The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (11 page)

The smell of wet wool had disappeared to be replaced by a faint musty smell as Lorimer opened the door to Jane Maitland’s cottage flat and switched on the hall light.

‘We need to see her priest, Father Fitzsimmons. And the home help. Maybe they’ll be able to throw some light on Miss Maitland’s state of mind prior to her death,’ Lorimer told Kirsty. ‘And tell us who else might have had a key. We’ll get on to that as soon as we’re finished in here.’

‘It’s still warm,’ Kirsty remarked. ‘Nobody’s turned off the heating.’

A small pile of mail lay on the entrance, including a note marked TESCO.

‘Wonder what they did with her groceries?’ Kirsty murmured to herself. ‘Don’t suppose the driver was expecting the police to be here when he arrived.’

‘Right, DC Wilson.’ Lorimer stopped and looked down at the young woman, his blue eyes glittering in the artificial light. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘Evidence?’ she asked. ‘Something to tell us what happened early Monday morning?’

‘That, certainly. But more than that.’ Lorimer nodded, walking along the hall and pausing at the late Jane Maitland’s bedroom door. ‘We need to see if she left any sort of a note. And,’ he added, ‘if she didn’t, then we need to look at all of the paperwork we can find. See who might have benefited from her death.’

‘Oh.’ Kirsty nodded thoughtfully.

‘Did she have a lawyer? Had she made a will? Is there any sign of correspondence with one of these end-of-life organisations?’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Plenty to keep us busy here for a while,’ he said. ‘So, get to it, DC Wilson, see what you can find.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Kirsty replied, looking into the bedroom at the bedside cabinets, the telephone next to the old lady’s bed and a bureau that sat opposite the bed next to an old-fashioned wooden wardrobe, its walnut burr and ornate brass doorknobs marking it as a piece of furniture that had been in vogue some time last century.

Lorimer smiled as he left the young detective constable to her search, seeing her gloved hands whip out a notebook from her handbag. She’d be systematic, he guessed, putting paperwork in order, making notes as she went along. He had seen enough of Kirsty Wilson in her young life to know that she had the makings of a good detective and he trusted her to find what they were looking for.

His own search began in the front room, a decent-sized lounge with a three-piece suite covered in matching tartan throws. A quick glance upwards showed a line of cobwebs clinging to the pleated pelmet above the bay window. Jane Maitland hadn’t been able to check up on her home help, Lorimer thought. In fact, hadn’t she been virtually a prisoner in her own home?

The dusty, fly-blown window told a similar tale, as did the occasional tables, a fine layer of dust clinging to the few ornaments that lay there. The home help came every Monday, her duties including light housework and taking care of the laundry, according to the notes Lorimer had read in Jane Maitland’s file. Washing the bedclothes and the woman’s nightwear would be a priority, he supposed, as he moved out of the empty room, noticing as he did so that the radiator in here was cold. No point in heating a room where nobody ever sat down, he realised sadly: Miss Maitland’s whole existence had narrowed into that bedroom where Kirsty was looking for clues as to how the woman’s life had ended.

The kitchen was a bright room facing south-west, the autumn sun glinting off the stainless-steel refrigerator and double oven. Here, at least, were signs of care and attention, the work surfaces spotless as befitted a place where food preparation must have taken place. On the windowsill outside a row of pink and white geraniums bloomed, the summer warmth lingering on. Whose hands would water them now, Lorimer wondered? Would they be left to die or was there some relative of Jane Maitland’s who might come to their rescue?

The low hum of the refrigerator was the only sound, electricity being used up until someone decided to turn off and unplug the device.

Was that what had happened to the old woman? Had someone entered her home, taken the decision to terminate her life? And, most important of all, had she been a willing party to that final act?

‘Found anything yet, DC Wilson?’ Lorimer asked from the doorway of the bedroom. It was only right and proper to call her by this name, though ‘Kirsty’ sprang to the tip of Lorimer’s tongue every time he began to address her.

‘Nothing, sir.’ She looked up from where she was on her knees examining a pile of papers. ‘At least, nothing that indicates what you might call a living will. No suicide note, no correspondence between Miss Maitland and any organisation that I’ve found yet,’ she continued. ‘Still to look through that bureau, though.’ She shot him a hopeful look.

‘Okay, two pairs of hands will take us through it more quickly,’ he agreed, moving across the room to the bureau.

It was an old piece of furniture, possibly an antique, Lorimer thought, with several different types of wood inlaid to create marquetry patterns of classical urns and garlands of flowers, its sloping top opening into a writing desk with six tiny drawers above in two rows and a spacious cabinet below, an ornate metal key in the left-hand keyhole.

Jane Maitland had been a methodical sort of person, Lorimer decided, taking a look in each little drawer. Books of stamps, old national insurance cards, a roll of payment slips from decades before, a stapler in one drawer, a metal hole punch in another, a tin box full of paper clips, even a few Premium Bonds – small stuff packed away tidily as though their owner wanted to know exactly where to look if she needed to find anything.

The cabinet below revealed more paperwork relating to Jane Maitland’s estate, however. Lorimer took out several buff-coloured files, all marked in the same neat sloping hand.
Bank Statements, Lawyer, Tax, Invoices, Investments, Charities
… He piled them all on the bed and sat next to them, gratified to learn that the deceased had been someone with a tidy mind.

He began with the bank statements, riffling through a package of thin A4 papers detailing the woman’s monthly accounts, till he came to the most recent one dated August of that year.

At first Lorimer blinked, thinking he had been mistaken, but then the figures at the foot of the page were clearly marked,
STATEMENT
CLOSING
BALANCE
£87,543.77

‘Take a look at this,’ he said, passing the entire file to Kirsty. ‘And that’s just her current account. Wonder what she has in investments,’ he murmured, turning to that particular file.

‘Who keeps that sort of money in their current account?’ Kirsty said, looking up in amazement.

‘Someone who hasn’t been visited by a financial advisor for quite a long time,’ Lorimer said quietly, examining the documents on his lap. ‘The regular amounts being put into the account monthly are from pensions, as far as I can make out. She must have had all of that money lying in her bank account for long enough. And, if I’m reading these correctly then it looks as if Miss Maitland’s shares are worth well over a million,’ he murmured, his right hand brandishing another sheaf of papers.

‘How on earth…?’

‘… does an old lady in a modest little cottage flat come to be so wealthy?’ Lorimer finished the sentence for Kirsty. ‘And what you
don’t
see,’ he told her, flicking once again through the more recent bank statements, ‘are any large sums being withdrawn. Something just as significant for us right now.’

‘You mean she’d have had to pay someone a substantial sum to supply her with morphine if she’d wanted to take her own life?’

‘You’d have thought so,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Maybe this will give us more of a clue,’ he said, brandishing the lawyer’s file.

By now Kirsty was sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, head bent towards the documents.

‘That’s her will!’ she exclaimed as Lorimer turned the pages that, like those in the other files, had been secured neatly by double plastic tags inserted through the holes in each margin.

It was certainly a photocopy of the Last Will and Testament of Jane Patricia Maitland, the original no doubt kept in a safe place at Drummond and Abernethy, the Glasgow-based lawyers whose correspondence was also in this file.

Lorimer’s eyes ran down the page to where a list of bequests had been drawn up. Several charities would benefit from the old lady’s passing, he saw, noting that one of the beneficiaries was the RSPB, a charity close to his own heart. So, she’d been a bird lover, he thought, his eyes drawn to the garden outside. Jane Maitland’s bed was positioned opposite the window as if she had wanted to see a bit of the world. But the wire-mesh bird feeders hanging at angles from the branches of a lilac tree were empty. Nobody to feed them, he decided, sadly, nobody taking time to go outside and see to the old lady’s passion.

There were small bequests to friends, a few of these crossed out over time, possibly as they had predeceased Miss Maitland, but the main beneficiary was a man by the name of Crawford Whyte to whom she had left the residue of her estate, a hefty sum, Lorimer thought, once the smaller bequests had been made.

Flicking through the correspondence, Lorimer could find no trace of a Crawford Whyte anywhere. Who was this? Some distant relative? They would need to ask the solicitors, see if there was a contact for this person who stood to inherit a vast fortune.

Or maybe someone around here might know, he thought. Hadn’t Ailsa Doyle told them that her mother lived locally? Would she know any of Jane Maitland’s family? Perhaps that was something he could keep up his sleeve for now.

S
he would have to wait until next week, Sarah decided, staring out at the clouds scudding across the sky as she tucked the edge of the sheet into the empty bed.

One of the patients had been transferred to a hospice only this morning, his condition deteriorating so badly. Motor neurone disease was a hellish thing to suffer, Sarah thought, remembering the man’s wasted features. Here they did what they could for the patients but the hospice provided the sort of end-of-life care that was the province of very special sorts of nurses.

Sarah’s thoughts drifted back to her ordeal the previous evening and the promise that she had given under duress.
But I can’t do it just yet
, she’d pleaded.
Give me time.

She would be on late shift with other nurses on her rota next Monday, at a time when the nursing home manager would have gone home and there were fewer ancillary staff around. That was the time to do it. She bit her lip. What had she been asked to do, after all? Make a list of all the next of kin of the patients who were currently at the Abbey.
Especially their email addresses
, the tallest of her captors had insisted, glaring at her intently. Not such a big deal, she tried to tell herself.
Photograph them with this
, he had told her, thrusting an iPhone into her hands. She’d taken it silently, putting it into her handbag, the tacit agreement made by that very action.

There had to be some criminal intent behind this, something that she was not going to be told. And, should anyone find out what she was doing with these people, she would be back in Cornton Vale before she knew it.

These men knew her name and they knew where she lived, the journey back from that lonely spot in the country taking her right to the door of the bed and breakfast. And they’d known she was Pete’s sister. Who were they? And why did they want access to the contact details of these patients’ families?

Sarah stood up, blinking back the tears that had begun to sting her eyes. She was screwed if she didn’t do what that frightening man had asked, and yet she was screwed if she did.

Could she tell the police about what had happened? Sarah recalled the man’s nasty grin. He was right. Who’d believe an ex-con? Nobody had believed her story when Pete had died, had they? Especially her parents.

Just get me some stuff, Sar, gonnae, please?
her brother had wheedled.
They’ll kill me if I cannae produce the goods
.

She could still hear his voice, that desperate fear that had driven her into a criminal act. Pete would be able to pay back his dealers, he’d assured her. It would all be okay.

And then it wasn’t, of course. Pete had been found in that West End flat, dead of a lethal overdose, the drug supplied by his own sister.

Sarah shuddered. She mustn’t think about it any more. Pete had lied to her but there was no way she was ever going to prove that.

‘Sarah?’

She turned to see Nancy Livingstone in the doorway of the empty room.

‘There’s a telephone call for you. It’s Catherine Reid. Can you take it in my office?’

Sarah leapt up in alarm. She’d been found out already!

‘You okay, dear?’ You’ve gone very white,’ Nancy remarked, looking at Sarah’s face.

‘Stood up too quickly, that’s all.’ Sarah managed a tremulous smile. She was about to add
time of the month
, but that would be another lie and somehow she could not bring herself to deceive this woman who had shown her such kindness.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Nancy whispered as they reached her office. ‘I’ll be in the staffroom if you need me.’

‘Hello, Sarah Wilding here,’ she said, lifting up the telephone on the manager’s desk.

‘Sarah, sorry to call when you’re at work but something’s come up and I wanted to ask if you could change your lodgings?’

‘Yes!’ Sarah gasped. ‘I’d love to. It’s not a great place I’m in just now. Is there any chance I could find digs nearer here? Somewhere that has a kitchen?’

There was a pause then her social worker replied, ‘Leave it with me. I might be able to sort something out by the end of today.’

Sarah imagined she could hear the crackle of papers being turned, then Catherine asked, ‘How’s the job?’

‘I love it,’ Sarah said in a rush. ‘Wish it was permanent,’ she went on. ‘But I suppose I’ll need to register with an agency eventually.’ She stopped, her words echoing that of the scar-faced man as he had gripped her tightly
. Once you’ve done what we want you register with an agency, okay? Get yourself jobs in the same sort of places
. And he’d smiled nastily, adding,
for the benefit of us all.
A statement that had made the other man snigger.

‘Well, that’s good,’ Catherine replied and Sarah imagined the smile of relief on the woman’s face. Another client sorted out, she would think.

But, what if she were to be caught looking through files that were no business of hers? What if she were to be sent back to prison? Sarah’s heart sank as she thought about the two women who were genuinely interested in her welfare; Catherine Reid and her friend Nancy, the good Christian woman who really seemed to care what happened in Sarah Wilding’s life.

Drummond and Abernethy’s offices were in a basement halfway up West Regent Street, the offices on the ground floor sporting window boxes that were full of late-summer annuals in scarlet, white and blue, colours that stood out against the dark red sandstone building.

The staircase to the basement was accessed by a small gate to the side of the railings that separated the offices from the street. Large windows showed activity within, men and women sitting at their desks, intent on their computer screens.

‘Nice place,’ Kirsty remarked, nodding at the well-polished brass plaque set into the stonework.

There was a modern keypad just inside the main doorway, its black storm doors pushed back to reveal a glass door that was etched in a familiar Art Deco design. Could it be an original Rennie Mackintosh? Lorimer wondered as he put his finger to the buzzer and waited.

The tinny sound was broken by a fuzzy voice saying, ‘Hello?’

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer, DC Wilson. Police Scotland.’

There was a pause and then a different buzzing note as the front door clicked open and they stepped into a spacious foyer.

‘Hello,’ the voice said again and, looking up, Lorimer saw a young woman seated behind the reception desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose.

‘We’d like to talk to the solicitor who is in charge of the affairs of the late Miss Jane Maitland,’ Lorimer explained, holding out his warrant card.

‘I see,’ the woman replied, shooting curious glances at the two police officers. ‘Miss Maitland. Just one moment.’ She turned to the laptop that was open on her desk. A few moments later she looked up at them again.

‘It’s Mr Brian Abernethy who’s in charge of that,’ she replied. ‘He’s with a client just now but I’ll tell him you’re here. Just take a seat through in the waiting room, would you?’ she added, nodding towards an open doorway opposite her desk.

Lorimer ushered Kirsty through to the small lounge reserved for clients, keeping the door open so that he could hear the receptionist speaking. True to her word, Lorimer heard the names
Mr Abernethy
and
Police Scotland
, then, after a short pause,
Miss Maitland.

‘What now?’ Kirsty whispered as they sat opposite one another on matching dark blue sofas.

‘We wait,’ Lorimer replied.

‘I should imagine the solicitor will be as anxious as we are to discuss this. Can’t be every day that a couple of police officers descend on him asking questions about a client,’ Kirsty observed.

‘Ha! You’d be surprised,’ was all that Lorimer answered, his grim little smile making Kirsty’s eyebrows rise thoughtfully.

‘Do you know this lawyer, this Abernethy fellow?’

‘No, but I’ve seen his name before,’ Lorimer admitted. ‘Used to be involved in criminal law before his old man died and he took over the reins here. Represented some of the less salubrious members of our society,’ he added with a knowing look in Kirsty’s direction.

It was less than ten minutes later that a short, portly man in a grey pinstriped suit appeared in the doorway, smoothing his thinning hair with one hand as he approached the two police officers.

‘Brian Abernethy,’ he said, small dark eyes searching Lorimer and Kirsty with interest. ‘Please come up to my office.’

They followed him out of the waiting room, past the reception desk and along a corridor where a small flight of stairs led to the upper floor.

First impressions often counted, Lorimer thought, his eyes measuring up this little man who waddled ahead of them. There had been no handshake, no attempt to ingratiate himself with the police officers as so many strangers often did, particularly those in a professional role. Had he encountered Brian Abernethy in any past cases? Glancing at the man walking ahead of them, Lorimer decided he had been right, they had never met before. But that did not mean that one of Abernethy’s clients hadn’t crossed swords with him.

‘We only have part of the ground floor,’ Abernethy explained, leading them along a different corridor to the back of the building. ‘But there are always plans to expand.’ He gave a perfunctory smile, waving them into a small office that was completely panelled in dark wood, the view from the window showed the back of another building. Lorimer drew in his breath, the sense of claustrophobia making him feel uneasy. It was a weakness that had lingered from childhood, something he simply had to endure if he could not totally overcome it. Even the light from the green-shaded desk lamp and a dusty candelabra suspended from the ornately plastered ceiling failed to compensate for the lack of natural daylight.

‘Please take a seat,’ Abernethy said, motioning them to the two easy chairs set at an angle on the other side of his desk while he swung into the captain’s chair and clasped his hands in front of him.

‘Now,’ he began, ‘how can I help you?’

‘Miss Jane Maitland,’ Lorimer said. ‘You will have been informed about her demise?’

‘Only just now,’ he said, taking up a pen from the desk and rolling it between his fingers. ‘The receptionist…’ He shrugged.

‘Miss Maitland passed away on Monday morning,’ Lorimer explained. ‘The Procurator Fiscal has instructed us to examine the nature of her death and we are doing just that.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Brian Abernethy frowned. ‘My client was a very sick woman. Wasn’t her death… well… expected?’ He looked from Lorimer to Kirsty as though either of them could answer his question.

‘There are extenuating circumstances,’ Lorimer continued. ‘What we need to know is the whereabouts of the main beneficiary of her will, one Crawford Whyte.’

‘Well.’ Abernethy blew out his cheeks, giving him a clownish appearance. But there was no mirth in his expression as he sat back in his chair. ‘That’s confidential, of course. My client…’

‘Nothing is confidential in this case, Mr Abernethy, except what Police Scotland choose to keep under wraps.’ Lorimer leaned forward, his voice quiet yet authoritative. ‘We need to know where we can find this Crawford Whyte and how he was related to Jane Maitland.’

‘Oh, y-yes, of c-course,’ the man stuttered. ‘I suppose now that she’s dead…?’ He shrugged and gave a theatrical sort of sigh, folding his plump little hands in front of him once more, as if to restore his previous composure. ‘Mr Whyte isn’t aware of this,’ he began, blinking at Lorimer as the detective fixed him with his blue gaze. Then, giving a tentative smile, he turned to Kirsty. ‘It’s quite sad, really, that he didn’t know.’

‘Know what?’ Lorimer asked.

Abernethy gave a little smirk, pausing the way that actors do before delivering a dramatic speech and looking back at Lorimer again.

‘That Miss Jane Maitland was his natural mother.’

‘What do you think?’ Kirsty asked eagerly as they stepped back on to the pavement on West Regent Street.

‘He knew he was the beneficiary of an old lady’s will but he didn’t know why. Or at least he won’t know why until Abernethy tells him.’ Lorimer strode on down the street, his face grim. ‘Wish I could be there when he does,’ he muttered. ‘It would be interesting to see this Crawford Whyte’s reaction.’

‘Well, we have his contact details, don’t we?’ Kirsty said brightly. ‘What if…?’

‘You heard what Abernethy told us. He’s in London,’ Lorimer said. ‘Probably nobody will be with him to witness how he takes news like this.’

‘Are we sure he didn’t know she was his mother? I mean, if he was aware that he stood to inherit a small fortune, wouldn’t he be curious about why a total stranger had left it to him?’

‘Anybody would be,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘But Abernethy hinted that this Crawford Whyte was unaware of the extent of his inheritance.’ He gave a sigh, his lips twisting for a moment. Did he believe all that the lawyer had told them? ‘Let’s find out just how much information this man had about Jane Maitland, eh?’

‘Michael.’ Brian Abernethy sat behind his desk, one hand clutching the handset, the other drumming fingers on his mouse mat. ‘I’ve just had the police here. I need to warn you. I think they know.’