‘I’m going to finish this,’ said Duncan, ‘then I’m away back up the leisure centre. I’ll ask around and see if anyone recognises him by the clothes he was wearing.’
* * *
West, desperate to up her calorie count, checked her watch and fired up the Defender as Dougal hopped into the passenger seat.
‘Finally!’ she said. ‘Where the hell have you been? I thought we were heading for the rugby club.’
‘We are,’ said Dougal, pointing dead ahead. ‘It’s just beyond those trees. If we cut through the wood, we’ll be right on the pitch.’
‘Oh,’ said West, killing the engine. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘Where are we again?’
‘Alloway, miss. Millbrae to be precise.’
‘So where did you disappear to?’
‘That big timber building right behind us.’
‘Crikey, if you needed the loo, you should’ve said.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Dougal, ‘it’s The Robert Burns Birthplace Museum.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye, and just over the way there is the Brig O’Doon which is the setting for the final verse in his poem “Tam O’Shanter”.’
‘No way! So this is where they made that film?’
‘No, miss!’ said Dougal indignantly. ‘The waste of celluloid to which you refer was called Brigadoon. It was filmed entirely in America and has absolutely nothing to do with the bridge, or the River Doon, or Ayrshire, or Scottish culture. In fact it has nothing to do with this country at all. Nothing. Zero. Nada. Zilch.’
‘I think you’ve made your point,’ said West. ‘So why the sudden urge to visit a museum?’
‘Oh it wasn’t the museum I was after,’ said Dougal as he handed her a brown paper bag. ‘It was the café. They do a cracking cheese and haggis toastie.’
‘Cheese and haggis?’ said West. ‘No bacon? Or sausage?’
‘Try it. You’ll not be disappointed.’
Looking as dour as a carnivore tucking into a bowlful of alfalfa sprouts, West tentatively took a bite, savoured it, and licked her lips.
‘Blooming heck,’ she said. ‘You know what? That’s really not bad. Not bad at all.’
‘We’ll make a Scot of you yet,’ said Dougal. ‘So, will we head for the club?’
* * *
Emerging from the woods, West stood on the touchline, raised her hand to shield her eyes from the low midday sun, and watched a relaxed-looking gent riding a red mower make his way repetitively up and down the pitch.
‘That must be him,’ said Dougal. ‘Jake Nevin.’
‘Slim build,’ said West. ‘Close-cropped hair. Black anorak.’
‘Aye, I see that. No need for an audible.’
‘It’s the description the old biddy gave of Wilson’s intruder,’ said West.
‘Are you joking me? Okay, I have to make a call before we have a chat. We’re going to need a car to bring him in.’
Chapter 6
Without a television or Wi-Fi, a mobile phone signal or even a microwave, the isolated cottage on Kilnaughton Bay – with its unfettered view of the ocean to the front and rolling green hills to the rear – offered the perfect retreat for those seeking respite from the rat-race. For others it was a bird-watcher’s paradise, and for the few, an ideal location to rest and recuperate after major surgery, but for James Munro, without so much as a crossword to occupy his mind, it was tantamount to a spell in solitary confinement.
Alone on the upper deck with nothing for company but a gentle breeze, he stood quietly contemplating the discovery of one Flora MacDonald as The Hebridean Isles glided gently towards Kennacraig until, much to his annoyance, a gaggle of excitable tourists armed with cameras shattered the peace.
Lest he be responsible for the seldom-heard cry of “man overboard”, Munro, rankled by their irritatingly inaccurate pronunciation of the island, slipped silently starboard side and pulled his phone from his pocket.
‘Duncan,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
‘Chief! This is a surprise! Are you okay?’
‘Aye,’ said Munro as a flock of herring gulls squawked overhead. ‘Never better.’
‘Is it not a bit early to be on the beach?’
‘Probably. Listen, is Charlie there?’
‘No. She and Dougal are out on a shout, I’m here on my own.’
‘Good, because it’s you I’m wanting.’
‘Me?’
‘Aye. Not a word of this to anyone, do I make myself clear?’
‘Aye, okay.’
‘I’m not on the beach,’ said Munro. ‘I’m on the boat. We’ll be docking in fifteen minutes.’
‘The boat? No offence, chief, but have you lost your marbles? You’re supposed to be resting.’
‘I am, laddie. The best way I know how. Now listen, I need a wee favour.’
‘Name it.’
‘A laptop. I need a laptop. Is there still a spare one floating about the office?’
‘There certainly is,’ said Duncan, ‘but you’ll not be able to access the PNC on it.’
‘I’m not needing the National Computer, just the internet.’
‘Okey dokey, in that case you’re in luck. How will I get it to you?’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Munro. ‘I cannae run the risk of bumping into Charlie by coming to the office. Can you meet me in the car park by the shopping centre at three-thirty?’
‘Oh, no can do, chief. I’ve a heap of things to sort out here and if I’m not done by close of play Westy will have my guts for garters.’
‘Nae bother, I can wait. How long do you need?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Duncan. ‘Look, how’s this; why don’t I drop it down to you?’
‘To Carsethorn?’
‘Aye! You know me, I can do the trip in under an hour. I could be with you for say six o’clock. Seven, maybe.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye, no danger. You’ve a four-hour drive ahead of you, you don’t want to be hanging around a car park, not in your condition.’
‘Well, if you put it like that, then offer accepted.’
‘Good. Now if you’re wanting the internet, you’ll be needing broadband and a router, have they set you up yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Munro. ‘What with the builders and then the operation I’ve not had time to arrange it.’
‘No worries. I can tether a connection from your phone to the computer and get you online like that.’
‘My phone was built in eighteen seventy-two,’ said Munro. ‘It makes calls, that’s it.’
‘No bother, we’ll use mine.’
‘But you’ll need it yourself, will you not?’
‘Aye I will, but I can hang around for a bit.’
‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘That’s too much to ask.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m meeting Cathy tonight but not until nine o’clock and you’ll be in your pit by then, I’m sure. Now, as I’m bringing the laptop is there anything else you’re needing? I can fetch it along the way.’
‘Well, now that you mention it,’ said Munro, ‘I’ve not been home for a while so I’ll be needing something for my supper. A steak pie if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’
‘From the butcher, mind.’
‘Of course.’
‘And while you’re there, you may as well get some ham and some bacon, and a sirloin for tomorrow. Oh, I’ll be needing some teabags too. And some milk. Blue top. And some butter. And a sliced loaf.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Aye. And some eggs, we’ll need eggs. And a decent bottle of red. I’ll see you right when you get here.’
* * *
Despite a reprimand as a rookie DC for not following correct police procedure, Duncan – who had an uncanny knack for justifying any means to an end – was not averse to bending the occasional rule and as a consequence completed the trip fro
m Ayr to Carsethorn, with the aid of the flashing blue lights secreted beneath the front grill of the car, in a little under forty minutes.
Startled by the deafening ring of his phone, he cursed under his breath and slew to a halt outside the Steamboat Inn to take the call he’d been dreading.
‘Miss,’ he said, trying his best to sound out of breath. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘All good,’ said West, ‘we’re just back in the office. We’ve arrested that bloke Nancy Wilson was dating on suspicion of breaking and entering.’
‘Oh no, does that mean we’ve a long night ahead of us?’
‘Not if I can help it. He’s a stroppy so-and-so, so I’m going to let him stew overnight, we’ll question him tomorrow. Where are you?’
‘Oh, I’m just leaving the leisure centre,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ve asked around but no-one recognises the fella from the description I gave.’
‘Then it’s my guess,’ said West, ‘that after blagging his way past the Bulgarians he found a cosy, little hidey-hole and lay low until closing time.’
‘Aye, my thoughts exactly,’ said Duncan. ‘Incidentally, miss, I’ve left my laptop open with the CCTV paused at the point where the cleaners turn up. If Dougal wants to take a look, it’s the fella in blue jeans and a black anorak he’s looking for.’
‘Okay,’ said West, ‘I’ll let him… hold up! Black anorak you say?’
‘Aye, and he’s got the hood up.’
‘Well, well, well. Looks like our guest is about to have another charge thrown at him.’
‘How so?’
‘I’ll explain later. How long will it take you to get back?’
Duncan took a deep breath, ran a hand through his unruly mop of hair, and gritted his teeth.
‘The thing is, miss,’ he said, ‘I’m on a promise tonight so I was kind of hoping…’
‘Yeah, yeah. No sweat. You go enjoy yourself but no hangovers, right? I want you here early. Dougal’s going to be tied up and I need a background check on this Jake Nevin geezer before we interview him.’
‘Roger that, miss. I’ll be there.’
Justifying the white lie as an excusable offence on the grounds that his journey south was, in the absence of a supermarket home delivery service, a mercy dash to save someone less able than himself from the imminent threat of starvation, Duncan gave a wry smile, fired up the engine and crawled the final hundred yards to Munro’s cottage. A soft yellow light glowed in the window and plumes of grey smoke billowed from the chimney against a darkening sky.
‘The door was open, chief!’ he said as he dumped the carrier bags on the floor. ‘They’ve made a good job of the house, you’d never guess the back end was blown to pieces.’
‘That’s the beauty of gas,’ said Munro. ‘Controllable but flammable in the extreme. Not unlike yourself. Take a seat, I’m just pokering up the fire.’
‘No, you’re alright. First things first, I’ll get these groceries away and stick the kettle on.’
‘Tea o’clock has been and gone,’ said Munro. ‘I’ll take a glass of wine, if you’ve remembered to bring a bottle.’
‘I have indeed,’ said Duncan as he placed it on the table. ‘It’s a Côtes du Rhộne, twelve percent. Will that do you?’
‘Perfectly. Will you take a glass?’
‘Not for me, thanks chief, I’m driving. Are you okay? You’re looking awful peely-wally.’
‘I’m fine, laddie, just hungry. I was about to put some soup on the hob but it’s not the same without a slice or two.’
‘Well, I’ll get this stuff in the fridge and rustle something up. Are you still wanting soup or will I stick the pie in the oven?’
‘I’ll have the pie please,’ said Munro, ‘and there’s a tin of baked beans in the cupboard.’
Lovingly restored to its former glory, the kitchen – with its Belfast sink, box sash windows and handmade units – was, bar a few spots of “Wimborne White” on the timber floor and a rock-hard paintbrush sitting on the counter, worthy of a spread in Homes and Gardens magazine.
‘There’s a wee mess in here, chief,’ said Duncan. ‘If you’ve got some white spirit, I’ll give it a quick wipe down.’
‘As it happens, I’ve a bottle of turpentine in my coat pocket; I’ll fetch it for you now.’
* * *
Munro, conveniently heeding the doctor’s advice to keep physical exertion to a minimum for the first time since being discharged from hospital, sipped his wine and smiled appreciatively as Duncan wiped the paint from the floor and set the brush in a glass of turps.
‘If Westy finds out I’m here,’ he said, ‘she’ll blow a fuse.’
‘She’ll not find out, not unless you open your trap.’
‘Oh, I’m saying nothing but you know what she’s like, and it’s not just me who’ll feel the sharp side of her tongue – you’ll be for the high jump too.’
‘How so?’
‘The cottage. She paid a wee fortune for that place on Islay and you jumped ship a week early.’
‘Oh aye, so I did. I’ll give her a call in the morning and let her know I’m back.’
‘Aye, probably best. Right, where do you want the computer?’
‘On the table by the fire, please.’
Munro took a seat, pulled on his spectacles, and placed his notebook alongside the laptop while Duncan configured the connection to his phone.
‘Right, that’s you,’ he said. ‘What is it you’re looking for, chief, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Nothing exciting,’ said Munro. ‘Just some research is all.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘An elderly lady by the name of MacDonald disappeared some years ago. She was the wife of the village postmaster and now she’s turned up out of the blue.’
‘So was she away on her holidays or something?’
‘Not quite,’ said Munro. ‘It appears she got herself into a bit of a squeeze. A tight spot, you might say.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘She was found up a chimney. In her own home.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Duncan shaking his head, ‘that’s no way to go, is it? Even so, I’m not being morbid mind, but it sounds like the kind of thing I’d love to have a crack at.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ said Munro, ‘but unfortunately for you, you are Ayrshire and this is in the hands of Dumfries and Galloway.’
‘Pity. Right, I’ll fetch your pie while you crack on. Are you wanting your beans hot or cold?’
‘Cold? Dear, dear, I never had you down as a heathen, laddie. Hot, of course, by which I mean piping. There’s a saucepan on the shelf and you’ll be joining me, there’s enough for two.’
* * *
With the dexterity of an arthritic pianist playing a less than accomplished rendition of “Chopsticks”, Munro – who embraced technology with the zeal of a Luddite – stabbed the keyboard with the forefingers of both hands while Duncan, refraining from interfering, polished off his supper in silence.
‘I’ll clear these away,’ he said, collecting the plates. ‘Are you wanting a pudding?’
Munro looked up, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes.
‘Aye,’ he said, yawning as he made his way to the sofa. ‘Whisky. The Balvenie’s on the sideboard. I think I need to rest a while.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Duncan. ‘You’ve had a day of it.’
‘Och, it’s not so much the travelling, it’s that blessed screen. How on earth do folk these days stare at those things without going blind?’
‘They do,’ said Duncan. ‘Well, near enough. Guaranteed they’re all wearing glasses before they reach thirty and then they complain that their human rights were violated because they weren’t warned of the dangers of working with computers.’
‘Utter tosh.’
‘Agreed, but that’s millennials for you, chief. The snowflakes. They’re as soft as fudge and they think the world owes them a living.’
‘I wouldnae worry if I were you
,’ said Munro. ‘You know what happens to a snowflake when you turn up the heat.’
‘Right enough,’ said Duncan. ‘Okay, I’ll get these dishes washed and then…’
‘Och, not necessary, laddie, leave them where they are. Is there not somewhere you have to be?’
‘I’ve time yet. Just you relax.’
As unofficial stepfather to his girlfriend’s eleven-year-old son, Duncan was used to making Cameron as comfortable as possible when he collapsed with exhaustion after a weekend’s rambling, mountain biking, or beachcombing, but there was something unsettlingly palliative about applying the same degree of compassionate care to a retired police officer.
Wary of waking a dozing Munro, he carefully draped a woollen blanket across his chest, returned to the table and poured himself a glass of red before sending Cathy an apologetic text and settling in front of the computer to browse the search history and Munro’s barely legible notes.
* * *
Like a beleaguered walrus beset by coltish calves, Munro snarled and snorted as he woke from his slumber, took a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings, and eyed Duncan with a shallow look of confusion.
‘Sorry,’ he said, discarding the blanket. ‘I must have dropped off for a few minutes.’
‘Aye, so you did.’
‘You’d best take yourself off or you’ll be late. What time is it?’
‘Nearly four.’
‘Four! Four o’clock? In the morning?’
‘Aye.’
‘By jiminy! Why didn’t you wake me?’
‘You know what they say about sleeping dogs.’
‘But you had a date!’ said Munro. ‘With your lady friend.’
‘Had, chief. Past tense. She blew me out. Now, do you fancy a brew?’
‘Aye, that would be most welcome, laddie. Most welcome indeed.’
Duncan returned from the kitchen with two mugs of steaming hot tea and a plate of toast and marmalade.
‘Have you not slept?’ said Munro, warming his hands on the mug.
‘No, chief. I’ve been busy.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, I had to keep the fire going,’ said Duncan, ‘so you didn’t catch a chill and… I took a look at your searches on the internet. I hope I’ve not overstepped the mark.’
‘No skin off my nose, laddie.’
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