The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (31 page)

T
he October school holidays began early for the lads from Inverness who were tramping through the woods behind their Scout leader, whistling a tune as they went. At the very back of the line of boys, Gary Little stumbled on a tree root and fell with a shout.

‘Oi, Wee Gary’s copped it!’ another of the lads yelled out as the boy writhed on the ground, screams of agony showing that this was no soft tumble.

The Scout leader, a worthy middle-aged man whose sons had all been through the Scouting movement, turned back and jogged towards the place where the youngest recruit was now sobbing his heart out.

‘It’s my leg, my leg,’ he cried as the leader bent down to examine him.

‘Hush now, Gary, let me take a look,’ the man said, gently lifting the boy’s leg.

‘Arghhhh!’ Gary cried out and Archie Featherstone let the leg down again. It was obvious that the wee lad had hurt himself badly, possibly broken his ankle.

‘Right, boys, here’s what we’re going to do,’ Archie said brightly, aiming to instil confidence into them all, even the poor laddie sobbing on the ground.

The lack of mobile telephone signal was a little worrisome, however, Archie Featherstone had checked and re-checked the route map for every eventuality and knew of the bothy hidden off to the right of these trees.

‘We’re going to carry you, son,’ the Scout leader told him. ‘Boys, gather round.’

Several minutes later, the boy cradled in his arms, Archie Featherstone came to the door of the bothy.

‘Open it up, lads, we’ll let Gary lie on the bed. There’s always a bed or two in a mountain bothy,’ he added cheerfully as several boys clambered up the wooden steps in a race to see who would gain entry first.

The scream made Archie’s blood freeze, then there was a scramble, boys falling over themselves to race past him, ashen-faced and open-mouthed, some of them beginning to cry.

‘What is it?’ The little boy in his arms squirmed, trying to see what was beyond the open doorway.

But Archie Featherstone had already turned away, hiding little Gary’s eyes from the carnage that lay inside.

Rosie Fergusson watched as they brought the body into the post-mortem room. There had been no protest from her counterpart in Highland Region once the identity of the deceased had been made known. A team of officers had scoured the wooden hut, bringing back as much trace material as they could find and already it was being processed in their facility in Glasgow.

Once again it was Detective Sergeant Murdoch with Kirsty Wilson who stood on the other side of the viewing area, ready to watch the pathologist at work. The cause of death was easy enough to see at first glance, Rosie thought, looking at the open gash across Brian Abernethy’s throat, but nonetheless she went through the procedure with painstaking care.

Perhaps he ought to have called first, Lorimer thought. But then he had wanted the element of surprise. And now it was the tall detective who had been given a surprise, first at the bank where Crawford Whyte no longer worked, as he’d been told by a frosty-faced gentleman in reception. Whyte had only been working there less than a year, the man had informed him. Freelance, not a bank employee. Then the second surprise here, in this flat that bore all the hallmarks of a hasty departure, as if Whyte had anticipated a visit from the police. At least he had the office computer, Lorimer told himself, setting it down on a side table of the man’s bedroom. Though what would be found there was dubious. Probably wiped it clean to factory standard before he’d left the bank.

This place was deserted, that was for sure. Wardrobe doors hung open, most of the contents removed, wooden hangers suspended in the shadows. An old, worn raincoat that had seen better days and a couple of dark suits, the trousers shiny with age, had been left. The detective had a sudden vision of the smart suit and Crombie coat the man had worn on his visit to Glasgow. Of course, he had anticipated coming into money. Spent some of it before it had reached his bank account. There were no papers anywhere, nor had Whyte left a bag full of shreddings like the ones they had found in Abernethy’s office.

The Met would send some of their people round to Whyte’s address, Lorimer had been assured by his counterpart down here. Every cooperation that they could offer had been promised and all he had to do now was wait for their SOCOs to arrive, along with a senior officer or two. Meantime, he could have a look around the flat and see if he could gauge anything about the man who had assumed the identity of Jane Maitland’s long-lost son.

Maybe it was what was
not
there that gave him most insight into this man. No pictures, no green plants, either on a window ledge or outside on the balcony. A washer dryer that smelled as if it hadn’t been used any time recently. The fridge freezer practically empty apart from a half-litre carton of milk, that was past its sell-by date, and a tube of vegetarian spread that had scarcely been touched. The freezer compartment showed a thick layer of ice from its roof and a tray of ice cubes that was stuck to the base when Lorimer tried to move it.

‘You’ve not been here for days, have you,’ he murmured. ‘Knew we were coming to get you, is that it?’

He sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and sighed. Was Crawford Whyte behind this entire illegal organisation? Or, like Brian Abernethy, had he been just a step higher up the chain from the three men now languishing in Barlinnie Prison? Abernethy could no longer tell them what they wanted to know and Lorimer believed that the lawyer had been deliberately eliminated to keep him quiet. What secrets had his office contained? One more avenue was open to him down here, however, and that was the Salvation Army, whose officers had diligently sought and found the man claiming to be Jane Maitland’s only living heir.

The news that he had been waiting for came as Lorimer left Glasgow airport, the taxi taking him into the city once more.

Match found in hair samples at Abernethy and Bissett crime scenes
,
the email read.

Lorimer’s smile turned sour as he read the last line. Damn! They had so much evidence now to tie up these two murders but whoever this was who had spent time in that Byres Road flat remained a mystery. It wasn’t someone on their radar, then. None of the usual hit men who had hung about with the harder criminal types in this city. Nor had HOLMES shed any light on the UK’s database. Yet whoever it was seemed a practised killer, at least according to Rosie Fergusson. The wounds had been made with some sort of hunting knife and the members of Lorimer’s team were already trawling through the types of possible weapon that the pathologist had suggested.

‘Can you take me up to University Avenue,’ Lorimer leaned forward and told the taxi driver. Suddenly he felt the need to run all of this past his old friend to see what he made of it.

‘I think they’ll slip up eventually,’ Solly told him as he poured hot water into the little china teapot on the huge table that was often surrounded by students eager to listen to the professor’s words of wisdom.

‘How do you figure that out?’ Lorimer asked him, gloomily.

‘As I said before, it’s all about money,’ the psychologist replied. ‘Or at least it was to most of the people involved. Now that Mr Whyte seems to have got what he was after we need to wait and see who else has to be paid.’

‘What do you mean?’

Solly smiled enigmatically and began to pour the tea into two mismatched mugs. ‘Your three thugs are out of the equation,’ he began. ‘So there will be more money in the pot for everyone else who is involved.’

‘So?’

‘So, my guess is that one of them will be trying to get a better share of whatever profits have been made out of the demise of these patients. Including whoever killed Frankie Bissett and Brian Abernethy.’

‘But if Whyte’s scarpered with all of the money…?’

‘Not so.’ Solly wagged a finger at his friend. ‘My guess is that he’s taken the money that Abernethy and he were supposed to split between them.’ He raised his eyebrows at Lorimer. ‘You don’t really suppose that there isn’t an awful lot more swilling around? What did it cost Mrs Imrie? And Rachel Gardiner? Five thousand pounds apiece? Multiply that by the number of patients whose lives have been taken…’ Solly shrugged.

‘But that’s something we don’t know!’ Lorimer protested.

‘My point exactly!’ Solly beamed. ‘There could be scores, no, hundreds even… someone has been making a small fortune out of these seriously ill people. Miss Maitland was just one example of how greedy Abernethy and his accomplice were.’

‘We’ve found out a bit more about Whyte,’ Lorimer told him. ‘Real name’s Michael Rogerson. Whyte
was
the name of Jane Maitland’s son. The Salvation Army did a sterling job of tracing him. Their only reservation was that they thought they had reached a dead end.’ Lorimer made a face. ‘And I mean a
really
dead end. Crawford Whyte was stabbed to death when he intervened in a bar brawl. The Salvation Army folk reported back to the Glasgow lawyer but they said that Abernethy had told them he had heard from Miss Maitland’s son. Made them think they’d made some error in their search.’

‘Not like them,’ Solly commented, raising his bushy eyebrows again.

‘Abernethy already had a connection with Rogerson,’ Lorimer told the professor. ‘Represented him in a fraud case some years back. Explains why there’s no data on him. It expired years ago. They must have kept in touch. I can just imagine that conversation,’ he added angrily. ‘Abernethy asking Rogerson if he wanted to make some serious money. And all he had to do was impersonate an old lady’s son and heir. Wouldn’t even have to see her or speak to her.’

‘Because by that time they knew she would be dead,’ Solly added solemnly.

‘But I’m willing to bet that Rogerson had more to do with this scheme than just play-acting for our benefit,’ Lorimer said, grinding his teeth in a spasm of annoyance. ‘He was an IT specialist. And he had some medical stuff in his flat.’

‘Abernethy wasn’t the brains behind this,’ Solly said quietly, ‘though I grant he was the one dishing out the money. No, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say that there are more people involved than this Rogerson fellow, though he was probably the one sending out the emails. There has to be someone else involved.’

‘There’s the man who killed Bissett and Abernethy, of course. And we can’t forget that we have to find the ones with the necessary medical background,’ Lorimer sighed, nodding in agreement. ‘I know what you mean.’ He turned his gaze over the city skyline where lights were beginning to twinkle in the gloom. ‘Somewhere, Solly, some disaffected medic is still at large, possibly with a quantity of morphine at his or her disposal.’

‘Yes.’ The bearded psychologist nodded solemnly. ‘And what concerns me is whether they have sated their desire for killing.’

G
rainne smiled at the woman as she handed her a magazine.

‘What’s so great about you today?’ Mona Calder shivered.

But the nurse did not reply, simply gave her patient a little kiss on the cheek.

‘See and keep the windows shut,’ Mona ordered. ‘Or someone will come in and finish me off!’ she said, her eyes following Grainne around the room as the nurse went about her daily tasks.

‘Now, Mona, isn’t that what you’ve always been asking us to do, eh?’ Grainne teased. ‘“A pillow over my head.” You’re a terrible woman!’

‘Not the same,’ Mona Calder replied, her voice shaking. ‘Not the same thing at all,’ she murmured, turning away but not before the nurse clearly saw the anxiety in her patient’s eyes.

All over this city there were patients whose lives were constrained by their disabilities, fear sweeping over them like a tsunami. Mrs Abbot had been unable to keep the news from her patients, like so many others responsible for their care. Newspapers, television and the internet flooded these clinics and hospital wards with the suggestion that somewhere out there people were being paid to do away with the sick and the feeble.

Grainne opened the magazine and laid it on Mona’s bed. ‘See, there’s the Royal Family. Take a look at these pictures. Aren’t the wee ones growing up a treat!’

Mona Calder did as she was told, but her eyes hardly saw the smiling people in the double-page spread, her mind fixed instead on the shadow of terror that had kept her awake all night.

‘Cleaned out.’ Murdoch whistled as he read the report. ‘See that, Wilson?’

Kirsty moved across to where Murdoch sat at his desk and looked at the latest information in the case.

‘Good Lord,’ she sighed. ‘With that amount of money he could have gone anywhere.’

It was all there in black and white, the police IT officers having retrieved much of Rogerson’s files from his office computer. He had taken the laptop back to its factory settings right enough but had been in too much of a hurry to overwrite anything afterwards. It was all there now for them to see; figures showing Abernethy’s bank transfers, emails from the fund managers and, best of all, some old correspondence between Rogerson and whoever had been responsible for carrying out the actual killings.

‘Likes a bit of mystery, whoever he is,’ Murdoch growled, pointing the cursor at the recipient of Rogerson’s correspondence. ‘What the hell sort of name is that?’

Kirsty peered closer. HUSS, the name read, all in uppercase lettering.

‘Could google it, sir?’ she suggested, returning to her own desk.

Moments later she was back at Murdoch’s side. ‘Doesn’t make sense,’ she murmured, frowning. ‘A huss is a dogfish.’

‘A dogfish? Stupid sort of name to give himself,’ Murdoch declared. ‘Think we’re dealing with a grade-A nutter, Wilson. Or else it’s his little joke that something fishy’s going on. Well, let’s hope one of the others can come up with a better explanation, eh?’

It was the sort of day that made your eyes water from staring at the screen, Kirsty thought later, getting up and rubbing the base of her spine. It felt as if she had been sitting there for hours. More information had begun to trickle in from the forensic laboratory, some of it making the detective constable sit up a little straighter. The hair samples taken from the locus in Byres Road and the mountain bothy had been further analysed and at least one showed that whoever had left these traces used a particular type of hair gel. Kirsty’s mind flew back to Ailsa Doyle’s description of the man she had seen leaving Jane Maitland’s cottage flat. No hair gel, she’d remarked, nothing to cover up that balding area on the crown of his head. It was something that a trained hair stylist would notice and Ailsa was as sharp as they came, Kirsty nodded to herself. Jane Maitland’s killer was not the same person, then. Not the mysterious Huss who had been corresponding with Michael Rogerson, ordering emails to be sent to various hospitals and clinics in and around Glasgow, as well as to individuals in their own homes.

It was a relief when her phone rang.

‘Detective Constable Wilson speaking,’ she began.

‘Oh, dear, is that the same lady who came with the tall gentleman?’

‘Who is calling, please?’ Kirsty made her voice as neutral as possible, but unthreatening lest the anxious-sounding caller put down the phone.

‘It’s Mrs Collins from Mr Abernethy’s office. You came in to see him the other day…’

‘Oh, yes, what can I do for you, ma’am?’

‘It’s awful, I’m really, really sorry,’ the woman apologised, making Kirsty purse her mouth in frustration. Would she get to the point? she thought.

‘You see it wasn’t all shredded,’ she went on breathlessly. ‘I found copies in the lower basement. Things that I’d been told to get rid of quite a while ago, but I’d completely forgotten about…’ Her voice trailed off as though she were expecting a severe reprimand.

‘Mrs Collins, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be around in ten minutes to pick it all up. And thanks,’ Kirsty added warmly. ‘You did the right thing to call us.’

‘Where are you off to, Wilson?’ Murdoch stood up and barred her way as Kirsty made for the door.

‘Abernethy’s office,’ she said, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. ‘Something’s come up. Won’t be long, honest!’ she exclaimed as he stood aside, a puzzled look on his face.

There were more files than the detective constable could carry by herself and so the receptionist helped her take them out to the waiting car. What might they contain? Kirsty wondered, putting the Honda into gear and driving through the city streets once more. At least she’d given Murdoch a call, let him know what to expect.

There was a small crowd waiting for her on her return, Murdoch having alerted others in the team to the find in the lawyer’s basement.

If she had been wearied by the constant peering at the laptop screen, Kirsty was now energised by the chance to flick through hard copy, even though there was so much of it. Jean Fairlie had picked up her share of the files and was sitting opposite, her hands flicking over page by page as she read. And it was the older detective constable who made the discovery just half an hour later.

‘Gotcha!’

Everyone stopped and turned to where DC Fairlie was sitting.

‘Sir.’ She was standing now with a sheet of paper in her hand, Murdoch rising from his desk. ‘I think you should see this.’

Professor Brightman enjoyed puzzles. As he stared at the latest reports from Lorimer’s team, his eyes fell on the obscure name that Michael Rogerson’s mystery correspondent had used.

‘Huss,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Now what is the etymology of that little word?’ A dogfish was a type of shark, he knew, a strange creature with skin like sandpaper instead of scales. A predatory kind of fish, he mused. Was that the reason for this odd choice of name? It was, he thought, reading the emails closely, from a person who appeared to be educated. A doctor, perhaps? Someone who had failed his exams and been lured into this organisation with the promise of a fortune to be made? Or was Huss the brains behind the entire organisation?

This needed more careful thought and, perhaps, a different way of looking at the word.

Lorimer sank back into his chair, exhausted.

‘Glass of wine?’ Maggie offered, proffering the bottle of Chianti, one of his favourites.

‘No, thanks.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘I’ll just fall asleep.’

‘Maybe that would do you some good,’ she muttered, glancing at her husband’s furrowed brow. This case was really taking its toll, she thought.

The phone ringing made Lorimer sit up but Maggie had already picked up and was saying ‘Hello’, her lips curving into a smile.

‘It’s Solly,’ she said, handing him the cordless phone. ‘Says he needs to tell you something.’

‘Huss,’ Solly began without any preamble. ‘It is a dogfish but the word itself is quite an old word, really, related to the fish, of course…’

Lorimer listened, suddenly irritated by the psychologist’s lengthy pause.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘It is a sort of shark, right enough,’ Solly told him. ‘But it is a particular type. Clever sort of word to use…’ he mused.

‘Solly,’ Lorimer addressed his friend wearily. ‘Can you get to the point, please? If there is one,’ he added, testily.

‘Oh, of course, sorry,’ the psychologist replied. ‘A huss is a nurse shark,’ Solly told him. ‘But the word on its own simply means “nurse”.’

The hospital car park was full when Kirsty drew up as near the entrance as she could.

‘Take a chance,’ Murdoch told her, pointing to an ambulances only parking bay. ‘You stay here, Wilson. Flash the badge if you need to. Now let me get inside and nab that bloody nurse!’

Mary moved towards the window at the first sound of police sirens.

Her patient was sound asleep and so she drew the curtains around the bed then pressed the red emergency button and swiftly left the room.

There was a back staircase that Mary Milligan knew well, used mostly by porters at the end of their shifts or smokers keeping to the back of the building where they would not be caught on CCTV cameras. The woman hurtled down, taking the steps two at a time, desperate to get away. Her car was parked on the far side of the hospital grounds, a good five minutes’ walk away. Would they have found it and be waiting for her there?

‘Sorry, you can’t park here,’ the stony-faced warden declared.

‘Police Scotland,’ Kirsty rejoined, whipping out her warrant card and thrusting it close to the man’s face.

‘You still cannae park here. This is for emergencies only,’ the man continued stubbornly.

‘Take that up with my boss,’ Kirsty hissed furiously, but the warden was not for budging.

‘You need to keep this bit clear,’ he said. ‘Ambulances have to have access to this door.’

With a sigh Kirsty started up the car and began to weave her way through the maze of vehicles.

It was at that moment she saw the figure running in the opposite direction, arms pumping up and down, white shoes pounding the pavement.

‘Mary!’ Kirsty gasped. It was not a simple matter of turning the car and following the woman. Given the one-way system here it was a couple of minutes before Kirsty had managed to manoeuvre the Honda back out towards the main road.

She was just in time to see the ginger-haired nurse get into a red Mini Cooper and head along the road towards the dual carriageway.

There was a thirty mile an hour limit here with a camera to catch any speeder but neither woman paid that any attention as the Honda roared after the smaller car.

‘DC Wilson,’ Kirsty called out to any patrol car in the area, then gave her location and the description of the car that she was following.

She reached the first roundabout, wondering which direction the red car would take then watched as it drove in the direction of Renfrew.

Is she heading for the motorway? Kirsty wondered, ignoring the blare from an Audi’s horn as she nipped in front of it and put her foot down hard.

There were still two cars between the Mini Cooper and her own. Had Mary spotted her?

She drew to a halt at the first set of traffic lights then followed the red car as it turned towards the old town centre. Not the M8, then. Kirsty alerted the traffic police at the other end of her two-way radio and moved slowly into position, still two vehicles behind her quarry.

On and on they drove, along the leafy streets, accelerating over the old swing bridge above the River Cart, the Honda creeping ever closer to Mary Milligan’s car until a set of red lights forced them both to stop.

Damn! As the lights changed to green, Kirsty saw the nurse’s head turn and for a split second the women’s eyes met.

As the red car roared off towards the Renfrewshire countryside, Kirsty clutched the steering wheel, gritting her teeth in determination. All these months of preparation for her Advanced Driving Test were coming back now, she realised with a grin as the Honda closed in on the little red car.

Then she was side by side with the smaller car, driving as close as she dared, making the nurse glance across, a terrified look on her face.

Kirsty heard the scratch and squeal as branches of hawthorn scraped against the nurse’s car, then the thump as she forced it into the ditch.

She was out of the Honda and pulling at the driver’s door in moments.

‘Gerroff!’ The woman staggered back then took a swing at the detective.

Kirsty ducked and then charged with all of her strength.

Her head made contact with the nurse’s stomach, knocking the wind from her and then Mary Milligan was on her knees and Kirsty had her wrists secured with a pair of handcuffs.

‘Mary Milligan,’ Kirsty said, her breath coming in gasps, ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of…’ Then she stopped.
How many other people had this nurse actually put to death?

‘Brian Abernethy and Francis Bissett,’ Kirsty said firmly.

Then, as a familiar silver Lexus drove up followed by two patrol cars, she breathed out a huge sigh of relief.