Duplicity

by Pete Brassett

  West held her phone aloft and cancelled the call as it rang through to voicemail.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Munro, unclipping his seat belt, ‘I’ll not wait for that confounded Casanova a second longer. Let’s take a look inside.’

  ‘You sure?’ said West. ‘What if he comes by and finds us…’

  ‘Och, it’s not as if we’re breaking and entering, Charlie. You’re forgetting, there’s a door open round the back.’

  * * *

  Rules, postulated Munro, were restrictions imposed on the hoi-polloi by those who deemed themselves superior by birth, class or privilege, and were there to be bent or broken as often as possible apart from just two which, he opined, were key to maintaining a stress-free existence and an unruffled relationship: “Never go to bed on an argument” and “Never wake up to another man’s wife”. Or for that matter, a hangover or the washing-up from the night before. He cast a disparaging eye around the dining room, appalled at the sight of the table littered with filthy plates, a scattering of olives, a half-eaten baguette, several slices of mortadella and a wedge of provolone which appeared to have been attacked with a hacksaw.

  ‘Now that’s a slippery slope,’ he said, tutting as he glimpsed the single wine glass and two empty bottles of Chianti Classico. ‘A wee glass or a couple of drams, fair enough, but two bottles? To yourself? The man has a problem.’

  ‘Either that or he’s marinating his liver from the inside,’ said West. ‘He’ll probably end up frying it with a barrel load of onions and some Grand Marnier.’

  Munro took a step back and, standing stock still, scoured the scene, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed every minute detail.

  ‘Tell me what you see, Charlie,’ he said, quietly. ‘Apart from the remnants of an alcohol-induced feeding frenzy, tell me what you can glean from this.’

  West glanced at the table and smiled.

  ‘That he’s crap at loading a dishwasher,’ she said.

  ‘That he had company, lassie. He may have been drinking alone but at some point, he had company.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The chairs. Two chairs pulled away from the table. And two mugs.’

  West leaned over the mugs and sniffed.

  ‘Coffee,’ she said, ‘and there’s a smidge of lipstick on this one. A sort of plum colour.’

  ‘Female company, then, which may explain his absence. Perhaps he’s taken her home.’

  ‘Not so sure about that,’ said West. ‘His car’s out front and frankly, I can’t see the likes of Carducci hopping on a bus.’

  Munro ambled from the dining room and opened the door to his left, sneezing as the lavender-scented air freshener from the downstairs toilet accosted his nostrils.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, wiping his nose as he peered down the hallway, arrested by the sight of a cabin case sitting by the front door. ‘Looks as though he’s ready to go.’

  ‘There’s a travel wallet on the top, Jimbo,’ said West, ‘check his ticket and passport, make sure he’s not travelling under an assumed name, too.’

  ‘Excellent, Charlie,’ said Munro, smirking as he looked over the documents. ‘Who’d have thought a stick of Peperami could have such a positive impact on one’s cognitive performance.’

  ‘I’ve got one stick left,’ said West, ‘it could have a positive impact somewhere else if you’re not careful.’

  ‘He’s all legit by the looks of it. His flight’s tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Gonna have a bit of a shock when his wife’s not there to meet him.’

  ‘I’ve a funny feeling, Charlie, he’s not expecting her to be.’

  West paused by the entrance to the lounge, prodded Munro with her elbow and nodded in the direction of an armchair where the back of somebody’s head was just visible over the top.

  ‘So that’s why he’s not answering the door,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Munro, as he walked around the chair, ‘after two bottles of red the fella’s probably that blootered he’d not wake up if the house fell down around him. Rise and shine, Mr Carducci. Time for a game of twenty questions.’

  Barring those in the midst of a troublesome nightmare, Carducci’s expression was not one commonly worn by those in a state of blissful slumber which was, Munro concluded, probably due to the nine-inch carving knife protruding from his scrawny neck and the reason why his stupefied face retained such a ghostly pallor.

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ he said, staring at Carducci’s lifeless body, ‘when they say alcohol can kill I’m not sure this is what they had in mind.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said West as she inspected the wound, ‘that’s the worst tracheotomy I’ve seen in a long time.’

  ‘Right, Charlie, SOCO’s and uniform, please,’ said Munro as he snapped on a pair gloves. ‘And call Dougal, tell him we need him here yesterday. Chop, chop.’

  Munro spun slowly on his heels, took a fleeting glance around the room and, satisfied there was nothing to suggest a disturbance of any kind, turned his attention to Carducci. He stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, squinting as he scanned the body from the ground up. The feet were positioned heels together, the polished leather loafers immaculate. His fawn-coloured chinos, though neatly pressed were marred by a spattering of crimson stains no doubt a result of the blood coughed up as he struggled to catch a breath. His gnarled hands, beset with rigor, were still gripping the armrests and his otherwise pristine shirt, buttoned at the collar, was blighted by a tide of red running the length of his chest.

  ‘Sorted,’ said West as she returned to the room, ‘they’re on the way. So, come on then, any thoughts?’

  ‘Well,’ said Munro, standing straight and rubbing his chin, ‘at first I thought he had incredible posture for one so dead, but it appears whoever did this has actually pinned his neck to the back of the chair.’

  ‘Ouch. Must’ve taken some force, then.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Charlie. It’s a quality knife. If the assailant had the element of surprise on their side too, well, one swift thrust would’ve done the job admirably. Incidentally, it’s the same knife he used to slice the mortadella, I can see traces of fat around the hilt.’

  ‘Nice,’ said West. ‘Don’t think we’ll be eating Italian tonight. Anything else?’

  ‘Headphones, Charlie. What does that tell you?’

  ‘That he may not have heard his attacker come in?’

  ‘Either that,’ said Munro, ‘or he inadvertently played a song by Black Sabbath which would explain the look on his face.’

  ‘Have you no respect?’ said West, stifling a laugh.

  ‘See here, his breast pocket. Is it me or is it glowing?’

  West reached in and pulled out a mobile phone.

  ‘Five unread texts,’ she said, ‘and four voice messages.’

  ‘Well, I know it’s rude to read other folks’ mail but I think in this case we’ll make an exception, don’t you?’

  West opened the texts, turned to Munro and frowned.

  ‘Clare MacAllister,’ she said. ‘They’re all from Clare MacAllister, sent last night.’

  ‘This should be interesting,’ said Munro. ‘Go on.’

  7:32pm You’re late, handsome. Dinner in thirty x

  8:05pm Where are you, it’s getting cold and so am I x

  8:42pm Okay you’re held up. Just get in touch

  9:52pm You can’t be bothered so nor can I. Screw you

  10:17pm That’s it pal and don’t you dare come knocking my door

  ‘So,’ said Munro, smiling. ‘it seems Senor Carducci and our friend Buchanan have more in common than we thought.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said West, ‘I wonder what Dubrowski would say if he found out his girlfriend was cheating on him with her boss?’

  ‘Och, I dare say he’ll get over it, considering present circumstances. Shall we?’

  ‘Silly not to, really,’ said West as she held up the phone.

  “You have two new messages. First message s
ent yesterday at 11:22pm”

  ‘Listen, me again. I’m sorry, okay, but if you ever stand me up again there’ll be hell to pay. Call me when you get this’

  “Second message sent today at 7:29am”

  ‘That’s it, I’ve had it with you, you bawbag. I’m not some floozie you can call up anytime you fancy a bit of the other. I’m coming over and you’re getting what’s coming to you and no, I dinnae care if your wife’s there, you’re not messing with me again. And by the way, the restaurant’s closed. I’m not opening it ever again.’

  “End of message. To repeat your message, press…”

  ‘Nothing like a woman scorned,’ said Munro. ‘Looks as though we have a suspect.’

  ‘Not half,’ said West, ‘we’ll give her a grilling when we get back, shall we?’

  * * *

  The doorbell – as loud as an ice-cream van belting out an annoyingly tinny rendition of O Sole Mio – heralded the arrival of Dougal who, still wearing his helmet and clutching a padded envelope, resembled a cross between a courier and a human cannonball.

  ‘Alright, Miss?’ he said as West opened the door. ‘What’s all the fuss?’

  ‘Ever seen those knife-throwing acts at the circus, Dougal?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well this,’ said West, ‘is the one that went wrong.’

  ‘Is it messy?’ said Dougal, as he followed her to the lounge. ‘Only I’ve not long eaten and I’m not sure a burger and a milkshake is heavy enough to stay down.’

  Munro, scrutinising Carducci’s neck in an effort to ascertain whether he was struck from the front or behind, looked up and smiled as Dougal walked tentatively around the chair to face the body.

  ‘Oh, it’s not as bad as I thought,’ he said, ‘no more than a wee stab wound really.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ said Munro. ‘Tell me Dougal, do the Carducci’s have a cat? A ginger Tom by any chance?’

  ‘I’ve not see one, Boss. Why?’

  ‘Somebody’s shed some hair on his shoulder. Red hair. Get it bagged for forensics, please. I want to know who it belongs to as soon as possible.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘And there’s a couple of mugs on the dining table, one of which has lipstick on it, same again. Now, how were things at the salon? Did you find anything of interest?’

  ‘I did,’ said Dougal. ‘The receptionist was very helpful, we had a good long chat.’

  ‘About Anita Carducci?’

  ‘No, no. Fish. She’s actually into fish.’

  ‘Dinnae get your hopes up, laddie,’ said Munro. ‘I’ve met her. She probably likes them deep-fried. About four times a week, I’d say. What else?’

  ‘This was under the cash tray in the safe,’ said a disheartened Dougal as he handed him the envelope. ‘It’s the passport belonging to the real Lars Gundersen, it’s good for another four years. And there’s a couple of old bank cards. Expired. Just about bangs the final nail in the coffin, if you ask me.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Munro, as he opened the passport, ‘this fellow looks just like Angus Buchanan.’

  ‘Aye. Well, apart from the nose, and a bit younger maybe. But let’s face it, if you were immigration glancing at that, you’d not know the difference.’

  Chapter 21

  Contrary to popular belief, growing up in Berkshire wasn’t all Royal Ascot and Windsor Castle, hikes in the countryside and joining the pony club. As West soon discovered, there were areas of the county which were just as fraught with danger as any other urbanised landscape but, being of an amiable disposition and inquisitive by nature, she enjoyed mingling with anyone, be it the lager louts of Slough or the stockbrokers of Bray, all of whom were charming enough in their own inimitable way, unlike certain residents who carried themselves with an arrogant air of self-importance – no doubt a consequence of their own insecurities – and delighted in belittling anyone they thought below them. Had Clare MacAllister lived in Berkshire, she’d have settled right in.

  ‘Listen hen,’ she said, fiddling with her fake Ray-Bans, ‘I came here voluntarily so you’d best get on, I’ve a million and one things to do and I’m behind already.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said West, ‘but if you’d like us to make your stay a little more formal, just say so.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No, madam. I’m simply extending an invitation.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. I feel sorry for you,’ said MacAllister. ‘No, really I do. It can’t be easy taking care of your appearance in your line of work. All that running about the place with no time to look in a mirror. It’s bound to make you grumpy.’

  ‘Quite,’ said West, ‘but to be perfectly honest, I’d rather look like the back end of a bulldog than clean tables all day.’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said MacAllister. ‘Did you hear what she just said?’

  ‘I heard nothing untoward,’ said Munro, smiling just enough to raise one corner of his mouth. ‘Would you like to make a complaint?’

  ‘I’ve never been so insulted.’

  ‘You should get out more,’ said West. ‘Now, as you’re so busy I suggest we crack on.’

  ‘Aye, we better had. Before I crack something else.’

  ‘Good. Just to let you know that when we’re done here, we’ll need a swab from the inside of your cheek for DNA purposes.’

  ‘You’re not sticking anything in my mouth,’ said MacAllister, ‘you can’t do it.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Why did you tell Tomek Dubrowski to kill Angus Buchanan?’

  MacAllister drew a sharp breath and scowled at West.

  ‘I did no such thing,’ she said.

  ‘He says you did.’

  ‘Poppycock.’

  ‘Do you know how Mr Buchanan died?’

  ‘No idea,’ said MacAllister, sighing impatiently. ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Overdose,’ said West. ‘Crystal meth. Which, incidentally, Mr Dubrowski also claims you gave him.’

  ‘Utter rubbish.’

  ‘Okay, let me put it another way. Why did Remo Carducci want Mr Buchanan dead?’

  MacAllister winced, glanced towards the door and said nothing.

  ‘Miss MacAllister,’ said Munro, ‘apologies if I appear a wee bit slow on the uptake here, it’s probably my age but you dinnae seem to be at all surprised to hear of Mr Buchanan’s demise.’

  ‘Should I be?’ said MacAllister, clearing her throat.

  ‘Perhaps not, but how could you possibly know he was dead?’

  ‘You just told me.’

  ‘Did we? Did we indeed?’

  West glared across the table, leaned back in her chair and folded her arms as the silence bore down on MacAllister like a ten-ton weight.

  ‘Last time we spoke you said you rarely saw Mr Buchanan,’ she said, ‘but Mr Carducci popped into the restaurant all the time.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yeah. You said you and he got on quite well.’

  ‘I must’ve been on happy pills.’

  ‘How long have you and Mr Carducci been having an affair?’ said West.

  ‘Are you joking me?’ said MacAllister, raising her voice. ‘You have got to be kidding. Me and that good-for-nothing greaseball?’

  ‘Greaseball?’ said Munro. ‘My, my, that’s no way to speak of your boss. Oh, and I think you’ll find the word you’re looking for is bawbag.’

  ‘What?’

  West, smiling sarcastically, held up Carducci’s phone and played back the voicemail.

  ‘Bawbag,’ she said. ‘The Inspector was right after all. So?’

  ‘Couple of years, if you must know,’ said MacAllister, defiantly. ‘He didnae care about me, I was just some piece of fluff as far as he was concerned. Not that it’s anything to do with you.’

  ‘If that’s what he thought of you, why didn’t you end it?’ said West. ‘I mean, what with your busy schedule and all, I’m surprised you had time to fit him in.’

 
‘Listen hen, one more comment like that and I’ll…’

  ‘What time did you arrive at Mr Carducci’s house this morning?’ said Munro.

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Aye. You said in your message that you were heading over there this morning.’

  ‘I didnae go,’ said MacAllister as Munro glared back at her. ‘I was nursing a wee hangover so I didnae go.’

  ‘Well,’ said Munro, hedging his bets, ‘I’ve some red hair that says you did.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘Nice lipstick,’ said West, ‘it really suits you.’

  ‘Are you being funny?’

  ‘No, really. It does. What’s it called?’

  MacAllister paused before answering, befuddled by the bizarre nature of the question.

  ‘Hellraiser,’ she said. ‘It’s called “Hellraiser”.’

  ‘How appropriate.’

  ‘What time did you leave Carducci’s place this morning, Miss MacAllister?’ said Munro.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, are you deaf? I told you, I didnae go. Look, if you dinnae believe me, ask him yourself.’

  ‘Och, I’ve already tried,’ said Munro, ‘but he’s not very talkative just now. He has a sore throat.’

  ‘Aw, poor wee man. Caught a cold, has he?’

  ‘He’s a cold everything, Miss MacAllister. He’s dead. Stabbed through the neck sometime between seven a.m. and ten a.m. this morning. So, unless you can prove irrefutably where you were at that time, my advice to you is to contact your lawyer.’

  * * *

  Having forsaken his stick of Peperami in the optimistic hope of dining on something a little more palatable, and fearing he might faint as a result of his self-induced fast, Munro set about demolishing his sirloin with the gusto of a ravenous waif in a pie-eating contest, leaving West agog at the speed with which it vanished from his plate. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, took a large sip of wine and let out a satisfied sigh as he eyed the lemon cheesecake sitting on the counter.

  ‘I’m glad to see you finally got the hang of the cooker, Charlie,’ he said with a wink, ‘that was first class. Thank you.’

  ‘Just needed a refresher course, Jimbo. I used to be quite a good cook once but if you don’t have the time or the inclination you tend to forget.’