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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘No offence, miss,’ he said with a scowl, ‘but you do realise you’re on film, don’t you?’

  ‘You worry too much,’ said West, handing him a plastic beaker, ‘take this, wrap it in your handkerchief, and get it to Kay. Tell her we need it dusted and the dabs up on the system as soon as she can.’

  ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ said West as she moved away from the door, ‘now, look at this.’

  Dougal frowned as he peered at a photo on her phone.

  ‘This was in his wallet,’ said West, ‘tucked inside a neatly-folded twenty pound note with a couple of hundred in fifties.’

  ‘You opened his wallet? Jeez-oh, miss! You can’t do that!’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Did he not clock you going through his things?’

  ‘Nope, he’s out like a light, sleeping like a baby.’

  ‘So why are you showing me a receipt from a supermarket?’

  ‘This,’ said West, ‘is not just any old receipt. Emma Riley handed it to McIntyre when she came out of the shop. It’s a top-up voucher for a pay-as-you-go phone.’

  ‘So, that’s why his mobile wasn’t working when we called him! He ditched it for one of those!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said West, ‘I need to have another chat with Riley before they whisk her off to court. Sorry about breakfast, you’ll have to get something yourself.’

  Chapter 21

  Although she’d forsaken the pocket sprung mattress with Egyptian cotton sheets for a slither of plastic-coated foam, the deep pile carpet for a resin floor, and the luxury en-suite for a stainless steel pan, life in the holding cell for Emma Riley was no different to the suffocating confinement of her own home where she’d waited on tenterhooks for the domineering Daniel McIntyre to advise her of her next move.

  Relieved that she was finally on her way to court, she stood up straight, dusted herself down, and cocked her head at the unexpected sight of Detective Inspector West standing in the doorway.

  Dismayed at the prospect of having to spend another night in the custody suite she fell back on the bed and ruffled her wayward hair.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she said, despondently. ‘I thought I was out of here!’

  ‘You will be,’ said West, ‘any minute now. But first we need a chat.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  West leaned against the door and folded her arms.

  ‘It’s about McIntyre,’ she said. ‘You’ll be pleased to know we’re going to get him off your back.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘We’ve found him.’

  Caught off-guard by the startling revelation, Riley’s brief moment of elation was swiftly followed by an overwhelming urge to make use of the toilet facility.

  ‘Where?’ she said. ‘I mean, shite! Did he mention me?’

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ said West. ‘He’s in the hospital. A bit the worse for wear from roughing it on the streets but he’ll survive.’

  ‘Danny? Sleeping rough?’

  ‘Yeah. But you knew that anyway, didn’t you? After all, you pointed him out to Drennan.’

  With enough subconscious signals to make a body language expert blush, Riley, following a fleeting glance, a casual sniff, and a subtle cough, stared at West and brushed imaginary fluff from her thighs.

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ she said. ‘I told you before, I’ve not seen Danny in ages so how could I know he was sleeping rough?’

  Exhausted by Riley’s recalcitrant behaviour, West took a deep breath, slipped her hands into her pockets, and pushed herself off the door.

  ‘You know what, Miss Riley?’ she said, as she began pacing the width of the cell. ‘There comes a point in everyone’s life when they have to admit defeat. For Napoleon it was Waterloo. For the Jacobites it was Culloden. And for you, it’s Wallacetown. Whitletts Road to be precise. That’s where we got the dashcam footage of you leaving the supermarket and handing McIntyre a twenty pound note–’

  ‘That wasn’t Danny,’ said Riley, ‘that was just some tramp.’

  ‘–and inside that twenty pound note was a top-up voucher for a mobile phone. How do we know this? Because McIntyre has the note and the voucher in his wallet. Now, here’s the score. In a few minutes’ time you’ll be on your way to court and instead of getting the sentence you deserve you’ll probably get off with a slap on the wrist because I’ve mentioned how co-operative you’ve been throughout the course of this inquiry, but here’s the thing – it’s not too late for me to change my mind. I can make sure you get the maximum sentence possible. So, last chance, why was McIntyre sleeping rough and why were you giving him vouchers for a mobile phone?’

  Alarmed at the thought of returning to an over-crowded prison where the only way to avoid being locked in a cell for thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen hours a day was to take a job in the laundry or the kitchens or sign up for an Open University course in chemistry, computing, or social science, Riley, without even a visit from friends or family to look forward to, relented for the sake of her own well-being.

  ‘It was his idea,’ she said, glumly. ‘He said he had to keep his head down, keep a low profile, and slumming it was the perfect disguise.’

  ‘Oh, come off it!’ said West. ‘At this time of year? No wonder he’s in the bleeding hospital, he should’ve bought himself a balaclava. Why didn’t he stay at your place, or check into a hotel?’

  ‘In case he was spotted,’ said Riley. ‘He said if questions were asked then he could be traced.’

  ‘He’s bonkers,’ said West. ‘Stark raving bonkers. So tell me, if you wanted him out of your life so much, why were you keeping him sweet?’

  ‘Like the saying goes, keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.’

  ‘So what exactly were you doing for him?’

  ‘Not that much, really. I’d take him food and drink, get his phone credit sorted, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Am I missing something here?’ said West. ‘You said McIntyre was Mr Flash, he liked his cars and his jewellery, he liked to make his presence known, so why did he feel the urge to keep his head down?’

  Riley glanced at West and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Someone took a dislike to him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know who exactly. Just someone.’

  ‘Well it’s obviously someone he saw as a threat.’

  ‘Aye, you could say that.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘Look,’ said Riley with a sigh, ‘all I know is someone was after him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’d started peddling gear on somebody else’s patch. He was scared.’

  ‘McIntyre? Scared? I’m surprised.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Riley. ‘Let’s face it, Danny was small fry compared to these fellas.’

  ‘And that’s what I’m struggling with here,’ said West. ‘You see, even the dumbest of criminals knows you don’t go treading on someone else’s toes, you don’t try and muscle in on their territory. He’s not that stupid, so why did he do it?’

  ‘Desperation,’ said Riley. ‘He was skint. He needed the money.’

  ‘And is that why he was hounding your pal, Rebecca Barlow?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Oh, stop playing games!’ said West. ‘I’m beginning to lose my patience!’

  ‘It’s the truth! Listen, I know the two of them had a thing going back in Carlisle and when they split up he was like a dog without a bone, he'd not leave her alone.'

  ‘Is that why he helped her out? To keep close?’

  ‘He said he knew the market better than she ever would. He used to go see properties with her but I don’t know anything about the money you’re talking about. Really.’

  West paused for moment, stared at Riley’s swollen, red eyes, and sighed.


  ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’ ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘That’s a first.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go back a bit because there’s something else that’s not quite adding up. McIntyre’s in the hospital, he looks a state because he’s got a touch of hypothermia but for someone who claims to be homeless, he’s remarkably clean. There’s not an ounce of dirt on the bloke, in fact, he doesn’t even have grubby fingernails so he must’ve been going somewhere for a good scrub-up. Where was it? Was he going to your place?’

  Riley took a deep breath and hung her head in her hands.

  ‘MacDuff’s house,’ she said, softly. ‘He used to pop into MacDuff’s house when he was out but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘He stopped. He stopped doing that when…’

  Rattled by Riley’s inexplicably poignant pause, West suddenly stopped pacing the floor as a flash of realisation smacked her in the face like a gardener stepping on an upturned rake.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ she said as a smile crept across her face. ‘You knew MacDuff was dead. No. Hang on, let me rephrase that. You knew MacDuff had been murdered.’

  Riley, unusually still, simply nodded.

  ‘Was it McIntyre?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was afraid MacDuff might shoot his mouth off.’

  ‘About what?’ said West. ‘His dodgy dealing habits?’

  ‘No. Worse.’

  ‘Well, what could be worse?’ said West. ‘He’s got some nutter coming after him for… hold on. It’s Barlow, isn’t it? Are you saying McIntyre killed Rebecca Barlow as well?’

  ‘Aye. He did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Same reason,’ said Riley. ‘Money.’

  West slid down the wall and squatted on her haunches.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘no wonder you’ve been wanting him off your back. You must have been crapping yourself.’

  ‘Aye. So now you know.’

  ‘And that’s why you paid Drennan to give him a good hiding? To scare him off?’

  ‘It was worth a try.’

  Feeling a pang of sympathy for the put-upon Riley, West gave her a moment to compose herself before continuing.

  ‘You’ve known McIntyre long enough,’ she said, ‘in all that time has he ever been violent to anyone? Anyone at all.’

  ‘The occasional punch-up at the football,’ said Riley, ‘but nothing else. Nothing I know of. I think his tablets calmed him down.’

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ said West, ‘because he’s not had them for a while. Right, you wait here, I’ll be back in ten, then you’re coming with me.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The interview room. We’re going to do this all over again and don’t even think of holding back or changing your story because if you do, I’ll charge you with art and part in the murders of Barlow and MacDuff and if you’re found guilty then trust me, your sentence will be as long as McIntyre’s.’

  Chapter 22

  With nothing but the tick of a clock and the rustle of a newspaper to punctuate the idyllic silence, the office – despite the lack of an open fire or the scent of a vintage Pauillac breathing on the sideboard – had the tranquil ambience of a members-only gentlemen’s club.

  Attributing his new-found fondness of a peaceful working environment to either a natural part of the ageing process or the onset of chronic hyperacusis, Duncan – who’d battered his ear drums with more decibels than a jumbo jet as a younger man – completed the report for the fiscal, sipped his tea, and nearly fell off his chair as West, arriving with the grace of a gas explosion, blew through the door.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘it’s like a flipping morgue in here!’

  Munro closed his paper, looked to the door, and sighed.

  ‘Never underestimate the quiet folk,’ he said, ‘no-one ever planned a murder out loud.’

  ‘Is Dougal back yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Duncan, bluntly. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Downstairs with Riley.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I had to,’ said West. ‘Breaking news, our friendly tramp in the hospital is McIntyre and wait for it… he’s our man! He’s the one who…’

  ‘Take a breath!’ said Munro as he returned his spectacles to his pocket. ‘Now then, Charlie, in a clear and concise manner, what on earth are you havering about?’

  ‘Riley spilt the beans,’ said West. ‘McIntyre was on skid row, he lost everything when his little property empire went bust, that’s when he fell back on his dealing to eke out some kind of a living.’

  ‘Aye, no offence, miss,’ said Duncan, ‘but that’s yesterday’s news.’

  ‘Hear me out,’ said West. ‘When he failed to rake in the cash he needed, he decided to spread his wings and tried dealing a little farther afield but he over-stepped the mark and ended up crossing swords with some bloke a bit bigger than himself. That’s why he ducked out of sight, he didn’t fancy staring down the barrel of a shotgun.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little self-preservation,’ said Munro. ‘Longevity is to be embraced.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said West, ‘but when his drug-dealing rival put the kybosh on his plans he went after Rebecca Barlow to get the rest of his cash back and when that wasn’t happening, he topped her.’

  ‘Is that not a bit extreme?’ said Duncan. ‘Could he not have taken an IOU?’

  ‘Not when he was on amitriptyline,’ said West, ‘and he was taking plenty of it.’

  ‘Amitriptyline?’ said Munro. ‘Is that not used for treating depression?’

  ‘Aye, it is,’ said Duncan, ‘and it’ll mince your head, too. Did Riley tell you that, miss?’

  ‘Nope. The nurse at the hospital.’

  ‘So our pal, McIntyre, is a closet psycho?’

  ‘I’m not sure we can say that anymore but that’s pretty much the gist of it, yeah. And that’s why Riley’s been cacking herself, in case he turned on her. That’s why she paid Drennan to give him a good kicking, she was hoping it’d be enough to make him disappear.’

  Recognising West’s desire to utter the phrase ‘case closed’, Munro, not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm, was nonetheless compelled to ask the inevitable.

  ‘Apart from Miss Riley’s testimony, Charlie, do you have the evidence to back this up?’

  ‘Not yet, Jimbo, but we soon will have. Dougal’s taking care of it now.’

  ‘How, exactly?’

  ‘We’ve got a set of unidentified prints at Barlow’s place, right? If we match those to McIntyre, then bingo, we’re there.’

  ‘So you’ve taken his prints?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said West, ‘he wasn’t in any fit state and besides, we didn’t have the kit with us, but we did get the next best thing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A plastic beaker from his bedside cabinet.’

  ‘You mean you took it?’

  ‘Of course not! It just sort of fell into my pocket–’

  ‘You’ve been with Duncan too long.’

  ‘–and Dougal’s taken it to Kay for dusting. We should have them up on the system soon.’

  Munro stood, straightened his tie, and checked his watch.

  ‘I should inform DI Byrne,’ he said, ‘this’ll be the feather in his cap he’s so desperately been needing but unfortunately for you, Charlie, it still leaves the riddle of MacDuff unsolved.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said West, beaming. ‘The same unidentified prints were found at MacDuff’s place too, remember? According to Riley, he knocked him off as well.’

  ‘And what would his motive be?’ said Munro. ‘I’m assuming MacDuff wasnae indebted to him financially?’

  ‘You’re right, he wasn’t, but MacDuff knew what McIntyre had done and wanted to distance himself from him. That’s why he nicked Barlow’s phone and wiped all the messages. McIntyre, however, wasn’t taking any
risks. He knew they had a history and he was worried MacDuff might blab if he was questioned so he polished him off.’

  ‘The fella’s demented,’ said Duncan.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. Right, I can’t stand here gassing all day, I’ve got to get Riley on tape so, Duncan, I need you to get over to the hospital and arrest McIntyre.’

  ‘Roger that, miss.’

  ‘And listen, he’s not well enough to travel so we’ll need uniform on the door until he’s back on his feet, got that? We certainly don’t want him going anywhere.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Duncan, ‘I’ll sort it on the way. Chief, are you up for a ride?’

  * * *

  Whether through bravery, stupidity, or a misplaced sense of invincibility, James Munro, during his varied and often precarious career, had pulled dismembered bodies from railway lines, tracked down serial killers, and courageously confronted armed criminals in the belief that he would triumph over adversity but if there was one thing, apart from vegetables or curry, that was guaranteed to instil a sense of fear, it was anywhere with the word ‘infirmary’ by the entrance.

  With an elevated BP and slow, measured strides he followed Duncan tentatively through the automatic doors and reeled at the abundance of lilies positioned around the foyer which, he mused, were more suited to adorning a headstone rather than welcoming visitors to a place of recovery.

  ‘Don’t worry, chief,’ said Duncan as they approached the desk, ‘you’ll not be leaving by the back door.’

  ‘Dinnae count your chickens,’ said Munro, ‘one slip on a hastily discarded sterile wipe and they could be fighting over my organs before you can say haggis supper.’

  The lady on reception, trying not to flinch at Duncan’s dishevelled state, glanced around the lobby in search of security and smiled nervously.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Alright, hen?’ said Duncan, waving his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see a patient of yours, a Mr Daniel McIntyre. He’s in the ICU.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the lady, sighing with relief. ‘Bear with me and I’ll fetch someone for you.’