She looked at the two superintendents. 'I'd say that narrows down your search quite a bit.'
'More than you think,' said Pringle. 'It points to one person, in fact. Staff Nurse Andrina Paterson.'
'Who's she?' asked Sarah.
'Anthony Murray's niece… and Raymond Weston's girlfriend.
We'd never have known of that connection had clever young Stevie here not asked the right question at the right time.'
Skinner nodded. 'Yes indeed. Well done, Stevie. Some day, son, you're going to make a mistake, but I'm not going to spend my life waiting for it.
'So what do we do about this? We could pull the girl in and sweat her, right away. But I think not; not at this stage, at least. Just let's keep an eye on her, and try to make sure that she's got no other friends or relatives who are terminally ill.
'We've had our lucky break at the start. Let's keep it on ice and do the rest of the proper police work. Clan, you and Steele complete the rest of the interviews; talk to the cleaner, talk to the out patient visitors, talk to the consultant. See what they can tell you about Mr Murray, see whether he told them anything about his niece which might corroborate her intention to help him do this.
'Meanwhile, Brian, you go back and check up on young Raymond Weston. I know his mother wrote him a letter, but that could be a smoke screen. Find out whether he really did go out on the piss with his pals on the night of his mother's death.'
'Can I say something, sir,' asked Stevie Steele, diffidently.
'Of course.'
The sergeant nodded. 'Thank you, sir. I just thought, this might be corroboration of a sort. The differences between the two scenes; the way the tape, scissors and syringe were left behind the second time, all over the body: I mean, that's pretty specific. The "assistant" surely didn't guess that from the little that was in the papers after Mrs Weston died. It says to me that they were pretty close to the investigation… that they might have had a whisper of what was going on.'
'Oh Jesus, yes,' Brian Mackie exclaimed. 'And Nolan Weston knew, didn't he, straight from us. What's the betting that he told his son… and he told his girlfriend?'
'At the moment, superintendent,' said Skinner, 'I'd say it's a shade of odds on. But let's make sure there are no other horses in the field before we place our bets.'
66
'Aw, he was such a nice man, sir, he really was,' Mrs Leggat moaned, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes. She looked at least seventy years old; Steele marvelled that she was still doing such a demanding manual job.
The late Anthony Murray's cleaning lady lived in a three-room flat in Clermiston which was as neat and tidy as that of her employer had been, before Arthur Dorward's team had torn it apart in their search for forensic evidence which might identify his visitor.
'So we've been hearing,' said Clan Pringle. 'We have to talk to people after every sudden death, for the Fiscal's report. You'll miss him, I'm sure. How long had you worked for him?'
'Nearly fifteen years, sir. Rina — that was Mrs Murray, God rest her — took me on taste help her in the hoose when she was still working.
She had a wee dress shop down in Blackball; did awfy nice things.
She gied me a wee frock for ma Christmas yince, the year before she selt up. I thocht she would let me go then, but she never did. Och, it was terrible, when she took ill. She had cancer, same as him, only hers wis in the liver.'
She dabbed her eyes. 'It was awfy watchin' him taste, the poor man.
And sich a shock when I came in and found him. I knew he didnae have long taste go like, but I never thocht it wid be that quick. Mind you, it shouldnae have come as a surprise. Jist the day afore he died, he smiled at me, sitting in his chair and he said "I'm ready for the off now, Mrs Leggat". Jist like that.
'Lookin' back, it wis as if he wis trying taste tell me somethin', the poor man. Ah thocht nae mair o' it at the time.'
'No reason why you should have,' said Steele, sympathetically.
'Maybe no. He'll be happy now, anyway. He missed Rina that much; he's had nothin' taste live for since she died.'
'Did he have many visitors?' Pringle asked.
The woman shook her little grey head. 'No' when ah wis there. A nice wumman frae the support services, she came yince; dinna ken whit her name wis though. His niece came in a few times too, at lunchtime mostly, in her nurse's uniform; wee Andrina. No' sae wee now, mind, it's jist that I've kent her since she wis seven or eight year old.
'The day afore he went, in fact, he said that she was comin' taste see him that evenin'. Her and her boyfriend, he said. Whit was the laddie called again? That's right. Ray, Mr Murray said it wis. He said they were comin' taste help him wi' something.'
67
The office of Home Support was nowhere near the Western General Hospital, to the mild surprise of the two detectives. Instead it was in the city centre, just off Princes Street, in an attic above a pub in Frederick Street.
Clan Pringle was breathing hard by the time he and Steele reached the top floor of the building. 'A refreshment will be order after this, sergeant,' he gasped.
'Very good, sir,' said Steele, his breathing normal as he looked at the anonymous door with its grey-glass upper panel. He knocked lightly and stepped inside. The room was small, its space curtailed even further by the steep coomb ceiling beside the bay window. It was furnished by three grey metal filing cabinets, a chipped table, four chairs and two desks. One was unoccupied, but behind the other, near the window, sat an attractive ash-blonde woman.
'Hello,' the younger man began. 'I'm DS Steele from Edinburgh CID, and this is Detective Superintendent Pringle.'
The worker rose from her seat, extending a hand to the breathless Pringle. 'Penelope dark,' she said. 'My colleague Faye told me that you had phoned and asked if you could come to see us. What can I do for you?'
Pringle nodded to Steele as he shook the woman's hand and gratefully took the seat she offered.
'You could begin by telling us a bit about your organisation,' the sergeant answered.
Penelope dark nodded. 'Certainly.' At that moment Stevie Steele fell in love with her voice. Then she smiled and his capture was complete. 'We're a registered charity and we work as an extension of the National Health Service. We're an additional resource, helping patients in a variety of different situations once they've been discharged from hospital.
'There are three of us: Faye Reynolds, me and a chap called John Goody. The people we see might be geriatrics who've had fractures, amputees after surgery, those with hip replacements, and others. Our main service has to do with mobility; we help our clients get back on their feet, sometimes figuratively, but usually literally.'
'But you visit cancer patients too, is that right?' Clan Pringle was recovering. His breathing was only slightly heavy.
'In certain circumstances, yes,' the woman agreed. 'Our definition of mobility is a fairly broad one. Sometimes the problem can be a psychological one; in those circumstances our job is to help the patient regain the confidence to face the world again.'
'How about Anthony Murray? Was that why you were sent to visit him?'
Penelope dark frowned. 'I can't discuss a client, superintendent.
We're bound by the normal rules of confidentiality. We couldn't work otherwise.'
'I think you can talk about Mr Murray,' said Pringle, gently. 'He's dead.'
The woman's hand flew to her mouth, and a shocked expression swept across her face. 'Oh dear,' she murmured. 'I knew he was terminal, but it still comes as a shock. He must have deteriorated quickly. I saw him on Monday of last week and he still seemed to have some vitality in him.'