‘You work nights?’
‘Aye. The buses,’ said Joe, ‘ferrying all the neds to Glasgow and back. I’m not usually home before three.’
‘Okay, one more thing,’ said Duncan, ‘do you live alone? I mean, there’s no-one else might’ve been here and seen something?’
‘No, no,’ said Joe, ‘it’s just myself. Unless, of course, it’s my night off, then, if my luck’s in…’
‘Spare me the details,’ said Duncan, smirking as he handed him a card. ‘See here, Mr Doyle, if anything comes to mind, make sure you give us a bell, okay?’
‘No worries,’ said Joe. ‘What’s this all about, anyway? Has something happened to Tommy?’
‘No. Nothing he didn’t have coming, anyway.’
* * *
Flushed with humiliation rather than the strain of physical exertion, PC Hayes stood leaning against the wall with his cap clutched firmly under his arm as Duncan ambled along the hall towards him.
‘Got your breath back?’ he said.
‘I was pacing myself,’ said Billy, indignantly. ‘If I’d known it was a race you were after, I’d have left you for dust.’
‘Oh aye, of course you would. If you want a rematch, pal, I’m more than happy to…’
Duncan, interrupted by the sound of footsteps at the top of the stairwell, turned to face a petite young lady carrying a silver case.
‘DC Reid?’ she said.
‘Aye. Have you come to dust me down?’
‘I have indeed. Laura Corrigan.’
‘Is it just yourself? You’ll be here hours if…’
‘No, no. My colleague’s on his way up. He’s fetching the cameras. In there, is it?’
Laura, taken in by the mischievous smile which belied his unkempt, and slightly threatening appearance, lowered her head and simpered softly as she brushed past Duncan and entered the flat, stopping by the door to the lounge.
‘This gentleman needs to hire a cleaner,’ she said, glancing around the room.
‘He’ll not be needing one, now, I can tell you.’
‘What’re we looking at? A burglary, is it?’
‘I wish it was that simple,’ said Duncan, ‘but no. There’s no sign of a forced entry so whoever did this either had a key or he knew the fella who lived here. I reckon they were after something specific.’
‘Well,’ said Laura as she opened her case and slipped on a pair of shoe covers, ‘we’d best get started.’
‘Listen, hen,’ said Duncan, ‘there’s a couple of bits I need to take with me, so can you do those first and bag them while I have a look around. Then that’s me away.’
* * *
After a week of treading on eggshells while a sour-faced West went about her business, Dougal – emotionally inept at dealing with other people’s grief – breathed a sigh of relief as she bounced back into the office wearing the kind of smug grin normally reserved for beneficiaries of a substantial inheritance.
‘Good news, miss,’ he said. ‘Munro. He’s there. He checked-in the day after the fire.’
‘And Elliot says we’re good to go. As long as you stay here…’
‘No danger.’
‘…and we’re back in forty-eight hours, tops. What about the ferry?’
‘You’ll not make it tonight,’ said Dougal, ‘the last one sails at six, so I’ve booked you on the ten am tomorrow. Gets you in just after twelve.’
‘Is that the earliest?’
‘No, but you’ve got to get to Kennacraig first. You’ll have to leave at half-six if you’re to make the ten o’clock.’
‘Crap,’ said West. ‘That is early. Still, at least I won’t be driving.’
‘Driving where?’ said Duncan as he blundered into the office laden with two clear plastic bags sealed with cable ties.
‘We’re going out,’ said West, ‘you and me. Lunch. Tomorrow.’
‘Very nice. Hold on, you’re not talking KFC, are you?’
‘Nope. Nice little place,’ said West, ‘by the sea. Very picturesque, apparently.’
‘Oh, aye?’ said Duncan, suspiciously. ‘What’s this all in aid of then?’
‘Remember your old DI?’
‘From Greenock?’
‘No, you numpty,’ said Dougal. ‘Munro.’
‘Munro? What about him?’
‘We know where he is,’ said West, ‘and you and me are going to surprise him.’
‘That’s excellent!’ said Duncan. ‘How the hell did you track him down?’
‘Thank Einstein here,’ said West, nodding at Dougal. ‘He figured it out.’
‘Good on you, pal,’ said Duncan. ‘Is he okay?’
‘We’ll find out tomorrow.’
‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense, where’re we headed? Troon? Glenluce? Largs?’
‘Islay.’
‘Islay? Are you joking me? Do you know how long it takes to get to Islay?’
‘I do now,’ said West. ‘So, early start. You can pick me up at six.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Duncan as he plonked the bags on the desk and pulled up a chair. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’
‘How’d you get on? At Hamlyn’s place?’
‘Well, someone’s turned it over and whoever it was, was definitely looking for something, the place is a mess. And I reckon Hamlyn knew who it was and let him in.’
‘Is that lot for me?’ said Dougal, pointing at the bags.
‘Most certainly is,’ said Duncan as he ripped open a bag and pulled out a box of cereal.
‘You brought his breakfast with you?’
‘Remember the days when you used to get a wee gift with your corn flakes?’ said Duncan. ‘Well, this is the best ever.’
He tipped the box upside down and smiled as roll after roll of twenty-pound notes fell to the table.
‘There’s a few grand there. I’ve also got his laptop, a mobile phone – no sim, by the way – a wee digital camera, and the handset for his landline, it’s got one of those base stations with an answerphone and call screening and all the other bits that come with it.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Dougal, ‘but where’s the rest?’
‘Rest?’
‘Does he not have any personal stuff, like credit card statements or a cheque book?’
‘A cheque book?’ said Duncan. ‘In this day and age? You must be older than you look.’
Chapter 5
In marked contrast to the balmy weather enjoyed by everyone along the west coast twenty-four hours earlier, the only ones to benefit from the westerly gusting at thirty knots – propelling thunderous, grey clouds across the early morning sky – were kite flyers and transatlantic passengers returning to the UK.
Safe and secure in the warmth of the office, Dougal – savouring a breakfast of cheddar scones and a steaming mug of Bovril – allowed himself a wry smile as he listened to the shipping forecast on Radio Four: “Malin, Hebrides, Rockall, Baileys: Southwest seven, perhaps gale eight later. Rough, occasionally very rough. Rain then showers. Moderate or poor, becoming good.”
‘Rather you than me,’ he said as he fired up Hamlyn’s MacBook. ‘Not password protected? Dear, dear.’
* * *
Hamlyn’s somewhat futile attempt at covering his tracks by wiping his browsing history posed no obstacle to Dougal who navigated straight to the library on the hard disk where he trawled through the local storage, databases and p-lists to build a profile of a man whose love of the internet focused mainly on shopping, reading The Herald, visiting several websites which specialised in content of an adult nature, and updating a Facebook account entitled, for no apparent reason, “The F-Stop”.
Frustrated by the complete lack of names in the address book, he moved on to the short list of emails, none of which contained anything meaningful from friends, family or even business associates. Of the meagre list of seven, two were offering free membership to an escort agency, whilst the remaining five all confirmed orders he’d placed with online retailers for b
in bags, rubber gloves, a flashlight, enough disinfectant to sanitise the entire A&E department at University Hospital, and worryingly, a full set of Sabatier kitchen knives.
Similarly, the “sent” box – hardly the treasure trove of contacts he’d hoped for – was as fruitful as an apple orchard in January with just one single message, which he’d sent to himself when configuring the email account.
‘You’re not one for paper trails, are you, Mr Hamlyn?’ he said, sighing as he turned his attention to the handset for the landline.
Punching his way through the buttons with the dexterity of a PlayStation addict, it soon became apparent that, with no names or numbers stored in the memory, no messages on the answerphone, and no log of any outgoing calls, it was proving to be as useful as a colander on a sinking ship. Until, that is, he checked the list of missed calls. Eighteen. All received between 2:10pm and 10:23pm. And all from the same mobile.
‘Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere.’
Wary of calling the number himself, lest the person at the other end deny all knowledge of anyone called Hamlyn, he set about contacting the service provider to locate the registered owner, and groaned as the office phone interrupted his train of thought.
‘DC McCrae,’ he said brusquely as he tapped away at the keyboard.
‘Andy McLeod. Pathologist. I’m trying to get a hold of DS West, is she about the place?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr McLeod,’ said Dougal, ‘she’s got her sea legs on. You’ll have to try her mobile, if she’s not throwing up.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘She’s on her way to Islay.’
‘In this weather? I’m surprised they’re sailing.’
‘You and me both. Is this about the post-mortem?’
‘Aye, it is,’ said McLeod. ‘You were right about the fella. We fast-tracked a DNA sample, it’s your Mr Hamlyn alright.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ said Dougal. ‘Can you send the results over now, or do you have to speak to the DS first?’
‘No, no. I’ll send them now,’ said McLeod. ‘Then, I’ll try her on the mobile.’
* * *
Pursuing a suspect across the roof of the Annan Museum did not induce an overwhelming sense of vertigo, and encountering clear-air turbulence on a flight to Barcelona did not make him reach for the sick bag, but two hours spent bobbing on the briny as the ferry pitched and rolled had turned Duncan’s face a sickly shade of green. He swallowed hard and joined West on the upper deck as they docked at Port Ellen.
‘You alright?’ she said, beaming as the rain lashed her face. ‘You look like a tin of mushy peas.’
‘Never felt better,’ said Duncan. ‘Yourself?’
‘Absolutely brilliant! This has to be one of the best trips I’ve ever made! Is it always like this?’
‘No. At least I hope not.’
West brushed her sodden hair from her face as they made their way to the car deck, and checked her phone.
‘Can you pull over as soon as we’re off,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a call to make.’
* * *
‘Mr McLeod. Sorry, I couldn’t hear the phone, it’s blowing a gale.’
‘You made it there in one piece then, Inspector?’
‘Yup. All good. So, is this a social call?’
‘No, no,’ said McLeod, ‘it’s about the post-mortem.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve sent my report to DC McCrae, but there’s a couple of things I thought you should know about as a matter of urgency.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ said West. ‘Listen, I’m with DC Reid, you two met on the beach, remember? I’m going to put you on speaker.’
‘Okay,’ said McLeod. ‘So, first things first: there were some scratches on the victim’s cheeks, wee nail marks…’
‘You mean fingernails?’
‘…no, no. Much, much smaller. The kind commensurate with the talons of a bird. And apart from some blood clots from the ophthalmic and retinal arteries, I could find only the remnants of the vitreous humour and the sclera in the orbits.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ said West. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means the clever young lad on the beach was absolutely right. The crows had them away.’
‘Blimey. Alfred Hitchcock’s got a lot to answer for,’ said West. ‘Anything else?’
‘Aye, there’s some quite severe bruising, linear bruising, to his upper arms and chest…’
‘Like he was tied up?’ said Duncan.
‘Exactly. Now, the bruising’s only two or three millimetres wide, so I’d say it was something tough but flexible, like a nylon cord or a length of electrical cable. I’ve also tested for toxins and your man didn’t have so much as a drop of shandy in him. He was completely clean. Which leads me to the cause of death.’
‘Judging by the tone of your voice,’ said West, ‘I’m guessing it wasn’t the fall that killed him?’
‘Quite right, Inspector. It wasn’t the fall. It was sudden cardiac arrest. To coin a phrase, I’d say he was scared to death.’
‘Probably when he was teetering on the edge,’ said Duncan. ‘Which means he didn’t make his own way to Greenan Castle. He was taken there and pushed off the cliff. Dougal was right.’
‘Well, this is turning into a day to remember,’ said West. ‘Is that it, Mr McLeod, or have you got any more surprises in store for us?’
‘Only one,’ said McLeod. ‘Are we still on speaker?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘I was wondering if you might fancy a wee drink when you get back to the mainland?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Sorry. I’ll take that as a no then,’ said McLeod, ‘it was silly of me to ask.’
‘No, you idiot!’ said West. ‘I meant, are you kidding, as in, yes of course! I’d love to. Text me where and when, I should be back tomorrow.’
Duncan glanced at West and smiled.
‘That wasn’t a work meeting you just arranged, was it?’ he said as they headed for the hotel.
‘Course it was,’ said West. ‘Sort of.’
Chapter 6
Compared to the polluted, over-populated streets of her old stomping ground in the City of London where the overpowering stench of stale urine and perspiring commuters mingled with the toxic fumes of rush hour traffic on Bishopsgate, the blustering breeze blowing in off the Atlantic was, quite literally, a breath of fresh air.
With her hands in her pockets and her hood pulled firmly over her head, West – perched on the edge of the bonnet – gazed out across the bay, enthralled by the sight of rain-heavy clouds tumbling across the sky and the white-crested waves breaking along the shore.
‘This is stunning,’ she said, ‘even in this weather.’
‘Aye,’ said Duncan, ‘but it’s not exactly Tenerife, is it?’
* * *
The receptionist – a young girl, casually dressed in a white shirt and faded jeans – welcomed them with a broad smile and a well-rehearsed tilt of the head.
‘Hello!’ she said chirpily, ‘welcome to No.1 Charlotte Street. And how was your trip?’
‘Guess,’ said West as water droplets dripped from her hood onto the desk.
‘Well, never you mind. It’ll clear up soon enough. Now, how can I help? I’m afraid if you’ve not got a reservation, you’re out of luck. We’re fully booked.’
‘No bother,’ said Duncan, ‘we’re not planning on stopping. We’re looking for a guest of yours, James Munro?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s a charming man, but I’m afraid you’ve just missed him.’
West stared at her in disbelief.
‘You are joking, right?’
‘No, no. He left about an hour ago.’
‘Left? You mean he has checked out?’
‘No, not yet…’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
‘…he’s gone to look at a wee cottage he wants to rent. He’ll be back in a few hours, I imagine.’
‘You’ve not got th
e address for this cottage, have you, hen?’ said Duncan as he pulled out his warrant card. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, we’re colleagues of his.’
‘He’s a policeman?’
‘One of the best.’
‘Well, I never. It’s not far, just a couple of miles up the road, Glenegedale. Take the High Road towards Bowmore and you’ll not miss it.’
‘Was he driving?’ said West.
‘No, he’ll be on foot. He seems to enjoy his walks, does Mr Munro.’
‘He certainly does,’ said West. ‘No doubt about that.’
* * *
Heading north along the single-track road, flanked on both sides by a lush, undulating landscape peppered with grazing sheep, West – as happy as a fox in a hen house – reached for her phone and smiled contentedly when the rain eased and a chink of sunlight broke through the thinning cloud.
‘Dougal,’ she said, ‘how’s it going?’
‘Miss. There was nothing on the news about you being airlifted to safety, so I assume you got there okay?’
‘Yup, the crossing was as rough as old boots, but that just adds to the excitement, doesn’t it?’
‘If you say so. How’s Munro?’
‘We’re on our way to see him now. Hopefully.’
‘Okay,’ said Dougal. ‘Look, I’ll not keep you long, have you spoken to that Mr McLeod yet?’
‘I rang him earlier, he’s filled me in on the post-mortem. Well done, by the way, you were right about him being pushed. What’s happening at your end?’
‘Well, I’ve been through Hamlyn’s bits and bobs. Someone tried calling him on his landline several times in the hours leading up to his death. I’m running a trace on the number now. And he has a Facebook account, I’ll look into that when I get back.’
‘Get back?’ said West. ‘Where are you going?’
‘His flat. I need to take a look around, something’s bothering me.’
‘Go on.’
‘He ordered some odd stuff off the internet: a shedload of disinfectant, disposable gloves, and some knives. I’m not convinced it was for cleaning his kitchen.’
‘You reckon he was up to something?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Dougal, ‘but I want to see if the stuff’s still there.’
‘Okay, keep me posted. Gotta go. Duncan, stop the car.’
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