Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (23 page)

He lifted the loudhailer away from his mouth for a moment, taking another deep breath.

‘Throw the gun out where we can all see it, Jock,’ he commanded.

Once more he let the loudhailer drop as they watched and waited, the silence almost tangible.

The rifle dropped onto the forest floor, a quiet thud as it hit the carpet of pine needles.

‘Come forward, Jock,’ Lorimer continued, keeping his eyes on the great pine tree. ‘Hands in the air so these armed officers can see you are no threat to them. Got me?’ He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone as if he issued instructions like these every day.

There was a pause and he glanced sideways, catching Pinder’s eye. The senior officer was in charge of these men now and could order them to open fire with one sweep of his arm should Maloney prove to be a threat.

Lorimer held his breath as the figure emerged from the shadows, stumbling slightly. Jock Maloney came towards them, his hands high above his head, the khaki jacket riding up over his dark blue shirt, a triangle of pale, fleshy stomach showing above his waistband.

‘That’s good, Jock, nice and easy now.’ Lorimer stretched out a welcoming hand, encouraging him to keep walking forwards.

Then in a moment the garage mechanic was surrounded by armed officers, his wrists bound behind him in metal cuffs.

It was fleeting, that expression of bewilderment on Maloney’s face before his head dropped and the eyes became shuttered against his captors, but Lorimer had noticed it and it made him wonder.

‘Where is Richard? Where is your son?’ Pinder was face to face with the man now but Maloney’s mouth was a closed narrow line as he looked down at the dusty earth.

‘Over here!’ The cry came from the trees behind them. ‘Call an ambulance. The lad’s hurt,’ someone shouted.

‘Jock, what have you done?’ Lorimer shook his head. Had this man actually tried to take his own son’s life? Had that been the shot they’d heard?

‘It wis me,’ Maloney grunted, his eyes flickering upwards to the tall man standing before him. ‘I did the lad from Glasgow.’

‘And Jean Erskine? Did you kill her too?’

‘
What
?
’

The word was out before Maloney had time to think, his mouth open, eyes widening in astonishment. Then, licking his lips and darting a look at the figures stamping through the trees, he nodded. ‘Aye, aye, that wis me an’ all. Course it wis,’ he agreed. Though now his eyes were downcast once more, refusing to meet Lorimer’s own.

‘Take him away,’ Pinder ordered. ‘See what shape the boy is in.’

Lorimer watched as the father was led away along the narrow path that cleft this dark mass of trees, a gaunt figure, drooping between two armed officers.

The man had just admitted to a double murder. That would please DI Crozier, no doubt, he thought grimly. But Jock Maloney’s reaction to the news of Jean Erskine’s death had shown something quite different from guilt or remorse: it had shown the detective superintendent that it was news to the Irishman. And, at that moment, Lorimer was beginning to wonder if Maloney’s mumbled confession had any grain of truth in it at all.

J
amie Kennedy took off his chequered hat and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Smoothing his hair, he glanced in the car mirror and made a face at his reflection.

‘Aye, you’ll do,’ he told the young man nodding back at him. Was it so strange to see his hand trembling as he lifted the file from the seat beside him? The events of the past twenty-four hours had left them all a bit hyper, he told himself, biting his lower lip. Or, an inner voice suggested, was it the thought of having to face Fiona and how she might react to his news?

Manor Gardens was not a place Jamie had driven around before though he’d passed the half-built estate plenty of times. Like everyone else from the island, the police constable had watched for months as the builders constructed houses on the field of tawny grasses that were now barely remembered. The new homes were going up fast, and quite a few of them were occupied, like the one he had come to visit.

He swung out of the car and closed the door, not bothering to lock it: that was a mainland habit PC Kennedy had given up months ago.

Fiona had told him about the bungalow where she was staying with Eilidh and her folks and Jamie’s eyes moved along the row of pristine white houses until he came to number nine.

‘Jamie!’ Fiona was at the door before the officer could even press the shiny brass bell set into the varnished doorframe.

She’s lost
weight
, was his first thought, a wave of shame washing over him as he regarded the girl he had known since childhood. What sort of pain had wee Fiona suffered in the days following Jean Erskine’s death? Her face had lost its customary bloom and he felt a pang seeing the sharp cheekbones that gave the girl a drawn, haunted look.

‘Thanks for coming by,’ Fiona said, standing aside to let him enter the house. ‘D’you want a coffee? I’m on my own but they’ve told me just to treat the place like home.’ The girl stopped, her large eyes turned to him. ‘Don’t know what I’d have done without the McIvers,’ she added, huskily.

‘Aye, they’re nice people,’ Jamie agreed, following Fiona into a large bright kitchen at the back of the house, its white-painted walls mellowed by the morning sun streaming through the windows.

‘I like this,’ he remarked, moving towards the double-sized windows for a closer look. ‘You can see the hills from this angle.’

‘You haven’t been up here before, then?’

Jamie shook his head, still staring at the view from the back of the house. ‘Didn’t think they’d be like this,’ he confessed. ‘A decent outlook makes all the difference, eh?’

‘Coffee?’

‘Aye, thanks.’ Jamie turned back and watched as the girl busied herself opening cupboards and taking out mugs and plates. Her blonde hair looked newly washed, the sunlight glinting on strands, and for an instant Jamie wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel its softness the way he had done when Fiona Taig had sat in front of him in Primary One, her long golden curls a temptation for a curious small boy.

‘Still milk and two sugars?’

Jamie smiled and nodded as Fiona handed him the mug.

‘Let’s just sit in here, eh?’ he suggested as the girl made a move towards the kitchen door.

‘Okay.’ Fiona pulled out one of the wooden chairs around the kitchen table.

‘You said you’d something to tell me,’ she began.

Jamie nodded, seating himself opposite. ‘A lot to tell,’ he agreed, tapping the file that lay unopened on the table.

‘First of all, though, I want to say I’m sorry for taking so long to go and see your Aunty Jean. If I’d gone up sooner…’

‘Hey.’ Fiona stretched out a warm hand and placed it on his. ‘That was never your fault. More mine for gabbing all over the street,’ she sighed.

‘No, it wasn’t. You mustn’t think that, Fiona,’ he said seriously, looking at her intently. ‘Anyway,’ he took a sip from his mug, ‘looks like it’s all over now.’ He leaned forward. ‘Jock Maloney’s in custody and has confessed to both of the murders.’

‘Jock?’ Fiona sat back suddenly, frowning. ‘But why…?’

‘I know, it’s a shock, isn’t it? But that’s not the half of it, Fiona.’ Jamie shook his head. ‘See, he must’ve taken a real mad turn. They say he tried to take a shot at Richard.’

‘What?
Richard?
Bloody hell! Is he all right?’

‘Not sure just what damage was done. Last I heard he was going into theatre to have a bullet removed from his shoulder.’

‘Good God! You mean Jock tried to kill him?’ Fiona’s eyes widened. ‘What possessed the man?’

‘Goodness knows. Anyway, Richard’s in Glasgow Royal Infirmary and his dad’s somewhere down in Glasgow too, being questioned by the police.’

‘Jock.’ Fiona sat, staring past her old schoolfriend. ‘Jock Maloney. I can’t believe it. Can you?’ She looked at Jamie again.

‘Well he’s told them it was him.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, that’s not the only reason I wanted to see you, Fi,’ he said, the name he’d called her in childhood slipping naturally from his lips. ‘We’ve asked the procurator fiscal if he’ll release your aunt’s body for burial.’

Fiona sniffed suddenly and blinked.

‘Oh, Fi. Here.’ Jamie bent across the table, a clean white handkerchief in his hand.

She sat very still as he wiped away the stray tear that had trickled down one cheek, reminding Jamie Kennedy of the child she had been, the little girl who had tagged along behind him every day after school until, in his older teenage years, he had chased her off, embarrassed by her attention.

‘I also wanted to say,’ he began quietly, ‘if there’s anything I can do to help. With the arrangements…’

Fiona nodded, a tremulous smile on her face. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, swallowing hard. ‘Times like this you know who your friends are, eh?’ She laid her hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze. ‘And I won’t broadcast the news about Jock all over the town.’

‘It’ll all come out soon enough,’ Jamie sighed. ‘That newspaper man from the
Gazette
’s already been talking to DI Crozier this morning. And I expect the
Oban Times
will have a field day. First murder in these parts in living memory.
My
living memory anyhow,’ he added. ‘And yours.’

Later, as he slowly circled the crescent of houses to make his way back to the town, Jamie Kennedy looked across at the homes still under construction, the scaffolding bright against the dark grey breeze blocks. His eyes travelled along the building site. There were some bigger villas, family homes that were set up a little higher from the rest, a line of trees framing them to one side, gardens that were big enough for kids to play.

This would be a good place to live, he suddenly thought. A grown-up place; somewhere to raise a family.

The fantasy of a blonde woman hanging out a line of washing on the back green came into his mind and he smiled, realising that this figment of his imagination bore a strong resemblance to Fiona Taig.

T
he smell of hospitals never changed, thought Lorimer, as he pressed the lever, sending a stream of antiseptic fluid onto his hands. There was still that faint tang of cleaning products mixed with the whiff of cooked onions that seemed to permeate even the most pristine of hospital corridors. He was in the old part of the Glasgow Royal Infirmary in Castle Street which, despite the recent sandblasting of its sandstone exterior, was still a formidable building towering above the road system as though to tell the denizens of this city that it brooked no nonsense with any of them. Walking through the gatehouse entrance had been like passing into a different era, reminding Lorimer of a time long past when only the well-to-do could afford treatment by doctors in this infirmary.

He had been advised that Richard Maloney was in a side room off the orthopaedic ward, a precaution insisted upon by the senior officer. Crozier had agreed that it was a necessary action to keep the young man safe from media intrusion as well as allowing the police access while he was recovering from surgery. He nodded to the female police officer by his side, a woman ten years his senior, who had been trained in family liaison situations and was well used to dealing with sensitive issues. ‘All right, Emma-Grace?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. Poor lad,’ she said. ‘Wonder what he’ll make of your visit.’ Her tone was a mixture of genuine sympathy tempered by a brisk no-nonsense shake of the head.

Lorimer raised his eyebrows speculatively. Just how Richard Maloney would respond to an unheralded visit would be interesting to say the least. He glanced briefly at his companion. Police Constable Emma-Grace Branson had chosen her profession over an early desire to become a concert violinist; only a small number of talented souls really made it to the concert platform and PC Branson had not been amongst those lucky few. He reflected for a moment; who would guess looking at the hands folded so neatly in front of her that they were capable of playing some stunning music? It was yet another instance, Lorimer thought, of appearance belying a hidden reality.

A nurse came forward, smiling at Lorimer, but as soon as he held out his warrant card, her expression stiffened.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer. PC Branson. We’re here to see one of your patients, Richard Maloney.’

‘He’s not to be upset,’ she began. ‘The doctor’s given him medication to calm him down.’

‘Is he asleep, then?’

She shook her head. ‘I just took his blood pressure a few minutes ago,’ she admitted. ‘He’ll still be awake, I imagine. Room twenty-four, just along there,’ she said, indicating the right-hand side of the corridor.

‘Thanks.’ Lorimer gave the nurse a lopsided smile and was gratified to see her give them a friendly nod in return.

There were two names attached to the door: the patient’s and his doctor’s, Mr Wang, the orthopaedic surgeon who had spoken to Lorimer earlier in the day.

He gave a couple of raps on the door, even though it was already slightly ajar, then entered the room.

Richard Maloney was propped up against a bank of snowy white pillows, his shoulder and left arm swathed in bandages, a drip to one side feeding medication into his system. Curious eyes swept over the detective, widening into a look of alarm as he presented his warrant card.

‘Richard, I’m Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he began. ‘And this is PC Branson. Mind if we sit down?’

The young man continued to stare at Lorimer for a long moment then nodded his assent. His face was pale and drawn with dark circles under his eyes that made the detective feel a sudden pity for the lad. He was, what? Eighteen? Just a boy, really, on the threshold of adulthood, his formative years guarded by life on the island.

‘Do you feel strong enough to talk to me, Richard?’ Lorimer asked gently.

A sigh followed. Then, ‘Aye, I suppose so.’

The boy’s voice was soft, his mellow accent so familiar to Lorimer now after years of visiting Mull. It reminded the detective superintendent of the warmth of the local people and the feeling of pleasure that each successive visit to the island had brought to Maggie and himself. Once more the sensation of anger against a cruel fate that had caught him up in a murder case washed over him: nowhere was more special than their safe haven in Mull. It was a place that ought to have remained free from all the evil and darkness that dogged his footsteps here in the city. But nowhere was sacrosanct; wherever people lived, loved or vented their hate gave rise to the possibility of terrible deeds. Not even the calm, slow pace of life on that island could keep the midnight out.

‘We need to know what happened,’ Lorimer explained. ‘There will be time later on when you feel up to it that we need to take an official statement. But for now, I thought we’d have a wee chat.’

‘I’ve met you before,’ Richard said suddenly. ‘A few years back. When you had that dark blue Lexus. Dad fixed it up for you.’

‘So he did,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘Gave it a new lease of life for a while. Did over two hundred thousand in that old car, would you believe.’

‘He’s a good mechanic,’ Richard said, a defensive note in his voice.

‘And a good father?’

The boy looked away, his eyes closing.

‘Richard, we need to know what happened back in Tobermory,’ Lorimer said, gently. ‘Why did your dad take you off the island?’

The sigh that escaped from the boy was joined by a gasping sob and a silent shake of the head.

‘Richard.’ Lorimer’s tone was sterner now, making the boy turn to look into his eyes. ‘Your father has confessed to killing Rory Dalgleish. And Jean Erskine.’

‘No! That’s not right!’ The words escaped from the boy’s lips, two angry spots of colour appearing on his cheeks. ‘He couldn’t have done that, he just couldn’t!’

‘Now, how’s that, Richard? Can you tell me?’

The boy’s own eyes were blazing for a moment then he turned away, unable to withstand the piercing blue that had pinned many a suspect within the confines of an interview room.

‘Tell us what happened the night of the dance,’ Lorimer said, changing tack, his tone gentler once again.

‘We were having a nice time,’ Richard began slowly. His face was still turned to the wall but now it was as though he could see the events of that fateful night as he spoke. ‘Rory was in fine form,’ he continued, a faint smile hovering on his lips. ‘Swinging that kilt of his at the dance.’ The smile deepened, the boy’s cheeks dimpling as he remembered. Then it faded abruptly.

‘What happened after the dance, Richard?’

The boy’s head flopped back against the pillows, his eyes staring at the ceiling.

‘We were going along the street. Me and Rory,’ he replied. ‘He had a half bottle and we were taking nips out of it when my father came along.’ He closed his eyes tightly as though blotting out whatever had happened next.

Lorimer nodded to himself, watching the pain in the boy’s face, a pain that had nothing to do with the wound in his damaged shoulder.

‘You and Rory were more than just pals, weren’t you?’ he asked quietly.

The silent nod and the tear trickling from the closed eyelids told its own story. A life on the islands was not all peace and quiet, he suspected, not if you were avoiding the gossips and the wrath of a homophobic father.

‘Look, lad, I have to ask you something very personal,’ Lorimer began, watching the young man’s troubled expression. ‘You and Rory, were you into bondage of any kind?’

‘What?’ Richard’s eyes widened then he looked away in obvious embarrassment.

‘You’d not be the first young man to experiment.’ Emma-Grace smiled disarmingly and shrugged as though it was something she came across on a daily basis.

‘Did Rory ever suggest anything like that?’ Lorimer persisted.

A silent nod and two flushed cheeks were all the answer the patient could give. Then, ‘I wasn’t into all that,’ Richard whispered. ‘Rory
said
it didn’t matter. But I could see he was…’ The lad hesitated. ‘Disappointed,’ he said at last, clearing his throat as though the word had lodged there painfully.

Lorimer nodded. Richard had a gentleness about him and Lorimer believed him: he did not look like the sort of boy who would submit to another man’s sadistic tendencies. And, he reminded himself, it had been Rory whose body had shown signs of bondage.

‘Let’s talk about your father. He had a row with Rory, didn’t he?’

‘Aye. He ordered me along the road but I could see them arguing from where I stood at the corner of the Back Brae.’

Lorimer nodded to himself. That made sense. There had been no mention of a third person seen from Jean Erskine’s window, a vantage point that did not extend to where Richard had been standing that night.

‘And after that?’

Richard’s eyes opened. ‘I never saw Rory again. Dad dragged me off home. Gave me a right hammering.’ He winced as though the blows were still fresh.

‘And where did Rory go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Richard said miserably. ‘The last I ever saw of Rory was him walking back along towards Ledaig.’

‘Towards the garage?’

Richard nodded his reply.

‘And did you stay at home that night?’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I went out much later to look for Rory. But there was nobody down the town at all. Not a soul from the dance.’

‘What about the boats? No sound of any parties going on?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘And your father? Where was he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Richard replied. ‘Thought he’d gone to bed. Thought I’d heard him snoring as I opened my bedroom door.’

‘What time was this?’

Richard attempted a shrug then grimaced. ‘Maybe two in the morning?’

Lorimer sat very still. If this was true, then perhaps his instinct about Jock Maloney’s confession was true.

‘Richard, listen to me. Your dad might have told the police a lie. What he said about being responsible for these deaths could be false. And if you were to testify that you were sure he was asleep at that time, well, that could make a real difference.’

‘But
why
did he say that?’ Richard’s face was twisted with anguish. ‘And why did he make me run away with him? Why did he try to shoot me?’

It was Lorimer’s turn to shrug. ‘That’s something we need to find out, isn’t it?’ And, although the detective superintendent’s words sounded sincere, they belied the suspicions that were already forming in his mind.

DS Brian Langley put down the telephone and came to sit behind the desk, his fingers hovering above the keyboard, intent on sending an email to DI Crozier. She was off again on one of her jaunts, leaving him to do all the donkey work as usual. The man’s face clouded with resentment: all this bloody paperwork. And now he was supposed to send on this telephone message to let her know about the change of time for her meeting in Glasgow. Her mobile had been switched off, or more likely the train from Oban had been passing through a tunnel, Langley thought, an idea forming in his mind.

His mouth twisted for a moment, then, as a thought became an action, the detective sergeant closed down the laptop.

She’d never know, he thought gleefully. Anyone could be forgiven for making a mistake, he told himself. And he would manage to cover it up somehow. But DI Stevie Crozier was in for a little shock when she finally arrived at Pitt Street.

DI Crozier hated Glasgow. She scowled at the noise of traffic as she waited to cross at the lights, people jostling at each side of her. Back in Oban she had been the one in charge of everything; here in Scotland’s largest city, she was just a small fry. Yet if she were honest with herself, Stevie was angry that her suspicions had been so well founded. Detective Superintendent Lorimer had indeed managed to weasel his way into her case. Okay, it had been a decision taken by the fiscal and the chief constable at the end of the day, but here she was, ostensibly still the SIO in the case of Rory Dalgleish and Jean Erskine whose murders had occurred on
her
patch.

The train from Oban had spilled out its passengers at Queen Street Station and now she was crossing Buchanan Street, eyes searching for a decent place to have lunch, before heading uphill to the old police headquarters at Pitt Street where Lorimer had arranged for the press conference to take place.

A tramp outside the station had waylaid her, his polystyrene cup outstretched, a mumbled plea for change in eyes that were vacant of all hope. She’d stood aside at once, avoiding the dirty mess of rags that he was sitting on as much as the poor-looking whippet nestling under a bit of grey blanket. It was typical of the city, she thought, high heels slipping on the cobbles, dodging past a black cab that roared its way around a corner. Everywhere she seemed to look there was dirt and decay, people washed up like so much rubbish. It made her suddenly long for the fresh sharp tang of Oban Bay, seagulls screeching above the fishing boats, police officers taking time to see to the needs of their community. Langley had been visibly miffed when she had told him there was no need for him to accompany her to Glasgow. In truth nobody had suggested that anyone else from the team needed to be there and she had felt a sense of pride in representing her little task force. But, now that she was actually here, all that had vanished, leaving DI Crozier wishing that she need not take part in this affair and wondering just what she would say to the journalists that awaited them.

He saw her arrive at last, raincoat folded over one arm, looking around to see if there was anyone she knew. For a moment Lorimer felt sorry for the woman who had done so much to make her dislike of him obvious, even though he was irritated that she had failed to show up for the meeting prior to the conference.

The case was done and dusted as far as she was concerned: had she simply decided that there was no need to make an appearance to discuss their strategy in front of the cameras? And, Lorimer wondered, how would DI Stevie Crozier react when she saw proof that Jock Maloney was not their killer? At least that would not be a subject aired at this press conference, thank goodness, particularly as such proof was still to be established. Meantime, there was the small matter of obtaining permission to question the man who was in custody in Low Moss Prison.