‘Something’s up. The fire alarm’s gone off,’ a voice came over the radio as Lorimer and Solly crouched in the back of the van. They exchanged glances but Lorimer shook his head.
‘Not yet. This could be a false alarm.’ He switched his mike to talk. ‘OK. Let us know the details as soon as you can. We won’t make a move unless we have to.’ His gaze returned to the monitor.
The room where Phyllis Logan lay was bathed in a gentle half-light filtering through the blinds. There was no movement at all; the figure beneath the sheets seemed quite peaceful. There was no sign of the Irishman sitting by her bed.
‘D’you think they’ll need to call out the fire service?’ Solly asked anxiously.
‘We’ll know soon enough, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘Maybe you should back the van up a bit, Beattie,’ he told the driver. ‘And what’s keeping Cameron?’
As the van shuddered into life the monitors were shaken into blurred lines of grey and white, making observation impossible. The sound of the smoke alarm could be heard faintly from the building.
Lorimer had to know what was happening inside. He tapped out the numbers on Pat’s mobile. The ringing went on and on until he gave up in disgust. She was supposed to keep in contact. Where the hell was she? He glanced back at the monitor showing Phyllis’s room. Only the patient in her bed could be seen. There was no sign of the undercover officer.
Pat flushed the toilet and unbolted the door. As she turned towards the basins to give her hands a thorough wash with the liquid soap she was aware of another person coming into the ladies’ washroom.
The policewoman only had time to glance at the reflection in the mirror before she felt the sudden pain in her skull then everything went hazy as the sound of a high-pitched bell rang out in her brain. There was nobody to see her limp body being dragged into the cubicle, nobody to witness her nurse’s overall being buttoned over another person’s clothes.
Lorimer breathed a sigh of relief. The fire seemed to be under control by all accounts and he could see Pat’s white-coated figure standing by the window. Any minute now she’d turn towards the camera and give him a reassuring signal.
Only she didn’t. As the figure turned to face the screen, Lorimer found himself confronted by a different person altogether.
For an instant he was speechless then he felt the adrenaline rush as he grabbed the radio control.
‘Alert all units. Find Pat Crossan. There’s a stranger in Phyllis’s room. We’re going in.’
He thrust the doors aside, not waiting for Solly who sat staring at the monitor in a daze of disbelief.
Phyllis woke up, suddenly aware of the shadow above her. But perhaps she was still asleep.
This wasn’t the policewoman.
This wasn’t meant to be happening. She tried to scream, but the thin noise that came was quickly stifled by a feather pillow thrust over her mouth.
Now she was underwater, gasping and blowing for air that would not come. A ringing sound began far away then nearer and nearer, filling her ears. Her chest hurt with an unfamiliar pain as if she had been running hard.
Then she heard a cry and suddenly the room was full of whirling shapes as the pillow was pulled away.
Leigh was struggling with another man who had his hands against his throat. She watched, terrified, as they edged towards the wall, the man’s fingers pressing into Leigh’s neck. There was a thump and both men fell to the ground out of her sight. She stared, open mouthed, as another commotion erupted into the room. Then Lorimer was wrestling with her attacker, pulling his arms away from the bed. She watched as his tall figure grabbed the man from behind. He struggled against the policeman’s grip, legs kicking wildly, knocking over the drip stand beside the bed. The crash as it hit the floor reverberated through every nerve in Phyllis’s body.
The sound of running feet brought several more people bursting into the doorway, Solly and Mrs Baillie among them.
‘Tom!’
Solly came to a sudden standstill. Lorimer had his colleague in a tight grip, the handcuffs already pinioning the man’s wrists. The Chief Inspector looked from Solly standing white-faced in the doorway to Tom Coutts. Solly was gazing at the man’s face, then his eyes dropped to the killer’s shoes.
‘ I look towards his feet, but that’s a legend,’ he quoted softly. Lorimer saw the slight shake of Solly’s head and the brightness behind those horn-rimmed glasses. Trust and betrayal; weren’t they always the cruellest wounds?
Tom Coutts twisted once under Lorimer’s grasp then, meeting Solly’s eyes at last, Lorimer felt him slump in defeat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Nobody spoke for a moment, the sound of whirring machinery the only noise as the two men stared at one another.
Then Leigh Quinn stumbled to his feet. Ignoring the other people in the room he went over to Phyllis and crouched beside her.
‘Are you OK, wee lady? Are you OK?’ Tears were streaming down the Irishman’s face as he stroked Phyllis’s hands. ‘He didn’t get you, my dear. You’re safe, now,’ he told her tenderly.
Phyllis watched as they led that man, the man they called Tom, out of the room. She saw Dr Brightman following them, escorting Maureen Baillie gently by the arm. Leigh stood up and the policeman clapped his shoulder. For a moment Leigh flinched but then his expression changed and a grin spread over his face. He gave Phyllis a wave as he turned to go but she knew he’d be back later, sorting her flowers, talking to her about things he was unable to tell another soul in the whole world.
Then there were only the two of them left.
Lorimer came towards the bed.
‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. Are you all right?’
Phyllis tried to nod but felt her eyes close instead. His voice was gentle.
‘It’s all over now,’ he said.
And Phyllis knew that it was.
Chapter Forty
There was a breeze blowing in from the sea, rippling through the new grass as Lorimer stood outside Saint Clement’s Rodel. The psalms had been sung with no music, the voices raised in Gaelic song to their Maker, giving Lorimer the feeling that he was hearing words that had been uttered since time began on these islands. He had come alone on the morning plane to Stornoway but now he stood beside Niall Cameron, their heads bowed as the minister intoned the final words of the service. He could see Mhairi MacLeod leaning on her stick, Chrissie by her side as always. The cemetery was so packed with people that he was sure every member of the community must be there to pay their final respects to Kirsty.
At last the minister raised his hand in benediction and a resounding Amen came from every mouth.
Lorimer had watched as the simple coffin was lowered into the earth; Kirsty was there at last, laid to rest with her father and mother. There were no flowers. The funeral notice had indicated that anyone who wished might send a donation to the MS Society of Scotland. Everyone knew the nurse’s vocation had been to care for such patients and even Lorimer’s team had donated a cheque for the charity.
Overhead a buzzard mewed, a sad cry like a lost child’s. Lorimer felt Cameron’s hand on his arm then saw the mourners turning to leave.
‘One minute. I’d like to see Miss MacLeod, if I may,’ Lorimer told him quietly.
‘I’ll wait in the car, then.’
