by Ed James
Caldwell thought it through for a few seconds. "I'd say it's suspicious," she said, eventually. "I agree with Stuart. As a violent drunk, he's just as likely to turn on the people he's drinking with, and he used to drink with Iain fairly often. He had worked there for a few years, so he knew the ropes, and would certainly be capable of disposing of the body."
"Okay," said Bain, "but what about the fact that they're pished in a pub somewhere in Garleton and he's just murdered Iain Crombie. Bit of a fuckin' stretch to take him down to the distillery and bung him in a barrel, isn't it?"
"Assuming that they're in Garleton," said Caldwell. "They could have been drinking at the distillery."
"Fine," said Bain. "I'm prepared to accept that he's a suspect." He scribbled some more on the whiteboard.
Lamb walked over to the whiteboard. He made a T sign with his hands. "Time out here," he said. "What are you trying to achieve with this? We've got eight officers working twelve hour shifts around the clock looking for this man, and you're 'prepared to accept he's a suspect'? Brian, if there's any doubt, then I'm scaling the investigation back and putting the men back on their normal duties."
Bain glowered at him. "First," he snarled, "don't you fuckin' time out me, all right? Second, have you ever heard of playin' devil's advocate? It's a common technique used by even the most fuckin' junior of officers." He shook his head. "Fuck sake."
"I appreciate the intent," said Lamb, "but Paddy Kavanagh is our primary suspect here. You're treating him like a sideshow and coming up with some other out there nonsense like Marion Parrott as being active lines of investigation. We need to get focused here. We need to find Paddy."
Bain took a deep breath. "Are you expectin' me to disagree with anythin' you've just said?" he asked. "Cos it sounds a fuck of a lot like somethin' I would say." He made a pushing gesture with his hands. "Now, clear off back to your seat and let the Senior Investigating Officer lead his investigation."
Lamb held Bain's gaze for a few seconds, then smiled and went back to his seat.
"Right, I think we know that we need to look into Paddy," said Bain. "Who else?"
"What about the old man?" asked Caldwell. "Alec Crombie."
"Eh?" asked Bain.
"He was in denial about whether it was Iain in the barrel or not," she said.
"So?"
"Well," she said, then came up short.
Cullen picked it up. "I think it's a possibility, but I've been struggling with a motive," he said. "When we spoke to Marion Parrott, though, she made out like they were at war, and that Alec and his wife didn't approve of her and Iain."
"Is that enough to kill his son, though?" asked Bain.
Cullen shrugged. "I've seen people killed over a game of pool in Bathgate," he said.
Bain's eyes rolled as the room erupted into much needed laughter, slicing through the building tension.
"In all seriousness, what I think we have a real problem with is opportunity," said Cullen.
"The elephant in the room," muttered Caldwell.
"Has anyone actually got an opportunity?" asked Irvine.
"What?" asked Bain.
"Nobody seems to have a clear opportunity to do this," said Irvine. "Iain's been at Glastonbury for a week. What has to have happened is that he's turned up at the distillery before going home, met up with his killer and they've put him in a barrel."
"Or they did it remotely," said Lamb. "He could have been killed somewhere, put in the barrel, brought here and the barrel filled. Perfect way of disposing of a body."
"We're nowhere near, are we?" said Caldwell.
"Hoy, hoy," said Bain, "stop that. We need to keep the focus here."
Cullen couldn't believe that it was Bain saying that.
"Is there anyone else that we need to have a look at?" asked Bain.
Nobody had anyone.
"Right," said Bain. "Now that Cullen has finished taking us down a magical fuckin' mystery tour, we can get on with some proper work." He smiled. "Actions." He scribbled up on the board. "Batman and Robin, can you go and speak to Iain Crombie's doctor again? We need to find out who dropped him off at the hospital. We know it wasn't his bird."
Cullen exchanged a look with Caldwell. "Thought that she was Batgirl now, not Robin?"
Bain looked at Lamb. "Bill, you can progress with the hunt for Paddy Kavanagh," he said. "And if there are any officers at all that you can spare, then we should be looking at divvying them up among some other suspects."
"I thought we agreed that Paddy was the priority?" asked Lamb.
"We did," said Bain, "I'm just sayin'." He looked at McLaren. "You," he said, clearly having forgotten his name again, "can you do some more digging into Paddy. Cast the net wide. Really fuckin' wide."
"Isn't DS Lamb doing that?" asked McLaren.
"I want you to do a much wider search," said Bain. "Bill's workin' in the here and now, lookin' for him as an active suspect. This boy disappeared in 1994 and we haven't seen him until just now. Where the fuck has he been, what's he been doin', why did he disappear?"
McLaren nodded. "Sure," he said.
"If you're a good boy, you can have young Watson to help," said Bain.
Watson raised his eyebrows and looked dangerously close to speaking but shied away at the last minute.
"Which leaves you," said Bain, looking at Murray.
"Which leaves me," said Murray. He swallowed and closed his eyes, Cullen thinking that his body language betrayed the fact that he did not relish the likely prospect of being paired up with Bain.
"You and me are going to take Doug Strachan into an interview room in Haddington nick," said Bain. "As I said earlier, I want to put him through the fuckin' mill."
Cullen exchanged a look with Murray. "One thing," he said. "You might have bother getting anything out of him. He was absolutely paralytic in Garleton last night at about nine o'clock."
Cullen noticed Caldwell's eyes widen - he hadn't mentioned anything to her about the sighting but was starting to relish the prospect.
"What were you up to in Garleton last night?" asked Bain.
"Just went for a pint with Stuart," said Cullen. "We'd spoken to about half of the people on your whiteboard and I'd just missed the train back into Edinburgh."
"Very romantic," said Bain to much laughter.
Cullen smiled. "We weren't the ones who were romancing," he said. Caldwell's eyes widened even further.
"You better not fuckin' be thinkin' of expensin' that scoop," said Bain.
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Cullen. "One more thing, though."
"What now?" asked Bain. "I was just about done here, for fuck's sake!"
"I spoke to Iain's son," said Cullen. "Iain Parrott."
"Why?" asked Bain.
"He called me," said Cullen. "Said he'd been looking into his father's disappearance for a few months and he was convinced that he was murdered."
"Does he have anything?"
"Probably not," said Cullen, "but I thought it was worth mentioning."
"Sounds a bit fuckin' weird," said Bain.
"His father went missing before he was even born," said Cullen, "and he was just told when he turned seventeen that the man he thought was his father wasn't, so of course he's obsessed."
"Right," said Bain, rubbing his hands together with vigour, "anything else?"
Nobody had anything else.
sixty
The wiper blades on Cullen's Golf were at full pelt. It was a warm day but it was absolutely pissing down, streaks of rain dancing down the windscreen, in almost exact time with the metronomic windscreen wipers.
Cullen pulled into the car park of the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, swearing about the price of parking. He calmed down and tried calling Amardeep Singh again - no answer. He gave a sigh then looked over at Caldwell, lost to some train of thought that she wasn't sharing.
"That's quite a nice boozer," said Cullen.
"Which one?" asked Caldwell.
"The Garleton Arms,
" said Cullen. "Had a nice pint of lager in there."
"Never been in," she said, looking away.
"You've been outside it, though," said Cullen.
She twisted round. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, arms folded tight to her chest.
"We saw you," said Cullen.
"Saw who?"
Cullen grinned. "You and a certain DS that we're both acquainted with," he said.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Angela, unless you've got a twin sister, then you were walking down Garleton High Street hand in hand with DS Bill Lamb," he said.
"All right, so what if I was?"
"You're married for a start," said Cullen.
Tears started welling up in her eyes. "My marriage is dead in the water, Scott," she said. "It's over. I've been staying at my sister's in Musselburgh for the last two weeks."
Cullen paused for a few seconds. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."
"I'm not likely to tell you," she said. "It'll be half way round Lothian and Borders already, no doubt."
"I can keep a secret," said Cullen.
"Aye, right."
"Seriously, I can," he said. "You've been hiding it well."
She nodded. "It's tough," she said. "I've got so much going on… I just feel like I'm going to collapse."
"You've been holding it together really well," said Cullen. "You've got your DC role, your marriage is … breaking apart, and you're dealing with Bain."
She closed her eyes and then nodded slightly. "Thanks," she said. "I know that if I can just get through the next few weeks then I can fall apart without Bain going ballistic about it."
"How long has it been going on with Bill?" asked Cullen.
She took a deep breath. "Since January," she said. "That case out there… We went for a drink the week after. Bill came into Edinburgh."
"So it's serious?"
"I think so," she said. "I've been with Rod since we were both fourteen. I'm thirty-two now. I've changed so much, and so has he. All he wants to do is piss about on his computer and watch the football. I need something different."
"How's he taking it?"
She shrugged. "Not well," she said. "He's started filing for divorce."
"Messy," said Cullen.
"Aye, well, you can bloody talk about messy love lives," she said. "Sharon better watch she doesn't get kidnapped by any serial killers."
Cullen gave a laugh. "I seriously doubt that's going to happen," he said, "and if it did, poor serial killer, that's all I can say." He took a deep breath. "You've been hiding it well."
"It's called professionalism," she said.
"I'm just saying," he said, "you've got a lot on in the job just now without all that nonsense. Despite rumours to the contrary, I'm not a gossip. I can listen without telling."
She smiled. "Thanks," she said. She wiped the tears from her face. "We're talking of moving in together. In Garleton. His flat is nice. It's not too much of a hassle to get into town, especially at stupid o'clock like we have to."
Cullen had commuted to West Lothian from the east end of Edinburgh every day for years when he was in uniform. He had travelled outwith rush hour every day, so traffic hadn't been that bad, except on the occasions he got held up.
Just then, Cullen's mobile rang. He held it up. "Well, good luck to you," he said, "and I mean it."
"Is that Detective Cullen?" asked Amardeep Singh.
"It is."
"I'm just returning your call," said Singh. "How can I help?"
"We'd like to ask some follow-up questions," said Cullen. "I don't suppose that you're free now?"
"I can spare a few minutes…"
sixty-one
"We really need to know who brought Mr Crombie in," said Cullen.
Singh took a deep breath. "Listen, I don't know how many times that I have to tell you this," he said, his voice remaining calm, "but I do not know who brought him in."
"Dr Singh," said Cullen.
Singh raised his hand. "Please, it's Mr Singh," he said, "I have told you before, I am a consultant."
"Fine," said Cullen, "Mr Singh, I will remind you that this is a murder investigation and that we really need to know who brought the patient in."
"I can fully understand that," said Singh, "but I cannot tell you." He gave another deep breath. He threw a document on the table. "Listen, I have done some investigation for you. I spoke to colleagues from the time and I managed to track down the admissions log. I was going to call you later today. Mr Crombie was self-admitted. Now, given the state that he was in I would suggest that someone did bring him in, but I'm afraid that the salient information was not captured. This is a dead end for you."
Cullen slumped back in his chair - this wasn't good. Bain would go ballistic and they were no further forward.
Just then, Cullen's mobile rang in his pocket. He'd set it to vibrate - he expected it to be more tedium from Bain, so he ignored it.
"Can you go through the admission again?" asked Cullen. "Were there any extenuating circumstances?"
"Like what?" asked Singh. He leafed through the file. "Mr Crombie was very drunk, despite the fact that he'd had his arm sliced open. We had to wait over an hour to operate."
"Is that unusual?" asked Cullen.
Singh read the file closely. "I would usually expect an adrenaline spike," he said, "which would cause sobriety. But this isn't unusual, to be certain." Singh read on. "I noted that he had been rambling incoherently."
Cullen scowled. "Does it say what about?" he asked. This was new - Singh hadn't mentioned it before.
Singh turned to a section at the back of the document - it looked like a questionnaire. "I'm afraid not," he said. "I've tried to remember what he was ranting about, but I've come up blank."
"Nothing?" asked Cullen.
"Nothing," said Singh. "You need to know that I see hundreds of patients a year, sometimes thousands." He looked at his pager. "I would like to ask you to please contact me no more. I am a very busy man, I've given you a lot of my time and I can share no more with you."
"Fucking hell," said Cullen, back outside in his car. "We're getting nowhere. Bain and Irvine are off on the sexy side of this case, and we're stuck with this shite."
Caldwell shook her head. "You are such a princess," she said, "you know that? You're always moaning about how you don't get the good cases. In the last year you've solved two major crimes, that's more than most DCs do in their careers. You're clearly going somewhere, I just wish you'd quit nipping my head about how you're not. You should be thankful that your life isn't as fucked up as mine is right now."
Cullen stared at her. He was seething - how dare she talk to him like that? He was about to give it to her both barrels, but suddenly caught himself - talk to him like that. He was just a DC. Who the fuck did he think he was? DI Taggart? He was a DC, he was a doer. She was right. He needed patience and time - if he showed delivery, then he'd get the plaudits. Eventually.
"You're right," he said. "Sorry for moaning."
"Apology accepted," she said.
Cullen looked at his mobile and checked the missed call from inside the hospital. It wasn't Bain that had called.
It was Iain Parrott.
sixty-two
"What is it now?" asked Marion Parrott, standing in her doorway, her face even more sour than usual.
"I need to speak to your son," said Cullen.
"Iain?"
"I got a missed call from him," said Cullen. "He's not answered my calls or returned them."
She closed her eyes.
"Have you seen your son?" asked Caldwell.
Marion looked over at her. "I don't know where he is," she said. "He's not in his room." A tear slid down her cheek. "I'm worried about him. I was just about to phone the police. I'm scared that it's a follow-up to the attack on him a couple of weeks ago."
"Can we come in and have a look in his room?" asked Caldwell.
Marion furrowed h
er brow. "Why?"
"We're close to his father's case," said Caldwell. "There are incidental details which might not be obvious to you, but which might be important in helping us find him."
"Very well," said Marion.
She led them inside and took them upstairs. At the top of the stairs the corridor was fairly small. She led them through a white door with 'Iain's Den - Keep Out' stencilled on the front.
Inside, the boy's room was very orderly. Cullen's room as a teenager was an absolute bomb site but this was structured and organised.
"It doesn't look like the bed's been slept in," said Cullen, pointing at the meticulously tucked duvet.
"Iain's like that," she said. "I'm the only one of my pals that's never had to moan to him about keeping his room tidy. Wish my other two were like that…"
Beside the bed was a large computer desk. On it sat a sleeping laptop, with what looked like a million cables running out of the back, and several stacks of papers and notebooks.
"Mind if I have a look through the papers?" asked Cullen.
"Fill your boots," said Marion, leaning against the back of the door.
Cullen sat at the desk and looked through a stack of papers. It looked like notes relating to the obsession with his father's disappearance. The hand-writing was small and neat, much tidier than Cullen's own. The notes were all dated, starting at a date in early February and leading through to early April.
Cullen picked up another pile and went to the end - it was dated the previous day. He looked through the last few days, hoping that he would find something useful.
A photograph fell to the floor.
He bent over and picked it up. He looked at it - it was two men, smiling, shaking hands, in mid-90s colour. He flipped the photo over - on the back was a scribble. With Paddy Kavanagh, June 1995.
Cullen's heart started racing. Paddy went missing in June 1994. Was it a mistake? Had he returned, unbeknownst to everyone else?
He looked at the front of the photo. Caldwell squeezed in beside him to get a look. The Morrissey-alike Paddy was easy to place. The other man looked vaguely familiar. He screwed his eyes up, squinted at it, held it far away from him, tried to take seventeen years of ageing away. Then he finally placed the face.