The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (32 page)

‘T
his your coat, sir?’ The customs officer lifted the expensive-looking garment and put it across his arm.

‘Of course it is!’ the passenger snapped.

‘And these are your bags?’ the officer continued, examining the labels attached to the Louis Vuitton cases.

‘Yes. Now can you hurry up, please. I have a transfer to make,’ the man said, his clipped English accent quite at odds with the Australian drawl of the customs officer.

‘Sure, pal, just routine, y’know,’ the officer smiled. But, unseen below his desk, the customs officer pressed a button that immediately brought several more uniformed officers to the desk where the passenger’s belongings were spread out before him.

‘Crawford Whyte?’ A burly Aussie cop took the man’s arm. ‘Or should I call you Michael Rogerson? Come with me, sir.’

S
olomon Brightman had been looking forward to meeting the woman who was now in custody. The huss, the nurse shark who had been responsible for so many deaths. What would she be like? he wondered.

She was not the formidable person that he had expected her to be, just a tired-looking woman whose unwashed hair was drawn back from her face. It was a face that might have beguiled a lesser man than the professor of psychology. If she had smiled and turned these large eyes upon him, who knows what he might have thought? But Solly was too well trained in the art of separating appearance from reality to be charmed by a pretty face.

‘Your name is Mary Milligan,’ he began, sitting at the table on his own, a uniformed female officer standing, as instructed, out of Mary’s line of sight.

Mary nodded, her hands folded together, the metal cuffs a necessary precaution lest she try to attack her interrogator.

‘How are you feeling today, Mary?’ Solly asked, his eyes reaching the woman’s, noting how they slid away from his gaze, wondering what lies she was already creating in that disturbed mind.

A shrug and a twist of her mouth were all the reply she wanted to give. Fair enough. The initial questions were intended to relax her, put her at some sort of ease.

‘We found Brian Abernethy’s body.’ Solly smiled at her. ‘His windpipe was severed quite neatly, I’m told. Your work, was it?’ He tried to sound as though he were giving her some sort of praise, though the images he had viewed still made him feel nauseous.

‘Of course,’ Mary bristled. ‘Did they think I wasn’t capable…?’

‘Not in the least,’ Solly assured her. ‘Everyone guessed that you were quite capable of carrying that out. And Francis Bissett, too.’

Mary darted a suspicious look at the man with the dark, curled beard. ‘He had to go,’ she said simply.

‘Did you both decide that?’

The woman frowned. ‘Both?’ she said, eyes sliding to one side.

‘Yes, Mary,’ Solly nodded. ‘There is trace evidence in the flat that places you there and we also have samples that match the scene at the Gardiner sisters’ home. But not yours. Someone else’s.’

Mary had looked away, her face set, lips shut in a firm hard line.

Solly suppressed a sigh of disappointment. She would refuse to acknowledge that there was anyone else involved. Or would she?

‘You took some big risks,’ he commented, almost as if he were talking to himself. ‘Must have been quite a thrill to enter a police station and help the detectives who were looking for that mystery man.’ Solly’s tone verged on one of admiration.

He could see Mary’s mouth curving in a slight, sardonic smile. What was she thinking? That she had outwitted them?

‘There was nobody else then? No handsome doctor performing all of these acts of euthanasia? Or do you prefer to call them mercy killings, Mary?’ His voice had a hard edge to it now, forcing the woman to regard him through narrowed eyes.

‘Think I couldn’t do it myself?’ she sneered, the pretty face turning to something bitter and ugly.

Solly looked at her dispassionately. She had wanted to be the main focus of attention. Had needed to be regarded as the centre of it all, even when it meant exposing herself to danger, to being caught. It was a recognisable mental condition, one that would see the nurse admitted to a secure hospital where she would likely spend the rest of her days.

Lorimer had been right. Mary Milligan would never tell them who that shadowy figure was. The man who had slipped into Jane Maitland’s home, the one who had lured innocent and vulnerable people like the Gardiner sisters to their deaths. The man who was the real brains behind Quiet Release.

‘Did you love him, Mary?’ Solly asked quietly.

For a brief moment the woman’s eyes widened, her lips opening a fraction. Then the shutters were down once more and the psychologist nodded to the police officer who strode towards her prisoner, ready to escort her from the room.

I
t was the scene of celebration in more than one way, Kirsty thought happily as she and James sat side by side at the Arthouse, watching the assembled crowds enjoying her father’s retirement party. Alistair and Betty Wilson were both dressed to the nines, her father in a new grey suit that Betty had insisted on purchasing from Marks and Spencer, and Kirsty’s mother looking far younger than her age in a fitted lacy navy dress from Reiss. They would be off in two days’ time, a long trip overland in the US to see the glories of some of the National Parks.

‘Here’s to them,’ James whispered, raising his glass of bubbly and clinking it against her own. ‘And here’s to you,’ he grinned. ‘Detective Constable Wilson!’

Kirsty grinned back then looked around her. All her friends were there; Lorimer and Maggie, Solly and Rosie, the team from Stewart Street. Even Len Murdoch had looked in for a brief half-hour to offer his congratulations to Kirsty’s father.

‘My turn soon,’ he’d said, winking at Kirsty and nodding at James. ‘Chip off the old block, your girl,’ the detective sergeant had added. ‘She’ll do all right.’

Kirsty had watched the big man as he left the function room, his broad shoulders and grey head bowed a little, still carrying troubles and grief. She hoped he would be okay. Would he keep away from the bookies? Realise that the weakness had almost cost him his career?

They had tied up so many loose ends now that Mary Milligan had been apprehended and confessed to her part in Quiet Release. And yet… Kirsty had listened as Lorimer had quizzed the woman for hours. Like the detective superintendent and Professor Brightman, the young DC did not believe Mary Milligan’s claim that she and she alone had been responsible for all of those patients’ deaths. Her claims that she had wanted to force that other nurse, Sarah Wilding, into administering these lethal injections sounded as though it was a much bigger racket than just one Highland nurse putting herself about. And besides, there was still that unidentified man to locate… and perhaps he was the same person as the handsome fellow inside the hospital, though Mary had now denied his very existence. Yet the CCTV footage they had of this man had led them nowhere. Maybe he was someone she had selected at random from the screen? Would they ever really know?

She glanced across at Lorimer who was laughing at something Professor Brightman had said. It was unfinished business, the detective superintendent had stressed to the team. Michael Rogerson, who had impersonated Miss Maitland’s son, was in custody, the money he had defrauded from the old woman frozen for now. In time it would go to the widow and children of the real Crawford Whyte, the man who had been stabbed as he’d tried to stop a fight. Why Jane Maitland had kept so much money in her bank account was clearer now. According to Abernethy’s records, she had wanted easy access to her money in case the son she had given up so many years ago had come back into her life. And thus the seed of the lawyer’s greedy plan had been planted. So many innocent people! Kirsty sighed. She looked back into the room, voices raised in laughter, the candles at each table illuminating faces smiling at one another, telling jokes and clinking glasses.

It had been a lot of hard work, she told herself, and they deserved a night out. Yet luck had played its part too: the files in Abernethy’s basement had also shown the link between Mary Anne Milligan and Brian Abernethy. The lawyer had handled the case when a patient complaint had been made about the nurse, a case that had never come to court.

She glanced at Jean Fairlie, her burgundy silk dress swishing as she walked past on her way to the bar. A designer frock, Kirsty saw. Must have cost her a packet. She frowned, remembering the older woman’s protests about end-of-life causes. Could she have been the one to leak that information to the press? It was a thought that she did not want to pursue, something else they might never find out. Kirsty took another sip of champagne. She was learning things about this job, she thought. Sometimes it didn’t make for a quiet life to air your suspicions.

She turned to look out of the window at the streets and the twinkling lights. This was where she belonged now, this city with all the different facets to its character. There would always be chancers and rogues, mad, bad and dangerous types. But there would always be the ones on her side too, she thought, a feeling of gratitude coursing through her as Lorimer caught her eye and raised his glass with a grin.

T
h
e girl turn
ed with a smile. ‘So glad you’re here already. Thought it would be Jenny, though. And she’s not normally here so early.’
 

‘All part of the service,’ I smiled. ‘Soon have you comfortable. Right, let’s see which arm we’ll have this morning.’
 

She looked away as I wiped the patch of skin, a twist to her thin lips anticipating the needle scratching her fine pale skin.
 

‘Won’t be long,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Just a little prick
…
there! That’s it. Now just relax and you’ll soon feel a lot, lot better,’ I crooned.
 

I put down the needle at last and wrapped it in the paper bag, ready to dispose of it safely. My gloved hands stroked the girl’s arm and I sat patiently as her eyelids grew heavy and finally closed.
 

All over this city there were silent, seated watchers just like me, waiting for their loved ones to die. Some would mourn, others would breathe a sigh of relief, but to me they meant nothing at all on a personal level.
 

I watched until the rise and fall of her breathing ceased and I was sure that she had left this world at last. Moving from my place by her bed, I put two fingers to my lips and blew her a kiss.
 

‘Good night, darling,’ I said, then made my way back out into the darkened street.
 

A
s ever, this book could not have been written without the help of many experts in their field who continue to give me information so cheerfully. Bless you all! Dr Marjorie Turner keeps me right with up-to-date things concerning pathology, and Dr Alan Bennie gave me some good suggestions about palliative care. Detective Sergeant Mairi Milne is always on hand to answer even the most obscure question about procedure. (In return for scones, but they don’t count as bribes!) I owe a big debt of gratitude to Superintendent Martin Cloherty and Chief Superintendent Ellie Mitchell who gave me insight into the workings of the Professional Standards Department and facts concerning the fate of any officer who might be guilty of some misconduct. Thanks, too, Alistair Morris, whose keen memory of his life as a DS comes in very handy at all times! Sarah Wilding’s story was enhanced by talking to former Head of CID and CEO of SACRO, Tom Halpin, especially about the work of SHINE. Thanks for all the insight into the mentoring work that is carried out to rehabilitate women offenders, Tom.

To Crawford Whyte, thanks for supporting the RNLI fundraiser at which you won the right to have your name selected for a character in this book.

To Thalia, Liz and the staff at Little, Brown, huge thanks for keeping me right! Especially when the spell check gave up in despair after too many examples of Glasgow parlance.

Thanks, Moira (enjoy your retirement!) and Stephanie, Rachel, Jo and Vicky who were there to help keep my diary sorted.

Huge thanks to my editor, Jade Chandler, who seems to know how I think and always knows the right thing to say, a marvellous gift! I am doubly lucky in having not just the best editor but also the best agent in Jenny Brown. I am honoured to have you as an agent and a friend, Jenny. Long may we continue together!

Alanna, this book is dedicated to you for all the many years of encouragement and friendship. Bless you for both.

Last but never least, Donnie, for driving me wherever I needed to go, for quietly supplying all the cups of tea, for putting up with me sitting at this desk in my dressing gown at all hours of the day and night as the story took over, thank you seems a little inadequate! I am just very, very grateful that you enjoy this crazy life as much as I do!

Alex Gray, 2015