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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, squatting by the grill, the faint smell of burnt engine oil filling his nostrils as he ran finger over the number plate, ‘there’s something sticky here, residue of some sort. Adhesive maybe. Nip round the back and take a look at the other one.’

  West bounded to the rear of the car with renewed vigour.

  ‘Can’t see it,’ she said, cursing in frustration, ‘it’s too tight to the bloody wall.’

  Munro pulled on a pair of gloves, opened the driver’s door and ducked his head inside.

  ‘Bag please, Charlie,’ he said, picking small bobbles of black wool from the back of the seat, ‘we need to get these off, no doubt they’ll be a perfect match for the fibres found on young Mary Campbell.’

  West, her adrenaline levels on the rise, crossed her fingers behind her back as Munro placed the key in the ignition and gave it a flick. The engine, unsurprisingly, started first time. He edged it forward a few feet, enough to get a good look at the rear and nodded approvingly at the sound of West yelping with delight.

  ‘I knew it, I bloody knew it! Am I a genius or what?’ she said jokingly.

  ‘You’re no Einstein yet, Charlie,’ said Munro with a grin, ‘but you’re getting there. Now, let’s see what delights yon boot has to offer.’

  West popped it open and punched Munro playfully on the arm as they stared in unison at the black, woollen pea coat and a grey, hooded sweat-top lying crumpled in a heap.

  ‘Shall we call it in?’ she said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘lock it up. We’ll have a wee nosey round the house first.’

  West scampered to the kitchen as Munro, eyes narrowed and brow creased with the subtlest of frowns, cast a curious eye around the lounge – the black leather three-piece suite strewn with cushions, discarded clothes and magazines; the wall-mounted flat screen TV hanging above the bricked-up fireplace and the collection of dirty mugs and unopened mail scattered across the coffee table – until his attention was drawn inexplicably once more to the shelves where every book bar one, a modest paperback with a burgundy spine, was aligned with the fastidious precision of somebody afflicted with OCD. He raised a finger and gently pushed it back to its rightful place as West returned from the kitchen.

  ‘Look what I’ve got,’ she said, holding up a roll of black insulating tape, ‘and there’s a knife missing from the block, one of the long ones.’

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Munro, ‘you take the bathroom.’

  * * *

  Munro, believing a clean house to have the same therapeutic effect on the state of one’s mental health as the unconditional love of a cocker spaniel, grimaced at the slovenly similarity between Cameron’s bedroom and that of Mr. Andrew Maxwell Stewart. He flicked on the light and picked his way across the floor – skilfully negotiating the soiled socks, several pairs of boxer shorts and an empty bowl of cereal – towards the bed, only one side of which had been slept in. Lying on the other was an upturned copy of Spanish for Beginners. The bedside cabinet, he observed, was cluttered with the usual paraphernalia: a reading lamp, an alarm clock, a half empty tumbler of water, a pair of nail scissors and a small, white plastic bottle of what appeared to be paracetamol. He picked it up, intrigued by the label.

  ‘Oi, Jimbo!’ yelled West from the bathroom, ‘come see what I’ve found.’

  Munro shook his head and smiled at her blatant familiarity. “Inspector”, he relented, was perhaps a little too formal. “Chief” or “Guv” he could live with. But “Jimbo”?

  ‘You deaf or what?’ she said, appearing in the doorway.

  ‘Did you know Don was on sleeping pills?’ said Munro, ‘Zolpidem?’

  ‘That’s not all he’s on,’ said West, holding up two 10ml vials of ketamine HCl, ‘and there’s a pack of sterile syringes in the cabinet too.’

  Munro sat on the bed and bagged the bottle of pills, his shoulders sagging with disappointment.

  ‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly, ‘call it in, Charlie.’

  ‘What about the rest of the house?’

  ‘I think we’ve enough to be going on with, don’t you? I want the whole house sealed off, dusted and swabbed for any trace of Agnes or Mary, same goes for the car. Tell them to pull it apart if they have to.’

  ‘No probs,’ said West. ‘So, are we going to charge him?’

  ‘Not yet. Not until forensics give us something to bite on. I’m away to the office, get uniform to drop you back as soon as you can, high time we had another word with Don.’

  * * *

  Dougal, displaying the dexterity of an octopus in a bed full of oysters, was using both computers to scour the social media and the plethora of pages associated with anyone bearing the same names as the deceased when a fatigued-looking Munro returned and slumped wearily in a chair.

  ‘You look like you need a brew, sir,’ he said, reaching for the kettle.

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘if you’ve one that’s 40% proof, I’ll not say no.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Dougal. Charlie was right about the number plates and we found a black coat and a sweat top in the boot of the car.’

  ‘That’s a relief, cos I drew a blank with the fella on the video, he just vanished into thin air. So, I take it this means it’s not looking good for D.S. Cameron, then?’

  ‘Well,’ said Munro, ‘bearing in mind we recovered a stash of ketamine from his bathroom, I’d have to say no. It’s not looking good at all. To be honest, he’s as good as wearing a noose around his neck already.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ said Dougal, ‘still, he’s not swinging yet.’

  ‘Just a matter of time, laddie, just a matter of time. Incidentally Dougal, would you happen to know what D.S. Cameron’s wife does for a living?’

  ‘Aye, sir, teacher I believe. Art and design.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Munro. ‘Well, that would explain the books then.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing. Do you know where?’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ said Dougal, ‘cannae be far though, the college maybe? Will I find out?’

  ‘No, no. It’s not important. So, progress?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for the missing link, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I cannae find it.’

  ‘Now you know how Darwin felt,’ said Munro.

  ‘Darwin?’

  ‘It’s a joke, Dougal. Take it home, let it evolve.’

  ‘Right. Well, moving on, I’m still digging around but so far, I’m sorry to say, of the twenty-eight Mary Campbells, seven Agnes Craigs and six Jeanne Armours who use social media, not one of them is ours.’

  Munro sat back, cradled his cup of tea and stared silently into space.

  ‘You’re awful quiet, sir,’ said Dougal, ‘are you okay?’

  ‘I’ve an itch, Dougal, and I cannae reach it.’

  ‘Do you want a ruler?’

  ‘I’ll not reach it with a ruler, not unless I crack my head in two.’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask,’ said Dougal, smiling as West burst through the door.

  ‘Those bloody stairs,’ she said, panting, ‘they’ll be the death of me. Stick the kettle on please, Dougal, I’m parched.’

  ‘Best make that a takeaway, Dougal,’ said Munro, ‘come on, Charlie, we’ve a meeting to go to.’

  Chapter 15

  Cameron, frustrated with nothing to do but sit and wait in the confines of the interview room with not even a book to read or a window to gaze from, cursed impatiently as he checked his watch for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I hope you’ve not lost my keys,’ he said, sneering as West and Munro entered the room.

  ‘No, no. They’re quite safe,’ said Munro, ‘I’ll return them just as soon as we’re done.’

  ‘Done?’ said Cameron. ‘I thought all you wanted to do was take a look at that heap of rust in the garage?’

  ‘Aye, we did. And forensics are giving it the once over as we speak.’

  ‘Forensic
s?’

  Munro leaned back in his seat, folded his arms and glanced at the tape machine.

  ‘Are you going to switch that on?’ said Cameron.

  ‘That all depends on you, Don. On how much you’re willing to co-operate, after all, you’ve not been charged with anything. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Makes no odds to me, chief, I’ve nothing to fear. But I’ll tell you this, if I’m not out of here soon, I’ll make sure the world and his wife know how you’ve wrongfully arrested a fellow police officer.’

  ‘Och, Don, it’s not a wrongful arrest, you know that…’ said Munro as he leaned forward and locked Cameron with a penetrating gaze, his ice-blue eyes drilling into his head, ‘and a word to the wise – I’m not too keen on threats. I’ve a habit of taking them rather too… personally.’

  Cameron, ruffled by Munro’s intimidating tone and the subsequent silence, swallowed hard and turned to face West, his bleary, brown eyes searching for some compassionate respite.

  ‘Cómo estás, Don?’ she said, smiling softly, ‘va todo bien?’

  ‘Va todo… what?’

  ‘Oh come on, it’s pretty basic Spanish. You do speak Spanish, don’t you? Hablas español?’

  ‘I was learning,’ said Cameron, glancing furtively at Munro, ‘I havenae got to grips with it yet.’

  ‘So, you’re not fluent?’ said West.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why the interest?’

  ‘I was going to surprise May.’

  ‘May?’ said Munro, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘The wife.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name,’ said Munro, ‘just as well she wasnae born in December. Had she a sudden yearning for paella or a few bowls of tapas then?’

  Cameron bit his lip.

  ‘If you must know, I’d planned a wee trip,’ he said. ‘Two weeks, Granada. I was going to impress her with my grasp of the language.’

  ‘And you’re not going now?’

  ‘Given the present circumstances, I’d say that was pretty obvious, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘So you were teaching yourself, is that it?’ said West. ‘I mean, that would explain the textbook in your bedroom.’

  ‘You are joking me, right?’ said Cameron. ‘Have you seen how they spell their words? It’s hard enough trying to read it, let alone speak it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I was going to night school, okay? Once a week.’

  ‘And where was that, exactly?’ said Munro.

  ‘Troon. Marr College.’

  Cameron shifted uneasily in his seat as Munro, drumming his fingers on the desk, stared right through him, a look of perplexity on his face.

  ‘I do apologise,’ he said as he stood and headed for the door, ‘I shan’t be a moment, make yourself at home.’

  * * *

  Munro strolled to the end of corridor and, forsaking the four flights of steps, pulled his phone from his pocket and called the office.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, his voice hushed, ‘Marr College. D.S. Cameron went to night school there – Spanish for beginners. Find out who else was in his class, would you?’

  ‘No hay problema, jefe.’

  ‘Good grief, laddie, if you dinnae stop havering, there’ll be a grande problema. Comprendes?’

  ‘Sir. While you’re on, something you need to know. We just got a second report through from pathology. It’s about Mary Campbell.’

  * * *

  Cameron, his face riddled with boredom, barely flinched as Munro walked solemnly around the desk and returned to his seat.

  ‘So, Don,’ he said, ‘let’s talk about the Astra.’

  ‘That’ll be a riveting conversation.’

  ‘I had no idea that vehicle was such a remarkable feat of engineering. How long did you say since you last used it?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Cameron, ‘but it has to be a year, at least. Maybe more.’

  ‘Astounding,’ said Munro. ‘Aye, that’s the word. Astounding. A year off the road and not even a flat battery.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Started first time. But what’s more intriguing is why someone would want to disguise the number plates.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Wee pieces of tape stuck on the plates to change the letters,’ said Munro, ‘like an F to an E for example.’

  ‘Och, you’re off your head,’ said Cameron, ‘I told you, no-one’s been in that garage for months and I’m the only who’d…’

  ‘And in the boot,’ said West, ‘we found a black overcoat and a hoodie, both about your size, I reckon. And guess what? They match the outfit worn by whoever killed Jean Armour in the bookshop.’

  ‘No, no, no, you’re making this up. You’re just trying to get me to…’

  Cameron froze as West pulled a clear, plastic bag from her pocket and placed it on the table.

  ‘Do you remember what killed Agnes?’ she said. ‘And Mary Campbell?’

  Cameron’s eyes flitted between West and Munro.

  ‘Aye, of course,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘they were stabbed, they were both…’

  ‘Ketamine overdose,’ said West, ‘that’s what killed them. And we found these in your bathroom. Not looking good is it, Don?’

  ‘Listen, if you’re trying to pin this on me, it won’t stick, it…’

  ‘Oh, it will stick,’ said Munro, ‘it will stick like mud. The ketamine. You’ve been self-medicating, have you not? Where’d you get it?’

  Cameron, staring at the vials on the table, said nothing.

  ‘I know, it must’ve been the vet’s surgery,’ said Munro, ‘the one that had the break-in, near Craigie.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Cameron, ‘that’ll be it. The vet’s. Near Craigie.’

  West nearly fell off her seat as Munro stood abruptly and brought his fist crashing down on the desk causing Cameron to recoil.

  ‘Listen up, Don!’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll have none of your jiggery-pokery here, understand? There was no break-in at the surgery, you got it from the hospital, am I right?’

  Cameron smirked at West and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You should get something for that temper of yours,’ he said facetiously, ‘or one day you’ll explode. Do something you might regret.’

  ‘That day may be closer than you think, Don,’ said Munro, menacingly, ‘and you’ll not want to be on the receiving end, I can assure you, there’s a headstone or two’ll testify to that. So, the night you were stabbed, you didnae go to A&E, did you? You went to find Doctor Kelly. And he stitched you up.’

  ‘In more ways than one,’ said West, smirking, ‘he’s on his way over now and, ironically, his career’s heading for the morgue, too. He gave you the ketamine didn’t he? And the sleeping pills.’

  Cameron, unwilling to relent, sat back in his chair, combed his fingers through his hair and glowered at Munro.

  ‘You’re clutching at straws,’ he said defiantly, ‘all this… this so-called evidence, it’s all circumstantial, it’ll never stand-up in…’

  ‘Come, come,’ said Munro, ‘you should know better than that, Don. Circumstantial it may be, but it’s overwhelming nonetheless. Enough for a conviction.’

  ‘You are joking?’ said Cameron, laughing nervously. ‘Listen, if that’s all you’ve got, you’ll have to let me go in approximately…’

  ‘No, no, let’s not be hasty, Don. See, I’m feeling in a generous mood, so I’m going to upgrade your package and extend your stay free of charge. Now, where were we? Oh, aye, who stabbed you?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of repeating myself,’ said Munro sternly.

  ‘I told you, the bampot in the off-licence.’

  ‘Is that so? Big fella was he?’

  ‘Aye, I’d say so,’ said Cameron. ‘Taller than me, well built.’

  ‘And how did he stab you? Like this?’ said Munro, thrusting his arm forward.

  ‘Aye, pretty much, why?’

  ‘B
ecause according to Doctor Kelly, the angle of the wounds inflicted suggest somebody smaller than yourself was holding the knife. Somebody slight, a teenager, perhaps. Or a young lassie, even.’

  ‘Well, I’m not the doctor, I’ve told you what happened, if it’s my word against…’

  ‘Is that the coat you were wearing?’ said West. ‘Your trusty leather jacket?’

  ‘Aye, what of it?’

  ‘Leather. It’s remarkably tough, probably saved you from a more serious injury but, hold on, you weren’t wearing it, were you?’

  ‘I… I had it over my shoulder,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Really? You must be warm-blooded cos by all accounts it was Baltic the night you were attacked.’

  Cameron, unsettled by the tense silence, leaned forward with both arms resting on his knees and rubbed his chin as though irritated by the stubble. A minute passed. Then two. Munro coughed discreetly and cast West a sideways glance, as if warning her to stay calm.

  ‘How long had you been seeing Mary Campbell?’ he said as West drew a breath.

  Cameron froze.

  ‘No comment,’ he said.

  ‘Wrong answer,’ said Munro. ‘Try again.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Och, now I’m bored,’ said Munro. ‘And I’m not happy when I’m bored. Let’s see if I cannae jog your memory. Did you know Mary was pregnant? No matter, I imagine you’d have dropped her like a hot potato even if you did. But see here, Don, here’s the interesting thing. When the pathologist discovered she was pregnant, he felt obliged to do a few more tests, so he took a DNA sample from the foetus. Don. So, he could maybe find out who the father was. Don. And blow me down, when he checked for a match. Don. Do you know what he…’

  ‘A few weeks,’ said Cameron, angrily, ‘a few weeks. It wasnae anything serious.’

  ‘You what?’ said West, seething. ‘You make me sick, you know that? You’re a married man, you knock off a girl half your age, get her pregnant and you think it’s nothing serious? You’re pathetic. So come on, who stabbed you, Don? Was it Mary Campbell? Was she pissed-off cos you’d had your fun and decided to dump her?’