The Darkest Goodbye Read online

  As DC Wilson watched and listened, the whole process became an absorbing insight into the vagaries of life and death.

  Later, much later it seemed to Kirsty, she and Murdoch left the mortuary with its clinical smells and artificial lighting, relieved to take a gulp of the fresh, damp air. It had been raining steadily and Kirsty had to step over a puddle that had gathered right next to the Honda.

  ‘Where to now, sir?’ she asked, glancing sideways at Murdoch’s bullet-shaped head.

  Just at that moment the DS’s mobile rang and he left the car with a silent nod to Kirsty to stay where she was. She watched her mentor in the rear-view mirror, standing under the shelter of the mortuary doorway, his face grave he listened to whoever it was calling him. He had already taken out a cigarette and was blowing smoke over his shoulder. Not a quick call, then, Kirsty thought, curious to know if the telephone call related to any of the three cases that had commanded their attention since yesterday. Her attention was taken with the slight movement from her DS, his fingers on the mobile phone. Not just a single call waiting for him, then. The girl heaved a sigh. It was only Tuesday but it seemed as if the week ought to be over already.

  At last she saw Murdoch flick away the stub of his cigarette and walk back towards the car.

  ‘There’s been a development in the robbery,’ he said as he pulled the seat belt over his shoulder. ‘Nottingham reckons we’ve got the same gang up here that did some of their shops during the summer.’

  ‘How can they be sure?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘CCTV image of a similar perp,’ Murdoch replied. ‘Digital analysis matches the footage from our cameras that they’ve had on file.’

  Kirsty nodded. ‘So what does that mean?’

  Murdoch made a face. ‘Means that we’re going to have some English visitors crawling all over our patch,’ he grumbled. ‘Frankly, they’re welcome to it if they can locate the buggers.’

  ‘Do you often have a joint case with a different authority?’

  ‘Nope,’ Murdoch replied shortly. ‘Our thieves tend to be a parochial shower, sticking to the terrain they know. Only once in a while do we see a gang that moves round the country like this. Ever hear of a guy called Brightman? Professor at Glasgow Uni?’

  Kirsty hid a smile. ‘Oh, aye,’ she replied, trying to sound cool. Not only had she heard of the celebrated professor, she considered him a friend. ‘He’s married to Dr Fergusson,’ she told him.

  ‘That right?’ Murdoch’s bushy grey eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Well, seems he’s written this book about how to map the activities of thieves and scoundrels. Rapists, murderers, even…’ He broke off to look keenly at the young woman by his side. ‘He’s worked a lot with Lorimer…’

  Kirsty tried not to catch the detective sergeant’s eye.

  ‘You know him too, don’t you?’ Murdoch said softly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kirsty admitted. ‘I’ve known Detective Superintendent Lorimer for ages. Through my dad. And I met Professor Brightman when I was a witness in that murder case…’ She broke off, aware of his eyes staring at her.

  ‘Well, maybe you can persuade him that we don’t need a trick cyclist to solve our cases for us,’ Murdoch said, his voice laden with sarcasm. ‘Back to Stewart Street, Wilson,’ he added, taking out his mobile and looking thoughtfully at the screen.

  Kirsty did not reply, her face reddening with an inner fury. Trick cyclist? Solomon Brightman was an eminent psychologist, not a psychiatrist, she told herself angrily. And she was certain that Murdoch knew the difference and was simply trying to wind her up, but why he wanted to do that was something of a mystery. Unless…

  Kirsty drove silently through the familiar city streets thinking hard. Her father was a well-liked DI and Lorimer was someone she’d known since childhood, whereas DS Len Murdoch was a newcomer on the scene. She glanced at the big man sitting in the passenger seat, texting on his mobile. Could it be that this grumpy fellow was actually intimidated by his new detective constable because of the connections she already had within Stewart Street? Kirsty blinked, wondering at the thought. Had she got this man all wrong? She had already decided that her imagination had been playing tricks on her at the scene of the robbery. After all, who would be brazen enough to nick an expensive watch like that and wear it the very same day? And was his brusque, sarcastic manner simply covering up some sort of insecurity? If so, it seemed as though she might have to reassess her first opinion of DS Len Murdoch.

  The hospital room was quiet apart from the sighing sound of the mechanism beneath Irene’s bed. She kept her eyes closed, not wishing to see the Perspex mask covering her nose and mouth. Everything was so difficult and she was tired, so tired… if she could simply drift away now with no pain and no effort, then that is what she would choose.

  It was the fifth time this year that she had contracted pneumonia. Would it be the last? Irene was well aware that her time was running out now. Len had held her hand in the ambulance last night, talking softly, whispering his usual nonsense about her getting better. She would never get better and they both knew it. Maybe it helped him to feel more optimistic? Irene smiled faintly. She wasn’t afraid to die but she did worry about what would become of her big bear of a husband once she was gone. The boys were both overseas living lives of their own, Jack in Western Australia and Niall in Vancouver. Irene and Len had never been over to see where they lived with their wives and children, she thought sadly. Maybe once she was gone Len could make these journeys on his own?

  The sigh faded as the oxygen flowed into her wasted lungs and then sleep, blessed sleep took the woman into the darkness once more.

  It was past visiting time but nobody took any notice of the figure, stethoscope around his neck, walking along the hospital corridor in the direction of the row of single rooms reserved for terminally ill patients. The nurses at the oval shaped nurses’ station barely glanced as he passed; there were so many junior doctors in the hospital, coming and going, it was hard to remember faces never mind names.

  The figure stopped outside the door marked Murdoch, and paused, then slipped into the room next door. He stood for a few moments, watching the rise and fall of the sick woman’s chest, the signs of life still present. His right hand shook suddenly as the mobile phone he clutched began to vibrate.

  ‘I’m here now,’ he whispered, turning away slightly as though to prevent the patient hearing his words. ‘You know what to do. I’ll give you twenty-four hours, that’s all. Payment must be made within that time or the deal’s off.’

  He stood still, listening to the voice on the other end of the line, then a smile played about his mouth. ‘Good. Thought you’d say that.’

  The man slipped the mobile into the pocket of his trousers and nodded quietly towards the recumbent figure on the bed.

  ‘Not long now, darling,’ he crooned softly. ‘Not long now.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sarah Wilding fingered the name badge pinned on to her uniform. This was what she had missed. Being part of a caring profession, having a useful job to do… the sense of pride found in getting up in the morning and going to work had almost been euphoric this Wednesday morning. It had been easy to leave that miserable room in the bed and breakfast and head towards the train station, eager feet taking her along the city streets, umbrella held aloft to protect her new uniform. Even the long walk from Bearsden station, rain pattering down on her brolly, had failed to dampen Sarah’s spirits.

  She was early, far too early, really, she told herself, nervously tapping out the key code on the front door pad. Silly to get here an hour before her shift began when she might have stopped in the station for a bite to eat. But the prices at the fast-food kiosks had spoiled her appetite; every penny had to be counted carefully if she were to make it to the end of this week. The train fares, toiletries and a pack of black tights had already made a considerable hole in her budget. One of the auxiliaries gave Sarah a tentative smile as she folded her umbrella and stepped into the warmth of th
e building. The nurses on night shift would still be with their patients. There was plenty of time for a cup of tea and a biscuit from the caddy in the staff lounge; that would do instead of breakfast. The landlady at her digs didn’t begin breakfasts till seven, far too late for Sarah when she had to be at work by eight.

  The smell of bacon cooking wafted along the corridor as Sarah passed the kitchen, making her stomach rumble. Oh well, it was her own fault for coming in at such a ridiculous hour. Maybe if she could find different lodgings, somewhere with access to a kitchen, then this problem might be resolved. Was she allowed to leave the bed and breakfast, though? What would her social worker say? All these thoughts settled on her like a dark grey cloud as Sarah put her wet jacket on the back of a chair, moving it near the radiator to dry off.

  ‘You’re early!’

  Sarah spun round with a gasp to see the nursing home manager standing with a tray of food in her hands.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,’ Nancy Livingstone laughed. ‘If I’d known you were coming in at this time I’d have…’ She broke off, looking at Sarah’s hungry expression as the new nurse eyed the bacon roll on Nancy’s plate.

  ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting the tray on to the table. ‘Eat up. Plenty more where that came from.’

  Then, without another word, Nancy strode swiftly out of the staffroom, leaving Sarah with an unexpected breakfast.

  She was almost finished making a pot of tea when Nancy returned, holding a plate piled high with more bacon rolls.

  ‘The girls on night shift like to have their breakfast before they leave,’ Nancy explained. ‘And, since I just live up the road, it’s easy enough for me to have mine here with them.’

  Sarah licked her lips, tasting the salty bacon. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘I really appreciate this.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have had time for anything to eat yet, I suppose?’ Nancy asked shrewdly. ‘Maybe you should just have breakfast here with us?’

  Then, to Sarah’s surprise, the older woman laid down the plate of food and, clasping her hands, bowed her head for a few moments.

  ‘Thank you, Lord, for providing for all our needs,’ she murmured, in a voice that seemed to speak to someone nearby, so that Sarah almost turned to see who else was in the room.

  ‘Here, have another one.’ Nancy offered the plate. ‘Cook does brilliant bacon butties. Best Ayrshire bacon. None of your supermarket stuff. Just milk with my tea, my dear,’ she added with a nod and a smile.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ Sarah said, rising to pour tea into two of the patterned mugs that she’d found hanging from a wooden mug tree. It was hard to know how to respond to this woman. Her kindness was palpable but the impromptu saying of Grace was unexpected to say the least.

  They ate in companionable silence, Sarah relishing each bite of the food as her hunger was assuaged.

  ‘Do the other staff know…?’ she blurted out suddenly.

  The nursing home manager smiled sweetly and shook her head. ‘It’s not their business to be told about that,’ she replied. ‘You could be an agency nurse for all they know.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sarah gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘Mrs Abbott was told, of course.’ Nancy smiled apologetically.

  She’d expected that, Sarah told herself, yet there had been no sense of having been overly scrutinised by the owner of the nursing home. On the contrary, Mrs Abbott had been quite calm, as though dealing with an ex-con like Nurse Wilding happened to her every day.

  ‘And she didn’t mind?’

  Nancy Livingstone laughed. ‘She knows me well enough to trust my judgement. Actually, she’s my sister,’

  ‘Your sister! Does that mean the nursing home is yours as well…?’

  ‘No.’ Nancy shook her head with a smile. ‘Bless you, no. It belongs to the Abbotts. I’m their right-hand woman, so to speak. Used to work in an accountancy firm until they asked me to help run this place.’

  ‘You didn’t mind changing careers?’

  Nancy Livingstone gave her a strange smile. ‘It was something I was called to do,’ she said simply. ‘And perhaps the Good Lord brought you here too.’

  Sarah shifted uncomfortably. This sort of talk was like the stuff that pastor used to spout back in Cornton. As if being incarcerated was part of a bigger plan!

  ‘I think I’m just lucky,’ she mumbled. Then, to her dismay, she felt a tear begin to trickle down her face. ‘Don’t deserve…’ She began to hiccough.

  ‘None of us deserves our good fortune,’ Nancy murmured.

  ‘But you don’t understand!’ Sarah protested, eyes full of guilty tears. ‘If you knew what I’d done you’d never have had me here to work!’

  ‘Oh, Sarah, don’t say that,’ Nancy replied. ‘Catherine told me enough to know that you were not completely to blame for what happened.’

  ‘He died!’ Sarah gulped. ‘How could I not be to blame for that?’

  ‘Here.’ Nancy handed her a box of tissues. ‘The girls will be coming in for their breakfast and you don’t want them to see you like this, do you?’

  Sarah sniffed, taking a handful of tissues and blowing her nose. ‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with someone like me.’

  ‘Listen to me, Sarah,’ Nancy told her. ‘There’s a very important thing that the Bible says: all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. That’s everyone, not just you. Think of that next time you want to beat yourself up, eh?’

  Sarah nodded, struggling to contain the sudden rush of emotion that had taken her by surprise. Nancy was talking to her again, speaking in soothing tones.

  ‘What you’re doing here is very important, Sarah,’ she said. ‘You are well aware that each of our patients is in receipt of intensive nursing care. Many of them are stroke victims; you’ve seen that for yourself. One day their lives are going along a steady path then the next they’re lying half paralysed in a hospital bed, some of them so helpless that they require every sort of help with their bodily functions. That’s where you and all the other nursing staff come in.’ She smiled gently as Sarah wiped her eyes with the edge of a tissue.

  ‘But it’s not just about making them comfortable,’ Nancy continued. ‘They all have need of companionship, someone to take a real interest in them as individual human beings.’

  ‘I know,’ Sarah said softly. ‘Mrs Abbott said that every nurse was expected to provide a listening ear or else spend time chatting in a friendly way to the patients.’

  ‘She’ll have told you that we read to them.’ Nancy nodded to Sarah. ‘Newspapers or articles from journals that we know will be of interest. Things like Farming Monthly for Mr Imrie. He was a farmer before his stroke, you know. It’s hardest of all for the ones who have led an active, physical life, don’t you think?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah whispered quietly.

  ‘Oh, my dear, don’t thank me.’ Nancy beamed. ‘Thank the Good Lord who sent you to us.’

  Looking at this woman whose kindness had given her a second chance, Sarah made a decision. She would make something of this job, she nodded in determination. Maybe Nancy Livingstone’s words were right. Perhaps she was here for a reason. And not just for herself, a whole-bodied young woman, but for these poor souls who depended on her nursing them with loving care. It was a chance to turn her life around once more.

  A shadow loomed over Kirsty’s desk and she looked up to see Murdoch’s taciturn face staring down at her. He was dressed in his pinstriped suit again yet if anything his closely shaven face seemed even wearier than it had the day before.

  ‘I need you to take me over to the South Glasgow University Hospital,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the office door. ‘I…’ He hesitated for a moment and Kirsty thought she saw something bleak pass over his grey eyes. Then it was gone as he snapped at her, ‘Can you hurry up?’

  The detective constable scurried down the stairs in Murdoch’s wake, conscious of trouble ahead.

  Even as she drove along the mot
orway there was an ominous silence between them. What was going on? He’d not spoken a word since he’d commandeered her as his driver. A swift glance saw only the man’s profile, that bullet-shaped head and broken nose, a tough-looking face that seemed used to seeing the uglier side of human nature.

  ‘Park anywhere you can,’ Murdoch ordered as Kirsty slowed down to enter the parking area outside the huge new hospital that Glaswegians had nicknamed The Death Star due to its resemblance to the Star Wars feature. Then, to her surprise, he produced a blue disabled badge from his jacket pocket and laid it against the windscreen.

  ‘Come with me but don’t make a fuss,’ he said, turning suddenly to Kirsty. ‘I… never mind, just stay quiet,’ he finished with a sigh. Then he was out of the car and walking swiftly to the hospital entrance, Kirsty half running to keep up with him.

  She followed her mentor through a maze of corridors, up several flights of stairs (why not take the lift? she wondered). Then at last Murdoch’s steps slowed as he pushed open a set of double doors and walked towards the nurses’ station.

  ‘Mr Murdoch,’ he announced quietly to a ginger-haired nurse who looked up at him enquiringly.