‘Duncan,’ he said, dryly. ‘Another body?’
‘Aye. You should be paying us a finder’s fee, pal. We’re keeping you in work. Follow me.’
As somebody used to staring death in the face, McLeod, unfazed by the sight of a cold cadaver, stood over MacDuff and made a cursory scan of the body with a forensic light source while Duncan watched from the door.
‘He’s not slipped,’ he said with a yawn, ‘or banged his head. And there’s no blood.’
‘No,’ said McLeod, ‘just the contusion on his neck.’
‘Aye, it’s a belter. What would cause a bruise like that? Is that what killed him?’
‘I can’t say for sure,’ said McLeod, ‘not yet, but it’s certainly possible, aye. Have you got your snaps for the album yet?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll wait until she’s done before I take a closer look.’
‘Is there not anything you can tell me right now?’
‘Aye, plenty,’ said McLeod. ‘Are you needing notes?’
‘Not unless you’re using that fancy medical jargon.’
‘Then I’ll keep it simple. The contusion is located on what we call the fossa jugularis sternalis, or jugular notch for short. Directly behind it is the trachea, or windpipe. Enough pressure here could cause the victim to black out. Prolonged pressure could result in death. And a sharp blow could force the hyaline cartilage through the larynx which would result in blood drowning and obstruction of the airways, but as you know, Duncan, I can’t confirm any of that until I get him on the slab.’
‘Aye, I get that. How about a time of death?’
McLeod grasped a lifeless hand by the fingers and squeezed gently before repeating the process on the toes.
‘No sign of rigor just yet,’ he said, ‘and the extremities are cooling nicely. It’s not exactly cold in here so I’d say somewhere between three and five hours ago. I can give you a better idea once I get a thermometer on him.’
Grogan, carrying a camera in one hand, came prancing into the room like a personal shopper on a hefty commission and handed Duncan a collection of sealed plastic bags.
‘That’s you,’ she said with a smile. ‘Is he ready for his close-up?’
‘Just about,’ said McLeod. ‘I’ll get out your way. Duncan, are you heading back to the office?’
‘I am, aye.’
‘Tell Charlie I was asking for her, would you?’
Chapter 10
Although the harsh winter months had an adverse effect on those susceptible to seasonal affective disorder – the lack of daylight dragging them into the depths of depression and burdening them with a crippling sense of apathy – for others the short, dreich days offered the ideal excuse to hurry home and settle in front of a roaring fire with a large dram and a bar of chocolate, however, much to the annoyance of the over-stretched police departments it also sent the undesirables scurrying to the streets to conduct their business like a plague of cockroaches scavenging for scraps.
Stuck in a queue of slow-moving traffic, Duncan, keen to offload MacDuff’s personal effects and reacquaint his taste buds with an ice cold beer, watched as a couple of scallies – either on the run with a pocketful of merchandise lifted from the convenience store or desperate to get their next fix – scrambled over the railings in the centre of the carriageway, dodged the oncoming traffic, and took shelter in the doorway of a boarded-up shop where one pulled a packet of doubtless stolen cigarettes from his jacket and tossed the cellophane to the ground.
More annoyed at the littering than the thieving, Duncan watched as he cupped his hands around the tip of the fag, the flame of the lighter illuminating the pasty face of a habitual user, and dismissed their antics with a silent ‘there but for the grace of God’ before suddenly glancing in the rear-view mirror, leaving the lane of traffic, and mounting the kerb with his hazards flashing.
The two miscreants nudged each other with their elbows as he lowered the nearside window and leaned forward.
‘Lost something, pal?’ said one with a scowl.
The lad with the cigarette, ignoring his accomplice, swaggered confidently towards the car.
‘Alright?’ he said. ‘Need some help?’
‘Aye,’ said Duncan, clutching a twenty pound note between his fingers.
‘Not here,’ said the lad. ‘Drive around the corner. I’ll get you there.’
Duncan turned down the dingy side street, stepped from the car, and perched on the bonnet with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders twitching against the cold as the young man sauntered towards him.
‘What are you after?’ he said, giggling as only an addict could. ‘Speed? Benzos? Mary Jane?’
‘Got any black?’
The junkie narrowed his eyes, stared at Duncan with a half-smile, and produced a small pellet of tin foil.
‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Forty.’
Duncan looked to the ground, chuckling as he shook his head.
‘Jog on,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you twenty.’
The druggie, holding the nugget between his thumb and forefinger, held out his arm and nodded.
‘Twenty, it is,’ he said as he dropped it into Duncan’s open palm.
‘Nice,’ said Duncan, squinting at the tattoos on his fingers. ‘Can I see?’
The druggie clenched his fist and straightened his arm.
‘Choose life,’ he said, proudly. ‘That’s what I’m doing. Live for the moment, know what I’m saying?’
Taking advantage of the dazed dopehead’s mild sense of euphoria, Duncan, acutely aware that his senses had slowed to that of a banana slug on the brink of hibernation, casually slipped a cuff around his wrist, spun him onto the bonnet of the car, and forced his arm halfway up his back.
‘I’m arresting you under Section 1 of the Criminal Justice Act for possession of a class B drug,’ he said as he fastened the other cuff. ‘I believe that keeping you in custody is necessary before bringing you before a court or otherwise dealing with you in accordance with the law. Do you understand?’
The junkie stared back with a look of surprised bewilderment smeared across his face.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Duncan as he bundled him into the back of the car. ‘Play your cards right and I could do you for intent to supply as well.’
* * *
Astounded by Byrne’s staggering inability to fulfil even the simplest of tasks, and Emma Riley’s apparent amnesia regarding the whereabouts of Daniel McIntyre, West – her frustration heightened by a drop in sugar levels and the desire to demolish a three course meal with a bottle of red – stormed into the office, pulled up a chair, and flung her feet on the table.
Amused by her sullen expression, Munro glanced at Dougal and smiled as Murdo scampered across the floor to greet her.
‘You won’t believe what I’ve just been through,’ she said, stroking the dog.
‘Take a deep breath,’ said Munro. ‘You need to relax.’
‘It’s going to take more than a deep breath to do that, Jimbo. To start with, that Emma Riley, I still say something’s not right about her. Her story’s about as fishy as a tuna sandwich. She claims she’s never been to McIntyre’s house, which I simply cannot believe, and why after all these years she’s suddenly decided to turn on him is beyond me.’
‘Sounds like you’ve had quite a day of it.’
‘I’m not finished yet,’ said West. ‘Your mate Byrne, blimey, I’ll be surprised if he lasts a week in the job.’
‘He’s trying, Charlie.’
‘You’re telling me. Oh, and brace yourself for a shock,’ said West. ‘That MacDuff bloke you’ve been talking to…’
West paused as Munro raised his hands to the side of his head, pressed his fingers against his temples, and closed his eyes.
‘I’m getting a picture,’ he said.
‘You what?’
‘It’s MacDuff. He’s in a kitchen.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘He’s on the floor
,’ said Munro, ‘he’s not looking well and… och! He’s no longer with us. He’s passed over to the other side.’
‘How the hell…?’
‘DI Byrne,’ said Munro. ‘He telephoned as soon as he found the body.’
‘So it was you he was calling! Well I hate to say it but MacDuff snuffing it has put the spanner in the works as far as his investigation’s concerned. The poor bloke doesn’t know where to turn.’
‘Then he’s lucky MacDuff expired on our patch, Charlie. It’s one less thing for him to worry about.’
‘Yes,’ said West, ‘one less for him and one more for us.’
* * *
Duncan, clutching MacDuff’s personal possessions, appeared in the doorway and glanced around the office before his eyes finally settled on West.
‘You look as bad as I feel,’ he said.
‘Thanks very much,’ said West. ‘What took you so long?’
‘I got side-tracked,’ said Duncan as he placed the bags on Dougal’s desk. ‘Do you believe in fate?’
‘You’re asking me?’ said Dougal.
‘Aye.’
‘I do. That’s how I met Kay.’
‘Good. Because apart from these I’ve got something else for you downstairs.’
‘Oh?’
‘The ned who assaulted the roofless fella. I’ve just nicked him for possession.’
‘Are you joking me?’
‘I’m not in a laughing mood just now, pal. He’s wearing a Firetrap jacket and he’s got that festering tattoo on his hand so listen, as we’ve only got twelve hours unless he’s charged I suggest you get yourself down to the interview room as quick as you can. I’ve a meeting with a pint to go to.’
‘I can’t!’ said Dougal. ‘Not if you’re wanting me to go through this lot! It’s going to take a wee while to burrow through those phones, not to mention the laptop.’
‘He’s right,’ said West. ‘Sorry mate, but you’ll have to do it. It’s not late.’
‘No offence, miss, but it’s the back of six,’ said Duncan. ‘That’s twelve hours I’ve been on the go already.’
‘Well, one more won’t hurt. Please. I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘I’ll do it if you don’t. Right, that’s me away downstairs, then. I hope you all have a pleasant evening. Oh, and miss, McLeod’s been asking for you.’
‘Well, someone’s not happy,’ said West as Duncan left the room.
‘I cannae blame him,’ said Munro, ‘I’d be raging too. Right, wee Murdo needs his supper, as do I. Will we go?’
* * *
Of the rag-tag bunch of guilty offenders ever to have graced the cramped confines of the interview room there had been those who’d regarded the likes of West as less qualified, less capable, and less threatening than her male counterparts whilst others, when confronted by Dougal, had considered it empowering to laugh in the face of the somewhat bookish detective. But only the foolish, invariably driven by the ignorance of youth, dared to cross the line with Duncan who, by appearance alone, was more likely to land a right hook than worry about answers to any questions.
Sitting with his legs splayed and his eyes still slightly glazed, the tattooed ned looked up and gave a fatuous grin as Duncan tossed a large, brown envelope onto the table, pulled up a chair, and glared unflinchingly across the desk until the smile dropped from his face.
‘Are you just going to sit and stare?’ he said. ‘Or are you actually going to say something?’
Duncan reached forward and stabbed the voice recorder.
‘The time,’ he said, ‘is 6:29pm. I am Detective Sergeant Reid. For the benefit of the tape would you please state your name.’
‘No,’ said the ned, smirking as he shook his head.
‘Sorry?’
‘No. I know my rights.’
‘Well, see here, pal,’ said Duncan with a sigh, ‘I’m a wee bit rusty myself so perhaps you’d care to remind me.’
‘Right. Well, for a start, I don’t have to say anything. I don’t have to say anything at all.’
Duncan leaned back and folded his arms.
‘Actually,’ he said quietly, ‘that’s where you’re wrong. As you’ve been arrested on suspicion of committing an offence you are required by law to state your name, your address, your date of birth, and your nationality.’
‘No.’
‘Failure to do so means you’ll be issued with a fine and detained until you do.’
‘Okay then. Humpty Dumpty.’
‘Providing a false name is also an offence. So, that’s two fines you’ve got so far and by the way, unless you’re one of those secret millionaires, you should know that failure to pay the fines will result in a custodial sentence. Now, I’m sure your mother’s wondering where you are so let’s go for third time lucky, shall we? Name?’
Ruffled by the fact that Duncan, unlike the other officers he’d encountered in recent years, failed to show the slightest signs of anger or even raise his voice, the ned glanced sheepishly around the room, dropped the bravado, and lowered his voice.
‘John,’ he said.
‘John what?’
‘Drennan.’
‘Address?’
‘Green Street.’
‘Good. Now before we go any further,’ said Duncan, ‘someone as clever as you will no doubt be aware that you’re entitled to legal representation, so would you like to call your solicitor?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Would you like me to appoint a duty solicitor?’
‘Waste of time,’ said Drennan. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Well there’s clearly something wrong with your memory,’ said Duncan, ‘because you were arrested less than an hour ago for carrying a class B drug which you then sold to me. That’s supply as well as possession, two offences rolled into one.’
Drennan, reverting to form, locked his hands behind his head and laughed.
‘That’s not going to stick!’ he said. ‘You’ve no chance! See, the way you got me, that’s called entrapment. You can’t do that!’
‘I can,’ said Duncan, calmly, ‘but that’s not why you’re here. I’m not interested in your drugs. I want to know why you knocked seven bells out of some poor homeless fella who was trying to get some kip in a doorway.’
Drennan, wearing a look normally reserved for eight-year-olds who’d just been told that Santa Claus did not exist, froze in his seat.
‘Do you know what I think?’ said Duncan. ‘I think it’s hard enough for fellas like that at the best of times but at this time of year, Christ it must be tough. So, why did you do it?’
Drennan hesitated as his mouth began to dry up.
‘You’ve got the wrong fella,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘See here, Mr Drennan, I’ll give you some advice. If you’re going to do something like this then you have to be one hundred per cent sure you’re not going to get caught. Now, dressing in black, keeping your back to the camera, and wearing a hood, that’s good, I’ll give you that, but you should have worn some gloves. Especially with a tattoo like yours. So, what was it? Were you angry? Had you argued with someone? Or was it just a bit of fun?’
Drennan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared blankly at the desk.
‘No comment,’ he said.
‘Let me spell things out for you,’ said Duncan, as his patience wore thin, ‘we have enough evidence to put you away for assault, that means anywhere from six months to a couple of years in the big house but I’m going to do you a favour. Tell me exactly why you did it and I’ll see what I can do about getting you a lenient sentence, even a suspended, maybe.’
‘No comment.’
Duncan grabbed the envelope, tipped the contents to the desk, and laid them out in a neat line.
‘For the benefit of the tape,’ he said, ‘I am now showing Mr Drennan the items found about his person when arrested. One mobile phone. One packet of cigarettes. One lighter. One packet of cigarette papers. O
ne set of house keys. One plastic pouch of what appears to be hashish, yet to be verified. Two foil pellets believed to contain cannabis resin, also yet to be verified. And exactly three hundred and fifty-seven pounds in cash. What do you do for a living, Mr Drennan?’
Drennan shrugged his shoulders.
‘No comment,’ he said.
‘How did you come by this much cash?’
‘No comment.’
‘Well, as you’ve chosen to exercise your right to remain silent, I may as well leave you to it.’
‘You’re letting me go?’
‘Don’t be daft. You had a chance, pal, and you blew it. You’ll be here for another twelve hours and when I come back in the morning if you still refuse to co-operate, I’ll not waste my breath with any more questions, I’ll simply charge you with assault and make a recommendation to the fiscal that you get the maximum sentence possible.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then,’ said Duncan, ‘you’ll be in court before lunch and I can almost certainly guarantee you’ll be in your cell by teatime.’
Drennan, squirming in his seat, frowned as he hastily weighed up his options.
‘But you could get me off?’ he said. ‘With a suspended sentence?’
‘No. I said I’d see what I could do. So, do you want to start again?’
‘Aye.’
‘Right. So what do you do for a living?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So, you’re signing on?’
‘Aye.’
‘And where did you get this cash?’
‘It’s my dole money.’
‘Oh, you must think I’m zipped up the back, pal! Jobseeker’s Allowance is fifty-eight quid a week so I’ll ask you once more, where did the money come from?’
‘I did a job,’ said Drennan. ‘A wee job. Cash in hand.’
‘What kind of job?’
Mindful of repercussions should he speak up, Drennan, wondering if there really was such a thing as honour amongst thieves, sat on his hands as he contemplated the hole he was in.
‘Okay, I’ve had enough,’ said Duncan. ‘See here, Mr Drennan, I’m not like those snowflakes and councillors you see on the telly whining about the likes of you being victims of society. I’ve been there. We all have a choice and as far as I’m concerned you can either turn your life around or do a spell inside and right now, you’re in line for the latter. I’ll see you in the morning.’
PENURY: A bizarre death tests Scotland’s finest (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 12) Page 9