Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘Well, what d’you know. Mrs Lorimer. Fashion statement herself!’

Maggie stuck her tongue out and both women laughed.

‘What’re you drinking tonight, ma’am?’ Divine asked in mock flattering tones.

Maggie rolled her eyes to heaven, ‘I don’t mind so long as there’s lots of it. I came by taxi and I intend to go home that way. Happy’ She emphasised the word. But when the waiter came for their order she found herself about to ask for the usual white wine spritzer.

‘Two Harvey Wallbangers,’ Divine drawled before Maggie had time to speak and suddenly that was exactly what she wanted. Something different that fitted her mood of rebelliousness. She leant back, crossing her legs over silky stockings, not caring if she showed a bit too much thigh.

‘Well, Divine. This suit you for your last night in Glasgow?’

‘It’s neat. Pretty. Reminds me of some of our old buildings back home. What did it used to be before?’

‘Oh, it’s an old building all right. I can remember when it was the High Court but before that it was the Union Bank of Scotland. Long before my time. I think I read somewhere that it was originally a family house.’ Maggie scanned the Classical mouldings around the ceiling. ‘The present owner made sure that all the original architectural features were kept.’

‘Wish more people were like him,’ replied Divine. ‘If you ever come over to Florida I’ll show you something. It’s called the Ca’de Zan. Built right on the water to look like an Italian Palace. You’d like it.’

Maggie bent over her drink, considering. Should she confide in this woman?

‘You might be able to show me round sooner than you think,’ she replied.

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Listen, I know you’ll not be here after tomorrow, but I’d still like you to keep this confidential,’ Maggie began.

Divine nodded, her dark eyes solemn.

‘I’ve applied for a transfer to America. Just for a year. It’s an exchange programme that’s run between Scottish and American schools.’

‘And how does the Chief Inspector feel about that?’

Maggie didn’t answer and in the silence that followed Divine’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You mean you haven’t told him?’

‘No. Not yet. I wanted time to think about it.’

‘So why tell me?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a police woman. You travel.’ Maggie hesitated. ‘I just thought you might understand.’

Divine gave a sigh. ‘Honey, I do, believe me. Being in the police force takes over your whole life, whether it’s here or back home. I’ve seen lots of folks split up because of the pressure.’

‘Oh, but we’re not, I mean…’ she tailed off, confused.

‘Just need a bit of time out?’

‘Something like that. I’ve always wanted to travel but the years just seem to have slipped by and I’ve got into this rut. We both have. Then I saw the poster about the exchange.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was like something telling me to grab the chance with both hands.’

‘And how d’you think your husband will react?’

Maggie looked away. ‘I’m not sure. I really don’t want to hurt him. But lately I wonder if he even thinks about what my life is like.’

‘Hey. Want my advice? Go for it. It’s only a year and if you hate it you can always come back. I mean,’ she grinned at Maggie encouragingly, ‘nothing’s set in stone, is it?’

‘No. I suppose you’re right.’

‘Of course I am. Now let’s drink to the future.’

Divine raised the tall glass and gave a wink.

Suddenly Maggie felt a lot better. Was it such a big deal after all? Surely people went abroad all the time with their work and without their partners?

‘The future,’ she agreed and took a long cool drink. The cocktail tasted sweet and different, a portent of good things to come.

Lorimer’s mouth felt like someone had made him chew on sandpaper. He groaned and rolled over, reaching out for Maggie’s warm body. He came to, feeling the sudden edge of the bed. Maggie? Then he remembered where he was. He opened his eyes to the light. Someone had drawn the curtains closed and the room was flooded with deep pink reflected light. Lorimer closed his eyes again. What was it that was flickering at the edge of his mind?

Dougie, the youngster behind the bar. He’d sat there drinking malts and quizzing the boy for hours. Solomon had listened to their questions and answers, sipping his orange squash and nodding as he absorbed the information. Had Dougie known Kirsty? That was what Lorimer had really been after. At first he thought he’d hit pay dirt. Everyone had known her and her business, it seemed. From birth to death there didn’t seem to be a way of keeping secrets on this island. What was it the lad had said? It’s not gossip. Folks just share their lives with one another. That’s the way it is. And Kirsty MacLeod’s life had seemed just the same as any other young islander’s. She’d left home to board in Stornoway and attend the Nicholson Institute, like all the teenagers from these parts. And, like many of them, she’d made her way to the big city. For what was to keep her here? Unemployment was just as bad up here as anywhere else, Dougie had pointed out. That was why so many folk had wanted the quarry to go ahead. He’d been OK, his dad owned the hotel. That’s what he wanted, to stay here and live in Rodel. Kirsty had been no different from the young folk who had left the islands to work in Glasgow, Lorimer conceded. It was her death that made her stand apart from them. But there was still too much missing from what Dougie could tell him. There were no hidden depths, nothing to distinguish Kirsty from any other young island girl leaving home to train as a nurse.

He heaved himself out of the narrow bed and felt the floor cold beneath his feet. Today would bring him into contact with other nurses who cared for the Grange’s patients, and, of course, the patients themselves. Lorimer found himself speculating about the two who had been in Glasgow at the time of Kirsty’s murder; Sister Angelica and Samuel Fulton. They’d caught an early morning flight from Glasgow to Stornoway. Mrs Baillie had not been prepared to make any cancellations. The clinic would have lost money, she had claimed. Lorimer shook his head. Call him a suspicious beggar, but there was more to all this than met the eye.

‘This came for you, sir.’ Lorimer looked up from his bacon and eggs to see young Dougie holding out a long white envelope. He waited until the boy had gone then ripped it open. Solly glanced up inquiringly as Lorimer studied the message. It was a fax from Alistair Wilson. Suddenly South Harris was back in the twenty-first century, mused Lorimer. He scanned the opening paragraph quickly.

The Grange was trying to forge links with another expanding group of clinics, he read, and there had been a report ordered by their bankers into this group’s financial stability. Lorimer’s eyes travelled down the rows of facts and figures. There were sections on the group’s business profile, accounting systems, profit and loss forecasts and future strategies, one of which included the absorption of the Grange. The directors had borrowed heavily in order to expand and modernise their existing clinics. The report’s advice was that the bank would continue its level of lending meantime but wanted to know a definite date for the acquisition of the Grange. But how could that be? Phyllis Logan was the legal owner. Had the paralysed woman some legal representative who would advise her on such matters?

Lorimer frowned, remembering the woman’s argument that the clinic could not afford to waste her patients’ plane tickets. Mrs Baillie seemed to be more concerned with saving money than an investigation into the death of one of her staff. She’d not even told them about the existence of the respite home until then, this other part of the MS patient’s estate. Failte, it was called. The word was Gaelic for welcome, Lorimer knew. What sort of welcome would they have for a Glasgow policeman and a criminal profiler?