The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (27 page)

T
he telephones never stopped ringing.

All over the city, hospital wards and nursing homes were checking their patient records (especially those recently deceased) to see if there had been anything extraordinary to show to the police. And the gentlemen and ladies of the press were having a field day, reporters sent to South Glasgow University Hospital as well as Abbey Nursing Home and Rose Park, the staff in each trying to fend off these unexpected visitors to their doors. It was hopeless, of course, like trying to stem the tide, since relatives of existing patients as well as those recently bereaved were being doorstepped.

By the end of the day Detective Superintendent Lorimer was heartily sick of the constant voices on the end of his office phone, the continual complaints giving him a genuine headache. Jimmy Nichol had been instructed to send out a press notice that attempted to repair as much of the peripheral damage as possible but in truth it was too late. That the ‘police were continuing with their inquiries whilst holding two men on suspicion of being involved in unlawful killings’ was no longer newsworthy, but it was all he had to go on right now.

With a sigh that became a groan as his chair scraped under him, Lorimer reached for his jacket and coat. It was time to head for home where Maggie and Chancer would be waiting, his ex-directory number ensuring that he would at least have a bit of peace from the calls. Slipping his mobile into one pocket, Lorimer was tempted to switch the blessed thing off but his sense of duty was stronger than the desire for some peace and quiet. He closed his eyes, hoping for some relief from the worsening headache.
I’ve got the best job in the world,
he’d often told people and yet right now the detective superintendent would have gladly walked out of this building and never come back.

‘Hi, you.’ Maggie came towards him, arms outstretched. As he held his wife, feeling her beating heart and the warmth from her body, Lorimer felt a sudden sweep of emotion. How grateful he was for this lovely woman!

‘Saw the papers,’ Maggie said shortly, looking up at her husband’s face intently. ‘Everyone in the staffroom was talking about it.’

Lorimer exhaled a sigh. ‘It’s been a hell of a day,’ he murmured. ‘Whoever did this…’ A shake of his weary head was all he could muster.

‘Well, I think a large whisky before dinner is called for, don’t you?’ Maggie said, turning to the sideboard and opening the door where several bottles of fine malt were stored. ‘And there’s chicken broth. With fresh parsley.’ She smiled, picking up a bottle of Bunnahabhain, one of her husband’s favourite Islay single malts, and reaching for a crystal whisky glass. ‘And the remains of a lasagne if you’re hungry enough…?’

Later, replete with the food and whisky, Lorimer sat sprawled on the settee, his long legs stretched out in front of him. They had watched the evening news on television, neither of them uttering a word as the pictures of Abbey Nursing Home flicked across their screen. All over Scotland people would be seeing this debacle, he thought, and making pointed comments about the ineptitude of their police force.

‘Ach.’ He made a face as though there was a bad taste in his mouth. ‘I can’t conceive of anyone stooping so low as that.’

Maggie leaned forward from her place beside him and took his hand in hers.

‘For a man who’s seen the worst of human nature that’s a strange thing to say,’ she told him. ‘Think of the conmen who’ve doorstepped old ladies, drug dealers who have no conscience about their customers overdosing, killers who’ve taken the lives of innocent people…’

‘Aye, but this is different,’ Lorimer said slowly, sitting up and putting his arm around Maggie’s shoulders. ‘These folk had so little time left to them. Their last precious days were robbed. And what for? So some greedy bastard could pile up wealth for himself? It makes me sick!’ he said, a sudden anger creeping into his tone.

‘Or
her
self,’ Maggie murmured. ‘What has Solly said about it?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, the man’s a genius. He does think that a man is behind this and yes, he is certain that the motivation is money. Think about it, Mags,’ he said, stroking her hair gently. ‘He sets up this organisation online, uses some shady characters to grub around and find out where to obtain drugs and do dirty work.’

‘Did either of the men you arrested actually administer the morphine, though?’

‘No. That’s somebody else we need to find. The so-called doctor that Mary Milligan identified. But I bet you anything you like that he isn’t the person behind it all.’

‘Why?’ Maggie turned her head and looked at him.

‘Too risky. There may be hundreds of folk all over this city, all over the country, who have been targeted. Our tech people are still trying to find a lead from the Gardiner girls’ computer.’ He sighed. ‘I think this is bigger than we realise, Maggie. And the few people who have been identified as being unlawfully killed are just the tip of a very large iceberg.’

Across the city, Solly sat watching as the latest news unfolded. Money, he had declared to Lorimer. That was behind all of this. And yet something lately had been troubling the psychologist. What if the primary motivation had changed into something far more dangerous? What if the person administering these lethal injections had developed a different sort of appetite? Not just for the acquisition of lots of money but simply because he enjoyed the act of killing? Such a person would be very dangerous indeed, someone who would relish being a risk taker, someone who would believe themselves to be invincible.

The television screen was now showing a map of the British Isles and the gales sweeping in from the Atlantic, but Solomon Brightman was oblivious to the weatherman’s warnings, his thoughts focusing on the profile of the killer they sought.

Annette Imrie sat in the semi-darkness of her husband’s study. The hand holding the grey plastic mouse trembled as she scrolled down the pages of emails on the new account that had been set up. One by one she deleted the messages then sat back, relieved to see a blank screen once more.

A noise at her back made the woman jump.

‘Patrick! I thought you were asleep!’

‘What are you doing?’ Her husband’s voice was tinged with suspicion.

‘Nothing, darling. Just surfing the net to see if I can find a decent outfit for poor David’s funeral. Surely it won’t be long now?’ she asked, rising from the chair and coming to stand beside him, pressing her sinuous body against his own.

‘Come back to bed, darling,’ she crooned softly. ‘So much to do tomorrow. You need your sleep.’

Patrick nodded wearily, but, as they left the room, his eyes fell on the bright, blank screen. And he felt a heavy weight like a stone in his heart.

Lorimer pressed the button on his steering wheel as the mobile began to ring. It was still dark outside, the dawn light only beginning to show on the eastern horizon as he drove into the city.

‘Bill?’

Lorimer frowned. Whose voice was this? And who was calling him by name?

‘It’s me, Patrick,’ the man’s voice continued.

‘Patrick.’ Lorimer tried not to sigh. ‘I suppose you’ve seen the news?’

‘Oh, yes, of course we did. But that’s not why I’m calling you.’

‘Oh?’ Lorimer knew that he was hearing something grave in the man’s voice. Something like defeat.

‘I need to drop something off to you. Where are you right now?’

The morning light was a flush of lemon across the city skyline as Lorimer drove across the hilly country road. Patrick had mentioned a place between the farm and Lorimer’s office where they should meet, a village not far from a lonely stretch of ground where the detective had once found a burned-out ambulance, the body inside a clue to solving a series of murders. He slowed down at a corner and took another winding road, glancing to his right as if he would still see that scene. But all he saw was a glimpse of white rumps as a pair of hinds grazed peacefully amidst the long autumn grasses.

The road wound down and around to the village below, then he stopped at the main road, looking carefully for any passing traffic. A minute along this road he saw the grey Land Rover sitting in the lay-by and slowed down, parking the Lexus behind it.

Patrick Imrie got out and opened the back door.

‘I think you should have a look at this,’ he said dully, handing Lorimer a heavy bundle wrapped in a layer of blanket.

‘What…?’

‘It’s our laptop computer. Annette…’ Patrick broke off, turning away so that Lorimer could not see his face. ‘She…’ The farmer’s head was bowed now, the tweed cap shading his eyes. ‘I think she was in touch with that organisation,’ he mumbled. ‘Quiet Release.’

‘Don’t say anything more,’ Lorimer told him, touching his arm lightly. ‘We’ll speak to you and Annette later if there is anything compromising here.’

‘She only wanted things to stay the way they were, I’m sure of that,’ Patrick said slowly, glancing once at Lorimer then looking away again.

‘Don’t let her know about this,’ the detective told him. ‘And make sure she doesn’t go on any little excursions too far from home.’

‘What will happen?’ The farmer looked directly at Lorimer now, his brow furrowed, the bushy eyebrows drawn down.

‘Not for me to decide,’ he replied. ‘And these things take time,’ he said gently. ‘Go home and get on with whatever you need to do on the farm. And try not to dwell on this.’ He tapped the computer under his arm. ‘It’s my responsibility now.’

The journey back to Glasgow was slower, commuter traffic building up as Lorimer neared the outskirts of the city. Fat drops of rain splashed against the windscreen like unshed tears then, as he slowed down behind a line of vehicles, the heavens opened and the car was dashed with sweeping torrents as the promised storms began.

‘W
e’re going out.’ Murdoch stood beside Kirsty’s desk staring down at her. It was a command, terse and brief, and the detective constable rose immediately from where she had been poring over her laptop to follow the man out of the room.

‘Where…?’

‘Pub,’ he answered shortly, giving her a sudden grin that made his harsh features a little more likeable. Then he tapped her shoulder. ‘Don’t look so bemused, Wilson. It’s all part of your training.’

Most after-hours socialising was done in the same city-centre bar when officers would meet to discuss the day’s work over a pint or two before heading home, at least those who, like Kirsty, took public transport. She’d been out on the town several times before, mostly with her father, as different officers sought out Alistair Wilson before the detective inspector retired for good. But Murdoch had never been amongst the crowd and certainly not at this hour of the day.

Instructed to drive east, Kirsty found herself in a part of Glasgow that she remembered well from her stint in uniform. The old tenement buildings were just the same, beyond the swishing windscreen wipers, many windows boarded up as the developers sought to tear down and renew this area. Regeneration had taken place because of the Commonwealth Games, Glasgow’s proud moment on the world stage, the Athletes’ Village now home to many families. But it was not to any fancy new pub by the riverside that DC Wilson was directed but an old place on the corner of a street much further along London Road.

‘Park round the corner,’ Murdoch told her, as she glanced at the double yellow lines beneath the streaming gutters. ‘We won’t be that long, but why take the chance, eh?’ He grinned again and Kirsty began to wonder just what awaited them here at this public house, its ancient metal sign proclaiming
T
HE
B
IG
Y
IN
, a faint picture of a bearded man below just discernible in the teeming rain.

‘Don’t ask questions, Wilson,’ Murdoch said suddenly as he unclipped his seat belt. ‘Just watch and listen. Okay?’ He tapped the side of his nose and slid out of the Honda as Kirsty resisted the urge to raise her eyebrows to heaven. What on earth were they doing here at this time in the morning? Okay, she glanced at her watch as she closed the door and pulled her raincoat hood over her head, it was officially legal to sell alcohol… but why had Murdoch brought her here?

The interior of the pub was dark but warm and dry, a welcome refuge from the torrent beating against the windows. An older man was standing behind the bar flicking through a sheaf of papers, his bare arms sporting a myriad of blue tattoos. He looked up when Murdoch strode inside.

‘All right, Jock?’ Murdoch nodded to the barman.

‘Aye, yourself?’ The man nodded back but clearly did not expect a reply, his eyes immediately returned to the documents in his hands.

Murdoch walked across the empty room to a corner table where an old man was sitting nursing a half pint of beer, the empty whisky glass beside him testament to a desperate need to fortify himself. Against the weather? Kirsty wondered. Or because DS Murdoch was now drawing up a stool and sitting opposite?

‘Whisky and water for Tam and me,’ Murdoch announced. ‘And an orange juice for the young lady.’

Kirsty turned to see the barman, who had crept up silently behind them. She tried to make eye contact but the man called Jock had already gone back across the room to fetch their order.

‘This is Miss Wilson,’ Murdoch said, making the old man look up at Kirsty with his rheumy eyes. ‘Tam McLachlan,’ Murdoch said shortly by way of introduction.

‘How do you do?’ Kirsty said, stretching out her hand, but to her annoyance Murdoch slapped it away.

‘Don’t touch this auld beggar. Never know where he’s been,’ he said sharply. But the grin belied his action and the old man began to titter as he lifted up the glass to his lips.

Certainly Tam McLachlan was no oil painting, that was for sure, Kirsty thought, looking at him with renewed interest. Several days’ growth sprouted from his chin and broken red veins made a pattern across his nose and cheeks, the telltale sign of a heavy drinker. Now Kirsty guessed exactly why she had been brought here. Tam McLachlan was not just any old codger. He was evidently one of Murdoch’s snouts from the past.

‘My round, I think.’ Murdoch pulled some notes from his raincoat pocket and handed them to Jock the barman as he arrived with a tray, flipping beermats on to the old wooden table before placing down their drinks. It was hardly worth the bother, Kirsty thought, looking at the scarred tabletop, its varnish worn away by years of neglect.

Murdoch waited until Jock had gone away again then he held out his glass and clinked it against the old man’s.

‘Here’s to you, Tam,’ he said.

Kirsty sipped her orange juice, noting the other man’s gap-toothed grin, the decay in his mouth a sign of poor nutrition or simply neglect. Or, she thought suddenly, had Tam McLachlan lost some of these teeth in other ways? Brawls in the street? Fights amongst gangs? He looked too old and spent now to do much harm, the wrists skinny as he held his whisky glass, but perhaps in his youth he had been a different person.

Murdoch fumbled in his pocket and brought out a roll of twenty-pound notes that he placed on the centre of the table. The old man’s eyes gleamed with sudden greed and he put out one claw-like hand.

‘Not so fast, Tam.’ Murdoch’s great fist covered the old man’s fingers tightly. ‘You know the rules. Have to earn it first.’ He took away his hand and Kirsty saw him replace the money in his pocket, Tam’s eyes following the gesture.

‘Right. Billy Brogan,’ Murdoch began.

‘Aw, Mr Murdoch, I dinna ken where Billy is,’ Tam moaned, his eyes sliding sideways in the way of every liar Kirsty had ever seen.

‘Do we believe him, Miss Wilson?’ Murdoch turned to Kirsty, a mock innocence in his expression.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head as she lifted the glass of juice. She didn’t add
sir
. This wasn’t an official scene and besides, Murdoch had introduced her as Miss Wilson, not DC.

‘See, Tam, the young lady thinks you’re telling porkies. Now, you don’t want to be impolite, do you? So,’ Murdoch leaned across the small round table and took the old man’s jacket between two meaty fists, ‘tell us what we want to know. Where’s Brogan?’

I didn’t see that,
Kirsty told herself, notching up one more tick against Murdoch. The man had his ways, old-fashioned and unprincipled they might be, but it was nevertheless breathtaking to see what would emerge from this confrontation.

‘Agh, Mr Murdoch, you’re choking me!’ Tam pleaded then gave a cough, sitting back heavily as Murdoch shook him free.

‘Brogan,’ Murdoch said. ‘And I won’t ask you again, Tam.’

‘More than my life’s worth, Mr Murdoch,’ Tam McLachlan whined, his eyes lighting on the detective sergeant’s raincoat pocket.

There was silence for a few moments then the old man slumped in his seat, an air of defeat resting on his shoulders.

‘He wis in the Byres Road flat with Franny Bissett,’ Tam whispered at last.

Kirsty froze, the memory of that stinking cadaver coming back with a jolt.

‘They had some sort o’ a deal goin’ on,’ he continued, taking a gulp of the whisky and eyeing his now empty glass meaningfully.

Murdoch ignored the unspoken entreaty. ‘What kind of deal?’

‘Something to do with a big import,’ Tam said quietly. ‘Brogan was into it big time. Wee Franny was jist his runner.’

‘What happened in that flat?’

‘How the hell dae ah know, Mr Murdoch?’ Tam protested. ‘Brogan wis jist staying there wi’ Franny when he cam oot the Bar-L back in July. But ah do ken this.’ The old man moved closer to the two detectives so that Kirsty caught a whiff of his sour breath. ‘Brogan wis dealing before he left the jail. It wis some job that started when he wis inside. Naebody kens jist whit is wis. But if I had to guess I’d say that our Billy-boy was holed up with that cellmate o’ his.’ Tam nodded, a glint in his eye. ‘Guy done for armed robbery.’

Murdoch stared at the old man for a moment then snapped his fingers in the air.

‘Two more halfs, Jock. Big ones this time,’ he called.

‘How long have you known him, sir?’ Kirsty asked as they drove back into the city.

‘Too bloody long!’ Murdoch exclaimed. ‘Was a time when Tam McLachlan gave decent information about the goings-on in that part of town. Had a nose for trouble, that one, but the drink got to him, as you can see. Muddles things up a bit nowadays. But I’m willing to bet that this wee nugget is pure gold, even from Tam’s wasted brain.’

‘Billy Brogan seems to have cropped up before,’ Kirsty mused aloud.

‘One of your pal’s old cases.’ Murdoch snorted. ‘Lorimer and your dad were both working on that one, as I recall. Bloody shambles, if you ask me,’ he humphed. ‘But they got Brogan all right. Put him away for a few years anyway.’

Kirsty remained silent after that, following Murdoch’s directions as they navigated through the streets, turning south towards the address that Murdoch had eventually prised from the old snout.

The road wound around the curve of a park then Kirsty found herself driving in and out of a series of old streets, their run-down tenements a far cry from the East End’s regeneration.

‘Loads of foreigners,’ Murdoch remarked as they passed a gypsy-looking man and woman outside the mouth of a close, a baby swaddled in a blanket across its mother’s chest. ‘Place is hoaching with druggies and whores,’ he added with disgust.

‘This was your old patch, sir?’

‘Aye,’ Murdoch replied but said nothing more, his eyes intent on reading each house number as they crawled along the street.

‘Round the corner,’ he said at last, after leaning forward and giving a quick glance at the upper windows. ‘And just sit where you are. These men might have guns. We’ll need back-up for this one.’ He looked across at Kirsty and gave her a grim smile.

It was less than half an hour later that the cars arrived, armed officers heading round to the back of the tenement and others swarming through the front close.

‘Stay put,’ Murdoch ordered, strapping the bulletproof vest to his chest.

Kirsty opened her mouth to protest but Murdoch silenced her with a scowl.

‘Your dad would have my guts for garters if anything happened to his wee lassie,’ he grunted. Then he was gone, running in the wake of the armed officers, leaving Kirsty wondering just what would happen if Billy Brogan had a weapon.

The man wasn’t doing anything other than his job
, Kirsty told herself as the uniformed officers led Brogan and another swarthy-looking man away to the waiting police van. But she still owed it to Lorimer to see what she could learn.

‘Good to know we’ll be a bit further along the road in finding out what’s behind this Quiet Release thing, sir,’ she began.

‘Aye,’ Murdoch agreed, sitting back and fumbling in his pocket for his packet of cigarettes.

Kirsty rolled down the passenger window without being asked and glanced across as Murdoch lit up.

‘Must have been hard for you, personally, I mean, sir,’ she continued bravely.

‘How d’you mean, Wilson?’ The DS turned away to blow smoke out of the window.

‘Seeing your wife so ill and knowing later that someone was close by, taking other patients’ lives,’ she ventured.

There was silence between them for a few moments and Kirsty wondered if she had gone a step too far but then a faint smile played about the man’s mouth.

‘Irene loved life,’ Murdoch said at last. ‘She’d never have condoned assisted suicide. Even to the very end she wanted to be here.’ He turned and stared at the girl by his side. ‘See, when they say they want an end to it all, most of them mean an end to the pains and discomfort, not an end to their existence. It’s not the same thing at all,’ he muttered. ‘And if we could have found a cure or even a way of prolonging her life, we would have done anything…’ He broke off, staring over the river as they crossed the Kingston Bridge away from the place where his wife had taken her final breath.

‘Do you think I should have helped her to end her life, Wilson?’ he asked softly, turning to stare into Kirsty’s eyes.

‘No, sir,’ she answered.

‘Good,’ he said shortly, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘Not everyone thinks that way. See, I was one of the lucky ones. I got a chance to say goodbye to my loved one.’

Murdoch’s brow furrowed as he tossed the butt of his cigarette out of the window. ‘I can tell you, Wilson, I’m one hundred per cent behind Lorimer on this case. I want to catch the bastard that’s doing this to sick people. Taking the choice of life or death out of their hands. Stopping them from being able to say their last goodbyes.’