‘Go on.’
‘It seems he’s never held down a proper job, ever. No record of employment anywhere.’
‘Okay, so nothing exciting then?’
‘No,’ said Dougal, ‘apart from the fact he spent nearly seven years at the Gaustad Hospital in Oslo.’
‘What’s so exciting about that?’ said West.
‘It’s a psychiatric hospital, miss. He was admitted because of his suicidal tendencies.’
‘No way?’
‘Aye, apparently he was into self-harming, too. The reason his face is such a mess is because he decided to wash it with bleach. He’d been hallucinating after the doctors pumped him full of some drug they were trialling.’
‘Well, bugger me. Poor sod.’
‘And that’s not all,’ said Dougal. ‘I found something odd, too. His last known address is Loddefjord.’
‘And why is that odd?’
‘Because Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘Loddefjord is the same place Lars Gundersen lived.’
‘It’s not just the same place, boss,’ said Dougal. ‘It’s the same apartment.’
Chapter 13
Cereal, mused Munro – in particular anything described as muesli – was fodder for hens and squirrels and should never under any circumstances be doused in milk and served as fit for human consumption when two soft-boiled eggs accompanied by a round of toast cut into soldiers provided a more palatable alternative.
He cringed as West, looking as though she’d just drunk a half a pint of castor oil, slammed the bowl on the table and grimaced with disgust.
‘That was foul,’ she said, coveting Munro’s eggs. ‘You having both of those?’
‘If you want one, it’ll take you precisely three minutes to prepare,’ said Munro as he pulled his phone from his pocket, ‘but you’ll learn that on your first day at cookery school I expect. Excuse me while I take this.’
‘Munro,’ he said as West filched a piece of toast from his plate, ‘who is this please?’
‘Inspector. You’ve obviously not had time to save my number, have you?’
‘Morning, Miss McClure. And what can I do for you at this Godforsaken hour?’
‘I thought I’d catch you before your schedule prohibited you from taking any calls.’
‘Schedule?’ said Munro. ‘I dinnae have a schedule, Miss McClure. I have palpitations. What is it?’
‘The Remus account. If you check your inbox…’
‘Sorry, I dinnae have an inbox either.’
‘…if your colleagues check their inbox you’ll find there’s been another transfer on the Remus account.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Indeed. Last night. Another Cinderella transaction at one minute to midnight.’
‘Cinderella? Very good, Miss McClure. Very good indeed. I assume the cash went into Gundersen’s account in Norway?’
‘Correct,’ said McClure. ‘Thirty thousand to be precise.’
‘Good grief,’ said Munro, exasperated. ‘I’m not even sure my house is worth that. I appreciate the call, Miss McClure, really I do.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine, Inspector, but can I say one thing: there’s really no need to be so formal. My name’s Margaret as well you know.’
‘Right you are. Margaret. Well I need to get on now so if it’s all the same with you…’
‘By the by,’ said McClure, ‘before you go, James, I’ve been offered a couple of tickets to a film next week. I don’t suppose by any chance you’re a fan of the silver screen?’
‘No, not me,’ said Munro, ‘in fact I can think of nothing worse than sitting in a darkened room for ninety minutes with folk intent on filling their faces with over-priced snacks but thanks for the offer.’
‘Pity. It’s a night of vintage classics.’
‘I really must…’
‘High Noon, The Big Country and The Magnificent Seven.’
‘Is that so? High Noon you say? Well, perhaps I’ll get back to you. We’ll see.’
* * *
Munro hung up, eyed his plate and stared at West in disbelief.
‘Charlie,’ he said, taking a sip of tea, ‘something I need you to look in to.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The case of the disappearing egg.’
‘You were yakking so much it was going cold. I’ll do you another. So, what did McClure want?’
‘To throw a saddle on my back by the sounds of it.’
‘Well that’s great!’ said West with a childish grin. ‘You should go for it.’
‘I’m a widower, lassie, not a bachelor. And when I took my vows I promised “until death us do part”. And I’m not dead yet.’
‘You’re one of a kind, you know that?’
‘Let’s change the subject,’ said Munro. ‘There’s been another transfer on the Remus account.’
‘What? When?’
‘Last night.’
‘So hold on,’ said West, ‘if it was last night then that means it can’t have been Angus Buchanan moving the money around.’
‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘it simply means someone else might have access to the account. You best get hold of Dougal while I see to the rest of my breakfast.’
West put her phone on speaker as Munro dropped an egg into a bubbling pan, popped a couple of slices into the toaster, stood back and checked his watch.
‘Dougal,’ she said, ‘you sound like you’re in a wind tunnel.’
‘Aye, it’s a wee bit breezy, miss. What’s up?’
‘Someone’s stuck another wedge of cash into that DNB account. We need to know if it’s still there and if not, where it’s gone. And while you’re at it, find out if there’s any other authorised signatories apart from Lars Gundersen.’
‘Aye okay,’ said Dougal. ‘I’ll do it as soon as I get to the office.’
‘Do you mean to say you’re not there yet?’ said Munro, plucking his egg from the pan. ‘What happened laddie, did you accidentally fall asleep?’
‘No. I’ve been collared by DCI Elliot, boss. Sounds like someone’s had one too many up on the promenade. I’ll not be long.’
‘Okay listen, we’re away to Carducci’s just now. Call us when you’re back.’
* * *
West, incapable of ringing a doorbell once and waiting politely for a reply, pressed it repeatedly, rattled the letterbox and hammered the door with the side of her fist like an irate bailiff on his fourth attempt at seizing goods to the value of an outstanding debt.
‘It’s not that early, is it?’ said Munro.
‘Seven-fifteen,’ said West, ‘anyone with a breath in their body should be up by now.’
Remo Carducci, wearing a dressing gown and an expression suggesting a night of over-indulgence, opened the door and winced as the sunlight burned his eyes.
‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said Munro, ‘no offence Mr Carducci but are you familiar with a phrase involving the words “hedge” and “backwards”?’
‘I wrote it, Inspector,’ said Carducci, rubbing the side of his head. ‘Come inside.’
‘Late night, was it?’ said West, smiling.
‘When you get to my age hen, anything after nine o’clock is late.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ said Munro.
‘Anita wasnae due back until nine so I nipped out for a wee bevy. You know how it is.’
‘Not the first time, I’m sure.’
‘No, but it might be the last. If there’s a sure-fire way of upsetting your wife, Inspector, it’s rolling in at one a.m. in a state of inebriation. Anyway, what brings you here? Not a Police Scotland alarm call, is it?’
‘The alcohol’s obviously had a detrimental effect on your memory, Mr Carducci,’ said Munro. ‘We’re here to see your wife, remember? Anita?’
‘Oh Christ, that’s right. Well I’m sorry but you’ve missed her, and just as well, she was in a foul mood I can tell you.’
‘Hold on,’ said West, ‘what do you mean missed her? Yesterday you said she’d be
here until ten.’
‘Did I? My mistake,’ said Carducci, flopping down on the sofa, ‘I must’ve got the times wrong.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘Och, now you’re asking. Not too long, a half an hour maybe.’
‘And she’s going to Stansted?’
‘Aye, from Glasgow. Then a connecting flight to Naples.’
Munro reached for his car keys and turned to West.
‘Domestic flight,’ he said, checking his watch, ‘hour and a half check in and an hour to get there. We’ve plenty of time. Mr Carducci, which airline is she flying with?’
‘Ryanair I think. No, no. BA. No, Ryanair’
‘You’re sure now, because we dinnae have time to…’
‘Aye, quite sure. Ryanair.’
‘Right, before we go,’ said West, ‘you mentioned your wife has a laptop or an iPad, is that right?’
‘Aye. No laptop, just an iPad.’
‘Would she have taken it with her?’
Carducci frowned as he glanced around the room and pointed to the bookshelves.
‘No, no. It’s there look, on the side.’
‘We need to borrow it, okay?’
‘Borrow it?’ said Carducci. ‘You can’t just confiscate personal belongings on a whim, lassie. Do you not need a warrant or something?’
‘All depends if you’re in the mood for co-operating, Mr Carducci,’ said West. ‘If you’re not, I suggest you grab your coat and we’ll drop you at the station on the way. It’s up to you.’
‘No thanks, the only place I’m going is back to bed. You’re welcome to it.’
* * *
The petulant passenger at the head of the queue, clearly disgruntled by the unexpected delay, raised his eyes to the heavens as West and Munro ushered him to one side and approached the girl behind the check-in desk.
‘Morning,’ said West as she flashed her warrant card, ‘we need to know whether a passenger booked on your next flight to Stansted has checked in yet.’
‘But… but this is for Dublin,’ said the girl, flustered by the impromptu interruption.
‘I dinnae care if it’s for Timbuktu, miss,’ said Munro with a menacing smile, ‘it’s the Stansted flight we’re interested in.’
‘But that left ages ago.’
‘Come again?’ said West.
‘Ten to seven. The Stansted flight left at ten to seven.’
‘Well there’s no way she’d have made that,’ said Munro rhetorically. ‘When’s the next flight?’
‘To Stansted?’ said the girl. ‘Not until this evening. About 5.45, I think.’
‘Can you check the passenger list for that please. We’re looking for a Mrs Carducci.’
‘I’ll try,’ said the girl, panicking under pressure as she tapped away at the keyboard, ‘I’m not quite sure how to… oh here we are. It’s Carducci you say? And how are you spelling that?’
‘Car. As in car,’ said Munro tersely, ‘then…’
‘No, there’s nothing beginning with car at all. We’ve a Corcoran if that’s any good.’
‘No, no. That will only result in a wrongful arrest. Just a minute, is there a Buchanan or a Gundersen perhaps?’
The young girl bit her bottom lip as she squinted at the screen.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘By jiminy,’ said Munro, ‘this is intolerable. Okay listen, who else flies to Stansted from here?’
‘EasyJet, I think.’
‘Thanking you. Charlie, get Carducci out of bed and double check the details, he’s so blootered I’ll not be surprised if she’s flying from Edinburgh instead. Then call Anita, see if she picks up.’
‘Anita? Are you sure?’ said West. ‘Won’t that scare her off?’
‘She doesnae have your number, lassie. She’s no idea who you are. Give her a call, I’m away to check with EasyJet.’
* * *
Munro, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, glowered at the sea of people milling around the check-in hall, instilling them all with an unwarranted sense of guilt as he waited for West.
‘He’s adamant,’ she said as she sidled up beside him, ‘Ryanair. This morning.’
‘Then she lied,’ said Munro.
‘She’s not answering either. It’s going straight to voicemail. How’d you get on?’
‘Nothing,’ said Munro, sighing as he stared pensively into space, ‘she’s not booked with them either, she must have another…’
Munro’s words tailed off as he turned to face West and slapped her on the shoulder.
‘Ow!’ she said, ‘steady on. What’s that for?’
‘She’s not flying to Stansted, Charlie,’ said Munro excitedly, ‘she’s not even going to Naples. She’s taking the ferry. She’s away to meet Angus in Loddefjord.’
Chapter 14
For those arriving at the Ocean Ferry Terminal – invariably tourists who’d spent a week at sea trapped aboard a leviathan of a cruise ship – the warm welcome from the tartan-clad band of pipers parading up and down the quayside as they disembarked provided a myriad of photo-opportunities which undoubtedly made their inaugural visit to the shores of Caledonia a memorable one. For those departing, however, the quay was about as memorable and as inviting as an uninhabited retail park after dark.
Munro, cursing at the thought of having to do battle with hundreds of passengers, slew the car to a halt alongside the terminal building and dashed indoors only to find it as empty as an abandoned aircraft hangar.
‘Dear, dear, dear,’ he said, spinning on his heels, ‘this is not what I expected. Not what I expected at all.’
‘Nor me,’ said West, ‘I really thought you’d nailed it.’
An elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair, smartly attired in a blue blazer and matching trousers, emerged from the gents, waved in their direction and strode towards the information desk.
‘Excuse me,’ said Munro as he scurried after him, ‘do you work here?’
‘Indeed I do, sir. Tourist Board. Is there anything I can help you with?’
‘Aye, as a matter of fact there is. Have you any boats departing today?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the old man, ‘but we do have a ship.’
‘Listen, if it floats and it carries people, that’ll do for me. Where’s it going?’
‘Norway. It’s called The Boudicca if you’re interested.’
‘I’ll have it tattooed on my arm. Tell me, when does it leave?’
‘She sails this evening, sir. Check-in is any time after two o’clock.’
‘Would you happen to have a passenger list to hand?’ said Munro.
‘No, no. You’d have to speak with the tour operator about that. Someone normally arrives about an hour before check-in opens.’
‘An hour? By jiminy, it’s not even nine o’clock. Och, never mind, and… apologies for being so… abrupt. We’ve a wee crisis on our hands.’
‘Not a bother, sir. I believe a cup of tea may help to calm your nerves.’
‘Aye. So would something else.’
Munro, hands in pockets, strolled outside and gazed despondently out across the quay.
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ said West, ‘if you’re right and she is booked on that ferry then why did she leave so early?’
‘Because she’s not stupid,’ said Munro. ‘She’s orchestrated her departure to coincide with the flight times. Probably in case Remo checks up on her.’
‘Still doesn’t make sense,’ said West. ‘I mean he’ll find out anyway when she doesn’t show up in Naples.’
‘Aye, right enough but by then it’ll be too late.’
West leaned against the wall and, for want of something better to do, checked her phone for messages.
‘If I smoked,’ she said, ‘now would be the ideal time to have a cigarette. Is there anything to do around here?’
‘Not much but the town centre’s only a five-minute walk away, why?’
‘No reason, just wondering
what she’d do for the next six hours while she’s waiting to go aboard.’
‘Who knows,’ said Munro, ‘shopping perhaps? Or maybe she’ll have herself some breakfast and take a wee wander.’
‘Or maybe,’ said West, tapping him on the arm and pointing to a lone figure sitting on a bench in the distance, ‘or maybe she’ll just sit and read a book.’
* * *
‘Mrs Carducci?’ said Munro. ‘Anita Carducci?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Detective Inspector Munro. And this is DS West.’
‘Not me,’ said Anita, her chin nestling in the fur collar of her leather coat, ‘I suggest you have a look in the departure lounge.’
‘I’ve a feeling that won’t be necessary. Mind if we join you?’
‘Sorry, three’s a crowd so if it’s all the same with you, I’m away indoors’
‘Sit down, Mrs Carducci,’ said Munro sternly. ‘A few moments of your time is all we need. A friendly wee chat.’
Anita pushed her book into her bag, sat back and folded her arms.
‘So,’ she said with a huff, ‘what’s this all about? Has Remo sent you?’
‘Remo?’ said West. ‘Now why would Remo send us?’
‘Because he… doesn’t matter.’
‘Not the best place to sit and read a book, is it, Mrs Carducci?’ said Munro.
‘It’s peaceful,’ said Anita.
‘So is Crosshill. I expect you’re looking forward to your trip?’
‘Trip?’
‘Aye, the cruise you’ve booked. I hear Norway has some spectacular scenery now of year. No doubt you’ll be going ashore when you reach Bergen, visiting family perhaps. Or maybe you’ve booked yourself a nice wee hotel.’
‘Don’t be silly, Jimbo,’ said West playfully, ‘you’re forgetting Mrs Carducci won’t need a hotel, she’ll be staying with her friend in Loddefjord.’
‘Of course you will,’ said Munro, slapping his thigh. ‘Silly of me to forget. Tell me, Mrs Carducci, your husband Remo, does he know Mr Buchanan is still using the Remus bank account?’
Anita shivered against the breeze blowing in off the sea and swivelled uncomfortably in her seat.
‘Remus?’ she said defensively. ‘Och, that was closed down years ago.’
DUPLICITY: A compelling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 4) Page 11
