PENURY: A bizarre death tests Scotland’s finest (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 12)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Forensics,’ said Dougal. ‘If you must know, we talked about forensics.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Duncan. ‘A first date with a gorgeous wee lassie, you get her back to your place, and you talk about forensics?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You need a spell on the couch, pal. You’re a gene short of a chromosome, you are.’

  Murdo, having successfully filched a morsel of bread from Duncan’s hand, jumped intuitively from his lap as the door swung open.

  ‘I could hear your biology lesson down the hall,’ said Munro. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Boys’ banter,’ said West. ‘Are you hungry, Jimbo? There’s some haggis going begging if you fancy it.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer, Charlie, but George beat you to it.’

  ‘Let me guess; Cecchini’s?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Alright for some. How’d it go? Did he give you your marching orders?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Munro. ‘He offered me some limited assistance–’

  ‘There’s a lot to be said for nepotism.’

  ‘–so I’m limiting it to Dougal. When you have time, laddie – I’m under strict instructions not to encroach on your schedule – kindly crawl into the internet for me and see what you can find on one Rebecca Barlow, originally from Penrith, last domiciled in Dumfries.’

  ‘No bother, boss. Leave it with me.’

  Recognising the topical disfiguration of the human self as a centuries-old artistic means of expressing allegiance, offering protection, or denoting status with its roots firmly steeped in traditional symbolism, Munro was willing to accept the tattoo as an integral element of certain cultures, be they Native American, Māori peoples, or even the Yakuza, however, he regarded the tasteless desecration of body parts with trite statements, particularly by the younger generation, as nothing less than vulgar.

  Catching sight of the image on Dougal’s screen, he pulled his spectacles from his breast pocket and leaned in for a closer look.

  ‘Dear God,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What on earth possesses a person to do that?’

  ‘They think it’s cool,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s what they call body art.’

  ‘Well, you’ll not see that in any gallery, I can assure you of that. Who is it?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Dougal. ‘At the least the tattoo will make him easier to spot.’

  ‘Well, when you do catch him,’ said Munro, ‘tell him he needs to see a doctor.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘His hand! Can you not see it’s infected?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye! The middle finger,’ said Munro, pointing at the screen, ‘it’s the size of a sausage and if I’m not mistaken, there is a weeping scab.’

  ‘I’d never have spotted that,’ said Dougal. ‘The problem is, boss, I’ve no idea where to look for him.’

  ‘Well dinnae waste your time walking the streets, laddie. If I’m right about his hand, then that tattoo was done just two or three weeks ago. I’d visit all the parlours in the vicinity, if I were you. Whoever did that is bound to remember.’

  ‘How is it you know everything about everything?’ said West.

  ‘Because, Charlie, I have experience on my side and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. The brain is the most powerful organ in the body but it’s like a muscle, if you dinnae exercise it, it will wither away.’

  ‘That reminds me, miss,’ said Duncan, cheekily. ‘University Challenge is on the telly tonight, you might want to tune in.’

  ‘Watch it, you. So, Jimbo, if The Bear’s cut you some slack, I take it your unofficial interview must have gone according to plan?’

  ‘You’re referring to MacDuff, of course? Aye. Swimmingly, in fact he was most hospitable but I’m afraid to say the chap does have a dark side.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘First instinct tells me he’s in the clear as far as Miss Barlow’s concerned, but there’s something not right about his personal habits.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He had, shall we say, some dubious imagery on his computer but that’s a separate matter and I shall have to leave it up to DI Byrne to sort out. Unfortunately he’s not adept at multi-tasking so I’m away back to Auchencairn to chat with some of the locals. How about you? Did you succeed in your mission to clear the streets of druggies and dealers?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said West, ‘but we’re getting there. We managed to wheedle an address for McIntyre out of the Riley girl so we’re going over there now to sit it out. We’ll wait for him to show his face and see what he gets up to.’

  ‘There’s only one way in and out of the street,’ said Duncan, ‘but there’s a plumbers’ merchant on the corner. I’m going to hang out there in Westy’s Defender while she lies low in the Audi across the street.’

  Munro, struck by the vague recollection of a familiar scene, turned to the window and stood in quiet contemplation with hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Duncan. ‘Is it something I said?’

  ‘The location you describe, it sounds strangely familiar. Is it hereabouts?’

  ‘Aye, not far, chief. Taylor Street.’

  Munro spun on his heels and stared at West.

  ‘Taylor Street?’ he said softly. ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat! That’s where MacDuff stays!’

  ‘MacDuff? Your witness?’

  ‘Aye! DI Byrne’s on his way there now, so for everybody’s sake, be sure to keep your distance, Charlie, and if you see anything untoward, you’re to phone me immediately, okay? I’m away to Auchencairn. I’ll see you tonight.’

  Chapter 8

  Without the authorisation nor frankly the desire to knock on every door in the village with questions pertaining to the sighting of Rebecca Barlow or, for that matter, any visitors to the old Commercial Hotel, Munro – adjudging the only person of interest to be the proprietor of the village shop – stepped from the car and, without a wind as sharp as a sabre to cut him in two, found the temperature to be an agreeable if not positively balmy minus two degrees.

  Donning his gloves, he crunched his way along the icy street pausing en route to marvel at a flock of barnacle geese honking ecstatically as they flew towards the firth before stepping gingerly through the door and assaulting the lady behind the counter with a mollifying smile.

  ‘It’s fair jeelit out there,’ he said, unzipping his jacket. ‘I’m after some milk.’

  ‘In the chiller,’ said the lady, warming to the sparkle of his cold, blue eyes. ‘Is there anything else you’re needing?’

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ said Munro. ‘Some shortbread, perhaps. It’s always handy to have in the cupboard.’

  ‘Aye, you’re not wrong, there. A wee nibble with a cup of tea, it’s just the ticket. I’ll fetch some for you.’

  ‘Much obliged.’

  ‘You’re not here on your holidays, are you? Not at this time of year.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘So, you’re just passing through, then?’

  Delighted by the shopkeeper’s blatant curiosity, Munro, maintaining an air of nonchalance, saw no harm in bending the truth in order to exploit her over-inquisitive nature.

  ‘I’m not passing through,’ he said as he perused the shelves, ‘I’ll be moving up the street. I’m James, by the way. James Munro.’

  ‘Barbara. So we’ll be seeing a lot of you, then?’

  ‘I dare say you will. Aye.’

  ‘What brings you to Auchencairn?’

  ‘Peace,’ said Munro. ‘I like the peace.’

  ‘Well, we’ve plenty of that.’

  ‘Although,’ said Munro, placing the milk on the counter, ‘I must admit, I was surprised to see the police up the road.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be the murder you’re talking about.’

  Committed to delivering as convincing a performance as possible, Munro took a st
ep back with a look of horror etched on his face.

  ‘Murder?’ he said. ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘No, no. Murder plain and simple.’

  ‘Dear, dear, you’re not telling me there’s some lunatic on the run?’

  ‘Aye, there is,’ said Barbara, ‘and as far as I know, they’ve not caught him yet.’

  ‘So, what’s the story?’

  ‘Apparently some fella working on the Commercial–’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not being rude but, the Commercial?’

  ‘It’s an old hotel, just up the street. Anyway, this fella, he’s an electrician I think, apparently he’s the one who killed her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The woman who owns the building.’

  ‘But what makes you think it was him?’ said Munro, reaching for his wallet. ‘And not somebody else?’

  ‘Because he looked the type,’ said Barbara. ‘And he called her Miss Barlow. If he was a friend, he’d have called her Rebecca. And as far as I know, friends aren’t in the habit of killing each other.’

  ‘That’s some cracking detective work,’ said Munro, ‘but tell me, why on earth do you think he killed her in the first place?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Barbara. ‘Perhaps it’s karma. As far as I’m concerned, she got what she deserved.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  Barbara placed the groceries in a bag and handed Munro his change.

  ‘My da, Jack, he owned that hotel,’ she said. ‘Barlow pushed him and my mother into accepting a cash offer for the place then turfed them out before the ink was dry.’

  ‘And where are they now?’

  ‘I planted them a month after they moved.’

  Munro offered an empathetic smile and shook his head.

  ‘Dear, dear. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You have my condolences. A tragedy if ever there was one.’

  ‘Aye. A tragedy, right enough.’

  ‘Had the woman no morals? I mean, was that not a wee bit brash, to barge right in and offer to buy their house while they were still living there?’

  ‘Brash?’ said Barbara. ‘It’s not the word I’d use.’

  ‘Well, she clearly ruffled your feathers. And understandably so.’

  ‘Not just mine. The whole village was raging.’

  ‘So, the electrician fellow, was he the only one to visit her?’

  ‘Aye. I think so.’

  ‘But surely if she was doing the place up,’ said Munro, ‘the place would have been riddled with workmen.’

  ‘To start with, aye, but she was nearly done. There was only the electrician. Oh, and the gardener.’

  ‘Gardener?’

  ‘Aye. Well, odd-job man, really, but he’s near enough a local and we’ve known him for years.’

  ‘So, she’s not had any other visitors? Recently I mean?’

  ‘No. No strangers, anyhow. Just her pal.’

  ‘Pal?’

  ‘Aye. Boyfriend, I think. We’d met once before, when she first chapped the door to make my parents an offer. Nice fella.’

  ‘I see. So, you got along okay?’

  ‘I liked him for the simple reason that he was trying to put her off, get her to back down. I got the distinct impression that he thought what she was doing was wrong.’

  ‘Indeed it was,’ said Munro. ‘And you’re sure he was her boyfriend?’

  ‘Boyfriend. Husband. Partner. Makes no difference. They were in some sort of relationship, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘I’m no fool,’ said Barbara. ‘It was the way they talked to each other. Contradicting each other. Arguing with each other. Only couples act like that.’

  Munro smiled.

  ‘I cannae argue with that,’ he said. ‘So, he came back?’

  ‘Aye, he popped his head round the door and said, “Have you seen Becky about the place? I’ve got her keys.” So I told him, she’s at the hotel.’

  ‘And what day was that?’

  ‘The same day the electrician arrived.’

  ‘And do you happen to recall what time it was?’

  ‘About 10:00am, I’d say.’

  ‘So he would have met the electrician, at the hotel?’

  ‘Aye. Maybe. Who knows?’

  ‘Who knows indeed,’ said Munro. ‘Well, it’s a plot worthy of a TV show, Barbara. I’ll say that for nothing.’

  ‘Right enough. Who’d have thought something like that could happen in a place like this.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Munro, ‘this boyfriend of hers, do you remember what he looked like?’

  Barbara took a step back, folded her arms, and hesitated before answering.

  ‘I’ll give you this, James,’ she said, smiling as she wagged a finger. ‘You’re clever.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘All these questions! You’re a reporter, am I right? Are you looking for something for the papers?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a reporter,’ he said. ‘I dinnae even read the newspapers, but if I’m to be living here then I think I’m entitled to know who I should be looking out for.’

  ‘Well, I can’t blame you for that,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m sorry. Suspicious by nature, me. So, what does he look like? I’d say average. Average height. Average build. Grey hair. Smart though, I’ll give him that. Well turned out.’

  ‘And he’s definitely not been back?’

  ‘No.’

  Munro zipped his jacket, pulled on his gloves, and grabbed his groceries.

  ‘I’ve kept you long enough,’ he said. ‘And I’ve some packing to be getting on with.’

  ‘Pop in next time you’re up,’ said Barbara, ‘I’m always up for a blether. I can fill you in on all the gossip.’

  * * *

  Confused as to whether his prowess at drawing the short straw was a genetic fault, payback for something he’d done in a previous life, or sheer bad luck, Duncan, sitting in the Defender with his hands in his pockets, collar turned up, and his radio tucked beneath the side of his watch cap, stared enviously at West as she reclined in the five-star comfort of his car across the street.

  ‘Warm enough?’ he said, muttering into the radio.

  ‘Toasty. You?’

  ‘Positively tropical. How long are we going to wait?’

  ‘As long as it takes,’ said West. ‘He has to come out to play sooner or later.’

  ‘I suggest we give it half an hour, miss. Then swap.’

  ‘Dream on. I’ve been thinking–’

  ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘–and I’m still not sure about Riley.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’m wondering if she’s given McIntyre the tip-off.’

  ‘Well, if she has,’ said Duncan, ‘then we’re wasting our time. He’d have left before we got here, picked up the Lexus, and legged it. But I have to disagree, miss. She’s not stupid. She knows if she gives us the runaround she’ll be back inside before she knows it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Aye. Trust me. I grew up with folk like her and when they want saving, there’s that look in their eyes. A look of helpless desperation.’

  ‘Probably the same look I’ve been carrying for years.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the violin from the boot,’ said Duncan, ‘but as we’re talking doubts, I’m not convinced if McIntyre does show up, that we’ll be able to recognise him.’

  ‘Why not? We’ve got a photo.’

  ‘Aye, my point exactly,’ said Duncan. ‘That wee photo off his driving licence is nine years old, miss. He could be a wee baldie with a weight problem by now.’

  Aware of a car signalling a right turn into Taylor Street, West slid down in her seat and glanced across the street at Duncan.

  ‘Watch out,’ she said. ‘Incoming. Can you see who’s driving?’

  ‘No chance, miss. Too much glare off the windscreen.’

  ‘Well, whoever it is, they’re on the mooch. It looks like they’re trying to ID a building.’r />
  With the car far enough away to avoid detection, Duncan leaned on the steering wheel and squinted down the street as the scruffy-looking occupant stepped from the car and surveyed the block of flats before striding confidently towards the door.

  ‘That’s not McIntyre,’ said Duncan. ‘He’s completely different. Even with the aging process, that fella’s completely different.’

  ‘And he’s not getting an answer,’ said West. ‘Whoever he’s visiting is clearly out.’

  ‘Aye, but he’s not giving up,’ said Duncan, ‘he’s punching that entryphone again and oh! Result! He’s in!’

  ‘Maybe he’s a bailiff,’ said West. ‘Or someone from TV Licensing. He looks the type.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Shifty.’

  West sat up straight as the unidentified driver emerged from the block and glanced up and down the street whilst frantically reaching for his phone.

  ‘Blimey, that was quick,’ said West.

  ‘And he’s not looking happy,’ said Duncan. ‘In fact, he looks like he’s about to wet himself.’

  ‘I wonder who he’s calling?’ said West. ‘I think we should have a word. Maybe we can help.’

  * * *

  As the street lamps flickered into life and the flurries of snow began to fall from a darkening sky, Munro, concerned for the welfare of his ageing canine companion, tossed him a treat and turned the heater up full, his departure delayed by an unexpected call.

  ‘Mr Byrne,’ he said, ‘that didnae take long, is everything okay?’

  ‘No, Mr Munro. It is not.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised. So, tell me, what’s the problem now? Is it Mr MacDuff?

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Is he not co-operating?’

  ‘He’s not co-operating at all, Mr Munro. He’s dead.’

  Chapter 9

  Although the benefits of living in an urban conurbation were deemed by many to outweigh the negatives, those who triumphed the pubs and clubs, the sprawling shopping malls, and the countless sports facilities were also keen to play down the inherent risk of falling victim to opportunistic muggers, racist thugs, and even dognappers which, as testimony to the failings of modern society, were a daily occurrence throughout the country.

  Observing a shady pair of likely miscreants approaching at speed – a tall, unshaven male dressed like a docker from a fifties B-movie and his sidekick, slight of build and clad in black – one such individual, afraid of being on the receiving end of some gratuitous violence, pulled his keys from his pocket and hastened towards his car.