by Ed James
Stuck at square one.
Unless I catch the gimp. And he’s getting away.
Cullen climbed to his feet, careful not to slip and fall and scramble in the wet shower. He stuck his head out the window the gimp had used to escape, expecting to see the same pitch black as at the front of the house, but the back garden was lit up by bright spotlights.
The gimp was limping across the lawn, dragging his right leg.
Judging by the trail of destruction, the gimp had jumped down to the greenhouse’s slanted glass roof and tumbled through it. A shower of shards covered a collection of exotic plants. So he must’ve scrambled through the back door into the garden.
I’ve got time to catch him.
Cullen climbed on the window ledge and pressed his back against the wall. With a deep breath, he edged along to the black iron drainpipe. He reached for it with both hands, ready to abseil down. But it was February. The pipe was cold and moist, impossible to hold on to. His fingers lost grip. All he could do to avoid taking a headlong fall was to kick off the ledge and jump, out and away from the wall, unable to see when or where he would—
Shite!
Cullen hit the ground with a jarring thud, the momentum knocking him back over his heels, breaking his balance, sending him reeling on to his arse. He tried to roll with it but went straight into a flowerbed and banged his head on a stone. Everything hurt, huge black spots swirled around in front of his eyes. He vomited, harsh acid burning his throat. He struggled back to his feet, trying not to keel over again. Deep, steady breaths. The spots started disappearing, all but one. He blinked to bring it into focus. Not a black spot. A black gimp. In the bright light, his latex getup looked more like a cheap Batman costume, but without the cape or anything to grab hold of. Either way, the guy was standing at the open doorway of the garden wall, rooted to the spot.
Amateur.
Cullen made a dash for him.
Batman spun around and sprinted through the gate. Then he screamed, his right leg collapsed under him and he went down like he’d been shot, grabbing his injured knee and rolling on his back.
Cullen ran over to the prone man, but Batman’s hand slid from his knee to his ankle, sneaking his knife from its holster. Cullen was already in the air, diving for him, as the guy brought the weapon up. The blade flashed in the spotlights. Then it disappeared in Cullen’s shadow. He was swooping down for the tackle, coming down hard, forearms crossed to brace his heavy fall on the guy’s broad chest and knock the air out of him. Too late to change direction and dodge the knife coming at his throat, so he swiped his left forearm up and out to parry the blade, then crashed, hard.
Air escaped from his lungs.
The pain in his shoulder like an electric shock.
The blade sliced through his jacket, the fabric tearing.
Cullen rolled and tumbled, thudding his head against the stone wall. Black spots swirled through his eyes, fast, dizzying, all over the place.
One of the black spots got up and hobbled through the gate.
Cullen let his head drop back on the cold hard ground and closed his eyes until the rest of the spots disappeared.
A bright light burnt into Cullen’s left eye, leaving a glowing trace as it shifted to his right. It lingered there and he tried to close it, but rubber-gloved fingers pried it open. Then something clicked and the light died.
‘He’ll live. Mild concussions don’t kill people.’
Cullen groaned as the paramedic’s head came into focus above him, hiding behind the burnt-in red blotches. He reached for his searing shoulder and his fingers explored it, looking for the knife wound or even a bandage. Just the combination of a hard landing and an old injury. Felt like it needed to click back into place. ‘Batman does.’
Silence, as the paramedic exchanged a concerned glance with her colleague kneeling down beside her. ‘Maybe it’s worse than I thought.’ She crouched low. ‘Sir, do you think I’m Batman?’
Cullen laughed, then winced at the stabbing pain in the back of his head. His vision went blurry, nausea creeping up his throat. He took two fast breaths and tried to focus on the woman’s face, the chestnut skin, the black curls spilling down over her green uniform, the deep concern in her eyes and the quick, easy smile that danced around the corners of her mouth when he kept staring at her. He coughed. ‘No, I don’t think you’re Batman.’
Now the smile danced in her eyes, too.
But a brash voice barked across the garden. ‘Get in there, Sundance!’
Bain. Bloody hell.
‘Now, I need you to take your clothes off and put them in this bag for me.’ She held it out, but it looked like there were three of them. Aim for the middle.
‘Why?’
‘You’re covered in another man’s blood. You’re a suspect.’
‘I’m—’ Cullen bit his cheek. Hurt like hell. ‘Fine.’ He hauled off his top, the cold air biting at his bare skin. He had to use the wall to keep upright. He tossed the jumper into the bag but it seemed to land on the ground.
‘In the bag, not in the vague direction.’ The paramedic crouched and picked it up.
Cullen handed her his trousers, leaving him in his boxers, in a Scottish February evening.
‘Looks very cold tonight.’ The paramedic raised her eyebrows as she passed him a navy tracksuit. ‘It should fit.’ A pair of shoes dropped in front of him.
Cullen stepped into the bottoms and tugged them up. He shivered as he zipped the jacket up.
‘I’ll be inside.’ The paramedic turned her back on him and walked over to the door.
Cullen gazed up at the sky, the shiver out of control.
Bain’s shiny bald head blocked the view. He held out his hand. ‘Squared it with Lamb.’
Cullen took it and let Bain help him to his feet. ‘What?’
‘The phone call. You’d left your phone unlocked up there too so he’s heard the call from Campbell. You’re in the clear, Sundance.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You won’t thank me when you see the texts I sent.’ Bain laughed. ‘Still, your phone’s in evidence, so you’ll get it back tomorrow. Maybe tonight if you’re lucky.’
Cullen hugged his arms tight round himself. ‘Have you found Batman?’
‘What the fuck?’ Bain frowned at him. ‘Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?’
‘The guy who killed McLintock and stabbed me in the shoulder was dressed as Batman. He—’
‘Batman doesn’t kill. Fuckin’ think about it, Sundance. His parents were shot and…’ Bain laughed. ‘Bill!’ He turned around to the greenhouse, where a few SOCOs searched the crash site. ‘Bill! Cullen reckons he was attacked by Batman.’
One of the suited figures walked over and tugged his mask free: Lamb, looking at Cullen with the same concern as the paramedic. ‘Give us a minute, Brian.’ He dismissed Bain with a bored flick of the wrist. ‘Scott, are you okay?’
Cullen stood up tall, though it was a struggle. Now the adrenalin was wearing off, he was stiff as a post mortem. ‘Bit dazed, but I’ll live.’
‘What was Bain on about? You were attacked by Batman?’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Cullen huffed at Bain over the rear door, doing nothing to hide his broad grin. ‘No, I was attacked by somebody dressed as Batman. Some guy in a black latex suit and mask, and don’t bother asking. I can’t ID him. He slit McLintock’s throat in the bathroom, right in front of me, then—’
‘Brian said you were here.’
Cullen huffed out a painful sigh, sending a spasm across his aching shoulder. ‘I got a call from McLintock. Said he had something on Vardy.’
‘Vardy? What was it?’
‘I’ve no idea. When I got here, this Batman guy was on top of him in the shower, sliced his…’ Cullen swallowed down the image of McLintock’s death. His murder. ‘Then he jumped out of the window.’ A SOCO was leaning out of it, high up. ‘I almost caught him, but…’ He pointed at where he had just been lying. ‘He escaped through the archway there.
I couldn’t even tell you how long ago it was. No idea how long I was out for.’
‘Don’t worry about him getting away, Scott. Be glad you got away, too.’ Lamb paused, glancing up at the brightly lit bathroom window, then gave Cullen’s uninjured shoulder a squeeze. ‘And don’t worry about not catching the guy, either. You called it in as soon as you could. Besides…’ He motioned at the wrecked greenhouse and the trampled grass leading to the garden gate. ‘The guy left enough destruction in his wake to point us in the right direction. I’ve already got uniforms picking up the trail.’ A cheeky glint sneaked into his eyes. ‘Now, let’s go up to the bathroom and see if the shower hasn’t washed away all the evidence. You never know, there’s a one-in-a-million chance we might find something to reveal the secret identity of your dark knight.’
‘You think I’m joking, don’t you?’
‘Get over yourself, Scott.’ Lamb marched across the lawn towards the house.
Cullen stepped into the bedroom, his Tyvek suit crinkling, the mask tight around his swelling cheek. Everything seemed to be the same. The sound of rushing water had gone, but the suppressed wheezing was still there.
What?
Cullen froze.
A suited figure was leaning over the dead body in the shower, the baggy suit shaking with wheezy laughter. ‘The size of it!’
Lamb joined Cullen in the doorframe. ‘What the hell is—’ Then he roared loud enough to make the SOCOs in the room jump with fright. ‘BAIN! Get out of there, now!’
Bain looked across at them and rolled his eyes, but he obeyed the order, joining Lamb and Cullen in the master bedroom, his leer still creasing his eyes through the goggles. ‘What a sight, lads.’
‘Jesus, Brian, what the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Bill, have you not—’
Lamb grabbed his arms. ‘What the hell is so funny about a dead man?’
‘Should see the—’ Bain burst out laughing again, as close to a bellow as the mask would allow, ‘—see the cock on that guy. Hung like a donkey, I tell you.’
‘Sergeant!’ Lamb shot a glance into the bathroom, where the SOCOs were still photographing the crime scene, bright flashes throwing hard shadows into the bedroom. He turned his attention back on Bain. ‘The last thing I need is for one of my officers to get a reputation for ogling dead men’s cocks!’
A sharp cough came from inside the bathroom, then a figure the exact shape and size of Jimmy Deeley stepped through the doorway, a stern look glaring through the goggles. ‘Now, I know you’ll want to perform a thorough examination of the body, but our friend Mr Anderson there,’ he pointed at another crouched figure, ‘is in a race against time to preserve any forensic evidence. Most of it was washed away in the shower.’
Lamb just grunted. ‘That’s it?’
‘Hold on.’ Deeley raised a hand. ‘Anderson’s collected a big clump of hairs from the drain, mostly the victim’s, but judging by the colour, some may have come from the murderer.’
‘Some good news, then.’ Lamb gave him a curt nod. ‘I know you don’t like—’
‘He died just after I burst into this room.’ Cullen checked his watch, not that it was much use. ‘Must’ve been around eleven twenty.’
Deeley nodded. ‘Sounds about right.’
Lamb let out a loud sigh. ‘I was going to ask when he was first attacked.’
‘Right. Sorry.’
Deeley peered back into the room and frowned. ‘Well. You’re in luck, Bill. There’s some scabbing on the wounds, so he was at it for a while. Hours.’
‘Any idea of the—’
‘If I had to give an educated guess, I’d say the first cuts occurred at about nine pm last night. Give or take half an hour.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Cullen closed his eyes. ‘He was tortured for over two hours.’
Lamb stood there, staring into space. ‘Okay, Jimmy. Need the PM done first thing tomorrow.’
‘Come on, Bill, I’ve got—’
Cullen left them to it, walking out of the master bedroom into the mansion’s cold hallway and outside the inner locus. He kicked his CSI suit off, but got the leg caught.
‘Wait up, Sundance.’ Bain shuffled out after him. ‘Oh, I know that look. Come on, Sundance, don’t tell me you didn’t find that claymore of a—’
‘Shut up.’
‘—need at least two hands to—’
‘I swear—’
Lamb barged past Bain, tearing his facemask off and taking a sharp breath. He looked at Cullen’s scowl, then at Bain. ‘Are you still—’
‘Not me.’ Bain’s leer became even more lecherous. ‘Cullen was just saying how erotic he finds McLintock’s massive man sword.’
‘Enough.’ Lamb gripped Bain’s shoulders. ‘I need one of you to go next door to interview McLintock’s business partner.’
Bain smirked. ‘Me and Hamish go back a long, long way.’
‘Brian, I doubt you have the necessary emotional intelligence to deal with a man in shock.’
‘Eh?’ Bain puffed up his chest. ‘I’ll have you know—’
‘Shut up!’ Lamb focused on Cullen. ‘Scott, can you go next door and speak with Hamish Williams. An FLO’s broken the news to him, but he’s taken this the hard way.’ He frowned and a shadow fell over his eyes. Could’ve been sympathy. Could’ve been tiredness. Could’ve been something darker. ‘Even though he’s a bastard of a criminal defence lawyer, he’s still a human being who’s just lost a close friend. Treat him like one.’
17
Cullen scuffed down the front steps of McLintock’s mansion, turned right, jogged twenty paces up the driveway and skipped up an identical set of stairs and rang the bell. It chimed a solemn tone.
The heavy oak door swung open with a loud creak and a stony-faced man looked out, wearing an acid yellow police uniform. ‘Cullen, is it?’
‘Here to see Mr Williams.’
‘Follow me.’ The FLO hurried down the hallway as fast as he could, which wasn’t much above a saunter. The walls were lined with pictures, all preserved for posterity in gilded frames. Class photographs from Loretto School in Musselburgh. The undergraduate degree certificate from St Andrews University alongside graduation photos in sepia. Then the doctoral diplomas from Oxford and Yale Law School, followed by countless portraits of a flabby pale man slipping into middle age with thinning blonde hair and an ever-changing array of gaudy fashion disasters. Williams was a lifelong fan of cravats, and a tireless grinner when posing alongside celebrities, major and minor.
‘When you’re finished…’ The FLO gave an impatient cough and motioned at the swing doors to the lounge. ‘Williams is through there. I’m trying to figure out how to get his bloody espresso machine working. Need a PhD in Astrophysics, I swear.’ He slouched off back the way.
Cullen opened the doors and peered through.
Williams sat on his Chesterfield wingchair, his slippered feet resting on a golden silk footstool in front of a grand fireplace. He put a cognac glass to his lips and sipped. Didn’t even glance at him, his gaze set on the dancing flames.
Cullen cleared his throat with a wet cough.
Williams lifted his hooded eyes to lock on to Cullen’s. ‘Oh hello there, darling. Who might you be?’ He was swaying and his eyes struggled to stay open.
‘Detective Sergeant Cullen. Police Scotland.’ He slipped his warrant card from his chest pocket and held it out for Williams to inspect. ‘We’ve met several times.’
‘Ah.’ Williams craned his neck and peered at the small writing in the mellow glow of the fire. ‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ He relaxed into the backrest and let his eyes feast on Cullen, tucking his flabby neck folds into his golden silk cravat.
Cullen crossed in front of the fireplace and took a seat in the companion armchair, another oxblood Chesterfield, the leather warm from the fire. ‘I gather you’ve been informed of the events next door?’
Williams flinched. Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘Tragic.’
‘I’m s
orry for your loss. I know that Mr McLintock was your business partner. Was he a friend as well?’
‘Yes, you may say that.’ Williams tried for a smile. Looked like he had seen one once. From across the room. ‘We were friends, of course. You don’t split a mansion like this unless you’re very close friends.’ He looked sidelong at Cullen. ‘Then again, I don’t expect somebody with the rough temperament of the street to understand what he was to me.’
‘When did you last see Mr McLintock?’
‘At the office first thing. But then, you see, I had a power brunch with an important client and from there I had to rush to a lunch meeting with another highly important client and...’ Williams trailed off, glancing at Cullen. ‘I NEED MORE COGNAC!’
The shout was swallowed by the heavy leather furnishings and the heavy brocade curtains. The crackling of the fire emphasised the awkward silence.
Williams was looking at Cullen like he was supposed to deliver the drink.
So Cullen looked around the dark room. There, resting on a large book shelf filled with leather-bound law books. A bottle of supermarket cognac. ‘Sir, may I have your—’
‘Not that piss, you—’ Williams bit his tongue. ‘The Frapin Cuvée, if you will.’
‘You need to—’
‘Oh, Hamish, but that was over five thousand pounds, wasn’t it?’ Williams broke from his silly voice. ‘And if I can’t drink it on the eve of Campbell’s passing, when can I?’ He hauled himself up and staggered over to the bookcase and pulled a hidden door open at the third attempt, before disappearing inside.
Cullen let his gaze wander around the room. The hot air from the fire was getting to him, making him more lightheaded by the minute.
Living next door to each other. That seems weird. Almost too weird.
‘Then again, I don’t expect somebody with the rough temperament of the street to understand what he was to me.’
What did he mean by—