Penitent

by Pete Brassett

  PENITENT

  A riveting Scottish murder mystery with a devilish twist

  PETE BRASSETT

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2019

  © Pete Brassett

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

  You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  PENITENT is the ninth book in the Scottish murder mystery series featuring detectives James Munro and Charlie West. It can be enjoyed as a standalone or as part of the series. If you like Scandinavian noir, a good laugh and a cracking story full of twists, then these books are for you. Pour a glass of your favourite whisky, get comfy, and enjoy the ride.

  The full list of books in the series, in order of publication, is as follows:

  SHE

  AVARICE

  ENMITY

  DUPLICITY

  TERMINUS

  TALION

  PERDITION

  RANCOUR

  PENITENT

  Further details about these books can be found at the end of this one.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Character List

  Other books in this series

  More brilliant fiction by Pete Brassett

  FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX

  Prologue

  During its halcyon days as a bustling inland port on the banks of the River Urr, the village of Palnackie – with its single shop, post office, public house, and primary school – had for decades played host to hundreds of sea-going vessels laden with munitions and fertilisers until the economically-driven switch to road haulage saw the silted-up basin welcome little more than the occasional fishing boat or pleasure craft. But, for the close-knit community, the loss of Flora MacDonald was harder to swallow than the collapse of their industry.

  The disappearance of the much-loved sixty-four-year-old widow of the village postmaster sparked a flurry of rumours, with some folk speculating that her wealth – accrued as a result of her late husband’s persistent pilfering of the till – was the reason behind her departure and that, after a life of servitude, she had absconded with the proceeds of his nefarious activities.

  However, under the guidance of Archie Galbraith – headmaster and chair of the parish council – the community unanimously agreed that without a car or any family to turn to, it would have been impossible for Flora MacDonald to have left the village unnoticed and so, fearing she may have taken a tumble after a glass or two of sweet sherry at the Glenisle Inn, they called upon the local constabulary to assist in locating her.

  After much discussion about limited resources and a lack of manpower, the Dumfries and Galloway police force, bolstered by a group of one hundred and two volunteers, eventually agreed to instigate an extensive search of the surrounding area from Doach Wood in the north to Screel Hill in the south before deploying a team of less than enthusiastic divers to scour the bed of the Urr. After three days submerged in the muddy estuary, they managed to recover no more than a few flounder and a rusty bicycle.

  * * *

  For Craig McPherson, a twenty-two-year-old, hard-working labourer and aspiring amateur boxer, the decision to flaunt the proceeds of what he claimed to be the purse from his latest fight with an unprecedented display of generosity in the pub was at best foolish if not naïve.

  At five-feet, five inches tall, with the reflexes of a sloth on temazepam, McPherson had lost fifty-seven of his fifty-eight bouts, the last of which saw a devastating right cross send him to the canvas with such ferocity that he was left with one eye staring permanently in the opposite direction to the other, a handicap which forced the residents of Palnackie to dismiss his claims of victory and surmise that the hapless bantamweight was in some way responsible for the widow’s demise.

  Lest he fall victim to a lynch mob intent on doling out some vigilante justice, McPherson – in an uncharacteristic display of self-preservation hitherto unseen in the ring – tucked his straggly, curly hair beneath an ivy cap, packed a bag, and telephoned his trainer before heading to the gym.

  Chapter 1

  Belying his carefully crafted image as a lowlife from the gutter with a soft-spot for super strength cider and a hatred of soap, DC Duncan Reid – dressed in a filthy grey hoodie and a tatty leather car coat – scratched the stubble on his chin and gazed compassionately at West who, despite her hard-boiled exterior, was a soppy sentimentalist with a bent for helping others; apart, that is, from the frail, the sick, or the elderly, due largely to the fact that the only thing she’d ever nursed in her entire life was a hangover.

  Anticipating her stay on the Isle of Islay watching pods of bottlenose dolphins from the sanctuary of a secluded fisherman’s cottage to be as relaxing as a double dose of morphine, West had instead experienced five restless days and nights worrying incessantly about her convalescing colleague’s well-being and whether James Munro should be standing or sitting, walking or resting, eating or drinking, and perhaps most disturbingly of all, whether he’d actually wake up in the morning.

  ‘You look frazzled,’ said Duncan as she dumped her rucksack on the floor. ‘Have you not slept?’

  ‘Not much,’ said a bedraggled West, yawning as she ruffled her hair, ‘but you know what? Sleep I can live without, it’s public transport that does me in, I hate it.’

  ‘Did you not drive?’

  ‘Of course we did, but we took Jimbo’s comfy old Peugeot, couldn’t exactly stick him in the Defender now, could I?’

  ‘No, right enough,’ said Duncan, ‘a ride in that wreck of yours would’ve finished him off, that’s for sure but you should have called, I could’ve picked you up from Kennacraig.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said West as she slumped in a chair, ‘but I’m here now.’

  ‘So come on, how is he? The chief?’

  ‘Happy as Larry. You’d never guess he’d been under the knife for nine hours.’

  ‘Nine hours? For a bypass?’

  ‘Yup, and not only that, he managed to flat-line for exactly three minutes and forty-eight seconds.’

  ‘You mean he was dead? Christ, that must’ve been terrifying for the surgeons,’ said Duncan.

  ‘Stuff the sodding surgeons, I was at my wits end.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. So he’s on the mend?’

  ‘Put it this way,’ said West, ‘when I left, he was on his second Balvenie and he had a steak pie in the oven.’

  ‘Good for him, he’ll be back in no time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it. Six weeks, the doctors said. Six weeks resting and nothing more strenuous than some gentle exercise.’

  ‘You’re forgetting, miss, what the doctors say and what the chief does, are two completely different things.’

  ‘I know, that’s what worries me.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Duncan, ‘you should’ve stayed on. No need to hurry back just because we’ve a body to deal with.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said West, ‘truth is, if I’d stayed any longer, I’d have probably stabbed him in the back.’

&nb
sp; ‘That difficult, was it?’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. If I’m honest, I’m just a bit crap at looking after other people.’

  ‘No, no, miss,’ said Duncan, smiling. ‘You’re crap at looking after yourself.’

  ‘Thanks for that. Right, first things first – tea, biscuits, and where’s Dougal?’

  ‘Auchinleck.’

  ‘Orkin where?’

  ‘Auchinleck, miss. It’s a wee town not far from Cumnock. He’s away at the leisure centre collecting witness statements; he’ll not be long. We’ve no milk, will you take it black?’

  West glanced at her watch, raised her eyes to the ceiling and sighed with exhaustion.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘forget it. According to this, it’s beer o’clock so fill me in quick and we’ll catch up tomorrow.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Duncan. ‘Okay, the leisure centre. We’ve a body in the swimming pool; female, aged thirty-two, name of Nancy Wilson. She’s a swimming instructor. The cleaners found her this morning when they opened up.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Five am. The pathologist…’

  ‘McLeod? You mean he’s on it already?’

  ‘On it and done it, miss,’ said Duncan, ‘he’ll be back in Glasgow by now. Anyway, he says she was in the water no more than six hours, probably less.’

  ‘So what was it?’ said West. ‘A swimming accident? Did she drown while taking a crafty dip after hours?’

  ‘Not according to McLeod. Her lungs were empty which means she wasn’t breathing when she hit the water. There’s something else, too – she was fully clothed.’

  ‘Okay, so she slipped and fell while she was locking up? A heart attack maybe?’

  ‘Wrong again. It’s looking like she was tossed in the pool.’

  ‘Tossed in? How d’you figure that?’

  ‘The shower area,’ said Duncan, ‘it’s like a scene from Psycho. We’ll have the photos tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to look forward to. So you reckon someone knocked her off then chucked her in the pool?’

  ‘Not so much knocked her off, miss, more bludgeoned her to death with a king-size sledgehammer.’

  ‘Ouch. So, any ideas yet?’

  ‘We’ve a name,’ said Duncan. ‘A fella called Lea. Rupert Lea.’

  ‘And why is he in the frame?’

  ‘He was arrested five months ago under Section 38…’

  ‘Breach of the peace?’

  ‘Aye. Miss Wilson reported him for harassment. He kept showing up whenever she was working.’

  ‘So he fancied her, is that it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Duncan, ‘but according to the report, it was a wee bit more sinister than that; he never actually spoke to her, never actually tried to get a date. He just showed up and stared at her from the spectators’ gallery, especially when she was taking a swimming class.’

  ‘Sounds like a right creep,’ said West. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. Because of his good character and the fact that he’d not had his collar felt before, the judge gave him an absolute discharge on condition he stay away from the leisure centre.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘No. Quite. Okay, so where is he now? Downstairs waiting for a grilling?’

  ‘I wish he was,’ said Duncan, ‘but no-one knows where he is. He’s disappeared.’

  ‘So you’ve been to his gaff?’

  ‘I have indeed, miss, only a wee peek round the downstairs but that was enough. I’m not going back there in a hurry, I can tell you.’

  ‘Why not?’ said West, stifling another yawn. ‘Is it miles away?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not far but it’s a health hazard.’

  ‘Here we go, I know I’m going to regret asking but…’

  ‘Okay, for a start, his pad – it’s an end of terrace on Boswell Drive – is crumbling like a stale piece of cake and the garden’s like the Amazon. Actually, it’s like the Amazon after a fly-tipping convention...’

  ‘Some people just aren’t into gardening, Duncan, that’s why God gave us patios.’

  ‘…and it’s filthy inside, he’s definitely not one for taking baths either. The tub and the kitchen sink haven’t seen a drop of water in years…’

  ‘Maybe he gives himself a squirt of Febreze instead.’

  ‘…and there’s left-over food everywhere and when I say food, I’m not talking takeaway cartons, I mean rotting food left on plates, half-eaten tins of corned beef and baked beans, and as for the toilet…’

  ‘That’ll do!’ said West raising her hands. ‘Maybe he hasn’t got round to hiring a cleaner yet.’

  ‘Well, he’s taking his time, he bought the place seven years ago.’

  ‘He owns it?’

  ‘He does,’ said Duncan, ‘and here’s the thing; Dougal did one of his one-minute wonder-checks. It turns out he paid cash for it. Twenty thousand quid.’

  ‘Twenty grand?’ said West. ‘Sounds like a bargain.’

  ‘Not if you’ve seen it, it isn’t. They should’ve paid him twenty grand to move in.’

  ‘So, are we looking for him?’

  ‘Oh aye. We found a driving licence with his mug shot on it, it’s not great but it’s something. He’ll be on the news tonight and in the paper tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, and this Wilson girl,’ said West, ‘any family?’

  ‘Not that we know of, miss. In fact, she’s turning out to be a wee bit of an enigma.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘There’s not much on her at all,’ said Dougal, ‘apart from what’s on the electoral register. And I’ve yet to find anything which tells us where she lived or where she worked before she arrived in Auchinleck.’

  ‘Well, keep on it, I’ve got to get a wiggle on. I need to ring Jimbo and make sure he’s still got a pulse, then I’m going to stuff my face and have a beer. Give me a buzz if Dougal comes up with anything interesting.’

  Chapter 2

  As a consummate professional with thirty years’ experience, an untarnished reputation, and a fondness for strong, sweet tea, Iain Fraser – a slight but muscular builder with a wife, two daughters, and a hefty mortgage to support – enjoyed the freedom of being his own boss. However, like many of Caledonia’s three hundred and twenty thousand self-employed, he was not entitled to fourteen days sick leave, nor was he paid to sip sangria on a sun lounger in Lanzarote, and the only pension benefits he could look forward to were those provided by the state. So, whilst at liberty to choose between grafting for twelve hours a day or putting his feet up, he invariably chose the former.

  To guarantee a degree of income during the leaner months, he had maintained for several years a small contract with a local agent tasked with carrying out minor repairs to a handful of rental properties, a commitment justly rewarded when, unbeknownst to him, they had proffered his name when asked to recommend a reputable builder who was not prone to sharp intakes of breath when providing quotes. As a consequence, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself entrusted with the renovation of a centuries-old, granite cottage, which, as a six-month project, was enough to keep the wolf from his door.

  Dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a snug-fitting T-shirt with a tool-belt dangling from his trim waist, he stepped from the gloom of the house on Glen Road, brushed the dust from his short, dark hair, and rolled a cigarette as a scowling, suited gentleman scurried across the street towards him.

  ‘Alright pal?’ Fraser said, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘Not bad for March, is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The weather,’ he said. ‘I say it’s not bad for March.’

  ‘Aye. Right enough. Do you live here?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘I am. Archibald Alpin Galbraith. I’m the headmaster and…’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ said Fraser, smiling as he raised his hand. ‘No offence but a name’s plenty.’
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br />   ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘Dear God man, have you bought this house?’

  ‘No, no. I’m just doing the place up; it’s smashing inside. It has what they call potential.’

  ‘Does it indeed?’

  ‘Oh aye. I’ve just laid a new floor upstairs. Solid oak, reclaimed timbers, it looks great. Would you like to see?’

  ‘Another time,’ said Galbraith. ‘So, if you’ve not bought the place then I assume you’re working for the gentleman who has?’

  ‘I am indeed. It’s a fella by the name of Harrington.’

  ‘Harrington? He’s English?’

  ‘He is, aye.’

  ‘Dear God, not another one! We had a wall for a reason.’

  ‘Well, he’s polite and he pays cash upfront, so he’s okay by me.’

  ‘And do you happen to know how he came by it?’ said Galbraith. ‘I mean, there’s not been a board outside.’

  ‘Auction, I think. Apparently, the lady who lived here passed away.’

  ‘We don’t know that! We don’t know if she’s passed away!’

  Fraser, intrigued by Galbraith’s abrupt manner, drew hard on his cigarette and regarded him inquisitively.

  ‘How so?’ he said.

  ‘This house belonged to Flora MacDonald!’ said Galbraith pointing to a downstairs window. ‘She was born in that room, right there!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she vanished eight years ago and nobody knows where she went.’

  ‘You mean they’ve not even found a body?’

  ‘They have not.’

  ‘Eight years you say?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Well, seven’s the limit for being declared dead. Maybe that’s what’s happened. Maybe that’s why it went to auction.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did she not have any family?’

  ‘We were her family.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Fraser as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘That’s terrible. It doesn’t seem right somehow.’

  ‘No,’ said Galbraith, ‘it’s not right. It’s not right at all. And what makes it worse is the likes of you ripping the place apart as though she’d never existed.’