Gallery Whispers

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.'

'You can't have had much hope of getting him mobile again, I wouldn't have thought.'

'His was an attitude problem. We were sent to counsel him about his colostomy bag. He could move around well enough, but that damn thing was like a ball and chain to him. It happens with some people, men usually. We had no success with Anthony, I'm afraid. Latterly, I came to realise that he simply didn't want to go out again. He was happy to sit in his own house; waiting for God, as they say.'

She frowned. 'But tell me,' she said. 'Why are you asking these questions?'

'Frankly, Ms dark,' said Stevie Steele, 'we think that someone may have made the introduction.'