by Ed James
‘So do we. I’d rather earn a decent amount for it.’ Buxton tapped a finger against the glass. ‘Here’s trouble.’
A squad car pulled up, double-parking a few spaces away. Two uniforms got out, adjusting their caps against the wind.
Cullen opened the car door and jogged down the street, flashing his warrant card at them. ‘DS Cullen. You’re supporting us in apprehending the suspect.’
‘Fine, Sarge.’
‘Come on.’ Cullen trotted over to the intercom, held it down and waited.
‘What’s up?’
‘Police. Need to speak to a Christine Broadhurst.’
Static crackled out of the speaker. ‘She’s not here.’
‘We know it’s you, Candy. Let us in.’
‘Candy’s not here.’
‘You’re in serious trouble.’
‘I’m not her.’
‘Stop messing about.’
The handset clattered as it hit the wall.
Cullen nodded at the uniforms. ‘Let’s get in there.’
The bigger of the two tried the handle. The door opened. ‘It’s our lucky day.’
‘Stay here.’ Cullen entered the dank stairwell, the place stinking of mildew. ‘Top floor, Si?’
‘Always the top floor.’
Cullen led on up.
A door clicked above them.
‘What’s going on?’ Cullen peered round, catching a flash of pigtails above the banister. ‘Candy!’
Another door banged.
‘She’s gone to the other flat.’ Buxton tore up the stairs, three at a time.
Cullen barged past him. Wet footprints led along the red tiles. He knocked on the door just along the corridor. ‘Candy, this is the police!’
‘You can’t come in! This is harassment!’
‘We’ll charge you with obstructing an ongoing investigation.’
‘Speak to my lawyer!’
‘We have. He doesn’t know where you are.’
‘I’ve not done anything!’
‘So why are you hiding?’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘We’ve got an arrest warrant for you. It’s within our rights to break down this door.’
‘What?’
‘We’re permitted to enter the property by any means necessary. Your friend won’t be happy with that. Come with us and answer some questions.’
The door clicked open. Candy stood in a towel, a woman in a tracksuit behind her. She pulled the towel open, showing off her tanned body. Fake breasts, too round and too high up her chest. ‘Maybe we can come to an arrangement, boys?’
Buxton grabbed her wrist and snapped on a pair of cuffs. ‘You’re not getting out of my sight.’
Candy gasped as the towel dropped to the floor. ‘Can I at least get dressed first?’
* * *
Cullen wandered through the canteen, picking at bacon stuck between his teeth. Spotted Murray sitting on his own, beasting a fry-up, and headed over. ‘That looks healthy.’
‘Lots of protein, Sarge.’
‘And saturated fat and cholesterol. You’re knackered whichever way the heart disease pendulum swings.’
Murray finished chewing. ‘Yeah, good one.’
‘You seen Buxton?’
‘He’s avoiding you. Told me he didn’t get the full DC gig.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Bain told him to sit in the Obs Suite while he interviews Candy. Didn’t seem too happy with you, though. Is this what I can expect when you sponsor me for DS?’
‘You’ll be lucky.’ Cullen balled up his sandwich wrapper. ‘You found Vaccaro yet?’
‘Not quite.’
‘You heard Cargill earlier. My nuts are toast if we don’t make progress. And if my—’
‘Yeah, I get it. Mine are too.’ Murray soaked up the last of the egg yolk with his tattie scone. ‘I’ve maybe got a lead on him from the City police boy.’
‘Maybe?’
‘Seems hopeful he can get something from somewhere.’
‘Any danger of any precision here?’
Murray bit the mouthful, teeth clinking off the steel, and tapped his nose. ‘A-ha.’
‘Come on, what is it?’
‘I’m not telling you until it pays off.’
‘This sounds like some cowboy gamble.’
Murray smirked. ‘Learning from the best.’
Cullen shook his head. ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, I need you to do me a favour.’
Murray dropped his cutlery onto the plate. ‘What?’
‘Martin Ferguson didn’t turn up to give a statement last night. Luckily Crystal forgot, otherwise he’d have another reason to bollock me at the briefing. Can you round him up?’
‘And what about you, mighty Sergeant?’
‘Off to watch Bain messing up an interview.’
* * *
Cullen entered the Obs Suite, upsetting the layer of dust on the computers and filing cabinets.
‘—on, princess. The more you talk, the easier it’ll be.’
Buxton glanced over at Cullen and sneered as he muted the speakers. ‘Sarge.’
Cullen planted himself next to him and focused on the screen.
Bain and McCrea sat opposite Alistair Reynolds and Candy, now wearing a tracksuit.
Cullen glanced over at Buxton. ‘You’re doing well, Si. Your head could’ve dropped after the … news.’
‘You know I’m not that sort of copper.’
‘I know. There’ll be more roles soon.’
‘They can shove them up their arses.’ Buxton turned the sound back up.
‘—eetheart, you need to speak to us.’ Bain rubbed his moustache.
‘My lawyer says I don’t.’
‘Do you listen to everything he says? If he says jump, do you ask how high first?’
‘I’m not responding to that.’
Cullen stood. ‘This isn’t getting anywhere, is it?’
‘Not really.’ Buxton slumped forward, resting his head on his arms. ‘Been like this for the last half hour.’
Cullen frowned. ‘Do you think she’s involved?’
‘Got to be, mate. Why else would she piss us about?’
‘Heard about your trick with the towel.’ Bain licked his lips, thumbed at Reynolds. ‘That how you’re paying for this guy?’
‘Inspector!’
Cullen’s phone rang. Eva. He twisted away to answer it. ‘Hey.’
‘Sarge. Just got back the Gmail account from Charlie. You know, the personal ones? Anyway, Van de Merwe got some emails from someone called “The Lady In Red Latex”.’
‘Anything of interest?’
‘I’d say they’ve been sleeping together. Looks like he was meeting her on Saturday night.’
‘Just before he died… Any idea who it is?’
‘None. Charlie’s probed the IP address. Says it’s in Edinburgh, but he can’t pin it to a user without a warrant.’
‘Shite.’ Cullen swapped hands and stared at the monitor, Candy laughing at Bain. ‘Did Charlie get a computer from either of Candy’s addresses?’
‘Don’t think so, why?’
‘What about a phone?’
‘Got a Samsung thingy.’
‘Get Tommy Smith to check if the emails came from her.’
‘Right. He’ll need a RIPSA form.’
‘I’ll get him a RIPSA. Just get him extracting emails while she’s in the interview.’
‘If it’s Candy, it proves she was screwing him, right? Shows she’s lied to us.’
‘Maybe.’ Cullen pinched his nose, still sore from the other night. He clicked his fingers. ‘She’s been inside, right? That means she’s on the DNA database. Got to go.’ He killed the call and dialled Anderson. ‘James, you got a minute?’
‘Aye, if you’re okay with me delaying finishing off some proper work.’
‘Have you finished the sex room analysis yet?’
‘If you’re recording this, you can get to fuck.’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Right. Well, I’m running your DNA against the NDNAD just now.’
‘Have you got a match against a Christine Broadhurst?’
‘Should I?’
‘We think she was sleeping with Van de Merwe. Can you run her DNA against the sex room?’
‘I’ll need to stop this.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’ll lose six hours of processing…’
‘Just do it.’
‘Okay. Starting again.’ Keys clattered in the background. ‘Oh, here she is. Did time, right?’
‘Correct. Call me when you get the results.’
‘Hold your horses. Tracing a record back to what we’ve found is a lot easier than what I was trying to do. Bingo. You’ve got a hit.’
‘So she was in his sex room?’
‘Aye. Hang on. Got dried saliva, vaginal lubrication and some pubes with the follicles still attached. Judging by the dates, she’d been there a few times.’
‘Cheers. That’s us even.’ Cullen ended the call and raced out into the corridor.
‘What’s up?’
Cullen grinned back at Buxton. ‘You’ll see.’ He jogged along the hallway and burst into the interview room. ‘I need a word.’
Bain glared at him. ‘What?’
‘Pause it.’ Cullen held open the door.
‘We’ll be back in a minute.’ Bain leaned over to the microphone. ‘Interview suspended at oh nine forty-two.’
Cullen waited for Bain to join him in the corridor, then shut the door.
Bain folded his arms. ‘Right, Harry fuckin’ Potter, what’ve you conjured up?’
‘I can get her.’
Bain waved an imaginary wand in the air. ‘Suspecticus confessicus.’
‘Let me take over.’
Bain opened the door. ‘Fill your fuckin’ boots.’
Cullen entered the room without a backward glance and sat next to McCrea, giving him a nod.
McCrea stabbed a thick thumb onto the recorder, hefting his bulk over the table to lean into the microphone. He ran a hand across his shaved skull as he counted to five. ‘Interview recommenced at nine forty-four a.m. DS Scott Cullen has entered the room and DS Bain has left.’
Cullen smiled at Candy. ‘Good morning, Christine.’
She tilted her head to the side and tucked her loose hair behind her ears. ‘I prefer to be called Candy.’
Cullen nodded slowly. ‘Okay, I’ll cut to the chase, shall I? Remember when we spoke to you the other night? You said something about going for a drink at Mr Van de Merwe’s house?’
‘That’s right. Just a drink.’
‘Well, we found a sex room in the house. Just finished—’
‘I wasn’t there!’
‘—running the forensics. Your DNA matches at least three separate traces.’
‘I wasn’t there!’
‘You were there. Having sex by the looks of things.’
‘I wasn’t!’
‘You’re in deep trouble here.’
‘I never went there!’
‘Now, we could do you for providing a false statement.’ Cullen folded his arms. ‘Or we can have another discussion about what you were really doing there.’
She glanced at her lawyer, then snarled at Cullen. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Did you have sex with Mr Van de Merwe?’
She plucked a lash out of her eye. ‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know exact dates.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘It’s not been for a while.’
‘Days?’
‘Weeks. Months, maybe.’
‘Were you at his house on Sunday morning?’
‘No.’
‘Saturday night?’
‘No.’
‘In the interview the other night, you said someone might’ve been with you in your bed.’
‘My boyfriend.’
‘So you’ve got a boyfriend now?’
‘Been going out a few months now. I was at his flat, sleeping.’
‘While he was out with the boys?’
‘That a problem?’
‘Why weren’t you there this morning?’
‘I was staying at a pal’s flat. He’s been busy.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were with him when we spoke to you the other night?’
‘Because.’
‘Because you were with him or because you weren’t?’
‘Just because.’
‘So, you’re saying you were with him?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s his name, Candy?’
‘Dean Vardy.’
Thirty-Seven
Cullen stood outside the Southside Cars office, the harled wall gleaming white in the sunshine, and nodded at Bain, then Buxton. ‘Other units in place?’
‘Yeah. Vardy’s not at his home, his bookies or his pub.’
Cullen looked around the small team. ‘Let’s go, gentlemen.’
Bain shook his head. ‘Crystal’s not okayed this, has he?’
‘Doesn’t need to. There’s no crossover with the drug squad’s operation.’
‘I’m glad you don’t work for me anymore, Sundance.’
‘Not as much as I am.’ Cullen pointed for Bain and McCrea to go round the back, then got the two uniforms to guard the silver Škodas on the drive. A blue Subaru sat next to them, a strip at the top of the windscreen reading DEANO. ‘Come on, Si.’
He led inside the office. Fruit machine lights danced on the left, Sky Sports News HQ on a TV mounted on the right wall. Ahead was a wide reception desk, the door behind closed. Hip-hop blared from somewhere, liquid bass and gnarly vocals. Eminem.
A blonde girl looked up from her nails. ‘Can I help?’
‘DS Scott Cullen.’ Cullen held out his warrant card. ‘Is Mr Vardy here?’
‘He’s not in, sorry.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Haven’t seen him for a couple of days.’
Cullen gripped the edge of the counter. ‘Look, you—’ He stopped. Frowned at Buxton. There it was again — a loud snort came from somewhere. ‘Can you hear that, Constable?’
Buxton pointed behind her at the locked door. ‘Think it’s coming from through there.’
The receptionist was on her feet. ‘You can’t go—’
Cullen flipped up the desk partition. ‘We can.’
She slapped his arm, her palm cracking off his watch. ‘You can’t!’
Cullen pushed her back and knocked on the door. ‘Mr Vardy, it’s the police. Can you come out, please?’
No answer.
Cullen kept the receptionist at arm’s reach and knocked again. ‘I’m giving you a final chance. We’ve got reasonable cause to enter.’
Nothing again.
He nodded to his left. ‘Constable.’
Buxton cracked his knuckles. Took a step back and lurched forward, kicking the door.
The lock snapped and the door toppled open.
Dean Vardy was crouched over the desk, facing away. Wide shoulders rippling with muscles, his T-shirt stretching around thick triceps. One finger over his nose, snorting up a line of white powder while Eminem rapped. He spun round. ‘What the fu—’
‘Mr Vardy, we need a—’
Vardy widened his eyes. ‘You?’
‘—with you about—’
Vardy lashed out, his camel boot crunching into Buxton’s groin. ‘You fucking cunt!’
Cullen grabbed Vardy’s arm. ‘Mr Vardy, I’m arrest—’
Vardy launched his head forward.
Bone crunched in Cullen’s face. His nose exploded in a riot of pain. A fist thumped his stomach. He tumbled to his knees. Blinded by blood and tears, he reached out. Caught Vardy’s wrist. Twisted it round.
‘Aargh, you fucker!’
Cullen pulled Vardy to the floor and got on his back, left knee into the spine. ‘You’re under arrest!’
Vardy struggled around, kicking out, lashing with his arm. He failed to connect.
Cullen pressed his forehead into the carpet.
Buxton got up, clutching his balls. He got behind Cullen.
‘Si, can you cuff him?’
A black boot appeared, connecting with Vardy’s groin. He screamed out. ‘Fuck!’
Cullen snapped a cuff on each wrist and turned to glare at Buxton, wincing through the pain. ‘What did you do that for?’
Buxton shrugged. ‘He was resisting arrest, right?’
* * *
Cullen prowled the interview room, going behind Dean Vardy and Campbell McLintock. Rubbed his nose, specks of blood on the back of his hand. Second time in two days. Something felt loose in there.
He locked eyes with Buxton. ‘Mr Vardy, you assaulted my colleague.’
‘You boys burst into my office.’ Vardy sniffed and tugged his nose, sniffing again. ‘You’d no right doing that.’
‘What were you doing in there? Other than lines of cheap coke?’
Vardy craned his neck to look at Cullen. ‘You didn’t have a warrant.’
‘We had reasonable cause. You were using a Class A substance.’
Vardy stared at the desktop. ‘It’s for my asthma.’
‘Your asthma?’ Cullen winked at Buxton. ‘That’s a new one on me.’ He leaned forward to growl into Vardy’s ear. ‘That coke’s with our forensic team. There’s a hell of a lot of a particular type on the street just now. Be a shame if it traced back to you, wouldn’t it?’
‘Sergeant.’ McLintock rolled a tongue across his dry lips. He didn’t turn to look at Cullen, just stared at his vacant seat. ‘My client’s instructed me to make a formal complaint about ADC Simon Buxton’s conduct.’
‘We’ll deal with that once we’ve received it. If we receive it. I want to know about your client’s drug use.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you, him or anyone.’ Vardy snorted a couple of times. Grunted. ‘I’ve done fuck all.’
‘I’ll take that to mean you’ve not done anything illegal.’
‘Aye. That.’
‘Mr Vardy, once we link that cocaine to the stuff being sold on the street, you’ll be —’
‘That stuff’s for personal use.’ Vardy screwed up his face. ‘That’s it, okay?’
‘There’s no personal use protection for a Class A.’