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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘You want more?’

  ‘You didn’t hang around?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Bowen. ‘I had to collect my daughter. I gave control my name, and my address, and my telephone number, and I told them to contact me if they wanted anything else but I’ve not heard from anyone, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said West. ‘I need your permission to check your phone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To verify your calls.’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘They took it,’ said Bowen. ‘Your pals. Along with my fingerprints, my wallet, my keys, and my dignity.’

  West glanced at Duncan.

  ‘They’re running a match on the prints now,’ he said.

  West, head bowed and hands in pockets, pushed herself off the wall and began a circuit of the room.

  ‘Why did you open the passenger door,’ she said, ‘when he was sitting in the driver’s seat?’

  ‘Because there was a car parked alongside and it was too close to get it open.’

  ‘I see. Guess what we found under the seat.’

  ‘The ark of the covenant.’

  ‘One of your gloves.’

  ‘Good. I was wondering where that went.’

  ‘So, you admit it’s yours?’

  ‘I hope it’s mine. They’re not cheap.’

  ‘Why did you take it off?’

  ‘Have you tried dialling a phone with a glove on?’

  Disappointed by Bowen’s display of veracity, West, beginning to fear she’d jumped the gun for a second time, paused as she pondered her next question.

  ‘You say you’ve no idea who the bloke in the car was, right?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with your memory, is there?’

  ‘And you’d never met?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Then can you explain why he was carrying an envelope in his breast pocket? An NHS envelope, from the hospital?’

  ‘Perhaps it was a letter telling him he had something terminal.’

  ‘It was stuffed with cash,’ said West.

  ‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘You didn’t give it to him?’

  ‘Your memory’s okay,’ said Bowen, ‘but you’re obviously going deaf. I’ve already told you, I gave my money to the French fella. That envelope could’ve come from anyone.’

  West returned to her seat and stared across the desk at Bowen, keen to note even the slightest facial giveaway as she delivered her final question.

  ‘How’d you get hold of the ’prenorphine?’ she said.

  Bowen cocked his head and frowned.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?

  ‘Alan Byrne and Sean Jardine were both killed by a fatal dose of Buprenorphine.’

  ‘Oh, and because I’m a doctor, you think that makes me a likely suspect? Well, listen hen, if anyone came to the hospital in need of Buprenorphine, they’d not come to me, they’d be heading for the ICU.’

  ‘It’s a hospital, you could’ve got your hands on it, somehow.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. I’ll tell you what I did, shall I? I sneaked over to Oncology, jimmied open the store, and nicked a few bottles while no-one was looking.’

  West checked her watch.

  ‘Interview terminated,’ she said, glancing at Bowen as she stood. ‘The time is four thirty-two pm. I’m sorry. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Aye. And you’re keeping me from doing mine. So, let’s have it. Are you locking me up or letting me go? I need to ring Ally.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  * * *

  Berating herself for blowing her chances with the motorcycling medic, and determined not to make the same mistake with him as she’d made with Mary Ferguson, West concluded that, Buprenorphine aside, all the available evidence simply substantiated Bowen’s version of events leaving her no choice but to gamble on him being innocent.

  ‘Dougal,’ she said as she stomped into the office clutching Bowen’s phone, ‘check this would you, I can’t be arsed.’

  ‘What am I looking for, miss?’

  ‘The night Jardine snuffed it, he says he called for an ambulance.’

  ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s all here. Nine, nine, nine. The call lasted two minutes and seventeen seconds.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Somebody called Ally.’

  Munro, sensing she’d been bolting after Bowen like a belligerent bloodhound with a blocked nose, glanced up from his newspaper and removed his spectacles.

  ‘Looks to me like you’ve been thrown off the scent, lassie.’

  West tousled her hair and groaned.

  ‘He had all the right answers, Jimbo,’ she said forlornly. ‘He was the one who found Jardine, and he was the one who rang for an ambulance, and he even admits to losing his bleeding glove while he was making the call. I hate to say it, but we should be thanking him, really.’

  ‘And what about the ’prenorphine?’

  ‘It’s not that easy to come by. Apparently. And frankly, if he had got hold of some, I wouldn’t be surprised if he used it on himself. And to top it all, we’ve got bugger all to link him to Byrne.’

  ‘Except for the loan.’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ said West. ‘It’s the loan. Not his death.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’ said Duncan. ‘Will we see if any of that ’prenorphine’s gone missing from the hospital?’

  ‘No. Take his phone, give it back, and tell him he’s free to go.’

  ‘So, we’re not charging him?’

  ‘With what?’ said West, reaching for her coat. ‘Being a fine, upstanding citizen with his daughter’s best interests at heart?’

  ‘That’ll be a no, then.’

  ‘I’m off, I’ve got some serious thinking to do, and I suggest you two do the same. Go get a pint, you’ve earned it.’

  ‘Not yet, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘it’s just the back of five, we’ll have a chat with Foubert before we go.’

  ‘Okay, good call.’

  ‘The thing is, we’ll need to get a statement off your registrar pal about his involvement with Foubert, is that okay?’

  ‘No skin off my nose,’ said West. ‘You should do the same with anyone who’s dealt with him. Did you contact HMRC?’

  ‘Aye, we should get copies of his tax returns tomorrow.’

  ‘Good, as soon as you’ve got that, you can charge him. Hit him with everything you’ve got.’

  Chapter 17

  Compared to working with officers who regarded her as nothing more than a statistic on the equal opportunities programme while they wandered the seedier side of Shoreditch hunting for villains whose criminal prowess was limited to stealing bicycles, coping with a crippling case of self-doubt over the culpability of her main suspect was – with the freedom to think for herself and answer to no-one but the DCI – a walk in the park.

  With a Balvenie in hand and the laptop by her side, West sat cross-legged on the sofa trying to make sense of the list of names she’d scribbled on the notepad, each linked by an almost indecipherable array of arrows connecting Craig Ferguson to his wife, Macallan and Jardine; Jardine to Macallan and Byrne; Byrne to Bowen and Foubert; and Foubert to Jardine and Bowen, while Munro, keeping an eye on what was left of the whisky, pulverised a pan of potatoes into a mountain of creamy mash.

  ‘Are you getting anywhere, Charlie?’

  ‘I certainly am,’ said West. ‘It’s a place called nowhere. Population: one.’

  ‘At least you’ll not be troubled by noisy neighbours.’

  West put down her pen, cradled the glass in both hands, and stared at Munro.

  ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I’m seriously thinking I should have turned down the promotion. It’s not going to do me any favours when I draw a blank over this one.’

  ‘Nonsense, lassie. It’s your first case as an SIO, you’ll get there eventually.’
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  ‘Not at this rate, I won’t. The more I look at it, the more frustrated I become. Maybe I’m not cut out for this after all.’

  ‘Now, you listen to me, lassie. You didnae get the post as DI on a whim, nobody was doing you a favour. You got there on merit, but if you’re going to roll over because you cannae solve one simple conundrum, then perhaps you’re right. Maybe you should just pack your bags and head back to London.’

  ‘You know something?’ said West, smirking as she drained her glass. ‘If you were my dad…’

  ‘Careful now.’

  ‘…I’d have left home ages ago.’

  ‘And you’d have come running back before you reached the end of the street.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because,’ said Munro as he placed the plates on the table, ‘nobody in their right mind would walk away from a supper like this.’

  West leapt from the sofa like a voracious cur and eyed the burnt offering with a playful glint in her eye.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she said, reaching for the gravy, ‘but did they use to be lamb chops?’

  ‘Black is the new pink, lassie. I thought you knew that. So, come on, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said West. ‘Mental block, I suppose. No matter how I look at it, I keep coming back to Mary Ferguson but there’s nothing to prove it.’

  ‘Unlike Bowen.’

  ‘Yeah, but he couldn’t have done it, there’s no way he could’ve got his hands on the ’prenorphine.’

  ‘Och, you know your trouble, Charlie? You’re too trusting. The man’s a doctor, he works in the hospital. If he’d wanted to, he could have got hold of the stuff, nae bother.’

  West reached for her phone, dialled a number, and set it on the table.

  ‘Sorry, Jimbo,’ she said as they waited for a response, ‘but I think you’re way off there. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not doing this to prove you’re wrong, I’m doing it for my own peace of mind.’

  ‘McLeod.’

  ‘Andy. It’s DI West, I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘No, you’re alright. How can I help?’

  ‘Quick question,’ said West. ‘Buprenorphine.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Is this to do with the fella in the car park?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Listen, I’m just wondering, hypothetically speaking, say you worked in a hospital and you wanted to get your hands on some ’prenorphine, how easy would that be? I mean, if it wasn’t used in your department?’

  ‘Easy.’

  ‘No, no,’ said West, ‘I don’t mean, officially. I mean, if you wanted some for, let’s say, personal use?’

  ‘I’ll say it again, Inspector. Easy.’

  West glanced at Munro, her appetite suddenly on the wane.

  ‘What? But how?’ she said. ‘I thought all medication was kept under lock and key?’

  ‘Right enough,’ said McLeod, ‘but it’s not Fort Knox, Inspector. Access to medication is restricted, of course, and the use of anything like Buprenorphine would have to be entered on the Controlled Drugs Register, but just like anything else, if you can avoid detection, then anyone could steal it.’

  ‘But it must be risky, surely? I mean, with CCTV and stuff, no-one would be that stupid, would they?’

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ said McLeod, ‘stuff goes missing every day and the NHS take it very seriously, but the bottom line is, they’re more concerned with the financial loss rather than who took it and nine times out of ten, any shortfall is listed as a stock discrepancy.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is, if you wanted it, you could get it?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘I see,’ said West as she hung up. ‘Thanks.’

  Munro mopped his plate with a slice of bread and butter and sat back with satisfied sigh.

  ‘Two words,’ he said. ‘Cat. Pigeons.’

  ‘You’re a great help.’

  ‘It doesnae mean he did it, Charlie. It means he could have, if he’d wanted to.’

  ‘Two more words,’ said West. ‘Square, and one.’

  Munro slid the plate to one side and topped up their glasses.

  ‘Remember what I said to Rona Macallan, Charlie? About leaving no stone unturned?’

  ‘Yeah, what of it?’

  ‘You’ve one more to flip, lassie. You’ve one more to flip.’

  * * *

  As someone who’d made a concerted effort to confine the shock of the unexpected to his professional career, Munro had come to rely upon routine as a way of maintaining his equilibrium but with compromise and concessions being the bywords of a house guest he was finding it difficult to keep his balance, particularly when greeted by the sight of a dishevelled DI with eyes as black as frying pans hunched over the dining table at six-fifteen in the morning.

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat!’ he said. ‘Is it not a bit early for Halloween?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said West, peering over the laptop.

  ‘You, lassie! You look terrible.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Did you not sleep?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘What on earth have you been doing all night?’

  ‘Flipping stones,’ said West as she stretched and stood. ‘Like pancakes.’

  ‘This is getting to be a habit, Charlie, and it doesnae suit you. I’ll make some coffee.’

  ‘Ta. I’ll grab a quick shower then we can get going.’

  ‘Going?’ said Munro. ‘Going where? I’ve not had my porridge, yet.’

  ‘I’ll buy you breakfast,’ said West. ‘Anything you like, the full works.’

  ‘You’ve still not said, Charlie. Where are we going?’

  ‘If I’m right,’ said West, ‘somewhere that’ll prove I’ve stopped thinking like a normal person.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong?’

  ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, Jimbo. Stick the kettle on.’

  * * *

  Refusing to travel in the cramped conditions of the pint-sized Figaro, Munro – left with no alternative but to act as chauffeur – swung the Peugeot onto the forecourt, killed the engine, and smiled knowingly as he glanced towards the veterinary clinic.

  ‘You took your time, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Let’s just hope it was worth the wait.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said West as she drew a deep breath, ‘but I’m not out of the woods yet. Are you coming in?’

  ‘No, no. This is your shout. On you go.’

  * * *

  Unable to locate a bell, a knocker, or even a letterbox, and with well over an hour to go before they opened for business, West resorted to a tried and tested technique for eliciting a response and began battering the door with the side of her fist until the sound of the bolts being drawn from the inside prompted her to take a step back.

  An annoyingly fresh-faced blonde girl wearing a crisp, white tunic opened the door and smiled.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, her disposition far too cheery for such an early hour. ‘Is it an emergency?’

  ‘You could say that. I’m looking for somebody called Colin.’

  ‘You mean Mr McCarthy? Come inside and I’ll fetch him for you. Is he in the car? Your pet?’

  West, unable to contain herself, sniggered under her breath.

  ‘He is, yes.’

  ‘Poor wee thing. And what do you have?’

  ‘He’s a Rottweiler.’

  ‘Okay, very good,’ said the girl as she buzzed the consulting room, ‘and what seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said West as she flashed her warrant card, ‘he’s as fit as a fiddle. I need to talk to Colin about something else.’

  ‘That’ll be me, you’re after,’ said McCarthy, ‘you’d best come in.’

  * * *

  Compared to others in the medical profession she’d had cause to work with or interview – in particular pathologists and registrars – the bespectacled Colin McCarthy, at a little over five feet tall with hair like a bird’s n
est and a prominent pot-belly, fell short of expectations.

  ‘DI West,’ she said. ‘Can I have a word?’

  McCarthy hoisted himself onto a stool and sat with his hands dangling between his knees.

  ‘I must say, this is a first for us,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember ever having a visit from the police before.’

  ‘Well, you can relax,’ said West. ‘It’s not you I’ve come about.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I think. Oh, it’s not one of my staff, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s about a friend of yours; Miss Rona Macallan?’

  West, intrigued by McCarthy’s shifty sideways glance and the way he impulsively cleared his throat, shoved her hands in her pockets and leaned against the wall as he jumped from the stool, overwhelmed by a sudden compulsion to tidy the counter behind him.

  ‘Rona!’ he said. ‘Dear Rona. What exactly do you need to know?’

  West remained silent until McCarthy, feeling the burn of her stare on the back of his head, finally turned around.

  ‘How long have you two been seeing each other?’ she said with a wry smile.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘It’s alright, Mr McCarthy, you don’t have to answer. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘A while,’ said McCarthy. ‘A long while.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Good. Now the real reason I’m here is to ask you about the Vetergesic.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘She said you gave her some.’

  ‘I did indeed. That’s not an offence, is it?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said West. ‘I’d have to look into it. Maybe. If it wasn’t used to treat colic.’

  ‘That couldn’t happen, Inspector. Rona’s been around animals her entire life, she’s very careful and I trust her implicitly. She’s more than capable of administering a dose.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a minute,’ said West, ‘but let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. She says you gave her just the right amount for a few jabs, is that right?’

  ‘It is, aye.’

  ‘A couple of syringes? Ready to go?’

  ‘No, no,’ said McCarthy, shaking his head, ‘that wouldn’t even touch the sides, besides, much as I love Rona, I’m a busy man, I don’t have time to go loading syringes with the correct dose, especially for someone who knows what they’re doing.’