SHE: A gripping serial killer detective thriller (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 1)

by Pete Brassett

  * * *

  Munro, as bombproof as a gelding on riot duty, barely flinched as Hurricane Cole burst through the door.

  ‘Blimey, guv, you still here?’ he said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Sorry, if I’d known, I’d have knocked. Thought you’d left ages ago.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No sign of D.S. West, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Munro.

  ‘And you’re not impressed.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Wonder where she is, then? Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Munro.

  ‘Maybe the alarm didn’t go off.’

  ‘Then she needs to buy a new one.’

  ‘Maybe there’s delays,’ said Cole. ‘On the tube, like.’

  ‘Then she should take a taxi.’

  ‘Do you want me to give her a bell?’

  ‘No, no. No doubt she’ll surface as soon as the fog clears.’

  ‘Fog?’ said Cole. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I’ll not cast aspersions, Tommy, not until I’m sure. Let’s just say, I think there’s something a wee bit, intoxicating, about Detective Sergeant West.’

  Cole grinned.

  ‘You’re not wrong there, guv,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit…’

  ‘Attractive,’ said Munro, with a timely interruption. ‘I think you’ll find the word you’re looking for, Tommy, is attractive.’

  ‘Almost.’

  West crept quietly up the last few steps and paused outside the door. Her heart was racing, her hands, clammy. She took a deep breath and tried desperately to compose herself.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, as she entered the office. ‘I had a terrible… the traffic was…’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Cole. ‘I mean, morning, miss.’

  Munro looked on, astounded by her appearance.

  ‘Sleep well, Charlie?’ he said, squinting, his head cocked to one side.

  ‘Well, yes, I think so…’

  ‘Was it not a wee bit, uncomfortable?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Lying with your head amongst those bricks, surrounded by…?’

  ‘I don’t know what you…’

  ‘You look like you’ve slept in a skip, lassie,’ said Munro. ‘You’re as white as a sheet. And you’re late. Incredibly, unacceptably, late.’

  ‘Sorry, I can explain,’ said West, flustered. ‘You see, what happened was…’

  ‘Och, stop your havering, I’m not interested. Tommy, do her a coffee, would you. Black, Strong.’

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ said West. ‘I just…’

  ‘Haud your wheesht,’ said Munro, raising an accusing finger. ‘Now, you listen to me, lassie. This time, I’ll let it go. There’ll be no warning, the next. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, drink that and tell me about last night.’

  West almost dropped her cup.

  ‘Last night?’ she said, alarmed by the request. ‘Why do you need to…’

  ‘The cameras, Charlie! Good God, has your memory gone as well as your self-esteem?’

  ‘Cameras? Oh, Christ, yes, the cameras. Of course. There aren’t any. I checked. Their security leaves a lot to be desired.’

  ‘It’s not the only thing.’

  ‘I looked everywhere,’ said West, cradling the coffee, ‘all around the building, I even checked the street, Hermon Hill, to see if there were any traffic cameras which might have caught her, but I’m afraid…’

  Munro cut her short.

  ‘Tommy, we’re taking the “Q” car,’ he said, pulling on his coat. ‘That way we can make up for lost time. Call his bank for me, get copies of his statements, I want to know if there’s been any activity on his accounts, cash withdrawals in particular.’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘You,’ he said, scowling at West. ‘Let’s go.’

  * * *

  Munro adjusted his seat and mirrors, buckled up and instructed West to enter the postcode on the sat-nav before she passed out. She rifled through her bag, cursing as she searched for her notebook.

  ‘Listen, Charlie,’ he said, softly. ‘I’m not one to pry, but if you’re having problems, let me know, now. I can’t afford to carry dead wood. Do you need some time off?’

  West slumped in her seat.

  ‘No,’ she said, heaving a sigh. ‘Just a rough night. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.’

  ‘Okay, then. I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Thanks. So, are they expecting us?’

  ‘Expecting us?’ said Munro. ‘Why, no, Charlie, of course not.’

  ‘But, but what if they’re out?’

  ‘Then we’ll wait.’

  ‘But, they may be…’

  ‘Listen, lassie, if someone’s expecting a call from the police, they will, without doubt, pre-empt the questions, mull them over and then concoct a fistful of answers and alibis that have no bearing on the truth. No matter how innocent they are. Trust me. You’ll not get a straight answer. Ever. Now, get your head down. I’ll nudge you when we’re there.’

  * * *

  Munro eased the car gently down the gravel drive and parked by the old stable block, a few yards short of the front door. He peered through the windscreen and cast an envious eye over the rambling pile. Built from rich, golden, Cotswold stone, it was quintessentially English, irrefutably rural and, undoubtedly, unaffordable.

  A middle-aged woman, as plump as a Christmas turkey with rosy cheeks and an apron bound tightly around her ample waist, answered the door and regarded Munro suspiciously.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs. Farnsworth-Brown?’ asked Munro.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not. Would you be so kind as to tell her I’m here. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.’

  ‘And who shall I say is calling?’

  Munro held up his warrant card.

  ‘Oh. Shan’t be a tick,’ she said, scurrying away.

  Munro glanced back at Detective Sergeant West, dozing in the car. There was something about her that reminded him of Christy MacAdam. It wasn’t so much the colour of her hair, nor was it the blanched skin, it was the way her head lolled lifelessly to one side, her eyes closed, her mouth, agape. They found Christy in the same position, in the car park behind The Annandale Arms; only difference was, he’d been shot. Point blank. Straight through the head. Munro’s eyes glazed over.

  * * *

  Christy MacAdam. Forty-eight years old, twenty-two stone, 6’4”, 90% blubber. He was so fat, his coat was worn where the steering wheel had rubbed against his belly. He’d moved from Stranraer to Lochside, lived alone and had never worked a day in his life. His undeclared source of income came from pushing smack, his forte, weaning the kids off cannabis and coke until they were hooked on the hard stuff, then fleecing them for everything they had. And when they couldn’t pay for their fix, he used them, as runners, decoys, prostitutes and rent boys. They were easily, but foolishly, intimidated by his size. In reality, MacAdam was about as agile as a bull elephant with rigor mortis. He wheezed when he walked, coughed when he talked, and slept on the sofa because he couldn’t make it up the stairs. Munro had spent precisely eleven months, two weeks and five days, watching, tracking, tailing, logging and recording his every move, compiling a water-tight case before hauling him into court. The evidence was overwhelming. There was no dispute. MacAdam, despite entering a plea of not guilty, went down for twelve years. He was out in three. Out in three with a score to settle.

  Munro was in his office, first floor, Cornwall Mount, when he took the call. It was 8.32pm. He thought it was Jean, ringing to scold him for being late. He left immediately. Despite the crowd, comprising neighbours and other familiar faces, there wasn’t much to look at, just smouldering roof timbers and blackened windows. Jean had already been taken to the infirmary. She didn’t last long, not at her age. The smoke took her down, swiftly and gently, so said the paramedics. She’d have passed out before she
knew what was happening. Munro took what solace he could from the meaningless statement. Another few months and they’d have been in Carsethorn, by the sea, shivering and holding hands along the beach. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Nor was the forensic analysis. The fire wasn’t caused by the chip-pan catching fire, nor was it the dodgy switch by the immersion heater which flickered of its own accord, shorting out. It was arson. The accelerant was diesel and so, coincidentally, was MacAdam’s car.

  Munro, on compassionate leave, spent his time wisely, tailing MacAdam from scheme to scheme, from pub to pub, from bookie to bookie, until finally, finally, he got his chance. The car park at the rear of The Annandale Arms. 11.15pm. He’d waited in the shadows until MacAdam, unsteady on his feet, had waddled from the pub and squeezed his bulk behind the wheel, then he pounced, snatching the keys from the ignition before casually, silently, taking a seat on the passenger side. MacAdam laughed. Nervously. He knew he couldn’t move, so instead, he blethered, like a man on the gallows, wheezing and sweating, riled by the fact that Munro stayed silent, uttering not a single, solitary word. The last thing he said simply confirmed what Munro already knew. ‘It’s chilly out, Inspector, take yourself home, I hear it’s nice and warm there.’ Munro opened the glove compartment with a flick of the wrist and retrieved the Baikal ’79 MacAdam kept hidden there. The pistol was small and light, a couple of pounds at most, but accurate enough, and big enough, to scare the shite out of anyone who stepped out of line. Munro calmly raised the gun, pressed it firmly against MacAdam’s perspiring forehead, just above his eyes, and gently squeezed the trigger. ‘Not so hard, now, are you, big man?’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘This way, if you please,’ said the woman in the apron. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Charlie!’ yelled Munro, startled by the intrusion.

  West woke with a start, banged her head on the roof, and tumbled from the car.

  ‘An Inspector, I believe?’ said Mrs. Farnsworth-Brown, holding out her hand.

  ‘Indeed, madam. Detective Inspector Munro. This is Detective Sergeant West.’

  ‘How exciting! Do call me Clarissa, the surname’s such a mouthful. This is my husband, Ed.’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Ed. ‘That’s a hell of an accent you have there, Scotland, if I’m not mistaken?’

  ‘Thereabouts, yes.’

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ said Clarissa, frowning as she looked at West. ‘Are you alright, dear? You look awfully pale.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said West, forcing a smile. ‘Car journeys. I get a bit, queasy.’

  ‘I’ll fetch you some water. Inspector? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Very kind, but no, thank you,’ said Munro. ‘Just a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘About Harry?’ said Ed. ‘They said you guys had been asking about him. Don’t know what all the fuss is about, he’s disappeared before, he’s a grown man, he can look after himself.’

  ‘Och, I’m sure you’re right,’ said Munro, reassuringly. ‘But as his staff have raised a concern, I’m afraid we’re duty bound to look into it.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Ed. ‘Come on, sit.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said West, as she perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Beautiful house.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Clarissa. ‘16th century. Some of it, anyway.’

  ‘What was it beforehand? A farm?’

  ‘A dairy, dear,’ said Clarissa. ‘That’s why it’s called, “The Old Dairy”.’

  Ed grinned, tickled by his wife’s very British sense of humour.

  ‘So, Inspector,’ he said, ‘someone thinks Harry’s absconded with the takings from the bar?’

  Munro stood with his back to the inglenook, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, smiling. ‘It appears some folk, the bar staff, to be precise, are concerned by his absenteeism. Out of character, they say. Oh, I’m sure it’s just a hoo-hah over nothing but we’d like to track him down all the same. They’re fretting about ordering stock, you know how it is.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ said Ed, laughing. ‘Probably wondering how to pay for it, too.’

  ‘Aye, probably. So, can you tell me anything about his friends? Is there anyone he might have contacted, to say he was going away?’

  Clarissa laughed as she sat next to West.

  ‘Fat chance, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Harry isn’t big on friends, he’s never been the sociable type, keeps himself to himself. We only hear from him when he wants something. He’s what those people on the news would call ‘a loner’, as if he were some kind of misfit.’

  ‘And was he? I mean, is he?’ said Munro.

  ‘Not really. Let’s just say he prefers his own company, that’s all. He’s not very patient, doesn’t suffer fools.’

  ‘That’s not to say he doesn’t know any,’ said Ed. ‘No. Harry’s okay, an introverted extrovert, that’s him. Has been ever since he lost Annabel.’

  ‘Annabel?’ said Munro, curiously. ‘And who might she be?’

  ‘His wife,’ said Clarissa, mournfully. ‘Lovely girl, so vibrant, so, vivacious. Broke his heart, I think.’

  ‘She left him?’ said West, pulling her notebook from her bag.

  ‘She died,’ said Ed. ‘Such a waste. So young, too.’

  ‘Died?’ said Munro.

  ‘Yes. It was a long time ago,’ said Clarissa. ‘They’d married young. He, twenty-four, she, just out of university. Had a glittering career ahead of her, wanted to be a scientist or something. They were in Aldeburgh.’

  ‘Aldeburgh? That’s Suffolk, I know it,’ said West. ‘It’s lovely there, the beach and all.’

  ‘Yes, they were there for the festival,’ said Clarissa. ‘You know, all that classical music, and the fish and chips, of course. Anyway, she went missing. Harry was beside himself. Said it was his fault, that they’d argued over something, something petty. Always is, isn’t it?’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She stormed off. He didn’t go after her, he thought it best she had some space to let off steam, calm down, so to speak. He gave it a couple hours, then a couple more, but by nightfall, he was worried. It was so unlike her, you see. Anyway, he went looking for her. She hadn’t taken the car, that was still there, so he traipsed around the village, then down to the beach, thought he’d find her there, gazing up at the stars, or sheltering in a fisherman’s hut, but all he found were her plimsolls. Then, her bag. Naturally, he called the police right away but sadly, they never did find her.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Munro. ‘Can’t have been easy. For any of you.’

  ‘Even had the coastguard out,’ said Ed. ‘She was a strong swimmer, too, but it didn’t make sense. Not to me, it just didn’t add up.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, she was so, so level-headed, so, sensible. Okay, I didn’t know her that well, but she didn’t strike me as a risk-taker. Not the kind of person who’d jump in the North Sea in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Well, even if she was, the sea’s a lady who demands respect. Trust me, I know. The pull of the tide can…’

  ‘The tide was incoming, Inspector.’

  Munro paused and looked at Ed.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said, contemplating the implications. ‘You know, I might like to have a wee chat about this later,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind going over…’

  ‘Be happy to, Inspector. Anyway, as Clarissa said, they never found her. Recorded a verdict of misadventure and that’s when Harry… that’s when Harry hit the bottle.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, would you happen to know what it was they argued about?’

  ‘The usual,’ said Clarissa. ‘Ex-girlfriend. She was at the festival too, sheer coincidence, as it happens, but Harry said Annabel was like a woman possessed, furious. Accused him of having an affair, and them, only just married, too. I think she was a tad insecure.’

  ‘Did you know this girl? The ex-girlfriend?’ asked West.r />
  ‘Vaguely, met her twice, I think,’ said Clarissa.

  ‘One of Harry’s flings,’ said Ed, smiling proudly. ‘He sowed so many oats back then you’d think he owned a farm! Didn’t last long, few weeks, tops. Sammy was her name, Samantha… Baker, that’s it. Baker.’

  ‘They were at university together?’ said Munro.

  ‘I assume so. We’re lucky if we get a name when Harry brings someone home, let alone their life history.’

  ‘And they didn’t keep in touch?’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ said Clarissa, laughing. ‘Chalk and cheese, those two. She was too much of a party animal for Harry, he couldn’t keep up. Besides, once Annabel came on the scene, he wouldn’t have dared. Hell hath no fury, Inspector.’

  Munro smiled.

  ‘They looked alike, though,’ said Ed. ‘Samantha and Annabel, if that helps.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Small. Blondish. Harry has a thing for small chicks.’

  ‘Oh, heavens above, dear,’ said Clarissa, ‘you’re making him sound like some kind of depraved predator. He means petite, Inspector. Harry likes particularly petite girls, brings out the protective side of his nature, I imagine.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m sure we can find her, should we need to,’ he said, nodding at Charlie. ‘I’m curious, would you happen to have a photo? Of Annabel, I mean?’