by Alex Gray
It was none of her business, Kirsty told herself. Len Murdoch’s wife had been dying for a long time. Surely it was better to let her suspicions go and give the poor man a modicum of peace?
Murdoch’s phone rang just then and Kirsty glanced across at his profile, the solid jawline and jutting brow. He would be a formidable opponent, she suddenly realised, glad that she was on his side and not facing him across the table in an interview room.
‘Right, Wilson.’ He spun in his chair and looked across at Kirsty. ‘A wee development.’ He grinned. ‘Looks like we’ll have you at a scene of crime after all.’
The Honda was parked where it usually sat, face out for a quick exit from the police car park. Kirsty caught one-handed the keys that Murdoch tossed, her reward a nod of approval from the detective sergeant.
‘Off we jolly well go, Wilson,’ he said, strapping on his seat belt. ‘Sudden death over in the West End. Just off Great Western Road.’
‘Oh?’ Kirsty could not help wanting to know more.
‘Fellow in a nursing home,’ Murdoch replied. ‘One of the ones that have been targeted,’ he added, tapping an index finger against his nose.
Kirsty drove out of the conglomeration of buildings and headed west, the road curving this way and that until she came to the boulevard that led all the way down towards Loch Lomond.
‘Take a left here,’ Murdoch suddenly commanded, and Kirsty did as she was bid, puzzled at the diversion.
‘Stop in there,’ he said, sliding out of his seat belt as a row of shops appeared just ahead.
Cigarettes, Kirsty guessed, spotting a newsagent’s shop. But she was wrong. Murdoch slammed out of the car and walked a few paces past the shop and entered a Ladbroke’s betting shop instead. Kirsty blinked to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. Perhaps there was a professional reason for this visit. Did Murdoch need to visit an informant in there? Or was he simply putting on a bet?
He was out of the premises a few minutes later, stuffing something into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
‘Drive,’ he commanded curtly. ‘First right and right again.’
Yours not to reason why, Kirsty told herself, her inner voice tinged with cynicism.
‘In here,’ Murdoch told her minutes later, but his command wasn’t needed, the large sign by the stone pillars proclaiming ROSE PARK NURSING HOME.
Murdoch was out of the car in seconds, hauling his scene of crime bag from the back seat.
‘Your Quiet Release people have tripped up this time.’ He grinned as Kirsty came to his side.
‘We’ve had officers warning loads of nursing homes about that,’ Kirsty replied.
‘Aye, and it looks like we hit pay dirt.’ Murdoch nodded, striding towards the main entrance. ‘One of the patients had his own laptop. You’ll find out when we’re in,’ he added with another nod as he pressed the bell and waited.
‘Detective Sergeant Murdoch, Detective Constable Wilson,’ Murdoch told the military-looking gentleman standing at the opened door.
‘John Dunwoodie,’ the man said, glancing at the warrant card that Murdoch held out. ‘Terrible business,’ he added.
‘Is there somewhere we can change?’ Murdoch asked, looking around the wood-panelled entrance foyer. ‘We need to put on our forensic gear,’ he explained.
‘Good gracious,’ Dunwoodie murmured, stroking his moustache with a thoughtful finger. ‘Just like that TV programme… what d’you call it?’
‘Somewhere to change, sir?’ Kirsty spoke up at the man with a hopeful smile.
‘Of course.’ Dunwoodie straightened his back and pointed to a door in the corner. ‘Toilets over there. Ladies and gents,’ he added with a cough.
‘Your staff have been told to leave the patient’s room?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dunwoodie agreed. ‘As soon as we suspected that something was… not quite kosher…’ He broke off as the two detectives headed for the bathrooms, Murdoch pulling a set of whites from the scene of crime bag for Kirsty.
From the door to his room Kirsty could see Edward Clark’s body lying on the bed, the duvet pulled back to show his upper body and the syringe that was still embedded in his arm.
‘Must have been disturbed and scarpered before he could take that out,’ Murdoch said grimly. ‘We don’t touch a thing,’ he warned Kirsty with a glare. ‘Not even to close the poor bugger’s eyes.’
Kirsty nodded, staring at the dead man whose mouth was partly open as though in protest, his eyes still wide with fright.
‘They did the right thing,’ Murdoch muttered as he began laying treads from the doorway right up to the side of the victim’s bed. ‘Called us right away,’ he added. ‘Wish more people were as accommodating. Right, Wilson. Doc will be here any minute but before that, tell me exactly what you see. Think of me as a judge asking you questions,’ he added sternly.
‘There’s an open window,’ Kirsty replied right away. ‘It’s a ground-floor room and so if an intruder gained entry that way he could also have left the same way.’ She stepped across the metal treads and looked out of the window. ‘Room faces to the side. Gardens all along this part of the building and a hedge with a wire mesh that would prevent anyone from gaining access,’ she continued. ‘But I can see where he left.’ She turned with a glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘Right there.’
Murdoch was at her shoulder in a moment, following her pointing finger.
There was a deep bend in the wire fence and several branches from the thick privet hedging were scattered upon the ground.
‘Looks like someone made a hasty exit,’ she said, meeting Murdoch’s eyes.
‘Wish we knew which way he went after that,’ Murdoch replied, his eyes gazing along the road that led to the well-heeled district of Hyndland on one side and Great Western Road on the other. ‘Could be anywhere,’ he muttered.
‘DS Murdoch. We meet again.’ A voice behind made the detectives turn as one to see a diminutive white-suited figure carrying her medical bag.
‘Dr Fergusson.’ Kirsty’s face broke into a smile.
‘If you could let me in to see the victim, please,’ Rosie asked. And both detectives retreated from the room, letting in the pathologist who had come to examine Edward Clark’s mortal remains.
John Dunwoodie came towards them as Kirsty and Murdoch crossed the vast hallway.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘We’ll know more once Mr Clark’s post-mortem examination has been done,’ Murdoch replied stiffly. ‘But for now DC Wilson here will be taking some details from you, sir.’ Murdoch nodded to Kirsty as he left the hall and made his way outside.
Needs a smoke, Kirsty told herself. Or else he’s giving me the authority to ask some questions. But he should be here. He should be with me to witness anything Dunwoodie tells me. It was odd, she thought. Just as he had left her with Ailsa Doyle; a carelessness that she couldn’t fully comprehend in someone who was supposed to be mentoring her closely.
John Dunwoodie led her into a small office that was dominated by a large old-fashioned leather-topped desk and captain’s chair. Floor-to-ceiling wood panelling made the room appear even more cramped, a feeling not helped by the matching wooden filing cabinet by the desk or the stack of grey moulded chairs heaped on one side. A modern white Apple Mac sat on the middle of the desk, a huge printer on top of the filing cabinet. It was, Kirsty mused, as if a bygone age was being gradually infiltrated by technology from the twenty-first century. And John Dunwoodie himself looked as if he’d have been more suited to a different era, his tweed jacket, grey waistcoat and military moustache reminding the detective constable of films set in the post-war years.
‘You run the nursing home?’ Kirsty began, sitting on one of the grey chairs that Dunwoodie had pulled out for her.
‘My sister and I,’ Dunwoodie agreed. ‘I’m what you might call the administrator. She deals with the medical side of things. Dr Christine Dunwoodie,’ he added, as though the name might mean something to Kirsty.
‘And you’ve run Rose Park for how long…?’
‘Eighteen years,’ Dunwoodie replied. ‘It used to be our family home. Inherited it from the parents, don’t you know.’ He absently scratched at his moustache. ‘Christine had been overseas. Médecins Sans Frontières. Needed a complete change. So we had the old place adapted for use as a nursing home. Worked well,’ he added. ‘Lots of good reviews on the internet.’
Kirsty smiled courteously. It wasn’t the sort of place she’d have liked her own mum or dad to come to. Okay, the room where she’d seen Edward Clark’s body had the look of any modern hospital room – plain, functional and rather clinical compared to the dreary dark-stained wood everywhere else. But, if this had been a family home, she could understand the desire to keep it the way they remembered from childhood. And John Dunwoodie with his old-fashioned clothes looked the type who disliked change of any sort.
‘When did Mr Clark become one of your residents?’
‘Oh, let me see now. Must have been last month.’ He rose from his place behind the desk and pulled out a drawer from the filing cabinet.
Kirsty waited patiently as he riffled through the metal folders.
‘Yes, here we are. Fifth of September. Relatives wanted him to have more care. Kept falling. One of the side effects of his condition, I’m afraid,’ he added.
‘And what exactly was Mr Clark’s medical condition?’
‘Oh, he’d suffered a series of minor strokes.’ Dunwoodie nodded. ‘Lived on his own so they thought it best to have him cared for where he would come to no harm.’
Kirsty stared at the man who apparently had no conception of what he had just said.
‘But he did come to serious harm, sir,’ she murmured. ‘In fact, from what we can see it looks as if Mr Clark may have been murdered.’
Dunwoodie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘This doesn’t have to get out, Detective Constable? The newspapers, I mean…?’
‘We wouldn’t give any information to the press unless it was to further our investigation, sir,’ Kirsty answered truthfully. Though what decision Lorimer came to about letting the press office run with this story was anyone’s guess.
‘You called us as soon as Mr Clark was found,’ Kirsty continued. ‘Who was it who was first on the scene?’
‘Our only male nurse, chap called Joshua Ngebe. Lovely man. Qualified as a psychiatric nurse before specialising in palliative care,’ Dunwoodie murmured. ‘Do you want to see him?’
‘We will want to speak to him, yes,’ Kirsty agreed. ‘But perhaps you could tell me a little more about the emails on Mr Clark’s laptop.’
‘Ah, it was Nurse Ngebe who found them,’ Dunwoodie declared. ‘He and Clark used to play chess on that laptop of his. The email just popped up, seemingly. Don’t know how that works,’ he mused, glaring at the computer on his own desk as though it were some sort of alien device. ‘Prefer to stick to paper and pens myself,’ he added with a nod.
Joshua Ngebe was one of the handsomest men Kirsty had ever seen. He stood tall and straight, a grace about his carriage that was in keeping with the large gentle eyes and warm handshake.
‘Detective Constable Wilson, I hope I can be of help,’ he began, his accent revealing an educated man from somewhere that Kirsty guessed as Oxford or Cambridge.
‘I hope so too,’ she told him. ‘Tell me, what brought you to Rose Park? I’m guessing you’re much too highly qualified for this sort of work.’
‘Ah, the discerning detective.’ Ngebe laughed. ‘Yes, you are quite correct. I was to have completed my medical degree when I was unfortunately stricken with multiple sclerosis. It can be a progressive disease,’ he explained. ‘But I’ve been one of the lucky ones.’ He shrugged. ‘There are times when my legs give way,’ he tapped his trouser leg. ‘And then I need crutches for a while and time off to rest.’
‘So you gave up on medicine?’
‘Not exactly.’ Ngebe’s dark eyes looked into Kirsty’s. ‘I did go back. Took a sideways path into psychiatry then trained as a nurse. This sort of work suits me.’ He shrugged again.
‘Because you can empathise with the patients.’
Ngebe grinned, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Something like that. My wife is a GP,’ he said. ‘So we have a nice lifestyle and she makes sure I don’t overdo things.’ He chuckled.
‘Now, getting back to Mr Clark,’ Kirsty continued. ‘Mr Dunwoodie tells me that it was you who found these emails about Quiet Release.’
Ngebe’s face became suddenly serious. ‘The police notified us about this organisation only recently,’ he said. ‘We were to be vigilant and let them know if anything came to our nursing home from these people.’
‘And when did you see the first email?’
Ngebe frowned. ‘Must have been two days ago,’ he admitted. ‘It wasn’t sent to him directly, you see. Somehow he’d been copied in to it. I asked him about it and he just laughed. Said it was some crank organisation trying to target poor souls who wanted to end it all.’ The nurse sighed. ‘“Not for me just yet.” These were his exact words,’ Ngebe said softly, his mouth closing in a grim line. ‘He made a joke of it. Said his nearest and dearest would trash anything like that.’
‘But there was another one,’ Kirsty insisted.
Ngebe nodded. ‘Last night, just after we’d completed a game of chess,’ he said. ‘Popped up on the screen. Message asking about “freedom from pain”, of all things. Edward was never in any pain,’ he told Kirsty. ‘Unless you could count the number of times I’d beaten him at chess,’ he added with a sad smile.
‘So you ignored the messages?’
‘On the contrary. I logged them for Mr Dunwoodie. I assumed he would notify the authorities.’
Kirsty tried to keep her expression as neutral as possible but the dark-skinned psychiatric nurse gave her a knowing smile.
‘He didn’t, did he?’
She bit back a reply, knowing that to discuss any point of the case was out of order.
‘Thank you, Mr Ngebe,’ she said, holding out her hand and receiving the man’s warm grasp. ‘I think Mr Clark must have enjoyed having you as his nurse.’
‘Well, he certainly did last night,’ Ngebe replied softly.
‘Oh?’
Ngebe’s smile widened a little as he let go of Kirsty’s hand. ‘He was delighted to beat me at chess for once.’
That explained Dunwoodie’s manner, Kirsty thought, heading out of the main door in time to see Murdoch flick a cigarette across the flowerbeds. The man should have alerted the police as soon as Clark’s nurse had logged that email. Probably thought it was the work of a crank or a time waster. Or maybe he wasn’t as au fait with sending emails as that smart new laptop on his desk suggested.
‘Sir.’
Murdoch turned around at the sound of Kirsty’s voice.
‘Pathologist finished yet?’
‘No, sir. But I think there’s something you ought to know,’ she said.
Murdoch listened as Kirsty related the two separate conversations.
‘Good work, Wilson. Stupid idiot, though.’ He jerked his head back towards the nursing home. ‘He’ll have that man’s death on his conscience for a good time to come, I reckon.’ He raised his head at the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. ‘Oh, looks like we’ve got company,’ he stated as they caught sight of the van bringing the scene of crime officers. ‘Hope they tape right across this entrance,’ he added as an elderly woman paused to let her small dog urinate against the stone gatepost. ‘Need to keep out all the nosy parkers,’ he added loudly, making the woman sniff indignantly and haul the dog away on its lead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The door opening at the back of the room made several people turn to look. A young man stood there, his hands full of newspapers.
‘Jimmy.’ Lorimer paused to address the press officer. ‘Thanks for bringing these down.’
From the worried expression on Jimmy Nichol’s face, each of the offic
ers staring at the young press officer walking towards the detective superintendent could see that the man did not relish sharing the latest news with the assembled officers. Most of his colleagues had already seen the main papers online but there were still a few curious glances directed Jimmy Nichol’s way. And Lorimer was examining each and every face in turn, hoping for answers to the question he hated to ask.
‘Sir,’ Jimmy said, handing the rolled-up papers to Lorimer.
Without exception the case had made front-page news.
POLICE PROBE INTO PATIENT DEATHS was the Gazette’s take on the lead article, while others proclaimed WHO IS DOCTOR DEATH? and POLICE SEARCH FOR DEATH SQUAD.
Lorimer’s face grew darker with each headline.
Then, looking once more at the officers standing before him, he lifted up the newspapers in both hands so that they could be seen.
The whole room fell silent.
‘Who was responsible for this?’ Lorimer asked in a voice brimming with anger.
Kirsty looked around her as if to read some guilt on one of their faces but saw that all of her fellow officers were doing exactly the same.
‘Someone in this team was responsible for leaking information to the national press,’ Lorimer continued, his voice low but full of menace.
There was an unnatural hush in the room then Jimmy Nichol cleared his throat and nodded to Lorimer.