Keep The Midnight Out (William Lorimer)

by Gray, Alex

  ‘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.

  The hall was packed with reporters, their mobile phones and iPads ready to record any titbits of information pertaining to the double murder case and the apprehension of fugitives up on the Ardnamurchan peninsula. A buzz of sound came from these people as Lorimer stepped forward and nodded at the DI, ushering her to the front of the platform where the dark wooden table was already prepared with several fixed microphones.

  ‘I’ve done the sound check,’ he whispered behind his hand. ‘It’s all ready for you. What happened?’ he added. ‘Was the train held up? You didn’t call to say you’d be late.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ She looked at her watch. ‘This is when I was asked to be here. That was what DS Langley told me. Why wasn’t I given time to discuss things beforehand?’ she hissed back, clearly upset about being thrust into the spotlight so soon after her arrival.

  Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘But you were,’ he said softly. ‘Someone from upstairs called asking you to be here an hour ago.’

  Stevie Crozier shook her head slowly from side to side, her eyes snapping in sudden fury. ‘I didn’t get any telephone call,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t spoken to a single person since I left Oban.’

  Lorimer shrugged, his gesture saying I don’t know, leaving the woman tight-faced and anxious as she sat down at the table. It was a matter to be discussed later on but someone’s head would roll for failing to brief the DI on the arrangements for this morning’s meeting.

  He leaned across and spoke quietly. ‘Okay, over to you, Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll just introduce you, then, shall I?’

  Later, Stevie would recall little of the individual questions, Lorimer chairing the meeting with an expertise that showed he was well used to dealing with the media. It seemed to Stevie that lights flashed constantly, sometimes blinding her to the person who was calling out their name and newspaper, words directed towards her that she caught and batted back, all her neglected media training coming into force. There were questions about the boy. Where had he been found? Why had Detective Superintendent Lorimer not been put in charge right away? (Lorimer had answered this smoothly, explaining that he had been on leave, that DI Crozier had conducted the murder inquiry with the utmost efficiency; Stevie loving and hating him for that reply in equal measure.) Then all those questions about Jean Erskine: Stevie had been on surer ground here, recalling the finding of the old woman clearly as she spoke. They had quickly turned their attention to Jock Maloney, his background (that was easy stuff) and the operation to capture him out in the forested area. The DI had replied as best she could, remembering the sounds coming over the airwaves as she had stood out on the open road by the Land Rover, that shot resonating through the trees.

  Then it was over, Lorimer insisting on the last question coming from a reporter in the front, a pretty dark-haired young woman from the Inverness Courier.

  ‘Do you have any idea why Maloney killed these two people?’ she asked, her clear tones ringing out.

  And, as Stevie hesitated, Lorimer bent towards his microphone to answer.

  ‘Mr Maloney is still being questioned about his part in these incidents. There will be further opportunities to make contact with our press office in due course. Thank you all for coming.’

  And then the cacophony of protests from the assembled crowd of journalists as they wondered aloud what was going on? Hadn’t Maloney confessed to the murders already?

  Lorimer’s hand on her elbow quickly guided Stevie out of the hall and they headed up a back staircase then along a corridor.

  Lorimer knocked on an unmarked door. A woman’s voice from within called, ‘Come in.’

  Then Stevie Crozier found herself face to face with Joyce Rogers. The deputy chief constable of Police Scotland sat in a wood-panelled room, its walls devoid of any sort of decoration except for the old Strathclyde Police badge, its colourful thistle emblem long since replaced elsewhere by the plain blue of the current regime.

  ‘Ma’am,’ she began, feeling an absurd desire to bend her knee and curtsy. Rogers was the one woman in the entire force that Stevie longed to emulate; someone who had withstood the changes from being second in command at Strathclyde Police until the historic reorganisation in April 2013 when she had been appointed as the next most important figure to the chief constable in the whole of Police Scotland.

  ‘Lorimer tells me that the train broke down. Such a pity. I wanted to talk to you about the progress of the case. Never mind. Perhaps you can spare a little time later today.’ Rogers looked at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. ‘Say about three?’

  And Stevie had nodded her assent, silently blessing the tall man standing at her side for covering up the mismanagement of her arrival in Glasgow with a white lie. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be glad to talk to you.’

  ‘And Lorimer, that matter we discussed earlier? Will you have spoken to Maloney by then? Can you join us?’

  Stevie looked at Lorimer, bewildered. What was going on? What matter had been discussed? And, a horrid suspicion rising in her mind, had it been Lorimer who had deliberately failed to send her the correct instructions to keep her out of his way?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Low Moss Prison in Bishopbriggs was a far cry from HMP Barlinnie where the detective superintendent had visited several prisoners incarcerated for murder. Walking through the brightly lit corridors, one could be excused for imagining that this was a further education college out in the countryside and not a high security prison full of dangerous men.

  The prison officer at his side chatted happily about the recent visit of a well-known writer to their library, an event that had, according to the man, inspired an outbreak of reading, crime fiction being the prisoners’ preferred subject matter. Lorimer raised his eyebrows in silence. He’d heard it all before, had seen the selection of books in several prison libraries whenever Maggie had donated boxes from her colleagues at school.

  ‘Is Maloney much of a reader?’ he asked.

  ‘’Fraid not.’ The officer shrugged. ‘Sits in his cell for as long each day as he can get away with. He’s made to come out for recreational times, of course, and he is meant to be part of a work detail.’

  There was a pause and Lorimer stopped walking for a moment, turning to the man. ‘But…?’

  ‘It’s the same old story. S
udden withdrawal, won’t communicate with any of the staff or the other prisoners, doesn’t want to see anyone.’

  ‘Yet he agreed to see me.’

  ‘Yes, he did. First time I’ve seen anything like a spark of life in that prisoner since he was brought down here.’ There was an expression of curiosity in the man’s eyes but Lorimer merely smiled. If the visit proved successful then the prison officer by his side would hear all about it soon enough.

  DI Crozier had failed to obtain much from the prisoner after his initial confession. Lorimer had read the man’s signed statement after his arrest. Even then he had felt some disquiet at how easily the police had accepted Jock Maloney’s version of events. And yet the DI had been thorough, there was no question about that. She had not demurred when he had suggested this visit. I might have the inside track because of our association in Mull, he’d reasoned. Perhaps he’ll open up to someone he knows outside of all of this? He’d been heartened by her readiness to allow him access to her suspect. Perhaps, a cynical little voice intoned, DI Crozier had no real expectations of Lorimer succeeding any more than she had already and was simply humouring the detective superintendent.

  They continued walking on up a sloping corridor where light flooded in from the summer skies. It was already sounding more hopeful than he had anticipated.

  ‘If you would just wait here for a moment, sir? They’ll be bringing Maloney down to the room across there in a few minutes.’

  Lorimer found himself standing opposite the pale yellow door to the room that was normally used by solicitors for meeting with their clients. There was something about this place that lifted one’s mood – and it wasn’t simply caused by the sun sparkling behind the frosted glass windows. Every floor surface was clean and shining, every wall looked newly painted in pastel shades, a far cry from the Victorian establishments where Maloney might have been sent.