by Ed James
‘Like I say, he was a private man.’
‘Does the name Amber Turner mean anything to you?’
‘Who?’
‘Mr van de Merwe had an affair with her. It ended his marriage.’
‘Means nothing to me.’
‘We found a large amount of what we believe to be cocaine in his living room. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘How long have you worked with him?’
‘Six years.’
‘And you’ve never talked about your private lives in all that time?’
‘That’s correct. Guys don’t talk like that, least not where I’m from.’
‘Mrs Van de Merwe mentioned a Wayne Broussard. Do you know him?’
‘Him and Jon go back longer than anyone I know. He heads up Schneider Consulting here, our Delivery Partner. Good ol’ American firm. One of the big five.’
‘Can we speak to him?’
‘Wayne’s bear hunting in the US just now.’
Jain arched an eyebrow. ‘Bear hunting?’
‘Yeah.’ Yardley let out a breath. ‘He likes to go off-grid in the Rockies every year for a couple of weeks. No BlackBerry, no laptop. Says it keeps him fresh.’
‘Can you get a message to him?’
‘He’s off-grid. All I know is he’s somewhere in Colorado. I could get someone to drive from Mexico up to Canada and see if they can find him, but it’s a long shot.’
‘Don’t get smart with me.’
‘I’m just saying. We won’t know where he is until we hear from him.’ Yardley finished his cup and tossed it into a bin in the corner. ‘You could speak to his second in command. Guy called Oliver Cranston.’
‘Let me think about it.’ Cullen made a note — Why so cagey? ‘Tell us about your relationship.’
‘I met Jon at HSBC in London. Delivered a two hundred million finance programme under budget. He brought me here as Head of Delivery. I do everything — installing the new apps, designing the data feeds and establishing the architecture. You name it.’
Jain scribbled in her notebook. ‘Was Mr Van de Merwe popular here?’
‘Nobody’s popular here.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I imagine working in the police is a dream. All on the same side, singing from the same hymn sheet.’ Yardley leaned forward, still resting against the wall. ‘Jon had enemies here. Sure. Anyone who’d kill him? No way.’
‘So there’s nobody else we should speak to here?’
‘Like who?’
‘Anyone with a grudge, that kind of thing.’
‘Well, I don’t think the guy killed him but it might be worth you talking to Vivek Sadozai. He–’
‘How do you spell that?’
‘V-I-V-E-K S-A-D-O-Z-A-I.’
Cullen scribbled the name. ‘Why him?’
‘He works for our offshore development partner. Things aren’t going well.’ Yardley grimaced. ‘Not entirely their fault, but Jon had a few run-ins with Vivek.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Speak to him.’ Yardley glanced up at the clock. ‘Look, I’m running late for the morning prayers.’
‘Take us to him and you can run off and kneel down.’
‘Lorna’ll help.’
* * *
Lorna opened a glass door, the steel frame catching on the carpet. Another shove and it settled. ‘I’ve booked this room for the rest of the morning. Give me a shout if you don’t need it anymore.’
Cullen dumped his notebook on the table, eight seats clustering around. Just a conference phone in the middle. A whiteboard hung off a picture rail, framed watercolours of fruit and flowers either side. ‘Mr Yardley suggested we speak to a Vivek Sadozai.’
‘Yeah, he called me. His flight’s delayed.’
Cullen checked his watch. ‘His flight?’
‘He lives in London. Flies up on the red eye every Monday morning.’
Cullen tried for a sympathetic smile. ‘Were you close to Mr Van de Merwe?’
‘He was my boss, that’s it. Bit arrogant and aloof at times, but I’ve had much worse.’
Jain winked at Cullen. ‘Hope he’s better than mine.’
Lorna smirked. ‘They all expect us to fetch their coffees while they run off to meetings. I still can’t believe what’s happened, though.’ She ran a hand through her hair and stared into the middle distance. ‘I keep expecting Jon to just walk up and ask for a latte.’
‘So you’re on first name terms with him?’
She blushed. ‘It’s what he asked me to call him. Never Mr Van de Merwe.’
‘Alan Henderson called him VDM.’
‘Jon didn’t really like that. He let Al and a few others do it.’
‘I’ll give you a shout if we need anything else.’ Cullen sat, getting a squeak as he crunched down. He dropped his mobile and Airwave on the table and watched Lorna scurry down the corridor. Wrote Lorna Gilmour in his notebook.
Jain got out her lipstick and reapplied it. ‘She likes you, Scott.’
Cullen stayed focused on the page. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘Her boss has just died. She’s barely holding it together.’
An Indian man stood in the doorway. ‘Sergeant Cullen?’
‘Vivek?’
He nodded. Not much over five foot. Moisture dripped from his forehead, misting his chunky glasses. Black hair soaked through. His armpits were damp, several shades darker than the rest of his shirt’s pale-blue fabric. A small potbelly poked over his brown trousers. No jacket. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Police Scotland.’ Cullen held out his warrant card. ‘Need a word with you.’
Vivek trundled his suitcase into the room, breathing hard and wiping his brow. ‘Sorry, I ran up the stairs from the taxi.’ English accent, London. Middlesex, maybe. ‘Do you know what “haar” is?’
‘I’m intimate with it.’ Cullen smiled, eyeing the blue wisps encircling the pyramid outside. And it was so nice earlier… ‘They call it “Scotch mist” down south. That why your flight was delayed?’
‘We were circling round for an hour. I’ve never seen so much bloody rain since I worked in Pune. At least you don’t have the traffic here.’
Cullen sat next to Jain. ‘This is my colleague, DC Chantal Jain.’
‘A pleasure.’ Vivek winked at her before collapsing into a chair, tugging at his shirt fabric and blowing air up his face. ‘How can I help?’
‘You’re aware of Mr Van de Merwe’s death?’
Vivek’s eyes darted between them. ‘I heard.’
‘What was your relationship with him like?’
‘Purely professional. We had the occasional dinner, but that’s client entertainment. I’ve never socialised with him beyond sustaining our involvement in this programme.’
‘What do you do here?’
‘I’m responsible for the application development and management of all configuration on the apps. I work for IMC. We’re the third largest IT consultancy in the subcontinent. We bring industry best prac—’
‘What does IMC stand for?’
‘Indian Metals and Computers.’
‘Shouldn’t all that development be IT’s responsibility?’
‘On a big project like this, best practise is to outsource. Keep costs down and scale up. We’ve delivered similar programmes several times—’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Where were you yesterday morning at four a.m.?’
‘I was in Mahiki.’
‘Is that in India?’
‘It’s a club in London.’ Vivek grinned. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Mr Van de Merwe was wandering around Edinburgh half-naked at that time.’
Vivek flicked up his hands. ‘I just have a professional relationship with him.’
Cullen made a note. ‘What’s this programme been like?’
‘Well, it’s not what we call a “meat grinder”. This is not the most aggressive
delivery culture I’ve ever experienced.’
‘So it’s going well?’
‘Not really. I’ve had a lot of staff turnover. Worse than usual.’
‘Was Mr Van de Merwe well-liked here?’
‘Better than most we deal with.’
‘Did he have many enemies? Anybody who’d want him gone from the job?’
‘Can’t think of anybody, I’m afraid.’
‘What about you? We gather you had some arguments with him.’
‘There’ve been a few slip-ups here and there. Technology aren’t playing ball.’ Vivek licked his lips. ‘They’re a separate part of the business. Their agenda isn’t in sync with the programme. I’ve kept escalating it to Jon but he couldn’t fix the problem.’
‘So you argued with him?’
‘He shouted at me. I took it.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘It’s not the worst treatment I’ve ever had.’
‘You didn’t hold a grudge?’
‘Listen, I’m paid to soak up the anger while my team delivers the project. That’s it. Unlike some others.’
Cullen narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Look, there’s an old boys’ network here, you know? VDM goes back a long way with Yardley and Broussard.’
‘Corruption?’
‘I’m saying you should speak to these other guys.’
‘Mr Broussard’s in America.’
‘You might want to speak to Michaela Queen.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘She heads up the Programme Management Office. Runs Financial Control, as well. She knows a few things about what’s going on.’ Vivek stood and grabbed the handle of his luggage. ‘Do you mind if I catch up with my team?’
‘Sure, be my guest.’ Cullen watched him leave the room and jog down the corridor, iPhone clamped to his head. ‘Can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something odd here.’
Jain looked over. ‘Think that IT stuff’s related?’
Cullen got up. ‘Let’s go speak to Yardley again.’
Twelve
‘Christ, that takes me back.’ Cullen stopped outside the office.
Through the textured glass, Yardley stood at a whiteboard mounted on the wall, doodling away.
‘An idiot at a whiteboard.’ Jain laughed. ‘Good old Bain…’
‘The same.’ Cullen pushed open the door and knocked on the glass. ‘Mr Yardley?’
He stayed focused on his drawing, pen hovering over the surface. A series of boxes and arrows ran top to bottom, each one artfully sketchy, the lines barely connecting. ‘Mm?’
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘We need another word, sir.’
‘I’m busy here.’ Yardley glanced around, jaw clenched. ‘The morning prayers dredged up an issue with the system architecture. I’m trying to fix it now.’
Cullen sat at the meeting table just inside the door and gestured for Jain to shut it. ‘Don’t you have people for that?’
‘They need guidance.’
‘Is that part of your role, as well?’
‘I wish it was.’ Yardley fixed his gaze on a point halfway up the wall. ‘Throwing myself into my work’s how I deal with things. How I handled my second divorce and the death of my parents.’
The door thudded open.
Lorna stepped into the room and handed Yardley a tall Caffè Nero cup. ‘Here you go.’
Yardley sucked coffee through the lid. ‘Thanks.’
‘Need anything else?’
‘No, that’s all.’
Cullen smiled, eyebrow raised. ‘Could’ve got us one.’
‘Sorry.’ Lorna folded her arms. ‘What can I get you?’
‘It’s fine.’ Cullen nodded at the door. ‘I’ll let you get back.’
She shut it behind her, gaze lingering on Jain.
Cullen joined Yardley at the whiteboard. ‘We’ve spoken to Mr Sadozai. He insinuated an “old boys’ network” here.’
‘God damn it.’ Yardley pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. ‘That punk needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.’
‘Is there anything in it?’
‘What he’s referring to is Jon’s loyalty.’ Yardley took a deep breath. ‘Programme delivery’s based on trust. You’ve got to believe in the guys working for you. Jon’s built up a team over the years, people he can trust to deliver.’
‘That’s all it is?’
‘There’s nothing sinister here.’ Yardley tore off the lid and gulped the mid-brown liquid. ‘Whoever killed Jon does not work here, I swear.’
‘He mentioned a Michaela Queen.’
‘Michaela’s on leave.’
‘Have you got her number?’
Yardley got out his BlackBerry, hammering his left thumb against the joystick in the middle. ‘Here you go.’
Cullen jotted down a note, flicked back a page and spotted a note about IT. ‘I’m struggling to find anyone here who had an axe to grind against Mr Van de Merwe. That sound right?’
‘It’s quite a collegiate environment here. Big programmes aren’t always like this.’
‘So, everyone’s everyone else’s best friend?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mr Sadozai intimated some issues with IT?’
‘Always one bad apple, I suppose. Jon was at loggerheads with them. They kept blaming us for lack of servers and infrastructure. Everything’s either late or just broken. And it’s never their fault, always ours.’
‘So this was a professional disagreement?’
‘They used to go off the deep end at each other at the weekly status meeting and the architecture forum.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’
‘Because it slipped my mind. Listen, Jon’s tried to sack the lead for chronic lack of delivery.’ Yardley glanced at the clock. ‘I spoke to Rob at morning prayers. He’s free at eleven if you want to chat to him.’
‘Rob?’
‘The IT Delivery Lead. Rob Thomson.’
Cullen clenched his fists, digging nails into his palms. ‘Rob Thomson?’
‘You know him?’
Cullen scribbled his name down, a bead of sweat trickling down his back. ‘The name’s familiar.’
* * *
Beeep! ‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Colin Methven. Please leave a message after the tone.’ Beeep!
Cullen tightened his grip on the phone and stared through the glass to the Alba corridor outside, a hulking local man and an Asian woman walking past. ‘Sir, with reference to my last voicemail, I really need your help.’ He ended the call and stared over at Jain. ‘Getting anywhere?’
‘Michaela Queen’s not answering.’ Jain shrugged as she pocketed her mobile. ‘I saw you shit a brick back there when he mentioned Rob Thomson.’
‘Was I that obvious?’
‘You were.’ Jain sucked air through her teeth. ‘The Schoolbook case, right?’
‘Forgot you worked it. Thomson’s ex-wife was victim number one. Then Buxton found his girlfriend’s body in his flat, him next to it. Not sure how well he’ll react to us pitching up.’ Cullen got out his throbbing mobile. ‘This’ll be Crystal.’
Text from Rich. A lady never names her sources.
He hammered out a reply. Is it Tom?
Just a zipped mouth icon in response.
He scowled at it for a few seconds, then texted Tom. Did you tell Rich about what happened at Alba Bank? He waited a few seconds.
A text popped up. Alba? What do you mean? What’s happened?
Cullen tapped out another text to Rich. Need to know your source.
A knock on the door. Lorna tugged her hair behind her ear. ‘I had to collect one of your colleagues from downstairs?’
Buxton entered the room, wearing a business suit. No beard. ‘Sarge.’
Cullen smiled at Lorna. ‘Can you give us a minute?’
‘Sure thing.’ She shut the door, the metal digging into the carpet.
&nb
sp; ‘Where’s the beard, Si?’
‘Must’ve lost it.’ Buxton rubbed a hand over his smooth face. ‘Four months of growth down the sink. Literally.’
Jain snapped her compact shut. ‘You look a lot younger without it.’
‘Cheers.’ Buxton grinned at Cullen. ‘Did an Abraham Lincoln on the way down.’
‘It’s either that or a Metallica, right?’
Jain rolled her eyes. ‘Did Methven send you over?’
‘Grabbed me before I started my shift. Says I’m a short-term loan as an ADC. “Don’t get used to it, Constable.” Guy knows how to make a man feel wanted.’
Cullen nodded at Jain. ‘Chantal, can you get back to base and get stuck into the drugs?’
‘Got a tenner I can roll up?’
‘Very funny. Annoy Anderson till he gives you what you want.’
Jain pretended to scrawl in her notebook. ‘Take a leaf out of Scott’s book.’
Buxton roared with laughter. ‘Brilliant.’
Cullen winced. ‘And get everything you can on Elsbeth and Amber.’
‘Will do.’ Jain hefted up her handbag and left them to it.
The door rattled open. Methven perched on the edge of the desk, staring into space. ‘I got your voicemail, Sergeant. You’re telling me you’ve got previous with this Robert Thomson?’
Cullen wrapped his hands around a cooling coffee beaker, looking away across the meeting room to the corridor outside. A group of Alba Bank employees chatted. ‘The Schoolbook guy killed his fiancée and ex-wife. Must be almost three years ago. We tried to frame him.’
‘We did?’ Methven dropped his pen onto the rim under the whiteboard. ‘Was this your cowboy antics?’
‘Not mine, sir. My DI at the time.’
Methven glanced at the door and winced. ‘Bain?’
‘Him.’ Cullen folded his arms and exhaled. ‘Rob sued Lothian & Borders, as was.’
Buxton cleared his throat. ‘He settled out of court, though, Sarge.’
Methven shot him a glare. ‘Why do we need to speak to Thomson?’
‘He’s a suspect. Sounds like Van de Merwe was trying to sack him.’ Cullen took a slug of lukewarm coffee. ‘I’m worried about what’ll happen if I speak to him.’
Buxton raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m happy to—’