Alex Gray - A small weeping

Dr Richards clasped his hands on the desk in front of him and fixed Lorimer with a penetrating stare. ‘What you really want me to tell you, of course, is if I consider Leigh Quinn capable of murder.’

‘And is he?’

‘In my opinion, no. There’s a gentleness about the man that I think precludes any ability to hurt another person. Besides, he’s been diagnosed as suffering from manic depression. He’s not psychotic.’

‘And would you be prepared to stand up in court and say this?’

‘Of course. But I don’t really believe you’re going to charge Leigh with murder, Chief Inspector.’

Lorimer clenched his teeth. There certainly wasn’t enough evidence for that but there were coincidences that bore further scrutiny, like the flowers in Phyllis Logan’s room and the image of the man on his knees after Kirsty’s death.

Psychiatrists had been wrong before, in his experience. No matter how highly this one was rated, he might not be correct in his assessment of the Irishman.

The embankment was covered in brambles and elder saplings pushing up through the litter that seemed to grow like some perennial weed. No matter how often he picked it up and bagged it, the cans, papers and other foul stuff simply returned. His legs were beginning to ache from walking along the steep slope for so long. Trying to keep balanced while holding the sack in one hand and the grabbers in the other made unreasonable demands on his calves and thigh muscles. Still, there was a sense of duty in it all. He was performing a cleansing task. The green would re-emerge once he’d cleared the rubbish away and someone travelling along might see God’s gift of beauty in the wee flowers that were struggling to appear. All along the track itself were pink weeds that threw out their suckers year after year. How they survived the trains sweeping over them, he couldn’t imagine. But they were brave, these little flowers, and persistent, like himself.

He felt a glow of pleasure as he thought of his work. To clean up the embankments was not his only occupation, oh, no. Sighing with pride, he recalled the voice that had appointed him to rid the stations of other foul weeds.

Then, as if to spoil his morning, a sudden memory of the woman and her temptations shamed him.

She’d lured him towards his sin. But this time he wouldn’t weaken. All through the cold months of winter he’d waited for a sign and then had acted upon it. Now he felt the restlessness that had preceded that first sign. Was it time to commit another act of cleansing?

It was time to come clean. All day Maggie had felt a restlessness that had more to do with guilt than with the anticipation of Lorimer’s reaction. More than once she’d found a pair of eyes staring at her from the rows of desks, waiting for a reply to a question she’d never even heard. It was totally unlike her not to be on the ball. Not within the sheltered haven of her own classroom, anyhow. She’d fought for months to have her own room, a place where she could keep papers and books, where she could work undisturbed. There was a poster opposite her desk, just above eye level. It was a souvenir from last year’s trip to Stratford. They’d taken the Fifth and Sixth Years in the slot after exam leave and before they all scooted off for the summer. It had been an idyllic interlude for the kids, and for Maggie. She’d felt a hundred years younger walking through the cobbled streets with those kids. The weather last June had been hot and breezy. If she thought about it hard enough she could still conjure up the feeling of her long linen skirt wrapping itself around her legs and her hair blowing free as they’d walked along the banks of the Avon. But the memory that stuck longest was the sense of disappointment at having to come home to an empty house.

As ever, her husband had been out on some police matter or other.

Maggie had wept that night in sheer frustration at having no one, no one at all to communicate her days of pleasure and nights of magic, transported by the spell of The Bard. It wasn’t the same to phone her old mum, even if she’d been awake at that hour. She’d wanted someone to talk to; a soulmate who would hold her in his arms and look at her in understanding of all she had to tell. She’d wanted Lorimer.

The clock on the wall told her it was high time she took herself out of there. The rush hour traffic would be its usual slow, gas-guzzling mass with motorists caught between rolling back the sunroofs or cooling themselves with recycled air. Maggie made a sour face. It was all right for Lorimer with his Lexus. Ancient it might be, but the comfort and air-conditioning were there OK. Still she sat on, torn between a desire to have it all over and done with and a fear at what he would say. What would he say? She’d gone over and over this question for days, steeling herself to come to this moment of truth.

Maggie stretched herself and pushed back the metal chair. OK. She’d do it. Now. Tonight. She was sure he’d be home tonight. After how tired he’d been he would try to come home at a reasonable hour. Surely. Maggie straightened her back and gave her dark curls a shake. She was going to America for a year and her husband would just have to accept it.

Jo Grant’s brow creased in a frown as she scrolled up the list of figures. Lorimer had been right. There was something out of order in the clinic’s accounts. At first she’d assumed that the Logan Trust had been responsible for the gaps, but they were way too frequent and didn’t tally properly. She could see that now. Jo gave a smile.

I.T. had a way of showing up things that could save hours of old-fashioned detective work. She pressed the print button. Lorimer would like this. There were several large sums of money missing from the Grange’s accounts. The patients’ fees simply weren’t covering the expenditure. Someone had been on the fiddle, she guessed. Her years in the fraud squad had given Jo a nose for that sort of thing.

‘We need to see the clinic’s own paperwork,’ Lorimer told her. ‘Mrs Baillie keeps the records. See what you can worm out of her.’

He watched as Jo left the room. She was good, that one; sharp as a needle. He’d felt there was something wrong about the finances and now she’d proved him right. But was there any link to the murders? Lorimer leant back in his chair, swivelling it back and forth as he pondered. Mrs Baillie had been so tight with information. She’d also shown little real remorse after the deaths of her two nurses. He’d like to be a fly on the wall when DI Grant started to ask more questions. The Procurator Fiscal had issued a new warrant to search locked premises so Mrs Baillie couldn’t refuse access to any of the clinic’s files. Lorimer smiled to himself. Something was beginning to unfold.

Maggie had prepared a pot of chicken broth. It was totally unseasonable but she had felt the need for comfort food and the soothing feeling that came from cutting up the vegetables as she’d listened to Classic FM. Now the soup was congealing in the pressure cooker as she waited for the sound of his car.

She’d rehearsed over and over in her mind what she would say to him, but she still jumped nervously as the Lexus braked in the drive below. She could hear him take the stairs two at a time as if eager to be back home.

‘Hey, something smells good. That wouldn’t be one of your brilliant soups by any chance?’

Suddenly he was there and Maggie shrank back into a corner of the kitchen as if seeking refuge by the cooker.

She turned to face him, tried to smile and failed miserably.

‘Mags?’ Lorimer reached out for her, immediately sensing her distress.

One moment she was in his arms and the next she was struggling to be free of him, angrily pushing him away. Lorimer took a step backwards, trying to see his wife’s expression but Maggie had turned away. He stood, hands helplessly by his side.