Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries)

by Ed James

  Eric Knox.

  sixty-three

  It was pissing it down by the time they got up to Eric Knox's flat on Queen Street in Garleton. Cullen got them buzzed up while Caldwell stared at the photograph again.

  "What does this mean?" asked Caldwell, as they climbed the stairwell.

  "That Paddy was alive a year after Iain Crombie was murdered."

  "Yeah, I know that," she said. "What does it mean for the case?"

  "Not only did Paddy Kavanagh disappear," said Cullen, "but he returned. You know what they say about a killer returning to the scene of the crime."

  "Yeah, but after a year?"

  Cullen shrugged. "Let's just see what Knox has to say about it," he said.

  When they reached the landing, the flat door was open, so they headed inside. Knox sat in his armchair and looked seriously hungover. His yellowy eyes were even more bloodshot and his struggle to focus were even worse than the previous week when they'd visited. When he saw them, he reached down to a glass of whisky and knocked half of it back.

  "Is this your photograph?" asked Cullen, handing the shot to Knox. Caldwell sat down across from him, while Cullen remained standing.

  Knox squinted at the shot. "I've no idea, pal," he said.

  Cullen stood over him and pointed a finger in his face. "Mr Knox, it's you in the photograph," he said. "Can you please confirm the fact?"

  Knox reached past Cullen for the glass. Cullen grabbed his hand.

  "You'll get your whisky soon," said Cullen. "First, please confirm that it's you in the photo."

  Knox sank back in the seat, his eyes locked on the glass of whisky. "Aye, it's me," he said.

  "And it was taken in 1995?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye," said Knox, grudgingly.

  "Mr Knox, that's a year after Paddy Kavanagh disappeared," said Cullen.

  "I ken that, son," said Knox.

  "You told us that you don't know what happened when he disappeared," said Cullen.

  Knox evaded his look. "Did you get it on tape, son?" he asked.

  Cullen grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet. "I've had it with you," he said. "You said you didn't know what happened to him, and yet I've got a photo of you and him a year later."

  He let Knox go and he fell back into the chair.

  "I said I couldnae mind what happened," said Knox. "I didnae lie to you, it just slipped my memory, ken?"

  "I'm going to take you into the police station across the road and have you booked with about seven different charges," said Cullen. He started counting them off on his finger. "Wasting police time, withholding information-"

  "Okay, fine," said Knox. "See, if I can remember the information the now, will you drop it?"

  "We'll see," said Cullen.

  "Well, okay," said Knox. He reached past Cullen for the whisky - Cullen let him have it this time. His trembling hand put the glass to his lips, letting him take the rest of the drink in one go, spilling a bit of it on his cardigan. "Paddy turned up a year later, pretty much to the day. He said he was going to make a killing. His boat had come in, ken?"

  "Where had he been?" asked Cullen.

  "Up north somewhere," said Knox. "Up past Inverness, I think, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, ken?"

  "Why did he leave in the first place?"

  "He wouldnae say, ken?" said Knox. "Kept it to himself."

  "If I find that you knew," said Cullen, "then we can add a few more charges to the list…"

  "I swear, son, it's the God's honest truth," said Knox. His eyes were already looking around for the next glass of whisky.

  Cullen took a step away from him. "Who took the photo?" he asked.

  Knox closed his eyes. "Doug Strachan," he said.

  It was Cullen's turn to close his. "Are you serious?"

  Knox nodded. "Aye," he said. "Paddy wanted the photo as evidence." He held the photo up again. "Here." He pointed to the photograph - Knox held up a copy of the Sun, a story about Oasis on the cover. "He swore us to secrecy."

  "Did you ever hear from him again?" asked Cullen.

  "No," said Knox, "and neither did Doug."

  "And you didn't think of going to the police with this?" said Cullen, grabbing the photo back and thinking of Frank Stanhope's long quest for justice.

  "We swore ourselves to secrecy," said Knox.

  "So how did Iain Parrott get this photo, then?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye, well," said Knox, rubbing his hands together. "He was a persuasive wee bugger, I'll give him that." His fingers started beating a tattoo on the arm rest. "He was here the other night. Wednesday, I think. I was a bit drunk, you know, and I passed out, ken? The wee bugger started goin' through my stuff and he found that photograph. He was in my face, asking me all these questions about his Dad and Paddy."

  "Was this the last time you saw him?" asked Cullen.

  Knox shook his head slowly. "He was here last night an' aw," he said. "Pitched up at the back of nine." After Cullen had met up with him. "He was asking me loads of questions about the photo. I couldn't answer half of them."

  "Such as?"

  "Ach, my memory isn't as good as it used to be," said Knox.

  "Do you know where he went afterwards?" asked Cullen.

  "Said he was off to see his uncle."

  sixty-four

  "Cheers, Tommy," said Caldwell, and she ended the call. She'd been on the phone to Tommy Smith of the Lothian & Borders Forensic Investigation Unit, which was in charge of the investigation into all manner of telephones - mobile, satellite and common or garden land lines. Cullen had dealt with him a few times and deemed him one of the good guys.

  "Well?" asked Cullen.

  "Says it'll be ten minutes," she said. "He'll call me back."

  "That's quick," said Cullen.

  "Said they've got nothing on," she said.

  Cullen turned right at Drem, heading along the main road to East Fortune. His phone rang. He pulled in beside a row of post-war cottages and checked the display. Bain. He put the call on speakerphone.

  "Better be some fuckin' good news from you, Sundance," said Bain, "cos it's fuckin' shite out here."

  "We found a photo of Paddy Kavanagh taken a year after he was supposed to have disappeared," said Cullen.

  "Are you kiddin' me?" asked Bain.

  "I'm serious," said Cullen. "Iain Parrott had it. It's of Paddy and Eric Knox, who used to work at Dunpender. It was taken by Doug Strachan."

  "Are you sure?" asked Bain.

  "Positive," said Cullen. "It's got a newspaper on it - we've just checked on Angie's phone and it matches. The paper is from 1995. Paddy swore them to secrecy."

  "So these pricks are fuckin' lyin' to us?" asked Bain.

  "It would appear that way," said Cullen. "Have you got hold of Strachan yet?"

  "Aye," said Bain, "he was out of his fuckin' skull. Still managed to get in to work, mind. Can think of a few officers like that… He's given us a statement that McLaren is chasing up. Strachan reckons that he was on holiday at the time of Iain's arm injury. I've been thinking that it's this Paddy boy and your photo just confirms it. I'm goin' in there with renewed vigour, I can fuckin' tell you. Strachan has been hidin' stuff from us, and that gives me a big fuckin' stick covered in shite to beat him with."

  "You think this confirms that it's Paddy?" asked Cullen.

  "Fuckin' right I do," said Bain. "He's got these boys lyin' for him."

  "There's something else," said Cullen. "He told them that his boat had come in and he was making a killing."

  "Is this where Strachan's rant about killin' comes from?" asked Bain.

  "What did he say?" asked Cullen.

  "Nothin'," said Bain. "Said he can't remember it."

  "I'm going to speak to Fraser Crombie," said Cullen. "Iain Parrott went to speak to him last night and I want to know what it was about."

  "You're fuckin' not," said Bain. "Not without me, anyway. Those pricks are a baw hair away from makin' a complaint against us, so I'
d rather you had some senior officers with you." Bain's hand went over the mic at the other end and Cullen could make out him shouting at Murray. "Better go, Sundance - I need to get this Strachan boy a lawyer."

  Cullen hung up.

  "So what are we going to do then?" asked Caldwell.

  "We're going to ask forgiveness rather than permission," said Cullen, turning the key in the engine.

  "Not something I'd recommend in a sexual situation," said Caldwell.

  Cullen laughed. He drove them out of Drem, down the road with fields on one side and the train line on the other. They crossed the railway bridge and headed down the hill to the bottom, turning into the Dunpender Distillery car park at the chicane.

  "Why was Iain Parrott seeing Fraser Crombie?" asked Caldwell.

  "That's why I want to speak to him," said Cullen, killing the engine. It coughed and spluttered and gradually switched off. "Iain Parrott is nowhere to be seen and the last person he was going to see was his uncle. He calls me and doesn't speak to me, and his phone is just ringing and ringing. That's strange."

  "We should get a trace on him soon," said Caldwell.

  "Here's hoping," said Cullen. "In your book, where does Fraser Crombie sit?"

  "Top three," she said. "Behind Paddy and Doug Strachan."

  Cullen sat back in his chair and thought things through for almost a minute, trying to consolidate all of the revelations from the last hour.

  "See, I'm thinking that there may be something more behind this," he said. "Aside from the stuff with his nephew, I'm beginning to wonder if he and Iain did go to Glastonbury."

  "What?" hissed Caldwell.

  "Well, it's only Fraser's word that he was away," said Cullen. "This stuff about a woman is only coming from him. I went down to Harrogate and all that they had on her was some statements relating to sightings based on a photofit that Malcolm provided. There's nothing in the file that shows that she was real. There was nothing in the file from Avon & Somerset that linked to there actually being anyone who placed Iain at Glastonbury."

  "The photofit came from Fraser," said Caldwell. "What's to say that he didn't forge it based on someone from Harrogate so that there would be sightings?" She checked through her own notebook. "What about the phone calls from Iain that Marion got?"

  Cullen thought about it. "She could be colluding with Fraser," he said. "She could have lied."

  "You seriously think that?" she asked. "Why the hell would Fraser kill his brother, though?"

  "There are loads of reasons," said Cullen. "The argument. Getting demoted by his father. As well as killing his brother, he's managed to totally fuck up his father."

  "Eh?"

  "His old man has been waiting for 18 years for his son to turn up," said Cullen. "Fraser worked here, clocking in every day, no doubt watching his Dad worry about where Iain was. His mother died of cancer - could have been the worry that caused it, or certainly helped it along."

  Cullen closed his eyes. He recalled Fraser's expression when they showed them the body - he closed his eyes and nodded. It had puzzled him at the time but it made more sense now. "The more I think of it," he said, "the more I'm putting him in pole position." He unbuckled his seat belt. "Come on."

  Cullen ran across the pebbles from his car, through the passage to the distillery building, the pouring rain soaking his suit jacket. Caldwell followed, a tiny umbrella telescoping above her head. The car park was fuller than at any other time that Cullen had been there. They hurried inside to the dry of the reception, a trail of wet footprints following across the wooden floor up the stairs. Cullen made a beeline for the desk.

  "Is Fraser Crombie in?" he asked.

  Amanda looked up from her magazine. She gave him a smile. "I'm afraid he can't be interrupted," she said.

  Cullen scowled. "What's he doing?" he asked.

  "He's got a strategy meeting ahead of the board meeting," she said.

  "I really need to speak to him," said Cullen. "You'll know that this is a police matter and that you don't want to be accused of obstruction."

  Amanda's sass seemed to disappear. "He's down in the cooperage," she said.

  "Thank you," said Cullen. "One other thing - has Iain Parrott been here?"

  Amanda frowned. "I think so," she said.

  "When?"

  "I can't remember."

  "I thought you were supposed to be in charge of security," said Cullen.

  sixty-five

  The machinery was thundering in the cooperage, ready to deposit another batch of whisky. It was dark outside with the heavy rain and the lights were blaring away at 11am. Fraser Crombie sat at the far end of the room, clawing away at a barrel, muttering to himself. He looked up at Cullen approaching then looked away again. The room was empty apart from the three of them.

  "I thought they weren't allowed to make any more whisky until Bain cleared it," said Cullen to Caldwell as they walked over.

  "They seem pretty good at not following our orders," said Caldwell.

  Cullen leaned back against one of the workbenches near Fraser. Caldwell sat alongside him. "Hello," he said.

  Fraser nodded in recognition. "How can I help?" he asked, still not looking up.

  "Keeping yourself busy?" asked Cullen.

  "Place doesn't run itself," said Fraser. "My Dad is running this place into the ground. Strachan's drunk all the time. Useless. This meeting this afternoon, we'll not get anywhere, they'll not make the right decision."

  "Who are they, Fraser?" asked Cullen.

  "My Dad and his acolytes," said Fraser. "They're going to sell out for nothing and leave me with no future."

  "The receptionist upstairs said that you had a meeting and were strategising about the meeting this afternoon," said Cullen. He pointed at the barrel. "Is your strategy in that barrel?"

  Fraser looked up. "I'm sorry?"

  "Is the strategy in the barrel?" asked Cullen.

  "Fixing barrels helps me think," said Fraser. "It's very therapeutic, taking something damaged and repairing it, ready for use again. You should try it."

  "I'm looking for Iain Parrott," said Cullen.

  Fraser leaned against the rim of the barrel, resting his head on his forearms. "I've not seen him for a week or so," he said.

  "Is that so?" asked Cullen. "We have reason to believe that he was coming to see you last night."

  "Coming to see me and actually seeing me aren't the same thing," said Fraser. "As I said earlier, I haven't seen Iain for a week or so."

  Cullen held his gaze for a few seconds before Fraser looked away. "Do you actually have anything specific to ask me?" he asked. "Or is it more fishing from you?" He got to his feet. "Look, I'm going to get another barrel. Maybe you should think if you're here for a reason or you're just starring in an episode of bloody Columbo." He walked past them into the maze of barrels and workbenches, quickly losing sight of him in the mess.

  Cullen looked round at Caldwell and listened to the footsteps pace off up the room away from them. He stood thinking for a few seconds, running through everything in his head. "There's something not right about this," he said, in a low voice. "Has Tommy Smith called back yet?"

  She checked her phone. "No missed calls," she said. "And I've got reception here."

  "Call him."

  "Yes, sir," she said. She held the phone up to her ear and waited.

  Cullen looked around the room - the machinery was whirring away. Despite liking whisky, he knew next to nothing about the process of making the stuff. It had something to do with distillation - something he very vaguely remembered from school Chemistry classes - but, other than the tidbits he'd picked up on this case, they could be passing the stuff through a toad for all he knew. He had no idea why Fraser had the machinery running on his own on the day of a board meeting.

  Caldwell tugged on his jacket sleeve. Her eyes were wide. "Cheers," she said, ending the call.

  "Well?" asked Cullen.

  "Iain Crombie is in this building," she hissed.


  "What?"

  "The cell trace placed him in this building," said Caldwell.

  "I'm going to fucking find him," said Cullen.

  He stood and turned around. The lights turned off.

  "What the fuck?" asked Cullen.

  He caught something flash. Caldwell screamed and slumped to the floor. Cullen ducked down and reached over for her. Her head was bleeding, her eyes were rolling in her head. She was still breathing.

  He spun around and scrabbled away. Fraser Crombie was approaching him, a large claw hammer in his left hand. He swung it at Cullen, claw first. Cullen tried to swerve, but stumbled over. It caught him on his left shoulder, sending him sprawling, face first to the ground. The hammer tore through his suit. Cullen screamed. He glanced down - in the gloom he could see the wool and cotton were frayed and already turning red. Cullen's shoulder burned, as if it was on fire. He screamed again as Fraser kneeled over him, and pushed Cullen onto his front. He dug his knee into Cullen's back.

  "Think you're fuckin' smart, do you?" spat Fraser into Cullen's ear. "I'll show you, you prick."

  He flipped Cullen back over, the movement sending a jolt of pain through him. He raised the claw end of the hammer and hit Cullen again in the same spot. It dug in and Fraser yanked at it. Cullen almost passed out through the pain. He reached around with his right arm, trying to grab hold of something. He eventually caught hold of Fraser's wrist. His hand slipped.

  Fraser stood up and turned the hammer around. Cullen rolled over, facing away from him. He tried kicking out. Fraser was just out of his reach.

  Fraser smashed the hammer down at Cullen's head. Cullen reached his hand out, managing to deflect the blow across his body onto his cut shoulder. Fraser stumbled forward and caught himself on the edge of the workbench.

  Cullen seized the opportunity. He scrabbled around, crawling away from where Caldwell lay. He got to his feet and started running, clutching the gash on his shoulder, blood now pouring down his arm and shirt. He looked around and saw Fraser following him.