A small weeping lab-2

by Alex Gray

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you.’ Then, cocking her head to one side, she added, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  Brenda’s eyes widened in disbelief as the figure lunged towards her, hands suddenly grasping her throat. Her mouth opened in protest, then there was a gargling sound as she struggled against her attacker.

  As Brenda jerked backwards onto the hall carpet, her glasses flew upwards into the air. They curved in a perfect arc then broke with a tinkle against the rows of brass hooks screwed into the wall. For a moment the landing held its breath. Then several small sounds interrupted the silence. Wood clunked on wood as the golf umbrella was propped carefully against the door frame. Feet in wet shoes brushed back and forth, back and forth on the doormat; the sound of coming home; familiar, nothing to alert the neighbours.

  The front door banged shut against the newly painted close, echoes spiralling down the stairwell. These were the sounds that everybody listened to at the time, but afterwards nobody remembered that they’d heard them.

  Within the house, behind the solid door, Brenda Duncan lay sprawled where she had fallen, ungainly even in death.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Cross cafe wasn’t the nicest place to have tea and a chat, but it was a safe haven from the deluge outside. The rain had not stopped all day and runnels of water were swirling down the slopes of the pavement out side. Angelica sipped the hot brew, sighing with a mixture of pleasure and relief. It would be OK, now, she told herself. It was all over. Trying to make Leigh see things that way might be tricky but she had hopes.

  As if on cue, the Irishman staggered into the cafe, his hair plastered black against his head. He gazed around him, lost for a moment in the sea of tables and chairs until he spotted her at the window. She’d sat there deliberately so he could see her but the window had steamed up, foiling her strategy.

  ‘Angelica.’ Leigh’s eyes softened as he sat down opposite her. ‘I thought…for a minute…you’d not come.’

  ‘I said I’d be here, didn’t I?’

  ‘Aye, that’s so.’

  ‘I haven’t let you down yet, my boy, and I’m not about to start now. Got that?’

  Leigh nodded.

  ‘What d’you want? Tea? Coffee?’ Angelica asked as the waitress approached.

  He shrugged as if it wasn’t important so Angelica gave the waitress an order for another pot of tea.

  ‘Now, down to business. The police were up at the respite centre in Lewis. That Chief Inspector wanted to know what you’d been doing the night of Kirsty’s death.’

  Catching sight of Leigh’s sudden frown, she hastily added, ‘I told them that you were with me, of course. We’d been praying together. But somehow he seemed to think that was suspicious.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the praying hands, Leigh. That’s what they can’t see past. You know and I know the significance for us both but they don’t look at things quite in the way that we do. D’you understand?’

  The man nodded then flinched as the waitress set down a pot of tea on the table. Angelica poured it for him, knowing he was still too shaken for even a simple task like this. The man’s nerves were shot to pieces, she told herself. How he was going to stand up to that Lorimer when he came back from Lewis, only God knew.

  ‘You still keeping an eye on Phyllis?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Angelica nodded her approval. That was something at least. She leant forward and patted his hand. ‘Now you’re not to worry, but the police will be coming back. They want to talk to you again.’

  Leigh looked puzzled but said nothing.

  ‘Here’s what to do. Now listen. When they ask where you were the night Kirsty died, tell them you were with me. I’ll back you up.’

  Leigh Quinn shifted in his seat, squirming around as he looked around the cafe. Suddenly every person there seemed to pose a threat. Angelica watched him intently, sensing his moods as she always did. She could almost smell the fear rising from him.

  ‘Look, Leigh, it’s going to be all right. You just have to trust me.’ Angelica fixed her eyes earnestly on the man’s white face until he looked at her. Then he gave a grudging nod.

  ‘Good. Now drink up your tea. We have plans to make, you and I.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lorimer’s eyes were gritty from peering into the swishing windscreen wipers hour after hour. He’d been reasonably circumspect on the journey through the Highlands, given the rain sweeping across the winding roads, but after that call on his mobile the car had hurtled down from Loch Lomond, breaking every speed regulation in the book. Now they were entering the city boundaries at last. Solly had slept a lot of the way from Ullapool, folded into his black raincoat like one of those cormorants he’d seen around the Harris coastline. Lorimer was glad of the silence between them. It had given him time to think, time to digest that phone call from HQ telling him to get himself over to the south side double quick, there’d been another death.

  He’d called Rosie at the University to see if she’d be at the scene of crime. Yes, she’d said shortly, and not with Mitchison if Lorimer could get his arse into gear. Her tone expressed distaste for Lorimer’s boss that had made him chuckle. But his mirth was short-lived. There was nothing remotely funny about this.

  ‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer spoke softly to himself. ‘Who on earth would want to do you in?’ It didn’t make sense. First a prostitute in Queen Street station, then a nurse working the night shift. Now another member of the clinic’s staff murdered in her own home. Had she seen something the night of Kirsty’s death? Had she been keeping something back from Strathclyde CID? Or had something happened that she’d failed to register as significant? Either way it took him back to the same place: the Grange. One thing was certain, though; neither Sam Fulton nor Sister Angelica could have committed this latest murder.

  Lorimer braked sharply as the lights turned to red.

  ‘Here already?’ Solly turned to look out at the familiar urban landscape. ‘How long till we reach Govanhill?’

  ‘Another fifteen minutes, if we’re lucky.’ He stared ahead at the build up of rush hour traffic. It would take them at least that to cross town, he reckoned. Maybe he should have crossed the Erskine Bridge. Hunger was gnawing at his guts. He should have made more time for a lunch stop. Maggie would be home by now. Maybe even cooking something decent for him, he thought wistfully. God, he’d missed her these last few days.

  The journey across town via the Clyde Tunnel was a nightmare. Lorimer fretted and fumed aloud, cursing each and every driver that slowed him down. To cap it all, the tunnel was down to one lane. Solly, sitting beside him, kept a tactful silence. The psychologist looked out onto the darkening skies. He’d already worked one thing out for himself. Whoever had killed Brenda Duncan had known exactly where she lived and when she’d be off duty. Someone she knew, possibly. A colleague? A patient? Again, Solly felt a frisson as he thought of the killer and the risks he’d taken. There was both recklessness and a sense of calculation about the man that seemed at odds with one another. More than ever Solly was disquieted by the three murders; it was as if they had been carried out by a different hand each time. Still, there was a new crime scene ahead and that might throw light upon the puzzle. Solly shivered. The sight of a corpse was not some thing he relished.

  It was well after six o’clock when Lorimer turned the car into the street in Govanhill. Rosie Fergusson’s BMW was parked outside the close mouth, a squad car just beyond.

  ‘Coming up?’ Lorimer asked, unbuckling his seat belt.

  Solly just looked at him and nodded. He had to see it for himself. There was no other option.

  Brenda Duncan’s flat was on the second landing. Lorimer acknowledged the scene of crime officer with a nod as he reached the open doorway. He could see a uniformed officer at the far end of the passage where the glare of the arc lights washed over the scene. Rosie was examining the body as they entered the hallway. It was a surprisingly large area
, reminding Lorimer of the old-fashioned room and kitchen belonging to an aged relative, long since deceased. The Glasgow tenements had fairly teemed with family life a century ago. But he was here to deal with death, he reminded himself, his eyes returning to the body beyond Rosie’s white-coated figure.

  The pathologist looked up at the sound of their footsteps. ‘Hi. Oh, Solly. You’re here too. Good!’ She waggled a glove-clad hand in their direction before continuing her examination.

  Brenda Duncan’s body lay close to the wall. Above her a huge gilt mirror reflected the grim tableau of Rosie and Lorimer now crouching over the body. Solly held onto the wall for support, his stomach suddenly queasy. Yet he could not look away from the mirror. It was there, all right. Clasped between her podgy fingers was a single red carnation.

  His signature, thought Solly, his calling card. Sliding along the wall, he took in the whole length of the woman’s corpse, the raincoat riding up above the fleshy thighs, legs falling apart. The hands were pressed together and pointing downwards. It was just like the others.

  ‘You OK?’ Rosie looked up suddenly, concern on her face.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Think I’ll go outside for a minute.’

  Lorimer and Rosie exchanged glances as Solly made his way out of the flat.

  ‘Who found her?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘The neighbour across the landing. She has a spare key. Got worried when nobody answered the door all day.’

  ‘Didn’t she think the woman was out at work?’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘She knew it was Brenda’s day off. Said she’d arranged to call in and have coffee with her.’ The pathologist crooked her finger at him and Lorimer drew closer. ‘See this?’ Rosie turned the head gently to one side and pointed to the bruising. ‘He used both hands and you can see where his fingers pressed into the larynx.’

  ‘Any sign of a struggle?’

  ‘Nope. She was dead by the time she’d hit the floor, I reckon.’

  ‘Then he had his little ceremony.’

  ‘The flower? Yes. We saw that right away.’

  ‘Was she in this position when that neighbour called?’

  ‘Yes, the body hasn’t been shifted much at all.’

  ‘So whoever killed her just locked the door and walked away?’

  ‘I see what you’re getting at,’ Rosie replied. ‘But there was no need to use a key to lock up. The door locks simply by pulling it to.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘She’s been dead since last night. I should think around midevening. I can’t be more accurate than that, yet.’

  ‘What about sexual activity?’ Lorimer pointed at the exposed thighs.

  ‘None. I’m not sure why he pulled her skirt up like that. There’s a question for Solly, perhaps.’

  ‘Any chance of fingerprints on the throat?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. He wore gloves. Again. But there may be some traces under Brenda’s fingernails. That’s something we’ll have to investigate.’

  ‘Evidence. We need some evidence,’ Lorimer muttered. He stood up and turned towards the door. ‘Solly and I had better head over to the clinic. I’ll be in touch.’

  Lorimer looked down as a flashlight from the SOCO’s camera illuminated the corpse. He blinked then nodded briefly towards the body. The dead woman was in safe hands with Rosie Fergusson.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Baillie’s hand was outstretched as soon as they entered the reception area. ‘This is unexpected,’ she said, ushering Lorimer and Solly into the Grange.

  ‘I’m afraid we have some rather distressing news. Is there somewhere private we could talk?’ Lorimer said.

  ‘In my quarters. We won’t be disturbed there,’ she added, tucking a bulky file under her arm.

  Mrs Baillie’s rooms were situated on the top floor of the building. She unlocked a door in the corridor that gave way to a tiny square hall. A set of golf clubs lay propped against a shelf that contained a few dusty looking books.

  ‘In here, please,’ she motioned them through to the sitting room. The windows overlooking the front of the grounds gave a view of the road all the way down to Queen’s Park. Lorimer looked around him. Whatever he had expected from the woman’s living quarters, it certainly wasn’t this. The room was practically bare. An open door gave him a glimpse of a tiny kitchenette; another door, firmly closed, probably led to her bedroom. It, too, would give that view over the front. The walls were painted in the same pale wash that he’d seen throughout the rest of the Grange and were totally unadorned; no prints, no photographs, nothing but a blank expanse. Or was it?

  Moving closer to the wall opposite the windows, Lorimer noticed faint rectangular shapes where pictures of some sort had once been hanged. Was she preparing to have the decorators in, maybe? Would that explain the empty mantelpiece and bare walls? Sweeping a practiced eye over the rest of the sitting room, he saw only a plain teak coffee table placed between a basic two-seater sofa and one upright chair. A grey metal filing cabinet stood to one side of the chair as if Mrs Baillie was accustomed to doing her paperwork in the privacy of her own rooms. It reminded him suddenly of Kirsty’s bedsit with its second-hand furnishings, except that Kirsty had tried to project some of her personality into her room. This place had been stripped of any personal touches.

  It looked as if someone had packed up all the usual bits and pieces that transform a living space into a real home; the little clues his detective’s eye instinctively sought. Curious, he thought. Was the woman preparing to move out? Did that explain why it all looked so spartan? Catching Solly’s eye, he raised an inquiring eyebrow. Solly’s glimmer of a smile told him that the same thoughts had occurred to the psychologist.

  Behind the door there was a cheap telephone mounted on the wall. His eye fell on the box fixed to the skirting board. At least she seemed to have her own private line.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Mrs Baillie said, immediately opting for the upright chair so that Lorimer and Solly had to share the sofa. ‘I was just about to begin checking the time sheets,’ she said, patting the folder on her lap.

  Lorimer was aware of Solly’s eyes still roving over the room as he began. ‘I’m sorry to have to disrupt your evening, Ma’am, but there’s been another murder.’

  Mrs Baillie’s face remained impassive, her eyes waiting for the information Lorimer was about to give.

  ‘Brenda Duncan’s body was found this evening by a neighbour.’ Lorimer watched the woman’s face turn pale. Her hands clutched briefly at the folder but then she stayed stock still as though frozen by the news.

  ‘It appears that she was killed last night, shortly after she had returned from her shift here,’ Lorimer went on. ‘You have my commiserations,’ he told her, wondering just what emotions were circulating under that bloodless face.

  ‘I can’t quite take this in, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Baillie began slowly. ‘Brenda? She was such a harmless big woman. Who on earth would want to kill her?’ she said, echoing Lorimer’s earlier thoughts. ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘In her own home.’

  Mrs Baillie frowned. ‘So, do you think it was the same person…?’ she tailed off, her eyes flitting from one man to the other.

  Lorimer took a deep breath. ‘We aren’t at liberty to divulge details right now,’ he began, then took a swift look at Solly.

  ‘If it was the same person, then there is an obvious link between the clinic and the killer,’ Solly said.

  ‘We could station a uniformed officer here if you wished,’ Lorimer told her.

  ‘No. No. That won’t be necessary. There’s been enough disruption already. This business has set back a good number of our patients. Imagine how they will feel if they think they’re being watched. Some of them suffer from paranoia, you know.’

  ‘There will have to be a police presence here at some time, though. We still have to question your staff about Mrs Duncan.’

  ‘But why? If she was killed in her own home? Why bothe
r us here?’ The woman clenched her fists, her expression defiant.

  ‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer began, smoothly. ‘I understand she left here yesterday evening. What time would that have been?’

  Mrs Baillie opened the folder that lay across her knees. She turned the pages of the file with great deliberation, unaware of the eyes firmly fixed on her, intent on every emotion flickering across her face, watching for every sign revealed by her body language.

  ‘According to Sister Pearson’s sheet, she left at four minutes to eight yesterday evening, Chief Inspector. Today was her day off.’

  The papers had stopped being rustled and Lorimer had the impression that Mrs Baillie could have given that information without the need to sift through the time sheets. The woman’s white hands were folded in front of her on the documents. She looked from Lorimer to Solly with an apparent coolness that was betrayed by two pink spots highlighting her cheek bones.

  ‘The shift doesn’t finish until eight on the dot but we are fairly flexible with our staff.’ There was a pause as she eyed them both. ‘She had a bus to catch over the hill. Anyway,’ she tapped her fingers in irritation, ‘Brenda was a good timekeeper. Never had a problem with her.’

  The woman’s words jarred. She’d said much the same about Kirsty.

  ‘Even after Kirsty MacLeod’s murder?’ Lorimer swiftly interjected. Mrs Baillie’s shoulders tensed. Lorimer could feel the anger being controlled. It was a cruel question but he wasn’t in this job to ask easy ones.

  ‘She went for counselling at my request. Through her own GP, of course.’

  ‘So she was off work?’

  ‘Not for very long. Five days in all. She seemed fine once she was back into the routine.’ Mrs Baillie leant forward slightly to press home her point. ‘That’s what the Doctor recommended, a return to the normal working day. And it worked,’ she added defiantly. Lorimer didn’t doubt it.