Alex Gray - A small weeping

His car wasn’t built for roads like these, Lorimer realised as he pulled into a lay-by for the sixth time in five minutes. They had obviously met the ferry traffic coming from Tarbert. He paused to look out over the wide sweep of sands below them, then his eye travelled inland. The road was clear again and he turned back onto the grey strip that wound down towards sea level, glancing every now and then at the changing colours of the water.

‘Look out!’ Solly’s shout made Lorimer yank the wheel sideways as something white bounded towards them. There was a thud as the car hit the verge. He pressed the window button, cursing the object of their sudden stop.

‘Bloody sheep!’ Lorimer looked down at the offending beast that was now grazing frantically on the other side of the narrow road. He glanced across at Solly, who was trying to hide a grin, then he eased the big car off the grass verge and back onto the road. He’d have to be more attentive to these sheep meandering across his path.

The rest of the journey passed without incident though Lorimer had to keep his wits about him negotiating the twists and turns, especially among the rocky landscapes as they climbed into the hills north of Tarbert. The treeless wastes were bleaker to Lorimer’s eyes than even Rannoch Moor. No wonder so much of the population had left over the decades. Yet there would always be a core of islanders who stayed at home. There were signs of recent resurfacing to the road and Lorimer reminded himself that tourism kept many local folk in employment. He had to admit that there was a wild beauty about the coastline. And these slabs of black rock striped with silver crystals were amongst the oldest known rocks on earth. Lorimer passed a sign for Callanish. He’d love to bring Maggie here to see these legendary standing stones.

‘Who exactly runs this respite centre?’ Solomon asked suddenly.

‘A couple by the name of Evans. He’s a psychiatric nurse and she does the housekeeping and suchlike, I believe. They’re not locals. Came up in answer to an advert, in fact.’

‘What do you know about them?’

‘Not a lot. But I think we’ll soon find out,’ replied Lorimer. Roadside cottages were no longer solitary dots on the landscape but were now like joined up writing. ‘Civilisation,’ he muttered under his breath as he read the sign, Steornabhagh, though he wasn’t at all sure that he meant it.

‘Do you mind if we don’t go straight to the clinic? I’d like to pay a courtesy call to the local nick,’ Lorimer asked. ‘I feel the need to rally the troops, if you know what I mean.’

‘Do you think the troops will be on our side?’

Lorimer grunted. Solly had a point. Nobody liked officers from another division, let alone another region, encroaching on their patch. He’d just have to hope the natives were as friendly here as they’d been in Harris.

Stornoway came as a surprise. Fishing boats swung gently on their moorings along the harbour’s edge as Lorimer drove slowly towards the centre of town. He rolled down the window and breathed in the salty, fishy tang.

‘Fancy a walk?’ Solomon asked.

‘OK. I could do with stretching my legs,’ Lorimer replied. He parked away from the harbour in a designated area. For a small place there were plenty of double yellow lines and he wasn’t about to get on the wrong side of the local lads.

‘This is where she came to school,’ Solomon spoke half to himself as Lorimer locked the car.

‘Yes. The Nicholson Institute. One of Maggie’s friends came up here to teach languages years ago.’

He tried to visualise Kirsty as a teenager, giggling on her way from the hostel to the famous high school, then breathed a long sigh. The Stornoway air stinging his eyes had a purity that was suddenly at odds with his vision of the nurse, her hair scattered over that life less young face.

The local police station was in Church Street. From the pavement in front of it Lorimer spotted three steeples close by, a reminder that these parts were supposed to be full of God-fearing folks. Well, that remained to be seen.

‘Chief Inspector Lorimer, Strathclyde CID,’ Lorimer held out his warrant card carefully for the duty sergeant to see. The officer, a huge bear of a man whose grizzled hair still held a hint of red, raised his eyebrows but looked past Lorimer to the Jewish psychologist, who stood smiling his knowing little smile. Following the man’s questioning gaze, Lorimer stepped aside.

‘This is Dr Brightman from Glasgow University.’

Solly held out his hand to the sergeant who gave it an abrupt once up-and-down.

‘Dr Brightman is assisting Strathclyde with our double murder inquiry,’ Lorimer explained.

‘Aye, the MacLeod girl. Terrible thing, that,’ replied the sergeant. ‘How can we help you, sir?’ he said to Lorimer.

‘We’re here to visit a place called Failte. It’s some sort of respite home for recovered mental patients.’ Beside him Lorimer could feel Solly wince at the description.

‘Isn’t it for patients who have suffered some sort of neural disorder?’ the sergeant replied, frowning. ‘That’s what we were told.’ He sidled along behind the desk and tapped at the keyboard of his computer.

‘There, see.’ He swivelled the screen around for the two men to read.

Faille: Centre for holistic care and recuperation. Specialising in the aftercare of patients who are recovering from neural disorders. Patients are often disorientated when they arrive and may take some time to integrate with staff and nearby residents. It is hoped that the local police officers will do their best to be discreet and understanding while those patients are part of the community.

‘That’s community policing for you,’ the big policeman said proudly. ‘We take care of people up here, respect their needs, you know.’

‘There isn’t a big crime scene here, then,’ Lorimer joked.

The sergeant bristled, obviously disliking Lorimer’s flippancy. ‘We may not have the kind of crimes you boys have down in Glasgow, but there are still lawbreaking elements about. Especially with drugs,’ he shook his head wearily.

‘But there’s been no trouble of that sort at Failte?’ Solomon inquired politely.

‘Oh, no. They keep themselves pretty much to themselves. We see them wandering along the roads, out for fresh air, poor souls. No, we’ve never had any bother with them at all,’ he replied, adding, ‘Are you staying long, Chief Inspector?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Lorimer replied to him. ‘Although I’d quite like to see it from a visitor’s point of view some day.’

‘Aye, there’s nowhere like it. They can say what they like about their fancy Benidorms and Lanzarotes but we’ve a better place than any of them,’ the sergeant stated emphatically.

‘Well, maybe I’ll manage to come up here again. Thanks for your time.’ Lorimer shook the sergeant’s hand and turned to go.

‘Do you know where this place is?’ Solomon asked as they walked back along the street.

‘Yes. According to my AA map it’s further out along the north coast,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Near a place called Shawbost. Shouldn’t take us too long to find it.

And we certainly won’t get lost. There is only one road from Stornoway.’

Lorimer was right, the road from the main town in Lewis cut directly across the land towards the further coast. Apart from the ubiquitous sheep, there were few signs of habitation along their route. Gazing out of the window, Solomon marvelled at the landscape of windswept grasses and gently sloping hills. Small birds swooped past the windscreen and away, their identities a mystery. Despite a lack of trees the landscape was pleasing and, as the clouds raced across the sky, the psychologist smiled to himself, enjoying the shifting scenery as if it were a gift.