Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (24 page)

The hall was packed with reporters, their mobile phones and iPads ready to record any titbits of information pertaining to the double murder case and the apprehension of fugitives up on the Ardnamurchan peninsula. A buzz of sound came from these people as Lorimer stepped forward and nodded at the DI, ushering her to the front of the platform where the dark wooden table was already prepared with several fixed microphones.

‘I’ve done the sound check,’ he whispered behind his hand. ‘It’s all ready for you. What happened?’ he added. ‘Was the train held up? You didn’t call to say you’d be late.’

‘What d’you mean?’ She looked at her watch. ‘This is when I was asked to be here. That was what DS Langley told me. Why wasn’t I given time to discuss things beforehand?’ she hissed back, clearly upset about being thrust into the spotlight so soon after her arrival.

Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘But you were,’ he said softly. ‘Someone from upstairs called asking you to be here an hour ago.’

Stevie Crozier shook her head slowly from side to side, her eyes snapping in sudden fury. ‘
I
didn’t get any telephone call,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t spoken to a single person since I left Oban.’

Lorimer shrugged, his gesture saying
I don’t know
, leaving the woman tight-faced and anxious as she sat down at the table. It was a matter to be discussed later on but someone’s head would roll for failing to brief the DI on the arrangements for this morning’s meeting.

He leaned across and spoke quietly. ‘Okay, over to you, Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll just introduce you, then, shall I?’

Later, Stevie would recall little of the individual questions, Lorimer chairing the meeting with an expertise that showed he was well used to dealing with the media. It seemed to Stevie that lights flashed constantly, sometimes blinding her to the person who was calling out their name and newspaper, words directed towards her that she caught and batted back, all her neglected media training coming into force. There were questions about the boy. Where had he been found? Why had Detective Superintendent Lorimer not been put in charge right away? (Lorimer had answered this smoothly, explaining that he had been on leave, that DI Crozier had conducted the murder inquiry with the utmost efficiency; Stevie loving and hating him for that reply in equal measure.) Then all those questions about Jean Erskine: Stevie had been on surer ground here, recalling the finding of the old woman clearly as she spoke. They had quickly turned their attention to Jock Maloney, his background (that was easy stuff) and the operation to capture him out in the forested area. The DI had replied as best she could, remembering the sounds coming over the airwaves as she had stood out on the open road by the Land Rover, that shot resonating through the trees.

Then it was over, Lorimer insisting on the last question coming from a reporter in the front, a pretty dark-haired young woman from the
Inverness Courier
.

‘Do you have any idea
why
Maloney killed these two people?’ she asked, her clear tones ringing out.

And, as Stevie hesitated, Lorimer bent towards his microphone to answer.

‘Mr Maloney is still being questioned about his part in these incidents. There will be further opportunities to make contact with our press office in due course. Thank you all for coming.’

And then the cacophony of protests from the assembled crowd of journalists as they wondered aloud what was going on? Hadn’t Maloney confessed to the murders already?

Lorimer’s hand on her elbow quickly guided Stevie out of the hall and they headed up a back staircase then along a corridor.

Lorimer knocked on an unmarked door. A woman’s voice from within called, ‘Come in.’

Then Stevie Crozier found herself face to face with Joyce Rogers. The deputy chief constable of Police Scotland sat in a wood-panelled room, its walls devoid of any sort of decoration except for the old Strathclyde Police badge, its colourful thistle emblem long since replaced elsewhere by the plain blue of the current regime.

‘Ma’am,’ she began, feeling an absurd desire to bend her knee and curtsy. Rogers was the one woman in the entire force that Stevie longed to emulate; someone who had withstood the changes from being second in command at Strathclyde Police until the historic reorganisation in April 2013 when she had been appointed as the next most important figure to the chief constable in the whole of Police Scotland.

‘Lorimer tells me that the train broke down. Such a pity. I wanted to talk to you about the progress of the case. Never mind. Perhaps you can spare a little time later today.’ Rogers looked at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. ‘Say about three?’

And Stevie had nodded her assent, silently blessing the tall man standing at her side for covering up the mismanagement of her arrival in Glasgow with a white lie. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be glad to talk to you.’

‘And Lorimer, that matter we discussed earlier? Will you have spoken to Maloney by then? Can you join us?’

Stevie looked at Lorimer, bewildered. What was going on? What matter had been discussed? And, a horrid suspicion rising in her mind, had it been Lorimer who had deliberately failed to send her the correct instructions to keep her out of his way?

L
ow Moss Prison in Bishopbriggs was a far cry from HMP Barlinnie where the detective superintendent had visited several prisoners incarcerated for murder. Walking through the brightly lit corridors, one could be excused for imagining that this was a further education college out in the countryside and not a high security prison full of dangerous men.

The prison officer at his side chatted happily about the recent visit of a well-known writer to their library, an event that had, according to the man, inspired an outbreak of reading, crime fiction being the prisoners’ preferred subject matter. Lorimer raised his eyebrows in silence. He’d heard it all before, had seen the selection of books in several prison libraries whenever Maggie had donated boxes from her colleagues at school.

‘Is Maloney much of a reader?’ he asked.

‘’Fraid not.’ The officer shrugged. ‘Sits in his cell for as long each day as he can get away with. He’s made to come out for recreational times, of course, and he is meant to be part of a work detail.’

There was a pause and Lorimer stopped walking for a moment, turning to the man. ‘But…?’

‘It’s the same old story. Sudden withdrawal, won’t communicate with any of the staff or the other prisoners, doesn’t want to see anyone.’

‘Yet he agreed to see me.’

‘Yes, he did. First time I’ve seen anything like a spark of life in that prisoner since he was brought down here.’ There was an expression of curiosity in the man’s eyes but Lorimer merely smiled. If the visit proved successful then the prison officer by his side would hear all about it soon enough.

DI Crozier had failed to obtain much from the prisoner after his initial confession. Lorimer had read the man’s signed statement after his arrest. Even then he had felt some disquiet at how easily the police had accepted Jock Maloney’s version of events. And yet the DI had been thorough, there was no question about that. She had not demurred when he had suggested this visit
. I might have the inside track because of our association in Mull
, he’d reasoned.
Perhaps he’ll open up to someone he knows outside of all of this?
He’d been heartened by her readiness to allow him access to her suspect. Perhaps, a cynical little voice intoned, DI Crozier had no real expectations of Lorimer succeeding any more than she had already and was simply humouring the detective superintendent.

They continued walking on up a sloping corridor where light flooded in from the summer skies. It was already sounding more hopeful than he had anticipated.

‘If you would just wait here for a moment, sir? They’ll be bringing Maloney down to the room across there in a few minutes.’

Lorimer found himself standing opposite the pale yellow door to the room that was normally used by solicitors for meeting with their clients. There was something about this place that lifted one’s mood – and it wasn’t simply caused by the sun sparkling behind the frosted glass windows. Every floor surface was clean and shining, every wall looked newly painted in pastel shades, a far cry from the Victorian establishments where Maloney might have been sent.

When the three men rounded the corner of the corridor and came towards him, Lorimer looked up then looked away almost immediately, not recognising the prisoner being escorted between the two officers. When he glanced up again it was to see the thin face of Jock Maloney staring at him intently. Head bare, his grey locks thinning and with stubbled chin and cheeks, the man looked years older than the cheerful garage mechanic he remembered from Tobermory. For an instant Lorimer tried to imagine the jaunty panama hat that had been Maloney’s trademark, the easy banter that they had once enjoyed whenever his car had been at the Ledaig workshop.

‘In here.’ One of the officers led Jock into the room and motioned him to sit at a small table that was fixed to the floor, a necessary precaution lest a prisoner become violent and decide to begin throwing furniture around the room or, worse, at any visitor.

‘I’ll be fine, now, thanks.’ Lorimer looked each of the prison officers in the eye, his tone brooking no opposition.

‘We’ll be right outside, sir,’ one of them said, nodding at Lorimer then giving a quick glance towards the prisoner. But Jock was staring down below the table at his hands as if he wanted to blot out everything that was happening around him.

As soon as the door was closed, however, he looked up and met Lorimer’s steady blue gaze.

‘Aye,’ Jock Maloney began. ‘It’s yourself.’

‘Jock.’ Lorimer nodded and reached out to shake the man’s hand. Jock leaned across the table, extending his right hand, the courtesy returned. It was cold and clammy to the touch but still firm; the man might have lost some of his spirit but there was still strength in these hands. Had they, Lorimer wondered fleetingly, been the hands that had stopped the lives of two innocent victims?

‘You didn’t request a solicitor,’ Lorimer began.

‘No need,’ Maloney replied tersely. ‘We know one another well enough.’

Lorimer studied the unkempt face of the man before him. It was every prisoner’s right to have a solicitor present at meetings such as these. But, no, it was to be a private discussion between the two men and that in itself gave the detective superintendent pause for thought. He cast his gaze over the man from Mull, seeing changes that even a short time in prison had wrought: the dark circles under his eyes, accentuated by an unfamiliar pallor.

‘How are you, Jock?’

There was a faint smile then Maloney shook his head. ‘Aye, they’re all right in here. Doing their job, I suppose.’

‘Nothing to complain about then?’

Jock gave a short laugh. ‘I could do with a fish supper at times.’ He bit his lip as it began to tremble. ‘Preferably one from the old pier.’ He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and let out a long sigh of despair.

‘I went to see Richard,’ Lorimer told him.

The man’s head came up, his tear-filled eyes looking at the detective superintendent.

‘How is he?’

‘Well, his shoulder’s been operated on, they took the bullet out but it will take a long time for it to heal. The bone was pretty well shattered.’

There was silence between the two men for a moment as Jock shook his head, still biting his lip to prevent himself uttering a sob.

‘What actually happened, Jock? Did you try to shoot Richard? Or was it an accident? I think it would help him to know.’

For a fleeting second there was a light in the man’s eyes that flickered and died as though some unspoken decision had been made.

Then a sigh that made the man’s whole body slump back on the moulded plastic seat. ‘I didnae intend to hurt him,’ Maloney began, then looked away from the detective superintendent as though trying to blot out the memory.

Lorimer nodded. ‘Our team is looking at the site in the forest,’ he said. ‘See if forensics backs that up.’

Maloney nodded silently, raising one arm to his face and wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

‘They tell me he’ll be in hospital for a wee while yet before he can travel back home,’ Lorimer continued. ‘Keith’s been in to see him, though.’

Jock lifted his head once more at the mention of his elder son.

‘But no’ his mother?’

Lorimer shook his head. She had been informed of what had happened but had stated that she did not wish to become involved. Strange, he mused. How could a woman abandon her sons like that? For a moment his thoughts turned to Pamela Dalgleish and the anguish in that mother’s face as she had left the hospital at Craignure, the certainty of never seeing her youngest child again filling her with such terrible grief.

‘I believe Keith is going to take some leave from work to drive Richard back once he’s fit enough to be moved,’ he said gently.

There was the slightest movement from the man’s head as he stared past Lorimer. What was he thinking? How badly had the break-up with his ex-wife affected him? Or were Maloney’s thoughts directed at more recent events? And was there something in that face to tell the detective the real story? Why Jock Maloney had ended up here after confessing to the murders?

‘I didn’t know you had a boat, Jock,’ Lorimer said, his conversational tone and change of topic designed to disarm the prisoner. It was a tactic he was used to employing; something that could provoke a suspect into letting down their guard.

Jock frowned. ‘No, you got that wrong,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never had a boat.’

‘Oh, is it Richard who sails, then?’

‘Who’s been filling your head with rubbish? We’ve never had boats, man! It’s cars in
our
family.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Fact is, none of us even learned to swim and we live on an island.’

‘I’m thinking you didn’t like the relationship between Richard and Rory Dalgleish, Jock?’ Lorimer’s tone had not altered, another sudden change of question thrown casually to see the other man’s reaction.

‘Shouldn’t have…!’ Maloney blustered then stopped.

‘Shouldn’t have
what
, Jock? Richard shouldn’t have begun a relationship with the lad? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

Jock Maloney covered his face with both hands and began to rock back and forward in his chair, a small sound of distress escaping into the room.

‘Jean Erskine saw you quarrelling with Rory, didn’t she, Jock?’ Lorimer went on. ‘Perhaps she had even seen the way those two boys behaved towards one another.’

Jock shook his head, a whimpering noise coming from behind his hands.

‘You were ashamed, weren’t you? Didn’t want folk to be talking about Richard. Your son. You had to get away from all of their gossip, didn’t you?’

‘Bloody place!’ Jock had taken his hands from his face, the tears visibly streaming down the man’s cheeks. ‘Couldn’t walk the length of the street but someone would spin a lie about you!’

‘But it wasn’t a lie, was it, Jock?’ Lorimer insisted. ‘Richard
is
gay. But it was you who couldn’t face that particular truth.’

Jock opened his mouth to protest but Lorimer slammed his fist down onto the table between them, making the prisoner jump.

‘You never touched a hair of Rory’s head!’ he growled. ‘Or of poor old Jean Erskine. Did you, Jock?’

‘I…’

‘Your confession is nothing more than an attempt to protect your son, right?’

Jock gave another groan and leaned forwards, putting his grizzled head in his hands.

‘See, here’s what I think happened, Jock.’ Lorimer sat back and swung one leg across the other, his mild tone back once more. ‘You fled Tobermory, supposing Richard to have committed a terrible thing. Homosexual behaviour is something you don’t understand, is it? Something you don’t
want
to understand. You could not conceive of it being anything gentle or loving, could you? To your mind it was associated with violence, something disgusting and unnatural, am I right?’

The moan from that lowered head was enough to make the detective continue.

‘Perhaps you thought it would be better if Richard were to be shot like a dying dog than face whatever prison could do to him,’ Lorimer said softly. ‘Was that what you thought as you raised that rifle, Jock?’

A sniff came from the man opposite.

‘But you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t kill your wee boy, could you?’ Lorimer went on. ‘Maybe you thought you were capable of an act like that but at the last minute you changed your mind and the gun went off, injuring Richard.’

‘He cannae come into a place like this,’ Jock whispered. ‘He just cannae.’

‘Listen to me, Jock.’ Lorimer uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his eyes searching out the other man’s face. ‘Richard had nothing to do with Rory’s death. And from your initial reaction I could tell that neither of you had an inkling about what had happened to Jean Erskine.’

‘Are you… sure?’ Jock raised his head, his brown eyes fixed on the man on the other side of the table.

‘I need evidence to show that it was impossible for Richard to have carried out such a thing,’ Lorimer admitted. ‘But one thing I am sure of is that whoever killed Rory Dalgleish needed a boat to dispose of his body. Now. Listen to me, Jock, and I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.’

Stevie Crozier lifted her coffee cup and sipped the dark liquid. Nothing had ever tasted quite so good, she thought. And it was just the two of them there in the deputy chief constable’s office, women who had succeeded in their respective careers, while Lorimer was off on a fool’s errand to speak to the prisoner.

‘I have to commend you on the way you appear to have carried out this case to a satisfactory conclusion, Detective Inspector.’ Joyce Rogers raised a porcelain teacup in a salute to the blonde woman seated opposite.

Stevie Crozier felt her cheeks burn in response to the compliment. It was hard to imagine a better outcome; a man banged up for these dreadful crimes and now the woman she admired being so generous with her praise.

‘It can’t have been easy having Lorimer there in the background,’ Rogers commented, a twinkle in her eye.

‘He didn’t interfere, ma’am,’ Crozier said, realising as she spoke that this was quite true. Lorimer had kept in the background as far as the process of investigation had been concerned, only coming to join the team as and when he had been required to do so. Stevie brushed aside the memory of his attempt to connect the young boy’s death with a twenty-year-old cold case. Everyone had failures in their past, she acknowledged, even the great William Lorimer.

As though summoned by the mention of his name they heard a brief knock on the door and there he was, his tall figure looming over the two women, an inscrutable expression on his face.

‘Lorimer, we were just discussing you!’ Rogers said mischievously. ‘Join us for a celebratory cup of tea?’ The deputy chief constable waved her cup aloft.

‘No thank you, ma’am, DI Crozier.’ Lorimer turned to give the other woman a courteous nod. ‘I don’t think celebrations are quite in order. Yet.’

‘What do you mean?’ Crozier looked up, startled.