Duplicity

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Quite the success then?’ said Munro.

  ‘Oh yes, Inspector, quite the success indeed,’ said Heather. ‘After that they paid a fellow with a van to go fetch the stuff for them. They’d send him off with a huge shopping list and strict instructions to get himself back as quick as possible: olive oil, tomatoes, anchovies, salami, cheese, everything. That’s why they formed Remus. To make it official.’

  ‘Now that is a fascinating story,’ said Munro. ‘Your husband’s quite the entrepreneur. Aye, that’s the word, entrepreneur. But tell me, if things were going so well, why on earth did they close the company?’

  ‘Times changed Inspector,’ said Heather with a remorseful sigh, ‘the world’s a much smaller place these days. You can get all that stuff in your local supermarket now.’

  ‘Aye, you’re not wrong there.’

  ‘But hats off to them, it was good while it lasted. Do you know they even supplied Jenners in Edinburgh for a few years?’

  ‘Is that so? It seems to me Mr Carducci has an awful lot to thank your husband for.’

  ‘Oh aye, if it wasnae for Angus I’ve no doubt Remo and Anita would still be living above the chip shop but Remo knows that. Everything’s split fifty-fifty. There’s not a bad bone between them.’

  Munro stood, picked up the empty mugs and headed for the kitchen.

  ‘They must have a lot in common,’ he said, ‘to get on so well.’

  ‘Right enough, golf and women. Especially the women,’ said Heather raising her eyebrows, window shopping Angus calls it.’

  ‘Och, I’m sure that’s all it is. You know, I used to play the odd round of golf myself.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Heather.

  ‘Oh aye, gave it up though. Hitting a wee ball with a long stick wasnae something I excelled at.’

  ‘Oh, you’d get on well with those two then, they’re both rubbish but they must get some form of twisted pleasure from it.’

  ‘Play locally do they?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Heather. ‘Well, they used to. Until Remo started looking farther afield. It started with Kinsale then before you knew it they were off to Lisbon, then the Costa bloody del Sol. They’ve even been to Oslo. God knows where they’ll end up next.’

  ‘Well with time on their hands I suppose…’

  ‘Too much time, Inspector. Every couple of months they’re away. Still, can’t complain, better than having him under my feet.’

  ‘Right enough,’ said Munro. ‘Now, will I fetch you that sandwich? I’ll not be happy unless I see you eat something.’

  ‘You’re alright, Inspector. I’ll wait for Anita, that’s Remo’s wife, she’ll be along soon.’

  ‘So you’ll not be alone?’

  ‘No, no. She’ll be stopping here all night.’

  ‘Good,’ said Munro, zipping his coat, ‘perhaps some company will help take your mind off things. Well, that’s me away then. I’ve kept you long enough.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

  ‘And try not to fret too much, Heather. I know it’s a big ask but rest assured, we’ll find your husband. You have my word on that.’

  * * *

  The headlights cut a swathe through the dusky night sky as Munro, torn between returning to the office and heading home to Carsethorn, drove back along Dalhowan Street perturbed by the skeleton Angus Buchanan had hanging in his closet. He pulled over and called West, rankled by his own ambivalence.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said with a weary sigh, ‘what’s happening?’

  ‘I’m dropping Dougal back at the office so he can get his scooter then we’re off to mine. Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘Carsethorn, I think. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Carsethorn? Are you bonkers?’ said West. ‘By the time you get there the sun’ll be coming up.’

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ said Munro, ‘but I’m not in the mood for hotels, you know I cannae stand them.’

  ‘What do you mean hotels? I’ve just moved in to a two bedroom flat, you can stay at mine.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll not impose. It’s not…’

  ‘Oi, Jimbo, you listen to me,’ said West sternly, ‘you’ve been good enough to let me crash at yours for weeks on end, rent free and you’ve haven’t whinged about it. Not once. So the least you can do is let me return the favour, okay?’

  Munro sat back and smiled.

  ‘Aye, okay then,’ he said. ‘Just the one night, mind.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got a fridge full of food and plenty of booze so put your foot down. We’ll see you there.’

  * * *

  Dougal sat sipping a glass of orange juice like an eight-year-old on his best behaviour, nervous of making marks on the table or speaking out of turn. He watched as West wrestled with a bottle of Côtes du Rhone and was about to offer his help when the cork popped out with satisfying plop.

  ‘This had better be worth the effort,’ she said taking a gulp and gasping with relief.

  ‘So he’s definitely coming then, Miss?’ said Dougal. ‘The Boss?’

  ‘Yup, he’s on his way over now, shouldn’t be long.’

  ‘Pity he’s not staying longer, we could use the help.’

  ‘Oi, cheeky, what’re you saying? That I’m not up to the job?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal, ‘I didnae mean…’

  ‘I know what you meant, relax, I’m kidding you.’

  ‘Sorry. So, do you think he’ll hang around, you know, until the case is over?’

  ‘He will if I have anything to do with it,’ said West with a wink.

  ‘Great. I like him. I mean he’s funny but there’s something solid about him, know what I mean? Something a wee bit old fashioned.’

  ‘Probably his age.’

  ‘You get on well, you two,’ said Dougal inquisitively. ‘How did you meet, if you dinnae mind me asking? Did you work together?’

  ‘Yup. Going back a while now but I was with City of London, some bloke had disappeared, turned out he lived on James’s patch in East London so I transferred there, temporarily. He led the investigation, thank God, or I probably wouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  West topped up her glass and sat down.

  ‘Between you and me, I was in a hole, totally messed up,’ she said. ‘I hated my job, hated where I lived and I hated my fiancée. I found out he was bedding everything in sight except me so I broke it off and married a bottle of Smirnoff instead.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss, I didnae mean to pry, I was just curious about…’

  ‘Ancient history, Dougal, don’t worry about it. If it wasn’t for Jimbo, DI Munro, I’d probably be on the street or in a hostel. He sorted me out.’

  ‘So he was like, well, a kind of mentor or a father figure then?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ said West, smiling fondly, ‘but come to think of it, no. Actually, he was more like a bloody sergeant major, put the boot in good and proper, metaphorically speaking that is. Anyway, enough about me, how was your weekend?’

  ‘Och, no different to the rest of the week.’

  ‘Really?’ said West, as the entryphone buzzed. ‘Thought you’d have been out clubbing or down the pub.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not for me. I like a good book or a crossword, anything that gets me thinking.’

  ‘No love interest then? No future Mrs McCrae tucked away somewhere?’

  ‘You are joking me?’ said Dougal cynically. ‘Unfortunately Miss, there’s not too many lassies round here into fishing and sudoku.’

  * * *

  Munro, looking exhausted, loosened his tie as he ambled into the kitchen, slapped Dougal on the shoulder and slumped into a dining chair beside him.

  ‘Alright, laddie,’ he said with a smirk, ‘has she got you on the vodka and orange already?’

  ‘No, Boss, just juice. I’m driving. Well, scootering.’

  ‘Good for you. Fortunately, I am not.’

  ‘You look knackered,’ said West, waving a wine glass in one hand and a bottle
of Scotch in the other. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I’ll take a Balvenie for starters. Three fingers. Thanking you.’

  Dougal raised his glass.

  ‘Well, here’s to you Miss,’ he said. ‘Good luck in your new home.’

  ‘Oh thanks, Dougal, very kind of you.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll second that,’ said Munro. ‘Are you not stopping for supper, Dougal?’

  ‘No, Boss, much as I’d like to I’m still full of the pizza and after this weekend, all I’m looking forward to right now is crawling into my pit.’

  ‘Cannae blame you for that but before you go, how did you get on with Carducci?’

  ‘Well,’ said Dougal, knocking back his juice, ‘I think we can forget about Romulus, he’s not from Rome. His family home’s a place called Avella, north of Naples.’

  ‘Naples?’ said Munro, ‘Och well that’s a reputation of its own, mainly involving men who like to make offers and the occasional horse’s head of course.’

  ‘And as for the bank account,’ said West, ‘as far as he knows it was closed when they rolled the company.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Dougal, pulling out his notebook ‘and for the record Remus Trading had two directors: Carducci and Buchanan. Angus Buchanan was also secretary and it was registered to his home address in Crosshill. The company was dissolved nineteen months ago.’

  ‘Nineteen months? That’s relatively recent,’ said Munro draining his glass, ‘but if nothing else it corroborates Heather’s version of events. I’m worried about her, she’s not herself. She’s taken this awful hard.’

  ‘So has Carducci,’ said West, as she slid a glass of red towards him, ‘but that’s not surprising either considering the amount of time they’ve known each other.’

  Munro took a large sip of wine, leaned back and closed his eyes, a delicate frown creasing his forehead as he gathered his thoughts.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘According to Miss McClure at the bank, money’s been paid into that account on a pretty regular basis for a while now so we need to find out where those deposits came from, sums that large have to leave a paper trail, right? Second, if the account’s active then the bank must be sending statements somewhere so…’

  ‘Yeah but hold on,’ said West, ‘surely they’d go to the registered address? In Crosshill? So either Carducci, his wife or Heather must know about it.’

  ‘Aye, you’d think so,’ said Munro, ‘but not necessarily, a registered office and a trading address are two different things. Let’s have a word with Miss McClure and find out where they’re going. Dougal, something else. I’m not familiar with the current price of a new sports cars but I’ve a feeling you’d have to sell an awful lot of lasagne to drive a fancy vehicle like Carducci. Find out what you can about him. Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ said Dougal as he pulled on his jacket and grabbed his helmet from the worktop, ‘does this, er, does this mean you’ll be in the office tomorrow, Boss?’

  ‘Good grief, Dougal, does the phrase standing on your own two feet not mean anything to you? We’ll see, laddie. We’ll see.’

  Chapter 6

  Due largely to the pressures of work and a love-life that resembled a scrambled egg, West, once proud of her ability to rustle up a first-class meal at the drop of a hat, had long since placed any aspirations about returning to the kitchen on the back burner, succumbing instead to the dubious delight of dining out on double cheeseburgers, chicken chow mein and shish kebabs seven nights a week. She regarded the cooker with a look of trepidation normally reserved for people she knew but failed to recognise as she struggled to reacquaint herself with the hob.

  Munro, his senses heightened by the smell of burning bacon, smiled broadly as he glided swiftly through the lounge and flung open the doors to the balcony.

  ‘I’ll take mine crispy,’ he said, ‘but I think you’ll find it’s already smoked.’

  ‘If you can do better, you’re welcome to try,’ said a frustrated West as the eggs spluttered in the frying pan, ‘otherwise make yourself useful and lay the table.’

  Munro obligingly obeyed and sat with his arms folded as she tossed a handful of charcoaled rashers onto his plate.

  ‘Might not look great,’ she said, grabbing a couple of slices from the toaster, ‘but it’ll taste fine, I’m sure. What’s up? Something wrong with the toast?’

  ‘No, no, it matches the bacon perfectly.’

  West glowered across the table before laughing aloud.

  ‘Sorry, pretty crap isn’t it?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Munro as he tucked into a runny yolk, ‘I’ve had worse, mainly by own hand.’

  West glanced at him furtively as she slapped a bottle of ketchup.

  ‘So, er, what time are you heading back?’ she said.

  Munro stopped chewing, a look of mild surprise on his face.

  ‘Well,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I hadnae… I’ll finish my breakfast first, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Yeah whatever, there’s no rush. I’m not even meant to be working today but I thought I should nip over later and check on Dougal. What do you think?’

  ‘Aye, sounds like a plan but you dinnae have to clear it with me, lassie.’

  ‘I know but I was thinking… you could come too, if you fancy it.’

  ‘No, no. I should get going, the garden needs watering and then there’s…’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West as she reached for her phone, ‘sorry. It’s Dougal. He’s up early.’

  ‘Best see what he wants, lassie, might be important.’

  Munro cleared away the plates and set about making a brew as West took the call.

  ‘Dougal, what’s up?’ she said, crunching through a slice of toast.

  ‘Morning, Miss, sorry to bother you so early but I need a wee favour.’

  ‘If I can, I will. Go on.’

  ‘Well, thing is see,’ said Dougal, sounding flustered, ‘I’ve already been onto the bank to request details on that Remus account and now I’m doing some digging on Mr Carducci but the Chief’s just come in and…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s been a car abandoned and we’ve no-one free to take a look at it and I cannae keep jumping from one job to another or I’ll not get anything done so I was wondering, would you mind…?’

  ‘No sweat,’ said West, ‘is it far?’

  ‘Just off the B744 from Belston towards the Auchincruive Estate, fifteen minutes tops. Uniform are in attendance. I’ll pop along later if I can.’

  * * *

  ‘I take it he’s not suffering from insomnia,’ said Munro, handing West a mug of tea.

  ‘No. Car’s been abandoned on the Auchin-something estate.’

  ‘What? Well, that’s not for the likes of you, let uniform deal with it.’

  ‘They are apparently but DCI Elliot’s asked Dougal to take a gander. That’s why he rang, he’s up to his eyeballs and wondered if we’d take a look instead.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, alright. Me.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Munro, ‘you say DCI Elliot asked Dougal to take a look?’

  ‘Yup. Why? Does that mean something?’

  ‘Aye, it means it’s not just an abandoned car, Charlie. There’s more to it than that. Trust me.’

  ‘So what is it then, this estate? Like council houses or something?’

  Munro swigged his tea and shook his head despondently.

  ‘No. Well not yet, anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s an old country estate, six hundred acres of prime woodland teeming with wildlife but it’ll not be long before they rip it up, cover it with tarmac and stick a load of houses in its place.’

  ‘That’s criminal.’

  ‘That’s progress.’

  ‘Well in that case,’ said West, ‘it’d be nice to see it before the developers move in. What do you reckon, you up for it? Be a chance to get out, bit of fresh air?’

  Munro finished his tea and sighed submissively.

 
‘Aye okay, go on then. On one condition.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘We take my car. I’ll not fit in that go-kart of yours.’

  West smiled, grabbed her coat and paused as her phone rang again.

  ‘Dougal no doubt,’ she said, ‘probably forgotten…’

  Munro looked on as she stared at the screen, the colour draining from her cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong, Charlie?’ he said, concerned by the troubled look on her face. ‘It’s not Dougal, is it? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  * * *

  Unlike his colleagues – most of whom looked forward to apprehending gangs of armed robbers, arresting suspected drug dealers or pursuing joyriders at high speed along the A77 – PC Ross Anderson preferred any task that kept him out of danger and away from his desk.

  Leaning against the patrol car with his hands in his pockets and his cap perched jauntily on the back of his head he smirked at the sight of Munro’s ageing Peugeot trundling sedately down the lane and, concluding it posed no imminent threat, turned away and lit another cigarette as it slowly ground to a halt behind the abandoned vehicle.

  ‘I’m not one to gloat,’ said Munro, nodding in the direction of the ambulance parked on the opposite side of the road, ‘but that’s not here as a precaution.’

  West released her seat belt and opened the door.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said, ‘what are we waiting for?’

  ‘We’re surveying the scene,’ said Munro as he folded his arms and placed one hand on his chin, ‘so tell me Charlie, what do you see? Let’s start with the car in question.’

  West pulled the door shut and stared dead ahead, frowning as she concentrated on a description.

  ‘Toyota Prius,’ she said. ‘Silver. Three years old and judging by the sign obscuring the rear window, it’s obviously a taxi cab – Kestrel Cars.’

  ‘Good. What else?’

  ‘Well,’ said West, hesitating, ‘apart from the fact that the windows are misted up, it’s a saloon, it’s got five doors, four wheels…’

  ‘Forget the car, look at the situation.’

  ‘Sorry, Jimbo, you’ll have to enlighten me.’