by Alex Gray
There were four cars parked: two were BMWs with this year’s registration and one was a classic Jaguar, its racing green bodywork sleek and polished. Dentistry was paying well in this part of the world, if appearances were to be believed, Solly smiled to himself. The fourth car was a Vauxhall, K656 BLS. He made a note of all their numbers, telling himself that Lorimer’s team had probably covered just such details already. He was aware of the need to tread carefully. There was no reason to fracture the relationship between the DCI and himself. What really interested him, though, was how the cars had come into the parking area. Sure enough there was a double wooden gate that had been fixed into the high stone walls. No moss was clinging to the stone posts either side of the gate, unlike the furred surface along the older section of the wall, suggesting that the entrance had been constructed in recent years. On closer inspection Solly could see trails of purple toadflax growing out of the crevices between the pitted stonework. The gate itself was a solid affair of thick timber, dark with creosote that had not yet weathered. He gave the latch a push and found himself in a cobbled lane running down the length of the street.
Solly shut the gate behind him. There was no sign of a padlock although there was a hasp attached to the left gate. He fingered the metal loop, checking for fresh scratches that might show if a padlock had been taken off recently. There were none that he could see. Did that suggest a laxity in the dentists’ security? Or was this a fairly low risk area? Solomon decided to walk back down the lane rather than retrace his steps through the grounds of the surgery.
Looking up and down he could see the black shapes of wheelie bins all along one side of the lane. A bin lorry could manoeuvre its way up here, then. The lane wasn’t as narrow as it seemed. Solomon looked again at the wooden gates. Had the killer opened them and simply parked his car in the empty driveway, leaving quietly from the back lane? Was that a possibility Lorimer had considered? The wall ran all the way back down to the main road so Solomon headed towards the last building on the street.
At one time it may have resembled its neighbour but now several ramshackle extensions had transformed the house into a mock Tudor pub. The roof still had the same grey Welsh slate but there the similarity ended, the building having spawned a series of flat-topped, concrete extensions that almost reached the perimeter wall. Here, too, there was a back entrance, but this was a high narrow green door. Solomon tried turning the round handle but it was locked fast. There was no other exit that he could see. With a small sigh, he headed back to the surgery gate and slipped into the grounds. There was nothing to be gained from walking all the way back down the lane and up the road again.
As he made for the front gate, the door to the surgery opened and a woman appeared, buttoning her raincoat as she emerged. Solomon gave her his usual benign smile but she merely stared for a moment at him before crossing the road to the Grange. He watched her walk up the driveway until she was hidden from sight by the rhododendron bushes.
Solomon stood for a few minutes just outside the gate. From here the upper windows of the clinic were visible. Anyone standing at those windows could see into the grounds of the dental surgery, Solomon’s logical voice reasoned. It was time to have a look around the Grange itself. He rubbed his hands together. The residents might prove to be quite fascinating.
Rosie washed her hands, noting where the sweat from her surgical gloves had left pink tinges along the palms. She dried them thoroughly on the paper towel then pressed the lever on the industrial-sized hand cream dispenser that sat over the basin. It was a routine she followed religiously after a PM. Your hands are your primary tools, she often told her students. The girls were the ones who usually followed her advice. It wasn’t a very macho thing for the boys to rub hand cream into their fingers. Body-piercing, dreadlocks, they were quite the thing, but hand cream?
Rosie smiled as she thought of her conversation with Solly on the subject. He’d made her laugh with his acute perception of their attention-grabbing strategies, showing her, even as he gently mocked their outward appearances, how sensitive he was to the students’ underlying vulnerability. At the time Rosie had found herself thinking what a great father Solomon Brightman would make. She had been immediately appalled at herself for the thought. Was she becoming broody or what?
Solomon was going to see the people at the Grange today, he’d told her. She’d likely see him in the staff club just around teatime. Sometimes she’d have a quick orange juice as she scanned the room for her dark, bearded friend. Other times he’d be there ahead of her reading the papers in what had become their favourite corner. Funny how he was a creature of habit in some ways when he was so unpredictable most of the time. They’d discussed the two murders, Rosie offering her professional opinion but sparing him the grislier pathological details when she remembered. Solly had a delicate stomach for such things. The pathologist usually delighted in tormenting lay people with the finer points of her post-mortems but she’d made an exception with Solly.
Lorimer had teased her about their relationship. She was fairly sure Solly found her attractive. He had invited her down to London for his sister’s wedding, hadn’t he? They’d had a great time. He’d been so attentive, showing her all the traditions surrounding a Jewish wedding to make her feel at ease. And afterwards they’d danced and laughed all night. Lorimer was no fool. She fancied Solly like crazy. It had taken all her powers of concentration to keep her hands on the steering wheel as they’d driven back up north. But Solly? Just how did he really feel about her?
Rosie looked in the mirror above the basin. She pushed her fingers through her blonde hair. There were a few wee laughter lines around the eyes but it wasn’t a bad face, she told herself. No need for the Botox just yet. Maggie Lorimer always joked that Rosie was the other woman in her husband’s life. That was just Maggie’s way, though. The older woman was given to flattery. Rosie stuck out her tongue at the face in the mirror and turned away. Poor Maggie. She didn’t have much fun with Lorimer working all the hours that his job demanded. Maybe she could suggest a night out. A foursome. Cheered by the idea, Rosie whistled to herself as she came out into the corridor of the mortuary. A shelf full of white skulls grinned down from above as if sharing in her good humour.
Alice paused from cleaning the bathroom windows as she looked down on the figure below. From her vantage point high above the grounds of the clinic she could see him wandering slowly towards the back of the building as if he was looking for something. She gave the window a push outwards so that her cloth could reach the fixed pane in the middle. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the stranger.
‘Hey, Nellie,’ she called back into the room. ‘C’mere an’ see this. This one doesnae look like polis, does he?’ she asked as a thickset woman in green overalls pushed her way towards the open bathroom window. Together they stared at the figure below them. As if sensing he was being watched, the man turned and looked up at the two cleaners.
‘Naw, he isnae polis,’ Nellie decided. ‘Looks mair like a foreigner tae me, hen.’
‘Whit’s he doin’ moochin aroon’ here, well?’
Nellie shrugged. It was none of her business. She hadn’t liked being questioned by that wee slip of a polis wumman. But still an’ all, there wis a murderer on the loose.
‘Ach, I suppose we’d better tell Mrs Baillie,’ she decided.
Alice screwed her face up. ‘Gonnae you go, eh, Nellie? Ah don’t like.’
Nellie grinned. ‘Feart of her are ye?’ Seeing Alice’s weak grin, the older cleaner stuffed her cloth into the pocket of her overalls and turned to leave. ‘Ach, a’right. But
keep an eye on whatshisface, OK?’
‘Aye. Thanks, Nellie. Yer a pal.’
Down below, aware of the slight interest he had created, Solomon turned back towards the front door. He would have to request permission now to walk about the grounds. A pity. He’d liked to have wandered around the back of the building free from any prying eyes. He looked up at the name carved out of
the key stone above the main door. The Grange were the only visible words, there was no brass plate to intimidate the patients with the idea of a clinic for neural disorders. In fact, it was more like coming to a private residence. That was probably the whole idea, he told himself.
Solomon stood on a tiled porch beyond the open storm doors trying to peer through the frosted glass. The security panel to the right of the door showed five buttons. Five numbers to be memorised. Solomon wondered how often they were altered, how they were chosen and by whom. He heard the sound of feet approaching, then a blurred shadow opened the door to him.
‘Dr Brightman? We were expecting you. I’m Mrs Baillie. Won’t you come in.’ As the director of the clinic held open the door, Solomon’s first impression was of a woman who’d had too little sleep for too long. She looked as if she were holding herself together by sheer strength of will.
‘Actually I’d like to look around the grounds. Especially at the back of the building,’ Solly explained in his gentlest voice. ‘Would that be all right, Mrs Baillie?’ He could see the relief in the woman’s body as she nodded.
‘Will you need me after that, Dr Brightman?’ she asked, then seemed to hesitate before adding, ‘I have an appointment in town.’
‘If I might just have your permission to stroll around? It helps to form an impression of what may have happened that night.’
‘Of course. Ellie Pearson will be here to show you the layout of the Grange. She’s our most senior member of staff.’
The woman’s voice had become more brisk, as if she resented Solly’s deference. As the door closed behind her Solly wondered what sort of a strain it must be to run a clinic of this sort where one of your staff had been murdered.
At the back of the building a high wall ran the length of the grounds. Thick rhododendrons divided the Grange’s gardens from those properties on either side. Solomon imagined the closed-in aspect of the grounds had been simply to maintain privacy whenever the house had been a private dwelling. Now it took on another aspect. As he gazed around he could see that there was little chance of escape for anyone who wanted to make a secret getaway. And that included the residential patients themselves. They had to have a certain amount of security, Solly told himself, remembering the panel on the front door. There was a responsibility to care for fragile people here, some of whom were being protected from themselves. How, then, had the killer made his way in and out of the house when there were such watchful eyes among the staff? The only conclusion he could come to was that the killer had been inside the clinic from the start. That’s what Lorimer had suggested. One of the patients might be the selfsame killer that had strangled Deirdre McCann. They were trying to obtain permission to take forensic samples right now. Adhering to Human Rights legislation held up the process considerably, he knew, making officers like DCI Lorimer champ at the bit.
So far medical staff, auxiliaries, cleaners and odd-job men had all been questioned along with the more lucid patients. Even their friends and families were coming under Lorimer’s scrutiny. There was nothing to indicate an escape route for a killer coming out of this area unless he had been a pole-vaulter. The wall behind him was easily twelve feet high and the bushes seemed quite impenetrable. No, the killer must have taken the route across the road, possibly through the dentists’ car park and out into that back lane. Or, a little voice reasoned, he’d simply stayed inside the clinic, going about his normal night-time activities. His or hers.
Nothing was even clear about that, although Rosie had voiced her opinion that it probably had been a man who’d taken the lives of the two women. Strangulation had been exacted with considerable force. But, Solly had argued, many of the nursing staff were females used to hard manual work. Nursing was a pretty physical occupation after all, even in a private clinic like this one.
As he stood looking at the basement door he knew there would have to be much more data before he could create any sort of profile. The signature of the praying hands with the flower conjured up a picture of a person who had remorse for his actions. Was the killing a compulsion motivated by some deep-seated problem in his past? Something that therapy had failed to resolve? Solly looked from the basement door back towards the street. Opportunity might be a starting point but it only led him back to the clinic itself. Clasping his hands behind his back, Solomon walked thoughtfully round the far side of the building. His shoes crunched on the pale golden gravel that served as a pathway. Was that another form of security? Did the staff listen for wayward feet outside the walls of the clinic? The killer had opened the basement door and left it swinging in the wind that night. But where had he gone afterwards? That was a puzzle indeed.
‘Dr Brightman? Mrs Baillie’s gone out but she said you could stay as long as you needed,’ Ellie Pearson told him.
She looked at him uncertainly as if this exotic looking man were not to be trusted and that the director was slightly crazy in letting him loose among their patients. Her white slacks and short-sleeved tunic gave the woman an extra air of briskness. Round her neck dangled a pair of half-moon spectacles. The woman was probably about his own age, Solly guessed.
There was something intimidating about medical personnel in uniform, Solly mused. Not that he could be easily intimidated. Such observations impinged on his consciousness without making him react to them in the slightest.
‘Thank you. I have a note of the clinic’s layout somewhere.’ He searched in several pockets before drawing out a much-folded piece of paper.
‘Here we are. So I won’t need to keep you from your duties, Sister,’ he added, nodding wisely at the name badge on the woman’s chest. He turned slightly away from her and opened the makeshift map. There were red highlights showing the basement and related areas. To reach these he would have to pass the residents’ main lounge and the long corridor where their downstairs rooms were located. Through an open door to his right he saw Sister Pearson making for a staircase. He looked back at the plan. That led to Mrs Baillie’s own apartment. What else might be up there? Anyhow, she seemed to be satisfied that the psychologist could be left to his own devices. Perhaps they’d become inured to strangers crawling all over the place since Kirsty MacLeod’s murder. Just as the thought came to him, Solomon was aware of an emaciated figure shuffling out of a nearby room on his left, pushing a Zimmer frame in front of her. His heart sank as he took in the woman’s face with its cadaverous hollows. She wasn’t old at all, but wracked with whatever eating disorder had ruined her body. She stopped and looked up at him as Solomon drew level with her.
‘Good morning,’ he smiled politely, giving a nod in her direction. The woman smiled back at him showing red exposed gums. At least her hair showed some signs of care, a shiny grip held its wispy strands back tidily from her brow. China blue eyes regarded him hopefully for a moment then looked away as if failing to find the face that they sought.
As Solomon passed her by, he noticed her hands clutching the zimmer’s metal rail. Despite the blue veins standing up on her hands, the fingernails were trimmed and polished. There were some signs of care here, at any rate, thought Solly. Some attractive prints on the wall, bright pastel scenes of Tuscany depicting gardens and arbours. Restful, he mused, good choices for a place like this. Somebody had put plenty of thought into the details and Solomon was impressed.
The corridor came to an end with double doors that swung away from him automatically and Solomon stepped into an area that had the unmistakeable smell of a hospital. His map wasn’t needed here. There were signs on the walls indicating an upper level of residents’ accommodation and another door marked Staff Only. There was no window on either side of the corridor, the only light coming from overhead strips that glared down on the pale linoleum flooring. A door to one side was slightly ajar. Remembering Lorimer’s description of the multiple sclerosis patient, Solly paused. Whoever had killed Kirsty MacLeod had passed by just here. There was a faint mechanical sound from within but nothing more. Not wishing to disturb the patient, Solly
crept past quietly. Beyond the stairs was the door leading to the basement. He pushed it open.
Rosie had described exactly where the murder had taken place. The floor was clean now, but there was a red cross on the paper that showed the spot where they thought Kirsty MacLeod had been killed. Solomon stood looking back down the corridor. The swing doors would have muffled any sound the girl might have made. Only one person could have heard her had she cried out. Once more he looked towards the room where a woman lay wasting away with that awful disease. She was completely paralysed, Lorimer had told him, and had no power of speech. No threat to a killer, then.
The basement door creaked as Solly turned the handle. Darkness met his gaze and he fumbled for the light switch as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Only the first few steps were visible. His hand felt the switch yet he resisted the instinct to flood the place with light, trying instead to see through the shadows; trying indeed to imagine what the killer would have seen. Had he thrust the young nurse’s body down the steep flight of steps? There would have been a thud as her corpse hit the concrete floor below. Or had he dragged her step by painstaking step into the boiler room?
Solomon tried each idea on for size. The victim’s tights had been ripped, suggesting she’d been pulled rather than pushed. But if she’d been dead, the weight would have been considerable even to drag downwards. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, Solly counted the seventeen metal steps that separated the boiler room from the upper floors of the Grange. Perhaps he’d pulled her down the first few steps where definite traces of fabric had been found. The door opened outwards so there would not have been so much effort needed to manoeuvre a body through in the first place. Had he given up after the first few steps before sending her corpse tumbling down? Had something panicked him? He must have made sure she was dead.
