The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (21 page)

T
he man in the brown leather jacket stood smoking outside the station, sheltered from the rain that was hammering against the overhead canopy.

He glanced at his watch. The contact he’d been told to meet was late, the one who would give him that envelope full of cash. Who would it be this time? The wee rheumy-eyed down-and-out, shuffling towards him? Or the young mum striding up the sloping ramp, pushing a black buggy, a fractious toddler in tow? It was someone different every time. Had to be, Rob Dolan supposed. The main man needed to keep his identity a secret from them all.
Trust nobody
, his mate Jerry had told him when he’d been brought into the operation.
Sure as hell, nobody’ll trust you!
he’d added, the scar on his face deepening in that lopsided grin.

And so now Dolan was waiting, a folded copy of the
Gazette
under his arm as arranged, hopping from one restless foot to another. Only the thought of scoring off his pal was keeping him warm.
A wee line on tick
, he’d cajoled.
Jist a wee line, eh?
But Sammy Morgan wasn’t as daft as he looked.
Nae cash nae gear,
he’d been told.

Dolan looked at his watch again. Surely tae God someone should be here by now? They’d done everything the chief had told them. Taken pains to put the frighteners on the Wilding lassie, picked up the mobile from the hospital. It was all done. And now he needed payment for taking such risks.

Pulling up his jacket collar, he flicked away the butt of his cigarette and trampled it underfoot.

‘Here, that’s litter!’ a voice by his elbow called. ‘You c’n get fined fur that, ken?’

The old woman nudged Dolan’s arm, shoving a brown envelope into his folded newspaper in one quick move. Then, as swiftly as she had appeared, she was gone, walking across the road to George Square, just a shambling old woman in a thick winter coat, her shopping bag slung across her arm. Nobody would give her a second look.

As Dolan strode back into the station he slipped the envelope into his inside pocket and looked up at the board where arrivals and departures were lit up in yellow.

Jerry’s train would be pulling in any time now and then he would be told the next part of their scheme. His mouth turned up in a little smile.

With a bit of luck it would involve the girl.

And this time he’d not be letting her go.

‘A
re you sure?’ Kirsty asked the woman for a second time.

‘Yes, I’m sure!’

Kirsty looked at the hospital security officer’s face. Dismay was written all over it, the sort of dismay that washes colour away from the cheeks and makes eye contact all but impossible.

She was scared, the DC could see. But was it fear of the repercussions to follow the discovery that the CCTV tapes had mysteriously vanished? Or fear that the police were making inquiries about them?

‘What about the ones from the other wards? And the main entrances? What about them?’ Kirsty persisted.

They were sitting in a small room surrounded by monitors that showed different angles in different areas of this massive building.

‘The report from last year giving details of thefts is pretty bad,’ Kirsty continued. ‘Is security always as rotten as this?’

The woman flashed her a look then dropped her eyes.

It’s true
, these drooping shoulders seemed to say.

Kirsty shook her head. Folk seemed to be able to wander into this enormous place and lift items from patients’ lockers, unlocked offices, anywhere that was easy pickings. Money, of course, but clothes and even spectacles had been nicked from the wards. Thieves had no conscience, stealing from sick folk. But then there had been TVs stolen too and several vehicles that had never been found. And now this.

‘I need to see all the tapes from the past month,’ Kirsty told her, watching the woman’s eyes widen in disbelief.

‘That’ll take you for ever,’ she exclaimed.

‘Aye, well there’s a whole lot more of us back at Stewart Street just waiting to see them,’ Kirsty told her gloomily.

‘The CCTV cameras were all in working order,’ Kirsty reported back to the rest of the team. ‘But the recordings on the ones in Nurse Milligan’s ward had vanished into thin air.’

‘Someone knew we’d be looking out for them,’ DC Jean Fairlie remarked darkly. ‘They’re no’ stupid.’

‘So, what have we got?’ Lorimer asked. ‘A visual description of the bogus doctor from Mary Milligan and a month’s worth of tapes.’

‘She’d be able to recognise him,’ Kirsty piped up. ‘Why don’t we get her to look at the ones from the entrances? He had to go in and out one way or another.’

‘Worth a try,’ DC Fairlie agreed.

Kirsty shot her a smile. The older woman, twice married to police officers, and twice divorced, was an old hand when it came to sizing up a situation. She and the new DC’s father had worked together on numerous occasions and Jean Fairlie had been one of the first to welcome Kirsty into Stewart Street police station.

Len Murdoch opened the wardrobe with a sigh. Black suit, black tie, well-polished shoes… it was part of a ritual that he’d been dreading.

But the boys were here now, all the arrangements made and today he would have to keep a check on each and every one of the emotions that were churning inside. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. Better not put in a new blade. Wouldn’t do to arrive at the funeral with cuts all over his face.

Who would turn up? Lorimer, probably, to represent the team at Stewart Street. DI Grant was still busy with the Byres Road case and the jeweller’s heist was now a joint inquiry between Police Scotland and Nottingham Constabulary.

For a moment he wondered how Wilson’s wee lassie was faring. She’d been good so far, he had to admit. Kept quiet when she should, did what she was told and got on with the job. Could make a decent detective if she had a nose for it like her father. Chip off the old block? Perhaps.

Murdoch was glad that neither of his own boys had followed in his footsteps. Jack was in something related to IT, exactly what he could never quite fathom, whilst Niall was working his way up in banking. They’d be waiting for him downstairs, Len realised, pulling the tie off its rack and throwing it on to the bed. Well, let them wait. Hadn’t he waited till they could get flights over here? Days and days of going over Irene’s final hours. Dear God! Had either of them any notion what life had been like these past few years?

There was a cold wind blowing from the east as the funeral party emerged from the church and made its way across the rabbit-nibbled grass to the burial ground. Black-clad figures, some bowed against the weight of their years, all walked slowly behind the coffin and the men who bore it.

Lorimer kept a respectful distance behind the family members, glancing as a couple passed him by, their gloved hands linked together, the woman’s hair covered in a black scarf, the man’s coat collar turned up against the freshening breeze. There were a few other officers he recognised from Murdoch’s previous postings, a retired DCI from Kilmarnock and a couple of younger officers from Cumbernauld. Earlier they had given Lorimer a nod in passing and now each man gravitated towards the other until all four were in a small group of their own.

‘Sad business,’ Arnold Coates remarked as they stopped to watch Irene Murdoch’s interment. ‘He never let it interfere with his work, though. Have to give him that much credit.’

Lorimer threw him an enquiring look but it was DS Alan Littlejohn who answered his unspoken question.

‘Och, you can’t help but feel sorry for him, but still… poor light-fingered Lennie,’ Littlejohn whispered in a soft tone, but still loud enough for Lorimer to hear him. Had that been intended? Or had Littlejohn’s words simply drifted across on that gust of autumn wind?

‘Shh!’ Donald Rutherford frowned at his colleague.

Lorimer glanced at them but neither man returned his stare. Why had Donald Rutherford shushed his friend? Was it to shut him up because he was saying too much? Or because the priest had now stepped forward closer to the open grave? All four men fell silent as the coffin bearers stopped, ready to receive the undertaker’s commands.

Once all the cords were taken and the coffin lowered into the ground, there was a moment of prayer from the priest then the solemn invocation as he threw a handful of soil, the sound of it hitting the solid-oak casket like a scatter of hail.

What were they, after all? Dust? Lorimer looked up at the clouds moving swiftly across the grey rain-laden skies. Just a little while here, fighting against the forces of evil, then that long sleep. What was the mystery of death? Where would all his energy go once that final breath had been taken? This white-haired priest seemed so certain that there was something after this life, didn’t he? And yet, it was only at times like this that Lorimer wondered if that were possible.

It was to show his respect. To offer his condolences, Lorimer argued with himself as he parked the Lexus at the back of the pub where the purvey was to be held. Besides, it had been simply a matter of courtesy to offer a lift to Arnold Coates.
Came by taxi,
the older man had told him with a grin and Lorimer had taken the hint. He’d noticed Littlejohn and Rutherford getting into the same car and suspected that they too were heading this way.

‘Ah, old bones getting stiff these days,’ Coates grumbled as he stepped out. ‘Nice model,’ he remarked, eyeing the big silver car. ‘Especially these heated seats.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ve done well, Lorimer.’

Lorimer smiled thinly but did not reply. Sometimes suspicious looks were thrown at his luxury car, comments made about how much it cost and how nice it must be to have that sort of money; jealous barbs that held unspoken questions about how a mere policeman could afford a Lexus 450.
No kids
, was his stock answer to any ingenuous enough to ask. Plus he always bought a second-hand model.

But Arnold Coates seemed to have read his mind as he continued. ‘Some folk must wonder how you do it,’ he said. ‘No substitute for a family, though, is it?’

Lorimer simply nodded as they entered the pub and headed for the function suite where a couple of waiters stood with trays of drinks.

‘Need to find a table. Can’t stand for too long these days,’ Coates grumbled, leading Lorimer to the back of the room.

‘Here, let me take your coat,’ Lorimer offered and then watched as the older man slowly fumbled with the buttons, his arthritic joints making every movement painful.

He folded their coats and pushed them on to a shelf behind the corner table then sat beside the former DCI.

‘Shouldn’t speak ill of the man on a day like this,’ Coates began, leaning towards Lorimer. ‘But there are certain things that you ought to know about Lennie Murdoch.’

Lorimer’s brow furrowed. ‘What did Littlejohn mean? About light-fingered Lennie?’

‘Aye.’ Coates picked up his whisky glass, took a mouthful then set the drink down again thoughtfully. ‘Not good to spread rumours.
Unfounded
rumours, mind.’ He gave Lorimer a sharp look. ‘See,’ he leaned closer and Lorimer could smell the whisky off the old man’s breath, ‘Lennie always seemed to be around whenever there was something missing.’

‘You mean a piece of evidence?’

‘God, no! That would have been instant dismissal. No, Len Murdoch was cleverer than that. Chose his moments well, I reckon. Helped when he became a scene of crime manager, of course.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, rumour had it that there were money problems at home.’ Coates shrugged. ‘Nobody quite knew why but some said it was because of the wife’s condition. Maybe she needed expensive care? Who knows. Anyway, most of us turned a blind eye.’ He chuckled. ‘No, that’s not strictly true. Some of us had our suspicions. But there was never any way we could have proved what he was up to.’

‘And what was that?’

Coates raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. ‘You mean you’ve never heard…?’

A shake of the head was Lorimer’s only reply. He could see that the ex-cop was enjoying spinning out this tale, letting the detective super wait until he came to the nub of it all.

The two men sat back for a moment as a stout young waitress laid plates of sandwiches and cakes on their table.

‘It was thought, only
thought,
mind you,’ Coates wagged a finger at him when the girl was out of earshot, ‘that our Lennie lifted the odd item from scenes of crime.’

‘How did anybody think that?’

Coates raised the whisky again and sipped it, his eyes on the glass, avoiding his companion’s gaze.

‘He’d suddenly be flush,’ the old man said at last. ‘Make it his round down the pub. Claimed to have got lucky with the gee-gees.’ Coates gave a snort. ‘No one gets
that
lucky! Besides,’ he held up a hand and whispered behind it, ‘always happened a week or so after some expensive item couldn’t be accounted for. Mostly in a jewellery raid, you know?’

Lorimer blinked suddenly as though he had been struck. Murdoch had recently been at a scene of crime where a raid had taken place. And his neighbour on that occasion had been none other than Detective Constable Kirsty Wilson.

‘Here, better go and say our piece,’ Coates said, rising to his feet. Lorimer followed his glance as the bullet-headed detective sergeant came across the room towards them both. Words would have to be spoken; trite phrases of condolence that Murdoch must be hearing over and over. For a moment Lorimer truly wished that he had gone back to Stewart Street instead of coming here.

He shook Murdoch’s hand and stepped back as other men in black coats slipped to the detective sergeant’s side, murmuring their condolences. More stock phrases, Lorimer thought as the men moved away and another stranger came towards Murdoch, his coat collar up around his ears.

‘So sorry for your loss,’ he heard the man say. ‘But you must be glad that she had a quiet release.’

Lorimer gave a start.
Quiet release
. Wasn’t that the name of this illegal organisation? He’d been about to sit back down with the old DCI but now he quickened his step, struggling to move through the crowd, apologising as he knocked into some of the mourners, desperate to catch a glimpse of the dark coat and dark hair above that turned-up collar. Was that the man he had seen earlier at the cemetery, holding hands with his wife, or whoever his female companion had been?

Where was he? The door from the room was closed. Had the stranger disappeared back into the throng?

He looked over the crowded room but the man was gone.

Lorimer shoved at the door and sped along the corridor, his policeman’s sixth sense urging him on.

Out in the car park several people were leaving yet, although his eyes searched all around, there was no trace of the man who had uttered those words to the bereaved detective sergeant. Heart thumping, Lorimer clenched his fists, as he watched the cars leaving, no sign of the stranger in any of them.

If only he had been quicker! He cursed softly under his breath, some inner voice telling him that he had been close to seeing the man behind these murders.

Quietly, the tall detective retraced his steps. Courtesy dictated that he should make a proper leave-taking of his detective sergeant and besides, he wanted to ask if anybody knew the couple who had attended the burial.

He picked up his coat, glad to note that Littlejohn and Rutherford had joined the older man at his table.

‘Saw a couple at the cemetery. Woman and a man with a dark coat, collar turned up. Any relation to Murdoch?’ Lorimer asked diffidently, bending down to direct his question at Coates.

The older man shook his head. ‘Nobody I know,’ he shrugged. ‘And I think I know most of the folk in this room.’

‘Well, must be off, take care.’ Lorimer nodded, eager now to make his escape. Perhaps he’d been wrong about the man offering Murdoch his condolences. Maybe it had been a neighbour, someone that the police fraternity wouldn’t recognise. Maybe these words spoken to Murdoch had been sheer coincidence? And yet, at the back of his mind, there lay the knowledge that sometimes a killer took the risk of appearing at his victim’s funeral. And the disquiet he felt made him look up at the car park, eyes searching for any CCTV cameras, something that might have captured that man and his wife leaving the pub. But to his dismay, there were none.