A Small Weeping (17 page)

‘And did she?’ he asked.

‘I persuaded her otherwise,’ she said. ‘She didn’t enjoy being grilled by the police. None of us did. You seemed to ask the same questions over and over as if you didn’t believe what we were telling you. Brenda was most upset.’

And now she’s dead, Lorimer wanted to say. The woman didn’t appear to have taken that news in properly, yet. There was a hostility here that he couldn’t comprehend, something that threatened to create a chasm between the Director and himself. Fear could cause that, he knew. Had she something to hide, he wondered?

‘This is quite normal procedure, Mrs Baillie,’ he began, keeping his tone neutral, almost bored. ‘You may expect to answer the same questions several times. Memory’s a funny thing. Suddenly there are aspects people remember days later. Even when they were certain they’d recalled everything there was to recall.’

Mrs Baillie inclined her head in a token of deference.

She doesn’t buy that one, thought Lorimer. Let’s try a different tack.

‘We visited Failte in Lewis and spoke to Sam Fulton and Sister Angelica.’

‘Well, I’m sure they enjoyed that little change to their routine,’ she remarked, the sarcasm scarcely concealed.

‘Sister Angelica told us that Leigh Quinn had been very upset the night of Kirsty MacLeod’s murder. He’d actually been in her room shortly after the body was discovered. Praying.’

‘Really?’

‘Where was Leigh Quinn last night, Mrs Baillie?’

For the first time the woman looked flustered. She unclasped her hands and wiped them down either side of her skirt.

‘Here, I suppose. They’re not prisoners, you know, Chief Inspector. Only those patients who might be a danger to themselves are kept under close scrutiny.’

‘And Leigh Quinn doesn’t come into that category?’ Solly asked mildly.

‘No. Leigh has severe problems but he may come and go as he pleases.’

‘And does he?’ Lorimer asked.

The woman hesitated before answering. ‘Sometimes he’ll go out for a walk. He doesn’t sleep well, you see. Other times,’ she broke off, biting her lips as if she had already said too much.

‘Yes?’ Lorimer prompted.

‘Other times he sits with Phyllis in her room.’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘Phyllis doesn’t mind,’ she insisted. ‘We’d know if she didn’t want him to visit her room.’

Lorimer nodded. Could anything be gleaned from that crippled patient downstairs to confirm Quinn’s whereabouts last night?

‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer switched tack again. ‘Have you any record to show when she and Kirsty worked together and with whom? Nursing staff as well as patients.’

Mrs Baillie clasped then unclasped her fingers and Lorimer saw the knuckles white and bloodless under her tight grasp. He suddenly had the impression of a physically strong woman beneath the navy suit.

‘That’s not a problem, Chief Inspector. We have duty rosters made up and signed after every shift. I can let you have a photocopy of the more recent ones.’ She paused and gave a small frown as if they were two tiresome small boys taking up her valuable time. Lorimer thought back to Kirsty’s diary. It had yielded very little after all. No personal information had been recorded other than birthdays; her work rotas had simply been marked
early
or
late
depending on the shifts.

‘And I believe you were not here yesterday evening, Mrs Baillie,’ Lorimer added.

‘That’s right. I…’ The woman stopped in mid-sentence, staring at him as the full import of his words hit home.

‘You’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with Brenda’s death? Dear God!’ she exclaimed, her hand clutching the pearls at her throat.

‘I’m not suggesting anything, ma’am. But it would be helpful to know where you were last night.’ Lorimer sat up abruptly, his shadow now cast over the coffee table between them. Mrs Baillie stared at him blankly then twisted round to search for something in the handbag that
was looped over the arm of the chair, head lowered to cover her confusion.

When she looked up her face was flushed.

‘I can’t find it,’ she began. ‘My cinema ticket. I thought I’d kept it but I must have thrown it away.’ Then she straightened up and smoothed her hands along the front of her skirt. ‘But I don’t suppose you’re really looking for an alibi for me, are you?’ She smiled again, her confidence returning.

‘No, no. Not at all,’ Solly reassured her before Lorimer could speak. ‘What a pity you hadn’t been here, though. Isn’t it?’ Solly smiled and shrugged.

‘Anyway,’ she stood up and turned towards the filing cabinet, ‘I can give you the duty rosters for the last month.’ Lorimer watched as she walked her fingers through the files. At last she stopped and pulled out a green folder. Her back was to them as she leafed through its contents but even so, Lorimer and Solly could see the raised shoulders stiff with tension.

‘Here,’ she pushed the file across the table to Lorimer. ‘All the rosters for April and May. You should find what you’re looking for in there.’

‘Really?’ It was Lorimer’s turn for sarcasm now. ‘We’re looking for a murderer.’

Their eyes met in a frozen stare then, to Lorimer’s satisfaction, Mrs Baillie dropped her glance.

‘Thank you,’ he said as if nothing untoward had happened between them. ‘I’ll see this is returned to you as soon as possible,’ he added, tapping the green file and easing himself out of the sofa. Solly followed his lead, springing to his feet. Mrs Baillie simply stood there for a moment, her tall figure ramrod stiff.

‘I’d better show you both out,’ her voice was dry.

Nothing was said as the three made their way downstairs to the main entrance. The woman’s hand flicked over the security buttons then pulled the door wide open.

She made no attempt to return Lorimer’s ‘goodnight’ as he strode towards the drive, Solomon in his wake.

Once in the driveway Solly tugged his sleeve.

‘What was all that about? You were practically rude to her. Don’t you want her cooperation, Lorimer?’ Solly raised his arms then let them fall in a moment of bewilderment.

‘Oh, she’ll cooperate all right,’ he smiled. ‘She’ll be only too pleased to cooperate once we’ve gone through the other files.’

‘What other files?’

Lorimer looked down at his quizzical expression and smiled. ‘Before we left Stornoway I got a rather interesting fax.’

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t mention it at the time but it seems that this clinic has been experiencing financial difficulties after all. Despite the accountant’s previous assurances.’

‘So?’

‘So. A number of things. On their own they could be nothing to worry about but put together they make me uneasy. For a start the last accounts show a big loss. That could be OK on its own but the most recent accounts haven’t been lodged and they’ve recently changed their bankers. That’s always a bad sign.’ Lorimer paused. ‘But there’s something else that’s got me worried.’

‘What?’

‘The building contractors who were doing renovations have slapped an inhibition order on the whole business.’

‘You don’t think any of the contractors could have kept a key to the basement door, do you?’

Lorimer shrugged. ‘Who knows? They’ve been questioned just like everybody else who has something to do with this place. No. What’s concerning me is money. The builders haven’t been paid and they’ve obviously run out of patience so what they can do to get their money is to take steps to stop any of the properties being sold until the directors cough up.’

‘But I thought Phyllis Logan owned them. Surely the directors can’t market the properties without her permission.’

‘I don’t know. There’s something odd going on and it’s not just to do with her saving money on airline tickets to Lewis. Did you see that place of hers? Didn’t you think it looked like she was in the throes of moving out? There was hardly a decent stick of furniture in the entire flat.’

‘I still don’t see what it’s got to do with the murder of three women,’ Solly replied.

‘Nor do I,’ Lorimer frowned suddenly. ‘But my policeman’s nose tells me something’s rotten in that place. Maybe something Kirsty and Brenda knew about, too. I want to sniff around a bit and find out what it is.’ He unlocked the car and leant on the door. ‘And another thing. I’ve rarely seen anybody display so little grief. Shock, maybe, but not a word of sorrow. Explain that to me, eh?’

Solly pulled open the passenger door and slid into the leather seat. ‘Can’t fault her there. Some people hide their emotions very well. She may well be crying her eyes out right now for all we know.’

‘Hm,’ Lorimer sounded sceptical.

‘Anyway, aren’t you forgetting Deirdre McCann? She’s got nothing to do with the Grange,’ Solomon bit his lip suddenly. This was what he had wanted to discuss with Lorimer but each time he came close to it something stopped him. He’d been trying to see and feel his way into a killer’s mind and all he could think was how disparate it all was, especially since Brenda Duncan’s murder. He gnawed at the edges of his moustache. How could he tell Lorimer how he felt? It was as if there were two shadows following them, just out of sight, each intent on strangling some poor woman.

As the car roared into the night, Solly looked out into the streets and all he could see was a red flower crushed between dead fingers.

‘It’s me,’ the familiar, husky voice breathed through the intercom.

‘Come on up.’

Solly grinned. Rosie was just what he needed right now, he realised, his tiredness vanishing. It was late. She would stay the night, surely? Or was she merely bringing him up to speed with this latest murder? Solly caught sight of his boyish expression in the hall mirror and laughed softly. She’d have phoned if it was just about work.

Leaning over the banister, he looked down at the fair head bobbing below him as she climbed the stairs. His hands gripped the metal rail. Brenda Duncan might have stopped at such a place watching out for her assailant. But had she? Or was the freshly painted close with its yawning mouth an open invitation for a stranger to walk right in? Solly shook his head. No way. Brenda might not have expected a visitor but she would have known who
he was.

Thoughts of the woman’s corpse disappeared as Rosie smiled up at him.

‘Hallo, you.’

She raised herself up on tiptoe to kiss him full on the mouth. Solly’s arms were around her in a welcoming embrace, drawing her to him.

‘Mm. That’s better,’ she murmured. ‘Can I come in, now?’

Solly gave a laugh, pulled the door wider and then closed it firmly behind her.

‘Oh, what a day!’ Rosie flopped into the nearest comfy armchair, dropping her handbag and jacket onto the floor.

‘Drink?’

‘Any of that gin I brought you?’

‘I even bought in some tonics, specially for you.’

‘Ah! That’s my man!’

Moving into the kitchen to fetch her drink, Solly warmed to her words.
Her man.
Not her waiter, her butler, but her man.
Her
man.

He sat at her feet, his head resting companionably against the chair as they drank in silence. It was comfortable, secure, so he could tell her what he’d been thinking, couldn’t he?

‘I’ve had some thoughts about the profile.’

‘Because of tonight, you mean?’

‘Not really, but this death does rather consolidate my ideas.’

‘Go on.’

Solly remained silent for a few minutes. Rosie let it linger. She was familiar enough with those silences of his
by now so she waited, sipping the gin slowly.

‘It’s the flower that bothers me most.’

‘His signature?’

‘Hm. Signatures can be forged, don’t you know.’

‘Solly. What’re you trying to say?’ Rosie leant forward, her eyes on his dark profile.

‘Not all of it makes sense. A murderer who kills a prostitute in a station then two nurses, one at her work and the other in her own home. What kind of man is that?’

‘Reckless? A risk taker?’

Solly shook his head. ‘Not just that. There aren’t any proper links. Just that flower and the praying hands.’

Rosie laid her glass down suddenly. ‘Hey! Are you saying we’ve got more than one guy doing these killings? Or is there some sort of religious fundamentalist gang targeting women victims?’

Solly heaved a sigh. ‘Not a gang. Nor do I think the two killings show a pattern.’

‘Three. Three killings,’ Rosie corrected him.

Solly turned and faced her, his expression suddenly grave. ‘Yes, but there are only two killers and I doubt very much if they have ever met.’

‘But the flowers?’

‘Yes, that’s what I keep coming back to. In profiling you must look at the location first to see what opportunity the killer might have had and if he lives anywhere near the choice of locus. With the station that was difficult at first.’

‘He could’ve come by train?’

‘Not in the middle of the night. He has to have something to do with Queen Street station. He knows the
layout well, gets away without anybody noticing him or being caught on a security camera. Now, if the second murder had been in the vicinity of the city, even a mile or so away, I wouldn’t have bothered so much. But the Grange is away over on the south side.’

‘So?’

‘So, there’s no pattern. You see, serial killers tend to work in ever increasing circles away from a base, which is usually where they live. With each killing they become bolder and travel a bit further afield. OK. It’s not a rigid model. There are cases like the long distance lorry driver who murdered those children. But even then there was a pattern defined by his delivery schedules. Here I can’t find any evidence to show me a killer who progresses from a prostitute in a station to a nurse at work.’

‘Unless he’s a nutter inside the Grange already.’

Solly didn’t answer her. For a moment he stared into space, unblinking.

‘With Brenda Duncan’s death I feel justified in proposing that we have two killers. Whoever killed Deirdre McCann is a person in serious need of help. He’s a danger to himself as well as to society.’

‘And Brenda? Kirsty?’

‘Ah. I’m not entirely happy with the disturbed personality theory everyone is so eager to believe. There’s a reason for those deaths. Someone badly wanted these two women out of the way. The flowers are a blind.’