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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘I see,’ said Alex, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘If they… if Jack finds out what we’ve been up to...’

  ‘Calm yourself.’

  ‘…if they tell him I’ve been buying all his gear off the back of a lorry and not the builders merchants, and robbing him blind along the way, that’s me dead.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Alex, ‘listen, we’ve just about cleaned him out anyway. We’ll simply bring our plans forward, that’s all.’

  ‘Forward? What do you mean?’

  Alex, one hand on his chin, stared silently at Annette as he pondered the situation.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘chances are, Jack’ll not be back tonight…’

  ‘But he said he’d be back in time for supper!’

  ‘Listen to me! If they’re questioning him over a murder, they’ll not be releasing him after a couple of hours, will they? No, no. You go home, pack your bags and either leave a note, or text him, saying you’re so worried that you’re taking yourself off to your sister’s or some such place. Got that?’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then you’re to meet me at my house, come for ten, not before. And make sure you’ve your passport with you, do you understand?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Annette. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good. Now, on you go,’ said Alex, turning to his computer, ‘I have some urgent banking to do and some flights to book.’

  * * *

  Whilst most of his contemporaries could rely on their wives or girlfriends to summon them home on the false pretext of a domestic emergency, Dougal – with only his reflection for company – had no such escape clause. As a consequence, any notion he’d harboured of an early night with a chicken chow mein and the latest issue of the Angling Times evaporated into thin air as news of Joe Doyle’s whereabouts, or lack of them, came to light.

  He stuffed the remnants of a cheese and bean toastie into his mouth, washed it down with a gulp or two of cold coffee, and grabbed his coat, just as Munro and West breezed through the door.

  ‘Dougal!’ said Munro. ‘For once you’re leaving at a reasonable hour. Are you entertaining tonight?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Dougal glibly. ‘I’ve a very entertaining night at the bus station ahead of me.’

  ‘You what?’ said West, eyeing the empty sandwich wrapper.

  ‘Doyle. Uniform called at his address, no answer. I’m guessing he’s left for work already so I’m walking over and Duncan’s going to meet me there. I’m hoping we’ll catch him after his first run to Glasgow. How about you?’

  ‘Jack Barbary’s booked a room for the night,’ said Munro, ‘we’re away downstairs to have a wee chat before he turns in.’

  ‘And this,’ said West, holding the laptop aloft, ‘belongs to him. Have a gander when you’ve got a chance, would you?’

  ‘Aye, okay,’ said Dougal as he stuffed it into his rucksack. ‘I’ll take it with me, it’ll help pass the time while we wait. Incidentally, I’ve something you might want to throw at Barbary.’

  ‘Sounds interesting,’

  ‘SOCOs. They found some footprints up on the cliff, and they seem to match the point where Hamlyn fell.’

  ‘And they’re not his?’

  ‘No, miss. They’re from a pair of wellies. Size twelve. Well worn on the left heel. Does Barbary have a limp?’

  ‘The only thing limp about Barbary,’ said Munro, ‘is his mind.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Aye, they’re Dunlop. And they’re green.’

  ‘Green?’ exclaimed West. ‘Oh, come off it, how the hell can they tell if they’re green?’

  ‘They found them by the side of the road.’

  ‘Bugger. Oh, well, let’s hope Barbary’s a twelve then, otherwise we’re scuppered.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Munro. ‘Dougal, see what kind of footwear this Doyle chappie’s wearing when you catch up with him, and then…’

  Munro froze as his words tailed off, a distant look of consternation on his face.

  ‘Come on, Jimbo,’ said West. ‘I know that look, spit it out.’

  ‘We’re a monkey short,’ said Munro. ‘Tamarin. If he’s not dead, then he’s involved in this. Somehow.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Instinct, lassie. Instinct.’

  ‘No offence, Jimbo, but we’ve been through this. I mean, according to you, he’s been off the scene for years, and we still don’t know for sure if Barbary’s…’

  ‘Trust me. Barbary knew Hamlyn was dead long before we got there. The man didnae even blink when we told him. Body language, lassie. I’m fluent in it.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said West, ‘it still seems a bit…’

  Munro looked at West and smiled softly.

  ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,’ he said, ‘far be it for me to undermine your authority, after all, you are the one heading up this investigation, not me. But by Jiminy, will you not listen to the voice of reason! For goodness sake, Hamlyn, Barbary and Tamarin were joined at the hip and despite the irony of the phrase, there is an honour among thieves.’

  West looked Munro in the eye, hesitated, and sighed.

  ‘Alright,’ she said reluctantly, ‘if you think it’s worth following up, then we should. Dougal, have you got an address for this Tamarin bloke yet?’

  ‘Not yet, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘the last address we have on record is years old and he’s long gone from there.’

  ‘Okay, well, you know where to look: the usual listings and the electoral register. Unless he’s changed his name by deed poll, he must be around somewhere.’

  ‘That’s if he’s not gone back to Argentina,’ said Munro as he turned for the door. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else, we should go see Barbary, it’s the height of bad manners to keep a guest waiting.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ said Dougal, ‘but I’m not sure if it’s do-able.’

  ‘Out with it, laddie, and make it quick.’

  ‘Hamlyn’s Facebook page, boss. I’ve been through the timeline and if we’re to make a success of this charade, we need to post a new picture tomorrow morning. First thing.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’ said West. ‘Do you need more time to find a suitable location?’

  ‘No, no, miss. I’ve the perfect place. The end of the car park on the east side of the station. It’s well-sheltered and we’ll have CCTV too. I’ve even got a photo ready to go.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well,’ said Dougal, ‘what about back-up?’

  ‘Aye, good point,’ said Munro. ‘And we’ll need a wagon too, so we’ve somewhere to chat.’

  ‘We just don’t have the time to organise it,’ said Dougal, ‘it’s late already and even if we got the DCI to pull a few strings, there’s still no guarantee we’ll have the resources to hand.’

  ‘Well, we can’t just leave it,’ said West. ‘That’s out of the question. If his punters don’t get a new message, they’ll get suspicious, and if we leave it another few days we might have blown what little chance we have of finding someone who saw Hamlyn before he died.’

  ‘Quite right, Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘Dougal, we’ll have to make the most of what we’ve got. I’ll pull the Peugeot out of retirement and Duncan will have his saloon, that will have to do.’

  ‘I could pitch up in the Figaro,’ said West, ‘that’ll help.’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Munro, stifling a smile. ‘They’ll not fit in your car, and I’d say the chances of us interviewing any pygmies are pretty close to zero, wouldn’t you?’

  Chapter 12

  Unlike the bloggers and vloggers who plagued the internet extolling the virtues of venom-based serums and over-priced miracle creams guaranteed to make wrinkles vanish without a trace, Cathy Brodie’s beauty regime involved nothing more than some cherry-flavoured lip balm and a splash of L’air du Temps behind the ears.

  She had washed her hair and donned a lilac, floral-print dress which, when teamed with her somewhat incong
ruous hiking boots, gave her the look of a land-girl on a night out in County Kildare.

  ‘Do I have to go?’ said Cam as he ogled his iPad.

  ‘You’ll have fun,’ said Cathy, ‘it’s just the one night.’

  ‘But why I can’t I stay with you?’

  ‘Because I’ve a friend coming over and we’ve lots of catching-up to do, that’s why.’

  ‘I could help you catch-up.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, son, but it’s grown-up stuff, you’ll be bored.’

  ‘But Lucy’s not much fun,’ said Cam, ‘and last time, all her mummy did was drink and watch the television.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to go,’ said Cathy, ‘Lucy needs some company, someone her own age to talk to. You can tell her all about your adventure on the beach.’

  ‘I don’t think girls are into beasties.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Cathy with a smirk, ‘besides, she’s making you a special supper.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye, of course. Now, what’s your favourite?’

  ‘Fish!’ said Cam excitedly, ‘with green beans and carrots and broccoli.’

  ‘Well, I’m not quite sure she’s doing that, but chicken nuggets and baked beans come a close second, right? Hold on now, I have to look at this.’

  Cathy, experiencing an attack of the butterflies, grabbed her phone and did her best to hide her disappointment as she read the brief but nonetheless apologetic text from Duncan.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, mustering a smile, ‘my friend’s been delayed. Tell you what, if he’s not here by ten, then I’ll come fetch you, how’s that?’

  ‘Yay!’ said Cam. ‘I’ll not need to take my pyjamas then!’

  ‘Yes, you will! Don’t get your hopes up, if I’m not there by ten, then I’ll see you in the morning, okay?’

  * * *

  Avoiding the groups of intoxicated revellers waiting at stand seven for the bus to ferry them to the bright lights of Glasgow and their chosen den of iniquity, Dougal – with his neatly-parted hair, buttoned-up shirt and shiny shoes – stood outside the ticket hall like a petrified tourist afraid of being mugged and sighed with relief as the Audi pulled up beside him.

  ‘Alright?’ he said as he hopped into the passenger seat. ‘What’s with the face?’

  ‘I’m on a promise, pal,’ said Duncan. ‘Or rather, I was. Look, I’m not being funny, Dougal, but does it really need the two of us to be here?’

  ‘Aye. It does.’

  ‘Well, how long is this likely to take?’

  ‘Depends how fast Doyle can drive.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s like Ayrton Senna, then I might still be in with a shout.’

  ‘Who’s the unlucky lady? Anyone I know?’

  ‘No,’ said Duncan hesitantly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So, how was Islay?’ said Dougal as he pulled Barbary’s laptop from his bag.

  ‘Riveting. Nothing but grass. And sheep.’

  ‘You’re not giving it a chance. I’m sure there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Aye, there is,’ said Duncan. ‘Rain.’

  ‘Well, I’ve something to take your mind off it. Have you got your phone with you?’

  ‘Aye, of course.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dougal. ‘We need an address for a fella called Tamarin. Alex Tamarin. He’s an old pal of Barbary’s and the boss reckons he’s involved with Hamlyn’s death.’

  ‘Well, if the chief reckons he’s involved,’ said Duncan, ‘then who am I to argue? With a name like Tamarin, it shouldn’t take long. What are you doing with that? Watching a film?’

  ‘No, no. This belongs to Jack Barbary, I’m going to see what he’s been up to.’

  Duncan, resigned to the fact that he was going nowhere fast, reclined his seat and settled back, sighing as he tapped away at his phone in the suffocating silence.

  ‘Okay,’ he said eventually, ‘do I have your attention?’

  ‘Aye, go on,’ said Dougal. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘There’s a Tamarin in Oban, but that’s not him. That’s Thomas Tamarin. There’s two in Edinburgh, but they’re not him either, seeing as they’re both female. There’s a Sandy Tamarin in Falkirk…’

  ‘Sandy?’

  ‘…but he’s dead.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Apart from that, the nearest we’ve got is a Tamarind restaurant and an outfit called Tamar Associates.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see Alex Tamarin waiting on tables,’ said Dougal, ‘or working in a kitchen, for that matter. And as for the Tamar, that’s a river in the west country, so...’

  ‘Not according to this, it isn’t. Tamar’s a firm of financial advisors in Kilmarnock.’

  ‘Kilmarnock? Well, that’s near enough, I suppose. See if it’s a registered company, maybe we can find out who the owner is.’

  ‘No sweat,’ said Duncan. ‘How about you? Have you found anything?’

  ‘No. By the looks of it, I’d say Mrs Barbary is the only one who uses the internet. It’s all Daily Mail and celebrity gossip.’

  ‘Well, it’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ said Duncan. ‘Tamar Associates is not a limited company. And it’s not listed on the IFA list of accredited members, either.’

  ‘Probably a bunch of chancers, then,’ said Dougal. ‘Never mind. At least you tried.’

  ‘There’s only so much I can do on a phone. I’ll have another look when we’re back in the office, but you should tell Westie, anyway. There might be something in it.’

  Dougal turned to Duncan and smiled as he held up the laptop.

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Just as soon as I’ve sent her this.’

  Duncan leaned forward and frowned as he read the email on the screen.

  ‘“Hamlyn. You’re humped.” Is that it?’ he said. ‘Brief and to the point, I must say. Who’s it from?’

  ‘Someone called Talion,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s a gmail address.’

  ‘Gmail? Looks like we’re humped too. It’s probably been deleted by now. When was it sent?’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  ‘Oh-ho!’ said Duncan, laughing, ‘that’s a nail in the coffin, if ever there was one.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dougal. It’s Barbary’s laptop, right? And three days ago, this Talion fella sends him an email implying his pal’s screwing him over, and then, the very next day, he’s found dead at the foot of a cliff. Case closed, if you ask me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Dougal as he tapped Duncan on the arm and nodded through the windscreen. ‘Look. Here comes the party bus.’

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for? The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get going.’

  ‘No, no, sit tight,’ said Dougal. ‘Let’s give him a minute or two and see what happens.’

  Duncan checked his watch and sat sullen-faced as a handful of passengers slowly disembarked, followed by the portly Joe Doyle who, glancing over his shoulders, opened the stowage compartment in the belly of the bus and disappeared head first inside, his legs dangling towards the pavement, before emerging moments later and making his way to the front of the stand where he chatted, briefly, with the clubbers in the queue.

  ‘He seems to get on well with the neds,’ said Duncan, perking up as they followed him, one at a time, around the back of the bus. ‘A little too well.’

  Dougal craned his neck and scoured the terminal.

  ‘Whatever he’s up to,’ he said, his hand poised on the door handle, ‘he’s not as stupid as he looks. There’s no camera round there.’

  Waiting until the last passenger had climbed aboard, Dougal and Duncan both leapt simultaneously from the car – Dougal heading to the rear of the bus where a startled Doyle, standing with a fistful of twenty-pound notes, greeted him like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and Duncan to the front, where he joined the rowdy rabble on-board.

  ‘Can I have your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, standing in the aisle,
his hands resting on the seats to either side. ‘I’m afraid there’s going to be a wee delay in the departure of this bus.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ came a voice from the back seat. ‘Why? The driver’s outside.’

  ‘And that’s where he’s staying,’ said Duncan. ‘We’ll get you moving just as soon as we can, but first, I need your help. Hands up all those who just bought some gear off the driver.’

  The bus, unsurprisingly, fell silent as all but two of the passengers – a perplexed, middle-aged couple seated towards the front – hung their heads or turned to admire the view from the window.

  ‘Get your own,’ came the voice again, ‘just who the hell do you think you are?’

  Duncan smiled, shook his head and held up his warrant card.

  ‘I’m what you might call a party-pooper,’ he said. ‘So, where’re you headed? King Tut’s, is it? Or The Garage?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t care less, pal, but see here, if you want to get there, then you’d best start talking. Now, here’s the deal: I’m going to turn a blind eye to what’s going on here, and I’m not going to take the stuff off you. I just want to know what you bought and how much you paid for it.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’ll change my mind, which means I’ll be searching every last one of you, and if I find any weed, or anything even resembling a Class A drug, you’ll be looking at seven years inside.’

  ‘Cowies!’ yelled a girl in a bobble hat, intent on hiding her face. ‘It’s just some cowies. Twenty quid a bag.’

  ‘Ecstasy?’ said Duncan. ‘Some things never change. Tell me, miss, is this a regular thing? Buying crap on the bus, I mean?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I don’t normally…’

  ‘Can we get going?’ said the loudmouth. ‘Are you done, here?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Duncan, ‘I’m done. Oh, by the way, see these buses, they all have CCTV on-board. So, I know who you are, sunshine. Remember that.’

  Chapter 13

  If asked how it was that somebody five feet seven inches tall without bulimic tendencies could eat enough to feed the five thousand and still maintain a body weight of nine stone, West would invariably blame her metabolism and, having been raised by vegetarians, an inherent fear of hunger.