Ghost in the Machine: An edge-of-your-seat serial killer thriller (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 1)

by Ed James

  "Fuck me, man." Miller gave a lewd cackle. "That Amy would get it." He ground his hips for emphasis.

  Cullen opened the front door of the building. "You're a dirty bastard."

  "Who gives a shit?" said Miller. "She's a tidy little piece."

  "You might want to think about acting a bit more professionally."

  "Eh?"

  "You just sat there looking her up and down," said Cullen. "Don't make me tell Bain about it."

  "You wouldn't dare."

  "Wouldn't I?" Cullen led them inside. "What do you make of the story, then?"

  "Don't know, man," said Miller, as they begun the climb. "Something seems a bit fishy."

  "Were you actually paying attention?" said Cullen, as they reached the top floor.

  "I was a bit, aye."

  "How much is a bit?"

  "Well, you know," said Miller. "Her pal went missing, hasn't turned up."

  Cullen held up the brass key. "I'm going to have a look around. I want you to give Rob Thomson and Steve Allen a call, see if we can set some time up with them."

  "Right." Miller frowned and looked away.

  Cullen sighed. "Tell me you copied the numbers down."

  "I thought you were."

  Cullen doubted Miller would ever get past the Acting DC stage to being a full detective, but the mystery remained as to how he'd even got there in the first place. He showed Miller the numbers in his own notebook. "There."

  "Aye, cheers." Miller took Cullen's notebook and started copying.

  Cullen pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and opened the front door. All of the rooms in the flat faced into the street. It was dark inside, despite it being midday at the end of July. They entered the open plan living room and kitchen, which seemed perfectly ordinary, nothing particularly amiss.

  Miller sat on the sofa and started fiddling with his mobile.

  Cullen checked the calendar stuck to the fridge - the only allusion to going on a date was a note to take Jack to Amy's.

  He left Miller and went into the first room, obviously Jack's bedroom. It was small yet crammed with toys. Cullen wondered if they were presents from the guilty father.

  Caroline's bedroom was almost as big as the living room. On the dressing table sat an empty wine glass and a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, the top screwed back on. He took a look through the wardrobe, stuffed with clothes and shoes. The chest of drawers by the bed was full of underwear and cosmetics. Under the bed were two new-looking suitcases, both empty.

  It looked like she hadn't run away.

  In the middle of the double bed sat a sleeping Apple laptop, not a new model. Cullen took a few seconds before deciding to wake it up. It was logged into Schoolbook. He sat on the bed and looked closer - there was a stream of messages between Caroline and someone called Martin Webb. He scanned through the message chain - this was definitely the guy she was meeting.

  He felt slightly guilty about reading through the personal messages, thinking how he would feel if someone did the same to him.

  From the profile picture alongside every message, Cullen could tell Martin Webb was a pretty boy - the guy was either good-looking or had spent a lot of money on getting a photo professionally taken. His own profile photo had three days of stubble and he'd been hung-over when one of his flatmates snapped it.

  Cullen clicked to Martin's profile - if he could find him then maybe he could find Caroline. The icon in the middle of the screen spun round for a couple of seconds then took him to the login screen. The password field stayed blank, no asterisks auto-populated. He clicked on the back button, but it returned to the home page.

  He swore, angry with himself and pissed off at her bloody laptop.

  He got up and tried to think if there was anything else he could glean from the flat, coming up short. He went back to the living room, Miller still on the sofa, mobile in his hand, looking out of the window. He chucked Cullen's notebook back over.

  Cullen pocketed it. "Anything?"

  "No answer from either of them."

  "How many of Rob Thomson's numbers did you try?"

  "House and mobile."

  "Not the office?" said Cullen.

  "Just away to, then you came back." Miller smirked. "Finished sniffing her dirty knickers?"

  Cullen laughed despite himself. He got his phone out and called Steve Allen's number. It was engaged. He tried Rob Thomson's numbers, all going through to voicemail.

  "Believe me now?" said Miller.

  "Aye, I suppose so."

  "Nice phone, though, Scotty," said Miller. "iPhone 4, right?"

  Cullen shrugged. "It's just a phone."

  "Aye, right. It's more than a phone." Miller rubbed his hands together. "Anyway, I called that Debi bird. She works at the History Department at the Uni. She can see us this afternoon."

  "Good. We can speak to Caroline's work colleagues while we're up there. Maybe you're not such a useless bastard, Miller."

  "I am if you listen to Bain."

  Cullen grinned. "For once, he might have a point."

  six

  Cullen parked the car on the double yellow line across from Appleton Tower, one of two high rises built by Edinburgh University in the late sixties, architecturally at odds with the surrounding buildings. The Linguistics Department was in a townhouse round the corner on George Square, one of the few old buildings still standing.

  "Just here, isn't it?" said Miller.

  "Aye."

  Cullen knew the area well from his student days but right now he didn't recognise it. Bristo Square - usual haunt of skateboarders and teenagers - was now cordoned off ahead of the impending Festival, the square becoming a number of different venues centred around the Student Union. For one month of the year, the centre of the city twisted into a parallel twenty-four hour version of itself. Cullen imagined London festivalgoers returning for a November weekend, surprised to be turned away from student unions.

  A new office building stood across from Appleton Tower, looking like a stretched-out sibling of Leith Walk station. When Cullen was a student it had been a car park and he'd once fallen headlong across the gravel on a drunken night in his first year, slicing his arm open. He was so drunk he didn't even notice until he was barred entry to the Student Union.

  "Seems like a different place now," said Cullen, as they got out of the car.

  "You went to uni?"

  Cullen nodded. "English Literature."

  Miller snorted with laughter. "Isn't that a poof's subject?"

  Cullen didn't answer.

  "Did you finish?" said Miller.

  "Dropped out after third year. Got an Ordinary Degree."

  "That when you joined the force?"

  "No," said Cullen. "I worked in a shitty office for a couple of years while I got myself fit."

  "It's a bastard," said Miller. "I hate running but you've got to keep it up."

  "What about you?"

  "Wasn't smart enough to go to uni." Miller smirked. "I worked in an office for a couple of years after school. Old man got us the job. Fucking hated it."

  "Why?"

  Miller's expression was the most serious Cullen had ever seen on him. "Put it this way, Bain seems all right compared to some of the wankers I worked for."

  Cullen laughed as he pressed the buzzer. "Tell me about it."

  "How do you want to play this?" said Miller as they waited.

  "You speak to the office staff, I'll speak to the boss. There will be academics in the department, but I suspect they won't know much about Caroline so we'd best avoid them. Then we'll go and see Debi Curtis."

  "Aye, fine, sounds good," said Miller, as though he'd suggested it.

  They were buzzed up to the office. A middle-aged woman stood at the top of the stairs, hand on her hip, glasses on a chain round her neck, looking every inch the sort of battleaxe Cullen had been shit-scared of as a student.

  She held out her hand. "Margaret Armstrong."

  Cullen shook it, then flashed his wa
rrant card and introduced himself. "This is Acting DC Miller."

  "Can I ask what this is about?" Armstrong smiled politely, her forehead betraying a frown.

  "We're investigating the reported disappearance of Caroline Adamson," said Cullen. "We believe she works here. Is that correct?"

  Armstrong's lined face creased further. "Oh."

  "I wanted to ask you a few questions about Caroline," said Cullen, "to see if there were any leads we could perhaps investigate."

  "Certainly." She was still frowning.

  "Could I speak to some of your staff?" said Miller.

  Armstrong looked him up and down. "Very well." She pointed towards a closed door with a concerned look on her face. "The girls are in there."

  Miller thanked her and entered the room.

  Armstrong led Cullen along the corridor in the opposite direction into a plush first-floor room overlooking George Square, the view of the gardens marred by the abomination of the library and lecture theatres. She sat at her desk and put her glasses on, before taking a drink from a cup. "Can I get you a tea or coffee?"

  "No, I'm fine, thanks." Cullen got out his notebook. "I take it Caroline hasn't turned up for work?"

  Armstrong grimaced. "No, I'm afraid not."

  "Has she called in sick?" said Cullen.

  Armstrong shook her head. "No, she hasn't."

  "Has this sort of thing happened before?"

  "Absolutely not." Armstrong took another drink. "There were times when young Jack - that's her son - when he wouldn't be well, but she would always have called in by the time I got here. And I'm always in early, I can assure you."

  Cullen didn't doubt it. "How would you describe your relationship with Caroline?"

  "Professional."

  "I see." Cullen imagined Armstrong didn't have many close friends. "So you weren't friends as well as colleagues?"

  Armstrong folded her arms. "I don't fraternise with my staff. Caroline was on good terms with my girls. Of course, there were the girls we had before Kelly and Lesley. Amy and Debi. All three of them used to go out for a glass of wine of a Friday night. I just let them get on with it."

  Cullen smiled. "Amy Cousens called this in and we plan to see Debi Curtis next."

  "Very well."

  "Do the current girls go out with her for a drink, do you know?"

  Armstrong gave a slight shrug. "I don't think so. Not with young Jack on the scene these days. Caroline always rushed home at five on the dot to see him."

  "Would any of the academic staff know anything about Caroline?"

  Armstrong shook her head. "We operate a strict though informal demarcation between the administration staff and the academic staff in this office. It helps to keep it working efficiently and effectively."

  "I see. So none of them would be particularly acquainted with Ms Adamson?"

  "Aside from asking her to photocopy lecture notes or re-arrange seminars," said Armstrong, "there would be very little direct interaction. All of the work comes through myself."

  "I know you and Ms Adamson had a strictly professional relationship," said Cullen, "but how had she seemed over the last few weeks?"

  Armstrong furrowed her brow and paused for a moment. "I would say that, on reflection, Caroline had seemed a tad distant, but then she was often like that. Having a young son has been quite a strain on her, what with her being on her own."

  "Did Caroline talk about her ex-husband often?" said Cullen.

  "Seldom." Armstrong's expression seemed to warn him not to plough too far down that furrow.

  Cullen ignored the perceived warning. "And when she did?"

  Armstrong's nostrils flared slightly. "Never in good terms. She took a couple of weeks leave to get her affairs in order when the divorce was going through." Her expression got sourer. "Terrible business."

  "And did anything untoward happen at the time?"

  "Not that I knew of."

  Cullen smiled. "Okay, one last question then. Did she mention anything about having a new man in her life?"

  "Nothing at all, I'm afraid."

  Cullen had exhausted all avenues of questioning. "Thanks for your help, Mrs Armstrong." He got to his feet and handed her a card. "If you hear from Caroline, please get in touch."

  seven

  Miller was waiting for Cullen in the corridor. They didn't speak until they were outside.

  "I'm totally starving, man," said Miller. "You'd been for your rolls when I got back. Can I go get a sandwich now?"

  "There's a decent place round the corner." Cullen led him past Appleton Tower and on to Potterrow. "Did you manage to get anything?"

  "Only thing those pair were worried about was her weight," said Miller. "She'd been getting quite thin. Typical birds."

  "Did they know why?"

  Miller shrugged. "New man on the scene. Wanted to look her best."

  Cullen could well imagine. "Anything else?"

  "They were both pretty fit." Miller laughed. "Glad you weren't in there, both of them would be pregnant by now."

  Cullen shook his head. "I don't know where you get that from."

  "You're a proper swordsman, aren't you?"

  "Eh?"

  "There was that bird at the Christmas party, wasn't there?" said Miller. "And there's DS McNeill."

  "There's nothing going on between me and DS McNeill." Cullen gestured at the sandwich shop. "Don't be ages."

  Miller went inside with a smile on his face.

  Cullen glanced up at the sky, the dark grey clouds belying the fact it was the middle of summer - if Miller was inside too long, they might get caught in the rain. He leaned against the wall and called Steve Allen. He pushed the phone between his shoulder and neck and listened to the ringing tone.

  Allen answered, sounding flustered.

  Cullen introduced himself. "I believe you're acquainted with a Caroline Adamson."

  "That's right."

  Cullen found it hard to make out his voice over the noise of the wind at the other end of the line.

  "I'm trying to ascertain her whereabouts," said Cullen. "When was the last time you heard from her?"

  "Can I ask why?"

  "She's gone missing," said Cullen. "One of her friends has reported it to us."

  "Oh sweet Jesus."

  "I need to track Ms Adamson's movements," said Cullen. "It could be you were the last person to speak to her before she disappeared."

  "Okay, okay," said Allen. "Give me a second." There was a pause. "I think I texted her on my way to the Celtic match. About seven, I suppose."

  "And Ms Adamson replied?"

  "Yes. I'd wished her luck on her date and she said I needed more luck than she did what with going to see Celtic."

  Cullen noted it down - she had been jovial enough on Wednesday night, then. "Was this the last time you heard from her?"

  "Yes, it was. I texted her back but she didn't reply."

  "And was this unusual?"

  "Now you mention it," said Allen, "she does usually reply to texts quite quickly."

  Cullen noted it down - that was the second unanswered text message. "And before that, when was the last time you'd spoken to her?"

  "The previous evening," said Allen. "We sometimes have a chat on a Tuesday night to see how things are going. I think we spoke for about half an hour."

  "And how did she seem?"

  "Nervous, I suppose," said Allen, after another brief pause. "Excited, maybe. She was going out on a date the next night, after all. I mean, she barely spoke about Jack at all on the call, only about five minutes, which is a record with Caroline, believe me."

  "We're keen to get in touch with the man she was out with," said Cullen. "Do you know anything about him, any way we could get in touch with him?"

  "Not really, no," said Allen. "I just knew he was from Edinburgh. She met him on the internet, I think."

  Miller appeared from the shop, putting his mouth round a massive baguette.

  Cullen looked away. "Mr Allen, can you
think of anyone I should get in touch with about Caroline? Someone who might know her whereabouts?"

  "Look, how serious is this?"

  "We're concerned for her safety," said Cullen. "She left her son with a friend and hasn't been to pick him up, or been heard from since Wednesday night."

  "Jesus Christ." Allen didn't speak for a few seconds. "This is off the record, but if anything happened to Caroline the first person I'd be talking to would be Rob."

  "Her ex-husband?"

  "Yes, him," said Allen. "Look, I'm afraid I've got to go. Give me a call if you need anything."

  Cullen took down a couple of other contact numbers for him and ended the call. He pocketed his phone and notebook.

  "Who was that?" said Miller through a mouthful of mashed up chicken and white bread.

  "Steve Allen."

  "Good work getting through to him."

  Cullen nodded at the roll. "What did you get?"

  "Cajun chicken," said Miller. "Pretty decent, likes."

  "Come on, let's get going," said Cullen. "When you've finished chewing, could you call Control and see if Rob Thomson's got a record?"

  Miller did a mock salute. "Yes, boss."

  Walking a few steps ahead of Miller, Cullen dialled Thomson's number. It rang and rang. He didn't want to get into a conversation with him on the phone - he would much rather speak face to face and get the measure of the man. It went through to voicemail and he left a message. He hung up then turned to Miller. "You got anything yet?"

  "Nothing at all," said Miller. "Squeaky clean."

  They headed towards the History Department and Debi Curtis.

  ***

  Debi Curtis' office was old and in dire need of repair. The white paint covering the furniture was chipped and the cabinets had seen better days - the late seventies, thought Cullen. They sat across the desk from her.

  "I haven't seen Caroline for about a month," said Debi. "I'm studying for an MBA just now and work was really busy towards the end of the academic year."

  Cullen placed her accent as being somewhere near London and she was one of the smallest women he had ever met - easily a couple of inches under five foot. Her dark hair curled around her ears giving her an elfin look. She wore thick, chunky glasses embossed in gold with a three-letter acronym Cullen didn't know.