by Alex Gray
Pat flushed the toilet and unbolted the door. As she turned towards the basins to give her hands a thorough wash with the liquid soap she was aware of another person coming into the ladies’ washroom.
The policewoman only had time to glance at the reflection in the mirror before she felt the sudden pain in her skull then everything went hazy as the sound of a high-pitched bell rang out in her brain. There was nobody to see her limp body being dragged into the cubicle, nobody to witness her nurse’s overall being buttoned over another person’s clothes.
Lorimer breathed a sigh of relief. The fire seemed to be under control by all accounts and he could see Pat’s white-coated figure standing by the window. Any minute now she’d turn towards the camera and give him a reassuring signal.
Only she didn’t. As the figure turned to face the screen, Lorimer found himself confronted by a different person altogether.
For an instant he was speechless then he felt the adrenaline rush as he grabbed the radio control.
‘Alert all units. Find Pat Crossan. There’s a stranger in Phyllis’s room. We’re going in.’
He thrust the doors aside, not waiting for Solly who sat staring at the monitor in a daze of disbelief.
Phyllis woke up, suddenly aware of the shadow above her. But perhaps she was still asleep.
This wasn’t the policewoman.
This wasn’t meant to be happening. She tried to scream, but the thin noise that came was quickly stifled by a feather pillow thrust over her mouth.
Now she was underwater, gasping and blowing for air that would not come. A ringing sound began far away then nearer and nearer, filling her ears. Her chest hurt with an unfamiliar pain as if she had been running hard.
Then she heard a cry and suddenly the room was full of whirling shapes as the pillow was pulled away.
Leigh was struggling with another man who had his hands against his throat. She watched, terrified, as they edged towards the wall, the man’s fingers pressing into Leigh’s neck. There was a thump and both men fell to the ground out of her sight. She stared, open mouthed, as another commotion erupted into the room. Then Lorimer was wrestling with her attacker, pulling his arms away from the bed. She watched as his tall figure grabbed the man from behind. He struggled against the policeman’s grip, legs kicking wildly, knocking over the drip stand beside the bed. The crash as it hit the floor reverberated through every nerve in Phyllis’s body.
The sound of running feet brought several more people bursting into the doorway, Solly and Mrs Baillie among them.
‘Tom!’
Solly came to a sudden standstill. Lorimer had his colleague in a tight grip, the handcuffs already pinioning the man’s wrists. The Chief Inspector looked from Solly standing white-faced in the doorway to Tom Coutts. Solly was gazing at the man’s face, then his eyes dropped to the killer’s shoes.
‘I look towards his feet, but that’s a legend,’ he quoted softly. Lorimer saw the slight shake of Solly’s head and the brightness behind those horn-rimmed glasses. Trust and betrayal; weren’t they always the cruellest wounds?
Tom Coutts twisted once under Lorimer’s grasp then, meeting Solly’s eyes at last, Lorimer felt him slump in defeat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Nobody spoke for a moment, the sound of whirring machinery the only noise as the two men stared at one another.
Then Leigh Quinn stumbled to his feet. Ignoring the other people in the room he went over to Phyllis and crouched beside her.
‘Are you OK, wee lady? Are you OK?’ Tears were streaming down the Irishman’s face as he stroked Phyllis’s hands. ‘He didn’t get you, my dear. You’re safe, now,’ he told her tenderly.
Phyllis watched as they led that man, the man they called Tom, out of the room. She saw Dr Brightman following them, escorting Maureen Baillie gently by the arm. Leigh stood up and the policeman clapped his shoulder. For a moment Leigh flinched but then his expression changed and a grin spread over his face. He gave Phyllis a wave as he turned to go but she knew he’d be back later, sorting her flowers, talking to her about things he was unable to tell another soul in the whole world.
Then there were only the two of them left.
Lorimer came towards the bed.
‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. Are you all right?’
Phyllis tried to nod but felt her eyes close instead. His voice was gentle.
‘It’s all over now,’ he said.
And Phyllis knew that it was.
Chapter Forty
There was a breeze blowing in from the sea, rippling through the new grass as Lorimer stood outside Saint Clement’s Rodel. The psalms had been sung with no music, the voices raised in Gaelic song to their Maker, giving Lorimer the feeling that he was hearing words that had been uttered since time began on these islands. He had come alone on the morning plane to Stornoway but now he stood beside Niall Cameron, their heads bowed as the minister intoned the final words of the service. He could see Mhairi MacLeod leaning on her stick, Chrissie by her side as always. The cemetery was so packed with people that he was sure every member of the community must be there to pay their final respects to Kirsty.
At last the minister raised his hand in benediction and a resounding Amen came from every mouth.
Lorimer had watched as the simple coffin was lowered into the earth; Kirsty was there at last, laid to rest with her father and mother. There were no flowers. The funeral notice had indicated that anyone who wished might send a donation to the MS Society of Scotland. Everyone knew the nurse’s vocation had been to care for such patients and even Lorimer’s team had donated a cheque for the charity.
Overhead a buzzard mewed, a sad cry like a lost child’s. Lorimer felt Cameron’s hand on his arm then saw the mourners turning to leave.
‘One minute. I’d like to see Miss MacLeod, if I may,’ Lorimer told him quietly.
‘I’ll wait in the car, then.’
Lorimer stood aside as one by one they passed him by. Dougie from the hotel gave him a nod but no smile. When there was only the minister by the grave side with the two old ladies, Lorimer strode across the clipped turf.
‘Miss MacLeod,’ he offered her his hand.
‘Ah,’ Mhairi MacLeod turned at the sound of his voice, then, seeing who it was, she gave him a sweet smile. ‘You came!’ she said. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s at peace now, Mister Lorimer. Far from any harm the world can do to her. Safely home with her Saviour,’ she said. Her words carried such simple conviction that Lorimer felt immediately humbled. Here was an enduring faith that carried on from generation to generation.
‘And how are you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’m just biding here till it’s my time. Chrissie sees that I have everything I need, don’t you dear,’ she added, turning to the lady in black who was holding her arm.
‘Aye. But we should be going now. There will be tea in the hotel if you wish to join us, Chief Inspector,’ Chrissie told him.
‘Thank you, but no. I must get back to Stornoway for the return flight to Glasgow.’
‘You go ahead, Chrissie. Mister Lorimer and I will take a wee daunder along the path. It’s fine,’ she added seeing the other woman’s doubtful expression. ‘He’ll take my arm. Won’t you,’ she added, looking up into Lorimer’s eyes.
They did not speak until they reached a green painted bench that faced the sea and Lorimer had helped the old lady onto the seat.
‘Well, now. Are you going to tell me all about it or do I have to wait until the rumours and the papers mangle it up?’
Lorimer grinned at her and she returned with a smile of her own and patted his hand. ‘I may be old but I’m not afraid of the truth. Now, tell me everything that really happened.’
‘Tom Coutts was a patient at the Grange. He’d been receiving treatment for depression in the wake of his wife’s death. Kirsty had been one of Mrs Coutts’ nurses during her final illnes
s.’
‘Yes, I remember Kirsty told me all about her. A right poor soul she was. Couldn’t do a thing for herself. Hard on the man, I’m sure.’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied. He couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of life Tom Coutts may have had, trying to care for a wife who had no sight and was completely paralysed. ‘So hard that he couldn’t endure her suffering.’ Lorimer told her gently. The man’s sobs rang in his ears as he recalled his confession; how he had smothered his wife with a pillow. Then a combination of guilt and paranoia had driven him to despair.
‘He took her life, then?’ Mhairi guessed.
‘Yes.’
‘And did Kirsty know?’
‘I thought you might tell me that,’ Lorimer replied. ‘The missing pages of her diary corresponded with the dates of Nan Coutts’ death and Kirsty’s resignation from her job.’
‘Aye,’ Mhairi MacLeod sighed. ‘I knew something was wrong, then, but she never told a soul, Chief Inspector. I promise you that.’
‘Dr Brightman thinks that those torn pages from Kirsty’s diary simply showed how much she wanted to obliterate the events from her mind. She was never a threat to Coutts. Still, he took fright when he met her again at the Grange. He couldn’t rid himself of the belief that Kirsty knew what he had done. So he had to kill her. He was really ill, you know.’
‘And the other woman? The nurse he killed in her own home?’
‘She was on duty the night Kirsty was killed. I think Tom Coutts was afraid she had seen him.’
Mhairi MacLeod shook her head sadly. ‘Such a waste,’ she sighed. ‘Such a terrible waste.’
Lorimer took her hand in his and felt its warmth. As they sat together in the midday sun the policeman felt strangely comforted by the old lady; her weight of years and greater wisdom a kind of solace to him.
‘He copied the methods of another killer,’ Lorimer began.
‘The flower and the praying hands. I remember.’
‘What puzzled us was how he knew exactly what that other man had done. Right down to the last detail. We hadn’t even worked it out at the end,’ he admitted.
‘And how had he found these things out?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘Like most things, it was just too easy. Tom Coutts was in and out of the University even during his illness. He expressed an interest in the case. Even helped us with information about the clinic! What we didn’t know was that he had been in Dr Brightman’s office months before and had found that first forensic report. It was all there. Even down to the position of those praying hands.’
‘The poor man,’ she remarked. ‘To have suffered such guilt!’
Lorimer looked at her in surprise. Here was a large heart indeed that could feel for such a devious killer. Nothing excused the act of murder in his book, and never would.
‘And the woman in the clinic? How is she?’
‘Safe,’ Lorimer told her. It was perhaps the best thing he could say about Phyllis Logan. She was safe and well cared for as long as she remained in the clinic.
He recalled Maggie standing at the top of the stairs after he’d returned home, hugging her arms around her body as if she were shivering with the cold. She had asked the same question then promptly burst into tears when he’d told her it was all over.
‘Here comes Chrissie. We’d better go,’ the old lady told him. Lorimer helped her to her feet, handing her the walking stick as Chrissie marched along the path towards them.
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. Thank you for everything,’ she whispered, leaning across to touch his cheek with her lips.
As the plane circled away from the island, Lorimer wondered if he would ever return. There was something about the place that he found beguiling. In some ways he envied Niall Cameron. It might have been his choice to work in Glasgow, but Lewis was still home. He’d been glad of his DC’s company today. It had made him feel less of an outsider. Niall had taken some leave. There were things he had to do, people he needed to see, he’d said. Lorimer suspected one of them might be a girl. His shyness whenever Kirsty’s name had been mentioned was merely a reminder of another lassie from home, he thought.
Then he considered Mhairi MacLeod, and her calm acceptance of all that had happened. If only they could all emulate that old lady’s wisdom.
This had affected so many lives. Maureen Baillie might never work again as a nurse, though he had a notion that she would be there until Phyllis Logan passed her final breath. Leigh Quinn was still there, too, watching over Phyllis as he and Sister Angelica had done during that troubled time since Kirsty’s death. Their partnership had been more than a bond of faith, they had kept watch over the MS patient, fearing for her life. Would this set Quinn back? Or would the incident give him a renewed confidence? Only time would tell.
His thoughts returned to Mrs Baillie. Who would have thought that the Director had spent so many years as the sick woman’s private nurse? She’d been fiercely protective of her relationship with Phyllis. And Solly had been right. Her cold manner had hidden a flawed, but caring, personality. Maybe time would heal her wounds, too.
Time, Lorimer thought. Time. Everything passed eventually. Even this year of Maggie’s would wind to a close. He smiled ruefully to himself. She wasn’t away yet and here he was trying to wish her back. Solly had said little when he’d told him about his wife’s decision, but he’d laid a friendly hand on his shoulder that Lorimer had found oddly comforting. Solly and Rosie were closer than ever these days.
He wished them luck. Rosie was just the balm to soothe any hurt the psychologist was feeling over his colleague’s revelations.
Two men were now in custody awaiting their fate. Would their cases ever come to trial, he wondered? Or would their acts be seen as some kind of sickness? Malcolm Docherty’s twisted sense of religion was a far cry from the faith he’d just witnessed down there, on that little patch of green that was fast disappearing into cloud.
And Tom Coutts? Solly could console himself that his final profile had not been so far out after all: a highly intelligent man with some sort of personal motive for murder. At least he had succeeded in unwinding the twists of those two threads that had bound their victims together for so long. And the last piece of the puzzle had come from Coutts himself.
They’d known the details about the signature had to have come from someone on the team. Forensics had drawn a blank, though. Coutts had simply walked into Solly’s room and read the file on Deirdre McCann. And his supposed weekend in Failte had been cleverly timed so that he was the only patient not to have given a DNA sample. Lorimer looked out at the clouds banking up against the window. Such intricate planning! And yet there was still a chance Coutts would wriggle out of it all as unfit to plead. Well, his destiny was in other hands now, Lorimer knew. But it was a thought that gave him little satisfaction.
Chapter Forty-One
The preliminary hearing had been postponed again. Maureen Baillie knew she should have been pleased but the tension of those last months was finally get ting to her. Her post at the Grange would be terminated whenever a suitable candidate was chosen but her fellow directors were being surprisingly slow about finding a replacement. Mrs Baillie had her suspicions that a certain DCI was pulling strings on her behalf. There was no way she’d be reinstated once the case had come to court, but until then her duties continued as normal. Phyllis was still here too, languishing under that cruel disease. She’d been horrified when Lorimer had revealed the extent of the legacy left to her. As Phyllis’s nurse for so many long years she had been told to expect a ‘little something’. Shame had made her seek out Maxwell Richards. He’d been quite matter-of-fact about her problem. Now she was determined never to gamble again. No matter what happened.
It was some relief that she had been kept on after the arrest of that man, Coutts, especially when Phyllis was so poorly. The woman needed her, though she might not know it. The Director of the clinic had made it her personal business to have the Multiple Sclerosis patient nursed with ext
ra special care those past few weeks. She knew from experience what that disease could do, remembering her own mother dying far too young, and had vowed that Phyllis should be given as much personal dignity as was possible. The Chief Inspector had become a regular visitor.
Mrs Baillie, who left Phyllis and DCI Lorimer discreetly alone at visiting times, often wondered what he said to her.
It was early morning. Phyllis could hear the blackbirds on the lawn outside her window. Their dawn chorus roused her from a shallow sleep every morning. Even with the blinds shut she knew the sunlight would be making the sky a pearly pink. It had rained last night; she’d heard it against the glass. Now she could imagine the sweet scent of newly cut, wet grass as the sun steamed it dry. Her shoulders felt cold. The bedclothes had slipped off her thin cotton nightdress some time during the night.
There was another new nurse on duty. Phyllis had rather wished that policewoman could have stayed on but of course that was impossible. She was all right, now. Just a knock on the head, Lorimer had told her.
The events of that night had left their mark on her, too. Maureen had fussed in and out for days afterwards.
Phyllis tried to breathe deeply and heard the rattle in her chest. She’d been so hot during the night but now her arms were covered in gooseflesh. All she could think of was how tired she felt and how noisy the birds were outside. Maybe she’d slip into a decent sleep again before the nurse came to begin the morning routine. She’d been so weary after Lorimer’s visit yesterday. He’d not stayed too long, but he’d told her things about that man, things she didn’t really want to hear. It was over now and all she longed for was the blessed oblivion of a deep, deep sleep.
Phyllis closed her eyes as the blackbird on the lawn opened his throat in celebration of another new day.