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Echo of the Dead - William Lorimer Series 19 (2022), page 1
Alex Gray is the Sunday Times bestselling author of the Detective William Lorimer series. Born and raised in Glasgow, she has been awarded the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable and Pitlochry trophies for her crime writing and is the co-founder of the international Bloody Scotland Crime Writing Festival.
To find exclusive articles, reviews and the latest news about Alex Gray and the DSI Lorimer series, visit www.alex-gray.com or follow Alex on Twitter @alexincrimeland.
ALSO BY ALEX GRAY
The William Lorimer series
Never Somewhere Else
A Small Weeping
Shadows of Sounds
The Riverman
Pitch Black
Glasgow Kiss
Five Ways to Kill a Man
Sleep Like the Dead
A Pound of Flesh
The Swedish Girl
The Bird That Did Not Sing
Keep the Midnight Out
The Darkest Goodbye
Still Dark
Only the Dead Can Tell
The Stalker
When Shadows Fall
Before the Storm
Echo of the Dead
Ebook only
The Bank Job
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-7515-8327-4
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Alex Gray 2022
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Lyrics to ‘The Massacre of Glencoe‘ written by
Jim McLean, © Duart Music 1963.
Quote on p79 from ‘The Waste Land’ by T.S. Eliot.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Also by Alex Gray
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Glencoe: 13 February, 1692
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to John, Suzy,
Chris, Eloise and Blake with my love.
Keep climbing those mountains.
I will look to the mountains;
where will my help come from?
Psalm 121
‘Oh cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe’
‘The Massacre of Glencoe’,
THE CORRIES
PROLOGUE
He closed his eyes and heaved a contented sigh, the taste of deer meat still on his lips. Sleep would come easily now, the food washed down not just with ale but generous glasses of their own Uisge Beatha, the water of life. It was distilled deep in a hidden cleft of their stronghold, dark and peaty, as warming as the embers still burning on the hearth. He had not begrudged giving it to his guests; they would be slumbering by now, replete after the feast the womenfolk had prepared.
Pulling the cover over his beard, MacDonald lay still, a soft smile upon his lips, the night drawing its dark shadows into the room, no sounds but for a whispering wind beneath the door and the hoot of an owl hunting under the stars.
If he had woken, he might have seen the flash of a blade, bright against the flickering firelight, but death took him even as he dreamed of summer days that would never come again. The knife stabbed through skin and sinew, the hand that gripped the deadly weapon soon smeared with hot blood, the killer’s face tense with fury.
There was little sound as the door opened and closed, simply a dull thud then footsteps disappearing into the night.
One small draught from that door and the last flame on the fire guttered and died, all light extinguished.
CHAPTER ONE
Lorimer’s words were still ringing in his ears as Daniel pulled his backpack from the boot of the Lexus. The story of that massacre in the glen was so vivid that he had glanced across Rannoch Moor several times as if to expect the sight of bloodthirsty Highlanders careering over one of the dark ridges, even though the scene of that historic event was still some way ahead. They would drive through Glencoe itself after today’s climb, Lorimer had promised; it’s well worth the extra few miles, he’d told Daniel. Then he’d begun a tale that had made the man beside him stare towards the mountains, imagining the events from over three centuries ago.
The massacre of Glencoe had taken place on a cold February day, Lorimer told him, when men in that part of the world were ruthless bandits, marauding the settlements of other clans and carrying off their livestock. It put Daniel in mind of the Matabele tribesmen in his homeland of Zimbabwe, notorious for their warlike ways against their more peace-loving Shona neighbours. Yet this story had an edge to it that made Daniel Kohi shiver. The MacDonalds of Glencoe had welcomed the Campbells into their midst – Highland hospitality being one of their foremost traits – only to have these visitors gather during the night and slaughter them. There was much more to the tale, Lorimer had said, giving Daniel a wry smile as he navigated the road winding over bleak moorland, and he would tell him the rest as they drove through Glencoe itself.
Now the mountain he had seen from afar rose above them.
‘Buachaille Etive Mòr, the big hill of the Etive shepherd.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘Or maybe it’s the hill of the big Etive shepherd, whoever he was. Anyhow, that’s a rough translation from the Gaelic name.’
‘It’s certainly big,’ Daniel admitted, tightening the straps of his pack and taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air. There it was, this mountain as a child might draw it, the topmost peak thrusting into a clear blue sky. Winter was still clinging to this place, gullies filled with snow and a deceptive sun promising more warmth than it actually gave.
‘Couldn’t have chosen a better day for a climb,’ he added, ‘and other people evidently think so, too.’ He nodded towards a couple of vehicles over where Lorimer had parked the Lexus.
‘Aye, but remember this is Scotland. A change can happen pretty quickly and there’s no guarantee we’ll make the summit if a mist comes down. You’ve got plenty of spare warm clothes in there?’ Lorimer nodded towards Daniel’s pack.
‘And some of Netta’s scones.’ Daniel grinned, referring to his elderly neighbour who had adopted him when he’d first arrived in the city.
‘Right, that’s ten o’clock now,’ Lorimer said, looking at his watch. ‘We’ve enough daylight to make it up and back by mid-afternoon so long as the weather holds. I’d love for you to see the view from the top and also Crowberry Tower, a favourite ridge of rock climbers.’
Daniel followed the tall figure as he set off along the trail that would lead to the best ascent of the mountain. Superintendent William Lorimer was an experienced hill climber and Daniel was happy to stay behind him, watching the way he stepped over boulders and skirted muddy patches as if he did this every day of his life.
The temperature was a few degrees above freezing and although there was no wind chill here, sheltered as they were by the flanks of the towering mountain, both men had come prepared with thick gloves and fleece-lined hats pulled over their ears. Lorimer had brought crampons and an ice axe, too, though he hoped not to need either on such a still, calm day.
Mid-March could be notorious, he’d warned his friend, turning from conditions like these into a sudden blizzard with little warning. They’d taken all the precautions, of course, consulting forecasts and making sure othe
Straw-coloured winter grasses and russet bracken covered most of the terrain but here and there clumps of early primroses peeped shyly from under mossy banks. In the weeks ahead he would see a lot of change, Lorimer had promised, as the hedgerows began to green, and bare-branched trees came into leaf. It had been a cold November day that had heralded Daniel’s arrival in Glasgow, and he was yet to experience any season other than winter, but even he could feel a change in the air as he inhaled the fresh sweet scent of bog myrtle.
As he looked up, Daniel saw a figure ahead, descending the track, the red jacket and dark trousers steadily coming closer until it became a man making his way downhill with the aid of two narrow sticks. Had he already made the top of this mountain? Daniel wondered, rather in awe of anybody setting off at the crack of dawn to tackle the climb.
‘Grand day,’ Lorimer called out as the man came into earshot, but there was no reply, merely a nod acknowledging their presence as fellow climbers.
Daniel paused and looked back as the fellow walked swiftly away. If he’d made the summit already, then he did not appear to be suffering any ill effects. He was of average build, maybe in his late thirties, a thin determined face under a dark hat with ear flaps. Most people observing a passer-by would take scant notice of such details, but Daniel Kohi possessed that rare quality, a memory that stored every little thing away, to be taken out and examined when necessary.
A small noise made him turn to see a trickle of stones falling down the side of the path, Lorimer’s climbing boots apparently having dislodged them. Daniel looked up at the snowy heights above him, dazzling as the sun’s rays seemed to turn them to crystal. Avalanches were not unexpected on this particular mountain and the rapid descent of these stones served to remind him of this grim fact. Daniel climbed on, placing each booted foot carefully, feeling the first stirrings of effort in his legs. He’d be feeling the muscles protesting tomorrow, Lorimer had laughed, but the sense of elation when they’d made the summit would be worth it.
It did not take long for Daniel to realise that he was in a rhythm of movement, each step taking him closer to the moment when he might gain the peak and look out on what Lorimer had promised to be a spectacular view of Glencoe.
Apart from that early morning climber they appeared to have the mountain all to themselves, although when they had pored over the contours of their map Lorimer had pointed out a more difficult route favoured by rock climbers. The reality of this mountainside with its windswept grasses and occasional pink rocks protruding from the undergrowth was so very different from Daniel’s anticipation. Yes, he’d told Lorimer, Zimbabwe did have its own highlands, a range on the country’s eastern border with Mozambique, but no, he’d never climbed to the top of any of them, although Mount Nyangani was higher than any of the mountains in the UK and the Mutarazi Falls were the second highest waterfall in all of Africa.
Everything about Scotland was so different from home, Daniel thought as a shadow fell across his path, the flank of the mountain suddenly obscuring the sun. He had never felt so cold as that day arriving in Glasgow, rain lashing the pavements, wind sweeping through the alleyways. It was cold here, too, but the sort of cold that made him feel the blood tingling in his veins, spurring him on. There were gnarled scrubby shrubs and grey heather roots to each side of the trail, quite unlike the lush foliage around the foothills in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe. Yet both countries appeared to have the same custom of firing the dead grasslands (or heather, in this country), a practice that seemed to be part of nature’s annual regeneration.
‘Want to stop for a break?’ Lorimer called back and Daniel pulled back his sleeve to glance at his watch. They’d been climbing for over an hour, much to his surprise. He grinned up at the other man, nodding his agreement.
Lorimer had found a flat stone slightly away from the track and so both men sat there, sharing Netta’s buttered scones, munching contentedly.
‘That fellow was up with the lark,’ Lorimer commented. ‘Must have been staying locally to have got up and back by ten this morning.’
‘It was still dark at six,’ Daniel frowned. ‘Could he have done the climb in less than four hours?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘Don’t know. If he’s local, perhaps he does it regularly. There are some folk who run up and down a mountain for fun, you know. There was a famous race to the top of Ben Lomond and back, but the track became so worn I think that was stopped.’
Daniel shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Who would run up a mountain? It’s hard enough just walking,’ he protested.
‘A Scots lad broke the record for climbing every Munro not so long ago,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Took him less than thirty-two days running, cycling and kayaking to complete the lot.’
Daniel frowned in disbelief. ‘Running? And how many Munros are there?’
‘Well, he’s a running coach, so obviously ultra-fit,’ Lorimer explained. ‘And there are currently two hundred and eighty-two peaks that qualify as Munros. I’ve done a few but I’m not one of those folk who just like to tick them off as a challenge completed.’
‘One might be enough for me,’ Daniel sighed, ‘and I am happy to walk at your pace.’
‘It’s the way back down that could be harder on the legs,’ Lorimer cautioned. ‘That’s what will make yours feel like wobbly jelly by the time we’re back in Glasgow.’
He sat back against the slope, hands clasped behind his head, and sighed. ‘Ah, this is what I’ve been dreaming of for months, Daniel. Wide open spaces, clean air to breathe … ’ He broke off and grinned. ‘Plus, the bonus of your friend Netta’s scones. Don’t tell my wife, but these are the best I’ve ever tasted,’ he whispered.
Daniel gazed down at the winding trail, surprised how far they had already climbed. The car park was a distant blur near the A82 and there was no sign of the climber with the red jacket. Glancing up, he saw that there were now a few clouds moving slowly across skies that had been clear when they had set off, reminding him of Lorimer’s cautious words about how swiftly the weather might change.
‘Daniel! Look!’ Lorimer nudged his friend’s elbow, handing over his binoculars. ‘A snow bunting,’ he whispered.
Daniel could see a tiny white bird against an outcrop of rock, then it came more sharply into view as he caught it in the powerful lenses. It was about the size of a finch, mostly white with smudges of amber around the neck and cheek, its wings streaked with black.
‘Not just your first Munro, but your first snow bunting.’ Lorimer grinned, taking the binoculars back and slinging them around his neck.
Daniel folded the paper bag of scones carefully into his pack beside the map and hefted it onto his shoulders as they began to set off once more. Lorimer had shown him that this mountain top was actually a ridge and that three different Munros might be accessed from the peak of Buachaille Etive Mòr, though the highest one was their goal for today. The snack had given Daniel renewed energy and he quickly established his rhythm again, determined to complete the ascent.
There was nobody waiting at home for Daniel Kohi to boast about the achievement of his first hill climb, this mighty Scottish mountain in an area steeped in so much history, but he knew that Netta Gordon would want to hear every detail so that she might write a letter to Daniel’s mother. Since Christmas the pair had corresponded regularly, and Jeanette Kohi had even managed to borrow a mobile phone to text her son. Maggie Lorimer, the detective superintendent’s wife, would be interested to hear of their day’s outing, too, he thought, as the track became steeper and the way ahead appeared to be full of grey rocks.
‘Go slowly here, Daniel.’ Lorimer had stopped and turned to speak to his friend. ‘This last bit is mostly scree and can be really tricky. Lean into the hillside a bit and let your body do the work.’
Daniel looked up doubtfully at the mass of stones that seemed to separate them from the peak but, heeding Lorimer’s advice, he stepped more slowly, careful not to dislodge a pile of craggy-looking rocks. The sweat began to trickle from under the rim of his hat and run down the side of his face, but still he kept going.
The summit came almost as a surprise, the ridge of rock falling away on either side.
