circumstances. Why might Nurse Kirsty MacLeod have been a problem to the clinic anyway? Or had there been staffing problems in the past? Lorimer picked up such nuances with his policeman’s ear for detail. It wouldn’t be a bad idea toinvestigate the staffing over the past twelve months. ‘All of our residential patients had retired for the night. Only the night staff were on duty. I was in bed myself.’
In bed, mused Lorimer, but had she been asleep? And who else might have been lying awake staring at the ceiling, counting the hours till an uncertain dawn? He’d know soon enough.
The residents were to be made available to them after breakfast. That was exactly how Mrs Baillie had put it. And this morning she had shown no trace of sorrow for the sudden death of one of her staff. Her starched white collar and black jacket bore testimony to a careful toilette. There was nothing hasty or flung together about this lady. Lorimer had stared at her earlier, mentally contrasting her with the image of his wife flying out of the house that morning, hair tousled and jacket pushed anyhow into her bulging haversack.
Dark circles showed under Maggie’s lovely eyes but Lorimer wasn’t about to waste too much sympathy on a self-inflicted hangover.
He’d dropped officer Lipinski at HQ for her scheduled lecture before setting off for the Grange. That was one talk he’d be missing. He grinned to himself. What a pity! The squad at Pitt Street would just have to get on with it without him. All in all, Lorimer doubted if he’d had three full hours sleep himself. Mitchison would be banging on about Working Time Regulations before he was much older.
Lorimer was sitting at a table that had been pushed up near the huge bay window that overlooked the gardens. The morning light streaming in would show Lorimer and DS Wilson the full face of whoever came to sit on the otherside of that table. Each person was going to be confronted by a pair of steely blue eyes that brooked no nonsense. It was just as well that Alistair Wilson was on duty. His sergeant’s knack of showing deferential politeness would be especially soothing to the damaged souls in this place.
‘Ready, sir?’ Wilson had brought in the file of current residents’ names.
‘If they’ve all had their breakfasts,’ Lorimer growled.
He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee and no one seemed to be interested in offering him one. He looked at the annotated list. There were red asterisks against certain names. These belonged to residents whose rooms looked out to the front of the house. Mrs Baillie’s was amongst them. Her bedroom was right above this lounge.
‘Eric Fraser?’ Lorimer read aloud, ‘Let’s have him in first.’ The uniformed officer by the door disappeared.
‘D’you want to start, Alistair?’ Lorimer turned to his colleague. Wilson just smiled and shrugged. ‘Butter him up, you mean?’ Detective Sergeant Alistair Wilson was no stranger to his superior’s strategies.
The uniform returned. ‘Mr Fraser,’ he said, retreating immediately to his post by the lounge door.
Eric Fraser was a young man of medium height dressed in navy jogging pants and a matching hooded sweatshirt. As he approached, he ran one hand over his cropped bullet head and stared right at Lorimer with small, intense eyes. He hadn’t shaved for days, by the look of him, and his clothes hung loosely over a thin frame.
‘Mr Fraser, I’m Sergeant Wilson, and this is Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ Wilson had risen to his feet, come around the table and was shaking Fraser’s hand. ‘Thank you for coming in to talk to us. Please sit down.’ Wilson’svoice was all solicitousness. They didn’t yet know the nature of these patients’ illnesses. That was confidential, Mrs Baillie had insisted. ‘Meantime,’ had been Lorimer’s terse reply.
‘They told me about Kirsty,’ the young man began without any preamble. ‘She was nice. She listened to me. Not all of them take the time to
In bed, mused Lorimer, but had she been asleep? And who else might have been lying awake staring at the ceiling, counting the hours till an uncertain dawn? He’d know soon enough.
The residents were to be made available to them after breakfast. That was exactly how Mrs Baillie had put it. And this morning she had shown no trace of sorrow for the sudden death of one of her staff. Her starched white collar and black jacket bore testimony to a careful toilette. There was nothing hasty or flung together about this lady. Lorimer had stared at her earlier, mentally contrasting her with the image of his wife flying out of the house that morning, hair tousled and jacket pushed anyhow into her bulging haversack.
Dark circles showed under Maggie’s lovely eyes but Lorimer wasn’t about to waste too much sympathy on a self-inflicted hangover.
He’d dropped officer Lipinski at HQ for her scheduled lecture before setting off for the Grange. That was one talk he’d be missing. He grinned to himself. What a pity! The squad at Pitt Street would just have to get on with it without him. All in all, Lorimer doubted if he’d had three full hours sleep himself. Mitchison would be banging on about Working Time Regulations before he was much older.
Lorimer was sitting at a table that had been pushed up near the huge bay window that overlooked the gardens. The morning light streaming in would show Lorimer and DS Wilson the full face of whoever came to sit on the otherside of that table. Each person was going to be confronted by a pair of steely blue eyes that brooked no nonsense. It was just as well that Alistair Wilson was on duty. His sergeant’s knack of showing deferential politeness would be especially soothing to the damaged souls in this place.
‘Ready, sir?’ Wilson had brought in the file of current residents’ names.
‘If they’ve all had their breakfasts,’ Lorimer growled.
He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee and no one seemed to be interested in offering him one. He looked at the annotated list. There were red asterisks against certain names. These belonged to residents whose rooms looked out to the front of the house. Mrs Baillie’s was amongst them. Her bedroom was right above this lounge.
‘Eric Fraser?’ Lorimer read aloud, ‘Let’s have him in first.’ The uniformed officer by the door disappeared.
‘D’you want to start, Alistair?’ Lorimer turned to his colleague. Wilson just smiled and shrugged. ‘Butter him up, you mean?’ Detective Sergeant Alistair Wilson was no stranger to his superior’s strategies.
The uniform returned. ‘Mr Fraser,’ he said, retreating immediately to his post by the lounge door.
Eric Fraser was a young man of medium height dressed in navy jogging pants and a matching hooded sweatshirt. As he approached, he ran one hand over his cropped bullet head and stared right at Lorimer with small, intense eyes. He hadn’t shaved for days, by the look of him, and his clothes hung loosely over a thin frame.
‘Mr Fraser, I’m Sergeant Wilson, and this is Chief Inspector Lorimer,’ Wilson had risen to his feet, come around the table and was shaking Fraser’s hand. ‘Thank you for coming in to talk to us. Please sit down.’ Wilson’svoice was all solicitousness. They didn’t yet know the nature of these patients’ illnesses. That was confidential, Mrs Baillie had insisted. ‘Meantime,’ had been Lorimer’s terse reply.
‘They told me about Kirsty,’ the young man began without any preamble. ‘She was nice. She listened to me. Not all of them take the time to
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