RANCOUR: A gripping murder mystery set on the west coast of Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 8)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘He shares the same address as Helen Sullivan.’

  * * *

  Apart from a single harried commuter scurrying to work with his coat buttoned against the cold and a couple of lackadaisical kids more interested in their phones than arriving at school on time, Woodstock Street, unlike the rest of the town centre, was eerily quiet.

  Munro, with two uniformed officers tailing his Peugeot in a patrol car, stopped outside Sullivan’s house and smirked as a shadowy figure appeared behind the curtains in an upstairs window.

  ‘Someone’s expecting us,’ he said. ‘I do hope they’ve got the kettle on.’

  Dougal unclipped his safety belt and opened the door.

  ‘I’ll just tell the lads to sit tight unless we need them.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro pointing out the path that led to the rear of the house. ‘Tell your pals to get themselves round the back. Watching a middle-aged woman trying to vault a garden fence is not a pretty sight, I can tell you.’

  Devoid of make-up and clearly in no hurry to greet the outside world, a dishevelled Helen Sullivan, wrapped in a dressing gown with an unlit cigarette clasped between her lips, opened the door and shivered against the biting breeze.

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself,’ she said. ‘Did you find her? Young Sophie?’

  ‘We did,’ said Munro. ‘It’s kind of you to ask. And we also found Jessica. You have my condolences.’

  ‘Accidents happen,’ said Sullivan. ‘She’s not a wean. She knew what she was getting herself into.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The crowd she hung out with. It was only a matter of time. If you lay down with dogs, Mr Munro, you get fleas.’

  ‘I cannae argue with that but forgive me, this is your daughter we’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me on parenting,’ said Sullivan, ‘we didn’t get on, okay? Never have.’

  ‘You’ll not mind me asking if you’ve seen her then?’

  ‘You mean have I identified the body? Aye. It’s her alright. So, what is it you’re after?’

  ‘Just a few questions.’

  Sullivan cast a sideways at Dougal and flicked her head.

  ‘Is this your boy?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro with a smile. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Dougal McCrae. He’s leading the investigation into Jessica’s death.’

  ‘Are you not a bit young to be a copper?’ said Sullivan. ‘I thought you had to be an old bastard to be a detective.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Munro. ‘Will we step inside?’

  ‘We will not. We’ll stop right here. I’ll give you five minutes.’

  ‘But it’s freezing,’ said Dougal. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Have no fear. I’m harder than a Geordie, son. Five minutes.’

  ‘Okay, your car…’

  ‘It’s not here. The police took it.’

  ‘Can you confirm the make and model?’

  ‘Vauxhall Insignia. SA16 OCG.’

  ‘And last night, who was driving it?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Sullivan. ‘I’d had a skinful.’

  ‘A quiet night in then, was it?’

  ‘Poldark, a curry, and a bottle of Buckfast.’

  ‘If you were here all night, Mrs Sullivan…’

  ‘It’s Miss.’

  ‘…then why did you not answer when the police knocked your door?’

  ‘I must’ve been sleeping. Buckfast, it has that effect.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Dougal. ‘Can you tell me if anyone else is insured to drive your car?’

  ‘No. Just me.’

  ‘Could anyone have taken it without your consent?’

  ‘You mean like some ned off on a joyride?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Munro, his eyes narrowing, ‘we were thinking more along the lines of Alessandro Ricci.’

  Sullivan lit her cigarette, drew hard, and blew a pall of smoke into the air.

  ‘You’d best come in,’ she said. ‘You’ve a minute left.’

  Munro, expecting the interior of the house to reflect its period status, entered the lounge and cringed at the two faux-leather sofas positioned to face a forty-eight-inch television set hanging above an original Adams fireplace, a potted, plastic palm, and a bookcase doubling as a storage facility for dirty crockery and takeaway cartons.

  Sullivan slumped on the settee, lit another cigarette and crossed her legs while Dougal and Munro remained standing by the door.

  ‘So,’ said Munro. ‘Alessandro Ricci. You first.’

  ‘He prefers Alex.’

  ‘You say he rents a room,’ said Dougal. ‘So he’s your lodger?’

  Sullivan glanced furtively at Munro, blushed, and stubbed out the cigarette.

  ‘See here, Miss Sullivan,’ he said. ‘The average life expectancy in these parts is seventy-one years for someone like myself which means it’ll not be long before they measure me for a box, so, if it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not waste my time. You can either answer the question honestly or…’

  ‘Or I’ll arrest you,’ said Dougal chipping in, ‘on suspicion of being an accessory after the fact.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I’ll explain at the station. If you’d like to get dressed, I’ve a couple of officers waiting for you outside.’

  ‘Okay look,’ said Sullivan, ‘he doesn’t rent a room. He’s with me.’

  ‘And how long have you been together?’

  ‘Not long. A couple of months.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘He dropped by the shop.’

  ‘Shop?’

  ‘The estate agents where I work. He was after some office space.’

  ‘And did he get it?’

  ‘He did, aye.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Titchfield Street,’ said Sullivan. ‘Number fifty-five.’

  ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘He should be.’

  ‘So, back to the original question,’ said Dougal. ‘Your car. Could Mr Ricci have taken it without your consent?’

  ‘He doesn’t have to ask. He can use it whenever he likes.’

  ‘And how does that work? I mean, if he wants to borrow it and you’re not here?’

  ‘I’ve a spare key hidden away.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘If I told you that,’ said Sullivan, ‘it wouldn’t be hidden, would it?’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Dougal. ‘So, I assume if Mr Ricci’s taking advantage of your generosity then, naturally, you have him down as a nominated driver on your insurance?’

  Sullivan said nothing and turned to face the window.

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said Munro, smiling as he shook his head. ‘If he’s not insured then unless I’m mistaken that’s a five thousand pound fine and six points on the licence. I’m assuming he does have a licence?’

  ‘Okay, here’s the deal,’ said Dougal, ‘we’re away to see Mr Ricci just now and I’d advise you against calling him and giving him the heads-up because if he’s not there when we arrive, I’ll make sure you’re prosecuted for allowing him to drive your car without adequate cover.’

  ‘Big deal,’ said Sullivan. ‘So what? I’ll get a wee slap on the wrist and…’

  ‘No, no, no. You’ll be liable for the same penalty.’

  ‘Are you joking me? Five grand? Why?’

  ‘Because it’s your responsibility to ensure anyone you lend your car to holds a full licence and is properly insured. It’s what the law deems “an absolute offence” which means no excuses. If you’re guilty, then you will be fined as well.’

  ‘And dinnae forget the bonus points,’ said Munro, ‘they all add up. Before we go, I appreciate we’re into extra time but we’ve a couple more questions.’

  ‘In for a penny,’ said Sullivan. ‘On you go.’

  ‘Jessica. Your estranged daughter. Did she have trouble sleeping?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She’d be out whe
n most folk were in their beds. She’d roll in during the wee small hours and sleep while I was at work.’

  ‘So, you’ve no idea if she was on any kind of medication? Sleeping pills?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She and Mr Ricci,’ said Dougal. ‘Did they get along?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. How was their relationship?’

  ‘Relationship?’ said Sullivan indignantly. ‘Here you, are you suggesting that she and…’

  ‘Calm yourself, Miss Sullivan, I’m suggesting nothing. I’d simply like to know if there was any animosity between them. It’s not uncommon, a mother gets a new boyfriend, the daughter gets upset…’

  ‘They got along just fine.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sullivan. ‘It is. They’d even go for coffee together, or a wee drink if I was late getting back.’

  ‘So, they were close?’

  ‘Close? Listen son, I’m not happy with what you’re insinuating, in fact I just might…’

  ‘In that case,’ said Munro, ‘we’ll leave you be. And remember, Miss Sullivan, if you telephone Mr Ricci it’ll be the most expensive call you’ve ever made. Cheery-bye.’

  * * *

  Standing in the shabby surroundings of his small, unfurnished office located above a wholesaler specialising in liquidated stock, Alessandro Ricci – dressed in a beige linen suit and a white open-necked shirt – cut an incongruous figure as he gazed from the window at the queue of traffic below, unaware of the two gentlemen hovering by the open doorway.

  Dougal rapped the door and coughed politely into his hand.

  ‘Alessandro Ricci?’ he said, waving his warrant card.

  Ricci cocked his head, smiled softly, and nodded.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant McCrae and this is Mr Munro. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?’

  ‘Please,’ said Ricci with a sweep of the arm, ‘come in. I’d offer you a seat but as you can see…’

  Munro cast an eye around the spartan room; the bare walls, the empty table, and the single chair.

  ‘You’ve not quite moved in then?’ he said.

  ‘I have all I need.’

  ‘But you’ve not even got yourself a telephone.’

  ‘I don’t need one,’ said Ricci as he produced his mobile. ‘I can do everything on this.’

  ‘Then why do you need an office?’

  ‘I need space to think, Mr Munro. Somewhere I can be alone without interruptions or distractions.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro. ‘Tell me, what line of business is it that you’re in exactly?’

  ‘Anything that is legal and turns a profit.’

  ‘I’m glad to see capitalism’s alive and well in Siena,’ said Dougal.

  Ricci raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  ‘You’ve done your research, Sergeant. I’m impressed. So, what can I help you with?’

  ‘Let’s start with Helen Sullivan.’

  ‘Ah! Bellissima! She will make somebody a wonderful wife.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘I’m too old for commitment. I am an ambassador for la dolce vita.’

  ‘Have you not heard of growing old gracefully?’

  ‘There is nothing graceful about growing old. Trust me.’

  ‘So,’ said Dougal, ‘you and Miss Sullivan. How did you meet?’

  ‘I was looking for an office and she found me this.’

  ‘Forgive me for saying so,’ said Munro, ‘but it doesnae seem to go with your image.’

  ‘I wanted somewhere, how can I say…’

  ‘Low key?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  ‘You sound as though you’re trying to keep your head down.’

  ‘I walk with my head held high,’ said Ricci. ‘I am a proud man.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Dougal. ‘Would you mind telling me just how long you’ve been living with Miss Sullivan?’

  ‘Eight weeks. In fact, eight weeks and three days to be precise.’

  ‘You must like her to remember that.’

  ‘I have a head for figures.’

  ‘I bet you have,’ said Munro muttering under his breath. ‘Miss Sullivan’s daughter, Jessica…’

  ‘Such a tragedy.’

  ‘Were you fond of her?’

  ‘Fond? That’s a rather odd word to use.’

  ‘I’ll ask again. Were you fond of her?’

  ‘I liked her, yes. She was good company.’

  ‘Miss Sullivan says that you and Jessica used to hang out together,’ said Dougal, ‘go for the occasional coffee, a wee drink, that sort of thing.’

  ‘We did, Sergeant. Quite often in fact.’

  ‘Did the two of you ever get… close?’

  ‘Close?’ said Ricci. ‘You mean intimate? Come, come, she was just a child. There are some lines a gentleman does not cross.’

  Munro, hands clasped behind his back, raised his head to the ceiling and chuckled softly.

  ‘Have you ever done any acting, Mr Ricci?’ he said. ‘In the theatre perhaps?’

  ‘No, why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’m watching one hell of a performance just now. Tell me, when was the last time you used Miss Sullivan’s motor car?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘And are you insured to drive it?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Ricci. ‘Helen took care of that.’

  ‘Did she indeed. And where did you go?’

  ‘I had two appointments. First I went to visit a restaurant looking for investors and then I had a meeting with a trading standards advisor at the civic centre.’

  ‘Trading standards?’

  ‘I wanted to clarify my legal obligations for importing wine.’

  ‘Another business opportunity?’

  ‘Another business possibility. I have a vineyard in Tuscany.’

  ‘I’m not averse to a decent drop of red myself,’ said Munro. ‘So you’re thinking of selling your wine here?’

  ‘As I said, it’s a possibility.’

  ‘And where would you sell it? The supermarkets maybe? Or the nightclubs? Bakers nightclub perhaps?’

  Ricci, toying with the gold signet ring on his little finger, leaned against the window and smiled.

  ‘You know something,’ he said, ‘it’s a good job I’m not paranoid or I might think you’ve been following me.’

  ‘Can you explain what you were doing there?’ said Dougal.

  ‘Jessica. She telephoned me. She said she couldn’t get a taxi and asked if I would pick her up.’

  ‘Would you mind if we checked your phone?’

  ‘I have nothing to hide, Sergeant,’ said Ricci as he handed it over. ‘If it’s proof you’re after, you’ll find it right there.’

  Knowing that there was no feasible way of falsifying an incoming call unless he was in possession of Jessica’s handset, Dougal, already frustrated by Ricci’s candour, checked the log, the date, and the time and reluctantly returned it with his business card.

  ‘A wee favour, Mr Ricci,’ he said. ‘Would you mind dialling that number for me then hanging up?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I’ll have your number. Just in case I need to get in touch.’

  ‘Jessica went to the club with her friend,’ said Munro. ‘Sophie Jackson. Did you not pick her up too?’

  ‘No,’ said Ricci. ‘She refused to come with me.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  ‘I have no idea. I got the impression they had been arguing but I may be wrong.’

  ‘And why did you not take Jessica home?’

  ‘She said she felt queasy, light-headed. She asked me to drop her off so she could get some air.’

  ‘At that time of night?’ said Dougal. ‘In this weather?’

  ‘I am used to the sunshine, Sergeant. I simply assumed her behaviour was typical of those who live in arctic conditions.’

  ‘But you didn’t think to follow her? Or wait for her?’
/>
  ‘No. Was that so wrong?’

  Munro glowered at Ricci, folded his arms and, with one hand on his chin, stifled a yawn.

  ‘You are tired, Mr Munro?’

  ‘It’s been a long night.’

  ‘And you have trouble sleeping?’

  ‘Insomnia,’ said Munro facetiously. ‘I should take a wee pill but the trouble with that is, you lose control of your senses.’

  ‘Did you know that the main cause of insomnia is not stress or over-work but a guilty conscience?’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is,’ said Ricci. ‘The subconscious can play havoc when the mind is at rest. Personally, I never have any trouble sleeping.’

  ‘Then you’re a lucky man,’ said Dougal. ‘Are you enjoying it here in Scotland, Mr Ricci?’

  Ricci thought for a moment, slipped his hands into pockets, pursed his lips and then shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘It’s… different.’

  ‘And have you done much sightseeing since you’ve been here?’

  ‘A little. The local area.’

  ‘So, did you enjoy your trip to Arran?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ricci. ‘Arran?’

  ‘The Isle of Arran. You can see it from here.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never been.’

  ‘Well that is odd,’ said Dougal, ‘because Miss Sullivan’s car was on the ferry from Ardrossan to Brodick.’

  ‘Then perhaps it was Miss Sullivan who took it.’

  Munro walked to the chipped, Formica-topped table, rubbed his chest, and perched on the edge.

  ‘Ella MacCall,’ he said. ‘Tell me about her.’

  Showing the first signs of nervousness, Ricci glanced out of the window, cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘She’s a very talented lady,’ he said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You’re not familiar with her work? I think she is destined for great things. Her films are reminiscent of a young Visconti, you know, Ossessione, Death in Venice?’

  ‘So, you like your films?’

  ‘We Italians are masters of the cinema, Mr Munro. It is one of my passions.’

  ‘Do you enjoy literature too? Reading, I mean?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Newspapers?’

  ‘News is depressing.’

  ‘Nick Riley,’ said Dougal chipping in. ‘Do you recognise the name?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘He’s a journalist.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’