Lorimer smiled. Solly had told him about this psychiatrist. A miracle worker, Tom Coutts had called him. perhaps Leigh Quinn’s ability to verbalise had more to do with the doctor’s expertise than a sudden need to defend himself.
A man of medium build, with thinning hair and a pair of half-moon glasses perched on his nose rose from behind his desk to greet them. ‘Maxwell Richards,’ he said, hand grasping Lorimer’s firmly. ‘Chief Inspector, thank you for giving me a little of your time. Gentlemen, please sit down. Ellie, is there any chance of some tea or coffee?’ He beamed at the Sister before turning his attention to the two men before him. Lorimer took in the dark pinstriped suit and pink polka-dot bowtie. On Maxwell Richards the ensemble was sartorial rather than effete, he realised.
He looked like a psychiatrist and somehow that immediately dispelled any mystique. Lorimer found himself warming towards the man who continued to smile at him.
‘You came in to see Leigh, I believe?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Perhaps I can fill you in on my patient, gentlemen.
He won’t have spoken much to you?’
Richards’ eyebrows rose questioningly above the glasses. ‘No, I thought not,’ he continued as Lorimer hesitated. ‘Let me see. Where should I begin?’ he mused, steepling his fingers and twirling his thumbs around as he considered.
‘Perhaps you might tell us how Quinn came to be here in the first place,’ Lorimer broke in.
‘Ah, I wondered if somebody might ask me that. Hm. Confidential, really, but in the circumstances…’ Dr Richards took off his spectacles and rubbed the side of his nose before replacing them. ‘The Logan Trust,’ he began. ‘It was set up by the owner of the Grange some time ago. When she was still in charge of all her faculties, you understand.’
‘Phyllis Logan? The Multiple Sclerosis patient?’
‘Indeed. Phyllis established her Trust to enable the clinic to treat people with neural disorders. There are funds set aside for several patients who could not otherwise afford our fees. Leigh Quinn is one such,’ Dr Richards explained. Lorimer nodded. Sam Fulton, no doubt, would be another.
‘Why should she do something like that?’ Wilson wanted to know. ‘I’d have thought she’d have given preference to MS patients like herself.’
Dr Richards smiled. ‘Yes. One would think so but there are aspects of her life that make such provisions understandable,’ he hesitated to look closely from Wilson to Lorimer. ‘This is in the strictest confidence, of course, gentlemen,’ he added. ‘Phyllis Logan’s husband committed suicide after suffering depression for many years. Giving help to other people has been a sort of catharsis for her.’
Lorimer nodded. That explained a lot.
‘Doesn’t she have any family?’ Wilson asked.
Dr Richards shook his head. ‘No, nor many friends. Since her illness she has become something of a recluse. The clinic was set up to give her a permanent home with the best of care. She is very well looked after here.’
Lorimer picked something almost defensive in the man’s tone. Had there been any comments made to the contrary?
‘What happens when, well,’ Wilson hesitated, ‘when she goes?’
‘Ownership of the Trust reverts to the Grange and its Directors.’
‘I see.’
‘Leigh Quinn,’ Lorimer put in. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
Dr Richards sat back in his chair. ‘Well, now. What can I say that you haven’t read in his case notes? He’s basically a very kind man. He cares about other people far more than he cares about himself. You’ll have noticed that already, though. His personal grooming is quite neglected. Not a materialistic sort of man at all, though he does value his books,’ Dr Richards smiled. ‘He actually has a soft spot for Phyllis,’ he went on. ‘Goes into her room to sit with her. As far as we know he doesn’t say anything, just sits or rearranges her flowers.’
Lorimer stiffened. The image of Brenda Duncan’s cold hands clasping that solitary red carnation came unbidden into his mind.
Richards continued as if he hadn’t noticed the policeman’s discomfiture. ‘He is usually very withdrawn. Didn’t communicate at all when I first met him. But he does keep a diary.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Lorimer was suddenly interested.
‘Yes. But he scores everything out and begins again each day. Not a healthy sign, I’m afraid. The denial of his day-by-day experiences, I mean. Perhaps one day he’ll allow himself to acknowledge that he has a life. Meantime he seems to find solace in the world of nature. He takes long walks by himself. My colleague in the Simon Community tells me that he used to spend hours simply staring into the river.’
Dr Richards clasped his hands on the desk in front of him and fixed Lorimer with a penetrating stare. ‘What you really want me to tell you, of course, is if I consider Leigh Quinn capable of murder.’
‘And is he?’
‘In my opinion, no. There’s a gentleness about the man that I think precludes any ability to hurt another person. Besides, he’s been diagnosed as suffering from manic depression. He’s not psychotic.’
‘And would you be prepared to stand up in court and say this?’
‘Of course. But I don’t really believe you’re going to charge Leigh with murder, Chief Inspector.’
Lorimer clenched his teeth. There certainly wasn’t enough evidence for that but there were coincidences that bore further scrutiny, like the flowers in Phyllis Logan’s room and the image of the man on his knees after Kirsty’s death.
Psychiatrists had been wrong before, in his experience. No matter how highly this one was rated, he might not be correct in his assessment of the Irishman.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The embankment was covered in brambles and elder saplings pushing up through the litter that seemed to grow like some perennial weed. No matter how often he picked it up and bagged it, the cans, papers and other foul stuff simply returned. His legs were beginning to ache from walking along the steep slope for so long. Trying to keep balanced while holding the sack in one hand and the grabbers in the other made unreasonable demands on his calves and thigh muscles. Still, there was a sense of duty in it all. He was performing a cleansing task. The green would re-emerge once he’d cleared the rubbish away and someone travelling along might see God’s gift of beauty in the wee flowers that were struggling to appear. All along the track itself were pink weeds that threw out their suckers year after year. How they survived the trains sweeping over them, he couldn’t imagine. But they were brave, these little flowers, and persistent, like himself.
He felt a glow of pleasure as he thought of his work. To clean up the embankments was not his only occupation, oh, no. Sighing with pride, he recalled the voice that had appointed him to rid the stations of other foul weeds.
Then, as if to spoil his morning, a sudden memory of the woman and her temptations shamed him.
She’d lured him towards his sin. But this time he wouldn’t weaken. All through the cold months of winter he’d waited for a sign and then had acted upon it. Now he felt the restlessness that had preceded that first sign. Was it time to commit another act of cleansing?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was time to come clean. All day Maggie had felt a restlessness that had more to do with guilt than with the anticipation of Lorimer’s reaction. More than once she’d found a pair of eyes staring at her from the rows of desks, waiting for a reply to a question she’d never even heard. It was totally unlike her not to be on the ball. Not
