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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘In the Vauxhall?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And that’s what’s bugging me. We know the car was on the ferry, we know that’s how MacCall and her mates got to Arran, but I’ve been through the inventory and the ticketing records from CalMac and all the paperwork’s in MacCall’s name.’

  ‘Does she have a licence?’

  ‘Provisional.’

  ‘So it’s not out of the realms of possibility then?’

  ‘It is. The car went back on the return leg.’

  ‘Well, Dougal’s convinced it was Ricci behind the wheel but he cannae prove it.’

  ‘And there’s the rub,’ said West. ‘I mean, the only other person who could have been driving is that Sullivan woman and that’s hardly likely, is it? She doesn’t even know the girls.’

  West turned to face Munro, took a deep breath, and stared vacuously at the side of his head.

  ‘Thing is,’ she said, ‘this theory about Ricci. There’s a snag.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘There’s somebody else in the frame. The bloke who runs the garage in Lamlash, John McIver. He makes regular trips to the mainland and guess what? He’s on Rohypnol.’

  ‘Is that not a wee bit circumstantial, lassie?’

  ‘Maybe. But he’s also with mountain rescue. If he is the culprit then I’m thinking he could’ve been watching MacCall and gone after her before the official callout.’

  Munro, choosing to savour the spontaneous silence rather than cut it, gazed dead ahead while West, befuddled by the possibility of having to deal with two suspects, ruffled her hair as if it was infested with nits before breaking the quietude with a frustrated groan.

  ‘For crying out loud!’ she said. ‘Why is it that every case I get involved with when you’re around is like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube blindfolded? I need to get my act together. Where’s Ricci now?’

  ‘In hospitality,’ said Munro, ‘waiting for his antipasti.’

  ‘Good,’ said West, reaching for her phone, ‘I need to get McIver over here too. I’ll be damned if I’m getting on that ferry again.’

  * * *

  Bobby Mackenzie – his confidence boosted by his self-proclaimed “invaluable” contribution to a murder inquiry – walked his usual beat along the promenade with the arrogance of a parking attendant in a pay and display, chatting politely with the locals and poking his head into the shops with a reassuring nod, when his already inflated ego was bolstered even further by a familiar name appearing on his phone.

  ‘DI West,’ he said. ‘I trust you’re well?’

  ‘All good, Constable. How about you?’

  ‘Aye, cracking. By the by, I’ve sent you the CCTV from the car deck of the Caledonian Isles, have you seen it?’

  ‘Not yet, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Well, I’m not a detective, miss, but it seems to me whoever was driving that Insignia knew that there were cameras on-board and didn’t want to be seen. He has a scarf tied around his face and a hoodie pulled over his head.’

  ‘Can you get a make on his height? Weight? Build?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t say, he’s wrapped up like a Christmas present.’

  ‘No worries,’ said West, ‘I’ll take a look later. Right, my turn, I’ve got a job for you.’

  ‘Name it and I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I need McIver over here for a chat.’

  ‘John?’

  ‘Yes, John. Why so surprised?’

  ‘Well, because it’s John,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Pillar of the community and all that. He’ll not have anything to do with this, miss, trust me. He saves lives, he doesn’t take them.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said West, ‘so just you pop along and ask him to get his arse over here as soon as he can.’

  ‘With all due respect, miss, it’s a long way to go for a social visit.’

  ‘Well if he’s not up for it, you’ll have to bring him in yourself.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Mackenzie, ‘but I can’t force him to come, you know that.’

  ‘You can if you arrest him...’

  ‘Arrest him?’

  ‘…on suspicion of possessing a controlled drug with intent. Got it?’

  * * *

  Munro, spying a café with a reassuringly long queue as they passed through the quiet side of Wallacetown, pulled over while West, agitated by Mackenzie’s reluctance to co-operate, heaved a sigh and scrolled through her phone.

  ‘Some people,’ she said. ‘Honestly, he’s a nice enough bloke but he’s being a bit protective about his mates. It’s like they’re closing ranks.’

  ‘Dinnae take it personally, lassie, in a community like that they like to watch each other’s backs.’

  ‘If you say so. Right, I’ve got one more call to make.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Munro, ‘and I’ll fetch you a bite to eat.’

  ‘Duncan, can you hear me?’

  ‘Aye, miss, just about.’

  ‘What the hell is that noise?’

  ‘It’s the wind,’ said Duncan, ‘there’s that many holes in this Defender it’s like travelling in a cheese grater.’

  ‘Well look, once you’re done with FS I need you to stop off in Kilmarnock on the way back.’

  ‘Are you joking me? Have you not seen the time?’

  ‘Stop whinging,’ said West, ‘it’s on the way. I need you to visit the three tearaways.’

  ‘I should’ve guessed. Is this about them jumping the early ferry instead of checking in with you?’

  ‘Nah, I’m not fussed about that,’ said West, ‘I need to know who was driving that Insignia.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Duncan, ‘but could we not get an FLO to ask them? I mean, they might be in shock, and I’m a fella, and they weren’t too keen on talking to me when we were there.’

  ‘Just do it. And don’t come back unless you’ve got an answer.’

  ‘Roger that, miss. I’m on my way.’

  * * *

  West, her eyes as wide as a ravenous cur on the scent of a sausage, tore through the greasy bag as Munro, his nose twitching at the acidic aroma, opened a window in a futile attempt to alleviate the permeating stench of malt vinegar.

  ‘There’s a wee pie in there as well,’ he said, filching a chip.

  ‘You, Jimbo, are a lifesaver. I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know that?’

  Chapter 11

  With his misanthropic tendencies compounding his innate inability to suffer fools, Dougal – who believed that punctuality was the politeness of kings rather than a virtue of the bored – paused his application for a permit to fish for grayling and pike in the upper reaches of the Annan and begrudgingly mustered a smile as Nick Riley, an old-school hack with a nose for trouble, breezed through the door precisely fifty-three minutes earlier than expected.

  ‘Mr Riley,’ he said, riled by the interruption. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘No bother, Dougie, I hope…’

  ‘It’s DS McCrae. Have yourself a seat, I’ll not be long.’

  Assuming the diffident but genial DS who’d interviewed him at his hospital bedside was simply having an off day, Riley – one arm in a sling – brushed off the tetchy response, tossed a plastic wallet onto the desk, and ran a hand through his floppy blond hair.

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ said Dougal as the ping of his email heralded the arrival of his permit, ‘sorry to keep you. How’s the arm?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine, just a couple of stitches,’ said Riley as he gestured towards the sling. ‘To be honest, I don’t even know why I’m wearing this, I’m sure it’s not necessary.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no idea where it was you were sliced exactly but my guess is the doctors may be concerned that you suffered a trauma to the latissimus dorsi or your deltoid maybe.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Riley, none the wiser. ‘That’ll be it. So, what’s happening with Ricci? Have you banged him up yet?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say. You know that.’


  ‘Aye, fair enough. It’d just be nice to know that the lunatic’s behind bars, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, let’s prove it was actually him who attacked you first, then we’ll take it from there, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Riley, ‘but keep your eyes on him, Sergeant, we don’t want him up to his old tricks again, not over here.’

  ‘We’ll do our best. So, what have you got for me?’

  Riley opened the folder, pulled out a raft of papers, and slid them one by one across the desk.

  ‘If I’m boring you with stuff you already know, just say so. These are copies of photos I managed to get off a fella called Matteo Bartolucci. He’s a pathologist.’

  ‘Pathologist?’

  ‘Aye. He carried out the post-mortems on Ricci’s victims in Siena.’

  ‘Alleged victims.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘So you just called him up and asked if he had some photos you could borrow?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Riley, ‘but no. A few white lies and a fake email account. It’s not difficult.’

  ‘It’s fraudulent,’ said Dougal. ‘And it’s illegal.’

  ‘It’s what we call investigative journalism, Sergeant, without which half the crimes in this country would go unsolved. Besides, it’s not as if it’s hard evidence, it’s just a few photos of a dead body.’

  Dougal, hesitant at first, leafed through the first four prints and, in the absence of any obvious injuries, pushed them to one side.

  ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘she looks as though she passed away in her sleep, there’s no…’

  ‘No bruising?’ said Riley. ‘No sign of a struggle? That’s why crap like this is manna from heaven for the likes of Ricci. Temazepam, MDMA, roofies, it’s their get-out-of-jail-free card. See here, Sergeant, because the victim can’t remember a damned thing, all the assailant has to do is insist that anything that occurred was consensual and nine times out of ten that’s them away, off the hook, scot-free.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Dougal. ‘Look, I’m not sure how these photos can help us but I’ll hang onto them all the same, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Aye, no bother. You keep them.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Riley. ‘There’s something else. Ricci, he’s a wealthy man, right?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Not just you, the whole of Tuscany. The press are always going on about how successful he is, what a philanthropist he is, how he likes to share his good fortune.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So this is where things don’t add up. I’ve been following his footsteps and I’ve pieced together a wee trail. It took a few weeks, I admit, but I’ve managed to figure out where he’s been since he got here.’

  ‘Have you aspirations to join the force?’ said Dougal.

  ‘You must be mad,’ said Riley, ‘and take orders from some fella with a few pips on his shoulders? No, no, I’m my own boss, that’s not for me. Anyway, Alessandro Ricci, minted by all accounts, takes a Jet2 flight from Fiumicino to Glasgow. Why? Why a budget airline? Why not one of the major carriers? Why not first class?’

  ‘I’ll make a note to ask him next time I see him.’

  ‘Not only that, if I were him I would’ve headed straight for the city centre and checked into the Hilton, or the Marriot, or the Argyll, but what does he do? He stops at the Travelodge on the outskirts of town.’

  ‘You know what they say, Mr Riley, look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves.’

  ‘I’m thinking pennies is all he’s got. He’s at the Travelodge for one night only, then he takes himself off to a B&B on Portland Road, which is one step up from a doss-house.’

  ‘Considering what he’s been through,’ said Dougal, ‘it’s no surprise he wanted to keep his head down, especially if, as you mentioned in your article, an arrest warrant may be in the offing.’

  ‘Then he’s going about the wrong way. A couple of weeks later he did a flit. Legged it without settling his bill.’

  ‘Did the owner not contact the police?’

  ‘No chance. If he had, he’d have been hit with a string of fines for breach of health and safety.’

  ‘So, where did he go after that? Got himself a wee flat somewhere nice, no doubt?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Riley. ‘He got himself a big house with all mod-cons and a live-in servant. He moved in with Helen Sullivan.’

  ‘Doesn’t hang around, does he? And is this where your trail ends?’

  ‘For now,’ said Riley, ‘I’m still keeping tabs on him though, I want to see that nonce put away for good.’

  Dougal, irritated yet intrigued by Riley’s obsession with the émigré, pulled off his spectacles and polished them on his sweater.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr Riley,’ he said, ‘but your interest in Ricci seems to be bordering on fixation. Do you not think you’re taking it all a bit too personally?’

  ‘Aye, and rightly so. I mean, he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it, not after what he’s done.’

  ‘But why Ricci? How come you’re not focusing on the home-grown druggies and dealers?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Anything to do with the free movement of criminals around the EU?’

  ‘Maybe. And maybe not.’

  ‘Look, you’ve saved me some work,’ said Dougal, ‘I’ll give you that, but I think it’s time you took a step back and let us handle this. I’m sure you’d not be happy if I had to charge you with obstruction or harassment now, would you?’

  Riley, incensed at being belittled by someone who looked more like a university graduate on an internship than a fully-fledged police officer, refrained from unleashing a torrent of abuse and stood to leave.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ he said. ‘I’ve dealt with your sort before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Dougal.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not important.’

  ‘No, no. Go on. Are you saying you’ve been in trouble before?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Riley. ‘It was wrongful arrest.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If you must know, I was covering a protest in Glasgow…’

  ‘What kind of a protest?’

  ‘What do you think? Independence.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Years back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing,’ said Riley. ‘It got out of hand and I was caught up in the melee.’

  ‘Were you charged?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. They accused me of being party to an affray but they soon let me go.’

  ‘As will I,’ said Dougal just as West bounded through the door with Munro trailing in her wake. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Dougal!’ said West. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Same as usual, miss. How was your trip?’

  ‘Excellent. Arran was cool but the ride back from Ardrossan could’ve been better.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Jimbo, he’s under the weather, bless him. Driving like a pensioner. Who’s your mate?’

  ‘This is Nick Riley,’ said Dougal. ‘Freelance journalist and amateur sleuth. He’s just leaving.’

  ‘Alright?’ said West as she spied the sling. ‘Oh hold up, you’re the bloke who got whopped with a machete, right?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘Mr Riley was kind enough to give us some more info on Alessandro Ricci, miss.’

  ‘Nice one. Every little helps.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Riley. ‘Your sergeant here seems to think he has it all under control.’

  Munro, feathers ruffled by Riley’s sarcasm, crossed to the desk and shuffled through the pile of photos.

  ‘Knowing Dougal,’ he said like a protective patriarch defending his brood, ‘he probably has. Where did these come from?’

/>   ‘I brought them,’ said Riley. ‘That’s one of the girls Ricci attacked in Siena.’

  Munro winced as if suffering from a sudden bout of toothache and held one of the shots aloft.

  ‘What do you know about this?’ he said pointing to a detail of the girl’s back.

  ‘The tattoo?’

  ‘It’s hardly a tattoo. It’s like she’s been scratched with a penknife.’

  ‘She probably was,’ said Riley. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Possibly. What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s the number seventeen, in Roman numerals.’

  ‘And the significance is?’

  Riley hesitated before glancing at Dougal with a smug smile smeared across his face and returned to his seat.

  ‘In Italy,’ he said, ‘the number seventeen is like our thirteen. Some airlines don’t have a seventeenth row, some buildings don’t have a seventeenth floor, some…’

  ‘I get the picture!’ said Munro tersely. ‘By jiminy, man, get to the point!’

  ‘It’s unlucky because the numerals can be rearranged to spell the word “vixi”.

  ‘Latin,’ said Munro. ‘I’m dead.’

  ‘Correct. Otherwise translated as “I have lived” or “my life is over”.’

  ‘Thanking you, Mr Riley. You can leave now.’

  ‘Leave? Are you joking me? But this was just getting interesting.’

  Munro raised his head and fixed him with an ice-cold glare.

  ‘Mr Riley. I said you can leave.’

  West, perturbed by his ire, waited for the footsteps to fade along the corridor and turned to Munro.

  ‘You’re feeling better,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘What’s up, Charlie? I’ll tell you what’s up. Young Sophie Jackson has the self-same tattoo on her back. That’s what’s up. Dougal, have you any photos of Jessica Sullivan? Anything from McLeod?’

  ‘I have,’ said Dougal desperately trying to locate the folder on his desktop, ‘here we go.’

  With Munro and West hovering over his shoulders like a couple of vultures, he scrolled through a series of shots until Munro pointed excitedly at the screen and ordered him to stop.

  ‘There!’ he said. ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat! Jessica has the same tattoo!’

  ‘Surely that has to be enough to nail him,’ said Dougal. ‘Miss, what do you think?’