RANCOUR: A gripping murder mystery set on the west coast of Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 8)

by Pete Brassett

  RANCOUR

  A gripping murder mystery set on the west coast of Scotland

  PETE BRASSETT

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2018

  © Pete Brassett

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

  You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  RANCOUR is the eighth book in the Scottish murder mystery series featuring detectives James Munro and Charlie West. It can be enjoyed as a standalone or as part of the series. If you like Scandinavian noir, a good laugh and a cracking story full of twists, then these books are for you. Pour a glass of your favourite whisky, get comfy, and enjoy the ride.

  The full list of books in the series, in order of publication, is as follows:

  SHE

  AVARICE

  ENMITY

  DUPLICITY

  TERMINUS

  TALION

  PERDITION

  Further details about these books can be found at the end of this one.

  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

  Epilogue

  Character List

  Other books in this series:

  More brilliant fiction by Pete Brassett:

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  Prologue

  For the hordes of hardened hillwalkers who relished the challenge of a gruelling six-mile hike culminating in a treacherous trek along a barely perceptible craggy path shrouded in low-lying cloud, the reward for completing the arduous ascent to the pinnacle of Goat Fell was a stunning view of Jura and Ben Lomond in the north and Ireland to the south. However, for the foolish few who attempted to conquer the snow-capped summit without the protection of suitable clothing, the aid of a map and a compass, the light of a torch, or the potentially life-saving connectivity of a mobile phone, the only reward was a one-way ticket to the promised land.

  * * *

  Unlike the majority of islanders who relied upon the lucrative seasonal tourist trade to swell the coffers, McIver’s of Lamlash – with its corrugated iron roof and faded powder blue paintwork – derived its year-round income from maintaining everything from family saloons to row-crop tractors, and outboard motors to back-up generators, and functioned not just as a garage but as a community centre for talkative locals who, with scant regard for his workload, would often drop by unannounced for a strong brew and a wee chat with the convivial owner, John McIver.

  As a first-rate mechanic, experienced climber, and volunteer with Arran mountain rescue, McIver thought nothing of downing tools and shutting-up shop in response to a callout which, during the hectic holiday season, was a regular occurrence with ninety percent of the hapless hikers being stretchered off the mountain in the bright, summer sunshine suffering from nothing more than a twisted ankle, a bruised ego, and some wounded pride. However, when the sound of his pager roused him from his slumber during the bleak winter nights, he knew the chances of finding anyone with a pulse were as slim as a playing card.

  Packing a pocketful of his favourite whisky fudge, which he swore was more effective at bolstering faltering energy levels than any protein-packed cereal bar, McIver fired up the Land Cruiser and, squinting through the windscreen as the wipers cleared a swirling flurry of snow, headed for the base station in Brodick where he rallied with the rest of the team before commandeering the eight-wheel drive Argo Cat and heading up the hillside with his number two, the PE teacher from the high school, by his side.

  At thirty-three years old, Isla Thomson – a svelte blonde with the physique of a marathon runner and a mind as agile as a double-jointed gymnast – could, much to the delight of her comrades, out-run, out-lift and out-smart almost any man; a not uncommon sight at the Pierhead Tavern on a Saturday night when any number of inebriated arm-wrestlers would summon her to a duel where the spoils for the victor, anything from a Bloody Mary to a plate of beer-battered haddock and chips, ensured she rarely reached for her purse.

  ‘Alright, doll?’ said McIver as the Argo crawled its way up the hillside. ‘Where are we headed?’

  ‘We’re going to the Corrie side of the Goat Fell path,’ said Thomson. ‘The others are coming up the back.’

  ‘And who are we looking for?’

  ‘A young lass by the name of Ella MacCall. Apparently, she was with a group of four, the others turned back and she carried on alone.’

  ‘Beggars belief,’ said McIver. ‘Does she have a phone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Numpty. I can’t believe how utterly stupid folk can be.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me she’s wearing a white, fur coat.’

  ‘A bright, yellow anorak.’

  ‘That’s something. Did they raise 199?’

  ‘Visibility’s too low for the chopper, just now,’ said Thomson, ‘but they reckon it’ll clear within the hour. Bailey’s with the others. At least we can follow his nose if it’s too dark for us to see.’

  ‘That wee doggy, he never fails to surprise me. How the hell can he smell anything in this weather?’

  ‘I like it,’ said Thomson, ‘it’s bracing, it brings you alive.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said McIver, ‘although I doubt this MacCall lassie would agree with you.’

  Having travelled as far as the Argo would take them – where the snow-covered slopes gave way to gargantuan granite boulders – McIver and Thomson, clad in their red mountaineering jackets and guided by the light of their head lamps, set off on foot, clambering over the slippery rocks with their rucksacks on their backs and ropes slung across their shoulders, when the sound of a bark from across the ridge broke the eerie silence and drew them to a halt.

  McIver hauled Thomson by the hand to a safe vantage point where they stood for a moment staring down at the motionless body, the snowy anorak glistening in the torchlight.

  ‘God bless Bailey,’ said McIver as they scrambled towards the frozen figure. ‘Let’s hope we’re not too late.’

  Judging by the four-inch gash to the side of the head, the dilated pupils and the dried, trickle of blood running from one corner of her mouth, it was clear that having sustained such an injury Ella MacCall would have been oblivious to the pain of her broken leg as she slipped in and out of consciousness, and might even have taken solace at the sight of the buzzards circling against a cloudy sky before succumbing to the cold as night descended.

  McIver leaned over the body and brushed a lick of thick, brown hair from her forehead, knowing instinctively that the time for first aid had passed. He sighed and shook his head at the sight of her puffy, blue skin mottled with purple lesions, the blistered, chapped lips, and the swollen fingers, as rigid as a row of spen
t candles, blackened by frostbite.

  ‘Poor lass,’ said Thomson as she radioed for a stretcher. ‘She’s so young, too.’

  ‘Aye,’ said McIver, despondently. ‘I have to say, if there’s a downside to this job, Isla, then this is it.’

  * * *

  For the residents of Brodick the lure of the Ormidale Hotel lay not in the comfortable accommodation or the gut-busting breakfasts which left many a visitor reaching for the Rennie, but in the well-stocked bar, the Saturday night disco, and the charm of the proprietor, Kelly Baxter who, at 3:36 am, would rather have been sleeping than serving coffee to a punch-drunk constable in the public bar while he questioned three bedraggled tourists on the events leading up to the disappearance of their friend.

  With all the guests accounted for, a perplexed Baxter hastened to the lobby, perturbed by the unexpected and somewhat ferocious banging at the door.

  ‘Och, John, it’s yourself,’ she said. ‘Isla, you too. Come in, come in. I’ll fetch you both a drink.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ said McIver. ‘Is Bobby here?’

  ‘Aye, he’s in the bar with the folk off the mountain.’

  * * *

  PC Bobby Mackenzie, one of only six officers stationed on the island, who was used to dealing with little more than the Saturday night drunks who, come daybreak, would invariably thank him for a night in the cells, was struggling to stay awake.

  ‘John,’ he said with a lethargic nod. ‘I was going to call round in the morning.’

  ‘It’s morning now, so I’ve saved you a trip.’

  ‘Did you find her?’

  ‘Aye, we did,’ said McIver as he addressed the group at the table. ‘Are you the ones who were with her?’

  The three girls, all in their late teens, bowed their heads and nodded in unison, intimidated by his hostile demeanour.

  ‘How is she?’ said Mackenzie.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Break it gently, why don’t you.’

  ‘She’s dead, pal, there’s no gentle way of putting it. You lot, how did you manage to make it down so quick?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said one of the girls. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question. Jesus Christ, are you really that stupid? Look at you, you’re dressed like you’re away for a beer in Magaluf. Did you not consider what you were getting yourselves into, heading up the hill dressed like that?’

  ‘But we didn’t go,’ said the girl. ‘To the top, I mean.’

  McIver glanced at Mackenzie, his blood boiling.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, menacingly. ‘You didn’t go?’

  ‘We were too scared. We walked with Ella for about a mile, then we saw the cloud come down and we turned back.’

  ‘But Ella carried on?’

  ‘Aye. She was adamant.’

  ‘And you didn’t try to stop her?’ said McIver. ‘You let that wee lassie wearing next to nothing walk up there alone?’

  The girls, rigid with fear, sat stock-still and stared sheepishly at the floor.

  ‘And you call yourselves friends? By God, if you were my kids, I’d thrash the living…’

  ‘That’ll do, John,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Leave it to us, eh?’

  ‘Are you joking me? A girl is dead because these so-called friends of hers couldn’t be arsed to see her right.’

  ‘I said I’ll take care of it, okay?’

  ‘No. It’s not okay. Who made the call? Which one of you reported her missing?’

  The girl on the left slowly raised her hand like a berated schoolchild owning up to a dishonest deed.

  ‘I did,’ she said.

  ‘And why did you leave it so late to ring the police?’

  ‘I don’t know. We thought she’d be fine but then we got worried; worried she might have got herself into a wee bit of bother.’

  ‘Well, you’re not wrong there,’ said McIver, raising his voice. ‘Don’t you realise we’ve been risking our lives because of your stupidity? Not just the two of us but the whole rescue team.’

  ‘That’s enough now, John,’ said Mackenzie. ‘You’ve had a hell of a night, you’re tired, take yourself off and get some rest.’

  ‘See here, Bobby, whether you like or not, these three are partly responsible for that lassie’s death.’

  ‘Maybe. And maybe not.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about it,’ said McIver as he stormed from the room. ‘I want them held to account, do you hear?’

  Chapter 1

  Unaware of the rumours surrounding her past – in particular the notion that as a young DS with the City of London police she’d enjoyed a hectic social life, a fancy apartment on Hoxton Square, and a reputation for being a hard-nosed detective – Charlotte West, contrary to popular belief, had in fact lived a life of solitude, returning home each evening to a cramped one-bedroom flat on the Boundary Estate, which she’d shared with a bottle of Smirnoff, several takeaway menus, and a year’s supply of sleeping tablets.

  With no prospect of a promotion and a broken engagement to a philandering fiancé under her belt, she would – were it not for Munro’s belief in her ability and his insistence that she join him north of the border – have no doubt been claiming unemployment benefit or manning the checkout at the local supermarket. Instead, she was heading-up a murder inquiry as a DI in the comparatively sedate surroundings of south-west Scotland where she’d expressed her gratitude by welcoming him as a house guest whilst his cottage in Carsethorn, subject to some lengthy renovation work, remained out of bounds.

  However, it was not until her counsellor, coach, and confidant had moved out that she realised just how much she missed his companionship and his pithy observations on, amongst other things, her ability as a chef or how the reintroduction of national service and ducking-stools would lower the crime rate, and soon discovered that dining alone and spending her evenings binging on box-sets and Beaujolais was a depressing waste of time. As a result, she found herself rising unreasonably early to seek out the company she craved.

  Wearing her black 501s and matching boots she walked the damp, dark streets to the HQ on King Street with her unruly hair tucked beneath a baker boy cap and her jacket zipped firmly against a biting wind blowing in off the Clyde.

  * * *

  With a mind like an algorithm, Detective Sergeant Dougal McCrae – whose pallid complexion and worsening eyesight were self-inflicted by-products of his affinity with technology and an aversion to daylight – sat swathed in the gloom of the office, his ghostly features illuminated by the glow of his computer screen, when the unexpected arrival of West caused him to jump in his seat.

  ‘Flipping heck,’ she said as she flicked the light switch. ‘Did you forget to stick a shilling in the meter?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Dougal, reeling from the glare.

  ‘Never mind. You’re too young.’

  ‘Is this going to be a regular occurrence, miss?’

  ‘Is what going to be a regular occurrence?’

  ‘You. Upsetting the equilibrium by arriving so early.’

  ‘Well, pardon me for being so diligent,’ said West, tossing him a greasy, paper bag. ‘Here you go, bacon and brown sauce. Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘Aye, cracking.’

  ‘Good. Make me one while you’re at it. No sign of Duncan?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s just the back of seven, give the man a chance. Is the boss not with you?’

  ‘You mean Jimbo? Nah. He’s back at his gaff in Carsethorn now that the builders have moved out, but he’ll be here soon. You know what he’s like, up with the larks.’

  ‘Is it not a bit weird? Not having him around, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, a bit. But I’ll get used to it. So, anything happening?’

  ‘Aye, a few things,’ said Dougal. ‘We’ve a nutter on the loose with a machete.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly. He skelped some fella on Sandgate last night. Uniform have got their eyes open for the perp a
nd I’m away to have a chat with the victim.’

  ‘Blimey, did they find the weapon?’

  ‘No, either the assailant hung on to it or he dumped it a few streets away. They’re still looking.’

  ‘What about cameras?’ said West. ‘Have you managed to track him?’

  ‘We picked him up on one,’ said Dougal, ‘a slightly stocky fella, not too tall, but that’s it for now.’

  ‘Okay. What else?’

  ‘You’ve got two cryptic messages to deal with.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘There’s a Post-it Note on your desk from DCI Elliot…’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘…he wants a wee word. It’s something to do with that Rona Macallan. He met with her solicitor last night.’

  ‘But she was sent down weeks ago,’ said West, ‘and she’s not coming out until she qualifies for her pension so why would he want a word about her?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Sounds like trouble. What’s the other thing?’

  ‘A message from McLeod.’

  ‘Our friendly forensic pathologist?’

  ‘The same,’ said Dougal. ‘He finished a post-mortem on a young lassie just last night, a climbing accident apparently, but he says something’s not right. He wants you to call him as soon as you can.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West as she crunched through her toastie. ‘I’ll polish this off and give him a bell while you stick the kettle on.’

  * * *

  As a rookie DC saddled with the more mundane tasks of an investigation, Duncan Reid was disappointed to discover that life in plain clothes did not include high-octane car chases, yelling at the top of his voice as he kicked down doors, or lurking in back alleys on the seedier side of town waiting for a tip-off from his favourite snitch. Nonetheless, he continued to hone his image as an undercover Caledonian crime-fighter by dressing like a stevedore from the glory days of the Clydeside shipyards with three days’ worth of stubble on his face, a weather-beaten, brown leather jacket, and a woollen watch cap pulled down over his eyebrows.