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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘You’re not telling me it’s a den of iniquity, are you? All massage parlours and wife-swapping?’

  ‘Och, that’s tame by comparison,’ said Munro. ‘We’re talking smuggling, theft, murder, and betrayal. Not to mention the odd haunting or two.’

  Duncan sat back, cradled his coffee in both hands, and smiled at Munro.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘You’ve got me. What’s the story?’

  ‘Rebecca Barlow. She was found tied to a stake next to a dead tree. A rowan tree.’

  ‘Sorry, chief, I’m not a gardener, you’ll have to explain.’

  ‘I’ll keep it brief. In Celtic mythology it’s considered bad luck to fell a rowan. For want of a better phrase, hell hath no fury like a rowan downed. The repercussions could be fatal.’

  ‘Like a black cat crossing your path?’

  ‘If it’s a panther, aye.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Duncan, ‘I’m all for a bit of folklore, what else?’

  ‘The Hass Burn runs through the village, in fact, it runs right behind the old Commercial Hotel. Not too long ago a woman, unknown to anyone in the village, was found dead on the banks. Cause of death unknown.’

  ‘You mean she didn’t drown?’

  ‘The post-mortem found her to be in rude health. There was no evidence of drowning or heart failure. Not even a bump to the head.’

  ‘Well, that’s odd, I’ll give you that,’ said Duncan. ‘What else?’

  ‘John Graham, happily married to Janet Newbigging, killed his wife by blasting her in the head with a shotgun.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a question he was asked many times,’ said Munro, ‘and the answer was always the same. He simply didn’t know. Then there’s the case of–’

  ‘That’s plenty,’ said Duncan, ‘I get the picture, chief. It sounds like the place is full of fruit-loops, Westy will fit in well but I have to say, and no offence, all this superstitious stuff, is it not a bit far-fetched? I mean, I think we saw the back of satanic cults and pagan rituals some years ago.’

  ‘Never dismiss a possibility because of your own personal presumptions, Duncan. There has to be a reason for Rebecca Barlow being left as she was and in the absence of any pentangles at the scene of the crime, I intend to get to the bottom of it. Now, if you’d be so kind, I’ve some reading to do.’

  * * *

  For those in need of medical attention, University Hospital – a state-of-the-art facility catering to the needs of the frail and the elderly, the clinically obese, and those inexperienced enough to be handling a chainsaw – offered the reassurance of expert care and imminent relief from fractured hips, mild strokes, and severed limbs but for others, the sterile stench of phenolic disinfectant and the sight of gurneys littering the corridors held all the appeal of a terminal prognosis.

  Seated on a blue, plastic chair designed for stacking rather than comfort, Dougal – fearing he’d be an admission himself as his scooter twitched uncontrollably along the icy roads – sat recovering from his sub-zero ordeal with his helmet in his lap.

  Shaken by the sound of footsteps squeaking down the corridor, he slowly raised his head as West, carrying two cups of burnt coffee from the vending machine, approached from his right.

  ‘On your own?’ she said, handing him a cup. ‘I thought you’d have Kay with you.’

  ‘We’re not joined at the hip, miss. Besides, I could say the same for you, is the boss not coming?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said West, scalding her lips on the tasteless brew, ‘you know what he’s like. As far as he’s concerned, “infirmary” is just a euphemism for “God’s waiting room”.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Dougal, ‘although I had thought he might have changed his mind after his bypass.’

  ‘If anything, I think it’s made him more determined to stay away. So, any news on our homeless chum yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Dougal. ‘I’m waiting on the nurse, he said he’d shout me when he’s ready.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Hours.’

  ‘Have you had any breakfast?’

  ‘A can of pop.’

  ‘You,’ said West, ‘are bleeding unbelievable. Carry on like that and you’ll end up in a bed next to him. I’ll get you something from the canteen, be back in a…’

  West paused as a jaded-looking nurse emerged from the room.

  ‘DS McCrae?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, is he okay?’

  ‘He’s getting there, he still needs plenty of rest and rehydration but I’ll give you five minutes.’

  ‘That’s all we’ll need,’ said West, ‘as long as he’s able to talk we won’t keep him long.’

  The nurse raised a hand and mustered a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, ‘no family just now, only the officer.’

  ‘You’re alright,’ said Dougal, ‘this is DI West, she’s with me.’

  The nurse thought for a moment and heaved a sigh.

  ‘Okay,’ he said wearily, ‘in that case, come away inside, but take it easy, okay?’

  * * *

  Whilst never the easiest of tasks, the trauma of interviewing suspects, victims, and witnesses as they lay in their hospital beds was somehow alleviated when the injuries sustained could be directly attributed to an assault with a deadly weapon or a road traffic collision, but when the wounds were the result of nothing more than prolonged exposure to the elements it made the ordeal seem all the more harrowing.

  Struck by the reddish tinge of his peeling, cracked skin, his blistered lips, blackened fingertips, and grubby, matted beard, West – waiting silently by the door – could have been forgiven for thinking that the dozing victim had been hauled from the summit of K2 rather than the streets of Ayrshire.

  Dougal, acknowledging the patient as their missing man, stood beside the bed and smiled as the drowsy down-and-out opened his eyes.

  ‘Alright, sir?’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m warm, and I’ve a bed. What’s not to like?’

  ‘We’re police officers. I’m DS McCrae and this is Detective Inspector West. Are you up to answering a few questions?’

  ‘As long as they’re not on geography, aye. Okay.’

  ‘I see you’ve a wee bruise on your face, there. Have you any idea how that happened?’

  ‘No. Maybe I tripped and fell.’

  Dougal thrust his hands deep into his jacket pockets and smiled.

  ‘No, you know that’s not true, sir. Is it?’

  The beggar glanced at Dougal, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled.

  ‘It goes with the territory,’ he said. ‘Folk have no idea what it’s like for a rough sleeper, or how we got there. They see us as losers and wasters.’

  ‘There’s always a reason why people end up on the streets.’

  ‘Aye, there is. And therein lies the irony. We don’t get benefits. We don’t get social housing. We rely on the charity of the kind-hearted.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Dougal. ‘So, that bruise, would you like to tell us what happened?’

  ‘Nothing to tell. It was just some kid. He was probably blootered, and bored.’

  ‘Well, you can relax,’ said West. ‘He won’t be doing it again. We know who it was and we’ve got him.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yup. Fortunately there was a camera in the doorway where you were trying to get some kip. We managed to ID him from that.’

  ‘Well don’t be too hard on him,’ said the beggar. ‘Like I say, he’s a youngster, he’s probably got problems of his own.’

  ‘Maybe, but the law’s the law, and you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.’

  ‘You mean I’d not be warm and dry with a hot meal on the way? That’s a pity.’

  West, bemused that somebody who’d taken a kicking and almost frozen to death could be so compassionate, took a step forward and crossed her arms.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’
she said. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not on trial or anything, and I’m not going to berate you for having any bad habits, but the man who assaulted you, he says he was paid to do it.’

  ‘Paid?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Dougal. ‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to do that?’

  ‘None at all,’ said the beggar. ‘I keep myself to myself. I get enough grief on the streets as it is.’

  ‘I get that, but here’s the thing – are you on drugs of any sort? You know, a bit of weed, maybe? Or something stronger, perhaps?’

  ‘No, no. Definitely not. That’s a mug’s game. The hardest thing I’ve ever touched is lager and I’m even off the booze now.’

  ‘How come?’ said West with a grin. ‘Are you on some kind of a health kick?’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said the beggar, laughing. ‘I can’t afford it, hen. It’s as simple as that. So why are you asking? About the drugs, I mean? Was this fella some kind of a junkie?’

  ‘He was,’ said Dougal, ‘and he says he was paid to assault you because you had a drug debt.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Of course I have. I’ve also got a mansion in the south of France and a Bentley in the garage.’

  Whilst safe to assume that a number of homeless people were there through eviction or addiction, there were those whose predicament, through no fault of their own, was a direct result of a mental, marital or business breakdown.

  Categorising the beggar as one of the latter, West, touched by his ability to laugh in spite of his circumstances, made a mental note to ensure he was transferred to suitable accommodation upon his release rather than being left to fend for himself on the streets.

  ‘Once you’re back on your feet,’ she said, ‘you should consider a career doing stand-up.’

  ‘I think you’ll find lying-down is more my thing.’

  ‘Well, we’re nearly done. Just a couple more questions and we’ll let you get some rest.’

  ‘You’re alright,’ said the beggar, ‘no rush. It’s actually quite nice to have a conversation with someone.’

  ‘The bloke who attacked you,’ said West, ‘his name’s Drennan. John Drennan. Does that ring any bells?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. He says the person who paid him was his dealer. She goes by the name Riley. Do you know anyone called Emma Riley?’

  The beggar looked at West and gave a wry smile.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, as he closed his eyes. ‘I know a Riley.’

  ‘But she wasn’t your dealer?’

  ‘Like I said, hen. I don’t do drugs.’

  ‘I think that will do for now,’ said the nurse. ‘He needs to rest. Come back this afternoon if you need to.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Dougal. ‘Just one last question. It’s an easy one. Is that okay with you, sir?’

  The beggar answered without opening his eyes.

  ‘Aye. Go on, then.’

  ‘Can we have your name?’

  ‘No bother. It’s Daniel. Daniel McIntyre.’

  Chapter 20

  As an advanced nurse practitioner attached to the ICU with a wife, five children, two Labradors, and a hefty mortgage to support, it was little wonder that Derek Fisher, a harried forty-eight-year-old with a shiny, bald head and more wrinkles than a bed sheet in a brothel, looked fit to drop.

  Yearning for a strong cup of coffee, an energy-boosting cereal bar, and a wee sit down, he hovered in the corridor as he waited for Dougal and West to vacate the room.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ve a million things to do and none of them are here, so that’s me away. If you’ve any more questions you’ll have to wait until this evening.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Dougal, ‘we appreciate your help.’

  ‘You look knackered,’ said West, ‘still, I suppose your shift will be over soon.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Fisher. ‘I only came on an hour ago.’

  ‘Well listen, I know you’re busy but before you run off, can I ask you for one small favour?’

  ‘You can ask,’ said Fisher, ‘but it doesn’t mean you’ll get.’

  ‘We need some background on our victim here.’

  ‘What kind of background?’

  ‘An address.’

  ‘Address? But the fella’s homeless.’

  ‘He is now,’ said West, ‘but we don’t know how long he’s been living on the streets. Now that we know his name, I was hoping you might be able to tell us if he was registered with a GP somewhere, that way we can find out where he used to live.’

  ‘Can you not just ask him?’

  ‘He’s under investigation,’ said Dougal, butting in. ‘If we start asking questions like that then guaranteed, we’ll get nowhere fast.’

  ‘So, you want me to take a look at the PIP?’

  West looked at him pleadingly, raised her eyebrows, and smiled.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Fisher, sighing as if it were a habit. ‘Come on then.’

  * * *

  Forced to wait in the doorway of the tiny office which also housed a couple of mops and a month’s worth of janitorial supplies, West, smarting from the lingering smell of chemicals, watched in silence as Fisher squeezed himself behind a desk and logged onto the Patient Information Platform.

  ‘Right,’ he said, muttering as he typed. ‘Name; McIntyre. Daniel. Date of birth?’

  ‘No idea. Sorry.’

  ‘Off to a good start. Have you any idea how many McIntyres there are here?’

  ‘A few, I dare say.’

  ‘Well, do you know where he might have lived? Roughly, even?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal, ‘we know he used to own a flat above a shop in Dumfries. On the High Street somewhere.’

  ‘That must have been a while ago,’ said Fisher. ‘The nearest I’ve got to the town centre is a Donald McIntyre in Heathall and a Denise McIntyre in Cargenbridge.’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely neither of them.’

  ‘Then it seem to me you’ve no option but to ask him yourself, after all.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Dougal, ‘forget Dumfries, can you try Taylor Street in Ayr?’

  ‘Aye, okay,’ said Fisher. ‘Do you happen to have a postcode?’

  ‘Kilo-Alpha-Eight, Eight-Alpha-Uniform.’

  ‘You’re in luck. But I can’t guarantee it’s the same fella.’

  ‘Oh, it’s him alright,’ said West. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘There is,’ said Fisher, ‘but I can’t. Patient confidentiality.’

  Under normal circumstances, Dougal, a respecter of red tape, rules, and regulations, would have thanked the nurse for his time and politely walked away but with McIntyre all but in his grasp he refused to take no for an answer.

  ‘See here, Mr Fisher,’ he said, brushing West aside, ‘I’m not being funny but that fella’s under investigation for a serious crime and we need to know if we’re putting him or ourselves in danger by bringing him in, so if he’s got a wee bit of a temper or a heart condition then you’d be doing us all a favour by telling us now. And a date of birth would be useful, too.’

  Visibly shaken by Dougal’s volatile if not threatening behaviour, Fisher pondered the penalty for breaching the code of confidentiality before finally relenting.

  ‘This goes no further,’ he said, turning to the screen. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘I promise,’ said West. ‘So, what have you got?’

  ‘Date of birth: third of the tenth, seventy-seven. A couple of years ago he was prescribed… oh.’

  ‘Oh what? You look surprised.’

  ‘I am,’ said Fisher. ‘He was prescribed amitriptyline.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An anti-depressant.’

  ‘That would coincide with his business going bust,’ said Dougal. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘I told you, it’s an anti-depressant.’

  ‘Aye, I get that! But you said it was prescribed so it mus
t be strong, am I right?’

  ‘It’s strong, aye.’

  ‘Then there could be serious side effects.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well?’

  Fisher focused on the keyboard, typed in a few choice words, and sighed as he reeled off a list of possible symptoms.

  ‘Confusion,’ he said, ‘drowsiness, blurred vision, vomiting, headaches, irregular heartbeat, muscle spasms, suicidal tendencies, seizures, and hallucinations.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said West. ‘And that’s a licensed drug? I think I’d rather see a vet.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Fisher. ‘Before starting that particular course of treatment he was on Clopixol. He had four jags over a two month period.’

  ‘And is that an anti-depressant, too?’

  ‘No. It’s an anti-psychotic drug administered intravenously.’

  ‘So basically what you’re saying is, our man next door has some serious mental health issues?’

  ‘Has, or had. Aye.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m not a psychiatrist,’ said Fisher, ‘I wouldn’t know. Clearly he’s not had any medication for a while now so maybe he’s doing okay. Maybe he isn’t.’

  ‘Well, he certainly seems chirpy enough,’ said West. ‘Right, one more thing before we go. When he was brought in he was obviously stripped and given a gown to wear. Did he have any personal belongings with him, like a–’

  ‘Like a phone, you mean? And a wallet?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  ‘They’re in the locker by his bed,’ said Fisher, ‘but I’m telling you now, Inspector, if you’re thinking of taking them, you can’t. And the rooms are monitored so don’t even go there.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said West. ‘We’ll leave you in peace, you’ve been blinding, thanks very much.’

  * * *

  Dougal, aware that his breakfast was fast becoming brunch, waited impatiently in the corridor while West, adopting the look of someone who’d lost their car keys, rifled frantically through her pockets until Fisher, counting the loose change in the palm of his hand, wandered out of sight towards the vending machine.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said, as she slipped into McIntyre’s room, ‘I’ll be two ticks.’

  Unlike Duncan who’d graduated with a degree in rule-bending, Dougal, worried that Fisher might return at any moment, shuffled nervously on the spot and breathed a sigh of relief when West eventually reappeared.