TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Aye, that must be it. And just out of interest, do you have a favourite perfume, or do you tend to chop and change, as the mood suits?’

  ‘I only wear Cacherel, Constable. Always have done. Is this going somewhere?’

  ‘I hope so. What I mean is, you’re not a fan of Calvin Klein, then, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘CK One?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aftershave?’

  Kennedy bowed her head and coughed politely into her hand as Munro, deliberately avoiding any eye contact, stood up, crossed his hands behind his back, and walked slowly around the room.

  ‘You’re the manager of the Glencree care home, that’s right, isn’t it?’ he said, quietly.

  ‘I am, indeed.’

  ‘And do you enjoy your work?’

  ‘It’s very rewarding.’

  ‘Och, I’m sure it is,’ said Munro. ‘In more ways than one. It’s a commendable thing you do. Akin to nursing, in a way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And the pay’s okay, is it? I mean, unlike the nurses, you’re not struggling to make ends meet?’

  ‘The pay is more than adequate. And no, I’m not struggling.’

  Munro, stopped six feet behind her chair, and paused momentarily.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘do you have much disposable income, Miss Kennedy?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s my business, Inspector.’

  ‘Aye, you’re quite right,’ said Munro. ‘It was rude of me to ask. Only, I was just wondering, here you are – young, free and single, with a good job and no mortgage. You dinnae strike me as someone who squanders their money.’

  ‘I save what I can, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

  ‘So, you’ve not cashed-in any investments recently? A private pension, maybe, or some stocks and shares? A premium bond, perhaps?’

  ‘I have not, no.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can explain the fifty-one thousand pounds that appeared in your bank account over the last three months?’

  Kennedy, without so much as a blink, turned to Munro and smiled.

  ‘Must be a bank error,’ she said. ‘I wish I’d noticed, I’d have spent it.’

  West, warming to Kennedy’s ice-cold performance, sat back and folded her arms.

  ‘How well do you know Jasminder Banerjee?’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jazz.’

  ‘I’ve met him once. I think. When he picked me up from Glencree.’

  ‘And you got on well?’

  ‘We talked. A little.’ said Kennedy. ‘I tend not to fraternise with taxi drivers.’

  ‘Okay. What about Anita Carducci?’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t know anyone called Anita.’

  ‘Oh, you must do, surely,’ said West. ‘She owned a chain of restaurants with her husband, Remo. Very successful they were, too. And, they had a very lucrative sideline running a… a pharmacy business.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘They had to close,’ said Munro.

  ‘Shame,’ said Kennedy. ‘Debt, was it? Did they get in over their heads?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. Let’s just say, a death in the family forced them into early retirement.’

  ‘Let’s try another,’ said West, as Munro returned to his seat. ‘Let’s see if this one rings any bells. Lars Gundersen.’

  Kennedy crossed her legs, glanced at Dougal and smiled as if butter wouldn’t melt.

  ‘Can I go soon, Constable?’ she said, only to be interrupted by a brief knock on the door, whereupon Duncan stepped into the room, slid a folded piece of A4 across the table, and promptly left.

  West gave it a cursory glance before flashing it under Dougal’s nose and passing it to Munro who placed it face down on the desk.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Kennedy,’ he said, clasping his hands beneath his chin, ‘how do you travel to work?’

  ‘Public transport. Or taxi.’

  ‘A taxi. Of course. Do you not drive, yourself?

  ‘Not anymore,’ said Kennedy. ‘I gave it up, I simply don’t have the need.’

  ‘I see. And was that relatively recently?’

  ‘Relatively. Aye.’

  ‘You know, I have a theory about motor cars,’ said Munro, ‘I believe they reflect the personality of the owner. Take mine, for example, it’s an old Peugeot estate. It’s almost knackered, has a few rust spots here and there, but apart from the occasional, unexpected blow-out from the exhaust, it’s steadfast. Reliable.’

  ‘That’s very interesting, Inspector,’ said Kennedy.

  ‘Whereas you, I imagine, you’d drive something a wee bit sportier. Something like a hatchback, perhaps?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to hand it to you,’ said Kennedy, ‘you’re on the money, there.’

  ‘I thought so. I’ll go one better. I’d even wager it was white.’

  ‘Indeed it was. How perceptive of you.’

  ‘Not really, Miss Kennedy. It’s really quite obvious to me. You see, I suit black, it reflects my moods. But you suit white. There’s something quite innocent about white, don’t you think? Like a wedding dress. For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Miss Kennedy a copy of a marriage certificate obtained from the National Registry of Norway. The certificate shows that a Mr Lars Gundersen, occupation: chemist, was married to a Miss Alison Kennedy, occupation: student, in a civil ceremony at the County Court, Oslo.’

  Kennedy, completely unflustered, took a deep breath and offered the same patronising smile she gave to those who neither knew, nor cared, about her.

  ‘Being married’s not a crime, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ said Munro. ‘It isn’t. But murder is. See here, Miss Kennedy, apart from all the evidence we have that connects you to Lars Gundersen, also known as Lucas Rietveld, we also have some strands of hair. Human hair we took from the boot of a car. A boot containing the body of Jasminder Banerjee.’

  ‘Do convey my condolences,’ said Kennedy.

  ‘The hair was snarled around a tow-rope that was used to tie him up.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Aye, it is. But what excites me about these strands of hair, is that they’re not in their natural state. They’ve been bleached, bleached to a shade much like your own.’

  ‘The wonders of hydrogen peroxide.’

  ‘Exactly. The bottom line, Miss Kennedy, is once we’re done here, we’re going to take a wee swab from you for DNA profiling. Now, I’m not a betting man, myself, but I’d lay a year’s salary on us getting a perfect match between the two…’

  ‘Gambling. Bad habit, Inspector. Much wiser to invest it.’

  ‘…which would then place you at the scene, making you an accessory, at the very least.’

  ‘I’ll protest my innocence, of course,’ said Kennedy. ‘I’m sure I’ve an alibi lying around somewhere.’

  ‘We’ll need a sample of your handwriting, too,’ said Dougal, holding up the plastic bag containing the list of account numbers, ‘to get a match to these.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to waste your time doing that,’ said Kennedy. ‘You’ll find the notebook that page came from on the dining table.’

  ‘So, you admit to writing these down?’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised.’

  ‘And you know who they belong to?’

  Kennedy raised her eyebrows and smiled.

  ‘Why did you give them to Jazz?’ said West.

  ‘Second choice,’ said Kennedy. ‘I had planned to pass them on to Father Dalgetty but he’s got a few years left in him, yet.’

  ‘So, hold on, you meet Jazz for the first time, give him some bank details, and he doesn’t question it?’

  ‘He didn’t know. What I gave Jazz was a sealed envelope, Sergeant. He thought it was a cheque against the Glencree account.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I knew he’d put it straight in his pocket and, sooner or later, you’d find
it.’

  ‘What made you so sure?’ said West. ‘I mean, how did you know we’d find it?’

  ‘I’d heard a rumour,’ said Kennedy, ‘about his… heart condition.’

  Munro fixed Kennedy with a steely gaze.

  ‘What was the purpose of all this?’ he said, frowning with intrigue.

  Kennedy glanced ruefully at the ceiling and shook her head.

  ‘I had to teach him a lesson,’ she said. ‘I don’t like being made a fool of, Inspector.’

  ‘Teach who a lesson? Your husband? Gundersen?’

  ‘He was spending a lot of time away from home.’

  Munro sat back and regarded Kennedy with a curious tilt of the head.

  ‘I have to say, for as long as we’ve been aware of your husband’s activities, Miss Kennedy, that would appear to be par for the course. So, why the concern?’

  ‘I may not be as pure as the driven snow, Inspector, but I have my faith, and if there’s one thing I do believe in, it’s fidelity.’

  ‘Go on,’ said West, her interest heightened as the questioning turned to gossip. ‘Are you saying he was having an affair?’

  Kennedy dropped the smile and stared at West, her face suddenly cold and hard.

  ‘Probably not the first,’ she said, ‘and almost certainly not the last.’

  ‘So, this was your revenge?’

  ‘Not a word I’m fond of, Sergeant. I care to think of it as… retribution.’

  ‘And this had been going on for a while then, had it? This affair?’

  ‘A year or two,’ said Kennedy. ‘I kept telling myself I was being paranoid but, you know how it is, I had prove to myself that I was wrong. So, one day I followed him, and he led me all the way to Prestwick.’

  ‘Prestwick? So, you know who she is then?’

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ said Kennedy. ‘Does the name Clare MacAllister mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said West, pursing her lips.

  ‘Well, if you’re wondering where my husband is, I suggest you make her your first port of call.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  Munro placed the marriage certificate in his breast pocket and hauled himself to his feet.

  ‘Before I go, Miss Kennedy,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Jazz Banerjee. Why did your husband kill Jazz Banerjee?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have to ask him that yourself, Inspector. When you find him.’

  Chapter 21

  Duncan, his rarely-ruffled air of insouciance shattered by a sudden bout of anxiety, paced around the office like an expectant father banished from the delivery room as he waited nervously for the others to return.

  ‘So?’ he said, excitedly, as they traipsed through the door. ‘What’s the verdict? Is she guilty, or what?’

  ‘Of murder?’ said Munro, pulling up a chair. ‘No. She’s not guilty of murder. But she is guilty of being an accessory, if not an accomplice.’

  ‘Result!’ said Duncan, clapping his hands. ‘So, are we not going to do her for her involvement in the property scam, as well? I mean, there must be a half a dozen charges we can lay at her feet.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said West, ‘there’s plenty more coming her way, don’t you worry. For starters, those account numbers? It was Kennedy who gave them to Jazz.’

  ‘Kennedy?’ said Duncan, looking startled. ‘I’m confused. I mean, why?’

  ‘To get back at Gundersen, of course. She wanted to hit him where it hurts.’

  ‘No, no. I mean, why Jazz?’

  ‘Well, for one, she knew that sooner or later, we’d find the list and figure out the link to Gundersen. And two, with Jazz brown bread, Gundersen wouldn’t be able to link them back to her.’

  ‘All that, just because he’d phoned her from the airport and dumped her?’

  ‘He did no such thing, laddie,’ said Munro, his mind drifting. ‘That was just a smokescreen for our benefit. You’re forgetting, they’re husband and wife. She did it because Gundersen and Clare MacAllister were at it hammer and tongs behind her back.’

  ‘Gundersen and MacAllister? Are you joking me? So, hold on a minute, that means when Gundersen went to the hospital to send you on your way to the happy ever after, it wasn’t Jazz who’d asked MacAllister to take him there, he probably just asked her, himself?’

  ‘Aye, more than likely.’

  Having somewhat masochistically saddled himself with the task of seeking out a logical rationale for Kennedy’s actions, Duncan – experiencing the kind of mental anguish not seen since his first, and only, attempt at the Times crossword – scratched the back of his head as he continued to wear out the floor.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘am I missing something here? See, if Kennedy gave those numbers to Jazz, then that would’ve been in the last day or two, right?’

  ‘Indeed, it would,’ said Munro.

  ‘But she’d already come to us about Dalgetty’s pal, about the irregularities with the will. So, she must’ve known she’d be running the risk of getting caught, surely?’

  ‘Of course, she did,’ said West, ‘but she probably thought that with no previous and a good brief, even if she was charged with something, she’d get off lightly.’

  ‘More fool her.’

  ‘Yup, but if she was going to go through with her plan to bring about Gundersen’s downfall, then she had to risk it. The fact that she’d already told us about Margaret Forsyth actually worked in her favour. She was playing carrot to our donkey.’

  ‘Was that not just a wee bit dangerous?’ said Duncan. ‘I mean, Gundersen’s still out there, he’ll be raging.’

  ‘That, he will,’ said Munro. ‘No doubt about it.’

  Duncan hoisted himself onto a table and sat with his hands tucked beneath his legs.

  ‘Well, fair play to the lassie,’ he said, resignedly, ‘but I wouldn’t like to be in her shoes just now. It seems like an awful lot of effort to go to if all she wanted was for us to track him down and put him away.’

  ‘Aye, and that’s easier said than done,’ said Munro, rapping the desk with his fingers, ‘we’ve not had any luck so far and nothing’s going to change just because some lassie comes up with a hair-brained scheme to kick him in the assets, I can tell you.’

  ‘So, I take it we’re still none the wiser? We’ve still no idea where he is?’

  ‘Nope,’ said West, smiling, ‘we haven’t a clue. And at this precise moment in time, I don’t care, either.’

  ‘See here, Charlie!’ said Munro, slamming the desk as his frustration boiled over. ‘That’s precisely the kind of attitude that’ll keep those three stripes on your shoulder! I do care. The man’s a menace and frankly, if he can go away and reinvent himself as Lucas Rietveld, then God knows what he’ll do next, but I’ll tell you this for nothing, I’ll not rest until I’ve found him. Him and the rest of his kind. Have you got that?’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ said West, reaching for her coat. ‘And on that cheery note, I suggest we all go down the pub and drown our sorrows. Especially Jimbo’s. First round’s on me.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks, Miss,’ said Dougal. ‘I’m scootering.’

  ‘Okay. Duncan?’

  ‘Aye, I could murder a pint, but I’m away back to Dumfries.’

  ‘Good, you can give me a lift,’ said Munro. ‘I’ve no faith in taxi drivers, just now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said West, ‘I thought you were crashing at mine until we’d sorted this out?’

  ‘Nothing personal, Charlie, but I need some time to think, to see if I cannae figure out what Gundersen’s up to next. A night in front of the telly will do you no harm. Give your brain a rest.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Nothing like being on your own with a flask of Chianti and some cheese on toast.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Munro. ‘Dougal, are you giving that wee lassie of yours a second spin of the wheel, tonight?’

  ‘No chance. Not unless she’s given up alcohol.’

  ‘Good. In that case, would yo
u mind stopping with Charlie? It’s not a good idea for either of you to be alone while the Viking’s still at large.’

  ‘Aye, no bother. Miss, is that okay with you?’

  ‘Certainly is, Dougal,’ said West, chirpily. ‘And I’ll tell you what, as Jimbo’s not joining us, I’m going to treat you to an Indian.’

  ‘Right,’ said Munro, as he and Duncan turned for the door. ‘That’s us away then. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said West, ‘have you got your phone with you?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then text me. Let me know you’re home safe.’

  ‘Home safe? Good grief, lassie, you’re worse than Jean ever was.’

  Chapter 22

  Not one for table etiquette when hunger prevailed, West, dispensing with the formalities, handed Dougal a plate, opened all the foil containers and drove her fist through a mountain of poppadoms.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, ‘a tikka masala for you, and a scorching vindaloo for me.’

  ‘I don’t how you can eat that, it must rot your insides.’

  ‘Nonsense! All that chilli, it’s good for you. Keeps the circulation going.’

  ‘Aye, and that’s not the only thing,’ said Dougal, raising his glass of orange juice. ‘Cheers. Did you lock the door?’

  ‘Sure did,’ said West, swigging her beer, ‘there’s no way the big, bad wolf’s getting in here tonight, so you can relax.’

  Dougal, forsaking the boiled rice for something less exotic but infinitely more palatable, spooned his entire portion of curry over a plateful of chips and stirred vigorously.

  ‘I thought I might go see Father Dalgetty tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You know, pay him a courtesy call and fill him in on what’s happened.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said West. ‘I’m not sure it’ll put his mind at rest, though. In fact, it’ll probably shatter his faith in human nature.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. But best he knows. I still can’t get over it, myself. Alison Kennedy, eh? Who’d have thought?’

  ‘Two words,’ said West. ‘Book. Cover. Although, the same could be said for Clare MacAllister. Never thought I’d see the day when she started telling the truth.’

  ‘Not exactly innocent, though, is she?’