by Ed James
Bain checked the marker. A few seconds later he glared at her. "It's a fuckin' whiteboard pen," he said. "You cheeky little…" He trailed off to general laughter in the room.
Bain looked at his watch. "Right," he said. "It's half six now. I've got to head back to Leith Walk to update Turnbull and Cargill on this case." He said Cargill with a sneer, clearly resenting having to report progress to someone at the same level as him. "I need quick updates on what you lot have found out." He looked at Murray. "Stuart, can you start?"
Murray cleared his throat. "DC Cullen and I have spoken to two acquaintances of Paddy Kavanagh," he said. "Eric Knox was a co-worker at Dunpender Distillery and also a drinking buddy. He had clearly been drinking this afternoon and wasn't exactly holding himself together. The only useful information we managed to get from him was the name of Mr Kavanagh's landlady, Catherine Wilsenham. We went and spoke to her in East Linton and she's managed to back up a lot of the information we already have on him. She did mention that he had some family in Morpeth, just north of Newcastle."
"That's Northumbria Constabulary, right?" asked Bain.
"Yes," said Murray, "I believe so."
"Sounds like you've fuckin' bothered your arse for once, then," said Bain. "Got anything more on these Morpeth people?"
"I've run a search," said Murray, "and there are two Kavanaghs living in Morpeth. Also need to think about the possibility of it being a married female relative."
"Next steps?"
"I was going to get in touch with the local police," said Murray, "see if they have anything further before I approach the relatives directly."
"Why?" asked Bain.
Murray rolled his shoulders. "If Paddy is still alive then we need to speak to him," he said. "We don't want him running."
"What the fuck are you talkin' about?" asked Bain. "If it's not Paddy in the barrel, it's Iain. Right?"
"Ninety percent," said Cullen. Bain's eyes focused on Cullen, the ice blue almost freezing him. "We would still need to positively confirm that it's Iain Crombie in there, supposing that Paddy is still alive." He rubbed at his ear. "What DC Murray is referring to is that we think there is something funny going on. Iain and Paddy disappeared within three weeks of each other. We suspect that they might be involved in the other's murder."
"Fuck sake, Sundance," said Bain, "I have absolutely no idea where you get half this shite from." He shook his head. "Try and keep it simple for once, eh? Baby steps. We don't want to fuck this one up."
"Wasn't intending on fucking anything up," said Cullen.
"You never do," said Bain. "Doesn't fuckin' stop you."
Cullen bit his bottom lip, chewing some skin off and tasting some blood. He closed his eyes and tried to stop rising to Bain's bait. "We'd like to go and speak to the people in Morpeth, and then see where it takes us," he said.
Bain nodded. "Fine," he said, "but you're not going." He looked at Murray. "Turnbull has secured your partner in crime, DC Murray."
Murray grinned. "You mean McLaren?"
"Fuck sake!" shouted Bain. "Of course I fuckin' do." He pointed a finger at Murray. "Would you fuckin' stop correctin' me?" He put his hands back in his trouser pockets. "Pick up your buddy first thing tomorrow then you can head down the A1 and get stuck behind a fuckin' bread lorry on the single carriageway bits."
"Thanks," said Murray.
"Heard anything back from Ireland?" asked Bain.
Murray squirmed. "No," he said. "Still nothing."
"Which is what I've fuckin' been doing," said Bain. "Phoning your buddies in Ireland. None of those Paddy Kavanaghs that you found is our boy. Back to square one. Hopefully we can get fuckin' somewhere."
Bain looked at Caldwell next. "Right, Batgirl," he said, "hopefully you've got something more than this pair of clowns has."
"Wish I had," she said, looking down at her notebook. "I've been through the box of Iain Crombie's documentation, but I've not found anything even vaguely relating to a life insurance policy. There are still new letters coming in every year, but none relate to life insurance." She flicked the page. "Of course, that's half the battle. I need to get a search done with insurers to check that he didn't have one. That might be slightly tricky."
Bain grinned. "Well, I'm glad that one of my officers has been doing some proper work," he said, eyes on Cullen.
Cullen folded his arms. "And what great police work have you done while we've been wasting our time on activities allocated by you?" he asked.
Bain screwed his eyes up at him. "I've been fuckin' busy," he said. He pointed towards Murray. "Been on the phone to the Garda in Ireland. Seem to remember having to do that before cos one of you fuckin' lot couldn't be bothered doin' it properly." He counted off on his fingers. "Second, young Watson and I have been speaking to local officers who may or may not have dealt with Paddy back in the day. Got fuckin' nowhere, other than North Berwick, Haddington and Dunbar police stations. Fuckin' useless." He counted a third finger. "Young Watson has been speaking to a few of the workers at the Distillery, including Strachan and both Crombies. No telltale splashes of whisky were ever found between 1994 and 1997 that would point to the body having been put in the barrel outside a standard cycle." He took a deep breath. "Finally, we went to see your pal Stanhope at his fuckin' caravan. Senile old bastard told us nothin'. Waste of time."
"What do you want us to do, then?" asked Cullen.
Bain flared his nostrils out. "Right, Sundance, I want you lookin' into this bird that Iain was supposed to be off with," he said. "Anything you can find. If it's a dead end, it's a dead end."
"Fine," said Cullen.
"Murray, you and McLean head to Morpeth," said Bain.
"McLaren," corrected Murray.
Bain glowered at him. "I'm fuckin' warnin' you."
Murray held his hands up in protest. "I just want to make sure that we're being precise and there's not some other officer I'm supposed to take," he said.
Bain held his eye contact for a few seconds then looked over at Caldwell. "Batgirl, if you continue your search into Iain Crombie's policies and anything else," he said. "Actually, you might as well look for Paddy at the same time."
"Great," said Caldwell, "add a week on…"
"Right, you can all piss off home," said Bain.
"When and where do you want us tomorrow?" asked Cullen.
"I don't give a shit," said Bain. "If we can rendezvous here at 2pm then I'll be a happy man."
Cullen was going to head to Leith Walk first thing.
twenty-four
Cullen pulled up behind a sporty orange Ford Focus, not exactly subtle. He killed the engine and got out of his car, carrying a box. He walked over to the passenger side and tapped on the window. The door opened.
"How's your bollocks?" asked DC Chantal Jain.
Cullen grinned. "You never change do you?" he asked.
Chantal worked as part of the wider Turnbull team. Cullen had worked with her for over a year, but never particularly close to her.
Sharon got out of the driver side. "Would you pair stop flirting," she hissed. "We're supposed to be observing."
"I'm just off for a walk, then," said Chantal. "Let you and lover girl have a nice cosy chat."
Chantal winked at Cullen as she marched off, pulling her mobile out of her pocket. He got in the passenger seat.
Sharon reached over and kissed him. "Nice to see you," she said.
"And you," he replied. He got the pizza box open. "Here you go. Half spicy chicken, half margarita."
"Hope none of the spicy stuff has got on my side," said Sharon, tearing off a slice. "I'm starving. I'll even forget my diet."
He took the bottle of Diet Coke out of his jacket pocket. "They didn't have any cups," he said. "You okay sharing with me?"
She laughed. "Sharing body fluids with you hasn't exactly been a problem," she said.
He took a glug of the drink. "Chantal okay with me sitting in her chair for a bit?" he asked.
"It's good t
o have a break," she said, through a mouthful. Gone were the days when she'd cover her mouth when eating, thought Cullen, though she wasn't exactly a noisy eater, which was one of his pet hates. "Can't believe that she was standing there for so long chatting to you. Don't want our cover blown."
Cullen vaguely knew what case she was working on - something to do with football hooligans. They were parked just off Lochend Road, part of the featureless expanse that sat inland between Leith and Portobello. The street they were on was populated with post-war detached bungalows, mostly all with comprehensive extensions upstairs. He'd stopped at the Domino's in Musselburgh on his way through, having used the app on his iPhone to pre-order and beat the queue.
"I hope your day has been less eventful than mine," said Cullen.
"I couldn't conceive of a less eventful day," she said. "Watching cars driving up and down the street, a few people walk up and down. Getting nowhere with this, but Wilko's criminal intelligence is renowned."
"Isn't it his lack of intelligence that's renowned?" he asked.
She laughed. "There is that, of course," she said. She took another bite of the pizza and chewed, while she opened one of the pots for dunking the crust in. "Rumour is that he is getting that detachment to HQ. This case is part of it. Can't believe that Turnbull is letting him get away with it."
"In his interests to get shot of him, though," said Cullen, "isn't it?"
"True," she said. "We are supposed to be busy, though."
"Bain isn't exactly balancing many cases just now," said Cullen. "He's barely balancing one, in fact."
"How do you mean?"
Cullen finished chewing, already starting to tear off the next slice. He swallowed the chunk down with some more Diet Coke. "He's not actually done anything today," he said. "He's been in the Incident Room in Garleton, 'strategising' at his whiteboard as he put it. It's ridiculous. I've put in over a hundred miles today, traipsing around half of East Lothian, and he's just sitting in that office fucking about."
Sharon closed her eyes. "And I'm just picturing the scene of you telling him exactly what you thought of him," she said.
He chewed another slice. "I might have done," he said. "I picked him up on his strategising, told him I thought I was doing everything on the investigation."
"Oh Christ," she said. "You better watch, you'll get as bad as him one day."
"Hardly," said Cullen, sticking half of the slice in the sour cream dip. He put it in his mouth and chewed. He took out his notebook and flicked through the pages as he ate. "I've filled out twenty pages of my notebook today. He'll be lucky to have filled half of one."
"Keep your powder dry, Scott," she said. "It's not going to do you any favours fighting with him. He'll be straight on to Turnbull, moaning about you, asking to get someone else, and I'll end up losing Chantal or something."
"I'll bear that in mind," he said. "I've half a mind to go to Turnbull myself. Could do with a DI that's actually bothering his arse. Even Wilko would be an improvement on Bain when he's in this frame of mind."
"In a way, I've got sympathy for him," she said.
Cullen almost spat Diet Coke all over the interior of her new car. She'd traded in the old yellow Punto for the Focus and ever since had suggested that he do something similar. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he said.
"Think about it," she said. "Bain was the big boy in the team under Whitehead when he was a DCI. Then he moves upstairs and Turnbull comes in to replace him. Pretty soon afterwards, Turnbull brings another DI in - Cargill. He's pretty vocal about looking to move Bain and Wilko on."
"I think he's getting what he deserves," said Cullen. "He's had this coming for a year or so."
"He's got a good track record, though," she said. "He could go to HR with this. He's solved two high profile cases."
Cullen poked a finger at his chest. "I've solved two high profile cases," he said. "Me, not him."
"Were you Senior Investigating Officer on either?" asked Sharon.
"No."
"Well, then," she said. "You're his resource and any collars are his collars."
"I suppose so," he said. He looked down at the pizza box - he'd finished his half and two half-empty tubs of dip were all that sat on his side. He looked out of the window - the sun was hiding behind the taller buildings towards Seafield Road but the sky was still a bright blue. "You going to be here all night?"
She looked over at him. "I'm afraid there's no nookie for Scotty boy tonight," she said.
Cullen thought about joking but the mental scars of the arguments over his previous shagger reputation were still fresh. "Fine," he said. "There's football on. Back to world war three with Tom and Rich, then."
"They're like an old married couple," she said. "Tell them if they shared a room it'd mean Tom could get more money in."
He laughed. "I just might do that."
"You don't have to credit me, either," she said.
"It'll be different when we move in together," he said.
"I know," she said. "The sooner you tell Tom, the better."
He looked down the road and saw Chantal walking toward them, carrying a blue carrier bag. He looked down at the pizza box.
"You going to eat that last bit?"
twenty-five
"I'm telling you, it's Spain," said Tom.
"Germany," said Rich. "They're tonking Holland here, that's got to make them favourites."
They were in the hall in the flat, sitting watching the football. 2-1 to Germany with ten minutes to go. Cullen was keeping well out of it - they could argue like that for hours once they got started - and he tried to focus on the match.
Richard McAlpine - Rich - was a schoolfriend of Cullen's. He was tall and almost painfully skinny. He worked on the News Desk at the Edinburgh Argus on the Royal Mile - he'd worked on a couple of papers on Fleet Street in London but had decided to move to Edinburgh, the promise of a promotion was too great in an industry in freefall. Him and Tom just did not get on - the more they argued, the less Cullen cared about it being his fault.
"Spain have a much easier route to the final," said Tom. "Germany will probably have Italy and England."
"It doesn't matter, Tom," said Rich. "They will beat them. And they'll beat Spain. They are much better. I'm so fed up of that 'no striker' shite."
"Not you too!" shouted Tom.
"Eh?"
Tom pointed at Cullen. "Scotty was moaning about that the other night," he said.
"Good man, Skinky," said Tom.
It was yet another nickname that Cullen had collected, though one of the first. It was slightly better than the standard that Bain would inflict but not by much. The root of it was Cullen Skink, a thick fish soup that Cullen couldn't stand - whether that was because of the nickname or not, he didn't know any more.
"It's beautiful the football they play," said Tom.
"It's the Harlem Globetrotters," said Rich. "It's technically impressive, but it's about as exciting as listening to you having a wank."
Tom's eyes were like thunder. "I'm fucking warning you," he said, "this is my flat, I can kick you out."
"You won't, though, will you?" asked Rich.
Cullen had seen that sort of behaviour so many times from Rich over the years. He could be a cheeky fucker, capable of the most outrageous statements and insults. At least part of the antagonism from Tom was the fact that Rich was gay - Cullen reckoned that he probably should have told Tom before he moved in, but he figured it was good for Tom's tolerance.
"You pair are like an old married couple," said Cullen, finishing his bottle of Budvar.
Rich burst out laughing, smacking his hand against the table.
Tom's expression had got even worse. "Scott, I'm fucking warning you," he said. "Any more of that shite and you're getting kicked out as well."
"It feels like I live with two gay men sometimes," said Cullen. "You know, if you moved into one room, you could rent out Rich's room and make more money."
"If I had a red c
ard, I would be waving it," snapped Tom.
"Sure it's not a pink card?" asked Rich.
Tom leaned back on his seat and folded his arms. "You're both out of order," he said.
Cullen's iPhone blinked up with a text message. It was from Derek Miller, brother of a former colleague who had died in an accident. 'U want 2 meet on 25th? Deek'
They had an arrangement where they'd meet up on that date every month and try and remember Derek's brother. Cullen texted a response. 'Aye - sure. Windsor Buffet? SC'
He got up and took his empty beer through to the kitchen. "I'm going to bed," he said, leaving Rich and Tom sulking in front of the remnants of the match.
Thursday
14th June 2012
twenty-six
Cullen cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder.
He was slouched back on a chair, listening to hold music, typing away at his laptop - a recent IT initiative had removed a pantheon of out-dated desktop PCs and replaced them with underpowered and flaky laptops that docked to the keyboard, mouse and monitor they previously used. The intention was to make the force more reactive and agile, but all it had done in Cullen's mind was lead to a larger queue at the IT support desk on the fifth floor of the station.
He was in Leith Walk station, trying to lose himself amongst the daily bustle that was going on around him and to avoid Bain, who was out at Garleton again, no doubt strategising. Cullen had already received three phone calls from him that morning, two of which he had successfully bounced. The last - over an hour ago at half nine - he'd had to answer. There hadn't been any point to the call, just checking that Cullen had bothered pitching up for work.
He reached over and took a drink from the large black filter coffee he'd been working his way through. His belly was starting to rumble so he decided to head up to the canteen for an early sitting, just hoping he got off the call.
"Inspector Mark Harvey," said a voice at the end of the line with a thick Bristolian accent. "Is that DC Scott Cullen?"