A small weeping lab-2 Read online

  ‘Tell us all about Florida,’ Lorimer’s tone was an affected heartiness, breaking the mood that threatened to make him poor company.

  ‘Well. Tall order, Chief Inspector! Where do I start?’ But once she’d started, Divine had no difficulty in talking. About Florida, about her home in the Everglades and the move she’d made to the Gulf Coast.

  ‘Did you ever have any problems about being a woman in the police force?’ Maggie wanted to know. Divine looked thoughtful for a moment then a hint of a smile animated her face as she recalled an incident.

  ‘One time, not long after I joined the force, there was a woman who took exception to being arrested by a female officer. She was a kind of hippy type, you know, longhaired and dirty. But not the peaceful sort. Bit of a redneck, we thought. And my, was she feisty! My partner was a male officer, Rod Douglas. Biggish guy, almost my height,’ Divine smiled. ‘Well, this female, she keeps insisting in this little bitty voice that she wants a man to arrest her. Big Rod just shook his head and walked away. But she keeps on all the way down town that she don’t want to be handled by no woman cop’

  Maggie and Lorimer laughed together at the woman’s exaggerated accent.

  ‘Anyhow, when we finally brought her in she gets the once over in the cells and it turns out that she’s not a female at all.’ Divine paused for dramatic effect. ‘She’s a he!’

  ‘Who got the biggest surprise?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

  Divine shook her head at the memory. ‘That guy was such a misogynist and there he was all dressed up fine and dandy in women’s clothing!’ Lorimer looked across at Maggie, who was still laughing. It was nice of the American woman to have chosen an innocuous story like that. The night wore on with Divine recalling things from her past. She had them alternately laughing about the crazy things she’d encountered in some police cases and sobered by others that touched on the more bizarre side of human nature. She didn’t elaborate, for Maggie’s sake, he thought, but Lorimer found himself more and more intrigued by the way certain homicides were dealt with. The physical side to apprehensions wouldn’t go down well on this side of the Atlantic, he knew, given the current legislation about human rights. But Divine seemed to relish that part of law enforcement. There was a lot more emphasis on getting results, too, he realised, remembering an item in the officer’s file; Divine Lipinski held the highest total of successful cases in her own headquarters.

  ‘The punishments meted out by your courts are a lot harsher than ours, aren’t they?’ Maggie observed.

  Divine nodded her head but Lorimer couldn’t tell if she was agreeing with his wife or with the severity of Florida’s penal system.

  The black woman raised her glass and looked at them both. ‘You guys let them off with murder, don’t you?’ The question was spoken softly and it made Lorimer feel distinctly uncomfortable. He wanted to defend his country’s legal system but at the same time a number of his past cases screamed out at him. For a moment he looked at Divine in a new light. Just why was she here? Was it really just about comparative policing methods? Or was there a political agenda somewhere that he couldn’t yet see? Lorimer wasn’t ready to be drawn into an argument about the merits or demerits of their differing legal systems. Just how much might filter back to Mitchison, for a start?

  He could feel Maggie’s bare toe against his ankle, warning him off. She needn’t have worried. Divine was good company but she was still a stranger in their midst.

  ‘Tell me a bit about your education system,’ Maggie’s change of subject was welcome, if rather obvious.

  ‘You mean our high schools?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maggie leant forward on her elbows and Divine began a discourse on the state school system she’d experienced.

  Lorimer let his mind wander as the two women discussed schools and students. it was really late now, well after one o’clock, and he had to have Divine back at HQ before nine this morning. Her body clock was probably all awry. He stifled a yawn as he let their conversation wash over him. He was vaguely aware that they were discussing scholarships of some kind when the phone rang in the hall.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he was out of his seat and into the hall in three strides.

  ‘Lorimer,’ his voice was crisp and formal.

  ‘DC Cameron speaking, sir. We’ve got a big problem. I’m at the Grange near Mount Florida. It’s a clinic of some kind. There’s been an incident.’

  ‘One of the patients?’

  ‘No, sir. Nothing like that. It’s one of the nurses.’ Cameron paused. ‘Sir. It looks like she’s been murdered.’

  Divine had made a move to join him but one look from Lorimer stopped her in her tracks. Besides, there was her hostess to consider.

  For a moment Divine’s expression showed her sympathy for anyone fool enough to take up with a cop. Lorimer was heaving on a dark jacket as he kissed the top of his wife’s head.

  ‘Don’t wait up,’ he joked. Then he was gone, the pretty table and the candlelight forgotten as he closed the front door behind him.

  The two women eyed each other in silence for a moment then Maggie reached for the Chardonnay. It was empty.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked doubtfully, ‘or would you prefer something stronger?’

  Divine flashed her a sudden conspiratorial smile. ‘Every time,’ she answered.

  Chapter Eight

  The big car leapt into the night and soon Lorimer was in the outside lane of the motorway. It should have taken him at least ten minutes to reach the Grange but the clinic came into view a whole lot sooner. As he walked up the drive, he wondered whether Cameron had alerted Mitchison. He would soon find out if the Superintendent had decided to make his presence felt.

  ‘OK, who’s here?’ Lorimer demanded as Cameron’s rangy figure came up at him out of the dark.

  ‘Dr Fergusson, Mr Boyd with the scene of crime officers and some local uniforms, sir.’

  ‘The Super?’

  Cameron shook his head.

  ‘Right, let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Round the back, sir. The body’s under the house in the basement. It’s a sort of boiler room.’

  Lorimer was matching the Lewisman’s long stride as he led the way round the side of the building. There were lights on upstairs, he noticed, and wondered which patients had been disturbed. He’d talk to them later. Find out if anyone had heard anything.

  ‘A Mrs Duncan found the body. She’s one of the ancillary nursing staff. Telephoned the local station and they contacted us.’ Cameron held up his hand in a warning. ‘Just watch the railing, sir, it’s pretty shaky.’

  He wasn’t joking. Lorimer felt flakes of rust come away on his bare hands as the railing sagged against the stone steps that led to the basement. It was obvious that this entrance wasn’t used much. Why come in this way, then? Lorimer soon found out. The scene of crime boys had cordoned off the interior stairs of the basement. Lorimer stood at the back entrance of the Grange seeing the fluorescent lights that beamed down on the figures below. Rosie Fergusson was bent over the nurse’s body. He could only see Rosie’s back and the lower half of the corpse from this angle. Above them, on the other side of the grey room, Boyd’s men were going about their painstaking work.

  Lorimer moved towards the body, careful to avoid the area Boyd had sectioned off. Rosie glanced up at him quickly, gave a nod then shifted aside to let him see.

  The nurse lay on her back, legs spread out under her uniform. Her arms had been pulled together, though, hands flat against one another, the telltale carnation stuck between their stiffening fingers. Lorimer looked at her face. The soft dark hair had come loose from its hairband, he noticed, and was spilling over her cheeks. Hunkering down beside Rosie, Lorimer lifted a lock gently and then let it fall away from her pale skin. Her eyes were still wide open with fright. So was her mouth. Had she begun to cry out before he’d strangled her, he wondered? There was an expression of agonised disbelief that Lorimer had seen before on the faces of murder victims. He looked the le
ngth of her lifeless body. The pale blue uniform was crushed and there were rips in her black tights. That must have happened when someone dragged her down here, Lorimer surmised.

  ‘From what I can see she’s been attacked before entering the boiler room,’ Rosie told him. The steps of the scene of crime officers echoed against the concrete walls.

  ‘And then given her flower,’ Lorimer muttered. The parallel was obvious. But would they find some thing here that would lead them to the killer of Deirdre McCann?

  ‘Oh, no!’

  Lorimer whirled round in time to see Cameron’s white face, then the young detective was off up the stairs like a shot. Rosie shot Lorimer a look as they heard a sound of retching coming from the garden outside.

  ‘Didn’t put your man down as the squeamish sort,’ she commented. Lorimer frowned. She was right, but this was not the time to inquire about Niall Cameron’s delicate disposition.

  ‘OK. Cause of death?’

  ‘Manual strangulation,’ Rosie replied, tracing the curve of neck directly below the nurse’s chin. ‘He came at her from in front, grabbed her with both hands, then did it.’ She looked across at Lorimer, eyebrows raised. ‘I think you’ll find the compression was strong and swift. She died pretty quickly.’

  ‘But you’ll know more in the morning,’ Lorimer added.

  Rosie gave him a weak grin. ‘Yeah.’ She cradled the girl’s head in both hands, shifting it gently to one side.‘Hope you will, too.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it. He hasn’t even left a scarf this time.’

  Lorimer looked towards the girl’s fingers, flattened in a gesture of prayer. The red carnation pointed downwards towards her thighs. ‘Just his calling card.’

  He stood up, still staring at the young nurse. Kirsty MacLeod. Now who would break into this place and kill a nurse? Only a madman, a voice answered him. Lorimer gritted his teeth. He stepped away from the body and sidled around the area being dusted down before heading for the stairs to the clinic.

  ‘May I?’ he asked the nearest boiler-suited officer.

  ‘Just keep right against the wall, sir, would you?’

  Lorimer made his way gingerly up the steps. There could be all sorts of traces here where she’d been dragged down. There was a handrail to one side. This one was painted with black Hammerite, unlike the one rusting outside. He hoped to hell there would be some fingerprints on it. The metal door at the top had been tied open with the orange binder twine that Boyd always used. Lorimer kept to the edge of the steps as he turned into the ground floor corridor. The floor was covered in grey-green vinyl, another good source for forensics to examine.

  Was this where she’d been killed? The lights had been put out deliberately so it looked as though the killer had meant to waylay Kirsty MacLeod in this very corridor. Lorimer frowned; another suggestion that this was a crime committed by someone in the clinic. His eyes lit up. Could there be a patient here who’d been in Queen Street station three months ago? First thing in the morning he’d be back asking lots of questions. That was for sure.

  There were swing-doors at the end of the corridor, hooked back against the walls on either side, and Lorimer could see that the main part of the building lay beyond this area. Large cupboard doors lined one side of the corridor walls. Lorimer opened them, only to discover shelves and shelves of hospital linen.

  There were two doors opposite and Lorimer saw that one was ajar. He left it for the time being and tried the other. It was locked. Frowning, he pushed the other door, hearing it creak. Then he stood in the doorway.

  Here was a patient and a very ill one at that. There were tubes protruding from the body and a machine that seemed to be pumping her mattress up and down. Was this where they nursed the terminally ill patients, perhaps? Lorimer had never seen anything like it. He was about to tiptoe away when a tiny movement caught his eye. The patient’s head had moved the slightest bit and Lorimer found himself staring into a pair of bright eyes that were very much alive.

  Phyllis had heard it all. The clang of a door in the distance, then nothing until the swing-doors had been swept open and that awful screaming had rent the air. During all the commotion, unseen hands had quietly closed Phyllis’s door. The sounds were muffled after that but she’d been aware of voices and had heard enough to let her know something of what had taken place. Did they imagine she wouldn’t hear them behind her closed door? They were wrong. This disease had robbed her of much, but her sense of hearing was heightened as never before. She knew when the police had arrived. She also knew that some unspeakable horror had taken place not far from her own room.

  As she lay listening intently, she recalled the terror of that footfall. Her eyes had shut against the shadow entering her room. She didn’t want to think about it any more. But now she found herself staring into a different pair of pale eyes. Were they blue? She couldn’t make them out in this light. The man was staring back at her.

  He was taller than average, built like a sportsman. Even though he stood quite still, Phyllis sensed a restless energy about him. His hair was dark against the outline of light from the corridor. She could see that much. He was the sort of man she’d once desired, she suddenly realised. Strong. Not the type to be indoors for long; always on the move. She’d always liked that in a man.

  ‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he said at last.

  Phyllis liked the voice. It was a recognisable Glasgow accent but he spoke clearly and didn’t mumble. How she wished she could reply. Carry on a conversation. A peculiar moan broke from her lips and she tried to move her head again. There was nothing she could do except widen her eyes to communicate her fear, her desperation. He looked at her harder and for a moment Phyllis thought he was going to step towards the bed. Just when she thought he was coming towards her, he seemed to change his mind and stepped back into the shadows once more.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, but whether he meant he was sorry to disturb her in the middle of the night or that he was sorry for her, Phyllis couldn’t tell. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Phyllis woke early every day. The night nurses always came to the laundry cupboard outside her room, pulling out the sheets, clattering the stiff doors and gossiping in their loud voices. Bored and wanting their shift to end so they could go home, they didn’t give a thought to who might hear their raucous laughter. They always reminded Phyllis of the magpies outside her window, loud and rude. The cupboard door was banged shut at last and the voices disappeared down the corridor. Her door was deliberately left ajar and the wedge of light from the corridor shone dingy yellow through the gap. The venetian blinds shut out the daylight until other hands came to pull on the cord. Until then, Phyllis had to content herself with this half of her world. She thought of it as Inside now. Never as home any more. Inside was normally boring and predictable.

  Her room lay swathed in darkness, only the corridor light picking out familiar shapes. The high bed dominated the room with its special mattress that moved in constant undulations to prevent bedsores. A hissing sigh from the pump mechanism below the bed repeated itself over and over, a sleepy rhythmic sound that Phyllis didn’t notice any more. On her left was a chrome stand holding a plastic bottle that dripped fluids into her unresisting body.

  The tubes disappeared below the white sheets. Other tubes led outwards and away, discreetly hidden by the folds of bedding. To the right of the bed a grey plastic chair gathered dust. It was for any visitors who might come at the appointed times. Phyllis no longer expected visitors from the outside world. Only the nursing staff attended her needs with monotonous regularity.

  The window was on Phyllis’s right. In the daytime she could see her lawns and flowerbeds, some shrubbery and the sky. Birds came pecking around the borders, friendly chaffinches or the robber magpies. Sometimes a robin trilled its distinctive note, and Phyllis tried to remember what cold, frosty days were like. The birds were highly satisfactory, but she liked the sky be
st of all. For hours she watched the cloud shapes slither and change; her imagination creating Gods and chariots, characters from mythology, maenads with streaming hair. She rarely saw the stars except in winter when Venus rose in late afternoon on a velvety blue sky. Then hands pulled the blind cord, shutting off her Outside with a sharp metallic snap. For now the sky was dark and shuttered from her sight.

  In a corner of the room a small wardrobe held Phyllis’s few clothes. They were all cotton for she never left the heat of this room any more. In earlier days when she could still move her arms and turn her head the nurses would heave her into a wheelchair and push her down the corridor to what they now called the day room. There she had been parked in her old lounge with its egg and dart plaster coving around the ceiling. The other residents had upset her with their staring or feeble attempts at one-sided conversation and she’d always preferred the relative peace and quiet of her own room.

  Nowadays there were directives about lifting patients. It took two nurses to sit her upright. And they were always short of staff. So Phyllis was left with the television for company. She rarely permitted the staff to switch it on these days. They always asked first, thank God, and her tiny shake of the head allowed her room to stay silent. Once, long ago, she had watched the quiz shows, but nobody came to switch the thing off and she had tired of the interminable soaps that followed, invading her space. The programmes had been punctuated by advertisements reminding Phyllis of so many things she would never need again.