The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (20 page)

Kirsty watched the man’s grim expression. She was still to let him know about her meeting with Mary Milligan. Something was holding her back. And in her heart she knew that it was the thought of Murdoch being involved in his own wife’s death. If she were to stir up trouble for the newly bereaved man… She drew her lips into a thin line as though unconsciously keeping her information secret. But she had to tell Lorimer. It was just a matter of when. Certainly not now in front of all of these police officers who were Murdoch’s colleagues.

‘Sir,’ a female DC piped up. ‘We heard that Mr Imrie is a relative of yours. Is that right?’

Lorimer gave a wintry smile. ‘My wife’s late cousin,’ he replied. ‘Not a blood relative of mine so there is nothing personal going on. Hardly knew the chap. Saw him recently after his father’s funeral.’

‘Isn’t that a conflict of interest?’ Kirsty heard another officer whisper to her neighbour. But a shake of the head made her fall silent once again.

‘We have intelligence that vulnerable patients are being targeted either in their own homes or, in this case, a respectable private nursing home.’

He gave a nod and swept his gaze over the team. ‘One thing we cannot do is to alert every hospital or nursing home to the possibility that their patients might be being bumped off,’ he told them grimly. ‘That would simply cause a national panic and besides, we need much more proof about what is going on.’

He smiled over the crowd to catch Kirsty’s eye.

‘Thanks to DC Wilson we have a lead that might help us trace emails to the perpetrator.’

Kirsty felt her cheeks redden as everyone turned to stare. More than one glance looked at her in a less than charitable manner.
Nobody likes a teacher’s pet,
she thought.
He shouldn’t have singled me out.

‘What we must all do is to ask these places to make us aware of any emails coming from this organisation calling itself Quiet Release. And also to let us know about any unusual spikes in their death rates.’

Kirsty looked around seeing serious faces and a few nodding heads.

‘Remember this is a team effort and I know that each and every one of you will put your hearts and souls into solving this case.’

The blue gaze swept the room and once more the whole place was silent.

‘Before I hand out the actions, I want to say this. And I want you to know that there is no religious conviction behind my words.’ He stared at them all in turn. ‘Murder is the unlawful killing of a person against their will. It is a savage act whether it happens with the swing of a drunken blade or the pinprick of a needle full of morphine. Don’t think that because these people were terminally ill it somehow makes ending their lives right. It doesn’t. Each day they lived was perhaps a precious twenty-four hours that they enjoyed as best they could. Perhaps every day was one more day dragging on painfully until death came as a blessed release. We may never know. But what you need to remember is that from what we
do
know Jane Maitland, Julie Gardiner and David Imrie had no say whatsoever in the time and method of when and how they were to draw their very last breath.’

‘I thought you were very brave,’ Kirsty said, adding, ‘Sir,’ as Lorimer shot her a look.

‘Ach, it had to be said,’ Lorimer told her, motioning Kirsty into a seat next to his desk. ‘Too many folk have divided opinions on euthanasia as it is. What everyone in Police Scotland needs to remember is that no matter what their religious persuasions or lack of them, their job is to root out criminal activity
and
protect the public from it.’

‘Yes,’ Kirsty nodded. ‘I think we all got that, sir.’

‘Right, then, your email said that there was something you needed to discuss with me in private. I’m intrigued.’

Kirsty shifted in her seat. How to begin?

‘When I was at the hospital with DS Murdoch. The day his wife died. There was a nurse who wanted to tell me stuff. A Highland woman. Talked about an angel of mercy putting her patients to sleep. A superstitious type, I thought. I didn’t really pay her too much heed. A bit shocked about Mrs Murdoch.’

‘You didn’t know she had MS?’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘DS Murdoch never said.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well this nurse, Mary Milligan, she contacted me and asked to meet up.’ Kirsty bit her lip. ‘Not sure if I should have… anyway… turns out that she has concerns about the number of patients dying in her wards. And that’s not all.’

As she related the woman’s words to Lorimer, the detective superintendent steepled his fingers together against his chin and regarded her thoughtfully.

‘You think there may be something in it?’ he asked at last.

Kirsty thought for a moment. How much to tell him? Suspicions were just that. And how would she feel if there were no basis for the nurse’s words about Murdoch? Something was stopping her from repeating them, and she guessed that it was the memory of the man’s genuine grief.

She coughed to cover up her pause, hoping that Lorimer would not notice her hesitation.

‘Yes, sir, I do,’ Kirsty replied at last.

‘We need evidence. What sort of CCTV systems are there in that ward? Find out and see if there are any images of this doctor, or whoever he is. Then we might begin to put something together.’

‘Yes, sir. Is that what you would like me to do now?’ Kirsty asked hopefully.

Lorimer thought for a moment. Several of the actions handed out included sifting through paperwork belonging to the victims. But there was one particular thing that he needed to do himself.

‘Not just yet, Kirsty. I want you to come with me on a little trip to the countryside.’

The journey was made mostly in silence and Kirsty could understand why. Who would want to tell a man that his brother had been murdered? Especially if that man was your wife’s cousin.

As they’d set off, Lorimer had explained about the farm. How Patrick Imrie had been prepared to sell up to fund his brother’s care at Abbey Nursing Home.

He’d had a lot to gain from David’s death, Kirsty realised. And yet it had been Patrick who had requested that his brother undergo a post-mortem examination. Strange, she thought, as they passed out of the city and on to a winding road between sloping hills where the heather was fading from purple to brown.

It would be very interesting to see this man’s reaction to the news. And it came to Kirsty Wilson that this was exactly why Lorimer had brought her with him.

T
he skies were louring over the nearby hill, a grey mass of raincloud threatening to sweep across the Carse. The wind was still high, tree branches swaying, leaves scattering as they drove past. Autumn was here now for sure, the equinox long past and October promising darker days ahead. What must it be like living out here amongst these bleak hills, surrounded by fields and fields, only the occasional cottage or dwelling house half a mile away for a neighbour? Winters would be unbearable, Kirsty thought, shivering as she imagined the distant mountains covered in snow.

Lorimer had slowed down at a bend, a tractor trundling in front of them, barring any passage on this narrow stretch as a line of vehicles approached from the other side. Then there was a gap and the big car roared past, Kirsty glancing up at the young man sitting exposed to the elements, bareheaded, his sleeves rolled up on his navy overalls. Who would be a farmer?

‘They’re a hardy breed,’ Lorimer remarked, as though reading his companion’s thoughts. ‘Have to be to endure the sorts of weather we get.’

As if on cue the rain began, bouncing off the windscreen and no doubt soaking the poor lad who was now almost out of sight.

It was another fifteen minutes of watching the windscreen wipers swish back and forth before the big car slowed down and Lorimer turned into a country lane.

‘Your poor car’ll be in a right state after this,’ Kirsty murmured as they bounced over the muddy, pitted track, its twin ruts more suited to the huge tyres on a Massey Ferguson tractor.

Lorimer did not answer, concentrating instead on the steep gradient and a blind corner ahead.

‘Is this it?’ she asked suddenly as a farm came into sight, its limewashed walls bordering the road.
U
PPER
T
ANNOCH
, a sign proclaimed.

‘No. That’s their nearest neighbours. Think I met them at Robert Imrie’s funeral.’

Then the track descended once again to a view of flatter fields where sheep were grazing and a meandering stream that separated one flock from another.

‘That’s Lower Tannoch over there,’ Lorimer said, pointing to a group of low-lying buildings huddled against a hillside. Kirsty peered out. It didn’t look like much at first, just white walls and the side of a two-storey house, but as Lorimer drove into the cobbled yard, she saw barns and outbuildings that stretched out from the main building and beyond.

Lorimer parked next to a grey Land Rover and Kirsty breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be at this journey’s end and anticipating a nice cup of tea and maybe some home baking. Weren’t farmers’ wives famous for their hospitality, after all?

Stepping out she shivered as gusts of wind drove the rain right into her face.

Dogs barking somewhere close made Kirsty pause as Lorimer strode to the front door. But the pair of collies who came racing across the yard had tails wagging and tongues lolling out of their mouths. A sniff of her hand seemed to satisfy the pair and they stood quietly beside the tall policeman as he waited for the door to open.

‘Bill, didn’t know you were…’ The man standing in the doorway looked curiously at Kirsty.

‘My colleague, DC Wilson.’

‘Oh. Please come in.’ Patrick Imrie stood aside and Kirsty noticed that he was wearing thick socks and no shoes. Probably keeps his wellington boots at the back door, she thought, as the farmer ushered them both inside.

‘Fly! Mac! Go ’way, now!’ he called to the dogs and Kirsty saw them slink back the way they’d come, no doubt to find shelter in kennels or a warm barn.

‘Wild day,’ Patrick said as he led them through a dark corridor and into a large kitchen with a range that gave off a welcome heat.

‘Oh!’ Kirsty dropped to her knees as she spotted the basket by the range, its contents several furry bodies curled up together. ‘Kittens!’

‘You want one?’ Patrick laughed at the soppy expression on the detective constable’s face.

‘I’d love a kitten but we live in a flat,’ she explained, getting to her feet. ‘Are you looking for homes for them?’

‘Only one’s spoken for,’ Patrick admitted, his big hands picking up a furry ginger bundle. ‘This wee fella’s going up the road to our neighbour.’

The other kittens, all mixtures of stripy greys, moved restlessly, disturbed by their brother’s absence, and Kirsty grinned as she saw their blue eyes open sleepily. She’d take the whole basket, given half a chance, these wee things were so endearing.

‘Cup of tea?’ Patrick asked, and then she found herself sitting next to Lorimer at the huge scrubbed pine table that dominated the room. He looked a nice man, she decided, watching as he placed the ginger kitten in her lap with a wink. His dark hair had a natural wave and his eyes were crinkled at the corners as though Patrick Imrie was in the habit of smiling. The hands that had held the kitten were calloused and rough, testament to years of hard physical work.

‘Annette’s upstairs,’ Patrick said, setting a huge kettle on the range. ‘I’ll just go and give her a shout. She wouldn’t have heard your car coming.’

Left alone, Kirsty turned to Lorimer.

‘Think he’ll be like your cat Chancer when he grows up?’ she asked, petting the kitten who was now settling down with a purr that reverberated through the room.

‘Aye, maybe. Nice wee fellow,’ Lorimer said, one hand stroking the long fur. ‘Maggie used to tell me about coming here as a child. It was all the farm animals that she loved, especially the newborns.’

‘I can see why they’d hate to have left this,’ Kirsty whispered, her eyes roving around the kitchen. The pine dresser held a row of painted china plates on each shelf and a large jug of dried flowers; the window overlooking the yard was decorated with a string of felt hearts above a lace café curtain and a stack of magazines were piled up on an old rocking chair in the corner. It was the sort of kitchen she would have chosen for her own, Kirsty decided. Plus the kittens and the collies made it seem all the more homely.

‘She’s just coming,’ Patrick said as he entered the room again, running a hand through his hair. Immediately Kirsty could see in the man’s face that something was wrong. Twin spots of colour flushed his cheeks and the downward turn of his mouth made her wonder just what had been going on between husband and wife in the few minutes since Patrick Imrie had welcomed them into his home.

Then Lorimer was standing as Patrick’s wife swept into the room.

If she had chosen an image of the farmer’s wife, Kirsty would have been way off the mark, she decided as Annette Imrie was introduced to her. It was not just the well-groomed hair, the made-up face or the perfectly manicured nails. No, she simply didn’t fit into this place, Kirsty thought, trying not to stare. What had she expected instead of this female with her green dress and high-heeled shoes? Someone more casually dressed, perhaps, in jeans and trainers, a flowery apron over her ample bosom? Someone, she thought suddenly, like her own mum.

‘Sorry to have kept you.’ Annette Imrie gave them both a brittle smile. ‘I was just getting ready to go into Glasgow.’ Kirsty nodded. That explained the outfit. Probably glad to be away from dungarees and wellies for a change, she decided.

‘What brings you here? Were you in the area?’ she asked, eyes flicking curiously between Lorimer and Kirsty.

Patrick Imrie turned away from the range where he had been pouring boiling water into a china teapot. ‘Aye?’ His own expression was, Kirsty thought, a tad more anxious than before.

‘I think you should both sit down,’ Lorimer told them quietly. ‘And I think we’re all going to need this tea.’

Kirsty watched as the woman sank on to a chair, fingers clasped together on the edge of the table, her husband sitting next to her.

‘What’s up, Bill?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ Lorimer began, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and drawing out a folded paper. ‘The toxicology report from David’s post-mortem shows an abnormally high amount of morphine,’ he told them.

Annette Imrie’s eyes never wavered, fixed on the police officers opposite and the paper in his hand, but Kirsty saw the red painted fingernails digging into the backs of her hands.

Patrick shook his head. ‘Are they sure? David wasn’t prescribed morphine. I mean…’ He turned to stare at his wife, a bewildered look on his face. ‘David was never in any
pain
,’ he protested. ‘Are you sure they got that right? It doesn’t make sense. I mean,
morphine
…?’

‘I’m really sorry,’ Lorimer repeated. ‘There’s no doubting these results. And, what’s more, we’ve got reason to believe an intruder entered your brother’s room to administer that drug.’

‘What?’ The woman gave a cry and covered her mouth with both hands.

‘Are you telling us that someone killed David?’ Patrick whispered, leaning across the table, tears filling his eyes.

‘That’s exactly what I came to tell you both,’ Lorimer said gently. ‘And I’m afraid it may be quite upsetting. You see,’ he broke off to gaze first at one then the other of the Imries, ‘David isn’t the only person whose death is being investigated. And I’m the senior investigating officer in charge of several cases.’

Kirsty slipped off her seat and walked around the kitchen, eyes on the mug tree by the sink. In minutes she had located the fridge and milk jug then she walked silently back, laying the tea on the table in front of the couple.

‘Sugar?’ she asked, knowing how good it was for shock, but both Patrick and Annette shook their heads, the former staring at Lorimer in disbelief.

‘Who would want to kill my brother?’ Patrick said at last, taking his mug of tea in both hands. ‘David never hurt a soul in his life. Who’d want to kill a defenceless man in his state…’ He broke off with a shuddering sob, biting his finger fiercely and shaking his head.

Annette placed one hand on top of her husband’s. ‘Bill will get to the bottom of this,’ she said firmly. Then, turning to Lorimer. ‘Won’t you?’

She was dry-eyed, Kirsty saw, though if there was any emotion at all in Annette Imrie right now it was a quiet, suppressed rage, her scarlet lips narrowing in a thin, determined line.

The dogs were nowhere to be seen as they drove out of the farmyard but the two figures in the doorway stood still, watching as Lorimer and Kirsty left to journey back to the city.

‘Annette?’ Patrick tried to take his wife’s hand but she shook him off.

‘I need to get going, Pat. Late now because of them…’ She walked back inside, lifting her coat from the hall stand and a set of car keys from the shelf by the door.

‘I thought you wouldn’t want to go into town now…’ Patrick Imrie looked at her, his brow furrowed.

‘Oh? And what difference does Bill Lorimer’s visit make to that?’ she snapped.

Patrick let his hands fall by his side as he watched his wife tiptoe across the puddles, open the door of the Land Rover and climb up into the driver’s seat.

A roar and a plume of exhaust smoke, then she was gone, leaving the farmer standing there on his own under the weeping skies.