by Ed James
‘Right. Wouldn’t want to let your muscles cool down too much from your run, eh?’
‘I get it. Come on.’ She stands up and she’s actually a wee bit taller than yours truly. Still not as big as McNeill, mind, who is chatting some shite to her as we walk through the place.
Now, there’s a lassie who needs a nickname. Sharon McNeill. Everybody in my team’s got a really solid nickname, but she’s managed to escape it so far.
Well, I don’t have one. Unless Bri counts. And those sneaky wee shites might have one for us that I don’t know. But you can’t control what people say behind your back, can you?
Given it’s still early, this place is pretty busy. Daft laddies by the bench press grunting and grinding away. Something clatters and someone shouts something. Might be a nickname. Aye, it must be.
See? They’re everywhere. Terms of affection, endearment, you choose what word you use, but it’s how you build a team that wins, that achieves great things. Camaraderie.
The reception lassie stops by a door and opens a cupboard, barely a metre deep. A computer sits on a desk that you have to stand up to type on. What’s the point in that? Waste of energy. She types away at the machine. Still don’t have her name, which is something I need to rectify. Christ. She’s taking her time, likes.
‘Reading War and Peace there or something?’
She looks around at us. ‘The owner likes to keep meticulous records. Finding stuff is more an art than a science.’
‘That right, aye?’ Doesn’t look like she’s wiping anything, but I’ve no idea what wiping anything would look like, eh? That computer must be older than me.
And my guts are burning… ‘Here, anywhere I could go for a jobbie?’
The lassie looks around at us like I’m five. ‘Changing rooms.’ She points over to the side.
‘Excellent. Thanks.’ I charge off quick smart as this one isn’t going to wait. The door swings open and I take a quick look. Three numpties sitting by the lockers, and a row of stalls on the right. Fuckin’ bingo. I tear into the first one and drop my drawers, then my arse onto the cold seat, then drop my guts into the pan.
Fuckin’ hell.
That’s the bambers, I tell you. The surge of relief. Must be like bungie jumping or diving out of a plane with a parachute, whatever that’s called.
And it’s all over, bar the screaming. I bunch off some bog paper from the wee box machine and wipe away, though it’s dry as fuck down there.
Makes us think about that bog roll the old boy swears about, the medicated stuff that doesn’t so much wipe as smear it all about. Izal or something.
‘So, you take these, you’ll get a lot bigger.’
Woah, hang on a wee minute here.
‘I mean, you have to train your nuts off every day, but these things will help you push past your upper limit and will let you train for hours. And you’ll get massive with the right programme.’
A pause.
‘You boys smell that?’ The first voice.
‘Aye, like a dog’s been in here.’ Another pause. ‘So, how much?’
‘Ten quid for a sample box.’
‘And after that?’
‘We’ll come to an arrangement. But you’ll get solid results just from that little lot.’
Another pause. ‘What do you think, Craig?’
‘I’d do it, aye.’
Fuckin’ drug deal. Just stumbled onto it. In the name of the wee man.
I drop the last of the bog paper into the pan and stand up. Better not flush in case they hear me.
‘Right, well, here’s a tenner.’
Got my cameraphone out now, primed for a photo. I point it over at the lockers and ease the door open. Snap, snap, fuckin’ snap. Money one way, gear the other. And I. Catch. It. All.
Daft bastards.
‘Police!’ I hold out my warrant card. ‘You three are under arrest.’
They all swing around to look at us.
One’s a scrawny wee boy-band prick, but the other two are muscle monsters. Shite. Haven’t quite thought this through.
Bugger it. When in the lion’s den, act like the fuckin’ lion. Or something.
‘Now, I hope you boys don’t think about running away from me.’
The absolutely massive one does, aye. He darts right towards me and spears me against the door. It flies open and I fly free, stumbling back into the bog I’ve just left, cracking my spine against the wall.
Left foot down in the pan, right on top of the jobbie I’ve just dropped.
‘Fuck’s sake!’
The big bastard is standing in the doorway, arms raised in a boxer’s stance.
I whip out my baton and lash out at the prick, catching him in the throat.
He chokes like he’s swallowed a monkey nut whole, shell and all, and goes down.
Give his vest a good rub with my foot, clearing most of my dung off the smooth soles. Prick’s not going anywhere.
But his mates have.
Ah, shite.
I shoot back out into the gym and, in the name of the wee man, the little boy-band prick is running around the gym, followed by McNeill.
Doesn’t notice his shoe laces are untied, mind. He stumbles and she kicks his feet out from underneath him, then McNeill goes to town on him, pushing him face first into the floor.
The receptionist is standing next to us, mouth hanging wide open. ‘Christ, what’s that smell?’
My fuckin’ shoe is what! Christ!
But enough of this nonsense. ‘Sunshine, you’re under arrest. You and your big mate in the cludgie through there. Dealing and buying controlled substances. Tut tut.’
But the wee boy-band wanker looks up at us and whispers, ‘I’m a cop. Acting DC Scott Cullen.’
10
Cullen
Arrested.
Christ’s sake.
Cullen stood by a purple Mondeo and looked around the car park. No sign of Hunter. Typical — he’d always bugger off at the first sign of trouble.
The female officer who’d taken Cullen down was ducking Big Rob’s head, forcing him into the back seat of an orange Fiat Punto. The man mountain looked broken and bruised.
Cullen looked at the older cop, with his headmaster moustache and Hitler haircut, a greasy side parting. The one who’d done that to Big Rob. And the one who absolutely reeked, like he’d shat himself. ‘I told you, I’m a cop.’
‘You’re lying, son.’
‘No. We’re working and we don’t want to blow our operation.’
‘Fuck’s sake. Get in.’ He grabbed Cullen’s shoulder and pushed him in the back of the Mondeo.
Cullen let him do it and sat on the seat. The car was filled with crushed cans of syrupy energy drink. The door slammed, a bit too loud.
Moustache got behind the wheel and swivelled around, lashing bitter coffee breath over Cullen’s face, a pleasant break from the smell of shit. ‘Son, you need to think this through.’ He widened his eyes. ‘If I’m being generous, and I believe you, and you were trying to arrest that big lump, then that’s fine. If that’s the case, then you need to play along to maintain whatever cover you’re trying to keep here with your tight shorts.’
‘Of course it’s the truth.’
‘But, if you’re lying, then I’ll add this to your charge list.’
‘I work for DS Luke—’
‘Lie.’
‘My badge number is—’
‘Show us your card, dickhead.’
‘My warrant card’s in my locker.’
‘Then we’ll find it. But I don’t think it exists.’
Cullen needed to play along with his game. He focused on him and it was like staring at an oncoming train. ‘Okay, I’ll play along, but you owe me your name.’
‘DI Brian Bain.’
‘CID? Drugs? What?’
‘The former. Based down in Leith Walk.’
‘Who’s your DCI?’
‘You cheeky wee bastard.’ Bain shook his head. ‘Jim Turnbull.’
‘Right.’ Cullen had no idea who he was, but then he didn’t know many cops above DS level.
‘You sitting there acting like you know him. Cheeky sod. You could pretend he took a training course you were on once.’
‘Right. He did.’
‘Very pleased for you, sunshine.’
‘Look, I’m based in St Leonards. Get my warrant card and—’
‘Never heard of warrant cards being faked, eh?’
‘Then I suggest you call DI Ally Davenport to verify my identity.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘What about DS Shepherd?’
He frowned. ‘Big Luke?’
‘You know him?’
Bain was beaming wide. ‘Why didn’t you say?’ He got out and hollered over. ‘Sharon, can you call DS Shepherd? Think we’ve got two of his suspects.’ The door clicked shut.
Cullen sat back in and folded his arms, waiting.
‘You get him?’
Cullen jumped and hit his head off the roof.
Hunter was sitting in the passenger seat, craning his neck around. ‘Well, did you get Big Rob?’
‘Jesus, Craig, how did you—’
‘Tell me you got him.’
‘Aye, he did.’
‘Good.’
The driver door opened and Bain got in, but left the door open. ‘Son, you’ve got ten seconds to get out of my car before I arrest you.’
Cullen leaned forward. ‘He’s my DC.’
Bain switched his gaze between them, before settling on Cullen. ‘Thought you said you were a DC?’
‘Training. Acting. Whatever you want to call it.’
Bain huffed out a sigh. ‘So Big Luke’s got you two fannies working a gym? Sounds like bollocks to me. Suspect Big Luke arrested you two a while ago and he’s the name you know.’ He jabbed a finger into Hunter’s bulging arm. ‘What’s your story, then?’
‘It’s a long one. Short version is we’ve got a lead on a dealer here. We were trying to get some steroids, see if we can find him. Found someone willing to sell us some stuff without much asking. Stands to reason it’s either him, or he knows who’s dealing heroin in there.’
‘So you’re spending a ton of time trying to snare some daft sod over steroids?’
‘No, it’s heroin. The bodybuilding gear might be connected.’
‘Heroin?’ Bain winced. ‘You two drugs squad?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘CID.’
‘So why are you investigating drugs?’
‘It’s in conjunction with DI Wilkinson’s team. He’s on secondment over there. Him and DC Jain. You know Paul?’
‘That big wanker. Right.’
‘You believe us, or what?’
‘Let’s just say you seem seasoned enough to be partnered up with an ADC to train and be a good laddie. And being a bit more savvy on the street than this Cullen chump here, you slipped out when that big bastard slammed us into a stall?’ He thumbed behind him again. ‘Whereas your pal here got caught.’
‘Pretty much.’ Hunter’s nostrils twitched. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Never you mind. What’s your name?’
‘Craig Hunter. And the big bastard who slammed you in the toilets is—’
‘That sounds like a gay thing.’
‘Your words.’ Hunter was smirking. ‘Your guy’s name is Big Rob. Robert Woodhead, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Could be Woodford or something similar.’ Hunter held his gaze. ‘Mind telling us who you are?’
‘I’m the lead DI at Leith Walk. Jim Turnbull’s had a favour called in and been asked to find the defendant. Hence us being here.’
‘The defendant?’
‘You are aware of the legal system, aye? They teach you it at Tulliallan on your first fuckin’ day.’
‘No need to be a smart arse.’
‘I’ve every need. Was it your boss who let a chief witness not show up at court?’
Hunter frowned. ‘DI Davenport, aye. Why?’
‘So, when the witness didn’t show, court was adjourned until they found her. Right? Trouble is, he was remanded in custody because you don’t give bail to scum like him. But when they adjourned the trial, his bloody lawyer argued for bail. Stringent conditions, mind, but Campbell McLintock knows his onions. And he’d surrendered his passport, but nothing actually stopped him from reporting said passport lost and getting a new one. Only for him to bugger off.’
‘So you’ve been asked to find him?’
‘Something like that. Alexander Drake. Know him?’
Cullen looked at Hunter, frowning. ‘Drake could be the Viper?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘What you two on about?’
‘Almost lost two homeless women to super-strong heroin this morning. Tracked it to a smack dealer who we think works out of here.’
‘Fuck sake. Got three deaths related to that.’
‘Sorry to hear it. But that’s all on the word of—’
Bain’s door opened wide and DS McNeill poked her head into the car. ‘Spoke to Luke. It all checks out.’
Bain smoothed down his moustache, examining Hunter and Cullen for a few seconds each. ‘Well, off the pair of you fuck.’
Cullen frowned at him. ‘That’s it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Cheers.’ Cullen smiled at McNeill. ‘Commiserations on having to work for him, by the way.’
Bain laughed. ‘She’s learning from the best cop in Lothian and Borders, sunshine.’
Hunter smirked. ‘That’ll be Jim Turnbull, aye?’
‘Me, you fanny.’ Bain reached over and grabbed hold of Hunter. ‘But your collar’s in her car, so we’ll have to take you back to ours so we don’t blow your cover with that big lump over there. Don’t want Luke losing his drugs prosecution on account of your incompetence.’
Cullen looked around at Hunter, then back to Bain. ‘Or you could let us go now.’
‘I can’t let you go, you stupid bastard. You were buying drugs off him!’
‘So, pretend it’s a mistake. A misunderstanding. Let us go. All of us.’
‘He fuckin’ smashed me in the bogs!’
McNeill was frowning. ‘He what?’
‘Not you as well.’
Hunter raised his palms, callused over like tree bark. ‘We both need intel off Big Rob. He might know where this Alex Drake’s gone. I’m betting he knows who the Viper is and if it’s Drake. Either way, we need to find the Viper before anyone else buys his heroin.’
Bain drummed at the steering wheel a few times, then looked around at McNeill. ‘What do you think?’
She shrugged. ‘Does it matter what I think?’
‘Suppose not.’ Bain snorted. ‘Right, you can go. Take that big fanny too. And I suppose I’ll see you at this fuckin’ Christmas party tonight.’
Hunter opened his door. ‘You might want to change your shoes first.’
11
Hunter
Big Rob was fuming. Slamming his gym shoes into his locker, the din rattling around the changing room. He was stripped to the waist. Not even a roll of flab, though he moved like a sloth. All that muscle weighed. He bent down to hoik his shorts off and stood up, his ding-dong right in Hunter’s face.
Hunter had to look away. ‘Christ, man. I don’t want to talk into the mic.’
Rob looked down at his cock and laughed. ‘Sorry. Just…’ He sat down with a sigh. Everything hung loose, except for his muscles. ‘That was a close shave, man.’
Just like his pubes. And his body. Not even a strip of hair on his belly, no circles around his nipples.
Hunter looked up at the ceiling. ‘Aye, very close.’ Just like Rob was right then. ‘What did she ask you?’
‘She just sweated me. Asked where I got the ‘roids from.’
‘You tell them anything?’
‘I’m a very careful man. I’ve only got enough for me here. Nothing like the quantity a dealer would need. Always knew at s
ome point they’d take me to their cop shop, make me sweat. So not giving them an inch.’
‘Aye, that’s what I was fearing, hence me fucking off.’
Rob narrowed his eyes, and Hunter looked up at the ceiling again. ‘Why did you run?’
‘Because. I slipped out when you attacked that cop.’
‘I know. Just asking why?’
‘Well, got a few arrest warrants out.’ Hunter held out a hand. ‘Nothing dodgy. Just went AWOL from the army.’
Rob laughed. ‘You too?’
‘Wanker of a Staff Sergeant had it in for me.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Rob sighed, deep and desperate. ‘They do you too?’
‘No. And I know bugger all. Except for your roids. And you seem like a good guy.’
‘Rob.’ He took his hand away from cupping his balls and thrust it out to Hunter. ‘Rob Woodhead.’
‘Craig Hunter. I’ll not shake that after where it’s been.’
‘Aye. Good point.’
‘So, you work out here a lot?’
‘Every day, except a Saturday. That’s when I flob out on the sofa, watch some shite on the telly, eat junk food. Two pizzas, a Nando’s chicken, bag of tortillas, twelve cans of beer. Feed my body, then burn it away the rest of the week.’
‘That work for you?’
‘Aye, man.’ Big Rob pulled out a pair of trousers and stepped into them, commando-style. ‘And I do OMAD the rest of the time.’
‘OMAD?’
‘One Meal A Day. All my calories in one go. Keeps me lean.’ He slapped his belly. ‘You serious about bulking up?’
‘Thinking about getting into flexing, aye.’
‘Tough gig. Used to be popular, but it’s tough to make ends meet now, like. Have to have a big job to get in there.’
‘A big job? I thought you’d have to train full-time?’
‘No way, man. The gear you need? Costs a bomb now. Need to earn a lot or have sponsorship to pay for it. Like your pal.’
‘My pal?’
‘The banker. Woody Allen.’
‘Right. Aye, like him. Too much money, eh?’
‘Aye. Seems like a runner. Where’d he go, by the way?’
‘Cops took him.’
‘Shit. Why?’
‘Cheeky bastard. Said something he shouldn’t have.’