Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘So, why didn’t she?’

‘Fright. Coupled with the fact that she was breathless from climbing the stairs. She had a weak chest. Being overweight was really to her disadvantage. And she was of an age that made fractures to the laryngeal cartilages more likely. A younger, fitter person would have fought back.’

‘Any resemblance to the injuries Kirsty MacLeod sustained?’

‘He came at Kirsty from in front, too. But Kirsty’s death was inflicted by one hand while he held an arm across her chest.’

‘And Deirdre McCann was strangled with her own scarf,’ Lorimer mused.

‘No carbon copies of murder for you, I’m afraid.

Just the killer’s signature for Solly to deal with,’ she sighed.

‘But I can tell you we are probably looking for a strong, fit person of at least average height, someone who works out, maybe. It takes a lot of strength to strangle a person who’s standing upright.’

Lorimer tried to picture the man in his mind. A shadowy figure that leapt at the women’s throats, someone of significant strength to force them to the ground. He bit the end of his fingernail. There was something not right. He thought about the latex gloves and the security door.

Everything seemed to indicate that this was a murder where the victim had known her assailant. And had Kirsty known her attacker also? Was he in fact one of the patients at the clinic? And had he been responsible for Deirdre McCann’s murder several months ago?

He felt a pulse in his temple throb against his hands as the image of Mrs Baillie came to mind. She was tall and probably strong. But was she strong enough to strangle two of her employees? Wonder what shoe size she takes, Lorimer mused, gnawing at his lip as he dismissed the idea. it had to be a man. Deirdre McCann’s killer proved that. And the red carnation, as Rosie had reminded him, linked all three women. That part of the signature was known to the general public, all right, but the actual position of the praying hands was information that only the investigating team knew. Solly, Cameron, Alistair Wilson, Rosie… the list went on to include those who had discovered the bodies, he realised. And Brenda had discovered Kirsty’s body.

Perhaps he should talk again to that chap from British Rail. Push a little harder. But, try as he might, he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that an answer to these murders was to be found in the Grange.

These spring mornings gave Phyllis new heart. it happened every year. Even with this disease wasting away her body, she experienced a surge of optimism each bright morning. in her waking hours Phyllis could close her eyes against the tedium of the room and see once again the avenue of trees unfurling their green leaves. By now the beech hedges would be a mass of bright green and the chestnuts would have uncurled their sticky buds. The azaleas would be a swathe of colour, the scent of the yellow blooms sweet and damp. in her mind Phyllis walked once more through the estate. She’d had dogs then, silly spaniels that raced through the woods after rabbits, real or imaginary. She smiled to hear them barking as she lay inert below the spotless sheets. Outside her window she could hear the sound of a pair of collared doves as they croocrooed. In her mind they rose above the treetops heading towards the house. She could feel the tread of her feet on the earthen track. She could smell the wild garlic that wafted up from the banks of the stream.

Phyllis had been born at this time of year. Deep down she suspected that was why it was special to her. Other folk felt it too, she realised, opening her eyes as she heard someone singing in the corridor. It was little wonder. May was such a relief of light and colour after the long yawning stretch of grey winter months. Phyllis treasured these spring days. Would they be her last? There was no thudding of the heart as she anticipated death. Her illness was so far advanced now, realistically there couldn’t be much time left. There was little more to be done. Her affairs were tidy. She was a financial burden to no one. Very few would mark her passing. Her solicitor, maybe. One or two of the staff here, perhaps. She really didn’t care. Tying the house up as a clinic had been quite selfish, really, giving her a safe haven without the need to part with her own home.

In the long hours before daylight, Phyllis thought about death and what it would bring. An end to everything? Or a release into a new dimension? It was frightening to contemplate a new life free from the prison of this useless body. Not that she didn’t want to believe in a life after death, an existence where her spirit swept untrammelled by flesh and bones. No. It was frightening because she wanted to believe in it so much. She had been let down by too much wanting already.

It was better to concentrate on outside. On the birds frantically feeding their young or the light that pierced the blinds and fell in shafts of dust towards the floor.

She hadn’t been disturbed again by that voice or by those searching eyes. Maybe it was all over now. Maybe she’d never have to think about them again. Yet even as she tried to recapture the vision of her old garden in all its spring glory there came to mind the cries in the night and the threat that had followed.

Ellie Pearson’s hands shook as she replaced the handset. That was another one calling in sick. She doubted if they’d come back at all. Not that she blamed them, really. Who’d want to work in a clinic for neural disorders where one of the patients might be a mad strangler? Stevie had been hinting only last night that she should find another post. The NHS was crying out for staff, he’d told her. Ellie had just shaken her head and tried to concentrate on University Challenge. She didn’t want to leave. A stubborn loyalty for the Grange subdued any fears she might have. Anyway, Stevie picked her up at night now, like so many of the husbands. And the night staff all came in by taxi, Mrs Baillie had seen to that. She smiled wryly. After Ellie’s own breakdown the Director of the Grange had been surprisingly sympathetic. Losing the baby had been the worst thing ever to happen to Stevie and her. The doctors had been terrific, though, really helping her to focus on positive things and to take time to mourn the baby properly. It was as if they’d all been through exactly the same kind of grief.

Ellie’s eyes fell on the dust cover shrouding the computer on the reception desk. Cathy had been the first to leave and so far there was nobody to take her place. Glancing at her watch, she realised that the next shift was due in soon. She’d commandeer one of the girls to take the receptionist’s place until they could find an agency temp.

A shadow on the frosted glass door made her look up a split second before the bell rang out. It would be the police. Again. They were practically on first name terms with some of them now, but not the man in charge, Chief Inspector Lorimer. There was an authority about him that made people keep their distance, Ellie thought.

‘Good morning, come in,’ Ellie held open the door and looked up. She kept forgetting how tall the Chief Inspector was. Professional interest made her scrutinise his face.

The tired eyes were heavy with creases as if he hadn’t slept much and the downturned mouth merely straightened into a polite line as he took her hand. That dark brown hair flopping over his forehead was badly needing a cut, she thought absently. Still, it was a good head of hair, not like Stevie’s premature baldness. DCI Lorimer was good-looking, too, in a rugged sort of way. Ellie wondered absently if he was married. There was no sign of a wedding ring.

‘Mrs Baillie’s away today,’ Ellie told him. ‘So you’ll have to make do with me.’