by Gray, Alex
‘He was a good artist,’ Lorimer remarked. ‘Self-taught?’
‘Milk? Sugar?’ Bella busied herself with the tea things as the men took the jug and sugar basin in turn.
‘Well, now,’ she began, sitting down on an upright chair that faced the visitors, ‘our Lachie could have been an art teacher if he’d stuck at it. But he dropped out,’ she said, lowering her voice as though admitting to something shameful.
‘He was at art school?’ Lorimer asked.
‘Aye,’ Bella agreed. ‘In Glasgow. Terrible wicked place, that. Can’t imagine why he’d want to go back there at all. Spent quite a few weeks there earlier in the year,’ she mused. ‘Of course he came home again after he stopped working for his art degree. That was when he was young,’ she humphed. ‘Never settled to anything much after that, though. Start with one thing then he’d drop out of that. Became a pattern over the years,’ she added contemptuously. ‘Never settled. Didn’t even take up the fishing after my Dougie passed away. Well,’ she sighed, ‘our Lachie was always a little bit different from other men.’
The two men exchanged a look, their silent thoughts working in harmony.
‘Nobody uses the boat at all now?’ Lorimer enquired.
‘The Bonny Belle? No,’ she said, stiff-lipped. ‘Lachie keeps her in decent shape, right enough. Takes folk out from time to time. For a wee trip around the bay. Not that it does more than pay for the diesel,’ she added with another humph. ‘What do you want to speak to our Lachlan about anyway?’ she asked, turning to the professor as though she had just realised that he had not yet asked her one single thing about life in Tobermory.
‘Oh.’ Solly leaned forward, his hand hovering above a slab of what appeared to be home baking. ‘May I try a piece of this excellent-looking fruit cake?’ he asked, his gentle smile making Bella Ingram’s eyelids flutter girlishly.
‘Oh, please,’ she answered.
‘Mm, lovely,’ Solly sighed, munching a corner. ‘Lachlan is a lucky man to have a sister like you to look after him,’ he declared roguishly.
‘Well, now, that’s as may be,’ she replied, simpering a little under the psychologist’s smile.
‘Was Lachie at home the night of the ceilidh? When the boy, Rory, went missing?’ Lorimer asked.
‘What do you ask me that for?’ Bella replied, a truculent frown shadowing her face.
‘Oh, it’s just a routine sort of question,’ Lorimer told her, giving one of his own easy smiles.
‘Hasn’t he told you, then?’ Bella looked from one man to the other.
‘I’ve not spoken to your brother,’ Lorimer said truthfully, though he suspected that the woman was asking a different sort of question: hasn’t Lachie spoken to the police? was what she really meant.
‘Was he here that night? With you?’
‘Oh,’ she said, a relieved expression softening her features. ‘No, no, Lachie wasn’t here,’ she chuckled. ‘You mustn’t get them into trouble now, mind.’ She leaned over and nudged Solly’s elbow as if he had become her new best friend.
‘Lachie wasn’t in Tobermory at all,’ she told them. ‘He was with Ewan Angus and his boy at the splash.’
‘That puts him out of the picture, then,’ Solly said as they drove off.
‘Only if the fishermen can confirm what Mrs Ingram just told us,’ Lorimer declared.
‘She seemed pretty sure,’ Solly replied, raising his eyebrows in mild protest.
‘Ach, one slice of cake and you’re anybody’s,’ Lorimer rejoined with a shake of his head. ‘Let’s see what we can find out about Lachlan Turner’s fishing activities.’
The water rippled as insects disturbed the tranquil surface of the loch. Somewhere, below, fish were lurking, waiting to nibble: brown trout, the tastiest of all fish to be found in this sea loch. Perhaps they were hiding deep within the shadow cast by the nearby boathouse where a motor cruiser bobbed gently, moored there until its owner returned with the next party of tourists. He’d be safe for another hour or more, the lone fisherman told himself. And until then the trout within the man’s private loch were his for the taking.
Lachie stretched the muscles across his back, feeling the warm sun as he flicked the rod once more and saw his fly dip below the water, creating more ripples. It was a perfect day for the trout, the basket at his side already testament to his success. One more and he’d head on back home.
The sound of a car engine above him made Lachie turn his head and look up. There, on the road where he had left his van parked on a grassy spot past the lay-by, was the unmistakable sight of a Police Scotland squad car and two uniformed officers emerging.
He dipped his rod, watching as they walked around the van, peering inside the front, it seemed. He could hear their voices discussing something, though he could not make out the words they spoke.
Then, one of them turned and looked down to where Lachie crouched over his rod. ‘Hey, you!’ he shouted. ‘Is this your vehicle? We want a word.’
Lachie Turner stood up and shaded his eyes, dropping the rod at his feet.
‘Aye, you! Come on up here!’
For a moment the fisherman stood still. Then, as though galvanised by a sudden thought, he began to run towards the boathouse and disappeared inside.
‘What the hell’s he up to, cheeky bastard?’ PC Roddy Buchanan asked the other officer. ‘We just want to tell him his tax disc’s out of date now that it’s the first of August.’
‘Looks like he doesn’t want to know,’ Finlay Simpson remarked as they watched the man untie the boat and gun the outboard motor.
‘Well, take his licence number and put it in the book,’ Buchanan said, shoving his chequered cap above his hairline and scratching his forehead in bewilderment. ‘Funny sort of behaviour, though, eh?’
‘No.’ Ewan Angus scratched his balding head as the tall policeman looked down at him. ‘No, we haven’t seen hint nor hair of Lachie for weeks, have we, son?’
Young Ewan shook his head. He was in big enough trouble after telling Calum Mhor about the night of the splash. Father had given him a right bawling out. But he had been brought up to tell the truth, he thought mulishly. And Da shouldn’t have tried to cover up what they had found.
‘That’s right. Lachie Turner hasn’t come out with us for quite a while, Mr Lorimer,’ he said. ‘Just me and Da on our own. Are they going to take the boat off us?’ he asked, chewing his lower lip anxiously.
‘I don’t imagine so,’ Lorimer replied. ‘You’ve been assisting us with our inquiries so I expect that will count in your favour. Plus, Mrs Calum will still be hoping for the occasional pink fish, I dare say,’ he grinned. He did not add that, because of her injury, being appointed SIO in Crozier’s stead might give him some influence in this area.
But as soon as the two men were out of sight, that friendly expression changed to a frown of concern.
Lachie Turner had lied to his sister about his whereabouts the night that Rory Dalgleish had last been seen. How many more lies had the man told? And what had he really been doing that night?
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
‘Courlene?’ Dr MacMillan remarked to her friend. ‘Martin uses it all the time.’
‘We think that was what made those marks on Rory’s body,’ Rosie explained quietly. She was aware of Abby at their feet, playing with a sheaf of printer paper and some coloured crayons. ‘Little pigs have long ears,’ she smiled, raising one eyebrow. It was an old saying Rosie had remembered from her own grandmother’s day when she had been an inquisitive sort of child, always listening in on grown-ups’ conversations. But Abby seemed content to play, absorbed in her childish drawings.
‘Well it’s a fairly common sort of thing,’ Grace continued. ‘I would expect most ships’ chandlers to stock it.’
‘What does Martin use it for?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Oh, all sorts of things. It makes a good tight knot. Keeps boxes and things secured when he’s out sailing. He has most things covered in bits of oilsk
in. You wouldn’t want water to get into all that camera equipment,’ she chuckled.
‘He’s still doing that project on the minke whales?’
‘Oh, yes. Out most days, depending on the weather. Heads over towards Fishnish at some God-awful time in the middle of the night,’ she laughed. ‘That’s where he’s been having the best sightings.’
‘Why does he go out so early?’ Rosie asked.
Oh, he likes to be there at dawn or dusk,’ Grace said. ‘Best qualities of light, Martin tells me. Not that I know much about that sort of thing.’
‘Does he know that chap they’re looking for? Gillespie? He has a boat, too; lives in the darned thing, Solly told me.’
‘Gillespie?’ The doctor frowned. ‘Not a name I’m familiar with. Not one of my patients,’ she added. ‘But people around here know one another and their boats,’ she admitted. ‘You need to. It’s a sort of unwritten rule of the sea, I suppose, to help a fellow sailor if he needs your assistance.’
Rosie smiled and pretended to be engrossed in her daughter’s drawings. If there had been a boat taking Rory Dalgleish’s body into Fishnish Bay in the early hours of the morning following the ceilidh in Tobermory, would Martin Goodfellow have been out and about to see it?
Lorimer slammed the car door behind him and raced across Tobermory Main Street, his feet taking him up the stairs of the Aros Hall where several officers were seated at open laptops.
‘Lachlan Turner,’ he said loudly, making every head in the room turn his way.
‘That’s the man whose van we were looking at,’ Roddy Buchanan said, turning to his fellow officer. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Finlay Simpson nodded. ‘Strange sort of thing to do,’ he agreed. ‘Soon as he saw us standing beside his old van, he just got into that boat and headed off down the loch.’
‘Oh.’ Jamie Kennedy looked at the pair of them. ‘That was George Ballantrae’s boat! He’s only just gone and reported it stolen!’
‘I have reason to believe that Lachlan Turner may be the man we’re looking for in connection with our three murders,’ Lorimer told them, glaring intently at each officer in turn. ‘And I need him found now.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
He hadn’t meant to do it, Lachie told himself over and over. ‘It was a mistake, an accident,’ he muttered, the words becoming like a mantra. The open sea surged below the boat, kicking salt spray into his eyes as he steered away from the dangerous rocks that littered this part of the coastline. He’d need to keep away from the cliffs if he were to avoid the Black Teeth, that series of sharp rocks that had taken many a good boat and its crew in times gone by.
A few more minutes and he would be clear of these waters, past the lighthouse then out into the Sound. And then…? He had no plan and there was nothing in his mind but the desperate urge to escape.
They were coming for him, Lachie knew that now. Had known it from the moment that he had looked up from the bank of the loch and heard them shout out.
Twenty years, he thought. He had been running away from this moment for twenty years. And he had thought to be safe for so long, even after Rory…
They must have found everything in the Bonny Belle, Lachie realised. Stupid to keep Rory’s things; his clothes and his mobile phone. But they’d been so well hidden, secreted under the gunwales, wrapped in oilskin and tied with the very Courlene he’d used to secure the red-haired boy’s bonds. The deep sigh that emanated from his chest turned to a sob as he fought the desire to relive those moments of passion.
Regret nothing, live life to the full, he thought, hearing half-remembered words that came to him now.
But who had spoken them? Had it been Gary, urging him on that night? Or had he himself whispered them in Rory’s ear, pulling the bonds tighter?
The thought was lost as a rhythmic throbbing sounded behind him.
Lachie turned, looking astern. The unmistakable shape of a police launch was bearing down on him, a figure standing in its bows.
For a moment he hesitated, a sudden swell from the waves making him sway, threatening to push him off balance. He would not be taken, Lachie decided, seating himself firmly in the centre of the boat, face turned towards the wind, knowing now where his destination lay.
‘Cut your engine!’ Lorimer yelled through the loudhailer, his voice booming above the noise of the two outboard motors.
He stood, feet planted securely apart, his life jacket already wet with the spray that lashed against the bow. ‘Turner, cut your engine! Now!’ he repeated, steadying himself with one hand against the rail.
Above him dark clouds scudded past, a brisk north-westerly wind making foaming crests across these treacherous waters. He glanced back for a moment but the town was far behind them now, hidden from sight as they followed the path of the smaller boat around a curve in the coastline. Where was he heading? The lighthouse was fast approaching, a beacon of warning to sailors who might venture too close to these treacherous shores. Would he slow down there and let them board the stolen motorboat?
But there was no sign of the smaller craft easing up as they followed its creamy wake around the spit of land protruding into the seas.
Lachie thought he could hear them calling him back, Turner! Turner!
Or were they trying to make him change course? A different voice whispered temptation in his ear: Turn her, turn her, it said, in Gary’s mocking boyish tones.
‘No!’ he screamed aloud, but the sound was carried away in the wind, leaving him to face the approaching rocks.
‘Turner!’ Lorimer called again but the man in the boat ahead gave no indication that he had heard his name.
Why did he not simply stop and give himself up? Surely the man knew that the more powerful police launch would soon be overtaking the stolen boat?
Waves lashed furiously against a deep fall of black rock that sliced the hillside, several jagged shapes looming ahead.
‘He’s heading for the Black Teeth,’ the pilot exclaimed. ‘He’ll never make it past them.’
‘Dear heavens!’ Lorimer exclaimed as he watched the passage of the motorboat.
A sudden memory of Solly’s words came back to him then. Perhaps he’s not running away from anything. Maybe he’s running to something?
The knowledge hit Lorimer like the spray that stung his skin. The man they sought was not seeking to escape from his pursuers but running towards a fate of his own making. Lachlan Turner was deliberately heading to one of the most dangerous spots on this coastline.
He was close enough to see the clumps of sea pinks that survived on these harsh cliffs of his island, their tiny flowers blowing frantically against the whipping wind. And that gull, rising like a ghost from its perch, wings outstretched, lifting higher, higher. If he could fly like this gull, Lachie thought, become a bird and fly away…
‘Turner!’ Lorimer’s voice was lost against the noise of crashing waves as he saw the boat ahead of them turn towards the sea cliffs.
There was a ripping sound as it hit the first rock, a shriek of wood against the harsh pinnacles of stone.
Lorimer watched in horror as the small boat was tossed high into the air and came crashing down, splintering like matchwood as it fell onto the Teeth.
For a moment he saw a pair of flailing arms as the man they sought rose into the air. Then the waters took him and his dark form disappeared, sinking beneath the foam.
The police launch slowed down at a safe distance from the rocks and Lorimer stared into the pounding waves where Lachlan Turner had ended his own life. There would be no answers now to the many questions he had hoped to ask but right now that had ceased to matter. He had witnessed the ending of another man’s existence. He gave a shuddering sigh. Had it been a coward’s way out or a moment of insane bravery turning toward these rocks? No earthly judge or jury would now decide Lachlan Turner’s fate. And perhaps there was some relief that all those grief-stricken relatives whose loved ones had been taken might be spared that further anguish.
Lorimer shook hands with each of the officers in turn. It had been a difficult time for them all, he thought, their beloved island gripped by the fear that one man had generated over the past days. He stepped out of the Aros Hall, leaving the men to pack up the place as an incident room for the last time, and walked across the road. Standing at the railing, he looked across Tobermory Bay. There were still yachts in the harbour, gulls flying high above, their slanting wings grey against the white clouds. He breathed in deeply, smelling the sea. This had been a fishing port once, he knew, and still there were boats that plied that trade. His eyes fell on the brown varnished boat moored at Ledaig, across from the Old Pier. What would she do with it now? he wondered.
Bella Ingram had wept bitter tears when he and Solly had told her about the accident. And about the brother she had always thought to be a little bit different from other men. They had found Rory’s clothing hidden on the widow’s boat, enough evidence there to have sent Lachlan Turner to prison for a very long time.
How had Turner felt, Lorimer wondered, when Rory had come to work at Kilbeg? Had he begun to relive his time with Gary Forsyth all over again? And what had really taken place that night aboard the Bonny Belle? Had Rory struggled? Or had he, as Solly had suggested, been compliant? Had the older man been jealous seeing Rory with Richard Maloney? These were things that they would never know.
Freda Forsyth had shown him the watercolour drawing that Gary had sent her, unclipping the picture from its wooden frame; it had been the last birthday card she had ever received from her boy. Lorimer had taken it from her hands and looked at the landscape, the little jetty at Kilbeg and the Morvern hills beyond. It was so like the pictures adorning Bella Ingram’s parlour walls that it did not even need the tiny L T in one corner that had been covered by the picture frame to identify it as Lachie Turner’s work. It was, he thought, the final piece of the puzzle. Lachlan Turner must have wished for Gary to come to Mull. Yet his predilection for masochistic sexual gratification had taken the boy’s life back in Glasgow, leaving Freda Forsyth bereft for all these years, never knowing and always wondering what had become of her son.