Avarice Read online

  AVARICE

  Pete Brassett

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2016

  www.thebookfolks.com

  © Pete Brassett

  Polite note to readers

  This book is written in British English apart from instances where local dialect is used. For that reason, spellings of words and other conventions may differ slightly from North American English.

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  You may also like SHE by Pete Brassett, wherein detectives Munro and West appear for the first time:

  Download from amazon.com or amazon.co.uk

  Detective Inspector Munro is a burly Scottish policeman who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Detective Sergeant West is an intelligent young woman, new to the force, with a lot to prove.

  When a missing person case lands on their desks, Munro is sceptical there is much to it. But their investigation soon comes to some strange findings, and before long, a body is found.

  With a serial killer on their hands they must act fast to trace a woman placed at the scene of the crime. Yet discovering her true identity, let alone finding her, proves difficult. And as the plot thickens they realise the crime is far graver than either of them could have imagined.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Character List

  Other books by Pete Brassett

  Chapter 1

  Another irate customer pushed the door, cupped his hands against the grimy glass and peered inside. The antiquated finisher, with its worn sanding belts and tired brushes, stood idle in the gloom. Wooden implements lay scattered across the workbench, an apron hung from the iron jack and rows of unclaimed shoes lined the racks against the wall. He checked his watch: 3pm, just after. Too late for lunch and too early, surely, to close for the day. He noticed the sign in the window, a half-hearted affair scribbled in black marker pen on a large piece of scuffed cardboard framed with silver gaffer tape. “Closed from 11th to 24th. Please collect all shoes by 10th.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the date. It was Tuesday 10th and the cobbler was nowhere to be seen. The customer cursed. It wasn’t the first time he’d been caught out, nor was it likely to be the last. A furious young lady, glowering with rage, stormed towards him, glanced inside the shop and rattled the door. She swore under her breath before demanding to know if he’d seen ‘Rudy’. The man held up the receipt for his loafers and shook his head apologetically.

  * * *

  Ruben ‘Rudy’ Kappelhoff was, to the envy of many a man half his age, too fit, too healthy and, with his rugged complexion, too handsome for a sixty-year-old. He sat on the grass, bike by his side, his grey sweatshirt drenched with perspiration and gazed out across the Firth of Clyde. A brisk breeze tousled his mop of thick, white hair as he swigged Machrie Moor from a pewter hip flask. He ranted under his breath, bemoaning the haughty, supercilious dunderheads who plagued his shop with cheap but fashionable shoes held together with nothing more than a good dollop of optimism.

  He was one of a dying breed and, to all intents and purposes, peerless. His only competition, if they could be regarded as such, was a kiosk located on the lower-ground floor of a shopping mall approximately six miles away. Unlike his rivals, a franchised chain whose reputation was built on speedy repairs using inferior stock, Rudy was a traditionalist, a professional, a craftsman with a faultless attention to detail.

  As a young man in Dörpling, where he’d honed his skills under the watchful eye of his father, he’d learned that the best reward for his efforts was not the cash that lined his pockets, but the gleaming smiles of gratitude from the farmhands and labourers upon whose boots he’d bestowed a new lease of life.

  Unfortunately, his diligence in repairing shoes was in pitiful supply when it came to time-keeping which, much to the annoyance of his faithful customers, could be described, at best, as erratic and unreliable. Although the sign on the door, faded and yellow, proclaimed his opening hours to be 9.30am – 5.30pm, Monday to Saturday, everyone knew it was for decoration only and not to be taken seriously. Depending on his mood, he might work for an hour or two one day, eighteen hours straight the next, but then again, some days, he may not turn up at all.

  The ensuing barrage of abuse from disgruntled customers when he did eventually resurface was not a cause for concern. He was hardened to it and, once he’d explained, at length, in his lilting Teutonic brogue, the reason for his tardiness, their ire would turn to compassion.

  The small workshop, though well-ventilated, was a toxic environment in which to ply his trade. The fumes from the volatile polychloroprene adhesive would bring on bouts of dizziness and make him drowsy, the compound irritated his skin and was prone to making his eyes water, and the microscopic particles of rubber and leather that filled the air choked his lungs till he could scarcely breathe. As a consequence, for the sake of his health, he had no choice but to rest and recuperate, which invariably involved riding his bicycle from dawn till dusk, his head wrapped in his trademark bandana, his brow furrowed with a steely determination.

  It was, as an excuse, as viable as any other, but some of his clients, and most of the locals, chose to subscribe to one of many alternative theories for his vagarious behaviour. There was, for example, the rumour that the real reason for his punishing excursions along the craggy, Greenock Cut to Cauldron Hill was to work off the hangovers. That he was, in fact, a recovering alcoholic who frequently jumped off the wagon and that his battle with the bottle was the result of an acrimonious divorce decades earlier. Though his wife had cited ‘unreasonable behaviour’ and ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the reasons for the split, he could, apparently, have counter-filed citing adultery, but chose not to, despite the fact he knew she’d been having an affair for a full four months prior to their separation. He’d become, quite frankly, sick of the sight of her. Then there were those who claimed the scars, one of which ran the length of his left forearm, the other around the back of his neck, were not the result of an industrial accident, but the legacy of an altercation with a border guard in his homeland for which he’d served a ten-stretch, guilty of a crime that fell somewhere between ABH and manslaughter. And then there were the few, those who daren’t venture near his shop, who, based on his vociferous outbursts during which he’d launch a tirade of abuse against anyone in a position of authority, or those who held views opposed to his own, claimed he’d fled Germany not because he’d been persecuted for his faith, but because he’d absconded from a psychiatric hospital. Fortunately for Rudy, the rumours were based on malicious gossip and hearsay rather than fact, and, as the older folk in the village knew, flew in the face of his otherwise placid disposition.

  He pulled a sandwich from his knapsack, corned beef, sauerkraut and cheese crammed between two slices of rye bread, and contemplated the view towards Innellan, blissfully unaware of the kerfuffle outside his shop.

  Chapter 2

  The dog, a black, Flat-Coated Retriever, sat patiently by his owner in the dappled, morning sun
light as the Daff, swollen by the previous night’s rainfall, coursed its way through the glen, cascading over the smooth, rocky outcrops, bouncing off the banks and surging across the legs of the partially submerged body lying face down in the mud. It barked approvingly as Sergeant Iain Campbell, soaked to the waist, dragged the sodden weight from the icy water to the riverbank and gently rolled it over. He checked for a pulse, lowered his face to hers and felt a short, shallow breath on his cheek.

  ‘You hold on, now,’ he whispered, ‘soon have you out of here, just you hold on.’

  Her eyes, hollow and lifeless, blinked in acknowledgement. Her skin, soft and puffy, had turned the palest shade of blue but, most alarmingly, she did not shiver. Assuming she was on the brink of death, he pulled off his jacket and laid it over her chest.

  ‘Watch yourself!’ he yelled, as a paramedic scrambled through the maze of birch and alder towards him. ‘It’s slippery down here. Ambulance?’

  ‘Right behind me,’ said the medic, placing his middle finger on her neck. ‘She’s alive. Just. Is this where you found her?’

  ‘Near enough,’ said Campbell.

  ‘So you’ve moved her?’

  ‘Aye, not much, she was…’

  ‘Numpty. We’ll have to stretcher her out, mind your back.’

  Campbell stood aside as the paramedic, assisted by the ambulance crew, placed an oxygen mask over her mouth, strapped her onto a spinal board and hauled her away. Inspector McGreevy was waiting at the top of the embankment.

  ‘Iain, Christ, you’re soaked,’ he said. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Pneumonia, if I’m lucky,’ said Campbell, buttoning his tunic. ‘Female, Chief, mid-fifties, I reckon. 5’6”, thereabouts, dark-blonde hair, she’s a bash to the back of the head. Looks like she slipped and fell, knocked herself out.’

  ‘Not the smartest thing to do,’ said McGreevy, ‘trying to cross the river here, especially after that downpour.’

  ‘Aye, you’re not wrong, would’ve been dark, too,’ said Campbell, ‘probably couldn’t see straight. Either way, it’s not looking good, she’s gone a funny colour.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘Fella with the doggie, about a half an hour ago.’

  ‘Did he call the ambulance?’

  ‘No,’ said Campbell, ‘he thought she was dead. I called it in soon as I got here.’

  ‘Well done. Anything else?’

  ‘Constable Reid’s along the bank there, to see if he can find a handbag or something.’

  ‘Nothing to identify her?’ said McGreevy.

  ‘No, we’ll have to wait till she gets to the hospital. I’ll follow just as soon as I’ve changed into something a wee bit drier.’

  ‘Okay, on your way, then. I’ll make sure Duncan gets a statement from yon dog lover, then we’ll cordon this place off, get a proper search underway.’

  * * *

  ‘Can I get you something, Sergeant?’ said the nurse, with a sympathetic tilt of the head. ‘Cup of coffee, maybe? Warm you up?’

  ‘No thanks, hen,’ said Campbell with an appreciative smile, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure? It’s no bother.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll just close these curtains and leave you to it. Shame she didn’t…’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure you did your best.’

  Campbell, cap in hand, stared at the nameless corpse lying beneath a thin, cotton sheet; the hair still wet, the eyes closed, the face a ghostly pallor.

  ‘Sergeant Campbell?’

  ‘Aye, you must be…’

  ‘Doctor Clark. Andy. Sorry we couldn’t… it was a big ask, considering.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Campbell, ‘so, what do you…?’

  Clark held up a sealed, plastic bag containing a small, leather wallet and a gold necklace.

  ‘First of all, this is for you,’ he said.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Campbell, surprised. ‘No keys, cash, phone maybe?’

  ‘Nope. But the wallet might help, there’s a couple of cards in there. At least you’ll have a name to go on.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. What about her clothes? We might need to…’

  ‘That brings me to my next point,’ said Clark. ‘She’s still wearing them. Probably best to wait until the pathologist has finished up.’

  ‘Pathologist?’

  ‘Aye. The bash to the head, I don’t believe that came from a fall and it looks like there’s some damage to the eyes too, so no death certificate, I’m afraid. I’ve referred it to the Procurator Fiscal for a post-mortem.’

  ‘The Fiscal?’ said Campbell. ‘So, you reckon someone gave her a wee whack, then?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Clark, with a despondent shake of the head, ‘but I doubt that would have killed her, more likely to be the hypothermia but even then, there’d have to be some other contributing factors, something that may have expedited the onset. Look, I’ll explain later, the Fiscal’s giving us twenty minutes out of her lunch break, is that okay with you?’

  ‘Aye, reckon so.’

  ‘Good. McGreevy, will he come? He should be there.’

  ‘Oh aye, wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘Right, see you there. Half an hour.’

  ‘Half an… Christ, okay, I’ll call him now.’

  Clark stopped and turned as he left the cubicle.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘she whispered something before she passed away, sounded like “Lorna, tell Lorna”, just so’s you know.’

  * * *

  Isobel Crawford, unnaturally youthful for a fifty-three-year old with a penchant for red wine, Macallan single malt and Sobranie cocktail cigarettes, sat behind her cluttered desk and beckoned the entourage to sit.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ she said, glancing at the unopened tuna sandwich before her, ‘enlighten me before I starve to death. Who found the body?’

  ‘That would be myself,’ said Sergeant Campbell. ‘Daff Glen. She was face down on the riverbank, half in the burn.’

  ‘Anything suspicious?’

  ‘Only the foolishness of trying to cross the river at night, looks like she fell and bashed her head, but the doctor here thinks otherwise.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Crawford. ‘Well, come on Mr. Clark, I’m always up for a good mystery. What’s your professional opinion then?’

  ‘Well,’ said Clark, sighing as though he’d just finished a twelve-hour shift, ‘there’s a couple of things. First, I think the probable cause of death was exposure, but that’s not conclusive, see, even if she was in the water for a few hours, she shouldn’t have succumbed so readily, not unless she’d had a skinful, for example. Second, the reaction in her eyes when I examined her was not what I’d have expected, the response was negligible, like there’s some nerve damage, perhaps. Also, the pupils were constricted. That’s not normal. Finally, the injury to the back of her head; it’s not consistent with a fall, not for someone of her size and build, the damage is too severe.’

  ‘I see,’ said Crawford, ‘the mystery deepens. So, what do you want?’

  ‘Post mortem,’ said Clark.

  ‘Very well, granted. How long will it take?’

  ‘Oh, an hour or two, I imagine. No more. It’s scheduled for this evening.’

  ‘Annoyingly efficient. So, let’s meet again in the morning, 8am. Oh, Inspector, I shall expect your report as well, is that okay?’

  ‘Aye, nae bother, Isobel.’

  ‘Good. Perhaps you’d like to bring some breakfast, too.’

  * * *

  McGreevy, agitated by the fact that the case would inevitably become a criminal inquiry, hovered uneasily by his car.

  ‘Are you coming, Chief?’ said Campbell. ‘I need to eat something. Soon.’

  ‘Iain, here a wee moment,’ said McGreevy, opening the door. ‘If Doctor Clark finds something untoward as a result of the autopsy, you know what will happen, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye. CID will take over. We’re not detectives, Chief. After all, it i
s their job.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said McGreevy, with a sigh. ‘Do you not remember the last time they came to Gourock? How they took over the building? Your desk, and mine? Got blootered every evening and generally made a fool of themselves?’

  ‘Not easy to forget.’

  ‘Exactly, and with the Kip Regatta coming up next week, just the thought of it gives me the heebie jeebies. The place is already filling up with tourists, the last thing we need…’

  ‘I ken what you’re saying, Chief, but what can we…?’

  ‘I’ve an idea Iain, I only hope Isobel agrees to it. Grab yourself some lunch, I’ll be a wee while.’

  Chapter 3

  McGreevy felt a pang of jealousy as he crawled along the narrow lane, one eye on the road, the other on the view across the Solway, the low sun bouncing off the water, the only sound, that of herring gulls squawking overhead, and, though the idea was appealing, wondered if he could actually ever settle in a place as quiet as Carsethorn. As dead as Carsethorn. He parked opposite a whitewashed, terraced cottage, thankful for the plume of grey smoke billowing from the chimney, a sign that someone was home.

  A sprightly figure, tall and lean, clad in a green, waterproof hiking jacket and carrying a cane, marched purposefully towards him, paused at the gate and stared until a look of recognition crossed his face.

  ‘If you’re here to tell me they’re stopping my pension,’ said Munro, as McGreevy stepped from the car, ‘you can leave now.’

  ‘You’re looking well, James. Not lost your sense of humour, then?’

  ‘Never had one,’ said Munro. ‘What brings you down here? Is your sat-nav broken?’

  ‘No, no. I was just passing,’ said McGreevy, ‘thought I’d…’

  ‘Just passing? 200 miles from home along a dead end street? You’d best come in, at least sit down before I say no to whatever it is you’re after.’

  The sitting room was comfortably, though not excessively furnished: a single armchair by the fire, a sofa pushed against the wall, a writing desk by the window, an oak sideboard, a standard lamp and a handful of books atop a single shelf.