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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Well, I’m going to take a flyer on it,’ said West indignantly, ‘and if I’m wrong, we let her go. What have we got to lose?’

  Munro, unrattled by the kerfuffle outside, watched the reflection in the window as Duncan barged through the door weighed down with several clear plastic bags bound with cable ties.

  ‘And there was I thinking you’d be glad to see me,’ he said as he stared at their glum faces. ‘Any chance of a brew?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said West as she reached for the kettle. ‘We’re just having a difference of opinion, that’s all.’

  ‘I hope that’s all it is,’ said Duncan. ‘Chief. This is for you.’

  Munro turned and smiled as he caught sight of the pistol bow.

  ‘Jeez-oh!’ said Dougal, ‘that looks terrifying.’

  ‘It is,’ said Munro, ‘in the wrong hands. It’s all yours, laddie.’

  Dougal grabbed a pair of scissors from his desk drawer, cut open the top of the bag and, taking care not to handle the bow, carefully ran his middle finger along the barrel, wincing as it ran over a burr.

  ‘Exhibit A,’ he said, smiling, ‘in our first ever case of capricide.’

  ‘Well, that’s one loose end tied up,’ said Munro. ‘I’ll drive over to Macallan’s tomorrow and let her know.’

  ‘You should tell her about Jardine, too,’ said West. ‘It’ll stop her worrying every time there’s a knock at the door.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Charlie. Duncan, that’s a veritable armoury you have there. Does that all belong to Jardine?’

  ‘Certainly does, chief. And there’s more.’

  Duncan heaved a large, canvas holdall from his shoulder, retrieved a collection of small bags, and placed them in a neat row on the desk.

  ‘Ammo,’ he said, ‘various kinds including bolts for the crossbow. Plus some cash, I’m guessing there’s about five grand there. Laptop...’

  ‘I’ll take that,’ said Dougal, ‘I can’t wait to see what’s on it.’

  ‘I’d do it on an empty stomach if I were you, pal, the stuff on there is X-rated. It’s not for the faint-hearted, trust me. Oh, and I’ve got these, too. Steroids.’

  ‘Steroids?’ said West as she examined the plastic bottle. ‘You mean, like the stuff athletes take?’

  ‘Not athletes, miss,’ said Duncan. ‘Cheats. And numptys like Jardine. This stuff doesn’t just bulk you out, it fries your brain too.’

  ‘Well, that just adds weight to my argument,’ said West, ‘in so much as he’s got the right kind of temperament to knock seven shades out of someone and not give a toss about it. In fact, if Mary Ferguson felt threatened, then there might even be a case for self-defence. We should bring her in. Sorry, Jimbo.’

  ‘It’s your call, lassie. You must do what you think is right.’

  * * *

  West, torn between siding with Munro’s suggestion to wait, and stamping her authority on the investigation, found herself caught in a crisis of confidence as she pulled her phone from her hip.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ she said, muttering under her breath. ‘It’s McLeod.’

  She put the phone on speaker, turned up the volume, and placed it in the centre of her desk.

  ‘Andy,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Very well, Inspector,’ said McLeod. ‘Very well, indeed. Is this a good time to talk about this Jardine fella?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. We’re all here, so fire away.’

  ‘Okay, you can expect a full report just as soon as I find time to type it up, meanwhile, this might give you cause to raise a glass or two.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said West. ‘God knows I could do with a lift.’

  ‘First off,’ said McLeod, ‘we found high levels of oxymetholone in his system…’

  ‘Anadrol,’ said Duncan.

  ‘Exactly. He must have been on it for years. His heart’s abnormally stressed and his liver’s on the way out. If he hadn’t ended up on my slab, he’d have been up for a transplant within a couple of years.’

  ‘So, that’s what killed him?’ said West, crossing her fingers. ‘It was a heart attack?’

  ‘No, no,’ said McLeod, ‘nothing of the sort. It was the fever.’

  West, completely flummoxed, glanced around the room, her eyes settling on Munro.

  ‘Fever?’ she said. ‘Well, that’s bonkers. Are you telling me he got bitten by a mosquito, or had flu, or something?’

  McLeod laughed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not funny, I’m being serious. How the hell can you die from a fever?’

  ‘With the greatest of ease, Inspector. If you have a fever, it must be kept under control. If the body temperature reaches one hundred and eight degrees, then it’s goodnight Vienna. That is the critical point when all the internal organs begin to shut down. It’s commonly known as multiple organ failure.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said West, slumping in her chair. ‘So, that’s why he was sweating his pants off?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said McLeod.

  ‘Okay, I know I’m going to regret asking this but if he didn’t have flu, then what brought it on?’

  ‘Buprenorphine.’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Not the answer you were looking for?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m really not sure anymore.’

  ‘The thing is,’ said McLeod, ‘it wasn’t what I’d call a fatal dose, but given the state of his heart and liver, it was enough to polish him off. Incidentally, his condition reminded me of the other fella that came in recently…’

  ‘Alan Byrne?’

  ‘That’s him. Cause of death was the same. Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, but if I were in your shoes, I’d be looking for a link between the two.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said West with a sigh. ‘As it happens, we do have someone in our sights.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. A dealer, I suppose?’

  ‘Nah. Just someone who swiped a load of ’prenorphine from the clinic they attend but who also, coincidentally, had good reason to knock them off.’

  ‘And you think they administered the Buprenorphine?’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ said West. ‘I mean, probably. They claim they sold it for ten quid a tab but…’

  ‘Let me stop you, there,’ said McLeod. ‘Tab?’

  ‘Yeah, why?

  ‘I hate to disappoint you but that’s not your man.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘If either of these two fellas had taken tablets then I can guarantee we’d have found traces in the stomach, the oesophagus, the duodenum, even the intestines, but there was nothing. The ’prenorphine was taken intravenously.’

  ‘You mean, with a needle?’

  ‘That is the general interpretation of the phrase, aye.’

  As the room fell silent, a crestfallen West wandered to the window and stared out across the night sky.

  ‘I’ve got another phrase for you,’ she said curtly. ‘Crash and burn.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, thanks Andy, I appreciate the call.’

  ‘No bother,’ said McLeod. ‘One thing before I go, I doubt it has any bearing on the case but your man, Jardine; he was HIV positive.’

  Chapter 12

  In a rare show of abstinence, West – having said hardly anything all evening – pushed her plate to one side and cradled a glass of red as Munro, fearing she’d succumbed to something terminal, peered over the laptop and sighed as he eyed the half a sirloin lying on the dish.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Charlie,’ he said, ‘is there something you need to get off your chest? You’ve had a face like a wet weekend for long enough.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just…’

  ‘Just what? Feeling sorry for yourself?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You’re better than that, lassie,’ said Munro. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because I nearly screwed up, that’s why.’

 
‘Tosh. You did no such thing. You were following a feasible line of inquiry and had the rug pulled out from under your feet. It happens to the best of us.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said West, ‘but that doesn’t help. I can just see Dougal and Duncan having a good old giggle over this…’

  ‘They’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘…they must think I’m a right idiot.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on yourself.’

  ‘I just wanted to make a good impression, that’s all; first case as a DI and all that.’

  ‘But instead of employing rational thought and using your instinct,’ said Munro, ‘you let impetuosity get the better of you. You knew in your heart of hearts that Mary Ferguson’s no murderer.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ said West with a sigh, ‘I just thought… I thought if I wrapped it up nice and quick, then…’

  ‘Patience,’ said Munro, ‘is a virtue.’

  ‘You know me, Jimbo, vices are my thing.’

  Munro smiled and glanced at the laptop as he sipped his Balvenie.

  ‘Truth be known,’ he said, ‘if you were that keen to get a conviction, you could have had her for theft, at the very least.’

  ‘I know, but she doesn’t deserve that.’

  ‘Well, there’s no point moping around here, lassie. You should take yourself to bed and get some rest.’

  ‘Yeah, in a minute,’ said West. ‘What are you up to on that thing, anyway?’

  ‘Och, just a wee bit of research.’

  ‘Something to do with this volunteer job that you’re after?’

  ‘No, no, it’s… aye. The volunteer job, that’s what it is.’

  ‘So, how’d it go?’ said West. ‘With Elliot I mean?’

  ‘Done and dusted, Charlie. Officially, I’m on night duty answering the telephone. Unofficially, I am the stone in your shoe.’

  ‘Good. I’m happy for you. When do you start?’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I don’t mind saying, you’re a tough act to follow, Jimbo, and having you around will only…’

  ‘Och, stop havering and go to bed. I’m away myself just now. I think I’ll read a while before turning in.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West. ‘I think I’ll have a nip of something first then do the same.’

  Munro stood, drained his glass, and slipped his spectacles into his breast pocket.

  ‘You’re not one for reading, are you, Charlie?’

  ‘If it’s the right subject, I am,’ said West.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Menus, mainly.’

  ‘But if you were into reading, what would you fancy? Romance, perhaps?’

  ‘Do me a favour.’

  ‘How about a good murder-mystery then?’

  ‘Busman’s holiday.’

  ‘Well, maybe something to keep you up all night?’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds more like it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Munro with a smirk. ‘I’ve found just the thing for you. I’ll leave it here.’

  With no intention of reading anything apart from the label on the second bottle of wine, West watched Munro traipse down the hall before topping up her glass and moving to his chair expecting to be greeted by a Kindle version of “The Exorcist” or “A Nightmare on Elm Street”, not a jargon-laden description of Buprenorphine from a pharmaceutical company.

  “Vetergesic. Multi-dose solution for Horses and other equidae, dogs and cats. Qualitative Composition: Buprenorphine 0.3mg/ml, as Buprenorphine Hydrochloride 0.324mg/ml, Chlorocresol 1.35mg/ml.”

  Wishing she’d read the wine label instead, West scoured the website from top to bottom trying to figure out why – in the absence of any pets, and apart from the fact that Vetergesic was just another brand name for Buprenorphine – Munro would think it relevant at all until, scanning the page for a fourth time, her eyes settled on one word: horses.

  ‘You clever bugger,’ she said, downing her wine. ‘You clever bugger.’

  * * *

  The unexpected buzz of her phone made her jump.

  ‘Dougal!’ she said. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Aye, sorry miss. Did I wake you?’

  ‘No, it’s alright. What’s up?’

  ‘Is your email handy?’

  ‘Yeah, hold on.’

  ‘I’ve got some feedback on Jardine’s car,’ said Dougal. ‘They’ve found two sets of prints, one belongs to Jardine and the other’s unknown. We’ve no match on the database.’

  ‘Well, that’s a big help.’

  ‘I know, but I was thinking they might belong to this Foubert fella, after all, he was the one he called before he keeled over.’

  ‘Good point,’ said West. ‘We need to have a chat with him. You and Duncan can flip a coin over it, one of you can go up there tomorrow.’

  ‘Right you are, miss. Now, I’ve also sent you four photos.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West. ‘Got them.’

  ‘The first three are from Jardine’s car; the tyres and the wheel arches. As you’ll see, there’s a fair bit of muck in there.’

  ‘Yeah, looks like he’s been through a field or something.’

  ‘It’s a mix of silage, straw and hay.’

  ‘Of course!’ said West. ‘The road to Macallan’s place was plastered with the stuff, so that makes sense.’

  ‘Aye, he probably picked it up when he shot the goat, or afterwards, when he went back to have a pop at her.’

  ‘Well, that’s obvious, Dougal. What’s your point?’

  ‘My point is, miss, I’d seen it before so I went back and did some checking. Fourth photo; it’s the passenger side footwell of Byrne’s Range Rover. There’s the same mix of straw and hay on the mat.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, Byrne’s not been near Macallan’s place.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain,’ said West, ‘maybe he went with Jardine to kill the goat.’

  ‘With all due respect, miss, he’s hardly likely to come back from the dead just to kill a goat.’

  West snorted as she sniggered into her wine glass.

  ‘Sorry, Dougal,’ she said, laughing. ‘It’s late and my mind’s all over the shop, so, maybe they went for a reccy beforehand, before Byrne was killed?’

  ‘If they had, there’d be traces of the stuff on the wheels of the Range Rover just like Jardine’s Beemer but there isn’t. And Byrne didn’t get out of his car, the footwell on the driver’s side is as clean as whistle.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is…’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dougal. ‘Someone apart from Jardine got into Byrne’s car.’

  * * *

  As a firm believer that everything in life was placed on earth to fulfil a preordained role and that anyone or anything attempting to unsettle the status quo could potentially unleash a chain of events with catastrophic consequences for the entire universe, Munro – aware that it was not yet six o’clock – felt a pang of unease as he opened the bedroom door to the smell of burning toast and the sound of spluttering eggs.

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat!’ he said as he wandered to the kitchen. ‘Dinnae tell me you’ve been at the caffeine again, Charlie.’

  ‘A waste of daylight is a waste of time, Jimbo.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Munro, muttering to himself, ‘I’m in the wrong house. I see you’ve recovered from your bout of self-pity, then.’

  ‘I certainly have,’ said West. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I always sleep well, lassie. It’s the folk with a guilty conscience that cannae sleep.’

  ‘That explains my insomnia, then. Do you want some breakfast?’

  Munro looked on aghast as she dished up a mountain of eggs, bacon, black pudding, sausage, beans and tomatoes, topped off with a tattie scone.

  ‘Well, I can hardly refuse a spread like that,’ he said. ‘Is that last night’s steak on your plate?’

  ‘Yeah. I hate to see it go to waste,’ said West. ‘It looks like it might
stop raining soon.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, lassie. It’s been dreich for far too long.’

  ‘What are you up to today?’

  ‘I’ve not thought that far ahead. Why?’

  ‘Fancy a drive?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Out to the country,’ said West with a wink. ‘I thought we could go see Rona Macallan and tell her we found the goat killer.’

  * * *

  Despite the glare of the sun bouncing off the rain-soaked asphalt, the road to Tèarmann, Rona Macallan’s farmstead – pitted with potholes like plunge pools and littered with fallen branches – posed no problem for the ageing Peugeot as Munro, one hand on the wheel, hurtled along at sixty miles per hour leaving West jostling in her seat like a ragdoll on a rollercoaster ride.

  ‘I’m beginning to see another side of you,’ she said, wishing she’d had cereal for breakfast. ‘And it’s quite dark.’

  * * *

  Craving a glass of Alka-Seltzer, West, impatient as ever, rattled the letterbox and banged the door filling a startled Macallan with a sense of dread. Arming herself with the trusty poker, she crept downstairs and tentatively opened the door.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, her shoulders slumping with relief. ‘With all that banging I thought…’

  ‘I must apologise for my colleague,’ said Munro with a reassuring smile, ‘she does like to make her presence felt. I do hope we’ve not interrupted anything.’

  Macallan, dressed in a pair of baggy, white sweatpants and a loose-fitting tee shirt, smiled as she tied back her hair and led them through to the kitchen.

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ she said, ‘I was just practising my yoga. Can I get you something?’

  ‘Coffee would be nice,’ said West. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all, Inspector. Mr Munro?’

  ‘Aye. Very kind thanks.’

  Struck by the warmth of the antiquated, oil-fired range, Munro slipped off his jacket, took a seat at the dining table, and tipped three heaped teaspoons of sugar into the mug.

  ‘It’s only instant,’ said Macallan. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘That’s fine, thanking you,’ said Munro, baulking as he took a sip.

  ‘Sorry, I should’ve said. It’s goats’ milk.’