by Alex Gray
Lorimer shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Crawford Whyte. ‘We haven’t come to that conclusion yet,’ he replied. ‘And until we can, there is also the possibility that your late mother was murdered.’
The man’s mouth gaped open but he seemed to have problems uttering a single word.
‘What evidence have you got for that, Detective Superintendent?’ Abernethy bristled indignantly.
‘I’m not at liberty to disclose this at present,’ Lorimer replied smoothly. ‘However, we would welcome a little chat with you, Mr Whyte,’ he said, nodding at the Englishman beside him. ‘Just to clarify certain things.’
It was a silent trio that walked back through the brightness of the city streets, past lunchtime office workers chattering as they emerged from their morning’s toil. On the way out of the office building, Crawford Whyte had protested about having to catch the evening train, a note of desperation in his voice that made Lorimer curious. Now he was quiet as they walked along, Kirsty leading the way, the two men walking side by side.
Let him sweat, Lorimer thought, seeing the blond man take out a handkerchief and wipe his brow. His well-cut suit and smart coat were too much for a fine autumn day like this, the detective superintendent thought with a smile. So many of the folk from south of the Border expected it to be freezing cold all year round and were often surprised when they found that the west coast could be mild and warm. There was something about the man that reminded him of a fellow he’d put away some years back, Charlie Dawson. The Englishman had that same initial swagger, same surface charm, but no backbone, no ability to keep up the façade once he’d been rumbled.
Would Whyte have anything to reveal about the mystery surrounding Jane Maitland’s death?
Or was he simply unhappy that he was not leaving Brian Abernethy’s office with the assurance that a seven-figure sum was being transferred to his personal account back in London?
The ring at the front door made Sarah jump. Then, not bothering to slip on her shoes, she hastened downstairs, remembering that the postman came to deliver letters for Nancy at this time in the day. A parcel, perhaps? Something that needed a signature?
The figures outside the frosted glass door made the young woman pause for a moment as she reached the foot of the stair. Two men stood there, dark shapes that made her freeze. She shrank back against the wall as one of them raised a fist and began banging on the glass.
How had they found her?
Had someone tailed Grainne’s car after she had given her a lift back to Corrielinn?
Sarah’s heart thumped painfully against her ribs, terrified to make the slightest movement.
Then the banging started again.
‘We know you’re in there, Sarah!’ one of them called out.
Her eyes flicked to the telephone table in the hall. It was too close to the door; they would see her approach, think she was going to open the door then… what would happen?
She needed to think fast, do something that would make them go away.
‘Sa-rah!’ The unmistakable sound of her tormentor’s voice came through the glass door as he stood there, one hand up as though to shade his eyes, to see more clearly past the large reception hall into the dimness of the interior.
She sat still. Had they noticed her descent? Were they waiting for her to make the first move?
‘She’s no’ therr,’ a different voice grumbled and the two men stepped back from the door talking in such low voices that Sarah could not make out their conversation.
The flap and bang of the letterbox made her jump. Something had landed with a soft thud on the floor but she kept herself hidden, curiosity to see what it was overcome by her fear.
Then, to Sarah’s relief, they were gone.
Slipping quietly back up the way she had come, Sarah knelt down as she reached the half landing, afraid that her shadow might be seen beyond the stained-glass window.
She held her breath as she slid down flat, crawling along on hands and knees until she came to the next set of carpeted stairs.
There was another window by this staircase, its heavy drapes held back by thick tasselled cords.
Sarah stood up slowly, hidden by the swath of curtains.
Did she dare risk a quick peek?
From this vantage point she would be able to see part of the driveway then the road beyond the garden gate.
Where had they gone?
Were they down below, waiting for her, watching this very window?
She moved to the side, terrified that even the slightest movement might alert them.
Then she saw it. That car that she’d been bundled into.
But, thank God! It was being driven away.
As Sarah watched it disappear from sight she exhaled an enormous sigh. They hadn’t seen her!
Swift feet took her back down the stairs to the object lying on the carpet. Scrawled on the buff jiffy bag was her name printed in black lettering, SARAH WILDING. With trembling hands she opened it, letting the familiar mobile phone slip from her fingers. Why had they brought it back? What more did they need from her? At least she hadn’t opened the door to them, she thought, sweat breaking out across her body.
Yet the initial relief was tempered by the knowledge that they now knew her whereabouts and the fear that they would certainly come back already gnawing at her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nancy Livingstone watched as the police car drove away, her usually calm face troubled. They had brought a forensic officer with them, a lovely young woman who had slipped into white coveralls before shutting herself in David Imrie’s room and doing whatever it was she had to do. Although Nancy wasn’t one for these TV crime programmes, and her knowledge of crime scene investigation was definitely second-hand, she knew all about post-mortem examinations and the requirements of the Procurator Fiscal’s office. Having been married to a QC, Nancy had insight into many things. Conversations across the dinner table had been full of stories about those who had fallen into bad ways. And yet, like Nancy herself, Eric Livingstone had rarely made judgements about these people outside the courtroom.
Keep busy, Nancy told herself, going to the big filing cabinet and drawing out the paperwork that she would need to photocopy for the police. She sat down behind her desk with a heavy heart. Poor David Imrie! People outside had no conception that patients who had suffered major traumas like he had could still enjoy what remnants of life a stroke had left them. He’d seemed happier these past few days, Sarah Wilding’s attention something that had made a difference.
She was a good nurse, there was no doubting that, and Nancy knew that she would be glad to write a glowing reference if the time came when the young woman decided to move on. Meantime… she paused, staring out of the window at the gardens and a stand of silver birches, their tiny leaves flittering down like yellow confetti. There was something calming in the sight, something that set her world back upon its axis. The changing seasons would come and go, leaving humankind still aching to understand their place in all of this.
Would Sarah find the peace that she undoubtedly craved? Would she be able to put the past behind her? The criminal record would always be there, of course, a blot on her character for society to see. And yet there was something fine about that young lady, something that Sarah herself could not see, hampered by her guilt. Nancy had seen how she no longer dwelt on her time in prison and the events that had led her there, at least during her working hours.
It was a treat to see Sarah talking to the patients, giving them her undivided attention, that sweet smile that lit up her pretty face. And of course, she’d been stricken by the farmer’s death, Nancy thought, drawing out the pages of David Imrie’s case notes that were required by the police.
If Crawford Whyte was intimidated by being inside a police interview room then he certainly wasn’t showing it, Kirsty realised. A real cool customer, this one, with his cobalt-blue suit, its knife-edge creases suggesting that it was perhaps a recent purchase, and that
swanky Crombie coat slung around his shoulders. A real city gent, she thought. Or at least that was the impression he wanted to give.
The interview room was a dismal place compared to Abernethy’s office. Small, functional, its walls a sickly yellow with the windows obscured by an external air conditioning unit that rarely worked, it had been the scene of many stand-offs between the police and hardened criminals. Glancing at Whyte who was sitting back on the metal chair, she began to wonder about the man. In a different sort of situation would he be a ‘no comment’ kind of guy? Remembering the deference that he had shown Brian Abernethy, Kirsty guessed that if Whyte were to be accused of anything criminal he would be the type to demand to see his lawyer and sit fuming silently until he arrived.
But here, with Lorimer sitting opposite the man and her own seat at an angle so she could observe them both, Kirsty saw Crawford Whyte cross his ankles and fold his arms, completely at his ease. With the detective superintendent smiling in a genial manner at him, Whyte evidently felt no threat whatsoever. But then, Jane Maitland’s son knew nothing of Lorimer’s reputation when it came to questioning people, did he? Watch and learn, Kirsty, she told herself, watch and learn.
‘Mr Whyte, thank you for being so helpful in spending a little of your day here,’ Lorimer began in a tone that was possibly deferential but really came across as smooth and bland.
He shuffled some papers from a buff-coloured file on his side of the chipped wooden table. ‘Your late mother,’ he said, examining the paperwork as though he had to refresh his memory. ‘When was it that you learned of her identity?’ That frown, the flick through the paperwork as though the answer was in fact hidden there if only he could find it. Kirsty hid a smile as Whyte unfolded his arms and sat forward.
‘Oh, I never knew anything about my natural mother until she died,’ Whyte assured him hastily. ‘She knew about me, however.’ He smiled as though the thought gave him some satisfaction. ‘Through the Salvation Army apparently. Didn’t want me to be contacted, just wanted to know where I lived and… things…’ He shrugged, finishing lamely.
Aye, Kirsty thought to herself. The old lady was well respected up here, had lived a decent life. She would want to know that she wasn’t leaving her fortune to some toe-rag.
‘Yes,’ Lorimer replied, still searching through his notes, giving the impression that he was just a bumbling Glasgow copper. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘Her will was made out in the spring of last year.’ Lorimer raised his eyes and looked at Whyte for the first time since they had entered the room. ‘When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer.’
‘Really?’ Whyte’s voice rose and he cleared his throat to cover up the sign of sudden nervousness.
It wasn’t a voice that she could warm to, not like James’s Geordie accent, Kirsty decided. No, Crawford Whyte sounded too aloof for her liking, his clipped tones making her wonder if he was capable of any strong emotion at all. Funny how much you can tell from a voice, her dad had always claimed.
‘Well,’ Lorimer drawled, sitting back and stretching his long legs under the table. ‘If you had a lot of money to leave, wouldn’t you want your nearest blood relatives to have it? I would.’
‘Of course,’ Whyte replied, one hand rubbing the space at the back of his shirt collar as though he was feeling a little uncomfortable.
‘Do you have a family yourself, Mr Whyte?’
‘No,’ the man replied. ‘An ex-wife who’s remarried.’ He shrugged. ‘No kids.’
‘And your mother would have known this.’
‘Would she?’ Whyte looked surprised.
‘Oh, I think so, sir,’ Lorimer said, eyes once again drawn to his paperwork as though he was reading that very thing. He picked up a page and nodded. ‘She wanted to know that her money would be in safe hands,’ he murmured.
Whyte gave a weak grin and shuffled his chair forwards a little. ‘And what safer hands than these,’ he said, holding out his arms, the shirt cuffs glinting with square golden cufflinks. ‘After all, being in the banking business, you know, it’s always been a pretty well-regarded profession.’
‘Yes?’ The single word and the blue gaze fastened on the man held more than a modicum of doubt; it held all the weight of banking failures so publicly displayed over these past few years, something that nobody was going to forget in a hurry.
‘I earn an honest living,’ Whyte insisted.
‘If you had known of your mother’s existence prior to her death, what would you have done?’ Lorimer asked, the question catching Whyte unawares.
‘I…’ He looked sideways at Kirsty who managed to keep her face completely serious, giving away nothing of the glee that she felt at the sudden change of tack on the detective superintendent’s part.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last. ‘Look here, what has all of this got to do with my inheritance?’ he asked, curling his right fist into a ball. ‘I simply came up here today to see my lawyer, sort out the things that required signing and then go back home again.’ His voice had taken on a querulous note now but he dropped his gaze as Lorimer stared back at him silently.
‘We think your late mother was murdered, Mr Whyte,’ Lorimer replied quietly. ‘And until such times as we know exactly who committed that act, there is no chance whatsoever that you will be permitted to have access to a single penny of her estate.’
Took the wind right out of his sails, Kirsty would tell James later, watching Crawford Whyte visibly crumple beneath the detective superintendent’s scrutiny. He’s only after her money, she had already decided. He didn’t care about having a mother somewhere up in Glasgow. Didn’t want anything to do with her. And was it true, she suddenly thought, that Jane Maitland’s son had only discovered her identity after she had died?
As she stepped out of the police station, Kirsty rummaged in her pocket as soon as she heard the ring tone of her mobile.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Detective Constable Wilson?’ a lilting voice began.
‘Who’s calling?’
‘It’s Mary Milligan.’ There was slight pause. ‘You do remember me? Mrs Murdoch’s nurse from the Western?’
‘Of course,’ Kirsty replied, a memory of the ginger-haired woman flashing into her mind.
‘It’s just…’ The woman hesitated then lowered her voice as though afraid to be overheard.
‘Look, can we arrange to meet somewhere. Soon? There’s something I need to tell you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She spotted the man through the plate-glass window as he walked through Royal Exchange Square. It was DS Murdoch, slouching along the pavement, head bowed as if struggling against a westerly wind, hands thrust deep into his raincoat pockets. Glasgow was a village, Kirsty thought to herself as she sat inside the coffee bar to wait for Mary Milligan, elbows on the Formica-topped table, hands folded thoughtfully under her chin. It was a place where you might run into folk that you knew any time at all. She had been about to wave, but the moment had passed too quickly and her natural hesitation made her glad. She really didn’t want to speak to him. Besides, what would she say? When’s the funeral? How are you coping? Neither of these things were any of her business and Murdoch would be the first to tell her so.
Fifteen minutes, Mary Milligan had promised, and so Kirsty had arrived a little early, taking this corner table that would give them some privacy to talk whilst still allowing Kirsty to look out and see what was happening in the street. From where she sat, Kirsty had a good view of the door and her eyes kept straying towards it, searching for the ginger-haired woman.
There had been something in her voice that had pricked Kirsty’s curiosity. That breathless rush, as if she had been in a hurry or else had wanted to make that telephone call before her courage failed. Was that it? Had Kirsty detected fear in her tone? Maybe.
She looked up again. This time she was rewarded by the sight of the woman in the doorway looking distractedly around the coffee bar. Mary’s face lit up with a smile when she spotted Kirs
ty.
‘You came!’ she said as she chose the seat opposite the policewoman, setting down a large tote bag and peeling off her coat.
‘Of course,’ Kirsty replied. ‘I said I would and here I am.’
Mary turned to look around the coffee bar, her teeth gnawing on her lower lip. Then, as if satisfied that all was well, she drew in her chair and leaned forward.
‘Better get our coffees first, eh?’ She looked back into the coffee bar just as a young man approached to take their order.
‘Skinny latte for me,’ Mary said. ‘Same for you…?’ She hesitated.
‘Aye, that’s fine, thanks,’ Kirsty said, realising that the nurse only knew her as Detective Constable Wilson.
‘Anything to eat?’ The young man smiled encouragingly but both women shook their heads, smiling suddenly at one another as though acknowledging the same desire to stay off unnecessary carbohydrates.
‘It’s Kirsty,’ she told the other woman once the waiter had left them alone again. ‘Kirsty Wilson.’
‘Well, pleased to meet you.’ Mary gave a tremulous smile.
Kirsty looked at her watch then back at Mary Milligan, a tiny signal that was meant to suggest she soon had to be somewhere else.
‘Well,’ Kirsty said, ‘what was it you wanted to tell me, Mary?’
The woman opposite took a deep breath then exhaled slowly.
‘Something’s going on, Kirsty,’ she began, leaning closer across the table. ‘And I swear to God it isn’t my imagination.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Kirsty nodded encouragingly.
‘See, there’s been a few funny things happening and I’ve only just had time to do a wee bit of detective work of my own.’ She smiled shyly. ‘It all began before Mrs Murdoch died, your boss’s wife,’ she added unnecessarily. ‘D’you remember I told you that so many of our patients were going off? Well it was odd, I mean, statistically speaking, you know. It’s not normal to get a cluster picture like that unless there’s some sort of epidemic,’ she insisted.