The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (25 page)

Cunningham frowned and narrowed his eyes. ‘Think so,’ he replied.

‘And you also smashed a window in the house where Sarah Wilding was lodging,’ Lorimer stated.

Cunningham nodded.

‘Please speak for the tape.’

‘Aye, Dolan and me. We just wanted to give her a scare. Remind her that we had something on her. I suppose that wee nyaff’s told you already?’ he grumbled but Lorimer did not respond to his question.

‘You came to Abbey Nursing Home a second time with the intention of harming Sarah Wilding,’ Lorimer said flatly.

‘It was just a bit of fun,’ Cunningham protested.

‘Explain why you called her last night during her working shift and demanded that she come out, threatening her into the bargain,’ Lorimer said coldly, holding up the phone once more to show that they had all the evidence they needed to prove the man’s guilt.

‘All right,’ Cunningham snapped. ‘The boss thought that Sarah might still come in handy. Wanted to see if she’d raid the drug cupboard in the place where she worked.’

‘What sorts of drugs?’

‘The usual. Morphine.’ Cunningham shrugged as though the answer was obvious.

‘But he didn’t know that none of the patients at Abbey Nursing Home require such a drug,’ Lorimer told him, watching as Cunningham’s eyes widened. ‘So, tell me, Jerry. Who is this
boss
you seem to think so highly of?’

‘Do you believe him?’ Solly asked as they sat in the professor’s spacious office off University Avenue.

‘Aye,’ Lorimer sighed volubly. ‘More’s the pity. Cunningham and Dolan were lured into this. They don’t know the identity of the person or persons behind Quiet Release and, to be honest, I don’t think they even wanted to know.’

‘Safer for them not to,’ Solly agreed. ‘What about your old friend Billy Brogan?’

‘Billy doesn’t have the brains to dream up something like this but I bet he could supply the muscle power that it required.’

‘Where is he now?’

Lorimer shrugged. ‘Not in Barlinnie any more. Served his time for that case we were both involved in. Last known address was with Frankie Bissett in Byres Road. We’ve been looking for Billy ever since they found Frankie’s body in that bathroom. Now we have to wonder if poor wee Frankie was somehow involved in all of this.’

‘Do you think he’s still in Glasgow?’

‘Who knows?’ Lorimer gave a yawn and stretched his arms above his head. ‘Don’t think he’s done a bunk to Mallorca like he did last time.’ He gave a rueful grin, the memory of Brogan’s escapade making him chuckle. ‘Intelligence suggests he’s gone to ground somewhere in the city.’

‘Do you think he’ll have any notion who is behind Quiet Release?’

Lorimer shook his head. ‘No, Brogan wouldn’t be given that sort of information. Our best bet is working with the phones and the laptops to see if anything can be traced. Our technical boys and girls are probably the ones who’ll solve this one, Solly.’

The professor walked towards the large bay window, his hands clasped behind his back, a thoughtful expression in his dark eyes.

‘And meantime, innocent people are still being put to death,’ he murmured, gazing down at the street at the gathering dusk where leaves were blowing in the chill October wind.

M
urdoch was back.

The first Kirsty saw of the detective sergeant was the leather jacket slung on the back of a chair, his grey head bent over a pile of folders.

She approached him cautiously, uncertain now of the relationship between them. Was he to continue being her mentor? Or would she still be under the guidance of the man who had inspired her to join up in the first place?

He didn’t see her right away, so Kirsty had a few moments to look at the detective sergeant’s face as he pored over some documents. His cheeks were pale, as though he had spent too much time indoors, and there were tiny nicks along the jawline where he had cut himself shaving. Murdoch’s tie was already loosened and she could see the line of grease along the edge of his shirt collar. When had he last had help at home? She was just imagining the man’s domestic situation when he looked up at her.

‘Wilson.’

‘You’re back, sir,’ Kirsty said, realising as she spoke how hollow her words were. But Murdoch’s demeanour was a barrier to any form of sympathy.

‘Aye. And see they’ve given over our case to Nottingham,’ he replied with disgust. ‘You’ve been busy, though,’ he added with a curl of his lip. ‘
And
keeping company with upstairs.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Kirsty bit back any further explanation. Was that a trace of jealousy in Murdoch’s voice?

‘Better having him as a mentor, d’you think?’ Murdoch growled, confirming her suspicions.

‘Don’t really know, sir. But the current case is pretty complicated. It’s been keeping us all busy at any rate,’ she replied.

‘Aye, so I see.’ Murdoch swung his laptop around so that Kirsty could look at what he had been doing. Rows and rows of nursing homes and their addresses had been printed out and she assumed that the DS had been given authority to investigate them all.

Are you sure you want to do this?
she almost cried out. What must it be like investigating these sorts of nursing homes? And how many of the patients would be MS sufferers like his late wife?

‘Nearly put Irene in one of them,’ he said, glancing at Kirsty as though he could read her mind. ‘But we decided to keep her at home for as long as we could.’ He shrugged. ‘Same difference in the end, though. Pneumonia usually gets them.’

Was that right? Had poor Mrs Murdoch died of pneumonia after all? And had Mary Milligan been wrong about Murdoch’s involvement? Kirsty frowned for a moment, glancing at the thin line of Murdoch’s mouth as he undoubtedly struggled to keep his emotions in check.

‘Better get on, sir. So much paperwork,’ she ventured.

‘Aye, you’ll be chained to that desk for a while, I reckon,’ he replied. ‘No point in taking you to any more scenes of crime while this one lasts.’

Kirsty hesitated. There was no sign of regret in the man’s voice and he had already turned away, one hand on the computer mouse.

It took a matter of minutes to find what she was looking for.

Multiple sclerosis was so different for its victims but many of them did indeed end their lives due to pneumonia. She read on, not fully understanding every technical term that described the disease. Did pneumonia set in as a result of those wasting muscles? Kirsty just wasn’t sure. She glanced across at the detective sergeant who was engrossed in something on his computer screen. He’d looked grief-stricken that day at the hospital. But after the long years of Irene Murdoch’s horrible illness, wouldn’t there have been a modicum of relief as well?

Kirsty gave herself a mental shake. It was stupid to think that Irene Murdoch had been one of the patients targeted by that end-of-life group. The patients in her ward were dreadfully ill people, almost expected to pass away, like that lady next door to Murdoch’s wife who had died in the night. And surely the woman’s nurse was simply being fanciful about her patient’s demise?
It gets to you
, she remembered her father saying one night at the dinner table
. Sometimes it seems like the whole world is full of criminal intent.
Was that what was happening to her? Was her world now being coloured by every case she dealt with? She thought of Jean Fairlie for a moment. Was she destined to become like the hard-bitten older woman? Seeing life as a trek through crime and grime?

It was none of her business, Kirsty told herself. Len Murdoch’s wife had been dying for a long time. Surely it was better to let her suspicions go and give the poor man a modicum of peace?

Murdoch’s phone rang just then and Kirsty glanced across at his profile, the solid jawline and jutting brow. He would be a formidable opponent, she suddenly realised, glad that she was on his side and not facing him across the table in an interview room.

‘Right, Wilson.’ He spun in his chair and looked across at Kirsty. ‘A wee development.’ He grinned. ‘Looks like we’ll have you at a scene of crime after all.’

The Honda was parked where it usually sat, face out for a quick exit from the police car park. Kirsty caught one-handed the keys that Murdoch tossed, her reward a nod of approval from the detective sergeant.

‘Off we jolly well go, Wilson,’ he said, strapping on his seat belt. ‘Sudden death over in the West End. Just off Great Western Road.’

‘Oh?’ Kirsty could not help wanting to know more.

‘Fellow in a nursing home,’ Murdoch replied. ‘One of the ones that have been targeted,’ he added, tapping an index finger against his nose.

Kirsty drove out of the conglomeration of buildings and headed west, the road curving this way and that until she came to the boulevard that led all the way down towards Loch Lomond.

‘Take a left here,’ Murdoch suddenly commanded, and Kirsty did as she was bid, puzzled at the diversion.

‘Stop in there,’ he said, sliding out of his seat belt as a row of shops appeared just ahead.

Cigarettes, Kirsty guessed, spotting a newsagent’s shop. But she was wrong. Murdoch slammed out of the car and walked a few paces past the shop and entered a Ladbroke’s betting shop instead. Kirsty blinked to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. Perhaps there was a professional reason for this visit. Did Murdoch need to visit an informant in there? Or was he simply putting on a bet?

He was out of the premises a few minutes later, stuffing something into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

‘Drive,’ he commanded curtly. ‘First right and right again.’

Yours not to reason why,
Kirsty told herself, her inner voice tinged with cynicism.

‘In here,’ Murdoch told her minutes later, but his command wasn’t needed, the large sign by the stone pillars proclaiming
R
OSE
P
ARK
N
URSING
H
OME
.

Murdoch was out of the car in seconds, hauling his scene of crime bag from the back seat.

‘Your Quiet Release people have tripped up this time.’ He grinned as Kirsty came to his side.

‘We’ve had officers warning loads of nursing homes about that,’ Kirsty replied.

‘Aye, and it looks like we hit pay dirt.’ Murdoch nodded, striding towards the main entrance. ‘One of the patients had his own laptop. You’ll find out when we’re in,’ he added with another nod as he pressed the bell and waited.

‘Detective Sergeant Murdoch, Detective Constable Wilson,’ Murdoch told the military-looking gentleman standing at the opened door.

‘John Dunwoodie,’ the man said, glancing at the warrant card that Murdoch held out. ‘Terrible business,’ he added.

‘Is there somewhere we can change?’ Murdoch asked, looking around the wood-panelled entrance foyer. ‘We need to put on our forensic gear,’ he explained.

‘Good gracious,’ Dunwoodie murmured, stroking his moustache with a thoughtful finger. ‘Just like that TV programme… what d’you call it?’

‘Somewhere to change, sir?’ Kirsty spoke up at the man with a hopeful smile.

‘Of course.’ Dunwoodie straightened his back and pointed to a door in the corner. ‘Toilets over there. Ladies and gents,’ he added with a cough.

‘Your staff have been told to leave the patient’s room?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Dunwoodie agreed. ‘As soon as we suspected that something was… not quite kosher…’ He broke off as the two detectives headed for the bathrooms, Murdoch pulling a set of whites from the scene of crime bag for Kirsty.

From the door to his room Kirsty could see Edward Clark’s body lying on the bed, the duvet pulled back to show his upper body and the syringe that was still embedded in his arm.

‘Must have been disturbed and scarpered before he could take that out,’ Murdoch said grimly. ‘We don’t touch a thing,’ he warned Kirsty with a glare. ‘Not even to close the poor bugger’s eyes.’

Kirsty nodded, staring at the dead man whose mouth was partly open as though in protest, his eyes still wide with fright.

‘They did the right thing,’ Murdoch muttered as he began laying treads from the doorway right up to the side of the victim’s bed. ‘Called us right away,’ he added. ‘Wish more people were as accommodating. Right, Wilson. Doc will be here any minute but before that, tell me exactly what you see. Think of me as a judge asking you questions,’ he added sternly.

‘There’s an open window,’ Kirsty replied right away. ‘It’s a ground-floor room and so if an intruder gained entry that way he could also have left the same way.’ She stepped across the metal treads and looked out of the window. ‘Room faces to the side. Gardens all along this part of the building and a hedge with a wire mesh that would prevent anyone from gaining access,’ she continued. ‘But I can see where he left.’ She turned with a glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘Right there.’

Murdoch was at her shoulder in a moment, following her pointing finger.

There was a deep bend in the wire fence and several branches from the thick privet hedging were scattered upon the ground.

‘Looks like someone made a hasty exit,’ she said, meeting Murdoch’s eyes.

‘Wish we knew which way he went after that,’ Murdoch replied, his eyes gazing along the road that led to the well-heeled district of Hyndland on one side and Great Western Road on the other. ‘Could be anywhere,’ he muttered.

‘DS Murdoch. We meet again.’ A voice behind made the detectives turn as one to see a diminutive white-suited figure carrying her medical bag.

‘Dr Fergusson.’ Kirsty’s face broke into a smile.

‘If you could let me in to see the victim, please,’ Rosie asked. And both detectives retreated from the room, letting in the pathologist who had come to examine Edward Clark’s mortal remains.

John Dunwoodie came towards them as Kirsty and Murdoch crossed the vast hallway.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘We’ll know more once Mr Clark’s post-mortem examination has been done,’ Murdoch replied stiffly. ‘But for now DC Wilson here will be taking some details from you, sir.’ Murdoch nodded to Kirsty as he left the hall and made his way outside.

Needs a smoke
, Kirsty told herself.
Or else he’s giving me the authority to ask some questions. But he should be here
.
He should be with me to witness anything Dunwoodie tells me
. It was odd, she thought. Just as he had left her with Ailsa Doyle; a carelessness that she couldn’t fully comprehend in someone who was supposed to be mentoring her closely.

John Dunwoodie led her into a small office that was dominated by a large old-fashioned leather-topped desk and captain’s chair. Floor-to-ceiling wood panelling made the room appear even more cramped, a feeling not helped by the matching wooden filing cabinet by the desk or the stack of grey moulded chairs heaped on one side. A modern white Apple Mac sat on the middle of the desk, a huge printer on top of the filing cabinet. It was, Kirsty mused, as if a bygone age was being gradually infiltrated by technology from the twenty-first century. And John Dunwoodie himself looked as if he’d have been more suited to a different era, his tweed jacket, grey waistcoat and military moustache reminding the detective constable of films set in the post-war years.

‘You run the nursing home?’ Kirsty began, sitting on one of the grey chairs that Dunwoodie had pulled out for her.

‘My sister and I,’ Dunwoodie agreed. ‘I’m what you might call the administrator. She deals with the medical side of things. Dr Christine Dunwoodie,’ he added, as though the name might mean something to Kirsty.

‘And you’ve run Rose Park for how long…?’

‘Eighteen years,’ Dunwoodie replied. ‘It used to be our family home. Inherited it from the parents, don’t you know.’ He absently scratched at his moustache. ‘Christine had been overseas.
Médecins Sans Frontières
. Needed a complete change. So we had the old place adapted for use as a nursing home. Worked well,’ he added. ‘Lots of good reviews on the internet.’

Kirsty smiled courteously. It wasn’t the sort of place she’d have liked her own mum or dad to come to. Okay, the room where she’d seen Edward Clark’s body had the look of any modern hospital room – plain, functional and rather clinical compared to the dreary dark-stained wood everywhere else. But, if this had been a family home, she could understand the desire to keep it the way they remembered from childhood. And John Dunwoodie with his old-fashioned clothes looked the type who disliked change of any sort.

‘When did Mr Clark become one of your residents?’

‘Oh, let me see now. Must have been last month.’ He rose from his place behind the desk and pulled out a drawer from the filing cabinet.

Kirsty waited patiently as he riffled through the metal folders.

‘Yes, here we are. Fifth of September. Relatives wanted him to have more care. Kept falling. One of the side effects of his condition, I’m afraid,’ he added.

‘And what exactly was Mr Clark’s medical condition?’

‘Oh, he’d suffered a series of minor strokes.’ Dunwoodie nodded. ‘Lived on his own so they thought it best to have him cared for where he would come to no harm.’