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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Miss! Am I glad to hear from you!’

  ‘Nice to know I’m missed,’ said West. ‘Listen, I need you to do something for me, a vehicle check please.’

  ‘Can I interrupt?’ said Dougal as the words tumbled from his mouth. ‘Sorry but there’s something you need to know, I’ve been doing those background checks you asked for and you’ll not believe what I’ve…’

  ‘Dougal!’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Shut up! Now, take a deep breath and count to ten.’

  ‘One, nine, ten.’

  ‘God give me strength. Okay, start again. Slowly.’

  ‘Sorry, miss, I’ve not slept. It must be the sugar.’

  ‘As long as that’s all it is.’

  ‘The girls,’ said Dougal. ‘Megan Dalgleish, Holly Paterson, and Kirsty Young. They’re all clean.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘Aye. And like most young folk, they’re not shy about letting the world know what they’ve been up to.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Social media,’ said Dougal. ‘Places they’ve been, clothes they’ve bought, food they’ve eaten. Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, you name it, they’re on it.’

  ‘So, nothing out of the ordinary then?’ said West. ‘Nothing that could help us out?’

  ‘Not with them, no. But see here, I’ve also been looking at Ella MacCall and there’s something not quite right.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s not like the others. She’s not mad on social media but she does have a Facebook page. There’s a bunch of grainy photos up there and a handful of videos. She looks like one of those arty types, you know, an amateur film-maker.’

  ‘So, what’s the big deal?’ said West.

  ‘She’s the subject of the films.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ said West. ‘Well maybe she’s not a film-maker after all, maybe she wants to be an actress.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal. ‘The thing is, miss, this isn’t acting, it’s for real and it looks like she had some sort of a death wish.’

  ‘You’re probably over-reacting,’ said West. ‘The mind plays tricks when you’ve not had enough sleep.’

  ‘No disrespect, miss, but that’s not it. See here, there’s a film of her in Glasgow on Byres Road, standing on the kerb during the rush hour. She’s completely motionless, then just as a bus comes hurtling down the street, she steps out. Right in front of it.’

  ‘What? Was she hurt?’

  ‘No. The driver braked just in time but there’s probably a few claims for whiplash from the passengers.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s her?’

  ‘Positive. I even ran it by Doctor McLeod and he recognised her straight away. Listen, there’s another film, a similar thing, only this time it’s at the harbour in Troon.’

  ‘She gets about a bit, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She’s standing right on the edge of the dock outside the fish market so there’s plenty of folk milling about, then she closes her eyes, leans forward and just topples in. Head first.’

  ‘Well, she was pretty sporty and fit. I’m assuming she could swim.’

  ‘If she could,’ said Dougal, ‘she didn’t feel like it. She bobbed about on the surface until some fella off a trawler moored nearby jumped in and rescued her. If it wasn’t for him, she’d have gone under, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Well, if you’re right, then what the hell was she playing at? Trying to top herself?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure but I’m thinking her trip up Goat Fell may not have been an accident after all.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West. ‘If she was on a suicide mission, then who the hell was filming her?’

  ‘That’s the question. I’ll try and get in the back-end this afternoon, see if I can find where they came from. Oh, and there’s something else.’

  ‘There always is with you.’

  ‘Every photo and every film has been liked by one fella in particular. Somebody calling themselves Alex Ricci.’

  ‘Ricci?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s possible he’s just one of her followers but I’m wondering if this Alex fella is actually Alessandro. Alessandro Ricci. The same Alessandro Ricci who had a wee pop at the journalist.’

  ‘It has to be,’ said West. ‘Apart from the fact you don’t get that many Riccis to the pound, I’ll let you into a little secret. Ella MacCall was having a fling with him.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘I kid you not. So, what’s your plan?’

  ‘Well, I’m away to question him about the attack on the journalist later, I thought I’d see how he reacts if I drop Ella MacCall into the conversation.’

  ‘Okay good,’ said West. ‘But no heroics, got that? Don’t take any risks. If it was him then he might be a bit unhinged.’

  ‘No danger of that, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘I’m taking back up.’

  ‘Well ring me as soon as you’re done and if he kicks off do him on suspicion of GBH. I need to have a word with him about MacCall anyway. Now, before you go, that vehicle check please.’

  ‘No bother. Fire away and I’ll do it now.’

  ‘Sierra alpha, one six, oscar charlie golf.’

  With his fingers flying across the keyboard like a pianist on a week’s worth of crack, Dougal ran a search with the DVLA on one computer whilst simultaneously running a trace through the PNC on the other.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, his eyes flashing between the screens. ‘It’s a Vauxhall Insignia. Silver. Two litre diesel turbo. It’s taxed and the MOT’s not due until September. The registered keeper’s a Miss Helen Sullivan of Woodstock Street, Kilmarnock.’

  ‘Good. Now I know it’s a lot to ask but once you’ve collared this Ricci bloke maybe you could…’

  ‘Jeez-oh!’ said Dougal. ‘Just a minute miss. There’s already been a call out on it.’

  ‘What? How come? Impossible.’

  ‘Give me a second. Oh, they’ve found it.’

  ‘Blimey, that was quick.’

  ‘It was involved in an incident in Kilmarnock, an abduction by the looks of it and…’

  West, perturbed by the sudden silence as Dougal’s words tailed off, checked the signal on her phone and waved it frantically in the air in the hope of being reconnected.

  ‘Dougal!’ she said. ‘What’s up? Are you there?’

  ‘Aye, miss,’ said Dougal, sounding slightly dazed. ‘Sorry, I’ve just thought of something. I was on a call last night, a wee lassie found in a park. When I got there, so was the boss.’

  ‘Jimbo?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Crap. I don’t like the sound of this.’

  ‘Remember he was trying to find a girl who’d gone missing? His pal’s daughter?’

  ‘Yeah. Oh God, that wasn’t her was it?’

  ‘No. But I’m sorry to say it was her friend.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West. ‘Don’t think me callous, Dougal, but how is this relevant?’

  ‘This friend of hers, her name was Sullivan and she was last seen outside Bakers nightclub getting into a silver Insignia. It’s the same one.’

  Chapter 8

  Leaving a grateful, if not relieved, Paul Jackson under strict instructions to treat his daughter with the sympathy she deserved as an innocent victim of circumstance rather than berate her for staying out late, a fatigued and somewhat morose Munro – fearing that his palpitations were a sign of something serious and not, as a man of simple tastes, the after-effects of overdosing on elephant garlic and Red Bull – reluctantly abandoned his journey home in favour of a trip to the accident and emergency department. After being rushed through to ambulatory care, any praise he’d harboured for the cardiology consultant’s assiduous approach to his condition dissipated when he deemed his apparent arrhythmia to be symptomatic of an unhealthy lifestyle rather than the consequence of a stressful occupation.

  As someone who considered himself to be in fine fettle he agreed, albeit begrudgingly, to a
series of thorough, though mercifully non-invasive checks, and duly suffered the indignity of an ECG, a stress test, an echocardiogram, and a chest X-ray before parting company with six vials worth of blood and leaving three hours later with the news that his arteries were as clogged as the M8 on a bank holiday weekend and the supercilious advice that unless he rest-up and change his diet he would shoot to the top of the list for a triple by-pass or, if he preferred to avoid the inconvenience of an operation, a shady spot alongside his wife in the local cemetery.

  Advising the staff in a terse but polite manner that his BP, at 139 over 80, was probably the result of his aversion to hospital environments exacerbated by the fact that he’d not eaten for almost twenty-four hours, he left the hospital pining for something more substantial than the out-of-date bar of Kendall Mint Cake in the glove box, and sped along a deserted A76 towards Ayr with the dulcet tones of Radio Four and the rumble of his belly for company.

  Driven by desperation and the fact that not even the greasiest of greasy spoons was open for business at 6:00 am, he was forced, against his better judgement, to stop at a branch of an inexplicably popular chain of coffee shops for a pot of tea, an over-priced bacon roll, and a bowl of porridge which, given its cloying consistency and stark resemblance to wallpaper paste, could have been used to successfully hang two rolls of woodchip or decoupage an entire wardrobe.

  Wincing at the insipid taste of his watery brew, he set the cup to one side, popped a couple of aspirin with a glass of tepid tap water and checked his phone, cursing at the missed call from McLeod and the subsequent voicemail informing him that Jessica Sullivan had tested positive for abnormally high levels of codeine phosphate.

  * * *

  Having supplemented his sugar intake with a double dose of caffeine and a stale chocolate doughnut, Dougal – looking as if he’d just prised his tongue from the terminal of a twelve-volt battery – sat wide-eyed, reviewing a draft copy of the article written by Nick Riley in preparation for his unscheduled meeting with Alessandro Ricci.

  ‘…with his handmade loafers and cashmere sweaters, a healthy bank balance and a hillside villa in his native Tuscany, the sixty-one-year-old Alessandro Ricci looks every inch the successful businessman he purports to be.

  So why would the suave, silver-haired, bon viveur choose to give up the Siena sunshine for a life in Ayrshire? Was it the lure of the local Italian community? A fondness for our rugged landscape? Or was it perhaps that he’d developed a taste for neeps and tatties?

  The answer is no to all of the above. Signor Ricci arrived on these shores in a bid to escape the hostility of his friends and associates, and the wrath of the law.

  Released after a five-month sentence for assault and what is now recognised as “stalking”, he returned home in an audacious bid to rebuild his life under the watchful gaze of his neighbours. However, whilst some regarded his guilt as questionable, the majority of locals in this traditionally Catholic and family-orientated society found his presence intolerable.

  His victim, a seventeen-year-old college student who, having been raised by a single parent, looked upon him as a father figure, admitted falling for his debonair charm but ended the relationship when his coercive behaviour turned to physical abuse. Fearing for her safety, she ignored his threats of reprisals and reported him to the police.

  The irrefutable evidence which resulted in Ricci’s conviction was based on video footage, text messages and conversations the girl had had the temerity to record on her mobile phone.

  After sentencing, many of Ricci’s supporters, coincidentally those with a vested interest in his business empire, described the allegations as spurious and the outcome of the trial a travesty of justice, statements they retracted six months later when Ricci fell under the spotlight again.

  Claiming to have been woken between the hours of 1 and 2 a.m. by the desperate cries of his female companion, Ricci, in a sworn statement, declared he’d ventured outside only to find her lying face down in the swimming pool, going on to describe her demise as “an unfortunate incident” and blaming the accident on muscle cramps and the girl’s obvious inability to handle her drink.

  The post-mortem, however, told a different story. An analysis of body fluids revealed only a token amount of alcohol in her system, in fact, the equivalent of less than half a glass. It also revealed a high amount of what the coroner described as a psychoactive drug.

  Ricci was arrested, questioned and bailed whilst the investigation continued, during which time two similar cases occurred. Both were within a one-mile radius of Ricci’s home. Both were single girls under the age of twenty. And both were victims of a sexual assault.

  Ricci was re-arrested and charged with three counts of murder when a second search of his premises uncovered a substantial supply of the drug Temazepam which, though no evidence of such existed on his medical records, he claimed was used to treat his insomnia.

  For readers unfamiliar with Temazepam, traces of which were found in all three of Ricci’s alleged victims, it is a member of the class of drugs known as Benzodiazepines and is similar to Rohypnol, more commonly known as “the date-rape drug.”

  In a bizarre twist of fate, the judge presiding over Ricci’s trial dismissed the evidence as circumstantial before pleading with the prosecution to return with conclusive proof that he was without doubt the perpetrator. Ricci was duly released and, according to his neighbours, vanished some days later.

  At liberty to roam across Europe, a privilege afforded him under EU law, he slipped unnoticed into this country four months ago, assuming the identity of an entrepreneur looking for a new business venture.

  Should any of his friends, former colleagues, or the Italian authorities be at all concerned for his welfare, I can assure them that he is in rude wealth and, for the time being at least, leading an understandably quiet life here in western Scotland.

  According to unofficial figures it is worth remembering that Ricci is just one of a substantial number of criminals who have arrived in the UK after fleeing their homeland whilst on bail or under caution…’

  Given the early hour and his heightened state of awareness, Dougal, already on tenterhooks, leapt at the unexpected sound of footsteps thumping along the corridor.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ said a sullen-faced Munro as he blew through the door, ‘but I’ve not brought breakfast and it’s not for want of trying either.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Dougal, his cheeks billowing with relief. ‘I’m too wired to eat. Are you okay?’

  ‘If I’m honest, no.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Food poisoning. I think.’

  ‘Oh dear, is it serious?’

  ‘Knowing my luck,’ said Munro, ‘it’s probably listeria so I’ll be out of your way soon enough.’

  ‘I think you need a decent brew.’

  ‘Aye, that would be most welcome. Listen, Dougal, have you heard from Charlie recently?’

  ‘I have. They’re back this afternoon.’

  ‘And did she mention anything about the lassie on Goat Fell?’

  ‘Nothing new,’ said Dougal. ‘I ran a check on the girls who were with her but nothing so far. Why? Is something bothering you?’

  ‘Aye. Did McLeod not say she was drugged?’

  ‘He did. Is that not a bit unusual?’

  ‘Around here,’ said Munro, ‘once is unusual. Twice is disconcerting. Three times gives me the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘Three? But there’s only Ella MacCall and Jessica Sullivan.’

  ‘And Sophie Jackson.’

  ‘Jeez-oh, your pal’s daughter? I didn’t know. How is she?’

  ‘Aye, she’s okay,’ said Munro sipping his tea, ‘but I have to admit, if I was still employed in an official capacity, I’d kill for another wee word with that Sullivan woman about her daughter. Dinnae get me wrong, I’ve every sympathy for her tragic loss but the fact remains that it was Jessica who led Sophie astray and it’s only by the grace of God that you’re not h
aving to deal with another murder.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Dougal, ‘but if it was me then it’s the fella who dosed her up I’d be wanting a word with.’

  ‘Well that’s not happening until you’ve done your homework.’

  ‘As it happens, I’m revising right now.’

  ‘Oh aye? What’s the story?’

  ‘Once upon a time there was a man with a machete...’

  Munro rolled his eyes and pulled up a chair.

  ‘Okay, I’m hooked,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘…only this man is not who he seems. He’s got form for stalking.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘And he was charged with three counts of murder involving Temazepam.’

  ‘By jiminy! Then why have I not heard of him?’

  ‘Cos he’s Italian, boss,’ said Dougal. ‘Name of Alessandro Ricci. He used to live in Siena but now he’s here. On business, apparently.’

  ‘Dear God. Let’s hope it’s not another coffee shop.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think that’s on the cards. The fella he attacked is a journalist, he’s dropping by later with some more info he thinks we might find useful.’

  ‘And this Ricci fellow, have you interviewed him yet?’

  ‘I’m on my way now. Have you got your car with you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Would you like to give me a lift?’

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because,’ said Dougal grinning like a fool, ‘the vehicle used to abduct Jessica Sullivan belongs to one Helen Sullivan.’

  ‘Her mother?’

  ‘Aye, and not only that, it was on the ferry to Arran, the same ferry as Ella MacCall.’

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat! Have you located it?’

  ‘We have, boss. It’s in the yard, SOCOs are going over it as we speak.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news, laddie, but tell me, what on earth has this to do with the Italian gentleman?’