A Small Weeping (19 page)

‘So, why didn’t she?’

‘Fright. Coupled with the fact that she was breathless from climbing the stairs. She had a weak chest. Being overweight was really to her disadvantage. And she was of an age that made fractures to the laryngeal cartilages more likely. A younger, fitter person would have fought back.’

‘Any resemblance to the injuries Kirsty MacLeod sustained?’

‘He came at Kirsty from in front, too. But Kirsty’s death was inflicted by one hand while he held an arm across her chest.’

‘And Deirdre McCann was strangled with her own scarf,’ Lorimer mused.

‘No carbon copies of murder for you, I’m afraid.

Just the killer’s signature for Solly to deal with,’ she sighed.

‘But I can tell you we are probably looking for a strong, fit person of at least average height, someone who works out, maybe. It takes a lot of strength to strangle a person
who’s standing upright.’

Lorimer tried to picture the man in his mind. A shadowy figure that leapt at the women’s throats, someone of significant strength to force them to the ground. He bit the end of his fingernail. There was something not right. He thought about the latex gloves and the security door.

Everything seemed to indicate that this was a murder where the victim had known her assailant. And had Kirsty known her attacker also? Was he in fact one of the patients at the clinic? And had he been responsible for Deirdre McCann’s murder several months ago?

He felt a pulse in his temple throb against his hands as the image of Mrs Baillie came to mind. She was tall and probably strong. But was she strong enough to strangle two of her employees? Wonder what shoe size she takes, Lorimer mused, gnawing at his lip as he dismissed the idea. it had to be a man. Deirdre McCann’s killer proved that. And the red carnation, as Rosie had reminded him, linked all three women. That part of the signature was known to the general public, all right, but the actual position of the praying hands was information that only the investigating team knew. Solly, Cameron, Alistair Wilson, Rosie… the list went on to include those who had discovered the bodies, he realised. And Brenda had discovered Kirsty’s body.

Perhaps he should talk again to that chap from British Rail. Push a little harder. But, try as he might, he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that an answer to these murders was to be found in the Grange.

These spring mornings gave Phyllis new heart. it happened every year. Even with this disease wasting away her body, she experienced a surge of optimism each bright morning. in her waking hours Phyllis could close her eyes against the tedium of the room and see once again the avenue of trees unfurling their green leaves. By now the beech hedges would be a mass of bright green and the chestnuts would have uncurled their sticky buds. The azaleas would be a swathe of colour, the scent of the yellow blooms sweet and damp. in her mind Phyllis walked once more through the estate. She’d had dogs then, silly spaniels that raced through the woods after rabbits, real or imaginary. She smiled to hear them barking as she lay inert below the spotless sheets. Outside her window she could hear the sound of a pair of collared doves as they croocrooed. In her mind they rose above the treetops heading towards the house. She could feel the tread of her feet on the earthen track. She could smell the wild garlic that wafted up from the banks of the stream.

Phyllis had been born at this time of year. Deep down she suspected that was why it was special to her. Other folk felt it too, she realised, opening her eyes as she heard someone singing in the corridor. It was little wonder. May was such a relief of light and colour after the long yawning stretch of grey winter months. Phyllis treasured these spring days. Would they be her last? There was no thudding of the heart as she anticipated death. Her illness was so far advanced now, realistically there couldn’t be much time left. There was little more to be done. Her affairs were tidy. She was a financial burden to no one. Very few would mark her passing. Her solicitor, maybe. One or two of the staff here, perhaps. She really didn’t care. Tying the house up as a clinic had been quite selfish, really, giving her a safe haven without the need to part with her own home.

In the long hours before daylight, Phyllis thought about death and what it would bring. An end to everything? Or a release into a new dimension? It was frightening to contemplate a new life free from the prison of this useless body. Not that she didn’t want to believe in a life after death, an existence where her spirit swept untrammelled by flesh and bones. No. It was frightening because she wanted to believe in it so much. She had been let down by too much wanting already.

It was better to concentrate on outside. On the birds frantically feeding their young or the light that pierced the blinds and fell in shafts of dust towards the floor.

She hadn’t been disturbed again by that voice or by those searching eyes. Maybe it was all over now. Maybe she’d never have to think about them again. Yet even as she tried to recapture the vision of her old garden in all its
spring glory there came to mind the cries in the night and the threat that had followed.

Ellie Pearson’s hands shook as she replaced the handset. That was another one calling in sick. She doubted if they’d come back at all. Not that she blamed them, really. Who’d want to work in a clinic for neural disorders where one of the patients might be a mad strangler? Stevie had been hinting only last night that she should find another post. The NHS was crying out for staff, he’d told her. Ellie had just shaken her head and tried to concentrate on
University Challenge
. She didn’t want to leave. A stubborn loyalty for the Grange subdued any fears she might have. Anyway, Stevie picked her up at night now, like so many of the husbands. And the night staff all came in by taxi, Mrs Baillie had seen to that. She smiled wryly. After Ellie’s own breakdown the Director of the Grange had been surprisingly sympathetic. Losing the baby had been the worst thing ever to happen to Stevie and her. The doctors had been terrific, though, really helping her to focus on positive things and to take time to mourn the baby properly. It was as if they’d all been through exactly the same kind of grief.

Ellie’s eyes fell on the dust cover shrouding the computer on the reception desk. Cathy had been the first to leave and so far there was nobody to take her place. Glancing at her watch, she realised that the next shift was due in soon. She’d commandeer one of the girls to take the receptionist’s place until they could find an agency temp.

A shadow on the frosted glass door made her look up a split second before the bell rang out. It would be the police. Again. They were practically on first name terms
with some of them now, but not the man in charge, Chief Inspector Lorimer. There was an authority about him that made people keep their distance, Ellie thought.

‘Good morning, come in,’ Ellie held open the door and looked up. She kept forgetting how tall the Chief Inspector was. Professional interest made her scrutinise his face.

The tired eyes were heavy with creases as if he hadn’t slept much and the downturned mouth merely straightened into a polite line as he took her hand. That dark brown hair flopping over his forehead was badly needing a cut, she thought absently. Still, it was a good head of hair, not like Stevie’s premature baldness. DCI Lorimer was good-looking, too, in a rugged sort of way. Ellie wondered absently if he was married. There was no sign of a wedding ring.

‘Mrs Baillie’s away today,’ Ellie told him. ‘So you’ll have to make do with me.’

Lorimer raised his eyebrows in surprise as Sister Pearson took them through the hall to the reception foyer. Now the sun filtered in through the vertical blinds casting slanted shadows across the room.

‘We’d like to speak to Leigh Quinn,’ he began. Alistair Wilson hovered deferentially at his elbow as Lorimer waited for the Sister to reply.

‘He’s due to be with his psychiatrist in half an hour, will that be enough time for you?’ Ellie Pearson looked at Lorimer doubtfully. The police had spent so much time interviewing staff and patients alike in the days following Kirsty’s murder that she’d thought they must know about everyone by now.

‘I think under the circumstances we might just take priority, Sister,’ Lorimer told her quietly.

Ellie felt her face begin to burn. She felt suddenly like a small child in a grownup world that was beyond her. ‘Yes, yes, of course. If you’d like to wait here I’ll find out where he is.’

‘Think you’ll get anything out of him this time?’ Wilson asked.

‘Who knows? He was practically non-verbal last time we interviewed him.
Lost in a world of his own.
Wasn’t that what his case notes said?
Post traumatic stress disorder
resulting in noncommunication.’
Lorimer remembered.

‘What sort of treatment has he had?’

‘They seem to have tried all sorts. One-to-one counselling. What did they call it? Brief therapy, or something like that. And group sessions.’

‘I bet they were a pure waste of time. I can’t see Quinn participating in anything.’

Lorimer shrugged. Solly had filled him in on some of the methods the clinic employed. His colleague, Tom Coutts, had been really helpful in that direction. Coutts was due to go to Failte, too, he thought. Perhaps he could see what the Psychology lecturer made of that experience. The patients’ case notes had been made available to the team. Some of them made heavy reading; several depressed souls had tried to end it all. Those for whom life had become intolerable seemed to have reached a black hole, yet the patience and dedication of the staff here had helped not a few of them out of these pits of despair. Coutts had been lavish in his praise of the Grange. But then, it had worked for him, hadn’t it? Whether Leigh Quinn, the Irishman, would succeed in throwing off his demons remained to be seen.

Lorimer had spent plenty of time reading the man’s file. Born in Dublin, the son of a Union leader, there had been a background of involvement in grassroots politics, especially in the years he’d spent at university. After graduation he’d been in local government for a few years but had lost that job as a result of his heavy drinking.

That hadn’t been all he’d lost, though, the case notes told Lorimer. Quinn had been married with a baby son. Both wife and child had perished in a house fire. Quinn had escaped, physically unhurt but with unseen scars that refused to heal. The file had recorded how he’d left Dublin to look for work in Glasgow. For six months he’d held down a job as a hotel porter before slipping into spells of depression that led him onto the streets. Rescued by the Simon Community, it had appeared that Quinn had tried to pull himself together but the depression had worsened until he’d been admitted to the Grange.

Lorimer had tried to make enquiries about his admission, but had drawn a blank so far. How could a down-and-out like Quinn afford the private fees demanded by a place like this? He recalled Sam Fulton. Something was going on here that didn’t make any sense. How could men like that pay for such specialist attention?

His thoughts were interrupted by Sister Pearson’s return.

‘I’ve asked him to talk to you in his own room, Chief inspector, if that’s all right?’

‘Fine. Thank you,’ Lorimer replied. The woman turned to lead them back along the corridor but Lorimer stopped her.

‘Nobody on reception today?’ he asked.

‘Oh.’ The woman bit her lip. ‘Actually, our receptionist
left us suddenly. We haven’t had time to find a replacement yet.’

‘Did she give a reason for leaving?’ Wilson asked.

Sister Pearson’s shoulders slumped suddenly. ‘You can’t blame her really. Two nurses dead like that. We’ve had other resignations as well.’ She looked up at Lorimer, meeting his gaze defiantly. ‘It’s hard for the patients, too. Until you catch this man they feel they’re under suspicion,’ she said.

‘Well, Sister, that’s just what we’re trying to do,’ Lorimer said quietly.

Ellie dropped her eyes. The man sounded so tired. God knows what sort of job he had to do. Of course the police would be doing their best. She looked up again. ‘Leigh’s in here,’ she motioned towards an open door off the main corridor.

She rapped on the door. ‘Leigh. Visitors for you.’ Ellie pushed open the door and stood back to let Lorimer and Wilson into the room then, catching the Chief Inspector’s eye, she retreated.

Behind her, Lorimer pushed the door shut. The Irishman was sitting by the bay window with his back to them. Instinctively Lorimer looked out at the trees framing the sky. Leigh Quinn’s accommodation certainly didn’t lack for a good view. Again the question of how he came to be there in the first place niggled at the edges of his mind. A quick look around the room showed a bed and a couple of easy chairs clad in matching turquoise fabric. The walls were painted in pale green emulsion broken up by prints of Monet’s garden. A pair of slippers lay neatly by the bed and several books were piled up on the bedside table. Apart from that there were no signs of personal possessions. The
man could have been a hotel guest on an overnight stay rather than a long-term patient.

‘Mr Quinn,’ Lorimer said, expecting the man to turn at the sound of his voice but the Irishman stayed motionless as if glued to whatever he was seeing. Lorimer shifted his position so that his reflection was directly in the man’s line of vision, noting a slight movement of the dark head. Even seated, he could see that Quinn was a tall man, though his frame was so gaunt that Lorimer supposed that his depression had affected his appetite.

With a nod, he motioned to Alistair Wilson and his sergeant placed himself on one side of the patient while Lorimer took a chair from the side of the bed and sat down on the other.

‘Mr Quinn,’ he began again. ‘We would like to ask you some questions.’ The man continued to stare out of the window but Lorimer had the distinct impression that he was taking in every word.

‘I went to visit Sister Angelica. She told me you had been very upset on the night Kirsty MacLeod was murdered. Can you confirm that, please?’ Lorimer’s voice was quiet but firm, devoid of any supplication.

Leigh Quinn turned his head and stared at Lorimer. The man was breathing in short spurts as if he’d been running hard. Was he about to suffer a panic attack? He fervently hoped not.

Then a long sigh escaped the Irishman and he shook his head wearily. ‘She should not have been killed,’ he said at last, looking away from Lorimer and gazing into his cupped hands. ‘She was a wee flower.’

Over his head, Lorimer caught Wilson’s eye.

‘You were fond of Kirsty?’

The dark, shaggy head nodded again and Quinn put his hands over his eyes as if to blot out a memory.

‘Sister Angelica told us she found you praying in her room. Is that right?’

The hands were still covering his eyes as the man nodded again.

Outside a blackbird called in liquid notes from the treetops, heightening the silence within the room. Lorimer waited for a moment before speaking.

‘Brenda Duncan has also been killed, Leigh. Did you know that?’ Lorimer’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. He saw the man’s head nod into his hands.

‘Who told you?’

Quinn took his hands away from his eyes, clasping them together on his knees. ‘A nurse.’

‘Have you been out of the clinic in the last two days, Leigh? For a long walk maybe?’ Alistair Wilson asked, diverting the man’s attention from Lorimer.

Quinn’s head turned towards the sergeant, a puzzled frown on his pallid face.

‘Do you know where Brenda lives, maybe?’

Quinn’s face froze in sudden understanding.

‘No. I’ve been for…walks, sure,’ he began slowly, stumbling over his words. ‘Not out of the grounds.’ He shook his head and turned to Lorimer as if this was something he should know.

‘Can anybody confirm this?’ Wilson persisted. Quinn shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Lorimer’s. The man’s gaze was shrewd, Lorimer thought. He knows fine what we’re asking him.

‘Do you remember the night before last, Leigh? It was pouring with rain,’ Lorimer asked.

Leigh Quinn pushed back the chair and stood up, putting his hands out against the glass of the window. Lorimer watched as the man’s breath clouded up in little circles against the cold pane. Wilson started as if he was going to pull him back down but Lorimer raised a hand and shook his head, seeing Quinn push his face right up against the glass.