Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘Did she?’ Evans looked surprised. ‘I would have thought she might have explained about Sam and Angelica.’

‘What about them?’

‘Well. Both patients had completed their course of treatment. They really needed the respite care we offer at Failte. You have to understand, Chief Inspector. They’d been through a very difficult time and for them to become embroiled in a police investigation might have seriously set either of them back.’

‘What about now? Will we damage their recovery?’ Lorimer asked, sarcastically.

‘Maybe. But they’ve had a while to rest and take stock of all their therapy. I think you can safely interview each of them without too much upset.’

Evans crossed his legs as he spoke and leant back into the armchair. He regarded Lorimer thoughtfully over the rim of his mug.

‘Neither of your patients were in the Grange in January when the first murder took place,’ Solly pointed out. ‘Chief Inspector Lorimer will have to know their whereabouts for that particular date.’

‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Sam or Angelica might be suspects?’ Evans sat up suddenly. Neither man replied, letting the silence answer his question.

‘But why? Just because they’ve been ill doesn’t mean they’d be capable of carrying out something like that!’

‘The perpetrator of those killings appears to be someone who may very well be ill,’ Solly answered slowly. ‘In building up a profile I have to consider the extent to which any risk of discovery was considered. Whoever did these killings was either very cunning or totally disregarded the thought that they might be caught. Someone whose behaviour was prompted by an uncontrollable urge might even have wanted to be discovered.’

‘And how do you come to that conclusion, Dr Brightman?’

Solly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge that kind of information.’

John Evans looked at each of them in turn, his mouth a thin line of disapproval.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I suppose we must be as cooperative as we can. Still, I do hope you can see our side of things. Mrs Baillie would not have seen her actions as obstructing the course of a murder inquiry. She would simply have put her patients as a higher priority.’

Lorimer listened to the man’s measured tones. There was no sense of outrage nor was there any attempt to thwart this stage of the investigation. Evans was a man of some sense.

‘Were you always a psychiatric nurse?’ he asked, curious suddenly about the Welshman’s background.

Evans smiled and shook his head. ‘No. I retrained some years ago.’

‘I’d have hazarded a guess that you were an academic of some sort,’ Solly stroked his beard thoughtfully.

‘Well done, Doctor. Spot on,’ Evans replied, putting his empty mug back onto the tray. ‘I was at Cambridge for many years. Lectured in philosophy.’ He smiled again, looking straight at Lorimer. ‘You can check it all up if you like.’

‘So why did you change careers?’ Lorimer wanted to know.

‘Perhaps I saw that nursing had a greater value than teaching philosophy,’ Evans replied, his eyes suddenly grave. ‘You will take care not to put Sam under too much stress, won’t you?’ he added.

Lorimer and Solly waited in the lounge while Evans brought his patient to them. Sam Fulton shambled into the room ahead of the nurse, who placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

‘Mr Fulton, please come and sit down,’ Lorimer stood and indicated the chair recently vacated by John Evans.

Eying them suspiciously, Sam Fulton sat on the edge of the armchair, clasping his hands together as if to warm them.

‘You know we are investigating the murder of Kirsty MacLeod, a nurse from the Grange?’

Fulton nodded.

‘She was killed during the night before you left to come up here.’

‘Aye. Ah know. Me an’ Angelica thought it wis mad comin’ here when a’ that wis goin’ on.’

‘You didn’t think it was wise to leave, then?’

‘Wise? You kiddin’? It wis pure mental. That Baillie woman’s aff her trolley. We should’ve bin ther wi’ a’ they others, shouldn’t we?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘We think so. Still, now that we have the chance to talk to you, Mr Fulton, perhaps you can help us.’

‘Aye,’ Fulton replied then screwed his face up. ‘How?’

‘Can you describe what took place on the night of Nurse MacLeod’s death? Just talk us through everything you did and can remember.’

‘Aye. Well,’ Fulton scratched his head and hefted his bottom more comfortably into the chair. ‘Ah did ma packin’ fur comin’ up here. Not that ah’ve goat much. Then went tae bed. Ah’m oan medication so ah went straight oot like a light. Didnae hear a thing until the screechin’ began.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Whit time? Jesus! Ah don’t know. Ah wis that bleary wi’ sleep. Ah came oot intae the corridor and Peter telt me there had bin an accident.’

‘Peter? That was one of the other nurses?’

‘Aye. He telt us tae get back tae wur beds.’

‘Who else was out in the corridor with you?’

Fulton gave a sigh, ‘Ah cannae remember. There wis that much goin’ on. Ah jist went back tae ma bed.’

‘When did you find out about Kirsty MacLeod’s murder?’ Solomon asked.

Sam Fulton turned as if he had forgotten the psychologist’s presence. ‘The next morning. Mrs Baillie telt us on our way to Glasgow Airport.’

‘So you knew nothing about it before then?’

‘Naw.’ Fulton’s chin came up defiantly as he looked Solly in the eye.

‘Where were you on the night of January 12 this year?’ Lorimer asked suddenly.

Fulton frowned. ‘How the hell should ah know that? Ah’ve no been well. Ah cannae remember dates an’ things,’ he added with a hint of a smirk across his face.

‘Is there anybody who could help you remember?’ Lorimer asked. ‘A friend or family member who could verify your whereabouts?’

Fulton licked his lips nervously. ‘Here. Whit is a’ this? You sayin’ ah done something? Is that it?’ he leant forward on the seat once more, his shoulders bunching around his ears.

‘We have to eliminate as many people as possible from our inquiries, Mr Fulton. We are looking into the possibility that Nurse MacLeod was killed by the same person who carried out the murder in Queen Street station in January.’

‘Aw,’ Fulton’s face showed some relief. ‘That one. Aye. Ah read aboot that in the papers. Naw. Ah wis nae there. Ah wis up the hoose maist o’ that time,’ he turned to Solomon. ‘Wi’ my problem,’ he said.

‘According to our notes you became an inpatient at the Grange on January 25,’ Lorimer told him.

‘Aye. Burns night. They had tae haud me doon,’ Fulton smirked again.

‘Mr Fulton, forgive me, but wasn’t it rather an expense for you to enter a private clinic for such a prolonged stay?’

‘Oh, aye. It’s a hell of an expense. But ah’ve goat kinda special terms, see?’

Lorimer nodded. He’d let that one pass. How a former shipyard worker who had been unemployed for as long as Fulton could have obtained private medical insurance, if that’s what he meant by special terms, was something of a mystery, though. There were things about this man that didn’t add up.

‘So could you find anybody who would verify that you were housebound on the night of January 12?’ Lorimer insisted.

‘Aye. Nae bother. I’ll speak tae wan o’ the boys.’

‘Boys?’

‘Aye. Ma lads. Gerry and Stephen. They’ll tell ye ah wis home a’ the time.’

‘Thank you.’

‘When do you expect to return to Glasgow?’ Solomon asked.