A fresh-faced lad in his mid-twenties wearing jeans, a lumberjack shirt and an expression which suggested he’d lost his pet hamster to a feral cat, poked his head out from behind one of the filing cabinets.
‘Sir?’
‘This is Detective Constable Dougal McCrae,’ said Cameron, ‘the only other string to our bow. Couldnae punch his way out of a paper bag but what he lacks in brawn he makes up for with his brain. Puts me to shame and he’s half my age.’
‘Is that a compliment?’ said Dougal, shaking his head. ‘Okay, so, who’s for tea and who’s for coffee?’
‘Tea please,’ said Munro, ‘white, three sugars, and use blue top. They can skim my pay for a pension but I’ll not have them do it to my milk.’
Munro stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, and gazed down at the street below as Cameron tossed a file on the desk, fired up a laptop and eased himself into a chair.
‘Okay,’ he said with a sombre sigh, ‘you’ll forgive me if some of this sounds like I’m stating the obvious, chief, but for everyone’s benefit, here it is. Agnes Craig. Single. Age twenty-two. Full-time student at Ayrshire College…’
‘What was she studying?’ said Munro, without turning.
‘Counselling, HNC. She was in her second year.’
‘Just like her father. Good for her.’
‘She also worked two evenings a week and Saturdays in the bookies on Smith Street. Last seen Friday evening at The West Kirk on Sandgate where she spent the night with her best friend.’
‘Sorry,’ said West, ‘The West Kirk?’
‘It’s a pub, Charlie, in an old church. Cheap and cheerful, which is why it’s so popular with the students.’
‘Okay, and you’re sure of that? I mean, that she was there?’
‘Oh aye, we’ve CCTV of her and her friend, they had a great time by the looks of it, apart from the odd interruption.’
‘Interruption?’
‘Just some neds trying to chat them up but they were having none of it.’
‘Anyone stand out?’ said West. ‘Anyone that could have…’
‘No, we’ve been through the footage, no-one to give us cause for concern.’
‘Okay. And this friend of hers?’
‘Mary Campbell. She’s on the same course as Agnes and they worked together at the bookies.’
‘Flatmates?’
‘No, Agnes lived alone. When she failed to show for work the following day and didnae answer her phone, Mary assumed she had a hangover so went and knocked her door. The last thing she needed was to lose her job. That’s when she called the police.’
‘Who was first on scene?’ said Munro.
‘Uniform, chief. Dougal followed up. By the time I got there, forensics were in full swing.’
‘Have they given you an approximate time of…’
‘Aye, between midnight and 2am, or thereabouts.’
‘And do we know where she went after they left the pub?’ said Munro.
‘Better than that,’ said Cameron, stabbing a key on the laptop, ‘here’s the footage from the street camera. Allow me to introduce you to our prime suspect.’
‘Suspect?’ said Munro as he eagerly pulled his spectacles from his pocket and sat next to West.
‘Okay,’ said Cameron, ‘this camera is directly opposite the pub. There’s Agnes, see. She gives her friend a wee hug goodbye and heads north along Sandgate. Then here, look, she crosses St. John Street and careers into this fella. Forgive me for saying so, but she was blootered.’
‘Can you zoom in?’ said West.
‘Looks innocent enough,’ said Munro, squinting at the screen, ‘they’re laughing.’
‘Did they know each other?’ said West. ‘Boyfriend, maybe?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Cameron, ‘Mary’s adamant young Agnes was well and truly single and she wasnae into one-night stands. Now watch, they head off together and turn down Cathcart Street.’
‘That’s where she lives?’
‘Aye, and that’s where we lose her.’
‘Dammit,’ said West, ‘doesn’t make things any easier for us.’
‘Hold on,’ said Cameron, as he fast-forwarded the recording, ‘all is not lost, look. Here’s our man, back again, he continues north along Sandgate then crosses the bridge.’
‘And where does he go from there?’ said West.
‘We’ve no idea,’ said Dougal as he set a tray on the table, ‘there’s no camera over the bridge so I’m afraid that’s the end of the trail. However, I think we can assume if he’s heading in that direction at that time of night, that he lives over that way. Tea up.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said Munro.
‘Thanks, sir. I do my best.’
‘I meant the tea, young man. China cups and a pot.’
‘Oh,’ said Dougal, ‘well, as my mammy says, you cannae beat a brew made with leaves. My advice is to stay clear of teabags, there’s no telling what’s in them, despite what it says on the box.’
‘A man after my own heart,’ said Munro with a satisfied grin, ‘you’ll go far, laddie, trust me, you’ll go far. Even farther if you’ve an oatcake or two. We’ve not had breakfast, you understand.’
‘Sorry, sir, but it’s maybe not a bad thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll let Sergeant Cameron explain. When he’s ready.’
Munro frowned and turned his attention to the computer.
‘Have you managed to pull any stills off the recording, Don?’ he said, sipping his tea, ‘anything we can use to identify this fellow?’
‘Ahead of you there, chief. See here,’ said Cameron, pulling up a handful images, ‘not bad, eh? They were used in an appeal for witnesses just this morning. Not accusing him of anything, just the usual “give us a call for a wee chat so we can eliminate you etcetera, etcetera.”’
‘Very good. Any response?’
‘Not just yet, it’s too early but I’m confident there will be.’
‘Good,’ said Munro draining his cup, ‘so, what’s next?’
Cameron glanced furtively at West as he pulled a wodge of photographs from the file and laid them face down on the desk.
‘Are you ready for this, chief?’ he said, almost embarrassed. ‘What I mean is, I’m afraid it’s not very pleasant to look at and you do have a personal connection with…’
‘Och, I appreciate your concern,’ said Munro, ‘but trust me, there’s little I’ve not seen before. What was it now? A stabbing? Dodgy tablets perhaps?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not as straightforward as that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her heart gave out.’
‘Are you joking me?’ said Munro, surprised. ‘A young girl like Agnes? Fit and healthy, in the prime of her…’
‘I know,’ said Cameron, ‘it beggars belief but in the words of the pathologist, she was… she was literally scared to death. She was so petrified she had a cardiac.’
Munro glanced at West and loosened his tie.
‘Okay,’ he said, placing his hands palm down on the desk as if bracing himself for the news, ‘let’s have it.’
Cameron cleared his throat, turned over the first photograph and slid it slowly across the table. Munro stared at the image of the body sprawled out across the bed – the skirt up around the waist, the head covered by the down-turned sheet – and swallowed hard.
‘Was she…?’ he said, removing his spectacles, ‘tied up like that, was she…?’
‘No, no,’ said Cameron reassuringly. ‘No, sir. She wasn’t. In fact, she wasnae touched. Doesnae appear to be anything sexual about the attack at all.’
‘Nothing sexual?’ said Munro glowering at Cameron, his lip curling in disgust. ‘Nothing sexual? Listen to me, whoever did this got his kicks from tying her up and watching her struggle. That, in my book, is sexual.’
‘Sir.’
‘Why the sheet over her face? Dinnae tell me he did that as a mark of respect?’
West flinched as Cameron turned over the second photo, identical to the first but with the sheet pulled back. She watched as Munro silently stood and walked to the window, his jaw twitching as he ground his teeth.
‘I’ve read about this,’ he said, turning around and pointing at the print, ‘this kind of twisted behaviour. It’s a perverse form of humiliation often perpetrated by a misogynist, someone with a grudge against the female of the species, someone who suffers from a psychological imbalance more often than not relating to something that occurred early in their childhood.’
‘James, I know it’s upsetting,’ said West, ‘but I’m not sure I understand. What part of this is the humiliation? The tying her up? The…’
‘For God’s sake, Charlie, look at her! Her face, her entire mouth covered in lipstick, it’s like some Freudian…’
‘Chief,’ said Cameron, as he took a deep breath and turned over the third photo, a close-up of Agnes’s face, ‘it’s not lipstick…’
Munro hesitated, reached for his glasses and picked up the print.
‘…it’s blood.’
Chapter 5
Lizzie Paton relished her role as a receptionist – the lack of responsibility and predictability of each working day suited her lackadaisical demeanour though in reality, with only two GCSEs to her name, it was the only job she could get which didn’t involve wearing an over-sized uniform, stacking shelves or serving fried chicken to leering inebriates on their way home from the pub. She was undeniably content. Content to smile inanely at the house-hunters who wandered through the door boasting about the size of their deposits. Content to spend her day flicking through the pages of Hello magazine or trawling the internet for snippets of celebrity gossip. And content to return home at precisely 5:50pm every evening to a home-made supper prepared by her mother, after which her contentment would often turn to resentment.
Life outside the office was not a picture of domesticated bliss – the house was small and over-crowded, she yearned for privacy and a room of her own; but most of all, she craved company when she went to bed at night. Not that she was short of admirers. As an attractive twenty-four-year-old she’d been wined and dined on many occasions but, for reasons she failed to comprehend, not one single suitor deemed her worthy of a second date.
She gazed through the rain-spattered window at Max sitting on a pavement bench, his collar turned up against the drizzle, his nose buried deep in a book as thick as a brick, and smiled. She wanted to be angry with him but, try as she might, she couldn’t. Instead, she wondered just how wet he’d have to get before he ventured inside. The flash of lightning didn’t faze him. The clap of thunder exactly one and a half seconds later made him jump from his seat.
‘Alright, Lizzie?’ he said, tousling his sodden hair. ‘What’s up with you? You’ve a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’
‘I’m fizzin’.’
‘Why? Has someone… oh, hold on, is this something to do with me?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Just thought you’d call, that’s all,’ said Lizzie, trying her best to sound upset.
‘I got tied up. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I told you, I met a pal, had a few too many. Took the whole weekend to sleep it off.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Aye, that’s so. Look, what is this?’ said Max, scowling as he tossed his book on the desk. ‘We’re not married, you know? If you want an argument, get yourself a husband.’
‘I just thought…’
‘Word of advice, Lizzie – it’s better to be with no-one than the wrong one.’
Lizzie gawped at Max like a scolded child.
‘And I’m the wrong one, am I?’ she said, forlornly.
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Look, I’m just being straight with you. Things are a wee bit… difficult for me right now. Okay?’
‘Aye. Okay.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Max, tugging at his damp sleeves in an effort to remove his jacket, ‘you’re impossible, you know that? Look, if it makes you happy, we’ll go out. How about tonight?’
‘What?’
‘Tonight! A wee bevvy after work, see how we go.’
‘I don’t… I’m not sure I can,’ said Lizzie, flustered.
‘Are you joking me? After everything you’ve just said… I give up, really. I…’
‘I just don’t think I can get a babysitter in time! It’s short notice.’
Max froze, gave up on his jacket and slumped in his chair.
‘Babysitter?’ he said quietly, his eyes narrowing as he glared at her. ‘Now, why… oh, I get it, you’ve a wee sister needs looking after.’
‘No,’ said Lizzie, fiddling with a pen, ‘I’ve a… I’ve a wee bairn.’
‘What?’
‘A bairn! There, now you know. Och, let’s just forget it. Who’d want to go out with a single mother anyway?’
Max sat back and folded his arms. A wry grin crossed his face.
‘You,’ he said, playfully wagging a finger in her direction, ‘are a dark horse. What’s his name?’
Lizzie glanced up and smiled.
‘Her name,’ she said. ‘Her name is Maggie.’
‘Maggie. That’s pretty. Does she look like you?’
‘My mammy seems to think so.’
‘Then she must be a bonnie, wee lass.’
‘Stop it,’ said Lizzie, blushing, ‘you’re embarrassing me.’
‘And the daddy?’
‘Dinnae go there. Bastard took himself off soon as he found out I was pregnant.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Lizzie, ‘as you said, it’s better to be with no-one than the wrong one.’
Max smiled.
‘Okay, Lizzie, listen up,’ he said as he made for the door, ‘as usual, there’s nothing going on here so I’m away up the bank, it’s pay-day and I want to see if I’ve enough to get that Maserati I’ve my eye on. While I’m gone, you need to sort out a sitter for Friday. Got that?’
‘Friday? You mean…? Aye okay, great!’ said Lizzie, grinning. ‘Just one thing before you go…’
‘What’s that?’
‘Did you happen see the telly this morning? I mean, before you left?’
‘Telly?’ said Max, laughing. ‘I dinnae have a telly, Lizzie.’
‘You don’t have a…? Okay, well, what about the paper then? Did you have look at the newspaper?’
‘Certainly not. They’re filthy and riddled with germs, besides, all news is bad news.’
‘You may be right there.’
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Lizzie passed him the newspaper.
‘I… I just thought this looked a bit like you.’
Max frowned as he studied the grainy black and white images taken from a CCTV camera of a couple standing by a wall, the street light giving the figures a cold, ethereal glow.
‘You’re not wrong, there,’ he said, ‘he does look like me, even has a similar coat. What’s this all about then?’
‘Some girl gone missing, I think. They want to have a wee chat with that fella.’
‘He must be guilty then, when the police say they want to have a wee chat, what they really mean is… hold on, it says here these pictures were taken on Sandgate. On Friday night. It is me! Look at that, Lizzie, I’m famous!’
‘Sandgate?’ said Lizzie, ‘What were you doing on Sandgate? On Friday? With a girl? I thought you said…’
‘Hey! You’re not my wife, hen!’ said Max, raising his voice. ‘Listen, for the record, I was away off home after meeting my pal when that lassie almost fell over she was that drunk. I walked her back to her flat, that’s all.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh indeed. So, will I give them a call do you think? The police? Will they send a car to come pick me up?’
‘Aye, of course they will,’ said Lizzie, brusquely, ‘do wonders for your image too, being carted off in a cop car.’
�
�Good point. I’ll wander over instead, after the bank, see what they want.’
‘Are you… are you okay?’
‘Lizzie, it’s another excuse to leave the office. I couldnae be better.’
* * *
The ominous silence took Dougal back to the classroom and the interminable dread he experienced as he waited for his teacher to dole out a suitable punishment for his petty misdemeanours. He sat, suppressing the urge to clear away the tray lest it should disturb Munro who stood stock-still, gazing at the thickening cloud as the rain lashed against the window. West glanced at her watch, seven minutes, she decided, was ample time for him to come to terms with what he’d seen.
‘James,’ she said softly, ‘we need to move on.’
Munro turned and gently smiled.
‘Quite right, Charlie,’ he said as Dougal grabbed the tray and made a bee-line for the kitchen, ‘we must move on. So, Don, what else have you got?’
‘There’s not much more I can tell you, chief,’ said Cameron, ‘we should have the results from forensics and the post-mortem any time now, apart from that…’
‘Okay then. The footage. From the camera on the street. Let’s see it again.’
Munro pulled on his spectacles, placed a notebook on the desk and sat, pencil poised above the page as he watched the recording.
‘Stop,’ he barked, hastily scribbling something down. ‘Go. Fast forward, and… stop.’
Cameron looked at West and shrugged his shoulders as Munro sat back, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
‘This fellow,’ he said, ‘your prime suspect.’
‘Aye?’ said Cameron. ‘What of him?’
‘He didnae do it.’
‘What?’ said Cameron, astonished. ‘Are you serious? With all due respect, chief, he’s the only…’
Munro held up his hand.
‘See here, Don, I’m not here to criticise, I’m here to deal with the facts, and the fact is your suspect disappears down Cathcart Street with Agnes at precisely 00:47 and 43 seconds. He re-appears at 01:02 and 12 seconds. That’s not even fifteen minutes. Now, unless he holds the world record for something akin to skinning a cat, do you really think…?’
Cameron surrendered his hands.
‘Stupid,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I didnae even think to check the time, I just assumed…’
ENMITY: An enthralling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 3) Page 3
