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  ‘Relax,’ said West, ‘this is mine, but there is a spare BLT if you fancy it.’

  ‘Are you not wanting it yourself?’

  ‘Nah, I’m stuffed.’

  ‘That’s a first.’

  ‘Steady, mate. Carry on like that and you’ll wind up on one of your own slabs.’

  ‘Alright, Doc?’ said Duncan, waving a hand. ‘How’s life in the cold store?’

  ‘I’m dead on my feet. Any chance of a brew?’

  ‘No bother, sit yourself down.’

  ‘So, will I give you the news?’

  ‘Two ticks,’ said West as she yanked a laptop from her bag. ‘Dougal, this belongs to Baxter’s daughter, Rhona. See if there’s anything interesting on it, would you?’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’

  ‘And this is her phone. There’s a number on there for a geezer called Callum. I need a second name and an address. Right, Andy, give us what you’ve got.’

  As a forensic pathologist working long, unsociable hours, Andy McLeod embraced the opportunity to share in some light-hearted banter with his friends and colleagues during his visits to the office as a welcome respite from the one-sided conversations he’d have with his clients in the mortuary.

  Accepting the offer of a sandwich, he removed his coat, pulled a small memo pad from his pocket, and sat down.

  ‘I made myself some notes,’ he said, ‘you can read the full report as soon as it’s available. Okay, let’s start with the cause of death. Our friend, Mr Jónsson, suffered two intrusions to the chest, the second entered the intercostal space between T3 and T4 and penetrated the left ventricle where subsequent–’

  ‘Stop!’ said West, raising her hands. ‘Sorry, Andy, I hate to be a killjoy but can you put it in layman’s terms, please.’

  McLeod sipped his tea, glanced at West, and smiled.

  ‘He was stabbed,’ he said. ‘In the heart.’

  ‘Cheers. And the weapon?’

  ‘Well, there’s a nice, clean cut on one side of the wound at the point of entry, whilst the other is, shall we say, somewhat ragged. In other words, as we thought, it’s a perfect match for the knife we found beside the body.’

  ‘That’s smashing,’ said Duncan, ‘but tell me something, Doc, if he was already dead, then why would they want to butcher him?’

  ‘I’ve a vague idea,’ said McLeod. ‘No. In fact, I’m being too modest. I know exactly why they cut him open.’

  ‘Cor blimey,’ said West, ‘talk about dragging it out! Come on, Andy, speed it up.’

  ‘An analysis of sample fluid taken from the body cavity tested positive for traces of benzoylmethylecgonine.’

  West stared at McLeod and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Cocaine,’ he said, as he slid a sealed, plastic bag across the table, ‘and for la pièce de résistance, I give you exhibit A.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said West. ‘Another bleeding radish.’

  ‘You mean you’ve got more?’

  ‘Yeah, Dougal found them. They belong to the blokes who chartered the boat.’

  ‘In that case, Charlie,’ said McLeod with a smile, ‘I think you’ve grounds enough to charge them with possession at least, and probably intent to supply, as well. You see, this here is not a radish, it’s a balloon, one of two I found in Mr Jónsson’s body. The second had already made its way to the large bowel, its journey no doubt expedited by an opening dose of fear. Inside each balloon, double-wrapped in latex, is approximately ten to twelve grams of cocaine.’

  ‘So,’ said West, ‘you’re telling me he swallowed them?’

  ‘Well, he certainly didn’t ingest them from the other end. My guess is he’d swallowed more than two, probably a fair few, and that’s why they unzipped him.’

  ‘Okay, but that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? I mean, for a tiny lump like that, wouldn’t it have been easier to let nature take its course?’

  ‘Some things in life,’ said Duncan, grinning, ‘are definitely not worth waiting for. See here, miss, that nose candy has a street value of roughly forty quid a gram, so that tiny lump, as you put it, is worth four or five hundred quid.’

  ‘Duncan’s right,’ said McLeod, ‘and if he’d swallowed, I don’t know, say ten, then it was obviously worth the effort.’

  Keen to find a connection between the victim and the alleged perpetrators rather than have to plead with DCI Elliot for an extension to their detention whilst they gather more evidence, West thought for a moment, leaned back in her chair, and ruffled her hair.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘how about this: McClusky swears blind the Thistledonia set sail without a skipper, so, what if the Boyds picked up Jónsson when they stopped in St Kilda. Jónsson’s got the drugs, they bring it down here, and they swallow it in case they get caught, but the Boyds get greedy and they want Jónsson’s share as well.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure about that,’ said Duncan. ‘I simply can’t believe they’d make a trip like that for such a small amount of coke. There is another scenario, however.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Maybe Jónsson was simply a courier making sure that the merchandise reached its destination and he was on the rob. Maybe he swallowed those pellets because he wanted some for himself, and maybe the Boyds sliced him open because they wanted it back.’

  ‘That’s feasible,’ said West. ‘Yeah, okay, I could buy that.’

  ‘The thing is,’ said Duncan, ‘Jack and Henry Boyd are a couple of lightweights, miss, they’d not be involved in a stunt like this on their own, they’d have to be working for somebody else, and I reckon to make a trip like that worth their while, they must have brought back a lot more coke than the wee parcels we found. The question is, where have they hidden it? Who are they working for? And where were they delivering it to?’

  ‘I might have to use my phone-a-friend,’ said West. ‘Jimbo’s always got an answer for everything.’

  Dougal, a natural multi-tasker with a talent for completing two different tasks on two separate computers whilst simultaneously keeping track of the conversation, spoke without looking up.

  ‘There’s only one flaw with that theory,’ he said, ‘if we’re to avoid any loose ends, that is. We need to know where Jónsson got the merchandise from.’

  West, pondering just how much Balvenie was left in the bottle at her apartment, stood up, slipped her hands into her pockets, and began to pace the room.

  ‘I should be off,’ said McLeod, ‘my next patient will be getting warm. I meant to ask, Charlie, how’s James? Is he recovering well?’

  ‘Happy as a bunny,’ said West, ‘especially now he’s got the dog.’

  ‘Dog?’

  ‘Yup, a lovely little terrier which means he’s getting all the exercise he needs.’

  ‘As long he’s not overdoing it,’ said McLeod. ‘So, are you looking forward to the weekend?’

  ‘Yeah, of course I am!’ said West. ‘I’ve got an Icelandic drug mule who’s been butchered for offal, a boat that’s been beached, and the daughter of a sheep farmer who’s gone missing. Should be a belter.’

  ‘I take it you’ll not have time for a drink, then?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr McLeod,’ said Dougal, ‘but I don’t think she will.’

  ‘Hold on a minute!’ said West. ‘Since when did you decide what I–’

  ‘The name you’re after, miss, for that Callum fella?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s McClusky. Callum McClusky. Same address as Tam.’

  West, looking as though she’d received a mild electric shock, glared at Dougal, snatched her coat from the back of the chair and bolted from the room.

  ‘Come on, Duncan!’ she said, her voice trailing down the corridor. ‘We haven’t got all day!’

  Chapter 11

  As the owner of an imposing, three-storey townhouse with enviable views across the harbour, Tam McClusky was regarded by the folk of Kirkcudbright as a compassionate man of means for whom helping his less able neighbours with a run to th
e supermarket or even a sub until pension day was never a problem, whilst those in his home town of Dumfries, unaware of his reputation as a kind-hearted philanthropist, continued to give him the widest of berths.

  With no chores to attend to, or a boat to inspect, he sat alone in the kitchen devouring a stack of buttered toast whilst studying the form of the runners and riders in the feature race at Musselburgh, oblivious to the hum of the Defender idling outside his door.

  Gazing at the house through the rain-speckled windscreen, West, prone to viewing such properties as potential doer-uppers in need of nothing more than a lick of paint and a decent pair of curtains, smiled as her imagination ran riot, while Duncan, surveying the home without the benefit of her rose-tinted spectacles, curled his lip and sneered at the missing roof slates, the weathered paintwork, and the rotting window frames.

  ‘I bet there’s beasties in the rafters,’ he said, cynically, ‘and it’s probably riddled with damp as well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said West. ‘It’s lovely!’

  ‘It’s crumbling, miss! Okay, it’s three hundred years old and it has a certain charm, I’ll give you that, but trust me, it’ll take more than a few quid to sort that place out.’

  ‘Well, if he gets his loo rolls from the same place as the Boyds, he’ll have it sorted in no time. Come on. With any luck we’ll catch him with his trousers down.’

  As someone who’d learned from experience that what often lay behind an unlocked door was a blood-splattered hallway or a ransacked living room, Duncan, glancing cautiously at West, reached beneath his jacket and pulled the expandable baton from his belt as she eased the door open with the back of her hand and called inside.

  ‘Hello, hello! Who’s shouting me?’ yelled McClusky as he waddled down the hall. ‘Oh, it’s yourself, Inspector, and you too, Sergeant!’

  ‘Did you know your door was open?’ said West.

  ‘My door’s always open,’ said McClusky, ‘folk are always dropping by for one thing or another.’

  ‘I never realised you were such a pillar of the community.’

  ‘Certainly the size of one,’ said Duncan, muttering under his breath. ‘Can we have a wee word, Mr McClusky? Is that okay?’

  ‘Aye, no bother. I’ve a pot brewing, that’ll take the chill from your bones.’

  McClusky led them to the kitchen, poured two mugs of tea, and returned to his seat.

  ‘On your own?’ said West.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where’s Mrs McClusky?’

  ‘There is no Mrs McClusky.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West, lowering her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude. When did she… I mean, was it…?’

  ‘Oh, she’s not dead!’ said McClusky. ‘No, no, there’s plenty of life in the old boot, yet. We separated. Years ago.’

  ‘That’s a relief. A mutual parting of the ways, was it?’

  ‘Let’s just say, I had a life-changing experience which afforded her the opportunity to change hers as well.’

  ‘Say no more. I’m not here to pry.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ said McClusky. ‘It’s not about the Thistledonia, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you’d not be sitting here if it was. You’d have blurted it out on the doorstep or probably phoned.’

  ‘How very astute,’ said West. ‘Actually, we’re here about a girl, a woman by the name of Rhona Baxter.’

  McClusky tore into another slice of toast and smiled as he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Sorry, hen,’ he said. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘No, but your son has,’ said Duncan. ‘Callum.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said McClusky, ‘he’s a one for ladies, is Callum, a right chip off the old block in that respect. So, what’s the story? Is she pregnant?’

  ‘Not that we know of, but we do need to speak to Callum about her.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said McClusky, ‘but I’m afraid it’s not possible, not just now, anyway.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He’s resting. He’s under strict instructions to rest and keep well hydrated.’

  ‘I though he was fine,’ said West. ‘In fact, I distinctly remember you saying you were going to take him out for a ride on the boat.’

  ‘When he’s better,’ said McClusky. ‘Unfortunately, his recovery’s been a wee bit on the slow side.’

  ‘Not that it’s any of our business,’ said Duncan, ‘but what’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Flu.’

  ‘Oh, that old chestnut,’ said West. ‘What you mean is, he caught a cold and went to bed.’

  ‘No, Inspector. What I mean is, he had the flu. Proper flu. He fainted and when I picked him, he was a rag doll in my arms, sweating buckets, too. I ran him to the infirmary and they put him on a drip. Slept for two days, he did.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West, ‘sometimes I’m too facetious for my own good.’

  ‘I’ll not blame you for that,’ said McClusky, ‘it’s not your fault. Most folk haven’t a clue about real flu, they bandy it about as a euphemism for the slightest sniffle.’

  ‘All the same. So, where is he now?’

  ‘Upstairs in his bed.’

  ‘And we really can’t see him?’

  ‘No, I’ll not wake him for you, or anyone else, Inspector. You understand.’

  ‘Fair enough. Maybe we can try again tomorrow.’

  ‘It must be serious if you’re that keen to speak to him.’

  ‘Nah, it’ll keep. For now, anyway.’

  Duncan, smirking as he noticed West eyeing the last slice of toast, picked up his mug and walked to the window.

  ‘That’s some view you have here,’ he said. ‘Stunning, in fact.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said McClusky, ‘but it’s nothing compared to the summer. You’ll not see a sunset like it.’

  ‘I’m sure. Is parking not a wee bit of nightmare here? I mean, it’s rammed down there already.’

  ‘Not my problem. I rarely drive these days, but the boy gets the hump if some numpty blocks him in.’

  ‘I’d be the same,’ said Duncan. ‘What kind of motor has he got?’

  ‘One of those wee fridge vans.’

  ‘Not exactly a bird-puller, is it?’ said West with a smile. ‘Why’s he got one of those?’

  ‘Work,’ said McClusky. ‘He’s a fishmonger, of sorts. Actually, more of a fetcher and a carrier.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He collects orders from businesses in the area, buys the fish fresh off the harbour while they’re all asleep in their beds, and delivers it to their door.’

  ‘I see,’ said West. ‘Good business, is it?’

  ‘It stinks, Inspector. Something rotten.’

  Duncan craned his neck to the street below and stood transfixed by the antics of a wide-eyed scally in a scarf and tatty jeans who scurried towards the Defender like a crack-head looking for a fix, before turning on his heels and heading back the way he came.

  ‘Your son, Callum,’ he said, ‘a big fella, is he?’

  ‘Well, he’s not got a waist like mine,’ said McClusky, ‘but height-wise, aye, he’s about the same.’

  ‘Must be a looker if he’s a hit with the ladies.’

  ‘Aye, he’s something of a young Robert Mitchum about him, broad shoulders, big chest, and thick, black hair.’

  ‘And you say he was in the infirmary? Here, in Dumfries?’

  ‘He was, aye.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I think that’s us.’

  West trying her best to hide the look of confusion on her face, finished her tea and stood.

  ‘Thanks for the brew,’ she said. ‘We’ll drop by tomorrow if that’s okay, see if we can’t catch up with him then.’

  ‘No bother, Inspector. Drop by anytime you like, anytime at all.’

  * * *

  Unused to having anyone terminate a meeting other than herself, West fired up the engine, turned to Dunc
an, and frowned inquisitively.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Why the sudden exit?’

  ‘If I told you, miss, you’d think I was mad.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Okay, Tam McClusky just gave us a description of his son, did he not?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He was here. Just now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right here,’ said Duncan. ‘He was casing the car like some kind of chancer then took off up the way.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. Look, I know it sounds daft, miss, but I’m not convinced Callum McClusky’s lying in his bed. And I’m not convinced he’s got the flu, either.’

  ‘So, what do you want to do?’

  ‘I think we should go to the infirmary,’ said Duncan, ‘and ask a few questions.’

  * * *

  Embracing the art of delegation, West waited patiently in the Defender with a half-empty bag of Moffat toffee until Duncan, racing across the sodden car park, returned with a grin on his face.

  ‘So, how’d you get on?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, McClusky wasn’t lying about bringing his boy to the A&E. He was here alright.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ said West, ‘talk about over-reacting.’

  ‘But he didn’t have the flu, miss. And they didn’t keep him in, either. They stitched him up and sent him on his way.’

  ‘Stitched him up?’

  ‘Callum McClusky was treated for a stab wound to the neck and two to the upper arm.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Which would explain why he was wearing a scarf.’

  ‘Yeah but hold on,’ said West, ‘if that’s the case, then why’s his old man covering for him with some cock and bull story about the flu?’

  ‘Maybe Callum’s a chip off the old block in more ways than one.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, unwrapping another toffee, ‘let’s think about this for a moment. Rhona Baxter and Callum McClusky definitely had something going on, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She goes missing, and he’s been stabbed, so what do you think? Some kind of mutual retribution? Or was a third party involved?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Duncan, ‘we’re going to have to speak to him.’

  ‘Exactly. Right, get uniform to pick him up and tell Dougal to sort out a warrant too, just in case we need to–’