by Ed James
‘Bugger off.’ Leonard slammed the door.
Cullen winced at Murray. ‘Looks like you need to book yourself on that course, Stuart.’
‘Aye, aye.’ Murray ran a hand down his face, briefly displacing his mask. ‘Right, if he’s started getting symptoms, then the stupid sod has probably passed it on to the other perverts. I need to update our contact tracing log.’
‘Assuming he was there.’
‘Oh, I think that’s safe to assume.’ Murray shook his head. ‘Why do people have to be so bloody weird?’
Cullen smiled. ‘Nothing wrong about having sexual peccadillos, Stuart. Sure you’ve got a few of your own.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Aye? So you’ll let me see your internet search history?’
That got him, judging by the redness climbing his neck.
Cullen held out a hand. ‘Go. I’ll see if I can get him to open up.’
‘Cheers, mate.’ Murray walked off, phone to his head.
Leaving Cullen standing outside the home of the ringleader of a dogging group who had passed the bug on. Superspreading that didn’t bear thinking about.
He knocked on the door and checked for movement inside.
In normal circumstances, it would be slightly funny, maybe.
But these selfish arseholes were causing people to die. Not that they couldn’t keep it in their pants. Then again, for a lot of them dogging was a spectator sport, a sex show in public. But being in public was the problem, the last thing they should be doing.
Cullen needed to stop thinking like that. He had a goal here. Identify a dead body. And he had a lead who might help with that. Focus, use his training and nail this idiot. He rapped on the door again.
It clattered open. Leonard was wearing green hiking trousers with padding in all the right places, and a few of the wrong ones, like his crotch. His plain white T-shirt was stained with egg yolk and possibly coffee. ‘What now?’
‘Sir, we really need your help here.’
‘I told you to bugger off.’
‘And I wish I could. The last thing I want to be doing is hassling someone about dogging.’
‘Dogging?’
‘Sexual inter—’
‘I know what it is. Do you have evidence of my involvement? No. You don’t. So bugger off!’
Cullen stopped the door with his foot. ‘We do have evidence, sir. Two people are on record saying you were in Gore Glen on Friday night.’
‘Well, I wasn’t.’
‘So you were here all evening, were you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Sir, I know what you’re going through. I have experience of suffering from Covid-19. I caught it saving someone’s life two months ago. And for about a week after my test came back, I felt like I was dying. Luckily I didn’t have to get hospitalised, but I came close. Do you have anyone who can look in on you?’
‘Eh?’
‘There are a lot of people on their own who are dying from it. It’s a common thing. My girlfriend is a cop too, and she’s been investigating home deaths in West Lothian.’
‘Right. I’ve…’ Leonard sighed. ‘There are some friends who have been keeping in touch. People in the village.’
‘That’s good to hear. Do you mind if I come inside?’
Leonard frowned. ‘It’s an absolute guddle in there. And I’ve—’ Another cough burst out of his lungs. He tried to catch it in his elbow, but it didn’t seem to work.
‘Sir, I’ve had it. I’ve had a positive antibody test and have been approved for entry into places like this.’
‘Well, if you insist.’ Leonard disappeared into the house.
Cullen set foot through the door and felt a shiver climb up his neck. Entering the home of a known sufferer, while he was taking only the theoretical advice of a doctor about retransmission. He couldn’t go through that ordeal again. He wasn’t sure he was over the first time yet.
But, as was so often the case with his career, duty overtook personal safety.
He followed Leonard inside. And he was completely right. A guddle was drastically underselling it. The place wasn’t even a mess. Cullen’s mother would call it a midden. The large living room was covered in rubbish. Empty pizza boxes and takeaway cartons. Discarded bottles, though nothing too boozy by the looks of it.
Yeah, Wayne Leonard needed a cleaner in here and soon. He slumped onto the sofa and looked drained of all energy. He punched at his chest on the left side, like he was trying to restart his heart.
‘Can I fetch you a cup of tea or coffee, sir?’
Leonard shook his head. ‘Milk went off on Friday and I haven’t got anything back in.’
‘A black coffee?’
‘Tastes like tar, man.’ Leonard coughed hard again.
Cullen felt that wave of revulsion. Must be how lion tamers felt. And they never got maimed by their animals, did they?
He picked up a roll of bin bags from the kitchen counter and pulled one out, then set about filling it with discarded rubbish. He tossed a newspaper in.
‘Leave that. Haven’t finished it.’
Cullen fished it out again and put it on the table. That morning’s Argus, with the Isobel Geddes story. He looked over at Leonard. ‘You’ve got to make sure you get enough hydration. What about some water?’
‘I’ve had two litres today, already. Trying to flush my system.’
‘Smart move.’ Cullen folded two pizza boxes in half, then stuffed them inside. ‘Almost filled the first bag already here.’
‘Didn’t ask you to.’
‘So, have you been getting exercise?’
‘Quite a lot actually. Been getting into fell running.’
Cullen frowned. ‘Running up and down hills?’
‘Right. It’s big down in the Borders. Head a few miles south of here, and you’re at some lovely big hills. I mean, people head down to the Tweed Valley for mountain biking, but the running is to die for.’
And Wayne Leonard seemed to be a man intent on dying young. Or in early middle age, anyway.
‘You get your exercise in on Friday?’
Leonard nodded, but didn’t look at Cullen.
‘Sir, I get that this is hard to admit, but we know you’re a member of a sex club. I’m not judging you, unless you’re not doing stuff with consenting adults. Then it’s a whole other thing. But if you’re all grown-ups and you all agree, then who am I to judge?’
A brief flicker of eye contact, then Leonard was away, focusing on his giant TV.
‘My colleague is working to contact trace people from the event. I’m sure you understand when I say that Public Health Scotland weren’t making much headway. The government are looking to ease the lockdown, so it’s imperative that we step in and aid their efforts. This is an incredibly serious matter, sir. If you had the coronavirus and you spread it, we need to know. Lockdown can only go so far. While Stuart is doing that, and he might have opinions about sexuality, I am with the MIT, the murder squad, and I couldn’t care less. What consenting adults do isn't part of my mandate, so long as everyone stays on the right side of the line. That's why I'm here…’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Not much. But we have heard that you’re not just a member, more of the leader.’
‘Someone’s got to, otherwise it’d never happen. When you get to our age, pal, people need to plan ahead. Babysitters, all that jazz. And the excuses in times like this don’t come so easily. Can’t be playing squash or meeting the same pal in Berwick, you know?’
‘I can imagine. I hear you’ve got a private group on Schoolbook.’
‘Right. And I’m not naming names. It’s all secret. We don’t use real names.’
‘Understandable, sir. Are they locals?’
‘Aye. From Dalkeith down to Gala. I post about a meet-up, where and when, then they say whether they’re coming along or not. We’ve got codewords, safewords, all that jazz.’
‘And how do you know you won’t get disturb
ed?’
‘We kind of don’t? That’s all part of the fun. Had a couple join in at one in November.’
‘Wasn’t that a bit cold?’
‘We all warmed ourselves up nicely.’
Cullen didn’t have to wonder what form that took. ‘Listen, my role here isn’t to run this contact tracing, okay? Someone found a dead body this morning in Gore Glen. Probably been there since Friday night. Anything you can give us that might help, it’d be appreciated.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Female. Forties. Dyed blonde hair. And I can’t help you with a photo. Sorry.’
‘Well, the thing is, a lot of the women wear masks, so it’s not like it’ll be much of a help.’
‘But if you gave me access to this Schoolbook group?’
‘No chance. That’s confidential. Secret. I’d be betraying a lot of trust.’
Worse than the masons, though hopefully with fewer serving officers. ‘I understand your difficulty, sir, but we’ve got an unidentified dead body. Someone’s wife or daughter or mother.’
‘Sorry. I can’t help.’
‘Well, there was a woman there, wearing a mask. We need to speak to her.’
‘A mask?’
Cullen tapped his own one. ‘Not one like this. A sex mask. Like that Tom Cruise film, Eyes Wide Shut.’
‘Can’t help you, pal.’
‘No, you can.’ Cullen picked up a sleeping silver laptop. ‘You’re going to show me the list of your members here. Might be some clue.’
Leonard’s eyes shifted around the room. He looked trapped, but was out of diversions. ‘Fine.’ He grabbed the machine and swivelled it round.
Cullen had to break the two metre guidelines as he made sure he didn’t wipe the bloody thing.
But no, Leonard behaved himself. He opened the infernal Schoolbook site, and navigated to the Forums section, and Midlothian Rambling Club. A load of messages in the middle, and members down the right side.
Cullen snatched the machine out of his grasp and scanned through the photos. The profile name was Izzy Wizzy Let’s Get Bizzy. A sexy black-and-white photo of a woman’s shoulder, with “Good Girl” tattooed on the join with her arm.
Christ, it was Isobel Geddes.
10
Sometimes all you can do is whistle, know what I mean?
This place… Man. Wedale House, a big old manse, wedged between the road and the kirk. Three storeys with some of that mock Tudor stuff, but not too tacky, and a sprawling ground floor with one of those fancy new extensions like what we had put in to ours. Adds a ton of extra space, and choosing it all yourself? Magic.
So I give it the old whistle. ‘And I thought her pomme de terre in Porty was fancy.’
Shepherd frowns at us as he presses the buzzer. ‘You mean pied-à-terre.’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Lukey-boy.’
‘Pomme de terre means potato. Pied-à-terre is what you were reaching for.’
‘I know precisely what I meant. It’s called a joke, you goat.’
‘Brian, don’t call me a goat.’
‘Sorry, Sarge.’ I stab the buzzer and something clangs inside the house, like the bell’s broken. ‘Think she’s actually in?’
‘We’ll see.’ Shepherd looks back down the lane towards his flash motor. Bit fancy for a DS to drive, but man alive, was it a smooth ride. Have to see about getting myself one with the old boy’s dosh. Thing about having a wee baby girl, rather than a total dickhead of a son, is that I want the world to be a better place for her. Having an electric car rather than spewing out petrol fumes, that’s got to be doing my bit, isn’t it?
Buxton and Hunter are hanging around it, inspecting it like a pair of yokels who’ve discovered a rocket ship on their farm.
‘Trouble is,’ Shepherd rasps the designer stubble on his chin, ‘I grew up round here. Melrose, mind, but I went to school with people who lived in this area. Keep themselves to themselves, you know?’
‘I know the area well, Luke my man. The ex-wife’s from here.’
‘Didn’t know that.’
She’s not, but see winding up this chump? Too easy… ‘This place used to be a restaurant or something, didn’t it?’
‘It was a successful B&B, aye. Had a decent bar. Got my first pint in there.’
‘Underage?’
‘No comment.’ Shepherd’s trying the buzzer again. One of those things where we’ll take turns to keep pressing it and pressing it to see who’s the most alpha, and Shepherd’s going to lose. ‘The previous lot had to sell due to the financial crisis. Isobel Geddes and her husband got it for a song.’
‘How’s she manage to afford this and the place in Porty?’
‘We should’ve asked her ex.’
That snidey lanky buggerhead. ‘Wonder where he stays. Holyrood Palace?’
Shepherd actually laughs at that. ‘Maybe.’ He grabs the handle and the door opens. ‘Well, well, well. Given that our last intelligence on the missing person is that she was seen here on Friday, then we’ve got no choice but to enter. Correct?’
‘Couldn’t have said it better myself, Luke, my man.’
Shepherd waves at the pair of wankers inspecting his motor, until Buxton notices, then he thumbs inside and leads me on through into a courtyard. Enough spaces for a whole fleet of cars, but there’s just a handyman’s van there. Very strange. No signage on the thing, but it’s manky and someone’s written “GOD BLESS” in the dirt. Even stranger.
The garden’s pretty lush, have to say. Cottage garden vibe, with a lawn big enough to play not just croquet but at least nine holes of golf on. Surrounded by beds of flowers.
Lovely place. Maybe I should buy this when the old man’s cash comes in?
Shepherd peers in the window. ‘You haven’t been acting yourself, Brian.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, you’ve not been swearing. When we met all those years ago, it was eff this and eff that.’
‘Well, Luke, I’m a reformed character.’
‘Believe that when I see it.’ Shepherd walks over to the house. ‘Bizarre.’ He tries the handle and the door slides open. ‘Make sure this is going in your notebook, okay? I don’t want any malarkey.’
‘You expecting a dead body?’
‘I don’t expect anything, Brian.’ Shepherd snaps on some gloves, then tightens his mask. ‘Simon, Craig, can you boys take the upstairs?’
Buxton is talking to someone on the blower, hopefully running the plates for the work van. ‘Be with you in a minute, sarge.’
‘Sure thing.’ Shepherd steps into the hall.
I follow him in and it’s like I’ve walked into one of Apinya’s interior magazines. The place is immaculate, like it’s barely been lived in after extensive redecoration. Ready to move in, even with the nice furniture.
‘You wanting to split up while we search, Luke?’
‘Not so fast. When I said no malarkey, I mean it. We’re doing it room by room, okay?’ Shepherd beckons us into the kitchen. ‘You take that half, I’ll take this.’ He looks round just in time to see Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Monster Ding-Dong heading up the stairs like a pair of good boys.
Christ, they were never this good with me.
I mean, there’s a big cupboard and that takes ten seconds to walk over, open the door and confirm no human being inside. Coffee machine looks fancy. Could do with a wee cup, have to say. Fridge is a bit sticky, one of those big American things, but when I open it, I’m a bit disappointed that it’s not filled with human remains. ‘It’s good having you with us, Luke.’
Shepherd’s opened a door to a big walk-in cupboard. ‘How come?’
‘Well, the way Cullen works it, he’s got three female DSs. Chantal Jain, Lauren Reid and Angela Caldwell.’
‘Wait. Caldwell’s a DS?’
‘Acting. And I think it’s only because Methven wouldn’t let Cullen promote Craig Hunter.’
‘With good reason.’
‘Oh?’
Shepherd sighs at us. ‘I know Hunter of old. He’s a good constable, but he’s not a sergeant. And with you, Craig and the English lad, I seem to have inherited a bit of a sausage fest.’
‘Speaking of sausage, you should see what Buxton is packing.’
Shepherd stares at us. ‘Anyway, I don’t see why three female sergeants is an issue.’
‘Well, don’t you think it’s a bit much?’
‘You wouldn’t say that about three male sergeants.’
Boy thinks he has a point. ‘Aye, but that’s always been the case.’
He looks over at us. ‘I actually laud Cullen for it. It’s the way of the future. Restorative promotions.’
‘Sounds a bit woke to me.’
‘You might not be swearing, Brian, but you haven’t changed your spots, have you?’
Cheeky sod.
Aside from the absence of human remains, the fridge has been stocked up, and from that Markies food hall down in Gala, I’d wager. Nice stuff, but all of it from the deals, and nothing that healthy. Weird how it looks like nothing’s been taken, though. Three for seven quid on most of it, right? Well, all three are here. Two massive pizzas too. And a meal deal for the Chinese stuff. Curious.
‘When I met you ten years ago, you were a DI, now you’re a DC. That must hurt.’ Shepherd’s deep inside that cupboard now. ‘Way I hear it, Brian, is that you lost out.’
‘Got to be philosophical about these things, Luke. I’m over it, believe me. Just biding my time.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Seriously. I’m done. Just waiting, then I’ll be gone. Won’t see me for dust.’ But this boy’s just come out of his tenure in the Complaints, so he might have an inside track on a few things. ‘Heard there’s people interested in Cullen.’
‘People?’
‘Investigation-y people. Anything in it?’
‘There’s always a tale behind a meteoric rise like Scott’s, isn’t there?’
Oh aye? Is this boy actually investigating him? Maybe he still is Complaints. That Secret Rozzer podcast is spilling all sorts of beans. Stands to reason they’d home in on Cullen, but so quickly? Well, well.
‘Not aware of any dirt per se, Luke. You got any juice?’