Enmity

by Pete Brassett

‘Agnes,’ said Max, ‘Agnes Craig. Are you okay? You’ve gone awfully pale. Oh no, don’t tell me you knew…?’

  The girl froze. She stood, fists clenched by her side and stared at Max, her eyes wide with rage, before erupting in a fireball of fury.

  ‘What did you do to her?’ she screamed. ‘What did you…?’

  ‘Hold on!’ said Max, holding up his hands as he backed away, ‘I didnae touch her! I walked her home, that’s all. I promise, I didnae touch her!’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘I didnae touch her! All I did was…’

  The sound of the shutter as it creaked and groaned towards the ground drowned out his voice. By the time it hit the pavement with a satisfying thud, the girl’s screaming had turned to sobbing, her shoulders quivering uncontrollably. She slowly raised her head and looked at Max.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m just… I’m still…’

  ‘Aye, understandably so,’ said Max, keeping his distance, ‘listen, if it helps, if you need to punch somebody, feel free, I can take it.’

  The girl spluttered as she laughed.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, wiping her face with the cuff of her sleeve, ‘so you… you were the last person to see Agnes alive?’

  Max frowned.

  ‘Well no, that’s not strictly true, there must have been at least one other…’ he said, grimacing as he realised what he’d said, ‘shit, that didn’t come out the way it was meant to, I meant…’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said the girl. ‘I know what you meant. So, did you know her?’

  ‘No, no. Like I said, I just saw her home safe and sound. Only she wasn’t, was she? Safe, I mean.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, you did the right thing. So, do you have a name?’

  ‘Max. Andrew Maxwell Stewart. But folk call me Max.’

  ‘Mary Campbell.’

  ‘Mary Campbell? “She has my heart, she has my hand, By sacred troth and honour’s band! Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, Im thine, my Highland Lassie, O!’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Och, just something I remember from school, it was written for a lassie called Mary. I think. Oh, hold on, no, I may be confusing it with…’

  ‘Doesnae matter, look, I should be…’

  ‘Listen, I was thinking…’ said Max, ‘I mean, I’m not very good at this but… I need a drink. Would you…?’

  ‘No thanks. Not being rude but I need to go, I’ve a friend coming at nine.’

  Max paused.

  ‘A friend? Wee bit late for callers, is it not? Must be a male friend.’

  ‘None of your business,’ said Mary, smiling, ‘but if you must know, it’s a lady friend, she’s a teacher and she’s simply dropping off a few bits and bobs to help me with my coursework. Alright?’

  ‘Aye, alright. All the more reason to make sure you get there in one piece. Have you far to go?’

  ‘Queens Terrace.’

  ‘By the beach?’ said Max.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Must be nice.’

  ‘It has its moments,’ said Mary.

  ‘Okay, well, we best get going.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m a grown woman, I think I can take care of myself.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you can, Mary Campbell, but you’re still in shock and it’s late. Come on, I insist.’

  Chapter 8

  Unlike Munro, who preferred to watch the sun rise rather than set, West, being more owl than lark, favoured lingering beneath the duvet for as long as possible, advocating the most productive time of day as the hours between nightfall and 6am when the chances of being distracted by alcohol, television or a lamb biryani were minimised.

  Despite the early start she still managed, however, to bag herself an extra hour’s sleep by snuggling up on the capacious back seat of the ageing Peugeot as Munro chauffeured her up to Ayr. She awoke only when he returned from the café, aroused by the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and toasted bacon sandwiches.

  ‘You’re a star,’ she said, crawling to the front seat.

  ‘Hands off,’ said Munro, as he tucked the bag beneath his seat, ‘you can wait like the rest of us.’

  * * *

  Cameron was at his desk, engrossed in what appeared to be a lengthy letter embellished with a fancy logo at the head of each page. He jumped as Munro and West entered the office, scrambling to tuck the letter back into the envelope.

  ‘Don!’ said Munro cheerfully. ‘Nice to see you here so early.’

  ‘Nae bother, Chief, it’s a damn site easier for me than it is for you, I’m only up the road.’

  ‘Nonetheless, dedication reaps its own rewards. Speaking of which, as the catering here cannae stretch to anything more than a bowl of cereal or a sandwich that curls instinctively at the edges, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure our calorific intake is enough to avoid unnecessary bouts of dizziness or amnesia. Help yourself. Where’s Dougal?’

  ‘Been and gone, Chief,’ said Cameron, reaching for a coffee, ‘he’s away down the college, gone to have a chat with Agnes’s classmates.’

  ‘I see. Oh well,’ said Munro, plucking a toastie from the bag, ‘another one for you then, Charlie. So, Don, have we any news?’

  ‘We have, Chief. Results came in last night, forensics and post-mortem, it makes for interesting reading. Grab a seat and I’ll…’

  ‘No, no, I’m away just now. I need a word with George. Go through it with Charlie and you can feed me the salient points when I get back. I’ll not be long.’

  * * *

  West threw her coat over the back of a chair, unwrapped a sandwich and sat opposite Cameron.

  ‘So,’ she said with a smile, ‘how’re you feeling today?’

  ‘Feeling? Okay. Why?’ said Cameron defensively.

  ‘No reason. Just that yesterday you seemed a little, I don’t know, preoccupied, a bit…’

  ‘Aye,’ said Cameron, ‘sorry about that. I shouldnae bring my problems to work, it’s not very professional and to tell the truth, I’ve not been sleeping great either.’

  ‘Wouldn’t worry. Bad news then?’ said West, nodding at the envelope on the desk.

  ‘You’re familiar with the phrase “it never rains, it pours”?’

  ‘Story of my life.’

  ‘Well, I’m in for a proper drenching.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘With you?’ said Cameron. ‘I’d rather not, it’s personal and the fewer folk who…’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said West, yanking the lid from a coffee cup, ‘so, these results, what have they found?’

  Cameron picked up the envelope, folded it in half and rammed it into his trouser pocket before opening the laptop.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s do forensics first. Here we are. It’s the wife.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ said West.

  ‘My wife. She’s instigated divorce proceedings. That’s the letter.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Are you…?’

  ‘Surprised? Upset? Totally and utterly pissed off? Yes to all of the above.’

  ‘And there’s… I mean, there’s no chance of a reconciliation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said West. ‘Tell me to mind own business if you want but was it… you know, another bloke?’

  Cameron sniggered.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said.

  ‘So is that where she’s gone?’

  ‘No idea. But I’d say she’s probably stopping with that nutter of a sister of hers.’

  ‘Nutter?’

  ‘Aye, she’s not right in the head,’ said Cameron, ‘took a shine to me first time we met and she’s been after me ever since.’

  ‘You should be flattered, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re joking me, she’s no spring chicken, if you ken what I’m saying.’

  ‘I see,’ said West, rattled by the chauvinistic remark, ‘and does your wife know how she feels about you?’

  ‘She thinks
it’s “sweet”, funny even, makes my skin crawl.’

  ‘A case of unrequited love, eh?’ said West. ‘Oh well, at least you know where to find her if you want to try and patch things up.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Cameron, sniggering. ‘You’ll not find me knocking her door, cap in hand, I’d rather… what am I doing? I said I wasnae going to talk about it.’

  ‘Helps though, doesn’t it? Talking, I mean,’ said West, eyeing him curiously. ‘What’s up? You wouldn’t be wincing like that over a letter.’

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’ said Cameron.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Forgot my painkillers. My shoulder’s a wee bit…’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West, reaching for her bag, ‘I’ve got some paracetamol here, they should help. By the way, you should wipe your hands on a napkin, not your tee-shirt, that’s probably bacon fat, it’ll stain.’

  ‘I haven’t… och, that’s not bacon fat, Charlie, that’s where… it’s taking time to heal, weeps a bit now and then.’

  ‘What does? What weeps?’

  ‘Och, it’s just a scratch,’ said Cameron, ‘I tried to stop some numpty robbing the off-licence a while back, unfortunately he had a knife and I didn’t.’

  ‘Is that how you…’ said West, pointing to his eye.

  ‘Aye. Same fella, same knife.’

  ‘Right, come on,’ said West, ‘shirt off, let’s clean that up before we do anything else. First aid kit?’

  ‘Filing cabinet. Bottom drawer.’

  West, with the remainder of her sandwich gripped firmly between her teeth, grabbed a box of sterile wipes and a roll of sticking plaster from the box and turned to face Cameron who sat, head bowed, naked from the waist up.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she said, almost choking. ‘A scratch you said, you look more like a bloody dartboard! How many…’

  ‘Nine,’ said Cameron, ‘it’s not as bad as it looks, they’re not very deep.’

  ‘You,’ said West, scowling, ‘shouldn’t even be here, no wonder your head’s in the bloody clouds.’

  ‘Oh aye, and what else would I do with my time? Dinnae fret, Charlie, I’m fine. Really, I am.’

  ‘Well you’d better be,’ said West as she dressed the wound, ‘because, and I’m giving you the heads up here, if Munro doesn’t reckon you’re up to it, he’ll have you off the…’

  ‘Aye okay, I figured that out for myself already. So, shall we get on? Results?’

  * * *

  George Elliot was not afraid of danger. Blessed as he was with an abundance of height and girth, the very sight of him was enough to deter many a miscreant from perpetrating a crime. As a young officer he’d acquired his fair share of accolades and a reputation amongst his peers for being fearless in the face of adversity but, with the passage of time, he’d grown to favour an approach to policing which involved utilising his brain rather than his fists, thereby ensuring a degree of longevity to his existence.

  He checked his watch and grumbled impatiently, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he grew increasingly frustrated with the millions of results Google had thrown at him.

  ‘Aye, what is it?’ he said gruffly as a short, sharp rap on the door interrupted his browsing.

  ‘George,’ said Munro, as he entered the room, ‘is this a good time?’

  ‘James! Couldnae be better, come in, sit down. Now tell me, what do you give somebody as a 30th wedding anniversary gift?’

  ‘Oh, a medal I’d say.’

  Elliot slumped back and laughed out loud.

  ‘Just the tonic, James. Just the tonic.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking congratulations are in order?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Elliot, ‘but if I dinnae get my act together, there’ll not be a 31st.’

  ‘Well, it shouldnae be hard. A 30th anniversary is pearl.’

  ‘Pearl? That’s great, something else I cannae afford. What did you do, James? Did you give pearls?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘I bought Jean a wetsuit and told her to dive for them herself.’

  ‘I like your style, James,’ said Elliot, grinning, ‘certainly be a lot cheaper.’

  ‘Well if money’s an issue, why not treat her to champagne and oysters?’

  ‘Allergic to seafood.’

  ‘I see, well just the champagne then. It’ll have much the same effect as the oysters, after a glass or two, that is. When is it?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Munro with a wink, ‘I’d forget the pearls altogether and start looking at hotels if I were you, and the farther south the better.’

  ‘You’re a genius. You think maybe somewhere like… Wales, perhaps? Or Cornwall?’

  No, no, keep going and dinnae stop till you hit Tenerife, at the very least.’

  ‘Oh, God. So, what’s up? Is this a social call or…’

  ‘It’s an “or”. D.S. Cameron.’

  ‘Don?’ said Elliot. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I understand he was involved in a wee incident recently.’

  ‘Och, you mean the hold-up? Aye, he should’ve kept his nose out but there’s no telling some people?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Don can be a wee bit… headstrong. Bull in a china shop, if you ken what I’m saying.’

  ‘Aye, typical Taurean,’ said Munro. ‘I wonder, was he… was he passed fit for work before returning?’

  ‘I believe so, why? Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, nothing major, not yet. He just seems… unsettled, depressed, even. I’ll keep an eye on him, of course, but if there’s anything you can…’

  ‘Not really, James,’ said Elliot, ‘it’s probably down to a lack of rest, after all, it was quite an ordeal by all accounts.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘Hefty fella too. He was lucky to get away so lightly by the sounds of it.’

  ‘And no arrests were made?’ said Munro.

  ‘No. We did have a couple of leads, early on, but they fizzled out.’

  ‘Och well, let’s just hope he’s not one for vigilante justice.’

  ‘Don? No, he may be headstrong but he plays by the rules.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Munro. ‘Unfortunate state of affairs all the same. Aye, that’s the word. Unfortunate.’

  * * *

  Upon his return Munro was both surprised and delighted to find the atmosphere in the office akin to that of a library, though, with the remnants of breakfast still strewn across the desks, not as clean. West, head in hands as she studiously leafed through the forensics report, glanced up momentarily.

  ‘Alright?’ she said. ‘Come and sit down, you’re not gonna like this.’

  ‘Tea, Chief?’ said Cameron as Munro pulled up a chair.

  ‘Aye, that would be most welcome, thanks Don. So, Charlie, what have we got?’

  ‘Right, forensics first. I’ll keep it brief. Two tumblers were taken from the lounge, both dusted for prints. One set belongs to Agnes, the other, we now know, belongs to Max.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro, ‘that’s to be expected. What else?’

  ‘Max’s tumbler tested positive for vodka, no surprise as it had hardly been touched but Agnes’s tested positive for vodka and… ketamine.’

  ‘Ketamine?’ said Munro.

  ‘Aye, Chief,’ said Cameron, handing him his tea. ‘Ecstasy, sort of, just not your usual kind.’

  ‘A rogue batch you mean?’

  ‘No, no, it was kosher alright but the amount present in the vodka didnae come from a tablet. The ketamine was administered in liquid form.’

  ‘I see. And we know that because?’

  ‘A tab wouldnae dissolve.’

  ‘And the liquid form, is that easily available?’ said Munro, ‘or is it a prescription drug?’

  ‘Chief,’ said Cameron, smirking, ‘these days you can get anything you want without a prescription.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Munro, ‘so, it looks as though you were right, Charlie – she wa
s drugged before being moved to the bedroom. Top marks. Go on.’

  West looked blankly at Munro and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘You mean that’s it?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ said West, raising her eyebrows. ‘Incredible, isn’t it? But that’s all they could find. Whoever did this knew how to cover their tracks. The only prints in the entire flat that didn’t belong to Agnes, belonged to Max, and the only place they appear is on that glass.’

  ‘Astounding,’ said Munro as he sat back, ‘truly astounding.’

  ‘I know. Not even a whiff of a smudge on the front door.’

  ‘Footprints?’

  ‘Fully carpeted.’

  Munro stood up, glanced first at West, then at Cameron, picked up the mug of tea and paced slowly around the room.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ he said impatiently, draining his mug as he returned to the desk, ‘post-mortem.’

  ‘Post-mortem. Right,’ said Cameron, clearing his throat, ‘I should warn you, Chief, it’s not very… entertaining.’

  Munro, staring at the floor, elbows on knees and hands clasped before him, said nothing.

  ‘Okay, I’ll start with the, er… the facial injuries: two clean cuts, no snagging or tearing. The instrument was small and razor sharp, probably a surgical blade. Based on the depth of the flesh at the site of the intrusion and the lack of scarring to the gums or teeth, they estimate the size of the blade to be a 10 or 11. Cuts were made from left to right suggesting the assailant was right-handed and there is no evidence of any further trauma to the body, i.e. no bruising or cuts, apart from the abrasions to the wrists and ankles as a result of being bound to the bed.’

  Munro raised his hand, causing Cameron to pause.

  ‘This weapon,’ he said quietly, without looking up, ‘a scalpel. Why use such an instrument of precision when – fact – most attacks of this nature are executed by an aspiring butcher with a knife of outrageous proportions? What does that tell us? Don, just for the record, Charlie’s winning 1-0, you’re playing catch-up.’

  ‘I… I suppose he could be in the medical…’

  ‘Och, Don, come, come, why? Because he used a scalpel? No, no, you can buy the blessed things in any art and craft shop. No, it’s because…’

  ‘It’s because,’ said West, ‘he knew exactly what he was going to do and he had to be quick which means this wasn’t impulsive; the attack was premeditated so, that being the case, he probably didn’t choose his victim at random. He’d probably been stalking her.’