Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (5 page)

T
he baby would be born in September, around the time of the equinox when summer finally gave way to darker nights and autumn tints. They hadn’t decided on names but Maggie favoured Susan for a girl and David if it was a boy. She wrinkled her nose as she recalled Bill’s choices. She didn’t fancy Brian for her son’s name; it reminded her of the naughtiest child in her first-year class at school, a snot-nosed kid who always forgot to bring a handkerchief. Helen was okay for a girl, but it would always be a reminder of the mother-in-law she’d never had, Bill’s mother having died some years before they had met.

She smiled as the baby moved, instinctively placing her hand to feel some tiny limb stretching beneath her rounded belly. ‘Susan Lorimer,’ she murmured into the dark. It felt at that moment as if there was a little girl in there, listening.

There would be books to read to this little one, stories to tell, songs to sing at bedtime. Maggie sighed, the prospect of motherhood stretching ahead in a haze of pastel-coloured baby clothes and nursery wallpaper. Such plans they had! The new house was far more expensive than they’d intended to buy, but Bill had managed to secure a mortgage for them and now she lay by his side, letting her dreams take her into a future where children played in the big back garden, maybe in a tree house like the one next door.

Her husband stirred, murmuring something indistinct, a dream escaping into the darkness. It was no wonder, Maggie thought. He’d been tasked with trying to identify a dead man pulled from the Clyde. She wrinkled her nose, the idea of death at odds with the new life growing inside her. It wasn’t something Maggie wanted to think about and she looked across at her husband’s sleeping form with pity. His was not a job she could ever have done. Being a policeman took a certain sort of strength, the sort that William Lorimer seemed to have in abundance. He’d told her briefly about the case, not dwelling on the details; it was the sort of things that working couples did, share the elements of their respective days over an evening meal. Perhaps she ought to tell him that she didn’t like to think about dead people right now, Maggie told herself, one hand on her belly as the baby moved again. He’d understand. He always understood things… She yawned and closed her eyes, sleep taking her back to her own dreams.

It was still early when he woke but sunlight filtered through a gap in the thin summer curtains, harbinger of another beautiful day. Maggie, slumbering on her side of the bed, was on holiday now from her school, Lorimer reminded himself, so he would try not to waken her. He had saved his own leave for the arrival of their child, so this fine July day meant a return to the city and a final attempt to crack the case of that unidentified man.

There was so much about this case that troubled the detective constable.
He probably had it coming to him
, one of his colleagues had remarked gloomily, hinting that such deaths always involved the dark side of this city, its drug barons ruthless in dispatching any troublesome elements. The words had been spoken when DI Phillips was well out of earshot. The SIO had already told them more than once that justice should be even-handed. Lorimer had mentioned this to his wife who had quoted lines from Shakespeare’s
Macbeth
:
This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of this poisoned chalice to our own lips
. He’d nodded, remembering the quotation from his own schooldays. But he didn’t think that was quite what Phillips had meant. It was more the point that all human life was worth something and that the dregs of society deserved the same quality of police time as anyone else. It was not a sentiment that all of his fellow officers shared. And now the case was being wound down, fewer man-hours spent on trying to find out who the red-haired man had been and why his young life had ended in such a brutal manner.

Detective Constable Lorimer could have taken one of the pool cars, a Ford Escort or an Astra, but parking spaces behind the mortuary were limited and the walk through the city appealed to the young man. It was always hard to equate the brightness of a clear July day like this with the sorts of things that had happened overnight. The duty sergeant had left notes about the knifing: a drunken brawl that had left one man in hospital and fighting for his life; the other incarcerated, howling with remorse.

Yet there was no trace of that anguish in those city streets as DC Lorimer walked down Buchanan Street past the old model lodging house, the crumbling tenements giving way to a vista that stretched all the way to the river and his destination. Already much of the place was derelict, properties having been purchased to make way for a new shopping complex. Lorimer smiled to himself, remembering Maggie’s mother’s words on seeing the architectural images in the newspaper.
As if the good folk of Glasgow needed more shops. We’ve already got that new St Enoch Centre!
she’d exclaimed, tutting loudly and going on to extol the virtues of older emporiums up in Sauchiehall Street like Pettigrew & Stephens or Copland & Lye where she’d shopped as a girl. But things were changing in the heart of Glasgow and soon these old Victorian buildings in Buchanan Street would give way to something that his mother-in-law would no doubt consider as brash and modern as the glass-topped edifice of the shopping centre that had been built beside St Enoch’s Square.

He crossed Argyle Street, skirted the new mall and headed towards Paddy’s Market, smiling to himself: the old way of buying and selling clothes was still rubbing shoulders with the newcomers here in Glasgow. Paddy’s was a frequent haunt of ne’er-do-wells, more for the resetting of stolen goods than anything else, though word had it that drugs were also being channelled through some of the street vendors.

A small man in a flat cloth cap looked up from behind a table strewn with old clothes, one swift glance that did not meet Lorimer’s blue gaze. As the detective walked on, he could hear the sound of hawking followed by a spit onto the pavement; it was a mark of the man’s bad feelings towards the polis. Even now, in plain clothes, Lorimer was finding it hard to hide his identity from those in the Glasgow underworld; it was as if they could smell a copper the way an animal smelled its enemy.

Saltmarket was an old part of the city, the river not far away, the tenement buildings towering overhead, closing in on these narrower streets. It was hard to imagine the expanse of Glasgow Green so nearby. He turned a corner and there was the High Court of Justiciary, its Greek portico dominating the other buildings, pale sandstone columns like raised fingers of admonition to those in fear of their lives. In contrast, the city mortuary was a squat, grey place, its back doors facing the grand courts, ready to admit the dead.

He was to meet the procurator fiscal at the mortuary – someone new in his limited experience of CID. There had not been much contact with the Crown Office so far, such liaisons not considered vital during the start of an investigation. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him that he was still on time; Donald Anderson was not someone he would want to keep waiting, Lorimer had been advised.

The man whose body had been dragged up from the river was the sort of anonymous person that Americans referred to as a John Doe. Here, in the west of Scotland, the authorities had no such terms of reference for these unidentified souls whose corpses were kept in the refrigerated cabinets awaiting the time when a friend or relative might come to claim them.

The mortuary superintendent gave him a nod as he entered.

‘Just over there, son,’ he said with a grin above his closely clipped white moustache. ‘They’ve not begun yet so you’ll be able to see the entire process.’

The man smiled at Lorimer with a knowing look in his bright eyes. Here was a rookie detective constable, the expression seemed to say; we’ll be able to have some fun with this one.

Lorimer stepped up to the viewing platform and looked at the room through the huge window that would separate him from the pathologist’s activities. Several figures appeared from another door; the pathologists gowned and masked, wellington boots on their feet as though to protect themselves from some awful deluge of blood and guts, with several gowned students trailing in their wake. Lorimer shuddered in spite of his earlier resolve to be as objective as he could be. Then his eyes were drawn to a slim shape emerging from the wall as if by magic. A couple of mortuary attendants arrived, lifting the body from its refrigerated cabinet onto the stainless steel table where the two pathologists waited, one pulling at her silicon gloves as though keen to begin. Beside them, on a cloth-covered table, lay an array of surgical instruments, the scalpel blades glittering in the shaft of sunlight that filtered from the windows above.

It was the same boy that he had seen lying on the grass by the River Clyde but somehow here in this mortuary room his body appeared diminished, smaller and waxen, like a model for a corpse, not the real thing at all. The idea comforted him a little as the pathologist took her instrument and began the first incision.

It had been an interesting experience, he told himself, nothing that would bother his dreams. The detective constable had been pleased by his own sense of objectivity, able to look at each and every stage of the post-mortem examination, not even flinching when the sound of the saw had whined through the intercom. DC Lorimer had even been able to ask a few questions during the process, mainly to the fiscal by his side who was far less threatening than he’d been told.

‘What would happen to his body, sir? In the event that he remains unidentified?’ he asked Donald Anderson as they stepped back into the corridor.

‘We keep him,’ the fiscal said bluntly. ‘He’s ours in law,’ he added, glancing back at the door they had just left.

‘But surely you can’t keep unidentified corpses here indefinitely?’ Lorimer protested.

The fiscal shrugged. ‘We’ll see,’ he remarked blandly. ‘I believe you’ve been tasked with finding out who he is? George Phillips seems to think you may have the necessary skills to complete that particular action.’ He raised doubtful eyebrows at the younger man.

‘I hope so, sir.’ Lorimer swallowed hard. ‘Someone’s bound to be missing him.’

‘Any progress with that?’ the fiscal asked as they left the mortuary.

‘No, sir. Everything we have looked at so far has been a dead end.’ Lorimer blushed as the fiscal gave a yelp of laughter.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean that…’

‘No, Detective Constable, I’m sure you didn’t,’ the fiscal replied, patting the younger man’s arm. ‘Well, keep on doing what you can. If this chap has nobody out looking for him we may well have to conclude that there simply are no relatives around. And nobody else who wants to be involved,’ he added darkly.

‘You think it might be gangland related, sir?’

‘George Phillips hinted as much,’ the fiscal agreed. He sighed. ‘What’s happening to this old city of ours, eh? Once upon a time, long before you decided to become a copper, m’boy, we had a sort of honour among thieves.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Now with these drugs flooding into every corner of the country, there’s nothing like that. Dog eat dog. Nobody in that racket cares a fig what happens to one of their henchmen.’

‘There isn’t anything to show that the death was drug related,’ Lorimer said.

The fiscal shrugged. ‘Just because he didn’t have needle marks all over his arms doesn’t mean he wasn’t part of the scene. They aren’t all users.

‘Anyway. Time I was off,’ he said, sketching a brief wave. ‘Good day to you, young Lorimer. Good hunting.’

Then, without a backward glance at the police officer he stepped out into the sunlight and headed towards the sleek grey car that was parked at an angle in the small parking space behind the building.

Lorimer watched as the fiscal drove off. It was just another routine morning for the man from the Crown Office, but for the young detective constable it had been so much more. For a moment he looked up at the sky, seeing twin white streaks of vapour, the distant aircraft a mere speck of silver against the blue: up there hundreds of people were jetting off, placing their mortal lives in the hands of the man at the controls. What were they all, when it came down to it? Were human beings simply a mass of flesh, bones and fluids? The stuff that he had seen displayed on that steel table? He blinked suddenly, realising his fingernails were digging into the soft skin on his palms as though to remind himself that he was still alive. Then, stepping between sunlight and shadow once more, Lorimer headed back across the city, resolved to do his duty, not to the bits of human corpse that he’d seen exposed on that table, but to the living young man, whoever he had once been.

T
his hospital looked like a nice place to be if one were recovering from an illness, Pamela Dalgleish thought as the car came to a halt on the gravel drive. The view alone would raise one’s spirits, the mist lifting off those green hills and the water sparkling under a welcome beam of sunlight. There were large tubs of flowers either side of the front door; the delicate blooms of red and yellow begonias fringed by dark blue trailing lobelia. Someone cared enough to tend these plants and make the place attractive to visitors to the hospital. Somehow it made facing what lay inside a little easier for Rory’s mother, though she could not have explained why. Their journey was at an end now, a uniformed policeman ushering her and her husband Douglas inside, his voice lowered out of respect for the bereaved. That was still to be proved so, she thought, clinging to a last fragment of hope. Perhaps the dead person lying inside this building would have nothing to do with them.

A white-coated woman that she took to be a doctor came forward; she saw Douglas shaking her by the hand, followed them meekly along a well lit corridor with doors on either side then around a corner where another policeman stood as if to guard the place against intruders.

‘Before you go in to look at him, I do need to ask you not to touch the body,’ the doctor said, an apologetic smile appearing for an instant. ‘There will have to be a post-mortem examination carried out and a full forensic examination will take place before that so we cannot allow any risk of contamination.’ She hesitated, then placed a hand on the sleeve of Pamela’s coat. ‘I hope that doesn’t sound harsh,’ she said.

Pamela saw her husband shake his head, murmuring something that she failed to catch. Her ears seemed to be full of a buzzing sound that grew louder as the door opened and they were permitted to step inside.

It was a small room, unadorned in any way, a simple bed in the middle of the room, the sheet spread out across the form beneath. She felt Douglas’s fingers grasp her own as the doctor stepped to the top of the bed then slowly and carefully lifted the sheet away from the body.

Rory might have been sleeping, his mouth opened slightly the way it always was after a night out with his pals. Lying there, his hair combed to one side (the way it never had been in living memory), he seemed more like a waxwork than a real flesh and blood human being. And why had they placed that thin strip of bandage across his eyes?

She heard Douglas’s cry, felt her husband’s fingers slip from her own as he moved towards the bed.

Then the buzzing sound grew louder and louder until it completely filled her senses, blurring her vision, weakening every muscle as everything tilted sideways and the floor came up to hit her.

‘It’s him all right, then,’ the big police sergeant said shortly. ‘Parents have identified the body.’

Lorimer nodded quietly. It had been good of Calum Mhor to come by the cottage with this news.

‘What now? Can they transport the boy back to the mainland for the PM?’

Sergeant McManus tipped his cap to one side to scratch his forehead. ‘Well, now, that won’t be done just yet. Our SIO arrives on the next boat. Might have to wait till then before we know any more.’

‘Where will he be taken? Inverness?’

The big man shook his head. ‘No. Some top-notch pathologist down in Glasgow’s coming to do the PM here with our own Dr MacMillan and then there’s a forensics team arriving to take a look at things. Think your place may well be of interest to them,’ he continued, turning to nod towards the shore where Lorimer had discovered the body.

The silver Mercedes slid off the edge of the green ramp with a double clunk, momentarily jolting the two people in the front of the car. Craignure village appeared even smaller than it had from the boat, a few shops and cottages lining the road, not a place that would seem to boast a four-star hotel complete with leisure centre. The need to dive into a cold pool, swim a few lengths and clear her head made her sigh for a moment. But taking any time off duty was out of the question. The woman at the wheel waited impatiently for the traffic to clear before swinging the big car to the right and heading out of the village. Besides, she hadn’t brought a swimming costume and she hoped that a couple of nights on this island would be as much as they would need.

‘Check in first, boss?’ the man by her side asked.

The woman nodded, raking fingers through her short, blonde hair. She had risked a few minutes up on deck, letting the salty air blow across her face, pondering the fate of the boy from Newton Mearns in Glasgow. He may well have stood on that selfsame spot, watching as Duart Castle came into view, excited by the prospect of a summer job on the island of Mull. And now he was dead. Killed by person or persons unknown, something that concerned this DI from the mainland.

The wheels of the big car crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway and Stevie Crozier alighted, swinging a pair of shapely legs that had elicited many an admiring wolf whistle from city workers as she’d walked along their streets.

Leaving her detective sergeant to carry in their overnight bags, Stevie strode towards reception, staring fixedly to catch the eye of the young woman dressed in a tartan pinafore behind the desk.

‘May I help you?’ The smile seemed genuine and the lilting voice held a note of warmth that made the senior police officer suddenly glad that she had chosen to stay in the Isle of Mull hotel.

‘Detective Inspector Crozier and Detective Sergeant Langley,’ she said briskly, sensing Langley’s arrival.

‘Ah, yes, two single rooms. Will you be having dinner here this evening, Ms Langley?’

Stevie frowned. ‘
I’m
Detective Inspector Crozier,’ she said between gritted teeth, glancing behind her in time to catch the tiniest trace of a grin on Langley’s face. He was enjoying her discomfiture, Stevie knew. She was not unaware that the older detective sergeant was the type that chafed against having a female as his immediate superior.

‘Oh, beg pardon, I thought…’ The girl bit her lip, cheeks reddening, her confusion made worse by the admission of her assumption.

‘Our keys, please, and no, I don’t think we will be eating here tonight,’ Stevie snapped. She stooped to pick up her bags, glaring at Langley, daring him to smirk.

Two plastic keys were slid across the counter with a form requiring the senior detective’s signature. She heard Langley murmur ‘thanks’ in an apologetic tone but Stevie Crozier was already heading for her room, overnight bag slung across one shoulder and handbag and laptop case on the other.

A shower would have been nice, a poor substitute for a dip in the pool, but even that luxury was to be denied as her mobile began to ring almost as soon as she entered the room.

‘Crozier.’

‘This is Sergeant McManus, ma’am. I heard that you had arrived.’

‘News travels fast,’ Stevie answered crisply.

‘Thing is, ma’am, we wondered if you should be seeing Detective Superintendent Lorimer in the first instance.’

‘Lorimer?’

‘Aye, ma’am. ’Twas Lorimer found the laddie’s body,’ McManus explained. ‘Did no one tell ye?’

There was a pause while the DI digested this piece of information then, ‘I think my first call should be to see the Dalgleish parents, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Calum Mhor’s cough could be heard clearly over the telephone. ‘They’re still at the hospital. With the doctor.’ He hesitated. ‘Shall I come by and bring you there myself? It’s not far from the hotel.’

‘Right. See you in reception. Ten minutes.’ Stevie snapped the mobile shut. It gave her precious little time to freshen up before facing the bereaved parents. They might be in shock, she thought. Maybe the medics had doled out something to deaden the mental anguish. Else why would a mother and father want to keep a vigil beside the bed of their dead son – if that was what had actually happened to make them stay there for so long?

The man wearing the tweed jacket and worn corduroy trousers sat nursing a cut-glass tumbler of whisky, his eyes darting towards the stairs from time to time. His was a face that elicited trust; a kindly smile often broke open the floodgates of confidences and he had learned over the years to become a sympathetic listener. It was a pity, he often thought, that these same faces bent close to his own would harden once they read their own words in next day’s newspapers. For his sympathy was usually genuine, despite his motivation in garnering their stories.

When the blonde woman stepped into the reception area and shook hands with the big police officer, neither of them noticed him rise from the winged chair and walk slowly after them, a copy of the
Oban Times
tucked under one arm.

Jim McGarrity knew fine where they were heading, just as he knew the identity of both Crozier and McManus. It was his business to know such things and McGarrity was well aware that he needed to search out the Dalgleish parents and offer his condolences before he filed his copy for tomorrow’s edition of the
Gazette
.

Most of it was already written, of course, the subs no doubt waiting with a headline such as
BODY
ON
BEACH
IDENTIFIED
AS
MISSING
STUDENT
.

So far McGarrity had managed to type up a preliminary draft.

The body discovered on the shores of Fishnish Bay in Mull has been identified as that of missing student, Rory Dalgleish. The young man was last seen following a ceilidh dance in Tobermory on Saturday evening. Police were alerted when he failed to return to Kilbeg Country House Hotel and fears were raised for his safety.
 

A Police Scotland spokesman said, ‘Inquiries are continuing into the circumstances of Rory’s death and a report has been submitted to the procurator fiscal
.’

It wasn’t enough, though. Not nearly enough. It lacked the human interest that readers craved. And the gentle-faced reporter in the tweed jacket had decided that only a first-hand account from the grieving parents could satisfy that sort of demand.

Stevie Crozier cursed herself for her hasty departure from the hotel as her high heels tip-tapped along the corridor, the sound bouncing off the hospital walls. It would have been far better to have worn the pair of comfortable flat shoes that she’d packed for this island visit, but years of needing to be that bit taller to challenge her male counterparts had made the wearing of high heels second nature, and McManus’s call had driven the thought of footwear from her mind.

She was glad, though, when they rounded a corner and her eyes fell on the tall, dark-haired man standing outside a room. His face was vaguely familiar; had they ever met? Stevie asked herself as McManus walked ahead, ready to introduce her to the man who had found the body. That was what he was, she reminded herself as his figure loomed over her. Not her superior officer, but a witness in this case where
she
was SIO.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer, DI Crozier.’ McManus grinned as he made the introductions, seeing the surprise in Lorimer’s face. It was evident that Stevie Crozier’s name – and reputation – had eluded the officer from Glasgow and that he had been expecting a man; a small fact that the police sergeant had deliberately kept to himself, just for a little bit of fun.

Stevie tried not to blush as the detective superintendent took her hand and gave a gracious nod. He had the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen, eyes that seemed to look right into her mind, and for a moment Stevie Crozier felt a sense of acute discomfort that this man might be able to read her thoughts.

‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ Stevie said bluntly.

‘Dr MacMillan called me,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Rory’s parents asked if I would come. I do hope that you don’t mind my being here.’

Was that a note of apology in his tone? That smile crinkling the corners of those maddening eyes in any way contrite? Stevie Crozier could not be sure, her usual skill at summing people up deserting her momentarily. She had arrived expecting to be the senior ranking officer here, a feeling she had lately begun to relish.

‘Why would they do that?’ Stevie looked at both men in turn.

‘I think Mr and Mrs Dalgleish may want to see where Rory was found,’ McManus explained. ‘With your permission, of course,’ he added, touching the edge of his cap in a gesture of deference.

Stevie’s jaw hardened. She’d see about that, but, as the door opened, all thoughts of who was in command of the situation vanished at the sight of Pamela and Douglas Dalgleish.

She may have been just in her early fifties but it was an old woman who emerged from the shadowed room, bent and stumbling between the man clutching her arm and the tall grey-haired doctor who appeared to be leading them both away from that shrouded figure on the bed.

‘Mrs Dalgleish?’

Rory’s mother looked up at the sound of the DI’s voice and Stevie saw her puffy eyes, half closed with weeping. The policewoman took a deep breath, steeling herself against what had to be done.

Afterwards, Pamela Dalgleish could not have said with any certainty what the female detective inspector looked like but she did remember the tall, dark man who had waited while all these awful questions had been asked. There was something about him, a certain stillness from which she felt they could draw strength.

Douglas had withdrawn into himself, his replies to the probing voice of the woman detective making him shrink further and further into a place that even his wife could not reach. The man who had been captain of their local golf club, who had won so many boardroom battles in his career, had finally retreated, beaten by the loss of his youngest child.

What was fatherhood? Pamela wondered as they walked closely side by side along this hospital corridor. Douglas had never been the sort to attend school sports days or even parents’ nights, leaving all that sort of thing to his wife. Not that he had ever been bad to his children; his had been the role of provider for his family, something that was expected of him. Sure, there had been times when he’d bowled balls on the lawn for Rory at weekends and summer holidays, taken him through to Murrayfield to watch the rugby. Yet there had rarely been displays of affection between the two of them. And now there never would be. Pamela felt inside her coat pocket but the handkerchief was sodden and she pushed it back, a hiccup escaping from her, threatening a fresh storm of weeping.