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

by Pete Brassett

  Isla Thomson, an irascible individualist whose adherence to rules and regulations, implied or otherwise, was strictly limited to the highway code, ignored the vacant chair and, perspiring gently as the deafening silence and interminable wait fuelled her anxiety, paced the perimeter of the interview room like a rat trapped in cage.

  ‘Thanks for dropping by,’ said West as she breezed through the door.

  ‘It’s not as if I had a say in the matter, is it?’

  ‘No. I suppose not. Have a seat.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Thomson, glowering across the room. ‘I’m not stopping. Not only have I been dragged here against my will, I’ve been arrested for a murder I know nothing about.’

  ‘You’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder,’ said West. ‘They’re two different things. Now sit down.’

  ‘I’m quite happy where I am.’

  ‘I said sit. Now, before we have a little chat, have you called your solicitor?’

  ‘If it’s just a wee chat you’re after,’ said Thomson sarcastically, ‘I’ll not be needing one.’

  ‘I’d think twice about that if I were you,’ said West. ‘I can send for the duty solicitor if you’d like.’

  ‘The innocent don’t need defending.’

  ‘You’re so right,’ said West. ‘And are you?’

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Innocent.’

  ‘As the day is long.’

  ‘Good,’ said West. ‘I’m glad to hear it, because if that’s the case you’ll be out of here in a flash. If you’re lucky, you might even get a lift home with your mate McIver.’

  Thomson, driving her hands into the pockets of her fleece, stepped forward and sat down.

  ‘John?’ she said. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Oh yeah. In fact, we’ve just had a lovely little natter about stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Oh, you know: work, dinner, death, insomnia.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘You soon will be,’ said West as she started the voice recorder. ‘For the benefit of the tape, the time is 6:29 pm. I am Detective Inspector West. Would you please state your name?’

  ‘Thomson. Isla Thomson.’

  ‘And do you understand why you’re here, Miss Thomson?’

  ‘Aye. Because whoever’s in charge of this case has made a monumental cock-up.’

  ‘Good. Let’s start with Alessandro Ricci, shall we? Also known as Alex Ricci. When did you two first meet?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Was it when he arrived at the community sports centre to discuss a sponsorship deal with your hockey team?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, you obviously hit it off,’ said West. ‘Why was that? Did you fancy him?’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Thomson. ‘No. I did not.’

  ‘Then why did you go out of your way to strike up a friendship? If it wasn’t a mutual attraction…’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘…then perhaps it was because you were jealous. Jealous that your mate Ella MacCall had taken a shine to him.’

  ‘She did not.’

  ‘Really?’ said West. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. I’ve been told they got quite… what’s the word? Close. But let’s not dwell on that now, it’s obviously upsetting you, thinking about your partner getting flirty with somebody else. Let’s move on. Let’s talk about Ella instead. How long have you two been seeing each other?’

  Thomson, her face as frozen as a Hollywood has-been with a faceful of Botox, gazed unflinchingly at West.

  ‘No comment,’ she said.

  Surprised that somebody like Thomson whose entire career was built around socially interactive pursuits had yet to master the art of conversation, West – mildly irritated at her reluctance to answer any questions in words of more than two syllables – left her seat and ambled slowly back and forth behind the desk.

  ‘I was in a relationship with this bloke once,’ she said as if musing on her past. ‘Everything was great to start with but when the sparks stopped flying, he couldn’t wait to get out. Is that what happened with you and Ella? Did the fire go out?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘The thing is, you still fancied the pants off her, didn’t you? Loved her even. But she didn’t feel the same, did she?’

  Thomson rolled her eyes and sighed.

  ‘So you hounded her. Threatened her. Tormented her. Made her life a living hell.’

  ‘I did not!’ said Thomson as her blood began to boil. ‘She was confused! She had baggage. Emotional baggage. It was clouding her judgement.’

  ‘Bet those clouds weren’t as bad as the ones up the top of Goat Fell though, were they?’ said West. ‘Still, you must have found some compassion for her somewhere, after all, you drove her and her mates all the way from Kilmarnock to Arran for their holiday. And not only that, you even made her a lovely flask of soup for her trek up the mountain, didn’t you?’

  ‘Are we done here?’ said Thomson as her temper frayed, ‘because so far you’ve not said anything that…’

  Thomson’s words tailed off as West, interrupted by the ping of her phone, raised a hand, read a brief text from Duncan, and smiled at the inclusion of a laughing emoji.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘It’s just work. Now, where were we? Oh yeah. Facebook. Let’s talk about Facebook. I’ve got zero interest in it myself. Ella strikes me as the kind of girl who wouldn’t be interested in it either. What do you think?’

  ‘She wasn’t,’ said Thomson with a huff. ‘She was like me. She had no time for all that internet stuff. She loved her sports and the outdoors.’

  ‘Then why did she have a Facebook page? I can only imagine somebody did it for her.’

  Thomson, twitching in her seat as the walls closed in, glanced furtively around the room.

  ‘Yes. That’ll be it,’ West said. ‘Someone must’ve done it for her.’

  She returned to her seat, leaned across the table, and clasped her hands beneath her chin.

  ‘We’ve got a bloke upstairs,’ she said, smiling softly, ‘he’s a right whizz on computers, he is. Blinding, in fact. He knows all about IP addresses and protocols, in fact, if somebody sends us an anonymous email, he can tell us where it came from, just like that.’

  Thomson’s shoulders sagged as she nervously scratched the back of her head.

  ‘We did it,’ she said. ‘I did it.’

  ‘Well, well. An admission. So why did you put her on Facebook?’

  ‘Alex suggested it. He said we should raise her profile, get her noticed. Maybe see if she didn’t get snapped up by one of the better teams.’

  ‘Really?’ said West. ‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you’ve missed a trick there. You’ve gone about it all the wrong way, I mean, there’s absolutely nothing on there about her. No biography, nothing about her playing skills, there’s not even a film of her in action. Just a few weird films of her stepping out in front of a car and falling into a harbour, stuff like that. All a bit bizarre, really.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Thomson. ‘Maybe she posted them herself.’

  ‘Nah, I mean, how would that work?’ said West. ‘How could she possibly film herself while she was carrying out those silly stunts? It’s impossible. Besides, I just don’t think it’s the kind of thing a sensible girl like Ella would do. Not unless she’d been drugged.’

  Thomson unzipped her fleece and coughed politely into her hand.

  ‘Drugged?’ she said. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it? Sorry, I’m not playing fair, am I? I think I should tell you that we know it was you who uploaded those films...’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘…in fact,’ said West as she produced Thomson’s mobile phone, ‘we know it was you who filmed her, because they’re on here.’

  ‘Hey you!’ said Thomson. ‘Just you hold on a minute! I know my rights, you need my permission to look at that!’<
br />
  ‘I know. I forgot. Still, you don’t mind, do you? Nah, didn’t think you did.’

  Thomson reared up in her seat and jabbed a finger at West.

  ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you?’ she said, raising her voice. ‘Well, you’re not that smart! Just where do you think I’d get my hands on some drugs, least of all roofies! It’s a prescription drug! I couldn’t get it without a prescription!’

  West leaned back, folded her arms and, savouring the moment, smiled contentedly.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ she said. ‘You’ve just saved me a whole lot of trouble.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ said Thomson. ‘How so?’

  ‘By incriminating yourself, of course. I didn’t say she was drugged with Rohypnol, did I? Or Flunitrazepam. In fact, I haven’t even mentioned Benzos at all.’

  ‘Lucky guess,’ said Thomson. ‘That’s what they use to spike drinks, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who said her drink was spiked?’

  ‘I don’t know where you’re going with this,’ said Thomson, ‘but you can’t prove a damned thing! I don’t care what you think, or what you say, there’s no way I could’ve got hold of that stuff.’

  ‘John McIver knows where you got hold of it.’

  Thomson, frowning as the conversation took a turn for the worse, glared at West.

  ‘John?’

  ‘Yup. He’s had his tabs go missing for a while now.’

  ‘Well that’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No? Then how come your fingerprints were on the packet of pills he got from his GP?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘That message I just got,’ said West. ‘That was to confirm your dabs were found on a box of Rohypnol that John McIver had yet to open.’

  ‘Circumstantial,’ said Thomson. ‘I must’ve picked them up and moved them.’

  ‘Of course you did. And no doubt you accidentally opened the pack and a handful of pills just happened to fall out.’

  ‘So, what now? Are you charging me with something?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ said West. ‘I’m still waiting for the icing to arrive. For your cake, that is. In the meantime, I’m going to hold you just a little bit longer.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ said Thomson. ‘I’ve already been here for…’

  ‘Oh but I can,’ said West. ‘So, you go have a lie-down and I’ll be back in a bit.’

  * * *

  Attributing her acerbic if not bullish behaviour in the interview room to a temporary hormonal imbalance or the imminent arrival of a full moon rather than a surge of confidence precipitated by Thomson’s floundering defence, West – concerned that her fingerprints alone may not be enough to secure a conviction – scraped her hair back, pinned it atop her head, and sighed as she rifled through the cupboards for something to eat.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Not really,’ said West as she eyed a stale ginger nut. ‘My head’s spinning.’

  ‘Aye, I get what you mean. First we’ve nothing, then boom! It all comes together! It’s all a bit much to take in.’

  ‘What the hell are you jabbering on about?’

  ‘Isla Thomson of course!’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Isla Thomson,’ said West, ‘I’m talking blood sugar. I’m flipping starving.’

  ‘Will I fetch us those kebabs?’

  ‘No, ta. You go ahead if you like. To be honest, I’ve got to the stage where a large Balvenie seems more important.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I am,’ said West as she answered the phone. ‘Dougal! What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for ages, miss!’

  ‘Sorry, mate, I’ve been tied up with that mountain-climbing PE teacher.’

  ‘It’s her I need to talk to you about, you’d best get the champagne on ice!’

  ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Aye, but not for me, I’ll take a grape juice if we’ve any in the fridge.’

  ‘Does this mean you’ve got good news?’

  ‘Better than good,’ said Dougal. ‘We ran Thomson’s DNA through the database, it’s a match positive for the unidentified DNA on MacCall’s flask.’

  West, her ears ringing with the sound of a nail being hammered into a coffin, turned to Duncan and smiled.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ she said. ‘It’s Thomson’s DNA on the flask.’

  ‘Result, miss!’ said Duncan. ‘That’s her away then, you must be well chuffed.’

  ‘I’m so happy I could crush you with a bear hug.’

  ‘Not necessary, miss. Really. Not necessary.’

  ‘Well?’ said West, ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you going to do the honours or what?’

  ‘You mean charge her?’

  ‘Well, I can’t, I’m on the phone.’

  ‘Roger that, miss, it’ll be a pleasure.’

  ‘Dougal, are you miles away or should we hang on?’

  ‘No, no, miss! You hang on! I’ve another surprise for you.’

  ‘I hope it’s nothing fancy,’ said West. ‘I need to get going soon and besides, I’m not one for surprises. I’ve had far too many of those recently.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll like this one,’ said Dougal. ‘In fact, is the boss there? He’ll like this too.’

  ‘Jimbo? Christ, no! And I’m meant to call him. Put your foot down Dougal, quick as you can.’

  * * *

  As a reclusive maverick who’d spent his entire career shunning publicity – even declining a commendation for fear of having his face plastered all over the local press – Munro, embarrassed by the shrill shriek of his phone and the disparaging glances of those nearby, slinked from view and, after a cursory glance over his shoulder, reluctantly took the call.

  ‘Charlie!’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s not a good time.’

  ‘Why? Are you driving?’

  ‘No, I’m walking down the aisle.’

  ‘Ding-dong! You’re not talking wedding bells, are you?’

  ‘Indeed I am not! I’m talking beers, wines, and spirits.’

  ‘That’s my boy! Hang on, surely you’re not back in Carsethorn already?’

  ‘No,’ said Munro. ‘I had an appointment to keep and I am currently shopping for groceries. I’ll see you at yours.’

  ‘Does this mean you’re cooking?’

  ‘I certainly am, so dinnae drag your heels. A veritable feast awaits.’

  ‘Good,’ said West, ‘because not only am I starving, we’ve got cause to celebrate too.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Isla Thomson. She’s going down for the murder of Ella MacCall.’

  ‘Well done, Charlie! That is good news. Assuming she’s guilty, of course.’

  * * *

  With details of MacCall’s death already before the Fiscal and Thomson destined for a day in court, Duncan – an advocate of the Biblical saying that ‘man shall not live by bread alone’ – groaned as any thoughts he’d had of a spicy shish vanished into thin air whilst an excitable Dougal, prancing about like a dancer auditioning for the lead in Billy Elliot, struggled to contain himself.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ said West. ‘Calm down and take your flipping coat off!’

  ‘We haven’t time, miss!’ said Dougal. ‘I’ve got back-up waiting downstairs!’

  ‘Duncan, give the man a paper bag, I think he’s hyper-ventilating. What took you so long? Where have you been?’

  ‘I stopped off at Helen Sullivan’s, I’ll explain on the way.’

  ‘Just you hold your horses,’ said West. ‘Now, one step at a time, what are you so excited about?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal taking a long, deep breath. ‘Here’s the thing. The manicure set. The nail scissors in the manicure set. There were samples of skin tissue and plasma on the blades.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we figured that!’ said West. ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘It belongs to Jessica Sullivan…’

  �
�Well, we assumed that anyway! Blimey, I thought you were going to tell us something we didn’t know!’

  ‘I am! There were also fingerprints on the nail clippers, and the tweezers, and the case.’

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ said West, punching the air. ‘That’s Ricci banged to rights, then! Get in there! Double-top!’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal. ‘You’re wide of the mark there, miss. The fingerprints, they’re not Ricci’s. They belong to Nick Riley.’

  West, looking as though she’d taken a body blow to the breadbasket, gawped at Dougal with a look of utter disbelief.

  ‘You know how to take the wind out of a girl’s sails, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s not all,’ said Dougal as he zipped his jacket. ‘Have you got any aspirin with you?’

  ‘No, why? Have you got a headache?’

  ‘No. But you will have. Any second now. When they ran Sullivan’s DNA through the DB it kicked up two matches.’

  ‘Two?’ said West, ‘but that’s… oh, hold on, you had me worried there for a moment. Nick Riley, right? I mean, he’s her old man.’

  ‘Not according to the DNA, he’s not. Alessandro Ricci is.’

  Chapter 19

  As a tomboy growing up in the backwoods of Berkshire, West – who could scale a tree with the agility of an ape and fail an exam without putting pen to paper – had always considered the countryside of the home counties to be nothing less than idyllic until, staring down Bath Place through the windscreen of the Defender with nothing ahead but the open sea rippling beneath a vast night sky, she realised just how riddled with light pollution the south really was.

  ‘Do you know something?’ she said. ‘The last time I saw a sky as black as that was during a power-cut.’

  ‘Oh, it’s even better when it’s blowing a hoolie, miss. Then you’ve got the waves crashing onto the beach as well. It’s quite a sight.’

  ‘I’ve never seen so many stars. Ever.’

  ‘Aye well,’ said Dougal. ‘The streets of London may be paved with gold, but we’ve got the diamonds, that’s for sure.’

  West heaved a contented sigh and glanced across at the house.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘let’s not waste any more time, my dinner’s going cold. You’ve been dealing with this Riley geezer, Dougal, it’s your call, just fill me in.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal, ‘so as I said, I called in on Sullivan on the way back. Now if you remember she’d told the boss…’