Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer) (32 page)

‘C
ourlene?’ Dr MacMillan remarked to her friend. ‘Martin uses it all the time.’

‘We think that was what made those marks on Rory’s body,’ Rosie explained quietly. She was aware of Abby at their feet, playing with a sheaf of printer paper and some coloured crayons. ‘Little pigs have long ears,’ she smiled, raising one eyebrow. It was an old saying Rosie had remembered from her own grandmother’s day when she had been an inquisitive sort of child, always listening in on grown-ups’ conversations. But Abby seemed content to play, absorbed in her childish drawings.

‘Well it’s a fairly common sort of thing,’ Grace continued. ‘I would expect most ships’ chandlers to stock it.’

‘What does Martin use it for?’

Grace shrugged. ‘Oh, all sorts of things. It makes a good tight knot. Keeps boxes and things secured when he’s out sailing. He has most things covered in bits of oilskin. You wouldn’t want water to get into all that camera equipment,’ she chuckled.

‘He’s still doing that project on the minke whales?’

‘Oh, yes. Out most days, depending on the weather. Heads over towards Fishnish at some God-awful time in the middle of the night,’ she laughed. ‘That’s where he’s been having the best sightings.’

‘Why does he go out so early?’ Rosie asked.

Oh, he likes to be there at dawn or dusk,’ Grace said. ‘Best qualities of light, Martin tells me. Not that I know much about that sort of thing.’

‘Does he know that chap they’re looking for? Gillespie? He has a boat, too; lives in the darned thing, Solly told me.’

‘Gillespie?’ The doctor frowned. ‘Not a name I’m familiar with. Not one of my patients,’ she added. ‘But people around here know one another
and
their boats,’ she admitted. ‘You need to. It’s a sort of unwritten rule of the sea, I suppose, to help a fellow sailor if he needs your assistance.’

Rosie smiled and pretended to be engrossed in her daughter’s drawings. If there had been a boat taking Rory Dalgleish’s body into Fishnish Bay in the early hours of the morning following the ceilidh in Tobermory, would Martin Goodfellow have been out and about to see it?

Lorimer slammed the car door behind him and raced across Tobermory Main Street, his feet taking him up the stairs of the Aros Hall where several officers were seated at open laptops.

‘Lachlan Turner,’ he said loudly, making every head in the room turn his way.

‘That’s the man whose van we were looking at,’ Roddy Buchanan said, turning to his fellow officer. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Finlay Simpson nodded. ‘Strange sort of thing to do,’ he agreed. ‘Soon as he saw us standing beside his old van, he just got into that boat and headed off down the loch.’

‘Oh.’ Jamie Kennedy looked at the pair of them. ‘That was George Ballantrae’s boat! He’s only just gone and reported it stolen!’

‘I have reason to believe that Lachlan Turner may be the man we’re looking for in connection with our three murders,’ Lorimer told them, glaring intently at each officer in turn. ‘And I need him found
now
.’

H
e hadn’t meant to do it, Lachie told himself over and over. ‘It was a mistake, an accident,’ he muttered, the words becoming like a mantra. The open sea surged below the boat, kicking salt spray into his eyes as he steered away from the dangerous rocks that littered this part of the coastline. He’d need to keep away from the cliffs if he were to avoid the Black Teeth, that series of sharp rocks that had taken many a good boat and its crew in times gone by.

A few more minutes and he would be clear of these waters, past the lighthouse then out into the Sound. And then…? He had no plan and there was nothing in his mind but the desperate urge to escape.

They were coming for him, Lachie knew that now. Had known it from the moment that he had looked up from the bank of the loch and heard them shout out.

Twenty years, he thought. He had been running away from this moment for twenty years. And he had thought to be safe for so long, even after Rory…

They must have found everything in the
Bonny Belle
, Lachie realised. Stupid to keep Rory’s things; his clothes and his mobile phone. But they’d been so well hidden, secreted under the gunwales, wrapped in oilskin and tied with the very Courlene he’d used to secure the red-haired boy’s bonds. The deep sigh that emanated from his chest turned to a sob as he fought the desire to relive those moments of passion.

Regret nothing, live life to the full
, he thought, hearing half-remembered words that came to him now.

But who had spoken them? Had it been Gary, urging him on that night? Or had he himself whispered them in Rory’s ear, pulling the bonds tighter?

The thought was lost as a rhythmic throbbing sounded behind him.

Lachie turned, looking astern. The unmistakable shape of a police launch was bearing down on him, a figure standing in its bows.

For a moment he hesitated, a sudden swell from the waves making him sway, threatening to push him off balance. He would not be taken, Lachie decided, seating himself firmly in the centre of the boat, face turned towards the wind, knowing now where his destination lay.

‘Cut your engine!’ Lorimer yelled through the loudhailer, his voice booming above the noise of the two outboard motors.

He stood, feet planted securely apart, his life jacket already wet with the spray that lashed against the bow. ‘Turner, cut your engine! Now!’ he repeated, steadying himself with one hand against the rail.

Above him dark clouds scudded past, a brisk north-westerly wind making foaming crests across these treacherous waters. He glanced back for a moment but the town was far behind them now, hidden from sight as they followed the path of the smaller boat around a curve in the coastline. Where was he heading? The lighthouse was fast approaching, a beacon of warning to sailors who might venture too close to these treacherous shores. Would he slow down there and let them board the stolen motorboat?

But there was no sign of the smaller craft easing up as they followed its creamy wake around the spit of land protruding into the seas.

Lachie thought he could hear them calling him back,
Turner! Turner!

Or were they trying to make him change course? A different voice whispered temptation in his ear:
Turn
her,
turn
her
, it said, in Gary’s mocking boyish tones.

‘No!’ he screamed aloud, but the sound was carried away in the wind, leaving him to face the approaching rocks.

‘Turner!’ Lorimer called again but the man in the boat ahead gave no indication that he had heard his name.

Why did he not simply stop and give himself up? Surely the man knew that the more powerful police launch would soon be overtaking the stolen boat?

Waves lashed furiously against a deep fall of black rock that sliced the hillside, several jagged shapes looming ahead.

‘He’s heading for the Black Teeth,’ the pilot exclaimed. ‘He’ll never make it past them.’

‘Dear heavens!’ Lorimer exclaimed as he watched the passage of the motorboat.

A sudden memory of Solly’s words came back to him then.
Perhaps he’s not running away from anything
.
Maybe he’s running
to
something
?

The knowledge hit Lorimer like the spray that stung his skin. The man they sought was not seeking to escape from his pursuers but running towards a fate of his own making. Lachlan Turner was deliberately heading to one of the most dangerous spots on this coastline.

He was close enough to see the clumps of sea pinks that survived on these harsh cliffs of his island, their tiny flowers blowing frantically against the whipping wind. And that gull, rising like a ghost from its perch, wings outstretched, lifting higher, higher. If he could fly like this gull, Lachie thought, become a bird and fly away…

‘Turner!’ Lorimer’s voice was lost against the noise of crashing waves as he saw the boat ahead of them turn towards the sea cliffs.

There was a ripping sound as it hit the first rock, a shriek of wood against the harsh pinnacles of stone.

Lorimer watched in horror as the small boat was tossed high into the air and came crashing down, splintering like matchwood as it fell onto the Teeth.

For a moment he saw a pair of flailing arms as the man they sought rose into the air. Then the waters took him and his dark form disappeared, sinking beneath the foam.

The police launch slowed down at a safe distance from the rocks and Lorimer stared into the pounding waves where Lachlan Turner had ended his own life. There would be no answers now to the many questions he had hoped to ask but right now that had ceased to matter. He had witnessed the ending of another man’s existence. He gave a shuddering sigh. Had it been a coward’s way out or a moment of insane bravery turning toward these rocks? No earthly judge or jury would now decide Lachlan Turner’s fate. And perhaps there was some relief that all those grief-stricken relatives whose loved ones had been taken might be spared that further anguish.

Lorimer shook hands with each of the officers in turn. It had been a difficult time for them all, he thought, their beloved island gripped by the fear that one man had generated over the past days. He stepped out of the Aros Hall, leaving the men to pack up the place as an incident room for the last time, and walked across the road. Standing at the railing, he looked across Tobermory Bay. There were still yachts in the harbour, gulls flying high above, their slanting wings grey against the white clouds. He breathed in deeply, smelling the sea. This had been a fishing port once, he knew, and still there were boats that plied that trade. His eyes fell on the brown varnished boat moored at Ledaig, across from the Old Pier. What would she do with it now? he wondered.

Bella Ingram had wept bitter tears when he and Solly had told her about the accident. And about the brother she had always thought to be
a little bit different from other men.
They had found Rory’s clothing hidden on the widow’s boat, enough evidence there to have sent Lachlan Turner to prison for a very long time.

How had Turner felt, Lorimer wondered, when Rory had come to work at Kilbeg? Had he begun to relive his time with Gary Forsyth all over again? And what had really taken place that night aboard the
Bonny Belle
? Had Rory struggled? Or had he, as Solly had suggested, been compliant? Had the older man been jealous seeing Rory with Richard Maloney? These were things that they would never know.

Freda Forsyth had shown him the watercolour drawing that Gary had sent her, unclipping the picture from its wooden frame; it had been the last birthday card she had ever received from her boy. Lorimer had taken it from her hands and looked at the landscape, the little jetty at Kilbeg and the Morvern hills beyond. It was so like the pictures adorning Bella Ingram’s parlour walls that it did not even need the tiny
L T
in one corner that had been covered by the picture frame to identify it as Lachie Turner’s work. It was, he thought, the final piece of the puzzle. Lachlan Turner must have wished for Gary to come to Mull. Yet his predilection for masochistic sexual gratification had taken the boy’s life back in Glasgow, leaving Freda Forsyth bereft for all these years, never knowing and always wondering what had become of her son.

He took another deep breath, savouring the salt taste on his lips, then, turning away from the view, Lorimer headed along the street to where Maggie was waiting for him.

P
amela Dalgleish slipped her hand into her husband’s arm. It was over, she told herself. There would be no more nightmares, no unseen monster coming back to face a court of law here in Glasgow. And for that she was grateful. She looked at the flowers on her youngest son’s grave, masses of white and yellow blooms given generously by so many of his friends. Pamela wiped away a tear. She had not known Rory had so many friends. And that was a grain of comfort after the horrors of what they had been told. Douglas would never come here again, she thought sadly. His son was lost to them for ever, the bitter knowledge of what he had been too much for her old-fashioned husband to bear.

Across the city another older couple stood, the summer wind blowing the petals of flowers from the surrounding graves of the Necropolis like so much wedding confetti. Hamish Forsyth bowed his head as his wife placed a posy of carnations on Gary’s final resting place. The guilt of his actions rested heavily upon him, something he must endure for the rest of his days. That his only son’s killer was dead and gone, smashed to bits on these notorious rocks, was little comfort. The man had been Gary’s lover, too, the tall detective had reminded him, a fact that Hamish found both repugnant yet full of sadness. Lachlan Turner must have been living in a kind of hell all these years, the bearded psychologist had said.

The hotelier gave a sigh. Who would have thought that a man like Lachie could have done such things? He had wanted to recreate Gary in the person of Rory Dalgleish, Professor Brightman had insisted.

And Archie Gillespie? What would they do to his former chef? The man had been found halfway down the west coast and was now in remand in one of the Glasgow jails, having been refused bail for the several charges that had been brought against him.

Hamish tried to take his wife’s arm but she shook him off as though the very touch of his hand had stung her. No amount of blaming the gardener from Tobermory would ever exonerate him in her eyes. Or, indeed in his own.

It was a windy day for a wedding, Rosie thought, as they left the car and headed towards the grey stone church, her hand clasping Solly’s. Just ahead of them she could see the tall figure of Lorimer, Maggie beside him, clutching a little arrangement of pale pink feathers to her dark curls lest it blow away.

It was several months since they had last been here, she realised, looking up as the clouds scudded across a sky that threatened rain. The invitation to attend Jamie Kennedy’s wedding had surprised them all, but the Lorimers had agreed to come up for the weekend and so she and Solly had made arrangements with Abby’s nanny to stay over for a couple of days.

She gave a smile to Maggie as they settled into the back of the kirk, the pews almost full of townsfolk and well-wishers who were here to see the local policeman wed his childhood sweetheart. The ends of the pews were decorated with tartan bows and sprigs of white heather, a symbol for good luck. Rosie found herself silently wishing this young couple all the luck in the world. It was time for some good fortune to come back into this lovely town.

Outside the sound of bagpipes could be heard, heralding the arrival of the bride, she assumed.

Then, as the organ boomed into a rendition of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’, all heads turned to see Fiona Taig make her entrance. A short lace-trimmed veil covered her face but there was no hiding the beaming smile behind it as she walked down, her hand tucked into Hugh McIver’s arm. His daughter, Eilidh, resplendent in a scarlet frock with a Kennedy tartan sash, beamed at the assembled congregation as she followed her father and best friend down the aisle. The music faded into silence as the minister stepped forward and began to address his people.

‘Dearly beloved…’

Rosie felt for her husband’s fingers and was gratified by the squeeze that Solly returned. This town had suffered much, she knew, and it would be a long time before many of the scars healed. But life went on: there would be other weddings, children born and christened here in this place of worship, and in time these dark deaths would be forgotten, consigned to the history books. She listened as the minister’s words continued, the two young people standing side by side, ready to commit themselves to a lifetime together.

She smiled as she caught her friend’s eye. Maggie nodded; no words were needed to express how she was feeling today. They were staying in the cottage at Leiter for a few days as it was the school October break.

There were ghosts there too, Rosie suspected; images to lay to rest, she thought, glancing along at Lorimer’s handsome profile. What was he thinking, she wondered? Did he look out at Fishnish Bay and remember the morning when he had discovered that poor boy’s body? Or, like the birds he so loved, could his spirits rise above it all and take flight, seeing only the brightness of day to keep the midnight out?