by Ed James
Elaine pointed to a table that looked like it cost more than Cullen earned in a year. ‘Have a seat.’
Buxton smiled at her. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ve just had one.’ Elaine perched on a seat and rested her stick against the table. She kneaded her right leg, long motions up and down the thigh. ‘What happened?’
Buxton sat next to her. ‘We found your husband’s body in a hotel room.’
‘Death by misadventure?’ She propped her stick against the table, sighing. ‘It was always going to be this way.’
‘We believe he was into—’
‘BDSM?’ Elaine nodded. ‘That’s why I thought his death was accidental.’
‘Do you mind answering some questions?’
‘You don’t think he was murdered, do you?’
‘We’re investigating that possibility.’
Elaine picked up her stick, resting it on her lap, and let out a deep breath. ‘We started engaging in those activities when we were younger. Started out with fluffy handcuffs and spanking. But Martin kept pushing it. He wanted … things inserted. Got into breath control. I had to stop it when he started trying out edge play.’
‘What’s that?’
‘When there’s a genuine risk of harm.’ She rubbed her leg again. ‘I almost lost this when we were cutting each other. Six years ago. I was in hospital for a week. I told him I wasn’t going to do it again, but he was addicted. He continued with … others.’
‘You had an open relationship?’
‘Not voluntarily. He knew people and went away for weekends with them. Staying over in hotels. I’d had enough. I was terrified something like this would happen.’
‘Why did you kick him out?’
‘Stupid fool was messing around with girls and boys a lot younger than him.’
‘I thought it was because of an affair with a Lorna Gilmour.’
‘That was part of it. I just wanted out of it, to be honest.’
‘Do you know anyone else involved in these groups?’
‘I had nothing to do with them.’
‘What about any of his friends?’
‘Harrison Proctor was his only real friend.’
‘Was he involved?’
‘I seriously doubt it.’
* * *
‘He’s definitely not at Alba Bank, Sergeant.’
Cullen got out of the car first and stared at Proctor’s mansion, Airwave clamped to his head. ‘Definitely?’
‘Alpha six are there now. Mr Proctor left mid-afternoon.’
Cullen checked his watch. Twenty to five. An hour to West Linton, another back. ‘Okay, call me if you get an update.’ He crunched up the path to the side door. ‘Any sign?’
‘Bugger all.’ Buxton pressed the buzzer. ‘Mr Proctor?’ He waited a few seconds. ‘It’s the police.’
Cullen peered in the living room window. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s in.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Buxton rapped on the window. ‘Mr Proctor!’
‘Do you want to get it out of your system?’
‘What?’
‘This aggro against me.’
‘We’re cool, Scott. I’ll go back to the beat. Nothing’s changed.’
‘You sure?’
Buxton shrugged. ‘Got no choice, have I?’
The door opened a crack. ‘Hello?’
Buxton put his face near it. ‘Mr Proctor, it’s the police.’
‘You can’t come in.’
‘We’ve got some questions for you.’
‘My best friend’s just killed himself. I need space to grieve.’
‘How do you know about Mr Ferguson’s death?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We’ve not announced it.’
‘Elaine told me.’
Buxton nodded. ‘Mr Proctor, we need to speak to you.’
‘I can’t.’
‘We need to determine whether your friend’s death was intentional or not.’
‘Murder?’ The door opened wide. Proctor clutched a whisky tumbler filled with at least a couple of fingers, his pinstriped work shirt tucked into Adidas tracksuit bottoms. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was at the office until eight thirty. Then I came home.’
‘Straight here?’
‘I bought a ready meal in Waitrose. You can verify it with them.’
‘Do you have a receipt?’
‘I might do. Somewhere.’
‘And you didn’t hear from Mr Ferguson in that time?’
‘No. Listen, I’ve no idea what happened to Martin.’
‘Mr Ferguson checked into a hotel at twenty past eight last night.’
Proctor drained the glass and grimaced. ‘Do you think he was murdered?’
‘Do you?’
Proctor clutched the empty glass tight, inspecting the droplets of amber liquid inside. ‘Anything’s possible.’
‘Do you know of anyone else who might’ve been involved?’
‘Not really. He usually met them online, I think. Or using tags. A particular Stuart MacBride novel on public display on the bus. “Broken Skin”, I think it’s called. That sort of thing.’
‘Any names?’
‘Something Italian springs to mind.’ Proctor toasted with his empty glass. ‘Paul Vaccaro?’
* * *
Cullen plonked himself into the seat next to Murray in the busy Incident Room. ‘There you bloody are.’
Murray looked up from his computer. ‘Sarge.’
‘How are you getting on with finding Vaccaro, Stuart.’
‘Still nowhere. Found out he had a flat in Edinburgh, but he moved out a few months ago. No forwarding address.’
‘Vaccaro’s part of Martin Ferguson’s dodgy BDSM ring.’
‘Is there a non-dodgy one?’
‘Aye, very good.’ Cullen sighed. ‘Look, can you get on to Vice and see if there’s anything on him?’
‘Right. I’ll do that.’
Cullen stood up. ‘Has your mate in the City got back about Van de Merwe’s offshore accounts yet?’
‘Going to get on to that next. Thought Vaccaro was higher priority.’
‘That’s Murray-ese for you’ve forgotten, right?’
‘Piss off.’
‘Sundance, there you are.’
Cullen swung round. ‘I thought you were supposed to be at the hotel?’
Bain winked at him. ‘Couple of bastards aren’t speaking there so we brought them here to frighten them.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A certain DCI’s looking for you. Told me to get your arse into her office.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Probably your boyfriend in the press.’
Forty-Two
‘Make yourself at home, Sergeant.’ Cargill kept her eyes on her laptop. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
Cullen collapsed into one of the navy leather armchairs in the corner of her office. The window looked north across the top of new-build flats and the old bus station. He glanced over as Cargill battered her laptop’s keyboard.
It couldn’t be about Rich, surely? All that shite about leaking stories to the press?
‘Now.’ Cargill sat in the matching armchair, resting her hands on chunky thighs. ‘How’s it going on this case?’
‘You’ve been in the briefings, ma’am. It’s not the easiest I’ve ever worked.’
‘I want to know how it’s really going, not what DI Methven spoon-feeds me.’
‘We’re getting nowhere, ma’am.’ Cullen’s neck started to burn and sweat trickled down his back. ‘Nothing’s making any sense.’
‘That’s a common occurrence, Scott.’ She smiled, lips opening wide, showing rows of sharp teeth, gums bleeding top right. ‘How are you finding life as a DS?’
‘It’s good. I mean, it’s no walk in the park. Having to juggle the day job stuff with the side things, like the DC in
terviews and so on. It’s difficult, but I’m enjoying it.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ She frowned. ‘How are you getting on with DI Methven?’
Cullen shrugged. ‘Fine, ma’am. I appreciate him giving me this opportunity.’
‘And DS Bain?’
Cullen looked away. ‘Less said about him the better.’
‘Quite.’ She gave another flash of her teeth. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of him.’
‘More lives than a cat.’ Cullen clasped his hands. ‘How does he still have a job?’
‘Connections, pure and simple. He goes way back with Carolyn Soutar. Having the DCS on your side’s a powerful thing. Something you should learn from.’
The heat warmed his cheeks now. ‘I’m not following?’
‘Scott, I need to know everything about these newspaper leaks.’
‘I swear it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Leaking information to the press is a serious matter. If we—’
‘You don’t have to tell me, ma’am.’ Cullen clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. ‘I used to share a flat with the journalist in question. Trust me on this — I’ve no idea where the information’s coming from.’
‘You need to persuade me.’
Cullen stifled a sigh. ‘Look, I met Rich at lunch today. He’s not giving up his source. He gave us some information which led us to finding Martin Ferguson.’
‘An unfortunate event. Your other flatmate, Tom, works at Alba Bank, doesn’t he?’
‘He’s not the source. He’s given me some useful tips Rich hasn’t published.’
She licked her lips. ‘Should we bring Mr McAlpine in for further questioning?’
‘DS Bain’s already spoken to him.’
‘Would it help if you and I did?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am. He’s not obliged to provide the information. The only good I can see coming from it is if Rich agrees to run the stories past us.’
‘And I can’t see that happening.’ Cargill flicked her hair behind her ear and gave another flash of teeth. ‘Now, I wondered if you wanted some coaching.’
‘On what?’
‘Sponsoring a uniformed constable to a DC role.’
Cullen raised his eyebrows and looked away. ‘It would’ve helped before yesterday, ma’am.’
‘Ah yes. Simon Buxton.’
‘I don’t feel comfortable about what happened there. Simon’s a friend and I was put—’
‘You acted with the utmost professionalism.’
‘Are you saying it was a test?’
‘Not as such. Scott, when we promoted you, we took a gamble. We’ve worked together for, what, two years? In that time, I’ve seen the good and bad in you. Your maverick streak, while it’s prone to getting you into hot water, is your greatest strength. You care about this job. If I had ten officers like you, my life’d be much easier.’
‘I’d hate to see the complaints, though.’
She grinned. ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’
‘I let Simon down. Should’ve tried harder.’
‘Scott, Donna Nichols lauded your actions throughout the interview process. We go way back, you know. She said you were professional to the hilt.’
‘Really?’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘Well, I wish we could’ve given Simon the role.’
‘It’s a shame we had to give the existing role to another candidate.’
Cullen frowned. ‘Existing?’
‘DC Angela Caldwell resigned this morning.’ Cargill grinned. ‘I’ve been scratching DCS Soutar’s back and she’s given me an additional DC in my headcount over and above the one already approved.’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘We wish to avoid the cost of another round of interviews with the same candidates.’ She reached across and patted his shoulder. ‘Scott, please inform Simon Buxton of his two-year tenure as Detective Constable.’
* * *
Cullen swung into the Observation Suite, Bain and Buxton interviewing a man with Wolverine sideburns on the monitor in front of Eva. He perched next to her and tapped the screen. ‘There he is.’
‘Bain?’
‘No, Buxton. Need a word with him.’
‘Bain’s got him interviewing those guests from the hotel. It’s been half an hour and they’re nowhere.’
He squinted at the screen. ‘What are you doing?’
She shrugged. ‘He told me to watch.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Cullen went back into the corridor and entered the interview room, shut the door behind him and leaned against it.
Bain snorted. ‘For the record, DS Cullen has joined the room.’ He focused on Wolverine. ‘You’re in a lot of shite here, son. You swear you’ve no idea who Martin Ferguson is?’
‘Should I?’
‘Of course you should. You killed him, didn’t you? Met him at his hotel, strangled him. Made it look like accidental death.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’
‘Come on, sonny. You should open—’
‘Sergeant, that’s enough.’ Campbell McLintock prodded a finger in the air, inches from Bain’s face. ‘My client will take his time to consider his testimony on this matter.’
‘I don’t think so, Campbell.’
‘You’re not getting anywhere with these bully-boy antics. Take a step back and let me work it out.’
‘You’ve got two minutes.’ Bain leaned over the table, eyes locked on the suspect. ‘Interview terminated at seventeen forty-six.’ He clicked stop on the recorder and left the room, leaving the door open.
Cullen followed him out and shut the door.
Bain hit his head against the wall. ‘Fuckin’ bastard.’
‘This you getting somewhere?’
Bain swung round. ‘Piss off, Sundance. We’ll get him.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Boy stayed in the room across the hall from Ferguson in that fuckin’ hotel. Not playing ball so far.’
‘You got anything pointing to him killing Ferguson?’
‘Doesn’t mean he’s not done it.’
‘Typical.’ Cullen opened the door and thumbed at Buxton. ‘Simon, I need a word.’
‘Sundance, he’s my officer for this interview.’
‘It’ll only be a minute. You gave Campbell two.’ Cullen nodded at Buxton and started off down the corridor. ‘Come on.’
‘Fuckin’ get back here!’
Cullen twisted round as he walked, flicking the Vs at Bain. ‘Use Eva.’
‘Fuckin’ hell.’ Bain stormed off towards the Obs Suite.
‘Well played, Scott.’
‘Don’t know what the hell he’s up to. As ever.’ Cullen tried the door to the first meeting room they came to. Empty. ‘Right, in here.’
Buxton took the farthest-away seat. ‘Must be bad if we’re in a room.’
‘How’s it going in that interview?’
‘You called it. We’re getting nowhere.’ Buxton crossed his arms. ‘Typical Bain.’
‘How are you feeling about not getting this DC gig?’
Buxton looked away. ‘Pissed off.’
‘Understood. Glad you’re confronting it. Your head’s not dropped.’
‘Right.’
‘What if I was to say you’d got it?’
Buxton tilted his head. ‘What?’
‘I just spoke to Cargill.’ Cullen pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘DC Simon Buxton, welcome to Specialised Crime Division.’
‘If this is a wind-up…’ Buxton scanned the sheet and looked up, eyebrow raised. ‘Two years?’
‘That’s pretty good. I got that with my DS role.’
Buxton folded it up, face blank. ‘Let’s get a beer.’
‘I stopped drinking.’
‘You sure? Come on, mate, just one. You didn’t celebrate your own DS promotion.’
‘We had a Mexican at that place on Cockburn Stree
t.’
‘This time, let’s have some lovely craft beer.’
Cullen stared at the grain on the table. ‘Fuck it, aye.’
Buxton put the paper in his jacket pocket. ‘Give me a chance to finish up this calamity, then we’ll head across the road, all right?’
‘Fine.’ Cullen watched him leave the room.
Drinking again. Really?
He fished out his phone. No messages. He dialled Sharon’s number.
‘Hey. How’s it going?’
‘Good and bad. You?’
‘Bad and worse. The hangover’s not great. What’s your good?’
‘Buxton got his tenure.’
‘I thought you had to knock him back.’
‘Angela Caldwell quit.’
‘Nice for some.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Cullen tightened his grip on the phone. ‘Do you mind if I go out for a pint with him?’
‘Drinking?’
‘Aye, drinking.’
‘Drinking as in drinking drinking?’
‘Is that okay?’
‘Scott, it’s been five months without a drop.’
‘It’ll be fine. I’ve got my head screwed on properly now.’
A pause, then a huff. ‘Just don’t be late.’
‘I’m working tomorrow. It’ll just be a couple of jars. Wouldn’t catch me doing what you did last night.’
‘Love you.’
‘Do you want to—’
The line went dead. He tossed his mobile on the table.
Just a couple. Nothing more.
Cullen felt a thrum in his pocket. He stabbed a finger at his phone. ‘Cullen.’
‘Aye, it’s DC McCrea. I’m interviewing an eyewitness at the hotel, but they’re not talking.’
‘So? Can’t DS Bain do it?’
‘The witness asked for you. Says Methven’s okayed it.’
Forty-Three
Cullen followed the dark hotel corridor round, storming past a cleaning trolley. A door hung open, Coldplay blasting out of a phone inside the room, tinny and brittle-sounding. A woman folded sheets, humming along. He glanced at the next door. Room Twenty-three.
Must be round the corner.
Started off again. Took a right turn.
McCrea stood outside a hotel room. He nodded at Cullen and stepped under the crime scene tape. ‘Thanks for coming.’