by Alex Walters
Horton pulled up on the double-yellows outside the Caledonian Bar, and stuck the official ‘Police’ sign under the windscreen, not that there was much likelihood of a ticket on a day like this.
Inside the bar was as deserted as ever. The lunchtime rush, such as it ever was, was over, and the elderly regulars had disappeared in pursuit of their afternoon naps. Gorman was at his familiar place at the bar, a half-empty pint and a whisky chaser next to him. He glanced up in surprise at their entrance.
McKay held out his warrant card. ‘You remember us, Mr Gorman. We met last year. DI McKay and DC Horton.’
Gorman blinked blearily at them. ‘Aye, I remember. What of it?’
‘We’d just like another word, Mr Gorman. About a couple of issues.’ McKay sat himself at one of the pub tables and kicked out a chair, gesturing Gorman to join him. Horton took the third seat and pulled out her notebook.
Gorman gazed at them for a moment and then slid unsteadily off his bar stool. Clutching a drink in each hand he stumbled over and sat down at the table.
‘Quiet afternoon?’ McKay peered round the empty room as if expecting to spot a hidden customer.
‘Aye, well. It’s the weather, isn’t it?’
‘I imagine so. Do you have a Kelly Armstrong working here?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘She left.’
McKay exchanged a glance with Horton. She just left. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘You’d have to ask her. She didn’t turn in today.’
‘Is that right, Mr Gorman? The thing is, as it happens, we have asked her. And she tells us the reason she hasn’t turned in today is because you assaulted her yesterday.’
Gorman half rose from his seat. ‘What’s that bloody bitch been—?’
McKay waved Gorman back into his seat. ‘Calm down, Mr Gorman. I’m not sure you’re safe on your feet. At the moment, we just want to ask you a few questions. What’s your version of what happened yesterday?’
The lengthy pause suggested that Gorman hadn’t given much thought to his version of events. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Lass was down in the cellar doing a stock take. I mean, for Christ’s sake, I’d offered her some fucking overtime—’
‘And what happened?’
‘It was just one of those things. A misunderstanding, I suppose.’
‘A misunderstanding?’
‘I was just going to talk to her. You know, discuss a few things—’
‘Advice on the finer points of stocktaking technique?’
‘No, I mean, it was just to have a chat. You know.’
‘Not really, Mr Gorman,’ McKay said, wearily. ‘Kelly Armstrong strikes me as a fairly clued-up young woman. I’m not sure how she’d mistake “having a chat” for an assault.’
‘It was just one of those things.’
‘What sort of things, Mr Gorman? What did you actually do?’
Gorman took a large swallow of his whisky. ‘I suppose I sort of grabbed her. You know, to get her attention.’
‘You don’t think a simple “excuse me” might have been sufficient?’
Gorman seemed drunkenly impervious to McKay’s irony. ‘Well, she was working. I wasn’t sure she’d heard—’
‘So you grabbed her? How did you grab her, Mr Gorman?’
‘Well, just by the shoulders. It was nothing—’
‘And then what did you do, Mr Gorman? To get her attention, I mean.’
‘I was a bit—you know.’ He gestured towards his whisky glass. ‘I probably wasn’t thinking straight. I held her against the wall, I suppose.’ He trailed off.
‘So you grabbed her, and you pushed her against the wall. In the cellar. Because you wanted to have a chat. Is this your standard conversational technique, Mr Gorman? You must be a wow at parties.’
‘Look, I didn’t mean—’
‘What was this chat about, Mr Gorman? What did you want to talk to Kelly Armstrong about exactly?’
Gorman looked as if he wanted, more than anything else in the world, to go over to the bar and top up his glass. McKay had the sense that, deprived of any more alcohol, the man might confess to literally anything. ‘Just—you know—stuff.’
‘Stuff?’ McKay spat out the word. ‘What sort of stuff would you want to talk to a young woman about, Mr Gorman? What sort of stuff might you have in common?’
Gorman swallowed the last of his whisky and said: ‘She’d been asking about the woman who used to work here. The one who went missing.’
‘Lizzie Hamilton?’
‘Aye. Lizzie Hamilton.’
‘Why was Kelly Armstrong interested in Lizzie Hamilton?’
‘You’d have to ask her that.’ Gorman stopped and laughed, mirthlessly. ‘Oh, don’t tell me. You already have. She’d reckoned she knew Lizzie. There was nothing I could tell her. Lizzie Hamilton just left.’
‘That right?’ McKay said. ‘The same way you reckoned Kelly Armstrong had just left when we first asked you? Did Lizzie Hamilton leave for the same reason?’
‘She just left,’ Gorman repeated. ‘I don’t know why.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ McKay said. ‘Kelly Armstrong left because you subjected her to a drunken assault in your cellar. Armstrong was feisty enough to fight back. Maybe Hamilton wasn’t.’
Gorman looked up sharply, his bloodshot eyes coming into focus. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I mean, Mr Gorman, is that Lizzie Hamilton is still missing. No-one’s seen any sign of her since she supposedly walked out of your establishment nearly a year ago. She left food rotting in her fridge. She left bills unpaid. She’s not used her bank account since that day. And I wonder now if maybe you know something about that.’
The silence was much longer this time. Gorman sat staring into his empty whisky glass as if hoping it might magically refill. McKay was content to let the silence build, sensing there was something Gorman wanted to tell them.
Finally, Gorman said: ‘I don’t know. Maybe something.’
McKay made no immediate response, but pushed himself slowly to his feet, picked up Gorman’s glass, and took it behind the bar to top it up. He slid the filled glass across the table to Gorman. ‘Go on.’
Gorman took a grateful swallow of the spirit. ‘It was four or five days before she left. She sometimes used to stay behind a bit after hours and have a final drink or two with me and maybe a couple of the lads, depending who was in. Just company, you know. She liked a drink or two, did Lizzie.’ He took another mouthful. ‘Anyway, that night, she seemed to have one or two too many. Not like her—’
‘Who was in the bar that night? After hours, I mean. Who was drinking with you?’
‘A couple of the old guys at first. I can give you their names. But they peeled off about half-eleven. So me and Lizzie knocked back a few more.’
‘And she got drunk?’
‘Seemed to hit her suddenly. We’d moved on to the whisky, but she usually handled that OK. This time, she could barely sit up. Looked as if she was about to collapse at any moment. I said I’d walk her home but she didn’t even seem capable of that.’
‘And she could normally hold her drink?’ McKay exchanged a glance with Horton. The account didn’t ring true to him. He had the sense that Gorman was offering them half the story, enough to suggest he was dealing with them in good faith. But not the part that really mattered.
‘Aye, I was surprised. But we had been knocking it back. Maybe she hadn’t eaten or something, I don’t know.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I took her upstairs,’ Gorman said, adding hurriedly: ‘Not like that. Well, not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘There’s a spare room upstairs,’ Gorman said. ‘I use it mainly to store stuff, but there’s a bed. It wasn’t made up, but I thought I could put Lizzie in my bed and I could sleep in the spare room.’
McKay didn’t want to think about the possible state of McKay’s own bed. ‘Not r
eally?’ he repeated for a second time.
‘Aye, well. She was an attractive woman, Lizzie Hamilton. You can’t blame me for thinking—’
‘We’ve not made that a crime yet,’ McKay said, ‘though I believe Holyrood are considering it. So you took her upstairs?’
‘More or less carried her, aye. Dumped her on my bed.’
‘And?’
Gorman was rubbing his hands repeatedly across his face, as though trying to erase his own features. ‘I helped her undress a bit. To make sure she was OK, you know?’
‘You helped her undress?’
‘Not completely. Just so she was comfortable. She could hardly cope herself. ‘
‘Of course,’ McKay said. ‘Then what happened?’
The rubbing continued. It was as if Gorman were trying to remove some blemish from his blotchy skin. ‘I went back down to finish locking up and turn off the equipment and lights. When I got back up there—’ He stopped suddenly, as if he’d forgotten the thread of his story. ‘I looked in on her to check she was all right. I was surprised, but she seemed to be awake again. When I poked my head round the door, she looked up at me and, well, beckoned me in—’
‘She beckoned you in?’ McKay tried hard to keep any note of disbelief out of his voice.
‘Aye, well. I didn’t know what to think. But she seemed—well, she seemed to want me.’
‘Is that right, Mr Gorman?’
Gorman had reddened, as if recognising how unlikely his story was sounding. ‘Well, you know, she was drunk. But so was I. You know what it’s like.’
‘You tell me what it’s like, Mr Gorman. What happened after that?’
‘Well, I went in. And it was clear what she wanted. So we—you know—’
‘You had sexual intercourse with her.’
‘I suppose. Yes. That’s what happened.’
‘And was she sober enough to consent to this act, Mr Gorman?’ This was from Horton, and Gorman looked genuinely startled at the intervention.
‘I—’ He stopped and took another mouthful of whisky. ‘Aye. Yes, of course. I mean, we were both pretty stoshied. But yes.’
‘You’re sure about that, are you?’ McKay said. ‘That’s what you’d say under oath?’
Gorman had buried his face in his hands again. ‘I think so,’ he said, finally.
‘OK, Mr Gorman. What happened after that? I’m guessing this wasn’t the start of a beautiful relationship?’
‘I—’ He hesitated, as if trying to compose the rest of the story in his addled head. ‘She fell asleep again. I thought—well, I thought it best to leave her there. I went off to the spare room and slept in there. When I got up the next morning, she’d gone.’
‘But this was before she went missing?’
‘Yes, she came back to work that night. But it wasn’t the same after that. She never said anything, and I never said anything. I wasn’t even sure what she remembered. But she obviously knew something had happened. She’d always been a bit of a mate, but after that she just became frosty. Distant, you know?’
McKay could easily imagine. Whatever the circumstances, the fact that you’d slept with Gorman would hardly be something to boast about. ‘You think this was why she left?’
Gorman emptied the whisky glass. ‘I don’t know. But I think she was embarrassed. Maybe she started looking for another job. She was always the restless type. Perhaps it was enough to spark her to move on again.’
McKay stared at him for a moment, this time allowing his scepticism to show. ‘That’s what you think, is it?’
‘Look, I swear to you. I don’t know where she is or what happened to her. Aye, it was probably partly my fault she moved on. But I didn’t do anything to her.’ He shook his head, and McKay was surprised to see tears in the man’s eyes. ‘Ach, I liked the wee lass. She was good company. I should have left it at that.’
McKay pushed himself slowly to his feet. ‘OK, Mr Gorman. We’ll stop there for the moment. We’ll let you know whether Kelly Armstrong wishes to press charges about what happened yesterday.’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘It seems you never do mean to, do you, Mr Gorman? Just a series of unfortunate misunderstandings.’ He gestured towards the empty whisky glass. ‘Maybe take more water with it if you don’t want people to misunderstand you quite so often? And whatever Kelly Armstrong decides to do, you make sure no-one else has any grounds to complain, eh? You’re in the last chance saloon, pal.’ McKay looked around him at the gloomy interior of the bar. ‘In every fucking sense.’
Outside, the rain was falling as steadily as ever. McKay said nothing until he and Horton were heading back towards the A9. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I think he’s lying through his teeth about what happened with Hamilton,’ Horton said. ‘But I don’t think he’s our killer.’
McKay stretched out his feet, his eyes fixed on the rain-soaked road ahead of them. ‘Go on.’
‘Hamilton sounds to me like a pretty seasoned drinker. Do you reckon she’d have allowed herself to get unexpectedly pissed and end up in Gorman’s bed?’
‘Stranger things have happened,’ McKay said. ‘Or so I’m told.’
‘Not many. I reckon Gorman spiked her drink. I reckon what happened there was rape. Not that we’re ever likely to be able to prove it.’
‘That was pretty much my thinking,’ McKay conceded. ‘I wondered about searching the bloody place, but even Gorman’s not dumb enough to have hung on to anything incriminating. Why do you think he was prepared to tell us the story?’
‘Because he wanted to get as close as he could to the truth. Convince us that whatever kind of creepy bastard he might be, he’s still not a killer.’
‘And you’re convinced?’
‘Oddly, yes. I mean, I suppose I could imagine him killing Lizzie Hamilton accidentally. If she’d fought back when he assaulted her, maybe. But I can’t see him having the gumption or the ability to cover it up—you know, find a way of disposing of the body, keep up the pretence for months on end. He’s not that smart or that resilient.’
‘But what he told us does potentially put him in the frame,’ McKay said. ‘If Hamilton really is dead. Like you say, he could have just been more violent than he intended. If she was drugged, it might not have taken much.’
‘Maybe not. But my instinct is what he told us today was something close to the truth. Edited, maybe, to leave out the most incriminating part, but I think he wanted to get it off his chest. He blames himself for her leaving. I reckon if we pushed him on it we might get him to admit to spiking the drink. But I don’t think he killed her. He’s not smart enough for that kind of double-bluff.’
‘Aye, I suspect you’re right. And I definitely can’t see him being responsible for the other killings. Can you imagine him manhandling a body down to Caird’s Cave or up to the Clootie Well?’
‘I don’t think he’d be capable of manhandling his own body to those places,’ Horton said. ‘From what Kelly Armstrong said, today’s intake of alcohol was pretty typical. So where does this leave us?’
‘I’m not sure. There’s just something about the Lizzie Hamilton case that keeps nagging at me—’
‘You don’t think you maybe took it a bit too personally?’ It wasn’t a subject that Horton had felt able to raise previously, but she knew more than most about McKay’s background.
McKay looked across at her. For a moment she thought she might have said too much, but then he allowed himself a rueful smile. ‘That the word on the street?’
She was approaching the busy junction with the A9 and made no response while she manoeuvred the car back on to the main road, slipping neatly between two articulated lorries, pulling over into the outside lane before the spray from their wheels could obscure the windscreen. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ she said, finally. ‘But, yeah, I’ve heard one or two people say that. It wouldn’t have been surprising.’
‘Ach, no, you’re right. It struck a chord, right enough
. Young woman. Away from home. There was something—you know, poignant about that bungalow of hers. It was so fucking impersonal.’ He paused, staring blankly out of the car window. ‘I wanted to bring her home, you know? But there wasn’t even a home to bring her to—’ He stopped, his eyes fixed on nothing. Then he blinked, with the air of someone returning to consciousness, and turned back towards Horton. ‘Fuck, I’ve just realised.’
‘What?’ She glanced back at him, baffled by his sudden change in mood.
‘It’s been nagging at me all day. Something my eyes had spotted but my brain hadn’t processed. Jack fucking Robinson.’
‘Is this some kind of nervous breakdown you’re having? Who the hell’s Jack Robinson?’
They were heading back over the Kessock Bridge, the Moray Firth a haze of mist and scattered lights, the industrial landscape of the city stretched out in front of them. It looked like a winter’s afternoon.
‘Jack Robinson,’ McKay said, ‘is Lizzie Hamilton’s father.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘I met him last year. Went to talk to him as part of the Hamilton investigation.’
‘You’ve lost me, Alec. I’m not sure why this is important.’
They were back in the office. Helena Grant had joined them for a catch-up, and McKay was still berating himself for not recognising Jack Robinson. ‘Probably it isn’t,’ he acknowledged. ‘But I’ve had this feeling right from the start.’
Grant looked over at Horton, who was assiduously tapping away at her keyboard, her bobbed hair concealing her face. ‘Go on, Alec. We’ll indulge you.’
‘Ach, I don’t know. Something. Something about Lizzie Hamilton and these killings. Something about the pattern.’ He was chewing hard on a piece of gum, as if the answer might lie there.
‘So what about her father?’
‘He’s a counsellor. Psychotherapist. Look, don’t tell any other bugger, but Chrissie and I went to see him. Couples therapy.’ He shrugged, his face reddening. ‘We thought it might help.’
