Authors: Alex Gray
Niall Cameron was sweating. Lorimer had chosen to take him personally under his wing. What could that mean? Did the DCI have doubts about his ability? Did he feel that as the relative newcomer to the job he needed to be supervised? Or was there another reason?
As he walked along Bothwell Street, the young man kept looking out for the clocks that signified the Standard Life building. That was where he was to meet the guy. Lorimer had indicated that the Grange’s accountant had been trawling through the clinic’s books with a fine-tooth comb and that he wanted to discuss certain things with Strathclyde Police. Cameron had been dispatched for this particular duty, and right now he was feeling more like an office boy sent on a simple errand than an officer involved in a murder case.
There they were, great gilt clocks high up at either end of the building. Automatically he checked their time against his watch to see if the time was correct. It was. Cameron stepped into a vast lobby flanked by elevators
on each side and a list of names indicating the firms that occupied the building. A quick glance told him the third floor was his destination.
Minutes later he was shaking the hand of a man not too much his senior who introduced himself as Tommy Stirling.
‘Fancy a coffee? The drinks machine’s not bad,’ Stirling told him.
Cameron shook his head. ‘No thanks.’ The idea of coffee in a polystyrene cup didn’t appeal. He’d be bound to spill it and make a fool of himself in this plush office with its matching blue carpet and padded chairs.
‘Right, then, the Grange’s account has only recently come into our hands. It’s the sort of bread and butter thing we do all the time, really. There was nothing to show that this was an unusual client until those murders happened.’
‘The clinic’s accounts were all in order, then?’
‘Well, the last audit had been done by our predecessors fairly recently so we weren’t due to check the books as soon as this. But of course you folk made us look a bit closer.’
‘And?’
‘And there are discrepancies in the accounting. It took a while for me to spot them but I can show you,’ Stirling handed over a sheaf of papers folded back at a particular page. A turquoise highlighter pen marked several figures in a column.
‘What do they indicate?’ Cameron wanted to know.
‘Unauthorised withdrawals from the main account.’
Cameron frowned. ‘How could that happen?’
‘Any withdrawals above a certain amount require two
signatures. These only show one.’
‘Ah,’ Cameron nodded, understanding what the accountant meant. Against each of the turquoise figures was the name of the person who had taken several large sums of money from the clinic’s account. Cameron flicked over the sheets of paper, seeing the same name again and again. It was Mrs Maureen Baillie.
‘What exactly does this mean, then?’ he asked. ‘Mrs Baillie is the Director of the clinic.’
‘She’s
one
of the Directors,’ Stirling replied firmly. ‘And unless the other Directors are aware of her taking out these sums of money then there’s only one conclusion we can come to, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Embezzlement.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘It showed up in the accounts.’
Mrs Baillie gave a resigned sigh. ‘So you know, then?’
‘We know that you misappropriated funds for your own use, yes. But we don’t exactly know why. Care to enlighten me?’
For the first time since he had met her, Lorimer saw a tremble in the woman’s face as if she might actually begin to cry. He could see her swallowing and heard her breaths coming in short gasps as she tried to regain some control.
‘I needed the money,’ she began. ‘I had debts to repay.’
‘Uhhuh. And just who were your creditors?’
‘Oh,’ the woman’s eyes flew to meet his suddenly. ‘Just one. A man called Joseph Harridan.’ She smiled a bitter
little smile. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’ Lorimer had. Harrigan was a notorious bookmaker in Glasgow who had come to the attention of the fraud squad on more than one occasion.
‘What on earth were you doing mixed up with someone like that?’
Mrs Baillie straightened herself up and looked Lorimer straight in the eye. ‘I gamble,’ she said. Lorimer saw the steady way she regarded him as if waiting for some condemnation. She wouldn’t get any from him. Other people’s weaknesses were not something he despised but pitied.
‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ she continued. ‘I run a clinic for patients who have various disorders and I can’t even help myself.’ Lorimer nodded. Those bare rooms at the Grange made sense now. She’d whittled down her possessions as she’d gambled their worth away.
‘There is the matter of a legacy in Phyllis Logan’s will that I was hoping you would explain to me,’ he told her. Suddenly the woman’s face changed. Her smile was wistful as she shook her head.
‘Ah, yes, poor Phyllis. I did wonder if you would ask me about that.’
And then she told him.
Maureen Baillie looked down at the sheet of paper on her desk. She was surprised that her hand was so still, given the turmoil of emotion within. Her resignation as Director of the clinic would take effect from the end of the month in compliance with her terms of employment.
What would become of her after that? Lorimer had told her that there would be a court case pending. But
fraud cases could drag on and on. Perhaps she’d have time to cut her losses and simply disappear. But it was her lack of assets that was holding her back, she thought with some bitterness. The car she drove couldn’t be turned into cash as it was on lease hire, her own house had long since gone, which was her main reason for taking up residence in the Grange. If they ever thought about it, which she doubted, the staff probably believed she was simply being over-conscientious in her duty to the patients.
Harrigan had fleeced her. There was nothing left at all, now that the police had discovered her secret. Her salary would be paid into the bank but that few hundred pounds wasn’t going to take her very far. Besides, where was she to go?
Mrs Baillie sat very still, fingering the pearls at her throat. They were all that she had left of her mother.
Her face twitched in an ironic smile. Sentiment had proved stronger than her compulsion to gamble. She could hear the chatter of two of the women as they passed by her room on their way to the television lounge. Her thoughts turned to Angelica who had been here so recently, providing an oasis for them all.
And, of course, there was Phyllis to consider. She wondered about Phyllis and that new nurse who was so determined to learn what she could about Multiple Sclerosis. Patients like Phyllis were so vulnerable, she thought. Always prey to infection. How long she could survive was anyone’s guess, but she’d seen other cases like hers before and knew that a sudden onset of pneumonia was the thing most likely to dispatch her patient.
Maureen Baillie’s fist clenched the paper into a ball.
No. She wouldn’t leave right away. She had a duty to
patients like Phyllis, even if that duty meant a little bit of suffering.
They were all set.
Mitchison had been surprisingly cooperative all of a sudden. Maybe it was the lack of DNA evidence, though they’d never really suspected anyone from the team. Lorimer had feigned astonishment when he’d been told of Sir Robert Caldwell, the Chief Constable, proclaiming his desire to follow the criminal profiler’s advice. There were wheels within wheels. He knew fine that Solly had mentioned his case to the Professor of Psychology on the very evening when the Prof. was due to have dinner with Strathclyde’s finest. He must have taken the hint and bent the Chief Constable’s ear. It gave Lorimer some satisfaction to know that the Superintendent was not the only one capable of manipulating people. He wondered just what had been said between Sir Robert and the Professor. Still, it was enough that the Superintendent was giving them the authority to mount this operation without any hindrance.
Maggie had packed him a flask and a box of food.
There was enough to feed an army, not just the three men, he’d complained, juggling with plastic carrier bags. But then she’d reminded him that Solly probably wouldn’t even think about meals and he’d given in. It might be a long night.
The driver of the British Telecom van was DC Beattie, a lad who’d come into the force around the same time as Niall Cameron. He was dressed in the regulation navy uniform of British Telecom engineers, a mock-up badge clipped to his woollen jersey.
Lorimer and Cameron sat in the back amongst the paraphernalia of sound engineering and close circuitry, backs against the metal sides of the van with Solomon facing them. Beattie sat up front. Despite the cramped interior of the telecommunications van, Lorimer had a decent view of all the monitors. His eyes wandered over them all but kept returning to those fixed in Phyllis Logan’s room. If she were to have an unwelcome visitor they’d be the first to know.
The van was parked facing the crest of the hill that ran down towards Queen’s Park, only yards away from the entrance to the Grange’s driveway. Lorimer had walked around the area before giving his officers their various positions. There was some advantage in this road being a dead end, he’d realised; whatever vehicle came up this way would have to turn into the driveway or make a slow U-turn behind them before it could accelerate away again.
More than ever Lorimer felt that their killer was somewhere not too far away; perhaps, as Solomon had suggested, he was even inside the clinic already. Beattie was logging every vehicle that came up or turned to
leave. So far his list included residents of the surrounding tenement flats as well as known members of staff and previous visitors to the clinic.
Lorimer’s eye was caught by a movement from one of the monitors. Pat Crossan, her slim figure hidden beneath the regulation overall, was bending over Phyllis. From what Lorimer could see, the police woman appeared to be checking the sick woman’s pulse. One of Pat’s credentials for the job had been her years as a Royal Alexandra nurse. She’d even seen action in the Gulf before coming home and joining the police force.
He saw her straighten up then give a small wink at the camera just to let them know she was aware of their presence. Below her, Phyllis lay inert, her eyes shut. it was impossible to know if she was asleep or not.
‘Do you have a list of who’s on duty?’ Solomon asked, suddenly breaking the silence in the back of the van. He nodded, handing him a copy of the paper that had already been circulated amongst his team. They’d tried to cover every member of staff from the director down. The late shift would continue until ten o’ clock, by which time the night staff would have taken over. Before the change of shift the visitors and day case patients would have come and gone. Mrs Baillie was there all day. Not only was she on duty but her off-duty time seemed to be spent more and more in her flat on the top floor of the Grange or wandering in and out of the residents’ rooms, according to the undercover girls.
‘Erica takes over in four hours,’ Solly noted aloud.
‘Right, but Pat will still be in the building. She’s going to be writing up her essay on the clinic’s computer. Or so she’s told Mrs Baillie.’
‘I wonder what she’ll really be typing onto the screen?’
Lorimer shrugged. He trusted Pat Crossan to cover her tracks effectively. She’d think of something plausible.
The next hour passed in a haze of boredom as Lorimer switched his attention from monitor to monitor, only calling up the members of his team to check out their positions.
It was a quiet Monday evening in a peaceful Glasgow suburb when all good residents were out walking their dogs or strolling in the park. There was nothing to suggest that the surroundings contained small pockets of watchful police officers waiting for something sinister to happen. And that was the way it should be, Lorimer thought, looking out from the restricted view they had in the back of the van. He could see the pavement that curved up towards the clinic then turned into its drive. Beyond the dense shrubbery there was nothing else in sight. Above them the sky was full of house martins dipping and diving for insects. Lorimer watched their swooping movements as a relief from studying the monitors. Already it was June. Only a few more weeks remained of the school term, then Maggie would be away on her travels.
Lorimer stretched his long legs out in front of him. Earlier they’d been able to slip out for brief comfort breaks to the pub across the road but now he’d told them to stay put. He was aware of Cameron squirming beside him; cramped muscles no doubt. The monitors flickered as a car passed by, sunlight bouncing off its wing mirrors.
Phyllis had been watching the woman all day with a growing curiosity. Pat had revealed her identity on her first
visit to the room. It was their secret. Nobody else knew that the agency nurses were plainclothes policewomen. It gave Phyllis a small feeling of triumph to be part of this clandestine operation when so much of her existence depended on other people. She had under stood the need for the policewoman’s presence. Their witness must be protected, Pat Crossan had stressed, especially now that Phyllis had agreed to this.
The paralysed woman told herself that she ought to feel frightened or even excited; after all, she was the bait being dangled to attract the person she thought was the killer. But today she was too exhausted to summon up such emotional energy.
Instead she had merely observed the policewoman’s movements, watching her intently until sleep had overtaken her.
Since Lorimer’s interview the sick woman had slipped into sleep more and more. Observing her, Pat had wondered at the tenacity of the human thread that held onto life. From time to time she bent over the bed, just to listen to the whisper of her breathing. It could scarcely be heard above the rise and fall of the machinery below the bed that hissed and sighed. She’d been sleeping now for almost an hour. The room was warm although Pat had closed the blinds against the direct sunlight. She wanted Phyllis to have a decent sleep. The poor woman seemed so weary.
A buzzer sounded suddenly so Pat reached up to the red button on the patient’s water line to switch off the noise. But Phyllis did not even blink. Below the sheets she was somewhere else, dreaming and drifting as the shadows shifted around the room, oblivious to the fluids
being pumped into her body. The policewoman looked at the watch pinned to her uniform. Two more hours and Erica would be here to relieve her. Quietly she left the room, closing the door behind her. She had other things to check; the whereabouts of other members of staff or visitors. And she needed to go to the loo. She wouldn’t be away all that long.
Meantime the camera fixed inside the television set would watch over Phyllis.
As Pat walked briskly along the corridor a figure emerged from the shadows, looking after her.
Then, as silent as a cat, Leigh Quinn slipped into Phyllis’s room and sat beside the sleeping woman. His hands strayed towards the vase of flowers on her bedside locker, touching their petals, rearranging their stems. Then he drew one of them out of the vase and regarded it for a long moment.
Alistair Wilson circled his head slowly, hearing the crunch of fibres around his cervical vertebrae. At least he was out in the open air. Lorimer and the others would be roasting inside that BT van. So far all was quiet. The only communication they’d had was to check out all the visitors to the Grange. There had been no strangers among them, nobody who was out of place. The detective sergeant was sitting with PC Davie Inglis opposite the back entrance to the Grange, the gardening tools at their feet, screened from view by the thick branches of the rhododendrons.
‘Reminds me of playing hide and seek at my auntie’s garden in Saint Andrews when I was wee,’ Davie had whispered after they’d scrambled out of sight.
The door to the basement had been left locked, as
it normally would be. It was vital not to arouse any suspicions on the part of anyone who might have access to the basement area, Lorimer had insisted. Whoever had murdered Kirsty MacLeod had been able to make their escape this way. But had they? Alistair wasn’t so sure about that and he knew Lorimer himself had doubts about the access. Had the door been left open to make it look as if an intruder had broken in? And had the real killer remained in the clinic during the hours that had followed? Whatever theories they might have, there was no way they could fail to keep this exit under close surveillance.
‘I need to stretch my legs,’ Cameron said suddenly.
‘Don’t we all,’ grumbled Lorimer.
‘No, sir. I mean I really need to stretch my legs,’ Cameron told him. Lorimer noted the flush around his collar and sighed.
‘OK. But don’t be long,’ he warned. Trips back and forth to the pub were OK for so long. Someone behind the bar might begin to comment if they weren’t discreet enough. If the lad really needed to go to the toilet, he couldn’t very well stop him, could he?
Perhaps Maggie had been a bit overgenerous with her refreshments after all.
Cameron clambered over their legs and slid open the van door. The sun had made the metal hot and he winced as he touched it. It was a relief to be out in the air again. He bent down slowly, massaging his calves, then stood up to walk carefully around the van.
Inside, Lorimer craned his neck to watch Cameron walking towards the pub but he was either out of sight or had sprinted across, more desperate than he’d admitted.
He tried to catch Solly’s eye but the psychologist was engrossed in the papers in front of him. Even in the sweltering heat of the van, the psychologist was trying to keep up with his exam marking.
Sister Angelica was happy. It had been a beautiful day, just like the summers when she was a girl. She’d been telling the other patients in the lounge all about the summer holidays of her youth when the family had spent weeks on the farm in Melrose. She’d walked the Eildon Hills until she’d known every crag of them, she said. Then she’d told them about Lewis and how peaceful it could be in Failte.
The weekly prayer meeting was due to begin soon. There was only one person left to arrive then they could start. She’d lit a fat scented candle and placed it on the table by the window. The breeze stirred its flame beside the muslin curtains, sending the fragrance of sandalwood into the room.
Angelica beamed at them all. It was so heartening to do something for these people who had become her friends. Mondays were quite special for her, now. Her vocation was not over, after all. That was something else she had found out during her stay here.
It happened so suddenly that nobody quite knew how to react. First there was a whooshing sound followed by the table being upset as Angelica lumbered to her feet and one of the girls began to scream. The fire caught hold swiftly, spreading to the wallpaper and sending sparks of tinder onto the soft chairs.
‘Out! Everybody! Get out!’ Angelica ordered, shooing them all like sheep from the room just as the smoke alarm began its insistent beeping.
They were coughing in the corridor and gasping for air by the time the nun joined them. One man had picked up the fire extinguisher and was heading back into the room, followed by Peter, one of the male nurses. The front door gave its alarmed ring as they all spilt out into the fresh air. Angelica did a swift headcount. They were all there, she told herself. Everyone, that is, except the one person they’d been waiting for. Where was Leigh?
‘Something’s up. The fire alarm’s gone off,’ a voice came over the radio as Lorimer and Solly crouched in the back of the van. They exchanged glances but Lorimer shook his head.
‘Not yet. This could be a false alarm.’ He switched his mike to talk. ‘OK. Let us know the details as soon as you can. We won’t make a move unless we have to.’ His gaze returned to the monitor.
The room where Phyllis Logan lay was bathed in a gentle half-light filtering through the blinds. There was no movement at all; the figure beneath the sheets seemed quite peaceful. There was no sign of the Irishman sitting by her bed.
‘D’you think they’ll need to call out the fire service?’ Solly asked anxiously.
‘We’ll know soon enough, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘Maybe you should back the van up a bit, Beattie,’ he told the driver. ‘And what’s keeping Cameron?’
As the van shuddered into life the monitors were shaken into blurred lines of grey and white, making observation impossible. The sound of the smoke alarm could be heard faintly from the building.
Lorimer had to know what was happening inside. He
tapped out the numbers on Pat’s mobile. The ringing went on and on until he gave up in disgust. She was supposed to keep in contact. Where the hell was she? He glanced back at the monitor showing Phyllis’s room. Only the patient in her bed could be seen. There was no sign of the undercover officer.
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.