Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  Armstrong took the most delicate of sips. "Thank you."

  "So, Mrs Armstrong," said Jain, "can you tell us what happened with Mr Cruikshank?"

  DC Chantal Jain was third generation Indian; her accent and attitude as Edinburgh as McNeill, Miller or any of the other native Scots, whatever native meant in the context of this bastard nation. She was stunningly pretty, slightly chubby and about five foot seven. She had a tongue as coarse as Bain at his finest.

  Armstrong's hands were fiddling with the St Christopher at her neck. "I'm sorry, I just can't help but think that he killed Caroline and Debi and now he's been here."

  Cullen nodded. "Mrs Armstrong, we don't know whether Mr Cruikshank was even in the city at the time of either attack. Can you tell us about your encounter from the start?"

  "Okay," she said, taking a deep breath. "I shouldn't really be in, what with two of my girls dead. Well. I haven't missed a day of work in 32 years, so I came in anyway. I was just going through some paperwork when there was a knock on my door. It was Alistair. He stood there smiling, as if to say 'Look who it is'. I nearly fainted, I can tell you." She gulped down some more water, a trickle slipping down the side of the cup. "I just thought he was here for me. And well, when we got rid of him before, after all that business with Caroline, I found it very hard, I really struggled with the guilt. So just seeing him there like that really frightened me."

  "Did Mr Cruikshank say anything to you?" asked Cullen.

  "Why yes," said Armstrong, regaining some of her composure. "He was most effusive. He was talking about atoning for his sins. That he had resolved what had happened between him and Caroline and a few other things."

  "Did he say what he was doing in Edinburgh?" asked Cullen.

  "Yes, he's here for some sort of Divinity conference or something. You know that he's studying to be some sort of minister in whatever church it is that he's in. And he studied Divinity here before at the University. I think he said the conference was on 'Redemption'."

  Cullen shared a look with Jain. She raised an eyebrow.

  "Do you have any idea where he might be staying?" asked Cullen.

  "He mentioned something about staying at the Minto Hotel."

  It was Cullen's turn to raise an eyebrow. That was right next door to the Jackson Hotel, where Caroline had been found.

  Jain parked outside the Minto. What would have once been the front garden of a Victorian house was now the car park of a heavily-extended hotel.

  As they passed, Cullen noticed that all the police markings were still up at the Jackson Hotel, a few doors down from the Minto. Cullen wondered if his discovery of the missing laptop had led to them reinvestigating the room.

  "You lead," said Cullen, as they got out of the car.

  "You're such a gentleman, Scott."

  Cullen couldn't quite figure out who would choose to stay at the Minto, other than parents of students at the University Halls just round the corner. It was nowhere near any big businesses, yet it wasn't particularly cheap. It would be rammed during the festival, but that was only one month of the year.

  Jain showed the receptionist her warrant card and asked if they had an Alistair Cruikshank staying.

  "We do indeed," she said.

  "Do you know if he's in?" asked Jain.

  "I don't believe so. He has been out all day."

  "Okay. Would we be able to have a look around his room?"

  The receptionist frowned. "I'm not sure that's allowed."

  Jain glared at her. "This is related to what happened just down the road."

  She didn't have to mention the name of the Jackson.

  "I see." She bit her lip. "Okay, but please don't touch anything. This is just a look around."

  Jain held her hands up. "That's perfect."

  The receptionist led them to a room at the back of the hotel on the ground floor. Cullen's heart was in his mouth; he had a sudden vision of Gail McBride naked and dead in the room, that he and Wilkinson had been wrong, that Cruikshank was the killer and had struck again.

  The receptionist opened the door.

  The room was empty. Cullen felt a flutter of relief. There was a suitcase on the stand at the end of the bed, a tweed jacket on the back of a chair and a copy of the bible sitting on the desk. The room looked out through a set of French doors onto what was left of the garden at the rear.

  "Mind if I look in the bathroom?" asked Cullen.

  "Just a check, okay?" said the receptionist. Her eyes kept flicking back to the door, obviously worried that the guest might come back.

  "Sure thing."

  Cullen wandered into the small enclave in the rear of the room, one of the smallest bathrooms he'd ever seen. A green leather wash bag was on the sink, a toothbrush placed behind the taps. He touched the bristles, bone dry. He went back through.

  "Have you pair seen enough?" asked the receptionist.

  "Can you not stick to one fuckin' task, Cullen?" shouted Bain.

  Jain, Cullen and Bain were back in the Incident Room, standing by the whiteboard. They had returned from the Minto with no further leads. Jain had left her card with the receptionist, asking her to call if Cruikshank returned.

  "If you actually gave me a task you'd let me finish," snapped Cullen.

  "You fuckin' what?" spat Bain.

  Cullen tried and failed to bite his tongue. "On this case, you've given me task after task after task, each time throwing me on to something new before I'm even half way through."

  Bain glared at him. "If you'd just fuckin' found Caroline Adamson when I assigned you that case."

  "She was already dead a day and a half when you assigned me it," Cullen shot back.

  Bain didn't have a response to that. He glared at Jain instead. "So you're telling me, DC Jain, that we now have two valid suspects in this case."

  "I'd say your other suspect is a bit flimsy," said Cullen.

  "Shut your fuckin' mouth, Sundance, alright? What's got into you?"

  Cullen said nothing, just looked away. Most of the officers in the room were looking their way, listening in. He was fed up with Bain. He was busting a gut on this case and getting no thanks for it.

  "I'd say that Alistair Cruikshank is a valid suspect," said Jain. "He definitely has a motive, I suppose, and the way that Margaret Armstrong was shaken up by his visit. Well."

  Bain rubbed his temple. "I want you to get to the bottom of this, okay? You are to bring this guy in and we'll batter the fuckin' truth out of him."

  "Do you want me to help?" asked Cullen.

  "No, Sundance, I don't. I want you to fuckin' finish something for once. Get back to those phone calls. As far as I'm aware, nobody's corroborated these death threats yet."

  Caldwell was in an even worse mood than Bain had been. She and Cullen sat at their desks, both taking a break from the calls, trying to catch up on the documentation.

  "There must be something better than this," she said.

  "Tell me about it."

  "We've been at this solid since Saturday, and we've got nothing."

  "Well," said Cullen, "we've got the rumour about the death threats."

  "But we still haven't managed to back that up."

  "Don't I know it."

  "Heard you got another doing off Bain," she said.

  He shrugged. "I reckon I gave as good as I got this time."

  "Not what I heard."

  "Who from?"

  "Miller."

  "He wasn't even there. Little bastard."

  "What was it about?" she asked.

  "He was having a go about me for not sticking to tasks. I pointed out that I wasn't the one who was preventing me from sticking to them."

  "Brave boy."

  "Aye, well, I'll no doubt be cleaning the whiteboard next."

  He checked his watch. He was due to meet Alison in twenty minutes.

  "Sod it," he said. "I can't see us getting any more joy today with these calls. See you tomorrow."

  twenty-nine

&nbs
p; Cullen couldn't quite remember what Alison looked like. It was until she waved at him that he recognised her. On Friday, her hair had been pulled back with a hairclip; tonight it hung loose. She was wearing different, natural looking make-up today and was wearing a work suit, trousers and all. She looked a lot older than he remembered.

  "Sorry I'm late," he said, sitting down.

  "Don't worry about it," Alison replied, smiling.

  He'd parked around the corner on Thistle Street, managing to sneak into a space just vacated by a gleaming new 5 Series. He'd fed the meter for an hour. Having the car might be a good move; it meant he could only have the one.

  "Thanks for turning up," she said. She had a nice smile he decided.

  "I always had every intention of doing so."

  She put both hands around her glass of wine. "Do you want to get yourself a drink?" she asked.

  "Can I get you anything?" he asked. "Another glass of wine?"

  "Yeah, the Pinot Grigio is nice."

  "Large or small?"

  "Oh, large." She giggled.

  He went to the bar.

  While the barman poured his pint of Staropramen, Cullen had a deep conversation with himself - what the hell was he doing? He needed to grow up. He'd worked the old Cullen magic yet again on Saturday. Stupid idiot. He only needed a slight opening, and he was off, charming away. In his heart he knew he wanted another steady girlfriend, another Katie, but one that didn't mess him around. One that didn't mind about his job and the hours he kept, though he knew how thin on the ground they were.

  He looked over at Alison as the barman asked for the money. He seriously doubted anything could come of this; she shared a flat with his ex, for a start. He'd picked her up as a one-night stand. He doubted if there was anything they had in common, apart from music maybe. She had been at a techno club on Friday as part of the wider group, and they had some techno and house playing at the party afterwards. Even then, she'd probably be into the dance floor end of techno, rather than the minimal, headphones stuff he was into.

  He carried the drinks to the table and sat down.

  "So," he said.

  "So."

  They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment.

  "How's Katie?" he asked.

  Cullen was starting to think about making his excuses, when his mobile rang.

  "Sorry," he said. "It's probably work. Do you mind?"

  "No," she said, but looked irritated.

  He looked at the display - McNeill. He reddened slightly. He swiped his finger across the screen and answered.

  "Scott Cullen," he said, playing innocent.

  "Scott, it's DS McNeill." He turned away from Alison. Why was McNeill being formal with him? "Have you left for the evening?"

  "Yeah," he said. "I'm just having a drink with a friend."

  "I see." She paused for a moment. "Listen, Bain's told me to get your arse over to Edinburgh Park. His words."

  "What's the hurry? I'm off duty."

  "Gail McBride's body has been found."

  thirty

  Edinburgh Park train station was across from Hermiston Gait. A Novotel and the train station itself had opened to service Edinburgh Park, a ramshackle grouping of corporate offices situated a few hundred metres away: banks, insurance firms, and technology companies. All three Edinburgh banks had offices in the vicinity - nearest to the train station sat Alba Bank's Edinburgh Park House, the most recently built of the bank buildings, and Gail McBride's workplace.

  Cullen followed the road, passing underneath the flyover for the tram system, which was still under construction. His warrant card got him through the security barriers designed to prevent access to the Bypass. He passed a tunnel on his left that led under the dual carriageway, a suspended platform above a heavy-flowing river. The SOCO lights were in another, cordoned-off tunnel, filled with construction equipment, a JCB and stacks of concrete blocks. On the other side of the road was a set of Portacabins, site offices for the tram works.

  Cullen parked and hurried over, looking for McNeill or Bain. He quickly found Bain flapping around, barking out orders to whoever would listen.

  "I want someone round all of those offices in Edinburgh Park, now," he shouted at some uniformed officers. "I want CCTV from all the shops in Hermiston Gate. And I want some fucker making a nuisance of themselves in the tram office. Somebody must've seen something and I want them here now."

  His eyes settled on Cullen.

  "Sundance," he said. He looked deranged, his eyes struggling to focus. "Thank Christ you're here."

  "Sharon told me you were looking for me. What happened?"

  "That fuckin' idiot Wilko has fucked off somewhere, turned his fuckin' mobile off. So I've been fuckin' landed with this fuckin' case. On top of nailing Rob fuckin' Thomson for the other fuckin' murders."

  "So what can I do?"

  "McNeill's taking a statement from the cyclist who found the body, you'd best listen in. Turns out this bloody tunnel is a cycle shortcut to that RBS monstrosity over there," he said, gesturing behind him with his thumb; RBS Gogarburn lit up the surrounding trees, a mile or so distant. "Goes through a field. They're supposed to use the proper path through another tunnel just up the way, mind. Anyway, this poor fucker found the body just before six on his way to the train."

  "Okay."

  Bain marched away, shouting for Jimmy Deeley.

  Cullen headed into the tunnel. There were pavements on either side, but in the middle was a giant puddle, surrounded by stacks of concrete blocks. Bodies in protection suits milled around. He stepped in the puddle and got mud right up his ankle.

  "Aw, Christ," snapped Cullen. His leather brogues could barely cope with a puddle let alone full immersion.

  "Keep your stomach contents to yourself today," said a passing SOCO, voice suspiciously similar to James Anderson.

  "Check for laptops," retorted Cullen.

  "Aye, well."

  "Seen McNeill?"

  "Through there," he replied, pointing down the tunnel.

  Cullen walked on. At the end was a field of wheat, a SOCO tent poking up above the crop. He could see a track through the field, grooves worn into the soil by bike tyres, that ran off towards a copse of trees in the distance. Cullen recalled that there was a turkey farm at the far end. He could certainly smell it.

  McNeill was near the tunnel entrance, speaking to a tall, heavyset man dressed in black cycling gear underneath a fluorescent yellow and orange bib. An expensive-looking mountain bike was lying on its side, a green rucksack beside it on the ground.

  McNeill nodded at Cullen as he approached. Caldwell was helping with the note taking.

  "So, I'll just read your statement back to you," said McNeill to the man. "You were cycling away from work, heading to the station, aiming for the quarter to six train. You were running late, so you cut across the fields rather than going round the cycle path."

  She paused, waited for him to nod.

  "You were unable to stick to the usual path due to someone overtaking you, and forcing you to diverge across the field. You corrected your course back towards the tunnel, and that was when you came across the body."

  "Yes." He was visibly shaking.

  "Okay, Mr Oliver, you can get away on home, but we will need to get in touch again. Do you need a ride home?"

  "I should be fine."

  He picked his bike up and slowly cycled off through the tunnel.

  "Is he going to be okay?" asked Cullen.

  "He's just discovered a dead body," said McNeill, looking sideways at him.

  "Shouldn't he be getting taken home?" he asked.

  "That was the fifth time I asked, but he refused each time."

  "Is he under any suspicion?" he asked.

  "Doubt it. He's got an alibi; he was away for the weekend with his girlfriend, would still have been driving back when Gail McBride was getting the train to Musselburgh." She nodded at Caldwell, who smiled at Cullen. "Angie will check out his alibi but I don't t
hink he's in the frame."

  "So what else do we have?" asked Cullen. "Bain wasn't makin' much sense."

  "Tell me about it," said McNeill. "He's been nipping my head since we got the call out here."

  "It's definitely Gail?" asked Cullen.

  She grimaced. "We've got her husband in a panda car over there. Uniform brought him over. He confirmed that it's her."

  "Rough," said Cullen. "That's not exactly standard procedure, is it?"

  McNeill raised her eyebrows. "Bain's not exactly going by the rulebook on this, is he?"

  "What's Deeley saying about it? Bain was screaming for him."

  "He's not saying much. I don't know what the story is. Now I think about it, it was after Bain spoke to Deeley that he went off the deep end; he was fine before that. Well, fine for him."

  "So what do you know then?" he asked.

  She bit her lip. "It's pretty grim. Throat cut."

  "Jesus." His stomach felt queasy. "How did she end up here? She got off the train in Musselburgh last night and now she turns up, what, twenty miles away?"

  McNeill shrugged her shoulders. "That's our job to find out, I suppose."

  Cullen looked up at the dual carriageway above the tunnel he'd walked through, rush-hour traffic streaming past. He pointed up. "Someone must have seen something, surely?" he said.

  "This is Edinburgh, Scott. Nobody sees anything."

  Bain appeared from the tunnel and headed straight for them.

  "Got a rough time of death," he said. "Between nine o'clock and midnight last night."

  Cullen scowled. "It's taken till six pm for someone to notice a dead body?"

  Bain raised his eyebrows. "To be fair," he said, "the body is in a ditch in a crop of wheat. Irvine's spoken to the farmer; they were supposed to be harvesting it in a couple of weeks."

  "What about drivers on the bypass?" asked Cullen.

  "Nobody looks and sees anything, do they?" said Bain with a sigh. "In all fairness, you're more interested in the road in front of you, what that idiot in the Corsa is up to, or why that BMW's up your fuckin' arse." He took a breather. "I'll get a press release out. Another fuckin' one. Jesus Christ."