Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (17 page)

"I'm just off for a walk, then," said Chantal. "Let you and lover girl have a nice cosy chat."

Chantal winked at Cullen as she marched off, pulling her mobile out of her pocket. He got in the passenger seat.

Sharon reached over and kissed him. "Nice to see you," she said.

"And you," he replied. He got the pizza box open. "Here you go. Half spicy chicken, half margarita."

"Hope none of the spicy stuff has got on my side," said Sharon, tearing off a slice. "I'm starving. I'll even forget my diet."

He took the bottle of Diet Coke out of his jacket pocket. "They didn't have any cups," he said. "You okay sharing with me?"

She laughed. "Sharing body fluids with you hasn't exactly been a problem," she said.

He took a glug of the drink. "Chantal okay with me sitting in her chair for a bit?" he asked.

"It's good to have a break," she said, through a mouthful. Gone were the days when she'd cover her mouth when eating, thought Cullen, though she wasn't exactly a noisy eater, which was one of his pet hates. "Can't believe that she was standing there for so long chatting to you. Don't want our cover blown."

Cullen vaguely knew what case she was working on - something to do with football hooligans. They were parked just off Lochend Road, part of the featureless expanse that sat inland between Leith and Portobello. The street they were on was populated with post-war detached bungalows, mostly all with comprehensive extensions upstairs. He'd stopped at the Domino's in Musselburgh on his way through, having used the app on his iPhone to pre-order and beat the queue.

"I hope your day has been less eventful than mine," said Cullen.

"I couldn't conceive of a less eventful day," she said. "Watching cars driving up and down the street, a few people walk up and down. Getting nowhere with this, but Wilko's criminal intelligence is renowned."

"Isn't it his lack of intelligence that's renowned?" he asked.

She laughed. "There is that, of course," she said. She took another bite of the pizza and chewed, while she opened one of the pots for dunking the crust in. "Rumour is that he is getting that detachment to HQ. This case is part of it. Can't believe that Turnbull is letting him get away with it."

"In his interests to get shot of him, though," said Cullen, "isn't it?"

"True," she said. "We are supposed to be busy, though."

"Bain isn't exactly balancing many cases just now," said Cullen. "He's barely balancing one, in fact."

"How do you mean?"

Cullen finished chewing, already starting to tear off the next slice. He swallowed the chunk down with some more Diet Coke. "He's not actually done anything today," he said. "He's been in the Incident Room in Garleton, 'strategising' at his whiteboard as he put it. It's ridiculous. I've put in over a hundred miles today, traipsing around half of East Lothian, and he's just sitting in that office fucking about."

Sharon closed her eyes. "And I'm just picturing the scene of you telling him exactly what you thought of him," she said.

He chewed another slice. "I might have done," he said. "I picked him up on his strategising, told him I thought I was doing everything on the investigation."

"Oh Christ," she said. "You better watch, you'll get as bad as him one day."

"Hardly," said Cullen, sticking half of the slice in the sour cream dip. He put it in his mouth and chewed. He took out his notebook and flicked through the pages as he ate. "I've filled out twenty pages of my notebook today. He'll be lucky to have filled half of one."

"Keep your powder dry, Scott," she said. "It's not going to do you any favours fighting with him. He'll be straight on to Turnbull, moaning about you, asking to get someone else, and I'll end up losing Chantal or something."

"I'll bear that in mind," he said. "I've half a mind to go to Turnbull myself. Could do with a DI that's actually bothering his arse. Even Wilko would be an improvement on Bain when he's in this frame of mind."

"In a way, I've got sympathy for him," she said.

Cullen almost spat Diet Coke all over the interior of her new car. She'd traded in the old yellow Punto for the Focus and ever since had suggested that he do something similar. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he said.

"Think about it," she said. "Bain was the big boy in the team under Whitehead when he was a DCI. Then he moves upstairs and Turnbull comes in to replace him. Pretty soon afterwards, Turnbull brings another DI in - Cargill. He's pretty vocal about looking to move Bain and Wilko on."

"I think he's getting what he deserves," said Cullen. "He's had this coming for a year or so."

"He's got a good track record, though," she said. "He could go to HR with this. He's solved two high profile cases."

Cullen poked a finger at his chest. "
I've
solved two high profile cases," he said. "Me, not him."

"Were you Senior Investigating Officer on either?" asked Sharon.

"No."

"Well, then," she said. "You're his resource and any collars are his collars."

"I suppose so," he said. He looked down at the pizza box - he'd finished his half and two half-empty tubs of dip were all that sat on his side. He looked out of the window - the sun was hiding behind the taller buildings towards Seafield Road but the sky was still a bright blue. "You going to be here all night?"

She looked over at him. "I'm afraid there's no nookie for Scotty boy tonight," she said.

Cullen thought about joking but the mental scars of the arguments over his previous shagger reputation were still fresh. "Fine," he said. "There's football on. Back to world war three with Tom and Rich, then."

"They're like an old married couple," she said. "Tell them if they shared a room it'd mean Tom could get more money in."

He laughed. "I just might do that."

"You don't have to credit me, either," she said.

"It'll be different when we move in together," he said.

"I know," she said. "The sooner you tell Tom, the better."

He looked down the road and saw Chantal walking toward them, carrying a blue carrier bag. He looked down at the pizza box.

"You going to eat that last bit?"

"I'm telling you, it's Spain," said Tom.

"Germany," said Rich. "They're tonking Holland here, that's got to make them favourites."

They were in the hall in the flat, sitting watching the football. 2-1 to Germany with ten minutes to go. Cullen was keeping well out of it - they could argue like that for hours once they got started - and he tried to focus on the match.

Richard McAlpine - Rich - was a schoolfriend of Cullen's. He was tall and almost painfully skinny. He worked on the News Desk at the Edinburgh Argus on the Royal Mile - he'd worked on a couple of papers on Fleet Street in London but had decided to move to Edinburgh, the promise of a promotion was too great in an industry in freefall. Him and Tom just did not get on - the more they argued, the less Cullen cared about it being his fault.

"Spain have a much easier route to the final," said Tom. "Germany will probably have Italy and England."

"It doesn't matter, Tom," said Rich. "They will beat them. And they'll beat Spain. They are much better. I'm so fed up of that 'no striker' shite."

"Not you too!" shouted Tom.

"Eh?"

Tom pointed at Cullen. "Scotty was moaning about that the other night," he said.

"Good man, Skinky," said Tom.

It was yet another nickname that Cullen had collected, though one of the first. It was slightly better than the standard that Bain would inflict but not by much. The root of it was Cullen Skink, a thick fish soup that Cullen couldn't stand - whether that was because of the nickname or not, he didn't know any more.

"It's beautiful the football they play," said Tom.

"It's the Harlem Globetrotters," said Rich. "It's technically impressive, but it's about as exciting as listening to you having a wank."

Tom's eyes were like thunder. "I'm fucking warning you," he said, "this is my flat, I can kick you out."

"You won't, though, will you?" asked Rich.

Cullen had seen that sort of behaviour so many times from Rich over the years. He could be a cheeky fucker, capable of the most outrageous statements and insults. At least part of the antagonism from Tom was the fact that Rich was gay - Cullen reckoned that he probably should have told Tom before he moved in, but he figured it was good for Tom's tolerance.

"You pair are like an old married couple," said Cullen, finishing his bottle of Budvar.

Rich burst out laughing, smacking his hand against the table.

Tom's expression had got even worse. "Scott, I'm fucking warning you," he said. "Any more of that shite and you're getting kicked out as well."

"It feels like I live with two gay men sometimes," said Cullen. "You know, if you moved into one room, you could rent out Rich's room and make more money."

"If I had a red card, I would be waving it," snapped Tom.

"Sure it's not a pink card?" asked Rich.

Tom leaned back on his seat and folded his arms. "You're both out of order," he said.

Cullen's iPhone blinked up with a text message. It was from Derek Miller, brother of a former colleague who had died in an accident.
'U want 2 meet on 25th? Deek'

They had an arrangement where they'd meet up on that date every month and try and remember Derek's brother. Cullen texted a response.
'Aye - sure. Windsor Buffet? SC'

He got up and took his empty beer through to the kitchen. "I'm going to bed," he said, leaving Rich and Tom sulking in front of the remnants of the match.

 
Thursday
14
^th
June 2012

Cullen cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder.
 

He was slouched back on a chair, listening to hold music, typing away at his laptop - a recent IT initiative had removed a pantheon of out-dated desktop PCs and replaced them with underpowered and flaky laptops that docked to the keyboard, mouse and monitor they previously used. The intention was to make the force more reactive and agile, but all it had done in Cullen's mind was lead to a larger queue at the IT support desk on the fifth floor of the station.

He was in Leith Walk station, trying to lose himself amongst the daily bustle that was going on around him and to avoid Bain, who was out at Garleton again, no doubt strategising. Cullen had already received three phone calls from him that morning, two of which he had successfully bounced. The last - over an hour ago at half nine - he'd had to answer. There hadn't been any point to the call, just checking that Cullen had bothered pitching up for work.

He reached over and took a drink from the large black filter coffee he'd been working his way through. His belly was starting to rumble so he decided to head up to the canteen for an early sitting, just hoping he got off the call.

"Inspector Mark Harvey," said a voice at the end of the line with a thick Bristolian accent. "Is that DC Scott Cullen?"

"It is," said Cullen.

"Okay," said Harvey. "Someone gave me a note to call you back. Bit surprised that you're still on the line."

"Yeah, well, I'm known for my persistence," said Cullen.

"Is that Glasgow you're based, then?"

"Edinburgh," said Cullen, yet again astonished at the ignorance of Scottish geography by those south of Manchester.

"Oh, I've been to Edinburgh," said Harvey. "Lovely city."

"There's another side to it," said Cullen.

Harvey laughed. "I can well imagine," he said. "Reminds me of Bath. The stories I could tell you about that place."

Cullen had only seen Bath on the TV - what he'd seen looked similar to Edinburgh's new town, grand and austere. From the size of the place, he couldn't imagine it had a Niddrie, a Pilton or a Wester Hailes, though, or even a Leith or Gorgie.

"I gather that you were involved in the investigation into the disappearance of an Iain Crombie at Glastonbury festival in 1994," said Cullen.

"That's correct," said Harvey. "Strange case. One of the strangest. You know, we get five disappearances every time that festival runs from all over the country. Not all of them turn up."

Cullen had the original case file from the Lothian and Borders archive open in front of him. To his great disappointment, it hadn't named any officers in other jurisdictions who were active in the investigation, and Stanhope couldn't recall any names when Cullen had called earlier. All it had was a reference to a case number on the Avon and Somerset books that Cullen had spent all morning attempting to track down, leading to Harvey being identified. The original case file had him listed as DC Harvey, but eighteen years later he'd risen to the rank of Inspector and had moved back across to the operational side of the force.

"What can you tell me about Mr Crombie's disappearance," said Cullen.

Harvey gave him a long and drawn out anecdote about the original investigation, which ran for a period of months. Cullen stopped typing notes after eight minutes of the monologue. He gave Cullen a few minutes on Frank Stanhope's sojourn south, which seemed to involve the two of them pub crawling their way around Glastonbury, Bath and Bristol. Cullen's hunger started to get the better of him and he started drifting off. He spotted Irvine and a couple of others coming back from the canteen with polystyrene containers of food, the strong smell of vinegar on chips gradually coming his way.

"So the trail ended with Miss Wiley," said Harvey.

Cullen sat bolt upright, grabbing the handset with his left hand. "Say that again?"

"We believe that Mr Crombie had disappeared with a Mary-Anne Wiley," said Harvey. "She lived in Harrogate at the time."

"Did anyone speak to her?" asked Cullen.

"This is the difficulty with a case such as this," said Harvey. "We had two active constabularies involved, and then we needed to get a third. My DI at the time was under pressure to pass the case on. This was a Scottish disappearance, not a local one. So we passed it on to Yorkshire."

Cullen hurriedly flicked through the Lothian and Borders file but couldn't find any reference to a Mary-Anne Wiley, just a reference to Yorkshire police - Stanhope had mentioned it, but none of the detail had been recorded. He needed to speak to Stanhope about it.