PERDITION
Pete Brassett
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2018
www.thebookfolks.com
© Pete Brassett
Polite note to readers
This book is written in British English apart from instances where local dialect is used. For that reason, spellings of words and other conventions may differ slightly from North American English.
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PERDITION is the seventh novel to feature detectives James Munro and Charlie West. It can be enjoyed on its own or as part of a series.
Check out SHE, wherein detectives Munro and West appear for the first time:
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Detective Inspector Munro is a burly Scottish policeman who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Detective Sergeant West is an intelligent young woman, new to the force, with a lot to prove.
When a missing person case lands on their desks, Munro is sceptical there is much to it. But their investigation soon comes to some strange findings, and before long, a body is found.
With a serial killer on their hands they must act fast to trace a woman placed at the scene of the crime. Yet discovering her true identity, let alone finding her, proves difficult. And as the plot thickens they realise the crime is far graver than either of them could have imagined.
Visit the end of this book for full details of the other books in this series.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Character List
Other books in this series
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Prologue
Often described as an affable and somewhat altruistic individual, James Munro – on the cusp of retirement after nearly forty years of active service – was willing to tolerate most things in life apart from cyclists who deemed themselves exempt from the regulations of the Highway Code; those who consumed fetid fast food on public transport; and the ear-splitting screech of a chop saw as the team of carpenters who’d arrived at 6 a.m. set about replacing the fire-damaged roof timbers, joists and floorboards in the kitchen and guest bedroom to the rear of his house.
Alone in the lounge with his patience wearing thin, he took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his thinning, grey hair and – wary he’d be held responsible for the village’s first ever sugar shortage as a result of repeated requests for mugs of sweet tea – reached for his coat, tucked two bars of Kendal Mint Cake into his pocket, and headed for Criffel where, despite the light cloud, the unfettered view from the summit towards the Lake District was as rewarding as ever.
Saddled with the prospect of sharing his house with a battalion of builders for the foreseeable future and with it, the unavoidable disruption to his daily routine, he contemplated returning to Skye for a relaxing break before deciding on the much shorter, and altogether less taxing trip to Ayr where, upon retrieving his belongings from the office, he would, somewhat reluctantly, discuss the topic of his imminent retirement with DCI George Elliot.
* * *
Resigned to the fact that Munro’s long-awaited departure was now in the bag, leaving her without the safety net she’d come to rely upon, a sullen-faced West – looking more like a cat burglar in her tight, black polo-neck and matching jeans than a salaried police officer – pinned her tumbling locks atop her head and pulled up a chair, the initial findings of the post-mortem in one hand, and a double-bacon buttie in the other.
‘Have you read this?’ she said, wiping a dollop of brown sauce from her lips.
‘Aye, miss,’ said Dougal as he sifted through the victim’s belongings, ‘If only every case we had was as clean-cut as this.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, it’s not often we get a body carrying full ID and a conclusive cause of death from the pathologist. It’s like buying a present for someone and finding out that the batteries are actually included.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ said West. ‘You got anything interesting there?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary. A wallet with a bundle of notes, an Omega wristwatch, a string of beads, keys, and a mobile phone.’
‘Have next of kin been informed?’
‘Aye, so far as I know.’
‘Good,’ said West, polishing off her roll, ‘all we have to do now is figure out if it was suicide or if somebody topped him.’
Duncan put down his newspaper, scratched the stubble on his chin, and made for the kettle.
‘Sounds like misadventure to me,’ he said.
‘Your life’s one big misadventure,’ said West with a smile. ‘Sorry boys but I just can’t see this johnny killing himself, not like this.’
‘That’s why I’m saying, misadventure.’
‘Go on, then. Explain.’
‘Okay,’ said Duncan. ‘The report says his body was loaded with a lethal dose of Buprenorphine, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘And Buprenorphine’s used for pain relief. Not a wee headache or anything like that, I’m talking extreme, chronic pain. Like cancer.’
‘But he didn’t have cancer.’
‘No,’ said Dougal, ‘he didn’t, but that’s not all it’s used for. It’s an opioid. They use it for weaning addicts off the hard stuff, too, you know, like heroin, for example.’
West, her interest roused, stared at Dougal inquisitively.
‘You mean, kind of like methadone?’
‘Aye, exactly.’
‘So, you reckon if he was a user, he could’ve got his hands on this stuff and what? Just overdosed?’
‘Aye, why not?’ said Duncan as he handed out the tea. ‘The only problem is, with so much of the stuff in his body, the pathologist can’t be certain if he was using or not. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Well, that’s a great help,’ said West with a sigh, ‘but you’re already assuming he took the stuff himself.’
‘I am,’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s face it, miss, if somebody had killed him, then why waste money on expensive drugs when there’s cheaper ways of doing it. Besides, Buprenorphine’s not the kind of thing you’d pick up on the street.’
‘So, you’re saying it’s not easy to come by, then?’
‘No, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘not unless you’re a doctor, even then, its use would have to be authorised by a consultant or some such before it was administered.’
‘So, you reckon…’
‘I reckon,’ said Duncan, ‘if we assume that he was an addict, then there’s the distinct possibility he could’ve nicked the stuff from the hospital or the clinic where he was being treated.’
West thought for a moment, cradled her mug in both hands, and sipped her tea.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let’s have a look a
t that first. See if he was registered anywhere for treatment, start with his GP, maybe he got a referral somewhere, then try the rehab clinics, that sort of thing. Talk to his work colleagues, too. These rich kids never dabble alone.’
‘Roger that, miss.’
‘So, what do we know about him?’
‘Just about everything!’ said Dougal. ‘He may as well have had his CV tucked into his jacket pocket. Alan Byrne. Thirty-eight years old. Single. Born Abingdon, Oxfordshire.’
‘Hold on,’ said West. ‘Abingdon? So, he’s English?’
‘Aye. Apparently he spent a couple of years in Paris before being transferred over here. He works for a French investment bank on Bothwell Street, and he’s got a fancy loft apartment in the Merchant City area.’
‘Merchant what?’ said West. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Merchant City,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s in Glasgow. Nice place, if you’ve a few quid in your pocket.’
‘Glasgow? Then what the hell was he doing down here?’
Duncan shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
‘Not as clean-cut as you think, after all, is it?’ said West. ‘Anything else?’
‘His car,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s a black Range Rover, six months old with personalised plates. They found it by Sandhill Burn just off the B742, that’s the road that runs by Martnaham loch. The driver’s side door was open, and the keys were in the ignition.’
Taking a leaf from Munro’s book in the misguided belief it may enhance her cognitive ability, West walked to the window and ran the string of beads through her fingers as she stared down at the car park.
‘Not much of a view, is it?’ she said, muttering to herself. ‘Okay, so his car’s abandoned and the keys are in the ignition. If he was off his head then he could’ve left the car, you know, dazed and confused, hallucinating even, and stumbled into the loch.’
‘Aye, my thoughts exactly,’ said Duncan confidently, ‘after all, it would’ve been pitch-black up there and that loch would’ve been cold enough to freeze the…’
‘Just one thing,’ said Dougal, interrupting. ‘If he was off his head, miss, I doubt he’d have been able to negotiate the road up to the loch in the first place.’
West turned and sighed, her nose twitching at a familiar scent.
‘I recognise that smell,’ she said, sniffing the beads.
‘Sandalwood, miss. It keeps its fragrance for years.’
‘Pity,’ said Duncan, ‘I can smell them from here and they’re honking.’
West grinned and tossed him the beads.
‘Count them,’ she said.
‘Are you joking me?’
‘Go on.’
Unsure whether the task was relevant to the inquiry or if he was unwittingly becoming embroiled in some kind of Munro-esque parlour game, Duncan reluctantly bowed his head and began counting.
‘Ninety-six, ninety-eight, one hundred, one hundred and two…’
‘One hundred and eight,’ said West.
‘Aye! How did you…?’
‘They’re Mala beads. Everyone on the Holy Isle was wearing them.’
‘The Holy Isle?’ said Dougal. ‘Were you taking religious orders or something?’
‘Do me a favour. I was on a retreat trying to sort myself out. Worst week of my entire life, and that’s saying something.’
‘So, what’s their significance?’
‘Dunno, really. Something to do with Buddhists and the number of times you repeat a chant or an affirmation, I think.’
‘So, you reckon this Alan Byrne was a Buddhist, maybe?’
‘I doubt it. Not unless he’s got a wardrobe full of orange robes to prove me wrong. Nah, it’s just trendy, isn’t it? A string of beads wrapped around your wrist. It won’t get us anywhere. So, what about his motor? Did the SOCOs find anything juicy?’
‘Not really, miss,’ said Dougal as he rifled through a collection of photos. ‘It was in a bit of a state: mud, slurry, grass and the like; but that’s par for the course up there.’
‘Right enough,’ said Duncan. ‘And if he was off his head, he could have just veered off the road.’
‘Nothing inside?’
‘Nothing to rave about. A few strands of hair and some fibres, they’re with forensics for testing…’
‘They’re not his?’
‘No,’ said Dougal. ‘Hair’s the wrong colour and the fibres don’t match what he was wearing.’
‘Aye, but that could’ve been there for weeks,’ said Duncan. ‘Probably gave a pal a lift, you know?’
‘Yeah, fair enough,’ said West. ‘Is that it?’
‘Aye, afraid so,’ said Dougal. ‘Apart from the prints and they all belong to Byrne, so at the moment it looks as though he was definitely travelling alone.’
* * *
Sighing at the sound of footsteps along the corridor, West – fearing an unreasonable request from the larger-than-life DCI Elliot to justify their lack of progress at such an early stage of the investigation – drew a breath and braced herself for the inevitable confrontation.
‘Good grief,’ said Munro as he sidled into the room, ‘it’s like a holiday camp in here. Have I interrupted a game of snakes and ladders?’
‘More like trivial pursuit,’ said Duncan, grinning. ‘Nice to see you, chief.’
‘Aye, you too, laddie. Dougal. Charlie.’
West leaned against the window and, doing her best not to appear too happy, folded her arms and smiled.
‘Where’d you leave your horse?’ she said.
‘My horse?’
‘Well, you are the cavalry, aren’t you?’
‘If it’s saving you’re after, Charlie, I suggest you find yourself a priest. Are you in need of some help?’
‘Nah, you know how it is,’ said West. ‘Another day, another body.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yeah, no big deal, some bloke called Byrne found by the loch.’
‘Nothing important, then. So, how are you all?’
‘Happy as kittens,’ said West. ‘Dougal here is now a DS.’
‘Is that so?’ said Munro, smiling proudly. ‘Well, good for you, laddie. Good for you, but hold on, if that’s the case, then Charlie…’
‘Yup. DI, same as you, so watch your step.’
Munro eased himself into a chair and, pausing as he rubbed his chin, eyed West with a look of curiosity.
‘If you’re a DI, Charlie,’ he said, ‘then that must mean that I’m…’
‘In one,’ said West. ‘You should go see DCI Elliot as soon as you can, he’s got some good news for you.’
‘Has he indeed?’
‘I don’t believe it! After all this waiting, I thought you’d be happy!’
‘Och, I am, lassie. Look at me. I’m ecstatic.’
Chapter 1
Unlike the city-dwelling hipsters who spent their nights wired to their phones streaming music or assessing the efficacy of a cabbage and baby food diet before tumbling from their beds after three hours of sleep desperate for a full-fat, four-shot, mocha latte with a caramel drizzle and a Red Bull chaser to get them on their feet again, the older and much wiser Rona Macallan – immune to the allure of caffeine and the frivolous banality of the internet – enjoyed a stress-free existence tending to her livestock, untroubled by the burden of social media and a relentless compulsion to share her schedule with the rest of the world.
Set in half an acre of rough pasture bounded by mature woodland, the former gamekeeper’s cottage – with its rickety staircase, creaking floorboards, and nightly chorus of hooting owls, chattering foxes, and rutting stags – was deemed too disturbing by her partner who, in an effort to avoid recurring bouts of insomnia, spent five nights out of seven in a rented studio flat within walking distance of his office in Glasgow’s city centre. This left Rona to tend to the morning chores unhindered: topping-up the water supply for the Saanen goats, ensuring the chickens – a mix of Warrens and Bantams – had plenty of feed, and refilling t
he hay nets for the two Highland ponies, Partick and Thistle.
Glancing up from beneath her hood, she watched as PC Billy Hayes, a prissy, middle-class urbanite with an irrational fear of anything that walked on four legs, trudged begrudgingly up the track towards her and cursed audibly as his right foot landed squarely in a pile of fresh goat droppings.
‘Miss Macallan?’ he said as the rain peppered his face. ‘Miss Rona Macallan?’
‘Aye, that’s me. You took your time.’
‘I came as soon as soon as I could. Have you been waiting long?’
‘Since six.’
‘Six o’clock? This morning?’
‘When you were still in bed, no doubt.’
‘Sorry, I never knew,’ said Hayes. ‘I only came on duty a half an hour ago, someone should’ve been out to see you by now. Something about vandalism, was it?’
‘It’s not vandalism, Constable. It’s Esme.’
‘Esme?’
‘She’s dead.’
* * *
Heeding Rona’s advice, Hayes – keeping his distance – stared blankly at the kid lying on the ground and couldn’t help but notice the look of utter bewilderment in its big, amber eyes and the black bolt lodged deep in the side of its neck.
‘Eleven months old,’ said Rona. ‘Eleven months.’
Hayes, unsure of what to say or how to react, cast her a sideways glance and sighed.
‘Do you mind if I take a closer look?’ he said. ‘If I could just…’
‘I’d stay put if I were you,’ said Rona, ‘get too close and the other goats’ll butt your backside from here to eternity.’
‘Oh, they’re just animals, I’m sure they’ll not mind if I…’
‘They’re grieving!’ snapped Rona. ‘Just as you would be if you’d lost your sister, so I’m warning you, they’ll not like it if you go sticking your nose in.’
‘Well,’ said Hayes, ‘truth be known, that’s fine by me. So, have you any idea who’d want to kill one of your goats?’
PERDITION: A Scottish murder mystery with a shocking twist (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 7) Page 1