Close to, Lorimer could see her raincoat flapping against a pair of stout legs clad in thick socks and heavy walking boots. The headscarf knotted under her chin made the woman’s face appear like a pale, round moon. In one hand she carried a staff and each step she took was defined by a thump as she lumbered forwards.
‘Sister Angelica?’ Solomon looked enquiringly at John Evans.
‘Yes.’
‘Wretched dog. Never comes back when I tell him to. You have to train your animals better than that, John.’ The woman puffed to a halt before them. ‘This the policemen, then?’ she asked, indicating Lorimer and Solly with her stick.
‘DCI Lorimer and Dr Brightman,’ Evans stated, standing aside for the woman to shake the out stretched hands.
‘I’m Sister Angelica. How are you? Don’t answer that. I don’t really want to know. Had enough of hearing how everybody is back in the Grange,’ she cackled.
‘Frances is doing lunch then these gentlemen will want to speak to you,’ John Evans told her. Lorimer saw her hesitate for a moment. The psychiatric nurse had a firm manner that brooked no nonsense yet there was a reassuring gentleness in that Welsh accent.
‘Suits me. Sam in already?’ Without waiting for a reply the woman strode into the house, the collie wagging its tail at her heels.
‘Please go into the lounge. I’ll ask Frances to do some tea for us,’ Evans said and disappeared in the wake of Sister Angelica.
‘What d’you make of them?’ Lorimer sat down and whispered to Solly.
‘Sister Angelica seems pretty well adjusted, don’t you think? No sign of weakness in her personality at first sight. She’s getting on with things, I’d say. Out with the dog in the fresh air. And she had no problem about facing us, did she?’
‘What about the man? Fulton?’
‘Didn’t want to make eye-contact, did he?’
‘You noticed that too?’
‘And…’ Solly broke off as John Evans pushed open the lounge door with a tray. He set it down on the table between the two men and began offering sugar for the steaming mugs.
‘We found it rather strange that two patients who were in the Grange during a murder should be allowed to disappear up here the very next day,’ Lorimer began. ‘Mrs Baillie said the reasons were financial,’ he added, raising his eyebrows to show John Evans just how sceptical he was of this excuse.
‘Did she?’ Evans looked surprised. ‘I would have thought she might have explained about Sam and Angelica.’
‘What about them?’
‘Well. Both patients had completed their course of treatment. They really needed the respite care we offer at Failte. You have to understand, Chief Inspector. They’d been through a very difficult time and for them to become embroiled in a police investigation might have seriously set either of them back.’
‘What about now? Will we damage their recovery?’ Lorimer asked, sarcastically.
‘Maybe. But they’ve had a while to rest and take stock of all their therapy. I think you can safely interview each of them without too much upset.’
Evans crossed his legs as he spoke and leant back into the armchair. He regarded Lorimer thoughtfully over the rim of his mug.
‘Neither of your patients were in the Grange in January when the first murder took place,’ Solly pointed out. ‘Chief Inspector Lorimer will have to know their whereabouts for that particular date.’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Sam or Angelica might be suspects?’ Evans sat up suddenly. Neither man replied, letting the silence answer his question.
‘But why? Just because they’ve been ill doesn’t mean they’d be capable of carrying out something like that!’
‘The perpetrator of those killings appears to be someone who may very well be ill,’ Solly answered slowly. ‘In building up a profile I have to consider the extent to which any risk of discovery was considered. Whoever did these killings was either very cunning or totally disregarded the thought that they might be caught. Someone whose behaviour was prompted by an uncontrollable urge might even have wanted to be discovered.’
‘And how do you come to that conclusion, Dr Brightman?’
Solly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge that kind of information.’
John Evans looked at each of them in turn, his mouth a thin line of disapproval.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I suppose we must be as cooperative as we can. Still, I do hope you can see our side of things. Mrs Baillie would not have seen her actions as obstructing the course of a murder inquiry. She would simply have put her patients as a higher priority.’
Lorimer listened to the man’s measured tones. There was no sense of outrage nor was there any attempt to thwart this stage of the investigation. Evans was a man of some sense.
‘Were you always a psychiatric nurse?’ he asked, curious suddenly about the Welshman’s background.
Evans smiled and shook his head. ‘No. I retrained some years ago.’
‘I’d have hazarded a guess that you were an academic of some sort,’ Solly stroked his beard thoughtfully.
‘Well done, Doctor. Spot on,’ Evans replied, putting his empty mug back onto the tray. ‘I was at Cambridge for many years. Lectured in philosophy.’ He smiled again, looking straight at Lorimer. ‘You can check it all up if you like.’
‘So why did you change careers?’ Lorimer wanted to know.
‘Perhaps I saw that nursing had a greater value than teaching philosophy,’ Evans replied, his eyes suddenly grave. ‘You will take care not to put Sam under too much stress, won’t you?’ he added.
Lorimer and Solly waited in the lounge while Evans brought his patient to them. Sam Fulton shambled into the room ahead of the nurse, who placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder before stepping out and closing the door behind him.
‘Mr Fulton, please come and sit down,’ Lorimer stood and indicated the chair recently vacated by John Evans.
Eying them suspiciously, Sam Fulton sat on the edge of the armchair, clasping his hands together as if to warm them.
‘You know we are investigating the murder of Kirsty MacLeod, a nurse from the Grange?’
Fulton nodded.
‘She was killed during the night before you left to come up here.’
‘Aye. Ah know. Me an’ Angelica thought it wis mad comin’ here when a’ that wis goin’ on.’
‘You didn’t think it was wise to leave, then?’
‘Wise? You kiddin’? It wis pure mental. That Baillie woman’s aff her trolley. We should’ve bin ther wi’ a’ they others, shouldn’t we?’
Lorimer nodded. ‘We think so. Still, now that we have the chance to talk to you, Mr Fulton, perhaps you can help us.’
‘Aye,’ Fulton replied then screwed his face up. ‘How?’
‘Can you describe what took place on the night of Nurse MacLeod’s death? Just talk us through everything you did and can remember.’
‘Aye. Well,’ Fulton scratched his head and hefted his bottom more comfortably into the chair. ‘Ah did ma packin’ fur comin’ up here. Not that ah’ve goat much. Then went tae bed. Ah’m oan medication so ah went straight oot like a light. Didnae hear a thing until the screechin’ began.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Whit time? Jesus! Ah don’t know. Ah wis that bleary wi’ sleep. Ah came oot intae the corridor and Peter telt me there had bin an accident.’
‘Peter? That was one of the other nurses?’
‘Aye. He telt us tae get back tae wur beds.’
‘Who else was out in the corridor with you?’
Fulton gave a sigh, ‘Ah cannae remember. There wis that much goin’ on. Ah jist went back tae ma
