Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (7 page)

T
hey had passed the entrance many times but had never actually been to the hotel itself, preferring the smaller bistros and cafés in Salen or Tobermory. So it was with a sense of curiosity that Lorimer turned off the road and drove along the tree-lined route past the sign that proclaimed
Kilbeg Country House Hotel
, the narrow slip of painted wood attached with
Vacancies
turned towards any passing trade. Had they been full up till the death of one of their staff? Lorimer wondered. Or was there a problem attracting sufficient custom in high season? It was unusual for any of the big hotels on this island to have vacancies during the summer months. Anyhow, he would not have thought to bring Maggie here; the restaurant wasn’t said to be particularly good and the only reason for his visit was the Dalgleish parents’ request: would he pick up Rory’s things for them? He’d called DI Crozier, of course, and obtained a curt assent. She would see it as interference, of course she would. But Lorimer had succumbed to the couple’s entreaties, realising that already they had begun to warm towards Maggie and her policeman husband.

The thick pines and rhododendrons either side of the narrow road blotted out what sunshine there was and more than once the Lexus bucked into a pothole before Lorimer had time to see it. Then, round a sharp bend, the trees fell away to reveal a huge expanse of grass and a large grey stone mansion beyond, its turrets and balustrades testament to the style favoured by Victorian architects.

Lorimer parked beside the other three cars that were neatly lined up to one side of the hotel and got out, gazing over the smooth land and the sea opening out before him. It was easy to see why this place had been built all those years ago, the view of the sea and hills must be wonderful from the rooms that faced the Morvern shore. A well-trodden path beside the hotel led down to the water’s edge where an old cabin cruiser lay at anchor, bobbing gently against the tide. Then his eye was caught by the flutter of an orange windsock to one side and it came as a surprise to see that there was a landing strip for planes. That explained the long flat fields, he told himself. Had this place once been popular enough for tourists to fly in, perhaps? It certainly didn’t seem busy now, if the few cars here were anything to go by, he thought as he ascended the stone steps to the entrance of Kilbeg House. And that old boat didn’t look like a pleasure craft for the guests.

There was no need to knock on the door or ring a bell for the double doors were wide open as though someone had wandered out just for a moment. Hesitating, Lorimer retraced his steps and wandered around the back of the building where he found, to his astonishment, a vast kitchen garden, half of which was overgrown and unkempt, swathes of rosebay willowherb towering above rows of shot lettuce and several wigwams of garden canes, dry wisps of old peas or beans clinging to the bamboo. There were signs that someone had tried to weed several of the rows but the small heaps of dried foliage on the path suggested they had given up the task in disgust. His eyes roamed over this sad, neglected place but there was no one to be seen so he walked back to the front, surprised to see that the doors were now closed. Had his arrival been noted, then? Lorimer looked up; the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to shiver, giving him a strong sensation that he was being watched.

The reception desk was a curve of polished rosewood and, as he approached, a young woman with long, silver-blonde hair came out of a door at the back marked
Private
.

‘Oh,’ she gasped, taking a step back as she saw Lorimer standing there. ‘You gave me a fright!’ she exclaimed in an accent that he found difficult to place. Polish, perhaps? There were so many Polish youngsters in the hotel trade here in Scotland now; they made a good living with pleasant efficiency, something they could teach some of the locals, he’d heard several folk grumble.

‘Sorry.’ Lorimer smiled and placed his hands upon the edge of the desk. ‘I was looking for Mr or Mrs Forsyth. I’ve come to collect Rory Dalgleish’s things. The name’s Lorimer.’

‘Oh, yes, you rang earlier,’ the girl said. ‘I think they were packing them all up.’ She vaguely waved a hand to one side. ‘Mr Forsyth’s gone into Salen but he won’t be long. Would you mind waiting in the lounge till I can find Mrs Forsyth? It’s this way.’ She came around from the desk and ushered him through to a large airy room filled with light from enormous bay windows that looked straight onto the sea.

‘Can I fetch you anything? Tea? Coffee?’

Lorimer shook his head, noticing for the first time the small name badge attached to the girl’s waistcoat. ‘No thanks, Maryka,’ he replied. ‘I’m fine.’ Then, curiosity overcoming him he asked, ‘Where is it you’re from? Poland?’

The girl laughed, showing perfect teeth. ‘No, not me. I’m from Holland. I was lazy at school. Never did get the English accent right.’ She smiled again. ‘Sure I can’t get something nice for you?’ Her eyelids batted in what might have been a coquettish overture.

Lorimer shook his head again, amused at her flirtatiousness. She couldn’t be more than twenty and here he was, old enough to be her father!

‘Well, maybe a coffee, then,’ he conceded. ‘Black, please.’

He didn’t want anything to drink but perhaps it might give him the opportunity to ask the girl about Rory Dalgleish.

Lorimer looked around. There was a sense of faded grandeur about the place: the long floor-to-ceiling curtains flanking the windows were dusty with age, their tartan bleached by decades of sun, and he could see traces of wear on the red carpet. It was little wonder, he thought, that the place had a vacancies sign dangling at the road end. There were far nicer hotels in other parts of the island, though few commanded such impressive vistas. The Forsyths were finding it hard to pay their bills, local gossip had told him; money was tight and they were thinking of selling up, though rumour had it that Freda Forsyth wanted to stay. Well, there was no excuse for dirty windows, Lorimer thought, gazing up and down at the dust-streaked glass, even if there was no cash to refurbish the place. He frowned. Something wasn’t right. And he didn’t think it had anything to do with the dead student who had been working here for the summer.

‘Thanks,’ he said, looking up at the girl as she laid a cup of black coffee on the table in front of him. ‘Maryka…’ He watched as she turned back, surprised to hear her name. ‘Did you know Rory Dalgleish?’

There was something in her face, he saw, something like a shutter closing as she shook her head. ‘Not very well,’ the girl shrugged. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Come and sit down,’ he said, patting the chair beside him.

For a moment she hesitated, glancing back towards the reception desk in the hall as though to see if she were needed.

‘You’re police?’

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he nodded. ‘Though I’m not officially in charge of this investigation.’

She frowned, clearly puzzled. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘I’m on holiday.’ He smiled. ‘And the body was washed up near where my wife and I are staying.’

‘
You
found his body? A policeman?’

‘Policemen and women have to take holidays too, you know,’ Lorimer laughed. ‘It’s not exactly like the television where they always appear to be on duty.’

He saw the smile come to her lips then, the way her shoulders relaxed. That last bit had been true to a point; there had been many times when he had denied himself sufficient sleep during particularly difficult murder cases.

‘I told the policeman from Tobermory everything I knew about him.’ Maryka shrugged, folding her hands on the lap of her short black skirt.

‘Hm, yes, I’m sure you did, but, see, his parents are wondering what happened to Rory and anything you know might be helpful in finding that out.’

‘He wasn’t a friend, or anything,’ Maryka said suspiciously. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking. I didn’t actually like him very much,’ she admitted, pursing her lips.

‘He was quite a loud chap, as far as I’ve been told.’ Lorimer smiled encouragingly.

‘You can say that again,’ Maryka agreed. ‘Loud and a show-off. Why he was even here to work was a mystery to us all.’

‘I think his parents wanted him to earn his passage for that big holiday he had planned,’ Lorimer told her.

‘But they are so rich!’ the Dutch girl protested. ‘Why didn’t they just give him the money?’

‘Not every well-to-do parent wants their kids to exist on handouts,’ Lorimer said. ‘Learning a work ethic is quite important, you know.’

‘Well, he wasn’t a bad worker, I suppose,’ she said grudgingly.

‘Did you all travel up to that ceilidh together?’ Lorimer asked, changing the subject.

She raised an insouciant shoulder then nodded. ‘Yes, we did. There were four of us in Lachie’s van.’

‘Lachie?’

‘Oh, he’s supposed to be the gardener and handyman.’ Maryka raised her eyebrows significantly. ‘Have you seen the state of the place? Can’t say he’s done very much to make any improvements,’ she added, dropping her voice and leaning forwards. ‘They don’t have enough money, Lachie told me.’

‘Who else was with you apart from Rory?’

‘Elena. She’s one of the other summer workers. We share a caravan out there.’ Maryka waved a hand towards the back of the hotel. ‘And Fiona.’

‘And were you expecting to return with Lachie?’

‘The other policeman asked that,’ Maryka sighed, as though the whole conversation bored her.

‘So how were you going to get home?’

‘Lachie was staying over at his sister’s in Tobermory. That’s where he lives. Fiona usually stays with a friend or her aunt. Elena and I hoped to find a lift back.’ She gave him a roguish smile.

‘And, did you?’

She nodded, cheeks blushing.

‘What about Rory? How did he intend to come back to the hotel?’

‘I don’t know. It was his day off on the Sunday so I think he wasn’t too bothered about that.’

‘Did he have friends in Tobermory?’

Maryka hesitated. ‘He
said
he knew folk who were on a boat. There are lots of big yachts in the bay just now.’

‘And did he intend to stay over with them?’

She made a face. ‘How should I know? I was just glad to get there and be rid of his big mouth.’ She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t mean that to sound horrible,’ she said swiftly.

‘It’s usually better to tell the truth. A remark like that can’t hurt him now, can it?’

‘Suppose not.’ She hung her head.

‘Who else works here, Maryka?’

The girl made a face. ‘The chef,’ she said. ‘Archie, his name is. Archie Gillespie. He lives on that smelly old boat out there.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s not such a brilliant cook, you know,’ she added, holding a hand over her mouth as though to shield her words from anyone who might overhear them.

‘So, no gourmet nights in the restaurant?’

‘The food is okay,’ she conceded grudgingly. ‘A lot of fish. But my mother is a better cook than
this
man. Too many flavours in his sauces,’ she said, tilting her nose in the air. ‘Better to keep it simple with good food.’

Lorimer smiled. This girl from Holland knew a thing or two and perhaps she had been frustrated at being kept in jobs less suited to her talents.

‘I better get back,’ Maryka murmured. ‘Mrs Forsyth should be here any minute and I need to be behind the desk.’

She left Lorimer sipping the now lukewarm coffee.

The police had this information. Kennedy and his colleagues must surely have investigated every yacht that had been moored that night in the harbour. It would be the harbour master’s duty to keep a careful log of what crafts entered Tobermory bay and when. If Rory Dalgleish had slept over in a friend’s boat then that might explain a few things, not least why his body had been found miles down the coast at Leiter.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival in the lounge of a grey-haired woman who was lugging a silver ridged suitcase. He glanced up then away, supposing for a moment that this was one of the guests about to depart. Then he looked again, curious. The suitcase was one fitted with wheels, so why was this grey-haired female carrying it by the handle, its weight pulling her to one side?

Suddenly the woman was right beside him and letting the case fall with a thump.

‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘All of his things are in there. At least, all that I could find. The police officers already took away his laptop.’

Lorimer sprang to his feet.

‘Mrs Forsyth?’

‘I don’t know why his parents won’t come themselves,’ she said, avoiding his glance. ‘I could have told them nice things about their son. He was a good worker, you know. Kept the bar spotless,’ she added. Then, raising a pair of pale blue eyes to his, she frowned. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘I’m Bill Lorimer,’ he replied.

She nodded, scrutinising his face as though it were important to remember him again.

‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you? But not with that other lot.’

‘My wife and I are on holiday. Down at Leiter Cottage,’ Lorimer explained.

‘That’s where he was washed up.’ She spoke in a flat monotone as though reciting facts from a newspaper.

‘Yes,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘Mr and Mrs Dalgleish came to see us today. They asked if I could fetch his things for them.’

‘Why?’ She glared at him, her mouth half open as though she would say more, but the question lingered between them.

‘Why did they want me to come instead of them?’ Lorimer asked, surprised at the vehemence of her tone, hoping that the hotelier might clarify what she meant. ‘I suppose it’s very hard for them to speak to strangers right now. They only just identified his body, after all,’ he protested. Why was this strange woman making so much of it?

‘Well, here it is. Better take it away, hadn’t you?’

Then, without another word, Mrs Forsyth drifted back towards the hallway and walked out of sight.

Lorimer looked at the suitcase. The exterior zip was not even fastened all the way around, the end of a black tie hanging out at one side. He laid the case onto its side, unzipped it and opened it up. She had evidently made no effort whatsoever to pack Rory’s things properly, Lorimer saw with disgust. Clothes had just been jammed in any old way, dirty laundry rolled up in balls, a few books sliding to one end. He frowned, gazing at the mess. Couldn’t she have packed it better than that? It was, he thought, as though she had hurled his stuff into the case in a temper.