‘You reckon this is worth doing?’ Josh Carlisle spoke without looking up, his eyes fixed on the screen of his mobile phone.
Ginny Horton glanced across at him. ‘That some game you’re playing?’
He looked up at her with the measureless contempt of the young for the very slightly older. ‘No, social media. I’m just looking up this Roddy Gray. Just to see if there’s anything I can find out about him.’
‘Ah, right. Any luck?’
‘Not sure. There are several Rod Grays. Some of them seem to be around here. But there’s not much information about any of them.’
‘You think we might be wasting our time?’
They were heading along the A96 away from Inverness. The Moray Firth was to their left, the low sun behind them. There were dark clouds ahead of them, and it felt as if a storm was brewing.
‘No idea,’ Carlisle said. ‘It sounds a decent lead. Just surprised you decided to come.’
The truth was that Horton had been feeling slightly stir-crazy in the office. She’d spent the morning supervising the teams going through the results of the media appeal. There was no shortage of leads, of varying quality, but this had looked to be one of the more promising. A call from a woman living somewhere near Nairn who had reckoned that the young man being described sounded very like her lodger, one Roddy Gray.
Horton had listened several times to the recording of the call. ‘It was the clothes you said he was wearing,’ she’d said. ‘That thin cream anorak. He wears it whatever the weather. I kept telling him he should get something warmer, but I don’t think he’s got the money…’
The call handler had pressed her, and she’d provided some descriptive details of Gray that matched what they knew but which, deliberately, had been excluded from the appeal. There was enough there for them to investigate further. Grant and Horton had decided to give the call first priority.
Grant had called the woman, a Mrs Madeline Ferris, and verified the details she’d provided in the initial call. She lived in the outskirts of Nairn, just along the coast, and they set up a visit later that afternoon. Always better to see the whites of the eyes, Horton thought, echoing one of Alec McKay’s mantras.
She could, as Carlisle had rightly indicated, have delegated the job to a couple of keen DCs. But she felt eager for a change of scene, and decided to do the job herself, taking the always enthusiastic Carlisle as her companion.
They found the place easily enough – a small bungalow in a small estate that probably dated back to the 1970s. Neat gardens, well-maintained houses. Horton guessed that the occupants were likely to be relatively elderly, perhaps retired couples who had downsized from larger properties in the town.
Madeline Ferris more or less fitted the bill. She was probably in her early sixties, fit-looking and with a slightly mischievous glint in her eyes. At the same time, her expression on greeting them at the door was one of anxiety. ‘I’m not sure whether to hope I’m not wasting your time, or to hope that I am,’ she said, as she led them into a plainly-decorated living room. She gestured for them to take a seat on the small sofa. ‘I mean, I hope I’ve not dragged you out here on a wild goose chase, but I’m also hoping nothing’s happened to Roddy. Can I get you some tea?’ She was talking a little too quickly, her nerves showing.
Horton exchanged a glance with Carlisle, then decided to accept. She had a sense that Ferris might be more forthcoming once she’d had a little time to grow accustomed to the idea of the two police officers in her home.
While Ferris made the tea, Horton glanced around the room. There was little revealing – a couple of anonymous pictures on the walls, a few ornaments that looked like holiday souvenirs, a photograph by the television that presumably showed Madeline Ferris and her husband at their wedding. Horton assumed that the husband was no longer around.
The room was tidy enough, but had few personal touches. It wasn’t the sort of place Horton could imagine a young man being comfortable, but maybe Roddy Gray had kept himself to his own room.
After a few minutes, Ferris returned bearing a tray laden with a teapot, cups, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, along with a plate of biscuits. It looked as if they were being treated to the best china. Ferris poured the tea and then sat down in one of the armchairs facing them.
‘Now, then, what can I tell you?’
‘Please do stop us if any of this becomes distressing, Mrs Ferris. As you know, we’re investigating an unexplained death. We haven’t as yet succeeded in identifying the deceased, hence the television appeal last night. You said you had reason to think it might be your lodger?’
‘That’s right. Young Roddy. I last saw him about a week ago.’
‘Were you concerned about his disappearance?’
‘Not at first. He went off on the Friday evening after work, and he’d told me he was going into Inverness with a few mates. It was someone’s birthday at his work or something. Anyway, he said he’d probably be staying over with someone on the Friday and Saturday nights, so I shouldn’t worry. I was a bit concerned when he didn’t come back on the Sunday, but I thought maybe he’d decided to stay over Sunday as well and then go straight into work.’
‘And after that?’
‘Then I did start to get a bit concerned. But he’d never given me a contact phone number, so I didn’t know what to do. I mean, he’s a grown man and can look after himself, so I couldn’t just report him as missing. He’d taken a bag with him for the weekend but he’d left some things behind so I knew he hadn’t just decided to leave. In the end I’d left it a few days to see if I would have heard from him and then I’d decide what to do…’
Horton could see that Ferris was close to tears. ‘Have you known Mr Gray for very long?’
‘Just a few months. He responded to an advertisement I’d put on one of those online sites, looking for a lodger. I’ve got a spare room which I’ve let since my husband died. Mainly for the company, though it’s good to have a bit of spare money as well.’ She paused. ‘To be honest, Roddy wasn’t the sort of lodger I’d normally take. I preferred females. Well, you feel a bit safer, don’t you?’
‘But you were happy to take Mr Gray?’
‘I hesitated at first. But my previous lodger had had to leave rather unexpectedly because her mother fell ill, and I hadn’t been having much luck finding anyone. So, in the end, I thought why not.’
‘And it worked well?’
‘On the whole, yes. I was a little worried at first because I thought Roddy might not be the sort of person I wanted. Not just that he was male. But also that he was young and, well, a bit of a tearaway, I thought. He came from Inverness, and I had the feeling that there’d been some sort of falling out. He never told me the details and I didn’t like to ask.’
‘You think he still has relatives in Inverness then?’ Horton registered that they were still talking in the present tense though she had a growing certainty that Ferris’s identification had been correct.
‘Just a father. It was the father he’d had the row with, I think. He never talked about it much. It was just the odd comment he made.’
Another potential line of enquiry, Horton thought. ‘Was he any trouble here?’
‘No. I mean, that was what I was concerned about. I thought he might bring back his raucous friends or something. I’d told him I didn’t mind him bringing friends back from time to time as long as he wasn’t too noisy or disruptive. But actually, he’s been very considerate. He’s occasionally had a bit too much to drink when he gets back in the evening, but he’s never caused any problems.’ She gestured towards the window. ‘He’s been quite helpful, really. Offered to keep the garden under control, and has done bits and pieces around the house. He tells me I remind him of his nan. She passed away a few years ago, he told me, but I think she was nicer to him than his dad was.’ She stopped, as if she’d only just remembered why they were there. ‘Do you think it really is him?’
‘I’m afraid it might well be, Mrs Ferris. I’m sorry.’ Horton had a photograph of the young man’s face taken in the mortuary by one of the forensic photographers but she didn’t want to produce that unless she really had to. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any kind of photograph of Mr Gray?’
‘I don’t think so– No, wait a minute. I do have something on my phone.’ She fumbled in the handbag by her chair for her mobile phone, then flicked through its cache of photographs. ‘He bought me a little cake for my birthday. It’s just a few days before Christmas so I’ve never really bothered much about it, but Roddy found out and surprised me with this cake. It was just a wee shop-bought thing, but, well…’ Suddenly she was crying.
Horton rose and stood beside Ferris, resting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Take your time, Mrs Ferris. We understand this must be very difficult for you.’
‘I’m just being silly,’ Ferris sniffed. ‘I hardly knew Roddy, really. But he was a decent young man. There.’ She handed Horton her phone. ‘Since he’d gone to all that trouble, I told him we ought to have a selfie together, me cutting the cake.’
The photograph showed Madeline Ferris standing behind a small sponge cake, a single lit candle in its centre. She was holding a kitchen knife in the manner of a bride cutting a wedding cake. A young man was standing beside her, his arm stretched out to take the photograph. Horton had little doubt the face matched that of the young man currently lying in the mortuary.
‘Would it be possible for you to send me this photograph? I’d like to compare it to the deceased. But I’m afraid it does look to me as if this might be the person in question.’ She could feel herself slipping into the bland euphemisms that police officers tend to use when dealing with emotional issues. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Ferris shook her head. ‘He was a poor wee thing, really. He played tough, but I always thought he was just a little boy. He must have been mid-twenties but you wouldn’t have guessed it. We never had children, Ross and I…’ She gestured towards the photograph by the television. ‘But some of my lodgers…’
‘I understand,’ Horton said.
‘Would you like to see his room?’
Horton had been trying to think of a tactful way to ask this, so was grateful for the offer. ‘That would be helpful, if you don’t mind. Thank you.’
‘What happened to him? You said it was an unexplained death. It didn’t say much on the television either.’
‘We don’t know exactly,’ Horton said. There was no point in being too coy, she thought. The story would be covered in full by the media before too long. ‘We think he was the victim of an unlawful killing–’
‘Murdered?’
‘Murder or manslaughter, yes. It looks that way. He was suffocated. Do you know if there was anyone who might have wished to harm him?’
‘Roddy? I can’t imagine it. He could be a bit rowdy, but there was no malice in him. I can’t imagine why anyone might want to hurt him.’ She looked genuinely bewildered by what she was hearing.
‘If this is Mr Gray, then that’s what we need to find out. Can you think of anything else that might help us? Did Mr Gray seem worried about anything? Do you think he might have been in any sort of trouble?’
‘Not at all. He seemed his usual self. That last Friday evening, in particular, he seemed very cheerful. I think it was the first time he’d been out with his mates from work, though he had a couple of friends he’d got to know in the pubs round here.’
‘Where did he work?’
‘A hotel. A mile or so out of town. He used to get the bus there, then walk the last bit, from what he told me. Not sure what he did exactly – various bits of maintenance, labouring. Just helping to keep the place up to scratch. They were part of a chain, I think, though he never told me much about them.’
Horton glanced over at Carlisle, who was dutifully taking notes, wondering if he’d picked up on the same point she had. McKay had told them that morning that it looked as if the victim in the Dingwall killing had also worked in a hotel. Part of a chain. The Muir Group. The Finance Director of the Muir Group was a Mr Gerry Elliott, the man they believed had been behind the threatening texts to Helena Grant. She had no idea what, if anything, these coincidences might mean, but they were certainly beginning to stack up.
‘I don’t suppose you can recall the name of the hotel, Mrs Ferris?’
‘Not off the top of my head, I’m afraid. Moray something, I think.’
‘We can track that down easily enough. If some of his colleagues were at the session in Inverness, then they should be able to give us a better idea of what happened over that weekend.’
‘I hope so. It’s an awful thing.’ Ferris had managed to dry her tears, and now looked simply anxious, as if she hoped still to be able to do something for Roddy Gray. ‘I’ll show you his room.’
They followed Ferris down the hallway to a door at the rear of the house. ‘This is his room. I always give the lodgers this bedroom because it has an en-suite bathroom. It was originally the master bedroom, but I thought it better to switch them over so the lodgers could be more self-contained.’
The door was locked but Ferris fetched the spare key and opened it. The room was less tidy than the rest of the house, but probably not too bad by the standards of young men, Horton thought. There were some items of clothing on the floor, and the bed was unmade.
It appeared that Gray had had few possessions. There were a handful of clothes in the wardrobe, although Gray had presumably taken some with him on his weekend in Inverness. That was another question: what had happened to whatever bag he had taken with him?
Other than the clothes, the only other personal possessions visible were a rather battered old laptop on the dressing table and a small stack of motorcycle magazines.
‘Did he ride a motorbike?’
Ferris shook her head. ‘He kept saying he wanted to get one, but he couldn’t really afford it.’ Her eyes were still wet with tears, perhaps more so now she was able to look again at the small evidence of Gray’s time here.
Horton pulled open the drawers in the dressing table, but they were empty except for a handful of small change, a few chewed pens and what she took to be a phone charger. ‘He had a mobile phone, presumably?’
Ferris nodded. ‘I should have taken the number, but I never did. I suppose he must have phoned me a couple of times when he responded to the advertisement, so I might have it somewhere in my call log. I hadn’t thought of that before, or I’d have tried to call him when he didn’t return.’ Her expression suggested that this would give her another reason for blaming herself. It would almost certainly have made no difference, Horton thought. Gray had died sometime on the Sunday after he’d left here, so it would already have been too late before she had reason to be concerned.
The real question was what had taken Gray from drinking with his mates to what had turned out to be a fatal assignation at Fort George. The fort was midway between here and Inverness. Had someone offered to give him a lift back and then made a detour there?
‘If you can track down Mr Gray’s number, that’s likely to be helpful. We haven’t found his mobile – it wasn’t with him – but the number might help us track his movements over that weekend.’
‘I’ll go and look,’ she said, disappearing back towards the living room.
Carlisle had been standing by the door, watching Horton check the room. ‘Poor woman. She reminds me of my nan, too.’
‘She’s everyone’s nan,’ Horton said. ‘Gray was probably lucky to find her, if only for a few months. And probably vice versa.’
‘Not much in here, is there?’
‘Bugger all.’ Horton had picked up a pair of trousers from the floor and was gingerly checking the pockets. ‘We’ll take the laptop, assuming Mrs Ferris has no objections, just in case there’s anything useful on there. But I’m not hopeful.’ She took another look around the room. ‘This is where we’re supposed to find some clue that blows the case wide open, isn’t it? A matchbook with the name of a bar on it and a telephone number scribbled inside. That sort of thing.’ She tossed the trousers onto the bed. ‘Not a grubby pair of jeans with nothing but fluff in the pockets.’
They packed up the laptop and made their way back to the sitting room, where Ferris was still scrolling through her phone’s log. ‘This is the one, I think. There are a couple of calls from it at about the time Roddy moved in.’ She read out the number for Carlisle to note down.
‘That’ll be very helpful, Mrs Ferris,’ Horton said. ‘Are you happy for us to take Mr Gray’s laptop? There may be information on there that’s likely to be useful to us.’
‘Yes, of course. I don’t even know who it really belongs to now…’
‘I suppose strictly, if Mr Gray’s father is still alive or if he has another next of kin, it probably goes to them, assuming Mr Gray hadn’t indicated otherwise.’ She didn’t imagine that Gray had been either the age or the type to have made a will. ‘But I don’t imagine anyone’s going to care if you wanted it back once we’ve finished with it.’
‘I don’t think so, do you?’ Ferris said. ‘I’ll pack up his other stuff and put it somewhere safe, just in case anyone should want it. I don’t suppose anyone will. Poor wee thing.’
There wasn’t much doubt that she was right, Horton thought. It wasn’t much of an epitaph, even for such a short life. But it was unlikely that Roddy Gray would ever receive much more.