Alex Gray - A small weeping

Lorimer raised his eyebrows in surprise as Sister Pearson took them through the hall to the reception foyer. Now the sun filtered in through the vertical blinds casting slanted shadows across the room.

‘We’d like to speak to Leigh Quinn,’ he began. Alistair Wilson hovered deferentially at his elbow as Lorimer waited for the Sister to reply.

‘He’s due to be with his psychiatrist in half an hour, will that be enough time for you?’ Ellie Pearson looked at Lorimer doubtfully. The police had spent so much time interviewing staff and patients alike in the days following Kirsty’s murder that she’d thought they must know about everyone by now.

‘I think under the circumstances we might just take priority, Sister,’ Lorimer told her quietly.

Ellie felt her face begin to burn. She felt suddenly like a small child in a grownup world that was beyond her. ‘Yes, yes, of course. If you’d like to wait here I’ll find out where he is.’

‘Think you’ll get anything out of him this time?’ Wilson asked.

‘Who knows? He was practically non-verbal last time we interviewed him. Lost in a world of his own. Wasn’t that what his case notes said? Post traumatic stress disorder resulting in noncommunication.’ Lorimer remembered.

‘What sort of treatment has he had?’

‘They seem to have tried all sorts. One-to-one counselling. What did they call it? Brief therapy, or something like that. And group sessions.’

‘I bet they were a pure waste of time. I can’t see Quinn participating in anything.’

Lorimer shrugged. Solly had filled him in on some of the methods the clinic employed. His colleague, Tom Coutts, had been really helpful in that direction. Coutts was due to go to Failte, too, he thought. Perhaps he could see what the Psychology lecturer made of that experience. The patients’ case notes had been made available to the team. Some of them made heavy reading; several depressed souls had tried to end it all. Those for whom life had become intolerable seemed to have reached a black hole, yet the patience and dedication of the staff here had helped not a few of them out of these pits of despair. Coutts had been lavish in his praise of the Grange. But then, it had worked for him, hadn’t it? Whether Leigh Quinn, the Irishman, would succeed in throwing off his demons remained to be seen.

Lorimer had spent plenty of time reading the man’s file. Born in Dublin, the son of a Union leader, there had been a background of involvement in grassroots politics, especially in the years he’d spent at university. After graduation he’d been in local government for a few years but had lost that job as a result of his heavy drinking.

That hadn’t been all he’d lost, though, the case notes told Lorimer. Quinn had been married with a baby son. Both wife and child had perished in a house fire. Quinn had escaped, physically unhurt but with unseen scars that refused to heal. The file had recorded how he’d left Dublin to look for work in Glasgow. For six months he’d held down a job as a hotel porter before slipping into spells of depression that led him onto the streets. Rescued by the Simon Community, it had appeared that Quinn had tried to pull himself together but the depression had worsened until he’d been admitted to the Grange.

Lorimer had tried to make enquiries about his admission, but had drawn a blank so far. How could a down-and-out like Quinn afford the private fees demanded by a place like this? He recalled Sam Fulton. Something was going on here that didn’t make any sense. How could men like that pay for such specialist attention?

His thoughts were interrupted by Sister Pearson’s return.

‘I’ve asked him to talk to you in his own room, Chief inspector, if that’s all right?’

‘Fine. Thank you,’ Lorimer replied. The woman turned to lead them back along the corridor but Lorimer stopped her.

‘Nobody on reception today?’ he asked.

‘Oh.’ The woman bit her lip. ‘Actually, our receptionist left us suddenly. We haven’t had time to find a replacement yet.’

‘Did she give a reason for leaving?’ Wilson asked.

Sister Pearson’s shoulders slumped suddenly. ‘You can’t blame her really. Two nurses dead like that. We’ve had other resignations as well.’ She looked up at Lorimer, meeting his gaze defiantly. ‘It’s hard for the patients, too. Until you catch this man they feel they’re under suspicion,’ she said.

‘Well, Sister, that’s just what we’re trying to do,’ Lorimer said quietly.

Ellie dropped her eyes. The man sounded so tired. God knows what sort of job he had to do. Of course the police would be doing their best. She looked up again. ‘Leigh’s in here,’ she motioned towards an open door off the main corridor.

She rapped on the door. ‘Leigh. Visitors for you.’ Ellie pushed open the door and stood back to let Lorimer and Wilson into the room then, catching the Chief Inspector’s eye, she retreated.

Behind her, Lorimer pushed the door shut. The Irishman was sitting by the bay window with his back to them. Instinctively Lorimer looked out at the trees framing the sky. Leigh Quinn’s accommodation certainly didn’t lack for a good view. Again the question of how he came to be there in the first place niggled at the edges of his mind. A quick look around the room showed a bed and a couple of easy chairs clad in matching turquoise fabric. The walls were painted in pale green emulsion broken up by prints of Monet’s garden. A pair of slippers lay neatly by the bed and several books were piled up on the bedside table. Apart from that there were no signs of personal possessions. The man could have been a hotel guest on an overnight stay rather than a long-term patient.

‘Mr Quinn,’ Lorimer said, expecting the man to turn at the sound of his voice but the Irishman stayed motionless as if glued to whatever he was seeing. Lorimer shifted his position so that his reflection was directly in the man’s line of vision, noting a slight movement of the dark head. Even seated, he could see that Quinn was a tall man, though his frame was so gaunt that Lorimer supposed that his depression had affected his appetite.

With a nod, he motioned to Alistair Wilson and his sergeant placed himself on one side of the patient while Lorimer took a chair from the side of the bed and sat down on the other.

‘Mr Quinn,’ he began again. ‘We would like to ask you some questions.’ The man continued to stare out of the window but Lorimer had the distinct impression that he was taking in every word.

‘I went to visit Sister Angelica. She told me you had been very upset on the night Kirsty MacLeod was murdered. Can you confirm that, please?’ Lorimer’s voice was quiet but firm, devoid of any supplication.

Leigh Quinn turned his head and stared at Lorimer. The man was breathing in short spurts as if he’d been running hard. Was he about to suffer a panic attack? He fervently hoped not.

Then a long sigh escaped the Irishman and he shook his head wearily. ‘She should not have been killed,’ he said at last, looking away from Lorimer and gazing into his cupped hands. ‘She was a wee flower.’

Over his head, Lorimer caught Wilson’s eye.

‘You were fond of Kirsty?’

The dark, shaggy head nodded again and Quinn put his hands over his eyes as if to blot out a memory.

‘Sister Angelica told us she found you praying in her room. Is that right?’

The hands were still covering his eyes as the man nodded again.

Outside a blackbird called in liquid notes from the treetops, heightening the silence within the room. Lorimer waited for a moment before speaking.

‘Brenda Duncan has also been killed, Leigh. Did you know that?’ Lorimer’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. He saw the man’s head nod into his hands.