‘Have a seat.’
‘No, I’m alright thanks.’
‘As you wish,’ said Elliot. ‘No need to look so scared, Charlie, I’ve not brought you here for a reprimand.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Listen, I know how you feel and how upset you are about James.’
‘Really?’ said West sarcastically. ‘Sorry, sir, but I’m not sure you do.’
‘Well, how’s this for starters: you and he have a bond. He pulled you out of the mire and for that, you’re grateful, so much so that you worry about him; after all, he’s been like a father to you and you lost your temper because you don’t want to see him planted before his time. And you worry because you think he’s not looking after himself.’
‘Alright,’ said West. ‘You win.’
‘The thing is, Charlie, it’s a two-way street. James has nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for you, but he’s not one for showing his feelings, especially since Jean passed away.’
‘Only natural, I suppose.’
‘You probably thought he felt fine about having that operation,’ said Elliot, ‘you probably thought, oh, it’s the same old James, tough as old boots, nothing to worry about, “och it’s fine I’ll be out in a jiff”. The fact of the matter is, he didn’t think he was coming out, Charlie. He even made a will.’
‘You are joking?’ said West.
‘I kid you not. Of course, I’m not at liberty to divulge the details of the will,’ said Elliot, ‘even though I witnessed it myself, but I will tell you this: if he wasn’t here right now, you’d have a roof over your head and you’d not have to worry about earning a living anymore. Do you get what I’m saying?’
‘Thanks,’ said West. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.’
‘My pleasure. Now go easy on him. He may be getting on in years but I’ll tell you this for nothing – he could still run rings around the likes of you.’
* * *
West, feeling like an eight year old who’d been chastised for being selfish rather than an adult who’d failed to keep her emotions in check, returned to her desk and smiled at the sight of Munro wiring into a bacon roll, thankful, despite the risk to his health, that a semblance of normality had returned to the office.
‘My fault,’ she said, ‘I was out of order. I just don’t want you knocking on heaven’s door, that’s all.’
‘Och, dinnae go all Bob Dylan on me,’ said Munro, ‘I cannae stand sentimentality.’
‘All the same, a little bit of courtesy wouldn’t go amiss, Jimbo. You could’ve said you were coming back instead of ignoring my calls. Believe it or not, there are some people who care about you.’
‘Point taken, lassie. Point taken. So, you lot look as though you’ve been binging on box sets. What’s the story?’
Dougal grabbed his laptop and sat next to Munro while West, hoping some third-party input might alleviate her anxiety, sat on the edge of the desk and filched a fried egg sandwich from the bag.
‘Have you lot kissed and made up?’ said Duncan as he poked his head around the door. ‘Only there’s a call I need to make.’
‘Go ahead,’ said West, ‘it’s all sweetness and light in here.’
‘I must be in the wrong place then. You okay, chief?’
‘Never better,’ said Munro. ‘So, who’s going first?’
‘I will,’ said Dougal. ‘Do you want the full story, boss, or the abridged version?’
‘Stick to the salient points, laddie. I may expire at any moment.’
‘Right you are. So, in a nutshell, Nancy Wilson, a thirty-something office worker and swimming instructor, was bludgeoned to death at the leisure centre in Auchinleck.’
‘And what do we know about her?’
‘Not much, boss. Apart from her address and her age and the fact that she voted SNP in the last election, there’s pretty much nothing on her.’
‘Nothing on her?’ said Munro. ‘She didnae drop from the sky, laddie! She must have some kind of a history. Did you not check with her pals at work?’
‘I did, but the best they could do was to tell me she was a vegetarian and drank organic white wine.’
Munro gave Dougal a sideways glance, huffed, and shook his head.
‘You surprise me, laddie. It’s not like you to have your head in the clouds.’
‘Sorry?’
‘This Wilson girl! At some point in the past she’d have applied for the role of instructor at the leisure centre, am I right?’
‘Aye, I imagine so.’
‘Then someone must have interviewed her to assess her suitability for the job?’
‘Okay.’
‘Ergo, someone must have her CV! And what would her CV contain? Her name, her address, a date of birth, previous employers, education, marital status, shall I go on?’
‘No,’ said Dougal forlornly, ‘you’re alright.’
‘And what about social media? Is she not on that snappy-chat, or linked-up, or grinder?’
Duncan, unable to contain himself, raised his head and howled with laughter as West tried desperately not to choke on her egg sandwich.
‘Was it something I said?’ said a bemused Munro.
‘Don’t worry, Jimbo,’ said West, ‘we’ve checked social media and she’s not on any of it, especially not Grindr.’
‘Then we’d best move on before I give you cause for more hilarity. Dougal, suspects?’
‘We had two in the frame, boss. The first fella went on a couple of dates with Wilson and matched a figure caught on CCTV outside the leisure centre on the day that she died, but after questioning, and in the light of new evidence pertaining to the second suspect, he was released without charge. The second suspect, one Rupert Lea, has been charged. He was arrested under Section 38 a few years back for stalking her but got an absolute discharge. He claims he’s innocent but every shred of evidence we have says otherwise.’
‘And what evidence is that?’ said Munro. ‘Is it enough to incriminate the fellow?’
‘Undoubtedly, boss.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘The problem,’ said West, ‘is the motive. You see, Jimbo, it all points to the perp’ going after a substantial amount of cash Wilson had hidden in her house, and the only way to access that cash was to find a locket she owned which contained a code.’
‘You’re losing me, lassie.’
‘Sorry. The locket contained a pin number which opened a safe, and that’s where she kept the cash.’
‘But they didn’t find it? The locket?’
‘No, she was wearing it under her top, but bearing in mind she and Lea hardly even spoke, how did he know to look for a locket? How did he know it contained a PIN number? How did he know it would open a safe? And more to the point, how did he know about the cash in the first place?’
‘Dear, dear, dear, I see your dilemma,’ said Munro. ‘So tell me, Charlie, what does your gut say?’
‘It says get some Imodium.’
Munro smiled and popped the lid on his takeaway tea.
‘Tell me about the evidence against this Lea fellow,’ he said. ‘What exactly do you have?’
‘For starters,’ said Dougal, ‘we have Lea’s computer which contains dozens and dozens of photos of Nancy Wilson, the most recent of which was taken not just on the day that she died but actually inside her office. Lea also owns a motorbike which was captured on CCTV outside the leisure centre.’
‘And have you a weapon?’ said Munro. ‘Because you’ll not get far without one.’
‘We have,’ said Dougal. ‘A pair of reinforced motorcycle gloves belonging to Lea. They went for analysis and came back with blood and tissue fragments on the knuckles, both of which matched positive for Nancy Wilson which proves beyond any doubt that they were worn during the attack.’
Munro sat back with a jolt.
‘Are you saying he punched her to death?’
‘Yes, and that’s just it!’ said West. ‘That doesn’t a
dd up either!’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, apart from the fact that there’s no way he could have known about the money, he’s a scrawny runt! A lightweight! He couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.’
Dougal turned the laptop to face Munro and slid it across the desk.
‘Here you go, boss. As you can see, he looks like a stalker, I’ll give him that, but a murderer?’
Munro took his spectacles from his pocket, studied the image on the screen, and walked to the back of the room with his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
‘The fellow on the screen,’ he said, ‘does he have any previous? Anything on record?’
‘No,’ said Dougal, ‘just the Section 38 we told you about.’
‘And there’s nothing before that?’
‘Not a sausage.’
‘So you cannae actually prove he is who he says he is?’
‘I’m not with you, boss.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Munro, ‘you know how it works, laddie. You arrest a man, he gives you his name. You charge him, you take his prints and his DNA, and you assign one to the other. But what if he’s not given you his real name?’
‘Well, we check,’ said Dougal, ‘records, registers…’
‘But he could have been living under an assumed name for years and if he’s not been in trouble before you’re none the wiser! To coin a phrase, you’re humped! Unless of course, serendipity comes knocking at the door.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said West, ‘she’s outside right now.’
‘She is indeed.’
‘And pray, where exactly are you going with all this?’
Munro turned to West and smiled softly.
‘I’ll tell you where I’m going, Charlie,’ he said with a wink. ‘The gentleman on that screen is not who you think it is. It’s a chap called Craig McPherson.’
‘I knew it,’ said West, ‘it’s always the mind to go first. Just what the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’ve just told you lassie, that gentleman is Craig McPherson. I’d stake my life on it. What’s left of it anyway.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’ll be brief,’ said Munro. ‘Several years ago, a woman by the name of Flora MacDonald vanished from her home in Palnackie. This week she turned up again. Her body was found stuffed up a chimney.’
‘Blimey,’ said West. ‘Interesting, but what’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’
‘A local lad also went missing, coincidentally the night before Mrs MacDonald disappeared off the face of the earth. That lad was Craig McPherson. An amateur boxer no less.’
‘Good story,’ said West, ‘but there’s probably tons of red-haired boxers about the place. What makes you so sure it’s him?’
‘His eyes,’ said Munro. ‘He took a hammering in the ring which left him with one eye watching the sunset while the other was waiting for the sunrise.’
‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Dougal, ‘the National Records of Scotland, I’ll take a wee look now.’
West stood up, ruffled her hair, and stared at Munro.
‘Sometimes,’ she said playfully, ‘there are moments when I wish I’d never met you. Alright, even if we assume what you say is true and he’s been living under a false name for the last few years, there’s still one thing I just don’t buy.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘That Lea has the ability to pummel anyone. Have you seen him? He’s like a stick insect with a beer belly.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Munro. ‘Trust me, Charlie, even the bad boxers know how to land a punch, even those that havenae been in the ring for years.’
‘Okay. Then the first thing I need to do is prove that they’re both the same bloke. Was he done for anything when he was living as McPherson?’
‘Now now, Charlie, you’re letting yourself down,’ said Munro. ‘If he had, do you not think his DNA would have come up on a cross-match?’
‘So he wasn’t convicted of anything?’
‘Not a dickie bird,’ said Munro. ‘He was cautioned a few times for causing a disturbance but that was as bad as it got.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Mind you, you could always run his prints through the system, they’ll be there.’
‘Of course!’
‘Or if you’re in a hurry, why not nip downstairs and simply ask him yourself?’
‘No need!’ said Dougal excitedly, ‘I’ve got him here! Craig McPherson changed his name by deed poll six years ago!’
* * *
Duncan, groaning with despair, cursed as he slammed his phone on the desk and buried his head in his hands.
‘Are you okay?’ said West. ‘Number engaged?’
Duncan slowly raised his head.
‘Has that report gone to the fiscal yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s still too early.’
‘Well, hang fire, there’s something you need to know.’
West, concerned by his pained expression, leaned on the desk and stared him in the eye.
‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘It’s not a dodgy bacon roll, is it?’
‘I wish it was,’ said Duncan. ‘That was the DVLA. They’ve confirmed Rupert Lea as the keeper of the motorbike.’
‘Well, that’s great isn’t it? I mean, that’s just what we want!’
‘Aye, but the thing is, Lea doesn’t have the official paperwork yet and that’s because the DVLA are amending the log book. They’re registering a change of ownership.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this.’
‘He’s not had it long,’ said Duncan. ‘He bought it off a fella called John Nevin.’
Munro, surprised to see the normally docile Dougal twitching with anger, sat back to enjoy what would undoubtedly be a lacklustre bout between a couple of mismatched middleweights.
‘That doesn’t get Lea off the hook!’ said Dougal stabbing the air with his finger. ‘He could’ve been riding that bike for weeks while the DVLA amend the details!’
‘Aye, right enough,’ said Duncan lethargically, ‘he could’ve been, but he’s not insured.’
‘Well, that’s not unusual around here! Besides, he’s got all the bike gear in his house!’
‘I’m not a dafty, I found the stuff, remember? The question is: how long has he actually had the bike?’
‘Obviously long enough to scoot down the centre and batter Miss Wilson to death!’
‘We don’t know that for sure,’ said Duncan, ‘I mean we’ve only just found it ourselves.’
‘The log book! Call the DVLA again, he has to enter the date that he purchased the bike on the log book!’
‘I’ll not dispute that,’ said Duncan, ‘but he doesn’t have to enter the right date, does he?’
Scoring the bout as a win on points in Duncan’s favour, Munro turned his attention to West and, watching as she paced the floor in frustration, waited for the penny to drop.
‘I’ve got it!’ she said, clicking her fingers. ‘Jimbo, this McPherson geezer, if he was a boxer then he must’ve trained somewhere, right?’
‘Aye, of course he did.’
‘Then maybe there’s a connection there. Maybe that’s where he and Nevin met each other.’
‘Hallelujah,’ said Munro. ‘It was a long time coming but it was worth the wait.’
‘I don’t suppose you know where he trained, do you?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Munro as he flicked through his notebook, ‘I do. The Doonhamers boxing club on Irving Street.’
‘Irving Street? Where’s that?’
‘Dumfries.’
‘Right, Duncan can you…?’
‘Are you joking me?’
‘Oh come on,’ said West, ‘you look the part! I can’t very well send Dougal now, can I? No offence, mate.’
‘Blues and twos,’ said Munro. ‘You could be there in an hour.’
‘Aye, go on then,’ said Duncan. ‘But I’m h
aving the weekend off.’
‘Good man. Just say you’re trying to trace an old mate or something, you know the score, and give me a bell as soon as you’re done. Dougal, get Nevin picked up as soon as possible, please. I’m going to introduce Jimbo to Rupert Lea.’
Chapter 13
Too polite to mention anything, Munro, unsettled by the pervasive pong hanging in the air, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, delicately dabbed the tip of his nose and, by a process of elimination, identified Lea as the source of the noxious odour.
‘You alright?’ said West, covering her mouth as she uttered a gentle cough. ‘Can we get you anything?’
‘Not unless you have a sauvignon on the go,’ said Lea.
‘Maybe next time. For the benefit of the tape, I am DI West, also present is James Munro. Would you state your name, please?’
‘Again?’
West stared at Lea and raised her eyebrows.
‘Rupert Lea.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Come again?’
‘Never mind,’ said West. ‘So, down to business.’
‘Business? I thought we were done. I thought you were shipping me off to court.’
‘We are. In a bit. Just a few more questions to get through first.’
Lea leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and squinted at Munro through his pebble glasses.
‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘Some kind of a lawyer?’
‘I’m a kind of something,’ said Munro. ‘But not a lawyer, no.’
‘No, you don’t look the type,’ said Lea. ‘I know, you’re one of those psychoanalyst fellas who sit there saying nothing, just scribbling wee notes on that pad of yours.’
‘As you can see,’ said Munro, smiling at his choice of words, ‘I have neither a pad nor a pen, but I do have a few questions.’
‘Well, on you go.’
‘All in good time. As I’m sure you know, it’s good manners to let the ladies go first.’
‘I never had you down as a biker, Mr Lea,’ said West. ‘How long have you been riding?’
‘I’ve not ridden for a while.’
‘Is that because of your eyesight?’
‘No. I’ve a different pair for distance.’
Penitent Page 11