by Alex Gray
As they travelled on through the Stirlingshire countryside, Lorimer glanced at his wife. More than twenty years of marriage had dealt kindly with the woman by his side, her fine features and dark hair belying her age. Yet those years had not been without heartache, the loss of children robbing them of a longed-for family. Perhaps that was one of the things that had kept them close together, Lorimer mused; they’d had each other to cling to when life had dealt each harsh blow. And Maggie had endured the lot of a policeman’s wife, putting up with his long hours and frequent absences with a patience that never ceased to amaze him.
‘Last of that generation,’ Maggie sighed, breaking into her husband’s thoughts. ‘End of an era, I suppose.’
‘Aye,’ Lorimer agreed, but said no more. It was hard to be sad on a day like this when the sun shone down from a clear blue sky on to the burnished trees, an autumn fire of scarlet and gold arching overhead. Maggie’s Uncle Robert had been Alice Findlay’s only brother and now that last link with his late mother-in-law would be gone. He thought about Alice for a moment, remembering her smile. They had rarely seen Alice’s elder brother, a farmer who lived more than an hour north of Glasgow, except at weddings and funerals. And now it was time to bid the old man farewell.
‘You’ve got cousins, though, they’ll all be there, won’t they?’
‘Mm.’ Maggie nodded in reply. ‘I expect so. Haven’t really kept in touch.’
‘Two boys, right?’
‘Well, hardly boys now. David must be my age at least and Patrick a couple of years younger,’ she mused, settling back and watching as the landscape unfolded before them.
The wind had freshened by the time Lorimer and Maggie left the crematorium and made their way back to the line of waiting cars. Leaves skittered along a narrow pavement, a fine cloud of dust following their progress. It had been a short service with many empty spaces in the small chapel, so many of Uncle Robert’s friends and family already awaiting him on the other side, as the minister had told the small congregation. It had been a life well lived, according to the eulogy; Robert Imrie had been a man of the soil, a man close to the pattern of life dictated by the seasons, and the policeman found himself regretting that he had not really known his wife’s uncle.
Lorimer had shaken hands with a dark-suited man whose face he scarcely remembered from Alice Findlay’s own funeral: Uncle Robert’s son Patrick, one of Maggie’s cousins.
‘Sorry for your loss,’ he had murmured, words that had come to his lips so often in the progress of murder cases when he’d had to talk to members of the victim’s family. And Patrick Imrie had nodded in reply. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he’d said, darting a glance at his cousin Maggie’s husband as if reminding himself that Lorimer was someone important in Police Scotland.
‘Where did he say the hotel was?’ Maggie asked, fastening her seat belt.
‘Middle of the town,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Up towards the castle. Used to be Stirling Royal Academy before it was changed to a hotel. You’ll feel right at home.’
Maggie gave a short laugh. ‘Typical. Away from that lot for a day and where do I end up?’
Lorimer smiled back, knowing that she wasn’t serious. If ever anyone loved their job it was Mrs Lorimer. And the kids loved her back, that much was evident from the way she spoke about them. Teaching English was a genuine vocation for his wife and she never tired of finding different ways to open up the glories of literature to her pupils.
‘Funny David wasn’t there,’ she remarked. ‘I would have thought he would have been by Patrick’s side after the service.’
‘Maybe someone has to stay and see to the farm,’ Lorimer suggested.
The hotel was located up a steep narrow street and, as he drove through a stone archway, Lorimer had the impression from the old building that he was travelling back in time. The stories these cobbles could tell…
The interior of the hotel was modern and warm, though part of the building’s past still remained in the gilded names on the doors: Latin Room, Geography Room.
‘The Imrie family is up in the Headmaster’s Study,’ the girl behind the reception desk told them. ‘That’s up at the top of the stairs,’ she added with a sympathetic smile, glancing at their black clothes.
Maggie and Lorimer began climbing a curving staircase then she stopped suddenly. ‘Look at that view!’ she gasped, and Lorimer looked out of a small window set into the thick white wall to see a vista over the Stirlingshire countryside, the rooftops of nearby buildings hazy as the sun cast its rays through the clouds.
There were a few black-suited people gathered in the room next to the bar when he and Maggie arrived to be greeted by a waiter proffering a tray of complimentary drinks. Lorimer chose orange juice, mindful of the need to drive back to Glasgow, and Maggie did the same.
‘I better speak to Patrick,’ she murmured.
Lorimer followed his wife to where her cousin stood, whisky glass in hand. Patrick Imrie had the look of a country farmer. Lorimer guessed that his ruddy cheeks and stocky frame were more at home in tweeds and a flat cap than the formal black suit.
Maggie took her cousin’s hand in hers.
‘And David? Could he not be here today?’ she asked kindly.
Patrick Imrie shook his head, his eyes narrowing. ‘You didn’t know about David, then?’ he asked.
‘No, what’s wrong?’ Maggie frowned.
‘Took a stroke a couple of years back,’ Patrick sighed. ‘He’s in a nursing home in Glasgow now. Can’t speak much, can’t get about.’ He shrugged.
‘How awful,’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘The poor fellow!’
‘Aye, well.’ Patrick paused to take a slug of whisky. ‘It’s us that’ll be poor soon enough,’ he remarked. ‘Cost of the nursing home’s just about crippling us. Was a time when we could just sell a beast to pay for an emergency. Now…?’ He shrugged again. ‘Farm’ll have to be sold off before next spring,’ he added sourly.
‘Oh, no, that’s terrible!’ Maggie said, a sympathetic hand touching her cousin’s arm. ‘What will you do? Where will you go?’
‘Ach, that’s what I asked my father time and time again when he insisted that David be put into that place. Costs more than a thousand pounds a week,’ he said, glancing up at Lorimer as if to gauge his reaction. ‘We can’t sustain that sort of expense for much longer. We’ll have to move somewhere else. Hope the council can rehouse us. Unless…’
‘Unless?’ Lorimer asked.
‘Well, he doesn’t keep well, you know,’ Patrick said, lowering his voice. ‘David, I mean. A sudden turn for the worse and he could be away.’ The farmer’s eyes widened as he nodded. ‘Could happen any time.’
Maggie said nothing, then, as an older couple made their way to greet Patrick Imrie, she and Lorimer walked slowly through to the main room where a buffet had been prepared.
‘Goodness,’ she said softly, once they were out of earshot. ‘I didn’t know about cousin David. Oh dear. I’ve been sending Christmas cards and wondering why we’d not heard back from him. Poor Uncle Robert!’
‘Aye, and poor Patrick. What a state of affairs to be in,’ Lorimer murmured, picking up a couple of triangular sandwiches and a sausage roll.
‘Well,’ a woman’s voice broke into their conversation, ‘it would be a God’s blessing if poor David would just slip away in his sleep. Save us all a lot of grief!’
Maggie opened her mouth to reply but a nudge from her husband made her close her mouth again and glance up at him as the woman strode away, her black felt hat bobbing on top of a thatch of red curls.
‘Isn’t that Patrick’s wife?’ he whispered. ‘She was by his side at the front of the crematorium.’
‘I couldn’t see,’ Maggie admitted. ‘Guess your height lets you notice something like that. Anyway,’ she lowered her voice even more, ‘she’s Patrick’s second wife. First one left him not long after they were married. We weren’t invited to the second wedding. Probably a quiet affair in Stirling Registrar’s Office
, or we would have been.’
‘I suppose your Uncle Robert left the farm to Patrick?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘That’s where you’d be wrong,’ she said. ‘I remember Mum telling me that the farm was to be left equally between the two boys. I guess that’s why Patrick has to sell David’s share to fund his nursing home.’
‘No wonder she’s in a state, then,’ Lorimer murmured, licking flakes of pastry from his fingers. ‘Can’t be a nice prospect to lose your livelihood and your home all in one go.’
‘I wonder whereabouts in Glasgow he is,’ Maggie pondered as they sat down at a circular table next to some farmers who were deep in discussion about the prices at Stirling Market. ‘David, I mean. Shall we find out and pay him a visit? If he’s as bad as Patrick makes out we may never have another chance.’
Lorimer bit his lip. He wanted to return as soon as possible to the city and pick up the threads of his working week, but he could see his wife’s point of view.
‘Okay, so long as it isn’t miles out of our way,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s get the details from Patrick and give the place a call to see if it’s okay to visit, shall we?’
CHAPTER SIX
Abbey Nursing Home was not very far from the city, close to Bearsden and near enough to the Strathblane Road to make the journey a reasonable one for members of the Imrie family. As the sign came into sight, Lorimer slowed down to see the rooftop of a long, low building set off the road, screened from view by a high beech hedge that was beginning to turn to its autumn gold.
‘This looks nice,’ Maggie murmured as they drew up into the bays marked out for cars to one side of the nursing home. And it did, Lorimer mentally agreed, his eyes roaming over the façade, noting the clever extensions either side of what may have originally been a country cottage, the whitewashed walls helping to blend the old with the new. A quick glance showed that there was a further addition at the back, then a glimpse of green grass and more trees casting their shadows over that part of the grounds.
There was a security keypad and a bell push set into the thick stone wall of the entrance, a heavy glass-panelled door beyond.
It did not take more than a few seconds before a figure appeared and opened it, a kindly face beaming at them.
‘Mr and Mrs Lorimer? I’m Mrs Abbott,’ she said, offering her hand to them. ‘Do come in.’
‘Mrs Abbott?’ Maggie gave a puzzled frown.
The woman smiled at them as she led them through to a bright lounge where three of the patients were sitting in wheelchairs and watching television. ‘Yes, the nursing home is named after my husband and I. There are no abbeys anywhere near here,’ she laughed. ‘And as our name is Abbott we thought it a good idea to name our nursing home after ourselves.’
Maggie returned the woman’s smile. ‘You’re a nurse, then?’
‘That’s right. A retired nurse, although I do in fact have a lot to do with the patients here. Used to work in the old Stirling Royal before much of it closed down.’ She made a face. ‘My husband is in the building trade, or should I say was. He helps run this place now. Let me show you where your cousin’s room is,’ she added, leading them through another door and along a corridor, its walls painted canary yellow. White gauzy curtains graced every window they passed as they walked along behind her, light streaming in.
‘The original building was a domestic dwelling house?’ Lorimer asked as they turned a corner and came at last to the back of the building and another passage that gave on to several rooms.
‘That’s right. We were given permission to change its use into a business.’ Mrs Abbott nodded. ‘There are twenty beds here, all full, and we have a waiting list as long’s your arm,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Victims of our own success, I fear. You’d be amazed how many people need round-the-clock care,’ she added. ‘And not everyone can cope with a severely disabled relative.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Stroke victims like your cousin need a special sort of care. And that’s part of my own nursing background.’
She stopped outside a door that was slightly ajar. ‘This is your cousin’s room,’ she told Maggie. The woman hesitated for a moment. ‘He may not know who you are,’ she began. ‘He finds it difficult to process any new information and will probably not remember that you were even here.’ Her face looked from Maggie to Lorimer with a rueful expression. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just the way he is. Mr Imrie gets the best medical attention every day and we do everything that we can to make him comfortable and as happy as a man with his condition can be,’ she explained.
There was a pause. But, thought Lorimer. He could almost hear the word and the unspoken explanation: but he will never be better, never walk again, never smell the new-mown hay or hear the noise of the combine harvester trundling over his fields.
‘We understand,’ he said gently.
David was asleep, his head turned towards the glass doors that overlooked the side of the property with a view across the fields and hills. Lorimer nodded to himself. A thoughtful touch, to let this former man of the soil be as close to nature as he still could. The nursing home and its staff rose in his estimation as he looked around the well-furnished room.
‘It’s nice,’ he whispered. ‘Good quality stuff,’ he added, nodding towards the curtains that were swept back from the French windows.
‘Sanderson,’ Maggie told him. ‘No expense spared here,’ she added with a sigh.
Then, as though becoming conscious of the people in his room, David Imrie gave a moan and opened his eyes.
‘Oh, I wish I’d not persuaded you to take me there,’ Maggie exclaimed as they set off once more for home. Lorimer glanced at her as she searched through her handbag for a clean handkerchief to blow her nose. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the nursing home, nor of the care her cousin appeared to be receiving. And yet it had been upsetting to see a person like that, someone of his own age, with white hair and the grey complexion of a much older man. One gnarled hand had lain on top of the counterpane, shrivelled and gaunt, a hand that was unable to reach for a cup or even to clasp another’s hand in greeting. Vacant eyes had looked their way, slivers of drool spilling from his open mouth. Maggie had taken tissues from her bag and wiped them away, her natural instinct to help a fellow human being.
What was behind those eyes? How much intelligence was left after the episode that had damaged David Imrie’s brain? As he drove towards the motorway, Lorimer said a silent prayer of thanks for his own good health, something he took for granted day after day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Glasgow.
Sarah heaved a huge sigh as the train passed through the darkness of a tunnel. What was she going to find there after all this time away? It was where everything had gone wrong and yet there were still good memories associated with the city, memories that lingered like the aftertaste of a sweet wine.
Pete was gone. Her parents didn’t want to know her any more, so why had she decided to come back? It had been home for all of her twenty-six years, she supposed, unless she counted the time spent at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Anyway, Sarah told herself, zipping up her jacket, it was a question that could wait until she decided whether she was going to stick around here or move on.
The suddenness of light flooding into the railway carriage almost made Sarah gasp. As the train slowed down at platform three in Queen Street station, the girl glanced at the people beside her, gathering up their laptop bags and raincoats, ready to face whatever was taking them into Scotland’s largest city. Sarah sat still, waiting until the train had come to a complete halt, not wishing to bump into any of her fellow passengers, deciding to hold off until the very last moment when she would pick up her raincoat and the bag at her feet and set off on the next stage of her journey.
There was a damp smoky smell in the air as Sarah alighted from the train, as if an autumn fog had swirled its way through the dark tunnel and settled down on the concrete platforms and the metal rails below. She shivered, clutching her ticket, reme
mbering that disembodied voice on the train telling the passengers that a barrier was in operation. So many details forgotten, so many things to think about. Only a few stragglers from the Stirling train were moving through the barriers now as Sarah placed her ticket in the slot. She watched as it was swallowed up and the little black gates opened noiselessly, letting her through. It was, Sarah felt, as if she were being properly released back into the maelstrom that was Glasgow’s human population.
Her feet seemed to have a life of their own, taking her past the uniformed station staff, the Costa Coffee shop (was that white-haired barista who made such nice chai lattes still there?) then out past the Millennium Hotel and into the heart of the city.
For a moment Sarah stood on the pavement watching the traffic ebb and flow around George Square. Light bounced off the car windows, the rays of a September sun penetrating the clouds, a warmth that was pleasing after the chill of the station. If she could just stand here for a while, she thought, face turned up to the brightness…
Sarah only realised that she had shut her eyes when the beep from the traffic signal alerted her.
‘You crossing here or what, hen?’ a gravelly voice spoke at her side.
Sarah jumped then mumbled an apology to a cross-faced older woman with straggly grey hair as she let herself join the group of pedestrians heading along in the direction of Queen Street. She needed to keep her wits about her, not fall into the trap of standing out in a crowd, she thought, a sudden dread washing over her. She didn’t want anyone staring, divining who she was and where she had come from. Perhaps she ought to have taken their advice back in Cornton, let them persuade her to talk to that woman from SHINE. A mentor, they’d told her. Someone to help you when you come out. But Sarah had rejected any offer of help, preferring to keep her own counsel, burying her darkest thoughts as deeply as she could.
