by Ed James
‘Sure.’ Anderson sloped off.
Through the door, Cullen spotted a few faces looking his way. People in his team, people in the other two. All very interested in who was getting their arse handed to them. He shut the door and leaned back against it, facing Methven. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Methven took a seat. ‘You’re sorry?’
Cullen left the safety of the door and walked over to the seat nearest his desk. ‘Sir, I—’
‘Don’t sit down!’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Why the sodding hell are you sorry?’
‘Because our case is buggered, isn’t it? It was in the victim’s mouth and Anderson was testing it for poison. If Deeley finds that he was poisoned, we need that to prove that’s how the poison got into his system. Given where we are on this case, with a million and one suspects, we really need to close down the cause of death.’
‘Okay…’ Methven sat back in his chair, eyes shut, the lids flickering. He opened them again, staring hard at Cullen. ‘Did you steal the meat?’
‘First, I already told you, no. Second, no. Third, why the hell would I? Fourth, no. Fifth, where would I have put it? Sixth, no. Seventh, can’t believe you think I would. Eighth, I can’t believe you’d ask me twice.’
‘I trusted you to run this case while I dealt with a pressing strategic matter.’ Methven stood up tall. ‘Scott, James Anderson is for the high jump here. He left that evidence in a fridge in an unlocked office while his staff were all at lunch. Whether you took it or not, you need to find that sodding meat.’
17
BAIN
Chesser Asda is the best supermarket in the UK, I swear.
We’re in the booze aisle, me and Elvis, just two boys checking out craft beer. Got a good view across the aisle to the bread and meat counters, both still quiet and tranquil.
I spot a good deal on that nice gin the other half enjoys. Should really pick up a bottle, but Elvis will probably grass. I mean, he probably won’t, but can’t take the chance with Crystal and Sundance both having me in their sights. ‘For once, Elvis my boy, we could use that podcast as a real cover story. The look on Cunter’s face when we catch this boy.’
‘Cunter?’
‘It’s my new name for him.’
‘Not really one of your best, is it?’ Elvis puts his phone away with a snide grin. ‘Cullen was asking me about all your swearing, so I’d look for something else. Like Munter.’
‘What the fuck’s a munter?’
‘An ugly bastard.’
‘Aye, that works.’
‘Anyhoo, I got a text from Buxton.’
‘Aye?’
‘They’ve saved both teeth.’
‘Shame.’
‘Come on, that’s a bit harsh. He was just doing his job.’
‘He made an arse of it. Tough justice.’
‘The cleaner opened his door. That’s hardly—’
‘Shhh.’
The boy with the pricing gun is pushing his trolley towards the reductions aisle.
‘Look around, and spot a ton of vultures waiting to pounce.’
‘You’re a bit of a vulture, aren’t you, Bri?’
I give him that look, but he doesn’t shut up.
‘Seen you in the Tesco on Leith Walk a few times, waiting to pounce on the sandwiches at half three. This is before I knew you, like.’
Sneaky bastard. ‘Those were the glory days before the minimum pricing on booze came in. Tell you, I got a great deal on an IPA once. Actually, we had it during our first podcast.’
‘Aye?’
‘Think it was called “Same Room as a Monster” or something. Stopped making it. Lush, wasn’t it?’
There’s movement from the vultures, though, as the boy with the gun sticks a whole free-range chicken on the shelf in the fridge. Had a look at it earlier and was moderately tempted at three quid, but he’s taken it down another peg. Two quid and I’d snap his arm off. All the vultures start wandering over, closing in on it.
But someone swoops in from the milk aisle and fuck me if it’s not Del Keeley. He snatches it off the shelf and pops it in his basket, then fucks off quicksmart. What a boy.
‘Sir!’ Elvis is loping ahead of us, but running isn’t his best attribute, put it that way, so he’s at a quick walk. ‘Police!’
The boy glances round, but he’s already dropped his basket, so he just fuckin’ wanders off, hands up. Nothing to see here, officer.
Fuck sake.
I tear off after them, trying not to disturb anyone. Elvis is closing in on the outside, mincing away like one of those boys in the Olympic walking. Heading deep into the store, likes. Aha, the boy takes a left towards the freezers.
Here’s where I excel. Like a fuckin’ chess player me, seven or eight moves ahead. I duck down the milk aisle and weave between two auld wifies talking shite, then break into a jog and pop out at the bottom by the fresh pizzas. Back up the aisle, Elvis is chatting to the lad.
Bollocks.
Well, my move would’ve paid off if he hadn’t caught up with him. So, I take it slow, in case he runs. Can’t be arsed with a run, like, not these days. Sundance is always at it, but fuck that.
And, SHITE, the boy clocks us and his eyes go wide. He pushes Elvis, sending him arse over tit into an open freezer thing. Bags of peas spill out and green ball bearings scatter over the floor.
I’m running after the boy, but the gap is fuckin’ widening with each stride I take.
A bag of peas flies through the air and clonks the boy on the head. Bingo, he’s down on the floor.
Simple task for me to snap the cuffs on the lad. ‘Let’s have a wee word down the station, shall we? Assaulting a police officer is a very serious offence.’
I’M in the longer corridor in St Leonards. Fuck sake. No idea why they built it that way, but it does my head in. Feels like it runs through to Glasgow it’s that fuckin’ long.
And I’m fuckin’ starving.
The door opens and Elvis steps out with a wide grin on his face. ‘No lawyer.’
‘He doesn’t want one?’
He shakes his head. ‘And I got it on tape.’
‘Right, here we go.’ I crack my knuckles, then put a hand on the door handle, ready to execute one of my well-known pincer movements on a prime suspect. Get right in their face before they even notice the door opening.
‘Sarge.’ Hunter’s powering towards us, face like a slapped arse too. ‘Got a problem.’
Those three little words…
I let go of the handle. ‘Go on.’
‘I can’t make head nor tail of the data.’ Prick’s got a laptop under his oxter.
‘Craig, you’ve got one job here. If you can’t handle spreadsheets, you should’ve stayed in the Sexual Offences unit.’ Boy looks like a sex offender, that’s for sure. Might’ve used that gag on Sundance’s ex, though. Shite. Fuck it, change tack. ‘I gather it wasn’t your choice to move here, was it?’
Hunter lets out a deep sigh and it’s like he’s counting to ten.
‘Is this you telling me you can’t do the job and I need to give it to DC Gordon?’
Elvis is giving me pure evils, I tell you.
‘Pretty much.’ Hunter stares right at us and fuck me does he needs a better nickname than Cunter. ‘I’m good at some things, not so good at others. I’m man enough to admit it.’
‘Right.’ Fuck sake. This sort of shite always blows back on us, despite everything I fuckin’ do to help these useless bastards. ‘Go get it all set up, then DC Gordon will come and help you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And stop being such a useless cunt.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard.’
He drops the laptop to the floor and gets right in my face. ‘You fucking little worm. I’ll crush you and—’
‘Get off him, Craig!’ Elvis, the voice of reason for once, managing to haul him away. ‘I’ll come find you in a bit, all right?’
‘No. Elvis, yo
u fuckin’ do it. Craig, make yourself useful by getting me a fuckin’ coffee. I’ll get Caldwell in here to sort this shite out.’ I slip inside the room like a shadow, not a bull in a china shop.
18
CULLEN
Cullen wandered through the station, his head fizzing. Two colleagues stopped to let him through the fire door first, but he pushed into the locker room. The place was empty, pretty much the only thing good about it. He collapsed onto the bench in front of his own locker.
And he just couldn’t work out what was going on. He couldn’t even remember seeing the fridge when he entered the lab, let alone the meat inside it. Usually he’d hear the humming, and it was loud, but nothing.
How the hell could it have gone missing? Was the killer someone on the inside? Or was someone working with the killer?
Neither option filled him with anything other than revulsion.
The alternative was someone messing with him. Anderson, maybe. Hard to pin anything down to him, just constant aggro between them.
Whatever. He couldn’t do anything about it.
Yeah, right. Like he’d ever just given up on anything like this.
He slumped back and thumped his head against the locker door.
Time was, he’d have fought it, probably even have fought Methven, or at least offered to go outside. At least he would’ve told Methven exactly what he thought of him and the accusations.
But now… Now he needed to act like a DI, even if he was only Acting DI. Yeah, ridiculous though it was, he had to act like an Acting DI.
And he could see it from Methven’s point of view as a DCI. All he had was Cullen in a room he shouldn’t have been in, and some key evidence going missing. As much as he hated it, Cullen could empathise with Crystal Methven.
A crash came from the toilets.
What the hell?
Cullen got up and walked through, taking it very slowly. Last time he’d heard anything like this was that old guy having a heart attack in a stationery cupboard.
The first door hung open and a pair of boots poked out into the bathroom.
Cullen recognised them. Big chunky Timberlands, a fashion salved from the early 2000s. ‘Craig?’
No response.
Cullen sneaked forward a few more steps and peered in.
Hunter was sitting on the pan, staring into space. Trousers up, thankfully, but his lips were moving in fast twitches, his eyes joining in every few seconds.
Cullen didn’t know what to do. Was he hallucinating? Was he sleepwalking? Having a fit?
Sod it.
He grabbed his arm. ‘Craig!’
Hunter jerked upright and stepped into a fighting stance, pushing Cullen back against the opposite stall door. He stood there, breathing hard and fast, his face screwed tight, but his eyes were somewhere else. Probably back in Iraq. Then something softened in him, and he shut his eyes. ‘Scott?’
‘You okay?’
Hunter swallowed hard. ‘It’s my PTSD.’
‘Thought you were over that.’
‘Me too. These drugs aren’t obviously designed for dealing with Bain.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Just his usual. I almost lamped him.’
‘I’ve almost lamped him a few times. That’s also known as letting him win.’ Cullen tried a smile, but Hunter didn’t join it. ‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘Sack him? Give me to another DS?’
‘You know I can’t let Chantal manage you, but I’ll see what I can do.’ Cullen pointed through to the locker room. ‘Let’s get out of the toilet. People will talk about us.’
Finally, Hunter smiled. ‘Aren’t they talking already?’ And he set off through the toilet back into the locker room, perching opposite Cullen’s locker.
‘You want to tell me exactly what happened?’
‘Right. So Bain’s got me getting hold of the Ashworth’s customer data and processing it, trying to find some guy who might’ve got into a fight with the victim.’
‘A fight?’
‘Heated argument, maybe.’ Hunter nibbled at a fingernail. ‘All that data stuff isn’t exactly my strength.’
‘You need a hand?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Sure? I can get Elvis on it.’
‘I said I’m fine. How hard can it be if Elvis can do it?’
Cullen shrugged. He looked for his locker key, but it wasn’t in his pocket, so he had to find the one on his keyring, hidden among the seeming hundreds of keys he’d acquired, then put it in the lock. ‘Elvis can do it in five minutes, maybe less, and you can show him how to do the stuff you’re good at.’
‘Bain’s had him doing that. It’s not going well. You should have a word with him.’
‘Would that I could. So do you want me to—’
‘That’s the problem, Scott. Bain’s passed it on to him already.’
‘Right.’
‘What’s going on, anyway? Why are you in here?’
Cullen looked over. ‘I’m…’ He didn’t have the words.
‘Stropping? What about?’
‘Some evidence went walkabouts.’ Saying it out loud gave Cullen a flash of pure rage, right down in the pit of his stomach. ‘Anderson’s fucked up royally, but Methven isn’t impressed with me.’
‘What?’ Hunter sat next to him. ‘Why?’
‘Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘Has someone stolen it?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Right, so this I can help with. Let me find out who’s taken it.’
‘You’re assuming it was taken.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hanlon’s razor. “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity”. Anderson’s taken on another two departments and is burning the candle at both ends, fucking everything up, left right and centre. He’s lost it, pure and simple, and he’s blaming me.’
‘Aye, and that’s—’
The door opened and Methven stormed in. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, hand in his pocket, jangling his keys like there was no tomorrow.
Cullen hauled himself up to standing. ‘Sir, I think you need to—’
‘Shut up.’ Methven jabbed a finger at Cullen. ‘This is unacceptable.’
Cullen turned back round to face his locker. Only way he could think to block him out. And getting his stuff and clearing off would be the best move.
‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’
Cullen didn’t. He twisted the locker key. ‘Sir, this is complete bullshit. Why would I steal that meat?’
‘Because you’re working with the killer?’
‘Listen to yourself.’ Cullen gritted his teeth, still facing away from the colossal prick. ‘Have you got any evidence of that?’
Methven didn’t have a reply. His jangling of keys was the only sound in there.
Cullen took one look at Hunter, got a flash of eyebrows, then opened his locker, desperate to get out of there.
A sealed evidence bag sat on top of his trainers. The meat!
‘Holy shit.’ Hunter was staring at it. ‘Is that—’
Methven elbowed him aside. ‘Neither of you move!’ He snapped on a pair of gloves and pulled the bag out. ‘You just found it.’
Cullen stepped away from him. ‘I swear it was just sitting there.’
‘Are you two cooking this up?’ Methven shut his eyes. ‘Pardon the sodding pun.’
‘No, sir, we’re not.’ Cullen waited for him to open his eyes again, then fixed him with the hardest stare he could muster without throwing a fist at him. ‘Sir, I couldn’t find my locker key and—’
‘You lost it?’
‘I keep my spare on my keyring and—’
‘This is ridiculous, the pair of you are—’
Cullen looked at Hunter, leading with him. ‘Craig, tell him?’
‘I saw what I saw, sir. Scott was talking and he found it.’
Methven s
hook his head. ‘Whoever stole this is probably working with our killer.’
Cullen wasn’t sure he bought it. ‘Maybe. But they’re trying to frame me.’
‘Okay, so assuming this isn’t you and Craig trying to dig you out of a very deep hole…’
‘If you’re giving us a chance to confess, there’s nothing to confess to, sir.’
‘I see. If I find that you’ve taken it, then—’
‘You won’t find that, because I haven’t.’
‘If I do, then I’ll have to suspend you.’ Methven glowered at him. ‘But right now, you’re going to take it back and we’ll deal with how it got there later.’ He held up the bag. ‘Given the meat is still in this, the chain of custody is maintained. We need to get this checked.’
19
BAIN
I’m being the big man here and letting her take charge.
DC Angela Caldwell. Giant of a lassie, a good six, seven inches taller than yours truly. Fuckin’ stunner too, despite having two kids. Bet Sundance has tried it on with her, what with her being a recent widow and all that. She slides a CCTV still over the desk, calm as you like, taking it nice and slow. Professional. Way better than Hunter or Elvis.
The boy’s beak is giant, I tell you. Like a fuckin’ budgie, he could open seeds with that hooter. Not that the real Budgie will be picking anything up with his teeth for a while. Actually feel a bit sorry for the poor bastard. Anyway, it’s hard to pick out anything else in this boy, he’s just so fuckin’ normal looking except for that conk. He takes one look at the photo, then grasps his nose like it’s a kid’s teddy bear or comfort blanket. ‘Right.’
‘Right?’
‘Aye, right.’
‘Care to explain this, sir?’
‘Not really.’
‘This is you, right?’
‘Hard to disagree with that, aye.’
‘For the benefit of the tape, the suspect is referencing photograph catalogued as P-07. You know this man?’
‘Had a few run-ins, aye.’
‘What about?’
The boy grins. ‘The price of bread in southern Edinburgh.’
‘Go on.’ She’s good, this one. Cold as ice.
‘Right, that boy was goading me.’
‘How?’
‘See, they’ve got all this bread coming in every day. Loaves and loaves of the stuff and at massively inflated prices. How much does it cost to make a loaf? Flour, salt, yeast, water. And they’re charging a pound for a loaf. A pound.’ Boy’s snarling like he’s been charged a grand for a late library book. ‘How can they justify that?’