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

by Ed James

14

  Bain

  Shepherd’s powering along the corridor in St Leonard’s like he owns this place. Hands in pockets, stomping his feet hard. ‘Hate this station.’

  ‘We can swap, if you like.’ I stop but don’t open the door just yet. ‘Hear Leith Walk’s a bit of a mess, though.’

  ‘Right. Takes us months to find our way around the Mortuary. Like a maze down there.’

  ‘You don’t miss the Cowgate?’

  ‘Like a limb, Brian. Used to love going there, great excuse to bugger off from the Incident Room and clear my head. Now anyone can find me downstairs. And Deeley… He just gets worse.’

  ‘Doesn’t he just.’ Deeley, what a fanny. I open the Incident Room door and the noise hits us. Like being back home. Sod Leith Walk, this is where it’s at.

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

  Ah, old Mags. Still got the patter, hasn’t she?

  I set off across the room like I own the fuckin’ place. When I’m done, I fuckin’ will. ‘You know who this Kenny Falconer guy is?’

  Shepherd shakes his head. ‘I’m as in the dark as you, Brian.’

  ‘Great.’ I open the office door marked Davenport and hold it for Shepherd, then follow him in. Christ, he’s massive.

  Wee Chantal is sitting there. Not seen her for a year or two. ‘Hey, Luke.’

  I sit next to her. ‘Don’t I get a welcome?’

  ‘Nope.’ Charming. She sits there, an ice queen. ‘Thought it was the Viper you were after?’

  ‘Was.’ Big metal lump in the chair’s digging into my right buttock. ‘Alexander Drake. But he’s buggered off to Argie Bargie.’

  ‘Disappointing.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Seems like he was working for this Kenny Falconer lad, who was dealing everything out of his locker. Should see the things he’s got in there.’ I shift, but that lump seems to follow me. ‘Found a few knives.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, you’ll be glad to know that I’ve been doing your work for you. Turns out Kenny Falconer is on our radar.’

  I try to look at her laptop, but she’s blocking the view and the lump is itching my jacksy something rotten, so I get to my feet and offer the chair to Luke.

  ‘Trouble is, we had Falconer pegged as a junior. Have him prime suspect for a few knife murders, but nothing the PF will touch with a bargepole.’

  Christ, feels like it’s broken the skin. ‘So he’s some kind of hitman?’

  ‘Aye. Seems like he’s stepping up, though. Taking on a bigger role in the organisation.’ Jain’s back at her laptop. ‘Okay, so from what we know, Falconer runs a bookshop in Gorgie.’

  Shepherd scowls at her, then at me. ‘A bookshop? Like, selling novels?’

  ‘More like a few tatty paperbacks and a lot of porn.’ She shuts the laptop and rests it on the table. ‘So, do you want to head there?’

  Shepherd looks at me, arms folded, eyes narrowed. ‘I think we need hard evidence before—’

  ‘Luke, Luke, Luke.’ I clap the big sod on the arm. ‘Remember that I outrank you here.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I can just raid this place any time I want.’

  ‘I don’t report to you. And you’re going nowhere without Ally’s approval.’

  ‘Oh, you’re going running to Daddy, are you? Boo hoo.’

  Shepherd unfolds his arms, fists clenched tight like he’s going to lamp us. Good to get a reaction out of the prick for once, instead of him standing there like a lump of granite. ‘Get over yourself.’

  ‘Luke, we need to get in there and find Falconer. His smack is killing people. Heard that one of those lassies your boys took to the hospital popped her clogs. Could be he’s buggered off, knowing his heroin’s catching up with him. We found three passports in his locker. Maybe he’s got another. Maybe he’s in the wind too, like Drake.’

  Hunter grabs Shepherd’s arm and pushes him away. Didn’t see him even entering the room! Christ! ‘Guys, you look like you’re going to tear lumps out of each other.’

  I give Shepherd a big grin. ‘Saved you there, big boy.’

  Oh, he wants to smack us into next week. I love winding that prick up. But he turns to Hunter. ‘What’s up, Craig?’

  ‘I know Kenny Falconer.’

  I frown at him. ‘How well?’

  ‘Pretty well. He was in my brother’s year at school. Porty High. Think his parents split up and he moved to Wester Hailes with his mum. He’s a nasty wee shite.’

  ‘You ever speak to him much?’

  Hunter nodded slowly. ‘Could say that. He was a bully.’ He shut his eyes. ‘He was responsible for a mate’s suicide.’

  ‘He’s older than you?’

  ‘A year younger, but he was kept back a year. Bullied the shite out of my mate…’ Doesn’t name him, does he? Weird. ‘Angus killed himself. Jumped in front of a train.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ Am I fuck. This boy having a personal beef against Falconer is golden. I can use him as a weapon. Get him all riled up and ready to kill. ‘So, do you think we should pay him a visit now or later?’

  ‘We need to hit him hard. Kenny will run.’

  The door opens and Christ, it’s getting crowded in here. ‘Boys. And girl.’ It’s James Anderson. Christ, the Leith Walk gang don’t know they’re born having this fanny-mouthed arsehole as a SOCO. ‘Running a million things just now, but I’ve got some good news. The blood toxicology came back, and the two women in hospital were on the same heroin that you found in that locker.’

  ‘Nailed.’

  Anderson steps aside and scowls at someone. ‘Didn’t see you there.’

  Cullen’s lurking out there like a wee goblin. A very pretty one, mind. But still a goblin. ‘Just been down at the PM and Deeley’s confirmed it from the victim’s blood.’ He hands Shepherd something. ‘Anyway, here’s the warrant.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He pockets it without us checking it.

  I give Shepherd the biggest grin. ‘Where’s the warrant for?’

  ‘It’s for another case.’ But he’s blushing. Sneaky bastard. That warrant we used at the gym was phoney. ‘So, I think Hunter’s correct. We hit Falconer now. Visit the bookshop, see if he’s there.’

  Shepherd has his phone open but his sugar daddy clearly isn’t saving him this time. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I crack my knuckles but it’s a soft clip rather than a mean-sounding pop. ‘Okay, so DC Jain, DC Hunter and DS Shepherd, let’s get around there.’

  That Cullen boy folds his arms. ‘You don’t need me?’

  ‘I’ll get uniform back-up, sunshine. You can get along to the Xmas party.’

  ‘Right.’ Boy does he look pissed off. Mouth hanging open, eyes drooping. Still, he doesn’t moan and that’s got to count for something.

  I don’t need some daft wee Acting DC making an arse of things. But you never know where these boys will end up. Probably back in uniform, but you just never know, so I clap him on the arm. ‘Imagine how much sweeter that eggnog will taste without having to do a dunt, sunshine. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. And I’m off.’

  15

  Cullen

  Trouble with arriving late was Cullen had missed the food and the best of the drink.

  He stood in the middle of the function room and just wanted to get out of there.

  Forty, maybe fifty officers sat around drinking, with another twenty or so strutting their stuff to Oh, What A Night, though Cullen thought it might be called December 1963. Either way, the dancing was rancid.

  Christmas parties in uniform were usually a few pints in a pub in Bathgate, then a boozy Italian or a very boozy curry. And the hardcore alcoholics wouldn’t be out — they’d be stuck at home with their supermarket whiskies, hiding their addiction from the brass, who all knew anyway.

  But here, the function room was filled with buffet food and buffet booze.

  And DC Paul ‘Elvis’ Gordon wasn’t hiding his alcoholism. Hi
s sideburns almost touched his jawline, and he embraced the shape and hairstyle of Vegas-era Elvis. In his left hand, a glass of thick red wine filled to the brim. In his right, two champagne flutes, though the sparkle had long since faded. And somehow he was chomping on a sausage roll. He half-finished chewing and swallowed it down with a drink of fizz, his backwash depositing pastry crumbs in the glass. And spilled the second flute down his shirt. ‘Ah, bollocks.’ Puff pastry spat out, landing at Cullen’s feet.

  ‘Evening, Paul.’ Cullen reached for a glass of red from a side table filled with them and inspected it for signs it had been tampered with. Fingerprints or lipstick marks. Seemed clean, so he sipped it and savoured the balsamic vinegar tang.

  ‘Look like a SOCO there, Scott.’ Elvis was focusing on a space about a metre to the right of Cullen, presumably where the second version he was seeing was currently standing, though Elvis’s shifting gaze made him out to be a moving target. ‘Examining it for evidence, eh?’ He laughed, then tried to drink his empty champagne glass. And succeeded in spilling red wine straight onto the floor.

  Aye, Elvis was going to need a wee help home tonight. Again.

  Cullen grabbed his arm and led him over to a table out of the glare of the high heid yins, who were sitting over by the speakers. Cullen settled Elvis down and placed the wine glass just out of his reach, still amazingly half full.

  Some doowop scat burst out of the speakers. The opening to Come On, Eileen.

  Cullen groaned.

  Elvis jabbed a finger at a Cullen somewhere to his left. ‘Tell you, Scott. This is an absolute banger of a tune.’ He frowned and stared right at Cullen. ‘Dexys are a heavily underrated band.’

  ‘Take your word for it.’ Cullen sank a good chunk of his wine and started to feel that glow. ‘The plonk’s not too bad.’

  ‘Aye, only drinking that because the beer was so shite here. I mean, rank lagers all along the bar and not even a Guinness safety pint. It’s 2010, but the beer here is like it’s from the fifties. Red pish. Or lager.’ Elvis reached over for his wine and managed to claw it on the fourth attempt. But he took great care in sliding it over, then lowered his head and sucked at the wine.

  Cullen was nowhere near drunk enough to put up with that kind of nonsense. ‘Think you’ve had enough, Paul.’

  ‘Had nowhere near enough, mate.’ Elvis ran a hand across his lips. ‘You missed Big Jim Turnbull’s speech earlier.’

  ‘Aye, well. Small mercies, eh?’

  Elvis tugged at Cullen’s cheek, the correct Cullen this time. ‘Where you been?’

  ‘Out and about.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not getting in on the raid on the bookshop.’

  ‘Aw, diddums.’ Elvis cackled, then sipped more wine. ‘You know your problem, Scott? Too keen. Way too keen. You’re waaaaaaay too keen. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too.’ Burp. ‘Keen.’

  The absolute best thing about drunks was how much unsolicited advice you got from them. Buggers could solve world hunger from the bottom of a wine glass.

  The dance floor had settled into late wedding dancing, with a scrum tackling the song’s breakdown section where it slowed right down. Cullen couldn’t watch them speed up to a mad frenzy. ‘Too keen. That right, aye?’

  ‘Aye, completely. You want my advice, you should just get your head low, and let things happen to you.’

  ‘Like you do?’

  ‘Aye! I mean, I’m going places, Scott. Changed days.’ Elvis swung his finger around the room. ‘Too many of these cops are old school. Speaking to people, all that crap. The future, my friend, the future is in computers.’ He tapped his nose like he’d just been given the secrets of the universe. ‘Mark my words.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  That floored Elvis. Literally. He slid off his chair.

  Cullen had to help him back up. Big lump was in danger of hauling him down with him. ‘You should get home, Elvis.’

  ‘Quit it, I’m fine.’ He brushed away Cullen’s helping hand and sat in his chair again. ‘Totally fine.’

  Cullen took a sip of his wine and scanned the rest of the tables for anyone less shit-faced than Elvis. Part of him wanted to get smashed, but the senior officers table was like a panopticon in reverse, with each one scanning the room for dafties taking it too far.

  And at least two of them had clocked Elvis as Daftie numero uno.

  Cullen pulled out his phone and texted a local cabbie who’d given him a bit of info recently:

  Got a fare for you, Bongo. Southside to Broxburn

  Cullen put his phone away just as it chimed with a new message:

  How likely to spew?

  Cullen checked Elvis again. Truth was, maybe eighty percent likely. Then again, Elvis was always the last man standing on nights out. That kind of invincibility meant vomit was rare.

  Not quite sober as a judge, but he won’t be sick

  Buzz.

  Thirty quid. Another fifty if he chucks

  Cullen texted Elvis’s address, adding:

  Soon as you can, Bongo. And I owe you. Text me when you’re outside

  Elvis tossed his wine back and was looking around for more. ‘Trick I’ve been pulling is doing IT stuff for people. Hoover up all that work, become a specialist.’ He ran a hand across his lips. ‘Take it all on. Become an expert. I’ll be indispensable.’

  ‘You’ll be pigeonholed.’

  ‘I’ll be what?’

  ‘You’ll get saddled with all that shite, Paul.’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Elvis sipped more wine. ‘Here’s the thing. This case you and Hunter are working with Big Luke. Pair of fannies can’t track down that Becky lassie who skipped out on the court appearance. Well.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Let’s just say I’ll get a result before you two do.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. Tell me, how will you manage it?’

  ‘Not spilling.’ But he did. His glass hit the table. Lucky for Elvis, it was empty.

  Cullen righted the glass, which was much easier than righting Elvis. He was like a dead weight in his arms. ‘Okay, Paul. Let’s get you some fresh air.’ He marched him out of the door on the darkest side of the function room. He hoped none of the bosses had seen them, but you just never knew. Cops spotted things most people didn’t.

  The cold air hit his cheeks like a slap from a spurned lover. And Cullen would know. His phone thrummed in his pockets and he looked around the car park.

  A black cab was idling by the entrance. The back door opened and DC Yvonne Flockhart stepped out, dressed for a wedding rather than a police piss-up. Tall and raven-haired, and with that knowing smile on her face. ‘Evening, Scott.’ She reached through the window and handed over some money, then looked at Elvis, then Cullen. ‘Christ, Scott. What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s just feeling a bit under the weather, that’s all.’

  ‘Under the wine, more like.’ She grabbed Elvis’s arm and helped Cullen lead him away from danger.

  ‘Don’t want to go.’ Elvis was looking at Yvonne. ‘Please, Scott. I’ll behave. Promise!’

  Aye, like shite you will.

  Cullen leaned low and there was Bongo behind the wheel, eyes narrowed with suspicion. He opened the door and held the back one for Elvis to clamber inside.

  ‘No way is that boy safe.’ Bongo was shaking his head, as many wobbles on his shaved head as on his jowls. ‘Eighty quid, up front.’

  Christ.

  Cullen opened his wallet and forked out the money. ‘I want the fifty back if he doesn’t spew.’

  ‘Oh, he’s going to.’ Bongo folded the money and pocketed it. ‘Absolute pain in the arse if I have to clean the cab, man. You’ve no idea. It gets everywhere.’ He got back in with a loud slam and drove off, spraying pebbles at Cullen.

  Yvonne watched the car slide out of the parking area, weaving around the stone circle in the middle of the drive. ‘Well, Elvis has left the building.’

  ‘That was a wee while ago.’
Cullen smiled at her. ‘You missed the meal too?’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ She shook her head. ‘Absolutely starving.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Come on, I smell sausage rolls.’ Yvonne charged inside and eased her coat off by the cloakroom, not that it was attended. ‘Last days of Rome in here.’

  ‘Aye, I doubt Elvis will be the last victim of tonight’s excesses.’ Cullen checked the dance floor, now thumping with that Killers song, and at least twice as busy as the last one. The bosses’ table was empty. ‘Christ, you’ve not lived until you’ve seen Ally Davenport dancing to Mr Brightside.’

  Yvonne laughed. ‘Where’s the wine?’

  Cullen led her over to the booze table, which was further depleted since the last time he’d visited. ‘Red or white?’

  ‘Both.’ She grabbed a glass of each.

  Cullen took another red and led her to the table where he’d babysat Elvis. His glass seemed untouched since his escape, but he couldn’t trust someone like Malky McKeown not to spike it or just do something vile to it. ‘So, what kept you back?’

  Yvonne sank half of her white in one go. ‘Young Becky.’

  Cullen winced. ‘Elvis was muttering something about it.’

  ‘Tell you, he better produce a hail Mary from out of his pocket, because we are nowhere, Scott. I’ve been chasing down leads all day on it, thanks to you and Craig dropping a bollock on it.’

  ‘Hardly dropped a bollock.’ Cullen caught a flash of driving to the hospital, the now-dead wife of Happy Jack on the back seat. Alive. ‘We got sidelined with something else. Think you’ll find Becky?’

  ‘Hardly. It’s like she’s just vanished.’

  ‘Like the suspect. Flying to Argentina as we speak.’ Cullen sipped the wine and let the peppery tang nibble his tongue, then waved his hand around the room. ‘And we have no choice but to sit in a cheap function room, dancing to Don’t Stop Believing.’

  On the dance floor, Davenport was back-to-back with DCI Turnbull, screaming into air microphones.