The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (30 page)

Lorimer bent down to give her a peck on the cheek then slung his coat over the back of a chair and headed through to the kitchen area. A plate of soup and a whisky, he decided. Then pack a few things before heading off to bed.

He was asleep by the time Maggie entered their bedroom, tiptoeing across the carpet to her side of the bed. Her husband’s dark hair flopped across his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes testament to so many long days and restless nights. Tomorrow she would be stopping work for the half-term break but he would still be driving himself onwards, desperate to see the conclusion of this case. Lately she had begun to worry about the man who lay slumbering on their bed. His sort of work was always hard but there was a strain in his face that did not seem to go away nowadays, as though he was fighting some inner pain. Was it just because the case had come so close to home? Or were there other demons inside her husband’s head, ones that he kept from the woman he loved?

S
arah was glad to be back on day shift, being taken from Corrielinn and back by Nancy who was a soothing presence at Abbey Nursing Home. She still had terrified dreams about that night, Scarface lunging at her, a knife being drawn down her cheek, the blood hot and sticky. Nancy had given her something to help her sleep but Sarah still awoke at around four in the morning, heart thumping from the nightmare images, a sense of darkness swirling around her.

I prayed for you,
Nancy had told her afterwards.
I knew the Lord would protect you.
Sarah had nodded dumbly, grateful for this woman’s simple faith but wondering if it had not in fact been the tall policeman to whom she owed her life.

Mrs Abbott had been kind too, but in a brisk no-nonsense fashion, letting Sarah know that hard work was the best way to forget the horrors of her past. Just how much Nancy’s sister knew, Sarah wasn’t sure. But she was glad of the job and had thrown herself back into caring for these patients whose lives were being shortened by their illnesses.

Today the glazing company would be fitting a new pane to replace the beautiful stained-glass window.
Just a temporary measure
, Nancy had said.
I may find something else to put there in time.
And Sarah had burned inside, guilt gnawing at her.

She looked at her watch with a sigh of relief. Just enough time to give them all their medication then the next shift would arrive and she and Nancy could return home.

However, when Sarah entered the staffroom she was surprised to see Catherine Reid sitting there, a magazine in her hands.

‘Hello.’ Catherine looked up with a smile. ‘How are you?’

Sarah gave a little shrug. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fine,’ she added.

‘Really?’ Catherine Reid had raised her eyebrows and was regarding Sarah closely.

‘Well… you know…’ Sarah broke off.

‘Yes, I do know,’ Catherine replied. ‘I’ve seen plenty of women like you who’ve been forced into making bad choices. You need to try to forgive yourself, Sarah. Really you do,’ she said firmly. Then, as though she were afraid of sounding too preachy, Catherine gave a shrug. ‘Nancy and I are going out tonight. Got tickets for the RSNO. Nicola Benedetti.’ She smiled. ‘Been wanting to hear her play the Mendelsohn violin concerto for ages. We’ll drop you off at Corrielinn first, though,’ she added.

Sarah closed the front door behind her and turned the key in the lock. They were nice women, good women, but she still felt as if she didn’t deserve to belong in their world. The big house seemed cold and draughty as Sarah climbed the stairs and she paused to examine the place where that stained-glass waterfall had been. That rock had been a part of her own life, thrusting its way into this house, a violent act reminding Sarah that she had no business being here in the first place. But where, she asked herself as she pushed open the bedroom door and sank gratefully on to the bed, was she supposed to go?

A wee lost lamb
, Nancy had called her and right now, wrapping herself in the duvet, Sarah Wilding felt the truth of that little story. She looked around the place that had once been Tracey Livingstone’s room. She did feel comfortable here, Sarah told herself, and not just because of the nice furnishings and hand-me-down clothes. It was more than that; it was the warmth of Nancy’s smile, the motherly way she spoke to Sarah.

Tears crowded into the young woman’s eyes as she thought about her own mother. She brushed them away, angry at her self-pity. How had Mum felt losing her only son? First to drugs, then to that overdose? How could any mother cope with that sort of tragedy? Sarah had gone over and over these questions during her time in Cornton Vale, never finding an answer. Except that she was to blame.

She sat up and pushed the pillow behind her head then leaned back and closed her eyes.

It’s time to stop blaming yourself
, a voice seemed to be telling her, a voice that might have been Nancy’s. Might have been Catherine’s.

She had done a bad thing and been punished for it, Sarah thought. But there was a way out of the darkness, a way to find forgiveness if she could only bring herself to ask…

Sarah closed her eyes, wondering if there really was any listening ear to hear her cry.

‘Dear God,’ she began. ‘Help me find a way back…’

When she finally opened her eyes, Sarah blinked at the last rays of sunlight shining from the window. There had been no thundering voice replying to her prayer, only a peace filling her heart and mind.

She got up off the bed and wandered into the bathroom.

Yes, it was the same face she saw every morning, but now the lines had faded from around her eyes and the woman gazing back at her was smiling. It was a smile of hope, Sarah realised, a smile of new beginnings.

I
t wasn’t surprising that Lorimer hadn’t been the one to come to the woman’s bedside, Kirsty thought as she followed Murdoch back through the hospital corridors. For all his protestations about not having a personal interest, the press would have had another field day if the detective superintendent had appeared in Annette Imrie’s room to read her the charges. That was down to Murdoch. Perhaps he was the best person for this particular job, Kirsty thought, remembering the way he had tackled his snout in that East End pub.

In the end it was a pitiful sort of scene, the heavily bandaged woman peering at them from blackened eyes, her speech slow and slurred from the medication she had received. Murdoch was brief and to the point. Annette Imrie was being charged with conspiracy to murder by person or persons unknown. She had seemed hardly surprised by their visit and had said little afterwards.

‘Will you be pressing charges on your husband?’ Murdoch had asked and it was only then that a faint gleam had come to the woman’s eyes and she nodded her head.

‘Of course,’ she had insisted. ‘D’you think he’s getting away with doing this to me?’

‘Bitter woman,’ Murdoch said quietly as they left the building. ‘Shouldn’t say it but it’s the husband I feel sorry for.’

Kirsty nodded her agreement, remembering how nice Patrick Imrie had been to them at his farm, the image of the warm kitchen and those fluffy kittens coming back.

She strapped herself into the Honda and glanced across at Murdoch who was also pulling at the seat belt. For a moment Kirsty stopped and stared. Where the man’s watch had been there was just bare wrist.

‘What?’ Murdoch ventured, catching her inquisitive look.

‘You were wearing a very expensive watch just after the robbery, sir,’ Kirsty said, facing him with a sudden rush of courage. ‘Isn’t it working any more?’ she added innocently.

Murdoch stared at her, his face hard as granite, then he gave a sigh. ‘Wondered if you’d seen me lift it,’ he said. Then he smiled at her. ‘But you didn’t shop me, did you? That was nice of you, Wilson.’

‘I…’ Kirsty’s mouth fell open. ‘What happened to the watch, sir?’

‘Oh, I didn’t keep it long, Wilson. Needed to realise some readies to pay off a few debts, didn’t I?’ he growled. Then, turning in his seat, he leaned across until his face was only inches from her own. ‘You didn’t tell Lorimer, did you? Now why was that?’

‘Didn’t want any trouble, sir,’ Kirsty murmured. ‘But can I ask you something?’

‘Ask away, Wilson,’ Murdoch said, sitting back against the passenger seat with a sigh of resignation.

‘Mary Milligan said that she’d told you about her worries that patients were being targeted in the hospital. Yet you did nothing about it.’

There was a silence between them for a few moments then Murdoch turned and gave her a strange look.

‘She said that, did she?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why.’ He turned to Kirsty. ‘She was telling you a pack of lies, Wilson.’ He frowned. ‘Never said a thing to me about any suspicions. Yet she picked on you. A rookie detective. What did you think? That she was just a fanciful Highland woman with all her crazy superstitions?’

‘I… I don’t know, sir,’ Kirsty stammered

‘Thought she was a bit attention-seeking whenever I went up to that ward. Didn’t you?’ Murdoch’s face had grown thoughtful as he gazed ahead.

Kirsty’s head reeled with the sudden possibility that she had been played by the big, soft-spoken nurse. Who was to say that any doctor had been there at all? Only Nurse Milligan. And had Kirsty and her colleagues spent precious police time trawling through videos to find some unknown visitor to the hospital who fitted the woman’s fantasies? The very thought appalled her.

‘Right, Wilson. Drive. And we can forget we ever had this little conversation, okay?’

The call came as Lorimer prepared to leave the office and head out to the airport.

‘Thanks,’ he said after listening to the woman from the forensic laboratory. ‘Much appreciated.’

He sat back down and began to type an email that would be circulated to the team, copying in Professor Solomon Brightman to the message.

It would be a doubly interesting visit to London, now, the detective superintendent decided, and he was looking forward to confronting the banker about this new information. It had been a long shot to take the trace instead of asking Whyte to supply a sample, but he hadn’t wanted to chase him off. His team had also uncovered some interesting facts about Crawford Whyte, one of which was that his role in the bank was that of IT specialist. Which might or might not explain why their own technical support had found it so hard to crack into the centre of Quiet Release.

H
e should have spent more time in the gym, Abernethy told himself as he jogged through the trees. Up ahead, the dark shape of the lodge lay screened by Scots pine and Sitka spruce. It had been a perfect place to hide out despite the internet connection being somewhat erratic up here amidst these mountains. A few more days and he would set off down south. A train from Inverness to London then the boat across to France. That was the plan. Crawford Whyte had already made the arrangements, the lawyer’s reward for emptying the old woman’s accounts and transferring the bulk of her money. But he had to keep out of sight, Whyte had insisted. At least until the police were certain he had fled the country. Then and only then could he begin to make his move.

Abernethy stopped and leaned down, clutching his thighs. This self-imposed regime was intended to reduce his weight, make him appear a little less like the fat man that everybody would recognise. He’d already shaved his hair off and now hated looking in the mirror at this bald man with the wobbling paunch. Once he was in France everything would change, the lawyer told himself, visions of buttered croissants and huge cups of fragrant coffee making a smile appear on his face.

With a sigh he continued to walk towards the woodland bothy where he had been staying these past few days. It was late afternoon and the sun had already slipped behind the mountains, leaving pools of darkness between the trees.

And yet there was a square of light straight ahead. Abernethy frowned. He was sure he had switched off the light before going for his run. But perhaps he’d been mistaken? These last rays of sunlight had been dazzling bright, after all. Had he not noticed the light on as he’d left?

He walked slowly and quietly up to the door and felt for the handle. Bothy doors were never locked, their presence in the wilderness safe havens for any wanderer.

As he touched it, the door swung open with a menacing creak that made him jump. Good grief! He’d even left the bloody door open! You were in too much of a hurry to get out while it was still light, he scolded himself. ‘Becoming careless, old boy,’ he said aloud.

Abernethy stepped into the lodge then turned as a shadow fell against the far wall.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, facing the figure standing by the open door. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

There was no answer, just a lunge towards the fat lawyer and the sound of ripping as the hunting knife tore across the man’s throat.

Abernethy gave a gasp and a gurgle then his body fell heavily on to the wooden floor, blood spattering across the walls.

‘Becoming careless, old boy,’ the killer whispered, wiping the blade of the knife across the man’s stomach before thrusting it into its leather scabbard. Then, as some midges began to circle around the room, hands were drawn to scratch an itchy head. It was a small, unthinking gesture, as careless as the way the body was left, discarded on the floor.

It might be weeks before the corpse would be found, stinking and corrupt. The killer smiled at the thought. Wouldn’t that be a fitting epitaph for the lawyer?