‘Aye, that’s so.’
‘I haven’t let you down yet, my boy, and I’m not about to start now. Got that?’
Leigh nodded.
‘What d’you want? Tea? Coffee?’ Angelica asked as the waitress approached.
He shrugged as if it wasn’t important so Angelica gave the waitress an order for another pot of tea.
‘Now, down to business. The police were up at the respite centre in Lewis. That Chief Inspector wanted to know what you’d been doing the night of Kirsty’s death.’
Catching sight of Leigh’s sudden frown, she hastily added, ‘I told them that you were with me, of course. We’d been praying together. But somehow he seemed to think that was suspicious.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the praying hands, Leigh. That’s what they can’t see past. You know and I know the significance for us both but they don’t look at things quite in the way that we do. D’you understand?’
The man nodded then flinched as the waitress set down a pot of tea on the table. Angelica poured it for him, knowing he was still too shaken for even a simple task like this. The man’s nerves were shot to pieces, she told herself. How he was going to stand up to that Lorimer when he came back from Lewis, only God knew.
‘You still keeping an eye on Phyllis?’
‘Aye.’
Angelica nodded her approval. That was something at least. She leant forward and patted his hand. ‘Now you’re not to worry, but the police will be coming back. They want to talk to you again.’
Leigh looked puzzled but said nothing.
‘Here’s what to do. Now listen. When they ask where you were the night Kirsty died, tell them you were with me. I’ll back you up.’
Leigh Quinn shifted in his seat, squirming around as he looked around the cafe. Suddenly every person there seemed to pose a threat. Angelica watched him intently, sensing his moods as she always did. She could almost smell the fear rising from him.
‘Look, Leigh, it’s going to be all right. You just have to trust me.’ Angelica fixed her eyes earnestly on the man’s white face until he looked at her. Then he gave a grudging nod.
‘Good. Now drink up your tea. We have plans to make, you and I.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lorimer’s eyes were gritty from peering into the swishing windscreen wipers hour after hour. He’d been reasonably circumspect on the journey through the Highlands, given the rain sweeping across the winding roads, but after that call on his mobile the car had hurtled down from Loch Lomond, breaking every speed regulation in the book. Now they were entering the city boundaries at last. Solly had slept a lot of the way from Ullapool, folded into his black raincoat like one of those cormorants he’d seen around the Harris coastline. Lorimer was glad of the silence between them. It had given him time to think, time to digest that phone call from HQ telling him to get himself over to the south side double quick, there’d been another death.
He’d called Rosie at the University to see if she’d be at the scene of crime. Yes, she’d said shortly, and not with Mitchison if Lorimer could get his arse into gear. Her tone expressed distaste for Lorimer’s boss that had made him chuckle. But his mirth was short-lived. There was nothing remotely funny about this.
‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer spoke softly to himself. ‘Who on earth would want to do you in?’ It didn’t make sense. First a prostitute in Queen Street station, then a nurse working the night shift. Now another member of the clinic’s staff murdered in her own home. Had she seen something the night of Kirsty’s death? Had she been keeping something back from Strathclyde CID? Or had something happened that she’d failed to register as significant? Either way it took him back to the same place: the Grange. One thing was certain, though; neither Sam Fulton nor Sister Angelica could have committed this latest murder.
Lorimer braked sharply as the lights turned to red.
‘Here already?’ Solly turned to look out at the familiar urban landscape. ‘How long till we reach Govanhill?’
‘Another fifteen minutes, if we’re lucky.’ He stared ahead at the build up of rush hour traffic. It would take them at least that to cross town, he reckoned. Maybe he should have crossed the Erskine Bridge. Hunger was gnawing at his guts. He should have made more time for a lunch stop. Maggie would be home by now. Maybe even cooking something decent for him, he thought wistfully. God, he’d missed her these last few days.
The journey across town via the Clyde Tunnel was a nightmare. Lorimer fretted and fumed aloud, cursing each and every driver that slowed him down. To cap it all, the tunnel was down to one lane. Solly, sitting beside him, kept a tactful silence. The psychologist looked out onto the darkening skies. He’d already worked one thing out for himself. Whoever had killed Brenda Duncan had known exactly where she lived and when she’d be off duty. Someone she knew, possibly. A colleague? A patient? Again, Solly felt a frisson as he thought of the killer and the risks he’d taken. There was both recklessness and a sense of calculation about the man that seemed at odds with one another. More than ever Solly was disquieted by the three murders; it was as if they had been carried out by a different hand each time. Still, there was a new crime scene ahead and that might throw light upon the puzzle. Solly shivered. The sight of a corpse was not some thing he relished.
It was well after six o’clock when Lorimer turned the car into the street in Govanhill. Rosie Fergusson’s BMW was parked outside the close mouth, a squad car just beyond.
‘Coming up?’ Lorimer asked, unbuckling his seat belt.
Solly just looked at him and nodded. He had to see it for himself. There was no other option.
Brenda Duncan’s flat was on the second landing. Lorimer acknowledged the scene of crime officer with a nod as he reached the open doorway. He could see a uniformed officer at the far end of the passage where the glare of the arc lights washed over the scene. Rosie was examining the body as they entered the hallway. It was a surprisingly large area, reminding Lorimer of the old-fashioned room and kitchen belonging to an aged relative, long since deceased. The Glasgow tenements had fairly teemed with family life a century ago. But he was here to deal with death, he reminded himself, his eyes returning to the body beyond Rosie’s white-coated figure.
The pathologist looked up at the sound of their footsteps. ‘Hi. Oh, Solly. You’re here too. Good!’ She waggled a glove-clad hand in their direction before continuing her examination.
Brenda Duncan’s body lay close to the wall. Above her a huge gilt mirror reflected the grim tableau of Rosie and Lorimer now crouching over the body. Solly held onto the wall for support, his stomach suddenly queasy. Yet he could not look away from the mirror. It was there, all right. Clasped between her podgy fingers was a single red carnation.
His signature, thought Solly, his calling card. Sliding along the wall, he took in the whole length of the woman’s corpse, the raincoat riding up above the fleshy thighs, legs falling apart. The hands were pressed together and pointing downwards. It was just like the others.
‘You OK?’ Rosie looked up suddenly, concern on her face.
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Think I’ll go outside for a minute.’
Lorimer and Rosie exchanged glances as Solly made his way out of the flat.
‘Who found her?’ Lorimer asked.
‘The neighbour across the landing. She has a spare key. Got worried when nobody answered the door all day.’
‘Didn’t she think the woman was out at work?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘She knew it was Brenda’s day off. Said she’d arranged to call in and have coffee with her.’ The pathologist crooked her finger at him and Lorimer drew closer. ‘See this?’ Rosie turned the head gently to one side and pointed to the bruising. ‘He used both hands and you can see where his fingers pressed into the larynx.’
‘Any sign of a struggle?’
‘Nope. She was dead by the time she’d hit the floor, I reckon.’
‘Then he had his little ceremony.’
‘The flower? Yes. We saw that right away.’
