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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘I do my best.’

  ‘What the hell, just what the hell is MacDuff doing with a key to the Lexus?’

  ‘Maybe it’s not McIntyre’s,’ said Dougal, apologetically. ‘Maybe he’s got one himself, tucked away somewhere, in a garage maybe.’

  ‘Nice try,’ said West, ‘but it’s too late for sticking plasters, Dougal.’

  ‘The only logical explanation,’ said Munro, ‘is that McIntyre was known to MacDuff.’

  ‘Talk about stating the bleeding obvious,’ said West. ‘The question is, Jimbo, why? What’s the connection? And how do we prove it?’

  ‘One step at a time, Charlie. Start at the beginning. Think about it.’

  ‘I am! MacDuff knew Barlow. Barlow knew Riley. And Riley knows McIntyre. So what’s the link between the first and the last?’

  ‘You’ve already got a link, Charlie. Prove it and you’re on your way. What do you need when you drive a car?’

  ‘Oh, you’re great help today,’ said West. ‘A key. You need a flipping key, and we’ve got the key!’

  Munro, unimpressed, scowled at West then opened his newspaper and said nothing.

  ‘Okay. We’ve got the key,’ said West. ‘What else do you need. Petrol? An MOT? Insurance? Of course! Jimbo, you’re a genius! Dougal, can we check if McIntyre’s got any named drivers on his policy?’

  ‘Easy, miss,’ said Dougal, as he logged into the Motor Insurance Database. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  ‘Far be it for me to interfere,’ said Munro, ‘but if this proves fruitful you’ll have to have another wee chat with Miss Riley.’

  ‘Already done that, Jimbo. She claims never to have heard of MacDuff.’

  ‘What she claims and what she knows,’ said Munro, ‘is the difference between reality and fantasy. I’m sure that key will jog her memory.’

  Not wanting to interrupt, Dougal, like a wean wanting to be excused, raised his arm and waited politely.

  ‘Got something?’ said West. ‘Please tell me you’ve got something.’

  ‘McIntyre’s policy was taken out on the twenty-third of October last year, miss, and Alan MacDuff is down as a named driver.’

  ‘Thank you, God!’ said West, as she grabbed the key. ‘I’m off to see Riley, you two do something useful while I’m gone. And if you hear any banging, that’ll be my head against the wall.’

  Chapter 16

  Unlike a junior detective who’d wallow in the glory of a facile conviction based on overwhelming evidence and a suspect’s admission of guilt, Munro – rankled by the lack of intelligence concerning Rebecca Barlow’s ill-fated transition from property developer to hotelier – preferred the challenge of searching for chinks in the armour of a suspect’s testimony or a witness’s statement in order to bring the perpetrator to justice.

  Embroiled in a case with more missing pieces than a charity shop jigsaw puzzle, he leaned back, closed his eyes, and sat with his hands clasped behind his head as he quietly contemplated the conundrum, his furrowed brow causing Dougal a degree of consternation.

  ‘Are you okay, boss? Will I fetch you an aspirin?’

  Munro smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I’ve an itch,’ he said, ‘and I cannae scratch it.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The old Commercial Hotel. It was owned by a gentleman called Jack Muir. He and his wife had lived there for decades.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was older than me,’ said Munro, ‘but we’re both cut from the same cloth. We’re what some folk might call “the make do and mend” generation.’

  ‘Aye well, there’s nothing wrong with that,’ said Dougal. ‘I’d take it as a compliment. So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘If I’d lived in the same house for forty, fifty, sixty years, I’d not give it up that easily, especially if I was in my twilight years, so why did Jack? Why did he readily accept an offer on his house? The house where he’d raised a family. I cannae fathom it just now, but I will.’

  ‘Maybe he just fancied a change,’ said Dougal.

  ‘Wait until you’re my age, laddie. Trust me, the last thing you’ll be wanting is change.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Munro, ‘there is, aye. Jack Muir, you’ve got his address, see what you can find on him, the obituaries might be a good place to start–’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘–and he’d have needed a solicitor to complete the sale of the old Commercial, follow the trail from Land Registry and find out who it was. With any luck he may have used the same firm to draft his Last Will and Testament. I’ll make us a brew while you crack on.’

  * * *

  Reminded of the comfort and security he derived from his own home where every room, nook, and cranny was filled with indelible memories of his late wife, Munro, smiling wistfully, filled the mugs, his musings cut short by the piercing warble of the landline.

  ‘Duncan, it’s yourself,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Aye, chief. I tried Westy but she’s not picking up.’

  ‘She’s with that Riley woman,’ said Munro. ‘Can I help or would you rather speak with Dougal?’

  ‘No, no. You’ll do.’

  ‘Flattered, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s McIntyre’s Lexus,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was he who picked it up?’

  ‘No. But I’ve called the council and it’s not been towed so it must have been him.’

  ‘Perhaps if you’d been an hour earlier, thirty minutes, maybe.’

  ‘Aye well, there’s no point dwelling on “ifs” and “maybes”, is there, chief?’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Munro, ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘I had a wee swatch inside Riley’s house, it doesn’t look as though anything’s been disturbed, not so far as I can tell, anyway.’

  ‘So have you a plan of action?’

  ‘I have,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ve given control details of the Lexus so uniform can keep an eye out for it. I told them to alert traffic too. I don’t know why but I’ve a feeling he might head back towards Carlisle. If he’s on the motorway then their ANPR might pick him up.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to hand it to you,’ said Munro, ‘you’re on the ball this morning, you’ll not be needing my help, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Is there anything in particular Charlie should be made aware of?’

  ‘No, just fill her in, please, chief. I’m away back to MacDuff’s house just now, it’s the only other place he could possibly go. I’ll be a while yet.’

  * * *

  Munro, feeling a flush of pride at Duncan’s progression from an errant DC into a DS capable of controlling his own destiny, handed Dougal his tea and pulled up a chair.

  ‘Any luck?’ he said.

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Dougal. ‘This, boss, has been a breeze.’

  ‘Maybe it’s my age,’ said Munro, ‘but everyone seems to be firing on all cylinders this morning. I’m beginning to think my days are numbered.’

  ‘Well I can’t speak for the others, boss, but so far as I’m concerned it’s probably the after-effects of the Irn-Bru I had for breakfast.’

  ‘If you carry on drinking that stuff,’ said Munro, ‘you’ll not need a tanning salon. So, what’s the story?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get more details and verification on this in an email later this afternoon,’ said Dougal, ‘but so far, we’re here – the solicitors used for the conveyancing in the sale of the old Commercial Hotel were Cox, Latham, and Hines of Dalbeattie and you were right, they also drafted Jack Muir’s will and they acted as executors of his estate.’

  ‘So we’re off to a cracking start. What else?’

  ‘Well, I had to wheedle it out of them ahead of their email but I did manage to find out that Jack Muir was good to the tune of £212,786.’

  ‘Good grief!’ said Munro. ‘No disrespect to the dearly departed b
ut the man must have been a penny-pinching miser. Did they tell you anything else about the will?’

  ‘They did, aye. Everything was left to his wife but in the event that she should pass before him, then it would all go to his son, Fraser. They gave me an address for him. He’s in Perth, western Australia.’

  ‘And did she?’ said Munro. ‘Did his wife pass before him?’

  ‘Aye. By four days.’

  ‘And his daughter, Barbara? Was she not mentioned in the will?’

  ‘No, boss. She got hee-haw. Nothing. Not a penny.’

  Ruminating on the vagaries of family life and how greed, jealousy, and sibling rivalry had the potential to drive a wedge between members of the same household, Munro, relieved to have no offspring of his own, took a moment and sipped his tea.

  ‘Why?’ he said, softly. ‘Tell me, Dougal, why would he do that? If his son’s away and his daughter’s here, why did he not split the inheritance between them? Why was she cut out of the will?’

  ‘Oh, you’re asking the wrong fella,’ said Dougal, ‘my family’s tighter than a hangman’s noose. We don’t even argue.’

  ‘Well, this has all the hallmarks of a family rift,’ said Munro, draining his cup. ‘See what you can find on his daughter, Barbara, maybe we’ll discover the reason there. Now, it might be cold but the sun’s shining. I’m of a mind to take a wee drive in the country.’

  ‘Somewhere near Auchencairn, no doubt.’

  Munro hooked Murdo to his lead, turned to Dougal, and smiled.

  ‘You know me too well,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back after lunch.’

  * * *

  Like a boxer who’d taken one too many blows to the head, Riley, sitting with her shoulders hunched and her hands dangling between her knees, barely flinched as West, regarding her dishevelled state as an indication that her ploy to wear her down was about to reap some dividends, gently closed the door and pulled up a chair.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she said. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Emma Riley.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’m pre-empting your first question,’ said Riley. ‘Let’s get this over with, I’m pure shattered and I need to sleep.’

  ‘You and me, both.’

  ‘So, what is it this time?’

  ‘Alan MacDuff.’

  ‘Did you not mention him before?’

  ‘I did,’ said West, ‘and you claimed not to know him.’

  ‘Did I? Well in that case, I still don’t.’

  West, not averse to fabricating the truth if the ends justified the means, sat back and folded her arms.

  ‘We’ve still got several hours on the clock,’ she said, ‘and if we run out of time I’ve two more charges I can throw at you. Two more separate charges. You could be here that long we’ll have to start charging you rent.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg,’ said Riley. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out. It’s up to you.’

  West reached into her pocket, retrieved the key fob, and laid it on the table.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘is a key for McIntyre’s car. The Lexus. How did we get it? I hear you ask. Have we found McIntyre? No. This key belonged to Alan MacDuff. So, last chance, what’s the deal with McIntyre and MacDuff?’

  Believing that anything she said could only further the case against McIntyre without incriminating herself, Riley, head bowed, conceded defeat and spoke without looking up.

  ‘They’ve not known each other long,’ she said, heaving a sigh. ‘They met when MacDuff was going through his divorce.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Glasgow, I think. Some seedy pub Danny used to like.’

  ‘Seedy, how?’

  ‘Low lives. Wheeler-dealers. Everyone on the make.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, they’re two of a kind,’ said Riley, ‘a couple of chancers with an eye for the ladies.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘They got on like a house on fire. Two single fellas in the pub with nothing to do but leer at the women, talk about football, and drink until they could barely stand. Danny took a shine to MacDuff and when he told him his wife was about to kick him out of the house, that was it. Danny answered all his prayers in one.’

  ‘I never realised he was so generous,’ said West. ‘So, what did he do? Bung him a few quid or something?’

  ‘Aye. And the rest. Danny gave him an empty rental property to stay in until he got back on his feet.’

  ‘Taylor Street?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And McIntyre,’ said West, ‘did he kip there too?’

  ‘Sometimes. Normally after they’d got hammered in the pub.’

  ‘And when he wasn’t with MacDuff, where did he stay?’

  ‘He had a wee flat above the agency,’ said Riley. ‘In Dumfries.’

  ‘Does he still have it?’

  ‘No. He let it go when the business folded.’

  ‘And his relationship with MacDuff,’ said West. ‘This great friendship of theirs. I’m assuming it all started before he went under.’

  ‘Aye. How the mighty fall, eh?’

  ‘So, how come he went bust?’ said West. ‘I mean, estate agents earn a packet for doing bugger all. He must’ve been minted.’

  ‘The market went flat,’ said Riley. ‘He’s not a big chain or a firm of solicitors, he was an independent businessman. If the houses weren’t selling, he wasn’t earning. So that was him humped.’

  ‘Even so, surely he had something tucked away. Savings?’

  ‘Not Danny. He liked to look the part. He spent a wee fortune on anything that made him look good. Fancy suits, flash cars, expensive watches.’

  ‘And when he lost it all, what did he do, then? I mean, he had to earn a living somehow.’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Riley. ‘I’d not be sitting here if he’d got himself a job in McDonald’s now, would I?’

  ‘Right. So McIntyre gave MacDuff the run of the place on Taylor Street. Was that it, or did he do anything else for him before he ended up skint?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Riley. ‘He threw some work his way to keep him busy, to earn his keep, as it were.’

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘Replacing the security cameras in the Falkirk office, then the ones in Dumfries, and when he’d finished that…’

  Riley paused, slowly raised her head, and stared at West.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, he had him,’ said Riley. ‘Danny had MacDuff in the palm of his hand, he could get him to do anything he wanted and MacDuff wasn’t in a position to refuse. Now I think about it, I reckon that was his plan all along.’

  ‘Get to the point,’ said West. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He gave him a wee job. A wee driving job.’

  Experiencing the same rush of relief as someone who’d struggled for days to release the lid on a jar of marmalade, West, allowing herself the subtlest of smiles, left the table and stood with her arms folded in the corner of the room.

  ‘It was MacDuff, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘When you came out of the supermarket, it was Alan MacDuff who picked you up.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Riley with a nod. ‘It was him.’

  ‘So, apart from acting as your own personal chauffeur, what else did he do with this little driving job?’

  ‘Parcels. He delivered parcels.’

  ‘We’re not talking FedEx here, are we?’

  ‘No,’ said Riley, ‘it was the same sort of parcels I used to handle.’

  ‘So, he did you out of a job?’

  ‘Aye, but that never bothered me,’ said Riley. ‘The fact of the matter is, I was glad to be shot of it.’

  ‘But you were still working for McIntyre. What did you do?’

  ‘I kept the local punters happy.’

  ‘Local, like John Drennan?’

  ‘Aye, just like John…’

  ‘Oops, looks like you just slipped up, Miss Riley. You really shoul
d learn to concentrate when you’re answering these questions. Now, is there anything else you’d like to add before I charge you?’

  * * *

  In contrast to the view from the village square which, though easy on the eye, was limited to rows of whitewashed cottages and the local garage, the nearby Shore Road offered the spectacle of Hestan Island’s snow-covered slopes shimmering in the low, winter sunshine as the incoming tide battered its rugged coastline.

  Smiling at the sight of a lovelorn pheasant gamely pursuing a clearly uninterested hen, Munro turned his back on the sea, brought Murdo to heel, and returned to the car as he answered the call.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, as he slammed the door shut, ‘you’ve caught me just in time.’

  ‘I’m not holding you up, am I, boss?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve just arrived. Have you some news for me?’

  ‘Oh aye. And if you’re not sitting down, I suggest you do. I’ve spent the last ninety minutes researching that Barbara Muir for you. Have you spoken to her yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Munro, ‘but it sounds as though you’re about to pass the ammunition.’

  ‘I am, boss. I’ve trawled through everything I can lay my hands on – the National Records, the General Register Office, births, marriages, deaths, the lot – and it seems that Barbara Muir, née Cassidy–’

  ‘Ho! Just a wee moment there, laddie! What do you mean, née?’

  ‘She’s not Jack Muir’s daughter,’ said Dougal. ‘According to the Adopted Children’s Register she was taken in by the Muirs at age fourteen after her parents, Gary and Kerry Cassidy were both killed.’

  ‘Killed? Dear God,’ said Munro, ‘to lose one parent is hard enough but two? How on earth did that happen?’

  ‘It was a rail accident, boss. Invergowrie, 1979. They were on their holidays. Barbara and her brother were two of three lucky ones to be pulled alive from the wreckage.’

  ‘And her brother? Was he adopted too?’

  ‘Aye, but by a different family.’

  ‘Well, I’m much obliged,’ said Munro. ‘It seems I shall have to tread lightly. After a loss like that I’m sure she’s still suffering. Was there anything else?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal, ‘the village shop, it used to be a residential premises, a ground floor flat.’