A Small Weeping by Alex Gray Page B

Lorimer could see the director’s face more clearly. Mrs Baillie would be somewhere in her early fifties, he surmised, though she’d looked a lot older last night.
    Her dark hair showed not a hint of grey but this was belied by the network of tiny lines around her eyes and mouth, a mouth that was turned down as if in an expression of permanent disapproval.
    ‘Come through to my office, please, gentlemen,’ she said and immediately turned right, opening a door set into the wood panelling. At once Lorimer noticed how the old house had been altered to form the present day clinic as vinyl floors gave way to thick patterned carpet. Light filtered from a landing window where a broad staircase swept upwards. An open door to the front showed them a huge bay-windowed lounge where uniformed officers were already setting out tables and chairs. Across the hall a curved desk wrapped itself around two angles of the walls, segmenting the corner into a reception area. A young woman in a dark suit and white shirt glanced up at them unsmilingly then continued with whatever she had been doing behind the desk, out of sight behind her computer screen.
    ‘That’s Cathy. You’ll want to talk to her later, I suppose.’
    ‘We’ll be talking to all the staff, ma’am,’ Cameron replied, glancing at Lorimer who had wandered towardsthe stair and was peering upwards.
    ‘There are private rooms on that floor,’ Mrs Baillie snapped, making Lorimer turn back suddenly. ‘The patients are restricted to the west and south wing and use both upstairs and down. We have the administration down here.’ She strode ahead of them, ignoring the girl at the desk, and opened a door leading to the back of the building.
    Lorimer and Cameron followed her down a set of four stairs that led into another corridor. Here windows to one side gave a view of shrubbery and an expanse of kitchen garden where a man in brown overalls was digging with a spade, his back to the house. A patient, Lorimer wondered, or one of the staff? Shadows thrown onto the garden made him press his head against the glass and look along the side, seeing angles of pebble-dashed walls masking the original contours of the house. A modern extension had been built onto this part of the Grange, he realised. Lorimer ran his hand along a grey painted radiator as Mrs Baillie unlocked a door opposite the window. It was cold to his touch.
    ‘This is my office. Please sit down,’ Mrs Baillie had already taken her place behind an antique desk. Two upright chairs with carved backs sat at angles in front of her. The wood panelled ceiling of the office sloped into a deep coomb showing that the room was positioned immediately under the main stairs. There were no windows and so Lorimer left the door deliberately ajar. Claustrophobic at the best of times, he wasn’t going to let his discomfort show in front of this woman.
    ‘Who has access to this part of the house?’ Lorimer asked.
    ‘Oh, it’s not kept locked, Chief Inspector, except my private office, of course. But only the staff would come through here. The patients have their own rooms.’
    ‘And is there any other way to reach this part of the building?’
    ‘We have a back door that leads into the garden. It can only be accessed from this side of the house.’
    ‘Not from the clinic?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘And it’s kept locked at night?’
    ‘I do the lockup myself. It’s my home too, you know,’ Mrs Baillie gave a twisted smile and Lorimer found himself suddenly curious about the director. He inclined his head questioningly.
    ‘My flat is upstairs. Part of my remit here is to act as a nursing director. Yes, I’m a fully qualified psychiatric nurse,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I run the clinic but I also have a say in the overall medical policy.’
    ‘I’m afraid we will have to interview the patients who were here last night,’ Lorimer told her.
    Mrs Baillie hesitated then shuffled at some papers on her desk. Then she raised her