by Ed James
Murray shook his head. "Me and Ewan had been bantering with him about it," he said, "but we didn't know it was actually true. Christ."
"Thought Bill lived in Gifford," said Cullen.
"He's just moved in to Garleton," said Murray. "Got a flat just off the high street. Think he's renting his house out."
Cullen watched as they walked past and headed on down the street. "That's not something I expected to see," he said. He took another big drink of the lager, now well under halfway full.
"Slow down," said Murray. "We've got ages."
"There's no way I want to miss that train again," said Cullen. "Unless you want to give me a lift back to Edinburgh?"
"Aye, fuck off," said Murray.
"Drink up, then," said Cullen.
Murray laughed, then his face set into a frown. "Sorry about all that shite yesterday about Iain Parrott," he said. "I've felt bad about it, what with him calling you up and everything. Might have been a link we needed to put on Bain's magic whiteboard earlier."
"Don't worry about it," said Cullen. He checked his watch - twenty-five minutes. He thought about it - the boy interested him and he wanted to know more about him. "Remind me again what happened?"
"He got battered around the back of the head on the way home from the pub on a Friday night," said Murray. "Nothing we can really do, other than pay lip service to it."
"What was he hit with?"
"Doctor said a blunt object," said Murray. "Could have been anything, though, length of pipe, a hammer."
"Is Gullane that sort of town?"
Murray shrugged. "It has been known," he said, "but like once every five years or so. It's not like Tranent or Musselburgh."
Cullen looked back out of the window, filling his face with crisp after crisp. He saw a man stagger up the road, out of his skull - Cullen hadn't been that drunk since he was a student. Well, maybe a couple of times. Since a year ago, then.
"Takes me back to being in uniform," said Murray, "picking up some pisshead on the street."
"Tell me about it," said Cullen. "I was based in Bathgate for a few years."
"Rough," said Murray. "I bet that was a regular occurrence."
"Twice a week," said Cullen, "mainly in the surrounding towns, though. I take the piss out of Bain about Bathgate but it's not that bad other than a Friday and Saturday night. Blackburn or Ravencraig are something else, though." He stared at the man staggering down the street - something about him was familiar, but he couldn't place it. He pointed at him. "Is that Eric Knox?" he asked.
Murray squinted. "Nah, don't think so," he said. He put his face closer to the glass. "Oh fuck."
"What?"
"It's Doug Strachan," said Murray.
Cullen closed his eyes briefly in despair. He checked his watch again - twenty minutes until the train. "Do you want to pick him up?"
"No chance," said Murray. "It'll be months until he's sober. We'll nab him tomorrow."
"I like your thinking," said Cullen. He put his jacket back on and finished his pint. "Come on, I am not missing this train."
fifty-eight
Cullen trudged up the stairs to the flat, carry-out bag in his hand.
He'd gone back to Leith Walk station and picked his car up to drive back to the flat. He could have braved the 26 bus but the timetable got a bit strange after ten. His stomach was rumbling as he got off the train, the acid tang of the salt and vinegar crisps making his stomach feel more hungry. He'd picked up a shish kebab from one of the better places on Portobello High Street and was already salivating at tucking into the marinated lamb, the pitta, the onions, and the chilli sauce.
He pushed open the front door and was surprised that it wasn't in pitch darkness. Rich was sitting at the dining table, fiddling about on his iPad. He looked up and smiled. "Oh, you must be our new flatmate," he said. "I'm Rich."
"Aye, very funny," said Cullen, as he shut the door behind him. He put his rucksack and the kebab down on the table top.
Rich pointed at the blue bag. "Is that a kebab, Skinky?" he asked.
Cullen put his suit jacket on the back of a chair. It was Rich's fault that the name had been resurrected - he hadn't heard it since school. Now it was everywhere. "Yes, Richard," he said, "it's a kebab." Not only was Rich gay, but he was vegetarian and a fitness freak, pints of strong lager aside. "I got up at five, went to Harrogate for a complete waste of time, and then I had to arse about in East Lothian. I'm tired and hungry, so I'm having a kebab. And relax, it's not a doner."
"Donor, you mean," said Rich.
"Very good," said Cullen. He went through to the kitchen, looking for a plate - they were all dirty, piled up in the sink. He went back out into the hall. "Have you pair not done the fucking dishes again?"
Rich looked over. "Keep your wig on," he said. "When did you last do it, Skinky?"
"I did it on Saturday and Sunday," said Cullen.
"Well, you're hardly ever here," said Rich.
"Just as well," said Cullen. "You pair are made for each other."
He found a plastic chopping board in the cupboard and took it through to the hall along with a fork and knife.
"Are you going to eat it off that?" asked Rich.
"There's nothing else."
"You are such a barbarian," said Rich, shaking his head.
"I'm not getting gastroenteritis from the state of the crockery in this place," said Cullen.
"Stop moaning," said Rich, "and eat your bloody kebab."
Cullen sat down and decanted his kebab onto the chopping board. He left some of the sauce swilling around in the polystyrene container. "Where's Tom?" he asked.
"Gone to bed," said Rich. "Got an early start tomorrow."
"Haven't we all," said Cullen, chewing the congealed lamb. "Who was playing tonight?"
Rich laughed. "Czech Republic got tonked by Portugal," he said. "Of course, to Tom, it should have been Scotland in the second round. He was firing into his whisky again in the second half and he went off to his bed moaning about Craig Levein and his 4-6-0."
Cullen chuckled as he tore into the soggy pitta bread, the heat already building up in his mouth. "Fuck, I need some milk," he said, and headed off to the kitchen.
In the fridge, he found three two litre jugs. He pulled the one out of the door - it was best before tomorrow. He checked the others - they were the same. He poured out a pint glass - stolen from some pub at some point over the years - and downed at least half of it, the fire abating slightly. He refilled the glass, not feeling guilty at taking so much given that it was going out of date.
"I take it Tom bought the milk," said Cullen as he sat back down.
Rich raised an eyebrow. "However did you guess?" he asked.
"Because unless he's taken up baking, there's six litres of milk that's going off tomorrow," said Cullen.
"He said it was on offer," said Rich. "Who am I to challenge the great man."
Cullen speared another lump of lamb with his fork and ate it.
"Had another one at work," said Rich.
"Another what?" asked Cullen, through a mouthful.
"Another of my colleagues asking about you," said Rich, referring to the viper nest of journalists he spent his days in. "Aside from all that Schoolbook killer stuff, you're now the destroyer of cults."
"You know I'm not allowed to talk about that stuff," said Cullen, before taking another drink of milk.
"I told them that," said Rich, choosing that moment to swipe across the screen of his iPad. "Thought you'd find it funny."
"I'd rather keep away from all that hero cop shite, if it's all the same," said Cullen. "I quite like my anonymity."
Rich laughed. "Just as well," he said. "The number of times you've been out of your skull in public, there must be hundreds of opportunities for hero cop pisses in a phone box or hero cop caught in sex act outside nightclub."
"Just as well you don't write about me," said Cullen. "Speaking of which, is the Outhouse a gay bar?"
Ri
ch raised his eyebrows. "Are you seriously asking me that?"
Cullen drank more milk - the fire had built up again. "Aye."
"Just because I'm a poof doesn't mean I know every single gay bar in Edinburgh," said Rich.
Cullen let out a sigh and pushed the empty chopping board away. "Do you know if it is a gay bar or not?" he asked, slowly pronouncing each word.
"I have never heard of it," retorted Rich in the same manner.
"Fine," said Cullen. He finished the milk. "I need a piss and then I'm off to bed."
Rich grinned. "And just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm interested in what you do with your plonker," he said.
"Glad to hear it," said Cullen, getting to his feet. "Hero cop goes for a slash in toilet and then goes to bed."
Friday
22nd June 2012
fifty-nine
At 7am on a Scottish summer's day it was pissing down outside. Cullen was exhausted - he'd struggled to sleep the previous evening, a combination of the general fatigue, the many strong coffees and the shish kebab congealing in his stomach.
The chairs in the Incident Room had been arranged by Bain in a semi-circle facing the whiteboard - Cullen had been last in, and sat in the middle of the front row, Caldwell and Watson to his left, Murray and McLaren to the right. Bain's expansion was now evident - Irvine and Lamb were behind him and another eight or ten officers filled the remainder of the first row and added a second row.
Bain stood at the whiteboard which was now virtually illegible with the number of cross outs and arrows that had been scribbled all over it. Photographs had been sourced from somewhere and stuck to the board. It was the first time that Cullen had seen what Paddy Kavanagh looked like - he reminded Cullen of the A0 poster of Morrissey on Rich's wall, topless with a rippling six pack from his younger days. Paddy had the same dark quiff, but also the rugged Irish face, the tough jaw and the intense eyes. The photo of Paddy was of a man in his late 20s, yet he looked about ten years older.
"I want us to consolidate where we are with this case," said Bain. "We've got far too many suspects and I want us to narrow it down and progress the most likely." He pointed to the board - his left handed writing had smudged the words. "Fraser Crombie." He looked around. "What possible motive could he have?"
"The fighting with his brother," said Caldwell.
"Right," said Bain, "the fighting." He scribbled it up. "What else?"
"Don't think there's anything else," said Cullen. "The link is that they were at loggerheads over the future direction of the company. They had a history of violence, like many brothers do."
Bain was frowning. "Nothing else?" he asked.
"He was the one that reported his brother missing," said Murray. "Is that a guilty man?"
"Is it a double bluff?" asked Cullen. "Think we should rule it out."
"Fine," said Bain, adding 'Argument' alongside 'Fighting'. "So this fighting, could it have been an accident?"
It was Cullen's turn to frown. "Seems a bit strange, though," he said. "I can buy Iain dying by accident after a drunken brawl with his brother, but I'm really struggling to see how the circumstances would let it."
"What are you sayin', Sundance?" asked Bain.
"I mean that they were supposed to be in Glastonbury," said Cullen. "How did Iain end up in a barrel in Drem?"
"Fair point," said Bain. He scribbled up 'Implausible'. "Next," he said.
"What about Fraser being demoted in the company structure?" asked Cullen. Fraser had played it low key when they discussed it earlier, making out that the corporate structure was a fiction - Marion had made it feel more real, like he would have grown into the role of Managing Director over time but his tenure had been cut short.
"What about it?" asked Bain.
"Well, being demoted to making barrels must have hurt him," said Cullen.
"Enough to kill his brother?" asked Bain.
"Maybe," said Cullen, shrugging.
"Right, that'll do on Fraser Crombie," said Bain. He didn't remove the 'Implausible'.
Lamb gave a mock applause. "Thanks for the amateur dramatics from you two," he said. "I think the rest of us can consider ourselves brought up to speed."
Bain stood with his hands on his hips. "This is not just to bring you lot up to speed," he said, "I expect you to participate."
"We've not got the script," said Lamb.
"Aye, very fuckin' good," said Bain. "You can play Widow Twanky. And besides, you've shown time and time again your ability to improvise. You're like a latter day policing Miles fuckin' Davis. Just don't keep blowin' your own fuckin' trumpet."
Lamb grinned. "Go on," he said. "We'll try and be more active participants."
Bain ignored him. "Next," he said, "Doug Strachan." He stroked his moustache. "What could bring him to kill Iain Crombie?" He counted with his fingers. "One, we've got this threat over sacking for nicking the whisky. Two, according to Sundance and his wee mate he was supposed to have muttered something about 'killing' around about this time. Three, he's got away with it - for the last eighteen years he's benefited from it by having a job and probably siphoning off some more booze over the fuckin' years."
"Wasn't it him that found the body?" asked Irvine.
"Aye, it was," said Bain. "Nice double bluff."
"We did some asking," said Cullen, "and he was quite athletic at the time, certainly not as overweight as he is now. He could have actually done it all on his own. The whole process has been automated for years except for some heavy lifting and rolling barrels. Plus he had years of experience of making the whisky - we didn't find any splashes or waste so it would have to have been a professional filling the barrel."
"So did Fraser and Alec," said Bain. "And, of course, Paddy."
"Alec yes, but not Fraser at the time," said Cullen. "He was twenty-one, had only been working there for a few years."
"So, he wasn't as experienced," said Lamb, "but he was still experienced. He could still have done it."
"You're correct," said Cullen.
"Right, Sundance," said Bain, "this is fuckin' good stuff. You might make a DS one of these days."
Cullen heard Irvine laughing behind him. Bain scribbled some more stuff down while Cullen shared a look with Caldwell.
"Sounds like he's a sideshow," said Lamb. "Wrong place at the wrong time."
Bain nodded. "I agree with you there," he said. "For me, we need to close out the investigation into him. Get him in an interview room and get him to exonerate himself."
"I'm with you on that, gaffer," said Irvine, over Cullen's left shoulder. Cullen glanced round and saw the DS pounding away on a pack of chewing gum and snorting away.
"Anything else on Strachan?" asked Bain.
Nobody had anything.
"Right, who next?" asked Bain.
"Marion Parrott," said Cullen.
"Are you fuckin' serious?" asked Bain. "Disregard what I said about young Sundance here, people, it was clearly a fluke."
Cullen folded his arms. "I'm serious," he said.
"Fuckin' enlighten us, then," said Bain.
"First, she was pregnant at the time," said Cullen. "As far as we can tell, Iain would have inherited the distillery. That way, it would go to her child."
"Is that it?"
"I thought the point in brainstorming was to get all of the ideas that we had written down," said Cullen.
"Of course it fuckin' is," said Bain, "but not if they're fuckin' shite ones."
"She didn't get on well with Iain's parents," said Cullen. "Really big disconnect there. It could have been revenge against them."
"Any other strokes of genius?" asked Bain.
"She could have been having an affair with Fraser," said Murray.
"Not to be outdone by Cullen's display of shit detective work," said Bain, "here's DC Stuart Murray to lower the bar. Entertain us, then, and I don't mean in the way that Cullen has been."
"I'm serious," said Murray. "It's a distinct possibility. She could have
been seeing Iain's brother and they could have killed him as well."
Bain bellowed with laughter. "Are you fuckin' tryin' to wind me up here?" he said. "Haven't laughed so much since I saw Cullen's last annual appraisal form."
"They still meet up with each other every year," said Cullen, trying to add support to Murray, but also wanting to stop Bain's tirade against him.
"I think you pair need to quit while you're behind here," said Bain, writing 'Implausible' next to Marion.
"Okay, here's one for you, then," said Cullen. "Iain had been at Glastonbury with his brother. He was a week late in coming home from the festival because he'd met up with someone."
"So she's angry that he's pulled some bird?" asked Irvine.
Bain thought it through, tapping the pen against his top lip. "You might have something there, actually," he said.
"It fits," said Cullen. "We don't know when Fraser told her, but she did know that Iain had been having an affair - she almost had an abortion."
"Right, you're finally getting somewhere with this," said Bain. "Next time, get in with the good stuff first, eh?" He scored through 'Implausible'. "What about Paddy Kavanagh?" he asked.
"He disappeared at around about the same time that Iain's body was put in the barrel," said Irvine. "That's got to be suspicious in anyone's book." Cullen turned round - Irvine was rifling through a paper file. "He was a violent drunk and he used to go drinking with Iain in Garleton," he added.
"Do we know if he had any particular axe to grind with Iain?" asked Bain.
"You'll know as well as I do that people like that don't need to have an axe to grind to take against someone," said Lamb. "I see it every couple of weeks in Prestonpans or Musselburgh."
"I agree," said Murray. He pointed to Cullen. "DC Cullen has seen it in Bathgate quite a few more times than I have."
"Leave Bathgate out of this," said Bain.
"Eh?"
"I fuckin' live there, all right?" said Bain. "Every time a copper mentions a crime in the town, I lose a fuckin' grand off the value of my house."
"Can't be worth anything," said Caldwell.
"Aye, very good, Batgirl," said Bain. "You've been quiet so far, other than to take the piss out of my house. What's your take on this Paddy boy's motive?"