Phyllis woke up, suddenly aware of the shadow above her. But perhaps she was still asleep.
This wasn’t the policewoman.
This wasn’t meant to be happening. She tried to scream, but the thin noise that came was quickly stifled by a feather pillow thrust over her mouth.
Now she was underwater, gasping and blowing for air that would not come. A ringing sound began far away then nearer and nearer, filling her ears. Her chest hurt with an unfamiliar pain as if she had been running hard.
Then she heard a cry and suddenly the room was full of whirling shapes as the pillow was pulled away.
Leigh was struggling with another man who had his hands against his throat. She watched, terrified, as they edged towards the wall, the man’s fingers pressing into Leigh’s neck. There was a thump and both men fell to the ground out of her sight. She stared, open mouthed, as another commotion erupted into the room. Then Lorimer was wrestling with her attacker, pulling his arms away from the bed. She watched as his tall figure grabbed the man from behind. He struggled against the policeman’s grip, legs kicking wildly, knocking over the drip stand beside the bed. The crash as it hit the floor reverberated through every nerve in Phyllis’s body.
The sound of running feet brought several more people bursting into the doorway, Solly and Mrs Baillie among them.
‘Tom!’
Solly came to a sudden standstill. Lorimer had his colleague in a tight grip, the handcuffs already pinioning the man’s wrists. The Chief Inspector looked from Solly standing white-faced in the doorway to Tom Coutts. Solly was gazing at the man’s face, then his eyes dropped to the killer’s shoes.
‘ I look towards his feet, but that’s a legend,’ he quoted softly. Lorimer saw the slight shake of Solly’s head and the brightness behind those horn-rimmed glasses. Trust and betrayal; weren’t they always the cruellest wounds?
Tom Coutts twisted once under Lorimer’s grasp then, meeting Solly’s eyes at last, Lorimer felt him slump in defeat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Nobody spoke for a moment, the sound of whirring machinery the only noise as the two men stared at one another.
Then Leigh Quinn stumbled to his feet. Ignoring the other people in the room he went over to Phyllis and crouched beside her.
‘Are you OK, wee lady? Are you OK?’ Tears were streaming down the Irishman’s face as he stroked Phyllis’s hands. ‘He didn’t get you, my dear. You’re safe, now,’ he told her tenderly.
Phyllis watched as they led that man, the man they called Tom, out of the room. She saw Dr Brightman following them, escorting Maureen Baillie gently by the arm. Leigh stood up and the policeman clapped his shoulder. For a moment Leigh flinched but then his expression changed and a grin spread over his face. He gave Phyllis a wave as he turned to go but she knew he’d be back later, sorting her flowers, talking to her about things he was unable to tell another soul in the whole world.
Then there were only the two of them left.
Lorimer came towards the bed.
‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. Are you all right?’
Phyllis tried to nod but felt her eyes close instead. His voice was gentle.
‘It’s all over now,’ he said.
And Phyllis knew that it was.
Chapter Forty
There was a breeze blowing in from the sea, rippling through the new grass as Lorimer stood outside Saint Clement’s Rodel. The psalms had been sung with no music, the voices raised in Gaelic song to their Maker, giving Lorimer the feeling that he was hearing words that had been uttered since time began on these islands. He had come alone on the morning plane to Stornoway but now he stood beside Niall Cameron, their heads bowed as the minister intoned the final words of the service. He could see Mhairi MacLeod leaning on her stick, Chrissie by her side as always. The cemetery was so packed with people that he was sure every member of the community must be there to pay their final respects to Kirsty.
At last the minister raised his hand in benediction and a resounding Amen came from every mouth.
Lorimer had watched as the simple coffin was lowered into the earth; Kirsty was there at last, laid to rest with her father and mother. There were no flowers. The funeral notice had indicated that anyone who wished might send a donation to the MS Society of Scotland. Everyone knew the nurse’s vocation had been to care for such patients and even Lorimer’s team had donated a cheque for the charity.
Overhead a buzzard mewed, a sad cry like a lost child’s. Lorimer felt Cameron’s hand on his arm then saw the mourners turning to leave.
‘One minute. I’d like to see Miss MacLeod, if I may,’ Lorimer told him quietly.
‘I’ll wait in the car, then.’
Lorimer stood aside as one by one they passed him by. Dougie from the hotel gave him a nod but no smile. When there was only the minister by the grave side with the two old ladies, Lorimer strode across the clipped turf.
‘Miss MacLeod,’ he offered her his hand.
‘Ah,’ Mhairi MacLeod turned at the sound of his voice, then, seeing who it was, she gave him a sweet smile. ‘You came!’ she said. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s at peace now, Mister Lorimer. Far from any harm the world can do to her. Safely home with her Saviour,’ she said. Her words carried such simple conviction that Lorimer felt immediately humbled. Here was an enduring faith that carried on from generation to generation.
‘And how are you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’m just biding here till it’s my time. Chrissie sees that I have everything I need, don’t you dear,’ she added, turning to the lady in black who was holding her arm.
‘Aye. But we should be going now. There will be tea in the hotel if you wish to join us, Chief Inspector,’ Chrissie told him.
‘Thank you, but no. I must get back to Stornoway for the return flight to Glasgow.’
‘You go ahead, Chrissie. Mister Lorimer and I will take a wee daunder along the path. It’s fine,’ she added seeing the other woman’s doubtful expression. ‘He’ll take my arm. Won’t you,’ she added, looking up into Lorimer’s eyes.
They did not speak until they reached a green painted bench that faced the sea and Lorimer had helped the old lady onto the seat.
‘Well, now. Are you going to tell me all about it or do I have to wait until the rumours and the papers mangle it up?’
Lorimer grinned at her and she returned with a smile of her own and patted his hand. ‘I may be old but I’m not afraid of the truth. Now, tell me everything that really happened.’
‘Tom Coutts was a patient at the Grange. He’d been receiving treatment for depression in the wake of his wife’s death. Kirsty had been one of Mrs Coutts’ nurses during her final illness.’
‘Yes, I remember Kirsty told me all about her. A right poor soul she was. Couldn’t do a thing for herself. Hard on the man, I’m sure.’
‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied. He couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of life Tom Coutts may have had, trying to care for a wife who had no sight and was completely paralysed. ‘So hard that he couldn’t endure her suffering.’ Lorimer told her gently. The man’s sobs rang in his ears as he recalled his confession; how he had smothered his wife with a pillow. Then a combination of guilt and paranoia had driven him to despair.
‘He took her life, then?’ Mhairi guessed.
‘Yes.’
‘And did Kirsty know?’
‘I thought you might tell me that,’ Lorimer replied. ‘The missing pages of her diary corresponded with the dates of Nan Coutts’ death and Kirsty’s resignation from her job.’
‘Aye,’ Mhairi MacLeod sighed. ‘I knew something was wrong, then, but she never told a soul, Chief Inspector. I promise you that.’
‘Dr Brightman thinks that those torn pages from Kirsty’s diary simply showed how much she wanted to obliterate the events from her mind. She was never a threat to Coutts. Still, he took fright when he met her again at the Grange. He couldn’t rid himself of the belief that Kirsty knew what he had done. So he had to kill her. He was really ill, you know.’