‘Actually, now you mention it, he did sound a wee bit funny. Impatient. As though he’d been distracted by something.’
‘And up until that point, you were expecting him back here?’
‘I was.’
‘But he suddenly changed his plans?’
‘Well, I’m not sure how sudden it was,’ said Emily, ‘but aye, he said he had to visit some other clients and he’d be in touch.’
‘Do you not think that was a wee bit vague of him? I mean, for someone of his standing, with his legal responsibilities, to not let you know when he’s coming back?’
‘Maybe. But who am I to question what he gets up to? As long as I get paid, I’m not that bothered.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Dougal. ‘That room at the back, there. Is that his office?’
‘Aye.’
‘And do you ever have cause to go in there?’
‘No, not really. This is my table, I do my studying here when I’m on my own.’
‘Would you mind if I had a wee peek inside?’
‘Feel free. If you tell me what you’re after, then maybe I could help.’
‘I wish knew, Emily. I wish I knew.’
* * *
Dougal leant against the doorframe and let out a disappointed sigh as he cast an eye over the small, windowless office which – save for the desk, two chairs, and a stack of document storage boxes – was as empty as a pocket.
‘Does he actually do any work in here?’ he said, calling over his shoulder.
‘Aye, sometimes,’ said Emily. ‘He brings his laptop and locks himself away.’
‘Nothing else? No books, or notepads, or diary, or anything?’
‘No.’
‘What about the paperwork? You know, the official stuff his clients have to sign, or witness, or whatever it is they do?’
‘That’s all on his computer,’ said Emily as she strolled into the office. ‘He just prints it off whenever he needs it.’
Dougal, growing even more despondent, sat behind the desk, leaned back and tentatively pulled open the single drawer to reveal a rubber stamp bearing the company name, an ink pad, a stapler, a handful of paperclips and a USB memory stick.
‘Have you used any of these?’ he said as he snapped on a pair of gloves.
‘No. I’ve never even looked in there.’
‘Good,’ said Dougal, sealing them in a plastic bag. ‘I need to borrow them, okay?’
‘Okay. So, is that it?’
‘Aye, that’s me away. I need to get these off, sharpish.’
‘Are you not forgetting something?’ said Emily.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Charming.’
‘Oh, Christ! Sorry!’ said Dougal, cringing behind the desk. ‘My head’s mince, I’ve just so much going on. So, what shall we do? Any ideas?’
‘Pub!’ said Emily. ‘The Smoking Goat. I like it there.’
‘Och, I’m not one for drinking, really.’
‘Okay. Cinema?’
‘We’ll not speak for two hours.’
‘Dinner then?’
‘Aye, great!’ said Dougal, relieved. ‘What do you like?’
‘Anything and everything. As long as it’s vegetarian.’
‘Oh dear.’
Emily playfully raised her eyes to the ceiling and smiled.
‘Well, there’s only one thing for it,’ she said. ‘You’ll just have to come to mine. I’ll cook some pasta. How about it?’
‘Perfect. When did you have in mind?’
‘Tonight, of course. Not point in beating about the bush, is there, Constable?’
* * *
Some members of society delight in dining in the stilted atmosphere of a triple-starred restaurant in the belief it might enhance their social status and view the challenge of translating filet de cabillaud poêlè into English, or endeavouring to unlock the mystery of a pork secretos, or attempting to determine the logic behind deconstructed banoffee pie, as nothing more than an exercise in mental agility. However, mused Duncan, little could match the simplistic majesty of a full, traditional breakfast.
Satisfied with his efforts as designated grill-chef, Chez Munro, he slurped his tea and let out a contented sigh as Munro – eagerly mopping up the remnants of a runny egg yolk with a slice of bread and butter – gazed yearningly at the rashers of bacon on West’s untouched plate.
‘Where is she?’ he said impatiently.
‘Not sure, chief,’ said Duncan. ‘Bathroom, maybe?’
‘Well, if she’s not here soon, she’ll have to make do with toast and jam.’
‘Someone talking about me?’ said West as she breezed into the room.
‘Aye. Your food’s going cold. What’s with the bag?’
‘I’m heading back to mine,’ said West, chomping through a sausage. ‘I need to speak with that Jazz bloke again. Someone there knows who planted the Golf and I need to find out who.’
‘Maybe, so,’ said Duncan, ‘but that’s no reason to go home, is it?’
‘You’ll cope. Besides, I can’t keep whizzing back and forth all the time, it’s simply not practical.’
‘It’s not safe, Charlie, you know that,’ said Munro. ‘Someone’s broken into your flat once already. Who’s to say they’ll not be back?’
‘That’s a risk I’ll have to take. Anyway, the locks have been changed…’
‘That’ll not stop them,’ said Duncan, cynically.
‘Look, the only reason I’m down here, Duncan, is because Jimbo got walloped on your patch which frankly constitutes nothing more than an RTC. This case centres on Carducci and MacAllister and Gundersen which means I need to be in Ayr. End of.’
‘That’s me told.’
‘Give me five minutes,’ said Munro, as he cleared the plates.
‘What? Why?’ said West. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To pack a bag. I’m coming with you.’
‘What about me?’ said Duncan.
‘You can follow,’ said Munro. ‘Take yourself off to Kilbride’s place and trawl through his camera footage. See if he got a snap of MacAllister.’
Chapter 12
Anxious about the prospect of spending an entire evening alone with Emily in the intimate surroundings of her own home, Dougal – bowing to social etiquette – contemplated taking some wine as a gift for his host. However, without the necessary knowledge to make an educated choice, he dismissed the idea in favour of a bouquet of flowers before shelving the notion on the grounds that she may harbour a hitherto unknown pollen allergy. He opted for a ballotin of Belgian chocolates, instead.
He trudged up the stairs to the office, pushed open the door and paused, arrested by the sight of Munro and West casually sipping tea as though they’d never been away.
‘Do vegetarians eat chocolate?’ he said, tossing his coat to one side.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Munro, diffidently, ‘too much protein. Their bodies cannae handle it.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s pulling your leg,’ said West, ‘of course they do. Unless they’ve got a lactose intolerance.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Dougal, distraught. ‘Lactose! I never thought of that. So, is this a flying visit or are you two planning on staying awhile?’
‘We’re staying.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. It’s been like working in solitary ever since you two left. Not one single soul has been through that door, not even a “how’s the investigation going” from DCI Elliot.’
‘You should take that as compliment, laddie,’ said Munro. ‘He obviously has faith in your ability. So, where have you been this morning?’
‘Rietveld’s office,’ said Dougal, holding up the plastic bag. ‘I need to get these off for dusting.’
‘He’s not back, then?’
‘No. He’s definitely avoiding the place, and uniform say his flat’s empty, too. I’m going to have a mooch for myself just as soon as I’ve caught up with Brigadier Klassen. With any luck, I’m hop
ing they’ve found him hiding in the cellar or something. Where’s DC Reid? Did he not come with you?’
‘Aye, he certainly did,’ said Munro, ‘followed us like a lost puppy. He’s with Carducci’s neighbour.’
‘Okay. So, what’s your plan, miss?’
‘First, I’m going to finish my tea,’ said West, ‘then, we’re heading over to Kestrel Cars. Gonna listen to some jazz.’
* * *
West parked up, reclined the seat and closed her eyes against the blazing sun while Munro, trying to sate a troublesome itch beneath his cast, began to wilt like a water lily in a drought-ridden pond as the temperature rapidly rose.
‘Charlie,’ he said, as beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead, ‘your phone.’
‘What about it?’
‘Answer it.’
‘In a minute.’
‘It might be important.’
‘Then again,’ said West, indifferently, ‘it might not.’
Munro, experiencing something close to an epiphany, slowly turned to her and smiled.
‘By jiminy!’ he said, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, ‘you know something, lassie? You’re absolutely right! I thought I might actually miss not having a mobile phone, but it’s actually quite liberating. Aye, that’s the word. Liberating.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘In fact, I’m not sure I want a new one. Or the old one back.’
‘Good for you.’
‘I’ve the landline at home. And that’s where I’ll be once this case is closed, so, there’s no need.’
‘Nope. No need at all,’ said West, sitting up with a start. ‘Hold on, what if I need to get hold of you?’
‘I told you,’ said Munro, ‘ring the landline. Or write a letter.’
‘Have you seen the price of postage stamps?’
‘Email, then.’
‘Oh, no. You need a phone, Jimbo. I’ll get you one of those ones that just makes calls and texts, with those great big buttons for the visually impaired.’
‘You’ll be joining that unfortunate group, if you’re not careful, lassie. Now, for the love of God, will you answer your phone?’
‘Duncan,’ said West as she switched to speaker. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m with Mr Kilbride. He’s kindly gathered together one hundred and twenty hours’ worth of footage from four cameras about the house.’
‘See you next week then.’
‘No, no,’ said Duncan, ‘I’ve got what I came for.’
‘MacAllister?’
‘Aye. Clear as day. Car stops just up the street, she jumps out, sees the cordon around Carducci’s place and jumps straight back in again.’
‘Was she driving?’ said Munro.
‘No. She’s the passenger. It’s a taxi.’
‘Can you make out who?’
‘Better than that,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s a Kestrel. Index: Sierra Golf One Four Oscar Juliet Yankee.’
* * *
Dabbing his face with a neatly pressed handkerchief, Munro followed West into the taxi office and nodded politely as Beth, craning her neck to peer through the window, greeted them with a smile.
‘Inspector,’ she said, ‘I must say, you’re looking better since the last time we met. Your skin’s more, well, it’s more skin colour.’
‘You’re too kind,’ said Munro. ‘Listen, we need a word with Jazz, would you mind shouting him for us?’
‘Sorry. He’s not here.’
‘Know when he’s back?’ said West.
‘Not today, I shouldn’t think. We were down two drivers yesterday so he filled in. Probably putting his feet up, I imagine.’
‘Have you got an address, please?’ said West. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind if we drop by.’
‘I have, indeed,’ said Beth. ‘It’s Hawkhill Avenue, down by the racecourse. Number twenty-nine.’
‘Thanking you,’ said Munro. ‘Oh, we need to check who was driving one of your cars yesterday, can you do that for me, Beth?’
‘Aye, but not just now, Inspector. I’m in the middle of the rota. Can I do it for you later?’
‘Nae bother. We’ll drop by on our way back.’
* * *
A chubby, middle-aged lady wrapped in a pink towelling robe – her sodden, pitch-black hair scraped back in a pony tail – opened the door to the sandstone semi, raised her hands to her face and instinctively took a step back.
‘Aletta Banerjee?’ said West, holding up her warrant card.
‘Oh, my God, what’s happened?’ said Aletta, her hazel eyes brimming with fear. ‘Has there been an accident?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘An accident?’
‘No,’ said West, with a reassuring smile, ‘honestly, there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Thank Christ for that. I thought the police only knocked the door when they had bad news.
‘Not always,’ said Munro, ‘but we’ve no bad news, I promise. We just need a word with Jazz.’
‘Och, that’s a relief,’ said Aletta, ‘for a minute there, I thought… is this about that stolen car you found in our yard?’
‘You know about that?’
‘Aye, of course. Jazz tells me everything. He said it was like something off the telly, with folk going over it, looking for clues and that.’
‘I suppose it was,’ said West, peering past Aletta and glancing down the hall. ‘So, is he in?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘No idea. I’ve not seen him since yesterday. He left to do an airport run first thing, and he had a full day ahead of him after that.’
‘So, you’ve not seen him since yesterday?’ said Munro. ‘Are you not a wee bit concerned about that?’
‘No. That man works like a dog, bless him, and knowing what he’s like, he probably hit the pub with my brother when he finished and had one too many. They’ll be sleeping it off round at his.’
‘Okay, no worries,’ said West, ‘do you have an address? For your brother?’
‘Och, let’s not bother the man,’ said Munro chipping in, ‘there’s no sense in talking to him if his head’s in the fog. We’ll call back later this evening, Mrs Banerjee, if that’s okay with you?’
‘Aye, no bother,’ said Aletta. ‘I’ll say you’ve been asking for him.’
* * *
West flipped down the visor and, one hand on the steering wheel, chewed on her lower lip as she stared pensively down the street.
‘What’s up, lassie?’ said Munro as he fastened his safety belt.
‘Sunglasses,’ said West.
‘I’ve left them behind.’
‘No. Sunglasses. The table in the hallway.’
‘You’re havering, again.’
‘Banerjee’s place. Just now. There was the telephone, a note pad, a pen, a small vase and a pair of sunglasses. Ray-Bans.’
‘So?’
‘Can you really see that woman wearing Wayfarers?’
‘Each to their own.’
‘No. Trust me,’ said West, tenaciously. ‘Call it female intuition but there’s no way she’d wear them. They wouldn’t suit her. But I know someone who would. Clare MacAllister.’
‘Are you suggesting MacAllister is somehow in cahoots with Jazz?’
‘Why not? She owns a pair exactly like that and in all the time we spoke to her, right from the moment she was nicked first time round, she hardly ever took them off. Remember?’
‘Och, come on, Charlie, that’s a wee bit tenuous, even for you. If they’re not Aletta’s, they must belong to Jazz, or a friend.’
‘Give me strength, you’re suffering from wood and trees syndrome. Look, they work together, right? The Golf was dumped in Kestrel’s yard, right? And we know MacAllister was driving it, right? We’ve even got her on film. No. Something’s bugging me about this. Big time.’
‘Is your instinct kicking in, lassie?’
‘It’s booting me in the head, Jimbo
,’ said West as she started the engine. ‘It’s booting me in the head.’
* * *
‘Back so soon, Inspector?’ said Beth, apologetically. ‘I’m sorry but I’m not ready yet.’
‘We are,’ said West, curtly. ‘Jazz. He did an airport run yesterday. Is that right?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘And he was out all day?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Okay, we need to know which car he was using. Is that easy to check?’
‘Aye,’ said Beth, huffing at the inconvenience, ‘it’s all logged down, just bear with me a moment. Och, would you look at that, he took the hoopty.’
‘Come again?’
‘The hoopty. The banger. The oldest one in the fleet. Will you be wanting the registration?’
‘We will,’ said Munro.
‘SG14 OJY’
West spun to face Munro.
‘Instinct,’ she said, trying not to gloat. ‘He wasn’t on an airport run at all. He was the one who drove MacAllister to Kirkmichael.’
‘Beth,’ said Munro, glaring at West as he held out his hand, ‘we need the keys to the yard and the spare for that car.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure I can do that, Inspector, I should check with…’
‘Now!’
* * *
The Prius, deftly parked with its rear to the wall, appeared, upon closer inspection, to be utterly unremarkable.
‘Nothing here,’ said Munro as he peered through the window.
‘There wouldn’t be, would there?’ said West. ‘If anything, it, whatever it is, would be hidden away. Wouldn’t it?’
Munro, tickled by West’s new-found confidence and her blossoming sense of sarcasm, stood to one side, smiling as she popped open the boot.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, shaking his head as a lifeless Jazz, trussed hand and foot like a suckling pig ready for the roast, gazed up at him. ‘He’ll not be playing the trumpet again, that’s for sure.’
West snapped on a pair of gloves and leaned cautiously into the boot.
‘No lesions or burns to his wrists or ankles,’ she said, as she prodded around the braided, yellow tow rope binding his limbs, ‘so he didn’t struggle. He was a goner before they tied him up.’
‘They?’
‘Different knots to the hands and feet.’
TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 5) Page 9