TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘I’m not surprised. They’ve no morals, have they?’

  ‘No, they have not. Still, it’s a good job you’ve an officer here. Someone in uniform is usually deterrent enough.’

  ‘How is he?’ said West as she sipped her coffee. ‘I know you’ve probably told everyone else but I’ve only just got here.’

  ‘Well, he’s a broken arm and a fractured collarbone, three broken ribs and a punctured lung but nothing that won’t heal in time.’

  ‘Poor bugger. Can I see him?’

  ‘Och, I don’t see why not,’ said McKay, ‘but try to keep it brief. I’ll be back myself in about a half an hour. Oh, I should warn you, his face is like a bag of Liquorice Allsorts, it’s that bruised. And he’s on a ventilator. And a drip. And we’ve hooked him up to a heart monitor, too. Otherwise, he’s jim-dandy.’

  * * *

  Apart from an incident involving the discovery of several dismembered body parts wrapped in plastic bags stashed behind a bath panel, which resulted in the immediate discharge of the contents of her stomach into a nearby wash basin, West was hardened enough to handle any situation with the emotional detachment necessary to remain objective when investigating a crime. Except, that is, for the sight of Munro lying flat on his back with a face as colourful as a Caribbean fruit bowl. Duncan, sensing her unease, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she stared in shock at his motionless body.

  ‘Oi, Jimbo,’ she said. ‘What’re you playing at? It’s lunchtime and you’re still in bed.’

  Munro chuckled at the sound of her voice and slowly opened his eyes.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘It’s not me, Charlie,’ he said, as he pulled off the face mask and held it aloft. ‘It’s the nitrous oxide.’

  ‘You haven’t lost your sense of humour then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Munro winced as he hauled himself up the bed.

  ‘Constable Reid!’ he said. ‘You’re here too. Good to see you, laddie, but you needn’t haven’t bothered. I’m not worth taking time off for.’

  ‘I’ve not taken time off, Chief,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m here on official business.’

  ‘Official business? Then why are you dressed like a dope dealer?’

  ‘I made detective, Chief. And I’ll be helping DS West.’

  ‘That’s excellent news, laddie, I knew you could do it. But tell me, what exactly will you be helping her with?’

  ‘This case, of course. The mysterious case of the disappearing motor car that knocked you for a six.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro, slightly confused, ‘you’ll have to forgive me but the memory’s a wee bit vague on that score.’

  ‘Nae bother, Chief. Just as soon as you’re up for it, I’ve a few questions for you, then we can set about finding the nutter who did this.’

  ‘I see. Well, there’s no time like the present.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Duncan. ‘The doctor said you’ve to get plenty of rest.’

  ‘Och, doctors. What do they know? I’ll order some tea. Might take a wee while, though, room service here leaves a lot to be desired.’

  * * *

  Munro huffed indignantly as the auxiliary nurse – an overtly plump, thirty-something who, despite her relatively young age, appeared to be using the tea trolley as a walking frame – plonked a tray on the side table, sighed despondently and shuffled wearily from the room. Duncan stepped forward, tipped three spoons of sugar into a cup and passed it to Munro.

  ‘Here you go, Chief,’ he said, ‘it’s only right that you should have the biscuit, too.’

  ‘The biscuit?’ said Munro.

  ‘Aye, there’s a finger of shortbread here.’

  ‘One finger of shortbread? Three cups of tea and one finger of shortbread?’

  ‘Maybe they ran out.’

  ‘Ran off the plate, more like,’ said Munro. ‘Judging by the size of that nurse I’d say there were three on that plate when the trolley left the kitchen. It’s a good job I’m not in the room next door or there’d be none at all.’

  ‘You can’t say that!’ said West, grinning. ‘You’ll get done for discrimination. Or something.’

  ‘Wheesht! I can say what I like. I’ve had a wee bump to the head, remember?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with you then, is there?’

  ‘Nothing a decent brew and a fried egg sandwich wouldnae fix. How about you, Charlie? How are you keeping?’

  ‘Yeah, all good, I suppose. Tons of paperwork, nothing exciting. Apart from that…’

  ‘And you’re heading up this case? Down here?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Munro paused and sipped his tea.

  ‘Do you still have the spare set of keys to my house?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, cripes, yeah. I forgot I had those. Do you want them back?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘No, no. I’m just thinking, you cannae spend three hours a day travelling back and forth from Ayr, you’ll not get any work done. No, you go home, pack a wee bag and get yourself over to mine, do you hear?’

  ‘Okay, great! Be just like the old days.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Munro with a wink. ‘Oh, and get some food in, I’ll not be far behind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked West, inquisitively. ‘Not far behind?’

  ‘Exactly that, lassie. I’ve told you before, a hospital is nothing more than a halfway house between the here and now, and the other side, and I’ve no intention of ending up in one of those refrigerators they keep in the basement.’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish, you’re here for your own good.’

  ‘Utter tosh,’ said Munro. ‘As soon as I’m dressed, that’s me away. I shall recuperate at home and that’s all there is to it. Now, how are you, Duncan? Or should I say Detective Reid?’

  ‘Top of the world, Chief. I’m so glad you pushed me to go for it. I’m having a ball.’

  ‘Well, you certainly look the part, I must say. How did you end up down here?’

  ‘I had no choice,’ said Duncan, ‘I just went where I was told.’

  ‘So you’re stationed at The Mount?’

  ‘Aye, your old stamping ground, Chief.’

  ‘And have you nabbed yourself any criminals?’

  ‘Not just yet.’

  ‘Well, let’s see if we cannae get you started. I’ll go first. So, having said my goodbyes to Charlie and young DC McCrae, I left the police office in Ayr and headed home. Now, if I’m not mistaken, I stopped off somewhere on the way. Is that right?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right, Chief,’ said Duncan. ‘You stopped in Dalbeattie.’

  Munro frowned and regarded West with a tilt of the head.

  ‘Dalbeattie?’ he said. ‘Now, why on earth would I stop in Dalbeattie?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said West. ‘I’m as much in the dark about this as you are.’

  ‘You stopped to fetch some groceries,’ said Duncan. ‘We found a couple of carrier bags from the supermarket in the back of your car. And one from the butcher.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. I did. So, what happened next?’

  ‘Okay, according to several folk who witnessed the incident, they saw you drop a bag in the boot of your car and walk around to the driver’s side, but before you had a chance to open the door, it came at you.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘A white VW Golf. It took you and your wing mirror for a wee scoot down the street before tearing off.’

  ‘And you’re saying this was deliberate?’

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘You’re sure about that? I mean, there’s no chance I could’ve stepped out without looking?’

  ‘No, no. CCTV supports the witness statements. The Golf was parked on the opposite side of the street. It was there for twenty minutes or so, engine running, and as soon as you returned to your car, the driver floored it. Came at you like a Scud.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Sounds to me like whoever was driving was
waiting for you,’ said West.

  ‘And how did they know I’d be in Dalbeattie?’ said Munro. ‘Unless it was Doris Stokes behind the wheel?’

  ‘Only one explanation,’ said West, ‘you were followed. What else have you got on the car, Duncan?’

  ‘White Golf GTI. Registration SF12 HLE. Damage, obviously, to the front nearside. We traced it on CCTV as far as we could but we ran out of cameras.’

  ‘What about the driver? Can you get anything off the footage? Anything we could enhance?’

  ‘No chance, Miss. Tinted windscreen.’

  ‘So, it’s disappeared into thin air?’

  ‘Temporarily, I’m afraid so,’ said Duncan, ‘but we’re still looking. It was registered as SORN a couple of years back so it’s not been used for a while.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Munro. ‘No car’s going to start after six months off the road let alone a couple of years. That car’s been used, take my word for it. What about the registration, is it legit?’

  ‘Aye, Chief. Tallies with the records at DVLA.’

  ‘So, in the meantime, there’s a chance it could’ve been running around with false plates,’ said West. ‘Okay, what about the address? Where was it registered as off road?’

  ‘Prestwick, Miss. Prestwick Cross, to be precise.’

  ‘Hold on. Prestwick Cross? That’s where Carducci’s restaurant was. Oh, come on, Jimbo, please tell me you remember that.’

  Munro, eyes wide open, stared unflinching at West and slowly raised his right hand.

  ‘I do, lassie,’ he said, in a flash of recognition. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, that MacAllister woman was living in the flat above the restaurant. Duncan, who’s down as the official keeper of the vehicle?’

  ‘Fella by the name of Gundersen, Chief. Lars Gundersen.’

  Duncan, perturbed by the ensuing silence and the apparent face-off between West and Munro, hesitated before daring to ask the question.

  ‘Have I hit a nerve?’ he said. ‘Does that name mean something to you?’

  ‘More than you think,’ said West, reaching for the door. ‘Come on, I’ll fill you in. Jimbo, stay put and get some rest. I’ll be back in twenty.’

  * * *

  Although he’d experienced first-hand the awesome power of the souped-up saloons and high-powered hatchbacks at his disposal in the car pool – more often than not under the pretext of chasing down a suspect spotted several miles out of town – Duncan was not, in any way, fanatical about motoring. As long as it went forward quickly, and stopped even quicker, he was happy. The Figaro, he imagined, could probably do neither.

  ‘Nice wheels, Miss,’ he said, grinning as he sat in the passenger seat, his knees almost up to his chest. ‘Could you not have got something a wee bit… bigger?’

  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ said West, grinning. ‘But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.’

  ‘Ouch! Below the belt, but well deserved. Is there any welly in it?’

  ‘Nothing to make your heart race, but it gets me from A to B. Eventually.’

  ‘You should bring it down the station, Miss, let the lads give it a tune-up. You’d be surprised what they can do under the bonnet.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘That’s me told,’ said Duncan, jokingly. ‘So, come on then, what’s all this about Gundersen and Carducci?’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, taking a deep breath, ‘aside from his restaurants, Carducci was also a dealer, meth mainly, and Lars Gundersen was his supplier. They met in Oslo.’

  ‘So, Gundersen’s Norwegian?’

  ‘Yup. And get this, Gundersen disappeared a couple of years back which was when, coincidentally, Carducci started importing the crap himself.’

  ‘You mean he cut Gundersen out of the loop?’

  ‘Exactly. And surprise, surprise, he’s not been seen since.’

  ‘Okay. What else?’

  ‘Carducci was having it away with a lady called Clare MacAllister. She’s the manager of his restaurant in Prestwick, the one who lives in the flat above.’

  ‘And that’s where the Golf was registered as SORN. So, is there a link between Gundersen and this MacAllister lady?’

  ‘No idea,’ said West, ‘but we can’t rule it out. Anyway, we were about to nick Carducci, not just for the drugs but for money laundering and half a dozen other offences too, but he was murdered before we could arrest him.’

  ‘Murdered? And you think it was Gundersen who killed him?’ said Duncan.

  ‘No. It was his best friend’s wife, Heather Buchanan.’

  ‘I’m getting confused.’

  ‘Not only that, Buchanan’s husband was having an affair with Carducci’s wife…’

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘…and, to cut a long story short, Heather Buchanan’s banged up for murder and both MacAllister and Mrs Carducci are doing time for various offences – aiding and abetting, accessory after the fact, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.’

  Duncan sighed and scratched the back of his head.

  ‘So, what do you reckon?’ he said, perplexed, ‘Do you think this Gundersen fella’s back on the scene?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Duncan,’ said West, pensively. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. I mean, what with the car and the hit on Jimbo.’

  ‘That’s assuming it was him driving.’

  ‘Well, I can’t think of anyone else, and if it was him, he’s obviously got a grudge for some reason.’

  ‘Against the Chief?’

  ‘Maybe all of us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘God knows,’ said West, ‘but you don’t take a car out of retirement and use it as an offensive weapon for nothing. What gets me is, we couldn’t trace hide nor hair of him during the investigation and the Norwegian authorities gave up looking for him yonks ago, so if it is him, the question is why? Where’s he been all this time? And if it’s not him, then who the hell is it?’

  ‘Do you not have any easier questions we could start with?’ said Duncan.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have any at all. Look, I need you to call the office in Ayr and ask for DC Dougal McCrae, he’ll fill you in and send you over the relevant files.’

  ‘Roger that, Miss.’

  ‘I’m going back inside to check on Jimbo, here’s his address in Carsethorn. It’s not far. Get up to speed on the case and I’ll meet you there as soon as I’ve packed a bag.’

  * * *

  PC Ferguson, looking as though he’d spent his coffee break downing half a dozen double espressos followed by a gallon of Red Bull, was back outside Munro’s room where he stood as stiff as a ramrod, his head twitching sporadically like a pigeon scouting for food, as he glanced repeatedly up and down the corridor on the lookout for anyone suspicious.

  ‘Miss?’ he said, nervously, as West raced towards him. ‘I thought you were in there with the DI and DC Reid.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you?’ said West, glowering as she barged through the door. ‘Oi, Jimbo,’ she said, ‘I’ve just…’

  Her words tailed off as a sinking feeling, not dissimilar to that experienced when an unexpected letter from the tax office lands on the doormat, gripped her gut. Her eyes darted about the room, rapidly trying to make sense of the discarded blanket, the rumpled sheets, the line from the saline drip dangling in the air and, more alarmingly, the disturbing sight of a crumpled Doctor McKay lying slumped on the floor like a sack of potatoes, his eyes as bulging and as bloodshot as a bullfrog with an aneurysm.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ she bellowed as she checked the body for a pulse, wincing at the bruising to the top of his neck.

  Ferguson stepped warily into the room.

  ‘I thought he was here, Miss,’ he said, ‘with you and DC Reid. I came back and the door was closed so… bloody hell, what’s happened to him?’

  ‘Well, he’s not a sodding narcoleptic, is he? Find a doctor, quick, and we need back up. Now!’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘I want officers
on every entrance and exit. And get to reception,’ said West as she frantically dialled Duncan’s number, ‘see if anyone saw him leave. Duncan, where are you?’

  ‘Car park, Miss. Just leaving…’

  ‘Don’t go anywhere! Get your arse in here, now!’

  Chapter 3

  If asked by friends or colleagues to name the one thing that first attracted her to Lucas, Alison Kennedy would invariably refrain from mentioning – beguiling as they were – his entrancingly pale, grey eyes, his towering frame or his athletic physique which, for somebody the wrong side of fifty, was impressively taut.

  Instead, she’d recall a fund-raising event in the grounds of the Glencree care home and tell of how his lilting Dutch accent, which gently pitched and yawed like a rowing boat on a lake, played like a melody on her ears.

  ‘Lucas Rietveld,’ he’d said, smiling softly as he introduced himself. ‘And if you are not married, then I should like to know why.’

  Having had her fill of men who considered a deep pan pizza to be the epitome of haute cuisine, and who thought a football shirt was acceptable attire for a romantic night out, Alison Kennedy had all but given up on the dating scene, choosing instead to enjoy life as a fully-fledged singleton until, that is, serendipity introduced her to the suave, sharp-suited Dutchman.

  And for Lucas Rietveld – a compulsive workaholic burdened by the weight of his own success, whose diary was full but whose social engagements amounted to nothing more than some polite banter with the staff at the Royal India restaurant – meeting somebody who was not only strikingly attractive but smart enough to hold a conversation on anything from Rimbaud to The Rolling Stones, was like manna from heaven.

  Four months on and as enamoured as ever, she could forgive him almost anything, including being late for dinner. She watched, doe-eyed, as he sat with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, twirling spaghetti around his fork, taking care not to drip any of the carbonara sauce onto his pristine, white shirt.

  ‘This is lekker,’ he said, ‘what would I do without you?’

  ‘Order a take-away,’ said Kennedy, as she topped up his glass. ‘How was your day?’