The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (29 page)

Maggie wiped her face with a damp facecloth and dried it hastily, smears of mascara darkening the pink towel. Sod it! Well, it would go into the wash.

She unlocked the door and walked across their bedroom. Bill had lit the bedside lamps, leaving a small tray with a mug of tea and a biscuit by Maggie’s side of the bed. The duvet was turned back too, an invitation to crawl under the covers if that was what she wished.

It wasn’t Bill’s fault, Maggie reminded herself, sitting on the edge of the bed. It was just part of the job. And hadn’t it been Patrick who had called? Asking to speak to Bill, pleading with him to take a look at the circumstances of David’s death, wanting there to be a post-mortem. Had the ruddy-cheeked farmer known even then? Had Annette given herself away at any point? How he must have despised his wife! Or had Patrick been party to a scheme to take his own brother’s life?

Maggie sat very still. She didn’t believe it. Didn’t
want
to believe it. But somehow the truth behind her cousin’s death had to be discovered.

And, as she warmed her hands around the mug of tea, Maggie Lorimer knew that her husband would do just that.

O
nce again it was Detective Constable Wilson that accompanied Lorimer to the farm amongst the Stirlingshire hills. He did not anticipate any problems but the local constabulary had been made aware that an arrest was about to be made on their patch.

The rain from the previous day had left huge puddles and the big car slewed through them, causing sheets of spray to arc high into the air. Kirsty shivered then put out a finger and turned the heated seat up to its maximum level. Lorimer glanced at the small action. It was not just the colder days that made her feel like this, he guessed. It was the thought of what lay ahead, the arrest of a woman she’d once met in her own home.

The same two collies ran to meet them as Lorimer and Kirsty left the car and headed to the farmhouse door. But this time there was no shout from the building and he let the dogs sniff around his legs as he and Kirsty stood waiting for an answer to his knock.

‘D’you think they’re in?’ Kirsty asked at last, looking up at him.

‘Land Rover’s there,’ he said, a tilt of his head indicating the vehicle parked in the yard.

At last he tried the door handle. It turned easily and the door swung open, the pair of collies bounding through as if to show them the way.

‘Hello?’ Lorimer called into the darkened hallway.

There was no answer.

‘Go through to the kitchen,’ Lorimer told Kirsty. ‘See if there’s any sign of them.’

The farmhouse kitchen was as warm as before, the big range heating the entire room, the basket of squirming kittens wakening as the dogs bent down to sniff them before loping out of the room again.

Lorimer followed the collies out and along a corridor where they came to a halt outside a closed door.

For a moment his eyes met the young detective constable’s.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Kirsty ventured, picking up on the expression on his face.

Lorimer hesitated for a moment then one of the dogs began to whine and scratch at the bottom of the door.

He turned the handle but nothing budged.

‘Patrick? Are you in there? It’s me. Lorimer.’

For a long moment nothing happened but the persistent scratching of the dog, then the door opened and they saw the farmer standing there, the hands hanging by his side covered in blood.

As Lorimer stepped into the room, Patrick stood aside, a pair of heavy wire cutters grasped in his right hand. His face was drawn and pale, as he looked from them to the figure sprawled on the sofa.

Annette Imrie was hardly recognisable, the blood from a wound on her head streaking rivulets down her face and soaking into the neck of her white jumper.

‘Is she dead?’ Kirsty whispered, looking up at the farmer who was slumped against the wall as if his legs would hardly support him.

‘I don’t know.’ His voice cracked

Lorimer was bent over the woman now, one hand feeling her wrist.

‘She’s still with us,’ he said, glancing at Kirsty. ‘Get an ambulance here. Now.’

He stood up and grasped Patrick’s arm, taking the tool out of his hand, then led him away from the room

‘Why…?’ Lorimer shook his head in despair as Patrick bent to push the dogs away.

‘I tried to stop her leaving,’ Patrick Imrie gulped. Drawing a hand across his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to…’ He broke off as Lorimer took him into the kitchen.

‘Sit down, Patrick,’ the detective told him gently, seeing the man trembling all over. Shock was beginning to set in and he wanted to hear what this man had to say before he became too upset to talk.

‘Kirsty,’ he asked, as the DC appeared at the door, ‘can you put the kettle on?’

He turned back to Patrick and spoke quietly to the distraught farmer. ‘Tell me what happened, Patrick.’

‘I told her that you were coming to speak to her.’ He heaved a weary sigh that seemed to reverberate throughout his whole body.

Lorimer waited for him to continue, aware that Patrick Imrie was now reliving the horror of what he had done.

‘She just went berserk,’ he whispered. ‘Screaming and yelling that it was better for David to be dead and us to have a decent lifestyle…’ He broke off, the words choking in his throat.

Lorimer studied the man’s face as Patrick swallowed hard. A tough man of the outdoors he might be but the death of his brother and the knowledge that it had been effected by his own wife had broken his spirit.

The farmer gave a long sigh and sat up a little straighter, his face still white, but he glanced at Lorimer and nodded.

‘Hard to explain what happened,’ he told the detective superintendent. ‘Something in me just snapped. I’d been outside mending a section of fence. These were in my hand…’ He pointed to the heavy metal wire cutters that Lorimer had laid down on the floor.

‘If she hadn’t said these things about Davie…’ The farmer put his head in his hands, covering his face with bloody fingers, and began to sob.

Beyond the sound of his cries the faint but unmistakable rise of a siren could be heard.

‘Police or ambulance,’ Lorimer said quietly. ‘Kirsty, go and tell them where to find Mrs Imrie.’

Left alone with the farmer and the blood-soaked woman lying unconscious on the sofa in the other room, Lorimer put out a tentative hand to the man’s arm. His stomach churned and the dull ache of a returning headache made him pause for a moment
. It was his job
, he told himself,
just his job
…

‘I’ll have to arrest you, Patrick. You know that, don’t you?’

Patrick Imrie nodded, his eyes downcast. ‘What about the farm?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Who’ll look after the beasts? The dogs?’ He spread his arms around, a look of confusion in his face. ‘There’s so much to do…’

Should have thought about that before you lashed out
, Lorimer thought to himself, but there was no way he could utter such harsh words as he watched the disbelief on the man’s face. He had seen it all before: the hasty blow delivered in fury then the look of horror as reality sank in.
I didn’t mean to do it
…
the phrase that often followed such acts of passion. He wanted to tell him that everything would be okay, but that was never going to happen. Annette Imrie might die and everything this man had worked for would be taken away from him.

‘I’ll see your neighbours in Upper Tannoch,’ Lorimer promised. ‘And perhaps you’ll receive bail…’

The look that Patrick Imrie shot at him filled Lorimer with dismay. He might be part of this man’s family, albeit by marriage, yet at this moment as he prepared to read him his rights Detective Superintendent William Lorimer was a threatening figure of authority to the farmer, nothing more.

After the police car and ambulance had removed both husband and wife from the premises, Lorimer motioned Kirsty into the farm kitchen once more. The kittens were staggering about on shaky paws, their tiny tails upright as they crawled over one another to find their way back to the warmth. Lorimer watched as Kirsty picked them up one by one and replaced them in the basket. A movement by the window alerted him to a tortoiseshell cat that had jumped up at the sill and was rubbing itself against the glass.

‘In you come,’ he said, opening the window and letting the mother cat jump noiselessly down. Soon she was lying on her side, the purrs of contentment emanating from the kittens as they nursed.

‘Better let the neighbours know about this lot, too,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘Don’t know if Patrick Imrie will be back any time soon to look after these creatures.’

‘What’ll happen to him, sir?’ Kirsty asked as they walked out of the farmhouse.

‘Well, you were present when I read him his rights, DC Wilson,’ Lorimer said, his mouth closing in a tight line. ‘Depends on how bad Annette is,’ he went on quietly. ‘He’ll likely be looking at a charge of assault to severe injury. Then there is the matter of whether or not he knew what his wife had done.’

‘What do you think, sir?’

Lorimer shook his head. ‘To my mind Patrick knew nothing about this end-of-life organisation. It seems to have been his wife who had taken the initiative when they emailed the farm. But she may tell a different tale.
If
she recovers,’ he added darkly. ‘I just hope that my wife’s cousin gets himself a decent lawyer.’ He opened the car door, ushering Kirsty inside.

He looked over the expanse of fields, the cattle over on a far park, sheep mere dots against the green hillside. ‘It’s a hard life at the best of times.’ He swung himself into the driver’s seat. ‘Farming’s a lot more than just baskets of kittens,’ he said, his eyes full of something sad as he looked across at Kirsty. ‘Come on, we’ve got a visit to make to the Imries’ neighbours. Then we need to get back to Glasgow to see where we go next.’

It was dark by the time Lorimer reached home again. He sat in the big car with its engine turned off, staring into space. He’d left a message on Maggie’s phone giving her only the barest details. How was he going to tell her about Patrick and Annette? The woman had regained consciousness and was sedated, a police guard outside her room until such times as Lorimer could return to question her.
And charge her with conspiracy to murder,
a small voice reminded him. And Patrick? How could he tell Maggie that her cousin had attacked his wife and was now languishing in a cell subject to being taken before a judge the following morning?

She was standing at the cooker stirring something in a large pot when he entered the long open-plan room that was divided into a study-cum-living room and kitchen, divided by a long breakfast bar. The overhead light shone down on her head, making a halo of brightness above her long dark curls.

‘Hey, gorgeous.’ In a few strides Lorimer was at Maggie’s side, his arms encircling her waist.

‘What happened?’ Maggie did not turn around but kept stirring the pot of broth, her eyes fixed on the wooden spoon as though she were afraid to meet his eyes.

Lorimer let go of her with a sigh. ‘Not good news, I’m afraid. I’ll have to see Annette in the morning. If she survives,’ he added bleakly. ‘Then I expect to have to charge her.’

‘What about Patrick?’ Maggie stopped stirring for a moment, lifting the spoon and letting the soup drip from its rounded edge. ‘You said something about him attacking her? That can’t be right, surely?’

He said nothing as she looked at him through weary eyes.

‘It’s true, then,’ Maggie said dully. ‘Patrick found out that Annette had colluded in David’s death.’

‘If only he’d waited for us to arrive,’ Lorimer said, a note of regret creeping into his voice. ‘We’d have taken her away, questioned her and then none of this other stuff would have happened.’

‘But why? Why did he attack her today and not when he found out what she’d done?’

‘Oh…’ Lorimer let out a huge sigh. ‘He was keeping such a control of himself, I imagine. Then she let fly at him. Verbally, I mean,’ he added as Maggie raised astonished eyebrows. ‘Usual story, I’m afraid. Just snapped and lashed out at her.’

‘Dear God.’ Maggie let the spoon fall into the pot then came and placed her head on her husband’s chest. ‘What a mess,’ she whispered. ‘What a hellish, hellish mess!’

A
ilsa Doyle pushed the pram along the street, the sound of her child’s cries lessened by the music playing in her ears. Her mother would kill her if she knew but Ailsa didn’t care. She’d hide the headphones in her pocket before she reached her mother’s door, let the wean scream at the top of his voice so all the neighbours knew what a great pair of lungs he had.

But when the young mother reached her mother’s house she was surprised to see a police car parked outside. Pushing the pram up the garden path, Ailsa looked at the front of the house to see if there was any movement from inside. Aye, she thought. Polis are in there cadging a cuppa from the auld yin. She placed a foot on the brake and bent down to cradle the baby in her arms, taking his blanket and wrapping him up against the chill October wind.

‘You in here?’ Ailsa said loudly as she barged into the front room where three pairs of eyes looked up at her.

‘I’ve goat company,’ Ailsa’s mother sniffed in obvious disapproval. ‘I’m assisting these two officers with their in-qui-erries,’ she drawled, trying to sound posher than she was.

‘Oh, aye?’ Ailsa grinned. ‘Here, haud the wean a mo, will ye?’ She handed the baby to her mother who took him but looked back at Ailsa with an expression of annoyance on her face.

‘Huve youse heard ony mair frae ma maw than whit ah telt that detective lassie and thon big guy, Lorimer? Eh?’ Ailsa demanded, plonking herself down on a vacant easy chair and lifting a packet of cigarettes from her pocket.

‘No’ in here, hen,’ her mother admonished her. ‘Mind the wean.’

‘Mrs Doyle?’ one of the officers, an older hard-faced woman, asked. ‘Ailsa Doyle?’

‘That’s me,’ Ailsa agreed. ‘Ah’m the one who saw that man leaving Miss Maitland’s house. Okay?’

‘I’m Detective Constable Fairlie and this is DC Munro,’ the woman told her. ‘We wanted to ask your mum about Miss Maitland’s past.’

‘Oh.’ The wind seemed to be taken out of the girl’s sails momentarily. ‘Mind if I stay and hear about it?’

The two detectives looked at one another, then Jean Fairlie shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. You’ll just tell her anyway, isn’t that right, Mrs MacSherry?’

‘Ah never knew about her early life,’ the older woman began. ‘Jist since she came to stay here. She’d be about thirty, thirty-five then, maybe. No fella, jist herself.’

‘And when would this be?’

‘Oh, now…’ Ailsa’s mother pondered the question, counting on her fingers. ‘Oor Ailsa’s twenty-three this year, Tam’s four years older, Charlotte’s thirtieth comes just before Christmas and Eddie’s forty next August.’ She nodded in satisfaction. ‘And ma Ricky’s forty-four on my birthday. I’ll be sixty-five,’ she said proudly. ‘Naebody could believe it when that yin came alang,’ she added grinning at her daughter. ‘Anither wean at that age.’ She hooted with laughter.

Then her face fell for a moment. ‘She must’ve moved here about 1972. Forty-five years we lived across the street from her, wid ye credit that. There ah wis, happy with ma bairns and pair Jane Maitland all alone in the world. She used tae love comin’ in tae see them, you know.’ Mrs MacSherry looked down at the grandson in her arms with apparent contentment. ‘Loved bairns, so she did. Pity she never had any of her own, I used to tell her.’

‘What did she say whenever you made that comment?’ DC Fairlie asked sharply.

‘Nothin’.’ Mrs MacSherry shrugged. ‘She jist went a’ quiet like and sad. Mibbe she’d had an unhappy romance?’ She began to rock the baby in her arms. ‘Anyway, that was then. We saw mair of her at weekends when she wasn’t working, o’ course. But even after she retired there was always a wee gift brought over for any o’ the grandweans. She wis nice like that, very thoughtful.’

‘She never mentioned any of her own family by any chance?’

‘Naw, pair sowel had naebody,’ Mrs MacSherry shook her head.

‘Aye she did,’ Ailsa interjected. ‘She telt me wance she had a nephew. Big shot down in London she said.’

‘When was that?’ DC Fairlie asked.

‘Oh, now…’ Ailsa chewed her lip thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Must’ve been after she was ill. Cos I remember I was in her bedroom giving her a cup of tea… aye, about this time last year, jist efter Halloween. I’d asked her about the fella, whether he had kids an’ that, but she didn’t seem to know very much.’

Ailsa walked back slowly to her own home. They’d speered plenty after that, wanted to know things that her mother simply could not remember. But why, Ailsa Doyle wanted to know, were they asking all these questions about children? Was it something to do with the old lady’s will? And had she left her wee house downstairs to this nephew from London? Ailsa frowned. She had been asked to put her signature to a document that day when the wee fat lawyer had called in. It had been the poor wee soul’s Last Will and Testament. Was that why the polis had come back? Or was there something else in the old lady’s past that had brought them here? Something that Jane Maitland had kept hidden even from Ailsa’s own mother?

Father Fitzsimmons frowned as he unfolded his hands from his prayers. The missing key had completely slipped his mind but now he had remembered the empty hook behind the door and the fact that nobody had returned it to its place. His housekeeper did those sorts of things, leaving Father to the spiritual side of his ministry. Except that she hadn’t. Mrs Brown, a widow of many years and a stickler for order, had not come across the large brass key, she had told him firmly. And now the priest sat pondering its whereabouts. Jane Maitland had entrusted it to him, welcoming the priest’s visits, especially towards the end.

With a sigh, Father Fitzsimmons lifted the telephone and dialled the number on the small rectangle of cardboard that the police officer had given him.

A few minutes later he replaced the phone on its cradle and put his fingers to his lips. If Detective Superintendent Lorimer was right, then there had been a thief inside the Parish House, possibly a person known to either Mrs Brown or himself. The thought made him close his eyes with a sigh and he folded his fingers together once more.

‘It all began with her,’ Solly said. ‘Jane Maitland had a great deal of money to leave to her illegitimate son.’

‘And now Brian Abernethy’s done a runner,’ Lorimer said gloomily.

‘What about the son? Mr Whyte? Has he been able to help you at all?’

Lorimer shook his head. ‘Spoke to him as soon as we knew Abernethy had scarpered. He sounded astonished when we told him.’ His face twisted in a sardonic grin. ‘Wanted to know if his inheritance was safe and went very quiet when I told him that all the documents had been shredded.’

‘Will he get his money?’

‘Oh, I think so. It may have to go to probate if there is no other copy of Jane Maitland’s will, however. Her money is tied up in stocks and bonds plus that hefty amount gaining tiny interest payments in the current account.’

‘Isn’t that strange?’ Solly asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

‘What?’

‘That she kept such a vast amount in her account. And no large sums withdrawn?’

Lorimer sighed volubly. ‘We’ll never know why she did that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she intended making payments to different people before her death? A lump sum for the church or to friends and neighbours who’d been kind?’

‘Sums that couldn’t be taxed?’

‘Maybe.’ Lorimer shrugged. ‘It was Abernethy senior who had been her solicitor until he died last year. Then his son, Brian, took over.’

‘And found he had a terminally ill client with a great deal of money that she wanted to leave to the man she thought was her long-lost son,’ Solly mused. ‘Even though he was a complete stranger.’

‘Father Fitzsimmons called me this morning,’ Lorimer told him. ‘The spare key to Jane Maitland’s house is still missing.’

‘Hm.’ Solly tapped his finger against his cheek. ‘Now who would have had easy access to that particular key?’

Once again Lorimer found himself face to face with Rob Dolan. The room in Barlinnie Prison was bright after the darkened walls outside and the prisoner sat opposite blinking hard.

‘How are you, Rob?’ Lorimer began.

‘You’re no’ here tae ask after ma health, are ye, Mr Lorimer?’ Dolan screwed up his eyes and glowered at the detective.

‘Right first time, son,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘Need some more information from you, though.’

‘Will it count when ah come tae court?’ Dolan shot back.

‘I’ll include it in my report to the Fiscal, certainly.’ Lorimer smiled.

Dolan looked doubtful for a moment then gave a sigh. ‘Whit d’ye want?’

Lorimer leaned forward and spoke quietly. ‘I would like to know if any of you were in the Parish House at St Martin’s.’

‘Oh…’ The word was drawn out as Dolan stared back at the detective. Then he grinned. ‘Took youse long enough tae figure that wan out, eh?’

Lorimer sat silently, his raised eyebrows the only gesture necessary for the prisoner to continue.

‘Aye, well.’ Dolan ducked his head, avoiding the detective superintendent’s cold blue stare. ‘Me an’ a couple of pals, we asked the Father if he needed his grass cut. Brogan’s idea, see. He knew frae this wee lassie at the church that Father Fitz used tae visit the auld wumman. Had her key, see?’

‘And it was an easy enough matter to lift the key and pass it to Brogan,’ Lorimer said.

‘Aye. But we were supposed tae be given it back again. An’ we never,’ Dolan complained. ‘Orders were tae pit it back where we’d found it.’ He shrugged and licked his lips. ‘You havenae goat any sweeties on ye, eh?’ Dolan’s eyes fell upon the brown paper bag lying near Lorimer’s hand.

‘Oh, that?’ Lorimer glanced at the packet. ‘Mars bars.’ He lifted the parcel into the air. ‘But you don’t like them, do you, Rob?’ he teased.

‘Whit more c’n ah tell ye?’ Dolan said, his eyes following the brown paper bag as Lorimer laid it down again.

‘You can tell me who was given that key, Rob,’ Lorimer said softly, a tone of menace in his voice.

‘Sure as God’s ma witness, I passed it on tae Brogan. That wis aye the way of it,’ he protested. ‘Me an’ Jerry were jist the go-betweens, the fixers, know whit ah mean? An’ Brogan never gied us that key back like he wis meant tae.’

‘Yes, Rob, I know exactly what you mean. Here.’ Lorimer tossed the sweets across the table. ‘And if there is anything else you’ve forgotten to tell me I’ll find out from your pal across the way.’ He cocked his head towards the wall that separated this block from the one where Billy Brogan was housed.

‘Eh…’ Dolan clasped the paper bag to his chest as if it contained a month’s worth of cocaine. ‘That lassie…’

‘Sarah Wilding?’

‘Aye, her. Supposed tae be asked tae do some of the needle jobs. But Brogan said there’d been a change of plan.’ It was Dolan’s turn to lean across the table. ‘See what I think.’ He tapped his forehead solemnly. ‘There’s a fella out there who’s a doctor or a nurse. Knows how tae dae all that stuff. And I bet Brogan knows who he is.’

Sarah Wilding was supposed to do
some of the needle jobs
. The phrase resonated around the detective’s brain.

There could be more than one doctor or nurse employed by this organisation, he suddenly thought. The handsome man described by Mary Milligan might have been a completely different person from the man seen leaving Jane Maitland’s home that September morning. And had it been someone else in the two nursing homes that had wielded these needles?

For a moment Lorimer stopped to imagine the extent of this organisation. Solly had hinted that its tentacles had had a much greater reach than any of them yet knew. And, if that was so, were they looking for a team of medics who had taken money in exchange for putting people to sleep? How many folk had suffered this fate already? And would it be possible to find the mastermind behind Quiet Release, to put a stop to this business once and for all?

‘Brogan’s been utterly useless,’ Lorimer told the man sitting opposite. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I think you are right. We need to throw the net a lot wider to find Brian Abernethy.’

The chief constable took a sip of his tea from the white porcelain cup and then set it down on the table. ‘The chain of command appears to have been well thought out,’ the man in uniform said at last. ‘Abernethy may be the man behind the whole scheme. Or there might be someone even higher up pulling his strings. What’s your thoughts on this, Lorimer?’

Lorimer stifled the desire to sigh. Sir Robert Caldwell had every right to question the way this case had proceeded and yet it had not been easy at first to tie some of the deaths together. ‘I’d like to talk to Crawford Whyte again, sir. Might do no harm to obtain a search warrant for his home and office. See what we can find on his computers.’

‘Hm.’ The chief constable pursed his lips as though considering this. ‘And what about the technical staff? Haven’t they come up with anything at all yet?’

‘No, sir, not so far. What we do know is that every email address for Quiet Release was abandoned after each death. They knew what they were doing,’ he said sourly. ‘IP addresses kept being changed so the main user couldn’t be tracked. And they were meant to use different mobile phones for each new job.’

‘Very well, get on to the Fiscal for a search warrant. A trip to London and back…’ Caldwell shook his head. ‘Better get some results, Lorimer. The budget’s stretched tight enough as it is.’

There was so much that had to be verified. Crawford Whyte’s statements had been backed up by Abernethy and by the local Salvation Army officers who had traced the Maitland family on the dead woman’s behalf. So why did he have this nagging feeling that the man from London had been telling them less than the whole truth?

Maggie was poring over a pile of jotters when he pushed open the door to the living room. She looked up with a tired smile then waved a pen in the air.

‘Just got three more to finish then I’m done for the night,’ she told him. ‘Soup’s in the fridge.’