Turpitude Read online

  TURPITUDE

  Detectives investigate a sinister murder in this gripping Scottish mystery

  PETE BRASSETT

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2019

  © Pete Brassett

  Polite note to the reader

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

  You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  TURPITUDE is the tenth 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. If you like Scandinavian noir, a good laugh and a cracking story full of twists, then these books are for you. Pour a glass of your favourite whisky, get comfy, and enjoy the ride.

  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 can be found at the end of this one.

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Character List

  Other books in this series:

  More brilliant fiction by Pete Brassett

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  Prologue

  Since relinquishing her role as a support teacher at the Kyle Academy – a stressful occupation which involved nurturing the needs of failing pupils – Peggy McClure, a fifty-two-year-old gym bunny with more muscle than a presidential cavalcade, had, without the need for surgery, replaced her tired, lacklustre expression with the happy-go-lucky grin of somebody enjoying an illicit affair with a five litre tub of whisky ice cream.

  Freed from the anxiety of worrying about her charges’ progress, she embraced each day as an employee of the council’s waste division with the verve of a drunk in a dive bar, safe in the knowledge that, barring a fire, flood, or fatality, whatever happened at work would never be enough to keep her awake at night.

  Unlike the quarry-deep landfill site at Tarbolton, a sprawling excavation marring an otherwise unsullied landscape, the recycling centre at Heathfield was an enclosed warehouse-style complex where members of the public were free to dispose of anything from cardboard, glass, and aluminium, to fridges, furniture, and garden waste. However, for the tardy few who arrived after hours, the easiest option – despite warning signs to the contrary – was to dump the rubbish by the gates, an action invariably rewarded with a letter from the council accompanied by a still from the security cameras and a fine of two hundred pounds for illegal fly-tipping.

  Not one to procrastinate, Peggy heaved the usual assortment of miscellaneous junk – a filthy mattress, a stainless steel sink, a car battery, two propane gas cylinders, one dilapidated wardrobe and a pile of bulging bin bags – into the compound while her colleague, the substantially younger and altogether not unattractive Gordon Miller, busied himself with a pair of gloves.

  Delivering a playful pat on the back, she joined him on a reclaimed garden bench and began the arduously unpleasant task of sifting through the plastic sacks in search of something that might identify the owner.

  Swathed in a scuffed hi-vis jacket, Miller, who’d harboured a secret desire for the enigmatic bottle-blonde ever since she’d joined the team, cast her a sideways glance and smiled as he ripped open one of the bags.

  Of all the employees, Peggy McClure was the only one not to whinge, whine, or moan about the work. Of all the women on the site, she was the only one who could fire a barrage of cheeky one-liners at a good-looking fellow if asked where he should dump his antiquated collection of VHS tapes. And of all the people he’d ever known, Peggy McClure was the only one whose glass was always half full unless, of course, it was a Friday night at the Redstone Inn, when the opposite was true.

  Reeling at the pungent aroma of what she assumed to be the fetid corpse of a chicken well past its use-by date, she carefully picked her way through the array of stinking food trays, beer bottles, and soiled nappies before retrieving a large tin of dog food and waving it under Miller’s nose.

  ‘Here,’ she said with a wink and a grin. ‘That’s not something you’ll find listed under ingredients.’

  Chapter 1

  As one of the umpteen unfortunates left wallowing in a mire of self-pity after the unforeseen demise of a loving relationship, DI West, whose emotional state was all the more precarious thanks to the misogynistic attitude of her male colleagues whilst previously policing the streets of London, attempted to hasten her return to independence by rejecting the advances of would-be suitors and choosing instead to share her bed with a bottle of vodka, before spending a torturous week surviving on a vegetarian diet in the Buddhist environs of the Holy Isle in a last ditch attempt to regain her sanity.

  However, of all the therapies available, self-prescribed or otherwise, it was the metaphorical if not unexpected kick up the backside from her mentor’s size twelve boot that not only encouraged her to focus on her career but to follow him back to Scotland where, he’d assured her, the only glass ceiling she was ever likely to encounter was that of Edinburgh’s Waverley station.

  Content that the now retired but indefatigable James Munro was well enough to fend for himself since undergoing major heart surgery, she sat clad in a white tee shirt, black jeans, and waxed cotton biker jacket, tucking into a bacon butty whilst DS Dougal McCrae, fresh from a weekend’s fishing on the banks of Kilbirnie Loch, talked her through the moped-mounted antics of an apparently hapless duo of would-be thieves who, for the third time in as many weeks, had fled empty handed when confronted by the owners of a petrol station, the kebab shop on the High Street, and a convenience store.

  ‘All we do know,’ he said, ‘is that the moped was stolen.’

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ said West. ‘Do we know who from?’

  ‘Aye, they nicked it off a fella delivering pizza to a house on Bellevue Crescent about a month ago, but see here, miss, there’s one thing I don’t get. They’re not armed.’

  ‘Dream on. I don’t think there’s much call for pacifists in the criminal world.’

  ‘Aye, that’s my point,’ said Dougal. ‘I mean, look at all those neds down in London, they’re waving machetes around like a bunch of demented peasants, but not these numpties. I’m beginning to think they’ve been carrying out a few dry runs before attempting something bigger.’

  ‘You might be right,’ said West. ‘Better keep an eye on Mothercare. Have we got any idea who they are?’

  ‘We have,’ said Dougal with an incredulous grin. ‘Get this: before they tried robbing the petrol station, they tanked up the moped and paid for the fuel with a debit card. I’m
just waiting on the bank for some details.’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said DC Duncan Reid, yawning as he raised his head from the desk. ‘They’re obviously not the sharpest tools in the shed. Get a list of all the traffic wardens in the area, you’ll find them there.’

  West, recognising the sound of laboured footsteps in the corridor, sat bolt upright as the door flew open.

  ‘Bent traffic wardens?’ said DCI Elliot. ‘Is there any other kind?’

  With his towering frame and enormous bulk, George Elliot, known affectionately as ‘The Bear’, had a reputation for instilling the fear of God into those who crossed his path but was, in reality, a deskbound DCI who put the welfare of his team, and his appetite, before all else.

  ‘I smell bacon,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose…’

  ‘Sorry sir,’ said West, ‘that little piggy’s gone to market.’

  ‘Pity. Mrs Elliot’s been plying me with a half a grapefruit and a wee bowl of granola of a morning and I’m telling you, it’s not enough. What’s wrong with porridge, for goodness sake?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I like mine with a huge dollop of jam.’

  ‘Jam?’ said Elliot. ‘Careful, Charlie. You’re messing with something of national importance here. I’d keep that to yourself if I were you. Now, I’m here for a reason.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If it’s not inconvenient, I need to borrow Detective Constable Reid. It won’t take long.’

  ‘No bother,’ said Duncan. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Follow me and you’ll find out.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Dougal with a smirk. ‘I hope you’ve been practising the Fosbury flop because it looks like you’re for the high jump.’

  * * *

  When he was a recalcitrant youth, raging against the establishment, there was little doubt in his teachers’ minds that Duncan’s only hope of employment would be as a labourer on a building site or as a docker at the Ocean Terminal in Greenock.

  Angered that his potential should be measured purely by his ability to put pen to paper, and the stark realisation that not all police officers had to wear a uniform, he enrolled at Tulliallan college and, much to their surprise, graduated two years later by the skin of his teeth.

  However, despite his newfound role as poacher turned gamekeeper, he refused, albeit unintentionally, to address senior figures with the deference their rank demanded, treating them instead in much the same way he would a pal in a pub, an action which invariably resulted in the forging of a mutually respectful relationship.

  ‘I’m with you on the porridge thing,’ he said, slumping in his seat, ‘but I’d lay off the granola if I were you.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Oh aye. It’s loaded with sugar. I’d give it up before your teeth start falling out.’

  ‘I never realised,’ said Elliot, unable to contain his glee. ‘So, it’s not that healthy after all?’

  ‘It is not. It’s high in calories too. No disrespect, but that’s the last thing you’re needing.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling her!’

  ‘You should get your missus to read the packet, that’ll put her right.’

  ‘I will,’ said Elliot. ‘I will indeed. Now, down to business.’

  ‘Oh aye. What is it? Are you needing some furniture moved or something?’

  ‘No, no. It’s about your exam.’

  Duncan glanced at Elliot with a casual shake of the head and slowly raised his hand.

  ‘You’re alright,’ he said. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have taken it. I’m not that good at revising or writing things down. I never have been.’

  ‘Well, some folk are more adept at taking a practical approach to policing.’

  ‘Aye, that’s me,’ said Duncan. ‘Practical. I’m not fussed, I’m happy as I am. I might give it another shot next year.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You’ve passed,’ said Elliot. ‘Eighty-seven per cent. That’s high enough for them to mark your grade as exceptional.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘I kid you not.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see that coming. Are you sure you’re not confusing me with somebody else?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Elliot, ‘but here’s the thing. I hate to rain on your parade, laddie, but I’m now faced with something of a dilemma.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘What do I do with another DS?’

  Duncan took a deep breath and scratched the back of his head.

  ‘I see your point,’ he said. ‘You can’t have two of us rattling about the place. So how does this work?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Elliot, ‘it’s not up to me. The powers that be will post you where you’re needed.’

  ‘So, I could end up anywhere?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that,’ said Duncan. ‘Look, let’s just forget about this whole sergeant thing, okay? Like I say, I’m happy where I am.’

  ‘You are giving up too easily,’ said Elliot, ‘and from what I hear, that’s not like you at all.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  Elliot leaned back, clasped his hands around his ample belly, and stared pensively at the ceiling.

  ‘I shall say we’re understaffed,’ he said, ‘and that you are an indispensable member of the team that we simply cannot afford to lose.’

  ‘Will that work?’

  ‘Perhaps. I could tell them we were four, that we’ve already lost Munro, and that if they transfer you we’ll be down to two, but that’s where things might backfire.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘With just Charlie and Dougal in the office there’s a good chance they’ll transfer operations somewhere else.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Duncan, waving a finger as he made for the door. ‘I’m not being responsible for that. No, no. Let’s leave things as they are.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Elliot, ‘but as I say, it’s not up to me. Look, this was supposed to be a happy occasion, so I apologise for taking the edge off it. Leave it with me, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And tell Charlie I need a word.’

  * * *

  ‘Oh good, you’re back,’ said Dougal. ‘Jeez-oh, going by the look on your face you must’ve got quite a rollicking.’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ said Duncan as he reached for the kettle.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Anyone for a brew?’

  ‘Yeah, go on,’ said West. ‘I’m parched.’

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, miss. The Bear, he wants to see you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘In that case, do me a favour. There’s some crazy woman downstairs desperate for a word about something or other. Sort her out, would you?’

  Chapter 2

  Rankled by Elliot’s pessimistic forecast and doubtful of his senior’s ability to convince the bureaucrats at divisional headquarters that a second DS would be better than none, Duncan – castigating himself for jeopardising the future of the unit – made his way downstairs and slipped silently into the foyer, his mood buoyed by the sight of a slender blonde wearing cargo pants and a tight white vest pacing the floor and looking, contrary to West’s description, anything but deranged.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said as he leant against the door.

  Peggy stopped in her tracks, slowly turned around, and warily eyed the stubble-ridden scruff standing before her.

  ‘Sorry, son,’ she said, ‘I’m not being funny, but shouldn’t you be in your cell?’

  ‘I should,’ said Duncan, ‘but they let me out so’s I could stretch my legs.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘Oh aye? Are you on a promise?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ said Peggy, ‘but I’m waiting for a detective. The fella on the desk said someon
e was on their way.’

  ‘Well, I’m here,’ said Duncan. ‘DS Reid, at your service.’

  ‘You? But you don’t look like a detective.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Should you not be wearing a tie? And have a big beer belly? And no hair?’

  ‘You watch too much telly, Miss…’

  ‘McClure. Peggy McClure.’

  ‘Right then, Miss McClure. What’s the story?’

  Peggy held out her hand and proffered a blue plastic carrier bag, knotted by the handles.

  ‘This,’ she said. ‘I’d hold your breath if I were you, it’s honking.’

  Unfazed by the odour, Duncan unfurled the knot, reached inside, and retrieved a tin bearing the face of a large black Labrador.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘your doggy opened this himself and scoffed the lot while your back was turned.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Peggy, ‘there’s something in there not even he would touch.’

  Duncan glanced at Peggy, pulled back the ring-pull, and peered inside.

  ‘Well,’ he said with a smirk, ‘I’ve heard of biting the hand that feeds you, but this is taking things a bit too far, don’t you think? Where did you find this?’

  ‘At work.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The recycling centre, over at Heathfield.’

  ‘And there was I thinking it was only the NHS that recycled body parts. We need to have a wee chat, are you okay for half an hour?’

  ‘Aye. No bother.’

  * * *

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said West as Duncan sauntered into the office. ‘If it isn’t our very own dark horse.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve just been having a chat with Elliot.’

  ‘I see,’ said Duncan. ‘So, he’s told you the bad news?’

  ‘Bad news?’ said Dougal. ‘Jeez-oh, have you lost the plot, Sergeant? It’s cracking news!’

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Did he not tell you I might get shipped off somewhere else?’

  ‘Sure did,’ said West.