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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said West as she slipped off her coat and buckled up. ‘She seems straight-up. I just find it hard to believe that anyone in her position could be so trusting… no, so naïve, about her finances.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t worry about money, so she claims, she leaves all that to Craig and so far as she knows, apart from the mortgage, they, or rather Craig, don’t have any loans or debts, no maxed-out credit cards and they definitely don’t claim benefits. And to top it all, he bungs a few hundred quid into her account every month. And when I said it seemed a bit odd bearing in mind that her husband’s been unemployed for yonks, she just stared at me like… like I’d asked her if she knew what DNA was.’

  ‘Deoxyribonucleic acid.’

  ‘Is it really?’

  ‘So, he’s no other credit cards stashed away? No crafty savings account he’s kept hidden to himself?’

  ‘Nope. Well, not according to her.’

  ‘Then, if I were you,’ said Munro, ‘considering the current state of his health, I’d do some more checking before he slips this mortal coil, and if he comes up clean, then it begs the question: where’s the cash coming from?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said West, ‘and you’ll be pleased to know, I’ve been giving that some serious thought.’

  ‘Careful, Charlie, the brain’s a delicate organ, if you work it too hard you’ll be needing a lie down.’

  ‘What I’m needing is food. I’m flipping famished.’

  ‘Aye, well, it is supper time, I’ll grant you that. Let’s drop by the office first and you can tell me your theory on the way.’

  * * *

  With an unseasonably dark sky depriving them of daylight and neither of them motivated enough to reach for the light switch, Duncan and Dougal sat silently in the gloom, the former scribbling furiously on a notepad like a scholar revising for an exam whilst Dougal pounded the keyboard manipulating images from the digital camera wired to his computer, both oblivious to West’s request for a steaming cuppa and a teacake.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said with a huff, ‘if this is what real police work is like, I’m going back to waitressing.’

  ‘The food would never make it to the table,’ said Munro. ‘Dougal, what’s the story?’

  ‘Remember I said don’t give up, boss?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Take a look at this.’

  Munro stood behind Dougal, hands clasped behind his back, and stared, nonplussed, at what appeared to be a blank screen.

  ‘A black cat in a coal cellar?’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘It’s a shaft, boss. The shaft of the bolt that killed the goat.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Aye, see here,’ said Dougal as he traced his index finger across the screen, ‘I noticed this when I was showing it to the fella in the shop. At first I thought it was a manufacturing defect but the fella disputed it and now I see why: it’s a scratch. Dead straight, very fine, and not too deep.’

  Munro, already one step ahead, glanced across at West and smiled.

  ‘And what conclusions have you drawn from this exercise in forensic analysis, Dougal?’

  ‘Well, boss, I reckon…’

  ‘You reckon the pistol bow that fired this bolt has an imperfection on the barrel.’

  ‘Aye! Exactly! Not much, a wee burr maybe. It might not even be visible to the naked eye but it’s enough to do this.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, boss,’ said Dougal with a satisfied grin, ‘that if we find the owner of the bow, then we’ll probably have the goat killer, too.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West. ‘I don’t quite follow, I mean, if what you say is true then wouldn’t the scratch be a spiral? Don’t those things spin when they’re fired? Like a bullet?’

  ‘They do indeed, lassie,’ said Munro, holding up the bolt, ‘in flight. But see here, the bolt’s fletched, and this wee tail sits in a channel in the barrel, so when fired, the scratch would be perfectly straight.’

  ‘That’s me told. Okay, so based on what Mary Ferguson and Rona Macallan’s told us, the obvious culprit has to be Jardine. If he doesn’t turn up soon I think we’ll have to let ourselves in to his flat.’

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting,’ said Duncan, waving his notepad, ‘but if you lot have finished interviewing David Bailey, there, I’ve something you might be interested in. It’s nothing to do with animals I’m afraid but it is linked to a murder investigation and a case of GBH.’

  ‘Hark at you, Poirot,’ said West. ‘Come on then, let’s have it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve been following up your theory, miss, that Mary Ferguson might have got her hands on the ’prenorphine from the clinic she attends.’

  ‘This should be interesting.’

  ‘They’ve not had any robberies or break-ins as such but there was an incident just a couple of weeks ago. Now, it may just be circumstantial but a member of staff was treating a client and took a pack of ’prenorphine from the cupboard but it was empty.’

  ‘Sounds promising.’

  ‘Obviously they logged it and reported it to the suppliers but…’

  ‘Don’t blow me out of the water, Duncan.’

  ‘…but here’s the thing: the only other person on ’prenorphine that day was Mary Ferguson and her appointment was at nine-fifteen. The empty pack was discovered at four pm.’

  ‘Clever cow!’ said West. ‘Instead of taking the whole pack, she simply swiped the contents!’

  ‘Aye. Possibly. But for that to happen, the counsellor would’ve had to have the left room for a minute or two; there’s no way she’d have been able to do it otherwise.’

  ‘Cameras,’ said Munro. ‘It’s a rehab clinic, they’ll have more cameras than Twentieth Century Fox.’

  ‘Ahead of you, there, chief. I’ve requested all their footage from eight-thirty am to ten am.’

  ‘Good for you, laddie. Aye, in fact, good work all round. Well, if that concludes business for the day I see no reason to linger any longer. Charlie, time for a wee quiz before we go. If I said to you, “well done”, what would you say?’

  ‘Sirloin,’ said West with a smirk.

  ‘And if I said, “Cabernet Franc”, what would you say?’

  ‘I’d say stop talking gibberish and get your skates on.’

  * * *

  Unable to decide whether she was blessed with the driving skills of Emerson Fittipaldi or simply harboured a desire to meet her maker, Munro – keeping his distance – winced as he watched the speeding Figaro weave its way through the rain-soaked streets before grinding to a halt outside the flat where a jubilant West waved childishly as she leapt from the car and dashed inside.

  Acting with a sense of urgency not seen since last orders were called at the pub where she’d held her doomed engagement party, she tossed her jacket over a chair, uncorked a bottle of red and plucked two steaks from the fridge just as Munro walked through the door.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’ve got your priorities right,’ he said. ‘You cook, I’ll pour.’

  ‘That sounds fair,’ said West, rolling her eyes. ‘You’re grinning like a halfwit, what’s going on?’

  ‘I was simply musing on the benefits of airbags, that’s all.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing, Charlie,’ said Munro as he handed her a glass. ‘Here. Your very good health. Although, there is another reason for my, shall we say, joyous disposition.’

  ‘And what’s that then?’

  ‘I’ve some good news, if you’re interested in hearing it.’

  ‘Of course I am! What is it? Have they finished your house?’

  ‘Good grief, you know well enough that’ll not be for weeks yet.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘I’ve decided to take up volunteering.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said West. ‘Might stop you moping around the house wondering what to do with your time. So, what is it? Help the Aged?’r />
  ‘I’ll crown you.’

  ‘Alright, some homeless charity, then? I don’t know!’

  ‘Police Scotland.’

  West, looking completely perplexed, lowered her glass and stared blankly at Munro.

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ she said.

  ‘I had a word with George and he’s not averse to the suggestion, in fact, I rather got the impression he’s quite keen on it.’

  ‘You mean you can be a volunteer with the force?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Munro. ‘It’s quite common.’

  ‘So, how does that work?’

  ‘Well, it’s a civilian role of course, there’ll be no salary or perks as such, and no rank to speak of.’

  ‘So, you’ll just be plain old Jimbo? Mr Munro?’

  ‘Correct. Once he’s gone through the motions and had the request approved, I shall be taking on the role of… well, let’s just say advisor, for now.’

  ‘Well, that’s great news!’ said West. ‘I’m made up for you. Really, I am. I always knew you weren’t ready to jack it in. So, we’ve not seen the back of you yet, eh?’

  ‘You have not,’ said Munro. ‘Not yet. There is one other thing – I shall be answerable to you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re the boss, Charlie. Your wish is my command.’

  Slightly unnerved by the imminent role reversal, West eased herself into a chair, thought for moment, and raised her glass.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ she said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Dunno. It just doesn’t seem right, somehow. Me telling you what to do. It’s not the natural order of things.’

  ‘Utter tosh, Charlie. Besides, you wouldn’t dare. No, no, in my official capacity as the man on the street I shall simply be at liberty to offer you the benefit of my experience, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think about it. Apart from the fact that I’ll not be paid, and I’ll have no rank, things really won’t be that different.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive, lassie. Absolutely positive.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said West, mustering a smile as she raised her empty glass. ‘Welcome back. I think. Cheers.’

  * * *

  With his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow and a butcher’s apron tied around his waist, Munro set about clearing the dishes as the sound of the phone drew West from the sofa interrupting any thoughts she’d had of enjoying a snifter in front of the telly.

  ‘Dougal,’ she said, eyeing the bottle of Balvenie sitting on the counter, ‘after all that running around you’ve been doing I’d have thought you’d be in bed by now. You must be shattered.’

  ‘I am, miss, but that’s why God gave us Red Bull. And Irn-Bru. And chocolate.’

  ‘I think I’ve got the picture. Where are you? The noise is terrible.’

  ‘It’s the rain, miss. It’s hammering down.’

  ‘Well, what on earth are you doing outside at this time of night?’

  ‘It’s Jardine’s car. We’ve found it.’

  ‘Blinding!’ said West as she clicked her fingers at Munro. ‘We’re on our way.’

  ‘We?’ said Munro, exasperated.

  ‘Yes, Jimbo, we. You’ve only had one glass, you can drive.’

  ‘I’m not a chauffeur, lassie.’

  ‘You are now,’ said West as she held the phone aloft. ‘Dougal, where exactly are you?’

  ‘Cumnock, miss. The car park on Ayr road by the Keir McTurk brig.’

  ‘Cumnock?’ said Munro. ‘By jiminy, it sounds like he’s been hounding that Macallan woman again.’

  ‘Okay, Dougal, listen,’ said West, grabbing her coat, ‘you stay put and keep your head down. Jardine can’t be far away.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I don’t want him spooked when he comes back, we need to…’

  ‘…but, miss…’

  ‘…bring him in, nice and calm. See if there’s any uniform in the area and tell them to keep their eyes peeled.’

  ‘There’s no need!’ yelled Dougal, straining to be heard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to tell you, there’s no need. We’ve found him.’

  ‘You’ve just earned yourself a free lunch. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s in the car.’

  ‘Police car?’

  ‘His car. He’s stone dead.’

  Chapter 9

  Looking every inch the tomboy in her dark jeans, black boots and matching baseball cap, West – indistinguishable from her male colleagues – darted across the car park to the shelter of the marquee billowing above the blue BMW coupe, and nudged her way past the SOCOs as Munro, shielding his eyes from the glare of the floodlights, ambled along behind her.

  Unperturbed by the sight of the body slumped behind the wheel, she snapped on a pair of gloves and leaned in, intrigued by the puffy eyes, the trickle of blood running from the nose, and the tiny beads of perspiration peppering the forehead when the appearance of a familiar face at the opposite window caused her to jump.

  ‘Christ! You gave me a fright,’ she said. ‘How come you’re here so soon?’

  With his towering frame, bushy beard, and honey-brown eyes, Andy McLeod had more in common with an axe-wielding lumberjack than a forensic pathologist.

  ‘Your DS called me,’ he said. ‘I hear congratulations are in order.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘DI?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said West. ‘Same job, different title. Is it me, or is there a funny smell round here?’

  ‘It’s not you, Inspector. It’s this fella. Bowels.’

  ‘Nice. So, how come Dougal called you out so soon?’

  ‘Because he realised our friend here has a raging temperature. Or should I say, had, a raging temperature.’

  ‘Doesn’t miss a trick, our Dougal. So, that explains the sweat?’

  ‘Aye, and it’s not exactly tropical, is it?’

  ‘Maybe he went for a jog.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly dressed for it,’ said McLeod sarcastically.

  ‘First impressions?’

  ‘The possibilities are endless. It could be something viral. Or a cardiac arrest. Or it could be something he’s ingested. Either way, I’d like to get him on the slab as soon as possible.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes and he’s all yours,’ said West. ‘When do you think you might…’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I should have something by then.’

  ‘Nice one. Oh, time of death. I don’t suppose you…’

  ‘Indeed I do. His temperature’s still above normal, so some time within the last hour I’d say – ninety minutes, tops.’

  West, looking startled, stared at McLeod, held his gaze for a moment and turned to Munro.

  ‘Dougal?’ she said. ‘Is he…?’

  ‘In the car, lassie. Drying off.’

  Munro, impressed with West’s sudden surge of enthusiasm – an emotion normally reserved for breakfast, lunch, and dinner – nodded politely at McLeod and turned his attention to the cadaver as West sprinted back to the Peugeot.

  ‘Dougal!’ she said as she yanked open the door. ‘Look, I know it’s late, and I know you’re knackered, but I need your help, big time.’

  ‘No bother, miss. Name it.’

  ‘Cameras.’

  ‘None here,’ said Dougal, ‘I’ve already checked.’

  ‘Crap. He’s only been dead an hour, we need to find out where the nearest cameras are and we need to know if anyone was with him, or at least which direction he came from, can you do that?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, just give me a minute.’

  * * *

  A sullen-faced West, hands in pockets, sidled up to Munro, her cheeks puffing as she heaved a sigh.

  ‘What’s up with you, Charlie?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s up. When I was in London there were cameras everywhere; on every corner, at every junction, you couldn’t get away
from them. I hated it. It was like living with Big Brother.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I miss them. I flipping well miss them like mad.’

  * * *

  Dougal, still wearing his crash helmet in an effort to stave off the rain, called out to West as he rushed towards her.

  ‘Miss,’ he said, catching his breath, ‘the only camera nearby is outside the community hospital down the road, if there’s nothing on that then we’ll have to go miles in each direction to reach the next.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just great,’ said West, ‘it’s like living in the bleeding dark ages up here. You may as well give it a go, Dougal, you never know, we might get lucky.’

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘Anything we should know about?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Dougal. ‘If this was a pay and display, we’d know what time he got here from the time on the ticket but…’

  ‘But it’s free?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And no-one saw him pull in or…?’

  ‘At this time of night, miss? Out here?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said West. ‘I suppose we should count our blessings that we found him at all. Who did find him?’

  ‘The fella in the Astra, over there. We had to move him, he was parked right alongside.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘About fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before I called you.’

  ‘And he didn’t see anyone with Jardine?’

  ‘No, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘He says he parked here this morning, came back across the pedestrian bridge and called us straight away. Jardine was that close he couldn’t open the door.’

  ‘Statement?’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘A wee bit shaken but aye, I think he’s alright.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘well, there’s no point keeping the poor sod out here, you may as well send him home, and you do the same. Get your head down for a few hours and if I see you before nine o’clock, you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Dougal as he donned his gloves. ‘What about the car? There’s only so much this lot can do out here in this weather.’

  West, momentarily stumped, glanced at Munro for inspiration.

  ‘Tell them to take it in as soon as we’re done,’ he said. ‘Strip it down, see if he’s got anything stashed away, and tell them to dust every nook and cranny. A set of prints other than Jardine’s may be the only chance we have of finding out what really happened here.’