Talion

by Pete Brassett

‘And are you enjoying yourselves?’

  ‘Not just now, my feet are killing me. We’ve walked all the way from Dunure combing the beach for anything dead or decaying.’

  ‘Beats sitting in front of the telly,’ said Duncan. ‘Listen, I’ll not keep you long, I just need a few details in case we need to speak to you again.’

  ‘Like my phone number?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Cathy, smiling coyly as she tucked a tress of hair behind her ear. ‘I’ll give you mine, if you give me yours.’

  Chapter 3

  Despite Munro’s assurances that Caledonia’s western shores enjoyed a temperate climate, West – a home counties girl, born and bred – had stubbornly insisted that venturing north of Hadrian’s Wall would require several layers of thermal underwear, a decent set of waterproofs, emergency rations and a distress flare, until, that is, she’d returned from a week’s break on the Isle of Arran with a face the colour of pickled beetroot.

  She left the Figaro behind Duncan’s Audi, pulled on her sunglasses and made her way along the beach, smiling contentedly as Munro’s words echoed in her ears and tiny beads of perspiration gathered on her forehead.

  Waving her warrant card at the uniformed cop sweltering in the sun, she ducked under the tape and joined the scenes of crime officers poring over the body.

  ‘Eye, eye,’ she said, grinning, ‘what have we got here, then?’

  Dougal looked skyward and shook his head.

  ‘If you’re considering a career in comedy, miss,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘So,’ said West as she glanced over the body, ‘apart from the obvious, what do we think?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t dumped here,’ said Duncan, ‘there are no tracks along the beach, and he didn’t come in with the tide, so he must’ve fallen.’

  ‘Pushed,’ said Dougal.

  ‘That’s your opinion.’

  ‘Trust me, if he’d fallen, he’d have hit the rocks at the foot of the cliff, but he didn’t, he cleared them. So, I reckon there was some kind of altercation up there, and he was pushed.’

  The figure hunched over the body, clearly irritated by the squabbling behind his back, pulled down his face-mask and turned to face West.

  ‘I’m inclined to agree,’ he said, pulling back the hood of his Tyvek suit as he stood, ‘unless he was practising a back flip for the diving championships in Acapulco, then the chances are that he was pushed. Andy McLeod, pathologist.’

  Thrown off guard by his towering frame, well-trimmed beard and alluring brown eyes, West – who’d hitherto imagined all pathologists as egotistical sixty year olds with OCD and a penchant for steak tartare – smiled demurely.

  ‘DS West,’ she said, trying not to blush. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Aye. He has early signs of rigor about the face and neck, and his body temperature’s dropped to around twenty-seven degrees, so allowing for ambient conditions and a wee margin of error, I’d say time of death was somewhere between twelve, maybe fourteen hours ago.’

  ‘So, around midnight last night, then? And you reckon it was the fall that killed him?’

  ‘Well, he has a fracture to back of the skull, there may be some internal bleeding there. A few cuts and bruises, so, aye, more than likely, but until I get him on the table and see what’s flowing through his system, I can’t say for sure.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘and what about the eyes?’

  ‘Crows, miss,’ said Duncan.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The crows pecked them out. It’s not unheard of, apparently.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘The young lad who found him.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr McLeod?’

  ‘Aye, it’s possible, I suppose. I’ll take a closer look when he’s on the slab.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West. ‘Dougal, have you two been up top to take a look around?’

  ‘We have, miss, but apart from the road, it’s all mud and gravel up there, best leave the SOCOs to comb it over.’

  ‘Okay. Don’t suppose there are any cameras up there?’

  ‘No chance,’ said Dougal, ‘but the caravan park’s not far. Maybe theirs caught something driving by?’

  ‘Got to be worth a look,’ said West. ‘Right, what about a body search? Have you given him a pat down?’

  ‘Aye, and that’s the odd thing. He has nothing on him. At all.’

  ‘Nothing? Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Dougal. ‘No phone, no wallet, no keys, not even a wristwatch or any loose change.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit dumb, isn’t it?’ said West. ‘I mean, to be out here, or up there, in the middle of nowhere without a phone?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Duncan. ‘The thing is, he’s not exactly dressed like a hill walker, is he? Not with those shoes. I reckon he must’ve been driven here, and whoever did this stripped him of everything before they left.’

  ‘Well, that’s just perfect,’ said West sarcastically, ‘that means we’ll have to rely on DNA to ID him.’

  ‘That may not be such a big problem, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘See, I think this fella’s Tommy Hamlyn.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I know of him. He’s a small-time crook with delusions of grandeur, and he’s annoyed a few folk over the years, treading on their toes, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘So, you reckon he was done over?’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘we’ll have to wait for DNA to confirm it’s him, meanwhile, let’s not waste any time. Duncan, find out where he lives and give the place a once-over…’

  ‘Should we not wait until we’re sure it’s him before we kick his door down?’

  ‘No, no, no. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? You either find him with his feet up having a cup of tea, or he files a complaint for a broken door and we get our knuckles rapped.’

  ‘Okay, you’re the boss.’

  ‘And you’d better take uniform with you,’ said West, ‘just in case. And I want a list of everyone he knows: friends, boozing pals, business associates, the lot.’

  ‘Roger that, miss.’

  ‘Dougal, you come with me. There’s something I need you to take a look at.’

  West glanced over her shoulder as they walked away, stopped for a moment, and reached into her pocket.

  ‘Mr McLeod,’ she said, smiling as she turned and handed him her card, ‘it was nice meeting you.’

  ‘Likewise, Inspector.’

  ‘If anything comes up, don’t hesitate to call.’

  * * *

  After a sedate ride back to the office in the comfort of the Figaro – a journey which, due to the warm weather and a strict adherence of the speed limit, had had the same soporific effect as eating a full Sunday roast with all the trimmings – Dougal, struggling to keep his eyes open, flicked on the kettle, opened the biscuit tin, and set it down in front of West.

  ‘This is new,’ she said. ‘Where’d this come from?’

  ‘I bought it,’ said Dougal, ‘I can’t stand half-opened packets in the cupboard dropping crumbs all over the place. There’s chocolate digestives, custard creams and some shortbread.’

  ‘And for you,’ said West, as she crammed a whole biscuit into her mouth, ‘there is a place in heaven.’

  ‘So, what’s this thing you want me to look at?’

  ‘Grab your tea and sit down.’

  West opened her phone and slid it across the desk to Dougal.

  ‘I got this,’ she said, ‘from Jimbo. About half an hour before the fire at his place.’

  Dougal frowned as he read the text.

  ‘Number one, Charl,’ he said. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yup. Obviously he didn’t finish it, but DCI Elliot reckons he was trying to say “number one, Charlie” as in, I’m in charge now.’

  ‘But you’re not convinced?’

  ‘No. I don’t know,’ said West. ‘I mean, maybe I’m rea
ding too much into it, maybe he wasn’t talking about me at all, maybe he was saying that he’s number one.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal, dismissively. ‘He’s too modest for that. He wouldn’t blow his own trumpet.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’

  ‘And he’d not text you just to congratulate you. He’d send you some flowers or tell you to your face. The question is, why did he not finish the message?’

  ‘Dunno. Got distracted, I suppose.’

  Dougal, cradling his mug in both hands, sat back and sipped his tea, eyes wide as he stared blankly into space.

  ‘Number one, Charl,’ he said, as if locked in a trance. ‘Okay, let’s go back. You say he sent that just before he got home, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And according to Duncan, Gundersen must’ve been following them because he arrived soon after he left. He reckons that’s why Munro was so pre-occupied for most of the journey.’

  ‘Yeah, but hold on,’ said West. ‘If Jimbo knew they were being followed, then why didn’t he tell Duncan? Why didn’t he take him inside with him?’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s because he was determined to nail Gundersen and he didn’t want Duncan getting caught in the middle.’

  ‘Okay, so?’

  ‘So, maybe Munro didn’t get distracted,’ said Dougal, ‘maybe he didn’t finish the message because they’d arrived at his house.’

  ‘That’s not making sense,’ said West. ‘I mean, if he was home, he’d have had plenty of time, surely?’

  ‘Not if he was in a hurry,’ said Dougal. ‘Look, he’s got Gundersen on his back, okay? So, he has to dash to the kitchen, crank up the gas and stick his phone in the oven before he comes knocking at the door. That’s why he sent it as it is.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said West, ‘then why? I mean, what’s so bloody important about it?’

  ‘If we knew that, we’d not be sitting here, would we?’

  Dougal glanced at West, gave her a half-hearted smile and went to his desk.

  ‘The thing is, miss,’ he said as his fingers flew across the keyboard, ‘the boss was taking a massive gamble, right? If his plan didn’t work, he’d blow himself sky high. And if it did, then it’s safe to say he knew he wasn’t coming back.’

  West, frustrated and deflated, sat back, ruffled her hair and sighed.

  ‘Oh, you know what, Dougal?’ she said impatiently. ‘You’re telling me stuff I already know. We’re going round in circles. Look, I’m tired and we’ve got a body on the beach. Let’s leave it. We’ll have another think tomorrow.’

  Dougal, never one to heed the words of a defeatist, raised his hand and frowned as his eyes flitted across the screen.

  ‘See, if it was me,’ he said, ‘I’d want to know what I was going to do if I didn’t kill myself. I’d want to have some sort of a plan. Isle of Arran. You’ve been there, have you not?’

  ‘What? Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Have you been to Islay?’

  ‘Islay?’ said West. ‘No, I flipping-well haven’t.’

  ‘I think you should go. It’s beautiful there.’

  ‘What the hell are you gabbing on about?’

  Dougal leant back in his chair, folded his arms and smiled.

  ‘No offence, miss,’ he said, ‘but the boss wasn’t telling you that you’re number one. He was telling you where he was going.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Islay. He wasn’t saying Charl as in Charlie, he meant Charlotte. Number One Charlotte Street. It’s a hotel in Port Ellen.’

  The ensuing silence, whilst not unexpected, dragged on for what seemed like an eternity as West, completely dumbfounded, sat open-mouthed, gawping at Dougal.

  ‘You are a flipping genius,’ she said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. ‘Dougal, I could kiss you!’

  ‘Not necessary, miss. And don’t get your hopes up, it is just a theory.’

  ‘Not for long. Ring them, find out when he checked in, but don’t give the game away.’

  ‘Do you not want to speak to him?’

  ‘No,’ said West, ‘somehow, that just doesn’t feel right. We’re going to surprise the bugger. How do we get there?’

  ‘Well, you can fly from Glasgow, the airport’s not far from Port Ellen but you’d have to get a taxi or...’

  ‘Nah, that’s no good, we’ll need the car.’

  ‘It’s the ferry then,’ said Dougal. ‘A word of warning though, you’ll have to drive all the way to Kennacraig first. It’ll take a wee while.’

  ‘I don’t care how long it takes,’ said West as she knocked back her tea, ‘do me a favour and sort it out, please. Two tickets.’

  Dougal, an ardent fan of terra firma and a firm believer that sailing best be left to trawler men or anyone called Noah, blanched at the request.

  ‘Two?’ he said, warily. ‘See, the thing is, miss, I’m not that great with boats. So, if it’s all the same with you...’

  ‘Relax,’ said West. ‘You’re staying put. I need a quick word with DCI Elliot. Find out where Duncan is and tell him to get his arse in gear, quick as he can.’

  Chapter 4

  As an advocate of sobriety with two half-marathons and the Ben Nevis Race under his belt, PC Billy Hayes – a lean, twenty-six year old whose idea of relaxation was pounding the treadmill at his local gym five nights a week – conceded an embarrassing defeat as he chased Duncan to the top floor of a three-storey walk-up, wheezing as he reached the landing outside Hamlyn’s flat.

  ‘Where I come from, pal,’ said Duncan, grinning triumphantly, ‘if it’s energy you’re after, you can’t beat a decent kebab.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Billy, doubled over as he tried to catch his breath.

  ‘You’re awful pale, have you not eaten today?’

  ‘I have,’ said Billy. ‘A cereal bar. And a protein shake.’

  ‘Dear God, no wonder you look ill. Know what your problem is? You’re not eating enough junk.’

  ‘I look after my body.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Duncan as he turned towards the flat. ‘But unlike yours, mine’s not a temple. It’s a waste disposal system.’

  * * *

  Unless the body on the beach was someone other than Tommy Hamlyn, there seemed no good reason, thought Duncan, for the door to his flat to be lying half open. Standing to one side, he cautiously eased it back, listening for any signs of life before stepping inside.

  ‘Reminds me of the digs I had when I was a student,’ he said as he surveyed the wreckage of the ransacked lounge, ‘only, with us, it was because we’d lost the remote for the telly.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not it,’ said Billy. ‘The remote’s just there, on the table.’

  Duncan shot him a sideways glance and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Call for SOCOs,’ he said, ‘we need them here, pronto. And no offence but you wait outside. There’s no point the both of us contaminating the scene.’

  After a cursory glance of the damage – from the ravaged bookcase and the cracked mirror, to the pictures and the cushions strewn across the floor – Duncan concluded it to be not the work of an irate spouse or a jilted lover lashing out in a fit of pique, but rather, someone who’d lost more than just a set of keys down the back of the sofa.

  The laptop and the gold wristwatch lying amidst the unearthed pot-plants, smashed crockery and upturned chairs littering the kitchen confirmed his suspicions that burglary was not the motive behind the mayhem.

  ‘You stay here,’ he said as he breezed past Billy and down the hall, ‘you look like you could do with a rest.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see his neighbour. Whoever did this must’ve made a hell of a racket, maybe they heard something.’

  * * *

  Joe Doyle did not take kindly to receiving visitors, particularly as the only folk with the stamina and determination to make it to his front door were either intent on seizing goods to the value of an unpaid park
ing fine or those seeking unequivocal proof that he had a valid TV licence.

  Peeking through the peephole, he surmised that the caller – with his unruly hair, two days of stubble and tattered, leather jacket – was neither. However, erring on the side of caution, he engaged the security chain before slowly opening the door.

  ‘If it’s Joe you’re after,’ he said, without revealing his face, ‘he’s not here.’

  Duncan held up his warrant card.

  ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Got a minute?’

  As far as Duncan was concerned, anyone exhibiting a reluctance to open the front door fell into one of three categories: pensioners, weans, or those with something to hide. The bare-footed figure clad in a stained T-shirt and grey jogging pants was definitely the latter.

  ‘Apologies,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to get you out of bed.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve been up for ages. I’m not due at work for hours yet.’

  ‘My mistake. Do you live here?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then who’s Joe?’

  ‘That’s me. Joe Doyle.’

  ‘So,’ said Duncan, ‘you’re here. But then again, you’re not?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’

  ‘Fair enough. Look, the fella down the hall, do you know him?’

  ‘Tommy? Aye. Well, actually, no. Not really.’

  ‘That’s a wee bit ambiguous, Mr Doyle. Do you know him or not?’

  ‘We say hello,’ said Joe, sheepishly, ‘that’s about it. Keeps himself to himself.’

  ‘And you’re sure about that?’

  ‘Aye. I think so.’

  ‘Look,’ said Duncan with a discontented sigh, ‘I know exactly what Mr Hamlyn does for a living, and I’m not bothered what you and he get up to, but I need to know if…’

  ‘Okay, look, I see him now and then.’

  ‘Socially?’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘I get some weed off him. Once a month. For personal use. But that’s it.’

  ‘Good. And when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘A couple of days ago. Not since.’

  ‘Last night. Did you hear any noise coming from his flat? Any kind of commotion?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t here,’ said Joe. ‘I was working.’