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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Blimey, you look rough,’ said West, smiling as she breezed through the door.

  ‘Nice to see you, too,’ said Duncan, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘I’m trying to figure out where Byrne could’ve laid his hands on that Buprenorphine. Five hours I’ve been at it and nothing so far. Where is everyone?’

  ‘Dougal’s in Glasgow and I got bogged down with the forensics report on Craig Ferguson’s motor.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not a sausage,’ said West, ‘speaking of which, I got lunch on the way in.’

  ‘Thanks very much. Is the chief not with you?’

  ‘Nope. You’re forgetting, he’s not one of us anymore.’

  ‘Oh, aye, that’s right,’ said Duncan, unwrapping a toastie. ‘Christ, he’s like a part of the furniture, though. I’m not sure I can get used to him not being around.’

  ‘You don’t have to, not yet. He’s gone shopping, he’ll be here soon.’

  ‘The chief? Shopping?’

  ‘I know,’ said West. ‘Bonkers, isn’t it?

  ‘What’s he after?’

  ‘Plants, I think, for the garden. And a toaster, and a kettle.’

  ‘Department store, then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. Knowing Jimbo, he’s probably rummaging round a junk shop looking for something that was built fifty years ago.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with recycling, I suppose,’ said Duncan as he ruffled his unruly hair. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. So, what’s the deal with Alan Byrne?’

  ‘He’s giving me a headache.’

  ‘Then consider me your aspirin.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Duncan, heaving a sigh. ‘I’ve been on to his GP. He has a check-up every year, regular as clockwork, and he’s as fit as a fiddle, doesn’t even get so much as a sniffle. He’s not a heavy drinker and he’s no history of substance abuse, so, no referral to rehab.’

  West leaned back in her chair and, gathering her thoughts, stared pensively at the ceiling as she sipped her tea.

  ‘Any biscuits?’ she said.

  ‘Aye. Ginger nuts, in the tin.’

  ‘What about bloods?’

  ‘Apart from the ’prenorphine and a wee drop of alcohol, nothing. And pathology say his insides were like a well-oiled machine. Everything was in good working order.’

  ‘Okay, then that leaves one of two possible options: either it was his first time and he blew it by…’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Duncan. ‘I can’t buy that, miss, sorry. Not with Buprenorphine. Like I say, it’s not like scoring weed or a couple of lines, this stuff is hard to come by.’

  ‘Then that leaves the second option which is, somebody gave it to him. Either they administered it forcibly or he took it unwittingly.’

  ‘Aye, that’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘Good, so the question is how? This Buprenorphine, does it come in tablet form or is it a liquid?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘And is it odourless or tasteless? I mean, could it be slipped into a drink or a meal?’

  ‘It could, aye.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure you can’t just get it off the internet? Get it shipped over from the States or somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, you can never be one hundred per cent, miss, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Okay then,’ said West as she dunked a biscuit into her tea, ‘in that case, whoever topped him must have had easy access to it. What about his personal life? Relationships?’

  ‘Single. From what I can gather, the only thing he was in love with was the gym.’

  ‘Then you need to find out who he dated or even slept with in the last six months, including one-night stands.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘In particular, anyone who works in rehab, or as a nurse or a doctor, even a receptionist at a surgery.’

  ‘On it.’

  ‘And you could do worse than starting with that mate of his, that Jardine bloke.’

  ‘Jardine?’ said Duncan. ‘Of course! You do know he works at the same bank as Byrne?’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, I found out last night. I told Dougal.’

  ‘Well, it looks like the two of them were mates, after all. Jardine rang Byrne at least half a dozen times the night he died.’

  ‘You don’t suppose he could’ve…’

  ‘Who knows. Give Dougal a shout, he’s up there now. See if he’s spoken to him yet.’

  * * *

  With a look that belied his inherent hatred of shopping, Munro – grinning like a grandad who’d spent his entire pension on Christmas gifts for his grandchildren – ambled into the office and placed two large carrier bags on the desk.

  ‘This,’ he said, smiling smugly as he held aloft a box featuring a photo of a chrome-plated toaster, ‘is the jewel in the crown of appliances. Not only does it have a timer but with these wee racks, you can pop an entire sandwich in there! It’ll even melt the cheese.’

  ‘Shame you weren’t here half an hour ago, chief,’ said Duncan, ‘we could’ve given it a test run.’

  ‘There’s always tomorrow, laddie. As my kitchen’s not fit for purpose, we may as well make use of it.’

  ‘Did you get a kettle that also boils eggs?’ said West.

  ‘I did not, Charlie. But I did get one that’s capable of inflicting a serious head injury. So, what’s occurring? Is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Nah, not right now,’ said West. ‘Anyway, I thought you were up to your elbows with Billy the Goat?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ said Munro, ‘but we appear to have reached an impasse in the inquiry. I’m waiting to hear from young Dougal about the bolt.’

  ‘It’s your lucky day, chief,’ said Duncan. ‘He’s up there, now.’

  ‘What did he say?’ said West. ‘Has he spoken to Jardine?’

  ‘No, he missed him. He was only in for an hour or so then had to leave. Some sort of family crisis or something.’

  ‘Is that sandwich for me?’ said Munro.

  ‘Yup, all yours,’ said West, interrupted by the ring of her phone, ‘sausage and brown sauce. DI West, who’s this?’

  ‘Sorry for troubling you,’ came a trembling voice, ‘but it’s the old fella I’m wanting, Mr Munro, is it?’

  ‘James Munro?’

  ‘Aye, that’s him. I don’t have his number, this one was on the card he gave me. It’s Rona Macallan.’

  ‘The goat lady?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West as she handed the phone to Munro.

  ‘Miss Macallan, how are you?’

  ‘Not good, Mr Munro. Not good at all. I need you here. I was going to call the police but I thought it best I…’

  ‘Will you calm yourself, Miss Macallan!’ said Munro tersely. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘There’s a fella been harassing me. Threatening me.’

  ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘No, he’s just left. I was away in Glasgow, see, and…’

  ‘By jiminy, Miss Macallan! Take a deep breath! Now, one step at a time, tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Sorry. I went to see Craig…’

  ‘Who’s Craig?’

  ‘Craig Ferguson, he’s my… well, he was my…’

  ‘Hold it right there,’ said Munro as he passed the phone to West, ‘Charlie, put this infernal device on speaker, you need to hear this. Apologies, Miss Macallan. Now, what’s all this about Craig Ferguson?’

  West’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name.

  ‘He and I were in a relationship,’ said Rona.

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ said West.

  ‘We met a few months ago but he lives miles away, so he comes to me on a Friday and stops the weekend. Last Friday he’d barely got through the door but when I told him about Esme he took off like a shot. I’ve not heard from him since, so I went to his house.’

  ‘In Glasgow?�
��

  ‘Aye. Anyway, it turns out he’s married, see, and his wife was on her way to the hospital because she said he’d had some kind of accident. Her brother was giving her a lift.’

  ‘Did you go with them?’

  ‘I showed them the way.’

  ‘And did you see Craig?’

  ‘No, they said he wasn’t allowed visitors so I left my number and came home.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘and then?’

  ‘I’m not long indoors and her brother, the fella who gave her a lift, pulls up outside.’

  ‘So, he followed you?’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Rona. ‘And he’s scary looking, you know, like he’s not right in the head. Then he starts shouting at me and waving his arms and…’

  ‘What was he shouting?’ said West.

  ‘I couldn’t hear. I locked the door and ran upstairs. Why would he do that? I’ve not met the man before, why would he threaten me?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Munro as he fastened his coat, ‘but I’m on my way over. You stay put and dinnae answer the door to anyone. This fella, did you get a name? Did he introduce himself?’

  ‘Aye, his name’s Sean. Sean Jardine.’

  A momentary silence filled the air as West, raising her hand to prevent anyone from speaking, locked eyes with Duncan.

  ‘Miss Macallan,’ she said sternly, ‘listen to me, this is important. Do you remember what car he was driving?’

  ‘No, my head’s all over the shop. Let me think. It was blue, I think. Aye, dark blue. And sporty. A BMW.’

  ‘Duncan,’ said West as she hung up the phone, ‘get yourself over to the hospital, speak to Ferguson’s wife and find out where Jardine lives.’

  ‘Roger that, miss.’

  ‘And ask her if she knows his car reg, if she doesn’t, then call Dougal, tell him to get his arse back to the bank; if they’ve got on-site parking then they should have his details.’

  Chapter 7

  Not quite the picture of inconsolable grief he was expecting, Mary Ferguson – seated outside a room in the ICU with a bairn on her lap, her coat on the floor, and a look of fury on her face – scowled at Duncan as he ambled towards her.

  ‘Mrs Ferguson?’ he said, raising a smile as he flashed his warrant card. ‘DC Reid, can I trouble you for a moment?’

  ‘Oh, here we go,’ said Mary. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s about your brother, Sean.’

  ‘Sean? What are you wanting him for? Should you not be looking for the bampot who did this to Craig?’

  ‘We are,’ said Duncan, ‘and before you go off on one, we’ve been working on it all weekend and my colleagues have been here every day to check on him.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Mary shamefully. ‘Well, that’s alright then.’

  ‘Your brother’s car, would you happen to know the registration number?’

  ‘Don’t be daft! Why would I…’

  ‘Then, I need his home address.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll not ask again, Mrs Ferguson. Address, please.’

  ‘Miller Street. Sixty-four. Top floor.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  * * *

  Safely out of earshot, Duncan pulled out his phone, cursing as he paced back and forth waiting for an answer.

  ‘At last!’ he said. ‘Dougal, where are you?’

  ‘Pollokshaws Road.’

  ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘No, I’m pulled up.’

  ‘Okay, you’ll not believe this but that Craig Ferguson fella; he’s been having it away with the goat lady.’

  ‘Rona Macallan? Well, well. Talk about six degrees of separation.’

  ‘Aye, not only that, he’s married too, but here’s the best bit: his brother-in-law is Sean Jardine.’

  ‘Jardine?’ said Dougal. ‘Jeez-oh, at last things are getting interesting.’

  ‘You’re not wrong, there, pal. Get this: Jardine dropped Mary Ferguson at the hospital this morning then for some reason he headed straight for Rona Macallan’s and started threatening her.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, I suppose if he knows his sister’s husband has been playing around, then maybe he’s just looking out for her.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Either way,’ said Dougal, ‘we should bring him in as soon as possible.’

  ‘That’s what Westy said. She reckons we’ve enough to have him for trespass and threatening behaviour, so that’ll give us a chance to question him about Byrne, and Macallan too.’

  ‘Do we know where he is?’

  ‘No,’ said Duncan, ‘we know he’s driving a dark blue BMW but we’ve not got any details. Listen, do they have secure parking at that bank of his?’

  ‘They do. I used it myself.’

  ‘Magic. She wants you back there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’ve not got time to go back the office and we can’t run a trace through DVLA without the registration.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll get it circulated.’

  ‘Then she wants you to check on his flat in case he’s gone back home. Will I text you the address?’

  ‘No need, I already have it – Miller Street.’

  ‘Aye, Miller Street,’ said Duncan. ‘Now, why does that sound so familiar?’

  ‘It’s the same address as Alan Byrne, you dafty. Same address.’

  * * *

  Trying his best to appear sympathetic, Duncan, head hung low, shuffled back along the corridor with his hands in his pockets and spoke softly.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Ferguson,’ he said. ‘I had to make a call. Have you seen him yet? Craig?’

  ‘I have not,’ said Mary, ‘and it doesn’t look as if I will, either. Not for a while yet.’

  ‘Well, can I fetch you something? A tea, maybe? Or a blanket for the bairn?’

  ‘No. What you can fetch me is something that’ll bring that good-for-nothing husband of mine back to the land of the living.’

  ‘Look,’ said Duncan, ‘I’m no expert, and I know folk have different ways of coping with grief but if you don’t mind saying so, you seem more angry than upset.’

  ‘Angry is not the word,’ said Mary. ‘I’m fizzing! Whoever did this obviously doesn’t realise I’ve a bairn to look after and if Craig dies then that’s me humped. What’ll I do for money then?’

  ‘Aye, fair point. So, you really have no idea who might be responsible for this? I mean, is there anyone Craig might’ve rubbed up the wrong way?’

  ‘No chance. Any sign of trouble and he’s away on his toes.’

  ‘What about his pals? Anyone he might’ve upset?’

  ‘He doesn’t get out enough to have any pals.’

  ‘Work colleagues?’

  Mary turned to Duncan and raised her eyebrows, a sarcastic smile accentuating the premature wrinkles on her pale, drawn face.

  ‘Craig’s not had a job in months,’ she said. ‘He was sacked.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ said Duncan, shaking he head. ‘Cutbacks was it? The economy, right?’

  ‘Gross misconduct. Inappropriate behaviour.’

  Trying not to look too surprised, Duncan squatted down beside her and casually rubbed his chin.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what it is he did, exactly?’

  ‘No. I would not. It’s too embarrassing.’

  ‘Then, I’ll not ask again. Listen, about your brother, Mrs Ferguson, he was here earlier, right?’

  ‘Aye, he was. He gave me a lift.’

  ‘He gave you a lift all the way from Glasgow and didn’t hang around to keep you company?’

  ‘No,’ said Mary, ‘he said he had things to do. He’s not one for compassion, is Sean.’

  ‘Would you happen to know if he’s friendly with a lady called Rona Macallan?’

  ‘Macallan? You mean the woman who came to my house?’

  ‘Aye. That’s her.’

  ‘Well, how could he know her?
They’ve only just met, on my doorstep, if you please.’

  ‘I’m just covering all the bases, Mrs Ferguson. That’s all.’

  Duncan hauled himself to his feet, his eyes drawn to the bruise-like blemishes on Mary’s bony, bare arms, and buttoned his coat.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept you long enough.’

  ‘Cheery-bye.’

  ‘Just one thing: are you clean, now?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Are you clean? Or are you still using?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m not blind, Mrs Ferguson.’

  ‘I’m on a programme,’ said Mary indignantly.

  ‘Glad to hear it. Where do you go?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I said where do you go?’

  ‘The Crisis Centre. West Street.’

  ‘And is Craig into this junk as well?’

  ‘No,’ said Mary. ‘That’s not him, he’ll not even take a coffee; he’s that soft.’

  ‘How about Sean? I hear it’s all the rage with these city whizz-kids.’

  ‘Not that meathead, he’s other ways of getting his kicks.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He likes to play the hard-man.’

  ‘How so?’ said Duncan. ‘You mean he’s violent?’

  ‘He can be. He likes looking for trouble.’

  ‘So, does he deliberately get himself into situations where things might kick-off?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mary, her shoulders slumping as she sighed, ‘but the thing about Sean is, he’ll only pummel someone if he knows they’ll not fight back. Small man syndrome, I think they call it.’

  ‘And does he do this often?’

  ‘Not as much as he used to. Not since he got that thing going with his pal.’

  ‘What pal?’

  ‘Alan something or other.’

  ‘Byrne?’

  ‘Aye, that’s him.’

  ‘So, what’s this thing they’ve got going?’

  ‘You’d best ask him.’

  ‘I will,’ said Duncan, ‘when we find him. In the meantime, I’m asking you.’

  Mary gazed blankly at the opposite wall as she weighed up the pros and cons of divulging details of her brother’s exploits before heaving another weary sigh.

  ‘Loans,’ she said. ‘Money-lending. They’re a couple of sharks.’

  ‘Really? So, they have plenty of cash to splash around?’

  ‘Wake up, Constable. They’re bankers. They earn more sitting on the toilet than I’d earn in ten years. Sean’s idea of disposable income is not the same as normal folk.’