ENMITY: An enthralling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 3)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Press charges?’

  ‘Aye. Assault.’

  ‘But he’s a police officer.’

  ‘I dinnae care if he’s the Pope,’ said Munro, grinding his teeth. ‘Assault’s assault and this kind of behaviour is beyond reprehensible. I’ll make sure you get all the help you need if you want to go ahead.’

  ‘No,’ said Max, slightly flustered. ‘I mean, he’ll probably come after me. I’ll think about it, okay? Let me have a wee think.’

  ‘Max,’ said West as she reached for her phone, ‘do you mind if I take a picture? Might come in useful, if you’d rather not, just say.’

  ‘Nae bother, miss, go ahead, but it’s not my best side, not anymore.’

  Munro turned to West.

  ‘Make sure Dougal gets that,’ he said quietly, ‘quick as you can.’

  Max wiped his nose with the back of his hand and glanced furtively at Munro.

  ‘Can I ask a favour?’ he said.

  ‘Of course, what is it?’

  ‘I called Lizzie while I was waiting, told her not to worry, that everything was okay, but a wee call from yourselves to my boss wouldnae go amiss. I cannae afford to lose my job and he’s bound to crucify me after this.’

  ‘Leave it to me, Max,’ said Munro. ‘Rest assured, I’ll speak with him in person. You’ll not lose your job.’

  ‘Thanks. So, what was it you wanted anyway?’

  ‘Well,’ said West, ‘if you’re up to it, just a couple of questions regarding your whereabouts last night.’

  ‘Is that all? Christ, I thought it was something important. Okay, fire away.’

  ‘Right, let’s take it from the beginning. What did you do when you left here?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Max as he tilted his head back and focused on the ceiling, ‘I went to fetch my supper, it was late, right? But all the shops were closed. I got confused. I get confused if my routine’s interrupted.’

  ‘Remind me,’ said West, ‘what exactly was wrong with your routine?’

  ‘Monday. I have to have veggies for my supper on a Monday. All I wanted was a potato and I couldnae find one. Anyways, before I knew it, I was at the bookies.’

  ‘The bookies?’ said Munro. ‘I’ve not had you down as a gambling man, Max.’

  ‘No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not into horses or anything like that, just those glorified fruit machines. I’ve calculated the chances of winning are actually quite reasonable, if you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Munro, surprised. ‘Tell me, Max, how much have you won exactly?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Och, well, maybe next time. So, you’re at the bookies?’

  ‘Aye, but they were just closing up and wouldnae let me in. I’m ashamed to say I lost it with the lassie outside, my fault entirely, I was hungry and out of sorts, I think I made her cry.’

  ‘Heat of the moment, I expect,’ said West, ‘we all get stressed. What happened next?’

  ‘Well, once we’d calmed down she told me she knew the girl who was murdered, that Agnes lassie. She was her best friend. Her name’s Mary. Anyway, it was late and dark and after what happened to Agnes I felt sort of obliged to see her home, safe like. So I did.’

  ‘You walked Mary home?’ said Munro.

  ‘Aye. Queen’s Terrace. Wooden door, no number, brass letterbox and knocker. There’s a window box out front, nothing in it though.’

  ‘Do you remember what time you left her?’

  ‘8:37pm. I waited till she’d locked the door behind her.’

  ‘How chivalrous of you,’ said West, torn between giving him a vote of sympathy and following her initial instinct and branding him guilty, ‘so, time’s getting on, what did you do after that?’

  ‘Chinese,’ said Max. ‘Against my better judgement, I opted for a Chinese. Golden City. Spring rolls, bean sprouts and mushroom noodles. And before you ask, I was there at 8:56pm and got home at 9:27.’

  ‘After which,’ said West, ‘no doubt you watched some telly and went to bed.’

  Max laughed.

  ‘I dinnae have a telly,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have a… oh, hold on, I get it, videos and catch-up TV on the computer?’

  ‘No. I dinnae have a computer, either.’

  West flopped back in her chair and huffed in astonishment.

  ‘This is the 21st century, Max, what on earth do you do in the evening?’

  ‘Have you not heard of a thing called the radio? I listen to that. And I read.’

  ‘You read? And what are reading right now?’ said West sarcastically. ‘No, don’t tell me, Wuthering Heights?’

  ‘Meditations,’ said Max, ‘Marcus Aurelius.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Munro glanced at West and allowed himself a wry grin.

  ‘You know something, Max,’ he said, ‘you may find this hard to believe but you and I actually have an awful lot in common. However, burgeoning friendships aside, it doesnae detract from the fact that you’ve walked two girls home on two consecutive nights and, I’m sorry to say, both are now dead.’

  ‘What? Are you joking me?’ said Max, his voice trembling with disbelief. ‘You mean Mary? That Mary from the bookies, she’s dead too?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I cannae believe it, I mean… oh, just a wee moment here, you dinnae think I…?’

  ‘For some strange reason, Max,’ said Munro with a sigh, ‘no, I do not, but it’s a strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Aye, now you mention it. Do you think someone’s trying to set me up? That Al Pacino fella, maybe?’

  ‘No, that’s highly unlikely, but…’

  ‘Listen, it wasnae me, I’m innocent here. Like I said, I went to the Chinese and…’

  ‘I know, laddie, I know,’ said Munro, ‘nonetheless, we still need to check your alibi.’

  ‘Aye, fair enough, feel free.’

  ‘Now, can we give you a lift home?’

  ‘What? Is that it? I’m free to go?’

  ‘You’re free to go,’ said Munro. ‘I’ll get you an unmarked car, don’t want the neighbours talking now, do we?’

  * * *

  West pulled on her coat and stood scowling by the door, impatiently tapping her foot as Munro, lost in a world of his own, sat casually scrolling through his phone.

  ‘Are we going or what?’ she said. ‘Not only am I losing weight as we speak but I’m dehydrating at an alarming rate too.’

  ‘Och, sorry Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘I have to make a couple of calls, do you think you could find the hotel by yourself?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said West, zipping her coat, ‘it’s dark out and I’m single and female.’

  Munro smiled as he dialled.

  ‘Will I get Max to walk you over?’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  * * *

  West, despite feeling dead on her feet and in desperate need of a soothing bath, looked radiantly relaxed as she sat alone at the bar, sipping a vodka and orange and contemplating just how much she could order off the menu without throwing up.

  ‘About time,’ she said as Munro reached for the glass of malt, ‘it’s a Glenfarclas, whatever that means.’

  ‘It means it’s worth the wait, lassie.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same,’ said West, ‘what kept you?’

  ‘I had Dougal nip over to the Chinese restaurant with that photo you took to verify Max’s alibi.’

  ‘And? Your round.’

  ‘How many have you had?’

  ‘Just the two.’

  ‘It all checks out,’ said Munro as he ordered more drinks, ‘they even told Dougal what he ordered.’

  ‘Good, what else?’

  ‘Else?’ said Munro, draining his glass. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ said West, ‘come on, spit it out.’

  ‘I had a word with the D.C.I. about Don. He was, to say the least, none too pleased to get the
call.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. I bet he was fuming.’

  ‘Aye, he was,’ said Munro, ‘but not over Don. He’s away to Majorca in the morning and he couldnae find his swimming shorts.’

  ‘Maybe not a bad thing, judging by the size of his waistline. So, what about Don?’

  ‘As of now,’ said Munro as he cast an eye over the menu, ‘Don is taking an absence of leave. A temporary sabbatical if you will. Pending an inquiry, of course.’

  ‘I see,’ said West. ‘Shame. So, we’re a man down?’

  ‘Aye, but to be fair, I dinnae think you’ll notice. Now, why don’t you get a table and order, I just have to nip to the… you know?’

  ‘Not before time,’ said West, ‘what’re you having?’

  ‘Chilli squid to start followed by the chicken enchilada with salsa and jalapenos.’

  ‘What? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘What do you think? Back in a tick.’

  West grabbed a table towards the back of the restaurant and smiled excitedly as the waiter arrived.

  ‘Two rib-eyes, please,’ she said, ‘well done. A mountain of chips and a couple of glasses of Merlot, large.’

  Chapter 12

  Unlike the previous evening when, having arrived late, Munro and West were able to enjoy their supper in the relatively tranquil surroundings of a deserted restaurant, breakfast was an altogether different affair with every table occupied by over-enthusiastic tourists discussing their itineraries in a manner far too audible for his liking.

  ‘I cannae take much more of this,’ said Munro, ‘they’re worse than a gaggle of school kids on a glucose diet. Perhaps if you’d woken at the usual time we’d have missed this kerfuffle.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ said West, trying her best to devour her breakfast as fast as possible, ‘we’re a stone’s throw from the office, why would I have got up two hours ago?’

  ‘For the sake of my sanity. If you’re not quick, I’ll be asking for a doggy bag.’

  ‘Calm down,’ said West, ‘it’s bad enough having to wear the same clothes two days running let alone give myself a dose of indigestion.’

  ‘Surely you’ve bathed, have you not?’

  ‘Bloody cheek, of course I have.’

  ‘Well then, what’s the problem? Come on Charlie, or I’ll be helping myself to that black pudding. Chop chop.’

  * * *

  Dougal, as usual, was already at his desk checking the weekend weather forecast on one laptop whilst downloading the film from the beach on another.

  ‘Morning,’ he said as Munro and West entered the office, ‘how was the hotel? Can I get you a tea?’

  ‘Thanks, Dougal,’ said Munro, ‘the hotel was satisfactory to say the least. Mattress was a wee bit soft for my liking but you cannae have everything.’

  ‘Good. There’s no sign of D.S. Cameron yet, sir. Will I give him a call?’

  Munro cast a sideways glance at West, pulled off his coat and sat down.

  ‘Something you need to know, Dougal,’ he said, ‘and I hope you’ll not be too upset, after all, you and Don have worked together for quite a while now, I imagine.’

  ‘What is it? Has something happened?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Munro, ‘let’s just say Don no longer has a future in public relations.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It seems he was a wee bit heavy-handed when he collected Max from the estate agent’s office yesterday. Rather than ask if he’d like to help us further with our inquiry, he opted to introduce his face to the desk instead. Naturally, when something as soft as a cheek meets something as hard as a desk, some damage will occur. As a result, Don is on… temporary leave.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dougal as he poured the tea. ‘Oh well, just the three of us, then?’

  ‘You’re not upset?’ said West.

  ‘No. It had to happen sooner or later, miss. I could see it coming.’

  ‘Well, that’s the mourning period over with then.’

  ‘So, Dougal,’ said Munro, ‘once you’ve had your tea, I need you to pop over to the estate agent’s office and get a couple of statements.’

  ‘Nae bother, sir. Who am I looking for?’

  ‘Lizzie Paton, she’s the receptionist, and Max’s boss, a Mr. Mulrennan.’

  ‘Okey dokey, before I go, these are for you.’

  Dougal grabbed the print-outs from his desk, neatly stapled in the top left-hand corner and passed them out.

  ‘DVLA,’ he said, ‘a list of all the registered Astras in the area, all the black ones, that is. I’ve separated the info out to make it easier to read: registration numbers on pages one and two, owners’ details pages three to seven.’

  ‘Most efficient,’ said Munro.

  ‘I’ve also got that film from the camera on the beach, I’ll take a look when I get back. Oh, and something else, we had a call this morning from the bookshop on the High Street, said they’ve a book for D.S. Cameron, he ordered it a week or two ago.’

  ‘Well, you best let him know,’ said Munro, ‘I can see no harm in that. Although I must say, Don doesnae strike me as the literary kind.’

  ‘Probably something to do with cage-fighting,’ said West.

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal, smiling as he pulled on his coat, ‘it’s called “Investigative Psychology”, it’s about criminal profiling, that kind of thing.’

  * * *

  West, feeling lethargic after a more than substantial breakfast, flicked disinterestedly through the information sheets before tossing them to one side and sighing as she stared into space.

  ‘It’s like one of those MENSA tests,’ she said, mumbling to herself as she cradled her cup of tea, ‘write the next number in the sequence or spot the odd one out.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Munro, distracted by the repetitive ping from one of Dougal’s computers.

  ‘This list. I mean, really, where’s it going to get us?’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘would you just see what that infernal racket is about, I cannae hear myself think.’

  West ambled begrudgingly across the office and checked the laptop.

  ‘Emails,’ she said, ‘from the lab by the looks of it. I’ll turn the volume down.’

  ‘Thank you. So, what were you saying?’

  ‘Oh nothing, just griping about these bloody Astras.’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘Well,’ said West, returning to her seat, ‘what can we possibly ascertain from wasting a day or two, or three even, by driving all over town just to look at them? It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack when we don’t even know if there’s a needle. Or, for that matter, what it looks like.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Munro, ‘but that needle could be something which belonged to Agnes or Mary, so even if there’s just the smallest possibility that a needle may exist, we have to look for it.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Suppose you’re right.’

  * * *

  Munro eased himself into Dougal’s chair and, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of handling the hardware, surveyed the computers in front of him. According to the laptop on his left, the outlook for the weekend was bright and clear with a brisk wind accompanied by a noticeable drop in temperature. The laptop on the right showed half a dozen unopened emails. Though no stranger to technology, Munro, hand poised tentatively above the mouse, still felt as anxious as a bomb disposal officer deliberating over which wire to cut when it came to deciding whether to click left or right.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘I need you here a moment.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Charlie, my nerves are frazzled.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Are you listening to me?’

  West glanced up looking slightly perplexed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘having a beta-blocker moment. What is it?’

  ‘I need you to open two of these emails for me, lest I cause this thing to self-destruct.’

  West, chuckling to h
erself in the knowledge that, had he really wanted to, he could have opened the emails himself, wandered over and squatted by the desk.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘here we go, first one’s from the lab. The bottle we took from Mary’s pocket contained approximately 3.5ml of fluid, the dregs basically. Analysis shows liquid constitutes vodka and… blimey, a 68% concentration of ketamine hydrochloride…’

  Munro stood and sauntered casually around the room as he listened.

  ‘…no discernible fingerprints but the DNA lifted from the mouth of the bottle matches Mary’s.’

  ‘Okay, stop there,’ said Munro. ‘She had company. She went to the beach with a female friend. How come the lassie she was with didnae drink it? In fact, nobody else drank it or we’d have another body.’

  ‘Unless she mixed it herself. Maybe she had suicidal tendencies.’

  ‘If she did, Charlie, she’d have jumped in the sea. Would’ve been a damned site easier. No, no. It was either forced down her neck or…’

  ‘Or…’ said West, ‘maybe the other person had a different drink?’

  ‘Aye. I think that’s probably the most likely explanation at this stage,’ said Munro, ‘one thing’s for sure, we now have a double murderer on our hands. Let’s just hope he’s no aspirations to progress up the ladder to serial. Okay, go on.’

  ‘Right. Oh, interesting. Fingernails. She had fibres under her nails: wool, black, but they don’t match anything she was wearing.’

  ‘Both hands?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Chances are she had a wee tussle then, maybe when the ketamine kicked in. Could be anything, a coat or a scarf or a hat, perhaps. Anything else?’

  ‘Nope, that’s it. Next one’s from pathology, let’s cut to the chase… cause of death: respiratory failure commensurate with an O.D.’

  ‘Really?’ said Munro, ‘not the wound to her neck?’

  ‘Nope. Seems the ketamine overdose did its job before her throat was cut. They reckon with that amount of K in her system her airways were already clogged. She was probably comatose, too.’

  ‘I see, but obviously the killer didn’t know that, so he had to make sure that she hadnae simply passed out.’

  ‘Guess so,’ said West, ‘seems the trauma to the neck was caused by a single incision, left to right, severing the larynx. Approximately 50mm deep.’