Dead in the Water: When Cullen met Bain (Cullen and Bain Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 5)

by Ed James

  ‘Deano, let her have it.’ Kenny was out of the car now. Behind her. She could feel his breath on her neck. Maybe he wasn’t that close, but she could feel it.

  But Deano didn’t return it. He pocketed it instead and folded his bulky arms across his big chest.

  Nobody was around. Nobody to step in. The rain thundered down now, soaking Becky and this Deano guy, his black T-shirt turning the same tone as the car. He seemed to grow in size, like he was soaking up the rain. Even though Becky was faster than him, heels plus rain put her at a disadvantage.

  ‘Sorry, Becks. Deano’s got a mind of his own, eh?’ Kenny clapped her arm and it was like she’d been electrocuted.

  She reached out to slap him.

  Kenny grabbed her wrist. ‘Becks, Becks, Becks. Come on, doll. I’ve been very patient with you. Mr Vardy here is a mate of mine and he’s not impressed by your attitude, are you Deano?’

  ‘Not at all, Kegsy. Not in the slightest.’

  ‘Give me my phone.’

  Kenny’s voice was in her ear. ‘I would, but you’re not going to need it, are you?’ He was closer now and she could definitely feel his breath on her neck. ‘Let’s have us a wee chat out of the rain, shall we?’

  ‘Look, I’ve got somewhere to be.’

  ‘Becky, we know where you’re going.’ Kenny pressed something into her back. Something hard and sharp. ‘Court, where you’re going to tells lies about one of our pals. Thing is, we need you to not do that. I’ve tried being nice, Becks, really I have, but you haven’t listened, have you?’

  If she just co-operated, then maybe it’d be over soon. But if she struggled? Made a noise? She could see the menace in Deano’s eyes. And as for Kenny? She knew.

  But this was her one chance, wasn’t it?

  ‘Kenny, you can’t stop me from doing this. I need to.’

  ‘It was a simple misunderstanding.’ Kenny pressed the object against her. A sharp blade pierced her leather jacket and jabbed into her back. ‘Now, how about you spend some time here with Deano?’ He opened the door and pushed her into the car.

  3

  Cullen

  Mid-morning and the station was as noisy as the worst circle of Hell, or at least Acting Detective Constable Scott Cullen’s idea of it. The Incident Room was dark. No natural light, no windows, just the smell of thirty sweating bodies toiling away at a case that was already dead in the water.

  And the shared secretary with the shrill voice that could cut through diamond, let alone the din of bored cops. ‘Good morning, Lothian and Borders. How can I help?’

  Cullen tried to drown it out, tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of him, but it was a constant distraction. Not that he could justify wearing headphones while he worked.

  ‘Good morning, Lothian and Borders. How can I help?’

  FOCUS.

  Cullen’s screen showed a list of cars the ANPR system had caught at various steps along the City Bypass, coming on and going off. Five days’ worth and he had way too many hits for the stretch they were interested in at the time they were interested in. Five in the morning should’ve been dead, but no. Half of Edinburgh was birling around the Bypass. Each hit was a visit, a chat, maybe some lies, but probably nothing that would help their case any.

  ‘Just putting you through now.’ Pause. ‘Good morning, Lothian and Borders. How can I help?’

  Cullen sat back and slurped coffee from his stained mug, just the right side of warm. ‘Complete waste of time, isn’t it?’

  DC Craig Hunter huddled into the desk next to him, knees wedged under the wood. Six foot four and big with it. Short-sleeved shirt to show off his arms, but it made him look less a cop and more like a MacDonald’s manager. ‘Only thing you love more than yourself is moaning.’ Then that cheeky grin to show it wasn’t meant maliciously. The strip lights caught his scalp through his shaved hair, just a couple of millimetres of stubble and freshly mowed, though he’d missed a patch on the side.

  ‘Craig, Craig, Craig.’ Cullen sat back, feeling that prickle of heat he got from pushing a confrontation too far. ‘I know you’ve got me doing this because you struggle to switch on your computer, let alone run the data from the ANPR, but—’

  ‘Seriously, Scott.’ Hunter slid his hand across his head. ‘It’s called “Division of Labour”. I’ve been doing this job years now. You’re my Acting DC. You learn from me. Got it?’

  Cullen paused, then gave a cheeky grin back. ‘How about you show me how to work this spreadsheet, then?’

  Hunter looked at Cullen’s screen, then sniffed. ‘Because that way you won’t learn anything. And shite rolls downhill.’

  ‘See, if you looked at it, you could’ve spotted that I’ve already got twenty-six hits before I’ve added in the—’

  ‘Twenty-six?’ Hunter rolled his chair closer. ‘How?’

  ‘I know.’ Cullen tapped the screen. ‘Twenty-six cars. Meaning twenty-six owners we need to speak to.’

  ‘Great.’ Hunter let his head bounce off his desk. ‘People just love speaking to cops the week before Christmas.’

  ‘Not that they ever do.’ Cullen finished his coffee, now the wrong side of warm, and looked around the office. Maybe another cup would help? That tingle he got from too much caffeine, deep in his guts, but this was boring work and he needed to concentrate.

  DI Ally Davenport stepped out of his office, the open door letting in some natural light and giving a brief glimpse of the view over to Arthur’s Seat, the muscular hill a short walk from the station. Tall as all old-school coppers should be, his thinning hair greased back like a mobster from a film. Black suit, black tie, as though he was heading to a funeral. And chewing gum, the smacking of his lips the only sound that Cullen could hear louder than his secretary’s voice. He pointed at someone near Cullen and beckoned them over, then slid back into his office.

  Across the desk from Cullen, DS Luke Shepherd hauled himself to his feet like a ten ton truck getting over a railway bridge. As tall as Hunter, but his bear-like build was natural bulk rather than a skinny bugger who spent too long in the gym. Just had to look at a cheeseburger to put on a stone. ‘And here we go.’ A mutter, probably didn’t even know he was saying it out loud. Shepherd slouched off over to the office, tugging at the jacket flapping behind him, the off-the-peg suit not exactly tailored to his mass. Probably lucky to get one in his size in Tesco’s Value range.

  Cullen leaned in to Hunter. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Probably Davenport looking for an arse to kick when this case goes further south than it’s already heading.’

  Cullen nodded but, really, he didn’t see it was that bad. ‘You don’t think these number plates will—?’

  Hunter laughed. ‘Scott, you’ve got a lot to learn.’ He rasped the stubble on his head. ‘If those plates had any danger of leading anywhere other than a wild goose chase, Shepherd’d be doing it himself. Or he’d have given it to Yvonne. It’s busy work, Scott, hence him giving it to me, knowing I’d get you to do it. It’s just making sure it looks like Lothian and Borders police have done the job. End of.’

  Cullen followed his logic to its natural conclusion. A defeated sigh. ‘Right.’

  ‘Good morning, Lothian and Borders. How can I help?’

  ‘That sighing’s becoming a habit.’

  If that was the case, he just needed to knuckle down. Soak up the busy work, get a name for delivering, then get something a bit juicier.

  ‘No time like the present, eh?’ Cullen sat forward and filtered the list to include names and addresses.

  ‘I mean, you could just bugger about with this for a few days, wait until we’ve caught a wrong ‘un or they’ve shunted this down to the cold case lot. A week until Christmas. No doubt some numpty will stab another numpty over one too many at the office party.’

  ‘Craig, I’m off on holiday tomorrow.’

  ‘Shite, I forgot.’ Hunter’s turn to sigh now. The weight of the realisation that he’d get the joyous task of visiting these
people himself, and without an ADC to blame any inadequacies on. He squinted at the screen. ‘Shite, shite, shite. This is going to take days. You got numbers for them?’

  ‘That’s what these are, Craig. Number plates.’

  ‘Phone numbers, you arse.’

  Cullen felt himself blushing. No amount of time would ever get him ready for this role, would it? ‘That’s next.’

  ‘Good morning, Lothian and Borders. How can I help?’

  Hunter was frowning at him. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Just, you look like you’re going to burst into tears.’

  Cullen had to blink a few times.

  ‘Scott, I get it. You’re new to the team, struggling with the role, whether you’ll ever make the grade.’ Hunter was smiling. ‘I’ve been there. I know what it’s like. But I’ll look after you, okay? Make sure you’re vaguely competent in a couple of decades. Or if it doesn’t work out, it’s not for everyone. And there’s no shame in being in uniform. Take Finlay Sinclair, for instance. He couldn’t cut it in CID, but he’s a solid street copper. Takes a great deal of pride in preventing crimes that arseholes like us investigate, eh?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Seriously, Scott.’ Hunter waved over at a meeting room. ‘We can go and have a chat if—’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Cullen laughed, but he felt sick. And like he needed to cry. Christ! He nodded over to Davenport’s office. ‘But what do you think’s going on in there?’

  ‘Probably got a call in for some resource to go to the Jambo’s protest today. Bunch of arseholes.’

  ‘Says a Hibee.’

  ‘Don’t knock the Hibs, Scott. And you’re a sheepshagger, right?’

  ‘For my sins, aye. Where I grew up, you chose either of the Dundee teams or the Dons.’

  ‘So why Aberdeen? Why not Celtic or Rangers?’

  ‘Come on, Craig. Really?’

  Hunter laughed. ‘Fair enough.’

  Cullen leaned forward though, swallowing hard. ‘Think Davenport’s asking Shepherd about me?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Well, my tenure’s up in a couple of months. Then I’ll be back to uniform.’

  ‘My worst nightmare.’ Hunter blew air up his face. ‘Probably take a header off the Forth Road Bridge if I got shunted back. Like that lad in Forensics last week.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Like I say, Scott, I’ll look after you.’

  ‘Good morning, Lothian and Borders. How can I help?’

  Cullen stared at the rows of data on the screen, trying to figure out how Hunter was going to actually help him.

  The office door swung open and Shepherd darted over, hands in pockets, mouth hanging open. He stopped by their desk and snorted. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re talking about Hearts and—’

  ‘Lads, if you’re talking about football when you should be working, then—’

  ‘Sarge.’ Hunter held up his hand to cut him off. ‘I was going to say, and their fans protesting at Tynecastle at lunchtime.’

  ‘Aye, bollocks you are.’ Every so often, Cullen would catch snatches of Shepherd’s Borders accent, especially the long drawn out “aye”, more like an “oyyy”.

  ‘Seriously.’ Hunter sat back, head resting on his hands. ‘And we were devising a strategy to speak to all these number plates Scott’s found in the case. Twenty-six of them.’

  ‘Christ on a bike. I expected three, maybe four.’ Shepherd shot his gaze between them. ‘Right, well, you’re thick as thieves you two.’ He raised a finger. ‘Make sure you behave yourselves at the Christmas party tonight, aye?’

  Hunter folded his arms. ‘Why are you giving us that message?’ He nodded over to the office. ‘Ally think we’re trouble?’

  ‘Asked me to mention it to everyone, but you two were mentioned explicitly.’

  Hunter looked away. ‘Not even sure we should be having a big piss-up in the middle of a murder inquiry.’

  ‘I get that, Craig, but it’s for morale. And it’s a Friday night. Don’t make us look bad, eh?’

  Cullen held up his hand. ‘We barely drink, Luke. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Aye, like hell you don’t.’ Shepherd cleared his throat and looked back to Davenport’s office. ‘Anyway, I need you pair to come with. We’ve got to follow up on a no-show at a court appearance.’

  4

  Hunter

  Portobello beach bathed in the winter sunshine, a million miles from the kind of dusty hellholes DC Craig Hunter had spent so many years in. Way too many years. The promenade was busy; mums with prams, a horde of young school kids going to the swimming baths. Escaping Porty, just to end up back here. Great.

  Shepherd hammered on the door again. ‘Bloody, bloody hell. She’s run off, hasn’t she?’

  Hunter looked round. ‘Thought Ally spoke to her?’

  ‘I did.’ Shepherd sighed. ‘She said she was on her way. Trouble is, a rape victim has to stand up in court to face her attacker. Odds are stacked against them. And our current system means we have to do everything in CID. Murders, robberies, assaults, rapes. We should shift to the Met’s model. Major Investigation Teams. Then it wouldn’t be us having to do this sort of thing. Specialists.’

  Hunter could see a future for himself in that world. Interrogate the raping bastards, bring them to justice. Support the victims, help them through to convictions. ‘Sounds like you’ve got inside information, Sarge.’

  ‘Wish I did, Craig.’

  Cullen came from down the lane, shaking his head. ‘No sign of anyone in there. Lights are off, no telly or music playing either.’

  Shepherd grinned at him. ‘This will be good practice for you when you get back to uniform in a few months.’

  Cullen shot him a glare, mouth hanging open.

  ‘Just messing, Scott.’

  Cullen frowned. ‘So I’ve got a tenure?’

  ‘Not my place to say. I am sure Davenport will be in touch before the New Year, though. You know most of these acting gigs are for a year. And if you aren’t being picked up, then first of January is a great time to return to the street.’ Shepherd hammered the door harder and shifted his pattern. ‘Miss Crawford? It’s the police.’ But his slumping shoulders showed he’d given up.

  Hunter leaned against the sandstone, arms folded. ‘Any ideas, Sarge?’

  ‘She works at this bookshop in town mornings. Pub in the evenings.’ Shepherd frowned off into the distance. ‘But I think she’s been seeing a laddie who works there. Think he lives along the promenade, just at the start of Bath Street. He sat in on some of the interviews with her.’

  Hunter set off. ‘Where I grew up.’

  Shepherd followed, but was out of breath within a few paces. Getting his bulk to shift was clearly a struggle.

  Cullen was walking between them. ‘My running route, this.’ When he could be arsed. Lazy sod talked a good game, but couldn’t walk the walk. Or jog the jog. Wouldn’t let Hunter take him to the gym either. He pointed up towards the High Street. ‘Live just up there, Sarge.’

  Shepherd glanced to the side. ‘We’ll sort out your tenure, Scott. But it might take a while. Might go down to the wire.’

  Hunter looked back again. Seemed to have hit Cullen in the gut like a sucker punch.

  ‘Okay.’ But he wasn’t. Not at all. Almost a year working with someone, going through what they’d gone through and you knew how they reacted to most situations. And Cullen was toiling with the uncertainty.

  Welcome to CID.

  The tide was slipping back out, but still a way to go until it was at its lowest. Some days you could get half a mile out to sea. Some days Hunter wished he could stay out there. Out to sea, some idiot was in a speedboat, tearing up the deep blue.

  Hunter closed on the swimming baths, with the kids queuing up in pairs, hand in hand. The last bench on the wide open area was occupied. And Hunter stopped dead.

  Happy Jack sat on the bench, nodding his head in time to
some inaudible soundtrack, mouthing words only he could hear. He was skinny, but his Santa Claus beard made him look older and heavier than his years. And he seemed to have cleared any surplus the British army had, and was wearing it all.

  A memory flickered in Hunter’s brain. The darkness at the edge of his eyesight. The stars in the middle. The smell of dusty desert heat. The taste of gun oil. The feel of a machine gun in his hands.

  Hunter held the door open. ‘Sarge?’

  Braithwaite stood there, eyes narrowing as he held up an open hand. ‘Not sure about this, Craig. Might be a trap.’

  Footsteps rattled next to him. ‘What’s up, Craig?’ Cullen, resting a hand on his arm. ‘You okay?’

  No.

  No he fucking wasn’t.

  Every time Hunter had seen him since those days, twice in uniform and once as a detective, Happy Jack had two wives with him. His words, claiming some ownership of another two homeless lives. But now he’d doubled the ranks, with two women either side of him, hugging into him. Another two stood on the tidal defence wall in front, dancing in ultra-slow motion. More like tai chi, than a drugged-up rave or that weird thing Hunter had seen during the summer’s Festival, where a group wearing headphones danced down the Royal Mile in eerie silent synchronicity. But they moved like they were all hearing the same beat.

  Aye, Happy Jack and his wives were away with the fairies. No sign of any bottles of cider or cheap vodka. Meaning drugs.

  Just great.

  Shepherd muscled Hunter out of the way, one of the few men who could, and stood between Jack and the wives on the sea wall. ‘Shite.’ He lurched forward and grabbed hold of the woman to Jack’s left.

  Hunter shot over and stopped dead. The woman was convulsing, plumes of white foam pouring out of her mouth.

  The wife on the other side started doing the same.

  And Happy Jack didn’t care, just kept singing without sound.

  Cullen got out his crappy Nokia and held down the speed dial. ‘Control, this is ADC Scott Cullen on the Promenade at Portobello, just outside the Dalriada pub. Need a couple of ambulances. Possible drug overdoses, two adult females.’