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

by Pete Brassett

  Cursing as a violent gust of wind whipped what was left of his thinning grey hair into a less than flattering comb-over, he sped towards to The Steamboat, collected the contact details for the landlord’s wayward daughter, and continued on his way beset with a determination to cover the seventy miles to Ayr in under an hour.

  Settling back, he braced his arms against the wheel and floored the ageing Peugeot, his dour demeanour deepening as he flew by the muddy, fallow fields flanking the deserted road overshadowed by a raft of puffy, snow-laden clouds tumbling across a murky, grey sky.

  Precisely fifty-two minutes later – an unverifiable and somewhat dubious fact based on the inability of his watch to maintain a semblance of accurate timekeeping – he arrived at the office, hesitated, and pulled a folded sheet of A4 from his pocket.

  ‘They’ll not miss me for an hour,’ he muttered as he pulled away. ‘They’ll not miss me at all.’

  * * *

  The house on Woodstock Street, an unassuming traditional semi with a slate roof and a vast gravel drive, was no different to the other family homes on the quiet residential road set away from the hubbub of Kilmarnock’s town centre.

  Wishing he’d worn a hat as the first few drops of ice-cold rain spattered the top his head, he knocked the door, stepped back, and stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

  ‘Apologies for disturbing you,’ he said with a genial smile. ‘I’m enquiring after a Miss Jessica Sullivan, I believe she lives here.’

  A smartly dressed woman in navy blue slacks and a white blouse, her otherwise stylish appearance let down by a pair of lurid, pink slippers and enough red lipstick to coat a Ferrari, folded her arms and scowled suspiciously at Munro.

  ‘And why,’ she said, ‘would an old fella like yourself be asking after my daughter?’

  ‘Forgive me. The name’s Munro. James Munro. I’m a friend of Paul Jackson, he owns the pub in Carsethorn and his daughter, Sophie…’

  ‘Oh, Sophie! You should’ve said. Nice wee girl. Very polite.’

  ‘Indeed she is,’ said Munro. ‘The thing is, Mrs Sullivan, Paul’s not heard from Sophie since she arrived here and he’s concerned for her welfare.’

  ‘I know. I spoke to him on the telephone. He near enough took my head off, yelling like I’m the world’s worst babysitter.’

  ‘Och, he’s just worried,’ said Munro. ‘I understand Sophie and your daughter were on a night out, is that correct?’

  ‘It is,’ said Sullivan, ‘but what’s it got to do with you?’

  Munro pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed a drop of rain from the tip of his nose.

  ‘I’ve known Paul for many years,’ he said, ‘and as a police officer, a retired police officer I should say, I’ve offered to make some enquiries on his behalf.’

  ‘That’s very neighbourly of you,’ said Sullivan, ‘but there’s a lot of folk round here pretending to be somebody they’re not. Have you got any ID?’

  ‘If, by ID, you mean a warrant card, then the answer is no. But I do have a security pass, a driving licence, and a loyalty card for my local supermarket.’

  Sullivan leaned against the door and smiled.

  ‘You’re quite funny, you know that?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Munro. ‘That would never do. See here, Mrs Sullivan, I quite understand your apprehension in discussing Jessica with a stranger. If it helps, I can give you the telephone number of Detective Inspector West, she’s…’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Sullivan. ‘I believe you, but I don’t see how I can help. You should tell Sophie’s dad he worries too much.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is, aye. Look, they’re not wee girls anymore, they’re grown women. They can look after themselves.’

  ‘Sophie’s not yet eighteen, Mrs Sullivan. I’m afraid I have to side with her father on this one.’

  ‘That’s me told.’

  ‘So, your daughter Jessica, does she make a habit of stopping out without telling you?’

  ‘She does. It’s no big deal, Mr Munro. I trust her implicitly.’

  ‘But you’ve not heard from her yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Okay, back to last night. They went to the Palace Theatre, is that correct?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sullivan. ‘Alabama 3.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘They’re a band. Jessica says they’re pure brilliant.’

  ‘Does she, indeed! And what time did they leave?’

  ‘Six, six-thirty, I think.’

  ‘And was it just the two of them? I mean, were they meeting anybody else? Some other friends, perhaps?’

  ‘No, no. Just them.’

  ‘And can you tell me what they were wearing?’

  ‘Now you’re asking,’ said Sullivan, ‘hold on now, Jessica was in her favourite ripped jeans, a paisley print top and a denim jacket.’

  ‘And Sophie?’

  ‘The usual. Like a nun on her day off. A full-length flowery thing and a big overcoat. Oh, and a knitted beanie-type hat on her head.’

  ‘And after the show,’ said Munro, ‘have you any idea where they might have gone after the show?’

  ‘Who knows. A few drinks, a club, or maybe they got lucky and met a couple of fellas.’

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ said Munro, despairing at her approach to parenting. ‘I appreciate your time, Mrs Sullivan, and listen, if you should hear from either of them, then telephone Paul and put him out of his misery.’

  Munro returned to the car and pulled a shabby, black baseball cap from the debris littering the boot before embarking on the short stroll to the Palace Theatre where, pausing briefly to admire the red sandstone building and its impressive Italianate tower, he pondered why, given its proximity to Woodstock Street, the girls had failed to return home.

  ‘Alright pal,’ said a young man pinning a poster to the wall of the foyer. ‘If it’s the Grand Hall you’re after, it’s next door.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘it’s the theatre I want.’

  ‘Sorry but we’re closed just now and we’ve nothing on tonight anyway.’

  ‘Nae bother. It’s last night I’m interested in.’

  ‘Well, leave your number. If we ever decide to do an H. G. Wells season, I’ll let you know when we’re showing The Time Machine.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Munro. ‘That was almost funny. The Alabama 3, they were playing last night, were they not?’

  ‘They were indeed, and a good gig it was too, by all accounts. To be honest, I’m surprised it didn’t sell out. So, what were you after? Some merchandise is it? A T-shirt or a CD or something?’

  ‘Not quite. The name’s Munro. I’m making enquiries about a young girl who’s gone missing.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Retired.’

  ‘Once a copper, as they say. Listen, if a wee lassie’s in danger then I’m happy to help, within reason, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Munro, ‘I’m much obliged Mr…?’

  ‘Ian. Ian will do.’

  ‘As you wish. I notice you’ve no cameras outside, Ian. Is that not a bit remiss?’

  ‘No, it’s a quiet place, this. Besides, the building’s listed, I’m not sure they’d get permission for it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘But we’ve a few inside,’ said Ian pointing to the ceiling above the desk. ‘There’s one right there. We clock everyone as they come in and again as they leave, just in case.’

  ‘Then that’s exactly what I’d like to see,’ said Munro. ‘The lassie in question was coming to the concert and I want to be sure that she actually arrived.’

  ‘No bother!’ said Ian. ‘Come with me and I’ll set you up. It’ll not take long. Doors open an hour before the performance and there’s no entry for latecomers, they have to wait for the interval.’

  The large split-screen monitor displaying real-time images of the foyer, the café-bar, the fire exits, and the entrance to the restrooms w
as seemingly the only nod to modern technology in an otherwise dated office with a dry wipe board listing forthcoming events leaning against the wall, boxes of flyers strewn across the floor, and a desk doubling as the lost property department obscured by a pile of coats.

  ‘Pull up a chair if you can find one,’ said Ian. ‘Okay, we’re off.’

  Munro, choosing to stand, pulled his spectacles from his breast pocket and watched closely as the screen filled with the image of a young man with his back to the camera fumbling with a set of keys.

  ‘That’s me opening up,’ said Ian. ‘Right, will I leave you to it, then?’

  ‘No, actually, if I’m not keeping you from your work then I could do with the company. Two sets of eyes are better than one and you know how to make this thing go back and forth, should I need it to.’

  ‘Right you are. So, who are we looking for?’

  ‘Two girls, pals together,’ said Munro. ‘Both about five-six, one in a denim jacket and torn jeans, the other in an overcoat and a woolly hat.’

  Ian settled into his seat and crossed his legs whilst Munro, intent on missing nothing, leaned into the screen and scrutinised every single person in the queue, growing increasingly despondent at the lack of lone females.

  ‘It’s mainly couples,’ he said, ‘and single men. Do the chaps in the band not have hordes of screaming lassies chasing them with proposals of marriage?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Ian, ‘I’m more a John Denver man myself.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, a young lad like yourself, I’d have thought…’

  ‘I can’t stand noise, Mr Munro. I like things nice and quiet.’

  ‘You and me both, son. You and me both. Is that it?’

  ‘Aye. Unless you want to see them all come out again.’

  ‘Not necessary,’ said Munro. ‘I think I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘Perhaps they got delayed and missed the doors?’

  ‘I doubt it. They’re a ten-minute walk away.’

  ‘Will we check the footage from the bar?’ said Ian. ‘Perhaps they had a few drinks beforehand and thought sod the band, we’ll have a few more.’

  ‘Would they have used the same entrance to reach the bar?’

  ‘They would indeed.’

  ‘Then no. What about tickets?’ said Munro. ‘Would they have bought them here? From the box office?’

  ‘Aye, maybe, or off the website. If they used a credit card in their names then I could check for you…’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘…but they may have got them through the online agency. We’re registered with Skiddle.’

  ‘Either way,’ said Munro with a sigh, ‘tickets aside, the fact remains they didnae show.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not sure what else I can do.’

  ‘You’ve done quite enough. And I thank you for that.’

  ‘Anytime. Well, good luck. I hope you find them.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Munro. ‘So do I.’

  * * *

  As the sky darkened and the temperature dipped, the rain now falling as sleet and bolstered by a biting south-westerly wind, battered Munro’s back as he pulled his phone from his pocket and called the office.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, raising his voice against the traffic trundling through the slush. ‘Is Charlie there?’

  ‘Alright, boss? No, she’s left already.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘Aye, she and Duncan, they’re away to Arran.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Lassie on Goat Fell. She didn’t make it down.’

  ‘Dear, dear, that’s too bad,’ said Munro. ‘A tragedy in fact. Aye, that’s the word, a tragedy. How about you? Are you busy just now?’

  ‘I have to see a fella about a machete.’

  ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘He ran into one last night,’ said Dougal. ‘I’m away to see if he’s any idea who was holding it. Why, are you wanting something?’

  ‘Unofficially, Dougal, I am. Listen, if you have the time, would you mind tracing some ticket sales for me? A band calling themselves the Alabama 3. They played the Palace in Kilmarnock last night.’

  ‘Right you are, boss, can you make it any easier?’

  ‘I can indeed. The only agency that the theatre’s registered with is a company called Skiddle. I need to know if anyone by the name of Sullivan or Jackson purchased tickets through them for the show.’

  ‘No bother, boss. I’ll be an hour, I’ll see what I can find out as soon as I get back.’

  * * *

  Unlike a minority of teens who regarded full-time employment as a drain on their valuable leisure time and parents as an interest-free source of income, Sophie Jackson – a timid, well-educated young lady with aspirations of joining the teaching profession – was raised on blood, sweat and tears and a respect for her elders. Deferring the inevitable call to her father, a frustrated Munro pulled his cap low over his brow and headed for the police office on St Marnock Street.

  As most visitors to the station arrived via the back door with nothing to look forward to but a formal charge of anti-social behaviour, possession, or more commonly, aggravated assault, it was – for the burly constable bursting at the seams of his black shirt – a refreshing change to greet somebody at the front desk.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said with an enthusiastic grin. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not good,’ said Munro. ‘Truth be known, I’ve been better.’

  ‘It’s probably the weather, it has that effect on everyone. So, what can I help you with?’

  ‘I want to report a missing person.’

  ‘Oh aye? Get away, did they?’

  ‘Did who get away?’

  ‘The fella you apprehended.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I’m just assuming that if a police officer wanders in here to report a missing person, then he must have…’

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat! What makes you think I’m a police officer?’

  ‘Something to do with the word police on your cap?’

  Munro raised his eyes and allowed himself a wry smirk.

  ‘Och, it’s been a while since I’ve worn one of these,’ he said. ‘I clean forgot. The name’s Munro. James…’

  ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘No, seriously,’ said the constable. ‘DI Munro?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Your reputation, as they say, precedes you.’

  ‘Then you’ll know not to play the fool with me. Am I right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good. Now that we understand each other, perhaps we can get on. I, that is to say, my good friend Mr Jackson, is concerned for the safety of his daughter. She’s not made contact for nearly forty-eight hours and that, to coin a phrase, is out of character.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the constable. ‘Let’s start with the name then we’ll get some details.’

  ‘Jackson. Miss Sophie Jackson of The Steamboat Inn, Carsethorn.’

  The constable, wary of overstepping the mark, glanced furtively at Munro and paused as if daring himself to ask the question.

  ‘Young lass?’ he said. ‘Blondish hair, five-five, five-six?’

  ‘Aye. How did you…’

  ‘Just give me a moment, would you please,’ said the constable as he disappeared through the back door. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Where the devil are you…?’

  ‘Two minutes, sir! I swear, two minutes.’

  Agitated by the constable’s vanishing act, Munro removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, ready to explode like a boxful of bangers when a different officer of a senior rank came through the door.

  ‘DI Munro?’ he said.

  ‘It’s Mr Munro! I’m retired!’

  ‘All the same, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Sergeant Ryan, I’ve heard a lot about…’

&nb
sp; ‘Stop havering, laddie! What’s going on here?’

  ‘I think we’ve got the girl you’re looking for.’

  * * *

  With all the rooms occupied and latecomers being forced to wait in the back of a Black Maria, the custody suite – as busy as a highland hotel on Hogmanay – was filled with the muffled cries of largely inebriated teenagers protesting their innocence amidst claims of police brutality.

  Munro took a few steps forward and peered through the viewing hatch of Detention Cell One where Sophie Jackson, looking tired but otherwise none the worse for wear, was lying on the bunk with her eyes closed and her knees pulled to her chest.

  ‘That’s her,’ he said, his shoulders slumping with relief. ‘How has she been?’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Ryan. ‘She’s not said a word to anyone about anything.’

  ‘But she did give her name?’

  ‘Aye, but that’s about all she gave. After that she clammed up. She’s not moved from that position since we brought her in.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Early hours,’ said Ryan. ‘Around 2:00 am, I think.’

  ‘2:00 am? Good grief man, that’s more than twelve hours ago! What the blazes have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘Well, apart from keeping an eye on her, we’ve been telephoning every single Jackson in Kilmarnock and…’

  ‘Kilmarnock!’ bellowed Munro. ‘If you’d looked in her purse or checked her phone, you’d know she lives in Carsethorn!’

  ‘With all due respect, sir,’ said Ryan bluntly. ‘She’s not carrying a purse. Or a phone.’

  * * *

  Best described as green, naïve, or at the very least, ingenuous, Sophie Jackson – trusting to a fault – would think nothing of leaving her handbag unattended, lending her phone to a total stranger or, despite the proliferation of undesirables in the area, walking the shady streets of an unfamiliar neighbourhood with only her wits to guide her.

  Fearing she’d fallen prey to a track-suited ned off his face on super strength cider, Munro glared at the sergeant with a look of consternation on his face.

  ‘Where did you find her?’ he said.

  ‘Up on Fowlds Street, sir. Not far from Bakers. She was half asleep, slumped on the pavement.’