Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) Read online

  She started at a noise, making her turn and gasp and, for an instant, she expected to see the young fisherman striding across the grass, a grin on his handsome face.

  But there was no one to be seen, just the pantry door swinging open, taken by a sudden breeze, its chill making the girl shiver.

  Detective Superintendent William Lorimer stood at the open door of the cottage, a smile of contentment on his face and a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hand. It was just gone six o’clock, but habitual early rises in the course of his working life had set Lorimer’s mental clock to this quiet time of the day. Summer was never the same without a couple of weeks here at Leiter Cottage, Mary Grant’s little white house that nestled close to the curve of Fishnish Bay. They had been coming here for several years now, courtesy of Lorimer’s colleague, DI Jo Grant, Mary’s niece. It had become their favourite place to find some peace from the hustle of Glasgow, the quiet pace of island life perfect to restore their spirits.

  Framed by oaks and willows lay the curving bay, where yachts occasionally anchored, the sweeping arm of pine forest on the furthest shore providing good shelter from sudden storms. Beyond was the stretch of water known as the Sound of Mull and the gently sloping hills on the mainland. It was a view that Lorimer never tired of seeing: the changing colours of the sky reflected in the waters, the activity of car ferries or smaller boats providing interest at different times of the day, sunlight shifting over the fields and hillside by Lochaline. It was a vista waiting to be captured by an artist’s skill, he often thought, but they had yet to find it in paint in any of the island’s galleries.

  Lorimer drained the last of his coffee, tossing the dregs into the flower bed, and wandered across the extensive lawn to a narrow path that was hidden by reeds and long grasses.

  His eye was caught suddenly by the activity of birds down by the shore; herring gulls and hooded crows. Their raucous squawks made Lorimer raise the high definition binoculars that hung around his neck, but all that he could make out were the thrashing wings as they swooped and pecked at some unseen thing. A dead sheep, perhaps? Or a seal, washed up on the shore? Curious, he allowed his feet to take him along the old path, across the main road and down onto the rocky beach. Beside a crumbling sea wall lay the remnants of an ancient boathouse, its timbers silvered by years of neglect. Once it had housed good clinker-built boats, Mary Grant had told them, her sing-song voice weaving stories of times past when her late husband and his brothers had fished the bay and hunted for deer and rabbits over the hill. But the men who had worked these waters were long gone, leaving only traces of a crofter’s life.

  Lorimer wrinkled his nose in anticipation. If it were some dead creature the smell would certainly attract these sharp-beaked gulls and scavenging crows. The actual subject of their frenzy was hidden from view by a square black rock but the birds rose as one at his approach, with shrill calls of annoyance at this human intruding on their feast.

  His feet slithered on the heaps of wet ochre-coloured seaweed as he came closer to the edge of the water. It was a high tide, he remembered. Had something been washed up from the depths and cast onto the shoreline? Here and there patches of spongy green turf made his progress easier, clumps of pink sea thrift waving in the morning breeze.

  Lorimer stopped abruptly, his eyes refusing at first to believe what he saw. A sour taste rose in his throat but he swallowed it down, blinking hard as he looked at the naked body on the ground. The red hair was still wet, he noticed, trying not to stare at the place where the man’s eyes should have been. The birds had made short work of them, he thought disgustedly. One hooded crow, braver than the rest, hopped closer as if to test this tall man’s resolve. Without a moment’s thought, Lorimer waved his arm at the bird, flinging a curse as it took off.

  Hunkering down, Lorimer examined the corpse, the professional policeman taking over now. There were other marks of course, predations by sea creatures, but the body was still intact enough for identification. No tattoos, though it was obviously a young man, the white skin smooth where the birds had failed to peck and claw at it. He paused for a moment, frowning. His legs were twisted under him, giving him a stunted look, the rounded knees scarred. One pale arm lay stiffly by his side, the fingers of his hand splayed as though he had been grasping at something at the moment of death, yet the other arm was folded behind his back. Lorimer frowned, trying to make sense of the body’s shape, his imagination seeing the young man struggling against the currents as he fell deep into the water. Had he landed on the sea floor, against a rock, perhaps? Was that why the body had taken on such an odd shape as rigor had set in?

  There was something about it, something vaguely familiar… he closed his eyes and tried to remember but the shriek of a nearby herring gull disturbed the moment and he raised his hand to ward off the predator.

  There was no doubt in his mind about who this might be, however. The island’s rumour mill had reached even the remote little cottage here at Fishnish Bay with tales of the missing student from Kilbeg House.

  Giving a sigh, Lorimer rose to his feet, fumbling in his pocket, hoping against hope that the mobile would find a signal down here on the shoreline.

  Then, as he dialled the number, he glanced across the bay, noting the little squall that had sprung up; dark clouds slanting shadows over the once quiet waters.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Glasgow

  Twenty Years Earlier

  The body had been laid out on the grass at the side of the river, several figures already at the scene to ascertain who it was and what might have happened. The young detective constable hovered uncertainly behind his boss, listening to what was being said, concentrating on the officer’s instructions about preserving the scene. Detective Inspector Phillips turned and nodded in Lorimer’s direction.

  ‘Ever seen anything like this?’ he said, his eyes flicking across the DC’s face as though to examine it for any sign of weakness.

  ‘No, sir,’ Lorimer replied, drawing closer to look for himself.

  The man was naked, the skin on his bloated body pale against the flattened turf and weeds. Flies had gathered already, drawn by the stink of rotting flesh, and Phillips was sweeping them away with the back of his hand as the young DC hunkered down beside him.

  ‘What d’you make of him?’ Phillips asked.

  Swallowing hard, Lorimer looked at the remains of the man’s face then let his gaze travel down the rest of the body. There were dark marks around each of the wrists and ankles, the legs bent back, making the corpse seem much smaller.

  ‘He’s been hog-tied?’ Lorimer said, a question in his voice.

  ‘Course he has!’ the detective inspector exclaimed, his nod and fleeting smile absurdly pleasing to the newest member of A Division’s CID team as his boss stood up to speak to the on-duty pathologist.

  William Lorimer continued to gaze at the man on the ground: the victim, he reminded himself. Yet somehow using the term did not depersonalise the dead man as it was meant to do. Once, not so very long ago, this was a human being who walked and talked, swore, got drunk, maybe even did bad enough things to come to this terrible end. The hair was full of mud and weeds but under the morning light Lorimer could see the auburn glints and the reddish fuzz around his throat and chin. The beginnings of an identity, he reminded himself. Then, as his gaze lingered on the hairless torso, he wondered if the unblemished skin was that of an adult male at all. Had the river washed all coarseness away? Or, he asked himself, was this just a teenager, a mere lad?

  They’d be trawling missing persons for data relating to someone fitting the description, he thought, taking out his notebook and making a few hasty observations, plus a quick sketch.

  The flash made him spin round, almost losing his balance. One hand felt the wet ground as Lorimer tried to steady himself then he rose to his feet and stepped back, allowing the scene of crime photographer to shoot the necessary pictures.

  He was there to watch and listen, Lorimer reminded himself,
though he might well be asked again for his observations. DI George Phillips had a reputation as someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly but Lorimer had found himself warming to the older man when he had been posted to CID at Stewart Street and now, seeing him in action, DC William Lorimer knew instinctively that he would learn a lot from the detective inspector.

  Uniforms had called it in – something he might have done himself only a few weeks ago, before his transfer to CID – and now DI Phillips would head up an investigation into what appeared to be a suspicious death as the Senior Investigating Officer; that was the official title given to the person who took on a case like this. Lorimer took a few steps towards the DI and the pathologist, wondering if the day would come when he might be given such a designation.

  ‘Aye, something’s been cutting into his ankles and wrists. You can see the marks easy enough,’ the DI was saying. ‘What happened to the rope, though? If it was rope?’

  The white-suited pathologist turned and smiled. ‘Depends on how tightly it was tied. Immersion in the water would have made it harder to loosen off.’

  ‘He could’ve been cut free post-mortem and thrown into the river? Is that what you’re saying?’

  The pathologist shrugged. ‘We won’t be able to tell much more until we get him along to the mortuary, George. Then we’ll see whether he was alive or not when he hit the water.’

  Lorimer gave an involuntary shudder, his imagination creating a scene where a man was trussed up and then tossed alive into the swift flowing waters of the Clyde. The victim would have known what was happening, seen the skies tumbling overhead, then struggled in vain as he sank deep, deep under the currents. If that was the true scenario, what had happened to loosen him from his bonds? Lorimer exhaled, suddenly aware that he’d been holding his breath. Much better to think that he’d been given a hammering and tossed into the river after he’d been killed. He could see in his mind’s eye the figures of men crouching around the trussed-up body, cutting off the bindings on his ankles and wrists, taking away any evidence that might link them to the crime. Was that how it had happened? Were there intelligent minds behind this murder?

  As he watched the body being raised from the ground and placed carefully onto a stretcher, the young detective constable realised that he wanted to know what had happened. Not simply to satisfy his own desire to succeed as a cop, but to bring the perpetrators of this crime to justice. Someone out there was missing this fellow – a mother, a girlfriend, perhaps – and it was his duty to give them the answers they sought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Maggie stood at the side of the road, her dark curls blowing in the rising wind, as Lorimer strode across the last few yards towards her. The police cars were parked on a strip of turf and she could see two uniformed officers making their way back along the shoreline, their yellow rain jackets harsh statements against the sage greens and mossy browns of the marshy ground that lay between them.

  ‘I heard the birds making a racket,’ he replied at last, turning to look down towards the water’s edge. ‘Thought it was a dead animal that they’d found.’

  Her husband stopped abruptly, shaking his head as though unable to put his feelings into words.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Maggie put a hand to her mouth as she caught sight of his expression. There was a tightness around his mouth that she had seen many times before, usually when something dreadful had happened.

  ‘Not… not that boy…?’

  ‘I think so. Fits his description. Red hair.’

  He caught her hand as Maggie moved forward.

  ‘Don’t go down, Mags. You mustn’t see that…’

  She stood still, letting him enfold her in his arms.

  ‘Come on,’ he said gently, turning her to head back towards the cottage.

  The road was deserted apart from the two police vehicles stranded by the roadside, no early ferry traffic yet making its way between the port at Craignure and the towns further north. It was, Maggie thought, as if the world was holding its breath, the silence around them broken only by the cries of oyster catchers as they swept over the stony beach. She let herself be guided along the grass-covered path, feeling the dampness soak through her canvas shoes, her mind already wondering what had happened to the boy from the hotel.

  Had it been the result of a boating accident, perhaps? The currents way out in the Sound could be unpredictable and if he had gone by boat from the little slipway at Kilbeg who knows what might have happened? Bodies could be lost at sea for weeks on end, washing up miles from where they had fallen into the waters.

  Nobody had known what had become of the missing student from Glasgow, Mary Grant had told them just yesterday evening when she had called into the cottage. His folks were frantic with worry, it was said.

  Maggie felt a sickness rise in her throat as she thought about these people who were strangers to her, whose lives would now be tenuously linked to her own. It was sometimes said that not knowing was the worst, fearing and hoping in equal measure. But was that really true? If so then these parents could be given a final answer and begin to grieve in earnest.

  What was it like to lose a grown child? Maggie looked at the cottage where generations of children had played on the grass and guddled happily along the shore. Her own little ones had never taken a first breath, born too soon. The memory of these griefs had faded now, the possibility of children gone for ever. Yet somehow, Maggie could feel the pain deep within her, a knife low in her guts, at the thought of these other parents being told about their boy.

  The willow gate creaked as her husband pushed it open and held it wide.

  ‘Come on, can you make some tea? And fill the pot. I guess we’ll be having visitors soon enough,’ he said, squeezing her hand.

  She saw him hesitate, his head turned back towards the shore.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m fine,’ she said, forcing her mouth into a tight smile. ‘You go on back down.’

  Maggie paused for a moment, watching as her husband strode away through the reeds and bog cotton. She had come out earlier, intent on suggesting a morning walk up the hill, her eyes drawn immediately to the police cars on the roadside and the uniformed figures by the shore. A sudden trembling seized her, making her wrap her arms around her chest. Tea, she needed hot tea, Maggie told herself. Tea was good for shock…

  Yet it wasn’t the shock of having a body washed up on the shore here that troubled her, she realised, walking across the lawn towards the door of Leiter Cottage, but the thought that horror could visit this special place, their sanctuary from the outside world.

  The two policemen were standing on either side of the body when Lorimer returned. As they looked up, the tall man from Glasgow thought he saw a flicker of resentment in the eyes of the older man, Sergeant McManus from Craignure. Calum Mhor. Big Calum. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, right enough, though he merited the name on girth rather than on height, his waterproof jacket straining across his stomach.

  ‘Need to get something to protect that from the rain. Preserve the scene,’ he muttered.

  ‘You don’t think he died here?’ Lorimer blurted out.

  ‘Well, nothing is certain, is it?’ The police sergeant turned and nodded at the wet stones lying against the grassy banks. ‘Tide’s going out now. You found him at high tide. So…’ He shrugged and pursed his lips as though he were a small boy trying to calculate a particularly difficult sum.

  ‘Wasn’t he washed ashore?’ Lorimer ventured.

  ‘Ach, must have been, eh?’ McManus shrugged again as though his brain could wrestle no further with the problem. ‘We’ll check the tide charts when we get back up the road, though.’

  ‘And now?’ Lorimer asked, nodding towards the body lying near their feet.

  McManus looked at the detective superintendent through narrowed eyes. ‘You’ll be on holiday here…’ he began.

  ‘Yes.’ Lorimer frowned. Calum Mhor knew fine they were taking their annual break.
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  ‘So you’ll have a camera with you?’

  Lorimer’s face relaxed as he understood the question. ‘You need to take some photos of the body in situ,’ he said.

  ‘Aye. If it’s no trouble, sir,’ McManus replied, his eyes flicking back to the little house sheltered in the lee of the hill. ‘It’s not every day we find something like this on the island,’ he continued with a grimace. ‘And this wee mobile does not take a good picture. Jamie, away you go up and get the camera from Mrs Lorimer,’ he said, turning to the young police constable who was standing by their side, a bleak expression on his face.

  The two men watched as the young man strode swiftly away, glad no doubt for an interlude away from the sight of the corpse, its damaged flesh exposed to the elements.

  ‘He’s no’ seen any sights like that,’ McManus said quietly as they watched the young constable cross the road and head towards Leiter Cottage. ‘No’ even in Inverness,’ he added wryly.

  Lorimer did not reply. Part of him was remembering himself as a younger detective, standing beside the bloated body of an unidentified man. He felt a sudden sympathy for Police Constable Jamie Kennedy. Being a police officer in Tobermory was a far cry from the sorts of cases that he might have had to deal with in Scotland’s largest city had he been sent south to Glasgow.

  The opening notes of ‘The Hen’s March to the Midden’ interrupted Lorimer’s thoughts and he smiled as the big police sergeant snapped open his mobile phone, cutting off the Scottish tune. Calum Mhor turned away as though not wishing to be overheard and Lorimer walked back along the shoreline, keeping a discreet distance between the officer and himself.