‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Munro. ‘I’m more of a cheddar man, myself.’
‘Well, the offer’s there, if you change your mind.’
‘Will I stay and lend you a hand? I mean, would you like some help laying Esme to rest?’
‘No, it’s fine, really,’ said Rona. ‘I’ve already dug her a nice spot out near the woods. It’s sunny there, she’ll like it. So, what happens now?’
Munro hesitated as he opened the car door.
‘The bolt,’ he said decisively. ‘We’ll start with the bolt. It should be relatively easy to trace, particularly if it was bought locally, after all, a pistol bow’s not exactly common, is it?’
‘Right you are. So, when will I hear from you?’
‘Och, I wouldnae hold your breath, Miss Macallan, these things take time. I’ll be in touch when I have something to report. Oh, and here’s a card, you can send the photos to the address on that.’
Chapter 4
Rummaging through the cupboards in a desperate search for something to eat other than the bananas she’d bought purely as a table decoration, West – embarrassed at not being able to offer Dougal even a Hobnob – yelped with delight as the front door opened and a weary-looking Munro, doing a passable impression of a packhorse on the Pampas, lumbered down the hallway with his holdall slung across his shoulders and his arms straining with the weight of the shopping bags and the wine carriers.
‘At last!’ she said as she launched herself at the groceries like a rapacious wolf, ‘we’re absolutely starving.’
‘No change there, then.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Guess,’ said Munro as he pulled the Balvenie from one of the bags. ‘And you’re most welcome. Not a bother.’
‘Sorry, I mean, thanks. You shouldn’t have. Hasn’t taken you this long, though, surely?’
‘No, no. As you can see, I went to fetch some clothes as well. Dougal, nice to see you, laddie. Are you well?’
‘Aye, thanks boss,’ said Dougal peering over the laptop. ‘All good.’
‘And what, if I might ask, are you so engrossed in?’
‘I invited him for dinner,’ said West, ‘so he could help me out. We’re trying to trace a phone number.’
‘Are you indeed?’ said Munro as he poured himself a whisky. ‘And is this something to do with the fellow in the hospital?’
‘Worse. I think I’ve been sent death threats by some Pagan cult.’
‘What?’
‘Here,’ said West as she passed him her phone. ‘Some weirdo’s sent me a stack of photos of a dead goat.’
Munro, not usually given to overt displays of jocularity, burst into fits of laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’ said West, snatching the phone. ‘This is serious! It’s sick!’
‘Did you not get any of a virgin lying on the sacrificial altar?’
‘You know something, don’t you?’
‘I’ll explain, lassie. I’ll explain. You see, yesterday, when I saw George, he asked me to pass on an address, to yourself in fact, Dougal, but I forgot.’
‘An address for what, boss?’
‘A woman over in Cumnock,’ said Munro, gasping as the Balvenie hit the back of his throat, ‘she’s had some trouble at home. I found the address in my pocket this morning and as the pair of you were otherwise engaged, and Duncan’s away with his latest squeeze, I took it upon myself to pay her a wee visit.’
‘So, what’s this got to do with a satanic death cult?’ said West.
‘It’s nothing of the sort, Charlie. Some demented individual killed one of her goats, with a crossbow no less. Hence the photographs.’
‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ said Dougal. ‘He’s obviously not right in the head, is he?’
‘Yeah, but hold on, hold on,’ said West. ‘Animals are possessions, right? So, why did DCI Elliot ask you, I mean Dougal, to look into it?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Munro, ‘but orders are orders.’
‘Well, I don’t get it. I mean, there’s bugger all we can do about a dead goat.’
‘On the contrary, lassie, there’s plenty we can do. This lady, her name’s Rona Macallan by the way, was clearly quite upset, not least because it affects her livelihood, too.’
‘Livelihood?’ said West, scouring the worktops for a corkscrew. ‘Don’t tell me she breeds goats?’
‘She makes cheese, lassie. And butter.’
‘Well, whoop-de-do. Even so…’
‘Even so,’ said Munro. ‘I said I’d look into it for her.’
‘You can’t, Jimbo! You’re retired!’
‘And you’re busy. I may not be a DI anymore, Charlie, but there’s nothing to stop me being a PI.’
‘Oh, come off it, you can’t be serious.’
‘Alright then,’ said Munro as he pulled a plastic bag from his pocket containing the steel-tipped bolt, ‘let’s just say it’s a wee favour for a friend. A fellow animal lover. Dougal, this was fired from the crossbow. Now, as you have a computer, and I do not, I wonder if you’d mind trying to find out where it came from.’
‘Aye, okay boss. Let’s have it here. It must have a manufacturer’s marque on it somewhere.’
‘Just a moment,’ said West, smirking. ‘That’s using police resources without authority.’
‘What do mean, Charlie?’
‘Dougal, of course. He’s one of my resources.’
‘You’ve become quite possessive in your dotage, lassie,’ said Munro, ‘however, as it’s the weekend, and Dougal’s a grown man, I think it’s only right we let him decide how he spends his downtime.’
‘I don’t mind, miss, really,’ said Dougal. ‘I’ve nothing else to do.’
‘Well done, laddie, I knew I could count on you. Now, if you’re stopping for supper, will you take a steak with us, or will I do you some chicken?’
‘No, no, not for me. Change of plan, boss. I’d rather get my teeth into this.’
‘Oh, come on Dougal,’ said West, ‘it’s the least we can do. There’s plenty to go round.’
‘Thanks, but no. I’ll take myself off and do this at home. I can work better without distractions. I’d say this has probably come from one of those sporting shops. I’ll have a look for stockists in the area first, then widen the search.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said West, sarcastically.
‘Sorry?’
‘Look, if someone’s going round hunting farm animals, they’re hardly likely to go into a shop and say, “can I have some arrows for my crossbow, please”.’
‘Your point being, Charlie?’
‘The internet?’
Munro drained his glass, smiled at West, and winked.
‘My, my, you are sharpening up, lassie, but let’s start with the shops first, it’s easier and quicker. Besides, if that bolt was ordered off the internet, then I doubt we’ve any chance of tracing it at all.’
‘I’m with you, boss,’ said Dougal as he reached for his crash helmet, ‘if it was off the internet, then we’re humped. Are we away to the hospital tomorrow, miss?’
‘Yeah, we should see how the poor bloke’s doing,’ said West, ‘but it’s pointless the both of us going. I’ll do it. You concentrate on that.’
‘Okay, you know where I’ll be if you need me.’
West poured two generous glasses of red and set about unpacking the groceries as Munro slung his coat over a chair and sat down, relieved to take the weight off his feet.
‘So,’ he said, sipping his wine. ‘How was your day, Charlie? Did you actually get to speak with the chap in the hospital?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ said West. ‘The poor sod’s in the ICU. The only thing keeping him alive is the national grid.’
‘Dear, dear. So, you’ve no leads then?’
‘Actually, yeah, we do. We know his name’s Ferguson. Craig Ferguson. He’s a thirty-something with a flash new Mini and two platinum credit cards. Glasgow are sending the boys round to his flat to see if there�
��s anyone there. Hopefully he’s got a wife, or a girlfriend, or something.’
‘Glasgow?’
‘Yup. That’s where he lives, and works. Well, according to his driving licence it is. And he was carrying a security pass for some techy company on Finnieston Street.’
‘Well, what on earth was he doing down here if he’s based in Glasgow?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said West. ‘Maybe he’s got family in the area. We’ll just have to wait until he wakes up, if he wakes up, to find out.’
Munro leaned back, held the glass to lips and pondered the scenario.
‘They found his vehicle in Mauchline, you say?’
‘Just outside,’ said West, ‘but he was definitely heading in this direction. And before you ask, the car was clean. We’re working back along the road until we get some cameras, then, if we can pick him up, we should be able to find out exactly where he came from.’
Munro took a large sip of wine and smiled contentedly.
‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,’ he said wistfully.
‘I heard you the first time.’
‘Do you recall the day we met? That fateful day you wandered into my office looking for help?’
‘Yeah, of course I do. I was trying to trace a missing person. Some bar owner who lived in Wanstead.’
‘And do you remember what a complete and utter mess you were in?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Havering into your vodka every night and living off takeaways? Hiding from your responsibilities?’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘And just look at you now.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘You, lassie. You’ve changed. Matured. Dare I say, grown up, even. There’s no doubt about it, you’ve come a long way, Charlie. A long way indeed.’
‘Oh, stop it. If it wasn’t for the fact you’d spent most of your time booting me up the backside, I’d have jacked it in ages ago.’
‘And is that how you feel now? Like jacking it in?’
West leaned against the fridge folded her arms and smiled ruefully.
‘Nah. To be honest, Jimbo, since moving up here I’m actually enjoying it. For the first time ever, I’m actually enjoying it. Although, I have to say, not having to work with a team of misogynistic layabouts pumped full of testosterone does help.’
‘Good. Then we should celebrate. One steak or two?’
Chapter 5
For the second time in as many days, Munro – who’d witnessed some truly harrowing scenes throughout his forty-year career including dismembered bodies scattered across the railway tracks, dead junkies lying in their own filth, and a rotting corpse washed up with the tide – was not prepared for the sight of West lounging on the sofa in her Minnie Mouse pyjamas snacking on pitta and houmous with her laptop balancing on her tummy at such an early hour.
‘Please tell me that’s a film you’re watching, Charlie, and nothing to do with work. I’m not sure my heart will stand the shock.’
‘Then you’d better get yourself a pacemaker, Jimbo. It’s work, I’m afraid.’
‘In that case I’m in need of a strong brew and a sit down. Will I fetch you a cup?’
‘No, ta. Got one here.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Munro as he pulled up a chair and stirred three spoons of sugar into his tea, ‘this chap, the fellow in the motor car, you said he lives and works in Glasgow?’
‘Nothing wrong with your memory.’
‘But he was found on the southbound carriageway just outside Mauchline?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay, so, this fellow’s had seven bells knocked out of him, right? Why then did he not go home? Or to the A&E? Why was he heading down here?’
‘Dunno,’ said West. ‘Maybe he’s on the run, maybe he was legging it south of the border, you know, Carlisle, or Leeds, or London.’
‘No, no, not in his condition.’
‘Well, maybe he was scared, just trying to get away.’
‘From whom?’
‘Sorry, Jimbo, too early. I’ll get back to you on that one.’
‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘Mark my words, Charlie, this Ferguson chappie knows someone round here. Trust me. I’d start searching, if I were you.’
‘I’ll send the sniffer dogs out as soon as I’ve finished this.’
‘Finished what? Have you had news from the hospital?’
‘Nah, it’s an email,’ said West, ‘from Glasgow. The good news is, they’ve saved me a shedload of work.’
‘How so?’
‘They picked up Ferguson’s Mini double-parked outside a bar on Argyle Street, not far from where he works.’
‘Perhaps it’s his local, or an after-work watering hole.’
‘Could be,’ said West, ‘either way, he must’ve said something to upset someone. The cameras outside caught him staggering from Corunna Street, that’s one door down, and he’s in a right state. That must be where he was done-over.’
‘And the time?’
‘About fifty minutes before they found him, so it ties in perfectly, he was heading down here straight from the bar, no stopping along the way.’
‘Well, you seem to have everything under control,’ said Munro as he finished his tea and reached for his coat. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, I mean, I’m not teaching you to suck eggs but I’d call the bar if I were you, see if he was meeting anyone, find out who he talked to.’
‘At this hour? On a Sunday?’
‘Quite right, I’m getting ahead of myself. Well, that’s me away. I’ll see you this evening.’
‘Hold on,’ said West, ‘what do you mean? Where are you going?’
‘Home. I need to speak with the builders about the plans for the new kitchen before they rip out the old one. Oh, and speaking of kitchens, I thought we’d have some roast beef for supper, what do you say?’
‘Smashing.’
‘Good. If you put it on at five, we can eat at seven.’
* * *
Dougal, enjoying a Sunday brunch of soft boiled eggs and a round of toast and marmalade as he continued his internet search for shops that specialised in field sports or outdoor pursuits, was momentarily distracted by an arresting image of a busty brunette in khaki shorts wielding a hunting rifle in one hand and a brace of pheasants in the other who was, according to the headline, “a game bird with attitude”.
Embarrassed, he promptly returned to the search page and concentrated his efforts on the text-based listings, lest he be drawn into joining a gun club in the vain hope of meeting a sharp-shooting singleton at target practice, when an unexpected call interrupted his train of thought.
‘Has something happened?’ he said. ‘It’s not like you to call on a Sunday.’
‘Relax, there’s nothing wrong, pal,’ said Duncan. ‘In fact, I’d go so far as to say things couldn’t be better.’
‘So, the champagne went down okay?’
‘Oh, aye. More than okay, I’ve left her sleeping it off.’
‘Alright for some. So, what’s the story?’
‘Just thought I’d check in,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m heading back home, I need to clear my head before I start trying to trace the source of the Buprenorphine they found in that Byrne fella.’
‘No offence, Duncan, but what’s with the enthusiasm?’
‘Well, I’ve not got the chief to cushion my fall anymore, have I? I have to answer to Westy now, so I thought I’d best start behaving myself. How about you? Anything happening I should know about?’
‘Not unless you’re interested in goats,’ said Dougal.
‘What are you havering about?’
‘One was shot with a crossbow yesterday, over in Cumnock. The DCI’s asked us to look into it.’
‘The DCI? Why? Is he up for making a curry or something?’
‘I’ve no idea but the boss…’
‘Munro? But he’s retired now.’
‘That’s what we thought. Anyway, he went to s
ee the owner and he brought back the bolt, I’m trying to find out where it came from.’
‘A crossbow, you say? That’s not the weapon of choice for your average nutter. It’s probably someone who’s into archery or paintballing, I reckon.’
‘Aye, could be,’ said Dougal. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘You should check it out. See here, when I was up in Inverkip, some of the lads used to go to a place near Paisley. They were well into it.’
‘Did you take part?’
‘Me?’ said Duncan laughing aloud. ‘No, no. Run around with a bunch of wee fellas playing at being soldiers? That’s not for me. I can think of better ways of getting my kicks than chasing some numpty through the woods with a toy gun.’
‘They’ve probably got some kind of inferiority complex,’ said Dougal, ‘but paintball’s one thing, Duncan, this is completely different.’
‘Nonsense, pal, it’s all the same. Listen, I’ll give them a call if you like, see if any of them are into crossbows. It’ll not do any harm. I mean, they might even know where to get the ammo from.’
* * *
Dressed in black jeans, a white vest and her well-worn, waxed cotton jacket, West – her ruffled hair pinned precariously atop her head – checked her phone as she waited in reception for Bowen to answer his pager, perking up as the registrar, his eyes as baggy as a Bassett hound’s, sauntered towards her.
‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
‘Nothing special,’ said West, smiling up at his gaunt but chiselled features, ‘I was in the area so…’
‘Not that old chestnut?’
‘It’s true. I’ve just come from the ICU, I had to check on Ferguson.’
‘Oh aye, of course. And how is he?’
‘Still out for the count but his breathing’s improved. They reckon there’s a chance they might be able to unplug him by this time tomorrow. Just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bowen. ‘I must admit, we get so many folk passing through here I tend not to keep an eye on them once they’ve left. If I did, I’d be an emotional wreck.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like one.’
‘One of the benefits of shift work on the NHS. Still, it’s good news about that Ferguson lad. You must be pleased.’
PERDITION: A Scottish murder mystery with a shocking twist (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 7) Page 4