Perdition Read online

  ‘I’m not sure, perhaps… I mean, did you not hear anything?’

  ‘Oh aye, of course I did. The sound of a crossbow, it’s enough to wake the dead.’

  ‘Right. Point taken,’ said Hayes. ‘Well, to be honest, Miss Macallan, I’m really not sure what I can do about this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, animals, pets, livestock and such, in the eyes of the law, they’re classed as chattels, possessions. They’re not afforded the same rights as you and me.’

  ‘Rubbish. I’ll not have it,’ said Rona. ‘Just you listen to me, it’s murder, pure and simple. Do you understand?’

  ‘Aye, of course, but…’

  ‘Look at it another way, Constable. If someone’s used my Esme for target practice, then who’s next on the list? Someone at the school, perhaps?’

  Hayes sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand as the drizzle grew heavier.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If you put it like that, then I suppose whoever’s responsible might be considered a risk to the public.’

  ‘At last,’ said Rona, ‘I appear to be getting through. So, what happens now?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call it in and see if I can persuade them to send another officer over, someone with more experience than me when it comes to dealing with… well, you know. Will that do you?’

  ‘That’ll do me fine, Constable,’ said Rona. ‘I appreciate it. But tell them to hurry up, I can’t leave young Esme out here much longer. It wouldn’t be right. Not right at all.’

  * * *

  At thirty-two years old, Craig Ferguson – a JavaScript programmer who worked for a flourishing software company in the fashionable Finnieston area of the city and earned enough to put a smile on the face of HMRC – was, with his trendy trainers, Superdry windcheater, and heavy-framed specs, somebody who embraced style over practicality and to whom a semi-rural existence was a test of endurance rather than a pleasurable way of life.

  Despite his insatiable appetite and an unquenchable thirst for Tennent’s lager, he managed to maintain – pot belly aside – a physique which he proudly described as slim whilst Rona, in her own inimitable way, referred to him endearingly as the runt of the litter.

  Had it not been for an invitation to attend a concert by Justin Currie at Glasgow’s O2 Academy three months earlier – an event blighted by the fact that she’d been hoodwinked into attending an ear-splitting gig by Franz Ferdinand rather than the sharp-suited crooner she’d fancied since her days at university – they would not have met.

  Craig, similarly disgruntled as he’d forked out thirty-seven pounds on a ticket for a friend who’d failed to show up, was immediately taken by her alluring brown eyes, her wavy, copper curls and the years of back-breaking toil etched into her face.

  After much persuasion – and several glasses of white wine – Rona succumbed to a date with the besotted lothario nine years her junior but only on the proviso that he travelled down to Ayr where – over a supper of smoked ham hock and mashed potatoes at the cosy 22 Bar and Grill – she was pleasantly surprised to discover that, apart from her love of yoga and the smell of horse manure, they had much in common, not least a mutual appreciation of a good book in front of a roaring fire rather than an intoxicating night in the pub.

  Parking the pepper-white Mini behind Rona’s 4x4 and bemoaning the fact that the pot-holed track up to the house was covered in mud rather than tarmac, thereby necessitating yet another trip to the carwash, Craig was content nonetheless to have made it back before nightfall thereby avoiding the haunting cries of the beasties in the woods that played havoc with his nyctophobic mind.

  ‘Something smells good!’ he said as he hastened inside, bolting the door behind him. ‘It’s not a pie, is it?’

  ‘Casserole,’ said Rona, smiling as she pecked him on the cheek. ‘Venison and ale.’

  ‘Smashing! And are we having a pudding?’

  ‘Twin Peaks.’

  ‘That’s not meringue, is it?’

  ‘Box set.’

  ‘You’re showing your age,’ said Craig. ‘I’ve brought the wine, four bottles. Will I open one now?’

  ‘Aye, go on. And once you’ve done that, you can fetch some logs from the store outside, they’re those wooden things that look like trees but without the branches.’

  ‘In these trainers?’ said Craig. ‘Think again, they’re brand new.’

  ‘Never mind. So, what’s the story? Busy week?’

  ‘And then some. I’ve spent the last four days writing an async code in Node.js for RBS and it’s been doing my head in.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Rona, raising her glass. ‘Well, you can tell me what that means, one day. At my wake, perhaps. Is that it, then? No gossip from the pub?’

  ‘You know me, sweetheart, always in need of a bevvy after work but as for gossip, no, no. I leave that to the youngsters.’

  ‘Hark at you!’ said Rona. ‘Youngsters, indeed! Best sit yourself down, granddad, you’ll be in need of a rest.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Craig. ‘So, how about you? Up to your knees in horse plop again, I imagine?’

  ‘Aye. And I’ve a broody bantam, a pony with colic, and the float valve on the water trough’s playing-up. Oh, and Esme’s dead.’

  Craig, his brow furrowed with faux concern, shook his head remorsefully as though the name meant something to him.

  ‘Too bad,’ he said, glugging his wine. ‘Were you close? I mean, an old school pal or something, was she?’

  ‘She,’ said Rona, rolling her eyes, ‘was one of my goats.’

  Trying his best not to laugh, Craig turned his back on her and snorted into his glass.

  ‘Is that all?’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s hardly the end of the world, is it? It’s just a goat.’

  Rona pulled the pot from the oven, set it on the hob, and glowered at Craig as she topped up her glass.

  ‘Esme was eleven months old,’ she said angrily. ‘She walked and talked, just like you. She had a heart and a brain, just like you. And she was murdered. Shot dead. With a crossbow.’

  ‘A crossbow? Are you sure?’

  ‘She’s in the barn. The bolt’s still in her neck. You can go take a look, if you like.’

  ‘No. You’re alright,’ said Craig. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Kids, eh? It used to be air rifles and starlings, now…’

  ‘This wasn’t some juvenile prank!’ said Rona. ‘This was deliberate. Of that, I’m sure.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Craig as he reached tentatively for the bottle, ‘I didn’t mean to sound so, you know, callous. So, why would somebody want to kill your goat?’

  Rona shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Did you not see who did it?’

  ‘It was too early,’ said Rona. ‘Even for me. I’ll wait and see what the police say, they’re sending another officer tomorrow.’

  Craig, his glass half way to his lips, paused and coughed as he cleared his throat.

  ‘Another one, you say? You mean the police have been already?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Rona as she popped the plates into the oven to warm. ‘This morning; only the fella that came didn’t have a clue what to do, so they’re sending someone else.’

  ‘What did you tell them? I mean, did you mention me, by any chance? Not that it’s important but…’

  ‘No. As it happens, I’m afraid your name did not pop up in the conversation.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. Just wondering.’

  ‘What’s going on here, Craig?’ said Rona, her hackles rising. ‘This is not about the money is it? I thought you said that was sorted.’

  ‘It’s not about the money!’ said Craig tersely as he zipped his coat and turned for the door, ‘There’s something I have to do, that’s all. I’ll be as quick as I can. Now lock the door and don’t wait up.’

  Chapter 2 />
  Both respected and revered for the reputation he’d garnered as a ruthless, young DS who – rulebook aside – had fearlessly faced-up to even the most hardened of criminals, the effervescent DCI George Elliot, known affectionately as “the bear” amongst the lower ranks was, despite his notoriety, the kind of laidback boss any serving officer would have given their eye teeth to work under.

  Bored with the mundane task of assessing a pile of performance reviews, he brushed them aside and grinned as Munro peered sheepishly round the door.

  ‘James!’ he said. ‘This is a surprise!’

  ‘You’re looking well, George,’ said Munro as he pulled up a chair. ‘Paperwork obviously suits you.’

  ‘It does indeed, James! I’m glad you’re here, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’

  ‘Aye, I wish you’d said you were coming, though, we could’ve had lunch – Cechinni’s!’

  ‘Och, I wasnae planning on coming in, George, I’ve just dropped by to collect…’

  ‘The good news?’

  ‘…my belongings, but as you’ve mentioned it, what’s this good news, then?’

  ‘Brace yourself, James,’ said Elliot excitedly. ‘Brace yourself! As we say in our line of work; you’re free to go!’

  Munro, regarding Elliot with a feigned look of confusion, leaned back and folded his arms.

  ‘Free to go, as in, relieved of your duties! You’re officially retired! Good God, man, I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Delirious.’

  Elliot, taking Munro’s deadpan delivery as par for the course, hauled his heavy frame from the chair and retrieved a bottle of Cordon Rouge from the fridge.

  ‘I bought you this,’ he said, plonking it on the table. ‘I thought we’d raise a glass to your future. Will we go next door and crack it open?’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, George,’ said Munro, raising his hand, ‘but not just now, I’ve the car outside and…’

  ‘As you wish, James. As you wish. You can take it with you. What say we catch up next week? Wednesday, perhaps? Or Thursday? Friday, even. Fridays are good.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Munro. ‘Let me get the house sorted out first, everything’s in a wee bit of a muddle. You understand.’

  ‘Of course I do. You let me know when’s convenient and we’ll all go out. You, me, Charlie, Dougal, and Duncan. That’s assuming no dead bodies turn up, of course.’

  ‘Aye. Of course. I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Now, I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but I really must dash. Mrs Elliot’s expecting me home at any moment. She’s been experimenting with something called a NutriBullet. Have you any idea what a NutriBullet is?’

  ‘It sounds like a healthy version of Russian roulette,’ said Munro. ‘You’d best get going, as I recall your wife’s not one for tardiness.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there, James,’ said Elliot as he handed Munro a slip of paper. ‘A wee favour, if I may. Would you give this to one of the lads, it’s an address for a lady over in Cumnock. I’m told she’s had a wee bit of bother on her farm. Ask them to look into it, would you? And I’ll see you next week.’

  * * *

  Munro, looking as cheerful as a cheesemaker with a lactose intolerance, ambled back to the office and sighed as he placed the bottle on the desk.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said West, ‘you look like you’ve just been sacked, not given a golden handshake.’

  ‘Dour, lassie,’ said Munro, ‘it’s my natural expression. As I’ve told you before, I’m not happy unless I’m being miserable.’

  ‘You must be ecstatic then. At least you’ve got some champagne.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s not for me, really. You lot can have it.’

  ‘I’ll pass if you don’t mind, boss,’ said Dougal. ‘No offence, but alcohol and me don’t get along.’

  ‘I’m not that keen on the fizz, either,’ said West. ‘A decent red or a drop of your Balvenie’s more my cup of tea.’

  ‘Well, that leaves you then, laddie,’ said Munro as he sat down and loosened his tie. ‘Or do you have an aversion to bubbles, as well?’

  ‘No, no, I can handle the bubbles, chief,’ said Duncan, ‘but I’m not taking that off you. That was a gift.’

  ‘Tell me, Duncan, have you any plans for the weekend?’

  ‘The weekend? Well, aye, I’m away to Girvan to see Cathy, she’s arranged a babysitter so we can…’

  ‘Then, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Munro, ‘that’s a good enough reason to celebrate. You have it, take it with my compliments. Now, it’s time I was off.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  Munro thought for a moment, frowned, and slowly shook his head.

  ‘No, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I cannae think of anything.’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Yes! You agreed,’ said West, lying through her teeth. ‘Come on. I’m all out of food so it’ll have to be the chippy. We can grab some wine on the way.’

  ‘Wine? Och, I cannae drink, Charlie. I’m driving.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to stay over, won’t you? No arguments, let’s go.’

  * * *

  It didn’t take Munro’s sixth sense to realise that their pre-arranged dinner date was nothing more than an impulsive act of compassion designed to alleviate their mutual boredom but Munro was, nonetheless, grateful for the invitation which also provided him with the perfect excuse for avoiding the builders who, though industrious to a fault, clearly preferred working on his house rather than returning to their own, even after dark.

  Back in the familiar surroundings of her apartment on North Harbour Street, he stood on the balcony, hands tucked behind his back, and gazed trance-like at the setting sun while West, as hungry as a love-starved puppy, unpacked two fish suppers, a bottle of red, and a giant Toblerone.

  ‘Oi, Jimbo!’ she said. ‘Don’t just stand there, brown sauce and a couple of glasses, please – quick as you can.’

  Munro willingly obliged, poured the wine, and joined West at the table as she crammed a forkful of chips into her mouth.

  ‘Well,’ she said, raising her glass, ‘that’s that then. Cheers.’

  ‘That’s what then?’ said Munro, his face a picture of gloom.

  ‘You. Finito. Out to grass.’

  ‘You have a way with words, Charlie, you know that? Have you not thought about a career with the Samaritans?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said West with a smirk. ‘Seriously though, have you thought about what you’re going to do once the house is finished?’

  ‘I cannae plan that far ahead, lassie,’ said Munro, ‘they’ve not even got the roof on yet. Then there’s the windows to fit, then the plastering and the tiling, and then the new kitchen. All that before I can even give it a lick of paint.’

  ‘Must be a pain in the backside.’

  ‘Aye. Like a bad case of piles. The worst part though, apart from the infernal racket, is that they’re still at it when normal folk should be in their beds.’

  ‘Really? I thought all builders knocked off at three o’clock.’

  ‘Not these lads,’ said Munro. ‘Edison gave them the gift of light and they’re intent on using it.’

  ‘Best thing you can do,’ said West as she helped herself to another glass, ‘is move out for a bit. Let them get on with it.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, Charlie. That’s why I’m thinking of taking that cottage on Skye for a month or two.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said West. ‘You can crash here.’

  Munro polished off the last of his haddock, took a large sip of wine and stared blankly at West.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Charlie, it’s not that I’m not grateful for the offer, but I’ll not impose. Not again.’

  ‘Too late,’ said West. ‘I’ve already made up the spare bed, there’s a toot
hbrush and a razor in the bathroom, and I’ve washed the clothes that you left behind. All you have to do is nip back home and fetch some more.’

  ‘You had this all planned, didn’t you?’

  ‘Me? Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Then what’s with the washing?’ said Munro. ‘I know you, Charlie, domesticity is not in your genes.’

  ‘No, but looking after mates is. Anyway, I’m being selfish really. I thought you might like to help out. Unofficially, that is.’

  ‘Help out? Sorry, Charlie, but I’m not a housemaid.’

  ‘I don’t mean cleaning,’ said West. ‘I mean work, proper work. Best you keep that brain of yours ticking over, I don’t want you going all senile on me.’

  * * *

  Munro, suitably refreshed after a sound night’s sleep, rose as usual at five-thirty and, wary of waking his host, made his way silently to the kitchen with the intention of brewing a pot of tea when the sight of a bleary-eyed West seated at the table crunching her way through a mountain of buttered toast stopped him dead in his tracks.

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat!’ he said. ‘I must be dreaming.’

  ‘Toast?’

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Charlie, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be up at this hour, unless of course you’ve not been to bed?’

  ‘I picked up a few tips from a crotchety, old cop…’

  ‘Careful.’

  ‘…and he was right. The earlier you get up, the more you get done.’

  ‘I think I’m going to have a seizure.’

  ‘Relax, I’m kidding.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘I got a call,’ said West, ‘well a text actually, from Dougal.’

  ‘Is that about the Byrne fellow? By the loch?’

  ‘Nope. It’s something completely different. They found a car on the A76 southbound last night. A few miles north of Mauchline. Do you know it?’

  ‘Aye, it’s not far.’

  ‘One occupant, the driver. He’s now in the ICU and by all accounts, barely breathing.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie, you’re losing me. Is this not something uniform should be dealing with?’

  ‘Afraid not, Jimbo. According to Dougal, this wasn’t an RTC. They reckon the bloke must’ve passed out while he was driving and crashed off the road.’