Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (2 page)

M
aryka made a face as she entered the hotel kitchen. They still hadn’t found anyone to replace Rory Dalgleish and she wasn’t sure if she resented the red-haired boy more now that he’d gone. His constant talking had made her crash around the kitchen banging pots and pans, feverishly trying to blot out the sound of his annoyingly loud public school voice. He had been worse in the mornings after yet another night at the bottle, going on about how he was saving up to go to Thailand with his mates; a gap year before uni, he claimed. Though why a rich boy from Glasgow needed to have a summer job at all mystified her. Perhaps, Maryka thought cynically, his folks couldn’t stand his loutish behaviour either and had packed him off to this country house hotel on the island of Mull.

Anyway, he had disappeared two nights ago, to the consternation of the Dalgleish parents, if not to the Dutch girl who was now lifting plates out of the big dishwasher and stacking them on the kitchen table. Breakfasts didn’t begin for over an hour but she had plenty to do first. Laying the tables would have been easier the evening before but the dining room had been requisitioned by the local drama group for their weekly rehearsal, their laughter and singing continuing well into the night as Hamish Forsyth topped up their glasses, glad no doubt to have their custom. The hotel had not been full all summer and Maryka wasn’t surprised. The place needed a complete facelift, in her opinion.

Kilbeg Country House Hotel had been bought by the Forsyths twenty years back, Fiona, one of the local girls who worked as a chambermaid, had informed her, but necessary refurbishment had never taken place and the same old tartan curtains, faded by years of sunlight, still hung limply against the flyblown windows. It was the drink, of course. Everybody knew that Hamish had a problem but, in the way of country folk, it was rarely mentioned; there would be just a hint or a nod towards the big florid-faced man as he knocked back a large whisky, eyebrows raised in disapproval. Maryka felt secretly sorry for Freda Forsyth. She was a small woman, straggles of grey hair tucked untidily behind her ears, who sometimes drifted into the kitchen, a vacant expression on her face as though she had forgotten why she was there in the first place.
Not all there
, Fiona had said with a smirk, tapping the side of her head when she thought that Mrs Forsyth was out of earshot. Once or twice Maryka had caught a glimpse of Hamish’s wife standing on the terrace gazing out to sea as though in expectation of someone special arriving at their little jetty where the chef’s ancient boat lay at anchor, the man probably snoring in there still, last night’s session fogging his brain. But not a single other soul had ever landed there since the Dutch girl had begun working back in the springtime. Not even the fishermen who brought the fine sea trout in their wooden boats.

Maryka wiped her hands on the cotton apron that covered her uniform. Ewan Angus, the tall young fisherman she’d danced with at last Saturday’s ceilidh, had promised them some nice fish for dinner, she suddenly remembered.
I’ll just leave it in the pantry
, he’d told her, meaning the wooden hut out the back that was a cold storage facility for various bits of game and fish that came mysteriously early in the mornings. Maryka knew better than to ask questions, the grin on Ewan Angus’s face telling her better than words that the sea trout was likely obtained in somebody else’s private waters. She was good at keeping secrets, Maryka thought to herself, as she glanced across at the chef’s old boat rocking gently on the jetty.

It had been a grand night, that ceilidh in Tobermory, the music and dancing fuelled by occasional nips from Ewan Angus’s whisky flask outside on Main Street. He’d whirled her around at the dancing until she was flushed and breathless then led her away from the upstairs hall, a wee twinkle in his eye as he patted the unmistakable shape in his hip pocket. ‘Time for refreshments,’ he had laughed. She’d had things of her own to offer after that, Maryka remembered, smiling her secret little smile.

Maryka had brushed her long hair smooth this morning and put on a bit of make-up before coming out of the caravan that she shared with Elena, the Romanian girl, creeping quietly out to see the lad once again, her lips curling in anticipation of enjoying some mild flirtation.

The girl strolled out of the kitchen onto a strip of sheep-nibbled grass that was still wet with dew, her eyes drawn to the flower-strewn machair that swept down towards the shoreline. Above, a mere speck against the pale blue, a skylark filled the air with his song. The Dutch girl stood for a moment, breathing in the mingled scents of clover and meadowsweet, glad to be here on this Hebridean island, happy to savour a few moments of peace before the day properly began.

Then, with a sigh, she walked the few paces towards the wooden pantry. Its old grey door creaked open as she slid the latch upwards, expecting to see the promised parcel of fish under its covering of bracken. Ewan Angus had left several such packages already this summer. Maryka made a face. She hated handling the wet scaly things, their tails bent stiff, cold eyes staring at her.

As she peered into the gloomy shed, one hand was already on the skirt of her apron, ready to lift the slimy fish onto the white cotton and carry it back to the kitchen. Mrs Forsyth would settle up later, Maryka knew. She might seem a bit vacant at times but Hamish’s wife wasn’t stupid when it came to matters of dealing with her suppliers.

Maryka blinked. The shelf was bare. She looked around, eyes roving up and down the wooden slats piled high with boxes containing non-perishable foodstuffs. But there was nothing, not even a sign of freshly plucked green bracken hiding Ewan Angus’s spoils. The girl’s brow creased in a frown. Mrs Forsyth wouldn’t be best pleased: she had already printed out the menus for tonight’s dinner and Archie, the chef, had annoyed them all yesterday by rummaging through every cupboard in the kitchen, seeking out the ingredients for some special sauce. It was a wonder he managed to cook anything at all, the girl thought; the number of times she had seen him stoned late on in the evenings.

She started at a noise, making her turn and gasp and, for an instant, she expected to see the young fisherman striding across the grass, a grin on his handsome face.

But there was no one to be seen, just the pantry door swinging open, taken by a sudden breeze, its chill making the girl shiver.

Detective Superintendent William Lorimer stood at the open door of the cottage, a smile of contentment on his face and a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hand. It was just gone six o’clock, but habitual early rises in the course of his working life had set Lorimer’s mental clock to this quiet time of the day. Summer was never the same without a couple of weeks here at Leiter Cottage, Mary Grant’s little white house that nestled close to the curve of Fishnish Bay. They had been coming here for several years now, courtesy of Lorimer’s colleague, DI Jo Grant, Mary’s niece. It had become their favourite place to find some peace from the hustle of Glasgow, the quiet pace of island life perfect to restore their spirits.

Framed by oaks and willows lay the curving bay, where yachts occasionally anchored, the sweeping arm of pine forest on the furthest shore providing good shelter from sudden storms. Beyond was the stretch of water known as the Sound of Mull and the gently sloping hills on the mainland. It was a view that Lorimer never tired of seeing: the changing colours of the sky reflected in the waters, the activity of car ferries or smaller boats providing interest at different times of the day, sunlight shifting over the fields and hillside by Lochaline. It was a vista waiting to be captured by an artist’s skill, he often thought, but they had yet to find it in paint in any of the island’s galleries.

Lorimer drained the last of his coffee, tossing the dregs into the flower bed, and wandered across the extensive lawn to a narrow path that was hidden by reeds and long grasses.

His eye was caught suddenly by the activity of birds down by the shore; herring gulls and hooded crows. Their raucous squawks made Lorimer raise the high definition binoculars that hung around his neck, but all that he could make out were the thrashing wings as they swooped and pecked at some unseen thing. A dead sheep, perhaps? Or a seal, washed up on the shore? Curious, he allowed his feet to take him along the old path, across the main road and down onto the rocky beach. Beside a crumbling sea wall lay the remnants of an ancient boathouse, its timbers silvered by years of neglect. Once it had housed good clinker-built boats, Mary Grant had told them, her sing-song voice weaving stories of times past when her late husband and his brothers had fished the bay and hunted for deer and rabbits over the hill. But the men who had worked these waters were long gone, leaving only traces of a crofter’s life.

Lorimer wrinkled his nose in anticipation. If it were some dead creature the smell would certainly attract these sharp-beaked gulls and scavenging crows. The actual subject of their frenzy was hidden from view by a square black rock but the birds rose as one at his approach, with shrill calls of annoyance at this human intruding on their feast.

His feet slithered on the heaps of wet ochre-coloured seaweed as he came closer to the edge of the water. It was a high tide, he remembered. Had something been washed up from the depths and cast onto the shoreline? Here and there patches of spongy green turf made his progress easier, clumps of pink sea thrift waving in the morning breeze.

Lorimer stopped abruptly, his eyes refusing at first to believe what he saw. A sour taste rose in his throat but he swallowed it down, blinking hard as he looked at the naked body on the ground. The red hair was still wet, he noticed, trying not to stare at the place where the man’s eyes should have been. The birds had made short work of them, he thought disgustedly. One hooded crow, braver than the rest, hopped closer as if to test this tall man’s resolve. Without a moment’s thought, Lorimer waved his arm at the bird, flinging a curse as it took off.

Hunkering down, Lorimer examined the corpse, the professional policeman taking over now. There were other marks of course, predations by sea creatures, but the body was still intact enough for identification. No tattoos, though it was obviously a young man, the white skin smooth where the birds had failed to peck and claw at it. He paused for a moment, frowning. His legs were twisted under him, giving him a stunted look, the rounded knees scarred. One pale arm lay stiffly by his side, the fingers of his hand splayed as though he had been grasping at something at the moment of death, yet the other arm was folded behind his back. Lorimer frowned, trying to make sense of the body’s shape, his imagination seeing the young man struggling against the currents as he fell deep into the water. Had he landed on the sea floor, against a rock, perhaps? Was that why the body had taken on such an odd shape as rigor had set in?

There was something about it, something vaguely familiar… he closed his eyes and tried to remember but the shriek of a nearby herring gull disturbed the moment and he raised his hand to ward off the predator.

There was no doubt in his mind about who this might be, however. The island’s rumour mill had reached even the remote little cottage here at Fishnish Bay with tales of the missing student from Kilbeg House.

Giving a sigh, Lorimer rose to his feet, fumbling in his pocket, hoping against hope that the mobile would find a signal down here on the shoreline.

Then, as he dialled the number, he glanced across the bay, noting the little squall that had sprung up; dark clouds slanting shadows over the once quiet waters.

T
he body had been laid out on the grass at the side of the river, several figures already at the scene to ascertain who it was and what might have happened. The young detective constable hovered uncertainly behind his boss, listening to what was being said, concentrating on the officer’s instructions about preserving the scene. Detective Inspector Phillips turned and nodded in Lorimer’s direction.

‘Ever seen anything like this?’ he said, his eyes flicking across the DC’s face as though to examine it for any sign of weakness.

‘No, sir,’ Lorimer replied, drawing closer to look for himself.

The man was naked, the skin on his bloated body pale against the flattened turf and weeds. Flies had gathered already, drawn by the stink of rotting flesh, and Phillips was sweeping them away with the back of his hand as the young DC hunkered down beside him.

‘What d’you make of him?’ Phillips asked.

Swallowing hard, Lorimer looked at the remains of the man’s face then let his gaze travel down the rest of the body. There were dark marks around each of the wrists and ankles, the legs bent back, making the corpse seem much smaller.

‘He’s been hog-tied?’ Lorimer said, a question in his voice.

‘Course he has!’ the detective inspector exclaimed, his nod and fleeting smile absurdly pleasing to the newest member of A Division’s CID team as his boss stood up to speak to the on-duty pathologist.

William Lorimer continued to gaze at the man on the ground:
the victim
, he reminded himself. Yet somehow using the term did not depersonalise the dead man as it was meant to do. Once, not so very long ago, this was a human being who walked and talked, swore, got drunk, maybe even did bad enough things to come to this terrible end. The hair was full of mud and weeds but under the morning light Lorimer could see the auburn glints and the reddish fuzz around his throat and chin. The beginnings of an identity, he reminded himself. Then, as his gaze lingered on the hairless torso, he wondered if the unblemished skin was that of an adult male at all. Had the river washed all coarseness away? Or, he asked himself, was this just a teenager, a mere lad?

They’d be trawling missing persons for data relating to someone fitting the description, he thought, taking out his notebook and making a few hasty observations, plus a quick sketch.

The flash made him spin round, almost losing his balance. One hand felt the wet ground as Lorimer tried to steady himself then he rose to his feet and stepped back, allowing the scene of crime photographer to shoot the necessary pictures.

He was there to watch and listen, Lorimer reminded himself, though he might well be asked again for his observations. DI George Phillips had a reputation as someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly but Lorimer had found himself warming to the older man when he had been posted to CID at Stewart Street and now, seeing him in action, DC William Lorimer knew instinctively that he would learn a lot from the detective inspector.

Uniforms had called it in – something he might have done himself only a few weeks ago, before his transfer to CID – and now DI Phillips would head up an investigation into what appeared to be a suspicious death as the Senior Investigating Officer; that was the official title given to the person who took on a case like this. Lorimer took a few steps towards the DI and the pathologist, wondering if the day would come when he might be given such a designation.

‘Aye, something’s been cutting into his ankles and wrists. You can see the marks easy enough,’ the DI was saying. ‘What happened to the rope, though? If it was rope?’

The white-suited pathologist turned and smiled. ‘Depends on how tightly it was tied. Immersion in the water would have made it harder to loosen off.’

‘He could’ve been cut free post-mortem and thrown into the river? Is that what you’re saying?’

The pathologist shrugged. ‘We won’t be able to tell much more until we get him along to the mortuary, George. Then we’ll see whether he was alive or not when he hit the water.’

Lorimer gave an involuntary shudder, his imagination creating a scene where a man was trussed up and then tossed alive into the swift flowing waters of the Clyde. The victim would have known what was happening, seen the skies tumbling overhead, then struggled in vain as he sank deep, deep under the currents. If that was the true scenario, what had happened to loosen him from his bonds? Lorimer exhaled, suddenly aware that he’d been holding his breath. Much better to think that he’d been given a hammering and tossed into the river after he’d been killed. He could see in his mind’s eye the figures of men crouching around the trussed-up body, cutting off the bindings on his ankles and wrists, taking away any evidence that might link them to the crime. Was that how it had happened? Were there intelligent minds behind this murder?

As he watched the body being raised from the ground and placed carefully onto a stretcher, the young detective constable realised that he wanted to know what had happened. Not simply to satisfy his own desire to succeed as a cop, but to bring the perpetrators of this crime to justice. Someone out there was missing this fellow – a mother, a girlfriend, perhaps – and it was his duty to give them the answers they sought.