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

by Ed James

  Cullen smiled in response. "I'm doing all right, 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 full up down there. That big case that's on, you know how it is."

  "Yeah, okay." Smith chuckled. "I can give you room three."

  Cullen signed them in and they set off down the lightless corridor through the building. They stopped outside the room and Cullen pushed against the scarred wood of the door.

  Chantal 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 aching from the chase.

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

  Chantal came out of the room and shut the door behind her. "He's still not said anything."

  "Well, this is our one chance to get to him before Bain does." Cullen rubbed the muscles in the backs of his legs. "That was a good tackle you made back there."

  "My dad made me play rugby when I was wee," said Chantal. "I thought I'd lost the pair of you. I'd been up and down the street a couple of times. I'm glad I hung around."

  "Not half as much as I am," said Cullen. "Losing three suspects in the same week wouldn't be good."

  "One of them was the same one twice," said Chantal.

  Cullen grinned. "Maybe."

  "So what's the plan here?" said Chantal. "Why are we hiding this guy from Bain?"

  "I'm not hiding him. I just want to get a statement out of him quickly."

  "This is supposed to be my collar."

  "I know," said Cullen. "I'll take the blame for it, okay? Me or DS McNeill anyway."

  Chantal nodded. "Do you think he's our man?"

  "Don't know," said Cullen. "He's just as likely a suspect as Rob Thomson."

  Chantal raised an eyebrow. "Let's see what he has to say, then."

  She pushed through the door and Cullen followed.

  Alistair Cruikshank was mid-thirties and well turned out. He fitted the profile of the man in the CCTV footage as much as Rob Thomson did. He was a big guy, probably with some farming stock in him, with huge hands and the traces of a ginger beard in his stubble.

  Chantal opened her notebook, looked at Cruikshank and spoke into the tape recorder, going through the formalities. They hadn't upgraded the facilities to digital recorders at St Leonard's yet. "Why were you running away from us?"

  Cruikshank's eyes darted between them. "No comment."

  "If you have nothing to hide, then why did you run away from us?" said Chantal.

  Cruikshank swallowed hard. "As I said, no comment."

  "Okay, if that's how you want to play it," said Chantal, "can you tell us about your movements over the last couple of days?"

  "Certainly." Cruikshank smiled. "When would you like me to start?"

  "When did you arrive in Edinburgh?" said Chantal.

  "I came down on Sunday afternoon."

  "And that's down from?" said Chantal.

  "Elgin. Had to change at Inverness. I got into Edinburgh early evening."

  "At roughly what time?"

  "Back of nine," said Cruikshank. "Five past I think."

  "And you went directly to the hotel?" said Chantal.

  "By taxi." Cruikshank's eyes shot over to Cullen then back to Chantal. "And I spent the rest of the evening studying in my room."

  "What were you studying?" said Chantal.

  "The Bible," said Cruikshank. "I'm training to be a minister. I would have come down on Saturday, but I was giving the early morning service. I also had a Bible class on Saturday evening."

  Cullen noted it all down - Cruikshank had a few potential alibis for the murder of Debi Curtis and CCTV would surely place him getting off the train at the time Gail McBride was murdered, not to mention the taxi receipt.

  "What brings you to Edinburgh?" said Cullen.

  "There's a conference at New College I'm attending as part of my studies," said Cruikshank.

  "That's the old university buildings on the Mound overlooking Princes Street?" said Cullen.

  Cruikshank nodded.

  "Okay, Mr Cruikshank, can I now ask you to outline your movements last Thursday night?" said Chantal.

  "Well, I was in Inverness all day, at college," said Cruikshank. "Thursday night was the church choir."

  Chantal gestured to the door. She paused the interview and they left the room. "Well?"

  "How many alibis can one man have?" said Cullen. "According to him, he was with a choir when Caroline was killed, at a Bible class when Debi was attacked and on a train when Gail was killed."

  Chantal nodded. "He's not our killer."

  "Not likely." Part of Cullen felt disappointed as Cruikshank had plausible motives against Debi and Caroline.

  "I think it's safe to hand him over to Bain now," said Chantal.

  "We could probably charge him with resisting arrest," said Cullen. "Maybe for wasting police time or something. Just wonder why he legged it like he did."

  "No idea," said Chantal. "I'll maybe ask him after I get all those alibis checked out."

  "Not even Bain would touch him with that many," said Cullen.

  Chantal laughed.

  Cullen's mobile rang - McNeill. "I've been looking for you."

  "I'm helping Chantal up at St Leonards," said Cullen.

  "I'll pick you up from there. I assume Chantal can get back here?"

  "Yeah, we've got a pool car," said Cullen. "What do you want me to help with?"

  "We've got a potential witness for the person stealing Caroline's laptop."

  sixty-eight

  McNeill pulled up in front of a rundown house on a grim street deep into Gracemount, a notoriously feral estate on the city's south side.

  "Who are we going to see?" said Cullen.

  "A guy called Jonny Soutar," said McNeill.

  "And what's his tale?"

  McNeill pulled the handbrake on. "The story goes he left a flat on Friday night in the street where Caroline lived. His mum called it in. She reckons he saw something."

  "Why didn't he call it in?" said Cullen.

  "This is Gracemount," was all McNeill said.

  They got out of the car and walked up the path. The harled exterior walls would originally have been white, but had greyed with time and lack of upkeep. The garden had long since gone past the point of neglect - it wasn't even a forest of overgrown grass, just a patch of rubbish-strewn dirt with bits of old cars and motorbikes, decaying clothes and discarded shopping bags.

  McNeill rang the doorbell and they waited.

  Cullen looked down the street. In front of the neglected housing were several brand new Fords, Toyotas and Vauxhalls. "They've got their priorities right on this street."

  "What?" said McNeill.

  "Shite houses, brand new cars."

  She laughed.

  Cullen pointed at the door. "Think there's anybody in?"

  McNeill rang the bell again. "I don't know. His mum said he would be."

  Cullen could make out a thumping noise from inside, someone coming down the stairs. The door opened slightly on the chain and an eye appeared.

  "Police," said McNeill. "We're looking for Johnny Soutar."

  The eye looked them up and down then disappeared from the gap. The door opened. A young guy stood there wearing only boxer shorts. He was late teens, maybe early twenties. His skinny white body was hairless with a slight paunch.

  "I'm Johnny Soutar. In you come."

  Cullen followed McNeill into the living room. It was a state - an ironing board sat in the middle, heaped up with junk overflowing from the coffee table.

  Soutar sprawled on the sofa. He had dark spiky hair in a mullet, a dyed blonde rat-tail ha
nging at the back, which he stroked like it was a pet.

  McNeill perched on an armchair across from the sofa. "Put some clothes on, please."

  The youth picked up a green and white striped dressing gown and tied it loosely around himself.

  McNeill flashed her warrant card. "Johnny Soutar?"

  "Aye." Soutar had an arrogant leer on his face.

  "Your mother called the helpline regarding the Caroline Adamson case," said McNeill.

  "Aye, so she did," said Soutar. "She's off out."

  "Could you go over your story?" said McNeill.

  "Suppose I'd better." Soutar scratched his stomach. "I was shagging this bird-"

  "Could you go from the start, please?" said McNeill.

  Soutar sighed. "Aye, okay. I was up town with my mates Stevie and Darren. We were in that bar in the Omni Centre for a few jars then we went to that club in there. I got fired into Darren's cousin who we met in there but she told us to piss off, so I went for anything I could find."

  McNeill nodded along, though her body language had become aggressive, sitting further forward with her hands clenched on her trouser legs.

  "I found some bird, can't even remember her name." Soutar frowned. "Gemma or something. Took her back to her flat and slipped her a length."

  McNeill scowled. "And her flat was on Smith's Place in Leith?"

  "Think that's the street, aye," said Soutar. "It was right at the end, in the corner just by that chippy, The Mermaid?"

  "Can you describe what you saw that night?" said McNeill.

  "Well, after I'd boned the bird," said Soutar, "I was in no mood to stay, so I waited till she was asleep then I snuck out."

  Cullen was stunned at Soutar, as much at the casualness with which he described his conquest, as the ease he seemed to feel in front of the police. Not that Cullen was much better, given his antics on Friday night. "Did you wake her?"

  Soutar gave a chuckle. "I'm an expert at sneaking out." He scratched himself again. "So, aye, I saw some boy leaving the flats in the corner, just as I came out the stair door."

  "Do you know what time this was?" said McNeill.

  Soutar shrugged. "Would've been about five in the morning, something like that." He sniffed and tugged at the back of his ear. "Hang on, I texted Darren on the way out of the street, telling him what I'd done." He picked his mobile up from the sofa beside him, then fiddled with it for a few seconds. "Five eleven am. I got a text from Stevie saying Darren had shagged his cousin in the bogs. Dirty bastard."

  McNeill sat back in the armchair. "What did you do after you left Smith's Place?"

  "I got a taxi home," said Soutar. "Managed to get one at the corner of the Walk."

  "And what did the man from the flat do?" said McNeill.

  "Punter just sauntered away along the street," said Soutar. "Turned right at the end."

  Cullen tried to work it out. Right would have taken him further into Leith, maybe into Lochend, the opposite way from the direction Rob Thomson would have gone, assuming he was going directly home.

  "Did you get a good look at the person you saw in the street?" said McNeill.

  "Aye, I did," said Soutar. "I just wanted to get the fuck out of there, you know? But I do remember the boy, though. He was a big fucker. Wearing a hooded top."

  "Was he carrying anything?" said Cullen.

  "He had a bag with him, I think." Soutar mimed picking something up. "And he had one of them Apple computers they have in John Lewis."

  Cullen looked up - this was definitely moving into witness territory. The last thing they needed was for some defence lawyer to tear his evidence apart on the grounds of being too drunk. "How sober were you?"

  Soutar frowned. "I'd had a skinful but I'd been dancing with this bird for hours and we'd got chips on the way to her flat. By the time I left I was pretty sober."

  Cullen wanted to check the witness statement would hold up and also to see if they could get verification from the taxi driver. "What were you wearing at the time?"

  "My posh trousers and my Ralph Lauren shirt," said Soutar. "Got fucking sauce from the chips on it. Mum says it's ruined."

  Cullen showed him a print of the CCTV footage from Saturday night near Debi's flat. "Was this the man?"

  Soutar nodded immediately. "Aye, pal, that's him."

  sixty-nine

  They got back to the Incident Room to find Chantal Jain updating Bain on Alistair Cruikshank.

  "So where's this Cruikshank fucker now?" Bain's tie was loosened - no doubt the tidiness of his appearance had lapsed since the press conference.

  "In the cells downstairs," said Chantal.

  Bain grinned. "And he's in the clear?"

  "It looks that way," said Chantal. "As long as those alibis check out."

  "I'll get some big uniform bastards in to grill him," said Bain. "You just make sure you nail those alibis."

  "Did you find out why he was running away from us?" said Cullen.

  Chantal grimaced. "Would you believe Margaret Armstrong threatened to call the police when he visited?"

  "I can quite easily believe it," said Cullen. "Still doesn't explain why he ran."

  "She threatened to get him done with all that stuff about Caroline years ago," said Chantal.

  Cullen frowned. "I thought he was just going on about her divorce?"

  "Turns out he was hoax calling her as well," said Chantal.

  Cullen rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ. Are you doing anything about it?"

  Chantal shrugged. "There's nobody to press charges."

  "We'll get him with a fine," said Bain. "Good work, Chantal."

  "Thanks." Chantal marched off towards her desk.

  Bain stared at Cullen. "Sundance, how the fuck is it I find you in every little nook and fuckin' cranny on this case?"

  Cullen held his hands up. "Chantal asked me to help, all right? That's all."

  "I gather you actually managed to catch the fucker this time?" said Bain. "Would've been better if you could've done that on Saturday night, though. Gail McBride would still be alive."

  Cullen was speechless. He felt anger burn in the pit of his stomach.

  McNeill cleared her throat. "We've got some good news for you. That guy in Gracemount, Johnny Soutar, reckons he saw a big man in a hooded top carrying a laptop out of Caroline's stairwell door about five on Saturday morning."

  Bain folded his arms. "Are you on the level here, Butch?"

  "He's spilling his guts downstairs to one of the Torphichen Street DCs," said McNeill. "We'll get a statement pretty soon."

  Bain nodded slowly. "I'm liking this. Can we get a line-up in front of him?"

  McNeill shrugged. "That's your call."

  "Right," said Bain, "let's you and me go and show this guy some pictures."

  Cullen produced the CCTV photo. "He's confirmed it's him."

  Bain grabbed it off Cullen. "What the fuck is this?"

  "It's a screen grab from that CCTV footage you had me looking at yesterday," said Cullen.

  "Are you holding back on me?" said Bain. "This is the same punter who bought the phone."

  "I know," said Cullen.

  Bain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Cullen, can you get back to whatever fuckin' task you're currently not bothering your arse to complete." He looked at McNeill. "Butch, I want a quick word with you."

  McNeill and Bain walked off towards the corner of the Incident Room.

  Cullen sat at his desk, way past the point of having had enough.

  Caldwell looked just about as fed up as he was.

  Cullen gestured at the desk. "Is it still just you? I thought McNeill said she'd secured a couple of officers?"

  "She got rid of McAllister pretty quickly," said Caldwell. "And Steve Thomas has a court appearance."

  "Is that the truth?" said Cullen.

  Caldwell shrugged. "Probably."

  "I didn't even know we had him." Cullen sighed. "How are you getting on?"

  Caldwell counted up her she
ets. "I've got through three and a half pages of these. You?"

  "Halfway through my second." Cullen tossed them on the desk. "There's got to be a smarter way of doing this."

  "Wish there was," said Caldwell. "It's just good old-fashioned shoe leather work. Except instead of sore feet, I'm getting earache from the phone."

  Cullen picked up the sheets of paper of Gail's friends and looked through them, trying to figure out if there were other ways to approach the problem. He saw names he recognised, famous names - the guy out of Wet Wet Wet, the gay comedian who wears a leather kilt, a footballer who once played for Aberdeen who was going out with some Scottish pop star.

  He looked down the sixth sheet and stopped in his tracks.

  He'd found a name he recognised that wasn't famous. "Jesus Christ." He logged into Schoolbook and checked it out - he wasn't wrong.

  "What is it?" said Caldwell.

  Cullen raced around the room looking for McNeill and Bain, but they'd disappeared after their quick chat. He checked the meeting rooms, no sign.

  DS Holdsworth was speaking to Wilkinson near the entrance, arguing about some point of pedantry on Holdsworth's part.

  They both looked up.

  "Have either of you seen Bain or McNeill?" said Cullen.

  "Think she went upstairs for a coffee," said Holdsworth. "Bain's gone off to interview that guy you brought in."

  Cullen ran up the stairs taking them three at a time, clutching the papers in his fist. He burst through into the canteen.

  McNeill was in the queue.

  "Sharon," said Cullen, out of breath.

  McNeill looked back at him. "What is it?"

  "I've got something," said Cullen. "The friends lists. There's someone who's on all three of them."

  He handed her the sheet of paper, the name circled.

  McNeill gasped. "Rob Thomson."

  seventy

  Bain looked disgustingly happy. "Sundance, I could fuckin' kiss you."

  They'd tracked him and Irvine down to the CCTV suite, the screen filled with the image of the mobile phone buyer at Tesco.

  "Wondered when you'd make your move on Scott," said McNeill.

  Bain glared at her. "This is really good work." He took a slurp of Red Bull Cola. "At last, there's some solid irrefutable evidence that's pointing to Rob Thomson. Those bloody alibis were a pack of fuckin' lies."