by Ed James
thirteen
"That's not the issue right now," said McNeill. "Scott needs a RIPSA. Can he get it?"
"Let me think about it," said Bain.
They had been at it hammer and tongs since they got back to the station. McNeill was becoming increasingly aggressive, with Bain digging his heels in more. Cullen kept catching people looking over, people who obviously knew Bain's reputation and just laughed it off.
"You've had more than enough time to think about it," said McNeill.
"I can't hear myself think with you nipping my head all the time." Bain glared at her for a few moments. "Listen, Butch, I do need to have a proper think about this. It's political. Besides, I put Cullen on this one - you shouldn't even have been out there."
"Scott asked me for support," said McNeill. "I'm a DS, he's a DC, he needed my support so I gave it."
Bain looked at Cullen. "This true?"
"Aye."
"Fair enough," said Bain.
McNeill pushed a form across the table. "We just need this authorised and then we'll stop nipping your head."
Bain grabbed it from her and read it. He tapped the tabletop for a few seconds. "I need to speak to DCI Turnbull about this."
"Why can't you just authorise it?" McNeill's voice rose as she spoke. "Why do you need to speak to Turnbull? This information might help us find a missing person."
"Calm it, Butch," said Bain. "There was a memo came out about this a couple of months ago. We need to be very careful with what we're doing with these powers." He sniffed. "The press can be real arseholes when it comes to us nicking people's mobiles and hacking into their emails. It's all this shite about privacy these days, nothing about us catching murderers or anything."
McNeill grimaced. "Can you go and speak to Jim, or do you want me to?"
Bain's nostrils flared as he got to his feet. "Right. I'll go and see if I can catch him." He marched off with the form.
McNeill pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why does everything have to be such a bloody ordeal with him?"
"Cos he's a prick?"
"You're right." McNeill looked around her desk. "Back to that cold case, then. I need to see James Anderson in Scene of Crime. If I'm not back in ten minutes, send a search party." She got up and trudged off.
Cullen opened up intarwubs.com. It was full of techy jokes and cartoons, with links to a few sites that looked like FHM but even less classy. He eventually found a contact number for a company called Infinite Communications. A quick Google showed the company ran several similar sites - yummymummy.com, chiefexec.com and premiershipbanter.com. Opportunists, he thought.
Cullen dialled the number and, after a few transfers, was put through to someone who could assist. "I'm trying to find out who set up an email address on your site."
"I understand you're with the police?"
Cullen gave his warrant number.
"And it's for the user big underscore martin underscore webb at intarwubs? I'll see what I can do then get back to you, is that okay?"
"How long?" said Cullen.
"I'm not sure. There are a few procedures I need to go through before I can give the information out, but it shouldn't be too long."
"I'll wait." Cullen sat listening to hold music, tinny and slightly out of tune. After three minutes of waiting, his mobile rang in his jacket pocket. He put the other phone on the desk and answered the mobile.
"DC Cullen?" A woman's voice. "This is Debi Curtis, we met earlier?"
Cullen was unsure why she was calling. "How can I help?"
"I was just checking my Schoolbook account. Just called to say I hadn't heard from Caroline for three weeks. I think I said a week when we met earlier. Sorry."
"That's okay." Cullen struggled to understand why she was calling about that.
"She was chatting about Jack in the message," said Debi. "She did say she'd got a new man on the scene. Oh and I think she'd had a row with Rob about Jack."
Cullen sat forward. "What did she say?"
"He'd cancelled picking Jack up at the last minute. Caroline said it was the second time in a couple of months."
"And did you reply?"
There was a pause. "No, I didn't. It was still sitting unread until I checked. Haven't had the time, I'm afraid."
"Can I ask when you last contacted Mr Thomson?" said Cullen.
"Not for a good six months. I went out for drinks with him and Kim. I think it was her birthday. I didn't really have anything to say to her, but I still get on with Rob. He occasionally makes a comment about some of my posts on Schoolbook, but if you're asking about personal messages, then there's nothing."
"Okay. If you do hear from Caroline, please give me a call."
He put the mobile on the desk and picked up the other handset, still the same hold music. He wondered if the argument with Rob was anything important.
McNeill came back to her desk with a bigger scowl than the one she'd left with.
"No need for the search party, then?" said Cullen.
"No," said McNeill. "Actually, our Scene of Crime Unit might need them to help search for a clue."
Cullen laughed.
The voice came back on the line. "DC Cullen?"
"Have you got anything for me?"
"Why yes, I have. The account was set up three months ago." He read out the details Martin Webb had provided - age twenty-nine, full name Martin David Webb, place of birth Belfast. "And there's a CV as well."
Cullen was perplexed. "A CV?"
Cullen could almost hear him smiling down the phone line. "Our site's heavily used by technology professionals for networking."
Cullen wondered why technology professionals would be posting public information about themselves on a site covered in glamour models. "Can you send it through?" He gave his email address.
"No problem." There were a few clicks and taps. "That should be in your inbox now."
"Is there any other information you can give?" said Cullen.
"Nope, I'm afraid that's it."
"Okay, thanks for your help." Cullen ended the call and opened up his email program. There was one from a generic address at Intarwubs dot com, sitting at the head of the usual long list of memos. He clicked on the attachment - the machine took an age to open it.
McNeill looked over his shoulder. "What's that?"
"Martin Webb's CV," said Cullen as he read the document. "Holy shit - there's an address."
fourteen
Cullen struggled to find a parking space on Arden Street. Cars were double parked on the street, so Cullen joined them.
McNeill scrawled 'On Police Business' on an old envelope and placed it on the dashboard.
They got out and looked up and down the road. They were parked outside number thirty-four, which was a stair door. The main door flats either side displayed no numbers.
Cullen pointed to the right. "They start low at the Warrender Park Road end." He then nodded at the main door on the left. "This must be thirty-six."
McNeill raised an eyebrow. "Well deduced."
He grinned as he rang the bell.
The door opened slightly and a woman's head appeared in the gap. "Hello?" Her accent was American.
He showed his warrant card and introduced them.
She opened the door fully. An extremely fluffy ginger cat swarmed around her thin ankles. "Anne Smythe."
"Ms Smythe," said Cullen, "we're looking for Martin Webb."
Smythe frowned. "Martin Webb?"
"Yes," said Cullen. "This is the address he gave on a CV."
"There's no Martin Webb here," said Smythe. "Just myself and my husband."
"What about any old post you get?" said McNeill.
"We've been here for ten years," said Smythe. "I'm afraid I don't recognise that name at all."
McNeill furrowed her brow. "This is thirty-six Arden Street, isn't it?"
Anne Smythe smiled. "No, this is number thirty-eight."
"Thirty-eight?" said McNeill. "Where's thirty-six then?"<
br />
Smythe laughed. "There is no thirty-six Arden Street."
fifteen
Cullen and McNeill were sitting at a meeting table just beside their desks giving Bain and Miller a progress update, with Miller picking his nose and looking bored.
Bain had been busy in their absence - a press release was in the process of going out.
"Just another dead end case, then," said Bain. "Woman disappears, end of story. Christ knows we've got enough of them."
"There's a couple of things irritating me about this Martin Webb guy," said Cullen.
"Go on," said Bain.
"First," said Cullen, "the address he gave on his CV on the Intarwubs site is fake."
"How's it fake?" said Bain.
"It doesn't exist," said Cullen. "There's no thirty-six Arden Street. It goes thirty-two, thirty-four, thirty-eight."
Bain looked at McNeill for confirmation. "Is that right?"
McNeill nodded.
"Bloody hell," said Bain. "This bloody city."
"Also," said Cullen, "I just had a look through his CV in more detail. None of the companies he's listed on there actually exist. I checked with Companies House and on a few search engines."
Bain scowled. "So, he didn't give a wrong address, he gave a bogus one and he's got a fake employment history as well."
"Suspicious or what?" said Cullen.
"What are you planning to do about it?" said Bain.
"I need you to authorise that RIPSA request so we can get access to his Schoolbook account," said Cullen.
"It's in hand," said Bain.
Cullen sat back and folded his arms. "Did you speak to Turnbull?"
Bain avoided Cullen's gaze. "No idea where he was this afternoon. I'll get him in the morning. Might be more pliable by then."
"There's a big gaping hole in this case," said Cullen. "Caroline Adamson goes on a date with some guy then disappears. Turns out we can find very little about him and what we do has been made up."
"Look," said Bain, "for all we know Caroline could be setting all this up herself so she can escape her life. Wouldn't be the first time."
Cullen slouched back in his chair. "I'm not going to get this RIPSA form authorised, am I?"
"I didn't say that," said Bain.
"Why are you being so difficult about it?" said McNeill.
"As I said earlier, the RIPSA powers are sensitive," said Bain. "I need Jim Turnbull to be okay with it."
"But you haven't asked him yet," said McNeill.
"Just drop it Butch, all right?" said Bain. "I'm not convinced we need it. It's a big step."
Cullen sat back and folded his arms. "Has nothing we've said gone in? We can't find the guy she was on a date with, she still hasn't turned up after two days. This is highly irregular behaviour for her."
"Aye well, there are other avenues we haven't exhausted yet," said Bain. "This husband seems the most likely."
"You think?" said Cullen.
Bain nodded. "I'd say so. He's got a pretty clear motive. Messy divorce, maintenance payments, maybe she's just a nightmare. He might be trying to put the frighteners on her by abducting her."
"Seems a bit extreme," said Cullen.
"Nothing's ever too extreme in my experience," said Bain. "Now, is there anything more we can do with him?"
"Aside from putting a tail on him to see if he leads us to a secret underground lair where he's keeping her," said Cullen, "then no."
Bain narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose at Cullen. "Less of the lip." He looked over at Miller. "Did the Italian corroborate this boy's alibi?"
Miller looked up and wiped his hand on the underside of the table. "The boy couldn't say either way. It was busy that night. Lots of couples in."
"Are you happy with that?" said Cullen.
"We'll see," said Bain. "Let's not lose too much sleep over this, Sundance. She'll probably turn up tomorrow. It'll be some misunderstanding and then we can all go back to the cold cases until someone sticks a knife in someone." He got up and groaned as he stretched out. "Right, who's up for a pint?"
Miller immediately got to his feet. "Aye, count me in."
Cullen folded his arms. "Don't we need to find Caroline?"
Bain leaned over the table and got in Cullen's face. "Sundance, will you relax? There's fuck all we can do for now. We've got the press release going out tonight. Jim should authorise the RIPSA form tomorrow."
Cullen sighed. "I'm not in tomorrow."
"Well, you can come in on your day off, then," said Bain.
"If we want to find her, we need to keep moving," said Cullen. "Unless someone else is taking this over it'll just get left till I'm back in on Monday."
Bain checked his watch. "Cullen, it's half six on a Friday and we're bloody quiet. That sounds a lot like pub time to me. Come on, I want to get out of here before the Friday night crowd start murdering each other and giving me something to do. Are you up for a pint?"
Cullen was pissed off - he couldn't escape the feeling Caroline was out there somewhere and he should be doing something to help. "I'm not sure."
"Sundance, I'll be in tomorrow," said Bain. "I'll make sure this is kept ticking over. Come on, just the one."
Cullen hesitated for a moment. He looked at McNeill. "Are you going?"
"I am."
"Aye, go on then. I've got to meet some mates later, so I'll not stay that long."
"Aye, right." Bain put his suit jacket on. "Need one last dump. Something's the matter with my bloody innards. I'll see you lot downstairs."
"Could do with a slash," said Miller.
They both headed off.
McNeill looked around at Cullen, shaking her head. "He's some guy."
Cullen tapped his pen on the tabletop. "I'm not happy with this. Caroline's still missing and we still haven't found out who this Martin Webb guy is."
She put on a weary look. "This is Bain's case to screw up."
"Aye, right," said Cullen. "Do you think he'll be carrying the can when this goes tits up?"
"The ball's in his court now," said McNeill. "If he says there's nothing more to do, there is nothing more to do."
"What's his agenda here? Why haven't we got the RIPSA approved? We're missing out on something, I just know it."
McNeill gave a deep sigh. "Bain's obviously had his arse kicked a few times for that sort of thing. He's just covering himself."
Cullen's blood was close to boiling. "But why? I don't get it."
"Put it this way, if he approves the RIPSA and we tear off to Schoolbook and get a load of data from them, and she turns up tomorrow morning, he'll look like an idiot."
"He looks like one anyway," said Cullen. "Besides, that's a very big if. We're losing hours here, maybe days."
"Come on." McNeill got to her feet. "We'd best get over the road."
sixteen
They went to the Elm, an old-fashioned pub just across from the station. It was at the Leith end of Elm Row, at least a block away from the actual trees - Cullen didn't know if they were elms or not. There was a horseshoe bar in the middle of the pub, with tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout the big room. The walls were covered with hundreds of mirrors advertising long-dead breweries.
DI Paul Wilkinson, Bain's peer, was playing pool in the back room with a couple of his officers. McNeill was at the other end of the bar, deep in what appeared to be a personal conversation with Chantal Jain, one of Wilkinson's DCs. Cullen reckoned he should sit with Bain and Miller, but he would much rather be with McNeill.
Bain set the tray down and distributed the three pints - Tennent's for Miller and himself, Stella for Cullen.
"Cheers." Cullen took the first sip from his pint.
Bain grunted.
"Celtic at home for you boys next weekend," said Miller. "Tough first game of the season."
Cullen had started a chat about football with Miller while Bain was at the bar, before quickly realising it was a big mistake - he'd let slip he was an Aberdeen fa
n. Miller was a Hibs season ticket holder and lived on Easter Road, just round the corner from their ground.
"No doubt we'll get turned over as ever," said Cullen.
Bain said nothing, but eyed Cullen suspiciously.
"Fancy going to Hibs-Barca on Wednesday, then?" said Miller.
"Maybe." Cullen had seen the match advertised in the papers - Hibs were playing Barcelona in a pre-season friendly, despite the Scottish football season already being underway.
"Could get you a ticket," said Miller. "My brother knows people."
"Didn't know you had a brother," said Bain.
Miller looked at his pint. "He's not the sort of punter I want you knowing about."
"Younger or older?" said Bain.
"Younger," said Miller. "Just turned twenty-one."
"What's he do?"
Miller laughed. "Fuck all. He's a dirty little dole bastard."
Bain snorted with laughter.
"He's a bit of a ned," said Miller. "Been in bother a few times."
"What sort of bother?" said Bain.
"Nothing too bad. Never in trouble with us lot."
"I thought your old boy was on decent money?" said Bain.
"Aye, he is," said Miller, "but we never seen him much when we were growing up. He was always busy with work."
Cullen reappraised Miller, having previously taken him for just another Leith ned. He now saw him fit another profile entirely. At his school, some of the kids with the wealthiest parents - rich from the Aberdeen oil - tried the least hard and ended up mucking about and joining gangs in Arbroath or Dundee, generally up to no good. Spoilt kid syndrome.
"Derek had trials with Hibs and Rangers a couple of years ago," said Miller. "Stupid bastard got pissed the night before both of them. He was good enough to make it as a professional. He's a casual now."
Bain shook his head. "Fuckin' Hibs casuals. By the way, I'm not exactly happy with him getting you free tickets for games. That'll no doubt blow up in my face."
"I'll watch my step," said Miller.
Bain took a long drink of his pint. "So you're an Aberdeen fan then, Sundance?"
"Aye," said Cullen, cautiously.