‘I always find a good film never fails to lift the spirits,’ said Munro, ‘something like Watership Down perhaps.’
‘Dalbair Road it is, then.’
* * *
Munro parked the car, slouched back in his seat and regarded the building opposite with a look of mild bewilderment.
‘Are you sure this is it?’ he said, frowning as he glanced up and down the street in search of a more suitable address.
‘Yup. Positive,’ said West.
‘But a hair salon? And not just any salon mind, but one called “Ayr Raising”. Doesnae inspire confidence in the establishment.’
‘Could be worse,’ said West.
‘How on earth could it possibly be worse?’
‘Could be called “Loch Tress”.’
‘Dear God.’
‘Lunatic Fringe.’
‘Have you finished?’
‘Hair of the dog.’
‘I’m going inside.’
* * *
The salon – either stuck in a time warp or cleverly designed to cater specifically for a more mature clientele – was an homage to the kitsch and glitz of a bygone era with gilt-framed mirrors, vinyl-upholstered chairs, hood hair dryers and a reception desk which looked more like a 1950s cocktail bar. The young girl barely visible behind it reluctantly closed her dog-eared copy of OK! Magazine, forced a smile and offered the kind of enthusiastic greeting normally reserved for customers who were hard of hearing.
‘Hello,’ she said, her head lilting to one side as if she’d broken her neck, ‘I’m afraid we don’t cater for gentlemen here, sir.’
‘I’m not here for a cut, miss,’ said Munro, ‘I’ve little enough as it is and I’d rather hang on to it if that’s okay with you.’
‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions,’ said West holding up her warrant card, ‘won’t take long.’
‘Look,’ said the receptionist, a mild look of fear creeping across her face, ‘if this is about the lady who came in for highlights last week, it was an accident, honest. I think the stylist was just a wee bit heavy handed, that’s all. It’ll wash out, I’m sure.’
‘Dinnae fret,’ said Munro, amused, ‘we’d just like to know who collects your post when you open for business of a morning.’
‘Oh, I’m not here that early. I dinnae start until eleven.’
‘So you’ve not seen any mail addressed to anyone other than this salon?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘We understand you get a delivery here now and then,’ said West, ‘a parcel or a bag dropped off by a taxi driver? Kestrel Cars?’
‘Oh aye, I know about that,’ said the receptionist. ‘Nice fella, very polite, foreign I think. Looks like his head’s been through a mincer.’
‘That’s the chap. Do you know anything about him?’
‘No, we dinnae say much. He just drops off the bag and that’s him away.’
‘Does it happen often?’
‘No. I mean, yes. It depends. Sometimes he’ll come by a couple of times a week then I’ll maybe not see him for a month.’
‘And have you any idea what exactly might be in these bags?’ said Munro.
‘No, I’ve not even been tempted to look. Too busy. Sorry, not much help am I?’
‘You’re being extremely helpful,’ said West. ‘What happens to the bags when they’re dropped off?’
‘I leave them here behind the desk and Annie picks them up whenever she comes by. I think she must know they’re coming cos she’s always here soon after.’
‘I see. Annie, you say?’
‘Aye, she’s the owner.’
‘Is she here just now?’ said Munro. ‘We’d like a wee word if that’s possible.’
‘No, she only pops in now and then. I imagine she’ll show up in a day or two.’
‘Okay, do you have a number where we can reach her?’ said West.
‘Aye, I’ll write it down for you.’
‘And you say her name’s Annie. Annie…?’
‘Annie... sorry, her full name’s Anita. Anita Carducci.’
* * *
Dressed in a pair of football shorts, flip-flops and tee shirt a size too small, Remo Carducci was obviously under the illusion that the village of Kirkmichael – soaking up what was left of the afternoon sunshine – was as warm as the eighteenth hole on the Santa Clara course in Marbella. Munro, wishing he could issue a fixed penalty notice for crimes against fashion, sneered as he watched him tip a bucket of soapy water over the Carrera and set about the bodywork with a chamois leather.
‘Hello again,’ said West as she slammed the car door shut.
‘Why if it isn’t the ever so lovely Sergeant West,’ said Carducci, sarcastically. ‘Have you come to rake up the past again? Oh, I see you’ve a chaperone with you.’
‘This is Detective Inspector James Munro.’
‘Inspector? Bringing out the big guns, eh?’
‘This gun’s about to be decommissioned,’ said Munro, ‘so have no fear, we’ll not keep you long.’
‘Take as long as you like.’
‘Actually, it’s Mrs Carducci we’ve come to see,’ said West.
‘Anita? And why’s that?’
‘We’ve reason to believe she may be…’
‘We’ve reason to believe,’ said Munro, interrupting, ‘that is to say, we think her services would be much appreciated over at the Buchanan household.’
‘You mean Heather?’
‘Aye. She’s a wee bit low at present, some company would do her good.’
‘Dinnae fret on that score, Inspector,’ said Carducci, ‘Anita’s good like that, she’ll be heading over there later but truth be known, she’s no substitute for Angus. Where are you with this investigation anyway? I mean, how hard can it be to find someone who’s missing?’
‘That all depends on where they’re hiding,’ said Munro.
‘Aye, okay, I’ll give you that. It’s just that I’m missing the bugger, too.’
‘I’m sure you are. Rest assured we’re doing all we can but that’s all I can say for now.’
‘I understand.’
‘So, your wife, Mr Carducci,’ said West, ‘any chance we could have a word?’
‘Not just now, she’s away up the shops fetching some bits and bobs for her trip.’
‘Her trip?’
‘Aye, she’s away to see my papa. It’s his ninetieth this weekend.’
‘Good for him. Is it far?’
‘About a thousand miles,’ said Carducci. ‘Avella. It’s a nice wee place about a half-hour drive north of Naples.’
‘And you’re not going with her?’
‘No, not just yet, I’ll be leaving in a day or two, I’ve some business to sort out first.’
‘Must be important,’ said Munro. ‘To keep you from your family, I mean.’
‘A chain of restaurants willnae run themselves, Inspector. I have to make sure everything’s in order before I go.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said West.
‘Look, is there any chance we could see her before she goes?’ said Munro.
‘You seem awful keen considering it’s just about Heather, Inspector. Are you keeping something from me?’
‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘just a few routine questions.’
‘Is that so? Well, come by in the morning,’ said Carducci, his shoulders twitching as the cold water took a hold, ‘she’s a flight to Stansted to get her connection but she’ll not be leaving before ten I imagine.’
‘We’ll drop by then.’
‘As you wish,’ said Remo, ‘oh, and Sergeant, remember what I said about the fox? it’s worth bearing in mind, trust me.’
* * *
West watched from the corner of her eye as Munro, saying nothing, flicked down the visor against the setting sun, pushed back in his seat and headed in the direction of the office at a pace worthy of a pensioner on an excursion to the seaside.
‘I was thinking,’ she said quietly, ‘why don�
��t we just give her ring, Anita I mean? I’ve got her number now or better still we could just nip round to Buchanan’s place and collar her there, it’s not far.’
‘Do you not think that’s not a wee bit insensitive, Charlie? Heather’s been through enough already. I’m not sure she’ll appreciate us turning up and arresting her best friend on suspicion of aiding and abetting, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yeah, suppose so,’ said West. ‘We’ll have a word tomorrow, then.’
Munro gazed pensively along the road ahead and took a deep breath.
‘What was all that nonsense about a fox?’ he said.
‘A veiled threat. It’s the second time he’s made it.’
‘What kind of a threat?’ said Munro.
‘Friendly advice. About minding your own business.’
‘So he was warning you off? Do you think he has something to hide?’
‘Nah,’ said West, ‘to be perfectly honest I think he’s got a cob on because I didn’t succumb to his advances.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure that’s all it is.’
‘Positive,’ said West. ‘You think there’s something else though, don’t you?’
‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘it’s just his…’
‘His manner? I know. He seems too relaxed about the whole thing, like he doesn’t really care about any of it. Is that what you were thinking, too?’
‘No. Actually, I was thinking about his attire. For a man of his age it’s nothing less than criminal. Aye, that’s the word. Criminal.
* * *
Dougal McCrae, undoubtedly dedicated to his work and fanatical about fishing, was prone to the occasional bout of despondency over his inability to hook a female of the species who wouldn’t baulk at the prospect of spending a rain-soaked weekend by the side of a loch with nothing but a book and a tin full of maggots for company, in the vain hope of landing a gargantuan trout before tossing it back and calling it fun.
Apart from a recent encounter with a lady thirty years his senior who threatened to devour him whole on the banks of The Doon, and without the necessary social skills to engage in idle tittle-tattle and a complete loathing of pubs and clubs, he resigned himself to the fact that, short of undergoing a lobotomy thus enabling him to enjoy football and the taste of lager, serendipity would have to play a major role in the acquisition of a soul-mate. Disgruntled at the lack of personal ads amongst the classifieds in Angling Times, he returned it to his bag as Munro and West returned to the office.
‘Alright Dougal?’ said West, tossing her coat on the table. ‘Why the long face?’
‘Och, no reason, miss. Probably just tired.’
‘You’ve been overdoing it, laddie,’ said Munro, ‘what you need is a wee lassie to keep you company. That’ll take your mind off work.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Dougal, desperate to change the subject.
‘Failing that, a decent brew is always a good substitute. Without the bromide.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, boss.’
‘So, how’d you get on at the lock-up?’ said West. ‘Did you find anything interesting?’
‘Nothing, miss,’ said Dougal, sighing with relief as he filled the kettle. ‘Nada, zilch, zero. It was completely empty, nothing but space.’
‘Pity. But it’s Angus who rented it, right?’
‘Aye. He’s had it about a year and a half. The rent’s paid by direct debit. No prizes for guessing which account it comes from.’
‘Speaking of which, laddie, you’ll be pleased to know the address on Dalblair Road where the mail is being forwarded to is a hairdressing salon owned by one Anita Carducci no less.’
‘Anita Carducci? So she’s the one who’s kept the bank account going?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Possibly? It’s obvious, is it not?’
‘No,’ said Munro, sipping his tea. ‘She maybe just let Angus use the salon as somewhere to send the post.’
‘But she’d have seen it was addressed to Remus Trading so surely Remo Carducci would’ve known about it? Would she not have told him?’
‘Not if she and Angus were in cahoots over something,’ said Munro. ‘Something they didnae want Remo to know about.’
‘This is getting awful murky, boss,’ said Dougal, ‘So what happens now? Are you not bringing her in?’
‘Yeah, course we are,’ said West, ‘in the morning. She’s keeping Mrs Buchanan company at the moment so it’s not a good time.’
‘Okay, makes sense.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Munro, draining his cup, ‘as you’ve no diversions in the form of female company…’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘…here’s your next task: Dubrowski. He’s been working for Angus and Remo Carducci for a couple of years, right? However, he took over the role from someone else. Guess who.’
‘Absolutely no idea.’
‘Lars Gundersen.’
‘Lars Gundersen? Are you joking me?’
‘I kid you not. So we need to find out what Dubrowski was up to before he came here, what he did for a living, where he lived. Got that?’
‘Aye, boss. I’ll get on to it right away.’
‘Dougal, Dougal, Dougal. Have you not seen the time? Tomorrow, laddie, tomorrow. You need to get some rest.’
Chapter 12
West pulled two fillet steaks and a packet of “twice-cooked-basted-in-goose-fat chips” from the fridge, plonked them on the counter and settled down at the dining table where she fired up her laptop as Munro, keen to sate a raging thirst, poured two glasses of Burgundy and a large Balvenie.
‘Here you go Charlie,’ he said, eyeing the box on the counter as he passed her the wine. ‘Did you not say home-made chips when you mentioned dinner?’
‘That’s what it says on the packet,’ said West.
Munro smiled mischievously.
‘Have you booked yourself a holiday yet?’ he said.
‘Holiday? Bit of an odd question, no. Why?’
‘I think you might find a week or two on the Costa Cordon Bleu beneficial.’
‘And you might find a hotel beneficial if you don’t want to be stabbed through the heart with a potato peeler. Stick the oven on, chips’ll take a while.’
‘Right you are.’
‘Tell me something, Jimbo, don’t you ever tire of eating steak?’
‘Aye, I do,’ said Munro. ‘Occasionally.’
‘Good, I’ll cook something different tomorrow. What do you like when you’re not eating steak?’
‘Beef.’
‘I give up,’ said West with a smirk as the emails rolled in. ‘Hup, you’d better sit down, I’ve got an email from Dougal. It’s the results of the post-mortem on Angus Buchanan.’
Munro pulled up a chair, took a large glug of wine and leaned back, closing his eyes.
‘You read, I’ll listen,’ he said. ‘It’ll be like Book at Bedtime.’
West sat with her elbows on the table, cradling the glass in both hands and frowned as she scanned through the report.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘you couldn’t make this up.’
‘Go on.’
‘Okay, cause of death was asphyxiation. He choked to death.’
‘Choked to death?’ said Munro. ‘The poor man looked as though he’d seen the four horsemen of the apocalypse when we found him, are you sure?’
‘That’s what it says here,’ said West. ‘Hold on though, you were right after all. He did have a stroke, it’s what he choked on that caused it.’
‘I get the distinct feeling it’s not a peppermint, is it?’
‘Close. They found a sizable chunk of methamphetamine lodged in his throat.’
Munro opened his eyes, took another glug of wine and stood to check the temperature of the oven.
‘Methamphetamine?’ he said, his face crumpled with consternation ‘You mean…?’
‘Crank, Glass, Chalk, Ice,’ said West, offering up her glass for a refill. ‘Crystal Meth to you and
me.’
Munro charged their glasses for a second time and leaned back against the counter.
‘No, no. That doesnae fit,’ he said. ‘Angus Buchanan was not a user.’
‘Acute overdose which brought about a stroke and heart attack.’
‘Then it was administered,’ said Munro. ‘I’ll stake my reputation on it. Somebody forced it down his gullet.’
‘Only one person could’ve done that,’ said West. ‘Dubrowski.’
‘Unless he was dead before they put him in the taxi.’
‘Something else,’ said West, ‘they found traces of blood in his mouth…’
‘Not surprising.’
‘…thing is, it’s not his. DNA test says origin unknown. There’s no match on the database. They reckon he probably bit his assailant at some point while they were shoving it down his neck.’
‘Okay, send a wee message to young Dougal,’ said Munro. ‘We need a DNA swab from Dubrowski, test for a match against the sample taken from Buchanan and we need a medical examiner to check his fingers for cuts and bites as soon as possible. Got that?’
‘No probs,’ said West, ‘what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to put the chips in the oven.’
* * *
Munro, preferring his steak as tough as the sole of a well-worn shoe, tossed the fillets into the frying pan and contemplated a Balvenie as West set about laying the table, momentarily distracted by the ringing of her phone.
‘Dougal,’ she said, ‘I just emailed you.’
‘Aye, miss. All sorted.’
‘Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker. Sorry, go on.’
‘Okay, just to let you know I’ll get that swab off Dubrowski before I leave and…’
‘Hold on,’ said Munro, ‘sorry to butt in, Dougal, but are you still at work?’
‘Aye, boss.’
‘I thought you were going home?’
‘Aye, but you know how it is. I wanted to get a few things out of the way first.’
‘If you’re not careful, laddie, you’ll catch yourself a vitamin D deficiency. You need to get out more.’
‘I’m working on it. Anyway, as I was saying, I’ll get that swab before I go and a medic will be here first thing in the morning to examine him.’
‘Excellent,’ said West. ‘Nice one Dougal.’
‘Nae bother, miss, but the real reason I called is we’ve got the results of the background check on Dubrowski.’
DUPLICITY: A compelling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 4) Page 10
