head and regarded Lorimer steadily. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’
‘This is a murder inquiry. The feelings of your patients simply don’t come into the question.’
‘I hope you will respect their feelings, Chief Inspector. Many of our patients are seriously ill people and interrogation could do some of them untold damage.’
‘We quite understand.’
‘No, Chief Inspector, you don’t. When I said it would be impossible to interview everybody, I meant just that,’ Mrs Baillie answered him defiantly. ‘You see, two of ourpatients left for respite care early this morning.’
‘But that’s preposterous! You can’t just let them walk out of here like that!’
‘I didn’t. In fact I took them to the airport myself.’
‘Where were they going?’ Cameron asked.
The woman tilted her head and gave him the ghost of a smile. ‘Your part of the world, by the sound of it. A little place called Shawbost. It’s on the Island of Lewis.’
‘But why on earth couldn’t they stay here? And who are they anyway?’ Lorimer protested.
‘Sister Angelica and Samuel Fulton. Their plane tickets were paid for. And they were ready to go. I couldn’t see any point in keeping them here.’
For a moment Lorimer was speechless at the woman’s audacity. And Lewis? Could there be some link between the victim and this respite centre?
‘Give me the details of this place, please,’ he asked.
‘Certainly,’ She pulled a card from a file on her desk and handed it to him.
‘And, Mrs Baillie, no further patients will leave here without our knowledge. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, Chief Inspector,’ the woman folded her hands together meeting his angry glare with a cool gaze of her own.
Lorimer gave the card a perfunctory glance and pocketed it. It would be counterproductive to alienate Mrs Baillie, no matter what police time she had wasted. There was Kirsty’s murder to solve and she was in a position to help them.
‘Kirsty MacLeod. She was a psychiatric nurse, wasn’t she?’
Mrs Baillie shook her head. ‘Kirsty had specialisedin neural disorders, Chief Inspector. Her background was Care in the Community so she had worked with many patients who had illnesses of a psychiatric nature. However, the main reason for employing her was her experience with multiple sclerosis patients.’
‘Do you have many of those sorts of patients here?’ Cameron asked.
‘No, just the one. Phyllis Logan.’
Lorimer nodded. Of course. That explained the woman down in that back room away from all the other patients. He recalled those bright eyes and that sepulchral moan. That was one resident who wouldn’t be answering any questions.
‘Isn’t that rather unusual,’ Cameron persisted. ‘After all, this is a clinic specialising in psychiatric cases.’
‘We prefer to call them neural disorders. And MS is a neural disease,’ Mrs Baillie chided him. ‘But it’s not unusual for Phyllis to be here. Not at all.’ She paused, glancing from one man to the other, a sudden twinkle in her eye. ‘You see, Phyllis Logan is the owner of the Grange. It really is her home.’
Chapter Eleven
Lorimer had to hand it to them. They’d organised the interview schedule perfectly. Alistair Wilson had taken possession of the large lounge to the front of the house that was now their incident room. The minimum disruption to patients had been Mrs Baillie’s priority. He wondered about that lady: a cool customer, but there had been something in her manner that the Chief Inspector had found disquieting. Maybe she’d been in denial, but he’d found the woman’s detached, clinical manner rather off-putting. He thought over their recent conversation.
‘She was a capable nurse. No problem to us at all.’ That was how she’d answered when Lorimer had tried to elicit information about the murder victim. Not ‘Poor girl’ or, ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ which would have been understandable under the grim
‘This is a murder inquiry. The feelings of your patients simply don’t come into the question.’
‘I hope you will respect their feelings, Chief Inspector. Many of our patients are seriously ill people and interrogation could do some of them untold damage.’
‘We quite understand.’
‘No, Chief Inspector, you don’t. When I said it would be impossible to interview everybody, I meant just that,’ Mrs Baillie answered him defiantly. ‘You see, two of ourpatients left for respite care early this morning.’
‘But that’s preposterous! You can’t just let them walk out of here like that!’
‘I didn’t. In fact I took them to the airport myself.’
‘Where were they going?’ Cameron asked.
The woman tilted her head and gave him the ghost of a smile. ‘Your part of the world, by the sound of it. A little place called Shawbost. It’s on the Island of Lewis.’
‘But why on earth couldn’t they stay here? And who are they anyway?’ Lorimer protested.
‘Sister Angelica and Samuel Fulton. Their plane tickets were paid for. And they were ready to go. I couldn’t see any point in keeping them here.’
For a moment Lorimer was speechless at the woman’s audacity. And Lewis? Could there be some link between the victim and this respite centre?
‘Give me the details of this place, please,’ he asked.
‘Certainly,’ She pulled a card from a file on her desk and handed it to him.
‘And, Mrs Baillie, no further patients will leave here without our knowledge. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, Chief Inspector,’ the woman folded her hands together meeting his angry glare with a cool gaze of her own.
Lorimer gave the card a perfunctory glance and pocketed it. It would be counterproductive to alienate Mrs Baillie, no matter what police time she had wasted. There was Kirsty’s murder to solve and she was in a position to help them.
‘Kirsty MacLeod. She was a psychiatric nurse, wasn’t she?’
Mrs Baillie shook her head. ‘Kirsty had specialisedin neural disorders, Chief Inspector. Her background was Care in the Community so she had worked with many patients who had illnesses of a psychiatric nature. However, the main reason for employing her was her experience with multiple sclerosis patients.’
‘Do you have many of those sorts of patients here?’ Cameron asked.
‘No, just the one. Phyllis Logan.’
Lorimer nodded. Of course. That explained the woman down in that back room away from all the other patients. He recalled those bright eyes and that sepulchral moan. That was one resident who wouldn’t be answering any questions.
‘Isn’t that rather unusual,’ Cameron persisted. ‘After all, this is a clinic specialising in psychiatric cases.’
‘We prefer to call them neural disorders. And MS is a neural disease,’ Mrs Baillie chided him. ‘But it’s not unusual for Phyllis to be here. Not at all.’ She paused, glancing from one man to the other, a sudden twinkle in her eye. ‘You see, Phyllis Logan is the owner of the Grange. It really is her home.’
Chapter Eleven
Lorimer had to hand it to them. They’d organised the interview schedule perfectly. Alistair Wilson had taken possession of the large lounge to the front of the house that was now their incident room. The minimum disruption to patients had been Mrs Baillie’s priority. He wondered about that lady: a cool customer, but there had been something in her manner that the Chief Inspector had found disquieting. Maybe she’d been in denial, but he’d found the woman’s detached, clinical manner rather off-putting. He thought over their recent conversation.
‘She was a capable nurse. No problem to us at all.’ That was how she’d answered when Lorimer had tried to elicit information about the murder victim. Not ‘Poor girl’ or, ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ which would have been understandable under the grim
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