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

by Ed James

  ‘Well, that is good news, I suppose.’ Jain tapped her nose and pointed at him. ‘So the other three amigos are long-haul smackheads with a high tolerance?’

  ‘Pretty much, except it’s one amigo and two amigas.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Shepherd clapped his hands together, like a blast of thunder. ‘Right, so here’s the game plan. DI Davenport’s got an appointment with Chantal’s boss in drugs this afternoon, down in Fettes. But he wants us to get around this now.’

  Hunter smiled. ‘Meaning you’re in charge?’

  ‘Correct. Chantal and I will go through her old cases, see if there’s anything we’re missing.’ Shepherd leaned back against the door, hands in pockets. ‘Craig, Scott, I need you to go to this gym and work out, see what you can shake loose on this Viper.’

  Cullen frowned. ‘We’re going undercover?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘No, Scott, this isn’t undercover. You’re just swapping down to street clothes to gather information. And those street clothes will be gym gear, so get home and get your kit or you’ll have to do it in your underwear.’

  Cullen winced. ‘I might have to buy some workout clothes.’

  Jain grinned. ‘What, because you’ve obviously never been to a gym?’

  ‘Aye, very good. No, my running gear’s all sweaty. Three ten k’s on the trot this week.’

  ‘Running’s a mug’s game.’ No two ways about it, Hunter was flexing for her benefit. ‘Trouble is, Luke, I’m a member at Rock Hard.’

  ‘Craig, that’s excellent news. You’ll blend right in.’ Shepherd sprang away from the door and clapped his hands again. ‘I don’t expect a result any time soon, okay? But two people almost died. If we can get a collar, we can show those drugs pricks how to do their jobs.’ He smiled at Jain. ‘Present company excepted.’

  ‘No, they are pricks, Luke.’ She was smiling back. ‘Total bastards.’

  Cullen was going to have to be the dick here, wasn’t he? ‘Should we be doing that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, we were out picking up Rebecca thingy for—’

  ‘Scott, she’s got a name.’

  ‘Aye, aye, but we were supposed to be tracking her down and—’

  ‘This is top priority now. Davenport says it’s the only way to clean up the streets.’

  Cullen just bet Ally saw it that way and not a chance to soak up some glory for himself.

  8

  Hunter

  The drone of the treadmills, the clanking of weights, the throb of chart dance music, the stink of sweat from the leather pads on the machines because nobody ever cleaned them after getting their sweaty backs all over them.

  Aye, Hunter found it great to be back in the gym after all those days watching Cullen crunch spreadsheets and speaking to people who definitely didn’t see anything, no sir.

  Hunter was wearing his usual gym gear, the baggiest stuff he could find. Keep the air circulating. Long grey tracky bottoms and a blue hoodie. Like he was the dealer. Just his lime-green running shoes to indicate any money spent at all, but they looked like they’d seen better years.

  Cullen, though. Christ. His trainers looked far too white. And he had one of his idiot flatmate’s T-shirts, so faded that the text was illegible. Probably a stupid in-joke. Still, the shorts were a good fit, especially in the mirrors all over the place. Showed that the daft sod did actually have some muscles, even if they were all in his legs. That was running for you… And of course he made a beeline for the treadmill.

  Hunter grabbed his T-shirt and tugged him back, then got in his ear. ‘We’re not here to run, we’re here to train with the big boys.’ He pointed across the massive room, past the fixed-weight machines, the kind a weed like Cullen would have to psyche himself up to even think about looking at, over to the free weights in the corner, where the muscle monsters worked out. ‘See?’

  A gang of big lads, all at least twice the size of even Hunter. Two stood either side as another pumped away at the bench press, the bar moving up and down with grace, even though it bowed and wobbled from how much weight was stuck on either end.

  Twat.

  ‘See those guys?’ Hunter pointed at them. ‘They’re the idiots who are in here all day, every day.’

  ‘Don’t they have jobs?’

  ‘If they’re lucky, they’ll get some modelling work.’

  Cullen snarled. ‘Modelling?’

  ‘Aye, photo shoots. Big business for lads like that. But most of the time they’re in here, working out. And see the size of them? You don’t get that big from protein shakes.’

  ‘Protein what?’

  ‘Scott, they’re on steroids. And I’m guessing the Viper has either been dealing it to them or whoever has knows who the Viper is.’

  Another guy stood with a similarly bulging bar bell gripped at waist height. A boxing champion’s belt wrapped around him, gloves on, grunting and moaning like a Viking, then he lowered the heaving weights down to the mat, his face twisted into a grimace, then eased them back up again. Then again and again.

  Romanian deadlifts. Hardcore.

  He eased them down one final time and rested them on the mat, no thunk, no wobble.

  A whoop of applause burst out.

  ‘Big Rob!’

  ‘You da man!’

  The one who’d been bench pressing slapped the dead-lifter on the back. Nothing moved. Big Rob looked like he’d been made in a volcano. Smelted. And now he wasn’t gurning from the effort, Hunter knew his face from the gym, and could now put a name to it. The few times he’d seen him, Hunter clocked him as the alpha around here, with a load of betas swarming around him. Big Rob, eh?

  ‘Come on.’ Hunter marched over and grabbed a forty-kilo kettlebell from the rack against the wall. ‘What’s the celebration, boys?’

  ‘Just beat my personal best.’ Big Rob wandered over and stood next to them, spraying water into his mouth from a branded bottle, one of those protein companies, but the plastic was faded off. The smell of sour sweat poured off him, drenching his cream T-shirt a muddy beige. ‘Three hundred kilos, on the nose. Ten reps.’

  ‘That include the bar?’

  Rob nodded. ‘Sure does, sir.’

  ‘Impressive.’ Hunter clutched his own paltry weight’s handle with both hands and rested it between his legs, then thrust with his hips, driving the weight up until it swung back, then he squatted down and repeated the movement. ‘I’m lucky to clear two hundred.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye. But I’m talking vanilla deadlifts, not your Romanian ones.’

  ‘Much harder starting from standing.’ Another spray of water into his mouth.

  Cullen picked up a kettlebell half the size of Hunter’s and tried to do the same exercise. On the third swing, the kettlebell flew out of his hands.

  Big Rob caught it one handed, by the handle, and swung it round. He tossed it up in the air and brought it down with a grace nothing like his size suggested. ‘Steady there, my man. Can take someone’s head off.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe not with that weight. And your stance is bollocksed.’

  Cullen didn’t take the bell back off him. ‘Ah, you bastard.’

  Hunter was at twenty reps now. He set the weight down and walked over. ‘What’s up?’

  Cullen held up his hand and it looked like something from a crime scene, all bloody and sore. He’d torn some skin on his left hand, the palm side of the knuckles. He took the weight back from Big Rob with a nod, then rested it between his feet. Last thing he seemed to want was to start it up again. ‘My fingers are burning.’

  Big Rob was drinking water again. ‘Get some gloves, man.’

  ‘Gloves?’

  ‘Aye.’ Rob showed off his hands. Massive and stuffed into work gloves. ‘Those bells are great for functional strength, but bad for manicures.’

  Hunter’s hands were callused from barehanded kettlebell swings.

  Cullen held out his palms, soft and pale.

  Big Rob grabbed them a
nd stroked across. ‘The hands of an office worker. You’re new to this, aye?’ He shifted his grin to smile at Hunter. ‘Whereas you’re not. Seen your face around.’

  Hunter dropped to his hands, kicked back, did a press-up, then kicked back up again and ended with a jump. ‘Aye. Been a member a couple of years.’

  ‘Nice burpee, pal.’

  ‘Just a warm-up.’

  ‘Aye? You lifting weights?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So, you looking to get big?’

  ‘Bigger, anyway.’

  ‘Won’t get there with pounding kettlebells and doing burpees, eh?’

  Hunter repeated the burpee, then shrugged after his jump. ‘I do deadlifts four times a week. Vanilla ones, unlike your Romanian ones.’ He nodded behind Big Rob. ‘Want to get to three hundred this year.’

  ‘Big goal, that.’

  ‘I’ve done it before.’

  ‘Aye, but you should be doing benchpresses and bar squats, pal.’ Rob walked over and lay down, then pulled the weight off the rack and started lifting, up and down, slow and steady. ‘I’d ask one of you pair to spot me, but it’s not like both of you together could hold even the bar.’

  Hunter laughed it off, but he was puffing hard, now on his tenth burpee. ‘So how would you get big?’

  ‘Twenty!’ Rob pushed the bar back and got up, flexing like a bugger. Under his slicked vest, he was ripped. Shredded. Whatever the latest term was, he was it. Not an ounce of fat. That brown leathery look you saw in muscle mags, just not oiled up. ‘You’re talking about for Woody Allen here, aren’t you?’

  Cullen arched his eyebrow. ‘Charming.’

  Hunter smiled at Cullen. ‘Aye, he can’t raise a smile, let alone a kettlebell.’ Not for the first time, Cullen was the subject of a chat he was present for. The kind Hunter liked best. Hard to see him ever making the grade as a DC, but he was Hunter’s way into Big Rob’s head here. ‘He’s just starting out, but wants to get serious, really quickly.’

  Big Rob slapped Cullen’s arm. ‘You’re quite lean, Woody Allen. I’m guessing you’re a fireman?’

  Cullen stared hard at him, with the bright eyes of a trained liar. ‘No, I work at Alba Bank.’ He blew air up his face. ‘And I’m just bored, you know? Need a hobby.’ A flash of eyebrows. ‘And getting ripped might help with the lassies.’

  ‘And the laddies!’ Big Rob thumped Cullen’s arm, almost toppling him over like skittles. ‘Maybe you need a PT.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Physical Trainer.’ Rob was flexing again. ‘I mean, I used to be a streak of piss like you, but you need a lot of whey protein to be anything other than a fat slob.’

  ‘So you’re offering to train me?’

  ‘Sure am.’ Rob walked over to them, grabbing them both in his massive arms. He took a drink from a second bottle, something green that smelled like it had come out of someone. ‘Know the best way to get big?’ He was whispering. ‘Supplements. And pills.’

  ‘What kind of pills? Steroids?’

  ‘Not steroids, mate.’

  ‘But you do get steroids, aye?’

  ‘Mate, steroids are yesterday’s business. SARMs are where it’s at.’

  ‘SARMs?’

  ‘No idea what it stands for. Could be changing my gender, who knows, but this stuff I get is off the charts.’

  ‘And it’s legal?’

  ‘Ish.’

  ‘You got any?’

  ‘How much do you want?’

  Bingo.

  9

  Bain

  I switch off the engine and let out the mother of all yawns. One of those ones that feels like it could go on until next Tuesday. At least. Been a hell of a long day already and it’s only quarter past eleven. Christ on a bike, eh? And my guts are churning something rotten. Two haggis and tattie scone bagels is maybe a bit too aggressive with my constitution, but it’s tough to turn them down when they’re just sitting there.

  I pop open my door and let the freezing air in. ‘This fuckin’ city.’ I shake my head. ‘Swear it’s about five degrees colder than Glasgow.’

  ‘You haven’t got used to it after all this time, eh?’ Sharon McNeill’s in the passenger seat, face as sour as if she’d drunk a pint of curdled milk. Big lassie, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but she can handle herself. And the look she’s giving me right now, Christ. Hardest part of this gig is I didn’t get to choose my detective sergeants. ‘Five years now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just over, aye.’ I step out into the pissing rain and I swear it’s like the water’s making a beeline for my moustache. Should really shave the thing off, but I’ve taken so much stick for it over the years, don’t want the pricks to think they’ve won. It’s like a badge of honour, isn’t it? I trudge through the rain and this coat isn’t exactly putting up much of a fight against the elements.

  Rock Hard Gym, all lit up in glowing lights, way brighter than it should be. I mean, it’s like in that Blade Runner film, where everything’s all dark but the signs are super-bright. Got the Definitive Cut or Final Cut or whatever to watch on Blu-Ray, one among very many sitting in a pile by the fancy new telly that’s still in its box.

  Anyway, the place is deserted, stuck on a back street at the arse end of the Cowgate. No matter how much of a rip-off Edinburgh is for business, there’s always wee places like this burrowed away in the ground.

  Normally, I’d let the lady go first but bugger that, it’s freezing and I’m dripping wet, so I charge into the place before McNeill.

  Fuck me with a lightning rod, it’s even colder inside, like the air conditioning’s turned up to eleven. Or down to eleven. Can never remember which.

  Place has all that stripped-back shite you get nowadays. Rather than plastering the walls, it’s just bare stone. Edinburgh stone, so fuckin’ damp and reeking. Not much in the way of partitions, either, so I can see a lassie hammering the treadmill, her ponytail swinging behind her.

  Place absolutely mings of caramel-y sweat and I can feel the bass thrumming in the soles of my feet. Christ.

  Some clanking of weights come from the back. Meaning there’s a bunch of muscle boys working out in here. Hence the pong of BO. Dirty bastards never clean after themselves.

  The door rattles behind us and McNeill slides in, shaking off her brolly and catching us in the face with her spray. Doesn’t even apologise. Didn’t even offer me a place under it. She grins at us. ‘You look like you’re going to work out in here.’

  ‘More your scene, eh?’

  ‘Just because I’ve got a Personal Trainer, doesn’t—’

  ‘Too much testosterone for you?’

  She sighs at us, then switches it to a smile, like that’ll deter us. ‘Something like that.’

  Not enough, more like. I stroll on up to the counter and lean against the desk. Fancy green thing made of glass, right up at standing height. No sign of a bell or anything. ‘Shop!’

  A machine stops whirring and someone thumps down to the floor. The lassie on the running machine walks over to us, sweat absolutely pishing off her. Hair looks dry as my arse after I’ve wiped, mind. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Only if you work here.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, then.’ I take out my warrant card and hold it out. ‘DI Brian Bain. This is DS Sharon McNeill.’ I wait to let the lassie nod at her, not that she’s giving me anything. ‘Know where I can find an Alexander Drake?’

  ‘He a member here?’

  ‘No, we gather he works here.’

  She doesn’t look like she gives a flying fuck about being caught out in a lie. ‘Right, so you mean Sandy?’

  ‘Aye.’ Who fuckin’ knows? ‘Been to his flat, but no sign of the lad.’

  ‘This in connection to that court case?’

  I just raise my eyebrows.

  She sits on a stool behind the desk and grabs a towel off the floor. Dirty cow. It’s smeared with fluff and lint. ‘Told me about it. Some lassie was lying about him rap
ing her.’

  Not my case, darling, but I let it slide. She’s obviously tight with the raping wee bastard, so better play along. ‘Something like that.’

  She runs her towel through her long hair and bunches it up over her skinny shoulder. ‘Sandy’s been to hell and back over that, you know?’

  ‘Can well imagine. So, is he here?’

  ‘Nope. He’s in court. Like you just said.’

  ‘Well, see, that’s the thing. He got let go for the rest of the day. Then my boss told me to find out if he had anything to do with the witness against him not showing. Like I said, we’ve just been to his flat. And he wasn’t there. He ever talk about any friends that he’d visit in a time of need?’

  Shakes her head at us. Christ, she’s not giving me anything to work with here. ‘Could ask around for you?’

  ‘That’d be smashing.’ I drum my fingers on the desk, like I’m thinking everything through. ‘You got any staff records here?’

  ‘Why would that help?’

  I look around the gym. ‘Place like this, I imagine you lot are PTs as well as working the desk, right?’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Well, if he’s been a PT to someone whose name I or DS McNeill recognise, then that’d be a red flag. Especially if it’s recently. Capiche?’

  She scowls at us, then drops the towel back on the floor. ‘I understand, but why should I help?’

  ‘Because he wasn’t exactly straight with you. Mr Drake did rape that woman. Becky Crawford. There’s DNA evidence.’

  Her shoulders collapsed. ‘Shite.’

  ‘So, anyone he might’ve been associated with, we’d like to speak to them.’

  She’s nodding now, but looks a wee bit shocked. ‘It’s all on the computer through the back.’

  ‘Mind showing me?’

  ‘Got a warrant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re not leaving unless I check, are you?’