‘Well, the Bordeaux perhaps, but the Schubert’s open to debate.’
‘Good. I was wondering, I don’t suppose you’d care to join me for a glass or two, perhaps? I’ve some vintage…’
‘I’m afraid I shall have to decline, Miss McClure. Nothing personal but I’m knee deep in an investigation at the moment and…’
‘You’re not married are you?’
‘Widowed.’
‘Well surely just a…’
‘And I’m more of a Leonard Cohen man myself.’
‘Why so am I!’ said McClure, ‘I’ve a few of his records, on vinyl no less. We could listen to those instead.’
Munro stood, zipped his jacket and smiled.
‘I admire your persistence, Miss McClure,’ he said, grinning. ‘but if you’ve any ideas about tying me to a kitchen chair in an attempt to draw a hallelujah from my lips, I’m afraid it’s not going to happen. Not tonight anyway.’
‘Pity,’ said McClure with a sly grin. ‘The address you want. It’s Dalhowan Street.’
* * *
Tomek Dubrowski – with his shaved head, stocky build and a face like a potato that came second in a fight with a mallet – looked as though he’d spent most of his adult life toiling in a Gulag under a sentence of hard labour. Unfazed by the stark surroundings of the interview room he sat with his arms folded and smiled in an annoyingly relaxed manner at the two police officers glaring back at him from across the desk.
‘Do you understand why you’re here?’ said PC Anderson.
‘Yes,’ said Dubrowski, nodding a little too enthusiastically, ‘I think so.’
‘Think so isn’t good enough,’ said West. ‘Would you like an interpreter?’
‘No. I can speak English.’
‘In that case, Mr Dubrowski, you’re being held on suspicion of theft, abandoning a vehicle, abduction, and concealing or failing to report a death, so once again, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ said West, ‘let’s start at the beginning. How long have you been here? In the United Kingdom?’
‘For two years.’
‘And you have a bedsit in Souter Place?’
‘Yes, this is correct. And some nights I stay with my girlfriend.’
‘Girlfriend?’ said Anderson.
‘Yes, she is very nice, has important job. I think she likes me.’
‘Or maybe she just feels sorry for you,’ said West brusquely.
‘This is possible too.’
‘So where are you from Mr Dubrowski?’
‘Polska. Poland.’
‘And do you have a passport?’
‘Nie.’
‘I mean a Polish passport?’
‘Nie. But I have identity papers. The other policemen are taking it.’
‘How about a National Insurance number?’ said Anderson.
‘Nie.’
‘So you’ve not been claiming any welfare benefits since you arrived in this country?’
‘Nie.’
West, irked by Dubrowski’s insolent smile, leaned back in her chair, making no attempt to conceal her distaste for his seemingly arrogant attitude.
‘What do you do for money, Mr Dubrowski?’ she said accusingly. ‘How do you buy food or pay bills or your rent?’
‘I do many works,’ he said, ‘all different. The peoples I am working for pay me cash.’
‘I see,’ said Anderson, smirking as he sensed a guilty charge, ‘and are you aware that that is illegal?’
‘Yes. I am caught. It’s okay.’
Anderson glanced at West and scratched the back of his head, flabbergasted at Dubrowski’s almost surreal sense of honesty.
‘Kestrel Cars,’ said West, tapping her biro on the desk. ‘How long have you been working for Kestrel Cars?’
‘It’s not long,’ said Dubrowski. ‘One month maybe.’
‘And they pay you cash as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said Anderson, ‘seems like they’re in a whole heap of trouble too. Do you make a habit of biting the hand that feeds you, Mr Dubrowski?’
‘Biting hand?’
‘You drive for Kestrel, they pay you, that’s how it works. So why steal their vehicle? Have you been taking fares without telling them?’
‘No. Of course not. Well, one or two maybe.’
‘Great, that’s another one to add to the list. So, when were you planning to return the vehicle?’
‘I was going to take it back tomorrow. I don’t have car. I thought one or two days, they won’t mind so much.’
West slammed her pen on the desk, stood with a sigh and began pacing the room, forcing Dubrowski to swivel in his seat in an attempt to follow her.
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ she said, stopping directly behind him, ‘they mind very much indeed. How do you know Lars Gundersen?’
‘What is Lars?’ said Dubrowski.
‘What is Lars?’ said West. ‘Lars is the man we found in the back of your taxi. Lars is the dead man we found in the back of your taxi.’
‘Ah, him. I did not know he was…’
‘He was what?’ said Anderson. ‘Lars? There? Dead?’
‘Where did you pick him up?’ said West, cutting in.
‘In street.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes really. Man telephones me, tells me to collect him at exactly three-thirty and take him to ship.’
‘So it wasn’t Kestrel that called you?’
‘Nie.’
‘And it wasn’t Mr Gundersen?’
‘Nie. It was other man. He says he will pay me when I arrive at boat.’
‘What other man?’ said West as she returned to her seat. ‘Who will pay you?’
‘The man who telephones me. He gives me lots of works.’
‘His name?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dubrowski shrugging his shoulders, ‘he is not telling me his name.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I don’t know. I am just doing the driving for him. He tells me where to go, what I must collect and where I must take it. Then I collect monies for the work.’
‘Where?’ said Anderson, intrigued by the turn of events. ‘Where do you collect the money from?’
‘Always is somewhere different. Sometimes waste paper bin on street, sometimes in toilet of pub…’
‘And you don’t think that’s suspicious?’
‘Yes of course, but is work and pays good monies.’
‘How does he contact you?’ said West.
‘He telephones me.’
‘At home or do you have a mobile?’
‘I have mobile phone. Would you like to see? Here.’
Dubrowski took the phone from his back pocket, leaned forward and pushed it across the desk towards her.
‘Which number is his?’ she said scrolling through the history.
‘Is top of the list, he is the last person who telephones me.’
‘Good. We’ll need to hold on to this, okay?’ said West.
‘Yes of course, is okay.’
‘So, going back, you got a phone call from the mystery man and you were told to pick up Lars Gundersen. Where?’
‘In village called Crosshill.’
‘He was waiting for you?’
‘Yes,’ said Dubrowski, ‘It was what you call the perfect timing. He comes from house just as I am arriving.’
‘Did you speak?’
‘Nie.’
‘So tell me,’ said West, ‘Why didn’t you take him to the docks? Why did you abort the journey and abandon the vehicle?’
Dubrowski bowed his head and sighed.
‘I… he… he said he had pain, that he’s not breathing correctly. I panic, I…’
‘Oh come off it,’ said West, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday Mr Dubrowski. You picked him around three-thirty, it wouldn’t have taken you more than twenty minutes to reach Auchincruive, but you didn’t go straight there, did you? There’s a gap of almost
twelve hours you haven’t accounted for so, what did you do?’
Dubrowski raised his eyes to the ceiling, hesitating as he floundered for an answer.
‘I panic,’ he said. ‘What to do with dead man? I go home and wait.’
‘Unbelievable,’ said West, ‘so you didn’t think to call an ambulance?’
‘Nie. If I tell them I have dead man in taxi they ask me questions and call the police and then maybe they are sending me home. To Polska. This is right, yes?’
‘Aye, quite possibly,’ said Anderson. ‘So, what about the bag in the boot?’
‘Bag? I know nothing about a bag.’
‘Is that so? Then perhaps you can tell us who gave you this?’
Anderson produced a clear plastic bag filled with bank notes and placed it on the table.
‘For the record, Miss,’ he said glancing at West, ‘they found this on him during the search when they brought him in.’
‘Where did you get this?’ said West as she examined the sealed pouch.
Dubrowski, his eyes flitting between Anderson and West, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and hesitated before answering.
‘That is what man pays me for works.’
‘I’m losing my patience now,’ said West. ‘You never made it to the docks, you never put Gundersen on the boat, so you never got paid, did you? Last chance.’
‘It is my monies, I am saving little now, for…’
‘You’re saving Norwegian kroner? How much is here?’
‘Ten grand, Miss,’ said Anderson, ‘that’s about a grand in sterling.’
‘Incredible. Okay, I’ll refresh your memory for you, shall I, Mr Dubrowski? You found the money in Gundersen’s wallet which was in the bag in the boot of the car. Right?’
Dubrowski stopped smiling and lowered his head.
‘Take him away, Constable,’ said West, ‘you can charge him with vehicle theft, robbery and failing to report a death. With any luck by this time tomorrow we’ll be adding abduction and murder to the list.’
* * *
West, desperate for something to eat, trudged her way wearily up the stairs from the basement and groaned with despair as a middle-aged lady, obviously lost, accosted her by reception.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘sorry, dinnae mean to bother you but do you work here?’
West’s shoulders slumped as she turned to face the smartly-dressed woman.
‘Unfortunately, yes. How can I help, madam?’
‘I was told my friend was here, would you happen to know where he is?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to give me more than that,’ said West.
‘Sorry, my head’s mince. Tomek. His name’s Tomek Dubrowski. His boss says he was brought here just this morning.’
West, her curiosity roused by the seemingly unlikely pairing, raised her eyebrows and regarded her inquiringly.
‘And you are?’
‘Clare. Clare MacAllister.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant West. Mind if I ask you a few questions, Clare?’
‘Aye, ask away but do you mind if we sit down, these heels are killing me. So, is he here then? Is he in some kind of bother?’
‘Tell you what,’ said West, ‘how about we stick to me asking the questions for now, it’ll be quicker that way.’
‘Sorry. On you go.’
‘Thanks. So, how long have you known Tomek?’
‘Och a wee while now. Just over a year I reckon.’
‘And am I right in thinking he’s your… partner or boyfriend?’
‘Are you joking me?’ said MacAllister laughing. ‘Where’d you get that from? Listen, he’s nice to be with but he’s not marriage material, if you know what I’m saying.’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘Look, Sergeant, I’m getting on, I’m single. Tomek’s just a wee bit of fun, okay?’
‘Gotcha. And how long have the two of you been having fun together?’
‘Oh, that’s a recent thing,’ said MacAllister, ‘a few months maybe but I had a feeling it would happen sooner or later. He’s this look about him, you know? Something a wee bit… dangerous.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ said West. ‘How did you meet?’
‘Work.’
‘Work? Sorry, but if you don’t me saying so, you don’t strike me as the kind of person who’d move in the same circles as someone like Tomek.’
MacAllister squinted at West and tapped the side of her nose as if imparting some profound piece of wisdom.
‘Every ship needs a captain, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘and every ship needs someone in the boiler room, too.’
‘I see,’ said West, ‘and this ship would be?’
‘Sorry, the restaurant of course. I’m the manager. Tomek used to work in the kitchen as a washer-upper.’
‘Used to?’
‘That’s right, he’s not with us anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well I gave him a trial period to start with, casual like, you know, cash in hand and I was impressed. He worked awful hard, not a complaint about anything so I thought I’d take him on, permanently.’
‘Well, he must’ve been made up about that, right?’
‘Aye you’d think so,’ said MacAllister, ‘except Tomek didnae have the right, what shall we say, documentation, so he left. Pity but it’s all his own fault. There’s ways of doing things, Sergeant, the right way and the wrong way.’
‘You don’t say,’ said West, sighing as she realised the conversation was going nowhere, ‘so what did he do after that?’
‘Oh, bits and bobs but he got himself a wee taxi job just recently. I think he’s doing okay with that.’
‘Good for him,’ said West as she stood to leave, her mind wandering with thoughts of lunch, ‘just out of interest, Miss MacAllister, this restaurant where you work, where Tomek worked, is it here?’
‘No, no, but it’s not far. Prestwick.’
‘Oh right, not one of those overpriced places at the airport, is it? Twenty quid for a cheese roll?’
‘No, no,’ said MacAllister, laughing, ‘it’s not one of them. It’s in town. Carducci’s.’
Chapter 8
Lunch for Dougal was – more often than not – a predictably boring affair comprising beef or tuna paste sandwiches on thick, white bread which he’d prepared himself, wrapped in tin foil and sealed in a Tupperware box a few hours earlier. The spontaneity of having a toastie foisted upon him with no prior knowledge of the contents increased his appetite ten-fold. He dusted the crumbs from his fingers, tossed the papers in the bin and wiped the satisfied smile on his face with a paper napkin.
‘Thanking you, Boss,’ he said appreciatively, ‘it’s been a while since I had one of those. Went down a treat.’
‘You’re more than welcome, Dougal,’ said Munro. ‘Perhaps by way of recompense you’d care to make a brew.’
‘Coming up.’
‘Did you find anything on Carducci?’
‘I certainly did,’ said Dougal, ‘I found having a name like Carducci makes my job a heck of a lot easier. That Porsche he drives, it’s not his, it’s a lease but like you said, he’d still have to sell a shedload of lasagne to pay for it.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Aye, costs over a grand a month.’
‘A fool and his money,’ said Munro. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not really, well, nothing out of the ordinary. They’ve been on their holidays. Three times this year already…’
‘Three?’ said Munro, surprised. ‘And that’s not out of the ordinary? Dear God, I’m lucky if I get two days in Auld Reekie. And that’s in a caravan. Anywhere nice?’
‘Cannae say, I’ve not been myself. Italy mainly.’
‘Perhaps it’s something to do with his family.’
‘There’s something else, Boss,’ said Dougal as he filled the teapot. ‘The passport Buchanan was carrying, you know, in the name of Lars Gundersen?’
‘Go on.’
‘I got the Royal Norwegian Embassy in London to run a check on it and they say it’s legit. I’ve even got an address for him. It’s an apartment in a place called Loddefjord, a suburb of Bergen.’
‘Bergen?’ said Munro, ‘Well, that’s where Buchanan or Gundersen appeared to be heading so it makes sense.’
‘Aye, but here’s the thing,’ said Dougal, frowning as he scratched the back of his head, ‘I did some research on Loddefjord and to be honest it’s not the kind of place you’d buy a holiday home; high unemployment, lots of council housing and a problem with substance abuse that makes Glasgow look like a centre of abstinence.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye, so I’ve sent his details to the Hordaland District Police. Maybe they’ve heard of him. It’s just that, I don’t know, it’s just not the kind of place someone like Mr Buchanan would be associated with.’
‘Right enough,’ said Munro, ‘but perhaps his alter-ego has a darker side. Let me know if they find anything untoward. Now, I’ve just had a very interesting meeting with…’
Munro paused as West stumbled through the door, the stressed look on her face dissipating as she spied the brown paper carrier bag sitting on the desk.
‘Jimbo, you’re back!’ she said as she moved towards it, ‘is that…’
‘Aye. All yours. Sausage and brown sauce.’
‘God, I could kiss you, my stomach was beginning to think my throat had been cut. You not having any?’
‘I’ve had two,’ said Munro.
‘Blimey, you’ve got a healthy appetite.’
‘Not half as healthy as that Miss McClure.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said West, grinning. ‘She hungry for you then?’
‘Put it this way, Charlie, if music be the food of love, then that lassie’s a walking juke box. How’d you get on?’
‘Uniform are charging the taxi driver as we speak,’ said West. ‘His name’s Tomek Dubrowski and we’re doing him for vehicle theft, robbery and failing to report an ex-Norwegian. They’re running some more checks too, see if he’s got a record or anything.’
‘Okay, good.’
‘Plus, he’s been working illegally, doing something very dodgy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Dunno yet, haven’t figured it out but I reckon he’s a runner of some sort,’ said West handing Dougal the mobile phone, ‘do me a favour, first number on the list, see if you can trace it please.’
Duplicity Page 6
