A Small Weeping (23 page)

‘You may also think you have a witness statement from the Logan woman but it might be quite inadmissible in a court of law, you know,’ Mitchison continued, the finger wagging just a fraction too close to Lorimer’s face.

‘If you would just take a look at the recording, sir?’

Mitchison gave a theatrical sigh, ‘Oh, very well, then. Let’s have a look.’

The Superintendent watched as Lorimer slotted the tape into the video machine. The two men listened as Annie Irvine’s voice began the interview. Lorimer stared at the face on the screen. He had every detail of the tape off by heart now. There was no interruption from Mitchison as they listened to the recording. At last it was over and Lorimer looked questioningly at his superior.

Mitchison was frowning at the empty screen, an
expression on his face that Lorimer couldn’t quite fathom. It was almost human, he thought cynically.

Finally the Superintendent broke the silence between them. ‘She’s a very sick woman,’ he began to say, slowly.

‘Yes, she is,’ Lorimer replied. There was no point in denying it after what they’d both witnessed on the tape.

‘I wonder if the courts would consider her a reliable witness?’ Mitchison seemed to be asking the question of himself. Then he shook his head. ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’d need all sorts of expert medical witness statements to back up the validity of this statement. If you can even call it that.’

Lorimer clenched his fists out of sight, under the desk. Would Mitchison try to stop the tape being used as evidence after all her efforts? He mentally rewound the video, seeing the woman’s anguished face. It took all his powers of restraint to keep the passion from his voice.

‘Sir, although she has no power of speech, she’s no dummy. Mrs Baillie can vouch for her mental health.’

Mitchison’s face twitched as if a spasm of annoyance had passed over it. For a moment he didn’t speak but simply continued to stare at the blank screen. Lorimer wondered what was going on in the man’s mind. At last Mitchison swung around in his chair, his usual expression of superiority back in place. ‘Oh, very well, let’s get on with it. But I have to warn you, Chief Inspector, I’m really expecting some results now. There have been too many man hours frittered away on this case already.’

Lorimer took a deep breath. ‘I’ll be showing this to Dr Brightman, sir.’

Mitchison looked askance at his DCI. ‘Our criminal profiler? Why not. He hasn’t come up with anything yet,
has he?’ he asked, as if Solomon was yet another tiresome burden he had to bear.

‘No, sir,’ Lorimer lied, his fingers crossed under the table. Let Solly’s theory about two killers simmer for a bit, he decided.

Having Mitchison’s blessing about Phyllis Logan meant more right now, especially with the idea that had taken root in his brain. If Solly was correct and a killer was closer to home than they thought, then Phyllis Logan might be in more danger than they imagined.

Solly re-crossed his legs thoughtfully. They had watched the video footage twice together now and he’d not offered any comment. He could feel Lorimer’s eyes burning into him, waiting for some word of encouragement.

‘Well, what do you make of her?’ Lorimer asked, obviously bursting for a response from the psychologist.

Solly shook his head slowly, tugging absently on the curls of his beard. Then he sighed. ‘What a terrible imprisonment for her. To be so confined. Just like poor Nan Coutts. Yet she must have developed an inner self.’ He spoke softly, almost to himself as he stared at the screen. ‘She’s been terrorised all right, though, don’t you think?’ he added, turning to make eye contact with Lorimer.

‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. Only by whom? That’s where our problem lies. Leigh Quinn was my first thought, but now I’m not so sure. It’s certainly a man, so we can eliminate the female staff and patients from the scenario along with the cleaners and other women. Including Mrs Baillie,’ he added.

Solly tried to hide a grin. The director of the Grange had ruffled DCI Lorimer’s feathers considerably during
the investigation. And there was still that question mark hanging over the finances of the clinic.

‘Phyllis Logan’s been there long enough to know the staff and long term patients by name, surely,’ his voice trailed off and Lorimer was left watching him as Solly’s face took on the dreamy attitude with which he was becoming so familiar. There was something brewing in that brain of his.

‘I took a long walk around the whole area,’ Solly began. ‘It struck me that somebody walked straight into the Grange and straight out again the night that Kirsty was murdered. I think we’re pretty much agreed that this killer knows his way about. He knew Brenda’s movements too. There’s a coolness about his character. He has something to do with the clinic, that’s clear enough to me. He can disappear into the background like so much wallpaper. Nobody sees him as out of place.’

‘Nobody seems to have seen him at all except Phyllis Logan!’ Lorimer protested.

‘I wonder,’ Solly mused. ‘Brenda Duncan and Kirsty MacLeod were doing their usual rounds, checking up on the patients. They had to go into everybody’s room, isn’t that so?’

Lorimer nodded, puzzled. They’d been over this again and again. What was Solly getting at now?

‘Well, it’s a pity we can’t ask either of them, but I wonder…’

Lorimer bit his lip impatiently.

‘The patients on suicide watch have a designated nurse with them during the night, don’t they?’

‘Yes,’ Lorimer frowned. What was he trying to say?

‘Well, suppose one of them left their post for a bit?
Both they and their patient would be vulnerable, wouldn’t they?’

‘Vulnerable to what?’

‘Suspicion, of course!’ Solly exclaimed, surprised that Lorimer hadn’t followed his line of thought. ‘And I don’t see any of the nurses owning up to being away from a patient’s bedside when that would provide a perfect alibi, do you?’

‘But, hold on, let’s look at this another way. Say you’re right and there’s one killer of prostitutes who likes to hang around Queen Street station then another who bumps off two nurses, what about motive? Are we looking for two nutters, d’you think?’

Solly shook his head. ‘Whoever murdered Kirsty and Brenda knew exactly what they were doing and why. The real problem is how they came to find out about the signature.’ Solly looked hard at the policeman. ‘Rape can escalate into murder. The women in Queen Street may well have been raped. Sexual activity was present in both cases.’

‘But they were prostitutes! Of course there were signs of sexual activity!’

‘But neither Kirsty nor Brenda were assaulted like that. He simply walked up and strangled them. The element of shock was that they knew their attacker and trusted him.’

‘Would they have trusted a patient?’

‘That depends. If they knew him well enough, yes. Still considering Leigh Quinn?’

Lorimer’s face twisted in a grimace. It fitted almost too neatly: a depressive who had some sort of flower fetish. But why would he have killed Kirsty? He’d liked her. And
Brenda Duncan? What possible reason could he have had for stalking her home like that? Lorimer shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he sighed. ‘He had no grudge against either woman as far as we know.’

‘Interesting you should use the word
grudge.
Something may have happened to poison a mind already holding a grudge. Something that triggered off this chain of events.’

Lorimer reached forward to eject the tape. The MS patient had given them both plenty to think about.

Solly would try to develop his profiles while his own team would continue the painstaking work of crosschecking the background of every man connected to the Grange. And now that included every member of the team itself.

Father Ambrose let his spectacles fall on top of the evening paper. Four women had been strangled now and still he sat here worrying about them. Praying too, he admitted, but he would have done that anyway. The picture in the evening paper showed a young woman smiling into a camera. The headline had shouted out her crime, and his. Poor child, he thought, to have stooped so low. The journalist had painted a life of drugs and deprivation. Father Ambrose could imagine what that might have been like. One of his parishes had been in the inner city, long ago, before they’d torn down the sagging tenements and given people decent homes. He’d been party to some terrible confessions in those days, he remembered.

It was the flowers that had first bothered the priest. Red carnations slipped between the praying hands of a killer’s victims. There had been a shiver of unease to begin with until memories came flooding back, memories of other hands that had selected the choicest blooms. A vivid picture of a body in a coffin came back to him, the flower
like a gash of blood against the whiteness of the shroud. The hands that had placed those flowers had been clasped in prayer each day, right by his side. Until the scandal that had shocked them all.

Father Ambrose picked up the paper with shaking hands. He knew what he must do. All along he had known it, but he’d suppressed that event over the years until it had almost ceased to exist. Now he had to face the truth.

Lorimer could have gone home but tonight he just didn’t feel like sitting staring at the television while Maggie was up to her eyes marking these interminable papers. So here he was, waiting to be served in the canteen. The fluorescent bulbs glared overhead, at odds with the spring light that poured into these upstairs windows. Mitchison could make a start by saving dosh here, thought Lorimer moodily. Like the waste of money Maggie was always going on about in her school where the heating was kept turned up all year round, even in the holidays. Maggie again. He must stop thinking about her.

Lorimer looked around the canteen. There weren’t many folk in tonight but he recognised DC Cameron sitting alone, hunched over a plate of spaghetti. Lorimer noted with interest that he wasn’t eating it. He was stirring the strands of pasta round and round his plate with a fork but was making no attempt to put any of it into his mouth. Lorimer’s curiosity made him watch the young officer.

‘Chief Inspector, what’s it to be?’ Sadie, a wee woman
with a voice that could have scoured a burnt pot was standing, ladle in one hand, looking at him expectantly. Lorimer turned to give her his full attention. No one messed with Sadie.

‘Just some soup, thanks. Oh, and one of your brilliant Danish pastries, Sadie,’ Lorimer gave her his best smile as usual but this was one woman who was oblivious to the Chief Inspector’s famous blue eyes.

‘Wan soup, Betty!’ she shouted towards the kitchen. ‘Yer Danish is up therr, son,’ she added, jerking her head to the plastic-covered shelves that Lorimer had already passed. Lorimer nodded and turned to fetch his pastry, marvelling as he always did at Sadie Dunlop’s ability to make them all feel like school kids. She was wasted here. She should’ve been Governor of Barlinnie at least.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Lorimer grasped the back of the metal chair next to Cameron’s. The DC sat up with a start as Lorimer spoke.

‘Not fancy Sadie’s pasta special tonight, then?’

Cameron shook his head and attempted a smile.

‘How about a drink? I was going to drop into the Iron Horse. OK?’

Cameron’s pale face flushed slightly as he answered, ‘I don’t usually drink, sir. I’m TT, you know.’

‘Ah, the strict Hebridean upbringing,’ Lorimer teased. Then his face grew more sombre as the germ of an idea began to form in his head. An idea that might take root, depending on what Cameron could tell him.

‘Come on down anyway. The ginger beer’s on me,’ Lorimer’s voice held a note of authority that he knew Cameron recognised. The DC looked up at his boss then pushed the congealing mess of spaghetti away from him.

They were practically out of the canteen when a familiar voice stopped them in their tracks.

‘Haw, ye’s’ve left yer dinners. Ah thought ye wanted that Danish? Right waste of good food that is, ‘n’all!’

Lorimer glanced at Cameron who was dithering in the doorway. ‘Come on, before we get arrested for dinner neglect!’ Lorimer grinned conspiratorially and gave the DC a friendly wink.

It was quiet in the pub. Seven o’clock was a watershed between the quick after-office pint and quiz night. Seeing the bar staff polishing glasses and catching up with the day’s paperwork, Lorimer knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.

He had chosen a booth at the rear of the bar. On the table sat a pint mug of orange squash and Lorimer’s two preferred drinks, a pint of draught McEwan’s and a half of Bunnahabhain. Lorimer stretched his long legs under the table, feeling the heels of his shoes dig against the ancient wooden floor. The Iron Horse had made few concessions to modernity, which, for Lorimer, was part of its charm. He sank against the burgundy-coloured padded seat, feeling something close to relaxed. Pity he’d have to spoil the moment.

‘How are you settling in to the job, now? Glad to be out of uniform?’

Cameron shot Lorimer a wary look before giving a shrug.

‘You could tell me to get lost, but I think it might do you good to have a wee talk if there’s anything on your mind.’

‘There’s nothing, really,’ Cameron began in a tone that told Lorimer just the opposite.

‘Is it the case that’s bothering you? Still feeling bad about Kirsty MacLeod?’

Lorimer looked intently at Cameron. The lad’s mouth was tightly shut and he could see his jaw stiffen. If it had been anyone but Lorimer asking such questions he’d probably have been told to mind his own damned business. Except that Cameron didn’t even swear. The young detective constable had been looking past him as if intent on the framed engraving of James Stewart on the wall above their booth, but then he turned suddenly, meeting his superior’s gaze.

‘Yes, I feel bad. I thought I could handle it, but maybe I was mistaken.’

‘You handled yourself well enough at the mortuary. Dr Fergusson even commented on that.’

‘Well, that was different. It wasn’t so personal.’ Lorimer took a mouthful of beer and licked his lips. Just what did the lad mean by personal, he wondered.

‘Did you ever meet Kirsty down here in Glasgow?’

‘No.’ The answer came just a shade too quickly.

‘Sure about that?’

‘Of course. Why would I lie?’ the flush had crept back over Cameron’s neck.

‘You tell me.’

‘Look, Chief Inspector, Kirsty was a girl from home. She was a friend of my wee sister’s. I hadn’t seen her for years, OK?’

‘OK, calm down. How about that place Failte, then? Did you know anybody there?’

Cameron shook his head. ‘Before my time. It was a holiday place for as long as I can remember. There are plenty of houses empty most of the year just waiting for
incomers. It’s only been a respite centre, or whatever, for the last two years or so.’

Lorimer nodded. That had been his information too. Phyllis Logan’s family had kept the house as a summer residence then it had lain empty for years before becoming a part of the Grange.

‘D’you remember that first murder back in January?’

‘Of course. I’m not likely to forget it.’

‘The woman who was killed had a flower between her hands. Did you actually see it that night?’

Cameron stared at him, surprised by this sudden change of tack. He frowned as if trying to recall the images of that freezing January night.

‘I remember seeing her lying there and DS Wilson calling her Ophelia. That was after we saw the flower, wasn’t it?’

‘Can you remember how her hands were held?’

‘Well, I know how they were held, it’s in all the reports, isn’t it?’

‘But do you
remember
it?’

‘I think so. Why?’

‘You didn’t by any chance describe it anybody out side the case, did you? Anyone from home, for instance?’

Cameron looked at him curiously then shook his head. ‘I don’t talk about my work to the folks,’ he said. ‘They don’t even know I’m involved with Kirsty’s murder.’

Lorimer was looking at him keenly as if to weigh each of the DC’s words carefully. Niall Cameron returned his gaze with apparent coolness. There was no longer any telltale flush warming that Celtic pallor.

He wanted to believe the younger man. Experience told him he was hearing the truth, but there was someone who
had inside knowledge of the first case, someone who had used it to copy the killer’s signature. And Niall Cameron had known the girl from Lewis. It had been his call, too, that had alerted Lorimer that night, he remembered. He picked up the whisky and drained the glass in one grateful swallow, suddenly needing the burning liquor to take away a taste he didn’t like.

The vibration from his mobile made him put down the glass with a bang. ‘Lorimer?’

Cameron’s eyes were on him as he listened to the voice on the other end. He was vaguely aware of the younger man picking up his jacket and giving him a wave. He nodded in return, watching the Lewisman walk out of the pub and into the Glasgow night.

‘Who is this Father Ambrose?’ Lorimer asked, listening as the duty sergeant told him of the priest’s telephone call.

‘And he’s coming up to see us?’ Lorimer bit his lip. This was news indeed. A priest from the Borders who had information about Deirdre McCann’s murder, or so he claimed. As he pressed the cancel button, his thoughts drifted back to Lewis and to the house called Failte where he’d met the nun. Where was she, now? And had she anything to do with this sudden need for an elderly priest to speak to Strathclyde CID?