The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (13 page)

‘She’s not here.’ The landlady looked up at the two men, arms folded across her bosom. ‘Went away with a pal, so she did, and no I haven’t got a forwarding address so don’t bother to ask.’

The front door slammed and Mrs Duncan flounced into the sitting room where her husband sat, eyes fixed on a football game on the television. He looked up, an expression of mild curiosity in his eyes.

‘A pair of wee nyaffs!’ Mrs Duncan declared. ‘And not so wee, as it happens. Bad types. You can always tell. Comes from taking in these lassies,’ she grumbled, eyes darting to the front window to see that the men had indeed left. She gave a sudden shudder. ‘Gives me the creeps,’ she muttered, rubbing her arms.

‘Well, you don’t have to.’ Her spouse shrugged. ‘You could do the place up, get better rents.’

The harrumph from his wife effectively ended that conversation before it had really begun.

Mrs Duncan sat down heavily on the settee, fingers stretching towards the open box of Dairy Milk that Sarah Wilding had given her earlier that day.
Just to say thank you,
the girl had murmured. None of them had ever done that before, the landlady thought. But, no, thinking back to her temporary tenant’s leave-taking, hadn’t the gift come from that older woman who had accompanied her?

‘She’s done a runner,’ the tall man with the scar spoke into his mobile phone. ‘But she should be back at work on Monday afternoon.’

‘So long as she does what she’s been told,’ the voice on the line replied firmly. ‘Anyway, it shouldn’t take you long to find out where she’s gone, should it?’

‘Aye, well, she’s part of the scheme of things now, isn’t she?’

There was a pause then a chuckle that held not a scrap of mirth. ‘If she steps out of line you know what you can do, don’t you?’

Scarface smiled, his hand moving down to finger the blade hidden in the lining of his jacket, the handle towards his hand. She’d been scared out of her wits, he thought, smiling as he remembered Sarah Wilding’s terror-stricken face. He liked his women like that, cowed and compliant. He ran his index finger along the edge of the blade. Maybe they could have a little bit of fun once she’d dropped the list where he’d told her to leave it.

Nurse Mary Milligan sat frowning over the paperwork that lay in front of her. What would her colleagues make of this? All these patients going off so quickly? Her finger traced the line of dates on the left-hand side of the printed sheet. It was all there for them to see in black and white. The ginger-haired woman bit her lip. Statistics had been her strong point back at university, before she’d changed her course and gone in for nursing. She read the figures again. No, that didn’t make sense. Statistically there should not have been nearly so many deaths all occurring on this one ward. Perhaps it might be wise to talk to someone about this, Mary told herself.

Her thoughts wandered back to that young detective constable who had come in with Irene Murdoch’s husband. She’d seemed an intelligent type of lass. And she hadn’t scoffed at the nurse’s fanciful notions, something, Mary realised, that were not quite so far-fetched when seen on paper. Aye, she might do.

She looked up as a shadow was cast across her desk. A doctor, someone who hadn’t been seen on her ward before, yet that was nothing new; there were so many medics in this place, some of them part-timers, others filling in for colleagues. This one was a bit of all right, though, a dark-haired man who stood regarding her with a laconic smile. She glanced at his left hand: no wedding band, not that it made a lot of difference these days. Perhaps he was just being clever, keeping his anonymity. Mary liked the notion of a good-looking fellow like this being careful around so many women staff.

‘Can I help you, doctor?’ she asked brightly, her eyes flicking towards the name badge on his lanyard. But it was turned the wrong way around and she could only see the same details that were on everyone’s plastic security badge.

As if he had noticed her glance, the doctor’s fingers strayed to the end of his lanyard, lingering there so that Mary couldn’t see his name.

Flirting, are we?
she thought and shot him a coy smile.

But his eyes were not on Mary Milligan’s sweet face or pert figure, but on the paperwork on her desk.

‘Ah, just what I’ve been asked to see,’ he murmured. ‘Senior consultant wants a look at these.’

He smiled at her now, his gaze disarming her for a moment so that she handed the file over without another word.

Then he was gone, the sheaf of papers in his hand, leaving Mary smiling happily after the handsome doctor as he disappeared along the hospital corridor.

The icon showed that over twenty emails were waiting in the inbox. His fingers clicked busily then a satisfied smile crossed the man’s handsome face. They were beginning to see sense, all those people. Many of their sick relatives were simply draining money as well as time and energy from their nearest and dearest, something at which that second batch of emails had hinted.
Freedom,
he’d written again, and that single word had worked as though imbued with magic. And now, here they were, good, concerned folk who only wanted the best for their loved ones.

He read their pleas, cringing slightly at the well-worn clichés.

Put them out of their misery.
 

I wouldn’t let my dog suffer what he’s going through
.

And, the one that always made him chuckle:

It’s for the best.
 

And of course it was a mere coincidence, wasn’t it, that each and every one of his respondents would be left a great deal better off once their darlings were gone.

R
osie felt her body jerk as she awoke, conscious of the sweat clinging to her silk nightie. She gave a small moan, for a sense of dread lingered despite the dream already fading, its images blurred and indistinct.

‘Hey, shh, it’s all right,’ a voice beside her soothed and then she was in her husband’s warm embrace, his arms sheltering her from the phantoms of the night.

‘Bad dream?’ Solly asked, his head turning towards her so that his beard tickled Rosie’s cheek.

‘Mm-hm. Can’t remember most of it,’ she sighed. ‘But I think it was triggered by one of my cases.’

‘Ah, dreams,’ Solly replied, one hand smoothing the curls away from his wife’s forehead. ‘The innermost working of the soul. Something troubling you, darling?’

‘It’s that elderly lady,’ Rosie said suddenly, sitting up and wrapping the duvet around her chest. ‘Overdose of morphine.’ She turned to Solly. ‘Administered by someone purporting to be a district nurse.’

‘Ah.’ Solly nodded. ‘Great word that,
purporting
.’ He slipped an arm across her waist. ‘Tells me what you think.’

‘
I
think we should probably enjoy our Sunday morning while Abby’s still asleep,’ Rosie giggled, slinking back down under the covers and nestling into her husband’s warm body.

‘But you also think there’s been an unnecessary death,’ Solly replied in a familiar tone that made Rosie sigh. That was the trouble with being married to a psychologist. Give them an idea to run with and off they went! ‘You think someone gave her the drug without her permission?’

‘Don’t know,’ Rosie grumbled. ‘Up to Lorimer to find that out. Oh, and young Kirsty Wilson. Actually, it was her case first, with that DS of hers, Murdoch.’

‘Why’s he been replaced by Lorimer?’

‘Och, it’s a real shame. His wife died. She was an MS sufferer.’ Rosie heaved another sigh. ‘Lorimer’s taken Kirsty under his wing meantime.’

‘There’s no way of telling what sort of intention was behind this death, then?’

‘Not from any examination of her body,’ Rosie agreed. ‘All I can safely say is that toxicology shows a high dosage of morphine that would have rendered her immediately unconscious, death following swiftly. She was terminally ill,’ she added, turning to look at her husband’s thoughtful face.

‘And she may simply have decided that enough was enough,’ Solly murmured.

‘Could be. It’s not against the law to take your own life…’

‘… but it is illegal for someone else to do so,’ Solly finished for her. ‘Unless a law is passed allowing people to have assistance.’

‘Do you think there should be?’ Rosie asked, running her fingers through Solly’s luxuriant beard.

‘Ah, big question.’

‘But really? Should people be able to have help to die when they want to?’

‘I’m sure it happens anyway,’ Solly said slowly. ‘There must be some well-intentioned GPs who give their suffering patients a helping hand. But there’s also the memory of Harold Shipman, isn’t there?’

Rosie curled her leg around her husband’s. Who would ever forget the doctor who had killed scores of his patients, some of them for financial gain? At the end he’d taken his own life in a prison cell. ‘Would you want me to help you die? I mean, if you had something awful like motor neurone disease?’

‘No,’ Solly said quietly. ‘Life is too precious. And I mean to live it until my very last breath. Besides, isn’t it up to God when we die?’

‘God?’ Rosie protested. ‘How can you say that? You’re not even a practising Jew any more!’

‘Maybe not, but there are certain beliefs that appear to have lingered. And that’s one of them,’ he said mildly.

‘Mu-um.’ A voice from their bedroom doorway made them turn as one to see Abby standing there, a rainbow-coloured teddy bear trailing from one small fist.

‘Come on in,’ Solly said at once, turning back the duvet.

And with a bound, their little daughter leapt into the bed, clambered over her daddy and snuggled in between them both.

Rosie gave Solly a rueful look over Abby’s golden head. So much for their quiet Sunday morning cuddle.

Sarah opened the bedroom curtains and stared out. Instead of bleak grey tenement buildings there was a garden, leaves on the fruit trees turning different shades of russet and red. Her eyes lifted to the hills beyond. The Campsies? She wasn’t sure. Geography had never been her strong point and even the countryside around Glasgow was a bit of a mystery to her. When she was a child they had taken the train to Wemyss Bay and the ferry to Bute, summer after summer spent in cheap digs, she and Pete guddling at the edge of the seashore. The young Sarah had collected shells in a plastic bucket while her brother dug in the sand, changing the course of the tiny rivulets by making dams. They’d been so innocent back then, she thought, tears blinding her eyes to the view of the hills.

A tap on her bedroom door made her turn.

‘Morning, Sarah. Just wanted to ask you if you’d like a couple of boiled eggs for breakfast?’

Nancy hovered in the gap of the doorway, a flowered dressing gown wrapped around her body.

‘Oh, that would be great, thanks. Can I help?’

Nancy shook her head. ‘Not this morning, dear. Once you get to know where everything in the kitchen is, then you can make anything you want. See you in ten minutes?’

The door closed, leaving Sarah marvelling once again at her good fortune in being here in this woman’s lovely home. Time for a nice hot shower, she decided, heading into the bathroom.

The kitchen smelled of warm toast as Sarah entered, her hair still damp from the shower.

The round oak table was set with two place mats, the eggs tucked under tiny knitted cosies, butter and several jars of different preserves laid out around a rack of wholemeal toast. Did she always lay the table like this? Or was it because she had a guest? Sarah wondered.

Once Nancy had murmured a grace, she smiled at Sarah and motioned for her to begin eating.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Like a log,’ Sarah replied, buttering a piece of toast. It was not true. She had slept fitfully, troubled by thoughts of what she had to do during her next shift at work. But the little lie was kindly meant.

‘Good.’ Nancy grinned. ‘Fancy coming to church with me this morning? Service begins at eleven.’

‘Sure,’ Sarah said, then immediately wondered why she had so readily agreed. Was it because she was trying to please this woman, give her something back in return for her overwhelming generosity? ‘I suppose I’ll need to change,’ she said, looking down at her jeans.

‘Nobody dresses up for church these days,’ Nancy laughed. ‘All the young ones come in jeans and jackets. Even the minister’s wife wears jeans to morning service. Mind you, she’s probably down on her hands and knees with the wee ones in Sunday school. It’s just the oldies that stick with tradition and wear their good clothes.’

Sarah nodded, slicing the top off her egg, glancing at Nancy Livingstone. Did she consider herself an oldie? What age was she, anyway? Mid fifties, perhaps? Certainly not ready for retirement. She stared at the greying hair and the face devoid of make-up. At work Nancy was always smart, though not overdressed or showy in any way. She could do with some highlights, Sarah thought, scrutinising the woman opposite. And that flowery dressing gown did nothing for her. Memories of a scarlet silk kimono, a gift from her father years ago, came back. It had gone, along with so many of her other possessions, she thought, a tiny seed of bitterness creeping in to spoil her mood.

St Andrews Church was a traditional building with a lofty spire towering above its roof, no different from other Glasgow churches as far as Sarah could see. As they entered the foyer, Nancy and Sarah were greeted by a man and woman standing on either side of the door handing out leaflets. A quick glance showed that they were printed orders of that morning’s service.

‘Morning, Nancy,’ they chorused, giving Sarah a curious though not unfriendly look as the two women passed into the church, the sound of an organ being played filling the building with music right up to its rafters.

Inside it was just the same:
Hi, Nancy
came from several people who smiled as they walked towards the front of the church.

‘I like to sit in here,’ Nancy said, stopping by a pew near the front of the church and motioning the girl to take her seat. Then, without another word, she bowed her head in silent prayer.

Sarah looked at her wristwatch, wondering how long she would have to sit here on this padded cushion, the smooth wooden pew hard against her back. It was ten minutes to eleven and the place was filling up. The notes from the organ became steadily slower and then died away, only to be replaced by a familiar hymn tune, one that Sarah remembered from childhood, though the actual words eluded her.

As Nancy was still apparently communing with her God, Sarah looked at the sheet she’d been handed. She read the welcome address at the start, noticed the theme for the day – ‘How To Forgive’ – and had just begun looking at the hymns printed inside when Nancy lifted her head and smiled at her.

‘Okay?’

Sarah nodded, though in truth she was regretting her hasty decision to accompany the woman to her church. What was she doing here? An ex-con amongst all these middle-class people; nice folk who would run a mile if they knew what sort of person was there in their midst.

Suddenly the music ceased and the whole congregation rose as one, Sarah with them, as a man walked slowly and steadily down the adjacent aisle, a huge Bible carried in his hands, the black-gowned figure of the parish minister following.

Then it was much as every church service Sarah could remember from her childhood. A friendly welcome to his flock (and any visitors – that was her, wasn’t it?) followed by parish notices and then they stood once more for the first hymn.

‘Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven’, rang out, the sound reverberating around her.

Sarah’s mind wandered during the first prayer, eyes wide open, seeing many bowed heads all around her. What were they all thinking? Did these people really believe that someone was listening to the man up there in the pulpit, his sonorous tones invoking an Almighty Presence? The chaplain at Cornton Vale had tried to persuade the girls that God was indeed caring for them whether they could feel His presence or not. Many of the women had mocked the poor man, giving him a hard time with sexual innuendos to make him blush.
Where was God when I needed him?
they would sometimes ask, the bitterness in their tones almost palpable.

Now, familiar words were being chanted by the congregation and Sarah mumbled along, the Lord’s Prayer being something that had been instilled from an early age.

‘And lead us not into temptation but…’ she murmured along with countless other voices. Her throat dried suddenly and no further words came out.

Why could she not ask to be delivered from evil? Was she so in its thrall, ready to do the bidding of these men, that even uttering a prayer was to be denied her?

Sarah swallowed hard, biting her lip as sudden tears sprang to her eyes.

Then it was over, the ‘Amen’ like a huge collective sigh, and Sarah felt the people settle back as the minister began reading from the great book on the lectern.

It was a story about King David, the great hero who had flung a stone from his shepherd’s sling to slay Goliath, the giant Philistine. But David was older now, king of his land, a powerful man who could snap his fingers and his commands would be obeyed.

‘Such power,’ the minister said quietly, interrupting his own reading, making Sarah pay a little more attention.

David had seen a woman, wanted her for himself and had her husband sent to the front line, quite deliberately, to be killed, the story continued. And now the minister was reading from a different passage, something about a prophet telling King David another story about a poor man robbed of his precious ewe lamb. David’s indignation at the prophet’s words turned to shame as he was confronted by the truth behind the story.
You are that man
, the prophet told him. Sarah’s heart thumped as she realised that David had abused his power and taken a man’s life out of the sheer lust of his heart.

She leaned forward a little, eyes fixed on the man in the pulpit. What happened next? Was David punished?

But the minister had laid down his book and now the choir was singing something about coming to the well.

As the last notes from the organ faded into a silence punctuated by the occasional cough, the minister began again, reading about the consequences of King David’s sins.

‘And this is what the Lord God of Israel says: I made you king over Israel and rescued you from Saul. I gave you his kingdom and his wives; I made you king over Israel and Judah. If this had not been enough, I would have given you twice as much. Why then have you disobeyed my commands?’

Sarah listened as the minister continued reading, realising that she didn’t know how this Bible story ended. Surely David would be punished? Yet she didn’t remember how he had died. Execution? Wasting away in the dungeons of a prison cell? Surely that had been his fate?

‘“I have sinned against the Lord,” David said. Nathan replied, “the Lord forgives you; you will not die.”’

Sarah sat back with a small intake of breath. Why? How could God have forgiven David such a terrible crime?

She barely looked at the words on the sheet as the congregation rose to sing the next hymn, so full were her thoughts about the Bible story. A sense of indignation filled her. Had David got off with murder just because he was a powerful king?

Then they were seated once again and a rustle of anticipation sounded through the church as the minister bowed his own head and intoned a few words.

‘The Lord forgives you,’ he began, his words measured and solemn, his eyes roving over each and every one of his parishioners before coming to rest on Sarah Wilding.