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

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Didn’t quite think it through, did I?’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps you should. It’s not entirely out of the realms of possibility.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Far-fetched as it may sound,’ said Munro, frowning as he sought to justify the proposition, ‘perhaps there was an Angus Buchanan. Perhaps this particular Angus Buchanan went to Norway as a wean with his family. And perhaps he died. That would lend credence to the theory that Gundersen’s lack of a local accent was due to his being raised in Norway.’

  ‘Of course!’ said West. ‘And he could’ve picked up the accent when he came here, I mean, he’s been here long enough.’

  ‘But why, Charlie? Why would a young Gundersen adopt a false identity?’

  ‘Well, dunno yet. Because he did something bad? Maybe he had to leave the country?’

  ‘Do you not think the Hordaland Police would have told us?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘And why was he reported missing just two years ago and not twenty?’

  ‘Think I’ll get that tea.’

  ‘And why have neither his wife or Carducci mentioned that Angus used to live abroad?’

  ‘On second thoughts,’ said West, ‘maybe I’ll just go back to bed.’

  ‘You give up too easily, Charlie, but I’ll give you this; it’s good thinking. Inspired even. Aye, that’s the word. Inspired.’

  ‘Thanks. Obviously barking up the wrong tree though, aren’t I?’

  ‘Trust your instinct, lassie,’ said Munro, ‘it’s the best tool you have. If you really think there’s something in it, then start digging. A wee search of the census for any Angus Buchanans who emigrated around sixty years ago wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Nah, you know what? It’s not worth it,’ said West as she reached for her phone, flinching at the missed call before retrieving a message. ‘Text from Dougal.’

  ‘Dougal? By jiminy, I told you the lad has the sleeping habits of a vampire.’

  ‘You’ll like this. That number I asked him to trace? The mystery man on Dubrowski’s phone? Well, speak of the devil, it’s Angus Buchanan.’

  ‘Then it’s time for another chat with Mr Dubrowski.’

  * * *

  PC Anderson – halfway through the early shift and thankful that, thus far, he’d not had cause to leave the office – was ambling back from the canteen carrying four cups of something the vending machine had told him was coffee when he caught sight of Munro and West breezing hurriedly through the lobby.

  ‘Miss!’ he called. ‘DS West! Can I have a word?’

  West stopped in her tracks and glanced at Munro.

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ she said, ‘interview room, ten minutes, okay?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Anderson as he sauntered casually towards her, ‘dinnae mean to hold you up. I’ll not keep you.’

  ‘No trouble,’ said West, ‘what’s up?’

  Anderson, for no apparent reason, glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice.

  ‘There’s a fella round front been asking for you,’ he said.

  ‘Me? Who on earth could be asking for me? I don’t know anyone up here.’

  ‘Well he says he knows you and he’s not for moving. Thing is, miss, he’s a wee bit… how can I put this politely? Unsavoury.’

  West, amused and intrigued, smiled curiously.

  ‘Don’t suppose he has a name by any chance?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Anderson, ‘Lyndhurst. Toby Lyndhurst.’

  West, eyes wide with disbelief, gazed at Anderson as her smile wilted away and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach urged her towards the ladies.

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘tell him… tell him I’m out on a shout or…’

  ‘Right you are but like I say, he’s not in a hurry to leave.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West, taking a deep breath, ‘let’s nip this in the bud. Where is he?’

  ‘Reception. Are you okay? Will I come with you?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll be fine. It’s just some rubbish I thought I’d thrown out ages ago.’

  Chapter 10

  The malnourished individual scurrying around reception like a beetle on speed was not the Toby Lyndhurst West once knew. Gone was the charming, mild-mannered man who’d swept her off her feet. Gone was the sartorially elegant, blue-blooded male who’d promised her the earth. In his place stood a borderline vagrant, his clothes filthy and torn, his face an undulating landscape of blotches and blemishes, scabs and scars – a desperate down-and-out with little or no self-respect. She felt no sympathy. Not even a hint of compassion. Just an overwhelming sense of loathing and contempt.

  As an adolescent growing up in the rural idyll of the rolling Sussex countryside, Tobias Lyndhurst – accomplished horse-rider and all-round animal lover – had harboured ambitions of becoming a botanist; then, as the years progressed, a veterinarian surgeon, a vocation he enjoyed with moderate success until finally, on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday, any desire he’d had to continue working for a living evaporated with the news that a trust fund set up in his name was ripe for the picking.

  With a rugged physique honed on the rugby pitch, youthful good looks and a substantial inheritance in the offing, he was considered by many amongst the champagne-swilling set to be quite a catch. However, much to the chagrin of the fawning sycophants looking for somebody to sire their off-spring he opted instead – after a chance meeting with a young police officer at the Old Berkshire Hunt – to forsake them all, temporarily, for the comparatively modest and refreshingly down-to-earth Charlotte West, although later returning their advances throughout the entire nineteen months and twenty-three days of their doomed engagement.

  * * *

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ said West, trying her damnedest not to shout.

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ said Toby, his smile revealing rows of blackened teeth, ‘I tried calling a couple of times but…’

  ‘Outside now! I’m not having you hanging round here.’

  ‘Charming. I come all this way to see you and all I get is abuse.’

  ‘I haven’t even started yet,’ said West, glowering with rage. ‘Last chance, what the bloody hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Okay, okay. I was passing through and I thought I’d stop by and say…’

  ‘Passing through, my arse. Where were you going?’

  ‘Haven’t decided yet,’ said Toby, ‘I’m not in the habit of making plans these days.’

  ‘No change there, then. You could never stick to them anyway. Look at the state of you; you’re pathetic. What is it? Heroin?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not to me,’ said West, raising her hand as he moved towards her. ‘That’s far enough. How’d you find me?’

  ‘Wasn’t difficult, I asked around. Your old mates said you’d moved up here.’

  ‘So you’ve followed me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Toby, scratching his head as though troubled by an indeterminable infestation, ‘I told you, I just…’

  ‘Shut it,’ said West gritting her teeth. ‘Just shut it. I’ll tell you what’s going on, shall I? You’re here because you’ve got nowhere else to go. Because Daddy’s cut off your allowance. That’s it, isn’t it? No more trust fund. Shame. My heart bleeds. And now the privileged little rich kid’s got no-one to play with except winos and smackheads.’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Charlotte, honestly. Just hear me out. I’ve been missing you, okay? Look, I screwed up big time and now I realise just what a…’

  ‘You make me sick. Get the hell out of here before…’

  ‘Look,’ said Toby, his mood growing increasingly angry, ‘I just need somewhere to crash for a couple of nights until I get myself sorted, then I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘No bleedin’ way. Now for the last time, do one.’

  ‘Oh come on, just a few quid then, just so I can…’

  ‘So you can what? Blow it on more shit? D
o yourself a favour Toby, check into rehab, find a hostel or go back to one of the in-bred tarts you were so fond of, cos if I see you round here again so help me God I’ll…’

  ‘You’ll what?’ snarled Toby, his eyes narrowing as his mood became more threatening, ‘Call for back up? Fat lot of good that will do you.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something you stuck-up scumbag, you’re not in bloody Sussex now. You’re in Scotland. And if I have to get my mates out here then trust me, they’ll bloody well eat you alive. Now piss off.’

  West, still seething, watched as he ambled through the car park randomly flicking wing mirrors along the way before stepping into a line of speeding traffic to the sound of screeching brakes and raising two fingers at the drivers who instantly regretted not mowing him down. She watched and waited until he’d disappeared from view before heaving a sigh of relief and bolting down the stairs towards the interview room.

  * * *

  Dubrowski, happy to answer any number of questions in return for the free accommodation and endless supply of hot meals on offer, regarded Munro with a look of trepidation as they sat opposite him.

  ‘Alright?’ said West curtly. ‘This is Detective Inspector Munro.’

  ‘You have a serious face,’ said Dubrowski, ‘I think you are like the bad cop, yes?’

  ‘No,’ said Munro, fixing him with a steely glare, ‘I am like the Beelzebub.’

  ‘Who is this Beastly Bob?’

  ‘He’s the gentlemen who’ll be looking after you once you slip this mortal coil. Now, for your information, Mr Dubrowski, we know who the mystery man on your telephone is. The fellow you’ve been working for.’

  ‘Then you are knowing more than me.’

  ‘Not difficult,’ said West, ‘so, first question: the work you did for him, what did it entail exactly?’

  ‘I am already saying this. I collect parcel, sometimes is a bag or suitcase, and I take it to address. Taxi drivers do this kind of work all the time. I think.’

  ‘And what was in these bags or cases?’

  ‘I am not knowing this. It’s private property, it’s not good manners to look inside.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from you,’ said West with a sneer, ‘considering the last bag left in your possession was found a few grand lighter. So. Where do you collect these parcels from? Is it always the same place?’

  ‘Tak,’ said Dubrowski, nodding, ‘is always the same place. It’s what you call a locker-up. A self-storage unit near to the ferry terminal. The other policemen have the key with my other belongings if you want to see it.’

  Munro stood unexpectedly, checked his watch and, as though bored with the entire proceedings, clasped his hands behind his back and sighed as he began to slowly pace the periphery of the room.

  ‘Tell me Mr Dubrowski,’ he said, ‘where exactly did you take these cases once you’d collected them? Did you drop them off at different locations? Different houses?’

  ‘Nie, nie, is always to the same place. I know this address from memory, it is Dalblair Road. I leave bag inside door, wish them a good day and I go.’

  ‘And was this regular work?’ said West. ‘I mean, once a week? Twice a month?’

  ‘Nie, there is nothing regular about it, it’s always different. I get message on my phone, sometimes in middle of night even. Sometimes he is sending me a text two or three times in one week, sometimes nothing and sometimes maybe there is just one trip in whole month.’

  ‘And how much does he pay you? I’m guessing it’s more than the regular taxi fare.’

  ‘Very much more,’ said Dubrowski with a satisfied grin, ‘he is paying me two hundred pounds per trip.’

  ‘I’m in the wrong line of work,’ said Munro.

  ‘And how does he pay you?’ said West.

  ‘Cash. Always he is paying cash. In envelope in locker-up with case.’

  ‘Okay, hold it right there. Now, you need to get your story straight, Mr Dubrowski. Last time we spoke you told me you picked up your payment from a pub or a waste bin, so which is it?’

  Dubrowski raised his hands.

  ‘It’s the locker-up.’ he said.

  ‘So why did you lie?’

  ‘The man, he has been good to me. I do not want to get him into troubles.’

  Munro stopped pacing, turned to face the back of Dubrowski’s head and held his breath, allowing an ominous silence to fill the room.

  ‘How did you meet?’ he said quietly.

  Dubrowski’s shoulders rocked gently as if he were laughing to himself, as if he’d dodged a trick question.

  ‘Your memory is maybe not so good,’ he said, ‘I am saying this to you already. I have never met this man.’

  Munro walked silently across the room and leaned forward, close enough for Dubrowski to feel his breath on the back of his neck.

  ‘Then let me re-phrase the question, Mr Dubrowski,’ he said, ‘before you’re forced to answer any further questions from the comfort of a hospital bed. Who put you in touch with him?’

  ‘It was… it was my girlfriend.’

  ‘You don’t have a girlfriend,’ said West, tersely, ‘you have sex occasionally with your ex-boss. Is that who you mean?’

  ‘Tak.’

  ‘Clare MacAllister?’

  ‘Tak.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She says to me I need the monies and she knows a man who needs parcels collected, will I do it? Of course, I says, thank you, thank you very much.’

  West, distracted by the buzzing in her pocket, grabbed her phone, glanced at Munro and nodded towards the door.

  * * *

  ‘So,’ said West as they thumped their way up the concrete steps to the office, ‘what the hell was Buchanan up to? I mean, what was in those bags?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Munro, ‘but I’ll tell you this for nothing: he didnae want to get caught with them. That’s why he paid Dubrowski a substantial sum to cart them around.’

  ‘You mean hush money, so he’d keep his mouth shut if ever he was caught?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Munro, pausing on the landing, ‘and whatever was in those bags came from abroad. Probably off the ferry.’

  ‘Scandinavia?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Could’ve come from anywhere in Europe or even farther afield. I’d say the ferry terminal was the path of least resistance.’

  ‘Okay, so we’re looking at smuggling then?’ said West. ‘Makes sense I suppose. Do you think Buchanan made the trips himself?’

  ‘No, no. There’s someone else involved. Think about it. Why pay Dubrowski two hundred pounds to avoid getting caught but run the risk of carrying the bags through customs? No. I think whoever was bringing the stuff over met Buchanan at the lock-up.’

  ‘Maybe Dubrowski knows who it is.’

  ‘Ask him,’ said Munro as they entered the office, ‘but be quick. We cannae hold him much longer, you need to charge him today. And have a chat with that MacAllister woman too, as soon as possible.’

  ‘Will do,’ said West, slumping in a chair as Munro reached for the kettle. ‘So come on then, Dougal. What’s so urgent that you had to buzz me in the middle of an interview?’

  Dougal leaned back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head and smiled as if he’d just discovered the secret recipe for Irn-Bru.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said grinning.

  ‘Same to you,’ said West. ‘I hope you baked a cake cos I’m starving.’

  ‘She’s not the only one, laddie,’ said Munro, ‘and just for the record, I had a fried egg sandwich on my Christmas list.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal, becoming flustered, ‘when I said Merry Christmas I was speaking metaphorically, as in, I’ve made a breakthrough.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Anti-climax,’ said Munro, filling the mugs.

  ‘It’s about the Remus account. I know where the post is being re-directed.’

  Munro turned to face Dougal, placed the index finger of his left hand
on the bridge of his nose and spoke slowly.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, ‘look at me. Concentrate on the address and look directly into my eyes. Say nothing. Just concentrate on that address. Understand?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal, bemused, ‘okay. Concentrating now.’

  Munro returned his stare with an unblinking gaze, held it for sixty seconds and sighed as though exhausted by the effort.

  ‘Dalblair Road,’ he snapped, plonking three mugs of tea on the desk.

  ‘What? How the hell…? How could you possibly know the post was being sent to…?’

  ‘Telepathy,’ said Munro with a grin, ‘so if I were you, I’d not think too hard about that lassie you’ve your eye on.’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Okay. I think it’s time we had another a wee quiz. How are you on languages, laddie?’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Dougal, ‘I speak one all the time.’

  ‘Good. So if I said to you baguette saucisse, what would you say?’

  ‘Sausage sandwich.’

  ‘Good. Bocadillo de jamon y queso?’

  ‘Ham and cheese sandwich.’

  ‘Excellent. And finally: Je vais aller au café maintenant.’

  ‘I’ll go to the café now.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Dougal. Much appreciated. Here’s a tenner, get something for yourself while you’re at it.’

  * * *

  Munro sat down, loosened his tie and ran his fingers through his thinning grey hair, casting a sideways glance at West as he did so.

  ‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘Obviously something on your mind.’

  ‘Condolences, Charlie,’ said Munro.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Conveying them. It’s the one thing I can never get my head round, playing the harbinger of doom.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Heather Buchanan. It’s time she knew what’s happened. I cannae keep her in the dark any longer, besides, we need a positive ID on her dearly departed.’

  ‘You know what you need?’ said West. ‘Cheering up. How about a couple of fillets, home-made chips and a decent bottle of Burgundy for dinner?’

  ‘That sounds just the ticket,’ boomed DCI Elliot as he barged through the door, ‘am I invited?’

  Munro looked up and smiled.