‘Very good,’ said McLeod. ‘And what makes you think that?’
‘The cuts,’ said West, ‘they’re not clean. They’re more like scratches, it’s as if the skin’s been, what’s the word, tugged? Like it snagged on the blade.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah, I’m not sure about this but in both cases the letter ‘I’ seems to bend slightly at the base so I’m thinking the perp was right-handed.’
‘So, what do you need from me?’
‘Some reassurance. Am I right or am I off the mark?’
‘Put it this way,’ said McLeod, ‘should you ever feel the urge to walk with the dead, you’d sail through medical school. You’re on the money, Charlotte. Full marks.’
‘Cheers, Andy. Appreciate it.’
‘Now if you could just find the tool that he used to carve those initials, you’d be home dry.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Well the incisions aren’t deep,’ said McLeod, ‘so something small. And rather than a dull blade, perhaps it’s one that wasn’t designed to be too sharp.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said West.
‘It makes perfect sense. You’ve an image in your head of a flat piece of metal with a sharp point. Perhaps you should be thinking of a cutlery knife, maybe one with a serrated edge, or one of those blades you get attached to a corkscrew.’
‘Genius!’ said West. ‘As it happens, the bloke I’ve got my eye on owns a vineyard. Maybe he carries one around with him?’
‘It’s not unheard of.’
‘You’re a diamond. Right, I’m not being rude but I have to get on, I need to call my sergeant.’
‘Listen, before you go, I don’t suppose…’
‘One word, Andy: Bic.’
* * *
As someone who spent most of the night glued to his computer screen, tablet, or iPhone, Dougal – an earnest enigmatologist driven by the multitude of unorthodox cases which landed on his desk – was on the whole content with his largely windowless apartment until he clapped eyes on Riley’s sprawling, light-filled flat overlooking the esplanade at the end of Bath Place and he suddenly realised, not without a hint of jealousy, that his gloomy pad had more in common with The Black Hole of Calcutta than the bijou homage to modern living the estate agent had enthused about.
‘If it’s not a good time,’ he said as he removed his crash helmet, ‘I can always come back later.’
‘No, you’re alright,’ said Riley. ‘Come on through to the lounge, I’m just having myself some breakfast. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Aye, go on.’
Dougal pulled up a chair and made a cursory glance of the room while he waited for Riley to return. An antique oak filing cabinet from the glory days of journalism sat in the corner, a television set with the sound turned down was tuned to CNN, and a handful of framed photos were scattered higgledy-piggledy across the wall but most interesting of all was the pile of newspapers stacked behind the door.
‘Milk, one sugar,’ said Riley as he handed him a mug. ‘I forgot to ask so I guessed.’
‘Spot on,’ said Dougal, ‘cheers. Tell me, Mr Riley, I’m curious, what’s with all the newspapers? I mean, is that not a wee bit odd, particularly for someone in your profession?’
‘Maybe. The fact is, I find them easier on the eye than a blessed computer. My sight’s not great at the best of times.’
‘Aye, I get what you’re saying. The funny thing is, technology’s meant to make our lives easier but in reality, it’s making us all blind.’
‘God, you’re a cheery soul,’ said Riley. ‘So, what’s up? I take it you’re not here to brush up on your Latin?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Vixi.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Dougal, ‘no. It’s not that.’
‘What then?’
‘Have you lived here long?’
Riley, taken aback by a question that was clearly irrelevant as far as the investigation was concerned, frowned inquisitively and joined him at the table.
‘Long enough,’ he said.
‘And have you always lived alone?’
‘I have.’
‘You’re quite sure?’ said Dougal. ‘I mean, you’ve never taken a lodger for example? Or maybe rented a room to a student?’
‘Not with one bedroom, no. Where exactly are you going with this?’
‘Round in circles by the looks of it. See here, Mr Riley, I ran a check against the electoral register and it states quite clearly that somebody else used to live here too. At the same time as you. A Miss Helen Sullivan.’
‘I see,’ said Riley, shifting in his seat.
‘And what I can’t get my head around is why you didn’t mention it, especially as she’s now living with Alessandro Ricci. But with all the research you’ve done, I’m sure you knew that anyway.’
‘I did,’ said Riley, nodding. ‘I’ve known for a while.’
‘So?’
‘We’re history, Sergeant. We had a thing once but it didn’t work out, so we parted company. End of story.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘Life doesn’t have to be complicated.’
Dougal, staring blankly into space, paused to sip his coffee as he quietly contemplated his next question.
‘Tell me if I’m being nosey, Mr Riley,’ he said, ‘but do you still have feelings for Miss Sullivan? I mean, is that why you have it in for Ricci? Because you’re jealous?’
‘I’m not jealous!’ said Riley with an unconvincing laugh. ‘She’s moved on and so have I. We’re free agents.’
‘So, you’re not waging some kind of a vendetta against him?’
‘Oh, I am. But as a journalist, Sergeant, not a malevolent ex. You have a copy of my article, you should check the date. You’ll see I started writing it just days after Ricci landed in Glasgow, long before he shacked up with Helen. Now, if that’s everything, I have some work to…’
‘Not quite,’ said Dougal as he gestured for Riley to return to his seat. ‘I realise you’re a busy man but there’s something else I need to ask you about.’
‘Well, make it quick.’
‘The fella who attacked you. You claim it was Ricci.’
‘One hundred percent positive.’
‘Even though he came at you from behind?’
‘Okay, ninety-five percent positive.’
‘And he was running away by the time you realised you’d been hit?’
‘Let’s say ninety and call it quits.’
‘So, you’re not changing your mind?’ said Dougal. ‘Even though not ten minutes ago you admitted to me that your eyesight’s not that great?’
Looking as nervous as the hunter who’d become the hunted, Riley, uneasy about the probing, personal questions, brushed imaginary crumbs from the table as Dougal finished his coffee.
‘The thing is, Mr Riley, we’ve got your attack on CCTV. Now, I’d say you’re about five feet seven. Am I right?’
‘Five seven and a half. Why?’
‘Alessandro Ricci,’ said Dougal as he made for the door, ‘he’s a good six feet. But you know that, don’t you? I’ll be in touch.’
* * *
Irritated by his own inability to instantly establish a motive for Riley’s dogged pursuit of Ricci, Dougal – straddling his scooter with his helmet hanging from the handlebars – gazed across the deserted beach and reached for his phone.
‘Alright, miss?’ he said. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, are you on your way back?’
‘Aye, all done. My head’s mince.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Riley,’ said Dougal. ‘He’s admitted to having a relationship with Helen Sullivan and he knows that’s she’s living with Ricci, okay? But I’m not convinced that’s a good enough reason to persecute the fella. I mean, I know he come across as bitter and twisted, but jealous? I think there has to be more to this, surely.’
‘So he’s still claiming it was Ricci who attacked him?’
/>
‘He is, aye. But we know, and he knows, it wasn’t.’
‘In that case,’ said West, ‘it sounds to me as if he’s trying to protect his attacker. Like he knows who it is but he’s trying to pin it on Ricci.’
‘But surely if he didn’t want his attacker to get caught it’d be a lot easier if he just said nothing? Why go after Ricci?’
‘To be honest,’ said West, ‘I really don’t know and quite frankly some second-rate journalist getting a scratch on the arm is the least of my worries. Now listen up: that Insignia…’
‘Miss?’
‘Did SOCOs find anything unusual on board? Like a penknife or a corkscrew?’
‘A corkscrew?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been talking to McLeod and he reckons…’
‘We should be looking for a boy scout or a wine merchant?’
‘Very funny.’
‘Nothing like that, miss.’
‘What about Ricci’s personal effects? Was he carrying anything like that when you checked him in?’
‘No, just some jewellery,’ said Dougal. ‘All his gear and the stuff from the car is all bagged up in the usual place if you want it.’
‘Good,’ said West. ‘Now get your arse back as quick as you can. We might need to organise a search of Sullivan’s gaff. If we don’t find whatever it was he used to cut the girls, then we’re going to lose him.’
‘On my way.’
‘Incidentally, I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Jimbo, have you?’
‘No, miss. Why?’
‘He was only popping down the DIY store and he’s been gone ages, I thought he’d have been back by now.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t fret, miss, you know the boss. He’s probably foraging through the gardening section looking for spring bulbs.’
Chapter 15
Having consumed nothing more than the usual bowl of porridge, two fried eggs, bacon, toast, and a grilled tomato, Munro – bewildered by the onset of yet another bout of burning dyspepsia – popped a peppermint into his mouth and, blaming West’s culinary skills for what might eventually be diagnosed as a debilitating case of salmonella, rang the bell and stood back.
Looking as weary as a pit pony after a gruelling eight-hour shift, Sullivan – still in her nightwear – opened the door, wiped the sleep from her eyes, and greeted Munro with a jaded smile.
‘What are you now?’ she said, fumbling through her pocket for a cigarette. ‘A door to door salesman?’
‘You’ve lost me,’ said Munro.
‘The turpentine.’
Munro smiled and slipped the bottle into his pocket.
‘The ironmongers,’ he said. ‘It’s the only place I could find it. Would you mind if we had a wee chat, Miss Sullivan?’
‘Is this official business?’
‘As I am no longer a serving member of Police Scotland, I would have to say the answer is no.’
‘Then you’d best come in.’
Disheartened by the growing pile of crusty crockery, mouldy pizza boxes and assorted takeaway wrappers still languishing on the bookcase, Munro – his nose twitching against the lingering aroma of a half-eaten chicken tikka masala – grimaced as Sullivan pulled her dressing gown tight around her waist and sat down.
‘Are you okay?’ she said as she lit her cigarette. ‘Can I get you a tea or something.’
‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘Very kind but dinnae trouble yourself. It’s just a touch of indigestion.’
‘A wee glass of milk then?’
‘Really, I’m fine. It’ll pass.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. So, unofficially, why are you here, Mr Munro? Is this about Jessica?’
‘Not directly. No.’
‘Alex then? Is he still banged up?’
‘He is,’ said Munro, ‘but I’m afraid I cannae say much more than that.’
‘I understand.’
‘It’s not because I dinnae want to, it’s because I’ve no idea how the case is progressing. You’ll have to speak with DS McCrae, he’ll know when he’s due in court.’
‘Do you think he’ll go down?’
‘Well, unless you’ve a few grand hidden about the place…’
Sullivan smiled and stubbed out her cigarette.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’
‘You seem pleased.’
‘More relieved than pleased.’
‘So, the honeymoon’s over and now you’re saddled with reality, is that it?’
‘It’s more than that.’
‘I’ll not pry, Miss Sullivan, but if there’s something you want to tell me, well that’s entirely up to you.’
‘Aye, okay,’ said Sullivan. ‘I’ll tell you something. He played me like a fiddle and I fell for it hook, line and sinker.’
‘How so?’
‘The charm,’ said Sullivan. ‘The sophistication. I was a fool, punching above my weight. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? A toff, an Italian toff at that, falling for the likes of me? I must need my head testing.’
‘Dinnae put yourself down, Miss Sullivan. You’re better than that.’
‘Maybe. Don’t get me wrong, things were great to start with, you know, nice and cosy. The restaurants, the flowers, he’d even surprise me with a wee present every now and then.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘The money ran out is what happened. He saved himself a few quid by moving in with me, that’s for sure, but as I say, that’s when things turned sour. When his money ran out.’
‘You mean he was borrowing from you?’
‘Aye, not much,’ said Sullivan. ‘A few quid here and there, but it’s not the money that bothered me, Mr Munro. It was the fact that he hardly went out. That he was here all the time. Alone. With Jessica.’
‘I see. Forgive me for asking, Miss Sullivan, I dinnae want to seem insensitive, but do you think he and your daughter were…’
‘I hope not, for all our sakes, because if they have…’
‘Then what, Miss Sullivan?’
‘Nothing. Look I don’t know what they got up to but there was a point when Jessica just went weird on me, it’s like she’d started to resent me. She’d not come home until the wee hours, she’d not speak, she just avoided me like the…’
Sullivan paused, grabbed the sleeve of her gown, and wiped her eyes.
‘Here,’ said Munro as he handed her a crisp, white handkerchief. ‘You’re not as hard as you make out, are you, Miss Sullivan?’
‘I’m not hard at all, Mr Munro. A marshmallow on legs, that’s me. See here, I loved my daughter, I loved her with every beat of my heart and I miss her every single second of the day.’
‘Well you cannae blame yourself for what happened.’
‘I don’t. I blame Alex.’
‘Did you ever confront him about his… behaviour?’
‘I did, aye.’
‘And?’
‘I was told in no uncertain terms to mind my own business.’
‘From where I’m standing, Miss Sullivan, I’d say Jessica was your business.’
‘Right enough, but he said if I didn’t keep my nose out, then he’d really give me something to worry about.’
‘So, he threatened you?’
Sullivan bowed her head and nodded.
‘Dear, dear,’ said Munro. ‘Why on earth did you not tell anyone?’
‘I did.’
‘The police?’
‘No,’ said Sullivan, ‘that would’ve been suicide. I told Nick.’
Munro, buoyed by the fortuitous turn in the conversation, sat back and smiled graciously.
‘That would be Mr Riley? The journalist?’
‘It would. Now, how about that tea?’
‘Aye, why not,’ said Munro. ‘Milk, three sugars.’
‘We’ll go outside, it’s the only place that brings me peace.’
* * *
Standing on the patio with a tea in one hand and the other tucked behind his back, Munro – his spirits lifted by the a
bundance of pansies, violas, hydrangeas, and geraniums – gazed across the rambling garden and nodded approvingly at the weathered shiplap shed, its peeling, pale blue walls adorned with a collection of antique tools and an old advertising sign featuring two terriers extolling the virtues of Black & White whisky.
‘Is this your work?’ he said with an enthusiastic smile.
‘Aye, it certainly is,’ said Sullivan, ‘and I’ve the scars to prove it.’
‘You’ve a rare talent there, Miss Sullivan. A rare talent indeed. You’re wasted behind a desk.’
‘Tell me about it, but needs must, Mr Munro. When I went to art school my head was full of dreams. I was going to be the best illustrator this country had ever seen but life, as they say, doesn’t always go according to plan.’
‘More’s the pity,’ said Munro. ‘Why did you not follow your dreams?’
‘Things changed.’
‘Changed?’
‘Jessica,’ said Sullivan. ‘You can always count on kids to throw a spanner in the works. By the time she was five I was on my own, I had to take whatever job I could or starve.’
Inspired by Sullivan’s effortless creativity compared to the unexciting layout of his own garden which, though home to a profuse amount of flowers and shrubs was best described as staid, Munro sipped his tea and pointed excitedly towards the shed.
‘I’d never even thought of painting mine!’ he said with an enthusiastic grin. ‘Tell me, where on earth did you manage to get those things? I cannae see there being much demand for sickles and scythes these days.’
‘Ebay,’ said Sullivan, ‘twenty quid the lot, and there’s more in the shed.’
‘Well it’s a fine display, I’ll give you that but, dinnae take this as a criticism, there’s a wee gap on the end there. Could you not find something else to put up?’
‘Oh, there’s no gap,’ said Sullivan. ‘It’s probably fallen off. There should be a rusty old billhook there. You can wander over and put it back if it’s bothering you.’
‘No, no. I’ll not interfere with your handiwork. Tell me, Miss Sullivan, you and Mr Riley, I understand you shared a house together, is that right?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Sullivan. ‘We were engaged, Mr Munro. I couldn’t have been happier, but then Jessica came along.’
RANCOUR: A gripping murder mystery set on the west coast of Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 8) Page 14
