Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (16 page)

He rested his elbows on the counter, placing the blue bag to one side. ‘Started tae run aboot with the wee hard men. Thought that would protect him, I suppose.’

‘Asian lads?’

Gill shook his head. ‘Naw, mair’s the pity.’ He edged closer to the tall policeman. ‘I heard tell he was runnin’ aboot wi’ wan o’ the McKerrell twins. Bad wee rascals, baith o’ them. These boys got away wi’ murder, so they did.’

Sardar Gill straightened up, his mouth open in a moment of alarm. ‘Oh, I didnae mean… shouldnae have said that,’ he muttered, glancing around the shop as though fearful of having been overheard, even though there were no other customers in the shop.

‘Why not?’ Lorimer picked up the bag from the counter. ‘Maybe it would help to talk to anyone who knew Desi well. These McKerrells? I guess we’re talking about the same family that’s well known to Strathclyde Police?’

The man gave him a curt nod and turned away, his face showing signs of regret at having already said too much.

The curry was barely warm by the time he had put it on a plate but Lorimer hardly noticed, so absorbed was he by the recent conversation. Glasgow was a village, folk said, and the Asian community was a close-knit part of that village, so hardly a surprise that the proprietor of his local Asian takeaway should be related in some way to the dead boy. Word of this would be spreading throughout the south side of the city by now, he mused; but would news of Desi Singh’s death have travelled as far as the wider community that included the notorious gangland family?

T
he lurid images on the dead boy’s laptop had been at the forefront of PC Kennedy’s mind all morning.
City boys!
Calum Mhor had exclaimed in tones of disgust as Jamie had flicked through the images of sexual bondage.

‘BDSM,’ Crozier had declared, all the men’s eyes turning to her with a renewed interest. ‘Explains why Rory was tied up. He was restrained,’ she offered, looking at the big police sergeant who turned away, Kennedy noticed, his eyes to the ground as though unwilling to be hearing such things. ‘Bondage and discipline,’ she shrugged. ‘Two guys having some fun until something goes wrong.’

Jamie shuddered now as he thought about what might have happened to the victim. Someone had overpowered him, taken his life when he least expected it and then, as though he were so much rubbish, had tipped him into the water,
removing the bonds first.
That had been the thing that Crozier had stressed. Evidence had been disposed of.

‘Maybe they had dressed up, too,’ the DI had suggested, to Calum Mhor’s obvious discomfiture. ‘Would explain why he was found naked as the day he was born,’ the woman had added bluntly.

The thought that someone from his beloved island home could be responsible for these acts of sexual aggression made Jamie Kennedy’s blood run cold. And yet, here he was at the local garage, tasked with finding the whereabouts of a man he had always considered to be one of the town’s most amiable characters.

‘He’s no here. He’ll be at the Mishnish, more than likely.’ Jimmy Beag looked up at the young policeman from his prone position under the lorry. Wee Jimmy, or Jimmy Beag as he was known, made a face. Jock Maloney might have been part owner in the garage once upon a time but he had drunk away his share of the profits long ago and it was days since he had put in any time at all in the business.

‘Aye, well, I’ll see him there, then,’ Jamie grinned.

The policeman straightened his shoulders as he walked away from the garage. It was a fine day still and a stroll along the main street as far as the Mishnish Hotel would do no harm. He’d likely be stopped and quizzed by a few locals; no harm in that, the young man thought, especially if they came up with any titbits of information that they were reluctant to be seen sharing at the caravan on the pier. None of them would include hints about sadomasochism though, of that Kennedy was pretty certain.

It would be no surprise if Jock Maloney were to be found in the hotel bar. The man’s drinking had worsened over the years since his wife had upped and left him for an Italian waiter who’d been working at the Western Isles Hotel, the magnificent nineteenth-century, turreted building that dominated the view at one end of the town. Mrs Maloney had left the boys behind as well, Jamie remembered. Keith was away at the fishing now but Richard was still at home. Was he not meant to be going to college after the summer? Jamie wondered. Surely the boy had left school now? He shook his head. It seemed years since he’d been at Tobermory High School himself, a laddie with big dreams of his own about university and travel. Well, he’d been away right enough, even though Inverness was hardly the end of the world, and he’d made his mark by becoming a police officer, he thought proudly, nodding and smiling at a wee lassie whose wide-eyed gaze followed him as he passed. No doubt another holidaymaker thinking she’d actually seen the original PC Plum out of Balamory, he grinned. It wasn’t something Jamie minded; he was fond of bairns and sometimes bent down to talk to the wee ones who had stopped to stare at him. But not today. His pace quickened as he thought of what the old lady had told him. Jock hadn’t said a word about a quarrel with the dead lad. Why not? Was there something that he had he been hiding?

‘Aye, Jamie, in for a quick one?’ Rab the barman gave a smile as Jamie entered the bar of the Mishnish. He stood for a moment in the darkened interior, its contrast with the blinding light outside making him blink.

‘No thanks, I’m still on duty. Has Jock Maloney been in?’

‘No.’ Rab shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen him today, Jamie. Will I tell him to give you a call if he comes in?’

‘Aye, do that, will you? Thanks, Rab.’

Jamie wandered back out into the sunlight. There was no great hurry, but he would like to talk to Maloney if he could. Perhaps he was up at the house, he thought, glancing up at the steep hillside that overlooked all of the harbour.

Tobermory had been built as a fishing port and the colourful houses along the main street had seen centuries of comings and goings as the town grew and thrived, houses climbing further and further up the slopes above, the winding braes encompassing rows of terraces. Jamie’s own home in Rockfield looked out onto a grassy field and the roads that led to Salen and Dervaig. There were lots of incomers now, folk who were tired of city life and wanted to breathe clean, fresh air, their enthusiasm for their new home bringing a sense of renewed vigour to the place. There would always be the grumblers, moaning about the holiday cottages that lay empty during winter months, but on the whole the townsfolk were well integrated, accents from south of the border and elsewhere mingling happily with the local drawl.

Jamie’s thoughts had accompanied him along the Back Brae and past the Western Isles Hotel to a row of neat terraced houses that lay between woodland and the nearby golf course. He slowed as he came to the Maloney house. There was just an empty space where Jock’s ancient pickup usually sat in the driveway but he walked up the moss-covered path to the front door anyway and knocked loudly.

There was no answer so he knocked again then bent down and opened the letter box. Only dust motes floated past his eyes as he scanned the hallway.

‘Anybody home?’ Jamie shouted.

There was no response. He tried the door handle but the place was locked up. Jamie frowned. This was Tobermory, where nobody locked their doors, even when they were out for a while. Odd, he thought. Why lock up?

A quick glance upwards showed that the bedroom windows were also shut fast.

‘He’s gone,’ Jamie whispered to himself, a sense of foreboding filling the police constable’s mind. What if…?

He shook his head, already thinking of the need to contact the MacBrayne ferry ports to check if Maloney had left the island. Perhaps he should have been more vigilant, acted on Jean Erskine’s words a lot sooner. It was time to speak to DI Crozier and share the old lady’s observations – Jamie Kennedy was already dreading what the SIO would say.

Jamie knelt down, hands searching beneath the pot plants and several old metal floats beside the door that were tied together with pale orange twine. His fingers closed on a small, hard object. Yes! he thought, eyes shining as he fitted the key in the lock. It took several attempts as though it had not been used for a long time but eventually the door swung open and Jamie stepped inside to the shade of the hallway.

‘Jock? Richard?’ he called, but even as his voice fell dully in the silence he sensed that there was nobody in the house.

Jamie walked through to the kitchen where the breakfast dishes were still piled in the sink. Had they intended to return, then? He went back to the hall then took the stairs, slowly, keeping as quiet as he could.

There were two bedrooms on either side of the house, one with a neatly made single bed (Richard’s, Jamie supposed) and the other with a duvet crumpled upon the larger bed. Drawers had been pulled out and the wardrobe door was lying open as though someone had made a hasty packing. He really should have a warrant to search the house, he realised, pulling back his hand as he reached out to open a bedside cabinet. He couldn’t have his fingerprints all over this place. That would mean big trouble.

Instead he went back downstairs and entered the lounge, a square-shaped room with one large window that looked down towards the bay. It was an ordinary enough room with an old-fashioned brown three-piece suite in uncut moquette that looked as if it belonged to an earlier generation and a large-screen television that dominated most of one corner. Photographs had been placed on the mantelpiece, Jamie noticed, as his eyes travelled around the room.

Then he stopped and stared. A long wooden cabinet lay open, its contents missing. It was a gun cabinet, Jamie knew, and wherever Jock Maloney and his son had gone, it looked like the firearm had gone with them.

‘You’ve got what?’ Stevie Crozier clapped one hand against her left ear as the car ascended the steep brae above a scattering of white-painted cottages.

‘I can’t hear you,’ she shouted, glaring out of the window as the big car passed a rocky embankment.

‘Lost the signal,’ she said in disgust, turning to the man at the wheel. ‘Kennedy,’ she continued, tossing the mobile onto her lap. ‘For a moment there I thought he said he had a suspect, but the line broke up, so maybe that wasn’t it at all.’

A few yards further on, past the entrance to Lettermore Forest, the road wound along by the coastline once more and Crozier’s mobile beeped back into life.

‘Yes? PC Kennedy?’

The woman’s face hardened as she listened to the police officer’s voice. It was typical of the lackadaisical attitude in these parts where everything moved at a snail’s pace. Now it looked as if they may have lost someone who could be regarded as an important part of this investigation.

‘She said they’d quarrelled?’

‘Aye, that’s right. Saw Maloney with the deceased after the dance, said they were having a heated argument,’ Jamie agreed.

‘And when exactly did you receive this information?’

A moment’s silence met her acid tone. ‘Never mind,’ she snapped. ‘We’re on our way back to Tobermory now. Check with the ferry terminals here and on the mainland. Put out a call to Oban to apprehend Maloney’s vehicle.’ She paused, thinking hard. ‘Where exactly does this old woman live? I need to talk to her, find out
exactly
what she saw going on.’ Her tone had an edge to it, suggesting that she was already doubtful about the local officer’s capabilities.

‘Move it,’ Crozier told her driver, stretching out her legs and willing him to drive faster, biting her lip impatiently at the constraints of this single-track road and the oncoming vehicles sidling into passing places.

Jamie Kennedy stood in the shadow of the caravan, wishing for once that he had stayed in Inverness, far away from his home town of Tobermory and the dubious excitement of a murder case. There was an acid pain deep in his stomach, the knot of stress making him feel suddenly sick. If only he’d acted sooner on Fiona’s message, made a better effort to locate Maloney. At least the folk at the ferry terminals at Craignure and Lochaline were now on the alert for any sight of Jock’s van. Jamie heaved a sigh. He simply wasn’t used to this rushing about everywhere: he’d become accustomed to the unhurried pace of life here, he realised, and now he was about to pay for these shortcomings. And, he thought guiltily, he hadn’t even been able to tell Crozier about the missing gun.

As soon as he caught sight of the sleek shape of the Mercedes, Jamie pushed his way past the fish and chip van and walked smartly across the street, one hand in the air to draw their attention to a rare parking space outside the Mull Museum.

Crozier barely looked at him as she slammed out of the Mercedes.

‘Which house?’ she snapped.

‘Top flat,’ Jamie replied, pointing at the slate-roofed turret above the Clydesdale bank. He followed his senior officer along the dark passage between the tall buildings, glancing sideways at the ATM machine on the bank wall. No CCTV was positioned overhead, no silent eyes to record the comings and goings of people who walked away from the brightness of the main street.

Stevie Crozier tried to swallow her anger as she climbed the narrow stairs. There was no point in taking it out on an old woman, after all.

There was one door at the top, left ajar as though someone had recently entered, the evening light filtering from a skylight window in the hallway.

‘Mrs Erskine?’ Crozier called out, pushing the door wider. ‘Are you home?’

‘Just go in,’ Jamie suggested. ‘She won’t mind.’

‘The door’s open.’ Crozier turned and frowned. ‘Doesn’t that suggest she’s popped out for a moment?’

Jamie shook his head. ‘She doesn’t go out these days,’ he replied. ‘She’ll be in the front room. Maybe Fiona left the door like that.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s in and out to see her great-aunt all the time.’

Crozier stepped into the hallway, a look of doubt still on her face.

‘Mrs Erskine?’ she called out again, louder this time in deference to the frailties of old people who were invariably deaf.

‘In here,’ Kennedy told her, indicating a closed door at the end of the corridor. ‘She’s always in here.’

The DI rapped the door politely before grasping the door handle and pushing her way inside.

The old lady was sitting with her back to them, wisps of white hair escaping from a tortoiseshell clasp, her head to one side.

‘She’s asleep,’ Kennedy whispered, seeing Jean Erskine apparently slumbering deeply on the winged chair.

Stevie Crozier took a step forwards then froze.

There was something about the unnatural angle of the old lady’s head that made her put out a hand to stop the young policeman coming nearer.

She turned to catch his eye.

‘What?’ Jamie Kennedy looked from the expression on DI Crozier’s face to the figure sleeping in front of her window.

Crozier moved slowly around the chair.

The old lady’s hand had fallen to one side, thin fingers bent, holding on to nothing.

Jean Erskine’s mouth was open, a gaping gasp that looked like it might have ended in a choking cry for help.

‘What’s wrong?’ Kennedy was coming forward now, his young face puzzled.

Crozier shook her head, unable to speak for a moment.

‘Oh, no!’ The young policeman fell to his knees in front of the old lady. ‘Oh, no! Oh, Jean!’

‘Don’t touch anything!’ Crozier barked. Then, catching the officer by the shoulders, she hauled him to his feet.