Alex Gray - A small weeping

There was no one behind the bar although the brass clock on the wall made it after five. A faint rolling sound came from the floor beneath his feet and Lorimer guessed that a new beer cask was being brought up from the cellar. The noise grew louder and then a slim figure appeared from a door behind the bar. He was about nineteen with that fresh complexion and shock of dark hair that defines the Celt. The green T-shirt sporting a brewer’s logo showed that he was one of the staff.

‘Oh, hallo there. Didn’t realise there was anyone in yet. What’ll it be?’ The words came out in a breathless rush.

‘Vodka and tonic, please.’ Lorimer had already considered the possibility of an interview with an old Hebridean lady and he didn’t want to be smelling of drink.

‘Just come in, have you?’ the young barman inquired.

‘That’s right.’

‘Holiday?’

‘Not exactly, though I’d like to do a bit of sightseeing,’ Lorimer fenced the question.

‘Oh, you’ll see some grand sights over here. Never seen beaches like ours, I’ll bet!’ The pride in the lad’s tone was unmistakeable. ‘Or the standing stones.’

‘You mean the ones at Callanish?’ Lorimer knew a bit about these ancient rivals to Stonehenge.

‘Och, no. Not just those. We’ve our own down here. There’s MacLeod’s stone just along the road. You’ll have passed it by, no doubt, not knowing what to look for.’ The boy smiled and Lorimer had the sense that he was indulging this visitor from Glasgow. He’d have cultivated a pleasant manner for the tourists, no doubt.

‘Is this your first time on the island?’

‘Yes, it is, but I was hoping to look someone up while I’m here,’ Lorimer fixed his gaze on the barman. ‘A Miss MacLeod.’

The boy gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, there are lots of MacLeods in these parts. Which one would it be that you’re after, now?’

‘Mhairi. A Miss Mhairi MacLeod. An elderly lady.’

The boy’s smile dropped like a stone. He narrowed his eyes at Lorimer, trying to sum up his visitor. ‘You mean Kirsty’s Aunty Mhairi?’

‘That’s the one,’ Lorimer said cheerfully, taking a swig of vodka. His expression never betrayed the vision inside his head, of that lonely little figure in blue dumped in the basement of a Glasgow clinic.

‘You Press, or what?’ The lad’s voice was devoid of any semblance of courtesy now and he placed both hands on the edge of the bar defiantly.

‘Or what, I’m afraid,’ Lorimer replied, taking out his warrant card and laying it open on the polished surface of the bar. He watched the boy’s face relax a fraction.

‘Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ he read aloud.

Lorimer pocketed the card again. ‘Miss Mhairi MacLeod?’ He let the name hang in the air.

‘Aye, she’s at home, just along the road past the cathedral. The two white houses joined together. Miss MacLeod’s is the first one. You can’t miss it.’

Borve Cottage was a five minute walk from the hotel. They must have passed it on their way into the village, thought Lorimer as he and Solly reached the long white house. It might have been a single dwelling house in days gone by but was now split into two semidetached cottages. Deep-set windows told of thick walls that had withstood centuries of Atlantic gales but, despite its age, the stone seemed freshly painted and both gardens to the front showed signs of recent care. As Lorimer reached out a hand to the brass knocker, his sleeve caught on a tendril of clematis trailing down beside the door. He looked up to see fat buds along the new shoots, promising a froth of pink to come.

Solly stood to one side, whether out of deference to the DCI or simply to see how the old lady would react, Lorimer couldn’t tell.

When the door opened a diminutive, grey-haired woman stood before them. Her lilac twinset topped a heathery coloured tweed skirt and her leather lacing shoes looked as if they’d walked for miles over the rough island terrain.

‘Miss MacLeod?’

‘No. She’s through the house. Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Lorimer, Strathclyde CID and Dr Solomon Brightman,’ Lorimer held out his warrant card and the woman peered short-sightedly at it.

‘You’ll be here about Kirsty, I suppose?’ her tone was disapproving but she opened the door wider to let them in.

‘That’s right,’ Lorimer answered and was on the point of asking the woman’s name when she fixed them with a gimlet stare and said, ‘Follow me, please.’

The woman closed the door behind them and stepped into a darkened hallway.

‘She’s through here.’ Lorimer and Solly followed her into a light, airy room facing the water. An old lady was sitting with her back to them in a huge wing chair that faced the bay window.

‘Mhairi, it’s folk from Glasgow to see you. A Mr Lorimer from the police and his Doctor friend.’ Lorimer was struck by the change in the woman’s voice. It was the tone one would use with a child, soothing and whispery. He stepped forward just as the old woman turned her head towards the voice. For a moment he was speechless. Mhairi MacLeod might be over eighty, but she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Her face was smooth and brown with not a sign of a wrinkle except where fine spider’s web laughter lines spread from her mouth and eyes. The snow-white hair was wispy and caught back in a net but he could see its abundance of plaited coils and wondered if it had ever been cut. The eyes regarding him were blue, but faded.

‘Mr Lorimer, Dr…?’ she turned to Solomon and gave him a sweet smile.

‘Brightman. How do you do, Miss MacLeod,’ Solly came forward, gave a stiff little bow then took the old woman’s hand.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, gentlemen?’

‘Thank you. That would be most welcome,’ Solomon replied before Lorimer had time to think.

‘Make us all a pot of tea, would you, Chrissie. And could we have some of those lovely scones you brought in? Thank you, dear.’

Mhairi MacLeod waved her hand at the two men. ‘Bring a couple of chairs over and sit beside me. The view’s too good to miss.’ There was a twinkle in her eye as she addressed Lorimer. He looked around, found two small wooden chairs, each with plump embroidered cushions, then lifted them over and set them down on either side of the wing chair.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without Chrissie. She’s been so good to me since Kirsty’s passing.’

‘She’s your home help?’ asked Lorimer.

‘Oh, don’t let her hear you say that! No, no. Chrissie’s my next door neighbour, which makes life easier for us both. Home help? Dear me, we don’t have such luxuries in this part of the world unless we’re really poor old souls with nobody to care for us.’ She glanced as Lorimer turned his chair slightly inwards. ‘Did you have a good journey up?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Solomon answered.

‘You’re not with Strathclyde police, are you, my dear?’ Mhairi MacLeod looked at Solomon with interest.

The psychologist shook his head and turned his large brown eyes upon the old lady. ‘No, I’m helping the police with their case. I may be able to construct a profile of Kirsty’s killer which would assist the investigation,’ he explained.

‘Ah, like Cracker on the TV?’ she smiled at them. ‘Oh, we’re not entirely in the backwoods here, we do have the television. Don’t know what Chrissie would do without Coronation Street’ she added. ‘You’re not from this part of the country, then Dr Brightman?’

‘No. I was born in London, but Glasgow’s my home now,’ Solly replied.

She nodded. ‘Aye. And it was poor wee Kirsty’s home for a while.’ Lorimer noticed her lip tremble for a second but then Chrissie came bustling into the room bearing a tray laden with what looked like the best china and a huge plate of buttered scones. She set it down on the table in front of the old lady.