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‘And I read your notes.’

  ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘And I found a few things you might like to see. Will I show you?’

  Munro finished his toast, took a large swig of tea, and joined Duncan at the table.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘If you’re sure, but if I’m barking up the wrong tree just tell me to shut my hole and I’ll pass it back to you. Let’s start with this fella you’ve been looking for: Craig McPherson.’

  ‘The amateur boxer.’

  ‘Is that what he was? Well, that would explain his behaviour then.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I found an article in the archives of the Galloway Gazette; a fella by the name of McPherson was cautioned for causing a disturbance at the Bruce Hotel in Newton Stewart years ago and guess what, it was the day after Flora MacDonald was reported missing.’

  ‘What kind of a disturbance?’

  ‘Seems he was lording it up,’ said Duncan. ‘He’d stopped for two nights, during which time he was spending cash like it was going out of fashion, getting hammered, and picking fights with anyone who’d take him on.’

  ‘So he fancied himself as a wee hard man after all.’

  ‘Maybe, but he was nothing of the sort. He got floored by every one of his opponents, including the barmaid.’

  Munro sat back, folded his arms, and stared pensively at the ceiling.

  ‘McPherson lived in Palnackie,’ he said. ‘And the Bruce Hotel is in Newton Stewart. If he only stopped the two nights, then where was he going? Why was he travelling west?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Duncan, ‘there’s nothing out that way but Stranraer.’

  ‘The port?’

  ‘Aye. Oh! If he did have something to do with that old lady dying then maybe he was legging it – he could have jumped the boat to Belfast or Dublin even.’

  ‘You might be on to something there,’ said Munro. ‘We’ll have to contact the ferry company and ask if they still have a copy of the manifest for all the sailings the following day.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I mean me.’

  ‘Aye. Of course you do,’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s move on. This other fella, Archibald Galbraith. He’s the head teacher at the school in Palnackie, has been for years, and he’s also on the parish council.’

  ‘Tell me something I havenae heard.’

  ‘Okay, chief, I’ll try. A few years back, Galbraith campaigned vociferously for new facilities at the school claiming the place was over-crowded. He said that the cramped conditions were, quote, “not fit for a sustained period of successful education and having a detrimental effect on the well-being of the students” and he got the support of the entire community. Eventually the council caved in and agreed to fund the construction of two eco-friendly, modular classrooms. The project was put out to tender but here’s the thing – the company which landed the contract, Caisteal Estates, was the one with the highest bid.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘In fact they were three times more than their nearest rival.’

  ‘Well, perhaps they were a better outfit,’ said Munro. ‘Reputable, using better quality materials and employing qualified craftsmen.’

  ‘That’s not the case, chief. If you Google images of the school, you’ll see the new build’s falling apart. I’d say it was built to budget, a tiny wee budget.’

  ‘Let’s go back a step,’ said Munro. ‘If their quote was so high then surely they’d have fallen at the first hurdle and been dismissed out of court. Did no-one oppose it?’

  ‘Aye, they did. Unanimously. The general consensus was that the council should be saving money and not frittering it away, but it was all rubber-stamped and pushed through regardless.’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘FOI,’ said Duncan. ‘I found a Freedom of Information request directed at the council asking them for details of the costs.’

  ‘So, what’s the story?’ said Munro. ‘There has to be a reason for paying these folk over the odds for completing the project.’

  ‘There is. And you’re going to love it. The person with the final say-so in the planning department was a lady by the name of Lucinda Mulqueen. She was the one who signed the cheque, so to speak.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was also head of the parent-teacher association at the school.’

  ‘Interesting but not exactly riveting.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Duncan as he spun the laptop to face Munro, ‘but this is. What you’re looking at here is the Companies House website. Caisteal Estates was set up just two weeks before the contract went out to tender and get this, it folded less than a month after the work was completed.’

  ‘I smell something akin to rat,’ said Munro as he finished his tea. ‘Now go easy, laddie, I cannae afford to raise my blood pressure too much.’

  ‘Scroll down the page, chief. You’ll see a list of Caisteal Estates’ board of directors – Lucinda Alice Mulqueen and Archibald Alpin Galbraith – but that’s not the best bit. The company secretary was one Jack MacDonald.’

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat!’ said Munro. ‘MacDonald! Why, he was the postmaster!’

  ‘Take it easy, chief. Will I fetch you an aspirin?’

  ‘No, no. It would appear there may be a link then, between these shenanigans and the demise of Flora MacDonald.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Duncan. ‘I cross-checked with Births, Marriages, and Deaths. Jack MacDonald passed away five weeks after Caisteal went out of business.’

  Munro hauled himself from his chair, walked to the window and stared out to sea as the sun broke over the horizon, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

  ‘Five weeks,’ he said. ‘Just long enough for him to get his hands on his slice of the profits.’

  ‘Profits? I’m not with you, chief.’

  ‘Dear God!’ said Munro, ‘you’re letting yourself down! How on earth can you turn in an exemplary performance like that and forget the punch line? Do you not see it? Galbraith and his cohorts knew the project was coming up for tender so they formed the company, used Mulqueen to push their bid through, then completed the build as cheaply as possible, syphoning off the balance to line their own pockets.’

  ‘I didn’t see that coming,’ said Duncan as he ruffled his hair. ‘Must be fatigue setting in.’

  ‘Charlie will hear of this, laddie. Mark my words, your efforts will not be without reward.’

  ‘Oh no, chief, I’m not sure that’s such a good…’

  ‘Wheesht! It’s not for you to say. Now, let’s put the icing on the cake. Have you any figures?’

  ‘Aye, they’re here somewhere, chief, in the FOI I think but I’ve not got time to look just now, I need to get a shift on.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Munro. ‘I was in mind of a wee celebration.’

  ‘Are you joking me? I’m not touching the booze, not at this time of the morning!’

  ‘Who said anything about booze? I was thinking eggs, bacon, and a fried slice.’

  ‘Tempting, chief,’ said Duncan, ‘but I’ll have to take a rain check. If I’m not in the office by six, Westy’s going to kill me.’

  ‘As you wish, laddie. You’ve done more than enough here and for that I’m grateful.’

  ‘No bother, and listen, if you can’t find those figures then give me a call, on the mobile mind, and I’ll take a look when I get a wee moment to myself.’

  Chapter 7

  After a turbulent two years under the repressive gaze of a blue-blooded libertine well-versed in the art of coercion, during which time she’d feared for her mental health, West – enjoying a hitherto unseen state of emotional stability – was shrewd enough to acknowledge, in his absence, that were it not for Munro’s derisive sarcasm and dogged determination to get her career back on track, she would have remained in London, surrounded by misogynistic colleagues, with nothing to look forward to after her shift but a bucket of fried chicken and a bottle of cheap vod
ka. Moreover, she was in no doubt that had she not followed her mentor north to Caledonia she would have relinquished her role as a DS within weeks of his departure and sprinted down a path of self-destruction.

  Perturbed by the fact that he’d yet to return any of her calls, and growing increasingly concerned that he may have suffered a relapse, she drafted a hasty email for her colleagues on Islay to request that they visit the holiday home on Kilnaughton Bay as soon as possible, preferably with a paramedic in tow.

  Unable to concentrate further, not least because of Munro’s seemingly selfish attitude, she abandoned her frustratingly fruitless search for any snippet of information on the untraceable Jake Nevin, closed the laptop, and fell sound asleep on the sofa.

  Startled by the ear-splitting screech of her phone at 5 am – a time traditionally reserved for the conveyance of news concerning the demise of a close relative – she fell to the floor and anxiously retrieved an apologetic voicemail from a typically droll Munro, informing her of his intention to call once he’d completed a relaxing session of tantric yoga and polished off a bowl of vitamin-rich organic muesli, muscle injuries and gastroenteritis notwithstanding. Relieved to know that he wasn’t lying under a sheet in the chiller cabinet at University Hospital, she checked her watch, demolished the remnants of a family-sized bar of milk chocolate, and readied herself for work.

  * * *

  Whilst the sight of a blackened body lying in the smouldering remains of a burned-out bungalow was as unsettling to behold as the hollow eyes of a dead drug addict, it was, more often than not, the surprisingly mundane discoveries which harboured an innate ability to consistently shock; like a spider the size of Finland lurking beneath the sink, a discarded doll skulking in the closet, or the sight of DC Duncan Reid alone in a darkened office at 5:48 am.

  ‘Flipping heck!’ said West. ‘You look like death.’

  ‘You’re not bad yourself.’

  ‘What are you doing here so early?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Duncan, the bags under his eyes accentuated by the cool, blue glow of his computer screen, ‘so I thought I’d crack on with the background check.’

  ‘Best of luck,’ said West. ‘I spent hours searching for something on that Jake Nevin geezer last night and I couldn’t find a thing.’

  ‘You were looking for the wrong fella.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Jake. It’s a pet name for John. It’s John Nevin you should’ve been looking for.’

  ‘Now he tells me. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ve typed up a crib sheet and left it on your desk.’

  ‘Blimey, slow down, mate. You’re turning into a right little swot, you know that?’

  ‘I aim to please.’

  ‘Is there anything I should know about right now?’

  ‘That all depends on what you’re looking for,’ said Duncan. ‘He lives on Church Street, that’s about a six-minute walk from Nancy Wilson. He’s forty-nine years old, single, and he lives alone. And according to the business card he carries in his wallet, he’s a professional groundsman…’

  ‘Now that, I do know.’

  ‘…but I reckon he’s pulling a fast one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s registered unemployed. He’s on the social.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’

  ‘And he’s claiming housing too which means every penny he earns from cutting the grass goes into his back pocket undeclared.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’s put some by,’ said West, ‘because that’s a shedload of benefits he’s going to have to pay back. Anything else?’

  Duncan swung his feet onto the table, leaned back, and ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘There is,’ he said with a knowing smile. ‘And it’s a beauty.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s got previous. Six years ago, he was done for aggravated assault. He pummelled the living daylights out of his ex.’

  ‘I’m beginning to like this.’

  ‘He got two years; six months suspended.’

  ‘So, he likes knocking women about, does he? Just wait until I’m finished with him. Why did he do it?’

  ‘Lost his temper,’ said Duncan. ‘A one-off. Apparently.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Do we know who she is?’

  ‘We do indeed. A Miss Kate Murray.’

  ‘Miss? So they weren’t married?’

  ‘No, and get this,’ said Duncan, ‘according to her statement, they’d only been seeing each other a few weeks. She moved away after his conviction.’

  ‘Can’t blame her for that,’ said West. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Hamilton.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Glasgow, near enough. Will I give her a call?’

  ‘Better had,’ said West, ‘we haven’t got time to go traipsing all the way up there. Oh, and when you’ve done that, I need you to nip over to Nevin’s place and give it the once over. His keys are with the rest of his stuff.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Duncan. ‘Do we have a warrant?’

  ‘We will have when Dougal sorts one out, but don’t let a little thing like that hold you up. Now, for being so… what’s the word?’

  ‘Clever? Talented? Compassionate? Caring?’

  ‘I was thinking industrious. For being so industrious, I’m going to treat you to breakfast. You stick the kettle on while I pop to the café, what do you want?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have the full works please. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West, ‘you’ll have to make do with a roll for now, I want to interview Nevin as soon as Dougal gets here and you’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Fair enough, but if Dougal’s not here by the time you get back, I get his by default, okay?’

  ‘Get my what?’ said Dougal as he breezed through the door. ‘Jeez-oh! What are you doing here? Have you been on the Red Bull again?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Well, do you know what time it is? Should you not be in your pit?’

  ‘I’ll dig one for you if you’re not careful. What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Breakfast,’ said Dougal. ‘As usual, one sausage and one bacon.’

  ‘Smashing.’

  ‘But I wasn’t expecting to see you here, so I’ve only brought the two.’

  ‘That’ll do me.’

  ‘Give him mine,’ said West, ‘he’s earned it. Just make sure there’s a tea on the go by the time I get back.’

  As someone who ranked suspicion above trust in the league of interpersonal skills, Dougal, intrigued by Duncan’s untimely presence in the office, filled the kettle, tossed him a toastie, and pulled up a chair.

  ‘You’ve earned it,’ he said, eyeing him with an inquisitive tilt of the head. ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘No idea, pal.’

  ‘Well, there has to be a reason. I mean, why are you here so early?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal. ‘That’s not it. See here, in all the time we’ve worked together I have never seen you in the office before me, let alone with West, it just doesn’t... oh hold on now! Just a minute! Don’t tell me you and she have been…’

  ‘Away and chase yourself!’ said Duncan, choking on his sandwich. ‘Have you lost the plot? Of course we have not!’

  ‘Well, what is it then? Was it an all-nighter with Cathy? Have you two been arguing? Or is it the wean, is he not well?’

  Duncan scowled across the desk, dusted the crumbs from his fingers, and grabbed his coat.

  ‘You need to keep this,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose, ‘out of other folk’s business.’

  ‘No offence, I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, just you remember what happened to the curious cat, okay? Now, if it’s all the same with you, I’m away to see what Nevin’s got stashed beneath his bed. You’ll find his back-story on the desk.’

  ‘So that’s what y
ou’ve been doing! You should’ve said. Look, apologies okay? I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.’

  ‘Get over it,’ said Duncan. ‘I have. Oh, and a word to the wise, this Nevin fella’s handy with his fists so I’d sit behind Westy if I were you.’

  * * *

  Devoid of residents rushing to work or children dallying on their way to school, the only thing missing from a deserted Church Street, apart from a pulse, was a token ball of tumbleweed blowing across the pavement.

  Reminiscent of the housing scheme where he himself was raised, Duncan, aware that most of the tenants had neither the will nor the need to leave their homes until hunger drove them from their beds, cruised past the row of lifeless houses until he reached Nevin’s shambolic end-of-terrace bordered by an overgrown hedge with a garage to one side and a decommissioned satellite dish dangling precariously by a cable above the front door.

  Looking like any one of the ten-a-penny miscreants who frequented the area, he slinked up the path and slipped unnoticed into the house where, unfazed by the damp floorboards, the peeling paintwork, and the stench of stale beer, he paused for a cursory glance of the lounge before making his way to the kitchen, where a pile of bin bags lay festering beneath the worktop in a space once occupied by a washing machine and a refrigerator.

  With the hob covered in enough grease to lubricate the wheels of a ten tonne artic and a frying pan coated in a white layer of congealed fat, he assumed Nevin to have a cholesterol count of 9.2, turned on his heels, and scooted upstairs to sneer at his sleeping arrangements which, judging by the stained mattress lying on the floor and the mounds of soiled laundry scattered about the room, had more in common with a vagrant’s makeshift bed in the recess of a shop doorway than a haven of peace and tranquillity.

  Avoiding the bathroom on the grounds of health and safety, Duncan peered inside the box room and, hoping that his superior wasn’t already in the throes of an in-depth interview, reached for his phone.

  ‘Duncan,’ said West. ‘Make it quick, I’m on my way downstairs.’

  ‘I’m at Nevin’s house, miss. Tell me something, is the male of the species genetically hard-wired to forget about cleaning when he hits forty?’

  ‘What the hell are you gabbing on about?’