PERDITION: A Scottish murder mystery with a shocking twist (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 7)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Aye, it’s not far.’

  ‘One occupant, the driver. He’s now in the ICU and by all accounts, barely breathing.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie, you’re losing me. Is this not something uniform should be dealing with?’

  ‘Afraid not, Jimbo. According to Dougal, this wasn’t an RTC. They reckon the bloke must’ve passed out while he was driving and crashed off the road.’

  ‘Passed out? What was it? Asthma? A heart attack?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said West. ‘You’ve heard of Fifty Shades of Grey, well this bloke was fifty shades of black and blue. Had the crap knocked out of him, by the sounds of it.’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear. So the poor chap was assaulted before trying to make his way home?’

  ‘Seems that way,’ said West as she slipped her phone into her hip holster and pulled on her jacket. ‘We’ll soon find out. You ready? We have to pick up Dougal first.’

  ‘Ready?’ said Munro, smiling as he snatched a slice of toast from her plate. ‘No, no, no, Charlie, you forget, I am now a man of leisure. You can fill me in when you get back, after which this crotchety, old cop may impart some words of wisdom, should you need them, of course.’

  ‘I take it that means you’re not coming, then?’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re not going to sit around here moping all day.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ said Munro. ‘As soon as I’ve had a brew, I shall drive to the supermarket and fetch some provisions, your fridge is woefully empty. Then I shall nip home and pack a bag.’

  ‘Good, you’ll need these, then,’ said West as she tossed him a spare set of keys. ‘I’ll catch you, later.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie, before you go, you’d best have this.’

  Munro reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small, silver flip-phone no larger than a credit card.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said West, ‘you’ve finally got yourself a phone.’

  ‘How else would I keep track of the builders?’

  ‘Where’d you get it? The Science Museum?’

  ‘It makes calls and it sends texts, lassie. That’s all I need. Now, I’ll give you a call and hang up, then you’ll have my number. I’ve a funny feeling you’ll be needing it.’

  Chapter 3

  Much to Dougal’s disappointment the boat trip to Ailsa Craig had proved to be a much bigger draw for local families than the unattached, back-packing, wildlife enthusiasts he’d expected, whilst the annual dinner-dance at the fishing club which boasted several young ladies amongst its members had been marred by the overwhelming presence of married couples. But the ceilidh for singles only – where the men outnumbered the women by three to one – was perhaps the most depressing event he’d ever attended in his quest to find a partner who shared his love of books and his dislike of alcohol.

  Tragically optimistic that his soulmate might be working in the A&E department of the local hospital, Dougal – dressed in his neatly pressed jeans, sensible leather shoes and beige blouson – was waiting outside the police station when West, seemingly oblivious to the function of the brake pedal, mounted the kerb in her Figaro forcing him to jump for cover.

  ‘Alright, Dougal!’ she yelled. ‘Hop in!’

  Having learned from experience that West was exceptionally proficient at handling her car like a rallycross driver, Dougal took a deep breath and slipped nervously into the passenger seat.

  ‘Morning, miss,’ he said as he buckled-up. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Tired. I don’t know how you do it, Dougal, getting up this early. It’s not natural.’

  ‘Don’t blame me, blame mother nature. I think it has something to do with the body clock.’

  ‘If that’s true, then mine’s stuck on snooze. You okay?’

  ‘Aye, all good,’ said Dougal. ‘You can slow down, if you like. We’ve plenty of time yet.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said West. ‘No point in rushing, is there? After all, it sounds like this bloke, whoever he is, isn’t going to be getting out of bed for a while yet.’

  Dougal, relieved to see the speedometer dip below forty miles an hour, settled back and tried his best to relax.

  ‘How’s the boss?’ he said. ‘Is he doing alright?’

  ‘Jimbo? Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘It’ll not be the same without him, now that he’s retired, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, you haven’t seen the last of him, I can guarantee it.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I worry about him, he’s not one for being idle. If he’s time on his hands, he’ll start climbing the wall.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that,’ said West, stifling a yawn. ‘I think we’ll throw him a few scraps to keep him busy. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Good. So, no plans for the weekend?’

  ‘No plans, full stop.’

  ‘Just as well this turned up, eh? Something to keep us all out of trouble.’

  * * *

  ‘He’s the tall, skinny fella in triage,’ said the girl on the desk. ‘You can’t miss him, he’s the one that looks like death. White shirt. Short sleeves, and a look of despair.’

  At forty-six years old, Doctor Mark Bowen – a dedicated junior registrar nearing the end of yet another twelve-hour shift – stood by the bed and, doing his utmost not to unleash a torrent of abuse, politely advised the inebriated woman with a broken stiletto that it was nothing more than a mild sprain and how she’d be better off resting her ankle in the comfort of her own home rather than occupying one of his much-needed beds.

  He glanced round and glowered at West as she lingered outside the bay, his eyes a startling shade of Scandinavian grey.

  ‘Can I help?’ he said, expecting a complaint.

  ‘Hope so,’ said West. ‘The girl on the desk said we’d find you here. Are you in charge?’

  ‘Aye. Mark Bowen. Registrar.’

  ‘Don’t mean to sound rude but you look as bad as I feel.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Bowen, ‘no-one can feel that bad. How can I help?’

  ‘Sorry. DI West. And this is DS McCrae. It’s about a bloke who was brought in last night.’

  Bowen despatched the woman to the waiting area to have her ankle bandaged by a nurse and closed the curtain as West perched on the edge of the bed and smiled.

  ‘Busy night?’ she said.

  ‘Just the usual,’ said Bowen, tousling his mop of unruly hair. ‘Same old story, folk who can’t handle their drink but at least nobody pissed on the floor or threatened my staff. I’ve that to look forward to.’

  ‘Is it always that bad?’ said Dougal.

  ‘Aye, Sergeant, it is. Especially Saturday nights. That’s when it all kicks off.’

  ‘I don’t envy you. At least we can just lock them up.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how lucky you are. So, who are you after?’

  ‘Haven’t got a name,’ said West. ‘His car went off the road just outside Mauchline, last night. All we know is, he was beaten to a pulp.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ said Bowen, despondently. ‘He’s in the ICU and he’s not looking good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Let me think. As I recall, he has a broken jaw, two fractured cheek bones, a fractured eye socket, broken collar bone, not to mention a few ribs, severe bruising to the abdomen, oh, and a trauma to the back of the head. There’s a good chance he has a bleed on the brain but we can’t move him to check, not just now.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said West. ‘So, he didn’t just walk into a lamp post then, did he?’

  ‘A couple of baseball bats, more like.’

  ‘Have you any idea if he’d been drinking?’ said Dougal. ‘Or if he was on anything?’

  ‘The only thing he’s on is life support but, as we had to fit a catheter, I took the liberty of sending a sample for testing but I doubt if we’ll get it back before Monday.’

  ‘Was he conscious when he came in?’ said West. �
�Did he say anything?’

  ‘Not a peep, the man was out cold.’

  ‘So, we’ve no chance of having a word?’

  ‘Not unless you’re telepathic,’ said Bowen. ‘Even then I wouldn’t hold out much hope. In fact, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I can’t say for certain if he’ll even pull through. You should speak to the consultant about his prognosis.’

  ‘Pants,’ said West. ‘Not a good start for us, is it? Oh, hold on, was he carrying any ID? I mean, you must have stripped him before…’

  ‘Oh, aye. A wallet and a few bits and bobs, I think.’

  ‘And I suppose uniform took them, did they?’

  ‘No, no. I sent them packing, they were getting in the way. All his stuff’s bagged up. Will I get a nurse to fetch it for you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said West as she pulled a card from her pocket and handed it over. ‘Give us a call if anything happens, would you? We’ll drop by tomorrow to check on his progress, oh, and get yourself something to eat, you look like you could do with it.’

  ‘Is that an invitation?’ said Bowen, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Maybe,’ said West as she walked away. ‘Maybe.’

  * * *

  Dougal, looking unusually sombre, fastened his safety belt, folded his arms and sighed as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  ‘You okay?’ said West. ‘Are you upset about the bloke who…?’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that, miss, it’s…’

  ‘Go on. If something’s up, you can tell me.’

  ‘No, you’re alright. You’ll only laugh.’

  ‘Won’t. Promise.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dougal, ‘how come… how come it’s so easy for you? I mean, like just then, getting asked out on a date?’

  ‘What?’ said West, laughing. ‘He did no such thing.’

  ‘Aye, of course he did. Just not in so many words.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish.’

  ‘I’m serious. That doctor could hardly take his eyes off you.’

  ‘Well, it must be down to my ravishing good looks, then,’ said West, grinning. ‘And the fact that I’m sexy as hell.’

  ‘Sorry I asked. So, what now? We’ll not be getting any joy out of the fella in ICU anytime soon.’

  ‘Mauchline,’ said West. ‘We should take a look at the car.’

  * * *

  As someone who regarded shopping as a necessary evil made all the more tedious by folk who insisted on dawdling along the aisles browsing items they neither liked nor needed, Munro – not usually one for sniffing out bargains – was nonetheless feeling suitably smug at discovering the supermarket’s offer of “three for ten pounds” on a quite respectable Côtes du Rhône.

  He parked the trolley by the car, popped open the boot and placed all twelve bottles inside, along with two large carriers packed to the hilt with bacon and eggs, potatoes, oven chips, several sirloin steaks, a token packet of chicken breasts, two roasting joints, an assortment of snacks, and a bottle of Balvenie before fumbling for his glasses and pulling out the slip of paper DCI Elliot had handed him the day before.

  ‘By jiminy,’ he said, muttering under his breath. ‘Perhaps I am losing it after all.’

  * * *

  Following the closure of the railway line, which – along with the demise of the ironworks, the coal mines, the tweed factories, and the pottery – should have sounded the death knell for the once thriving market town, Cumnock had instead evolved into a burgeoning borough with more than its fair share of restaurants, coffee shops, gyms and nail bars, and even a factory outlet flogging designer goods at knock-down prices, all of which Munro – who was as keen on progress as the Huli Wigmen of Papua New Guinea – avoided by negotiating the bypass to the comparative tranquillity of the surrounding countryside.

  Smiling as he spied a weathered sign proclaiming “Tèarmann” hanging from a five-bar gate, he weaved his way through the clumps of silage, eased the Peugeot up the muddy drive and waved politely as Rona – curious about the unexpected visitor – slowly made her way towards him.

  ‘Sanctuary,’ he said as he stepped from the car and zipped his coat. ‘It has a nice ring to it.’

  ‘You know your Gaelic, then?’

  ‘Well, it wouldnae be my specialist subject on Mastermind,’ said Munro with a smile, ‘but I do remember some from school.’

  ‘It’s the name given to the lodge when this was all a part of the Lochnorris estate, centuries ago.’

  ‘Is that so? Miss Macallan, is it?’

  ‘It is, aye. And you are?’

  ‘Munro. James Munro.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rona. ‘I should’ve guessed. Police, right?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly, you see…’

  ‘I’ve been expecting you. Come with me. She’s in the barn.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Esme. She’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Aye, did they not tell you?’

  ‘No,’ said a bewildered Munro. ‘No, they did not.’

  ‘Never mind. Eleven months old, she was. Can you believe it? Eleven months.’

  ‘Good grief! What was it? A cot death?’

  Rona turned to Munro and laughed out loud.

  ‘No, it’s not a cot death, Mr Munro…’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  ‘…she was murdered.’

  Munro, the colour draining from his cheeks, froze on the spot, his brow furrowed with confusion.

  ‘Murdered?’ he said. ‘Miss Macallan, I fear we may be at cross-purposes here, would you mind…?’

  ‘Esme. She’s one of my goats.’

  * * *

  Munro, far from relieved that the body in question was not that of a child, solemnly shook his head as Rona pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal the lifeless carcass.

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ he said, shocked at the sight of the bolt protruding from the side of her neck. ‘Who in God’s name would do such a thing? To a defenceless animal?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Rona, ‘but whoever it was needs locking up.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Munro with a hefty sigh. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Miss Macallan, this is exactly the kind of thing that turns my stomach – more than finding some scally with a bullet hole in the back of his head.’

  ‘Then we’re two of kind,’ said Rona. ‘People I can live without.’

  ‘You and me both. So, this happened yesterday, is that correct?’

  ‘Aye, early hours, before I was up.’

  So, that would have been when?’

  ‘Any time before five.’

  ‘And that’s when you found her?’

  ‘Thereabouts,’ said Rona, ‘I came out around a half-past. The rest of the herd were kicking up a stink...’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘…so at first I thought she was just ill, then I saw the bolt and called the police straight away.’

  ‘So, you know the bolt’s from a crossbow, then?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Well, it’s not going to be a bow and arrow, is it?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, smiling, ‘you’re quite right, of course. Pardon the question but I have to ask, do you happen to own one?’

  ‘A crossbow? I most certainly do not.’

  ‘Good. Well, I can tell you this, Miss Macallan,’ said Munro as he leaned in for a closer look, ‘this bolt’s one of the wee ones, about six inches in length, so it would’ve been fired from a pistol bow.’

  ‘A pistol bow?’ said Rona. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The clue’s in the title. It’s not a big thing the likes of William Tell would’ve used to shoot apples off a wean’s head. These are small enough to be fired with one hand.’

  ‘I see. Then I don’t understand,’ said Rona. ‘If they fired it like a gun, then they must’ve come up the drive, and if they did that, then why did they not spook the herd?’

  ‘Believe it not,’ said Munro, ‘those
wee pistols have quite a range on them; forty, fifty, maybe even sixty feet.’

  Munro stood by the doors of the barn and pointed across the meadow towards the house.

  ‘See here, Miss Macallan,’ he said, ‘there’s no line of sight from here to the drive but you can see the road. I imagine that’s where it was fired from.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That’s what we’ll try to find out,’ said Munro as he turned to Esme and pulled out his phone. ‘I need to take a couple of… blast! I forgot, my phone doesnae have a camera.’

  ‘Will I do it?’ said Rona. ‘Then I can send you the photos.’

  ‘Aye, that’s good of you, thanks. I shall need some close-up, different angles, and a couple including her head and neck. Tell me, Miss Macallan, have you had any bother with the neighbours around here? Or anyone in town, perhaps?’

  ‘No, none. And that’s what I told the cop who was here yesterday.’

  ‘And did he proffer any suggestions as to who the perpetrator might be?’

  ‘Kids, would you believe?’

  Munro smiled reassuringly at Rona.

  ‘No. It’s not kids,’ he said, ‘but you knew that, already. Kids wouldnae come all the way out here in the dead of night just to shoot one goat and run away. I’m sorry to say it, but this was deliberate.’

  ‘Which brings me back to my original question, Mr Munro: why?’

  ‘To which I replied: I’ll try to find out.’

  Rona smiled, pulled her coat across her chest and began the walk back to the house.

  ‘Can I offer you some tea before you go?’ she said. ‘Or a coffee, maybe?’

  ‘No, no, you’re alright,’ said Munro, ‘but thanks all the same. Tell me, Miss Macallan, what is it you farm here, exactly?’

  ‘Och, it’s not a farm. More of a smallholding, really. I only have the goats and the chickens. They keep a roof over my head.’

  ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Cheese, butter, and milk. And eggs from the chickens, of course. It’s all organic, mind. I sell locally.’

  ‘A proper cottage industry, just like the old days. Most commendable. Most commendable, indeed.’

  ‘I’ll fetch you some if you like, you’re welcome to try it. The goats’ cheese is especially tasty.’