by Gray, Alex
He took another deep breath, savouring the salt taste on his lips, then, turning away from the view, Lorimer headed along the street to where Maggie was waiting for him.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Pamela Dalgleish slipped her hand into her husband’s arm. It was over, she told herself. There would be no more nightmares, no unseen monster coming back to face a court of law here in Glasgow. And for that she was grateful. She looked at the flowers on her youngest son’s grave, masses of white and yellow blooms given generously by so many of his friends. Pamela wiped away a tear. She had not known Rory had so many friends. And that was a grain of comfort after the horrors of what they had been told. Douglas would never come here again, she thought sadly. His son was lost to them for ever, the bitter knowledge of what he had been too much for her old-fashioned husband to bear.
Across the city another older couple stood, the summer wind blowing the petals of flowers from the surrounding graves of the Necropolis like so much wedding confetti. Hamish Forsyth bowed his head as his wife placed a posy of carnations on Gary’s final resting place. The guilt of his actions rested heavily upon him, something he must endure for the rest of his days. That his only son’s killer was dead and gone, smashed to bits on these notorious rocks, was little comfort. The man had been Gary’s lover, too, the tall detective had reminded him, a fact that Hamish found both repugnant yet full of sadness. Lachlan Turner must have been living in a kind of hell all these years, the bearded psychologist had said.
The hotelier gave a sigh. Who would have thought that a man like Lachie could have done such things? He had wanted to recreate Gary in the person of Rory Dalgleish, Professor Brightman had insisted.
And Archie Gillespie? What would they do to his former chef? The man had been found halfway down the west coast and was now in remand in one of the Glasgow jails, having been refused bail for the several charges that had been brought against him.
Hamish tried to take his wife’s arm but she shook him off as though the very touch of his hand had stung her. No amount of blaming the gardener from Tobermory would ever exonerate him in her eyes. Or, indeed in his own.
It was a windy day for a wedding, Rosie thought, as they left the car and headed towards the grey stone church, her hand clasping Solly’s. Just ahead of them she could see the tall figure of Lorimer, Maggie beside him, clutching a little arrangement of pale pink feathers to her dark curls lest it blow away.
It was several months since they had last been here, she realised, looking up as the clouds scudded across a sky that threatened rain. The invitation to attend Jamie Kennedy’s wedding had surprised them all, but the Lorimers had agreed to come up for the weekend and so she and Solly had made arrangements with Abby’s nanny to stay over for a couple of days.
She gave a smile to Maggie as they settled into the back of the kirk, the pews almost full of townsfolk and well-wishers who were here to see the local policeman wed his childhood sweetheart. The ends of the pews were decorated with tartan bows and sprigs of white heather, a symbol for good luck. Rosie found herself silently wishing this young couple all the luck in the world. It was time for some good fortune to come back into this lovely town.
Outside the sound of bagpipes could be heard, heralding the arrival of the bride, she assumed.
Then, as the organ boomed into a rendition of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’, all heads turned to see Fiona Taig make her entrance. A short lace-trimmed veil covered her face but there was no hiding the beaming smile behind it as she walked down, her hand tucked into Hugh McIver’s arm. His daughter, Eilidh, resplendent in a scarlet frock with a Kennedy tartan sash, beamed at the assembled congregation as she followed her father and best friend down the aisle. The music faded into silence as the minister stepped forward and began to address his people.
‘Dearly beloved…’
Rosie felt for her husband’s fingers and was gratified by the squeeze that Solly returned. This town had suffered much, she knew, and it would be a long time before many of the scars healed. But life went on: there would be other weddings, children born and christened here in this place of worship, and in time these dark deaths would be forgotten, consigned to the history books. She listened as the minister’s words continued, the two young people standing side by side, ready to commit themselves to a lifetime together.
She smiled as she caught her friend’s eye. Maggie nodded; no words were needed to express how she was feeling today. They were staying in the cottage at Leiter for a few days as it was the school October break.
There were ghosts there too, Rosie suspected; images to lay to rest, she thought, glancing along at Lorimer’s handsome profile. What was he thinking, she wondered? Did he look out at Fishnish Bay and remember the morning when he had discovered that poor boy’s body? Or, like the birds he so loved, could his spirits rise above it all and take flight, seeing only the brightness of day to keep the midnight out?
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Those readers familiar with my beloved Mull will see that I have kept faithfully to its topography. However, there are a few places in Keep The Midnight Out created purely from my imagination. You may search in vain for Kilbeg Country House Hotel, the Black Teeth or any loch that spills its waters into the Sound of Mull near Tobermory Bay.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are many people I wish to thank for their help in making this novel come to life. First, my cousin, Dr Andrew Noble, current owner of Leiter Cottage, for his kind permission to use it in my works of fiction. You know how much Leiter has meant to me since childhood, Drew. Also to my cousin, Elizabeth McIver, and to Ian Phillips for all the help in preparing background material and for being there whenever I needed a bed in Tobermory for the night.
Going back to 1995 has been an interesting experience and several police officers have made suggestions that helped to recreate that period when policing in Scotland was a bit different from now. As ever, my thanks go to DC Mairi Milne and to former DS Alastair Morris for their invaluable knowledge. Also thanks to Superintendent Martin Cloherty for his assistance in finding out technical details and to those officers in Oban and Lorn who gave me information. May they forgive my fictional imaginings of twenty-first-century policing on Mull!
To John Weir for his panama hat (the character who wears it is purely from my imagination!); to my sister, June, for help with researching Courlene; to the library staff at Glasgow Royal Infirmary for the invitation that gave me a chance to wander the hospital corridors; as ever to Dr Marjorie Turner for keeping me right about all post-mortem and other forensic details.
The crew at Little, Brown are perennially amazing, in particular my wonderful editor Jade Chandler and my dear David Shelley, not forgetting Stephanie, Rachel and Thalia. A special thanks to Moira who keeps me – and my diary – organised (and for looking after Puskas while I signed books all over the country and travelled around for research). Thanks, Jenny, the best agent a writer could wish for, and more than an agent, a dear and loyal friend.
Donnie, thanks for everything, especially for sharing the journeys (my, what trips across Ardnamurchan!) and for being a wonderful husband. And, yes, I couldn’t do it all without you.