The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (6 page)

‘Better get used to this, Wilson,’ he laughed, making both Jo Grant and Dr Fergusson turn from the corpse and follow his gaze.

‘Kirsty!’ Rosie exclaimed. ‘What are you… of course, you’re CID now. What a baptism for you,’ she sympathised, her eyes kind above the white mask.

‘Bit crowded in here,’ Rosie Fergusson murmured, giving Murdoch the chance to send Kirsty out of the room.

‘Aye, but she needs to see how we do these things. I’m mentoring her,’ Murdoch said with a firmness that brooked no opposition.

The next hour was the stuff of nightmares, white-suited figures moving in and out of the bathroom, photographs taken from every angle as the SOCOs carried out their work. And the smell, an all-pervasive stench of death that would linger on Kirsty’s clothes afterwards. It was her job, what she had chosen to do, Kirsty kept reminding herself as she listened to Murdoch, finding out as she did that the deceased, Francis Bissett, was a tenant of this flat. Bissett was a known drug dealer, according to Jo Grant, who had come across the dead man in a previous case.

Eventually they were finished and Murdoch gave Kirsty a nod as he packed the crime scene bag. ‘That’s us for the day, then,’ he said, giving her a hard look. ‘Hope you learned something, Wilson. Even if only that you earned some overtime on your first day.’ He gave a mirthless laugh.

Then he was gone, leaving Kirsty on the pavement of Byres Road. Home was a short walk up University Avenue and Gibson Street and she would be glad to be back with James, though she was dreading his questions about her working day.

‘Here, get in,’ a voice behind her said. ‘I’ll drop you off.’

Kirsty turned to see the blonde pathologist at the wheel of her Saab convertible. How could she do a job like that and still look so smart, she wondered, opening the passenger door.

‘First thing you want to do is have a good hot shower,’ Rosie advised as the big car swung away from the kerb. ‘Plenty of nice scented stuff. Then pour yourself a decent glass of something.’ She smiled at Kirsty sitting beside her. ‘Works every time.’

‘Thank God that’s over!’ Maggie exclaimed as she unlocked the front door.

‘Cuppa?’ her husband asked, taking her coat and draping it over the end of the banister.

‘Please,’ Maggie replied. ‘Though, to be truthful, I feel like something stronger.’ She smiled ruefully.

‘A whisky, then?’

‘D’you know what I really fancy? A hot toddy. How about you?’

‘Well, since I’m not on duty for the rest of today I think I’ll join you,’ Lorimer agreed, heading through the long open-plan room that incorporated a desk by the window, a dining area and a large airy kitchen.

A click at the cat flap signalled Chancer’s arrival, his furry marmalade-coloured body soon winding itself around Maggie’s legs.

‘Hello, you,’ she said, scooping up their pet and rubbing her cheek against his silky coat. She sank into her favourite rocking chair, the cat turning on her lap, his thrumming purr a sign of welcome.

Outside, daylight had faded into dusky blue, the September evening promising a fine day to follow. What would tomorrow bring? Lorimer wondered, spooning honey from the jar into a pair of heatproof glasses. Maggie’s job was so unlike his, the timetable of classes a set pattern to her working week. Tomorrow might bring any sort of crime his way, he mused, as well as the pile of paperwork that had to be endured and the meetings scheduled throughout the day. Yet he must find time to see young Kirsty Wilson. Detective Constable Wilson, he reminded himself with a proprietorial grin.

Busy fingers tapped a message on to the computer screen.
 

‘Free yourself from the pain. Free your loved ones from all their unnecessary suffering,’ the fingers wrote. ‘Give them that quiet release they deserve.’
 

The right hand hovered over the keyboard as its owner reread the words. Then, as if satisfied, the middle finger jabbed a key, sending the message out into the ether. The repetition of that command was what made them respond to these words; it had worked before and would work again. Yet freedom, as anybody knew, always came at a price.
 

N
ancy Livingstone put down the telephone and looked out of the window of Abbey Nursing Home with a sigh. As the office manager it was her remit to look after everything to do with the staff, to ensure that there was always adequate provision of care for their residents. The nursing staff was a mixed lot; some local women, others from Eastern Europe, all suitably qualified with excellent references backing up their years of service in various medical facilities. Yet, despite her efforts to maintain the required numbers, there was always someone calling in to let them down. Anastasia, the Russian girl who had married a Scots lad the previous spring, was now suffering bouts of morning sickness. Nancy’s sister, Grace Abbott, had tut-tutted and remarked that
she
had never taken time off for something as common as that until Nancy had reminded her gently that the Duchess of Cambridge had been hospitalised and that Anastasia’s own GP had rung to confirm that the girl had the same sort of debilitating sickness. Now she would have to find temporary cover to replace the Russian girl, not such an easy task when the patients here needed such specialised nursing care.

Nancy closed her eyes and bowed her head in a moment of prayer, asking for divine guidance to help solve her problem. When she opened them again, she gave a faint smile, a feeling of calmness returning. God would sort it out, the woman assured herself. He always did.

The Social Work Department was housed in a 1960s block, its flat roof a perpetual reminder of the utilitarian design that had failed this city for decades. There were stains running down the side of the building where water had dripped, the ever-increasing tendency for winter weather to bring high winds and flooding to every corner of the country. Square windows were set behind yellow-painted frames, brash outlines that only served to show up the dreariness of the entire worn façade, its grey pebble-dashed surface crumbling at the edges.

Sarah stood on the pavement, looking up at the four floors of offices, her spirits plummeting. The whole place seemed to exude an air of defeat as if the very effort of withstanding the elements had made it give up on life long since.

She sighed and made to push open the glass doors but, to her surprise, they opened silently as she stepped towards them, ushering her into a reception area where a young woman with dyed purple hair that matched her council uniform was busily mopping up the linoleum floor. Sarah skirted the wet patch and made for the reception desk where a man in jeans and a grey hooded top was standing, listening to a middle-aged receptionist as she directed him to his destination.

‘Up to the fourth floor. Lift’s over there. Ask at the window and they’ll give you a time,’ she was telling him. Her voice held a note of exasperation, as if years of dealing with the less fortunate elements of society had worn away any veneer of kindness.

The man grunted something unintelligible and turned away, avoiding the cleaner, not even giving Sarah a second glance. The receptionist gave a weary smile over her half-moon spectacles as she took Sarah’s letter, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head as if to include the young woman in a general despair at the hopeless fellows who came seeking help. Then, as she opened the letter and read its contents, her smile faded, the expression on her face losing any trace of friendliness. She gave a quick glance at the clock then a questioning look at Sarah.

‘You’re early. Mrs Reid is with another client right now. You’ll have to wait.’

‘Wasn’t sure how long it would take to get here,’ Sarah mumbled, the familiar cowed feeling that tended to come in the presence of any authority sweeping over her.

‘Take the lift to the third floor and wait in the corridor outside Mrs Reid’s office.’ The receptionist handed Sarah’s letter back to her then turned away to check something on a computer and Sarah waited, wondering if more explanation would be coming.

‘What?’ the woman asked rudely.

‘I…’ Sarah began. ‘Nothing,’ she added, turning away, flame-cheeked, towards a pair of dark grey doors set into the wall. She was conscious of eyes boring into her back as she waited, watching the red numbers descending – 2,1 – then with a ping the doors slid open and a teenager with a baby buggy pushed past Sarah, her thin face set and white, hair pulled back into a ponytail.

The lift closed behind Sarah with a sigh then rumbled its way upwards, shuddering to a halt at the third floor.

Perhaps it was because she had left the bed and breakfast early that there was no sign of any other person waiting on the row of blue seats fixed against the wall in the corridor, yet Sarah could hear the murmur of voices from behind the doors as she walked along, eyes searching for her social worker’s office.

C
ATHERINE
R
EID
, the small white notice proclaimed and Sarah sat opposite the door, nervously running her fingernail along the edge of the letter. What would she be like? Was everybody here like that woman downstairs? Fed up with having to cope with the dregs of humanity? For, Sarah told herself bitterly, that’s what she was now. No home, no job and very little in the way of prospects. She blinked back a tear of self-pity, a sign of weakness that she had never once allowed herself to have during her incarceration.

Sarah must have read the notices on the walls enough times to have memorised them before Mrs Reid’s door opened at last and a thin young man with a shaved head and multiple tattoos on his bare arms emerged, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chewed a wad of gum.

‘See you next week, Drew,’ a voice called out from within, then the door closed once more.

It was only moments later that the door opened again to reveal a pleasant-faced older woman with greying curls, a pair of spectacles hanging from a slender gold chain around her neck.

‘Sarah Wilding?’ She smiled warmly and beckoned her new client inside. ‘Sarah, I’m Catherine, how are you?’

The woman’s handclasp was warm and her eyes bright as she regarded her newest client. ‘Take a seat and we’ll go through everything.’

Sarah sank into the black leather chair that the woman indicated, glancing at a matching one with a cushion embroidered with the words
God is Love
, entwined with flowers and butterflies. She stared at the words, stiffening, wondering why they suddenly seemed inappropriate in a place like this. What had God to do with Sarah Wilding? Hadn’t He abandoned her long ago?

‘Cuppa? Tea or coffee?’ Catherine Reid asked, motioning towards a small side table where a kettle jug sat on a circular tray surrounded by several mugs.

‘Tea, please,’ Sarah whispered, watching as the woman busied herself with the mugs and teabags. ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’

She looked around the room, noting the calendar with masses of scribbled notes, a framed picture of a mountain scene and a tall grey filing cabinet with a pink orchid blossoming profusely next to a coat rack, a bright red raincoat hanging on one curled hook.

It wasn’t what Sarah had envisioned: some stranger dealing with her from behind a desk, unravelling her life story, making value judgements about her crime. She watched, still wary, as her social worker brought the tea and came to sit beside her, masking the cushion and its unnecessary message. She hadn’t expected this degree of informality with no physical barrier between them; hadn’t been prepared for anyone to treat her differently from the way the prison officers at Cornton had with their bunches of keys and watchful eyes. She felt suddenly exhausted, as though all of her emotions had built up and were threatening to spill over.

‘Here,’ Catherine said, handing Sarah a box of Kleenex tissues. ‘You’ll be all over the place this morning. It happens,’ she added kindly, moving closer to Sarah and patting her on the back as though she were a small child in need of comfort.

It was too good to be true, Sarah thought more than an hour later as she emerged into the sunlight once more. Mrs Reid (
call me Catherine
) had gone through the whole procedure necessary for newly released prisoners, making sure that Sarah was absolutely certain of every last detail. But it wasn’t only the social worker’s obvious concern for Sarah that had put a smile on the young woman’s face, though that had lifted her spirits, especially after she’d had a good cry.

‘Let’s see what we can do,’ Catherine Reid had suggested eventually, lifting the telephone and dialling a number.

Sarah had waited, listening carefully, not daring to raise any hope that this kindly woman could succeed in finding her a place to work.

‘Nancy? I have a nurse here with me. Newly released from Cornton yesterday. Miss Sarah Wilding.’ Catherine Reid had nodded at Sarah as she spoke. ‘Yes, she’s worked with all sorts, stroke patients too. Can I give you her details?’

Sarah had listened as the background to her nursing career was given. Then her crime was explained and the guilt that was never far away resurfaced to swamp her once more.

‘She’ll take you,’ Catherine had said at last, putting down the phone. ‘Subject to an interview, of course. It’s a nursing home on the outskirts of Bearsden. Can you go there today?’

On the other end of the phone, Nancy Livingstone opened her eyes and smiled. She knew that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, yet something told her that He had a plan for this young woman who had made such a dreadful choice in her past.

‘She’s getting on to a train right now.’ The man spoke into his mobile phone, watching the blonde woman as she stepped from the lower level platform at Queen Street station.

‘Aye, I can. What d’you want me to do?’ His eyes followed the woman as she entered the carriage then he slid his own ticket into the slot at the barrier and pocketed his mobile, the latest instructions concerning Sarah Wilding still resonating in his head.

He sat further back in the same carriage, watching the girl as the train slid out of the station. She would do as they wanted. She had to, he told himself with a grim smile. It was either that or… his mouth twitched, making the scar that ran down one side of his face turn into a deep crease. Even just the threat of what he could do to her would make Sarah Wilding eager to play along with them.