crying.’
Chapter Twenty
‘Well, what do you think? Does Leigh Quinn fit your profile?’ Lorimer asked, taking his eyes off the road for a moment and turning to Solly with a scarcely contained excitement.
Solly said nothing. This was the moment he’d been dreading. He’d been waiting for just such a question from the DCI and had absolutely no answer. No answer and certainly no criminal profile. His mouth shifted into a little bitter twist. Not so long ago Lorimer had thrown scorn upon the veracity of such techniques as profiling and here he was now, all eager to have a response as if Solly were some conjurer pulling a rabbit out of his hat. The truth was that he didn’t have a clue. This case had puzzled him from the time he had visited the Grange. Nothing seemed to add up about the two killings. The different locations were odd for a start. The murder of a prostitute and a respectable nurse were at variance, too. Nor was there any matching DNA material. Yet the things that should have been significant remained: that flower and those praying hands. It had to be one and the same killer.
Not a soul outside the murder investigation knew about these details; even the Press had depicted a corpse with praying hands like an effigy, palms towards heaven, not like their victims at all. So he’d ruled out any possibility of a copycat killing. Now Lorimer wanted answers and he had none to give.
‘You don’t think it’s Quinn? Is that it?’ Lorimer’s voice held just a hint of querulousness as Solly remained silent.
Solly heaved a sigh. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure at all. It would be better to re-interview the man, of course, but from his notes he seems a pretty withdrawn sort. Not the type to have easily consorted with a prostitute.’
‘I would have thought those kind of loners were exactly the sort who’d need a woman like that!’
‘But he’s practically non-verbal. He’d have needed some conversational skills to persuade the woman to go into the station with him,’ Solly protested.
It was Lorimer’s turn to fall silent. His sudden euphoria at the nun’s revelation had evaporated. Solly’s words made sense. And yet? Perhaps Leigh Quinn had been a different person back in January? Maybe his illness manifested itself in different ways? They’d have to re-examine the case notes thoroughly, that was for sure.
The sign for Callanish appeared and Lorimer turned off the road without consulting his companion. Right now he needed some fresh air and a chance to think without a nun and a dog at his heels.
As Lorimer switched off the engine and opened the door he glanced over to Solly, who was staring out of the windscreen as if he were miles away. Something was troubling the younger man. He got out, leaving Solly sitting where he was. If he wanted to follow him, fine. If not, he was happy with his own company. Aware that a rift had developed between them, Lorimer turned his back on the Visitors’ Centre and walked purposefully towards the ancient ring of standing stones that stood out like giant fingers pointing skywards. There were no sounds of other vehicles on the road nor of aircraft overhead, only the thin cry of a bird that might have been a curlew. Lorimer squinted against the brightness of the sky and the water, shading his eyes to look for the bird.
Yes, there it was, almost hidden against the muddy browns of the lochan’s shoreline: unmistakeable with that long, curving beak. Another note made him look up suddenly to follow the flight of a lark, soaring into the pale skies. Still gazing heavenward, he heard the tread behind him.
‘Quite a place, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed,’ Lorimer replied, not looking down but still following the flight of the skylark as it became a dot against the clouds. When it had disappeared he turned to Solly and was gratified to see his face raised in similar rapture.
‘The Lark Ascending,’ Solly nodded. ‘He captured it so perfectly. Vaughan Williams. Yet the real thing never fails to work its magic, does it?’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t know you were a bird lover too.’
‘Ever since I was a little lad being taken around Saint James’s Park. It’s all part of my scientific curiosity, I suppose. How about you?’ Solomon looked quizzically at Lorimer through his horn-rimmed spectacles. There was a kindness to his tone as if he were speaking to one of the patients in the Grange. Trying to sound me out, Lorimer thought. Was there a tentative suggestion here for him to open up his private thoughts?
Or had Solomon already drawn some profiling conclusions of his own? Lorimer was tempted for a moment to reveal his desires to this young man in a way that he had once shared with Maggie. He wanted to tell how he sometimes longed for wild open spaces like these and fresh air to fill his lungs instead of living within the confines of the city’s grid; how he wanted to turn his back on the paper trails that Mitchison left him to follow; how he felt that surge of freedom when gazing into the soul of a painting or following the song of a simple bird. These were desires of a kind that he kept strictly to himself.
But there was always that other desire, too, the desire to hunt out the truth. Sometimes it was like an itch that he automatically started to scratch without thinking, the kind of itch that made him demand answers to hard questions. Such as, who had killed a young nurse in Glasgow? Whoever it was had robbed her, forever, of the right to stand here as he stood now, simply glad to be alive.
Lorimer expressed none of these whirling thoughts to the man at his side, however much he might understand, but simply stood looking out over the landscape, his face as inscrutable as the mealiths themselves. The slanting grey stones thrust themselves out of the grass high above their heads. For a moment they stared at them silently. Lorimer felt the weight of years pressing down on the landscape. Did Solomon feel that too, he wondered?
‘Yes. Tomorrow or the day after. That’s right. The whole day, I’m afraid. The boats out of here aren’t frequent. Sorry? Oh, just a small hotel near the harbour. Nothing fancy.’ Lorimer put a hand onto his stomach. That meal downstairs had been plain home cooking but the portions were obviously meant for appetites larger than his own.
‘Yes, Solly’s fine. OK. See you sometime tomorrow night or else I’ll phone you. ’Bye.’ Lorimer replaced the telephone on its cradle before realising he hadn’t asked Maggie how she was or what had been happening at home. Cursing himself, he lifted the handset again to redial but just at that moment a knock on the bedroom door made him drop the phone back with a clatter.
‘Thought you might fancy a drink. The bar downstairs looks friendly enough. What d’you think?’ Solly grinned from the doorway, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of his reply.
‘I’ll just grab my jacket.’ He slipped his wallet into the inside pocket, picked up the room key and closed the door behind them, all thoughts of another phone call forgotten.
Maggie put down the phone thoughtfully. It was the same as usual. No information about what was going on with the case nor any inquiry as to how her day had been. OK, so she was used to being told the minimum information or else none at all. That was standard procedure. So why did she suddenly feel so sidelined by her husband?
Maggie shivered despite the heat wafting from the radiator. She was sitting on the carpet by the phone, her back against the hall table. The wooden spar dug into her spine but she hardly noticed it. For a few minutes she closed her eyes, trying to imagine what he was doing up there in the Island of Lewis. It was a place they’d talked about visiting but never had. Like so many of the things they’d intended to do. Opening her eyes, Maggie’s gaze fell upon the envelope. It looked like any other plain buff A4 envelope, nothing that should give rise to any excitement, but Maggie experienced a sudden lifting of her spirits just by seeing it there. It could be her passport to a different way of life. A life she’d be able to control for the first time in years. Why hadn’t she done something like this ages ago? When they’d finally given up trying to have a family, for instance? She’d let things drift just as much as he had. That was the plain truth of the matter. And it had taken that American woman to make her see things in a different light. Divine Lipinski had made an impact on her, that was for sure. Maggie cast her mind back to the night of the nurse’s murder when they’d been left so abruptly. She and Divine had talked for hours. About being a policeman’s wife. About all the dreams she’d shelved because of his job. And about how she yearned to travel.
