HUBRIS Page 8

  ‘Aye, her laptop. It’s on the shelf behind you.’

  ‘Has anyone used it apart from your daughter?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how,’ said Baxter, ‘and I’m pretty sure Rhona never touched it the whole time she was here.’

  ‘Good. I’ll need to take these with me,’ said West. ‘Is that alright with you?’

  ‘No bother. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, you can have them back later. Right, I won’t keep you any longer. Just so’s you know, we’ll find out who this Callum geezer is, maybe he can shed some light on her whereabouts, and like I said, I’ll have a word with the hotel, too.’

  ‘Much appreciated.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch when I have some news. In the meantime, try not to worry, and tell your wife we’ll find her, okay?’

  * * *

  There were, mused West, some folk in life who appeared to enjoy more than their fair share of luck, be it a win on the horses, six numbers on the lottery, or a hefty inheritance following the demise of a wealthy relative but Willy Baxter, having mislaid his daughter within a day or two of discovering the hollow carcass of an Icelandic national, was not one of them.

  Feeling a tinge of compassion for the ageing farmer who, if his luck continued, would doubtless contract a debilitating bout of pneumonia by nightfall, she pulled off the main road, Googled the hotel in Stranraer, and dialled.

  ‘Thank you for calling the North West Castle,’ came a voice. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Detective Inspector West. I’d like a word with whoever’s in charge, please.’

  ‘That’s myself. I’m Vince Campbell, the Duty Manager.’

  ‘Hello Vince, it’s about one of your staff, a Miss Rhona Baxter.’

  ‘Oh aye, Rhona. She’s not here just now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t be,’ said West, ‘not if you’ve fired her.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Campbell. ‘What do you mean, fired?’

  ‘I was told she’d lost her job.’

  ‘Well, if she has, it’s not this one.’

  ‘So, she still works there?’

  ‘Of course. And I’ll tell you this for nothing, Inspector, if we ever did have to let someone go, she’d be the last.’

  ‘I see. Sorry about that,’ said West. ‘I must have got my wires crossed. Can you tell me what time she’s due in?’

  ‘I wish I could,’ said Campbell, ‘but we’ve not seen her in days.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’d booked some time off but she was due back on Monday, unfortunately, she’s still not surfaced.’

  ‘Have you tried calling her?’

  ‘Aye, the landline at home, but no answer. And her mobile a few days ago.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where she is?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, but Rhona’s not one to shirk. We figured she’s probably come down with a wee cold or something, best to leave her in peace, we can cope for now.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said West, ‘no sense in spreading all those germs around, especially in your line of business.’

  ‘Exactly. If it’s not top secret, do you mind me asking if anything’s happened? I mean, is Rhona alright?’

  ‘Yeah, nothing to worry about really. It’s just her folks, they’ve been trying to get hold of her too, you know what parents are like.’

  ‘If they’re anything like mine, I feel for her.’

  ‘Listen, do you mind if ask you a couple of questions? It won’t take long.’

  ‘Aye, go on.’

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what Rhona does at the hotel?’

  ‘Main desk by day,’ said Campbell, ‘and front of house in the restaurant by evening.’

  ‘And would you say she was good at her job?’

  ‘The best there is. Stylish, impeccable manners, and she’s always willing to go that extra mile just to keep the guests happy. In fact, I’d go so far to say she’s half the reason most folk come back.’

  ‘So, she’s obviously happy at work?’

  ‘Oh, aye, she loves it here.’

  ‘No petty gripes? No problems with management or staff?’

  ‘No, she’s well-liked by everyone.’

  ‘I understand she has a boyfriend,’ said West, irked by the sudden beep in her ear, ‘a bloke called Callum. Do you know him?’

  ‘I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend, in fact, that’s probably why she’s so popular with the lads in the kitchen.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to leave it there, I’ve got a call waiting.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Campbell, ‘happy to help, and be sure to let us know when you find her, I’d hate to think something might have happened.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said West, taking the other call. ‘Duncan, how’s it going?’

  ‘I thought you might like a wee update on the Boyds, miss. Are you okay to talk?’

  ‘Yeah, how’d it go?’

  ‘Better than good,’ said Duncan. ‘Henry’s not said much, without his brother he seems to lose the gift of speech – he just clammed up.’

  ‘And that’s good?’

  ‘It is as far as Jack’s concerned. I’ve charged him with both offences under the Merchant Shipping Act, just like Dougal said.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I don’t trust him, he’s better off in custody than he is roaming the streets.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no chance of that, miss,’ said Duncan, ‘I’ve… I’ve taken a bit of a flyer.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this. Go on, let’s have it.’

  ‘I’ve arrested him on suspicion of the murder of Aron Jónsson.’

  West, whilst not averse to surprises, particularly those involving a single malt, was not so keen on those which appeared to flaunt the rules of due process.

  ‘You’ve done what?’ she said, raising her voice. ‘Have you lost the bleeding plot?’

  ‘Calm your jets, miss!’

  ‘Oh, I really hope you can back this up, Duncan! For God’s sake! We haven’t got a shred of evidence! We haven’t got anything that absolutely, irrefutably, without a shadow of a doubt, incriminates him!’

  ‘We have now.’

  West paused for a second and gazed at her phone.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing physical, I’ll give you that,’ said Duncan, ‘but I have him on tape. He knew Aron Jónsson was on board the Thistledonia when it ran aground, and get this, he also knew he was dead.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud! What you mean is, he assumed Jónsson was aboard the Thistledonia, like he assumed Jónsson was the one who nicked the boat in the first place!’

  ‘No, miss! You can hear it for yourself. Jack Boyd knew for a fact that Jónsson was dead, and before you ask, no, I didn’t push him, and no, I didn’t ask any leading questions, he tripped himself up.’

  West allowed the craftiest of smiles to creep across her face.

  ‘Well, that’s alright then,’ she said, ‘but listen, we still need to prove that he’s the perp. We need some hard evidence. I just hope for all our sakes that Dougal and the light of his life find something other than everlasting love at the Boyds’ place.’

  ‘Oh, I’m made up for him,’ said Duncan, ‘it’s about time he had something on the end of his line, the poor fella’s not had a bite in years. Anyway, they’re on their way back so we’ll know one way or the other before too long. Oh, and I nearly forgot, McLeod’s on his way over, he’s got some news.’

  ‘I hope it’s better than yours.’

  ‘Where are you, anyway?’

  ‘Baxter’s house.’

  ‘Willy Baxter?’ said Duncan. ‘How so?’

  ‘His daughter went missing yesterday. I thought there might be something in it.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Nah. Just a coincidence, I think. Don’t get me wrong, something’s definitely up with the girl but it sounds like boyfriend trouble to me.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is,’ said
Duncan, ‘I feel for old man Baxter, first the boat, then this.’

  ‘Tell me about it. If the poor sod opened a pub, they’d bring back prohibition. Right, I’m going to stick my foot down, I’ll be back before you know it. Do me a favour and get some grub in, would you? I’m starving.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Duncan. ‘Is there anything in particular you’re wanting?’

  ‘Not fussed,’ said West. ‘But for some strange reason, I do have a yearning for some apple pie and custard.’

  Chapter 10

  Regarding bachelorhood as a lonely but sure-fire way of safeguarding his daily routine and dogged pursuit of all things piscine, Dougal, though buoyed by the prospect of spending a weekend in the company of Kay Grogan, was characteristically anxious about the inevitable getting-to-know-you conversation where, at the risk of blowing his chances with a female of the species, he’d feel obliged to divulge his passion for ironing, his organisational OCD, and his fear of anything remotely canine.

  Saddled with the task of selecting a mutually agreeable activity which would also provide him with an escape route should his nerves get the better of him, he dismissed the notion of an intimate dinner for two, or sitting in a darkened cinema where a straying hand might cause him to jump from his seat, in favour of exploring the secret follies and woodland walks in the grounds of Culzean Castle.

  ‘Well, I think you’re mad,’ said Duncan as he demolished a BLT. ‘Have you not seen the forecast for the weekend? You’d have to be a numpty to go out in that weather.’

  ‘No, no, she likes the outdoors,’ said Dougal. ‘She’s an all-weather girl.’

  ‘And how about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Face it, pal. One dollop of mud on your trousers and you’ll be running home to change.’

  ‘Away!’

  ‘And what about after?’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Once you’ve walked your socks off, and you’re both soaked to the skin, what then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Duncan popped the lid on his takeaway latte, glanced at Dougal, and winked.

  ‘What if she invites you back to her place?’

  ‘Jeez-oh! I’d not thought of that!’

  ‘Worse still,’ said Duncan, ‘she might be wanting an invitation back to yours. You can’t refuse her if she does, she’ll think you’re odd.’

  ‘But it might be late!’

  ‘Then she’ll be wanting to stop the night.’

  ‘I’m getting the fear.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Duncan, ‘I’m just winding you up. You obviously like each other, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘So will I,’ said West as she breezed through the door, ‘just as soon as I’ve had something to eat. What have we got?’

  ‘Take your pick,’ said Duncan, ‘there’s a cheese-salad bap or an egg mayonnaise on wholemeal.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’

  ‘I am. There’s a BLT going begging, or a sausage toastie.’

  ‘Did you get any pie?’

  ‘Aye, and a wee tub of custard.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said West. ‘Dougal, just so’s you know, I’ve been to see Willy Baxter, his daughter’s gone missing so keep an eye out in case anything comes in.’

  ‘Will do, miss.’

  ‘So, have you had a fruitful morning?’

  ‘I have,’ said Dougal, ‘very fruitful, indeed.’

  ‘Hold up,’ said West. ‘Where’s your mate? Didn’t she go with you?’

  ‘She did, aye, but she’s away up to Glasgow. She’s taken everything we found to forensic services.’

  ‘Blimey, she’s keen.’

  ‘Well, as Duncan’s arrested the Boyds on suspicion of murder, we’ll be needing the results in less than twelve hours. She’s pushing to get them analysed straight away.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad someone’s on the ball,’ said West. ‘So, come on then, what did you find?’

  Dougal tapped his keyboard and swung the laptop round to face her.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ve downloaded all the photos I took on my phone so you can see for yourself. Now, do you watch that programme on the telly they call Cash in the Attic?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West, ‘I don’t watch TV, not much, anyway.’

  ‘Well, they could’ve named it after these fellas. This is a shot of the attic. As you can see, it’s full of the usual junk – tea chests, cardboard boxes, and the like – but you’ll also notice in the corner there, three nine-packs of toilet tissue.’

  ‘In the attic?’ said Duncan. ‘Dear, dear, that could be dangerous if you’re caught short.’

  ‘Let me give you a detail,’ said Dougal, scrolling to the next image. ‘You’ll see each pack had been opened and resealed with Sellotape and if I zoom in, you’ll also see bundles of twenty-pound notes stuffed in the middle of each roll.’

  ‘Got to hand it to them,’ said West. ‘It’s clever.’

  ‘We’ve not counted them all but there’s roughly fourteen hundred quid in each roll, so that’s about forty grand in total.’

  ‘Not bad for a day’s labouring,’ said Duncan. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Two pairs of Wellington boots. Both a size ten, both with a chevron tread. Kay, I mean, Miss Grogan, scanned them with the FLS and they’re contaminated. Blood.’

  ‘Blinding!’ said West. ‘I hope it’s Aron Jónsson’s, that’s exactly what we need.’

  ‘Aye, but hold,’ said Duncan. ‘Sorry, pal, but we seem to be skirting round the issue of the money. Where did that come from?’

  ‘Probably the proceeds of all that laundry they’ve been washing,’ said West. ‘Next photo, please.’

  ‘Oh, a black rucksack,’ said Duncan. ‘Jack Boyd mentioned that during the interview; it belongs to his brother. Some fella tried to steal it and Henry pummelled him to the ground, that’s how come he’s on a suspended.’

  ‘Well, I’d say whoever tried to nick it, got off lightly,’ said Dougal, ‘considering what we found inside.’

  ‘Come on,’ said West, ‘I’m getting excited, what was in it?’

  ‘Picture one, a box of blue disposable gloves. Picture two, a pair of boot socks. And picture three, a knife. Will I tell you why this knife is so special?’

  ‘No need,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s a fisherman’s knife. It’s used for filleting the guts out of anything that swims. Or not. As the case may be.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘There was one just like it next to Aron Jónsson’s body.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dougal, ‘the knife is contaminated, too. On to picture three.’

  West leaned forward and frowned as she squinted at the screen.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ she said. ‘It looks like a bleeding radish.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure myself,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s smooth and rubbery on the outside but hard in the middle, like a wee marble. We’ve not opened any of them, we’ll let FS take care of that.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West. ‘Them?’

  ‘Aye, nine in all.’

  ‘Looks like a prune to me,’ said Duncan. ‘Maybe that’s why the toilet roll’s in the attic. Did you not get a look at their motor?’

  ‘What motor?’

  ‘They’ve a big 4x4, was it not in the garage?’

  ‘No, but there was a trailer with a boat on the back.’

  ‘A boat?’ said West. ‘What kind of boat? You mean, like a canoe or something?’

  ‘Better than that,’ said Dougal as he set the next image to fill the screen. ‘This is what we call an RIB, miss, a rigid inflatable boat. It’s a type of dinghy, not dissimilar to the D class used by the RNLI, just a wee bit smaller, but take a look at the outboard, it’s a beauty.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said West, ‘but you’d better explain before I nod off.’

  ‘This is not the kind of engine you’d have for pootling around a duck pond. It’s a Mercury. One hundred and fifty horsepowe
r. On an RIB this size, it’ll have you skimming over the water at twenty, twenty-five miles an hour, easy.’

  ‘I know this must be relevant somehow,’ said West, ‘but please tell me how, exactly.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal, ‘remember the data we downloaded from the chartplotter and the AIS?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then you’ll recall I said it looked as though the Thistledonia had stopped off-shore before it was scuppered?’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say, what if it stopped to meet another boat? A wee boat so’s the crew could jump off before she was run aground.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dougal, ‘this could be that kind of boat.’

  ‘So, hang on,’ said Duncan. ‘What you’re suggesting is that someone else, a third party, could have powered that dinghy up to Lendalfoot, picked up Jack and Henry Boyd, then taken off again?’

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ said Dougal. ‘It is still a maybe.’

  ‘That’s genius, pal. The question is, where would they have gone with it?’

  ‘Anywhere they like. As long as there’s not any rocks to hinder them, they could drag it up a beach, no trouble at all.’

  ‘I drove past a lovely stretch of beach on the way back from Willy Baxter’s place,’ said West. ‘The thing is, would they be able to lift that thing over the Armco by the side of the road?’

  ‘No bother,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s a two-man job but easily done.’

  ‘In that case, that’s where we’ll have a gander. There might be some tracks on the lead-up to the road.’

  * * *

  With most callers to the office dispensing with the formality of knocking before entering, West, bemused by the polite rap on the door, turned and smiled as the willowy Andy McLeod stepped gingerly into the office.

  ‘Okay, Charlie?’ he said, rubbing his bushy red beard. ‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’

  ‘Only lunch,’ said West as she polished off the custard.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Are you not heating it up?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said West. ‘This is almost as good as cold baked beans.’

  ‘Heathen.’

  ‘Take a pew. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not if it’s custard on offer, no.’