HUBRIS Read online

  HUBRIS

  A lost boat, a stray girl and a gutted salt faze Scottish police

  PETE BRASSETT

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  HUBRIS is the eleventh book in the Scottish murder mystery series featuring detectives James Munro and Charlie West. It can be enjoyed as a standalone or as part of the series.

  The full list of books in the series, in order of publication, is as follows:

  SHE

  AVARICE

  ENMITY

  DUPLICITY

  TERMINUS

  TALION

  PERDITION

  RANCOUR

  PENITENT

  TURPITUDE

  HUBRIS

  Further details about these books and other titles by Pete Brassett can be found at the end of this one.

  “What we sow in youth we reap in age.

  The seed of the thistle always produces the thistle.”

  James Thomas Fields

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Character List

  Other books in this series:

  More brilliant fiction by Pete Brassett:

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  Prologue

  Unlike the residents of nearby Girvan and Stranraer whose urban existence was sullied by the constant distraction of noisy bars, clubs, and restaurants, neds on joyrides, and the piercing wail of police sirens, the denizens of Lendalfoot – an all but isolated coastal farming community with barely enough houses to qualify as a village – lived with their senses attuned to the rustle of the leaves on the trees, the bleat of a stray lamb, or the tell-tale signs of an impending storm.

  Mindful of waking his wife, Willy Baxter, a wiry, sixty-two-year-old with hair as rusty as his favourite sweater, slipped from the comfort of their bed, made his way downstairs, and zipped his coat to the collar, safe in the knowledge that by the time he returned there’d be a roaring fire in the hearth and the house would be filled with the welcoming aroma of a full, fried breakfast and burned toast.

  Relying on instinct rather than the beam of a flashlight, he made his way across the sodden field towards an abandoned stone bothy where the youngest of his flock, a mix of blackface and Cheviots, would be waiting for their feed, the half-mile trudge made all the more arduous by the driving drizzle and the biting south-westerly battering his back.

  Distracted by the familiar sight of a ship’s beacon, he cupped his hands around his eyes in an effort to focus on the pulsating light, perturbed not because it appeared larger than usual, nor because, against the sinister silhouette of Ailsa Craig rising from the waves, it seemed brighter than usual, but because, unlike the other trawlers, container ships, or cruise liners that crossed the firth, it was completely stationary.

  Forsaking the lambs to satisfy his curiosity, he made for the shore where, with the sound of the diesel engine rumbling beneath the roar of the wind, he stood, hands in pockets with his hood billowing about his head, mesmerised by the stricken wreck.

  With its blue, timber hull, white wheelhouse, and worn rubber tyres lashed to the prow, the boat – a twenty-eight footer, listing on the rocks – was what many a landlubber would describe as ‘charming’ or ‘traditional’, but for a bemused Baxter, the fact that a fishing vessel could stray off-course and run aground with the nearest harbour just four and a half miles to the north was utterly inconceivable unless, of course, a soul had perished on board.

  With scant regard for his own safety, or the rheumatism in his shoulders, he yanked his phone from his pocket, called the coastguard, and waded waist-deep into the icy water, cursing as he struggled to drag himself onto what appeared to be the Celtic equivalent of the Mary Celeste.

  Half-expecting to find the skipper slumped at the helm with an empty bottle of rum by his side, Baxter, whose experience of boats was largely limited to availing himself of the bar facilities aboard the Arran ferry, was astute enough to realise that the glowing computer screens and the incessant beep echoing around the cramped confines of the bridge, was evidence enough that the navigation system was functioning as normal.

  Returning to the open deck, he made his way aft and, shuddering at the swell of the sea, concluded that the crew, short of abandoning ship for no apparent reason, must have been swept overboard unless, by some bizarre twist of fate, they’d become trapped in the hold.

  Dropping to his knees, he slipped a finger beneath a round, brass catch, raised the hatch to the cold store beneath and, by the light of his phone, peered inside where, had the excursion been a fruitful one, he’d have been greeted by the sight of threshing mackerel or a haul of pollock. However, despite being as hard as a slab of Galloway granite, what lay before him was enough to make him scramble for the stern and heave the remnants of last night’s supper over the side.

  Chapter 1

  No longer reeling from the emotional turmoil of a broken engagement to a gamophobic toff whose serial philandering had not only driven her to contemplate opening a vein but also, as a direct consequence, transformed her once burgeoning career into a car crash waiting to happen, Charlotte West, following a serendipitous encounter with DI James Munro whilst on secondment to the East End of London, was acutely aware that were it not for her senior’s size twelve constantly pounding her backside, she would now be in rehab or, worse still, six feet under.

  On his return to Caledonia, Munro, recognising that she’d yet to fulfil her potential and would doubtless, without the necessary guidance and support, spiral into oblivion, had cajoled her into transferring north of the border where, under his watchful eye and burdened with a sense of responsibility, she finally repressed the urge to spend her evenings downing copious amounts of cheap vodka and falling face first into a half-eaten kebab and had, instead, risen through the ranks to become a confident, if not impetuous, Detective Inspector.

  With Munro convalescing from heart by-pass surgery and enjoying his retirement in the company of Murdo, a rescue dog with whom he shared a passion for beef and a dislike of vegetables, she was able to divert her attention away from ‘Jimbo’, her mentor and father figure, to concentrate on the job in hand.

  * * *

  Unlike her former self, who would have needed nothing less than a 7.2 on the Richter scale to rouse her from her slumber, West, now armed with more carpe diem than an ornamental fish pond, was ready to go when, at precisely 5.35am, she received a call from DS Duncan Reid informing her that he was on his way over.

  Clad in her favourite black jeans, white tee shirt, and waxed biker jacket, West, who chose to spend her disposable income on essentials like steak, wine, and chocolate, rather than fritter it away on needless frivolities like cosmetics, finished her make-up routine, which comprised smearing a dab of cherry-flavoured balm across her lips, tucked her hair beneath her cap, and dashed across the rain-soaked courtyard to the waiting Audi
.

  ‘This is a first,’ she said as she slipped into the passenger seat, ‘blokes are normally dragging me into bed at half-five in the morning, not out of it.’

  ‘Oh, the joys of a misspent youth,’ said Duncan with a grin, ‘we’ve all been there.’

  ‘Who said anything about youth? I’m talking last Tuesday. So, what have we got?’

  ‘Bacon,’ said Duncan, handing her a roll, ‘brown sauce, and a body in a boat.’

  ‘Must be the catch of the day. Where is it?’

  ‘A few miles south of Girvan.’

  ‘So, how do we get there?’ said West as she demolished her breakfast. ‘Have they got a chopper for us, or do we have to row out?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Duncan, ‘if we did, I’d not be here. You forget. Me and boats, separated at birth.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re no Captain Pugwash, are you?’

  ‘Well, can you blame me? If you remember, the last time I was on a boat, it was with yourself, and it nearly turned into a submarine.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ said West, ‘it was only a force nine, no big deal.’

  ‘Well, this one’s on the rocks, so it’s going nowhere. Oh, and your pal McLeod’s already there.’

  ‘Pathologists, eh? Where would we be without them?’

  ‘Aye, right enough, every home should have one. Have you heard from the chief?’

  ‘Jimbo? Yup, we had a chat last night,’ said West. ‘He’s doing fine and if you asked me, I’d say it was all down to that dog.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It gives him a sense of purpose. You know what he’s like, he can’t sit still for a minute. At least now he’s got the dog to look after, he won’t be interested in what we’re up to.’

  Duncan turned to West, scratched the stubble on his chin, and smiled.

  ‘I’d not count on that,’ he said as he fired up the engine. ‘Mark my words, once he gets a sniff of this, he’ll be back, just you see.’

  * * *

  With the biting south-westerly gaining strength and a raft of thunderous, black clouds threatening to unleash a deluge of biblical proportions, the atmosphere on the beach, bar the eerie glow of flashing blue lights, was as dark as the sky above.

  Duncan, whose image was contrived to help him blend effortlessly amongst life’s more unsavoury characters, buttoned his beaten leather car coat, pulled his woollen watch cap low over his brow and, in his tatty jeans and scuffed boots, approached the constable with his arm outstretched like a jakey on the beg.

  ‘Alright, pal?’ he said, waving his warrant card. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said the dour-looking officer, nodding towards the boat. ‘I’m just directing traffic, if any shows up.’

  ‘Well, who’s in charge?’

  The constable shrugged his shoulders as a tall, hooded figure wearing a white Tyvek suit appeared like a spectre on deck.

  ‘Duncan!’ said McLeod, hollering above the roar of the wind. ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  ‘Right here,’ said West. ‘You alright?’

  ‘A wetsuit wouldn’t go amiss but apart from that, aye, not bad. And yourself?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. Permission to come aboard, captain?’

  ‘Granted. But you’ll be needing a suit first.’

  ‘What? In this weather?’

  ‘Suit. The pair of you.’

  * * *

  Looking not unlike the mascot of a well-known tyre company, Duncan, stressing the seams of his coveralls, wedged himself in the doorway of the wheelhouse while West, swivelling on the pilot’s chair, regarded McLeod with a mild look of amusement as his head skimmed the ceiling.

  ‘Well, this is fun,’ she said, wincing at the audible beep in the background. ‘I’ve never played sardines on a boat before.’

  ‘Dear, dear. You’re not claustrophobic are you, Charlie?’

  ‘Only in certain company. Can we turn that blooming thing off?’

  ‘I’d not do that,’ said Duncan, ‘not yet anyway. It’s probably the GPS or something. Best leave it for someone who knows what they’re doing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s got some sensitive information on it?’

  ‘Alright,’ said West, ‘good point, I suppose. So, do we know any boffins with a nautical bent?’

  ‘Oh, wake up, miss, you’ve been working with Dougal long enough. He’s fishing daft, you know that.’

  ‘Of course he is. Sorry, it’s just that every time you mention his name, I keep thinking of Brains from Thunderbirds, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, he’s on his way over,’ said Duncan, ‘but he’ll not be here in a hurry, not on that wee scooter of his.’

  ‘In that case,’ said West, ‘we may as well press on. Andy, any idea who’s in charge here?’

  ‘Aye, it’s a Sergeant Miller,’ said McLeod. ‘He’s in the squad car.’

  ‘Really? What’s he doing there? Afraid of getting his uniform wet?’

  ‘Actually, he’s having a wee chat with the fella who called this in, a chap by the name of Baxter. He spotted the boat from over the way, there.’

  ‘That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? I mean, what the hell was he doing out here at this time of the morning? In this weather?’

  ‘He’s a farmer.’

  ‘Oh. Fair enough. Okay, we’ll have a word with him later. Can you fill us in on anything, now?’

  ‘All I know,’ said McLeod, ‘is that this fella, Baxter, saw the boat, called the coastguard, then hopped on board.’

  ‘Why?’ said West. ‘Surely any sane person would’ve stayed on dry land?’

  ‘He’s a local, Charlie. He knows what can happen out here. From his point of view, the only reason this boat could’ve ended up here, is if there’d been an accident. If somebody was injured.’

  ‘And were they?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘So, what happened next?’

  ‘The coastguard secured the vessel and killed the engine.’

  ‘Hold up,’ said West, ‘you mean the motor was still running?’

  ‘Apparently. It’s not a bad thing as it happens, that’s basically what’s kept it on the rocks.’

  ‘All a bit odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Which is precisely what Baxter thought. He assumed the crew had toppled overboard. In fact, the chopper’s somewhere out there now looking for anyone bobbing about in a life jacket.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then he took a wee peek in the cold store.’

  ‘And what did he find?’

  ‘Have you had your breakfast?’

  ‘Only a bacon roll.’

  ‘Then you should be fine.’

  McLeod led them to the stern of the boat, lifted the hatch to the cold store, and directed the beam of his hand-held searchlight into the hold.

  ‘Down there,’ he said. ‘I’m warning you now, Charlie, it’s not a pleasant sight. It’s not pleasant at all.’

  Chapter 2

  West, having discovered a freezer full of body parts on her very first assignment with Munro, was unperturbed by anything McLeod had to offer and cast him a sideways glance before peering into the hold.

  Overwhelmed by a morbid curiosity and fascinated by what was undoubtedly one of the most bizarre spectacles she’d ever witnessed in her entire career, she took the torch from his hand, dropped to the deck and, lying flat on her stomach, lowered her head beyond the hatch for a closer look.

  Male. Roughly five feet, seven inches tall. Dark brown hair. Bushy beard. Stocky but not muscular. Naked from the waist up. Wounds: two. The first, a deep, clean incision running from the neck to the groin. The second, approximately ten inches long, running across the torso at right angles to the first.

  Lowering her right arm, she gently pulled the puffy, milky-white flesh to one side and was surprised to see, through a shallow pool of blood and body fluid, what appeared to be the vertebrae of the spine glinting in the torch
light.

  ‘Bloody nora!’ she said. ‘It’s like he’s been… what’s the word?’

  ‘Gutted?’ said McLeod.

  ‘Well, it is a fishing boat,’ said Duncan, ‘par for the course, if you asked me. Jump up, miss, give us a wee look. What’s he missing?’

  ‘Most of the lower bits and bobs,’ said McLeod. ‘I can’t say exactly from up here but it looks like the stomach, pancreas, liver, kidneys, intestine, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a beauty!’ said Duncan. ‘No prizes for guessing where that lot ended up.’

  ‘Right enough. It must have been a fair old feeding frenzy for the fishies, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Best keep Dougal away from this. He’ll pass out on the spot.’

  ‘The question is,’ said West, ‘why? I mean, killing someone is easy enough, but why unzip them like a sleeping bag?’

  ‘I deal with the hows, Charlie,’ said McLeod, with a smile. ‘The whys are your department.’

  ‘Well, give us a how then. For example, how did another bloke manage to fit down there and slice him open?’

  ‘He didn’t,’ said McLeod. ‘That fella sustained his injuries up here, then he was tossed below deck.’

  ‘Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “down the hatch”. Got a weapon?’

  ‘Aye, it’s a fisherman’s knife. It’s down there, next to the body.’

  ‘I saw it,’ said Duncan, getting to his feet. ‘It’s double-edged, about four or five inches long.’

  ‘Correct,’ said McLeod. ‘One side of the blade is smooth, that’s used for making an incision in the flesh; the other side is serrated with a wee hook at the end, that’s used for ripping out the guts.’

  ‘Eloquently put,’ said West. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much else you can tell us just yet, is there?’

  ‘Not until I’ve done a post-mortem, but that won’t take long. Whoever did this has saved me a couple of hours’ work.’

  ‘And do you think whoever it was, has experience of gutting fish?’

  ‘I’d not take that as a given, Charlie. A knife’s a knife. No experience necessary.’