by Ed James
‘You guys close?’
‘Not really. His sister’s shagging my brother.’
‘Got you.’
‘You’re lucky you didn’t get taken in for your impression of The Rock on the arsehole with the moustache.’
Rob rubbed his forehead. ‘Well, he clattered me with a truncheon so it’s all fair in love and war, eh?’
‘Guess so.’ Hunter pulled his gym top up over his head and tossed it into his bag.
Rob was checking him out. ‘You’ve got a good frame, have to say. But you’ve got a lot of work to do.’
‘So, those SARMs would help?’
‘Like nobody’s business.’ Big Rob tapped his nose. ‘Thing is, what I was selling you wasn’t them. Reason the cops let us go.’
‘So what was it?’
‘Mexican diet pills. Clean you out like nobody’s business. All those calories I have every Saturday, well, let’s just say they’re not in my system very long.’
‘Got you.’
‘Boosts my metabolism too. Helps my body process protein.’ Rob flexed, cupping his palms together. ‘See?’
‘Aye, aye.’
‘And I’m not a dealer.’
‘So why sell us those pills?’
‘Thought you were asking me so you could grass on me. Get me in the shit.’
‘No, man.’ Hunter felt like this was getting away from him. Cullen was outside, ready to come in and give them another angle, but he really should be able to get something from this chump. Something now. ‘Just want to get big. And quickly. That’s it.’
‘Right, right.’ Rob tugged on a rugby shirt that was two sizes too small. Looked like he was going to tear it in half. His nipples were like bullets. ‘Okay, so I know how to get a bit of everything. Test, deca, winny, dbol, oxys, sus. You name it.’
‘And if I wanted to get a bit of something?’
‘Then I’d introduce you to this guy.’
‘Got a name?’
‘The Viper. Big guy, from Penicuik I think. Works out as much as me.’ Rob frowned. ‘Anyway, he’s into all the science. The latest steroids, Mexican drug pills, hydration strategies. Those SARMs. You name it.’
‘He trains here?’
‘Aye. Think he might be a member of staff here, but it’s hard to figure out who is and who isn’t, you know. Called Sandy.’
And Sandy might be Alex Drake, the guy Bain and McNeill were looking for.
Hunter sat back and folded his arms. ‘He the one who’s been dealing heroin?’
‘Heroin?’
‘Before I came back, I heard the cops asking my pal about it. Woody Allen. Said two women are at the ERI from dodgy smack they got from someone called The Viper. Other people are dead too.’
‘Shite.’ Big Rob collapsed back against the locker. And he wasn’t speaking.
Hunter had two options here. Get Cullen to come in, try to play the “pigs were all over me” card. Or… ‘I’m a cop.’
Rob jerked upright, looking ready to fight. ‘What?’
‘DC Craig Hunter.’ Hunter raised his hands, trying to placate him. He’d seen Big Rob in action and it wasn’t pretty.
A meaty finger jabbed towards Hunter. ‘You lying arsehole!’
‘I’m sorry. But, for what it’s worth, you got that copper good and proper. Nice work.’
‘Why did you lie to me?’ Rob looked like he was going to punch Hunter. ‘Trying to snare me?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, you could be working with those two.’
‘Mate, I got them to agree to drop your assault on DI Bain. I know DS McNeill. She’s a ball buster, but she’s someone I can deal with.’ Hunter sat back against the locker. ‘I’ve told you the truth about a lot of things, okay? That guy we’re after, The Viper? We have it from a reliable source,’ he felt himself cough, ‘that he’s been selling a batch of super-strong heroin that’s killing people. Bain and McNeill are looking for someone called Alexander Drake who works here. He’s a defendant in a rape case.’
Rob looked over, eyes narrowing. ‘Rape?’
Hunter nodded. ‘Seems to have put the frighteners on the victim. Now he’s run off and the case is falling apart.’
Big Rob flared his nostrils. ‘Christ.’
‘My assumption is he’s been dealing steroids or SARMs or whatever to you and the other bodybuilders here. But I also think he’s been dealing heroin. And he’s a rapist. So. If you know anything about him, now’s the time.’
‘And you want me to spill in return for helping me?’
‘Look, I told McNeill that they can trust you, but I don’t know… maybe I can’t. I mean, I don’t really know you, do I? I’ve just seen you in the gym. Worked out a bit together. That time you spotted my benching. I could say to them that you’re—’
‘It’s not the Viper who’s the big man here.’ Rob folded his arms. ‘He just gets stuff from him.’
‘Wouldn’t mind speaking to The Viper or to the big man. Either works.’
Rob lifted his shoulder. ‘Aye, good luck with Sandy. Got a text from him, said he’s on his way to Chile.’
Hunter felt a ton of bricks land on his shoulder. ‘Chile?’
‘Aye.’
‘He’s fleeing the country?’
‘Well, Chile’s the other side of the world, so aye.’
‘Did he say when?’
‘Took off an hour ago.’ Rob checked his watch. ‘Flight from Newcastle to Buenos Aires.’
‘That’s in Argentina.’
Rob shrugged. ‘Same difference.’
Hunter collapsed against the locker. They’d lost. Let a rapist escape. And Chile or Argentina, whichever it was. Even if we could find him, nobody is going to authorise the expense to return him from there. Cross any borders you like over there. Hunter knew a few ex-army guys who worked in Brazil and Argentina. Despite the cities being modern, it was still the Wild West out in the countryside. And there was a lot of it. Lot of cattle work, the kind of anonymous cash-in-hand work where questions weren’t even thought of, let alone asked.
Hunter locked eyes with Big Rob. ‘I need to know who this big man is. Who Drake buys his drugs from.’
‘Okay. There’s a guy here. Don’t know his name, but he’s a runner type. Pounds the treadmill for a couple of hours. And he’s been dealing from his locker.’
Hunter looked around the room, three sides stacked high with lockers. ‘You know which one?’
12
Bain
Trick with big bastards like this one is to take the lead, to own the situation, so I grab him in a big hug, even though he’s almost twice my size. ‘Luke, my man.’ Head over his shoulder, looking around the car park, but there’s no sign of the other big bugger. Just a few motors and a shitload of wind. Bit of grit catches us in the mouth. And these new shoes are already scraping at my heels. Christ on a bike. ‘Been way too long.’
‘Nowhere near long enough.’ Shepherd shoves my arms out of the way and steps out of my big manly hug. Getting them on the back foot is all part of it, though. He’s massive, in a different way to that big bastard who speared me. Big like he loves his pies. ‘So, this is on the level?’
‘So I gather.’ And I nod over at where Hunter should be, but isn’t. ‘Your lad got the lead, Luke.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Boys.’ Hunter jogs towards us, out of nowhere. He’s in his civvies, not that baggy gym gear he had on before. ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly.’
Shepherd thumbs behind him, past his clapped-out Vauxhall. ‘Craig, the station’s just five minutes that way. Even I could walk that distance in no time.’
‘Aye, aye, just wondering if you got the warrant?’
Shepherd reaches into his jacket pocket with a sly grin. ‘Ally says your arse is on the line here, Craig.’
‘Always is.’
Christ, I’m losing control of this.
I’m supposed to be the bloody DI here, not Shepherd.
So
I clap Hunter on the arm. ‘Good work, Craig. Flirting with the muscle boy in the changing rooms clearly paid off.’
He looks at me like he wants to batter the living shite out of me in a phone box. ‘Wasn’t flirting.’
‘Aye you were, you big bugger. And I took the measure of the boy in the cludgie, too.’ I give him the grin of the Banter Lord and a nod too, for good measure. ‘Anyway. Where’s your wee pal?’
Shepherd narrows his eyes at us. ‘Sent him on an errand. Some call him the donkey as he’s good at running around.’
‘Could do with something to eat. Too late?’ I hold out my brand spanking new Sony Ericsson phone. Smashing thing it is. Shiny. Can even get my email on it. ‘Shall I call him?’
‘Not that kind of errand.’
‘Right.’ Feel a bit of a wally with this prop in my hands, but hey ho. ‘DS McNeill called us on my way over. She’s got in touch with the airline. One David John Smith flew from Newcastle to Amsterdam on the one o’clock flight, heading to Buenos Aires, apparently. Thing is, if you look at the boy’s passport scan, it’s the face of Alexander Nicholas Drake.’
Shepherd doesn’t seem too impressed with my bling phone, and less so with the news. ‘So he left the court and went straight to the airport then flew under an assumed identity?’
‘About the size of it.’
Shepherd nods at the gym. ‘Meanwhile you just happened to be here, seeing if he’d gone to work?’
‘No, Luke. We’d been to his flat first.’
‘Didn’t you have his passport in custody?’
‘We had a passport, aye. Trouble is, guys like that have many, many passports. Must’ve had one on him at court, then when your lassie didn’t show up, he could bugger off down to Newcastle. Someone probably drove him, so we could—’
‘Okay, so what about—’
‘Got a European Arrest Warrant pending, Luke. You know as well as I do that those things are a nightmare at the best of times. Time isn’t on our side here. He’ll probably sleep in the terminal in the ‘Dam tonight, then get the plane first thing tomorrow. Face it, mate, we’ve lost him.’
Shepherd grimaces. Maybe he knows this is his bollocks up. ‘Another rapist walks away scot free, Brian. This isn’t good.’
‘No, but thanks to Craig and his pal, we can maybe do some good here.’ I barge between the big lumps and head inside the gym.
Place is much busier than earlier. Dance music blasts out, just at that point where you’d be unable to drown it out over your headphones, no matter how loud you have the volume “The Best of Hall and Oates” playing.
Cracking work-out music, I tell you. Gets you pumping.
I mosey on up to the desk and rest the search warrant on the desk. ‘Police, need to access a locker here.’
The same lassie as earlier looks up at us, but doesn’t recognise us. ‘A warrant?’
I run my finger over the page, signed by some chump called Davenport in time-honoured tradition. No blame attaching to me here. ‘Number forty-six in the gents. As soon as you can.’
‘You know the lockers aren’t allocated to members, right?’
‘Right. Gather this one is permanently occupied.’
‘Okay. And obviously I can’t go in there with you.’
‘But you’ve got the key, aye?’
‘I do.’
‘And is there a male member of staff on?’
‘The cleaner.’
‘Well, how about you send him in with the key.’ I take the warrant back and pocket it. ‘I’ll see him in there.’ And I charge off through the gym, past a bunch of laddies standing by the water cooler. They part like the Red Sea and shut up. Maybe talking about drugs, or just each other’s techniques. Who cares? I slide into the changing rooms and it reeks in there like nobody’s flushed since my earlier escapade.
Just my luck that forty-six is right in the bloody corner. Top row of the three. Hard to get to and I have to stand up on the bench. At least these spare shoes have been worn in enough to not hurt like buggery.
The bastard thing is shut, which is good. Preserves the evidence.
Hunter and Shepherd join us in there. Swear, the two of them are keeping their distance. Almost like they want this to reflect on me. And badly. Not like they’re the types to defer to a DI.
The cleaner lumbers in. Boy has as much flab as muscle, I tell you. Not much taller than yours truly, and he’s growling and grunting at everyone in the room.
I hop down off the bench and let him in to the corner. ‘You got the key?’
‘I got the secret, aye.’ He grins at Shepherd. ‘But you know these—’
‘—aren’t allocated to members, aye.’ I try to make eye contact, but he’s not looking at us. ‘Seems like someone’s not got their twenty pee coin back and have it on a permanent rental. So just let us in, son.’
‘Son.’ He shakes his head, grinning. ‘I’m as old as you, pal.’ He pulls out a massive keyring, like he’s working at Bar-L. ‘Forty-six, aye?’
‘Aye. Had to be the one up there, eh?’
‘Tell us about it.’ But he’s not shifting much, just rattling through his keys.
‘You have any idea who’s pinched that one?’
‘None at all. Just clean it, mate. Why are you interested?’
‘Long story. You going to open it or what?’
‘Aye, fine.’ He launches himself up onto the bench with the grace of a gymnast, just without any of that flouncing shite, then slots the key in the lock and twists.
I gesture at Hunter and Shepherd to join me and actually witness the evidence being found. Christ. Pair of useless fannies.
At least Shepherd has a camera on him, taking photos of it.
‘Cheers, pal.’ I nudge the cleaner out of the way and get in there myself, snapping on my blue gloves.
Fuckin’ bingo.
Bags of pills. Everywhere. All shapes and colours. I grab the camera off Shepherd and snap a couple of shots inside the thing. ‘Looks like a bag of E. Some speed. Possibly coke. And Christ knows what else.’
‘Steroids and the rest.’ Hunter’s on the bench, between me and the big cleaner lad. Christ, the load that wood is taking right now. ‘And that’s heroin.’ He grabs a block and passes it over. ‘Could be the smack we’re looking for.
Wait a second.
Three Ziploc bags sitting at the front. First one is filled with cash wrapped around the maroon of a passport.
I take it out and ease the connector open, then flip through the pages until I get a face of a wee toerag with spiked hair, name of Kenny Falconer.
13
Cullen
Cullen took the next right and hit the same bloody door. Storage.
Christ’s sake!
Of all the things he’d done that day, like getting chased around a gym by a DS, managing to get lost in the Mortuary had to be right up there. Or right down there. How could he expect his tenure to be made permanent if he couldn’t find the Mortuary in Leith Walk station’s basement? Still, three building’s width and no windows, so no landmarks to follow like the Elm Bar over the road.
Wait. A voice, rattling down the corridor.
‘I mean, you could say that, Ally. Aye.’
Cullen didn’t recognise it, but the name… Hopefully it was Ally Davenport, so he followed it to the conclusion.
A mortuary, for sure, and not a storage cupboard.
Ally Davenport faced away from the door, head bowed, checking his phone and shaking it like doing so would fix whatever was wrong with it.
Another man stood opposite him, wearing a gown and a cheeky grin. Silver-threaded hair and shaggy with it, like it hadn’t all agreed which way it was being parted. Presumably the pathologist.
A body on the slab in the middle. Female. Young. Pale. Dead. Shite.
It was one of Happy Jack’s wives.
Cullen groaned.
The probable pathologist looked over at Cullen, did the up and down, then his face settled into a grin. ‘Can I
help you, Young Skywalker?’
‘Got a message for DI Davenport.’
Davenport shot around and focused on Cullen. ‘Ah, Scott. You okay?’
‘Not really.’ Cullen stayed as far away from the body as he could. ‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘About what?’
‘That one of Happy Jack’s wives died.’
‘His wives?’ Davenport was frowning. ‘Ah, right. Aye, Luke told me. No, she didn’t pull through. Dr Yule and team tried their best, but… Sometimes we just can’t save them.’
‘Right.’ All that hassle to get her there, just for her to end up here. Cullen had felt like a hero, but really, he’d let her down. Maybe not as badly as her parents, siblings, family members, teachers. But still. ‘It’s sad.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ The pathologist held out a gloved hand, about five metres too far away to shake. ‘Professor James Deeley, at your service, Young Skywalker.’ He went back to his dissection with a deep frown. ‘Bit of a shame I’m only thinking of that one now. Could’ve used it on Big Luke, but no. I feel like I jumped the gun in calling him the Lord, as he is my Shepherd.’
Davenport snorted, but it seemed to be more in derision than humour. He turned away from Deeley and folded his arms. ‘How did the obbo at the gym go?’
‘Luke’s been trying to call you, sir. Needs you to sign a warrant.’
Davenport rolled his eyes. ‘When’s the raid?’
‘About half an hour ago.’
‘One of them, eh?’ Davenport smirked. ‘Right, aye. This new phone’s been going tonto. No reception down here and when I get some, it’s just a load of nonsense from Bain.’
Deeley laughed. ‘That absolute wanker.’
‘Right.’ Cullen handed him the sheet of paper and a pen. ‘Luke’s upstairs, strategising.’
‘Is he now?’ Davenport pressed a button and put his phone to his ear. ‘Buggering buggering hell.’ He sighed. ‘Scott, can you get up there and tell him the blood toxicology on her,’ he gestured at the body, ‘has confirmed this is definitely the same smack as Bain’s cases.’