by Ed James
McCrea nodded slowly. ‘Pretty much.’
‘What’s missing?’
‘Well, him attacking Bain and killing Paul Skinner… Doesn’t fit.’ McCrea frowned. ‘You think he was going to rape him?’
‘Given he’d put the nappy on, I’d think he wasn’t and was probably just going to murder him.’ Cullen looked around the room one last time. ‘Okay, guard the place until forensics arrive, okay?’
‘Want me to see what I can get off this laptop?’
‘Leave it to the professionals.’
McCrea brightened, most likely at the prospect of guarding an empty flat. ‘Mind if I raid the boy’s freezer?’
‘You can’t be hungry again.’
‘It’s a constant struggle, mate.’
‘Of course you can’t.’ Cullen left him to it, but each step made the reek of vomit that bit stronger.
13
‘Fuck me.’ Bain lay in his hospital bed, the sheet pulled up to his neck. ‘Feels like someone’s fucked my head with a nailgun.’
The doctor grinned at him. ‘Nobody’s penetrated any part of you.’
‘Eh?’
‘No lasting damage, but we are going to monitor your vital signs for the next twelve hours and you should be fine. As for your erection, that should diminish on its own in the next three to four hours.’
Cullen grinned at her. ‘You mean he’ll stop declaring his love for me?’
‘Here’s hoping.’ She laughed. ‘I need to check something. Be right back.’ She stepped through the crack in the curtains into the rest of the ward.
‘I’ll see where Methven’s got to.’ Cullen followed her through and checked his phone. Nothing. ‘Need me to change your nappy?’
‘Fuck off.’ Rustling sounds came from behind the curtains. ‘If anyone hears about this, you’re fuckin’ dead. You hear me?’
‘You’re asking me to keep it out of my report?’
‘Sundance, I’m begging you. Don’t make me beg.’
‘You need to get the doctor, the paramedics, McCrea and all the staff at the hospital to falsify their reports too.’ Cullen gave him a few seconds. ‘Brian, you’re a victim. Please, tell me what you remember.’
Bain was huffing and puffing behind him. What the hell was he up to in there? ‘I went in, asked the boy a few questions. Next thing I know you’re standing over me and the room’s fuckin’ spinning.’
‘You remember telling me you loved me?’
‘Fuck off, Sundance.’
‘You did. Want to have my babies.’
‘Fuck. Off. Can’t believe that bastard got us.’
Cullen shook his head. ‘How? Did you have a cup of tea or something?’
‘Hardly.’ The doctor was back, with a grimace. ‘He was attacked and knocked out, then plied with ecstasy. There’s a blunt force trauma to his skull. Which is one of the thickest I’ve ever encountered.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I’m serious. If it wasn’t for your Cro-Magnon cranium, you’d be dead or in an induced coma. Be thankful for your thick bone.’
‘Show you a thick bone, darling.’
She rolled her eyes at Cullen. ‘Don’t confuse the effects of the Viagra with anything else.’
Bain huffed and huffed behind Cullen. He muttered something.
Methven was in the corridor, staring into space, jangling change in his pocket. He looked up and flashed his eyebrows at Cullen. ‘Well, this is a sodding disaster.’
‘Sir, as much as I want to take full ownership of this, DS Bain entered the suspect’s property alone, against my orders.’
‘Mm.’
‘The suspect overpowered DS Bain, drugged him and possibly sexually assaulted him.’ That made Methven raise his wild eyebrows. ‘We’ll know more when the rape kit is analyzed. And that’s on him. Myself and DC McCrea were forced to enter to rescue DS Bain, where we found him drugged and wearing a nappy. Petersen was too much of a match for the pair of us. If it’d been all three of us plus DC Hunter and DC Gordon, well, it would’ve been a different story.’
The curtain swooshed open behind him.
Methven looked over Cullen’s shoulder. ‘Sodding hell, Brian, put it away.’
Cullen turned back round.
Curtains open wide, Bain was buttoning up his shirt, his distended belly hanging over his trousers, which had a tell-tale bulge at the front.
Cullen shut his eyes like he could delete the image from his head. ‘My god.’
‘Trying to get changed in fuckin’ peace. Pair of fuckin’ creeps lurking around my fuckin’ bedside.’
Methven left him a lingering look, then frowned. ‘Why did you go in alone?’
‘Boy was heading out.’ Bain sat on the edge of his bed. ‘Only chance for us to catch him.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he escaped from our clutches.’
‘Right enough. Worth a go, though. Just because I got into a bit of a swedge when I tried to apprehend the suspect doesn’t mean it was a stupid idea.’ Bain shot Cullen a glare, whispering: ‘Warning you.’
Methven wagged a finger at Cullen, then grunted. ‘What I don’t understand is why Petersen tried to date rape you.’
Bain’s eyes bulged. ‘Who said anything about rape?’
‘Well, he plied you with MDMA and Viagra, didn’t he?’
‘After knocking me out.’ Bain shook his head. ‘But he put a nappy on us. Hard to stick his boabie up my arse if I’ve got a fuckin’ nappy on!’
‘The doctor’s performed a rape kit on him, we’ll know the results soon enough.’
Bain’s skin had gone even paler.
‘He wanted to kill him.’ Cullen winced. ‘This is the same MO as the serial rapist McCrea’s been investigating. Drugged, nappies, dumped in a bin. Bain was lucky to get out of there alive.’
Bain swallowed hard. ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ.’
Methven frowned like he was trying to process it all. ‘Given that Skinner and Bain weren’t raped, you’re saying it looks like Petersen’s escalated to murder?’
‘The only reason I was targeted is I was fuckin’ closing in on the arsehole.’
But Cullen didn’t quite buy it. ‘Look, I agree that Petersen’s likely our guy for those rapes, but what I don’t get is why escalate to murder? Rape is all about power, domination and control. What’s the benefit of adding murder to that? Why would Petersen leave Iain Farrelly’s home with Paul Skinner if he intended to kill him? There’s got to be some sexual motivation in there somewhere.’
‘I’ll fuckin’ sexually motivate you.’ Bain tucked his shirt back in and scowled at McGovern. ‘Doc, can I get out of here?’
She smiled at Cullen. ‘Trouble is, I need someone to supervise him.’
‘Babysit him, more like.’
‘You said it.’
Cullen spotted McCrea lumbering towards them, biting into a Mars bar like it was a grenade pin. ‘I’ve got the perfect candidate.’ He set off to meet him, catching him halfway to the stairwell door. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Got relieved back at the flat.’ McCrea gave him a strange wink. ‘Some boy with mad lamb-chop sidies turned up asking about the laptop.’
Elvis. As far as Cullen knew, he was IT forensics trained. ‘You know if he found anything?’
‘No idea, man. How’s the gaffer?’
‘Go and have a look.’ Cullen let him go, but got out his mobile and called Elvis.
‘I’m looking, I’m looking.’
‘And are you finding anything?’
‘This isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse, Scott.’
‘In your what?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Okay, so can you please take it to Charlie Kidd back in Leith Walk.’
‘Right, so you don’t want to hear what I’ve just found?’
‘Stop pissing about! I’m not in the mood!’
‘Cool your jets. An email from KLM just landed on Petersen’s laptop, confirming a flight f
rom Glasgow to Windhoek. One-way, departing in ninety minutes.’
Cullen’s turn to frown. ‘Where the hell is Windhoek?’
‘Capital of Namibia.’ Methven stood there, nostrils flaring. ‘Why?’
‘Petersen might be flying there.’
Methven set off at a furious pace. ‘Well, we need to get to the sodding airport!’
14
Cullen sprinted through the departure lounge, pressing his mobile hard against his ear. ‘Have you got hold of him yet?’
‘Negative.’
Cullen picked up his pace, tearing across the carpet floor behind Methven. The board showed Gate 10 for the KLM flight to Amsterdam Schiphol.
Closed.
He sprinted past Gate 8, then bumped through the queue at Gate 9, winding out into the walkway.
‘Police! Coming through!’
Gate 10 looked ominously empty, just the ground staff speaking into handsets, yawning into fists.
Methven was at the left-hand desk, shouting at the attendant.
Cullen stopped next to the other desk, fumbling his warrant card onto the floor. He needed to try the calm and rational approach and maybe get some results. ‘I need… to get on board that plane… Now. Please.’
‘Sir, I’m afraid it’s too late. The flight’s airborne.’
Cullen looked out of the window at the plane leaving the runway. At Petersen escaping justice. He sucked in breath. ‘There’s a man wanted for murder on board.’
She frowned at a screen. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s wasn’t possible.’
‘But the Chief Constable of Police Scotland phoned ahead and—’
‘Sir, this isn’t my fault, so I request you lower your voice.’
‘I’m not shouting!’ Cullen pocketed his warrant card. Sweat drenched his back. His legs were on fire now, not just his shoulder.
She led him a few steps away from the desk. ‘Sir, this is an operational matter between your people, flight control and the bosses in Amsterdam. As much as I want to help, I just can’t. I tried. Believe me. I’m really sorry.’ She used a smile that might disarm a ten-pint drunk too shit-faced to get aboard a flight to Prague, but too drunk to realise it.
Cullen tried his best ten-pint drunk smile, the one that’d always get him past bouncers into a nightclub. ‘Can you radio the captain or the head air steward and confirm that he is actually onboard?’
‘Fine.’ She walked back to her desk and it looked like she was packing things away rather than checking.
Methven joined Cullen, his face like ice and thunder. ‘Well?’
‘He’s gone, sir.’
‘I can’t believe we’ve sodding lost him.’
‘Happened to Craig Hunter a couple of years ago.’
Methven just grunted.
The attendant called over: ‘Sir, the flight’s via Amsterdam. Looks like Mr Petersen has a three-hour layoff before our flight to Windhoek, so you might luck out there.’
Methven seemed to collapse in on himself. ‘A three-week layover wouldn’t be enough. We’d need to get a European Arrest Warrant fast-tracked and it takes a long time. Meanwhile Petersen could be anywhere.’
Cullen nodded. ‘Craig tried that too.’
'Ah yes, your ex-partner was involved.’
‘You mean Chantal?’
‘Not in a police sense.’ Methven narrowed his eyes. ‘I meant DI McNeill.’
‘Right.’ Cullen gritted his teeth, but didn’t want to give Methven any satisfaction. ‘If I remember, it was going to take forever to come. Like you say, three weeks wouldn’t do it.’
‘Meanwhile, Petersen’s on his way to sodding Namibia.’ Methven scowled. ‘Namibia doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK. Until Mr Petersen decides to hop over the border to South Africa, we’re sodding snookered.’
Cullen stared hard at him, fury burning everywhere, but especially in his shoulder. Felt like Petersen had reopened an old wound. ‘I’m not giving up.’ He walked back over to the desk. ‘You got anything?’
‘Thanks, Mags.’ The attendant had the phone handset to her ear, avoiding looking at Cullen. ‘I’ll wait.’
Her screen showed the flight manifest, with Richard Petersen in seat 17A.
Cullen waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Is he onboard?’
She rolled her eyes at him and pulled the handset away from her mouth. ‘Do you want me to help or not?’
Cullen held up his hands. ‘Sorry.’
‘His passport and boarding pass were scanned, but we don’t know if he actually got on the plane.’ She put the handset back to her head then looked away from him. ‘What’s that, Mags?’ She frowned, then turned back to Cullen. ‘His seat’s empty.’
Hope surged deep in Cullen’s gut. ‘He’s not onboard?’
‘Steady. They’re just checking the bathrooms.’
The hope now burned in Cullen’s chest. If Petersen wasn’t onboard, where would he go?
Cullen scanned the departure lounge again. This area was far from the shops and the food places. The boarding flight in the next gate was in the last gasps, a stroppy teenager arguing the toss with the desk attendant. Another two live flights in the adjacent five gates, one with a series of queues, the other just full of anxious travellers glancing at the ground staff, waiting for the announcement and the ensuing scuffle.
No sign of Petersen in either.
So again, where would he go? His ticket let him get through security but it would only let him board that Amsterdam flight and that was with ID, so no chance he could swap tickets with someone else. To change it, he’d need to get back to the front desk the other side of security, and any payments would likely show up on the laptop Elvis was playing with.
But how could he know they were on to him?
Was he even here? Had the ticket been an elaborate ruse, knowing they’d find his ticket receipt on his laptop or a transaction on his current account?
One crumb of comfort was it didn’t seem to fit the little Cullen had seen of Petersen.
Methven joined him. ‘You’re sure this isn’t a red herring? It’s mighty convenient that we found his boarding pass in an email.’
‘I have thought that.’ But Cullen couldn’t face the alternative, that Petersen had hoodwinked them. Then again, it’d mean he was still on British soil and they actually had a hope in hell of catching him.
Cullen got the attendant’s attention. ‘Did you scan his boarding pass?’
She clicked at the keyboard. ‘We did.’
‘And he definitely got onboard?’
‘I’d need to check CCTV.’ The attendant tapped the screen. ‘He’s a regular flyer. He paid for this flight with points.’
Cullen pointed at the door, a gangway connecting to the plane. ‘Is there anywhere else he could’ve gone that way?’
‘Just the plane. All the doors are alarmed.’
‘Did you make a call for Mr Petersen at any point?’
She nodded. ‘Asked him to make himself known before boarding.’
‘That’s it, then.’ Cullen stared at Methven. ‘They spooked him. He knew we were on to him.’
Normally Cullen would rage at such utter stupidity, but this… This could be their saviour.
‘So where the sodding hell is he?’
Cullen took in the area again. Further down the hall was a dead end. All the doors looked locked and alarmed. They’d come through the only entrance, maybe not checking very thoroughly, but he still couldn’t see Petersen in the crowd. Meaning a good chance he was still here. ‘The toilet. Stay here!’ He shot off across the walkway, muscling through a long queue of walking travellers. ‘Police! Coming through!’
The toilets forked left for gents, right for ladies, straight ahead for the accessible bathroom. He tried that first, but it was empty. So he entered the gents, but slowly and carefully. A long row of sinks, an elderly man splashing water over his face at the first one, looking round at Cullen through bleary eyes.
Up ahead were
urinals, sectioned off for speed and convenience, but no sign of Petersen. To the left was a long stretch of doors. Twenty, maybe thirty, on both sides. It figured; most travellers wouldn’t want to splash their carry-on luggage or risk leaving it unattended anywhere.
He snapped out his baton and started opening the doors. The first couple on the right swung wide, same story on the left. The third was locked. Cullen listened.
‘There’s somebody there.’ An English accent, whispering hard.
‘Alex, just stick it in again. I won’t see you for months.’
A couple having illicit bathroom sex before separation. Illegal, sure, but not exactly Cullen’s highest priority right now.
‘Rich Petersen! I know you’re in here!’
The next one swung open, revealing an old man naked except for his underpants. ‘For crying out loud!’ He slammed the door shut and the lock rattled.
The door behind Cullen thunked open. Someone wrapped his arms tight round Cullen’s throat. ‘You’re all mine!’ Petersen, pulling Cullen back through the door. It clicked shut and the lock slid.
Cullen tried to elbow him, but he couldn’t make contact.
Petersen squeezed his arm and Cullen dropped his baton.
‘There are thirty cops here looking for you.’
‘Fucking bullshit.’
‘We know about the rapes. We know about Paul Skinner. It’s over.’
Petersen tightened his grip around Cullen’s throat. ‘Shut your fucking mouth.’ He grabbed Cullen’s hair and knocked his head against the stall door.
Cullen went down like a sack of tatties. Felt like his jaw had popped out.
A boot hit his stomach and pain flared all up his body. ‘You think you can take me down, eh?’ Another boot, but Cullen caught it before it did too much more damage.
Not that he could do anything with it. Cullen tried to trip him up but Petersen stayed upright. Again, same result. No matter how many times he tried.
‘You fucking bastard!’ Petersen started punching now, hard and fast, the blows switching between crunching his ribs and his shoulder blades.
Cullen tried to block him, but they just peppered his arms like gunfire. He searched around for anything he could use as a weapon. His baton was behind the toilet, wedged in the corner.