The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (7 page)

D
r Rosie Fergusson looked at the list in front of her. Toxicology was in a separate department from her own within the Department of Forensic Medicine but thankfully they enjoyed a good working relationship. She glanced at the post-mortem arrangements for the rest of the day. One elderly lady whose demise was probably expected, nothing really for the Fiscal to worry about. Still, she mused, the report from DS Len Murdoch had been interesting. There was the matter of that odd visit from an unknown nurse in the early hours. Could it have been a case of voluntary euthanasia? These things happened. Doctors had to use their own judgement all the time, some of them only too willing to ease their suffering patients into an everlasting state of oblivion, everybody knew that. Could Miss Jane Maitland have made a private arrangement of some sort?

The sun was streaming through the mortuary windows by the time Rosie began the elderly woman’s post-mortem examination. It was a routine that she had performed countless times, careful scrutiny of the external body before making that first incision that would reveal the inner parts of what had once been a living, breathing human being. Painstaking forensic work had already been carried out to search for fibres and hairs, anything that might give a clue to the identity of the mysterious nurse who had administered that final injection.

Some time later, Rosie wrinkled her nose. There was nothing conclusive to see, nothing at all, unless you counted the bruising from repeated needles finding these tired old veins to inject painkilling drugs. And these had been expected, after all. Nope, she thought as the body disappeared back into the refrigerated cabinet, it was down to the Tox boys and girls to come up with their report. If, and it was a big
if
, they found anything out of the ordinary, then DS Len Murdoch would have a proper investigation on his hands. And so would Kirsty, she remembered, wondering just how the young woman was faring under the mentorship of the scene of crime manager.

‘How did it go on your first day, then?’ Lorimer smiled at his young friend as she sank into a chair next to his desk.

Before Kirsty could reply, the telephone beside Lorimer’s computer rang and he made a face mouthing
sorry
as he picked it up.

It was only to be expected, Kirsty thought, feeling a little uncomfortable sitting here in the detective superintendent’s office. He was a very busy man. She really shouldn’t be taking up any of his time. And she certainly wouldn’t be mentioning her suspicions about DS Murdoch.

Sleeping on it had helped to clarify Kirsty’s thoughts and the young officer had decided that she had been completely mistaken about seeing Murdoch stealing a watch. Perhaps he had simply been taking off his own watch and putting it in the scene of crime bag? And it was pure coincidence that the missing watch was of the same type that he wore. Nobody could be that blatant, surely? And yet… the look on Samantha Paton’s face was the thing that had caused her most disquiet, the girl’s expression changing into a nightmarish leer as Kirsty tossed and turned in a sleep punctured by fitful dreams.

‘Okay, I’ll get back to you.’ Lorimer finished his call and beamed at Kirsty.

‘Heard you were out for hours with DS Murdoch,’ he said. ‘Overtime on your first day. Well done.’

‘Yes, we were busy,’ Kirsty replied, trying to return his smile. ‘Last one was a scene of crime with a decomposing body.’ She wrinkled her nose before adding, ‘Dr Fergusson was there.’

‘The lad Bissett, I hear,’ Lorimer said, frowning. ‘Known dealer. Didn’t expect him to be in with the hard men. Still,’ he shrugged, ‘you never know what goes on behind scenes like these. Could be they were high on dope and turned nasty on one another. An old story, I’m afraid.’

‘Dr Fergusson was wonderful,’ Kirsty said wistfully. ‘Don’t know how she can be so calm and straightforward with things like that.’

‘Aye, our Rosie is something else, isn’t she?’ Lorimer chuckled. ‘Your dad and I have seen many a sight that would have turned anybody green, but not her.’ He paused and for a moment Kirsty imagined that she was about to be dismissed, allowing the detective super to get on with his job.

‘How do you find Murdoch?’ he asked quietly, fixing Kirsty with his blue gaze.

Her eyes slid away from his scrutiny even as she knew that avoiding his stare was a dead giveaway.

‘Okay.’ She shrugged. ‘Early days yet. And we were really busy.’

Why do you ask?
she wanted to demand, but the words remained unspoken.

It was a different Len Murdoch that Kirsty saw when she entered the muster room. Gone was the chalk-striped suit that had been covered over with scene of crime whites the day before. Now the DS was far more casually attired in a pair of dark jeans and a T-shirt, a black leather jacket slung on the back of his chair. As she approached, Kirsty noticed signs of exhaustion on Murdoch’s face; dark circles under those cold grey eyes and the shadow of stubble made him seem a little less intimidating somehow. As she came closer, Kirsty wondered if this man had been up all night. What was his home life like? Did he have kids of his own? Somehow she doubted that. He’d been quick enough to leave the sound of a screaming baby in that upper cottage flat.

‘Wilson.’ He turned and nodded at her then indicated the sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘The Bissett murder. Need to prioritise that,’ he told her tiredly. ‘Fiscal wants the PM done today.’ He looked at his watch and pursed his lips. ‘Need to be down at the mortuary in an hour.’ He looked at her closely. ‘You okay with that?’

Kirsty was taken aback. Murdoch had not asked once yesterday whether she was all right with anything. Had Lorimer had a quiet word, she wondered? Was that what his question had indicated? Or had her father been putting pressure on the detective sergeant? She hoped not. This was a job that she needed to do, standing on her own two feet, proving herself.

‘Fine, sir,’ she answered.

‘Right. Here’s the preliminary report from the crime scene. SOCOs made a decent job of it.’ He handed her a pink folder. ‘Have a look,’ he added, motioning her to the desk beside his own.

Kirsty opened the folder to reveal a pile of photographs taken at the Byres Road flat. Seeing the detailed images of blood-spray patterns and the still body was far less awful than actually being there. No foul stench. No wriggling maggots. She shuddered, remembering.

‘Upset you, does it?’ Murdoch’s tone was difficult to gauge. Was he being genuinely solicitous or was there still a sneer in that voice?

‘Not really.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I was just thinking about the smell…’

‘Ach, you’ll get used to that, Wilson,’ he said. ‘Everybody does.’

My dad says the same.
Kirsty bit back the words. It was this man who was her mentor and she had to learn from him.

‘Sir?’

‘Aye?’

‘I’ve seen a dead body before…’

‘The Swedish girl? Aye, I heard.’ His eyes slid over her for a moment, making Kirsty shiver. ‘A case Jo Grant would rather forget.’ He grinned suddenly.

‘Well, it worked out all right in the end,’ Kirsty said, returning to her scrutiny of the photographs.

‘If you want to make it in CID you need to become inured to the sight of death.’ Murdoch shrugged. ‘Doesn’t make you a lesser person. Just more able to cope with the job.’

The sound of his mobile ringing made the DS stand up and walk away, his voice deliberately low as if anxious to keep his conversation private. Kirsty watched his back, curious to know more about this man, wondering once again how he had spent the hours since they had parted at Byres Road.

Catherine Reid had advised her that it was a fifteen-minute walk from the railway station to Abbey Nursing Home and Sarah found herself enjoying the exercise as well as looking at the large houses on either side of the road, many of them grand properties partly screened by high hedges. It was a far cry from the home that she and Pete had grown up in, Sarah thought, admiring the different styles of architecture as she walked away from the centre of Bearsden. Theirs had been a childhood spent in a Glasgow housing scheme, rows and rows of tenement flats with back greens where mums could hang out their washing on the lines and children were free to roam. She and her best pal, Flora Clarke, had sat side by side on the pavement at the front of their block, playing with their toys, Sarah turning the games even then into hospitals, their teddies and dolls silently submitting to all of the little girls’ ministrations. And then there would be the rush and clamour of children at the sound of the ice cream van, its tinkling melody alerting them to rush and get
pennies for the van
then spill back out on to the street.

There would be no such events here in this leafy suburb, Sarah thought, eyeing a large red sandstone house with mock turrets and a crow-stepped gable. And where was Flora Clarke now? she wondered, wistfully. The Wildings had moved away when she and Pete were in their teens, out of the city and into a new town on the south of the river. Would it have made any difference if they had stayed where they had once lived? Would Pete have still gone down that fateful road? Sarah’s eyes blurred with tears as she recalled her mother’s words.

You’re to blame. Just you! We never want to see you again!
 

There was a cough and the sound of footsteps behind her, making the young woman jump.

Sarah turned, one hand at her throat but the man in the red jacket pushing a trolley was a harmless enough sight, a postman doing his rounds. She frowned for a moment, wondering at the state of her nerves. Was there anything other than the forthcoming interview at this nursing home to make her particularly jumpy?

Sarah looked along the quiet street. She was imagining things. There was nobody following her. She was just strung up, like Catherine Reid had told her.

The man shrank back into the space between the two high hedges, out of sight. He would have to be careful, he thought. The woman had almost glimpsed him as she’d turned around. Thank God that postie had blocked her view! The road ahead was rapidly becoming more countrified too; larger spaces between these great houses giving way to hedgerows and open fields. He’d easily be seen if he followed her too closely. Then, just as he was wondering what to do, he saw Sarah Wilding turn a corner into a side street, her steps quickening as if she were almost at her destination.

Where was she heading? The man trod quietly after her, ready to duck into any convenient opening should she turn around and see his face. Then he looked past the woman and grinned. So that was where she was going. The sign for Abbey Nursing Home was a dead giveaway and already she was turning into its driveway and out of his scrutiny. He took out his mobile and nodded to himself, walking slowly towards the open driveway.

‘Think she must be going for a job. Place outside Bearsden. Abbey Nursing Home.’ He waited for a response then gave a twist to his lips, muttering coldly, ‘Aye. If you say so.’

Then, taking a final look at the white-painted sign outside the whitewashed building, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps.
Be patient
, the voice on the telephone line had ordered, but it was hard sometimes. There were other watchers who could dog the woman’s footsteps, find out where she was and what she was doing. Then, when they were ready, Sarah Wilding would find them waiting for her.

He glanced back at the green hedgerow and the winding road disappearing into distant countryside, promising himself that he would be the one to make her do their bidding.

‘I’m so glad to see you.’ The woman beamed at Sarah, ushering her into a bright and airy sitting room with a kitchen area in one corner. ‘Take a seat, won’t you? Tea or coffee?’

‘Oh, a cup of coffee would be lovely. Thanks,’ Sarah replied, staring at the tall woman who had fetched a pair of mugs and was holding them up, a questioning smile in her eyes. Sarah noted the neatly cut hair shining in the sun, an indeterminate colour between grey and blonde, the glittery scarf around her neck catching the light as the woman bent to pick up a dropped teaspoon.

There was something familiar about her; she reminded Sarah of another woman from her past, someone… Sarah blinked as the memory faded, leaving only the trace of a smile and the feeling of being warm and cherished.

‘We’re short of a member of staff right now. Poor girl who’s suffering severe morning sickness. Looks like she’ll be off for a few weeks,’ Nancy Livingstone explained, setting down a small tray. ‘Catherine tells me that you have a lot of experience working with stroke patients and geriatrics.’

‘That’s right,’ Sarah began.

‘Milk?’ The nursing home manager raised a little jug.

‘Please,’ Sarah replied, suddenly uncomfortable at being served by this nice woman, wishing she could remember who it was that Nancy Livingstone resembled.

‘How are you feeling?’ The woman was looking at Sarah with genuine sympathy in these kind hazel eyes.

‘What d’you mean?’ Sarah mumbled, but she knew fine what this woman was asking; Nancy’s eyes told her that.

‘Must be hard, coming to terms with being back outside,’ Nancy said. ‘I can’t imagine what that must be like.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Are you really sure it’s someone like me that you want here?’ she asked quietly, fingers clasped about the mug.

The woman gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Someone like you? My dear, we are
all
like you.’ Then her face softened. ‘Nobody’s perfect and some of us succumb to temptations that are more grievous than others, but we all fall under the same problem of being human.’

‘But, I…’

‘You were guilty of making a wrong choice and you have served a punishment for it. Now you have to go forward and live your life in a different way,’ Nancy said, her words so gently spoken that Sarah felt the prickle of tears behind her eyelids. Was such a thing possible? Nothing would ever bring her brother back. And with the crime she had committed still hanging around her like a heavy weight, surely life could never be good again?