by Gray, Alex
Stevie was glad of the soft-soled court shoes as she crept around the back of the hotel, the gravel scarcely crunching under her quiet feet. There was a light on in the kitchen and she could see figures moving within. A quick glance told her that the rooms above, where the Forsyths had their private apartments, were in darkness. Yet they were sure to come back soon, see that all was well before making their own way upstairs. In her experience of the hotel trade the proprietors were usually the last to turn in for the night.
The DI continued her walk around the building, coming at last to where she had parked the Mercedes. A small smile crossed her face as she saw that it was the only vehicle there; the Forsyths must still be out for the evening, leaving the Dutch girl and the chef in charge. Stevie glanced at her wristwatch: it was only nine thirty. How long did a play last? Time enough for a quick look upstairs, perhaps?
The hallway was deserted as she came back inside and, as though haste were needed, she ran lightly up the wide stairs and along the corridor until she came to the Forsyths’ private rooms. There was the merest hesitation as she reminded herself that she had no search warrant, nothing official to allow her to poke about the couple’s rooms, but a stronger feeling overcame such scruples as she walked boldly into Hamish Forsyth’s room and across to the place where Maryka had told her of the eerie moment she had experienced outside that room. The door was shut tight, just as the girl had described, but the key sat in the lock. For a moment Stevie listened, wondering if sudden footsteps might disturb her, but there was nothing, not even the hoot of an owl in the trees outside.
Taking a deep breath, the DI turned the key and entered the room. There was no need for torchlight here, she realised, looking out of the long windows as moonlight flooded in, illuminating the room.
It was a sad place, the woman thought, her eyes taking in a silken patchwork quilt that had seen better days, pulled threads exposing several corners of the different squares of fabric. The furniture was all dark wood and old-fashioned; it had probably suited the place at one time but, with the half-panelled walls and the picture rail that held dismal prints of Highland cattle and rainswept glens it added to an overall appearance of gloom.
There was one rather nice watercolour picture, however, its pale tints somewhat faded because it had been placed opposite a window. Stevie moved closer to examine it, giving a nod of recognition. The hills of Morvern were outlined beyond the stretch of sea, a small jetty giving some interest to the foreground: it was the view from the hotel, all right; probably painted by a former resident. There was no signature at the foot of the picture.
She walked around the room, giving the bedside cabinets a careful examination until she came to Mrs Forsyth’s dressing table. A mess of hairpins and a brush that needed cleaning sat amongst various bits of make-up, screwed up paper tissues and little porcelain boxes. Wherever it was that they had gone to see this play, it was evident that the woman had made some effort to tidy herself up.
Because it was on an upper shelf of the dressing table, away from the clutter below, she did not notice it at first, the photograph slightly askew in a plain silver frame. Stevie picked it up and held it higher, letting the moonlight fall onto the image.
Then her mouth opened in a moment of astonishment.
The boy in the photograph was smiling out at her, an impish grin on his face as though he was about to say something, his hair a bright flame colour against the cloudless blue sky behind him.
‘My God!’ Stevie whispered, the hand that held the picture trembling. ‘Rory?’ Only it was not the lad whose murder she was investigating, she suddenly saw, but another person. The boy in the sketch. The photo was of someone who resembled the dead boy so closely that Stevie had taken him for Rory Dalgleish. Was that why Mrs Forsyth had taken such a shine to the red-haired boy from Glasgow? Had she known all this time that her own son was dead? The questions circled Stevie’s mind like tigers.
The sudden crunch of tyres on gravel made her set the photograph back down exactly where she had found it, anxious now lest anyone find her snooping around.
In moments she had turned the key back in the woman’s bedroom door and was across Hamish Forsyth’s room and out into the corridor, her heart thumping in her chest.
What was going on in this place? Why had neither of the Forsyths reported their son missing? Lorimer’s instinct had been right about the missing boy. Stevie hurried back to her room haunted by the image of that red-haired boy smiling out from the photograph, an image that was at odds with a boy’s corpse, its limbs twisted out of shape by some fisherman’s twine. It burned in her brain as though taunting her to find answers to her questions. And, she thought suddenly, there was one place where some of these answers might still be found.
A hasty change of shoes and a dark jacket were all she would require to sneak around that boat by the water’s edge, Stevie told herself, slipping her feet into flat, rubber-soled loafers. Locking her bedroom door behind her, she crept quietly downstairs once again and slipped out of the warmth of the hotel into the chill darkness of the night.
The moon that had brightened the night, leaving a trail of silver across the water, slowly disappeared behind a bank of cloud. Its round face fell away from sight until the last arc of white was covered up, the darkness fleeing past like shadowy phantoms wrapped in ragged cloaks.
Waves licked the wooden platform, repeated small splashes as though eager to reach landfall. The figure standing by the edge looked out to sea for a long moment as though in expectation of something. Then a tiny beam of light fell onto the decking as Stevie switched on the torch of her mobile phone, pointing it at the boat ahead of her. She had heard the chef as she passed the kitchen door, the noise of pots clanging inside, his Glasgow accent mingling with another male voice that she could not identify. Perhaps she might take this chance to look at his boat, a little voice had suggested, and Stevie had followed that thought until now when her feet had taken her along the grassy path and she was standing right by the gangway.
A quick glance behind told the detective inspector that nobody was approaching. Should she dare to board the boat? It was another person’s property, after all, and to enter was against every rule that a police officer had learned. But the memory of the visit to those stricken parents back in Glasgow made Stevie place her foot on the gangplank, her torch pointing towards the boat. She was determined to find out the truth, give them the answers that they deserved.
In a moment she had scrambled up. The wooden deck beneath her feet swayed side to side, the force of the tide beneath causing the vessel to bob back and forth on its mooring. Stevie walked slowly around the cabin, keeping a close watch on the path lest Archie Gillespie appear from the hotel kitchen. She had reached the stern when the pinpoint light fell upon a coil of orange twine placed neatly on top of a long wooden box.
She drew in a sharp breath. Courlene. And plenty of it, too. Crouching down, the woman felt the end of the twine; it pricked as she drew her finger across it. Recently cut, then, she nodded to herself. Could this have been the very twine that had bound that poor boy from Glasgow?
Retracing her steps Stevie came to the door of the cabin, her fingers on its handle before she had time to think about what she was going to find inside.
Steep steps from the doorway led down into the depths of the cabin. She pocketed her phone for a moment, using both hands to clutch the ropes set on either side of the entrance.
She did not hear the feet behind her.
There was no warning shout.
Only that heavy blow to the back of her head plunging Stevie into the deep, deep darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Lorimer parked the Lexus beside the hotel at the Residents Only sign. The only other cars taking up any space were the Forsyths’ dilapidated Volvo estate and Crozier’s Mercedes.
‘Ready for this?’ he asked the man sitting beside him.
Solly nodded and yawned sleepily.
‘Mull air getting to
you?’ Lorimer joked.
Solly smiled back. ‘Abby was up at the crack of dawn asking about when we were going to take her to see PC Plum again,’ he said.
Lorimer laughed. ‘She’s taking after her Uncle Bill, I see. We’ll need to get her a wee police hat before much longer.’ His expression changed as he looked across at the professor. ‘It’s a shame, though, having to be here on business when you should be enjoying the island with Rosie and Abby.’
‘And you,’ Solly countered. ‘Most of your own holiday has been taken up with this case. I feel for you and Maggie.’
‘Aye.’ Lorimer gave a sigh. ‘She puts up with a hell of a lot, my good woman. Anyway, let’s get inside and see what Crozier has to tell us about the breakfasts in this place.’
The two men walked around to the front of the building and entered the open doors.
Almost at once Mrs Forsyth came out, her face a picture of fury.
‘Where’s Archie?’ she demanded. ‘What have you done with my chef?’
Lorimer looked at the woman in amazement, seeing her fists bunched by her sides, her hair escaping from an untidy attempt at a pleat at the back of her head. ‘And that woman’s never come down for her breakfast, either. Seven thirty, she told me. And now it’s nine o’ clock! I can’t keep things warm in the stove all morning for her!’
Then, with another glare at the two men, she turned and marched off, leaving them exchanging worried looks.
‘The chef’s disappeared?’ Solly began.
‘Come out,’ Lorimer said, taking his arm and turning back to the doorway. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing towards the water’s edge.
‘What am I supposed to be seeing?’ Solly asked, frowning. ‘I don’t see anything out there at all.’
‘Exactly,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Archie Gillespie’s boat is always moored there.’ He turned to the psychologist and nodded, his mouth a grim line. ‘He lives on that boat. And now it’s gone.’
It was a matter of a few minutes to locate the DI’s room and then to have the Dutch girl bring the spare keys to open it up.
‘No one here. Bed’s not even been slept in,’ Lorimer said as they all stood on the edge of the room looking in. He turned to Solly, a worried expression on his face. ‘What the hell’s she been up to?’
‘Oh,’ the blonde girl cried, hovering uncertainly behind them. ‘Maybe that was my fault,’ she said, glancing from one man to the other, a frightened look on her face. ‘I told her things last night…’
Lorimer waved a hand at Maryka. ‘Don’t go away,’ he told her sternly. ‘We may need to talk to you.’ He took out his mobile phone and turned away.
‘Craignure police station? This is Detective Superintendent Lorimer. I need to speak to Sergeant McManus.’
Stevie woke with the sensation that she was going to be sick, but there was something across her mouth that prevented the fluid in her throat from escaping and she moaned, swallowing the bile back again. There was a terrible ache in her head, a throbbing that didn’t make any sense. Had she drunk too much last night?
Then, as her eyes opened at last, the detective inspector became aware of her plight.
She was lying on her side beneath some sort of long shelf, her hands tied firmly behind her. As she moved her legs, Stevie realised that her ankles, too, were bound up. Her second thought was that everything was moving up and down, the motion making her feel sick all over again. But, although she could hear the sound of lapping water, she was not imprisoned aboard Gillespie’s boat, she realised, blinking against the dim light, but in some sort of shed.
A swift glance downwards filled the woman with horror.
It was that orange twine that bound her ankles together. Courlene.
Had she been left here deliberately? And was the man who owned that boat coming back for her? Would she – Stevie swallowed hard as the nausea rose in her throat again – be taken on to that boat only to be dumped overboard?
Stevie closed her eyes again, trying not to imagine the splash as her body hit the water or the sinking down and down into the depths as her lungs struggled for air. Would it be over quickly?
Tears trickled down her face as she began to sob, the sounds muffled by the boxes that were laid floor to ceiling next to where she lay.
‘Fetch the Forsyths,’ Lorimer told Maryka. ‘We need to speak to them. Now.’
He glanced at his watch. It would take Calum only a few minutes to reach Kilbeg but in the interim there was something he and Solly needed to tell the two hotel proprietors.
‘What’s going on, Detective Superintendent? Where is that female officer of yours?’ Hamish Forsyth marched into the lounge, his wife behind him.
‘Sit down please, sir. Madam,’ Lorimer said firmly. ‘There is something that we have to tell you. It concerns your son, Gary.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Forsyth put a trembling hand to her mouth then sank into a nearby chair.
‘I’m very sorry to have to inform you but we have intelligence that gives us reason to believe that Gary Forsyth died about twenty years ago in Glasgow,’ Lorimer told them.
‘Are you sure?’ the woman asked, her eyes large with sudden hope. ‘Are you sure it was him, my Gary…?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Forsyth. His body was never identified. Until recently.’ Lorimer paused. How to explain that cold case? How to tell a grieving mother that her son’s body had been taken for use in the university for students of pathology, its remains now in an unmarked grave.
‘Mr Forsyth, when did you last see your son?’ Solly asked, looking at the man’s ashen face, the lips being licked as though no words could ever express what he was feeling at that moment.
‘He never wanted to see his son!’ Mrs Forsyth hissed. ‘He wanted him dead! Didn’t you?’ She half rose from her seat, dashing the tears from her eyes. ‘It was your fault that he went away!’ she accused. ‘My poor boy!’ Then, as though a flood had been dammed for far too long, the woman began to weep loudly, tears flowing down her cheeks.
‘Is this true?’ Solly asked the hotelier. ‘Did Gary go away because of something between you?’
But the man just looked down at his hands, a small shake of the head his only response.
‘I’ll tell you why he drove Gary away!’ Mrs Forsyth yelled. ‘I’ll tell you what he told my boy. “No queers in this house!” Those were his very words! Didn’t ever want to see him again. Well now you never will!’ she screamed, rising up, her fists ready to rain blows down upon her husband’s head.
But Lorimer’s strong hands lifted her back into her chair just as Calum McManus entered the room, a look of bewilderment on his florid face.
A quick shake of the police sergeant’s head was all Lorimer needed to know: Crozier was still missing. And he was certain that one particular person had been involved in her disappearance.
‘Now,’ he said sternly, looking around at Hamish Forsyth who had stood up at the police sergeant’s arrival. ‘What can you tell us about Archie Gillespie?’
The sound of approaching feet made Stevie stiffen. He was coming back to take her…
With an ominous creak, the door of the shed was pushed open then she saw the shadow of a tall man outlined against the pale morning light.
The gag ripping from her mouth made Stevie utter a small cry.
‘Sorry, did that hurt?’
Stevie shook her head as she looked up into a pair of concerned blue eyes.
‘Thank God we found you,’ Lorimer said, a Swiss Army knife making short work of the binding twine that held her arms and ankles. ‘Stand up slowly,’ he advised, holding her arm gently as he helped the DI to her feet. ‘Circulation might make your legs feel pretty painful.’
Stevie tried to muffle a yelp of pain but failed, falling into the tall man’s arms, tears coursing down her cheeks as she wept into his chest, feeling a kindly hand patting her back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I wanted to see what was on his boat.’
‘Gillespie? He a
ttacked you?’
‘I don’t know who it was,’ Stevie answered, putting one hand to her head and squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. ‘It’s hard to remember exactly what happened…’
‘It’s okay. You’re safe now,’ she heard Lorimer say. Then she was outside, being helped along the path to the waiting police Land Rover.
The detective inspector looked up into a morning sky full of white racing clouds and breathed a long sigh that ended in a sob.
Stevie Crozier had no idea how long she had been lying in that wooden pantry, fearing that her assailant might return. She took a deep breath of the fresh air, her overriding thought at that moment was how grateful she was to be alive.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
‘Where can he have gone?’ Calum Mhor asked as he stood on the little jetty beside the tall detective superintendent.
‘That’s what I was going to ask you,’ Lorimer replied drily. ‘Has the coastguard any way of tracing him?’
‘Ach, we don’t have one locally any more,’ Calum said in a disgusted tone. ‘Cutbacks. All they can think of is saving money, not saving lives. We’ll have to put out a call to the police services all around Morvern and Mull. Maybe he only went a wee bit along the coast?’ he added, but there was little hope in the big police sergeant’s tone.
‘You think Gillespie is the man we’re after?’ he asked as they retraced their steps back to the hotel.
Lorimer shrugged a silent reply. Crozier was on her way to the hospital at Craignure, DS Langley by her side. He had run one hand lightly over her scalp checking for injuries before they had left, feeling the swelling and the dried blood under his fingers. Had it been Gillespie who had attacked the woman? Crozier had seen nothing, she’d confessed, remembered little about the previous night after she had come to the boat. As yet the Forsyths had not given too many details about the chef, the woman too stricken with the news of her son, the hotelier monosyllabic, when he could utter anything at all. Lorimer had left Solly with them, a promise to be back as soon as he and the police sergeant had had a look at the jetty. But the empty berth held no clues at all and it was with a feeling of utter despondency that Lorimer re-entered the hotel lounge.