Heroes and Villains

by Ed James

  ‘HOW DARE YOU COME IN HERE AND ACCUSE ME OF…’ Then silence. ‘Hang on.’ Wilkinson sat forward. ‘How did that prick McLintock find out Amy’s identity?’

  ‘Someone’s got loose lips, Paul. Someone on your operation. Started out as a drug sting, but you saw glory, didn’t you? Bring him down for raping a minor. But no. It all fell apart. Just like when Vardy shot Xena Farley. Just like a hundred other times. You’re the sodding mole, Paul. You.’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’ Wilkinson got up and walked over to the window. ‘Listen to me. As per protocol, Amy’s identity was kept in a file, locked away in here.’ He kicked a filing cabinet. ‘Me and my superintendent were the only ones who interviewed Amy. We ran a tight ship.’

  ‘Could he have—’

  ‘Dave’s on the cancer ward…’

  ‘I knew Superintendent Mitchell well.’ Methven rounded on Wilkinson. ‘But it doesn’t excuse you, Paul. You show me that file or we’re marching you out of here in cuffs.’

  ‘What?’ Wilkinson blinked. ‘I’m not the bloody vigilante!’

  ‘You’re the only one who fits the frame for all three murders and who had a grudge against Amy Forrest.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, you stupid bastard! I just… Gimme a second.’ Wilkinson started rifling through a file cabinet to the side of his desk. ‘No, no, no.’ He straightened up. ‘Where the fuck is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The file’s bloody missing! I’ve always kept it in here.’ Wilkinson pointed an accusing finger at the cabinet, then went back to rifling through it, muttering as he searched. ‘There was far more in it than Amy bloody Forrest, too. Christ on a bike. McLintock was helping Vardy launder money. Like Saul Goodman in Breaking Bad, but with even worse suits.’

  ‘This isn’t the sodding time for jokes.’ Methven grabbed him and twisted him round. ‘Paul, is there anyone else who—’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’

  ‘Paul, I’m just asking—’

  ‘No. Nobody else even knows the bloody code for this room.’

  ‘Easy, easy.’ Cullen got between them, nudging Methven away from the filing cabinet, then focusing on Wilkinson. ‘What about your new Super? Could they—’

  ‘I don’t trust him yet—’ Wilkinson froze, his eyes as wide as when they first walked in. ‘That’s it. I thought I can’t trust him and knew he’d find a way in here to go through my stuff, so I hid the file in the safe.’ He let go of the cabinet drawer and darted over to the safe in the corner. He bent low and keyed in a four-digit code. ‘Here we go.’ He tore the door open and reached into the safe.

  Methven put his hands on his hips. ‘Well?’

  ‘Somebody…’ Wilkinson stared at Cullen. ‘Somebody’s set me up! The file was right there!’ He pointed at the safe as though it confirmed his story. Then he pushed Methven aside and strode over to the door, his chest swelling. He flung it open and stormed out to the open plan office: ‘DC ZABINSKI, GET IN HERE! NOW!’

  She marched into the room and stood in front of his desk, hands clasped behind her back like she was on parade. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Whatever you’re working on, put it on hold.’ Wilkinson looked straight at Zabinski with an unblinking stare. ‘You and DS Cullen will compile a comprehensive list of who went in and out of this room in the past week, and I want you to do it within the next hour.’

  ‘Sir, that’s going to—’

  ‘An hour. Got that?’

  Zabinski’s desk was covered in piles and piles of paperwork, Wilko’s paranoia about anything technology-related writ large. ‘Here we are again.’

  Voices thundered out of Wilkinson’s office, the din of two grown men shouting at each other bleeding through the wood.

  Zabinski looked over at the door. ‘What’s got up his arse?’

  ‘Long story.’ Cullen took the chair next to her and folded his arms tight across his chest. The desk was far from empty, a mound of papers resting under a World’s Best Cop mug half-filled with tepid coffee. So much for a clear-desk policy. ‘This is going to be a right pain in the arse, but we need to do it.’

  ‘I get all the shite.’ She logged into her machine. ‘Okay, so we’ve got to go through the CCTV of this place,’ she ran her finger round in the air, ‘and we’ve got to go through the access logs to Wilkinson’s private office.’

  ‘I’ll do the CCTV.’ Cullen logged in to the machine next to her, pushing the mess of papers and stationery to make room.

  ‘I’ll speak to security and get those access logs.’ Paula got up and leaned against the back of her chair with a lopsided smile. ‘I saw Sharon today.’

  Cullen avoided her gaze, keeping his focus on the screen, unblinking, until it went blurry.

  ‘Aye, she seemed about as absentminded as you are now. Walked right past me on the corridor but never noticed me, even when I called after her. Or maybe she blanked me. The cheek of her, eh? To think she was on my hen weekend.’ Outrage twisted the corner of her eyes, but it soon faltered.

  ‘She’s a bit preoccupied.’ Cullen glanced at her. ‘We split up and I imagine it’s been hard for her, too.’

  ‘Oh.’ Zabinski cringed. ‘I had no idea.’ She pressed her lips together.

  Cullen stared back at the laptop screen, his eyes glazing over again. He listened to her footsteps recede, then the office door clicked shut.

  Ghostly figures whizzed around the screen at quadruple speed, chatting to Zabinski and the old Operation Venus team, laughing and joking. Onscreen, Wilkinson’s door opened. Cullen slowed it down. It was Wilkinson and Cullen, the other day.

  He wrote it down in his notebook, not that there were many suspects on the page. Certainly nobody outside the immediate team. And no tell-tale bulges as they took a police file out of the room.

  Got to put myself in the frame.

  Cullen set the video playing again, the apparitions speeding around the office.

  ‘Scott?’ Zabinski cleared her throat. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘You got something?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She turned the computer around and pointed at a log entry at the bottom of the screen. ‘Got an entry at 18:47 on Monday.’ She leaned in, still listening to the din coming from the door. ‘Here’s the thing, Wilko was signed out at the time.’

  And I know where. Trying to kick the shite out of Vardy outside the Debonair.

  Cullen keyed up the CCTV, trying to play through the consequences. ‘Does nobody else know the passcode?’

  ‘Changes it every day. He’s paranoid.’

  ‘So how the hell did the thief get in?’

  ‘Assuming there is a thief.’

  ‘Right.’ Cullen yawned. ‘Okay, gimme a sec.’ He wound the CCTV to the time. Just an empty office and a shut door. ‘Sure this is—’

  Then a figure walked across the screen in slow time. Cullen checked it was playing at full speed. It was. The figure entered a code in the reader and looked around. Big and bulky. The door opened and they slipped inside.

  Cullen leaned forward. ‘Christ, can you make them out?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  Seconds later, the figure reappeared, stuffing a paper file into their coat, looking up at the camera.

  38

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ Methven collapsed back into Wilkinson’s chair, his eyes locked on the computer screen and the indisputable footage. ‘Bill Lamb?’

  Wilkinson and Zabinski were both staring at the carpet, looking as shell-shocked as Methven.

  Cullen perched on the edge of the desk and tapped the screen. ‘This looks like Lamb stole the file from Wilko’s safe. Then he leaked Amy’s identity to McLintock’s PI. Which means that Vardy knew she was speaking to the cops, so he could send some of his goons after her. Put frighteners on to make sure she didn’t testify.’

  Methven jerked forward in the chair and rubbed his hands together. ‘Why, though?’

  ‘Money?’ Wilkinson got up and started pacing around the empty office space. ‘Always comes down to m
oney. Some PI on a retainer from a top-end law firm like McLintock and Williams, they’ll have money to throw at desperate cops like Bill bloody Lamb.’

  ‘Is Bill desperate, though?’ Methven shut his eyes, let the lids flicker for a few seconds. Then he glared at the screen, like it was lying and it had stolen the file. ‘There’s got to be a rational explanation for this.’

  Cullen cleared his throat and waited until they looked up. ‘Maybe I can help with that.’ He rubbed at his neck. ‘When I broke the news to Angela about her job, I… Well, she told me that Bill left her a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Purple sodding buggery.’ Methven smashed his fist onto the desk. ‘Why the sodding hell did you not brief me?’

  Cullen could only shrug. ‘The guy’s been under a lot of stress, right? Paying for two kids. Angela’s a stay-at-home mum, so he’s got all that breadwinner angst. And he’s not been able to rent out his flat.’

  ‘Shitting hell.’ Wilkinson was nodding. ‘How did we not see it, Colin? He’s not been long as a DI. All the pressure of the Vardy case. I thought he was coping, but clearly his mind is crumbling.’

  ‘So Lamb leaked.’ Methven got up with a flounce and started pacing the office. ‘I never thought I’d have to confront one of our own, but…’

  Wilkinson looked up at him, his eyes pleading. ‘You need to take this to Lennox, Colin. Get me off the hook.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on. Mate.’ Wilkinson glared at Methven. ‘That bloody arsehole Lamb has been framing me. Must’ve been him who took my phone, set up the escort thing for Amy. Put her through the trauma of seeing Hamish bloody Williams dying. She’s lucky he didn’t murder her as well. It all makes sense. She pulled out of two prosecutions, let that bastard Vardy walk free. Makes perfect sense.’

  ‘DC Zabinski?’ Methven walked over to the door and opened it with a clunk. ‘Can you call DI Lennox and tell him to take DI Wilkinson into custody.’

  ‘Colin, mate, you can’t—’

  ‘I can and I am.’ Methven walked over to the doorway and gave Zabinski a warm smile. ‘Please lock this door behind us.’

  ‘Sir.’ Zabinski waited for them to leave then pushed the door shut.

  Methven nodded at Cullen. ‘Sergeant, let’s—’

  ‘Colin, you bloody wanker!’ Wilkinson was in the doorway, like an angry bear in a cage. ‘You can’t—’

  Methven pushed the door shut and locked it. ‘I bloody can.’

  Cullen rang Lamb’s doorbell with one finger, knocking on the door with the other fist.

  Methven joined him, his phone clamped to his ear. ‘Still not answering.’ He turned to Bain and motioned for him to head down the back lane. ‘Check the back door.’

  ‘Sure thing, Col.’ Bain marched off with some sort of purpose for once.

  Cullen pressed the bell harder, like that would make any difference. Ground his teeth hard.

  ‘I still can’t figure out why Lamb would want that file.’ Methven was slowly shaking his head. ‘Him of all people, leaking to Vardy?’

  Cullen saw a strip of light flash under the door, and then it opened in his face, as fast as a fist. He jumped back, caught off guard by the speed.

  Bain stood there. ‘Didn’t mean to give you a fright, boys. Thought I smelled gas, so I smashed his back doors in.’

  Cullen shouldered him out of the way, pulse drumming in his ears, and headed into the flat, three stairs at a time. Living room, clear. But four doors leading off. He started opening doors. Kitchen, clear. Bathroom, clear. No sign of Lamb anywhere, and no sign of his phone.

  ‘Where the sodding hell is he?’ Methven caught up with him. ‘Do you think the vigilante’s got to him? Maybe abducted him? If he’s been leaking, then he’s at risk.’

  Cullen tried the last door on the right. Locked.

  Shite, what if he’s in there, dying?

  ‘Stand back.’ He pushed against the wall and launched himself shoulder first. The door cracked around the lock and toppled in. Cullen braced himself against the doorframe and stopped himself before he fell flat on his face.

  Lamb wasn’t dying. Wasn’t even there. The walls, though. The walls were covered in newspaper clippings, police reports, pages and pages of handwritten notes. Bits of string connecting them, connecting the dots. Like a whiteboard in an Incident Room. Files everywhere – on the floor, on the bed, even on the chair by the window.

  Wait a second.

  Cullen lurched over and grabbed the file. The tell-tale Operation Venus typography and classification. Wilkinson’s file. Lamb had taken it.

  ‘Em, Sergeant?’ Methven was pointing at the chair back, glowing in the yellow street lights.

  Hanging off the back was a scrunched-up Batman costume.

  Jesus Christ. Lamb is the vigilante.

  39

  Cullen stood rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the evidence. He felt like somebody had paused a film at the crucial, heart-stopping moment, forcing him to stare at the scene in front of him until every damning detail had etched itself into his mind.

  The police reports. Wilkinson’s file on Amy Forrest’s underage rape, stolen from Fettes. And the Batman costume.

  All pointing to the fact that his friend was a murderer.

  Footsteps thundered down the corridor and Bain burst through the open door, wide-eyed. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Sundance, you look like someone’s shat in your fuckin’ sink.’ He snapped his head around to look from Cullen to Methven to the chair to the walls, then back to the chair. ‘Holy fuckin’ shitballs.’

  Cullen stood there, trying to make sense of it. Shock, confusion. Anything. It all just pointed to one conclusion.

  All the years of disappointments, letting Vardy slip through his grasp, with McLintock and Williams taking turns to get him off like they took turns on Big Rob.

  All those witnesses pulling out or dying in suspicious circumstances, never pointing back to Vardy or anyone in his organisation.

  It all took a toll on Lamb, crushing his hope and his spirit, making him decide to take the law into his own hands.

  Jesus Christ.

  ‘So Lamb is the vigilante.’

  ‘That’s fairly fuckin’ obvious, Sundance.’

  Methven shook off his daze and looked at Cullen. ‘Why did he take the file, though?’ He clenched his jaw. ‘And why did he leak to McLintock, only to then murder him?’

  ‘Whatever, Col.’ Bain snapped on a pair of gloves and started photographing the room on his phone. ‘Fact is, this murdering bastard is one of ours. We’ve shat the bed and we need to start cleaning up the mess.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that we—’

  ‘Hold your fuckin’ horses.’ Bain crouched to get a better angle on the cape. ‘I’m not suggesting anything. Just saying that Lamb’s out there, right now, very possibly slitting the throat of his next victim. And we’ve no fuckin’ idea who else is on his list. Could be anyone who’s ever crossed him. Could be us. Could be other people on the job or—’

  ‘Angela!’ Cullen darted out of the room.

  Cullen screeched to a halt outside Angela’s house and jumped out of the car, leaving his door wide open. He raced up the driveway and hammered on the red wooden door with his fists.

  Methven and Bain fanned out, running around either side of the house.

  The front door gave way and the force of his knocking carried Cullen into the house.

  Angela jumped back, scrambling out of his way. Cullen had to grab her shoulders to stop himself from headbutting her. He froze inches from her face, their noses almost touching, her eyes wide with fright as she stared straight into his.

  Cullen pulled his head back. ‘You’re okay!’

  ‘What do you mean, I’m okay? Of course I am! What the fuck are you doing banging on my door at this time of night? I’ve finally got the kids to sleep and you’re—’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Cullen glanced around like they might be sleeping in the hallway, then focused back on Angela, dropping his
voice to an urgent whisper: ‘Sorry about this, but we thought you were in danger.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bill, he—’

  ‘I’ve no idea where he is.’

  ‘We think he’s—’

  She clenched her teeth. ‘Have you been speaking to Stuart Murray?’

  Cullen stopped dead. A name he hadn’t heard in a while. ‘What? Why would I?’

  ‘Because he was going to speak to Bill about the ‘roid rage.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Steroid-induced rage.’

  ‘I know what it is.’

  ‘Good for you, Scott. It’s why I kicked him out.’

  ‘Has he been beating you?’

  ‘What? No.’ She folded her arms. ‘He was getting really angry. Never got physical but… He’s been hitting the gym every day, before work or on his lunchbreak or late at night, said he needed it to let off steam. Said it was the job, the new responsibility of being a DI, and the pressure of having to support the family by himself while I was out of work to mind the kids.’

  ‘I was slagging him just yesterday because his jacket looked like a sausage.’

  ‘But the protein shakes led to food supplements and they led to steroids. I called him out on his rage issues and he promised he’d quit that shit months ago, but he lashed out at the boys and I went through his gym stuff and he had pills and vials and…’ She went silent, the memory choking her voice. She wasn’t crying yet, but her eyes were going out of focus as she saw it happening all over again.

  ‘Angela, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you—’

  ‘Yesterday.’ She gave them a tight smile. ‘I told you in the pub. He showed up last night. Wanted to see the kids, but it was late and he was all over the place. I was worried he’d had some bad news cause he wasn’t like himself. Really sentimental…’ She frowned, then dismissed the thought with a shrug. ‘Probably just drunk.’