Frustrated, and on the verge of losing his temper, Munro turned to West with a look of bewilderment on his face.
‘By Jiminy, Charlie,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard of kissing the Blarney Stone, but this fellow must have swallowed it whole. Tommy Hamlyn, Mr Tamarin. When was the last time you saw Tommy Hamlyn?’
O’Brien coughed politely into his hand and shook his head.
‘No comment,’ said Tamarin.
With her patience wearing thin, and her intolerance of Tamarin’s attitude heightened by a mild bout of indigestion, West produced a sealed plastic bag and slid it across the desk.
‘For the benefit of the tape,’ she said impatiently, ‘I’m showing Mr Tamarin a bag containing one wallet, one set of house keys, a car key and a mobile phone. Can you confirm that these items belong to you?’
‘They do,’ said Tamarin.
‘It speaks!’ said Munro. ‘At last, we’re making progress! So, Mr Tamarin, if it’s okay with you, we’d like your permission to access your mobile phone.’
‘No, no,’ said O’Brien, raising his hand, ‘that would constitute an invasion of privacy. I won’t allow it without a warrant.’
‘Och, we dinnae need a warrant, Mr O’Brien,’ said Munro. ‘We can demand access under the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act. Whichever route we take, denial of access would suggest to me that you have something to hide.’
‘My life’s an open book, Inspector,’ said Tamarin. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Password?’ said West.
Tamarin stared at West, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slightly sinister smile.
‘El asesino,’ he said softly.
Munro, recalling the demise of the young DC in Lockerbie, looked up with a start and glowered across the table.
‘Assassin?’ he said. ‘Is that some kind of sick joke?’
‘No comment,’ said Tamarin. ‘No comment.’
* * *
West sat with her head on her hand as she casually flicked through the call log, the list of contacts, and finally the text messages, before conceding defeat.
‘Well, there’s nothing unusual there,’ she said, sighing as she continued to browse the contents of his phone. ‘Eat a lot of takeaways, don’t you?’
In the absence of anything incriminating, Tamarin – sensing a non-custodial sentence was on the cards thanks to O’Brien’s proven skill at revealing software errors and exposing money transfers as personal loans – allowed himself a cocky grin and momentarily dropped his guard.
‘Not even a call from Mrs Barbary?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Well, that is odd, considering I’m accused of colluding with her.’
‘Oh, it’s not the calls I’m interested in,’ said West, smirking as she held up the phone. ‘It’s the emails. This one in particular. For the benefit of the tape, I’m showing Mr Tamarin an email from somebody called Talion which reads: “Hamlyn. You’re humped”.’
Tamarin glanced at O’Brien, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the palms of his hands as Munro leaned back, folded his arms, and smiled.
‘I’ll ask again,’ he said. ‘When was the last time you saw Tommy Hamlyn?’
Tamarin hesitated and glanced at O’Brien.
‘No comment.’
‘And I suppose, like your friend Mr Barbary, you’ve no idea who this Talion fellow is?’
Tamarin, looking startled, gazed wide-eyed at Munro.
‘Jack?’ he said. ‘What’s Jack got to do with this?’
‘He was sent the same email,’ said West as she slipped the phone back into the bag. ‘And guess what? A few hours later, Hamlyn was dead. The thing is, Mr Tamarin, Jack Barbary has an alibi, so it’s not looking good for you, asesino. It’s not looking good at all.’
Chapter 17
With the weekend looming and the prospect of more fine weather on the way, Dougal, having completed yet another report for the fiscal, considered taking a boat trip out to Ailsa Craig – a popular destination for tourists keen to observe the local wildlife – where he might meet a lonely ornithologist with a love of scooters and a burning desire to marry a Scotsman.
‘What do you do for entertainment?’ he said, huffing as Duncan returned to the office, flung his coat on the desk, and began rummaging through the cupboards.
‘Weekends, you mean?’ he said, pulling out a couple of plates. ‘Pub, mainly. Why? Are you at a loose end?’
‘No, no. Just wondering.’
‘Well, I’ll be watching the match in Boswells on Saturday, if you’re up for it; Hibs v Rangers, should be a belter.’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Dougal. ‘I’m not that keen on football. Or beer, for that matter.’
‘You’d best try the cinema, then. At least you’ll only have the crowds to contend with, and you’ll not see them.’
‘Are you up to something?’
‘I bought some biscuits on the way back,’ said Duncan as he spread them out on the plates, ‘I thought I’d butter-up Westie and try to avoid any more…’
‘It’ll take more than a Jammie Dodger to soften me up,’ said West as she breezed through the door, ‘but thanks, anyway. Is there a cuppa to go with these?’
Munro, following in her wake, pulled up a chair, loosened his tie, and helped himself to a biscuit.
‘How was Barbary?’ he said. ‘His usual convivial self, no doubt?’
‘Not there, chief,’ said Duncan as he plonked two mugs of insipid-looking tea on the table. ‘Well, if he was, he’s not answering. The house was all locked up, the curtains pulled tight, and there’s a white Merc parked in the drive.’
‘Well, he’s not gone anywhere then,’ said West. ‘What about uniform, were they still there? Did you speak to them?’
‘Aye, miss. All quiet. The only thing they saw was a lady leaving the house in a 4x4, last night. They reckon it was the wife.’
‘You what?’ said West incredulously. ‘Well, why the hell didn’t they call it in?’
Duncan shrugged his shoulders.
‘No idea,’ he said, ‘probably didn’t think it was important enough.’
‘What time was this?’ said Munro. ‘Did they at least log the time?’
‘I think they said about half-nine, chief.’
West, looking as though the indigestion was getting the better of her, turned to Munro and frowned.
‘What is it, Charlie?’
‘That’s about an hour after Barbary was released, and Annette claimed she hadn’t seen him.’
‘Maybe he went for a wee bevvy after he left,’ said Duncan.
‘No, no,’ said Munro, grimacing as he drained his mug, ‘something’s not right here. Jack Barbary’s not one for having a lie-in, not in his line of work. Charlie, you with me. Duncan, you follow. Dougal, take Annette Barbary to the interview room. We’ll not be long.’
* * *
As far as indiscretions go, Duncan’s dalliance with a potential witness was undoubtedly the riskiest of his career, superseding a festive fumble with a fellow officer in the back of a patrol car, and a bumpy encounter with a stewardess during a bout of turbulence over the Sierra Nevada en route to Almeria.
Keen to redeem himself, he leapt from the Audi and rushed towards the front door in a diligent display of enthusiasm while Munro – more adept at smelling a rat than a feral feline – leant against the ageing Peugeot and ran his fingers through his thinning grey hair, frowning as he surveyed the house and monitoring, in particular, each of the six street-side windows lest a twitching curtain should reveal the presence of somebody lurking within.
‘I know that look,’ said West as she sidled up beside him. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking, Charlie, we’ve had some rather fine weather this summer, wouldn’t you say?’
‘We’re not here for a forecast, Jimbo. What are you driving at?’
‘What time is it dark?’ said Munro. ‘Roughly speaking.’
‘Blimey, I dunno. About ten, I reckon.’
/> ‘Barbary would’ve made it back sometime around nine, and uniform say Annette left around nine-thirty.’
‘Yeah, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they saw each other,’ said West, ‘I mean, not if Duncan was right and Barbary didn’t come straight home.’
‘Either way,’ said Munro, ‘the curtains shouldnae be closed.’
‘And how’d you figure that?’
‘Because, it was still light when Annette left, so tell me, why would she close them?’
‘Maybe she didn’t,’ said West. ‘Maybe Barbary did it, before he went to bed.’
Munro glanced at West and pursed his lips, unconvinced.
‘No,’ he said bluntly. ‘Barbary’s an old-fashioned, misogynistic meathead who lives in the dark ages, lassie. So far as he’s concerned, pulling curtains and switching on table lamps is women’s work.’
‘Oh, please,’ said West, ‘even coming from you, that sounds ridiculous.’
‘Does it?’
‘Why are you so obsessed with the flipping curtains, anyway? It’s obvious, isn’t it? If it wasn’t Barbary, then it must have been Annette. She pulled them before she left because she knew she wasn’t coming back.’
‘Or perhaps,’ said Munro as he headed for the gate, ‘perhaps she pulled them because she had something to hide.’
* * *
West, waving at Duncan to wait by the gate, followed Munro along the side path towards the rear of the house where a fleeting glance at the upper levels and a firm nudge of the door revealed everything to be locked securely, unlike the outbuilding which, being Barbary’s workshop, was as organised as a breaker’s yard – compressors, grinders, compactors and generators were strewn about the floor in various states of disrepair.
She rolled her eyes as Munro, uninterested in conducting even the briefest of searches, snatched a lump hammer from the workbench and hurried back to the house.
‘Not again,’ said West as she chased after him, ‘Jimbo, you can’t just smash a window without…’
‘No time, Charlie. I’m of the opinion that somebody’s life may be in danger.’
‘Right,’ said West. ‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba.’
Shielding his eyes with his left hand, Munro took a hefty swing at the window and cringed as the unexpected sound of a burglar alarm threatened to bring proceedings to an abrupt halt.
‘Give Duncan a wee call, would you, lassie,’ he said, grinning. ‘Tell him to keep uniform away. Chop, chop.’
* * *
Squinting as he peered into the darkness, Munro stood for a moment with his head cocked, listening for signs of life, before giving the all-clear and snapping on a pair of gloves.
‘Mind your feet,’ he said as he stepped over the shards of glass and flicked on the light.
With its flagstone floor, farmhouse table, and a formidable Welsh dresser, the kitchen, much to Munro’s delight, was the epitome of “traditional”, apart, that is, from the American-style fridge-freezer which – stocked with an assortment of fresh cream cakes, half a dozen pork pies, a five-kilo slab of mature cheddar cheese and fifteen litres of cola – should have carried a notice alerting visitors to the risk of Type 2 diabetes.
‘Well, she’s certainly keen on cleaning,’ said West as she cast a jealous eye over the gleaming granite worktops, ‘I’ll give her that.’
‘You know what they say, Charlie,’ said Munro as he closed the fridge and sauntered into the dining room, ‘the devil makes work for idle hands. And judging by the mess in here, she must have been bored stiff.’
* * *
Ever since the conclusion of their first case together – which involved the discovery of several body parts bagged-up like prime cuts of meat ready for the barbecue – West had learned that words like ‘mess’, when delivered by Munro, were simple euphemisms for anything no longer capable of drawing a breath.
Not knowing exactly what to expect, but confident it could be no worse than anything she’d encountered previously, she paused by the door and sighed impassively as she noted the scene at the table: a plate of pie and beans, two slices of buttered white bread, a half empty tumbler of whisky, and a lifeless Jack Barbary slumped face down with a pair of kitchen scissors protruding from the nape of his neck.
‘Something didn’t agree with him,’ she said as she stepped forward to inspect the wound. ‘That’s not ketchup, is it?’
‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘but if it were, it would justify the attack. As everyone knows, brown sauce is best with a pie. Come here and take a look at this.’
West walked around the body and stood with her hands on her hips, bemused by the sight of a black-handled paring knife stuck in the side of Barbary’s head.
‘Now, that must’ve hurt,’ she said, wincing at the thought.
‘You’re not wrong there, lassie,’ said Munro, ‘let’s face it, any invasive wound to the temple would muster some kind of reaction, but not in this case.’
‘How’d you figure that?’
‘Because, if he’d been stabbed in the head first, then as you’d expect, the poor man would’ve flipped – standing up, screaming, reaching for the knife – but he didnae. He’s still seated.’
‘Go on.’
‘But if he was stabbed with the scissors first, thereby severing the spinal cord, then it would have rendered him as limp as a rag doll. Almost instant paralysis, unable to move and unable to speak. He’d have expired relatively quickly, too, probably choking on his beans along the way.’
‘Nice,’ said West, ‘but hold on, if that’s the case, then why turn him into a pin-cushion? Why stab him twice?’
‘I can only imagine,’ said Munro, rubbing his chin, ‘that he was still twitching and the perpetrator got scared.’
‘Okay, I’ll buy that,’ said West, glancing at the puddle beneath the chair. ‘Looks like he spilt something. Whisky, by the looks of it.’
‘That’s not whisky, Charlie. The fellow lost control of his bladder. So, observations?’
‘Well, if we assume it was Annette who pulled the curtains, then I think she probably did see Barbary when he got back. Then, I reckon they had a bit of a wingding and…’
‘Let me stop you there,’ said Munro. ‘There was no argument. A few choice words may have been exchanged, I’ve no doubt about that, but if Annette left at nine-thirty, there wasnae time to argue and prepare a meal.’
‘So, you reckon she had his dinner waiting for him? But why?’
‘Because he’d said he’d be back for his supper, and she’s the kind of woman who’d take him at his word.’
‘So, Barbary comes home, she’s caught on the hop, wanting to leave so she could meet Tamarin. So, she serves him his dinner and…’
‘Carpe diem, Charlie. Aye, that’s the word: Carpe diem.’
Munro walked to the window, turned to face West, and gave her the kind of knowing smile that had, on more than occasion, made confetti of her theories.
‘I’ve missed something, haven’t I?’ she said.
‘That’s not for me to say, Charlie. That’s for you to have sleepless nights over. But you have made one glaring assumption.’
‘Like what? That he was stabbed?’ said West sarcastically. ‘Oh, hold on, you don’t mean Annette? Well, who else could it be?’
Munro, saying nothing, folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.
‘Look, she has a motive, we know that. We also know that last night she was cornered, she had to think on her feet, act quickly. And we also know that she and Barbary are like David and Goliath; the only way she could possibly inflict any damage on him was if he was sitting down.’
‘You’re sure about that?’ said Munro. ‘One hundred per cent?’
‘Yup. There’s no-one else involved.’
‘Except Tamarin.’
‘Tamarin?’
‘He had the same motive.’
‘Nah, uniform would’ve seen him arrive.’
‘Uniform weren’t posted until after Barbary was releas
ed,’ said Munro. ‘He may have arrived earlier.’
‘Even if he did,’ said West, ‘they would’ve seen him leave.’
‘Really?’
‘No,’ said West, defeated. ‘Not if he snuck in the back of the 4x4 before she pulled out of the drive. God, why do you have to complicate things?’
‘There’s nothing complicated about it, Charlie, and the only way you’ll find out who it was is by dusting the knives for starters. You know the routine.’
‘I’ll get Duncan on it now. We need to speak to Annette.’
Chapter 18
Until a chance encounter with the strapping Jack Barbary over the perfume counter in the local department store where she once worked as a sales assistant, a naïve, and not unattractive Annette Fraser was a happy-go-lucky singleton with a wide circle of friends and a smile which would light up a room, both of which vanished without trace soon after she took his name.
During their courtship and a honeymoon on the Riviera – an all-together singular affair spent sleeping alone while he flirted with the croupiers across the blackjack tables in the Casino Cavalaire – Barbary had introduced her to some of the finer things in life: decent wine, five-course meals, and haute couture. However, after spotting her chatting to a total stranger while she waited for him to return from the bar, he also introduced her to the side of his fist, a debilitating blow which was swiftly followed with a promise that, should she ever embarrass him again, she’d be needing a wheelchair by Christmas.
As a consequence, the downtrodden Annette Barbary had, through fear, remained the faithful wife, her marital role falling somewhere between chatelaine and moll, before contriving, through desperation, to tread the path of embezzlement in a bid for freedom.
* * *
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