by Ed James
‘Brian, someone’s stolen my car! Outside work!’
‘Shite. Have you called it in?’
‘Of course. What the hell—’
‘Look, I can’t help. I’m sorry, but I’m stuck here. Please, call it in. They’ll send someone round and—’
‘I need to get home to Mum. She’s with your dad and they’ve got—’
‘Okay, okay. Get a taxi. Call the cops, get a crime number and tell them I’ve instructed you on this, okay? Use my name and rank. Then call your mum. And call me when you get in the taxi, okay?’
‘Okay.’ She sounds a lot calmer. Christ, it’s so good just hearing her voice. ‘I better go.’
‘Love you.’ I end the call and sit back.
Christ. On top of everything else.
Elvis pats us on the arm. ‘Come on, Bri, let’s get those tests.’
13
Cullen
Cullen powered along the road, racing the tram as it headed through the west Edinburgh badlands on its way to the airport. Seemed unusually quiet today and, there you go, it slowed to pull in at the next stop, so he won.
Then his phone blasted out through the dashboard speakers. Shabba Ranks, Mr Loverman. Supposed to be ironic, but he couldn’t get it to bloody stop.
Angela was sitting in the passenger seat, arms folded and shaking her head at him, but she was grinning like an idiot on super-strong ecstasy, mouthing along to the “Mr Loverman” and “Shabba” lines. ‘Pull in and answer it, then.’
Cullen pulled in to the prison car park, then stopped. He neither wanted to bounce Evie’s call or have Angela listen in to it. ‘Can you go and park it?’
‘Sure thing, Shabba.’
‘Thought it was on silent.’ Cullen opened his door and grabbed his phone. He got out, leaving the engine running, and let Angela pass him, humming the tune’s melody. He stepped back and Angela raced across towards the prison car park.
Cullen walked over to the low bollards guarding the prison’s entrance and answered it.
Evie was still there. ‘Bothering to pick up then?’
‘Long story.’
‘Oh, Scott.’
‘You got my text, then?’
‘Would rather find out by a phone call than text that my supposed boyfriend had endangered himself by taking someone down solo, especially if that someone might’ve had Covid.’
‘Supposed?’
‘That’s the bit you’re focusing on?’
‘Look, I tried calling, but you didn’t answer.’
‘Right. Sorry, I’ve been busy too.’
Cullen scanned the car park for Angela, trying to work out how long he had before she came over to listen in. The wrong words and he’d be living it down for months, if not years. That song was going to remain long in the memory. ‘Evie, times are tough. I’m back in bloody uniform.’ He stared down at the black material, slightly too big for a change. ‘You know how many people are off sick? I’ve lost Lauren Reid already, and Craig Hunter’s self-isolating.’
‘What?’
‘He was the one who took him down on that roof.’
‘Took who down? What roof?’
Shite. He hadn’t told her about Keith Ross. Just Kenny Falconer. ‘Never mind.’
‘You went up on a rooftop without back-up?’
‘They were burning a phone mast!’
‘Still.’
‘Who told you?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘Lennox, wasn’t it?’
‘Maybe. But you were playing cowboy again, Scott. We’ve had this discussion.’
‘It was necessary.’
‘Maybe once, but you’ve been at it twice now.’
‘We caught him.’
‘And the ends justify the means?
‘Look, Kenny wore a mask and we didn’t get that close to him. It was fine. Stupid arsehole was taking this anti-5G pill he’d got inside and—’
‘Christ, Scott.’ Evie let out a long sigh. Still no sign of Angela walking over. ‘I really like you, but you’re such a stupid bastard at times.’
‘I’m my own worst enemy, I know.’
‘Have you been tested?’
‘I have, but it’s still probably too early. Something about pre-symptomatic versus asymptomatic.’
‘Can never be too early.’
‘Well, you can, but I know what you mean.’ And he spotted Angela heading over. He needed to hit her now. ‘So, you know how I mentioned Craig self-isolating?’
Evie groaned. ‘Because he can’t be in the same place as Chantal, you’ve offered him your flat?’
‘Right. How did you guess?’
‘Don’t pretend that you’re not extremely transparent, Scott. This is your way of saying you want to stay at mine, isn’t it?’
‘It’ll only be a couple of weeks.’
She didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Sorry, Scott, but I can’t catch it. You know what it’s like with my mum. If she falls again, I’ll have to go round there and help Dad pick her up. I can’t be in the slightest danger of giving her this bug. If you’ve even been inside a hospital, there’s a big chance you’ve got it and—’
‘It’s okay.’ Cullen smiled at Angela as she passed. ‘I’ll find somewhere else.’
‘Don’t be like that, Scott.’
‘No, I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t think.’
‘Look, I’m being… Look, I know you meant well and I’m proud of you protecting Craig and Chantal, but you need to be just as protective of me and my family, okay?’
Cullen tried to swallow the thick lump in his throat. ‘Okay.’
‘You cook that chicken and do that gravy and we’ll talk later. Okay?’
‘Sounds good. I’ll pick it up with my clothes and head—’
‘Scott, I’ve really got to go. Lennox has caught another community death that might not be Covid-19 and has me leading it.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘It’s never fun. I like you, Scott.’
‘Like you, Evie.’ With a smile, Cullen put the phone away.
Much as he hated it, Evie made him think of a sort-of ex with massive commitmentphobia, not that it got that far. She would put up all these barricades against him. And with good reason, but still.
It’s not like they hadn’t been an item for three years and been on four fortnight holidays in that time.
Still, she just needed time to make her decision. Not his; he had other options, but staying with her felt pretty good right now.
Cullen walked over to the entrance.
Angela was holding the door open for him. ‘Mr Loverman…’
The custodial manager’s office was even worse than Methven’s office back in St Leonard’s. Cramped and fusty with most of the space devoted to two walls of CCTV monitors showing every aspect of the prison’s interior. Which didn’t seem to be much. Usually, the place would be thrumming with energy at this time, with the lags heading back to their cells. All Cullen could see was a solitary guard walking down a corridor.
‘Lockdown, eh?’ Joe Dowling crunched back in his chair and bit into a bourbon biscuit, sending crumbs cascading down the front of his uniform, joining a splodge of what Cullen took to be hot chocolate. ‘Been an absolute ‘mare.’ He smoothed down his thick moustache but didn’t clear all of the crumbs. ‘Poor Carlo had to step down to cover the shortfall.’ He sighed. ‘With what happened at the infirmary, I’ll have to dust off my old truncheon, I tell you. Methven’s your boss, aye?’
‘For my sins.’
Dowling laughed. ‘Well, he was saying Carlo might never smile straight again?’ He slurped hot chocolate from his mug then dunked the biscuit in. ‘I mean, not that he’s much of a smiler, but getting panned in like that just for doing his job? I mean…’
And while one guard was on the way to Jimmy Deeley’s lair in the Cowgate, another was getting his jaw rewired, Dowling was eating biscuits.
Cullen needed his help, though. ‘That risk�
��s all part and parcel of what we do, isn’t it? One of my lads lost four front teeth breaking a door down.’
‘Ouch.’ Seemed to put Dowling off his biscuits for a few seconds. ‘Your boss says there’s a nationwide manhunt on for them?’
‘That’s the thing. As you should know, we’ve recovered Kenny Falconer and he’s in custody awaiting transfer back here.’ Cullen checked his notebook again, not for any reason other than to stop having to look at Dowling’s ugly mug. And that boil looked ready to pop. ‘Sir, the issue is that we still don’t know the identity of the other prisoner.’
‘And there’s the thing, I don’t either.’
‘How?’
‘Long story, mate.’ Dowling pointed at the bank of screens. ‘I’ve asked the lads to do an all-hands roll call, but there’s a big protest about safety in here. The inmates aren’t exactly happy about what’s going on.’
‘You mean the pandemic?’
‘Right. They don’t feel their health is being taken into account.’ Dowling looked at Cullen, then Angela. ‘I mean, between us three, the time to worry about that was before you stuck the nut on someone or defrauded someone’s granny or whatever. But we’ll protect them; that’s our job.’ He reached over for another biscuit. ‘Long and short of it, Inspector, is we won’t know who’s missing until they decide to calm themselves down. I mean, I’ve every sympathy with their cause but I’ve got five lads unaccounted for just now.’
‘Would any one of them be Kegsy?’
‘Kegsy?’
‘Kenny Falconer let the name slip. Might’ve bribed some of your lads.’
‘Bribed?’
‘Do you know of a Kegsy?’
Dowling bit into his biscuit and chewed for a few seconds. ‘There’s a lad goes by that, aye.’
‘Can you find him on your magic screens here?’
‘Right, fine, but I don’t really need to.’ Dowling picked up his phone and hit a button. ‘Hiya, Dongle, see that Kegsy boy down your bit—’ He nodded slowly, eyes locked on the biscuit plate. ‘No, that’s what I thought. Cheers, and I’m still due you a couple of pints so next time I see you… Aye, cheers, Dongle.’ He carefully rested the phone down. ‘Kegsy was in the hospital, being tested for Covid-19, but he was ailing and needed intensive care so Davie was moving him on to the Royal Infirmary. Needed to be put on a ventilator according to Dongle there. David Gilchrist, the guard supervising Kegsy, he was the one Kenneth Falconer stabbed.’
‘What have you got for this Kegsy?’
‘Let me see.’ Dowling tapped at the keyboard. ‘Here we go. I’ll print it for you, pal.’ The printer behind him whirred into life. ‘Oh, would you look at that. The father is one of your lot. A DI Brian Bain.’
Cullen’s blood froze. ‘What did you say?’
‘No middle name.’
‘But you said Brian Bain?’
‘Aye. The escapee is his son, Kieron Bain.’
14
Bain
‘Open wide!’ Hard to tell the gender of the nurse. Or even the species, likes. They’re dressed in a hazmat suit like we’re in Chernobyl and I’m glowing green or something. ‘Wider!’
‘I’m fuckin’ gaping here.’ But it just comes out as a gargle.
They stick this six-inch swab into my nose and it’s ten times worse than hay fever, goes down into my mouth and right to the back of my tonsils and it fuckin’ hurts. Rummaging around in there like I’m the bad boy here. Like I’m carrying this fuckin’ plague. Like a rat.
Fuck sake.
And the swizzle stick is back out and this lad or lassie sticks it in a wee bag. Like being in a custody suite. ‘Okay, you’re in luck. We’ve got a Cat Three testing facility just down the block. Your test will get processed this afternoon, so keep your cellphone on.’
I let out a breath. ‘Thanks.’
‘I suggest you stay in this quarantine area until we know for sure.’
‘Right. Will do.’
And they leave us to it. Stuck in a plastic box, just me and my racing fuckin’ thoughts and a smashed-in mobile.
Fuck, this must be what all those gays felt like back in the eighties. Not knowing, but suspecting…
And…
Fuck. I mean, this isn’t as deadly as AIDS, but it’s ballpark, right? And if you’re unlucky enough to—
My fuckin’ phone goes. Hard to make out who’s ringing us through all the cracks. But it looks like it begins with an A, so it must be the little lady. So I answer it. ‘Hey, did you call it in?’
‘Yeah, I did. They said they’ll look into it. Baby, I’m at your dad’s place. He’s not here.’
‘Are you sure? Could be in the cludgy?’
‘No, I’m inside. I’ve checked. He’s not here.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck. All this shite with Art fuckin’ Oscar and I’d forgotten all about my old boy. ‘You said your mum was going round?’
‘Aye, she’s outside. Hasn’t seen him.’
Shite, fuck, shite. ‘Hold on a minute.’ I kill the call and hit Dad’s number.
Answered straight away. So he’s not missing!
‘Dad, you’ve scared the living shite out of—’
‘Brian, it’s me.’ And it is her. Shite. ‘He’s left his mobile behind.’
Fuck sake. Halfway across the world and my fuckin’ father’s missing.
‘My old man… He’s… Where the fuck is he?’
She’s breathing hard, like she’s walking fast. ‘I don’t know, Brian. But I need to get home. Mum’s there and—’
‘Sure, sure. You get home. Okay?’
‘Uh, yeah. What are you going to do?’
‘No idea. I’ll give you a bell when I know more.’
‘Okay. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’ I kill the call and sit back on this lumpy, lumpy chair.
And everything hurts. My legs, my back, my buttocks. Both arse cheeks now. I mean, how the fuck do you injure your arse?
Fuck sake, this room feels like a prison.
When I’m back home, working like normal and bossing it, anything goes wrong with the old boy and I’ll be straight round there, sorting shite out like a fuckin’ pro.
But I’m a long way away and there’s fuck all I can do. The missus is toiling with everything we have to cope with and I’m being a selfish prick here.
Nah, fuck that. That’s just the Onion Man talking. That snide little shite who gets at you when you’ve had too much booze, whispering all that hate in your ear when you’re fuckin’ fucked. Not exactly a session today, but it’s sometimes worse when you sober up. I mean, I must’ve been just under the limit when we nicked that boy’s motor.
And that head shrinker talked about the Onion Man and how to deal with him. Called it hangxiety, or something. Said to focus on what I can control, what I can do right now. Don’t dwell on the past as I can’t change that.
Load of horseshite, but I know how to play the boy at his own game.
Still has a fuckin’ habit of biting us on the arse, though.
And fuck, it’s still sore.
I check through my phone again and, through the cracks, I think I’ve got the numbers for all the hospitals Dad could’ve gone to. One in Livvy, three in Edinburgh. That’s a fuckin’ start, right?
So I dial St John’s in Livvy. If anything’s happened to him, he’ll most likely be there. Right?
‘We’re sorry, but due to an unprecedented call volume, we are unable to take your call. Please call your local GP’s surgery. If your matter is an emergency relating to the coronavirus, please attend in person.’
Beep.
Shite.
I hit redial. Fuckers usually put this up to deter timewasters.
‘We’re sorry, but due to an unprecedented call vol—’
‘We’re sorry, but—’
‘We’re sorry, but due to—’
Shite.
I need to find the old bastard. Where is he?
I’ve got to get home, back to Scotland. Ba
ck to sanity. Should call the Home Office, get on the next flight back home, even if Elvis can’t get on. Got to get back to find him. Save him.
He’s missing now. And I’m stuck here now. But it’s too late. Way too late. If we’d flown back from Florida, I’d be home and ready to crack skulls together.
No, I need to find someone to track down my old boy.
And there’s only one man I can trust.
15
Cullen
‘Thought Kieron grew up in Dalkeith, though?’
Cullen glanced over at Angela. ‘That’s the thing. Like his old man, he never grew up.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
Angela shrugged.
‘But as far as I remember it, Kieron lived with Bain and his wife in Bathgate. They divorced a few years back, then she moved to her parents’ home in Dalkeith, which she inherited. I think. Kieron lived with her, became a cop. Trusted the wrong arsehole DS, stole some evidence for him, got busted for it. The rest is history.’
‘I know. I was there, Scott.’
‘Right. Hard to keep it all straight in my head these days.’ Cullen felt all the years of service pressing down on his shoulders. ‘After all the shite with Kieron went down, she sold up and bought this place.’
And what a place it was. The house occupied a double plot overlooking the golf course. Three-metre tall wooden fences with an expensive-looking entry system. Given what her son had done, Diane Cameron – formerly Diane Bain – clearly thought she needed protection. Or maybe it was just from her ex-husband.
Two cars in the parking bay outside. And in every other bay nearby. And it was the sort of neighbourhood where a strange car would draw attention. Besides, any sort of commotion could alert Kieron to the presence of cops. Assuming he was anywhere near.
So Cullen drove off through Emery’s View, one of those quiet streets every developer was throwing up nowadays. Bigger plots, a good gap between neighbours, enough garage to fit three cars, and not directly overlooked. And they charged through the nose for them.