A Small Weeping (14 page)

‘According to our notes you became an inpatient at the Grange on January 25,’ Lorimer told him.

‘Aye. Burns night. They had tae haud me doon,’ Fulton smirked again.

‘Mr Fulton, forgive me, but wasn’t it rather an expense
for you to enter a private clinic for such a prolonged stay?’

‘Oh, aye. It’s a hell of an expense. But ah’ve goat kinda special terms, see?’

Lorimer nodded. He’d let that one pass. How a former shipyard worker who had been unemployed for as long as Fulton could have obtained private medical insurance, if that’s what he meant by
special terms,
was something of a mystery, though. There were things about this man that didn’t add up.

‘So could you find anybody who would verify that you were housebound on the night of January 12?’ Lorimer insisted.

‘Aye. Nae bother. I’ll speak tae wan o’ the boys.’

‘Boys?’

‘Aye. Ma lads. Gerry and Stephen. They’ll tell ye ah wis home a’ the time.’

‘Thank you.’

‘When do you expect to return to Glasgow?’ Solomon asked.

Fulton shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Sometime. It’s an open ticket we’ve goat. Maybe in a week or so. How?’

‘We need to know your whereabouts, Mr Fulton. It’s routine, that’s all,’ Lorimer answered for him. ‘Anyway, thank you for your time. If Sister Angelica is ready, we’d like to speak to her now.’

‘That it?’ Fulton asked, rising to his feet. ‘Right. OK, well. I’ll see if she’s there,’ he raised his hand in a short salute of farewell and headed for the door. As he left, he turned and glowered at the two men sitting by the window. Solly, seeing his expression merely smiled and nodded in return.

The woman came into the room immediately. She was, they saw, dressed for the outdoors, her wax coat already buttoned up.

‘Not a day for sitting inside. You can talk to me all you want but don’t expect me to sit in here.’

She paused for a moment, regarding Solomon and Lorimer who had risen to their feet. ‘Got any warm jackets? That’s a north easterly wind, you know.’ Looking them up and down, she went back into the hallway calling, ‘Sula! Here, lass!’ There was the sound of claws scrabbling along the polished wooden floor then a dog whining excitedly. ‘Come on, then,’ Sister Angelica flung over her shoulder, ‘What are you waiting for?’

Lorimer handed over the car keys to Solly. ‘Jackets?’

‘If she says so,’ Solly raised his eyebrows.

The road from the house flowed over a rise and down towards the sea. Sister Angelica strode ahead, the collie barking at her heels. Overhead a gull squawked. Catching her up, Lorimer signalled the woman to slow down. Behind him, Solly walked, just within earshot.

‘Right-oh. What d’you want to ask a mad old nun, then?’ she grinned, turning to meet Lorimer’s eye.

Lorimer smiled back. ‘Not so old and not so mad, I think.’

Sister Angelica flung back her head and gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Well, maybe not so mad any more. Whatever they hoped to achieve seems to have worked. I’ll grant them that. Still, you can’t turn the clock back and I’m not going to see the right side of fifty again. There’s no known cure for the ageing process.’

‘We need to ask you about Kirsty MacLeod.’

The nun slowed her stride but kept on walking. ‘She’s dead. Someone killed her and it happened in the Grange while I was there.’ She looked at Lorimer, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘That’s all there is to know. She was a thoroughly nice young woman and nobody had any right to take her life away.’

Lorimer nodded. ‘That’s how I feel. That’s why we’re here. To try to find out as much as we can about the people who were there in the Grange that night.’

‘Chief Inspector. I really don’t see how I can help you. Some intruder obviously broke in and killed the girl. The back door of the basement was open, after all.’

‘How do you know that? You left early the next morning.’

‘Mrs Baillie told us. She said someone had broken in and attacked Kirsty. She said we’d be questioned by the police eventually. Sam thought it was a bit daft to go, just like that.’

‘So why did you leave?’

Sister Angelica gazed at the ground as if the wind blown grasses could supply her answer then she looked up at Lorimer.

‘Cowardice, I suppose. We just wanted to be away from the place. Even though I knew it was our duty to talk to the police we let Mrs Baillie persuade us. I’m ashamed to say we didn’t take much persuading.’

‘Can you remember the events of that night?’

‘Oh, yes. I remember them all right. I was sitting up in bed when Mrs Duncan began screaming at the top of her voice. We all began to drift into the corridor to see what had happened.’

‘What did you think had happened?’

‘I thought someone had topped themselves. Peter said there had been an accident and we should all go back to bed but I stayed.’

‘Why?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Force of habit, if you’ll excuse the pun. I’m used to being around crises.’

Lorimer let this go. It was probably true. ‘So, what happened then?’

‘Mrs Baillie tried to calm her down and Peter let me come into the staff room to make some tea. They didn’t seem to mind me being there,’ she added, as if this had only just occurred to her. ‘Mrs Duncan was shaking and sobbing by this time and I heard Mrs Baillie tell Peter she was going to telephone the police. That was when she told me to go back to my room.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes,’ she hesitated as if there was something more she wanted to say but couldn’t form the words.

‘Did you see anything strange that night, Sister?’ Lorimer looked intently at the nun.

‘Not strange, not really. Just,’ she gave her head a shake as if to clear her brain. ‘Just unusual.’

‘What was that?’

‘When I got back to my room one of the other patients was kneeling by my bed. praying.’

Lorimer stopped and caught her arm. ‘I would say that was very unusual.’

Sister Angelica gave a sigh. ‘More’s the pity, I say. But, you’re wrong as it happens. They all knew I was a nun and some of them would come into my room to talk about spiritual matters. I encouraged them. I even held a time of prayer each week. Well, they needed guidance if
they were in a clinic for neural disorders, didn’t they?’ she said briskly.

‘Who was in your room, Sister?’

The woman sighed again, her large white face turned up to Lorimer’s. ‘It was Leigh,’ she said. ‘And he was crying.’

‘Well, what do you think? Does Leigh Quinn fit your profile?’ Lorimer asked, taking his eyes off the road for a moment and turning to Solly with a scarcely contained excitement.

Solly said nothing. This was the moment he’d been dreading. He’d been waiting for just such a question from the DCI and had absolutely no answer. No answer and certainly no criminal profile. His mouth shifted into a little bitter twist. Not so long ago Lorimer had thrown scorn upon the veracity of such techniques as profiling and here he was now, all eager to have a response as if Solly were some conjurer pulling a rabbit out of his hat. The truth was that he didn’t have a clue. This case had puzzled him from the time he had visited the Grange. Nothing seemed to add up about the two killings. The different locations were odd for a start. The murder of a prostitute and a respectable nurse were at variance, too. Nor was there any matching DNA material. Yet the things that should have been significant remained: that flower and those praying
hands. It had to be one and the same killer.

Not a soul outside the murder investigation knew about these details; even the Press had depicted a corpse with praying hands like an effigy, palms towards heaven, not like their victims at all. So he’d ruled out any possibility of a copycat killing. Now Lorimer wanted answers and he had none to give.

‘You don’t think it’s Quinn? Is that it?’ Lorimer’s voice held just a hint of querulousness as Solly remained silent.

Solly heaved a sigh. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure at all. It would be better to re-interview the man, of course, but from his notes he seems a pretty withdrawn sort. Not the type to have easily consorted with a prostitute.’

‘I would have thought those kind of loners were exactly the sort who’d need a woman like that!’

‘But he’s practically non-verbal. He’d have needed some conversational skills to persuade the woman to go into the station with him,’ Solly protested.

It was Lorimer’s turn to fall silent. His sudden euphoria at the nun’s revelation had evaporated. Solly’s words made sense. And yet? Perhaps Leigh Quinn had been a different person back in January? Maybe his illness manifested itself in different ways? They’d have to re-examine the case notes thoroughly, that was for sure.

The sign for Callanish appeared and Lorimer turned off the road without consulting his companion. Right now he needed some fresh air and a chance to think without a nun and a dog at his heels.

As Lorimer switched off the engine and opened the door he glanced over to Solly, who was staring out of the windscreen as if he were miles away. Something was troubling the younger man. He got out, leaving Solly
sitting where he was. If he wanted to follow him, fine. If not, he was happy with his own company. Aware that a rift had developed between them, Lorimer turned his back on the Visitors’ Centre and walked purposefully towards the ancient ring of standing stones that stood out like giant fingers pointing skywards. There were no sounds of other vehicles on the road nor of aircraft overhead, only the thin cry of a bird that might have been a curlew. Lorimer squinted against the brightness of the sky and the water, shading his eyes to look for the bird.

Yes, there it was, almost hidden against the muddy browns of the lochan’s shoreline: unmistakeable with that long, curving beak. Another note made him look up suddenly to follow the flight of a lark, soaring into the pale skies. Still gazing heavenward, he heard the tread behind him.

‘Quite a place, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed,’ Lorimer replied, not looking down but still following the flight of the skylark as it became a dot against the clouds. When it had disappeared he turned to Solly and was gratified to see his face raised in similar rapture.

‘The Lark Ascending,’ Solly nodded. ‘He captured it so perfectly. Vaughan Williams. Yet the real thing never fails to work its magic, does it?’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t know you were a bird lover too.’

‘Ever since I was a little lad being taken around Saint James’s Park. It’s all part of my scientific curiosity, I suppose. How about you?’ Solomon looked quizzically at Lorimer through his horn-rimmed spectacles. There was a kindness to his tone as if he were speaking to one of the
patients in the Grange. Trying to sound me out, Lorimer thought. Was there a tentative suggestion here for him to open up his private thoughts?

Or had Solomon already drawn some profiling conclusions of his own? Lorimer was tempted for a moment to reveal his desires to this young man in a way that he had once shared with Maggie. He wanted to tell how he sometimes longed for wild open spaces like these and fresh air to fill his lungs instead of living within the confines of the city’s grid; how he wanted to turn his back on the paper trails that Mitchison left him to follow; how he felt that surge of freedom when gazing into the soul of a painting or following the song of a simple bird. These were desires of a kind that he kept strictly to himself.

But there was always that other desire, too, the desire to hunt out the truth. Sometimes it was like an itch that he automatically started to scratch without thinking, the kind of itch that made him demand answers to hard questions. Such as, who had killed a young nurse in Glasgow? Whoever it was had robbed her, forever, of the right to stand here as he stood now, simply glad to be alive.

Lorimer expressed none of these whirling thoughts to the man at his side, however much he might understand, but simply stood looking out over the landscape, his face as inscrutable as the mealiths themselves. The slanting grey stones thrust themselves out of the grass high above their heads. For a moment they stared at them silently. Lorimer felt the weight of years pressing down on the landscape. Did Solomon feel that too, he wondered?

‘Yes. Tomorrow or the day after. That’s right. The whole day, I’m afraid. The boats out of here aren’t frequent.
Sorry? Oh, just a small hotel near the harbour. Nothing fancy.’ Lorimer put a hand onto his stomach. That meal downstairs had been plain home cooking but the portions were obviously meant for appetites larger than his own.

‘Yes, Solly’s fine. OK. See you sometime tomorrow night or else I’ll phone you. ’Bye.’ Lorimer replaced the telephone on its cradle before realising he hadn’t asked Maggie how she was or what had been happening at home. Cursing himself, he lifted the handset again to redial but just at that moment a knock on the bedroom door made him drop the phone back with a clatter.

‘Thought you might fancy a drink. The bar downstairs looks friendly enough. What d’you think?’ Solly grinned from the doorway, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of his reply.

‘I’ll just grab my jacket.’ He slipped his wallet into the inside pocket, picked up the room key and closed the door behind them, all thoughts of another phone call forgotten.

Maggie put down the phone thoughtfully. It was the same as usual. No information about what was going on with the case nor any inquiry as to how
her
day had been. OK, so she was used to being told the minimum information or else none at all. That was standard procedure. So why did she suddenly feel so sidelined by her husband?

Maggie shivered despite the heat wafting from the radiator. She was sitting on the carpet by the phone, her back against the hall table. The wooden spar dug into her spine but she hardly noticed it. For a few minutes she closed her eyes, trying to imagine what he was doing up there in the Island of Lewis. It was a place they’d talked
about visiting but never had. Like so many of the things they’d intended to do. Opening her eyes, Maggie’s gaze fell upon the envelope. It looked like any other plain buff A4 envelope, nothing that should give rise to any excitement, but Maggie experienced a sudden lifting of her spirits just by seeing it there. It could be her passport to a different way of life. A life she’d be able to control for the first time in years. Why hadn’t she done something like this ages ago? When they’d finally given up trying to have a family, for instance? She’d let things drift just as much as he had. That was the plain truth of the matter. And it had taken that American woman to make her see things in a different light. Divine Lipinski had made an impact on her, that was for sure. Maggie cast her mind back to the night of the nurse’s murder when they’d been left so abruptly. She and Divine had talked for hours. About being a policeman’s wife. About all the dreams she’d shelved because of his job. And about how she yearned to travel. Divine had provided such colour and warmth that night. She’d made Maggie laugh about her life in Florida. She even made her involvement with crime in that part of the US sound amusing. Then she’d spoken about the Everglades, the sunsets over the Keys, the lazy flight of the brown pelicans; listening to her, Maggie was spellbound.

‘Come over, why don’t you?’ Divine had said. She’d brushed away all the excuses about Lorimer’s job. Maggie remembered the gentleness of her voice and the way she’d looked into her eyes. ‘I’m talking about you, Maggie, just you. Don’t you want to spread your wings just a little?’

Maggie stretched out her hand for the envelope and drew it towards her. The pages of the white form were stapled together at one corner. She flicked through the
contents speculatively. There was a closing date for this application. It was ages away but still she felt an urgency to do something now. She should discuss it with him first, surely? Almost as soon as the thought had come into her mind she dismissed it. No. This was for her to decide alone. It was her future. Her career.

There was no knowing whether they’d take her anyway, another little voice reasoned. Besides, hadn’t there been an element of fate in seeing that leaflet on the staff room noticeboard?

It hadn’t taken her long to collect the necessary references, either. Things had fallen swiftly into place as if it was meant to be. But she still hadn’t told a soul outside the school. Well, except for Divine.

Maggie pulled herself to her feet and strode through to the kitchen in search of a pen. She cleared a space and spread the form out on the table. A few minutes later it was completed. All she had to do to finish this application for a teacher exchange was to sign her name at the bottom. Then the wheels would be put into motion and she might just find herself flying out to the US for an academic year while another teacher came to take her place. Would he miss her? Would she feel differently about things when she came back? Questions reeled through her mind as the pen hovered over the last page of the document. Where was he now? a voice demanded. Away. As usual. Maggie bit her lip. Then suddenly she knew what she had to do.

The pen flew over the dotted line with a flourish and Maggie sat back in satisfaction, smiling at the two words: Margaret Lorimer. It was like looking at the name of a new and exciting stranger.