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

by Ed James

  Cullen looked round at McNeill, who looked to be as surprised as he was.

  Anderson cleared his throat. "I can only assume it's because we caught him in the act, he didn't have time to clear up after himself this time. We'll be running exhaustive forensic tests on the rope fibres. I doubt we'll get anything, but we've already got some officers going round hardware shops in the city to see if they've sold this type of rope to anyone we know. We haven't found any traces from the killer - hairs, fingerprints, semen, nothing like that so far."

  "Thanks." Bain tapped a key on a laptop, making a set of bullet points appear on the screen behind him. "Here are the actions. DI Wilkinson will assist me in co-ordinating the investigation. You should all note I am the Senior Investigating Officer and all formal requests go through me."

  Cullen noticed Wilkinson raise his eyebrows at this.

  "DS McNeill will lead the investigation into Caroline Adamson's death, DS Irvine will lead on Debi Curtis."

  Cullen looked round at McNeill again. She nodded at him.

  "Our current prime suspect is Rob Thomson, Caroline's ex-husband. I intend to formally interview him at some point today. The divorce was fairly acrimonious, so there's an obvious motive there. He also knew Debi through Caroline according to the intel gathered by DC Cullen."

  Cullen frowned - he didn't like information he had gathered being touted as criminal intelligence.

  "Rob Thomson has an alibi for Caroline Adamson's killing which I strongly suspect to be false. DC Cullen will provide a detailed statement at some point today on who he saw escaping last night."

  Bain paused. Nobody knew whether to move off or to stay.

  He started speaking again, slowly. "We're looking for a man who's killed a young mother and who's fucked up the life of a young boy. We strongly believe this same man also murdered another young woman in cold blood, one with a promising career. I want a result. I know you all do too. Let's get it."

  thirty

  Cullen pointed to the car stereo. "What the hell is this?" He had tolerated more than enough of it.

  "Texas," said McNeill. "The Best Of."

  "I'd hate to hear the worst of."

  They were in McNeill's car, on their way to Carnoustie. They'd drawn the short straw in the actions lottery, Bain having allocated them to interview Caroline's parents. Despite the additional officers Bain had acquired overnight, none were coming Cullen's way for the search through Caroline's list, leaving Caldwell to continue calling through the friends on her own.

  "Are Texas not cool enough for you?" she said.

  Cullen shrugged. "I'm hardly Captain Metrosexual."

  "Aren't you?" She glanced over at him, an eyebrow flicking up. "You with your nice tight suit, short haircut, DJ culture t-shirts. I bet you moisturise."

  Cullen rolled his eyes. "Could you at least turn it down?"

  She fiddled around with the buttons on the steering wheel and the music stopped.

  Cullen knew the route well from seemingly endless bus journeys home to Dalhousie when he was a student. "We're about half an hour away."

  She glanced over. "You're from round these parts, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. Dalhousie."

  "Never heard of it," said McNeill.

  Cullen laughed. "Not a lot of people have. It's not far from Carnoustie, actually. It's between Arbroath and Montrose. It's like Carnoustie without the golf, but with a harbour."

  "I've been to Carnoustie."

  "When?" said Cullen.

  "The Open in 1999. I was working on the bar in the big tent. Earned a packet. Three of us slept on one of our mate's brother's floors in Dundee. He was in Canada all summer, I think."

  "Was this at uni?"

  "Indeed," she said. "I was at Aberdeen."

  "I went down for the day with my dad," said Cullen. "The train was packed. I'm not much of a golfer but it was a good laugh. We went for a few pints in a pub by the station."

  "The Station."

  "Eh?"

  "That's what that pub's called."

  "Right." Cullen watched the green fields of Perthshire as they ploughed on down the road.

  "Thirty-three," she said.

  "Eh?"

  "You're working out my age, aren't you? I was between third and fourth year at uni."

  "Older lady."

  She ignored it. "You went to uni too, didn't you?"

  "Aye. Never fully graduated, though."

  "I got a First," said McNeill. "Fat lot of good it did me."

  "What in?"

  "Criminology, would you believe," said McNeill.

  "Are you from Aberdeen?" said Cullen. "You don't have the accent."

  "No, Edinburgh," said McNeill. "I'm a Trinity girl."

  "That's a posh way of saying Newhaven."

  She laughed. "Yeah, well, it's probably closer to the truth."

  They drove on in silence, the dull greyness of Dundee appearing over the crest of the hill, doused in rain even in the middle of summer.

  "You've been a bit quiet," she said.

  "It's hard to talk when my ears are still bleeding from that CD you were inflicting on me," said Cullen.

  "Okay, but beside that, it took you over an hour to get me to turn it down."

  Cullen exhaled. "Didn't get much sleep last night. I can't believe that guy got away."

  They passed the city's small airport on the right.

  "Were you ever based up here in Tayside police?"

  "No," said Cullen. "I went to Edinburgh Uni and just stayed on after I dropped out. I worked for an insurance company down Dundas Street for a year and a half before I joined the police."

  "Why did you leave?" said McNeill.

  Cullen thought of Miller's comments the previous day. "Put it this way, even Bain's all right compared to some of the wankers you get in those companies."

  "I'll bear that in mind next time I think of jacking it in," said McNeill.

  Cullen looked at her in surprise - she wasn't smiling. "How long have you worked for him?"

  "Three years coming up," said McNeill. "He worked some big cases in the late nineties as a DS in Strathclyde then got a transfer through to Edinburgh as a DI."

  "He's not exactly an inspiration, is he?" said Cullen. "Classic divide and conquer behaviour."

  "So you didn't buy his whole Al Pacino thing, then?"

  "Huh?"

  "You've seen that film Any Given Sunday?" said McNeill.

  "Don't think so."

  "Al Pacino plays the coach of this American Football team," said McNeill. "At the end of the film, his team are losing at half time or whatever, usual nonsense. He gives this big inspirational speech." She paused. "That's Bain's favourite film ever. He played it to us at a team away day a couple of years ago. Our stats were shite for a couple of months running, so he took us out to get pissed and motivated. That was his big effort."

  Cullen watched the train station on the left as they drew up to a set of traffic lights. "So he sees himself as this great inspirational figure?"

  "Oh totally," said McNeill. "He's maybe not that bad at it. He's had enough training."

  Cullen didn't respond. He leaned back in his seat thinking about what she'd said. After a while, they passed a giant gas storage cylinder on the left as they pushed on heading for Broughty Ferry. "So Bain likes his films?"

  "He does, aye," said McNeill. "Why do you ask?"

  "Well, he calls me after an American film festival."

  Once her laughing subsided, she tried to explain. "The Sundance film festival was founded by Robert Redford, you rube."

  "What's a rube?"

  "It's a redneck or something," said McNeill. "Homer says it in The Simpsons."

  Cullen laughed. "So who's Robert Redford?"

  She grinned. "Oh, Scott, you're so young. He's an actor, played the Sundance Kid in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I think Paul Newman played Butch Cassidy."

  Cullen vaguely knew the name.

  She grimaced. "It's Bain making yet
another joke at my expense. He's called me Butch Cassidy for a while."

  "You're not exactly butch."

  She looked around at him, an impish grin on her face. "Why, Mr Cullen, are you coming on to me?"

  They drove the rest of the way in embarrassed silence. Cullen eventually broke it by navigating them through the maze of the housing estate Caroline's parents - Joan and David Adamson - lived in, a modern development at the far end of Carnoustie. A white van was parked outside with 'David Adamson Repairs' stencilled on the side.

  Cullen and McNeill sat on the sofa facing a giant television. David Adamson, a thin grey man, sat on a reclining armchair, his wife perched on the matching cream leather footstool in front. Bain had arranged for a Family Support Officer to come round and break the news to them the previous day, staying with them all afternoon until David Adamson forced him out in the early evening for some privacy. Both parents' eyes were now bloodshot.

  Cullen and McNeill had sat and listened - probing, questioning, reassuring, commiserating - but no new information or contacts came out. In truth, they had nothing more to go on than Cullen had already gained from Amy Cousens. Aside from the fact their daughter was dead, Caroline's parents were mostly concerned about what was going to happen to their grandson, but McNeill told them it was entirely out of their jurisdiction.

  After more than an hour there was nothing more to be discussed. Joan Adamson suggested putting on another pot of coffee. McNeill made their apologies and Joan took the tray through to the kitchen.

  David Adamson led them into the hall and, with his hand on the door latch, leaned towards them. He spoke quietly, obviously to save his wife from hearing. He hadn't said much in the living room, merely concurring with his wife's pronouncements and answers.

  "Please find the bastard who killed my lassie." Adamson's voice was soft but struggled to contain the emotion.

  McNeill tilted her head slightly. "We're trying our hardest." She rested her hand on his sleeve. "Our best officers are on this case."

  Cullen leaned closer. "I didn't want to ask in front of your wife, but do you have any suspicions about your daughter's ex-husband?"

  "Rob?" Adamson paused for a few seconds. "Maybe." His eyes welled up. "Listen. I've no idea who it bloody was, whether it was my ex-son-in-law, or whoever, I just want you to find him, okay?"

  McNeill held his gaze throughout. "We will, Mr Adamson, believe me we will."

  Adamson looked into their eyes for a few seconds, his own filling with moisture. "Just make sure you do, for my grandson's sake and for my poor wife's sake. She's on medication. Christ knows what this is going to do to her."

  thirty-one

  On the way back, they'd dissected the meeting with Caroline's parents, hunting for clues, leads, anything, but came up with nothing. David Adamson's words still rang in Cullen's ears - he thought of Jack Adamson playing with his Doctor Who dolls, oblivious to what was happening. Surely by now he would be aware his mother wasn't coming back, even if he didn't understand why.

  They got back to the Incident Room in the early afternoon. The place was a hive of activity - DS Holdsworth was running around with a clipboard, his face redder than ever.

  Bain lurked at a laptop at the end of the room, scratching the back of his head. He looked up as they approached. "How did it go?"

  "As I expected," said McNeill. "The only thing I got out of it was a form to claim back half a tank of petrol."

  "Keep an eye on your expenses, you're not an MP." Bain checked his watch. "Took your time."

  "Bad traffic on Ferry Road," said McNeill. "Sunday shoppers heading to Ocean Terminal."

  "Anything to nail Rob Thomson with?" said Bain.

  "Were you expecting anything?" said McNeill.

  Bain grunted. "Not really."

  "Have you got anything to charge him with yet?" said McNeill.

  Bain looked away. "Not yet."

  "What's been happening here?" said Cullen.

  Bain sat at his desk. "Nothing much, to be honest. Jim Turnbull's gone to see the Procurator Fiscal to talk strategy." He picked up a bottle full of foul-looking pink gunk. "Pepto-Bismol. Hopefully it'll nuke my insides." He measured out a capful and downed it.

  "What do you want us to do now then?" said Cullen.

  Bain swallowed a few times then cleared his throat. "Butch, I want you to go over all of the interviews we've done so far, see if there's anything jumps out at you. Probably have to re-interview everyone Sundance here met on Friday - just keep away from Rob Thomson for now."

  McNeill nodded.

  "And me?" said Cullen.

  "Two things," said Bain. "First, you'll need to get back to those phone calls. Caldwell can't be seen to be doing them all."

  "I need more people," said Cullen.

  Bain poured out another capful and swallowed it, a pained expression on his face. "I'll see if there's any slack."

  "And the other thing?" said Cullen.

  Bain picked up an envelope - Cullen had last seen it on Miller's desk. "Monkey Boy hasn't even looked through Caroline's phone records yet. I want you to do it. Highest priority."

  "Why me?" said Cullen.

  Bain shrugged. "Safe pair of hands I suppose. I've not seen the useless bastard all morning. Need to see what on earth Wilko's been doing with him."

  thirty-two

  Cullen sat at his desk in the Incident Room, next to Caldwell with her headset on. She rolled her eyes and wound her finger through the air, as if the motion would make the call finish.

  Cullen tore open the envelope, retrieving three sheets of A4 comprising Caroline's call record for the last month. He checked through the numbers, both inbound and outbound, and started cross-referencing them against those he'd taken for Amy Cousens, Steve Allen, Debi Curtis, Rob Thomson and the rest. He quickly eliminated at least three quarters of the list, leaving him with eighteen unknown. He typed those into the national database and looked through the results. They were mostly plausible names and numbers - her parents, work, Steve Allen's landline, Rob Thomson's work Blackberry. He'd have to add them to the list of calls he and Caldwell were working through - hopefully he'd get some uniform to call through the list and verify it all.

  The eighteenth number, from an incoming call, didn't show up.

  Cullen picked up his desk phone and dialled it.

  A sparkly female voice answered. "We're sorry, but this GoMobile number is unavailable. Please try again later."

  The line went dead, no voicemail.

  GoMobile was the network Cullen was on. He quickly found the customer service number and dialled it. While he waited he looked at the call record again. The call was made at 7.38pm on the night she was abducted. It tied in with the timing of the unanswered text messages from Steve Allen and Amy Cousens and might shed some light on her last few minutes of freedom.

  He was passed through a number of lines, accompanied by Boyzone's greatest hits, before finally getting through to the legal department.

  "DC Cullen? You're wanting to trace a mobile number on our network, is that right?"

  "Yes, it's in connection with a murder case," said Cullen.

  "I'm afraid we're unable to provide information like that without a formal request being provided."

  Cullen took a note of her name and contact details, in the unlikely event Bain could be bothered to give him another RIPSA. He completed and printed another form, ready for Bain to sign. Or not.

  Looking up, he saw Bain sauntering over from the entrance carrying a brown paper bag, drinking from a can of Red Bull Cola.

  "How's it going?" Bain sat at his desk. He opened up a windowed sandwich bag, tomato ketchup smeared all over the inside, and tucked into the bacon roll within. He ate noisily, his lips slapping with every chew.

  Cullen passed him the form. "I need you to sign another RIPSA."

  "Good for you, Sundance," said Bain, through a mouthful, the pinks of the bacon and his tongue indistinguishable.

  "I found a mobile number
I need to investigate," said Cullen. "The network needs a formal request."

  "I'll think about it." Bain went back to his roll.

  "Just sign the bloody form," said Cullen.

  Bain stopped chewing and put the roll down. "Cullen, don't you ever speak to me like that again, okay?"

  Cullen flared his nostrils. "With all due respect, I've got a lead and it may give us some useful information."

  "How likely is it?"

  "I won't know till I get what I need."

  Bain shook his head slowly. "All right." He snatched the form and signed it. "Now get this out of your bloody system and don't go pushing anybody too far, okay?"

  "Thank you." Cullen grabbed the form back. "By the way, did Miller ever finish reviewing the CCTV from the hotel?"

  Bain let out a slow sigh. "Waste of time. There's only CCTV in the reception area. We just got a few glimpses of Caroline heading to that room."

  "What about when our killer left?" said Cullen.

  "No idea. Can't trace him. There are thirty rooms on that bit of the hotel. He just sauntered out the front door without us spotting him."

  "What about the front desk?" said Cullen. "Couldn't they give a description?"

  "Sundance, get back in your box," said Bain. "We've got one, but it's so vague it's unusable." He picked up his roll again. "Will you get out of my face? I'm trying to eat my roll here and I've got another bloody press conference I need to prepare for."

  Cullen picked up his phone again and called GoMobile back, getting put through to their fraud department. He faxed the RIPSA form through before being put on hold yet again while they checked it.

  Some guy called Ian Archibald came on the line, based at their call centre in Inverness. Cullen dreaded having to make a trip in person - GoMobile's offices were either there or in Bradford.

  "Well, the records don't show much," said Archibald. "The phone came with a twenty pound credit, of which thirty-nine pence has been used. Last of the big spenders."