Enmity

by Pete Brassett

  * * *

  Dougal, much to Munro’s surprise, was not to be found in his usual place cowering in the gloom behind his laptops but was seated, instead, by the window with his feet up, glugging a glass of milk as he leafed through a paper packed with yesterday’s news.

  ‘I’m not sure the union allows you to take a break, does it?’ said Munro.

  ‘I think I’ve earned one,’ said Dougal, ‘I’ve just gone one better than Darwin.’

  ‘You know he can’t handle the cryptic clues,’ said West, smiling, ‘care to elaborate?’

  ‘Okay, but before I do, will you be wanting that hotel again, only time’s getting on so I’d best book it now if you do?’

  ‘Aye, thanks,’ said Munro, ‘do that, would you. We’ll not be travelling back tonight, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Right,’ said West, zipping up her coat, ‘if we’re stopping here again, I need to pop out. Is there a decent department store nearby?’

  ‘Aye, Miss,’ said Dougal, as he called the hotel, ‘there’s Hourston’s down the way but if it’s clothes you’re after, to be honest, I doubt they’ll have anything you’ll like. You’d best head for the shopping centre, bottom of the high street.’

  ‘Thanks, back in a bit.’

  Munro, feeling uncharacteristically peckish, rummaged through the cupboard for something to snack on and brewed himself a mug of tea while he waited for Dougal to finish his call.

  ‘All done, Sir. They only had a double, will that be okay?’ he said, snickering as the blood drained from Munro’s face. ‘Only kidding. Two singles, as before.’

  ‘Dougal, I’m not a young man,’ said Munro, choking on a biscuit, ‘a shock like that could finish me off. Now, what’s all this about Darwin?’

  ‘The link, Sir, Agnes Craig and Mary Campbell…’

  ‘Those blessed names again.’

  ‘…they were both in the same class as D.S. Cameron. They were all learning Spanish together.’

  Munro eased himself into a chair, sipped his tea and stared pensively into space.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said as he evaluated the implications, ‘Agnes too? So, there’s every chance yon Lothario downstairs had his way with her as well?’

  ‘And that’s not all,’ said Dougal, ‘guess who the teacher is?’

  ‘Juan Carlos? Don Quixote, perhaps?’

  ‘Miss Jean Armour.’

  ‘Jean…? You mean Jean Armour? Jean Armour from the bookshop?’

  ‘One and the same.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Munro, ‘it’s no wonder the man needs sleeping pills. Dougal, call the fiscal, we need to see him tomorrow morning and while you do that, have we not had Mary’s things back? Her personal affects?’

  ‘Two brown paper sacks by the door, Sir.’

  * * *

  Munro placed the bags on the desk, peered inside the larger of the two, packed with Mary’s clothes, and set it to one side. He sat down, tore open the other much smaller bag and tipped the contents onto the desk.

  ‘Fiscal. Ten o’clock, Sir,’ said Dougal, as he sat opposite.

  ‘Not much, is it?’ said Munro, ‘a necklace, a couple of hair grips, a ring…’

  ‘To be honest, if she was only going round the corner to the beach to sit a while, she’d not need more than her house keys…’

  ‘Aye, right enough.’

  ‘Burns?’ said Dougal as he picked up the book. ‘Christ, I’ve not read Burns since I was at school.’

  ‘Well, she must’ve liked her poetry, she was carrying that with her when she died, in her coat pocket. Thing is, I’ve seen that somewhere before.’

  ‘Aye, when you found her.’

  ‘No, no. Somewhere else. The same…’

  ‘She had a favourite then,’ said Dougal as he flicked through the pages, ‘see here, this one, the title’s highlighted in yellow.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Munro, taking the book. ‘Highland Mary. Not surprising, it’s her namesake after all…’

  Munro lowered the book and stared at Dougal.

  ‘What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Namesake,’ said Munro, ‘Highland Mary, Burns wrote that for Mary Campbell.’

  ‘Mary Campbell? That is a coincidence, maybe that’s why she…’

  ‘By jiminy!’ said Munro, his face lighting up. ‘Now I know where I’ve seen this book before. Dougal, have you the key to Agnes’s flat?’

  ‘Aye, it’s in the…’

  ‘Well dinnae stand there gawping, laddie! Fetch it, chop, chop. We’ve no time to lose.’

  * * *

  Munro’s nose twitched disapprovingly as he caught a whiff of the musty odour hanging heavy in the stagnant air.

  ‘It’s beginning to smell like an old folks’ home in here,’ he said as they made their way down the hall to the bedroom.

  ‘Smells more like my granny’s house,’ said Dougal. ‘After she died.’

  Munro took a book from the bedside table and held it up.

  ‘The Complete Works of Robert Burns,’ he said, ‘same edition.’

  ‘This is getting creepy,’ said Dougal. ‘Has he a dislike of Burns or some kind of, you know, morbid fixation?’

  ‘Doesnae matter, either way. Look here, same yellow highlight, “Ae Fond Kiss” and you’ll no doubt remember from school who that was written for.’

  ‘No idea, but I’m going to hazard a guess it was somebody called Agnes Craig.’

  ‘Top of the class. Okay, I need you to Google, Dougal… what’s so funny?’

  ‘Google Dougal, just sounds… sorry, what I am Googling?’

  ‘Burns, you fool,’ said Munro impatiently, as Dougal swiped his phone. ‘Find out who else he had affairs with, if I’m no mistaken there’ll be a…’

  ‘I cannae believe this, I’m getting goosebumps,’ said Dougal. ‘The other notables in his life were Jean Armour…’

  ‘Bookshop.’

  ‘… Elizabeth Paton…’

  ‘Lizzie.’

  ‘… and May Cameron.’

  ‘Cameron,’ said Munro, ‘Don’s house. That’s where the other copy is.’

  Chapter 16

  West was not a fan of flimsy, floral skirts or high heels, she wasn’t prone to spending the occasional evening curled up on the sofa with a box of tissues watching a rom-com, and shopping was an activity born out of necessity which she thoroughly detested. As a consequence, her technique of tearing around the stores at breakneck speed, grabbing what she needed and heading for the checkout meant she often spent more time in conversation with the security guards at the exit than she did actually shopping. She sat sifting through a mountain of carrier bags as Munro and Dougal burst excitedly through the door.

  ‘Thought you’d gone off and left me,’ she said, dabbing moisturiser on her ruddy cheeks.

  ‘When you said you needed a few bits,’ said Munro, ‘I thought you meant…’

  ‘I’m not wearing the same clothes three days running, I feel like a tramp already and to be honest, you’re beginning to look a bit rumpled yourself. Here, I got you a couple of things: shirt, socks and underwear, hope they fit.’

  Munro, embarrassed, held up a pair of tartan boxer shorts.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks would do.’

  ‘Aye. Sorry. Thanks, Charlie.’

  ‘No probs,’ said West, ‘it’s all going on expenses anyway.’

  ‘And where did that come from?’ said Munro, pointing to a large, brown paper sack beneath the shopping.

  ‘Dunno, it was here when I got back, stuff from the Astra, I think. So, where’ve you two been gallivanting?’

  Munro tossed the paperbacks on the desk as Dougal began rummaging through the evidence bag.

  ‘Books?’ said West. ‘Why have you got three of the same?’

  ‘Have a quick flick through,’ said Munro, ‘tell me what you see.’

  West picked up the first and slowly fanned the pages.

&n
bsp; ‘A heap of poems written in gobbledegook,’ she said, ‘oh, hang on, “Highland Mary”, someone’s scrawled over it with a felt-tip pen.’

  ‘It was written for a Miss Mary Campbell. And if you look in another you’ll find a verse penned for one Agnes Craig.’

  West lowered the book and regarded Munro with a look of confusion.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘the names I recognise, but the rest?’

  ‘All these women had affairs with Burns, apart from the one to whom he was married, of course.’

  ‘Okay, hang on,’ said West, looking befuddled, ‘this is the book we found on Mary, at the beach, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘Agnes’s bedroom.’

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘Don’s place.’

  ‘But it’s blank,’ said West. ‘No marker pen.’

  ‘Could be for the next victim,’ said Dougal, ‘or just the start of a paper trail.’

  West sat back, folded her arms and sighed.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she said frowning, ‘I hear what you’re saying but how come there isn’t one for Jean Armour then? The woman who had the hots for Max? If she’s…’

  ‘Miss,’ said Dougal, grinning as he pulled a sealed, plastic bag from the sack, ‘I’ve a funny feeling this may be it.’

  Dougal opened the book and flicked through the pages.

  ‘“Bonie Jean”’ he said, holding it up, ‘that was written for Jean Armour.’

  ‘So now we have all four,’ said Munro with a satisfied smile, ‘I wonder what our prize will be? Some shopping vouchers, perhaps?’

  ‘God!’ said West, frustrated, ‘am I missing something here? I mean, this is all great evidence but all it does is strengthen our case. I mean, what’s the big deal? He’s locked-up downstairs, so…’

  West paused as she caught sight of Munro, wearing the slightest of smirks, gazing down at her.

  ‘…oh, I get it. You’re still not convinced, are you?’

  ‘I’m just not willing to take a chance, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘not when there’s two other women who featured heavily in Burns’s life who also happen to feature heavily in this investigation.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Elizabeth Paton and May Cameron.’

  ‘You mean Lizzie? And Don’s wife? Oh, this is absurd,’ said West as Dougal pulled up a chair and sat beside her, his hands clasped beneath his chin, ‘and what’s up with you, now?’

  ‘I was just thinking, Miss, why did he leave the books behind? After he’d killed them, I mean,’ said Dougal, ‘why go to all that the trouble? Why not just kill them and move on to the next one?’

  ‘You’re asking me? I don’t know,’ said West, ‘maybe they were clues, or… or a cry for help. Maybe he wanted to get caught.’

  ‘Or maybe they’re not intended for us,’ said Munro.

  ‘Look,’ said West, throwing her hands up in despair, ‘ten minutes ago, this was a done deal, now… now you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Fact is, the books link Don to the victims, right? End of.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Munro.

  ‘Okay, I give up. What’s the plan?’

  ‘Look, with Don in custody, chances are we’ll have an uneventful evening…’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘… but in the meantime, you’ll have to indulge my scepticism if, for no other reason, than to prove me wrong. I want to keep an eye on Lizzie. If someone else is out there, then she’s the one at risk.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Good,’ said Munro, zipping his coat. ‘Dougal, have you an address for Don’s sister-in-law?’

  ‘Aye, Sir. Glendale Crescent. Head down Castlehill from the station, keep going and it’s on the right thereabouts, not far from the church, Saint Paul’s.’

  ‘Excellent. Charlie, you with me, we’re away to have a word with Don’s wife. Dougal, I want you to call Max. Now listen, kid gloves, okay? Dinnae go worrying the poor lad, just tell him he’s to make sure Lizzie gets home safe, assuming she’s not stopping over that is. Then I want you to get over there yourself and keep a watch on the place, discreetly mind, until she leaves.’

  * * *

  Munro parked beneath the hazy glow of a street lamp and peered past West at the house – a nondescript end-of-terrace, much the same as the others on the street, with a crumbling pebble-dashed exterior, a block-paved front garden without a wall, and window frames in desperate need of a coat of paint.

  ‘It’s a step down from the marital home,’ he said quietly.

  West, using tactics normally deployed by impatient delivery drivers, rang the bell several times before banging the door with the side of her fist, stopping abruptly as it flew open. Whatever a police officer’s wife was meant to look like, May Cameron was not it. Munro smiled politely as he greeted the youthful thirty-something, stylishly clad in figure-hugging ski pants, Chelsea boots and a white, open-necked blouse – her neat, bottle-blonde bob framing cheekbones sharp enough to cause an injury.

  ‘Mrs. Cameron?’ he said. ‘May Cameron?’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘D.I. Munro, Detective Sergeant West.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said May with a sigh, ‘I knew that bastard would grass me up sooner or later. Hold on, I’ll fetch my coat.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said West, ‘I don’t…’

  Munro cut her short with an elbow to the ribs.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Cameron,’ he said, ‘we just need a wee chat, if it’s not inconvenient.’

  ‘Really? A wee chat? Well, in that case, you’d best come in.’

  West, confused, glanced at Munro as they followed her to the lounge.

  ‘Did he send you here?’ said May as she poured herself a large gin.

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, taking a seat, ‘he’s no idea we’re here. Why don’t you…?’

  ‘Listen, he had it coming, okay?’ said May, her kohl-rimmed eyes filled with hate. ‘And I’m not sorry I did it. That philandering wee bastard deserved everything he got. And then some. Will you take a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks all the same,’ said Munro, leading her on, ‘so tell me, how did this…? I mean…?’

  ‘Okay, I’m not long home, see, when this lassie comes knocking on the door, a slip of a thing, asks straight out if Don had mentioned her to me.’

  ‘And had he?’ said West, suddenly aware of Munro’s ploy.

  ‘Are you mad? Like he’d come home and tell all about his latest conquest?’

  ‘Point taken. So obviously, you’d never seen her before?’

  ‘No, I had not. And I didnae warm to her either, one of those nose-in-the-air types. “We’re so in love” she says, “we were made for each other” she says, “if I cannae have Don I’ll never kiss another man as long as I live”.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, eh?’

  ‘Right enough,’ said May, taking a swig of gin. ‘Anyway, then she says Don and her were moving in together and she was sorry for coming between us but hoped we could be friends. Friends! Can you believe the cheek? I should’ve told her she was welcome to him but I didnae.’

  ‘And why was that?’ said Munro.

  ‘Because I’m an idiot, Inspector. All I could think was: “that’s my husband you’re fooling with”, so I sent her packing with a few choice words ringing in her ears. I only realised later how wrong I’d been to blame her, the poor deluded thing, I mean, it’s not her fault, is it? It’s that cheating husband of mine. She’s not the first and probably won’t be the last either.’

  ‘So,’ said Munro, shooting her a look of sympathy, ‘you knew about his other, shall we say, indiscretions?’

  ‘Oh aye, and here’s something else for you to chew on, he’s not just been out and about chasing anything in a skirt, he’s even a bairn by some tart about the place. I don’t know how I put up with it for so long.’

  ‘So it all came to a head, that night?’ said West.

&n
bsp; ‘Aye. I was cooking the supper, see, he comes in and I says, one of your tarts was here, she says you’re moving in together so you’d best pack a bag and be on your way.’

  ‘And what did he…?’

  ‘You know something? That was the worst part,’ said May, ‘he stood there like butter wouldn’t melt, denying it all, said he hadnae a clue what I was talking about. That’s when I lost it.’

  ‘You lost it?’ said Munro.

  ‘Aye. I flipped. I had the knife in my hand and I stabbed him. Sorry, but I just couldnae take it anymore. I was raging. Listen, I have bent over backwards to keep him happy. Even when I knew he was cheating, I gave him a second chance, then a third, then a fourth, but enough’s enough. I’m not a doormat, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, I cannae say I blame you, Mrs. Cameron,’ said Munro. ‘No-one should have to tolerate that kind of behaviour, especially in a marriage. So tell me, after you’d… he took himself off, did he? To the hospital?’

  ‘That’s right, with his tail between his legs and as soon as he got back I told him that was it. If he wasnae big enough to do the right thing, then that’s me away. I packed a bag and I came here.’

  ‘This lassie,’ said Munro as he stood and moved to the window, ‘the one who was going to set up home with your husband, I don’t suppose she told you her name, did she?’

  ‘Agnes something or other,’ said May. ‘Why? Is it important?’

  Munro glanced furtively at West.

  ‘Mrs. Cameron,’ he said, ‘it’s possible this Agnes lassie may have been friends with a girl by the name of Campbell, similar age, blonde hair…’

  ‘And how would I know?’ said May.

  ‘Just a thought. So, the name Campbell doesnae ring a bell? Mary Campbell?’

  ‘Mary Campbell? I do know a Mary Campbell. And she does have blonde hair.’

  ‘Can you tell us about her?’

  ‘Mary Campbell is one of dying breed, Inspector. One of the nicest girls you could ever wish to meet – polite, clever, hard working. I taught her, right up until she left.’

  ‘And where was that?’