A Small Weeping

by Alex Gray

  ‘Well,’ he hesitated and then smiled as if a happy thought had just occurred to him.

  ‘Hadn’t we better go to bed now, then?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was still daylight when Lorimer reached his street. The longest day was barely a month away and there was a pearly glow from the sky that comes after a rain shower in late Spring. It could have been any hour of the day.

  Lorimer pulled into the driveway, carefully avoiding the stone gateposts, and parked outside his door. The front drive was ancient tarmac with the weeds poking through. It did fine for a parking space, if Lorimer had ever thought about it (which he didn’t). It was Maggie who mowed what little lawn their property possessed and fitfully tended their ragged flowerbeds. Lorimer turned the key in the car door, reminding himself yet again to buy new batteries for the key fob. He looked up automatically at the lounge window. There was a light flickering against the glass. The television was on. Surely it wasn’t Newsnight already?

  The slam of the door behind him sounded hollow, as if all the carpets had been lifted. The house had an abandoned feel to it but Lorimer knew Maggie was in there somewhere.

  ‘Hi. Anybody home?’ he called up the unlit hall way. There was no response but he could hear the sound of voices from the television beyond the lounge door.

  Lorimer rapped twice on the door before pushing it open. ‘It’s only me,’ he joked, then stopped as Maggie leapt up to switch off the television, a look of alarm on her face. The alarm changed to something else. Relief? Lorimer couldn’t decide. Then she was in his arms, clinging round his waist as if she’d never let him go. Lorimer felt her tension. Maybe she’d been watching a scary movie. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. Suddenly his tummy rumbled below Maggie’s clinging grasp and they broke apart, laughing together.

  ‘No dinner again?’ she shook her dark curls reprovingly.

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ Lorimer pulled a contrite face. ‘Didn’t have time.’

  ‘How about poor Solly?’

  ‘Oh, he never seems to remember such mundane things as meals. Time we found him a good woman.’

  ‘Like Rosie.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lorimer slumped into a sagging armchair. ‘Oh, it’s good to be home. Just the two of us.’

  Maggie nodded. It seemed ages since they’d been at home together.

  ‘Anything to eat, kind lady?’ Lorimer put on his most disarming face.

  ‘Typical,’ she rejoined. ‘Doesn’t see me for days and what does he miss? My home cooking!’ And with a great pretence at being offended she set off for the kitchen.

  Lorimer stretched his long legs out and, giving a huge yawn, muttered, ‘Too right.’ Then he closed his eyes.

  When Maggie returned five minutes later with a tray full of soup and sandwiches she found her husband fast asleep.

  Quietly she set the tray down on the coffee table then lifted the remote control. The videotape ejected noiselessly. Holding her breath she retrieved the tape, fitted it back into its sleeve then slid it deep down into her open briefcase. For an instant the echoes of those American voices reverberated in her brain telling her all about the opportunities teacher exchange could bring. Opportunities Maggie wasn’t ready to share with her husband. Not yet. She looked down at the man sleeping below her gaze. His mouth was open slightly and she could see two days’ stubble round the slack jaw. The lines round those bad blue eyes seemed deeper than usual. We’re getting older, thought Maggie wistfully, both of us. But she wasn’t past it yet. Oh, no. Not by a long way.

  ‘Hey,’ she whispered at last, ‘soup’s getting cold.’

  Lorimer came to, blinking as if he’d slept for hours rather than minutes.

  ‘’S’nice of you to bother,’ he mumbled, sitting up and taking the tray onto his lap. Maggie watched as her husband spooned up the soup and munched on the ham sandwiches, never pausing for breath.

  A lock of dark hair tumbled over his brow and she had to stop herself from putting out her hand to smooth it aside. Finally he put down the spoon and laboriously cleared the sandwich crumbs from his plate. Maggie observed the sagging shoulders and outstretched limbs. She’d seen the signs often enough to know that he’d sleep where he lay if she let him.

  ‘Come on,’ she said softly, ‘let’s get you to bed.’

  Lorimer reached out and slammed the top of the alarm clock, killing its insistent, drilling ring. He could feel Maggie’s warmth curling around his legs, her hair soft against his naked back. He wanted to stay in this bed forever, slumbering against his wife’s closeness. The sigh he exhaled told him a million things. How he’d be better off in a nine-to-five job, how he really missed the comforts of a proper home life. Lorimer straightened out under the duvet as sleepiness evaporated and he began taking stock, recalling Mrs Baillie’s responses to his questions. What was going on over there? Was the clinic in such dire straits that it faced closure? The woman’s flat looked as if she was planning to move out. But what would happen to the patients? And who would care for that poor woman lying paralysed down in the back room?

  Maggie, sensing the shift in her husband’s preoccupation, was up and out of bed before he’d had time to notice.

  He watched her for a few minutes as she went through the morning routine of opening the bedroom curtains then pulling a hairbrush through her unruly dark hair. His eyes followed her as she unhooked her negligee from the back of the bedroom door then she was gone. Lorimer listened to the sounds of the bathroom door closing then the shower shushing its spray onto the tiled walls. He heard Maggie slamming shut the cabinet door. Closing his eyes, he imagined her body reaching up to the jets of water, her skin turning to wet silk under the spray.

  There was a dull thud as the newspaper hit the hall carpet and he flung off the covers, grabbed his dressing gown and padded barefoot downstairs.

  The headlines were predictable. Yesterday’s news had been full of Brenda Duncan’s murder. Now today’s paper had inevitably linked it with Deirdre and Kirsty. There were some quotes from the residential patients to make it look as if there was a general panic amongst them. Mrs Baillie wouldn’t like that. There was a quote, too, from Mitchison.

  Investigations by senior officers have been taking place both in Glasgow and the Island of Lewis. It is too early yet to make a definite link in respect of the deaths of three women in Glasgow but forensic evidence may prove to be crucial in that respect. I would urge the families of patients at the Grange to remain calm and support the excellent staff who are doing their utmost to keep the clinic running as normally as possible.

  Lorimer grimaced. Here was one senior officer who wouldn’t mind a quick report from forensics. He’d give Rosie a ring just before he left, just on the off chance that she’d come up with something. Then there were the computer checks on all the patients and staff at the Grange. And at Failte, he reminded himself.

  Lorimer waved briefly as Maggie clattered out the front door, her jacket slipping off her shoulder as she struggled to close the bulging briefcase. it wouldn’t fasten so she hoisted it up under her arm, feeling with her free hand for the car keys somewhere deep within her shoulder bag. He watched her from the open door, biting his lip as he waited for Rosie to come to the phone. The car started up then his wife was gone.

  ‘C’mon, Rosie, where are you woman?’ he whispered under his breath, listening into the airwaves that were blessedly free from any taped music while you wait. At last Rosie’s ‘Hi, Lorimer,’ came down the line. She sounded weary.

  ‘Okay, Doc, whatcha got for me?’ Lorimer put on his jokey Columbo voice, but his face became serious as he listened. Rosie Fergusson took her time as she filled him in on what she’d found since last night.

  ‘We’ve run tests on the fibres from all three and there are definite matches between Kirsty’s and Brenda’s, so far. There were traces that may have come from surgical gloves. There’s static showing up in several sets of fibres, particularly around their throats.’

  �
�That makes sense,’ Lorimer said, visualising only too clearly how the women had been strangled.

  ‘No matches with Deirdre McCann, then?’ he frowned.

  ‘Nope, but there are still loads of things to work on. There is something else, though.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There were traces on the hall carpet that show a dirty footprint. Remember it had been raining really heavily that day.’

  ‘Any indication of foot size?’

  ‘A size eight shoe as far as we can determine.’

  ‘So. You’re saying it’s a man’s print?’

  ‘Come, on. You know me better than that. When did I ever jump to those kinds of conclusions? No. I’m simply saying someone had on a pair of wet shoes in a particular size. Not necessarily a man.’ Lorimer grinned at the indignation in her voice. ‘Anyway, the imprint suggests a size eight shoe. The heel mark was quite distinctive. And the traces from the carpet fibres showed all sorts of stuff. Mostly to be found in the Glasgow streets,’ she added wearily.

  ‘So. A very big lady or a small man?’

  ‘Even a man of average height might have a smaller shoe size. You know that, Lorimer,’ Rosie protested. ‘My cousin Ruth’s only about five foot three and she takes a size seven.’

  ‘What about the post-mortem?’

  ‘This morning sometime. Coming down?’

  ‘Will I make it by ten? The Super wants to see me first thing.’

  ‘OK. Have fun,’ Rosie’s voice was loaded with sarcasm. Mitchison obviously wasn’t her flavour of the month either.

  Lorimer gazed into space, thinking about what Rosie had just told him. Surgical gloves. A man’s footprint. Were they dealing with a member of staff from the Grange, then? That’s what had been running through his mind since last night. The sooner they had these computer checks available the better. Then he could focus on the picture more clearly. For now it was blurred round the edges, just like that grainy press photo lying on the floor.

  Mitchison was on the warpath. The latest broadside from the Press had obviously got under his skin. And now there was another victim to add to the tally of unsolved murders.

  ‘How do you account for the time spent? One interview with a relative and a brief visit to Failte! You’ve been away three days, Lorimer!’

  Lorimer ground his teeth. Whose case was this anyway? He was the investigating officer, for God’s sake! But he kept the thought to himself, refusing to give Mitchison the satisfaction of his outrage.

  ‘Another thing. I don’t see anything in writing from the second victim’s relative,’ Mitchison went on, flicking through a file that was indeed painfully thin. Lorimer knew he’d not be happy until there was a Bible-sized report on his desk.

  He ached to take the man by the collar and give him a good shaking. Victim. Relative. They were statistics to this man, not the flesh and blood figures that peopled Lorimer’s every waking thought.

  ‘There hasn’t been time yet to write up a report. With the discovery of Brenda Duncan’s body I decided to go straight over to the Grange last night. Besides,’ he continued, ‘Dr Fergusson’s report should be included.’

  ‘Anything new there, yet?’

  ‘Dr Fergusson’s team have found traces of latex on Kirsty and Brenda’s bodies. It may suggest the involvement of a member of the medical staff.’ Lorimer stopped short of divulging any other information. He wasn’t prepared to go into the whys and wherefores of the Grange’s finances just yet. He’d follow that up as and when he could. But he certainly didn’t need this kind of earache.

  Mitchison pressed his fingertips together and frowned. ‘I don’t want the Press involved with members of staff until we know more. Tell Mrs Baillie.’

  Bit late for that now, thought Lorimer, remembering the morning’s headlines. Let the Police Press Office sort that out. He had enough on his plate right now.

  The Superintendent sat up as if he were about to dismiss Lorimer then changed his mind, leant forward and added, ‘A Press conference with members of the Duncan family might be helpful after the PM. Get the TV boys in to video it. See how the family members react.’

  Lorimer shrugged. Was Mitchison hedging his bets or did he simply want to control the Press boys as well? He’d be lucky, thought Lorimer; there was no way he was going to go down that path. The less the public knew right now, the better.

  ‘You missed the course with Miss Lipinski,’ Mitchison told him. ‘Pity, that. You might have learnt something.’

  The Superintendent’s change of tack didn’t fool Lorimer for a minute. It was his way of reminding his DCI who was Boss. Reminding him who sat in the Super’s chair. Reminding him yet again that he hadn’t got George’s old job.

  The City Mortuary was situated in one of the oldest parts of Glasgow, rubbing shoulders with the modern High Court building next door. Lorimer had often conjectured that the killers up before a judge and jury could be mere yards away from their victims held in cold storage in the mortuary.

  Brenda Duncan’s body was already in Rosie’s ‘In-tray’ as one of the mortuary assistants had jokingly coined it. Rosie was in her bright yellow wellies and green plastic apron, her assistant, Don, by her side as she performed the post-mortem examination. Lorimer stood at the window that looked into the PM room. He had no problem with this aspect of detective work. Some policemen and women simply couldn’t take it even after years of seeing dead bodies revealing their innermost secrets on the pathologist’s slab. There was an intercom between him and the PM room. Not only could he hear Rosie’s instructions to Don while they worked, but it enabled her to keep a running commentary of her examination for Lorimer’s benefit.

  Lorimer looked at the body of Brenda Duncan. She’d been a large, heavily built woman in life, he remembered. But now death had shrunk her body as she lay, the vital organs openly displayed to curious eyes. Her killer had taken everything from her, even her last dignity.

  ‘Yes. There we are. Larynx compressed against the cervical spine. Injury to the hyoid bone. The cricoid cartilage has been damaged also. Someone pretty strong who knew exactly what they were doing, Lorimer. The element of surprise, too, of course. But she was a big woman and you might have expected her to fight back. He had used both hands so she’d have had her hands free.’

  ‘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 dismiss
ed 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.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  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.