Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (27 page)

S
he was standing on the edge of the jetty, staring out to sea, arms wrapped around her chest to keep out the wind. Something about the way her hair blew up from her face tugged at the girl’s heart. There was deep sorrow burdening those narrow shoulders, she thought, a story left untold.

‘Mrs Forsyth,’ she called out, but Maryka’s words were carried away by the gusts coming off the water, tips of waves turning white, crescent-shaped eddies licking the wooden timbers below the landing stage.

‘Mrs Forsyth?’ Maryka stepped forward and tapped the older woman’s shoulder, making her start. ‘It’s time for dinner. Archie sent me to tell you.’

The woman looked at her, uncomprehending, as she turned back from her contemplation of the expanse of water that lay between island and mainland.

‘It’s dinner time,’ Maryka persisted gently, tucking her arm under the woman’s cardigan sleeve and guiding her along the pathway back to the hotel. ‘Archie’s got a nice bit of sea trout baked with a salad, you like that, don’t you?’ she gabbled, aware of the blankness in the woman’s pale eyes and the way she allowed herself to be meekly led back to the hotel.

Suddenly, as though she had remembered something, Mrs Forsyth clutched at the girl’s arm.

‘Will Gary be there?’ she demanded. ‘Has he arrived back yet?’

Maryka opened her mouth to ask
Who
’s Gary?
Had her suspicions been correct after all?

‘Your son, Gary?’ she asked, holding her breath for a moment to see the woman’s response.

Freda Forsyth wrinkled her brow for a moment then shook her head. ‘He’s been away for such a long time,’ she sighed. ‘But I think he’ll be back soon.’ She let the girl’s arm fall then turned to look out to sea, a strange wistfulness in her face.

Maryka bit her lip. Had their son perished at sea a long time ago? Was that why she came down to the water’s edge so often? Did some tragedy from years gone by explain her increasingly bizarre behaviour?

‘It’s just the four of us tonight,’ Maryka said at last. ‘Mr Forsyth, Archie, you and me.’

The woman gave no indication that she had heard, merely stepping obediently along the narrow path, eyes fixed on the daisy-strewn grass.

‘I think there’s a mystery here,’ Maryka whispered to the chef, handing back the reefer. Their dinner was over and the Forsyths had retired to their upstairs rooms leaving her and Archie to clear up. The chef had sparked up their usual after-dinner joint now that they were alone together and the back door was open wide to let the pungent scent of the cannabis drift into the night. They were standing side by side near the big kitchen sinks, Maryka slowly drying the last of the cooking pots, Archie Gillespie hanging them up on the metal hooks suspended from a small pulley fixed to the ceiling.

The chef gave her a look. ‘Like how we get our last wages?’ he grunted between tokes.

‘No, not
that
sort of mystery,’ Maryka huffed. ‘Listen, guess what I just found out?’

The chef made a face then yawned as though anything the girl could relate was bound to be of little interest. He took one last draw on the reefer then, deciding it was finished, threw it into the sink where it sizzled and died.

‘
They had a son
,’ she said, forcing as much drama into her voice as she could. ‘Did you know that?’

Archie Gillespie shrugged. ‘What happened? Did he see the light and scarper?’

‘I don’t know. Only,’ she leaned closer to the chef and dropped her voice, ‘poor old Freda was muttering about someone called Gary. Someone she was waiting to come back here. I bet you anything it was their son. And something bad happened to him,’ she added darkly.

‘Och, your heid’s fu’ o’ nonsense, hen,’ the chef snorted derisively.

‘No, really, listen,’ Maryka said slowly, the drying cloth forgotten in her fingers. ‘I’m sure that’s why her nibs goes down to the dock all the time.’

Archie turned and looked down at her, his attention caught.

‘See, she thinks he’s coming back. But d’you know what I think?’

‘Give me a clue? He went off to join the navy?’

Maryka shook her head. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘And she won’t accept it after all these years. I
think
,’ she continued, ‘that Rory’s murder has brought it all back to her. Maybe we should tell the police?’

For a long moment the chef glared at her, a dark frown tugging down the corners of his mouth.

‘Know what I think?’ he growled, jabbing a reddened finger towards Maryka’s face. ‘I think you want tae leave that poor woman alone. You think too damned much for your own good.’

He banged down the grill pan on the kitchen counter and, without another word, stalked out of the back door and into the gathering dusk, leaving the girl to stare at his retreating figure and wonder at the venom in his tone.

T
alking to parents who had lost their child was one of the hardest things that Stevie Crozier had ever done. And having the tall detective superintendent standing by her side did not make it any easier. She shifted from one foot to the other as they stood in the wide entrance porch of the house on Glasgow’s affluent south side. It was a large, solidly built home dating from the earlier part of the twentieth century, its grey stones looming up before them as they had walked from the car to the front steps of The Pines, the place doubtless named for the stand of conifers that screened the façade of the house from the main road beyond. It was, Stevie had been informed by DS Langley who knew Glasgow well, one of the most sought after locations in Newton Mearns. And, driving along from the roundabout that separated Kilmarnock Road from the Ayr Road, Stevie had to agree with that.

Stevie glanced behind her, noting the extensive lawns to the front. This garden showed someone’s careful hand, the edges deeply trimmed and not a weed in sight. She sighed longingly, remembering her own little patch of garden back in Oban, its grass left uncut far too often. Money could buy the best of gardeners to keep the place as smart as this. But, a little voice reminded her, no amount of money would ever buy back the Dalgleish’s youngest child.

‘You okay?’ Lorimer asked, looking down at her. Stevie turned back and nodded her silent reply, inwardly cursing herself for letting her feelings show.

The DI watched as Lorimer pressed a bell that was set into the sandstone wall above the brass nameplate in bold lettering: DALGLEISH. They were expected but she doubted if either of them would be welcomed.

The door opened after a few seconds to reveal a young woman in her twenties, her trim black suit and patent leather court shoes evidence of recently having come from work.

‘I am Detective Inspector Crozier,’ Stevie said, proffering her warrant card. ‘And this is Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’

‘Hello.’ The young woman looked them both up and down before stepping back. ‘Come in. I’m Jennifer, by the way, Rory’s sister.’

Stevie entered the house, followed by Lorimer, walking along a wood-panelled corridor and into a spacious sitting room.

‘Mum and Dad will be down in a minute,’ Jennifer told them. ‘I had a conference at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, that’s why I’m here,’ she explained.

‘Of course, you’re a doctor,’ Lorimer smiled, standing by the fireplace, hands behind his back.

Jennifer Dalgleish made a face. ‘Doesn’t make knowing all the details about what happened to Rory any easier,’ she said, looking from the tall detective to Stevie. ‘But I do try to spare the parents. Luckily my speciality is orthopaedic surgery. Don’t get too many opportunities to see anything other than living patients, thank God.’ She waved a hand towards the three-piece suite that faced a pale cream Georgian fireplace.

‘Look, please sit down. I’ll tell them you’re here.’ She gave a half smile and turned away, her long tawny hair swinging in its tortoiseshell clip.

Stevie perched on the edge of an armchair, taking time to look around at the room. It had been carefully designed by an expert eye, she decided. Either Pamela Dalgleish had some skill in this area or else the place had been decorated by a professional interior designer with no expense spared. Silver and blue patterned curtains screened the huge windows to one side of the room as well as the enormous bay windows to the front of the house, and underfoot were a thick sea-blue carpet and carefully placed lambskin rugs. A smoked glass table to the rear of the room held a tall vase of white regal lilies and stems of grey-blue eucalyptus, the colours in perfect harmony with the furnishings.

‘Nice place,’ she remarked, turning back to see that Lorimer was watching her with interest, a half smile on his handsome face. ‘Good room to relax in, I would think,’ she murmured.

‘It’s never as tidy as this in our house,’ he admitted. ‘Too many books all over the place.’

Stevie smiled back at him. It was a small enough piece of personal information but suddenly the man sitting across from her seemed endearingly human. Lots of books, she thought. But had he any time to read them?

The question would not be answered just then, however, as Pamela and Douglas Dalgleish entered the room, causing both police officers to stand up and greet them.

She was still showing all the hallmarks of grief, Stevie thought, as she took the bereaved mother’s hand.

‘Superintendent Lorimer, Inspector Crozier.’ Douglas Dalgleish gave a stiff little bow in her direction but Rory’s mother had come forward and was clasping Lorimer’s hands as though fastening herself to an anchor. She was conscious of a spurt of annoyance.
He
was the favoured one, not her, she thought, then immediately chided herself for such pettiness.

‘Detective Inspector, thank you for coming all this way to Glasgow,’ Pamela Dalgleish said gravely, ushering Stevie back into the armchair and settling herself on the settee beside her husband.

‘I apologise for the distress all this might cause you,’ Stevie began, ‘but we are reopening the case. I’m still senior investigating officer,’ she continued.
Make that clear from the off
, she thought. ‘But Detective Superintendent Lorimer has agreed to play a part in the ongoing investigation, given his personal contacts in Mull.’

‘I’m so glad,’ Pamela Dalgleish declared, a hand briefly covering Lorimer’s.

‘I will keep you both informed of any developments in the case, of course,’ Stevie told them. ‘I assure you that we will do everything in our power to find whoever did this to your son.’

‘Thank you.’ Douglas Dalgleish cleared his throat and nodded in Steve’s direction.

‘I would not have been involved at all but for my finding Rory that morning,’ Lorimer reminded them.

Stevie Crozier hid a self-satisfied smile; Lorimer was certainly trying to do the right thing, she had to admit, deferring to an officer less senior than himself.

‘We have to ask you more questions, I’m afraid,’ she said, her tone brisker than she intended. ‘First, I want to ask you about Rory’s friends; who his closest pals were, where they live, if there are any connections with Mull.’

Pamela and Douglas Dalgleish looked from one to the other.

‘Well, there’s Jimmy Fotheringham,’ she began. ‘Rory’s school chum,’ she explained, looking back at Stevie. ‘He lives in the house two along from here. Rory and Jimmy always went to school together, ever since they were little.’ She stopped for a moment and Stevie saw the lower lip being bitten, a sure sign that the memory of Rory as a child had brought tears to the mother’s eyes.

‘Jimmy’s at home just now,’ Douglas continued. ‘Waiting for the results of his exams.’

‘He wants to go to university next year. To study law,’ Pamela went on.

Stevie made a show of scribbling in her notebook. ‘Anyone else who might give us personal details about Rory?’

Again Stevie saw that doubtful look between the parents.

‘What about his workmates from the café?’ Pamela asked her husband.

‘Well, he was there long enough, I suppose,’ Douglas Dalgleish answered his wife.

‘The café?’

‘The one at Kelvingrove Art Galleries and Museum,’ Pamela explained. ‘Rory worked there for more than a year. If only he had stayed instead of —’ She broke off, putting both hands over her face. Stevie could hear the long sigh that became a strangled moan as the woman sought to control her grief.

‘Do you have any names or addresses for his friends there?’ Lorimer asked gently.

‘No, he never brought any of them back here,’ Douglas Dalgleish said stiffly. ‘Though he did tend to go out with some of them after work. To concerts and things,’ he added lamely, with a desultory wave of his hand that expressed how hopelessly out of touch he had really been with his younger son.

‘There was someone special,’ Pamela said, sitting up with a sniff and turning to her husband. ‘You know there was,’ she said, the accusatory tone of her voice making Stevie glance across at Lorimer. His slight nod was all that was needed.

‘Can you tell me who this was?’ he asked, turning in his chair to face the man and woman beside him.

Pamela shook her head. ‘I think it was an older man,’ she whispered.

‘How do you know that?’ Lorimer asked.

‘I heard Rory speaking to him sometimes on the telephone,’ she said, looking guiltily at her husband.

‘You never told me this,’ Douglas said gruffly.

‘He used to say things like “See you later, old man,” but not in the kind of cheery way he spoke to his pals,’ she said, turning back to Lorimer. ‘It was almost sarcastic. Gave me a funny feeling. It was as though Rory was meeting this person for something…
clandestine
.’ She shook her head as though the word didn’t fit what she was trying to say.

‘Do you think Rory was having a relationship with this older man?’ Lorimer’s tone was so matter-of-fact that it took Stevie’s breath away. He could have been asking about the boy’s work schedule rather than details about his private life.

Pamela Dalgleish nodded. ‘He never
came out
,’ she explained sadly. ‘But we knew without him ever having to tell us, didn’t we?’ She placed a hand on her husband’s arm and Stevie saw Douglas Dalgleish heave an enormous sigh.

‘Have you any idea who this man might be?’ Stevie asked. ‘Someone from work perhaps?’ she suggested.

‘We never knew,’ Pamela told them. ‘It was something that Rory kept secret from us.’

‘But
you
thought it had something to do with him going to Mull,’ Douglas said.

‘Yes,’ Pamela agreed. ‘He was excited. Said he had been given “a head’s up”. Those were his very words’ – she smiled sadly as though remembering them all over again – ‘about the job at Kilbeg Country House Hotel. We wondered if it was someone on the staff at Kelvingrove who had a contact there.’

‘That’s certainly something we will look into,’ Stevie told them.

‘This won’t come out, will it?’ Douglas Dalgleish asked them. ‘In the papers? About Rory’s preference, I mean?’ His face was suffused with colour, the embarrassment of being a father to a young gay boy so apparent that Stevie wanted to shake the man.
Rory was gay
,
get over it
!
she wanted to shout.
It’s no big deal!
But, here in this stylish home in one of Glasgow’s finest properties, it was clear that their son’s sexuality had been more than these parents had been able to cope with.

‘There is absolutely no reason at present for the press to know about this,’ Stevie told them gently. ‘Now, if you can give us a little more information about Rory’s other friends from school and the immediate area?’

Lorimer looked over at Stevie as they drove across town. Jimmy Fotheringham had been a pleasure to talk to, a relief after the strained atmosphere at the Dalgleish home. It was an equally grand house from the outside but within there was evidence of the chaos of family life
. Yes, everyone assumed that Rory was gay
, Jimmy had said with a shrug that said ‘so what?’
No, he hadn’t seen him with anyone in particular.
They’d not been out with the crowd for ages, the lad had explained.

Perhaps there had been few facts that were pertinent to a murder case but the two officers had been given more of an insight into the fun-loving red-haired teenager and his boisterous manner than anyone else had yet provided. Rory had been well liked by his peers, it seemed. Perhaps those who had known him from childhood were more accustomed to and forgiving of his loud behaviour?

‘I’ve never been here before,’ Lorimer heard Crozier confess as he turned from Kelvin Way towards the dark red sandstone edifice of Kelvingrove before them.

‘You’d like it,’ he assured her. ‘Maggie and I come here as often as we can. Which isn’t nearly often enough,’ he grinned ruefully.

‘You’re interested in art?’ There was surprise in the woman’s voice.

‘Began a degree course in History of Art up there,’ he replied, pointing towards the university building on the hill above them, its spire a jagged outline against the pale grey sky.

‘You’re a graduate?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘More like a drop-out,’ he laughed. ‘Completed my first year then joined the force. Not that I failed my exams or anything,’ he admitted, ‘it was just that…’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you about it some time. Long story,’ he added, glancing at the curiosity in Crozier’s eyes.

They emerged from the silver Lexus into a wind that was sweeping a flurry of early autumn leaves across the tarmac in front of wide stone steps that led to the entrance.

‘We always used to come in from the other side of the building when we were kids,’ Lorimer explained as they ascended one of the wide stone steps that led to the entrance. ‘Through an old revolving door then across the black and white floor.’ He smiled as if the memory was still fresh in his mind. ‘Big changes a few years ago, though,’ he admitted, allowing Crozier to enter in front of him. ‘Nice modern feel to a lot of it, like the café here.’ He turned to point at the sign. ‘But they’ve kept the essence of the place, I’m glad to say.’

The café was situated in the lowest level, one part looking straight out onto the grass and pathways with trees beyond and a railing that separated the grounds from the banks of the River Kelvin. The other, larger, area held several rows of tables and chairs for visitors looking for a snack or a full meal. Several young waiters and waitresses were busily attending tables, their long black aprons sweeping past, trays held aloft.

‘Who did you speak to?’ Crozier enquired as they made their way to the serving hatch at the rear of the restaurant.

‘Manager’s name is Daisy McColl,’ he replied. ‘She sounded about fifteen,’ he added, raising one sardonic eyebrow.

‘Sign of you getting old, sir,’ Crozier said, risking an impish grin.