* * *
Crouching by the passenger side door, Munro – his nose twitching at the unsavoury smell – waved his flashlight under the seat like an usherette in a theatre and grimaced with disdain.
‘Dear God,’ he said, ‘there’s enough rubbish down here to keep a valeting company busy for a day or two.’
‘What have you got?’ said West.
‘Nitrous oxide canisters and a couple of balloons…’
‘So, he liked his hippy crack, then.’
‘Aye. And some empty crisp packets, a glove, a parking ticket, a rotten banana, and no doubt a selection of local wildlife. How about you?’
West reached inside his jacket and retrieved a wallet and a folded white envelope.
‘There’s a wad of cash in here,’ she said, ‘the keys are in the ignition, and his phone’s in his lap.’
‘Call log?’ said Munro as he turned his attention to the glove compartment, rifling through the contents with the tip of a biro.
‘Just a tick,’ said West, ‘as long as we don’t need a password, then we should be able to get in. Right, he’s called the same number a hundred times, all within the last couple of hours, but the log’s showing each call only lasted a second or two.’
‘Which means?’
‘Which means,’ said West, ‘he dialled and hung up. It was probably engaged and he didn’t want to leave a message.’
‘I don’t suppose it was nine, nine, nine, was it?’
‘Should have been, if he’d had any sense. Nope, it’s someone called “Fou”. Maybe his girlfriend’s foreign.’
‘Spell it.’
‘F-O-U.’
‘It’s a French word, Charlie,’ said Munro as he stood, desperate for a breath of fresh air. ‘It means crazy, mad, like radge or nutter.’
‘Well, that’s not a name then, is it?’ said West. ‘Unless… unless it’s a kind of nickname.’
‘Aye, could be.’
‘Hold up, French, you say? The bank he worked for is French.’
‘Then,’ said Munro, ‘I dare say that that’s where this Fou fellow works as well.’
‘I’ll get one of the boys to trace it tomorrow.’
‘Anything else?’
West lifted the cuff on Jardine’s left arm.
‘Breitling,’ she said, ‘that must’ve cost a bob or two, and on the other – the same as Byrne – he had a string of beads wrapped around his wrist, too.’
‘Is that what trendy young bankers are wearing these days?’
‘Must be,’ said West, frowning as she caught a faint whiff of sandalwood. ‘But what I don’t get is, why Mala beads?’
‘You’ll have to explain, Charlie.’
West stood, walked around the car and perched on the bonnet.
‘It’s a Buddhist thing, Jimbo,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘Each string has a hundred and eight beads which represents the number of Kleshas.’
‘And Kleshas are?’
‘Negative stuff, stuff that clouds the mind like anxiety, depression, anger, that kind of thing. You use the beads to keep your mind focused while you’re counting off mantras when you’re meditating, or chanting, or something.’
‘So, they’re like rosary beads?’
‘Yeah, if you like.’
‘I’m impressed, Charlie,’ said Munro as he turned for the car, ‘and where did you achieve such a state of educational enlightenment?’
‘The Holy Isle,’ said West. ‘Well, I had to do something to take my mind off the lentil soup, didn’t I?’
* * *
Munro started the engine, turned the heater up full blast, and sat staring pensively through the windscreen as Jardine’s body was loaded into the back of the ambulance.
‘Those beads,’ he said, ‘you’re absolutely certain they’re Mala beads and not just any old…’
‘Positive,’ said West. ‘Why?’
‘Well, if what we’re led to believe is true, Charlie, I simply cannae see Byrne or Jardine being into that kind of thing.’
‘Well, they’re certainly not the type to go for a night of spiritual cleansing over a pint in the pub, granted, but I think your mind’s working overtime, Jimbo. I doubt they even knew what they are, they probably picked them up in some trendy boutique as a fashion accessory.’
‘Aye, maybe you’re right,’ said Munro as they left the car park. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
Chapter 10
As a naïve, young rookie Duncan Reid had hoped his inaugural case as a DC would be a gritty, hair-raising adventure crawling through the underbelly of the criminal world grappling with gangsters and maniacal murderers in a bid to rid the streets of undesirables.
Instead, he was left sorely disappointed when, as the junior investigating officer, he was assigned the more menial tasks to tackle while the rest of the team attempted to solve the riddle of the body on the beach.
However, with a drug-related death on his hands, a missing batch of Buprenorphine, and a dead goat to deal with, he grasped the opportunity to prove his mettle by embracing his role with renewed vigour.
With a match dangling from his lips and his face illuminated by the glow of the screen, he sat studying the footage from the Crisis Centre as a weary West, looking much the worse for wear, bumbled through the door and switched on the lights.
‘Good party, was it?’ he said, grinning.
‘Let’s just say the host was dead on his feet. Coffee please, make it a strong one, and something edible, if there’s anything there.’
‘Still some ginger nuts left,’ said Duncan. ‘Unlike you to be out on a school night, miss. It must’ve been some gig.’
‘It was,’ said West. ‘If you like The Grateful Dead. It’s Jardine. We found his car.’
‘Result!’
‘And he was in it.’
‘Even better.’
‘He was dead.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ve got something to cheer you up. Take a look at this.’
‘First things first,’ said West as she threw her jacket to one side, slumped in a seat and put her feet on the desk. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’
Duncan flung his head back and sighed despondently.
‘It’s not more filing or running for sandwiches, is it?’ he said, handing her a mug.
‘Nope. I need you to take a look around Jardine’s flat. Get on to Glasgow and tell them you need the big key to get in. And if you get any hoo-ha from them, tell them to give me a call.’
‘Roger that, miss. And thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘I just thought you’d rather send Dougal, that’s all.’
‘Nah, he deserves a break.’
‘Where is he, anyway? It’s not like him to be late.’
‘He’s never late, Duncan. He’s always early. Besides, he’s having a lie-in.’
Much to West’s chagrin, Dougal – looking as bright as a button with his neatly-parted hair and immaculately-pressed chinos – appeared in the doorway clutching a paper carrier bag.
‘Then again,’ she said. ‘Maybe he isn’t.’
‘Alright!’ said Dougal as he placed the bag in front of her. ‘I thought you might be hungry. There’s two fried egg, two square sausage, and two bacon.’
‘Dougal, I could kiss you.’
‘Not necessary, miss. Really, not necessary.’
‘And Duncan,’ said West as she helped herself to a toastie, ‘I don’t want a repeat of last time, take a proper look round, bring back anything relevant, and anything you can’t shift, take a photo. Got it?’
‘Where are you off to?’ said Dougal.
‘Jardine’s flat.’
‘Rather you than me, it’s still plopping down out there.’
‘I’m glad you feel like that, Dougal,’ said West as she dusted the crumbs from her fingers before diving in for a second helping, ‘because I need you here. Jardine’s financial records. We need to get a handle on this loan racket he’s been operating. I want everything you can ge
t your hands on: payslips, current account, savings, you know the score. Let’s see what he’s been up to.’
‘Miss.’
‘Oh, and here’s his phone. The last person he called was a geezer called Fou.’
‘Fou?’
‘Some kind of nutter, if Jimbo’s French is anything to go by. Get a trace on the number, will you? Find out who he is and where he lives. Right, Duncan, what have you got?’
Duncan grabbed his laptop, set it down in front of West and stood back as she and Dougal, looking over her shoulder, watched a furtive Mary Ferguson, captured by a ceiling-mounted camera, help herself to the Buprenorphine from an unlocked cupboard with the speed and agility of a pickpocket on London’s Oxford Street while her counsellor chatted with a caller at the door.
‘Bloody hell!’ said West, astonished at the accuracy of her supposition. ‘I was right after all.’
‘Aye, you were,’ said Duncan. ‘Well, half right, miss. All we have to do now is prove that she’s the one who gave it to Byrne.’
‘Is she still at the hospital? I can’t see her going back to Glasgow without talking to Craig.’
‘Give me a second and I’ll find out.’
‘There is nothing more welcoming,’ said Munro as he entered the office, shaking the rain from his cap, ‘than the smell of freshly baked bread, or indeed bacon, for that matter.’
‘Where have you been?’ said West. ‘I thought you were right behind me?’
‘I was, lassie, the difference is, I wasnae travelling at eighty miles an hour.’
‘You’ll never travel at eighty miles an hour,’ said West, ‘not in that clapped out thing of yours. Come on, breakfast, get it before it goes cold.’
Munro hung his coat on a hanger and, averting his eyes, placed his hand in the carrier bag as if fumbling for a raffle ticket in a lucky dip.
‘Square sausage!’ he said, content with his prize. ‘Thanking you.’
‘So,’ said West, ‘what’s the plan, Mr Munro?’
‘Mr Munro?’ said Dougal. ‘Not Jimbo? What’s going on?’
‘I’m away to see George,’ said Munro, ‘and all being well, when I return, you will have the undeniable pleasure of working with a retired detective and a civilian volunteer willing to impart the benefit of his experience, should you need it.’
‘Does that mean you’re coming back?’
‘Aye, laddie. I’m coming back. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Miss,’ said Duncan as Munro straightened his tie and left the room, ‘Mary Ferguson; she’s staying at the Abbotsford Hotel, Corsehill Road. It’s a ten-minute drive from the hospital, if that.’
Duncan turned the collar up on his beaten, leather jacket and replaced the match in his mouth as West finished her coffee, grabbed her coat, and left the room.
‘Dougal,’ he said, with a wry grin, ‘Westy’s birthday, is that anytime soon?’
‘Search me,’ said Dougal. ‘Why?’
‘I was going to get her a copy of Leadership for Dummies, but I don’t think I’ll bother.’
* * *
Having had his fair share of thrills and spills as a daunting uniformed presence on the streets of Ayrshire, DCI Elliot enjoyed a largely sedentary lifestyle, free from the uncertainty of what lay around the corner and the heart-stopping shock of sudden surprises. Or so he thought.
‘For the love of God, James! What the hell are you doing here!’
Munro, hidden by the shadows of the darkened office, crossed his legs and smiled as he reclined in the comfort of an armchair.
‘Morning, George,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘How am I? How do you think? I wasn’t expecting to see you here so early! For goodness sake, this is my office!’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Munro, ‘it is indeed. Although I think you’ll find your watch may have stopped. It’s not early anymore. It’s past eight.’
‘Eight!’ said Elliot, raising his voice. ‘Eight! That is early. Where I come from, eight o’clock is… oh, what’s the use! What are you after, anyway?’
‘I was simply wondering if you’d made any progress with the volunteer position we discussed.’
‘It’s the morning, James! I’ve just arrived! What makes you think I’ve made any progress?’
‘Och, it’s a terrible trait called optimism,’ said Munro. ‘It tends to afflict the more gullible members of society.’
‘Does it, indeed?’ said Elliot, as one corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. ‘Does it indeed. I had Beef Wellington for my supper last night. Did I tell you that?’
‘Aye, you did.’
‘It had a profound effect on the altruistic side of my nature...’
‘Is that so?’
‘…compelling me to pursue your request in the comfort of my own home…’
‘Most commendable.’
‘…much to the annoyance of Mrs Elliot, who described me as no better than a boarder in lodgings.’
‘I’m sure she’ll get over it,’ said Munro. ‘So, what’s the story?’
‘According to the rule book, volunteers are welcomed with open arms but may only be employed after the positions have been advertised and all suitable candidates interviewed.’
‘Red tape.’
‘Blame the EU. I do.’
‘So, tell me,’ said Munro, ‘what positions do you have available?’
Elliot, becoming flustered, twitched nervously in his seat in much the same way a Doberman might when intimidated by a Chihuahua.
‘The youth volunteer scheme,’ he said, deliberately muffling his words. ‘We need adult volunteers to work with a handful of kids, to get their point of view, so we can work towards building a brighter…’
Elliot’s words tailed off as a stony-faced Munro stared right through him.
‘Never work with weans or animals,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
‘Quite right, James, quite right. Well, how about this: custody visitor?’
‘You’re actually suggesting I visit villains in their cells to ask how they’re being treated?’
‘You’ll not be alone. The visits are made in pairs.’
‘Is that it?’
‘I’m afraid so, James.’
‘Well, that’s me away, then.’
‘Where to?’
‘I hear Beachy Head’s quite nice at this time of year.’
‘Sit down, man! I’m joking you!’
‘You know me, George. I dinnae have a sense of humour.’
‘No,’ said Elliot. ‘I forgot. Front desk. Twelve midnight to six am. Three days a week.’
‘Och, I’ve had enough of this,’ said Munro. ‘This conversation is over.’
‘Take it, James.’
‘You must be out of your mind.’
‘See here, it’s an old post that’s never been filled. We don’t actually need anyone anymore.’
Munro hovered by the door and cocked his head to one side.
‘I get the distinct feeling there’s some chicanery involved here, George.’
‘That all depends on how you look at it,’ said Elliot. ‘Listen, James, the post is still open, you fill it, job done and no-one’s the wiser. And if you enjoy your role and wish to work five days a week, then I’ll not stop you. And of course, you’d be at liberty to wander around the building and mingle with your old colleagues. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘I never had you down as rule bender, George. Are you not putting your neck on the line?’
‘Let me worry about that. The fact of the matter is, we need the help and you can provide it. It’s up to you.’
Munro opened the door and turned to face Elliot as he pondered the offer.
‘Just to be clear,’ he said, ‘You’re not expecting me to be here in the wee hours, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘In that case, I accept. Thanking you, George. Thanking you.’
* * *
As a fine example of Scottish Baron
ial architecture, the ivy-clad Abbotsford Hotel, once surrounded by rolling, green fields rather than an abundance of tarmac was, nonetheless, a welcoming sight when compared to the type of budget accommodation West had been expecting.
Taken aback by the vaulted ceiling, open fires, and a profusion of period panelling, West – likening it to a stately home normally overrun by coachloads of fee-paying visitors – wiped her feet and, feeling somewhat underdressed, approached the front desk.
‘Morning,’ she said as the rain dripped from her cuffs. ‘I’ve come to see one of your guests: Mary Ferguson.’
The young gent on reception, smartly attired in a crisp, white shirt, raised his eyebrows and smiled knowingly.
‘Oh, aye,’ he said softly, his manner akin to that of an undertaker greeting a widow at his funeral parlour. ‘She checked in last night with a wee bairn and, I might add, no luggage.’
‘Her husband’s in the hospital,’ said West defensively. ‘It was an emergency.’
‘Sorry. I never realised. Who shall I say is asking for her?’
‘DI West.’
The receptionist, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment, turned his back as he dialled the room, his voice a barely audible whisper.
‘She says you’re to go straight up. Top of the stairs, it’s right opposite. I’ll send some tea. On the house.’
* * *
Half expecting to meet Rhett Butler as she made her way up the sweeping staircase, West reached the first floor just as Mary Ferguson, wrapped in a towelling robe and looking as though she hadn’t slept in weeks, opened the door.
‘That’s a relief,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting a woman.’
‘Is it alright if I come in?’ said West. ‘I wouldn’t want to wake the baby. I can wait downstairs if you’d like.’
‘No, you’re alright,’ said Mary, ‘he’s away with the fairies just now, dreaming like a good ‘un.’
West took a seat by the dressing table as Mary checked the cot before easing herself onto the bed.
‘Well, you’ve not come to give me bad news,’ she said, ‘the hospital will do that. So, how can I help?
‘It’s just a few questions. I know you’ve already spoken to DC Reid but…’
PERDITION: A Scottish murder mystery with a shocking twist (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 7) Page 9