TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘And how do you know they’re silver, laddie?’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Dougal, fearing he was falling for a trap. ‘You can see for yourself, the paint’s chipped off.’

  Munro, saying nothing, smiled as he leant against the window and waited.

  ‘The paint’s chipped off!’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ said Munro. ‘Have you got your fancy penknife with you?’

  Dougal, hands trembling with excitement, unscrewed the panel and paused as it fell it away.

  ‘There’s no beasties back here, are there?’ he said, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘Och, maybe a rat or two, but they’ll be more scared of you than you are of them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Dougal as he removed the panel and retrieved a soft package the size of a small shoebox wrapped in a black, plastic bin bag and sealed with copious amounts of masking tape.’

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ said Munro. ‘You’re the one with the knife.’

  Dougal made a small incision, ripped open the plastic and turned to Munro, grinning as though he’d discovered the holy grail.

  ‘Well done, laddie. Full marks for initiative.’

  ‘Me? I’ve not done anything. You were the one who…’

  ‘Och, utter tosh. You’re too modest by far, Dougal. Too modest, by far. Call the FLO, tell her we need to question Aletta, just as soon as she’s ready.’

  * * *

  West, slumped on the sofa with a face as long as a camel’s snout, barely moved as Munro, looking unusually smug, sauntered into the room.

  ‘What are you looking so happy about?’ she said.

  ‘Och, you’re confusing me with somebody else, lassie. I’m not happy unless I’m being miserable. Are you okay? You look a wee bit… peaky.’

  ‘Me? I’m fine. Why?’

  ‘Have you not seen the time?’

  ‘Yeah, what of it?’

  ‘And you’re not hungry?’

  ‘Thin ice, Jimbo,’ said West, as Dougal, beaming from ear to ear, joined them. ‘Oh, God, not you as well. Why are you grinning like a halfwit?’

  ‘No reason,’ said Dougal as he produced the package from behind his back, ‘just found a few hundred tabs, that’s all. In the bedroom.’

  ‘Tablets? I thought they were dealing meth?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re for Aletta,’ said Munro, ‘maybe she’s prone to headaches.’

  ‘You are unbelievable.’

  ‘Okay, let’s be serious for a moment. This now proves that Jazz, one way or another, was involved with Gundersen, okay? But, unless we can round up a few junkies who’ll testify to it, we cannae prove that he was actually selling the stuff.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Dougal, ‘but their collusion would explain why Jazz was ferrying MacAllister around like a salaried chauffeur.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said West, ‘I mean, we’re making progress.’

  ‘Aye, but one question remains, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘where the hell is MacAllister?’

  ‘I’ll ponder that one later. We off?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro, ‘we are. Dougal, one thing before you go, get this place sealed off and arrange for the Tyveks to give it the once over. We’ll see you back at the office.’

  Chapter 14

  Munro sat with his head in his hands, gazing intently at the flow chart he’d scrawled on a scrappy piece of A4 paper, featuring the names of those involved – Anita and Remo Carducci, Angus Buchanan, Jazz Banerjee and Clare MacAllister – all linking directly back to Lars Gundersen, with a secondary link connecting MacAllister to Jazz and Anita Carducci. The only name out on its own was Lucas Rietveld. He flinched, irritated by the sound of West’s phone, as he circled it again and again.

  ‘Duncan,’ West said softly, trying not to break the silence, ‘how’s it going?’

  ‘Just finishing up, Miss. The body’s away and the SOCOs are packing up. All we have to do is secure the yard and we’re all done. Oh, and that Beth woman’s in a real state, I had to get uniform to take her home.’

  ‘Okay, excellent. Cheers, Duncan.’

  ‘Anything else I should be doing?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said West, stifling a yawn. ‘Oh yeah, actually there is. Can you give Dougal a hand? Remember he sent you the case files on Carducci and Buchanan?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Duncan. ‘Not exactly light reading, is it?’

  ‘No, but I need you to go through them and see if Rietveld’s name pops up anywhere. See if he had any dealings with them, maybe through their accountants.’

  ‘Roger that, Miss. I’ll take a look as soon as I get back to Dumfries and give you a bell if I find anything.’

  ‘One more thing, can you take a look around Rietveld’s gaff at some point. He rents a house on Braemar Square. See if anything turns up.’

  * * *

  Munro set down his pen and stretched his one good arm.

  ‘Good call, Charlie,’ he said, ‘wee Dougal’s already doing the work of three men.’

  ‘I know, he’s a diamond,’ said West as she swung her legs onto the desk and leaned back, ‘you’re quite fond of him, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s more admiration, lassie. He’s already shown what he’s capable of. The lad deserves a chance to prove his worth once and for all.’

  ‘So you’re thinking promotion?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say, I’m just helping out, remember?’

  ‘Leave it with me then,’ said West, ‘the only thing is, I don’t think they’ll see the point of having two DSs in the same department, and it’d be a shame to lose him.’

  ‘Och, someone will have to have a word with DCI Elliot then. Dougal’s not the only who deserves a step up the ladder.’

  ‘DI West? Not sure about that. Fancy a cuppa?’

  ‘No, no. It’s too late for tea,’ said Munro, rubbing his forehead. ‘I’m in need of something a wee bit more medicinal.’

  ‘Are you alright? You look bothered.’

  ‘I am. It’s this Rietveld fellow. See here, Charlie, we know he’s probably, and I mean probably, involved with Gundersen, okay? The question still remains, how and why?’

  ‘Well, Duncan’s looking into that. Maybe there’s…’

  ‘No, no, no!’ said Munro, impatiently. ‘He’s wasting his time. Look, with a name like Rietveld, do you not think we’d have recognised it if he’d been involved with Carducci and Buchanan in the first place?’

  ‘Well, yeah. Maybe. But we could’ve missed it.’

  ‘No, Charlie. No, we did not.’

  * * *

  West glanced up as Dougal, looking more than a little flustered, flew through the door and headed straight for his desk.

  ‘You two look happy,’ he said as he woke his computers and sat down, ‘is everything okay?’

  ‘We’re fine. How about you?’

  ‘Aye, all good,’ said Dougal, checking his watch. ‘The FLO says Aletta’s beside herself with grief. She’s stopping with her brother so I told her to bring her in, first thing.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said West. ‘It’s a bit late to be sticking her under the spotlight, anyway. Considering what she’s been through.’

  Munro, looking as though he’d inadvertently swallowed a wasabi-coated peanut, picked up his pen and began tapping it rhythmically on the desk.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said, tossing the pen to one side, ‘what do you know about this Reitveld fellow?’

  ‘Only what I’ve told you. Why?’

  ‘He’s not in the same mould as the others. He’s too clever by half.’

  ‘Maybe that’s exactly why he’s involved.’

  ‘So he can screw Gundersen?’ said West. ‘Take him for everything he’s got?’

  ‘No,’ said Munro, ‘that’s not it.’

  ‘Why not? He may as well have greed is good tattooed on his arm.’

  ‘No. It’s not that simple, trust me. There has to be another lin
k. Dougal, that lassie who knows the priest, Rietveld’s girlfriend, what’s her name again?’

  ‘Alison Kennedy.’

  ‘Aye. Find out everything you can about her.’

  ‘Alison Kennedy?’ said Dougal, flabbergasted. ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘See if you can find a link between her and any of the others. Start with Gundersen.’

  ‘Och, with all due respect, Sir, we’ll be on a hiding to nothing, there. The man’s an enigma, you know that. Even the Norwegian authorities have nothing on him. And Alison Kennedy, she’s… well, come on, she runs the care home.’

  ‘I want to know if she’s ever been to Oslo.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And contact your pals in the Hordaland District, tell them we need records of births, marriages and deaths of every single person called Lars Gundersen born in Oslo between fifty and sixty years ago. Understood?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougal, reluctantly. ‘Understood. You’ll not mind if I start that in the morning, only it’s getting late.’

  ‘Late?’ said Munro. ‘Since when have you been bothered by late?’

  ‘Since now.’

  ‘What are you up to?’ said West, as Dougal’s cheeks began to flush. ‘You sly dog, you’ve got a date, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, it’s just… yes. Kind of. But it’s nothing serious. I mean…’

  ‘On you go, Dougal,’ said Munro with a smirk. ‘Punctuality is the politeness of kings.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll just check the email, then that’s me away.’

  ‘I can do that,’ said West, ‘don’t keep the poor girl waiting.’

  ‘You’re alright, Miss, this’ll only take… uh-oh. We’ve got four. From the lab.’

  ‘Four?’ said Munro. ‘Good grief, it’s famine or feast with those chaps.’

  Dougal frowned as his eyes flashed hurriedly across the screen.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, shifting excitedly in his seat, ‘here we go. They’ve got a match for the prints they lifted from the stuff I took from Rietveld’s office…’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said West.

  ‘…as yet, unidentified.’

  ‘What? If they’re unidentified, who on earth did they match him to?’

  ‘Wait for it… a set of prints taken from a VW Golf on the premises of Kestrel Cars. Smith Street.’

  A moment’s silence descended on the room as Munro, raising his hand, locked eyes with West.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so we now we know for definite that Rietveld’s mixed up with Gundersen and, by association, MacAllister as well.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said West, slapping her thigh.

  ‘I’d like to know what your definition of excellent is, Charlie,’ said Munro, shaking his head, ‘because from where I’m sitting, we have three suspects in cahoots with each other and no idea where a single one of them is.’

  ‘Two words,’ said West. ‘Rain. Parade.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dougal, ‘the other three emails relate to the Golf. Let’s see… prints – the only match is to Clare MacAllister. All the others, also as yet unidentified. The DNA samples they took from the drinking straw… also a match to MacAllister. And that’s it, apart from the hair samples…’

  ‘Come on,’ said West, ‘tell me they match someone.’

  ‘Not someone, Miss,’ said Dougal, sighing as he glanced furtively across the desk. ‘Something.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It’s a modacrylic fibre composed of acrylonitrate and vinyl chloride.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s synthetic. Made in Japan.’

  ‘You mean, it’s a bloody wig?’

  Munro walked to the window, leaned on the sill and stared pensively down at the deserted supermarket car park below.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ said West, hollering as she ruffled her hair. ‘No wonder we can’t bloody find them, they’re all dressing up like Coco the bleeding Clown! God only knows what MacAllister looks like right now, probably parading around like…’

  ‘Haud yer wheesht, lassie!’

  Munro lowered his voice and spoke without turning.

  ‘Dougal,’ he said quietly. ‘Send those fingerprints to your pals in Oslo and Eindhoven, quick as you can. Then take yourself off, you’ll not forgive yourself if you’re late. And neither will she.’

  ‘Sir. That’s me done then.’

  ‘And one last thing before you go,’ said Munro, as he turned to face them, one corner of his mouth raised in a knowing smile, ‘we can forget about trying to establish a connection between The Flying Dutchman and Lars Gundersen.’

  ‘What? I don’t follow,’ said Dougal, ‘we’ve just got proof that they were in the Golf together.’

  ‘Rietveld wasnae travelling with Lars Gundersen, laddie. He is Lars Gundersen.’

  Chapter 15

  West, berating herself for missing what appeared to be the blindingly obvious link between the hair samples and the fingerprints, and Gundersen and Rietveld, sat in the silence of the office with her arms folded, staring at the back of Munro’s head as he gazed out across the rooftops at the fading amber twilight.

  ‘Oi, Jimbo,’ she said, softly. ‘What size shoes do you take?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because, come hell or high water, there’s no way I’m going to fill them.’

  ‘Utter tosh,’ said Munro, ‘of course you will, lassie. You’re forgetting, I’ve a thirty-year head start on you. You’ll catch up.’

  ‘I admire your confidence.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not misplaced. Now, make a note, mental or otherwise, you need to gather everything you possibly can on Gundersen’s alter-ego. Dougal’s following up with that Kennedy woman, so you need to talk to the wee lassie who works with him and anyone at the care home who may have had dealings with him. And put a rocket up the arse of our friends in Eindhoven. If anyone’s got anything on him, it’ll be them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Issue another APW,’ said Munro, ‘including the railway stations. We cannae afford to let him slip the net again. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Very funny. Now, assuming my room at your fancy apartment is still available, I suggest we check it’s free from intruders.’

  ‘No rush,’ said West, ‘we’ll get there, eventually.’

  ‘Eventually? You’re becoming very lackadaisical in your dotage, lassie. What’s keeping you?’

  ‘Hunger,’ said West as she pulled on her coat. ‘Come on. Few drinks, a couple of steaks and a mountain of chips. My treat.’

  * * *

  Comfortable in the familiar surroundings of the Ayrshire and Galloway Hotel, West – finally realising adrenaline was no substitute for a decent lunch – settled back, pushed the menu to one side and waved frantically at the waitress in a desperate bid to grab her attention.

  ‘I could eat a horse,’ she said, licking her lips.

  ‘Och, if I’d have known that,’ said Munro, ‘we could’ve gone to that French restaurant across the street.’

  Despite her best efforts, West could not control her laughter as the waitress, disappointed that she’d missed out on the joke, greeted them with a dour smile.

  ‘Glad to see someone’s enjoying themselves,’ she said wearily. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Two rib-eyes, please,’ said West, ‘done to a crisp. As many chips as you can fit on the plate, a vodka and orange, and a large, single malt.’

  ‘I wonder how Dougal’s getting on,’ said Munro, as the waitress trudged towards the bar, ‘as I recall, his last dalliance wasnae up to much.’

  ‘I know. Poor bloke, she ate him alive. Almost. He needs to find someone with similar interests.’

  ‘Aye, a member of the Temperance Society with a fondness for monkfish and a working knowledge of the internal combustion engine.’

  ‘You’re cruel,’ said West, reaching for her phone. ‘Sorry, not being rude but I’d better see who this is. Crap, it’s the ACR.’r />
  Munro instinctively reached for his coat as West took the call.

  ‘DS West. Go ahead, control.’

  ‘Miss. Female, IC1, answering the description of Clare MacAllister seen heading south along Tams Brig towards Allison Street.’

  ‘What? MacAllister?’

  ‘Aye, an off-duty Special called it in. He’s following on foot. Shall we engage?’

  ‘No, no, no! Do not approach, under any circumstances, suspect may be dangerous. Hold the line. Jimbo – Tams Brig, where the hell is that?’

  ‘Newton on Ayr,’ said Munro, ‘five minutes. Two if you put your foot down.’

  ‘Control, tell your man to back off, I mean, right off. We’re on our way.’

  ‘Do you require assistance, DS West?’

  ‘Negative,’ said West, smiling as they raced for the door. ‘Come on, Jimbo. I know where she’s going!’

  ‘Well, dinnae keep it to yourself, lassie.’

  ‘She’s heading for Glebe Crescent. And that’s where Aletta’s brother lives.’

  * * *

  West parked under the glow of a street lamp, taken aback by the sight of the faceless, two storey villas dotted about the crescent which, even under cover of darkness, resembled the housing equivalent of a supermarket’s budget range of groceries.

  ‘Blimey, this is a step down from Hawkhill Avenue,’ she said. ‘Not exactly brimming with character, is it?’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Munro. ‘Local authorities aren’t renowned for spending, lassie, you should know that. In fact, they cut so many corners, it’s a wonder these houses aren’t round. Which one’s his?’

  West pointed to the ground floor flat directly opposite.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘with the lights on.’

  * * *

  West rang the bell and took a step back as a shadowy figure approached the door, opening it just enough to peek through.

  ‘Can I help?’ said the swarthy Indian man, frowning suspiciously.

  ‘You must be Robbie.’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘DS West. DI Munro. Is PC Hamilton here?’

  ‘She’s gone to fetch us some supper.’

  ‘Alright for some,’ said Munro under his breath.

  ‘And Aletta?’

  ‘She’s resting.’