The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (17 page)

Yet the initial relief was tempered by the knowledge that they now knew her whereabouts and the fear that they would certainly come back already gnawing at her.

N
ancy Livingstone watched as the police car drove away, her usually calm face troubled. They had brought a forensic officer with them, a lovely young woman who had slipped into white coveralls before shutting herself in David Imrie’s room and doing whatever it was she had to do. Although Nancy wasn’t one for these TV crime programmes, and her knowledge of crime scene investigation was definitely second-hand, she knew all about post-mortem examinations and the requirements of the Procurator Fiscal’s office. Having been married to a QC, Nancy had insight into many things. Conversations across the dinner table had been full of stories about those who had fallen into bad ways. And yet, like Nancy herself, Eric Livingstone had rarely made judgements about these people outside the courtroom.

Keep busy, Nancy told herself, going to the big filing cabinet and drawing out the paperwork that she would need to photocopy for the police. She sat down behind her desk with a heavy heart. Poor David Imrie! People outside had no conception that patients who had suffered major traumas like he had could still enjoy what remnants of life a stroke had left them. He’d seemed happier these past few days, Sarah Wilding’s attention something that had made a difference.

She was a good nurse, there was no doubting that, and Nancy knew that she would be glad to write a glowing reference if the time came when the young woman decided to move on. Meantime… she paused, staring out of the window at the gardens and a stand of silver birches, their tiny leaves flittering down like yellow confetti. There was something calming in the sight, something that set her world back upon its axis. The changing seasons would come and go, leaving humankind still aching to understand their place in all of this.

Would Sarah find the peace that she undoubtedly craved? Would she be able to put the past behind her? The criminal record would always be there, of course, a blot on her character for society to see. And yet there was something fine about that young lady, something that Sarah herself could not see, hampered by her guilt. Nancy had seen how she no longer dwelt on her time in prison and the events that had led her there, at least during her working hours.

It was a treat to see Sarah talking to the patients, giving them her undivided attention, that sweet smile that lit up her pretty face. And of course, she’d been stricken by the farmer’s death, Nancy thought, drawing out the pages of David Imrie’s case notes that were required by the police.

If Crawford Whyte was intimidated by being inside a police interview room then he certainly wasn’t showing it, Kirsty realised. A real cool customer, this one, with his cobalt-blue suit, its knife-edge creases suggesting that it was perhaps a recent purchase, and that swanky Crombie coat slung around his shoulders. A real city gent, she thought. Or at least that was the impression he wanted to give.

The interview room was a dismal place compared to Abernethy’s office. Small, functional, its walls a sickly yellow with the windows obscured by an external air conditioning unit that rarely worked, it had been the scene of many stand-offs between the police and hardened criminals. Glancing at Whyte who was sitting back on the metal chair, she began to wonder about the man. In a different sort of situation would he be a ‘no comment’ kind of guy? Remembering the deference that he had shown Brian Abernethy, Kirsty guessed that if Whyte were to be accused of anything criminal he would be the type to demand to see his lawyer and sit fuming silently until he arrived.

But here, with Lorimer sitting opposite the man and her own seat at an angle so she could observe them both, Kirsty saw Crawford Whyte cross his ankles and fold his arms, completely at his ease. With the detective superintendent smiling in a genial manner at him, Whyte evidently felt no threat whatsoever. But then, Jane Maitland’s son knew nothing of Lorimer’s reputation when it came to questioning people, did he?
Watch and learn, Kirsty
, she told herself,
watch and learn
.

‘Mr Whyte, thank you for being so helpful in spending a little of your day here,’ Lorimer began in a tone that was possibly deferential but really came across as smooth and bland.

He shuffled some papers from a buff-coloured file on his side of the chipped wooden table. ‘Your late mother,’ he said, examining the paperwork as though he had to refresh his memory. ‘When was it that you learned of her identity?’ That frown, the flick through the paperwork as though the answer was in fact hidden there if only he could find it. Kirsty hid a smile as Whyte unfolded his arms and sat forward.

‘Oh, I never knew anything about my natural mother until she died,’ Whyte assured him hastily. ‘
She
knew about me, however.’ He smiled as though the thought gave him some satisfaction. ‘Through the Salvation Army apparently. Didn’t want me to be contacted, just wanted to know where I lived and… things…’ He shrugged, finishing lamely.

Aye, Kirsty thought to herself. The old lady was well respected up here, had lived a decent life. She would want to know that she wasn’t leaving her fortune to some toe-rag.

‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied, still searching through his notes, giving the impression that he was just a bumbling Glasgow copper. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Her will was made out in the spring of last year.’ Lorimer raised his eyes and looked at Whyte for the first time since they had entered the room. ‘When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer.’

‘Really?’ Whyte’s voice rose and he cleared his throat to cover up the sign of sudden nervousness.

It wasn’t a voice that she could warm to, not like James’s Geordie accent, Kirsty decided. No, Crawford Whyte sounded too aloof for her liking, his clipped tones making her wonder if he was capable of any strong emotion at all.
Funny how much you can tell from a voice,
her dad had always claimed.

‘Well,’ Lorimer drawled, sitting back and stretching his long legs under the table. ‘If you had a lot of money to leave, wouldn’t you want your nearest blood relatives to have it? I would.’

‘Of course,’ Whyte replied, one hand rubbing the space at the back of his shirt collar as though he was feeling a little uncomfortable.

‘Do you have a family yourself, Mr Whyte?’

‘No,’ the man replied. ‘An ex-wife who’s remarried.’ He shrugged. ‘No kids.’

‘And your mother would have known this.’

‘Would she?’ Whyte looked surprised.

‘Oh, I think so, sir,’ Lorimer said, eyes once again drawn to his paperwork as though he was reading that very thing. He picked up a page and nodded. ‘She wanted to know that her money would be in safe hands,’ he murmured.

Whyte gave a weak grin and shuffled his chair forwards a little. ‘And what safer hands than these,’ he said, holding out his arms, the shirt cuffs glinting with square golden cufflinks. ‘After all, being in the banking business, you know, it’s always been a pretty well-regarded profession.’

‘Yes?’ The single word and the blue gaze fastened on the man held more than a modicum of doubt; it held all the weight of banking failures so publicly displayed over these past few years, something that nobody was going to forget in a hurry.

‘I earn an honest living,’ Whyte insisted.

‘If you had known of your mother’s existence prior to her death, what would you have done?’ Lorimer asked, the question catching Whyte unawares.

‘I…’ He looked sideways at Kirsty who managed to keep her face completely serious, giving away nothing of the glee that she felt at the sudden change of tack on the detective superintendent’s part.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last. ‘Look here, what has all of this got to do with my inheritance?’ he asked, curling his right fist into a ball. ‘I simply came up here today to see my lawyer, sort out the things that required signing and then go back home again.’ His voice had taken on a querulous note now but he dropped his gaze as Lorimer stared back at him silently.

‘We think your late mother was murdered, Mr Whyte,’ Lorimer replied quietly. ‘And until such times as we know exactly who committed that act, there is no chance whatsoever that you will be permitted to have access to a single penny of her estate.’

Took the wind right out of his sails
, Kirsty would tell James later, watching Crawford Whyte visibly crumple beneath the detective superintendent’s scrutiny. He’s only after her money, she had already decided. He didn’t care about having a mother somewhere up in Glasgow. Didn’t want anything to do with her. And was it true, she suddenly thought, that Jane Maitland’s son had only discovered her identity after she had died?

As she stepped out of the police station, Kirsty rummaged in her pocket as soon as she heard the ring tone of her mobile.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Detective Constable Wilson?’ a lilting voice began.

‘Who’s calling?’

‘It’s Mary Milligan.’ There was slight pause. ‘You do remember me? Mrs Murdoch’s nurse from the Western?’

‘Of course,’ Kirsty replied, a memory of the ginger-haired woman flashing into her mind.

‘It’s just…’ The woman hesitated then lowered her voice as though afraid to be overheard.

‘Look, can we arrange to meet somewhere. Soon? There’s something I need to tell you.’

S
he spotted the man through the plate-glass window as he walked through Royal Exchange Square. It was DS Murdoch, slouching along the pavement, head bowed as if struggling against a westerly wind, hands thrust deep into his raincoat pockets. Glasgow was a village, Kirsty thought to herself as she sat inside the coffee bar to wait for Mary Milligan, elbows on the Formica-topped table, hands folded thoughtfully under her chin. It was a place where you might run into folk that you knew any time at all. She had been about to wave, but the moment had passed too quickly and her natural hesitation made her glad. She really didn’t want to speak to him. Besides, what would she say?
When’s the funeral? How are you coping?
Neither of these things were any of her business and Murdoch would be the first to tell her so.

Fifteen minutes, Mary Milligan had promised, and so Kirsty had arrived a little early, taking this corner table that would give them some privacy to talk whilst still allowing Kirsty to look out and see what was happening in the street. From where she sat, Kirsty had a good view of the door and her eyes kept straying towards it, searching for the ginger-haired woman.

There had been something in her voice that had pricked Kirsty’s curiosity. That breathless rush, as if she had been in a hurry or else had wanted to make that telephone call before her courage failed. Was that it? Had Kirsty detected fear in her tone? Maybe.

She looked up again. This time she was rewarded by the sight of the woman in the doorway looking distractedly around the coffee bar. Mary’s face lit up with a smile when she spotted Kirsty.

‘You came!’ she said as she chose the seat opposite the policewoman, setting down a large tote bag and peeling off her coat.

‘Of course,’ Kirsty replied. ‘I said I would and here I am.’

Mary turned to look around the coffee bar, her teeth gnawing on her lower lip. Then, as if satisfied that all was well, she drew in her chair and leaned forward.

‘Better get our coffees first, eh?’ She looked back into the coffee bar just as a young man approached to take their order.

‘Skinny latte for me,’ Mary said. ‘Same for you…?’ She hesitated.

‘Aye, that’s fine, thanks,’ Kirsty said, realising that the nurse only knew her as Detective Constable Wilson.

‘Anything to eat?’ The young man smiled encouragingly but both women shook their heads, smiling suddenly at one another as though acknowledging the same desire to stay off unnecessary carbohydrates.

‘It’s Kirsty,’ she told the other woman once the waiter had left them alone again. ‘Kirsty Wilson.’

‘Well, pleased to meet you.’ Mary gave a tremulous smile.

Kirsty looked at her watch then back at Mary Milligan, a tiny signal that was meant to suggest she soon had to be somewhere else.

‘Well,’ Kirsty said, ‘what was it you wanted to tell me, Mary?’

The woman opposite took a deep breath then exhaled slowly.

‘Something’s going on, Kirsty,’ she began, leaning closer across the table. ‘And I swear to God it isn’t my imagination.’

‘Uh-huh?’ Kirsty nodded encouragingly.

‘See, there’s been a few funny things happening and I’ve only just had time to do a wee bit of detective work of my own.’ She smiled shyly. ‘It all began before Mrs Murdoch died, your boss’s wife,’ she added unnecessarily. ‘D’you remember I told you that so many of our patients were going off? Well it was odd, I mean, statistically speaking, you know. It’s not normal to get a cluster picture like that unless there’s some sort of epidemic,’ she insisted.

‘You sound as if you’ve studied that sort of thing,’ Kirsty observed.

‘Aye.’ Mary shot her a rueful grin. ‘Dropped out of my economics degree. Decided the human race needed my tender lovin’ care not my mathematical brain.’

‘Snap!’ Kirsty grinned. ‘Same here. I joined the police after quitting my course at Cally,’ she admitted.

‘Caledonian University? That’s where I studied nursing,’ Mary remarked. ‘What made you do that?’

Kirsty’s grin faded. ‘Something happened.’ She shook her head. ‘Friend of mine was murdered,’ she went on, her voice dropping to a whisper.

‘So you’ll know all about murder, then?’ Mary began to look across the table and nod but her eyes slid away under Kirsty’s gaze, a sign of shyness at discussing such a subject? Or something else?

‘See, Kirsty, I think that’s what’s going on in the hospital. I think some of our patients are being… helped on their way, if you like… but, yes,
murdered
.’

Kirsty’s eyes widened and she wanted to protest that such an idea was ridiculous but the other woman’s expression was deadly serious.

‘Och, I know this sounds mad. But I think I’ve got proof,’ Mary hissed.

The two women drew back into their chairs as the waiter brought their coffees to the table and set them down.

‘Go on,’ Kirsty said quietly.

‘Well.’ Mary picked up her mug of coffee, nursing it in her hands as though to warm them, tilting her head to one side, considering how to begin. ‘There was this doctor. Real dishy, he was, I’m telling you! Hadn’t ever set my eyes on him before but that can happen. We have so many young doctors in that place and they change all the time, honestly it’s hard to keep track of who’s who sometimes.’

Kirsty sipped her coffee, never taking her eyes off the woman opposite.

‘Well, he comes to me the other day as I was looking at the stats, you know, the list of patients and my own notes about how I think there’s something fishy about so many deaths, right? Swans off with it in his hand, tells me he’s been asked for it by our consultant.’ Mary moved closer to the policewoman. ‘Only the consultant’s not been given it at all! See, I checked and our man never requested that document, never sent anyone to me that day.’

‘So who was he?’ Kirsty asked.

‘God knows.’ Mary shrugged. ‘A doctor?’ She pulled a face. ‘Good-lookin’ fella in a short-sleeved shirt, identity badge round his neck. Only it was turned t’other way so I didn’t see his name,’ she admitted.

‘Could that have been deliberate?’

‘I’ve thought about that over and over,’ Mary sighed. ‘And I’ve asked around to see if anyone knows the man I saw.’

‘And?’

Mary gave a half laugh. ‘As far as I know he doesn’t even exist,’ she said. ‘But, Kirsty, tell me this. How did he know I was making out that report? And what else do you think he knows about me?’

The woman’s eyes had widened as if in real fear now, her thoughts taking shape as words.

‘Have you got a copy of that report anywhere?’

‘Yes,’ Mary replied. ‘It’s on the hospital computer. Most of our department can access it any time.’

‘So other people could have made a copy?’

‘Not without our log-in password.’

‘But someone must have known you were anxious about this,’ Kirsty insisted. ‘And if it was someone inside the department they would only have to have printed out their own copy.’

‘I know,’ Mary said, her eyes dropping to the table.

There was something she wasn’t saying, Kirsty suddenly realised, something that Mary Milligan was holding back. Kirsty shifted in her seat, feeling a little less comfortable in this woman’s presence though she would have been at a loss to explain why.

‘And your consultant? Have you spoken to him about your fears for the safety of your patients?’

Mary shook her head. ‘He didn’t have time to listen to me,’ she said sadly. ‘They’re very busy people you know,’ she added defensively.

‘So, what is it you want me to do, Mary?’ Kirsty asked slowly.

Mary Milligan reached across to the chair and picked up her bag. Setting it on her knee she drew out a folded sheet of paper.

‘Here,’ she said, offering it to Kirsty. ‘That’s a copy of my report. I’d like you to take a look at it and tell me if I’m barmy.’ She grinned sheepishly.

‘And if I think there’s something worth investigating?’

Mary drew a deep breath before replying. ‘Then I’d want to make an official approach to the police about certain deaths that have occurred in my ward,’ she replied. ‘Including Irene Murdoch’s.’

‘What?’ Kirsty sat up suddenly, astonishment on her face.

‘Aye, I knew you’d react like that,’ Mary said, a tinge of anger in her voice. ‘But see, why d’you think I asked you to come here and not your boss?’

Kirsty shook her head.

The ginger-haired woman set down her coffee mug with a bang, spilling some of its milky contents across the Formica. Then she leaned closer, fists clenched upon the table as she lowered her voice.

‘That’s because Irene Murdoch’s husband is the only other living soul I told about this.’

Maggie Lorimer had thought long and hard about the poem. Was she simply being self-indulgent in the wake of her cousin’s death? Or was it that the conversation over the dinner table these past few nights had centred on the subject of assisted suicide?

Edwin Morgan, the poet, had lived a long time, hadn’t he? Ninety years old at the last and still so mentally alert that he had even published a book of poetry just before the end. Their very own Glasgow laureate, their Scots Makar, she would tell the pupils. They’d wrinkle their noses and frown, Makar? Whit’s that, Missus Lorimer? And she’d tell them about the ancient makars like Dunbar and Henryson, maybe even try them out with some poetry from these so-called Scottish Chaucerians. And of course she’d encourage them to find out about the ‘Big Seven’, poets whom she had studied at university. Out of them all she’d only ever heard Norman MacCaig and Edwin Morgan reading their poems. Maggie’s mind drifted back to her student days. Oh to be so young and carefree again! She smiled at her whimsy, shaking her dark curls.

Right, ‘In the Snack-bar’, it would be, Maggie decided, picking up her copy of Morgan’s work. The poem had been studied by countless school kids over the years but like Owen’s ‘Dulce Et Decorum Est’, that didn’t diminish its powerful message.

She began to read the familiar words, her mind forming pictures of the old blind man in the snack bar. She’d highlight some of the images, ready to make them think about what they portrayed.

Then, of course, the way that the poet becomes involved with the man, asking for help to go to the toilet. The words made Maggie focus harder.

She sat up suddenly, eyes moist with tears. Of course she would point out the figurative language. Of course she would show how Morgan evoked the senses, empathising with the old blind man.

But, as Maggie Lorimer wiped away the tear that trickled down her cheek, she could not help wondering what life had been like these last two years for her cousin, David, the man she remembered as ruddy cheeked and full of stories about the animals on his farm.

‘Tomorrow, first thing if you can be there,’ Rosie said.

‘Okay, I’ll be there. Kirsty too.’

‘By the way, how d’you think she’s coping with the post-mortems?’ Rosie asked.

‘She seems fine. Not squeamish. Quite interested, I would think. She’s made of sterner stuff than you’d think to look at her.’ Lorimer laughed. ‘Not just a wee lassie any more, is she?’

‘No,’ agreed Rosie. ‘Okay, see you at the City Mortuary. Bye.’

Lorimer put down the telephone and thought about the young DC. Aye, Kirsty was shaping up nicely. She’d be a credit to her dad one of these days, follow in his footsteps all right. Might even see the day when other officers would be calling her ma’am. He smiled at the notion. It wouldn’t be long till Alistair Wilson’s retirement do, a party in the Arthouse, a hotel in Bath Street that had undergone several incarnations in its history and was now one of Police Scotland’s favoured watering holes for such events.

Thoughts of parties faded as the image of David Imrie came to the detective’s mind. His wasted face, the poor body wrecked by that massive stroke… what sort of life had he endured at the end? He bit his lip guiltily. Was that the way to think of him? As having
endured
his existence? The nursing home appeared such a pleasant place and that young woman, Sarah Wilding, had seemed genuinely sorry to see her patient pass away. It was as if she were mourning the end of a friendship. So who was he to judge whether David Imrie was better off dead than alive, even though his life had changed irreparably?

…
And your loved ones will be at peace.
 

He stopped typing and sat back to read the words of consolation.

‘Hits the right spot,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Makes them glad to have spent some money on the dear departed.’

The man’s eyes wandered to the bulging briefcase by his side. So many well-intentioned people in this world were conspiring to make him very wealthy indeed. The medical bag with its phials and syringes was shut tight, its contents ready and waiting for his next visit. A thrill ran through his body as he imagined the scene. It was not just the money that gave him this sense of pleasure, oh no. He wrinkled his nose as though he could already smell the stuffy bedroom and the decaying body of his next victim. His heart raced faster at the thought of their last few moments, when he had the power of life and death in his hands.