by Alex Gray
Mrs Abbott made a face. ‘They’re all expected to pass away sooner or later,’ she told him with a frown. ‘It’s our business to make their last weeks or months as pleasant and comfortable as possible.’
‘Rather like a hospice?’
The woman nodded. ‘Our patients all receive palliative care but here,’ she waved a hand around at the corridor with its double line of doors, ‘we are a bit more specialised than a hospice. Most of our patients come to this nursing home as the result of severe strokes and they can be here for quite a long spell, really. A hospice, on the other hand, might house patients with a bigger variety of illnesses.’
‘Like cancer?’
‘Indeed.’
She opened the door to reveal an empty bed. The curtains on either side of the French windows were drawn back, but not secured in their tie-backs, Lorimer noticed.
One stride took him to the doors and he gave the handle a twist.
‘Were these doors opened after David died?’
Mrs Abbott came forward to join him, her hand touching the drapes. ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘Some of the nursing staff have this notion about letting a soul escape,’ she confided in a low voice. ‘A bit of superstition, I know. But they will open a window to let it out.’
Lorimer nodded, looking closely at the lawn outside and the border of earth that was empty of flowers.
‘Have you a gardener working here?’
Mrs Abbott laughed. ‘Not really. My husband does the heavy stuff and I deal with the plants. Why do you ask?’
But Lorimer was already outside the room, his eyes fixed on the dark soil.
‘Did you take out the old summer plants recently?’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I took some of them out over the weekend. The tubs at the front will probably last a while yet, though.’ She folded her arms and looked at him, obviously puzzled by these questions.
‘Rake the borders, did you? Ready to plant some bulbs later on?’
‘How did you know?’ Mrs Abbott laughed. ‘Goodness! It’s like being talked to by Sherlock Holmes,’ she added. ‘But of course, you are a detective…’ She tailed off as Lorimer turned to her.
‘I’d like to speak to the nurse who was on duty last night, if that’s possible. The one who discovered that David had died.’
‘That was Hilary Connell. She’ll not be in until midnight,’ Mrs Abbott said slowly. ‘The late shift’s on just now. I’ll see if David’s dedicated nurse can help you. Shall I? She’ll have been on till midnight last night.’
Lorimer nodded as she turned to leave the entrance to the gardens and go back inside. But his eyes were fixed on something that the woman evidently had failed to see: several large footprints embedded in the loose soil, inches from the glass doors that gave on to David Imrie’s room.
‘This is Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ Mrs Abbott said. ‘And this is Nurse Wilding. Sarah, the detective superintendent wants to ask you about Mr Imrie.’
Lorimer saw the colour fade from the young woman’s face and the stricken expression as she shrank against the wall of the corridor.
Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong.
‘Sarah? Are you all right?’ Mrs Abbott asked, shaking the girl’s arm.
‘Just upset,’ the nurse answered. ‘He was such a nice man. Bit of a shock…’
‘You didn’t expect him to die, then?’ Lorimer asked.
‘Oh, no! He was fine when I left. Sound asleep, breathing quite normally.’
‘You’d spent time with him yesterday evening?’ Lorimer wanted to know.
‘Of course. And there was nothing to suggest that anything was wrong.’ She turned to Mrs Abbott. ‘He’d had his dinner and supper. Really enjoyed them too,’ she insisted.
‘The food in here is of the highest quality,’ Mrs Abbott told Lorimer smoothly. ‘Our cook is also a qualified dietician.’
‘And you’re certain that he’d had a good evening?’ Lorimer continued. ‘Nothing to cause you any concern?’
‘No, nothing at all.’
The girl looked bewildered, frightened even, her large eyes wide, flicking from her employer and back to his face before dropping her gaze.
‘Did he sleep with the curtains open?’ Lorimer asked.
‘Well, yes, he did,’ Nurse Wilding replied. ‘He didn’t like to be shut in.’ She turned to Lorimer, her pale face suddenly defiant. ‘He’d been a farmer, you see. He loved the feeling of being part of the fields and the trees outside.’
‘He told you this?’
A brief smile lit up her features. ‘I guessed some of it,’ she said. ‘Asked him about things like that, talked about nature and stuff… mostly wee nods and shakes of his head. But we communicated,’ she insisted. ‘Just because he’d had a stroke didn’t mean he’d lost his senses.’
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s wife is Mr Imrie’s cousin,’ Mrs Abbott explained. ‘And the family have requested a post-mortem.’
‘Oh, that’s why you’re here!’
Lorimer watched the nurse as she gave a sigh, her whole body visibly relaxing.
Then she opened her mouth as though to speak but closed it again suddenly, eyes cast down once more.
What had she been on the point of saying?
And what had Nurse Sarah Wilding assumed about the arrival of a senior policeman at the nursing home? Lorimer watched as the young woman walked swiftly back along the corridor then disappeared into an adjacent room.
‘Thank you, nurse,’ Mrs Abbott called after her then led Lorimer away towards her office. ‘Do come in, Detective Superintendent. And let’s see if we can chase up Hilary Connell.’
The night-shift nurse confirmed what Sarah Wilding had told them: David Imrie had been fine all during the night. But when Hilary Connell had returned from a break to look in on her patients, she had found Maggie’s cousin lying on his back, his skin already cool to the touch. The local GP had been called out early next morning and he had signed a death certificate, citing sudden heart failure as cause of death.
‘And where is David now?’ Lorimer asked Mrs Abbott once he had finished speaking to the nurse.
‘At the undertaker’s,’ she told him. ‘Normal procedure. If the family want to see their loved one here then we keep them in their rooms.’ She gave a shrug.
‘Patrick didn’t want to come by here today?’ Lorimer guessed.
‘Farmers are busy people. Isn’t it hard for them to get away at all?’
Lorimer nodded, wondering. Had Patrick felt a sense of guilt at not coming to see his brother’s body? Was that why he had requested a post-mortem? Or was it the suddenness of it all? From what he had heard at their father’s funeral, Patrick was contemplating selling up to pay for David’s care, showing that the family had anticipated David continuing to live at this nursing home for years to come.
‘I think you should know that I will be making a report to the Crown Office, Mrs Abbott,’ Lorimer said slowly. ‘Post-mortem examinations usually establish the cause of death given by the medical practitioner, so I don’t think you have any cause to worry.’
Sarah watched as the big car slunk quietly along the drive and out of the main gates. His wife’s cousin! She breathed out a grateful sigh. Just a quirk of fate then that the tall man was a policeman. Pleasant manner, right enough, not the bullying type she’d encountered once before. And these blue eyes, intense, as if he could look straight into her soul.
Sarah shivered. It was just a coincidence that all of this had happened, wasn’t it? Things would go back to normal, surely? Another patient was already scheduled to arrive in a couple of days’ time; the waiting list for this place was huge, she knew, remembering so many other names on that list.
‘That was Maggie on the phone. Wants to know if she can do anything to help,’ Patrick Imrie told his wife.
‘Hm.’ Annette Imrie gave a small sigh. ‘Can’t think why. Suppose we’ll see them all at the funeral again.’
>
‘Well,’ Patrick began. ‘That’s not going to happen any time soon, love.’
‘Why not?’ his wife replied sharply.
‘Bill Lorimer’s confirmed that David is to have a post-mortem.’
‘But that’s horrible.’ Annette rounded on him, her eyes snapping in sudden fury. ‘To do that to your own brother! Oh, Patrick, don’t let them do it!’ she pleaded.
‘Hey, calm down, love. It’s a routine sort of thing that’s done after a sudden death,’ Patrick explained. He stretched out to take her arm but she shook him off.
‘It just prolongs everything,’ she said crossly, tossing her head. ‘Better to have a quick funeral and try to get everything back to normal.’
‘Och, don’t be like that. Anyway,’ he gave a weak grin. ‘Just remember what this means. We don’t have to sell up now. We can stay here, keep running the farm properly.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Annette gave him a crooked smile. ‘And isn’t that what your dad would have wanted?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Len Murdoch slumped into the chair, dropping the address book on to the floor. Surely that was the last of Irene’s friends that he would have to call? He was already sick of the steady stream of platitudes, spoken in similar hushed tones as though to raise their voices would somehow break his spirit.
He picked up the remote control and flicked on the television, his eyes wandering over the Sky menu until he came to a news bulletin.
Maybe it was time to be back at work, he told himself, listening to the latest reports from the Middle East, the rape case in London involving a minor celebrity that had dragged on for months. Then the picture changed and he saw the familiar face of a Scottish presenter, her professional tones bidding him good evening.
He was already out of the loop, Len realised, watching the different news items as they appeared, crimes amongst them. Even in the short time he had been on leave, things had moved on.
His fingers flicked back to the menu and he scrolled along until he came to the sports channels. This was more like it, something to take his mind off the present anguish. It had always worked before, watching horses as they galloped along the track, his eyes fastened on the one he’d put his money on. Irene had laughed when he’d placed that first bet, all those years ago. Bonny Irene, the racehorse was called. He’d put a tenner on it and won a couple of hundred back. And it could have stopped there, beginner’s luck, something to boast about in the pub with the lads. But of course it hadn’t.
He switched off the television and closed his eyes.
Now Irene was gone. And the taste for the horses had turned sour in the detective sergeant’s mouth.
‘We’re seeing Crawford Whyte today,’ Lorimer told Kirsty, bending over her desk.
He raised a shirt cuff and looked at his watch.
It was a nice watch, Kirsty thought; a plain round face with Roman numerals. An Edox, whatever that was, not one she knew. Looked good, though. Had watches like that been on the Patons’ list of expensive stolen items? She didn’t think so. And besides, Lorimer wasn’t the sort to wear a flashy watch.
‘Be ready to come to the lawyer’s office in fifteen minutes, okay?’
She nodded and smiled as he walked out of the room. They were dealing with this case together, the raid on the jeweller’s shop having become a joint cross-border operation.
And yet, and yet… the feeling of her very first call-out as a detective constable rankled with Kirsty Wilson. It was, she told herself, unfinished business. But was that because nobody had been arrested? Or because she still held a suspicion that Murdoch had been guilty of lifting an item from the scene of crime?
It had been a long time since he had arrived in this city, memories of a bleak, grey place where the rain was constantly falling. So it came as a surprise to the man looking out of the window when the train slowed down and stopped on the railway bridge above the river.
It was a bright day, the sun at its highest point, only faint wisps of white clouds stroking the blue skies above Glasgow. The city skyline had changed beyond recall. To the west there were new bridges spanning the river with modern flats along its banks. One low-lying building closer to the train reminded him of the long row of barges he often saw on the canal as he travelled on the Stansted Express. A circular building high up caught his eyes, its sparkling windows facing in every direction over the city. What a view the office workers must have from that place! His eyes roved further along the horizon spotting the curved shapes he vaguely recognised (hadn’t he seen them on television?) until they rested upon more familiar landmarks like the towering shape of the University of Glasgow, unmistakable with its spiked spire soaring into the clouds.
He’d underestimated this city, forgetting that its fall into the doldrums of post-industrialism was long past. This was a regenerated place now, he saw, sweeping his glance across the view from his window, a place where big deals were done and big ideas were fulfilled, not least those of his own.
Somewhere in this city he was going to find Brian Abernethy’s office and do what he had to do. He wouldn’t hang about, the man thought. This was no hick town, after all. Abernethy had warned him about the police officers already snooping around. He’d give them the benefit of his charms then hightail it south again as fast as he could.
The traveller sat back in the first-class carriage as the train began to move again, taking him into the heart of Glasgow Central station, catching his reflection in the window. What did he see? A man past middle age, still good-looking, though his once blond hair was turning grey. Heaving a sigh, that was partly satisfaction at having completed this part of the journey, he tried to smile at the prospect of returning home later that night. He would be a rich man at last, he thought, fingering the velvet collar of the Crombie coat he’d bought on an impulse. His credit card would be able to stand that expense, he’d persuaded himself. Once he’d come into the money left to him by the late Jane Maitland. But the smile never reached his pale blue eyes, a frown of anxiety appearing between his eyebrows.
‘Detective Superintendent, how nice to see you again,’ Brian Abernethy gushed as Lorimer and Kirsty entered the lawyer’s office.
A fair-haired man in his early fifties stood up and turned to the new arrivals, a pleasant smile fixed to his face.
‘Crawford Whyte,’ he said, coming forward to shake hands with both Lorimer and Kirsty.
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer and this is Detective Constable Wilson,’ Lorimer told him as Whyte approached his young officer.
‘How do you do,’ Whyte said, giving the slightest nod to Kirsty, his smile increasing as he looked her full in the face, making the girl blush.
He was a practised charmer, Lorimer decided, watching the man as he offered a seat to Kirsty. The hand that smoothed his hair as Whyte took his place to one side of the desk was devoid of rings. There had been no mention of whether or not the man was married but the lack of a wedding ring was of no significance whatsoever. Lorimer himself did not wear a ring on his wedding finger, long-ago memories of his dad having caught his own ring in a car door once, resulting in surgery to his finger, had put the policeman off.
Abernethy had begun to read from Jane Maitland’s will, the papers in front of him, giving Lorimer the opportunity to have a good look at Crawford Whyte. It was amazing what a trained officer could find out just by observation, he’d reminded Kirsty on the way through the city. A person’s body language might give so many more answers than spoken questions, if you knew what to look for. And Lorimer did.
There was an eagerness in Whyte’s manner, that slight bend in his back as he leaned forward as though to be sure of capturing every last syllable that came from the lawyer’s mouth. And, whenever the name of the deceased was mentioned (which was often, of course, in this legal document), Lorimer looked to see Whyte’s response. Grief? Regret? A modicum of interest even? But there was nothing at all.
Had he known about
Jane Maitland being his mother long ago? Or had the shock and surprise of being heir to a small fortune gobbled up any residue of filial feelings?
The man’s demeanour was pretty easy to read whenever money was mentioned. He seemed very keen to drink in all of these words, something that showed as he uncrossed his legs, bringing his seat a little closer to Abernethy’s desk, one hand absently patting his trouser pocket. It was an unconscious gesture, the unspoken desire to possess this inheritance for himself.
But if Whyte’s body language told one story, his words tried to tell another.
‘Such a sad end,’ he murmured at a point when Abernethy read out the date of Jane Maitland’s death, the insincerity of his declaration making Lorimer glance across to Kirsty to see if she had noticed. The girl raised her eyebrows a fraction, the tiniest sign that yes, she had seen just what was happening here.
‘But perhaps even sadder than you might think,’ Lorimer said, breaking into Abernethy’s monotone as the lawyer resumed his reading.
‘Oh?’ Abernethy looked up from the documents on his desk as Whyte turned with a frown.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ the Englishman demanded, a querulous note to his voice, as though the senior officer had no right to interrupt.
‘Your late mother’s post-mortem gives us reason to think that her death was not as first believed.’
‘Yes?’ Brian Abernethy folded his small hands on top of the papers, a look of irritation crossing his podgy features.
‘Toxicology tests show that the late Miss Maitland had been given a very high dose of morphine,’ Lorimer told them, staring at Whyte. ‘That was what killed her.’
‘Good Lord!’ Whyte sat back, one hand on his chest, cheeks suddenly turning pale. ‘You don’t mean…?’
‘Your late mother was in a lot of pain, Mr Whyte,’ Lorimer said evenly. ‘She may have decided that enough was enough.’
‘Are you implying that my client arranged for her own death? Are we talking assisted suicide here?’ Abernethy blustered.