Heroes and Villains

by Ed James

  Stop it.

  He swallowed down his anger. ‘Okay, someone left a card for her at the front desk, instructing her to go to this suite. Called her agency, went to the bother of arranging this.’

  ‘You think she was a target too?’

  ‘It’s possible. I mean, she’s connected to Vardy. Someone could be upset that she refused to testify against him.’

  Cullen stopped by the unmarked door and knocked.

  Through the window, the arched girders of North Bridge and the Old Town were shrouded in wet fog – the grey sea in the distance, beyond the cranes and towers of Leith. Lily’s Flowers, an escort agency, high up above Edinburgh.

  Some footsteps came from behind. Someone cleared their throat, then the door opened wide. A middle-aged woman stood there, heavy make-up and designer glasses, her dark hair swept back in an Alice band. Simple black dress and knee-high boots. She looked Cullen up and down, her expression unreadable. ‘Good afternoon, how may I help you today?’ The corner of her mouth curled up. ‘Or perhaps tonight?’

  ‘Need your help right now.’ He got out his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Scott Cullen. Need to speak to you about one of your employees, Amy Forrest.’

  ‘I see.’ She led over to a smart desk, pulling out a leather armchair for him. She took a seat and held out a hand. ‘I’m Lily. Pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ Cullen shook it. Her hand was soft. ‘I believe that Ms Forrest had an appointment at the Glasshouse last night. One of your people made it for her.’

  ‘Oh, Sergeant.’ Lily gave him a coquettish look. Obvious how she avoided most police attention on her business. ‘I have no people. It’s just me.’

  ‘Okay, then. Amy said she—’

  ‘She is okay, yes?’

  ‘Wouldn’t go so far as to say okay, but she’s alive, yes.’ Cullen leaned forward on the chair. ‘She said she got a text from someone at your agency, telling her to meet a client there.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  ‘Aye, is there a problem?’

  ‘Only in so far as our employees are under strict instructions not to discuss our business.’ She made her reply sound like a brush-off.

  He gave her a wink, his way of letting her know he understood her coded answer. ‘I need to know who made the request.’

  ‘I am unable to. Policy.’

  ‘Right.’ Cullen got to his feet and stood in the window, making her squint. ‘I can get a warrant and bring a squad of careless uniformed officers in here. We’ll go through every inch of your business.’

  ‘Detective, you’re embarrassing yourself.’ She joined him standing and motioned at the door. ‘Now, I’m asking you to leave.’

  ‘Do you know what Amy went through last night? A man was murdered right in front of her, his throat sliced—’

  ‘Enough.’ Lily collapsed into her seat, making it spin slowly. ‘It’s in nobody’s interest to make a scene here.’ She paused, then unlocked her laptop and let her dainty fingers dance across the keyboard. ‘The request came from a mobile number. Unfortunately for you, that number is registered to a pre-approved account.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The client did not have to give his or her name. It’s a mostly automated process.’

  ‘So you let just anybody—’

  ‘I’m afraid so. This business operates on a trust basis, okay? That account was introduced by one of our premium-tier members. It may even be them, you never know. But they pay a lot of money for being able to request who they want without question.’

  ‘Can I get the—’

  ‘Not without a warrant.’ Lily flicked her tongue across her lips. ‘But seeing as how you have the decency to show up here and treat me like a human being, I’ll let you have the number. Good luck.’

  Cullen walked into the station and barged past a pair of uniforms flirting by the card reader. He scanned through but got red. ‘Bastard thing.’ He swiped again. Red again. ‘Come on, you piece of—’

  ‘Let me.’ Yvonne took his card and ran it slowly down the reader. Green. ‘Et voila.’ She gave him a wink then pushed through the door. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I was. But…’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh, you know me, I—’

  His phone rang. He wanted to ignore it, talk to her about Amy and her ordeal.

  And Jesus Christ, I’ve not even thought about Hamish Williams.

  He checked the display. Tommy Smith was calling. He answered. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Alright, Scott, I’ve got bad news.’

  ‘Oh, let me guess, you’ve processed the number I sent you and it’s a burner.’

  ‘Eh?’ A sharp intake of breath down the line. ‘No, Scott, the number belongs to DI Wilkinson.’

  35

  ‘Here’s how this is going to go down.’ Methven gazed at Lennox and Yvonne, unblinking, waiting until they broke off eye contact. ‘DS Cullen and I will commence interviewing DI Wilkin—’

  ‘No, Colin.’ Lennox puffed up his chest. ‘This isn’t your case.’

  ‘Terry, have you spoken to DCS Soutar?’

  ‘Why would I need to?’

  Cullen sat back and made his own eye contact, with Yvonne. She looked as bored as he did. ‘You do know we’ve got a spree killer or an assassin on the loose, right?’

  They both looked at him, as angry as each other. Methven spluttered. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re playing Game of Thrones here and someone is murdering people. Hamish Williams is—’

  ‘Sergeant.’ Methven lurched across the room, grabbed Cullen’s arm and pulled him out into the corridor, slamming the door behind them. ‘Are you trying to make us look incompetent?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So why are you doing it?’

  Cullen pinched his nose – the only thing he could do to stop from smacking him in the face. He took a long, hard breath, let it out through his nostrils, then locked eyes with Methven. ‘Listen to me. Wilkinson isn’t our guy. You saw him attacked by our vigilante, right?’

  ‘Sergeant, that’s immaterial. His account was used to—’

  ‘And nobody’s ever faked an account? Nobody’s ever stolen a mobile phone?’

  ‘He is prime suspect!’

  ‘You sound like Bain.’

  Methven stopped dead. He cocked his head to the side, like a dog unsure what its owner wants.

  ‘I’m serious.’ Cullen looked away. ‘Few years back, he focused on the obvious suspect, locked in on them, while the real suspect did what they wanted. Murdered, escaped. You don’t want to be that guy.’

  ‘I am not that guy.’ Methven turned back to his office. ‘I’ll work with DI Lennox and DS Flockhart to prosecute DI Wilkinson.’ He turned around one last time, ice in his stare. ‘But, I need to delegate a task to you, Sergeant. I have approval to offer the DC position to Angela Caldwell. Please inform her.’

  ‘What… now?’

  ‘Yes. Get a hold of her and tell her.’

  ‘I should be—’

  ‘Get out of my sight!’

  Cullen stormed out of the office into the grey car park. Seagulls wheeled above his head. This far inland meant a sea storm was brewing. Or something worse. He got in his car and slumped in the seat.

  Bloody Methven. What the hell is he playing at?

  Wilko clearly isn’t Batman. Clearly isn’t even the bloody Joker. But they were fixating on him. Turning a lead into evidence. Someone they could prosecute. Show they were cleaning the force, but really, just killing time.

  When Batman strikes again, what will they do?

  Would be nice to have said all of that to his face.

  Bloody hell.

  He got himself straight. Or as straight as someone who’d been through what he had that morning could get. He took out his mobile and dialled Angela and Bill’s home number.

  Delivering some good news for a change.

  The phone rang and rang. Then a hassled female voice answered. ‘T
wo-two-six, eight-three-one-five?’

  Cullen frowned as he gazed out at the grey sky. It seemed as empty as his head. ‘Erm, who’s this?’

  ‘This is Sheila Caldwell. To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Sorry, this is Scott Cullen. I used to work with Angela. Is she in?’

  ‘Oh yes. She’s spoken fondly of you.’ From the sounds of it, an entire circus was in as well, rampaging through the family home. Then the sound dampened, followed by a muffled: ‘Quiet!’ Not that it made any difference beyond a slight pause in the bedlam. ‘I’m minding Angela’s two boys and they’re not usually like this. I suppose it’s only normal that they’re having a bit of trouble adjusting.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ She paused. ‘Angela always talks of you as a friend. I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘It’s not my place to say.’

  Cullen pushed himself back in the seat, tried his hardest not to sigh. Just about managed. ‘Any idea where I can find her?’

  Cullen pulled up outside the Mason’s Cross, now proudly sporting a Wetherspoons logo in gold lettering. He got out of the car, Garleton sprawling around him. Sandstone cottages and climbing roses and wood-panelled shopfronts painted in primary colours. He stepped into the pub and looked around. Bon Jovi played low, but not low enough. Bare wooden tables, the nearest one surrounded by four old boys tucking into fish and chips – half-drunk pints of Guinness in front of them.

  Angela was sitting in a dark booth, looking like she was fighting a losing battle with three bottles of white wine.

  Cullen took a seat across from her and cleared his throat.

  She looked up, her eyes struggling to focus on him. ‘Scott? What are you doing here?’ Her speech was slurred.

  He glanced at her half-empty glass. ‘You alright?’

  She reached for the glass. ‘No, I’m not.’ She drank a couple of fingers’ worth and settled back, arms folded. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You spoke to Mum, right?’

  Cullen nodded slowly. ‘She didn’t say what happened, but you don’t seem in a good way. Want to talk?’

  Angela shrugged, then topped up her glass, emptying the third bottle. ‘I kicked Bill out last week.’

  ‘I had no idea. Bill never mentioned— Angela, I’m sorry.’

  ‘He…’ She blinked hard, like there was something stuck in her eyes. ‘And now I’m left with two feral boys and no job.’

  Cullen sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Welcome to the club. Sharon’s just broken up with me.’

  Angela stared in her empty glass. ‘Aye, well, I can understand that. You’re a wanker.’ She looked up with a grin.

  ‘Touché. And Bill isn’t?’

  ‘Well…’

  Cullen inclined his head. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Bill’s…’ Angela pressed her lips together. ‘My mother’s been helping out with the kids, but I’m at the end of my tether. Bill’s only staying down the road, but we hardly see him and when he did visit last night, I couldn’t even be in the same house as him, so I came to the pub and got pissed. Left him with those little bastards. See how he likes it.’

  ‘Doing the same today?’

  ‘Fuck him.’ She took another drink. ‘Last night, that prick was late, too. Woke the kids, and Mum had a nightmare getting them back to sleep when he left. They’re all over the place.’

  Cullen patted her on the shoulder. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  She glanced at him, then back at her glass. ‘You can get pissed with me.’

  ‘I’d normally say that you know I don’t drink, but… well.’

  ‘So why are you here, Scott?’

  ‘Oh, right, sorry. I tried calling, but yeah, you weren’t in, so I came to tell you face-to-face. Methven’s decided on the DC position. You start in two weeks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make sure you sober up, aye?’

  Cullen headed down Garleton’s long high street, past the scaffolding around the old police station, halfway through being turned into retirement flats. He crossed the road and stopped outside Lamb’s bachelor flat. Looked empty. He hit the buzzer and waited. His burp gave him a fresh taste of haggis, neeps and tatties.

  His phone chimed. Angela.

  ‘Thanks. Changing my diet plan back to solids from liquids. I’ll regret it, but looking forward to working with you again. X’

  The door clunked open and Lamb stood there in navy shorts and a washed-out T-shirt, staring at Cullen with bloodshot eyes. He grunted and staggered inside. ‘Want a beer?’

  Cullen closed the door behind him and followed Lamb into the kitchen. ‘Bill, it’s half three.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You’re half cut, Bill. So’s your wife.’

  Lamb stopped dead, eyes narrowing. ‘If you’ve come here to preach to…?’ He swayed as he reached into the fridge. ‘You of all people? Eh?’

  ‘Easy now. You’re the one who left his wife—’

  ‘Fuck off, you smug, entitled wanker.’

  ‘You’re the wanker here, Bill. What are you playing at?’

  ‘What am I playing at?’ Lamb stormed across the kitchen and went forehead-to-forehead with Cullen, whisky fumes wafting off him. ‘What am I playing at?’

  ‘Aye, Bill. You’re acting like an idiot – leaving your wife and kids. Why aren’t you teaching the course today?’

  Lamb didn’t have a response. Just stood there, flexing a pectoral. Hard to tell if he meant to.

  ‘You visited your kids last night and realised what you’ve done, right? Become one of those dads who can’t handle it. It’s too much pressure. Not what you wanted, eh? So you spent today drinking yourself—’

  Lamb grabbed Cullen by the throat, his grip like a claw. ‘You’re just out of a relationship yourself and you’re fooling around with Yvonne.’ He tightened his grip, choking Cullen. ‘You think you’re the man? Shagging some daft DS from Livingston, eh? Think you’re cool, eh?’

  Cullen punched him in the chest. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Lamb sucked in breath and backed off, resting his hands on his hips. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  Cullen stared at him, livid. Wanted to slap Lamb’s vacant mug.

  Instead, he turned around and walked out.

  36

  With nowhere else to go, Cullen’s rage went into the steering wheel. By the time he got back to the station, he had gripped it so hard and long, his hands were almost numb. He uncurled his fingers and tried to open the driver’s door. And failed twice. He shook some life back into his right hand and gripped the handle, feeling like a feeble old man as the door finally clicked open.

  ‘Stay there.’ Methven slid round the front of the car and got in the passenger seat, slamming the door. The same feral look as in Lamb’s eyes. Another DI losing it, panicking like a cornered animal. He slumped low in the chair like he didn’t want to be seen. ‘They’re trying to pin this on me! Vardy’s murder!’ He looked at Cullen like he had lost his mind. ‘They’re trying to fit me up for it!’

  ‘You need to step back, sir, I’m not—’

  ‘We were interviewing Wilkinson, but he smelled a rat. So he mentioned the video death threat Vardy received, the one that was projected on the front of his club?’

  ‘Sure, I—’

  ‘Charlie sodding Kidd submitted his analysis to Wilkinson, not me.’ Methven’s gaze flickered around the car park in search of a way out of this tight corner. ‘Turns out Vardy didn’t stage the stunt himself after all. The thing came from a Russian drug dealer, some guy Wilkinson’s squad had under investigation.’

  ‘That sounds… good?’

  ‘No it’s sodding not. I parked the investigation into the threat. Then Vardy turned up dead and I forgot about that sodding recording. And now Lennox has wind of it. Now. Of all times he has to get on my case… NOW! When he already has m
e under suspicion. Sodding hell, Cullen, I need your help!’

  ‘I need you to calm down.’

  ‘I am sodding—’

  ‘No, sir. Calm.’

  Methven glared at him like a bull about to charge, huffing and puffing and ready to blow his house down. Then he shut his eyes, the lids flickering.

  ‘Okay, let’s go through what we’ve got.’ Cullen shifted round in his seat. ‘Vardy, McLintock, and now Williams, were all killed with the same MO. Both lawyers have defended Vardy in multiple cases, right?’

  ‘I don’t know where you’re—’

  ‘It’s safe to assume that the same person murdered all three. Right?’

  ‘Where are you going with this?’

  ‘I’m trying to say that those murders weren’t because of some drug deal. Sounds way too complicated. Have they got anything tying this Russian to McLintock or Williams?’

  ‘No, but—’ Methven gasped. ‘Everything points to that Russian mobster putting the frighteners up Vardy. Guy’s out of prison for the first time in months. If they wanted him dead, they’d have been able to get at him inside. They sent a message, end of.’

  ‘The Livingston lot keep saying that it might be a cop, someone on our side, someone who decided to punish Vardy and those who helped him escape punishment.’

  ‘And I discounted the video from the investigation. Makes me look negligent.’ Methven stared at him, his eyes still flickering. ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘First, we need to find out if you were right to dismiss the video death threat.’

  Cullen trudged up the stairs, his footsteps echoing round the tight space. SOCOs were still working in Vardy’s flat, the crime-scene tape still up. He climbed on up, knocked on the door and waited.

  Methven joined him, straightening his suit jacket, his tie, his jacket again. ‘Do I look presentable?’

  Cullen frowned. ‘Presentable enough for what?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Methven’s blush went from faint pink to red alert as he knocked on the door and straightened his tie, again.