Gore Glen (Cullen & Bain Book 4)

by Ed James

  Then his phone rang.

  Methven calling…

  ‘The bloody boss.’

  ‘Scott, don’t you dare.’

  ‘I’m not planning on answering it.’ Cullen shut off the ringer and let it go to voicemail all on its own. He leaned in and wrapped his arm around Evie.

  Footsteps thundered up and down the stairs.

  And the phone rang again. Still Methven.

  Cullen looked at Evie. ‘This’ll be about that podcast. Maybe I should get it.’

  ‘You think?’

  Cullen answered. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Methven grumbled something unintelligible.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that. If this is about the podcast, then—’

  ‘What sodding podcast?’

  Cullen did everything but look at Evie. ‘The Secret Rozzer, sir.’

  Methven sighed. ‘I’d completely forgotten about that. Why? Have you found out who’s behind it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Cullen caught himself biting his thumbnail. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m having to cancel your leave, Inspector.’

  Evie got up, hands on hips.

  ‘Can’t DS Jain cover the—’

  ‘This isn’t about that, no. Besides, while she is back on duty, her medical advice is that she’s still under instructions to self-isolate, and is only on back-office duties. So, I’m really short-staffed, Scott. Please.’

  ‘Sir, I’m not sure I can come in.’

  ‘Scott, are you telling me you can’t work?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Are you under the influence?’

  ‘Eh? Of course not, no. We’re looking after Angela Caldwell’s kids while—’

  ‘I need you to come in. Please, Scott.’

  Cullen fell back into the sofa.

  Evie turned round to look at him, eyes narrowed. As much as this cut both ways, Cullen hated seeing the disappointment of a lost day in her eyes. Worse, having to manage the sons of Satan on her own.

  ‘Sir, if there’s any way that—’

  ‘No, Scott, there’s not. In fact, given it’s two cases we’re dealing with here, to help us cope, I’ve had to beg, borrow and steal. DS Luke Shepherd is just returning to DI Davenport’s team from a stint in Professional Standards and Ethics, so doesn’t have an active caseload.’

  Shepherd. Big bear of a man who Cullen had worked with back in the day, when he was a total arsehole, rather than just the partial one he was now. ‘Right. I know Luke.’

  ‘Is he good?’

  ‘In a way. Surprised he’s still a DS.’

  ‘Well, DS Shepherd comes highly recommended, but those recommendations are fairly often tainted. Besides, one of the cases is on his old patch. A missing persons from the Parliament.’

  Cullen locked eyes with Evie, but there just wasn’t any way he was getting out of this. She saw that too, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Okay, sir. We’re out in Garleton just now, so I’ll be about half an hour getting in.’

  ‘No, Scott, I need you to take charge of a case in Midlothian. A dead body in Gore Glen. I'll text you the details.’ A click and Methven was gone.

  Cullen got up and stuffed his phone into his pocket. ‘Take it you heard that?’

  ‘Enough of it.’ Evie looked at him. ‘Why is it that bosses have to insist on things?’

  ‘Don’t they just… It’s… Look, I’m really sorry about this.’

  ‘I know you are, Scott.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘Just make sure Angela comes here right after her exams, okay?’

  2

  Tell you, this whole nonsense about social distancing is getting my goat already.

  One of the great pleasures of the day is doing a jobbie with the day’s paper. All the salacious gossip up front, then Dear Deirdre or her many rivals on the way through, just depends on which paper is the cheapest, then finish off with seeing whatever the Rangers are up to now. Save the best for last.

  But no. The powers that be have decided that you can only have one dump station in the St Leonard’s Gents, even though the doors are shut. Doubt that the lassies have to put up with this.

  And some boy’s already in there, grunting and groaning as he pushes out his morning load.

  I scone my left foot—back in my playing days, some have described it as a “cultured left foot”, some even as “a wand of a left foot”—off the door. ‘Have some All Bran, pal.’ Then I scoot over to the urinals and unfurl Wee Brian, then piss away, with the paper tucked under my arm.

  Ah, bliss.

  The main door clatters open and footsteps thump across the tiles towards us.

  Years of service make us flinch in situations like this, but it’s the bogs in a cop shop, who’s going to attack Brian Bain? Way too many candidates. Besides, I’m mid-flow here.

  No social distancing at the urinals, is there? Elbow to elbow with this lunatic. ‘Just made it.’ English accent. And his piss is a big gush, compared to my steady trickle.

  A cheeky wee glance down at the boy’s plonker and, bloody hell, there is one serious ding-dong down there. At least three of mine.

  Christ!

  I nudge him a wee bit with my elbow. ‘Well, pal, if you’ve just made it, you fancy making me one as well?’

  And I clock the boy’s face. It’s none other than Simon Buxton, Cullen’s latest bum chum. Designer stubble all over his puss, and those new false teeth that make his mouth look all funny. And the boy is blushing, likes. Not that he’s paying much attention. Christ, it’s like a stallion down there, and not just in length and girth. The sheer blast coming from that thing!

  ‘Only joking, Budgie.’ I shake off Wee Brian—never a truer name, is there?—and pat the boy’s arm. ‘But you’re more like an eagle, though, or an albatross. Christ, imagine that thing tied around your neck!’

  ‘Would you shut up?’ He’s still pissing, but he’s pissed off at me.

  ‘Come on, Simon, that’s something you should be shouting about from the rooftops!’

  The dump-station door opens and none other than Craig Hunter, Cullen’s last bum chum waltzes out and heads over to the sinks. Boy is big too, but not downstairs. Everywhere else, mind. Muscles in places where I’ve not—

  Better stop thinking about muscles going in places, eh?

  Cullen’s OG bum chum, as the hip hop boys would say. Original Gangsta.

  I leave Buxton, still pissing, and join Hunter at the sinks. He towers over us. Hate standing next to him, but not so much at the urinal. ‘Craig, have you seen the size of that thing Budgie’s packing?’

  Hunter just raises his eyebrows at us. ‘Brian…’ And he sighs.

  Sighs. Cheeky sod. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You and spying on other cop’s todgers go together like white on rice.’

  That makes us frown as I lather up my wrists. ‘What about brown rice? Or that wild stuff?’

  ‘You know the saying, right?’

  ‘American, aye. Heard it a load in the States in March, just doesn’t make sense.’ I catch sight of Buxton shaking off, and it’s like Indiana Jones with his bullwhip! ‘What if you add turmeric to white rice while you’re cooking? That makes it go all yellow, right?’

  Hunter dries his hands on his breeks. ‘Just stop looking at cocks, okay?’

  Cheeky sod. Like he’s one to talk. Saw both inches of his, once. Poor Chantal, know what I’m saying?

  Buxton is coming this way and, Christ, all I can think of is that monster. He must tuck in because his trousers are tight as, and there’s no sign of that hog.

  I give the lad a sly wink and follow Hunter out into the corridor.

  He’s standing there, shaking his head, looking at an even bigger bastard. ‘Hadn’t heard, no.’

  Man alive, it’s DS Luke Shepherd. Big bugger, as big as Hunter but naturally massive. Greyer than yours truly, mind. Always one, isn’t there? That Borders accent of
his, got to laugh at it. The slightly hurdy-gurdy nature of it. Mental.

  Shepherd is scowling at Hunter, then at me. ‘Why are two of my team together in the toilet?’

  Makes us frown, likes. ‘Your team?’

  ‘Aye. Orders from DCI Methven. I’m told I’m leading you two and a DC Simon Buxton.’

  I nod back at the toilet door. ‘There’s a lot you can get your hands around there.’ I ignore Hunter’s scowl and hold my hand out to Shepherd. ‘Been a while, Luke.’

  ‘I’d say too long, but eternity wouldn’t be enough.’ He’s got that cheeky git look in his eyes, that’s for sure. He waves my paw away. ‘One, we don’t shake hands anymore. Two, I doubt you’ve learnt to wash after toileting.’

  ‘Charming as ever, Luke-y boy.’

  ‘Brian, I heard about your recent demotion. Must be painful.’

  ‘Aye. Even the boy who cleans the bogs outranks me.’

  ‘And you don’t seem to mind?’

  I just shrug. All you can do, eh? ‘You can have the extra five grand a year, Luke, but I’ll keep the overtime and the complete lack of stress. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for an arsehole like me.’

  Shepherd stands there, fuming. Trouble with boys like him, Cullen and Hunter is they think they’re God’s gift to policing, but they’re more like tills in shops, absolutely rammed with buttons I can press. ‘So—’

  The door opens again and Buxton wanders out. Christ, I can’t help but stare at the lack of a bulge in his trousers. That’ll haunt my dreams, I tell you!

  Shepherd looks like he’s keeched himself. ‘Simon, were you in there too?’

  ‘Eh, yeah?’ Buxton’s frowning, like he’s missed the joke or we’re all talking about the albatross downstairs. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘In here.’ Shepherd opens the meeting-room door and leads in. ‘Listen to me, you bunch of idiots.’ He tries to draw us together. Social distancing? Mask or no mask, there is no chance I am getting into a huddle with these deviants, so I step away. Not that Shepherd seems to notice. ‘I’ve just spent three years in Professional Standards and Ethics.’

  The Complaints. Bad boys and girls.

  I shake my head at him. ‘You get yourself involved in any Internal Affairs, Luke?’

  ‘I’ve half a mind to take you into the toilet and flush your head in the pan. But I think you’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you?’

  Prick.

  Shepherd knows he’s not getting anything sensible from us, so he focuses his attentions on Hunter and Budgie. Little and Large, eh? ‘That means I spent three years investigating bent cops.’

  I give them all a grin. ‘That’s a bit homophobic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not homosexual, Brian. Corrupt. Dodgy. And an established pattern of corrupt officers involves meeting in places where they can’t be surveilled. Toilets are perfect, no cameras or sound recordings anywhere. So when I see all three of you meeting in there?’

  ‘Just so happened to be in there, Luke. Craig was having a dump, Simon was… Well, he was running late, wasn’t he? It’s always good to have a wee pish before the briefing, you know? Sometimes they drag on and on, and you don’t want any jiggling legs in there, do you?’

  Shepherd scowls, but he’s not going to delve any more. ‘Right, the reason I’m speaking to you is that I’ll be taking over from Lauren Reid while Chantal Jain’s off.’

  I glance at Hunter, Chantal’s current beau, then back at Shepherd. ‘She okay?’

  ‘She’s fine. Back-office duties. Lauren’s covering Chantal’s team, so you’re stuck with me.’

  ‘Eh, where’s Elvis?’

  ‘That’s another matter entirely.’ Shepherd doesn’t even bat an eyelid. ‘Okay, so I’ve caught a Missing Persons case down at Holyrood.’

  ‘In Dumbiedykes?’

  ‘Nope. The parliament. And it’s a VIP, hence us getting involved.’

  I rub my hands together. ‘Tell me more.’

  Shepherd gives us a withering look. ‘Unless anyone needs to go to the toilet again, then I suggest we get on with our jobs? Me and Simon will head down to Holyrood. Craig, can you babysit Brian to an address in Portobello?’

  ‘Grew up in Porty.’ Hunter looks less impressed with that than I do. ‘And Brian here never grew up.’

  3

  Cullen eased down the backroad running in from Gorebridge, bumping over a railway bridge, then it did a dogleg and slipped under a railway bridge, but Cullen had no idea if it was the same bridge, or if it was still in service on the Borders Railway, but he thought the tracks were closer to the town. He drove over another bridge, this time over the river, presumably one of the Esks, but whether it was south or north, well, same as with the bridge, he just didn’t know.

  What he did know was that the Edinburgh Crime Scene Investigators were out, and in force too. The silly sods had blocked off yet another bridge over the river, but the car park was clear, so he double-parked behind a Jag. He opened his door and stepped out onto the muddy road.

  Cullen was sure he had only been to Gore Glen once before, a stormy relationship ago, and couldn’t recall much about it. An open gate leading into the glen, guarded by a pair of absolutely stacked male uniforms, like a pair of gargoyles with bulging biceps.

  ‘DI Cullen.’ He showed them his warrant card, but they were determined to both get a look at it. Another path climbed the hill, wooden planks acting as steps. And no sign of any of his team.

  ‘On you go, sir.’ The uniform on the left nodded him through with the casual look of a nightclub bouncer, now on to searching the congregating faces piling out of a minivan.

  At least it was dry and the path was clear, so Cullen walked on. Old trees ran overhead, beech and oak in the main.

  Some CSIs were busy cataloguing footprints, and they guided Cullen off the mud onto a patch of grass. Way too many prints by the looks of it. He knew that work wouldn’t likely come to anything, but sometimes you had to try.

  Cullen walked on, the path leading him through a canopy of beech, starting to turn from buds to leaves, but not quite making it, with the bare earth criss-crossed by a network of exposed roots.

  Still no sign of any of his team. This was getting embarrassing.

  He got out his phone to call Lauren.

  Answered straight away. ‘Scott, where are you?’

  The river bubbled away below, with a brick building that had “teen drinking den” written all over it. Actually, it had RFC and Gore Young Team written all over it. ‘Thinking of asking you the same question.’

  ‘Well, we’re here. And you’re not?’

  Cullen looked back at the car park, but couldn’t see any red hair. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘An empty car park?’

  ‘And that doesn’t surprise you? Shouldn’t you see at least one squad car?’

  ‘Right, but there is one.’

  ‘And they’re guarding that entrance for us.’ Cullen sighed. ‘Left, then left, then left again. And if you miss the first left, use the roundabout.’

  ‘Five minutes.’ And she was gone.

  The path split, though a uniform directed Cullen down a narrow strip lined with bramble bushes with deer fences on the other side, marking out a pasture leading up to a slight hill. He managed to navigate it without tearing his suit too badly, and came to a slight decline, curving round to a bridge over the river.

  And this was where the party was.

  A uniform blocked access to the bottom of the hill, crime scene tape doing half the job for him.

  Cullen walked up and filled out the form.

  ‘Scott?’

  He turned around and saw DS Lauren Reid jogging to catch up, so he added her name to the catalogue and returned it.

  She stood there, panting hard, lips as tightly wound as her hair. And always shivering, even after jogging.

  ‘You okay?’

  A frown danced across her forehead. ‘I’m fine. Why?’

  ‘You’ve got a face like a wet weekend in
Arbroath.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Scott, managing someone isn’t—’

  ‘Lauren, if this is about you being shunted over to manage Elvis and Eva Law, then I can only apologise.’

  Her nostrils flared slightly. Enough to confirm that he was on the money. She didn’t say anything, though.

  Cullen walked over to the inner crime scene, through the throng of CSIs. ‘These are crazy times, Lauren. We’ll all have to make sacrifices to get through them. I appreciate—’

  ‘What sacrifices are you making, Scott?’

  ‘We’ve only got eight hours left on our shift, which is about a tenth of the time I’d need to detail it. Besides, I’m not even supposed to be on today. Annual leave cancelled.’

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry. And nobody likes a moaner, I know.’

  Cullen returned the smile. ‘I’m an Olympic-standard moaner. Should see the training I have to do. Do as I say, not as I do, Lauren. Besides, do you really want my reputation? Make sure you learn from my mistakes, and be nice to me when you’re my DCI.’

  Another broad grin, but she huffed out a deep sigh soon after. ‘Scott, it’s just… Luke Shepherd? Really?’

  ‘You got previous with him?’

  She started rubbing her arms, even though the temperature had cleared twenty. And centigrade too. Cullen wasn’t one of those weirdos who used Fahrenheit in summer, Celsius in winter.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes”?’

  ‘It’s nothing, it’s just… Be careful with him, Scott.’

  ‘Me and Luke Shepherd go back a long way. Ten years, even. I’ve got the measure of the man. So don’t sweat it.’

  ‘Well, maybe he’s changed. Maybe he’s got a different role, though. You know how he’s just finished a stint in Professional Standards?’

  ‘The Complaints, right.’

  ‘Well, he was investigating my old team.’

  ‘Buchan’s boys?’