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

  ‘Good timing,’ said West as he breezed through the door, a spent match dangling from his lower lip. ‘Have you had your breakfast?’

  ‘I have, miss. Aye.’

  ‘Good. Don’t bother sitting down, we’re going out and you’re driving.’

  ‘No change there, then. Have you not got your car with you?’

  ‘Nope. Flat battery.’

  ‘Where are we headed?’

  ‘The hospital. Our mate McLeod wants a chat and we need to get there soon, he’s back up to Glasgow in a couple of hours.’

  West paused at the sound of heavy, measured footsteps along the corridor, took a deep breath and braced herself for a confrontation with ‘The Bear’.

  ‘Off out, Charlie?’ said DCI Elliot, beaming as his enormous bulk blocked the doorway.

  ‘Afraid so, sir. You know what it’s like: no rest for the wicked.’

  ‘You too, Duncan?’

  ‘Yes, indeedy. I’m driving.’

  ‘The Figaro died,’ said West, feigning a sense of urgency as she knocked back her tea and zipped her coat.

  ‘Figaro? Now, that’s a fine tune.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Dear, dear, Charlie! The Barber of Seville! It’s a shame James is not here, he’d put you right.’

  ‘Maybe, but I think Sweeney Todd’s more his style. Anyway, must dash, we’ve got a meeting with McLeod.’

  ‘See me as soon as you’re back. I need to talk to you about Rona Macallan.’

  ‘Not bad news, is it?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Elliot. ‘It’s quite the opposite, Charlie. Quite the opposite.’

  Chapter 2

  Unlike those pessimistic pensioners who viewed retirement as the final furlong in the “Pearly Gates Longevity Stakes” rather than an inevitable consequence of the ageing process, James Munro – who thrived on the convoluted complexities of a criminal investigation – refused to replace his routine with the banality of daytime TV, spurned the notion of socialising with a gaggle of gormless seniors over a subsidised meal at the lunch club, and had yet to experience the joys of entering a room with no recollection as to why he was there. Instead, he embraced his position as a sagacious civilian volunteer with Police Scotland and, having purchased five litres of white gloss and a set of brushes, his role as a novice painter and decorator.

  Relieved to see the back of the builders who’d all but acquired squatters’ rights as they spent several weeks toiling for an average of twelve hours a day re-instating the rear portion of his house, which, as a consequence of a gas explosion by his own hand, had been blown to smithereens, Munro was overjoyed to be back in his own home and made a mental note to pen a letter of gratitude to the firm for restoring the rooms to their former glory in a style befitting the two-hundred-year-old cottage.

  With the flagstones in the kitchen covered with dustsheets and the wall around the architrave neatly masked off – an enjoyably laborious task which had taken him the best part of an hour – he set about putting the finishing touches to the woodwork and stood poised brush in hand when, in accordance with Murphy’s Law, the sound of his telephone caused his arm to jerk uncontrollably upwards resulting in a spatter of paint worthy of a Jackson Pollock.

  ‘Munro!’ he said, hollering down the phone. ‘Who the devil is this?’

  ‘It’s Paul. Paul Jackson from The Steamboat. Have I interrupted something?’

  ‘Hardly. I’ve not even started yet.’

  ‘Started what?’

  ‘Doesnae matter,’ said Munro, ‘but if you’re ringing to drum up business for the raffle in that pub of yours, I’m telling you now, I cannae make it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because with any luck I’ll be watching some paint dry.’

  ‘Well, it’s not that, James,’ said Jackson, quietly bemused, ‘in fact, I was wanting to tap your brain about something. Something only you can help with.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s about Sophie.’

  ‘Your daughter, Sophie?’

  ‘Aye. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She was away up north, the night before last,’ said Jackson, ‘stopping with a friend of hers, Jess. Jess Sullivan. They were having a night out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I spoke to her when she arrived but I’ve not heard from her since and she’s not answering her phone. It’s not like her.’

  ‘Och, you know what youngsters are like,’ said Munro, ‘she probably had one too many and decided to…’

  ‘She’s seventeen, James. She doesn’t drink. And she always calls.’

  ‘Well, have you tried telephoning her friend? Did you not speak to the parents, at least?’

  ‘I have,’ said Jackson. ‘They’re not fussed, they reckon I’m over-reacting even though they’ve not heard from them either.’

  ‘Damn and blast!’ said Munro as the paint began dripping from the brush. ‘See here, Paul, I’d like to help you out but I’m in the middle of a turpentine crisis, just now.’

  ‘Turpentine?’

  ‘Aye. I dinnae have any. Look, I’m retired now, you know that. Besides, this isn’t my patch, hasn’t been for years.’

  ‘I know, but Kilmarnock is.’

  ‘Kilmarnock?’

  ‘Aye. That’s where her friend stays,’ said Jackson. ‘They were off to The Palace Theatre. Look, I’m not one to impose, James, but if you could just tell me who I should be contacting about this, I can do it myself.’

  Munro raised his eyes to the heavens and cursed under his breath as another drop of paint hit the floor.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m away to Ayr soon enough, I’ll drop by the pub on the way. I’ll need her telephone number, a wee photo, and her friend’s details. Got that?’

  ‘I’m indebted to you James, much appreciated. There’ll be a couple of pints waiting for you next time you’re in.’

  ‘It’s not pints I’ll be wanting. It’s the Balvenie. Large ones, mind.’

  Chapter 3

  As a single mother of four from one of the less salubrious parts of town, where the most profitable business after the off-licence was the funeral parlour, the lady on reception – a smartly dressed sixty year old with a face like a bulldog and a devastating right hook – knew just how to handle the multitude of miscreants who approached her with aggressive demands to be treated for their alcohol-induced injuries, but one look at Duncan as he swaggered through the foyer like an armed robber short of a shotgun had her reaching below the desk, where her hand hovered nervously above the panic button.

  ‘Alright, hen?’ he said, his boyish grin putting her at ease. ‘I’m Detective Constable Reid, and that there is DI West. Be a dear and buzz Doctor McLeod for me, would you? He’s expecting us.’

  West smiled as the willowy Andy McLeod, dressed in a crimson and black checked shirt and faded denim jeans, ambled towards her like a lightweight lumberjack, his bushy red beard the envy of Finnieston’s hirsute hipsters.

  ‘You should get out of scrubs more often,’ she said coyly.

  ‘That’s not another invitation, is it, Charlotte?’ said McLeod. ‘Only as I recall, the last time we arranged something you blew me out.’

  ‘I did not. I just got waylaid, work and stuff. You know how it is.’

  ‘So, I’m in with a shout?’

  ‘Maybe. If you buy a razor. Come on then, don’t keep us in suspense. What’s rattled your cage?’

  ‘Let’s have a seat,’ said McLeod as he gestured towards an empty bench and pulled an iPad from his bag. ‘This young lady is Miss Ella MacCall.’

  West took the tablet and winced at the sight of the young girl’s blotchy, blistered face.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘And there was I thinking freezing was a means of preservation.’

  ‘She was brought down off Goat Fell.’

  ‘Goat who?’

  ‘Goat Fell,’ said McLeod. ‘It’s the tallest peak on Arran. Technically speaking, as i
t’s less than three thousand feet, it’s known as a Corbett.’

  ‘Is it indeed. So basically, what you’re saying is, she froze to death on the side a mountain, is that it?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, yes.’

  ‘I feel a “but” coming on.’

  ‘But, as you know, my job’s not simply to establish the cause of death but the means as well.’

  ‘And you suspect foul play?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Are you saying she was murdered?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Aye. Well, maybe. Here’s the thing, Constable. From what I gather she was with a group of friends, they turned back and this MacCall lassie continued up the fell alone. Of her own free will. So, under normal circumstances I’d classify her death as misadventure. However…’

  McLeod took the iPad, swiped to technical specifications sheet, and handed it back.

  ‘…I ran a few tests as a matter of course and found traces of a foreign substance.’

  ‘You mean drugs?’ said Duncan. ‘Like what? Smack? Cocaine?’

  ‘No, no. I’m afraid as far as you’re concerned, it’s worse than that. Much worse. Flunitrazepam. More commonly known as Rohypnol.’

  ‘Rohypnol? Is that not the date-rape drug? Jeez-oh, are you telling me she was… on the mountain?’

  ‘No, relax. There’s no evidence of anything like that. My point is that had she not taken the Rohypnol, then the chances are she’d have made it down alive.’

  ‘So you reckon someone gave it to her? Spiked her drink or something?’

  ‘Must have,’ said McLeod. ‘Let’s face it, it’s not the kind of thing you’d take yourself, is it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But why? Why would someone do that, especially if she was off up the hill?’

  ‘I’d love to help but that’s not a question I can answer,’ said McLeod. ‘I’ve done my bit.’

  ‘You certainly have,’ said West. ‘Can you send me a full report?’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Anything else we should know about?’

  ‘No, that’s it. The lads on Arran should be in touch soon enough, you can liaise with them. The investigating officer is a fella by the name of Mackenzie. Right, that’s me back to Glasgow. I’ve work to do.’

  ‘When are you down next?’ said West as he stood to leave.

  ‘I’m not really sure. It all depends on what, or should I say, who, turns up. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Thought you might like to go out, that’s all.’

  McLeod cocked his head and smiled.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’d like that. Is it a wee bar you have in mind? Or a restaurant, maybe?’

  ‘Actually,’ said West, ‘I was thinking barber shop. Give me a call.’

  * * *

  Whilst confident in his ability to resolve any conundrum concerning the who-did-what-to-whom-and-why, Dougal was not given to brazen displays of riddle-solving and consequently squirmed under the perpetual gaze of a bored, larger than life senior officer who, in an effort to soften his reputation as a grizzly, had struck up a somewhat dreary conversation concerning his wife’s recipes while he waited for West to return.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s it to be? Tagliatelle or spaghetti?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Carbonara, man!’ said Elliot. ‘I asked you what we should be using in a carbonara! You see, Dougal, Mrs Elliot is making her carbonara tonight and I have to say it’s really not bad, not bad at all. Double cream, garlic, smoked ham…’

  ‘Sounds smashing.’

  ‘…it is, but she will insist on using tagliatelle and I say it should be spaghetti. So, you tell me, am I right or am I wrong?’

  With his knowledge of Italian cuisine limited to pizza, tinned ravioli, and supermarket ready meals, Dougal surreptitiously turned to the internet for guidance.

  ‘Well,’ he said, speaking with the conviction of a Neapolitan native, ‘if it’s a traditional carbonara you’re after, then it should be spaghetti, but you could use linguine instead.’

  ‘I knew it!’ bellowed Elliot. ‘Spaghetti! I’d best telephone her now before she heads to the shops.’

  ‘And no cream.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Cream. There’s no cream in a real carbonara,’ said Dougal. ‘Nor is there any garlic. Or ham. It should be guanciale.’

  Elliot sat back and pondered for a moment.

  ‘I think I’ll keep that wee nugget of information to myself. I’ll not take it without the cream.’

  ‘Cream?’ said West as she blew through the door. ‘It’s too bleeding cold for cream, it’s gravy weather. In fact, it’s pie, mash and gravy weather. And I’m starving.’

  ‘Charlie, I’m glad you’re back. I need a word.’

  ‘Can we have lunch first?’

  ‘You cannot,’ said Elliot. ‘Have yourself a seat. First of all, there’s been an incident on Arran.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said West as she placed her forefingers on her temples and closed her eyes. ‘I’m seeing a young girl, she’s on a mountain and she’s…’

  ‘Dear God! That’s uncanny! How on earth…’

  ‘We just saw McLeod. He filled us in.’

  ‘I see,’ said Elliot, clearing his throat. ‘You nearly had me there, Charlie. Nearly, but not quite. Young Dougal here has all the information you need. The rest of the group are still on the island but they’re leaving tomorrow so you’d best get yourselves on a ferry just as soon as you can.’

  ‘In this weather?’ said West. ‘That’s great. Why don’t we go white-water rafting while we’re at it?’

  ‘I hope you’re not including me on this trip,’ said Duncan. ‘Only me and boats, we’re not a good combination. Besides, I’m not sure the Audi will make it, it’s due a service.’

  ‘Which brings me to my next point,’ said Elliot. ‘Rona Macallan.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said West as she slumped in a seat. ‘So, what’s up? Has something hit the fan? Has she appealed?’

  ‘No, no. She’s simply made a few arrangements concerning her domestic affairs, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Well, for example, the fella up the road will be looking after her livestock…’

  ‘The goats and the chickens and the horses. We know that.’

  ‘…and a friend of hers will be house-sitting until, well, until she’s released, I imagine.’

  ‘No offence, sir, but what has any of this got to do with us?’

  ‘Not us, Charlie. You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Elliot. ‘You see, she’s instructed her solicitor to off-load some of her belongings, those she feels will be worthless on her return to society.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, there’s a trailer and a quad bike for starters. And then there’s a Land Rover Defender which, I’m reliably informed, she offered to you when you arrested her.’

  ‘Yeah, she did,’ said West, ‘but I thought, you know protocol and stuff, I didn’t think I was allowed to have it.’

  ‘Quite right, Charlie, but now that we’re done with it and she’s away for the foreseeable, circumstances have changed. She still wants you to have first refusal. If you’re not interested, it will go to auction.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said West. ‘Nice one, sir. Cheers. What’s his number? I’ll give him a bell right now.’

  ‘I’d not do that if I were you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ said Elliot, ‘he’s downstairs in the pound. He’s checking the SOCOs didn’t cause any damage when they pulled it apart. If I’m not mistaken, he’s got the logbook with him too.’

  ‘You’ve landed on your feet there, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘You’ll not go wrong with a Defender, not up here.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Duncan. ‘And now that you’ve got your own set of wheels, you’ll not be needing me to drive; so that’s me off the hook.’

  ‘In your dreams,’
said West. ‘You’re still coming with me.’

  ‘Oh, is it not Dougal’s turn to go? The last time I jumped a ferry with you it almost turned into a submarine.’

  ‘Stop whingeing and get your act together.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Elliot as he left the room. ‘I need a wee chat with my pasta chef. Keep me informed of your progress.’

  * * *

  Elated about her impending acquisition, West zipped her jacket and turned for the door.

  ‘I’m nipping downstairs,’ she said. ‘Dougal, favour please. Can you check the ferry times for…’

  ‘Already sorted, miss. Next one’s at three-twenty which gets you in at four-fifteen. I’d not leave it later than that if I were you.’

  ‘You’re too efficient for your own good, you know that? I don’t suppose you’ve…’

  ‘I have, aye. I’ve managed to get you into the Ormidale in Brodick, it’s a hop and a skip from the ferry terminal and it’s where the girls are staying. I’ve booked two rooms, all paid for and the reservation’s in your name.’

  ‘You mean we’re not coming back tonight?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Might not be coming back at all,’ said West. ‘You know what the sea’s like at this time of year – all choppy and stuff. One big swell and that could be us gone forever.’

  ‘Thanks very much, miss. Thanks very much indeed. I’m away to fetch some Kwells. Back in a tick.’

  ‘Oh Dougal,’ said West, ‘have you heard from Jimbo? It’s not like him to be this late.’

  ‘I have indeed, miss. He said he had something to attend to at home and wasn’t sure what time he’d be in.’

  ‘Volunteers, eh? Just because they don’t get paid, they think they can do what they like.’

  Chapter 4

  Throughout the course of his illustrious career, when it came to making snap decisions – be it a life-saving manoeuvre in the presence of an armed suspect or assessing the culpability of a defendant in the stark surroundings of the interview room – Munro invariably relied upon his infallible instinct to provide a favourable outcome. So, when faced with a choice between enjoying the comfort of a wood-burning stove, a strong cup of tea and a few fingers of shortbread whilst applying a coat of paint to the door frame or heading out into a wind chill of minus six for a few hours of unpaid work it was, as West would say, a no-brainer.