Dead in the Water: When Cullen met Bain (Cullen and Bain Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 5)

by Ed James

  Just great…

  Hunter unlocked the door and bent down to stroke Mrs Tuftington, rolling around on the marble floor in front of him. ‘Hey, I’m glad someone’s keen to see me.’

  The little cat purred, then jerked upright and shot off up the staircase, ears back, tail all fluffed up.

  Hunter followed the cat up, just in time to see Mrs Tuftington slip through the cat flap in old Elsie’s flat door. He slid his key in the lock but didn’t twist it. Just listened.

  No Lady Gaga, no chat.

  Strange.

  He twisted the key and stepped in. Coffee smells and some light snoring, both coming from the lounge. He dropped his key in the empty dish and followed the smell.

  Yvonne was sleeping on the sofa, wrapped in Scott Cullen’s arms.

  Just in their underwear.

  Hunter dashed over and hauled Cullen off the sofa. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  Yvonne thumped down on the sofa, face first. ‘Craig?’

  Cullen was still asleep, not even complaining as his head bounced off the laminate. Pished out of his skull. Drooling like Ricky Falconer.

  ‘Surprised you could get it up, you drunk wanker!’ Hunter grabbed his feet and dragged him away from the sofa, along the hallway and out into the stairwell. ‘You filthy bastard!’ He pushed him down the stairs.

  Cullen rocked and rolled his way down the steps.

  Hunter stormed back in and grabbed Cullen’s clothes from the floor. The shirt had a red stain. Could be wine, but probably Yvonne’s lipstick.

  Filthy bastard.

  Filthy fucking bastard!

  He balled up the clothes and grabbed his loafers, then hurled the whole lot down the stairs, hoping the shoes hit Cullen’s face and the clothes landed in a pool of Mrs Tuftington’s piss.

  The least he deserved.

  Hunter slammed the door and stood there, fists clenched.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  Yvonne had been shagging Cullen in their flat. The one they’d bought together. Signed the mortgage together. Paid in equal amounts. And she shagged him here?

  How could she?

  How could he?

  Cullen was a mate. Someone Hunter was training. Christ. And all that shite he’d spouted about being over his womanising, well that was bollocks. Maybe Cullen and Yvonne had been going on for ages.

  Shite.

  No, only one thing for it.

  Hunter stomped through the hall back to the living room.

  Yvonne was tugging on a T-shirt, but struggled to poke her head through the hole. ‘Craig?’ She blinked at Hunter. ‘When did you get back?’

  Hunter stood there, toes curled back in his shoes. ‘You fucked Scott?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Scott Cullen.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was here!’

  ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Yvonne, I found you! In his arms!’

  ‘Nothing happened, Craig!’ She was sitting up now, but seemed way beyond drunk. Maybe already in the land of hangover.

  ‘So why are you in your knickers?’

  ‘The boiler’s broken again. Won’t shut off!’

  ‘So you just took his clothes off, aye?’

  ‘Craig, he walked me home. That’s it.’

  ‘It’s not it! You were spooning on our sofa!’

  ‘We’re both pissed, Craig. He was walking me home, we got talking. That’s it.’

  ‘And you got kissing, then shagging. At least tell me you used a condom!’

  ‘Craig! Nothing happened.’

  Hunter felt it hitting him. The fringes of his vision burning away like someone set fire to a roll of film. His eyes flickering, his nostrils struggling to keep still. That tugging back into his past, into the places he didn’t want to go.

  He shook himself free of it. ‘That’s it. We’re splitting up.’

  ‘Craig, nothing happened.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Hunter walked into the bedroom and grabbed his emergency overnight bag from the wardrobe, then stopped in the doorway, but didn’t look at her. ‘Going to my brother’s. I’ll come for my stuff later.’

  21

  Bain

  Saturday

  Fuckin’ hate this station. This close to Arthur’s Seat and the university, it doesn’t feel like the same city. Too posh for yours truly. Bunch of wankers here, too. All the cops are fuckin’ useless. Much prefer my patch down in Leith.

  Only good thing going for this place is the boozer around the corner. The Cheeky Judge. Now there’s a bar in which I’ve spent many a merry night, and many an absolutely shit-faced one.

  I lean back in my chair, lifting the front legs up and nudge McNeill to take lead, but she just sits there, playing for time like I must’ve taught her. Maybe.

  Tell you, Ricky Falconer really doesn’t look well, though. Way too thin. Like drug thin, and a stronger drug than the Valium he was caning last night. But at least he looks much healthier this morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  See the wonders a good kip can do you for?

  Not that I slept well myself. Lot going on in the old noggin, least of all this toerag hiding his even worse brother from us.

  McNeill leans forward, resting on her forearms. ‘Where is he, Ricky?’

  Ricky looks at her, then his gaze shoots away. ‘No idea who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Your brother, Ricky. Kenny.’

  ‘No idea. Not heard from him in ages.’

  ‘So you weren’t flying to Argentina with him?’

  ‘Not him.’

  ‘Just going on your own, were you?’

  ‘No. I was going with a mate. A boys’ holiday. Both big fans of Boca Juniors. Much better than River Plate.’ He spits into the corner of the room, but I think it’s just a mock thing. I fuckin’ hope it is. ‘Going to tour the stadium, take in a couple of games. The way it works over there is nuts, man. Apertura and Clausura, so you get two leagues in a year. Absolutely nuts. And Boca are in contention to win the Apertura. First time since the Clausura in 2008. Wanted to be there to see it happen.’

  ‘And this mate, he wouldn’t happen to be The Viper?’

  But Ricky isn’t looking at her. Or me. Just staring at the wall, like the plain magnolia is more interesting than an Argentinian football holiday with his mate. ‘No idea who that is.’

  ‘Alexander Drake?’

  ‘Nope.’ The slightest shrug. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Not your mate?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘See, Mr Drake flew to Argentina yesterday. He was due to stand in court for a rape trial, but the witness didn’t show. Next thing, he’s back out, then sods off to Argentina on a fake passport. We tried to get him in Amsterdam, but we were too late. His plane took off an hour ago. That’s him gone. Ricky, were you going to meet him over there?’

  ‘I don’t know who he is.’

  ‘He’s a drug dealer, Ricky. Worked at the gym where your brother’s a member.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t think Kenny was into working out.’

  ‘Ricky, where is Kenny? Is he in Argentina?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he booked on the same flight as you?’

  ‘Can’t you look?’

  ‘We can. Thing is, Alexander Drake was flying as one David Smith. So, I doubt your brother would be flying as Kenneth Falconer, would he?’

  ‘Guess not.’

  ‘So, who was he flying as?’

  ‘You’re not listening. He wasn’t going with us.’

  ‘So you were going to meet Mr Drake over there?’

  Ricky scratches his scrawny neck. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Sandy got an earlier flight. Must’ve paid for it.’

  ‘You know he was in court yesterday, right?’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘He was bailed. His passport was in custody. But he fled the country.’

  ‘Christ. I had no idea.’


  ‘He’s gone. Which is a shame as his victim won’t get justice for her ordeal. But Kenny… Your brother, on the other hand, has been dealing drugs to people. There’s a strain of heroin that’s killing people. Fifteen and counting.’

  ‘That’s… That’s awful.’

  ‘Ricky, if there’s—’

  ‘I’ve no idea where he is.’

  ‘But we found you in the flat above his shop.’

  ‘Aye, pulling a favour for him. Keep an eye on the place while he’s away.’

  ‘And you weren’t going to meet Kenny in Argentina?’

  ‘Nope. See. Thing about Kenny is…’ He snorts, then sniffs, then slumps back in his chair, arms folded. ‘Our old man served in the Falklands. Right? Lost an arm, made him a really angry man. Used to beat the shite out of us.’

  With one fuckin’ arm? Christ!

  ‘Then Kenny got bigger and started to dominate. And… And Dad took his life, Mum kept on at the government to get compensation from the other side. Kenny was with her all the way. So he would never go. And Kenny blamed what happened to us on the Argies.’

  ‘And yet you got obsessed with Argentinian football?’

  Ricky looks right at us. ‘Now you mention it, it is a bit weird.’ Daft sod. ‘Believe me, the last place Kenny’d go is Argentina.’

  ‘And where’s the first place?’

  Ricky stares at McNeill for a few seconds, then scratches his neck. ‘Thing is, if I tell you, he’ll be really angry with me.’

  ‘Aye, I get that. But the thing is, Ricky, I promise you I won’t let him know where we got his whereabouts from.’

  Ricky screws up his face tight, like he’s trying to will himself out of existence, or at least out of that room. ‘That stuff about the heroin is on the level?’

  ‘Could reel off a list of victims’ names.’

  Ricky unscrews his face and nods at us. ‘Fine.’

  22

  Cullen

  Cullen opened his eyes and shut them again. Way too bright in here. And what the hell was that noise? Cleaning? In his flat? Was that Tom? This early on a Saturday? Christ.

  He rolled over in his bed and hit his head off something. Where was the duvet?

  He opened his eyes again, taking it much more carefully this time.

  He wasn’t at home, in his room in a flat.

  No, he was in a police station.

  Lying under his desk.

  Shite.

  And he had no idea how he’d got there. He remembered Elvis, panel-beaten at the party in that hotel. Then talking to Yvonne Flockhart. Then…

  Well, at least he had clothes on. His suit. The shirt was stained red.

  Wine.

  But where were his shoes?

  Oh. He’d been using them for a pillow.

  Wanker.

  He checked his watch. Half six. So bloody early. No idea how long he’d slept. Or if he’d slept instead of being in a coma.

  So he’d blacked out.

  That was bad.

  Really, really bad.

  His mouth tasted of stale wine.

  And not just red, some white too. And some aniseed.

  Sambuca.

  Stupid, stupid bastard.

  He tried to sit up, but his head felt like something had cracked in there. Felt like he’d fallen down a flight of stairs.

  Christ, if he’d fallen in the station, it’d be on CCTV. Someone would be sending videos around of him making a tit of himself.

  ‘You got lost, sunshine?’

  Cullen knew the voice. That fanny DI from Leith Walk. Bain, was it? He pushed himself up to a crouch then to standing. ‘Dropped a pound coin and was—’

  ‘Aye, shite you were.’ Bain laughed at him, a full-throated roar. ‘You were kipping on the floor like a jakie bastard.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Why haven’t you got your shoes on?’ He was resting against his chair back, grinning away. ‘Forget it. You seen Craig Hunter?’

  Cullen got a wave of nausea and saw Hunter’s face, twisted with rage. Dragging him by the feet, shouting at him. He had no idea what it meant. Some kind of leftover remnant of a dream? He got onto his chair without falling off it. ‘Sorry. Don’t think he showed up at the party last night.’

  ‘Buggery.’ Bain scratched his moustache. He had a nasty-looking rash around it. ‘Are you on duty?’

  Cullen couldn’t remember. He’d no idea what day it was. ‘I’ll see if I can find him.’ Cullen spotted his mobile on the desk. He held down the 3 button and it started calling Hunter. The number didn’t even ring. ‘Right, he’s not answering.’

  ‘Typical.’

  ‘Why do you need him?’

  ‘Just, got a dunt to run and I need as many bodies as possible. You’ll do, even though you stink like a vineyard’s cess pit.’

  ‘You cleared this with Davenport?’

  ‘No idea who he is, or if he even exists, but Big Luke says it’s fine. Grab as many bodies as I need.’ Bain gripped Cullen’s shoulder. ‘Consider yourself grabbed.’

  23

  Hunter

  ‘No, Terry, no!’ Hunter jerked awake and jolted upright, fists clenched, ready to lash out.

  Where the fuck was he?

  A dark room, light bleeding through the thin curtains. Some shapes moved around, but he couldn’t pick anything out, so he reached over to the side. A table. And a light on top of it. His fingers crawled up and he flicked on the switch. Both bedside lights and the overhead all blazed on. Pale purple walls, darker curtains. Walls filled with framed photographs. A tall wardrobe with the top drawer hanging open.

  Aye, Hunter knew exactly where he was.

  His brother’s flat. The spare bedroom. And not for the first time.

  The memory hit him hard, anger burning in his guts like a boiling kettle.

  Yvonne cuddling in to Cullen on their sofa. The one he’d sworn and cursed his way through assembling one Saturday afternoon. And one Sunday morning.

  How could she?

  How the fuck could she?

  Him.

  Him of all people.

  How could he?

  Hunter knew Cullen’s reputation, had heard it from a few sources, but put it down to exaggeration. Seeing it in person, man. They’d worked together for a year, but had been mates for a few years before that.

  To betray him like that? Jesus Christ.

  Would he?

  Would she?

  Would they?

  Hunter’s phone lit up on the bedside table.

  Sixteen texts from Yvonne.

  Forty-two missed calls.

  He hated avoiding things, but he needed to keep a cool head here. Needed to focus, and maintain that focus. It was over with her.

  She’d betrayed him and he needed to keep it that way.

  No crawling back.

  Stay the course, soldier.

  But he wasn’t a soldier anymore. This was civilian life. Different rules, different motivations and nothing was as it seemed.

  A chap at the door. ‘Craig, you okay?’ Murray, sounding worried.

  Hunter pulled on a T-shirt and made himself decent. ‘I’m good, aye.’

  The door opened but Murray didn’t enter. After a pause, he stepped into the room, carrying two chunky mugs, balancing like a toddler who’d just learnt to walk. His curtains haircut framed his face. ‘Made you a cup of tea, Craig.’ He set one on the bedside table and perched on the other side of the bed.

  Looked like dairy milk, and not the freshest, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Hunter’s head was thumping like he’d been to the party and made a complete twat of himself. And tea was exactly what he needed. ‘Cheers, Muz.’

  ‘So. Who’s Terry?’

  ‘An old Army pal.’

  Murray sighed. ‘You still getting those flashbacks?’

  ‘Less of them.’ Hunter couldn’t make any eye contact with his brother. ‘Thanks for letting me stay.’

  ‘It’s what family’s for, eh?’ M
urray walked over to the window and tore open the curtains, letting thin December light through the glass. Always had a weird light down in Leith, like it was frightened of the locals. ‘You want to talk about it?’

  Hunter slurped his tea. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Sure? It’ll help. Don’t want to bottle everything up like Mum.’

  ‘Aye, but I don’t want to be like Dad.’

  Murray chuckled. ‘Already way too similar.’

  ‘Harsh.’ But Hunter was grinning. Christ, that hurt worse than the tears he was suppressing. ‘Bottom line is it’s over between me and Yvonne.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. I liked her. What happened?’

  ‘Been a long time coming. Three years and it’s just been… tough.’ Hunter swallowed hard. ‘Really tough.’

  Murray slurped his tea now. ‘Had a few duff relationships myself, as you know. Ending it’s always hard, but necessary.’

  Hunter blew out a long breath. ‘I thought she might be the one, but… I mean, we had a mortgage together. Lived together. That’s way closer than I’ve ever let anyone get. And…’ He felt the tears prickle at his nostrils. ‘I’ll have to find somewhere to stay for a bit.’

  ‘You can stay here.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure. Be like old times. Well, without the constant threat of Dad turning up and pissing off Mum.’

  Hunter smiled a thanks. ‘I don’t want to cramp your style, Muz.’

  ‘No cramping. I’m flying out to Israel on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Damn straight. Beauty of non-Christian countries is it’ll be like any other day. We’ll be a couple of months there.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘All in good time, bro. We can talk while we collect your stuff from the flat.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘I hope Yvonne can buy me out. Don’t want to go through the hassle of selling it.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got time. Have this place all to yourself till March.’

  ‘Cheers. I really appreciate it.’ Hunter felt that peaceful yawn, the one that made everything tingle. All the tension in his body released. ‘I’ll buy you a—’