HUBRIS

  ‘Inspector!’ he said. ‘Was that not your suspect I just saw walking into the hotel?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s late for his shift.’

  ‘Are we not supposed to be bringing him in?’

  ‘Nah, not any more,’ said West. ‘You can stand down, he’s in the clear.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks anyway.’

  ‘Some people have no manners,’ muttered West as Keane scanned her phone with an FLS. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Aye, it’s a beauty.’

  ‘Can you lift it? I need my phone back.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Keane. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  ‘Thanks. The name’s Alex Dunbar. I’ll need it cross-checked with all the prints you got from Baxter’s gaff, and here’s my card, give me a bell and hang up so I’ve got your number.’

  Chapter 17

  Having swapped the scheming streets of London’s vice-ridden Square Mile for a comparatively peaceful existence north of the border, a rejuvenated West – under the sagacious guidance of the now retired DI James Munro – had learned to appreciate the simple things in life like watching the sunrise instead of cowering beneath the sheets, counting the stars instead of pulling the curtains, and sipping a half-decent malt instead of downing half a litre of vodka in less than an hour but there was, without a doubt, no greater pleasure to be had than returning home only to be greeted by a feisty terrier and the welcoming waft of a home-cooked meal emanating from the kitchen.

  ‘If you want a full-time job,’ she said, as Munro busied himself with the plates, ‘you only have to ask. I should mention, it’s a zero hours contract, though.’

  ‘I’m humbled by your generosity.’

  ‘You’re looking chipper, what have you been up to?’

  ‘I spent the afternoon in the company of young Dougal,’ said Munro, ‘and managed to pull myself back from the brink of boredom.’

  ‘Doing what, exactly?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve dished up.’

  ‘What are we having?’

  ‘One of the butcher’s finest pies,’ said Munro, ‘steak and ale with mashed potatoes and gravy.’

  ‘You are one in a million,’ said West as she glanced around the kitchen. ‘Blimey, where’s all the stuff gone?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘The plates, and the pans, and the dishes and stuff.’

  ‘They’ve been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives and returned to their rightful place in the cupboard.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘No, I didnae,’ said Munro, ‘but having spent eleven hours beneath the scalpel of a heart surgeon, I’ll be damned if I’m going to run the risk of contracting anything which, at the very least, might play havoc with my digestive system.’

  ‘Oh, don’t exaggerate,’ said West, ‘they weren’t that bad.’

  ‘They exceeded the bounds of human decency.’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t know what you’re worrying about. You could eat a bag of nails and not have any adverse effects.’

  ‘Tell that to the coroner when the death certificate cites Escherichia coli as the cause of death. Now, if you’d be so kind, there’s a bottle on the side.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  As someone who’d forged a career out of dealing with death, depravity, and the occasional bag of dismembered body parts, there was little in life capable of shocking James Munro, apart, that is, from the word ‘vegan’ and his protégé’s unprecedented display of temperance.

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat! Have you taken a knock to the head?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said West. ‘Callum McClusky’s waiting for us. I only nipped back to have some grub before we give him a grilling.’

  ‘Well, kindly refrain from making such ludicrous statements in the future, I’m not sure my heart can take it. Of course, you’ll not be offended if I partake?’

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ said West. ‘Just save some for me, I’ll be gagging by the time I get back.’

  With Murdo savouring the delights of a ridiculously large ham bone in the lounge, a tactic deployed to stop him begging for scraps, Munro joined West at the table and raised his glass.

  ‘Your very good health,’ he said.

  ‘No need to rub it in.’

  ‘So, tell me, Charlie, Jack and Henry Boyd’s conviction aside, are you any nearer to finding out who was buying and selling the cocaine aboard the Thistledonia?’

  ‘Kind of, why?’

  ‘Because with Dougal’s assistance, you’ll not be surprised to hear that I’m now of the opinion that Tam McClusky almost certainly has a role in this.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said West. ‘I’m not surprised at all. I was beginning to think the same thing.’

  ‘How so?’

  West, jealously eyeing his glass of red, set her cutlery to one side and sipped from a tumbler of water.

  ‘I had a look at Rhona Baxter’s bank account,’ she said, ‘and she’s got quite a bit tucked away.’

  ‘Sensible girl.’

  ‘At first I thought, alright, she works hard, she’s probably managed to save a bit, but then…’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘But then I got to thinking,’ said West, ‘somehow or other, she got mixed up with Callum McClusky, right? And he’s mates with Henry Boyd. Now, I met a SOCO at her place just now and guess what we found? A stash of coke in the bathroom. So, what if McClusky and Boyd were using her gaff to hide some of their gear, and her bank account to syphon off some of the drug money?’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption, lassie.’

  ‘Okay, so it stands to reason then that if Boyd was smuggling the drugs from Iceland on Tam McClusky’s boat, then he must have known about it. Especially if his son’s involved.’

  ‘And I’m inclined to agree,’ said Munro. ‘Let’s not forget, the apple never falls far from the tree.’

  ‘Whatever. The things is, Jimbo, how do we prove it?’

  ‘I’d suggest approaching Tam McClusky from a different angle,’ said Munro. ‘Snare him by the back door.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘See here, Charlie, Tam McClusky’s house in Kirkcudbright was paid for in cash. Of course, that was before the anti money-laundering laws with regard to conveyancing came into force.’

  ‘No offence,’ said West, ‘but I think we figured that one out already, I mean, he’s never worked a day in his life.’

  ‘Aye, but not only that,’ said Munro, ‘McClusky’s been claiming benefits ever since his release from prison.’

  ‘Really? But surely the income from his boat business would preclude him from signing on?’

  ‘Apparently not. According to his annual returns, diligently filed with Revenue and Customs, his profits are well below the six-thousand-pound eligibility threshold, so technically, he’s entitled.’

  ‘Entitled my–’

  ‘Plus, he’s not working more than twelve hours a week on account of the fact that he cannae walk more than twenty yards without pausing for breath.’

  ‘You mean he’s on disability, as well?’

  ‘Aye, emphysema, it seems. So, the question for you, Charlie, is how does someone like Tam McClusky maintain a boat, pay the bills, hand out pay-day loans, and sustain a gambling habit bordering on addiction, on the pittance he earns?’

  ‘And the simple answer to that,’ said West, ‘is he doesn’t. He supplements his income and you and I both know how. My problem is, we don’t have enough to arrest him.’

  ‘No, but you do have enough for a warrant. If you can prove financial impropriety then you can hand it over to HMRC, let them do the donkey work. And I wouldnae worry about McClusky, if what I hear is true, then for the sake of appearances, he’ll probably welcome you into his home with open arms.’

  ‘Yeah, right, then shoot us in the back as we leave. The thing is, Jimbo, he’s not stupid enough to leave anything incriminating lying about h
is house, but you’re right, it’s worth a punt.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘but mark my words, Charlie, do this one by the book, get the warrant before you go knocking his door. He’ll not take kindly to being made a fool of. He’ll not take kindly at all.’

  ‘Yes, dad. Any pudding?’

  ‘Treacle tart,’ said Munro. ‘Incidentally, I got your note. Was that not a shock to the system?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being up so early.’

  ‘Needs must.’

  ‘You must be shattered.’

  ‘Funnily enough,’ said West, ‘no. It must be all the adrenalin.’

  ‘So you found the Baxter girl?’

  ‘Yup, face down, in the burn, a mile or two up the road from her parents’ house. She drowned.’

  ‘So Dougal said.’

  ‘But not before she had her neck broken. We went to break the bad news to her folks, I had a chat with her old man, it turns out Willy Baxter’s a eunuch.’

  Munro, wincing as he choked on a forkful of pie, reached for the wine.

  ‘That’s not something to joke about,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘The very thought–’

  ‘I’m not joking,’ said West. ‘It was cancer. They lopped them off before he got married.’

  ‘So, Rhona Baxter’s adopted?’

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ said West. ‘But if she isn’t, then her mum’s got some explaining to do. McLeod’s testing her DNA as we speak.’

  ‘I’m surprised she was willing to give a sample.’

  ‘She didn’t,’ said West, as she reached for her coat. ‘Well, not intentionally, anyway. The glass she was drinking from accidentally fell into my pocket. I need to get a move on, don’t wait up.’

  Chapter 18

  Wrapped in his leather car coat with a woollen watch cap pulled low over his brow and the stubble on his chin bordering on a beard, Duncan, possessing the charm of a nightclub bouncer with a lucrative side-line in knee-capping, fixed Callum McClusky with an unwavering gaze as West, content that her belly was full, placed her phone on the desk and sat with the relaxed demeanour of someone about to binge on a box set of Sex and the City before shattering the silence by reaching forward and clicking the button on the voice recorder.

  ‘The time,’ she said softly, ‘is 8.17pm. I’m Detective Inspector West, also present is Detective Sergeant Reid. For the benefit of the tape, would you please state your name.’

  ‘Callum.’

  ‘Your full name.’

  ‘McClusky.’

  ‘Do you know why you’re here, Callum?’

  McClusky, the rings under his eyes exaggerated by the ghostly pallor of his pale, blotchy skin, thought for a moment and smiled.

  ‘Breaking and entering.’

  ‘Wrong answer,’ said West. ‘There were no signs of a forced entry at the premises on Star Street, so to arrest you on suspicion of such would have been foolish on our part. Would you care to try again?’

  Suffering from a lack of sleep and missing the comforts of home, McClusky, slouching in his seat with his legs splayed, opted to heed his father’s advice and, having declined the offer of a phone call and the services of a solicitor, decided to speak only when spoken to, and to keep his answers to the bare minimum.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Then I suggest you try your hand at some memory games,’ said West. ‘I’ll remind you. You were arrested on suspicion of murder. Have you anything to say about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. If we carry on like this, I might get an early night, and God knows I could do with one. How long have you known Henry Boyd?’

  McClusky shuffled in his seat and blinked nervously.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Well, you must know him pretty well,’ said West. ‘After all, you were in his house. How’d you get in? Do you have a key?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You were at school together, weren’t you? Do you hang out a lot, you and Henry? Go for a few pints, watch the football, maybe?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Having interviewed enough young offenders to know when someone had been advised to answer any questions with the volition of a seasoned pro, West, going out on a limb, decided to embellish the facts in an effort to rattle his cage.

  ‘I think it’s a shame you don’t want to talk about him,’ she said, ‘because he speaks highly of you. He says you see each other quite a lot. In fact, he even said you have a right laugh together, especially on the boat. Your old man’s boat. The Thistledonia.’

  McClusky glanced at West, raised his eyebrows, and smirked.

  ‘Jack and Henry are quite fond of fishing, aren’t they?’ said West. ‘They go quite regularly. How about you, Callum? Do you like fishing?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Well, you must like it a little bit, I mean, that’s what you do for a living, isn’t it? Flogging fish off the harbour.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Henry tells me they go all the way up to the Faroes. Not far from Iceland, is it? The Faroes. Do you know anyone from Iceland?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Jack does,’ said West. ‘They know a geezer called Aron. Or should I say, used to know a geezer called Aron. He’s dead now. Drugs. That’s what killed him. Are you into drugs, Callum?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What about your dad?’ said West. ‘I mean, I know he’s getting on a bit but he strikes me as the kind of bloke who’d get a kick from chasing the odd dragon about the place.’

  Unnerved by Duncan’s protracted silence, McClusky shook his head and watched as West, looking as bored as an Amish electrician, checked her watch, placed her elbows on the table, and cradled her head in her hands.

  ‘How long have you known Rhona?’ she said with a sigh. ‘Miss Rhona Baxter.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Sorry, weren’t you meant to say “no comment” there?’

  ‘I said, I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘Then why does she have your number in her phone?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘That’s more like it. Rhona wasn’t into drugs, was she? She was a sensible girl, a career girl. Hard-working, honest, decent. Which makes me wonder why she had a jar of cocaine in her house. I’d say that was odd, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘The thing is, Callum, Rhona’s dead too. Only her death had nothing to do with drugs. Somebody snapped her neck in half and left her to drown in the burn.’

  McClusky, the colour draining from his cheeks, glanced furtively about the room, cleared his throat, and lowered his gaze.

  ‘What makes it worse,’ said West, ‘is that she was still alive when she hit the water but she couldn’t move. You see, the break in her neck severed the spinal cord, which paralysed her, so she lay there for hours, slowly drowning and freezing to death, and there was nothing she could do, but wait. I’ll ask you again, Callum, when was the last time you saw Rhona Baxter?’

  ‘No comment.’

  McClusky snatched his hands from his pockets in an effort to stop himself falling from his seat as the unexpected sound of Duncan’s fist thumping the desk sent him reeling to one side.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ve met parrots with a better vocabulary than you! See here, McClusky, ordinarily I’m a very patient fella but the thing with me is, if I’ve not had my sleep, and if I’ve not had my supper, I get irritable, and when my fuse is burnt, I get angry! Do you get what I’m saying?’

  With his right leg succumbing to an involuntary twitch, Callum McClusky, his eyes misting over, gripped the sides of the chair and slowly slid back in his seat.

  ‘You!’ said Duncan, as he walked towards him. ‘You’re just like the rest of them! Out there, on the street, you think you’re something special, you think you’re the big man, but one whiff of a spell in the big house with the wee windows and you start bleating like a wean. Well, I�
�ve got some news for you, pal, you’d best buy yourself a big box of tissues because that’s exactly where you’re going, with the rest of your pals.’

  ‘How?’ said McClusky, trying to muster some courage. ‘You can’t put me away for not answering your questions.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about the questions!’ said Duncan. ‘As far as I’m concerned, they’re just a formality. You’re going down for the murder of Rhona Baxter.’

  ‘I didn’t do it!’ said McClusky, wiping his eyes. ‘And you can’t prove that I did!’

  ‘Aye, we can!’ said Duncan, as he made for the door. ‘And when you get out, you’ll be an old man! For the benefit of the tape, DS Reid has left the room.’

  West looked at McClusky and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ she said. ‘Interview suspended. The time is 8.53pm. I’ve had enough too. I’m going home.’

  Alone with West, McClusky, reverting to form, stared across the room with a contemptuous grin smeared across his face.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Can you not handle an interview without some meathead to back you up?’

  ‘Tread carefully,’ said West. ‘You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Look at me, I’m quaking. So, if you’re off, is that me away, too? Am I free to go?’

  ‘You must think I’m zipped up the back, you muppet. The only place you’re going, is back in your box.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ said McClusky. ‘If you’re not charging me, then you have to let me go.’

  ‘Listen, sunshine. I can hold you for twelve hours, and if your grasp of the English language hasn’t improved by then, then I can hold you for another twelve, so if I were you, I’d get some kip. Night, night.’

  * * *

  There were only three occasions in her entire life when DI Charlotte West, witnessing the hitherto unseen dark side of an individual’s character, had been left in a state of confused shock.

  The first, as a young teen, was when her animal-loving riding instructor dispatched a defenceless mouse with the heel of her boot. The second, instigated by an excess of alcohol, was when her otherwise kind, caring, and loving ex-fiancé threatened to send her into orbit with a single jab from his right hand, whilst the third, a masterclass in interview techniques, was watching a menacing DI James Munro turn a cold-blooded killer into a quivering wreck with nothing more than a few choice words delivered with the softly-spoken but chilling conviction of a lifer in Broadmoor.