HUBRIS Page 5

  ‘McClusky?’ he said. ‘Would that be a Thomas McClusky?’

  ‘Yeah, why? Have you heard of him?’

  ‘It’s probably not the same chap,’ said Munro, ‘but there was a fellow by that name, some years ago now, long before I met you.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Och, eleven, twelve years, maybe.’

  ‘You mean he’s got form?’

  ‘If it’s the same gentleman,’ said Munro, ‘then definitely, aye. It was all over papers. He was convicted of armed robbery. He and his cronies held up a Loomis van as it went to restock the ATM at the Clydesdale in the town centre.’

  ‘Ah, the good old days,’ said West, ‘nothing like a bit of smash and grab, it’s all cybercrime these days. So, how were they caught?’

  ‘They were victims of their own stupidity,’ said Munro. ‘A failure to secrete the vehicle in a manner adequate enough to avoid detection, and a proliferation of SmartWater about their persons. McClusky and his three accomplices all went down for nine years apiece but they were out in four.’

  ‘Well, I doubt it’s the same McClusky,’ said West, ‘that would be too much of a coincidence, besides, my one can’t walk more than ten yards without getting out of breath. I can hardly see him running around with a shotgun in his hands.’

  ‘So, he’s a big chap?’

  ‘Put it this way,’ said West, ‘if Scotland had a sumo wrestling team, he’d be their captain.’

  ‘He may have piled on the beef since he got out.’

  ‘I think you’re chasing your tail, Jimbo. I mean, come on, what are the chances of it being the same bloke? Really?’

  Munro leaned back, closed his eyes, and frowned as he conjured up an image of McClusky in his mind.

  ‘Tell me, Charlie,’ he said, softly, ‘does this fellow look as though somebody used his nose as a dartboard?’

  A wry smile crept across his face as West fell silent.

  ‘And his ears, Charlie. Do his ears look as though they came from a vegetable stall?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said West, with a disgruntled sigh, ‘I just wish I’d kept my bleeding mouth shut.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Alright, alright! So, it sounds like the same bloke but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything now, I mean he was, what’s the word… nice. He was just too nice.’

  ‘Well, he could’ve turned a corner,’ said Munro, ‘I’ll grant you that. On the other hand, perhaps he’s found God. Aye, I can see him now, offering up his spare time for free, giving under-privileged members of society a sail around the harbour.’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘Two words, Charlie: leopard, and spots.’

  * * *

  With a diary devoid of social engagements and a husband who preferred to fraternise with his flock rather than mingle with the neighbours, Maureen Baxter had long since regarded the task of pressing her own clothes as nothing more than an exercise in futility.

  Bundling her blouses, skirts, and slacks into a laundry basket, she glanced out of the window and, with the night as black as pitch and still no sign of her husband, poured herself three fingers of her favourite malt and set about collecting another load for the washing machine, when the faint sound of a car easing up the drive drew her to the hall.

  Drained by the strain of spending the entire afternoon hunched over the wheel of his pick-up scouring the verges and the hedgerows of the coastal road for any sign of his daughter, a weary Willy Baxter, having taken a full three hours to cover twenty-five miles, groaned as he stepped through the door.

  ‘At least it’s not raining,’ he said, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands, ‘that’s something to be grateful for.’

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself,’ said Maureen, ‘I was starting to worry. Where have you been?’

  ‘Everywhere,’ said Baxter. ‘First, I went for a walk up the woods, and I even checked the old bothy, just in case she’d decided to have a wee lie-down. Then I drove all the way up to Glendoune and as I was up that way, I called in at the minicab office, I thought, you never know, they might have–’

  ‘And had they?’

  ‘No. They had not. Then after that I went back on myself, all the way down to the pub in Ballantrae. I could have murdered a pint, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing,’ said Baxter. ‘I hate to say it, but no-one’s seen hide nor hair of the girl.’

  ‘That Rhona,’ said Maureen, ‘with all this worry she’ll have me in my box in no time.’

  ‘Don’t be waiting on Rhona, hen. I’ve a hammer and nails if you’re in a hurry. Did you call that Callum fella?’

  ‘I did, aye, but there was no answer. I left a message.’

  ‘Well, maybe he’ll call you back,’ said Baxter. ‘Right, I need to eat, is there any food on the go?’

  ‘Aye, your supper’s in the oven,’ said Maureen. ‘You’ll have to help yourself.’

  ‘Oh, aye? And what are you up to?’

  ‘I’m busy washing, then I’m away to tidy the cellar.’

  ‘It’s not a cellar!’ said Baxter. ‘Besides, there’s nothing to tidy down there, it’s as clean as a whistle.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Maureen, ‘but that duvet and the pillow won’t find their way to the airing cupboard on their own.’

  * * *

  Alone in the den, she sat for a moment savouring the stone-cold silence and, wishing she’d brought the Glenfiddich with her, began to appreciate why the room, with its rows of books, worn wingback chair, and soft glow of an ageing standard lamp, was such an attraction.

  Hit by a wave of apathy at the thought of traipsing back upstairs with nothing to look forward to but a sink full of dirty dishes, she opened the ottoman, tossed the pillow inside and crammed the duvet on top, confounded by the feel of something substantially firmer than a layer of duck down tucked within its folds.

  ‘Willy Baxter!’ she said, yelling at the top of her voice. ‘You need to come here, this minute!’

  Baxter, a bowl in one hand and a napkin in the other, ambled down the stairs to find his wife perched on the edge of the sofa with the contents of a handbag scattered beside her.

  ‘What is it, woman?’ he said, as he took a mouthful of crumble. ‘It’s not a mouse, is it?’

  Maureen, her face riddled with angst, held a brown, leather tote aloft and frowned.

  ‘It’s Rhona’s,’ she said, ‘and look, it’s her purse. Where would she go without her purse?’

  ‘Maybe she had some cash in her pockets.’

  ‘No, no. There’s money here, and all her cards. And her phone. Willy, look at the phone, it says one missed call. That’s my number, from when I called her earlier.’

  ‘She’s not had any other calls?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Any text messages?’

  ‘No. Where on earth has she gone, Willy? Where?’

  Baxter set his bowl on the side and wiped his mouth.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if she’s not been hit by lightning, or walked into the sea, then I’m afraid, Maureen, I haven’t the foggiest.’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  Maureen, her hand trembling, passed him a small Jiffy bag and watched his brow furrow in disbelief as he fingered through the bundle of banknotes.

  ‘Am I seeing things?’ he said. ‘There’s hundreds here! A couple of thousand, maybe.’

  ‘Where did she get that kind of money?’

  ‘You don’t suppose she was–’

  ‘Willy Baxter! That’s our daughter you’re talking about!’

  ‘Just asking, hen. The question is, if she has this kind of money, then why did she lose her flat? Why could she not pay her rent?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not hers,’ said Maureen. ‘Or perhaps it’s her–’

  ‘Stop havering, woman! You know as well as I do, something’s not right here, not right at all. I’m away to make a telephone call.’

  ‘A call?
’ said Maureen. ‘But who? Who will you phone at this time of night?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ said Baxter, as he made his way upstairs. ‘I’m calling the police.

  Chapter 7

  Despite a commendably courageous but ultimately doomed attempt at changing his image from that of a bookish intellectual to an alpha male capable of terrifying the most hardened of criminals, the mild-mannered DS Dougal McCrae, having fallen at the first hurdle, remained haunted by his reputation for being socially inept which was compounded by an irrational fear of the opposite sex.

  With just one relationship in three years – a dalliance which comprised a handful of dates with a law graduate whose insatiable libido had left him on the verge of a nervous breakdown – having to sit uncomfortably close to the mousey yet undeniably attractive Kay Grogan, a young scenes of crime officer who not only shared his love of criminology but harboured a passion for freshwater fishing too, had him quaking in his boots.

  ‘Alright?’ said West as she breezed through the door. ‘Blimey, a full house! Who’s this then?’

  Dougal, his cheeks flushing, peered at West from behind his computer screen.

  ‘This is Kay,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I mean, Miss Grogan. Kay Grogan. She’s a SOCO.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ said West. ‘It’s not often we see your sort in here, especially this early.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve not been to bed,’ said Grogan. ‘We’ve been up all night on the Thistledonia.’

  West placed a brown paper carrier bag on the desk, raised her eyebrows, and smiled.

  ‘I have to say, you’re looking surprisingly fresh for someone who’s been up all night. That goes for you, too, Dougal. Something must be charging your batteries.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Duncan with a grin, ‘no prizes for guessing what that is!’

  ‘Well, you must be starving,’ said West. ‘Here we go, two square sausage, two bacon, and two fried egg. Take your pick.’

  ‘You’re alright,’ said Dougal. ‘Thanks all the same, miss, but we’ve already had ours.’

  ‘Oh, very cosy, I must say!’

  ‘I’ll take his,’ said Duncan, ‘I’m needing a full belly before I tackle those two numpties. They’re here already.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said West, wiring into a bacon roll, ‘we’d better get a wiggle on. It looks like you’ve been busy, so, have we got anywhere yet?’

  ‘We’re steaming ahead,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ll go first, you can chat with Dougal and the delightful Miss Grogan while I’m away.’

  ‘Okay, shoot.’

  ‘Background checks–’

  ‘Hold on!’ said West. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but that reminds me. Dougal, we need a background check on Tam McClusky, and dig deep, he’s got previous.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Duncan. ‘How d’you figure that?’

  ‘I had a word with Jimbo last night. Apparently, he went down for armed robbery a few years ago.’

  ‘Well, he’s keeping good company,’ said Duncan. ‘That Henry Boyd, the younger of the two, he’s got form, too.’

  ‘So, his brother was right,’ said West. ‘He does have a fear of authority after all.’

  ‘Aye, which is why he likes to keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘So, what’s the score?’

  ‘Aggravated assault,’ said Duncan, ‘and it’s recent, too. Nine months back, he’s on a suspended. He claimed some fella tried to mug him for his bag and he was only acting in self-defence but CCTV shows him pulverising the alleged thief beyond all recognition.’

  ‘So why didn’t he go down?’

  ‘The judge accepted his brief’s defence of “an uncharacteristic moment of madness” due to stress and fatigue. That, and an unblemished record, got him off.’

  ‘Do we know who tried to snatch his bag?’

  ‘Some chancer who’d been doing the rounds of all the pubs in the area.’

  ‘Get a name. You never know, it might come in handy. What about his brother Jack? Has he had his collar felt?’

  ‘No,’ said Duncan, ‘officially, he’s clean.’

  ‘What do you mean, officially?’

  Duncan glanced at West, scratched the stubble on his chin, and offered up a roguish smile.

  ‘I mean, he’s not been in trouble,’ he said, ‘not yet. However, I’ve just been looking into their company’s activities.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Okay, get this. He and his brother, as you know, they’re a couple of jobbing builders, handymen, if you will. Now, they’ve got a limited company, they call themselves “Moffat Repair and Restoration”, and that Jack, he’s a good lad, I’ll give him that. He’s filed their returns on time, every year, for the past four years.’

  ‘It seems like it’s all above board,’ said West. ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem I’m having, miss, is how do a couple of labourers manage a turnover of five hundred and fifty thousand pounds–’

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’

  ‘–and yet, after salaries and allowable expenses, make a loss of nine hundred and sixty-two pounds?’

  West stared at Duncan, dusted off her fingers, and reached for another roll.

  ‘Sounds to me like they’re running a laundry service.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought, so I’ve asked HMRC to send us a copy of their latest return.’

  ‘Nice one,’ said West. ‘So, what’s next? Apart from a decent cuppa.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Duncan, ‘I’m away downstairs. Dougal, have we enough to hold them?’

  ‘Oh, aye, Jack Boyd, definitely. Two counts, at least.’

  ‘Text me the details. Miss, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Dougal and his lady friend. I mean, colleague.’

  West filled the kettle, returned to her seat, and smiled at Grogan.

  ‘So, what happened, Kay?’ she said, with a wink. ‘Did you draw the short straw?’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector? I’m not sure I’m with you.’

  ‘Getting lumbered with Dougal, here.’

  ‘Oh, no, I offered! I thought, as this was a matter of some urgency, it was probably best if we ran through my findings now. Together. I can send a written report over later.’

  ‘Well, I hate to pile on the pressure,’ said West, ‘especially after an all-nighter, but Dougal, don’t forget we’ve got SOCOs heading over to the Boyds’ place later. You need to be there.’

  ‘Oh, that’s me,’ said Grogan. ‘Dougal’s going to run me down there on his scooter.’

  ‘Is he, by George?’

  ‘Aye, well, normally I’d not bother,’ said Grogan, ‘I’d arrange for somebody else to fill-in for me, but Dougal’s smashing to work with.’

  ‘Isn’t he just?’

  ‘Aye. Did you know he’s into fishing, too?’

  ‘Is he really?’ said West, sarcastically. ‘You mean you’re–?’

  ‘Oh, aye, it’s the best. The problem is, the only fellas I ever meet are either past it, or they spend their entire day sitting on the bank supping ale from a six-pack.’

  ‘I take it you’re not much of a drinker, then?’

  ‘No. A wee lager now and then, that’s all. I’m a pescatarian, too.’

  ‘Well, Dougal’s a Virgo so you should get on well. Right, what have you got for me?’

  Grogan spun on her seat, pulled a notebook from her bag, and glanced coyly at Dougal as she flicked to the relevant page.

  ‘Let’s start with the weapon,’ she said, ‘the knife that was lying beside the body.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The good news is, being below deck with the hatch closed, it was protected from the elements.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I’m afraid there’s no prints, and of course, we shall have to wait for Dr McLeod to confirm that it is actually the murder weapon, but having said that, the FLS did pick up plenty of body fluid on the blade, and that can only have come from the victim. We also found a few other bits and bobs, the
usual fibres and such. I doubt they’ll amount to much but they’re away for testing anyway.’

  ‘Well, disappointing about the prints,’ said West, ‘but it’s a start.’

  ‘Don’t be too disheartened, Inspector,’ said Grogan. ‘I did manage to get some prints from the wheelhouse.’

  ‘Blinding! And they obviously match the victim?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re not his,’ said Grogan, ‘but we did get a match.’

  ‘You’re going to love this,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s Jack Boyd.’

  ‘You are kidding?’

  ‘No, no. We already had his prints, miss. All it took was a wee look on the system, it’s a perfect match.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. Kay got some cracking samples off the screen on the chartplotter. It’s definitely him.’

  West, requesting a pause in proceedings, raised her hand as she returned to the kitchen, filled the mugs, and pondered the implications.

  ‘The things is,’ she said, ‘Jack Boyd swears blind that neither he nor his brother know the first thing about sailing a boat, so why would his dabs be on that piece of equipment?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not just the plotter,’ said Grogan, ‘we found his prints all over the bridge, and on the inside of the door as well.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Dougal, ‘something Kay found on the floor.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense,’ said West. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Boot prints,’ said Grogan. ‘A set of latent boot prints. Rubber sole, relatively new. There’s hardly any sign of wear on the heel or toe.’

  ‘Is there anything distinctive about them? Anything that’ll make identifying the wearer easier for us?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Grogan, ‘but they do have a chevron-style tread and I believe that to be unique to one manufacturer.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Dunlop, but don’t get your hopes up, they’re one of the most popular brands around.’

  ‘Okay, well, regardless of who makes them, please tell me they belong to the bloke in the hold.’

  Grogan smiled apologetically and shook her head.

  ‘The victim takes an eight,’ she said. ‘The prints in the cabin are a ten. Could they belong to one of yourselves, maybe?’