Dyed in the Wool (35 page)

McLintock reached over and grabbed hold of Smith's arm. "Sit down."

Smith stabbed the digit at McLintock. "I'll stand if I fucking like. This prick here's trying to tell me it's okay for a bunch of Scottish hard men to have a pair of nancy boys in their number."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Sit down."

Smith complied, shaking his head as he did so. "Fucking poofs."

"Is that enough reason to have them killed?"

"They made the rest of us look weak. All over the message boards across Scotland, people are talking about how the Ravencraig Rangers firm let a pair of jessies in. I'm the fucking laughing stock of this great nation."

"You had them killed because of their sexuality?"

"Aye, I did. That little bastard Kieron Bain told you about it, didn't he? I knew I shouldn't have trusted him. Shouldn't have got the little toerag to drive it off the edge of that fucking bing."

"So Kieron killed him?"

"Aye. We gave him a good pasting beforehand, but it was Kieron who started the engine and let him go." Smith shook his head. "After all I did for him over the years. Fuck's sake. That's gratitude for you."

"Why did you have Aitken killed in your car?"

"To throw you dickheads off the trail. I'm hardly likely to have used my pride and joy to kill that little arsehole. I could've done with the money as well."

"It almost worked."

Cargill leaned forward and terminated the interview. "Mr McLintock, I think we both appreciate your client's candour in the last ten minutes. I sincerely hope it'll avoid going to a lengthy trial in the courts."

"I bet you're a fucking dyke." Smith spat at her.

Cargill brushed at her blouse, her face screwed up. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're a fucking clam jouster, right? A lesbian. You make me sick."

"My sexuality is my own business." Cargill got to her feet and squared up to him across the desk.

Smith launched his head at her. He caught her on the chin, sending her sprawling. She collapsed on her chair and spun backwards, pushing Cullen over.

Smith shoulder-barged the PCSO into the wall and headed towards the door.

McLintock kicked Smith's feet from under him.

The PCSO stumbled to his feet and grabbed hold of Smith's arm, forcing it behind his back.

McLintock helped Cargill up. "I don't think I'll be representing him any more."

"Here you go, Scott." Cargill handed him a large measure of Glenmorangie. "I thought you'd be a Dunpender man?"

"I'm keeping well away from it." Cullen took a sip, savouring the burn. "How's the chin?"

"I'll survive. I got worse in my rugby days."

Methven and Wilkinson entered the Incident Room, busier and noisier than it had been for days.

"The Procurator Fiscal's happy to progress with the case against Craig Smith." Cargill handed them both shots of Dunpender.

Methven knocked his back in one go. "I imagine we'll need a bit more information to make it concrete."

Wilkinson topped his glass up. "Feels like as good a time as any to celebrate."

"How do we get DI Bain to confess?" Cargill sipped her whisky. "It's clear as day he hid the knife. We just have to get him to let it out."

Cullen refilled his glass. "How are the Complaints handling it?"

"Muir's back at Fettes briefing Fletcher. He spoke to DI Bain at his house. He still vehemently denies it."

"Do you believe him?"

Cargill threw up her hands. "Who knows?"

Sharon and Caldwell wandered over, carrying cups of wine.

Cargill raised her glass. "Thanks for your efforts this week, ladies."

Sharon avoided eye contact with Cullen. "What are the plans for this evening?"

"Wait till this lot dries up then head across the road."

Methven pushed Cullen aside. "I want to apologise for taking the piss earlier."

Cullen frowned. "About what?"

"The rising star stuff. I was a bit disparaging about it. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. I'm sorry for turning up pissed. Thanks for covering for me."

"That's okay." Methven winced before clutching his balls. "Need to go and check if they've progressed from golf balls to baseballs." He waddled away.

Sharon was next to him, drinking a glass of red. "What's up with Crystal?"

"Someone kicked him in the balls."

"Nice."

Cullen lifted his glass before moving off to a seat at the opposite end of the room. He sat down, stretching his feet out on a table. He sipped the whisky and stared out of the window, continually glancing at Sharon.

He'd been a total shit.

She'd not told the truth, but she hadn't gone out of her way to lie. He'd never asked her if she'd had a lesbian affair with Cargill. She'd never had to deny it.

Like he was a paragon of virtue himself.

He looked Sharon up and down. She was wearing a dark skirt and white blouse. He wanted to cuddle up alongside her, talk to her, get all of the shit out of his head. He wanted to apologise.

She caught his gaze. He looked away.

Focus on the work.

Bain had clearly hidden the knife, that was the avenue they were going down. What if it wasn't Bain that helped his son?

He sat upright, thinking other possibilities, trying to remember all the times he'd seen Kieron.

At the crime scene, Cullen had seen him talking to Irvine.

Irvine had also been in the Scene of Crime lab with Bain earlier.

Irvine lived in Dalkeith, same as Kieron Bain.

"Could you please describe your relationship with DS Alan Irvine?" Cullen sat in the interview room, chewing on extra strong mints to hide the stench of whisky.

Kieron frowned. "He's a good mate. He's helped me a few times with advice and that. How to be a good copper."

"So you're friends?"

Kieron paused for a few seconds. "I'd say so."

"How do you know each other?"

"We both live in Dalkeith."

"Quite a lot of people live in Dalkeith, Kieron. Did you just bump into him in the chip shop and become mates?"

Kieron smiled. "We're both Jambos."

"Now we're getting somewhere. I take it you mean Heart of Midlothian supporters?"

"Aye."

Cullen frowned. "I thought you'd be a Rangers fan."

"Cos of my old man?" Kieron laughed. "Mum's old boy played for Hearts in the sixties. He got in there before Dad did."

"Were there any formal means by which you and Mr Irvine were acquainted?"

"We were both in the Midlothian of Hearts Supporters Club."

Straight on the money. "Would that be a front for hooliganism?"

"No. It's a genuine supporters club. It covers all of Midlothian - Dalkeith, Lasswade, Bonnyrigg, Penicuik, Gorebridge."

"Did Mr Irvine steal the knife for you?"

"I've no idea." Kieron opened his eyes wide. "No idea at all."

*
*
*

"Can you hurry up, mate?" Cullen shivered as he leaned against Irvine's black sporty Astra, parked in the station's rear garage.

The specialist forensic officer looked up from the lock. "This will take precisely as long as it takes."

Cullen sighed. "My whisky's getting warm."

Methven chuckled then winced. "My sodding balls."

"Not getting any better?"

"Almost bloody basketballs." Methven closed his eyes and groaned. "I want to see this through."

"You could just get a taxi home."

"I've half a mind to take the rest of the Dunpender with me."

"You're welcome to it."

"Why is that one left?" Methven scowled. "All the Likely Laddie is gone first."

"It's a long story."

The driver door lock eventually popped up, triggering the central locking.

"Here we go." Cullen sprang into action, opening the passenger door.

His gloved hands search the footwells.

He checked the glove box.

He rooted around in the CD caddy.

He checked the back seat.

The door pockets.

Nothing.

"Got it."

Cullen got out of the car and raced round to the boot.

Methven pointed in. "There you go."

Sitting in the middle, wrapped in a Tesco carrier bag, was the knife.

*
*
*

An hour later, Cullen and Methven stood in the observation room, watching Cargill and Fletcher interview Irvine with the usual coterie of lawyer and Scottish Police Federation rep.

The interview boomed through the large speakers, almost too bassy. Fletcher's voice was so deep it was difficult to make out, but Cullen was there to hear Irvine.

Tears flooded down Irvine's cheeks. "I thought he was innocent."

"You thought Kieron Bain was innocent?"

Irvine nodded. "Aye, I did."

"You admit to stealing the knife from the Scene of Crime lab?"

Irvine nodded again. "Aye."

"You know how serious that is?"

Irvine didn't answer.

"DS Irvine, you're going to lose your pension. You are going to go to prison."

"I know." Irvine slumped down on the table top with his head resting in his arms. "He was a mate. He was innocent. We knew each other from the Hearts supporters club. He can't have done it."

"DS Irvine. Mr Bain has admitted to the crime. He is going to trial for murder. You are going to be charged with accessory to murder, amongst other things. You'll be lucky to be out of prison in five years."

Irvine looked up and screamed, the primal noise filling the small room. Cullen slammed his hand against the mute button, killing it dead.

He watched Irvine for a few minutes. He thought back to all the dealings they'd had, mainly to Irvine abusing him or to the time Cullen grabbed him by the throat. He'd wanted to see him suffer so many times.

Seeing it now didn't give him much joy.

"I'm off for a slash." Wilkinson put his latest empty pint glass on the bar. "Get us another Stella, lad."

Cullen sank another gulp of Staropramen - he was getting his money's worth from Turnbull's credit card. He ordered a brace of pints.

Wilkinson returned, drying his hands on his trousers. He took a big dent out of the pint. "Cheers."

Cullen held up his glass. "Cheers."

"Penny for them."

"It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

Cullen sighed. "All right, I was thinking back to just over a year ago. We were in here celebrating getting the Schoolbook Killer."

"Aye, before you proved Bain wrong."

Cullen shrugged. "Feels different tonight. It's my collar this time and it's airtight. I've worked hard to get this."

"Aye, it's a proper result."

Cullen looked across at the officers celebrating. "Buxton's off his head already."

"Aye, he's not been interviewing suspects or finding bloody knives."

"He's going to fire into Chantal Jain. Just you watch."

Wilkinson shook his head. "Remember what I said?"

"Never shit where you eat?"

"Right."

Cullen sank the rest of his previous drink and started on the next. "What'll happen with Irvine?"

"That's him proper fucked." Wilkinson took a deep pull of his drink. "You don't fancy a detachment to a hooligan unit, do you?"

"Is there a DS position in it?"

"Not likely."

"Forget it." Cullen glanced over and caught Sharon, sat with Cargill and Turnbull over by the door, looking at him.

Wilkinson patted a damp hand on Cullen's shoulder. "I'm off for a tab." He grabbed the pint and headed outside.

Cullen caught Turnbull's look as he watched Wilkinson stagger outside.

Turnbull got to his feet and made his way over to Cullen. They clinked glasses. "Bit of an odd drinking partner for you."

"I didn't used to think much of him but we've worked pretty well together on this case. He's not that bad."

"Better not be trying to poach my rising star."

"He might be."

Turnbull chuckled. "I'm glad to be rid of him." He fixed a stare on Cullen. "You've done well on this. Again. You're going places, Cullen."

"Thanks." Cullen blushed.

"I mean it. This isn't a fluke. Your tenacity and determination is a testament to us all. I know you like to bend the rules slightly, which is something you need to document on your personal development plan. I'll make sure you're looked after."

Cullen held Turnbull's gaze, feeling sweat trickle down his back. "Remember what I said earlier, I want to be a DS."

Turnbull slowly nodded. "Let me think about it. We've got a situation with DS Irvine. Let's see what we can do about that."

Cullen didn't get a chance to thank him - there was a commotion from the front, Wilkinson trying to push someone out of the door.

"Let me at him!"

Turnbull and Cullen jostled their way to the front.

Bain.

"Get yourself back home!" Wilkinson grabbed Bain by the collar of his polo shirt. "You shouldn't bloody be here!"

"That fat bastard is getting his fuckin' arse handed to him!" Bain spotted Turnbull. "You!" He pointed his finger. "You fucked me over here! I'm going to kick your fat fuckin' arse!"

"Stay here." Cullen pushed Turnbull back to the far side of the bar before going over to help, grabbing Buxton and a couple of uniformed officers on the way.

Wilkinson manhandled Bain out to the street, locking him in a wrestling hold.

Cullen squared up to him. "What the fuck are you playing at?"

Bain's eyes were almost bulging out of his head. "That fat bastard's fucked my career up!"

Cullen pointed a finger at him. "The only one fucking your career up is you. Get a cab home. Now."

"He's trying to fuckin' frame me for what my idiot son did!"

"Irvine stole that knife."

"What?"

"It was in the boot of his car." Cullen looked around at Wilkinson. "Come on, back me up here."

Wilkinson stepped in. "He's right. You're in the clear. I suspect your little show here won't do you any favours."

Bain looked at the ground. He didn't say anything.

Wilkinson flagged a black cab down. "Come on, I'm taking you home." He bundled Bain into the taxi.