The Darkest Goodbye Read online

  Rosie went on to explain about the unknown caller in the early hours of Monday morning, someone not scheduled to visit the woman in her own home.

  ‘There’s a high level of morphine in the bloods, enough to have killed her.’

  ‘Jane Maitland was receiving regular morphine injections?’

  ‘Yes, but not dosages like this.’ Rosie’s tone was grim. ‘I think we have something fishy going on here. Either she had a private arrangement with one of these end-of-life groups or else there’s something far more sinister going on.’

  ‘Right, leave this with me. I’ll have a word with DC Wilson and make sure that someone else can take over this case while Murdoch is away.’

  ‘Right, I’m emailing you the tox report as an attachment now. Let me know the outcome, won’t you?’

  Lorimer put down the phone with a frown, turning his attention to the computer screen and the incoming email. Murdoch had called in to say he’d be taking just a few days off. So perhaps in the interim Kirsty would appreciate the presence of a far more senior officer. He smiled as he glanced at the calendar on his wall. There were several things he might need to rearrange, but the thought of handling a live case with his young friend was a temptation that the detective superintendent found irresistible.

  There was a murmur as the tall man swung open the door of the large CID room where several detectives were seated at their desks. And not a few eyebrows were raised when Lorimer stopped beside their newest detective constable.

  ‘DC Wilson.’ Lorimer smiled down at her. ‘Just had this from Dr Fergusson. Think we need to take a closer look.’

  Kirsty took the paper from his hands and read the lines of the toxicology report detailing the levels of substances found in the late Jane Maitland’s bloods.

  ‘Crikey!’ She turned her face up to Lorimer’s. ‘That wasn’t an accident, was it?’

  ‘Could be one of two things, I reckon,’ Lorimer said, sitting down in the vacant seat next to Kirsty’s. ‘Either Miss Maitland had made some sort of arrangement with a private organisation, and we’re talking voluntary euthanasia here, or someone masquerading as a health professional gave her a lethal dose without her knowledge.’

  ‘Murder,’ Kirsty said quietly.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out. Though at the moment I’d favour the former line of thought. There were no signs of a forced entry, correct?’

  Kirsty nodded as Lorimer continued.

  ‘And as the woman was bedridden that suggests whoever came in had a key. I’ve applied for a search warrant for the woman’s home. Could be we find paperwork that gives us an immediate answer to this question.’ Lorimer shrugged. ‘Should be able to access the house later today. Think you could do with me for company?’ He grinned.

  Kirsty’s wide smile was answer enough.

  So it was that DC Kirsty Wilson found herself in the passenger seat of Lorimer’s silver Lexus, the leather upholstery sheer bliss, especially when the detective superintendent flicked on the heating on both front seats.

  ‘How have you been finding CID so far, Kirsty. Does it live up to your expectations?’

  Kirsty gave a short laugh. ‘Well, I didn’t expect it to be so busy,’ she admitted. ‘A jewellery heist and two deaths all on my first day. Back in my uniform days it was more routine than that.’

  ‘Always expect the unexpected,’ Lorimer rejoined. ‘Bet your dad told you that often enough.’

  ‘Aye, and “crime doesn’t take a holiday”, “round every corner of the road there’s a motorist not looking where he’s going”. Heard them all at one time or another.’ Kirsty grinned. ‘Still, it didn’t prepare me for such a heavy workload.’

  ‘That’s what can happen in CID,’ Lorimer said. ‘We try to concentrate on one case at a time but crime has a habit of throwing stuff at us in a way that makes our life pretty difficult. And our manpower is always under a strain.’

  ‘Did you know the victim in the Byres Road flat, Frankie Bissett?’ Kirsty asked. ‘DI Grant said he was a well-known dealer.’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Aye, but he was small-time. Used to hang out with Billy Brogan and his crowd before Billy went off with other people’s money. Frankie was never big time but he would have been on the fringes of organised crime all right. Someone knows what happened in that flat. And why,’ he said softly.

  ‘There’s more manpower going into that case than this one,’ Kirsty remarked.

  ‘Has to be,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Frankie’s death looks like an execution pure and simple and we need to find out everything we can about the circumstances behind it. Sooner we know all about the people who lived there with him and all of his known associates, the nearer we’ll be to finding answers to who and why. Now, this lady, Miss Jane Maitland, what have you learned about her so far?’

  ‘Well, she lived on her own. Had been in that lower cottage flat for years, according to the woman upstairs. She’d suffered cancer for quite a long time. Spread all through her lower abdomen. She’d had surgery but preferred to stay at home in the end. Had a care package in place.’ Kirsty shrugged. ‘It’s all in the report. The district nurse who called it in was really helpful.’

  ‘And she said nothing that made you suspicious?’

  ‘The nurse?’ Kirsty exclaimed. ‘Goodness, no. I never thought that she might have been the one to have administered that dose of morphine. After all, why would she draw attention to the patient’s death like that if it had been her…?’

  ‘Why indeed. Maybe she would have left things as they were if the nosy neighbour – Mrs Doyle – upstairs hadn’t made a fuss?’

  ‘Well, she might have assumed it was a natural death. The poor lady was very ill.’

  ‘And how long had she been in that state, lingering on?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ Kirsty said slowly. ‘If someone wanted to hurry up the process they might have taken steps to give her that lethal dose.’

  ‘And it might have been Jane Maitland herself,’ Lorimer countered, as the big car slowed down and rounded the corner of the house where Kirsty had arrived only a few days before.

  ‘I think we will pay a quick visit to Mrs Doyle first. Let her know that we have a search warrant and a key.’ Lorimer smiled. ‘Plus I’m curious to meet the woman whose suspicions started this all off.’

  ‘Aw, it’s you again. And this is…?’ Ailsa Doyle looked up at the tall man at Kirsty’s side, her heavily kohled eyes flashing with interest.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he told her.

  ‘Ooh, detective superintendent? So there was something bad about the auld yin’s death?’ Ailsa said, raising her eyebrows in a knowing look. ‘Come on in, eh? Ah’ve jist put the kettle oan. Tea do youse?’

  And, without waiting for a reply, she walked back through the hallway, Lorimer and Kirsty in her wake.

  ‘Wean’s sound asleep,’ Ailsa whispered. ‘That’s how I wis gonnae take myself a wee break. Jist come on through tae the kitchen, will ye?’

  The kitchen was a surprise to Kirsty after the disarray of the front room on her previous visit: rows of neat white cupboards and tidy work surfaces with a bowl of fresh fruit in one corner beside a sterilisation unit.

  Ailsa flicked the switch of a stainless-steel kettle and drew out a large brown earthenware teapot that, by contrast, looked as if it might have been handed down through the family.

  Lorimer watched as the young woman measured three spoonfuls of loose tea from a silver caddy into the warmed teapot, an old-fashioned way of making tea that seemed at odds with this modern-looking young mother with the pink hair and row of ear studs.

  ‘First oot the pot or builder’s tea? Whit’s yer preference, officers?’ Ailsa turned to them with a faint smile as though she had read Lorimer’s mind.

  ‘As it comes,’ he replied. ‘Milk, no sugar, please.’

  ‘Same here,’ Kirsty agreed, seating herself at the small table that jutted out from the wall.

  ‘Have you lived he
re long, Mrs Doyle?’ Lorimer asked, sipping the tea from a mug that had a picture of a sailing ship on one side and an anchor on the other.

  ‘Couple o’ years. Since we got merried. He’s away at sea.’ She nodded over her shoulder at the photo of a young man grinning from a pinboard that was fixed to the side of a cupboard. ‘Merchant Navy.’

  ‘So you would know Miss Maitland quite well?’

  Ailsa Doyle looked shrewdly at Lorimer and put down her mug carefully. ‘Aye. Fact is ma mammy lives ower the street so we’ve kent auld Miss Maitland downstairs fur ages. She’s no’ been over the door fur years, except when she wis in the hospital,’ she said, turning to Kirsty. ‘Did ah tell ye that last time ye came?’

  Kirsty nodded, though in truth that was a detail in her notebook that she would need to check.

  ‘We have a search warrant for Miss Maitland’s home,’ Lorimer told her. ‘There are several things we need to ascertain.’

  ‘Something dodgy going on?’ Ailsa smirked as though the event of two police officers investigating the death of her elderly neighbour was a bit of excitement in an otherwise tedious existence.

  Lorimer shot her a stern look and she had the grace to lower her eyes and blush. ‘Did Miss Maitland ever talk to you about her condition?’ he asked.

  ‘Och, I’d sometimes pop in with the wean whenever wan o’ the nurses or the home help wis there. She couldnae come to the door so we didnae see her ither times.’

  ‘None of the neighbours had a spare key?’

  ‘Naw, jist the district nurses, the home help and her parish priest. Ah did have their phone number though and I wis wan o’ they – what’ d’you call thems – that emergency company, the one with the necklace thingmy… they had ma number in case she needed me to call the doctor or that.’

  ‘And had that ever happened? Did she ever alert the company in an emergency situation?’

  ‘No’ as far as I know,’ Ailsa replied.

  ‘And what about family? Did any family member have a key for the flat?’

  ‘Whit family!’ Ailsa Doyle sniffed, searching in her trouser pocket then bringing out a packet of cigarettes. ‘She had naebody. Never merried, nae brothers or sisters that I know of.’ She shrugged. ‘Kept herself tae herself maist o’ the time. Private sort of wumman. Hardly ever any visitors, usually jist the nurses or the lassie that came on a Monday tae dae her washing. She took in the Tesco delivery an’ all,’ Ailsa Doyle remarked. ‘An’ sometimes Faither Fitzsimmons wid go in tae see her.’

  ‘Mrs Doyle, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to think hard before you answer me,’ Lorimer said slowly, fixing the young woman with his blue gaze. ‘Did Miss Maitland ever talk about wishing to undergo voluntary euthanasia?’

  Ailsa Doyle’s mouth fell open and she shook her head. ‘God, no! She wis a good Catholic woman. She’d never have done something like that.’ She pulled out a cigarette from the packet, fingers shaking. ‘You think she’d had enough?’ she asked, her glance flitting between Lorimer and the female detective.

  ‘That is one line of inquiry,’ Lorimer said smoothly. ‘If you hadn’t been so vigilant, the district nurse would never have called us in.’

  Ailsa had lit her cigarette and was exhaling a line of smoke to one side. ‘See the man that came… thon fella I seen early on…? Ah’ve been thinkin’ aboot him.’

  ‘Yes?’ Lorimer asked, his tone quite neutral.

  ‘Well.’ Ailsa frowned. ‘I wis lookin down at him, right? An’ it wis dark. But I ’member something about him. Like a wee baldy spot aroon his hair.’ She glanced up at Kirsty. ‘See that’s ma trade. Ah’m a hair stylist. Jist do homers the noo, right enough since the wean’s came. But it’s the sort o’ thing I notice aboot folk. Thurr hair. An’ this bloke wis dark haired wi’ a baldy bit aroon the crown. Happens tae some fellas. Maist o’ them’ll gel thurr hair intae spikes, disguise it, eh?’ She took another drag on her cigarette. ‘But ah think this fella wis maybe a bit older. Forties, maybe? An’ he walked out – know whit ah mean? Like my Gary. See, Gary’s tall an’ he walks out, big strider, know whit ah mean?’

  ‘He wasn’t walking away quickly?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘Naw, jist whit ah says. A lang stride, kinda loping. No’ in a hurry tae get away, like. Naethin suspicious,’ she said with a tinge of regret in her voice.

  ‘Mrs Doyle, you’ve been a wonderful help,’ Lorimer said warmly, putting down his mug. ‘I’m sure there will be a simple explanation for Miss Maitland’s demise but many thanks for being such an observant neighbour. And thanks for the tea,’ he added, standing up and nodding towards Kirsty.

  As they made their way down the single flight of stairs, Lorimer was aware of a keen pair of eyes following their every move. Ailsa Doyle might not be the most educated of young women but she certainly didn’t lack a natural intelligence. And, right at this minute, Lorimer was sure that the young mother was working out just what might have happened to her elderly neighbour.

  The smell of wet wool had disappeared to be replaced by a faint musty smell as Lorimer opened the door to Jane Maitland’s cottage flat and switched on the hall light.

  ‘We need to see her priest, Father Fitzsimmons. And the home help. Maybe they’ll be able to throw some light on Miss Maitland’s state of mind prior to her death,’ Lorimer told Kirsty. ‘And tell us who else might have had a key. We’ll get on to that as soon as we’re finished in here.’

  ‘It’s still warm,’ Kirsty remarked. ‘Nobody’s turned off the heating.’

  A small pile of mail lay on the entrance, including a note marked TESCO.

  ‘Wonder what they did with her groceries?’ Kirsty murmured to herself. ‘Don’t suppose the driver was expecting the police to be here when he arrived.’

  ‘Right, DC Wilson.’ Lorimer stopped and looked down at the young woman, his blue eyes glittering in the artificial light. ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Evidence?’ she asked. ‘Something to tell us what happened early Monday morning?’

  ‘That, certainly. But more than that.’ Lorimer nodded, walking along the hall and pausing at the late Jane Maitland’s bedroom door. ‘We need to see if she left any sort of a note. And,’ he added, ‘if she didn’t, then we need to look at all of the paperwork we can find. See who might have benefited from her death.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kirsty nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Did she have a lawyer? Had she made a will? Is there any sign of correspondence with one of these end-of-life organisations?’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Plenty to keep us busy here for a while,’ he said. ‘So, get to it, DC Wilson, see what you can find.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Kirsty replied, looking into the bedroom at the bedside cabinets, the telephone next to the old lady’s bed and a bureau that sat opposite the bed next to an old-fashioned wooden wardrobe, its walnut burr and ornate brass doorknobs marking it as a piece of furniture that had been in vogue some time last century.

  Lorimer smiled as he left the young detective constable to her search, seeing her gloved hands whip out a notebook from her handbag. She’d be systematic, he guessed, putting paperwork in order, making notes as she went along. He had seen enough of Kirsty Wilson in her young life to know that she had the makings of a good detective and he trusted her to find what they were looking for.

  His own search began in the front room, a decent-sized lounge with a three-piece suite covered in matching tartan throws. A quick glance upwards showed a line of cobwebs clinging to the pleated pelmet above the bay window. Jane Maitland hadn’t been able to check up on her home help, Lorimer thought. In fact, hadn’t she been virtually a prisoner in her own home?

  The dusty, fly-blown window told a similar tale, as did the occasional tables, a fine layer of dust clinging to the few ornaments that lay there. The home help came every Monday, her duties including light housework and taking care of the laundry, according to the notes Lorimer had read in Jane Maitland’s file. Washing the bedclothes and the woman’s nightwear would be
a priority, he supposed, as he moved out of the empty room, noticing as he did so that the radiator in here was cold. No point in heating a room where nobody ever sat down, he realised sadly: Miss Maitland’s whole existence had narrowed into that bedroom where Kirsty was looking for clues as to how the woman’s life had ended.

  The kitchen was a bright room facing south-west, the autumn sun glinting off the stainless-steel refrigerator and double oven. Here, at least, were signs of care and attention, the work surfaces spotless as befitted a place where food preparation must have taken place. On the windowsill outside a row of pink and white geraniums bloomed, the summer warmth lingering on. Whose hands would water them now, Lorimer wondered? Would they be left to die or was there some relative of Jane Maitland’s who might come to their rescue?

  The low hum of the refrigerator was the only sound, electricity being used up until someone decided to turn off and unplug the device.

  Was that what had happened to the old woman? Had someone entered her home, taken the decision to terminate her life? And, most important of all, had she been a willing party to that final act?

  ‘Found anything yet, DC Wilson?’ Lorimer asked from the doorway of the bedroom. It was only right and proper to call her by this name, though ‘Kirsty’ sprang to the tip of Lorimer’s tongue every time he began to address her.

  ‘Nothing, sir.’ She looked up from where she was on her knees examining a pile of papers. ‘At least, nothing that indicates what you might call a living will. No suicide note, no correspondence between Miss Maitland and any organisation that I’ve found yet,’ she continued. ‘Still to look through that bureau, though.’ She shot him a hopeful look.

  ‘Okay, two pairs of hands will take us through it more quickly,’ he agreed, moving across the room to the bureau.

  It was an old piece of furniture, possibly an antique, Lorimer thought, with several different types of wood inlaid to create marquetry patterns of classical urns and garlands of flowers, its sloping top opening into a writing desk with six tiny drawers above in two rows and a spacious cabinet below, an ornate metal key in the left-hand keyhole.