A Small Weeping (15 page)

Solly and Lorimer strode towards the narrow staircase that led to the hotel foyer and thence to the bar. The hum of talk was as thick as the cigarette smoke that hung like a hill mist in the airless room. In one corner a large individual in jeans and grubby t-shirt battled against aliens in the shape of a games machine. From his curses it sounded as if the aliens were winning.

‘What’ll you have?’

‘Oh, why not a local malt, eh?’

Lorimer grinned. There was something about being with Solly tonight that made him feel as though he were on holiday. It wasn’t a feeling he was very used to, he thought as he pushed his way between the rounded shoulders of two burly seamen. Lorimer caught the barman’s eye and gave his order then, turning to see where Solly had gone, he watched as the man weaved his way to a vacant table by the window. His beard nodded up and down as he responded to some friendly remark from a total stranger. There was a touch of the exotic about Solomon Brightman that drew
eyes to him, thought Lorimer. On his own patch, Lorimer knew he was pretty easy to identify as Plain Clothes. But that didn’t seem to apply up here. He studied the faces around him, noting the weather-beaten complexions of the fishermen and trawler men who slouched against the bar.

There was a knot of older fellows dressed in shabby jackets and tweed bunnets. Lorimer pigeonholed them as local worthies. Maybe they’d be good for information after a dram or two, he mused, the policeman’s train of thought taking over. Behind them Lorimer’s eyes made out the paler faces of a group of skinny boys lounging in a dingy corner. They were likely drinking up the week’s giros, if he read them aright. He’d no illusions about the unemployment difficulties in these parts but as he watched them his thoughts turned to those other youths who had left the islands to find work.

Inevitably his mind turned to Kirsty.

As Lorimer carried back the drinks to where Solly was sitting he glanced this way and that, watching for a stare or a wondering eye to catch but nobody seemed the least interested in him. He was just another tourist passing through. So it was with some surprise that he felt a tug at his sleeve.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Lorimer turned to see Rowena Evans, an insouciant grin on her face. Lorimer hesitated. Was the girl underage or not? Her manner suggested that she was quite used to coming into the hotel for a drink but that meant nothing. He followed the girl’s eyes towards their table where Solly sat reading the Gazette. So that was her little game, was it? Well, Solly was more than a match for a warm-blooded teenager.

‘Why not. We’re just over here.’ Lorimer stepped aside to let Rowena slither through the gap between the tables.

‘Oh, hallo,’ as soon as he caught sight of the girl, Solly rose to his feet, the newspaper slipping on to the floor.

‘Here. A local malt, you said?’ Lorimer put down the drinks as Rowena slipped into the chair opposite Solly. ‘What about you, Rowena?’

‘Oh, just a diet coke, thanks. I’m driving,’ she replied, a twinkle in her eye as if she had already guessed Lorimer’s thoughts. As he left the pair at the table Lorimer wondered if Rowena Evans had deliberately chosen to come to the hotel knowing that Solly and he were staying over. Or was it just a coincidence?

‘You’re a criminal profiler, Dad says,’ she began. ‘Does that mean you have to interview lots of really nasty folk?’

Solomon laughed. ‘I don’t really interview people much at all during an investigation. That’s up to the investigating officer and his team. In this case, Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer.’

Rowena turned to glance at Lorimer who was patiently waiting his turn at the bar once more. She shrugged. ‘So what do you do, then? Weren’t you up here to question Sam and Angelica?’

Solly’s smile died on his lips. The girl’s eagerness to find out about his professional techniques seemed feigned suddenly. Had John Evans put his daughter up to this, perhaps?

‘Rowena, this is a murder investigation. A young woman from Harris died in pretty horrible circumstances and we are all trying to find out everything we can about the world she came from and the people who knew her.
Anybody from the clinic who had met her might be of help,’ he told her, his voice deliberately grave.

‘So you don’t think it was Sam or Sister Angelica?’ Solly stared at the girl, not answering, until she dropped her gaze and flushed.

‘Sorry. I’m being a nuisance, aren’t I?’

‘You haven’t known these two patients very long, Rowena. Why all this solicitude for them?’

‘What?’

‘Solicitude.’ Solly stopped. The girl wasn’t one of his students; perhaps this was a term she might not understand. ‘Do you care about them a lot?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Rowena gasped with laughter. ‘I just want to know if I’m sleeping across the landing from a murderer!’

‘And do you have any reason to think you might be?’ Lorimer broke in, placing a bottle of Coke on the table.

‘Gosh, you gave me a fright. I didn’t hear you coming!’

‘Nervous type, are you?’ Lorimer joked, trying to make light of the girl’s reaction.

‘No, not usually.’

‘But you’re worried about the present house guests?’

‘Well, sort of. Not Angelica, really. She’s all right. Sam’s a bit creepy, though. Dad says he’s been through hell and back. I suppose I should feel sorry for them all. They’ve been so ill and all they want up here is a bit of peace and quiet. Well, they get that OK, I can tell you. This place is
dead.
OK, so I’m going with my pal to a disco tonight but that doesn’t happen very often.’

‘Sam Fulton. Is there any reason to feel a threat from him other than your own imaginings?’ Solly asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Has he actually done or said anything that gave you cause for concern?’

Rowena took a sip of her drink, considering Solly’s words. ‘No. It’s just that Dad seems to be with him all the time as if he’s worried to let Sam out of his sight. Like he’ll take him into town or they’ll both go up the hill with Sula. They even watch T.V. together. I mean, Dad never watches T.V He’d rather sit with his nose in a book.’

‘Me, too,’ Solly said and smiled as Rowena made a face at him.

Lorimer regarded the girl. She was restless on this island, a city girl who had been brought up here because of her parents’ work. ‘How long have you been living at Failte?’

‘Three years next August. I started at the Nicholson just after we came up.’

‘And have you any plans of your own for the future?’

‘Depends on my exam results, doesn’t it? Dad wants me to go to university but I’d rather get a job.’

‘In Glasgow?’

‘No way. I’m off to London first chance I get,’ she scoffed. ‘As far away from Lewis as I can manage.’

‘You’re not happy here, then?’ Solly inquired.

‘Oh, I’m happy enough. Mum and Dad are fine, you know. But I miss my friends from down South. Wish I could cadge a lift with you two or get a flight with Angelica tomorrow.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s leaving? Sister Angelica’s leaving the island tomorrow?’

‘Uhhuh. She told Dad she was going back to Glasgow just after you had left. Why?’ the girl looked from one
man to the other sensing the impact of her revelation.

‘No reason,’ fibbed Lorimer though his mind was racing with all sorts of possibilities.

‘Oh, here’s my pal Heather,’ Rowena stood up suddenly, waving to a dark-haired girl who was standing looking around the bar. ‘Thanks for the drink. Be seeing you.’ She gave the two men a quick smile as she left, her mind already on her friend and the evening ahead.

‘So,’ Lorimer said, cradling the malt whisky in his hands. ‘Sister Angelica has had enough of the quiet life already.’

‘I wonder,’ returned Solly. ‘Is she regretting telling us about Leigh Quinn?’

‘Or is there some other reason that’s taking her back to Glasgow?’ Lorimer frowned. The sooner they were on that boat back to the mainland, the better. This trip to Lewis and Harris had left him with more questions than answers.

It was the tune on the radio that brought everything back. Just a simple thing like that, Tom marvelled, and he was once more sitting by Nan’s bed, her face turned to his, tired as always, slightly puzzled as if she still hadn’t worked out why this disease had chosen her body for its host. Even when its final strains died away and the presenter began announcing something entirely different, the memories lingered like the scent of a woman’s perfume, subtle yet all-pervasive.

Tom had battled with all his psychologist’s expertise against the demons that had threatened to submerge him until he’d finally taken his own advice and sought professional help. But sometimes there would be a trigger, like that song, and he’d be swept into a series of pictures in his mind that refused to be dislodged.

Yet today it was not scenes of utter desolation and sickness that came to mind but the better days when he’d taken Nan for drives down the coast. She’d been light enough to carry out to the car, her wasted limbs slack
beneath the rug, her arms not twined about his neck but hanging useless as he placed her gently in the passenger seat. He’d always played the car radio on those journeys rather than trying to make one-sided conversations. Nan’s voice had reached that piping stage when it was impossible to make her out over the car engine.

Once they’d sung along to the radio, he remembered, when they’d been first married. Journeys into work had been happy, he suddenly realised, despite the daily gridlock. Wasn’t it always thus? To find a memory of pleasure that had seemed so mundane at the time? That’s what everyone had told him at the funeral. Hang on to the good memories. And he’d tried. God knows how he’d tried.

Another picture: Nan on her exercise bike, her feet strapped into the pedals in an attempt to strengthen her ankles. She’d not been able to walk but Kirsty had insisted that it was of benefit anyway. The routine had been well established by then. Mornings when he’d washed and dressed his wife, leaving for work only when the Community nurse and her assistant arrived.

The full-time carer came after that and was gone by the time he’d returned, his morning note embellished with words of her own. Often his classes were over in time for Tom to be there when Kirsty arrived for her third visit of the day. He’d watched her tend to his wife, her lilting voice utterly normal, never condescending like some of them. Nan had hated the ones who had treated her like some imbecile child. Thankfully they’d usually had Kirsty up until the end.

‘You’ll be wanting
Countdown
then?’ she’d ask Nan. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Never could do anagrams myself,’ she’d
say with a self-deprecating laugh. She’d known somehow that Nan’s mind was still quick even if her fingers couldn’t hold a pencil any more. That was what he’d admired about the young nurse, her ability to see beneath the illness to the whole person inside. Not many people had realised what an asset the girl had been to them. And how many people would miss her now?

The radio presenter’s voice brought Tom back to the present as he handed over the programme to the newscaster. Another bomb had exploded in the Middle East.

He listened as the facts presented themselves to his brain, Nan’s face still floating before him, still smiling up at Kirsty as she made to turn on the television. Now last night’s FA Cup results were being analysed. Her face became hazy, indistinct. A different voice told Tom that a band of rain would be sweeping across the country. He tried to hold onto the image dissolving in front of him, to keep the smile at least, but all he could see was that empty pillow.

Lorimer switched off the car radio. The weather forecast told him only some of what he needed to know. If only there could be a crime forecast, he thought wryly.
A band
of robberies will sweep across England and Wales today,
followed by a combined forces occluded front. A high of
serial killings will be present over Scotland leaving floods
of victims in its wake. Outlook: grim.
His mind toyed with more comparisons, their flippancy a relief from the thought that had been haunting him all morning. Mhairi MacLeod was all alone now, the last of her family now that Kirsty was gone. Just what thoughts she had hidden away under that wise exterior, he couldn’t say. Did she
ever wonder about the possible link between a Glasgow prostitute and her own darling girl? Nobody in the investigation had even begun to tar the nurse with the same brush as poor Deirdre McCann. Even the press had shown some sympathy. Their take on things was that the killer was some nutter and Kirsty his random victim. But was she?

Victims were not restricted to the dead women in the mortuary, either. The old lady herself was a victim just like the McCann family. And the ripples spread outwards to all whose lives had been touched. The Grange had its own victims, too. How many poor souls were still shaken by their loss?

Lorimer glanced across at Solly who seemed absorbed in the landscape, miles away from thoughts of death and its consequences. Behind him on the back seat his mobile began its insistent ringing, making him look ahead for the nearest place to stop. Despite these fairytale mountains sweeping above, Glasgow could still reach out with its persistent demands.

Phyllis didn’t really care if the new nursing assistant was an improvement or not.

‘What d’you think of her, then, dearie?’ Brenda had asked for her opinion and was watching Phyllis’s face closely for a sign. The woman in the bed gave none, simply stared back into space as if she hadn’t heard a thing. Muttering to herself, Brenda swept her hand over the creaseless counterpane and waddled from the room. Behind her a pair of bright eyes followed her progress and a small sigh escaped into the air. Phyllis fixed her eyes on the door that was always kept ajar. Beyond it there
was another world. But here, for a time, was her territory. She let her gaze focus on a fly that was crawling steadily up the grey paintwork. Its erratic progress might let it reach the top of the door. Would it take flight then? The question for Phyllis was far more absorbing than anything big Brenda could offer.

Brenda Duncan knew fine that Phyllis had heard her. ‘Just can’t be bothered, I expect.’ She told herself, adding a whispered, ‘Poor soul.’

Time and again she’d tried to make a connection with the sick woman. Even a flicker of the eyelids would have been something. But, no.

Kirsty had had the knack, of course, Brenda thought. That one had been able to charm the birds off the trees and no mistake. They’d all been daft about young Kirsty. And she had even seen Phyllis nodding in response to the nurse’s questions. Nothing great, mind. Just that slight movement. But it was a dash sight more than she ever got. These thoughts were going through Brenda’s mind as she pulled her shopping bag out of her locker and dragged on her raincoat. Those other thoughts were suppressed now. She’d had counselling from that woman her GP had recommended. Hadn’t wanted it, but she’d had no choice in the end. It was that or trail about forever like a zombie, doped up to the eyeballs.

‘That you off, then, Brenda?’ Sister Pearson was looking pointedly at the clock at the end of the corridor. It was still four minutes to the hour but Brenda had to clip the minutes off if she were to catch her bus. Pearson knew that fine well, she thought crossly to herself. Mrs Baillie didn’t mind, so why should she?

‘Aye,’ she responded shortly and heaved open the front door, activating the bleeper as she did so. The glass door swung shut, stopping the alarm abruptly. Brenda quickened her stride. She didn’t want to be hanging about in this drizzle. There was no shelter at her stop and this was the kind of rain that soaked through everything. She visualised her umbrella, hanging from the coat hook in the hall. Fat lot of good it was doing there. So much for this morning’s forecast, she told herself, clenching her teeth against an easterly wind.

It was supposed to be nearly summer, for God’s sake. What bloody awful weather! Her glasses were streaming now and she had to keep her head down to avoid the worst onslaughts of the gusts. Her rubber-soled shoes made wet imprints on the pavements under the watery light from the street lamps. The dark sky had activated their photosensitive cells on an evening that was more like autumn than spring. Brenda’s stout legs quivered with the effort of increasing her pace. She had turned the bottom of the hill and now it was that climb up to Langside Monument. Determined not to miss her bus, the woman plunged on, bag over one arm, clutching at her collar to stop the raindrops seeping in. She felt a sharp pain in her chest as the incline steepened. Too much weight, her GP had scolded her when she’d complained about her aches and pains. Brenda was conscious of her glasses slipping down her nose now, but she tried to ignore them, fearful of loosening her grip on the coat collar.

Just as she made her way to the brow of the hill she saw the bus pulling away from her stop.

‘Damn!’ she uttered aloud. ‘Damn and blast!’ Her shoulders sagged and the shopping bag slipped from her
grasp as she watched the bus sail past her, tyres swishing on the wet road. It was at least fifteen minutes until the next one, unless this was an earlier one running late. Brenda knew all about the erratic timetables. Bitter experience had taught her that it was no use taking a chance to go off to the cafe for a hot cuppa. You had to wait, just in case there was another bus coming.

She took her place at the head of the queue, tucking wet hands into the sleeves of her coat. She was oblivious to the other passengers forming a line behind her. The rain that was now coursing in runnels down the back of her neck had sapped all her energy and she stared moodily towards the direction from which her bus would come. She didn’t notice a figure half-obscured beneath a golf umbrella in the queue behind her. Nor was she aware, when the bus did eventually arrive with a harsh squeal of brakes, of the same figure leaving the queue and heading instead towards the taxi rank by the Victoria Infirmary.

Brenda slumped into the nearest seat and stared out past the streaming windows at absolutely nothing at all. Her mind was jumping ahead to the meal she’d cook for herself at home; her body was simply grateful to be seated at last. Behind her two women chattered. If Brenda had cared to listen in to their patter she might have heard all about that-one-in-the-next close and her fancy men. But the women’s voices were simply part of the overall noise of bus engine and the presence of humans around her, a comforting sound that made her eyelids droop. She paid only the briefest of attention to the outside world; a flicker of a glance outwards to make sure she didn’t pass her stop.

Here it was. She rose slowly from the seat with a creak
of leather and shuffled forwards towards the platform. Her hands grasped the cold metal rail as the bus veered around a corner then shuddered to a halt.

Now she was walking, walking, forcing her legs to carry her up the familiar street. The red sandstone tenements looked warm and welcoming through the misty drizzle. Not far now.

The close mouth yawned open, the security door latched back on its metal hook. The stone corridor with its glazed wall tiles that led from the front steps to the backcourt was exposed for all to see. Yet it was only residents who were supposed to have keys for either entrance. She peered in, uncertain for an instant as to why this door was lying open. Then the smell reminded her. Of course. This was the day the painters were to be in. Brenda tiptoed past the Wet Paint sign chalked on the stone floor of the close.

Mustn’t get any of that on my raincoat, she thought, pulling its folds tighter around her rotund frame. It was a fair step to the second landing.

Puffing, she stopped from time to time, admiring the newly painted walls. The lower half was a bright sky blue, defined by a neat black stripe from the cream upper walls and ceiling.

Brenda gave a sigh of relief as she reached the top step then rummaged in her raincoat pocket for the keys. The sigh became a yawn and she took off her glasses to rub tiredly at her eyes, fitting the Yale in the lock with her free hand.

Just as the solid wooden door swung away from her, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Brenda turned around with a start, surprised and instantly puzzled that she’d heard nobody coming up behind her. Her face, which had been
tensed in alarm, relaxed immediately.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you.’ Then, cocking her head to one side, she added, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

Brenda’s eyes widened in disbelief as the figure lunged towards her, hands suddenly grasping her throat. Her mouth opened in protest, then there was a gargling sound as she struggled against her attacker.

As Brenda jerked backwards onto the hall carpet, her glasses flew upwards into the air. They curved in a perfect arc then broke with a tinkle against the rows of brass hooks screwed into the wall. For a moment the landing held its breath. Then several small sounds interrupted the silence. Wood clunked on wood as the golf umbrella was propped carefully against the door frame. Feet in wet shoes brushed back and forth, back and forth on the doormat; the sound of coming home; familiar, nothing to alert the neighbours.

The front door banged shut against the newly painted close, echoes spiralling down the stairwell. These were the sounds that everybody listened to at the time, but afterwards nobody remembered that they’d heard them.

Within the house, behind the solid door, Brenda Duncan lay sprawled where she had fallen, ungainly even in death.