by Ed James
CITY OF THE DEAD
CULLEN & BAIN NOVELLA 1
ED JAMES
CONTENTS
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Next book
Craig Hunter
Other Books By Ed James
World’s End
Prologue
Copyright © 2017-20 Ed James
This novella is based on the short story “Travel is Dangerous”, published in “The CWA Short Story Anthology: Mystery Tour” by Orenda books, November 2017.
The right of Ed James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design copyright © Ed James
PROLOGUE
RICH
I hit the button and step away from the bin lorry. The metal jaws crunch the cardboard and swallow it all down. Good work!
‘Let’s go!’ Big Jim pulls himself up to the handhold and thumps the side of the lorry. His belly hangs out the bottom of his Celtic home shirt, the green-and-white hoops smeared with all sorts of muck.
An audiobook blares out of the speakers in the cabin, some ridiculous post-apocalyptic crap about Nazis and zombies, or something, but Billy the driver seems to hear the signal, as the lorry rumbles off down the street.
Big Jim hangs there, scratching his nose with his gloved wrist. ‘Keep up, you big South African bastard!’
‘Nothing wrong with South Africa, mate.’ I grab the handle and haul myself up with the kind of grace Big Jim can only ever dream of. I’m topless, just like every other day, and my abs look awesome in this light. The definition is perfect. ‘Like to see you in Jo’burg. Wouldn’t survive five fucking minutes.’
‘Ah grew up here in Glasgow, pal. Handle that, can handle anything.’
‘You didn’t grow up, mate.’ I hang on as the lorry trundles along the dark street. In the distance, the sun pops up over the horizon, giving a flash of light against the tower blocks in the distance and the old tower in the graveyard just over the road behind the factories. ‘Beautiful sky, eh?’
‘No’ as beautiful as that, I tell you.’ Big Jim waves at the pavement.
Two schoolgirls trudge along in the darkness, passing between cones of light, tapping at their phones, oblivious to the middle-aged pervert ogling them. Short skirts, black tights, school ties barely done up over their low blouses. Maybe fourteen. Maybe.
Sick, sick bastard.
I shoot Jim a scowl, raising my eyebrows to show how harshly I’m judging the seedy creep. ‘Mate, they’re really young.’
‘Aye, well.’ Big Jim gives me a leery grin, his tongue hanging loose. ‘Grass on the pitch, eh?’
‘Sick bastard.’
It’s my turn to slap the side of the lorry and I hop off before Billy pulls it to a stop. I gave him the thumbs up, not that Billy tears himself away from his gripping audiobook. I kind of want to tell him about Big Jim, but he’s never interested in all that banter.
Fuck him.
I sidle off up the lane, but my trousers slip lower with each step. Christ, I need some new strides.
Next up—just like every bloody week—are three bins that the hipster bastards in the microbrewery haven’t wheeled out to the road. They’re sitting in the factory car park, one flickering light catching them.
Usually a two-man job to shift each one, but I always like to try to move them on my own.
Could leave them, but we got a fuckton of hassle from the boss last time we didn’t take them out. Some bastard in the factories must’ve phoned in to complain.
Big Jim raises a gloved hand in front of my face. ‘Dinnae mention that to the boys at the depot, right?’
‘What, that you’re a fucking paedo?’
‘I’m no’ a paedo.’ Jim’s scowling at me, but I can’t tell if it’s one of anger or confusion. ‘Those were lassies, no’ boys!’
Confusion, then.
‘Mate, it’s not about their gender, it’s about their age.’
Big Jim seems flummoxed by that. ‘Nothing wrong with admiring the female form.’ His chin dimples as he snarls. ‘You’re the one who’s a poof. Now that’s unnatural.’
‘I’m not having this chat again.’ I set off up the lane towards the dumpsters. ‘I’ll do these myself.’
Big Jim doesn’t disagree. He tears off a glove and leans back against the lorry, phone out already. Hate to think what that sick bastard is watching on that thing, or who he’s contacting and about what.
Maybe the prick’s getting ahead of me, calling up the boss and pre-emptively defending against any shit coming his way.
I’ll get the fucker if he does.
I stop and grab the first dumpster’s handle, flexing my biceps and pectorals.
And there she is. Same as every week, the woman in the flat above is looking down. Damp hair scraped back in a towel, her dressing gown open wide enough to show her cleavage.
I give her a saucy wink, even though she’s about eight inches short of being my type. Nice to be admired, eh? Then she’s gone, her curtains shut.
And this bastard dumpster isn’t fucking moving. I grab the handle again, but another sharp tug and it still doesn’t budge. The front wheels look knackered.
Big Jim’s marching up the lane. He grabs my arm. ‘Rich, that was—’
‘Get the fuck off me, man!’ I swivel round and get into the basic stance, ready to fight, ready to win. ‘Those gloves are fucking disgusting!’
‘Chill oot, you radge bastard.’ Big Jim holds his mobile in an ungloved hand. His Celtic shirt is covered over by an acid-yellow high-viz jacket. ‘Davie says to make sure you’ve got your top on.’
‘I keep telling him, I don’t wear a top. This temperature is fucking perfect for fat burning.’
‘Anyone ever tell you that you’re a weird bastard?’ Big Jim reaches for the handle. ‘Here, let us help.’
Course I know what Big Jim’s up to here. Trying to get in my good favours so I don’t mention the under-age perving to the other lads. ‘I’ve got this.’
‘Doesn’t look that way to me. This is a two-man bin, and if there’s one thing I know it’s—’ Big Jim screws up his face, nostrils twitching. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Can’t smell anything.’
‘It’s minging.’ Big Jim grabs the lever and pulls it, popping the lid. ‘Have a deek inside, bud. I’ll hold it for you.’
‘If it’ll shut you up.’ I vault up and hold myself there, peering into the bin.
The rubbish is piled up along the side, stacked-up cardboard boxes and loose wrapping plastic. Some arsehole has piled in a sodden rug stained by God knows what that must weig
h half a ton by itself. I’m looking at what’s beyond it, though, when the bin judders as Jim hauls himself up for a peek. He gasps when he sees it too.
A man lies in a puddle of bleach, naked except for a nappy. Eyes wide open and very, very dead.
1
CULLEN
Acting Detective Inspector Scott Cullen’s brain hurt. Not even nine and he was close to wanting to chuck it all in and head home for the day. It was that or get something to eat. He was starving.
Detective Chief Inspector Colin Methven crouched at the end of the table. His cheap black suit hung off his runner’s frame, his wild eyebrows searching the air like TV antennas. He stood up tall and tossed another sheet of paper to Cullen, as if he could cope with the ten or so he already had. ‘I need you to make some decisions here, Scott. It’s called being a manager. This needs to be with Carolyn Soutar’s office by close of play today. Okay?’
‘Fine.’ Cullen looked at the latest one. Yet another page of data for the team size review, showing a structure of one DS to his six DCs. Something wasn’t right on it. Just… What? He scanned it again. ‘Why isn’t Bain on here?’
Methven took the seat next to Cullen. ‘I’m presenting you with another option. You know I need to cut costs across the department. Losing a sergeant, especially him, would aid that matter greatly.’
‘You’re asking me to do that role as well as this, aren’t you?’
‘Scott, you’re an Acting DI. If you want to permanently step up, I need you to make the hard decisions. Do you really need DS Bain?’
‘No, but if it’s a choice between him and nobody, I’ll take him.’
‘Well, I could bring in Lauren Reid from Al Buchan’s team. She was a DS down in Berkshire, I think. And I know an excellent DS in Dundee who could do a job.’ Methven checked his phone. ‘Oh, sodding hell.’ He put it to his ear and left the room in a rush. ‘Carolyn, hi. We’re just looking at it now.’
Cullen folded the page in half and stood up. Time for breakfast.
CULLEN CARRIED his tray through the station canteen. As he walked, his coffee bubbled through the sip hole, covering the rest of the lid in a thin black film, but luckily it kept away from his egg roll.
His team had pulled two window tables together, and were laughing and joking. Five DCs and a DS in tell-tale suits like they were working in a normal office. Outside, two buses wrestled their way past each other, one heading to central Edinburgh, the other way out into the southside sticks.
Cullen couldn’t face spending any more time with his team. Time was, he’d seen inspectors sitting only with their own grades and thought it was pathetic. Now he was there, well. He dumped his tray on a free table in the corner. He shrugged his suit jacket onto the chair back and slouched into his seat, then eased the lid off his coffee, but still managed to spill it everywhere.
The wall of white noise around him was like a soothing blanket, a safe place to hide. Mainly from managing a team making a mess of case preparation, and from his boss. But it was also time away from his desk, maybe time to play a game on his phone. He checked through the messages—nothing looked pressing—and let himself enjoy a long yawn before squirting brown sauce onto his fried egg roll. He shut the lid and let it all congeal, then settled back and started flinging cartoon birds at evil pigs.
‘Morning, Sundance.’ DS Brian Bain dumped his tray and sat opposite. The plate was overstuffed with a fry up. Streaky bacon, haggis circle, tatty scone, fried bread, hash browns and a sea of beans walled off by three pink sausages that seemed barely cooked. The kind of mess Cullen’s mum would call a cooked breakfast, the euphemism that made a coronary-inducing meal sound almost pleasant.
As tired as the breakfast looked, Bain looked worse. The dirty grey stubble on his head matched the pale skin and the fuzzy goatee he’d been sporting for the last few months. And he had a massive red boil on his nose. ‘I fuckin’ swear it’s impossible to get a decent breakfast in this shite town.’
Cullen felt his shoulders sag, wishing the inevitable heart attack would strike Bain down sooner rather than later. ‘You missed this morning’s briefing.’
‘Sorry, boss.’ Bain snarled the words. Time was, Cullen had to work for the prick, but Bain hadn’t got used to them flipping roles. He bit the end off a sausage and started eating, his lips slapping together. ‘Only place you can get a good fry up’s in Glasgow, Sundance. God’s own fuckin’ city.’
‘You’re welcome to put in for a transfer.’
‘They wouldn’t take me. Your fault I ended up back here, anyway. Those pips on your shoulder were mine to start with.’
Cullen looked at his shoulder, but all he saw was navy suit jacket. ‘You can’t blame me for taking them when you dropped a bollock on it, can you? And you never tire of banging on about it.’
‘Natural order of things has been disrupted, Sundance.’ Bain scooped a mound of beans into his mouth and chewed, mouth open. ‘Absolute shambles, this place.’
Cullen took another glug of coffee. He could start defending himself and the city he’d made his home a good few years back, but what would be the point? Bain would be on to something else. ‘So go elsewhere, then.’
But Bain just sat there, chewing away, no doubt happy to be sitting with an inspector rather than the rank and file, even if the inspector in question was Cullen.
‘There you are.’ Methven stood there, fizzing with energy—or coffee—like he couldn’t handle being at rest.
‘Sorry, sir, I just got hungry. I’ll get back to it—’
‘That can wait. Someone found a body in the East End this morning, looks like murder.’
Cullen frowned. ‘East End? Don’t you mean Leith?’
‘I mean Glasgow.’
Bain’s eyebrows flashed up. ‘Oh, aye?’
‘Caledonia Street.’
‘That’s no’ the fuckin’ East End, Col. That’s the Gorbals!’
‘Well, either way, both of their MITs are occupied, so they’ve passed the case to us.’ Methven had the look of someone desperate to score points against his rivals. ‘Can you go through and get a head start? I’ll follow once I’ve finished my morning meetings.’
‘Nae luck, Sundance.’
Cullen took another look at his team over at the other table, but instead stood up, swiping a hash brown off Bain’s plate. ‘You’re coming with me. Be just like old times, eh?’
2
Cullen walked along the street again, checking his phone again. Somehow he’d lost Bain on the motorway through from Edinburgh. He hit dial once more, but it just went to voicemail.
A hulking gorilla of a detective in a cheap suit blocked off access to the crime scene, his orange tan clearly from a bottle. The yellow tape flickered in the breeze behind him. A dark brick lane led up to the backs of a row of factories deep in banjo country. Some forensics officers worked away in a bin pressed against the side wall, a pair of bright lights blaring out into the dull Glasgow morning. Officers in pristine white crime scene suits were rummaging around inside another bin.
A bin lorry was parked down the side street, with three workers sitting in the cabin. Didn’t look like anyone was talking. Finding a dead body would do that to you.
Cullen wanted to have a word, but he really should wait for Bain. As soon as he could, he needed the creepy little bastard to split off and run some angle of the investigation that meant they didn’t spend any time together. Counting paperclips, something like that. Any task where he couldn’t make an arse of anything important. How he managed to survive in Police Scotland was a constant mystery.
Behind, the factories advertised their wares. A car wash, a lighting showroom, hot-tub hire and a hipster brewery with a tap room. Who in their right mind would come out here for a pint?
Some new houses lurked off to the side, affordable housing they’d call them. Maybe social housing. He’d passed some less social stuff on the way in, Sixties boxes that’d started in hell and just descended. Judgment aside, there might be some w
itnesses over the way.
And further behind, in front of the dual multi-storey towers was the Southern Necropolis. The City of the Dead. Ancient graves that now looked like a croquet lawn led up to a circular tower, really old like some mausoleum, and completely incongruous with the surrounding houses. Seeing it gave Cullen pause, made him think of all the recent deaths in his life. Time was, everything felt like it’d last forever, but now… Now he was getting older and things seemed to change every five minutes. He could remember afternoons lasting months, but now months passed like an hour.
In a roar of Dire Straits, a purple Mondeo cut the corner and parked way too close to Cullen’s car. Money for Nothing was mercifully cut short and Bain got out, sucking in a deep breath like he’d climbed one of the Cairngorms. ‘Ah, you don’t get air like this in Edinburgh, Sundance.’ He took in the breeze like it was perfume.
All Cullen could smell was dirty diesel, cigarette smoke and stale piss. Still, it hadn’t rained. Yet. Always in the post through here, though.
Cullen was beginning to regret choosing to work with Bain again. Only upside was he knew Glasgow. Brought up here, plus two stints in CID. ‘Come on.’ He led the way over to the crime scene.
The gorilla stopped them with a deep grunt. Cullen hoped he had the opposable thumbs to work the pen and the clipboard. ‘Sign here.’
One of the suited figures working the bins clocked them and jogged over, clawing at his mask. DC Damian McCrea, an old colleague of Bain’s, gasping for breath. Bald head and a good three stone over regulation weight. ‘Alright, gaffer!’