‘Don’t wait for me,’ she said, as she glugged her beer, ‘it’ll only go cold.’
‘You’re too kind,’ said Munro, stabbing his fork in the direction of her plate. ‘Are you not eating that?’
‘Give me strength,’ said West, cursing as she answered her phone. ‘Hi Dougal, what’s up?’
‘Miss. I’ve some news for you.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re still at work?’
‘Where else would I be?’
‘Have you not heard of Tinder?’
‘Very funny,’ said Dougal. ‘Is DC Reid with you? Does he have his computer handy?’
‘Yup. We’re all here. What’ve you got?’
‘I’ve sent some stuff you need to look at.’
‘Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker,’ said West, as she gestured to Duncan to open his laptop, ‘okay, all yours.’
‘Right,’ said Dougal, ‘I’ve edited down three files from the CCTV. Open the first, fast forward to 16:22 and play.’
‘Okay,’ said West, as they gathered round the screen, ‘we’re off.’
‘Good. Now, see there? That’s you and, I assume, DC Reid leaving the DI’s room. Right, forward again to 16:28 and we see a doctor entering the room.’
‘That’s McKay,’ said West.
‘Okay, now look, right behind him, someone else and he’s in a hurry.’
‘Another doctor.’
‘Stop the film,’ said Dougal. ‘Look at him. What do you see?’
‘Well,’ said West, frowning as she scrutinised the figure, ‘he’s what? About six-foot-tall, reddish-blonde hair and a beard. And he’s wearing glasses.’
Munro sat back, chuckling as he shook his head.
‘What’s up with you?’ said West.
‘Good grief, lassie, can you not see? The man’s a Viking.’
‘Gundersen?’
‘Who else?’
‘Which is why,’ said Dougal, ‘he’s not wearing any ID. And he’s dressed like a lab technician. The only time you’ll see a doctor wearing a coat like that is on American TV.’
‘Bugger me,’ said West. ‘McKay said someone had tried that before. Can we get that image circulated, please, Dougal, we need everyone…’
‘Already done, Miss. Okay, on we go. 16:29. Wait for it, and… here’s the blond fella again, leaving the room less than two minutes later. Fast forward again and you’ll see a uniformed constable arrive and take up position outside the room.’
‘That’s PC Ferguson,’ said Duncan. ‘Thanks Dougal, at least now we know what Gundersen looks like.’
‘Nae bother. Okay, play the second clip. This is taken from the camera outside the hospital pointing towards A & E. It’s very brief. There he is, only now he’s wearing shades. On he goes, through the car park and under the camera towards the street. Now, play the third clip, this is the same location but the camera’s pointing in the opposite direction. There he is, he crosses the road, down the side street, and gone.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said West. ‘Is that it? Have we lost him?’
‘No, no,’ said Dougal, ‘keep watching and stop when you see…’
‘A white Golf!’ said West, excitedly. ‘And it’s a four door, same as the one we’re looking for.’
‘There you go.’
‘Och, come on!’ said Duncan, ‘Dougal, I’m not being funny man, but that car has not even got the right registration, and there’s no damage to the nearside, and it looks like there’s a woman driving. For Christ’s sake, I thought you were better than…’
‘Hold your horses, DC Reid,’ said Dougal, uncharacteristically raising his voice, ‘if I were you, I’d reserve judgement until you’re in possession of all the facts. Now, if you don’t mind. Zoom in.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Duncan, ‘that’s made a big difference, that has.’
‘The nearside wing mirror, it’s held on with gaffer tape…’
‘That means absolutely nothing.’
‘…and the woman driving keeps looking to her left, and she’s talking…’
‘Och, Bluetooth, you numpty.’
‘…she’s talking to somebody in the back of the car. And there’s something else. Shall I tell him, Miss, or will you?’
‘I’ll let you do the honours,’ said West, smiling.
‘That woman. Her name is Clare MacAllister.’
‘MacAllister?’ said Munro. ‘When did she get out?’
‘She never went away, Sir,’ said Dougal. ‘Suspended sentence.’
West glanced at Duncan and raised her eyebrows.
‘I think Duncan’s got something to say to you, Dougal.’
Duncan puffed out his cheeks and sighed.
‘Aye, right enough,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘Apologies, pal. I was a wee bit hasty in…’
‘Nae bother,’ said Dougal, ‘apology accepted. Okay, final thing – the number plates. They’re false. The index number belongs to a ’97 Vauxhall Vectra which apparently was scrapped after an RTA eighteen months ago. The registered keeper of the vehicle was…’
West swigged her beer, glanced at Munro and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Well, come on, Dougal!’ she said. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense, who was it?’
‘…the owner of Kestrel Cars, Miss.’
Duncan, dumbfounded, downed his drink, his eyes flitting between Munro and West.
‘Och, come on, you two, you’re doing it again,’ he said, ‘that staring-with-a-look-of-surprise thing. What is it this time?’
West sat down, flipped the cap on a second bottle of beer and stuffed a cold chip into her mouth.
‘Angus Buchanan, remember?’ she said. ‘Remo Carducci’s business partner? He was murdered in the back of a taxi owned by Kestrel cars. The perpetrator was one Tomek Dubrowski.’
‘And that means, what?’ said Duncan.
‘Come on, Duncan,’ said West. ‘I thought you’d read up on the case. Dubrowski and Clare MacAllister were an item, in the broadest sense of the word.’
‘Oh, aye. Of course they were.’
‘Bring her in, Dougal,’ said Munro, as he filched a chip from West’s plate, ‘and whilst we’re on the subject, Anita Carducci? What happened to her?’
‘I’m not sure you’re going to like this, Sir,’ said Dougal. ‘Anita Carducci got eighteen months.’
‘Eighteen months? Is that all?’
‘It gets worse. She’s out already.’
‘By jiminy, I despair,’ said Munro, as he refilled his glass. ‘There was a time when if you got eighteen months, you served eighteen months, not a few weeks in a holiday home. The whole point of a custodial sentence used to be to scare the crap out of the villains so’s they wouldnae want to go back. All this talk of rehabilitation and violating their human rights by denying them a television set and an en-suite is preposterous.’
‘You’re showing your age, Jimbo,’ said West with a smile, ‘we’re all PC now.’
‘Och, you can mock, Charlie, but I’ll tell you this for nothing. The problem with the judicial system these days is it’s broken. Aye, that’s the word. Fundamentally. Irrefutably. Undeniably. Broken.’
Chapter 5
With his shoulders hunched and his head hung low, Father Dalgetty – as bent as a shepherd’s crook – sat perfectly still, closed his eyes and, against his better judgement, muttered a prayer as the morning sun cut through the dusty air, bathing him in a biblical, sombre light worthy of a Caravaggio. His face, as leathery and as wrinkled as an elephant’s hide, broke into a gentle smile as Kennedy quietly entered the room.
‘Mrs Campbell said to come through, Father. I hope that’s alright.’
‘Of course, it is Alison, it’s good of you to come. You’ll not mind if I don’t get up, I’m feeling a wee bit stiff this morning.’
‘You stay right where you are,’ said Kennedy. ‘I see you’ve some tea on the go, will I pour you a cup?’
‘Not for me, but you help yourself. Will I get Mrs Campbell to fetch you some br
eakfast? An egg, perhaps. Or some toast?’
‘No, you’re alright. I’ve not long eaten, myself. Lucas is away to Holland later so I made sure he had something decent before he left.’
‘Off on business, is he?’ said Dalgetty. ‘I don’t know how he finds the time.’
‘No, it’s not business, Father. It’s the anniversary of his mother’s death. He’s away to lay some flowers and check on the house, that kind of thing.’
Dalgetty groaned as he straightened up and eased himself back in his chair.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said, ‘you’ve got yourself a fine man there, Alison.’
‘Och, don’t be daft, he’s only going to visit a grave.’
‘You mark my words, it speaks volumes. I think it’s shameless, pitiful even, the way folk are forgotten as soon as they’re six feet under. We’re none of us irreplaceable and as soon as we’re done, we’re tossed aside like an empty can of beans.’
‘Still suffering from a dose of melancholia then, are we?’
Dalgetty smiled.
‘Perhaps I will have that tea, after all.’
Kennedy poured a cup, passed it to Dalgetty and took a seat on the sofa opposite.
‘So,’ she said, ‘how are you feeling?’
‘Mentally or physically?’
‘Both.’
‘Like a shire horse on its way to the knacker’s yard.’
‘Oh, come, come, Father,’ said Kennedy, with a reassuring smile, ‘you’re stronger than that. Now then, tell me how you got on with Margaret’s solicitor. I assume that’s why you’ve asked me over?’
‘Aye, it is,’ said Dalgetty, ‘but I shouldn’t be burdening you with that, it’s not right.’
‘Tosh. Something’s troubling you, so come on, out with it.’
Dalgetty, frowning with frustration, paused as he gathered his thoughts.
‘Och, I feel such a fool, Alison. And an old fool at that.’
‘Take your time, Father. There’s no rush.’
‘I went to the solicitor’s office, Hamilton’s on the High Street, but when I got there, they said they weren’t expecting me. Well, I said they were and I gave them the letter to prove it.’
‘And?’
‘Och, they were nice enough. They politely pointed out that the letter didn’t come from them but from another firm altogether. I didn’t even think to look. Took the best part of a day getting there and back.’
‘Oh, dear. Well, no harm done. Maybe she changed solicitors and forgot to tell you?’
‘No, no,’ said Dalgetty, ‘she’s been with them her entire life. She’d not change on a whim.’
‘Well, maybe,’ said Kennedy, hesitating as she searched for an explanation, ‘maybe they merged with the other firm?’
‘No, no, they’d have said, would they not?’ said Dalgetty, as he hung his head and sighed.
‘Aye. Right enough, they would. That’s not it though, is it, Father? That’s not what’s upsetting you.’
Dalgetty, his eyes fraught with confusion, stared at Kennedy and slowly tapped the arm of the chair with the palm of his hand.
‘Many years ago,’ he said, quietly, ‘we sat down together and drafted our wills. I could’ve fitted mine on the back of a postage stamp but Margaret’s… Margaret’s was a little more detailed. Aside from the house, she’d saved a wee pot of money and she had some figurines, too. Things she called “collectables”. Well, like myself, she’d no family to speak of, so she insisted that everything she had should go to a good cause.’
‘That’s very charitable of her, Father,’ said Kennedy. ‘I wish I’d met her, she sounds lovely.’
‘She was. Anyway, she decided that when the time came, the house was to be sold and the proceeds divided equally between the Blue Cross and the PDSA.’
‘Aw, so she was an animal lover, too?’
‘She preferred animals to people,’ said Dalgetty, ‘and I can’t say I blame her.’
‘So, what happened next? Did you witness each other’s wills?’
‘Aye. We did. And we placed them in matching envelopes, and signed and dated them on the back.’
‘So?’
‘So,’ said Dalgetty, with a sigh, ‘the envelope the solicitor produced was not the one we’d used. And it was blank. Naturally, I queried this but he insisted it was hers and right enough, when he opened it, there was a will with Margaret’s signature on it, but…’
‘But what, Father?’ said Kennedy. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘The animals. They got nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. I just can’t believe she’d do such a thing. It’s simply not in her nature. And there’s something else, too. The will was dated just one week before she passed away.’
Kennedy rose to her feet, poured Dalgetty a second cup of tea and laced it with two spoons of sugar.
‘That doesn’t sound right, does it, Father?’ she said. ‘Here, drink this, it’ll help.’
‘And then, to cap it all, I went all the way back to Hamilton’s and they said if she’d made a new will, then that was that, there was nothing could be done about it.’
‘Do you recall who witnessed the new will?’
‘Och, there was a name but I couldn’t read it, and the signature was nothing more than a scrawl.’
‘And how about the solicitor? Do you remember his name?’
‘No. He told me when he introduced himself but it’s gone. See here, what I don’t understand, Alison, is why she left everything to a foreign charity.’
‘A foreign charity?’
‘Aye. The house, the contents, the money. Everything. She left it all to some outfit called The Schemering Foundation.’
‘Are you joking me? What is that? German?’
‘I have no idea.’
Kennedy returned to her seat, leaned forward, and rested her chin on her hands.
‘Father,’ she said, ‘listen to me. I know you’re upset about this, understandably, but something’s clearly not right. Have you spoken to anyone about it?’
‘Who would I talk to, Alison? And what would I say?’
‘Even so, if you’re that concerned, I think… I think perhaps you should tell the police.’
‘The police? Really?’ said Dalgetty, surprised. ‘You think it’s that serious?’
‘Maybe not, but there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?’
‘No, no, they’re busy enough. They’ll not want an old priest calling them up about a dead friend’s will.’
‘Listen, Father,’ said Kennedy, ‘if they don’t find anything, the worst that could possibly happen is you’ll feel disappointed. Surely that’s better than carrying around the not-knowing for the rest of your days.’
‘Aye. Maybe you’re right.’
‘Good. I’ll ring them for you, if you like.’
‘Would you?’ said Dalgetty, visibly relieved. ‘Och, Alison, I can’t thank you enough, that’s a weight off my mind, really it is.’
‘Nae bother, Father. It’s a pleasure to help. So, you say the charity was called The Schemering Foundation and that’s all you know?’
‘Correct.’
‘Okay. And what about the solicitors?’
Dalgetty pointed towards the mantelpiece.
‘Up there,’ he said, ‘behind the clock.’
Kennedy retrieved the letter and turned for the door.
‘I should be going, Father,’ she said, with a comforting smile, ‘you take it easy and I’ll let you know what happens.’
Chapter 6
Without the mass of tangled wires taped to his chest or the incessant beep of the heart monitor ringing in his ears – a sound which, fearful it would change to a prolonged, monotonous squeal thereby signalling his imminent demise, prevented him from sleeping – Munro, feeling relaxed and refreshed, rose from his bed, dressed as best he could and made his way downstairs where Duncan, looking slightly the worse for wear, sat bleary-eyed in front of his computer.
‘Morning, Chief,’
he said wearily. ‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘Better than you, by the looks of it,’ said Munro, as he joined him at the table.
‘It’s that sofa of yours. It’s wee bit small for me.’
‘Dear, dear, dear, that will never do. I’ll have a word with the staff and get them to fetch you a new one.’
‘Sorry. Shouldn’t complain.’
‘Nonsense, laddie,’ said Munro, ‘it’s me who should be apologising to you. I clean forgot I’ve a camp bed out back, will that do you?’
‘Aye, I think so.’
‘Good, we’ll fetch it later. Now, have you heard from Dougal? Any news on that MacAllister woman?’
‘Well, he’s not phoned and he’s not emailed, so I assume she’s still on the loose.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Munro, ‘she’s as slippery as an eel swimming in baby oil, that one. Right, down to more serious business; have you had yourself some breakfast?’
‘Not just yet,’ said Duncan. ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘The one-handed chef? Think again. Two eggs, please, soft-boiled, and two rounds of toast.’
‘Really?’
‘Okay, make it three. Now, where’s Charlie? Not still in her pit, surely?’
‘No, no, she’s long gone, Chief,’ said Duncan, as he made his way to the kitchen. ‘I had uniform pick her up early so’s she can get a car from the pool. She’s probably home by now.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Munro, smugly, ‘that girl’s turned a corner, Duncan, you know that? Not so long ago her waking habits had more in common with Nosferatu than us mortals.’
‘Nos for who?’
‘Never mind.’
‘So,’ said Duncan, ‘have we a plan, Chief? After breakfast, I mean?’
‘A plan?’
‘Aye. I’ve never had to babysit a convalescent before, so… I’m not quite sure what to do. Scrabble, maybe? Or a game of Monopoly?’
‘Are you joking me? Does this look like an old folks’ home to you?’
‘Well, no. I just…’
‘Look outside, laddie. Tell me, what do you see?’
TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland Page 4
