Duplicity

by Pete Brassett

  ‘Mick?’ said Dougal. ‘You mean Mick the junkie from this morning?’

  ‘I do indeed. And a very beguiling chap he is, too. Did you know he’s into poetry?’

  ‘Poetry?’ said West.

  ‘Aye, he’s an educated chap. He’s reading Ted Hughes just now. I recommended Seamus Heaney and I’m of a mind to fetch him a copy from the bookshop tomorrow.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ said West. ‘You spent the best part of the evening down on the beach talking poetry with a drug addict?’

  ‘Not the entire evening, no. We had some other business to attend to.’

  ‘God you’re stretching this out,’ said West, ‘get on with it.’

  ‘We’ve arrested the gentleman who murdered Toby.’

  ‘What?’ said West, flabbergasted.

  ‘Well, when I say murdered I mean, indirectly,’ said Munro. ‘He’s the fellow who sold Toby the gear. Had quite a stash with him too.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Nothing is best.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said West as she eased herself onto a chair. ‘I mean it. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Not necessary.’

  ‘All the same, these dealers, the scabby little low-life runts in their pimped-up cars with wads of cash, they need to be...’

  ‘Actually,’ said Munro, ‘he wasn’t like that at all. To the contrary, he was quite a mature chap, fifty plus at least; in a clapped-out Quattro.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye. Took me by surprise too. Funny thing is, he actually seemed quite relieved to have been caught. I dinnae think the fellow was cut out for that particular line of work. Goes by the name of Kincaid.’

  ‘Well, well done you,’ said West, ‘now let’s eat. Dougal, you staying for dinner?’

  ‘Och, I cannae stay, Miss,’ said Dougal, ‘it’s getting late and I should be going.’

  ‘Oh come on, there’s plenty to go round. Lamb chops, mash and gravy.’

  ‘You cannae argue with that, laddie,’ said Munro, ‘and you could do with beefing up.’

  ‘Aye okay, go on then. Thanks.’

  ‘Right,’ said West, ‘Dougal, plates over there. Jimbo, more wine please. Meanwhile, I shall… hold on just a minute, what the hell did you just say?’

  ‘Me?’ said Munro, looking surprised. ‘I’ve not said anything.’

  ‘Yes you did, the name. The name of the dealer you nabbed.’

  ‘Him? Kincaid. John Kincaid. Why?’

  ‘He’s only their bloody accountant. Buchanan and Carducci. He’s their sodding accountant.’

  Chapter 17

  There was a time when friends and neighbours would have queued up to eulogise about the mild-mannered John Kincaid who – with a talented daughter working overseas and an attractive wife whose career was on the up – once epitomised the archetypal family man until, that is, a chance meeting between a sales executive and Mrs Kincaid in a hotel in Bruges sparked the divorce which left his friends falling by the wayside and him wallowing in a one bedroom flat with nothing for company but a television set and severe depression. However, despite his losses and an overwhelming regret for having ever become embroiled in his somewhat illegal extra-curricular activities, he was intent on maintaining his dignity and sat with his tie firmly knotted, his hair combed and his hands resting on his ample belly.

  ‘Mr Kincaid,’ said West as she entered the interview room with Munro in tow, ‘how nice to see you again.’

  ‘Oh it’s you, Sergeant, the feeling’s mutual I’m sure. It’s always nice to see a familiar face when one finds oneself in unfamiliar circumstances.’

  ‘If you say so. This is Detective Inspector Munro.’

  ‘I recognise you too, Inspector,’ said Kincaid with a subtle nod. ‘Are you not the gentleman who stopped me in the car park last night?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ said Munro, taking a seat. ‘So, down to business. Do you know how this works, Mr Kincaid?’

  ‘I’ve seen a bit on the telly but I’m not quite sure how accurate that is.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll keep it brief. Just tick the appropriate box: coffee, tea, lawyer?’

  ‘I’m fine just now.’

  ‘As you wish. Now, where shall we start?’

  ‘I find the beginning is often the best place to start,’ said Kincaid politely. ‘Will I go first?’

  Munro glanced at West and smiled, amused by Kincaid’s ardent and frankly unexpected approach to the questioning.

  ‘Be my guest,’ he said. ‘In your own time.’

  ‘Right you are. Well, let’s see. I’ve been an accountant for thirty-five years, roughly speaking, and that’s an awful long time to be doing something that’s neither stimulating nor financially rewarding.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Munro, ‘but I was under the impression folk in your line of work earned what I’d refer to as a “king’s ransom”?’

  ‘I wish it were so, Inspector,’ said Kincaid, his well-enunciated voice suggesting a background and an education somewhere near the top of the social ladder, ‘unfortunately a couple of hundred pounds for preparing a company’s returns isn’t what I’d call satisfactory recompense for the work involved.’

  ‘Well I stand corrected. So you were looking for other ways of supplementing your income, is that it?’

  ‘Not intentionally, no. I certainly wasn’t destitute but an opportunity presented itself which meant I could afford to provide a little more for my daughter and my wife. Ever since the divorce…’

  ‘Sorry,’ said West, interrupting, ‘I don’t mean to be rude but, divorce?’

  ‘Aye. Last year,’ said Kincaid. ‘Fourteen months to be precise. It was quite the surprise I can tell you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My wife. She met somebody else and announced she was leaving.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said West, ‘if she chose to leave you then why are you…’

  ‘It’s just my way, Sergeant,’ said Kincaid. ‘I’ve no idea if the fellow she’s taken up with is capable of providing for her or my daughter and I do tend to worry so. That’s why I gave her the house and the motor car.’

  ‘You’re too generous.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it’s my daughter that concerns me. She doesn’t have much, working for a pittance thousands of miles away with orphaned orangutans or other such beasts. She’s basically a volunteer so I send her something every month.’

  ‘And where are you staying just now?’ said Munro.

  ‘I rent a flat in town. It’s small but it’s comfortable.’

  ‘So money’s a wee bit tight?’

  ‘It can be a struggle, yes, so when I was propositioned…’

  ‘To start dealing drugs?’

  ‘I prefer to think of it as “the sale and distribution of reality-suspending supplements” but you’re quite right of course, it’s drug dealing by any other name and it was an opportunity too good to miss.’

  ‘Okay, so let’s get down to the nitty-gritty,’ said Munro, ‘who was it exactly that propositioned you? Was it one of those wee hard men who hang around the housing schemes or down by the river?’

  ‘No, no. Actually it was an old client of mine. A Mr Carducci.’

  ‘Carducci? Are you joking me?’ said Munro, almost toppling from his seat as he scrambled to his feet. ‘By jiminy, what the devil is that man playing at?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow, Inspector?’

  ‘No, no, you’re alright, Mr Kincaid. I’m just thinking aloud, that’s all.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So when was this?’ said West, ‘I mean how long have you…?’

  ‘Since the divorce really. The timing couldn’t have been better. I’d just parted with a sizeable sum for the deposit on the flat, you see.’

  Munro stood with his arms folded and his back to the wall wearing the kind of pained expression often associated with the thought of root canal surgery.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Kincaid,’ he said, ‘who kept you supplied with the
drugs? Was it Carducci himself or did you collect them from somewhere? A lock-up perhaps?’

  ‘No, no. They were delivered to my office,’ said Kincaid, ‘sometimes a large padded envelope, sometimes a small holdall, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Was that not a wee bit risky?’

  ‘No. The other folk in the office simply assumed they were documents pertaining to work. Either that or I was away for the night.’

  ‘And who delivered them to you?’ said West. ‘A courier? Not Kestrel Cars by any chance, was it?’

  ‘No. Actually it was a rather attractive lady.’

  ‘Really?’ said West. ‘You must have got to know her, what did you talk about?’

  ‘We never spoke,’ said Kincaid, ‘she just smiled as she handed over the goods.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘I’m afraid not but if it helps she was slightly younger than myself, I’d say. Dark hair and what I suppose you’d describe as Latin features. She may have been Spanish I think.’

  ‘Anita Carducci,’ said Munro.

  ‘Anita Carducci?’ said Kincaid. ‘Would that be Mr Carducci’s wife?’

  ‘Aye, it would.’

  ‘Well, well. I never realised it was a family business.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Munro, sighing as he returned to his seat. ‘Nor did I.’

  Kincaid, his lips pursed, looked at him and shook his head sympathetically.

  ‘I must say, I don’t envy you your job, Inspector,’ he said, ‘it seems awful complicated compared to mine.’

  ‘You can say that again. Let’s get back to your new career. So, you’re away selling drugs to folk who cannae afford them and everything’s going fine until the English gentleman expires on your patch and we arrive, is that it?’

  ‘Pretty much, aye. That’s about the size of it.’

  West, intrigued by Kincaid’s candour, leaned back in her seat, nibbled the top of her biro and regarded him curiously.

  ‘What about the cash, Mr Kincaid?’ she said. ‘The cash you made from the punters, what did you do with that?’

  Kincaid’s eyes flashed furtively around the room before settling on his lap.

  ‘I used to leave it in an envelope for her to collect each time she dropped off a new batch,’ he said with head bowed. ‘That’s generally how it worked.’

  ‘Used to?’ said Munro with an inquiring tilt of the head. ‘You used to leave it in an envelope. When did that stop? What changed?’

  Kincaid’s eyes dropped shamefully to the floor.

  ‘It was another… opportunity,’ he said. ‘I can’t think why I did it, I’m not impulsive by nature, you understand. It was a… mental aberration.’

  ‘What was?’ said West, growing impatient.

  Kincaid took a deep breath.

  ‘I was away for my lunch,’ he said. ‘When I returned to the office I noticed a small, black bag, the kind you’d carry a computer in, sitting by the side of my desk. I knew what it was immediately and one of my colleagues said the lady had dropped it off. I went outside and telephoned her. I asked of her, when was I to expect to the next delivery and as expected, she said she’d already been. Well, it was a rash thing to do, I realise that now, but I claimed not to have received it.’

  ‘You were trying to pull a fast one?’ said West, excitedly. ‘You were trying to get one over on them?’

  ‘I was,’ said Kincaid. ‘I thought if I could sell some of the goods myself and not have to settle for a paltry slice of the profits, I could relax about the rent and send some more to Catherine. That’s my daughter.’

  ‘So that’s the missing bag,’ said Munro.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Something Anita Carducci mentioned, that’s all.’

  ‘So what did she say?’ said West. ‘When you told her you didn’t have the bag, I mean she must have been furious.’

  ‘She was,’ said Kincaid, ‘but I thought to myself: what can she do? She couldn’t very well return to the office and ask who’d stolen her drugs now, could she?’

  ‘You crafty beggar. So what happened?’

  ‘To use a term common to my chosen profession, Sergeant, they had to “write it off”.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous game to play, Mr Kincaid,’ said Munro, ‘other folk would’ve had you bobbing in the Clyde by now.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Inspector. I must admit, with hindsight, it probably wasn’t one of my best ideas.’

  ‘But you got away with it,’ said West. ‘Did you sell it all?’

  ‘I did. But now that poor fellow’s dead. I never to meant for anyone to die.’

  ‘Well unfortunately they did,’ said Munro, ‘however, if it’s any consolation, we’ve no other bodies to report so I doubt it was a bad batch. I’d say he probably suffered an adverse reaction to the stuff so chances are it would have happened sooner or later.’

  ‘That’s not much of a comfort, but thanks all the same.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West as she stood, ‘I think that’ll do for now, Mr Kincaid. Just to finish off, so far as you know, there’s no-one else involved?’

  ‘No, no. Not as far as I know.’

  ‘And you’ve nothing to say in defence?’ said Munro.

  ‘I’m not here to protest my innocence, Inspector. I am, as they say, guilty as charged and I deserve everything I get.’

  * * *

  Munro stood to one side as Kincaid, smiling as though he’d successfully navigated his way through a particularly gruelling interview for the post of chief accountant with a multi-national conglomerate, was escorted back his cell.

  ‘So come on, Charlie,’ said Munro quietly, as he closed the door behind them, ‘tell me what you think.’

  West, leaning against the wall with both hands hanging from her belt loops, stared back, frowning as she rolled over the facts in her head.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, sagaciously. ‘Wanna know what I think? I think Buchanan and Carducci were in this together.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree.’

  ‘And I think Remo Carducci has played us perfectly. He’s been stringing us along, acting like the innocent fool to keep us off his back.’

  ‘Good,’ said Munro, allowing himself a subtle smile, ‘but they’re not the only folk involved here. What else?’

  ‘Okay. Anita Carducci and Angus Buchanan,’ said West. ‘They were having an affair, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So I reckon, if it was Anita Carducci making the transfers from the bank and the money was going into an account held by Lars Gundersen…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘…and Angus Buchanan was carrying a passport in Gundersen’s name, then the two of them were planning to do one. Run off together. Clear out the account and do one to Loddefjord. What are you grinning at?’

  ‘You, lassie,’ said Munro as he reached for the door. ‘You’ve not only found your feet, you’re standing on them too. I can see you’ll not be needing me much longer. In fact, I think my work here is done.’

  ‘Oh no, no,’ said West, ‘you don’t get out of it that easily, we’re not done yet.’

  ‘We’ll see. So, what’s your next move?’

  ‘We need another word with Carducci, but not at home. We need to bring him in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what? That’s it. Why are you shaking your head?’

  ‘What about Buchanan?’ said Munro.

  ‘What about him? He’s dead.’

  ‘Precisely. But he didnae die of natural causes, did he?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said West, ‘he was murdered.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Dubrowski. He topped him for the money.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, of course, that’s what he… no. That’s not it, is it? Too easy. Kill someone for a couple of grand in foreign currency?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Munro. ‘I can hear your brain ticking from here, lassie. Get to it.’

  ‘
It was death by meth,’ said West, biting her bottom lip, ‘so… got it! Dubrowski didn’t kill Buchanan off his own back. Someone told him to do it.’

  ‘Nearly there.’

  ‘It was Carducci. Remo Carducci!’

  ‘At last. First prize goes to the lassie with the tortured brow. Shame it’s not a car with plenty of legroom. Now all you need is a motive.’

  ‘A motive?’ said West, groaning with frustration. ‘Oh, for crying out loud, dammit! I was on a roll and now I’m stuck.’

  ‘You’re not stuck, Charlie. Just think.’

  ‘I can’t, brain’s gone dead. You know, don’t you? Well, don’t keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Far be it for me to proffer an opinion,’ said Munro, ‘but if our friend Mr Buchanan was syphoning off the money with the help of Anita Carducci to finance their new future together then…’

  ‘Then Remo must have known what they were doing!’ said West, grinning as the penny dropped. ‘He knew they were taking the money or… or he knew they were having it away together. Or both. And that’s why he wanted rid of him.’

  ‘You’ve redeemed yourself, lassie. Well done. So what will you do now?’

  ‘Damn. We need to see Dubrowski before they take him away.’

  * * *

  Dubrowski, intimidated by the ominous silence, dropped the cocky expression he was so fond of wearing and regarded West with a look of concerned confusion as Munro, standing behind her, glared at him for what seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Who told you to kill Angus Buchanan?’ said West bluntly.

  Dubrowski glanced at Munro and smirked.

  ‘Nobody is telling me this,’ he said as his arrogance resurfaced, ‘as I say before, I am doing it for the monies.’

  ‘Where did you get the rock from?’

  ‘The rock?’

  ‘The crystal meth you rammed down his throat.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘You see, Mr Dubrowski, if it was the money you were after, you could’ve just mugged him and legged it.’

  ‘Yes, maybe, but then he is knowing it is me who…’

  ‘So you killed him?’ said West. ‘So he couldn’t identify you? Fair enough. Things is, I could understand it if you’d stabbed him. Or strangled him. Or broken his neck, even. But the meth?’