‘Honey,’ Efe murmured. ‘Shut up please.’

  ‘Why should she?’ the DS challenged.

  ‘She’s not allowed to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s our contracts,’ the woman explained. ‘These contracts we all signed when we were brought here from Africa. They say stupid things, set down stupid rules and if we break them they . . .’ She frowned. ‘He’s right, I should shut up. And I will.’ Then she smiled. ‘But only because it upsets him. He’s a good guy really but he’s chicken-shit scared of the people we work for.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ Efe protested. ‘Hardeep is okay. But Amina . . . And Gregor, no you don’t want to mess with them.’

  ‘Who’s Gregor?’

  ‘Amina’s husband,’ he replied. ‘You don’t see him there much, only when there’s trouble, like with Francis.’

  Wright guessed that she had just met Gregor. ‘And who’s Francis?’ she asked.

  ‘Another of the workers, our friend. He’s from Nigeria like me. He complained about . . .’

  Anne laid a hand on his arm. ‘Now it’s you should shut up, Efe boy.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, yes.’

  The detective sergeant took a card from her pocket and placed it on their table. ‘If you ever want to talk about it, I suggest that you show your contracts to Citizens Advice. If they say that legally you can, call me on that number.’

  Anne nodded, picked up the card and pocketed it. ‘Don’t let no-one see that,’ Wright heard Efe warn, as she walked away.

  Kello Hospital was less than half a mile away, a grey two storey building with many windows that might have pre-dated the National Health Service by as many as twenty years. The building was dual purpose, part district hospital and part minor injuries unit. She followed a sign to the wards, feeling slightly lost until she encountered a nursing station where a woman was keying data into a computer.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the DS said, showing her credentials yet again. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Sally Crawford, a resident of Later Era. I believe she was admitted last night.’

  The nurse looked up. ‘Yes. That’s right. The GP sent her in after she had an incident. If you go to Ward Two and ask for Dr Wu, he’ll update you. Along the corridor and you’ll find it facing you.’

  She followed the directions, towards an open double door. Wright’s idea of a hospital ward was drawn from Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, a four bed unit that would normally be all female or all male. Ward Two in the Biggar hospital was old fashioned, open and mixed-gender with six beds on either side. Two were vacant and curtains were drawn around another three. At the far end she spotted a young Chinese man in blue scrubs with a stethoscope round his neck. ‘Don’t have to be a detective to work that one out,’ she thought, as she headed towards him.

  ‘Can I help you? She was halfway there when a voice interrupted her. She turned to see another Chinese, also with a stethoscope, but older, taller and in green scrubs.

  ‘Are you Dr Wu?’ she asked, a Steely Dan refrain from one of her playlists running through her mind.

  ‘That’s me; I’m the medical registrar. You were heading for Dr Li, my junior colleague. And you are?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Jackie Wright, serious crimes, Glasgow. I believe that Mrs Sally Crawford’s your patient.’

  He nodded. ‘She is. Can I ask, what’s your interest in her?’

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of her niece. I spoke to her yesterday afternoon. I want to follow up that chat, ask her a couple of questions. Can I see her?’

  ‘You can see her,’ the physician replied, ‘but you won’t be asking her any questions. Mrs Crawford is asleep; she’s on end of life care.’

  ‘Eh?’ Wright gasped. ‘How come?’

  ‘Because her time is almost over. She was admitted here last night at the request of Dr Rankin, a partner in the medical practice that serves the Later Era home. Dr Li handled her admission; I saw her for the first time when I came in this morning. You say you spoke to her yesterday afternoon. Was she responsive?’

  ‘Responsive? She was watching a bowls match through her window and she’d just finished her lunch. I think she’d have taken me for a walk round Biggar town centre if I’d asked her. Now you tell me she’s dying. I’m having trouble getting my head round that, I’m afraid.’

  The doctor winced. ‘Maybe she was having a good spell when you saw her. But deterioration can be very rapid in older people. Mrs Crawford is ninety-two. Were you aware of that?’

  ‘I knew she was getting on,’ the DS said. ‘I didn’t know she was that age, but it doesn’t surprise me. Still . . . I hear what you’re saying Doctor, but twenty-four hours ago she was full of life.’

  ‘Come with me,’ he murmured, then led her to one of the closed cubicles. They slipped between the curtains. ‘There. See for yourself.’

  Sally Crawford was indeed asleep, peacefully; her face was slightly flushed, but she was serene, her white hair spread on her pillow. Her bed was very slightly inclined, and its cot sides were raised, unnecessarily, Wright thought, for it was clear that she would not be going anywhere. ‘Is she on medication?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ a third voice answered. The detective had been unaware that another person had joined them. ‘I’m Dr Rankin,’ she explained. ‘I sent Mrs Crawford here last night, from Later Era. I just looked in to see how she was doing.’

  ‘How do you expect her to do?’ Wright asked.

  ‘We expect her to die, Sergeant,’ Dr Wu replied. ‘Soon.’

  ‘Medication,’ she repeated. ‘What’s she on?’

  ‘Morphine and midazolam. They’re both standard at this stage. The first for pain control and the second to give the patient peace of mind.’

  She turned to Rankin. ‘When were you called in by the home?’

  ‘It’d have been about seven thirty, I suppose. Yes, a wee bit before eight.’

  ‘How was she when you arrived?’

  ‘A little agitated, but much as you see her now, sleeping.’

  ‘Did you medicate her then?’

  ‘Of course; I gave her the drugs that Dr Wu described. Later Era don’t have any staff qualified to give injections. They don’t hold stocks of those drugs either: not allowed to.’

  ‘Did anyone say anything about the onset of her distress?’ Wright asked.

  ‘When he called me, Hardeep, the assistant manager said that she’d had her evening meal, in the dining room as usual, and then gone back to her room. One of the carers found her there not long after, drowsy and unresponsive. I medicated her then agreed to send her here.’

  ‘They asked you to?’

  Rankin nodded. ‘It’s normal practice. Truth be told, Later Era don’t like their residents dying on the premises. They think it disturbs the rest, so if someone is end of life like Mrs Crawford, they prefer it if they can send her here, for proper nursing care.’

  ‘Hold on,’ the DS protested. ‘I lost someone in my family a couple of years back. She wanted to die at home and she did, with care from the district nurses. They could go into Later Era, surely.’

  ‘They could, but the management discourage it. Look,’ she declared, ‘it’s not my job to moralise. I treat the patients and that’s it. The care in this hospital is excellent, so Later Era’s approach might be the best option for the residents.’

  ‘And might not, if they don’t want it. Has Mrs Crawford’s stepdaughter been contacted? She’s next of kin.’

  ‘She has,’ Dr Wu confirmed. ‘I called her myself. She’s very upset but unfortunately she’s still recovering from a car accident and isn’t mobile.’

  ‘That is unfortunate,’ Wright agreed. Her brow furrowed, as she assessed the situation for a minute or so. Finally she looked at the registrar. ‘Did your colleague, Dr Li, do any blood work when she was admitted?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Why would he? The situation was obvious.’

  ‘To him, I don’t doubt, but it’s not clear to me. I’d like a full blood analysis done now.’

  ‘That’ll take days,’ Rankin said. ‘The lab goes at its own pace.’

  ‘You’ll send the samples to the police lab at Gartcosh. They’ll be prioritised there. While we’re waiting for them,’ she added, ‘I want you to do something for me that you might find difficult. The drugs you’re giving Mrs Crawford are helping her to die. As a police officer, I remain to be convinced that she actually wants to.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Dr Wu insisted. ‘She’s my patient, I have a duty to her.’

  ‘So have I,’ the DS countered. ‘Based on the person I saw and spoke with yesterday and that I’m looking at now . . . let me put it this way. If Sally passed away now, I would be reporting it as a suspicious death. The fact that she’s still alive doesn’t remove those suspicions. Unless you see signs of physical pain, and I’m not just talking about bedsores, I’d like you to stop the morphine. Do that please, and let’s see what happens.’

  ‘That’s cruel, Sergeant,’ he protested.

  ‘Doctor, I’m asking you, not telling you: I don’t have the authority to do that. But I will be reporting the situation to my boss. Based on what I tell her she’s likely to open a formal investigation into Mrs Crawford’s situation. The old dear’s had ninety-two years already, let’s give her another day, and hopefully she may have a lot more.’

  Seventy-Three

  ‘He agreed?’ Mann asked.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Wright replied. ‘He and Rankin did a bit of verbal pushing and shoving over whose patient she actually was, but when I suggested that if I placed her in protective custody that would make her mine . . . bullshit, boss, I know, but they’re doctors not lawyers . . . common sense took over. Dr Wu’s going to monitor her over the next twenty-four hours. No morphine, a wee bit of midazolam if it’s needed to keep her settled but that’s it. I’ll look in on her tomorrow, after I’ve seen the stepdaughter, Christine McGhee, Crawford as was. She’s fifty-four,’ she added. ‘Divorced, music teacher in a school in Lanark, one son who’s an RAF pilot, currently posted in Cyprus, she thinks; she’s not sure.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Dolphinton: that’s just along the road, towards Edinburgh. My guess is that’s why Sally chose Later Era, to be close to her.’

  ‘She was in an accident, you said. What’s up with her?’

  ‘A broken leg; a neighbour’s looking after her, she told me, until she’s mobile again.’

  ‘Did you ask her about Sandra?’

  ‘I’ll leave that until tomorrow,’ the DS said. ‘Hopefully we’ll have had the result of the blood analysis by then. I took the sample straight to Gartcosh on my way back here.’

  ‘What d’you think the analysis will find, Jackie?’ Stirling asked.

  ‘I know it’ll find traces of morphine and midazolam. It’s what else might be in there that interests me. I know who I met yesterday and age notwithstanding, she was a long way from the person I saw in that hospital today.’

  Her colleague scratched his chin. ‘If a punter walked into a police office and reported that a ninety-two-year-old relative in a care home had suffered an unexpected physical collapse and was pushing hard at death’s door, how far up the priority scale do you reckon his complaint might be?’

  ‘About halfway,’ she conceded. ‘On a slow day. But frankly, John, I don’t give a fuck. Sally isn’t a rellie and I know what I saw.’

  ‘And I’m going to back you,’ Mann promised. ‘John, what have you found out online about Later Era?’

  ‘It’s incorporated,’ he replied. ‘Later Era Residential Limited’s a company registered in Scotland. The accounts don’t tell you a hell of a lot, only that it has chunky asset base, shareholders’ assets just under four million quid. There are two directors, Gregor Rutherford and Amina Rutherford, ages forty and forty-two respectively. I found Facebook pages for three Later Era Homes, the Biggar one and others in Newmilns, East Ayrshire and Blackburn, West Lothian. Read them and you’d want to check in, regardless of age. There’s a website as well. Here’s what it says about Biggar.’ He turned his monitor around on his desk, so that they could see it.

  Wright leaned in studying it. ‘I don’t know where that garden is,’ she murmured. ‘The place is in the centre of the town. There’s a patch of grass at the back, but that’s all. And I’ll tell you something else that’s dodgy. The staff you see there, they’re all white. I didn’t see a single white person there. Hardeep and Amina, they’re probably both Indian, Efe and Anne, they’re African. And they’ve got them on a pretty short leash.’

  ‘You’re right; Amina is Indian,’ Stirling said. ‘I found her on LinkedIn. And she is actually a doctor, according to her bio. But really she’s a BUMS.’

  ‘A what?’ his colleagues exclaimed simultaneously.

  ‘BUMS,’ Stirling repeated. ‘Bachelor of Unani Medicine and Surgery. That’s her degree. Unani is traditional medicine, sort of homeopathic, you might say, with a bit of yoga included. Real doctors call Unani doctors quacks, but it’s widely practised in India and Pakistan. Not by her, though, and not for long. She graduated aged twenty-three and came to Britain a year later to work in the care industry. That’s the phrase she uses; care industry. She’s a British national now, and has been for fifteen years.’

  ‘How about Gregor?’ Mann asked. ‘Have you found anything about him?’

  ‘He’s on LinkedIn too. According to his biography, he’s from Rotherham originally. He’s an ACA, same as a chartered accountant but with less clout. Speaking of clout, I found a conviction for assault on his record, an incident involving a bus driver in Doncaster, when he was twenty-four. The vehicle was in a queue of traffic. Rutherford was in a hurry and asked the driver to open the door so he could get out. The driver refused, colourfully, according to Gregor’s lawyer, and Gregor thumped him.’

  ‘What did he get?’

  ‘Community service, boss. The report I saw quotes the judge as saying the driver acted unreasonably.’

  ‘What about his career since then?’

  ‘LinkedIn says he worked for a small accountancy firm in Wetherby until he was twenty-eight, then moved to a similar job in Edinburgh. Four years after that he shows up as a director of Later Era, the same year as the company was registered.’

  ‘Are the pair of them involved with other businesses?’

  ‘None that I can find.’

  ‘Keep looking.’

  ‘Yes boss,’ Stirling said.

  ‘And John,’ Wright added. ‘When you have time, can you find someone at HMRC who can tell us a bit more about the Later Era employees? Let’s see if we can find those shiny white faces on the website, because none of them were obvious to me.’

  Seventy-Four

  ‘We’ve found Alexandra Vernon.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’ve found her?’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘Are you saying she’s a real person, not the fake that the DCC said she was?’

  ‘No, sorry, Sauce,’ Mann said. ‘The day’s dragging on, I should have made myself clearer. Maya Smith, one of the DCs, found a trace of economic activity by the Vernon entity. We got information that when Sandra visited her aunt in the care home in Biggar, she was in a car, not the motor home. We assumed it was hired and Maya was tasked with finding it. With that as a starting point, it didn’t take her long to find a Europcar place in Hamilton, South Lanarkshire. She checked both identities and found that on the twenty-ninth of February, Alexandra Vernon hired a Ford Fiesta. It was returned, by her, on the eleventh of March, having done three hundred and forty-seven miles. Now Maya’s a smart girl. She didn’t have to be told that the motor home had to be close to Hamilton, so she went looking for caravan sites. She found one at Strathclyde Country Park, between Hamilton and Motherwell. Its record showed that the thing was parked there from the twenty-eighth of Feb, until the thirteenth of March.’

  ‘Do we know, did she live there or just park it?’

  ‘No, it seems that she lived there. The manager remembered her, because he doesn’t have many long term parkers at that time of year, usually just overnighters, and also because of the motor home itself. It was German registered, he told Maya, and he said he’d never seen one like it. It wasn’t just parked there. It was lit most nights . . . the guy couldn’t swear that it was every night, but most, he said. However there was one oddity: she booked and paid for three weeks in advance . . .’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By a debit card. We don’t have the paperwork for that yet, but he’s looking it out. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘the odd thing was that she’d booked until the twentieth of March, but she didn’t stay until then. When the manager came into work on the fourteenth, it was gone, unplugged from the services and gone.’

  ‘What’s your thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘That she was probably killed there, moved somewhere else for the clean-up, then dumped in Irvine.’

  ‘That fits. Any thoughts on where it might have been taken?’

  ‘Somewhere quiet,’ Mann replied. ‘Most likely private land where everything incriminating could have been removed without anyone being aware.’

  ‘That fits into our suspect profile too,’ Haddock agreed.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ she said, ‘when we have one.’

  Seventy-Five

  As Christine McGhee opened the door of her bungalow, Jackie Wright was seized by a feeling of guilt. The woman’s right leg was in a heavy cast and her weight was borne by an elbow crutch, with another one hanging over her left wrist as she gripped the door handle.

  ‘DS Wright, Glasgow,’ she said. ‘Mrs McGhee, I’m so sorry to be inconveniencing you like this. I was told that a neighbour was looking after you.’

  ‘She is,’ the woman agreed, ‘but she’s out walking my dog. They come first, after all, need to get out to do their business.’

  ‘That’s what your back garden’s for,’ Wright, no animal lover, thought, although she replied, ‘Of course. What happens to their humans is none of their concern. Let me help you.’ She stepped into the house supporting her as she slipped her arm into the second crutch.