TALION: a Scandinavian noir murder mystery set in Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 6)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Is that so? I have to admit, Cam, I’ve never heard of that before.’

  ‘It’s quite true,’ said Cam. ‘Take Syncerus caffer; the Cape buffalo. If it’s attacked, by say, a lion, but it’s not killed, he’ll take himself off somewhere quiet and stand perfectly still, as though he’s wounded.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then he’ll wait for the lion to come back. The lion thinks he’s got an easy target, but when he gets close enough, the buffalo attacks and kills it with its horns.’

  ‘That truly is astounding,’ said Munro. ‘Aye, that’s the word, astounding. So, the buffalo turns the tables on the lion? Gets his revenge?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Mummy calls it the law of Talion.’

  * * *

  West, having enjoyed a decent brew, three chocolate digestives, and a light-hearted conversation about the abundance of dead animals in the Scottish countryside, stood as Munro returned to the caravan and smiled endearingly at Cathy.

  ‘You’re to be congratulated,’ he said, ‘Cam’s a fine young man. You’ve done a grand job raising him single-handedly.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s kind of you to say so.’

  ‘Well, I think we’re done,’ said West. ‘We’ll be in touch if we…’

  ‘Not just yet, Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘Cathy, I’ve a couple more questions, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Aye, fire away, Inspector.’

  ‘I was wondering, do you happen to have one of those fancy smartphones folk are so enamoured with these days?’

  Cathy reached into her back pocket and pulled out an old Nokia.

  ‘No,’ she said, holding it up. ‘I believe this is what the hipsters call “vintage” or “retro”.’

  ‘I see. So, it doesnae do email?’

  ‘It doesn’t even do colour.’

  ‘Good. And you dinnae have a computer? A laptop or such?’

  ‘Don’t need one,’ said Cathy. ‘Me and Cam share the iPad.’

  ‘Just as I thought,’ said Munro. ‘Just as I thought.’

  West, realising she was being treated to another of Munro’s peerless performances on the art of beating around the bush, allowed herself a sly smile as he sat on the sofa, crossed his legs, and casually checked his watch.

  ‘Is there a reason you’re asking?’ said Cathy. ‘About the computer?’

  Munro, his furrowed brow suggesting he was deep in thought, paused deliberately before looking up with a start.

  ‘Och, sorry,’ he said as he fixed her with his cold blue eyes. ‘Mind’s elsewhere. I was just thinking about buffalo.’

  ‘Buffalo? You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Cam and I were talking about them just now. To be precise, we were talking about the law of Talion.’

  West, eyes wide with delight, glanced at Cathy who sat, stock still, staring at Munro.

  ‘You see, Cam was kind enough to show me all the emails he’d sent to his friends, and there was only one without an attachment. Only one that wasnae his.’

  Cathy, completely unfazed by Munro’s discovery, simply shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘It’s just an email,’ she said, ‘what’s the big deal?’

  ‘So, you admit to sending it?’

  ‘I’m not denying it. Look, I was sick to the back teeth of getting nowhere with Tommy, so I thought if I put the cat amongst the pigeons, I might get a response.’

  ‘But not that kind of response?’

  ‘I thought Barbary might give him a slap, that’s all. I’d had enough, I thought it was time he was taught a lesson.’

  ‘Can’t blame you for that,’ said West, ‘but how did you know Barbary’s email address?’

  ‘It’s not rocket science,’ said Cathy. ‘Google. I got his business address.’

  Munro, though willing to accept her story, remained troubled by the loophole in her statement.

  ‘Just now,’ he said, rubbing his chin and pointing gently in her direction, ‘you said you hoped Barbary might give him a slap, and yet you sent the same email to Alex Tamarin, someone who, in your own words, was pure evil.’

  ‘In for a penny,’ said Cathy. ‘I was just tipping the odds in my favour.’

  ‘And how did you get his email address?’

  ‘I’m not sure I did. I took a punt on the closest I could find. Are you saying he got it?’

  ‘I cannae say for sure,’ said Munro, ‘but if he did, then, with his reputation, I should warn you now, you could be charged with incitement, or conspiracy, to commit murder.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Cathy. ‘Look, I did no such thing, I didn’t ask anyone to do anything. I simply wanted to give Tommy a wake-up call. That’s all!’

  Munro raised his hand and nodded in agreement.

  ‘I’m not accusing you, Cathy,’ he said, ‘I’m simply warning you of the consequences of your actions. If Tamarin, or Barbary for that matter, killed Tommy as a result of reading your email, then…’

  ‘Oh, Christ, but what about Cam? What will…?’

  ‘Worrying will get you nowhere,’ said Munro. ‘Now, you listen to me. You take yourself off, make sure Cam enjoys his day out, and dinnae fret. We’re not charging you with anything, not yet, and we’re not taking you in, but that’s on one condition.’

  ‘Name it,’ said Cathy. ‘Anything, as long as…’

  ‘You’re to go nowhere,’ said Munro, ‘unless you speak to us first, and you’re to return to this caravan every night until the end of your holidays. Is that understood?’

  ‘Aye, Inspector. Understood.’

  Chapter 22

  With Dougal sending the printer into overdrive, and Duncan rambling into his mobile like an assiduous salesman cold-calling an answerphone, Munro – impressed by the unprecedented burst of industriousness – slipped off his jacket and sat down.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘we appear to be in the wrong office.’

  West glanced at Dougal, ran a finger across her throat, and smiled as the printer fell silent.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she said as Duncan terminated his call, ‘how can you work with that din going on?’

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘needs must. How’d it go with Brodie?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Munro, ‘give the woman a chance, laddie. We’ve only just come through the door.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll make a brew.’

  ‘Duncan, have you not seen the time?’

  ‘Chief?’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I’m still…’

  ‘Not yours! Ours!’

  ‘On my way.’

  * * *

  West, graciously accepting the mug of tea, swung her feet onto the desk, took a loud slurp and sighed contentedly.

  ‘Now that hits the spot,’ she said. ‘Any biccies in the tin?’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Munro, ‘it’s not lunch you’ll be wanting, Charlie, it’s a course of worming tablets. So, Dougal, judging by the racket you were making earlier, I take it you’ve had a productive morning?’

  ‘Oh, aye, boss. Very productive, indeed.’

  ‘And what about Joey?’ said West. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I’ve an address, miss. He’s got a flat-share on McCall’s Avenue but we’ve not had a chance to visit, yet.’

  ‘No probs. You can leave that for Duncan, he can go after lunch. You should be getting an email from the caravan park soon, CCTV from the main entrance, have a look and see if anything shows up.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘So, come on then, what have you got?’

  Dougal shuffled through the reams of paper piled on his desk and pulled out a dog-eared notebook.

  ‘Okay, Cathy Brodie,’ he said. ‘Now, she told Duncan that before she hooked up with Hamlyn, she used to work as a veterinarian nurse over in Heathfield, which is true, almost.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I spoke to the fella who runs the practice where she used to work and he only had good things to say about her: well
-liked, dedicated, hard-working, all the usual stuff that looks good on a cv; the only thing is, she wasn’t a qualified nurse, just an assistant.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to knock her for that,’ said West, ‘We’ve all said stuff to make ourselves look better, at some point or other. What else?’

  ‘Before the vets, she was at uni; Glasgow Caledonian.’

  ‘So, the vets was her first job?’

  ‘Aye, miss, it was.’

  ‘What did she study?’ said Munro. ‘Was it medicine, or the canine equivalent?’

  ‘No, boss,’ said Dougal, looking uncharacteristically smug. ‘And this is where it gets interesting. She studied law.’

  The ensuing pause as Munro considered Brodie’s qualification and the possible implications pertaining to her role in Hamlyn’s untimely departure, was interrupted by Duncan who, almost out of breath, flew through the door and dumped a bag on the table.

  ‘Couldn’t hang around, chief,’ he said as he unpacked the carrier, ‘I just plucked these off the shelf. There’s cheese and pickle, cheese and ham, cheese and tomato, or just plain cheese.’

  ‘And they say variety is the spice of life.’

  ‘Have I missed anything?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro as he peered disappointedly at the contents of his sandwich, ‘we’ve just got to the bit where Cathy Brodie goes to university.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said West, filching the ham and cheese before it disappeared. ‘Here’s a thought. Duncan, it’s just possible that you might be the victim here.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow, miss.’

  ‘Well, if Brodie’s a law graduate, and she knew she might be inadvertently responsible for Hamlyn’s death, then I’ll bet you anything you like, the only reason she got involved with you is because she knew the chances of her being allowed to testify would be close to zero.’

  ‘But that’s why you gave me a kick in the pants in the first place,’ said Duncan. ‘Are you saying she knew what she was doing? That I was honey-trapped?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Can we slow down a bit?’ said Dougal. ‘What do you mean, “if Cathy was responsible for Hamlyn’s death”?’

  ‘Cathy Brodie has an alias,’ said Munro. ‘Talion.’

  ‘What? Are you joking me?’

  ‘It was she who sent the email to Jack Barbary and Alex Tamarin.’

  ‘Cathy?’ said Duncan, dumbfounded. ‘And there was I thinking we were looking for some demented nutter on the run from Broadmoor.’

  ‘Maybe you should check her medical history,’ said Munro.

  ‘Fact is,’ said West, ‘we don’t know for sure if she actually planned to have Hamlyn killed, but if she was behind it…’

  ‘You think she’s guilty?’

  ‘No,’ said Munro as he drained his mug, ‘she’s guilty of nothing more than foolishly sending an email in an effort to wreak revenge on Hamlyn.’

  ‘Revenge?’ said Duncan. ‘Sorry, chief, but why would…’

  ‘Remember her son? Cam?’

  ‘Aye, of course.’

  ‘Hamlyn’s the father.’

  ‘My head’s burning up,’ said Dougal. ‘So, despite all that, are you saying she’s off the hook?’

  ‘For murder?’ said Munro. ‘Aye. She’s not guilty of that. See here, Dougal, Cathy’s not stupid, quite the opposite, in fact. If she’d really wanted Hamlyn dead, she’d have gone to see Barbary and he’d have taken care of it, nae bother. She’d not waste her time looking for email addresses and composing cryptic messages. Besides, she works like a dog and she’s a son she adores. She’d not jeopardise that for anything. But she’s not out of the woods. Not yet.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If, as I suspect,’ said West, helping herself to another sandwich, ‘it was Tamarin who murdered Tommy Hamlyn, and he did so as a result of reading that email, then she could be done for incitement.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Duncan, ‘that’s not fair. It’s not as if she put a bounty on his head.’

  ‘So,’ said Dougal, ‘you think Tamarin’s our man, after all?’

  ‘Has to be,’ said West. ‘If you asked me, he hasn’t got a leg to stand on.’

  Munro leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

  ‘And how’s that, Charlie?’ he said as if settling down to a play on the radio. ‘Tell us why Tamarin hasnae got a leg to stand on.’

  ‘For a start,’ said West, confidently, ‘he’s a certifiable nutter, and you’d have to be deranged to tie somebody up and toss them off a cliff. Let’s face it, it’s a lot of effort to go to when a plastic bag over the head would’ve done the trick. Two, if Tamarin thought for a second that Hamlyn knew he was shafting Barbary, then he’d want rid of him. That’s his motive. And three, Tamarin hasn’t got an alibi.’

  ‘There’s something else he doesnae have,’ said Munro. ‘Size twelves.’

  Chapter 23

  Like the front-runner falling at the final hurdle in the Grand National, West – slightly dazed but suffering nothing more than some superficial bruising to her ego – made a concerted effort to dispel the relevance of Tamarin’s shoe size and pass the winning post with her theory intact.

  ‘Sorry, Jimbo,’ she said as she pinned her tumbling brown locks atop her head, ‘but I just don’t see why you’ve got such a problem with this. The fact is, Tamarin’s as guilty as hell, and those wellies have nothing to do with this, at all. They’re circumstantial, dumped by some lazy so-and-so who couldn’t be arsed to throw them in the bin.’

  ‘Then we’re at loggerheads, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘because the way I see it, those boots have everything to do with this, and they’re Tamarin’s get-out-of-jail card.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said West, ‘come on then, let’s have it. Shoot me down, why don’t you?’

  Munro, always willing to oblige, loaded a couple of cartridges.

  ‘Tamarin’s no weightlifter,’ he said, ‘he’s got the build of a long-distance runner. Dinnae get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s not strong, the man’s capable of inflicting some serious damage when his temperature reaches boiling point, but I cannae see him hauling a lump like Hamlyn about the place.’

  ‘Well, maybe he didn’t have to,’ said West, defensively, ‘maybe Hamlyn walked to the edge before he was pushed.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Munro. ‘Dougal, remind me, did the SOCOs find any footprints at the castle?’

  ‘Aye, they did, boss. Boot prints, which match the wellies.’

  ‘And it was just the one set?’

  ‘Aye. And they were quite deep.’

  ‘So, one set of prints, which proves Hamlyn didnae walk, and they were deep, which means whoever wore them was carrying Hamlyn to his death. Either that, or they were dumped by a twenty-eight-stone sightseer who walked home barefoot.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said West, ‘you’re forgetting, Tamarin could’ve dragged him to the edge.’

  ‘Unlikely, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘there were no tracks in the mud to suggest anything had been dragged through it, at all.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced,’ said West, sighing with frustration. ‘Even if you’re right, which is unlikely, then where does that leave us? With Barbary?’

  ‘I’d say he’s our best bet, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘I mean, he’s big enough, and strong enough, and he takes a twelve.’

  ‘Maybe. But without the gift of speech, we’re not going to get much out of him, are we?’

  ‘We could try for a posthumous conviction, but we’d have to find out exactly where he was before and after his trip to the Black Bull, when he met the mystery lady. We’d have to be able to place him at the scene.’

  ‘Well, Jimbo?’ said West. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, Charlie. Barbary wouldnae go to such lengths, but that’s only my opinion.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t think it’s Barbary, and you don’t think it’s Tamarin, who does that leave
?’

  Munro turned to face West, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘That’s what I like about working here,’ she said, ‘it’s a barrow-load of fun. Non-stop hilarity from dawn till dusk.’

  * * *

  After a fruitless visit to an unoccupied house on McCall’s Avenue, followed by a trip to a car wash where the employees spoke every European language except English, and the discovery that his warrant card was capable of silencing an entire pub, Duncan – embarrassed and frustrated by his strike rate – returned to the office looking as dour as a vegan in an Argentinian steakhouse.

  ‘That’s me done,’ he said, slumping in a chair. ‘Sorry, miss, but there’s no sign of this Joey fella, anywhere.’

  ‘Really?’ said West. ‘Have you tried calling him?’

  ‘Aye, but it keeps ringing out. See here, I reckon there’s something going on. I mean, why else would everyone clam-up as soon as I mention Joey Barbary?’

  ‘Because they’ve never heard of him,’ said Munro.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘He’s not Barbary’s son, laddie! He’s Annette’s. His name’s Fraser.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just great,’ said Duncan, ‘did nobody think to tell me?’

  ‘Must’ve slipped our minds,’ said West. ‘Sorry.’

  Munro, disappointed with the pedestrian pace of the proceedings, gazed at Duncan with a look of utter boredom on his face.

  ‘Duncan,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Joey’s not a common name, is it?’

  ‘No, chief. I guess not.’

  ‘So, when you asked for Joey Barbary, did nobody say “we dinnae have a Joey Barbary, but we do have a Joey Fraser”?’

  ‘No, chief. To be honest, nobody said anything.’

  ‘So, what does that tell you?’

  Duncan glanced at West and shook his head.

  ‘Och, I can see it’s time for a wee quiz,’ said Munro. ‘Now, if I said to you “Sandy”, what would you say?’

  ‘Alexander!’ said Dougal, butting in.

  ‘Good! And if I said “Tam”, what would you say?’

  ‘Thomas.’

  ‘And for the bonus prize, if I said “Joey”?’

  ‘Jonathan!’

  ‘Full house,’ said Munro. ‘So, Duncan, I think you’ll find the fellow you’re looking for is Jonathan Fraser. On you go.’