TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Good,’ said West. ‘And how about Clare MacAllister?’

  ‘Clare? What would Clare be doing here?’

  ‘Well, I assume, as you work together, she’s come to offer her condolences.’

  ‘She’s not here,’ said Robbie, brusquely, his attempt to close the door thwarted by Munro’s plaster cast.

  ‘I’d like to take your word for that,’ he said, ‘but I’m not convinced you’re being entirely honest with us. We’ll check for ourselves, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘You can whistle, pal. Unless you’ve a warrant, you’re not coming in.’

  ‘Well, I beg to differ,’ said Munro, fixing him with a steely-blue gaze as West pulled the radio from her hip. ‘See here, Robbie, we’re in pursuit of a known criminal who we believe to be hiding on these premises. As such, we have the right to enter your house either with, or without, your consent. So, which is it to be?’

  Relenting, Robbie pulled the door open wide.

  ‘Sorry, Clare,’ he said, as Munro and West focused on MacAllister, standing stock still in the hallway. ‘I did my best.’

  ‘Hello, Clare,’ said West as she wiped her feet and stepped inside. ‘You look different without your sunglasses.’

  MacAllister, expecting a stand-off, stood with her legs akimbo and arms folded.

  ‘I lost them,’ she said, glowering.

  ‘Shame. They’re not cheap. I could tell you where they are, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of Aletta.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ said MacAllister. ‘Let’s have it then, what are you here for?’

  ‘Oh, not much,’ said West, ‘I just wanted to say, Clare MacAllister, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Anita Carducci…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘…possession of a stolen vehicle…’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘…and aiding and abetting Lars Gundersen, also known as Lucas Rietveld, in obtaining property by deception. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something you later rely on in court…’

  ‘I’ve not done anything! Do you not get that?’

  ‘…Anything you do say, may be given in evidence. Turn around, please, hands behind your back, I’ve got a lovely pair of bracelets for you to try on.’

  ‘Hold on there!’ said Robbie, flailing his arms as he grew more and more agitated. ‘Did you not hear her! She just told you, she’s not done anything!’

  Munro stepped forward, forcing Robbie to the wall, and glared down at him.

  ‘You listen to me, sonny,’ he said. ‘You’ve already lied to us once, any more from you and you’ll be done for obstruction. Do I make myself clear?’

  PC Hamilton, carrying a brown, paper carrier bag, ambled up the path as West frogmarched MacAllister to the car.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she said, a look of consternation on her face.

  ‘Dinnae take this the wrong way, lassie,’ said Munro, scowling, ‘but you are not to leave this house again, is that clear? Next time, use a delivery service.’

  Chapter 16

  Without her Wayfarers to hide behind, MacAllister, no stranger to the interview room, appeared uncharacteristically subdued as she sat, head bowed, fidgeting with her sleeves. West – half wishing she’d turned her phone off when they’d arrived at the restaurant – made herself comfortable and stabbed the voice recorder with her index finger.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘this is Detective Sergeant West. Also present is Detective Inspector James Munro, Constable Anderson and Miss Clare MacAllister. The time is 8:17pm. So, Clare, down to business – what was your relationship with Anita Carducci?’

  ‘Pals.’

  ‘Pals? Really? Did you bond over the death of her husband, Remo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No,’ said West. ‘Because you had an affair with him, didn’t you? So, what brought you two closer together? Knitting?’

  ‘Circumstances,’ said MacAllister.

  ‘Being?’

  ‘I lost my job at the restaurant when Remo died. You know that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I got work at the taxi office and needed somewhere to stay close by. I wasn’t going to travel all the way from Prestwick for a few lousy quid, now, was I?’

  ‘And she offered you a room? Just like that?’ said West. ‘Despite everything that had gone before?’

  ‘She’s very forgiving, is Anita. We actually had a lot in common.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Our taste in men,’ said MacAllister, facetiously.

  ‘So, why did you kill her?’

  ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘But you admit you saw her body?’ said West.

  ‘I did. Aye.’

  ‘And you did nothing about it?’

  ‘No,’ said MacAllister, sheepishly. ‘I was too scared. I didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘Involved with what?’

  ‘Them. Whoever killed her.’

  ‘And do you know who they are?’

  ‘No idea. And I’ve no intention of finding out, either. Tommy…’

  ‘Tomek Dubrowski?’

  ‘Aye. He warned me about them after they’d paid him to take care of Angus Buchanan.’

  ‘I see,’ said West, ‘nonetheless, despite the fact that you were too scared, you still went back to the house. Why?’

  ‘I didn’t go back, I told you. Not with Anita lying there.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Clare,’ said West, tiring of MacAllister’s defiant attitude. ‘We’ve got some very nice film of you jumping out of a Kestrel car and jumping back in again as soon as you’d spotted the cordon around the house. So, again, why did you go back?’

  MacAllister paused as she cleared her throat.

  ‘I forgot my necklace,’ she said. ‘I left it in the bedroom.’

  ‘The main bedroom?’ said Munro. ‘At the front of the house?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the one I was using.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West, ‘Anita Carducci lets you, the woman who had an affair with her husband, sleep in their marital bed?’

  ‘Her choice.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said Munro, ‘then why did we not find any of your clothes there?’

  ‘I was living out of a bag. I hadn’t moved in, it was just somewhere to kip.’

  ‘Okay, but if you were so keen to get your necklace back,’ said West, ‘why didn’t you go alone? Why did you wait for Jazz take you?’

  ‘He offered. I wasn’t going to turn down a lift, was I?’

  ‘Did you tell him about Anita Carducci?’

  ‘No. I just said I needed to pick something up and he said he’d run me there.’

  ‘And afterwards? Where did you go afterwards?’

  ‘He dropped me back at Robbie’s,’ said MacAllister. ‘You can check, if you like.’

  West sat back, folded her arms, and stared at MacAllister.

  ‘You got on well, you two,’ she said. ‘You and Jazz?’

  ‘Well enough. Aye.’

  ‘Tell us about him.’

  MacAllister frowned at the apparent absurdity of the question.

  ‘What’s there to tell?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m asking you. Surely you must know something, I mean, since you two were having a fling, you must’ve shared something?’

  ‘A fling? Me and Jazz?’ said MacAllister, smiling nervously. ‘Don’t talk daft. We did no such thing.’

  Munro, instigating a pause, slowly leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands beneath his chin.

  ‘See here, Miss MacAllister,’ he said, his voice tinged with a low, menacing air, ‘you’d best be sure about that because when they do the post-mortem on Jazz, you know, after they’ve taken a wee knife, made an incision under his chin and sliced his throat open all the way down to the collarbone, once they’ve opened up his stomach and had a good rummage around to see what it was that k
illed him, they’ll then take swabs from his body. From his mouth and his nether regions, and then they’ll test them, and if we find any of your DNA in the samples…’

  ‘I told you,’ said MacAllister, ‘there was nothing going on! Nothing at all!’

  ‘Then perhaps,’ said West, ‘you’d care to explain why your sunglasses are at his house?’

  MacAllister’s face lit up like a six-year old learning she was off to Disneyland.

  ‘Really? Brilliant!’ she said. ‘I must’ve left them in the taxi.’

  ‘The one he was driving when he ran you to Carducci’s?’

  ‘Aye. Probably.’

  ‘See, what I’m struggling with here, Miss MacAllister,’ said Munro, ‘is why Jazz would want to keep that a secret. Everyone thought he was doing an airport run that morning. Why would he lie about giving you a lift to the house?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘And you’re adamant that you and he have nothing to hide?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  West stood up, pushed her chair beneath the desk and leaned against the wall.

  ‘Did you know Jazz was acting as a runner for the nutters who killed Anita Carducci?’ she said. ‘Dealing as well, I imagine.’

  ‘No. I did not.’

  ‘You’re positive?’

  ‘Aye. If he was into drugs, then more fool him. It’s a mug’s game.’

  ‘Pot and kettle,’ said Munro with a wry smirk. ‘Let’s move on. Round two. You’re quite a proficient driver, are you not, Miss MacAllister? What’s your verdict on the Volkswagen Golf? Does she handle well?’

  ‘Are you winding me up?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said MacAllister. ‘I’ve never driven one.’

  ‘Then you must be suffering from amnesia,’ said Munro. ‘Here, allow me to jog your memory. For the benefit of the tape I am showing Clare MacAllister a still taken from the CCTV cameras outside the hospital that shows her behind the wheel of a white VW Golf, registration SF12 HLE.’

  MacAllister slumped back without looking at the photo.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, sighing as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I might have driven one. Once.’

  ‘And the chap in the passenger seat?’

  ‘No idea. Jazz gave me the keys to the Golf, asked me to pick him up, take him to the hospital and wait. I assumed he had an appointment.’

  ‘Aye, he did,’ said Munro, smiling. ‘He came to see me. Did he have a name, your passenger? What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing. He never said a word the whole time he was with me.’

  ‘Oh, the silent type, eh?’ said West. ‘That is convenient. So, where did you drop him when you left the hospital?’

  ‘Braemar Square. On the corner.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘Jazz told me to park it in the yard when I’d finished.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Munro, cynically. ‘Okay, final round. How long have you known Lucas Rietveld?’

  ‘Who?’ said MacAllister, glancing furtively towards the door.

  ‘Lucas Rietveld.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’

  ‘Alright,’ said West, ‘let’s try another. How about Lars Gundersen?’

  MacAllister pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Is that it then?’ she said. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Go?’ said West, feigning surprise. ‘Nah, I don’t think so. You see, Clare, I’ve still got hundreds of questions to ask you but, frankly, I’m hungry and now is not the time.’

  ‘Are you joking me? Listen, I know my rights, you can’t hold me here against my will.’

  ‘Och, come, come, Miss MacAllister,’ said Munro, as he stood, ‘you’re not telling me you’ve forgotten about our reward scheme, already? Let me remind you – you get your first twelve hours on the house, and after that, the less you say, the more you earn. We’ll give you thirty-six, if we have to.’

  ‘But you’ve not even charged me with anything!’

  ‘Gosh, you’re right,’ said West, ‘how remiss of us. Clare MacAllister, I am charging you with possession of a stolen vehicle…’

  ‘What? I don’t understand! No-one said it was stolen!’

  ‘…and failure to report a death.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Very. And I’m not finished yet. I’ll add to the list in due course. Interview terminated at 8:41pm. Show Miss MacAllister to her room, would you, Constable.’

  Munro smiled as he held the door open for West.

  ‘Well done, lassie,’ he said. ‘Now, I suggest we get back to the Galloway and offer our apologies before they close the kitchen.’

  Chapter 17

  Unfortunately for Dougal, the much-anticipated fun-filled, firework display of an evening with Emily turned out to be nothing more than a brief encounter with a sparkler which fizzled out soon after he’d arrived. However, the fact that the female population of the UK apparently outnumbered the male – thereby increasing his chances of finding a suitable mate – provided him with a degree of comfort. But not as much comfort as a chocolate croissant dunked in a steaming mug of strong coffee.

  Buoyed by the emails clogging his inbox, he consigned the previous night to history and was happily ploughing through them when West, looking suspiciously chipper, strolled through the door with Munro in tow.

  ‘Dougal! You’re in early,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Dougal, miffed by the interruption.

  ‘Last night? Late one, was it?’

  ‘No, not particularly.’

  ‘Really? I’d have thought, after a night of unbridled…’

  ‘Charlie!’ said Munro. ‘Show some decorum. You’re embarrassing the poor lad.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Dougal, ‘I’m used to it. By the by, it’s all kicking off just now. Shall I fill you in while...’

  ‘Oh, that can wait five minutes,’ said West. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on and you can tell us about your date.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Och, you’d best give her something, laddie,’ said Munro, ‘she’ll be insufferable, otherwise.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Dougal. ‘She was flat on her back by nine o’clock.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Put it this way, the only thing she has in common with fish, is the way she drinks.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said West, with a sympathetic tilt of the head, ‘and there was I thinking you were off for a nice romantic meal for two.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ said Dougal. ‘Anyway, I’m not losing sleep over it, so can we move on?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro. ‘Let’s.’

  ‘Okay. Jazz. Pathology’s confirmed the cause of death as a cardiac arrest, they reckon it’s an overdose but they’re waiting on toxicology for confirmation.’

  ‘Och, that’s a given,’ said Munro. ‘Same as Buchanan. Meth. What else?’

  Dougal reached into a brown paper sack sitting on his desk and produced a sealed plastic bag containing a single sheet of lined paper ripped from a notebook.

  ‘Jazz’s personal effects,’ he said, ‘they found this in his pocket.’

  ‘What is it?’ said West. ‘Was he practising Sudoku?’

  ‘It’s a list of bank accounts, Miss. No names, just sort codes and account numbers. One is the DNB in the Cayman Islands, the others are all in The Netherlands.’

  ‘Bingo! So, that ties Jazz to Gundersen, right? It proves he was working for him after all.’

  Munro glanced at West and shook his head.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘You’re not convinced?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Munro. ‘Ask yourself the question, lassie, why would a taxi driver be carrying around such sensitive information on a scrap of paper in his jacket pocket?’

  ‘Because someone gave it to him?’

  ‘Why? Gundersen’s accounts probably hold more cash tha
n this country’s gross GDP. He’s not going to entrust that information to somebody driving a mini-cab. Go on, Dougal.’

  ‘Interesting news from Brigadier Klassen. First of all, there’s no sign of anything at the house in Oirschot...’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said West.

  ‘…but he’s also sent us the financial records from the Schemering Foundation. Get this – the proceeds from the sale of all the properties Rietveld acquired…’

  ‘You mean Gundersen.’

  ‘Two sides of the same coin, Miss. Anyway, the proceeds went into the foundation’s account. Okay? Simple enough. Then, no sooner had they cleared, almost every penny – bar a couple of thousand of quid – they went out again.’

  ‘Doesnae take an Einstein to figure out where,’ said Munro. ‘Another company owned by Gundersen.’

  ‘Correct. It’s a supply agency. Nursing staff.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ said West as she doled out the tea. ‘You mean that lowlife was actually employing people?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal, ‘that’s just it. He didn’t employ anyone, it was a basically a shell company. On paper, all the money that went in to the agency account, went out in the guise of salaries, bonuses, general expenditure, etcetera. Basically, anything he could get away with.’

  ‘Still an awful lot of dosh to set against comparatively paltry overheads, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not when the company’s registered in the Cayman Islands, it isn’t.’

  ‘Hence the DNB account. Crafty bugger.’

  ‘This Brigadier Klassen,’ said Munro, ‘is he not of a mind to close it down?’

  ‘He has. Well, The Schemering Foundation, anyway. The supply agency’s out of his jurisdiction.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Dougal. ‘Klassen’s tracked down four other personal bank accounts, two in the Netherlands and two in Norway. Nothing to do with those on the list, but they all received substantial payments from the supply agency and as soon as the transfers had cleared, the cash was taken out and the accounts closed.’

  ‘So, why,’ said West, ‘have the Dutch not issued a European Arrest Warrant? I mean, I’d have thought they’d want to get their hands on him themselves.’

  ‘They still might,’ said Dougal, ‘even though Gundersen’s not a Dutch national, he still based the charity there and used it as a conduit to launder the cash, so there’s every chance.’