by Ed James
"This isn't right," said Cullen. "That's three people I've managed to get a hold of so far and none of them heard anything about these death threats."
"I've had nothing, either," said Caldwell.
"How many so far have confirmed the death threats?"
"None."
"None?" asked Cullen. "I'm going to get this sorted."
His phone rang. He answered the call with a gruff voice.
"DC Cullen, it's Mr Naismith, returning your call."
"Finally."
"Have you been chasing me?"
"This is a multiple murder investigation, Mr Naismith, are you surprised?"
Naismith sighed. "Suppose not."
"Okay, so have you got the results in yet?"
"Yeah, just got them back now," said Naismith. "I have six cars for you."
"Thank you. Can you send me the details through, then?"
Cullen hung up the phone. Caldwell was looking at him. "What sort of person calls themselves Mr?" he asked.
"Don't you do it?"
"Eh?"
"Well, you say DC Cullen all the time."
"That's my rank, though."
"Same difference."
He closed his notebook. "Can you and Miller try and find out who gave you the lead on these death threats? I've got to go looking for cars with DS McNeill."
thirty-three
Cullen had phoned and agreed to meet the first at his workplace, having called through the list of car owners and made appointments to meet each of them.
Cullen and McNeill stood by her yellow Punto, in the car park of a Council office on Gorgie Road and waited. The building displayed no outward indication what was done inside.
"That wind can piss off," said McNeill.
"You're in a cracking mood," said Cullen.
"Aye, well. Can't believe I'm reduced to his."
An overweight man in his mid-20s walked across the car park towards them. "DS McNeill?" he called.
McNeill nodded her head sharply.
He held out his hand. "Alan Gregor. How can I help?"
McNeill introduced them and explained about the case. "Mr Gregor, your car was spotted travelling between Musselburgh and the Edinburgh Park, South Gyle area on Sunday night. Can you tell us the reason for your journey?"
He frowned. "Eh, I was at mah bird's in Musselburgh."
"Can you confirm your address?" she asked.
He rattled off an address in a block of flats not far from the South Gyle station, roughly a mile from Edinburgh Park.
"Bit strange that you stay in South Gyle and work in Gorgie," said McNeill.
"Used to work at RBS, eh?" he said. "Used to be able to walk in to work. Got punted at Christmas time, though. I should really move, but the market's a bit pish the now."
McNeill looked at Cullen. "Can we have the address in Musselburgh?" he asked.
Gregor gave an address down by the harbour.
"Thanks for your time, Mr Gregor," said McNeill.
He walked off back towards the office.
"Where next?" asked McNeill, her voice despairing.
Cullen and McNeill watched Bill McKay wander off towards his car.
His was the last number on the list. He did overnight security at the Younger Building, one of the RBS offices at Edinburgh Park. He seemed like a typical security guard to Cullen, ex-Forces, definitely a Rangers supporter. He lived in Wallyford in East Lothian, just past Musselburgh, and his commute took him via the A1 onto the City Bypass. He had driven to work on Sunday evening, hence being picked up by their search.
McNeill leaned back against the car, her arms folded. "This is getting us absolutely nowhere."
"It's not even getting us that far," said Cullen. He checked his watch: it was just after ten.
He looked around the area. It was quite leafy despite the offices. There was a Paolozzi sculpture just up the road on the corner, a giant steel robot standing guard over the corporate offices. Cullen thought that it wouldn't be the worst place in the world to work, but then he remembered the level of tedium those inside would be subjected to from his experience in Financial Services.
"How was the wine?" he asked.
"Hmm?" she murmured.
"After I spurned you last night," he said with a grin, "you said you were going to have some wine?"
She raised her eyebrows, a pouting smile on her lips. "Don't worry, DC Cullen, you will be taking me out for that drink." She left a pause, holding his gaze until he looked away. "It was fine, a nice South African Merlot. I only had a couple of glasses. I'll need to finish it tonight; it doesn't keep in this weather and I hate to chuck out good wine."
"I had the best part of a Rioja myself."
He watched a group of people get off an RBS-branded minibus, most of them wearing navy suits, staring at their Blackberries, some carrying blue notebooks under their arm.
Something began nagging at his brain, something triggered by what McNeill had just said.
Wine.
He closed his eyes and thought hard; the glass of wine that he'd poured for Sian Saunders. It had smelled fine, and yet it had been roasting in her flat. And she'd been away at the weekend.
"Scott."
He looked up.
"You weren't listening to me again," she said.
"Sorry?"
"I said that we should share a bottle," she said.
"Yeah, we should," he muttered, distracted. He bit his lip. "Sorry, I was just thinking. How long do you think a bottle of Chianti would keep for?" he asked.
She screwed her eyes up. "What?"
"In this weather, how long before a bottle of Italian red went off?"
She shrugged. "A day at best. It would start tasting a bit funny after two, definitely. Why?"
"Sian Saunders might have been lying."
thirty-four
"You sure this place will be open?" asked McNeill.
"It's open for breakfast," said Cullen. "I've been in once or twice."
"Didn't take you for a style bar man," she said.
"I'm not really, but my flatmates bloody are."
They were walking up from Albany Street, in an attempt to avoid the tram havoc on St Andrew Square, approaching Grape, on the big square's corner with George Street. Cullen knew the place well. The bar was on the ground floor of a building that offered short-lease business meeting space, allowing the sole trader to operate on a level footing with the blue chips dotted around the Square.
"Sian Saunders said that they were in here on Sunday night," said Cullen. "I want to confirm it."
"Why?"
"Put it this way, I'm beginning to wonder if Gail McBride and Sian Saunders were drinking in town."
"Has Wilkinson not had anyone check this out?" she asked.
"Not as far as I am aware."
"Jesus Christ," she muttered.
He pushed through the door. Inside it was all laminated wood, tiles and granite. As the name suggested, it specialised in wine. As with most city centre bars, it also opened for breakfast, serving designer fry-ups for stag and hen parties.
Cullen did the talking and they lucked out; the Duty Manager had been working on Sunday night. His badge said "Jeff". His accent was Australian, and pure Outback with it, not cosmopolitan Sydney or Melbourne.
Cullen held up a photo of Gail. "Do you recognise her from Sunday night?"
Jeff frowned. "Looks familiar." He took the picture and studied it further.
McNeill raised an eyebrow. Cullen tried to avoid her look.
"Was she in on Sunday?" asked Cullen.
Jeff's eyes squinted. He exhaled. "She's the latest girl in the paper, eh?"
Cullen was exasperated. "Yes. Was she in here on Sunday?"
Jeff took what felt to Cullen like an age to work it out.
"Nah, definitely not, mate. It was really quiet, not many people in. I would've been on the blower to you lot if she was."
"Has anyone else been in to check?" he asked.
"Not t
hat I'm aware of."
Cullen and McNeill sat in Sian Saunders living room. She looked washed out.
"Can I ask how long a bottle of wine usually lasts you?" asked Cullen.
"What's that got to do with anything?" she said, glaring at him. "My best friend's just been murdered and you're asking about how much I drink?"
"Ms Saunders, can you please answer the question?" said Cullen.
"Are you saying I'm a piss head?"
"Ms Saunders," snapped McNeill.
"Two days," she finally answered.
"Do you mean two sessions?" he asked.
"Sorry, I don't understand."
"Do you always finish a bottle the next day if you open one?" asked Cullen.
"Yes." She looked anxiously at both of them.
"Do you ever leave it longer than a day?"
She shook her head vigorously. "Never. It goes off. I chuck it out."
"Ms Saunders, can you tell us why there was a half-empty bottle on the counter yesterday?" he asked.
"Well, I'd had a couple of glasses on Sunday night after work."
Cullen hadn't even needed to mention Grape. "So you weren't out with Gail McBride then?"
"Shite."
McNeill grimaced. "Ms Saunders, why have you been lying to us?"
Sian looked at the carpet. "I was asked not to say anything." She took a deep breath, resonating with the tears. "I wasn't out with Gail. I came home from work, drank some wine, watched some telly, read my book, then went to bed."
"So why did you tell us that you were with Gail?" asked McNeill.
Sian looked up, her eyes moist. "She asked me to cover for her."
"Go on," ordered McNeill. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."
"You've got to understand," said Sian. "Gail had been unhappy with Simon for a long time. She wanted to work in publishing. She had a job at a company on the Royal Mile, but Simon forced her to move to a bank, wanted her to get a 'proper job'." She rubbed her hands up and down her skirt as she spoke. "Gail's not been happy there for a while. I mean she could be quite strong, at least on the surface, but inside she wasn't a banker. It's a shit job working for a bank, you know? You've got idiots full of ego telling you what to do every day. Gail was smart. She should never have worked there. She was too good for it."
"So what was Gail up to on Sunday night?" asked Cullen.
Sian bit her lip. "She was supposed to be meeting a man. As I say, her marriage was dead in the water. She'd been looking around, looking for a nice guy to take her away from it all, and she'd found him recently. Some guy called Jeremy Turner. He was in Edinburgh on business this week and she was going to meet him outside work."
"And that's why you lied?" asked McNeill.
"Yeah. She hadn't wanted Simon finding out until things had progressed a bit. She asked me to lie for her. If anyone asked, we were at Grape in town."
"And why didn't you tell us this when the body turned up?"
She didn't reply for a few seconds. "I was worried I'd get into trouble."
"I see," said McNeill, voice stern.
"Are you going to press charges against me?"
McNeill looked at Cullen, who just shrugged. "I don't know yet."
"Sian, there's one thing that might help us," said Cullen. "Do you know how Gail originally met this man?"
"Aye," she replied. "Do you know Schoolbook?"
Gail
Sunday 1st August, 7.00pm
Gail McBride stood and waited outside her office. Where was he?
She glanced at her watch; he was five minutes late. Seemed like hours. Edinburgh Park wasn't the sort of place you wanted to be on a Sunday evening, especially on your own. The whole area was deserted. It was a beautiful evening, though, the sky a deep blue and the sun not even thinking about setting.
She was tired after her shift, her nerves on edge. She'd been in for the project implementation weekend, wanting to show commitment. In the end, she'd just sat and read the Sunday papers while they installed software, or whatever it was they were doing. Luckily, Sian had bought the Express and they had swapped halfway through the morning. Her team was finally thrown into action at 1pm, but for only half an hour. Afterwards, they were quiet until they were sent home.
There had been talk of going out for a drink. They'd all either got a taxi into town or driven home. She was the only one left. She had other plans, though, and Sian was covering for her.
She looked around the bend again, saw a car approaching.
The headlights flashed.
Her heart raced.
The car pulled in at the pavement. Gail opened the passenger door and leant in.
"Jeremy?" she asked.
He turned to her and smiled. "Hi Gail. In you get."
He wasn't quite what she imagined; she felt slightly cheated when she thought back to the Schoolbook photo. He was bigger than she'd imagined, more muscular, and he seemed quite hard. He had an English accent that she couldn't place. They all sounded the same to her.
"So what do you want to do?" she asked.
"I've got a nice place I'd like to take you, if that's alright?"
She smiled. "Sounds good."
She couldn't believe how nervous she was. Simon was sitting at home, probably drinking himself stupid in front of the football again. This was her night.
He put the car in gear and pulled away, leaving Alba Bank Mortgage Centre behind for the night. He drove the car round the corner, towards the tram works.
"This road rejoins round the back," he said, "doesn't it?"
"Eh, I think so."
She had once gone for a jog with Sian this way, but only the one time. She vaguely remembered it meeting up again by the Scot Eq building.
They pulled round the corner and went over a roundabout. Gail struggled for something to say.
Her phone rang. She apologised and picked it up out of her bag.
"Hello?"
The line was silent.
"Hello?"
She hung up.
"Sorry about that."
She realised that the car had stopped. She started to turn around to face him. Jeremy's fist smashed into the side of her head, knocking her against the door. A rope bit into her neck.
thirty-five
"You are kiddin' me," spat Bain.
Cullen had just dropped the bombshell. He had Bain on speaker on his iPhone. McNeill was driving them back to the station, just hitting the A1 at Prestonpans.
"Wish I was," replied Cullen.
"So Gail met this guy on Schoolbook," said Bain. "That's it?"
"It sounded like it was more that he met her, from what I can gather," said McNeill. "He started messaging her, swept her off her feet. And so on."
"Shite, shite, shite. So does this look anything like the same pattern as the other two?"
That morning, Cullen had noticed that the wall at the side of the whiteboard now had several sheets of A3 paper taped together. They were covered in the flow of messages that he'd worked on, showing a pattern terminating with the deaths of Caroline and Debi. He didn't know who'd drawn the diagram, but Bain had continually talked about patterns at the morning briefing.
"It certainly looks that way," said Cullen.
"So I take it that her getting the train was a load of shite?" asked Bain.
"Aye," Cullen replied.
"What happened on Sunday night, then?"
"As far as we know, they had a project that was implementing on Sunday, so they had to work all day."
"I know the feeling," said Bain.
"According to Sian, Gail was supposed to meet Jeremy Turner afterwards. He'd told her he was in Edinburgh on business."
"So this Sian has been lying to us?" asked Bain.
"That's right," said McNeill. "We've got some Musselburgh plod getting a statement from her. I'll let you decide if you want to charge her."
"I think I fuckin' will, wastin' our fuckin' time." Bain paused for a few seconds. "Sundance, I thought you told me yes
terday that this was a different killer."
"I said it didn't look like the same one," said Cullen.
"Aye, well, you should've been fuckin' sharper."
"Look," spat Cullen, "I was the one that worked this all out. I was the one who spotted her lie and got her to admit it."
"Well fuckin' done there, Sundance, thank the Lord we've got your powers of deduction to help us through this case," said Bain. "Does it look like it could be different killers though?"
McNeill answered. "We need to look into it further. I'd say it's highly likely that it is the same killer, but we need to establish the links, and hear back from forensics."
"I really need this to not be the same killer." There was a pause, then the sound of a desk being hit. "Oh, you fuckin' beauty," hissed Bain.
"What?" asked Cullen.
"I let Rob Thomson go at the back of six on Sunday. Bastard could easily have got over to Edinburgh Park, couldn't he?"
"I suppose so," said Cullen.
Bain ignored him. "Magic."
"They'd all arranged to meet a man on Schoolbook," said Cullen, "that's all we know. Same account for the first two. I'll see if I can get Kidd to link this latest account to the original one."
"Get on it," said Bain.
"Have they found anything on those office PCs?" asked Cullen.
"I've not heard anything. Actually, we need to get them to have a look at this Gail's computer as well. I take it that it wasn't stolen?"
"No idea," said Cullen. "I'd go down to speak to Anderson if I were you."
"I'll get Miller onto it," he said. "The abduction methods are similar. They all arranged to meet in private or secluded places. He attacked Caroline Adamson at a hotel. Debi Curtis he attacked at her flat. Gail McBride's body was found in a field. Where was she meeting this punter again?"
"Outside her work, according to Sian Saunders," said Cullen. "The Alba Bank Mortgage Centre at Edinburgh Park."
"So he meets her there, kills her and dumps her body just off that cycle path. Pretty handy."
"This fake name thing," said Cullen. "At the moment, we don't actually know that Jeremy Turner doesn't exist, that there isn't a real punter out there."