by Ed James
Gore Glen
Cullen & Bain 4
Ed James
Contents
Other Books By Ed James
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Next book
Other Books By Ed James
Copyright © 2020 Ed James
The right of Ed James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design copyright © Ed James
Other Books By Ed James
SCOTT CULLEN MYSTERIES SERIES
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
DEVIL IN THE DETAIL
FIRE IN THE BLOOD
STAB IN THE DARK
COPS & ROBBERS
LIARS & THIEVES
COWBOYS & INDIANS
HEROES & VILLAINS
CULLEN & BAIN SERIES
CITY OF THE DEAD
WORLD’S END
HELL’S KITCHEN
GORE GLEN
CRAIG HUNTER SERIES
MISSING
HUNTED
THE BLACK ISLE
DS VICKY DODDS
TOOTH & CLAW
FLESH & BLOOD
SKIN & BONE (May 2021)
DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES
THE HOPE THAT KILLS
WORTH KILLING FOR
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU
IN FOR THE KILL
KILL WITH KINDNESS
KILL THE MESSENGER
DEAD MAN’S SHOES
CORCORAN & PALMER
SENSELESS
Prologue
‘—the Scottish School Minister, Dr Isobel Geddes, had this to say.’
‘I’m afraid that it’s still far too early in the lockdown timeline to be able to project a return to school. That said, we are working with all stakeholders to—’
Isobel Geddes hit the stereo’s power button. Her car’s headlights cut through the gloom, the only vehicle on the road, but she still felt like she was being followed.
And hearing herself speaking on the radio like that?
None of the training the party had forced on her over the years could make her not hate her voice. Hearing herself speaking hauled her back to standing in front of a class, reading from a book in her dull monotone, jerking her way through the paragraph like a robot. While all the other kids laughed and whispered and pointed. And Isobel stopped, just standing there, frozen, while the laughter became louder, and the teacher got more and more impatient with her, to the point of anger.
Some things stayed with you all your life.
While she couldn’t do anything to change her past, Isobel could help other kids going through similar trauma.
Up ahead, the lights of Stow glowed against the darkening sky, the hills on either side of the road overpowering the low sun. On most Friday evenings, this road would be filled with tourists heading north from England, or people like her returning to their weekend homes.
Isobel realised she was grinding her teeth again, digging the top molars into the bottom. Becoming a bad habit, and she had inside knowledge on the prospect of having no access to dental care for a long time.
It came down to hating being slave to the fear. No, she had learned to conquer it long ago. But still, her voice… That was hard to change.
She slowed as she entered the village, quiet and dark as if it was during the Blitz, just the streetlights ruining the illusion. What the country was going through was nowhere near as severe as back then, but Isobel received all the latest reports and knew how bad it really was. The projections of cases, of deaths, of economic losses, of suicides, of excess deaths, and what was within her own remit: the long-term psychological trauma to children because they were being homeschooled by parents struggling with a world falling apart while trying to do their own jobs.
It was a lot to deal with. A glass of red wine, a gin and tonic, a beer, or a whisky would only go so far. And soon the drinking would become a habit, compounding the misery.
The lights at the crossroad were red, so Isobel played that game of trying to take it as slow as she could, and then sneak through just as it hit green, not having to stop.
But her timing was off. Green came when she was twenty metres away.
Then again, there was no queue of stalled cars ahead of her, so she eased through.
A flash of blue lights up ahead, dancing off the old ruined bridge, then the blast of siren caught up.
Police.
She shouldn’t be out, and yet here she was, driving home. Unable to do anything else, really.
They’d stop her, ask where she was going, what she was doing, see that she was miles from her regular home in Edinburgh. Maybe someone in the party would be able to hold some sway and delay a charge, but maybe not. And maybe it would leak to the press. Her career would be over. Worse, she wouldn’t be able to help kids like her younger self, struggling with a school system that wasn’t working for them.
Relief surged in her gut as an ambulance powered past. Some poor unfortunate up in Heriot or Fountainhall maybe, waiting to be collected before heading down to the Borders General. Not many cases down here at all, and things were still almost normal.
She slowed as she approached her turning and reached down to press her gate key, but nothing happened.
Fantastic.
Isobel opened her door and stepped out into the cool evening air. The clicker thing didn’t work, so she had to walk over and press the button.
The gate whirred as it opened wide.
Isobel needed to get that fixed, but who knew when it would be safe for the man to come out? She looked up and down the main street through the village, but there was nobody about, not even a late dog walker getting their government-sanctioned exercise after putting the kids to bed.
She got back in the car and put it in gear, but didn’t drive through.
No, there was somebody about, parked between two cones of light, the exhaust pluming in the darkness. An old Mondeo, blue and battered like it had been thrashed around the B-roads by an idiot. Just like her ex-husband’s car.
Sneaky little worm. Staking out their old home, waiting for her to return when she should be thirty miles north. What was he going to spring on her now? Pathetic.
The car shot off, the driver tugging on his seatbelt as he sped away towards Edinburgh.
It wasn’t Peter. She could see that. But she had absolutel
y no idea who it was.
A lot of people would want to spy on her, the Scottish Minister for Schools. She should be in Edinburgh, self-isolating in her tiny flat, but here she was down in the Borders, at a second home. Very few voters would have sympathy for her privileged position, even though she worked long hours, trying to build a strategy for the safe return of the nation’s children and teachers, while everything else shifted and changed beneath her feet.
No, she needed the release of her weekends to even begin to cope with the stress weighing her down constantly.
Well. Assuming it was malicious, and not some eerie coincidence, there was nothing she could do, other than lie. Some nonsense about getting a warning that there was an issue with the house that could’ve caused a fire, and maybe that her cleaner was ill and couldn’t attend. Historic old manse house, been here as long as there’s been a village. She needed to save it, didn’t want to trouble the police.
Something like that. People would understand. And the party would support her. Tell the lie loudly enough and stick to your guns, then people stop caring and move on to the next story. She had enough goodwill built up to call in enough favours.
Isobel drove on through the gates and—mercy—the clicker worked this time. Maybe she didn’t need to get the man out after all.
She edged into the drive and parked outside her home, the big old pile in the heart of the village. Home it was. All hers. She got out and sucked in the fresh air. The lights of the locked-down houses glowed around her, but the place was deadly silent, save for the whisper of the Gala Water winding through the village. Twenty-five miles from the parliament, but it felt like a thousand.
Calmness surrounded her, that knot in the top of her spine easing off that little bit.
She locked her car and walked over to the side door. Time was, this would’ve been for servants, but now it was the main way in. Still had the original key, a huge black thing that slid in and clicked with a satisfying sound. The sheer size of the thing was enough security.
Isobel stepped into the house and felt the reassuring warmth crawl up her bare arms. It might be old, but having a remote trigger for the central heating was sheer bliss at a time like this. She dumped her briefcase under the coat rack.
A strong arm wrapped around her throat. Fingers covered her mouth.
Isobel tried to fight, to bite, to chew, to claw, to elbow, but he was far too strong for her. ‘Stop!’ Her legs went out from under her, and she was pushed to the floor. ‘Let me go!’
Big meaty hands grabbed her hair and pressed her cheeks against the cold flagstones. ‘You’re in deep trouble, Isobel.’
1
The screaming clawed at Cullen’s ears, almost deafening. Then a flailing hand caught him in the balls and he went down to his knees, stars flashing across his vision. The living room seemed to swim around him. The deep pain stung, climbing up into his stomach and down his thighs, forcing him to shut his eyes.
Every time he caught a blow down there, it took him back to the playground, to that little shite David Green punching him quicker than he could block. Every bloody day. Sometimes two or three times.
A hand gripped his shoulder and Cullen tensed, instincts readying him for what was coming next.
‘I’m sorry, Uncle Scott.’
Cullen opened his eyes and focused on Declan standing there, not even at head height when Cullen was slumped on his knees. So small, and yet those wild swings of his could be deadly. ‘One of those things, Dec.’ He messed up the wee sod’s spiked hair and got a slimy handful of damp gel for his trouble.
Evie knelt down next to Cullen, her plaited hair hanging over her left shoulder. Her cute smile filled that heart-shaped face, with the hidden menace of this being something she’d repeat again and again. ‘Declan, why don’t you go and find your brother?’
‘Okay, Auntie Yvonne.’ And Declan shot off, a blur of energy hunting around the poky flat.
The ball ache had lessened, so Cullen huffed in a breath and stood up. ‘You have no idea how much this hurts.’
Evie shook her head. ‘Don’t even think about joking that it’s worse than childbirth.’
‘Never crossed my mind.’ Cullen sat back on the sofa and got a fresh throb of ball pain. ‘But it bloody hurts.’
‘Aw, diddums.’ Evie rubbed her finger over his lips. ‘Seriously, though, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. That kid’s got his mum’s speed.’
Evie arched her eyebrow. ‘And his old man’s anger issues.’
Cullen had to shut his eyes again. ‘Don’t.’
‘Sorry, Scott, I shouldn’t have.’ Evie sat next to him, arms folded. ‘Not even to joke about it.’
Cullen looked around the room. Over three years since the kids had lost their father. ‘I wish I could’ve saved him.’
’Scott, I was there, remember? There’s no way anyone could’ve saved him.’ She touched his thigh, gentle and soft. ‘And you did the best you could. Imagine if you and Methven hadn’t fudged it so Angela got her widow’s pension?’
She was right. There were lines you could cross, lines you shouldn’t, and lines you just bloody had to. Grey areas, murky truths, but Cullen knew that they had done the right thing. Angela Caldwell and her kids were the victims of what happened, and they needed to be protected.
And here they were, Cullen and Evie, spending their Monday morning babysitting for Angela as she sat her sergeant’s exams. On the long road to recovery, to rebuilding a life, to building a new one, a future for her sons.
But Cullen couldn’t help but feel like he was on trial, with Evie watching his every move with the kids, trying to suss out if he was the right man to have kids with. She was barely eight months older than him, both late thirties now, and time was catching up with them. Now or never, really.
Cullen felt that tickling in his throat, then his chest. That horrific cough that still lingered after almost two months. Not many people he knew had caught Covid-19, but those that did, they knew all about it. That feeling like someone was sitting on your chest all day, and you couldn’t punch them in the balls either. Touch and go too, a few hours in April where he felt like he needed to go to hospital. But it broke like a sea storm, and he felt a lot better. Didn’t stop this constant cough, though. It rattled through him, like the virus was back in his body and he no longer had the antibodies to fight it off.
He slumped back in the sofa and let his breathing recover a bit. A notification flashed up on his phone, resting on the side table. A new podcast episode. And he caught the words “The Secret Rozzer”. And he couldn’t do anything but groan.
‘What?’
He picked up his phone and looked over at Evie. ‘There’s another episode of that podcast.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’ Cullen couldn’t resist any longer, so tapped the notification. It took him into the app, but didn’t start playing. He read the description aloud: ‘This week on the Secret Rozzer, our intrepid ex-cop talks about his ex-boss’s favouritism, usually in favour of officers of the female persuasion. Levelling the playing field? Or setting up future favours of a sexual nature? We want our army of rozzers to decide!’ He tossed his phone onto the table again, hard enough that he could’ve cracked the screen. ‘This is absolute bollocks. I can’t—’
‘What did your lawyer say?’
Cullen folded his arms and sighed. ‘Like I told you… These might be my antics, even though they’re slightly fictionalised, but if I did anything about it, I’d likely incur the Streisand Effect.’
Evie grinned, her cheek dimpling. ‘You mean, when you try to stamp it out, you just draw attention to it?’
‘Right. And it’d mean admitting that I did these things.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with promoting female officers, Scott. It’s good how your three sergeants are female. Besides, six of your eight constables are male.’
Cullen couldn’t look at her. ‘But one of them was one I demoted a couple of mont
hs ago.’
‘And he’s a constable who you know does a podcast. A constable who you know hates your guts, who’s tried to get you fired on so many occasions.’
‘I know it’s Bain doing it, I just can’t prove it.’ Cullen hit play and the distorted voice spoke out of his phone’s speakers.
‘Welcome to the Secret Rozzer, boys and girls. If you sit nicely, then we’ll begin.’ Definitely male, but deeper than natural and weird phasing effects on it, enough to mask it, but not enough to make it unlistenable. And no traces of an accent, either. There was a robotic rhythm to it, like it could be one of those AI things. ‘My old boss, let’s call him Jock, shall we? Because he is Scott … ish. And he’s from a wee town up in Aberdeenshire, between Buckie and Banff.’
‘See what I mean? That just about names me! Scott and Cullen. I mean…’ Cullen hit the pause button.
‘Right. But there’s nothing in it, is there?’
‘Of course there’s not.’
‘It’s just that you’ve got a bit of previous with long-term relationships with female sergeants.’
‘Sadly, I’m not gay so that precludes me from relationships with male ones.’
‘Sadly?’
‘You know what I mean, Evie. And you don’t believe me?’
‘Scott, I’m a cop. My job is to ask enough questions and assess the answers so that I can truly believe people.’
‘Fair.’ Cullen stared at the phone, wanting to smash it into a thousand pieces. But the podcast wasn’t there, it was in the cloud, wherever that was, and distributed to hundreds, maybe thousands of phones just like his. People starting to listen to his antics, even though this one was absolute dogshit.