Enmity

by Pete Brassett

  ‘He’s getting sloppy,’ said Munro, ‘this wasnae planned like the other two, it was rushed, impulsive. The question is, why?’

  ‘Maybe he knew we were on his tail,’ said West.

  ‘Oh aye, and he just wanted to squeeze another one in before he got caught? No. Look, he was meticulous about the attacks on Agnes and Mary. He was patient enough to wait until they were alone. He went to the trouble of drugging them before killing them. Both young, both single, both murdered in the dead of night in their own homes. Now we have Miss Armour here – hacked to death in broad daylight in a public space. It doesnae make any sense.’

  ‘So…’ said West, ‘what if he’s getting scared, upping the ante and attacking women at random?’

  ‘No. He’s too methodical for that.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re not convinced about Don. Are you?’

  ‘I’ll need some persuading,’ said Munro, ‘but at least if he’s in our custody for the next 24 hours it gives us a chance to have a look at his car and, if no other bodies turn up while we’ve got him, well then I’m happy to be proved wrong.’

  ‘And if another does?’

  ‘Then,’ said Munro with a sigh, ‘you’d best be prepared for the kind of press conference that’ll make you wish you worked in a supermarket.’

  West looked at Munro, his tortured expression suggesting he was in urgent need of root canal surgery.

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The link, Charlie,’ said Munro, biting his bottom lip. ‘Miss Armour here doesnae fit the mould. What on earth connects her to the other two?’

  ‘Well,’ said West, flummoxed, ‘perhaps there’s…’

  ‘Charlie, it’s not the kind of question you can answer off the cuff in a toilet cubicle. Think about it later. Right now, observations please.’

  West leaned forward and scrutinised the body, from the upturned hands hanging limply by its side to the almost relaxed posture and completely inconsonant look of peace on her face.

  ‘She didn’t die instantly,’ said West, ‘she slipped away, slowly. Single stab wound to the front of the neck, my guess is that was to render her speechless, like Mary. Lots of blood from the chest wound, though. Her blouse is soaked. Looks like he scored a bullseye there. Probably bled to death.’

  ‘Good. What else?’

  West stared blankly at the body, turned to Munro and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘There isn’t much else,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘you can do better than that, concentrate on the circumstances, not the body. Okay, look, whoever did this was behind her when she came in, I mean, right behind her. If she was here to answer a call of nature, she didnae get the chance. The seat lid’s down and her underwear is still around her waist. She didnae even come close to locking the door.’

  ‘Point taken,’ said West, ‘so…?’

  ‘What do you think? We need to find out who followed her in, of course.’

  ‘Where would we be without CCTV, eh?’

  ‘A damned sight better off,’ said Munro, ‘there was a time when a camera was used to capture a special moment in your life, a keepsake to look back on, not used to track you 24 hours a day or take an impromptu photo of your backside.’

  * * *

  Miss Clow considered herself to be a natural born leader with a flair for delegating and enough experience in the retail world to rapidly rise above what she considered to be the demeaning rank of assistant manager. Those who worked with her, however, saw only an arrogant authoritarian with a lust for power and a complete lack of humility. Riled by the fact that she was not an integral part of the investigation, she begrudgingly led Munro and West upstairs to the office, her stern expression made all the worse thanks to the severity of her hairstyle – scraped back and knotted in the tightest of buns on the back of her head.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Clow,’ said Munro as she claimed the only chair available and settled in front of a bank of six small monitors, ‘were you friends with Miss Armour?’

  ‘I was not. We didn’t socialise and we rarely worked the same shifts.’

  ‘I see. So, you cannae tell us anything about her personal life then?’

  ‘No. I cannot. Look, I don’t mean to sound callous, Inspector, but I hardly knew the woman. I’m only here because the police insisted. It’s my day off. I’m supposed to be relaxing.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Munro, ‘death can be so… inconvenient.’

  ‘Well?’ said Clow tersely, ‘I haven’t got all day. What is it you need to see, exactly?’

  ‘I want you find the moment Miss Armour heads for the toilets.’

  Clow turned her attention to the monitor second from left, a camera situated above the café area, rewound the film until Armour came into view and hit “play”. Munro and West watched intently for what seemed like an eternity.

  ‘That’s almost three minutes,’ said West, ‘too long. And no-one’s followed.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro, ‘there’s another possibility. Perhaps our man didnae follow her after all. Perhaps he was waiting for her. Rewind please, Miss Clow, go back about half an hour and play it again.’

  Clow checked her watch and sighed.

  ‘Half an hour? I don’t have the time to…’

  ‘You can fast forward,’ said Munro sternly, ‘and slow down as soon as you see anyone in desperate need of the facilities.’

  West looked nervously at the clock in the corner of the screen and winced as the minutes flew by.

  ‘That’s two women in and two women out,’ she said, ‘not exactly teeming with witnesses, is it?’

  ‘It’s too early,’ said Clow, ‘we don’t get busy until lunchtime and as for those two, I can almost guarantee they’ve popped in off the street. Some folk seem to think we’re nothing more than a public convenience.’

  ‘Stop!’ said West. ‘There, someone in a black coat and a hoodie and he looks like he’s bursting. And here comes Armour. What do you think?’

  ‘Well,’ said Munro, ‘he’s of a similar height and build to you know who, but as we cannae see his face…’

  ‘Do you think he’d have time though?’ said West, ‘I mean, to come in here, nip home and change, and come back again?’

  ‘Oh, aye, he’s only four miles away, he’d do it easy. He could even change in the back of his car. Okay, Miss Clow, you can resume playback now.’

  Exactly six minutes and forty-eight seconds later, the hooded figure returned and, with his head down and hands buried deep in his pockets, turned in the opposite direction and scurried from view towards the back of the store.

  ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ said an infuriated West. ‘Where’s he going? Why’s he going the wrong way? For Christ’s sake, what’s down there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Clow, ‘it leads to the loading bay outside.’

  ‘Oh, great. Any cameras down there?’

  ‘I’m not head of security, Sergeant, but I dare say there’ll be one by the gates on Arthur Street.’

  ‘Miss Clow,’ said Munro, handing her a business card, ‘if it’s not too much trouble, what with your busy schedule and all, would you send the footage from all those cameras to D.C. McCrae at this email address, please? We’ll need it as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Inspector, but I can’t guarantee it will be today.’

  ‘Oh, but it will, Miss Clow,’ said Munro bluntly. ‘It will be today. Now, one more thing before we go. I assume Miss Armour would have arrived for work wearing a coat and no doubt carrying a bag. Where would she keep them?’

  ‘That’s her coat,’ said Clow, feeling unjustifiably berated as she pointed to the back of the door, ‘the dark blue one on the hanger. And she normally keeps her bag in that drawer, just there.’

  West patted down the coat and, finding the pockets empty, draped it over her arm and waited while Munro snapped on a pair of gloves and pulled the bag from the drawer.
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  ‘Forgive me for asking, Miss Clow,’ he said as they made their way out, ‘but would I be right in thinking you’re of a vegetarian persuasion?’

  ‘I most certainly am. What of it?’

  ‘Have you ever been to the Holy Isle?’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘You should go. I hear they do a cracking humble pie.’

  * * *

  Munro, arms outstretched against the steering wheel, watched despairingly as the crowd outside the bookstore lingered in the morbid hope of catching a glimpse of the body as it was ferried to the ambulance while West, ever curious to know why women were so fond of handbags, rummaged through Armour’s belongings and found nothing that couldn’t be carried in the pockets of a jacket: a lipstick and a mascara; house keys; twenty-seven pence in loose change; a small purse containing one five and one ten pound note, an assortment of bank cards and a receipt from Marks and Spencer; and her phone.

  ‘She either wasn’t very popular or enjoyed her own company too much,’ she said as she scrolled through the short list of contacts. ‘There’s no record of any texts she might have sent and the last one she received was more than three weeks ago, and that was from her service provider. No incoming calls since whenever and uh-oh, get this, she rang somebody yesterday. No name though, just a number.’

  ‘She rang an unidentified number yesterday,’ said Munro, intrigued, ‘and today she’s dead? May I?’

  Munro took the phone, studied the number and, glancing at West, dialled. The call went to voicemail. He hung up and dialled again.

  ‘Jeannie,’ came the reply, ‘look, I’ve told you before, there’s no point in you calling me. I have a heap of stuff to do just now, look, I’m sorry but…’

  ‘Max.’

  The pause was brief.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Max, it’s D.I. Munro. I think you’ve some explaining to do. Stay put.’

  Munro passed the phone to West and fastened his seat belt.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said, ‘before we go, you know lots of stuff about everything, I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Okay, but be brief, Charlie, we don’t have time to…’

  ‘Which do you think is better, the Mediterranean diet or the Atkins diet?’

  ‘What?’ said Munro. ‘Have you…? Any kind of diet is an exercise in futility, lassie, why on earth do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’ve been on a starvation diet since seven o’clock this morning and if we don’t eat something soon, by which I mean now, there’s a very good chance I may resort to cannibalism.’

  Chapter 14

  Dougal, wearing a look of utter disgust, carefully removed his coat and, holding it carefully betwixt his thumbs and forefingers, hung it over the back of his chair.

  ‘I’m not being funny, Sir,’ he said, ‘but I need a shower. There’s all manner of wildlife crawling round that flat.’

  ‘You should be proud of yourself, Dougal,’ said Munro, as he placed a carrier bag of food on the table, ‘I’m sure Max is incredibly grateful. It’s nice to help folk out, you know, those a little less fortunate than yourself.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. Crossing the street, maybe, not sterilising a contaminated area. The place was a health hazard.’

  ‘Well you’ve done us all proud,’ said West, plucking a bacon sandwich from the bag, ‘and because of you, Max can now have a romantic evening at home.’

  ‘Oh please, Miss,’ said Dougal, ‘I think I may heave if you say anymore. So, is that him in the clear then, Sir?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘well, not exactly. Let’s just say he’s not the focus of our inquiry for now. I feel sorry for the lad. Seems Miss Armour, may she rest in peace, had the hots for him. Poor fellow couldnae cope with all the attention.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Check your email,’ said Munro, opening the carrier bag, ‘Charlie, there were four sandwiches in here, now there are two.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said West, ‘one for you and one for Dougal.’

  ‘Good grief, lassie, you’re worse than a feral dog with a dose of the worms. As I was saying, Dougal, check your email, you should have the video from the bookstore. Chap in a black coat and a hoodie, the usual, please. Then see if you cannae find a link between Agnes, Mary Campbell and Miss Armour, there must be something that connects them, a shared interest. Something. Anything. We’re away just now to have a wee chat with D.S. Cameron.’

  ‘Up to his house?’ said Dougal. ‘Is that not a wee bit risky?’

  ‘Och, he’s not home, Dougal, he’s downstairs. Would you believe, he’s kindly offered to help us with the inquiry. Generous of him, wouldn’t you say?’

  * * *

  It wasn’t being interned on the wrong side of the bars that bothered Cameron. He was strong enough, old enough and hard enough to deal with the inconvenience of having to prove his innocence from the accused’s side of the desk. It was the sneaky sideways glances and snide comments from colleagues he’d once considered friends that he found difficult to cope with. He sat doubled over with his hands hanging between his legs like a boxer who knew he’d lost the bout on points, failing to stir even when Munro and West entered the interview room and took a seat opposite him.

  ‘Don,’ said Munro with a hefty sigh, ‘I’m not happy about this, I’m not happy at all but something’s come to light and we’ve a few questions that need answering.’

  Cameron, looking downcast and beaten, slowly turned his head and stared vacuously at West. A half smile crossed his weathered face.

  ‘You think I did it?’ he said. ‘You think I killed those three girls?’

  West hesitated, surprised at how much he seemed to have aged beneath the harsh overhead light.

  ‘How do you know the third is dead?’ she said.

  ‘Very good,’ said Cameron, laughing, ‘you’ve got me. Well, you’d best switch the tape on, then we can get this over with.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘I’m not recording this. I just want your help. Okay?’

  Cameron sat up and folded his arms.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘shoot.’

  ‘Your car, Don. What car do you drive?’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Cameron. ‘You know full well what car I drive, you’ve been in it. It’s a Golf. Grey, five door, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘And what about the Vauxhall?’ said Munro. ‘Astra, black, five door, likewise.’

  ‘Astra? I dinnae have… oh hold on, that clapped-out thing? How do you know about the Astra?’

  ‘So you admit to owning it?’ said West.

  ‘Aye, but it’s not been used in years, it’s ancient. It’s not even taxed.’

  ‘And where is it now?’

  ‘In the garage of course,’ said Cameron, ‘but why…?’

  ‘Keys please, Don,’ said Munro, holding out his hand, ‘we need to take a look.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘We could a get a warrant, if you’d prefer.’

  Cameron pulled a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket and slid them across the desk.

  ‘These’ll get you in the house,’ he said, ‘car key’s in the kitchen, on a hook by the back door.’

  * * *

  Drumcoyle Drive, with its modern semi-detached houses replete with manicured front lawns, was a quiet residential street well-suited to aspiring middle class families with two-point-four children and a burning desire to park a Lexus on the drive. For an ageing detective with an eye for aesthetics, however, the bland uniformity of the characterless facades was nothing more than an underwhelming example of architectural complacency.

  ‘Definition of suburbia, Charlie?’ said Munro as he parked the car.

  ‘A breeding ground for banality?’

  Munro smiled.

  ‘I think we need a divorce,’ he said, heading for the house, ‘you’re beginning to sound too much like myself.’

  West, astute enough to know that the unexpected arrival of a strange
car in a tight-knit neighbourhood might compel the more inquisitive residents to reach for the lawnmower in an attempt to surreptitiously snoop on the visitors, paused by the door and glanced up and down the deserted street before joining Munro inside.

  ‘Would you look at this,’ he said, waving an arm at the crammed bookshelves in the lounge, ‘it’s all art and literature: Gaugin, Monet, Pissarro, Hardy, Burns, Wordsworth…’

  ‘Probably nothing to do with Don,’ said West cynically, as she made for the kitchen, ‘I doubt he’s made it past Winnie the Pooh.’

  ‘What does his wife do exactly?’

  ‘No idea, we can ask Dougal,’ said West, waving the car key, ‘come on, I’m dying to take a look.’

  * * *

  West, heart pounding, stood to one side and anxiously held her breath as Munro unlocked the garage door and slowly heaved it open, her optimistic enthusiasm fading into thin air as she caught sight of the number plate.

  ‘Crap!’ she said, stamping her feet like an eight-year-old throwing a tantrum, ‘crap, crap, crap! Oh, well, that’s that then. Still, it was only a theory, I suppose. A ridiculously stupid, bloody pathetic, ill-conceived… what are you doing?’

  Munro, oblivious to West’s self-demeaning rant, stood with his hands clasped habitually behind his back and viewed the car with a degree of consternation – the lack of dust on the wheel rims or cobwebs hanging from the wing mirrors was not symptomatic of a car which had lain idle for any period of time. He stepped forward and placed his right hand, palm down on the bonnet, surprised to find it was not as cold to the touch as he’d expected.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, squatting by the grill, the faint smell of burnt engine oil filling his nostrils as he ran finger over the number plate, ‘there’s something sticky here, residue of some sort. Adhesive maybe. Nip round the back and take a look at the other one.’

  West bounded to the rear of the car with renewed vigour.

  ‘Can’t see it,’ she said, cursing in frustration, ‘it’s too tight to the bloody wall.’