Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

"Just letting him stew for now. Now, Sundance, can you get back to those bloody phone calls. I want this story about death threats corroborated by at least two people."

  Cullen had been going through the notes Caldwell had typed up, not particularly taking anything in, his mind focusing on the supposed death threats and how he could corroborate them.

  McNeill grabbed his shoulder. "Scott, come with me."

  "Huh?"

  "Outside. Press conference."

  She turned and sped off. He got up and followed, catching her up at the stairwell.

  "Who's giving the press conference?" he asked.

  "Campbell McLintock."

  "Jesus."

  They raced down the stairs, hoping to catch some of the lawyer's playacting.

  She pushed through the front door. A large crowd had assembled outside Macdonald Road Library. McNeill barged her way through, Cullen following in her wake. There were several TV cameras. Campbell McLintock stood in the centre of the large semi-circle, his arms gesticulating as he gave his oration.

  "Now, someone once said that libraries gave us power," he said, pointing over his shoulder. Cullen recognised that as a lyric from somewhere. "Today, tremendous power has been given to those who are supposed to protect us; the Police. As I have said, my client, Robert Thomson, is a fine upstanding citizen. He has strong alibis for both periods when the crimes in question were carried out. And yet, Lothian and Borders Police are using their power to conduct a vendetta against Robert. This is unacceptable. I'm sure you'll join with me in insisting that the police desist from this reprehensible behaviour. Thank you."

  McLintock smiled as he posed for photographs.

  McNeill's mouth was pursed in a slight smile. "He's got some style," she said.

  Bain's evening briefing had been even more strained than his lunchtime diatribe. There was a discernable tension between Bain, Wilkinson and Irvine on one side, and Cullen and McNeill on the other.

  Cullen had outlined the progress - or lack thereof - made in corroborating the death threats.

  "Thanks for that, Sundance," drawled Bain. "I'm sure you'll solve the case for us all."

  McNeill glared at Bain.

  Bain continued. "Priorities for tomorrow are the street team and the phones. We've still got six flats to visit in Debi's street. Plus we need to interview the other people staying at the Jackson Hotel on the night of Caroline's death. We've got another press release going out tonight, looking for people who were at the supermarket or at the hotel at the times in question."

  Bain neglected to mention the fact that Cullen had discovered their only two leads. Cullen knew that Bain did have a lot on his plate, particularly after being publicly humiliated by McLintock, but still.

  "I know you'll have heard that bastard McLintock's spiel outside," said Bain. "Well, we've almost got Thomson about buying that phone. He definitely had the opportunity and was in the vicinity at the time. I've got him coming back in tomorrow to give a detailed statement."

  "You've let him go?" asked McNeill.

  "Aye. Just at the back of six there." He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Right, dismissed."

  McNeill was first to leave the room, closely followed by Cullen.

  "He's a prick," she said.

  "You were the one defending him this morning."

  "Yeah, well, a girl can change her mind."

  He checked his watch. It was far too late to be calling friends of Caroline. "I'm going to head off now," he said. "What about you?"

  "Yeah, I think I'll make a night of it too. I'm shattered."

  "Tell me about it. It's just like being back on the beat. The number of times I got a call half an hour before the end of my shift, and I'd have to stay in to process it."

  They collected their coats from the Incident Room. It was deserted; their colleagues no doubt all still trawling round the various search areas. They walked towards the stairwell.

  "You heading home?" she asked.

  "Aye," he said. "Curry and some music. Try to clear my head of all this crap for a bit."

  "Where do you stay?"

  "Portobello. You?"

  "World's End Close."

  "Just off the Royal Mile?"

  "I prefer to call it the High Street, but yes, there."

  "Isn't it a bastard for parking?"

  "Yeah. I've got a permit, though."

  "And you drive in here? It's like a ten minute walk."

  She shrugged. "I'm always in the car in this job."

  They were at the bottom of the stairs. "You up to anything tonight?" he asked.

  "Think I'm going to get a Chinese and watch some really bad TV."

  "Sounds good."

  "Yeah." She bit her lip. "How about a drink first?"

  It didn't take him long to reply. "Not the Elm."

  "So do you think it's Rob Thomson?" she asked.

  He took another sip of Staropramen, the beer already going to his head.

  Just the one, he'd said. He had the car and he was knackered. They'd cut out of the back entrance to Leith Walk and headed through the outer reaches of the New Town, settling on the Basement Bar on Broughton Street. It was close enough for McNeill to walk home, near enough for Cullen to walk back to the station for his car. They were in a corner of the bar; the music was loud enough that no one could hear their conversation, but quiet enough that could hear each other.

  "I'm struggling to see it," he said, "I really am. I mean, what's his motivation?"

  "Bitter at the divorce?" she offered.

  "But why?" he asked. "He caused it by sleeping around."

  "Child support payments?"

  "Well, you tell me," he said. "You looked at his bank accounts."

  "Yeah, Bain wasn't best pleased at that."

  "This is the first I've heard of it."

  "Yeah, funny that. Bain didn't want it broadcast." She paused. "Thomson earns a lot."

  "How much is a lot?"

  "Eh, need to think. About sixty grand after tax."

  "Jesus."

  "Yeah. He's only shelling out about £300 a month for Jack."

  "Drop in the ocean."

  "Precisely."

  "So why's Bain so set on him?" asked Cullen.

  McNeill took a sip of her wine. "Easy collar, I presume. He's pushing for DCI, so getting a fast result would improve his stats a lot. Rumour is that Turnbull is getting a promotion soon, which leaves the door open for Bain or another DI to step up."

  "Christ, they're like sharks."

  "Oh yes."

  "Bain's got nothing concrete on Thomson," he said.

  She ran her finger round the top of her glass. "I notice he got his own RIPSA approved pretty quickly."

  "Yeah, by Wilkinson."

  "So what does he actually have on this guy?" she asked. "Any actual evidence?"

  "Just a flimsy motive, those supposed death threats, the CCTV footage and Thomson being at the Alba Mortgage Centre when the phone was bought at the Tesco nearby."

  "It's not a lot, is it?"

  "No. Could he get it to court with that little, do you think?" asked Cullen.

  "I've seen it happen."

  "That Tesco footage. Some guy buying the mobile used to call Caroline. It's a big man in a shell suit. It could be anyone."

  She nodded, taking another sip. "What's the story with Amy Cousens?" she asked.

  "Amy Cousens? What about her?"

  "Bain and Miller keep calling her your girlfriend."

  "They do, do they? Funny bastards."

  "So, do you have one? A girlfriend, I mean," she said, picking up her glass, taking a drink and looking at him through the clear liquid.

  "I wish," he said. "I can feel my virginity growing back."

  She laughed so hard that wine came out of her nose.

  He smiled to himself and finished his pint, wondering if he should get off home.

  She pointed at the glass. "Another?"

  He stared at it for a moment. "Aye, go on."

&n
bsp; Cullen pushed the flat door open. Tom looked up from the table, the Sunday papers scattered all over it, a couple of empty beer cans beside him.

  "What time's this?" asked Tom.

  Cullen giggled. "Half eleven, Dad."

  "Aren't you back on at seven?"

  "Aye." Cullen collapsed on a chair, cast his suit jacket off. "Where's Johnny?"

  "At Dawn's." Tom's nostrils twitched. "Christ, Scott, have you been on the piss again?"

  "Aye, a couple of jars. Well, four. Got the bus home."

  "So this new squad of yours are a bunch of piss artists, then?"

  Cullen belched. "No, just my DS tonight."

  "What's his name?"

  "Sharon."

  "Scott, you really are some swordsman. Shagging your boss. After that bird on Friday."

  Cullen held up two fingers. "First thing, I didn't shag DS McNeill tonight. We just had a few pints and some food."

  "Dirty bastard."

  "Second, Alison was just a one night stand."

  Tom laughed. "Aye, right. But you are meeting her for a date tomorrow night."

  "Aye, well, there is that."

  He'd totally forgotten about meeting Alison. Was it too late to get out of it?

  "How's this case you're on then?" asked Tom. He could be a whore for information about policing. Cullen never gave him exact details, but he did tell the occasional tale.

  "It's pretty brutal," he said. "A double murder."

  Tom held up the Scotland on Sunday. It showed a family photo of Caroline released before they'd announced Debi's death.

  "This is what you're working on?" asked Tom.

  "Aye. But now it's two victims." Cullen exhaled. "I almost caught the killer yesterday but he gave me the slip."

  "Getting slow in your old age, eh?" joked Tom.

  Cullen couldn't but laugh along. "Never was much of a runner."

  "It says here she was tortured," said Tom. "That right?"

  Cullen took the paper off Tom and scanned through the article. "It is." He realised that the press interest had been light until now. The only direct contact he'd had with the media was at Campbell McLintock's ad hoc press conference outside the library.

  He looked up at Tom and pointed at Caroline. "Her ex-husband works at Alba Bank. Rob Thomson. Don't suppose you know him?"

  Tom leaned back in his chair. He tapped the table rhythmically. "Vaguely rings a bell. Where does he work?"

  "IT."

  "Nope," said Tom. "I know a Rob Thomas, works in Corporate. I'm in Retail Sales, Scott. I never speak to IT unless it's about my laptop."

  "Worth a shot," said Cullen. He got up and stretched. "Right, I'm off to bed. Early start tomorrow."

  Monday

  2nd August 2011

  twenty-four

  Cullen stood in the queue for coffee, half-asleep.

  It was ten past seven and the other side of the shortest, angriest Bain tirade he'd yet seen. Cullen knew that the cause was the lack of progress, particularly from the press releases. Cullen had been given a grilling over the death threats, and the desperate need to validate and verify them.

  McNeill barged in beside him in the queue; Cullen heard a series of loud tuts from behind.

  "Morning, Scott."

  "Sharon," he said.

  "Good curry last night?" she asked.

  "Yeah, not bad," he said with a smile. "How was your Chinese?"

  She winked. "Passable."

  He laughed.

  They queued in silence for a few moments, moving forward a few paces.

  "Bain will be trying even harder, now that Campbell McLintock is Thomson's solicitor," said McNeill.

  "I kind of guessed that."

  "Aside from the professional differences," she said, "Bain can't stand the fact that McLintock's always in the papers, with stuff for Amnesty or whatever."

  "Is Bain a fascist or something?"

  "DC Cullen, you've only been working for him for a few months and you've worked that out already. No, Bain thinks that McLintock uses it to influence juries."

  "That's quite an accusation," said Cullen.

  "Bain's quite a guy."

  "What are you up today?"

  "Still trying to track down people that were in that hotel last week," she said. "Needle in a bloody haystack."

  They were at the front of the queue. McNeill ordered a latte, Cullen a filter.

  "How's the investigation into Debi Curtis going?" he asked.

  "Bloody Irvine is leading it," she said. "Doubt they'll get anything."

  They collected their coffees and started to head back.

  Bain was standing in the queue, a can of Red Bull and a bacon roll on his tray.

  "Look who it bloody isn't," said Bain.

  "Morning," said McNeill.

  "Aye, morning, Butch. Sundance, just got a delivery from the High Street. A load of CCTV tapes from Saturday night, from the cameras near Debi Curtis' flat. I want you to look through them. Has to be some shots of Thomson's face on there from when you were chasing him."

  Cullen played the video file for the fifth time, desperate to find anything that could help identify the man who killed Debi Curtis.

  He was in the video review room on the first floor of the Leith Walk station. He would have used his desktop PC, like Miller had for the Tesco footage, but the CCTV office had sent down a load of VHS tapes. The room was similar to the one he'd used in St Leonard's from time to time, but this had PCs with large monitors instead of the TVs and VCRs installed at the older station. Fortunately for Cullen, they also had a few VHS machines.

  Cullen slowed the footage right down using a jog wheel. The traffic camera showed a line of cars up Angle Park Terrace, waiting for the traffic lights. The figure of the killer - Rob Thomson to Bain's eyes - ran across the road. Cullen froze the image. There was something under his arm, a bag. It figured; he had a knife, a rope, it made sense. He took screen grabs of several individual frames, but there was nothing that could identify the figure. He printed them out.

  He peered at the screen - the figure could be Rob Thomson, but it could also be anybody of a similar height and build. It just wasn't definitive. He was reluctant to go to Bain with what he had. It would just be more fuel to the Rob Thomson fire, and Cullen was already feeling uncomfortable about it.

  He copied the screen grabs on a USB stick and leaned back in the chair. He was alone in the room, and he wanted to use the time to think.

  The only lead he had outstanding was the cell site search. He picked up his phone and dialled.

  "Tommy Smith."

  "It's Cullen. I'm just checking in to see how we're getting on with the cell search."

  "Checking up, eh?"

  "Nature of the job. I'm sure you understand."

  "Yeah, yeah," replied Smith. "I actually got your Cell Site trace back overnight. You're on my list to call today."

  "Go on."

  "There was one call made from that mobile number you found on Caroline's phone, as you know. According to the trace, the call was relayed by the mast on top of the Dick Vet."

  "By the University?"

  "Yes."

  Cullen got out a map and found the Dick Veterinary School on the corner of the Meadows, part of the University. Some of the guys in his Halls in 1st Year had studied there, all thick-necked, rugby-playing, public school idiots. It was a few hundred metres from the Jackson Hotel.

  This was better. It could be used to show that the killer was near the hotel when the call was made. And that he used that phone.

  "You still there?" asked Smith.

  "Oh, sorry," said Cullen, "just lost in thought."

  "Aye, I could hear the gears crunching away there, buddy."

  "Did you get anything else off the phone or that number?" asked Cullen.

  "Sorry, buddy, that's your lot."

  "Okay, cheers."

  Cullen hung up.

  He should tell Bain, but he doubted he'd be interested. Besides, he'd get his nut
s chewed over the cost he'd incurred for a dead end.

  He nibbled away at the end of his pen. It was time to pay Charlie Kidd another visit.

  twenty-five

  Charlie Kidd was on the phone when Cullen got there. Cullen sat on the edge of his desk. Kidd looked away. The office was pretty busy; Cullen wouldn't have put the techies down as early birds, but then they were answerable to animals like Bain.

  "Aye, go for it," said Kidd in an enthusiastic tone, earnestly nodding his head. "I mean I'll have to clear it with the guys that pay the bills, ken, but it sounds like it could really help us out here. Aye, I'll call back this afternoon. Cheers."

  Kidd put the phone down and glared up at Cullen. "He's sent you up now, has he?" he asked.

  "Eh?"

  "Bain. I've had Alan Irvine up here every half an hour checking up on progress."

  "I see. And have you made any?"

  "Do you cocks not talk downstairs? Aye. I'm doing well, managed to get a lot of it sorted out. Now just let me get on with it."

  Cullen held his hands up. "Charlie, Bain hasn't sent me. I'm after a friendly update from you."

  Kidd almost stopped scowling. "So, what do you want to know?"

  "Did you get that new extract from Schoolbook?"

  "Aye, I did." Kidd sighed. "That's why Irvine's been on at me all day. I thought I had your man, but he slipped away."

  "How?" asked Cullen, his pulse racing.

  "The record that we got from Schoolbook had an IP address attached to the audit records."

  Cullen had gained some IT knowledge through the courses he'd been on in the last eighteen months or so. An IP Address was the unique number assigned to a computer when it went online.

  "What audit records?" he asked.

  "Aw, for God's sake, man. I'm having to explain this shite to absolute tubes here. I've told Irvine this five bloody times already."

  "Charlie, your job is to explain it to us in a way that us tubes understand, okay?"

  Kidd shook his head slowly. "I have to, to that twat Irvine. Many times over." He took a long deep breath. "Okay. Every time the database gets updated, whether it's a status update, sending a message, posting on a message board, there's a record gets created on the database, which tags the change with who made the change. So if you go in and post an update, it logs a few things, like your username, IP address, and so on."