RANCOUR: A gripping murder mystery set on the west coast of Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 8)
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‘Jessica? Are you telling me that Mr Riley is Jessica’s father?’
‘He is indeed.’
‘Then why is he not here now?’
‘He didn’t want kids. Too much responsibility he said. Not ready to settle down he said. Can’t afford it he said.’
‘The usual excuses.’
‘Aye. Five years later I’d had enough. Jessica was old enough for nursery so I took myself off, found a wee job, and moved up here.’
‘That was a brave move.’
‘Brave or stupid,’ said Sullivan. ‘I’m still not sure which.’
‘But in spite of Jessica, Mr Riley, he still has feelings for you?’
‘Well if he has, he’s not told me.’
‘But you turned to him nonetheless when things became strained between yourself and Mr Ricci.’
‘I did, aye,’ said Sullivan. ‘There was no-one else I could talk to.’
‘And did he help?’
‘Did he hell,’ said Sullivan. ‘I asked him, pleaded with him, for Jessica’s sake, to have a word with Alex, give him a polite nudge, show him the door, but he refused.’
‘Refused?’
‘And that hurt more than anything else. You see, Jessica was the only reason we stayed in touch; he helped out, financially, I’ll give him that. But it was like he wasn’t bothered anymore, like he was trying to teach me a lesson, you know, you’ve made your bed, now lie in it.’
‘That’s very generous of the fellow.’
‘Aye, isn’t it just.’
‘So, you were angry?’
‘Angry’s not the word,’ said Sullivan. ‘I was raging. All these years I’d been on my own, struggling to raise Jess, putting my own wants and needs on the back burner. I ask him for one lousy favour and he can’t be arsed. I could’ve killed him.’
‘So, you’ve not even had yourself a holiday?’
‘You must be joking. I had a wee trip away after graduating and a week in Paris with Nick when we got engaged. The last twenty years I’ve been nowhere.’
‘Dear, dear, I feel for you, Miss Sullivan, really I do, but tell me, do you not think the article Nick was writing was his way of helping? Of getting rid of Mr Ricci?’
‘What article’s that then?’
Munro glanced at Sullivan, finished his tea, and smiled.
‘I’ll get you a copy,’ he said. ‘You might see him in a different light once you’ve read it. I should be going.’
‘Right you are,’ said Sullivan. ‘Thanks for dropping by. It’s helped, you know, talking and stuff.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Munro. ‘One thing, Miss Sullivan. When Mr Riley refused to help, what did you do?’
‘What could I do? I prayed for karma, Mr Munro. And thank God someone was listening.’
Chapter 16
Pushing the boundaries of the video enhancement software to its very limits, Dougal – using all of his expertise to grab a half-decent image of Riley’s attacker from the CCTV footage taken on Sandgate – beavered away in blissful silence while a sullen-faced West, looking as happy as a diabetic in a doughnut factory, sat with her feet on the desk staring glumly out of the window.
‘I’ve seen happier folk at a requiem,’ said Munro as he ambled through the door. ‘What’s the story?’
‘The DNA on MacCall’s flask,’ said West. ‘It’s not Ricci.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Is that all!’
‘There’s more important things in life, Charlie.’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘Well if it’s not Ricci,’ said Munro, ‘who is it?’
‘God knows. Where have you been anyway?’
‘Out. So, there’s no match on the database?’
‘To use a well-worn phrase, it’s unidentified.’
‘So, you’re sitting around wasting precious time?’
‘Actually no,’ said West. ‘We’re waiting for a warrant to come through so we can go search Sullivan’s gaff.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes it is. If we can’t do him for topping MacCall, then we can do him for murdering Jessica Sullivan and assaulting Sophie Jackson. All we have to do is find the weapon he used to carve them up.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Munro. ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’
‘If I told you,’ said West, ‘you’d only laugh.’
Spying two paper sacks and a clear, plastic bag lying on the desk, Munro, unable to resist, removed his jacket and eased himself into a chair.
‘Who does this belong to?’ he said, holding it aloft.
‘Who do you think?’ said West. ‘The Italian Stallion.’
Curious, Munro prodded the bag with his forefinger as he analysed Ricci’s possessions: a wallet, a set of house keys, a comb, a solid silver toothpick, a Rolex Oyster, a gold chain with a crucifix pendant, and a smartphone.
‘Have you checked this?’ he said.
‘Aye, of course,’ said Dougal. ‘He’s got MacCall’s number on there but he’s not been in touch since she left for Arran.’
Munro set the bag to one side and, peering into one of the paper sacks, ignored the screen-wipes, de-icer, sponge and squeegee which had obviously been retrieved from the boot of the Insignia, and turned his attention to the other.
Pulling on his spectacles and a pair of latex gloves, he tipped the contents to the desk and laid them in a straight line, inspecting each in turn like a thrifty collector at a bring-and-buy sale: one pair of sunglasses; two CDs, The Kaiser Chiefs and Andrea Bocelli; a make-up bag; a packet of travel tissues; and a hard-shell leather pouch.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ said West. ‘That’s just a load of junk from the glove compartment. There’s nothing there.’
‘What’s this?’ said Munro as he unzipped the pouch.
‘Oh, that’s a suitably expensive manicure set, boss,’ said Dougal. ‘Giorgio Bagnara.’
‘Is it indeed. In my experience, there’s only one kind of a chap who uses a manicure set.’
‘Who’s that then?’
‘One who doesnae want to get his hands dirty. Have these been dusted?’
‘Aye, I think SOCOs took care of that.’
Munro removed the nail clippers and scrutinised the tips.
‘We’ve not had a wee quiz for a while,’ he said as he returned them to the pouch.
‘Not now, Jimbo,’ said West. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without you…’
‘If I said wood, what would you say?’
Dougal, always game for a quiz, poked his head around the screen.
‘Trees!’ he yelped.
‘Well done, laddie. And if I said nose?’
‘Smell,’ said West.
‘Lose a point.’
‘Under?’ said Dougal.
Munro, apparently oblivious to Dougal’s answer, toyed with an emery board then opened a pair of nail scissors and held them to the light.
‘And if I said none so blind?’
‘Those who cannot see!’
‘We have a winner,’ said Munro, placing the scissors atop the pouch. ‘I’ve just come from seeing Helen Sullivan.’
‘You what?’ said West. ‘What the hell were you doing there?’
Ignoring the question Munro continued as if talking to himself.
‘Apparently Jessica Sullivan is Nick Riley’s daughter…’
‘What?’
‘…and whoever attacked him didnae use a machete, not strictly speaking anyway. It was a billhook.’
West, completely shell-shocked, gawped at Dougal who, equally dumbstruck, sat with his chin on the floor.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘rewind a bit. Riley is Jessica’s dad?’
‘So Helen Sullivan claims.’
‘Sorry, boss,’ said Dougal, ‘but how do you know it’s a billhook?’
‘I know because Helen Sullivan owns one.’
West stood up, ruffled her hair and groaned as she walked to the window.
‘It’s like a machete,’ said Dougal, ‘but with a serrated edge. It’s used for cutting back shrubbery, tall grass, that kind of thing.’
‘Okay, second: what the heck has this got to do with Helen… oh wait a minute, are you trying to tell me that Helen Sullivan was the one who attacked Nick Riley?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you,’ said Munro. ‘Do yourselves a favour and look at the film again. I think you’ll find she’s of a similar height and build to the assailant. And by the way, the billhook, it’s an antique, so it’ll not do much damage.’
West, beginning to believe that his recent erratic behaviour and absurd assumptions might be symptomatic of stage four dementia, glared at Munro and returned to her seat.
‘Sorry, Jimbo,’ she said. ‘I just don’t buy it.’
‘Then you should ask her yourself, Charlie. She’ll not hesitate in telling you, I’m sure.’
Munro heaved a sigh, hauled himself to his feet, and slung his coat over his shoulder.
‘Have you heard of Yankee Doddle Dandy?’ he said.
‘Yeah, of course,’ said West, ‘he’s the geezer who stuck a feather in his cap…’
‘Well, there’s one for yours,’ said Munro, pointing at the desk. ‘There’s somewhere I have to be. If I’m not back, Charlie, I’ll see you at yours.’
‘Hold on, boss!’ said Dougal as the door slammed shut. ‘Oh, that’s not fair. He’s not told us the point of the quiz.’
West, rattled as to why someone like Munro who lived by the mantra “a place for everything and everything in its place” would leave the scissors on top of the pouch instead of replacing them, approached the desk and picked them up.
‘Dougal,’ she said, ‘I need an FLS and a magnifier, now.’
* * *
Peering through a pair of orange goggles to filter out the blue channel from the spectrum, West directed the beam of the forensic light source over the splayed blades, turned to Dougal, and smiled.
‘What is it?’
‘Dead skin,’ said West, ‘and it looks like a spot of dried fluid too.’
‘Jeez-oh!’ said Dougal. ‘That’s a fast-track if ever I saw one.’
‘You bag it up and I’ll arrange a courier.’
‘Courier? I’ll not wait for them, miss. They’ll be an age and the clock’s ticking on Ricci as it is. No, no, I’ll run it there myself.’
* * *
As Dougal thrashed his way along the A77 in a bid to reach Glasgow’s Pacific Quay in less than forty-five minutes, West – her addled mind struggling to find a way of securing a conviction against Ricci not to mention her annoyance at Munro’s eccentric if not blasé habit of unravelling a case like a ball of wool – dialled Mackenzie for an update on McIver’s movements, only to be interrupted by the sound of boots thundering along the corridor.
‘Miss!’ yelled Duncan as he barged through the door. ‘You’re here! Good!’
‘Where’s the fire?’ said West.
‘Downstairs, and she’s waiting for you.’
‘Kirsty Young?’
‘None other.’
‘Okay, let me make this call first then we’ll…’
‘With all due respect miss,’ said Duncan impatiently, ‘we should go now. You’ll not believe what she has to say.’
* * *
At five feet two inches tall, Kirsty Young – a gaunt nineteen year old, built like a string bean with straight brown hair, painted eyebrows, and cheeks as hollow as a politician’s promise – could have saved herself a substantial fortune by shopping for her entire wardrobe in Mothercare or the children’s section of any department store.
Swathed in an over-sized khaki puffa jacket with a voluminous hood, she sat with the look of a startled mouse, biting what was left of her fingernails as an ageing uniformed officer with a face like a bulldog watched her like a hawk.
Lifting a hand in a half-hearted wave, she mustered a tight-lipped smile and kept her eyes on Duncan as they filed through the door.
‘Hello Kirsty,’ said West as she sat behind the desk. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Aye, okay.’
‘Good. Has DC Reid offered you anything to drink?’
‘He has.’
‘Good. Now then, I gather there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell us?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, what changed your mind? Let’s face it, the last time we met you hardly said a word.’
‘I heard what happened to Jessica Sullivan.’
West cocked her head and regarded her inquisitively.
‘You knew Jessica Sullivan?’
‘I did, aye. Not close, not like real pals, but we used to hang out at the same clubs.’
‘So?’
‘Folk are saying she was drugged.’
‘I can’t comment on that,’ said West. ‘I don’t deal with gossip.’
‘I know, but is that not what happened to Ella?’
West sat back, folded her arms, and raised her eyebrows.
‘And how do you figure that?’ she said. ‘I don’t recall anyone saying she’d been drugged.’
‘No, I know,’ said Kirsty, ‘but something must have happened. I mean Ella’s not the kind of girl to simply slip and hit her head, she’s just too… careful. Sensible, you know?’
‘Okay,’ said West, ‘let’s pretend for a moment that she was. Drugged, I mean. How would that make a difference?’
‘I’m not sure. I was just thinking that if she and Jessica, if they were attacked by the same person, then I’d not forgive myself if anything happened to someone else and I’d kept my mouth shut.’
‘What about your pals?’ said Duncan. ‘Holly and Megan. Do they share your suspicions?’
‘Probably, but they’ll not speak up.’
‘I can vouch for that. Why so? Why are they keeping quiet?’
‘Too scared.’
‘And do they know you’re here?’
‘No. And I don’t want them to either.’
‘Fair enough,’ said West. ‘So, you want to make a statement, is that it?’
‘I just want to tell you what I know.’
West, more concerned with Dougal’s progress than the testimony of a teenager who’d hitherto remained unaffected by her friend’s premature death, cast a sideways glance at Duncan and stabbed the voice recorder.
‘For the benefit of the tape,’ she said, ‘the time is 3:27 pm. I’m DI West, also present is DC Reid and Miss Kirsty Young. So, Kirsty, you want to talk to us about Ella MacCall, is that right?’
‘It is, aye.’
‘And is this concerning the events leading up to her death?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘On you go,’ said Duncan. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, hen, trust me.’
Kirsty paused and took a deep breath.
‘I think I know who might be responsible.’
‘Okay,’ said Duncan, ‘let me stop you there. Before you go on, do you realise how serious this is? I mean, you can’t go making wild accusations based purely on a hunch, do you understand?’
Kirsty pursed her lips and nodded.
‘Just to be clear then,’ said West, searching for the missing part of the puzzle, ‘did this person drive you and your friends from Kilmarnock to the Ormidale Hotel on Arran?’
‘They did.’
‘And was this someone involved in some sort of a relationship with Ella MacCall?’
‘Most definitely, aye.’
Relieved to have finally found a witness who was willing to testify that their main suspect was indeed behind the wheel of the Vauxhall Insignia, West slumped in her seat back and smiled.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘just so you know, you’re perfectly safe. Alessandro Ricci, Alex, is currently behind bars so there’s absolutely no way he can get to you, okay?’
>
Kirsty, mystified by West’s presumptuous yet mildly reassuring statement, frowned at Duncan before directing her gaze at West.
‘Alex?’ she said. ‘No, no. See here, Inspector, you’ve got this all wrong. This has nothing to do with Alex.’
West, experiencing the kind of bowel movement normally associated with a plate of warm sashimi, sat bolt upright and glowered across the table.
‘Well, if it’s not Ricci,’ she said, ‘then who the hell is it?’
‘Isla,’ said Kirsty. ‘Isla Thomson.’
Stupefied by the allegation, West, maintaining her composure, slowly stood, slipped her hands into her pockets and leaned against the wall.
‘Isla Thomson?’ she said cynically. ‘And is this the same Isla Thomson who teaches PE on Arran?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘The same Isla Thomson who’s a volunteer with mountain rescue?’
‘Aye,’ said Kirsty, ‘and it’s the same Isla Thomson who coaches hockey, and it’s the same Isla Thomson who’s been dating Ella for over a year.’
‘Hold on,’ said Duncan, ‘are you saying Ella and Isla were…’
‘Oh come on, we’re not in the dark ages.’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t see that coming, that’s all. So, what happened?’
‘Usual story,’ said Kirsty. ‘A bust-up. Ella finished with her. Well, she tried to anyway.’
‘When?’
‘Can’t say for sure. A few weeks, maybe.’
‘And do you know why?’
‘Ella said Thomson was a control freak with a temper and a half. She let it go at first seeing as how Isla was that much older than her but then she got scared, and rightly so. I mean, you’ve seen her, she’s strong. I know a few fellas she could fell with a single punch.’
‘Did she have a history of violence against Ella?’ said West. ‘Did she ever hit her?’
‘No, not that I know of. But she was that fed up, she was bordering on depression.’
‘How bad?’
‘Bad enough.’
‘Was she suicidal?’
‘Not far off it,’ said Kirsty, ‘but Isla told her she was projecting, blaming their relationship for other stuff that was wrong with her life. She even gave her some pills, you know, anti-depressants. She said they’d help her sleep better.’