HUBRIS

  ‘Yes! Get in there! What the hell took them so long?’

  ‘That’s Kay’s fault, miss.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she stopped for a fish supper on the way?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal. ‘She wanted to be absolutely sure the boot belonged to Boyd so they analysed the whole thing, sliced it open, and retrieved several fibres stuck to the insole. The fibres match the pair of socks we found in the rucksack.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Well, that’s Kay for you, miss. Fastidious to a fault.’

  ‘Tell you what, mate, if I were you, I’d cancel any plans you have for the weekend and get yourself off to the jewellers.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘To buy the girl a ring, you dummy! I’m telling you, you and her, it’s a match made in heaven.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not so sure, I mean, we haven’t even–’

  ‘I’m winding you up!’ said West. ‘Now, what about the other stuff? The knife, and those balloon-type things?’

  ‘Still waiting, miss. Shouldn’t be long now.’

  ‘Well, it looks as though we’ve made it by the skin of our teeth,’ said West. ‘Okay, look, I know it’s late, I know you’ve not slept, and I know you’re probably starving, but I need you to make yourself useful while you wait for Kay.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Dougal. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Get cracking on the report for the fiscal, I want it on her desk first thing, but before you do that, get hold of Duncan. If he’s not hammered, tell him to get his backside into the office and charge the Boyds, then he’s to meet me at the Baxter’s gaff.’

  ‘Any particular reason, miss?’

  ‘Yeah, I could do with some support,’ said West. ‘I’m not exactly tactful when it comes to breaking bad news.’

  ‘See here,’ said Dougal, ‘Duncan’s not twenty minutes up the road from you, why don’t I send him straight there? You can leave the rest to me.’

  ‘Top man,’ said West, ‘oh, and Dougal, one last thing. Tell him to bring food. I’m starving.’

  Chapter 14

  Following the discovery of a body below the ruins of Greenan Castle, the rookie DC Duncan Reid – whose leisure time had hitherto consisted of watching football in the pub followed by a late night vindaloo and twelve hours’ recovery on the sofa – had realised there was more to life when smitten by the single mother who’d happened across the decaying corpse whilst searching for sea shells with her son.

  Forsaking the hangovers in favour of relaxing with his newly acquired, oven-ready family, he’d grown accustomed to home-cooked meals, early nights and, work permitting, weekends spent foraging in the woodlands with Cathy and her budding entomologist of a son.

  By the same token, both Cathy and her son were used to the fact that as a DS the term ‘shift’ was not applicable to his working hours and accepted that, though frustrating at times, returning late or slipping from his bed in the middle of the night, was par for the course.

  Parked on the verge, he waited until West’s Defender crept into sight, flashed his headlights, and followed at a snail’s pace as they inched their way along the lane to Baxter’s house where the warm, yellow light of a downstairs light spilled onto the drive.

  ‘Glad to see we’re not the only ones up,’ said West. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I had to get them out of bed to break the bad news.’

  ‘Oh, it’s never easy, miss, but someone has to do it.’

  ‘That’s the worrying thing, me and kid gloves were separated at birth.’

  ‘No bother, you can leave it to me.’

  ‘So, you’re used to it?’

  ‘No,’ said Duncan, ‘you never get used it, but I have done it before, a few times.’

  ‘Oh? How come?’

  ‘As a PC,’ said Duncan, ‘I had an uncanny knack of drawing the short straw. Doorsteps were my forte. Two fatal collisions, a couple of stabbings, not to mention the odd heart attack here and there.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said West, ‘you’re beginning to sound like a right Jonah. Anyway, thanks for getting here so quick. I had a horrible feeling you’d be over the limit.’

  ‘Well, you were lucky. I was that tired I had my supper and fell straight to my pit.’

  ‘Alright for some,’ said West, ‘I never made it to mine. Did you get my message?’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘Food.’

  ‘Aye, but everything’s shut,’ said Duncan, ‘you’ll have to hang on a wee bit longer, miss.’

  ‘Never mind, maybe I can cadge a biscuit off the Baxters when we go inside.’

  ‘Dougal says you’ve found the girl.’

  ‘Yup. Stone-cold dead,’ said West. ‘And it looks like she’s got a broken neck.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘Not according to McLeod. He seems to think somebody broke it for her.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘One bloke,’ said West. ‘He works at the same hotel as Rhona but to be honest we’ve got absolutely nothing on him, not unless SOCOs find something when they pick his car apart. Shall we?’

  * * *

  Conscious of the crunch of gravel beneath his boots and wary of spooking the Baxters into believing that an intruder was on the prowl, Duncan stepped lightly and paused beneath the porch.

  ‘So,’ he said, as he rapped the door, ‘are we keeping quiet about the neck for now?’

  ‘I think so,’ said West. ‘I mean, I don’t know. Let’s see how they react. It’s one thing telling someone your daughter’s dead, telling them you think she was murdered is something else entirely.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ came a voice from beyond the door. ‘Hello? I say, who’s there?’

  ‘It’s the police, madam. Nothing to worry about.’

  West took a step back as a light came on above their heads followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock.

  ‘You gave me a fright,’ said Maureen. ‘Calling on folk at this time of night. Morning. Whatever it is.’

  ‘Aye, apologies for that,’ said Duncan as he flashed his warrant card. ‘We’ve not met but we have spoken to your husband. I’m DS Reid, and this is Detective Inspector West.’

  ‘I see, so you’ve come with an update on Rhona? Is that it?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Duncan. ‘A wee update.’

  ‘I’ll fetch Willy. He’s out back loading feed onto the trailer. You’d best come in.’

  Maureen scuttled to the kitchen, yanked open the back door, and called her husband as Duncan and West followed in her wake.

  Baxter, wearing the same threadbare sweater and a tweed bunnet atop his head, appeared in the doorway and nodded politely.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘Sergeant. Has she offered you anything?’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Duncan. ‘We’ll not keep you long.’

  ‘Not even a wee mug of cocoa? It’ll see you right.’

  ‘No, thanks all the same.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said Baxter. ‘Let’s have it. There’s no point in beating about the bush.’

  ‘It’s about Rhona,’ said West. ‘I’m afraid we–’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ said Baxter. ‘Of course it’s about Rhona! Why else would you be here? So, where was she?’

  ‘Balcreuchan Burn.’

  ‘You mean, she was actually in the water?’

  ‘She was,’ said West, hesitating, ‘it looks as though…’

  ‘It looks as though she fell,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m sorry, Willy, Mrs Baxter, but she’s not coming back.’

  ‘I see. Well, that’s that, then.’

  ‘And I’m afraid there’ll have to be a post-mortem. We need to establish the precise cause of death.’

  Maureen eased herself into a chair, fumbled in her apron for a tissue, and offered West a vacuous stare.

  ‘I knew something was wrong,’ she said as her eyes glazed over. ‘But she wouldn’t say what. Do you think she was in some kind of bother, perhaps? Do you think it was man tr
ouble, or–’

  ‘We’re really not sure,’ said Duncan, ‘not just now, but we’ll do our best to find out.’

  ‘And was she alone?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That’s no way to go. Not if you’ve family, or friends, it’s not right.’

  ‘How long?’ said Baxter. ‘How long will it take for you to chop her up and stitch her back together again?’

  ‘It won’t be as brutal as that,’ said Duncan. ‘I can promise you that, but probably about a week, I imagine.’

  ‘Right,’ said Baxter as he turned for the door. ‘I’ve sheep to attend to. They’ll not feed themselves.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said West. ‘Perhaps you should give yourself a minute, sit down and have a brew. Shock’s a funny thing, it can take a while for the news to sink in.’

  ‘I’ll cope.’

  ‘And how about you, Mrs Baxter?’ said Duncan. ‘Are you okay? We can arrange for someone to come sit with you if you’re on your own.’

  ‘She’ll not be alone,’ said Baxter, tersely. ‘She has John Barleycorn to keep her company.’

  Maureen stood, tucked her chair beneath the table, and opened the sideboard.

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ she said, reaching for the bottle. ‘If you weren’t on duty, I’d offer you a wee drop.’

  ‘That’s me away,’ said Baxter as he stepped outside. ‘You can see yourselves out.’

  West took a card from her inside pocket and slid it across the table.

  ‘That’s my number, Mrs Baxter. If you fancy a chat, or if you’ve got any questions, feel free to call, anytime.’

  Rankled by the Baxters’ stifled reaction to the news of their daughter’s demise, West stormed from the house and waited by the car, shooting Duncan a quizzical look as he sauntered up beside her.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but let’s face it, miss, they knew what was coming. They were half-expecting it.’

  ‘Even so,’ said West, ‘you’d think some show of remorse would be in order.’

  Duncan tapped her lightly on the arm and nodded towards the dry stone wall running alongside the house where Willy Baxter sat with his hands on his knees, a lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

  ‘Maybe some folk prefer to grieve in private, miss.’

  West mustered a sympathetic smile as she strolled towards him.

  ‘You alright, Willy?’

  ‘I thought you’d left,’ said Baxter, drawing on his fag.

  ‘We have. I mean, we were just about to. I just thought–’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I was curious,’ said West. ‘You don’t seem that upset considering what’s happened.’

  ‘Grief can manifest itself in different ways, Inspector.’

  ‘Yeah I know but, look, I don’t want to sound rude, but I can’t help thinking there’s no love lost between you and your daughter.’

  ‘Oh, nice one, miss,’ said Duncan, mumbling under his breath. ‘Tactful as ever.’

  Baxter took a small, silver tin from his coat pocket, placed the cigarette butt inside, and turned to West, his face erupting in a sea of wrinkles as he frowned and fixed her with a penetrating stare.

  ‘Have you ever been scared, Inspector?’

  ‘Scared? Well, I don’t know,’ said West. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  ‘Have you ever been that scared, that you worry about losing control of your bowels?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Duncan. ‘Been there.’

  ‘That scared, that you can feel your skin go cold and yet, at the same time, break into a sweat?’

  ‘Well…’

  Baxter lowered his voice.

  ‘And do you know what it’s like to feel the fear?’ he said. ‘Real fear? No. I thought not. I’ll tell you what it’s like, shall I? It’s like being told that you have the cancer. It’s like being told that you have the cancer at twenty-two years of age.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said West, ‘that’s a bit young.’

  ‘It’s too young!’ said Baxter. ‘But it happened to me!’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said West. ‘Sorry, but I can’t see what you’re getting at, and besides, you’re still here so–’

  ‘I’m still here because by the grace of God it wasn’t my insides ravaged by the disease! It wasn’t my liver, or my stomach, or my lungs! It was testicular cancer!’

  ‘Jeez-oh,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m sorry, pal. Christ, that can’t have been easy.’

  ‘See here, Inspector, you want to know what I’m getting at? Well, I’ll tell you. There’s only one reason I’m still here. It’s because they chopped them off. Twenty-two years old and they chopped my baws off. It was the year before we wed, so on you go. You figure it out for yourselves.’

  West, suitably admonished, waited until Baxter had disappeared from view then gazed at Duncan, her cheeks billowing with the weight of the sigh.

  ‘Well, that’s a turn up for the books,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Duncan. ‘You can’t help but feel sorry for the fella.’

  ‘So, reading between the lines, what he’s actually trying to tell us is that Rhona isn’t his daughter after all.’

  ‘Aye, well done, miss. On the ball, as ever.’

  ‘Watch it, you.’

  ‘So, it stands to reason,’ said Duncan, ‘that Maureen must have known about his condition before they tied the knot.’

  ‘Well, if she didn’t, she’d have got a heck of a shock on their wedding night.’

  ‘And Rhona? I’m guessing if they couldn’t have bairns of their own, then maybe she was adopted.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said West, ‘but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, if she was adopted,’ said West, ‘then why does he seem to have such a grudge against her?’

  ‘Families, miss. There could be a hundred reasons. Something as trivial as a personality clash, or maybe she tapped him for a few quid and never paid him back, or maybe she was just a mummy’s girl, plain and simple.’

  West, eyes wide, grinned at Duncan and slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Genius!’ she said as she sprinted towards the house. ‘I’ll get you by the car.’

  * * *

  Unperturbed by a second knock at the door, Maureen opened it wide and ushered her inside.

  ‘I’d a feeling it was you,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t be anyone else.’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said West. ‘I haven’t slept and my head’s all over the place.’

  ‘Is it more questions you’re after?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s my keys,’ said West. ‘I was fiddling with them earlier and now I can’t find the blooming things. I think I might have left them here.’

  ‘Come away through. If they’re anywhere, they’d have to be in the kitchen.’

  Assisted by a bleary-eyed Maureen, West scoured the table and the worktops, waited until her back was turned, then produced them with a jangle.

  ‘Found them!’ she said. ‘Thanks again, I’ll leave you to get on.’

  Jogging back to the car, she reached inside her jacket and surreptitiously handed Duncan a crumpled handkerchief.

  ‘Take this,’ she said, ‘and follow me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Maureen Baxter’s whisky glass.’

  ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘And you wouldn’t?’

  ‘Fair enough. Where are we going?’

  ‘Crosshouse,’ said West. ‘We’re going to get McLeod to do us a huge favour.’

  Chapter 15

  Like Murdo, the over-inquisitive terrier who stubbornly refused to move from any leaf, lamp post, or fence that held a scent, Munro, having had a sniff of McClusky’s reformed lifestyle as an altruistic boat-keeper, could not shake the notion that lurking beneath his humanitarian façade lay the narcissistic sociopath of old.

  Niggled by the fact that the avaricious criminal, driven by an obs
essive desire to accrue his wealth without the inconvenience of a regular job, was unlikely to realise a sustainable income from the seasonal chartering of a fishing vessel, he pondered the actual source of his revenue as he hastened towards the office, his progress hampered by Murdo’s insatiable desire to inspect anything odorous.

  Feigning the onset of cramp as a guise to stealthily lift his feet from the floor, Dougal – having spent the entire night fuelled by the findings of forensics, two litres of Irn-Bru, and several packets of dry roasted peanuts – smiled as a jaded Munro drifted through the door with Murdo panting by his side.

  ‘Boss!’ he said. ‘I thought it was you! Are you up for a brew?’

  ‘I am indeed, aye,’ said Munro. ‘I brought you some breakfast but I didnae have time to fix myself a cup before we left.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I had to attend to several dishes in the West household that Alexander Fleming would have been proud of.’

  ‘So, is she not with you? Westy?’

  ‘No, she isnae,’ said Munro, ‘but she did have the decency to leave me a note.’

  ‘So, you know about the Baxter girl?’

  ‘Only that they found her,’ said Munro as he eased himself into a chair. ‘Do you not have any details?’

  ‘All I know is that she was found in the burn. She drowned.’

  ‘Then it’s a catastrophe for all concerned,’ said Munro. ‘Aye, that’s the word. Catastrophe.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Dougal. ‘Let’s hope it was an accident and not...’

  ‘Not what, laddie?’

  Dougal handed Munro a mug of hot, sweet tea and helped himself to a bacon roll.

  ‘Well, accidents happen,’ he said, ‘and by their very definition, boss, they’re blameless, but what if it was intentional? What if it was suicide?’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Aye! She may have been depressed. Or on medication. I’ve read that some of the tablets they hand out these days can turn a normal fella into a–’

  ‘Haud yer wheesht!’ said Munro, shaking his head. ‘You need to watch your sugar intake, laddie, it’s playing havoc with your imagination.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it, boss. I needed something to help me concentrate.’

  ‘So, you’ve been here all night?’

  ‘I have,’ said Dougal. ‘Amongst other things, I had to charge the Boyd fellas with murder.’