Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (21 page)

‘A word, Lachie,’ Forsyth said, moving away and indicating that the gardener should follow him to the side of the house where there was a patch of shade.

‘Won’t be needing you after this week, old boy. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. But I’ve decided it’s time to call it a day here.’

Lachie nodded. The news hadn’t been totally unexpected but he wondered why the man was avoiding his eye. Embarrassed at having to fire one of his staff? Worried that Lachie might make a fuss?

‘What do we owe you?’ Forsyth continued.

Lachie shrugged. ‘Just this week’s wage, Mr Forsyth. And a nice reference, maybe?’

‘Of course, of course. See to that right away.’ Forsyth looked over Lachie’s shoulder at the wreck of the garden. ‘Bit much for one man to tackle, I suppose,’ he murmured. ‘Doubt if anyone will want to take that lot on this season. Still,’ he turned to the gardener and clapped his shoulder, ‘may as well do what you can till the end of the week, eh? Might get a buyer for it if the place is tidier.’

Hamish Forsyth turned and walked back around the corner to the entrance of the country house hotel, leaving Lachie to stare at the garden.

Tidier
, was that what he wanted? There had not been one word of thanks, Lachie realised. No
sorry to see you go
, no matter how insincere such a platitude might have sounded.

He looked down at his hands, lined and marked with dirt. What had he been doing with these hands? Making this huge bit of land a wee bit neater for a man who’d drunk away all the profits of his business? The time spent creating a design for these gardens had been completely wasted on a man like this. The gardener clenched his fists then looked at the tub full of weeds. Aye, he’d give him tidier, he thought.

Taking hold of the two handles, Lachie tipped the weeds back onto the soil then, lifting up the rake that lay on the path beside him, he carefully swept the dead weeds back along the rows, making sure they were spread out as evenly as possible. He stood back at last, a faint smile of satisfaction on his face. The rows were filled up with dead foliage now, but looked…
tidy
. The smile spread to a grin but it did not reach his eyes. Had there been anyone there to notice, they might have remarked on the expression of misery behind the hooded eyes.

End of the week, Forsyth had said. Aye, well, he’d collect his wages and the written reference and push off back to Tobermory. He spat on the path, aiming right at a slug that had crawled out of the pile of weeds. The slug seemed to hesitate, the gob of saliva confusing it. Then, with one swipe of the rake, the gardener mashed the slug against the hard-beaten earth, his face a mask of sudden fury.

‘Did he say anything about paying
us
off?’ Fiona wanted to know. She was sitting in the front seat of Lachie’s van as they headed up past the forestry cottages, the road climbing ever upwards from the still waters surrounding the ruins of Aros Castle. Lachlan Turner had been in one of his moods, Fiona had noticed, and the girl had asked him right out what he was mad about this time. His curt response had been to tell her of the meeting with Hamish Forsyth.

The man shook his head.

‘Won’t be long till they get round to sacking us though,’ Fiona remarked gloomily. ‘How can they afford to keep
any
of us on once all the guests have left? Archie included.’

Lachie did not reply. ‘I wonder what Maryka will do,’ she thought aloud. ‘She told me she was on a summer contract.’

‘Folks like them,’ Lachie snorted. ‘They make and break anything they like.’

‘Rory was on a summer contract too,’ she nodded, looking idly out of the window at the fields where Highland ponies grazed, their tails swishing to keep off the flies. ‘Wonder if the Forsyths paid his parents whatever he was owed.’

Lachie looked at the girl by his side, taking his eyes off the road for just an instant.

‘Hey! Watch out!’

Fiona grabbed at the handle of the door as the van swerved, a sheep and its half-grown lamb bounding out of the way.

She opened her mouth to say something, to protest at the gardener’s sudden carelessness. But something in the man’s glare as he accelerated around the corner stopped her. Lachie’s sudden anger made the girl shrink back in the passenger seat. It must be hard being paid off at his age, she decided, noticing the red flush that had crept over the man’s unshaven face. Well, she thought, at least he wasn’t going home to a wife and kids to break the news. Lachie Turner had never been married, something that didn’t surprise the young girl. Who’d want a surly old git like him? She sneaked a glance at the man again, silently appraising him. He wasn’t really that old, maybe ages with Donald Taig, her father. That scowling expression made him look like an old man, though. Mid-forties, maybe? Like Archie, the chef, she thought suddenly. Another man who never seemed in need of a woman by his side. Both of them past it, she decided, well past it for any notions of romance.

The remainder of the journey continued in silence, Fiona staring out of the window as the familiar landscape passed them by; the van protesting as they climbed the steep hills past Ardnacross to the Guline Dubh, Lachie noisily changing gear. Then they were heading down the two-lane road towards Tobermory.

Fiona Taig sighed. It was all very nice at Manor Gardens and Eilidh’s folks were more than welcoming, but the time would no doubt come when she had to take steps to visit the flat above the bank that was to become her own home. It had never been a secret that Jean Erskine was leaving the property to her great-niece.

You’ll have it when I’m gone
, she used to say with a twinkle in her eyes
. It’s been your home a whiley now anyway
. But, she wondered, with the ghosts and memories that place now contained would it ever be a place that she could live in again?

C
alum Mhor strolled across the grass verge and opened the big gate. He’d seen Lorimer’s silver Lexus parked on the driveway and, on a sudden impulse, had decided to stop off and talk to the detective superintendent. The fact of it being eleven in the morning when some folk broke off for coffee and scones was a secondary factor, Calum tried to assure himself.

The front door was open and from somewhere inside he could hear the gentle refrain of classical music coming from a radio. It was a melody he knew but could not put a name to; one of those popular tunes that had been used as the theme for one of his wife’s favourite television programmes. But better than the music wafting out was the smell of something freshly baked from the oven.

‘Hello? Anyone at home?’ he boomed, knocking the door as he stepped onto the doormat.

‘Oh, hello, Sergeant.’ Maggie appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. ‘I was just putting some scones on the rack to cool. Don’t suppose you’d like a cuppa?’ She smiled mischievously as though discerning his intentions.

‘Well, now, that would be very nice, very nice indeed.’ Calum paused. ‘Is the man himself at home? I saw the car…’ He turned and jerked his head towards the Lexus.

‘He’s been down at the shore,’ Maggie said. ‘Back any minute. Just come through, won’t you? Tea or coffee?’ She turned back into the kitchen.

‘Oh, a mug of coffee will be grand,’ Calum said. ‘Two sugars and milk, thanks.’

The big police sergeant sat down, relishing this break from his routine. He had spent most of the morning going over witness statements with several of the townsfolk from Tobermory, endless cups of tea proffered by the well-intended householders. Nobody, it seemed, had any clue why Jock Maloney had fled nor, for that matter, why Richard should have gone with him. Only that poor lassie, Fiona Taig, had given any hint about the boy’s hasty departure with his father.

Wasn’t Richard a pal of Rory Dalgleish
?
she’d asked innocently.
They hung about together
. She’d shrugged. He’d written that up in his latest report for DI Crozier but something was gnawing at the back of the police sergeant’s mind, something he preferred to discuss with the tall man from Glasgow. And, seeing the big silver car sitting out beside the cottage, Calum had decided that a visit was in order.

‘Calum. How are you?’ Lorimer stepped into the room and Calum stood up, hand out to offer a firm handshake. ‘I was down at the shore. Having a look for seabirds.’ He gave a crooked smile, tapping the binoculars around his neck.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘No, just the usual. Oystercatchers and a few hooded crows. Some black-headed gulls.’

‘No bodies, then?’ Calum gave a tired smile.

Lorimer shook his head. ‘Finding one is enough,’ he replied. ‘How’s the search going?’ He sat down opposite the policeman.

‘No sign of them yet,’ Calum answered. ‘But we’ve got a map of the region with all the old bothies marked out. That’s where we’ll be looking next.’

‘Once they’re located we can have the Eurocopter scrambled.’

‘Aye, just so. DI Crozier mentioned that.’ Calum nodded then stood up, a mark of old-fashioned politeness, as Maggie entered the lounge bearing a laden tray.

‘I made coffee for us all.’ Maggie set down a tray with three steaming mugs and a plate of newly buttered scones, a pot of home-made jam by their side.

‘Oh, my, that’s a treat right enough, Mrs Lorimer,’ the sergeant said, taking hold of a mug with one hand and reaching for a scone. ‘Freshly made scones; better with just the butter, I always think,’ he murmured, sitting back down. He sank his teeth into the scone, eyes shut as though to savour the initial mouthful, as Maggie exchanged an amused smile with her husband. The policeman’s predilection for cakes was well known and it was not the first time in all their trips to Leiter that he had dropped in for a mid-morning snack.

‘Well, now,’ Calum said finally, wiping the last of the crumbs from his uniform. ‘I’ve been talking to a lot of people back in Tobermory, trying to find out why the Maloneys left in such a hurry.’

‘Yes?’ Lorimer raised his eyebrows.

Calum sighed, settling his bulky body further into the armchair. ‘It was something Fiona Taig said,’ he began. ‘About Richard Maloney and the Dalgleish boy.’

Lorimer nodded slowly, wondering what was coming, half suspecting that he knew already.

‘She seemed to think they were pals,’ Calum said, frowning. ‘But how could that be when Rory worked down at Kilbeg and Richard was up in Tobermory?’

‘Didn’t Rory go up to Tobermory for a bit of a social life? He’d been at the dances, hadn’t he?’

‘Aye, but how had he become so chummy with a local lad?’ Calum shifted from side to side, visibly uncomfortable with what he was saying.

‘Is Richard Maloney gay?’ Lorimer asked abruptly.

Calum folded his arms and looked down at his feet. ‘Well, now. That’s a big question to ask, isn’t it? Not sure if I’m qualified to answer it.’

Lorimer looked at him for a long moment. It must be hard for a man like Calum to have to consider that someone he knew from this island might have been mixed up in a sadomasochistic relationship. These were things that the gruff police sergeant would wish to leave to others on the team, of that he was certain.

‘I have good reason to think that Rory Dalgleish was gay,’ Lorimer persisted, despite the obvious embarrassment the big policeman was suffering at his words. ‘Could Richard’s disappearance have anything to do with his relationship to the dead boy?’

The police sergeant twisted his mouth in a moue of uncertainty. ‘I think,’ he began, ‘that the best person to ask would be Jamie Kennedy. He knows all the locals in Tobermory a lot better than I do. And he was at school with Keith, Richard’s older brother, so he’ll know the family all right.’

‘It did worry you, though, didn’t it? What Fiona Taig told you?’

‘Aye,’ Calum replied gloomily. ‘And that… what you said… crossed my mind. Richard’s a quiet sort of lad, by all accounts,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Oh, well, takes all sorts I suppose.’ He sighed, rising to his feet. ‘Thanks for these delicious scones, Mrs Lorimer. Your wife’s a real treasure, Detective Superintendent,’ he nodded, smiling broadly at Maggie.

They stood side by side as the police sergeant made his way out of the gate then Lorimer stepped forward to swing it shut.

‘Well,’ Maggie remarked, ‘he seemed very coy about the idea of homosexuality, didn’t he?’

‘Didn’t want to voice his innermost thoughts to DI Crozier, I expect. Especially after they found those images on Rory’s laptop. Just simple embarrassment.’ Lorimer sighed. ‘Not homophobic, as such,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘just part of a different generation.’

‘Will you speak to PC Kennedy?’ Maggie looked up at her husband as they strolled back to the cottage door,

‘Fancy a wee trip to Tobermory?’

‘Solly and Rosie are still there,’ Maggie said. ‘And they did mention a picnic trip to Calgary Bay.’ She grinned, taking her mobile from her trouser pocket. ‘Maybe we can salvage something out of this holiday after all,’ she added with a rueful glance at her husband.

‘Better look out your swimming costume, in that case,’ Lorimer said, slinging an affectionate arm around his wife’s shoulders as they made their way back to the cottage. ‘I know one little lady who’ll love paddling with her Aunty Maggie.’

The dry twig cracked ominously under his boot as Maloney stepped off the track.

He froze, hands by his sides, not daring to make a move. Images of crouched figures watching him through the darkened undergrowth, their weapons loaded and ready to fire, crowded his brain, pictures from the past; but those days were long gone. Now the threat was not those menacing silent men from the IRA but British police officers, people he had believed were on his side.

The sound of a vehicle in the distance made him lift the heavy field glasses and look towards the road end. There was no sign of anything stirring, no single movement within the trees. Nothing.

Had they stopped further along the track? And were they even now coming towards the bothy? Or had it just been a passing car, a farmer’s wife visiting a friend nearer to Kilchoan? There was a farm a couple of miles along the road. He had seen it before they had driven off the track. But he was certain the engine noise had ceased close to where the trees opened out at the road end. Not a local, he grimaced, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, some sixth sense warning him that their hiding place was no longer safe.

He hurried back to the bothy, eyes straining for any treacherous twigs, back bent as he ran. Keeping low down had been second nature to him once. Memories of those dark nights came unbidden, nights when he and his fellow squaddies had moved along the roads of Northern Ireland, half fearful that an incendiary device would blow them all to smithereens. But this was daytime and the light filtering through gaps in the thick pine trees made him blink suddenly.

Maloney stopped once more, listening, but there was only the heavy brooding forest all around, not even the cry of a bird. He moved forward again, creeping on careful feet until he reached the place where he had left the pickup. They’d find it easily enough, Maloney thought, despite the attempt to camouflage it with foliage. And driving on the open road would be like saying
Here
I am: come and get me
. No, they’d be better off on foot from now on.

But first there were certain things that he needed to retrieve from the hidden vehicle.

When the door opened, Richard looked up from where he was sitting, hands clutching the sides of the makeshift bed. There was an unspoken question in the boy’s eyes as he saw the shotgun in his father’s hands.

‘We’re getting out,’ Jock said. ‘Now. Come on, quiet as you can.’

Richard opened his mouth to protest but a glare from his father silenced him before he could utter a single word.

‘Will you move!’ Jock hissed, grabbing the boy’s shoulder and pulling him to his feet.

‘Where are we going?’ Richard whined as his father closed the wooden door behind them.

‘Just follow me and keep quiet,’ Maloney hissed. ‘Understand?’

Richard looked up at his father’s face. Ever since he had been picked up on the Back Brae and swept away from the island he had been wary of the older man. There was no smell of drink on him, nothing to account for Jock Maloney’s strange behaviour. Nor had there been any explanation about the necessity to quit the island, just some curt commands to do as he was told or the police would come after them. Gone was the cheerful man whose speech was full of jokes and wisecracks. The laughing eyes were dulled now and Jock hardly spoke at all except to bark an order at his son.

Something had happened to change his dad. And Richard Maloney was afraid to think what that might be.

The boy nodded and fell into step with his father. He looked round once at the track: he too had heard the sound of a car engine. Yet at this moment he was less afraid of the police officers searching for them than he was of this man carrying the gun striding out in front of him.