TERMINUS: A thrilling police procedural set in Scotland

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Not exactly, no, but…’

  West put down her fork, took another swig of beer and stared quizzically into space.

  ‘You okay?’ said Dougal.

  ‘When we went to pick her up, from Robbie’s place…’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘…he got quite aggressive, wouldn’t let us in. He was adamant MacAllister wasn’t there, until we read him the riot act. Why? Why was he trying to protect her?’

  ‘Maybe he knows something?’

  ‘Maybe. Why else would he be so defensive?’

  ‘Could it be,’ said Dougal, ‘that he and Jazz were in it together? You know, the wee package wedged up the chimney?’

  ‘Do we know what his day job is? Apart from helping out at Kestrel?’

  ‘Something to do with the NHS, I think.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? What, a doctor or something?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal. ‘Office work, I think. Admin or something.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ll to have check but, aye. Why?’

  ‘I’m suddenly thinking about those tablets. Do we know what they are yet?’

  ‘No. Are you thinking…?’

  ‘If they’re prescription drugs, and he’s in a position to get them, then who knows? There’s only one way to find out. Let’s bring him in, have a word. As soon as you’re back from seeing Dalgetty.’

  ‘Aye, okay.’

  West, returning to the task at hand, tore off a large chunk of naan bread, dipped it in the curry sauce and stuffed it in her mouth as she checked her phone.

  ‘Still no word,’ she said, ‘from Jimbo, I mean.’

  ‘It’s too soon,’ said Dougal. ‘Even if Duncan went hell for leather, they’d still not be back yet. Give it half an hour, then another for him to get settled.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I worry too much.’

  ‘Is he okay, do you think? I mean, he fair lost the plot when he was raging about Gundersen, and he didn’t hold back when he ripped into us.’

  ‘Wouldn’t worry about it, Dougal,’ said West with a smile. ‘He’s old school. A tongue-lashing’s just his way of bringing out the best in you.’

  ‘I can think of less abrasive methods,’ said Dougal. ‘That Gundersen, he’s got under his skin, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yup, he’s certainly rattled his cage, that’s for sure, and if I know Jimbo, he means what he says. He’s not going to stop until he’s banged up for good.’

  * * *

  According to the saying, the best part of going away is the coming home – an adage to which Munro would have readily subscribed were it not for the distant honking of the Canada geese, the occasional shriek of a barn owl, the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore, and the fact that he’d forgotten to buy a fresh pint of milk.

  He peered through the windscreen at the row of lifeless cottages, concluded that his neighbours were either on their holidays or getting blootered in the pub, and checked his watch.

  ‘Well,’ said Duncan, ‘that has to be one of the quietest journeys I’ve ever made. Are you okay, Chief? You’ve not said a word since we passed Carronbridge.’

  Munro, looking as though he’d been roused from a nap, turned to face him.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, a look of mild bewilderment on his face. ‘Sorry, laddie, my mind’s elsewhere. Thanks for the lift. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Nae bother, Chief. Always a pleasure. Will I come in?’

  ‘Not on a first date.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Duncan, laughing, ‘I wasn’t after a coffee, I just meant, to check…’

  ‘Aye, I know what you meant, but you’re alright. I have things to do. Supper being one of them. You take yourself off and I’ll see you on the morrow.’

  * * *

  With Duncan safely out of sight, Munro – adopting a sense of urgency not seen since his hasty, and somewhat premature, departure from the hospital – hurried inside and headed straight for the kitchen. Phone in hand, he turned the oven up full, took a pie from the fridge and placed it on the counter alongside a tin of baked beans and a bottle of brown sauce.

  Checking his watch for a second time, he stepped to the lounge, hung his coat on the back of a chair and drew the curtains before pouring himself a large Balvenie and sitting at the dining table where, shrouded in the partial gloom with the theme to The Big Country playing softly in the background, he waited patiently for his visitor to arrive.

  * * *

  ‘You took your time,’ he said, casually raising his glass. ‘I’ve had you in the wing mirror for the last forty minutes.’

  Dressed in a dark, blue suit and looking even taller in the flesh than he did on CCTV, Lars Gundersen, hands in pockets, stood, stern-faced, by the door.

  ‘Will you take a drink?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Gundersen. ‘I feel like celebrating.’

  ‘You should tell your face. It’s not exactly in a party mood.’

  Gundersen took two steps forward and reached for the glass.

  ‘Skål,’ he said, knocking it back. ‘You look well, Munro. Considering your injuries. Are you in pain?’

  ‘No, no. Me and pain were separated at birth.’

  ‘That soon? Then you’ve missed out on one of life’s greatest pleasures.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Munro, pointing at the bottle. ‘Will you take another?’

  Gundersen, his sharp features accentuated by the dim glow of the standard lamp, shook his head.

  ‘Well, you’ll not mind if I do. It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It will be over soon.’

  ‘Och, I’ve no doubt about that,’ said Munro with a smirk, ‘no doubt at all. So, come on, then, let’s have it. There’s more to this than Buchanan and Carducci, isn’t there?’

  Gundersen, toying with his empty glass, paused before answering.

  ‘It’s not nice when you’re pushed out of business,’ he said, ‘when people you employ to help expand your interests and share in your success, get greedy and force you to one side. It’s bullying. Just like school.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldnae know about that,’ said Munro, smiling as he swirled his malt, ‘see, I was incredibly popular at school. Everybody wanted to be my pal. But you, I bet you were walloped as a wean.’

  ‘Jealousy,’ said Gundersen, tersely, ‘often manifests itself as contempt.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Tell me then, who was more jealous, was it Jazz? Or was it you?’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite simple,’ said Munro, ‘let me explain. See, if Jazz was jealous, jealous of your success, then that would explain why he stole some of your gear to sell on himself. But, if it was yourself who was bitten by the green-eyed monster, then that could only be because Jazz was seeing Clare MacAllister behind your back.’

  Gundersen’s top lip twitched as if afflicted by a tic.

  ‘You’re playing games, Munro,’ he said, sniffing the empty glass. ‘What makes you think Clare was seeing a common taxi driver?’

  ‘Oh, the fact that he was wearing her lipstick, for a start. The thing is, Gundersen, you went after the wrong person. See, you should’ve gone after MacAllister, she has a history of philandering. In fact, she’s perfected the art of making men go weak at the knees before taking what she wants and tossing them aside.’

  Munro, relishing the sight of Gundersen racked with a burning resentment, continued to fuel his rage with the kind of jibes designed to dent the alpha-male ego.

  ‘Just for the record,’ he said, sipping his whisky, ‘and I speak with experience of others who have trodden the well-worn path to her door, you might like to know that you are not the kindest man she’s ever met. Nor are you the most intelligent man she’s ever met. And, without wanting to get too personal, I can almost guarantee you’re not the best lover she’s ever had. I’m afraid you and Jazz, the pair of you dunderheids, are just the latest on her long list of losers.’

  ‘Perhaps
I will have that drink after all,’ said Gundersen, reaching for the bottle.

  ‘I imagine it probably makes you feel quite inadequate,’ said Munro. ‘Aye, that’s the word. Inadequate.’

  ‘You’re pushing your luck, Munro.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve not even started yet, trust me. I cannae wait to tell Alison.’

  ‘Alison?’

  ‘Aye. The woman you’ve betrayed. Your wife. Remember her? You can drop the charade, Gundersen, we know the two of you are married and she’s currently in it up to her neck.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Probably having a wee lie down in her cell, about now.’

  ‘You’ve arrested her?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Munro. ‘She’s a very pleasant lady, is Alison. And you know what I like about her? She enjoys a wee natter. She’s told us quite a few interesting facts about the Cayman Islands. And Esme Sinclair. And Margaret Forsyth.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Gundersen, his heckles raised.

  ‘Aye, it is. I’m curious, though. See, Margaret Forsyth, she wasnae living at Glencree. So, how did you meet her? It couldnae be through Alison.’

  Gundersen glanced at Munro and smirked.

  ‘The priest introduced us,’ he said. ‘Father Dalgetty.’

  ‘Really? And how did you two meet? It wasnae in the confessional, now, was it?’

  ‘It was a fund-raising event. At Glencree.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ said Munro. ‘The same fund-raising event where you and Alison Kennedy met for the first time. Apparently.’

  Gundersen took a large gulp of whisky and turned towards the kitchen.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ he said, leaning in the doorway. ‘I’ve interrupted your dinner.’

  ‘Nae bother. I’ve not got the appetite just now.’

  Munro, folded his arms, rested his hand on his chin, and stared at Gundersen in the same way one might regard an over-sized canvas hanging in an art museum.

  ‘You’re a clever man,’ he said, dryly.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Modest, too. I’ll give you that. So, tell me, why would an intelligent chap like yourself want to get his hands dirty, again? I mean, juggling meth in the seedy world of users and pushers? Is that not a wee bit below yourself these days?’

  ‘I don’t get my hands dirty,’ said Gundersen. ‘The pharmaceutical companies do all the grafting, I see my role as nothing more than a… distributor. Fentanyl. It’s fast becoming the drug of choice for the discerning smackhead.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Munro, ‘let’s face it, you were making a wee fortune fleecing folk who’d gone doolally. Could you not have left Carducci to get on with it, instead of slitting the poor woman’s throat?’

  Gundersen paused before answering.

  ‘You surprise me with your naivety,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘The seedy world of pushers and users, as you call it, is worth fifty times what I made from those senile, old fools. But, it was never about the money, Munro. There was a principle at stake.’

  ‘A principle?’ said Munro, laughing as he poured himself another dram. ‘Are you joking me? That takes the biscuit, I have to say. You dinnae know the meaning of the word.’

  Gundersen drained his glass, placed it on the kitchen counter, and slid his hands into his pockets, his eyes glinting with a perverse delight as he sought to demolish Munro with two words.

  ‘Do you remember a man by the name of Christy MacAdam?’ he said as the more familiar deadpan expression returned to his face.

  The name, yanked from the darkest recesses of his mind, hit Munro behind the eyes with the full force of a malevolent migraine.

  ‘That mountain of blubber?’ he said, grinding his teeth. ‘Aye. I’ll not forget him.’

  ‘He had a head for figures. He would have made a good businessman.’

  ‘He was a dealer!’ said Munro, his lip curling with disgust. ‘A good for nothing, low-life who preyed on weans who couldnae help themselves.’

  ‘Come, come,’ said Gundersen. ‘He was simply exploiting a gap in the market, Munro. A very lucrative gap. It came as quite a shock to learn of his death. It was very sudden. A car park, wasn’t it? Behind the Annandale Arms?’

  An image of the obese MacAdam wedged firmly behind the steering wheel of his car, sweating profusely, his face riddled with fear, flashed through Munro’s mind.

  ‘Aye. It was,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘They never did find his killer, did they?’ said Gundersen. ‘The man who shot him in the head. Point blank. With his own gun?’

  ‘No. I don’t believe they did. Police, eh? Cannae trust them to do anything.’

  Gundersen, reacting with the predictability of someone who’d undergone a humour bypass, stared blankly at Munro.

  ‘How did it feel?’ he said eventually, his voice, disarmingly soft. ‘To pull that trigger?’

  Munro cocked his head, wondered for a moment if he’d ever trained as a psychoanalyst, then burst into laughter as the penny dropped.

  ‘By jiminy!’ he said, as he slapped the table. ‘I’ve got it! That’s what this is all about. Christy MacAdam was working for you!’

  ‘I lost a fortune, Munro. Overnight.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘But you,’ said Gundersen, ‘I imagine, you were wallowing in glory.’

  ‘Over an unsolved murder? No, no. That’s cause for commiseration, not celebration.’

  ‘You think you’re funny, don’t you?’ said Gundersen. ‘Did your wife think you were funny, too? A fire, wasn’t it? They’re easy to start. Fires. As easy as pulling a trigger. All you need is some petrol and a match. And Christy MacAdam liked to play with matches. But you know that already.’

  Munro, his eyes shimmering with a sadistic rage, refused to rise to the bait.

  ‘It must be terrible knowing that in some, small way you were responsible for her death. In fact, I feel sorry for you. Being all alone.’

  Munro stared at Gundersen as a contented smile crossed his face.

  ‘Och, I’m never alone,’ he said, smugly. ‘Jean is with me every second of every minute, of every hour, of every day. And that is something you’ll never have. Now, I think it’s time I popped my supper in the oven.’

  ‘You don’t have time to eat, Munro. I’m afraid I have an appointment to keep, so it’s time for us to part company.’

  ‘Okay, then. Cheery-bye. You can see yourself out.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Gundersen. ‘I admire your courage. Really, I do.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ said Munro, fumbling in his coat pocket, ‘but, as I’ve not got time to eat, I just have to send a wee text message.’

  ‘You will do no such thing. Put your hands on the table.’

  Orders, regardless of their origin – be it in the line of official duty or as a thinly-veiled threat from villains desperate to assert their authority – did not sit comfortably with Munro. Glowering across the table, he fixed Gundersen with a cold, penetrating gaze,

  ‘See here, Gundersen,’ he said, aggressively, ‘I’m not bothered what happens here, do you not get that? I really couldnae give a damn. So you do, whatever it is, you have to do, but like it or not, I promised to send Charlie a text to let her know I got home safe, and you’re not going to stop me. Do I make myself clear?’

  Gundersen, relenting, crossed his arms and leant against the cooker as Munro continued to search his pockets.

  ‘I cannae find the blessed phone anywhere,’ he said. ‘I know I had it when I left the office. Look behind you, is it on the top, by the pie?’

  ‘No,’ said Gundersen, bluntly. ‘Your sad, little meal is all alone.’

  Munro reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a credit card-sized piece of paper.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ve the number here. You call it, then we can find it.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this Munro, I must…’

  ‘Call the damn number! Do you hear me?’

  Gundersen
, taken aback, reluctantly pulled the phone from his pocket.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, angrily. ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘Okay. 07532 442 292,’ said Munro as the card slipped from his fingers.

  ‘292,’ said Gundersen, holding his phone aloft. ‘I hope for your sake you hear it ring.’

  ‘If I do,’ said Munro, as he bent to retrieve the card from the floor, ‘it’ll be a catastrophe. Aye, that’s the word. A catastrophe.’

  Epilogue

  For the residents of the village – where the rustle of a crisp packet was deemed a major disturbance and the highlight of the social calendar was electing a new chair to the parish council – the unprecedented sight of grey plumes of smoke drifting against a clear, moonlit sky, as the blue lights of the fire engines bounced off the whitewashed cottages was, despite the acrid stench of burning timbers, a spectacle to behold.

  West, flanked by Dougal to her left and Duncan on her right, blamed the caustic fumes for her watery eyes as they ducked under the tape, marched along the narrow road and stood staring silently at what was left of Munro’s house.

  ‘It’s not as bad as I thought,’ said Dougal. ‘Most of it’s still standing.’

  ‘Most of the damage is round is the back,’ said Duncan. ‘Well, that’s what they said on the phone, anyway. Miss? Are you okay?’

  West turned and smiled.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ she said, desperately trying not to fall apart. ‘We should take a look.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ said Duncan, ‘you know that, don’t you? As the Chief says, take-offs are optional, but landings are mandatory. You’ll not be able to unsee anything in there.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Dougal, ‘white-top’s coming out.’

  The fire chief, his face glistening with sweat, walked towards them, visibly annoyed that, despite the tape, some members of the public felt it their God-given right to ignore safety procedures to get a closer look.

  ‘You lot,’ he said, raising his hands, ‘that cordon’s there for a reason. Now take yourselves back down the street before I…’

  West held up her warrant card.

  ‘… call the police. That’s handy. Are you the investigating officer?’

  ‘No,’ said West. ‘We’re colleagues of the bloke who lives here. He’s a police officer.’