PERDITION: A Scottish murder mystery with a shocking twist (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 7)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Yeah, I am, but only because it means I won’t be dealing with a murder inquiry and I might get some answers as to how he ended up in such a state. Have you actually eaten anything recently?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bowen. ‘A pot noodle and a couple of Mars bars.’

  ‘You need feeding up,’ said West hesitantly. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy an early lunch? I mean, if you’ve got time, that is.’

  ‘Actually, I was going home to bed but now that you’ve mentioned it, aye, why not? Give me five minutes to change out of these and I’ll be right with you.’

  * * *

  Having endured a tempestuous relationship with a self-centred toff who wore Savile Row suits followed by a doomed date with a Bohemian hipster who preferred to roll his jeans above the ankle to accentuate his hemp sandals, and a three day dalliance with an ex-colleague who considered combat fatigues ideal casualwear, when it came to matters of a sartorial nature West thought she’d seen it all until Dr Bowen, dressed in raggedy, oil-stained jeans, biker boots, and a vintage leather jacket returned to reception.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said, grinning approvingly, ‘you look… different.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that I was half-expecting to see you in a tweed jacket and a pair of brogues.’

  ‘Not very practical on a bike,’ said Bowen.

  ‘Bike?’

  ‘Aye. It’s a Harley, a Fat Bob.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s the name of the model, not the mechanic. Are you into bikes, Inspector?’

  ‘Could be,’ said West, raising her eyebrows. ‘And the name’s Charlotte, by the way. So, what do you fancy? Pasta? Pizza?’

  ‘I know a wee place. Come with me.’

  * * *

  Though not as intimate as she’d have liked, West was willing to tolerate the open-plan seating, the harsh, fluorescent strip lights, and the din of the other diners deep in conversation, but having to queue with a tray in her hands behind a line of porters, nurses, and doctors was not what she’d expected.

  ‘Where I come from,’ she said as she tucked into a baked potato piled high with cheese and beans, ‘when someone asks if you like hospital food, it’s normally a veiled threat.’

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ said Bowen, ‘this menu’s designed to free up the beds quicker than a dose of laxatives. Whatever you do, stay away from the chicken korma.’

  ‘So, long night, was it?’

  ‘Just the usual,’ said Bowen as he reached into his pocket, ‘I’m used to it. Here, I got you a present.’

  West, taken completely by surprise, could feel her cheeks flushing as she downed her cutlery and unfolded a slip of paper.

  ‘Oh,’ she said disappointedly. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Saves me the bother of emailing it. As you can see from the results, your man Ferguson was completely clean when he came in. No alcohol, no drugs. Of course, it’s not conclusive, you’ll have to wait for bloods to be sure.’

  ‘Yeah, we will,’ said West, ‘thanks, anyway.’

  ‘So,’ said Bowen as he polished off his omelette, ‘what does the rest of the weekend hold in store for you?’

  ‘Nothing much apart from work, and with less than twelve hours remaining, it’s hardly worth making plans.’

  Bowen leaned back, sipped his milky tea and smiled.

  ‘Have you ever ridden a motorbike?’ he said.

  ‘Nah, but I have been tempted. I was going to get one a few years back but I figured it’d only get in the way of my social life.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Wouldn’t do for a cop to get nicked for drink-driving, would it?’

  ‘No, I see your point.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get my head down for a couple of hours, then take Ally for a blast along the coast.’

  ‘Ally?’ said West. ‘I thought your bike was called Bob?’

  ‘It is.’

  West, looking as deflated as a burst balloon, stared at Bowen and forced a smile.

  ‘I should be going,’ she said. ‘Lots to do.’

  * * *

  At just four and a half feet high and twelve feet long, the indisputable advantage of the Figaro was that, when parked amidst a row of average sized cars, it was completely imperceptible thereby allowing West – who thumped the steering with both hands while groaning through gritted teeth – to let off steam without drawing attention to herself before laughing at her own stupidity and calling Dougal for an update.

  ‘Miss?’ he said. ‘Do you need for me for something?’

  ‘What I need, Dougal, is a clown suit. I’ve just made a complete fool of myself.’

  ‘Are you at the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doctor Bowen?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Welcome to my world. What’s up?’

  ‘Just wanted to fill you in,’ said West. ‘They think they might be able to take Ferguson off life support tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, that is good news, miss, although it doesn’t necessarily mean we’ll get to talk to him.’

  ‘No, I know, but at least it’s a step in the right direction. What about you? How are you getting on?’

  ‘Brilliantly,’ said Dougal, ‘have you got a minute?’

  ‘Take as long as you like.’

  ‘Okay, that bolt from the crossbow, it’s made of ABS and manufactured by a company called MK. There’s nowhere down here that sells that kind of thing, the nearest place is in Glasgow but I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to ring them, then I can find out if they keep a log of their sales or if they’ve any regular customers, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Okay, Dougal, nice one,’ said West. ‘That should cheer Jimbo up a bit and God knows it seems like he could do with it.’

  ‘Not exactly embracing retirement, is he?’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  * * *

  Salivating at the mouth-watering aroma of five and a half pounds of prime topside sizzling in the oven, West – already on her second glass – yelled down the hall as a surprisingly cheerful Munro returned from Carsethorn.

  ‘Half an hour yet,’ she said, ‘you may as well grab yourself a drink.’

  ‘I’ll not need an invitation for that,’ said Munro, smiling as he poured himself a large Balvenie.

  ‘You’re looking pleased with yourself. What’s up?’

  ‘Och, I’ve just had a rather pleasant surprise, that’s all. You see, Charlie, I was expecting my new kitchen to be some flat-packed rubbish sent all the way from China but the gentlemen doing the work showed me a brochure and said I could have anything I wanted as the insurance company were going to foot the bill.’

  ‘Well, that’s great news,’ said West. ‘So, what are you going for? Some swanky state-of-the-art thing with a double oven, built-in microwave and a dishwasher?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. I’m having solid oak and they’re even going to lay some flagstones on the floor, but best of all, I shall have a smashing new oven just like the old one.’

  ‘What? Are you mad?’ said West. ‘An opportunity like this and you want something that looks like it was built in the fifties?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Munro, downing his whisky in favour of a glass of red. ‘Trust me, Charlie, progress doesn’t necessarily mean you’re moving forward. No, no, I’m sticking with what I know.’

  ‘Each to his own. So, you’re happy, then?’

  ‘Content, Charlie. Aye, that’s the word. Content.’

  Munro took a slug of wine, tucked a napkin into his collar and sat with his knife and fork grasped firmly in each hand like a couple of flag poles as West carved the joint and served up.

  ‘You’ve excelled yourself, Charlie,’ he said as she piled slice after slice onto his plate. ‘Much appreciated.’

  ‘Beans?’

  Munro replied with a blank look of bewilderment on his face.

&nb
sp; ‘You know, those long, green things called vegetables? Thought not. Just the spuds then?’

  ‘Thanking you. So, how about you? How was your day?’

  West topped up their glasses and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve had better,’ she said sheepishly.

  ‘Och, I’m sorry to hear that. Did you not get to see this Ferguson chappie in the hospital?’

  ‘Yup. They say there’s a chance he might come round tomorrow, if he doesn’t pop his clogs when they take him off life support.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Charlie,’ said Munro with a smirk. ‘I’ve known you for far too long and there’s one thing you’ll never be – a poker player. You’ve not got the face for it.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Unless I’m mistaken, I’d say this has something to do with somebody in the medical profession and if your track record’s anything to go by, it’s probably a pathologist.’

  West took a large sip of wine, stared at Munro and smiled.

  ‘Registrar,’ she said.

  ‘If you keep looking for it, Charlie, you’ll never find it. One day it’ll rear up and smack you in the face when you least expect it. Trust me.’

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ said West. ‘I spoke to Dougal earlier, he thinks he might’ve found out where your crossbow bolt came from.’

  ‘By jiminy, that was quick. How on earth does he do it?’

  ‘Cos he’s only half human. The other half’s Apple.’

  ‘Apple?’

  ‘As in Mac.’

  ‘I’m sure that means something,’ said Munro with a gratified sigh. ‘Now, remind me, did I purchase a pudding when I shopped for your groceries?’

  ‘Yup,’ said West as her phone rang. ‘Get that will you, it’s on speaker. Rhubarb crumble, coming up.’

  ‘James Munro, gone but not forgotten. How can I help?’

  ‘Alright, boss!’ said Dougal. ‘Do you want that on your headstone?’

  ‘No, no, a simple “do not disturb” will suffice. Is it Charlie you’re wanting?’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ said West. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been through Byrne’s mobile, miss, he and this other fella spoke to each other four or five times the night he died. Going through his call history I’d say it must be a pal of his, name of Sean Jardine.’

  ‘Then we should to speak to him,’ said West. ‘Have you got an address?’

  ‘Not yet, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘I’ve got two hundred and thirty Jardines in Glasgow to get through, I’m just hoping there’s not too many Seans.’

  ‘Okay, well knowing you, that won’t take long. What then?’

  ‘Well, if I can find him tonight, then I thought I’d scoot up there first thing tomorrow and have a wee chat. I can call in on that place that sells the crossbows while I’m there.’

  ‘Okay, no probs,’ said West. ‘Give me a buzz when you’re done.’

  * * *

  ‘You’ve been gassing for ages, pal,’ said Duncan. ‘Have you been dialling that speaking clock, again?’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Dougal. ‘I’ve been talking to West. What’s so urgent?’

  ‘I’ve just spoken with one of the lads stationed in Inverkip and have I got some news for you!’

  ‘Do I need to sit down?’

  ‘You need to take up drinking so you can celebrate.’

  ‘I’ve an Irn-Bru in the fridge. Go on.’

  ‘Okay, first of all, this fella, Bobby – he says there’s a place near Shawlands that sells all that crossbow stuff…’

  ‘Pollokshaws Road?’

  ‘Aye, how did you…? Anyway, he also says there’s a fella in the paintball crowd who takes it all a bit too seriously.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘He thinks he’s a member of the SAS or something. Anyway, apparently he’s into anything that doesn’t need a firearms certificate; air pistols, rifles, BB guns… and crossbows.’

  ‘That’s super, Duncan, thanks. But how…?’

  ‘Wait for it. His name’s Sean Jardine and he works at the same bank as Alan Byrne.’

  Chapter 6

  Like so many start-ups seeking to emulate the success of the world’s largest information technology company, Craig Ferguson’s employers sought instant credibility by naming their company “iNET” and providing their workers with a crèche, a subsidised restaurant, a games room, and a chill-out area furnished entirely with bean bags all within the confines of a suitably modern, glass-fronted building in the fashionable Finnieston quarter of town.

  Averse to traipsing into Cumnock for her weekly supplies let alone venturing into the city, Rona – raging at his impudent behaviour and furious that he’d not returned any of her calls – stormed through the doors where the achingly-hip girl on reception sporting a purple-dyed bob, a tattoo on her left shoulder, and enough piercings to make her a valuable asset to any scrap metal dealer, regarded her with a mild look of fear.

  ‘Can I help?’ she said nervously.

  ‘Craig Ferguson, please.’

  The young girl cocked her head to one side and frowned.

  ‘Craig Ferguson?’ she said, mystified. ‘I’m sorry, but…’

  ‘See here, missy,’ said Rona, raising her voice, ‘if he’s asked you to cover for him, you can forget it. Tell him it’s Rona and he’s to get his arse down here, right now!’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I’ll go myself, if I have to! Every floor. Top to bottom. Last chance.’

  ‘But he doesn’t work here anymore.’

  Rona drew a breath as though she’d taken a body blow to the chest and gawped at the girl.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said.

  ‘They let him go; must be five months now.’

  ‘Five months?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, where’d he go?’

  ‘Search me. I’ve not seen him.’

  ‘Home address? It’s Minerva something, you must have his home address?’

  ‘Aye, but I can’t give you that,’ said the girl, lowering her eyes. ‘I’m sorry but it’s...’

  Rona leaned across the desk and glared at the cowering girl.

  ‘Listen, hen,’ she said, ‘I’m not in the habit of pleading. I need to speak to him, now. It’s urgent.’

  Biting her bottom lip, the young girl thought for a moment, glanced over her shoulder, and relented.

  ‘Okay,’ she said as she tapped away at the keyboard, ‘it’s number twenty, Minerva Street. Flat one. But if anyone asks…’

  * * *

  Based on her own personal experience as a cash-strapped student searching for affordable digs she knew that a studio flat was nothing more than a glorified bedsit invariably located above a bookies or in some far-flung corner of a run-down tenement and definitely not the kind of accommodation associated with a four storey, Georgian terrace on a residential street with private parking and gated, communal gardens.

  Convinced she’d arrived at the wrong address, Rona nonetheless buzzed the entry-phone and made her way up to the first floor where the door to the flat stood ajar. Easing it open, she called inside and was instantly embarrassed at having disturbed a distraught young lady in a padded puffer jacket with a wailing child in her arms.

  ‘Oh, I was expecting somebody else,’ said the woman, tugging at her ponytail. ‘I’m waiting for my ride.’

  ‘No, my fault,’ said Rona, ‘I’m in the wrong place, sorry for…’

  ‘Who’re you after?’

  ‘No-one. Craig. I was looking for a Craig Ferguson.’

  ‘You’re not in the wrong place. This is Craig’s home.’

  ‘Really? Then you must be…?’

  ‘Mary.’

  ‘His sister?’

  ‘His wife,’ said Mary. ‘And this is Jamie. His son.’

  Feeling as though she’d been hit by a defibrillator on maximum charge, Rona stood rooted to the spot tryi
ng to catch her breath.

  ‘Wife?’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  ‘Only until the divorce comes through, then that’s me away. If it’s any consolation, you’re not the first. Craig’s not one for bragging about his marital status.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rona, fearful of losing her composure. ‘I should go.’

  ‘No, you’re alright. Was it something in particular you were wanting him for?’

  ‘I just need a word,’ said Rona, ‘he’s…’

  ‘He’s what? Stood you up? Done the dirty on you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I feel for you,’ said Mary. ‘A word of advice, next time you need him, try looking under a rock.’

  ‘Aye. I will. Are you okay? You’re looking a bit peaky.’

  ‘I just need to get to the hospital, that’s all.’

  ‘The hospital? And there’s me holding you up. Is it the bairn?’

  ‘No, we’re both fine. As it happens, it’s Craig we’re off to see…’

  ‘Craig?’

  ‘…he’s landed himself in a spot of bother. Some fella knocked the crap out of him on Friday night.’

  ‘Friday? Are you joking me?’

  ‘I wish I was. I just hope he’s not dead, I’m going to take that bawbag for every penny he’s got.’

  ‘Where is he? Glasgow Royal?’

  ‘No,’ said Mary. ‘Ayr. He’s probably got some tart hidden away down there.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Rona, lowering her eyes. ‘Probably. Listen, do you… I mean, can I give you a lift? I’m heading that way and my car’s just around the corner.’

  ‘Thanks, but my brother’s taking us, he should be here by… oh, speak of the devil, grab my bag would you.’

  The short, blond-haired, thirty-seven year old who looked as though he’d swallowed a stack of steroids before squeezing himself into a suit two sizes too small, proffered a podgy hand and eyed Rona like a stalker.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said with a twisted grin.

  * * *

  In a bid to make an impression on West which would consign his hitherto erratic and at times unprofessional behaviour to the history books, Duncan – having risen early enough to reach his desk by 7 a.m. – looked as though he’d spent the night cuddling a kebab on a park bench in the Cairngorms.