Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (13 page)

J
amie Kennedy groaned inwardly as he caught sight of the girl coming along the road, a purposeful look on her face. It had been awkward bringing in Fiona Taig to make her statement but the look on Crozier’s face had brooked no opposition. The young police constable had been all too aware of the girl’s blushes as he’d posed the standard questions to her, uncomfortably aware of her darting glances at his face. It was no secret in the town that wee Fiona had fancied him since their schooldays and that her feelings towards him still lingered. Was she just seeking some sort of an excuse to engage him in conversation? Jamie wondered, watching her cross over to the town clock and the space where the caravan sat, its door open to the public coming and going along the main street.

Crozier had insisted that they positioned the vehicle in this way to encourage people to come in but it made the police constable feel as though he were sitting in a goldfish bowl, the continual greetings of the townsfolk interrupting the air of solemnity he was trying to conjure up about this case. And now here she was coming straight up to the caravan, his old school pal, Fiona Taig, one hand up to smooth the unruly curls that sprang back the moment she let them be.

‘Fiona.’

‘Jamie.’ The girl blushed. ‘PC Kennedy, I mean.’ She tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘Is it not awfie hard being two people at once?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Well. Everyone knows who you are, eh? Johnny Kennedy’s lad. But you’re someone else in that uniform, aren’t you?’ she continued, screwing up her eyes.

Jamie attempted a smile. He knew what she was trying to say and he felt it too, especially now that he was part of a team dealing with a murder inquiry.

‘I’ve come to ask a favour,’ Fiona went on. ‘It’s no’ for me. It’s Aunty Jean.’

‘Oh, is she all right?’ Jamie’s face fell in alarm. Old Jean Erskine was a well-loved member of the community, a woman whose words of wisdom had been passed from one generation of children to the next as she taught the Primary Ones. How long had it been since she’d retired? Jamie wondered. She must be a good age now, at least in her nineties. His own mother and father had spoken highly of their schoolteacher, a lady who had instilled the basics of reading and writing along with good manners into scores of Tobermory children. They’d seen her six days a week, her welcoming presence in Sunday School no different from her Monday to Friday manner, his mother used to tell him. And Jamie still remembered the old lady handing out the prizes at the end of the Sunday School session, her handshake firm and her smile warming each child as they came forward.

‘Aye, she’s fine,’ Fiona replied. ‘Well, she’s got something she wants to tell you. It’s about the murdered boy,’ she whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards him so closely that Jamie could see too much fleshy cleavage escaping from her nylon V-neck top. He retreated slightly on the pretext of picking up his hat. Fiona’s great-aunt Jean hadn’t been seen on the street for a long while now, the rheumatoid arthritis having imprisoned her in that top flat above the Clydesdale bank.

‘She saw something that night,’ Fiona went on, the drama in her voice matching her wide-eyed stare. ‘She needs you to go up and talk to her. Can you come up, Jamie?’ There was a wheedling note in the girl’s voice that set off alarm bells. Was Fiona at it? Was this just an excuse to lure him up the stairs behind the bank?

PC Kennedy stepped down from the caravan and glanced back towards the buildings where the street turned a corner. Jean Erskine’s parlour window was in a turret looking down onto the street at an angle where she might see a lot of comings and goings, he thought. Maybe this was a genuine request after all.

‘I cannae just leave this place the now, Fiona,’ he said at last. ‘But tell her I’ll come up when the other fellow’s back, all right?’

‘I suppose so.’ Fiona Taig traced an invisible line on the stones with her shoe. ‘D’you want me to wait here till you’re ready?’ she added hopefully.

‘Your aunty keeps her door open,’ Jamie said. ‘Everyone knows that. I’ll be up to see her when I can. Okay?’

‘Aye, I’ll tell her, then,’ the girl replied, turning away reluctantly and slouching off, not attempting to hide her disappointment.

Jamie shook his head. Oh Fiona, he thought, I wish you’d find another lad to set your heart on. He watched as she disappeared back along the street, stopping to talk to one of the locals. She wasn’t a bad-looking lassie, he told himself, watching the sunshine bounce off her curls as she turned back to point at the caravan. If only she didn’t make her feelings for him so obvious. But Fiona Taig had never been one for the sort of subtlety so many girls seemed to employ around lads. He heaved a sigh. Fiona was the sort who seemed to like everybody, even the loud boy who’d disappeared after the ceilidh. He’d seen her shed a tear for him during the half-hour when she had given them her statement. But she hadn’t fancied him, Fiona had said.
Not my type
, she’d added with a wee grin that Jamie had taken for a spot of mild flirtation.

It was a phrase that PC Kennedy suddenly remembered with a frown. They needed to find out which girl the red-haired lad had taken home after the dance but so far none of the local lasses had claimed that distinction. And maybe now he’d have some time to trawl through the boy’s laptop to see if there were any clues in his previous life that might help uncover reasons for his death.

Fiona wandered along the street, wishing that Jamie Kennedy hadn’t been so busy. Still, she was glad that the hotel where she worked as a chambermaid wasn’t doing much business; why should she care if folk didn’t want to stay in the crummy old place? There had only been three beds to change yesterday and Freda Forsyth had told her not to bother coming in till tonight. Okay, she’d miss the extra cash, but it was nicer hanging about the town for a while than having to find jobs to do at Kilbeg Country House Hotel. Besides, Fiona thought, casting a backward eye past the town clock, she could always look in again on Jamie Kennedy, now that he was ensconced in that caravan, before it was time to catch the last bus back to the hotel.

It was one of those rare July days when the wind had blown the sky clean of clouds, sunlight sparkling on the water. There were lots of boats in the bay, many still moored after the annual race from Crinan to Tobermory, and the girl dawdled by the quayside, admiring the bigger yachts at anchor. The faint clinking sounds from the rigging and the squawks from young seagulls were sounds that Fiona had grown so used to that she hardly heard them any more; they were summer sounds, part of the landscape as much as the main street crowded with tourists. She smiled as one family approached, a wide-eyed toddler hanging onto his pushchair, the mother and granny shepherding him along the pavement. They were strangers, no doubt here to explore the town in its guise as Balamory, its television counterpart. Some of the locals were heartily fed up with being asked the whereabouts of the characters’ houses, but Fiona enjoyed pointing out Josie Jump’s big yellow house on the hill and directing people to Breadalbane Street where the fictional PC Plum was supposed to live. It was nice being asked things like that, not swept aside as she had been with Jamie, she thought, pursing her lips in a scowl.

‘Hey, who’s stolen your scone, wee yin?’

‘Oh, hiya, Jock.’ Fiona stopped as the man in the battered panama hat patted her shoulder.

‘Not like you to lose your smiles, Fiona.’

‘Och, I’m just fed up with Jamie Kennedy, that’s all.’

‘How’s that? What’s he done to make your bonny face the colour of sour milk?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘It’s what he’s
not
done yet, that’s the problem.’ She drew aside as a couple with a large hairy dog passed them by.

‘He’s to go and see Aunty Jean,’ she explained.

‘Oh?’ Jock cocked his head to one side. ‘Why’s that then? Old lady not paid her TV licence? Dearie me, she’ll no’ like being kept in the cells, eh?’ He made a long face and rolled his eyes.

Fiona gave a smile, despite herself. Jock Maloney could always make her laugh.

‘No, nothing like that.’ She beckoned him closer. ‘Tell you what it’s about.’ She glanced around as though to ensure they were not being overheard. ‘It’s that laddie that died; Rory, the one at the hotel.’

‘What about him?’ Maloney’s eyes narrowed.

‘Aunty Jean reckons she saw something that night. Or rather some
one
,’ she added dramatically. ‘With Rory Dalgleish. She wants to talk to Jamie about it.’ She made a face. ‘But
he’s
so busy taking statements from folks. Says he cannae just up and leave the caravan.’

‘Who did she see?’ The older man stiffened up, his expression suddenly serious.

Fiona shrugged. ‘Don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. Said it was better to talk to a local policeman first.’ She was about to move on but Maloney seized her arm and gave it a shake.

‘The night the boy disappeared, you say?’

‘Aye.’ Fiona frowned, pulling her arm out of his grasp. ‘She’s never a good sleeper. Sits up sometimes to all hours in that window seat. Sees all the comings and goings,’ she said darkly.

‘Well, I’m sure young Jamie will go and see her whenever he has a moment,’ the man said shortly, stepping back into the middle of the street.

‘Aye, I guess so,’ Fiona said absently, letting the man stride away, rubbing her arm where he had grasped it so violently.

Strange bloke, Jock Maloney: happy to stop and blether one minute then as brusque as everyone else who passed the time of day with ‘the Taig girl’. Fiona frowned: she knew some folk called her that in tones of disapproval ever since she had refused to follow her parents abroad, preferring to live here in Tobermory with her old aunty, and for a moment she wondered if Jamie Kennedy was one of them.

Her face brightened, though, as she recognised Eilidh McIver, an old school chum who was coming towards her.

‘Aye, aye, chatting up the old men now, are we?’ Eilidh joked.

‘Jock Maloney? He’s old enough to be my father!’ Fiona protested.

‘Just kidding,’ the girl laughed, slapping Fiona’s shoulder affectionately. ‘Here,’ she nodded at the Island Bakery a few paces along the street, ‘fancy a coffee and a sticky bun?’ She nudged Fiona’s elbow. ‘Give you a chance to tell me all the latest gossip, eh?’

‘Aye, why not.’ Fiona tossed her head. There was something rather thrilling about being so close to the whole murder case, taking messages from her aunty to Jamie Kennedy in the official police caravan. And it wasn’t every day that she had the chance to be the first to relate a tasty bit of news to her pal.

‘Aye, Fiona.’ A few faces looked up as the girls entered the bakery. ‘All right, lass?’ someone asked.

The girl’s smile widened.

For once in her young life Fiona Taig was the centre of attention instead of the local girl in the corner of the dance hall that all the boys took for granted.

She lifted the Perspex lid of the cake display, mouth watering in anticipation. Another few calories would make little difference to her waistline and besides, Fiona persuaded herself, she needed cheering up after that strange encounter with Jock in his panama hat.

‘I
think Rory Dalgleish was gay,’ Lorimer said, moving the binoculars upwards as he followed the skylark’s progress.

Solly pursed his lips but said nothing. The women had taken Abby up to Tobermory on a pilgrimage to Balamory, something that the two men had managed to avoid on this glorious July day. Maggie had been ecstatic about having Abby with them for a whole day and her little goddaughter hadn’t seemed to mind leaving Daddy and Uncle Bill behind at the cottage. The family had slept in the spare bedroom the previous night, Abby tucked into a Z-bed in the lounge, the adventure of sleeping away from home keeping the child awake far past her usual bedtime.

Lorimer lowered the glasses and shot a glance at his friend.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me why I think that?’

Solly smiled his slow, easy smile, one hand smoothing the bristly beard. It was a gesture that made Lorimer think of the psychologist as some Old Testament prophet, considering how he was going to phrase his words to the waiting throngs.

‘No, I wasn’t about to ask you that. However, as you seem to wish to tell me…?’

‘It was something the press chap asked his parents. About having a girlfriend. It wasn’t anything they said, just a look that passed between them as though there was some taboo there, something that was not to be spoken aloud.’

‘And you imagine that it’s about his sexuality?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Yes. It was as though they were afraid and ashamed at the same time.’

‘Not every parent of their generation is able to accept the diversity of sexual orientation,’ Solly remarked mildly. ‘I know my own parents would have been appalled if I had suggested that I was gay. Though I’m sure they must have wondered about it at times,’ he grinned.

‘You?’

Solly chuckled. ‘I was rather too engrossed in my work to make time for romantic interludes. That all changed the day I met Rosie, of course.’

Lorimer smiled back. He remembered the very night the three of them had been in that Glasgow flat, its owner lying dead on the floor. Solly had turned pale, his weak stomach unable to cope with such a sight. It had been something so diametrically opposed to Rosie Fergusson’s brisk professionalism that it was almost laughable now. It was a funny old world, Lorimer mused, remembering how the on-duty pathologist had taken Solly home in her car. Theirs had been the start of such an unlikely relationship, yet it had blossomed into love and marriage. Solly was no better now at scenes of crime than he had been back then, nor had he learned to drive a car, but he had different sorts of strengths to bring to the marriage, intangible things that undoubtedly gave Rosie a sense of security and belonging.

‘So do you think they’ll be looking for a young man rather than a girl who accompanied the Dalgleish boy after the dance?’ Solly asked.

‘That’s just it,’ Lorimer said. ‘It needs to be taken into consideration. But I don’t know whether Crozier and her team have any inkling about this. And I’m not at all sure I can feed the DI any more information without annoying her.’

‘Tell your friend, the big chap from Craignure. What is it you call him?’

‘Calum Mhor. Big Calum. I suppose I could,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘But I would rather one of Rory’s parents had actually said something to Crozier herself.’

‘Can you talk to them about it?’ the psychologist asked.

Lorimer gave him a long look, his head tilted to one side enquiringly.

‘Oh, no, don’t even think it! I’m not even supposed to be here, never mind interfering with someone else’s case,’ Solly protested. ‘Besides, you’re the one the Dalgleishes seem to have taken to. I’m a total stranger to them.’

‘But you’re so good at getting people to open up to you,’ Lorimer wheedled. ‘And they’re the sort of people who would trust a professor of psychology.’

‘Even though it was his wife who cut up their poor boy?’ Solly shook his head slowly. ‘No, my friend, I think not. If none of the police have any knowledge about Rory’s sexual orientation then I think there have to be other avenues to follow.’

‘You mean closer to home?’

Solly lay back against the soft grass, the mingled scents of meadowsweet and bog myrtle wafting beside them, the lark all but forgotten. ‘If it had happened in Glasgow you’d be talking to all his friends back there, wouldn’t you?’

Jamie drew a deep breath as he reached the top stair. Crikey, he was out of condition, he thought. Too many of his mum’s cakes and not enough exercise. Any day now he’d be sporting a gut like Calum Mhor! He fingered the memory stick in his pocket, wondering what the big police sergeant, DI Crozier and the rest of the team would make of it when he showed them what it contained.

He knocked at the door then pushed it open.

‘Mrs Erskine? Jean? It’s me, Jamie Kennedy. Can I come in?’

‘Come away through the house, Jamie,’ a distant voice called out.

Wiping his booted feet on the doormat, Jamie entered the flat and closed the door behind him. It was a strange place, he always thought, full of weird objects, like the two big dark screens covered in mother-of-pearl birds and flowers that Charlie Erskine had brought home from his voyages in the South Seas. And pictures, loads of them covering up the flowered wallpaper; some faded sepia, of people from a previous century whose names Jean Erskine could give in an instant before commencing a little history about each and every one of them. That sort of knowledge would die with her, Jamie thought sadly. He’d urged Fiona often enough to get her great-aunt to commit these tales to paper or even a Dictaphone. But it never happened. Fiona wasn’t too bothered about the past, she only seemed interested in her own future; a future she kept hoping that he’d share, he thought with an inward groan.

‘Come away in, Jamie,’ Jean Erskine said, smiling at him from the high-backed chair that always sat in the recess of the big bay window. ‘Come and sit beside me.’ She indicated a smaller chair with a patterned cover of roses done in cross stitch, something that the old lady might have made herself in days before the rheumatism had seized her poor joints.

‘You think I’m a right old nosy parker, do you, Jamie?’ she twinkled at him as he sat down. ‘But sitting here and looking out at everything makes me feel I’m still a part of the town.’ Her words were not spoken with any wistfulness or bitterness for her condition, more in a simple matter-of-fact tone that the young officer admired.

‘And who would ever tire of that view?’

He followed her gaze out of the window. The tide was in, right up to the edges of the old pier, and there were numerous boats at anchor in the shelter of Tobermory Bay. To one side the wooded hills rose above Ledaig, towering over the distillery and the garage plus the newer buildings that had emerged in Jamie Kennedy’s own lifetime: the tourist office and the pub where folk spilled out into the sunshine with their drinks and food, the old jetty having been enlarged to encompass a decent-sized car park. Calve Island lay like a beached whale between Tobermory and the Sound of Mull, providing protection for the yachts that sheltered within this most sought-after of anchorages. Looking down, Jamie could see people walking along Main Street, locals stopping now and then for a blether, tourists more intent on examining the numerous shop windows that displayed a variety of crafts and gifts. His eyes took in the length of the street towards the old pier and beyond, then he turned to glance left and saw that Jean would only be able to follow a person’s progress as far as the corner where the road took a sharp turn up the Back Brae.

‘I want to tell you something, Jamie. I’ve told nobody else at all, not even my Fiona.’ She cast a sly glance at the young policeman but he was still gazing out of the window as though only half listening to her words.

‘I saw that young man,’ she said softly, breaking into PC Kennedy’s reverie. ‘The boy who was found dead at Leiter.’

‘How did you know it was Rory Dalgleish?’

‘Fiona pointed him out to me a couple of times,’ she said. ‘What a head of red hair he had!’ She smiled and shook her head at the memory. ‘I could see it under that street light there.’ She pointed at a lamp that stood just below the window. ‘His hair looked as if it was on fire.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t usually sit up at midnight, but it was such a clear night and the moon was shining straight into my bedroom that I couldn’t sleep. I’m not the best sleeper in the world. Lack of exercise probably means I don’t need so much sleep. Anyway, I was up so I made myself some cocoa and took it to the window. There’s always something to see in the street after a Saturday night ceilidh.’ She smiled.

‘And was there anything in particular that you witnessed, Mrs Erskine?’ Jamie asked, fiddling with his police cap, hoping he was sounding suitably official.

‘Yes there was, PC Kennedy,’ she countered, the sudden smile fading almost at once. ‘I saw something that was a little disturbing.’

Jamie Kennedy sat quite still, letting the old lady gather her thoughts as his eyes turned back to the street.

‘There were two of them there,’ she said slowly, nodding towards the street lamp as though seeing the images in her mind. ‘Rory and the other man. They were having quite an argument. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, of course, even though the window was open for fresh air. Oh, hasn’t it been a hot summer!’

Jamie nodded, hoping she wasn’t going off at a tangent.

‘I could see the boy was upset. The other one was shouting at him, pointing a finger at his chest, waving his hands in the air. Then he stomped off along the street, leaving Rory standing there looking quite miserable.’

‘You could see Rory Dalgleish’s face?’ Jamie looked sceptical.

‘I saw his bowed head and the way he stuck his hands into his jacket pockets,’ she said briskly. ‘Then he walked along the street. I watched him till he disappeared past the town clock.’

‘And the other man…?’

‘Did I not say? I know fine who
that
was,’ Jean Erskine said firmly. ‘No mistaking
him
.’

Jamie took a deep breath. ‘And who was it, Mrs Erskine?’

‘It was Jock Maloney. Even on a dark night there is no mistaking that silly old hat that he always wears.’

Jean Erskine sat smiling into the twilight. It was her favourite time of day: everything was quiet now, the shops long since closed, the tourist buses away back to the mainland, leaving Tobermory to breathe its sigh of relief. Evening shadows deepened over Main Street, deserted now that locals and holidaymakers had ambled along towards the pubs and hotels.

The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor outside her sitting room made the old woman turn awkwardly in her chair. It would be Fiona, no doubt, coming to tell her all the latest news. Jean Erskine’s front door was never locked, allowing the girl to come and go as she pleased.

The old woman tried to hide her disappointment as she saw that it was not Fiona after all. However, it would not do to seem inhospitable to any of the kindly folk who made their way up these long flights of stairs to pay a visit.

She smiled her welcome, though did not attempt to rise from her chair.

‘It’s yourself,’ Jean smiled. ‘Come away in and sit down.’

She turned back to the window, her back aching slightly from twisting around to identify her visitor.

‘Another fine sunset,’ she remarked, gazing up at the rosy-hued sky. ‘It should be a grand day the morrow.’

There was no answering voice replying with a pleasant remark, only the sensation that someone was standing right behind her: sharing the view, perhaps?

Jean started as she felt the hands encircle her throat, raising her own in sudden panic.

The scream she wanted to utter was silenced.

Then the blood-red sunset turned to utter darkness as she choked against their grip, eyes bulging in her last astonished moment.

He stepped away from the body slumped on that chair, looking down at his guilty hands. How quickly they had forced life and breath from her old body! He covered his eyes and turned away, not wanting to see what these hands had done, anxious now to quit this place.

Then, unseen, the killer crept back down the stone stairs and disappeared into the darkening night.