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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Och, you’re not obliged to say anything at all, Mrs Carducci. I’m sure you’re familiar with the phrase “no comment”, feel free to use it at will. Now, before we start you really should have a lawyer present.’

  ‘A lawyer?’ said Anita.

  ‘Aye, you’re entitled to one and in fact I’d recommend it. If you dinnae have your own I can appoint the duty solicitor if you like.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Anita. ‘I’ve nothing to hide, let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Okay good. Let’s start with your trip. So, first question for ten points, were you intending to travel alone or was somebody meeting you at the port?’

  ‘I was travelling alone.’

  ‘And would this have been your first visit to Norway?’

  ‘No,’ said Anita, sighing indifferently. ‘I’ve been before.’

  ‘And where did you go exactly?’ said Munro. ‘Oslo or Bergen, perhaps?’

  ‘No. Some dump in the suburbs. Loddefjord if you must know.’

  ‘Sounds like you hated it.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Even with Angus Buchanan for company?’

  Anita, at risk of losing her composure, glanced furtively at Munro before returning her gaze to the ceiling.

  ‘It was business,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘Just a wee bit of business.’

  ‘Of course it was. Something to do with the restaurant, I imagine?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Anita cagily. ‘The restaurant.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Munro. ‘Let’s move on to round two. Tell me about the bags.’

  ‘The bags?’

  ‘Aye, the bags dropped off at your salon by Kestrel Cars,’ said Munro. ‘The bags your receptionist tells me you collect shortly after they’re delivered.’

  ‘They’re nothing to do with me. I just take them in. For a friend.’

  ‘I see. And this friend’s not Angus Buchanan by any chance?’

  ‘No comment,’ said Anita, sarcastically.

  ‘And what do you do with the bags once you’ve collected them from the salon?’

  ‘I pass them on, okay? I just pass them on.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Have you any idea what’s in them?’

  ‘No. They’re sealed with cable ties.’

  ‘That’s very trusting of you,’ said Munro.

  ‘I’m a very trusting person, Inspector. I look for the good in people.’

  ‘That’s interesting because I’m the opposite. I look for the bad. And I often find it. Let’s talk about the other deliveries to your salon. The post addressed to Remus Trading.’

  ‘Look, I was doing him a favour…’

  ‘Mr Buchanan?’

  ‘…aye, Mr Buchanan.’

  ‘And does your husband know that Mr Buchanan is still operating the account?’

  ‘No,’ said Anita, her nerves fraying. ‘Look, I was only trying to help. Angus asked if he could use the address and said all I had to do was…’

  ‘What about the transfers?’ said Munro, upping the tempo.

  ‘What transfers?’

  ‘The bank transfers from the Remus account to a bank account in Norway.’

  ‘Norway?’ said Anita, exasperated. ‘Och, how would I know about that?’

  ‘Just a hunch, Mrs Carducci. You see, the account in Norway is held at a branch of the DNB which happens to be in Loddefjord.’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector, nothing you’re saying is making any sense, you’ll have to…’

  Anita’s words came to an abrupt halt as Munro pulled an iPad from the envelope sitting on the desk.

  ‘Do you know what fascinates me most about these things, Mrs Carducci?’ he said. ‘It’s not the amount of unbelievable technology sandwiched between a couple of sheets of glass and aluminium. No. You see what I find amazing about them is how careless their owners are when it comes to security. Take this one for example, it’s not been switched off so all I had to do was open the browser to see what they’d been up to.’

  Munro held up the iPad and showed it to Anita. Her face blanched at the sight of a web page bearing the Clydesdale Bank logo and a list of all the transfers from the Remus account to one held by a Mr Lars Gundersen.’

  ‘This is your iPad, Mrs Carducci. Perhaps you’d care to explain?’

  ‘I… it must have been Remo…’ she said, stumbling over her words. ‘He must’ve…’

  ‘You just told me he thought the Remus account had been closed.’

  ‘I must be mistaken.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree,’ said Munro. I think you’ve mistaken me for a fool. See here, the transaction at the top of the list? It was made last night at one minute to midnight while Remo was down the pub getting blootered. He told me himself he didnae get home until after one.’

  Anita, squirming in her seat, looked blankly at Munro and conceded defeat.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘I did it. I transferred the money for him but I havenae done anything wrong. I was just doing the man a favour.’

  ‘That’s very charitable of you,’ said Munro, ‘but did you not think it odd he asked you to do it? I mean, why not do it himself?’

  ‘I… it never crossed my mind.’

  ‘Were you not intrigued by the sums involved?’ said Munro. ‘Did you not wonder where on earth Mr Buchanan could have got his hands on such large amounts of cash? Were you not just a wee bit curious what he was up to?’

  Anita, looking as though she’d been stabbed in the back with a blunt pair of scissors, stared helplessly at Munro.

  ‘No,’ she said, bewildered by it all. ‘I never even gave it a second thought.’

  Munro, convinced she was a victim of nothing more than her own rose-tinted foolishness, smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Carducci,’ he said. ‘Why exactly were you going to Loddefjord?’

  ‘To meet Angus. He’s already there. He said one of his bags had gone missing and he needed help tracking it down.’

  ‘One of his bags?’

  ‘Aye, the blessed bags that came to the salon.’

  ‘So they came here from Norway?’

  ‘Och I’ve no idea, okay? Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘And it was Angus bringing them over?’ said Munro.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anita flatly. ‘Look, all I know is Angus said a bag’s gone missing and he reckons Tomek’s taken it.’

  Munro flinched.

  ‘Tomek?’ he said. ‘Tomek Dubrowski?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mrs Carducci, why would Mr Buchanan be going to Norway to see Tomek Dubrowski when he lives right here?’

  ‘Because Tomek has a flat there. In Loddefjord.’

  Munro stood, tucked the chair beneath the table and took a deep breath as he clasped his hands behind his back.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Here’s where we are. Pending further questioning, at some point during the next twelve hours you will be…’

  ‘Twelve hours?’ said Anita. ‘Twelve hours in that pokey cell?’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t upgrade you to the presidential suite until you’re formally charged, Mrs Carducci.’

  ‘Charged?’

  ‘Aye. As I was saying, pending further questioning, at some point during the next twelve hours you will be formally charged.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Well, we’ll stick with being an accessory after the fact for now,’ said Munro. ‘We can always add to it later.’

  ‘What do you mean? Add to it?’

  ‘Well, depending on the outcome of our investigations, we may embellish it with handling stolen goods perhaps. Or money laundering. Or…’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Anita.

  ‘I’m not a comedian, Mrs Carducci.’

  ‘But I’ve told you, I’ve not done anything wrong.’

  ‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?�
�

  ‘Wait until I get my hands on him,’ said Anita, grinding her teeth as her Italian temperament boiled over. ‘I’ll skelp the wee bastard.’

  Munro looked on as she pulled a handkerchief from her bag and wiped the sweat from her palms, shuddering as his penetrating gaze caught her unawares.

  ‘Final question,’ he said, his voice menacingly low. ‘How long have you and Mr Buchanan been having an affair?’

  Anita, stunned in to silence, shied away in embarrassment.

  ‘Mrs Carducci. How long have you and Mr Buchanan been having an affair?’

  ‘Years,’ said Anita. ‘Longer than I can remember.’

  ‘Your husband. And Mrs Heather Buchanan. I assume they know nothing about it?’

  ‘No. They’ve no idea,’ said Anita, switching her attention to the floor. ‘It wasnae meant to… I didnae think it would last. It was just a drunken wee fumble at first but… well, here we are.’

  ‘You must be fond of him.’

  ‘Aye. I am Inspector. He’s not like Remo. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my husband, I always will, but Angus is different. He’s not out to impress folk. He doesn’t care for fancy cars or designer clothes. He’s grounded, you know? Solid.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Heather’s a lucky woman, Inspector,’ said Anita. ‘Very lucky indeed.’

  ‘Not any more, she’s not,’ said Munro. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this Mrs Carducci but Angus Buchanan is dead.’

  Chapter 16

  There were some things in life Munro could not stomach. Literally. Cold baked beans. Cold Scotch pies. And cold bacon sandwiches. The crusty specimen lying on the desk was, despite his hunger, simply not enticing enough to tempt him into sating his appetite. Berating himself for wasting food, he threw it in the bin and checked his watch.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, answering the phone, ‘is everything okay?’

  ‘Aye, just to let you know we’re running Mrs Buchanan home right now.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s fine. DS West wants to know if we should head back to the office after or…’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘Tell her to go home and Dougal, stay with her, would you?’

  ‘Right you are. We’ll not be long, will we see you there?’

  ‘In a while. There’s something I have to do first.’

  * * *

  Munro briefed the officers in the unmarked Astra, glanced casually around the car park and ambled towards the promenade, drawn towards a solitary figure sitting on the ground with a polystyrene cup in his hand.

  ‘How are you, Mick?’ he said, as he dropped a handful of coins wrapped in a twenty pound note into the cup.

  ‘Aye, all good Inspector,’ said Mick without looking up, ‘he’ll be along shortly.’

  ‘Okay listen,’ said Munro staring out to sea, ‘when he arrives I need to have him stop a wee while, just long enough for us to reach him. Twenty seconds, that’s all we need.’

  ‘Are you saying you want me to approach him?’

  ‘Aye, as you would normally. You’ve nothing to fear.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Mick.

  ‘Positive. I’ll be right behind him and there’s a couple of other officers already in position. We’ll not move until we see you doing a deal. Then all you have to do is act surprised and leg it, okay?’

  ‘Sounds a wee bit risky to me. I’m not that good at running.’

  ‘Trust me, Mick. You’ll be fine.’

  * * *

  With the light fading fast, Munro – his patience wearing thin – cursed under his breath as one by one the workers and day-trippers drove off leaving him without the necessary cover he needed to maintain an element of surprise when all of a sudden Mick, who appeared to have been hibernating beneath his over-sized parka for the last forty-five minutes, jumped up and marched purposefully towards the car park.

  Munro started the engine and tailed the Quattro, hemming it in as it stopped alongside the pay-and-display ticket machine and smiling at the sight of the unmarked Astra executing a novice’s interpretation of a three-point turn dead ahead of it.

  Mick, never keen on courting trouble, hovered nervously by the passenger door waiting for the window to open when, in a fearless act of self-preservation, he opted to take his leave as a staggered Munro, yanking open the driver’s door, was left reeling at the sight of a portly, bespectacled gent in his late fifties smiling placidly like a librarian accepting a book two days before the due date.

  ‘It’s not aspirin you’re selling by any chance, is it?’ he said, as one of the officers slipped into the passenger seat. ‘Only I’ve an awful headache coming on.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the driver as he reached inside his jacket, ‘but I do have something that’ll take the pain away.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Munro, ‘hands on the wheel where I can see them.’

  ‘It’s my inhaler. For the asthma,’ said the balding driver. ‘Not the best ailment to be afflicted with if you suffer from stress.’

  ‘Dinnae move a muscle,’ said Munro as he reached in and retrieved it from his coat. ‘Judging by the look on your face I assume you know why we’ve stopped you?’

  ‘Well it’s not because I failed to purchase a ticket from that machine.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Under the passenger seat.’

  The officer reached down between his legs, pulled out a brown paper bag reeking of fried chicken and whistled at the stash of individually wrapped packages rolling around inside. He turned to Munro and nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro, ‘I’ve just the one question for you Mr…?’

  ‘John.’

  ‘Mr John?’

  ‘Just John. I’m not a fan of formality.’

  ‘And I’m not a fan of yours just now. John. Question: were you here last night?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And did you sell any of this junk to a well-spoken fellow with an English accent?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

  ‘Good. And how familiar are you with legal terms and definitions?’

  ‘Oh I’m not quite sure, like what, for example?’

  ‘Involuntary manslaughter,’ said Munro. ‘Take him away.’

  * * *

  West, stifling a yawn as she did her best to look interested, showed remarkable restraint in sipping a glass of red instead of knocking it back as Dougal, having hijacked her laptop, showed her the scenery surrounding the well-stocked Kilbirnie Loch brimming with pike, roach and trout, his enthusiasm propelled by the shot of a young girl in waders carrying a keep net on the home page. The sound of the front door slamming provided her with a much-needed escape route.

  ‘What kept you?’ she said, draining her glass as Munro hung his coat in the hallway, ‘we’ve been getting worried.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Munro as he sauntered into the kitchen, ‘all in good time.’

  ‘Dougal tried calling but you didn’t pick up.’

  ‘Good grief, can a man not have any privacy?’

  ‘Ah-ha!’ said West, grinning. ‘I don’t suppose this has anything to do with a certain Miss McClure, does it?’

  ‘It most certainly does not,’ said Munro. ‘Now, if it’s not too much trouble, two fingers please Charlie, I’m in dire need of some refreshment. Dougal, you look like you’ve bitten a lemon, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing serious, boss,’ said Dougal as he closed the laptop, ‘just backache.’

  ‘Backache?’

  ‘Aye, there’s not much room in the back of that Figaro, no offence, miss, but it’s only built for two. I had to sit sideways in the back with my knees on my chest.’

  ‘You’re lucky it was just your knees laddie,’ said Munro, gasping with pleasure as the whisky hit the back of his throat. ‘And how was Heather Buchanan?’

  ‘Yeah, she was fine,’ said West. ‘A bit upset at seeing her husband laid out like a turkey on a basting tray but she seeme
d to cope with it.’

  ‘And she made the ID?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And how about Dubrowski?’ said Munro.

  ‘Charged. But…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean he admitted killing him just like that,’ said West as she snapped her fingers, ‘but he claims he did it for the money.’

  ‘Must’ve been desperate,’ said Dougal.

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘something’s not right here. If it was just the money he wanted why did he not just take it? There was no need to kill the poor chap.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said West. ‘And that’s what’s bugging me. Anyway, I’m too tired to think about it now. How’d you get on? With Anita Carducci?’

  ‘Guilty as hell but to be honest, she knows nothing about Buchanan’s shenanigans.’

  ‘To be fair, nor do we.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Munro, ‘but the fact that she agreed to have those mysterious bags and the post delivered to her salon without even raising an eyebrow makes her an accessory after the fact nonetheless. She’s also admitted making the transfers between the Remus account and Gundersen’s.’

  ‘Well she had to really, didn’t she?’ said West. ‘I mean the evidence was all on her iPad but what gets me is how she got involved in the first place.’

  ‘Easy. Buchanan talked her into it.’

  ‘So he was keeping his nose clean by hiding behind her?’

  ‘Aye, and that’s not all he was doing her behind her. The two of them have been at it for years.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘All the way by the sounds of it.’

  ‘The saucy cow.’

  ‘So, Buchanan’s the one responsible for bringing the stuff over from Norway?’ said Dougal.

  ‘Aye. Whatever that stuff may be. He’s the one who organised it.’

  ‘So we still don’t know what was in the bags?’

  ‘Not for certain but something tells me it’s methamphetamine. Refill please, Charlie. What are you smiling at, lassie?’

  ‘Dougal’s got some news for you, haven’t you, Dougal?’

  ‘I have indeed. Dubrowski’s flat, boss; it’s not his, he rents it.’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Aye, it does,’ said Dougal. ‘Especially when it’s owned by Remo Carducci.’

  ‘Mother of God? Carducci? Charlie, pass me the bottle.’