TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Crap,’ he said, as he snatched the phone from the cradle. ‘Come on, pick up.’

  ‘Dougal. What’s up?’

  ‘Miss! Pull over! It’s Munro’s phone. It’s been switched on.’

  West, driving like an Italian on the way to Monza after a satisfactory lunch, swerved to the kerb and slammed on the brakes with scant regard for anyone travelling behind her.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, yelling at the phone, ‘what’ve you got?’

  ‘It’s west of the train station.’

  ‘The train station? Why the hell would he be catching a train?’

  ‘He’s not!’ said Dougal. ‘It’s to the west of it. Hold on, let me see what’s there. Okay, Kyle Street, the shopping centre… got him! I know where he is, Miss! Smith Street.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Smith Street! That’s where Kestrel Cars are based!’

  ‘Kestrel… Bloody hell! How the hell do I get there?’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘On the High Street.’

  ‘Perfect. Keep going, bear left at the fork, that’s Kyle Street, it’ll take you right there. Shall I send support?’

  ‘No, no, no! The last thing I want to do is scare him off.’

  * * *

  West, unfamiliar with the area and infuriated by the crawling queue of traffic, dumped the car on the pavement and dashed down the street, her eyes panning the buildings until she spotted the office next to the pub.

  Jazz, thinking all his Christmases had come at once, grinned broadly as the perspiring brunette in a white tee shirt and tight, black jeans burst through the door.

  ‘I’m looking a for a bloke,’ said West, panting as she held up her card.

  ‘It’s your lucky day,’ said Jazz. ‘I’m one.’

  ‘Tall, red hair, beard.’

  ‘Sorry. Short, black hair, sophisticated. Best I can do. If you want your pals, they’re down the back.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your friends,’ said Jazz. ‘They’re going over that Golf like flies round…’

  ‘Golf?’

  ‘Aye. Have they not told you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your two pals. The ones that were here earlier…’

  ‘What two…?’

  ‘The scruffy lad and the old fella,’ said Jazz, ‘looked like he’d bumped in to a baseball bat.’

  ‘Munro?’ said West, perplexed. ‘DI Munro and DC Reid?’

  ‘Aye, that’s them.’

  ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘Oh, ten, fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said West, pulling the phone from her belt as she scurried to the yard.

  ‘Duncan, where the hell are you?’

  ‘On the way to Kirkmichael. Where are you?’

  ‘Kestrel Cars. He’s here!’

  ‘Who’s where, Charlie?’ said Munro. ‘You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jimbo! Gundersen! Your bloody phone went off. We’ve tracked it here.’

  ‘Okay, you listen to me. If that’s the case, you might be putting yourself in danger, you’re not to hang around, do you hear? Take yourself off and meet us at Carducci’s place. Now!’

  ‘Carducci’s? Why?’

  ‘Because, lassie, that’s where Clare MacAllister’s staying, and she’s working for Kestrel Cars.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said West as she terminated the call. ‘I just don’t...’

  * * *

  Reluctant to leave so soon, West quickly scoured the street for a six-footer with red hair before jogging back to the yard and joining the SOCOs examining the Golf.

  ‘Anything?’ she said, addressing an anonymous-looking figure in a Tyvek suit.

  ‘As it happens, we’ve quite a bit,’ said the figure, removing her face mask as she stood, ‘but it all depends on what you’re after.’

  ‘Anything,’ said West. ‘Anything and everything.’

  ‘Well, we’ve some decent prints off the wheel and the door handles. Two sets, I reckon, so far. And they’ve left some of their supper behind the driver’s seat – a takeaway chicken from The Rooster Hut with a half empty bottle of Pepsi. Should be able to get something off that.’

  ‘Brilliant. Is that it?’

  ‘No, no, we’ve only just started, but we’ve also found some hairs on the back seat. Red hairs.’

  ‘Thank you, God.’

  ‘Funny thing is, they’re on the floor as well.’

  ‘Is that odd?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but whoever it was must’ve been cowering down there. And moulting.’

  ‘Okay, look, please do me one, huge favour,’ said West, ‘don’t wait until you’re finished, get the hair and the prints off for matching now. It’s, like, that urgent. Please?’

  ‘Aye, okay,’ said the forensics officer, reaching into a large, brown paper sack, ‘and before you go, we found this as well, wedged under the seat rail.’

  West made no apologies as she caught sight of the distinctive saltire on the back of the iPhone and began cursing like a sailor.

  Chapter 8

  Dougal parked his scooter on the gravel driveway, removed his crash helmet and stood back to admire the Gothic-inspired sandstone building known as Glencree which, were it not for the gargantuan sign extolling the virtues of the establishment, could have been mistaken for the stately home of a twelfth century laird.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Kennedy as she strolled over. ‘DC McCrae, I presume?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me,’ said Dougal, offering his hand, ‘and yes, it is. How old is it?’

  ‘Not as old as it looks. Turn of the century.’

  ‘Really? Well, it’s certainly easier on the eye than the rubbish they put up these days. Most of these new-builds are about as interesting as flat-pack furniture, I mean, they’re so soulless. No sense of aesthetics.’

  ‘A man after my own heart, Constable,’ said Kennedy, with a wink. ‘Pity you’re not a few years older.’

  Dougal, lacking the social, personal and emotional experience to come up with a witty, sharp, and endearing retort, bowed his head and blushed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Kennedy, ‘I shouldn’t tease. Shall we go inside or would you rather walk?’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Dougal, his cheeks hot enough to fry an egg on, ‘it’s far too nice to be stuck indoors. So, about this will. I understand it was you who contacted the police, is that right?’

  ‘Aye, it was. I couldn’t bear to see Father Dalgetty so upset, so I said I’d have a wee word on his behalf.’

  ‘Okay, why don’t you talk me through what’s happened, just so’s I can get clear.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kennedy, clasping her hands beneath her chin, ‘as a young man, Callum, that’s Father Dalgetty, was intent on joining the church, until he met Margaret Forsyth, that is. He fell head over heels in love. Unfortunately, she did not love him. Or at least, that’s what he thought.’

  ‘But she did? Love him, I mean?’

  ‘Aye, she did, but by the time he found out, it was too late. Callum had already joined the seminary and married God instead.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Dougal, ‘that’s terrible. So, what happened next? Obviously, that’s not the end of it.’

  ‘Not by a long chalk. A few years after he was ordained, he returned to Maybole as parish priest and he and Margaret saw each other every week for the next forty years.’

  ‘Och, a happy ending after all.’

  ‘Not quite. You see, Constable, when they realised the years were passing quicker than they cared for, they each drafted a will witnessed by the other, which they sealed in envelopes and deposited with Hamilton’s, the solicitors.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well, a few days after Margaret passed away, Father Dalgetty received a letter instructing him to attend the office for the reading of the will, only, the letter wasn’t from Hamilton’s. And the will was not the one she wrote.’

  ‘And he’s
sure about that?’ said Dougal. ‘One hundred percent, no-doubt-about-it, positively sure?’

  ‘He’s adamant. There was nothing of any relevance in the will at all, nothing pertaining to him, or Margaret’s beloved animal charities, or any of her other friends. Everything she owned went to some charity, “shimmering” something or other.’

  Dougal stopped by a bench, offered Kennedy a seat, and sat for a moment in quiet contemplation.

  ‘How was she?’ he said, finally. ‘Health-wise, I mean? Did she have any ailments? Was she on any medication?’

  ‘No. That’s why Father Dalgetty thinks it’s so odd,’ said Kennedy. ‘Och, she had the odd turn now and then, but no more than anyone else her age. She was as sharp as a pin, most of the time. For Margaret to change her will so late in life and not even mention it to Father Dalgetty was completely out of character.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, Miss Kennedy, but a will is a personal thing, and there’s no legal obligation for her to tell anyone about it.’

  ‘No, no. I understand that, but there’s something not quite right about this, Constable McCrae. Trust me, something’s not right at all.’

  Dougal leaned back and sighed as he scratched the back of his head.

  ‘Look,’ he said, apologetically, ‘I can see you’re both clearly concerned about this, and upset too, but…’

  ‘If this is where you give me the brush-off, Constable, I can tell you right now, I’m not having it, okay? Look, Margaret Forsyth’s new will was dated less than a week before she died. Now, does that not strike you as a wee bit odd?’

  ‘Less than a week?’ said Dougal. ‘So, let me get this straight. What you’re saying is – you and Father Dalgetty, you think she was, maybe, coerced into writing this new will?’

  ‘Of course! I mean, why on earth would she go to a new firm of solicitors when she’s been using Hamilton’s for nearly sixty years? Ever since the day she bought her house?’

  ‘Okay. Fair point.’

  Kennedy glanced furtively at Dougal and cleared her throat.

  ‘There’s something else,’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘and, I’ve not even mentioned this to Father Dalgetty. The firm of solicitors who dealt with her will…’

  ‘Reed and Partner?’

  ‘Aye. Well, one of the… I mean, one of the partners is my…’

  ‘Is your what, Miss Kennedy? Your son? Husband? Boyfriend?’

  Kennedy’s shoulders sagged as she laughed with relief.

  ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘He’s my boyfriend. Sorry, it’s just that word, boyfriend, at my age. It just seems so… inappropriate.’

  ‘Och, nonsense,’ said Dougal, ‘so, your boyfriend, he’s a solicitor, then?’

  ‘He is. We’ve only been seeing each other a few months but…’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Lucas Rietveld.’

  ‘Okay, and you think he has something to do with this?’

  ‘What? No! Goodness me, no!’ said Kennedy. ‘He’s as straight as a die, good grief, the man’s a saint. No, but I was wondering if perhaps… if perhaps his partner might be involved?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly worth investigating,’ said Dougal. ‘I’ll drop by on my way back. I just hope there’s someone there this time.’

  ‘You’ve been already?’

  ‘Aye. First thing this morning.’

  ‘You’ll have more luck if you go now. If his partner’s not there, then Emily will be.’

  ‘And who’s Emily? Some kind of legal secretary?’

  ‘No, dogsbody, more like. She’s a young lass, makes tea and answers the phone.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal as he got to his feet. ‘And your boyfriend?’

  ‘Lucas? He’s away just now. Back home in Holland. He’ll be back this evening.’

  ‘Right, you leave it with me, Miss Kennedy. I’ll give you a wee call just as soon as I find anything out.’

  * * *

  The less than salubrious surroundings of Reed and Partner’s office – located above an opticians on the first floor of an otherwise empty building on Killoch Place – took Dougal mildly by surprise. Unlike those depicted in the TV dramas of which he was so fond, there were no antique desks, no leather-backed chairs, no brass reading lamps, and no portraits of the firm’s founders adorning the walls. Instead, the open-plan space was sparsely furnished in a style which would have been considered en vogue circa 1972.

  He cast an eye over the beige, threadbare sofa, the two industrial-style tables, and the brown metal filing cabinet standing in the corner and concluded, somewhat cynically, that they’d probably been bought as a job lot from a second-hand furniture shop for less than fifty quid.

  Emily Fisher, a petite, twenty-three-year-old with a face as innocent as grace, emerged from a small room at the rear of the office and smiled coyly.

  ‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘Can I help?’

  Dougal, entranced by the vision in a floral-print dress with waves of dark-brown hair cascading down her back, fumbled for his warrant card.

  ‘Aye, you can,’ he said, stuttering. ‘DC McCrae. Dougal McCrae.’

  ‘DC? Are you a detective?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘How exciting, but if it’s Mr Rietveld you’re after, I’m afraid he’s not due back until tomorrow.’

  ‘Nae bother, you’ll do just fine,’ said Dougal, beaming. ‘Sorry, what I meant was, it’s actually his partner I’ve come to see. Mr Reed?’

  ‘Och, there is no Mr Reed, Constable. Just Mr Rietveld.’

  Dougal dropped the smile and frowned inquisitively.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said.

  ‘Aye. I think the partner thing just makes the practice sound, I don’t know, bigger, I suppose. More professional.’

  ‘I see. Sorry, but then, who’s this Reed fella?’

  ‘That’s Mr Rietveld. “Rietveld” means “reed field” in Dutch. A field of reeds.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Dougal. ‘Well, we live and learn. And how long have you worked here, Miss…?’

  ‘Fisher. Emily Fisher. Six months, or thereabouts.’

  ‘And are you enjoying your work?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Emily, raising her eyebrows, ‘not exactly mind-bending, if you know what I mean. But I’m studying law, so it helps.’

  ‘A wee insight into how it really works, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Good. Well, see here, Miss Fisher…’

  ‘Emily, please.’

  ‘Okay, Emily. There’s a document I need to take a look at, the thing is, I’m in an awful hurry and it’s quite important, so I wonder, would you mind fetching it for me?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m allowed to do that, Constable. Client confidentiality, and all that.’

  ‘I understand, but see, I only need a wee look, you can hang on to it.’

  ‘I’m still not sure.’

  ‘It’s a will. The last will and testament of a Miss Margaret Forsyth.’

  ‘Oh, that was dealt with recently,’ said Emily. ‘I remember because a priest came to see Mr Rietveld about it.’

  ‘That’s right. So, as the contents of the will are now public knowledge, perhaps you wouldn’t mind…’

  ‘Okay, I suppose that’ll be alright, but you’re not taking it with you?’

  ‘No, no. You keep it here.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it for you now then. It’s in Mr Rietveld’s office.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh, and Emily,’ said Dougal, with a cheeky grin, ‘before you disappear, have you handled any other wills recently?’

  ‘A couple, aye.’

  ‘Can I see any you have before Margaret Forsyth, as well, please?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find. Hold on.’

  * * *

  Dougal, overcome by a primeval urge to appear more hunter than gatherer, loosened his collar and ruffled his hair as he wandered around the desks, baffled by the lack of paraphernalia usually associated with a sedentary occupation before con
templating, and then dismissing, a seat on the sofa for fear some of the beasties dwelling therein might migrate to his own clothes. He turned his attention, instead, to the impressive row of diplomas hanging on the wall above it – a QLTS practising certificate from the Council of the Law Society of Scotland, a bachelor’s degree from Leiden University Faculty of Law, and a Master of Laws degree from Utrecht University. Unable to comprehend the wording on any of them, he took a photo of each just as Emily returned.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, looking up from under her lashes, ‘I could only find one other. Sorry.’

  ‘No, no, that’s great,’ said Dougal as he flipped open the file, ‘perfect in fact, although… you’re not going to let me copy these, are you?’

  ‘That would be quite unethical, Constable. Unless you did it behind my back,’ said Emily, smiling as she turned around.

  ‘Okay, that’s me done,’ said Dougal as he closed the files and handed them back. ‘I’ll take myself off and leave you in peace.’

  ‘Peace is the last thing I need. There’s too much of it.’

  Dougal hesitated as he reached the door.

  ‘Listen, Emily, I don’t suppose you like fishing by any chance?’

  ‘Fishing? No.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘But I do like motorbikes. And the outdoors. And reading.’

  ‘Will I give you a call?’

  ‘Aye. You do that.’

  Chapter 9

  At seventy-nine years old, Jack Kilbride – self-appointed guardian of Kirkmichael, unofficial authority on home security, and neighbour of the Carduccis – had carved out a successful career in retirement dispensing his encyclopaedic knowledge on the subject of absolutely everything to anyone who’d listen, particularly those tasked with repairing a lawnmower, renewing the guttering, or replacing the needle valve in a carburettor, thereby earning himself the reputation of a well-intentioned, but nonetheless interfering, old duffer.

  Distracted by the stealth-like arrival of an unfamiliar vehicle, he postponed the unnecessary installation of a motion-activated security light by the front porch to snoop on the unmarked Audi A4 from a covert position behind the dry-stone wall, unaware that he, thanks to two well-positioned rear-view mirrors, was the subject of some curious counter-surveillance himself.