Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) Read online

  Alex Gray was born and educated in Glasgow. She has been awarded the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable and Pitlochry trophies for her crime writing and is the co-founder of the Bloody Scotland international crime writing festival. Married with a son and daughter, she lives in Scotland and is currently writing the next book in the Detective Lorimer series.

  ALSO BY ALEX GRAY

  Never Somewhere Else

  A Small Weeping

  Shadows of Sounds

  The Riverman

  Pitch Black

  Glasgow Kiss

  Five Ways to Kill a Man

  Sleep Like the Dead

  A Pound of Flesh

  The Swedish Girl

  The Bird That Did Not Sing

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Sphere

  978-0-7515-5486-1

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Alex Gray 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Norman MacCaig epigraph reprinted by kind permission of Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Limited

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  SPHERE

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Keep The Midnight Out

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Alex Gray

  COPYRIGHT

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  This novel is dedicated to Val and Lawrie with love and the memory of another special wedding

  The frontier is never

  somewhere else. And no stockades

  can keep the midnight out.

  Hotel Room 12th Floor, Norman MacCaig

  The mind is its own place

  And in itself can make a heaven of hell,

  A hell of heaven.

  Paradise Lost, John Milton

  CHAPTER ONE

  They called it ‘the splash’; though the boat that crept silently, oars dipping lightly in and out of the water creating myriad bubbles of phosphorescence, made little sound at all. It was vital to keep quiet; the time for frightening the fish would not come until the net was properly laid across the mouth of the burn. After that the oars would be raised high and brought down with force, driving the sea trout from their shadowy lairs straight into the trap. It was illegal, of course, had been for decades, but that did not stop more intrepid poachers sneaking in at dead of night and lying in wait for the fish. Unfair, unsporting, the fishery bodies claimed, though most folk here, on the island of Mull, recognised the thrill of rowing under the stars and risking some wrath from the law enforcers.

  Ewan Angus Munro glanced back over his shoulder to see his son playing out the last of the splash net; the ancient cork floats now in a perfect arc across this narrow neck of water. Young Ewan looked towards his father and nodded; the first part of the deed was done and now all that remained was to ensure that the fish would be scared out from their hiding places by the sudden noise of oars thrashing on the surface so that they would rush towards the net.

  The old man turned the boat with an expertise that came from many years of practice, then headed back towards the shallow channel. He raised the oars, resting them in the rowlocks, water dripping like molten rain from their blades. The small craft was allowed to drift a little before Ewan Angus turned to his son again, the eye contact and nod a definite signal to begin the second stage of their night’s work.

  Young Ewan Angus stood, legs apart, perfectly balanced in the centre of the boat, one oar raised high above his shoulder as the older man watched him, eyes full of approval. The boy had been given more than just his father’s names: his flair for the splash, too, had been passed down from father to son.

  Across the marshy strand full of bog cotton and sweet-smelling myrtle sat a small white cottage. A swift glance showed him that there was no light on anywhere; the holiday folk were doubtless sound asleep, oblivious to the small drama being played out yards from their front door.

  The sound of the splash seemed magnified as it disrupted the stillness, echoing over the bay. The young man heaved the oar again and again, each whack making his body stiffen with fear and a sort of bravado. If they were caught they’d lose both the net and the boat, a heavy price to pay for a night of fun and a good catch of sea trout, fish that fetched a decent price at the back doors of the best hotel kitchens.

  Several times the boat was rowed up and down, followed by a series of splashes until the old man raised his callused hand to call a halt. Now it was time to wait and see if the fish had indeed been scared witless enough to swim towards their doom.

  Once more the old man rowed along the line of corks, his son lifting the net to see if anything lingered below.

  ‘A beauty,’ the boy whispered, raising the net to reveal a good-sized sea trout struggling in the brown mesh.

  ‘Ten pounder at least!’ he went on, freeing the huge fish where its gills had caught and hurling it into a wooden box below his feet.

  ‘Be-wheesht and get the net up,’ his father hissed, though the grin on his face showed how pleased he was with their first catch of the night. The old man bent towards the struggling fish, his fist around the priest, a wooden club that had been in the family for generations. One swift blow and the fish lay lifeless in the box, its silvery scales gleaming in the night.

  One by one, others joined the fated sea trout as the two men made their laborious way along the edge of the net.

  ‘My, a grand haul, the night, Faither,’ Young Ewan
Angus exclaimed, his voice still hushed for fear of any sound carrying over the water.

  ‘Aye, no’ bad,’ his father agreed, a contented smile on his face. One of the middling fish would be wrapped in layers of bracken and left in the porch of Calum Mhor, the police sergeant. A wee thank you for turning his continual blind eye to the nocturnal activities taking place down the road from Craignure. Mrs Calum had guests staying and she’d be fair pleased to serve them a fresh sea trout for their dinner. It was universally acknowledged here on the island that the pink fish was far superior in flavour to the coarser salmon, particularly those that had been farmed.

  ‘My, here’s a big one!’

  The young man staggered as he tried to haul in the final part of the splash net. ‘I can hardly lift it!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Must be caught on a rock,’ the old man grumbled, his mouth twisting in a moue of disgust. If they had to tear the net to release it then it would take hours of work to mend, but the operation depended on being in and out of these waters as quickly as they could manage. Hanging about was not an option in case the Men from the Revenue had decided on a little night-time excursion of their own.

  Suddenly the young man bent down in the boat, hands gripping the gunwales as he peered into the depths below.

  His brow furrowed at the rounded mass swaying beneath the surface, rags of bladderwrack shifting back and forwards with the motion of the waves. Then, as his eyes focused on the ascending shape, Ewan Angus Munro saw pale tendrils that had once been fingers of flesh and one thin arm floating upwards.

  He screamed, and covered his mouth as the sickness rose in his throat, then stumbled backwards. The boy flung out his arms, desperate to grasp hold of something solid to break his fall but all he felt under his hands were the wet bodies of slithering fish.

  ‘What the…?’ Ewan Angus turned, an oath dying on his lips as the boat rocked violently, small waves dashing over the bow.

  Wordlessly, his son pointed to the waters below.

  Then, as the old man peered over the side of the boat, he saw the body rising to the surface, its passage out to sea impeded by their net.

  Later, Ewan Angus was to feel shame, but then, under the eyes of twinkling stars, all he felt was a blind panic and a need to get away as fast as they could.

  His son had blubbered a little, protesting as they’d manhandled the corpse over the side of the boat, his groans silenced by a wrathful look from the old fisherman. They had laid the boy on the grass, far enough from the water’s edge so that the incoming tide could not draw it back beneath its cold waves.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Young Ewan Angus had whispered, looking up at his father who had simply nodded, the sigh of regret stifled on his closed lips.

  Then, as he’d pulled hard on the oars, putting distance between the land and their boat, he tried to assure himself that they had done the right thing after all. Someone would find him in the brightness of the morning light, he’d told the boy.

  And what good would it do them to call the polis? They’d lose everything: fish, net, boat, the lot.

  Yet, as Ewan Angus Munro made for the safety of his mooring several miles along the shoreline, his son still looking stubbornly astern, refusing to meet his father’s eye, he knew he had lost something far more precious.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Maryka 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 se
e 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.