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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘If we can place him at the scene…’

  ‘We can, aye.’

  ‘Then I’d say you’re right,’ said West. ‘Jimbo?’

  ‘It’s your call, lassie,’ said Munro. ‘In the meantime, I’ll get a wee photo of Sophie’s tattoo and send it to McLeod. Perhaps he can tell us how they were done.’

  ‘Right. I think it’s time we nipped downstairs and had a chat with this Ricci bloke. Anyone know the Italian for you’re going to need a lawyer?’

  ‘Not so fast, Charlie. One more thing. Dougal…’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘…Ella MacCall.’

  West drew a breath as Dougal stopped the flow of images cascading down the screen and zoomed in on a shot of MacCall’s naked back.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t make sense. No tattoo.’

  ‘There has to be a reason,’ said Munro. ‘If that’s his calling card, then there has to be a reason.’

  ‘I hope for all our sakes you’re right,’ said West, ‘because if it wasn’t Ricci who spiked her, then we’re in trouble.’

  Leaving Munro to cogitate in front of the screen with a mug of hot, sweet tea, West – skimming a crib-sheet penned in Dougal’s immaculate hand-written script – headed for the interview room.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling this is all going pear-shaped?’

  ‘It’s not, miss, not yet,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s like the boss says, there has to be a reason and just now I’m thinking maybe it’s because Ella MacCall wasn’t just another victim, I mean, she and Ricci had a wee thing going, right? Maybe he thought of her as, I don’t know, different?’

  ‘Yeah, you might be right, Dougal. You might be right.’

  Chapter 12

  Alessandro Ricci, as cool as the proverbial cucumber, sat with his legs crossed and his arms folded, looking, despite a few hours in the cells, as immaculate as ever. He cocked his head and smiled as West took a seat at the desk opposite.

  ‘Bellissima,’ he said, his voice menacingly low.

  ‘Mr Ricci. I’m Detective Inspector West and this is…’

  ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘Of course you have. Then you know why you’re here.’

  ‘A minor traffic violation. An oversight. It is easily resolved.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances I’d agree with you,’ said West as she scanned her notes, ‘but as all your assets have been frozen and you have no access to your bank accounts, I really can’t see how you’re going to be able to stump up five grand.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Ricci. ‘Helen, Miss Sullivan, will take care of it.’

  ‘Really? Is she that loaded?’

  ‘She has enough.’

  ‘Well I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when the other inmates find out what you’ve been up to. Now then, before we try to resolve a few other issues, I understand you’ve waived your right to a solicitor, is that correct?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And you’ve not changed your mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good,’ said West as she stabbed the voice-recorder, ‘in that case I’d just like to remind you that you’re still under caution. For the benefit of the tape I’m DI West, also present is DS McCrae and Mr Alessandro Ricci. The time is 4:22 pm. So, Mr Ricci, let’s start with Ella MacCall. How did you meet?’

  Ricci, looking mildly bemused, turned to Dougal and frowned.

  ‘But I have already told the sergeant and his friend…’

  ‘Friend?’

  ‘The boss, miss.’

  ‘…I have already told them, we have never met. It is still something I look forward to.’

  West stood up, tucked her chair beneath the desk, and leaned against the wall.

  ‘Let’s not get off on the wrong foot,’ she said, sighing as she checked her watch. ‘I’m having a friend over for dinner and I don’t want to be late. I have three witnesses who’ve seen you with MacCall on several occasions. In fact, they’ve even met you face to face.’

  Ricci shook his head, smiled and raised his hands in defeat.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said, ‘Holly, Kirsty and Megan.’

  ‘You’ve a memory for names.’

  ‘Always. If a pretty girl is involved. Okay, Inspector, I lied and for that I apologise. I denied knowing her only to protect her. Some people find our age difference a little… strange.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame them,’ said West. ‘So, you admit to knowing her?’

  ‘I do. She is a beautiful and talented young lady.’

  ‘And when did you meet?’

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Irvine Community Sports Club. That is where she plays hockey.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dougal, ‘but see here, Mr Ricci, I’m finding this just a wee bit creepy. Why would a fella your age be hanging around a ladies hockey club?’

  ‘I went to visit them. They were looking for a sponsor. Someone who would pay for their kit.’

  ‘And just how exactly did you know they were looking for funding?’

  ‘An advertisement in the paper, the Kilmarnock Standard.’

  ‘And you just happened to bump into Ella?’ said West.

  ‘I did,’ said Ricci. ‘She looked… lost. Upset. As though she needed someone to talk to.’

  ‘So you thought you’d lend an ear?’

  ‘And the rest,’ said Dougal. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘I have not seen her for at least a week. She was going on vacation.’

  ‘To the Isle of Arran?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Any idea how she got there?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. One of her friends I imagine.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal, ‘it would be. Because you’ve never been, have you, Mr Ricci?’

  ‘Let’s try somebody else,’ said West. ‘Nick Riley.’

  Ricci smiled at West and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I have never heard of him,’ he said. ‘Nor have I ever met with him.’

  ‘So you weren’t wandering round Sandgate at…’

  ‘Sorry. What is Sandgate?’

  ‘It’s a street,’ said West, ‘not far from here.’

  ‘I know Kilmarnock, Inspector. I am not familiar with this area.’

  ‘Okay. Strike three. Jessica Sullivan.’

  ‘Ah, poor Jessica.’

  ‘Aye, poor Jessica indeed,’ said Dougal. ‘Just how close were you and Jessica, Mr Ricci?’

  ‘We were friends. Good friends. I think I was like an uncle to her.’

  ‘Not a father?’

  ‘That, I could never be.’

  ‘So you went out together?’ said West. ‘Socially, I mean.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And you drank together?’

  ‘Yes, and we went for supper together.’

  ‘And did you sleep together?’ said Dougal.

  ‘It would be uncouth of me to answer such a question, Sergeant, demeaning as it is.’

  ‘What about her mate?’ said West. ‘The girl you tried to pick up outside the nightclub. Sophie Jackson.’

  ‘Is that her name? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Oh come off it, she visited Jessica at home several times. Are you telling me you never met?’

  ‘No. I would have remembered, I am sure.’

  ‘So, the first time you ever clapped eyes on her was outside the club?’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Ricci. ‘When Jessica telephoned to ask if I would pick her up from the club, she simply said her friend needed a ride home too.’

  ‘But she didn’t go with you?’

  ‘No. She decided to make her own way home.’

  ‘Well, she nearly didn’t make it.’

  ‘I cannot be blamed for that,’ said Ricci. ‘Young people in this country, Inspector, they do not know how to drink, only how to get drunk.’

  ‘And was Jessica drunk?’

  �
��A little, I think.’

  ‘So, despite the fact that she’d had a few, you still didn’t think to see her home safely?’

  ‘She insisted. And if there’s one thing I know how to do well, it is to respect a lady’s wishes.’

  ‘God preserve us,’ said West. ‘Helen Sullivan. How’s your relationship with Helen Sullivan?’

  ‘It has its ups. And it has its downs.’

  ‘So you’re not thinking of trading her in for a younger model?’

  ‘Please, show some decorum, Inspector. You’re letting yourself down.’

  Believing Ricci to be a misogynistic, pompous ass with psychotic tendencies who suffered from delusions of grandeur, West – making a mental note to earmark him for a psychiatric assessment – slid her hands into her pockets and walked slowly towards the rear of the room.

  ‘How are you getting by at the moment, Mr Ricci?’ she said. ‘I mean, how do you pay for stuff? Rent, food, petrol?’

  ‘Cash,’ said Ricci without turning his head. ‘I pay in cash.’

  ‘You brought it with you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s not going to last long, is it? The legal limit without declaring it is ten grand. Any more than that and that’s another fine you’re in for. How much did you bring?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said West as she returned to the desk, ‘that’s an admission of guilt if ever I heard one. Tell me, Mr Ricci, are you superstitious at all?’

  ‘Superstition is for those who cannot control their own destiny.’

  ‘So, you wouldn’t think the number seventeen unlucky?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how’s your Latin?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Vixi?’

  ‘Come, come,’ said Ricci. ‘You’re young, Inspector. You’ve your whole life ahead of you, I’m sure.’

  * * *

  Though blessed with the spindly physique of a long-distance runner, Dougal – who possessed the athletic prowess of a pot-bellied pig in a paddy field – struggled to match West as she scurried up the four flights of stairs.

  ‘Are you okay, miss?’ he said, trying to catch his breath, ‘you’re in an awful hurry.’

  ‘There’s something I need to do.’

  ‘But hold on, are we not charging him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ricci, are we not charging him?’

  ‘No, not yet. So far as MacCall’s concerned, we need to prove he was on that ferry.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Dougal, ‘but we can’t hold him much longer, time’s running out.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said West, ‘if push comes to shove, we’ll do him for the insurance first, that’ll buy us some time. Oh, and before I forget, I need you to ring Mackenzie in Brodick and find out when McIver’s coming over…’

  ‘No bother,’ said Dougal.

  ‘…and when you’ve done that, call the hockey club and see if they can verify Ricci’s story. I want to know if he really was interested in sponsoring them or just hanging around the playground.’

  * * *

  Munro, confounded by the image of MacCall’s unblemished torso, was still staring at the screen when West, clearly agitated, barged through the door.

  ‘Ah, you’re back,’ he said. ‘And how’s Casanova? Did you not get a signed confession?’

  ‘No,’ said West. ‘All I got was a touch of the collywobbles. I think I need a shower just from being in the same room as him.’

  ‘That’s not the reason you’re in a strop, Charlie. What’s up?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said West, ‘just give me a minute. Dougal, the CCTV from Sandgate…’

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘…I haven’t seen it yet, run it for me, would you?’

  Munro sat back and smiled with anticipation as West watched the film unfold.

  ‘Jimbo,’ she said. ‘Have you seen this?’

  ‘I have indeed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘It’s not him, is it?’ said West. ‘The bloke with the machete, it’s not Ricci.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Dougal. ‘How can you tell? He’s covered from head to toe.’

  ‘Oh come on, Dougal, do you need a trip to Specsavers or what? Ricci’s built like a twig and he’s got to be at least five-eleven if not six feet. Riley’s a short arse, he’s what? Five-six, five-seven? The geezer attacking him’s about the same height. And he’s stocky. He’s too short and he’s too stocky to be Ricci.’

  ‘Jeez-oh,’ said Dougal, ‘Why did I not get that?’

  ‘You’re run down, laddie,’ said Munro. ‘You need a break.’

  ‘Aye, maybe so.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about it.’

  ‘Jimbo,’ said West, ‘if you knew that wasn’t Ricci, then why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘It’s not my place,’ said Munro. ‘And it’s not my job anymore. Besides I knew you’d get there soon enough. Why the frown?’

  ‘I just had a thought. If Ricci was wound up because he got wind of Riley’s article then that would have made sense, right? But if it wasn’t him waving the blade about, and if it wasn’t a random attack, then who the hell was it?’

  ‘Och, you know what journalists are like, lassie, it’s probably someone with a grudge.’

  ‘Then why is Riley so flipping adamant that it was Ricci?’

  ‘I asked him the same question, miss,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s like the man’s obsessed.’

  ‘I don’t know about obsessed, but he’s got an attitude alright. So, what do we do now?’

  Munro, feeling unusually warm, loosened his tie and rang a finger around his collar.

  ‘Instinct lassie,’ he said. ‘Use your instinct.’

  ‘You and your flipping instinct,’ said West, ‘you’re beginning to sound like Obi-Wan Kenobi: feel the force, Luke, feel the force.’

  ‘I’m glad you find it amusing but if it wasnae for my instinct you’d not be here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye. I’ll not mince my words, Charlie. I’ll have you remember that when we met you were struggling, struggling with your career and blaming your own inadequacies for a failed relationship and you thought the answer lay in the bottom of a bottle of booze. You may have been a wreck, lassie, but my instinct told me you had the potential to be one of the best. And look at you now.’

  West, in a moment of quiet contemplation, turned her back on Munro, reached for the kettle and, realising that the sun had long set over the yardarm, decided that the time for coffee had passed and a large Balvenie was on the cards.

  ‘Dougal,’ she said, as she smiled apologetically at Munro, ‘instinct tells me we should run a quick check on Riley…’

  ‘On it, miss.’

  ‘…see if he’s got any previous and find out if he’s ever been to Tuscany, maybe he and Ricci have got a history.’

  ‘There you go,’ said Munro grinning. ‘Sometimes, Charlie, all you need is a size twelve up the backside.’

  ‘Sometimes, Jimbo, a gentle nudge would do.’

  ‘Miss!’ said Dougal excitedly, ‘forgive me for saying so, but my instinct tells me you’re not going to like this.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, he’s got form.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m only on the electoral register.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Riley, he lives alone. He’s got a one bedroom flat right here on Bath Place, not far from the beach.’

  ‘So, what’s the big deal?’

  ‘Up until last year there were two people registered at that address. The other was Helen Sullivan.’

  Chapter 13

  Despite a drop in temperature sharp enough to freeze the fur off an Arctic fox, Munro – warmed by a large single malt – stood in his shirt sleeves on the balcony of West’s first floor apartment on North Harbour Street and, gazing across the Firth beneath a star-studded sky, mulled over his options concerning the deferral of
his own demise.

  Regarding the notion of a six hour operation, during which the surgeons would pillage the veins from his legs before breaking open his breastbone to graft them onto his heart as a fanciful non-starter, he dallied instead with the concept of relying on beta-blockers and statins to alleviate his symptoms, before concluding that they amounted to nothing more than a sticking-plaster on what was essentially a dire prognosis.

  Raising his glass to the heavens, he dismissed his only other alternative – a life devoid of dairy, bacon butties, and slices of raw-aged Aberdeen Angus pan-fried in beef dripping – as needlessly masochistic and resigned himself to his fate, smiling as West, clutching the bottle of Balvenie, joined him outside.

  ‘Are you mad?’ she said, quivering against the cold, ‘you’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Too late for that, lassie.’

  ‘What? You’re bonkers, you are. Look, if you’re in a huff because of earlier then I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to snap, things are just a bit fraught, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not in a huff, Charlie, and there’s no need to apologise, you know that.’

  ‘Good,’ said West as she topped up his glass. ‘I don’t know what you’re so flipping miserable about but if you ask me, Dougal’s not the only one who could do with a break.’

  ‘I’m not in need of a break.’

  ‘You bleeding well are,’ said West, ‘you just don’t know it. Face facts, Jimbo, you’re cream-crackered. You almost killed yourself when your gaff blew up, then you legged it off to Skye, you’ve been living out of a suitcase for God knows how long, and to cap it all when you’re not trying to decorate your house, you’ve got the emotional stress of finding your mate’s daughter drugged-up to the eyeballs to deal with. Trust me, you need a holiday before you keel over.’

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ said Munro, ‘me and holidays were separated at birth.’

  ‘Well it’s time you had a reunion. I’m going to book you something if it’s the last thing I do.’

  * * *

  Not one to renege on a deal, Munro – keeping to his side of the bargain – opened a bottle of Bordeaux, filled two tumblers to the brim, and sat poised at the table while West, ignoring the buzz of her phone, seared the steaks and pulled the chips from under the grill.

  ‘Are you not getting that?’

  ‘One pair of hands, Jimbo. Whoever it is will have to wait. Patience, as they say, is a virtue.’