The Darkest Goodbye Read online

  Kirsty saw the rush of sympathy in the woman’s face as she rose from her place behind the desk. ‘She’s not awake, I’m afraid,’ the nurse told them, including Kirsty in her glance. ‘Doubt if she’ll even know you are there,’ she added in her soft Highland accent, leading them along a corridor and into a small room that was shaded by soft green curtains drawn against the daylight.

  Kirsty wanted to gasp at the sight that awaited them; the emaciated figure of a woman, her face partly covered in a Perspex mask, several tubes snaking in and out of her body. And that sighing sound as the bed moved up and down as though it and not the patient were breathing.

  Murdoch said nothing but sat down heavily on to a plastic chair next to the bed and slipped his fingers over the wasted hand lying on top of the sheet.

  ‘Shall I leave you two with Mrs Murdoch for a while?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘Oh, I’ll wait outside,’ Kirsty replied hastily, the sudden realisation of what was happening making her feel a mixture of embarrassment and shyness. She had no business being here at all, she told herself, slipping out after the nurse and forcing herself not to look back at the man sitting by his wife’s side.

  ‘I… I’m just Detective Sergeant Murdoch’s driver,’ Kirsty explained once they were out of earshot. ‘I didn’t know…’

  ‘He didn’t tell you we’d called?’

  Kirsty shook her head.

  The nurse made a face. ‘Poor soul. Some men are like that. Can’t talk about it, can they?’

  ‘What’s…?’ Kirsty glanced behind her in the direction they had come from.

  ‘Mrs Murdoch? Oh, we don’t think she’s got long to go now. On a ventilator all night.’ The nurse sighed. ‘She’s peaceful enough. No pain. But her lungs aren’t going to last much longer. We called him as soon as we were sure,’ the nurse added in a tone of defensiveness.

  ‘He knew she was…?’

  ‘Oh, sure, we’ve been keeping in touch ever since he came in with her the night before last,’ the nurse insisted.

  Kirsty nodded, remembering the dishevelled state of her mentor the previous day, the sudden change from a smart working suit to jeans and leather jacket. He must have come straight from the hospital.

  ‘Isn’t there any family?’

  The nurse shook her head. ‘Couple of sons. Both overseas. Probably won’t come until there’s a funeral.’ The nurse’s eyebrows rose as if commenting on the unfairness of life in general. Then she patted Kirsty’s shoulder. ‘Look, why don’t you grab a coffee from the machine along in the day room? I’ll come and collect you when it’s time for him to leave. If you need me before that, just ask for Nurse Milligan, okay?’

  Kirsty nodded and walked slowly along the corridor, blinking in the artificial light. How strange to be busy at work with Murdoch for two whole days and not to know what was going on in his personal life. Did that account for the grumpiness? The sarcastic manner? Suddenly she was willing to ignore the several instances of DS Murdoch’s overbearing manner in the face of his dying wife. And yet, try as she might, Kirsty still could not rid her mind of the image of the scene of crime manager stooping over that tray of watches.

  It was barely twenty minutes later that the ginger-haired nurse came and sat beside Kirsty, a mug of coffee clutched in both hands as though to warm her fingers.

  ‘I’ve got a wee break,’ Nurse Milligan explained. ‘Thought you might like a bit of company.’ She shot Kirsty a sympathetic smile. ‘She’s still here. But, like I said, she won’t regain consciousness.’

  ‘This ward, is it for terminally ill patients like Mrs Murdoch?’

  ‘Aye.’ The woman made a face. ‘We’re not MacMillan nurses but we all have specialist training in palliative care. There’s a higher ratio of nurses to patients up here than anywhere else in the hospital. It’s sad, really. We don’t get to know our patients for very long. Most of them are transfers from other wards. Like the one who passed away during the night, God rest her soul. Next room to Irene Murdoch,’ she said with a frown. ‘It was funny. One minute she was okay then the next…’ The nurse shrugged and shook her head.

  ‘Must be a hard job. I couldn’t do it,’ Kirsty told her.

  ‘And I couldn’t be a polis, that’s for sure. You must see the dregs of society all the time,’ she said shrewdly.

  Kirsty laughed. ‘Well, I attended my first post-mortem yesterday.’

  ‘With him?’ Nurse Milligan jerked her head in the direction of the ward.

  ‘Yes, he’s my boss,’ Kirsty explained.

  ‘Did it bother you? Seeing a dead body, I mean?’

  Kirsty shook her head. ‘Not really. The pathologist is so interesting and we need to find out…’ She broke off and laughed. ‘Actually, I can’t say anything about this as it’s part of an ongoing investigation.’

  The nurse looked thoughtful. ‘Can I tell you something?’ she began. ‘It’s about the patients here.’ The woman looked around suddenly as if to check that nobody could overhear her. ‘It’s as if…’ She shook her head, the bright curls bouncing under the overhead light. ‘It’s silly. I just… och, I don’t know. I keep thinking that too many of our patients are all going off… well, too quickly. Like that one last night. And now, poor Mrs Murdoch.’ She looked at Kirsty and then moved closer, whispering behind her hand. ‘It’s as if there’s some… angel of mercy putting them all to sleep.’

  ‘Really?’

  The woman rose and grinned ruefully. ‘No. Not really. It’s just a notion I’ve had. Don’t listen to me. It’ll be the superstitious streak in me. Or else I’ve been on too many shifts back to back this week, I suppose. It tells eventually.’ She smiled and shook her head in a self-deprecating manner. ‘Better see how Mrs Murdoch is faring. I really don’t think it will be very long. Will you be okay here?’

  Kirsty nodded, glad to be left alone with her thoughts. What a strange nurse! Imagining that there was some sort of spirit creeping away with her patients. Kirsty gave a shudder. Was Nurse Milligan trying to hint that there were unlawful activities going on in her part of the hospital? Would she have called in her suspicions to their local police station? Probably not, Kirsty decided. Yet, having the opportunity to speak to a police officer here in the ward must have been too good a chance to pass up.

  She stood up and strolled across the room then looked out of the window at the city streets far below. The people were like tiny creatures from this perspective. Were we just like colonies of little ants, coming and going, our destinies a matter of chance? she wondered. No, that wasn’t right, was it? Human beings were more in control of their own fate, surely? But not always, Kirsty Wilson thought. She was becoming used to seeing some lives being ended before their natural time. Like that young drug dealer, Frankie Bissett.

  She glanced back at the corridor where an orderly was wheeling a trolley along, the patient completely covered with a white sheet. Was this the patient who had died the previous night? Or a different one? There were always rumours about what doctors did at the end of a patient’s life. Mercy killings, some folk reasoned. Some things were perfectly legal, like the instructions not to resuscitate. But there was a borderline between what was permitted and what was considered an act of taking away a person’s life. An act that was simply called murder.

  He didn’t make a fuss, simply nodded at her from the doorway and said, ‘She’s gone.’ And, as Kirsty moved towards him, ready with a sincere word of comfort on her lips, he held up his hand as though to ward off any unwelcome platitudes. ‘Just take me out of here, will you, Wilson?’

  It was more than three hours after they had first arrived that Kirsty found herself driving DS Murdoch back from the hospital, a light rain swishing under the windscreen wipers despite sun shining through gaps in the clouds.

  ‘Do you want to go home, sir?’ she asked gently.

  ‘No, Wilson. Not yet,’ he murmured throatily. ‘I’ll have things to do later.’ He coughed then turned to look out of the car window as they passed the
science centre near the River Clyde, the trees on either side golden in the afternoon light. ‘Let’s get back to Stewart Street. Need to sort out this Nottingham business and see if there’s been any development with Bissett’s PM. Besides, my own car is there.’ He looked back for a moment and gave her a rare look of gratitude. ‘Don’t think I could’ve driven over here myself,’ he admitted huskily. Then, pulling out a crumpled pocket handkerchief, Murdoch blew his nose and stared out of the window once more as though embarrassed to be seen displaying his emotions.

  Kirsty was glad of the noise of traffic and the need to concentrate as they approached every junction. This was real life, something she could feel and breathe, not that overheated waiting room where she had lingered, waiting for this man’s wife to take her last breath. Yet even as she drove further into the city and tried to blot out the starkness of Irene Murdoch’s death, she felt a strong need to grasp Murdoch’s arm, give him some sort of comfort. It was a female thing, she told herself, this urge to console. But it was an urge she had to resist. Len Murdoch had put up an invisible barrier the moment he had come out of that hospital ward and his young detective constable had the sense to respect that.

  It seemed too good to be true, Sarah thought, later, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair into the clip at the nape of her neck.

  The day’s shift had ended sooner than she realised, the sound of female laughter coming from the staff lounge increasing in volume as the nurses on back shift arrived. Just two more days then she would have the weekend off before returning to work again on Monday for four o’clock, her late shift ending at midnight.

  ‘The night shifts always seem the longest,’ Grainne, a short, dark-haired Irish nurse, had admitted. ‘Midnight till eight in the morning is everyone’s least favourite shift. But, sure, we each have to take our turn.’

  Sarah had nodded, understanding the need for round-the-clock nursing. And there would be a taxi provided for any of the nurses that didn’t have their own transport, the manager had told her.

  As she donned her raincoat, Sarah felt a sudden qualm at leaving the nursing home after her day’s work. Ever since that encounter with Nancy Livingstone in the staffroom this morning, she had felt happier than she’d been for a very long time, as though the tears had somehow been cathartic, washing away her misgivings. Already it felt to Sarah Wilding that she belonged here. She’d begun to warm to the patients under her care, especially Mr Imrie, the man who had been a farmer. His eyes had followed her as she’d sat down beside him to read from his newspaper. The twisted mouth had moved but no discernible words had emerged, just a weak sort of groan. Then he had let his head fall back into the bank of snowy pillows as though the effort of trying to speak had exhausted him. What was he thinking? Sarah wondered as she left the nursing home and unfurled her umbrella. There was still intelligence behind these eyes, words and thoughts forever trapped in his damaged brain.

  When the big dark car stopped by the kerb, Sarah slowed down, thinking that perhaps one of the nurses might have spotted her and was offering a lift back to the station. But it was a stranger, a man she’d never seen before, she thought, moving her umbrella and bending down to see the driver’s window being lowered. He must be lost, wants to ask me for directions: the thought rushed through her head.

  ‘Sarah Wilding?’

  ‘Yes, who…?’

  Before she had time to take a step back, two burly-looking men burst out of the back of the vehicle.

  Then Sarah felt her arms being pulled roughly as she was bundled off the pavement, the scream on her lips muffled by a pair of gloved hands, the umbrella tossed aside, somersaulting sideways across the deserted street.

  Something sharp was digging into her side. A knife. It must be a knife.

  She gulped, trying to move away from the pain but she was held fast in the grip of the two men on either side.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sarah cried. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘All in good time.’ The man in the driver’s seat turned to her with a grin. He had a strong face, a long jaw with a square, determined chin, dark hair that crept over his coat collar and a scar running down his right cheek. A scar that might have been made by a knife or a broken bottle, Sarah decided, her professional eye glancing as he turned back to watch the road ahead. His was a face she would remember if she were ever asked to describe it.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she protested, fear making her voice thin and tremulous.

  ‘Somewhere nobody can hear you scream.’ The man on Sarah’s right laughed, pulling her arms so tightly behind her back that she cried out in pain.

  The one on her left nudged her deeper into the middle of the back seat, his elbow pushed against Sarah’s stomach.

  Glancing at them in turn, Sarah saw one of them grinning through a set of broken, blackened teeth.

  She shivered. Several of the inmates at Cornton had suffered from bad teeth; it was a sign of a deprived background, anybody knew that. But somehow Sarah sensed that this man had also done time, the violence emanating from him was almost palpable.

  The one on her left was tall and skinny, his head covered in a black beanie hat, old acne scarring his angular face.

  ‘What you lookin’ at?’ he hissed, a flick of spittle landing on Sarah’s face making her turn away in a mixture of disgust and terror.

  They were going to kill her.

  She was certain of that.

  Otherwise, why would they let her see their faces?

  Sarah closed her eyes and trembled, panic rising through her body.

  Oh God, oh God, help me, she implored silently.

  You deserve it, a little voice insisted. For what happened to Pete.

  I don’t want to die, Sarah told herself. I’ve done my time. I’ve paid the price for my mistakes.

  ‘Right, here we are.’ The voice from the front of the car and a sudden jolt as they stopped made Sarah’s eyes fly open.

  They were parked off a country road somewhere, pulled into a grassy strip beneath a stand of chestnut trees whose shadows screened them from any passing traffic.

  To the left was a dark pine wood and Sarah’s eyes widened in terror.

  Were they going to take her in there? Use that knife…?

  ‘Ready, boys?’ The man turned and nodded to the men who were holding Sarah by her arms.

  ‘No! Please! Don’t hurt me!’ she whimpered.

  ‘Well, maybe if you’re nice to us we’ll be nice to you, eh, Sarah Wilding?’ The driver with the scar had twisted round now and was looking her up and down, making her feel naked and exposed to his roving eyes.

  That was what it was about. They meant to rape her, Sarah thought.

  And yet, this was no random abduction. They knew her name.

  A glimmer of hope entered her heart: so far there had been no move to pull her out of the car, drag her into these shadowy woods.

  ‘Something you need to do for us, Sarah Wilding,’ Scarface told her. ‘A little bit of help to show how sorry you are about brother Pete.’

  The man on her right sniggered as Sarah’s mouth opened in shock.

  ‘See, we need someone like you to help us with our business,’ Scarface went on. ‘Nothing too hard for a clever girl like you.’ He put out his hand and began stroking her cheek.

  Sarah flinched at his touch, making all three of them laugh.

  ‘You wouldn’t want that pretty face all messed up now, would you?’ he sneered, grabbing a handful of her hair and drawing her towards him.

  Sarah shook her head, trying to utter no but the word was locked in her mouth, that menacing face leering into hers, his breath smelling of curry and garlic.

  ‘All we want is for you to do us a little favour from time to time, that’s all,’ he said, his mouth close to her own. ‘That too hard for you?’

  ‘N-no,’ Sarah gasped. At this moment she would promise these men anything, anything at all if they just let her go.

  There was that sharp pain again, in her lowe
r back, near her kidneys. A knife?

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she whimpered.

  Scarface nodded to the men beside her and Sarah felt their bodies slide a little bit away from hers.

  ‘Good girl. Right, here’s the deal.’ He glanced from one of Sarah’s captors to the other, a crooked smile on his face. ‘And remember, go anywhere near the cops and they’ll chase you. Nobody’s going to take the word of an ex-con, now, are they?’ he chuckled. ‘And we know where to find you if you do anything silly.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘That’s not what I expected,’ Rosie Fergusson gave a low whistle as she read the toxicology report. ‘Need to let Murdoch know.’

  She dialled the number in Stewart Street then listened as the call was transferred by the switchboard.

  ‘Hello, Detective Constable Wilson speaking.’

  ‘Kirsty? Is that you? Where’s Murdoch?’

  ‘Oh, Dr Fergusson. He’s not in.’

  There was a pause and Rosie could hear a sigh.

  ‘It’s really sad news. His wife passed away yesterday. He’s off on compassionate leave for the next few days.’

  ‘Oh, no. What happened?’

  ‘She was very ill,’ Kirsty explained. ‘It was expected. I hadn’t a clue about it but Detective Superintendent Lorimer knew.’

  ‘Hm, listen, Kirsty, who’s dealing with the Jane Maitland case? That elderly lady who died in her bed? I’ve got the tox report back and I need to speak to someone about it.’

  ‘Well, I was on that case with DS Murdoch, but maybe you’d want to talk to Lorimer himself.’

  ‘Aye, maybe that would be best under the circumstances. I’ll see that he finds you and tells you what he wants done.’

  ‘Lorimer.’

  ‘It’s Rosie. Listen, terrible news about DS Murdoch’s wife. But that’s not why I’m calling. He and Kirsty had a case the other day, an elderly lady who had died under what may have been suspicious circumstances.’