Alex Gray - A small weeping

‘Who told you?’

Quinn took his hands away from his eyes, clasping them together on his knees. ‘A nurse.’

‘Have you been out of the clinic in the last two days, Leigh? For a long walk maybe?’ Alistair Wilson asked, diverting the man’s attention from Lorimer.

Quinn’s head turned towards the sergeant, a puzzled frown on his pallid face.

‘Do you know where Brenda lives, maybe?’

Quinn’s face froze in sudden understanding.

‘No. I’ve been for…walks, sure,’ he began slowly, stumbling over his words. ‘Not out of the grounds.’ He shook his head and turned to Lorimer as if this was something he should know.

‘Can anybody confirm this?’ Wilson persisted. Quinn shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Lorimer’s. The man’s gaze was shrewd, Lorimer thought. He knows fine what we’re asking him.

‘Do you remember the night before last, Leigh? It was pouring with rain,’ Lorimer asked.

Leigh Quinn pushed back the chair and stood up, putting his hands out against the glass of the window. Lorimer watched as the man’s breath clouded up in little circles against the cold pane. Wilson started as if he was going to pull him back down but Lorimer raised a hand and shook his head, seeing Quinn push his face right up against the glass.

What was the gesture meant to signify, he wondered, suddenly wishing that he had Solly Brightman there in the room. Was the Irishman trying to escape from them or was he simply trying to make the two policemen disappear?

‘You’re not thinking of leaving the Grange, are you, Leigh?’ Lorimer asked suddenly.

He heard a sniff from the man and a muffled ‘No’ then watched as the man rested his head on his forearms and began to sob.

Lorimer stayed still. Were those tears of remorse? Or was Leigh Quinn still grieving for a young Island girl who’d befriended so many of the patients here? He waited until the sobs quietened. Quinn pulled out a pocket handkerchief and blew his nose then slumped back down on the chair.

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he sighed. ‘That’s what you’re thinking, though.’ He looked across at Lorimer, defeat in his eyes.

‘We need to check the whereabouts of everybody who was here two nights ago,’ Lorimer told him. ‘If you can find somebody who would vouch for your presence here from eight-thirty onwards, that would be a help.’

Quinn nodded then stared back into space.

‘Can you?’

There was no reply as the Irishman failed to react. He’d said all he was going to say, for now, Lorimer realised, watching the dark eyes glaze over. Even so, having him talk at all was a major breakthrough. He signalled to Wilson and they got up to leave. Turning before he left the room, Lorimer saw the face of Leigh Quinn reflected in the glass like a faded print, the luminous eyes unblinking.

‘Chief Inspector.’ Lorimer turned to see Ellie Pearson hovering in the corridor.

She beckoned them with a finger as if afraid to disturb the silence in the room. ‘Dr Richards would like a word with you.’ Lorimer and Wilson followed her down the corridor to a room simply marked ‘Staff.’

Sister Pearson knocked and opened the door. ‘Dr Richards. Chief Inspector Lorimer and Sergeant Wilson.’

Lorimer smiled. Solly had told him about this psychiatrist. A miracle worker, Tom Coutts had called him. perhaps Leigh Quinn’s ability to verbalise had more to do with the doctor’s expertise than a sudden need to defend himself.

A man of medium build, with thinning hair and a pair of half-moon glasses perched on his nose rose from behind his desk to greet them. ‘Maxwell Richards,’ he said, hand grasping Lorimer’s firmly. ‘Chief Inspector, thank you for giving me a little of your time. Gentlemen, please sit down. Ellie, is there any chance of some tea or coffee?’ He beamed at the Sister before turning his attention to the two men before him. Lorimer took in the dark pinstriped suit and pink polka-dot bowtie. On Maxwell Richards the ensemble was sartorial rather than effete, he realised.

He looked like a psychiatrist and somehow that immediately dispelled any mystique. Lorimer found himself warming towards the man who continued to smile at him.

‘You came in to see Leigh, I believe?’

‘That’s correct, sir.’

‘Perhaps I can fill you in on my patient, gentlemen.

He won’t have spoken much to you?’

Richards’ eyebrows rose questioningly above the glasses. ‘No, I thought not,’ he continued as Lorimer hesitated. ‘Let me see. Where should I begin?’ he mused, steepling his fingers and twirling his thumbs around as he considered.

‘Perhaps you might tell us how Quinn came to be here in the first place,’ Lorimer broke in.

‘Ah, I wondered if somebody might ask me that. Hm. Confidential, really, but in the circumstances…’ Dr Richards took off his spectacles and rubbed the side of his nose before replacing them. ‘The Logan Trust,’ he began. ‘It was set up by the owner of the Grange some time ago. When she was still in charge of all her faculties, you understand.’

‘Phyllis Logan? The Multiple Sclerosis patient?’

‘Indeed. Phyllis established her Trust to enable the clinic to treat people with neural disorders. There are funds set aside for several patients who could not otherwise afford our fees. Leigh Quinn is one such,’ Dr Richards explained. Lorimer nodded. Sam Fulton, no doubt, would be another.

‘Why should she do something like that?’ Wilson wanted to know. ‘I’d have thought she’d have given preference to MS patients like herself.’

Dr Richards smiled. ‘Yes. One would think so but there are aspects of her life that make such provisions understandable,’ he hesitated to look closely from Wilson to Lorimer. ‘This is in the strictest confidence, of course, gentlemen,’ he added. ‘Phyllis Logan’s husband committed suicide after suffering depression for many years. Giving help to other people has been a sort of catharsis for her.’

Lorimer nodded. That explained a lot.

‘Doesn’t she have any family?’ Wilson asked.

Dr Richards shook his head. ‘No, nor many friends. Since her illness she has become something of a recluse. The clinic was set up to give her a permanent home with the best of care. She is very well looked after here.’

Lorimer picked something almost defensive in the man’s tone. Had there been any comments made to the contrary?

‘What happens when, well,’ Wilson hesitated, ‘when she goes?’

‘Ownership of the Trust reverts to the Grange and its Directors.’

‘I see.’

‘Leigh Quinn,’ Lorimer put in. ‘What can you tell us about him?’

Dr Richards sat back in his chair. ‘Well, now. What can I say that you haven’t read in his case notes? He’s basically a very kind man. He cares about other people far more than he cares about himself. You’ll have noticed that already, though. His personal grooming is quite neglected. Not a materialistic sort of man at all, though he does value his books,’ Dr Richards smiled. ‘He actually has a soft spot for Phyllis,’ he went on. ‘Goes into her room to sit with her. As far as we know he doesn’t say anything, just sits or rearranges her flowers.’

Lorimer stiffened. The image of Brenda Duncan’s cold hands clasping that solitary red carnation came unbidden into his mind.

Richards continued as if he hadn’t noticed the policeman’s discomfiture. ‘He is usually very withdrawn. Didn’t communicate at all when I first met him. But he does keep a diary.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Lorimer was suddenly interested.

‘Yes. But he scores everything out and begins again each day. Not a healthy sign, I’m afraid. The denial of his day-by-day experiences, I mean. Perhaps one day he’ll allow himself to acknowledge that he has a life. Meantime he seems to find solace in the world of nature. He takes long walks by himself. My colleague in the Simon Community tells me that he used to spend hours simply staring into the river.’