by Ed James
Still got the police officer patter. Formal language, exert authority so no cunt tears your statement apart. ‘What happened to the steak?’
‘Couldn’t sell it after it’d been out of the fridge for an indeterminate amount of time.’
Searle’s standing in the doorway, hands in pockets. ‘I thought about frying it up for you this morning.’
Actually feel a bit sick. And a bit hungry. ‘But you didn’t?’
‘Nah, was going to have it for my dinner.’
‘We’ll need to take that into evidence, sir.’
‘Evidence?’
‘To compare prints. DC Gordon here will add that to your statement.’
‘Okay.’ Boy looks pissed off at losing all that meaty goodness.
I focus hard on him, trying to bring him back. ‘So we can trace him through the tills?’
‘Should be able to, aye.’
I click my fingers at Elvis and get him to break out of his intellectual prayer pose. ‘Can you let DC Hunter know we’re on to something?’
‘Sure thing, Sarge.’ He slopes off like he’s just got a delivery of craft beer.
Searle’s still got my bloody phone. Hope the better half hasn’t fuckin’ texted us while he’s got it. I snatch if off him and point to the screen, showing the boy shouting the odds at our murder victim. ‘Know anything about him?’
‘He’s a nightmare.’
‘What’s going on here?’
‘Okay, so we’ve got this system where if the price on the receipt doesn’t match that on the shelf, the customer gets a voucher. Five quid, I think. This boy’s always at it.’
‘Struggling to see how he’d get so angry.’
‘He won’t buy a loaf of bread until it’s 10p, then he’ll fill his trolley. When he was on the pricing gun, Young Phil used to play this game, reducing them from fifty to twenty, then fifteen, then thirteen, seeing when he’d bite.’
‘So he’d cottoned on to it?’
‘Aye.’ The guard takes over. ‘Suspect he’s moaning about how disgusting it is to have to pay 15p for a loaf of bread. I mean…’
‘With you now.’
The guard’s nodding at me. ‘This boy seems like a suspect, though.’
‘Agreed. Any idea where we could find him?’
‘No, but he’s a mate of the cleaner.’
I GET out of the duchess first. ‘Why the fuck did you let him leave?’
‘Like I keep telling you…’ The gate squeaks as Simon Buxton opens it. ‘I didn’t. Hunter did.’
‘Well, I don’t believe you.’ I jostle the English prick out of the way as I charge up the path and thump on the door.
This place is completely fucked, by the way. Falling apart. Battered old council house in the arse end of Clermiston, not that there’s a better end. Maybe where the Tesco is. If I wasn’t with Buxton, I’d head up there and scope out the yellow items. Starving now. Swear I got a full rotisserie chicken for 10p in there once. Gorgeous too.
Buxton’s on the grass, peeking in the front room. Fuckin’ hell, there’s another Sundance nickname right there. Budgie. Cheeky twat has the temerity to moan about me giving people nicknames? ‘He’s in there.’ He charges back over and thumps on the door. ‘Police!’
No answer.
‘Right, son. You get us in there.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’ Budgie tries the handle. The door doesn’t shift. He clicks his neck twice then steps back and launches his shoulder at it, but the door opens just before he makes contact.
The big cleaner bastard’s standing there, mouth hanging open, eyes like saucers full of secrets.
Buxton tumbles over the doorway and smacks into the boy, headfirst. He just bounces off him and goes down like a sack of spuds.
The cleaner boy’s taking a fortnight to look around at me. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘MY TEES!’ Buxton is scrabbling round on the floor and he looks up at us and HOLY FUCK. His mouth is a bloody mess, big gaps where his front teeth used to be. ‘WHERE ARE MY TEES!?’
14
CULLEN
Tommy Smith looked Cullen up and down. His grizzled face was blunted by a thick beard, way too dark for his white hair on top. ‘You look like you’re at a bit of a dead end there.’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Cullen sat down next to him at the desk, double the size of theirs downstairs and filled with all manner of fancy-looking IT equipment. ‘Need to trace a phone.’
‘Aye?’ Tommy cracked his knuckles and unlocked his machine. ‘Got a number?’
Cullen showed his notebook.
Tommy hammered the keys and sat back while the machine did some work. ‘You haven’t responded to that email about my retirement bash.’
‘Don’t remember seeing it.’
‘I sent it to your work and private emails, Scott.’
‘Might be out of town.’
‘Oh aye. Haven’t told you the date.’
‘You sent an email with no date on it?’
‘Just a weekend. Anyway, we’ve got a big room provisionally booked for the Friday and Saturday nights. Booked a band too.’
Cullen could just see how the evening would play out. Terrible covers, spoken word, tedious disco and way too much booze. ‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’
‘Good man.’
‘How’s that trace going?’
‘Slow. All the resources are devoted to this thing in Dundee.’
‘Any idea what’s going on up there?’
‘DCI and above, Scott. Unless you’re directly involved, like me. And I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.’
‘That’d be a popular move round here.’
Tommy laughed. ‘Heard you’ve got a new bird.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be so crass.’
‘Course you would.’ And as if by magic, Tommy’s machine bleeped. ‘There we go. That mobile is in Spain. Well, Majorca to be precise.’
‘Right.’ Cullen made a note. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Shagaluf.’ Tommy sniffed. ‘Actually stayed in a hotel on that street a few years back. Boys’ weekend. Cracking fun.’
‘You got the history?’
‘You got the warrant?’
‘Come on, Tommy…’
‘For the history, I really do need the paperwork before I start, so please.’
‘Will do.’ But it looked like a dead end. Would’ve been a good suspect, but it was just way too neat.
Cullen looked around the place. Not far from Anderson and his SOCO mob. Bit too quiet for his liking. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Off out for lunch. Boss’s orders.’
‘Anderson?’
‘One and the bloody same. All one happy family now. Told us to get away from our desks when we’re eating. Lost a couple of phones to Wee Doug spilling Dr Pepper over them. Wouldn’t hear that it’s Wee Doug who’s the problem, not the rest of us.’
‘Anderson about?’
‘Not sure. I try to keep a mile away from the prat.’
Cullen got up with a smile. ‘Give me a call if that phone moves.’
‘Who is it, like?’
‘A suspect. Need to know if she was anywhere near Ashworth’s in Gilmerton last night.’
‘And you know you need to fill out paperwork even for what we’ve just done.’
‘Come on, Tommy.’
‘Listen, Scott. You’re a DI now. Never thought I’d see the day, but you’ve got to cut out all that malarkey, okay? Do the job properly.’
‘Fine. I’ll get it to you by close of play.’
‘Good man.’ Tommy reached into his bag for a metal sandwich box. He winked and put a finger to his lips.
Cullen walked off, shaking his head for effect, and opened the door to the forensics lab. He had to search round five corners in a room that should only have four, but there was no sign of James Anderson.
Maybe he was making sure his new policy was enforced across all his staff. And no wonder they
were taking so long with everything if they lost an hour of people working through lunch every day.
Cullen got out his mobile and called Deeley.
‘Ah, young Skywalker. How goes it?’
‘Not great. Don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve got a dead body who needs a post-mortem.’
‘Oh yes, of course I heard. And I’m still hamstrung by the lack of forensics.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Scott, I examine bodies in situ, then I examine them here, more thoroughly. To give a full and accurate assessment, the in situ part—i.e. the crime scene—is as crucial as weighing the victim’s innards and listening to DS Bain joking about his todger.’
‘So you need James Anderson’s report?’
‘Correctamundo. Blood toxicology will get me most of the way there.’
Cullen found a sixth corner to look around, but still no sign of anybody, so he headed back over to Anderson’s desk and sat on the edge. ‘Well, I’m in the lab and nobody’s around.’
‘Typical. I warned the powers that be that this would happen.’
‘That what would happen?’
‘You’re not the only ambitious scamp around here, Scott. When you lot moved from Leith Walk to St Leonards, they merged IT Forensics and Telephony under Crime Scene Management. Across Police Scotland, it saved them six high-paying admin jobs. Trouble is, he’s in charge of the East division and is making a royal mess of everything.’
‘Tommy Smith told me this already.’
‘Well, I’m telling you now. Anderson’s drowning. He might be half-decent at finding a used rubber in a crime scene, but see managing clowns like Charlie Kidd and Tommy Smith? Forget it. Bane of my life.’
‘Well. My bane is called Brian Bain.’
‘But for how much longer?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s not just forensics I’m asked to consult on. Anyhoo, I’ve got to go. Tatty bye!’
‘Jimmy, wait!’ But he was gone.
Cullen sighed and slumped into Anderson’s chair. Very comfortable, much better than what he had upstairs.
He knew part of what Deeley was rabbiting on about, though. Those precious “efficiencies” that were pretty much all Police Scotland stood for. Merging everything made sense until it was just one cop doing all the work and there was bedlam on the streets.
But Bain not being a problem any more? Did that mean he’d be gone soon? Or would Cullen?
‘See if you’ve changed any of the settings, I swear.’ Anderson dumped his metal piece box on the table in front of Cullen. ‘Shift.’
Cullen didn’t move. ‘So long as you fast track the work for the PM.’
‘Come on, you twat. My back’s buggered from all the crouching and kneeling at crime scenes. That chair’s bloody expensive.’
‘Fine, but please, you need to fast-track the blood toxicology.’
‘I keep telling you—’
‘I’m running out of leads here, and you’re my only hope, Obi-Wan.’
‘You’ve been speaking to Deeley, haven’t you? I swear…’
‘Just please try and fast-track it.’
‘Like I keep telling you and him, we’ve got a ton of active murders to process, so things are going to take time.’
‘It’s just a case of doing that one bit of analysis, then I’ll be out of your hair.’
That seemed to tempt him a bit. ‘No, Scott, it’s never that. With you and with Deeley, it’s always a ton of shite dropped over my head. And Tommy Smith says you’re at it again. Tracing phone numbers without a RIPSA? Come on.’
‘I told him I’d get the form to him by close of day.’
‘Cool. He’ll start work on it tomorrow, then.’
‘Come on, mate.’
Anderson laughed. ‘Don’t you mate me. After all the shite you’ve been—’ He collapsed into his chair and screamed. ‘Ah, you fucker!’
‘What’s up?’
‘You’ve fucked about with my settings!’ Anderson jerked upright, both hands on his lumbar region. ‘For crying out loud, this will set me right back. You just come in here and think you can mess around with stuff? Scott, this is me crippled for a month now!’
‘I’ve no idea what’s happened. I haven’t so much as breathed on your seat.’
Anderson couldn’t bring himself to look at Cullen. He just stood there, kneading at his lower back. Frowning. Then scowling. ‘Where is it?’
‘Where’s what.’
Anderson jerked forward and tore open the door to a desktop fridge. The thing was humming loud now. ‘The beef.’
‘What beef?’
‘What we found in the fucking victim’s fucking mouth! It’s gone!’
15
BAIN
The wee interview room stinks of rusty metal and bleach, way worse than it usually does. And it’s all coming from this fud.
Keith Ross, conspiracy nut, supermarket cleaner. Big sweaty bastard. I tell you, I expected him to crumble in seconds in an interview room with the heater turned up—kaboom, all you want to know—but no, he’s keeping fuckin’ quiet, and he hasn’t even got a brief in with him. ‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’ The boy is super-stoned, can’t imagine he knows which solar system he’s in, let alone which planet he’s on. ‘Is that guy going to be okay?’
‘Which guy?’
He points at the big plaster on his forehead. ‘The one who smacked into me. He was losing a lot of blood.’
‘He’s at the dental hospital, son. Sure they’ll fix it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Son, your work key’s missing. A colleague’s killed and you’re saying you’ve no idea who’d take it?’
‘I’m a wanted man.’
Elvis laughs at that, but catches my look. ‘This isn’t funny, sir.’
Fuck it, here we go. I lean across the table and let this big sack of armpit sweat taste my digesting lunch. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Son, who did you give your key to?’
‘No idea.’
‘Wait, so you gave it to someone and you’ve no idea who they are?’
‘No! I didn’t give it to anyone!’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Are you working for them?’
I glance at Elvis and the boy looks as puzzled as yours truly. ‘Who’s them?’
‘The CIA? MI6? Mossad? Take your pick. They’re all after me.’
Forget the chemtrails in the sky and on his T-shirt, the chemicals in here have clearly warped the boy’s mind.
‘What about FSB?’
‘The Russians…’ The cleaner shakes his head. ‘You know, they get a bad press but they’re not the worst.’
Fuck this for a game of soldiers. ‘Enough of the conspiracy shite, son. A young lad with his life ahead of him was killed in that supermarket. That’s real, okay? No conspiracy, no bullshit, just a tragic event. You’re getting the chance to help us here.’
He purses his lips like that bird in that show back in the Nineties. What a wanker.
I thumb at Elvis. ‘Want me to call up my wee pal in MI6?’
‘I don't leave a trace.’
‘No, you do. Everyone does. They’ll have a file on you.’
The boy raises his hands, up high. ‘You can’t arrest me for searching for the truth!’
I get out my phone, then shove that photo of the supermarket vulture at him. ‘You know this guy, right?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, enough of that. This guy was seen in an altercation with Philip Turnbull last night. Next thing we know, he’s dead. We have it on good authority that you know him. So. Out with it.’
‘Aye, I know him a bit. Chat to him about truth.’
‘Truth, right.’
‘His name’s Derek Keeley, but everyone calls him Del. He’s big on the secret space program, particularly the Nazis.’
‘The what?’
Elvis pipes up. ‘The
y had flying saucers, Sarge.’
How deep does this shite go with these arseholes?
I mean, if you listen to Sundance or Crystal, they’d think I was the bonkers one, but Christ on the cross, people actually believe this shite?
But I don’t let my glare drift away from Keith fuckin’ Ross. ‘You know where he lives?’
‘No.’
‘He ever share any of this Nazi space program nonsense with you?’
‘It’s not nonsense. I’ve got—’
‘Do you have his phone number or email address?’
‘Right.’ The big bastard glances up at the clock. ‘I know him online. He’s done some YouTube stuff, comments on a lot of my videos.’
‘You got a username for him?’
‘I’d have to check.’ He’s gesturing to Elvis with freaky little hands. Never noticed before how small they are. ‘On my phone.’
‘Not so fast.’
He sighs. ‘Right.’
‘Know anything else about him?’
‘From the chats we’ve had in the shop, I think he’s a translator, German to English, English to German, can’t remember which. Works from home, but he likes to get the bargains. Asks me to keep an eye on the good stuff, so I’ve helped him a few times.’ He looks up at the clock. ‘He’ll be heading to Asda just now.’
‘Why?’
‘They reduce their prices round about now. Sainsbury’s on the hour, Tesco only twice a day.’
16
CULLEN
‘Because you sodding lost evidence!’ Eyes shut, Methven kicked his office chair back and stood to jab his finger at Anderson. ‘How do you explain it?’
‘Well it was there before lunch. I came back and it was gone.’ Anderson nodded at Cullen. ‘He was there, though.’
Methven trained his fire at Cullen. ‘What were you doing?’
Cullen took a deep breath, trying to divert the worst of his thoughts before he said too much that he regretted. ‘I was looking for him. Deeley needs the blood toxicology to finish the PM.’
Methven stared hard at Cullen. ‘Did you take the meat?’
‘Seriously? Of course I didn’t.’
‘Colin, he was right—’
‘Enough!’ Methven powered over to the door and yanked it open. ‘Get the hell out of here and find it!’