‘This is cosy, James,’ said McGreevy, taking in the view from the window, ‘are you comfortable here?’
‘Aye, very.’
‘I suppose what I mean is, do you not get a wee bit, lonely? Without Jean?’
‘Oh, she’s still here, Nick,’ said Munro, thumping his chest, ‘right here.’
McGreevy smiled, touched by the sentiment.
‘Well, I have to say life down here obviously suits you, you do look…’
‘Rejuvenated?’ said Munro. ‘Aye. I think that’s the word I’d use, rejuvenated. No stress, no anger, no frustration. It’s like a whole, new world. Now, will you take drink?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say no…’
‘I’ve a twelve-year old in here, somewhere,’ said Munro, rummaging in the sideboard, ‘as mellow as … och no, what am I saying, you’re driving.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘And you’re a police officer.’
‘I know, but…’
‘And you’re on duty.’
‘Aye, but surely just the one…’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘If I must,’ said McGreevy, with a sigh. ‘If I must.’
Munro returned with two mugs of steaming strong tea, sat with satisfied sigh and opened a tin of shortbread.
‘Don’t hold back,’ he said, as McGreevy helped himself to a biscuit, ‘I dare say you’ve not had your lunch, yet. So, tell me now, what is it you’re after exactly?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ said McGreevy, sheepishly, ‘I was, I was just wondering what you had planned for tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’ said Munro. ‘Well, as it happens, I’m going take myself a walk, up the Criffel, if the weather holds out, that is.’
‘Criffel? Is that not a bit, energetic?’
‘Energetic? It’s only 1800 feet, a wee hill. Why don’t you join me? Shouldnae bother a man of your physical prowess.’
‘It would bother me tremendously, James,’ said McGreevy. ‘Let’s just say, I prefer the ground beneath my feet to be, level. No, see here, the thing is, I was going to ask you if you’d like to join me.’
‘Oh, aye? It’s not a round of golf you’re talking about, is it?’ said Munro, smirking.
‘No.’
‘More than likely a body of sorts.’
‘Could be.’
‘Probably unidentified.’
‘Possibly.’
‘With no obvious cause of death.’
‘No yet.’
‘No. Thanks for the offer,’ said Munro, ‘but I think a walk sounds more appealing, particularly to those of us who are retired.’
‘Och, come on James, help me out here,’ said McGreevy, ‘I need someone who knows the area, someone who knows what they’re doing. If you turn me down, the lads from Greenock will be all over the shop and there’s the boat race coming up, too. Look, there’s a nice wee hotel, generous expenses, I’ll even…’
‘Have you cleared this with the Fiscal?’ said Munro.
‘Well, no, no, not yet, but I will.’
Munro stood, walked to the window and, hands clasped behind his back, stared out to sea.
‘Will I have help?’ he said.
McGreevy allowed himself a wry smile, confident that Munro was coming around.
‘Of course,’ he said, enthusiastically, ‘there’s Sergeant Campbell, he’s years of experience, and young Duncan, that is, Constable Reid, you’ll not meet a more enthusiastic…’
‘No, no, no,’ said Munro, shaking his head. ‘I’ll need someone who’s a nose for this, no offence, Nick, but your lads simply aren’t qualified for the job.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
Munro paused before answering.
‘I’ll sleep on it,’ he said, ‘if I agree, I’ll be in Gourock by 12 o’clock tomorrow.’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘I’ll be atop yon hill.’
* * *
Munro watched McGreevy’s car fade to the distance, pulled the curtains tight and pokered up the fire. He sat for a moment and flicked through the newspaper he’d already read, took the mugs to the kitchen, opened the fridge, peered inside, and closed it again. The photo on the mantel shelf caught his eye. ‘I know, Jean,’ he said, his shoulders slumping with the weight of the sigh, ‘I know, but look at me, I’m that brain-dead, I’m talking to a wee photo. I mean, there’s only so much walking a man can do, you understand, don’t you? I’ll not be long. I promise.’
* * *
The early morning cloud, as black as pitch and heavy with the prospect of another downpour, rolled menacingly overhead as Munro tossed a holdall into the boot and left Carsethorn. Forsaking the monotony of the motorway for the longer but more scenic route north towards the coast, he drove at a leisurely pace usually employed by visitors in search of a castle ruin or a café serving square sausage and haggis toasties. By the time he’d reached Ardrossan, the cloud had given way to sun with glorious views across to Arran. Munro’s knuckles turned white as he slammed on the brakes and slewed the car to the side of the road. ‘Come on,’ he muttered as he frantically pulled his phone from his pocket and called a number he’d not used since leaving London, ‘be there.’ It went straight to voicemail.
‘This is Charlotte. I’m away at the moment but if it’s urgent, you can reach me on 01770 302302, but only if it’s urgent. Bye.’
Munro cursed and dialled.
‘Hello?’ he said, irritated by the poor reception, ‘I don’t mean to sound rude but, who is this?’
‘Why, it’s the Holy Isle.’
‘Bingo!’ said Munro. ‘Listen, I wonder, would you happen to have a Miss Charlotte West staying with you? She’s a friend, she said she may be…’
‘Miss West? Aye, we did have, but I’m afraid you’ve missed her.’
‘Missed her? When did she...’
‘Just this morning.’
‘This morning? Where to?’
‘Back to the mainland, of course. The ferry, to Ardrossan.’
‘And would you happen to know what time it…’
‘Well, she was aboard the first one out, so all being well, it should have docked about, oh, a quarter of an hour ago.’
* * *
Munro, perched on the bonnet of his car, watched as a lone straggler, one of the last to disembark, ambled wearily along the gangway weighed down by the rucksack on her back. She was not the Detective Sergeant West he’d left behind in London. This one was gaunt and pale, like some starving waif from the wilderness who’d not eaten in days. She paused at the gates and looked around, pondering which direction to take, when her gaze eventually met his.
‘Taxi?’ he said, beaming broadly.
West regarded him with a look of utter surprise and grinned.
‘D.I. James Munro! What the fuck are you doing here?’ she said, quickening her pace. ‘How did you…’
‘You mentioned you might, you know, a while back, before I left, and I just happened to… how are you, Charlie?’
‘Been better,’ said West. ‘Christ. I’m not doing that again.’
‘What exactly?’ said Munro, taking the pack from her back.
‘A retreat. Nothing but bloody carrots and cabbage for a week, and no alcohol. Remind me, if I ever feel the need to reach my inner self again, I’ll use a coat hanger. I feel like death.’
‘Good! Tell me, lassie, have you any plans. Right now, I mean?’
‘Yes,’ said West. ‘Large vodka, train, plane, home. In that order. Then, it’s back to work.’
‘So, you’ve not left the force then?’
‘Couldn’t decide. I thought the break would do me good, help me focus, get some bloody direction in my life.’
‘And has it?’ said Munro.
‘Has it fuck. Anyway, why are you so interested? Why are you here?’
‘A fortuitous coincidence. I thought you might like to … lend me a hand.’
‘Lend you a hand?’ said West, suspiciously. ‘What are you doi
ng, decorating?’
‘No, no, I’ve taken on a wee case, that’s all, nothing big, won’t take long.’
‘Impossible,’ said West, ‘besides, I can’t work up here, not without...’
‘Och, a minor point, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘don’t you worry about that, it’s all sorted.’
West reached for her rucksack and shook her head.
‘Sorry, James, look, I’m not being funny, it’s been nice seeing you and all, but I’ve just got off the ferry, I’m tired and I’m hungry, besides, I’ve no clothes or…’
‘You’ve a bag full of clothes, what more do you need?’ said Munro. ‘Just a few days, think of it as an extended holiday.’
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ said Munro, opening the car door, ‘well, at least I tried. Have a good trip, Charlie, as you say, it was nice to catch up, you take care of yourself, you hear.’
‘I, er, I don’t suppose you’re heading towards the airport, are you?’ said West.
‘No, opposite direction, I’m afraid. I’m away for my lunch, just now.’
‘Lunch?’
‘Aye. It’s on expenses, too. I was thinking a large steak and a glass or two of red.’
‘Christ, you know how to take advantage, don’t you?’
Chapter 4
Crawford, an advocate of punctuality, checked her watch and huffed impatiently as Doctor Clark, bored with the silence, wriggled uneasily in his seat.
‘You’ll forgive my tardiness,’ said McGreevy, as he and Campbell breezed through the door, ‘the Sergeant here had to queue, folk are awful hungry this time of day.’
‘Well, as you come bearing gifts,’ said Crawford, ‘consider yourself forgiven. What have you got?’
‘Coffee, croissants, chocolate doughnuts, oh, and some plain toast for the Doctor, should you be fretting about your cholesterol and the like.’
Clark smiled and reached for a doughnut.
‘That,’ he said, with a sarcastic grin, ‘is the least of my problems.’
‘Good. Let’s get down to it,’ said Crawford. ‘Doctor Clark, I trust the post-mortem confirmed your suspicions?’
‘Right enough,’ said Clark, brushing crumbs from his report, ‘so, here’s the thing. First of all, as I suspected, the blow to the head didnae come from a fall. The wound is perfectly round and the trauma around the area of impact suggests she was struck from behind with a small, flat-faced instrument, my guess is, a hammer of sorts.’
‘Does that… I mean, is that what killed her?’ said Campbell.
‘No. It would have given her a nasty headache and knocked her over, no doubt about that, but not enough to kill her. One thing’s for sure, once she was down, she wasnae capable of getting up again.’
‘And that would be, why?’ said Crawford.
‘Intoxication.’
‘You mean she was blootered?’ said Campbell.
‘Aye, but that’s not all. See, we found oxalate crystals in the kidneys, which is, to say the least, unusual; it causes renal failure, so we sent bloods to toxicology which not only confirmed the high level of alcohol…’
‘Is that what killed her?’ said McGreevy.
‘Not quite. We also found glycolic acid, acetone, and formic acid.’
‘Doctor Clark,’ said Crawford, raising her eyebrows, ‘unless those are the ingredients of a particularly powerful cocktail, and you know where I can get one, you’d best elucidate.’
‘Okay. Glycolic acid increases the pH of the blood which leads to hyperventilation as the body tries to rid itself of excess carbon dioxide. Acetone depresses the activity of the nervous system, so basically you’d lose control of your senses. Literally. And the formic acid would explain why her pupils were constricted, it damages the optic nerve.’
‘So, how did all of that get into her body?’ said McGreevy, perplexed.
‘Easy,’ said Clark. ‘She was poisoned. Ethylene glycol. Anti-freeze to you and me.’
‘Anti-freeze? But surely,’ said Campbell, ‘does it not taste…?’
‘That’s the beauty of it,’ said Clark, ‘mixed with alcohol, it’s virtually undetectable. No taste, no odour.’
‘So, that’s what killed her?’ said Crawford, sipping her coffee. ‘You’re saying she was deliberately poisoned?’
‘Aye. And it’s not pleasant, either. See, it’s slow-acting, has to work its way around the body. She’d have experienced some nausea and dizziness to start with, then her eyesight would have failed before losing control of her bowels. It’s a fearful position to be in, I mean, can you imagine the mental trauma of not knowing what was happening to your body? The stress on the heart would have been enormous.’
‘Could we have done anything to save her?’ said Campbell. ‘If we’d got there sooner, maybe?’
‘No, Sergeant, I’m afraid not, see, once ingested, unless you do something within the hour, you’ve had it.’
‘Well,’ said Crawford, downing her cup, ‘I can think of better of ways to start the day, but needs must. So, final question, do we know who she is?’
‘No,’ said Clark.
‘But she was carrying a couple of bank cards,’ said Campbell, ‘so at least we have a name to go on.’
‘Good,’ said Crawford, in that case, I’ll inform CID. Gentlemen.’
McGreevy gently closed the door behind Clark and Campbell as they left the room.
‘Isobel,’ he said, ‘a wee word, if I may.’
‘Of course Nick, what’s up?’
‘CID. You know…’
‘I know; you don’t exactly see eye to eye…’
‘Can you blame me?’ said McGreevy, ‘After last time?’
‘I admit, they can be a bit, boisterous…’
‘Boisterous? That’s an understatement.’
‘But there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s a murder, they’re detectives, that’s how it works.’
‘I know Isobel, but just hear me out. Five days. That’s all I’m asking. Give me five days to look into this, and if I don’t get anywhere, fair enough, give it to Greenock.’
‘Am I missing something, Nick?’ said Crawford, with an inquisitive tilt of the head. ‘Are you a D.I. now?’
‘No, but, I… I know a man who is. Used to be.’
‘And that would be?’
‘James. James…’
‘Munro?’ said Crawford, mildly surprised.
‘Aye. James Munro.’
‘I thought he’d moved south.’
‘He did. And now he’s back.’
‘But he’s retired, is he not?’
‘Aye, he is, but… we could, you know…’
Crawford sat down, her brow furrowed as though stuck on a 13 across.
‘This is highly unconventional Nick,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure I can…’
‘Och, Isobel, come on, five days. I need someone on my patch who knows the meaning of the word discreet, someone who can make enquiries without ruffling feathers.’
‘If the senior Fiscal finds out, I could be…’
‘Five days.’
Crawford stared blankly into space, contemplating the consequences.
‘Okay,’ she said, reluctantly, ‘okay. Five days Nick. And no-one’s to know. No-one but your office. Understand? And I want daily updates. Oh, and I’d better have a word with Munro, too.’
‘Isobel, you’re a doll. Leave it to us.’
* * *
As a young officer, Constable Reid could not be faulted for his drive and determination, intent, as he was, on joining the drugs squad where a helmet wouldn’t play havoc with his carefully coiffed hair, nor a uniform hinder his appearance. By way of gaining as much inside knowledge as possible into the workings of the underworld, he had his nose buried in a copy of Mr. Nice when his superiors returned.
‘Duncan,’ said McGreevy, tossing his cap on the desk.
‘Chief. Sergeant.’
‘All good?’
‘Aye,’ said Reid, ‘just a burglar alarm on Bu
te Street. Jamie, I mean Constable Shaw’s seeing to it now. Oh, and you’ve a couple of visitors…’
‘Visitors?’ said McGreevy. ‘It’s not my birthday, who would...’
‘A gentleman and a young lady. Thing is, Chief, the girl, she looks a bit, well, down on her luck, so I made them both a brew and sat them in your office, hope that’s okay, we’ve not enough chairs out here.’
‘Fine, Duncan, fine. I don’t suppose you managed to get a name, by any chance?’
‘Oh, aye, sorry Chief, said his name’s Munro.’
McGreevy turned to Campbell, smiled broadly and slapped him on the back.
‘Maybe it’s my birthday after all,’ he said. ‘Come with me, Iain, there’s someone you need to meet.’
McGreevy opened the door to find Munro, as usual in a military stance, legs akimbo, hands clasped behind his back, reading a poster on the wall, while slumped in a chair, half-asleep, sat a young, damp-haired lady, her head lolled to one side, looking to all intents and purposes as if she’d expired.
‘James!’ he said. ‘You made it. I cannae tell you how glad I am to see you.’
He flicked and his head in the direction of West.
‘And this would be...’
‘Detective Sergeant Charlotte West,’ said Munro. ‘City of London Police. Charlie!’
West woke with a start and stood, slightly befuddled.
‘Sorry, must have…’
‘City of London? My, my, we are privileged,’ said McGreevy. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Inspector McGreevy and this is Sergeant Iain Campbell.’
‘Good,’ said Munro, ‘well, now that we’re all acquainted, perhaps we could…’
‘Aye, take a seat,’ said McGreevy. ‘We’re just back from the Fiscal’s office, and we’ve got the pathologist’s report, so…’
‘No, no, no,’ said Munro, shaking his head. ‘Nick, the lassie’s just off the boat, I’ve driven for two hours to get here, she needs to freshen up and we both need to get some food in our bellies, so, if it’s all the same with you…’
‘Of course,’ said McGreevy. ‘The Kip Hotel, I’ll get Duncan to show you where it is. See you back here in say, an hour?’
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