by Ed James
Bain sat there, arms folded.
‘You disagree with me, Sergeant?’
Bain sucked in a breath. ‘Think if we don’t go in there with all hands, then we might lose something central to this. No CCTV, so we need anything we can get from the crime scene.’
‘I’m just saying that we’ve got twenty officers bombing along the M8 just now. I don’t want to allocate them all to one place. We need to cast our net wide.’
Methven got up and walked over to the window. ‘Brian, can you get on top of searching the immediate vicinity for me?’
‘You wanting to split me and Sundance up here? That it?’
‘I don’t want you two running around while my street team is a gang of headless chickens, do I?’
6
BAIN
Back at the crime scene now. A ton of uniforms here, and no bugger’s supervising them. Could’ve sworn McCrea should be doing this, but that wee bugger’s got a habit of clearing off when there’s work to be done.
A car pulls up nearby and here they are, Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber. Sure I must’ve used that line before, but sod it. Still funny and it’s never been more fuckin’ apt than right now.
Elvis is first out of the car, lugging a laptop under his arm like he always does. Not a bad lad, but people like Cullen and Methven only use him to do their donkey work, means he keeps down at that level. CCTV, telephony, that kind of shite. Not like we don’t have whole departments for it. ‘Morning, Bri.’
I set over and—Christ alive—big Craig Hunter gets out the driver side. Sundance’s old mate. Still acts like a squaddie, got that sharp-eyed look, twitching and scanning around like there’s a sniper waiting in every window.
So I just stop dead, let that prick come to me. ‘Morning, lads.’
Elvis joins us by the motor. Knows not to touch it.
Hunter though, rests his big mitts against it when he leans back. ‘You boys still recording your podcast?’
What the hell? That cheeky bastard. ‘What podcast?’
‘The Crafty Butcher featuring Elvis and the Billy Boy. Right?’
Tell you, Hunter’s getting it, and both fuckin’ barrels. I’m right in his face, but the prick’s about a foot taller than us. ‘How the fuck did you find out?’ A wee bit of spit sprays out of my mouth and covers his jacket.
Elvis gets a big scowl, but he’s not looking at me.
Hunter looks down at us. ‘My old man’s a big fan.’
‘Forgot about that big deviant. Makes me sick thinking of what he’s sticking his cock into while he listens.’
That’s got him. He’s shut up, but he’s glowering at us like he’s going to smash my head off the pavement.
So I break off. Hunter’ll keep for later. ‘Come on, let’s go over and see what’s what.’ I lead the pair of arseholes over the road and sign the pricks in. Boy managing the crime scene could give Hunter a run for his money in the old big bastard stakes.
Then a smurf-suited figure comes over, clutching a phone to his bonce. ‘Aye, aye, just be over.’ He pulls his mask down. McCrea, sneaky wee bastard. ‘Alright, gaffer?’
‘Had better ones. Where you off to?’
‘Johnny Napier said my breath smelled, and I had onions at breakfast. Just had a mint. Don’t want to be speaking to any flighty witness with onion breath, eh?’ McCrea blows across my puss. ‘Do I smell?’
‘Jesus, get away from you, you daft sod. Where are you going?’
Prick frowns. ‘Right, well. DI Cullen told me to head off to investigate Gavin Whitecross.’ So McCrea’s sooking up to Sundance? ‘Reckons I can give the local gen, so what can I say?’
‘How about “piss off”?’
But he’s walking away to dump his suit in the discard pile. ‘Catch you later.’
I’ll try and not let that faze us any. So I clap my hands together. ‘A body was dumped here. It’s possible he was murdered nearby, or elsewhere. Either way, I want to know. DC Gordon, can you get on top of telephony and CCTV?’
Elvis gives us a sigh. And I feel like a right arsehole. All those chats in annual review meetings with Sundance and Crystal Methven have clearly fallen on deaf ears with yours truly. ‘Fine.’ Looks anything but, like, but what can you do? Needs must and all that.
‘Hunter, can you—’
‘Gaffer?’ McCrea’s back over sans his crime scene suit. Boy’s porked out since we worked together, that’s for sure. ‘Forgot to say. This lassie came down.’ He points up at the flats overlooking the lane. ‘Said she lives up there might’ve seen someone dumping the body.’
THE LASSIE’S BIG LIKE. Taller than me, though not as big as that lassie who came back. What’s her name? Caldwell, that’s it. Aye, her. Hair’s still damp from a shower, but not that wet that she’s just got out. Wearing a tracksuit like she’s going out for a run. But after a shower? Doesn’t hang together, if you ask me. Not that she’s showing us in.
Anyway, I’m hanging back and letting Hunter take charge.
‘So I gather you saw someone last thing yesterday?’
‘That’s right.’ She keeps looking at us. And I know what it is: that fuckin’ boil on my conk. Hurts to touch, and I keep wanting to touch the fuckin’ thing. She guides us into the flat, then kinda floats over the stripped-wood flooring.
Nice pad in here, have to say. All IKEA by the looks of it, but not the cheapest stuff. Big sofa, coffee table full of shite, and a cracking telly hanging on the wall.
She takes Hunter over to the window, but I’m distracted by the telly. It's paused, with some lassie I know but can’t place. Sometimes that’s the kind of detail that’ll crack a case. Never mind. I’ll sort that later, so I join them by the window.
Actually looks like a professional outfit down there. Few SOCOs milling about, them arc light thingies blaring away, few bodies. Thank god I’m not on the hook for it, though, as there’s a few too many of them pissing about. But then again, Sundance is the kind of guy who’ll pin any blame on me. And Crystal’s the kind who’ll spread blame around like jam on a cake.
The factories behind are busy, likes. One’s a brewery and there’s all sorts of steam coming out. Might have to head in and sample their wares sometime.
But she’s pointing at the bins. ‘It was right down there. He lifted something up and tipped it in the bin.’
‘You see what it was?’
‘Might’ve been a carpet?’ She shrugs at him and he’s buying it wholesale. ‘Why, what’s going on down there?’
‘Just wondering if you can give us a better description, that’s all.’
‘I saw a big guy running away from the lane. It was pitch black, so I didn’t see much.’ Her eyes switch between the both of us. ‘You need to tell me what’s happened here.’
Right, time for yours truly to step in. ‘You mean big like DC Hunter here?’
‘Maybe.’ She gives us a sulky look. ‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
‘What about compared with the officers you spoke to down at the crime scene?’
‘Not really.’
Hunter looks over at us and I give him the tiniest shrug, so he smiles at her. ‘Thanks for your time.’
HUNTER HOLDS the stairwell door open for us. ‘But she said he wasn’t obese like DC McCrea.’
‘He’s not that bad.’ Though I give him a sneaky wee grin as we head back over to the motors. ‘When I managed him, I saw his medical records… Man alive.’ That hits us hard, can’t help laughing at my own gag. ‘Well, that man might not be alive much longer, have to say.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘You can’t deny that it’s—’
‘Look, Sarge, it was dark. She says she didn’t see much more than an outline.’
Big man rushing away… What if it was a fat bastard like McCrea?
Well, the gears in my noggin have kicked into a much higher gear now. I stop by the cars and peer in. ‘Elvis, did you finish that check for us?’
‘What check?’ Hunter’
s face is tripping him. ‘Cullen know you’re allocating work behind his back?’
‘I’m all about the results, so let’s see what’s what before I pass on the good news to our fuckin’ lord and master.’ I give Elvis an opening. Prick doesn’t pick up on it. So I clear my throat. ‘Well, did you check on Big Jim for me?’
‘Aye, did it while Hunter drove us through from Edinburgh.’ Elvis unlocks that infernal laptop of his and checks the screen. ‘One James Michael Bell, AKA Big Jim, the boy who found your body. Lives in Anniesland. Got a location on his phone at or near his home all last night.’
I expected better from Elvis. I thought Big Jim was a suspect I could haul over the coals, show Sundance and Crystal a fuckin’ thing or two. Bust his alibi apart. ‘Can you do us a solid, Elvis? Go up to flat nineteen and speak to the lassie. Show him a photo of this James Bell boy.’
He actually pricks up at that. Good boy. ‘Cheers, Bri.’ Laptop under his arm, and off he goes.
Hunter isn’t so pleased. Fuckin’ Harry Potter without the specs, away to grass on us to fuckin’ Dumbledore Cullen.
‘Come on, Craigie boy, it’s fine.’
‘It’s not fine.’ Hunter huffs out a sigh. ‘Who is this James Bell anyway?’
‘The binman who found the body. Him and the South African boy.’ And I slip him the famous Bain grin. ‘Thing is, he told us he was with a mate.’
Lights go on behind his eyes. Now he gets it. ‘Okay. So you think he could’ve left his phone at home while he went elsewhere and killed Skinner?’
‘Exactly.’
Hunter nods slowly. ‘Let’s pay him a visit then.’
I PULL up my chariot by the portacabin and get out into the air. Even by the dump, it smells a fuckton better than back through in Edinburgh.
No sign of that clown Hunter, though. He’ll be lucky to get two minutes before I head in there.
The depot’s fuckin’ buzzing. Boys everywhere, hopping down off lorries and making a nuisance of themselves with the queue of cars full of punters looking to drop off all the shite of the day at the recycling tip.
The passenger door slides open and Hunter gets in without asking. Wide bastard. ‘I’ve been thinking it through as I drove over here.’
‘Another way that you’re as bad as fuckin’ Sundance. Go on.’
‘Do you have to swear so much?’
‘Ever since I stopped smoking, aye. So what have you been thinking about, princess?’
‘I can’t follow your logic. Why would a binman dump a body?’
‘Easy. You hear about these rapes McCrea’s been working on?’
‘Well, I was in the sexual offences unit until recently.’
‘What did they do you for? Kiddie porn?’
’You know what I mean.’ And I know how fuckin’ funny I am. ‘The SO unit is split up like the rest of Police Scotland. North, East, West. The Glasgow lot in West had us through for the sixth or seventh one, to cast an independent eye on their evidence. As far as I could tell, their investigation was sound. Trouble was, whoever was doing it was good. Knew how to cover their tracks.’
‘Tell you, I blame that CSI shite on the telly. Half the fuckin’ country knows how to cover their tracks like an expert.’
‘So yes, I’m well aware of what’s been going on through here.’
‘Great. Well, this Big Jim boy found one of the victims. Lassie in Partick, been drugged, raped, stuck in a nappy and dumped in a bin.’
‘Sarge.’ Prick says it all sarcastic like, and he’s wincing. ‘You need to do your homework. Except for her, the victims were all male. Rapists playing both sides of the tracks are extremely rare, except when they prey on children.’
Wanker.
‘Either way, someone matching this Big Jim’s description is seen fleeing the dumping site? Stands to reason he’s a suspect.’
Hunter’s fuckin’ understanding it now. ‘You think the perp’s escalated to murder?’
‘Stands to reason, right?’
‘So why own up to discovering the body?’
He’s got us.
But sing hosanna if that South African boy doesn’t mince past right then. Even in the pissing rain he’s topless. What a lad. ‘Because his mate there interrupted it, eh? Big Jim’s plan was to not find the body, but instead stick the body in the back of the lorry. Turn it to mincemeat and dump it in the wilds. Even if someone finds the body, they’ve no idea which bin it’s come from. Right?’
‘So you think this is him slipping up?’
‘Right. Boy’s a sex pest. Clocked him ogling some schoolgirls earlier.’
A rap at the glass and some big bastard’s staring in, gurning at us. Ah, it’s Big Jim. A thumb lets him know he can get in the back. The plastic sheets are still down from the Duchess’s last MOT, so a binman is in.
Have to stifle a laugh when I think about Sundance and his scaffie. Christ, they breed them different up there, that’s for sure.
Hunter’s glaring at us. And he’s got the look of someone who’s taken a life. ‘We should do this in a station.’
‘Bollocks to that.’ I swivel round and give the boy the evils. ‘Thanks for meeting us, sir.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Well done for admitting to finding the body. For calling it in. Lot of people wouldn’t do that in this day and age.’
He shrugs. ‘Just doing my public duty.’
‘How about going one step further and admitting to putting it there?’
‘What?’ He’s looking at Hunter like he’s going to bail him out of this. ‘This is bullshit!’
‘Aye? You found the body, stands to reason you killed the guy too.’
‘This is bollocks!’
I give him a few seconds, let him build up a head of steam. Can almost see it blowing out of the clown’s ears. ‘Your alibi doesn’t stack up.’
‘Of course it does.’
‘Nope. See, you told us you were at a friend’s house. Your phone was at home all that time.’
He just sniffs.
‘You didn’t take it?’
‘No.’ Takes him way too long to think it through. ‘It was charging.’
‘Why wouldn’t you take your phone?’
‘I’m not a prisoner to it. Christ.’
‘You’re going to be a prisoner to Her Majesty, though.’
Doesn’t get the response I want. The prick laughs. And he’s talking pish, he’s got a fancy smartphone, stands to reason he’d be staring into it just like everyone else would.
‘Come on, pal, just admit it. Then we’ll all be done and home by teatime.’
And the big guy bursts into tears.
Hunter gives us a look like I made that happen. He reaches over and pats the guy on the shoulder. ‘You okay?’
‘The fuck do you think?’ Big Jim sits back and his face is a mess. Red and blotchy, his lip quivering like it’s epileptic. ‘I found a dead body this morning!’
Hunter narrows his eyes at him. No matter what I say about him, he’s good. Can spot a liar at a million miles. Need to give him a nickname, but Hunter’s almost too fuckin’ apt. ‘How about you tell the truth?’
Big Jim stares at him for a few, then runs his tattooed wrist over his snotty nose. ‘I was at a mate’s house, playing cards.’
‘Gambling?’
He nods. ‘Reason I didn’t take my phone is it was a pressie from my daughter.’ Ah shite. The photo on his phone wasn’t a victim of his, it was his daughter. ‘Shelly’s a good girl. I worked so hard to get her the best. She’s a lawyer earns big money down in London. Done me so proud. Bought me that phone for my Christmas. I know how much it’s worth. Cost like a grand and she pays the contract on it. I’m in so much debt to those boys, if they saw my phone, they’d take it right off us. Sell it to some shonky wee shop in Dumbarton.’
‘Take it your debt’s bigger than a grand?’
‘Aye. Few times that. Can’t not go for another card night, otherwise they’ll break my legs.
And I need to work.’
‘So, this friend of yours got a name?’
‘I can’t tell you it!’
He gets a pointed finger from yours truly. ‘Bud, you tell us or you’re going down for murder. Your choice.’
7
CULLEN
Cullen walked along Blythswood Square, passing through crowds of workers carrying their lunches back to their offices. Hunger gnawed at his gut, but he didn’t want to stop to eat, not while they had active leads.
The IP Consulting office was in a stone building that used to be a bank, judging by the ornate stonework above the door. Sometime in the last five years, it’d been hollowed out and turned into a shared office hub.
Cullen stepped over to the front door and checked his phone. No reply from McCrea, so he called him.
Answering the phone was the one thing McCrea did quickly. ‘Whazzup?’
‘Looking around, but I can’t see you.’
‘Soz, got caught up with the forensics lad. Running prints on your wallet.’
‘Getting anything?’
‘Aside from traces of bleach, I’ve got a used condom, an apple core and half a tin of ginger. Boy thinks Coke, but could be Pepsi. I’ve got a suspicion it’s Dr Pepper.’
Cullen didn’t know how he coped working in Edinburgh without such high quality officers as Damian McCrea… ’So it’s a dead end?’
‘Looks like it, aye.’
Cullen couldn’t decide if someone dumping a wallet beside a body was a good thing or not. Were they careless? Arrogant? Or did they plan for the body to be collected and disposed of by the binmen? ‘Got hold of Petersen’s alibi yet?’
‘Next on my list.’
Cullen sighed again. Becoming a habit, but then dealing with Damian McCrea was right up there with his career highlights. ‘Can you do it, then get your arse over here, please?’
‘Sure, boss.’ And McCrea was gone.
Cullen pocketed his phone and got himself straight again. Adjusted his suit jacket, ran his hand through his hair. Ready. He opened the door and walked in.
A long desk ran along the far wall, but only one person looked like they were working reception. The other seats were all occupied by single people with headphones, tucking into boxed salads. In Glasgow. Two football tables were in use, four lads in their late teens working each one, the balls clanking and the handles rattling as they cheered and goaded each other.