A small weeping lab-2 Page 12

  ‘That’s community policing for you,’ the big policeman said proudly. ‘We take care of people up here, respect their needs, you know.’

  ‘There isn’t a big crime scene here, then,’ Lorimer joked.

  The sergeant bristled, obviously disliking Lorimer’s flippancy. ‘We may not have the kind of crimes you boys have down in Glasgow, but there are still lawbreaking elements about. Especially with drugs,’ he shook his head wearily.

  ‘But there’s been no trouble of that sort at Failte?’ Solomon inquired politely.

  ‘Oh, no. They keep themselves pretty much to themselves. We see them wandering along the roads, out for fresh air, poor souls. No, we’ve never had any bother with them at all,’ he replied, adding, ‘Are you staying long, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Lorimer replied to him. ‘Although I’d quite like to see it from a visitor’s point of view some day.’

  ‘Aye, there’s nowhere like it. They can say what they like about their fancy Benidorms and Lanzarotes but we’ve a better place than any of them,’ the sergeant stated emphatically.

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll manage to come up here again. Thanks for your time.’ Lorimer shook the sergeant’s hand and turned to go.

  ‘Do you know where this place is?’ Solomon asked as they walked back along the street.

  ‘Yes. According to my AA map it’s further out along the north coast,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Near a place called Shawbost. Shouldn’t take us too long to find it.

  And we certainly won’t get lost. There is only one road from Stornoway.’

  Lorimer was right, the road from the main town in Lewis cut directly across the land towards the further coast. Apart from the ubiquitous sheep, there were few signs of habitation along their route. Gazing out of the window, Solomon marvelled at the landscape of windswept grasses and gently sloping hills. Small birds swooped past the windscreen and away, their identities a mystery. Despite a lack of trees the landscape was pleasing and, as the clouds raced across the sky, the psychologist smiled to himself, enjoying the shifting scenery as if it were a gift.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sign for Shawbost was accompanied by another giving the mileage to Callanish, Carloway and Stornoway. There was nothing to indicate the whereabouts of Failte. Lorimer drove slowly along past the houses scattered on either side of the road until even those petered out.

  ‘Maybe it’s further on?’ suggested Solly.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Turning a bend on the road, Lorimer saw a long driveway that ended slightly uphill at a large, grey two-storey house. There was no sign at the road end.

  ‘Bet you that’s it,’ he said and swung the car along the rutted path that led to the house.

  To one side of the old house was a pebbled area with a red pickup truck, so Lorimer parked nearby and signalled to Solomon to come with him.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Solly, pointing to the word cut into grey slate by the doorway. Failte.

  ‘My great detecting skills,’ Lorimer smiled, raising his eyebrows. So far, so good, he thought, but what would their reception be now that they had arrived?

  They hadn’t long to find out. In answer to the shrill bell, footsteps came thudding downstairs towards the door. It swung open to reveal a young woman dressed in jeans and sweater.

  ‘Hallo. Can I help you?’ she looked curiously at Lorimer then shifted her gaze to Solomon. Lorimer saw the smile spread across her face and watched as she flicked back her long fair hair. He made a mental note to tease the psychologist about his fatal attraction to blondes.

  As always, Lorimer held out his warrant card. ‘I understood Mr and Mrs Evans were in charge here,’ he ventured.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she turned and yelled up the stairs. ‘Muum! There’s a policeman to see you.’

  The sound of a door slamming and a toilet flushing was followed by a voice calling out, ‘Just coming!’ then a woman appeared at the top of the stairs, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist.

  ‘Frances Evans. You must be the men who phoned me from Glasgow, right?’ she spoke breathlessly taking Lorimer’s hand in a damp grasp. ‘This is my daughter, Rowena,’ she added, indicating the girl who still continued to smirk in Solly’s direction. ‘Finish off those bedrooms for me, will you, lass?’ she said, giving the girl a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  ‘See you later, maybe,’ Rowena grinned then raced up the stairs and out of sight.

  ‘Come on into the lounge, will you. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? Or can I offer you both a spot of lunch? We’re just having soup and sandwiches, but you’re welcome to join us.’

  Frances Evans spoke in a rush, making Lorimer wonder if she were always so garrulous. Or was it the presence of a police officer that provoked this nervous chatter? Lorimer had witnessed this effect countless times. It didn’t mean a person had anything to hide; sometimes it was simply the awkwardness of unfamiliarity.

  ‘Thank you, but no. We’d really like to speak to your two residents as soon as possible.’

  ‘Ah,’ the woman dropped her hands by her sides. ‘Of course. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to see Sam and Angelica. Well, Sam’s out with my husband at the moment and Angelica’s gone for a walk. Oh, just a minute,’ she broke off and crossed to a window that overlooked the road. ‘That’s them now,’ she said, turning back to Lorimer.

  ‘They had to go into Stornoway to the chemist’s. Sam’s on special medication, you know,’ she confided, stepping past them and bustling out into the hall once more. The rattle of a car braking against the stony drive set off a dog barking.

  Following the woman out of the front door, Lorimer saw a black and white collie racing towards the car, a distant figure following.

  Standing in the doorway, Lorimer saw two men emerge from the car. One was stockily built with thinning hair, the other a tall spare man wearing well-worn tweeds. As they approached, Lorimer saw them exchange glances. They’d have seen his car in the driveway and put two and two together.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, I take it?’ the tall man took the front steps two at a time and Lorimer found his hand grasped firmly. ‘I’m John Evans. And this is our guest, Sam Fulton,’ Evans turned to the man behind him who had bent down to fondle the collie by his side.

  As Sam Fulton straightened up, Lorimer knew instinctively that the two men had discussed a strategy between them. He looked back at Evans for a moment, aware of the frank, hazel eyes regarding him with interest.

  ‘Mr Fulton, hallo,’ Lorimer smiled and raised a hand in greeting. ‘I understand we’ve arrived at an awkward time. Mrs Evans here tells me your lunch is ready. please don’t let us keep you back.’ He turned and met the Welshman’s eyes again. ‘We can talk while Mr Fulton is at lunch,’ he said. Evans nodded. His expression showed that he knew it wasn’t so much a request but a demand from this Glasgow policeman.

  ‘Aye, OK. I’ll see youse later,’ Sam Fulton licked his lips nervously and slunk past them into the house, followed by Frances Evans who ushered him along the corridor like a recalcitrant child.

  ‘This is my colleague Dr Brightman,’ Lorimer said, watching as Solly shook hands solemnly with the tall Welshman.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Brightman,’ Evans had stooped slightly to meet the psychologist’s eyes but was now looking over his shoulder. ‘I think we could talk in the lounge, but first, there’s someone else you should meet.’

  Both men turned to follow his gaze. The figure that had been following the collie was heading up the path. Close to, Lorimer could see her raincoat flapping against a pair of stout legs clad in thick socks and heavy walking boots. The headscarf knotted under her chin made the woman’s face appear like a pale, round moon. In one hand she carried a staff and each step she took was defined by a thump as she lumbered forwards.

  ‘Sister Angelica?’ Solomon looked enquiringly at John Evans.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wretched
dog. Never comes back when I tell him to. You have to train your animals better than that, John.’ The woman puffed to a halt before them. ‘This the policemen, then?’ she asked, indicating Lorimer and Solly with her stick.

  ‘DCI Lorimer and Dr Brightman,’ Evans stated, standing aside for the woman to shake the out stretched hands.

  ‘I’m Sister Angelica. How are you? Don’t answer that. I don’t really want to know. Had enough of hearing how everybody is back in the Grange,’ she cackled.

  ‘Frances is doing lunch then these gentlemen will want to speak to you,’ John Evans told her. Lorimer saw her hesitate for a moment. The psychiatric nurse had a firm manner that brooked no nonsense yet there was a reassuring gentleness in that Welsh accent.

  ‘Suits me. Sam in already?’ Without waiting for a reply the woman strode into the house, the collie wagging its tail at her heels.

  ‘Please go into the lounge. I’ll ask Frances to do some tea for us,’ Evans said and disappeared in the wake of Sister Angelica.

  ‘What d’you make of them?’ Lorimer sat down and whispered to Solly.

  ‘Sister Angelica seems pretty well adjusted, don’t you think? No sign of weakness in her personality at first sight. She’s getting on with things, I’d say. Out with the dog in the fresh air. And she had no problem about facing us, did she?’

  ‘What about the man? Fulton?’

  ‘Didn’t want to make eye-contact, did he?’

  ‘You noticed that too?’

  ‘And…’ Solly broke off as John Evans pushed open the lounge door with a tray. He set it down on the table between the two men and began offering sugar for the steaming mugs.

  ‘We found it rather strange that two patients who were in the Grange during a murder should be allowed to disappear up here the very next day,’ Lorimer began. ‘Mrs Baillie said the reasons were financial,’ he added, raising his eyebrows to show John Evans just how sceptical he was of this excuse.

  ‘Did she?’ Evans looked surprised. ‘I would have thought she might have explained about Sam and Angelica.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Well. Both patients had completed their course of treatment. They really needed the respite care we offer at Failte. You have to understand, Chief Inspector. They’d been through a very difficult time and for them to become embroiled in a police investigation might have seriously set either of them back.’

  ‘What about now? Will we damage their recovery?’ Lorimer asked, sarcastically.

  ‘Maybe. But they’ve had a while to rest and take stock of all their therapy. I think you can safely interview each of them without too much upset.’

  Evans crossed his legs as he spoke and leant back into the armchair. He regarded Lorimer thoughtfully over the rim of his mug.

  ‘Neither of your patients were in the Grange in January when the first murder took place,’ Solly pointed out. ‘Chief Inspector Lorimer will have to know their whereabouts for that particular date.’

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Sam or Angelica might be suspects?’ Evans sat up suddenly. Neither man replied, letting the silence answer his question.

  ‘But why? Just because they’ve been ill doesn’t mean they’d be capable of carrying out something like that!’

  ‘The perpetrator of those killings appears to be someone who may very well be ill,’ Solly answered slowly. ‘In building up a profile I have to consider the extent to which any risk of discovery was considered. Whoever did these killings was either very cunning or totally disregarded the thought that they might be caught. Someone whose behaviour was prompted by an uncontrollable urge might even have wanted to be discovered.’

  ‘And how do you come to that conclusion, Dr Brightman?’

  Solly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge that kind of information.’

  John Evans looked at each of them in turn, his mouth a thin line of disapproval.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I suppose we must be as cooperative as we can. Still, I do hope you can see our side of things. Mrs Baillie would not have seen her actions as obstructing the course of a murder inquiry. She would simply have put her patients as a higher priority.’

  Lorimer listened to the man’s measured tones. There was no sense of outrage nor was there any attempt to thwart this stage of the investigation. Evans was a man of some sense.

  ‘Were you always a psychiatric nurse?’ he asked, curious suddenly about the Welshman’s background.

  Evans smiled and shook his head. ‘No. I retrained some years ago.’

  ‘I’d have hazarded a guess that you were an academic of some sort,’ Solly stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  ‘Well done, Doctor. Spot on,’ Evans replied, putting his empty mug back onto the tray. ‘I was at Cambridge for many years. Lectured in philosophy.’ He smiled again, looking straight at Lorimer. ‘You can check it all up if you like.’

  ‘So why did you change careers?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

  ‘Perhaps I saw that nursing had a greater value than teaching philosophy,’ Evans replied, his eyes suddenly grave. ‘You will take care not to put Sam under too much stress, won’t you?’ he added.

  Lorimer and Solly waited in the lounge while Evans brought his patient to them. Sam Fulton shambled into the room ahead of the nurse, who placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

  ‘Mr Fulton, please come and sit down,’ Lorimer stood and indicated the chair recently vacated by John Evans.

  Eying them suspiciously, Sam Fulton sat on the edge of the armchair, clasping his hands together as if to warm them.

  ‘You know we are investigating the murder of Kirsty MacLeod, a nurse from the Grange?’

  Fulton nodded.

  ‘She was killed during the night before you left to come up here.’

  ‘Aye. Ah know. Me an’ Angelica thought it wis mad comin’ here when a’ that wis goin’ on.’

  ‘You didn’t think it was wise to leave, then?’

  ‘Wise? You kiddin’? It wis pure mental. That Baillie woman’s aff her trolley. We should’ve bin ther wi’ a’ they others, shouldn’t we?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘We think so. Still, now that we have the chance to talk to you, Mr Fulton, perhaps you can help us.’

  ‘Aye,’ Fulton replied then screwed his face up. ‘How?’

  ‘Can you describe what took place on the night of Nurse MacLeod’s death? Just talk us through everything you did and can remember.’

  ‘Aye. Well,’ Fulton scratched his head and hefted his bottom more comfortably into the chair. ‘Ah did ma packin’ fur comin’ up here. Not that ah’ve goat much. Then went tae bed. Ah’m oan medication so ah went straight oot like a light. Didnae hear a thing until the screechin’ began.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Whit time? Jesus! Ah don’t know. Ah wis that bleary wi’ sleep. Ah came oot intae the corridor and Peter telt me there had bin an accident.’

  ‘Peter? That was one of the other nurses?’

  ‘Aye. He telt us tae get back tae wur beds.’

  ‘Who else was out in the corridor with you?’

  Fulton gave a sigh, ‘Ah cannae remember. There wis that much goin’ on. Ah jist went back tae ma bed.’

  ‘When did you find out about Kirsty MacLeod’s murder?’ Solomon asked.

  Sam Fulton turned as if he had forgotten the psychologist’s presence. ‘The next morning. Mrs Baillie telt us on our way to Glasgow Airport.’

  ‘So you knew nothing about it before then?’

  ‘Naw.’ Fulton’s chin came up defiantly as he looked Solly in the eye.

  ‘Where were you on the night of January 12 this year?’ Lorimer asked suddenly.

  Fulton frowned. ‘How the hell should ah know that? Ah’ve no been well. Ah cannae remember dates an’ things,’ he added with a hint of a smirk across his face.

  ‘Is there anybody who could help you remember?’ Lorimer asked. ‘A friend o
r family member who could verify your whereabouts?’

  Fulton licked his lips nervously. ‘Here. Whit is a’ this? You sayin’ ah done something? Is that it?’ he leant forward on the seat once more, his shoulders bunching around his ears.

  ‘We have to eliminate as many people as possible from our inquiries, Mr Fulton. We are looking into the possibility that Nurse MacLeod was killed by the same person who carried out the murder in Queen Street station in January.’

  ‘Aw,’ Fulton’s face showed some relief. ‘That one. Aye. Ah read aboot that in the papers. Naw. Ah wis nae there. Ah wis up the hoose maist o’ that time,’ he turned to Solomon. ‘Wi’ my problem,’ he said.

  ‘According to our notes you became an inpatient at the Grange on January 25,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘Aye. Burns night. They had tae haud me doon,’ Fulton smirked again.

  ‘Mr Fulton, forgive me, but wasn’t it rather an expense for you to enter a private clinic for such a prolonged stay?’

  ‘Oh, aye. It’s a hell of an expense. But ah’ve goat kinda special terms, see?’

  Lorimer nodded. He’d let that one pass. How a former shipyard worker who had been unemployed for as long as Fulton could have obtained private medical insurance, if that’s what he meant by special terms, was something of a mystery, though. There were things about this man that didn’t add up.

  ‘So could you find anybody who would verify that you were housebound on the night of January 12?’ Lorimer insisted.

  ‘Aye. Nae bother. I’ll speak tae wan o’ the boys.’

  ‘Boys?’

  ‘Aye. Ma lads. Gerry and Stephen. They’ll tell ye ah wis home a’ the time.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘When do you expect to return to Glasgow?’ Solomon asked.

  Fulton shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Sometime. It’s an open ticket we’ve goat. Maybe in a week or so. How?’

  ‘We need to know your whereabouts, Mr Fulton. It’s routine, that’s all,’ Lorimer answered for him. ‘Anyway, thank you for your time. If Sister Angelica is ready, we’d like to speak to her now.’