HUBRIS

  Duncan Reid, waiting patiently on the stairwell, had slipped in at number four.

  ‘Have you calmed down?’ said West as she trudged towards him.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I never realised you had such a temper, damn near scared the pants off me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not a temper, miss. That was all an act.’

  ‘See you at the BAFTAs, then.’

  ‘See here, miss, I grew up with the likes of McClusky, they’re all mouth and no trousers, the reason being, they think they can get away with it because a decent brief and a social worker will claim they’re victims of society and a deprived childhood. It’s all tosh as far as I’m concerned, putting a rocket up their backside doesn’t do them any harm.’

  ‘Well, I think you managed to get Apollo 12 up his.’

  ‘Call me the harbinger of doom,’ said Duncan, ‘but he does have a point.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Rhona Baxter, miss. We can’t prove it was him.’

  ‘That’s a minor inconvenience for now,’ said West. ‘You have to learn to trust fate, Duncan. Something will turn up.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s fate we’re needing, miss. It’s divine intervention.’

  Noticing the chink of light glowing beneath the office door, West, assuming Dougal had failed to follow her instructions to go home and get some rest, swung it open only to find the willowy Dr McLeod seated at her desk watching an episode of Quincy on Netflix.

  ‘Andy!’ she said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, if the mountain won’t go to Mohammad.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I left a message,’ said McLeod. ‘Several, in fact.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that, it’s been the longest day.’

  ‘For all of us.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Duncan. ‘I’d offer you a drink but as you’re driving the choice is limited to tea, coffee, or Dougal’s Irn-Bru.’

  ‘You’re alright,’ said McLeod. ‘I’m not stopping now that you’re here.’

  ‘You are silly,’ said West. ‘Surely it could have waited.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Charlie. I’m rammed solid from 5am and I thought I should tell you to your face.’

  ‘Is this about Baxter?’

  ‘Aye, which one do you want?’

  ‘How many have you got?’

  ‘Two,’ said McLeod. ‘Rhona and Maureen.’

  ‘Let’s start with Rhona. She’s the hot topic at the moment.’

  ‘Okay, well, you’ll be pleased to know, it’s as I thought. It’s not just the second vertebra in her neck, the C2, that was fractured, the C1 was out of alignment and the C3 had a fracture, too.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that the vertebral arteries were ruptured which resulted in a lack of blood to the brain. That, coupled with the damage to the cervical nerves, left her paralysed. So it’s like I said, she drowned.’

  ‘What a lovely note to end the day on.’

  ‘I’m not finished yet,’ said McLeod. ‘On the upside, I retrieved some skin tissue and a few strands of hair from beneath her fingernails…’

  ‘Which means,’ said Duncan, ‘that she must have been involved in some kind of a tussle?’

  ‘Exactly. The DNA confirms that both samples come from the same person. The profile’s on the system but there’s no match.’

  ‘Not yet, there isn’t,’ said Duncan, ‘but there soon will be.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Our prime suspect is downstairs. His details should be up by the morning and I reckon he’s the man.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ said West. ‘If I wasn’t so flipping tired, Andy, I’d buy you that drink. Right now.’

  ‘Rain check, Charlie, but I will hold you to it. Now, will I give you the story on Maureen?’

  ‘Christ, I’d almost forgotten about her,’ said West. ‘Yeah, go on.’

  ‘Okay, you were of the opinion that her daughter was adopted, is that not right?’

  ‘Well, it’s a theory,’ said West, ‘seeing as how her husband lost his battle with testicular cancer.’

  ‘Battle?’

  ‘Yup, but it’s okay, he won the war.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said McLeod, ‘but I’m afraid it’s back to the drawing board as far as your theory’s concerned. The DNA from the glass you gave me proves that Maureen Baxter is definitely Rhona’s mother.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because now we need to find out who the father is, and it’s not something I’m keen on discussing with a man who can’t have kids.’

  Chapter 19

  Likening the course of an investigation to a trudge through the mire requiring the dogged determination of Pheidippides racing to Athens, Munro – intent on finding a link between the class A substance in Rhona Baxter’s bathroom and Tam McClusky’s uncanny ability to evade detection by both Revenue and Customs and the Department for Work and Pensions – commandeered a laptop and, wallowing in the serenity of the empty office, instigated a search of the National Records of Scotland while Murdo, unfazed by the ungodly hour, chomped his way through a bowlful of breakfast.

  Handling the keyboard with the tenacity of a bomb-disposal expert assessing an IED, he smiled with relief when, after the minimum of effort, the NRS homepage appeared, his elation evaporating as he realised the website had been designed by the person responsible for the maze at Hampton Court Palace until, by chance, he happened across a link to ‘Scotland’s People’ where a surprisingly simple search of the marriage records brought forth a cornucopia of unexpected results.

  ‘Boss!’ said Dougal, side-stepping Murdo as he careered through the door. ‘Jeez-oh! I didn’t expect to find you here! In fact, I wasn’t expecting anyone at all!’

  ‘Milk and three, if you’d be so kind,’ said Munro as he removed his spectacles. ‘I’m parched.’

  ‘Coming up! Have you not had yourself some breakfast?’

  ‘No, wee Murdo’s scoffed the lot.’

  ‘Then here, have mine,’ said Dougal as he handed him a sausage sandwich, ‘I can wait. Duncan will bring supplies soon enough.’

  ‘I’m indebted, laddie. Truly, I am.’

  ‘No bother, it’s the least I can do. So, what brings you here so early? Did you not sleep?’

  ‘I slept very well,’ said Munro, ‘but that Tam McClusky’s been getting under my skin.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘His financial shenanigans for a start, not to mention that blessed boat of his. To his credit though, he’s old school, he knows how to cover his tracks, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘Aye, you’re not wrong there,’ said Dougal. ‘So, are you looking for ways to trip him up?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good luck with that. We’ve tried but there’s not much on him.’

  ‘Where did you look?’

  ‘The usual,’ said Dougal, ‘council records, and HMRC as you said, but to be honest, as he’s not in the frame for anything, I didn’t dig too deep. He seems to have kept his nose clean since he got out of jail.’

  Munro finished his sandwich, took a swig of tea, and proffered his cup for a refill.

  ‘I’ll give you a wee tip,’ he said. ‘If you ever have to deal with the likes of McClusky again, then dinnae waste time looking at the present or what he might do in the future. You need to go back. Way back.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Are you familiar with the phrase “the past will always come back to haunt you”?’

  ‘I am, aye.’

  ‘Well, I’ve just found McClusky’s ghost.’

  * * *

  West, wearing the look of a distraught mother who’d finally found her itinerant child, hovered in the doorway and rolled her eyes.

  ‘There you are!’ she said. ‘So, what’s this? Tit for tat?’

  ‘I’m not with you,
Charlie?’

  ‘Leaving me a note then skedaddling while I was still asleep!’

  ‘Not intentional, lassie. I had something on my mind.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Duncan, grinning as he plopped a bagful of food on the desk, ‘if you’re going to argue, take it outside. Chief, how’s it hanging?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Munro. ‘I take it you’re suitably rested?’

  ‘I certainly am, but why are you out of your pit so early?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for a length of rope.’

  ‘Sorry, chief, too early for riddles.’

  ‘For McClusky to hang himself.’

  West draped her jacket over the back of a chair and helped herself to a fried egg sandwich as Dougal served tea.

  ‘Carry on like this,’ she said, ‘and you’ll be headhunted by Oxfam.’

  ‘I’m not with you, Charlie.’

  ‘They’d kill to get a volunteer like you.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Munro, ‘but my role as an unpaid domestic is time consuming enough.’

  ‘Touché. Okay, let’s have it, I’m looking forward to this.’

  Munro stood, grabbed his tea, and wandered to the window with one hand firmly behind his back.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, gazing at the street below, ‘Tam McClusky. Did you know his parents were born in Londonderry?’

  ‘That’ll explain his love of firearms,’ said Duncan.

  ‘And did you know his wife, Kelly McClusky, née Fraser, is now running a souvenir shop in Stirling?’

  ‘Business must be good,’ said Dougal, opening his emails, ‘if she can afford to live up there.’

  ‘And did you know that Tam McClusky and Kelly Fraser were wed at the registration office on Buccleuch Street in Dumfries?’

  ‘Always fancied a white wedding myself,’ said West, ‘but heigh-ho. So, where exactly are you going with all this?’

  ‘The witness at the ceremony,’ said Munro, ‘was one Maureen Hughes who, just two months later, went on to marry a certain William John Baxter.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said West, spluttering into her tea. ‘So, they know each other! That’s a bit bleeding close for comfort, isn’t it?’

  Munro, an advocate of fidelity and a believer in the sanctity of marriage, returned to his seat, narked by his own theory.

  ‘You said McClusky divorced because of some life-changing circumstances, is that right?’

  ‘Well, that’s what he told me,’ said West. ‘Frankly, it’s hardly surprising, I mean, if he went down for armed robbery then his missus probably didn’t like the idea of being labelled a gangster’s moll. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’m not convinced that that’s the reason at all. In fact, I’m of the opinion that Tam McClusky and Maureen Baxter had, what shall we call it? An arrangement. Aye, that’s the word, an arrangement.’

  ‘Oh, come off it!’ said West. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting they’ve been at it all these years!’

  ‘Perhaps not as long as that,’ said Munro, ‘but early on, around the time of the wedding, aye, I’d wager they were. You yourself said William Baxter was incapable of siring any offspring.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’

  ‘Then where did Rhona Baxter come from? And before you answer, I’ll have you know I’m not a fan of gooseberries, and storks are indigenous to tropical Asia and sub-Saharan Africa only.’

  ‘Thank you, David Attenborough. Alright, Jimbo, we’ll put your theory to the test, it’s easily done. McClusky’s got form, his DNA’s on the database, we’ll simply run a cross-check with Rhona’s.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Dougal, ‘you can leave it with me.’

  ‘Speaking of McClusky, we need to get going. Have we got that warrant sorted?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal, ‘it’s right here, but can I ask, should we not be trying to establish a link between McClusky and the Boyds instead of going after his finances?’

  ‘With any luck,’ said West, ‘that’s exactly how we’ll establish a link. Now, anything else before we push off?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve an email here from Dr McLeod sent at 4.37 this morning.’

  ‘Good God, poor bugger gets less sleep than us.’

  ‘The hair and tissue samples from Rhona Baxter’s fingernails are a match positive for Callum McClusky.’

  ‘Right, that’s me away!’ said Duncan. ‘It’s time I had another word with that wee windbag. Do we have enough to charge him?’

  ‘Whoa! Hold your horses!’ said West. ‘Not so hasty, we’ve plenty of time yet. Let’s get an ID on the prints from her bathroom first, plus, we need to find out where his little fish van is; it’s the only way he could’ve got to the burn and we need to prove Rhona was with him. We can ask his dad when we get there. Dougal, can you sort a car to bring him back?’

  ‘Aye, no bother,’ said Dougal, ‘but are you not forgetting something?’

  ‘Don’t think so, why?’

  ‘Tam McClusky’s in Dumfriesshire.’

  ‘I know. Kirkcudbright. What’s that got to do with… oh, crap! You’d better make another call, get The Bear out of bed if you have to but do it now, we can’t–’

  ‘Charlie!’ said Munro. ‘Listen to yourself!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All you’re doing is complicating matters. McClusky, is he aware that young Callum’s in a cell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then when you get there, tell him his son’s been arrested and he’s been asking for him. Offer to bring him back here, and once he’s downstairs you can arrest him on suspicion of art and part.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘Probably. Well, as long as Duncan finds something in his house by the time you get back.’

  * * *

  Since ditching the aesthetically pleasing but woefully inadequate Nissan Figaro for something altogether more practical, West, deriding anything called a ‘sportback’ as fodder for petrolheads and boy-racers, had quietly conceded on several occasions that the Audi, whilst not entirely suited for powering up a hillside in six inches of snow, was undoubtedly more comfortable than her ageing Defender.

  Succumbing to the soporific effect of the sprung seats and hyper-efficient heating system, she finally managed to rouse herself from her somnolent state and delighted in taunting Duncan for his lack of special awareness as they arrived at McClusky’s house.

  ‘And you had the cheek to have a pop at me!’ she said as the heavens unleashed another deluge. ‘Move forward, you’re taking up the space of two cars!’

  ‘We’re okay here,’ said Duncan, smarting as a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. ‘That’s not going to clear anytime soon.’

  ‘I should’ve bought a bleeding houseboat,’ said West. ‘What’s the forecast? Any sunshine on the way?’

  ‘No, no. That’s us till summer, miss.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I’m not joking,’ said Duncan. ‘As Billy Connolly once said, Scotland has two seasons, June and winter. So, any plans for the weekend?’

  ‘If we’re not working, you mean? No. Not yet. You?’

  ‘Well, a couple of years ago I’d have been looking forward to getting blootered after the match but these days it’s all about making sure the wellies are clean and the sandwiches are packed. I’ll no doubt be off on another trek with Cathy and the wean.’

  ‘You’re mellowing before your time,’ said West, ‘but in a good way.’

  ‘Happens to us all,’ said Duncan. ‘You should give that Dr McLeod a bell, invite him over for Sunday lunch. It’ll do him good to carve something other than a body.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ said West. ‘I’ll see what Jimbo’s up to first. I can’t bear the thought of him being on his own.’

  ‘Aye, I get that, but he’s not on his own, he’s got Murdo.’

  ‘That’s what worries me. I’m frightened that mutt will walk him to an early grave.’

  ‘So, will we mention the warrant?’

  ‘Nah, not unless
we have to,’ said West. ‘Let’s see if he comes quietly first. You can slip in once we’ve gone. Oh, and don’t waste time trying to figure out what he had for breakfast, it’s financial stuff we’re after.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘Incidentally, how are you going to get in? No lock-picking allowed.’

  Duncan reached into his pocket and produced a set of keys.

  ‘Callum McClusky’s,’ he said, jangling them in front of her. ‘He’ll not be needing them for a while.’

  ‘Crafty bugger,’ said West as Duncan, one eye on the rear-view mirror, fired up the Audi and crept forward, allowing just enough room for a marked patrol car to park behind. ‘Smartarse, too. Right, let’s hope he’s in.’

  * * *

  The front door, as seemed to be the norm, was swinging on its hinges, the occupant, wherever he was, clearly untroubled by the wind howling down the hall.

  ‘Anyone home?’ yelled West as she rapped on the door.

  ‘I’m in the office! Come away through!’

  Expecting to find McClusky seated behind an executive desk surrounded by shelves of neatly organised files, West, shaking the rain from her hair, was surprised to find that the office was, in fact, a vintage drop-leaf bureau cluttered with crumb-laden plates, empty coffee mugs, and discarded copies of the Racing Post, wedged in the alcove of the living room where McClusky, hastily closing all of the drawers, was struggling to free himself from the arms of an antique Windsor chair.

  ‘Inspector! Sergeant! You should’ve called ahead, I’d have put the kettle on!’

  ‘I hope we’re not interrupting,’ said West. ‘We could wait if you’re busy.’

  ‘Not at all! I’m just catching up on some paperwork, totting-up how much I’ve lost through cancelled bookings.’

  ‘No computer?’

  ‘Computer?’

  ‘For all your spreadsheets and stuff.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ said McClusky, waving a blue, hardback book. ‘I use a ledger. Every transaction entered in ink by my own fair hand. Still no news on the Thistledonia, then?’