by Ed James
"I didn't say that," said Bain.
"Why are you being so difficult about this?" asked McNeill.
"As I said earlier, this is sensitive. I need Jim Turnbull to be okay with it."
"But you haven't asked him yet," said McNeill.
"Just drop it, Butch, alright? I'm not convinced that we actually need it. It's a big step."
Cullen sat back and folded his arms. "Has nothing we've said gone in?" he asked. "We can't find the guy she was on a date with, she still hasn't turned up after two days, this is highly irregular behaviour."
"Aye well, there are other avenues that we haven't exhausted yet," said Bain. "This husband seems the most likely."
"You think?" asked Cullen
"I'd say so," said Bain with a nod. "He's got a pretty clear motive. Messy divorce, maintenance payments, maybe she's just a nightmare. He might be trying to put the frighteners on her by abducting her."
"Seems a bit extreme," said Cullen.
"Sundance," said Bain, "there is nothing that can be described as too extreme in my experience. Now, is there anything more we can do with him?"
"Aside from putting a tail on him to see if he leads to a secret underground lair where he's keeping her, then no."
Bain narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose at Cullen. "Less of the lip." He looked over at Miller. "Did the Italian corroborate this boy's alibi?"
Miller looked up and wiped his hand on the underside of the table. "The felly couldn't say either way," he said. "It was busy that night. Lots of couples in."
"Are you happy with that?" asked Cullen.
"We'll see," said Bain. "Let's not lose too much sleep over this, Sundance. She'll probably turn up tomorrow. It'll be some misunderstanding and then we can all go back to the cold cases until someone sticks a knife in someone." He got up and groaned as he stretched out. "Right, who's up for a pint?"
"Aye, count me in," said Miller, immediately getting to his feet.
"Don't we need to find Caroline?" asked Cullen, still seated.
Bain leaned over the table and got in Cullen's face. "Sundance, will you relax?" he said. "There is fuck all we can do for now. We've got the Press Release going out tonight. Jim should authorise the RIPSA form tomorrow."
Cullen sighed. "I'm not in tomorrow. If we want to find her, we need to keep moving. So unless someone else is taking this over, it'll just get left till I'm back in on Monday."
"Cullen, it's half six on a Friday and we're bloody quiet. That sounds a lot like pub time to me." Bain checked his watch. "Come on, I want to get out of here before the Friday night crowd start murdering each other and giving me something to do. So are you up for a swally?"
"I'm not sure," said Cullen, slowly. He was pissed off. He couldn't escape the feeling that Caroline was out there somewhere and that he should be doing something to help.
"Sundance, I'll be in tomorrow," snapped Bain. "I'll make sure this is kept ticking over. Come on, just the one."
Cullen hesitated for a moment. He looked at McNeill. "Are you going?"
"I am," she said.
"Aye, go on then," said Cullen, reluctantly. "I've got to meet some mates later, so I'll not stay that long."
"Aye, right." Bain grinned. He put his suit jacket back on. "Need one last dump," he muttered. "Something's the matter with my bloody innards. I'll see you lot downstairs."
"Could do with a pish," said Miller.
They both headed off.
McNeill looked around at Cullen. "He's some guy," she said.
"I'm not happy," said Cullen, tapping his pen on the top of the table. "Caroline's still missing and we still haven't found out who this Martin Webb is."
She put on a weary look. "This is Bain's case to screw up."
"Aye, right. Do you think he'll be carrying the can when this goes tits up?"
"The ball's in Bain's court now, so if he says there's nothing more to do, there is nothing more to do."
Cullen glanced over to the windows at the front of the station.
"What's his agenda here?" he asked. "Why haven't we got a RIPSA approved? We are missing out on something, I just know it."
She gave a deep sigh. "Bain has had his arse kicked a few times for that sort of thing. He's just covering himself."
"But why?" asked Cullen, his blood close to boiling. "I don't get it."
"Put it this way," she said, "if he approves the RIPSA and we tear off to Schoolbook and get a load of data off of them, if she turns up tomorrow morning then he will look like an idiot."
"He looks like one anyway. That's a very big if. We're losing hours here, maybe days."
"Come on," she said, getting to her feet. "We'd best get over the road."
nine
Bain set the tray down and distributed the three pints, Tennent's for Miller and himself, Stella for Cullen.
They were in the Elm, an old-fashioned pub just across from the station. It was at the Leith end of Elm Row, at least a block away from the actual trees. Cullen didn't know if they were elms or not. There was a horseshoe bar in the middle of the pub, tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout the big room. The walls were covered with hundreds of mirrors advertising long dead breweries.
DI Wilkinson was playing pool in the back room. McNeill was at the other end of the bar, deep in what appeared to be a personal conversation with Chantal Jain, one of Wilkinson's DCs. Cullen reckoned that he should sit with Bain and Miller, but he would much rather have been with McNeill.
"Cheers," said Cullen, taking the first sip from his pint.
Bain grunted.
"So it's Celtic at home for you boys next weekend," said Miller. "Tough first game of the season."
Cullen had started a chat about football with Miller while Bain had been at the bar, before quickly realising that it was a big mistake. Cullen had let slip that he was an Aberdeen fan. Miller was a Hibs season ticket holder and he lived just round the corner from their ground on Easter Road.
"No doubt we'll get turned over as ever," said Cullen.
Bain said nothing, but eyed Cullen suspiciously.
"Fancy going to Hibs-Barca on Wednesday, then?" asked Miller.
"Maybe," replied Cullen. Cullen had seen the match advertised in the papers. Hibs were playing Barcelona in a pre-season friendly, despite the Scottish football season starting earlier and earlier with each passing year. Pretty soon, Cullen figured, it would be a summer sport like in Scandinavia and Russia.
"Could get you a ticket," said Miller. "My brother knows people."
"Didn't know you had a brother," snapped Bain.
Miller looked down at his pint. "Aye, well. He's not the sort of punter I want you knowing about."
"Younger or older?"
"Younger. Just turned 21, eh?"
"What's he do?" asked Bain.
Miller laughed. "Fuck all. Dirty little dole bastard, eh?"
Bain snorted with laughter.
"He's a bit of a ned," said Miller. "Been in bother a few times."
"I thought your old boy was on decent money?" said Bain.
"Aye, he is, but we never seen him much. He was always busy."
Cullen looked Miller up and down, reappraising him. At his school, some of the kids with the wealthiest parents – rich from the Aberdeen oil – tried least hard, and ended up mucking about and joining gangs in Arbroath or Dundee, generally up to no good. Cullen had taken Miller for just some Leith ned but he could see him fit the other profile.
"Derek had trials with Hibs and Rangers a couple of years ago," said Miller. "Stupid bastard got pissed the night before both of them. He was good enough to make it. He's a casual now, likes."
"Fuckin' Hibs Casuals," muttered Bain. "By the way, I'm not exactly happy with him getting you free tickets for games. That's some dodgy shite that'll no doubt blow up in my face."
"I'll watch my step, eh?" said Miller.
Bain took a long drink of his pint. "So you're an Aberdeen fan then, Sundance?" he asked.
&
nbsp; "Aye," Cullen answered, cautiously.
"I hate Aberdeen."
Cullen tried to smile. "I take it you're a Rangers fan, then?"
Bain grunted.
The rivalry between Aberdeen and Rangers stemmed back to before Cullen was even born. Back in the 80s, Aberdeen were one of the best teams in Europe, let alone Scotland, but their fortunes had declined greatly since the early 90s, in line with the general decline in the standard of Scottish football.
"You go to Ibrox much?" asked Cullen, trying to engage Bain.
"Every game when I lived through there. Chance would be a fine thing these days."
"You fancy coming along to the Barca game then, Gaffer?" asked Miller.
Bain glared at him. "I'd rather lose a bollock than stand in a stadium full of fuckin' smack-head Hibs fans with a fuckin' stolen ticket off your brother."
"Suit yourself," muttered Miller.
They sat in silence for a bit, drinking. Cullen caught McNeill's eye over Bain's shoulder.
Bain looked at Cullen. "You came over from F Troop, didn't you?"
"Aye," said Cullen. F Troop meant F Division - West Lothian. "I was in uniform there for six years. Livingston, Broxburn and Bathgate. Then I was an Acting DC at St Leonards."
Bain sat back, folded his arms. "St Leonards, eh?"
"Aye, I was in DI Ally Davenport's team."
Bain nodded. "Never heard of him." He put his glass back down. "How do you think you're getting on here?"
Cullen had been in Bain's team for just over three months, and had yet to have anything resembling a formal one-to-one.
"Well, it's early days," said Cullen. He took a sip of his pint, trying to buy time, as if he was being interviewed. "I've had a lot of autonomy and we got a result with the last case. It's why I wanted to join CID."
Bain sneered. "You're an idealist, then."
"As opposed to what?"
"A realist," said Bain. "There are generally two types of detective. There's your idealist, and then there's your realist."
Cullen felt toyed with but went along with Bain's little game. "And what's the difference?"
"Well, the idealist feels like they're born to be this great detective, the realist just gets there by being a great detective."
"So which type are you, then?" asked Cullen.
Bain's eyes flickered with menace. "I'll let you decide that."
Cullen kept his mouth shut.
Bain smirked. "Definitely an idealist," he said. He picked up his glass and finished it, then slammed it back down on the table. "Whose round is it?"
Cullen glanced at his pint; half full at least. "I'll get them in," he said. "Tennent's again?"
They both nodded.
"All right boys?" came a booming voice from behind Cullen, a Yorkshire accent.
Cullen swung round. DI Paul Wilkinson. His shirt was untucked, his trousers were stained. Cullen thought he looked like a mess.
"All right, Wilko," said Bain, raising his glass. "Did you win?"
Wilkinson was the other DI that reported to DCI Turnbull. His ruddy face was almost glowing. "Fucking right I did, Brian. Those bastards were trying to use some Jock rules; two shots carry, bollocks like that."
"I'm just off to the bar," said Cullen, "can I get you a drink?"
"Stella."
Cullen went to the bar and ordered. He checked his watch; he could really do with pissing off soon. He needed to go back to the station and get changed before he went on to meet his flatmates. He had half a mind just to leave and get an early pint on his own somewhere else, especially now that Wilkinson had joined.
"Having a good time there?"
He turned around. McNeill.
He shrugged. "Not exactly. You've managed to get out of it pretty easily."
"Yeah, well, Chantal's just broken up with her boyfriend."
"A likely tale."
The barmaid gave him his change.
"Catch you later," he said.
He picked up the tray of pints and headed back to the table full of idiots.
Cullen got back to the station an hour and two pints later. He'd changed out of his suit and then headed along Rose Street to the Slippery Chopper to meet Johnny and Tom, his flatmates, and Dawn, Johnny's girlfriend.
They were sitting at a table outside the pub, an empty bottle of wine and two almost empty glasses sat in front of the couple, and two empty Stella glasses in front of Tom. The sun was out, in total contrast to the rest of the day. The rain Cullen had feared had never appeared.
Johnny Fleming and Tom Jamieson had been his friends since first year at University; they'd shared a flat through the rest of their degrees. After graduation, the first thing Tom had done was to buy a flat. He'd inherited some money and got a decent staff mortgage at Alba Bank. The three bedroom flat in Portobello had trebled in value since. Cullen had moved in four years previously after things had gone wrong with Katie and he'd moved out of their flat just before Christmas.
"Evening," said Johnny.
"Hello, stranger," echoed Dawn.
Tom raised his empty glass. Cullen nodded and Tom went inside.
"Been here long I see," said Cullen, nodding at the glasses.
"Aye, well, it's a nice night, like," said Johnny. He was training to be a Chartered Accountant, one set of exams to go. He was skinny, and almost as short as Dawn. "You been out with work?"
"Sadly," said Cullen.
Dawn laughed. "Your boss still giving you hassle?"
"Not just me."
Tom returned clutching two pints and sat down. "Here you are." He handed Cullen a Stella.
"Cheers."
In total contrast to Johnny, Tom Jamieson was a big guy, in every sense of the word. Tall and big in an agricultural sort of way, he had a big belly noticeably forming. He had massive hands, massive feet and a massive head.
"Should be a good night tonight," said Tom.
"Yeah."
"How's your new t-shirt?" asked Tom.
"I like it," said Cullen.
Tom ran a small business in his spare time selling t-shirts over the internet, which pretty much kept him in beer money. And he drank like a fish. Cullen's t-shirt said "On the beat" with a DJ scratching a record, wearing a policeman's helmet.
"How's your flat-hunting going?" asked Dawn.
Cullen took another drink; it was sort of an open secret that he wanted to move out and buy his own place. "Can't say it's really going anywhere."
"Fancy going for a look on Sunday?" she asked. "Me and Johnny are going."
"Maybe," said Cullen. He couldn't be bothered with flat hunting. "You getting any joy?"
"None at all," answered Dawn. "The market's dead."
"It's depressing," said Cullen. He drank some more. "Who are we meeting tonight?"
"Becky," said Dawn. "It's her birthday."
"Katie's not going to be there, is she?" asked Cullen.
"I don't know," said Dawn. She shared a look with Johnny.
Cullen had gone out with Katie all the way through University. After he joined the police, they had started to drift apart and eventually split up, mostly at her insistence. Cullen had heard that she was seeing some Accountant.
Cullen sunk the last of his pint. "I'm off to the bar." He got up and went inside.
The last thing he needed was Katie being there.
Hours later, in the Liquid Room, Cullen waited at the counter while the bar staff flirted with each other. He looked across the bar and locked eyes with Katie. She came over; he looked away.
"Hi Scott," she said, all friendly.
"Katie."
He looked at the barmaid, willing her to hurry up getting his drinks.
Katie moved over beside him. "We've just got here," she shouted, struggling to be heard over the music. "I can't see Becky anywhere. Do you know where she is?"
"They were over on the dance floor," he called back.
"It's nice to see you, Scott."
Cullen just shrugged. "Yeah."
>
"I like your t-shirt." She ran her hand through her hair, seeming nervous.
He just looked away.
She came right up to him and stared him in the eye. Reaching around, she spoke into his ear.
"Look, Scott, there's no need to be so hostile, okay?"
"Yeah, whatever."
The barmaid handed him his drink in a plastic cup, and a bottle of water. By the time he'd paid, Katie was getting served.
Cullen moved away from the bar. Katie turned and looked at him. "I'm sorry about what happened between us, okay? Can't we be friends?"
"I don't think we can," he said, and walked away from the bar, looking for somewhere to sit and be alone.
Finding a seat at a table near the back of the room, he downed the water in one. His mouth was drying up; the dancing had made him sweat, the sweating had made him almost sober.
He was tired; the workload was battering him. He'd done the months as an ADC, on top of the years as a PC, but it hadn't prepared him for the long, relentless shifts. He was thrown into it, drowning in tiredness but at the same time expected to be at the top of his game.
He looked over at the dance floor, clutching his vodka and watching the crowd dancing. Johnny had Dawn straddling him. Beside them, Tom had his fist in the air, pumping to the beat. Cullen could see Becky dancing with a group of people he didn't recognise. One of the girls was pretty, short dark hair held back off her face with a hairclip, wearing a tight silver kimono. He spotted Katie heading over to join the group. She moved in front of a short, skinny guy, and put her arms around his neck.
Cullen turned away.
Dawn had been telling him he should find a girl and settle down, but his job, and its hours, weren't exactly giving him much opportunity for finding the right girl.
He needed a new start; he was almost thirty and here he was, in some shitty nightclub with the same old people from University.
The music wasn't even good and he was nowhere near drunk enough.
Cullen linked his arm in with Dawn as they walked up South Bridge, heading away from the centre. They were in a group of people he didn't recognise, trying to get a taxi to a house party somewhere. He had no idea where Tom and Johnny were. The guy that Katie had her arms around earlier shouted something, then ran off laughing.