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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Ho! You!’ said Duncan, increasing his pace. ‘Hold on, there!’

  ‘You alright, sir?’ said West, catching her breath. ‘You look distressed.’

  Byrne whipped his warrant card from his pocket and held it at arm’s length like a petrified priest conducting an exorcism.

  ‘That’s far enough!’ he said. ‘Police! Back off!’

  Duncan, amused by his reaction, smiled and produced his own.

  ‘Snap!’ he said. ‘DS Reid, and this is DI West.’

  West pulled a flashlight from her hip and directed the beam towards Byrne’s badge.

  ‘You’re not one of us,’ she said, bluntly.

  ‘Dumfries!’ said Byrne loudly, as if protesting his innocence. ‘I’m stationed in Dumfries!’

  ‘Then what the hell are you… oh, hold on, you’re the bloke Jimbo’s been talking about. I mean, DI Munro.’

  ‘James Munro! Aye! Thank God for that! For a minute there I thought you two were a couple of–’

  ‘Say no more,’ said West, raising her hand and cutting him short, ‘it happens a lot, especially with him. You’re here to interview a witness, is that right?’

  ‘Aye. Alan MacDuff. So Mr Munro’s obviously filled you in then?’

  ‘He gave us a few details,’ said West. ‘In confidence. Something about a fatality in Auchencairn, right?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ said Duncan. ‘Is this MacDuff fella giving you grief?’

  ‘No, no. I never got the chance to speak to him.’

  ‘How so? Has he legged it?’

  ‘No,’ said Byrne. ‘He’s dead. He’s in the kitchen and he’s dead.’

  West glanced furtively at Duncan and fumbled in her pocket for a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘How did you get in?’ she said, snapping them on.

  ‘The door’s open.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll handle it from here. First you can show us exactly where he is, then you can wait in your car while we make a few calls.’

  ‘With all due respect,’ said Byrne, ‘MacDuff is my witness and I–’

  ‘With all due respect, Mr Byrne, I’ve got one word for you – jurisdiction. Now, lead on.’

  * * *

  Quietly content to have the case taken off his hands, DI Byrne led them into the building and waited as West, her brow furrowed with bewilderment, glared at Duncan.

  ‘Flat 2!’ she said, pointing out the numerals on the door. ‘This is McIntyre’s address!’

  ‘I hope you’ve got that photo handy,’ said Duncan, ‘because it looks like our Mr McIntyre’s been living under a pseudonym.’

  With her blood pressure rising and the adrenalin pumping, West followed Byrne along the narrow hallway to the dingy lounge.

  ‘Can we get some lights on, please? I can’t see a flipping thing in here.’

  ‘I’ll pull the curtain,’ said Duncan, flicking the switch. ‘We’ll not want folk queuing at the window for a wee swatch at what’s going on.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like anything’s been touched,’ said West. ‘Mind you, there isn’t actually much to touch.’

  ‘Aye, it’s a bit like Barlow’s place,’ said Byrne.

  ‘Barlow?’

  ‘She’s the girl in Auchencairn. Someone gained entry to her house and left everything untouched. Everything except her office, that is. It was a total mess.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Completely trashed, paperwork, files, documents, they were all over the place.’

  ‘Trashed?’ said West. ‘Or ransacked?’

  ‘Sorry, you’re right. Ransacked.’

  ‘So they were looking for something?’

  ‘Aye, I reckon so,’ said Byrne. ‘And there was no sign of a forced entry at her place either. Like I say, the door here was open.’

  ‘So MacDuff might have known his attacker?’

  ‘Aye, maybe, unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Well, I’m just thinking,’ said Byrne, trying his best to sound proficient, ‘unless it was some chancer. A courier maybe who bluffed his way in and–’

  ‘Oh, give me a break!’ said West, pointing at the coffee table, ‘a couple of mobiles and a laptop. He’d have had it away with that lot for a start!’

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘Not a very productive one.’

  ‘He’d have had this lot too,’ said Duncan, squatting by a pile of boxes stacked against the wall. ‘You’d get a fair few quid for these on eBay.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Security cameras, miss. Brand new. And an LCD monitor.’

  West turned to Byrne and regarded him with a frown.

  ‘This Barlow girl,’ she said, ‘have you ascertained a cause of death yet?’

  ‘We’re still waiting on results,’ said Byrne. ‘I’m hoping we’ll have something by the morning.’

  ‘But she definitely knew MacDuff?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Duncan stared at West and smiled.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ he said.

  ‘If you mean that Barlow’s dead and she knew MacDuff and now he’s dead so the perp could be the same person then, yeah. It’s worth a shot. If we can find someone who’s known to the pair of them, then we might be on to something. Mr Byrne, have you got a list of people that Barlow might have been mixing with? Workmates, friends, that sort of thing?’

  Byrne, biting his lip, nodded a little too enthusiastically.

  ‘Aye, of course,’ he said. ‘Actually, what I mean is, almost. We’re working on it.’

  ‘Good. Send it over as soon as it’s available. Right, let’s have a look at this MacDuff geezer, shall we?’

  * * *

  Untouched in decades, the kitchen – with its brown melamine units, speckled Formica worktop, antiquated gas cooker, and farmhouse style table – held a questionable appeal for lovers of retro-inspired interiors but for Duncan the most interesting feature was the rise and fall pendant, which lent a jaundiced tinge to the anaemic body lying prostrate on the floor.

  ‘Well, I can tell you this for nothing,’ he said, ‘that’s not Daniel McIntyre.’

  ‘So, he’s got two addresses and doesn’t live at either of them.’

  ‘Correction, he’s got two that we know of. I’d not be surprised if he’s got two more.’

  ‘Right,’ said West, ‘we need another word with Riley. At this rate she’ll be getting a loyalty card from Gateside.’

  Duncan, crouching beside the corpse, stared into the lifeless eyes and, struck by the look of utter surprise frozen on the face, laid the back of his hand gently across the forehead.

  ‘Still warm,’ he said. ‘Not roasting, but warm all the same. We’ll need McLeod to confirm it but I’m guessing it may have been as little as two or three hours ago.’

  ‘What? So we could’ve just missed him!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Byrne, ‘missed who?’

  ‘Are you for real? The bloke who did this of course! Christ, this is so annoying!’

  ‘Well we did have other fish to fry,’ said Duncan, ‘and to be honest, we could’ve missed him by a mile.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ said West. ‘I’m over-reacting. Well, McIntyre’s going to have to take a back seat for now, this is more important.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ said Byrne. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, who’s McIntyre?’

  ‘He’s the reason we’re here. Nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘There’s no sign of blood,’ said Duncan, ‘and no weapon to be found, just a whopper of a bruise on his neck, just below the Adam’s apple.’

  ‘What does that mean? Did he choke?’

  ‘I’m not Quincy, miss. That’s another one for McLeod to sort out.’

  Duncan stood aside as West, folding her arms, scrutinised the body before muttering out loud as she slowly paced her way around the kitchen commentating on all that lay before her.

  �
�Black T-shirt, jeans, bare feet. Wrong position to have slipped and hit his head. Washing in the sink, one plate, one fork. Mug on the counter, teabag floating on the top, not stirred. Bread in the toaster, not pushed down. A side plate, knife, a jar of marmalade and a butter dish on the table–’

  ‘I’m not normally one for interrupting,’ said Byrne, ‘but should we not be calling the SOCOs by now? I mean, all this talk of bare feet and toast, is that really relevant?’

  ‘Aye. No offence, sir,’ said Duncan, ‘but it’s incredibly relevant. See, what it means is that MacDuff wasn’t entertaining, in fact he wasn’t even expecting anyone and with no shoes he had no intention of going out. He was making himself a brew and something to eat when he was interrupted by someone chapping his door. More than likely, the same someone who killed him.’

  ‘And there’s no sign of struggle,’ said West, ‘which means that whoever did this took him by surprise, got straight down to business, and left.’

  ‘Aye, one thing’s for sure,’ said Duncan, ‘this fella was deliberately targeted.’

  ‘So,’ said West, ‘have you got any pearls of wisdom to add to the mix, Mr Byrne? Anything that might help us on our way?’

  ‘I think you’ve covered everything,’ said Byrne. ‘I’ll wait in the car while you make your calls.’

  West returned to the lounge and listened for the slam of a car door before speaking.

  ‘He’s not going to last long, is he?’ she said. ‘He’s got his flipping head in the clouds.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Duncan. ‘Even a twelve-year-old playing Cluedo shows more nous than him.’

  ‘Right, I’ll call McLeod, you take care of the rest.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘We need uniform out front and SOCOs here asap, tell them to dust his personal gear first then bag it up and bring it back so Dougal can get cracking. I’m going to have a quick word with Poirot outside then I’m going to see Riley. I’ll get you at the office.’

  ‘No bother and, miss, be sure to take your Defender. If it’s all the same with you I’d quite like my car back.’

  * * *

  Ignoring Byrne’s invitation to chat through the open window, West, drawing on the compassionate side of her nature in an effort to ease the tension between them, walked around the front of the filthy Astra and hopped into the passenger seat.

  ‘Talk through the window like that,’ she said, ‘and people will think you’re propositioning me.’

  ‘I should apologise,’ said Byrne. ‘I’m not thinking straight.’

  ‘One of those days, eh? No worries, we all have them. Things are always a bit fraught at times like this.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. It was a bit of a shock, that’s all. I thought I’d get a wee interview under my belt and be on my way.’

  ‘Well there’s nothing like the odd body to keep us on our toes. So, tell me, how was MacDuff involved with the girl in Auchencairn? They were in a relationship, is that right?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Byrne, ‘at least, I don’t think they were. From what we can gather he was working for her. I’m just glad Mr Munro had a chat with him before he died or we probably wouldn’t even know that.’

  ‘And why is he of interest? Why him in particular?’

  ‘Because,’ said Byrne, ‘there’s every chance that he was the last one to see Barlow alive. I was hoping he might have given us a lead.’

  ‘Well, it looks like him snuffing it has put the kybosh on that. Have you got a plan B?’

  ‘Aye. I just have to think of it first.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Now listen, if MacDuff was working for Barlow then I’m going to need everything you’ve got on her. Maybe then we can sort this mess out between us.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Byrne. ‘I’ll send it over this evening. And thanks.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Listening. Understanding.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. This is your first case, isn’t it? At the helm, I mean.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, we’ve all got to start somewhere but take it from me, it doesn’t get any easier.’

  * * *

  Mindful of the fact that the rumble of her rattling Defender might arouse the suspicions of Riley’s nosy neighbours, West, keen to arrive undetected, coasted to a halt some distance from the house, walked briskly along the darkened street and, with Riley keeping her profile as low as a limbo dancer, pressed her ear to the door and listened for any signs of movement as she gently rapped the letterbox.

  ‘It’s DI West,’ she said, softly. ‘Can you open up, please.’

  Riley inched open the door and beckoned her inside.

  ‘Back already,’ she said, nervously. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘More than you’ll ever know,’ said West, ‘but let’s not worry about that now. I see McIntyre’s motor’s still outside.’

  ‘Aye, Christ knows when he’ll be back. It could be two in the morning, then again, he could be two minutes away.’

  ‘Then I’ll get out of your hair. I just need to verify a few things.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘And listen, I’m putting my trust in you so you’d better be straight with me, have you got that?’

  ‘Aye, of course.’

  ‘Good. Now, McIntyre, the address you gave us, you’re sure that’s the right one?’

  ‘Aye, positive.’

  ‘Have you been there? To his house?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘No need,’ said Riley. ‘He only told me where he lives in case of an emergency. He said that unless it was a matter of life or death then under no circumstances was I ever to go there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He said it was for my own good,’ said Riley. ‘My own protection. He said he couldn’t afford to leave a paper trail, whatever that is.’

  ‘Do you know if he rents it, or owns it?’

  ‘I honestly couldn’t say,’ said Riley.

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘do you know if he has any other addresses? Another flat, or business premises, maybe?’

  ‘No, not that I know of.’

  ‘Right. Last question. Have you ever heard of someone called Alan MacDuff?’

  Riley pursed her lips and shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I once knew a MacAllister if that’s any help.’

  ‘None at all. What about McIntyre, has he ever mentioned a MacDuff? A drinking pal, maybe? Or someone he’s bought gear off?’

  ‘No, sorry. Not that I recall.’

  ‘And you’re sure about that?’

  ‘Aye, positive. Why?’

  ‘Let us worry the “whys”,’ said West. ‘Just you keep your nose clean and we’ll be in touch.’

  * * *

  With only two rooms left to inspect, Duncan – hoping to unearth a kilo of smack to justify the apparently motiveless murder – was surprised to find MacDuff’s lack of personal possessions and high standards of hygiene to be the antithesis of the average person’s perception of the single male.

  Proclaiming the bathroom a health hazard due to the toxic stench of bleach and tiles white enough to incur a debilitating bout of snow-blindness he moved to the sparsely furnished bedroom where a chest of drawers revealed enough neatly pressed T-shirts to open a clothing store whilst the wardrobe held precisely two shirts, a full length overcoat, some bed linen, an expanding box file containing everything pertaining to his financial affairs, and a hand-written sales ledger detailing his business transactions to date.

  Distracted by the sound of voices emanating from the street, he bagged up the book and the box file and made his way back to the lounge.

  * * *

  Whist many of those skilled in the art of forensic investigation considered the peace and relative isolation of a crime scene the ideal environment in which to work, the diminutive Kay Grogan – an experienced SOCO blessed with a contagious enthusiasm – preferred to share her discoveries i
n real time with anyone who cared to listen.

  Clad in a Tyvek suit with a matching face mask strapped around her chin, she bounded into the flat with a fire in her eyes and an aluminium briefcase dangling from her left arm.

  ‘Duncan!’ she said, grinning wildly. ‘This is exciting, isn’t it!’

  ‘Aye. I’m beside myself. Are you on happy pills?’

  ‘Don’t need them. So, what have we got?’

  ‘Nothing special, hen. Not unless you want to give a body the once over.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Grogan, ‘but I think the pathologist might have something to say about that. I’ll take a few pics for posterity, though. Did they break in?’

  ‘No,’ said Duncan, ‘it looks as though the fella in the kitchen let his killer in so we’re looking for any dabs that don’t belong to him.’

  ‘It’s not just fingerprints, though, is it?’ said Grogan. ‘There’s fibres, latent footprints, dead skin cells, DNA swabs, everything! I’ll be as thorough as I can.’

  ‘I had a feeling you would but first,’ said Duncan, pointing at the coffee table, ‘I need that laptop and those mobile phones dusted as quick as you can. I need to take them with me.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Grogan, ‘but there’s no need to wait, I can drop them over later.’

  Duncan smiled at Grogan and winked.

  ‘Any excuse to see Dougal, eh?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, I hate to disappoint you, Kay, but you’ve got your hands full here and Dougal’s going to be flat out once I get this lot back, so you’ll have to make do with a Zoom call at bedtime.’

  ‘Spoilsport. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be done.’

  ‘Ho! Anyone home?’

  Recognising the voice in the hall, Duncan threw his head back and sighed as the fatigue began to set in.

  ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus,’ he said. ‘In here!’

  With a mop of wavy red hair and a tangled mess of a beard, the willowy Dr Andy McLeod – half lumberjack, half Viking – possessed all the skills of a master butcher, a career he’d considered before excelling in his chosen profession as a forensic pathologist.