Candles and Roses (24 page)

‘And she could normally hold her drink?’ McKay exchanged a glance with Horton. The account didn’t ring true to him. He had the sense that Gorman was offering them half the story, enough to suggest he was dealing with them in good faith. But not the part that really mattered.

‘Aye, I was surprised. But we had been knocking it back. Maybe she hadn’t eaten or something, I don’t know.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I took her upstairs,’ Gorman said, adding hurriedly: ‘Not like that. Well, not really.’

‘Not really?’

‘There’s a spare room upstairs,’ Gorman said. ‘I use it mainly to store stuff, but there’s a bed. It wasn’t made up, but I thought I could put Lizzie in my bed and I could sleep in the spare room.’

McKay didn’t want to think about the possible state of McKay’s own bed. ‘Not really?’ he repeated for a second time.

‘Aye, well. She was an attractive woman, Lizzie Hamilton. You can’t blame me for thinking—’

‘We’ve not made that a crime yet,’ McKay said, ‘though I believe Holyrood are considering it. So you took her upstairs?’

‘More or less carried her, aye. Dumped her on my bed.’

‘And?’

Gorman was rubbing his hands repeatedly across his face, as though trying to erase his own features. ‘I helped her undress a bit. To make sure she was OK, you know?’

‘You helped her undress?’

‘Not completely. Just so she was comfortable. She could hardly cope herself. ‘

‘Of course,’ McKay said. ‘Then what happened?’

The rubbing continued. It was as if Gorman were trying to remove some blemish from his blotchy skin. ‘I went back down to finish locking up and turn off the equipment and lights. When I got back up there—’ He stopped suddenly, as if he’d forgotten the thread of his story. ‘I looked in on her to check she was all right. I was surprised, but she seemed to be awake again. When I poked my head round the door, she looked up at me and, well, beckoned me in—’

‘She beckoned you in?’ McKay tried hard to keep any note of disbelief out of his voice.

‘Aye, well. I didn’t know what to think. But she seemed—well, she seemed to want me.’

‘Is that right, Mr Gorman?’

Gorman had reddened, as if recognising how unlikely his story was sounding. ‘Well, you know, she was drunk. But so was I. You know what it’s like.’

‘You tell me what it’s like, Mr Gorman. What happened after that?’

‘Well, I went in. And it was clear what she wanted. So we—you know—’

‘You had sexual intercourse with her.’

‘I suppose. Yes. That’s what happened.’

‘And was she sober enough to consent to this act, Mr Gorman?’ This was from Horton, and Gorman looked genuinely startled at the intervention.

‘I—’ He stopped and took another mouthful of whisky. ‘Aye. Yes, of course. I mean, we were both pretty stoshied. But yes.’

‘You’re sure about that, are you?’ McKay said. ‘That’s what you’d say under oath?’

Gorman had buried his face in his hands again. ‘I think so,’ he said, finally.

‘OK, Mr Gorman. What happened after that? I’m guessing this wasn’t the start of a beautiful relationship?’

‘I—’ He hesitated, as if trying to compose the rest of the story in his addled head. ‘She fell asleep again. I thought—well, I thought it best to leave her there. I went off to the spare room and slept in there. When I got up the next morning, she’d gone.’

‘But this was before she went missing?’

‘Yes, she came back to work that night. But it wasn’t the same after that. She never said anything, and I never said anything. I wasn’t even sure what she remembered. But she obviously knew something had happened. She’d always been a bit of a mate, but after that she just became frosty. Distant, you know?’

McKay could easily imagine. Whatever the circumstances, the fact that you’d slept with Gorman would hardly be something to boast about. ‘You think this was why she left?’

Gorman emptied the whisky glass. ‘I don’t know. But I think she was embarrassed. Maybe she started looking for another job. She was always the restless type. Perhaps it was enough to spark her to move on again.’

McKay stared at him for a moment, this time allowing his scepticism to show. ‘That’s what you think, is it?’

‘Look, I swear to you. I don’t know where she is or what happened to her. Aye, it was probably partly my fault she moved on. But I didn’t do anything to her.’ He shook his head, and McKay was surprised to see tears in the man’s eyes. ‘Ach, I liked the wee lass. She was good company. I should have left it at that.’

McKay pushed himself slowly to his feet. ‘OK, Mr Gorman. We’ll stop there for the moment. We’ll let you know whether Kelly Armstrong wishes to press charges about what happened yesterday.’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘It seems you never do mean to, do you, Mr Gorman? Just a series of unfortunate misunderstandings.’ He gestured towards the empty whisky glass. ‘Maybe take more water with it if you don’t want people to misunderstand you quite so often? And whatever Kelly Armstrong decides to do, you make sure no-one else has any grounds to complain, eh? You’re in the last chance saloon, pal.’ McKay looked around him at the gloomy interior of the bar. ‘In every fucking sense.’

Outside, the rain was falling as steadily as ever. McKay said nothing until he and Horton were heading back towards the A9. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘I think he’s lying through his teeth about what happened with Hamilton,’ Horton said. ‘But I don’t think he’s our killer.’

McKay stretched out his feet, his eyes fixed on the rain-soaked road ahead of them. ‘Go on.’

‘Hamilton sounds to me like a pretty seasoned drinker. Do you reckon she’d have allowed herself to get unexpectedly pissed and end up in Gorman’s bed?’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ McKay said. ‘Or so I’m told.’

‘Not many. I reckon Gorman spiked her drink. I reckon what happened there was rape. Not that we’re ever likely to be able to prove it.’

‘That was pretty much my thinking,’ McKay conceded. ‘I wondered about searching the bloody place, but even Gorman’s not dumb enough to have hung on to anything incriminating. Why do you think he was prepared to tell us the story?’

‘Because he wanted to get as close as he could to the truth. Convince us that whatever kind of creepy bastard he might be, he’s still not a killer.’

‘And you’re convinced?’

‘Oddly, yes. I mean, I suppose I could imagine him killing Lizzie Hamilton accidentally. If she’d fought back when he assaulted her, maybe. But I can’t see him having the gumption or the ability to cover it up—you know, find a way of disposing of the body, keep up the pretence for months on end. He’s not that smart or that resilient.’

‘But what he told us does potentially put him in the frame,’ McKay said. ‘If Hamilton really is dead. Like you say, he could have just been more violent than he intended. If she was drugged, it might not have taken much.’

‘Maybe not. But my instinct is what he told us today was something close to the truth. Edited, maybe, to leave out the most incriminating part, but I think he wanted to get it off his chest. He blames himself for her leaving. I reckon if we pushed him on it we might get him to admit to spiking the drink. But I don’t think he killed her. He’s not smart enough for that kind of double-bluff.’

‘Aye, I suspect you’re right. And I definitely can’t see him being responsible for the other killings. Can you imagine him manhandling a body down to Caird’s Cave or up to the Clootie Well?’

‘I don’t think he’d be capable of manhandling his own body to those places,’ Horton said. ‘From what Kelly Armstrong said, today’s intake of alcohol was pretty typical. So where does this leave us?’

‘I’m not sure. There’s just something about the Lizzie Hamilton case that keeps nagging at me—’

‘You don’t think you maybe took it a bit too personally?’ It wasn’t a subject that Horton had felt able to raise previously, but she knew more than most about McKay’s background.

McKay looked across at her. For a moment she thought she might have said too much, but then he allowed himself a rueful smile. ‘That the word on the street?’

She was approaching the busy junction with the A9 and made no response while she manoeuvred the car back on to the main road, slipping neatly between two articulated lorries, pulling over into the outside lane before the spray from their wheels could obscure the windscreen. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ she said, finally. ‘But, yeah, I’ve heard one or two people say that. It wouldn’t have been surprising.’

‘Ach, no, you’re right. It struck a chord, right enough. Young woman. Away from home. There was something—you know, poignant about that bungalow of hers. It was so fucking impersonal.’ He paused, staring blankly out of the car window. ‘I wanted to bring her home, you know? But there wasn’t even a home to bring her to—’ He stopped, his eyes fixed on nothing. Then he blinked, with the air of someone returning to consciousness, and turned back towards Horton. ‘Fuck, I’ve just realised.’

‘What?’ She glanced back at him, baffled by his sudden change in mood.

‘It’s been nagging at me all day. Something my eyes had spotted but my brain hadn’t processed. Jack fucking Robinson.’

‘Is this some kind of nervous breakdown you’re having? Who the hell’s Jack Robinson?’

They were heading back over the Kessock Bridge, the Moray Firth a haze of mist and scattered lights, the industrial landscape of the city stretched out in front of them. It looked like a winter’s afternoon.

‘Jack Robinson,’ McKay said, ‘is Lizzie Hamilton’s father.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

‘I met him last year. Went to talk to him as part of the Hamilton investigation.’

‘You’ve lost me, Alec. I’m not sure why this is important.’

They were back in the office. Helena Grant had joined them for a catch-up, and McKay was still berating himself for not recognising Jack Robinson. ‘Probably it isn’t,’ he acknowledged. ‘But I’ve had this feeling right from the start.’

Grant looked over at Horton, who was assiduously tapping away at her keyboard, her bobbed hair concealing her face. ‘Go on, Alec. We’ll indulge you.’

‘Ach, I don’t know. Something. Something about Lizzie Hamilton and these killings. Something about the pattern.’ He was chewing hard on a piece of gum, as if the answer might lie there.

‘So what about her father?’

‘He’s a counsellor. Psychotherapist. Look, don’t tell any other bugger, but Chrissie and I went to see him. Couples therapy.’ He shrugged, his face reddening. ‘We thought it might help.’

‘Jesus, Alec,’ Grant said. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you embarrassed. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Aye, well,’ he said, ‘you’re not a middle-aged Dundonian male, are you?’

‘Not exactly, no. OK, you went to see this guy for your session. But you didn’t recognise him as Hamilton’s father?’

‘You know how it is. I was sure I’d met him before, but I couldn’t place him. It’s because he was in a completely different context. Glasses, beard, smart suit, academic, all that. My fault, too. First time I met him, I had him pigeon-holed as one of those wheeler-dealer types. Some sort of dodgy businessman. Never imagined him with a couch and a stethoscope.’ He shook his head. ‘Never put me in front of an identity parade.’

‘Actually,’ Horton said from behind her computer, ‘you weren’t far wrong.’

‘What about?’

‘The wheeler-dealer stuff. Just found his website. Counselling, psychotherapy, all that malarkey. But he also seems to have a thriving publishing and events business. Self-help books, personal development courses.’ She looked up, her expression suddenly changed. ‘Offices here and in Manchester.’

McKay let out a low whistle. ‘Well, there’s a coincidence.’

‘And that may be all it is,’ Grant pointed out. ‘Manchester’s a big city.’

‘Aye, there is that. But we have a few coincidences now. We’ve a man whose own daughter has gone missing. Who works with disturbed young people. Who’s in a position to dig into their innermost thoughts. The sort of man who, as Ginny says, would be aware of the important places in their young lives. A man who does a lot of travelling between here and Manchester.’

‘You reckon this guy would be up to disposing of the bodies in that way?’ Grant said.

‘He’s fit enough,’ McKay said. ‘When I first met him, I had him down for a gym bunny.’

‘It’s all circumstantial,’ Grant said. ‘Completely circumstantial.’

‘But he’s the first candidate we’ve found who appears to fit the bill,’ McKay said.

‘I do not doubt that, Alec. But that’s all the more reason not to jump in with both feet. We’ve nothing of substance here. Nothing more than your gut feel.’

‘Could we find out whether our three victims were clients of his?’ Horton asked. ‘That would be one coincidence too many.’

‘I don’t know how feasible that is,’ McKay said. ‘All his work is private practice stuff, as far as I’m aware. Chrissie got his name as a suggestion from our GP, but it wasn’t a referral as such. I don’t necessarily think the GP would have a record, and if Robinson is our man, I don’t imagine he’ll hand us a helpfully incriminating database.’

‘Worth a shot, though,’ Grant said. ‘He may do NHS work, and it’s possible that one of our victims was referred there by her GP.’

‘Assuming we can track down who their GPs were at the time,’ McKay added. ‘I suppose the Scotts and Camerons might have had family GPs, but the daughters could well have chosen to go elsewhere once they left home. But, aye, definitely worth a shot.’

Horton was still flicking through the website. ‘What’s with the name stuff, anyway?’ she said. ‘Hamilton’s father wasn’t called Robinson, was he?’

McKay shook his head. ‘No, that’s another thing that threw me. The man I went to see was called John Robbins. I’m assuming that Jack Robinson’s a—what do you call it?—a nom de plume.’

‘More like a stage name, I reckon,’ Horton said. ‘Judging from this website, he’s not short of ego. Lots of well-posed images of a moody-looking Jack Robinson staring pensively into the camera. Numerous accolades from supposedly delighted clients. The sort of biog that drops all kinds of academic names without actually telling you what qualifications he’s got or where he got them.’