by Ed James
‘Tell you what?’
‘Why you look so pissed off. I mean, I joked about you shagging around and needing to apologise to Sharon. But you’ve been shagging Yvonne, haven’t you?’
Cullen took a sharp breath to put a bit more oomph into his fuck you. Then he realised that Lamb was asking as a friend. ‘No, I haven’t. I mean, we had a… thing, a few years back. It was messy. A drunken fumble behind a mate’s back and…’
‘You idiot.’
Cullen reached for his coffee. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’
‘Sure that’s all it is? I saw the way you look at each other. The way she shushed you. Very sexy.’
‘Bill, I swear. It was just a one and done thing. That’s all it was.’
‘So Sharon hasn’t kicked you out then?’
Then Cullen’s phone rang. He let his breath out again, reaching for his mobile and glancing at the screen. DI Colin Methven. He looked back at Lamb, shrugging an apology as he took the call. ‘What’s up, sir?’
‘Get to St Leonard’s.’
‘Already here, sir.’
‘I thought you were— Never mind. You’re late for my first briefing on Operation Knightfall.’
‘Operation what?’
‘Knightfall. With a K. I’ve caught the McLintock case.’ The line went dead.
Cullen was about two steps out from the Incident Room when the door opened and a miserable crowd filed past him, eyes front, teeth clenched, not one word said between them. He clutched his coffee tight in case one of them tripped over their own shoelaces and spilled it.
Methven was last out, more relaxed than the rest. Better dressed, too, in his silver-grey suit which matched his short-trimmed hair and designer stubble. Today his usual dour look was replaced by a broad grin. His wild eyebrows hadn’t read the memo, though. ‘Cullen, smashing to see you.’ He eyed Cullen from head to toe, taking in the tired eyes, the crumpled suit, the scuffed shoes. ‘You look like your wife’s just left you.’
Cullen managed to keep the smile going, but his clenched teeth were giving him a headache. ‘The troops looked like they were off to a funeral.’
‘They might well be, and it’ll be their own.’ Methven sneered at him, but slowly he started nodding. ‘But no.’ He grunted. ‘Now, in lieu of you attending a briefing—’
‘I was in the canteen with DI Lamb, so—’
‘Campbell’s murder.’ Methven leaned against the door jamb. ‘I gather you have a suspect?’
‘Two. First, Dean Vardy and—’
‘I know all about him.’
‘Bill and I spoke to him first thing.’ Cullen clenched his teeth. ‘He reported a death threa—’
‘And have you investigated it?’
Cullen raised his hands. ‘Hold your horses, we just got back.’
‘Well, Bill sent me a text while you were reading the papers.’ Methven flared his nostrils. ‘So I checked with Control and it turns out Mr Vardy hadn’t reported any death threat. Unlike he claimed. Which makes me suspect he’s our prime— Well. And who is the other?’
‘It’s a long shot. Campbell McLintock—’
‘This is the muscle-boy trade who cosplayed with them, yes?’
Cullen stared, wide-eyed. The conversation was about six steps ahead of him and his head was swimming. ‘Right, Big Rob. I know him.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m tracking him down and—’
‘Hold that thought.’ Methven elbowed his way past Cullen and held out his hand. ‘Good morning, James. I hope you’ve got some good news for me.’
‘Morning.’ James Anderson looked at Methven like he had just stepped in a steaming pile of dog shit. ‘Just got the DNA results back from the clump of pubes we found McLintock’s shower.’
Methven winced.
‘You’re in luck, big man. We got a hit, some Polish boy who got busted for drugs a few years back. His name’s unpronounceable, though. So many consonants. Must give the lad a sore throat every time he says it out loud.’ Anderson held out the file he was carrying. The top page contained a headshot and a list of personal data, including this supposedly unpronounceable name.
Cullen peered at it and groaned. ‘Nice and slow: R-o-b-e-r-t.’
‘I can manage that part, you tube.’ Anderson snarled. ‘The surname, you bam.’
Cullen took a second look. Then it was his turn to laugh. ‘Robert Szczepański.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘Because I know him. And he’s not Polish, and that’s not his real name. Robert Woodhead was born in Manchester, but changed his surname to Szczepański. The guys at his gym kept saying he looked like the strongman competitor.’
‘What, Geoff Capes?’
‘Right sport, wrong era. Szczepański was the champion in 2009, and that became his stage name. And he’s the kind of nutter who changes his name by deed poll to mess with people.’
‘Sounds like you married the prick.’ Anderson scratched at the missing chunk of goatee. Up close, it looked like the hair had been burnt off. ‘He your type?’
‘Oh, he’s a big hunk of rock-hard muscle, James. More your type than mine.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Six foot tall, seventeen stone, can bench-press double my weight.’ Cullen pulled out his wallet and looked through it. ‘Here you go. He’s got it all listed on his calling card.’ He handed it to Methven but kept looking at Anderson as he spoke. ‘He was a CHIS in a case me and Craig Hunter worked a while ago. We busted him for dealing steroids, flipped him and took down a whole drug ring.’
‘Fucking get you.’ Anderson was still staring at the card. ‘So you know how to get hold of him?’
Cullen scratched his neck. ‘That’s the thing – he wasn’t at the gym this—’
‘He-Man Nights.’ Methven snatched the card off Anderson. ‘I’ve had dealings with this gentleman for… other crimes.’ He started heehawing with laughter. Sounded like a donkey in distress. ‘He-Man are a security firm, but we all know what they really do. But before that, he got himself into bother doing a bit of street trade, most of it with old men in public spots. Calton Hill, the Dugald Stewart Monument. You know, the thing in all the Edinburgh postcards. Looks like a miniature Athenian temple with loads of columns. One night we get an anonymous tipoff, so we climb the hill and there he is, his sweaty nakedness glistening in the moonlight while he’s banging someone senior at Alba Bank, pinning him against one of the pillars, arms flailing like a horny monkey.’
Anderson gave a wry smile. ‘This is that Zhe—? That guy?’
‘Indeed.’ Methven kept his eyes focused on the business card. ‘When we arrested Mr Szczepański,’ his pronunciation was perfect, ‘he tried to tell me his name four times, and I didn’t get it. Eventually, he had to write it down for me. Turns out he couldn’t pronounce Szczepański either.’ He squealed with laughter, much louder than the anecdote warranted, almost choking on his delight before he took a long breath. ‘Long story short, he goes by Big Rob.’
Silence.
Anderson leafed through the file. ‘I really need to get back to work.’ Without making eye contact with either of them, he nodded a vague goodbye and paced back down the corridor.
Cullen clenched his teeth and the dull pain returned. ‘So, what do you—’
‘I want Big Rob in a room within the hour.’ Methven glanced down at the calling card in his hand as though he had to jog his memory. ‘Might be best starting at He-Man Nights, mm?’
20
‘No, that’s not the kind of service we offer here, and I resent the question.’ The bald steroid abuser in his fifties had a gold earring and forearms the size of small children. At the moment, he had them folded over his tight T-shirt, a garment that was about two sizes too small. He was sitting behind a desk but seemed like he would have felt more comfortable squatting or lifting weights. ‘We’re a respectable security firm.’
A giant He-Man Nights logo filled the right-hand wall. Behind him
was a spectacular view over the Firth of Forth to Fife, sandy beaches, choppy waters, wheeling seagulls, far horizons, big skies. Inchkeith Island brooded in the middle.
‘Sure?’ Bain pursed his lips and waved at the walls which were draped in crushed velvet.
Mood-lighting glinted like candle flames on a series of portraits mounted at head height around the room. They were headshots, all with name plates, all male, and all of the gentlemen seemed to be doing their best to look as raunchy as physically possible – their heads cocked at rakish angles, carefully groomed beards and pursed lips.
Bain unpursed his own lips and looked back at the receptionist. ‘Sure you’re not running a knocking shop here?’
The receptionist huffed and glared at him some more.
But Bain walked over to the nearest display, cocking his head to the side, inspecting in great detail. His eyes flicked between Cullen and the receptionist. ‘Is our pal Robert Szczepański up on your wall of shame here?’
No response.
‘He is one of your boys, right?’ Bain stepped up to the desk. ‘Listen, we’re not here to drill deep into your business, okay? We just need to speak to Robert.’
The receptionist narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Just an old case that’s resurfaced.’ Cullen got in front of Bain. ‘I know Big Rob from back in the day. He helped us bust a drug ring at Rock Hard Gym.’
The receptionist looked back and forth between the detectives, then checked his computer. ‘Right, Big Rob is due to meet a client this evening.’
‘This is kind of urgent, mate. Any chance you know where he’ll be before then?’
A huff. ‘If I know Rob, he’ll be torturing himself at his new gym.’
Ultraman gym was the size of a warehouse, several floors and split levels dedicated to all manner of self-abuse from squash courts to yoga studios. In deepest, darkest Niddrie.
Cullen followed Bain down a long corridor, lined with glass on both sides, grunting men hitting heavy bags on the left – the right a room full of panting women in spinning classes, the nearest standing up on her pedals as they passed. Mirrored walls everywhere. A gang of six early twenties lasses strutted towards them, all dressed in lycra, lots of naked skin on display, all of it glowing with perspiration.
‘Kids, eh?’ Bain nudged Cullen. ‘They can pass out in the drunk tank one night and be back in here the next morning.’
‘Getting old must be difficult.’ Cullen laughed. ‘Maybe Big Rob can sort you out with some Viagra. How many are you on now? One for a semi, two for a—’
‘Fuck off.’ Bain strode off down the steps from yet another dance studio, loud club music thrumming through the stairwell.
Cullen sped up and caught him at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Where you off to anyway?’
Bain stopped and stared at him. ‘Searching for Big Rob.’
‘Sure you’re not just ogling a few sweaty men on their backs, moaning and straining and—’
‘Very funny.’ Bain’s eyes wouldn’t quite meet Cullen’s. ‘You’re acting like you know where Big Rob is. Quit being a prick and just tell us, eh?’
‘Try thinking like a detective for once. We know he’s a male escort, so he needs to look good naked. We also know at least one of his clients liked him to role play some superhero sex game, so we can also assume he needs to be strong to act out all those rescue missions in a leotard with his pants over the top, right?’
Bain was still avoiding Cullen’s eyes. ‘So where the fuck is he?’
‘In the basement. That’s where they keep the big weights for the big boys.’
‘How the fuck do you know that?’
‘I can read signs.’ Cullen pointed at the floor plan next to the stairs and headed down.
The basement was a whitewashed cavernous space with a low-arched ceiling. A double row of twenty-five benches filled it, each with a rack of plates, the incessant clanging and banging of metal bars on metal brackets like they were in a factory. They passed two gorillas in tank tops, one pressing an overloaded barbell, the other spotting the trembling lifter. ‘Come on, come on, come on, bring it, you’re nearly there, it’s all you, mate, I’m hardly touching the bar, come ooooooooon… You the man!’
‘I’m the man!’ Then the lifter vomited all over himself. Lying down.
Cullen led the way down the narrow corridor between the rows of benches, checking each grunting face.
Big Rob was impossible to miss, standing at the water cooler, guzzling from a two-litre bottle, blissfully unaware of his surroundings, happy with himself and his place in the world. King of the iron jungle, decked out in knee-length black shorts and a neon-yellow muscle-shirt so tight it looked like a crop top. At least a C-cup, but maybe triple figures on the chest measurement. And he was massive now, almost doubled in size since Cullen last saw him eighteen months ago. And he was huge then.
Cullen tried to overlay his physique on the masked killer in the Batman costume. Rob was way too big – the sort who could carry a Mini half a mile, not jump through a window. So Cullen gave him the thumbs-up. ‘Nice shirt, Rob. Do they make it in your size?’
Big Rob laughed, a deep, rumbling sound full of confidence and testosterone. ‘Alright, Scotty. The shirt’s that size on purpose, you cheeky rascal. Want to show off my gains, don’t I?’
‘Here, pal.’ Bain pointed at his naked shoulder. ‘Is that Didier Drogba?’
Big Rob gave the tattoo a fond caress and tutted at him. ‘Now, now, that’s quite obviously Tracy Chapman. My queen, don’t listen to the jealous wee policeman.’ He looked back at Cullen and motioned at the bench next to him. ‘Been playing five a side, if you know what I mean. Five twenty-kilo plates either side of the barbell. Bar included, that makes it… a sexy one-eight.’
Bain laughed. ‘Two-twenty, you big fanny.’
Cullen rested a hand on his chest. ‘I could listen to you do sums all day, but I need to ask you a few quick questions.’
Rob held his bottle over his lips. ‘Like, police questions?’
‘Aye. Questions about Campbell McLintock.’
Big Rob dropped the water bottle, and barged past Cullen towards the exit, sending him spinning. Bain stepped out from behind him and ducked under Big Rob’s centre of gravity, seized the oncoming man around the waist, thrust his pelvis forward and up, arched his back, twisted his torso to the left and let Big Rob’s momentum do the rest. Glued together at the hip, they went over Bain’s shoulder in a slick wrestling move that put Big Rob square on his back.
Bain landed on top of him with a sickening crunch, straddling Rob’s heaving chest.
‘Sorry, but is there any chance we could speed this up a bit?’ Not So Big Rob sat on the smallest chair in the station, his chest level with the table top. ‘And could I get a sandwich or something? Bottle of water? I just had a massive chest workout and I’m on this hydration regime—’
‘Still? I remember you telling me about that last year.’ Cullen looked down at him. ‘You’re a cucumber with anxiety issues.’
Bain started wheezing with laughter.
Cullen motioned for them both to settle down. ‘Now, Mr Woodhead, we’re still waiting for your lawyer to turn up, so—’
‘Just get on with it.’ Big Rob shifted on his wee chair. ‘Not got all day for this, eh?’
‘I’m happy to wait, you know?’ Cullen folded his hands in his lap, the very image of casual patience. ‘Should be here in an hour or two. Be better to do this properly. So there’s no rush if you want to—’
‘Get started. I’ve nothing to hide.’ Big Rob puckered his lips as though he had bitten into a lemon.
Cullen knew where to focus. ‘If you’ve nothing to hide, why did you try to run away when I mentioned Campbell McLintock?’
‘Because… because you said he’d been killed and it sounded like you were trying to fit me up for the murder.’
‘Mr Woodhead, if you have nothing to hide, why did—’
‘Because I w
as there, okay?’ Big Rob flinched like the admission put him square in the frame. He glanced back and forth between the detectives, rubbing at the twitches in his face. ‘I mean, I was at his place early in the evening. He’d hired me for some… work around the house. Check-ups on his security system, that kind of thing…’
Cullen stared him straight in the eye. ‘Of course…’
‘Honest to God, Scotty, I didn’t kill him!’
Cullen just kept staring at him, nodding, waiting.
Big Rob looked like he was about to spill the rest of the story, but the strongman dropped his gaze to the table and let the breath back out with a sullen humph.
‘Rob, cut it out. We all know what you were up to at that house.’
Bain snorted. ‘Aye. Laying pipe.’
‘Christ.’ Rob stretched out his massive chest. ‘Right, fine. I was at McLintock’s house for the usual service…’ He bit his tongue, then glanced down at his hands and lowered his voice to a mutter. ‘I was there to help Campbell celebrate some job thing. No idea what, I never listen. Does my head in. I’m there for a job, not to sort their heads out. They can go to a shrink for that. I’m not paid enough. Anyway, last night he wanted me to dress up as Batman.’
Cullen felt his heartrate quicken. He did another take of Big Rob’s physique.
It was dark – really dark – so maybe. And him putting me in the recovery position…
He knows me.
Christ.
‘Even had the costume, right size and everything.’ Rob stretched out his massive chest. ‘Bit of a sexed-up gimpy version of the original, but it fit, eh? Like a glove. So I put it on, did the, eh, deed and went home to my girlfriend.’
Bain cleared his throat with a wet cough. ‘Your girlfriend?’
‘Straight for play, gay for pay, you know? The gay stuff is my job, man. I’ve got three kids to support.’
‘Three fuckin’—’
‘Okay.’ Cullen put his hands up. ‘You were saying you went home to your family?’
‘Aye?’ Big Rob frowned. ‘Aye. I was saying I was home before nine. Date night with the missus. Anniversary, eh? Dinner, flowers, bit of romancing, you know the drill.’