TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘He’ll not make MI6, Chief,’ said Duncan with a wry smile.

  ‘Folk his age should be indoors,’ said Munro, ‘dunking a bap into a bowl of soup. Or watching the racing on the TV.’

  ‘Aye. Right enough. I think I’ll have a wander, all the same.’

  Kilbride, suffering from a sudden attack of the jitters, ducked behind the wall as Duncan stepped from the car, flexed his shoulders and ambled up the street towards him.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ said Duncan. ‘We appear to be of some interest to you, can I help?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Kilbride, ‘I’m just taking the air, thank you.’

  ‘Okay, well, don’t mind me. You just carry on.’

  ‘Are you after something?’

  ‘Nothing that concerns you, sir.’

  ‘Oh, no?’ said Kilbride, gasping at the sight of Munro. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, son, everything concerns me. Who are you, anyway? Are you on the run? Have you just escaped from prison? Is that it?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, reassuringly. ‘We’re not on the run.’

  ‘You’re debt collectors, then? Bailiffs? You’ve come to rob some poor, retired pensioner of her television set?’

  Munro smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Police, then. That’s it. You’re the police.’

  ‘You’re obviously a very observant individual, Mr…?

  ‘Kilbride. Jack Kilbride.’

  ‘Perhaps you can help. We’re looking for Mrs Carducci.’

  ‘Best of luck, pal,’ said Kilbride with a sneer. ‘I’ve not seen her for days, and I’ve no wish to, either. Not after that terrible business with her husband being killed and all.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘About a week ago, I’d say. Maybe less. It was late. She came by in a taxi. I watched her go indoors, then I took myself off to bed.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen her since?’

  ‘I have not,’ said Kilbride.

  ‘Has anyone else been by?’ said Duncan. ‘Any visitors or callers, I mean?’

  ‘Only the cleaner.’

  ‘The cleaner?’

  ‘Aye, which means Carducci’s coming back, or she’s planning to rent out that house of horrors to some gullible idiot with more money than sense. I mean, why else would she employ a cleaner?’

  ‘That’s a very good point, Mr Kilbride,’ said Munro. ‘Tell me, did you actually speak to the cleaner or is this just another one of your astute observations?’

  ‘No, no, I spoke to her, alright. Nice lass, but a wee bit snooty for my liking.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ said Kilbride. ‘Just after ten o’clock. I was watering the roses when she came by.’

  ‘Did you get her name?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Do you remember what she looks like?’

  ‘Five feet, six inches tall. Auburn hair, high heels, dark glasses. And she’s a smoker.’

  ‘Thanking you.’

  ‘Hold on there, just a moment. You’ve not said, are you the police, or what?’

  ‘I suggest you go indoors,’ said Munro as West’s Toyota came screaming down the lane, ‘and make yourself some soup.’

  * * *

  Having established the whereabouts of the elusive Clare MacAllister, not to mention the discovery of the Volkswagen Golf, Munro – expecting to be greeted with a degree of enthusiasm for what some former colleagues would refer to as “a right result” – was taken aback as West let rip with both barrels.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you playing at, Jimbo?’ she said, shooting daggers and trying her best to keep her voice down. ‘There’s some nutter on the prowl who wants your guts for garters and you’re driving around as if nothing’s happened! You’re supposed to be lying low and recuperating!’

  Duncan turned to Munro and smirked.

  ‘And what are you smiling at, Constable? You think this is funny? You’re meant to be keeping an eye on him, keeping him out of danger, instead, you’re ferrying him around like some sodding Dial-A-Ride service.’

  ‘Have you eaten yet?’ said Munro.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you miss lunch, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Och, well, that explains everything then.’

  West, struggling to stifle a smile, took a deep breath and folded her arms as she attempted to reassert herself.

  ‘Try the patience of a bloody saint, you would,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Come on then, let’s have it.’

  ‘Well, Miss,’ said Duncan, sheepishly, ‘we’ve found the Golf…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, been there, done that,’ said West, glancing at Munro, ‘that’s where I found your phone. Have you got yourself a new one yet?’

  ‘Not just yet.’

  ‘Not just yet. No. Didn’t think so. What else?’

  ‘Clare MacAllister,’ said Duncan. ‘She’s been working for Kestrel Cars ever since she lost the job at the restaurant. She gave Jazz, the owner, this address, which is probably why there’s no-one at her place in Prestwick.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, pensively, ‘that means she and Carducci must be up to something.’

  ‘And what makes you think that, Charlie?’ said Munro.

  ‘Why else would the mistress of Remo Carducci hook up with his wife? They’re not united in grief, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Good. So, what do you think they’re colluding about?’

  ‘God knows. Money, probably. That’s the only thing they have in common.’

  ‘Is it?’

  West gawped at Munro as he raised one of corner of his mouth, encouraging her to think deeper.

  ‘Gundersen!’ she said.

  ‘Hallelujah.’

  ‘Remo Carducci and Angus Buchanan are both dead, suddenly Gundersen, ex-supplier, appears on the scene so, my guess is, he’s trying to pick up where he left off and establish himself as the new dealer in town, and Carducci and MacAllister are in on it. Or they want a part of it. Or something like that, anyway.’

  ‘Okay, so what will you do now?’

  ‘Now? Well, keep an eye on this place until MacAllister and Carducci, show up, I suppose.’

  ‘We’ve Mr Kilbride, for that,’ said Duncan.

  ‘Either way,’ said Munro, reaching for his wallet, ‘it means we’ve time for a wee quiz. Duncan. If I said to you “cow”. What would you say?’

  ‘Cow? I’m not sure, Chief. Angus?’

  ‘Good. And if said “chicken”?’

  ‘Bantam.’

  ‘And if I said “pig”?’

  ‘Saddleback?’

  ‘No. The correct answer is “streaky”. Three rolls, please. Brown sauce. Café at the top of the street.’

  * * *

  West leaned against the car and smiled.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘for mouthing off like that. It’s just…’

  ‘Och, water off a duck’s back,’ said Munro. ‘It’s nice to see you taking a stand at last. You know something, Charlie, you’re not the lassie who wandered into my office all those months ago. You’re a different person.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, your best friend’s not called Smirnoff anymore. And you’ve heeded my advice regarding the health hazards of sushi.’

  ‘Yeah, and I feel better for it, too.’

  ‘And you’ve got used to living in your own skin, again. You’re to be commended, lassie. You’ve come a long way.’

  ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘Utter tosh. So, you found my phone? Did you not bring it with you?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s with forensics. Cripes, that reminds me,’ said West, ‘I need to ring Dougal. Two ticks.’

  * * *

  Dougal, on the verge of a migraine meltdown as his head flitted from one screen to the other in an effort to determine the accuracy of Google Translate, welcomed the intrusion.

  ‘Miss, am I glad to hear from you!’ he said. ‘I
need you to look at something for me.’

  ‘Me first,’ said West. ‘Guess where Munro’s phone was.’

  ‘Was it not at Kestrel Cars?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss, but I’m about to perform a cranial lobotomy on myself with a bread knife, you’ll have to elucidate.’

  ‘It was in the Golf.’

  ‘The Golf? The Golf was at Kestrel?’

  ‘In one. So, listen. A heap of stuff’s gone for analysis already, I need you to chase it for me. With any luck, the prints they’ve lifted will belong to Gundersen, so we need to…’

  ‘We need to cross check with the Hordaland District Police in Norway. Nae bother. I’m on it.’

  ‘Thanks. So, what’s up? You need a hand with something?’

  ‘A second opinion, really,’ said Dougal. ‘This case, the one with the priest and the will? It’s looking very suspect indeed.’

  ‘So, you think you’re on to something?’

  ‘Aye. I think I’ve found a connection. This charity, The Schemering Foundation, it’s Dutch. It means “twilight” and was set up to help folk with dementia. Apparently. The funny thing is, the solicitor who drafted the will is a fella by the name of Lucas Rietveld, and he’s Dutch, too.’

  ‘And you reckon it’s not just coincidence?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I need to do some digging.’

  ‘Okay, nice going, Dougal. So, how can I help?’

  ‘If I send you a couple of photos, will you take a look?’

  ‘Yeah, course. Send them now.’

  ‘Sending. It’s the certificates this lawyer has hanging on his wall,’ said Dougal. ‘They probably won’t mean anything to you but it’s not the content I’m concerned about, it’s their authenticity.’

  West opened the first photo and frowned.

  ‘Sorry, Dougal,’ she said, ‘it’s all double-Dutch to me.’

  ‘Well done, Miss. You’re spot on. But it’s not the language that’s the problem. See, remember when you graduated and you got your diploma certificate, was there not something about it that said “quality”? I mean, the type of paper they used and the way it was printed?’

  ‘Yeah, for sure. I think mine even had a red, waxy thing on it, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought,’ said Dougal. ‘So, blow up the photo, big as you can. What do you think?’

  ‘Blimey. Yeah, I’m with you on this, mate. It’s got those streaks on it, like when you print it at home but the ink’s running out.’

  ‘That’s just what I needed to hear, thanks.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s it for now,’ said Dougal, ‘I’m waiting to hear back from the KLPD; I’ve asked if they’ve got anything on this Rietveld fella.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Dutch police, Miss. I’ll fill you in later.’

  * * *

  Munro, amused by the sight of a dishevelled Duncan tearing through a bacon roll as he swaggered towards them, gave West a nudge with his elbow.

  ‘I’ve seen homeless folk better dressed than that,’ he said, grinning, ‘he’ll be attracting flies if he doesnae do something about it soon.’

  ‘Here you go,’ said Duncan, as he handed out a bag each, ‘one for you, and one for you.’

  ‘Cheers, Duncan,’ said West as she ripped through the roll, ‘no offence but, as soon as we’re done here, I need you to go home, shower, shave and change. There’s a difference between being “undercover” and looking like you’ve just crawled out of a skip.’

  ‘Gladly, Miss. I must be honking, it’s just that I’ve not had the chance. How long do you think we’ll be here anyway?’

  ‘No idea, but I think we ought to park up down the end, there, and wait in the car.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munro as he headed up the garden path, ‘you move the cars, I’m just going to have a wee peek round the back.’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t! You stay where I can see you,’ said West as he disappeared from view, ‘I’m not… I give up. I swear to God, that man’s so stubborn, he must be part mule.’

  ‘I like to see it as determination,’ said Duncan.

  ‘I’m surprised you can see anything through all that hair. Go and see what he’s…’

  West, fuming as the sound of breaking glass and a stifled holler cut short her lunch, cursed and dashed towards the rear of the house where a shamefaced Munro was standing by the back door.

  ‘I lost my footing,’ he said, ‘I think I tripped on yon flowerpot.’

  ‘You tripped?’ said West, scowling. ‘You tripped and your arm in the plaster cast just happened to go through the window?’

  ‘Aye, and it’s a good job it was the arm with the skootie or I could’ve done myself some serious damage.’

  Munro reached inside the door and turned the key.

  ‘Dinnae stand there gawping, lassie. Come on.’

  * * *

  The kitchen, dining room, hallway and lounge – minus Remo Carducci’s cadaver pinned to the back of the armchair with an eight-inch carving knife protruding from his neck – were, on the whole, as they remembered them.

  Munro, his one good arm behind his back, stood perfectly still, raised his head, and drew a breath.

  ‘The air,’ he said. ‘It’s stagnant. No-one’s been here a while.’

  ‘Not according to Mr Kilbride, Chief,’ said Duncan. ‘According to him, the cleaner, MacAllister, she’s been about the place.’

  West, one eye on the street outside, watched as Munro took slow, measured steps around the lounge, stopping, stooping and scrutinising the sideboard, the stereo, the fireplace and the bookcase, before turning to face her, his expression devoid of emotion.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, recognising at once the look which had previously heralded the discovery of something particularly unsavoury.

  ‘I’m not sure, Charlie,’ he said, glancing up at the ceiling, ‘but MacAllister wasnae here in her capacity as a cleaner. Everything’s covered in dust.’

  ‘Then what was she…?’

  ‘Duncan, I need you to stay here, in case anyone comes. We’re away upstairs for a wee nose around.’

  * * *

  Munro paused at the top of the stairs and, for a second time, inhaled deeply.

  ‘Smell that?’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Can’t smell anything,’ said West, ‘but then again, you’re not normal, you’ve got the sensory perception of a bloodhound on heat.’

  ‘Bleach,’ said Munro, pointing to the door opposite. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, something akin to corned beef. You take that one, I’ll take this.’

  * * *

  With its cast-iron bedstead, pine furniture and a commanding view of the wild meadow opposite, the main bedroom – decorated with a handful of vintage Italian advertising prints – was the epitome of rural charm. Munro, unable to reach ground level to check under the bed, limited his search to a cursory rummage through the wardrobe and the chest of drawers where the only items of clothing were those belonging to Remo Carducci.

  ‘This one’s clear,’ said West, calling from the guest room. ‘Bathroom.’

  Munro, his brow furrowed with the weight of another conundrum, pondered why – in the absence of any ladies’ wear, and when everything else had been tidied away – somebody would leave a solid gold necklace lying atop the dressing table.

  West, looking as though she’d just swallowed an out-of-date oyster, poked her head round the door.

  ‘I think I’ve found the mess MacAllister’s been trying to clean up,’ she said.

  * * *

  Despite her conviction for aiding and abetting, Anita Carducci had been guilty of nothing more than innocently executing the demands – albeit illegally – of the man she’d intended to elope with by transferring funds from his old business account in the UK to a personal one fraudulently held in the name of a deceased Norwegian national, abroad.

  The vivacious fifty-two-year-old, blessed wi
th an hourglass figure, chiselled cheekbones and plump lips, had – husband excluded – been the object of many a man’s desires. However, lying face up in the tub with her eyes wide open, her frock caked in dried blood and her throat slit from ear to ear, she was not as attractive as she used to be.

  Munro stared at the cadaver and solemnly shook his head.

  ‘Open the window,’ he said, wafting his hand in front of his face, ‘it smells like a tin of Fray Bentos in here.’

  ‘Poor cow,’ said West, ‘I mean, why? Who would want to do that to her? She’s not exactly Ma Barker.’

  ‘Right enough, Charlie. But somebody obviously had it in for her.’

  ‘You’re not kidding. But who?’

  ‘I have my suspicions, and all will be revealed in due course, of that I’m sure. So. Observations?’

  West made a cursory glance of the scene and leaned in towards the body.

  ‘Well, she’s as dry as a bone,’ she said, ‘and the plug’s on the side, so she wasn’t here for a relaxing soak. There’s a trauma to the side of the head. She’s got some nasty bruising around the temple.’

  ‘Well, that didnae happen on the doorstep,’ said Munro. ‘Not with Big Brother living next door.’

  ‘Okay. So it happened here. Indoors. Which means it must have been someone she knew. MacAllister?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Right, moving on. Knife wound. It’s not a clean cut, must have been some drag on the blade, probably dull or serated.’

  ‘Good, well done,’ said Munro. ‘So. Conclusions?’

  ‘Well,’ said West, standing up, ‘I’m thinking someone whacked her first, downstairs maybe, then dumped her here afterwards and that’s when her throat was cut.’

  Munro placed the back of his hand against Carducci’s forehead then, using the plaster cast, attempted to lift her left arm.

  ‘She’s as cold as ice and as stiff as a surfboard,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Rigor. She’s been here at least twelve hours, although, judging by the scent of her perfume, I’d say it’s probably closer to forty-eight.’

  ‘Do we know if anyone’s paid her visit?’ said West. ‘Friends, maybe?’

  ‘Aye. That’s Kilbride fella next door says he saw MacAllister leave around ten this morning.’

  ‘Well, that fits. She could’ve done it, then. Last night?’