Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Think I’ll go outside for a minute.’

Lorimer and Rosie exchanged glances as Solly made his way out of the flat.

‘Who found her?’ Lorimer asked.

‘The neighbour across the landing. She has a spare key. Got worried when nobody answered the door all day.’

‘Didn’t she think the woman was out at work?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘She knew it was Brenda’s day off. Said she’d arranged to call in and have coffee with her.’ The pathologist crooked her finger at him and Lorimer drew closer. ‘See this?’ Rosie turned the head gently to one side and pointed to the bruising. ‘He used both hands and you can see where his fingers pressed into the larynx.’

‘Any sign of a struggle?’

‘Nope. She was dead by the time she’d hit the floor, I reckon.’

‘Then he had his little ceremony.’

‘The flower? Yes. We saw that right away.’

‘Was she in this position when that neighbour called?’

‘Yes, the body hasn’t been shifted much at all.’

‘So whoever killed her just locked the door and walked away?’

‘I see what you’re getting at,’ Rosie replied. ‘But there was no need to use a key to lock up. The door locks simply by pulling it to.’

‘Time of death?’

‘She’s been dead since last night. I should think around midevening. I can’t be more accurate than that, yet.’

‘What about sexual activity?’ Lorimer pointed at the exposed thighs.

‘None. I’m not sure why he pulled her skirt up like that. There’s a question for Solly, perhaps.’

‘Any chance of fingerprints on the throat?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. He wore gloves. Again. But there may be some traces under Brenda’s fingernails. That’s something we’ll have to investigate.’

‘Evidence. We need some evidence,’ Lorimer muttered. He stood up and turned towards the door. ‘Solly and I had better head over to the clinic. I’ll be in touch.’

Lorimer looked down as a flashlight from the SOCO’s camera illuminated the corpse. He blinked then nodded briefly towards the body. The dead woman was in safe hands with Rosie Fergusson.

‘Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Baillie’s hand was outstretched as soon as they entered the reception area. ‘This is unexpected,’ she said, ushering Lorimer and Solly into the Grange.

‘I’m afraid we have some rather distressing news. Is there somewhere private we could talk?’ Lorimer said.

‘In my quarters. We won’t be disturbed there,’ she added, tucking a bulky file under her arm.

Mrs Baillie’s rooms were situated on the top floor of the building. She unlocked a door in the corridor that gave way to a tiny square hall. A set of golf clubs lay propped against a shelf that contained a few dusty looking books.

‘In here, please,’ she motioned them through to the sitting room. The windows overlooking the front of the grounds gave a view of the road all the way down to Queen’s Park. Lorimer looked around him. Whatever he had expected from the woman’s living quarters, it certainly wasn’t this. The room was practically bare. An open door gave him a glimpse of a tiny kitchenette; another door, firmly closed, probably led to her bedroom. It, too, would give that view over the front. The walls were painted in the same pale wash that he’d seen throughout the rest of the Grange and were totally unadorned; no prints, no photographs, nothing but a blank expanse. Or was it?

Moving closer to the wall opposite the windows, Lorimer noticed faint rectangular shapes where pictures of some sort had once been hanged. Was she preparing to have the decorators in, maybe? Would that explain the empty mantelpiece and bare walls? Sweeping a practiced eye over the rest of the sitting room, he saw only a plain teak coffee table placed between a basic two-seater sofa and one upright chair. A grey metal filing cabinet stood to one side of the chair as if Mrs Baillie was accustomed to doing her paperwork in the privacy of her own rooms. It reminded him suddenly of Kirsty’s bedsit with its second-hand furnishings, except that Kirsty had tried to project some of her personality into her room. This place had been stripped of any personal touches.

It looked as if someone had packed up all the usual bits and pieces that transform a living space into a real home; the little clues his detective’s eye instinctively sought. Curious, he thought. Was the woman preparing to move out? Did that explain why it all looked so spartan? Catching Solly’s eye, he raised an inquiring eyebrow. Solly’s glimmer of a smile told him that the same thoughts had occurred to the psychologist.

Behind the door there was a cheap telephone mounted on the wall. His eye fell on the box fixed to the skirting board. At least she seemed to have her own private line.

‘Please take a seat,’ Mrs Baillie said, immediately opting for the upright chair so that Lorimer and Solly had to share the sofa. ‘I was just about to begin checking the time sheets,’ she said, patting the folder on her lap.

Lorimer was aware of Solly’s eyes still roving over the room as he began. ‘I’m sorry to have to disrupt your evening, Ma’am, but there’s been another murder.’

Mrs Baillie’s face remained impassive, her eyes waiting for the information Lorimer was about to give.

‘Brenda Duncan’s body was found this evening by a neighbour.’ Lorimer watched the woman’s face turn pale. Her hands clutched briefly at the folder but then she stayed stock still as though frozen by the news.

‘It appears that she was killed last night, shortly after she had returned from her shift here,’ Lorimer went on. ‘You have my commiserations,’ he told her, wondering just what emotions were circulating under that bloodless face.

‘I can’t quite take this in, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Baillie began slowly. ‘Brenda? She was such a harmless big woman. Who on earth would want to kill her?’ she said, echoing Lorimer’s earlier thoughts. ‘Where did it happen?’

‘In her own home.’

Mrs Baillie frowned. ‘So, do you think it was the same person…?’ she tailed off, her eyes flitting from one man to the other.

Lorimer took a deep breath. ‘We aren’t at liberty to divulge details right now,’ he began, then took a swift look at Solly.

‘If it was the same person, then there is an obvious link between the clinic and the killer,’ Solly said.

‘We could station a uniformed officer here if you wished,’ Lorimer told her.

‘No. No. That won’t be necessary. There’s been enough disruption already. This business has set back a good number of our patients. Imagine how they will feel if they think they’re being watched. Some of them suffer from paranoia, you know.’

‘There will have to be a police presence here at some time, though. We still have to question your staff about Mrs Duncan.’

‘But why? If she was killed in her own home? Why bother us here?’ The woman clenched her fists, her expression defiant.

‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer began, smoothly. ‘I understand she left here yesterday evening. What time would that have been?’

Mrs Baillie opened the folder that lay across her knees. She turned the pages of the file with great deliberation, unaware of the eyes firmly fixed on her, intent on every emotion flickering across her face, watching for every sign revealed by her body language.

‘According to Sister Pearson’s sheet, she left at four minutes to eight yesterday evening, Chief Inspector. Today was her day off.’

The papers had stopped being rustled and Lorimer had the impression that Mrs Baillie could have given that information without the need to sift through the time sheets. The woman’s white hands were folded in front of her on the documents. She looked from Lorimer to Solly with an apparent coolness that was betrayed by two pink spots highlighting her cheek bones.