Alex Gray - A small weeping

He would have to seek plenty more information before the vision took on flesh and bones but for now he had the sense that creating this profile was going to take all his time and energy.

The boat from Uig was always on time, the man at the pier assured them. Lorimer, wrapped in his winter jacket, hoped fervently that he was right. Solly stood near the edge of the metal ramp looking out over the choppy grey water, his long black coat flapping round his legs. Even his beard had lifted in the wind, making the psychologist look like one of the ancient patriarchs.

They had travelled up early that morning, Lorimer doing all the driving. Solly didn’t drive, never had and claimed it was something he could happily do without. He’d certainly enjoyed the trip though, gazing out of the window and commenting on all that he saw on the way up. It had been Lorimer’s idea for them to make the journey together. Almost a week had passed since Kirsty MacLeod’s body had been found in that dingy basement. Forensic reports showed that strangulation had probably taken place in the clinic’s corridor. The body had been dragged through the clinic to the basement door then halfway down the stairs. It appeared that the killer had then flung Kirsty away from him, making her land flat on her back on the cold concrete. That much they did know. What had happened next was a matter of conjecture, though Solomon had been inclined to think the killer might have remained inside, despite the open door.

A huge file of statements from staff, residents and anyone who had known the young nurse had accumulated back at the Division. Yet Lorimer was troubled by how few people there seemed to be who had known the girl intimately. It was almost as if she’d deliberately kept a low profile. Or perhaps her friends just weren’t willing to talk for some reason.

The landlady hadn’t had much to offer apart from the fact that the rent was always paid on time and she’d been a quiet girl. No one in the neighbouring bedsits had offered more than that. It was Dr Tom Coutts who had been most helpful. He’d seen Kirsty MacLeod a few days prior to the killing and gave the police a fair amount of background information. She’d been one of the community nurses who’d cared for his wife up until her death last year and Tom had only charitable things to say about the young woman from Harris. She’d been a caring, compassionate person, he’d told them. Had the knack of making Nan feel better just by being there beside her. They’d followed this up with visits to the other community nurses and heard the same story of a nurse who’d had a proper vocation. All the residents at the Grange had liked her. She’d been a good listener, Eric Fraser had told them.

There was an old aunt, Kirsty’s only living relative, whom they would interview, but the main spur behind this journey was the revelation about the respite centre, Failte. Mrs Baillie had been strangely reticent about its existence and quite unrepentant about letting her two patients be transferred there the day after Kirsty’s death. One was Sister Angelica, the nun, and the other was a man called Sam Fulton. Both patients had been in Tom Coutts’ cognitive therapy classes. DC Cameron had raised an eyebrow when he’d been told that the DCI was heading for Lewis and Harris.

He could have dispatched one of his junior officers but there was something that he wanted to see for himself up here. This respite home was a sanctuary of sorts. And right now it was sheltering two people who had suddenly disappeared following Kirsty’s murder. Samuel Fulton’s name had come up on the police computer. His record showed an involvement in two domestic incidents. There had been more, according to the file but previous charges had been dropped until he’d broken his wife’s arm. A man with a record of violence being quietly shipped up to the Hebrides at the outset of a murder inquiry did not rest easily with Lorimer. The significance of the other patient being a nun was not lost on him either. Those praying hands on each of the two victims might have emanated from some twisted religious brain. And Harris and Lewis were famous for religious piety. Looking into the water, Lorimer wondered what these islands were like. He would be there soon enough.

The journey up from Glasgow had taken more than six hours. Lorimer had pushed on through Rannoch Moor, a strange, bleak landscape that never failed to conjure up the blasted heath of Macbeth’s three witches, he told Solly, who’d nodded wisely. Glencoe had shown its usual dark brooding shadows but the sun had appeared briefly on the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge as Ben Nevis lowered through a covering of cloud, snow still visible on its higher slopes.

‘I’m ashamed to say I’ve never been further north than Loch Lomond,’ Solly had told him as they drove past loch after loch on the way to Skye. Lorimer had slowed down at Eilean Donan, letting Solly have an eyeful of the well-photographed castle out on its peninsula. Lorimer had been polite about it but that was all. There were some tourist spots for which he couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm. The quiet and lonesome places like Rannoch and Glencoe held more real magic for him. He’d hoped to show Solly the Cuillin but the journey from the Skye bridge north to Uig was a disappointment. Mist had covered the mountains and there was hardly anything to see save the hunched, damp shapes of sheep at the roadside.

They’d driven through Broadford on the road north and now here they were at Uig, waiting for the boat that would take them across to Harris. At least the rain was off, thought Lorimer, clapping his hands against the arms of his jacket to keep warm.

Solly had given up his post by the water’s edge and was slowly walking towards him.

‘Any sign of it yet?’ Lorimer asked him.

‘Just coming in, now.’

Lorimer walked further down the pier, glancing over the concrete wall. There it was, Caledonia MacBrayne’s ferry. The Hebrides, the man at the ticket office had told them. The car ferry cut a swathe of white foam from her bows as she neared them. She was making good speed and Lorimer wondered if she’d overshoot the pier. Solly and he quickened their pace as they walked the length of the pier back towards the parked cars. In a matter of minutes the boat had moored, disgorged its passengers and Lorimer was driving into the bowels of the car deck. By the time they’d collected jackets and locked the vehicle, The Hebrides was sliding through the waves once more.

‘Look, I know it’s cold, but how about coming up on deck?’ Lorimer asked. Solly nodded cheerfully enough but pulled up his collar as they ascended the narrow metal staircase. The wind hit them full on the face as Lorimer opened the door to the upper deck. But the DCI didn’t care. There was an hour and a half of sailing before they reached their destination and he wasn’t about to spend it sitting in a smoke-filled bar.

‘Is that your famous Cuillin, then?’ Solly asked, pointing to the flat-topped hills rising above the mist.

‘No. They’re MacLeod’s Tables. We couldn’t see the Cuillin from here anyway, even if the weather had been any good,’ Lorimer told him, watching as the huge hills reared their heads above Skye, as if mocking their departure.

‘Still, you’ve seen some of Skye’s mountains.’

‘They’re amazing!’ Solly stared as the hills receded from them.

Lorimer was gratified as Solly exclaimed his delight. There was something childlike about his enthusiasm. They stood huddled together on the top deck, the sea breeze whipping across their faces, watching as Skye faded into the distance, a tumble of clouds obscuring its contours.

For a while there was only a large expanse of moving water, then a group of islands came into view.