,’ he said sadly. ‘I’ve only got myself to think about.’ He sat down at the table and took a gulp of the coffee. ‘How can I explain it? Gary and I… well, it was a fling, I suppose. A stupid mistake on my part, you understand. But I didn’t want anyone to find out.’
‘Even when you knew the boy was dead and you were asked to make a sketch of him?’
‘No,’ McGrain mumbled. ‘I’m sorry. It was wrong of me, I know… and Gary… well, let’s just say that he spread his favours about.’
‘He was promiscuous?’
McGrain gave a short harsh laugh. ‘Promiscuous? That’s a generous word to use, Detective Superintendent. Gary Forsyth didn’t just earn a living as a life model.’ McGrain’s tone was full of self-disgust. ‘He was a rent boy.’
Lorimer started at the name. Forsyth? It had been twenty years ago that the Forsyths had bought Kilbeg House in Mull. Could the dead boy have been their son? Or was this just some sort of strange coincidence? But, he reminded himself, he was the very man who did not believe in coincidences.
‘Nineteen ninety-five,’ he said slowly. ‘Can you remember the names of any students who were in that life-drawing class back then?’
‘It was a long time ago. Not sure how many of them I’d remember. Can I get back to you on that? It might take me some time to trawl through my old class notes.’
‘Here’s my card. I’d appreciate having a list of those students as soon as possible,’ Lorimer told him, resisting the urge to remind McGrain that he had already waited twenty long years to discover the murder victim’s identity. He shot a glance at the hands holding the pottery mug; strong, clever hands that could wield a paintbrush. Had they been the hands that encircled the boy’s throat twenty years ago? Hiding his affair from his late wife: was that sufficient motive for murder? Lorimer wondered as he made his way out of the artist’s home.
Now he had to make another journey, back to Mull where, if his suspicions were correct, the parents of Gary Forsyth would have to be told about the death of their son.
‘Tomorrow will be time enough to confront them about Gary Forsyth,’ Lorimer told Crozier, who was sitting next to him on the upper deck of the Isle of Mull as it ploughed through the waves, Solly standing only feet away from them, his dark hair blowing in the sea breeze as he gazed out over the rail. The psychologist had joined them after the boat had left the pier, his own journey having begun at Glasgow Queen Street station.
‘I thought you’d want to see them right away,’ Crozier replied. ‘Why wait another day?’
Lorimer smiled. ‘I want to have someone else there.’
‘Oh, and who is that?’
‘Professor Brightman.’ He nodded towards the psychologist who was evidently enjoying the smell of the wind and sea. ‘He and the family are staying with Dr MacMillan and her husband for a few days. Rosie and Abby will be at Craignure to meet him. Could have travelled up in the car to Oban with us, but he preferred to take the train. Said he had some thinking to do.’ Lorimer smiled.
‘I see,’ Crozier replied stiffly. ‘And this has been cleared…?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lorimer assured her. ‘The deputy chief constable has made Professor Brightman’s involvement quite official.’
‘You and he have worked together quite often, haven’t you?’ the DI asked. ‘He’s made a bit of a name for himself as a profiler,’ she added.
‘Yes, I suppose we have. We didn’t really hit it off at first, Solly and I,’ Lorimer told her. ‘I was a suspicious brute in those days. Didn’t hold with all that psychobabble.’
‘And what made you change your mind?’ she asked, trying to tuck a windswept lock of hair behind her ear.
‘He did,’ Lorimer said simply. ‘Oh, I did some reading. Canter’s work mainly. But it was Solomon Brightman himself who showed me how useful his work could be.’
‘I’ve never used a profiler before,’ Crozier confessed, glancing at the psychologist
who was now wandering further along the deck as if to obtain a better view of the approaching island.
‘Well, they aren’t used in every murder case and usually only in cases of multiple killings. Though there were some investigations by profilers, Canter being one of them, in the wake of Madeleine McCann’s disappearance.’
‘So,’ she began, ‘what exactly do you expect from Professor Brightman in this case?’
‘Ah.’ Lorimer nodded and smiled. ‘How can I begin to describe the way that Solly works?’
By the time the boat had passed Duart Castle and was making its way towards Craignure pier, Stevie Crozier had learned something of the relationship between the tall detective superintendent and the psychologist. She had not paid much attention to the bearded man but now he intrigued her and she was keen to see just how he would be of help when he and Lorimer arrived at Kilbeg Country House the following morning. And, just as keen to be there when the Forsyths were asked questions about a young man who had been murdered twenty years ago.
It had been Lorimer’s idea for Stevie to book into Kilbeg. Calum, her local police sergeant, would be meeting her at Craignure and driving her along the coast to the country house hotel. And DI Stevie Crozier was determined that the evening ahead would be usefully spent before the two men who had been seconded to her team began their inquiries at Kilbeg.
Maggie was waiting by the open gate when he arrived and the tension that he had felt since leaving Glasgow fell away from Lorimer’s shoulders as he drove carefully across the pebbled drive and parked outside Leiter Cottage.
‘You’re back,’ she said simply, then he was holding her close, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair, the warmth of the evening enveloping them. Somewhere on the hills there was a baaing of sheep and out on the shore the familiar cry of oystercatchers. The notion of a trip to Portugal was already fading, the return to Leiter like a homecoming, his desire to be here with Maggie stronger than ever.
‘Hey, the midges are bad tonight,’ she laughed. ‘Come on in and have some dinner. I’ve made your favourite curry.’ She paused, looking up at him suspiciously. ‘You didn’t go and eat fish and chips on the boat, did you?’
‘No chance,’ Lorimer smiled, taking her hand and leading her into the cottage. ‘Not when I knew you’d be cooking me something special.’
‘There’s the menu, miss,’ the girl with the long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail smiled as she handed Stevie the leather-bound folder.
Stevie smiled back, recognising Maryka from the previous visit when she had spoken to members of the staff.
‘You’re still here then?’
The girl gave an insouciant shrug. ‘Till the end of the season anyway,’ she replied. Then, as though she had remembered exactly who this guest was, she stepped back a little and folded her hands. ‘The specials today are broad bean risotto with parmesan crisps and pan-fried saithe,’ she said primly.
‘Saithe?’
‘It’s fish.’ Maryka’s mouth twitched at the corners. ‘A white fish, I think. It’s fresh and local to here, anyway,’ she added. Then, bending down a little and dropping her voice to a whisper she said, ‘My boyfriend caught it.’
‘Hm.’ Stevie glanced at the menu open at the choices for dinner. There wasn’t really a lot to choose from, she saw. She was the only guest rattling around in this vast dining room so perhaps there wasn’t much point in cooking very many dishes. Besides, they were probably at the stage of emptying their deep freeze before supplies ran out. It was one of the hottest topics for gossip on the island, after the murder cases, that the Forsyths were stony broke.
‘Okay,’ she decided. ‘Scallops followed by the risotto, thanks.’ She gave a polite smile, catching the girl’s eye.
‘Good choice.’ Maryka nodded. ‘Archie, the chef, dives for the scallops himself,’ she said. ‘They’re really nice.’
As she left, the detective inspector pondered over the waitress’s last words. Someone with a boat, Lorimer had said. Method, means and opportunity; the phrase came at her forcefully. It was a mantra that detectives the world over must employ, Stevie mused. And here she had been handed at least two of these… on a plate! She smiled at her own cliché. The chef owned a boat, didn’t he? And used it to dive for scallops… Stevie itched to go down that little path to the dock and snoop around the man’s boat. What might she find there? She closed her eyes for a moment and thought about the pages from the internet that she had examined so carefully, pages that contained selections of fishing tackle and that bright orange twine that so many fishermen used; Courlene. Would they find any of that in Archie Gillespie’s boat?
Dinner was better than Stevie had expected: the scallops were probably the best she’d ever eaten and the risotto had been made with fresh broad beans. Did they have their own vegetable patch out there in the kitchen garden? she wondered. She had passed on dessert and now the waitress was returning with a small glass in her hand.
‘Compliments of the chef,’ Maryka told her. ‘Something to go with your coffee.’ She frowned. ‘I… don’t remember what it was he called it…?’
Stevie took the glass from her and sniffed at its contents. ‘Kahlúa,’ she told the girl. ‘Lovely.’
‘Will you come through to the lounge for coffee? Archie has made some of his special sweets.’ Maryka turned furtively as if to check that nobody was listening to their conversation.
‘Thanks, I will,’ Stevie said, rising from the table. Then, noticing the girl’s hesitancy, she frowned. ‘Is something wrong, Maryka?’
Once again the waitress looked around her, a worried expression flitting across her face. ‘I… can I talk to you, miss? In private?’
Stevie nodded and followed the girl out of the empty dining room, past the reception hall and into a large airy lounge that looked out onto the Sound of Mull and beyond. Dusk was falling and a blue haze softened the contours of the Morvern hills. From an open window she heard the lonesome cry of a curlew, its watery call making Stevie shiver.
‘Over here,’ Maryka said, beckoning Stevie to a table that was set into an alcove in the corner away from prying eyes and out of earshot of anyone who might choose to enter the room. ‘The Forsyths are out tonight. At the drama club’s play,’ she explained, sitting down next to the detective and beginning to pour coffee from the pot that had been placed on the table earlier. ‘But I don’t want Archie to overhear us.’
She must have expected me to listen to whatever she has to say, Stevie realised, taking a backward glance around the room.
‘I wanted to tell you something,’ Maryka whispered. ‘It’s something I saw, well, not saw exactly, more felt, if you know what I mean.’
‘Go on.’
The girl twisted her lip as though unsure of herself. ‘Promise you won’t tell them I told you.’
‘Okay,’ Stevie agreed, while reminding herself that any promises made in a police matter were never binding.
‘I was going to go into Mrs Forsyth’s room,’ Maryka said, glancing up lest anyone had come in to hear her words. ‘I should not have been there, you see. I do not clean their private apartments, but I wanted to see…’ She gave a shrug as if to excuse her own youthful curiosity. ‘Anyway,’ she leaned closer to the detective inspector, ‘I stood outside the lady’s room, saw the key in the lock and…’ She paused, a gleam in her eyes, and Stevie sensed that the girl was trying for dramatic effect. ‘I could not go in,’ she said. ‘I felt as if someone was there…’ Her eyes widened as she recalled the moment. ‘I think it was a ghost,’ she whispered. ‘I felt such a strange thing, like someone was watching my every move!’ She gave a delicate shudder. ‘There’s something in that room, miss, I just know there is.’
‘Goodness!’ Stevie remarked, sitting back and looking intently at the girl. ‘A ghost? Now who on earth do you imagine that might be? Is there any history in the house of a sudden unexplained death?’ Her heart beat just a little faster despite common sense telling her that the girl was just being
fanciful.
‘I think,’ Maryka began, ‘it must be their long-lost son. The Forsyth’s son. Maybe he was lost at sea a long, long time ago. And that’s why she goes down to the jetty and stares out at the water so much of the time.’ Her voice had taken on an excited tone now and Stevie recognised the way that the girl’s imagination may have woven a story around the strange woman who wandered towards the shoreline, especially in the wake of Rory’s death.
She tried not to betray the knowledge that she already had as she replied. ‘Thanks, Maryka. That is really helpful. And I am sure you have nothing to worry about. Ghosts can’t hurt you,’ she smiled, not adding that it was flesh and blood humans who could wreak the most damage.
‘You won’t mention me?’ the girl asked anxiously.
‘That shouldn’t be necessary.’
She saw a wave of relief cross the girl’s face as she stood up. Then, as though she had just remembered that Stevie was a guest she motioned to the coffee pot and the dish of home-made tablet. ‘Enjoy your coffee, miss.’
Stevie watched her go then gave a sigh. By tomorrow everyone else here would probably know the truth behind the woman’s sojourns at the water’s edge. A refusal to admit that he was long dead? Or the continued hope that he might return? She picked up the Kahlúa and downed it in one long gulp, feeling the coffee-flavoured liqueur warm her throat, knowing that the news they had to impart might well destroy whatever sanity the poor woman still had.
The girl’s revelation had unsettled her and Stevie looked around at the lounge as though seeing it for the first time. It was sinking into decrepitude, she realised, looking at the dusty curtains and the worn patches of carpet under her table. It was a place that was uncared for, unloved.
What had happened between Gary Forsyth and his parents? Why had they not made contact with the police twenty years ago when their son had vanished? There was something here, in this very place, she decided, that bore a closer examination, her professional instincts rising to the surface.