Talion

by Pete Brassett

  West, trying her utmost not to grin, leapt from her seat and leant against the open door as a distinctive figure, half a mile up the road, strode briskly towards them, a walking pole in one hand, the other swinging in a military fashion by his side.

  ‘Are you okay, miss?’ said Duncan. ‘I’ve a feeling this could be a bit of a Disney moment.’

  West turned to him and smiled.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just glad to see the bugger’s still breathing.’

  * * *

  Stern-faced and showing no sign of slackening his pace, Munro – looking healthier than someone ten years his junior – pushed his cap to the back of his head and waved his stick in admonishment as he drew near.

  ‘What kept you?’ he said. ‘Did you not get my message?’

  ‘I did,’ said West, ‘but your directions were a bit vague, to say the least.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Apologies for that, but my mind was elsewhere at the time, as you’ve probably guessed.’

  ‘Have you any idea what you’ve put us through?’ said West. ‘The not-knowing, the worry, the anguish…’

  ‘Och, wheesht, lassie. You’ll get over it. At least you didnae find me lying on the kitchen floor like a barbecued rack of ribs.’

  ‘In some ways that would’ve been easier to deal with.’

  ‘I’ll try harder next time. So, I take it you’re not under orders to bring me in.’

  ‘Au contraire,’ said West. ‘In fact, DCI Elliot and quite a few others want to congratulate you for finally nailing Gundersen.’

  ‘Not necessary. All in a day’s work.’

  West paused for a moment, allowing a soft smile to creep across her face.

  ‘So, how are you?’ she said. ‘No injuries? No burns?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘I’ll not deny I was in shock for a wee while, but nothing a couple of drams on the boat couldnae cure.’

  ‘Well, I know you’re going to hate this,’ said West as she stepped around the door and held her arms aloft, ‘but I’m doing it anyway.’

  ‘Nothing like a hug,’ said Munro as he tentatively placed an arm around her shoulders. ‘Thanking you. So, how are you, Charlie? Are you coping alright?’

  ‘Yeah, no sweat.’

  ‘And young Dougal?’

  ‘Industrious as ever. In fact, if it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be here at all.’

  ‘So, he’s the one to blame. And how about you, Duncan? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’ve been better, chief. Listen, can I ask a question?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Why here? I mean, why come all the way to Islay? Could you not have picked somewhere that didn’t involve crossing the sea?’

  Munro glanced at West and gazed wistfully down the road.

  ‘The last time I set foot on this island, laddie,’ he said, taking a deep breath, ‘was forty years ago. I was with Jean. We were on our honeymoon.’

  ‘Makes perfect sense,’ said West. ‘Must’ve changed a bit.’

  ‘Well, the hotel was called the White Hart back then. And there were less police about the place, that’s for sure. But that’s enough reminiscing for now, it’s time for lunch. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I’m flipping starving.’

  ‘Good. There’s a wee place near the harbour, they call it a bistro for some godforsaken reason but the food’s not bad.’

  ‘Well, what’re we waiting for? Jump in the back and we’ll…’

  ‘Are you off your head?’ said Munro. ‘It’s not even a mile, lassie, and I’ve not lost the use of my legs. Not yet.’

  * * *

  Duncan – peeved at the painful pace of their progress – tapped the steering wheel and sighed as he followed Munro and West along the road, ambling along like a couple of tourists who’d over-indulged on a whisky tour of the island.

  ‘So,’ said West, ‘what’s all this about renting a cottage, then?’

  ‘Well, I cannae stay in a hotel much longer, Charlie. I’ll be bankrupt by the end of the month.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Och, it’s just temporary. A couple of months while I wait for the insurance to pay out, then I’ll look for something more permanent.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said West. ‘I mean, wouldn’t you rather get your place fixed up and move back home?’

  ‘It was never a home,’ said Munro. ‘Not without Jean. It was just somewhere to sleep.’

  ‘But here?’

  ‘Here, at least, I have some memories, Charlie. Memories of happier times.’

  ‘Okay, I get that,’ said West, ‘but why waste all your dosh on a house out here when you can crash at mine? Until you get yourself sorted, at least.’

  ‘And get roped into whatever it is you’re working on?’ said Munro, shaking his head. ‘No, no. I appreciate the offer, lassie, but I think it’s best if I stop here a while. What are you working on, anyway?’

  West glanced furtively at Munro and smirked.

  ‘Oh, it wouldn’t interest you,’ she said. ‘Just the same old.’

  ‘Nice try, Charlie, but I’m not falling for it.’

  ‘I’m serious, it wouldn’t be fair. I mean, you’re out of it now. All you have to worry about is which hill to climb and what to have for your dinner. All that excitement must be driving you crazy.’

  ‘I’m curious. That’s all.’

  ‘It’s just another body. Pushed off the cliffs at Greenan Castle.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yup. Oh, and his eyes were missing.’

  ‘His eyes…? Dear God, that’s not right.’

  ‘Told you,’ said West. ‘Boring. I think I fancy a steak. No. A fry-up.’

  ‘And do you know who it is?’

  ‘I’m off eggs, right now…’

  ‘Have you made an ID yet?’

  ‘…and I can’t stand fish.’

  Munro stopped in his tracks and scowled at West.

  ‘Charlie!’ he yelled at the back of her head. ‘You win. I’ll think about it, okay? That’s all, mind. I’ll just think about it.’

  * * *

  Without the linen tablecloths or atmospheric lighting deployed to increase the ambience for the evening clientele, the bistro – with its high-backed leather chairs and veneer topped tables – was, much to West’s delight, more like an upmarket café with a roaring lunchtime trade and a menu designed to sate the heartiest of appetites.

  ‘Right,’ she said as they squeezed themselves around the one remaining table, ‘this is on me. And tonight, we’ll celebrate properly.’

  ‘Celebrate what, exactly?’ said Munro as he tucked a napkin into his collar.

  ‘The return of the prodigal, of course. What else?’

  ‘I said I’d think about it, Charlie. Dinnae kill the calf just yet.’

  ‘Killjoy,’ said West as the waitress arrived. ‘Right, I’m going to have the mega steak burger with extra chips. Jimbo?’

  ‘I’ll take a pizza, please. Cheese and tomato. Plain. No pepper, no garlic, and make sure it’s crispy. Thanking you.’

  ‘Duncan?’

  ‘Just a tonic water for me, please. A large one.’

  ‘So,’ said Munro as the waitress headed for the kitchen, ‘we were talking about the blind leading the blind. This fellow on the beach, you said his eyes were missing?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said West. ‘But there’s nothing macabre about it, unfortunately. It seems the crows ate them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Pity, really. I thought we were getting involved in some mafia-style hit, you know, like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see.’

  ‘You have a dark side, Charlie. Do you know that? And have we any idea who this fellow may be?’

  ‘Yup. A bloke called Tommy Hamlyn.’

  ‘Hamlyn?’ said Munro, smiling as he sat back and folded his arms. ‘Well, well, well. After all this time.’

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Oh, aye. He�
��s been around for donkey’s years. We used to call him The Piper.’

  ‘What? Like the Pied Piper?’ said West. ‘Because of his name?’

  ‘Correct. And like the Pied Piper, he mixed with vermin and blew the whistle on folk he didnae care for. He had a mouth on him like the channel tunnel. I’m not sure why anyone would want to mutilate his body, but either way, he got what he deserved.’

  ‘Is that not a bit harsh, chief?’ said Duncan. ‘I mean, he was a dealer, okay, but having your eyes plucked out…’

  ‘See here, Duncan,’ said Munro, his lip curling in disgust, ‘Hamlyn wasnae like the other players. He’s a punk, and a weasel. He didnae peddle his gear round the clubs and the bars where grown-up folk made a conscious decision to buy his junk with their hard-earned cash. He flogged it round the schemes, to weans who knew no better. And once they were hooked, that was it for them. Robbing their mothers’ purses, mugging grannies, holding up the corner shop, just to get a few quid so Hamlyn wouldnae break their fingers.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ said West. ‘He must’ve been well hated.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘especially by the other dealers. Strange as it may seem, even they wouldn’t stoop so low.’

  ‘So, there must’ve been quite a few wanted him dead, then?’

  ‘In theory,’ said Munro, ‘there’s a list as long as the phonebook, but truth be known, I cannae think of anyone who’d actually do it. See, the thing about Tommy Hamlyn, despite all his wrong-doing, is he wasnae worth the effort. The kind of folk he annoyed would rather pull their fingernails out than waste time chasing after the likes of him.’

  ‘Well, he was up to something,’ said West. ‘According to Dougal, he ordered some stuff off the internet: knives, gloves, disinfectant. Maybe he was going to…’

  ‘Listen,’ said Munro. ‘One thing I do know about Tommy Hamlyn is he’s no killer. The man’s a coward, scared of his own shadow. He couldnae squash a spider, let alone hurt another human being.’

  Chapter 7

  Despite his impassioned plea for a task more suited to somebody approaching the peak of physical fitness, PC Hayes found himself outside Hamlyn’s flat for the second time in twenty-four hours where he sat, slumped in a chair he’d commandeered from the kitchen, staring at his radio in the vain hope that control might call for assistance at an armed robbery, an RTC or an attempted break-in, before he lost the will to live.

  Believing the footsteps in the stairwell to be those of a relief officer, or better still, someone bearing a skinny latte and a low-fat cereal bar, he straightened his cap and stood to greet them.

  ‘Sorry sir,’ he said, sighing as a slightly-built lad with boyish features carrying a motorcycle helmet walked towards him, ‘you can’t come through here. It’s a crime scene. You’ll have to go back down. No excuses.’

  Dougal held up his warrant card.

  ‘Is it open?’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Hayes. ‘It’s open.’

  ‘And has anyone else been by?’

  ‘No, not since yesterday.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be about half an hour, I reckon, so if you want to grab yourself a coffee or something, then you best go now.’

  ‘Thanks very much. I’m gasping.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ said Dougal. ‘I can’t hang around.’

  * * *

  Dougal snapped on a pair of gloves, made straight for the kitchen, and began rifling through the bin where he found, lying beneath a half-empty tin of beans, countless soggy teabags, several beer cans and the odorous remains of a Chinese takeaway, a crumpled box emblazoned with the word “Sabatier”. The knife-block, sitting on the worktop beside the microwave was, disconcertingly, two short of a full set.

  Assuming they’d been mislaid during the fracas, he painstakingly picked his way through the debris littering the floor before rummaging through the cupboards under the sink where he found a shrink-wrapped case of Dettol and a multipack of yellow rubber gloves; both unopened.

  Perturbed by the missing knives, and the possibility that Hamlyn was nothing more than a frugal clean-freak after all, Dougal made a brief inspection of the rest of the flat.

  The uncluttered bathroom – with a single toothbrush sitting in a tumbler, a clean towel hanging from the rail, and the unmistakeable whiff of disinfectant in the air – was as sterile as a surgeon’s scalpel. He opened the mirrored cupboard above the wash basin and noted the small can of shaving foam, the plastic pot of paracetamol, and the double-edged safety razor, all perfectly aligned along the middle shelf.

  The bedroom next door – with its plumped-up pillows, turned-down covers, and a wardrobe full of neatly pressed clothes – was presented in a fashion worthy of a five-star hotel.

  Unlike Schrödinger’s Cat, or the chicken and the egg – puzzles which, with the application of simple logic, were easily solved – the conundrum confounding Dougal was why the damage in the flat was confined to two rooms, and why the necktie lying on the sofa rankled him so much.

  ‘That’s me away,’ he said as he breezed past Hayes.

  ‘Lucky you. Oh, before you go, the fella up the hall, he’s been asking about his pal. Will I tell him what’s happened?’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Dougal. ‘I’ll have a wee word. What’s his name?’

  ‘Doyle. Joe Doyle.’

  * * *

  A polite tap on the door brought forth the sound of shuffling footsteps followed by a lengthy silence but, inexplicably, no response, leaving Dougal no option but to give it several hefty whacks with his crash helmet.

  ‘Mr Doyle,’ he said, calling through the letterbox, ‘it’s about the fella next door, Mr Hamlyn.’

  ‘He’s not here, and I’m not taking deliveries,’ said Doyle, ‘so bugger off.’

  ‘It’s the police. I’d like a word.’

  Doyle, dressed in navy blue slacks and a white, short-sleeved shirt, peered sheepishly round the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought you lot were long gone.’

  ‘Not for a while yet,’ said Dougal, ‘I understand you’ve been asking after your pal, Mr Hamlyn?’

  ‘Aye, what’s up? With you lot buzzing around, I’m thinking something must’ve happened.’

  ‘It has. I’m afraid he’s dead, Mr Doyle. A heart attack. I hope you’re not too…’

  ‘A heart attack? Dear, dear, that is a shame. Oh well, thanks for letting me know. All the best.’

  ‘Just a minute, Mr Doyle…’

  ‘Och, what now? I’ve already told your colleague everything I know. I’ve nothing more to say.’

  ‘Well, let’s just put that to the test, shall we? It won’t take long.’

  Doyle, refusing to open the door any further, raised his eyes and sighed.

  ‘Aye, okay,’ he said, ‘but it make it quick or I’ll be late for work.’

  ‘No danger. Were you and he friends? You and Hamlyn?’

  ‘We knew each other well enough to chat, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘And when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘As I told your pal, a few nights back.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’

  ‘Night before last.’

  ‘Good. And where was that?’

  ‘Here. His place.’

  ‘So, was it a social call?’ said Dougal. ‘Did you stay long? What did you talk about?’

  ‘Look, I went to get some weed off the man, that’s all. We had a couple of beers and I left.’

  ‘Some weed?’

  ‘Aye, it’s not a crime, you know. A wee bag, for personal use.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me, Mr Doyle, was Mr Hamlyn suited and booted when you called round?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, aye.’

  ‘And did he always dress like that, I mean, a suit and a tie?’

  ‘No,’ said Doyle. ‘He only ever wore a suit if he was on the razz. And he only ever wore a tie if he was in court.’

  ‘So, he was on his way out, then? Going out for t
he night?’

  ‘Probably. I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Did he have many friends?’

  ‘Look,’ said Doyle, ‘I’m not his keeper. I’ve no idea who he mixed with. To be honest, I was never that keen on the fella.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Cocky. He was a cocky wee shite. He had a high opinion of himself.’

  ‘I see. But you got along okay? I mean, you never had cause to argue, for example?’

  ‘No. Never. We’d have a beer and he’d give me the gear. That’s it.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, that’s me done, then. Thanks very much, Mr Doyle. You have a good day.’

  * * *

  Compared to spending a wet weekend building a scale model of the Star Wars Millennium Falcon from five thousand, one hundred and ninety-five Lego bricks for an apathetic nephew without the aid of an instruction manual, retrieving data from the internal memory of a decommissioned mobile was, for Dougal, a walk in the park.

  Back behind his desk he wired-up Hamlyn’s phone and, while waiting for the files to transfer across to his computer, turned his attention to the compact digital camera, his eyes soon growing heavy as he flipped through the endless raft of familiar urban landscapes: the Bethel Free Church on Lyndsay Street, the Golgotha Madonna sculpture in Rozelle Park, Rabbie’s Bar, the loading bay behind the supermarket near the station, Boswell car park, and the wrought iron sign outside the cemetery.

  Stretching as he stifled a hunger-induced yawn, he glanced at his computer and winced as the images from the phone – a series of selfies featuring a shirtless Hamlyn in a variety of unflattering poses – cascaded down the screen until the only other retrievable document, a database file containing a familiar phone number, obliterated him from view.

  Chapter 8

  Contemplating the cottage at Glenegedale, Munro – his hands clasped behind his back – stood by the window and watched, enthralled, as a trawler flanked by a flock of screeching gulls made its way home after a perilous trip at sea.

  The cottage had its plus-points: a remote location, no neighbours, enough bedrooms to accommodate the Waltons, and a panoramic view of unfettered fields. On the downside, with its peeling façade, PVC windows, flat-pack furniture and no fireplace, it had all the charm of a Fukushima fall-out shelter.