A small weeping lab-2 Page 11

  Lorimer gave himself a shake. He was in danger of being beguiled by the quiet of this island. It was a place like any other, he persuaded himself, inhabited by people as culpable as any in the city.

  He stepped in among the lichened gravestones, looking at the names. He was right. There were lots of MacLeods. Some were so old that their inscriptions had faded into decay. He moved among them, shaking his head at all the infant deaths centuries before. Lorimer bent to read the carving on a stone that had leant over with years of westerly gales. The words were still clearly marked: Be Ye Also Ready The Small amp; Great Are Here

  Lorimer gave a rueful nod of acknowledgement and passed on down the line.

  There was another MacLeod, a Donald MacLeod who had fought in the ’45 rebellion. Several lines of inscription told any passerby that here lay a man who’d been preceded by three wives, who had borne him nine children. Lorimer gave a twisted smile. He was barely in his forties himself, but he’d long ago given up any hope of producing any kids to carry on his own name. He read on. The old man had died in his ninetieth year, it said.

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Solly was suddenly by his side. ‘What accounted for their longevity, do you think?’

  ‘The whisky?’ Lorimer joked.

  ‘I wonder. Did they have a healthier way of life, perhaps?’

  Lorimer shrugged. The world that he and Solly came from wasn’t particularly healthy any more. The Sunday supplements were forever carrying a story about someone who had changed their city life for one in a remote part of Scotland. Taking another lungful of Hebridean air, Lorimer could understand why.

  There were more modern headstones on the far side of the graveyard. The detective’s feet left soft imprints on the springy turf as he walked amongst them.

  At last Lorimer found the one he’d expected to see. It was inscribed to another Donald MacLeod. Lost at Sea, told the deeply cut words. The wife’s name had been added not long after. Kirsty Grace. There was space below for another inscription. When would this grave be opened to lay their daughter to rest? That was the question emanating from the blank grey patch of marble.

  ‘When I find her killer,’ Lorimer spoke softly to the gravestone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘OK, be with you in half an hour.’

  Maggie put the phone down. She was really far too busy with marking these junior exams to go out for the evening but maybe she could catch up in her spare periods tomorrow. The seniors were off on exam leave, after all, she argued with herself, and it was Divine Lipinski’s last evening in Scotland.

  The papers were neatly piled up by her armchair, red marking pen on top, as Maggie glanced guiltily at them. Someone had once teased her that all teachers were programmed to serve. It was true. She found it hard to switch off from work. There was always pressure, always new demands, new directives. In recent years she and her colleagues had hardly time to learn one set of assessment techniques when some wise guy supplanted them with something different. The wise guys had never been teachers, or if they had, they’d long forgotten what the inside of a classroom looked like or, more to the point, what kids really needed for the big, bad world after school was out for good.

  Maggie suddenly found herself longing for a change. Surely other countries’ systems couldn’t be as restrictive as the current Scottish curriculum? She daydreamed her way to the bathroom and started to wipe away the day’s make-up.

  She’d dress up tonight. It was a lot warmer and it was staying lighter for longer now. The face in the oval mirror stared back at her, pale skin with fine lines etched around a discontented mouth. She faked a smile then made a face at her reflection. Time for war paint, she told herself.

  Thirty minutes later Maggie alighted from a taxi outside the Corinthian. The effort of dressing up in a shorter skirt and slim-heeled shoes was well rewarded when she caught sight of all the lovely young things parading their designer gear at the bar. As usual, Maggie’s eyes were drawn towards the gorgeous gold painted ornamentation that gave The Corinthian its name. Her gaze lingered on the fabulous dome with its subtly shifting colours, then she looked around and saw Divine sitting by the hearth. The fire wasn’t lit tonight but it still looked the cosiest part of the enormous room.

  ‘Well, what d’you know. Mrs Lorimer. Fashion statement herself!’

  Maggie stuck her tongue out and both women laughed.

  ‘What’re you drinking tonight, ma’am?’ Divine asked in mock flattering tones.

  Maggie rolled her eyes to heaven, ‘I don’t mind so long as there’s lots of it. I came by taxi and I intend to go home that way. Happy’ She emphasised the word. But when the waiter came for their order she found herself about to ask for the usual white wine spritzer.

  ‘Two Harvey Wallbangers,’ Divine drawled before Maggie had time to speak and suddenly that was exactly what she wanted. Something different that fitted her mood of rebelliousness. She leant back, crossing her legs over silky stockings, not caring if she showed a bit too much thigh.

  ‘Well, Divine. This suit you for your last night in Glasgow?’

  ‘It’s neat. Pretty. Reminds me of some of our old buildings back home. What did it used to be before?’

  ‘Oh, it’s an old building all right. I can remember when it was the High Court but before that it was the Union Bank of Scotland. Long before my time. I think I read somewhere that it was originally a family house.’ Maggie scanned the Classical mouldings around the ceiling. ‘The present owner made sure that all the original architectural features were kept.’

  ‘Wish more people were like him,’ replied Divine. ‘If you ever come over to Florida I’ll show you something. It’s called the Ca’de Zan. Built right on the water to look like an Italian Palace. You’d like it.’

  Maggie bent over her drink, considering. Should she confide in this woman?

  ‘You might be able to show me round sooner than you think,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘Listen, I know you’ll not be here after tomorrow, but I’d still like you to keep this confidential,’ Maggie began.

  Divine nodded, her dark eyes solemn.

  ‘I’ve applied for a transfer to America. Just for a year. It’s an exchange programme that’s run between Scottish and American schools.’

  ‘And how does the Chief Inspector feel about that?’

  Maggie didn’t answer and in the silence that followed Divine’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You mean you haven’t told him?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I wanted time to think about it.’

  ‘So why tell me?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a police woman. You travel.’ Maggie hesitated. ‘I just thought you might understand.’

  Divine gave a sigh. ‘Honey, I do, believe me. Being in the police force takes over your whole life, whether it’s here or back home. I’ve seen lots of folks split up because of the pressure.’

  ‘Oh, but we’re not, I mean…’ she tailed off, confused.

  ‘Just need a bit of time out?’

  ‘Something like that. I’ve always wanted to travel but the years just seem to have slipped by and I’ve got into this rut. We both have. Then I saw the poster about the exchange.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was like something telling me to grab the chance with both hands.’

  ‘And how d’you think your husband will react?’

  Maggie looked away. ‘I’m not sure. I really don’t want to hurt him. But lately I wonder if he even thinks about what my life is like.’

  ‘Hey. Want my advice? Go for it. It’s only a year and if you hate it you can always come back. I mean,’ she grinned at Maggie encouragingly, ‘nothing’s set in stone, is it?’

  ‘No. I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am. Now let’s drink to the future.’

  Divine raised the tall glass and gave a wink.

  Suddenly Maggie felt a lot better. Was it such a big deal after all? Surely people went abroad all the
time with their work and without their partners?

  ‘The future,’ she agreed and took a long cool drink. The cocktail tasted sweet and different, a portent of good things to come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lorimer’s mouth felt like someone had made him chew on sandpaper. He groaned and rolled over, reaching out for Maggie’s warm body. He came to, feeling the sudden edge of the bed. Maggie? Then he remembered where he was. He opened his eyes to the light. Someone had drawn the curtains closed and the room was flooded with deep pink reflected light. Lorimer closed his eyes again. What was it that was flickering at the edge of his mind?

  Dougie, the youngster behind the bar. He’d sat there drinking malts and quizzing the boy for hours. Solomon had listened to their questions and answers, sipping his orange squash and nodding as he absorbed the information. Had Dougie known Kirsty? That was what Lorimer had really been after. At first he thought he’d hit pay dirt. Everyone had known her and her business, it seemed. From birth to death there didn’t seem to be a way of keeping secrets on this island. What was it the lad had said? It’s not gossip. Folks just share their lives with one another. That’s the way it is. And Kirsty MacLeod’s life had seemed just the same as any other young islander’s. She’d left home to board in Stornoway and attend the Nicholson Institute, like all the teenagers from these parts. And, like many of them, she’d made her way to the big city. For what was to keep her here? Unemployment was just as bad up here as anywhere else, Dougie had pointed out. That was why so many folk had wanted the quarry to go ahead. He’d been OK, his dad owned the hotel. That’s what he wanted, to stay here and live in Rodel. Kirsty had been no different from the young folk who had left the islands to work in Glasgow, Lorimer conceded. It was her death that made her stand apart from them. But there was still too much missing from what Dougie could tell him. There were no hidden depths, nothing to distinguish Kirsty from any other young island girl leaving home to train as a nurse.

  He heaved himself out of the narrow bed and felt the floor cold beneath his feet. Today would bring him into contact with other nurses who cared for the Grange’s patients, and, of course, the patients themselves. Lorimer found himself speculating about the two who had been in Glasgow at the time of Kirsty’s murder; Sister Angelica and Samuel Fulton. They’d caught an early morning flight from Glasgow to Stornoway. Mrs Baillie had not been prepared to make any cancellations. The clinic would have lost money, she had claimed. Lorimer shook his head. Call him a suspicious beggar, but there was more to all this than met the eye.

  ‘This came for you, sir.’ Lorimer looked up from his bacon and eggs to see young Dougie holding out a long white envelope. He waited until the boy had gone then ripped it open. Solly glanced up inquiringly as Lorimer studied the message. It was a fax from Alistair Wilson. Suddenly South Harris was back in the twenty-first century, mused Lorimer. He scanned the opening paragraph quickly.

  The Grange was trying to forge links with another expanding group of clinics, he read, and there had been a report ordered by their bankers into this group’s financial stability. Lorimer’s eyes travelled down the rows of facts and figures. There were sections on the group’s business profile, accounting systems, profit and loss forecasts and future strategies, one of which included the absorption of the Grange. The directors had borrowed heavily in order to expand and modernise their existing clinics. The report’s advice was that the bank would continue its level of lending meantime but wanted to know a definite date for the acquisition of the Grange. But how could that be? Phyllis Logan was the legal owner. Had the paralysed woman some legal representative who would advise her on such matters?

  Lorimer frowned, remembering the woman’s argument that the clinic could not afford to waste her patients’ plane tickets. Mrs Baillie seemed to be more concerned with saving money than an investigation into the death of one of her staff. She’d not even told them about the existence of the respite home until then, this other part of the MS patient’s estate. Failte, it was called. The word was Gaelic for welcome, Lorimer knew. What sort of welcome would they have for a Glasgow policeman and a criminal profiler?

  His car wasn’t built for roads like these, Lorimer realised as he pulled into a lay-by for the sixth time in five minutes. They had obviously met the ferry traffic coming from Tarbert. He paused to look out over the wide sweep of sands below them, then his eye travelled inland. The road was clear again and he turned back onto the grey strip that wound down towards sea level, glancing every now and then at the changing colours of the water.

  ‘Look out!’ Solly’s shout made Lorimer yank the wheel sideways as something white bounded towards them. There was a thud as the car hit the verge. He pressed the window button, cursing the object of their sudden stop.

  ‘Bloody sheep!’ Lorimer looked down at the offending beast that was now grazing frantically on the other side of the narrow road. He glanced across at Solly, who was trying to hide a grin, then he eased the big car off the grass verge and back onto the road. He’d have to be more attentive to these sheep meandering across his path.

  The rest of the journey passed without incident though Lorimer had to keep his wits about him negotiating the twists and turns, especially among the rocky landscapes as they climbed into the hills north of Tarbert. The treeless wastes were bleaker to Lorimer’s eyes than even Rannoch Moor. No wonder so much of the population had left over the decades. Yet there would always be a core of islanders who stayed at home. There were signs of recent resurfacing to the road and Lorimer reminded himself that tourism kept many local folk in employment. He had to admit that there was a wild beauty about the coastline. And these slabs of black rock striped with silver crystals were amongst the oldest known rocks on earth. Lorimer passed a sign for Callanish. He’d love to bring Maggie here to see these legendary standing stones.

  ‘Who exactly runs this respite centre?’ Solomon asked suddenly.

  ‘A couple by the name of Evans. He’s a psychiatric nurse and she does the housekeeping and suchlike, I believe. They’re not locals. Came up in answer to an advert, in fact.’

  ‘What do you know about them?’

  ‘Not a lot. But I think we’ll soon find out,’ replied Lorimer. Roadside cottages were no longer solitary dots on the landscape but were now like joined up writing. ‘Civilisation,’ he muttered under his breath as he read the sign, Steornabhagh, though he wasn’t at all sure that he meant it.

  ‘Do you mind if we don’t go straight to the clinic? I’d like to pay a courtesy call to the local nick,’ Lorimer asked. ‘I feel the need to rally the troops, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Do you think the troops will be on our side?’

  Lorimer grunted. Solly had a point. Nobody liked officers from another division, let alone another region, encroaching on their patch. He’d just have to hope the natives were as friendly here as they’d been in Harris.

  Stornoway came as a surprise. Fishing boats swung gently on their moorings along the harbour’s edge as Lorimer drove slowly towards the centre of town. He rolled down the window and breathed in the salty, fishy tang.

  ‘Fancy a walk?’ Solomon asked.

  ‘OK. I could do with stretching my legs,’ Lorimer replied. He parked away from the harbour in a designated area. For a small place there were plenty of double yellow lines and he wasn’t about to get on the wrong side of the local lads.

  ‘This is where she came to school,’ Solomon spoke half to himself as Lorimer locked the car.

  ‘Yes. The Nicholson Institute. One of Maggie’s friends came up here to teach languages years ago.’

  He tried to visualise Kirsty as a teenager, giggling on her way from the hostel to the famous high school, then breathed a long sigh. The Stornoway air stinging his eyes had a purity that was suddenly at odds with his vision of the nurse, her hair scattered over that life less young face.

  The local police station was in Church Street. From the pavement in front of it Lorimer spotted three steeples close by, a re
minder that these parts were supposed to be full of God-fearing folks. Well, that remained to be seen.

  ‘Chief Inspector Lorimer, Strathclyde CID,’ Lorimer held out his warrant card carefully for the duty sergeant to see. The officer, a huge bear of a man whose grizzled hair still held a hint of red, raised his eyebrows but looked past Lorimer to the Jewish psychologist, who stood smiling his knowing little smile. Following the man’s questioning gaze, Lorimer stepped aside.

  ‘This is Dr Brightman from Glasgow University.’

  Solly held out his hand to the sergeant who gave it an abrupt once up-and-down.

  ‘Dr Brightman is assisting Strathclyde with our double murder inquiry,’ Lorimer explained.

  ‘Aye, the MacLeod girl. Terrible thing, that,’ replied the sergeant. ‘How can we help you, sir?’ he said to Lorimer.

  ‘We’re here to visit a place called Failte. It’s some sort of respite home for recovered mental patients.’ Beside him Lorimer could feel Solly wince at the description.

  ‘Isn’t it for patients who have suffered some sort of neural disorder?’ the sergeant replied, frowning. ‘That’s what we were told.’ He sidled along behind the desk and tapped at the keyboard of his computer.

  ‘There, see.’ He swivelled the screen around for the two men to read.

  Faille: Centre for holistic care and recuperation. Specialising in the aftercare of patients who are recovering from neural disorders. Patients are often disorientated when they arrive and may take some time to integrate with staff and nearby residents. It is hoped that the local police officers will do their best to be discreet and understanding while those patients are part of the community.