The big car leapt into the night and soon Lorimer was in the outside lane of the motorway. It should have taken him at least ten minutes to reach the Grange but the clinic came into view a whole lot sooner. As he walked up the drive, he wondered whether Cameron had alerted Mitchison. He would soon find out if the Superintendent had decided to make his presence felt.
‘OK, who’s here?’ Lorimer demanded as Cameron’s rangy figure came up at him out of the dark.
‘Dr Fergusson, Mr Boyd with the scene of crime officers and some local uniforms, sir.’
‘The Super?’
Cameron shook his head.
‘Right, let’s get on with it.’
‘Round the back, sir. The body’s under the house in the basement. It’s a sort of boiler room.’
Lorimer was matching the Lewisman’s long stride as he led the way round the side of the building. There were lights on upstairs, he noticed, and wondered which patients had been disturbed. He’d talk to them later. Find out if anyone had heard anything.
‘A Mrs Duncan found the body. She’s one of the ancillary nursing staff. Telephoned the local station and they contacted us.’ Cameron held up his hand in a warning. ‘Just watch the railing, sir, it’s pretty shaky.’
He wasn’t joking. Lorimer felt flakes of rust come away on his bare hands as the railing sagged against the stone steps that led to the basement. It was obvious that this entrance wasn’t used much. Why come in this way, then? Lorimer soon found out. The scene of crime boys had cordoned off the interior stairs of the basement. Lorimer stood at the back entrance of the Grange seeing the fluorescent lights that beamed down on the figures below. Rosie Fergusson was bent over the nurse’s body. He could only see Rosie’s back and the lower half of the corpse from this angle. Above them, on the other side of the grey room, Boyd’s men were going about their painstaking work.
Lorimer moved towards the body, careful to avoid the area Boyd had sectioned off. Rosie glanced up at him quickly, gave a nod then shifted aside to let him see.
The nurse lay on her back, legs spread out under her uniform. Her arms had been pulled together, though, hands flat against one another, the telltale carnation stuck between their stiffening fingers. Lorimer looked at her face. The soft dark hair had come loose from its hairband, he noticed, and was spilling over her cheeks. Hunkering down beside Rosie, Lorimer lifted a lock gently and then let it fall away from her pale skin. Her eyes were still wide open with fright. So was her mouth. Had she begun to cry out before he’d strangled her, he wondered? There was an expression of agonised disbelief that Lorimer had seen before on the faces of murder victims. He looked the length of her lifeless body. The pale blue uniform was crushed and there were rips in her black tights. That must have happened when someone dragged her down here, Lorimer surmised.
‘From what I can see she’s been attacked before entering the boiler room,’ Rosie told him. The steps of the scene of crime officers echoed against the concrete walls.
‘And then given her flower,’ Lorimer muttered. The parallel was obvious. But would they find some thing here that would lead them to the killer of Deirdre McCann?
‘Oh, no!’
Lorimer whirled round in time to see Cameron’s white face, then the young detective was off up the stairs like a shot. Rosie shot Lorimer a look as they heard a sound of retching coming from the garden outside.
‘Didn’t put your man down as the squeamish sort,’ she commented. Lorimer frowned. She was right, but this was not the time to inquire about Niall Cameron’s delicate disposition.
‘OK. Cause of death?’
‘Manual strangulation,’ Rosie replied, tracing the curve of neck directly below the nurse’s chin. ‘He came at her from in front, grabbed her with both hands, then did it.’ She looked across at Lorimer, eyebrows raised. ‘I think you’ll find the compression was strong and swift. She died pretty quickly.’
‘But you’ll know more in the morning,’ Lorimer added.
Rosie gave him a weak grin. ‘Yeah.’ She cradled the girl’s head in both hands, shifting it gently to one side.‘Hope you will, too.’
‘Don’t bank on it. He hasn’t even left a scarf this time.’
Lorimer looked towards the girl’s fingers, flattened in a gesture of prayer. The red carnation pointed downwards towards her thighs. ‘Just his calling card.’
He stood up, still staring at the young nurse. Kirsty MacLeod. Now who would break into this place and kill a nurse? Only a madman, a voice answered him. Lorimer gritted his teeth. He stepped away from the body and sidled around the area being dusted down before heading for the stairs to the clinic.
‘May I?’ he asked the nearest boiler-suited officer.
‘Just keep right against the wall, sir, would you?’
Lorimer made his way gingerly up the steps. There could be all sorts of traces here where she’d been dragged down. There was a handrail to one side. This one was painted with black Hammerite, unlike the one rusting outside. He hoped to hell there would be some fingerprints on it. The metal door at the top had been tied open with the orange binder twine that Boyd always used. Lorimer kept to the edge of the steps as he turned into the ground floor corridor. The floor was covered in grey-green vinyl, another good source for forensics to examine.
Was this where she’d been killed? The lights had been put out deliberately so it looked as though the killer had meant to waylay Kirsty MacLeod in this very corridor. Lorimer frowned; another suggestion that this was a crime committed by someone in the clinic. His eyes lit up. Could there be a patient here who’d been in Queen Street station three months ago? First thing in the morning he’d be back asking lots of questions. That was for sure.
There were swing-doors at the end of the corridor, hooked back against the walls on either side, and Lorimer could see that the main part of the building lay beyond this area. Large cupboard doors lined one side of the corridor walls. Lorimer opened them, only to discover shelves and shelves of hospital linen.
There were two doors opposite and Lorimer saw that one was ajar. He left it for the time being and tried the other. It was locked. Frowning, he pushed the other door, hearing it creak. Then he stood in the doorway.
Here was a patient and a very ill one at that. There were tubes protruding from the body and a machine that seemed to be pumping her mattress up and down. Was this where they nursed the terminally ill patients, perhaps? Lorimer had never seen anything like it. He was about to tiptoe away when a tiny movement caught his eye. The patient’s head had moved the slightest bit and Lorimer found himself staring into a pair of bright eyes that were very much alive.
Phyllis had heard it all. The clang of a door in the distance, then nothing until the swing-doors had been swept open and that awful screaming had rent the air. During all the commotion, unseen hands had quietly closed Phyllis’s door. The sounds were muffled after that but she’d been aware of voices and had heard enough to let her know something of what had taken place. Did they imagine she wouldn’t hear them behind her closed door? They were wrong. This disease had robbed her of much, but her sense of hearing was heightened as never before. She knew when the police had arrived. She also knew that some unspeakable horror had taken place not far from her own room.
As she lay listening intently, she recalled the terror of that footfall. Her eyes had shut against the shadow entering her room. She didn’t want to think about it any more. But now she found herself staring into a different pair of pale eyes. Were they blue? She couldn’t make them out in this light. The man was staring back at her.
He was taller than average, built like a sportsman. Even though he stood quite still, Phyllis sensed a restless energy about him. His hair was dark against the outline of light from the corridor. She could see that much. He was the sort of man she’d once desired, she suddenly realised. Strong. Not the type to be indoors for long; always on the move. She’d always liked that in a man.
‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he said at last.
Phyllis liked the voice. It was a recognisable Glasgow accent but he spoke clearly and didn’t mumble. How she wished she could reply. Carry on a conversation. A peculiar moan broke from her lips and she tried to move her head again. There was nothing she could do except widen her eyes to communicate her fear, her desperation. He looked at her harder and for a moment Phyllis thought he was going to step towards the bed. Just when she thought he was coming towards her, he seemed to change his mind and stepped back into the shadows once more.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, but whether he meant he was sorry to disturb her in the middle of the night or that he was sorry for her, Phyllis couldn’t tell. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.