The final entry had been 31 December last year. Starting at the top of that page he read of five different sorts of Hogmanays.
1999 Ceilidh at the Halls. Didn’t get in till after two. What a night!!!!
2000 Working tonight. Watched the Rev. I. M. Jolly on TV. A good laugh. Wish Aunty Mhairi had the phone.
2001 George Square for the bells. Millions of mad folk but it was great fun. Bitter cold. Went to someone’s party in Hyndland afterwards.
2002 Great to be home. Chrissie and I stayed in with Mhairi as she had a bad cold. Loads of neighbours came in after the bells. Malcolm’s black bun went down a treat.
2003 Last New Year in Glasgow. Hope next year brings better luck.
Lorimer gritted his teeth. What bloody irony. All this year had brought her was a grisly death at the hands of some lunatic. He glanced over the five entries again, turning back to confirm his first impressions. Yes, she’d been back to Harris twice in those five years. Had she intended to go back for good? Last year in Glasgow. What had her plans been for the future? And with whom? Who was Malcolm?
He flicked back through the pages until the diary fell open of its own accord. Lorimer frowned. Cut neatly out of the centre of the little book were several pages, the remaining thatch of paper left to prevent the diary falling apart at its stitched seam. What had taken place to make Kirsty MacLeod obliterate several weeks out of a record of her life? And in which year had this event happened? A love affair gone wrong? Something so embarrassing that she couldn’t bear to reread it in the following years? Lorimer closed the diary, weighing it in his hand. He’d have to read the whole thing. Then ask even more questions. Slipping the diary into his pocket, Lorimer let his eyes rove around the room once more.
He’d had enough. The place gave him an impression of girlish innocence, of a Kirsty MacLeod who was doing her best to survive in this alien environment. As he looked again at the picture of the standing stones, Lorimer couldn’t help feeling that the nurse would have gone back to the islands eventually.
He turned on his heel. The boys would be back later to strip the place. For now, all Lorimer wanted was to leave the airless room to the fly trapped against the dusty windowpane.
Chapter Fourteen
Glasgow University sat high above the west end of the city on Gilmour Hill, its spiked spire a landmark for miles around. To the south it overlooked the Art Galleries and the river Clyde beyond. That particular morning Tom Coutts felt real pleasure in the view.
‘Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?’ he smiled at Solomon. They were sitting on a wooden bench by a strip of grass, warmed by unexpected sunshine.
Solly smiled back. Tom hadn’t looked as relaxed as this for a long time. He nodded at his companion.
‘Coming back into work soon, then?’
Tom sighed. ‘I hope so. They tell me I’ve done well, whatever that means. Thought I knew all the psychobabble but it’s different when you’re on the receiving end,’ he grinned wryly. ‘But I can’t fault them. OK, it’s taken a while and you must be fed up with all the extra marking. Sorry about that,’ he added. ‘Still, I feel better than I’ve felt in ages. And this helps,’ he spread a hand over the banks of primulas spreading down towards Kelvin Way.
‘I wanted to ask you something, Tom. About the clinic.’
‘They using you as their profiler, are they? Good. I’m glad,’ Tom Coutts nodded approvingly.
‘I know DCI Lorimer’s spoken to you about the victim. Must have been hard when she was Nan’s nurse.’
‘One of Nan’s nurses,’ Tom corrected him gently. ‘Yes. It was a shock. I’d only seen her a few days before the murder. Hadn’t even realised she worked there. But then I didn’t keep in touch with any of them after the funeral.’
‘I wondered if you would help me. Give me some information about the clinic. From an insider’s view point, as it were.’
‘Listen, I’d be glad to. You’ve no idea how grateful I’ve been for all your help, Solly. Anything I can tell you, anything at all that might help build up a decent picture for you.’ Tom laid a hand on Solly’s arm as he spoke. ‘Mind you, I can’t fault the clinic. The therapists were very professional. I thought the place seemed well run.’
‘How about the other patients?’
Tom grinned. ‘Aha! Run into a problem over patient confidentiality, have you?’
‘Something like that,’ Solly replied blandly. Mrs Baillie had not been pleased at having to give her patient files to the police. She would be even less inclined to cooperate with a civilian, he thought.
‘Want to give me a grilling before I go up to Lewis?’
‘Lewis?’
Tom inclined his head. ‘Didn’t you know? They’ve got a respite centre on the island. Most of the longer term patients have a chance to go up there for a break at the end of their treatment. I was offered the chance and I thought, well, why not. A few days with some clean air can only help. Then I’ll be ready for work again.’
Solomon shook his head. A respite centre. On Lewis? He wondered if Lorimer had any inkling of this. Kirsty MacLeod came from Lewis. This was an element that kept coming into the equation. A coincidence? Or was there something more sinister going on that they’d all missed?
‘Tell me a bit about the patients you met during your therapy sessions.’
‘What’s there to tell? These are folk who are part of a system, Solly. They’re more a danger to them selves than to anyone else. It’s the loose cannon you’re looking for. The one who’s never seen his GP. The one everyone sees as normal. You know that.’ Tom drew him a disapproving look.
Solly nodded and shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But just indulge me for a little. Tell me about the patients who were in your group.’
Tom took a deep breath. ‘Well. They weren’t the same for a start. I can remember one or two who came after I started, but to be honest I don’t have a lot of memory about who was there at the beginning of my treatment. Except the long termers, the residents.’
Solomon crossed one leg over the other, listening but not interrupting.
‘The Irish chap, Leigh, he’s been there all along. Eric came a couple of months back. Then there was an older man called Sam something. He’d been a shipyard worker. And the nun, of course. She’s been there for ages. How she can afford it, goodness knows. I thought they took a vow of poverty and that place doesn’t come cheap. Even with medical insurance.’
‘The nun. What was her name?’
‘Sister Angelica. Poor soul. She’d been displaced from her last convent when it was closed down. Had lived there all her professional life, I believe. She simply couldn’t come to terms with any change.’ Tom turned to Solly, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘Bereaved, really. Like me,’ he added. ‘People tell you to pull yourself together, you know. Think time will help, as if grieving should be contained in a respectable amount of time: so many months and no longer. It’s not like that, though. Not for some of us. Sister Angelica suffered from manic depression. She’d come into the Grange after an attempted suicide.’
‘When was this?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Don’t know. She was there when I started the sessions and she’s still there, as far as I know.’
‘Do you remember any of the patients who were given the chance to go to Lewis?’
‘No. You see, the makeup of the group changes so much from week to week. There were the ones, like me, who came in as outpatients and then there were the residents.’
‘But some of the residents would continue as outpatients for a while, surely?’
Tom frowned. ‘Yes, I suppose so, but you’d really need to check with the Baillie woman. She’ll have all that sort of thing in her files. Cathy, the girl on reception might be a better bet, mind you,’ he grinned conspiratorially at
