Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (2 page)

"Until it ran out," said Cullen, looking over and smiling.

While not the biggest of whisky drinkers, Cullen had drunk Dunpender whisky a few times - it was softer and lighter than a Highland or Island - and was the product of one of the remaining four vehemently independent Lowland distilleries. Each bottle carried a little cardboard information slip dangling from the cap - Cullen had once actually read through it as he tucked into a few nips of the stuff. He knew that the buildings had been converted into a distillery in the 1930s, but they looked fairly decrepit, as if the investment in the place had dried up at some point.

"I forgot how much meths you lot got through afterwards," she said.

"How did it go with Bain this morning?" asked Cullen.

"How do you think it went?" she asked. "I'll be lucky to get a year at this rate."

They'd driven in silence - she'd had a formal appraisal that morning and didn't want to talk about it. She had worked for Cullen for the previous seven months and was nearing the end of her Acting DC tenure - over the last few weeks she had shown nerves as she approached her formal assessment where she could just as easily become a full DC as be thrown back to the beat, going back to the Queen Charlotte Street station in Leith. Cullen had been mentoring her, but the formal assessments had been carried out by Bain.

"You'll be all right," said Cullen. "You've been in the police for as long as I have."

"I've not done the Detective Officers' Training, though," she said. "You did it, didn't you?"

"I did, aye."

"What sort of tenure did you get?" she asked.

Cullen had secured a seven year tenure when he was made DC - he didn't know whether Caldwell would receive such security. "A decent one," he said. "Mind you, I'll be stuck at DC for the whole length of time the way things are going."

"How long?"

"That's for me and Bain," said Cullen.

"Come on," she said. "The highest the guys at Tulliallan have heard of was five."

Tulliallan was the Scottish Police College, and where Caldwell would receive her final appraisal.

"Look, don't worry about it," he said, "you will get a decent tenure." He pulled his shades off, pleased that he had cause to actually wear them for once. "We'd better get in to see the big man."

They quickened their pace over to the sign-posted entrance. At least twenty workers were standing outside in the sunshine, most of them smoking. Cullen imagined that they would be enjoying the skiving opportunity that the discovery that morning would represent.
 

"Any local officers here, do you know?" asked Cullen. There should be local Detectives seconded to an investigation like this, he knew. That said, Bain was involved in a political maelstrom and was snatching at any investigation he could get, no matter how under-resourced it was likely to be, desperate to prove to the high heid yins that he was still a solid DI.

"I've no idea," said Caldwell. "You know more than me."

"Really?" he asked, with a wink.

She ignored the comment.
 

They were outside the front door, neither of them particularly keen to enter the building. A worker in black dungarees came out of the door.

"He better not call me Batgirl again," she said, referring to the latest in a long line of nicknames from Bain. "I am sick fed up of his nonsense."

"You prefer Robin, then?" asked Cullen, grinning.

"Even less so," she said.

"I forgot to tell you, my flatmate is a total comics geek," said Cullen, referring to Tom Jameson. "I asked him about it - turns out our DI Bain may be a bit of a geek too. He said something about Batgirl getting shot through the spine by the Joker and being stuck in a wheelchair."

"You kidding me?"

"No," said Cullen. "Tom said she was called Oracle afterwards. She was a hacker in a wheelchair or something." He smiled. "He did say that there were at least two female Robins, though."

Caldwell grimaced. "I would much rather be Robin than get shot through the spine."

They entered the main building and came to the Reception desk. A bored-looking woman in her mid-20s sat there - a name badge said 'Amanda'. She was being talked at by a familiar face - PC Johnny Watson. Cullen knew Watson from a previous case in the area. He was surprised at the turnaround in the five or so months since they'd last seen him - he had been a bundle of nerves, but now he leaned against the desk and flirted. He eventually looked over at them and smiled.

"Bain's up in the office," called Watson, pointing up the stairs.

"He's got his work cut out there," said Cullen. "She looks bored rigid by his chat."

"Good luck to him," replied Caldwell.

They climbed the stairs to the offices. Some ramshackle rooms lay off a large open plan office space, which was swamped with uniformed officers and a few Dunpender employees, dressed in casual work attire. Cullen quickly found Bain at the centre of the hubbub, giving a red-faced man one of his typical going overs. The room smelled old, like ancient whisky fumes or cigar smoke had embedded themselves in the structures of the building.

"Sundance," said Bain, smiling at Cullen, though without a hint of warmth, "glad you could finally join us."

Cullen didn't bother rising to the bait.

Bain pointed to the man with the red face. "This is Alec Crombie," he said, rubbing at his moustache, "the distillery owner."

Crombie was a thin man in his mid-60s, wearing full Highland dress - kilt, sporran, jacket, the works. His grey hair was pulled over in a tight comb-over, though Cullen spotted a few loose strands that curled away to freedom. Crombie turned his nose up at Cullen, then looked away. "This is an
absolute
nightmare," he said. "I'll lose
hours
of productivity and I have twenty people booked on a distillery tour this afternoon. It'll have to be cancelled and refunded."

"So what's happened then?" asked Cullen.

"I wish you'd listen to your voicemails," said Bain in a harsh undertone.

Cullen only ignored his voicemails if they related to one of many missed calls from Bain - especially if they were followed by another call less than thirty seconds later. Cullen still hadn't bothered listening to the first message.

"One of Mr Crombie's men was testing a whisky barrel they were just about to blend," said Bain. "He found a body in it. Definitely male. IC1. Not in a good state by the looks of things. The skull is all smashed in, all the teeth are gone."

"Any idea who it is?" asked Cullen.

Bain shook his head. "That's why we're here, I'm afraid," he said. "No chance of a dental records search, either."

"Is the man who found the body still around?" asked Cullen.

"He is, aye," said Crombie. "He's in shock, as I'm sure you can understand. I'd rather you left him be for the time being."

Crombie spoke in a deep, rich baritone. It was the sort of voice that would be on a regional Scottish radio station, lining up folk music in the wee small hours. His accent was also very distinct - one that Cullen had heard only occasionally and usually in men who'd attended one of Edinburgh's many private schools.

"Have you spoken to him?" asked Cullen, looking at Bain.

"Not yet," replied Bain. "As I said, he's been in a state of shock. Everything we've had so far has come from Mr Crombie here."

"Come on," said Cullen. "Let's see if he's a bit more communicative now."

Crombie looked reluctant but eventually led them over to the corner of the room. "This is Doug Strachan," he said. "He's the chief Foreman."

Strachan sat on a chair just by the open window - Cullen figured that it would have been easier to have gone outside but then it was more crowded than inside. Strachan looked to be of an age with Crombie senior and was heavily overweight. He had a bright red nose and his head was entirely bald - Cullen couldn't quite work out whether it had been shaved at the sides. He wore black trousers and a black Dunpender Distillery-branded polo shirt. A blue overcoat was cast aside on the back of the chair, a leather tool belt at his feet.

Standing by him was a tall man with a rugged dark beard, wearing the same clothes as Strachan.

"This is Fraser, my number two son," said Crombie, pointing at the man.

Fraser Crombie was bulkier than his father and about the same height. His dark hair was thinning and greying, but he looked like he could still play rugby. His dark eyes avoided contact with anyone in the room.

"He's the Master Cooper here," continued his father.

Cullen looked blankly at Bain.

"He's in charge of the barrels," said Bain, glaring at Cullen.

"Fine," said Cullen. "Can you go through what happened, please?"

Strachan rubbed his hand over his red face. Cullen could see sweat on the man's face - he figured that Strachan had been drinking, and not just a cheeky pint with lunch. That said, Cullen couldn't work out where the nearest pub would actually be - East Lothian was largely bereft of the traditional country pub. The closest he could think of would be the Castle Inn in Dirleton, a few miles away on the coast, or one of the three on Garleton High Street, up in the hills - certainly, there were none in Drem and the other towns were at least three miles - and a drive - away.

"I was just taking a sample of the special edition," said Strachan, staring into space, "before we start blending it." His eyes suddenly locked onto Cullen's, full of lucidity. "We check it for colour and aroma, and a few of us sample it before we approve it."

"I thought you did single malts here," said Cullen.

"We do," said Fraser Crombie. "But we blend different barrels together to get the right texture."

"Not a lot of people know this," said Alec Crombie, "but we water the whisky down from the distilled spirit. It starts out about 70 or 80 percent. Here, we get it down to an even 42 percent."

"Thanks for the trivia," muttered Bain.

Hearing Fraser and Alec's voices together, Cullen was amazed by the similarity in both voice and accent.

Crombie nodded at Cullen, then looked at Bain. "I can tell your Constable here has noticed as well," he said, grinning.

"What?" asked Bain.

"The family trait," said Crombie. "Generations of Crombie have been schooled in a particular way of speaking, father to son. I run a poetry recital group in Gullane, you know. Our family, before we started on the whisky, used to run public houses in the area. We were noted for holding court, but mostly for the rich voice. We would be asked to recant the verse of the day - Burns, mostly - and people would travel from miles around to hear my grandfather orate. I've made sure that Fraser here received the same training that I did, and that it's passed down through the generations."

Cullen caught the grin on Caldwell's face and had to look away to avoid laughing. Instead, he focused on Strachan, who looked increasingly agitated. "How many barrels were you sampling downstairs?" he asked, desperate to change the subject and just stop Crombie talking.

"Just the two," said Strachan.

Alec Crombie stepped forward, distracting attention from Strachan. "It was a Special Edition," said Crombie. "My distillery celebrates its centenary this year and we were planning on launching this exclusive bottle with a crystal quaich and an engraved hip flask to our loyal customers."

"I see," said Cullen. He glanced at Bain - it was obvious from his sour expression that the DI had heard a lot of this already. "DI Bain is a big fan of your whisky."

Bain grunted at Cullen. "It's
one
of my more favourites, put it that way."

"I hope you're not angling for some free whisky," said Crombie, his expression more disagreeable than Bain's.

"Perish the thought," said Bain. Cullen read his expression as a mixture of frustration at getting knocked back on the freebie and in irritation at Cullen for setting him up for the fall.

Cullen looked at Strachan again. "Was it the first or second barrel that you were sampling when you found the body?" he asked.

"Second," said Strachan. "The first looked very good. It's a shame."

"Where's the barrel now?" asked Cullen.

"Downstairs in the barrel room," said Bain. "James Anderson and a few of his boys are already going over it."

Cullen briefly closed his eyes. Anderson wasn't exactly one of his favourite Scene of Crime Officers.

"Now, any more from you, Cullen?" asked Bain.

"Yes," said Cullen. "Any idea who it is in there?"

Bain glowered at Cullen. "I really wish you'd been here the first time we'd asked that," he said, in an undertone. "We have a possibility."

"Indeed we do," said Alec Crombie, again stepping in. Cullen caught a look from Fraser Crombie to his father - he didn't know what to make of it. Crombie senior cleared his throat. "The prevailing theory is that it's the remains of an Irish worker we had here in the early 90s called Paddy. If memory serves, his full name was Padraig Kavanagh. He went missing around the time that those barrels were filled."

"Any idea how he got in there?" asked Cullen. "I would suggest that we can rule out suicide."

Crombie gave a shrug. "That is
exactly
what we would be looking for you to find out," he said. "This is a mystery to me. If you can do your job properly, then you may be able to enlighten us."

"You done?" asked Bain, looking at Cullen, but clearly infuriated with Crombie already.

"For now," said Cullen, not willing to test Bain's patience any further.

"Right, Cullen and Caldwell," said Bain, "I want a word with the pair of you outside."

They moved away from the buildings, over towards the pebbles of the car park. Cullen's knackered old green Golf was one of the many cars spilling onto the grass overflow car park. He reckoned that most of them would belong to the distillery's workforce - Bain's purple sport Mondeo sat on the pebbles next to three squad cars.

At the far side of the car park was a large, neatly trimmed leylandii hedge - through the gaps, Cullen could see glimpses of a garden across the stream. An attractive woman in her 30s was sitting there reading a book, occasionally sending them furious glances through the hedge. Cullen reminded himself that he was in a relationship and should stop looking around like that.