Avarice

by Pete Brassett

  ‘You have a wonderful sense of loyalty, lassie,’ he said, his voice barely audible, ‘and I admire you for that, but it’s now bordering on stupidity. For the avoidance of doubt, we have proof that the hair found on your mother’s coat belongs to you. The fingerprints lifted from the envelope we retrieved from your mother’s room, belong to you. And we have CCTV footage that shows you at her apartment around the time she died. The evidence is circumstantial, I admit, but it’s stacked against you, Lorna. Now, I don’t believe you’re guilty, I don’t think you have it in you, but a decent brief could easily turn a jury against you, and if it that happens, trust me, you’ll not be out before your fiftieth.’

  The colour drained from McKenzie’s face as she gawped, wide-eyed at West, pleading for a way out.

  ‘Are you joking me?’ she said, her voice quavering.

  ‘It’s not something I’d joke about,’ said Munro.

  ‘But he made me promise, he said … he said no-one would find out.’

  ‘Who, Lorna?’ said West, her frustration turning to anger. ‘Who, Goddammit?’

  McKenzie pushed herself against the wall and curled up like a scolded, frightened child as West and Munro waited patiently for her to speak. She wiped her face with the blanket and pulled it tight around her shoulders in the hope it might protect her.

  ‘He … he told me to get rid of Mammy’s stuff,’ she said, her breath short, gasping as she spurted out the words, ‘he said I had to lose the paperwork or…’

  Munro, startled, held up his hand and paused the conversation.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why would he say that, Lorna? I mean, you were the one stealing the money. Did he put you up to it?’

  ‘No, I was doing it before we met.’

  ‘So, why was he so concerned?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said McKenzie, ‘I just thought he was being … protective, you know? He said we had all the information we needed, he said we didn’t need the statements, or the letters, or the bank cards. He said if anyone ever found out, it would be too incriminating.’

  ‘And you were scared?’ said Munro.

  ‘Terrified. I told you, he said … he said if I ever told anyone about the money, he’d do me.’

  ‘Had he threatened you before?’ said West.

  ‘No, but he has this knack, this talent, for making you feel…’

  ‘So, what happened next?’

  ‘He told me to meet him, it was late…’

  ‘Where? At Dunmore House?’ said Munro.

  ‘No, no, Main Street, by the path that leads through the glen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He gave me the keys.’

  ‘Your mother’s keys?’ said West.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to ask where he’d got them?’

  ‘No,’ said McKenzie, ‘I was petrified, I just … I just took them. He said I was to hide the paperwork in her flat, somewhere not too obvious.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro, ‘so you went to the flat, and that’s when Mrs. Fraser…’

  ‘Aye. She was good. She could’ve called the police, but she didn’t. It was almost like she knew who I was.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘No, of course not, I mean, I don’t think so.’

  Munro took a deep breath and smiled, sympathetically, at McKenzie.

  ‘This fellow,’ he said, ‘the chap you’re in cahoots with, he wouldn’t happen to be your boyfriend now, would he? The older boyfriend? The divorced boyfriend?’

  McKenzie’s cheeks flushed with guilt.

  ‘Lorna,’ said West, joining her on the bunk, ‘did he ever ask you for any money?’

  ‘No,’ said McKenzie, ‘apart from a tenner once, so’s we could get a few tinnies.’

  ‘And to your knowledge, he’s never tried to access your mother’s account?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he knows how much there is?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And he has all her details?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But you still won’t tell us who he is?’

  McKenzie shook her head.

  Munro sat back, folded his arms and turned his attention the woefully small window set high up, near the ceiling.

  ‘The day before your mother was found,’ he said, ‘you went to see your daddy, I mean, Callum. Is that right?’

  ‘Aye,’ said McKenzie, ‘I go most weekends. He likes to cook. If you can call it that.’

  ‘And does he know you’re in to DIY?’

  ‘DIY? Me? What makes you think that?’

  Munro rubbed his chin and leaned forward again, his eyes, now cold and hard, drilled into hers.

  ‘Because you borrowed a hammer,’ he said, ‘and you never returned it.’

  McKenzie froze.

  ‘Can you leave now, please,’ she said, swallowing hard, ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro as he stood to leave, ‘we’ll leave you be. And Lorna, I’m going to arrange a lawyer for you, because, trust me lassie, you’re going to need one. You’re going to need the best we can get.’

  * * *

  ‘Talk about stubborn,’ said West as they left the cells, ‘he must have some hold over her if she’s willing to take the blame for him.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Munro, ‘probably some low-life who’ll not hesitate in breaking her jaw if she so much as utters his name.’

  ‘Maybe she thinks she’ll be safer behind bars.’

  ‘It’s certainly possible, Charlie, no doubt about that. Perhaps a visit from Mr. Kappelhoff will cheer her up.’

  Chapter 18

  West was not materialistic, nor was she easily impressed, but, as Munro held the key fob aloft and the lights flashed on the silver BMW 5 Series saloon parked across the street, she couldn’t help but smile at the prospect of getting behind the wheel.

  ‘No chance,’ said Munro.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said West as they crossed the road, ‘I’ll look after it, I’ve never driven anything as stylish as that.’

  ‘Stylish? Och, lassie, it’s an ostentatious, over-priced lump of metal, there’s nothing stylish about it.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said West as she opened the passenger door and clocked the mess in the foot well, ‘bloody hell, has this been used on a stake-out in Bethnal Green? It’s a bleeding tip.’

  ‘Aye, smells like one, too,’ said Munro, turning his nose up the scent of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke, ‘there’s one thing to be said about that Mr. MacDonald, he’s a classy date.’

  ‘Never had Nick down as a junk food addict,’ said West as she bent down to scoop up the burger wrappers and discarded cups, ‘I always thought…’

  She stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at one of the paper cups before turning her attention to the seat and then the headrest.

  ‘What is it, Charlie?’ said Munro, sensing her unease.

  ‘Not here,’ she said, quietly, as she climbed in the back seat, ‘let’s go.’

  * * *

  The car park adjacent to the railway station, though large enough to accommodate the needs of a sprawling conurbation, was rarely busy, frequented, as it was, more by shoppers than commuters. Munro parked alongside a white Transit van, sheltered from the prying eyes of the security cameras, and turned to face West. With her sleeve pulled over her hand to avoid contamination, she held up a paper cup.

  ‘Look at the straw,’ she said, ‘the lipstick. When I met her, Maureen Connolly was wearing pink lipstick.’

  ‘So,’ said Munro, ‘women change their lipstick as often as they change their minds, do they not?’

  West glowered.

  ‘Women of a certain age do not,’ she said, ‘they know what works for them.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro, ‘joshing aside, this is bright red. What of it?’

  ‘Oh, come on James, don’t tell me you’re losing your touch. McKenzie!’

  Munro, his forehead as furrowed as an autumn
field, hesitated as though waiting for the punchline to a particularly amusing tale, before howling with laughter.

  ‘Are you joking me?’ he said. ‘Nick? A senior police officer, and Lorna McKenzie? I’ve not heard anything so ludicrous before in my entire life! It’s incredulous, Charlie! Aye, that’s the word, incredulous!’

  West stared back, unflinchingly.

  ‘Look at the headrest,’ she said, ‘the hair on the headrest, it’s not peroxide blonde is it?’

  Munro conceded to himself that it was definitely more red than blonde and fell silent as he contemplated the accusation.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Deadly.’

  Munro jumped from the car, walked to the rear and popped open the boot. They stood side by side, and scoured the mountain of junk seemingly dumped there at random: a pair of mud-encrusted Wellington boots, a bright yellow police-issue jacket, a roadside hazard warning triangle, a golfing umbrella, foot-pump, first aid kit, one bottle of coolant and one of screen wash, two litres of engine oil and countless, discarded carrier bags. Munro pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket, snapped them on, and lifted the jacket with his forefinger, sighing as it revealed a rucksack. A small, black rucksack.

  ‘I sincerely hope this contains a kagool and a half-empty flask of tea,’ he said as he carefully unzipped it.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said West as she spied the carton of cigarettes.

  ‘Duty Free,’ said Munro, ‘German. Three packs missing, and, oh dear, a set of house keys.’

  ‘This is serious shit, what the hell…?’

  Munro raised a hand as the phone warbled in his pocket.

  ‘Duncan,’ he said, ‘what’s occurring?’

  ‘Chief, there’s something…’

  ‘Duncan, hold on, just a minute, you sound like you’re in a wind tunnel, are you not in the office?’

  ‘No Chief,’ said Reid, ‘I’m outside, getting soaked, I cannae talk in there.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Email, incoming, someone’s just transferred 250 grand to a different account.’

  Munro’s face dropped as he stared blankly at West.

  ‘What? But that doesnae make any sense,’ he said, agitated, ‘who could…? How could … does the email have details of the recipient’s account?’

  ‘You mean the sort code and stuff? Aye, it’s all there, everything but a name and address.’

  ‘Good. Okay, Duncan, listen carefully,’ said Munro, ‘you need to make an excuse to go home, understand? Just for an hour, can you do that?’

  ‘Aye Chief, nae bother, then what?’

  ‘Contact the Raiffeisen, tell them to freeze the account, then find out who’s got the money; easy enough, right?’

  ‘Roger that, Chief. I’m on it.’

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? He’s in it up to his neck, isn’t he?’ said West as Munro put his phone away.

  ‘It’s looking like that Charlie, but the only evidence we have suggests that he and Lorna may be in some kind of relationship, it doesnae prove he took the money or had anything to do with Freida’s death.’

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for? Come on, we need to get back and see Lorna.’

  ‘Och, Charlie, now who’s losing it?’ said Munro. ‘We cannae do that while Nick’s in the building. No, we’ll have to wait. Look, put that straw and the hair in the paper bag, we need to get it tested, quick. Kappelhoff will have to wait.’

  ‘What about the rucksack, and the fags, and the…?’

  ‘No, no, we cannae remove anything that might arouse suspicion, Charlie, we have to leave it where it is.’

  * * *

  The stench of disinfectant and the sound of rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum floor was enough to make Munro sneer.

  ‘I hate hospitals,’ he said, as they waited in reception, ‘you come in the front door, you go out the back, and if you’re not in a box when you leave, the only thing you’re good for is filling an egg timer.’

  ‘You should get a donor card,’ said West, dryly, ‘some poor soul will be over the moon to have your sense of humour when you’ve gone.’

  A tall, skinny man, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a mop of glistening, jet black hair, caught her eye, causing her to blush.

  ‘Inspector,’ said Doctor Clark, ‘Sergeant West. How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ said West, coquettishly, ‘you look, different, I mean, without your white coat, and that … hat thing you all wear…’

  ‘Andy,’ said Munro, as her words tailed off, ‘thanks for seeing us, you’ll have to excuse Charlie here, she’s been single for far too long.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Clark. ‘Well, I think I might have a cure for that.’

  ‘You’ll need an antidote, too.’

  ‘So, what’s up? Is this to do with the lassie in the burn?’

  ‘Aye, it is,’ said Munro, ‘things have become a wee bit … complicated, and I need a favour, urgently.’

  ‘If I can do it, sure,’ said Clark as West held up the brown paper burger bag, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t eat stuff like that.’

  ‘No,’ said West, ‘nor do I. Often. It’s inside, a few strands of hair and some lipstick on a drinking straw. We need a DNA profile, like yesterday.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Clark.

  ‘We need to know if it matches a lassie by the name of Lorna McKenzie,’ said Munro. ‘She’s on the system.’

  ‘I’ll sort it now; do you want to wait or will I call you?’

  ‘We’ll wait,’ said Munro, ‘over there, in the café, will it…?’

  ‘Quicker than you think, I’ll not keep you long.’

  * * *

  Munro found a table, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it down as he studied the mob of dour-looking customers, tucking into doughnuts and bacon sandwiches, with a disparaging eye. West, sporting a mischievous grin, arrived with two cappuccinos and sat opposite.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘we’re surrounded by folk killing themselves with sugar and fat, can you not look suitably morose?’

  ‘Difficult,’ she said, sipping her coffee, ‘I think I might be…’

  ‘Och, not Doctor Clark, surely?’

  ‘I think he’s a bit of a hunk, actually.’

  ‘A hunk?’ said Munro. ‘The man needs fattening up. You should introduce him to one of your kebabs.’

  ‘I don’t think that would go down too well, somehow.’

  ‘Let me get this right, first you go on a date with a chap who finds dead bodies, now you want to go out with someone who cuts them open.’

  ‘Like to get the full picture,’ said West, sarcastically, ‘both sides of the coin, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Be sure and tell me if it doesnae work out,’ said Munro, reaching for his phone, ‘I’ve a friend who’s a funeral director. Duncan, what is it?’

  ‘It’s not good, Chief,’ said Reid, ‘we need to talk, urgently, somewhere private, I mean, this is front page news, you’ll not believe...’

  ‘Calm yourself, Duncan. Where are you, now?’

  ‘Just left home, on my way back to the office.’

  ‘Right,’ said Munro, ‘let me think. Charlie, what time is it?’

  ‘Half one, almost.’

  ‘Dammit. Duncan, has Potato Head fixed my car, yet?’

  ‘Aye, Chief,’ said Reid, ‘raring to go, although, when I say raring, I mean, a car like that…’

  ‘I’ve no time for jokes, Duncan. Drive it here, quick as you can. We’re at the hospital.’

  * * *

  Munro checked his watch for the umpteenth time as he paced impatiently back and forth outside the main entrance, wincing as Reid screeched to a halt beside him.

  ‘Nothing wrong with the brakes, Chief,’ he yelled, through the open window, ‘I never knew a car like this could…’

  ‘Duncan,’ said Munro sternly, as he hopped in the passenger seat, ‘this vehicle has more in common with a hearse than a Subaru,
so I’ll thank you to treat it as such. Now, park up over there, if you please.’

  Constable Reid, heeding the warning, trundled to a halt beside a silver BMW. Munro threw back his head and sighed.

  ‘Are you okay, Chief?’ said Reid.

  ‘No, Duncan, I am not, and I don’t suppose you’re about to make things any better, are you?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why not try?’ said Munro. ‘Tell me the 250 grand transferred from Freida’s account went out as a standing order.’

  ‘No, ‘fraid not.’ said Reid. ‘It was a one-off.’

  ‘Okay, then please tell me the recipient was Miss Lorna McKenzie.’

  ‘Wrong again.’

  ‘Well, that proves it then.’

  ‘Proves what?’ said Reid, perplexed.

  ‘Positivity. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s Nick, isn’t it?’

  Reid’s shoulders slumped as he stared, aghast, at Munro.

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’ he said. ‘I mean, Jesus, have you got a sixth sense or something? I cannae believe...’

  ‘You know how serious this is, don’t you?’ said Munro, lowering his voice.

  ‘Aye, of course, it’s deadly…’

  ‘Then, you need to stay calm and say nothing. Got that, Duncan? Not a word.’

  ‘You can rely on me, Chief.’

  ‘I know I can, laddie. That’s why you’re here. Okay, look, take these keys; that BMW there, it belongs to Nick. Drive it back and park it as discreetly as possible, try not to let him see you. We’ll be along shortly.’

  * * *

  Munro, surprised to find his seat occupied by Doctor Clark, squeezed his way past the line of customers queuing for an early grave as West, toying with her empty coffee cup, flirted with him shamelessly.

  ‘Good grief,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘she’ll be wanting a hotel room in a minute.’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Clark, commandeering a chair from the next table, ‘here, can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks Andy,’ said Munro, ‘you’ve not done that already, surely? We’re still waiting on results from a few days ago.’

  ‘It’s all about resources,’ said Clark, ‘we’ve got them, and we’re not using them. Afraid you’ll have to wait a wee bit longer for results on the hair, though, but as for the lipstick, she’s your girl.’