Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (19 page)

‘T
ake as much time off as you need,’ George Phillips’s voice was gruff with emotion.

Words not said, thought Lorimer, words felt inside but never uttered: wasn’t that just typical of a policeman? We duck out of confronting our own horrors, he told himself, so beleaguered are we with the awful things that other people do to one another.

‘Thanks, boss,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

‘No need to hurry.’ There was a pause. ‘That nice wife of yours needs you there more than we do right now.’

He put the telephone down at last, heartened by the concern in the DI’s tone. Phillips wasn’t one for flowery speeches at the best of times; he told it as it was, giving his officers the facts to work with and expecting them to deal with the fallout from criminal cases and the messes that human beings made of their lives. So he hadn’t been surprised by the terseness of the phone call. Phillips had said everything he’d needed to hear.

‘Who was that?’ Maggie asked, walking slowly from the kitchen, her hands clasped round a glass of water.

‘DI Phillips,’ Lorimer replied, looking up at her pale face, a pang of sympathy washing over him at the sight of the unwashed hair tumbling around her shoulders. ‘He’s told me to take some time off.’

Maggie nodded, eyes downcast as she shuffled past him on her way to bed once more. Lorimer caught her arm and shepherded her gently up the stairs, feeling her wince as something inside caused her discomfort. What had she been through? His mind refused to go there; he would not try to imagine the labour suite and the cries of anguish she must have uttered.

‘Here,’ he said, helping her into bed. ‘Want some company?’ He smiled crookedly, the edge of the duvet in one hand, an invitation to lie down beside her, warm her body with his own.

But Maggie said nothing, just shook her head, looking away from his face as though afraid to see the tenderness in his eyes.

She had been sent home after one night in hospital, a lonely night when he had stared at their bedroom ceiling, unable to sleep for the knot of pain in his chest;
why?
The question that could never be properly answered thudding in his brain.

‘I should have been here,’ Mrs Finlay wept, hugging her son-in-law, patting his back as if she knew how much it affected him too.

‘I don’t think that would have made any difference, Alice. They say the baby had stopped breathing before…’ He broke off, swallowing hard.

‘I know, I know.’ She tried to smile through her tears. ‘It’s just so sad, all those months she’s been carrying it…
him
.’ She shook her head, unable to continue.

‘We’ll have other babies,’ he assured her. ‘Just wait and see. Whole tribes of little Lorimers will be running around making your life hell before you know it.’

She laughed. ‘Give her a chance, she’s only just home.’

They smiled at one another then, Lorimer catching her hand lightly in his own.

‘Cup of tea?’ Alice gave a sigh then sniffled into her handkerchief, the tears coming once again. ‘S-silly old woman that I am,’ she gulped.

‘Hey, don’t say that,’ Lorimer protested gently, catching her arm before she moved away towards the kitchen. ‘We’re all grieving for our little boy. What’s so silly about that?’

‘I know,’ Alice nodded. ‘But it doesn’t seem as though he was ever really here, does it?’

He let her go, watching as she comforted herself with the familiar routine of filling a kettle at their sink and switching it on, taking mugs from the cupboard and setting them on a tray. It was the little things that were keeping this good woman going, he realised. She had already filled their washing machine with laundry and would probably peg it out later on the line if the day remained dry.

Lorimer looked around the kitchen area. There had not been enough money to make any changes since they had bought this house and the cupboards looked tired, grey marks showing where countless fingers had opened and closed them over the years. Maggie had scrubbed the place till it had shone but there was no denying that the kitchen needed more than that. Perhaps if he could refit the place? Make it into something that they had both chosen? He tried to imagine the sort of kitchen that Maggie would like. A light oak, perhaps? Something solid that would last for years to serve the needs of a growing family. He wandered around, seeing it in his mind’s eye: a run of worktops in a paler colour, perhaps, to contrast with the timber; new appliances to replace the old stuff left by the previous owners. His salary had increased this year and so maybe they could afford to put a bit more onto the mortgage. Would a suggestion like that help take her mind off the awfulness of the past two days?

‘Here.’ Alice Finlay shoved a mug of tea into his hands. ‘I’ll take Maggie’s up to her.’ The older woman bustled off, the tea tray lined with a linen cloth, a small feminine touch that made Lorimer feel suddenly inadequate. Alice was doing a grand job of looking after her daughter while he sat here staring into space.

‘Why don’t you go down to the shops for the papers?’

Lorimer turned with a start, hardly realising that his mother-in-law had come back downstairs again.

‘We could do with some more bread and milk,’ she added. ‘And if you could buy a chicken and a leek I’d make you both a pot of soup. There are some carrots in the fridge.’

‘Sure,’ he agreed, setting down the half-finished tea and glancing around to see where he had left his jacket after they’d returned home from the hospital, the car keys still in its pocket.

‘Oh, and don’t forget a bunch of parsley, will you?’ Alice called out as he headed for the front door.

It was a ploy, of course, something to make him feel useful, he supposed. He liked Alice; she was a good sort to have around, her natural humour and non-stop chatter a boon to them right now. Though there was little to laugh about, Alice still managed to carry on with a bright, brave smile as though everything would be fine again. And it would, Lorimer told himself as he eased the old car away from the drive.
Everything passes
, she had said, giving him a quick hug when they had met in the hospital corridor. And it was true. Alice had survived the loss of her husband, Maggie’s father, and they would overcome the loss of this tiny baby. It would just take time; that was all.

‘Another cuppa? Coffee this time?’ Alice asked him, setting down the empty laundry basket. ‘In fact, why don’t you sit down and give yourself a chance to read the papers? Maggie’s sleeping,’ she added, before he could protest, dropping her voice and giving a meaningful glance upwards.

And so he found himself sitting down in the middle of a summer’s morning, the papers by his side. Alice had left the back door open and Lorimer’s eyes caught the shaft of sunlight spreading its yellow light across the kitchen walls. For a moment he sat quite still, listening to the sound of a blackbird singing from the shrubbery outside. The world still turned on its axis, nature oblivious to the hurt that was happening inside this particular house. It was a comforting thought, somehow.

‘Thanks, Alice,’ he said as the older woman set down a mug of black coffee and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits on the table by his side. ‘You’re spoiling me.’

‘Maybe you need a bit of spoiling,’ she huffed, turning back and busying herself with the vegetables for the soup. ‘Put your feet up. Never know when you’ll get the chance again,’ she added darkly. ‘All those hours you put into that job.’

It was only minutes later, skipping past the main headlines, that he found it, a small paragraph letting the world know that an arrest had been made in the case of the young Asian man whose body had been pulled from the river. McGarrity, he supposed, though there was no name given by the
Gazette
’s crime reporter and no mention of that other one, the red-haired boy. He could call the station, he supposed, but talking to a fellow officer was suddenly the last thing that he wanted to do. Instead a feeling of inertia swept over him, making him lay down the paper and close his eyes, blotting out the world for a few sweet moments.

Alice Finlay looked over her shoulder and sighed. Poor lad probably hadn’t slept a wink for these past two nights. Her mouth trembled for a moment as she thought of her daughter lying upstairs. It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t have happened. Alice covered her mouth with a hand still damp from rinsing the leek, stifling the sobs that threatened to come. She wouldn’t wake him, she told herself, biting her lower lip to stop any chance of weeping. There would be a time to indulge in tears later in the quietness of her own home but for now she had things to do that would make life a little easier for them both.

Later, in the darkness, Maggie slept by his side, oblivious to the sound of rain drumming against the roof tiles, tired out with weeping and still groggy from all the drugs they’d pumped into her system.
You’ll have other babies
, the nurse had assured them as Maggie was discharged.
These things happen
. And it was probably true. But they would have to wait a while for Maggie’s body to recover from the trauma. Would every act of love now be seen as a possibility for conception? He rolled over on his side, wishing he could take her in his arms, hold her tightly as though to shield her from the world. But he had seen how Maggie had flinched from any physical contact and he’d tried not to show the hurt he had felt.

Lorimer heard her stir by his side and suddenly felt her small hand search for his own. They met under the bedclothes, these two hands, clasped together, and he breathed a long sigh of relief.

It would be all right in time, just as everyone had reassured him. There would be other babies, lovely healthy ones coming into the world. And, one day when they were old enough, they would tell their children that they might have had an older brother, little David Lorimer, who had not managed to draw his first breath in the world.

M
rs Forsyth was out there again.

Maryka’s eyes narrowed as she looked out of the caravan window. Her employer was standing at the jetty, wind blowing her grey hair upwards, making her look like some mad creature. She was wearing the same faded beige cardigan that she had worn for the past two days; Maryka had noticed the food stains spilt down the front and her hands had itched to take a cloth and sponge them off. But she couldn’t do anything like that, could she? Instead she had tried to look away but these greasy marks (a splash of Archie’s lentil broth?) had drawn her eyes back as though fascinated by the woman’s disarray. And now, here she was, up at the crack of dawn as though she had slept in these same clothes.
Perhaps she had
, a small voice suggested and the girl shivered to think that Freda Forsyth might really be suffering from some mental disorder. She couldn’t have…?

Maryka dismissed the thought at once, picking up her hairbrush and beginning to sweep away the tangles of the previous night. The woman’s slight figure was far too frail to have manhandled a big lad like Rory. Rumours were flying around the island and one of them had hinted that the dead boy had been tied up before being flung into the water.

Who would do a thing like that? He’d been a harmless enough soul, Maryka admitted to herself. There hadn’t been any badness in him. Okay, he was a loudmouth, but she’d never heard him say anything unkind about other people. She stopped brushing her hair, sudden tears filling her blue eyes; it
was
a shame what had happened, really. He was just a young lad, someone of her own age. Maybe he’d have become less of a blowhard as the years continued to shape him? She sighed. That was impossible to guess.

The older woman had turned away now from the jetty and was walking back through the wet grasses, head bowed. Was she actually muttering to herself? Maryka wondered, seeing her lips move. Mad, she told herself. Just mad.

But what had happened in her life to make her like that? And why did she stand there so often? It wasn’t even as if she visited Archie Gillespie’s boat to talk to the chef about anything. Just as well, the Dutch girl told herself; what she’d find in there would probably send the chef packing. Yet the ancient wooden cabin cruiser might as well not be there, bobbing on its mooring, for all the notice her employer took of it. Maryka’s pretty brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. The grey-haired woman had gone to the edge of the water so often, even before the boy had gone missing, staring out past the jetty as though she was waiting for something to arrive.

Maryka shook her head and turned away from the window. It was none of her business. She was being paid until the end of the season when she would return home and think what to do next, leaving all those unexplained things behind her.

Hamish Forsyth groaned as he opened the curtains. She was out there again looking like some tinker woman, her hair unkempt and those dowdy clothes making her seem years older than she really was. What started as a sigh ended as a huge burp, the released wind making him recall the previous night’s drinking session in the hotel bar. The craic had been good, two of the guests staying up to regale one another with stories about their travels, their host happy to ply them with malts.

Letting the curtain fall, Hamish turned back into the room, picking up his clothes, pulling open a drawer to rummage for clean underpants. He missed the red-haired boy from Glasgow; Rory had often been included in these late-night conversations, the older residents asking him questions about his future, the boy happy to respond at length. He’d been a polite chap, knew his wines too, Hamish thought, remembering the boy reeling off a list of his favourite vintages. Old man Dalgleish must have kept a decent cellar at their place in Newton Mearns. Hamish buttoned up his least-creased shirt, slipping the tails into his trousers, images of Rory Dalgleish flitting in and out of his mind. The world was so different these days, he told himself, banishing the guilty feeling that had risen to the surface of his mind.

He pulled a tweed jacket from its peg on the back of the bedroom door with a grimace. It was time to play the role of Mine Host for another day, a genial smile pasted onto his face. Hamish glanced once in the wardrobe mirror, seeing the fine red veins spreading across his nose and cheeks. Once upon a time he had laughed about that face, boasted about being a double for Father Christmas, but now all he saw was a complexion ravaged by time and booze.

‘When’s your aunt’s funeral?’ Maryka whispered, unloading the big dishwasher and handing plates and glasses to the girl by her side to put away.

Fiona shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Jamie… that’s my friend who’s a policeman… he said it couldn’t happen yet.’

Maryka nodded, as though wise beyond her years. ‘They maybe have to do, what is it called? Au-topsy?’

‘A post-mortem,’ Fiona agreed with a sigh. ‘I hate the thought of…’ Her lower lip trembled and she clasped a pint glass to her bosom as though it were something utterly precious.

‘You shouldn’t have come back to work so soon,’ Maryka protested, wrapping an arm around the other girl’s shoulders. ‘Wouldn’t the Forsyths allow you more time off?’

‘It – it’s not that,’ Fiona stammered. ‘What was I going to do up there?’ Her large eyes turned to the other girl. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Maryka. Tobermory’s a small place, not like Amsterdam.’ She sighed. ‘Everywhere I turn someone wants to ask me things. And the sight of that corner of the street… the police tape…’ She set down the glass on the counter and rummaged in her pocket for a handkerchief.

‘How about your mum and dad?’ the girl asked, bending down to retrieve more glasses from the dishwasher. ‘Won’t they come back from Australia?’ Fiona made a grunting noise that was half derisory, half a sob as she crumpled the hanky in her fist.

‘They’re not coming back?’ Maryka gasped, standing up, forgetting the chore in hand.

‘Well, once they know about a funeral…’

‘Have they left
you
to arrange that?’ Maryka’s indignation was almost palpable. ‘Well!’ she exclaimed.

‘It’s been a terrible shock for them too,’ Fiona continued, her voice trembling. ‘Mum wouldn’t believe it when I phoned. I had to get one of the police officers to help me. They’ve been good, haven’t they? That big tall one from Glasgow, the one who found Rory, he was nice,’ she said, staring into space as though remembering the visit from Detective Superintendent Lorimer.

‘Oh, I met
him
,’ Maryka answered with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Bit of all right, eh?’ She nudged Fiona and the two girls began to giggle nervously.

‘Come on, let’s finish this and see if there’s a drop in one of last night’s bottles,’ Maryka grinned.

‘You’re getting as bad as Rory,’ Fiona laughed, then stopped, her hand across her mouth. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said…’

Maryka shrugged. ‘He started it, didn’t he? Bringing us what the guests hadn’t bothered finishing after their dinner. It was amazing what that boy managed to get off with. The Forsyths treated him like he was one of their family or something.’

‘Poor Rory.’ Fiona exhaled a huge sigh. ‘He wasn’t that bad really, was he?’

The Dutch girl made a face. It wasn’t good to speak ill of the dead and Fiona was so emotional after what had happened to her old aunt.

‘Here, last one.’ Maryka passed over a wine glass. ‘Don’t bother to put that one away,’ she managed a conspiratorial grin, ‘I’ll go and see what’s left. Unless Hamish has got there before us,’ she added with a wink, pleased to see that Fiona Taig had wiped her eyes again and put the handkerchief back into the pocket of her apron.

The dining room was empty now, the breakfast tables cleared of cutlery and glasses, last night’s candles snuffed out long since. On a sideboard against the wall several bottles still stood, ready to be taken back to the kitchen, a job that had fallen to Rory Dalgleish. Hamish Forsyth had let things slip, Maryka thought with a moue of disgust. Most of the bottles of wine were unopened, labels turned outwards to display their provenance. But there were still a few left from the previous evening’s dinner, ones that the guests had not finished before quitting their tables and moving through to the big lounge where they could have coffee and more drinks, supplied by Hamish and his wife.

Maryka lifted a couple of dark green bottles, tilting them to see how much was left. It had to be the reds, Rory had explained. Unless they’d left them in ice buckets, the white wines weren’t worth drinking.

Medicinal purposes
, she’d heard him say the first time he had entered the kitchen and handed a bottle over to the girls. He’d been pretty rude to Archie the night he’d spotted the chef rolling a joint though, hadn’t he?
I’ll tell the Forsyths
, he’d said with a laugh. But Archie had sorted him out pretty fast. What was it he’d said as he’d caught the student by his shirt collar?
Try that on, lad, and you’ll find yourself feeding the fishes.

They’d all laughed at the time but now, recalling these words, Maryka shivered. Even Rory hadn’t taken the man’s threat seriously, though he’d grumbled loudly once the chef was out of earshot. She could almost hear his voice, that loud sound that had grated so much.

The sudden sob in her throat surprised the Dutch girl. She understood Fiona’s tears for an old woman she’d loved.

Why should I begin weeping for a boy I hardly even liked? she asked herself as she walked back into the kitchen, a wine bottle in each hand.

‘Hey, whit’re youse two up to?’

Maryka started at the sound of the man’s gravelly voice. Archie Gillespie stood in the doorway, arms folded, a scowl on his weather-beaten face.

‘I just —’ she began.

‘We wanted a drink,’ Fiona butted in, coming to stand beside the Dutch girl. ‘Care to join us, Archie?’

The chef stood for a moment, arms folded, the look of indignation fading as he regarded the girl from Tobermory. ‘Aye, well…’ He broke off as though suddenly embarrassed. ‘How are you, Fiona?’

‘In need of a drink,’ the girl answered tersely. ‘Here.’ She took the bottle from Maryka and handed it to the chef.

Gillespie gave a faint grin. ‘Ach, ye’re a right pair, so youse are,’ he chuckled, his Glasgow accent cutting like a blunt knife.

‘Here.’ He took three glasses from the shelf and set them down on the table then lifted the wine bottle to his nose and sniffed.

‘Nah,’ he declared, then walked away from them and began to pour the contents into the sink.

‘Hey! We were going to drink that!’ Maryka protested.

The chef gave a grin as he looked back over his shoulder.

‘Think we c’n do better’n that, hen,’ he said. Then, strolling back to the dining room, he left the two girls staring at one another with puzzled looks.

‘Right.’ Gillespie raised the bottle triumphantly in one hand. ‘We deserve a bit better than leftovers. Whit’ d’ye say, ladies?’

Maryka’s eyebrows rose as she glanced at the bottle; a Grand Cru Classé, one of Hamish Forsyth’s most expensive wines, reserved for only the most affluent paying guests.

‘Aye, why not,’ Fiona said tiredly, sitting at the kitchen table. ‘Go on, Archie. Let’s have it.’

Minutes later the chef was pouring the red wine into three clean glasses.

‘Rory would’ve complained about not letting it breathe, wouldn’t he?’ Fiona sighed. ‘Here’s to him, poor laddie.’ She raised her glass and Maryka did the same, a feeling of guilt suffusing her cheeks with warmth.

The Dutch girl looked at the chef who was staring down into his wine glass.

‘Archie?’ She looked at him sharply, wondering why he had not responded to Fiona’s impromptu toast.

Then, without looking at either girl, Gillespie downed the wine as though it were a glass of lemonade, set it down on the table with a thump and rose to his feet. In a moment, the chef had turned on his heels and disappeared through the doorway once again.

‘What was that all about?’ Maryka whispered behind her hand.

But Fiona merely shrugged and lifted her glass.

‘He never liked Rory.
You
know that,’ she said at last, then took a sip of her wine. ‘Called him a wee snob. Specially when Rory was showing off about the wine.’

She stared at Maryka as though remembering.

‘But you’d think he’d show a bit of respect for the dead,’ she muttered darkly, looking at the empty doorway.

There were only two parties left in the hotel and both would be gone by the end of the week. The knowledge made him want to grind his teeth but Hamish Forsyth had to continue to play the part of cheerful host, plying his few remaining guests with drinks whilst a gnawing at his guts reminded him of the problems that lay ahead. There were no bookings at all now that the final cancellations had come in. The newspapers, he told himself, pouring a large dram from the last bottle of twelve-year-old Deanston. They were to blame. Splashing pictures of the hotel over the front pages, the boy’s face smiling out from an adjacent photograph. And to think how helpful he’d been to that mild-mannered fellow in the tweed jacket! Turned out to be a bloody reporter!

Hamish downed the tumbler full of whisky in one gulp, unaware of the man and woman who were staring at the hotelier as they hurried past the entrance to the lounge.

‘Off for the day, are we?’ Hamish called out as the couple passed the bar.

‘Just picking up Janet’s cardigan,’ the man answered, not stopping, but taking his wife’s elbow and propelling her through the doorway. ‘We’ll see you later,’ he murmured, ducking his head to avoid the hotelier’s glance.

The other couple had already checked out and the lounge was empty now, the glare from the morning sun casting shadows across the empty tables. He should go into the kitchen, hurry the girls to begin cleaning up this room.

What was the point? Hamish asked himself, sitting down heavily on one of the bar stools, seeing the place for what it really was: the unmerciful sunlight revealing the stains on the ancient carpet, the dusty windows…