Enmity

by Pete Brassett

  ‘In a moment, we’ve just time for a wee quiz before we go.’

  ‘A quiz?’

  ‘Aye, something to lift the spirits. Constable, this should be easy for an intelligent, young officer like yourself.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal, eager to impress, ‘I like answering questions, fire away.’

  ‘If I said E.T.D., what would you say?’

  ‘Estimated Time of Death, Sir.’

  ‘Very good. Now, if I said R.T.C., what would you say?’

  ‘Road Traffic Collision, Sir. This is easy.’

  ‘Is it? Okay, try this then; if I said B.L.T…’

  ‘B… you’ve lost me, Sir, I’ve never heard of a…’

  ‘Bacon, lettuce and tomato, laddie. A popular sandwich filling often served between two slices of toasted bread and in the absence of breakfast, we need a couple up here, right away. White bread, brown sauce. Thank you.’

  Chapter 6

  Even without the aid of sirens or flashing blue lights, and despite the fact that he had to negotiate a one-way traffic system in the middle of a deluge worthy of the title “monsoon”, it took Cameron less than ten minutes to make the journey from the police office to Cathcart Street. He parked opposite the flat and donned a baseball cap in preparation for the dash across the street.

  ‘Okay?’ he said, hand on door.

  ‘Hold on, I need to get my bearings first,’ said Munro as he pointed through the windscreen towards the top of the street. ‘Up there, that’s Sandgate, correct?’

  ‘That’s right, Chief.’

  ‘And the distance from there to here is what? A hundred yards?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Cameron, ‘about that.’

  ‘A minute’s walk.’

  ‘Two or three, if you’ve had a few bevvies.’

  ‘Good. And to the rear of us,’ said Munro, opening the window and adjusting the wing mirror, ‘is Fort Street which runs parallel to Sandgate.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Okay. Look behind you and tell me what you see, Don, just there, by the junction.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Chief,’ said Cameron, swivelling in his seat, ‘is it the bus stop you’re referring to?’

  ‘No, no. Next to it.’

  ‘Sorry, Chief, you’ve lost me, there’s nothing there but a lamp post.’

  ‘By jiminy, he’s got it! Only thing is, it’s not a lamp post, is it Don? It’s a camera. Did you not get the footage from yon camera?’

  Cameron faced front and scratched the back of his head.

  ‘Well, no, I mean, it’s not relevant, is it?’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s pointing down Fort Street, not here.’

  ‘Right enough, but it would still pick up any vehicle coming in this direction, would it not? I’m not here to hold your hand D.S. Cameron,’ said Munro tersely, as he stepped from the car, ‘if you’re not up to the job, just say so.’

  Cameron turned to West and cringed as the door slammed.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘It’s a wee oversight, that’s all.’

  ‘I’d get that footage if I were you Don,’ said West with a wink, ‘or life won’t be worth living.’

  Cameron scurried across the street, hopped gingerly down the steps and joined an irate Munro by the front door.

  ‘As you can see, Chief,’ he said, puffing, ‘there’s no sign of a forced entry, so it’s safe to say the perp either had a set of keys or was known to young Agnes.’

  ‘Or,’ said West mischievously, ‘he’s an expert locksmith.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A professional, someone rather adept at picking locks.’

  ‘I never… aye, I suppose, but no, no, the chances of that would have to be…’

  ‘Don,’ said Munro, impatiently, ‘if it’s all the same with you, I’d prefer it if you concluded your wee tête-à-tête on the topic of housebreaking indoors. I’m getting wet. And I’m not happy when I’m wet.’

  Munro pushed open the door, pulled back his hood and unzipped his coat as he peered down the dimly lit hallway.

  ‘Is there another way in,’ he said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves, ‘a door round the back, perhaps?’

  ‘There is a door, Chief, leads to a small patio garden but you cannae reach it from the other side. This is the only way in and out. Lounge – first room on the right.’

  * * *

  Munro stood in the centre of the room, hands behind his back, and slowly turned 360 degrees absorbing every last detail, from the books on sociology, counselling and psychotherapy that lined the shelves to the Eddi Reader CD lying on top the stereo and the two distinct water rings on the coffee table. His eyes came to rest on a framed photograph hanging above the mantle shelf.

  ‘Is that him?’ said West, noticing the melancholy look on Munro’s face.

  ‘Alex? Aye, that’s him.’

  ‘He’s got a kind face. Happy looking.’

  ‘He was that, Charlie. Nothing ground the fellow down, nothing but the… Don, I take it nothing’s been moved?’

  ‘No, Chief. Well, obviously a few bits and bobs are away down the lab, but apart from that…’

  Munro craned his neck and stared up at the ceiling rose.

  ‘Neighbours,’ he said, ‘upstairs in particular. Did they hear anything?’

  ‘No. There’s an only old fella upstairs, Bob McCluskey. He’s partially deaf, wears a hearing aid and his eyesight’s not too good either. He’s usually in his pit by 9pm.’

  ‘How very convenient,’ said Munro, turning his attention to the window and the view from the basement up to street level, ‘and next door? I assume you have done a door to door?’

  Cameron glanced at West, stuttering as he answered.

  ‘Yes Chief, well… what I mean is, no, not the whole street, just the immediate neighbours. I’ve spoken with the folk just next door, same response. No-one’s seen or heard anything.’

  The ensuing silence caused Cameron to shuffle nervously on his feet.

  ‘Are you okay, Chief?’ he said. ‘You’re, er, you’re not saying much. Is something up?’

  Munro flexed his shoulders and slowly turned to face Cameron, his cold, blue eyes fixing him with a penetrating gaze.

  ‘Aye, Don,’ he said, his voice low and menacing, ‘something very big is up. A young lassie is bound hand and foot to her own bed, in her own home and she has her lips ceremoniously sliced from her face. Now, do you not think she would have said something? Screamed just a wee bit, perhaps?’

  Cameron swallowed hard, his throat as dry as a bone.

  ‘Aye Chief, of course, but like I said, the neighbours…’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said West, with a timely interruption, ‘perhaps she was drugged.’

  ‘That is a possibility Charlie,’ said Munro without averting his gaze, ‘but we shall have to wait for the results of the post-mortem before we can pursue that. It’s also possible she may have expired before being tied to the bed. Possible, but I dare say unlikely. Don, bedroom?’

  ‘Down the hall, Chief, follow me.’

  Cameron stood to one side and watched as Munro slowly scoured the room from top to bottom. The bed was stripped to the mattress. The dry shampoo, can of deodorant, bottle of perfume, tin of lip balm, hair brush, comb and toiletry bag were all perfectly aligned atop the chest of drawers. The two books, one of poetry and a novel, were placed neatly on the bedside table next to an alarm clock and reading lamp. A dressing gown hung behind the door and the slippers, side by side, were tucked just beneath the bed. The room was as neat as a pin with OCD. He moved to the window and pulled back the net curtain with his forefinger.

  ‘Tell me, Don, is there anything about this room that troubles you?’ he said, admiring the collection of pot plants outside.

  ‘No, Chief,’ said Cameron, ‘in fact I’d say it was really quite pleasant, not that I’ve seen many bedrooms but…’

  ‘Take another look. Take another look and tell me if there’s not something a wee bit… unsettling about the place
.’

  ‘Unsettling?’ said Cameron as he looked at West and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Come on, come on, no conferring, clock’s ticking. No? Och, too bad, out of time. Charlie, bonus points for a correct answer.’

  ‘It’s too clean,’ said West. ‘Too neat. Too tidy. In a word, there’s no sign of a struggle.’

  ‘Correct. No sign of a struggle, which tells us…?’

  ‘She went to her bed willingly. Who knows, maybe she thought something a little bit “kinky” might be fun or… or she was out cold and placed there.’

  ‘I favour the latter,’ said Munro. ‘Agnes, I can assure you, was not the kind of girl to do “kinky”. So, next. The deranged delinquent responsible for this atrocity tied her feet using a hairdryer and a phone charger but her hands were bound with cable ties. Why? They’re not the kind of items one would normally have about one’s person.’

  ‘Good point,’ said West, ‘so maybe he used them professionally, you know, like if he was an electrician or a builder, then he could have had a few in his pocket.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ said Cameron enthusiastically, ‘see, I’m with you on this, Charlie. If Agnes was having some work done, you know, some wiring or something, even just getting a quote, then it could have been someone she was familiar with, someone who came back and…’

  ‘Or perhaps they belonged to Agnes in the first place,’ said Munro, gazing outside, ‘I dare say there’s a bagful somewhere, kitchen drawer no doubt.’

  ‘Kitchen drawer?’ said West. ‘What would Agnes be doing with a…’

  ‘Securing her plants to a stake. Like yon rosebush by the wall there. The ties outside are exactly the same as the ones in the photographs, are they not, Don?’

  Cameron fumbled for his phone and headed for the door, head bowed.

  ‘If it’s all the same with you, Chief,’ he said groaning with embarrassment, ‘I cannae get a signal here and I have to make a couple of calls, chase those test results and arrange to get the film from that street camera. I’ll be in the car.’

  ‘Did you have to be so harsh?’ said West as the front door slammed, ‘he’s obviously trying his best and they are under-manned up here. He’s stressed out, you can tell by the bags under his eyes.’

  ‘Och, Charlie, you know me well enough, lassie, I’m not after persecuting the man but can you not see something’s troubling him? He cannae concentrate and it’s interfering with his police work. Something’s amiss, Charlie, trust me. Something’s amiss.’

  * * *

  Dougal McCrae was not typical of his generation. He had no interest in football, horse racing or online poker, baulked at the idea of sitting in a darkened auditorium watching the latest blockbuster next to somebody intent on devouring an extra-large bucket of popcorn and would rather spend his weekends fishing for brown trout in Loch Doon than recovering from a hangover.

  Inquisitive by nature, he could have pursued a successful career in engineering or medicine but such vocations were limited in their scope insomuch as the problems he’d encounter could eventually be solved by assigning one of many pre-existing answers. As a detective, however, such multiple-choice solutions did not exist, thereby affording him the opportunity to sate his appetite for discovering the unknown.

  Tucked away in the corner of the office, he sat hunched over his computer and scowled at the screen as the sound of the door opening interrupted his train of thought. Munro turned to West, pressed a finger to his lips and listened, the only sound that of somebody tapping furiously on a keyboard.

  ‘Dougal. Is that you?’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ came the disgruntled reply as Dougal, sighing, peered out from behind a filing cabinet.

  ‘It’s awful quiet in here, are we interrupting you?’

  ‘No, you’re alright, Sir, I prefer it quiet, helps me concentrate when I’m working.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro, ‘and what exactly are you working on?’

  ‘Background check, Sir.’

  ‘Background check? Anyone we know or is it someone you intend having a wee drink with this evening?’

  ‘Andrew Maxwell Stewart, Sir.’

  ‘That’s a fine name Dougal,’ said Munro, shaking the rain from his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, ‘but if it’s not too rude a question, who exactly might he be?’

  ‘He’s the fella downstairs, Sir,’ said Dougal, ‘in the interview room.’

  ‘Sorry Dougal but see, when it comes to crosswords, I tend to avoid the cryptic clues.’

  ‘Oh Christ! Sorry, I mean, I should’ve said, he’s been waiting for you. He’s the fella on the camera with Agnes, you know, the one we’ve been appealing for.’

  ‘I see, and he just…’

  ‘Aye, just walked in, seems keen to help.’

  ‘And how long has he been here?’

  ‘Since ten o’clock, at least. I have to say, he’s been awful patient.’

  ‘Good, well he’s obviously in no great to hurry to leave, which gives us time for another quiz.’

  ‘Another quiz?’ said Dougal, rising to the challenge.

  ‘Aye. Charlie here is flustered by a particularly troublesome conundrum, her ability to think somewhat impaired as a result of having not eaten for several hours. Perhaps you can help.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Good, see if you can complete this sequence: Breakfast. Brunch. Lunch…’

  ‘Tea!’

  ‘Excellent idea Dougal. White, three sugars and while you’re at it, see if you can rustle up something edible for Charlie, the poor lassie’s on the verge of keeling over. Then go fetch Mr. Stewart from the interview room, there’s really no need for him to be languishing down there on his own.’

  Chapter 7

  West, fearful that somebody else might enter the room and deny her the opportunity of devouring the fifth and final finger of shortbread, whipped it from the plate and moaned ecstatically as her blood sugar levels began to rise while Munro gently sipped his tea and scribbled a list of tasks for Dougal to attend to.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ he said, laying down his pen, ‘we should consider heading back as soon as we’ve spoken with Mr. Stewart.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘rain’s eased off, shouldn’t take long. I’ll drive if you like.’

  ‘Good. We’ll stop by the butcher on the way and pick something up for supper, something a wee bit more substantial than a plateful of…’

  He paused as Cameron, looking exhausted, slipped through the door, raised his eyebrows in greeting and sat quietly at the opposite desk. He dragged his laptop towards him and pulled a flash drive from his pocket.

  ‘Are you okay, Don?’ said Munro. ‘You seem a wee bit…’

  ‘Just the traffic, Chief,’ said Cameron curtly, ‘rush hour, it’s nose to tail on the bridge and that numpty at the council office, he’s more interested in clocking off than helping the police with a murder inquiry. Jobsworths, the lot of them, it’s always a struggle trying to get anything…’

  ‘Couldn’t they have emailed you the footage from the camera?’ said West. ‘Surely that would have saved you…’

  ‘You’ve not had much dealings with the bureaucrats in office, have you Charlie? Would’ve taken another three days by the time they got around to processing the request, rubber-stamping it in triplicate and… och sorry, look, I didnae mean to snap, I’m just feeling a bit…’

  Cameron closed his laptop without bothering to finish his sentence as Dougal returned with Max in tow.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Stewart I presume?’ said Munro with a welcoming smile, ‘come in, take a seat, had we known you were here we’d have come back sooner. It’s decent of you to wait so long.’

  ‘Nae bother,’ said Max, ‘you’re the police, you must be busy all the time.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. Are you not staying Don?’ said a concerned Munro as Cameron rose from his desk and buttoned his coat.

  ‘No, no. If it’s all the sa
me with you, Chief, I need to shoot off, my head’s…’

  ‘On you go then, we’ll fill you in tomorrow. So, Mr. Stewart…’

  ‘Max. I’m not one for formalities.’

  ‘Max it is. I’m James, Detective Inspector James Munro and this young lady is Detective Sergeant West. Now, I trust you’ve been well looked after? Refreshments and such like?’

  ‘Aye. Very kind, thanks.’

  ‘Good. Tell me, Max, before we go on, Detective Constable McCrae says you’ve been here all day, I’m not one to pry but do you not have any work to do?’

  Max raised the corner of his mouth and shook his head, smirking.

  ‘I’ve a job, if that’s what you mean. It pays a wage which means I can pay the rent but it’s about as interesting as watching a cup final.’

  ‘You’ve obviously not seen Celtic play. What is it you do exactly?’

  ‘Sell houses. Well, I would if I had any to sell.’

  ‘Estate agent, eh?’ said West. ‘Must be tough when you have to rely on commission to make a living. Anyway, back to business, what can we do for you?’

  ‘What can you do for me? It’s the other way around, is it not?’ said Max, pulling the folded newspaper from his pocket and handing it over. ‘My friend, I mean the girl I work with, Lizzie, she gave me this, this morning, so I came right over.’

  Munro unfurled the paper and looked at the photographs.

  ‘Och, they’re not very flattering are they?’ he said. ‘I could do better with a Box Brownie.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Munro. ‘So, would you like to tell us what happened? With this lassie you met?’

  ‘We didnae meet exactly, collided more like. She crashed into me, hammered she was. Her name’s Ness, said she’d been down the West Kirk with a friend. Obviously made a night of it.’

  ‘Well, Friday night,’ said West, ‘can’t blame her for that. How was she?’

  ‘Blootered,’ said Max.

  ‘I mean, did she seem anxious, upset, depressed?’

  ‘No, no, she was flying, happy as Larry.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Talk about? Bugger all, she could hardly string two words together. If you dinnae mind me asking, what’s this all about? Has something happened to her?’