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

by Ed James

  Hunter’s phone blasted out Don’t Look Back In Anger by Oasis. Luke Shepherd.

  Oh Christ, what did he want?

  ‘Better take this.’ Hunter put his tea down on the coaster and picked up the phone, answering it as Murray left him with a tilt of his mug. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Craig, sorry to do this but I need you to come in to work today.’

  Hunter wished he was back in that dream, back in the heat of Iraq, feeling his skin burn. The army didn’t give you much freedom if any, so it couldn’t be so easily taken away. Unlike the police. ‘Sarge, it’s a Saturday and there was the Christmas party last night.’

  ‘Aye, and we’ve got two big cases on. And you weren’t even at the party, so don’t play that card, son. It’s beneath you. I need you to pitch up today.’

  Hunter drained his mug and got a mouthful of tea leaves. Christ. He spat it back out. ‘I’ll need to get away around lunchtime.’

  Shepherd sighed down the line. ‘Fine. But I need you to make sure Elvis is fit enough to work. And drive. Prick was off his face last night.’

  ‘Aye, aye. So what’s the emergency?’

  ‘Getting a ton of heat on finding Becky Crawford. Given Alex Drake’s in the wind, certain parties are concerned she’s been killed.’

  24

  Cullen

  The road seemed to veer in a million different directions. Cullen tried to blink away the fatigue, but it was inside his head now. At least he’d drunk some coffee, some water and had some painkillers. All within the maximum dose.

  ‘Have a slug of this bad boy.’ Bain handed him a can of WakeyWakey. ‘Cures anything, trust me.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cullen cracked the ring pull without checking the ingredients first. It smelled like bubblegum, but it was ice cold and hyper-caffeinated. He sucked down a drink and it tasted like second-hand bubblegum. A real struggle to keep it down, but he forced another glug as they cleared the bridge over the Water of Leith, powering along Queensferry Road at a rapid clip. ‘Where we going?’

  ‘Drylaw.’

  ‘And this just gets worse.’ Cullen took another sip and felt the caffeine starting to surge in his veins. And his heart thud in his chest. ‘Who we going for?’

  ‘Kenny Falconer.’

  Cullen frowned. ‘Thought you were getting him last night?’

  ‘Dunt was a bust. Got his brother, mind.’ Bain reached into his door pocket for his own can of WakeyWakey, rhubarb and custard flavoured. ‘Wee toerag was off his coupon on Valium, but once he sobered up, he started speaking.’ He popped the ring pull with a hiss that Cullen couldn’t determine the source of, can or man, then slurped it all down in a oner, then crushed the can. ‘God’s own drink that, I swear.’ He burped.

  ‘It’s certainly helping.’

  ‘Guessing you blacked out last night?’

  Cullen shot a glare over at him, his veins burning with acid. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I was watching you a while. And you’ve no idea where you were when you came to. And when you sleep under your desk, it’s because nocturnal you decided the station floor was better than trying to get a cab home. Ergo, you blacked out last night.’

  Cullen looked out of the window, trying to avoid staring anywhere near him. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you’re not fine. Not even sure you should be here with me, but we are where we are.’

  Cullen held out his hand, flat in mid-air and steady like a ten-year-old. ‘I’m sober as a judge.’

  ‘Aye, but hungover as a criminal defence lawyer.’ Bain shook his head, wafting rhubarb crumble over Cullen. ‘People drink to forget. What are you trying to forget, sunshine?’

  ‘Just dealing with some issues, that’s all. And it’s complicated. ‘

  ‘Hear that a lot.’ Bain burped into his fist. ‘Personal or professional?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘You can talk to me, son. Especially if it’s professional.’

  Cullen didn’t know if he could trust him. Then again, a DI asking you about your career had to be something in his favour. He let out a sigh. ‘I’m a Training DC, but it feels like my career’s dead in the water.’

  ‘And why do you think that?’

  ‘Tenure’s up soon. So I’ll be bumped back to uniform.’

  ‘Care to explain to me why that’s a bad thing?’

  Cullen finished his drink and crushed the can, just like Bain had. ‘I joined the police because I want to change things, to be active. When I was out in West Lothian, I was this close,’ he squeezed his thumb and finger together, ‘to promotion. Uniform Sergeant, based in Bathgate.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But my sickness record stood against me.’

  ‘How bad was it?’

  ‘For a couple of years it felt like my body was working against me. I was genuinely ill. Infections and weird stuff like that. Shift work didn’t agree with me. But I’m on lots of vitamins and supplements at Craig’s recommendation. Not had a day off in two years.’

  ‘That’s good. Six months as Training, aye?’

  ‘Up next month.’

  ‘Still, that kind of record won’t get you into being a detective either.’

  ‘Nope. And I’ll be back in uniform.’

  ‘How about the people side of things?’

  Cullen shrank in his seat. ‘Well, I think I pissed off a few people.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, showing them up. Doing the job.’

  Bain laughed. ‘Aye, bollocks.’

  ‘Seriously. Check my record.’

  ‘That the drink talking?’

  ‘No. I’m a really good cop.’

  ‘Let me guess, you were on a squad with a load of fifteen-plus guys, right? And even though you’re always doing good work, they treat you like their lacky. “Get us a cup of tea, Cullen. Milk, no sugar. Wife says I’m sweet enough.” Oh, and “No, no, you walk the beat, sunshine, you’re too new to have a motor.” Oh, and “Sunshine will do all the shite jobs.’’.’

  ‘Pretty much that, but please don’t call me sunshine.’

  Bain chuckled. ‘So how did you end up in CID?’

  I put in for a transfer from Bathgate to Edinburgh and…’ He sighed. ‘Got knocked back. Then I worked a case, and caught Davenport’s attention, and Craig put in the recommendation.’

  ‘So, why are you here, in this situation?’

  ‘What situation?’

  ‘Heading back to uniform?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But it hurts, right?’

  ‘Agony.’

  ‘Right in the guts, eh?’ Bain reached over and play-punched Cullen’s shoulder. ‘Ambition is good, son. Nothing wrong with it. Got me where I am. Any senior officer too. And it puts you in control of your trauma.’

  ‘My trauma?’

  ‘We’ve all got trauma, son. All carrying some shite. Just make sure you’re in control of it.’ Bain turned into a side street, two rows of ex-council houses separated by a big green in the middle. Big enough for a football pitch, but just bare grass now. Satellite dishes on both sides, fancy cars shining in the morning gloom, still an hour before sunrise, still half an hour before they headed to work. Bain pulled up and got out first. ‘Look lively.’

  Cullen followed him out into the freezing cold. It hit him like a snow shovel in the face. Maybe it was that or the WakeyWakey, but he was feeling a bit more human, even if he still had no idea what the hell he’d been up to last night. He scanned the street. ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘Don’t you think they might notice a bunch of cops showing up outside?’ Bain shook his head. ‘Round the corner, you daft sod.’ He was pointing to a familiar face. ‘ADC Cullen, meet DS Sharon McNeill.’

  Cullen nodded at her. ‘You arrested me at the gym.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’ Bain’s eyes were glinting with mischief. ‘She absolutely battered you, as I recall. How about I call you Butch, and Cullen here can be your Sundance Kid?’

  McNeill scowled at him
. ‘Do what you want.’

  ‘Always do.’ Bain put his radio to his lips. ‘Al, you in position? Over.’

  It crackled, sounded like a ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Bain pressed the button again. ‘Then get your arse in gear. Over.’

  25

  Hunter

  Hunter eased up the old railway line that continued the Western Approach Road into deepest, darkest Gorgie. At least, he thought it was an old railway line. Could just be a weird road.

  ‘All over my suit.’ Elvis was rubbing his chest. ‘I mean, who throws up over someone else?’

  Hunter gripped the wheel tight as he powered west. ‘Sure it wasn’t you chucking up on yourself?’

  ‘Craig, I’d know if I’d been sick all over myself.’ Elvis frowned. Christ, he looked like he’d just got back from a very restful holiday. ‘Funny thing was, the taxi driver didn’t ask for any money.’

  ‘What, for being sick?’

  ‘I wasn’t sick.’ Elvis shook his head and sighed. ‘No, for the fare. That’s weird, eh?’

  ‘Sounds like someone shoved you into a taxi, Paul.’

  ‘That can’t be right. Who’d do that for me?’ Elvis was positively beaming. ‘I feel fresh as a daisy today.’ He yawned into his fist, then scanned the street they hurtled down. ‘You missed a good night, though. Cracking fun.’

  ‘Bet you did too.’ Hunter pulled up at the lights. Not many cars up ahead, so he could just sneak it when they changed. He caught Elvis’s yawn, though, one of those that made you shut your eyes and didn’t let go for ages. He’d barely slept. Murray really needed to fix that lumpy bed and the thin curtains. But how did you explain that to someone giving you a roof over your head? Maybe he should buy one and repay the favour that way? ‘Did you check the address?’

  ‘Yvonne did. Last night.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Rebecca Crawford. Becky to her pals. Me and Yvonne managed to find her landlord last night. Wee boy down in Leith, owns a few places in Porty. But said landlord grumbled like a bastard, until she threatened him. Anyhoo, he found Becky’s form and dropped it off at the station this morning. Yvonne’s not in but, lo and behold, there’s an address for her parents, out here in Ravelston.’

  The light shifted yellow and Hunter hit the pedal, then shot round the bend. ‘Fancy.’

  ‘Could say that, aye.’ Elvis did another yawn. ‘How was she this morning?’

  Hunter ignored him and just drove, past two competing chip shops and a pub he’d broken up a fight in many years ago. Two red-faced old buggers tearing lumps out of each other over a betting slip. Supposed to be where the grave diggers drank in times gone by.

  ‘Yvonne was getting very cosy with Cullen.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Shut up, Elvis.’

  ‘Seriously, I hate that name.’ Elvis ran a finger down his sideburns, like he was measuring them for size. ‘And I’m just winding you up. She turned up just as I left. I think. But cosy is the word I’d use.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘Don’t you live with her, Craig?’

  ‘I did, aye.’

  ‘What?’

  Hunter sped along the road and weaved around a cyclist going barely above walking speed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Come on, mate. I’m just messing with you.’

  ‘Well, it’s time to stop messing and just shut up.’

  ‘Ooooo-ooh!’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Look, Craig, I’m just worried. Got a text from your brother. Murray said you were staying at his last night. Everything okay?’

  ‘Just needed a change of scene, that’s all.’

  ‘Suuure.’ Aye, Elvis believed it as much as Hunter.

  ‘I got held back with Bain, supporting his foiled raid on a bookshop. Didn’t want Yvonne coming in hammered after the do and waking me up.’

  ‘Aye, so you left the door open for young Cullen.’

  Hunter could throttle the daft sod. Could do worse to his brother for grassing to Elvis of all people. Silence was the best policy here.

  ‘You two were good for each other, that’s all.’

  ‘I agree on the past tense. And we weren’t. This has been on the cards for a long while.’

  ‘What, her letting young Cullen into her knickers?’

  ‘Paul, shut up.’

  Elvis raised his hands. ‘Know when to quit, don’t I?’

  No. He really didn’t. Never did.

  Part of what made him a decent cop, but also what made him an annoying wanker.

  ‘Next left.’

  Hunter had to slam on the brakes to stop in time. Got a blast of horn from behind. ‘Could’ve done with some warning.’

  ‘Thought you knew.’

  ‘You said Ravelston. This is Coates Avenue.’

  ‘Same difference.’

  ‘It’s miles apart.’ Hunter huffed out a sigh. No point in arguing. He was driving much more slowly now, the needle barely hitting fifteen. Tall beech hedges on both sides, their winter leaves all brown, interspersed with the occasional railings. Big mature trees hid the houses from view. One of those Edinburgh streets with no real identity, just massive old houses set in massive grounds. And too early for the parking spaces to be occupied or the drives to be emptied. ‘Which number?’

  Elvis pointed. ‘That one.’

  Great. The one house covered in scaffolding. Two vans either side of the drive. Still, there were signs of life. Someone who might know where Becky Crawford was.

  Hunter couldn’t believe it had taken them this long to get an address, but judging by these houses, maybe that wasn’t a surprise. Pay through the nose for the privacy. Probably educated privately, so there’s no local footprint. Shop in town or at a big supermarket on the outskirts. Barely living here.

  Hunter got out and hit the din, the rattle and thump of scaffolding poles being transported and slotted into place. The tinny rasp of chart dance music as knuckle-dragging Neanderthals boogied to the campest love songs, singing along together.

  ‘Be careful!’ A chunky man in a suit stood by the front door, clutching an espresso cup between thumb and forefinger, his pinky jutting out. ‘We just had the windows replaced last year.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ The biggest, ugliest scaffolder. One who’d give Hunter a run for his money in terms of size and looks. ‘Do this aw day, every day, pal. We’re careful as—’

  CLANG.

  ‘Sorry!’ A topless wee skinny bugger was clutching his foot, the pole he’d dropped rolling away from him. ‘Ah, you—’

  ‘Stevie!’ The big boss man clipped his ear. ‘Get it picked up and up that ladder before I ram my toe right up your crevice again.’ He smiled at Mr Espresso. ‘Sorry, sir. We are careful.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Hunter spotted his opportunity and got between them, warrant card out. ‘Mr Crawford?’

  ‘Aye.’ He looked him up and down. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Police, sir.’ Hunter kept his warrant card there, given how detailed an inspection it was getting. ‘DC Craig Hunter. DC Paul Gordon.’ Though there was no sign of Elvis. Great. ‘Looking for a Rebecca Crawford.’

  ‘I see.’ Crawford threw his espresso down his neck, then wiped his lips. ‘Well, she’s not here.’

  ‘When did you—’

  ‘Moved out when she was sixteen, didn’t she?’ Crawford gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. ‘After all we’ve done for her. Six years ago, she just grabbed a bag and buggered off.’ Just like Hunter last night. ‘Little madam, I tell you.’

  ‘Do you—’

  ‘No, I have no idea where she could be.’

  Hunter looked inside the house. The hallway seemed like a show home, bare floorboards and pristine bookcases filled with all the best coffee table books. The living room was empty, just a pair of sofas facing each other. No telly, but two giant paintings on adjacent walls. He looked back at Crawford. ‘Mind if we
have a look inside?’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘Sir, if she’s here, we—’

  ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t let her in if she begged.’

  ‘Those are just words, sir.’

  ‘I’m not letting you in here either without a warrant.’

  Bloody hell.

  Elvis had appeared, yawning into his fist and blinking away some tiredness.

  Hunter smiled. ‘Cool.’ He patted Elvis on the arm. ‘Let’s get Ally on the phone. Be, what, lunchtime before we get the warrant signed? Then we can get the biggest, ugliest buggers on the force to tear this place apart. Be hours searching a house like this. And we’ll sit opposite, watching for his daughter running off, aye?’

  ‘Don’t you think you can intimidate me.’

  ‘Just need to find your daughter, sir. She’s gone missing.’

  ‘Well, I honestly don’t care.’

  ‘That’s cold.’

  ‘She did this to us. As far as we’re concerned, we no longer have a daughter.’

  ‘Any sons?’

  ‘None. Now, kindly bugger off and get a warrant. I’ve got to get to the gallery for opening.’

  Hunter smiled as he handed over a business card. ‘We’ll just be in the car over the road, watching your house until we get that warrant.’

  Folded arms, deep scowl. ‘By all means.’

  ‘Be seeing you.’ Hunter walked back to the car and got in. Then bit his thumbnail until Elvis got in. ‘We’re screwed.’

  ‘Aye. Thought you had him there, but nope. You believe him?’

  ‘Seems a bit cold, but then a place like that, a house like this? Can believe anything.’ Hunter got out his phone and called Shepherd.

  Two rings and he had an ear full of mouth breathing. ‘Craig, where are you?’

  ‘Following up on Becky Crawford’s whereabouts, Sarge. Need a warrant to access a property in Coates Avenue.’

  ‘Aye, aye. I’ll speak to Ally, but you’re in a good position. I need you at a raid at a house in Drylaw. That cowboy idiot Bain has gone off the reservation on something. Taken half my team without asking me!’