The Major Minor Murders:

A thrilling adventure on the French Riviera with sparkling characters, a knife-edge plot and a killer ending

There's been a murder. And the only suspect has vanished.

Even his own brother, DI Barney Mains, thinks he's guilty.

But when the missing man's teenage daughter begs Barney to help, he has no choice.

And before long he starts to question whether the criminal brother he hasn't seen for ten years could actually be innocent this time. 

It's just that everyone seems to be in an all-fired hurry to pin the killing on him.

Despite there being a pair of highly visible alternative candidates - a tall ex-army type and a sidekick built like a tank. 

The trail leads Barney to the South of France and the gated world of the super-rich.

For only there will he discover whether his brother is a killer on the run. 

Or the next victim…

1 - Art of Persuasion

Wednesday, January 15, France

How the hell are you meant to work in conditions like these? His first-of-the-day moan was a tradition with him, one etched into his psyche during years behind a desk, cooped up in a suffocating room they called the Egg Box, back home in Edinburgh Police HQ.

 Except that these days, it was recited ironically, his office for the past six months having been wherever he chose to set up his easel, in or around the city of Nice on the French Riviera.

 Today it was a spot on the Prom, hard up against the railings above the stony beach. No room for any leg-lifting mutt to leave its unwanted splash of street art. And as far away as possible from all the beautiful lycra people out for their early morning jogs beside an as yet colourless, flat sea.

 The early light was fast emerging over the headland to the east as Barney set to work with a speed and fluency he’d only just started to rediscover.

 The scene would flaunt its early morning outfit for just a few moments then slip into something new while you looked away. Sometimes you only got one chance.

 Which was why he blocked out the bothersome chatter that niggled behind him. Yes, that’s it, he told himself. It’s coming. Just a few minutes more of this light and I’ll have you.

 But the disturbance at his back was now an insistent Scottish voice which he could no longer ignore. Besides, the words seemed to include something a lot like his name. He swung round, brush in hand. And somehow managed to daub a yellowish-green slash across the white throat of a startled young woman. ‘My God! So sorry.’

 ‘No, it’s OK,’ said the young woman, cautiously fingering the moisture on her throat, apparently checking that it wasn’t blood. ‘But I really need to speak to you.’

 Quite tall, decent build. Late teens? He wasn’t good at guessing ages of the young. But he couldn’t shake the idea that he’d seen her before.

 He’d been unconsciously drying his brush on a rag and now folded it to a clean spot and offered it to her.

 ‘Sorry about that. Bet you’re glad I’m not a sculptor, ha!’

 She didn’t seem to find that funny as she hesitantly accepted the cloth in long fingers and started dabbing at the paint. Short fair hair, faint eyebrows almost transparent against the pale, lightly freckled complexion, the face depending for character upon high cheekbones and clear blue eyes.

 Barney fought with his memory. ‘Have I met you before? And how do you know my name anyway?’

 Her face lit up, revealing a lopsided wry turn at the corner of the mouth. She seemed to be relaxing, enjoying the fact that she had him guessing.

 ‘I’ll tell you if you buy me a coffee,’ she said, faking a childish impishness. But he could see that she was older than her years, whatever they were. And that she was dying to talk.

 ‘Ha! Well, that sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me. Particularly after decorating your neck like that. Come on, I know the perfect place.’ He switched his phone back on, for once happy to end his painting for the day, intrigued to discover what this was all about. Then he stuffed the wet canvas, palette and paints into his big cloth satchel and folded the easel into its nifty carrying case, sparing a glance to the headland, now in its full glory.

 L’Instant Parfait cafe was close to the famous Hotel Negresco, a couple of blocks along the Promenade des Anglais, yet it remained a modest, welcoming place where Barney had always felt at home.

 By the time they reached it, the sun was already producing some warmth and the sea had begun its daily transformation to turquoise and lapis lazuli.

 It was a sight of which former Detective Inspector Barney Mains had never tired since leaving behind his old life in Scotland.

 Few tourists were around at this time of day and he was able to claim a pavement table under a bright blue parasol. He pulled out a chair for his surprise guest, who sat then let her yellow bag slide from the shoulder of her black puffer jacket to lie against her designer trainers.

 Barney ordered an américan and a cappuccino and although she refused breakfast, he added a couple of croissants and jam, just in case. He allowed himself to drift off for a moment while they sat in silence, merely watching the world go by as the palm trees stirred in a tentative breeze. He remembered being told that the narrow roadway between them and the Prom used to be filled by six lanes of endless choking traffic. This morning, internal combustion engines were few amongst the eerily quiet electric cars, bikes and scooters which whispered by.

 She lifted her cup the moment it arrived. ‘OK, so you wanted to know who I am,’ she said, taking a first sip then hastily dragging a paper serviette across her cappuccino moustache. She giggled. ‘Don’t know why I drink these. Not very ladylike.’ Again that contradictory mix of girlishness and a mature turn of the mouth.

 Barney suddenly sat up in his chair. ‘I know who you are! Sorry. Been a long time. But you must be Ricky’s girl. Abbey! My God, you must be what, eighteen by now?’

 She sat back, a stern, pugnacious look replacing the wry smile, the striking blue eyes now piercing and defiant.

 ‘So I’m right, then?’

 ‘Yeah, you’re right. And the reason you didn’t recognise me at first is that you’ve never had anything to do with us for ten years.’

 Years, decades, flashed through Barney’s mind. Scenes of boyhood scrapes and confidences shared with his little brother. Four years apart growing up, worlds apart after Barney followed their father into the police and Ricky disappeared from view, lost to Edinburgh’s dark side. The last time his baby brother surfaced was indeed a good ten years ago. Convicted on a drug charge. It made the papers. And made Barney’s life at work distinctly awkward for a while.

 He became aware of her face awaiting his return from the past and as he focused he saw it full of scorn.

 ‘Yeah, that’s right. Remember! You and your bloody father cut him off.’

 ‘Hang on. Hang on…’ Barney had his hands up against her attack. He sighed as he took a moment to compose his thoughts, to find the words, the conciliatory tone. ‘Abbey, I understand. But life isn’t that simple. Your dad wasn’t always the easiest guy to help back then, you know.’ He could see her start to protest and so stopped himself saying more, shaking uninvited images of ancient angry clashes from his head. ‘But anyway, that was all a long time ago,’ he said, in a bid to change the mood. ‘The main thing is: you’re here. And I’m really glad that you bumped into me. Really, I am. But now that my niece is in Nice, am I permitted to know what brings her here?’

 There was no responding smile but the fury had subsided as she took a quick sip of her coffee, then another, apparently taking some time out. Or more likely, Barney decided, building up to something.

 As it turned out, he was right. But he could never have imagined the tale she then told him.

 It started in an artist’s studio near Edinburgh’s picturesque Dean Village. His brother Ricky had by some act of divine intervention been transformed from a good-for-nothing drunk and druggie into an artist apprenticed to one of Europe’s most famous artists.

 He stopped her at this point, peering into her face. ‘Are you sure you’re my niece? Because this sure doesn’t sound like my little brother.’

 Her chin lifted. ‘Shows you how much you know. He got straight a long time ago. If you’d kept in touch you’d have known that.’

 He could only nod and wait for the rest of the story.

 She pushed her cup away and fixed him with a resolute stare. There had been a murder. The great man, Anton Haas, had been shot in the head.

 And there was only one suspect.

 She angrily threw back her head. ‘Ah, there you go. I can just see it running through your mind. You’re thinking: that’s better, that’s my brother back in character. Now he’s finally graduated to murder.’

 He tried to say she was wrong but she was in full flow. ‘If you knew anything about him, you would know that he’s totally incapable of violence. The cops have just taken one look at his record and decided he’s their man. Just like you would have done if you hadn’t jacked in the fuzz and swanned off down here.’

 Barney was shaking his head. But from what she then went on to say, he had to admit to himself that he would at least have to consider his brother a suspect. Ricky was known to work closely every day with the victim. On Sunday a neighbour heard a shot. The old artist was found dead with a bullet in his head and no-one had seen Ricky since.

 She spread her hands, as if coming clean. ‘I know it looks bad. I’m not stupid. But the whole idea that he would be capable of killing anyone, let alone a man who meant the world to him… It’s just ridiculous.’

 Barney could see that she was close to angry tears and so he asked as gently as he could: ‘So tell me, what do you think happened?’

 She swallowed hard then looked to the sky. ‘I just know he’s dead too.’

 Barney couldn’t help but show his confusion.

 She leant over the table towards him, tears suddenly forming. ‘I’m telling you, whoever killed Amos must have killed my dad too. It’s the only explanation.’ She seemed to be pushing him to agree whilst also holding back, as if hoping he didn’t.

 He instinctively reached across to put a reassuring hand on hers. She flinched in surprise but left her hand where it was. ‘Look, Abbey, we don’t know that. In fact, from what you’ve told me, there’s a hell of a lot we don’t know.’

 ‘So you’ll help? You’ll come back to Edinburgh? I absolutely know he didn’t do it, you see. And even if you don’t believe that now, you’ll soon realise he’s innocent once you start investigating.’ She pushed her face towards him, the better to deliver the intensity of her final words: ‘You’ve just got to find out what happened to him. You’ve just got to!’

 Barney felt the strength of her emotion, her naive belief in the abilities of an ex-cop she barely knew.

 ‘So you’ll do it then? Come back with me.’ Abbey’s face had morphed into a picture of innocence for her next words. ‘I happen to know there are seats on tonight’s flight.’

 He tilted his head and peered into her eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Oh, you just happen to know that, do you?’ He grinned as a burst of admiration ran through him for this headstrong young woman who’d do anything to help her dad.

 Barney doubted that he would turn out to be the saviour she imagined but she had at least succeeded in her quest. She’d convinced him that he needed to get back home right away.

 * * *

On the flight to Edinburgh that evening, he was relieved that their seats were far apart. No need for conversation. No chance that he could let slip what his young former colleague Ffiona McLuskey had told him when he’d called her from the privacy of his rented studio flat.

 Ffiona, already promoted to Detective Sergeant, was one of the force’s high-flyers and was never going to completely spill the beans over the phone. But they’d forged a close friendship the previous summer during the Shona Gladstone case.

 It was that investigation - or rather the political interference that ended it - which had so scunnered Barney that he resigned on the spot and refused to go home.

 He had learned to trust Ffiona’s judgement however and she too reckoned that he should return to Scotland as soon as possible.

 Without going into details, she said there was compelling evidence against his brother - beyond the facts reported in the press. She also needed to interview Barney. And he in turn needed to do something about his father, who’d been creating mayhem at police HQ, refusing to leave until he got some answers. Officers had no choice but to lock him up until he cooled down.

 Barney’s mood darkened as he gazed blankly from his window seat into the deepening night, the events of the summer telescoping into the uncertain present.

 Had he been living a fantasy these last six months? Was he about to be kicked in the teeth by harsh reality; be shown the error of his misguided ways and get sucked back into real life in Scotland?

 Maybe things had changed. Maybe self-serving careerists and accountants no longer ruled the roost in Police Scotland. 'Aye, maybe,' he muttered out loud, not believing a word of it.

 Besides, all he needed to worry about right now was his father, who appeared to be losing the plot. And his brother, the murderer.

*****