‘This is lekker,’ he said, ‘what would I do without you?’
‘Order a take-away,’ said Kennedy, as she topped up his glass. ‘How was your day?’
‘To be honest, a little tiring. I’ve been finalising a few details on Esme’s estate.’
‘That’s funny. Estate. It makes it sound like she was minted. Is it complicated?’
‘Thankfully no. She left a will…’
‘All thanks to you.’
‘…so actually it’s very straightforward,’ said Rietveld, stifling a yawn. ‘I already have the confirmation from the court to act as executor so it’s just a question of going through the motions, but you know how it is. It all takes time.’
‘Thanks,’ said Kennedy. ‘For sorting it out. It’s kind of you.’
‘Nonsense. It’s nothing. If you saw somebody lying in the street would you offer to help?’
‘Aye! Of course I would! You know that.’
‘Well, for me,’ said Rietveld, ‘this is no different, and besides, I make plenty of money from my other clients so I see no need to rob the dead or the dying.’
‘You’re one in a million, you know that?’
‘One in 7.3 billion, to be precise,’ said Rietveld, as he drained his glass. ‘Oh, and before I forget, I’ve booked a flight home. I leave tomorrow afternoon. From Edinburgh.’
‘Edinburgh?’
‘Yes. That way I can fly to Eindhoven direct, which means I only have a short taxi ride at the other end. Are you sure you won’t come with me? I can easily book another seat.’
‘No, you’re alright,’ said Kennedy. ‘Sorry, Lucas. I know it’s the anniversary of your mum’s… you know, but I’m just not in the mood for looking at another grave, not after today.’
‘I understand. Perhaps we can go another time. We could make a holiday of it.’
‘Aye, two weeks in a cemetery, that sounds like a real hoot.’
‘No, I mean…’
‘I know what you mean! Do you Dutch not have a sense of humour?’
‘No. Not really. So, tell me, how was the funeral? Not too distressing, I hope.’
‘No, no. I’m used to them,’ said Kennedy. ‘It’s Father Dalgetty I feel sorry for. The poor man was soaked to the skin but, stoical as ever, he saw it through to the bitter end.’
‘He should be careful at his age,’ said Rietveld, ‘if he gets a chill it could easily turn to something more serious.’
‘More serious than a broken heart?’
‘You’ve lost me.’
Kennedy paused and bit her bottom lip.
‘No, I shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘What doesn’t?’
Kennedy set down her glass and looked Rietveld in the eye.
‘Okay, listen,’ she said, ‘you’re not to tell a soul about this, promise?’
‘About what?’
‘Do you promise?’
‘I promise!’ said Rietveld. ‘So, what’s the big secret?’
‘Father Dalgetty. He’s been in love with this lady since before he joined the church and get this, they’ve been seeing each other every week for the last forty years.’
‘No! But should the church find out, he could be…’
‘Not like that!’ said Kennedy. ‘It was purely platonic. Best friends.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, she died last week and he’s beside himself with grief. He even feels guilty for not being with her at the end.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘Aye, it is. Came as quite a shock, apparently. Took everyone by surprise. I reckon it was probably a heart attack but he says they’re doing a post-mortem. Just to be sure.’
‘It can’t be easy having to deal with that on his own,’ said Rietveld, with a sympathetic shake of the head. ‘I mean, as a priest I imagine there are very few people he can confide in. You must be a great comfort to him.’
‘Och, I never thought of it like that,’ said Kennedy. ‘Makes me feel sort of privileged in a way. Incidentally, I said if he needed a hand with anything on the legal side, you’d be glad to help, I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ said Rietveld. ‘Would you like me to call him?’
‘Not just now. Best wait until he’s seen the solicitor about the will.’
‘So, he has a solicitor already?’
‘Not his solicitor, you numpty! Hers. His lady friend. Margaret Forsyth.’
Rietveld glanced furtively across the table and refilled his glass.
‘Forsyth?’ he said, with a frown. ‘Why does that name sound so familiar?’
‘Beats me. Och, you’re probably thinking of Forsyth Street, up the way.’
‘Forsyth Street! Of course. Either the wine is going to my head or I’m even more tired than I thought.’
‘In that case,’ said Kennedy, as she scooped up the dishes and piled them in the sink, ‘what you need, is an early night.’
‘No doubt about it, that’s the best offer I’ve had all day.’
Chapter 4
Duncan, perturbed by the change in West’s otherwise blasé demeanour, bombed down the corridor like a human pinball – bouncing off the walls as he side-stepped a gurney and a wheelchair travelling in the opposite direction – before skidding to a halt at the sight of her crouching on the floor outside Munro’s room, her phone to her ear, her face full of despair.
‘Goddammit!’ she said, snarling as she threw her head back in frustration. ‘Bloody voicemail!’
‘What’s up, miss?’ said Duncan, catching his breath as he joined her at ground level. ‘Are you okay?’
West hit redial for the umpteenth time and spoke without looking up.
‘It’s Jimbo,’ she said. ‘He’s disappeared…’
‘What? Och, that cannae be right. He’ll not be far, I’m sure.’
‘…he’s not answering his phone. Something’s happened to him.’
‘Miss, I think you need to calm down a bit, he’s probably…’
Duncan stopped talking as West looked up and flicked her head towards the open door.
‘In there,’ she said. ‘Your mate, McKay.’
‘What about him?’ said Duncan, as he stood and peered inside the room. ‘Oh. I see. Where’s PC Ferguson?’
‘Calling for back-up. Right, Duncan, CCTV. Quick as you can.’
‘Roger that, miss. And you?’
‘I should call the DCI and…’
West paused as her phone warbled with the sound of an incoming call and allowed herself a wry smile as the name “Munro” flashed up on the screen.
‘About bloody time,’ she said, relieved. ‘Jimbo, where the bloody hell are you?’
‘Hello, Charlotte.’
West turned to Duncan as the colour drained from her face.
‘Who is this?’ she said as the line went dead.
‘Miss?’
‘It wasn’t him. Someone’s… Duncan, I need you to ring the DCI for me. I have to make an urgent call.’
* * *
Wallowing in the tranquillity of the empty office with nothing for company but a pot-brewed cup of tea and a four-pack of chocolate éclairs, DC Dougal McCrae – keen to locate the elusive Lars Gundersen and thereby succeed where the Norwegian authorities had failed – made constructive use of his time by researching, courtesy of Angling Times, the benefits of a carbon fibre fishing rod over one hewn from traditional bamboo while he waited for West to return. The phone call, though not unexpected, caught him on the hop.
‘Afternoon, miss!’ he said, trying to swallow a mouthful of cream cake, ‘how’s tricks?’
‘Not good, Dougal. Not good at all.’
‘Oh, dear. Well, how’s the DI? Is he…?’
‘Listen, Dougal,’ said West, impatiently, ‘sorry, but I need you to listen.’
‘I’m all ears. Fire away.’
‘It’s Munro. He’s gone missing.’
‘What?’ said Dougal. ‘Missing? Well,
where’s he…?’
‘Listen, dammit! Someone’s swiped his phone. I need you to put a trace on it and let me know the second it’s used. I need to know where and when. Got that?’
‘Got it. What’s he using?’
‘Dunno. iPhone, I think.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Dougal, as he logged in to iCloud, ‘makes my job a whole lot easier. Hold on… it’s offline. The last location was the hospital. We’ll have to wait until it’s turned on again.’
‘Whatever. Have you spoken to Duncan? DC Reid?’
‘Aye, nice fella. I’ve sent him everything on the case.’
‘Thanks, Dougal,’ said West, ‘I appreciate it. Now look, I’m going to be stuck here for the next couple of days but I need to nip back to my place to collect a few things so I’ll try and drop by later, okay?’
‘Right you are. Oh, miss, before you go, this DC Reid, is he…? I mean, am I…?’
‘Relax, Dougal. I need you and your brains behind your desk, okay?’
* * *
West rose to her feet as Duncan, normally a picture of cool, calm, efficiency, returned with a face like thunder.
‘Who’s rattled your cage?’ she said.
‘Everyone, miss. Funny, isn’t it? A state of the art hospital like this and they still cannae find a cure for a lack of common sense.’
‘Now it’s you who needs to calm down. Come on, spit it out.’
Duncan smiled and took a deep breath.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘uniform’s here and the DCI’s on his way.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Not with just six of them, it isn’t.’
‘Well, we can’t worry about that now,’ said West, ‘maybe the DCI can muster up some support. What about the CCTV?’
‘They’re downloading the footage from the last of couple hours now, they’ll send it to me as soon as they’re done. I’ve left Ferguson concentrating on the camera at the end of the corridor, he knows who’s allowed in and who isn’t.’
‘If you say so,’ said West. ‘Actually, you know what? Get them to send that footage straight to Dougal, this is right up his street. He can find a bloody needle without a haystack. We need to concentrate on finding Jimbo.’
‘That’s if he’s not been kidnapped,’ said Duncan.
‘That’s what I like about you, always looking on the bright side. Okay, then, let’s say he has. Let’s say he’s been kidnapped and it’s Gundersen who took him, and let’s assume he’s still driving that Golf.’
‘Okay. Last registered at the same address as Carducci’s restaurant and that MacAllister woman. I’ll get them to check it out right away.’
‘Good,’ said West, as a constable arrived to take up duty outside the room, ‘meantime, I’m going… that’s it! Home!’
‘Already?’ said Duncan. ‘I know you have to collect a few things, miss, but is it not a wee bit early to…’
‘Not me. Munro! You know how stubborn the bugger can be. Bet you anything you like, the miserable sod’s gone home.’
* * *
Duncan, his vision hampered by the relentless rain, held his breath as he focused on the tail-lights, desperate not to lose sight of the Figaro as it blasted along the narrow, coastal road until, without warning, it came to an abrupt halt on the grass verge opposite a row of terraced, whitewashed cottages.
‘I’ve got to hand to you, miss,’ he said, as he slipped into the passenger seat beside her, ‘you certainly know how to drive.’
‘I’ve got a degree in road rage, me,’ said West. ‘Besides, it’s easy if you know where you’re going.’
‘Aye, right enough. So, this is Carsethorn, eh?’
‘Yup. The original one-horse town. Only without the horse.’
Duncan peered past West and scrutinised the line of houses.
‘Which one’s his?’ he said.
West glanced to her right and heaved a sigh.
‘Unfortunately, Duncan,’ she said, ‘it’s the only one without any lights on.’
Duncan sat back and ran his fingers through his lanky, sodden locks.
‘I’m so sorry, miss. Really, I am. I mean, finding him here would’ve been ideal but I suppose…’
Duncan winced as a sharp elbow to the ribs cut him short.
‘We’re in luck,’ said West, smiling as she pointed out the plumes of smoke billowing from the chimney into the dark, night sky. ‘I don’t care how ill he is, I’m going to chew his bloody ears off.’
* * *
Aside from the plaster cast, the arm sling, and a complexion as colourful as a peach and banana smoothie, Munro – seated at the dining table with a large, single malt and packet of painkillers – looked surprisingly well.
‘There you are!’ he said, as West and Duncan blundered into the room. ‘I’ve been waiting ages, where on earth have you been?’
‘You what?’ said West, bewildered.
‘Did you not have time to go to the shops?’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Dear, dear. We’ve no food and we’re out of milk. Duncan, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you run a wee errand for me, before we all starve to death.’
West, repressing the urge to batter her mentor about the head with the bottle of Balvenie, stared at him in disbelief.
‘You’ve got a nerve, you know that?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Have you any idea what we’ve just been through?’
‘Och, you’re over-reacting, lassie. Did I, or did I not tell you, I was discharging myself from the hospital?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Well then,’ said Munro, ‘what are you havering about? Now, fetch yourselves a couple of glasses and sit down.’
‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’
‘Very kind, but this is no time for compliments. I would’ve telephoned but I appear to have mislaid my phone. It must be on the side table in God’s waiting room.’
‘It isn’t,’ said West, tersely. ‘It’s been nicked.’
‘Stolen? Someone’s stolen my phone, from the ICU? Who on earth would do a thing like that?’
‘Probably the same bloke who had a pop at that Doctor McKay.’
‘McKay?’
‘Aye, chief,’ said Duncan, with a smirk. ‘In your room. He nearly killed the fella. We reckon he was after you.’
‘Well,’ said Munro, taking a swig of whisky, ‘it’s good thing I left when I did. It’s just like I’ve always said, hang about in a hospital too long and you’ll not be leaving by the front door. So, what’s the official line on that?’
‘We’re saying it was a one-off, no apparent reason for the attack, probably a disgruntled patient.’
‘Well, there’s a fair few of those about. I’ve a mind to complain about the catering myself.’
‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this,’ said West. ‘Duncan, you stay here, call the DCI and let him know we’ve found him.’
‘Where are you going?’ said Munro.
‘Home. I need to collect a few things.’
‘No, no,’ said Munro. ‘It’s too late for that, Charlie.’
‘Relax. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’
‘Couple of days, more like, in that wee pedal car of yours. Besides, it’s not safe for you to be out and about alone.’
‘I’m a grown woman, I can look after myself.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Munro, wagging his finger, ‘but you listen to me. If this bampot’s got a bee in his bonnet over something I may have done, then there’s every chance he’ll be after you too. And you’ll not be hard to spot in that vehicle of yours. No, no, park it in the garage and first thing tomorrow, you’re to get yourself something a little more discreet from the pool. Do you hear?’
‘He does have a point, miss,’ said Duncan, ‘if that nutter is on your back, then…’
‘Okay, okay,’ said West, defeated. ‘You’re right, I suppose. Duncan, car keys, please. I’ll go get us som
e food.’
‘Right you are, miss.’
‘You’re not cooking, are you?’ said Munro.
‘In your dreams.’
‘Good. After all that slop they served up in the hospital, I think a fish supper’s just what I need.’
‘Is it, now?’
‘Aye, it is. I’ll take a large one, please.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No salt, no vinegar, and a wee pot of mushy peas. Thanking you.’
* * *
Duncan, having commandeered the corner of the table as a makeshift desk, and safe in the knowledge that he’d not be getting behind the wheel until the morning, set up his laptop and joined Munro in a generous dram which, he’d been advised, would not only alleviate the stress of finding a dead doctor in a hospital, but was also a more effective form of pain relief than anything available in tablet form.
‘Nice wee place you have here, chief,’ he said. ‘Cosy.’
‘Aye. It suits me.’
‘Is it just yourself? Is your wife not around?’
Munro shot him a sideways glance and took a slug of whisky.
‘She’s passed on,’ he said. ‘A while back, now.’
‘Sorry,’ said Duncan, ‘I didn’t mean to pry, I just thought…’
‘Och, dinnae fret,’ said Munro. ‘I cannae say I’m over it, and despite what you hear, time is not a great healer. But I cope well enough.’
‘All the same, it can’t be easy,’ said Duncan. ‘Was it… I mean, did she?’
‘She did. Aye. It was a fire. Somebody torched the house and she was inside.’
‘Oh, Christ. Sorry. I mean, sorry for bringing it up, too.’
‘You’re alright, son.’
‘Did you catch the fella who did it?’
‘I did. Aye.’
‘Well, knowing you, chief, I’m sure he went down for a long time.’
‘As long as you can get, laddie. As long as you can get.’
Duncan, relieved at the sound of the door, knocked back his whisky as West returned.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ she said, backing through the door, laden with groceries, a six-pack of beer and three fish suppers, ‘you two put your feet up, don’t worry about me.’
‘I thought you were going to the chippy,’ said Munro, ‘not feeding the five thousand.’
TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 5) Page 3