by Alex Gray
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.
What was the gesture meant to signify, he wondered, suddenly wishing that he had Solly Brightman there in the room. Was the Irishman trying to escape from them or was he simply trying to make the two policemen disappear?
‘You’re not thinking of leaving the Grange, are you, Leigh?’ Lorimer asked suddenly.
He heard a sniff from the man and a muffled ‘No’ then watched as the man rested his head on his forearms and began to sob.
Lorimer stayed still. Were those tears of remorse? Or was Leigh Quinn still grieving for a young Island girl who’d befriended so many of the patients here? He waited until the sobs quietened. Quinn pulled out a pocket handkerchief and blew his nose then slumped back down on the chair.
‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he sighed. ‘That’s what you’re thinking, though.’ He looked across at Lorimer, defeat in his eyes.
‘We need to check the whereabouts of everybody who was here two nights ago,’ Lorimer told him. ‘If you can find somebody who would vouch for your presence here from eight-thirty onwards, that would be a help.’
Quinn nodded then stared back into space.
‘Can you?’
There was no reply as the Irishman failed to react. He’d said all he was going to say, for now, Lorimer realised, watching the dark eyes glaze over. Even so, having him talk at all was a major breakthrough. He signalled to Wilson and they got up to leave. Turning before he left the room, Lorimer saw the face of Leigh Quinn reflected in the glass like a faded print, the luminous eyes unblinking.
‘Chief Inspector.’ Lorimer turned to see Ellie Pearson hovering in the corridor.
She beckoned them with a finger as if afraid to disturb the silence in the room. ‘Dr Richards would like a word with you.’ Lorimer and Wilson followed her down the corridor to a room simply marked ‘Staff.’
Sister Pearson knocked and opened the door. ‘Dr Richards. Chief Inspector Lorimer and Sergeant Wilson.’
Lorimer smiled. Solly had told him about this psychiatrist. A miracle worker, Tom Coutts had called him. perhaps Leigh Quinn’s ability to verbalise had more to do with the doctor’s expertise than a sudden need to defend himself.
A man of medium build, with thinning hair and a pair of half-moon glasses perched on his nose rose from behind his desk to greet them. ‘Maxwell Richards,’ he said, hand grasping Lorimer’s firmly. ‘Chief Inspector, thank you for giving me a little of your time. Gentlemen, please sit down. Ellie, is there any chance of some tea or coffee?’ He beamed at the Sister before turning his attention to the two men before him. Lorimer took in the dark pinstriped suit and pink polka-dot bowtie. On Maxwell Richards the ensemble was sartorial rather than effete, he realised.
He looked like a psychiatrist and somehow that immediately dispelled any mystique. Lorimer found himself warming towards the man who continued to smile at him.
‘You came in to see Leigh, I believe?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Perhaps I can fill you in on my patient, gentlemen.
He won’t have spoken much to you?’
Richards’ eyebrows rose questioningly above the glasses. ‘No, I thought not,’ he continued as Lorimer hesitated. ‘Let me see. Where should I begin?’ he mused, steepling his fingers and twirling his thumbs around as he considered.
‘Perhaps you might tell us how Quinn came to be here in the first place,’ Lorimer broke in.
‘Ah, I wondered if somebody might ask me that. Hm. Confidential, really, but in the circumstances…’ Dr Richards took off his spectacles and rubbed the side of his nose before replacing them. ‘The Logan Trust,’ he began. ‘It was set up by the owner of the Grange some time ago. When she was still in charge of all her faculties, you understand.’
‘Phyllis Logan? The Multiple Sclerosis patient?’
‘Indeed. Phyllis established her Trust to enable the clinic to treat people with neural disorders. There are funds set aside for several patients who could not otherwise afford our fees. Leigh Quinn is one such,’ Dr Richards explained. Lorimer nodded. Sam Fulton, no doubt, would be another.
‘Why should she do something like that?’ Wilson wanted to know. ‘I’d have thought she’d have given preference to MS patients like herself.’
Dr Richards smiled. ‘Yes. One would think so but there are aspects of her life that make such provisions understandable,’ he hesitated to look closely from Wilson to Lorimer. ‘This is in the strictest confidence, of course, gentlemen,’ he added. ‘Phyllis Logan’s husband committed suicide after suffering depression for many years. Giving help to other people has been a sort of catharsis for her.’
Lorimer nodded. That explained a lot.
‘Doesn’t she have any family?’ Wilson asked.
Dr Richards shook his head. ‘No, nor many friends. Since her illness she has become something of a recluse. The clinic was set up to give her a permanent home with the best of care. She is very well looked after here.’
Lorimer picked something almost defensive in the man’s tone. Had there been any comments made to the contrary?
‘What happens when, well,’ Wilson hesitated, ‘when she goes?’
‘Ownership of the Trust reverts to the Grange and its Directors.’
‘I see.’
‘Leigh Quinn,’ Lorimer put in. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
Dr Richards sat back in his chair. ‘Well, now. What can I say that you haven’t read in his case notes? He’s basically a very kind man. He cares about other people far more than he cares about himself. You’ll have noticed that already, though. His personal grooming is quite neglected. Not a materialistic sort of man at all, though he does value his books,’ Dr Richards smiled. ‘He actually has a soft spot for Phyllis,’ he went on. ‘Goes into her room to sit with her.
As far as we know he doesn’t say anything, just sits or rearranges her flowers.’
Lorimer stiffened. The image of Brenda Duncan’s cold hands clasping that solitary red carnation came unbidden into his mind.
Richards continued as if he hadn’t noticed the policeman’s discomfiture. ‘He is usually very withdrawn. Didn’t communicate at all when I first met him. But he does keep a diary.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Lorimer was suddenly interested.
‘Yes. But he scores everything out and begins again each day. Not a healthy sign, I’m afraid. The denial of his day-by-day experiences, I mean. Perhaps one day he’ll allow himself to acknowledge that he has a life. Meantime he seems to find solace in the world of nature. He takes long walks by himself. My colleague in the Simon Community tells me that he used to spend hours simply staring into the river.’
Dr Richards clasped his hands on the desk in front of him and fixed Lorimer with a penetrating stare. ‘What you really want me to tell you, of course, is if I consider Leigh Quinn capable of murder.’
‘And is he?’
‘In my opinion, no. There’s a gentleness about the man that I think precludes any ability to hurt another person. Besides, he’s been diagnosed as suffering from manic depression. He’s not psychotic.’
‘And would you be prepared to stand up in court and say this?’
‘Of course. But I don’t really believe you’re going to charge Leigh with murder, Chief Inspector.’
Lorimer clenched his teeth. There certainly wasn’t enough evidence for that but there were coincidences that bore further scrutiny, like the flowers in Phyllis Logan’s room and the image of the man on his knees after Kirsty’s death.
Psychiatrists had been wrong before, in his experience. No matter how highly this one was rated, he might not be correct in his assessment of the Irishman.