HUBRIS

by Brassett, Pete

  ‘Thrill me.’

  ‘Because it’s my namesake. Charlie! Snow.’

  ‘Cocaine?’

  ‘In one. Bag it, would you, and I need everything you’ve got sent to FS as soon as possible, can you organise a courier?’

  ‘Aye, no bother.’

  ‘Cheers. Incidentally, how long will it take me to get to the North West Castle Hotel from here?’

  ‘Two minutes,’ said Keane. ‘Straight up the main road and it’s on the right. I’m heading there myself, I’ve a wee motor car that needs looking at.’

  ‘Perfect!’ said West. ‘That’s me, too. Do you know what you’re looking for?’

  ‘Is it woolly fibres you’re after?’

  ‘Yup. Passenger seat. Beige colour. I’ll meet you there.’

  * * *

  Unlike the majority of baronial piles scattered about the Scottish landscape, most of which were set in acres of prime woodland, the North West Castle Hotel – a former nineteenth-century country house belonging to the Arctic explorer, Sir John Ross – had long since succumbed to progress and stood isolated in a sea of tarmac bounded by the old port road to the north, an abandoned car park, a sprawling supermarket, and a service station.

  Wearing an expression worthy of a left swipe on Tinder, a bamboozled West, confounded by the presence of a class A substance in Rhona Baxter’s bathroom, swept up the drive, parked in a secluded spot, and snatched her phone from her hip.

  ‘Dougal,’ she said, ‘is Duncan with you?’

  ‘He’s downstairs, miss, with Callum McClusky. Why? What’s up?’

  ‘I think we might be on to something.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘Rhona Baxter and Callum McClusky, they were an item, right?’

  ‘No, no. Sorry miss, we think they were an item but that’s not been proven yet.’

  ‘Okay, let’s start again. Baxter had McClusky’s number in her phone, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And he was the last person she contacted before she disappeared.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And McClusky was treated for stab wounds at the infirmary.’

  ‘Aye, he was,’ said Dougal, ‘but until we interview him, we’ll not know how he–’

  ‘But we do!’ said West. ‘We just found a knife at Baxter’s flat, there’s blood on the blade and in the basin, too.’

  ‘So, not a coincidence, then?’

  ‘Not from where I’m standing. And the SOCO’s adamant that there’s at least two sets of prints about the place. Now, if one set belongs to McClusky then–’

  ‘Then that places him at the scene, miss! Apart from that, it doesn’t prove anything at all.’

  ‘What do you know about the power of positive thinking, Dougal?’

  ‘I’d have to say, nothing.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you look into it because I’ve had enough negativity from Villiers to last a lifetime and I don’t think I can take much more.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dougal, ‘I’m coming down off a sugar rush, must be withdrawal symptoms. So, evidence aside, you think Rhona Baxter stabbed Callum McClusky?’

  ‘Hallelujah.’

  ‘Well, it makes sense, I suppose. I mean, maybe that’s why she left in such a hurry and spun a yarn to her folks about losing the house.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said West. ‘Now, moving on, tell me what we know about Rhona Baxter.’

  ‘Successful. Honest. Hard-working. Popular with her pals.’

  ‘Right. So, tell me, what’s she doing with a shedload of coke in her bathroom cabinet?’

  ‘Coke? Are you joking me?’

  ‘I kid you not,’ said West, ‘and when I say shedload, trust me, it’s a few grand’s worth. So, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Dougal, ‘but we’re going to need an awful big pen to join these dots.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Okay, Callum McClusky’s involved with Rhona Baxter and she has a bottle of coke in her bathroom. McClusky is pals with Henry Boyd who was trafficking cocaine from Iceland to Scotland, on top of which the boat they were using belongs to McClusky’s dad, so maybe their relationship was more professional than personal.’

  ‘That’s my boy.’

  ‘The only question, then,’ said Dougal, ‘is why did she stab him?’

  ‘Dunno yet,’ said West, ‘unless they were mixing business with pleasure. Now listen, the SOCO’s sending everything he found up to FS by courier, give it an hour then start chasing them, got it?’

  ‘No bother, miss. What are you up to?’

  ‘I’m at the hotel where Baxter worked. That Dunbar geezer who she used to hang out with should be here by now. We’ll see what he’s got to say for himself.’

  ‘Okay, have you spoken to Dr McLeod at all?’

  ‘Andy? No, why?’

  ‘He’s been asking for you.’

  ‘Probably chasing that drink, I expect. Anything else?’

  ‘Aye, something to cheer you up,’ said Dougal.

  ‘God knows I could do with it.’

  ‘I had Kay on the phone, I mean, Miss Grogan.’

  ‘For flips sake, Dougal, I know who your girlfriend is!’

  ‘Sorry. Well, I spoke with Kay and the pellets we found in Henry Boyd’s rucksack are the same as those Dr McLeod had, and the DNA from the knife we found with them is his, too.’

  ‘Get in there! So, two knives were used in the attack which means both Jack and Henry Boyd were culpable.’

  ‘Probably both culpable.’

  ‘I’ll swing for you in a minute. Have you sent that report to the fiscal yet?’

  ‘Aye, miss. All done.’

  ‘Good man,’ said West. ‘Right, you get yourself off, you’ve done more than enough. I’ll be back about eight, tell Duncan I expect to see him there.’

  * * *

  West swivelled in her seat and cast an eye over the car park which, being reasonably full despite the time of year, seemed to suggest that the hotel was either a popular destination for one-nighters stepping off the boat, businessmen attending sales conferences, or sports enthusiasts availing themselves of the indoor curling rink but not, unfortunately, the local constabulary conducting a murder inquiry.

  Glancing up at the dusky blue sky and a full moon which was guaranteed to send her mood swings into overdrive, West, zipping her coat against an icy blast blowing in off the loch, wandered to the rear of the hotel where, much to her relief, she spied a uniformed officer leaning on the boot of a marked patrol car in an area designated ‘staff only’.

  ‘Alright?’ she said, waving her warrant card. ‘DI West.’

  The officer, somewhat startled, looked up, stared for a moment, then walked towards her.

  ‘You’re DI West?’ he said as a mischievous grin crept across his face.

  ‘Yeah, have you got a problem with that?’

  ‘No, no, I just wasn’t expecting… I mean…’

  ‘Don’t tell, you thought I’d be some old bloke in a vintage Jag who only listens to classical music.’

  ‘I was about to say, I wasn’t expecting anyone so… attractive.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said West, rolling her eyes as she clocked his left hand. ‘That ring’s on your finger for a reason. And you are?’

  ‘Sergeant Cox.’

  ‘I might have guessed. Right, Alex Dunbar, where is he?’

  ‘In the car. My colleague’s trying to coax him out of his shell.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s not budging,’ said Cox. ‘He’s not saying a word unless we arrest him and even then, only through a solicitor.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, what do we arrest him for?’

  ‘For crying out loud!’ said West. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you? Suspicion of abduction and murder.’

  ‘Are you joking me? You mean to say we’ve been dealing with some kind of nutter?’

  ‘A young lad with a decent job?’
said West. ‘I doubt it. So, he’s keeping schtum, is he?’

  ‘Aye, but to be fair,’ said Cox, ‘he’s not being cocky, or abusive, or violent. If anything, he seems petrified.’

  ‘Right, you wait here, I’ll have a word.’

  Assuming Dunbar’s state of shock to be the result of a predictably intimidating approach by the two uniformed officers, West, preferring to put her suspect at ease rather than scare the living daylights out of him, adopted the kind of flirtatious smile she used to use when frequenting the bars of Shoreditch, leaned towards the open window, and spoke softly.

  ‘Alright?’ she said. ‘You must be Alex. How’s it going?’

  Dunbar stared dead ahead and answered succinctly.

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m a detective. Actually, that’s open to debate, but listen, I’ve been in the car all day long and I could do with stretching my legs. Fancy a walk?’

  Dunbar turned to West, swallowed hard, and nodded.

  ‘Just us?’

  ‘Yeah. Once around the car park. How’s that?’

  ‘Aye. Okay.’

  West opened the door, thrust her hands deep into her pockets, and waited for Dunbar just as Bob Keane, behind the wheel of a small, white Transit van, crept into view.

  ‘Listen, Alex,’ she said as they ambled across the tarmac, ‘you’re not under arrest, and no-one’s accusing you of anything, okay? I just need a few words about Rhona.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true, I mean, you work together, right? And from what I hear, the two of you get along famously.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So all I’m saying is, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not against the law to be mates with a member of the opposite sex. Now, Rhona’s not been around much recently, has she?’

  ‘Holidays.’

  ‘Did she go anywhere nice?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘So, she didn’t send you a postcard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  Dunbar stopped and stared at West, his face riddled with confusion.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he said. ‘First, Starsky and Hutch over there, then you. Has something happened to Rhona?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later, let’s just stick with the question for now. So, when was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘About a month ago.’

  ‘And was that here, at work? Or after?’

  ‘After? What do you mean, after?’

  ‘I hear you and Rhona used to knock about together, is that true?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’ said West. ‘Go for a few drinks? Was that it?’

  ‘We had an Indian.’

  ‘And after that, did you–’

  ‘Did we what? Listen,’ said Dunbar, ‘I’ve no idea what this is all about but I’ve not done anything wrong, okay?’

  ‘Fine. I believe you,’ said West, ‘but aren’t you worried? I mean, I thought Rhona was due back last week.’

  ‘Aye, she was.’

  ‘And she’s not the kind of girl to go AWOL, now, is she?’

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ said Dunbar. ‘Something has happened, hasn’t it?’

  West, alerted by the sound of an ear-piercing whistle normally reserved for builders hanging off a scaffolding rig thirty feet above street level, turned to see a grinning Keane leaning on the roof of a dilapidated Nissan Micra with his thumb in the air.

  ‘Alright, Alex, listen to me. I don’t know where you were going or what you were up to, but I do know that at some point in the last four weeks, Rhona Baxter was in your car.’

  ‘Away! That’s tosh!’ said Dunbar. ‘Why would she be in my car when she only lives up the way.’

  West stopped in her tracks, turned to Dunbar, and cocked her head.

  ‘I’m going to let you into a secret,’ she said, smiling softly. ‘For years I was racked with self-doubt. I spent every single day battling with my confidence, and do you know why? Because my colleagues, my senior colleagues, had no faith in my ability as a cop, which in turn made me wonder if I was in the right job, but you know what? I am. Because despite what they thought, I’m actually quite good at it. I’m quite good at finding stuff out then backing it up with hard evidence. I’ll give you an example. The last time you saw Rhona Baxter was about a month ago, right? Well, I can tell you exactly what she was wearing when you saw her – blue jeans, and a beige, woolly sweater. And how do I know she was in your car? Because we just found some beige, woolly fibres on the passenger seat of your motor. So, start talking or I will arrest you and if I do, I’m sorry to say it’s not me you’ll be dealing with, it’s my sergeant, and I’ll give you a head’s up, he’s not a soft touch, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s up to you.’

  Unlike the victims of pushy parents who’d cajoled their offspring into believing that education was key to a mortgage-free existence, Alex Dunbar, with one GCSE to his name, had been raised to realise that success did not come from sitting behind a desk, that a hard day’s graft was rewarded not with a pay packet but by a sense of achievement, and that the only way to get on was to keep one’s head down, respect your elders, and stay out of trouble, an ethos to which he’d strictly adhered and one which, as a consequence of his first encounter with the long arm of the law, had him quaking in his boots.

  Shuffling nervously with the pained expression of someone whose bladder was about to burst, he stared at West before throwing his head back and groaning with frustration.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ he said. ‘Look, I don’t want to get her into trouble, okay? She doesn’t deserve it!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said West. ‘Get her into trouble?’

  ‘There’s a rumour going about the place that she’s a boyfriend. The last thing I want is some hulk of a fella giving her a hard time before he comes to batter the hell out of me!’

  ‘Relax,’ said West with a reassuring smile. ‘I know for a fact that she doesn’t have a boyfriend, and she’s not married either. So, what was it with you two?’

  Dunbar, his shoulders twitching against the cold, glanced needlessly over his shoulder before answering.

  ‘We had a laugh together,’ he said, nervously. ‘We just got along, okay? Christ knows what she saw in me, I mean, she’s nearly old enough to be my mother.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And one thing led to another. We ended up, you know…’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said West. ‘Been there, bought the tee shirt. So, how long were you two seeing each other?’

  ‘I don’t know. Six months, maybe.’

  ‘And did anyone else know about your little arrangement?’

  ‘No,’ said Dunbar. ‘Not that I’m aware of. I mean, the folk at work knew we’d go for a wee bevvy together, but not about the other stuff.’

  West proffered a sympathetic smile and lowered her voice.

  ‘Listen, Alex,’ she said softly, ‘I need to ask you something strictly off the record. I promise you it won’t go any further.’

  ‘Is this a trick question?’

  ‘No, I swear I’m being straight, and I hope you will be too. Tell me, was Rhona into drugs at all?’

  Dunbar flinched as if he’d been slapped in the face with a wet fish.

  ‘Away!’ he said. ‘Drugs? Are you joking me? No, no, Rhona’s the Mary Poppins of Stranraer! The only drug she ever took was paracetamol, and that was usually for a hangover.’

  ‘And how about you? Are you fond of a smoke? The odd joint? Or anything else, maybe?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Dunbar. ‘I’ve never touched the stuff, and I’ve no intention of starting, either.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said West. ‘So, back to the car. Where were you going with Rhona?’

  Dunbar looked at West and sighed.

  ‘Lendalfoot,’ he said. ‘Her folks’ place. That’s where she was going for her holidays.’ />
  ‘And was that after the Indian?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Tell me something, Alex. Didn’t it strike you as odd that she didn’t have anything with her? No suitcase, no clothes, no coat, even?’

  ‘No. We left the restaurant and she said she had to go, like she was in a hurry.’

  ‘And where did you drop her?’

  ‘Bottom of the lane, by the main road.’

  ‘So, you didn’t go to the house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Alright,’ said West, nodding towards to the hotel. ‘You’d better get a wiggle on or you’ll be late for your shift.’

  ‘Is that it? I’m free to go?’

  ‘Yup, just one last thing, I may need to speak to you again, have you got a number?’

  ‘Aye, it’s–’

  ‘Hold on.’

  West opened ‘contacts’ on her phone, breathed on the screen, and buffed it on the seat of her pants.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, ‘sorry, it’s a bit grubby.’

  ‘No danger,’ said Dunbar as he tapped away. ‘There you go. What about Rhona? Are you going to tell me or not?’

  West took a deep breath, looked him in the eye, and sighed.

  ‘I’m afraid Rhona’s had an accident,’ she said. ‘She won’t be–’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  West nodded.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘If you want to go home,’ said West, ‘I can go inside and explain to your boss.’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Dunbar. ‘Best to keep busy. Do they know? In there? Will I tell them?’

  ‘No, you can leave that to me. I’ll have a word in a bit.’

  * * *

  ‘Are you alright?’ said Keane as he walked towards her. ‘You look a wee bit, what’s the word? Lost.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said West. ‘Just tired, I think. So, you found the fibres?’

  ‘Aye, beige and woolly, just like you said. Do you know where they came from?’

  ‘We do. Get them up to FS as soon as you can, please, and before you go,’ said West as she handed him her phone, ‘dust this for me and let me know if you get a decent print, it’s the index finger you’re looking for.’

  Mildly offended that someone should feel the urge to attract her attention by shouting from a distance of less than twenty feet, West turned to see a bemused-looking Cox striding towards her.