TALION: a Scandinavian noir murder mystery set in Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 6)

by Pete Brassett

  Dougal spun his laptop around to reveal Hamlyn’s Facebook page.

  ‘The F-Stop?’ said West as she squinted at a blurred photograph of the Travelodge. ‘I daren’t ask what the “F” stands for.’

  ‘Not what you think,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s a photographic term which describes the focal length of a lens.’

  ‘Sorry I asked. I see what you mean about the photographs though. Not exactly awe-inspiring, are they?’

  ‘No,’ said Dougal, ‘but they’re all local.’

  ‘So, what have you come up with,’ said Munro. ‘I take it you’ve done some digging?’

  ‘I have indeed, boss, but frankly, I can’t see anything out of the ordinary for a Facebook page. He changes the cover photo once a week, like clockwork, but that’s not unusual. And the “likes” – the wee thumbs-up – it’s pretty much the same folk every time a new photo appears.’

  ‘So, he’s got a bit of a following, then?’ said West. ‘A fan club?’

  ‘Aye, right enough.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Forty-two, or thereabouts.’

  Munro finished his tea and walked to the window where he stood, stock still, with his hands behind his back.

  ‘Hamlyn,’ he said, staring down at the car park. ‘You said he was into dealing?’

  ‘Aye, but if you can call it that,’ said Dougal. ‘From what I gather, it was nothing more than a small bag of weed, here and there.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Charlie, thoughts?’

  ‘Flapjack’s a bit dry,’ said West, ‘but not bad.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  West brushed the crumbs from her top, folded her arms and stared at the monitor.

  ‘Forty-two likes?’ she said. ‘And they’re the same lot every time? And he changes it every week?’

  ‘Clock’s ticking.’

  ‘Give me a break,’ said West, ‘if Dougal can’t see what you’re on about, then it’s going to take me a bit… hold on. Oh, that’s clever! That’s damn clever.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me,’ said Dougal, ‘what it is I’ve missed?’

  ‘A message board!’ said West. ‘Hamlyn was using his Facebook page as a message board.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Easy. He sticks up a new cover photo every week, the punters know where to find him. Job done.’

  ‘Of course! How could I not see that?’

  ‘It’s too obvious for you,’ said West. ‘I mean that in a nice way.’

  ‘Dougal,’ said Munro as he turned around, ‘can you trace all the folk who liked his page?’

  ‘Aye. Eventually. But it’ll take some time.’

  ‘Then what would the quickest way of finding them be?’

  West, invigorated by the bacon butties and beating Dougal at his own game, slammed the desk enthusiastically.

  ‘We’ll take over,’ she said. ‘We’ll stick a new photo up and see who comes to the party.’

  ‘Good grief, lassie,’ said Munro. ‘you’re on a roll. Dougal, you organise it, let us know the day in question. Arrange for a wagon or two on site, discreetly parked, of course, and we’ll have a wee chat with whoever shows up. Someone may have met with him, or talked to him, before he died. So, is that it?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal. ‘Apart from that bag of stuff we took from his flat, but there’s not much...’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said Munro, laughing as he pulled a clip-on tie from the bag. ‘I never realised things had gotten so bad for the weasel. He obviously wasnae making any money.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Dougal. ‘I’m not really sure why I brought that back. It was niggling me, I suppose.’

  ‘In what way?’ said West.

  ‘Well, although Hamlyn’s place was trashed, he was a clean-freak, he liked everything neat and tidy, I mean, the bedroom and the bathroom were spotless, but that was lying on the sofa. It’s not like him, it doesn’t make sense.’

  West finished her tea and glanced at Munro.

  ‘Just now,’ she said, ‘what did you mean when you said you never knew things had gotten so bad for Hamlyn?’

  ‘The tie, Charlie. It’s a part of the uniform.’

  ‘What uniform?’

  ‘The bus company. All the drivers wear them. Blue trousers, white shirt, and a tie.’

  Dougal leaned back and ruffled his hair.

  ‘Christ, I’m stupid,’ he said. ‘Hamlyn’s neighbour, he’s on the buses. He drives the night bus to Glasgow.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Dougal,’ said West, ‘you ride a scooter. How would you know what a bus driver wears?’

  ‘Aye, but even so. Anyway, his neighbour, a fella called Joe Doyle, said he had a few beers with Hamlyn the night he died. He went to his flat to get some wacky-baccy. He said Hamlyn was all dressed up for a night on the tiles. They had a wee bevvy, and then he left.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Well, the bin was full of empties, so it adds up.’

  Munro glanced at West and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice slow and deliberate, ‘let’s ask ourselves this: One; if he went to Hamlyn’s place for a few beers, then why didn’t he change out of his work clothes before he went? I mean, he only lives next door. Two; if was wearing a tie, then where was his blazer? And three; why was he lying?’

  Munro returned to his seat and smiled.

  ‘I should kill myself more often, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Your cognitive ability knows no bounds when I’m dead.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dougal, ‘I must be losing it. What makes you think he’s lying?’

  ‘Because, if he drove the night bus…’

  ‘If he drove the night bus,’ said Dougal, sighing, ‘he’d not be drinking before clocking-on. What is wrong with me? I’ll arrange to bring him in, he obviously knows more than he’s letting on.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro, ‘that’s us away then. Let’s see what Jack Barbary has to say for himself and Dougal, we’ll need a car to meet us there. Call us when you’ve got the warrant sorted and find out where the hell Duncan is. He should be here by now.’

  Chapter 10

  Despite the glorious sunshine and a sea as still as a mill pond, the unexplained technical fault which delayed the departure of the ferry was reason enough for Duncan to spend the entire journey seated within arm’s reach of the lifejackets until, precisely two hours and seventeen minutes later, the port of Kennacraig came into view.

  Breathing a sigh of a relief, he left the other passengers to gather their belongings and made his way to the upper deck.

  ‘DC Reid,’ he said, answering his phone.

  ‘Hello there. How are you?’

  ‘Sorry, who is this?’

  ‘Cathy Brodie. From the beach?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I don’t have your number in my phone. How are you?’

  ‘Just fine,’ said Cathy. ‘And yourself?’

  ‘Aye, okay. We’re just about to dock, so I may have to hang up in a moment.’

  ‘Dock?’

  ‘I’m on the boat,’ said Duncan, ‘from Islay. Flying visit.’

  ‘Alright for some. A wee holiday, was it?’

  ‘No, no. Business. There and back in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Did you sail across yesterday? In that storm?’

  ‘Och, it wasn’t a storm,’ said Duncan, ‘not really. Just a wee bit breezy, that’s all. So, what can I do you for? Is there something you forgot to tell me? Something you’ve remembered about the body?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ said Cathy. ‘It’s just that, well, we exchanged numbers and you’ve not called me, so I thought…’

  ‘Well, the thing is Cathy, I would have called if there was something I needed to talk to you about, as a part of the investigation. That’s the way it works, see?’

  ‘I see. So, I don’t suppose you fancy a wee drink some time, then?’

  ‘A drink?’r />
  ‘It’s alright, I know. I’ve got Cam, and any woman with baggage isn’t that attractive, right? I’ve heard it before.’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that. You took me by surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘Is that a yes, then?’

  ‘Aye, why not. But I’m not sure when.’

  ‘Well, Cam’s having a sleep-over tonight with some friends he’s made in another caravan…’

  ‘No pressure, then.’

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘I’ll have to call you later. No promises, mind.’

  * * *

  Munro hauled himself from the cramped confines of the Figaro and bemoaning the lack of legroom and a dashboard which battered his knees, groaned as he glared across the roof at West.

  ‘Will you not consider buying yourself a vehicle that’s big enough for the average human being, Charlie?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t like it,’ said West, ‘you could always collect that rust-bucket of yours. It’s been sitting in the pound ever since your accident.’

  ‘I think I will. If I carry on like this, I’ll be a cripple in no time.’

  Barbary’s house – an impressive three-storey, period property with five bedrooms, five reception rooms and a garden large enough to host a music festival – stood out amongst the more modest dwellings which lined the street.

  ‘That’s not the kind of house you buy if all you’ve done for the last fifteen years is throw some tarmac at the road,’ said Munro.

  ‘Not the kind of cars you’d buy, either,’ said West as she made a note of the BMW, the Mercedes, and a Volvo 4x4 the size of a small tank, parked in the drive. ‘Shall we say hello?’

  * * *

  A petite, middle-aged woman with bottle-blonde hair and looks which suggested that, were it not for the fags and the booze, she might still be staggeringly beautiful, opened the door and rolled her eyes.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Jehovah’s Witness.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Munro, ‘but we do believe in salvation.’

  ‘He’s out back. I’ll fetch him.’

  At six feet, two inches tall with a neck the girth of a redwood, the barrel-chested Jack Barbary – despite his age – still managed to cut a formidable figure. With a spanner in one hand, and an oily rag in the other, he lumbered up the side path and stood, head cocked to one side, sizing-up his visitors.

  ‘Blown gasket on the compacter,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘DI Munro. This is DS West.’

  ‘Two for the price of one?’

  ‘I’d hang on to that, if I were you.’

  ‘Hang on to what?’

  ‘Your sense of humour,’ said Munro, ‘you’re going to need it. Mind if we have a wee word?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘An old mate of yours,’ said West. ‘Tommy Hamlyn.’

  ‘Tommy? I’ve not seen him in years,’ said Barbary. ‘Not since…’

  ‘Let me guess. Not since Lockerbie.’

  Barbary stared at West, narrowed his eyes, and smiled.

  ‘Aye. Not since Lockerbie,’ he said. ‘What of it?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Munro bluntly. ‘Fell off a cliff, would you believe?’

  ‘He never was sure-footed. Always slipping up, was Tommy.’

  ‘You don’t seem too concerned,’ said West. ‘Aren’t you bothered?’

  ‘No,’ said Barbary. ‘We were business partners, hen, not blood brothers. If he’s dead, he’s dead. So, when did this tragedy occur?’

  ‘Day before yesterday.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve come to point the finger at me, you’re wasting your time. Like I said, I’ve not seen him. Besides, I’ve been away the last few days. In Tarbolton.’

  ‘Doing what?’ said West.

  ‘Bloc-paving a driveway. We’ll not finish until tomorrow.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and the boy, Joey.’

  ‘And what time do you finish?’

  ‘I get back around nine,’ said Barbary. ‘I have my supper, a couple of drinks, and then I take myself off to bed.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

  ‘Annette. The wife.’

  ‘Of course,’ said West. ‘The wife.’

  Munro turned around, folded his arms, and perched himself on the bonnet of the Merc.

  ‘That’s a long day, Mr Barbary,’ he said. ‘Getting back at nine. Business must be good.’

  ‘It’s not bad. Keeps us out of trouble.’

  ‘It must be hard, though, being self-employed, I mean. All that graft, and then you have to take care of the books as well.’

  ‘That’s Annette’s department. She looks after the admin.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro. ‘That must save you an awful lot of time, not to mention money.’

  ‘There are two things in life worth paying for, Inspector,’ said Barbary, ‘a decent accountant, and a decent lawyer. And I have both.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said West. ‘You’re going to need the latter. Your wife; does she know Tommy Hamlyn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, she has no idea you were in business together?’

  ‘Before her time.’

  ‘And you’re positive you’ve not seen him?’ said Munro. ‘You’ve not had any contact with him at all? Not even a wee phone call to ask how he was?’

  ‘None. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, no. More of a conundrum,’ said Munro. ‘Aye, that’s the word: conundrum. See here, Mr Barbary, in the hours leading up to his death, somebody tried calling him, several times, and we’ve traced that number to you.’

  ‘Well, I hate to disappoint you,’ said Barbary, ‘but you’ve obviously made a mistake. As I said, I’ve been away, and I’m not in the habit of carrying my mobile with me.’

  ‘Oh, that doesnae bother me,’ said Munro. ‘you see, those calls, they didnae come from a mobile. They came from a landline. Your landline.’

  Barbary glanced furtively at West, took a deep breath, and slid the spanner into his back pocket.

  ‘I’ve work to do,’ he said, wringing his hands on the oily cloth. ‘So, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said West, nodding towards the squad car as it pulled up by the gate. ‘The thing is, we’re quite busy too, so I thought you might like to lend us a hand.’

  Annette, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, appeared at the door and blew a plume of grey smoke into the air.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she said. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Aye. These two were just leaving.’

  West, puffing her cheeks as if tasked with something unpleasant, walked to the gate and opened it wide.

  ‘If we have to do it the hard way,’ she said, ‘then, we will. Jack Barbary, I’m arresting you on suspicion of being an accessory in the murder of Tommy Hamlyn. You do not have to say anything but…’

  ‘Save your breath,’ said Barbary. ‘I know the rest.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Annette. ‘What do you mean, murder? Jack, what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Barbary. ‘You get yourself inside and keep your mouth shut. I’ll be back for supper.’

  Annette took a final draw on her cigarette and flicked it into the hedge as the two uniformed officers eased Barbary into the back seat of the car and drove off.

  ‘Are you not going with him?’ she said.

  ‘No yet,’ said Munro. ‘We’ll catch them up.’

  ‘Well, what are you hanging round here for? There’s nothing I can help you with.’

  ‘Actually,’ said West, ‘there is. We’ve got a warrant to search these premises.’

  ‘Search? What for?’

  ‘Dunno yet. But we’ll start with your computer.’

  ‘No,’ said Annette, ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. We’ve only got the one and I need it for the email. And I’ve some invoicing to do.’

  ‘So, you keep your accounts on the sam
e computer?’ said Munro.

  ‘I do. Aye.’

  ‘Good. I think we’ll check you’ve not left any zeros off that column marked “profit”, while we’re at it.’

  ‘This isn’t right,’ said Annette, ‘it’s not right, at all. Jack’ll hit the roof if he finds out you’ve taken it.’

  ‘Dinnae fret about Jack, Mrs Barbary, you leave him to us. Now, would you mind fetching your computer?’

  ‘Aye, if I must. I’ll just have to switch it off first.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said West, abruptly. ‘Leave it switched on, please. Just show me where it is.’

  * * *

  Annette watched from the window and waited until the Figaro had disappeared from view before slipping on her coat and reaching for her phone.

  ‘We have to meet,’ she said, lighting another cigarette. ‘Now.’

  Chapter 11

  Driving with the invincibility afforded her by the Volvo, Annette covered the fifteen miles to Bank Street in Kilmarnock in a little under twenty minutes, double-parked outside the gift shop and sprinted, as best she could, up the wooden staircase to the rented offices on the first floor.

  Apart from being a skilled accountant entrusted – at her husband’s behest – with the task of keeping Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs off their backs, Alex Tamarin was also, after nineteen months of clandestine trysts, Annette’s unlikely ticket to freedom.

  Unbeknownst to her, however, the softly-spoken, olive-skinned, sixty year old with a talent for cooking the books, had, years earlier, proved himself a dab hand at driving meat hooks through the necks of unsuspecting narks.

  ‘It’s not a good idea for you to be seen here,’ he said tersely. ‘What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait?’

  ‘It’s Jack,’ said Annette nervously, ‘the police have taken him in for questioning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A fella called Hamlyn, found dead somewhere. They think he’s involved.’

  ‘Hamlyn? Tommy Hamlyn?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Alex sheepishly as he cleared his throat. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Still, it’s no big deal, unless you killed him, of course. Then we really do have something to worry about.’

  Annette, fumbling for a cigarette, hesitated before speaking.

  ‘They’ve… they’ve taken the computer,’ she said. ‘They said they’re going to go through the accounts as well.’