PENURY: A bizarre death tests Scotland’s finest (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 12)

by Pete Brassett

  PENURY

  A bizarre death tests Scotland’s finest

  Pete Brassett

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2021

  www.thebookfolks.com

  © Pete Brassett

  Polite note to readers

  This book is written in British English apart from instances where local dialect is used. For that reason, spellings of words and other conventions may differ slightly from North American English.

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  For “T”

  An innocent soul.

  “Do not be superstitious,

  it brings bad luck.”

  Tristan Bernard

  Table of contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Character List

  More titles in this series

  More books by Pete Brassett

  Other titles of interest

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  Prologue

  Alan ‘Duffy’ MacDuff, an unassuming forty-nine-year-old with a penchant for tight T-shirts and a gleaming array of what his father referred to as ‘dead man’s teeth’, lived under the constraints of a lengthy non-harassment order issued for the prolonged persecution of his estranged wife, a sentence which had inadvertently spawned a fruitful career as a security consultant, a vocation which, aside from the installation of intruder alarms, afforded him the opportunity to secrete micro motion-activated digicams in the bathrooms and bedrooms of his single, female clients which he accessed via an app on his mobile phone.

  Despite being forced from the marital home, Duffy – whose appearance switched from that of a jaded hipster by day to a homeless jakey by night – bore no grudge against his wife, on the contrary he thanked her for releasing him from the shackles of a loveless marriage, for being the catalyst that sparked a burgeoning career, and for affording him the opportunity to go about his business without being lambasted about his intake of alcohol, his slovenly behaviour, or his tardy timekeeping. He did, however, resent the fact that she’d described him as a manipulative misogynist with a temper as volatile as Vesuvius in order to secure a divorce on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour, an aspersion which fuelled his desire to track her every move.

  Unfazed by the prospect of having to keep a ledger and file a tax return, as one of the nation’s self-employed he enjoyed instead being at liberty to do as he pleased, when he pleased, and so remained beneath the sheets with the curtains pulled against a harsh winter sun to browse his phone and ogle, in particular, a lissom, young blonde as she readied herself for work in a state of undress. The salacious grin was wiped from his face as the sound of his inbox pinged with another enquiry about the cost of his services, an email he would have returned to later had it not been signed by a Miss Rebecca Barlow, a thirty-six-year-old property developer who, according to her Facebook page, harboured a passion for fine wine and silk sheets.

  Replying with an assurance that the sixty-minute drive from his home on Taylor Street in Ayr to the village of Auchencairn in rural Kirkcudbrightshire would not impact upon his pledge to provide free estimates anytime, anyplace, anywhere, he readily accepted her invitation to survey her latest acquisition; the old Commercial Hotel on Main Street where, he was certain, the fiery redhead like all his other clients, would find him positively irresistible.

  * * *

  With the snow-capped summits of Screel and Bengairn to the north and a view across the bay to Hestan Island in the south, the centuries-old village of Auchencairn – riddled with folklore and built largely on the proceeds of contraband smuggled across the Firth from the Isle of Man – had, with the passage of time, seen its once-thriving shops and pubs packed with sailors and crofters transformed into second homes by wealthy middle classes making it a seasonal destination for holiday-makers and day-trippers alike.

  Having closed its doors to paying guests decades earlier, the Commercial Hotel – a small and unimposing stone-built affair located on the village square – was, in the absence of any signage, identifiable only by the presence of an overflowing skip placed precariously on the kerb outside, a clear indication that refurbishment was all but complete.

  Aware that his arrival had caught the attention of a shadowy figure in an upstairs window, Duffy stepped from his van and smiled lecherously as a youthful-looking lady clad in woollen tights, a plaid mini skirt, and a quilted bomber jacket, emerged from behind the faded timber door.

  * * *

  Armed with a grammar school education, Rebecca Barlow – the only child of a general practitioner and a nursery school teacher – was lured from the family home in Penrith on the edge of Cumbria’s Lake District by the bright lights of Carlisle and the prospect of a well-paid but unchallenging role within a firm of solicitors, a position she endured until a cocksure entrepreneur who was of the opinion that no woman should be drinking alone in his local bar at seven o’clock in the evening, invited her to join his chain of estate agents for a meagre salary, a healthy commission, and the opportunity to mooch around other folks’ houses.

  As a frontline member of staff she soon discovered a hitherto untapped skill for negotiating and with it the realisation that buying and selling property was probably the quickest way to amass a small fortune, an epiphany which drove her to embark on the renovation of a city-centre flat before moving on to more adventurous projects in sought-after locations, a calculated ploy to attract an altogether wealthier clientele, her swelling coffers helped in no small way by her ability to broker knock-down rates with the contractors she employed, a feat she achieved not by plying them with endless mugs of tea and chocolate biscuits but by smiling coyly, praising their skills and, wherever possible, bending seductively over a kitchen counter.

  ‘Mr MacDuff?’ she said, proffering her hand as if she were royalty.

  ‘Miss Barlow. Your photo doesn’t do you justice.’

  ‘Photo?’

  ‘Aye,’ said MacDuff, ‘on Facebook.’

  ‘So you’ve been Googling me?’

  ‘I like to call it research. There’s lot of time-wasters out there.’

  ‘Do I look like a waste of time?’

  ‘Time well spent, I’d say,’ said MacDuff with a wink. ‘So, it’s cameras you’re after, is it?’

  Barlow turned and waved her arm in the direction of the hotel.

  ‘The Hass,’ she said, ‘or The Hass Burn Hotel, I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘The Hass, it’s the river which runs at the back.’

  ‘So you do your research too?’

  ‘The devil is in the detail,’ said Barlow, �
�especially if I’m going to haul in the rich and the famous.’

  ‘So, that’s your plan?’

  ‘Indeed. A boutique hotel with–’

  ‘With tiny rooms, fancy soap and exorbitant rates.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Why not stick with Commercial? Sounds right up your street.’

  ‘Cheeky!’ said Barlow with a smile. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’

  * * *

  Whilst some were blessed with an eye for aesthetics, others with a flair for oils and acrylics, and a few with the ability to carve a lifelike sculpture from a piece of driftwood, there were those who deluded themselves into believing they had the God-given talent of Charles Rennie-Mackintosh and although Duffy’s own creativity was limited to his book-keeping skills, he couldn’t help but cringe as he eyed a refurbishment that had more in common with a souvenir shop than an upmarket hotel.

  Appalled by the fact that every original feature had been hidden behind plasterboard, he nonetheless smiled politely as he eyed the plethora of cultural icons filling every nook and cranny, from the prevalence of tartan curtains and tablecloths to the abundance of portraits featuring Bonnie Prince Charlie, William Wallace, and Robert Burns, a Saltire draped from the ceiling, crockery emblazoned with purple thistles, and a glossy reproduction of The Monarch of the Glen hanging behind the bar.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ said Barlow, proudly. ‘I was going for traditional Scottish.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re not far off. I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Is there anything missing?’

  ‘Just a wee snap of the Loch Ness monster.’

  ‘The monster!’ said Barlow. ‘How could I be so stupid! Where would I get one of those?’

  ‘You could try Fort William,’ said Duffy, incredulously. ‘Just make sure you’ve a camera with you. Right, so it’s wireless HD units you’ll be needing, a couple by the doors front and back, a few more in all the public spaces, and two monitors; one in the office and one behind the bar. I can pick up the necessary this afternoon and start wiring up tomorrow if you like.’

  ‘Perfect!’ said Barlow, smiling as she slowly unzipped her jacket. ‘So, how much are we talking about?’

  Duffy took a deep breath, plucked a figure out of the air and vowed to return the following morning, 8am sharp, his mind already awash with fantasies of finding her wrapped beneath the sheets of an upstairs bedroom.

  * * *

  The next day, having left home without so much as a swig of coffee, Duffy – driven by the misguided belief that an enthusiastic show of diligence might procure a cashless bonus from his alluring new client – approached the square ahead of schedule and, enticed by the glow of the village shop, opted to defer his arrival to search for sustenance, his shoulders twitching as the gauge on the dashboard registered an external temperature of minus nine.

  ‘Alright?’ he said, puffing as he opened the door. ‘It’s absolutely freezing out there!’

  A small, wiry woman stacking tins of beans turned around, peered over her glasses, and eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘It’s January,’ she said, bluntly. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any food on the go? Just a sandwich, maybe?’

  ‘I can do you a bacon roll.’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Duffy. ‘Red sauce, and a coffee please.’

  ‘So, are you on your way somewhere? Kirkcudbright, is it? Or Castle Douglas?’

  ‘No, no. I’m stopping here,’ said Duffy. ‘I’ve some work to do, up on the square.’

  The woman frowned as she contemplated his answer, dropped a couple of rashers into a pan, and waited for the sizzle to die down.

  ‘The square?’ she said. ‘That’ll be Barlow’s place. Am I right?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Rebecca Barlow. Do you know her?’

  The lady huffed and flipped the bacon.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘She’s not one for mixing with the likes of us.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said Duffy. ‘I’d have thought if she lived here in the village she’d be–’

  ‘She doesn’t live here. She stays in the town, twenty miles away.’

  Duffy, ruffled by the palpable air of animosity, attempted to lighten the situation.

  ‘So,’ he said, grinning, ‘I suppose she’s not what you’d call community spirited, then.’

  ‘The only thing that woman knows about community is how to tear it apart.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing. I’m not one for gossip.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘The Commercial. That’s her fourth.’

  ‘Sorry, hen, you’ve lost me. Fourth what?’

  ‘Her fourth property!’ said the woman, scowling as she bagged up the buttie. ‘She’s had three already and sold them on at a profit. A huge profit.’

  ‘Well, that’s not such a bad thing, is it?’ said Duffy. ‘If she does a house up?’

  ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘You’re right. It’s not a bad thing if she was selling them on to folk who could afford them, but no-one here can, so that’s three houses gone to folk south of the border who we see for two weeks of the year, and even then they don’t come to the shop.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Duffy, ‘maybe the hotel will bring–’

  ‘See here, mister whatever-your-name-is, she’s not welcome here! I’ll tell you something about the Commercial, shall I? Do you know who used to live there? Jack Muir and his wife, eighty-nine years old, the pair of them, both born and bred in Auchencairn, and she didn’t even wait for them to get planted. She offered them next to nothing to get out of the building and they took it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not across the details,’ said Duffy, ‘but it seems to me that if they had a choice and if they–’

  The woman plucked a spatula from the frying pan and waved it in Duffy’s face.

  ‘Do you know where they are now?’ she said. ‘Jack and his wife?’

  ‘No. I’m guessing a nice wee flat, maybe. Or a retirement home.’

  ‘The cemetery. They’re in the cemetery.’

  Rankled by the ensuing silence and the lady’s unwavering stare, Duffy fumbled for his wallet.

  ‘Well, maybe once she’s finished the hotel she’ll be on her way.’

  ‘She’ll not last that long.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The garden. She’s decimated the garden and chopped down a sacred tree. So that’s her humped.’

  * * *

  Dismissing the shop-keeper’s anxieties surrounding Barlow’s expanding property portfolio as nothing more than idle tittle-tattle and superstitious claptrap, Duffy demolished his breakfast, pulled his toolbox and a reel of cable from the back of the van and crunched his way across the frost-laden street to the Commercial which, much to his disappointment, was swathed in darkness.

  Nudging the door with his foot he called for Barlow and, with no reply, seized the opportunity to engage in a more leisurely tour of the building pondering, as he went, the possibility of concealing a few undetectable cameras within the fixtures and fittings of the bedrooms on the upper level.

  Declaring the master chamber, replete with four-poster bed and chaise longue, the most likely setting for any amorous activity, he stepped inside, sniggered at the plastic stag’s head mounted on the wall and, distracted by the glare of the morning sun, turned to enjoy the vista from the rear window which, overlooking the grounds, offered a magnificent view of the burn and beyond.

  Whilst work in restoring the garden to its former glory had clearly been hindered by the cold snap, some progress had been made: the high, dry-stone walls stripped of ivy, the limbs of a felled tree lying next to its stump, and the border shrubs hacked back to ground level. However, it was the variety of novelty knick-knacks scattered about the lawn which drew him outside.

  Although the garden gnomes, complete with pipes and sporrans, were nothing less than he’d come to expect, he had to concede that a six-fe
et-tall effigy of the Wicker Man and the large metal signs extolling the virtues of Scotch whisky, chocolate-covered teacakes, and the Great Western Railway did exude a touch of class. However, it was the scarecrow sporting a tweed trilby which he found to be the most bizarre, not because the clothes appeared to be relatively new, nor because it was short in stature, but because it was facing the wall.

  Expecting to find a kilt beneath the oversized stockman coat, he wandered to the front, raised the brim of the hat with his forefinger and gagged at the sight of Barlow’s anaemic-looking face.

  Chapter 1

  Despite an irrational belief that hospitals were designed for the exclusive use of forensic pathologists and that the word ‘consent’ was actually a euphemism for ‘do not resuscitate’, James Munro – whose arteries were as clogged as a Glasgow sewer – had succumbed to his doctor’s advice, drafted a last will and testament and, in the hope of achieving a degree of longevity, put his faith in the skills of a faceless surgeon.

  Relieved to find that upon awakening he was neither hovering above the operating table nor possessed by a compulsion to walk towards the light, he thanked the team for their dedication and tenacity during the arduous bypass procedure and, after a brief period in the cardiac ward, hastened towards the door.

  Dismissing the protracted programme of recovery prescribed by the consultant cardiologist as positively pedestrian, he devised an alternative plan which, based on the premise that the operation had been a success, involved restoring the status quo by taking vigorous exercise, reacquainting his taste buds with the finest sirloin steak, and indulging in the occasional Balvenie.

  Twelve months on and accompanied by Murdo, the ageing Scottish terrier whose companionship and dogged determination to walk for miles had played no small part in his return to physical fitness, a rejuvenated Munro – filling his retirement as a voluntary advisor to his old team of detectives in Ayrshire – had decided to put his pension and savings to good use in order that the fruits of his labours could be enjoyed by others whilst he was in the land of the living rather than wait for his inevitable demise.