‘Malcolm, this is Dr Brightman from Glasgow University.’
Docherty stood up and took Solly’s outstretched hand in his large fist. ‘But I’ve seen the doctor already,’ he muttered, giving Solly a dubious look. ‘Why do I have to see another one?’
‘Dr Brightman is here to keep us company, Malcolm,’ Lorimer reassured him. It was like talking to a wee boy, he thought, except that most wee boys of his acquaintance were a dash sight more streetwise than Malcolm Docherty appeared to be.
There was something otherworldly about this man that had nothing to do with his experience as a failed novitiate. Lorimer had seen so many criminals whose lives were lived in a world so different from his own, yet all worlds impinged on each other, he thought. There was never really a place to hide from the evils that existed. Not even in the Jesuit Order.
Solly had listened as Lorimer and Wilson took turns to ask the man questions. His behaviour intrigued the psychologist. It was as if he were a perfectly normal citizen in his own eyes, assisting the police with their enquiries. Any minute now, he thought, and he’ll get up and ask if he can go home. There was no remorse, no worry at all about the crimes he had committed, nor any awareness of the boundaries that he had trespassed. That was the real difference between the criminally sane and those criminals who were mentally ill. Culpability was indeed a state of mind.
As he heard the questions and answers about Docherty’s methods of strangling the two prostitutes, Solly’s stomach turned. To dispatch these poor women as if they were so much dross! Lorimer and Wilson kept their feelings well under check, he noticed, though he knew well what they thought. Any murder is an affront to humanity, he remembered Lorimer insisting. And he agreed. But this man, this huge man who looked like a farmer with his weather-beaten skin and massive shoulders, he had no sense of humanity at all. Only a warped brain that took twisted messages from a false god.
Malcolm Docherty was well capable of murder. The man’s physique was such that it was no longer difficult to imagine a swift strangulation at these hands. Rosie had worried about that, he knew. How could someone kill these women with no sound of a struggle?
The same applied to Kirsty MacLeod’s death, though, a little voice reminded him. She’d been dealt with swiftly, too. But there was no way on earth that Solly could believe the man in front of Lorimer was responsible for that death. Nor for Brenda Duncan’s. Solly was still a way from completing his profile but he knew the mind that he sought was altogether sharper and clearer than Docherty’s. That was a calculating, reasoning person who was not quite in focus, yet. And it was not Malcolm Docherty.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Rowena sighed as the pickup gathered speed. She could see the new man’s hair curling sweetly around the curve of his ear and over the brown cord collar of his waxed jacket. Dad was wittering on about the flight and telling the man how much he was going to enjoy Failte. Give Dad his due, it sounded so sincere and welcoming, but Rowena had heard the same spiel each time a new one arrived at the airport.
She was glad that last one had gone. Sam Fulton had given her the creeps. Dad had kept a real good eye on him, though. Mum had insisted on that. After Sister Angelica’s abrupt departure, the Glasgow man had sought out Rowena’s company just a bit too often. She’d been pretty uncomfortable with him, not liking the way he joked about women as if they were all an inferior species. it was all a bit of fun, he’d told her. No harm meant. But Rowena had kept her distance from him all the same. Dad never told any of them what a patient’s background was. She understood how it was important to maintain their privacy. She wouldn’t like any of them to know all of her secrets either, Dad had once pointed out. Still, she had the feeling that Mum knew more about Sam Fulton than she was letting on. And this fact alone had increased her uneasiness. Still, he was gone now, back to Glasgow, supposedly over the worst of his depression.
Rowena smiled to herself. The new patient had shaken her hand as if she was a proper grownup, not some silly wee schoolgirl. She recalled his grave eyes and that tired, kindly smile. She’d maybe ask him to come for a wee walk up the road with the dog after dinner, though Dad liked his guests, as he called them, to have complete rest after they arrived. Still, this one was only here for a long weekend.
Funny about the other man, though. They’d waited for him yesterday with a placard that said Failte in bold lettering, but nobody from the Glasgow flight had acknowledged them. Dad had phoned Mrs Baillie who had shrugged it off but there was always a worry that somehow a patient would simply slip past them and roam about the island, unsupervised. it hadn’t happened yet, but there was always a first time, Mum had warned them. Still, they had another new one now.
Rowena settled back to enjoy her thoughts. She’d rehearse what to say before they went out. Then maybe she’d be able to slip in questions about that Dr Brightman. Had they met at the Grange? Was he married? Her fantasy continued down towards the house, the passing landscape a familiar blur of greens and blues.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘You want what?’ Superintendent Mitchison’s voice rose in a squeak that might have been funny in other circumstances.
‘Complete freedom to carry out a surveillance operation. I’ve spoken to the patient and she has agreed to my suggestions.’
Mitchison sat silent for a while, his face showing the struggle within. Lorimer could almost hear the cogs turning. Would the cost of the operation, never mind its risks, be outweighed by the capture of the second killer? Mitchison had railed long and hard against Lorimer’s decision not to charge Docherty with all four murders. But the DNA results were pretty conclusive. Whoever had killed Brenda and Kirsty, it was not now likely to be the prisoner currently undergoing psychiatric testing. Which left them with a huge problem. Lorimer had sat down with Solly to confess his innermost fears; someone on the team was involved. Mitchison had been reluctant at first to have them all DNA-tested but it made sense for the purposes of elimination as well as to restore some kind of peace in the ranks. This weekend all his men and women would be in for their tests, whether they liked it or not. Lorimer and Solly would be there too.
Undergoing the test would give the team a sense of solidarity as well as letting him observe their various reactions. Staff and patients at the Grange had already been tested by the police doctor, giving Rosie’s lot plenty to keep them busy.
At last the Superintendent looked up. ‘I don’t like your ways, Lorimer, but that’s neither here nor there. A surveillance operation like the one you are suggesting carries a high risk. Not just for the patient, but a risk of failure. And I don’t need to tell you how much the Chief Constable abhors a waste of time and money.’
‘We really need to try, sir. It’s almost certain that we have another killer on the loose and that he has something to do with the clinic.’ Lorimer paused. Should he reveal his disquiet about the Grange’s financial affairs or would that muddy the waters at this stage? No. He’d beaver away at that problem on his own, for now.
‘Give me a complete breakdown of all the personnel you would need and the timescale, then,’ Mitchison decided. ‘And,’ he paused and drew a hand across his brow, ‘take care of that poor woman, won’t you?’
Lorimer was taken aback. Concern for Phyllis was not what he’d have expected from the Super. Maybe the man had a heart after all.
‘Mind if I come into your room, missus?’ The man in white overalls carrying a cantilevered toolbox stood uncertainly at Phyllis’s door. Phyllis eyed him with curiosity. That new nurse said that someone would be arriving today. To fix the television set. A wave of the old frustration swept over her. She couldn’t explain she didn’t watch the thing. It was pointless to do anything to a set that hadn’t been used in years. Why not dismantle the whole thing and take it away?