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

by Pete Brassett

  Ignoring the minor roof repairs, the need for a new boiler, and the installation of a central heating system, the selling point of the cosy one-bedroom cottage was, for Munro, not the wood-burning stove, the quarry-tiled floors, nor the whitewashed granite walls but the large, lawned garden which, at almost one hundred feet in length, had space enough for a healthy crop of home-grown tatties as well as providing the perfect setting for a relaxing dram or two on a warm summer’s evening.

  The agent, waiting patiently by the door, smiled as Munro ambled down the stairs with Murdo at his heels.

  ‘That’s your second viewing now,’ she said. ‘So tell me, Mr Munro, what do you think?’

  ‘Ideal. In fact, I’d say it’s perfect.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll be making an offer?’

  ‘I will,’ said Munro, ‘but not for the asking price, not with the amount of work it needs to bring it up to scratch.’

  ‘Well, that’s your call,’ said the agent, ‘all I can do is forward your offer to the vendor and see what they say.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Munro, ‘and I’ll be blunt, I’ll not go a penny more, so if they’re of a mind to haggle, then you can tell them I’m not interested.’

  ‘I’ll let them know but if they do accept your offer, does that mean you’ll be moving here from Carsethorn?’

  Of the opinion that to leave the house he’d shared with his late wife would be nothing less than an act of betrayal, he smiled wistfully and shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I could never leave Carsethorn.’

  ‘I see. So it’s an investment, is it? Or a holiday let?’

  ‘Neither. Let’s call it a legacy and leave it at that.’

  Caught off-guard by the icy blast blowing up the street, Munro, reaching for his cap, thanked the young lady as Murdo, refusing the sanctuary of his antiquated Peugeot, dragged him towards the village square where, much to his surprise, he was greeted by the sight of a cordoned-off building and a police officer huddled on a bench.

  ‘No doubt this will give the village something to talk about,’ he said, as he sat beside him.

  ‘Aye, and not just the village.’

  ‘Oh, how so?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ said the officer. ‘Listen to the radio, it’ll be on the news, I’m sure.’

  Often described as inquisitive by some and meddlesome by others, Munro, his curiosity roused at the merest hint of a misdemeanour, seized the opportunity to delve a little deeper.

  ‘Far be it for me to tell you your job,’ he said, ‘but should you not be standing over there? By the door?’

  The constable cast him a sideways glance and shook his head.

  ‘No point,’ he said. ‘There’s no-one about, I’ve missed my lunch, and I’m chilled to the bone. I deserve a wee sit down.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. The name’s Munro by the way.’

  ‘Pleasure, I’m sure.’

  ‘Detective Inspector James Munro.’

  The officer, his eyes widening in much the same way an absent-minded pensioner might suddenly remember they’d left a pan of milk on the boil, dashed towards the door and stood bolt upright with his hands behind his back.

  Munro turned to his dog and smiled.

  ‘Did I forget to mention I’d retired?’

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ said the officer as Munro strolled towards him, ‘I was out of order, I just didn’t realise you were–’

  ‘Och, wheesht! Who’s the SIO here?’

  ‘DI Byrne, sir. He’s around the back. Will I fetch him for you?’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Munro. ‘I’m sure I can find him.’

  * * *

  Perched on a picnic bench with his head in his hands, the young Greg Byrne – a fledgling DI whose workload to date had involved two cases of sexual assault, one of theft, and an ongoing game of cat and mouse with a gang of teenage drug dealers – had had the case foisted upon him by superiors sceptical of his ability to lead and co-ordinate such an investigation, their suspicions, he concurred, being well-founded; and whilst confronting a corpse with skin as white as the driven snow held no fear, finding one lashed to a couple of six-feet poles dressed in an overcoat with a frozen look of astonishment on its face, gave him the heebie-jeebies.

  He turned and raised his head as the side gate creaked open.

  ‘Ho! You!’ he said, leaping to his feet. ‘That’s far enough! There’s nothing to see here, it’s not a peep show!’

  ‘DI Byrne, I presume?’

  ‘Aye, and you are?’

  ‘Munro. James Munro.’

  ‘Good for you, sir. Now like I say, there’s…’

  Byrne paused and cocked his head.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said, with a frown. ‘Munro? DI James Munro?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘You’re not alone, although for many it’s just a case of wishful thinking.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, no offence, it’s the way they talk about you back at The Mount, it’s like you’re some kind of a legend.’

  ‘I’m flattered but I can assure you, I am nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Do you stay here, then? In Auchencairn?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Munro. ‘That is to say, I might be. Possibly. Now, the fella out front says you’ve a body on your hands.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Byrne, scratching the back of his head. ‘I certainly have.’

  ‘Then why are you on your own?’

  ‘My DS has gone to fetch some coffee and I’m still waiting on SOCOs and a pathologist.’

  ‘Would it not make sense to wait inside with the victim? At least you’d be warm.’

  ‘The victim’s not inside,’ said Byrne, with a flick of the head. ‘She’s right here.’

  Munro looked towards the scarecrow and smiled.

  ‘Are you joking me?’ he said. ‘You mean...?’

  ‘Aye, in one.’

  ‘That would explain the look on your face, then.’

  ‘What look’s that?’

  ‘One of complete and utter consternation.’

  ‘Aye, maybe.’

  ‘Would it help if I–’

  ‘Sorry, no offence, sir, but as you know, I’m not at liberty to discuss the case with anyone other than–’

  ‘Of course,’ said Munro, ‘you’re quite right. Well, I’ll leave you to it then.’

  ‘On second thoughts.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Byrne, riddled with anxiety, looked sheepishly at Munro and scratched his head again.

  ‘It’s just that, well, I feel a bit… you know, out on a limb. This is my first murder as a DI and...’

  ‘And it’s a baptism of fire?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Byrne, mustering a smile, ‘although if I’m honest, it feels more like an inferno.’

  ‘There’s no shame in asking for help,’ said Munro. ‘Remember, every expert was once a beginner.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Byrne. ‘I appreciate it. I’ll fetch you some boot socks from the car.’

  * * *

  Unwilling to sit tethered to a table when there was new territory to explore, Murdo slipped his harness and headed for the patio while Munro, donning his spectacles, leaned into Barlow’s body for a closer look.

  ‘I have to say, this is a first for me. Do we know who she is?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Byrne. ‘We found a coat and a bag on the bar inside and she seems to match the photo on a driving licence, her name’s Rebecca Barlow.’

  ‘And do you know what she was doing here?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Byrne, ‘we’re running a check on her now and my DC’s on his way over to her place, maybe there’s someone else at her address.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There is one thing, though.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Like I say, I’ve searched her belongings but I couldn’t find a phone. Everyone has a phone.’

  ‘Is there a landline
here?’

  ‘Aye. Well, there’s sockets on the walls but nothing’s connected.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Munro, ‘I’m inclined to agree. That is odd. Have you looked about the place? Perhaps she left it somewhere else?’

  ‘I have,’ said Byrne. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What about her motor car?’

  ‘Car?’

  ‘Come, come, laddie, I think it’s safe to assume she didnae arrive on public transport. Get your brain in gear, have you contacted DVLA?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Sorry, my head’s mince.’

  ‘Well do it!’ said Munro. ‘You’ve got her licence, find out what she’s driving. It must be parked here, somewhere! I’ll not be surprised if that’s where you’ll find her phone.’

  ‘I’ll do it right away,’ said Byrne. ‘The thing is, Mr Munro, what I don’t get is why? Why do this? I mean, not just kill someone but dress them up like a...?’

  ‘There’s always a reason,’ said Munro, ‘and it’s your job to find out what it is. Right, let’s start at the beginning. First question, how did you enter the building?’

  ‘Front door. It was open.’

  ‘And the back?’

  ‘Closed but not locked.’

  ‘And the side gate?’

  ‘Bolted from the inside.’

  ‘And I take it you’ve had a look around the house?’

  ‘Aye, we have,’ said Byrne, ‘nothing untoward, I mean, no sign of a disturbance or anything like that.’

  ‘So what does that tell you?’

  ‘That whoever did this was likely someone she knew?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Munro. ‘Possibly. What else?’

  ‘That the perp must have left by the front door?’

  ‘Excellent. Go on.’

  Byrne looked blankly at Munro.

  ‘Och, come, come. Look at her clothes, laddie. Her shoes in particular.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Look around you! Tell me what you see!’

  Byrne slowly turned through 180 degrees surveying the garden and commenting as he went.

  ‘It’s frosty,’ he said, ‘has been for a couple of days. Oh, except by the walls, it looks damp and a wee bit muddy where all the plants have been cut back. Same for the path that’s been trodden from the back door.’

  ‘So?’

  Byrne turned his attention to Barlow’s attire and pondered for a moment.

  ‘Got it! Her shoes are clean, spotless in fact, so she didn’t walk here. She must’ve been killed indoors and carried out by the perp.’

  ‘Hallelujah. Now, the picnic table.’

  ‘What of it?’ said Byrne.

  ‘You have the gift of sight, laddie. Use it.’

  ‘Hold on, it’s clear! There’s no frost! So maybe that’s where she was laid to get strapped to the poles.’

  ‘Let’s move on,’ said Munro. ‘The body, her posture, what can you glean from that?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Byrne with a sigh. ‘I’ve no idea, apart from the fact it looks like a mock crucifixion.’

  ‘Dear God, and you were doing so well.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The arms,’ said Munro. ‘Her arms, they’re sagging, bent at the elbow and her head’s fallen forward but she’s as stiff as a post, which means?’

  Byrne shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

  ‘Which means she must have been strapped to the poles before rigor set in. At least, that’s what I think. Unfortunately, I cannae see any obvious injuries, not without undressing her so you’ll have to wait for the pathologist to confirm a cause of death. Does that help?’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ said Byrne. ‘Like you would not believe.’

  ‘Then it’s time I took my dog to lunch. Before I go, who actually called this in?’

  ‘It was an anonymous call,’ said Byrne. ‘Yesterday, early afternoon. The handler thought it was a prank at first.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Once uniform got here and realised it wasn’t, the call was easy enough to trace. A mobile number, a fella by the name of MacDuff. He stays in Ayr.’

  ‘Ayr? What on earth was he doing down here?’

  ‘Search me, we’re still in the process of finding out.’

  ‘So you’ve not spoken to him?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. No. It’s a cross-border issue, we’re waiting on the lads up there to give us the nod.’

  ‘But you’ve an address?’

  ‘Aye. Taylor Street.’

  ‘And have you any idea when she, that is Miss Barlow, was last seen alive?’

  ‘No. Door-to-doors are next on my list.’

  ‘Well, I may be wrong,’ said Munro, ‘but I think the answer to that question may lie with a local gardener. You’d do well to contact every one in the area.’

  ‘How so?’

  Munro walked towards the scarecrow pointing at the boundary as he went.

  ‘All those border shrubs,’ he said, bending to retrieve a branch, ‘they’re evergreens and they’ve only just been pruned. And this tree, it’s not long been felled. As a keen gardener I’d say that happened in the last day or two.’

  Byrne lowered his head and smiled.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said. ‘If you hadn’t shown up I think I might have–’

  ‘Och, nonsense,’ said Munro, ‘you’d have got there in the end. Best of luck, laddie. If you’ve any more questions, I’ll be in the office. I’m sure someone you know has my number.’

  ‘So, you’re still working, then?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Then I might just give you a call,’ said Byrne. ‘Are you taking that wee branch as a souvenir?’

  ‘It’s a rowan tree,’ said Munro. ‘They’re lucky. For some.’

  Chapter 2

  Ranking Barlow’s demise as possibly one of the most intriguing investigations he’d had the good fortune to come across – second only to a bagful of body parts stashed beneath a bathtub in an abandoned orphan asylum – Munro, proclaiming it an opportunity too good to miss, fastened his safety belt, cranked the heating up to full, and pulled his phone from his pocket.

  As one of Munro’s protégés, DS Dougal McCrae – an erudite introvert with a technological bent who, unlike his mentor, preferred to base his inquiries on hard facts rather than instinct – had a propensity to work the back shift thereby assuring himself a degree of solitude whilst simultaneously avoiding the harrowing task of having to socialise with friends or colleagues.

  ‘Boss! Are you okay?’

  ‘Never better,’ said Munro. ‘I’m on my way in.’

  ‘Is it not a bit late for that?’

  ‘Ordinarily, aye, but there’s something I need you to do.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from Dumfries?’

  ‘Dumfries?’

  ‘Aye, the lads at The Mount should be getting in touch about questioning a witness to a wee incident.’

  ‘Well I’ve not heard anything,’ said Dougal. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Good, then a favour if you will. A gentleman by the name of MacDuff, he stays on Taylor Street. See what you can find out.’

  ‘No problem. Is he something to do with the incident you mentioned?’

  ‘He is, aye.’

  ‘Oh. Is that allowed?’ said Dougal. ‘I mean, should we not wait for Dumfries to get in touch?’

  Adept at ignoring regulations and bending the rules like a freshly stripped length of willow, Munro rolled his eyes and sighed.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, ‘how long have you known me?’

  ‘Three years. Three years and nine months to be exact.’

  ‘And in all that time, have you ever known me to be bothered by a wee piece of red tape?’

  ‘Aye, okay. I get the message.’

  ‘I’m obliged. Now, is Charlie there?’

  ‘No, boss. She’s on a shout with D
uncan.’

  ‘Then I’ll not disturb her but if she calls in, tell her I’ll be needing a bed for the night.’

  * * *

  Not one to begrudge anyone anything, even people from backgrounds more privileged than his own, Duncan Reid – raised on a run-down housing scheme, spurned by his tutors, and rejected by every prospective employer for even the most menial of jobs – enlisted with Police Scotland as a last resort, graduated with the minimum of effort and, despite a minor reprimand for his somewhat maverick approach to policing, rapidly rose to the rank of DS where he relished his role as a latter-day Frank Serpico.

  Uniquely aware of how easy it was for youngsters without the proper guidance to fall by the wayside and turn to a life of crime as a means of supplementing their meagre welfare pay-outs, he could, to an extent, empathise with the plight of the delinquents dealing and stealing on his patch. However, a lack of willingness on their behalf to heed the warnings of the courts and the advice of their counsellors denied them any sympathy.

  Emma Riley, a habitual reoffender who’d rendered herself ineligible for any kind of support by refusing every offer of employment from the Jobcentre, emerged from the supermarket looking more Burberry than Primark oblivious to the fact that her ostentatious display of wealth had made her the subject of further surveillance.

  Duncan, hidden amongst a sea of nondescript four-door saloons in the overflowing car park, watched as she placed her groceries on the ground, opened her purse, and handed a twenty pound note to a bearded beggar squatting beneath the ATM.

  ‘Not bad for someone who’s not earning,’ he said as Charlie West shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  ‘My backside’s killing me,’ she said. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Emma Riley, miss.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ll have to remind me, I’m not with it today.’

  ‘Rough night?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Not on the ale, surely?’

  ‘Only after he left.’

  ‘Uh-oh, say no more.’

  ‘So, this Riley girl?’

  ‘Released two days ago. She was done for possession. Eighteen months and a hefty fine.’

  ‘Blimey, she must’ve got on the wrong side of the judge to get that.’