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

by Pete Brassett

  Dougal dusted down his fingers, returned to his desk, and flipped his laptop round to face them.

  ‘I’ve got something that might change your mind,’ he said as he played a grainy, black and white video. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘Riveting,’ said Munro, staring at the fuzzy image on the screen. ‘What is it, exactly?’

  ‘CCTV from the camera outside the community hospital, boss. It’s directed at the entrance so it doesn’t capture the road as such, just enough to see the cars go by.’

  ‘Well, so far we’ve seen two cars, a bike, and a pedestrian,’ said West as she reached for another slice of pizza. ‘Can’t we watch Netflix, instead?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Dougal as he slowed the playback. ‘Here. That’s Jardine’s car, and he’s travelling towards the Keir McTurk bridge.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said West, ‘but that’s where we found him, so what’s the big deal?’

  Dougal fast-forwarded eleven minutes and thirty-eight seconds and stopped the tape.

  ‘That,’ he said, tapping the screen, ‘is a Land Rover Defender. It’s Rona Macallan’s Defender.’

  The room fell silent as West – oblivious to the watchful gaze of an amused Munro – left her seat and, deep in thought, slowly paced the floor like a counsel for the defence seeking an explanation for her client’s incriminating behaviour.

  ‘How much of that tape have you watched?’ she said, without looking up.

  ‘About ninety minutes on from here, miss. That takes us well beyond the point the first responders arrived at the scene.’

  ‘And you didn’t notice anyone else travelling in the same direction? I mean, anyone unusual? Anyone speeding?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, miss. No.’

  West stopped, raised her head, and smiled.

  ‘How about coming back?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Did you see Macallan’s Defender coming back?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ said Dougal, becoming flustered.

  ‘Well, if she’s guilty,’ said West, ‘if she did nobble Jardine, then she’d be coming back along the same road no more than say, fifteen, twenty minutes later, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Aye, she would. Unless she went another way.’

  ‘And is there another way?’

  Dougal slumped in his chair and sighed.

  ‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘Not if she was heading home.’

  ‘Then maybe she was going somewhere else.’

  ‘At that time of night?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dougal,’ said West. ‘It wasn’t that late. Blimey, the pubs were still open.’

  Munro polished off his pizza, finished his tea, and regarded West with a look of satisfaction.

  ‘Well done, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Keep this up and you’ll be enjoying a career change before long.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Charlotte West. QC.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘So, will I bring her in, now?’ said Dougal.

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘it’s too late for that. Give her a wee call, ask her to drop by tomorrow. Tell her it’s just a formality, she’ll understand. And it’ll give her time to tend to her flock so she’s not fretting while she’s away.’

  ‘Right you are, boss.’

  ‘Oh, and Dougal,’ said West, ‘we need to send SOCOs back to the car park. Somewhere around there is the syringe that was used to kill Jardine and we need to find it.’

  * * *

  Standing in the doorway like a destitute gunslinger in a wild west saloon, Duncan – needing only a poncho, and a cheroot dangling from his lip to complete the picture – scanned the room and scowled as his eyes settled on the empty boxes.

  ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is the definition of disappointment.’

  ‘What is?’ said West.

  ‘Being tempted by the smell of pizza only to find there’s none left.’

  ‘Never mind, it’s nearly home time,’ said West. ‘You can treat yourself to a kebab after the pub.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right. That trumps a Margherita any day of the week.’

  ‘How’d you get on?’

  ‘Foubert?’ said Duncan as he slouched in a chair and cocked his feet on the desk. ‘Nice fella, right enough, which is surprising in itself.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t think it if you saw him. He’s got the look of a psychopath and a face like a spud that’s gone ten rounds with Rocky Marciano.’

  ‘So, apart from his deceptive features,’ said West, ‘what did he have to say for himself?’

  ‘He reckons he only knew Byrne and Jardine to chat to in the lift, and he certainly didn’t socialise with them on account of the fact that he doesn’t drink.’

  ‘Utter tosh,’ said Munro. ‘A Frenchman who doesnae drink? That’s like saying Italians dinnae care for pasta.’

  ‘Either way, I need to corroborate his story with his co-workers,’ said Duncan. ‘I also took a look at his phone and, not only does he not have either of their numbers in his list of contacts, but he’d also deleted his call history.’

  ‘He thinks he’s being clever,’ said West, smirking. ‘But we’re one step ahead of him. We know for a fact that Jardine called him several times just before he copped it.’

  ‘Shall we have him in for a formal chat?’

  ‘Let’s get some ammunition on our side first,’ said West, reaching for her coat. ‘Have a word with his colleagues and see what you can come up with. Then, see if he’s self-employed like Jardine, if not, get a record of all his payslips and any bonuses he’s had…’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘…then, Dougal, take a crafty look at his bank account and see if it all tallies.’

  ‘No bother. Is that you away?’

  ‘Yup. I need to check out some biker gear.’

  * * *

  Without an inquisitive wife to monitor his every move, Munro – left to his own devices – steered his way around the kitchen like a Michelin-starred chef, dicing-up a chunk of thick-cut rump, slicing carrots, rolling-out pastry and peeling potatoes in between sampling the Balvenie which, much to his annoyance, seemed to be evaporating at a rate of knots due to West’s new-found fondness for a nightcap or two.

  With supper in the oven, the spuds on the hob, and a glass of wine in hand, he settled in front of the laptop intent on browsing some property porn, when his viewing pleasure was interrupted by the arrival of West who blundered through the door like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, dumping the bags on the floor. ‘Pour me one of those, would you? I’m parched.’

  ‘That’s an awful lot of shopping,’ said Munro. ‘Were you panic buying or simply exhibiting the female side of your nature?’

  ‘That’s so sexist.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  ‘I got distracted in the food hall,’ said West as she pulled a waxed-cotton jacket from one of the bags and held it to her chest. ‘What do you think? It’s a Belstaff. It’s warm and it’s waterproof, so it will do for work as well a ride on the back of a bike.’

  ‘Very smart, Charlie,’ said Munro as he handed her a glass. ‘It reminds me of one I used to wear as a young man, terrorising the folk of Dumfries on my Triumph.’

  ‘You used to be a biker?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. Traffic. Two years.’

  ‘Well, well. I wonder what other secrets you’ve got hidden up your sleeve?’

  ‘None you need know about.’

  West sat down and sipped her wine while Munro, still in his apron, removed supper from the oven and started dishing up.

  ‘Steak pie,’ he said, placing the plates on the table. ‘And it’s homemade, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘That does it,’ said West as she shovelled a steaming forkful into her mouth. ‘You can’t move out now. I won’t allow it. So, what have you been up to? Apart from practising for Masterchef?’

  ‘I
’ve been looking at houses.’

  ‘But you’ve already got a house.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Munro. ‘For you. You said you wanted a wee house with a garden so, as I had some time on my hands, I thought I’d take a look.’

  ‘Nice one. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’ll keep looking. So, what are your plans for tomorrow?’

  ‘A little face-to-face with Macallan first,’ said West. ‘Dougal said she’s dropping by about nine.’

  ‘And you’re sticking to your guns?’

  ‘Yup. Despite everything, I bet she’s got a watertight alibi which means she’ll be off the hook.’

  ‘I hope for your sake you’re right, Charlie, even if it does mean you’re left without a suspect.’

  ‘I’ll find one, don’t you worry.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I’m nipping out for a quick threesome,’ said West. ‘Me, Doctor Bowen, and Fat Bob.’

  Munro, his old-fashioned values leaving him ill-equipped to deal with such an outlandish comment, coughed and spluttered as he choked on his pie.

  ‘Fat Bob!’ said West, giggling hysterically. ‘That’s his bike! It’s a Harley Davidson. It’s called a Fat Bob!’

  Taking a large sip of wine, Munro, regaining his composure, allowed himself a wry smirk.

  ‘God bless Americans,’ he said. ‘Blunt and to the point, as ever. If it was a British bike, no doubt we’d refer to Bob as corpulent, or well-upholstered. Aye, that’s the word – well-upholstered.’

  Chapter 15

  Beleaguered by man’s obsession with hate and despairing of civilisation’s quest to annihilate one another because of colour, creed, or for being a Hibs supporter, Rona Macallan – who firmly believed that tolerance and compassion held the key to existing without conflict – had long since preferred the company of animals whose symbiotic existence saw them resolve their differences with a gentle nudge or a simple peck on the ear rather than a broken jaw or the deployment of cruise missiles.

  As an only child raised on the tenet that honesty was the best policy, a principle that only once fell short of its promise when she freely admitted to speeding along the A75 – an act of candour which, without the aid of a solicitor, landed her with four penalty points and a three-hundred-pound fine – believed, nonetheless, that deceit of any kind would ultimately result in a bad bout of karma.

  Dabbing her fingertips with a wet-wipe, she sat quietly humming to herself in the still surroundings of the interview room while she waited for someone to arrive.

  ‘Morning!’ said West cheerily, as she flew through the door. ‘Thanks for coming by, Miss Macallan, I know it’s a bit out of your way so we’ll try to keep it as brief as possible.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Macallan. ‘Mr Munro, nice you see you again.’

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ said Munro. ‘Has anyone offered you a cup of tea? Or some coffee, perhaps?’

  ‘No, you’re alright. I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘I see you’ve had your prints done.’

  ‘I have. Although, I must admit I’m a wee bit confused. Why would you need my fingerprints?’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ said West. ‘You see, we found a set of prints on Sean Jardine’s car which we can’t identify, so we just need to make sure that they don’t belong to you.’

  ‘Oh, I could’ve told you that myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you could,’ said Munro, ‘but unfortunately in our line of work, someone’s word isn’t always their bond.’

  ‘I get that, right enough,’ said Macallan. ‘So, apart from that, what else can I help you with?’

  ‘It’s literally just a couple of questions,’ said West. ‘Don’t take them personally, it’s just stuff we need to ask.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Okay, let’s start with the Vetergesic you use to treat the colic; where do you get it from?’

  ‘The surgery. On Townhead Street.’

  ‘And is it by prescription?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Macallan, shaking her head. ‘You can’t get it willy-nilly, even with a prescription, only the vet can give it, to the animal, that is.’

  ‘Then, would you mind explaining how you managed to get your hands on it?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. Colin, he’s the vet, he and I have known each other for years. If I’ve ever needed some to treat the ponies, he’s been kind enough to let me have it.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘And how many times has he done this?’ said West.

  ‘Twice.’

  ‘And the time before this?’

  ‘Now, you’re asking,’ said Macallan. ‘Must be a year ago. At least.’

  ‘And how much of the stuff do you have?’

  ‘At home? None. Not now.’

  ‘So, you don’t have bottles of it stockpiled in the shed?’

  ‘No, that would be wrong,’ said Macallan. ‘I get just what I need, enough for a couple of jabs, preloaded in a syringe. That’s it.’

  Munro, one hand on his chin, regarded Macallan with an inquisitive smile.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘if you happened to give a pony the whole dose in one go, by mistake I mean, what effect what would that have?’

  ‘Nothing major,’ said Macallan. ‘It’ll make him drowsier than normal, that’s for sure, but he’d be fine.’

  ‘So, it wouldnae kill him?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. You’d need a bottleful to do that, if not more.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ said West. ‘After all, it is a horse we’re talking about. What about you? What would happen if you took it?’

  ‘Me? Are you asking: would it kill me? I really don’t know. I’m sure you’d not need as much as you would to kill a horse, but how much exactly is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Good,’ said West confidently. ‘Moving on. The other night you were driving along Ayr Road, past the community hospital. It was hacking down. Do you remember?’

  ‘Aye, of course!’ said Macallan. ‘But how on earth did you know that?’

  ‘We have our sources,’ said Munro. ‘Nothing to worry about, there’s nothing sinister about it, I assure you.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Do you mind telling us where you were going?’ said West.

  ‘I was on my way to the supermarket.’

  ‘The supermarket?’

  ‘Aye. I never have time to go during the day so I tend to nip over in the evening. It’s dead quiet then, too.’

  ‘I know it’s a bit much to ask,’ said West, ‘but can you prove you were actually there?’

  ‘Prove it?’ said Macallan as she rummaged through her pockets. ‘Well, I’ve a cupboard full of groceries if that will do, apart from… oh, hold on – here. It’s the receipt. That has the date and the time on it, does it not?’

  ‘It does indeed,’ said Munro. ‘And just for the record, did you come back the same way?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t get by. There were police all over the road. I had to go round the houses to get home.’

  ‘Well, apologies if it seems like we’ve given you the third degree, Miss Macallan, but we cannae leave any stone unturned, you understand?’

  ‘It’s fine, Mr Munro, really. Is that you done, now?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then, I’ll see myself out. Give me a ring if you need anything else.’

  * * *

  West, not given to patting herself on the back, glanced at Munro with a portentous look on her face.

  ‘Like I said, Jimbo,’ she said, trying not to sound too smug, ‘she’s got a watertight alibi.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s sprung a leak, lassie.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Rona Macallan could easily have stopped off at the car park and given Jardine a wee jab before continuing on her way to the supermarket.’

  ‘Yes, but she didn’t have enough ’prenorphine on her to do the job, did she?’

&n
bsp; ‘You’re forgetting what your friend the pathologist said, Charlie.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Which was,’ said Munro, ‘that he didn’t have a fatal dose of Buprenorphine in his body. That he keeled over because of the effect it had on the dire state of his internal organs.’

  ‘Well, call me stubborn if you like…’

  ‘I’ll stick with Taurean, somehow it sounds less offensive.’

  ‘…but I still think she’s innocent.’

  West stood, fastened the belt around her new jacket, and paused by the door.

  ‘Are you… are you in a rush to get your lunch? Or are you heading upstairs to the office?’

  Munro’s steely, blue eyes sparkled knowingly as he stared at West.

  ‘What are you after, Charlie?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wondered if you fancied giving me a lift to my ménage à trois. That’s all.’

  * * *

  Munro pulled up by the entrance to the hospital, lowered the visor against the glaring sun, and turned to West like an anxious father dropping his daughter at the senior prom.

  ‘Lunch is an hour, Charlie. Dinnae get waylaid by the promise of a pint and a ploughman’s, and make sure you hold the grab rail behind the seat, it’s safer than clinging on to the rider, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘And when you’re into a turn, lean with the bike, dinnae fight to stay upright, have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Will I wait for you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said West as she opened the door. ‘He’s got a bike, remember? I’ll get him to drop me at the station.’

  ‘As you wish, lassie. As you wish.’

  ‘Are you heading straight back?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro. ‘I’ll just text Laurel and Hardy and see if they want some lunch. As I’m now a taxi driver, I may as well double-up as Uber Eats.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ said West. ‘See you in an hour.’

  * * *

  Bowen, clad in his oil-stained jeans and a vintage leather jacket, smiled broadly as West wandered through reception.

  ‘We’ve got the weather on our side,’ he said. ‘It must be an omen.’

  ‘If it’s anything like the film, you’re going to need my stab vest. How are you?’

  ‘Absolutely fine. I thought we could take a blast up to Ardrossan and grab a wee bite to eat.’