World's End (Cullen & Bain Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Weird how he lived downstairs.’

  ‘Not when you were here, Scott. He’s only been in since the start of September.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Bumped into him and a flatmate as they were lugging in this massive DJ sound system. Knew it was going to be a disaster. And it was.’

  ‘What are the kids down there like?’

  ‘Not sure. You know I like to keep myself to myself.’

  ‘Smart move.’ Cullen finished his tea. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about Bain.’

  ‘You need to get rid of him, Scott. Mark my words.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Look, I’m interviewing Craig’s old sergeant tomorrow night. On the sly.’

  ‘So Bain’s cards are marked?’ She looked like she was struggling to hide the smile. ‘Thank god.’

  ‘I’ll put in a recommendation to send him to Bathgate.’

  ‘No you bloody won’t.’

  Cullen put the cup in the sink. Fluffy started circling his feet. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Wait a sec.’ She took a sip of her own tea, eyes narrowing. ‘Look, Bain coming here jostled a few memories, okay?’

  ‘About us?’

  She was blushing. ‘Snogging downstairs, like we used to. Desperate to get up here.’ She shut her eyes. ‘It made me remember something. I can’t swear on it, but I think I saw Phil with a woman, at least a couple of times. Kissing downstairs like they were in a hurry to get home.’

  ‘You mean, like a girlfriend?’

  ‘I do, but she was a lot older than him.’

  9

  BAIN

  Where the fuck does he get off?

  Sundance, I made that prick.

  And this arsehole in the Vectra just ahead of me, thinking he’s the Boy. Alloy wheels and lowered suspension. Still his fuckin’ dad’s motor, even if the imbecile’s welded a spoiler on the back.

  I’ll show him who’s the boss. I kick down to second and floor it, weaving the duchess around the wanker, giving him a polite wave, head tilted, as I pass and—

  SHITE.

  A fuckin’ bus is hurtling right towards me.

  Brakes on, squeal and I slide back in behind the Vectra. The bus hisses past. Fuckin’ close one. Prick should’ve let me out earlier, so he’s getting a pounded horn for his trouble. Even has the cheek to flip me the bird, as the Yanks would say.

  Just as well I’m at Ashworth’s or I’d pull him over and ruin his fuckin’ day. Probably no end of shite he’s hiding from the long arm of the fuckin’ law.

  I pull up at the outer locus. The wee fanny’s still clutching his clipboard like he’s important. I shove my warrant card against the glass and pull past without signing. He can do some work for a change.

  Still, it’s nice to have my choice of parking spaces for once, so I park across two disabled bays without the fear of some jobsworth coming over and shouting at us. I get out of the duchess and stretch. Might be brass monkeys, but it’s a braw day. Nice and bright. Swear when I got up this morning, I thought it was going to—

  What the hell are they up to?

  My heart’s fuckin’ racing as I plough over there.

  That manager—Searle or something—is locked in a heated battle with those arseholes Sundance saddled us with: Hunter and Buxton. Livid too, jabbing his finger at Hunter. Bad move, by all accounts. As much of a dick as Hunter is, I’ve seen him take down boys even bigger than him, and in fuckin’ seconds too.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Searle swivels round and clocks us. Takes him a few seconds before he moves, but he gets in my face now. Christ, he stinks like a microbrewery. Second-hand booze is seeping out of every pore. ‘I need to open up and she won’t honour that.’

  He switches his focus to this tiny wee lassie I’ve only just spotted. Uniformed sergeant, and kind of cute with it. She’s got two or three coats on, though, and it’s not that cold, is it?

  Some boys only like a man in uniform, so I give her a “relax, doll, Brian’s in charge” look, then get in his face. ‘Listen, sir, you found a body in there.’ He’s inches from my neb now, meaning I’m fighting hard against looking away from the smelly bastard. ‘My job is to find who murdered him. My colleagues are still in there analysing forensics, so you’ll be lucky if you can open later this week let alone today.’

  Boy’s fuming, like he can already see a difficult conversation with his bosses playing out, and all the cards he’s holding are pish ones. Aye, join the club, pal. ‘This week?’

  ‘For clarity, I mean Monday morning, aye, and I’d be doubtful of that.’

  ‘Christ.’

  I wrap my arm around his shoulders and lead him away. ‘Listen, I appreciate you giving us access to the back store CCTV footage, but have you given us access to the rest of it yet?’

  ‘No, I’ve just had to attend a police interview.’

  Sundance, Sundance, Sundance… ‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’

  ‘No, I want them to find Phil’s killer.’

  ‘So, can you give DC Hunter here access to the video?’

  ‘Sure.’ He nods and leads the big bastard inside. Buxton shuffles off after them, more like a spare part than ever.

  Means I can let out a deep breath. But I can’t take it back in because Elvis is on us. Where did he come from? He points at Hunter as he takes the boy back to the front door. ‘Cheers, Sarge.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Giving us a break from that kind of rubbish.’

  I fix him with that look. ‘Don’t kid yourself, son. You’re helping interview all the customers Hunter and Buxton find.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And in the meantime, I need you to speak to the other employees.’

  ‘Already done that.’

  ‘Well done.’ And that bird is charging away from the store. A wee bit of me can just picture her on the blower to her boss, then any old shite coming back to bite my arse. And I need to keep all my trump cards in my pocket for use against Sundance. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Her?’ Elvis scowls. ‘Lauren Reid. Craig’s old boss. Why?’

  ‘Just want to check who’s about to grass on us.’ But something in his frown makes us stop. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The cleaner fucked off before we could finish up with him.’

  ‘What exactly hadn’t you finished?’

  ‘Well, Cullen had me asking him about his key.’

  What the hell is this clown on about? ‘His key?’

  Elvis steps away from us and looks at us side on. ‘Aye, he’d left it behind at home. No forced entry, so you know the drill.’

  ‘And then he fucked off?’

  Another step away from the boy. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Fuckin’ find him!’

  10

  CULLEN

  Cullen knocked on the door and waited. ‘You know you shouldn’t be here, right?’ He glanced at Sharon. ‘I can handle this.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked around at him. ‘I don’t see Budgie or Craig Hunter or anyone. You need two cops.’

  ‘You’re off duty.’

  ‘Got my warrant card.’

  She was right and Cullen felt like such an idiot. Maybe his ascendancy to DI had been too quick; she’d had years as a DS versus barely three for him, on and off. ‘Angela Caldwell’s on her way.’

  ‘She’s back?’

  ‘First day.’

  ‘My god. How’s she coping?’

  ‘Well as can be expected, I suppose. Let’s just see how this goes.’

  The door opened and a bulky guy stood there, his thick beard tucked into the neck of a muscle shirt. Cullen clocked Sharon checking him out. ‘I’ve heard the good news, thank you very—’

  ‘Police, sir.’ Cullen blocked the doorway with his foot and held up his warrant card. ‘Does Philip Turnbull live here?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Listen, I’ve got a lecture in like ten minutes.’ Hard to place his accent. Could be American, maybe.

  ‘We should do this
inside.’

  ‘You aren’t getting in here without a goddamn warrant.’ It wasn’t American. Maybe European?

  ‘This is a delicate matter, sir. Mr Turnbull is dead.’

  He sighed. ‘Come in, then.’

  That was it? Didn’t even swallow or anything.

  He stepped aside to let Cullen and Sharon past.

  But Cullen had seen that trick so many times, so he let the not-so-big lump go first.

  The place was like any number of student flats Cullen had been in over the years, as a student himself, as a cop or… for other reasons. Nocturnal ones. A grotty kitchen, with posters on the wall advertising bands, TV shows, games, all stuff Cullen didn’t recognise. Christ, he must be getting old. A massive telly sat opposite a battered couch that must be a haven for dust mites.

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  ‘Josef Sarmast. It’s Norwegian.’ He flexed a giant bicep and frowned at Sharon. ‘I know you, right?’

  She nodded. ‘I live upstairs.’

  Something churned deep in Cullen’s guts, something he didn’t like. He got between them. ‘How many of you live here?’

  ‘Eh, five of us. The rest are at lectures.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘Three of us are. Me, Ross and Bickett have lived here since second year. This is our third year. We found Jack and Dave last year. Dave moved out, and Philip moved in at the start of this year.’

  ‘And did you speak to him much?’

  ‘I mean, we spoke to him, but he kept himself to himself. Just saw him when he was making his toast and beans.’

  ‘Toast and beans?’

  ‘Porridge for breakfast, toast and beans for lunch and dinner. Every single day. He said he was a vegetarian, but I’m not sure a tin of beans counts, does it?’

  Sharon smiled at him. ‘You look like you know about nutrition?’

  ‘I work out.’ He shrugged. ‘Phil didn’t.’

  Cullen tried to get his attention, but he only had eyes for Sharon. ‘Does the “Evil Scotsman” mean anything to you?’

  That got a look. Josef rolled his eyes too. ‘It’s a song he sang when he was drunk.’

  ‘A song?’

  ‘I mean, he was drunk a lot. I don’t drink, work out every day. But he drank pretty much constantly. Like Fresher’s Week all the time.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that song.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be by Billy Connolly but it’s just some guy, and it’s to the tune of an old Alanis Morissette song. It’s really rude and stuff. He kept playing it to Ross, but it’s not very funny and it’s pretty sick.’

  ‘Anyone get particularly offended by it?’

  ‘Nah, bro. We’re all polite as.’

  Cullen gave him a nod. ‘Do you know if he was romantically involved with anyone?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’

  ‘When he was drunk, you ever see or hear him coming back late with anyone?’

  ‘His room’s the other end from mine, so no.’

  ‘No women coming back with him?’

  ‘Bro, I can’t help you. Sorry.’

  He was right. As much as Cullen wanted to push, he was facing a brick wall here. ‘What was he studying?’

  ‘Well, business.’

  ‘Why did you say “well”?’

  ‘Because Ross and Bickett were on the same course as him. Kind of how they met him, but like they’re not his friends. A few weeks ago, Phil stopped going to his lectures.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The way I hear it, there were allegations about him and a university member of staff. She was suspended, pending an investigation.’

  11

  BAIN

  One good side about all this pish is that I don’t need to fuckin’ queue to get the yellow items. The canteen might be empty, but my table’s nice and full. Some sandwiches, big bag of own-brand crisps and two tins of WakeyWakey. Lunch of champions, if that’s a thing. I take my time finishing the second BLT, even tastier than the first, and swallow it down with some energy drink, ready to pep myself up for this call. I put the phone to my ear and listen to the ringing.

  But I’m facing up to the fuckin’ bad news here. Sundance, cheeky prick, thinking he can tell me what to do. Arsehole is bringing a knife to a fuckin’ nuclear war, I tell you. Just need to launch my ICBMs, then detonate the warheads on the cunt.

  Here goes.

  ‘This is Carolyn. Sorry I can’t take your call just now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Alternatively, if you call my office, Elaine will help. Thanks and take care.’

  Fuck’s sake. I hit dial again.

  ‘This is Carolyn. Sorry I can’t—’

  Right. I’ve got this. Her office number is next to her moby so I jab a finger on that. Let’s see if she’ll answer this call, eh?

  ‘Carolyn Soutar’s office, Elaine speaking.’

  ‘Elaine!’ Try to leave it all friendly, let her make the move, but she doesn’t fill the gap. ‘It’s Brian. Carolyn there?’

  ‘Ah, Superintendent Masson. I’ll see if she’s available.’

  ‘No, it’s Brian Bain.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her pause suggests she remembers all that Miss Moneypenny flirting over the years. ‘Well, I’m afraid that Carolyn is in meetings all day.’

  ‘Wait a sec, you just said you’ll see if she’s available.’

  ‘Yes. I was thinking you were Detective Superintendent Brian Masson. You’ll be aware of the incident in Dundee, yes?’

  ‘No, but I really need to speak to her.’

  ‘Brian, there’s a serious incident in Tayside just as the country is approaching lockdown.’ She’s talking now like she does recognise us.

  ‘Elaine, tell Carolyn she wants to answer the phone to me.’

  ‘Sergeant, I shall give her your regards the first chance I get, but this incident is taking up all her time. Now, unless you’ve got intel on either matter, then I suggest you clear the line.’

  She doesn’t give me a choice, just bumps me off it.

  Fuck. Sake.

  I tap Dundee into Google but nothing much is coming up in the news. Keeping whatever’s going down there a secret. I know a few journos who’d like that inside track, though, boys and girls who’d pay top fuckin’ dollar for just a sniff.

  But I’m an honest man. Unlike Sundance.

  Prick. I’m going to double down on what I’ve already got planned for him.

  Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Hunter the Cunter is standing there, scowling at us.

  I stuff another handful of crisps in my mouth and fuck me the vinegar is fuckin’ strong. ‘What’s up, Big Man?’

  He stays there, holding a laptop like he’s my old man and hasn’t the foggiest on how to get Grandstand to play on it, like they even fuckin’ show that any more. ‘I’ve got the CCTV.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I swipe all the shite onto the floor and gesture at a seat. ‘Pull up a pew.’

  He does but he’s looking like I’ve sneezed all over the table and he’s going to catch that fuckin’ bug off it. ‘Okay, so the bad news first.’

  ‘Shitload of that going around.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Right, well, there’s no CCTV for the store room.’

  ‘Should there be?’

  ‘Aye.’ Hunter swivels the laptop round to me, but I’ve no idea what it’s supposed to signify. He taps the screen. ‘Someone’s turned off the camera.’

  ‘And here’s me thinking you’d swoop in like a hero and solve this.’

  ‘Wish I could.’

  I peer at the screen and there’s a hand reaching up to cover the lens. ‘So you mentioned something about good news. I take it you’ve found whose hand that is?’

  ‘No, but…’ He takes the laptop back and does some one-finger typing. Honestly, my old man has more tech savvy than this fud. ‘I’ve found footage of the guys waiting for the pricing gun last night.’
>
  ‘Vultures.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s what the boss here calls them.’ I shift over to have a peek at the screen, playing a scene not unlike a nature documentary as the pack of vultures launch themselves at a coyote just as it pops its clogs.

  A few supermarket employees hanging around like they’re pretending to do their jobs, and about ten customers, all men. Good work, boys!

  Hunter points at one. ‘Watch him.’

  Skinny guy, dark hair but balding like he’s got one of those monk things. A tonsure? That’s it! The boy’s acting well shifty, likes. Hanging around the cake section, looking over his shoulder as if he’s up to something snide.

  An employee appears and he’s even shiftier now.

  Hunter prods the screen again. ‘That’s Phil Turnbull.’

  I pause it and squint but these peepers aren’t so good these days. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  The Phil boy says something to the other one, and he fucks off sharpish. Phil follows him over and picks up a massive cake, shaking his head.

  ‘What’s going on there, Craig?’

  ‘Need to speak to the manager to see if he knows, but it looks like the guy’s switched price stickers from another product to that.’

  Genius! Why the hell have I never tried that ruse? ‘Anything to support that theory?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Okay, so you got anything else?’

  ‘Aye.’ He does some more old-man typing and brings up another video. Looks like the adjacent aisle, bread rather than cakes. ‘This guy here.’

  And it’s obvious who he means. Boy with a hook nose and a cheeky grin on his face. Real wide bastard by the looks of him. Basket full of meat and other products. He picks up a loaf of Hovis from the shelf, but it looks like someone’s shat on his shoes. What a face, all twisted up with rage as he looks around. He starts off across the aisle, shouting at someone off camera.

  And Young Phil appears, looking a bit nervous. Says something to the boy.

  The shopper shakes the bread at him, says something else.

  And there’s some movement from the right. A security guard, the same twenty-stone hoofer Elvis spoke to earlier, but big enough to frighten the bread bastard off. He dumps his basket and hotfoots it out of there.