Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  "You'd better check into that, Sundance?"

  "Will do."

  "Has Gail's PM been done yet?" asked McNeill.

  Bain paused. "Yes. Strangled, throat slit."

  "So the same MO then?"

  "Similar," said Bain. "Need to be able to prove it is. I've got twenty officers looking into that proof as we speak."

  "Gail and Caroline were both dead when we found them," said Cullen. "Caroline had been subjected to a lot of torture. Gail's looked more like a gangland hit. The only reason Debi wasn't dead was because we got there before he could finish her off."

  "Aye, well," said Bain. "Not your finest hour there."

  "What's your problem?" asked McNeill, her face a scowl. "Because of Scott, we almost managed to catch this killer."

  "Listen, Butch," he snarled, "I need to be able to link Rob Thomson to this Gail lassie."

  "These murders might not have been down to him," said McNeill. She made a face at the phone that almost made Cullen burst out laughing.

  "Butch, I know for a fact that Caroline was done by him. Therefore Debi was."

  "But we don't know that."

  "I've almost got enough to send him away," said Bain. "I just need you lot to tie off the loose ends."

  Cullen frowned. "Why are you so focused on him?"

  "It's obvious," said Bain. "He's a big nasty bastard. Had a grudge against his ex-wife and a grudge against her mate."

  "What about Alistair Cruikshank?" asked Cullen. "He also had a definite grudge against both Caroline and Debi."

  "What about Gail, though?" asked Bain.

  "What's the link between with Rob and Gail then?" asked Cullen.

  "Where did she work?" asked Bain.

  "Alba Bank," said Cullen.

  Bain laughed. "Where Rob Thomson works."

  Cullen shared a look with McNeill.

  "Right, so I need to find a more solid link between Gail and that bastard," said Bain, "but once we get that we've nailed him."

  "I still think we should be looking for this Cruikshank guy," said Cullen.

  "Chantal Jain is," said Bain. "You aren't, alright? We'll see what fun he brings to the party when we find him."

  "So what's the plan of attack?" asked McNeill.

  "I'm going to get Irvine looking at linking Thomson to this woman, going round her work and stuff like that. He's a proper copper that I can trust. I'll also get him looking at the CCTV at Edinburgh Park, see if this boy drove there, or what. As for you pair..." He exhaled down the line. "I need you to concentrate on Schoolbook and this Jeremy Turner."

  "How many bodies can we have?" asked Cullen.

  "I can only spare you pair, plus maybe Caldwell."

  "We'll need more than that," said McNeill, "if you want it done this week. We're struggling with Debi and Caroline as it is."

  "Right, I'll give you Keith Miller full-time once Wilko's finished with him."

  "Oh, fantastic."

  They heard Bain's mobile ring. "Ah, shite, I need to take this. Butch, I want an update at two, okay?"

  "Okay."

  The line clicked dead.

  Cullen sat for a moment, letting McNeill gather her thoughts as she drove. They passed Duddingston Golf Club.

  She exhaled.

  "Was Bain for real there?" he asked.

  "Well, it's his neck on the line here, not ours."

  "Fair enough, but someone else could get killed while he's pissing about, lost in his stupid vendetta," he said. "What's he actually planning on doing other than investigating the only decent lead we've got?"

  "Who bloody knows?" she said, a fierce scowl etched on her face.

  An hour later, Cullen felt like he was going round in circles. He was back at his desk looking through Gail's Schoolbook Friends list. He'd tried contacting Kidd but had got no reply. He was tempted to go up the stairs.

  "This just isn't efficient," he said to Caldwell.

  "It's tedious," she said. "I'm getting nowhere fast. There's hundreds of them."

  He got up. "That's it, I'm off upstairs to see Charlie Kidd."

  He pounded up the stairs and made a beeline for Kidd. He was sitting with a telephone headset on. He avoided Cullen's gaze.

  "Are you on a call?" he asked.

  Kidd pressed the secrecy button. "Aye. I'm on with Schoolbook."

  "What about?"

  "Trying to get a better pipe to their database," said Kidd. "Getting more progress cos that Duncan boy is off today."

  "How did that private company go?" asked Cullen.

  "They're the ones setting the pipe up for us."

  Cullen handed him a sheet of paper with Gail McBride and Jeremy Turner's details on it. "I need you to get me all messages between these two users."

  "Are we cleared for it?"

  "It's the same case, so aye," said Cullen.

  "I'll get it back to you by two."

  "Fine."

  Cullen bounded back downstairs.

  McNeill was sitting chatting to Caldwell. She nodded when Cullen appeared.

  "How's it going?" asked McNeill.

  "Not great," he said. "We're just spinning our wheels here. We're not getting anywhere."

  "What have you looked at?"

  "Been calling through the friends list. It's much bigger than Caroline's but so far we're getting nothing. I've got Kidd extracting all the messages between Gail and this Jeremy Turner.

  "The good news, I suppose," she said, "is that I've managed to get some more resource to ring through the list."

  "Aye, and what's the bad?" he asked.

  "McAllister is one of them."

  "We don't need him," he said.

  "Well, if it can free you up for a couple of hours to do something else, then I'd look on it favourably."

  "What sort of thing?" he asked.

  "Well, there might be some other avenue of investigation that's being screwed up under Wilkinson that might help what you're doing here."

  He suddenly had an inspiration. "Thanks," he said, and got up.

  Wilkinson was standing by the Incident Room whiteboard, scrawling some information about Gail McBride, copying the techniques that Bain had been using on Saturday morning.

  "Paul," said Cullen.

  "Curran, what can I do you for?" said Wilkinson, his face contorted into a sneer.

  "Gail McBride's phone logs," said Cullen. "Did anyone look over them?"

  Wilkinson frowned. "Think I had Irvine do it."

  Cullen grimaced. McNeill was right; there was no doubt he'd have messed it up.

  "Any idea where he is?"

  "Back at our old desks," said Wilkinson. "Trying to get some peace and quiet."

  "Thanks," said Cullen.

  "Nice of you to drop me in it, by the way."

  "How do you mean?" asked Cullen.

  "Somebody told Turnbull that I was off on the lash last night."

  "Well, it wasn't me."

  Wilkinson eyed him suspiciously. "I don't believe you, but I'll let it pass for now."

  Cullen left the Incident Room and followed the maze of corridors back to their old office space. Irvine was sitting at Cullen's old desk, his feet up on the table, reading a sheaf of documentation.

  "Alan," said Cullen.

  Irvine looked up.

  Alan Irvine was a fat, prematurely balding DS, much in the image of Paul Wilkinson. He was from Dalkeith and mid-30s. Cullen had heard that he had once been a high flyer in the force, shooting up rapidly from PC to a DS. His career had stalled somewhat and he'd been stuck at his current level for the last eight years. Cullen didn't know if there had been a reason for the recent lack of progress, but it had sucked out all of his motivation. He was now notorious for being one of the laziest officers in Lothian and Borders.

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  "Have you been looking through Gail McBride's phone records?" asked Cullen.

  He held up the sheet of paper. "Just going through it now, pal."

  Irvine got to hi
s feet and stretched. "Actually, you know what, can you do it for me? Wilkinson wants me down in the CCTV suite."

  Irvine handed Cullen the papers, spat a wad of chewing gum into the bin and headed off.

  Twenty minutes later, Cullen had cross-referenced Gail's phone records against the numbers in his notebook. Gail appeared to be much more of a communicator online than by telephone. He had the list down to five numbers, once he'd removed her home number, Sian Saunders and Simon McBride's mobile.

  He looked through the remainder of the list. The first two he'd traced to addresses in Ayr. He had Gail's maiden name - McGuire - which matched the surnames of the two account holders. He figured it was parents and maybe a brother.

  The next two numbers were addresses in Glasgow, again members of the McGuire family.

  The last number was a mystery. It was a mobile number. He dialled it but it was dead.

  He picked up the desk phone and called Tommy Smith in the Phone Squad.

  "Smith, Forensic Investigation."

  "Tommy, it's Scott Cullen."

  There was a sigh down the line. "I got back to you as promised didn't I, buddy?"

  "You did."

  "Thank Christ for that. Got a to-do list longer than a gorilla's arm."

  "I need you to trace a phone number for me."

  "Another one?"

  "Different case," said Cullen.

  "You sure get about, buddy."

  Cullen read out the number.

  "Just want me to do a cell search?" asked Smith.

  "What else can you do?"

  "Unblock drains."

  "Very funny," said Cullen.

  "Seriously, though, we can do a lot of things. We can get a list of calls, trace to cell sites, logistic analysis."

  "What's that?" asked Cullen.

  "We can look at the supply chain for getting the phone from the manufacturer to the network to the shop to the user."

  "Are you serious?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye."

  "So I didn't have to do all that for that other number?"

  "If you'd come to me in the first place, buddy, you could have saved the force a lot of petrol."

  "How long will that take?"

  "Overnight, if I put it to the top of my to-do list."

  Cullen thanked him and ended the call.

  thirty-six

  An hour later, Cullen sat with Miller, Caldwell and McAllister.

  "At the end of the day, though, I can't find him," said Miller, "and neither can Willie."

  Cullen rubbed his hand over his face. "So it looks like Jeremy Turner doesn't exist then?"

  "I'm no' sayin' nowt, eh? That's your responsibility."

  Cullen had paired up Miller and McAllister to search through the databases for Jeremy Turner, just as he had done for Martin Webb. Their conclusion was somewhat dubious, not because it was what he'd suspected, but because it was them doing the search. He should get Caldwell to verify it.

  Miller pulled out a pair of dark green tickets. "Here we go, though, Scotty. See, I can find some things, eh?"

  "What is this?" asked Cullen.

  "Hibs tickets for tonight, man. To watch the Leith boys murder Barca." He laughed. "They were saying on Sky this morning that Messi has made the trip. Makes it well worth it, eh? Him, Villa, Xavi and Iniesta all travelled."

  Cullen had forgotten all about it. "We need to see how the case is going before we decide if we can go."

  "We? I'm going!"

  "Have you cleared that with Bain?"

  "Eh?" He pocketed the tickets. "Just let me know, eh? One of my pals might want to go."

  "Go and help Caldwell making phone calls now," ordered Cullen.

  "Wish I could, Scotty, wish I could." Miller sniffed. "Got to chum Wilko through to bloody Ayr to see this lassie's parents."

  Cullen felt a slight relief; at least there was no imminent threat of Miller messing up their investigation. That and the fact that he and McNeill had escaped the parent visit this time.

  "Thought you'd already been?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye, well, nobody's been able to get hold of them till now, eh? Been away on their holibags."

  "You'd better be back in time for the game, then," said Cullen, deadpan.

  "Eh?"

  "It'll be a good five or six hour round trip to Ayr once you factor in speaking to her folks." He made a show of checking his watch. "It's almost two now."

  "Aw shite."

  Miller ran for the door.

  Back at his desk, Cullen found the printed sheets of Gail's Friends and contacts still sitting there, goading him. Caldwell just finished a call. "How is it going?"

  "Slow," said Caldwell.

  She picked up her sheets, pointing to the last name on the last page. "Tom Rowlands," she said.

  "That rings a bell." He logged onto Schoolbook and clicked through to the profile. It was one of the Chemical Brothers, the one with the blonde hair. Cullen had seen them at T in the Park as a teenager and had a few of their albums.

  "So there are celebrities in the list," he said.

  "Well, I don't think she's been setting up dates with one of the Chemical Brothers." Caldwell ran her finger down the page. "I've got John Terry. And Fatboy Slim. And Robbie Williams. Takes the number down, I suppose."

  "No, we need to check that it actually is the celebrity," said Cullen. "We can't eliminate people who might know something and are actually some punter called Robbie Williams from Armadale."

  Cullen looked at the next name on the list - Tom Archibald. He went to his profile, which mercifully had a mobile number. He'd just dialled the first four digits, when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

  He turned around. It was Chantal Jain, visibly out of breath.

  "Scott, have you seen Sharon?"

  "Think she's out at Edinburgh Park at the Alba Bank office," he said.

  "Shite."

  "Why do you need her?"

  "Alistair Cruikshank has turned up at his hotel."

  thirty-seven

  Cullen and Jain stood outside Cruikshank's hotel room at the Minto. The receptionist had seemed as scared as Margaret Armstrong had been the previous afternoon.

  "Ladies first," said Cullen.

  "You big Jessie," said Jain.

  She rapped on the door. "Mr Cruikshank, it's the police. Open up."

  Nothing.

  "Mr Cruikshank. Please open the door. We need to speak to you."

  "Do you have a warrant?" came a thin-voiced reply.

  "Mr Cruikshank, we only want to talk to you."

  There was a dull thud from inside the room, like a sash window being raised.

  They shared a look.

  "He's made a run for it," she said.

  Cullen ran back down the corridor. There was a window that overlooked the car park. A heavy set man was running towards the wall at the back, almost at the garden area.

  "I'll follow him," shouted Cullen. "You get round to Blacket Place. And get some back-up."

  He wrestled with the window and eventually toppled out through it. He got up and sprinted across the lawn. Cruikshank's leg disappeared over the top. Cullen had a flashback to Saturday night in Fountainbridge, the killer escaping from him.

  There was a wooden picnic table leaning against the wall. He used his momentum to jump up on top of it, using it as a springboard. He almost winded himself as he landed, stomach across the top of the wall.

  Cullen was above a large garden, overgrown with weeds, a big Victorian villa at the far end. It looked like Cruikshank had injured himself. He was limping up the path at the side of the house.

  Cullen carefully lowered himself down. He slipped at the bottom, almost falling over. He ran as fast as he could up the side of the house towards the street.

  He emerged onto Blacket Place, the street running left and right, with several tree-lined side streets filled with big old houses.

  It was a rabbit warren. He couldn't see Cruikshank anywhere. If he didn't find him quickly, they wou
ld lose him, limp or not.

  He heard footsteps from the left, round the bend. He ran towards the sound and quickly spotted Cruikshank, making a vain attempt to continue running. He took another left, heading straight for the main road. He was gaining speed; if Cullen didn't catch him soon, then he might lose him in the foot traffic on Minto Street.

  Cullen pushed himself on. He was closing, but maybe not quickly enough.

  Cruikshank made it through the archway at the end of the street, heading through to freedom.

  Jain came from nowhere and rugby tackled Cruikshank to the ground, just yards from the road.

  "You. Are. Under. Arrest," she spat.

  Cullen pushed through the double doors set in the jutting diagonal entrance on St Leonard Street.

  Jain pushed a handcuffed Cruikshank along in front of her. He'd been quiet since she'd tackled him to the ground.

  The Desk Sergeant nodded at Cullen as he approached. Barry Smith; Fat Barry. "DC Cullen, how you doing?"

  Cullen smiled in response. "I'm doing alright, Barry." He pointed at Cruikshank. "Got a spare interview room available?"

  "Aye." Smith grinned inanely at them. "What's wrong with Leith Walk?"

  Cullen cleared his throat. "We're kinda full up down there."

  Cullen and Jain had agreed to keep Cruikshank clear of Bain for now, until they knew his story.

  "Yeah, okay." Smith chuckled. "I can give you Interview Room 3."

  Cullen signed them in and they were buzzed through. They set off down the long, lightless corridor through the building. Cullen stopped outside the room and pushed against the scarred wood of the door. The station was only fifteen or so years old, but time took its toll quickly on a police station.

  Jain took Cruikshank into the interview room, while Cullen stopped outside to recover. He'd jarred something in his foot when he jumped down from the wall and his legs were still full of lactic acid from the subsequent chase.

  Cruikshank had used his right to silence. Not a word from the man. Cullen's mind struggled to match him to the figure that he chased on Saturday. He could sort of see it, but he wouldn't stand up in court and say it.

  "Scott Cullen!"

  Cullen looked down the corridor. A tall, red-faced copper in his late 30s was approaching. Billy Dawes. Billy Baws.