Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  Cullen pointed up at the road. "The part of the field she was in is shielded by the trees; you won't see anything."

  Bain rubbed his moustache. "What I really want to know, DC Cullen, is how she ended up here and not in Musselburgh."

  "That's what I've been asking," said Cullen.

  "Well, I'm asking you to get the fuckin' answer, Sundance," Bain spat. He glared at Cullen, then McNeill. "Butch, you and the Sundance Kid here are going to find out what the fuck's happened here."

  Thirty minutes later, Cullen and McNeill pulled into Prestonpans, heading for Sian Saunders' flat.

  "So," said McNeill, as he took a left off the roundabout. "I can't get my head around this."

  Cullen took a deep breath. The Staropramen burned in his gut. He could do with a bottle of water. "Sian Saunders would appear to be the last person to see Gail alive," he said. "According to her, Gail got off the train at the back of eleven in Musselburgh. It's a two minute walk to her house."

  "Her body turns up in a ditch just by her work." She had her notebook out and fiddled with her pen, a silver metal Parker ballpoint. "And this Sian Saunders told you that they'd been at the pub in town, and got the last train home."

  "Yeah."

  "Any corroboration?" she asked.

  "No."

  "What about what Wilko's been up to in Musselburgh?"

  "What, smoking and listening to TalkSport?" he said.

  She laughed. "Apart from that."

  "Well, I spoke to Willie McAllister at the train station this afternoon. He'd been questioning people getting off the train, asking if anyone was on the last train."

  "And?"

  "He'd found a couple who knew her by sight. They hadn't noticed her on the train."

  "That's odd."

  He pulled in at the side of the road. The lights were on up in Sian's flat.

  "Come on, then," he said.

  The front door to the building was open, so they went up and knocked on the flat door. After a while, Sian Saunders answered it.

  "Has she turned up?" she asked, looking expectantly at Cullen.

  "I'm afraid she has, Ms Saunders," he said. "Her body was found this evening."

  She looked at McNeill, then back at Cullen, tears welling in her eyes. "Her body? Oh, Jesus."

  She ran away from them into the flat, her hands covering her face.

  McNeill looked at him. "I don't think we're going to get much out of her."

  "Me neither."

  "You go have a mooch around," she said, "I'll see if she's okay."

  Inside, it was as warm as it had been in the afternoon, absolutely baking. McNeill followed Sian through to the living room.

  Cullen searched around the flat, not finding anything that immediately appeared to be suspicious or out of place. In the living room, he found Sian's train season ticket, tucked in a white ScotRail wallet. There would be no trace of her travel the previous night.

  In the kitchen, Sian stood in front of the sink, facing the window, tears running down her face. McNeill was stroking her arm gently. Sian sniffed again.

  "Would you like something to drink?" asked Cullen.

  She turned and looked at him. Her lip trembled. She nodded towards a bottle of red wine on the counter, a cork jammed in the top. Cullen reached into the cupboard, took out a wine glass. He opened the bottle, a reasonable Italian red. He recognised it from earlier so he sniffed it; it still seemed okay. He poured a generous measure, almost draining the bottle.

  "Thanks." She said, downing half the glass.

  "Ms Saunders, you said you saw Gail McBride leave the train last night?" asked McNeill.

  Sian nodded her head, looking at Cullen. "I went through all this earlier with him."

  "What time was this?"

  "Would be about quarter past eleven," said Sian.

  "And what time did you get off the train at Prestonpans?"

  "I wasn't keeping an eye on my watch, you know," said Sian, folding her arms. "Twenty past probably."

  "Okay."

  Cullen exchanged a look with McNeill.

  "Gail's body was found at Edinburgh Park," said Cullen. "We think it's a bit odd that she's been transported twenty miles, close to where she works."

  Sian refolded her arms. "That's your job to find out, surely?"

  "Can you outline your movements since I last saw you?" he asked.

  "Is that necessary?" she asked, frowning.

  "Yes," he said.

  Sian shook her head slowly. "Out looking for Gail," she said, her voice frosty. "I went to Musselburgh, spoke to Simon. Then I just wandered the streets round the station, tried to see if there was anything."

  She broke down in tears, her entire body racked with sobs.

  thirty-one

  "Do you want me to call Bain, or do you want that pleasure?" asked Cullen.

  They were back in his car outside Sian Saunders' flat.

  "Be my guest," McNeill replied.

  He took out his mobile and called Bain.

  "Bain."

  "It's Cullen."

  "I fuckin' know who it is, Sundance, these mobile things fuckin' tell you." He snorted down the line. "You got anywhere yet?"

  "No. We're not going to get much out of this friend of hers tonight. Tomorrow maybe."

  "Christ sake."

  "She's just lost her best friend," said Cullen.

  "I know that. Doesn't she want who did it found?"

  "I suppose, but she's a bit upset right now."

  "McNeill's with you, isn't she?"

  "Aye."

  "Drop her off at the Station," said Bain. "I want you to work your magic up at the CCTV suite on the Royal Mile."

  "What for?"

  "Someone's driven her from Musselburgh to Edinburgh Park," said Bain, "I want you to find out who."

  Cullen sat in the CCTV Monitoring Centre on the Royal Mile, as Giles Naismith fiddled with a computer. Naismith was bespectacled and English; Cullen couldn't tell how tall he was, as he hadn't even stood up when he arrived, just huffily acknowledged his presence. The room was in a dark, dimly lit basement beneath the City Chambers. It housed feeds from the City's entire CCTV network, from the Musselburgh outskirts in the East to Ratho and the Newbridge road network in the West, and everything inside the City Bypass.

  "How are we getting on?" Cullen prompted.

  "Getting there. Won't be long."

  Naismith had been finishing off some work when Cullen arrived, on what looked like footage of the Shore in Leith. Cullen had had to lean on him a bit to get him to stop. Once Cullen had explained what he needed, he'd burst into activity, giving Cullen no commentary or explanation as to what he was up to. Cullen checked his watch again, wondering how long this was going to drag on for.

  "Any chance you could hurry this up?" asked Cullen.

  Naismith swivelled round. "You've got to remember that your request is somewhat complex, DC Cullen."

  That was the third or fourth time he'd used that sort of line.

  "I thought the A1 and the Bypass would be automatic?"

  Naismith sighed. "They are. But that's only half of the job. You want to know which cars drove from Musselburgh to Edinburgh Park. There's an ANPR camera at either end of the Bypass, but that's a massive volume of traffic, plus there's a few other routes I'd need to include. It's going to take a lot of work."

  ANPR was the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system, which recorded every single car that passed through the sensors. The system in Edinburgh was based around the dual carriageways at either end of the city: the M8 towards Glasgow and West Lothian; the A1 heading east to Haddington and Dunbar in East Lothian and eventually south to Berwick and Newcastle; plus all the exits from the A720 City Bypass, particularly the A68 to Newcastle, and the A7 and the A702 which lead to the North West of England.

  "I understand that," said Cullen. "All I want to know is how long it's going to take."

  "I can leave it running overnight."

  Cullen pinched his
nose. "All night?"

  "I've got to get home at some point."

  "So, what, seven am say?" asked Cullen.

  Naismith turned to glare at him. "This is highly irregular."

  "I know it is, but we've got three murder cases ongoing, none of which are going to go away. I just need you to give me some help, and then I'll not bother you again, okay?"

  "Fine," said Naismith. He looked around the room. "Okay, just this once, I'll try and come in early to get your results."

  "Doesn't he know this is a murder case?" asked Bain.

  Cullen had just returned to the station and broken the news to him. They were sitting at the meeting table.

  Cullen checked his watch, close to becoming a nervous habit. "It's half nine now, and he's coming back in at seven. And he's a civilian, not a police officer. In fact, he's a council employee, so we're bloody lucky."

  "You think?" snarled Bain. "I could still have his knackers for this shite he's pullin'."

  "What do you want me to do now?" he asked.

  Bain flattened his moustache down. "You've still not finished checking those death threats, have you?"

  "If anyone's still up."

  "It's hanging over you, Sundance. Remember that conversation we had. I want you completing tasks." He clapped his hands together. "Right, I'm off to put the boot in on those SOCO bastards downstairs."

  For once, Cullen almost felt sorry for James Anderson.

  He headed back to his desk. Caldwell was still around, sitting in the next seat, chatting to Miller.

  "You still here?" he asked her. He felt guilty for leaving earlier and that she was still around.

  "Aye," she said. "We're still nowhere near finished."

  Cullen frowned. "Who's we?"

  "Keith's been helping."

  Miller grinned. "Cushy little racket, you've got there, Sundance," he said.

  "Don't call me that," said Cullen.

  "How come the gaffer gets away with it?" he asked.

  "Cos he's the gaffer," snapped Cullen. He looked at Caldwell. "How are we getting on then?"

  "Still no confirmations," she said. "Must be about half way through, but I keep getting shoved on to other things. Had to check the alibi from that cyclist."

  "Better get used to it," said Cullen. "CID is like that. Isn't that right, Keith?"

  Miller laughed. "Only if you get landed with working for Bain."

  "Give me some numbers to call," he said to Caldwell.

  "That's it, I'm not making any more calls," said Cullen.

  It was the back of eleven. People were starting to move from being irritated into threatening complaints territory.

  "You two," he said, "either switch to typing notes up, or clear off home."

  Miller grinned and got up. "I'm off." He marched off quickly.

  "How's he doing?" asked Cullen, after Miller had left the floor.

  "Okay, actually," said Caldwell. "Better than McAllister."

  "Who isn't?" He got to his feet. "I need you bright and breezy tomorrow, so go and get some shut-eye."

  "Just finishing these notes," she said. "I'll be off in about five minutes."

  Cullen got up and looked at her for a moment. He admired her dedication, still feeling guilty for heading off earlier. He sauntered over to the stairwell. He bumped into McNeill at the door, her face distorted by a scowl.

  "What's up with you?" he asked.

  "Been wasting my time," she replied. "Interviewing hotel residents in the Novotel just across from Edinburgh Park. Bain has a bee in his bonnet about it, could have used Miller, doesn't need a DS doing it. Now I've got to type all my notes up. Bloody hell."

  "So what's he had you doing?"

  "I've interviewed everyone who stayed last night. There weren't that many given it was a Sunday. I've got a load of follow up to do on the people who were there last night then left today. Waste of time. Nobody's seen anything."

  "I'm just heading off," he said.

  "I really should be, too," she said. "Do you fancy going for a drink? The Elm will still be serving."

  His gut was still aching from the pint earlier - he needed his bed, not another drink. "Another time," he said, somewhat reluctantly.

  "Another time." She nodded slowly. "Glass of wine at home on my own, then."

  Cullen didn't know what to say, so said nothing.

  Cullen got into his car in the underground car park and fished out his mobile. There were a few personal messages that he'd not had time to check. There was one from Tom. "Did you get your hole?" It took him a while to remember about his date with Alison.

  No, he hadn't.

  He had couple of emails from Schoolbook. There was a message from a mate from University, Richard McAlpine, who was thinking of moving back up to Edinburgh from London. Cullen had thought about him moving into Johnny's room when he moved out, but he'd yet to speak to Tom about it.

  The other was a Friend request from Alison. He took a few seconds before he accepted it. It loaded up her profile in the App. Her status update read "Early days with a new man called Scott."

  He pocketed the phone and drove off.

  Tuesday

  3rd August 2011

  thirty-two

  Bain stood at the front of the Incident Room addressing the assembled troops, clutching a giant Starbucks beaker of coffee, dark rings around his eyes. Cullen spotted DCI Turnbull sitting off to the side. To Cullen, his presence probably meant trouble for one or both of the DIs. The smart money should be on Wilkinson, what with him disappearing the previous evening and this morning looking like he'd drunk an entire bottle of whisky, but Cullen hoped Bain would also get a rocket up his arse sometime soon.

  Cullen sat on the edge of a desk, absolutely shattered. He'd had less than six hours sleep, and even then he'd struggled to stay asleep. On top of the case, and half a bottle of red wine, the message from Alison had his mind whirring. He'd continually fought against his caffeine-fuelled brain, trying to figure out how badly he'd led her on. Nothing he'd done could have made her think they were an item, he thought. Nothing except for shagging her and then meeting her for a drink. If only he had the time to put her straight.

  "One last thing," said Bain. "We have now ascertained that Caroline's keys were missing from her person in the hotel and that her laptop had been stolen from her flat. DC Cullen had used that computer on Friday afternoon. We put out a Press Release yesterday, looking for anyone who'd seen anything suspicious in or around Smith's Place on Friday or the early hours of Saturday."

  He held up the Scotsman, open at a picture of the Press Conference given by Bain and Turnbull.

  "We're currently just dealing with the usual weirdoes phoning in, but we're keeping a close eye out for anything useful."

  Cullen wondered how likely that was.

  "We're getting there," said Bain, finishing his speech. "Finally, DCI Turnbull would like a word."

  Turnbull spoke in his usual calm, smooth tones. "I want you to know that you are all working on the highest priority investigation now ongoing in the Lothian and Borders Police Service. The Chief Constable is closely following the hunt for the killer of both Debi and Caroline, and I've been tasked with keeping the entire Senior Control Group informed with your progress. I want you all to know that the pressure is all on myself and my Leadership Team. You are an excellent collection of officers and we have implicit faith in the ability of every single one of you." He paused and looked around the room. "We've also been allocated the investigation of the Gail McBride murder. This should take just as high a priority in your minds. In Lothian and Borders, we don't have to deal with a large volume of murders, unlike in Strathclyde or the Met, for example. The expertise we need is in this room." He put on a pained look, furrowing his brow. "I know from bitter experience that these can be trying and difficult times, but we need to stand firm and stand together. Our priorities must only be these murders, and the families who have been torn apart by these killings. These killers must be brought to j
ustice. I know we can do it."

  He gave a final smile around the room then left, Bain and Wilkinson following him, like a pair of dogs at their master's heels.

  Cullen found McNeill standing with DC Jain. "Any idea why they've got the big guns out?" he asked.

  Jain tapped her nose, conspiratorially. "Bain and Turnbull were hauled over the coals by Duffin this morning, had a six am."

  William Duffin was the Assistant Chief Constable, who managed Lothian and Borders CID, amongst other things. He was a well-spoken former Edinburgh Academy boy whose face was always in the Scotsman, the Edinburgh Argus or the Evening News. He wasn't particularly well liked in the force for his direct style.

  "So they're getting pressure from above?" asked Cullen.

  "I heard a rumour that Strathclyde are sniffing about," said Jain. "They've got a dedicated murder squad." She checked her watch. "I've got to dash. Bain's got me and Alan out at Edinburgh Park, trying to stop uniform making a mess of everything."

  "See you later," said McNeill.

  Jain walked off towards the stairs, her car keys jangling in her hand.

  "Is that true what she was saying?" he asked.

  McNeill shrugged her shoulders. "Probably," she said. "It's funny. A couple of days ago Bain and Wilkinson were fighting each other for the case so they could boost their stats. Now they're trying to ditch the case to save their jobs."

  "There might be an opening for you," he said.

  She laughed. "Wouldn't say no."

  "Back to the phone calls," said Cullen.

  "What about those number plates?" she asked.

  "Still not got them through," he said. "I've been chasing, but Naismith isn't in. Why do you ask?"

  "Bain's put me on it with you. Let me know when they're in."

  "Will do."

  An hour later and Cullen was at his desk, wading through more calls, getting nowhere. He looked at Caldwell sitting next to him.