Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘Unless he’s a nutter inside the Grange already.’

Solly didn’t answer her. For a moment he stared into space, unblinking.

‘With Brenda Duncan’s death I feel justified in proposing that we have two killers. Whoever killed Deirdre McCann is a person in serious need of help. He’s a danger to himself as well as to society.’

‘And Brenda? Kirsty?’

‘Ah. I’m not entirely happy with the disturbed personality theory everyone is so eager to believe. There’s a reason for those deaths. Someone badly wanted these two women out of the way. The flowers are a blind.’

‘You mean someone is trying to make you think there’s a serial killer on the loose?’

‘Exactly. There are two profiles here and my job right now is to untangle them.’

‘What does Lorimer think about this?’ Rosie took one look at Solly’s face and laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t told him yet?’

‘No. But I will. I’ll have to, won’t I?’

Solly pulled himself up and perched on the arm of the chair. ‘What about you? What’s next on your agenda?’

‘Oh, back to the lab. Early’ she added with a grimace.

‘Well,’ he hesitated and then smiled as if a happy thought had just occurred to him.

‘Hadn’t we better go to bed now, then?’

It was still daylight when Lorimer reached his street. The longest day was barely a month away and there was a pearly glow from the sky that comes after a rain shower in late Spring. It could have been any hour of the day.

Lorimer pulled into the driveway, carefully avoiding the stone gateposts, and parked outside his door. The front drive was ancient tarmac with the weeds poking through. It did fine for a parking space, if Lorimer had ever thought about it (which he didn’t). It was Maggie who mowed what little lawn their property possessed and fitfully tended their ragged flowerbeds. Lorimer turned the key in the car door, reminding himself yet again to buy new batteries for the key fob. He looked up automatically at the lounge window. There was a light flickering against the glass. The television was on. Surely it wasn’t Newsnight already?

The slam of the door behind him sounded hollow, as if all the carpets had been lifted. The house had an abandoned feel to it but Lorimer knew Maggie was in there somewhere.

‘Hi. Anybody home?’ he called up the unlit hall way. There was no response but he could hear the sound of voices from the television beyond the lounge door.

Lorimer rapped twice on the door before pushing it open. ‘It’s only me,’ he joked, then stopped as Maggie leapt up to switch off the television, a look of alarm on her face. The alarm changed to something else. Relief? Lorimer couldn’t decide. Then she was in his arms, clinging round his waist as if she’d never let him go. Lorimer felt her tension. Maybe she’d been watching a scary movie. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. Suddenly his tummy rumbled below Maggie’s clinging grasp and they broke apart, laughing together.

‘No dinner again?’ she shook her dark curls reprovingly.

‘Sorry, Miss,’ Lorimer pulled a contrite face. ‘Didn’t have time.’

‘How about poor Solly?’

‘Oh, he never seems to remember such mundane things as meals. Time we found him a good woman.’

‘Like Rosie.’

‘Indeed.’ Lorimer slumped into a sagging armchair. ‘Oh, it’s good to be home. Just the two of us.’

Maggie nodded. It seemed ages since they’d been at home together.

‘Anything to eat, kind lady?’ Lorimer put on his most disarming face.

‘Typical,’ she rejoined. ‘Doesn’t see me for days and what does he miss? My home cooking!’ And with a great pretence at being offended she set off for the kitchen.

Lorimer stretched his long legs out and, giving a huge yawn, muttered, ‘Too right.’ Then he closed his eyes.

When Maggie returned five minutes later with a tray full of soup and sandwiches she found her husband fast asleep.

Quietly she set the tray down on the coffee table then lifted the remote control. The videotape ejected noiselessly. Holding her breath she retrieved the tape, fitted it back into its sleeve then slid it deep down into her open briefcase. For an instant the echoes of those American voices reverberated in her brain telling her all about the opportunities teacher exchange could bring. Opportunities Maggie wasn’t ready to share with her husband. Not yet. She looked down at the man sleeping below her gaze. His mouth was open slightly and she could see two days’ stubble round the slack jaw. The lines round those bad blue eyes seemed deeper than usual. We’re getting older, thought Maggie wistfully, both of us. But she wasn’t past it yet. Oh, no. Not by a long way.

‘Hey,’ she whispered at last, ‘soup’s getting cold.’

Lorimer came to, blinking as if he’d slept for hours rather than minutes.

‘’S’nice of you to bother,’ he mumbled, sitting up and taking the tray onto his lap. Maggie watched as her husband spooned up the soup and munched on the ham sandwiches, never pausing for breath.

A lock of dark hair tumbled over his brow and she had to stop herself from putting out her hand to smooth it aside. Finally he put down the spoon and laboriously cleared the sandwich crumbs from his plate. Maggie observed the sagging shoulders and outstretched limbs. She’d seen the signs often enough to know that he’d sleep where he lay if she let him.

‘Come on,’ she said softly, ‘let’s get you to bed.’

Lorimer reached out and slammed the top of the alarm clock, killing its insistent, drilling ring. He could feel Maggie’s warmth curling around his legs, her hair soft against his naked back. He wanted to stay in this bed forever, slumbering against his wife’s closeness. The sigh he exhaled told him a million things. How he’d be better off in a nine-to-five job, how he really missed the comforts of a proper home life. Lorimer straightened out under the duvet as sleepiness evaporated and he began taking stock, recalling Mrs Baillie’s responses to his questions. What was going on over there? Was the clinic in such dire straits that it faced closure? The woman’s flat looked as if she was planning to move out. But what would happen to the patients? And who would care for that poor woman lying paralysed down in the back room?

Maggie, sensing the shift in her husband’s preoccupation, was up and out of bed before he’d had time to notice.

He watched her for a few minutes as she went through the morning routine of opening the bedroom curtains then pulling a hairbrush through her unruly dark hair. His eyes followed her as she unhooked her negligee from the back of the bedroom door then she was gone. Lorimer listened to the sounds of the bathroom door closing then the shower shushing its spray onto the tiled walls. He heard Maggie slamming shut the cabinet door. Closing his eyes, he imagined her body reaching up to the jets of water, her skin turning to wet silk under the spray.

There was a dull thud as the newspaper hit the hall carpet and he flung off the covers, grabbed his dressing gown and padded barefoot downstairs.

The headlines were predictable. Yesterday’s news had been full of Brenda Duncan’s murder. Now today’s paper had inevitably linked it with Deirdre and Kirsty. There were some quotes from the residential patients to make it look as if there was a general panic amongst them. Mrs Baillie wouldn’t like that. There was a quote, too, from Mitchison.

Investigations by senior officers have been taking place both in Glasgow and the Island of Lewis. It is too early yet to make a definite link in respect of the deaths of three women in Glasgow but forensic evidence may prove to be crucial in that respect. I would urge the families of patients at the Grange to remain calm and support the excellent staff who are doing their utmost to keep the clinic running as normally as possible.