TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘No, no. Too soon. She wouldnae go off that quickly, but judging by the smears on the tiles and the tub, she’s certainly had a go at cleaning up.’

  Munro took a seat on the toilet, rested his chin on his good hand, and stared intently at Carducci.

  ‘How tall do you think she is?’ he said.

  ‘Carducci?’ said West. ‘Hard to say. Five-five. Five-six, maybe.’

  ‘Weight?’

  ‘Dunno. Ten stone? Most of it up top.’

  ‘And MacAllister?’

  ‘Tall. Five-ten. And as skinny as a rake.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Munro. ‘Carducci wasnae dragged into the tub, she was placed there. And it’s not possible for MacAllister to do that alone. No, no. This was a two-man job.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said West, hesitating as she pondered the scenario, ‘then it would have to have been Gundersen, right? But the question remains, why would he want to kill Anita Carducci?’

  ‘It’s not difficult. Think about it, Charlie. Remo Carducci and Angus Buchanan were running the meth racket, right? Gundersen comes back and suddenly they’re both away to meet their maker.’

  ‘So,’ said West, ‘Anita was just a loose end?’

  ‘Possibly. Or maybe she was after a slice of the pie and Gundersen was having none of it.’

  ‘Bit extreme though, isn’t it? To knock her off just for that?’

  ‘Not for Gundersen, he specialises in extremes, Charlie. Okay, look, you need round the clock surveillance on MacAllister’s flat in Prestwick, chances are she’ll go back at some point.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ said West.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Well, SOCOs, naturally. We need to find the blade that cut Carducci and whatever it was that walloped her on the head.’

  ‘Good,’ said Munro. ‘You’d best inform DCI Elliot too. Tell him we’re keeping a lid on this for the time being. Should any nosey neighbours or reporters come sniffing around, it was natural causes. Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ said West, turning for the door, ‘I’ll sort the usual and circulate her details. What about an APW in case she tries to leg it?’

  ‘Aye, why not. Keep an eye on the train stations, too. Oh, one more thing, there’s a lady’s necklace in the main bedroom. Bag it. It’s not the kind of thing someone would leave lying around.’

  Chapter 10

  Based on the number of no-good, time-wasting, lazy low-lives she’d become embroiled with over the years – largely as a result of seeking out the physical rather than the cerebral – Alison Kennedy had, hitherto, considered herself to be an unreliable judge of character. Until, that is, she’d managed to snare, in Lucas Rietveld, somebody who made her content to the point of elation.

  The fact that he was given to selfless bouts of philanthropy was an endearing trait but not one essential on her checklist of prospective suitors. The fact that he was wealthy – not that she’d seen any evidence of it – provided her with a subliminal sense of security despite her being independent and self-sufficient. It was the fact, over and above everything else, that she could trust him implicitly, which made him so attractive.

  She poured herself a fourth glass of Merlot and sat toying with her phone as she constructed a brief but heartfelt message in her head, fearful of committing it to text lest she accidentally send it before it was complete, when her train of thought was interrupted by an unexpected knock at the door.

  ‘Detective McCrae,’ she said, swaying gently on her feet, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘Sorry, I should’ve called,’ said Dougal, ‘if it’s not a good time…’

  ‘No, no, come in. You’re here now. Will you take a drink?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Dougal, as his eyes darted around the room. ‘I’ll not keep you long. Are you alright, Miss Kennedy? You look a wee bit…’

  ‘Och, nothing to worry about, I’ll get over it. So, how can I help?’

  ‘Well, I was hoping to have a chat with Mr Rietveld. You said he was due back this evening.’

  ‘Aye, he was. The thing is, Constable McCrae, he’s not coming.’

  ‘He’s been delayed?’

  ‘No. He’s not coming back. Ever.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘He called me from the airport,’ said Kennedy. ‘He said he’s had some time to do some thinking and was of the opinion that we were going nowhere. So he’s dumped me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dougal. ‘If I’d known… Perhaps I should leave you to it.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you sit yourself down. How about a glass of water? Or I’ve some orange juice, if you’d prefer?’

  ‘No, you’re alright, Miss Kennedy,’ said Dougal, niggled by Rietveld’s reluctance to return. ‘I don’t suppose… I mean, did you by any chance mention anything about the will to Mr Rietveld?’

  ‘No. I’ve kept that to myself.’

  ‘Okay, good. And what time did you speak to him, today?’

  ‘This afternoon,’ said Kennedy. ‘But I can’t remember when, exactly.’

  ‘Did he call you on your mobile?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Would you check?’

  ‘Clever man, Constable! Och, here you go. Twenty-seven minutes past four.’

  ‘Emily Fisher,’ said Dougal, muttering under his breath.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Och, nothing. Listen, did Mr Rietveld call you from Holland or after he’d landed?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Not that it matters, eh?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Look, I don’t mean to dwell on the subject, Miss Kennedy, but when you say he’s not coming back, is that just to here, or does he mean he’s stopping in Holland?’

  ‘Like I said, Constable, I’ve no idea,’ said Kennedy as she knocked back the wine. ‘He can rot in hell for all I care.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure. One more question and I’ll get off the subject – would you happen to know which flight he was booked on?’

  ‘I do,’ said Kennedy, as she rifled through a pile of envelopes sitting on the table, scanning the back of each one. ‘Here you go: Eindhoven to Edinburgh. Ryanair. Left at 15:10, landed 15:50.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, tell me then, what have you come for? It’s not a social call to talk about architecture, is it?’

  ‘Not quite, no. Look, I cannae say too much as the investigation is on-going…’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘… but I think you should know, Reed and Partner – there is no partner. It’s just your… it’s just Mr Rietveld.’

  Kennedy hesitated and topped up her glass.

  ‘No partner?’ she said, frowning as she struggled to digest the information, ‘so, what does that mean? He’s been trading under false pretences or something?’

  ‘No. It means…’

  ‘Oh, Christ! It means if anyone had anything to do with scamming Margaret Forsyth, it was him! It was Lucas!’

  ‘It’s looking that way, aye.’

  ‘The wee bastard!’

  ‘I need to ask you something else,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s nothing to do with Miss Forsyth so if you can’t help, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Have you heard of a lady called Esme Sinclair?’

  Kennedy froze and glared, open-mouthed, at Dougal.

  ‘Esme?’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘Are you joking me? Oh, good God! Not her as well? He didn’t…’

  ‘You knew her then?’

  ‘Aye! Of course I knew her! She was in my bloody care! Oh, Jesus, Lucas said he’d sorted everything out for her! He said he’d done everything in accordance with her wishes, that she… och, that poor woman, she’ll be turning in her grave. If I ever get my hands on that conniving scumbag, I swear I’ll…’

  ‘Miss Kennedy, you’re upset, I get that,’ said Dougal, ‘but you need to calm down. Look, I’m sorry about Esme, but I’m working on it, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Kennedy, sighing with a deflated smile
. ‘I appreciate the effort, Constable. Really, I do.’

  ‘Nae bother. Look, I really need to get going but before I do, would you happen to have a photograph of Mr Rietveld?’

  ‘Aye, loads. You’re welcome to them all.’

  ‘Just one will do,’ said Dougal. ‘Head and shoulders. Can you email it to me?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll do it now.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s me away then. Is there anything I can do before I go?’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ said Kennedy, ‘it’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘Understatement of the year.’

  ‘I’m just glad I’ve found out now, and not later.’

  ‘Positivity. That’s good. Will you be alright?’

  ‘Aye, Constable, I’ve another bottle in the kitchen. I’ll be fine.’

  * * *

  Regretting the large pepperoni with double cheese, the bite-sized brownies and the half litre of Coke he’d swallowed in an effort to rid his mouth of the taste, Dougal – pining for his toothbrush – scrolled through the list of alumni of Leiden University and glanced disdainfully at his phone as the name ‘DS WEST’ flashed up for the fourth time in ninety minutes.

  ‘I’m scootering,’ he said, under his breath, ‘which means you’ll just have to wait.’

  The satisfied grin which crossed his face as he realised the results of his search matched exactly those from the University of Utrecht, soon evaporated as his phone rang for a fifth time.

  ‘It appears,’ he said, groaning through gritted teeth, ‘I have no option but to pull over and take the call. Miss, are you okay?’

  ‘Hi Dougal, been trying to reach you for ages!’ said West. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Och, traffic, you know.’

  ‘Traffic? On a scooter?’

  ‘Aye, there was a… an accident. No, I mean roadworks! That’s it. Roadworks.’

  ‘Okay, let you off,’ said West. ‘I was wondering if the lab had been in touch?’

  ‘No, not yet, but I’ll chase them again if you like. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, we’re not long back ourselves. Hold on, I’m going to put you on speaker, Jimbo wants to say hi.’

  ‘Alright, laddie?’ said Munro, raising his tumbler of malt, ‘how are you faring up there, on your own?’

  ‘Aye, all good, Sir. And yourself? Are you on the mend?’

  ‘Oh aye, never better.’

  ‘No sign of MacAllister?’

  ‘Not yet. Not in person, anyway,’ said Munro, ‘but we do know she’s been stopping at the Carducci house.’

  ‘The Carducci house? That’s odd. Why would MacAllister be staying there?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  ‘Have you not spoken with Anita Carducci?’

  ‘We tried,’ said Munro, ‘but she wasnae in the mood for listening.’

  ‘Och, that’s no surprise. Playing deaf, was she?’

  ‘No, no. She was playing dead.’

  ‘Say again.’

  ‘Dead, laddie. Deceased. Someone slit her throat and left her lying in the bathtub.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘I’m not big on jokes, Dougal, as well you know.’

  ‘And you think… MacAllister?’

  ‘Aye. Plus one.’

  ‘It’s not fair, said Dougal, ‘you lot have all the fun. And how’s DC Reid shaping up? Still needing a go in a barrel of sheep dip?’

  ‘Not anymore,’ said West, grinning, ‘he’s smartened himself up and, guess what? He’s right here.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Alright?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken, pal. What are you up to? Watching the TV?’

  ‘No, no, I’m just running through a few emails and…’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Munro, ‘are you telling me you’re still in the office? Good grief, man, you’ll burn yourself out. What’s so important that you cannae go home?’

  ‘The Forsyth case, Sir. I never knew folk could be so devious.’

  ‘You’re too trusting, that’s your trouble,’ said West, as she swigged her bottle of beer. ‘Come on then, tell us all about it.’

  ‘Okay, but you’ll have to concentrate if you’re to keep up. So, the firm that handled the will – Reed and Partner – well, there is no partner, it’s just Mr Reed, only that’s not his real name, as you know, it’s Lucas Rietveld. He’s Dutch. And the charity that got Forsyth’s house, The Schemering Foundation, is Dutch too.’

  ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Aye, and no prizes for guessing who set up the charity which, incidentally, also got its hands on the estate belonging to one Esme Sinclair. She lived in Maybole and died not so long ago.’

  ‘So,’ said West, ‘this Rietveld bloke’s a bit crooked then?’

  ‘More than a bit. See here, Miss, he’s not just some bent lawyer on the take. I’ve checked his qualifications from the certificates he’s got hanging in his office and they’re all fake.’

  ‘So, he’s not a solicitor, at all?’

  ‘He never even went to law school,’ said Dougal, ‘and get this, I’ve had some help from a fella at the Dienst Nationale Recherche…’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘…The National Crime Squad in Eindhoven. Brigadier Mats Klassen. He says The Schemering Foundation has acquired seven properties in the last twelve months alone and they’ve since been sold. Now, here’s the interesting bit: the charity’s registered address is Koestraat 25, in Oirschot.’

  ‘And that means what?’ said West.

  ‘It’s not an office,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s a house. A very large, very lovely house. It belonged to lady who died last year and, surprise, surprise, she bequeathed it to The Schemering Foundation.’

  ‘He’s some piece of work, this Rietveld chap,’ said Munro. ‘So, he’s not just robbing folk over here, he’s operating worldwide?’

  ‘Maybe not the world, Sir, but aye, the Netherlands definitely; but here’s the beautiful part – the lady who owned the house was Lotte Rietveld.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said Duncan. ‘You mean he fleeced his own mother?’

  ‘No. That’s just it. Lotte Rietveld didn’t have any children.’

  A palpable silence descended around the table as Duncan, West, and Munro eyed each other like a pot of poker players gambling their next hand.

  ‘Have you got the evidence to back this up, laddie?’ said Munro.

  ‘Aye. Plenty. I reckon we’re looking at fraud by false representation, theft, and obtaining property by deception. Klassen’s sending me a copy of the foundation’s financial records just as soon as he gets his hands on them.’

  ‘And you think we have all the fun,’ said West. ‘Have you hauled him in?’

  ‘I would if I could find him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘According to his girlfriend,’ said Dougal, ‘he went to Holland to visit his mother’s grave and was due back this afternoon. I’ve checked with the airline and he’s down as a no-show, so I’ve requested a full passenger list for all the flights, just in case he switched to a later one.’

  ‘And if he didn’t?’ said West. ‘That means he could still be there.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. That’s why Klassen’s heading to Oirschot as we speak and uniform are making a house call at the flat he rents here.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ said Munro with a wry smile. ‘That’s all you’ve done today?’

  ‘Very funny, Sir. I’d love to stay and listen to some more of your one-liners but I’m away to my pit, just now.’

  ‘I cannae blame you for that, laddie, but before you go, tell me, Dougal, are you familiar with the phrase “detective sergeant”?

  ‘Och, what do you think? Why?’

  ‘No reason, laddie. No reason at all.’

  Chapter 11

  Dougal, decked out in his favourite navy-blue blouson, charcoal chinos and trendy t
rainers, sat astride his scooter – helmet in one hand and an ice cream in the other – looking, to all intents and purposes, like a donnaiolo on the Spanish Steps, ogling the belle ragazze as they made their way to work, his temperature rising as he spotted one in particular walking directly towards him.

  ‘That’s a healthy breakfast,’ said Emily, sarcastically, as she shielded her eyes from the morning sun.

  ‘I’ll have you know, this is near enough my lunch, Miss Fisher,’ said Dougal with a flirty grin. ‘Mind if have a wee word?’

  ‘A word? And there’s me thinking you’d come all this way to ask me out.’

  ‘Aye, of course I did,’ said Dougal, flustered. ‘I just thought, two birds, one stone...’

  * * *

  Entranced by the sight of Emily perched on the table with her legs dangling a foot from the floor, Dougal – experiencing the kind of palpitations normally associated with the after-effects of a one hundred metre sprint – unzipped his jacket, ran a finger around his collar and cleared his throat as he tried desperately to compose himself.

  ‘Shall we do the boring bit first?’ he said, nervously. ‘Before we…’

  ‘Anything you like, Constable,’ said Emily. ‘We can do anything you like.’

  ‘Okay. Good. So, Emily, what I need to know is, did you happen to speak to Mr Rietveld yesterday? In particular, any time after I left?’

  ‘Aye. As a matter of fact, I did.’

  ‘Excellent. And did he call you or was it the other way round?’

  ‘No, no. He called me.’

  ‘And do you recall what time that was?’

  ‘Some time after four, I think.’

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘I’d rather go bowling.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal, ‘I meant… doesn’t matter. Okay, this is important – did you tell him you’d had a visit from the police?’

  ‘Aye, of course I did,’ said Emily. ‘Couldn’t wait, highlight of my day. Week even. If not the year.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal, embarrassed by the flattery. ‘And after you’d told him, how did he react? Did he sound normal? Or bothered? Or…’

  ‘Actually, now you mention it, he did sound a wee bit funny. Impatient. As though he’d been distracted by something.’

  ‘And up until that point, you were expecting him back here?’