by Ed James
Methven checked his watch. "I'll hopefully get to Mellis's before they shut. Got a sodding dinner party I'd much rather not be attending."
"Wife's friends?"
Methven scowled. "Worse, her work colleagues."
"You could have us all round."
"I don't want to get divorced." Methven put a stack of coins in his trouser pocket. "I'll maybe call later."
Cullen watched him stroll off, relieved to be on his own. He jolted upright, determined to get stuck into work.
Caffeine drove him on as much as the determination to keep the case separate from Bain's. The new Chief Constable of Police Scotland was the current head of Strathclyde - unless they got a result by Sunday night, Cullen feared his influence would push the cases into a merger.
He took a swig from the bottle of water he'd bought with lunch and looked around the almost-empty office.
Cullen turned to his computer and logged onto the newspaper archives, focusing on the six months leading up to Strang's disappearance. There was the occasional feature about the band. As Johnson and Williamson said, they were getting some semblance of a profile.
The biggest was a review of the last Invisibles gig in the Argus by someone called Sonny Bangs. Cullen had a vague recollection of the name Lester Bangs from his old man's punk obsession. He hadn't thought it was a real name.
The review covered a whole page of the broadsheet, which Cullen thought was unusual for an unsigned band. He carefully read it, full of gushing praise, touting the band as the next big thing, 'sure to eclipse Expect Delays'. The picture alongside showed Strang in full-on Iggy Pop mode, cutting open his chest onstage with a broken beer bottle. It was so busy people were standing on tables to see the band.
A second inset picture showed him smashing a guitar like the cover of The Clash's London Calling. Cullen frowned, recalling the expensive Fender Buxton had drooled over in Strang's bedroom. The guitar in the photo was red. He googled it and found a musicians' forum recommending switching to a cheap guitar for the last song as an economical way of looking like The Who in the sixties.
The band played four songs in twelve minutes and Bangs cited the Jesus and Mary Chain, referencing a notorious series of short and angry gigs in London during the mid-eighties, at least one of which led to a riot. Cullen googled again and found he knew a couple of their songs from the film Lost in Translation.
According to the review, the last song of the concert - the last song James Strang ever performed - was a wall of feedback. Strang was shouting 'they took all the money and all the fame', turning it into a mantra and inciting the crowd to sing along. He smashed the guitar halfway through and walked off through the crowd, blood dripping from his torso.
According to the article, there was some trouble after the gig. Cullen took it to be more hyperbole. He checked through police reports of the night, finding a couple of arrests on the Cowgate as a result of crowd violence, unclear whether it was from the gig or the football.
He dug into Lester Bangs - he was a punk rock journalist, helping fuel the American punk movement in the mid-seventies before covering the rise of the Sex Pistols, The Clash and countless others in the UK a few years later. Sonny Bangs was definitely a made-up name, someone trying to set themselves up as some sort of local punk rock figurehead. Maybe he was associated with the band.
Cullen needed to speak to Sonny Bangs about James Strang.
CHAPTER 30
Cullen parked his car on Holyrood Road and walked to the Argus's offices, just across from The Scotsman and Dynamic Earth. It was round the corner from the municipal swimming pool that passed for the Scottish Parliament building.
He shivered as he marched on down the road, the early evening wind cutting through him, the sun close to setting.
He entered the concrete, chrome and glass construction. The building teemed with activity through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Sunday edition just about ready for the press, last minute football stories no doubt throwing the sport section into disarray.
Manning the reception desk was a young Asian man, wearing a sharp suit and a beard that would take a good twenty minutes of chiselling every morning.
Cullen smiled as he produced his warrant card and introduced himself. "I'm looking for a Sonny Bangs. He works on your features desk."
"One moment." He checked on his computer. "There's nobody of that name here."
Cullen pulled out a print of the article. "This was written in August two thousand and eleven."
"There's nobody on the system."
"Can you try-"
"We got a problem here?"
A grey-haired man in his late forties was frowning at Cullen.
"Sorry, who are you?" said Cullen.
The man pulled an ID badge out of his pocket. "The name is Alexander Spence. I'm the Editor."
"I need to speak to Sonny Bangs as part of a murder inquiry."
"He doesn't work here any more," said Spence. "We let him go in the last round of cuts."
Cullen knew exactly what he meant. Newspaper circulation in Scotland was in free fall, continual rounds of redundancies the only weapon the owners seemed to have in their armoury. He could see a time when there was just one Scottish national paper rather than the current three.
"Can you give me a phone number?" said Cullen.
"Have you got a warrant?"
Cullen ground his teeth. "I'll get one."
"You do that," said Spence. "Now kindly clear off will you? I've got all seven days under my belt now and a Sunday edition to put to bed."
Cullen stared him down for a few seconds then decided it was best to leave it. Decimated readership figures or not, the press still had power. He nodded slowly, before leaving the building.
Cullen's Plan B was his ex-flatmate, Richard McAlpine, who worked for the paper. He got out his phone and called as he walked.
No answer.
CHAPTER 31
Cullen buzzed the door and waited. At least they'd got the intercom fixed. He felt a slight pang of guilt, realising he hadn't been back since moving out, only seeing Tom and Rich once each since.
"Yo."
"Hi Tom, it's Scott."
"Who?"
"Very funny."
"Up you come, mate."
Cullen trudged up the stairs, getting flashbacks of every time he'd climbed them, drunk and sober.
Tom stood in the doorway.
Cullen was shocked by how much weight he'd lost. "I'm looking for Tom."
"Aye, very funny," said Tom, tapping his receding belly. "5:2 fasting, mate. It bloody works."
"I can see that," said Cullen. "My old boy has been doing it. You look knackered, though."
"Cheers," said Tom as he let Cullen in. "Been working in London a lot. Big project down there in Corporate."
"Are Alba Bank branching out?" said Cullen.
Tom shrugged. "We've always had a presence down there, nothing like RBS or Lloyds have, but let's just say it needs some TLC. Bit of a fucking disaster, to be honest with you."
Cullen knew too much about Tom's employers, one of the three big banks in Edinburgh, from years of living together.
"How's my room?" said Cullen.
Tom spoke in a whisper. "The guy who rents it now is a bit of a weirdo. Don't think I'll renew his lease."
Cullen handed him a pile of CDs. "Cheers for these. Some good stuff there."
"You still love a freebie, Skinky."
Cullen laughed. "Remember when you did music? Did you ever come across a guy called Jimi Danger?"
Tom shrugged. "Is he a DJ?"
Cullen shook his head. "Sang in a band."
"Well, it's not likely a techno DJ would meet a singer from a band, is it?" said Tom.
"I guess not." Cullen shrugged. "Does the name The Invisibles mean anything to you?"
Tom frowned. "It's a comic. Grant Morrison did it. One of my very favourites."
Cullen clicked his fingers. "I knew it. It's been bugging me all day."
"Very good."
"So, what brings you back?"
"I need to speak to Rich," said Cullen.
"What's he done this time? Lost his phone again? Had to scarper from some bloke's flat after his boyfriend found them in flagrante delicto?"
"Nothing like that," said Cullen, laughing. "You two getting on okay?"
"Yeah, fine," said Tom, looking the opposite, but as though he couldn't be arsed talking about it. "Not seen him, but I think he's in. I've been working all afternoon."
"Cheers." Cullen walked to Rich's door and knocked, knowing from bitter experience never to barge in without an invite.
"Come in," said Rich.
"Are you alone?" said Cullen, as he entered.
Rich was sitting at his desk, laptop open. His eyes widened and he slammed it shut.
"That a porn site you're on?" said Cullen.
Rich rubbed his chin. "It's a detective book I'm writing."
"Interesting."
"Aye," said Rich. "It's harder than I thought it would be. Writing about the real world is much easier than writing fiction, that's for sure. The stuff I've seen would seem over the top in a book."
"Try living the life of a detective," said Cullen. "Feels like everybody makes money out of policing except for the police."
"Well, I'll give you some kickbacks if I ever get published," said Rich.
"How you doing?" said Cullen.
"I'm okay," said Rich, grinning, "but I know that expression. This isn't a social call, is it?"
Cullen nodded. "Perceptive as ever. I was just at your work."
Rich's eyes shot to the ceiling. "Tell me you didn't mention me."
"Relax," said Cullen. "I can do discrete. Is Alexander Spence your boss?"
Rich grimaced. "He's kind of the boss's boss, but aye."
"He's a piece of work," said Cullen, retrieving the article from his jacket pocket and handing it to Rich. "I need to speak to this journalist."
Rich looked at it. "Sonny Bangs?"
"I'm investigating the death of James Strang," said Cullen.
Rich frowned. "That's the boy who disappeared a few years ago, right?"
"It is," said Cullen. "Do you know anything about it?"
Rich shook his head. "Don't look at me, mate. I was in London at the time."
"Okay," said Cullen, laughing. "Sonny Bangs, then. He seems to know a fair amount about him. Might even be a mate. Spence told me he was let go in the cuts. Is that right?"
Rich nodded. "Alan Stephens is his real name. Think he lives in Midlothian somewhere."
"Thanks."
"I'll text you his mobile number," said Rich.
"Cheers," said Cullen. "I still can't understand why you moved back from London. That place seems decimated."
"It is. I wanted to get away from London and focus on writing books. There was stuff happening at the paper, so I took the easy money. It's much cheaper to live up here, especially on London money."
"It's hard enough living here on Edinburgh money."
CHAPTER 32
Cullen knocked on the door of the modern bungalow in Penicuik and waited, encouraged by the lights and noise from inside.
Alan Stephens answered it, layers of stubble piling up on his face. Cullen's warrant card solicited a surprised look and entrance to the house.
Stephens showed him to the living room. "Sorry about the mess," he said, sitting down on an armchair. "My wife left me three weeks ago."
Cullen figured it was once a family room, but was now descending into bachelor squalor.
"I gather you were let go from the Argus. Is that right?"
Stephens nodded. "I've not worked since I was made redundant. I managed to pick up some agency work, but that dried up quickly."
Unlike him, thought Cullen - there were many half-empty bottles of spirits dotted around the place. "That must be difficult."
"Aye," said Stephens. "The cuts have been bad. Even the few lucky ones left will have to work twice as hard for the same money." He stroked his stubble. "The house is on the market. Doubt we'll get what it's worth. My savings are all gone. It's a bloody mess."
Cullen nodded as he took out The Invisibles concert review. "I'm looking for information about one James Strang. You probably knew him as Jimi Danger."
Stephens' eyes narrowed, lost on the page, finding focus for the first time since Cullen had arrived. "Jimi?"
"His body has been found," said Cullen.
Stephens swallowed. Cullen thought he might have sobered up in that instant, a spike of adrenalin purging his system of the alcohol. "I knew the lad had disappeared. He's dead?"
Cullen nodded. "I gather you knew him reasonably well?"
Stephens pinched the bridge of his nose. "I sort of knew him. He used to pester me for gig reviews and features. He had a lot of front, I'll give him that. He was living the life of a rock 'n' roll star, or at least trying to. In my business, it's quite important to build up a legend around the person. Jimi had that already."
"Tell me about that concert," said Cullen.
Stephens shrugged. "You've read my piece. What more do you want to know?"
"It was only a week or so before Mr Strang went missing," said Cullen. "We now believe he was killed at that time."
Stephens stared back at the review clipping. "Jimi looked like he hadn't slept in days. The boy was totally crazed, eyes all over the place. When he went onstage that night, he was drunk out of his head." He pointed at the photo of the singer. "He had a bottle of Jack Daniels on stage with him. Tanned half of it in ten minutes."
"Had you seen them live before?"
"Loads of times," said Stephens. "I used to go to gigs most nights, sometimes in Edinburgh but mostly in Glasgow. I didn't get to see a lot of stuff I liked, but I loved what that band did. My sort of music."
"How did Mr Strang seem over the few months leading up to his disappearance?" said Cullen.
"I saw them about six or seven times in that last year," said Stephens, "and I'd say he got progressively worse over the last few months."
"Worse in what way?"
"One of the things I heard Jimi talking about was a record deal," said Stephens. "I think it fell through and he struggled to cope with it."
"Can you elaborate?" said Cullen.
"He reckoned they were offered a contract," said Stephens. "They'd taken it through lawyers and so on and they were close to signing. Something happened. I don't know what. It was pulled. No idea why. Jimi just sort of imploded after that."
Cullen felt a flare of irritation. Why hadn't this come from the band?
He needed to speak to them again.
CHAPTER 33
Back at Leith Walk station, Buxton was working at a laptop in the Incident Room.
"Have you seen Chantal?" said Cullen.
Buxton looked up. "Think she headed off to see a mate."
Anger started to well up in Cullen before he remembered the number of times he'd left early while a major investigation was underway. "I wanted an update from her. Crystal will be chewing my balls about it, no doubt."
"Sorry, mate," said Buxton. "Anything I can help with?"
"Doubt it," said Cullen. "How'd you get on with the workmates?"
"Needle in a bloody haystack," said Buxton. "Even figuring out who was working there at the time is next to impossible. They were all casual labour. The level of documentation is light, shall we say."
Cullen sighed - it was another Methven red herring. "Are you in tomorrow?"
"I can't, mate," said Buxton. "As I told Crystal earlier, I've got to go to a wedding. In Fife of all places. Arse end of Dunfermline. You?"
"No choice," said Cullen, feeling the entire case on his shoulders. "I've got a mountain of stuff to get through. Aside from this one, I need to get on top of just about every other case I've had in the last month. They all seem to be heading to court at the same time."
>
Buxton got to his feet and stretched. "I'll be thinking of you when I'm drinking Stella tomorrow."
"Yeah, in Dunfermline," said Cullen.
Buxton laughed. "You know, that paperwork sounds more appealing by the minute." He flicked his hair back again. "We got nowhere with the friends Johnson and Williamson gave us. Me and Chantal spoke to every single one of them. Nothing."
"What about the flatmates?" said Cullen.
"Nothing so far," said Buxton. "Only managed to track half of them."
Cullen furrowed his brow. "Remember his mother said something about a girl, Jane maybe? Did anyone mention it?"
Buxton flicked through his notebook. "Don't think so, mate." He tapped on a page. "Oh, Crystal got Charlie Kidd to go through his Facebook, Myspace, Google+ and Schoolbook accounts."
"No Twitter?" said Cullen.
"Not that we could find, but I wouldn't put it past him." Buxton shrugged. "Anyway, Charlie found nothing. Strang just spammed people about gigs and CDs. Not so much as a personal message in there."
"Worth a shot, I suppose," said Cullen, irritated by Methven going over his head.
"Need anything else from me?" said Buxton.
Cullen shook his head. "That's probably it. Have fun tomorrow."
Buxton sloped off, leaving Cullen alone in the Incident Room. He sat down at his laptop and starting sifting through the last few days' emails, which only added to his action list. He completed a few of the more important items, the tasks most likely to incur a bollocking if not completed.
He took a break after half an hour, deciding music would help. He opened the YouTube app on his phone and found a video for The Invisibles' only proper single - Goneaway - in amongst a load of concert footage taken on smartphones.
As he worked, typing up sections of his notebook, he listened to the video on a loop. He found himself singing another tune, eventually working out it was an Expect Delays song, an older one that irritated him as much as their new single.
The music cut off - he had an incoming call from Methven.