Gallery Whispers

  sort you can buy in any DIY place. He even went over the tape that

  was taken from round Mr Murray's neck, after it was removed and

  sent to him. Not a trace. It was the same wi' the kitchen scissors.

  Arthur says that must mean they had been wiped, for there were

  bound to have been old traces on them.'

  'And the syringe?' asked Skinner.

  'Clean too, sir.'

  'What about its packaging?' Sarah put the question quietly, but the

  two superintendents looked round as if it had been fired at them.

  Pringle frowned. 'What packaging?'

  'The sterile packaging from the syringe; the container for whatever

  drug was used.'

  The superintendent shook his head. 'We never found any, Sarah.'

  'No,' she said. 'Nor did I expect it. The assistant.. . let's call him

  that ... was a bit more devious than at the first death, leaving the

  tape, scissors and syringe, but he couldn't have left the packaging.

  Those items would have had batch numbers on them that would have

  led you straight to him.'

  'Do you have any other thoughts at this stage?' Skinner asked.

  'Just this,' his wife responded. 'This person is a doctor, or some

  sort of paramedic. In each case the needle went straight into a vein in

  201

  the thigh: upwards because that's the least awkward way, when you're

  injecting someone. A lay person might have been lucky once, but not twice, not nohow.

  'Finding a vein for a needle is quite a skill. Some people are good

  at it, and some ain't. And it doesn't matter whether you're a doctor or

  a nurse. I've known middle-aged GPs spend five minutes prodding

  about with a needle trying to take a blood sample, and I've seen junior

  nurses who could slip a transfusion line into a vein inside five seconds,

  every time.

  'Whoever administered these injections had that sort of skill.

  Gaynor Weston was a young, well-fleshed woman; her veins would

  not have been easy to bring up. Anthony Murray had been bombarded

  by drugs - so much so that the lab couldn't pinpoint what was used to

  help his death - and his were very fragile. Yet the injection in each

  case was done clean as a whistle. I'd have been proud of them.'

  She looked at the two superintendents. 'I'd say that narrows down

  your search quite a bit.'

  'More than you think,' said Pringle. 'It points to one person, in

  fact. Staff Nurse Andrina Paterson.'

  'Who's she?' asked Sarah.

  'Anthony Murray's niece . . . and Raymond Weston's girlfriend.

  We'd never have known of that connection had clever young Stevie

  here not asked the right question at the right time.'

  Skinner nodded. 'Yes indeed. Well done, Stevie. Some day, son,

  you're going to make a mistake, but I'm not going to spend my life

  waiting for it.

  'So what do we do about this? We could pull the girl in and sweat

  her, right away. But I think not; not at this stage, at least. Just let's

  keep an eye on her, and try to make sure that she's got no other friends

  or relatives who are terminally ill.

  'We've had our lucky break at the start. Let's keep it on ice and do

  the rest of the proper police work. Clan, you and Steele complete the

  rest of the interviews; talk to the cleaner, talk to the out patient

  visitors, talk to the consultant. See what they can tell you about Mr

  Murray, see whether he told them anything about his niece which

  might corroborate her intention to help him do this.

  'Meanwhile, Brian, you go back and check up on young Raymond

  Weston. I know his mother wrote him a letter, but that could be a

  smoke screen. Find out whether he really did go out on the piss with

  his pals on the night of his mother's death.'

  'Can I say something, sir,' asked Stevie Steele, diffidently.

  'Of course.'

  The sergeant nodded. 'Thank you, sir. I just thought, this might be

  202

  corroboration of a sort. The differences between the two scenes; the

  way the tape, scissors and syringe were left behind the second time,

  all over the body: I mean, that's pretty specific. The "assistant" surely

  didn't guess that from the little that was in the papers after Mrs

  Weston died. It says to me that they were pretty close to the

  investigation ... that they might have had a whisper of what was

  going on.'

  'Oh Jesus, yes,' Brian Mackie exclaimed. 'And Nolan Weston knew,

  didn't he, straight from us. What's the betting that he told his son .. .

  and he told his girlfriend?'

  'At the moment, superintendent,' said Skinner, 'I'd say it's a shade

  of odds on. But let's make sure there are no other horses in the field

  before we place our bets.'

  203

  66

  'Aw, he was such a nice man, sir, he really was,' Mrs Leggat moaned, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes. She looked at least seventy years

  old; Steele marvelled that she was still doing such a demanding manual

  job.

  The late Anthony Murray's cleaning lady lived in a three-room flat

  in Clermiston which was as neat and tidy as that of her employer had

  been, before Arthur Dorward's team had torn it apart in their search

  for forensic evidence which might identify his visitor.

  'So we've been hearing,' said Clan Pringle. 'We have to talk to

  people after every sudden death, for the Fiscal's report. You'll miss

  him, I'm sure. How long had you worked for him?'

  'Nearly fifteen years, sir. Rina - that was Mrs Murray, God rest her

  - took me on taste help her in the hoose when she was still working.

  She had a wee dress shop down in Blackball; did awfy nice things.

  She gied me a wee frock for ma Christmas yince, the year before she

  selt up. I thocht she would let me go then, but she never did. Och, it

  was terrible, when she took ill. She had cancer, same as him, only

  hers wis in the liver.'

  She dabbed her eyes. 'It was awfy watchin' him taste, the poor man.

  And sich a shock when I came in and found him. I knew he didnae

  have long taste go like, but I never thocht it wid be that quick. Mind

  you, it shouldnae have come as a surprise. Jist the day afore he died, he smiled at me, sitting in his chair and he said "I'm ready for the off

  now, Mrs Leggat". Jist like that.

  'Lookin' back, it wis as if he wis trying taste tell me somethin', the

  poor man. Ah thocht nae mair o' it at the time.'

  'No reason why you should have,' said Steele, sympathetically.

  'Maybe no. He'll be happy now, anyway. He missed Rina that

  much; he's had nothin' taste live for since she died.'

  'Did he have many visitors?' Pringle asked.

  The woman shook her little grey head. 'No' when ah wis there. A

  nice wumman frae the support services, she came yince; dinna ken

  whit her name wis though. His niece came in a few times too, at

  lunchtime mostly, in her nurse's uniform; wee Andrina. No' sae wee

  204

  now, mind, it's jist that I've kent her since she wis seven or eight year

  old.

  'The day afore he went, in fact, he said that she was comin' taste see

  him that evenin'. Her and her boyfriend, he said. Whit was the laddie

  called again? That's righ
t. Ray, Mr Murray said it wis. He said they

  were comin' taste help him wi' something.'

  205

  67

  The office of Home Support was nowhere near the Western General

  Hospital, to the mild surprise of the two detectives. Instead it was in

  the city centre, just off Princes Street, in an attic above a pub in

  Frederick Street.

  Clan Pringle was breathing hard by the time he and Steele reached

  the top floor of the building. 'A refreshment will be order after this,

  sergeant,' he gasped.

  'Very good, sir,' said Steele, his breathing normal as he looked at

  the anonymous door with its grey-glass upper panel. He knocked

  lightly and stepped inside. The room was small, its space curtailed

  even further by the steep coomb ceiling beside the bay window. It was

  furnished by three grey metal filing cabinets, a chipped table, four

  chairs and two desks. One was unoccupied, but behind the other, near

  the window, sat an attractive ash-blonde woman.

  'Hello,' the younger man began. 'I'm DS Steele from Edinburgh

  CID, and this is Detective Superintendent Pringle.'

  The worker rose from her seat, extending a hand to the breathless

  Pringle. 'Penelope dark,' she said. 'My colleague Faye told me that

  you had phoned and asked if you could come to see us. What can I do

  for you?'

  Pringle nodded to Steele as he shook the woman's hand and

  gratefully took the seat she offered.

  'You could begin by telling us a bit about your organisation,' the

  sergeant answered.

  Penelope dark nodded. 'Certainly.' At that moment Stevie Steele

  fell in love with her voice. Then she smiled and his capture was

  complete. 'We're a registered charity and we work as an extension of

  the National Health Service. We're an additional resource, helping

  patients in a variety of different situations once they've been discharged

  from hospital.

  'There are three of us: Faye Reynolds, me and a chap called John

  Goody. The people we see might be geriatrics who've had fractures,

  amputees after surgery, those with hip replacements, and others. Our

  main service has to do with mobility; we help our clients get back on

  206

  their feet, sometimes figuratively, but usually literally.'

  'But you visit cancer patients too, is that right?' Clan Pringle was

  recovering. His breathing was only slightly heavy.

  'In certain circumstances, yes,' the woman agreed. 'Our definition

  of mobility is a fairly broad one. Sometimes the problem can be a

  psychological one; in those circumstances our job is to help the patient

  regain the confidence to face the world again.'

  'How about Anthony Murray? Was that why you were sent to visit

  him?'

  Penelope dark frowned. 'I can't discuss a client, superintendent.

  We're bound by the normal rules of confidentiality. We couldn't work

  otherwise.'

  'I think you can talk about Mr Murray,' said Pringle, gently. 'He's

  dead.'

  The woman's hand flew to her mouth, and a shocked expression

  swept across her face. 'Oh dear,' she murmured. 'I knew he was

  terminal, but it still comes as a shock. He must have deteriorated

  quickly. I saw him on Monday of last week and he still seemed to have

  some vitality in him.'

  'You can't have had much hope of getting him mobile again, I

  wouldn't have thought.'

  'His was an attitude problem. We were sent to counsel him about

  his colostomy bag. He could move around well enough, but that damn

  thing was like a ball and chain to him. It happens with some people,

  men usually. We had no success with Anthony, I'm afraid. Latterly, I

  came to realise that he simply didn't want to go out again. He was

  happy to sit in his own house; waiting for God, as they say.'

  She frowned. 'But tell me,' she said. 'Why are you asking these

  questions?'

  'Frankly, Ms dark,' said Stevie Steele, 'we think that someone

  may have made the introduction.'

  207

  68

  'You know what I'd love to do, Mario?' Maggie asked, wistfully.

  'Scratch your bum with your right hand?' her husband suggested.

  She smiled at him. 'That's true, but it's not what I was thinking.

  No, I was thinking that I'd love to start all over again, chuck the police

  and become a social worker.'

  'What the hell brought that on?' he retorted.

  She nodded towards the pile of folders on their small dining table.

  'Can't you guess? It's this job that I'm doing for Andy Martin. When

  I said I'd take it on, I didn't appreciate what it would be like. I've

  spent the day reading my way through a whole succession of private

  hells that have passed for people's lives.

  'Those Fiscal's Reports over there, they've got stories in them that

  would tear your heart out. With the odd exception - like a father who

  hanged himself after he was caught abusing his daughters - every

  person in there is a victim of one sort or another. There are people

  who were hounded to death by bad neighbours, people who were

  allowed to run up ridiculous amounts of debt by shops and credit card

  companies, people who over-reached themselves in business simply

  trying to fulfil the promises they had made to their families, people

  who were driven to it by loneliness, and people who were just plain

  depressed.

  'Suicide is a significant cause of death among people of all ages,

  and as far as I can see every one of them is preventable.'

  Mario frowned. 'I don't know if I'd have wanted to prevent that

  father you mentioned from topping himself.'

  'Of course you would, if you could have done it by preventing the

  abuse through better family support. All these people needed someone

  who just wasn't there when it mattered the most. It just made me feel

  that I'm in the wrong job. Far more people want to be police officers

  than social workers, and the effect of that's showing over there on our

  table.'

  He reached out a thick hand, and rubbed the back of her neck,

  gently, kneading the muscles, soothing the tension that he felt there.

  'Listen, darlin" he said. 'You are a social worker; so am I. We're both

  208

  of us doing jobs that benefit society. Okay, on some days the benefit

  might be more apparent than others, but you've got to take the long

  view.

  'Look at me today: I spent it stuck in a converted bloody gym,

  vetting security men and journalists. Yet because of what my team

  did, the world's leaders are going to feel a bit safer when they're in our

  care next month. Look at you, and that arm; your injury wasn't for

  nothing. Through it you've rid society of a wicked, vicious man who'd

  killed one woman and was living off another in the worst possible

  way.

  'Sure, there are more boys and girls who want to join the polis and

  strut up and down in the paramilitary uniform than there are those

  who want to be social workers and work with the poor and needy. But

  it's a bloody sight harder to recruit a really good copper than it is to

  recruit for a profession which is far more of a v
ocation, and where

  just about everyone comes through the door with stars in their eyes

  and bursting to do good.'

  He turned her face towards him. 'You'd be a good social worker,

  Mags; there's no doubt about that. But you're an outstanding copper,

  and for my money that makes you even more valuable to society.'

  Blushing slightly, she grinned at him. 'You're not so bad yourself.'

  'I know that. I'm a good officer, but I'm not as good as you. Better

  in a rough-house maybe, but you're brighter than me; you see things

  that I don't.'

  'I'll tell you one thing, McGuire,' she said. 'I can see that within

  that hard-man exterior'

  'There lies a sensitive soul?' he laughed.

  'You? You're as sensitive as a wrecking ball. Your hard man pal,

  Neil, now he's sensitive, but you ... What I was going to say was that

  you're the most sensible man I know. You never get flustered, you're

  always controlled, and you always do the right thing. You've still got a

  lot to do in this force.'

  'There are people in the queue ahead of me. There's you for a start,

  and there's Brian.'

  'Count me out. My next billet will be something specialist like

  drugs; plus, we are going to have kids sometime in the next five

  years. As for Brian, he's good but he's peaked. You've still got the

  potential to wear a lot of silver on your uniform.'

  'Have I told you lately that I love you?' he murmured, oddly

  embarrassed for a moment. 'Okay,' he said, 'that's Neil, Mackie and

  me assessed: sensitive, peaked and sensible. How about the Big Man?

  I know how hard he is; I've seen him in action. How would you

  describe his inner man?'

  209

  'The boss? He's different. He's got an amazing mind for a start;

  he's a brilliant analyst, volatile, unpredictable. But inside? I don't

  know. Other than Sarah, I doubt if anyone knows what he's really like

  deep down. I'll tell you this though; there's something about him that

  frightens me.'

  He looked at her, his expression sombre. The too,' he said.

  Shifting his position beside her he looked back towards the table.

  'What about that lot?' he asked. 'Any possible matches for these other

  two deaths?'

  Maggie shook her head. 'Not yet. But I have to look at every detail

  of every folder very carefully - and there are about three hundred of