The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (19 page)

‘Someone had stolen it?’ Sarah suggested.

‘He didn’t know,’ Nancy replied. ‘But he left the flock and set off over the rough hill country and called out all the time to see if he could find it. Eventually he heard a weak little cry.’

‘His wee lamb?’

‘Right. And it was stuck under a tree root in a place that was difficult and dangerous to access. He would be putting his own life in danger just to rescue that little creature.’

‘And did he? Or did he do the sensible thing and leave it where it was?’ Sarah replied, her eyes giving Nancy a knowing look as if she could tell which way the tale was proceeding.

‘I think you know what choice he made, don’t you, Sarah?’

‘So he found the lamb, carried it back and they all lived happily ever after.’ The girl’s voice held a note of cynicism.

‘Don’t you want a happy ending, Sarah?’ Nancy asked, her expression quite serious.

The girl shrugged and looked away.

‘Or do you still feel that you don’t deserve to have another chance at life?’

Nancy rose from the table and resumed her chore by the sink, now taking the leek and carrots and beginning to slice them into little pieces.

Sarah sat still, gazing at the woman’s back. Nobody had ever given her future a second thought. Well, maybe Catherine Reid… and of course she was Nancy’s friend, wasn’t she? She looked at the woman busily peeling a carrot, its skin one long orange strip curling on to the chopping board. They were different from the people she had known, even the nurses whose profession was to care for others. But this was personal.

This woman cared enough to make the young woman consider her question carefully. Was she a little lamb worth saving? Sarah had dim memories of the Bible story and its underlying meaning.

And how she responded to this old, old tale was going to determine just what steps she took next.

W
hen she awoke it was to a sense of bewilderment; the
where am I
feeling that comes from the day after a holiday when home appears strange for those initial seconds.

She was in her own bed… well, that was a moot point, wasn’t it. Sarah sighed. It was the bed that had belonged to another woman, Tracey Livingstone. It was only hers for the duration. Another sigh. How long could she remain here? The incident of the night-time rock crashing through that lovely window had made Sarah think hard about her future.

Not for the first time did she regret her rejection of SHINE, the organisation that existed to help female offenders get back on their feet.
I’m not like them,
Sarah had told herself.
My life isn’t in chaos like theirs
. She had compared herself with the junkie women who had mental-health issues, kids at home running mad… she didn’t have such problems in her life. If only she had known then how things would turn out!

And yet, Sarah mused, she did have a mentor, didn’t she? Catherine Reid, her social worker, had put her in touch with Nancy and the woman who slept along the corridor was better than anyone SHINE could have provided.

God is good
, Nancy had said last night, a simple phrase as she’d kissed Sarah’s cheek and said goodnight. But she meant it, Sarah thought, turning in the bed and coorying more deeply under the duvet. Today was Sunday. Would she go to church with Nancy again? The thought depressed her a little. To be sitting there with all those worthy folk seemed like a cheek. Sarah Wilding, ex-con, in amongst the good, respectable people of Bearsden!

Yet the notion of spending Sunday alone in the house made her shiver. What if they came back and found her here? No, going to church and feeling like an outsider was a penance worth enduring.

‘Here.’ Nancy thrust an armful of clothes on to Sarah’s neatly made bed. ‘Tracey told me ages ago to give them to Marks and Sparks. They pass them on to Oxfam, you know.’ She smiled and shrugged. ‘Must be some reason I kept putting that off,’ she laughed. ‘Perhaps they were meant to come to you, Sarah!’

Then she was gone, sweeping out of Sarah’s room.

She had knocked the door first, Sarah thought. Even although the entire house belonged to Nancy Livingstone, the woman had given Sarah the dignity of her own privacy.

She lifted the pile of clothes and began to look at them one by one.

That skirt! Sarah’s eyes widened as she ran her fingers over the navy blue mock-suede. It was exactly the same as one she had left behind at the flat. She checked the label. A ten! It was even the same size. A shiver ran through her as she recalled Nancy’s words. Had she been meant to have these clothes? Her face brightened as she turned them over; skirts and tops, a fitted boiled-wool jacket in cherry red, three pairs of trousers (she laid them against her leg, nodding happily at their correct length) and what looked like a brand-new raincoat. All M&S labels, all stuff that she would have wanted to buy for herself.
Had
bought, she giggled, picking up the suede skirt. She would wear this to church. With that pale blue blouse and her own V-necked jumper. A quick glance at the window showed a clear September sky with no trace of cloud. Would it turn to rain later? She put on the red jacket over her pyjamas and fastened it up with a sigh of pure pleasure. Sod the weather! She would look nice in church today!

Then, her smile fading a little, the thought came to Sarah that perhaps this was why Nancy had given her these things. Did she want her house-guest to look presentable in front of all her friends? She bit her lip. There had been no doubtful glance cast her way last week, had there?

No, Nancy just wasn’t like that. Sarah nodded decisively. Not a bad bone in that woman’s body, she told herself. Unlike the young woman she had befriended.

M
ost police work was pretty boring, Kirsty decided, rubbing her eyes.

She’d been handed the action of going through Rachel Gardiner’s laptop and reading every single email message from before the night she had hanged herself.

‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’ she had asked Lorimer, and he’d given her a grin and replied,

‘You’ll know when you find it.’ A remark so enigmatic that she’d wanted to groan.

Well, she had gone back several days now and had seen messages written to Rachel from all the usual places; high-street stores, holiday companies, medical suppliers… and, of course, emails to and from men and women who sounded like friends or even colleagues.

It was odd, Kirsty thought, to be working in a job that gave her access into someone’s life like this. Some emails showed a certain stream where friends had been included in a group email. One in particular made her pause.

Please don’t give up, Rachel. Maybe something can be worked out to help you. Worth a try? We miss you.
And the sender, someone named Moira, had signed off with a smiley emoticon.

They knew then, Rachel Gardiner’s workmates. They’d been aware of her diagnosis. How must it have felt to break that sort of news to your friends? And how would friends like this Moira person feel once they knew that Rachel had taken her own life rather than face the end of such a debilitating disease?

Another email of compassion, Kirsty thought, yawning as she prepared to flick it away.

But something stopped her. She blinked and read it again.

Be happy that the worst you can imagine will soon be over. Be grateful that the choice you decided to make was the right one. Working together with you let me see what a compassionate person you are. Now you must face the future with no regrets. And your loved one will be at peace.
 

There was no signature. No silly face. Just this email sent from someone, no, some organisation, calling itself quietrelease.com.

Could this be what Lorimer had wanted her to find? A frisson of excitement ran through Kirsty to be replaced with a moan as she typed the address into the search bar to no avail. The search engine yielded pages of things headed
Quiet Release,
mostly for spa breaks and osteopaths, but the website didn’t seem to exist. With a sigh, Kirsty focused on the screen.

There was nothing. Not a sausage, she sighed again as she reached the last search result. No company offering to release a loved one from their pain (was that what she had been expecting?) And yet… the very fact of there being nothing on the internet surely pointed to it being some clandestine organisation? Something set up out of compassion for patients who were suffering? Or, Kirsty wondered cynically, run for profit by someone?

Now that she had something to go on, Kirsty scrolled down, looking back at more emails, her eyes focusing hard to find something similar in Rachel Gardiner’s inbox.

It was more than an hour later, trawling through the trashed messages, that she found it.

‘Yes!’ Kirsty said aloud, making a couple of heads turn her way though she was too intent on the screen to notice.

This was what she was looking for!

‘You want tae see Lorimer?’ A woman with tightly permed grey hair under a frilly cap and wearing a pale green overall stopped in the corridor, hands on her trolley full of cakes and snacks.

‘Yes, I…’ Kirsty took a step forward. Who was this wee woman staring at her so intently with tiny eyes that reminded Kirsty of a curious robin?

‘Well, you’ll no’ see him the now, hen. He’s busy with the chief constable. Better come back later on.’

The woman with the trolley screwed up her eyes and stared at the detective constable. ‘Hey, are you no’ Alistair Wilson’s girl? Wee Kirsty?’

‘Yes…’

‘Och, I ken noo. My, but you’re fair grown up, lass. And ah see ye’ve lost a’ that puppy fat,’ she nodded approvingly.

There was something about the woman, some memory that the detective constable was dredging up from her mind.

‘Are you Sadie?’ Kirsty managed to get a word in at last. ‘Sadie Dunlop?’

‘An’ who else would I be? Lady Gaga?’ The woman snorted and made a face.

‘I thought you’d retired,’ Kirsty said.

‘Aye, well, I tried that fur a wee while but it wis boring,’ Sadie admitted. ‘It’s ma first day back. The canteen’s all changed, so it has, so ah decided tae start a trolley service. Jist Mondays tae Fridays.’ She folded her arms and looked at Kirsty with her bright bird’s eyes. ‘See all of these polis depended on me and my cakes, know whit I mean? Course you do.’ She wagged a finger at Kirsty. ‘You’re Betty Wilson’s lassie. Best baker of a’ the wives. Here,’ she nudged Kirsty again, her sharp elbow digging into Kirsty’s arm, ‘did you no’ go to Cally Uni tae study hospitality?’

‘I did.’ Kirsty grinned. ‘But I saw the light and came here instead.’

‘Och, away wi’ ye!’ Sadie laughed. ‘Here. Gie’s a haun wi’ this damn trolley. Ah’m settin aff tae your bit now. CID.’ She smiled and Kirsty dodged as the woman aimed her elbow at her again.

‘Will he be long, do you think?’ Kirsty asked as they made their way down in the lift.

‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ Sadie chuckled. ‘Never knew a Big Chief to come and see his nibs unless it was important. So, aye, they’ll likely be a while in there.’ She raised her eyes to the roof as though she could see into Lorimer’s office.

‘Here.’ Sadie lifted a chocolate éclair and handed it to Kirsty. ‘See if that’s no’ better than the ones yer ma makes.’

Kirsty wiped the last of the chocolate from her lips and threw the paper wrapper into the bin by her desk. Aye, she’d tell Sadie next time she saw her that her chocolate éclairs were every bit as good as her mum’s.

The girl looked at the printouts on her desk with a sigh. It wasn’t proof exactly, but it was a start. That was one of the things about all the actions handed out at each stage of a case; the plodding stuff was like gold mining. Loads of mud and dross then that wee shining nugget. Was that what she had found?

Kirsty paused. She had been going to wait until Lorimer read this before she took any further action but now… like Sadie Dunlop Kirsty’s eyes searched the ceiling. He was up there with the chief constable. If she were to try for herself…?

Fingers shaking with excitement, Kirsty dialled the number that she had found on Rachel Gardiner’s laptop screen.

‘The number you dialled has not been recognised,’ a haughty woman’s voice told the detective constable. ‘Please check and try again.’

And, numbed with disappointment, Kirsty did as instructed only to be told the very same thing.

It was too easy, of course it was. What had she expected? That this organisation, this lot who were possibly involved in assisted suicide outside the legal channels, would gaily give out their telephone number? Once Rachel Gardiner had responded (and it looked as though she had) they’d have found a new number. Probably worked with a whole pile of disposable mobile phones, Kirsty decided gloomily. So, the question was now, how were they ever to find this group? And what sort of people were they?

Father Joseph Fitzimmons put down the telephone with a sigh. Everyone believed that being at the top of a ladder gave them power, didn’t they? It was part of human nature, he supposed, and human nature was a great deal of what his job was about. He was an experienced priest with more than forty years’ service behind him but that did not mean that he was immune to the sudden shocks that people could still present him with. Sometimes, especially after a busy spell in the confessional, Joseph Fitzimmons thought that he had heard it all. Take Miss Maitland, for example. He had not expressed any astonishment at hearing her confession – that she was a single mother (or had been at a time when such things were still frowned upon) – had washed over him.

He clasped his hands and stared into space, twirling his thumbs thoughtfully.

That Detective Superintendent Lorimer was a decent fellow. Not all of the policemen he had encountered had spoken to him in such respectful tones. Some of them had looked bitter whenever Fr Fitzimmons refused to reveal what had taken place between himself and a known criminal during confession. Cursed him under their breath, even. But this policeman was different.

Poor Jane Maitland, Joseph sighed. They had discussed many things on his visits to see his parishioner. And that one of their topics for discussion had been assisted suicide. She would never have sanctioned that. Never. She had been adamant that she wanted to live out her life on her own terms, pain or no pain. Only days before her death they had discussed the morality and spirituality of the subject, he’d assured the tall policeman as they sat together drinking tea in the Parish House. He had indeed been a keyholder for the old lady. Kept it hanging up on the inside of the door to his study in the Parish House. Yet, when Fr Fitzimmons had looked for it to hand to Lorimer, it simply wasn’t there.
Becoming forgetful in my old age,
he’d laughed. But the loss of the key worried him considerably and he could see that the tall detective had noticed his concern.

And now this telephone call. Joseph shook his head. His old friend’s son had done well for himself, climbing the career ladder to the very top. Chief constable, Joseph mused, remembering the man speaking to him from Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s office. But, no matter how high a person climbed in this world, no matter what lofty rank they attained, there was a higher authority still. One that was in control of everyone’s final destiny. And it was by that authority that Joseph Fitzimmons had chosen to live his life.

No,
he had told the younger man
. You know that I cannot reveal anything that goes on between me and a penitent soul
.

And so, if he had secrets to keep about Jane Maitland, then they would remain just that.

‘Thanks for trying.’

The man in uniform shook Lorimer’s hand and gave him a rueful grin. ‘Well, he’s an old family friend. Thought that might swing it for you. Anyway, let me know how this progresses. Looks like you may have stumbled across something a lot bigger than you realised.’

Lorimer shut the door after his visitor and wandered across to the window. He hadn’t really expected the priest to relate anything Jane Maitland had told him in the sanctity of the confessional but the chief had given it a shot nonetheless.

Looking out over the rooftops, his eyes shifting from the grey skies and the familiar outline of nearby buildings to the streets below, the detective superintendent saw just a little of the comings and goings in the city. He heard the rumble of a fire engine and its whining siren as it left the nearby station, saw people walking briskly along the road towards the city centre, watched a steady stream of vehicles heading towards the motorway. Glasgow teemed with activity at any time of the day or night, most of it for the good of its citizens, some of it most certainly to their detriment, which was why he was standing there, thinking hard.

Somewhere out there people were being killed unlawfully. How bad was it to end a life full of pain and suffering? That was a question that so many folk asked
. You wouldn’t let your dog go through that kind of agony
was one well-voiced declaration. But to debate the rights and wrongs of assisted suicide was not Lorimer’s business. That was up to the moralists and politicians. No, his business was to root out any criminal activity and to put a stop to that.

The telephone ring shut off his musings abruptly.

‘Lorimer.’

‘It’s Rosie. Sorry but it’s not good news.’

‘Go on.’

‘Maggie’s cousin? Mr Imrie? We rushed through the tox results after his PM.’

There was a pause and Lorimer felt his fingers gripping the phone more tightly.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Rosie repeated. ‘But they’ve discovered a high amount of morphine.’

‘That’s what killed him?’

‘Looks like it. I’d say as much in a court of law.’

‘You may have to,’ Lorimer replied, looking back out of the window at the clouds darkening over the city. ‘I mean to catch whoever is doing this to vulnerable folk like David.’

‘Three deaths in a short space of time. Three people who may have been going to die in the fairly near future.’ Lorimer looked around the room at the men and women assembled there. Every eye was upon him, every face showing signs of attention.

‘Jane Maitland was a very wealthy woman,’ he continued. ‘We’ve already spoken to her beneficiary. However, I think more needs to be done on that front.

‘Julie Gardiner had very little to leave in the way of assets but her sister appears to have been in contact with some organisation offering to end either her or her sister’s life.’

He looked behind at the two photos of the women. Julie was sprawled in her wheelchair while the photo of Rachel hanging in the garage was a grim reminder of how the dog walker had found her body.

‘We have solid forensic evidence that the deaths of Miss Maitland and Julie Gardiner are linked. The grounds around Abbey Nursing Home are still being investigated by the SOCOs but we now have the tox result from Mr Imrie’s PM. If there are any prints or DNA to match what we have found on the first two victims then we know we are looking for something a lot bigger than
two
deaths.’

The silence in the room was potent, each officer no doubt thinking along the same lines to a memory of another killer, the bearded Dr Shipman, whose victims may well have numbered over two hundred. That was a fact that Lorimer didn’t need to voice; a reminder of the most vulnerable members of society at the mercy of one whom they had trusted with their very lives.