DUPLICITY: A compelling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 4)

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Doesn’t sound too complicated to me,’ said West, ‘did they look for him? Probably drove off after an argument or something.’

  ‘No, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘here’s the thing, he was only gone a couple of minutes when his wife went after him, there’s absolutely no way he could’ve got far on foot in such a short space of time.’

  ‘On foot?’

  ‘Aye. His car wasnae touched. It was locked and the wine was still on the back seat. His wallet and his phone and his coat, all hanging up indoors.’

  ‘So he just…?’

  ‘Aye. Just disappeared. Vanished.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not us you should be talking to, Dougal,’ said Munro with a grin, ‘I suggest you contact Area 51.’

  ‘Area 51?’

  ‘Never mind. So, this Mr Buchanan, what’s his medical history like?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Dougal, frowning. ‘Medical history?’

  ‘Aye. Does he suffer from any ailments, depression or dementia maybe? Is he on any kind of medication? Has he a history of wandering off, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, I didnae think to ask.’

  ‘Well stick it on the list and ask his wife. Last thing we want is someone on the loose without their tablets. So, apart from that, how far have you got?’

  ‘I’ve logged him with the MPB and we’ve some posters to go up around the town tomorrow. We’ve also completed two searches of the area including door-to-doors but so far, absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Any cameras about the place?’ said West.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Apart from wanting to bash my head against a brick wall, you mean? No. Oh hold on, there is. I got his bank details so we can keep an eye on his account, see if he shows up somewhere.’

  ‘Well done, laddie,’ said Munro, ‘good work.’

  ‘Thanks, but I havenae got round to sorting it yet, not had time.’

  Munro checked his watch and cast a sideways glance at West.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘listen to me, Dougal. This is a one-off, never-to-be-repeated, very special offer, you understand? Give us the details and we’ll sort it for you while you go get yourself some food.’

  ‘Really? Thanks very much, boss. Appreciate it.’

  ‘There is one condition, mind.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Dougal, ‘what’s that?’

  ‘You get yourself something decent to eat, none of that pot-pourri chicken or raw fish that’s causing havoc at the A&E, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal. Here’s his bank card, it’s the Clydesdale. Alloway Street. Bottom of the High Street and keep going, it’s on the way to the station.’

  * * *

  ‘Changed your mind?’ said West as they made their way downstairs. ‘About lending a hand, I mean?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Munro, laughing at the absurdity of the question, ‘I’m not hanging around, lassie. The poor lad’s overwhelmed so I’m simply doing him a favour, okay? You can consider it my deed for the day. My second deed of the day.’

  ‘Second? What was the first?’

  ‘Running you here, of course. Count yourself lucky I didnae switch the meter on.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ said West. ‘Come on, we’ll take my car, you can try it out.’

  ‘Are you joking me? I’ll not fit in that thing. No, no, until you get yourself a roof-rack so you can strap me on the top, we’ll be travelling in mine for the foreseeable.’

  * * *

  Margaret McClure was, at sixty-years-old – forty-one of which had been spent at the Clydesdale – one of a dying breed. As manager of the Alloway Street branch, a position she’d held for nearly three decades, she employed an approach regarded by many, particularly those at head office, as old-fashioned and out of step with the times. Rather than concentrate on persecuting her customers with threats of legal action for exceeding their credit limits, she preferred to meet them face to face, to have a chat over a cup of tea to discuss their needs or alleviate their fears, to offer help and advice and to reassure them that the bank was their ally, not their foe. Unfortunately, the number of clients who actually visited the bank was dwindling at an alarming rate.

  She loathed modern technology for facilitating the surge in online transactions thereby making the business of banking increasingly anonymous. She abhorred the way hard-working locals were granted or declined an overdraft based simply on their credit rating or postcode. But most of all she was saddened by the fact that she now saw less of her customers and more of her staff. She was simply biding her time, waiting for the axe to fall on her branch as the Clydesdale, like so many other banks, disappeared from the high street under the false claim that they were a drain on resources.

  The fastidiously groomed brunette, dressed in a 1940s-style two-piece, stood and smiled politely, proffering her hand as Munro and West entered her office, grateful, if nothing else, for the company.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ she said, her mood lifting as she caught sight of his steely, blue eyes, ‘and Detective Sergeant West. Do come in, can I offer you some refreshment? Tea, coffee, or a glass of iced water, perhaps?’

  ‘Very kind but no,’ said Munro, entranced by her impeccable appearance, ‘we’ll not stay long. It’s about a customer of yours.’

  ‘Well fire away, Inspector. I’ll certainly do my best to help.’

  ‘Mr Angus Buchanan,’ said West. ‘Seems he’s gone missing and we’re concerned for his welfare so the first thing we’d like to do is keep an eye on his account. As you’re no doubt aware, any sign of activity could prove vital in allowing us to locate him.’

  ‘I quite understand, Sergeant, but you see, I can’t do that here. I’m afraid that kind of action will have to be authorised by head office.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said West, sliding his bank card across the desk, ‘but if you could get the ball rolling?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see to it right away.’

  ‘Thanking you,’ said Munro, ‘Now, Mrs McClure…’

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘Miss. Here’s the thing. Mr Buchanan’s been missing for a little over 24 hours now so in the meantime, while we wait for that to get sorted, would you mind taking a wee look on that computer of yours and letting us know if he’s withdrawn any cash between now and say around 3pm yesterday?’

  ‘Why certainly, Inspector,’ said McClure, smiling demurely, ‘although you know I can’t divulge any details, not unless…’

  ‘Aye, that’s okay, we just need to know if…’

  ‘Let me have a look for you.’

  McClure’s delicate fingers flew across the keyboard like tentacles sliding over a slippery rock.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Now, will it be just his current account you’re interested in or the business account, too?’

  ‘Business account?’ said West. ‘Didn’t know he had one.’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s held in two names: Mr Buchanan and a Mr Carducci; they’re both signatories.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro, ‘and are there any bank cards associated with that account, you know, for use in the cash machine?’

  ‘No, cheque book only.’

  ‘And there’s not been any transfers or withdrawals or anything like that?’

  ‘No, in fact by the looks of it hardly any money’s come out of the account at all. The last debit was over a year ago and since then, just deposits.’

  ‘Just deposits? Look, Miss McClure, I know you cannae go into specifics but does it have a healthy balance?’

  ‘Inspector, I really can’t…’

  ‘All I’m asking is: is it healthy? A meal in a restaurant healthy? Two weeks in Florida healthy? Buy a new house healthy?’

  McClure sat back and smiled at Munro.

  ‘Not so much a new house, Inspector,’ she said. ‘More the entire street.’

  ‘Are joking me? And is that account under their names or a business name?’

  ‘It’s a business name,’ said McCl
ure. ‘Remus Trading.’

  Munro coughed as if he had a large peanut lodged in the back of his throat.

  ‘Did you say Rebus?’

  ‘Remus.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘I’d say it was an amalgamation of their Christian names: Remo and Angus.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. Well if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind asking the gentlemen at head office to keep an eye on that account too?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. Let me have your details and I shall make sure you’re contacted should anything occur.’

  * * *

  ‘I spy,’ said West with a mischievous smile as they walked back to the car, ‘something beginning with “F”.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something beginning with “F”, go on.’

  ‘Och, I’m not one for playing games Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘Financial institution?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘Well come on, lassie,’ said Munro, ‘you cannae leave me hanging. What is it?’

  ‘Foxy,’ said West, grinning wildly.

  ‘Foxy?’

  ‘Foxy, flirty, frisky and fancy, as in, somebody fancies you!’

  ‘Good grief.’

  * * *

  Dougal, having devoured his recommended daily dose of calories in a single sitting, smiled contentedly, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and set about brewing a pot of tea just as Munro and West, her nose twitching at the scent of something appetising, returned to the office.

  ‘Ah, Dougal,’ she said, glancing at the empty box on the desk for any leftovers, ‘you’ve got some colour back in your cheeks! Good lunch?’

  ‘Aye, thanks miss. I’m full to bursting now.’

  ‘Not a bag of chips and a pickled egg, I hope?’ said Munro.

  ‘No, boss. Pizza. Thin crust pepperoni, extra large.’

  ‘Excellent! I’m glad to see you’re embracing all things Italian because I’ve a wee something that may help with your inquiry, once you’ve poured a brew, that is.’

  ‘Coming right up,’ said Dougal, ‘so what is it? Please tell me you know where he is.’

  ‘I’m not a clairvoyant, laddie,’ said Munro, as he took his tea and sat down. ‘Companies House. See what you can find about an outfit called Remus Trading. Your Mr Buchanan and Signor Carducci have a business account by that name and it’s in rude health, by which I mean, as rude as you can get without awarding it a triple-x rating.’

  ‘Really? Okay, just give me a moment and I’ll…’

  ‘No, hold on, Dougal,’ said Munro, frowning as he slowly placed his cup on the table, ‘hold on. Remus. The name Remus. Remo and Angus, right?’

  ‘That’s what the bank manager said,’ replied West, ‘makes perfect sense. Why?’

  ‘I’ve just had a thought. Romulus and Remus.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Dougal, ‘the twins.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West, ‘haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. What twins?’

  ‘Well, according to Roman mythology, Mars, the God of war had a whatsit with a lady called Rhea Silvia and they had twin boys: Romulus and Remus who are credited with building the city of Rome.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ said West, ‘and Carducci’s Italian so you’re thinking maybe that’s why they chose the name?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Munro. ‘There may be nothing in it but it’s worth following up. Dougal, I suggest you have a chat with Carducci just as soon as you can, find out whereabouts in Italy he comes from and what exactly it is he and Mr Buchanan trade in. And let’s hope he’s no plans afoot to treat his partner the same way Romulus treated his brother.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said West.

  ‘He killed him. Charlie, go with Dougal, you need to meet Carducci, anyway.’

  ‘Okey dokey.’

  ‘Is that you away then, boss?’ said Dougal.

  Munro glanced at his watch and sighed in a moment of rare indecisiveness.

  ‘No. Look, I’ve an hour or so yet. I’ll go see Buchanan’s wife and get her side of the story. Incidentally, Dougal, did you speak to her about her husband’s condition?’

  ‘Aye, I did. Apparently he’s as healthy as his bank account.’

  Chapter 5

  With little more than a primary school and a church, a post office and a general store, Crosshill – an old weaving village built by Irish immigrants – was regarded by the local community and visitors alike as quintessentially “sleepy”. Driving past the whitewashed cottages lining a deserted Dalhowan Street, Munro, however, wondering if he’d missed the three-minute warning, considered it positively comatose.

  Heather Buchanan, shrouded in a thick, woollen overcoat was incongruously conspicuous as she sat on an old spindle-back chair outside her house with the setting sun glinting off her glasses and a look of woeful abandonment on her face. Munro, not wishing to cause her alarm, stopped on the opposite side of the road and waved as he locked the car.

  ‘Evening,’ he said with a genial smile, ‘Mrs Buchanan?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Heather, ‘and who might you be?’

  ‘James Munro. Detective Inspector James Munro. Retired. Well, trying to, anyway.’

  ‘Trying?’

  ‘I have a habit of getting… waylaid.’

  ‘You mean you enjoy your work so much you dinnae want to leave?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Or is it a fear of boredom? Not knowing what to do if you stop?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I know how that feels, Inspector,’ said Heather. ‘I know how that feels. So, have you come to look for my husband?’

  ‘Well, I’m going to try. Would you mind if I joined you?’

  ‘Help yourself, you can fetch a chair from indoors if you like.’

  ‘No, no, you’re alright,’ said Munro, concerned by her appearance. ‘No offence, but you’re looking awful tired Mrs Buchanan, are you okay?’

  ‘I’ve not been sleeping, Inspector. How can I? Not knowing where he is?’

  ‘You have my sympathies, it cannae be easy. Have you been out here all day?’

  ‘Near enough.’

  ‘And have you had yourself some supper or anything to drink?’

  ‘No,’ said Heather, staring blankly up the street, ‘I’m not sure I can manage anything.’

  ‘Look, come away inside and I’ll put the kettle on, fetch you a bite to eat perhaps?’

  ‘No, I can’t go in. What if he comes by and I’m not here?’

  ‘Mrs Buchanan,’ said Munro softly, ‘if you go on a hunger strike and catch a cold, you’ll not be much good to anyone now, will you? We can leave the door open and sit by the window. How about it?’

  Heather turned to face him and smiled limply.

  ‘Aye, okay,’ she said, ‘ten minutes’ll not do any harm I suppose.’

  * * *

  Munro busied himself in the kitchen as Heather settled into the armchair by the window, turning it slightly to ensure she had a good view down the street.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ she said as Munro returned with two mugs of tea, ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to ask some questions now you’re here?’

  ‘Aye, if that’s okay with you. And after that I’ll make you up a wee sandwich. Or perhaps you’d prefer some soup?’

  ‘Let’s see how we go, eh? So, what is it you’d like to know, Inspector?’

  Munro set his mug on the table and unzipped his coat.

  ‘Well, Mrs…’

  ‘Och, Heather please. The name’s Heather.’

  ‘Heather. Okay. See here, Heather, I’m trying to paint a wee picture of the situation, you know, possible reasons behind your husband’s sudden disappearance so you’ll forgive me if the questions sound a little abrupt but for starters, do you and Angus have any money problems? I mean, financially speaking, are you okay?’

  ‘Oh, we’re more than okay,’ said Heather, ‘we’re not millionaires mind, but
we’re comfortable. We dinnae have to think twice about paying a bill, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Good. And Angus. Health-wise, is he okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes. He’s no problems in that department. Did that young policeman not tell you that?’

  ‘I didnae get the details I’m afraid, so…’

  ‘The only thing my Angus can’t do, Inspector, is stand still.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Munro, smiling as he sipped his tea. ‘Tell me, I understand Angus owns a company called “Remus Trading”. Is that right?’

  ‘Remus? Oh aye, that was Angus alright.’

  ‘And what does it trade in exactly?’

  ‘Nothing. Not any more.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Munro hiding his surprise, ‘What do you mean; not any more?’

  ‘They packed it in.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Heather, ‘Angus and Remo, it was the pair of them that ran it.’

  ‘And that would be Remo Carducci?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘Good friends, are they?’

  ‘Oh aye, they’re like brothers, known each other since forever.’

  ‘Okay. So, Heather, this company, what was it used for? Buying and selling?’

  ‘No, not really, more importing. Food mainly. From Italy.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Munro, ‘but I’m a wee bit lost now. Food? From Italy?’

  ‘Aye. You see Inspector, Angus and Remo used to work on the docks, right? Like everybody else they thought it was a job for life, then like everybody else they got laid off but Remo, well he was the lucky one, he had the family business to fall back on.’

  ‘You mean the cafes?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Heather impatiently, ‘that came later. See, when Remo’s great grandfather settled here as a young man, he opened a fish and chip shop, then another, and another.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, Remo had no interest in selling fish suppers for the rest of his life, no interest at all and as for Angus, well, he had to find a way of making some money so’s he could keep a roof over his head. That’s when he had his… what’s the word I’m looking for? Epiphany. Clever man, my Angus.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He used his brains,’ said Heather. ‘See, there’s only three things Remo’s ever been interested in, Inspector: women, wine and food. Proper food, he calls it, like spaghetti and meatballs. It’s not to my liking but each to his own. Anyways, Angus told him straight, if he didnae want to be standing over a deep fat fryer for the next fifty years the only way forward was to expand his business; open a café or two and start dishing up the kind of food he wouldnae shut up about. The rest, as they say, is history. The very next day, with not a penny between them, they were off about the town looking for a site for the first cafe.’