TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 5)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Are you joking me? Does this look like an old folks’ home to you?’

  ‘Well, no. I just…’

  ‘Look outside, laddie. Tell me, what do you see?’

  Duncan, hands in pockets, shuffled across the room and gazed through the window.

  ‘Sky,’ he said. ‘And the sea.’

  ‘A clear, blue sky,’ said Munro. ‘And a calm sea. And glorious sunshine. Perfect day for a drive, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘A drive? Where to? No offence, chief, but you’re meant to be resting. I’m not being held responsible if anything…’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Munro, ‘but I’m not sitting round here all day.’

  ‘Well, where will we go, then?’

  ‘Kestrel Cars, of course,’ said Munro, as he pointed towards the kitchen. ‘Toast. It’s burning.’

  * * *

  Much to her embarrassment, the dull, grey Toyota saloon – capable of outrunning most vehicles on the road despite its outward appearance – was not the kind of nondescript vehicle she’d hoped for but an ageing rust-bucket with dented bodywork, no hub-caps and a rock-hard suspension which threatened to shatter her spine every time she hit a speed bump.

  Cursing under her breath as she realised she’d left the remote control for the car park in the glove compartment of the Figaro, West pulled up outside the pedestrian entrance to her apartment block, sprinted up the stairs to the second floor, and froze.

  A look of consternation crossed her face as her mind flashed back to the stairwell which, normally bathed in light, was unusually dark, and then to the main door, her key in the lock, and the subtle, splintering on the white, wooden frame. She turned, slowly, through one hundred and eighty degrees, scouring the landing from floor to ceiling, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the security camera, its blinking LED – dormant. The cable, running to a hole in the ceiling – neatly sliced in two.

  Heart racing and her tummy as tight as a tourniquet on a severed artery, she pulled the phone from the holster on her belt and called Dougal.

  ‘Stay on the line,’ she said, softly, ‘and don’t say a word.’

  With a can of CS spray gripped firmly between her teeth she walked slowly, heel to toe, along the corridor, grimaced at the same scratch marks by the lock on her front door, and cocked her head as she listened for signs of movement. Taking a deep breath, she slipped the key gently into the lock and stepped silently inside.

  ‘Dougal? You there?’ she said, relieved to find that the flat was clear.

  ‘Aye, miss, what’s going on? It’s all a wee bit weird, if you don’t mind me…’

  ‘I’m at home, someone’s been here.’

  ‘In your flat? You’ve been burgled?’

  ‘No,’ said West, sweating as she hastily threw some clothes into an overnight bag, ‘they weren’t after what I’ve got, they were after me. I’ll be there in ten.’

  * * *

  Peeved by the fact that DCI Elliot had saddled him with the seemingly menial task of garnering information on a foreign-sounding charity, and irritated further by its absence from the Scottish charities register, Dougal – unable to concentrate on anything in particular – huffed indignantly as he sat moping at his desk, waiting for West to arrive.

  ‘Miss!’ he said, leaping to his feet as she lumbered through the door. ‘You’ve had me worried, are you okay?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said West, as her rucksack hit the floor. ‘To be honest, Dougal, I’m a bit freaked out.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Sit yourself down, I reckon what you need is a decent brew.’

  ‘I’ll do it. Are you busy?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

  ‘Okay, first of all, I need you to ring Duncan. Remind him to pick up a phone for Munro, as soon as possible, and tell him not to let him out of his sight, not even for a minute, got that?’

  ‘On it.’

  ‘Second, I need SOCOs at mine, and make sure they’ve got uniform with them, just in case.’

  ‘Is there anything I can tell them?’ said Dougal. ‘I mean, like, anything they should look for?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said West, as she tossed him the keys to her flat. ‘They didn’t go rummaging through the drawers, if that’s what you mean. Like I said, the doors were jimmied and the security cameras disabled. Not something your run-of-the-mill burglar would bother with.’

  ‘And everything else was secure? Windows? Door to the balcony?’

  ‘Didn’t hang around to check,’ said West, as she sat down and sipped her tea. ‘There’s only one person I can think of who’d want to take a look around the flat, and it’s not an estate agent.’

  ‘Aye. Gundersen,’ said Dougal. ‘This is getting serious, miss. First Munro and now…’

  ‘Best not dwell on it, eh? Otherwise we’ll all end up paranoid. So, Clare MacAllister. Any joy?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We took the liberty of letting ourselves into her flat, she’s definitely living there, there’s fresh milk in the fridge, plenty of food, etcetera. Just not her.’

  ‘For crying out loud, Dougal! This is a priority; don’t you realise how serious this is?’

  ‘Aye, of course, miss! We’ve got an eye on the place and everyone’s looking for her, but there’s only so much we can…’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West, as she held up her hands. ‘I’m just a bit stressed, I suppose.’

  ‘Understandably so. You look done in and it’s not even nine o’clock. Have you eaten anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Here. Bacon toastie, if you don’t mind it cold.’

  ‘Mind? Are you kidding? Hang on, though, this is your breakfast.’

  ‘Was. I lost my appetite when you called.’

  ‘Thanks, Dougal. And sorry. I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘Nae bother, miss. Enjoy.’

  West wolfed down the sandwich, leaned back in her chair and, allowing herself to finally relax for a moment or two, heaved a sigh as Dougal presented her with a second mug of tea.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘what are you up to? Anything exciting?’

  ‘Och, no,’ said Dougal, ‘nothing important, just something DCI Elliot dumped on me. Should be out of the way in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Okay, so long as you don’t get too distracted, I need you on this, okay? What is it, anyway?’

  ‘Some priest over in Maybole, name of Dalgetty, he says his best friend died but the will she left is not the one she wrote. Apparently.’

  ‘Intriguing. So, what do you reckon, fraud by deception?’

  ‘No,’ said Dougal, laughing. ‘Are you joking me? Somebody writing fraudulent wills? In Maybole? No, no. I can’t see it, myself.’

  ‘How far have you got?’

  ‘Well, I went to the solicitor’s office this morning but there was no-one there.’

  ‘Not everyone gets up at five am, Dougal.’

  ‘Right enough. I’ll try again later.’

  ‘This Dalgetty bloke, though,’ said West, ‘he’s obviously concerned otherwise he wouldn’t have called us in.’

  ‘Aye, but even so, do you not think it all sounds a bit far-fetched. Besides, it wasn’t him who contacted us, it was a woman by the name of Alison Kennedy. Manager of the Glencree care home. They go back years, apparently.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should be talking to her.’

  ‘She’s next on my list, miss.’

  ‘Good,’ said West, ‘well, I’ve got enough on my plate, so I’ll leave you to it. Keep me posted.’

  Chapter 7

  With bags under his eyes, an itchy beard, and, as a result of his impromptu overnight stay, no change of clothes, Duncan – whose image had regressed from street-wise dope dealer to that of a borderline vagrant – drew dozens of curious glances from suspicious passers-by as he loitered outside the taxi office on Smith Street, waiting for Munro to catch up.

  ‘Look, chief,’ he said, smirking as he pointed to the sign above the door, ‘Kestrel Cars – We�
��ll take you for a ride.’

  ‘At least they’re honest,’ said Munro, ‘cannae fault them for that.’

  * * *

  The controller, a bespectacled, white-haired lady with a face as full as a harvest moon, peeked out from behind the sliding, glass window in the wood-panelled wall and gasped as she caught sight of Munro.

  ‘Morning gents,’ she said, nervously, ‘are you sure it’s a taxi you’re wanting, and not an ambulance?’

  ‘I may look like a Battenberg cake, madam,’ said Munro with an affable smile, ‘but I can assure you I’m perfectly well.’

  ‘Can we have a word with the owner, please,’ said Duncan as he flashed his warrant card, ‘won’t take long.’

  The lady hesitated before disappearing from view.

  ‘Jazz!’ she called. ‘You’ve company. It’s the police.’

  A clean-shaven, Indian man of average height and average build dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, with an unruly mop of hair, wandered into the foyer.

  ‘Alright?’ he said, as he proffered his hand. ‘Jazz. What can I do you for?’

  ‘DC Reid,’ said Duncan, ‘and this is DI Munro. Jazz? That’s an unusual name.’

  ‘It’s easier to remember than Jasminder Banerjee.’

  ‘Right enough. You’re not from round here, are you?’

  Jazz frowned and glanced at Munro.

  ‘Is he for real?’ he said, with a flick of the head.

  ‘No, no,’ said Duncan, apologetically, ‘I didn’t mean it like that, I meant…’

  ‘Relax, you dafty. I’m joking you. Dundee. Born and bred.’

  ‘I thought so. It’s the accent. Mind if we ask you a couple of questions?’

  ‘Ask away. Is this something to do with Tommy?’

  ‘Tomek Dubrowski?’ said Munro. ‘Not directly, but aye, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘I thought that was all done and dusted. Is that bampot not behind bars?’

  ‘He is,’ said Munro, ‘but see here, Jazz, we’re trying to trace a particular vehicle and I thought you could maybe help us out. It’s a Volkswagen Golf…’

  ‘I can stop you there, Inspector,’ said Jazz, raising his hand. ‘All my cars are saloons. Hybrids. Even the owner-drivers. There’s no way I could use a hatchback as a minicab.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Duncan, ‘but the thing is, this Golf we’re after, the registration belonged to one of your cars, one that was scrapped a while back.’

  ‘The Vectra?’ said Jazz, with an inquisitive frown.

  ‘You remember?’

  ‘I’ll not forget. It was almost brand new.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘An off-duty dunderheid, too much alcohol and a lamp post,’ said Jazz. ‘Ever since then, anyone using one of my fleet has to return it at the end of their shift, I’ll not let them take it home.’

  ‘How many do you have?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Six. All in mint condition.’

  ‘And where do you keep them?’

  ‘We’ve a small yard down the back, there.’

  ‘Could we take a look?’ said Munro.

  ‘Aye, no bother,’ said Jazz, ‘but why the interest in my yard?’

  ‘Och, curiosity, that’s all. Just curiosity.’

  * * *

  Jazz wrestled with the padlock on the black, timber gate, released the ground bolt and, walking backwards, heaved it open.

  ‘After you gents,’ he said, proudly, as he waved his arm and beckoned them inside.

  Munro’s eyes drifted along the row of neatly parked cars – all identical, all sporting a yellow wheel clamp, and all silver. Except for the one at the end. Duncan turned away as he reached for his radio and made a call.

  Jazz, wide-eyed with astonishment, stared at Munro.

  ‘I’ve never seen that car before,’ he said as they walked briskly towards the Golf. ‘I swear, Inspector, I have no idea…’

  ‘I believe you, Jazz. Strange as it may seem, I believe you.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Aye. I do. But see here, if I find out later down the line that you’re lying, then trust me, you’ll not want to be on the receiving end. Do I make myself clear?’

  Munro strolled around the car, peered through the windows and stopped to inspect the damage to the front nearside as Duncan sidled up beside him.

  ‘On their way, chief,’ he said, ‘uniform and forensics.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Munro, wincing at the broken wing mirror, ‘Jazz, I suggest you call in your other drivers, none of these vehicles will be leaving here for the foreseeable, okay?’

  ‘Nae bother. Anything else?’

  ‘Aye. There is. That Vectra of yours, who knew it’d been scrapped?’

  ‘Everyone, I guess,’ said Jazz, shrugging his shoulders, ‘let’s face it, in a place like this, a new car getting written off soon becomes common knowledge.’

  Munro ambled over to one of the fleet and, relieved to take the weight off his feet, perched himself on the edge on the bonnet.

  ‘Tell me, Jazz,’ he said, gazing at the ground, ‘how often do you check this yard?’

  ‘Personally? Once a week, maybe twice.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Aye. I just make sure it’s clean and tidy, and then I give the cars a once over.’

  ‘And the last time you looked?’

  ‘Day before yesterday, when we opened up.’

  ‘Your drivers,’ said Duncan, ‘would they not think it a wee bit odd if they came here and saw a strange car parked down the end? Would they not tell you?’

  ‘No,’ said Jazz, ‘a few of the lads often leave their own cars here while they’re working, so, no big deal, really.’

  ‘And apart from yourself, it’s just your drivers that have access?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Jazz. ‘They collect the key from whoever’s on the desk and return it as soon as they’ve got the car.’

  ‘And none of them owns a Golf?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Has anyone been late returning the key recently?’ said Duncan. ‘I mean, could someone have taken it and got a duplicate cut?’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Jazz with a knowing smile. ‘They’re security keys, you’ll not find anyone to cut them around here, they have to be ordered. And they’re not cheap, either.’

  ‘How many do you have?’

  ‘Three. One for me, one in the safe, and one on the desk.’

  ‘And the controller has responsibility for the one on the desk?’ said Munro.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And they wouldnae take it home with them?’

  ‘No, no, it goes back in the safe once we’re done for the day.’

  Munro frowned, stood and stretched his legs, and walked slowly towards the Golf.

  ‘You’re not twenty-four hours, are you, Jazz?’ he said, pensively.

  ‘No, Inspector. Too much hassle and not enough trade. We open at seven, then it’s midnight weekdays, and two am weekends. Is that relevant?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Duncan, confidently butting in. ‘You see, Jazz, that Golf was probably parked here when you were closed, so someone with access to the keys has to be involved. We’ll need to speak to all of your staff, okay?’

  ‘I’ll get you a list,’ said Jazz as he sprinted towards the office, ‘two minutes.’

  ‘So, chief,’ said Duncan, ‘what do you reckon? Am I right, or am I right?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Munro with a sneer, ‘but you’re suffering from tunnel vision, laddie. Remember, there’s more than one way to skin a cat, and at the moment you’ve not even familiarised yourself with the knife.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Good grief, man! Think about it! A driver shows up for work as normal, collects the key, opens the gate. The Golf is here, waiting, and parks inside while the driver takes his Prius out.’

  ‘Crap,’ said Duncan. ‘Sorry. Question is – who?’

  ‘Someone who knows Gundersen, of cours
e.’

  ‘Here you go, gents,’ said Jazz, barely out of breath as he handed over a sheet of A4. ‘Names, addresses and phone numbers.’

  ‘Thanking you,’ said Munro. ‘Commendably efficient.’

  ‘Have you any cameras about the place?’ said Duncan. ‘I mean, with six new cars sitting there, you’d be daft not to, right?’

  ‘Behind you,’ said Jazz.

  ‘Can we get the footage off that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It’s a dummy.’

  ‘Great,’ said Duncan. ‘Nae bother, we’ll see if there’s any on the street on our way out.’

  ‘One more thing before we attend to these officers,’ said Munro, smiling as he acknowledged the patrol car pulling up outside the gate. ‘How many controllers do you employ?’

  ‘Four. That’s Beth or Aletta by day. And Robbie or Clare by night.’

  ‘Okay, and Beth is the lady we’ve just met?’

  ‘Aye, that’s her.’

  ‘And Aletta…?’

  ‘Is my wife. And Robbie is my brother-in-law.’

  ‘And Clare?’

  ‘Friend of a friend. Ex-friend. Tommy.’

  ‘Dubrowski?’ said Munro. ‘Are you telling me it’s Clare MacAllister?’

  ‘Aye. She came pleading for a job when Carducci’s went under,’ said Jazz. ‘What could I say?’

  ‘When’s she due back?’

  ‘Next week, I think. Check with Beth. Holidays.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Duncan, ‘sorry, Jazz, there’s something I’m not getting here. Why would Clare MacAllister drive all the way from Prestwick for just a few hours work in a taxi office?’

  ‘Prestwick?’ said Jazz. ‘No-one in their right mind would drive all the way from Prestwick.’

  ‘But that’s where she lives.’

  ‘Then we must be talking about a different Clare MacAllister, because the one I know lives in Kirkmichael. Straiton Road.’

  Were it not for the bruising about his cheeks, both Jazz and Duncan would have seen Munro’s face blanche.

  ‘Duncan, call Charlie,’ he said, heading for the car. ‘Straiton Road. That’s Anita Carducci’s address.’

  * * *

  Flanked by his two computers – neither of which could be described as useful or productive in his search for information on The Schemering Foundation or locating Munro’s missing mobile phone – Dougal, rapidly losing the will to live, toyed with the idea of an early lunch and a trip to Gamesport to browse some reels, lines, and lures before deciding, conscientiously, on a visit to the Glencree care home instead. His departure was delayed, however, by the unexpected ping from the mac to his left.