by Ed James
Last time he’d been in this exact stop, it was an old shale bing, a giant mound of earth kicked up in the sixties to extract oil to refine at nearby Grangemouth.
Cullen had walked this beat in uniform, and thought he knew the area inside out, but it had changed a lot. On the outskirts of Pumpherston, an old village now swallowed up by Livingston, but itself taking in new developments like this one. Close enough to the motorway but far enough away from the worst estates. And Cullen could rank them any way you wanted. Livingston was the archetypal Scottish new town, designed in the sixties to house emigres from the slum clearances in the bigger cities, and placed in specially chosen locations where they could grow and thrive. And Livvy was still growing.
But all that growth and capitalism meant that the first free parking bay Cullen could find was what felt like half a mile from the address. ‘This’ll have to do.’ He pulled up and killed the engine.
Angela got out first and smoothed down her sleeve, the armband with new chevrons to signify her Acting position. ‘So these stripes are basically Bain’s?’ Not that she had them yet. They only existed on a sheet of paper. Actually, they only existed as words on Methven’s lips, not even an email.
‘Something like that.’ As they walked, Cullen tried calling again, but the call was either bounced or didn’t make it across the Atlantic. That, or Bain had run out of data by downloading all that My Little Pony porn. He stabbed his finger against the redial button, wishing it was Bain’s eyeball. And still the call failed. ‘How long can he keep ghosting me?’
‘You’re not exactly top of his Christmas card list, are you?’
And just then, Cullen’s phone rang. The Killers, Mr Brightside. Meaning one man. One stupid arsehole.
Cullen answered it. ‘You decided to stop bouncing my calls, then?’
‘Sundance, this isn’t the fuckin’ time for that shite. I need you—’
‘You’re right, but it’s too late. I can’t save you from this one. You buggered off to America for a fortnight without formal approval. And you signed off DC Gordon’s holiday too.’
‘Sundance, I’m sorry about that, but I need you—’
‘No. Stop. I stood up for you when no one else would. I put my neck on the line for you with Methven and this is how you repay me? Not even so much as an apology?’
‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Happy now?’
Not particularly. ‘You used to constantly tell me off for my lack of professionalism.’
It still hurt. All the times he’d tried to save Bain from the mercies of Methven, and the stupid prick had let him down big time.
What’s worse, he’d made him look like a complete idiot to Methven and his bosses, made it look like he couldn’t control his team.
‘Brian, I’m two men down now because of you. And you’ve been ghosting me.’
‘Sundance, there’s something up with my old man.’
‘Your dad?’
‘I’m not fuckin’ talking about my husband, am I? Christ.’
Cullen didn’t know his father was still alive, or that he’d had one, and would have put more money on Bain having a boyfriend. He had kind of assumed he’d been grown in a lab somewhere. And as much as he wanted to get on with it, he knew Bain wouldn’t let go until he’d got his oar in first. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m still stuck here, but I need you to head round there. The wife’s not heard from him today and he’s not answering his door. Called in on her way back from work and he’s not in.’
Christ, this was rich. ‘Look, I’m in the middle of something here, Brian, I can’t just—’
‘Sundance, I am fuckin’ begging you here. Please. He’s not a well man.’
‘Look, I’ll see what I can do. Text me his address.’
‘Please. I need you to do it now.’
‘After the way you’ve been acting?’ Cullen sighed. ‘I’ll head there soon. Okay?’
‘Thanks, Scott. I fuckin’ mean it.’
‘Tell me you’re on your way back to Scotland.’
‘Next flight. Swear.’
Cullen would believe that when he saw it. ‘Listen, the reason I’ve been calling you is that Kieron’s escaped from prison.’
The line went dead. Or at least it sounded like it. ‘Fuckin’ fuck’s fuckin’ sake.’ More silence. ‘Are you fuckin’ winding me up here? This is not even remotely—’
‘Wish I was winding you up. A guard was stabbed and killed, another severely beaten.’
‘Fuck sake.’
‘Kenny Falconer escaped with him.’
‘What? He’s hanging around with that wee shite?’
‘We’ve recovered him, but we need to find Kieron. Anything you can do to help us bring him in will—’
‘That fuckin’ shite is dead to me. You hear?’
‘I hear, but do you—’
‘I’ve no idea where he is, Scott. Sorry.’ And it sounded it. He’d not called him “Sundance” for the first time in what felt like years. ‘And if I knew anything, I’d tell you. Just, please find my old man. If Kieron’s on the lam, Christ. He might’ve taken him.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Well, they’re close. Despite all the shite Kieron’s done, the old boy’s still kept in touch with him. Gets to speak to him on the blower, on account of his… mobility issues.’
Finally some sort of lead, then. ‘Okay, text me his address. Catch you later.’ Cullen killed the call and his phone buzzed with a Livingston address. Not too far away. But this was a much more likely avenue. He set off again with renewed purpose. ‘I swear, when Bain gets back from America, he’ll be lucky to have a job.’
‘It’s Elvis I feel sorry for. He probably thinks their little trip is above board.’
‘Hard to feel too much sympathy for him, though. Recording a podcast in America. What a pair of idiots.’
Angela glanced round at him. ‘You know how much they’re making from it?’
‘What?’
‘Elvis was telling me he’s had to set up a limited company to make sure they don’t get fleeced for tax.’
‘Seriously?’
‘I mean, I don’t know what this pandemic will do to it, but he reckoned they were on track to make at least fifty grand this year. Each.’
Cullen felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. ‘Just from talking about beer?’
‘Craft beer, Scott. Lot of breweries throwing money at them. Makes you wonder why they still do the day job.’
Cullen could only shake his head as they walked up to the gates. He pressed the buzzer and tried peering through the gaps in the fence, but the panels of wood were offset to prevent such nosing.
‘Hello?’ A female voice, sounded local. Maybe Edinburgh. And definitely familiar.
‘Police, ma’am. Looking to speak to Diane Cameron.’
‘Can I take your name and warrant number?’
Cullen spotted a small camera lens hidden behind some darkened glass. He held his warrant card up to it. ‘DI Scott Cullen.’
‘Be out in a sec.’ And it sounded like she said “Shabba”.
Cullen frowned at Angela. ‘Did you hear that too?’
‘What, Mr Loverman, you thought she said Shabba?’ She was grinning wide now. ‘Guilty conscience, much?’
The gate opened automatically, with a smooth motion like those fancy drawer closers Cullen used to mess about with in John Lewis when bored shitless during a shopping visit.
And Yvonne Flockhart stood there, hands on hips. Her long hair was in a loose ponytail and she didn’t have the usual makeup on.
Evie.
Cullen’s girlfriend.
What the hell was she doing here?
Cullen walked up to her. ‘What’s—’ And it hit him. ‘This is the unexplained death?’
‘Sure is.’ She got out her mobile and tapped out a message to someone. Typical. Then she put it away and craned her neck round him, but her eyebrow was arched at Angela. ‘Oh, hey there. Bee
n a while. Heard you’re a sergeant now?’
‘Christ, I barely know that. And it’s only Acting.’
‘Still.’ Evie pursed her lips. ‘Lot of that going on right now.’ She grinned at Cullen. ‘So that’s three of you Edinburgh muppets all in Acting roles?’
Angela raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m hardly a muppet.’
‘No, but Scott and Crystal Methven are.’
Cullen rolled his eyes at her. Did she really think that? ‘Listen, we’re—’
Footsteps clicked across the dark stone path. DI Terry Lennox was striding towards them, hands stuffed in his pockets. Still junkie thin, but at least his hair was cut down to a sensible length these days. Made him look slightly more cop than dealer. ‘Scotty Cullen.’ He held out a hand, waiting for him to shake it.
‘I’m not even going to fist bump you, Terry.’
‘Smart. How the devil are you?’
‘Adequate.’
‘Adequate, eh?’ Lennox laughed, way harder than was natural, then he put his hands back in his pockets. ‘So. What brings you here, Scott?’
‘Two Saughton prisoners escaped from the infirmary in Edinburgh. Kieron Bain was one of them.’
‘Oh God.’ Evie huffed out a sigh. ‘The victim’s son?’
‘So it’s a murder?’
‘Not so fast.’ Evie fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Listen, Deeley’s still working away inside. And I’d invite you in, but it’s a crime scene.’
Lennox held up a finger. ‘A potential crime scene. This could all just be a misunderstanding.’
‘So is it, Terry?’
Lennox stared off into space for a few seconds, then looked up at Cullen. ‘Let’s go for a wee walk, DI to DI?’
‘Sure.’ Cullen followed him, giving Evie and Angela a shared nod, then strode across the limestone path leading around the house. ‘So?’
‘Heard you’re back on the beat while all this is going on?’
‘Right. Took a gang of reluctant homeless people into a hostel.’
‘Beats this work.’
‘You want to bring me up to speed?’
‘Okay, so Diane Cameron called her GP a week ago on Monday, complaining about a sore throat and a fever. Been hell at St John’s in Livvy and the ERI is getting battered too, so the doctor told her to self-isolate. Next thing we know, she’s dead.’
Cullen saw into the living room now.
A pale woman lay slumped on a reclining chair, a duvet tucked up around her. Mouth open, staring up at the ceiling.
A figure in a crime scene suit was inspecting her. Jimmy Deeley, unless there was another pathologist with that exact curvature of belly.
‘Paramedics showed up a couple of hours ago and recorded it as another Covid-19 home death.’ Lennox sighed. ‘So many of them out here. People are shit scared to go to hospital in case they catch the virus. Trouble is, a lot of them have got it, only they don’t want to go in to hospital in case… Well. Going on a ventilator is no fun.’
‘So why are you guys here?’
‘Yesterday, we got a number of calls from her son, Kieron, from inside prison. Kid was desperate, saying it wasn’t Covid-19. Said his mother was being held captive and insisted it was murder.’
‘How does he know?’
‘Search me.’ Lennox stared over the tasteful pebbles and garden ornaments. ‘That was my next port of call, but if he’s on the lam? Shite on toast.’
‘When was he told?’
‘Yesterday morning. A guard by the name of Carl Kelleher broke the news to him.’
‘Kelleher’s in A&E himself. Broken jaw.’
‘Ouch.’ Lennox winced. ‘The only good side is we’ve got a load of different numbers Kieron’s been using, presumably borrowed mobiles from other inmates. The prison service can get them shut down by the networks.’
‘You think there’s anything in this?’
‘Let’s just see, shall we?’ Lennox nodded inside the house.
Cullen looked in the house again.
No sign of Deeley now, just the victim. Bain’s ex-wife, mother of his son. Dying like that didn’t bear thinking about.
The front door clattered open and footsteps crunched across the gravel.
‘Ah, Young Skywalker.’ Deeley was tearing at the crime scene suit, his smile twisted by a frown. ‘What brings you to sunny Livingston?’
‘Kieron Bain’s escaped prison.’
‘Well, unless he’s an expert at hide and seek, the boy’s not in there.’
‘Lennox here says he—’
‘Aye, aye.’ Deeley kicked off the trousers and tossed them into a discard pile. ‘And you’re wondering if there’s anything in his fanciful theory this was a cover-up?’
‘Go on.’
Deeley screwed up his face as he thought hard. ‘Well, from what I gather, Ms Cameron presented Covid-19 symptoms, but hadn’t been tested. Usual drill, told to stay at home and self-isolate. Then she turned up dead.’
‘So did Covid-19 kill her?’
‘That’s the thing. I’ll need to get some fast-tracking done, but it looks like she’s been poisoned.’
16
Bain
Fuck sake, this place is chaos.
When we left with Art, the hotel was empty. Now? Now, it’s like the fall of Rome. There’s a queue of irate punters trying to check out stretching right over to the fuckin’ lifts. I mean, just fuckin’ go! Get!
And the fuckin’ arseholes are blocking the fuckin’ lifts, meaning one thing…
STAIRS.
I open the door for Elvis and it’s like four fuckin’ flights. Won’t just be Art Oscar’s ticker packing in, I swear. ‘After you.’
Elvis grips the handrail but doesn’t start climbing. ‘You know you can talk to me as much as you want, right?’
‘I am.’
The boy frowns at us. ‘Eh?’
‘I am talking to you as much as I want here. Which is fuck all.’ I barge past the wee shite and start up the stairs, two at a fuckin’ time. I’ll show these cunts who’s boss!
‘Bri!’ Elvis is already out of breath. Fuckin’ say what you like about cops of my vintage, at least we were fit, unlike this jobbie. Boy’s a desk jockey, good for the occasional rummage on CCTV, but see if it’s about him nailing some boy to the wall in a square go? Nae danger. ‘Come on!’
Up to the first floor and, I tell you, this isn’t so bad. Legs are feeling gooooood and my breathing’s solid. Should defo get back to the running, I think.
‘I think you need to talk to me. What’s going on?’
‘Elvis…’ I stop at the landing between the floors and step aside.
This big red-faced good ol’ boy comes down. Hawaiian shirt and suitcase you could hide a body in.
Elvis catches up with us. ‘Come on, Bri. Talk.’ He’s looking at us with genuine concern in his eyes.
Christ, aside from her indoors and my old man, he’s the one constant in my life. The one guy who’ll stand by me. I act the cunt on that podcast, taking the piss out of him, but that show… It’s my life. Might be just talking about beer, but we’re talking about so much more. It’s like that Zen and the Art of Motorbike Maintenance, it’s all about the subtext. And Elvis makes it happen. Records it, buys most of the beer, edits it and uploads it. Fucked if I had to do all that shite myself. Well, I’m okay at buying the beer – most of the stuff I get it in is damn fine – but the rest of it? Fuck knows.
And he’s been getting all the business side ship shape, too. Advertising piling in, likes. Breweries desperate to get a fuckin’ toasting from the Billy Boy. And I tell you, right now, I much prefer being Billy to Brian fuckin’ Bain. Almost fifty grand this year already.
‘It’s what you were saying, Elvis, about Sundance and Crystal Methven being after my head. It’s getting to me, man. Last few years haven’t been so good for me, have they? Used to be the golden boy. Jim Turnbull’s best DI, great clearance rate, competent team. And now that’s all in the toilet. Those two have it in f
or me.’
‘That what you think? That Cullen’s trying to get rid of you?’
‘Don’t dignify him by using his name. Sundance is fine.’
‘That’s not what I’m getting at. You think they’re trying to get rid of you?’
‘I do.’ My nostrils are burning. Better not be coming down with that Covid shite, I tell you. ‘Soon as we get back, just you watch. And this podcast’s the only thing I’ve got that isn’t shite.’
‘What about—’
‘Och, fine apart from the old home life. I mean professionally. We’re doing a great thing, Elvis. Supposed to be talking to three hundred punters in that auditorium tonight. Three hundred to hear us two talk shite with Art Oscar. I mean… Thank you.’
‘Cheers.’ He can’t look at us, though. ‘But that’s not what I mean. You’ve been weird since the hospital.’
‘Had time in that room, didn’t I?’
‘Come on. Out with it.’
He deserves the truth, to be honest. So I step aside again for two Japanese boys in sharp-as-fuck suits to walk past, then set off up the stairs again. ‘Truth is, I had to ask Cullen to look in on the old boy, right? Only thing is…’ Fuck me, saying this shite out loud… ‘You mind Kieron? My son?’
‘Before my time, Bri. You don’t talk about him.’
‘Good reason for that, Elvis. Boy’s dead to me.’ Up past the second floor now, come on, still got this. ‘Few years back now, the stupid prick was on the job. Uniform constable in Ravenscraig in West Lothian. Found a body in a Range Rover at the foot of a shale bing, but I think it was a bit more like he was there when the engine was started, if you catch my drift. Then he stole some evidence from a case to protect a mate of his.’
See talking about this? Fuck me, getting your balls battered by a bunch of wee neds has nothing on this shite, I tell you.
‘Mate of mine, too. And Cullen’s old boss.’ How fuckin’ times change. ‘Kieron and him got involved with some stupid pricks and…’
Have to stop at the landing for a breather, likes.
More footsteps coming down. A well-to-do couple, her lugging all the bags, him shouting the odds at her until he spots us. ‘Howdy.’