Authors: Alex Gray
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.
The embankment was covered in brambles and elder saplings pushing up through the litter that seemed to grow like some perennial weed. No matter how often he picked it up and bagged it, the cans, papers and other foul stuff simply returned. His legs were beginning to ache from walking along the steep slope for so long. Trying to keep balanced while holding the sack in one hand and the grabbers in the other made unreasonable demands on his calves and thigh muscles. Still, there was a sense of duty in it all. He was performing a cleansing task. The green would re-emerge once he’d cleared the rubbish away and someone travelling along might see God’s gift of beauty in the wee flowers that were struggling to appear. All along the track itself were pink weeds that threw out their suckers year after year. How they survived the trains sweeping over them, he couldn’t imagine. But they were brave, these little flowers, and persistent, like himself.
He felt a glow of pleasure as he thought of his work. To clean up the embankments was not his only occupation,
oh, no. Sighing with pride, he recalled the voice that had appointed him to rid the stations of other foul weeds.
Then, as if to spoil his morning, a sudden memory of the woman and her temptations shamed him.
She’d lured him towards his sin. But this time he wouldn’t weaken. All through the cold months of winter he’d waited for a sign and then had acted upon it. Now he felt the restlessness that had preceded that first sign. Was it time to commit another act of cleansing?
It was time to come clean. All day Maggie had felt a restlessness that had more to do with guilt than with the anticipation of Lorimer’s reaction. More than once she’d found a pair of eyes staring at her from the rows of desks, waiting for a reply to a question she’d never even heard. It was totally unlike her not to be on the ball. Not within the sheltered haven of her own classroom, anyhow. She’d fought for months to have her own room, a place where she could keep papers and books, where she could work undisturbed. There was a poster opposite her desk, just above eye level. It was a souvenir from last year’s trip to Stratford. They’d taken the Fifth and Sixth Years in the slot after exam leave and before they all scooted off for the summer. It had been an idyllic interlude for the kids, and for Maggie. She’d felt a hundred years younger walking through the cobbled streets with those kids. The weather last June had been hot and breezy. If she thought about it hard enough she could still conjure up the feeling of her long linen skirt wrapping itself around her legs and
her hair blowing free as they’d walked along the banks of the Avon. But the memory that stuck longest was the sense of disappointment at having to come home to an empty house.
As ever, her husband had been out on some police matter or other.
Maggie had wept that night in sheer frustration at having no one, no one at all to communicate her days of pleasure and nights of magic, transported by the spell of The Bard. It wasn’t the same to phone her old mum, even if she’d been awake at that hour. She’d wanted someone to talk to; a soulmate who would hold her in his arms and look at her in understanding of all she had to tell. She’d wanted Lorimer.
The clock on the wall told her it was high time she took herself out of there. The rush hour traffic would be its usual slow, gas-guzzling mass with motorists caught between rolling back the sunroofs or cooling themselves with recycled air. Maggie made a sour face. It was all right for Lorimer with his Lexus. Ancient it might be, but the comfort and air-conditioning were there OK. Still she sat on, torn between a desire to have it all over and done with and a fear at what he would say. What would he say? She’d gone over and over this question for days, steeling herself to come to this moment of truth.
Maggie stretched herself and pushed back the metal chair. OK. She’d do it. Now. Tonight. She was sure he’d be home tonight. After how tired he’d been he would try to come home at a reasonable hour. Surely. Maggie straightened her back and gave her dark curls a shake. She was going to America for a year and her husband would just have to accept it.
Jo Grant’s brow creased in a frown as she scrolled up the list of figures. Lorimer had been right. There was something out of order in the clinic’s accounts. At first she’d assumed that the Logan Trust had been responsible for the gaps, but they were way too frequent and didn’t tally properly. She could see that now. Jo gave a smile.
I.T. had a way of showing up things that could save hours of old-fashioned detective work. She pressed the print button. Lorimer would like this. There were several large sums of money missing from the Grange’s accounts. The patients’ fees simply weren’t covering the expenditure. Someone had been on the fiddle, she guessed. Her years in the fraud squad had given Jo a nose for that sort of thing.
‘We need to see the clinic’s own paperwork,’ Lorimer told her. ‘Mrs Baillie keeps the records. See what you can worm out of her.’
He watched as Jo left the room. She was good, that one; sharp as a needle. He’d felt there was something wrong about the finances and now she’d proved him right. But was there any link to the murders? Lorimer leant back in his chair, swivelling it back and forth as he pondered. Mrs Baillie had been so tight with information. She’d also shown little real remorse after the deaths of her two nurses. He’d like to be a fly on the wall when DI Grant started to ask more questions. The Procurator Fiscal had issued a new warrant to search locked premises so Mrs Baillie couldn’t refuse access to any of the clinic’s files. Lorimer smiled to himself. Something was beginning to unfold.
Maggie had prepared a pot of chicken broth. It was totally unseasonable but she had felt the need for comfort food and the soothing feeling that came from cutting up the vegetables as she’d listened to Classic FM. Now the soup was congealing in the pressure cooker as she waited for the sound of his car.
She’d rehearsed over and over in her mind what she would say to him, but she still jumped nervously as the Lexus braked in the drive below. She could hear him take the stairs two at a time as if eager to be back home.
‘Hey, something smells good. That wouldn’t be one of your brilliant soups by any chance?’
Suddenly he was there and Maggie shrank back into a corner of the kitchen as if seeking refuge by the cooker.
She turned to face him, tried to smile and failed miserably.
‘Mags?’ Lorimer reached out for her, immediately sensing her distress.
One moment she was in his arms and the next she was struggling to be free of him, angrily pushing him away. Lorimer took a step backwards, trying to see his wife’s expression but Maggie had turned away. He stood, hands helplessly by his side.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Maggie looked at him, seeing the puzzled, hurt look in his eyes then, she took a deep breath. ‘I think we’d better talk.’ She motioned through to the sitting room.
Lorimer sat on the edge of the sofa but Maggie chose the armchair opposite as if touching him would somehow weaken her resolve. He watched her chest heave in a sigh that made him want to fold her up into his arms.
Her eyes were cast down towards the carpet as she spoke. ‘I’ve applied for a new post. A temporary post.
It’s just for a year. An exchange, actually.’ Maggie’s voice rose in a squeak that betrayed her nervousness. She looked up to see her husband frowning at her, trying to figure out what she meant.
There was a tentative smile hovering around Maggie’s mouth as she told him.
‘I’m going to America.’
‘What?’ Lorimer stared at his wife in disbelief. He wanted to replay that last moment, let her words sink in. America? She hadn’t just said that, had she?
There was a silence between them that seemed to go on and on. In the silence Lorimer’s worst fears about his marriage were brought to the surface like scum on a pot of bubbling stock. What was she saying? He listened numbly as Maggie suddenly rattled on about teaching opportunities and career advancement. He wasn’t hearing this properly at all. All he could think of was that he felt like she’d swung a wet dishrag across his face.
‘Hang on. Let me get this right. You want to spend a year abroad. On your own?’ He heard his voice rise in protest. When he spoke again the words came out in a mere whisper. ‘Why? Why do you have to do this, Mags?’
‘For me. I’ve wanted to do something like this all my life. Can’t you understand? I’m tired. So tired. All the time I wait for you to come home. I feel as if I’ve spent, no let’s be truthful about this, I’ve
wasted
so much of my own life. You’re never here. I want to talk to you. I want to spend my evenings with you. Oh, I know all about the pressure of police work. Believe me I’ve tried so hard to put up and
shut up.’
Lorimer flinched at the bitterness in her voice.
‘I need to do something for myself. Before I end up simply an appendage of DCI Lorimer.’
‘Maggie, this is beginning to sound all very midlife crisis to me,’ Lorimer began.
‘Don’t you dare start to tell me I’m becoming menopausal or whatever. Just don’t dare!’ Maggie’s eyes were so fierce with passion that Lorimer sank back against the sofa cushions wondering what on earth to say next.
‘What have I got that’s my own? Eh? Tell
me
that? A job. A house. OK we couldn’t have kids. No one’s fault. I’m not trying to lay any blame. All I want is a year to myself doing something I might enjoy.’ Her eyes were pleading with him now. ‘Don’t you understand? I want to be me. Do something on my own.’
What about us? Lorimer wanted to say, but something he couldn’t define stopped him from uttering the words. Instead, in a voice stiff with emotion, he asked, ‘And at the end of the year?’
Maggie shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes were focused on the pattern of the carpet again. ‘We’ll see.’
Lorimer took a deep breath. He spent a lot of his working life trying hard to put himself into the shoes of other people; victims of crime, hoods, murderers, witnesses too scared to speak. But it seemed he’d failed to empathise where it mattered most, in his own home. He gazed sideways out of the window at the still clear blue sky. America. Suddenly a thought struck him.
‘Why America? This wouldn’t have anything to do with that woman, Lipinski, would it?’
Seeing Maggie’s expression gave him his answer. ‘I
might have known! She’s been encouraging you to make a break for freedom. Is that it?’
‘Don’t you think I’ve got a mind of my own? OK so Divine told me a bit about Florida and, yes, that’s where I’m going on an exchange. But you’re entirely wrong in imagining that she put me up to it,’ Maggie snapped back at him. Then her face softened as she added, ‘I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to.’
Lorimer nodded. He wouldn’t let this escalate into a row. Looking at his wife’s face he realised how important this moment was. If he made too much fuss then he could alienate her all together. All his expertise as a police officer had taught him that he must play this quietly. The best thing now was to reassure her, not to let her see how she’d hurt him.
‘Right. Come over here and tell me about it all over again,’ he patted the sofa cushion beside him.
Maggie hesitated for a fraction of a second then got up to join him. Lorimer resisted the urge to hold her tight and simply took her hand, giving it a friendly squeeze.
He tried to make out that he was listening carefully as she told him all over again; about the job in Sarasota, about the high school system, about the accommodation being made available to her, and about the holidays.
‘I could see you at Christmas,’ she whispered, a little sadly.
‘I should hope so,’ Lorimer replied, his tone light, belying the heaviness he really felt inside.