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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Jimbo?’

  ‘Aye. She’d said that Nick Riley was Jessica’s father and that he’d walked out not long after she was born because he didn’t want to have kids. Not so. You see, Helen Sullivan first met Alessandro Ricci nearly twenty years ago…’

  ‘I can see where this is going.’

  ‘…when she spent an entire summer at the Siena Art Institute. She came back here and hey presto, nine months later…’

  ‘But Riley was having none of it,’ said West. ‘He knew Jessica wasn’t his and that’s why he left.’

  ‘Exactly, miss. Then after all the hoo-ha he went through at home, Ricci pitches up out of the blue…’

  ‘And Riley sees red.’

  ‘…which explains why he and Sullivan shacked up together so soon after getting re-acquainted.’

  ‘So Riley gets wind of this and decides to nail him once and for all. Set him up. Frame him.’

  ‘That’s how it looks.’

  Leaning on the steering wheel with her chin on her hands, West – mesmerised by the distant lights of a trawler bobbing across the Firth – remained anxious, despite the evidence, about arresting Riley unless the case against him was absolutely watertight.

  ‘I’ve got every faith in you Dougal,’ she said, ‘but we have to watch we don’t trip ourselves up.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘One tiny thing. The manicure set. How did it end up in Sullivan’s motor?’

  ‘I think I’ve got that covered,’ said Dougal. ‘Will we go?’

  * * *

  Accustomed to spending his evenings alone with a six pack of Stella and a curry flavour Pot Noodle, Riley, clutching a can of lager, padded down the hall in his stockinged feet and peered cautiously through the glass before opening the door.

  ‘Mr Riley,’ said Dougal. ‘I see you’ve lost the sling.’

  ‘It’s not worth the trouble, Sergeant. Oh, Inspector, I see you’re here too. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘We need a word,’ said West. ‘Mind if we come in?’

  ‘If you must.’

  Riley took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and led them to the lounge.

  ‘I’d offer you a tea or a coffee,’ he said as he slumped on the sofa, ‘but frankly I can’t be bothered.’

  ‘No worries,’ said West. ‘This won’t take long. It’s about your ex, Helen Sullivan.’

  ‘Oh aye? What about her?’

  ‘We thought you’d like to know that we won’t be doing her for possession of an offensive weapon….’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘…but she’d like to know if you’re going to press charges.’

  ‘Charges? What are you havering about? What charges?’

  ‘Well the most obvious one would be assault,’ said West. ‘Or to be more precise, GBH with intent.’

  ‘I see,’ said Riley. ‘So, you know it was her?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘The woman’s demented. A bampot. She needs locking up.’

  ‘Why the charade?’ said Dougal. ‘If you knew it was Helen who’d assaulted you, then why were you so keen for us to believe it was Alessandro Ricci?’

  ‘He needed to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘For taking advantage.’

  ‘Of who?’

  ‘Those girls in Italy.’

  ‘Those girls?’ said Dougal. ‘Or one girl in particular?’

  Riley, undaunted by the question, calmly crossed his legs, swilled the beer round the can, and took a large gulp.

  ‘So,’ said West. ‘Are you going to press charges?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got a few we’re going to throw at you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yup. We’ll start with perverting the course of justice,’ said West, ‘then there’s that old favourite, wasting police time and, oh, before I forget, you might like to know that Alessandro Ricci is considering suing you for defamation.’

  Riley finished his beer, crushed the can, and laughed.

  ‘He’s going to do that from his cell, is he? Very good, Inspector. Very good indeed.’

  ‘He’ll not be in a cell,’ said Dougal.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We can’t put him in a cell if he’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ said Riley. ‘Nothing wrong? The man’s guilty of murder!’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Aye! Jessica! And he attacked her pal too!’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ said West. ‘I mean, what makes you think Alessandro Ricci had anything to do with the assault on those girls?’

  ‘The inspector’s right,’ said Dougal. ‘Your imagination’s running away with you, Mr Riley. Best take it easy on the ale, eh?’

  ‘Don’t patronise me!’ said Riley. ‘Good God! Are you that stupid? Of course it was him! Have you forgotten about the tattoos!’

  ‘Oh aye, of course. The tattoos.’

  ‘Vixi,’ said Riley. ‘It’s the same phrase he inscribed on his victims in Italy! Now you tell me, who else could have done that?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ said Dougal, frowning as he scratched the back of his neck. ‘It’s a question I asked myself many times over until we discovered what the perpetrator used to disfigure those girls. See here, Mr Riley, it was a wee pair of nail scissors, but here’s the thing: when the perp had finished his job, he didn’t wipe them clean and what’s more, he left his fingerprints all over the wee case they came in.’

  ‘Well, there you have it! If you’d done your job properly before coming round here accusing innocent folk of crimes they didn’t commit, then Ricci would be behind bars by now!’

  ‘Sorry to tell you this,’ said West, ‘but the prints don’t belong to Ricci.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not him,’ said Riley, ‘why are you not looking for a match? Why aren’t you out looking for him?’

  ‘We are. And guess what? We’ve found him. They’re your prints.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such garbage!’ said Riley as he grabbed another beer. ‘Honestly, why on earth… why on earth would I want to hurt those girls?’

  ‘You probably didn’t,’ said Dougal. ‘Not intentionally, anyway. It was Alessandro Ricci you wanted to hurt. Jessica’s father...’

  Riley froze for a moment, glanced furtively at West, and cracked open the beer.

  ‘…but the reason you wanted to frame him, the real reason, was to get back at Helen for betraying you.’

  ‘Utter tosh!’ said Riley. ‘Okay, you’ve outstayed your welcome, pal! I think you’d better leave!’

  ‘So, you followed him. You’d been following him for weeks, you admitted as much yourself. And when you saw Sophie leap from his car outside the club, you went after her. She was already blootered but you probably gave her a wee drink anyway, for shock I imagine. Then you went after Ricci again, you knew where he’d be headed so no rush, eh? But when Jessica jumped out of the car and headed through the park it a was golden opportunity, too good to miss.’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said Riley as he drained the can. ‘I despair, I really do. How the hell did you two numpties get to be where you are today? Do you not think the wee lassie would have screamed her head off if I’d been chipping away at her with a pair of scissors?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said West. ‘Would you? Would you have screamed your head off if you’d had a skinful and then been drugged?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard it all now. You’re telling me Jessica was drugged?’

  ‘That’s right. You see, Mr Riley, DS McCrae here had a chat with the bloke who stitched you up.’

  ‘Have you been talking to my bookie?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Dougal. ‘But no. The inspector means the doctor at the hospital. After he’d cleaned you up, he offered you some painkillers and you specifically asked for something strong on account of your low pain threshold. Not only that, you wanted an effervescent.�
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  ‘I have trouble swallowing.’

  ‘So he gave you high-dose Co-codamol. Enough for two weeks. And that’s what the pathologist found in Jessica’s system. Codeine phosphate. That’s what knocked her out.’

  Riley set the empty can on the table, sat back, and stretched his arms across the top of the sofa.

  ‘I’m an investigative journalist,’ he said. ‘In many ways my line of work is no different to yours. The difference is, I’m good at it whereas you… Well, I can already see a gaping hole in your theory.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Dougal. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘This pair of scissors. And the wee case they came in. Where did you find them? Was it here, in my house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did I leave them in your office?’

  ‘No. Not there either.’

  ‘Then where did you find them?’

  ‘In Helen Sullivan’s car,’ said Dougal.

  ‘In Helen’s car?’ said Riley. ‘Is that so? And just how do you think they got there?’

  ‘She has a spare key.’

  ‘Aye, exactly! She has a spare key. Not me!’

  ‘No, but you know where to find it.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Riley. ‘I broke into Helen’s house in the dead of night, took the key, put the scissors in the car, then put the keys back, is that right?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Dougal. ‘You wouldn’t have to.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, Mr Riley, when the scenes of crime officers pulled apart her car, they found the spare key. Taped beneath the filler cap. And they also found a lovely thumb print on it. Your thumb print.’

  Riley, saying nothing, belched under his breath, bent forward, and pulled on his shoes as West, standing with her hands in her back pockets, smiled at Dougal and nodded.

  ‘Nicholas Riley,’ he said, ‘I’m arresting you for perverting the course of justice, administering a substance with intent, actual bodily harm, and the murder of Jessica Sullivan. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the charge?’

  ‘Grab your coat,’ said West. ‘You’re nicked.’

  Epilogue

  Apart from the occasional petty and largely inconsequential arguments which revolved mainly around his wife’s incessant need to scrub every surface of the house to within an inch of its life, the key to Munro’s otherwise faultless and enduring marriage – one that had, until Jean’s untimely death, lasted for forty-three years – was a shared passion for sitting in front of a roaring fire with a book in one hand and a whisky in the other whilst trying desperately to stay awake.

  However, of the multifarious activities they’d enjoyed together, from pottering around the garden to hiking up the Grey Mare’s Tail in a torrential downpour, none could have surpassed the simple pleasure of sharing a meal prepared by her own fair hand.

  Recalling with fondness how barely a word was said as they stuffed their faces, he slipped a tray into the oven and uncorked the wine as the door in the hall slammed shut.

  ‘Charlie!’ he said. ‘I was just about to send for search and rescue. You look happy.’

  ‘I’m delirious. And I’m knackered. And I’m gasping for a drink.’

  ‘I take you’ve had a good day then?’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said West, beaming as she caught sight of the counter laden with food. ‘Blimey, you’ve pushed the boat out. What’s all this, the last supper?’

  ‘It’s the last one you’ll be getting from me, that’s for sure. I’ve a Camembert in the oven for starters and two steaks ready for the pan.’

  ‘That’s not sirloin, is it?’

  ‘Fillet, no less.’

  ‘Pudding?’

  ‘Sticky toffee,’ said Munro as he handed her a glass. ‘Your very good health.’

  ‘Not on that lot, it won’t be.’

  ‘So? What’s the story?’

  West flung her jacket on the sofa, pulled up a chair and sighed as she took a large sip of wine.

  ‘Where do I begin?’ she said. ‘John McIver’s in the clear but his sidekick, that Isla Thomson woman, she’s going down for the murder of Ella MacCall.’

  ‘Is she indeed?’

  ‘Yup, no two ways about it. She’s as guilty as sin.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, you won’t believe it, but she and Ella were an item. Thomson was obsessed with her and Ella, poor cow, was driven to depression by her coercive behaviour.’

  ‘That’s not right,’ said Munro. ‘Did she not seek help?’

  ‘She tried, but let’s face it, she’s a kid, she didn’t know where to go so she walked out on Thomson who then succumbed to the old green-eyed monster. She swiped McIver’s medication, laced the flask, and gave it to Ella.’

  ‘What is it with folk and relationships these days?’ said Munro. ‘They dinnae seem cut out for each other.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said West. ‘So, it seems Ella, poor cow, just to get away from Thomson and her mates, went up Goat Fell alone, obviously polished off the soup that Thomson had given her on the way, and that was it, sayonara baby. Oh, and get this, it turns out Nick Riley isn’t Jessica’s old man after all. It’s Alessandro Ricci.’

  Munro cocked his head smiled.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  ‘I had my suspicions.’

  ‘How? For crying out loud,’ said West, ‘how could you have possibly known that?’

  ‘Dear God, Charlie! You’ve been blessed with the gift of sight, you should learn to use it. Have you not seen Jessica Sullivan? She’s more Mona Lisa than Mary Queen of Scots.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Because,’ said Munro, ‘there comes a time when you have to take the stabilisers off the bicycle.’

  ‘Whatever that means.’

  ‘So, that’s Ricci off the hook, I assume?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said West. ‘He’ll still do time on the insurance gig because he can’t afford to pay the fine, oh, and at the risk of inflating your ego even more, you’ll be pleased to know you were right about Helen Sullivan too. It was her who attacked Riley.’

  Munro checked the oven, topped up the glasses, and joined West at the table.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘that just leaves Jessica and young Sophie.’

  ‘Sorted,’ said West, ‘but if it wasn’t for Dougal then I have to admit I’d probably still be scratching my head.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Nick Riley. He’s the one who topped Jessica.’

  ‘Well, I thought there was something fishy about the fellow,’ said Munro, ‘but I didnae see that coming.’

  ‘He was out to frame Ricci for having a ding-dong with his fiancée years ago but he went a bit too far. If he’s lucky he might get off with manslaughter, that’s if his brief can convince a jury that he didn’t mean to do it. Either way, he won’t be writing any more articles for a while.’

  Munro leaned back and raised his glass.

  ‘To you,’ he said. ‘Well done, Charlie.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s funny really.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ said West. ‘All the time I was in London, I spent almost every day taking crap from all the blokes I worked with. The snide comments, the way they’d set me up for a fall, how they did their best to make me look like an idiot. They were convinced I’d never make it. Or rather, they didn’t want me to make it.’

  ‘You’d be wise to remember, Charlie, it’s the cock that crows but it’s the hen that delivers the goods.’

  ‘You’re a one-off, you know that?’ said West nodding towards the oven. ‘How long’s that going to take?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘So, what happened to you earlier? Sloping off on the quiet? What was this secret appointment you had to keep?’

&
nbsp; ‘Och, nothing secret about it,’ said Munro. ‘I had to get my sodium levels checked.’

  ‘Sodium? What’s that about then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Probably too much salt in your diet. Hold on a minute! You can’t stand doctors! What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If you’re keeping something from me…’

  ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said West, ‘but you’d better not be lying. So, what’s the plan for tomorrow? Are you heading back to yours to finish your decorating?’

  ‘Not immediately, Charlie, no.’

  ‘In that case, after I’ve had a good, long lie-in, I’ll do us a fry-up, it’ll set you up for the day.’

  ‘Not for me, lassie,’ said Munro as he laid the table. ‘I’m away to Glasgow first thing.’

  ‘Glasgow? What for?’

  ‘Bypass.’

  ‘You’re going to Glasgow to look at the bypass?’

  ‘No, no. To have a bypass,’ said Munro. ‘I’m going into hospital.’

  West, already bruised and battered by the day’s events, felt as though she’d taken a sucker punch to the jaw.

  ‘You’re having a heart bypass?’ she said.

  ‘Not one, Charlie. Three.’

  ‘A triple bypass?’

  ‘You know me. I’m not one to do things by halves.’

  Still reeling, West stumbled to her feet, snatched the Balvenie from the cupboard, and poured herself a large dram.

  ‘When I came through the door,’ she said, ‘I really felt like celebrating, but now…’

  ‘And so you should,’ said Munro. ‘Now calm yourself or you’ll ruin your appetite.’

  ‘But it’s so unfair! I mean, why? How come you have to go through that when the likes of Riley and…’

  ‘Wheesht, lassie! You’re not helping matters by getting upset! Now just you listen to me, it doesnae matter about Riley, or any other murdering lowlife, all you have to remember is that when the game’s over, the pawn and the king go back in the same box. Do you get me?’

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so relaxed about it, I really don’t. So, come on then, what brought this on? Have you had a heart attack or something? I mean, I know you’ve not been feeling yourself recently but this…’