The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (8 page)

As if she had known the effect of her little speech, the nursing home manager sat back a little, regarding Sarah steadily. ‘Right,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, tell me everything you’ve done since you qualified.’

Stepping on to the train once again, Sarah tried to tell herself that the last hour had been a dream. Surely she couldn’t have been given a temporary nursing job as easily as that! Catherine Reid had obviously pulled some strings or else it had simply been a happy coincidence that her friend at Abbey Nursing Home had needed someone to begin work straight away. Yet it had happened, she thought, sliding into a seat by the window and staring into space. The Livingstone woman had made a few notes about Sarah’s nursing career to date and then asked if she could begin working there tomorrow! Sarah had been taken from the sitting room (which was actually the staffroom, she was told) shown around the home, introduced to the owner, Mrs Abbott, and given a copy of the shift rota she would be expected to follow. A uniform would be supplied, the women assured her. And a week’s pay would be given in advance so that Sarah need not worry about train fares or such things. It was, Sarah thought, too good to be true. And yet it had happened.

As the train pulled away from the station platform, Sarah saw her own face reflected in the glass and suddenly she remembered.

She was sitting with several other children in a sunny room and someone was playing a piano in the background. They were singing a song, something about a rainbow. And the face of the woman beaming down at them all was making Sarah feel such happiness. She must have been about five then. A time when she and Flora Clarke had toddled along to the Sunday school at the end of their street, a wooden mission hall where the lure of free fizzy drinks and a jammy biscuit had resulted in a weekly gathering of little children glad to join in the hour of singing and storytelling. Her Sunday school teacher’s name had faded into oblivion but the shining eyes and loving expression lingered in her memory, a special something that this woman from Abbey Nursing Home seemed to share.

As the trees and fields gave way to rows of grey tenement buildings, the reality of where she was going came back to her. If she could keep working then surely she could give up that horrid little room and find somewhere nicer? Somewhere… her imagination took her inside one of the tall flats opposite the station where the train lingered, allowing passengers to spill out on to the platform. The large windows shone against the western skies, a few ledges adorned with boxes of late scarlet geraniums glowing like rubies. Then the train moved off, Sarah thinking hard as the flats disappeared from view. Surely she could find a room to rent near here? Anniesland was near enough to Bearsden for a commute and wouldn’t be too expensive, not like her old flat in the West End.

Memories came flooding back. Pete on his knees, sobbing. Sarah holding him in her arms, making that promise… She shuddered. No matter where she lived, Sarah Wilding knew that she would always be haunted by what she had done.

W
illiam Lorimer knew that it was only a matter of time before he needed to call Len Murdoch in for his initial staff appraisal, a part of his job that the detective superintendent heartily disliked. Putting down the scene of crime manager’s file with a sigh, he rubbed his tired eyes and looked out of the window. It was just one of those things, he supposed; the sort of bad hand that fate dealt you. Why he should be happily married to Maggie with her dark curls and vivacious laughter when this man had the misfortune to have a severely crippled wife at home was simply a matter of luck, that was all. The staff file told the bare minimum; multiple sclerosis, carers in attendance several times a day, a husband who was immersed in the business of Police Scotland… what kind of life was that for poor Mrs Murdoch? And how on earth did the detective sergeant cope outside his working hours? Well, at least his move to Stewart Street had helped a little, Lorimer thought. Irene Murdoch’s hospital visits were becoming more and more frequent as her life drew to its sorry end.

Lorimer was not a sentimental person but he had a strong ability to empathise with his fellow man, a trait that sometimes saw him tossing restlessly in bed at night, his imagination transferring his own life on to that of someone else’s. He had seen this sort of illness once before, he reminded himself. A woman called Phyllis, her life narrowed into that undulating bed in a room that had once been part of a fine family home. Lorimer recalled her eyes turning to his own, the face brightening as she looked at him with an expression of contentment. Even someone like that, crippled and mute, had been an integral part of a murder investigation that had given the detective plenty of sleepless nights. Nobody was better off dead, he had told his colleagues, when one of them had spoken the words aloud, daring to suggest that this particular woman had no quality of life at all. And she had proved Lorimer right, giving him a vital insight that had led to the identity of a killer. She was dead now, though, gone from this world like morning mist burning off as the sun warmed the earth, only her memory lingering on, her name a footnote in police records.

Lorimer had tried to elicit something from Kirsty about her new mentor but perhaps it was too soon for the girl to have formed any opinion. Besides, it was not his business to give away any personal details about Murdoch to his young friend. If the DS wanted to tell Kirsty about his wife, well and good. Otherwise, Lorimer would keep such things to himself. His mind wandered back to the initial interview between the scene of crime manager and three other senior officers when he had opened up about his domestic situation. There had been no plea for sympathy. On the contrary, Murdoch had been at pains to stress how his home life did not impinge on his working duties. The transfer had been simple enough and now their new scene of crime manager appeared to be hard at work, his duties including the mentoring of DC Kirsty Wilson.

A gentle rain was falling as Kirsty stepped out of the Honda and followed DS Murdoch up the ramp at the back of Glasgow City Mortuary. At least she didn’t have to tramp the city streets as a beat cop any longer, she thought moodily, though the task ahead was not something she was particularly relishing. As the doors swung closed behind them, Kirsty looked around, wondering at the shelves of plastic containers, shuddering to imagine what they might contain. Green-clad figures flitted past, a girl with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a middle-aged man with grizzled locks, whistling a country and western tune.

‘Aye, aye, in to see the PM?’ The man grinned at them. ‘Doc’s just preparing for your one now.’ He hesitated, glancing from Murdoch to Kirsty. ‘You both new around here?’ Then, not waiting for an answer he turned and motioned them to follow him. ‘Viewing corridor’s round this way.’

Murdoch and Kirsty followed the mortuary attendant until he stopped at a large window with a specially constructed step running along the floor.

‘Intercom’s switched on,’ the man told Kirsty, guessing correctly that she was the rookie of the pair. ‘You’ll be able to hear anything she says and you can ask questions.’

‘Okay.’ Murdoch tilted his head. ‘Who else is on with Dr Fergusson?’

‘It’s our favourite twosome; Doc Fergusson and Dan-the-man.’ The attendant grinned.

Kirsty nodded. It had been part of their training to know just how the Department of Pathology worked; up here in Scotland the double-doctor system was mandatory to ensure corroboration. Once a post-mortem had taken place, everything that the pathologist had done and every conclusion he or she had come to might be taken apart meticulously in a court of law. She’d heard her father refer to Dr Dan, an Irish pathologist whose wicked sense of humour had been a source of anecdotes over the Wilson kitchen table.

As the body of the deceased was wheeled into the post-mortem room from its refrigerated cabinet, two figures moved quietly to take up their places next to the stainless-steel operating table. Looking at Rosie Fergusson with a green plastic apron over her scrubs and a pair of yellow rubber boots, Kirsty thought about a documentary she and James had seen on television about factory women whose days were spent gutting chickens. And wasn’t it still the lot of so many women and girls up in the north-east to be fishwives, filleting their men’s daily catch? Or was that just what happened in the old days? She shifted uncomfortably then Rosie’s voice came over the intercom as she began to talk them through the initial stages of the post-mortem examination of one Francis Bissett. Was it such a strange sort of job for a woman, dissecting cadavers to find out what had taken place before death? Or were women actually better suited to carrying out these delicate surgical procedures?

As DC Wilson watched and listened, the whole process became an absorbing insight into the vagaries of life and death.

Later, much later it seemed to Kirsty, she and Murdoch left the mortuary with its clinical smells and artificial lighting, relieved to take a gulp of the fresh, damp air. It had been raining steadily and Kirsty had to step over a puddle that had gathered right next to the Honda.

‘Where to now, sir?’ she asked, glancing sideways at Murdoch’s bullet-shaped head.

Just at that moment the DS’s mobile rang and he left the car with a silent nod to Kirsty to stay where she was. She watched her mentor in the rear-view mirror, standing under the shelter of the mortuary doorway, his face grave he listened to whoever it was calling him. He had already taken out a cigarette and was blowing smoke over his shoulder. Not a quick call, then, Kirsty thought, curious to know if the telephone call related to any of the three cases that had commanded their attention since yesterday. Her attention was taken with the slight movement from her DS, his fingers on the mobile phone. Not just a single call waiting for him, then. The girl heaved a sigh. It was only Tuesday but it seemed as if the week ought to be over already.

At last she saw Murdoch flick away the stub of his cigarette and walk back towards the car.

‘There’s been a development in the robbery,’ he said as he pulled the seat belt over his shoulder. ‘Nottingham reckons we’ve got the same gang up here that did some of their shops during the summer.’

‘How can they be sure?’ Kirsty asked.

‘CCTV image of a similar perp,’ Murdoch replied. ‘Digital analysis matches the footage from our cameras that they’ve had on file.’

Kirsty nodded. ‘So what does that mean?’

Murdoch made a face. ‘Means that we’re going to have some English visitors crawling all over our patch,’ he grumbled. ‘Frankly, they’re welcome to it if they can locate the buggers.’

‘Do you often have a joint case with a different authority?’

‘Nope,’ Murdoch replied shortly. ‘Our thieves tend to be a parochial shower, sticking to the terrain they know. Only once in a while do we see a gang that moves round the country like this. Ever hear of a guy called Brightman? Professor at Glasgow Uni?’

Kirsty hid a smile. ‘Oh, aye,’ she replied, trying to sound cool. Not only had she heard of the celebrated professor, she considered him a friend. ‘He’s married to Dr Fergusson,’ she told him.

‘That right?’ Murdoch’s bushy grey eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Well, seems he’s written this book about how to map the activities of thieves and scoundrels. Rapists, murderers, even…’ He broke off to look keenly at the young woman by his side. ‘He’s worked a lot with Lorimer…’

Kirsty tried not to catch the detective sergeant’s eye.

‘You know him too, don’t you?’ Murdoch said softly.

‘Yeah,’ Kirsty admitted. ‘I’ve known Detective Superintendent Lorimer for ages. Through my dad. And I met Professor Brightman when I was a witness in that murder case…’ She broke off, aware of his eyes staring at her.

‘Well, maybe you can persuade him that we don’t need a trick cyclist to solve our cases for us,’ Murdoch said, his voice laden with sarcasm. ‘Back to Stewart Street, Wilson,’ he added, taking out his mobile and looking thoughtfully at the screen.

Kirsty did not reply, her face reddening with an inner fury. Trick cyclist? Solomon Brightman was an eminent psychologist, not a
psychiatrist
, she told herself angrily. And she was certain that Murdoch knew the difference and was simply trying to wind her up, but why he wanted to do that was something of a mystery. Unless…

Kirsty drove silently through the familiar city streets thinking hard. Her father was a well-liked DI and Lorimer was someone she’d known since childhood, whereas DS Len Murdoch was a newcomer on the scene. She glanced at the big man sitting in the passenger seat, texting on his mobile. Could it be that this grumpy fellow was actually intimidated by his new detective constable because of the connections she already had within Stewart Street? Kirsty blinked, wondering at the thought. Had she got this man all wrong? She had already decided that her imagination had been playing tricks on her at the scene of the robbery. After all, who would be brazen enough to nick an expensive watch like that and wear it the very same day? And was his brusque, sarcastic manner simply covering up some sort of insecurity? If so, it seemed as though she might have to reassess her first opinion of DS Len Murdoch.

The hospital room was quiet apart from the sighing sound of the mechanism beneath Irene’s bed. She kept her eyes closed, not wishing to see the Perspex mask covering her nose and mouth. Everything was so difficult and she was tired, so tired… if she could simply drift away now with no pain and no effort, then that is what she would choose.

It was the fifth time this year that she had contracted pneumonia. Would it be the last? Irene was well aware that her time was running out now. Len had held her hand in the ambulance last night, talking softly, whispering his usual nonsense about her getting better. She would never get better and they both knew it. Maybe it helped him to feel more optimistic? Irene smiled faintly. She wasn’t afraid to die but she did worry about what would become of her big bear of a husband once she was gone. The boys were both overseas living lives of their own, Jack in Western Australia and Niall in Vancouver. Irene and Len had never been over to see where they lived with their wives and children, she thought sadly. Maybe once she was gone Len could make these journeys on his own?

The sigh faded as the oxygen flowed into her wasted lungs and then sleep, blessed sleep took the woman into the darkness once more.

It was past visiting time but nobody took any notice of the figure, stethoscope around his neck, walking along the hospital corridor in the direction of the row of single rooms reserved for terminally ill patients. The nurses at the oval shaped nurses’ station barely glanced as he passed; there were so many junior doctors in the hospital, coming and going, it was hard to remember faces never mind names.

The figure stopped outside the door marked Murdoch, and paused, then slipped into the room next door. He stood for a few moments, watching the rise and fall of the sick woman’s chest, the signs of life still present. His right hand shook suddenly as the mobile phone he clutched began to vibrate.

‘I’m here now,’ he whispered, turning away slightly as though to prevent the patient hearing his words. ‘You know what to do. I’ll give you twenty-four hours, that’s all. Payment must be made within that time or the deal’s off.’

He stood still, listening to the voice on the other end of the line, then a smile played about his mouth. ‘Good. Thought you’d say that.’

The man slipped the mobile into the pocket of his trousers and nodded quietly towards the recumbent figure on the bed.

‘Not long now, darling,’ he crooned softly. ‘Not long now.’