The Darkest Goodbye

by Alex Gray

  ‘Name and address?’ Lorimer asked, his pencil poised above a clean page of the notebook in front of him.

  ‘Eh, um… Marianne,’ Brogan said, a note of desperation in his voice. Then, sitting back he looked down at his lap, clearly cross with himself.

  ‘Tut, tut, Billy,’ Lorimer said with the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth. ‘You can do better than that. Your sister, Marianne? That the first name that springs to mind? Oh dear, Billy, could it be that you have a guilty conscience about your poor sister?’ Lorimer’s tone was mocking now and Kirsty realised why. Brogan’s sister had been transferred from prison to a secure mental unit following the murder case that had involved the brother and sister. Had he ever visited her? Kirsty mused. But her thoughts were interrupted as the detective continued his questions.

  ‘Rob Dolan told us that you had recruited him for a job,’ Lorimer said suddenly, laying down the notebook and folding his hands upon the table.

  Brogan glanced nervously at Pauline Dick whose face had taken on a familiar stony expression. Kirsty felt sorry for the lawyer. What must it be like to constantly be at the beck and call of types like Brogan, Cunningham and Dolan?

  ‘No comment,’ Brogan said, the line of his jaw tightening.

  ‘Mr Dolan also said that you were aware of the identity of the person whose idea this was. The person behind Quiet Release.’

  Brogan dropped his gaze and leaned towards Pauline Dick, whispering in her ear.

  ‘You must speak for the tape, Mr Brogan,’ Lorimer insisted. ‘Mr Brogan has just spoken inaudibly to his lawyer, Ms Dick,’ he added lugubriously.

  ‘If I tell youse…’ Brogan looked up nervously. ‘Do I get witness protection?’

  How the detective superintendent managed to keep a straight face when Murdoch burst out laughing at her side was anyone’s guess, Kirsty thought, marvelling yet again at the detective superintendent’s sangfroid.

  ‘Any information you provide us with today will be taken into consideration by the Crown Office,’ Lorimer assured him, the tones he now used more like those of a kindly head teacher to a wayward pupil.

  ‘I jist know who paid us,’ Brogan said, his eyes flicking from Pauline Dick to Lorimer then across to the bearded man in the corner as though he had just clocked him at that particular moment.

  There was a silence in the two rooms then, Kirsty and Murdoch leaning forward intently as they waited to hear, Lorimer sitting patiently, a small smile of satisfaction on his face as though ready to reward the man opposite.

  ‘Wee fat man,’ Brogan told them. ‘Lawyer up in West Regent Street. Said his name was Barry.’

  ‘And how often did you meet this gentleman?’

  ‘No’ very often,’ Brogan admitted. ‘He’d see us in the Amber Regent for a Chinese meal and hand over the cash. Followed him one time, though. That’s how I knew where he worked.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Aye. Naw, jist me and him.’ Brogan looked at Pauline Dick. ‘Will I get time off for telling all this?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Brian Abernethy,’ Kirsty whispered gleefully from the next room. ‘Has to be him!’

  West Regent Street was crowded with office staff spilling out into the street when Lorimer and Kirsty walked briskly up the hill. Len Murdoch had been given the task of questioning Brogan further, this time about the death of Francis Bissett. Would he still be tempted to cry no comment about that? Kirsty wondered as she walked as fast as she could to keep up with Lorimer.

  The doors were still open when they arrived, the same receptionist sitting behind her desk

  ‘Mr Abernethy?’ Lorimer told the woman. ‘May we see him, please? He isn’t expecting us,’ he continued, holding out his warrant card to remind her of their official presence.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she told them with an air of surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? Mr Abernethy has sold the practice and gone overseas.’

  ‘A forwarding address perhaps?’ Lorimer asked, but his face did not express any hope of being given this and he was right.

  ‘It all happened so quickly,’ the receptionist told them. ‘One day he was here, the next he was gone, just an email to let the rest of the staff know what was happening. I’ve been kept on till the new owners move in.’ She looked from the tall man to the young woman. ‘Why? He isn’t in any trouble, surely?’

  ‘Can we see his room? There may be papers that we need to take away,’ Lorimer explained.

  The woman put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of dismay.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘I thought it was strange, doing that, I mean… there aren’t any papers left…’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘He left it in such a mess,’ the woman whimpered. ‘All the drawers pulled out, everything empty.’ She looked at them both as though she might begin to cry. ‘And bags and bags of everything by his desk.’ She shook her head miserably. ‘You see, when we eventually unlocked Mr Abernethy’s office we found that everything had been shredded.’

  ‘A dead end?’ Kirsty asked as they retraced their steps down to the city centre.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Lorimer told her, then fell silent. The technical staff were working hard on the Imries’ laptop computer. What they might find there could easily push the investigation forwards. But for once Lorimer was loath to share this information with his younger colleague. Maggie first, he told himself. Especially if it was news of the worst sort.

  The late news programme was just finishing on BBC Scotland when his mobile vibrated in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Lorimer.’ He spoke into the phone as he rose from the settee, ignoring Maggie’s questioning glance. She’d know soon enough if this was what he was expecting to hear.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, walking out of the sitting room and into the hallway. ‘I’m listening.’

  The detective’s face was impassive as he heard the woman’s voice reading from the report. As he had anticipated, the laptop had been pretty easy to search, the messages from Quiet Release simple to retrieve. He closed his eyes as the replies from Annette Imrie were read out to him then heaved a quick sigh.

  ‘Thanks,’ was all he said. ‘Excellent job. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Appreciate it.’

  He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket then stood at the window, looking out into the darkness. The rain that had fallen steadily all day had abated, leaving skies that were clear, stars sparkling in the heavens. When all was said and done they were all just creatures with an allotted span. Some would slip away in their latter years, frail and tired, others were gone far too quickly, like the baby boy who’d been born to them all those years ago. There was nothing fair about life or death, Lorimer told himself. It was a matter of luck where you were born and what sort of life you made for yourself, wasn’t it? The Imries had been men of the soil, he had chosen a different path, but they had all had the good fortune to live in a country at peace with the rest of mankind. Why then were there folk who persisted in destroying that peace? People like Annette Imrie, whose misdeeds were about to be unfolded to the woman waiting patiently for him?

  Maggie sat in the toilet weeping. The death of her cousin was bad enough, she’d told him. But to think that his own sister-in-law had been instrumental in having David murdered! Bill was downstairs now, the promise of a cup of tea a weak apology for the disastrous news he had given her.

  ‘Why?’ She whispered the word aloud. ‘What harm had the poor soul ever done to you?’ She thought about the red-haired woman at the funeral, her anger against the sick man palpable. It hadn’t taken too much guesswork to see what Patrick’s wife had achieved. And he’d taken steps to ensure that she would be caught. Maggie stopped crying and blew her nose. What sort of relationship did that pair have? The hard-working farmer and the younger woman who would not have looked out of place in a fashion shoot. His second wife, Maggie reminded herself. Some men were poor choosers, weren’t they? Stephanie Imrie, the
first wife who she remembered from the lavish wedding in Stirling, hadn’t lasted the pace. She had never been cut out for the role of a farmer’s wife. At least the woman had had the sense to see that early on, unlike Patrick.

  Maggie wiped her face with a damp facecloth and dried it hastily, smears of mascara darkening the pink towel. Sod it! Well, it would go into the wash.

  She unlocked the door and walked across their bedroom. Bill had lit the bedside lamps, leaving a small tray with a mug of tea and a biscuit by Maggie’s side of the bed. The duvet was turned back too, an invitation to crawl under the covers if that was what she wished.

  It wasn’t Bill’s fault, Maggie reminded herself, sitting on the edge of the bed. It was just part of the job. And hadn’t it been Patrick who had called? Asking to speak to Bill, pleading with him to take a look at the circumstances of David’s death, wanting there to be a post-mortem. Had the ruddy-cheeked farmer known even then? Had Annette given herself away at any point? How he must have despised his wife! Or had Patrick been party to a scheme to take his own brother’s life?

  Maggie sat very still. She didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. But somehow the truth behind her cousin’s death had to be discovered.

  And, as she warmed her hands around the mug of tea, Maggie Lorimer knew that her husband would do just that.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Once again it was Detective Constable Wilson that accompanied Lorimer to the farm amongst the Stirlingshire hills. He did not anticipate any problems but the local constabulary had been made aware that an arrest was about to be made on their patch.

  The rain from the previous day had left huge puddles and the big car slewed through them, causing sheets of spray to arc high into the air. Kirsty shivered then put out a finger and turned the heated seat up to its maximum level. Lorimer glanced at the small action. It was not just the colder days that made her feel like this, he guessed. It was the thought of what lay ahead, the arrest of a woman she’d once met in her own home.

  The same two collies ran to meet them as Lorimer and Kirsty left the car and headed to the farmhouse door. But this time there was no shout from the building and he let the dogs sniff around his legs as he and Kirsty stood waiting for an answer to his knock.

  ‘D’you think they’re in?’ Kirsty asked at last, looking up at him.

  ‘Land Rover’s there,’ he said, a tilt of his head indicating the vehicle parked in the yard.

  At last he tried the door handle. It turned easily and the door swung open, the pair of collies bounding through as if to show them the way.

  ‘Hello?’ Lorimer called into the darkened hallway.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Go through to the kitchen,’ Lorimer told Kirsty. ‘See if there’s any sign of them.’

  The farmhouse kitchen was as warm as before, the big range heating the entire room, the basket of squirming kittens wakening as the dogs bent down to sniff them before loping out of the room again.

  Lorimer followed the collies out and along a corridor where they came to a halt outside a closed door.

  For a moment his eyes met the young detective constable’s.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Kirsty ventured, picking up on the expression on his face.

  Lorimer hesitated for a moment then one of the dogs began to whine and scratch at the bottom of the door.

  He turned the handle but nothing budged.

  ‘Patrick? Are you in there? It’s me. Lorimer.’

  For a long moment nothing happened but the persistent scratching of the dog, then the door opened and they saw the farmer standing there, the hands hanging by his side covered in blood.

  As Lorimer stepped into the room, Patrick stood aside, a pair of heavy wire cutters grasped in his right hand. His face was drawn and pale, as he looked from them to the figure sprawled on the sofa.

  Annette Imrie was hardly recognisable, the blood from a wound on her head streaking rivulets down her face and soaking into the neck of her white jumper.

  ‘Is she dead?’ Kirsty whispered, looking up at the farmer who was slumped against the wall as if his legs would hardly support him.

  ‘I don’t know.’ His voice cracked

  Lorimer was bent over the woman now, one hand feeling her wrist.

  ‘She’s still with us,’ he said, glancing at Kirsty. ‘Get an ambulance here. Now.’

  He stood up and grasped Patrick’s arm, taking the tool out of his hand, then led him away from the room

  ‘Why…?’ Lorimer shook his head in despair as Patrick bent to push the dogs away.

  ‘I tried to stop her leaving,’ Patrick Imrie gulped. Drawing a hand across his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to…’ He broke off as Lorimer took him into the kitchen.

  ‘Sit down, Patrick,’ the detective told him gently, seeing the man trembling all over. Shock was beginning to set in and he wanted to hear what this man had to say before he became too upset to talk.

  ‘Kirsty,’ he asked, as the DC appeared at the door, ‘can you put the kettle on?’

  He turned back to Patrick and spoke quietly to the distraught farmer. ‘Tell me what happened, Patrick.’

  ‘I told her that you were coming to speak to her.’ He heaved a weary sigh that seemed to reverberate throughout his whole body.

  Lorimer waited for him to continue, aware that Patrick Imrie was now reliving the horror of what he had done.

  ‘She just went berserk,’ he whispered. ‘Screaming and yelling that it was better for David to be dead and us to have a decent lifestyle…’ He broke off, the words choking in his throat.

  Lorimer studied the man’s face as Patrick swallowed hard. A tough man of the outdoors he might be but the death of his brother and the knowledge that it had been effected by his own wife had broken his spirit.

  The farmer gave a long sigh and sat up a little straighter, his face still white, but he glanced at Lorimer and nodded.

  ‘Hard to explain what happened,’ he told the detective superintendent. ‘Something in me just snapped. I’d been outside mending a section of fence. These were in my hand…’ He pointed to the heavy metal wire cutters that Lorimer had laid down on the floor.

  ‘If she hadn’t said these things about Davie…’ The farmer put his head in his hands, covering his face with bloody fingers, and began to sob.

  Beyond the sound of his cries the faint but unmistakable rise of a siren could be heard.

  ‘Police or ambulance,’ Lorimer said quietly. ‘Kirsty, go and tell them where to find Mrs Imrie.’

  Left alone with the farmer and the blood-soaked woman lying unconscious on the sofa in the other room, Lorimer put out a tentative hand to the man’s arm. His stomach churned and the dull ache of a returning headache made him pause for a moment. It was his job, he told himself, just his job…

  ‘I’ll have to arrest you, Patrick. You know that, don’t you?’

  Patrick Imrie nodded, his eyes downcast. ‘What about the farm?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Who’ll look after the beasts? The dogs?’ He spread his arms around, a look of confusion in his face. ‘There’s so much to do…’

  Should have thought about that before you lashed out, Lorimer thought to himself, but there was no way he could utter such harsh words as he watched the disbelief on the man’s face. He had seen it all before: the hasty blow delivered in fury then the look of horror as reality sank in. I didn’t mean to do it… the phrase that often followed such acts of passion. He wanted to tell him that everything would be okay, but that was never going to happen. Annette Imrie might die and everything this man had worked for would be taken away from him.

  ‘I’ll see your neighbours in Upper Tannoch,’ Lorimer promised. ‘And perhaps you’ll receive bail…’

  The look that Patrick Imrie shot at him filled Lorimer with dismay. He might be part of this man’s family, albeit by marriage, yet at this moment as he prepared to read him his rights Detective Superintendent William Lorimer was a threatening figure of authority to the farmer, no
thing more.

  After the police car and ambulance had removed both husband and wife from the premises, Lorimer motioned Kirsty into the farm kitchen once more. The kittens were staggering about on shaky paws, their tiny tails upright as they crawled over one another to find their way back to the warmth. Lorimer watched as Kirsty picked them up one by one and replaced them in the basket. A movement by the window alerted him to a tortoiseshell cat that had jumped up at the sill and was rubbing itself against the glass.

  ‘In you come,’ he said, opening the window and letting the mother cat jump noiselessly down. Soon she was lying on her side, the purrs of contentment emanating from the kittens as they nursed.

  ‘Better let the neighbours know about this lot, too,’ Lorimer sighed. ‘Don’t know if Patrick Imrie will be back any time soon to look after these creatures.’

  ‘What’ll happen to him, sir?’ Kirsty asked as they walked out of the farmhouse.

  ‘Well, you were present when I read him his rights, DC Wilson,’ Lorimer said, his mouth closing in a tight line. ‘Depends on how bad Annette is,’ he went on quietly. ‘He’ll likely be looking at a charge of assault to severe injury. Then there is the matter of whether or not he knew what his wife had done.’

  ‘What do you think, sir?’

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘To my mind Patrick knew nothing about this end-of-life organisation. It seems to have been his wife who had taken the initiative when they emailed the farm. But she may tell a different tale. If she recovers,’ he added darkly. ‘I just hope that my wife’s cousin gets himself a decent lawyer.’ He opened the car door, ushering Kirsty inside.

  He looked over the expanse of fields, the cattle over on a far park, sheep mere dots against the green hillside. ‘It’s a hard life at the best of times.’ He swung himself into the driver’s seat. ‘Farming’s a lot more than just baskets of kittens,’ he said, his eyes full of something sad as he looked across at Kirsty. ‘Come on, we’ve got a visit to make to the Imries’ neighbours. Then we need to get back to Glasgow to see where we go next.’