‘Good grief.’
‘I’d know if we had a McKenzie…’
‘Hold on,’ said West, ‘what about Brandt? Have you anyone on the payroll called Brandt?’
‘Brandt?’ said the manager, surprised. ‘Definitely not, that’s not a common name, is it? I’d certainly remember if I had a Brandt on my playlist. Sorry, I cannae be more helpful.’
* * *
‘Maybe he got it wrong,’ said West as they stood on the street and stared blankly at a three-piece suite in the shop window, ‘McKenzie, I mean. Maybe there’s another Co-Op round here, somewhere.’
‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘there’s just the one.’
‘What about an alias? Think she could be working under an assumed name?’
‘No, too complicated Charlie; that would have to involve National Insurance numbers and different bank accounts so her salary could be paid. I cannae see the lassie doing that.’
‘Well,’ said West, ‘looks like someone’s leading us a merry dance then.’
‘Not just us, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘I’ve a feeling McKenzie has no idea that his daughter’s been lying through her front teeth, either.’
‘You reckon she’s hiding something then?’
‘Oh aye, undoubtedly. Peas in a pod, those two. Peas in a pod.’
‘Right, shall we try her home address then?’
* * *
The once proud sandstone, tenement building on Broomlands Road, surrounded by betting shops and fast-food outlets, had fallen into a state of mild disrepair. With its dark, anonymous windows and front doors begging for a fresh coat of paint, it was, observed Munro, less than inviting. West buzzed the entry phone.
‘Second floor,’ she said. ‘Walk up.’
‘Hello?’ came the crackling reply.
‘Hello,’ said West, ‘I’m looking for Lorna, Lorna McKenzie.’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Police. Nothing serious, we just need a word.’
‘What about?’
West hesitated and looked at Munro with a shrug of the shoulders.
‘It’s about your father, Callum,’ he said, ‘nothing to worry about, he’s not very well, that’s all.’
Lorna McKenzie, shrouded in an over-sized dressing gown, stood bare-footed by the open door. With her wayward, flame-red tresses tumbling over shoulders, swollen, puffy eyes, and anaemic complexion, West knew, instinctively, that she’d risen far too early from what must have been a hell of a night.
‘What is it?’ she said, squinting as though even the pale, yellow light of the single bulb in the hallway was too much to bear. ‘Is he okay?’
‘Can we come in?’ said West, mustering a sympathetic smile.
McKenzie led them to the tiny lounge where she sat at the small dining table, sniffed a tumbler of what looked like water and knocked it back in one.
‘So? What’s wrong with the numpty?’ she said, rubbing her face. ‘He’s not killed himself has he?’
Munro directed West to the kitchen with a subtle flick of the head and sat opposite McKenzie.
‘What makes you say that?’ said Munro. ‘Does he have suicidal tendencies?’
‘I wish.’
‘Do you not get on your father?’
‘Oh, we get on well enough,’ said McKenzie, ‘but let’s just say he’s about as much fun as a fire at a funeral.’
‘You don’t seem to have much compassion for a fellow who raised you single-handedly, saw to your education, fed and clothed you.’
‘Och, I’ll give him that, okay, but look at him, up to his knees in mud, cow-towing to a bunch of bampots who lord it up just because they’ve rented a wee caravan for a week. Treating him like dirt. He should’ve made something of himself.’
‘Like you?’ said Munro.
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Well, assistant manager at the Co-Op, already, and you’re not even 20. That’s quite an achievement.’
‘It is, aye.’
‘Only, it’s not true is it?’ said Munro. ‘See, Lorna, we’ve just come from the Co-Op, and they’ve never heard of you.’
‘Did you go to the right one?’ said McKenzie, defensively. ‘It’s not a wee shop, you know, it’s big department store.’
Munro’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her unflinchingly.
‘Okay,’ she said, caving in, ‘okay. I said it to keep him happy, get him off my back about getting a job, right?’
West, arms folded, leant casually against the kitchen door and surveyed the debris littering the lounge: the takeaway pizza boxes, the empty juice cartons, the overflowing ashtrays and the discarded clothing with incongruous labels – a dress from Moschino, shoes by L.K. Bennett, a leather shoulder bag embossed with a Ted Baker logo.
‘Are you a heavy smoker, Lorna?’ she said.
‘Me? No, filthy habit, I dinnae smoke myself.’
‘The ashtrays are full.’
‘Friend of mine, he likes a wee puff now and then.’
‘Now and then?’ said West, sarcastically. ‘Must’ve been here a while. How’d you get by? Financially, I mean. You’re not working, so…’
‘I do okay, a bit on the welfare,’ said McKenzie, ‘and my boyfriend, he helps me out, looks after me.’
‘Ah, young love, eh Lorna?’ said Munro, forcing a subtle smile. ‘What does he do? Take you out clubbing, dancing, that sort of thing?’
‘No, he’s not into that, he’s more refined, sophisticated, prefers restaurants and wine bars.’
‘Quite unusual for a young man these days, I thought he’d be in to…’
‘He’s not that young, he’s … well, he’s mature. Divorced.’
‘I see.’
‘Look,’ said McKenzie, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve a screaming headache and you’re here to talk about my Daddy, not me, so what’s up? Is he in hospital?’
‘No, no,’ said Munro, ‘he’s perfectly healthy, couldn’t be better, in fact.’
‘Then, what are you…?’
‘It’s not your father we’re here to talk about, Lorna, it’s your mother…’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Or rather, her finances, her money. In particular, the disappearance of a rather large sum from her bank account.’
What colour there was drained from McKenzie’s cheeks as she pulled the dressing gown tight around her body.
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ she said, fumbling with the empty glass.
‘Callum told us you take care of your mother’s mail, the correspondence from the bank. He told us you pass it on to her.’
‘He’s lying. Why would I? I’m not a messenger.’
‘So, you’ve nothing here that would be addressed to her?’
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ said Munro, ‘we’ll double-check with your father, perhaps he got … confused. So, tell me Lorna, when was the last time you saw your mother?’
‘I don’t recall. It’s been a wee while,’ said McKenzie hesitantly.
‘Roughly speaking,’ said Munro, ‘a week? A month? Three months, perhaps?’
‘Aye, about that. Why?’
‘Oh, no reason. Just curious, that’s all. One more thing, we need to have a look at your bank statements too, if you don’t mind.’
‘My bank statements? Why? What for? You’re not having those, they’re personal. It’s none of your business.’
‘Oh, but it is, lassie,’ said Munro, ‘see, you’re part of an inquiry now. A fraud inquiry. If you’ve nothing to hide, then…’
‘Can’t help. Sorry.’
‘Pity, but not to worry, we’ll come back with a warrant or simply contact your bank ourselves, get them to send us what we need.’
McKenzie, avoiding eye contact with Munro, laughed nervously.
‘Good luck with that, Inspector,’ she said, ‘but they’ll not give them to you, something called the Data Protection Act, I believe.’
‘Och, don’t you go worrying about wee laws like that. See,
I can get whatever I want, lassie. Whatever I want.’
* * *
Munro buckled up and turned to a smug-looking West.
‘Come on then,’ he said, ‘let’s have it.’
‘Kitchen,’ she said, grinning as she held up a small paper bag.
‘And that would be?’
‘Toothbrush!’
‘What?’ said Munro. ‘Are you some kind of closet kleptomaniac? You cannae go taking…’
‘Oh, come on James, we’re going to need a profile sooner or later, and we don’t have time to fanny around, we’ve got to do what we can to speed this investigation along.’
Munro shook his head and smiled.
‘You’ve come a long way since we first met, lassie, I’ll give you that. Remind me to keep an eye on my wallet next time we’re out. What else?’
‘Six bottles of Veuve Clicquot in the fridge, an empty in the sink. Watch on the draining board, Tag Heuer. The clothes, all designer. The only thing she’s not splashing out on is food.’
‘Ah, if there’s one thing we Scots know about, Charlie, it’s how to maintain a healthy diet.’
‘She’s lying,’ said West, ‘how could she afford…’
‘Of course she is Charlie, och, she’s not fooling anyone, we know that. And the letters from the bank are somewhere in that apartment.’
‘So, shouldn’t we bring her in? Get a warrant? Search the place?’
‘All in good time.’
‘But what if we’re too late? I mean, what if she destroys them? What if she legs it?’
‘Charlie, you worry too much. Trust me, the only place Lorna McKenzie is going, is back to bed.’
‘So, what now?’ said West.
‘Freida’s place,’ said Munro, ‘we need to take a good look around.’
‘Bit late for that, isn’t it? Besides, I thought Inspector McGreevy was going to take care of that.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he will, but you know as well as I do, lassie, the man’s a pen-pusher, he wouldn’t know trouble if it leapt up and bit him on the face.’
* * *
West contemplated the view across the Clyde as they passed by Langbank, puffed out her cheeks and sighed impatiently at the line of traffic stretching ahead, hindering their progress and delaying, in the absence of breakfast, what she anticipated to be a substantial lunch. The phone call was a welcome distraction.
‘It’s Sergeant Campbell,’ she said, placing the phone on the dashboard, ‘I’ll put him on speaker, might have some news. Iain, how’s it going?’
‘Charlie, aye, all good. You okay to talk?’
‘Yup, fine, what’s up?’ said West.
‘Oh, I was just wondering what you thought of the Wherry?’
Munro, saying nothing, turned to West and smiled broadly.
‘Yeah, it was nice,’ she said. ‘Quaint.’
‘So, you enjoyed yourself then?’ said Campbell.
‘Had a lovely time.’
‘Good, only I was thinking, if you’re up for it there’s a wee restaurant by the marina, I’ve not been there myself but I’ve been meaning to check it out, so, I was wondering…’
‘She’d love to, Iain,’ said Munro, grinning, ‘book a table, I’ll make sure she’s there.’
‘Is that you, chief? Oh, Christ, I thought you were alone, me and my big mouth…’
‘Relax,’ said Munro.
‘My face is burning hot.’
‘Sounds great,’ said West, giggling, ‘so, is that it?’
‘No,’ said Campbell, wheezing, ‘no, it bloody isn’t. Christ. Okay, it’s Callum McKenzie. Will I go on?’
‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘if you can stop hyperventilating, that is.’
‘Okay. So, Callum McKenzie: age, 48; born, Kilmarnock; educated, University of Strathclyde. Worked as a proof-reader for a while, then on The Herald in Glasgow writing book reviews before moving to Largs where he taught English, language and literature. Seems he was constantly over-looked for promotion to head of department because of his erroneous behaviour.’
‘What do you mean?’ said West.
‘A few complaints along the way, from pupils.’
‘Go on.’
‘Put it like this, Charlie, he didnae give up his teaching post of his own accord. He left to avoid prosecution.’
‘What?’
‘Allegations of indecent assault were made against him by a sixth former.’
‘Are you joking me?’ said Munro.
‘No chief,’ said Campbell. ‘Naturally, he denied everything, but see, the girl in question wasn’t underage, she was 17 at the time, so it was his word against hers, and when push came to shove, she refused to testify; said it was too traumatic.’
‘Don’t blame her,’ said West.
‘Aye, so he resigned before it all became public knowledge. Still got his pension though.’
‘And now we know why Freida Kappelhoff walked out on him.’
Chapter 11
Apart from a lavish weekend spent languishing in the historical surroundings of Thornbury Castle with a man who was, temporarily, her fiancé, Sergeant West had not the slightest interest in stately homes and readily associated the term “servants’ quarters” with cramped accommodation tucked away in the garret at the top of a house, not the sprawling apartment once occupied by Freida Kappelhoff.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, gawping at the period fittings, ‘if this is how the skivvies live, I can’t wait to see the rest of the house.’
Munro, adopting the posture of an avid art connoisseur, studied the gilt-framed paintings adorning the wood-panelled walls and smiled contentedly at a centuries-old rendering of Sweetheart Abbey.
‘That’s not far from me,’ he said. ‘700 years old and still standing. There’s a few builders I know could learn a thing or two from that.’
‘I’m sure there are, Inspector,’ said Mrs. Fraser, ‘now, will I fetch some tea? A sandwich, perhaps?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t like to impo…’
‘Yes please,’ said West, ‘if it’s not too much trouble.’
Munro, snapping on a pair of gloves, turned on his heels and scanned the room.
‘Look around you, Charlie,’ he said, arms outstretched, ‘what does all this tell you about Freida Kappelhoff?’
‘She had class.’
‘And? Look around, Charlie. Look and think.’
West smiled knowingly.
‘She was neat. Tidy. Organised.’
‘Exactly. And organised folk like to file things away. You take the bureau; I’ll have a wee nosy through there.’
Munro smiled as he cast an approving eye around the small, yet comfortably furnished bedroom. A rich mahogany tallboy, doubling as a pedestal for a chipped Victorian chamber pot, stood in the corner. A dressing table, bare save for a hand mirror and hairbrush, occupied a space in front of the window. The clothes in the wardrobe were hung, coats to the left, dresses to the right. A collection of woollen sweaters was folded neatly on the top shelf whilst three pairs of shoes, placed regimentally side by side, occupied the lower. He frowned, somewhat disappointedly, at the absence of the mandatory shoebox filled with photographs and mementos of a well-travelled life. West interrupted his search with an enthusiastic cry.
‘What is it?’ he said, looking over her shoulder.
‘It’s all here,’ said West, engrossed in the contents of a drawer, ‘well, almost all. Look, address book, nothing personal in it though, just the dentist, doctor, garage, solicitor and a taxi firm. There’s a chequebook and debit card from the RBS; a ScotRail Smartcard; half a dozen ticket stubs, Edinburgh – Frankfurt, Lufthansa; and a camera, but nothing from the Raiffeisen Bank.’
Munro stared blankly at the carpet.
‘It’s like flat-pack furniture from Sweden,’ he said, pensively.
‘You what?’
‘There’s always a missing part Charlie, there’s always a missing part. Let’s see that camera, you grab the address book, call the taxi company
and see if she’s used them recently; then call the solicitor, see if he knows anything that might be relevant.’
‘Okay,’ said West as Munro switched on the camera and scrolled through the images, ‘anything on that?’
‘Nothing that’ll win the Taylor Wessing prize, just lochs and, oh, there’s one here of Nick.’
West stood and glanced over Munro’s shoulder.
‘That looks quite recent,’ she said, ‘go on, any more?’
Munro flicked through the next four frames, stopping at a picture of Freida sitting on a dry stone wall, holding hands with a shy-looking man dressed in a tweed jacket.
‘I wonder who…’ said West, cut short as Fraser entered the room.
‘Now then,’ said Mrs. Fraser as she set a large, silver tray atop the dining table, ‘come sit, there’s roast beef, or gammon if you prefer, plenty of mustard and some apple sauce.’
West, needing no second invitation, bounded to the table and eagerly tucked in.
‘You’re a lifesaver, Mrs. Fraser,’ she said, ‘thank you so much. I was expecting cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off.’
‘This is Dunmore House, dear, not Buckingham Palace. Now, who’s for tea?’
‘Thank you,’ said Munro. ‘Mrs. Fraser, I notice Freida has a telephone number for a garage in her address book? Do you know where she keeps her car?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t have a car, Inspector, I let her borrow mine from time to time. If she wanted to go shopping, that sort of thing. I have her on my insurance.’
‘I see. She’s not much in the way of possessions, has she?’ said Munro. ‘Things of a personal nature, I mean.’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Fraser. ‘If there were two things Freida detested with a passion, Inspector, it was clutter and dust.’
‘Even so, the apartment is awfully well-kept. Are you sure the cleaner’s not been in since … since Freida passed on?’
‘We are the cleaners,’ said Mrs. Fraser.
‘Anyone else?’
‘No, well, the police of course, they were here, not long after you’d dropped me back from the mortuary.’
‘They’ve been already? And you were here at the time?’ said Munro.
AVARICE: Gripping Scottish detective crime fiction (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 2) Page 7
