A Small Weeping (25 page)

‘Will you come and sit in?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Chief Inspector Lorimer re-entering the interview room accompanied by Dr Brightman,’ Alistair Wilson told the tape recorder.

‘Malcolm, this is Dr Brightman from Glasgow University.’

Docherty stood up and took Solly’s outstretched hand in his large fist. ‘But I’ve seen the doctor already,’ he muttered, giving Solly a dubious look. ‘Why do I have to see another one?’

‘Dr Brightman is here to keep us company, Malcolm,’ Lorimer reassured him. It was like talking to a wee boy, he thought, except that most wee boys of his acquaintance were a dash sight more streetwise than Malcolm Docherty appeared to be.

There was something otherworldly about this man that had nothing to do with his experience as a failed novitiate. Lorimer had seen so many criminals whose lives were lived in a world so different from his own, yet all worlds impinged on each other, he thought. There was never really a place to hide from the evils that existed. Not even in the Jesuit Order.

Solly had listened as Lorimer and Wilson took turns to ask the man questions. His behaviour intrigued the psychologist. It was as if he were a perfectly normal citizen in his own eyes, assisting the police with their enquiries. Any minute now, he thought, and he’ll get up and ask if he can go home. There was no remorse, no worry at all about the crimes he had committed, nor any awareness of the boundaries that he had trespassed. That was the real difference between the criminally sane and those criminals who were mentally ill. Culpability was indeed a state of mind.

As he heard the questions and answers about Docherty’s methods of strangling the two prostitutes, Solly’s stomach turned. To dispatch these poor women as if they were so much dross! Lorimer and Wilson kept their feelings well under check, he noticed, though he knew well what they thought.
Any murder is an affront to humanity
,
he remembered Lorimer insisting. And he agreed. But this man, this huge man who looked like a farmer with his
weather-beaten skin and massive shoulders, he had no sense of humanity at all. Only a warped brain that took twisted messages from a false god.

Malcolm Docherty was well capable of murder. The man’s physique was such that it was no longer difficult to imagine a swift strangulation at these hands. Rosie had worried about that, he knew. How could someone kill these women with no sound of a struggle?

The same applied to Kirsty MacLeod’s death, though, a little voice reminded him. She’d been dealt with swiftly, too. But there was no way on earth that Solly could believe the man in front of Lorimer was responsible for that death. Nor for Brenda Duncan’s. Solly was still a way from completing his profile but he knew the mind that he sought was altogether sharper and clearer than Docherty’s. That was a calculating, reasoning person who was not quite in focus, yet. And it was not Malcolm Docherty.

Rowena sighed as the pickup gathered speed. She could see the new man’s hair curling sweetly around the curve of his ear and over the brown cord collar of his waxed jacket. Dad was wittering on about the flight and telling the man how much he was going to enjoy Failte. Give Dad his due, it sounded so sincere and welcoming, but Rowena had heard the same spiel each time a new one arrived at the airport.

She was glad that last one had gone. Sam Fulton had given her the creeps. Dad had kept a real good eye on him, though. Mum had insisted on that. After Sister Angelica’s abrupt departure, the Glasgow man had sought out Rowena’s company just a bit too often. She’d been pretty uncomfortable with him, not liking the way he joked about women as if they were all an inferior species. it was all a bit of fun, he’d told her. No harm meant. But Rowena had kept her distance from him all the same. Dad never told any of them what a patient’s background was. She understood how it was important to maintain
their privacy. She wouldn’t like any of them to know all of her secrets either, Dad had once pointed out. Still, she had the feeling that Mum knew more about Sam Fulton than she was letting on. And this fact alone had increased her uneasiness. Still, he was gone now, back to Glasgow, supposedly over the worst of his depression.

Rowena smiled to herself. The new patient had shaken her hand as if she was a proper grownup, not some silly wee schoolgirl. She recalled his grave eyes and that tired, kindly smile. She’d maybe ask him to come for a wee walk up the road with the dog after dinner, though Dad liked his guests, as he called them, to have complete rest after they arrived. Still, this one was only here for a long weekend.

Funny about the other man, though. They’d waited for him yesterday with a placard that said Failte in bold lettering, but nobody from the Glasgow flight had acknowledged them. Dad had phoned Mrs Baillie who had shrugged it off but there was always a worry that somehow a patient would simply slip past them and roam about the island, unsupervised. it hadn’t happened yet, but there was always a first time, Mum had warned them. Still, they had another new one now.

Rowena settled back to enjoy her thoughts. She’d rehearse what to say before they went out. Then maybe she’d be able to slip in questions about that Dr Brightman. Had they met at the Grange? Was he married? Her fantasy continued down towards the house, the passing landscape a familiar blur of greens and blues.

‘You want
what
?’ Superintendent Mitchison’s voice rose in a squeak that might have been funny in other circumstances.

‘Complete freedom to carry out a surveillance operation. I’ve spoken to the patient and she has agreed to my suggestions.’

Mitchison sat silent for a while, his face showing the struggle within. Lorimer could almost hear the cogs turning. Would the cost of the operation, never mind its risks, be outweighed by the capture of the second killer? Mitchison had railed long and hard against Lorimer’s decision not to charge Docherty with all four murders. But the DNA results were pretty conclusive. Whoever had killed Brenda and Kirsty, it was not now likely to be the prisoner currently undergoing psychiatric testing. Which left them with a huge problem. Lorimer had sat down with Solly to confess his innermost fears; someone on the team was involved. Mitchison had been reluctant at first to have them all DNA-tested but it made sense for the
purposes of elimination as well as to restore some kind of peace in the ranks. This weekend all his men and women would be in for their tests, whether they liked it or not. Lorimer and Solly would be there too.

Undergoing the test would give the team a sense of solidarity as well as letting him observe their various reactions. Staff and patients at the Grange had already been tested by the police doctor, giving Rosie’s lot plenty to keep them busy.

At last the Superintendent looked up. ‘I don’t like your ways, Lorimer, but that’s neither here nor there. A surveillance operation like the one you are suggesting carries a high risk. Not just for the patient, but a risk of failure. And I don’t need to tell you how much the Chief Constable abhors a waste of time and money.’

‘We really need to try, sir. It’s almost certain that we have another killer on the loose and that he has something to do with the clinic.’ Lorimer paused. Should he reveal his disquiet about the Grange’s financial affairs or would that muddy the waters at this stage? No. He’d beaver away at that problem on his own, for now.

‘Give me a complete breakdown of all the personnel you would need and the timescale, then,’ Mitchison decided. ‘And,’ he paused and drew a hand across his brow, ‘take care of that poor woman, won’t you?’

Lorimer was taken aback. Concern for Phyllis was not what he’d have expected from the Super. Maybe the man had a heart after all.

‘Mind if I come into your room, missus?’ The man in white overalls carrying a cantilevered toolbox stood uncertainly at Phyllis’s door. Phyllis eyed him with curiosity. That new
nurse said that someone would be arriving today. To fix the television set. A wave of the old frustration swept over her. She couldn’t explain she didn’t watch the thing. It was pointless to do anything to a set that hadn’t been used in years. Why not dismantle the whole thing and take it away?

As she watched him there were other questions that digested themselves in her brain until Phyllis had produced a satisfactory answer; questions that were explained by the repairman’s unusual activities. She didn’t know the first thing about televisions but she didn’t think the set would function in its normal way with all its innards removed and replaced by what seemed to be a smallish camera.

They were watching her. perhaps she should be relieved that those secret eyes were looking after her but all she could feel was a sense of intrusion into a world that was already far too confined.

Lorimer swung round in his chair to face the window, the solicitor’s words still singing in his brain. There had been a lengthy delay in responding to his query about the woman’s will. He glanced down at the figure on his notepad as if to check that it was correct. Phyllis Logan’s estate was estimated to be in the region of three and a half million pounds. What would his team make of this? One thing was certain, they’d have to be especially careful of the sick woman now.

Lorimer looked back at the solicitor’s report. The main beneficiary of the woman’s estate was the clinic itself, wrapped up in a trust fund. There were several provisions made to help patients who could not otherwise afford the fees, that money coming from interest in share capital.
Lorimer frowned. With the collapse of so much on the stock market in recent years, just what were these shares worth? But it was the other beneficiary that caught his attention. To the director of the Grange, Mrs Maureen Baillie, Phyllis Logan had left
£
250,000. A sweet quarter of a million!

Recalling the woman’s spartan living quarters and the suspicion that all was not well with the clinic’s finances, Lorimer felt a niggle of worry. People had been murdered before for a lot less than that. But why would Kirsty and Brenda have been killed over a financial scam? it didn’t make sense, unless they knew something that made their continued existence a danger to somebody. You’ve got a dirty mind, Lorimer, he told himself. Still, he’d keep digging this particular seam until he hit gold.

Why would Kirsty have been killed that night? Phyllis had been so vulnerable to the killer’s hands. it would have been so easy just to have dispatched her there and then. If that was the underlying motive. He gnawed his fingernail until he felt it split under his teeth. There was something there, but what?

A bird flying past his window made him glance up and catch sight of the clock on his wall. Time to go. They’d all be waiting for him.

They were all in the muster room. Lorimer walked in to face the semicircle of officers who sat on steel chairs. He noticed that Jo Grant had chosen to perch on the wide windowsill that overlooked the car park.

‘Right. We’ve got the go-ahead. I want to introduce you to two of our undercover officers from D. Division, Patricia Crossan and Marion Warbrick.’ He turned towards two young women who were sitting at the edge
of the circle. One, a blonde girl hugging a stone-coloured raincoat around herself, was slouched into her chair. She gave a perfunctory nod. The other girl raked back her seat and stood up. Her black leather jacket and short cropped hair showed drops of water from the recent rain shower.

‘Hi there,’ she smiled at the other officers. ‘I’m Pat and this is Marion.’ There were murmurs of acknowledgement from the rest of the room. As she sat down again, all eyes turned towards Lorimer.

‘Next time you see Pat she’ll be on duty at the Grange. Marion has come in specially to meet you before she hits the sack.’ The blonde girl managed a watery grin as Lorimer continued. ‘Erica, the third of our undercover officers, is keeping an eye on Phyllis Logan right now and Pat will be doing the next shift later on. I don’t need to tell you how important it is that you treat all of these officers as if they were perfect strangers. As far as you are concerned they are agency nurses who are helping out at the clinic, OK? The one thing we don’t want to do is to arouse anyone’s suspicions. And I’m talking about staff, patients, visitors, anybody who comes through their doors on a regular basis.’

Lorimer let his gaze travel over every officer’s face as he went on. ‘If their cover’s blown the whole operation could be scuppered. As far as the people in the clinic are concerned they’re simply three new pairs of hands. Luckily, each of them has bona fide nursing experience. Guess the glamour of police work lured you away from your last jobs, eh, girls?’

There were snorts of derisive laughter from several directions, including, he noticed, Jo Grant tucked into her windowsill.

‘There’s been no suspicion at all at the clinic, has there?’ Lorimer addressed Pat.

‘They’ve accepted us without question, sir. Frankly, they’re all relieved to have some agency nurses,’ she replied.

‘Yes. There’s been a bit of an exodus amongst the staff since Kirsty and Brenda’s deaths,’ Lorimer agreed.

‘So, ladies and gentlemen, we now have a round-the-clock presence at the Grange.’ He measured each word carefully as he continued, letting his blue gaze fall on each officer in the room as he spoke. ‘Now, here’s the risky bit. We’ve let it be known to the nursing staff that Phyllis Logan has information about the night of Kirsty’s murder.’ He paused to let his words sink in.

‘We’ve not said in so many words that she actually saw the killer but the implication is there all the same. Pat, Marion and Erica have been asking both staff and patients all about the murders like the rookies they’re supposed to be,’ he told them. ‘One way or another we’ve made sure that word has spread. Not too difficult in a small community like that. The patients will no doubt pass on the gossip to their nearest and dearest. I just hope to God the Press don’t get wind of it.’

He tapped his thigh as if considering what to say. Sometimes stating the obvious helped to concentrate the mind.

‘The murders of those two nurses took place exactly one week apart. OK, the loci were entirely different but each of them took place on a Monday night. Now that may have absolutely no significance but it’s never something that can be ruled out of an equation, as you all well know. So this coming Monday is our choice. We’ve
got the weekend to let the rumour factory do its worst, then we move in.’

Lorimer heard their sounds of approval with a sense of satisfaction. There had been some voices of dissent when Solly had dropped his bombshell but now it seemed that they had come round to respect his opinion.

‘We set up surveillance over the weekend and then wait to see if Phyllis Logan has any unexpected visitors.’

‘What if nothing happens, sir?’ Niall Cameron was red in the face but he seemed determined to risk the question nonetheless.

‘I expect Superintendent Mitchison will send us to the salt mines for wasting public money, Cameron,’ Lorimer growled at him.

‘We’ve laid our bait in the trap. With her full cooperation, remember. Now we have to watch and wait. You’re all experienced enough to know that’s the hardest bit in any operation. You’ll be on duty from just after nine o’clock right through till I say when.’

He turned to the board behind him. A large-scale plan of the Grange had been fixed to the board with pieces of masking tape at each corner. Lorimer pointed to each area as he spoke.

‘We’ll have officers in unmarked cars all along the road to the front. There’s waste ground at the rear. Alistair, you and Davie will take up positions between the basement door and the shrubbery. The gardeners have been given a holiday that week,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll cover that exit. The patients will all be receiving visits from Health Board ‘officials’ in the shape of Eddie and Vince,’ he indicated two of his detective constables, ‘since neither of you have been out at the clinic. The story is that you’re there for a
routine check. We’ve done the homework on it and it’s a normal procedure. There should be nothing to create suspicion. The camera’s in place and it’ll be monitored from our British Telecom van out in the street. That’s where I’ll be with Dr Brightman and DC Cameron. We’ll be out of sight but in constant contact with all units. Erica and Pat will alert us to anyone coming into or going out of Phyllis’s room. She’s a target but remember she’s also our main witness. Right?’

He turned to the board again and drew aside a fresh sheet of paper. ‘And,’ he added, ‘there’s this.’ Taking a marker pen, Lorimer wrote down the figures he’d obtained from Phyllis Logan’s solicitor and a brief note of her will.

He heard an incredulous whistle as he faced them again. ‘So now we have even more reason to look after our witness.
And
keep an eye on certain members of staff. OK?’

There were murmurs of assent as the team prepared to leave the muster room. Lorimer found that he was surprisingly calm. Cameron’s question had been quite valid, even if unwelcome. What if nothing did happen? He was gambling with the hope that the killer would take action, believing Phyllis to be a real threat. But what if the information so carefully dropped simply made him take to the hills? Was there any reason to suppose that the killer was still around anyway? Solly firmly believed that he was, and right now that was enough for Lorimer.