by Ed James
"And do you spend time with them on Rob's days?"
"I just let them get on with it, to be honest," said Kim. "I prefer to go shopping, maybe meet them for a bite to eat later on."
"Okay," said Cullen. "I think that's all for now."
He got Miller to read out her statement.
ten
Cullen was already driving by the time Miller got his seatbelt on.
"Can't believe how much you were flirting with her there," said Miller.
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Cullen tried to distract Miller. "How do you think that went?"
"Went all right, I suppose. Feels like a bit of a waste of time, though."
"Even though it might feel like we're just going through the motions," said Cullen, "we need to cover absolutely everything. Last thing we want is Bain going mental cos we forgot to ask her about the alibi, or some lawyer tearing the case to shreds cos of something we did or, more likely, didn't do."
Cullen knew he'd have to give Bain chapter and verse when they got back to the station, so he wanted Miller to get some much-needed practice at note taking. Plus, he needed to spend some time looking for Martin Webb and not having to answer Bain's questions. "Can you write up the notes? If you want to be a proper DC then your note taking has to be perfect. It can be brutal, especially if you're in court."
Miller looked irritated. "How do you mean? You're not exactly Gene Hunt, are you? How long have you been a DC?"
"Three months," said Cullen. "Had six months as Acting before that, and two previous six month detachments."
Miller looked out of the window. "Aye, fair enough, then."
Cullen crossed the roundabout at London Road and continued down Leith Walk. Two blocks further and the main entrance of Leith Walk station welcomed them in, nestled between tenements on one side and McDonald Road library on the other, eight wide storeys of glass and stone facing.
Leith Walk was a long stretch lined with tenements and shops, which had been attempting to gentrify itself for the past fifteen years or so, struggling to match the New Town at the Edinburgh end or the upmarket Shore in Leith. Style bars were wedged in amongst charity shops and bookies, an old gym had turned into a designer light shop stuck next to a KFC clone.
Cullen flashed his warrant card to the security guard in the booth then drove down to the basement garage, where he dumped the pool car.
Miller slammed the car door far too hard. "Still can't get over how swanky it is in this place."
Cullen nodded agreement - he'd previously only known crumbling local stations and cheaply-built replacements in West Lothian, plus the already dated St Leonards, built in the mid-nineties. Leith Walk had only opened in the summer, providing much needed permanent office space for CID and other investigatory teams, including the city's mortuary, previously sited in the Cowgate.
"I was in Fettes for six months," said Miller as they started climbing the stairs at the back of the building. "That's a total shitehole. You'd expect it to be gleaming what with all the brass in there, as well. No idea where they got the money for this place."
"Doubt it'd get built now."
"How's that?"
"Government cuts and all that," said Cullen.
Bain and McNeill were at their desks, each staring at computers.
Bain shot a glance up at Cullen. "Well, if it isn't Tweedledum and Tweedledumber. Found her yet, Sundance?"
"Not yet," said Cullen.
"Been keeping Monkey Boy out of trouble, though, I hope," said Bain.
Cullen shrugged. "We've been making progress."
"Oh aye?"
"Do you want a timeline?" said Cullen.
"Suits me," said Bain.
They all moved to the meeting table just behind Bain's desk.
Cullen shook his jacket off, chucking it onto his desk chair. He got out his notebook and flicked to the relevant pages. "Caroline Adamson dropped her son, Jack, off with her friend Amy Cousens at the back of six on Wednesday night."
He paused, looking around at blank faces, none blanker than Miller's. "She was going on a date with a man she met on the internet. None of the friends I've spoken to know the name of this guy. I found her laptop at her flat and ascertained the name of the man she was meeting, a Martin Webb."
"I hope you weren't messing about with her computer, Sundance," said Bain.
"Hardly." Cullen blushed slightly as he recalled losing the screen it was on. "Bloody thing timed out on me. She was meeting this guy somewhere on the Southside."
"Where exactly?" said McNeill.
"No idea." Cullen shook his head. "We've spoken to Amy Cousens, a school friend called Steve Allen and a former work colleague called Debi Curtis. None of them knew where she was going. Spoke to her ex-husband, but he's not seen her in a while."
He turned the page of his notebook. "She sent a couple of text messages in the hour between seven and eight, one to Amy and one to Steve. Both replied to her, but they didn't get anything back. Both stated this is unusual for her."
"Does it look like she's run away?" said McNeill.
Cullen sat back in the chair. "I doubt it. I had a good look through her flat. Her wardrobe and chest of drawers were absolutely rammed with clothes and her suitcases were still under the bed. Plus, it just doesn't fit. According to her friends, Caroline lived for her son. She wouldn't just leave him like that."
"Wasn't pissed off with him or anything?" said Bain. "Didn't think he'd ruined her life?"
"Quite the opposite, I gather," said Cullen.
"Go on, then," said Bain.
Cullen turned the page. "Next is the following afternoon when Caroline was supposed to pick Jack up from Amy Cousens."
"When was this?" said Bain.
"They hadn't set a time, just early afternoon," said Cullen. "That's when Amy started getting worried. She tried calling her a few times, went round to her flat, but there was no sign of her."
"And so she called Queen Charlotte Street this morning?" said Bain.
Cullen nodded. "Yes."
Bain scratched the top of his head, face scrunched up. "Right, Sundance, tell us about this ex-husband?"
"Rob Thomson," said Cullen. "They divorced in a bit of a hurry. He had an affair with someone at work."
"And you boys spoke to him?" said Bain.
"Aye, we did." Cullen nodded at Miller. "He has an alibi for Wednesday night - his girlfriend, Kim Milne. She's the cause of the divorce, by the way. Keith's got a statement from her to write up."
Bain nodded. "Good work. Well, obviously he's got a motive. He wants his son back or revenge for something in their divorce - too much money, maybe."
"Neither of them got a receipt for the alibi, though," said Cullen. "Might be something, might be nothing. They both worked to the back of eight that night then went for a meal at an Italian just down the road."
"You think she could be lying for him?" said Bain.
Cullen thought it through. "Wouldn't rule it out, but I wouldn't build a case around it either."
"Did this Kim lassie have anything to do with Caroline?" said Bain.
"They used to double date as couples before the divorce," said Cullen. "She didn't appear to have anything against her."
"And she doesn't want to grab this Jack laddie off Caroline?" said Bain.
"Don't think so," said Cullen. "According to her she isn't interested in kids."
"Aye, according to her." Bain scowled at Miller. "Monkey Boy, can you go and visit this Italian, see if they had the pair of them in?"
"Come on, gaffer."
"Shut it and do it, Miller." Bain's voice was almost a snarl. He looked at Cullen. "Is that all you've got?"
"For now. I was going to look for this Martin Webb guy next."
"Has anyone spoken to her parents yet?" said Bain.
"Amy Cousens did," said Cullen.
Bain stroked his moustache. "Probably don't want to overly concern them just now."
"What do you w
ant us to do then?" said Cullen.
Bain looked at McNeill. "Butch, can you continue the sterling progress you're making with our cold case there?" He had a quick look through the file on Caroline. "Looks like plod have already called round the hospitals and so on, but it won't harm to do it again. Miller, once you've finished with the Italian, I want you on that. And typing up that lassie's statement, too."
"Fuck's sake," said Miller.
Bain smacked his hand off the table. "Miller, you're an Acting DC. You do whatever I fuckin' say unless you want to go back to wearing a woolly suit rather than the cheap nylon one you've got on."
eleven
Cullen slumped back in his chair, unsure what to do next. The rest of the team were away from their desks. He decided he could get his timeline nailed while he waited for inspiration - he didn't want to be pulled up for his note taking after the pep talk he'd given Miller.
McNeill appeared with a coffee for them both.
He thanked her as he opened the lid. "You got a minute?"
"Sure." She pulled her desk chair over to face him.
He rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm struggling to find Martin Webb."
"This is the guy she was on a date with, right?"
He nodded.
"Where have you looked?"
"I've checked all the databases we've got access to, twice," said Cullen. "I've phoned three directory enquiries numbers. So far I've found seventeen matches for the name within the UK."
"And?"
Cullen counted them off on his fingers. "Four OAPs, two guys in their fifties, seven guys in their forties, a teenager, two children and a severely disabled man in his thirties."
"Couldn't our man be one of the old men or the guys in their forties or fifties?"
"Well, that's just it. This guy is in his thirties at the very most and looks pretty healthy." Cullen tapped on the monitor. "This is his profile on Schoolbook."
McNeill wolf-whistled. "He's a looker, all right."
"Aye, well."
She raised an eyebrow. "Could it be Martin with a 'y'?"
Cullen tapped the screen. "Martin with an 'i'. But anyway, I've searched for that, not a single one."
She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. "Have you tried phoning Schoolbook?"
"Aye." He checked his notebook. "Spoke to a Gregor Aitchison. They've actually got an office in Livingston."
"And who's he?"
"Said he was a manager, but he didn't give a clear title. He said we'd need a warrant for any information on their servers."
McNeill nodded slowly. "Doesn't mean we can't head over there and see what we can force out of him."
twelve
Cullen parked outside the Schoolbook building. "Here we are."
McNeill looked up from her notebook.
The Schoolbook office was a corrugated iron warehouse, painted purple over the rust, the Schoolbook.co.uk logo etched in light blue. The building was totally dwarfed by the BSkyB campus next door, one of the biggest employers in West Lothian.
McNeill followed Cullen across the car park, her heels clicking on the tarmac. The clouds were dark grey again, a sign the day hadn't finished with its rain.
The front door was unlocked and there was no obvious reception area inside. They walked past rows and rows of computers, walls piled high with servers - racks of desktops with no monitors, all with banks of flashing lights. It reminded Cullen of a mailroom he worked in as a student, but filled with computers rather than post boxes. They came to an open office area full of twenty-something men with loud t-shirts and headphones on, all tapping at laptops. One walked along the far end of the room with a PC under each arm. Nobody looked around at them.
Cullen asked the guy at the nearest desk for Gregor Aitchison. He pointed to the far corner at a fat man with a beard, wearing combat trousers and a violent orange t-shirt. They crossed the room and he lumbered to his feet as they approached.
Cullen showed his warrant card. McNeill had agreed he should lead, as she wasn't formally assigned to the case. "Gregor Aitchison?"
"Aye. What do you want?"
"We spoke on the phone," said Cullen. "About a missing person."
Aitchison stared at the floor. "I told you. You need a warrant."
"All we're looking for is a little bit of information that may help us contact one of your users," said Cullen.
Aitchison closed his eyes for a few seconds. "Fine. I'll see if there's anything I can do. There's a limit to what I can give out, mind."
"Sure."
Aitchison's desk was covered in rubbish. He grabbed a handful from a big bag of cheese Doritos.
Cullen and McNeill found some unoccupied chairs and sat down.
Cullen moved a half-eaten ham and mushroom Pot Noodle onto the floor. "You might want to think about some sort of security here. We just walked right in."
Aitchison raised his eyebrows. "I'll get that looked at."
Cullen didn't imagine he would. "As I said on the phone earlier, the missing person we're looking for is a user of Schoolbook. We have reason to believe she met someone on your site and arranged to meet up with him, a man called Martin Webb. We believe she went on a date with him on Wednesday, which is when she was last heard from."
Aitchison finished chewing and rubbed his orange-stained fingers against his trousers. "What's this woman's user name then?"
"Caroline Adamson."
Aitchison navigated to Caroline's profile and retrieved a list of what looked like her friends. He wiped his hands on his trousers again and ran his finger down the screen, leaving a cheesy smudge. "You're right. He's a friend of hers."
"Can you check for any activity in the account since Wednesday?"
"Sure." Aitchison went into another window and tapped some keys. "Got something. Somebody tried to access her account today."
Cullen's heart fluttered. "What?"
"About twelve thirty-five," said Aitchison.
"It was me," said Cullen.
McNeill frowned. "You were trying to log into her account?"
"It was already logged in," said Cullen, "I was trying to look at his profile."
Aitchison took another handful of Doritos. "Database agrees with you. Says she was still logged in from Wednesday night. Account was sitting dormant till you got chucked out."
"Doesn't it time out?" said Cullen.
"It's not that smart yet," said Aitchison. "Only chucks you out when you try to do something. Next release, maybe."
"Has there been anything else?"
"There's a fair amount of messages between these two accounts," said Aitchison. "Hundreds, goes back months."
McNeill raised her eyebrows. "Did you say hundreds?"
"Aye," said Aitchison. "At least a hundred and fifty each."
"Can you give us a copy of the messages and any information about Martin Webb?" said Cullen.
Aitchison looked round at him. "Look, pal, it's not me who sets the rules, okay? I told you on the phone, if you've not got a warrant, then I can't give you anything. If I got caught doing this, my knackers would swing. And anyway I'd need a DBA for what you're after."
"A what?"
Aitchison rolled his eyes. "A database administrator. I'd have to get one of them allocated to this if you wanted access to the tables or any extracts done. It all costs, you know. We run a pretty tight ship here. We're not like an American start-up."
Cullen thought about mentioning the lax security at the front door again, but he let it pass. "Can you print them out?"
"On what?" said Aitchison. "We don't have a printer here."
"You're kidding me."
"No." Aitchison sniffed and took a drink from the bottle. "Nobody uses them for anything other than photos these days."
"What about personal details?" said Cullen. "Email addresses, house address, phone number?"
"I'll see what I can do," said Aitchison, "but, if anyone asks, I didn't give you it, right?"
Cullen nodded at him. "
Your secret's safe with us."
Aitchison looked through screens of data, frowning. "There's no postal address." He tapped away again. "Got an email address, mind. [email protected]."
"Shite," said Cullen. "That's obviously made up."
Aitchison narrowed his brow. "No it's not, pal. We've got a ton of users on there. I've got an account myself."
Cullen was dumbfounded. "Intarwubs?"
"Aye, it's magic," said Aitchison. "Funny videos and that. Pisses all over YouTube. There's talk of us buying the site outright."
Cullen scribbled the email address in his notebook, still not believing it was valid.
"What else can you tell us about him from your database?" said McNeill.
Aitchison sighed. "Look, I've pushed it really wide here giving you that. Any more and it's got to be a warrant."
McNeill closed her eyes. "Can you access the messages they've exchanged?"
"I can," said Aitchison.
She leaned in close to him "Could you?"
"I could."
"For us?"
Aitchison looked at her, his mouth practically hanging open. "No, I can't. It's got to be a warrant."
***
McNeill drove, taking the back way along the A71. As they crossed the City Bypass it was nose to tail, Friday early leavers contending badly with the relentless rain.
"Do you think we'll get a warrant for Schoolbook?" said Cullen.
"It's all up to Bain, really," said McNeill. "We need a RIPSA request."
Cullen nodded - Regulation of Investigatory Powers (Scotland) Act. "I've used that before, but only to get texts or numbers off a mobile, not to extract chunks of a private database."
"Aye, same here," said McNeill. "The form needs the authorisation of a superior officer - Bain would do, but it'll probably get referred up the way. Who knows where it'll end up."
"You tried flirting the information out of that poor guy, didn't you?" said Cullen.
"Aye, fat lot of good it did us." McNeill smirked. "Are you jealous?"
Cullen felt himself redden.