by Ed James
‘I’m fine. Just had some…’ Another slug of beer. ‘Some bad news. That’s all.’
‘This about Rich writing that book about the Schoolbook killer?’
‘What?’
‘Shite.’ Tom tried to hide behind his bottle. ‘It’s not, is it?’
‘Is that what his crime novel’s about?’
‘Reckons it’ll be a big seller. Some publisher in Glasgow’s after it.’
‘What a total wanker.’
‘Asked me to set up an interview with Rob Thomson.’
‘Have you?’
‘Of course not.’
Cullen picked up the bottle, clattering the cap off the side, and took a pull of beer.
Lorna sat down with another Grolsch for Rich. ‘Here we go.’
Buxton sat next to her. ‘That’s better.’
She handed him a bottle. ‘Here you go.’
‘Cheers.’ Buxton necked half of it in one go. ‘Classy beer, this.’
Lorna tapped her wine glass against Tom’s, then Cullen’s. ‘Come on, boys. Drink up. Time to dance!’
‘Jesus.’ Cullen took his down to halfway. ‘You always like this with some booze in you?’
‘Quite a lot, yeah.’
Rich sat down. ‘You still got that corporate card?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we get some more shooters in?’
‘Later, maybe. After we’ve been dancing!’
Cullen leaned over to Rich. ‘Tom told me about the book.’
‘What book?’
‘The one you’re writing about me.’
Rich pinched his nose. ‘Jesus.’
‘So you are writing it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You need to stop, okay? I don’t need any more shit at work.’
‘You’re not stopping me, mate. It’s my way out of this shite.’
‘I met someone else who’s writing one.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Guy called Porteous.’
Rich’s eyes bulged. ‘What?’
‘You heard—’
‘Would you two please stop arguing!’ Lorna bounced to her feet. ‘Come, let’s dance!’
‘Aye, go on.’ Rich got up and nodded at a guy at the next table. ‘Keep an eye on our drinks, will you? I’ll buy you one next round.’
* * *
Cullen opened his eyes. Music thumped from somewhere. Deep thuds like a migraine. Rumbling bassline.
Just him in the booth. Empty table. Where’s Tom? Where’s Rich? Where’s … thingy. Lorna. Where’s Lorna? Where’s Budgie?
Fuckers left me.
He swallowed, stomach growling. No food since the pizza at lunchtime. Saliva filled his mouth. Going to be sick.
He lurched to his feet, dizzy. His legs went and he collapsed back down. Stared at the table. Empty bottle of Grolsch in front of him. Empty wine glass opposite. Another empty next to it.
Where the hell were they?
Tom? Bastard.
Rich? Lying fucker.
Took another go at getting up. Swayed a bit. Jesus. His stomach lurched again. He stumbled across to the toilets and pushed the door, leaned against it, forehead touching wood.
What the fuck was going on?
He pushed into the toilet, swaying past the guy with the aftershave. ‘Fuck your perfume.’
Lurched over the tiles into trap one. Down to his knees. Opened wide. Vomit hit the pan, sharp in his nostrils. Burnt his throat.
He hugged the toilet bowl. Retched again. Shiiiiiiiiit. And again. Shit. Shite. Shit. Shite.
He rocked back on his heels. Tumbled against the door. Eyes shut, puffing in air.
Tried to get up. Nothing. Fumbled his phone out of his pocket. Dropped it on the tiles. Picked it up and held down the home key. ‘Call Sharon.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t get that.’
‘Call Sharon.’
‘Sorry, I’m not sure what you said.’
‘Call Sharon.’
‘I didn’t quite get that.’
‘Call Sharon.’
‘Ok, I didn’t think so.’
‘Call Sharon.’
‘Calling Sharon.’
The line clicked. ‘Hello, Scott.’
He held the phone out. ‘Help.’
‘Scott?’
‘Help.’
He dropped the phone. Christ. Shite.
Knock on the door. ‘Sir, are you okay in there?’
‘I’m fine.’
Another knock. ‘Sir?’
Stuffed his phone in his pocket. ‘Said I’m fine.’
‘You don’t sound it. We’re—’
‘Police.’
‘No, we’re door staff. We need you to leave, sir.’
‘Police.’
‘Sir, we’re coming in there.’
The door cracked into his back, the edge digging into his side. ‘Ow.’
A hand grabbed his arm and pushed him forward. Hauled him up.
He collapsed to his knees again.
‘Come on, sir. It’s time to leave.’
‘F-f-f-four drinks.’
‘This isn’t four drinks.’
Yanked up, feet off the ground. He opened his eyes, everything swimming around him. ‘Police.’
‘Sir, we can get the police involved once you’re outside.’
‘I’m police. Me.’
‘What?’
‘DS.’ Burp. ‘Cullen. Scott.’
A pause. ‘Let’s get you some fresh air.’ Another voice.
Eyes shut again. They dragged him through the club.
Cold air hit his face. The drone of traffic. Someone singing the Beach Boys, shouting “Sloop John B”. ‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll get you a taxi, sir.’
Cullen rested against something hard. A shoulder, rock solid under the T-shirt.
‘Aye, it’s fifty quid if he chucks his ringer, okay?’ A warm hand on his back. ‘I’ll take him home. Come on, son.’
Saturday
24th May 2014
Forty-Six
The taxi driver let go of his arm. ‘You okay now, mate?’
Cullen grunted, holding out his mobile. Warm air on his face. The flat door in front of him. ‘Where’s Sharon?’
‘Who’s Chantal?’
‘Sharon.’
‘Oh, Sharon. No idea, pal. Look, in you go, okay? I’ve got to get back to work.’ Footsteps clattered down the stairs.
Cullen flopped against the stairwell wall and dropped his keys. He reached down to pick them up. Collapsed to his knees, head against the tiles. Christ.
His phone rang. Couldn’t focus on it. Just blurry. He swiped the screen. ‘Hello?’
‘Scott?’
‘Mm?’
‘Scott, where the hell are you?’
‘I’m here?’
‘It’s Sharon! Where the hell—’
‘Mm. Bye.’ Cullen frowned through the keys, picking out the front door one. Maybe. Looked up at the doors. Is this the right floor? Maybe. Keys in the lock. Opened the door. Stairwell light crawled across the laminate, the flat dark.
Fluffy cantered through from the living room, blinking into the light. ‘Ma-wow!’
Cullen knelt down and stroked him. Tumbled over onto his back.
‘Ma-wow!’
‘Is your mummy not here?’ He eased the door shut with a foot and got up on all fours. Then stood, started creeping through the dark hall into the living room. He flicked the light on. Empty.
‘Jesus.’ A sweet tang hit his nostrils. ‘Fluffy, you dirty—’ Burp. ‘Boy.’
‘Ma-wow!’
‘I’ll get you some food first.’ Cullen scooped the mug into his food tin and tipped biscuits into a clean bowl. They clattered all over the floor. He tumbled over again, cracking his head off the cooker. ‘Shite!’
Fluffy cracked biscuits with his teeth, splinters hitting the floor.
‘You could say thanks, boy.’ Cullen held up his phone, trying to focus on it.
<
br /> Sharon calling…
The front door thudded open. ‘Scott, you’re really scaring the shite out of me. Where are you?’
Cullen stared up at the underside of the extractor unit. ‘In.’ Burp. ‘Here.’
Footsteps in the living room. Louder. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I can’t get up.’
‘Scott.’ A sigh. ‘For fuck’s sake. You’re shit-faced.’
‘Not my fault.’
‘Whose was it? Tom’s? Budgie’s?’
‘Not my fault.’
‘How much did you have?’
‘Four.’
‘Four bottles of Jägermeister?’
‘Beer. Gottles of geer.’
‘Why are you so pissed?’
‘Mm. Love you, sweety biscuits.’
‘You lying bastard.’
‘Four gottles of geer.’
‘Can’t believe this.’
‘And if one little bottle should accidentally fall—’
‘Scott, how much did you really have?’
‘—there’d be no sticks of dynamite and no fucking wall.’
‘Scott.’ She pinched his cheek. ‘How much did you have?’
‘Four gottles of geer.’
‘Scott, did you leave your drink alone in there?’
‘Are you dancing?’
‘Scott! Did you—’
‘Are you asking?’
‘Scott! I asked if you’d—’
‘I’m asking.’
‘Scott!’
‘I’m dancing.’
‘Did you go dancing?’
‘Mm. Dancing. Don’t leave the drinks!’
‘Shite.’ Silence. ‘Chantal? It’s me. Aye. Get the duty doctor round here. I think Scott’s been roofied.’
* * *
Cullen blinked hard. Was that Chantal Jain? ‘What, where am I?’
Jain shook his wrist. ‘It’s okay, Scott.’
‘Did you shag Buxton?’
‘What?’
‘Did you do the nicey nice with Buxton?’ Cullen closed his eyes again. ‘Mm. Sleepy.’
‘This won’t hurt, Sergeant.’
‘Mm?’
Tightness around his left arm. A sharp prick, just below the left elbow. ‘There we go.’
‘What?’ Cullen blinked his eyes open, struggling to focus on the blurry figure leaning over him, holding up a syringe full of blood. ‘Who are you?’
‘It’s Dr Carnegie, Sergeant. You know me.’ He got out another syringe. ‘Here we go.’
Another prick. Left wrist. Sharp.
‘Ow.’
‘That’s the Romazicon injected now, Inspector.’
Sharon appeared, frowning. ‘That’ll counteract the Rohypnol?’
‘Five minutes. Assuming he was spiked.’
‘Spiked?’ Cullen rubbed around the tingle in his arm. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Scott, could someone have put something in your drink?’
‘Is that why I feel like this?’
‘I think so.’ Sharon crouched down. Fluffy galloped through to rub against her jeans. ‘How much did you drink?’
‘Four beers.’
‘That’s nowhere near enough to get this bad.’ Carnegie zipped up his bag. ‘He’s showing all the symptoms of a Rohypnol attack.’
‘Scott, do you know who did this?’
Cullen beamed. ‘They played that waterfall song again. Our song.’
‘It’s not our song, Scott. You like it, I don’t.’
‘Our song.’ Cullen twitched. Again. And again. Eyes wide open. Woooooosh! ‘What the hell’s that?’
‘The Romazicon kicking in, I suspect.’ Carnegie capped the syringe and put it in his bag. ‘I’ll head back to the station and get this processed.’
Cullen bounced up to his feet. Dizzy. Alive. ‘Woah, this is great.’
‘Scott, could anyone have spiked your drinks?’
‘We were dancing. Rich left our drinks on the table.’
‘Did you drink any more when you got back?’
‘I’ve no idea. Woke up at the table. My bottle was empty.’
Sharon looked across the room. ‘Chantal, look through the CCTV. There’s got to be someone lurking around them.’
‘Will do.’
Cullen frowned. ‘Did you get the guy in the toilet?’
‘It’s not him. He was in Dubai for the last three rapes.’
‘Shite. I feel bad.’
‘It’s not your fault. He had a pocket full of Rohypnol on him. You saved that man in the toilets. He’s just not our guy.’ Sharon walked over to the other side of the room. ‘Chantal, when you’re over there, get it shut down.’
‘It’s only half twelve, Shaz.’
‘I want it shut. Time we used the sheriff’s approval.’
Jain nodded. ‘I’ll keep the bar staff for questioning.’
‘Someone’s spiking their drinks. Keep everyone in that club. Don’t let anyone leave.’
‘Will do.’ Jain left the room, the front door clicking shut.
Sharon collapsed onto the sofa and patted the seat beside her. ‘Come here.’
Cullen sat next to her, facing away. ‘What a twat.’
‘You were just in the wrong place at the right time.’ She gripped his shoulder and massaged it, her thumb digging into his muscles. ‘You’ve got to give us a statement. How are you feeling?’
‘Whatever was in that shot works.’
‘How much did you drink? Honestly?’
‘We’d had two Punk IPAs in the Elm. Bottle of Tiger or Cobra in there. Then a Grolsch.’
‘No shooters?’
‘They did, I didn’t.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Just four of us at the end. Murray went for his train. Tom. Rich. Buxton. Someone Tom works with. Girl called Lorna. She was firing into Budgie.’
‘We’ll need to speak to them.’ She got up and yawned. ‘In the morning, though.’
‘Jesus Christ. I really need to sleep.’
‘Get to bed. I’m going into the station. I’ll be back in a few hours.’
Forty-Seven
The front door clicked open. Flat shoes padded from the hall. ‘Scott?’
Cullen flicked the bedside light on and sat up, his pillows pushing against the metal frame. ‘In here.’
Sharon collapsed on the bed, the frame creaking. She kicked off her shoes, sending them thudding to the floor. ‘I am so tired.’
He checked the clock. ‘Ten to six. Is that all?’
‘At least you’ve been asleep.’ She rolled over onto her side, propped up on an elbow. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Like shite.’
‘Could be much worse, you know.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Cullen clicked his back. ‘Assuming it was your guy.’
‘Your blood test was positive for Rohypnol.’
‘So I was spiked? Jesus.’ Cullen chewed his bottom lip. ‘Have you spoken to the others?’
‘We’ve been trying to ring them. Not got hold of them yet.’
He yawned. ‘I’m getting up.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m not really sleeping. Must be the beer.’ He stood up and burped, stomach bile leaching into his mouth. He swallowed it down. ‘I need to get in. Do some work. I’m so far behind it’s not true.’
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’ve got a fuckton of work on, Sharon.’
‘Come on, Scott. Chantal’s trying to track them down.’
‘I need to help. Find out who’s done this.’
‘You sure you should?’
‘I’ve not got a choice.’
‘Well, I’ll be sleeping till nine.’ She crawled up to her side of the bed and shrugged off her jeans. ‘We’ll get him, Scott.’
* * *
‘Rich, it’s Scott. Call me back, okay? It’s urgent.’ Cullen pocketed his mobile and leaned back against the glass outside the Starbucks. Low sunlight swung over his
shoulder, bleaching John Lewis and Alba Bank across the road and the walkway looping over Leith Street. He yawned into his hand. Floaters spun in front of eyes, tracking his gaze. He pressed dial and put his phone to his ear.
‘This is Tom. Leave a tone. Beep boop.’ Beeep!
Cullen hung up and redialled.
‘This is Tom. Leave a tone. Beep boop.’ Beeep!
‘Tom, it’s Scott. Call me when you get this, okay?’ He tapped the red button and waited for a few seconds.
The door clunked open to his right. He swung round. A barista undid the top lock, his Starbucks T-shirt riding up.
Cullen entered the café, house music pumping from the speakers, and walked up to the counter.
The barista grinned at him. ‘Morning, sir, what can I get you?’
‘The biggest and strongest coffee you’ve got.’
‘A latte? Flat white?’
‘Americano, black.’
‘Coming right up. What’s your name, sir?’
Cullen fiddled in his pocket for change. ‘Scott.’
‘Coming right up, sir.’
Cullen handed over a fiver and waited for his change. He got out his phone and dialled as he walked over to the other side of the counter.
‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Simon Buxton. Leave a message or call back. Thanks.’ Beeep!
He hit redial.
‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Simon Buxton. Leave a message or call back. Thanks.’ Beeep!
‘Si, it’s Scott. Give me a call. Cheers.’
He ended the call and rifled through his bulging wallet for recent business cards. Nothing.
Switched to Google and searched “Lorna Gilmour Edinburgh”. Hundreds of entries. Christ.
His phone rang.
Tom calling…
He swiped across the screen. ‘Hey, Tom.’
‘Scott, do you know what time it is?’
‘Aye. I’m already working.’
‘Fuck me.’ Tom paused. ‘You sound like shite, Skinky.’
‘Feel like it. You sound just as bad.’
‘What a night, eh?’ Burp. ‘Scuse me.’
‘Has Chantal called you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anyone from Sharon’s team?’
‘Saw I had a load of missed calls. What’s happened?’
‘When did you leave last night?’
‘Half eleven, maybe? Everyone else had bailed by the time I got back with the last drinks. I think.’