The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (22 page)

Soon the detective superintendent was driving back to work. There was a pile of paperwork on his desk waiting for his attention and a meeting with the head of Professional Standards. One of their rookie cops had taken it into his head to try to restrain a prisoner in the cells with the consequences that the bloke had cried assault and now the young man’s superiors were having to deal with the question of whether PC Jackie Cunningham had taken his boot to the man’s ribs.

Lorimer’s opinion was that the police constable had done just that in a moment of hot-headed zeal, a moment he now bitterly regretted as he awaited his fate. Lorimer sighed heavily. One stupid mistake and a young man’s future as a police officer might be cancelled out. But, if Cunningham were to be let off lightly, would that give out the message that kicking the shit out of prisoners was somehow acceptable? Probably, which was why the guy’s suspension would no doubt lead to dismissal after his tribunal.

Lorimer bit his lip. What was he going to do about Kirsty? If the girl had any clue at all about Len Murdoch’s habit of filching stuff from a scene of crime then it was her bounden duty to report him. And, if she failed to do that,
she
was the one who would find herself in real trouble. There was only one way to find out, he thought grimly, and that was to ask her.

He must always be seen as impartial no matter how kindly he felt towards his detective inspector’s daughter. Kirsty was going to be a good cop. He could sense that. She had already shown how adept she was at picking up on people’s emotions. That was always going to stand her in good stead; sensing when a person was telling the truth was something that came with experience though. And he wondered what she would say if he confronted her with the rumours he had heard after Irene Murdoch’s funeral.

Kirsty read the email again.

Need to ask you some sensitive questions regarding Paton’s jewellery raid.
 

He knew. Somehow the man she respected almost more than anyone else in her life had found out the secret that had been tormenting her for weeks now.

Lorimer had been to the funeral. That was fact number one, Kirsty thought frantically. Had he spoken to Murdoch? Of course he had. But surely they would not be talking shop? No way, not on the day of a funeral. So what had happened to give rise to this email that chilled her blood?

She glanced upwards at the ceiling. Professional Standards were in today to see Lorimer about that incident in the cells. It had taken place before her arrival at Stewart Street and so it was only through the rumour mill that Kirsty had heard what had happened. Was it something to do with Chief Superintendent Miller coming to speak to Lorimer?

What about the fact that the jewellery case was now in other hands? Kirsty had no idea how it was progressing now that the Nottingham Police were involved. Did they somehow suspect that something was wrong with the inventory of stolen items?

And, if she were honest, could she be sure that she had seen the man who had buried his wife today taking a hugely expensive watch and putting it into his scene of crime bag?

The day dragged on into dusk and still he had not called her.

Kirsty stood up and yawned, stretching as she felt the strain across her shoulders from sitting too long over her laptop. The CCTV images had been copied and sent to several of the officers and so far they had not identified the mysterious doctor who had left Mary Milligan’s ward. She’d need to bring in the ginger-haired nurse, Kirsty decided. But not tonight. She rubbed her eyes. Enough was enough. It was time to pack it in for today and go home where James would be waiting for her.

The thought of her boyfriend made her smile brightly.

And then the telephone rang.

‘Can you come up for a few minutes, DC Wilson?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. ‘On my way now.’

Kirsty’s throat was tight with nerves as she climbed the stairs to Lorimer’s office. Would she open the door to be confronted by Chief Superintendent Miller, a woman whose reputation as a no-nonsense type made the young DC tremble? Valerie Miller was in line for one of the top jobs, she had heard. And she wasn’t one to suffer fools gladly, least of all a wet-behind-the ears detective constable.

But, when she knocked on his door and heard him call
come in
, Kirsty was relieved to find Lorimer on his own, standing looking out of the window.

‘Sir, you wanted to see me?’ She moved forward but Lorimer continued to look out of the window as if he was studying something interesting down in the streets below.

‘Went to Irene Murdoch’s funeral,’ he said, still not turning to look at her. ‘Heard some rather unpleasant things about DS Murdoch.’

There was a silence then Kirsty saw the tall man draw a hand across his brow.

‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, DC Wilson?’

Lorimer’s voice was quiet, the tone neutral.

She’d heard that voice before. The matter-of-fact way he spoke when the subject was actually of grave importance. Like now.

Kirsty knew what he was asking.
Did you have any reason to suspect that DS Murdoch was a thief
? Except these words were never spoken.

Kirsty’s heart thumped.

He was giving her a chance. Looking out of the window, refusing to meet her eyes, not wishing to read the expression on her face lest she gave herself away.

‘No, sir,’ she lied, hating herself for her deceit but suddenly knowing that this was the answer that Lorimer wanted from her.

‘Good.’

There was another silence then she saw him clasp his hands behind his head as though considering something. Was he going to turn around? Confront her? See the guilt shining in her eyes? But then he spoke once more.

‘That’s all. Goodnight, DC Wilson.’

‘Goodnight, sir,’ she replied, choking back the desire to utter
thank you
, realising as she fled the room that not one question had been asked about the jewellery heist.

Lorimer blew out his breath as he turned away from the window to see the door closing. Did he believe her? Probably not. What decent human being would put a fellow officer in the mire on the very day of his wife’s funeral? Certainly not a kind-hearted girl like Kirsty. But the meeting had been a small warning to her, he thought. And maybe one day he would be able to speak to her about the suspicions that were already in his mind.

P
rofessor Solomon Brightman was accustomed to being called to assist in cases where there might be patterns to follow, cases of multiple murder. He had read everything about the notorious Dr Harold Shipman, had even lectured upon the subject and made references to the man in his own writings, but until now Solly had never expected to be professionally involved in a case like that.

Rosie had told him about the old lady and Maggie Lorimer’s late cousin, of course, plus the tragic deaths of the two sisters. It was a puzzle and Solomon Brightman enjoyed the challenge of solving such things.
The who and the why
, he often told his students, adding that the
how
was usually fairly obvious.
Motive, means and opportunity
was the police mantra and that was something that exercised the psychologist’s mind at this very moment as he travelled from the University of Glasgow to meet his old friend Lorimer.

Never having had the desire to drive was an advantage, Solly often mused as he looked out of the taxi window. There was the KRK store by the roundabout, not far from where Kirsty lived with her Geordie boyfriend, James. The pair had often come to babysit for Rosie and Solly, the young couple taking the short walk across Kelvingrove Park to the Brightmans’ terraced home with its splendid view to the west. Now he smiled at the sight of Lobey Dosser, the cartoon character astride his two-legged steed, El Fidelo, immortalised in bronze. The cartoonist had enjoyed a cult following with his cartoon strips of Glasgow cowboys. And Glaswegians held the memory of those with a special fondness. What had Lobey Dosser’s opponent been called? Solly tried to think as they passed the shops and pubs in Woodlands Road. Rank Bajin! That was it! The play on a Glasgow worthy’s comment:
he’s a rank bad yin!

Solly’s grin faded as they travelled through St George’s Cross and headed further into the city. Somewhere some rank bad person was taking the lives of vulnerable, innocent men and women and he wanted to know why.

‘It has to be about money,’ Solly said, spreading his hands in an expressive gesture.

‘How do you work that out?’ Lorimer asked.

They were sitting on easy chairs by the window in the detective superintendent’s office, a couple of cups and saucers lying on the side table between them.

Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door that made each man look out and a rattle as Sadie Dunlop pushed her trolley into the room.

‘Here, look who it is!’ she exclaimed, leaving the trolley and coming across to give the bearded psychologist a peck on the cheek.

‘He got you in tae solve a mystery, eh?’ Sadie nudged the man and grinned across at the detective superintendent who merely smiled and shook his head. Sadie was incorrigible, a wee Glasgow wifey who stood on no ceremony, treating every person in the division exactly the same. Only the current chief constable had ever made Sadie speak to him with the deference due to the man’s position, it was rumoured.

‘See whit ah’ve goat the morn,’ she told them, one hand waving over the baked goods that adorned the two tiers of her trolley. ‘Fresh scones an’ pancakes, lemon drizzle cake, fruit gingerbread an’ a selection of cream buns. All the éclairs are finished,’ she added with a triumphant toss of her grey curls.

‘Oh, a couple of scones, please.’ Solly beamed at the little woman.

‘Any Danish pastries?’ Lorimer murmured, getting to his feet and peering at the trolley.

‘Ha! Think Sadie’s forgot your pastries?’ She laughed, bending down and lifting a greaseproof paper from the lower tier to reveal a paper plate with one large pastry on it. ‘Saved it jist fur you,’ she added, handing it to Lorimer with a smile.

‘Spoil him, so ah do,’ she told Solly. ‘Anywise, better be getting on. See an’ help our man here get tae the bottom of whatever it is, eh?’ she added shrewdly, giving both men a cheery wave as she rattled out of the room.

‘So Sadie’s back?’ Solly remarked as he picked up his buttered scone.

‘Aye. Don’t seem to be able to pension her off at all,’ Lorimer replied with a mock sigh.

‘Hard to think of her not being around, though,’ Solly remarked. ‘Must be a good age now?’

‘In her seventies, I’d guess,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Could tell you if I looked up her file.’

‘No need. I was just wondering…’ Solly broke off as he chewed the scone thoughtfully.

Lorimer watched his dark eyes behind their horn-rimmed spectacles. There would be a lengthy pause as the psychologist considered his next statement.

‘Old people. What they do with their lives, how they cope with retirement…’ He shrugged. ‘Tell me something about Miss Jane Maitland.’

‘Well,’ Lorimer began, lifting up the Danish pastry and eyeing it with relish. ‘You know she was worth a small fortune?’

‘I told you it would be about money,’ Solly murmured. ‘Go on.’

‘She was a single lady who seemed to have lived a quiet, blameless life. However,’ he paused to take a sip of coffee, ‘not everything was exactly as it seemed to be in Jane Maitland’s past.’

‘Is it ever?’ Solly gave a rueful smile.

‘Hm. She had accumulated a great deal of money. Mostly from stocks and bonds. Must have had a good head on her shoulders as she didn’t have any financial adviser to guide her. Did it all herself.’

‘Some people love playing the stock market.’

‘Indeed. Though I doubt that many make such vast sums as this lady appears to have done. She was worth over a million.’

‘Gracious!’ The psychologist’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘And she lived in a humble little cottage flat.’

‘With no pretensions or little luxury that was evident from what we could see.’ Lorimer shrugged. ‘Anyway, it turns out she has a son. Born on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak. Not a soul up here knew her secret apart from her lawyer and the parish priest.’

‘You’ve met him? The son, I mean.’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Name’s Crawford Whyte. Was adopted as an infant and claims that he only found out about his birth mother after her death.’

Solly smiled at his friend. ‘But you don’t believe him, do you?’

Lorimer gave a short laugh. ‘No. I don’t. There’s more to Mr Whyte than meets the eye. And I’ll tell you something else.’ He leaned forward, pointing his index finger. ‘I have the feeling that the lawyer had dealings with Whyte before that visit to Glasgow when we met him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Och, there’s nothing concrete, nothing to go on, just a feeling…’ Lorimer sighed.

Solomon Brightman smiled silently to himself. If Detective Superintendent Lorimer had a strong feeling about a particular person then it was odds on that he was going to be under his scrutiny until something positive emerged.

‘Right,’ Solly said at last. ‘Let’s see what I can do to help.’

It all made for interesting reading, the psychologist thought some hours later as he sat in his spacious office back at the University of Glasgow. The afternoon light shone through the bay window, coloured patterns from the stained glass shining upon the tall bank of books that surrounded the professor.

There had to be more deaths. Nobody was going to go to the trouble of setting up a campaign to assist the dying and simply select a few willing persons. Money. That was what would be at the root of it, Solly had already decided. There were several motives that made a person take the life of his fellow man; jealousy, desire for power, revenge or the lust for money. And it had to be a motive that had been well thought out, well planned in advance, ergo an act that carried
intention.

‘Let’s see how you would begin,’ he murmured aloud, as though addressing the perpetrator.

Anybody watching the bearded man sitting in his comfortable chair by the window might be forgiven for assuming that he was simply daydreaming, one hand stroking his chin, a faraway look in those dark eyes. Yet they would have been quite wrong, for the train of thought in the professor’s mind was absolutely logical as he sought an answer to his preliminary question.

Mary arrived at the door and hesitated. On the glass were engraved words of welcome in several different languages, reflecting the diversity that belonged to Glasgow these days. It was the same in the hospital, she thought, pushing the heavy doors open and entering Stewart Street police station. So many different people from so many different places; it was hard to keep track of all these ethnic groups at times. But she had nodded at reading
failte
, a Gaelic word that she did recognise.

‘Hello?’ Mary leaned against the glass partition at reception and smiled tentatively at the uniformed officer who turned to see who had arrived.

‘Afternoon, miss,’ the man said. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘Oh, I’m Mary Milligan and I’m here to see Detective Constable Wilson?’ Mary’s voice rose in a moment of pride.

But the man seemed not to care in the slightest who she was as he shuffled some papers on a side counter then came back to her.

‘If you would let me see some identity, Miss Milligan, then we’ll fix you up with a badge.’

Mary rummaged in her handbag and produced her passport as DC Wilson had advised. It was the matter of moments to sign in a large register and take the proffered ID badge. Then she was being ushered through another door, the big policeman chatting idly about the weather as they walked along a corridor and up a flight of stairs.

‘I’m here to try to identify somebody,’ she confided breathlessly as they reached the end of yet another corridor.

‘Oh, aye?’ The policeman did not seem to be in the least interested and simply pushed open a door and signalled that she should enter before him. Mary frowned, annoyed at his apparent indifference.

‘A Miss Milligan to see DC Wilson,’ he announced.

Then Kirsty was there, walking towards her and leading Mary through this large room to one end where several people were seated over computer screens.

‘Thanks so much for coming in. We’ve been going through all of the hospital CCTV tapes that we could,’ Kirsty explained. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘Oh.’ Mary looked up at the detective, grateful that at last she was being treated as a special visitor, someone of importance ‘Where shall I sit?’

‘Just here. That’s my desk at the moment,’ Kirsty replied with a tired smile. ‘D’you fancy a cup of something? I saved a couple of cakes from the wee lady who comes round every day with her trolley.’

‘Aye, go on, then,’ Mary answered. ‘Sounds just like the hospital. We have porters who come around with stuff all the time. A coffee would be grand. Milk and two sugars, please.’

No wonder the young detective had looked tired, Mary thought some time later, rubbing her eyes. It was hard work peering at that screen, trying to make out each figure as it left the main door of her building. The place was a rabbit warren, she’d always told folk that when they’d fetched up lost in her department. You could come in one way and wander the corridors for hours before leaving from a completely different exit. She’d told the detective girl as much, receiving a worried look for her pains. And now she was staring at this damned screen, aware that they were all hoping she’d recognise the good-looking man who had beguiled her that day.

He probably won’t just be wearing a short-sleeved shirt if he’s leaving the main entrance
, Kirsty had told her. And so they would guess that it was doubly hard to see if the man was
her
man, her mystery doctor.

In the end it was a moment of common courtesy that ended her search. The figure in the tweed coat hesitated at the top step and lifted a hand to allow an elderly lady to pass down the steps before him, turning slightly to one side so that Mary saw his handsome profile. She liked the look of this one all right.

‘That’s him!’

In a trice Kirsty was beside her. ‘Let’s see again,’ the detective said, the excitement in her voice making Mary feel a sense of triumph.

Over and over the detective replayed the same part of the tape, freezing the screen to show the man in profile.

Mary and Kirsty grinned at one another. ‘Ya wee dancer!’ the detective exclaimed, punching the air with her fist. ‘Thanks, Mary. Thanks ever so much.’

‘Will he be someone your lot know about already?’ Mary asked.

Kirsty leaned down until her face was closer to the ginger-haired nurse’s. ‘Can’t say anything about an operation while it’s ongoing, I’m afraid. But I will tell you this much. If we find this man and he’s charged with an offence then you’ll maybe be asked to give evidence in court.’

‘Really?’ Mary perked up. ‘Like on one of these TV dramas?’ she asked breathlessly.

Kirsty gave a wry grin. ‘Depends on which ones you watch,’ she replied.

‘He’s not on any police database,’ Jean Fairlie sighed, glancing across at Kirsty. ‘Either it’s his first time or he’s a clever bugger.’

‘Oh, well, at least we’ve got an ID to show the other members of the hospital staff.’ Kirsty made a face. ‘That’s got to be a help.’

‘Aye and bloody time consuming an’ all,’ Jean complained.

‘But if this fellow’s going around putting sick people to sleep…’ Kirsty protested.

‘Och, maybe he’d doing them a favour,’ Jean grumbled. ‘I mean to say, you wouldn’t hesitate to take your dog to the vet when it’s in pain, would you?’

‘Don’t have a dog,’ Kirsty mumbled crossly.

‘You know what I mean,’ Jean persisted.

‘But you heard what Lorimer told us,’ Kirsty went on. ‘These people are being targeted by a killer. It’s not something they’ve asked for.’

‘How do you know?’ Jean said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Maybe they’d asked their loved ones to find a way to end it all. I know
I
would if it came to the bit.’

‘But what if they’re simply being bumped off for the convenience of a relative. Like with these poor sisters. It wasn’t Rachel who killed Julie. It was someone else. The DNA proves that.’