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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘No bother. I was probably off with the fella, anyway. He didn’t exactly catch me at a good time.’

  ‘No,’ said West. ‘I’m sure. Look, I won’t waste your time going over old ground, obviously you’ve no idea who attacked your husband?’

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘It’s more to do with money.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Craig’s been unemployed for a while now, right?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘So, I need to know how you get by. I understand he gives you an amount each month, what you might call living expenses. Any idea where it comes from, if he’s not earning?’

  ‘No,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve never questioned it. He used to earn a packet so I’ve just assumed he’s had it sitting in his account.’

  ‘Okay, and neither of you claim any benefits? Jobseekers? Child benefit? That kind of thing?’

  ‘No. Never have. Never will.’

  West, leaning forward with her elbows on her thighs, rubbed her chin and looked up at Mary.

  ‘Your brother’s pretty well-off, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘Sean?’

  ‘Aye. Minted. Not that I’ll ever see any of it.’

  ‘You don’t get on?’

  ‘Chalk and cheese,’ said Mary. ‘Besides, he’s not exactly generous. It’s like they say, the more you’ve got, the tighter you become.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in your family? Brothers? Sisters?’

  ‘No. Just us.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘Both long gone.’

  ‘So, you’re his next of kin?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose I am.’

  ‘In that case,’ said West, taking a deep breath, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. He’s dead.’

  Mary glanced at West, her face breaking into a lacklustre smile.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘It had to happen sooner or later, I suppose. Probably picked on the wrong fella, is that it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said West. ‘We’re still looking into it, we only found him last night.’

  Mary pulled the robe around her tight and folded her arms.

  ‘Let’s hope the bugger didn’t make a will.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If there’s no will, and I’m next of kin, then I’ll be quids in, right?’

  ‘Yup, I suppose you will,’ said West. ‘So, you’re not upset, then?’

  ‘No. Frankly, it’s about time lady luck paid me a visit. God knows I could I use it.’

  West, surprised at Mary’s lack of emotion, stood up, drove her hands deep into her pockets, and leaned against the door.

  ‘There’s something else I need to ask you about,’ she said. ‘Your treatment. The programme you’re on.’

  ‘That DC told you, did he?’

  ‘As you’d expect.’

  ‘Aye. Fair enough. What about it?’

  ‘You’re on Buprenorphine,’ said West. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Okay, well, I don’t mean to sound blunt, but why’d you nick it?’

  Mary stared at West, held her gaze, and moved to the cot, swallowing hard as she cleared her throat.

  ‘We’ve got you on film,’ said West. ‘CCTV. It’s all over the place.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’ said Ferguson. ‘You do me for theft and I lose the bairn?’

  ‘No. It doesn’t have to work like that. I just need to know why.’

  Mary returned to the bed and sat with her head bowed, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  ‘The money from Craig,’ she said. ‘It didn’t come this month.’

  ‘He stopped the transfers?’

  ‘There were no transfers. It was always cash.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he’d had problems, that there was nothing to worry about and he’d sort it. I’d just have to wait, that’s all.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Mary. ‘I took the ’prenorphine. Ten quid a tab. There’s a couple of desperate junkies who’ll give me twenty.’

  ‘So, you sold it?’

  ‘Aye, what else was I going to do with it? I’m not about to up my own prescription now, am I? Getting hooked on opioids, that’s just as bad as…’

  ‘Okay, point taken. So, was this the first time?’

  ‘No. I took some before. But just the once, mind. Straight up.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said West as she slowly paced the room. ‘Tell me, what do you know about a bloke by the name of Alan Byrne?’

  ‘Byrne? Sean’s pal?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Nutter.’

  ‘Do you know he died recently?’

  ‘Are you joking me? When?’

  ‘Like I said. Recently.’

  ‘And you think there’s a connection between him and Sean?’

  ‘Nah, doubt it,’ said West, ‘but it’s something we have to look at.’

  ‘Well, forgive me if I don’t sound too charitable, but they both deserve it. Nasty pieces of work, the pair of them.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Byrne was one of the people you flogged the ’prenorphine to, was it?’

  ‘Are you joking?’ said Mary, sheepishly. ‘What makes you think I sold it to Byrne?’

  ‘Because he died of an overdose. A Buprenorphine overdose.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mary as her face blanched, ‘now I see where this is going. You think I did it? You think I killed him?’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think you did,’ said West, keeping her cards close to her chest. ‘I don’t think you’re that stupid.’

  Mary, looking decidedly uneasy, flinched as the knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

  ‘Come in,’ she said nervously.

  West’s eyes lit up as the young man from reception backed into the room carrying a large tray laden with a teapot, two cups, a rack of toast, a selection of jams and marmalades, and two buttered scones.

  ‘Mrs Ferguson,’ he said, fearful of waking the baby, ‘we were sorry to hear about your husband and thought a wee something might cheer you up.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said West as he left the room. ‘I must be going too, thanks for your time.’

  ‘Aye, okay,’ said Mary. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Are you staying here or heading back to Glasgow?’

  ‘Here. Until he wakes up. And then some, I imagine.’

  ‘Good,’ said West as she filched a slice of toast. ‘We might need another chat.’

  * * *

  Unimpressed with the plethora of pretentious brasseries, ritzy restaurants, designer boutiques, and delicatessens touting artisan loaves for the price of a Sunday roast with all the trimmings, Duncan – who shopped for clothes in the department store, lived off takeaways, and preferred the atmosphere of his down-at-heel local to the over-priced bars of Merchant City – parked behind the patrol car on Miller Street and wandered over.

  ‘Alright, pal?’ he said, flashing his warrant card as the uniformed officer lowered the window. ‘Are you two here for me?’

  The officer in passenger seat leaned forward to get a glimpse of the scruffy detective.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We hear you forgot your key.’

  ‘That’s good, that. So, what does that make you? A locksmith?’

  The driver opened his door and scurried round to the boot.

  ‘As it happens,’ he said, grinning as he retrieved the battering ram, ‘it does! I love using this, pure magic. So, how come you’re up this neck of the woods? Is this not something we should be dealing with?’

  ‘I wish it was,’ said Duncan, ‘but see, the fella who lives here, he was topped on our patch so it’s up to us to clear up the mess.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s hope the neighbours are out, I’d hate to wake them. So, where are we?’

  ‘Top floor. Number one.’

  * * *

  As someone who’d grown up on a hou
sing scheme in the arse end of Inverclyde, the notion of squandering half a million pounds on a city apartment just because of the location was folly enough, but to skimp on the ironmongery, was pure madness.

  Standing well clear, Duncan allowed himself a wry smile as the solid hardwood door all but flew off its hinges with a single whack from the big red key prompting the lead officer to beckon him inside while his colleague made arrangements to have the door boarded up.

  Snapping on a pair of gloves, he made a cursory tour of the neat but characterless flat, sneering at the laminate flooring and flat-pack furniture, before perching on the sofa and lifting the lid of the laptop sitting on the coffee table.

  Initially disheartened by the blank screen, he tapped the space bar with his index finger, his triumphant smile dissipating as it sprang to life only to reveal the browser, still open, plastered with images even a rough-around-the-edges, street-wise cop like Duncan found disturbing. Disgusted by the fact that Jardine’s viewing habits appeared to centre around hostage-taking videos and adult websites that featured content of a sado-masochistic nature, he drew a breath and slammed it shut before heading to the bedroom where, in his experience, anyone with something to hide, would hide it.

  Compared to the rest of the flat, which resembled a show home for fans of minimalism, the bedroom was in a state of positive disarray; piles of dirty laundry littered the floor, a silk dressing gown in a questionable green and gold Paisley pattern lay strewn across the bed, and a jar of Anadrol – a substance he recognised as the steroid of choice amongst the bodybuilding fraternity – sat beside a tumbler of water on the bedside table.

  Sliding open the left-hand side of the mirrored, double wardrobe, Duncan – not one for dressing to the nines – stared in amazement at the number of suits crammed onto the rail alongside a collection of blue, white-collared shirts and questioned why anyone with an eye for sartorial elegance would have the need for combat fatigues, a black, woollen balaclava, or indeed, a pair of commando boots.

  Optimistically anticipating the haul of the century, he tentatively slid open the other side of the wardrobe and whistled in disbelief at the kind of cache Rambo would be proud of.

  Standing back, he pulled the phone from his pocket and reeled off half a dozen photos before tapping in an inventory of Jardine’s stash: two Remington .22 air rifles, three air pistols – one Ruger, one Webley, and one Heckler and Koch – three tins of pellets, a tub of steel ball bearings, a twelve-inch Bowie knife, and, the icing on the cake, a Redback tactical crossbow which, disconcertingly, looked capable of inflicting more damage than the rest of his arsenal put together.

  ‘Alright pal?’ said the officer with the battering ram as he appeared in the doorway. ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Duncan, grinning. ‘I need to bag this lot, then that’s me away.’

  Chapter 11

  Although West, on occasion, had done her best to convince him that his boyish good looks would pay dividends later in life when he’d look considerably younger than his greying contemporaries, and the dire state of his love life was simply down to bad luck, Dougal – looking forward to the day when he’d have to shave out of necessity rather than habit – remained unconvinced. He sat at his desk with the same petrified look of inevitability as a deep sea diver who’d run out of air.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said, ‘what’s up with you? You look like you’ve wet yourself.’

  ‘Not far off, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘if I’m honest. It’s Emily. She’s asked me out again.’

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘Aye, you remember, the lassie who worked for Gundersen before we nicked him. The lassie who got hammered on our first date.’

  ‘Oh, her! But I thought you liked her?’

  ‘I did, aye. She’s gorgeous. And clever, too.’

  ‘So, what did she say?’

  ‘She was wondering why I’d not been in touch. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I couldn’t handle her drinking.’

  ‘Och, Dutch courage, laddie,’ said Munro. ‘We’ve all been there.’

  ‘Maybe, boss, but she was out cold by seven-thirty. Two bottles of wine to herself.’

  ‘Sounds like a lightweight,’ said West, smirking.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Munro, ‘remember as a wean, if there was a lassie in the playground who caught your eye, would you tell her so?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Exactly. Instead, you’d call her names and tease her, too scared to show your true colours. This is no different. She simply had a wee drink to calm her nerves...’

  ‘A wee drink?’

  ‘…and got carried away.’

  ‘Jimbo’s right,’ said West. ‘What you’ve got to remember, Dougal, is that you’ve seen her at her worst, and she knows that. Now, embarrassed as she must be, if she’s got the balls to call you back, then she must like you, too.’

  ‘Aye! I never thought of it like that.’

  ‘And she’s not likely to make the same mistake again,’ said Munro. ‘Take my advice and give her a call, laddie. You’ll not regret it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so. Life’s too short for “what ifs”. Trust me.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said West, ‘counselling session over, how’d you get on? With Jardine, I mean.’

  ‘Result, miss!’ said Dougal, his spirits lifted by the pep talk. ‘He’s got one of those mobile banking apps on his phone and he’s been moving money around like a banker playing the stock market.’

  ‘No surprise there,’ said West. ‘Do we know where?’

  ‘Aye. Jersey and the Isle of Man, mainly. The fella’s loaded.’

  ‘Tax evasion?’

  ‘Spot on. See, he’s not on the payroll with the bank, he’s registered as self-employed so he’s liable for his own tax and last year he paid less than me.’

  ‘Pity,’ said West, ‘if he hadn’t kicked the bucket, we could’ve done him for that, too. What about this Fou geezer?'

  ‘Claude Foubert. Five-eleven, well-built, no hair and a small birthmark like a port wine stain on his forehead. Age: thirty-seven. Single. Born: Maisons-Laffitte; that’s a posh part of Paris. He’s been over here with the bank for three and a half years.’

  ‘Any form?’

  ‘Not here, but I’ve asked the Parisian PP to run a check, see if he’s been up to any mischief at home.’

  ‘Nice one. And have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No, no. Not yet,’ said Dougal, ‘I don’t want to scare him off. I think it’s best we speak face to face, but that’ll mean another trip up to Glasgow. Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said West. ‘Do you want to pay him a visit, or shall we send Duncan?’

  ‘I’m not fussed.’

  ‘Well, think about it. Either way, if Foubert’s a part of Jardine’s gang, then we’ll need some evidence to nick him, as well.’

  Dougal handed out the mugs and placed the tin of ginger nuts on the desk.

  ‘That’s all we have left,’ he said. ‘How was Mary Ferguson, miss? Any joy?’

  ‘Yup. Pity, really. She’s a nice kid.’

  ‘Pity?’ said Munro. ‘How so?’

  ‘She’s guilty as hell.’

  ‘Really? Talk us through it then, Charlie.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, sipping her brew. ‘For a start, she’s the obvious link between Byrne and Jardine…’

  ‘By default, lassie. It doesnae give her cause to kill Byrne.’

  ‘Hear me out. Craig Ferguson loses his job, right? He’s skint. He goes to Jardine, gets a loan, can’t pay it back. Then he starts getting hassled by Byrne. Mary Ferguson swipes the ’prenorphine and they knock him off to get him off their backs.’

  ‘Did Mary Ferguson mention anything about the loan?’

  ‘No,’ said West. ‘She claims they’ve been living off money Craig had saved before he got the boot.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘but if you dinnae mind me saying so, there appears to be a g
reat deal of supposition on your part.’

  ‘You say supposition, I say instinct,’ said West, biting into a biscuit. ‘The thing is, Jimbo, when I mentioned Alan Byrne, she went all cagey, she was holding back. She knows more than she was letting on.’

  ‘Miss,’ said Dougal, ‘do you not think it’s a bit extreme, though? I mean, killing Alan Byrne just to get out of debt?’

  ‘You think so? Look at the reputation they’ve got. If you ask me, it was a case of them or us. With Byrne out of the way, they’re off the hook, scot free. Let’s face it, she may not see eye to eye with her brother but he’s hardly going to come after her knowing she’s penniless with a baby.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Dougal.

  ‘And what about the loose ends, Charlie?’ said Munro. ‘Craig Ferguson and Rona Macallan?’

  ‘Easy,’ said West. ‘Jardine hears about Byrne’s death, puts two and two together, and gives Craig a bloody good hiding to teach him a lesson but he still wants his money back. Now, I know this bit’s a bit foggy but, assuming Jardine knew that his brother-in-law was having an affair with Rona Macallan, and he hasn’t got a cat’s chance in hell of getting his money back from him, who would he go after?’

  ‘Rona Macallan,’ said Dougal.

  ‘In one,’ said West. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case. And that’s why I want to bring her in. You’re not saying much, Jimbo, what do you think?’

  Munro drained his cup and wandered to the window where he stood, hands clasped behind his back, watching the clouds roll by.

  ‘What do I think of your intentions, Charlie?’ he said. ‘Or what do I think, as in, my opinion?’

  ‘Your opinion.’

  ‘Well,’ said Munro, ‘as Dougal says, your theory’s plausible, I’ll give you that, but there’s too many gaps for my liking and not enough hard evidence to prove that she was behind Byrne’s murder. Add to that the fact that Byrne and Jardine, close friends no less, both died within days of each other, then there’s every chance that there’s a link between their deaths. If I were dealing with this case, Charlie, I’d hold off for the results of the post-mortem on Jardine before going any further.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘but to be honest, if you’d been with me when I questioned Mary Ferguson, then…’

  ‘If it transpires that Jardine died of natural causes, then you might be in with a chance. But if there’s anything to suggest otherwise…’