‘We could station a uniformed officer here if you wished,’ Lorimer told her.
‘No. No. That won’t be necessary. There’s been enough disruption already. This business has set back a good number of our patients. Imagine how they will feel if they think they’re being watched. Some of them suffer from paranoia, you know.’
‘There will have to be a police presence here at some time, though. We still have to question your staff about Mrs Duncan.’
‘But why? If she was killed in her own home? Why bother us here?’ The woman clenched her fists, her expression defiant.
‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer began, smoothly. ‘I understand she left here yesterday evening. What time would that have been?’
Mrs Baillie opened the folder that lay across her knees. She turned the pages of the file with great deliberation, unaware of the eyes firmly fixed on her, intent on every emotion flickering across her face, watching for every sign revealed by her body language.
‘According to Sister Pearson’s sheet, she left at four minutes to eight yesterday evening, Chief Inspector. Today was her day off.’
The papers had stopped being rustled and Lorimer had the impression that Mrs Baillie could have given that information without the need to sift through the time sheets. The woman’s white hands were folded in front of her on the documents. She looked from Lorimer to Solly with an apparent coolness that was betrayed by two pink spots highlighting her cheek bones.
‘The shift doesn’t finish until eight on the dot but we are fairly flexible with our staff.’ There was a pause as she eyed them both. ‘She had a bus to catch over the hill. Anyway,’ she tapped her fingers in irritation, ‘Brenda was a good timekeeper. Never had a problem with her.’
The woman’s words jarred. She’d said much the same about Kirsty.
‘Even after Kirsty MacLeod’s murder?’ Lorimer swiftly interjected. Mrs Baillie’s shoulders tensed. Lorimer could feel the anger being controlled. It was a cruel question but he wasn’t in this job to ask easy ones.
‘She went for counselling at my request. Through her own GP, of course.’
‘So she was off work?’
‘Not for very long. Five days in all. She seemed fine once she was back into the routine.’ Mrs Baillie leant forward slightly to press home her point. ‘That’s what the Doctor recommended, a return to the normal working day. And it worked,’ she added defiantly. Lorimer didn’t doubt it.
‘But I thought she worked nights?’ Solly asked innocently.
‘It wasn’t thought suitable for her to return to nightshift work. A later shift beginning at noon and finishing at eight was deemed more appropriate,’ Mrs Baillie fixed Solly with a stare that brooked no nonsense then turned to Lorimer.
‘Actually,’ the matron gave him a lopsided smile, ‘Brenda had spoken to me privately about handing in her notice.’
The smile stayed glued to her mouth but failed to reach the eyes that continued to betray their hostility towards the two men. Her hands were clasped firmly in front of her. Lorimer was instantly reminded of his guidance teacher way back in secondary school when he and his mates had been caught drinking Carlsberg Specials in the boys’ toilets. He stared her out too, if he remembered rightly.
‘And did she?’ he asked.
‘I persuaded her otherwise,’ she said. ‘She didn’t enjoy being grilled by the police. None of us did. You seemed to ask the same questions over and over as if you didn’t believe what we were telling you. Brenda was most upset.’
And now she’s dead, Lorimer wanted to say. The woman didn’t appear to have taken that news in properly, yet. There was a hostility here that he couldn’t comprehend, something that threatened to create a chasm between the Director and himself. Fear could cause that, he knew. Had she something to hide, he wondered?
‘This is quite normal procedure, Mrs Baillie,’ he began, keeping his tone neutral, almost bored. ‘You may expect to answer the same questions several times. Memory’s a funny thing. Suddenly there are aspects people remember days later. Even when they were certain they’d recalled everything there was to recall.’
Mrs Baillie inclined her head in a token of deference.
She doesn’t buy that one, thought Lorimer. Let’s try a different tack.
‘We visited Failte in Lewis and spoke to Sam Fulton and Sister Angelica.’
‘Well, I’m sure they enjoyed that little change to their routine,’ she remarked, the sarcasm scarcely concealed.
‘Sister Angelica told us that Leigh Quinn had been very upset the night of Kirsty MacLeod’s murder. He’d actually been in her room shortly after the body was discovered. Praying.’
‘Really?’
‘Where was Leigh Quinn last night, Mrs Baillie?’
For the first time the woman looked flustered. She unclasped her hands and wiped them down either side of her skirt.
‘Here, I suppose. They’re not prisoners, you know, Chief Inspector. Only those patients who might be a danger to themselves are kept under close scrutiny.’
‘And Leigh Quinn doesn’t come into that category?’ Solly asked mildly.
‘No. Leigh has severe problems but he may come and go as he pleases.’
‘And does he?’ Lorimer asked.
The woman hesitated before answering. ‘Sometimes he’ll go out for a walk. He doesn’t sleep well, you see. Other times,’ she broke off, biting her lips as if she had already said too much.
‘Yes?’ Lorimer prompted.
‘Other times he sits with Phyllis in her room.’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘Phyllis doesn’t mind,’ she insisted. ‘We’d know if she didn’t want him to visit her room.’
Lorimer nodded. Could anything be gleaned from that crippled patient downstairs to confirm Quinn’s whereabouts last night?
‘Brenda Duncan,’ Lorimer switched tack again. ‘Have you any record to show when she and Kirsty worked together and with whom? Nursing staff as well as patients.’
Mrs Baillie clasped then unclasped her fingers and Lorimer saw the knuckles white and bloodless under her tight grasp. He suddenly had the impression of a physically strong woman beneath the navy suit.
‘That’s not a problem, Chief Inspector. We have duty rosters made up and signed after every shift. I can let you have a photocopy of the more recent ones.’ She paused and gave a small frown as if they were two tiresome small boys taking up her valuable time. Lorimer thought back to Kirsty’s diary. It had yielded very little after all. No personal information had been recorded other than birthdays; her work rotas had simply been marked early or late depending on the shifts.
‘And I believe you were not here yesterday evening, Mrs Baillie,’ Lorimer added.
‘That’s right. I…’ The woman stopped in mid-sentence, staring at him as the full import of his words hit home.
‘You’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with Brenda’s death? Dear God!’ she exclaimed, her hand clutching the pearls at her throat.
‘I’m not suggesting anything, ma’am. But it would be helpful to know where you were last night.’ Lorimer sat up abruptly, his shadow now cast over the coffee table between them. Mrs Baillie stared at him blankly then twisted round to search for something in the handbag that was looped over the arm of the chair, head lowered to cover her confusion.
When she looked up her face was flushed.
‘I can’t find it,’ she began. ‘My cinema ticket. I thought I’d kept it but I must have thrown it away.’ Then she straightened up and smoothed her hands along the front of her skirt. ‘But I don’t suppose you’re really looking for an alibi for me, are you?’ She smiled again, her confidence returning.
‘No, no. Not at all,’ Solly reassured her before Lorimer could speak. ‘What a pity you hadn’t been here, though. Isn’t it?’ Solly smiled and shrugged.
‘Anyway,’ she stood up and turned towards the filing cabinet, ‘I can give you the duty rosters for the last month.’ Lorimer watched as she walked her fingers through the files. At last she stopped and pulled out a green folder. Her back was to them as she leafed through its contents but even so, Lorimer and Solly could see the raised shoulders stiff with tension.