by Alex Gray
‘Dr Fergusson was wonderful,’ Kirsty said wistfully. ‘Don’t know how she can be so calm and straightforward with things like that.’
‘Aye, our Rosie is something else, isn’t she?’ Lorimer chuckled. ‘Your dad and I have seen many a sight that would have turned anybody green, but not her.’ He paused and for a moment Kirsty imagined that she was about to be dismissed, allowing the detective super to get on with his job.
‘How do you find Murdoch?’ he asked quietly, fixing Kirsty with his blue gaze.
Her eyes slid away from his scrutiny even as she knew that avoiding his stare was a dead giveaway.
‘Okay.’ She shrugged. ‘Early days yet. And we were really busy.’
Why do you ask? she wanted to demand, but the words remained unspoken.
It was a different Len Murdoch that Kirsty saw when she entered the muster room. Gone was the chalk-striped suit that had been covered over with scene of crime whites the day before. Now the DS was far more casually attired in a pair of dark jeans and a T-shirt, a black leather jacket slung on the back of his chair. As she approached, Kirsty noticed signs of exhaustion on Murdoch’s face; dark circles under those cold grey eyes and the shadow of stubble made him seem a little less intimidating somehow. As she came closer, Kirsty wondered if this man had been up all night. What was his home life like? Did he have kids of his own? Somehow she doubted that. He’d been quick enough to leave the sound of a screaming baby in that upper cottage flat.
‘Wilson.’ He turned and nodded at her then indicated the sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘The Bissett murder. Need to prioritise that,’ he told her tiredly. ‘Fiscal wants the PM done today.’ He looked at his watch and pursed his lips. ‘Need to be down at the mortuary in an hour.’ He looked at her closely. ‘You okay with that?’
Kirsty was taken aback. Murdoch had not asked once yesterday whether she was all right with anything. Had Lorimer had a quiet word, she wondered? Was that what his question had indicated? Or had her father been putting pressure on the detective sergeant? She hoped not. This was a job that she needed to do, standing on her own two feet, proving herself.
‘Fine, sir,’ she answered.
‘Right. Here’s the preliminary report from the crime scene. SOCOs made a decent job of it.’ He handed her a pink folder. ‘Have a look,’ he added, motioning her to the desk beside his own.
Kirsty opened the folder to reveal a pile of photographs taken at the Byres Road flat. Seeing the detailed images of blood-spray patterns and the still body was far less awful than actually being there. No foul stench. No wriggling maggots. She shuddered, remembering.
‘Upset you, does it?’ Murdoch’s tone was difficult to gauge. Was he being genuinely solicitous or was there still a sneer in that voice?
‘Not really.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I was just thinking about the smell…’
‘Ach, you’ll get used to that, Wilson,’ he said. ‘Everybody does.’
My dad says the same. Kirsty bit back the words. It was this man who was her mentor and she had to learn from him.
‘Sir?’
‘Aye?’
‘I’ve seen a dead body before…’
‘The Swedish girl? Aye, I heard.’ His eyes slid over her for a moment, making Kirsty shiver. ‘A case Jo Grant would rather forget.’ He grinned suddenly.
‘Well, it worked out all right in the end,’ Kirsty said, returning to her scrutiny of the photographs.
‘If you want to make it in CID you need to become inured to the sight of death.’ Murdoch shrugged. ‘Doesn’t make you a lesser person. Just more able to cope with the job.’
The sound of his mobile ringing made the DS stand up and walk away, his voice deliberately low as if anxious to keep his conversation private. Kirsty watched his back, curious to know more about this man, wondering once again how he had spent the hours since they had parted at Byres Road.
Catherine Reid had advised her that it was a fifteen-minute walk from the railway station to Abbey Nursing Home and Sarah found herself enjoying the exercise as well as looking at the large houses on either side of the road, many of them grand properties partly screened by high hedges. It was a far cry from the home that she and Pete had grown up in, Sarah thought, admiring the different styles of architecture as she walked away from the centre of Bearsden. Theirs had been a childhood spent in a Glasgow housing scheme, rows and rows of tenement flats with back greens where mums could hang out their washing on the lines and children were free to roam. She and her best pal, Flora Clarke, had sat side by side on the pavement at the front of their block, playing with their toys, Sarah turning the games even then into hospitals, their teddies and dolls silently submitting to all of the little girls’ ministrations. And then there would be the rush and clamour of children at the sound of the ice cream van, its tinkling melody alerting them to rush and get pennies for the van then spill back out on to the street.
There would be no such events here in this leafy suburb, Sarah thought, eyeing a large red sandstone house with mock turrets and a crow-stepped gable. And where was Flora Clarke now? she wondered, wistfully. The Wildings had moved away when she and Pete were in their teens, out of the city and into a new town on the south of the river. Would it have made any difference if they had stayed where they had once lived? Would Pete have still gone down that fateful road? Sarah’s eyes blurred with tears as she recalled her mother’s words.
You’re to blame. Just you! We never want to see you again!
There was a cough and the sound of footsteps behind her, making the young woman jump.
Sarah turned, one hand at her throat but the man in the red jacket pushing a trolley was a harmless enough sight, a postman doing his rounds. She frowned for a moment, wondering at the state of her nerves. Was there anything other than the forthcoming interview at this nursing home to make her particularly jumpy?
Sarah looked along the quiet street. She was imagining things. There was nobody following her. She was just strung up, like Catherine Reid had told her.
The man shrank back into the space between the two high hedges, out of sight. He would have to be careful, he thought. The woman had almost glimpsed him as she’d turned around. Thank God that postie had blocked her view! The road ahead was rapidly becoming more countrified too; larger spaces between these great houses giving way to hedgerows and open fields. He’d easily be seen if he followed her too closely. Then, just as he was wondering what to do, he saw Sarah Wilding turn a corner into a side street, her steps quickening as if she were almost at her destination.
Where was she heading? The man trod quietly after her, ready to duck into any convenient opening should she turn around and see his face. Then he looked past the woman and grinned. So that was where she was going. The sign for Abbey Nursing Home was a dead giveaway and already she was turning into its driveway and out of his scrutiny. He took out his mobile and nodded to himself, walking slowly towards the open driveway.
‘Think she must be going for a job. Place outside Bearsden. Abbey Nursing Home.’ He waited for a response then gave a twist to his lips, muttering coldly, ‘Aye. If you say so.’
Then, taking a final look at the white-painted sign outside the whitewashed building, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps. Be patient, the voice on the telephone line had ordered, but it was hard sometimes. There were other watchers who could dog the woman’s footsteps, find out where she was and what she was doing. Then, when they were ready, Sarah Wilding would find them waiting for her.
He glanced back at the green hedgerow and the winding road disappearing into distant countryside, promising himself that he would be the one to make her do their bidding.
‘I’m so glad to see you.’ The woman beamed at Sarah, ushering her into a bright and airy sitting room with a kitchen area in one corner. ‘Take a seat, won’t you? Tea or coffee?’
‘Oh, a cup of coffee would be lovely. Thanks,’ Sarah replied, staring at the tall woman who had fetched a pair of mugs and was holdi
ng them up, a questioning smile in her eyes. Sarah noted the neatly cut hair shining in the sun, an indeterminate colour between grey and blonde, the glittery scarf around her neck catching the light as the woman bent to pick up a dropped teaspoon.
There was something familiar about her; she reminded Sarah of another woman from her past, someone… Sarah blinked as the memory faded, leaving only the trace of a smile and the feeling of being warm and cherished.
‘We’re short of a member of staff right now. Poor girl who’s suffering severe morning sickness. Looks like she’ll be off for a few weeks,’ Nancy Livingstone explained, setting down a small tray. ‘Catherine tells me that you have a lot of experience working with stroke patients and geriatrics.’
‘That’s right,’ Sarah began.
‘Milk?’ The nursing home manager raised a little jug.
‘Please,’ Sarah replied, suddenly uncomfortable at being served by this nice woman, wishing she could remember who it was that Nancy Livingstone resembled.
‘How are you feeling?’ The woman was looking at Sarah with genuine sympathy in these kind hazel eyes.
‘What d’you mean?’ Sarah mumbled, but she knew fine what this woman was asking; Nancy’s eyes told her that.
‘Must be hard, coming to terms with being back outside,’ Nancy said. ‘I can’t imagine what that must be like.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘Are you really sure it’s someone like me that you want here?’ she asked quietly, fingers clasped about the mug.
The woman gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Someone like you? My dear, we are all like you.’ Then her face softened. ‘Nobody’s perfect and some of us succumb to temptations that are more grievous than others, but we all fall under the same problem of being human.’
‘But, I…’
‘You were guilty of making a wrong choice and you have served a punishment for it. Now you have to go forward and live your life in a different way,’ Nancy said, her words so gently spoken that Sarah felt the prickle of tears behind her eyelids. Was such a thing possible? Nothing would ever bring her brother back. And with the crime she had committed still hanging around her like a heavy weight, surely life could never be good again?
As if she had known the effect of her little speech, the nursing home manager sat back a little, regarding Sarah steadily. ‘Right,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, tell me everything you’ve done since you qualified.’
Stepping on to the train once again, Sarah tried to tell herself that the last hour had been a dream. Surely she couldn’t have been given a temporary nursing job as easily as that! Catherine Reid had obviously pulled some strings or else it had simply been a happy coincidence that her friend at Abbey Nursing Home had needed someone to begin work straight away. Yet it had happened, she thought, sliding into a seat by the window and staring into space. The Livingstone woman had made a few notes about Sarah’s nursing career to date and then asked if she could begin working there tomorrow! Sarah had been taken from the sitting room (which was actually the staffroom, she was told) shown around the home, introduced to the owner, Mrs Abbott, and given a copy of the shift rota she would be expected to follow. A uniform would be supplied, the women assured her. And a week’s pay would be given in advance so that Sarah need not worry about train fares or such things. It was, Sarah thought, too good to be true. And yet it had happened.
As the train pulled away from the station platform, Sarah saw her own face reflected in the glass and suddenly she remembered.
She was sitting with several other children in a sunny room and someone was playing a piano in the background. They were singing a song, something about a rainbow. And the face of the woman beaming down at them all was making Sarah feel such happiness. She must have been about five then. A time when she and Flora Clarke had toddled along to the Sunday school at the end of their street, a wooden mission hall where the lure of free fizzy drinks and a jammy biscuit had resulted in a weekly gathering of little children glad to join in the hour of singing and storytelling. Her Sunday school teacher’s name had faded into oblivion but the shining eyes and loving expression lingered in her memory, a special something that this woman from Abbey Nursing Home seemed to share.
As the trees and fields gave way to rows of grey tenement buildings, the reality of where she was going came back to her. If she could keep working then surely she could give up that horrid little room and find somewhere nicer? Somewhere… her imagination took her inside one of the tall flats opposite the station where the train lingered, allowing passengers to spill out on to the platform. The large windows shone against the western skies, a few ledges adorned with boxes of late scarlet geraniums glowing like rubies. Then the train moved off, Sarah thinking hard as the flats disappeared from view. Surely she could find a room to rent near here? Anniesland was near enough to Bearsden for a commute and wouldn’t be too expensive, not like her old flat in the West End.
Memories came flooding back. Pete on his knees, sobbing. Sarah holding him in her arms, making that promise… She shuddered. No matter where she lived, Sarah Wilding knew that she would always be haunted by what she had done.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
William Lorimer knew that it was only a matter of time before he needed to call Len Murdoch in for his initial staff appraisal, a part of his job that the detective superintendent heartily disliked. Putting down the scene of crime manager’s file with a sigh, he rubbed his tired eyes and looked out of the window. It was just one of those things, he supposed; the sort of bad hand that fate dealt you. Why he should be happily married to Maggie with her dark curls and vivacious laughter when this man had the misfortune to have a severely crippled wife at home was simply a matter of luck, that was all. The staff file told the bare minimum; multiple sclerosis, carers in attendance several times a day, a husband who was immersed in the business of Police Scotland… what kind of life was that for poor Mrs Murdoch? And how on earth did the detective sergeant cope outside his working hours? Well, at least his move to Stewart Street had helped a little, Lorimer thought. Irene Murdoch’s hospital visits were becoming more and more frequent as her life drew to its sorry end.
Lorimer was not a sentimental person but he had a strong ability to empathise with his fellow man, a trait that sometimes saw him tossing restlessly in bed at night, his imagination transferring his own life on to that of someone else’s. He had seen this sort of illness once before, he reminded himself. A woman called Phyllis, her life narrowed into that undulating bed in a room that had once been part of a fine family home. Lorimer recalled her eyes turning to his own, the face brightening as she looked at him with an expression of contentment. Even someone like that, crippled and mute, had been an integral part of a murder investigation that had given the detective plenty of sleepless nights. Nobody was better off dead, he had told his colleagues, when one of them had spoken the words aloud, daring to suggest that this particular woman had no quality of life at all. And she had proved Lorimer right, giving him a vital insight that had led to the identity of a killer. She was dead now, though, gone from this world like morning mist burning off as the sun warmed the earth, only her memory lingering on, her name a footnote in police records.
Lorimer had tried to elicit something from Kirsty about her new mentor but perhaps it was too soon for the girl to have formed any opinion. Besides, it was not his business to give away any personal details about Murdoch to his young friend. If the DS wanted to tell Kirsty about his wife, well and good. Otherwise, Lorimer would keep such things to himself. His mind wandered back to the initial interview between the scene of crime manager and three other senior officers when he had opened up about his domestic situation. There had been no plea for sympathy. On the contrary, Murdoch had been at pains to stress how his home life did not impinge on his working duties. The transfer had been simple enough and now their new scene of crime manager appeared to be hard at work, his duties including the mentoring of DC Kirsty Wilson.
A gentle rain was falling as Kirsty stepped out of the H
onda and followed DS Murdoch up the ramp at the back of Glasgow City Mortuary. At least she didn’t have to tramp the city streets as a beat cop any longer, she thought moodily, though the task ahead was not something she was particularly relishing. As the doors swung closed behind them, Kirsty looked around, wondering at the shelves of plastic containers, shuddering to imagine what they might contain. Green-clad figures flitted past, a girl with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a middle-aged man with grizzled locks, whistling a country and western tune.
‘Aye, aye, in to see the PM?’ The man grinned at them. ‘Doc’s just preparing for your one now.’ He hesitated, glancing from Murdoch to Kirsty. ‘You both new around here?’ Then, not waiting for an answer he turned and motioned them to follow him. ‘Viewing corridor’s round this way.’
Murdoch and Kirsty followed the mortuary attendant until he stopped at a large window with a specially constructed step running along the floor.
‘Intercom’s switched on,’ the man told Kirsty, guessing correctly that she was the rookie of the pair. ‘You’ll be able to hear anything she says and you can ask questions.’
‘Okay.’ Murdoch tilted his head. ‘Who else is on with Dr Fergusson?’
‘It’s our favourite twosome; Doc Fergusson and Dan-the-man.’ The attendant grinned.
Kirsty nodded. It had been part of their training to know just how the Department of Pathology worked; up here in Scotland the double-doctor system was mandatory to ensure corroboration. Once a post-mortem had taken place, everything that the pathologist had done and every conclusion he or she had come to might be taken apart meticulously in a court of law. She’d heard her father refer to Dr Dan, an Irish pathologist whose wicked sense of humour had been a source of anecdotes over the Wilson kitchen table.
As the body of the deceased was wheeled into the post-mortem room from its refrigerated cabinet, two figures moved quietly to take up their places next to the stainless-steel operating table. Looking at Rosie Fergusson with a green plastic apron over her scrubs and a pair of yellow rubber boots, Kirsty thought about a documentary she and James had seen on television about factory women whose days were spent gutting chickens. And wasn’t it still the lot of so many women and girls up in the north-east to be fishwives, filleting their men’s daily catch? Or was that just what happened in the old days? She shifted uncomfortably then Rosie’s voice came over the intercom as she began to talk them through the initial stages of the post-mortem examination of one Francis Bissett. Was it such a strange sort of job for a woman, dissecting cadavers to find out what had taken place before death? Or were women actually better suited to carrying out these delicate surgical procedures?
