Gore Glen (Cullen & Bain Book 4)

by Ed James

  ‘Specific stuff about a case a while back.’

  That didn’t feel at all good.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘We worked together ten years ago. I mean, I was an Acting DC with my head up my arse, and he was a DS who looked like he was going places.’ He took another drink of coffee. ‘Let’s do this.’ He carried his cup over to the door and smiled at the uniform guard. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

  Cullen opened the interview room door and stepped in. Without looking across the table, he rested his coffee on the table and his suit jacket on the chair back.

  The man sitting opposite was a beanpole who look bored, resting his head on his fist. ‘I’m not saying a word without my lawyer present.’

  Cullen frowned at him. ‘Aren’t you a lawyer?’

  ‘Exactly, so where’s my present?’ He smiled broadly, then held out his hand, revealing a birthmark on his cheek, shaped like an apostrophe or a comma. ‘Peter Tomlinson.’

  Cullen just nodded, but it looked like Buxton was going to shake his hand, until he caught the warning glare. ‘Thanks for attending, sir.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Despite his cheery demeanour, his forehead kept on twitching. ‘So, what’s this about?’

  Instead of asking what he plainly knew, he was playing the daft laddie, something Cullen was a master at. ‘This is about your ex-wife, Mr Tomlinson.’

  ‘I see.’ A bitter smile now. ‘There’s still no sign of her?’

  Cullen wasn’t ready to give him the truth. That bomb would have to wait. ‘We need to ask you a few questions about the story in the Argus this morning.’

  ‘Right.’ Tomlinson sat back, arms folded and looked a completely different man. Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. ‘I knew she was doing it, of course.’

  ‘Thanks for your honesty.’

  ‘I went round to her pied-à-terre in Portobello one Friday night to speak to her, but she wasn’t in. I mean, she should’ve been, right?’

  ‘And you shouldn’t. We’re under lockdown.’

  ‘Right. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I live in Leith, just off the Shore, so I was doing my daily exercise. Just so happened to take me up to Porty.’

  ‘Did you track her down?’

  ‘The next day, I took a drive down to the Borders with my mountain bike. I mean, there was this subsequent guidance about driving for an hour, so it was all fine, right? And she was in our old home. I told her… I told her she was making a big mistake. Kept telling her to stop going, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Why is it a problem?’

  ‘It’s how it looks, isn’t it? Telling everyone to stay at home, while she’s driving down to stay in her second home. And her first home is much more expensive than most people’s, let alone our old home in Stow. It’s just not a good look. And the Borders has barely been affected by Covid, especially compared with say Greater Glasgow or Grampian. So the risk of her spreading it is colossal.’

  ‘You seem to have been quite persistent with this, though.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tomlinson sighed. ‘We, uh, we got wind that the fourth estate had got hold of it, somehow. This was on Friday. I’d been at Isobel for three weeks to stop going, but she wouldn’t listen. I heard one or two of them had been staking out Wedale House, waiting for her return. Photos, you name it.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What anyone else would do, I tried to call in favours. A few of us did. I spent all of Saturday on the phone to the Argus’s senior management, trying to get the story spiked.’

  ‘Any success?’

  ‘It’s not easy when you’re dealing with a London paper, by proxy. The Post, they run the Argus like it’s a section of their paper rather than…’ He shook his head.

  ‘Did you get anywhere with them?’

  ‘I was successful. The others weren’t.’

  ‘But it was only partially successful, right?’

  ‘Correct. I spent all of Sunday in bed, thinking I’d contracted Covid-19, but it was just food poisoning and all of the stress from Saturday. It meant I’d missed a few calls, and they went to press for the Monday edition.’ He had the look of someone whose football team had conceded a last-minute equaliser, rather than anything more serious. ‘I mean, I don’t know why I was bothering, really. Isobel had been warned, and not just by me. And she wasn’t answering anyone’s calls. But this pandemic… It’s important we protect the party and give a single message, isn’t it?’

  ‘When was the last time you heard from her?’

  ‘Friday. In her office. I couldn’t enter because… Well, the social distancing measures. She was obstinate. Would not listen. I stormed off, sent her an angry text, then a formal email.’

  ‘I gather she wasn’t a text, though.’

  ‘Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.’

  ‘Did she reply?’

  Tomlinson was staring into space now. ‘I didn’t even get read receipts.’

  Time to hit him. ‘I hate to be the bearer of this news, sir.’ Cullen paused, waiting for the drop, but got nothing. ‘Unfortunately we found Isobel’s body.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Tomlinson crumbled into a heap. Head pressed against the table, breathing hard and heavy, moaning. ‘Oh my God.’

  Cullen gave him a few seconds, while he finished his coffee. He couldn’t taste it now, his mouth had gone dry.

  Whatever had happened between Peter Tomlinson and Isobel Geddes to make the divorce, this was hitting him hard. And while he professed to be protecting her for the sake of the party, it was all still his twisted protective instinct for her as a person, not a politician.

  Cullen rested his empty cup on the table. ‘We haven’t confirmed that the body is Isobel. That’s going to take some time, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But you think it’s her?’

  ‘We believe it is. We found a clutch bag containing keys to her property, for instance.’

  ‘Anything I can do, please. I want to. Need to.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. I’ll get a colleague to work with you.’

  ‘Do you need me to identify her body?’

  ‘Nope… did she have any identifying marks, tattoos, birthmarks, scars? A way to identify her other than her face?’

  ‘Shit. What… What happened?’

  While Tomlinson seemed genuinely distressed about this, he was still Cullen’s number one suspect. ‘Sir, it’s important that you answer a few questions about your marriage. Is that okay?’

  ‘Well, it’s over.’

  ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘Fine. Sure.’

  ‘Why did you get divorced?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’ Tomlinson ran a hand down his face. ‘Isobel had a nickname, Ice-obel. She never showed her emotions. It was why she was so good at her job. You need to be able to emotionally distance yourself from the children whose futures your policies are shaping, so that you can make the sometimes-hard decisions which are for their benefit.’

  It was like a switch had flipped and the grieving ex-husband had transformed into a political party lawyer.

  Cullen knew he wasn’t going to get much by that sort of questioning, so had to hit him hard. ‘The reason wasn’t this sex club, was it?’

  ‘Sex club?’

  ‘Don’t deny it. People are speaking to us.’

  ‘Shit.’ Tomlinson sat back, snorting as he stared up at the ceiling. ‘You cops, you’re just sitting there having a laugh at us, aren’t you? Our lives, what turns us on, it’s all just a big joke to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s a murder case. We need to find who murdered your ex-wife. It can often come down to why you divorced, or why you split up in the first place.’

  Tomlinson shrugged, then looked right at Cullen. ‘The way we talk about it, Isobel was the top. She used to dominate me. It was her thing. And everything in our marriage was her way. Everything. And I… I thought our divorce was part of it. Her controlling me, dominating me, humiliating me. And it was so hot. Getting
kicked out like that, having to sleep in a grubby hotel. Then a better one. Then her ignoring me at work. Then getting threatening letters from lawyers. It was all so hot. But then I started to worry. We hadn’t met up in months. I mean, it’s a lot of set up, but when is the payoff? So I went round to talk to her, and she didn’t accept our safeword. She told me it was over.’

  Tomlinson looked devastated, like he was reliving the trauma again. All the pain that his brain confused with pleasure, then the lack of payoff, as he said.

  Oh, he was definitely capable of murder.

  But what was worse was that it was legit. Cullen would never cease to be amazed at the depravity and abuse people would wilfully submit themselves to.

  ‘Was there anyone else?’

  ‘Of course there was someone else. I mean, it was a sex club. We met in people’s homes, or in the great outdoors, with the express goal of having group sex. But she got a lot more action than I did. It was so erotic, watching her with three men and a woman. Her eyes through that mask, only me knowing her secret, who she really was.’

  ‘She wore a mask?’

  ‘Right. Like in that film, the Tom Cruise one where he’s … Yeah, like that.’ Tomlinson snarled. ‘But that big muscle man, she saw something in him. I came home from work one day, and the doors were open. I caught him riding her on our kitchen table.’

  ‘That must’ve been upsetting.’

  ‘Deeply. Don’t you see? He was riding her. I’ve wanted to do that for years but she wouldn’t let me. It was all on her terms.’

  ‘We believe that she was in Gore Glen on Friday night. Someone there may have murdered her. Or it could’ve been someone who wasn’t there, who knew she’d be there, but who turned up to kill her.’

  ‘What? You think I killed her?’

  ‘Seems like you’d have a motive for her murder, sir.’

  ‘I could never harm her! Don’t you see? It’s all about her hurting me!’

  ‘So on Friday night, whe—?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I was at work, trying to snuff out her complete disaster! I’ve got twenty lawyers and senior party members who’ll vouch for my whereabouts.’

  Buxton sniffed. He knew where his day was going. Back to parliament to interview the great and the good, all wearing masks and socially distanced.

  ‘But, at the heart of it all, I still love Isobel. Sometimes I tell myself we’d still be together if it wasn’t for that club, but I would’ve found some other way to let her down.’

  What a bizarre way to see the world. Or at least to derive your pleasure. ‘Sir, if it’s not you, who could it be?’

  ‘The whole reason we got into that scene was when we bought our house in Stow. The previous owner made some comments, used some codewords, and well…’

  ‘What’s their name?’

  14

  Christ, what’s this boy’s name again? Used to work for Cullen, but he’s not been on the scene for a wee while now. Used to be based out east, didn’t he? Haddington way, maybe?

  Christ! This is going to annoy me!

  Anyway, this boy is standing by his pool motor in the street in Gorebridge, thumbing some shite into his phone. He looks up at us, and it’s like he’s seen the ghost of the Loch Ness monster. ‘Bain?’

  I mean, get a grip, pal!

  ‘Aye, it’s good ol’ Brian Bain.’ I look at Shepherd, and the lad is smirking away. Sneaky one, that. Got his cards marked. ‘It’s Stuart something, isn’t it?’

  ‘Christ, Brian, I hope they don’t put you on the stand anymore?’

  ‘Shut it.’

  ‘It’s Murray.’ He holds out a gloved fist for Shepherd to bump through his gloves. ‘DS Stuart Murray.’

  ‘When did you—’ Nope. I’m not playing that game these days. Get on with the job, do my time, then get out. Right? ‘Well, Stuart, we’re here to visit Ryan and Dawn Marshall. They in?’

  ‘Aye.’ Murray huffs out this big almighty sigh. ‘And we’re getting nowhere.’

  Shepherd’s turn to frown. ‘Last I heard, Scott had—’

  ‘Aye, aye. Same old story with him, though. Comes in, knocks down a few doors, then buggers off to new shiny. Leaving the likes of us to clear up after him. Swear, it’s like having a puppy.’

  Oh, there’s an opening there, if I could be bothered to squeeze my way through it. ‘So why are you getting nowhere?’

  ‘Well, typical Scott Cullen, he gets his lead, finding out that Dr Isobel Geddes might’ve been at this dogging thing. I even found her bag for him, and let that shite-encrusted bodybuilder out of a cage in her basement.’ He takes a deep, long breath. ‘Anyway. Now Scott’s in full panic mode, right? I was supposed to be here to do a bit of contact tracing about this dogging. When we came in, they were in denial about it even being a thing. Now, they’re shitting themselves about whether they’ve passed the bug on to her parents.’

  ‘Nightmare.’ Shepherd set off up the path. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Places like this, they all look so samey from the outside, but see inside? Totally different ball game. Mind Cullen saying something like that to us once, and the boy’s right. Credit to him.

  And Shepherd, he’s like an Alsatian here, gnawing at this boy’s legs. Figuratively, because he’s sitting down, sipping on tea. ‘I’m not judging you, sir. It’s totally fine what you get up to.’ He nods out of the window. ‘DS Murray’s team are aware of your situation and have arranged for tests to be conveyed to your loved ones and anyone else you might’ve been in close contact with. If there’s a situation, we can get on top of it. And if we know they’ve got it, there are some steroids which might help nip it in the bud and fight off the bug. So your parents are as safe as they can be. There’s nothing more you can do.’

  The wifie looks a bit relaxed about that. Fair to say she’s not doing all the worrying here, though. He’s just as bad as her. At least as bad. Twisting that armchair fabric into knots, isn’t he?

  ‘But there is something you can do to help me.’ Shepherd waits for them to look over at him, finishing his tea like he’s Miss Marple. ‘I appreciate how delicate this matter is, but we gather you were involved in some sexual relationships with Isobel—’

  ‘Woah, woah. We’ve done nothing with nobody called Isobel.’

  ‘The woman with the mask?’ Shepherd looks around the room. ‘It turns out she’d been in this very room for a cosy bunk up.’

  ‘Wait.’ Ryan stops his twisting and puts his paw to his mouth. ‘Katrin is Isobel?’

  ‘Katrin?’

  ‘Katrin Ninetails. Her name on Schoolbook. That’s Isobel?’

  ‘Dr Isobel Geddes. Yes.’

  ‘The MSP?’

  Shepherd sits there, sipping tea, like this is all cool. ‘Right.’

  ‘Christ.’ Ryan stares over at his wife, but they’re both as shocked as each other.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No.’ Dawn is frowning. ‘I mean, she had her mask on all the time. It was quite a turn on, actually. Couldn’t get her to take it off, she wouldn’t, and… She was in control.’ She shakes her head. ‘That was really her?’

  ‘She was murdered on Friday night.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Hence us asking you about it all. Did you see her?’

  Another long, hard look. People in relationships like that, even when they get off on pegging in a builder from Lasswade, they’ve got this hidden code, this secret language.

  ‘Okay.’ Ryan sits back, hands splayed on his lap. ‘Okay, we told you we were there. What else is there to say?’

  ‘Did you have sex with her?’

  ‘Tried to. But Isobel… She was popular. If that was really her. I mean, she controls people, right? Suggests stuff and, all of a sudden, everyone is into it.’

  ‘Who was she with, do you know?’

  ‘A man in a mask, I think. Tall, skinny as hell.’

  Oh aye.

  I shuffle forward on my seat and point at my cheek. ‘You recognise h
im?’

  ‘He had a mask on too.’

  ‘Any identifiable features?’

  Ryan frowns. ‘Not that I can think of.’

  ‘Ry!’ Dawn is scowling at him. ‘When you were going down on him, his mask slipped and there was this birthmark thing.’ Lassie points to her right cheek.

  Have to say, as good as it is peering inside these people’s lives, it’s a bit filthy isn’t it? Might need a shower like Shepherd had back at the nick. But I doubt that’ll clean anything up. ‘You know him?’

  She frowned. ‘No.’ Then the frown deepened. ‘Oh, the birthmark!’ She tugged at her husband’s sleeve. ‘I know who the skinny guy is, Ry! Remember I told you about the birthmark that guy had that you were going down on? I bet that was Peter Tomlinson.’

  Isobel’s ex.

  I could give her the whole thing about “why didn’t you tell us earlier?” but I can’t be arsed. ‘What else was going on here?’

  ‘Well, if that was Isobel Geddes, she was ordering me around. The attention was flattering. She kept making us change positions. Thing is, Isobel was into being strangled.’

  ‘Wait, I thought she was the top here?’

  ‘You know the lingo, aye?’

  ‘I do. But that would make Isobel a masochist. I know there’s debate about who’s ultimately in control in sadomasochistic relationships, but it doesn’t add up to me.’

  ‘Well, aye, Isobel’s complex. She’s very much into pain. Christ, I’ve never met anyone with even half her pain tolerance, but since lockdown started, she’s changed. All the Covid stuff, it’s made her get into edge play. And I’m not talking just a wee choke, but really close to death, going blue, medically flatlining, that kind of stuff. Extreme.’

  And all while her hubbie dearest is noshing off Isobel’s ex. Man alive, these people. ‘Who was choking her?’

  ‘Wayne loved to do it. He’s a real sadist.’ Dawn showed her left arm, where a big gouge was taken out. ‘He did this to me.’

  ‘Wayne?’

  ‘Wayne Leonard.’

  Figures, the ringleader. He was right up to his— Well.