A Small Weeping

by Alex Gray

  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 ‘He is usually very withdrawn.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.’

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  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?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  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.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Maggie looked at him, seeing the puzzled, hurt look in his eyes then, she took a deep breath. ‘I think we’d better talk.’ She motioned through to the sitting room.

  Lorimer sat on the edge of the sofa but Maggie chose the armchair opposite as if touching him would somehow weaken her resolve. He watched her chest heave in a sigh that made him want to fold her up into his arms.

  Her eyes were cast down towards the carpet as she spoke. ‘I’ve applied for a new post. A temporary post.

  It’s just for a year. An exchange, actually.’ Maggie’s voice rose in a squeak that betrayed her nervousness. She looked up to see her husband frowning at her, trying to figure out what she meant.

  There was a tentative smile hovering around Maggie’s mouth as she told him.

  ‘I’m going to America.’

  ‘What?’ Lorimer stared at his wife in disbelief. He wanted to replay that last moment, let her words sink in. America? She hadn’t just said that, had she?

  There was a silence between them that seemed to go on and on. In the silence Lorimer’s worst fears about his marriage were brought to the surface like scum on a pot of bubbling stock. What was she saying? He listened numbly as Maggie suddenly rattled on about teaching opportunities and career advancement. He wasn’t hearing this properly at all. All he could think of was that he felt like she’d swung a wet dishrag across his face.

  ‘Hang on. Let me get this right. You want to spend a year abroad. On your own?’ He heard his voice rise in protest. When he spoke again the words came out in a mere whisper. ‘Why? Why do you have to do this, Mags?’

  ‘For me. I’ve wanted to do something like this all my life. Can’t you understand? I’m tired. So tired. All the time I wait for you to come home. I feel as if I’ve spent, no let’s be truthful about this, I’ve wasted so much of my own life. You’re never here. I want to talk to you. I want to spend my evenings with you. Oh, I know all about the pressure of police work. Believe me I’ve tried so hard to put up and shut up.’

  Lorimer flinched at the bitterness in her voice.

  ‘I need to do something for myself. Before I end up simply an appendage of DCI Lorimer.’

  ‘Maggie, this is beginning to sound all very midlife crisis to me,’ Lorimer began.

  ‘Don’t you dare start to tell me I’m becoming menopausal or whatever. Just don’t dare!’ Maggie’s eyes were so fierce with passion that Lorimer sank back against the sofa cushions wondering what on earth to say next.

  ‘What have I got that’s my own? Eh? Tell me that? A job. A house. OK we couldn’t have kids. No one’s fault. I’m not trying to lay any blame. All I want is a year to myself doing something I might enjoy.’ Her eyes were pleading with him now. ‘Don’t you understand? I want to be me. Do something on my own.’

  What about us? Lorimer wanted to say, but something he couldn’t define stopped him from uttering the words. Instead, in a voice stiff with emotion, he asked, ‘And at the end of the year?’

  Maggie shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes were focused on the pattern of the carpet again. ‘We’ll see.’

  Lorimer took a deep breath. He spent a lot of his working life trying hard to put himself into the shoes of other people; victims of crime, hoods, murderers, witnesses too scared to speak. But it seemed he’d failed to empathise where it mattered most, in his own home. He gazed sideways out of the window at the still clear blue sky. America. Suddenly a thought struck him.

  ‘Why America? This wouldn’t have anything to do with that woman, Lipinski, would it?’

  Seeing Maggie’s expression gave him his answer. ‘I might have known! She’s been encouraging you to make a break for freedom. Is that it?’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve got a mind of my own? OK so Divine told me a bit about Florida and, yes, that’s where I’m going on an exchange. But you’re entirely wrong in imagining that she put me up to it,’ Maggie snapped back at him. Then her face softened as she added, ‘I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to.’

  Lorimer nodded. He wouldn’t let this escalate into a row. Looking at his wife’s face he realised how important this moment was. If he made too much fuss then he could alienate her all together. All his expertise as a police officer had taught him that he must play this quietly. The best thing now was to reassure her, not to let her see how she’d hurt him.

  ‘Right. Come over here and tell me about it all over again,’ he patted the sofa cushion beside him.

  Maggie hesitated for a fraction of a second then got up to join him. Lorimer resisted the urge to hold her tight and simply took her hand, giving it a friendly squeeze.

  He tried to make out that he was listening carefully as she told him all over again; about the job in Sarasota, about the high school system, about the accommodation being made available to her, and about the holidays.

  ‘I could see you at Christmas,’ she whispered, a little sadly.

  ‘I should hope so,’ Lorimer replied, his tone light, belying the heaviness he really felt inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was a perfect night. The moon had slid behind the blue-black clouds leaving just the glow from city streetlamps shining on the parked cars. He leant against the wall and waited. There was no hurry and certainly no fear of being seen. Apart from the fact that the CCTV cameras didn’t work in the staff car park, he was simply part of the natural background of the station, a railway worker going about his lawful business.

  He shivered, anticipating the real business of the night. It was more lawful than anyone could guess, commanded by the highest authority. The woman had been hanging around for three nights in succession, eyeing up the stragglers from the last Edinburgh train, flashing her bare legs around the taxi rank. She’d disappeared with a man every night and somehow he knew she would keep coming back. A quick glance at his watch told him it was nearly time.

  He heard her high heels click-clacking over the pavement before he saw her walking briskly towards the automatic doors, her short red skirt riding up against those white thighs.

  ‘Hey!’ he called out softly and grinned as he saw her pause midstride and peer into the darkness.

  Moving out of the shadow he waved his hand, gave a flick of the head indicating that she should come over.

  As she smoothed down her skirt and sashayed over he could see that she was younger than he’d thought. A momentary qualm was quickly replaced by disgust at how much she’d sullied her youthfulness. The grin on his face was a rictus. It would never do to reveal how he really felt towards her. The woman stopped in front of him, flicking back her white-blonde hair, a black shoulder bag clutched tightly with one hand. He could see beyond the caved-in cheekbones and the dull eyes to the girl she might have been before she’d chosen this way of life. With one crooked finger he beckoned her further into the shadows.

  ‘Ye wantae do the bis’ness?’ She was chewing gum, her jaw moving in wide circular movements. The sound of saliva slapping against her tongue was like a dog wolfing its meat. Something turned in his stomach.

  He swallowed hard, nodded and took the woman’s arm. ‘Over here,’ he said, leading her into the shadows of a small building tacked on to the back of the station. It was where all the green rubbish bins were corralled together behind a mesh fence. A padlock swung loose on its hasp.

  ‘Ah’m no gonnae go in therr,’ she protested, tugging against his grip.

  ‘Aw, c’mon,’ he coaxed. ‘Give’s a kiss.’ With one hand he swung open the gate and pushed her inside the compound, his body already hard against hers. There
was no struggle as his mouth enclosed her thin lips, more an acquiescence. He could feel her body relent as he pulled her hands around his waist, walking her slowly over to the nearest bin.

  It was when she fumbled for his zip that he uncoiled the scarf from his neck and slipped it around her throat.

  The ‘Noooooooo!’ was cut off abruptly as the ligature tightened. He felt her body struggle against his in a passion that had nothing to do with sex any more. Her leg came up in a vain attempt to lash out at his crotch but he sidestepped, hanging on to the scarf, yanking against it with all his strength. Suddenly a gurgling noise issued from her throat and she buckled under his grasp. He let go and she fell to the ground with a soft thump.

  He took a step back, looking at her for a moment then knelt beside her. The grin that hadn’t left his face was like a mask now, something he couldn’t remove. Not yet. There was still the ceremony to perform.

  He clasped her fingers straight within his own, glad of the leather that separated their flesh. How small they were, the warmth seeping through the gloves. He was aware of these things even as he uttered the prayer. The words that he spoke were of forgiveness for sins. She would not commit any more acts of depravity. Sitting back on his heels, he turned to look for the package that he’d left here earlier that evening. It was still there, hidden under the concrete edge of the shed. He slid it out and unwrapped the carnation from its cellophane wrapper. There were tears in his eyes as he forced the stem between her dead palms. It was such a lovely flower, so fresh and sweet. But it was a mark that she was saved now. They would find her and know she’d been redeemed.