‘You could say that,’ said West, ‘I’m afraid Agnes has been…’
‘Agnes,’ said Munro, interrupting, ‘has passed on.’
‘Passed on?’ said Max, bewildered, ‘you mean dead?’
‘Aye, to be blunt. Dead.’
‘But she was so… I mean, Jesus. Mortality, eh? One minute you’re here, the next… how? How did she…?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said West, ‘so, can we just go back a bit, what took you to Sandgate in the first place?’
‘I often go,’ said Max, ‘by way of a constitutional, like. After my supper.’
‘I’m guilty of that myself,’ said Munro, ‘I like to walk off a meal. Do you remember what you had?’
‘Haddock. I always have haddock on a Friday and a Tuesday. Steak on a Saturday and a Wednesday, and chicken on Sundays and Thursdays.’
‘And Mondays?’
‘Vegetables. Baked potato mainly.’
‘You like your routine then?’ said Munro.
‘Aye. I do that.’
‘Any particular reason?’ said West, ‘I mean, for adopting such a regimented approach to dining?’
Max regarded her as though it were one of the stupidest questions he’d ever heard.
‘No. I just do it. It’s just the way I am.’
‘Fair enough. I wish I could be that organised, it’d certainly make shopping a darn site easier. So, you finished your supper. Then what?’
Max, sitting with his back straight, knees together and hands folded in his lap, looked to the ceiling with a gentle frown.
‘I put the wrappers in a blue, plastic carrier bag,’ he said, ‘tied it with a knot and tossed it in the bin. Then I put an empty beer can in the sink, fetched my coat and left.’
‘And where do you stay, Max?’ said Munro. ‘Is it nearby?’
‘Aye. Main Street, it’s not far from here.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, as I say, I left the house, headed out over the bridge and then down Sandgate. It takes approximately nine minutes and thirty seconds to reach St. John Street. I normally go further but my walk was curtailed on account of the, er, the collision.’
Munro nodded, encouraging Max to continue.
‘She could hardly stand so I offered to call her a taxi. She laughed cos her house was just around the corner so I said I’d walk her home instead. Cathcart Street. Third house from the end. Basement flat. 7C. Black front door. Silver letterbox. There’s no latch on the gate from the street.’
Munro, enthralled by the clarity of Max’s recollection, leaned forward and regarded him with an admiring smile.
‘You’ve a memory for detail, Max,’ he said, ‘in fact I’d say it was quite remarkable. Aye, that’s the word. Remarkable. Tell me, do you recall anything else about the walk back? To her flat, that is. Anything at all?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Max, ‘we passed two fellas, they laughed like they were embarrassed for me, must’ve have thought we were an item. Both about six feet tall, short hair, dark. One wearing a turtle neck, the other a cardigan over a polo shirt.’
‘Can you hold on a minute please Max,’ said West as she grabbed the laptop and played back the footage, ‘I just need to… okay, go on.’
‘You dinnae believe me, do you?’ said Max, ‘that’s why you’re looking at that film.’
‘I believe you implicitly, Max, but I do have to verify…’
‘Okay, stop it there, I’ll tell you what happens next then you can see if I’m lying or not.’
West huffed indignantly and paused the film as Munro, entertained by the challenge, grinned in anticipation of the impending duel.
‘Okay,’ said West, ‘so, what happens next?’
‘Just as we get to the corner, there’s a blue BMW, five door saloon, 3-series, I think, pulls out of Cathcart Street and does a right down Sandgate.’
‘Very good,’ said West, sarcastically.
‘And then a fella runs by, from behind, cannae say why but he’s wearing a cagoule, black with silver piping.’
Munro sat back, folded his arms and smiled contentedly.
‘I’m not easily impressed, Max,’ he said, ‘but I have to say… are you not of a mind to enter a game show or two? You could fair wipe the board with a memory like yours.’
‘Me?’ said Max, laughing, ‘you’re joking, right?’
‘But you’re obviously very clever, I mean, your ability to…’
‘I’m not clever, Mr. Munro. I havenae got a single qualification to my name, not even a GCSE.’
‘You left school early then?’
‘You could say that. I was asked to leave. No, actually, that’s not strictly true, they told me to leave.’
‘Because?’
‘Take your pick: unruly behaviour, disruptive influence, inability to concentrate…’
West did not believe in magic and she was sceptical of illusionists but as Max was neither, there was something about his ability to recall events in such detail that unnerved her. She leaned back, hand on chin and regarded him curiously, flinching visibly, as he caught her staring, his eyes as black as coal.
‘So,’ she said, flustered by his unwavering gaze, ‘you saw Agnes to her door, that’s her full name by the way, Agnes Craig, and then…’
‘And then she invited me in. She offered me a wee drink as a thank you for seeing her home safe. I wasnae keen on the idea but…’
‘Why not?’ said West, ‘I mean, why weren’t you keen? Most men…’
‘I’m not most men, Miss West. I’m not… I’m just not very good in the company of women.’
‘That’s alright, if you’re…’
‘No, I’m not. I’m not gay if that’s what you’re implying. I’m just not very good in the company of women.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to… so you went in, albeit reluctantly?’
‘Aye.’
‘And does your incredible memory stretch to the interior of her flat?’ said West, cynically.
Max glowered at West and paused to lick his lips before answering.
‘Beige carpet,’ he said as his eyes narrowed. ‘Beige carpet, white walls, cream-coloured curtains and sofa. Coffee table: wooden. Framed photo of a man and a girl above the fireplace. Stereo with CD player…’
‘I think we’ve got the picture, Max,’ said West, clearing her throat, ‘and did you have that drink or…’
‘Sip. I had a sip of a drink. It was vodka. Neat. Smirnoff. She was dozing on the sofa so I left. I set the glass on the table and I left.’
West, her face a subtle shade of blush, closed the laptop and turned to Max.
‘Well,’ she said, forcing a smile, ‘I think that’s everything for…’
‘Hold on, Miss,’ said Dougal, ‘if I may, I’ve a wee question for Max.’
‘Fire away, Mr. McCrae,’ said Max, ‘if I can answer, I will.’
‘Thank you. What time did you leave the flat?’
‘It was one minute after midnight.’
‘And you went straight home?’
‘I did that.’
‘And did you notice anything when you left,’ said Dougal, ‘what I mean is, anything out of the ordinary?’
‘That depends on your definition of ordinary, Mr. McCrae,’ said Max, ‘but I did notice the curtains twitching in the flat above. Someone watched me leave.’
‘The flat above? So, that would be the flat at street level?’
‘Aye, right enough. Whoever lives there thought they were invisible but you cannae spy on folk in you’ve a lamp glowing in the room.’
‘That’s great. Anything else?’
‘No. Oh, three cars parked outside.’
‘And why would that be unusual?’ said Dougal.
‘Because the street was near enough empty but these three were almost, kind of, sandwiched together.’
‘I don’t suppose you…’
‘Two silver: a Polo and a Micra, and one white. A Corsa.’
&nbs
p; Munro stood up, rubbed his hands together and grinned at Max.
‘I cannae thank you enough for coming by to see us, Max,’ he said, ‘you’ve been incredibly helpful. Really you have. Now, I’ll not keep you much longer, just a couple of things before you go. You’re not obliged in any way but…’
‘I ken what you’re saying, Mr. Munro. It’ll help eliminate me from your inquiry.’
‘Aye, something like that. A few details that’s all, address, place of work and, well if you dinnae mind, fingerprints would be the icing on the cake.’
‘No problem. Will we do it now?’
‘Aye,’ said Dougal, ‘top man. Come with me and…’
‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘Charlie, would you take Max downstairs. I need to run through this list with Dougal then we can all be off.’
Munro waited until the door had closed before turning to Dougal who sat motionless, his face overcome with a look of dread.
‘What is it, Dougal?’ said Munro. ‘You look as though you’re going to the gallows.’
‘Sorry, it’s just that whenever somebody says they want a word or…’
‘Och, grow up, laddie. If I was going to berate you I’d not be doing it with a smile on my face, I can assure you of that. Now, that background check on young Max there, did you find anything?’
‘No, Sir,’ said Dougal with a sigh of relief, ‘nothing at all.’
‘You mean he’s clean?’
‘No, I mean I couldnae find anything. He’s not on any social media, you know, Facebook or Twitter, and there’s no profile of him anywhere else, previous employers, clubs, that kind of thing. If it wasn’t for the council records he’d be near enough invisible.’
‘I see,’ said Munro, ‘tell me… I mean, you must be of a similar age, does that not strike you as odd?’
‘Aye. Well, no. Unusual perhaps, but not everyone wants to put their life story online.’
‘Fair enough. Okay, there’s a few things I need you to do for me tomorrow morning; first of all, nip over to Cathcart Street and have a word with the fellow who lives upstairs. I want to know if he saw anything.’
‘Okay, but has D.S. Cameron not done that already?’
‘Never mind what D.S. Cameron has or hasnae done, Dougal. Just do it.’
‘Sir.’
‘Then see if you can trace the owners of the vehicles Max mentioned, see if they live nearby. Finally, do some digging on Agnes’s friends and work colleagues, see if anyone’s been hounding her or taken an unhealthy interest in her activities.’
‘Right you are, Sir. You think maybe she’s rubbed somebody up the wrong way?’
‘No, no, I doubt that very much. Young Agnes was as popular as a Tunnock’s Teacake at a marshmallow convention. I’m just wondering if she’d managed to get herself a stalker perhaps.’
‘Nae bother. Is that it?’
‘No,’ said Munro, as he perched on the edge of the desk and lowered his voice, ‘no, it is not. I need to ask you something else. In confidence. If you feel you cannae answer, then I’ll respect that and we’ll say no more.’
‘Sounds serious, Sir. What is it?’
‘Don. D.S. Cameron. Is he… is he alright?’
‘How’d you mean?’ said Dougal.
‘Well, I’m not that familiar with the fellow but his behaviour seems a little…’
‘Unpredictable? Lacking focus?’
‘Aye, Dougal, that’s it. Exactly.’
‘I thought the same. I mean, he’s a good cop, Sir, there’s no denying it, but I think…’
‘What Dougal?’ said Munro. ‘What do you think?’
‘Between you and me, Sir, I think he came back too early. After the incident.’
‘The incident?’
‘Aye. You must’ve seen the scar by his eye. Well, that’s not the only one. He’s a fair few across his body. Armed robbery it was. Attempted armed robbery.’
‘Go on.’
‘He was off duty, went to grab a few tinnies from the off-licence when some ned thought grabbing the money from the till would be easier than signing-on or getting a job. D.S. Cameron intervened but the fella was a nutter. Went berserk. Spent three and a half hours in hospital getting stitched up. Missed an artery by a whisker. Doctors said he shouldnae be back for at least another month.’
‘I never realised. And this was recently?’
‘Recent enough,’ said Dougal, ‘he was meant to see a therapist to help him get over the trauma but he jacked it in before it started. Said it wouldnae do him any good. Said being a cop was the same as falling off a bike, you get knocked off, you get straight back on again.’
Munro walked to the window and looked out across a darkening sky.
‘I don’t mind telling you,’ he said, ‘I’m a wee bit concerned. Concerned he may become a liability and jeopardise the investigation. Is there anything else I should know?’
‘Aye, maybe. Och, I’m not sure if it’s my place to say anything, Sir. I mean, it’s a wee bit… personal.’
‘It’s entirely up to you laddie. I’ll not hold it against you if you feel like you’re betraying a trust.’
Dougal ruffled his hair and sighed as he toyed with his conscience.
‘His wife,’ he said, ‘his wife left him.’
‘Ah.’
‘While he was in hospital.’
‘Oh.’
‘She went to see him once they’d patched him up. Fair ranting she was, said she’d had enough of being married to a copper. Apparently.’
‘Apparently?’
‘Like I said, Sir, it’s not for me to comment on other folks’ domestic situations.’
‘And what about the fellow who attacked him? Did you…?’
‘Clean away, Sir. Not a trace. Can I go now?’
‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘thanks Dougal. See you in the morning.’
* * *
Munro returned to the window, the view nothing more than his own ghostly reflection, straightened his tie and contemplated the consequences of keeping Cameron on the team as the door opened behind him.
‘All done,’ said West, sounding deflated. ‘You ready?’
‘Aye,’ said Munro, hesitating as he reached for his jacket, ‘I’ve just a… a wee niggling sensation, that’s all.’
‘About Max?’
‘No, no. Don. I want you to keep an eye on him.’
‘Why?’ said West.
‘Let’s just say he’s some personal issues to deal with,’ said Munro. ‘Personal issues that may be clouding his judgement. I’ll explain on the way but I cannae afford to carry him if he slips up again.’
‘Again?’
‘First the missing film from a camera pointing at the scene and now, if we’re to believe what young Max has told us, lying about interviewing the neighbours.’
‘You mean the bloke in the flat above?’ said West.
‘That’s exactly who I mean.’
‘Well there is another side to that, you know. Don may well have questioned the old bloke but he might’ve said he was in bed because he didn’t want to get involved.’
‘Maybe,’ said Munro, ‘all the same, I’m sending Dougal to see him tomorrow, then we’ll know for sure.’
‘Okay. Can we go now?’
‘Aye, we can. Incidentally, what did you make of Max?’ said Munro, pulling on his jacket.
‘Max?’
‘I imagine he’s feeling a wee bit… raw, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Raw?’
‘Aye. Your interview technique, Charlie. It was as abrasive as sandpaper.’
‘Oh come off it,’ said West, ‘I was just pushing him, wanted to see if he was legit and not trying to pull the wool over our…’
‘The poor chappie came to help,’ said Munro, ‘of his own free will, and all you did was…’
‘Well, I don’t trust him. He’s smart. The kind of bloke that’ll lead you down a path to nowhere.’
‘Is that so?’ said Munro, his face breaking into a grin
.
‘He’s got that look.’
‘And is that a look of guilt? Or the kind of look that makes him attractive to the opposite sex?’
‘Ha, bloody ha. Come on, I’m starving. How about I make us some spaghetti when we get back?’
‘Charlie, I’d rather navigate the Limpopo in a coracle than eat a plate of pasta. I’ll fetch a steak on the way.’
* * *
Max, irritated by the fact that his routine had been adversely altered, ambled along the deserted, rain-sodden streets, past the shops long closed for the day and struggled to convince himself that a vegetarian Chinese take-away was a viable substitute for a baked potato laden with baked beans and cheese. He stopped outside the bookies and checked his phone. Three missed calls. Lizzie Paton.
‘Sorry, we’re closing,’ said a petite blonde as she pulled the door behind her, ‘manager’s locking up.’
‘What?’ said Max. ‘You can’t be, you have to stay open until the last race…’
‘The last race has been and gone,’ she said. ‘Windsor finished at eight and Hamilton was abandoned.’
‘No matter,’ said Max, ‘I’m not interested in the races, I just want to lose a few quid in one of those machines of yours, it’ll only take a minute.’
‘Sorry, mister, nothing I can do.’
‘Och, come on, give us a break here, I’ve had a pig of a day.’
‘Haven’t we all.’
‘Look, I’ve not had my supper, I’ve spent all day with the police and my routine is completely out of kilter, I need to…’
‘Police?’ said the girl, stepping back. ‘What were you doing with the police?’
‘Och look, I’ve not done anything if that’s what you think, I was just helping them with…’
‘Oh aye. Helping them with what?’
‘If you must know,’ said Max, ‘some lassie who got… I mean, I walked her home and now she’s…’
‘Who? What lassie?’ said the girl.
‘For Christ’s sake, what is this? Look, Friday night, right, this girl crashed in to me, totally hammered, so I walked her home and now she’s…’
‘Dead.’
‘Aye. Dead. But how did you know?’
‘What was her name?’
‘What? What’s it to you?’
‘I said, what was her name?’
Enmity Page 5
