‘Sounds perfect,’ said West. ‘Nothing fancy, I’ve only been let out for an hour.’
‘No danger,’ said Bowen as he handed her a crash helmet. ‘I was only thinking burger and chips. Here, try this for size.’
West unpinned her hair and tucked the tresses into her collar as Bowen, distracted by a figure hovering by the door, patted her gently on the shoulder.
‘Two ticks,’ he said.
West, fastening the strap under her chin, locked eyes with the suited stranger and froze in a moment of vague recognition as Bowen shook his hand and ushered him outside.
Whipping off the helmet, she yanked the phone from her hip and frantically dialled the office.
‘Duncan!’
‘Aye, miss, what’s up?’
‘That Foubert bloke, what does he look like?’
‘A thug,’ said Duncan. ‘Tall, five-eleven or thereabouts, and he’s as bald as a coot with a map of Africa on his head.’
Dispensing with niceties, West hung up and called Munro.
‘Jimbo!’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Car park, Charlie. Whatever is the matter?’
‘Big bloke outside. Dark suit, looks like Gorbachev.’
‘Aye, got him.’
‘I think that’s Claude Foubert. Get his registration and tell Dougal I want him picked up, now!’
‘Nae bother, Charlie. Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Just get him picked up. I’ll see you in an hour.’
* * *
Bowen, befuddled if not scared by West’s fierce expression, apologised profusely.
‘I am so sorry, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Just a wee bit of business I had to attend to. So, will we go?’
‘No,’ said West, sternly. ‘I think we need to have a chat first.’
‘A chat?’ What about?’
‘Claude Foubert.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ said Bowen. ‘Who’s Claude Foubert?’
‘The bloke you were just talking to.’
‘Was it? Sorry, but I don’t know his name, I just…’
‘Just what?’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Bowen sheepishly. ‘It’s personal.’
West took half a step back, drew herself up, and folded her arms.
‘How much do you owe him?’ she said, glowering.
Bowen glanced over his shoulder and sighed.
‘Shall we go somewhere a little less public?’
Bowen hung his helmet on the wing mirror, perched sideways on the seat, and looked at West like a castigated schoolboy.
‘I was desperate,’ he said. ‘Twenty-six grand a year for a ninety-hour week, a mortgage to pay and Ally to look after. It’s not easy with the fees, and once term starts again, there’s also her digs to pay for.’
‘Digs?’ said West. ‘I thought she was staying with you?’
‘Only during the holidays. She’s at Durham, two years into a three-year BSc in Bioscience.’
‘Look, I’m not having a go,’ said West, ‘and I’m not asking you to justify yourself to me, I just need to know what the score is, okay?’
‘I got a loan.’
‘Who from?’
‘A fella called Byrne. One of the nurses gave me his number, she said he’d help me out.’
‘Hold on. One of the nurses?’
Oh, aye. I’m not the only numpty in it up to my neck. There’s a fair few of us here.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’ said Bowen. ‘That’s it. I get a phone call saying Byrne’s no longer coming to collect the payments and I should expect this other fella instead.’
‘Foubert?’
‘If you say so.’
West shoved her hands into her pockets and walked a circle, scuffing her heels as she went.
‘You do know that that kind of racket is completely illegal, don’t you?’
‘Aye, of course, I do,’ said Bowen. ‘But what are the options for the likes of us? See here, Charlotte, I can’t get an extension on the mortgage and the bank won’t give me what I need. The bottom line is, I’ll not have Ally finish uni with a massive debt hanging over her head. It’s not right.’
‘Rock and a hard place, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
West looked to the sky and sighed.
‘God, we had it easy, didn’t we? Free education, I mean.’
‘No,’ said Bowen. ‘We got what we were entitled to. I believe it’s our duty to educate the kids, they shouldn’t have to pay for it.’
‘I won’t argue with that. So, how much do you owe him?’
‘Enough.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ said West as she zipped her coat. ‘You might not have to pay it back.’
‘How so?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve got a feeling you won’t be seeing Foubert for quite some time. Shall we go?’
* * *
Anticipating what he regarded to be a just reward for instigating the swift apprehension of Claude Foubert, Dougal – his patience teetering on the edge of endurance as the clockwork timer wound its way down to zero – smiled with relief as Munro finally lifted the ham and cheese sandwiches from the toaster with the pizzazz of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.
‘Dinnae sit there gawping,’ he said. ‘Somebody put the kettle on.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Duncan. ‘Can we not wangle a toaster like that on expenses, chief?’
‘You’ll have to ask, Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘Decision-making’s not a part of my remit anymore.’
‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ said West as she trudged through the door and flung herself at a chair.
‘You’re back early,’ said Munro. ‘Not a lovers’ tiff, I hope?’
‘I wasn’t in the mood, that’s all.’
‘You were when I dropped you off. What happened?’
‘Something came up.’
‘You mean Foubert?’
‘Yup. One of those for me?’
‘Did you not have yourself some lunch?’
‘Yeah, burger and chips. So?’
‘Nothing, lassie. Here, help yourself.’
‘So,’ said West, ‘did you get Foubert?’
‘We did, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘He’s downstairs ready for questioning.’
‘Good. And did you manage to dig up anything concrete we can use against him?’
‘Aye. Basically, he’s running a similar set-up to Jardine but instead of being registered as a self-employed individual, he’s down as CEO of a risk management consultancy that’s registered in Paris. The company account is with HSBC on the Rue de Rivoli, that’s where the money goes when his invoices are settled, then huge chunks are syphoned off to an account on the Isle of Man.’
‘God, you have been busy.’
‘Tell her about the other bit,’ said Duncan. ‘The withdrawals.’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Dougal, ‘at first sight, there’s nothing out of the ordinary. I can tell you where he eats, where he drinks, and where he shops because he uses a debit card for almost every transaction, but he also makes a lot of cash withdrawals.’
‘Well, we all do that,’ said West. ‘How else would we get by?’
‘These are over-the-counter cash withdrawals, miss. By prior arrangement. Nothing less than a couple of grand, two or three times a month.’
‘Blooming heck,’ said West, ‘he must be earning a fortune.’
‘He is.’
‘Alright for some.’
‘I was thinking,’ said Duncan, ‘maybe he’s got some kind of a habit? Not drugs, it’s too much cash for that, but gambling, maybe?’
‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘I’d wager the cash is for the punters queuing up to take advantage of his competitive interest rates.’
‘I agree,’ said West, ‘we need to get him out of circulation as soon as possible. Dougal, you know his entire background, why don’t you do the honours?’
‘You want me to interview him?’
‘Why not? But take Duncan with you, he looks a bit scary, it might loosen him up a bit.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Duncan, handing her a mug. ‘Here’s your tea.’
Munro, serving himself last, as usual, sat at the desk, tucked a tea towel into his collar and glanced at West.
‘So, come on, Charlie,’ he said, biting into his toastie. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Huh?’
‘Did you not enjoy your sightseeing trip?’
‘Sightseeing?’ said West. ‘I couldn’t see a bloody thing, his head was in the way. In fact, I think I’ve cricked my neck.’
‘That’s not it.’
‘No. It isn’t. It’s Byrne. And Jardine. And Foubert. The lot of them. Do you know, they’ve got half the flipping hospital in their pockets?’
‘That, sadly, is not in the least bit surprising,’ said Munro. ‘Folk like that prey on the weak and the desperate.’
‘But it’s so unfair,’ said West. ‘All those nurses and doctors, they earn a pittance for what they do, so the upshot is that they have to resort to black market loans just to get by.’
‘They’re not the only ones, lassie. There’s the firefighters too, and the teachers, and the social workers, and…’
‘Yeah, alright, I get the picture. It still makes me mad, though. I mean, I know we don’t earn a fortune, but we’re not saving people’s lives, are we?’
‘That’s debateable, Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the distinct impression that your outburst on the topic of social inequality has something to do with your registrar friend.’
‘It has everything to do with my registrar friend. He’s one of them.’
‘You mean he’s in hock to Foubert, as well?’ said Dougal.
‘He’s in it up to his neck,’ said West. ‘I feel sorry for him. He only borrowed the cash so his daughter wouldn’t be lumbered with a massive debt when she leaves uni. To be honest, he’s so skint, I’m surprised he can afford to keep that bike on the road.’
West, looking as though she’d inadvertently swallowed a lump of tofu, slowly raised her arm and clicked her fingers at Dougal.
‘That tape,’ she said. ‘The tape from outside the community hospital. Get it up.’
Dougal spun the laptop round to show the footage already paused on Macallan’s Defender.
‘Here we go, miss, this is where…’
‘No, no, no!’ said West impatiently. ‘Go back. Go back to where you started from yesterday.’
‘Okay, but there’s nothing much apart from…’
‘There!’ said West. ‘A car… then another…’
‘Aye,’ said Dougal, ‘and in a minute that fella will walk by…’
‘Stop! The bike! Can you zoom in a bit?’
Munro stood behind West, hands clasped firmly behind his back, and squinted at the screen.
‘Why the fascination with the motorcycle, Charlie?’
She turned to face him with a look of desolation on her face.
‘It’s only a bleeding Harley, Jimbo. That’s Fat Bob.’
* * *
Reaching for the evidence bag, West rummaged through its contents like someone who’d mistakenly tossed their lotto ticket into the waste paper basket before producing the white envelope stuffed with cash that she’d plucked from Jardine’s jacket pocket.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘NHS on the front. Return address: University Hospital.’
‘Jeez-oh,’ said Dougal. ‘Are you saying the fella on the Harley is your registrar pal?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s starting to look that way.’
She delved into the bag for a second time and fished out a clear, plastic pouch containing the leather glove found beneath the passenger seat of the BMW.
‘You wouldn’t wear these unless you owned a bike.’
Dougal grabbed the laptop and zoomed in even further.
‘Miss,’ he said. ‘Your pal, he’s only wearing one glove.’
‘Just my luck.’
‘So, what will you do now?’ said Munro.
‘Only one thing we can do. Duncan, bring him in.’
Chapter 16
After years of struggling to keep his head above water, Mark Bowen had every right to feel angry when his wife of seventeen years, who divided her time between the café at the gym and the local wine bar, hit him with the cliché: “it’s not you, it’s me”, citing boredom as the reason for leaving what she deemed to be a loveless marriage.
Reminding her of the fact that she’d never worked a day in her life nor contributed anything towards the running of the household, he pointed her in the direction of the job centre and wished her on her way with a simple “on you go” and “don’t forget to stay in touch”.
Despite the turmoil of their separation and the pressure of working fourteen hour shifts in the volatile environment of the A&E, he refrained, unlike many of colleagues, from turning to alcohol as a way of alleviating the anger and the stress he’d kept bottled up inside him – an avoidance tactic which left him close to tipping point.
Declining the offer of a seat, he paced the floor grinding his teeth and muttering under his breath while Duncan, concerned he might blow a fuse at any point, remained on his feet should he need to intervene.
West entered the room, glanced at Bowen, and quietly closed the door behind her.
‘Sorry,’ she said as she pulled up a chair.
‘Sorry?’ said Bowen. ‘Sorry? Is that it?’
‘It’s just routine, I need to…’
‘Routine? You call arresting me on suspicion of murder, routine? Would a simple phone call not have sufficed?’
‘No.’
‘Or a polite invitation to have a wee chat? Was it really that necessary to send one of your officers to arrest me in front of the whole department?’
‘Calm down and take a seat!’
‘I will not calm down! I’m raging! Just who the hell am I supposed to have killed?’
‘I said sit!’
Duncan took a step forward and nodded at the chair.
‘Thanks,’ said West as Bowen, glowering with contempt, reluctantly complied. ‘This isn’t easy for me either, you know.’
‘Oh, spare me the self-pity, Charlotte!’
‘Look, there’s some stuff that’s come to light and I need to get to the bottom of it, alright? Now, do you want a solicitor?’
‘Why would I want a solicitor?’
‘I can appoint one, if you’d like.’
‘What I’d like is for you to tell me what the hell you’re playing at!’
West, her eyes narrowing as her patience wore thin, stared at Bowen and stabbed the voice recorder.
‘DI West,’ she said. ‘The time is 4.17 p.m. Also present is DC Duncan Reid. For the benefit of the tape, would you please state your name.’
‘Bowen. Doctor Mark Bowen.’
‘Good. Doctor Bowen…’
‘How very formal.’
‘…do you know a Mr Alan Byrne?’
‘No,’ said Bowen. ‘I have met a Mr Alan Byrne. But I do not know a Mr Alan Byrne.’
‘Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. How did you meet?’
‘Through a mutual acquaintance.’
‘And why did you contact him?’
‘To arrange a loan.’
‘Would you mind telling us how much it was?’
‘Aye. I would. I’d mind very much, indeed.’
‘Did you meet Mr Byrne on more than one occasion?’
‘I did.’
‘And why was that?’ said West.
‘He was collecting the repayments on the loan.’
‘Did you ever deal with any of his associates?’
‘Aye,’ said Bowen. ‘The French fella. You know his name.’
‘For the benefit of the tape Doctor Bowen is referring to Claude Foubert. How many times did you meet?’
‘Twice.’
‘So, you’ve never met anyone called Sean J
ardine?’
‘I’ve never even heard of him.’
‘Then perhaps,’ said West as she leaned back and folded her arms, ‘you’d care to explain what you were doing in his car?’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Cumnock. Ayr Road car park. Blue BMW.’
‘Oh, the blue BMW!’ said Bowen breaking into laughter. ‘You mean the dead fella! Okay, so that’s what this is about, is it?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Was he indeed?’
‘And so was Alan Byrne.’
‘And you think I was behind it?’
‘Look,’ said West, ‘we’re simply following a lead, that’s all.’
Bowen, unable to contain himself, smiled broadly and jabbed a finger in her direction.
‘Do you keep a wee sponge in that bag of yours, Charlotte?’
‘A sponge?’
‘Aye, because you’ll be needing one to wipe the egg off your face once we’re done here.’
Duncan, trying his best not to laugh, turned away as West stood up, tucked her chair beneath the desk, and leant against the wall.
‘So,’ she said. ‘The car park. What were you doing there?’
‘I was on my way to collect Ally.’
‘You’re telling me she was waiting for you in a dingy car park, in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain?’
‘No. I never said that, did I? Ally had been doing some research at the Baird Institute all day and after that she went for a wee drink with her friend. I pulled in to call her to find out which pub she was in.’
‘So you stopped there instead of pulling up on the road?’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Bowen, ‘you’ve travelled that road yourself. It’s too narrow to stop. I’d have caused a hold-up if I didn’t get walloped up the backside.’
‘And what happened next?
‘What do you think? I called Ally. She was at the Craighead Inn.’
‘And then?’
‘And then,’ said Bowen, ‘I noticed the fella in the car.’
‘In the dark?’
‘Aye. The door wasn’t shut properly, the light was on. I could see him as clear as day.’
‘So, you went over?’
‘Of course I did!’ said Bowen. ‘I’m a doctor and the fella didn’t look as if he’d stopped for a nap. He was still warm, I checked for a pulse and there was none. I figured cardiac so I sent for an ambulance and I told them not to bother with the paramedics because he was dead. Oh, and I sent for you lot, too.’
PERDITION: A Scottish murder mystery with a shocking twist (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 7) Page 15
