by Ed James
Ambling towards them was a wee man with a broad smile. Bain. He stopped, looked at the ceiling and turned out his hands. ‘Ask and ye shall receive.’
‘Can’t drive my car on police business, not after last time.’ Cullen looked at his pride and joy, a bottle-green Golf GTI that was seeing its best days now, and wondered if it was wise leaving it in Dumbiedykes. ‘We’ll have to—’
‘Catch.’ Bain tossed the keys. ‘I got a pool car from St Leonards. Besides, I always like being driven by you, Sundance. Like seeing one of those monkeys typing Hamlet.’
Cullen got in the maroon Volvo. Smelled like it still saw active duty as a kiddie carrier, driving smelly boys to rugby practice, a whole team’s worth of jerseys marinating in sour sweat. He gritted his teeth and turned the ignition. It roared like a brand-new rally racer. He revved the engine and sped off.
Cullen hammered the horn, making a couple of daytime drinkers jump back onto the kerbstone as he blared past. They both shot him a look, then went back to sucking on cigarettes, eyes glued to their phones.
‘Pubic triangle, eh?’ Bain chuckled as he watched the two topless pubs whizz past. ‘Mind when there were three, Sundance. Should just fuckin’ call it the Brazilian strip now, eh?’ He was looking round at Cullen, waiting for a laugh.
Cullen didn’t give him one, instead winding his way up to the junction and taking the next right. Castle Terrace backed on to the block containing Vardy’s lap dancing club. He spotted a gap and slotted the battered Volvo between two brand-new SUVs. He turned the engine off. All he saw was money, money, money.
Bain followed his gaze and chuckled. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Sundance. We fit into this part of town as well as this embarrassment of a car.’ Then he unclipped his seatbelt, let it whir past his ear and opened the passenger door to step out on the pavement, as calm as the castle sitting on its volcanic plug.
Cullen got out and followed him across the road. By the time they reached the corner of Lothian Road, he was ten feet ahead.
Bain jogged after him. ‘Sundance, quit running, this is important.’
Cullen kept going, but glanced over his shoulder to see what Bain was playing at now. When he saw his serious expression, he stopped to wait. ‘What?’
Bain caught up and got right in his face. ‘You need to slow down and get some perspective, keep the big picture in sight.’ He started walking along the street, Cullen half a step behind him. ‘You can’t just barge into this place and expect those lassies to welcome some cop with a hard-on for truth, justice and the Cullen way. They’ll be worried you’re there because of some wee scam they’ve got going, or just because you’re a fuckin’ cunt.’
‘Shut your face.’
‘I’m serious. In their eyes, that’s what we are. Cunts trying to mess them around. They’ve all been there before, eh? So they’ll fuckin’ clam up and kick you out and you’ll be back to square one, only without a single lead left.’
Cullen slowed down, as the three bouncers at the front door came into view, stamping their heavy boots on the pavement. ‘What do you suggest, then?’
‘Watch and learn.’ Bain walked right up to the bouncers. ‘Gentlemen. Freezing, eh?’
The two guys leaned forward to catch his quiet words. Then they eyed Bain from head to toe. Whatever they saw, they didn’t like it.
The one on the right gave a sneer and straightened up, folding his massive arms over a tight black T-shirt. Didn’t seem to notice the cold. He fixed a stare on some spot a foot above Bain’s head.
Dismissed.
The guy on the left. Christ, his skin was inflamed and pimpled. His giant arms looked like water balloons ready to pop. Probably injecting Synthol straight in to make his biceps look like his mate’s. And definitely not a man smart or calm enough for a spot of diplomacy.
The other one looked like he was made from steel wire, every muscle on his exposed arms defined and tense and vibrating with aggressive energy.
Cullen stepped in front of the likely lads and cleared his throat. ‘We’re just—’
‘Cops.’ Steel Wool waved at someone across the street. Didn’t even look at Cullen. ‘And you’re not getting in without a warrant.’
Cullen bit his lip. ‘You remember Amy Forrest?’
Steel Wool just shook his head. ‘You’re not coming in. End of.’
Synthol’s forehead creased, like a crack in limestone. ‘What about wee Amy?’
‘She’s gone missing. We need to find her. I’m worried about her.’ Cullen nodded inside as a sheepish punter left the club, cloaked in a blast of Kylie. ‘Just want a quiet word with the girls, see if anyone’s seen her. That’s all.’
Synthol grunted at his mate. ‘Kenny, she was a good laugh.’
Kenny couldn’t look his mate in the eye. For a moment he just stood there, flexing. Then he glanced around and stood aside. ‘Alright, boys, in you go and… Say hi to her from me, eh?’
Cullen bit his tongue as he stepped between the bouncers and into the dim club.
The doors had hardly swung shut behind them, when Bain slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’d no idea you were such a good actor, Sundance.’
Cullen shrugged him off and looked around for someone to ask about Amy.
Bain strode past him and met a scantily clad girl at the counter. She looked up from her phone and fluttered her fake eyelashes at him, but he was all calm authority. ‘Afternoon, doll. Looking for Amy Forrest?’
The girl glanced past him at the doors, apparently wondering why the bouncers had let a cop in.
‘Sorry, I should’ve explained.’ Bain treated her to another kind smile. ‘I’m not here to bother her. I’m just concerned for her and her child’s safety. They’re both missing and…’
The girl cocked a bored eyebrow, brushed a stray strand of sleek ginger hair over her ear. ‘Right.’
‘You know her, though, aye?’
‘Right.’
‘Listen to me.’ Bain glanced back over his shoulder at the heavily guarded front door, then leaned even further over the counter. ‘I’m worried she’s been killed.’
The woman inched forward and stared at him, her eyes wide with anticipation. ‘What? Really?’
‘We’re cops, right. Murder squad.’ Bain paused, letting his unwavering stare imply everything else.
She swallowed and reached for a walkie-talkie from under the counter. With a nervous catch in her breath she held it to her mouth and pressed transmit. ‘Pauline?’
The speaker crackled with static. Then a distorted voice came on the line. ‘I’m having a smoke. Can’t this wait?’
The smoking area was about the size of a toilet, and the smell wasn’t far off either. Pauline stood behind two big black bins, drawing on a cigarette with hollow cheeks and vacant eyes. Maybe to take her mind off the fumes. Maybe to take it off worse things. She hugged a pink puffer jacket tight, almost covering the black corset that barely concealed her. Shivering, she took another breath.
Bain stepped forward. ‘Alright, darling, need a wee word—’
‘Stop.’ Cullen grabbed him back. He stayed at the door to avoid crowding her and triggering her fight or flight instinct. Not that there was anywhere to run to. ‘Hello, Miss Quigley.’
Pauline snapped out of her daze and stared at Cullen. Her gaze dropped to the ground, followed by her cigarette butt. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘We’re here to—’
‘Shut up, you prick.’ Pauline looked back up at him, unblinking. ‘I went to jail because of you.’
‘You went to jail because you lied for Dean Vardy. On the stand. It’s called perjury. Your lawyer might’ve warned you about it?’
She didn’t have an answer for that. She just shivered.
‘Surprised you’re working for him again, though.’
‘Turns out there aren’t many jobs for ex-cons.’ Pauline sniffed. ‘Not when they’re female, anyway.’ She laughed with about as much happiness as was in the surrounding bins. �
�You don’t get it, do you? Vardy owes me for not telling the truth about what happened, for taking the fall, and the jail time.’
‘After all he’s done to you?’
Her haunted eyes refocused on him. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I could bullshit you about how Vardy might be getting paranoid in custody and how he’s getting his henchmen to clean up any dirt we have on him by taking out anyone who might testify against him – people like you, Pauline – but I don’t think that’s likely to happen and I don’t want to lie to you.’ Cullen paused. ‘I just want to speak to you as somebody who knows what he’s capable of.’
‘I know what that prick’s capable of so I’m not—’
‘What’s he done to Amy Forrest?’
She closed her eyes.
‘Pauline, do you know where she is?’
She looked up at the blue sky and shivered again. Then shut her eyes and kept them like that.
‘Pauline, you of all people know what danger she’s in.’
Her shoulders sagged. She dropped her head and looked at the floor, as though she might find a happier answer there. All she found was her cigarette butt, still lying at her feet, still glowing faintly. She stood on it, grinding it out with one sharp twist of her long heel. Then she looked back up. ‘Amy hasn’t worked here in ages, not since the baby. Most of the girls lost touch with her after that.’
‘But not you.’
‘I’ve made enough mistakes. Amy left this place, thought she was going somewhere better. Only… she ended up stuck in Vardy’s hands. But that’s life, eh? Some demons you can’t outrun.’
‘I know Zak’s Vardy’s kid.’
Pauline tugged a stray her from out of her eye. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘She’s dependent on Vardy for money, right?’
Pauline looked up at him again, curling up the sides of her mouth. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
13
‘Can’t believe it.’ Cullen slammed on the brakes and pulled up on the kerb at the door of the Debonair. The pub looked deserted, just one middle-aged drinker with a ponytail and a beard standing out front, propping up the wall with one hand while clutching an almost-empty pint glass with the other. Still as a statue, even when Cullen charged past him to yank the door open. And nearly pulled his arm out of his shoulder socket.
Locked.
Cullen stood back and glanced at Bain, slowly climbing out of the car, then back at the lone drinker leaning against the wall. ‘Excuse me, mate?’
The guy ignored him.
‘Excuse me?’ Cullen walked up to him and waved his hand in front of his eyes.
The guy flinched and dropped his empty glass. As it shattered on the ground, he flinched again.
Cullen stepped back, kicking glass off his shoes. ‘When did the pub close?’
‘Eh?’
‘Can’t have been that long ago.’ Cullen pointed at the shards. ‘You’ve only just finished your pint.’
The guy stared down at the broken glass. ‘Been closed all day. Says so here.’ He tapped the window next to the door.
CLOSED ALL DAY.
‘So why were you standing here with an empty glass?’
‘Long story. Woke up this morning with a hangover stomping around my head like an angry badger. And that little beauty was lying next to my bed. And I thought to myself, I thought, that glass is not yours. Where did you get it and why are you too blootered to even remember taking it? And then I thought, that’s—’
Cullen’s phone rang.
He reached for it, holding the other hand up in apology. ‘Sorry, I need to take this.’ He turned away, glancing at the screen. Wilkinson. ‘Sir, we’re on the trail of Amy Forrest. She’s been working as a cleaner at the Debonair.’
Wilkinson paused. ‘At Vardy’s pub? Why?’
‘Money?’ Cullen frowned. ‘Trouble is, the place is shut for the day.’
‘Huh. Well. That can wait. I need you at the Royal Infirmary. We’ve got a problem.’ Click and he was gone.
‘For the fiftieth time, he didn’t say.’ Cullen got out and left the Volvo in the sprawling car park outside Accident and Emergency. He ran inside the hospital, weaving through a casting call for The Walking Dead. A man stood in the middle of it all, staring into the distance, the pale victim of some accident or another. Two nurses were trying to talk to him but he shook off their attempts. Cullen dashed along a corridor and stopped at the nurse’s station.
No sign of Wilkinson – dead, alive or risen from the grave.
Bain elbowed his way past Cullen to the desk and flashed his warrant card. ‘Listen up, pal, we’re cops. Supposed to be meeting DI Wilkinson. You seen him?’
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ The nurse looked up from his computer screen. ‘You must be here for the murder. Follow me, please.’
What the hell?
Cullen glanced at Bain, then back at the nurse. ‘Which murder?’
But the nurse had already rounded the counter, surprisingly fast for a man his size. Cullen caught up with him by a large set of swing doors that whirred open at their approach.
Wilkinson and Lamb stood outside a ward, arms folded, not talking to each other.
‘Thanks.’ Cullen nodded at the nurse and jogged over. ‘What’s going on?’
Wilkinson shot him an angry look. ‘Sammy McLean is dead.’
‘His injuries from the fall?’
‘Do you hear me?’ Wilkinson glared at him. ‘Our only eyewitnesses are missing or dead! This is fucked beyond buggeration!’
Lamb grabbed hold of Wilkinson’s sleeve and stared deep into his eyes. ‘Keep a lid on it, Paul. Okay?’ He turned his attention to Cullen. ‘Someone shot him.’
Cullen recoiled. ‘What?’
‘Are you deaf?’ Wilkinson got in his face. ‘Shot in a bloody hospital. In a bloody HOSPITAL!’
Lamb patted his arm again. ‘Easy, Wilko.’ He glanced around, then lowered his voice. ‘You shouldn’t be shouting that around here.’
Wilkinson shrugged him off. ‘Don’t you—’
‘Here, Wilko.’ A SOCO in a thin white boiler suit stepped up behind him and tugged off his mask. James Anderson, looking like he’d taken a good chunk out of his goatee during that morning’s shave. He nodded at Cullen and Bain. ‘The Chuckle Brothers are here, I see. God rest their souls.’
Bain frowned. ‘Have they died?’
‘I’ve no idea. Probably.’ Anderson turned back to Wilkinson. ‘Anyway, my lot have just completed the search of the room. We found the shooter’s gun in the bin. Good news is we’ve got a skin fleck on the handle. If the gods are with us, we might be able to get a DNA trace from it.’
‘Oh?’ Wilkinson perked up. ‘Anything else?’
‘Deeley’s in there now, doing his thing.’ Anderson gestured at the door. ‘The boy was shot three times at point-blank range – once in the mouth, twice in the chest.’
Wilkinson’s jaw dropped. His stare wandered from Anderson to Lamb and back again. ‘But… Vardy’s in court.’
‘So?’ Cullen almost laughed. Managed to keep his face straight. ‘He’s not the only person to have seen The Wire. All we’ve got is someone hitting the victim with three taps.’
‘Three taps?’ Wilkinson got right in Cullen’s face, close enough to taste his breakfast on his breath. ‘You think you’re some hotshot, don’t you?’
‘I’m just saying, sir. This obviously wasn’t Vardy.’ Cullen pointed at his head then at his pectorals in quick succession. ‘But that doesn’t mean they weren’t working for him. I’ll find whoever did it.’
The CCTV screen seemed to show the same video clip on repeat. Or variations on the same theme. The fisheye camera was mounted on the hallway ceiling, giving a top-angle view of the people passing in and out. Halfway along the wall, the door to Sammy’s room was closed. Two doctors walked by on their rounds of the ward, then three nurses in blue rushed around with some clipboards and medication. A patient in a colourless dre
ssing gown shuffled to the vending machine, pushing an IV-stands on castors.
And all in the middle of it was DC Simon Buxton, standing there, yawning, tapping on his phone, eating, chatting to a uniformed officer. Looking bored as hell.
A visitor shook up the monotony of the scene, walking past in multicoloured street clothes.
Then a nurse walked up to Buxton. After a lengthy chat, he let her into Sammy’s room. She came out seconds later to continue her rounds. Just a quick check-up, her body language showing calm routine.
‘Well.’ Cullen leaned back and looked at Buxton. ‘Nothing happening, over and over again.’
‘Like my life.’ Buxton was squinting at the screen. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’
‘Alright.’ Cullen reached over and hit the space to pause the video. ‘When did the gunshots happen?’
‘That’s the thing.’ Buxton hovered his thumb over the space bar, but didn’t press it. ‘There’s no audio, so it’s just guesswork.’
‘Keep checking it, okay?’ Cullen pushed his chair back and got up. ‘Every frame, every person in or out of that room.’
‘That’ll take forever.’
‘I’ll get you some help.’
‘I’m such a 2868.’
‘You can call yourself a cunt.’
Buxton snapped out of his thoughts with a laugh and dropped his hand. ‘This is a disaster, mate.’ He glanced at Cullen. ‘And it’s my disaster. Before you came here, Wilko went apeshit at me for letting the murderer get at Sammy McLean.’ He frowned. ‘I had one job.’
‘Si, you did your job. Someone got in that room and killed him behind your back. It’s not your fault.’
‘Of course it’s my fault.’
‘You didn’t let anyone in. And forget about fault, just find who did it, okay? Someone got in there without you seeing. Find them.’
Buxton looked at him with glazed eyes. The words would take hours to sink in, but at least he’d started the process.
The door flew open and Wilkinson marched in. He glowered at Buxton, who didn’t even look over. ‘Cullen, I need you at the High Court. The judge is making a statement.’