Enmity

by Pete Brassett

  Elliot flicked through the album as though he were perusing a catalogue on soft furnishings, a subject in which he had no interest whatsoever.

  ‘What am I looking for, James?’

  ‘Do you not think there’s something a wee bit odd about all the other pages? Look closer. Och, George man, they’re all of Don! On his own. Like they were taken without his knowledge. Turn to the last page.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Elliot, ‘all I can see is another picture of Don.’

  ‘Aye, and he’s that scar by his left eye. That’s how recent it is.’

  ‘You see,’ said West, ‘Miss Clow was obsessed with Don, I mean, totally, and even though she’d swallowed her pride so he could marry her sister, she’d actually never stopped loving him.’

  ‘Until,’ said Munro, ‘she discovered that the man of her dreams, this paragon of virtue, was cheating on her sister. Even then, she couldnae bring herself to blame him, she convinced herself he’d been led astray by the lassies themselves, so she sought revenge.’

  Elliot rubbed his eyes as if waking from a bad dream, heaved a sigh and looked pleadingly at Dougal.

  ‘There’s not a drop of Scotch lurking in yon cupboard, is there, Constable?’ he said.

  Dougal smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ said West, polishing off her sandwich, ‘moving on. Clow knew Don was on sleeping tablets…’

  ‘Dear God, it gets worse! Does the man not rattle when he walks?’

  ‘…which gave her the perfect opportunity to borrow his car without him knowing. That’s how she got around town and evaded detection. Then, for some reason, she grew… I don’t know… impatient. Went on a bit of a rampage.’

  ‘Sloppy is the word I’d use,’ said Munro, ‘aye, sloppy. She killed Jean Armour in broad daylight, in the bookstore, and attempted to murder Lizzie Paton on her own doorstep as she left for work.’

  ‘Sounds to me,’ said Elliot, his head reeling as he tried to absorb the information, ‘that she’s the one in need of a psychiatric assessment.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Munro, ‘but it’s too late for that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’s, er, she’s no longer with us. Just this morning she attacked Don’s wife but fortunately it was Clow who came off second best. May wrestled the blade from her and killed her in self-defence.’

  ‘Are you joking me? Is she okay? May?’

  ‘Aye, she’ll pull through,’ said Munro. ‘She’s superficial wounds to her shoulder and lower abdomen and lacerations to both hands, but nothing a spell on the side-lines won’t cure. She was suffering from shock more than anything else, once they’ve stitched her up, she’ll be on her way.’

  ‘After-care on the NHS, eh? Second to none.’

  ‘There’ll be a hearing in due course but I’m not charging her with anything. She’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I need a lie down,’ said Elliot, ‘I’m not sure I can keep up with this.’

  ‘We’re not done yet, Sir. There’s something else,’ said Dougal, grinning, ‘and you’ll not believe it. Get this – all the lassies Don got involved with shared the same name as the wife and the mistresses of Robert Burns.’

  Elliot pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.

  ‘Have we any aspirin?’ he said. ‘My head’s fair thumping just now. Robbie Burns, you say?’

  ‘Aye, Sir. Agnes Craig, Mary Campbell, Elizabeth Paton, Jean Armour and even his wife, May Cameron, née Clow.’

  Elliot’s eyes lit up as he glanced around the table and smiled knowingly.

  ‘You’ve missed one off,’ he said, disappointed to be met by a wall of blank faces. ‘Och, James, surely you…? Dougal? Dear, dear, I’m surprised you’re not up on your history, gentlemen, it’s staring you right in the face: Jenny Clow, of course! Born in Edinburgh, she worked for Agnes Craig. Had a bairn by Burns.’

  ‘By jiminy,’ said Munro, slapping his hand on the table as the penny dropped, ‘that explains everything! Jenny Clow! It must’ve been around the time that Lizzie Paton gave birth that Clow began planning this. That’s what kicked her off – the bairn. My God, she must have been broody.’

  ‘Broody or not,’ said Elliot, ‘you’ve done a sterling job. I mean, for you to figure out the link with the lassies’ names and Robbie Burns, that’s quite a feat in itself.’

  ‘Oh, we can’t take credit for that, Sir,’ said West, ‘it was Clow who cottoned on to that. She even tried to tell us, in her own way.’

  ‘Well, that’s by the by so far as I’m concerned. Point is, congratulations are in order. So, drinks on me. Shall we say The Smoking Goat, 6pm?’

  ‘I’d love to, Sir,’ said Dougal, ‘appreciate the offer but I’ve an early start. Fishing.’

  ‘That’s a pity, Constable, but never mind. Another time, perhaps. James, Charlie, maybe you’d prefer the Twa Dugs? More our scene, as the young folk say.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Munro, ‘there’s the small matter of some paperwork needs sorting. It’ll take a wee while to get all this down.’

  ‘He’s got a point, Sir,’ said West, ‘and he’s going to need a hand. Plus we have to get Don off to the sheriff’s court for the drugs charge so he can be bailed and go home.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Elliot as he reached for his coat, ‘I suppose I’ll take myself off then. I need to stop by the travel agent, anyway. Before I go; James, have you any plans for the week ahead? Two maybe? In fact, let’s not be shy, make that months.’

  Munro sat back, folded his arms and laughed.

  ‘Dinnae waste your breath, George,’ he said, ‘you forget, I’m only here as a favour to our dear departed friend, Alexander, and now I have his daughter’s funeral to arrange.’

  ‘Aye, fair enough. Fair enough. But after that?’

  ‘After that, Criffel’s not felt the underside of my boot in a quite while now and then there’s the garden to attend to, not to mention…’

  ‘Okay, okay, I get the point. What about you, Charlie? You’re on the payroll now and having gone to all that effort it would be a shame to have to sort you out a P45 after just one week. And with D.S. Cameron otherwise engaged, we’re a man down. I’ll not deny, we could use the help.’

  ‘I’ll think about,’ said West, smiling.

  ‘Good. How long do you need? Five minutes? Ten? Will I wait outside?’

  ‘Very funny. Can I have a few days?’

  ‘Take as long as you like, Charlie. No pressure. Meanwhile, I’ll get your desk ready.’

  Chapter 21

  West had designated vodka her tipple of choice ever since the demise of her engagement largely due to its undetectable status as an emotional crutch but was becoming increasingly attached to the more satisfying experience derived from sipping Munro’s twelve-year-old Balvenie. She stood supervising a pan of potatoes simmering on the hob as he raised the bottle and winced, alarmed by the rate at which it appeared to be evaporating.

  ‘There’s nothing like being in your own home,’ he said as he poured himself another, ‘apart that is, from being in your own home with a member of the Temperance Society.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said West, proffering her glass, ‘I can’t stand hotels, you never know what the previous guests got up to and I bet they never change the sheets as often as they say they do.’

  ‘Aye, right enough, but I’d rather not think about that just now, not before my supper.’

  ‘Sorry. Listen, can I ask you something? Were you serious about what you said to D.C.I. Elliot? About not going back?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Munro as his phone rang in the other room, ‘well, we’ll have to go in on Monday to finish the paperwork, naturally, but after that, I’ve no reason to.’

  ‘So, you don’t fancy taking on another case? Liberating the streets of all the…’

  ‘Charlie, are you not familiar with the definition of retirement? As I said… hold on, I see where this is going. You’re having doubts, aren’t you, la
ssie? About taking up his offer.’

  ‘No,’ said West musically, as she drove a fork through the spuds, ‘I’m still…’

  ‘You’re scared, about going it alone.’

  ‘Me? Scared? Do me a favour. Hup, there’s your phone again, some cowboy’s desperate to get hold of you.’

  ‘It’s after hours,’ said Munro, ‘whoever it is can wait. Now you listen to me, you’re a grown woman, you’re smart, intelligent and you’re a damned good police officer, take it from someone who knows. So you accept the offer, understand? And if you get stuck, well, you can always…’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said West, ‘give you a call if I need any help.’

  ‘No, no. Not me, lassie, the Citizens Advice Bureau. That’s what they’re there for.’

  West, smiling, drained the potatoes, mashed them with a dollop of butter and served them up with a couple of pies straight from the oven.

  ‘Shame about Don,’ she said as they sat at the table, ‘I mean, he’s a good cop, just a bit mixed-up with stuff at the moment.’

  ‘I’ve no sympathy for the fellow,’ said Munro, reaching for the salt, ‘no sympathy at all. Call me old-fashioned, but marriage is marriage, there’s no refunds and no returning faulty goods and you dinnae play around. Even if you married for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Well, that told me then. I wonder how Max and Lizzie are getting on?’

  ‘Now, point in case,’ said Munro, waving his knife, ‘those two are made for each other, mark my words, they’ll be wed soon enough and they’ll not waver either. We could call in on them if you like, on Monday. See how they’re getting on.’

  ‘Yes, I think they’d like that,’ said West, pointing to Munro’s phone as it rang again, ‘you’re in demand, let’s hope it’s The Good.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s The Patient,’ said Munro, ‘I’m busy eating.’

  West, pausing for a sip of Scotch, downed tools and dabbed the sides of her mouth with a tea towel.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said, ‘most people fall over themselves to answer the phone as soon as it beeps, worried they might miss out.’

  ‘Aye, well I’m not a part of the self-obsessed generation, Charlie. It’s simply a question of prioritising what’s important in your life and at 8pm on a Friday evening, so far as I’m concerned, my pie is more important than anything else.’

  ‘On the other hand…,’ said West as it rang again.

  ‘Can a man not get any peace around here? Och, it’s Dougal, what on earth does he want?’

  ‘Probably just wants to say have a nice weekend.’

  ‘Three times?’ said Munro, grabbing the phone. ‘Dougal, for the love of God, have you not got a home to go or some fishing tackle to sort out?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. Is this not a good time?’

  ‘How astute. Listen, I dinnae mean to bite your head off, laddie, but I’m trying to finish my supper.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that… thing is, I’ve had to clarify a few details before we can file the reports, you know, personal details on the victims and such like.’

  ‘Well done, Dougal, that’s very assiduous of you, I appreciate it, now take yourself off and enjoy the weekend.’

  ‘Aye, I will, Sir, thing is, I think we may have a wee problem.’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Aye. I dinnae want to sound like the harbinger of doom or spoil your supper but…’

  ‘But what, Dougal? For goodness sake, will you not just spit it out?’

  ‘It’s Jenny Clow, Sir. She doesnae have a driving licence.’

  Chapter 22

  Cameron, caught off-guard by the chilly night air, buttoned his coat against the sharp wind whipping off the river, made his way briskly across the bridge towards the car park on Dalblair Road and cursed as he ripped the parking tickets from the windscreen before tossing them to the ground in a fit of pique. He sat dejected and dishevelled behind the wheel, took a deep breath and wondered, momentarily, if the drugs charge would jeopardise his pension as well as his career. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and sneered at his reflection before heading home.

  Wary that the neighbours would no doubt be lurking behind their Venetian blinds and chintz curtains, keen to witness the subject of a police investigation returning home, he killed the lights, pulled up outside the house and swore profusely under his breath, infuriated at the sight of the Astra sitting idle on the drive, the garage door still open.

  Despite the visit from Munro and West, the house, unlike the aftermath of a burglary, did not feel violated. Just as cold, and as empty as an abandoned shell. Cameron plucked the keys hanging from the hook in the kitchen, left by the side door and returned the Astra to the garage, locking it securely before darting back inside, firing up the central heating and dashing upstairs for a much-needed shower where he noted with disdain that his entire supply of ketamine had been confiscated.

  Sprawled across the sofa with a beer in hand, he stared blankly at the television as it churned out the usual fodder for those embarking on a weekend of mindless entertainment and waited patiently for the oven to heat up – a large, thin-crust pepperoni on the menu.

  With no friends, acquaintances or relatives to come calling, the sound of the doorbell was an unexpected, if not unwelcome, intrusion. He peeked through the window expecting to find a neighbour on the drive, curious to know why the police had disturbed the innocent tranquillity of the neighbourhood but instead there was just a dark blue saloon parked on the street, headlights on. The doorbell rang again. Assuming it was either a mini-cab or a takeaway delivery driver relying on his sat-nav, he answered the door, hackles raised in anticipation of an argument.

  ‘May! What the hell are you doing here?’ he said, taken aback. ‘Jesus, what happened to you, your hands? Are you okay?’

  May, collar turned up against the icy breeze and her handbag strung across her chest, stood glowering at the spectacle before her: an unshaven specimen clad in jogging pants and a stained sweatshirt, his hair an unruly mess.

  ‘Look at the state of that,’ she said in disgust, ‘I’m surprised you’re still up. Have you not had your jag yet? Not filled yourself full of pills?’

  ‘Nice to see you too.’

  ‘I’m not stopping,’ said May, coldly, ‘that’s my taxi. I need to collect a few things.’

  ‘Aye, right, of course,’ said Cameron, ‘well dinnae stand there, get yourself inside.’

  They stood in the hall, two feet between them but emotionally a million miles apart.

  ‘Are they burned?’ said Cameron, pointing at her bandaged hands, ‘lifting a pot was it? Off the hob?’

  ‘Och, save your sympathy, Don, you make me want to heave and for the record, no, they’re not burned. It was my sister, wielding a knife.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No need to sound so concerned, Don. Nothing’s changed, I’m okay and you dinnae care about me anyway so let’s not waste time talking about it. I need my passport and a few bits and bobs from the bedroom, if you havenae thrown them out.’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ said Cameron. ‘Are you… are you going away? Having yourself a wee holiday?’

  ‘Aye. I need a break,’ said May. ‘From you. From here. From everyone.’

  ‘Fair enough. Listen, are you hungry? I’m going to have some pizza just now, will you take some? It’ll be ready by the time you’ve…’

  ‘How do you do it?’ said May. ‘How the hell can you stand there acting as though nothing’s happened and talk about pizza?’

  ‘I’m only…’

  ‘See here, Don, I’m in this mess because of you, because of your shagging around, because of the way you treat women like they were something… disposable. Dispensable. Unimportant…’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Cameron, smirking, ‘and you know it.’

  ‘No? Who’ve you got in there then? Another wee tart you picked up in the student union bar? Or are they too old for you now?’

  ‘There’s no
-one here, I’m on my own. Listen, hen, I’m just trying to be civil here, can you not do the same?’

  ‘No. I cannot. I need a drink.’

  ‘There’s beer in the fridge,’ said Cameron, ‘sorry, I’m all out of Babycham.’

  ‘Is that whisky still in the kitchen?’

  ‘Aye, you sort yourself out. I’ll be in the other room when you’re done.’

  * * *

  Cameron, doing his best to remain calm, returned to the sofa and cranked up the volume on the television in an effort to drown out any noise and, more importantly, any more snide comments his estranged wife might make.

  May went to the kitchen and gave it the quick once-over, checking to see if anything had moved, if anything had changed, before taking a couple of tumblers from the cupboard and pouring two generous measures of whisky.

  ‘Here,’ she said, stopping by the lounge on her way upstairs, ‘for old times’ sake.’

  Cameron got up and took the glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, knocking it back. ‘Listen, May, if there’s anything I can…’

  ‘Save it, Don. I’m not interested.’

  * * *

  The bedroom, without the care of a wife or a housekeeper, had transformed itself into what May imagined a recovering junkie’s lodgings in a council-funded scheme would look like – the floor littered with dirty laundry, the cups on the bedside table nurturing penicillin growths and the crusty remains of a chicken chow mein festering in a foil container on the window sill.

  She went to the chest of drawers, knelt down and pulled open the bottom drawer where she kept the essentials of her winter wardrobe: roll-neck sweaters, thick-knit cardigans, woolly hats and a favourite cashmere scarf. She slipped her hand beneath the clothes and rummaged around inside, retrieving first her passport, then a credit card held in joint names which they used only for emergencies and finally, an old leather purse stuffed with cash brought back from their last – and only – holiday together.

  Cameron, as May had come to expect from someone who cared only about himself, was lying on the sofa, eyes closed. Any concern for her welfare or the state of their marriage clearly not as important as he’d implied minutes earlier. She stood and watched as his breathing, laboured and short, caused his chest to heave, and smiled at the way his face, and then his left arm, twitched spasmodically, like a puppy in the depths of a dream.