As Solomon passed her by, he noticed her hands clutching the zimmer’s metal rail. Despite the blue veins standing up on her hands, the fingernails were trimmed and polished. There were some signs of care here, at any rate, thought Solly. Some attractive prints on the wall, bright pastel scenes of Tuscany depicting gardens and arbours. Restful, he mused, good choices for a place like this. Somebody had put plenty of thought into the details and Solomon was impressed.
The corridor came to an end with double doors that swung away from him automatically and Solomon stepped into an area that had the unmistakeable smell of a hospital. His map wasn’t needed here. There were signs on the walls indicating an upper level of residents’ accommodation and another door marked Staff Only. There was no window on either side of the corridor, the only light coming from overhead strips that glared down on the pale linoleum flooring. A door to one side was slightly ajar. Remembering Lorimer’s description of the multiple sclerosis patient, Solly paused. Whoever had killed Kirsty MacLeod had passed by just here. There was a faint mechanical sound from within but nothing more. Not wishing to disturb the patient, Solly crept past quietly. Beyond the stairs was the door leading to the basement. He pushed it open.
Rosie had described exactly where the murder had taken place. The floor was clean now, but there was a red cross on the paper that showed the spot where they thought Kirsty MacLeod had been killed. Solomon stood looking back down the corridor. The swing doors would have muffled any sound the girl might have made. Only one person could have heard her had she cried out. Once more he looked towards the room where a woman lay wasting away with that awful disease. She was completely paralysed, Lorimer had told him, and had no power of speech. No threat to a killer, then.
The basement door creaked as Solly turned the handle. Darkness met his gaze and he fumbled for the light switch as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Only the first few steps were visible. His hand felt the switch yet he resisted the instinct to flood the place with light, trying instead to see through the shadows; trying indeed to imagine what the killer would have seen. Had he thrust the young nurse’s body down the steep flight of steps? There would have been a thud as her corpse hit the concrete floor below. Or had he dragged her step by painstaking step into the boiler room?
Solomon tried each idea on for size. The victim’s tights had been ripped, suggesting she’d been pulled rather than pushed. But if she’d been dead, the weight would have been considerable even to drag downwards. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, Solly counted the seventeen metal steps that separated the boiler room from the upper floors of the Grange. Perhaps he’d pulled her down the first few steps where definite traces of fabric had been found. The door opened outwards so there would not have been so much effort needed to manoeuvre a body through in the first place. Had he given up after the first few steps before sending her corpse tumbling down? Had something panicked him? He must have made sure she was dead.
Forensics found nothing to suggest that he had interfered with the body. His only need had been to pull her hands flat together and then add his final touch, the red carnation.
Solly switched on the light and the room below was suddenly visible. it was smaller than he had thought it would be with its fluorescent strip hanging on a long wire suspended from a fitting on the ceiling. The wire had been looped and fastened to one side, presumably as an aid to changing the light fitting.
‘How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?’ Rosie had teased him. Her voice came unbidden into his mind. He was suddenly very aware of her presence there in that basement room where she had examined the young nurse’s body. Solly had seen her at scenes of crime before and marvelled at her clinical, detached manner. He stared down into the basement room. Had the killer walked calmly out of the back door, stepping over the girl’s dead body? Had there been a quickening of his pulse as he’d climbed the stairs out into the back gardens, escaping from the sight behind him? Or was there another explanation altogether that involved someone staying behind in the Grange? And Brenda Duncan had come on the scene so soon after that, hadn’t she?
Solly stroked his beard thoughtfully. Whatever scenario he came up with, one thing stood out clearly: it had taken a very cool and determined person to carry out this attack. Whoever had planned this had expected to get away with it. They’d known the layout of the clinic and had knowledge of where the nurses would be on duty. Or had they? Was this just a random stranger killing after all? Solomon closed his eyes. Had the killer known about the MS patient, too? Try as he might his vision of this killer was of a figure that had disappeared back into the labyrinth of doors and corridors, a killer who had brought a red carnation for a pretty lady.
He would have to seek plenty more information before the vision took on flesh and bones but for now he had the sense that creating this profile was going to take all his time and energy.
Chapter Fifteen
The boat from Uig was always on time, the man at the pier assured them. Lorimer, wrapped in his winter jacket, hoped fervently that he was right. Solly stood near the edge of the metal ramp looking out over the choppy grey water, his long black coat flapping round his legs. Even his beard had lifted in the wind, making the psychologist look like one of the ancient patriarchs.
They had travelled up early that morning, Lorimer doing all the driving. Solly didn’t drive, never had and claimed it was something he could happily do without. He’d certainly enjoyed the trip though, gazing out of the window and commenting on all that he saw on the way up. It had been Lorimer’s idea for them to make the journey together. Almost a week had passed since Kirsty MacLeod’s body had been found in that dingy basement. Forensic reports showed that strangulation had probably taken place in the clinic’s corridor. The body had been dragged through the clinic to the basement door then halfway down the stairs. It appeared that the killer had then flung Kirsty away from him, making her land flat on her back on the cold concrete. That much they did know. What had happened next was a matter of conjecture, though Solomon had been inclined to think the killer might have remained inside, despite the open door.
A huge file of statements from staff, residents and anyone who had known the young nurse had accumulated back at the Division. Yet Lorimer was troubled by how few people there seemed to be who had known the girl intimately. It was almost as if she’d deliberately kept a low profile. Or perhaps her friends just weren’t willing to talk for some reason.
The landlady hadn’t had much to offer apart from the fact that the rent was always paid on time and she’d been a quiet girl. No one in the neighbouring bedsits had offered more than that. It was Dr Tom Coutts who had been most helpful. He’d seen Kirsty MacLeod a few days prior to the killing and gave the police a fair amount of background information. She’d been one of the community nurses who’d cared for his wife up until her death last year and Tom had only charitable things to say about the young woman from Harris. She’d been a caring, compassionate person, he’d told them. Had the knack of making Nan feel better just by being there beside her. They’d followed this up with visits to the other community nurses and heard the same story of a nurse who’d had a proper vocation. All the residents at the Grange had liked her. She’d been a good listener, Eric Fraser had told them.
There was an old aunt, Kirsty’s only living relative, whom they would interview, but the main spur behind this journey was the revelation about the respite centre, Failte. Mrs Baillie had been strangely reticent about its existence and quite unrepentant about letting her two patients be transferred there the day after Kirsty’s death. One was Sister Angelica, the nun, and the other was a man called Sam Fulton. Both patients had been in Tom Coutts’ cognitive therapy classes. DC Cameron had raised an eyebrow when he’d been told that the DCI was heading for Lewis and Harris.