DUPLICITY: A compelling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 4)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Jimbo, you’re back!’ she said as she moved towards it, ‘is that…’

  ‘Aye. All yours. Sausage and brown sauce.’

  ‘God, I could kiss you, my stomach was beginning to think my throat had been cut. You not having any?’

  ‘I’ve had two,’ said Munro.

  ‘Blimey, you’ve got a healthy appetite.’

  ‘Not half as healthy as that Miss McClure.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said West, grinning. ‘She hungry for you then?’

  ‘Put it this way, Charlie, if music be the food of love, then that lassie’s a walking juke box. How’d you get on?’

  ‘Uniform are charging the taxi driver as we speak,’ said West. ‘His name’s Tomek Dubrowski and we’re doing him for vehicle theft, robbery and failing to report an ex-Norwegian. They’re running some more checks too, see if he’s got a record or anything.’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  ‘Plus, he’s been working illegally, doing something very dodgy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dunno yet, haven’t figured it out but I reckon he’s a runner of some sort,’ said West handing Dougal the mobile phone, ‘do me a favour, first number on the list, see if you can trace it please.’

  ‘That’s not as straightforward as you think, miss.’

  ‘I know, but it starts with 07789, that’s Vodafone. Should narrow it down a bit. Oh, and get this, he’s been having a wotsit with a woman by the name of MacAllister.’

  ‘Am I missing something here?’ said Munro. ‘Is it illegal to fraternise with folk by the name of MacAllister now?’

  ‘Could be,’ said West, as she crunched her way through a sandwich. ‘She’s the manager of a restaurant where Dubrowski used to work.’

  ‘And that’s of interest, why?’

  ‘It’s Carducci’s.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Dougal, handing out the tea.

  ‘I know, blinding, isn’t it? I think there might be something going on, you know, the pair of them bumping off the boss?’

  ‘Aye, you may be right Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘but why? If I were you I’d have another word with this MacAllister lady and see what kind of relationship she has with her employers but now, more importantly, I’ve something else for you to chew over, courtesy of Miss McClure.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, she’s asked you out!’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Munro, his face flushing, ‘but I can assure you I’ll not be making a deposit in her account anytime soon, that’s for sure. Anyway, this Lars Gundersen, as we know, has an account with a branch of the DNB in Norway and last night his balance was boosted by the princely sum of fifty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Fifty grand?’ said West.

  ‘That’s right, Charlie. So you have to ask yourself the question: why? Why the sudden flurry of activity on the account when up until now it’s been used as nothing more than somewhere to stash the cash?’

  ‘Beats me,’ said West. ‘Where’d it come from? This fifty grand?’

  ‘Answers on the back of postcard…’ said Munro. ‘Well come on, anyone?’

  ‘Remus Trading?’ said Dougal.

  ‘Well done, laddie, award yourself a teacake.’

  ‘We dinnae have any.’

  ‘Shop’s on the corner. Another thing: according to the bank, The Clydesdale that is, all correspondence relating to the Remus account is still being sent to Buchanan’s address.’

  ‘You what?’ said West, slurping her tea. ‘Buchanan?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Well that means someone’s not being entirely straight with us...’

  ‘Correct again.’

  ‘…and it could only be Heather Buchanan or Carducci. They’re the only ones who could operate that account.’

  ‘A hat-trick,’ said Munro, folding his arms and smiling. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  West froze as though she’d just discovered the sausages she’d been eating were made from tofu.

  ‘Me?’ she said glaring at Munro, her face filled with trepidation. ‘But I thought you were… I mean, we were both…’

  ‘It’s not my case, Charlie, you’re the one in charge.’

  ‘Right. Of course I am,’ said West, attempting to assert herself. ‘Okay, I think we should pay them a visit, Carducci and Buchanan. We need to take a good look around because obviously the letters from the bank have to be there somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Munro. ‘And maybe not.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘There may be a third party involved, albeit unwittingly.’

  ‘Sorry, am I being stupid? We just agreed that…’

  ‘Charlie. Remus is a limited company, lassie, as such...’

  ‘I see where you’re going, boss,’ said Dougal, butting in enthusiastically. ‘If Remus is a limited company then they have to file returns at the end of the financial year so they must have an accountant.’

  ‘Two teacakes for the boy.’

  ‘Of course!’ said West, ‘So maybe the accountant’s holding the statements. Genius. Right, I’m on it. I’ll ask Carducci who it is. Dougal, we’ll need a couple of warrants, one for Buchanan and one for Carducci, can you…’

  Dougal reached across his desk, picked up two envelopes and waved them at West.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said looking at Munro as he gazed trance-like into space, a subtle frown furrowing his forehead, ‘you’re always one step ahead. How on earth do you… what is it?’

  Munro, his mind elsewhere, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as if lost in the midst of a deep meditation.

  ‘Something Heather mentioned,’ he said. ‘It may just be a coincidence but as we’ve a dead body with a split personality I see no harm in following it up.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ said West.

  ‘Oslo.’

  ‘Oslo?’

  ‘Capital of Norway,’ said Dougal.

  ‘Really? You astound me. What about it?’

  ‘Heather mentioned that Mr Buchanan and Signor Carducci were there not so long ago on a wee golfing holiday,’ said Munro.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ said West. ‘Golf? In Norway?’

  ‘Oh aye, it’s about as popular with Norwegians as cabbage rolls. Charlie, you take yourself off to Carducci’s and have a nose around, ask him about their last golfing trip while you’re there. I’m away to see Heather. Incidentally, just so you know, I’ll not be mentioning anything about her husband, not just yet. I suggest you do the same.’

  ‘Mum’s the word. Dougal, fancy a ride in a Figaro?’

  ‘If I knew what that meant, miss, I might be tempted, but I’ve enough to do here.’

  * * *

  Remo Carducci – oblivious to the small foreign-looking car parking precariously close to the tail end of his Carrera – was lapping up the last of the afternoon sun, wandering lazily around the garden, half-heartedly pushing a lawnmower as Andrea Bocelli battered his eardrums through a pair of over-sized headphones. The sight of a lean-looking West, dressed in black jeans and a white tee shirt marching determinedly through the gate, her mobile phone hanging from her hip like a revolver, stopped him dead in his tracks.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, smiling as he pulled off his headphones, ‘don’t tell me, I’ll get it, it’s… West? Sergeant West.’

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Carducci. Mind if I have a word?’

  ‘Remo, please. Is that Constable McCrae not with you today?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well in that case, will you take a glass of wine? I’m just about to have one myself.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said West, ‘I just need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘As you wish. I assume it’s Angus you’ve come about, any progress?’

  ‘Nothing concrete I’m afraid but we’re working on it. It’s early days yet.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Remo, ruffling his mane of thick, black hair. ‘Still, you can’t help but worry. It’s Heather
I feel for, the poor woman’s beside herself.’

  ‘Well that’s hardly surprising. Shall we go inside?’

  * * *

  Remo led them to the kitchen, uncorked a half-empty bottle of Barolo and filled a glass to the brim.

  ‘Last chance,’ he said, holding the glass aloft. ‘I can’t stand drinking alone.’

  ‘You’ll just have to force yourself,’ said West, declining the offer. ‘Your old company, Remus Trading…’

  ‘Remus? That’s going back a bit. How is that of interest?’

  ‘Everything’s of interest Mr Carducci.’

  ‘Oh I get it, no stone unturned, eh?’

  ‘Something like that. So, have you anything here relating to Remus? Any paperwork, invoices, bank statements?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Remo, ‘that was Angus’s side of things, I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You’re quite sure? Nothing you may have forgotten about, some files in your study or office maybe?’

  ‘Office? I’m not Richard Branson, hen. Like I said, there’s nothing here, you’re better off talking to Heather, maybe she… oh hold on, come with me.’

  West followed him through to the lounge where he ran a finger along a row of hardbacks lining the bookshelf before pulling out a brown envelope sandwiched between Aldo Zilli and Giorgio Locatelli.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said triumphantly, ‘I almost forgot I had this.’

  ‘What is it?’ said West as she peered inside.

  ‘If I remember correctly, it’s a copy of the company registration document.’

  ‘And that’s it? Nothing else?’

  ‘No. Nothing else.’

  ‘Okay look, Mr Carducci, you should know I have warrant to search this place which I will, from top to bottom if I have to.’

  Remo took a seat on the sofa, leaned back and crossed his legs.

  ‘Feel free,’ he said smiling broadly, ‘I could even give you a hand if you like and if you get hungry I could rustle up some supper too. Are you fond of pasta?’

  ‘Too many carbs,’ said West, scowling. ‘Now, if you don’t mind I need to take a look at your computer, unless you’re gonna force me to requisition it.’

  Remo smiled and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You don’t have a computer,’ said West with a sigh.

  ‘Afraid not. Anita has one of those tablet things but a mobile phone is as far as I’ll go when it comes to embracing technology.’

  ‘I see. Okay, how about your accountant? I don’t suppose you happen to know who it is? Or is that Mr Buchanan’s department too?’

  ‘Ah, now that I can help you with,’ said Remo, ‘it’s written on the back of that envelope. Ferguson’s. They’re on Wellington Square I think. Ask for a fella by the name of Kincaid, he’s your man.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said West as she turned to leave, ‘appreciate your time. One more thing before I go. Oslo.’

  Carducci smiled and shook his head.

  ‘What of it?’ he said.

  ‘You were there recently. With Mr Buchanan. Golf, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye it was,’ said Remo, ‘but it’s not somewhere I’d recommend, not with the prices they charge. Especially for a pint. It’s enough to make a man give up the booze completely. Either that or face bankruptcy.’

  ‘But why Oslo? I mean, it’s not the first place you’d think of when you mention golf.’

  ‘That’s precisely why,’ said Remo, ‘we fancied a change. Rubbing shoulders with ex-cons at the nineteenth on the Costa del Cockney was getting tedious. I’ve my eye on Greenland or the Himalayas for our next trip although I’m not sure Heather or Anita will take too kindly to us disappearing for a month or so.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said West with a smirk. ‘You might be pleasantly surprised. I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘You know there’s an old Italian proverb, Sergeant,’ said Remo. ‘Let every fox mind its own tail.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It means life is a little less complicated, and a lot more rewarding, if you keep your nose out of other folks business.’

  ‘Is that a threat, Mr Carducci?’

  ‘No, no. Just some friendly advice. That’s all.’

  * * *

  West, having failed to negotiate the one way streets in the town centre despite the guidance of her sat-nav had given up, parked illegally and walked the five hundred yards to and from Wellington Square before returning to the office clutching a parking ticket, only to be greeted by Dougal and Munro looking about as happy as a pair of mourners attending the funeral of someone they neither knew nor cared about.

  ‘Well if it isn’t Grumpy and Sleepy,’ she said, tossing her jacket on the desk and slumping in a chair, ‘you two look as good as I feel. No luck then?’

  ‘Not even a sniff,’ said Munro, rubbing his eyes, ‘according to Heather, Angus kept nothing at home. He was that efficient he’d bundle up all the paperwork and drop it off at the accountants every Friday, regular as clockwork.’

  ‘Ferguson’s? On Wellington Square?’

  ‘Aye, that’s them,’ said Munro. ‘How about you? By the look on your face I’m guessing your visit was just as fruitful.’

  ‘And then some,’ said West, crossing her legs on the desk. ‘That Carducci makes my skin crawl, I never realised he was such a lech. Do you know he spent most of the time looking at my backside and flirting like he’s God’s gift to women?’

  ‘The kind of gift you keep the receipt for?’ said Munro.

  ‘In one. You know what? I reckon the only person he’s in love with is the ugly bloke he sees every time he looks in a mirror.’

  ‘Which is quite often by the sounds of it.’

  ‘And he doesn’t even own a computer.’

  ‘Ah, so he does have one redeeming feature after all,’ said Munro sarcastically as he turned, hands clasped behind his back, to gaze from the window. ‘Character analysis aside, I take it…’

  ‘Yeah, zilch,’ said West. ‘There’s nothing there. I even went to the accountant’s office, that was another bloody waste of time. Waited ages for them to dig out the files only to be told the last dealings they had with Buchanan and Carducci were when they dissolved the company. Nothing since. At all. Ever.’

  ‘You’re awful quiet, Dougal,’ said Munro, as he watched his own reflection in the window, ‘something on your mind?’

  ‘Aye. I mean, I just don’t get it, boss.’

  ‘What don’t you get?’ said West, charmed his boyish state of confusion.

  ‘Well, the Clydesdale, miss. They’re still sending letters to Buchanan’s address, right? So unless the account’s been hacked, which is highly unlikely, it’s like you said, one of them, for some reason, has to be lying. I mean the post cannae just disappear.’

  ‘Tell us something we don’t know,’ said West as she stood and rummaged through the cupboards. ‘Got anything to drink?

  ‘What do you think, boss?’ said Dougal.

  ‘Drain cleaner will do.’

  ‘I think, Dougal,’ said Munro with a satisfied smile as he turned to face him. ‘I think the mail is being re-directed.’

  ‘I’ll get some champagne.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Dougal, ‘Dammit, it’s obvious. If it’s being re-directed then the bank wouldnae have a clue about it and either of those two could pick it up from wherever.’

  ‘I was going to say that,’ said West, ‘got distracted.’

  ‘Dougal, there must be a major Post Office hereabouts, you know, like a sorting office…’

  ‘There is, Boswell Park.’

  ‘Get on to them as soon as possible, find out where they’re sending the post.’

  ‘Will I go now?’

  ‘Dougal, I appreciate you dinnae need much sleep. And I appreciate that, given half the chance, you’d prefer to work with a team of nocturnal mammals, but there’s comes a point when you have to call it a day and right now I’ve an urge to dive headfirst into a bathful of Balvenie. So, that’s
us away then, let’s…’

  ‘Hold on, boss,’ said Dougal raising his hand as the chimes from his laptop heralded the arrival of a new email. ‘It’s from the Hordaland District Police, some news about Lars Gundersen. Uh-oh. I’m not sure you’re going to like this.’

  ‘Come on, Dougal,’ said West, ‘I’m dying of thirst, what is it?’

  ‘Lars Gundersen, miss. The fella went missing two years ago. They’ve still not found a body.’

  Chapter 9

  Not one for languishing beneath the covers and cogitating on the day ahead, Munro – a habitual early-riser who ever since the untimely passing of his wife had sought solace in the chorus of blackbirds, robins and wrens as they foraged for food – sat sipping his second cup of tea in the cold light of dawn when a bleary-eyed West, her shoulders twitching against the frigid morning air, appeared on the balcony and sat beside him.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said, yawning as she pulled her cardigan tight around her chest, ‘did you actually go to bed or have you been up all night?’

  ‘The early bird, Charlie.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Gathers no moss. There’s tea in the pot, will I fetch you a cup?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. No. In a minute.’

  ‘Is something troubling you?’ said Munro. ‘Did you not sleep?’

  ‘Just something that crossed my mind.’

  ‘Think aloud, lassie.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, ‘but feel free to tell me if I’m being stupid.’

  ‘I’ll not need an invitation for that.’

  ‘Buchanan. We’re trying to figure out why he assumed the identity of a missing Norwegian bloke, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So what if… what if it’s the other way round? What if it’s Lars Gundersen who’s pretending to be Angus Buchanan?’

  Munro, cradling the cup in both hands, stared pensively out across the river and took a moment before answering.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so a Norwegian fellow comes ashore forty-odd years ago. Even if we assume he’s fluent in English do you really think a gentleman with a Scandinavian accent could manage to pass himself off as a native Scot? Because that’s what Mr Buchanan is.’

  West’s cheeks billowed with the weight of her sigh.