Duplicity Read online

  DUPLICITY

  Pete Brassett

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2017

  www.thebookfolks.com

  © Pete Brassett

  Polite note to readers

  This book is written in British English apart from instances where Scottish dialect is used. For that reason, spellings of words and other conventions may differ slightly from North American English.

  You are invited to subscribe to our mailing list to hear first about new releases, books on free promotion and other special offers.

  We hope you enjoy the book.

  DUPLICITY is the fourth book by Pete Brassett to feature DI James Munro and DS Charlotte West. The previous titles are, in order of publication: SHE, AVARICE and ENMITY. Please go to the end of this book for more details.

  For John Hill. Thank you for being miserable.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Character List

  Other titles of interest

  Chapter 1

  Angus pulled up outside the house – an undeniably quaint sandstone cottage with a rambling front lawn bounded by a picket fence – nodded in the direction of the mustard-yellow Porsche Carrera parked outside, turned to his wife and winked. She shook her head, glowered disapprovingly and stepped from the car. Had it been something a little more discreet, something a little less ostentatious, then her opinion of the Carduccis may have been tempered but Italians were not renowned for their conservatism.

  Heather Buchanan was not given to bouts of jealousy but even after twenty-two years the second Sunday of each month still managed to raise her hackles. Unlike her own house which was completely devoid of clutter and regularly scrubbed to within an inch of its life, the Carducci’s home, with a plethora of empty wine glasses about the lounge, half-read newspapers strewn across the sofa and a cobweb or two hanging from the light fittings was, by comparison, positively unkempt.

  Dining with Remo and Anita was a tradition as reliable as Christmas and one which invariably ended in an evening of bacchanalian proportions thanks largely to Remo’s well-stocked wine cellar and Angus’s complete inability to look a Barolo in the eye and say “no”. Dreading the culinary marathon they referred to simply as “lunch”, Heather rang the bell and smiled politely as Remo, sporting his trademark polo shirt and beige chinos, answered the door, a welcoming grin smeared across his face.

  ‘Dinnae stand there gawping,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘we’ve a Bardolino on the go, come get yourselves a glass.’

  She handed him her coat and flinched as the pungent aroma of garlic and wild herbs assaulted her senses. Her rendition of a traditional roast – something she considered to be her signature dish – comprised a lump of meat incinerated to the point of oblivion, served with over-cooked vegetables and, if she could be bothered, perhaps a Yorkshire pudding or two, all of which could be consumed in less than twenty minutes. Anita’s version, passed down from generation to generation, was traditional in the Italian sense and, much to Heather’s annoyance, was more a test of endurance than a meal. There was always a first course, the antipasto, then il primo, then the main, and finally the dolce followed by several hours spent quaffing yet more wine on the sofa as Angus and Remo regaled stories of their not-quite-legal shenanigans as young stevedores toiling away at the Port of Troon.

  Angus, having forsaken breakfast in anticipation of the impending gastronomic delight, brushed excitedly past his wife, slapped Remo on the shoulder and scurried impatiently to the kitchen where Anita, threatening to spill from her figure-hugging dress, was laying the table with platters of salami, prosciutto, mortadella, provolone and fontina, a large bowl of mixed olives and a jug stuffed with sticks of grissini.

  ‘That looks terrific!’ he said, grinning boyishly as he ogled her décolletage.

  Anita popped an olive seductively into her mouth and tucked a tress of jet black hair behind her ear.

  ‘You’d not be saying that if Heather was behind you,’ she said, smiling as she handed him a glass of wine.

  ‘I was referring to the spread!’

  ‘Of course you were.’

  ‘All I’m saying is, it’s a feast for the eyes. And the food’s not bad either!’

  ‘You’re incorrigible. So, where is Heather?’

  ‘Probably wilting under the gaze of your husband, I imagine,’ said Angus. ‘More importantly, what utterly delectable delight are you serving up today?’

  ‘Arrosto d’Agnello all’Arezzo,’ said Anita, with an exaggerated flourish of the hands.

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that. What is it?’

  ‘Leg of lamb with garlic, rosemary and lemon.’

  ‘Great, can’t wait to see the look on Heather’s face.’

  ‘Fond of her lamb, is she?’

  ‘Aye, but she’s not so keen on the garlic!’

  Heather, face flushed, sauntered into the kitchen with Remo in tow, his hands gently gripping her shoulders as though he were steering a scooter.

  ‘It’s awful warm in here,’ she said, ‘is it me, Anita, or do you have the heat on?’

  ‘It’s you hen,’ said Angus, smiling mischievously, ‘you’re suffering from what they call acute Remo-i-tis, you should know by now the old Latin temperament is closer to boiling point than your own. If you’re not careful you’ll end up with third degree burns.’

  ‘He’s not wrong,’ said Anita, laughing, ‘I get a heat rash at least three times a week.’

  Heather, embarrassed by the smutty juvenile japes, slipped silently into a chair and, sipping timidly from a glass of fizzy water, enviously eyed the feast before her, glancing up only occasionally to scowl at her husband as he continued with the innuendo-laden banter.

  By the time dessert was served, Heather, having conceded somewhat begrudgingly that the linguine marina and the roast lamb was nothing less than perfection on a plate, could abstain no longer and willingly accepted a chilled glass of Limoncello which, much to Angus’s amusement, she knocked back like a shot of tequila before requesting a refill, giggling as the intoxicating lemon liqueur numbed her senses.

  ‘Take it easy, doll,’ said Remo, smirking, ‘if you carry on like that, I’ll have to carry you home!’

  ‘In your dreams, Remo Carducci. No, no. Taxi’s booked for nine o’clock as normal.’

  ‘Good. Hey, Angus, I was thinking, just yesterday as it happens, do you recall…’

  ‘Here we go,’ said Anita, ‘is it that time already?’

  ‘…do you recall that numpty who came at us with a crowbar one time?’

  ‘No, you’ve lost me there,’ said Angus, ‘oh, aye, hold on, I do. Crawford was his name. Why did he come after us?’

  ‘You mean you can’t remember? Dear God, is your memory going? The watches!’

  Angus frowned as he stared pensively into space before laughing out loud.

  ‘The watches! Of course!’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Anita, ‘what’s all this about the watches?’

  ‘See here, hen,’ said Remo, smiling as he reminisced, ‘this Crawford fella, he was minted, right? Silver spoon and all
that, always wore a suit. Anyways, he used to come all the way from Stirling to see if we had anything he could sell on for a profit.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Heather, ‘what you really mean is that he came to see what you’d managed to accidentally off-load from the ship without anyone noticing.’

  ‘Aye, if you like. Anyway, as it happens we’d a boat in from Sweden and a part of her cargo was from a jeweller, and a part of the jeweller’s shipment was a wee crate of watches. Halda, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘That’s right!’ said Angus, ‘I remember! Worth a wee fortune they were. So we said we’d procure them for him. For a substantial fee, naturally.’

  ‘And was it?’ said Anita. ‘Substantial?’

  ‘Enough to buy my first car,’ said Angus. ‘Morris Minor. Second-hand.’

  ‘So, what happened?’ said Heather, ‘I mean, why the crowbar?’

  ‘Well,’ said Remo, ‘we’d already taken his cash and arranged to meet him on the harbour road to hand over the goods when we had, shall we say, a better offer. So we took that deal instead.’

  ‘So, this fellow from Stirling, this Crawford chappie, he came at you because, what? Because you’d reneged on the deal after you’d taken his money?’

  ‘No, no, we didnae renege on anything,’ said Remo. ‘we just supplied him with some alternative merchandise.’

  ‘Alternative merchandise?’ said Anita, smiling. ‘And I wonder what that could’ve been, then?’

  ‘Rollmops. Two hundred jars of pickled herring!’

  ‘He wasnae happy, I can tell you!’ said Angus, laughing. ‘He was that mad, he came back a few hours later, crowbar in one hand and a wheel-brace in the other looking to skelp the pair of us.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could we do?’ said Remo. ‘We couldnae call the police now, could we? I mean, he was in the wrong and we were in the wrong. It was a dispute that had to be settled without the involvement of third parties.’

  ‘So come on,’ said Anita, ‘dinnae keep us in suspense. What happened?’

  ‘Well,’ said Angus, lowering his voice, ‘we didnae fancy losing our jobs or spending a week or two in the infirmary for that matter, so quick-thinking Remo here took the fellow to one side and asked him if he’d ever heard of the Carducci family. The Carduccis from Sicily. The Carduccis who had a habit of making people disappear!’

  ‘You never did!’

  ‘Aye, right enough. Never saw him again.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Remo, ‘of the fella who did buy the watches, you’ll not believe what happened to him but, before we go on, it’s time we opened another bottle, I’ll just…’

  ‘No, no,’ said Angus, checking his watch, ‘hold on, I forgot, we’ve a treat for you. I’ve left it in the car.’

  ‘A treat? And what would that be, then?’

  ‘Amarone. A 2007 Amarone Riserva.’

  ‘Thanking you!’

  ‘Be right back.’

  ‘You know something, Heather,’ said Anita as Angus nipped outside, ‘if it wasn’t for us, these two would still be on the look-out for anything off the back of a lorry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not so sure. Angus perhaps, at least you two had the family business to fall back on.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Remo, ‘but there’s only so much you can make from selling fish suppers six nights a week.’

  ‘And the cafés.’

  ‘Oh aye. Fair point. We’ve Angus to thank for that. His idea.’

  ‘Well, you make a good team so well done you but it doesn’t mean to say you dinnae need a good woman to keep you on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Remo, ‘Like the two of you never did anything a wee bit wrong?’

  ‘Never,’ said Heather, ‘well, not recently anyway. Besides, the worst I ever did was sneaking into the pictures without paying.’

  ‘So you’re not in the same league as my beautiful wife, then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Anita, smirking.

  ‘Where shall I start? How about the fags and the booze you used to sell at school? I’ll not mention where you got it from. And then there’s the make-up you could never afford but always had, and let’s not forget…’

  ‘Och, that was years ago, Remo. Ancient history. Besides, we were all at it.’

  ‘Aye, right enough, all I’m saying is: people in glass houses, etcetera. Now, what’s keeping Angus, is he treading the grapes himself?’

  ‘I’ll go see,’ said Heather, ‘daft beggar’s probably fallen over and split his head open, if we’re lucky.’

  Remo gave his wife a playful pat on the rump, grabbed the corkscrew and four clean glasses from the cupboard and headed for the lounge only to be greeted by an ashen-faced Heather standing motionless in the doorway.

  ‘What is it, hen?’ he said. ‘Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Heather stared back, open-mouthed, her lips quivering.

  ‘I… I’m not sure.’

  ‘Heather?’ said Anita, concerned. ‘What’s wrong? Where’s Angus?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s… he’s gone.’

  Chapter 2

  DC Dougal McCrae was a past master at drawing the short straw. Sunday afternoons were made for relaxing which, for most people, involved following a leisurely pursuit like a trip to the cinema or, so far as he was concerned, spending a few uninterrupted hours in tranquil bliss on the banks of a loch, rod in hand, waiting for the trout to bite – not packing up early and travelling all the way to Kirkmichael, pleasant as it was, to investigate a missing person.

  He drove to the end of Straiton Road, parked his scooter behind the two squad cars straddling the verge and watched as a couple of officers conducted a door-to-door along the deserted street while three more trudged, somewhat begrudgingly, through the meadow opposite the Carducci’s house.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, trying not to sound disgruntled as he rapped the front door, ‘Is there anybody home?’

  Remo appeared, a look of consternation on his face.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘DC McCrae,’ said Dougal, flashing his warrant card, ‘mind if I come in?’

  Heather, clutching a small glass of brandy, sat huddled next to Anita on the sofa, her angst-ridden face pale and drawn.

  ‘This here fella’s a detective,’ said Remo as he ushered him into the lounge, ‘he’s come to… well, detect I suppose.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Heather, ‘for all the fuss and bother. I know you’re meant to wait twenty-four hours before reporting…’

  ‘No, no,’ said Dougal with a reassuring smile, ‘that’s a fallacy, madam. If you’re concerned about the welfare of somebody, anybody, you can call us as just soon as you like. And you must be?’

  ‘Heather Buchanan.’

  ‘And it’s your husband that’s gone missing?’

  ‘Aye. Angus. That’s right.’

  ‘And you, Sir?’

  ‘Remo Carducci and that’s my wife Anita. Heather and Angus were joining us for lunch. We’ve already told the police out there what happened.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Sir,’ said Dougal, ‘but I’m led to believe the circumstances surrounding his disappearance are quite unusual, that’s why I’ve been asked to look into it. So, if you dinnae mind, would you run over it again for my benefit, just so’s I can get things straight in my own head?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Anita, smoothing down her dress as she stood, ‘but you’ll be needing a cup of tea, Constable…?’

  ‘Detective Constable McCrae, madam. Thanks very much. So, why don’t you tell me what happened.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ said Remo, ‘it’s all just a wee bit, well, odd. We’d finished lunch see and I was about to open some more wine when Angus said he’d a bottle in the car, so he went to fetch it.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘About three-thirty I reckon or thereabouts.’

  ‘So he went to fetch the wine and…?’
>
  ‘And that’s it. He just disappeared. We got tired of waiting for him to come back, it wasn’t long, five minutes maybe, that’s all, but he was only going to the car so Heather here stepped outside to see what was keeping him and he was gone. Vanished.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dougal, ‘and you’ve looked about the place? I mean, he’d not nipped back inside? To use the bathroom, maybe?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Heather, ‘we’ve searched the whole house from top to bottom and we’ve been up and down the street a half a dozen times and Remo’s even driven back to my home to see if he was there but it’s all locked up, just as we left it.’

  ‘Have you tried calling him? I’m assuming he has a mobile?’

  ‘He has,’ said Heather, ‘and it’s in his coat pocket. And his coat’s hanging in the hall. See here, Mr McCrae, that’s what’s so odd. The only thing he took with him was the car key and the car’s still locked and the bottle of wine’s still on the back seat. He didnae even close the front door when he went out.’

  Dougal sat next to Heather as Anita returned carrying a steaming mug and a small plate of biscuits.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘just a teabag, hope that’s okay.’

  ‘That’s perfect, Mrs Carducci. Thank you. Tell me, have you any idea where your husband may have gone? I mean, I know his departure was unexpected but, for example, does he smoke? Could he have nipped to the pub to get a packet of fags, maybe?’

  ‘The pub’s a thirty second walk up the street, Detective,’ said Remo, ‘not a three-hour hike. And no, apart from a panatella at Christmas, he doesn’t smoke.’

  ‘Fair enough. And I take it that, apart from yourselves, there’s no-one else hereabouts he might have called on?’

  ‘No,’ said Heather, ‘Remo and Anita are the only folk we know in the village.’

  ‘So, you can’t think of a single reason why he may have left so abruptly?’

  ‘Mr McCrae,’ said Heather indignantly, ‘if there’s one thing my Angus looks forward to every month it’s lunch with Sophia bloody Loren here, sorry Anita, I didn’t mean… anyways, he’d not give that up for anything.’