Penitent

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Hey now, steady on pal! I’m just the monkey here. If you’ve a gripe then you’d best speak with Harrington, he’s the organ grinder, okay? Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a fireplace to open up, a chimney to line, and a new surround to put in. It’ll be nice and toasty up there with a couple of logs burning in the basket.’

  Dismissing Galbraith as a haughty individual whose ire was driven by grief, jealousy, or a loathing of anyone born south of Gretna Green, Fraser returned to the upstairs bedroom and unscrewed the sheet of quarter-inch plywood covering the fireplace to reveal, somewhat perplexingly, a brick wall which, much to his despair, appeared to have been built by a one-armed chancer using a butter knife as a trowel.

  Unperturbed by the faint aroma of rotten eggs – a familiar smell which, based on experience, was probably emanating from a decomposing pigeon – he scraped out the crumbling mortar and, optimistically anticipating the discovery of something more valuable than the usual assortment of tobacco tins and hair grips he’d unearthed over the years, carefully removed the bricks, his heart thumping with nervous excitement.

  Although the old schoolhouse in New Abbey had provided him with his most profitable find to date – a wooden box secured with a brass clasp stashed beneath the floorboards of the classroom which contained six silver coins, or ‘merks’, minted under the reign of King James VI – it was nothing compared to the sight before him. He sat back, wrapped his arms around his knees, and gazed in awe at what was undoubtedly his most priceless discovery to date.

  ‘Nice ankles,’ he said as he reached for his phone.

  Chapter 3

  As someone who’d suffered more than his fair share of bumps and bruises during the course of his illustrious career, including two attempts on his life – one at the hands of a drug-dealing pimp and the other as a victim of a hit and run, both of which had landed him in the ICU – Munro, who likened hospitals to the departure lounge for those on their way to Valhalla, was a firm believer that the road to recovery was best travelled at speed and not from the comfort of a well-sprung armchair.

  Though willing to accept exercise as an essential part of the healing process, he was adamant that, despite the advice of the doctors, limiting any physical exertion to what they’d described as “gentle” for a period of six weeks was about as wise as suggesting he refrain from dining on sirloin, sugar, and whisky and substitute his staples with wholegrain rice, tofu, and a healthy portion of fresh vegetables.

  Declaring he’d rather starve than poison his body with foodstuffs intended for livestock – and having spent five days staring out to sea without so much as a sniff of a dolphin – he left the car behind, took a lungful of fresh, salty air, and set off at a brisk pace along the two mile trek to the café in Port Ellen.

  Armed with a newspaper, a tub of aspirin, and burning desire to take the weight off his feet, he secured the table in the corner and, wheezing like a pair of worn bellows, ordered breakfast with the words of Benjamin Franklin – “wise men don’t need advice and fools won’t take it” – ringing in his ears.

  Undecided as to whether he was either, he squeezed a palm-sized dollop of brown sauce onto his buttered, bacon roll and devoured it with the gusto of a whale wiring into a seal, before perusing the paper, flicking impatiently through the pages of old news, bad news, and fake news until a minor article tucked away at the foot of page eight made him reach for his spectacles.

  THE WOMAN IN THE WALL … following the discovery of a body behind a bricked-up fireplace at an address in Palnackie, Kirkcudbrightshire, police have re-opened the case of a missing person and launched a murder inquiry. The deceased is believed to be Mrs Flora MacDonald who vanished without trace approximately eight years ago. Rather than wait for a formal identification of the body, police have already begun their inquiry and are keen to speak with Mr Craig McPherson, also of Palnackie, who disappeared the night before Mrs MacDonald was reported missing. The amateur boxer is believed to be thirty years old, five feet, five inches tall, and of slim build. The public are advised not to approach him, but anyone with information regarding his current whereabouts should contact Police Scotland on 101 or telephone Crimestoppers anonymously on 0800 555 111...

  Munro, recalling the countless occasions he and his beloved Jean had stopped in the village for a fish supper at the Glenisle Inn after a strenuous day’s walking along the cliff top path from Balcary Bay to Rascarrel, sat back and sipped his tea saddened not so much by the fact that such a crime could occur, but that the perpetrator would go to such lengths to deprive Mrs MacDonald of a decent burial.

  Flinching at the sound of his phone, he hurriedly sought an excuse for his excursion lest an irate West berate him for hampering his recovery by hiking around the island. He heaved a sigh of relief as a different name flashed up on the screen.

  * * *

  With his towering frame and the bulk of a baby hippo, DCI George Elliot, known amongst the ranks as “The Bear” ever since his days as a uniformed officer, when his imposing stature and short fuse would send the local villains running for cover, was, despite his renown as an oppressive ogre, something of a patriarch who delighted in fostering his team with the compassion of a palliative care nurse.

  ‘James!’ he said. ‘How the devil are you? We’ve been worried sick!’

  ‘Och, dinnae fret on my account,’ said Munro. ‘I’m not going upstairs, not yet anyway.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it! And how’s life on Islay?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Dead? Come, come, you’re a lucky man, James; all that peace and quiet. I’d trade places with you any day of the week.’

  ‘There’s a ferry at one, get yourself on it.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ said Elliot. ‘Truth be known, I could do with a wee break myself.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. All that paperwork must be exhausting.’

  ‘It’s not the paperwork, James. It’s Mrs Elliot.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She’s joined Weight Watchers. I’m telling you, there’s only so much cauliflower cheese a man can take.’

  ‘Count your blessings,’ said Munro as he mopped the sauce from his plate, ‘at least she’s not forcing you to eat fruit.’

  ‘Wrong again. Have you ever tried an avocado?’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Well, it’s not pleasant,’ said Elliot lowering his voice. ‘It’s not pleasant at all. The thing is James, I’ve a wee bit of a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been needing to supplement the child-sized portions she’s been serving up of an evening…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘…so I’ve developed a fondness for pie and beans at lunch.’

  ‘And the problem is?’

  ‘I’ve not lost any weight. Not a pound.’

  Munro leaned back in his seat, rubbed his chin, and smiled.

  ‘Metabolism,’ he said. ‘Aye, that’s the word; metabolism.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Just tell her you’ve a slow metabolism. That’s why you’ve been the size of Lamachan Hill for the last thirty years.’

  ‘James! You’re a genius! I owe you for… hold on a minute, what’s that noise?’

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘I heard somebody speak. Are you not in your bed?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Munro. ‘It must be the television. I cannae reach the remote.’

  ‘Thank God for that, for a moment there… now you listen to me James, you need to rest if you’re to get back on your feet. It’s not good to go gallivanting about the place so soon after the operation.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Munro. ‘I wouldnae want to risk another trip to the ICU, that would never do. So, what’s the story?’

  ‘Story?’ said Elliot sounding surprised. ‘Why does there have to be a story? I’m simply calling to check on your welfare. As a friend. A very concerned friend.’

  ‘Are you hell,’ said Munro. ‘You’ve
had a whole week to call, George, something’s up. Now, out with it.’

  Munro finished his tea and gestured to the waitress for the bill as he waited for Elliot to break the ensuing silence.

  ‘Palnackie,’ said Elliot. ‘You’re familiar with Palnackie, are you not?’

  ‘You know damn well I am, George. It’s a spit from Carsethorn. What of it?’

  ‘I know what you’re like, James. You’re not one for cogitating in your pit so I thought you might like something to keep the old grey matter occupied. Something to get you thinking.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you remember the case of the lady who vanished into thin air? The wife of the postmaster? It happened just before you left for London, while you were still at ‘the Mount’ in Dumfries?’

  ‘I have a vague recollection,’ said Munro, ‘but I didnae deal with it.’

  ‘Well guess what? They’ve found her.’

  ‘Is that so? And where is she now? Acapulco perhaps?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Elliot. ‘She’s up a chimney.’

  ‘Wrong time of the year for that.’

  ‘And there’s not much left of her.’

  ‘Dear, dear. Are they sure it’s MacDonald?’

  ‘Between you and me,’ said Elliot, ‘aye, they are. They had to rely on her dental records to make an ID but it’s her alright.’

  ‘Good job she wasnae wearing dentures. So why should this concern me?’

  ‘Because you can’t keep your nose out of anyone’s business. Even if you weren’t on the case, I’m sure you’d have heard a whisper or two.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘Sorry, George, but that was years ago, I cannae recall a thing.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Elliot. ‘Either way, you might like to know Dumfries and Galloway are trying to trace a fella called McPherson. They’ve asked every division in the country to be on the lookout.’

  ‘That means nothing to me. Who is this McPherson fellow anyway?’

  ‘A young lad, amateur boxer. He disappeared the night before MacDonald was reported missing.’

  ‘And they think he’s involved?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘But they’ve no idea where he is?’

  ‘None,’ said Elliot. ‘They’ve been to his old gym and all the pubs he used to frequent but nothing so far. I just thought if you sat down and had a wee think about it you might remember something.’

  Munro placed a five-pound note on top of the bill, tucked it beneath the saucer and zipped his coat.

  ‘Not for me, George,’ he said. ‘I’m past all that now. I’ve got more important things to worry about.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Decorating. I’ve a bottle of turpentine in my pocket and I need to get home to finish the painting. I left the kitchen in a terrible mess.’

  ‘Well, you’ve another week on Islay, James. I’m sure the painting can wait.’

  * * *

  Munro stepped from the taxi, handed the driver a generous tip and returned to the cottage frowning as if he’d been dealt a fistful of consonants in a game of Scrabble with a lexicographer.

  Exasperated by ‘the Mount’s’ obvious ineptitude during the original inquiry – in particular their failure to conduct a thorough search of the property – he removed his coat, cranked up the heating, and settled into the armchair with a cup of hot, sweet tea for a spot of window-gazing before concluding he had more chance of spotting a duck-billed platypus than a pod of playful cetaceans breaching the surf in search of salmon. He reached for his phone.

  ‘Who’s in charge of the MacDonald inquiry?’ he said brusquely.

  ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’

  ‘Munro. The name’s James Munro.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  Munro slurped his tea and winced as a tinny rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons almost perforated his ear drum.

  ‘DCI Clark,’ came the voice. ‘Is this Munro? Detective Inspector James Munro?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘It’s a privilege, sir. You’ve quite a reputation.’

  ‘That’s what the doctor said but that was a veiled reference to the record-breaking fatberg I had blocking my arteries. Now, DCI Clark…’

  ‘Harry, please.’

  ‘As you wish. Let’s not waste each other’s time, Harry. I left “the Mount” years ago, up until recently I was stationed in Ayr. I am now retired and at present have absolutely nothing to offer your inquiry, but I do have some questions so, are you willing to talk or should I hang up now?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Clark, ‘don’t hang up. We’ve nothing new to report so far and everything we do know is in the public domain so ask away. Although, would you not prefer to pop in? We could have a wee chat over a brew?’

  ‘I could, but as I’m currently on Islay I’ll not be there until tomorrow at the earliest.’

  ‘In that case, fire away and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Munro. ‘Much obliged indeed. Okay, so this MacDonald lady, the widow, did she not take over as postmistress when her husband passed away?’

  ‘You mean Jack MacDonald? No, she did not. She continued working for a month or two and then she retired.’

  ‘I see. And her husband, correct me if I’m wrong but was he not under investigation for misappropriation of Post Office funds?’

  ‘He was,’ said Clark, ‘but from what I can gather that was all based on a rumour, a malicious rumour at that, and nothing came of it. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole sorry episode wasn’t in some way responsible for the heart attack which killed him.’

  ‘Aye, you’re not wrong there,’ said Munro. ‘A man of his age, it was probably all too much for him. Let’s move on. Dental records.’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘Well, I’m assuming that if you had to rely on Mrs MacDonald’s teeth to make a positive ID, then she had no next of kin?’

  ‘None,’ said Clark. ‘She was the last of her clan. And it’s a shame she had to pass the way she did.’

  ‘Right enough but at least now she’ll get the burial she deserves. Tell me, would you happen to know if she made a will before she died?’

  ‘No, she died intestate. Everything was sold off. I understand there’s some other fella living in her house now. Or he’s moving in. Or something.’

  ‘And naturally you’ve made a new round of enquiries regarding her disappearance?’

  ‘Aye, we have indeed and everyone’s been most helpful. She must have been some character for folk to remember her so well, like it was yesterday.’

  ‘And has anyone had anything new to offer?’

  ‘No,’ said Clark. ‘Nothing but sour grapes, from one individual anyway.’

  ‘Sour grapes?’

  ‘Aye, some fella on the parish council. He’s a bee in his bonnet about the sale of her house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m assuming it’s because he had an eye on it himself.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Munro. ‘The parish council? It’s not a fellow by the name of Galbraith by any chance? Is he still alive?’

  ‘And kicking.’

  ‘Was there not talk in the village some years back of the two of them having a… relationship? Him and MacDonald?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, Mr Munro,’ said Clark. ‘I’d have to go through the file and check all the old witness statements.’

  ‘Dinnae worry yourself,’ said Munro, ‘it’s not worth the trouble. I’m probably confusing him with somebody else. Tell me about this McPherson fellow, why’s he in the frame?’

  ‘No reason other than he disappeared the night before MacDonald was reported missing. To use a well-worn phrase, we just want to eliminate him from our inquiries. We waste too much time chasing after folk who have nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘I know the feeling. Well, if he knows you’re after him, maybe he’ll turn himself in. I understand he’s a boxer, is that r
ight?’

  ‘Is. Was. Who knows what he’s up to now.’

  ‘Was he any good?’

  ‘By all accounts he was the most successful failure the boxing world has ever seen.’

  ‘So he’s not likely to be working as a bouncer in a club or a bar?’

  ‘Doubtful.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘By all accounts he was a likeable fella,’ said Clark. ‘He’d do anything for a quid, he was fond of a drink, and tended to shoot his mouth off if he’d had one too many.’

  ‘Did he have any violent tendencies?’ said Munro. ‘You know, as a boxer, did he fancy squaring up to folk?’

  ‘Not at all. If you asked me, I’d say he used the boxing to vent his anger, he was generally a polite and well-mannered fella.’

  ‘Okay, see here, Harry, I’ve kept you long enough. I’ll have a wee think on this and if I remember anything, I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Mr Munro, and aye, if you do come up with anything, no matter how small, I’d appreciate the call. I’d appreciate it very much indeed.’

  Chapter 4

  Unlike his contemporaries who converged with religious regularity on the terraces of Parkhead to taunt their rivals with a rousing rendition of “The Fields of Athenry” as their team sought to trounce the opposition, DS Dougal McCrae derived his pleasure not from watching twenty-two men chase a ball around a field but by deconstructing an algorithm, completing a crossword or trying to match the injuries of a cadaver with an unknown weapon.

  Alone in the office with the blinds pulled against the glare of the morning sun, he sat glued to his screen, transfixed by the image of Nancy Wilson’s sodden corpse, repulsed by the sight of her puffy, swollen face replete with blackened eyes, split lips, and missing teeth.

  Declaring the offender to be an unhinged sociopath in need of anger management counselling, and convinced that any remotely sane psycho would have had the sagacity to leave the murder weapon at the scene rather than risk being caught with it about their person, Dougal organised a sweep of the surrounding shrubland and, in the absence of any injuries commensurate with anything as small or as heavy as the head of a hammer, concluded that the item in question was probably a mallet, a cricket bat, or even a meat tenderiser.