Blood on Old Stones

Book 26: DSI William Lorimer

by Alex Gray

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

The wildest places often conceal the darkest secrets...

DSI William Lorimer never expected that the next time he'd visit the Isle of Mull - where he and his wife, Maggie, have often wandered its windswept coasts and picturesque lochs - it would be for the funeral of an old friend.

Mary Grant's sudden heart attack was a shock to the small community on the island, but Lorimer has no reason to suspect foul play, until he is approached at the funeral by one of Mary's closest friends. She is convinced there was more to Mary's death than meets the eye. And when she, too, dies in a sudden accident, Lorimer finds himself investigating a double murder.

Mull is a place of spectacular beauty and characterful towns, but Lorimer knows that even here old secrets can resurface, resentments can run deep, and evil can lurk undetected.

Release date: March 12, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

Maggie Lorimer looked up, disturbed by a metallic sound from the letter box, blinked once, then resumed writing her final sentence.

Her fingers left the computer keyboard, and she sat back, rereading her words, nodding in satisfaction. Once more, Maggie bent over, adding, ‘. . . The End’.

It was done now, she sighed, and hopefully her editor would be happy to have another adventure about Gibby, the little ghost boy.

A shaft of sunlight fell onto her desk, burnishing its old, polished oak, catching the edge of the green glass lampshade. Piles of correspondence were heaped up on her in-tray, a wobbly stack of notebooks leaning against it, scraps of paper and scribbled backs of envelopes secured by a variety of glass paperweights. Her glance fell on the calendar, a view of Glencoe for this month of October, reminding Maggie that her school break was not too far off. Tomorrow she would be back in the classroom, her part-time work as a secondary school teacher of English that gave her a different sort of satisfaction from the intensity of writing children’s fiction. She closed her eyes, reaching to massage the back of her neck, tension of that final chapter gathering in her shoulder muscles.

It was time for a treat. A cup of her favourite Earl Grey and a home-made scone, Maggie decided, rising from her chair, now absently rubbing the base of her spine. First, though, she ought to remember to pick up whatever mail had been pushed through their letter box.

Walking slowly from the hall back through the open-plan room towards the kitchen, Maggie flicked through the post. There were flyers that would go straight into the recycling, and one addressed to Mr and Mrs William Lorimer, its postmark too faint to make out. She’d leave that one till her policeman husband came home, Maggie decided, laying the rest to one side of the breakfast bar while she lifted the kettle.

It was a fine autumn day and warm for the time of year, the afternoon sun beaming down on their south-facing garden. She’d take her tea outside, the scone and jam a small reward for finishing another book.

The back door opened out to a wide lawn fringed by mature beech trees, their leaves turning to amber. It would take a few frosty nights before they assumed their final russet colour, blending with the pelt of Mr Fox, a frequent visitor to their garden.

A small sound at her feet made her look down to see Chancer, their old marmalade cat, weaving his furry tail around Maggie’s legs before jumping onto the bench by her side.

Maggie fondled his ears, smiling as the thrumming, deep-throated purrs began, then watched the cat settle down, head tucked between his paws. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the sounds; a robin whistling from a nearby branch, its frosty note presaging the darker season ahead, far-off car doors slamming and children’s voices, signalling pick-up time at the local primary school a street away from their quiet cul-de-sac. Soon there was silence once more and Maggie Lorimer knew that surge of joy that comes from being at peace with oneself and the world.

In a few hours the sun would sink behind the trees, the blue skies fading into palest primrose against the horizon. Soon enough Maggie would go into her kitchen to prepare the evening meal, feed Chancer and watch as the streetlights began to glimmer in the dusk. But, for now, she sat savouring the warmth of sunlight, content to enjoy the last of this tranquil afternoon.

‘There’s a letter,’ Maggie told her husband as they sat opposite one another at the dining table, empty pudding plates testament to their enjoyment of Maggie’s apple and bramble crumble. ‘It’s addressed to us both. Thought you might want to open it?’

Lorimer took up the marble-shafted letter opener and slit the envelope, drawing out a notecard with a design of summer flowers and butterflies on the front. He gave a mock grimace and passed it over.

‘Here, looks more like something for you,’ he said.

Maggie opened the letter and scanned the small, neat handwriting.

‘Oh, no!’ she cried, glancing up at Lorimer then back at the note.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lorimer asked, rising from his seat and coming round the table to look over Maggie’s shoulder.

‘It’s Mary Grant,’ Maggie groaned. ‘She’s died.’

‘Mary? Our Mary from Leiter? Oh, surely not. What happened?’

Wordlessly Maggie handed him the letter.

Dear Bill and Maggie,

I am so sorry to be the bearer of sad news but our dear friend, Mary Grant, has passed away. It was quite sudden, so a blessing of sorts I suppose as she had no lingering illness or suffering. Calum asked me to write to you and ask if you would like to attend the funeral. It’s to be a burial at Pennygown cemetery, not far from Fishnish Bay, and will take place on Friday 9th October at 2.30.

I know you were both fond of our Mary and spent several happy times at Leiter Cottage. I’m sure if you could manage the trip folk will be pleased to see you. I know I would.

It is still summer timetable for the ferries and we are having to put up with the slow one some days till MacBrayne’s get their hands on these new boats all us islanders have been waiting for.

Calum and Fraser send you their best wishes as do I. Please come.

Your friend,

Chrissie MacPhail

‘Poor Mary!’ Maggie shook her head as Lorimer passed back the letter. ‘We’ll go, of course, won’t we? We can leave on the Friday morning and catch a midday boat then drive straight there. What do you think?’

‘Sounds like a plan.’ He nodded. ‘That is really sad, though. Mary can’t have been more than early sixties, surely? She didn’t look it at any rate. Bit of a shock for her boys,’ he murmured. ‘Of course we’ll go, darling. Mary was good to us and . . .’ he sighed deeply, ‘It won’t be the same visiting Mull without her there to greet us.’

‘That’s it settled then,’ Maggie said. ‘I’ll book the ferries straight away and we can think about where to stay. The cottage will be out of the question under the circumstances, I suppose.’

‘Well,’ Lorimer began, ‘it’s the start of your October fortnight and you don’t work at school on Fridays. Why don’t we stay on a bit longer? You’ve been working so hard lately and I think you could do with a change of scene. Let me treat you to somewhere really nice.’

‘Like the Western Isles Hotel in Tobermory?’ Maggie’s eyes lit up as she suggested it.

‘Why not? It’s a useful base for getting about and I wouldn’t mind a few trips to Calgary . . .’

‘With a pair of binoculars around your neck, no doubt!’ Maggie teased.

‘Aye,’ he said, grinning. ‘Just that. Should we take your car or mine?’

‘Oh, take yours. It’ll be getting colder up there, and the Lexus has got heated seats. I like my comforts,’ she said. ‘You never mind driving on one-track roads with passing places, do you?’

‘Fine by me,’ he said.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the landline, its old-fashioned ringtone a rarity these days.

‘Hello?’

Maggie watched as her husband’s face became still, a serious expression in his eyes.

‘I’m so very sorry, Calum,’ she heard him tell the caller. ‘We were fond of your mum . . . in fact we just got a letter from Chrissie . . .’

So, it was Calum Grant calling from Tobermory, Maggie thought, as she listened quietly. And, as the conversation continued, it was clear that Mary’s son was doing exactly the same as Chrissie MacPhail, inviting them to attend the funeral.

‘We’ll be there, Calum, never fear,’ Lorimer said, glancing across at Maggie before hanging up.

‘Ach, poor lad. They’re all very shocked at Mary’s sudden death,’ he commented, shaking his head sadly.

‘Good of him to take the trouble to call us,’ Maggie said. ‘There must be a lot to do besides inviting friends.’

‘Aye.’ Lorimer nodded, letting the sad silence deepen between them.

Later, after he had stacked the dishwasher and cleaned up, Lorimer sat by the unlit fire and read Chrissie’s letter once more. The passage of time seemed marked by more old friends passing on, he thought sadly. That was the price one paid for a busy life, years going by and age mounting up. Perhaps Mary had been older than they had realised and yet, thinking of her smiling face and no-nonsense attitude, Lorimer remembered their friend as fit and healthy, always on the go. So many of the islanders seemed indestructible, weathered by the Atlantic winds and never happier than being out of doors like Mary with her chickens and ducks, cleaning the cottage between lets, and baking, always baking for her many visitors. That’s how he would remember the woman from Mull. A tanned face and a ready smile. He sighed. Their world was going to be that little bit poorer without her.

It hardly seemed eight whole months since they had brought Janette Kohi from Zimbabwe to join her son in Glasgow. And now it was time for goodbyes.

Maggie stood a little apart from Daniel and Netta as they embraced the tiny African lady in a hug, wondering what was going through their minds. As they broke apart, she saw Netta reaching for a handkerchief, her eyes already red-rimmed.

‘I’ll be back for the wedding,’ Maggie heard the elderly lady promise her son, hands grasping Daniel’s arms. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she added with a tremulous smile. ‘God is good.’ She tilted up her chin and gazed into her son’s eyes. ‘Don’t ever forget that, Daniel.’

‘I won’t, Mum. Just you keep safe and tell Uncle Yadon to take good care of you.’

‘You need have no worries on that score,’ Janette assured him. ‘I’ll be safe and happy under new African skies.’ She turned and held out a hand to Maggie.

‘Thank you for everything, my dear. I’ll always be grateful for what you did. Bless you.’

‘Netta, I promise to write as soon as I’m settled,’ she told the white-haired woman whose lower lip was trembling as she blinked back tears.

Then, picking up her hand luggage, Janette Kohi walked towards the security entrance, glancing back just once to give them a little wave. Then she was gone, swallowed up in the line of passengers.

None of them spoke as they made their way back to the car park, Netta’s sniffles and sighs a soundtrack to how they were feeling.

Maggie reached her own car first.

‘Well, I’ll be off then. I’m sure your mum is doing what is right for her, Daniel. She misses Africa so much and your uncle will take good care of her.’

Daniel Kohi nodded, evidently still too full for words.

‘She telt me he’s goat that many cows it means he’s a rich fella,’ Netta said at last. ‘Big farm in Botswana outside thon place, what d’ye call it again? Gabby something.’

‘Gaborone,’ Maggie replied. ‘She’ll be safe there and it isn’t the last time you’ll see her, Netta. There’s a wedding coming up, after all, and she isn’t going to miss seeing her Daniel and Molly getting married.’

‘Aye, that’s true. Mibbe she’ll stay with me in our place?’

Daniel looked at the two women and nodded. ‘Molly and I are planning a honeymoon in Botswana, partly so we can accompany Mum on her return journey to her new home with my uncle Yadon. I think she wants to come a few weeks before the wedding so she can spend some time in Scotland.’

Netta nodded. ‘Aye, sounds right, son. Cannae have the pair sowel comin’ a’ that way jist for a few days.’

‘Well, I’d better say goodnight, you two. Work tomorrow,’ Maggie told them, giving Netta and then Daniel a hug before slipping into the driver’s seat.

The journey home in the dark made Maggie Lorimer think about their holiday back in February, under Zimbabwean skies full of stars. Who was it had sung about cities where ‘the stars paid a light bill’? Joni Mitchell, she remembered, driving along the motorway from Glasgow International airport. Janette had been full of excitement at the prospect of settling down with her brother in Botswana, his offer of a small bungalow on his estate readily accepted. Thinking of the nights in Africa with that texture of sound made Maggie smile. It had been a trip full of adventures and some dangerous moments, but she didn’t regret it one bit. She and Bill had memories enough to last a lifetime and they had brought Janette back to live with Daniel for those past months, a reunion that had brought such joy to them all.

It might all have gone so terribly wrong, of course, the thought of those people who had intended harm on Daniel’s mother and the Lorimers still making Maggie shiver.

They were all safe now and life had moved on, Daniel and Molly engaged to be married and Netta content to keep house for the man who had once been her refugee neighbour.

Nothing stayed the same, she pondered, thinking about the weeks ahead. It was growing darker every day, and colder too, a time of year when folks tended to light their lamps and close their curtains. Soon the school term would finish, and they would be on the road once more, first Oban and then the ferry to Mull.

She took a deep breath. It was hard to imagine driving off the boat and not seeing Mary Grant’s cheerful face at Leiter again, instead to Pennygown cemetery for that final goodbye.

There was something special about leaving the city behind and entering Loch Lomond National Park, Maggie decided as they drove around the Stoneymollan roundabout and onto narrower roads. It was as if she had been holding her breath and now felt the relief of relaxing in one long exhalation.

‘Okay?’ Lorimer asked.

‘Yes,’ Maggie replied, turning to give him a smile.

The morning had begun with a veil of mist across their garden and now she could see that the peak of Ben Lomond was obscured by clouds, skies that had been blue as they’d left Glasgow now the colour of spoiled milk. By the time the big car had traversed the winding road around the loch, rain had started in earnest. They stopped at the Green Welly in Tyndrum for a coffee, a halfway point on their journey. And, by the time they drove down the brae in Oban, the rain was lashing down.

‘Did you bring an umbrella?’ Maggie asked as Lorimer drove onto the pier.

‘Got one in the boot,’ he assured her.

Maggie nodded, absently pulling her scarf a little closer around her neck. The prospect of being at a funeral in weather like this added to her general feeling of gloom, something that had been gathering over the miles. Looking out at Oban Bay, she could see the wind sweeping waves into creamy peaks, nearby fishing boats rocking on their moorings. Today it was slate grey and unappealing, so unlike previous trips made when the waters were deep blue, reflecting summer skies above.

She shivered as they left the car deck and climbed steep steps to the observation lounge, though whether there was much to observe remained to be seen. The boat was busy with folk taking a late break during the school holidays though Maggie did spot a few figures clad in black, the menfolk, like her husband, with white shirts and black ties, no doubt bound like themselves for Mary’s funeral. The crossing was dreary, low cloud obscuring the hills on either side, dampening her spirits even further. Still, her heart lifted a little at the sight of Duart Castle standing on a promontory not far from the harbour at Craignure. There was something solid and timeless about the ancient stronghold of the Macleans that had endured many a storm over the centuries.

A voice over the tannoy instructing drivers to return to their cars broke into her thoughts and she felt Bill’s hand in hers as they made their way back down to the Lexus.

At last, it was their turn to trundle over the metal ramp and onto the pier and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. They were here again, and she would try to enjoy simply being back on an island they had grown to love. The old familiar sights were a comfort; the red corrugated roof of an ancient two-roomed ‘but and ben’, the dark pine trees of Fishnish forest and then, rounding that last bend, Leiter Cottage set back from the road, nestled against the rainswept hillside.

‘There it is,’ Lorimer murmured, slowing down a little. Maggie craned her neck to look at it for as long as she could before overgrown plantations of birch trees stole the little white house from their sight. She bit her lip as the road skirted the coastline, blinking back sudden tears. Life on Mull as they’d known it was never going to be the same again without their friend. She swallowed hard, bracing herself for the funeral service that lay ahead. And yet, there were those closest to Mary Grant who would be feeling a much sharper grief.

Some words of St Francis came back to her suddenly; wasn’t this a time when her part would be to console rather than to seek consolation?

Soon Lorimer was slowing the car down as they approached Pennygown cemetery and Maggie could see him anxiously scanning the area for a parking place amongst rows of cars and two minibuses.

‘We’re here in fairly good time,’ she said, peering through the rain-spattered windscreen. ‘What a lot of people,’ she gasped. ‘You’d think the whole island had turned out.’

‘Not surprising,’ Lorimer replied. ‘She was a much-loved lady.’

He was holding the umbrella over their heads, one arm around Maggie’s shoulders. She’d been right about the crowd, and it was only because of his height that Lorimer could watch the funeral proceedings. At six foot four, he towered over most men and women, often an advantage on such occasions. He looked around, hoping to see a familiar face or two, but the constant rain was forcing most of them to shelter beneath umbrellas or hoods that were pulled tight to keep out the wind. A man next to him at the back of the crowd gave a nod, uttering ‘Aye’, then turned away, the single word and sombre look full of whatever meaning Lorimer wished to take. Aye, it’s a sad day; aye, it’s a shocking wet afternoon for a funeral; aye, it’s a grand turnout for the lady; aye, it’s good to see you here . . .

The place where Mary Grant would be laid to rest was in a quiet corner close to the wall that separated this section of the cemetery from the war graves and, as more and more people arrived, Lorimer and Maggie had to move further back against the drystone dyke. Murmuring from the crowd ceased as soon as two black vehicles rolled slowly into view. All eyes turned to the hearse as it entered the graveyard bearing a pale wooden coffin topped with masses of white and yellow wreaths, presumably Mary’s favourite colours. That he had no idea what sort of flowers their friend had really liked made Lorimer realise that though he had felt a genuine warmth towards the owner of their holiday cottage, there was a lot that he and Maggie had not really known about Mary Grant’s life on the island. And yet, as well as Calum Grant’s phone call, they’d had that letter from Chrissie, her best friend entreating them to attend today.

The minister seemed not to notice the rain sweeping across the mourners, his white head bare, hands clutching a Bible within the folds of his black gown. Then a figure left the black limousine and came to his aid, unfurling a golf umbrella and drawing the old man to his side. Fraser Grant, Lorimer thought, noticing the red-haired man’s face. Calum, his dark-haired younger brother, joined him, followed by the wives and children, heads bowed against the rain or simply unable to look up at the mass of mourners waiting and watching. The funeral attendants gave a respectful bow then drew out the coffin. With no need for instruction, four men stepped from the crowd to join Mary’s two sons, each bearing his part of the burden.

He watched intently as the flowers were set aside by one of the attendants and the six men solemnly moved towards the grave. The profound silence was broken by a pair of oystercatchers squawking overhead, their sudden flight making Lorimer look up. Then the only sound was of raindrops pattering unceasingly on raised brollies all around him. Even the grandchildren were silent, no sobs or crying, their pale faces turned intently to watch as the remains of their grandmother were lowered into the depths of that dark hole in the ground.

A faint rattling sounded as the minister cast a handful of good Mull earth onto the coffin and then Lorimer heard a collective sigh, his own amongst them.

‘Dearly beloved,’ the minister’s voice rang out as he raised his hand as though to gain their attention, ‘we are gathered together in this place today to say our final farewell as we remember the life of Mary Elizabeth Grant, beloved wife of the late Alexander Grant.’

Lorimer listened intently as the old man continued. He’d never known Mary’s middle name, nor very much about her fisherman husband who had been lost at sea many years before, his age and dates engraved upon the black gravestone. All too soon his wife’s few details would be added below, he thought, stifling a sigh. Nobody moved despite the freezing rain gusting across their ankles, the respect for this occasion overcoming any discomfort. Then, as if from nowhere, came a single female voice, singing, ‘The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want . . .’ The sound rose into the cold air as, one by one, everyone joined to sing the words of the old familiar psalm. As he let his voice join the unaccompanied choir, Lorimer found himself thinking of the words, death’s dark vale. Was there really any comfort to be found in a loving god? Maggie certainly thought so but seeing so much of mankind’s viciousness against his fellow man in his profession had often caused Lorimer to doubt.

Then the minister’s arms were raised as he intoned the benediction and Lorimer decided that might be the signal to leave and head back to the car. Not a soul moved, however, and the silence that followed the final whispered amens was pierced by the sound of a piper. He looked across to see a kilted figure on the brown hillside and listened as the strains of ‘Flowers of the Forest’ resounded in the still air.

It took a while for the crowd to disperse, Lorimer and Maggie waiting till those who had arrived before them walked solemnly behind the minister and the Grant family. At last, they were back in the car and driving slowly behind the line of traffic as it made its way along the road to Glen Forsa for the wake.

 

So, he’d come, then, the tall detective and his wife from Glasgow. Paying their respects, or perhaps now that Mary was gone, they had a thought of buying the cottage for themselves? Whatever, it would do to keep an eye on them and hope they returned on an early boat. It was common knowledge that Lorimer had gained a bit of a reputation some years back, poking his nose where it didn’t belong, unearthing secrets that might have been better kept hidden. Still, wasn’t he a detective superintendent now, head of some big department?

Crimes in the city would draw him back, a small voice told me. Don’t worry on his account.

 

‘Oh, I’ll be glad of a cup of tea,’ Maggie said with a shiver as they approached the entrance to the new restaurant and farm shop at Glen Forsa. ‘I still can’t feel my feet. That was a lovely service, though, despite the weather.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘That singing . . .’ He paused, wondering how to describe the tingling sensation he’d felt as the crowd had lifted their voices as one. Such events had been taking place from time immemorial and perhaps the islanders were accustomed to similar funeral services but for William Lorimer the occasion had been somewhat unique.

‘Did you hear the oystercatchers?’

Maggie nudged him with her elbow. ‘Och, you and your birds!’ she exclaimed, throwing him a knowing look.

There was no need to ask where they were going as they entered Glen Forsa, lines of men and women all heading in the same direction through glass doors and into the wide space of the restaurant. From the foyer he could see that tables had been set out here and also in a covered terrace that adjoined the building. It was the first time he had set foot here, the new place chosen for the wake since the nearby hotel was now closed for the season. Over the heads of the men and women who preceded them, Lorimer could see Fraser and Calum Grant and their wives standing to greet the mourners, a handshake or a hug and a few words given to each.

‘Mr Lorimer, Maggie . . . Oh, we’re so glad you managed to come!’ Calum Grant declared, grasping Lorimer’s hand firmly in his own calloused one.

‘Calum, so sad about your mum,’ Lorimer began.

‘Aye,’ the man replied with a nod, ‘aye, it was a shock. Perfectly well one day and the next . . .’ He broke off with an attempt at a shrug. ‘Never know what’s in front of you so you don’t.’

Lorimer moved on, hearing Maggie give her condolences, then they were approached by a young waiter bearing a tray of whiskies and glasses of orange juice. Despite the fact he had still a few miles to drive up to Tobermory, Lorimer was glad of a dram to warm him up and noticed that Maggie had also taken a small glass.

‘Oh, there you are, now just come over here and join us, will you?’ He looked down and there was Chrissie MacPhail, the Tobermory postmistress, tugging at his sleeve. Chrissie was dressed in a black two-piece, a high-necked white blouse fastened at her throat with a round silver brooch, a bright Cairngorm stone at its centre. Her best clothes for her best friend, he thought suddenly. She was what an islander might describe as a strapping lass, her build no doubt testimony to years of excellent home baking freely sampled. And yet a bonny woman, that ready smile her best feature.

‘Here he is, the man himself!’ Chrissie declared to the men and women seated around a table that was set for eight, with plates of sausage rolls, scones a. . .