He ducked under the cordon strung across the open gate and shuffled down the concrete steps to the gloom of the basement flat below, overwhelmed by the niggling sensation that the fourth would not warrant the words “natural”, “accidental” or “misadventure” on the death certificate.
The front door showed no sign of a forced entry leaving him to conclude that unless there was another way in, the victim either knew her assailant or the perpetrator had a set of keys. He moved to the lounge and glanced inside. Apart from a small green shoulder bag lying on the arm of the sofa and two empty tumblers sitting on the coffee table, there was nothing untoward. The stereo, volume down, was still on.
The flash of a camera drew him down the hall to the bedroom where a team of SOCOs were diligently dusting for prints and collating evidence. He leant against the doorway and shivered as his eyes settled on the body spread-eagled across the bed, the wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts, the sheet pulled down over the face. Her skirt, short as it was, was hitched up around the waist. Her legs, bare and bronzed from the application of a tanning agent were smooth and free from cuts or abrasions. He winced at the thought of what had probably occurred just a few hours earlier until realising, with a jolt, that her underwear was still intact, as was her top. Nothing had been removed, nothing was ripped or torn. She was, to all intents and purposes, fully clothed.
‘What do you think?’ he said, frowning at someone in a Tyvek suit scanning the victim’s upper thighs with a forensic light source.
The figure switched off the FLS, stood upright and pulled down her face mask.
‘And you are?’
‘Cameron. D.S. Cameron. Don.’
‘Well, Don,’ she said, the strain showing in her eyes, ‘she struggled, understandably, but at the moment, I can see no sign of any… interference.’
‘You mean she wasnae…’
‘No, at least I don’t think so. The post-mortem will pick up anything I’ve missed but at this stage, I have to say, there doesn’t appear to be anything sexual about this at all.’
‘That’s what bothers me,’ said Cameron, perplexed, ‘that’s what makes it seem all the more…’
His words tailed off as he squatted by the bed to inspect the wounds around the ankles where the cords from a hair dryer and a phone charger had lacerated the skin leaving a gash on each leg approximately half an inch deep.
‘Jesus,’ he said, exasperated. ‘She must’ve really… you know, for a wee cable, I mean, a plastic cable, to do that.’
‘Aye,’ said the SOCO, ‘she certainly did her best. It’s the same on the wrists. Whoever tied her up bound her up so tight he all but cut-off the blood supply. See here, the hands, they’re turning black from the clots.’
Cameron stepped forward to get a closer look, grimacing at the sight of the fingers which, with the onset of rigor, were as dark and contorted as a raven’s claws.
‘How long?’ he asked quietly.
‘Eight. Ten hours, maybe. No more.’
‘So, roughly between midnight and two o’clock this morning then?’
‘Aye. About that,’ said the SOCO, reaching for a pair of stainless steel shears. ‘Will I cut her free?’
‘Okay, may as well, I suppose. No! Hold on,’ said Cameron, raising a hand. ‘Hold on just a moment.’
‘What is it?’ said the SOCO.
‘Her wrists. He’s tied her up with cable ties.’
‘Aye. So?’
‘So, who walks around with just two cable ties in his pocket?’
‘I’ve no idea. An electrician, maybe? Besides, perhaps he had more.’
‘Then why use the flex from a hair dryer and a phone charger to tie her feet? Something’s not right here. It’s not as impulsive as it looks. Can you dust them? The cable ties?’
‘Aye, of course, but I wouldnae hold your breath.’
‘Why not?’
‘I doubt they’d hold a print for a start. Also, whoever did this wore gloves. There’s a barely print here that doesnae belong to her.’
‘I see,’ said Cameron, as he contemplated the cuts around the wrists. ‘How about the lounge? The glasses on the coffee table?’
‘We’ve not been there yet.’
‘Fair enough. Fair enough.’
Cameron turned his head towards the sheet and bit his lower lip, his nose twitching as he eyed the dark brown stain above the victim’s face.
‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘That stain, and that smell? Christ, it stinks like…’
‘Judging by the colour,’ said the SOCO, ‘and as you say, the smell, I’d say it’s probably vomitus.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Puke.’
‘Right.’
‘With a drop or two of blood.’
‘You think she threw up?’
‘Possibly,’ said the SOCO with an exhausted sigh, ‘and lying on her back like that, there’s a good chance she choked on it if she did.’
‘Nice.’
‘Shall we take a look?’
Cameron rose to his feet and took a step back, not entirely sure what to expect.
‘Aye okay, go ahead,’ he said, as the SOCO raised the sheet, ‘just warn me if it’s anything… dear God! What the…?’
Chapter 3
D.S. West was not green-fingered. A little light-fingered as an errant youth, perhaps, trying to impress her peers in leafy suburbia, but when it came to foliage, plants to her were nothing more than things that grew in the countryside or sat in buckets outside petrol stations and, despite being what her parents called “the outdoors type”, she’d never harboured an interest in cultivating them. Surprised, she stood back and admired her handiwork.
‘Not a bad job, Charlie,’ said Munro, regarding the flower bed, ‘and I thought you didn’t know your aster from your elderflower.’
‘I don’t,’ she said with a satisfied grin, ‘but I’ve just realised what I’ve been missing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It’s not just about sticking a flower in the ground, is it? It’s all of this: the fresh air, the sun on your face, the creepy crawlies, being alone with your thoughts. There’s something quite… therapeutic, about it.’
‘At last you’ve got it, lassie. I take it this means you’ll not be deriding the old folk when you see them tending their roses then?’
‘No, I will not. Tell you what, though, it don’t half give you an appetite, I’m absolutely…’
She paused, pulled her phone from her pocket, glanced at the screen and sighed as she shoved it back in her jeans.
‘Not bad news, I hope,’ said Munro.
‘No. Well, yes. Kind of. It’s that arse, Wilson.’
‘D.C.I. Wilson?’
‘One and the same. I’m supposed to be back on duty in two days and he can’t help but remind me. Do you know that’s the fourth message he’s left today?’
‘So, you’re still not keen on going home then?’
‘No, I am not, but I have to,’ said West with a sigh, ‘if only to hand in my notice. I simply cannot bear the thought of London anymore, the drunks and the druggies, the shouting and the leering. And that’s just the lads in the station.’
‘Well, why not request a transfer?’
‘I need a vacancy first, James.’
‘And by the look on your face, you’ve checked and…’
‘Nothing, except Glasgow, and there’s no point in carrying coals to Newcastle is there?’
‘No, no, I suppose not.’
‘Still, it’s no big deal, I’ll go down, give them my letter of resignation, then come back up again. Sorry, I’m being presumptuous. It is okay if I stay a while longer, isn’t it? I mean, I wouldn’t want to…’
Munro headed inside, smiling to himself.
‘You can stay as long as you like, Charlie,’ he said, ‘I’ve told you before, you’re most welcome here.’
‘Thanks,’ said West, following him, ‘just till I get sorted, I’ll be out of your way just as soon
as…’
‘Charlie,’ said Munro, waving a bread knife, ‘stop blethering, I’ll not tell you again, you can stay as long as you like. Now, ham or cheese? Or can I tempt you with a compendium of sorts?’
* * *
Munro plonked a plate of thick-cut roast ham and Kintyre cheddar sandwiches on the table with a couple of mugs of tea and sat down, exhausted from heaving bags of compost around the garden. West sipped the steaming brew and stared thoughtfully into space.
‘You know what?’ she said, softly, ‘I never told you this before but when I came up a couple of weeks ago, you know, to go to the Holy Isle? I actually had a mild panic attack on the ferry over.’
Munro looked surprised.
‘A panic attack? You?’ he said. ‘Now, why would that be?’
‘It’s silly really. Pathetic even. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to cope without my email, or my phone, or the television. I was cacking myself. How stupid is that?’
‘It’s not stupid, Charlie. Folk are, generally speaking, averse to change, that’s all it is. But change can be for the better. Point in fact, look behind you, what do you see?’
West swivelled in her chair.
‘The window. And the sky. And the sea.’
‘Aye. And that’s all the television you’ll ever need.’
West pushed her plate to one side and tapped her phone.
‘I thought you’d learned to live without that,’ said Munro, sarcastically.
‘Very funny. Just checking he’s not still harassing me. Plus, I want a quick look at the news, make sure we’re not under nuclear attack or anything like that.’
‘Och, you’ll not need to look at your phone if that occurs, lassie. When the wind blows, you’ll know about it. Personally, I never look myself, there’s nothing joyous about the news, it’s always bleak.’
‘Well, you’re not wrong there,’ said West, ‘more threats of strikes, more people whinging about salaries, more people you’ve never heard of filing for divorce and, oh, they’ve found a body. Up the road by the looks of it.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yup, Ayr. That’s up the road, isn’t it? Young girl found dead in her flat.’
‘Probably overdosed on some illegal drug peddled by a no good…’
‘No, looks a bit more serious than that. They’re appealing for witnesses at the moment. Her name’s Craig. Student.’
‘Craig?’ said Munro, smiling wistfully, ‘I used to work with a fellow called Craig, did I tell you that?’
‘Where? In Dumfries?’
‘Aye, at The Mount. Alexander Craig. He was a D.I. like myself, somewhat younger but a lovely chap, astoundingly clever. Jean and I would visit his home every month – for lunch on a Sunday. His wife, Elspeth, was quite the joker, lovely sense of humour.’
‘Do you keep in touch?’
‘Not without the aid of a clairvoyant,’ said Munro, mournfully, ‘he passed away not long ago.’
‘Sorry,’ said West, ‘was it…?’
‘No, no, nothing work related, if that’s what you mean. It was the cancer that took him. Diagnosed on a Monday, dead on the Thursday.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s tragic. What about his wife?’
‘A few months later,’ said Munro, shaking his head, ‘couldnae live without him, I suppose. Just his daughter left now, lovely girl, Agnes, she’s called. Full of energy, could never make her mind up about anything; one minute it was university, the next, travel the world. A real flibbertigibbet. Aye, that’s the word, flibbertigibbet. I wonder how she’s getting on? What is it?’
West, not sure how to react, laid down her phone and tentatively pushed it across the table, watching as Munro’s eyes narrowed in a bid to focus on the screen. He swallowed hard and walked to the window where he stood for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, and stared out to sea.
‘I have to make a call,’ he said as he marched determinedly to his study, ‘there’s a twelve-year-old in the sideboard. Fetch it, would you?’
Munro returned thirty minutes later, sat opposite West and lifted his glass.
‘Cheers, Charlie. Your very good health,’ he said, knocking back the malt.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Couldn’t be better. Now, a word. Tonight, we’re going to treat ourselves to a steak supper then you need to get your head down. We’ve an early start.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re away to Ayr, first thing. It’s not far, won’t take long.’
‘But I can’t,’ said West, ‘I told you, I have to get back to London and…’
‘No longer necessary, lassie. As of now, you’re on secondment and you’re working with me. It’s all been taken care of.’
Chapter 4
Unlike the more notable buildings in the city, most of which were hewn from sandstone and constructed with outstanding attention to detail, the police office on King Street exuded all the charm of an abandoned multi-storey car park built from Lego. Munro leaned forward and cringed as he peered up at the drab, concrete monstrosity from behind the windscreen.
‘Dear God,’ he muttered, ‘if Mr. Mackintosh could see this, he’d be turning in his grave.’
‘Who?’ said West.
‘Charles Rennie… och, never mind.’
* * *
The lobby, furnished with a single, artificial bamboo tree and an array of tired posters advising visitors of the perils of unlicensed taxis, bogus callers and driving whilst under the influence was, apart from a dishevelled figure straddling the only three chairs available, deserted. Munro regarded the ruffian and, with his unshaven face, vintage leather car coat and scuffed, brown boots, intuitively assumed him to be minus a probation officer. West, on the other hand, was drawn to the alluring inch-long scar running from the corner of his left eye, clearly the legacy of an altercation with a blade.
‘I know you,’ said the scruff as he tumbled from the chairs and hauled himself wearily to his feet.
‘You must be confusing me with somebody else,’ said Munro. ‘Marlon Brando, perhaps?’
‘No, no, if anything I’d say…’
‘Careful.’
The man smiled and held out his hand.
‘Don Cameron, chief. D.S. Don Cameron. And you must be Detective Sergeant…’
‘Charlie,’ said West with a smile. ‘Charlie will do just fine.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you. The boss says you knew the young girl, is that right, sir?’
‘Aye, I did. Her father and I worked together. I knew his family.’
‘Well, it’s no wonder you want to get involved and, I’m not ashamed to say, we could use the help.’
‘Too much on your plate?’ said West.
‘Put it this way,’ said Cameron, ‘I hope you’re not keen on sleeping at regular intervals.’
West raised her eyebrows.
‘Depends on the company.’
‘Good grief,’ said Munro. ‘You’ll have to excuse her, she’s not had her bromide yet.’
* * *
Despite the building’s outward appearance, Munro had envisaged the office on the fourth floor as a bastion of cutting-edge technology teaming with dedicated officers intent on solving the most heinous of crimes. To the contrary, he counted six empty desks, two steel filing cabinets, a broken water-cooler and three seemingly discarded laptops. The windows, coated in years of grime thrown up from the road below, afforded him a magnificent view of a discount supermarket and the adjoining car park, used, it seemed, for the sole purpose of dumping shopping trolleys, mattresses and other items of unwanted furniture.
‘Is this it?’ he said, turning to Cameron with a look of disdain, ‘is this where you actually work?’
‘Aye, it’s not much to look at but it’s what we call home.’
‘If it was my home, I’d have it condemned,’ came a voice from beyond the water-cooler.
Munro, befuddled, watched in amusement as a large, rotund figure clutching a screwdriver r
olled out from beneath one of the desks and staggered to his feet.
‘D.C.I. George Elliot,’ he panted, beads of sweat peppering his balding head, ‘can you believe it? They’ll not even send an electrician up here. That’s the second fuse blown in as many days.’
‘I’ve blown a few myself,’ said Munro, grinning. ‘This is Charlie. Detective Sergeant Charlotte West.’
‘Welcome aboard, Charlie. Before we go any further, James, I’d like to offer my condolences.’
‘Very kind, I’m sure.’
‘And just for the record, although I never worked with him, I’m sure Alexander wouldnae want anyone else on this but you.’
‘Aye, maybe so,’ said Munro, ‘maybe so. Anyway, I’m happy to lend a hand in whatever…’
‘Lend a hand?’ said Elliot with a thunderous laugh, ‘No, no, James! You’re not here to lend a hand, we need every man we can get. As you can see, we’re not exactly blessed with an abundance of staff. Everything’s sorted, you have all the authority you need to lead this investigation and as for you Charlie, you’re on the payroll for as long as it takes, is that understood?’
‘Sir.’
‘Good, then let’s get started.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Munro, ‘do you mean to say you’re not involved in this case?’
Elliot plonked himself on the edge of a desk and regarded Munro with a tilt of the head.
‘James,’ he said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, ‘unfortunately I only have three other officers available and between us we have one armed robbery, a handful of break-ins and an outbreak of synthetic marijuana to deal with. Of course, if you’d rather swap places, I’d be more than happy…’
‘Fair enough,’ said Munro with a smirk, ‘fair enough. Okay then, as you say, let’s get…’
‘Hold on, chief,’ said Cameron, ‘just one more introduction to make. Dougal!’
ENMITY: An enthralling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 3) Page 2
