The Darkest Goodbye Page 12

  ‘Hello, Sarah here,’ she began.

  ‘Ah, yes, well, I said I’d get back to you today if I found somewhere more suitable for you to stay. And I have.’ There was a pause as Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.

  These horrible men knew where she worked but perhaps she might be able to give them the slip if she changed where she lived?

  ‘It’s very local.’ Catherine’s voice was warm. ‘In fact it couldn’t be handier. But it’s only with your agreement, of course.’

  ‘Local would be great!’ Sarah enthused. ‘Whereabouts is it? Is it a room? Does it have access to a kitchen?’

  ‘Yes and yes,’ the social worker replied. ‘But there is a catch.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sarah’s face fell.

  ‘It’s at Nancy Livingstone’s house. She’s offered to give you a room there. Only problem is she doesn’t want you to pay her any rent.’

  ‘What? Why? I mean…?’ Sarah was at a loss to know what to say. That explained the smile on Nancy’s face.

  ‘Nancy’s a widow, Sarah. She lost her husband over a year ago,’ Catherine explained. ‘And she rattles around in that big house all on her own. You’d be doing her a favour as much as she wants to do one for you.’

  ‘Gosh!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what to say. I mean, it’s so – so generous.’

  ‘And so typical of Nancy,’ Catherine added. ‘We’ve been friends for a long time, Sarah, and believe me, she is one of the most giving people you’ll ever meet.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say no, can I? I mean, what sort of person would pass up a kind…’ She broke off, her voice suddenly choking with emotion.

  ‘Go and speak to her,’ Catherine advised. ‘I’ll sort out all the paperwork here. Okay?’

  Sarah nodded, too full to give any reply except for a husky yes.

  Halfway down the corridor, she could see Nancy waiting for her, arms across her body as though hugging herself in expectation.

  ‘You’ll come?’ The woman’s eyes were shining and then, as Sarah grinned, she was enfolded in a hug of sheer joy.

  ‘When’s the funeral?’ Kirsty asked her father.

  It was Friday evening and they were sitting around the family table in West Kilbride, the topic of conversation turning to Len Murdoch and his wife’s death.

  ‘There isn’t a date set yet. His boys have to come over from Australia and Canada,’ Alistair Wilson replied, his fork waving in the air.

  ‘So, not immediately?’ James asked. ‘Will you be expected to attend?’ he asked Kirsty.

  ‘Oh, aye, he’s my official mentor, after all,’ she said.

  ‘And Bill Lorimer’s your unofficial one,’ Betty Wilson laughed, pushing the casserole dish towards her daughter. ‘You’ve landed on your feet all right, my girl.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ James asked. ‘To work for, I mean?’ He turned to his girlfriend’s father.

  ‘The best,’ the DI replied simply. ‘And when I think of all the people I’ve worked with in my career he’ll be the one I’ll miss most.’

  It had been a hectic week, Kirsty thought, as she glanced around her mother’s table, grateful for the respite of the weekend. And, although her presence was not required at Stewart Street, Kirsty’s mind strayed to the cases that had commanded her attention over the past few days, particularly the one she had shared with Lorimer.

  ‘Anyway, to change the subject,’ James began, looking at Betty and Alistair. ‘Any thoughts yet of where you’ll be going to celebrate this man’s retiral?’

  ‘Och, somewhere nice and hot,’ Betty replied, exchanging knowing glances with her husband.

  ‘Aye, a remote island miles from anywhere. With no phone signal!’ Alistair declared, making them all laugh.

  ‘Well, wherever it is, you surely deserve the rest,’ James said, raising his glass to the older couple.

  Betty Wilson’s face flushed with a radiant expression and Kirsty grinned at both her parents. James was right. After thirty years spent on the force, her mother having to endure his late nights and weekends away on a job, Alistair Wilson more than deserved a special holiday with his wife in some exotic location.

  ‘Pudding?’ Kirsty’s mother rose from the table, smiling at her husband. The question was a rhetorical one: nobody in their right minds refused one of Betty Wilson’s puddings.

  Kirsty watched as her mother opened the lower door of her double oven and drew out a chocolate soufflé, its top trembling gently as she laid it down on the table. Once she had wanted to follow this path, herself: be a chef or at least work in the hospitality business. But a quirk of fate resulting in a murder inquiry had changed her destiny and now she sat here, a police officer like her father.

  She smiled to herself, glancing at James as he grinned at the sight of the soufflé. Her boyfriend had also come into Kirsty’s life because of that investigation. Life was strange, she decided. Was it all planned out beforehand? Or did humans shape their own particular destinies? And, the question that had nagged at her for several days: had Jane Maitland really taken her own life?

  ‘Is that everything?’ Nancy Livingstone shot Sarah an anxious look as she appeared at the door of the bed and breakfast, a haversack slung over her shoulder and a hessian carrier bag weighing down her right arm.

  ‘Afraid so.’ Sarah gave a tight little smile. ‘My previous landlord disposed of all my worldly goods when I was inside.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have done that!’ Nancy shook her head. ‘What an awful thing to do.’ She heaved Sarah’s haversack into the boot of her Volkswagen Golf then added, ‘Everything?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘There was nothing I could do.’ She sighed. ‘I miss all the clothes I used to have, especially my warm winter coat.’ She tried to smile as she eased herself into the passenger seat. ‘It doesn’t matter, really. They were only things.’ Sarah shrugged as she drew the seat belt forward and buckled it closed.

  ‘This is so true,’ Nancy said, easing off the handbrake and glancing round before moving off into the traffic. ‘Isn’t life worth more than food? And isn’t the body worth more than clothes?’ she murmured quietly.

  ‘Who said that?’ Sarah asked. ‘It sounds like you’re quoting somebody.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Nancy replied simply, her eyes on the road ahead.

  The journey passed in silence after that, Sarah wondering just what lay ahead. She closed her eyes as they drove through the city, sleepless nights finally catching up with her.

  As the Volkswagen passed through the main thoroughfare of Bearsden, Nancy glanced at her companion. Sarah was exhausted, anyone could see that. What sort of guilt lay so heavy on this young woman’s heart that she was bowed down with such weariness? Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, Nancy thought to herself. Would the Lord find it in His grace to give this girl rest unto her soul? That was something that Nancy Livingstone fervently hoped as she turned the corner into a pleasant street full of large houses and then slowed down as the driveway of her own home approached.

  Corrielinn was an old house that had been built at the end of the nineteenth century, a time when decorative art had been going through several changes and stained-glass artists were in demand for domestic dwellings as well as tall-spired Christian churches. It had been ridiculously expensive to buy, but Eric and Nancy had fallen in love with this house the moment they had stepped over its threshold. Perhaps it had been the long window to one side giving light on to the spacious hallway; its yellow and golden picture on the glass still drew appreciative glances from any passerby.

  The soft mellow sandstone and the dark grey slate roof with its turret above the attic stairs were common enough features for Glasgow Victorian houses; it was the stained glass that set this house apart from its more conventional neighbours. It hadn’t always been called Corrielinn. Once they had made it their home, Nancy and Eric Livingstone had investigated the house’s past and discovered that it had been named Damascus House and had actually been owned by the stained-glass artist who
was celebrated for his life-sized representation of St Paul’s vision in a city centre church. However, subsequent owners had changed the name and CORRIELINN was now engraved on to the stone gatepost. A Corrie was a sheltered gully in the hills, Eric had once remarked, leaving Nancy to imagine that her dear husband was suggesting that their home was a shelter from everything outside that could encroach on their happiness. This is where I want to grow old, Eric had whispered all these years ago.

  Nancy cut the ignition and gave a sigh. Poor man hadn’t even reached sixty-five when his heart had given out after a successful career that had spanned almost four decades.

  Nothing lasted for ever in this life, Nancy thought with regret. And the house would still be standing when she was gone too, its stones sheltering others from the vagaries of the outside world.

  She stretched out a hand and touched her new tenant’s sleeve.

  ‘We’re here, Sarah,’ Nancy said quietly, watching as the younger woman awoke, blinking for a moment as though she were disorientated. ‘Welcome to Corrielinn.’

  Later, Sarah would try to describe what she had felt on entering the big house. It shone, she would say. Like an inner light or a fire burning somewhere. And the peace… that was a word she would always use to sum up Nancy Livingstone’s home. And yet, and yet… her initial feeling was that she didn’t belong here in this magnificent house (like something off the telly, a posh person’s place). In fact, it had been a surprise to see a place like this owned by the nursing home manager; if anything she had expected a nice semi somewhere on the outskirts of the town, with a bit of garden to the front and back. Nancy was a good woman, her kindness glowing like these stained-glass windows. Yet Sarah felt a distance emerging between herself and the older woman as she looked around her home. What did she think she was doing, inviting someone like Sarah Wilding here to stay?

  She was an ex-con, someone who had stood trial for theft and possession of drugs, charges that she had wanted to deny until persuaded by her solicitor to plead guilty. Saves your case coming to trial, the woman had insisted. And you’ll get a shorter sentence.

  So, how had she come to be here, in this place with its long damask curtains framing the huge windows, a bowl of amethyst and rust-coloured mop-headed chrysanthemums gracing the half-moon table in the enormous hallway?

  ‘Do you want to see your room?’

  Sarah was aware of Nancy standing to one side of the reception hall, a tentative expression on her face. She wants me to like her home, Sarah thought, looking at the older woman twisting a scarf between her fingers, a small nervous gesture that revealed her anxiety.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Sarah replied. She smiled at Nancy. ‘Still can’t believe I’m actually going to live here,’ she murmured, turning slowly and looking at the doors leading off then the staircase that led to the upper rooms.

  The half landing looked out to a well-kept garden at the side with several shrubs plus a large variegated holly tree and a vista that included distant hills. But it was the stained-glass picture that captured Sarah’s attention, a vast waterfall pouring molten water into a pool below, pale skies above where a pair of swallows soared.

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Was it made when the house was built?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nancy told her. ‘It’s quite old now, an antique really. Come on, your room is on the first floor, just along here.’

  A quick glance showed Sarah that the staircase led even higher, up to yet another level. Maids’ quarters? Or perhaps a nursery?

  Her thoughts were interrupted as Nancy opened a door and stood back, letting Sarah enter first.

  ‘Here you are, it’s all yours.’

  There was no comparison between this spacious room and the miserable bedsit she had left, Sarah thought as her feet sank into a thick-piled carpet. Nancy put down Sarah’s haversack beside a double bed with a pretty patchwork quilt pointing towards a cream-coloured armoire and matching dressing table, decorated with rosebuds painted in pastel pink.

  ‘Please make yourself at home,’ she said, opening the wardrobe door. ‘I’ve taken away the stuff that was in here to give you some space,’ she added, indicating a row of empty coat hangers. This was Tracey’s room before she got married,’ Nancy explained.

  ‘Your daughter? I didn’t know you had a daughter,’ Sarah said.

  ‘No reason you should.’ Nancy shrugged. ‘She lives in London with her husband. Works in television.’

  ‘An actress?’

  ‘Bless you, no.’ Nancy laughed. ‘She’s a production manager. Strictly behind the scenes.’

  ‘Are you sure she won’t mind me…?’

  ‘Not her decision, is it?’ Nancy countered firmly. ‘Corrielinn is my home, Sarah, and I can invite whoever I like to stay.’

  The older woman’s smile was just as friendly, but Sarah began to wonder what kind of welcome her daughter might have given to a woman so recently released from prison.

  ‘Now, if you want to freshen up before dinner, the bathroom’s just through there,’ Nancy continued, pointing towards a door that Sarah had thought to be a cupboard.

  Sarah pushed open the door to reveal a large carpeted bathroom complete with bath, shower cabinet and bidet in palest apricot, as well as a matching wash basin beneath the frosted glass window. There was a yellow orchid blooming on the windowsill and a pile of soft cream towels lay on the Lloyd Loom chair below. A quick glance upwards at the incomplete plaster coving showed her that another room had been sacrificed to furnish Nancy’s daughter with such luxury, a luxury that she, Sarah Wilding, was suddenly determined to enjoy for as long as she possibly could.

  ‘She’s not here.’ The landlady looked up at the two men, arms folded across her bosom. ‘Went away with a pal, so she did, and no I haven’t got a forwarding address so don’t bother to ask.’

  The front door slammed and Mrs Duncan flounced into the sitting room where her husband sat, eyes fixed on a football game on the television. He looked up, an expression of mild curiosity in his eyes.

  ‘A pair of wee nyaffs!’ Mrs Duncan declared. ‘And not so wee, as it happens. Bad types. You can always tell. Comes from taking in these lassies,’ she grumbled, eyes darting to the front window to see that the men had indeed left. She gave a sudden shudder. ‘Gives me the creeps,’ she muttered, rubbing her arms.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to.’ Her spouse shrugged. ‘You could do the place up, get better rents.’

  The harrumph from his wife effectively ended that conversation before it had really begun.

  Mrs Duncan sat down heavily on the settee, fingers stretching towards the open box of Dairy Milk that Sarah Wilding had given her earlier that day. Just to say thank you, the girl had murmured. None of them had ever done that before, the landlady thought. But, no, thinking back to her temporary tenant’s leave-taking, hadn’t the gift come from that older woman who had accompanied her?

  ‘She’s done a runner,’ the tall man with the scar spoke into his mobile phone. ‘But she should be back at work on Monday afternoon.’

  ‘So long as she does what she’s been told,’ the voice on the line replied firmly. ‘Anyway, it shouldn’t take you long to find out where she’s gone, should it?’

  ‘Aye, well, she’s part of the scheme of things now, isn’t she?’

  There was a pause then a chuckle that held not a scrap of mirth. ‘If she steps out of line you know what you can do, don’t you?’

  Scarface smiled, his hand moving down to finger the blade hidden in the lining of his jacket, the handle towards his hand. She’d been scared out of her wits, he thought, smiling as he remembered Sarah Wilding’s terror-stricken face. He liked his women like that, cowed and compliant. He ran his index finger along the edge of the blade. Maybe they could have a little bit of fun once she’d dropped the list where he’d told her to leave it.

  Nurse Mary Milligan sat frowning over the paperwork that lay in front of her. What would her colleagues make of this? All these patients going off so
quickly? Her finger traced the line of dates on the left-hand side of the printed sheet. It was all there for them to see in black and white. The ginger-haired woman bit her lip. Statistics had been her strong point back at university, before she’d changed her course and gone in for nursing. She read the figures again. No, that didn’t make sense. Statistically there should not have been nearly so many deaths all occurring on this one ward. Perhaps it might be wise to talk to someone about this, Mary told herself.

  Her thoughts wandered back to that young detective constable who had come in with Irene Murdoch’s husband. She’d seemed an intelligent type of lass. And she hadn’t scoffed at the nurse’s fanciful notions, something, Mary realised, that were not quite so far-fetched when seen on paper. Aye, she might do.

  She looked up as a shadow was cast across her desk. A doctor, someone who hadn’t been seen on her ward before, yet that was nothing new; there were so many medics in this place, some of them part-timers, others filling in for colleagues. This one was a bit of all right, though, a dark-haired man who stood regarding her with a laconic smile. She glanced at his left hand: no wedding band, not that it made a lot of difference these days. Perhaps he was just being clever, keeping his anonymity. Mary liked the notion of a good-looking fellow like this being careful around so many women staff.

  ‘Can I help you, doctor?’ she asked brightly, her eyes flicking towards the name badge on his lanyard. But it was turned the wrong way around and she could only see the same details that were on everyone’s plastic security badge.

  As if he had noticed her glance, the doctor’s fingers strayed to the end of his lanyard, lingering there so that Mary couldn’t see his name.

  Flirting, are we? she thought and shot him a coy smile.

  But his eyes were not on Mary Milligan’s sweet face or pert figure, but on the paperwork on her desk.