HUBRIS

by Brassett, Pete

  ‘Then I’m guessing you got the evidence you were after?’

  ‘Oh aye. Forensics nailed them good and proper and just now, I’m finishing up the report for the fiscal, so if it’s all the same with you, I need to crack on because I’ve a feeling when Westy gets back she’s going to hit me with a pile of stuff on that Rhona Baxter.’

  ‘So, you’ve not made any headway on where she went or who she may have seen?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dougal. ‘The only possible link we have is that Callum McClusky, and D&G are still trying to locate him.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Munro. ‘If he’s anything like his father then he’s probably halfway to Ulan Bator by now. Right, I’ll not disturb you any more, I’ll just sit here quietly and look at this computer. Is it switched on?’

  ‘Aye, just lift the lid and away you go. Will I give you a hand?’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Munro. ‘I can take it from here, but if you do find a minute to–’

  ‘Jeez-oh, that’s unlikely, boss, for the foreseeable at least.’

  ‘There’s no rush, laddie, whenever will do.’

  ‘What is it you’re after?’

  ‘Tam McClusky. I’d like to see the state of his accounts, oh, and if he has a registered company for the chartering of that boat of his.’

  * * *

  Munro, handing Murdo a bite-size morsel of bacon, finished his roll, washed it down with a swig of tea, and donned his glasses, keen to explore the encyclopaedic delights of the internet.

  With his index fingers hovering above the keyboard, he carefully typed McClusky’s name, checking each letter as it appeared on-screen before proceeding with the next, his efforts punctuated by gasps of frustration at the pre-emptive text followed by a groan of despair at the proliferation of out-dated articles concerning a heist that had occurred several years earlier.

  Disappointed by the lack of relevant results he approached his prey from a different angle, confident that a search for ‘Thistledonia’ would produce, at the very least, a small nugget of information on the owner, his excitement fading when confronted by the question, ‘Did you mean Snowdonia?’ above a series of images relating to a mountainous landscape and the national flower of Scotland.

  On the verge of admitting defeat, and deeming the wastepaper basket too small to accommodate the laptop, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes before deciding to give the technology one last try by entering the details of McClusky’s elusive son.

  Surprised to find his name buried in the sub-text of a description hidden amongst the largely irrelevant listings, he followed a link to the Dumfries Academy and in particular, a gallery page dedicated to the school’s foreign trips.

  Squinting in an effort to focus on the screen, he patiently scoured the captions beneath each image before clicking on one depicting four members of the under-eighteen football team standing on the steps of a hotel in Barcelona, all clearly elated by their outing.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, ‘how are you on idioms?’

  ‘Idioms?’

  ‘Aye, you know, popular phrases or sayings like speak of the devil or you cannae judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘Oh, not bad I suppose,’ said Dougal. ‘Not that I’ve ever been tested.’

  ‘Good. Then I think it’s time we had a wee quiz.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to, boss,’ said Dougal, grimacing as he rolled his eyes, ‘but see here, if I don’t finish this report by–’

  ‘Try these for size; Joined at the…?’

  ‘Hip.’

  ‘Very good. As thick as…?’

  ‘Thieves.’

  ‘And finally; Invisible threads…?’

  ‘Make the strongest ties?’

  ‘Full marks, laddie! Now, tell me, what do all these sayings have in common?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no idea,’ said Dougal, keen to move the conversation on. ‘Really, boss, I haven’t a scooby.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you with another to ponder while I take wee Murdo for a walk. If you’re looking for something, you’ll probably find it…?’

  Irritated by the interruption but unable to stop himself from getting to the bottom of yet another conundrum, Dougal, yielding to his curiosity, marched to the desk and sat before the computer baffled by the banner at the top of the page proclaiming the school’s motto ‘doctrina promovet’ until his eyes finally focused on the text beneath a photograph of the four boys; ‘Back of the net for four members of our successful football team. L to R: Davy Allison, Callum McClusky, Paul Riley, Henry Boyd.’

  Scrambling back to his desk with all the finesse of a novice skater in leather-soled shoes, he reached, arms flailing, for his phone and hit speed dial.

  ‘Miss!’ he yelled. ‘Are you there? Miss! Where are you?’

  ‘Blimey, keep your hair on,’ said West. ‘We’re just getting a coffee.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The petrol station, why?’

  ‘I know where Callum McClusky is!’

  ‘About bleeding time,’ said West. ‘So, Dumfries and Galloway finally managed to–’

  ‘No, no, no!’ said Dougal. ‘This has nothing to do with D&G. We’ve the boss to thank for this!’

  ‘Jimbo? What the hell are you… is he there?’

  ‘Aye! No! I mean, he was, he’s gone for a walk with the dog!’

  ‘Calm down, for God’s sake,’ said West. ‘Right, deep breaths, slowly now, and… explain.’

  ‘Callum McClusky was at school with Henry Boyd. I think that’s where he’s hiding. The Boyds’ place, in Moffat!’

  West, utterly unfazed by Dougal’s excitable state, glanced at Duncan, thought for a moment, then spoke with the mundane regularity of a bored customer answering the security questions requested by the bank.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘get on to D&G, tell them to meet us there but listen, not at the house, on the main road, bottom of Star Street, got that? And no noise, understood? Not a peep.’

  ‘Aye, miss, no bother.’

  ‘And if you haven’t already, tell DCI Elliot to make the call and smooth things over because if McClusky is there, we’re bringing him back to our gaff, no two ways about it.’

  * * *

  For visitors to the tranquil town of Moffat there were, particularly during the summer, some unexpected sights to behold – amongst them the classic car rally, the country fair, and the annual sheep race where bemused onlookers were able to bet on the knitted jockeys strapped atop the ewes as they bolted through the town. But for the locals there was nothing more peculiar than the sight of four uniformed officers in two patrol cars parked nose to tail outside the Star Hotel, none of whom paid any heed to the dusty Defender hurtling along the High Street, the Audi in hot pursuit, or the occupants who sprinted from the cars and emerged from the butchers three minutes later, each scoffing a cold Scotch pie.

  West, dusting pastry from her jacket, stopped opposite the lead car and nudged Duncan in the ribs.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said despairingly, ‘it’s flipping smile-a-mile.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Villiers. What’s he doing here? He should be up at the burn.’

  ‘One way to find out.’

  ‘Alright?’ said West as they crossed the street. ‘What’s going on? Moffat’s not your patch.’

  ‘I’m under instructions from a DS McCrae to escort the prisoner back to Ayr,’ said Villiers. ‘That’s assuming we have one to transport.’

  ‘Fair enough. Does that mean you’ve finished up at the burn?’

  ‘Aye, all done, miss. We were there at dawn.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What about SOCOs?’

  ‘Been and gone,’ said Villiers.

  ‘Well, did they find anything?’

  ‘No idea. I’m sure they’ll be in touch if they have.’

  ‘Give me strength,’ said West, gritting her teeth. ‘Have you ever heard of a programme called Curb Your Enthusias
m?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look it up. I think you should audition. Come on.’

  Surrounded by the officers at the foot of Star Street, West, in an unprecedented display of leadership, described the location of the house, its corner aspect, and where she wanted three of the four uniforms to position themselves should the suspect attempt an escape via the garage doors or a window on the upper level whilst the fourth, carrying the big key, was armed with the task of gaining entry.

  Glancing up and down the street before initiating a countdown with her fingers, she watched as the officer took the antiquated door clean off its hinges before dashing inside only to be confronted by an eerie silence and an empty lounge.

  Gesturing towards the door which led to the garage, West waited until Duncan indicated an all-clear before making her way up the stairs to the two double bedrooms where, accepting the etiquette of ‘ladies first’ as a dying if not out-dated tradition, she willingly stepped aside allowing Duncan, baton drawn, to inspect each of the rooms in turn before pointing to the hatch in the ceiling; the loft, barring the existence of a priest-hole, being the last remaining place a fugitive could hide.

  Reaching on tip-toe, Duncan, expanding his repertoire on the subject of short straws, slipped a finger beneath the catch, gave it a tug, and stepped back as the ladder glided gently towards the floor before gingerly making his ascent, aware that a size ten may collide with his head at any moment while West, more than capable of holding her own should a scuffle ensue, followed behind.

  Were it not for the combination of dust-balls, mouse droppings, and spiders’ webs lining the darkest recesses of the attic then Callum McClusky, secreted behind a manky mattress beneath a decorator’s canvas sheet, may have gone unnoticed but the unmistakeable sound of a stifled sneeze, normally deployed by refined members of the upper classes, gave him away.

  ‘A word to the wise, Mr McClusky,’ said West, gruffly. ‘There’s six police officers here, four of whom have Tasers, one of which is pointed directly at your ankles, so if you want my advice, I’d come out now, nice and easy, no sudden movements.’

  Apart from the cobwebs dusting his hair and a couple of minor scratches on his arms, McClusky, slithering from the shadows on his belly, looked none the worse for his ordeal.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ said Duncan as he drew a pair of cuffs from his belt. ‘Face down, hands behind your back. Callum McClusky, I’m arresting you under section 1 of the Criminal Justice Act on suspicion of the murder of Miss Rhona Baxter. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence. Do you understand?’

  Chapter 16

  Rewarding Duncan with the facile task of checking McClusky into his budget en-suite accommodation with the proviso that he be left unattended for a couple of hours in the hope that a spell of solitary might exacerbate his desire to co-operate, West, still peckish after what she considered to be a less than satisfying lunch, punched the postcode of Rhona Baxter’s address into the sat nav, floored the Defender, and sped towards Stranraer.

  United by a morbid fascination for the goings-on at the tiny, detached cottage on Foundry Lane, the neighbours, who barely recognised each other and rarely engaged in conversation, gathered like long-lost friends to hypothesise on the presence of Police Scotland, fielding rumours ranging from a drug-induced break-in to a frenzied knife attack at the hands of a deranged maniac who’d arrived on the late night ferry from Belfast.

  Muttering obscenities as she nudged her way through the burgeoning mob of curious bystanders, West, hoping to catch the SOCOs before they left, flashed her warrant card at the uniform on duty, ducked under the cordon, and stepped inside the house which, as Constable Villiers had rightly said, appeared to be awaiting the return of its occupant.

  Pausing to catch her breath, she closed the door behind her, snapped on a pair of gloves, and glanced around the lounge, sighing with jealousy when she realised that Rhona Baxter, unlike herself, was something of a clean-freak with a penchant for hoovering.

  The only item of furniture, apart from the two-seater sofa, the bookcase, and the glass-topped coffee table, was an oak-veneered sideboard which contained, alongside a stack of old birthday cards and an unused cheque book, a row of box files neatly labelled ‘gas’, ‘electric’, ‘mobile’, and ‘bank’, the latter of which revealed an incredibly healthy balance on her current account and a credit card statement with an outstanding debt of £36.95 in favour of the Stranraer Tandoori Restaurant.

  The kitchen, large enough for the essential appliances but far too cramped for even the smallest of tables, was predictably clean, its showroom appearance marred only by a stained coffee mug on the counter and the faint aroma of something well past its use-by date festering in the bin, whilst the fridge, stocked with a week’s worth of food, suggested Miss Baxter had had every intention of returning before it spoiled.

  With nothing to the rear of the house but a paved courtyard and a stunning view of Loch Ryan, West – dismissing Baxter’s bank balance as nothing unusual for a hard-working professional with little or no time to squander her hard-earned wages – made her way up the narrow staircase.

  Pondering the lack of tell-tale clues concerning her disappearance, her train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the unexpected sight of a crouching figure swabbing tiles on the bathroom floor.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she said. ‘You gave me a fright! I thought I was on my own.’

  ‘So did I,’ said the SOCO, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘DI West.’

  ‘Bob Keane. Are you new?’

  ‘No. Ayrshire.’

  ‘That’s why I don’t recognise you. So how come you’re down here?’

  ‘Because I did something bad in a previous life,’ said West. ‘Is it just you?’

  ‘Aye, just myself,’ said Keane. ‘There’s no room for more.’

  ‘Fair enough. So, how’s it going?’

  ‘Almost there, and if you’re in charge, then I’ve a couple of things that might interest you.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  Keane placed a hand on the bathtub, hauled himself to his feet, and removed a mask to reveal the battle-weary features of a fifty-two-year-old who, in the course of his work, had aged prematurely.

  ‘Don’t take what I say as gospel,’ he said, ‘you should wait for forensics to confirm–’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ said West impatiently. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude, I know you’re trying to help me out but I’m up against it here.’

  ‘No need to apologise,’ said Keane, ‘I know what you lot have to deal with. So, first of all, we’ve plenty of prints about the place.’

  ‘Is that it? No offence but they’re probably all hers, she lived alone.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Keane, ‘but I can tell you for a fact there’s more than one set.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘Positive. And there’s traces of blood in the washbasin.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Every way. Far be it for me to comment on your investigation, inspector, but if she lived alone, then she certainly didn’t cut herself shaving. Not unless she’s a contortionist and managed to get her legs up there. No, no. I’d say someone had blood on their hands and they simply rinsed it off. Not washed, mind. Rinsed.’

  ‘Well, how could that happen?’ said West. ‘Nosebleed, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Keane, as he flashed her a knowing smile, ‘but I’d say it’s probably something to do with what was in the toilet bowl, under a wodge of paper.’

  ‘Oh, please!’ said West. ‘I’ve just had lunch.’

  Keane reached into a brown paper sack and produced a clear plastic bag containing a four-inch, stainless steel paring knife with a wooden handle.

  ‘Not the kind of thing I’d recommend trying to flush down the toilet,’ he said. ‘Not unless you want to get saddled with a hefty bill from a plumber.’

 
‘And has that–’

  ‘Blood? Aye, it has indeed.’

  Given the albeit unconfirmed relationship between Rhona Baxter and Callum McClusky, West, buoyed by the fact that he’d been treated for stab wounds at the Royal Infirmary, smiled as she opened the mirrored cupboard above the basin and eyed the single toothbrush, the dental floss, a packet of panty liners, and a jar of bath salts.

  ‘That’s blinding news,’ she said, ‘thanks, you’ve just made my day. Have you looked in here?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Keane. ‘That’s last on my list. I like to finish on my feet, it gets the circulation going again.’

  West held the jar aloft and frowned as if examining a specimen suspended in formaldehyde, squinting as the light bounced off its crystalline contents.

  ‘Fancy a wee soak?’ said Keane. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Nah, I prefer a shower, me, but…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What about you? Or your missus? Do you use this stuff?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Keane. ‘Nothing fancy, Epsom salts, mostly. It helps with the joints.’

  ‘Tell me if I’m wrong,’ said West, ‘but I always thought this stuff was like, well, chunky. Like rock salt.’

  ‘Aye, some, but not all. It depends on the brand you buy.’

  ‘Yeah, but this is ultra fine,’ said West as she unscrewed the cap, ‘I mean, look, it’s finer than anything you’d sprinkle on your chips.’

  Wary of clogging her lungs with a soothing blend of ylang-ylang or sandalwood, she held the bottle beneath her nose and gently sniffed.

  ‘No fragrance,’ she said, as a puzzled look crossed her face. ‘I thought the whole point of this stuff was that you stepped out of the bath smelling like a bunch of roses.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Keane. ‘I’m not one for perfumes, or aftershave for that matter.’

  West tentatively dipped her forefinger into the jar, dabbed it on the tip of her tongue, and smiled as Keane looked on in disgust.

  ‘There must be something wrong with your taste buds if you find that palatable,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, but I do!’ said West, grinning as she screwed the lid back on. ‘And do you know why?’