The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (2 page)

F
or everybody else it was just a day like any other day.

Kirsty had almost passed the mirror when she took a step back, momentarily puzzled by the stranger whose frown so resembled her own.

It was, she thought, like seeing herself naked.

That quick glance each morning had seen a figure clad in the uniform of Police Scotland, PC Kirsty Wilson often pausing to adjust her hat, a piece of kit that she disliked intensely.

This morning was different. Today was a new beginning, a step away from the routine she had enjoyed as a uniformed officer in Glasgow into the heady atmosphere of CID. In truth, since joining the police, Kirsty had always hoped to emulate her father, Detective Inspector Alistair Wilson, who was now on the point of retiring after thirty years of service. There would be a brief few weeks while father and daughter worked together as colleagues in the divisional headquarters at Stewart Street, something that was rarely allowed to happen within the force and was only being permitted because the DI would be leaving in early October.

Kirsty started to frown back at the girl whose reflection was caught in the long mirror in the hallway of her flat, then gave a laugh instead, her mouth curving in the grin that came more naturally to her. It was a face that had lost its former chubbiness after her spell of basic training and regular attendance at the gym. Anyone looking at the police officer would have noticed high cheekbones and a pale complexion, with dark, almost black hair – the young woman’s features being typical of the ancient Celtic blood that ran in her veins.

Kirsty smoothed down the jacket of her new trouser suit, feeling the slenderness of her waist with satisfaction. Gone were the days of scoffing her own home baking and curling up with a mug of full-fat hot chocolate in front of the television, though in truth she still enjoyed pottering in the kitchen and turning out some delicious cakes, especially for her boyfriend, James, whose stick-thin frame never seemed to change, however many calories he consumed. James had sat up poring over his textbooks well into the night, his dissertation for this final honours year proving to be more of a task than he had anticipated. Kirsty would not wake him but simply slip out and greet this new phase of her professional life alone.

‘Good morning, Detective Constable Wilson,’ she whispered, savouring the name for a brief moment, acknowledging the thrill of excitement that she felt inside.

What would they make of her? It would be extra hard, given that her father’s reputation preceded her own. She’d have to prove to them all that she had deserved this step into CID. Giving the girl in the mirror a desultory wave of her hand, Kirsty picked up the shoulder bag lying by the front door, turned the key in the lock and stepped out of the flat, careful to close the heavy door behind her as quietly as possible.

It was the sort of morning that suited new beginnings, she thought, pausing by the kerb at Barrington Drive to breathe in the cool early morning air. Few people were about at this time in the morning yet there was always the sound of traffic coming from Woodlands Road on one side and Great Western Road on the other. An arrow-shaped leaf from the row of cherry trees fluttered down at her feet, a harbinger of the swirling flight of autumn foliage that would spread all over the roads and pavements come the next storm. Kirsty resisted the urge to pick it up and put it into her pocket, something she had always done as a child.
The first leaf of autumn, Kirsty
, she could recall her grandmother telling her.
It’s the sign of a new season beginning.

Grandmother Wilson had been right about that long after her voice had ceased to be heard this side of eternity. September was a month when Kirsty had made new starts in both university and police college. She loved this time of year when early morning mists appeared, bringing a chill to the air and robins whistling in the shrubbery. Although these were harbingers of the cold Scottish winters ahead, there was something about the transition from long bright days to the darker months that gave Kirsty a sense of renewed vigour after the lazy days of summer. Whenever the trees in the park turned from dusty greens into the autumn tints of yellow and gold, fond memories came back to her of crunching through drifts of leaves on her way to primary school and hunting for conkers.

It seemed a long time since she had come to the city, Kirsty thought, heading towards the path that would take her to Kelvingrove underground station. The flat in the quiet street that she shared with James was far handier for work and university than the one she had lived in when they had first met. That had been one of comparative luxury, the owner a Swedish girl whose wealthy father had indulged his daughter by purchasing a duplex apartment near Anniesland Cross. The time spent there had changed the course of Kirsty’s life in more ways than one.

She thrust the thoughts of Anniesland aside, concentrating instead on what she had been told to expect this morning. An induction into CID, becoming assigned to a mentor whom she may or may not have met in the past and, best of all, a short meeting with the man who had inspired her to join up in the first place, Detective Superintendent William Lorimer.

As Kirsty Wilson made her way out of the fresh early morning light and into the depths of the subway with its familiar smoky smell, she had no inkling just what else might lie ahead.

For everyone else, it was just an ordinary day.

For the woman heading to Stewart Street police station it was destined to bring unspeakable horror and a dilemma greater than any she had yet faced in her young life.

S
arah sniffed the air, wondering why it felt so different. She had worked in the gardens of HMP Cornton Vale in fresh air for most of the summer, but here, outside the prison gates, there was a scent of something smoky that reminded Sarah of her childhood. Bonfires and piles of leaves, dressing up for Halloween, misty mornings…

It had been a misty morning the day she had left for work, the day that everything had gone wrong in her life, she remembered, shivering as she waited for the taxi that was supposed to come and meet her in the car park. She pulled up the collar of her thin coat, the same coat she had worn to come in here all those months ago. Feeling in the pocket, Sarah found a crumpled tissue. It was the cold air, she told herself, blowing her nose and sniffling again. That was all. So why were her eyes filling up with tears, making the view of the houses nearby all blurry? She should be happy, ecstatic even. She was out, after all. Wasn’t that what she had dreamed of every blessed night as she’d lain down in that narrow bed, trying to sleep, desperate to blot out all the images that had haunted her?

The sound of a diesel engine made her look up as a silver car slowly wound its way into the visitors’ car park. Sarah stepped forward, knowing that this was a moment she had secretly dreaded. The car was coming to take her away from the place where she had been safe from the world outside.

‘Taxi for Wilding?’

The driver had rolled down his window and was regarding her with an appraising look in his eye. Did he think she was on the game like so many of her fellow inmates? Sarah clenched her teeth, realising that this was the first of many tests she was going to have to face. She reached out a hand to open the rear passenger door, trying not to return the driver’s stare. He might be used to picking up ex-cons here on this very spot for all she knew.

‘Railway station?’

Sarah nodded. It would be all right. She was only going to be alone with this man for a short while then she would feel the freedom of being an anonymous person amongst hundreds of other commuters travelling from Stirling into the city of Glasgow.

She did not look back as the car swung away from the prison, nor did she glance across the bridge where the Wallace Monument rose from the mist like an admonishing finger.

S
tewart Street police station was hidden amongst a huddle of high-rise flats, office blocks and the nearby fire station, its chequered sign only visible as Kirsty Wilson turned the corner of the street. Memories of her first visit here when she had been giving a witness statement in a murder inquiry came flooding back. She shivered suddenly, remembering. Yet there were good memories too: her stint here in uniform in the run-up to the Glasgow Commonwealth Games had given her plenty of experience. But today the building seemed more daunting, somehow. This was where she would spend the next few months in CID and so she must begin to see the place through different eyes, ones that had become used to seeing the citizens of Glasgow in all shapes and forms.

Her eyes sought out the old Volvo estate car lined up in the car park at the rear entrance to the police station. With a smile and a nod, Kirsty acknowledged the presence of her dad. He would be inside the building, waiting to see if she were arriving, perhaps even looking out for her at this very moment. The thought made her look up, but there was no face at an upper window watching for her arrival. She pushed open the door and entered the waiting area, glancing to her right just in case anyone was seated, watching for the moment when they were summoned inside to speak to one of the officers. But the curved row of brown faux-leather seats was empty, the floor slick and damp from the cleaner’s early morning work, a faint whiff of something that vaguely resembled pine lingering in the air.

She was about to open the swing doors when a thick-set man in a short-sleeved uniform shirt came to the window of the front desk.

‘Can I help you?’ His voice was a growl, his bushy eyebrows drawn down as though ready to admonish Kirsty.

‘Ah… It’s me. Detective Constable Wilson,’ Kirsty said. ‘My first day here in CID,’ she added, trying not to look as uncertain as she felt.

The eyebrows rose and the grim mouth turned up in a smile, transforming the man’s face in an instant.

‘Och, Alistair’s girl! Come away in, lass. Haven’t seen you in a while. Didn’t recognise you out of uniform.’ He grinned.

Kirsty heard the faint sound of a buzzer and the automatic doors in front of her swung open.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside, walking around to the door where the uniformed officer stood, regarding her with interest.

‘First day with CID, aye, you’ll be wanting to go upstairs to see Detective Sergeant Murdoch.’

‘Who?’

‘Len Murdoch,’ the officer replied. ‘He’s your mentor. Did Alistair not say?’

It was Kirsty’s turn to raise her eyebrows. ‘No,’ she replied, inwardly asking herself why her father had omitted to give her this snippet of information. After all, he’d been ready enough with other sorts of advice:
listen to everything that you’re told; keep a written record of every single action that you undertake; never contradict your superior officers
… the list seemed to have gone on and on, stuff that had echoes of the weeks spent at Tulliallan, that turreted mansion across the other side of the Kincardine Bridge that was home to the Scottish Police Training College.

Kirsty frowned for a moment: who was DS Murdoch? The name meant nothing to her. Perhaps that was why her dad had not mentioned her mentor. Was this Murdoch new to Stewart Street himself?

‘You know your way about here, don’t you? Along the corridor, up the stairs and you’ll find the muster room past the interview rooms.’ He nodded upwards. ‘It’s been a busy kind of night, by all accounts.’

‘Oh?’ Kirsty stopped and gave him an enquiring look but the officer simply grinned at her.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he replied, raising one bushy eyebrow. ‘Aye, Alistair, come down to see this young lady?’

Kirsty turned to see her father hurrying towards them, his black jacket zipped up. In an instant she was enveloped in a hug. At his side was a young woman whom Kirsty remembered seeing on her last visit to Stewart Street, a detective constable, she thought, struggling to recall the officer’s name.

‘Sorry I can’t stick around, m’dear, going out on a job.’ Alistair shook his head and gave Kirsty’s arm a reassuring pat. ‘They’re all upstairs. Busy morning,’ he added, echoing the police sergeant. ‘Oh, and Lorimer’s off today. Family funeral.’ He bent to give her a peck on her cheek. ‘Best of luck.’ He grinned, then they were gone, out to where the old Volvo was parked, two detectives in a hurry to be somewhere else.

As Kirsty opened the door to the muster room she could see several men and a few women gathered together and facing the far end of the room where an older man in a dark chalk-striped suit stood, talking to them. As Kirsty moved to join the crowd of officers, she observed his bullet-shaped head, its cropped grey hair giving him a distinctly military appearance. Was this DS Murdoch? A quick glance around brought a few smiles of recognition from the men and women who knew her as Alistair Wilson’s daughter, amongst them DC Jean Fairlie who gave her a grin and a thumbs up. But the man at the front was a complete stranger to Kirsty. At the sight of the new arrival, the man stopped what he was saying, waving her in with a flick of his hand, making several of the other officers turn and stare.

The man cleared his throat noisily. ‘As I was saying,’ he began, the gruff tone not trying to hide its note of sarcasm, causing Kirsty to blush to the roots of her hair. ‘It’s imperative that we catch the buggers before they have a chance to get any further from the city. Traffic have given us up-to-the minute CCTV information that suggests they’re still within the Glasgow area.’ The man paused and stared out over the assembled officers as though assessing them. For a moment his gaze rested on Kirsty and a faint smile played about his mouth, a smile, the girl noticed, that did not reach that pair of hard grey eyes.

Kirsty continued to listen, catching up on the news about a break-in at Paton’s, a city-centre jeweller’s shop, something that commanded the attention of the CID officers gathered in this room. As she listened, Kirsty pieced the story together. Armed robbers had burst into the premises during the hours of darkness, cutting through the steel shutters and smashing the windows even as the burglar alarm had been set off. Kirsty looked at the pictures on the screen behind the man in charge, images of running figures captured on CCTV cameras. Dark, masked men carrying the proceeds of their crime in what looked like sports bags, they fled out of sight, probably to a waiting car down a side lane.

‘DS Murdoch, sir, do we have any intelligence on other similar raids?’ a voice asked.

Kirsty looked at the detective sergeant who was standing, arms crossed, chin tilted upwards as though assessing the officer posing the question. So this was DS Murdoch, her mentor for the foreseeable future.

‘Nothing like it in Glasgow recently. A few raids down in the Nottingham area but can’t say they were quite like this one. Buggers actually thought things out before they busted the shop.’

There was a ripple of laughter in the room but Murdoch’s face displayed not a scrap of humour, his mouth a thin sour line as if the robbery was a personal affront and not just a part of his job. She felt a momentary qualm as she watched the detective sergeant’s eyes wander over the room then lock on her own. There was nothing malicious about the weary sigh and the raised eyebrows but it made Kirsty feel certain that having a new DC to mentor was the last thing this man desired on a busy Monday morning.

Several actions were handed out and the officers dispersed to their desks, leaving Kirsty stranded in the middle of the room with the bullet-headed DS staring at her.

‘Okay, Wilson, come with me,’ he said at last. ‘Might as well learn on the job. You can drive, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Kirsty replied, lengthening her stride to keep up with Murdoch. She bit back the temptation to add that she had recently passed her advanced driving test with flying colours. Murdoch obviously hadn’t taken the time to read her appraisal from her previous division and the knowledge of this irked Kirsty. Why hadn’t her dad told her this was the man who would be her mentor? Was there something about Murdoch that he wanted her to find out for herself? The thoughts chased each other around her head as she followed him out into the car park at the back of the building.

‘Here.’ Murdoch turned abruptly and chucked a bunch of keys towards her. They flew through the air and Kirsty caught them with one hand, making Murdoch raise his eyebrows in the first gesture of approval that he had shown since her arrival. As she slid into the Honda Civic and adjusted the seat, Kirsty suppressed the desire to smile. This was where she felt most at home, driving around the streets of Glasgow.

‘Where to, sir?’ she asked, glancing at Murdoch who had opened a file and was reading from a paper he held in his hand.

‘Scene of crime, of course,’ he replied in a withering tone. ‘Where else d’you think we’d be heading?’

There was the usual blue and white tape surrounding the front of the jeweller’s shop when Kirsty pulled up beside the scene of the robbery.

‘Keys,’ Murdoch said, the first words that he had uttered since leaving Stewart Street, and Kirsty handed them over.

She watched as he opened the boot and rummaged in a large black bag, something that she recognised as a scene of crime manager’s kitbag.

‘Here.’ He tossed a bag containing a forensic kit at Kirsty. ‘One size fits all,’ he said, a fleeting smile on his face. He looked at Kirsty’s low-heeled court shoes with a frown. ‘Don’t tear the overshoes, for God’s sake, will you.’

Kirsty struggled into the thin garb, feeling suddenly self- conscious. Every scene of crime demanded the same care and attention to detail nowadays. The least bit of contamination that an officer might bring to a locus could endanger the entire investigation.
Every contact leaves a trace,
the mantra that was Locard’s principle had been dinned into the raw recruits at police college. A sneeze in the wrong place might result in an officer’s own DNA messing up a particular area and so the wearing of full oversuits and masks was mandatory.

She followed him carefully as Murdoch stopped to examine the torn edges of the shuttering. ‘Need to find out what did this,’ he muttered, a gloved hand lifting the broken metal strut.

‘Sorry?’ Kirsty asked.

‘We need to find out what sort of power tools they used to cut these shutters,’ Murdoch said in a laboured manner, as if he were talking to a simpleton. ‘Christ! Where do they get you lot from these days?’ he sneered, rising to his feet and heading past the uniformed officer who was standing in the entrance to the shop.

Kirsty felt her face flame as he curled his lip at her. This was not a good beginning.
Watch and learn
, a little voice told her.
You’ll not be with him for ever.
And somehow the voice reminded her of her old friend, Detective Superintendent Lorimer, the man she had known for most of her life, something that immediately made her feel better.

She followed Murdoch into the premises, past the uniformed police officer who was shuffling her feet to avoid the pile of broken glass that littered the dark blue carpet.

Kirsty looked around to see if there were any scene of crime officers already in the jeweller’s shop but the place seemed deserted.

‘Is it just us, sir?’ she asked.

Murdoch turned with a crooked grin. ‘Worried I might try it on with you, Wilson?’ he asked, his voice thick with derision.

‘No, I —’

‘The SOCOs are on their way,’ he sighed. ‘As crime scene manager I have to be here first to determine exactly how this investigation should proceed.’

‘The owners…?’

‘Are on their way to Stewart Street to have a nice cup of tea and talk to the officers there,’ he replied. ‘Need to get them back later to check the stock, see exactly what’s missing.’ Then he folded his arms and looked Kirsty up and down. ‘How about getting me a coffee and a bacon roll from across the road,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of a greasy spoon that bore the dubious name Snax Attax on a white board above the double frontage.

But I’ve just kitted up,
Kirsty wanted to protest, then her better self uttered, ‘Yes, sir,’ in her meekest voice.

As she stepped aside to remove the oversuit and shoes, Kirsty watched Murdoch out of the corner of her eye. The crime scene manager had strolled into a corner of the shop and was examining trays of watches that had been thrown on to the floor. As she folded the white clothing, she saw Murdoch drag the huge black bag that contained his crime scene gear and set it at his feet, partly blocking her view.

The man was crouched down on his hunkers, gloved hands running slowly across the tray. Was he making some sort of a mental inventory? Kirsty wondered as she turned to leave.

It was over so quickly that she hardly saw it happening. One moment Murdoch’s hand was hovering above the watches, the next he was slipping something into the bag at his feet.

I didn’t see that,
was Kirsty’s first thought as she hurried from the jeweller’s shop, pausing to thrust her forensic suit into the Honda.
He couldn’t have done that, could he?
Yet, as she crossed the road to the café, one hand fumbling for her purse, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that her eyes had not deceived her. She had seen her mentor, Detective Sergeant Murdoch, putting one of the watches into his crime scene bag.

The smell of rancid bacon and hot pies wafted out of the café as Kirsty opened the door, suddenly making her feel sick. Heart thumping, she waited in a small queue of early morning workers, glancing back across the road at the shop.

There was no way of seeing Murdoch from here, just the officer standing outside and the Honda parked by the kerb. Had she really seen her senior officer stealing a watch? Was it something he had done to test her, perhaps? Would he expect his new DC to bring up the subject?