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

by Ed James

  26

  Cullen

  Sundance Kid?

  Christ.

  Cullen hoped that didn’t stick. He walked down the street, following in Bain’s slipstream. The rain was hammering down so heavily now it sluiced down the side of the street, avoiding the drains and spreading out towards the middle of the road. And he was soaked through already. On the plus side, the icy chill seemed to help the hangover.

  Two uniform cars blocked the end of the road, barring any traffic except those with the post-apocalyptic look of old pool cars. And the craned necks of nosy plainclothes officers.

  Talk about subtle.

  The lead uniform was talking to an old woman dragging a suitcase behind her, presumably a makeshift shopping trolley. Arms folded across his chest, black T-shirt turned up at the cuffs to show off his biceps, though puckered with gooseflesh, and tight enough to show the contours of his beer gut. And with that harsh glistening black you only got from standing in the rain. ‘Just doing some door-to-door work, ma’am.’

  Cullen recognised him. PC Finlay Sinclair. Bit of a twat, best to be avoided. Actually, a total arsehole. One of the worst for getting “young Cullen” to make his tea. Dick.

  Cullen caught up with Bain and McNeill, huddling under a Standard Life brolly. ‘So, what’s the plan here?’

  A pool car pulled up alongside. Hunter got out, scowling like he’d got out of bed the wrong side that morning. ‘Bastard thing needs to be taken apart and used for scrap.’

  Cullen grinned at him. ‘Poor workman blames his tools, Craig.’

  Hunter didn’t even look at Cullen, instead staring straight at Bain. ‘Luke’s wondering why you’re bouncing his calls.’

  Bain reached into his pocket with a deep frown, then got out his phone. ‘Well, would you believe it? A ton of missed calls from an unknown number. Usually don’t answer them. Could be one of those PPI scammers, you know?’

  ‘He’s on his way over. Wants you to wait.’

  ‘And I want to win the lottery. Neither are going to happen.’

  ‘Said you’ve stolen half of his team for an unapproved mission.’

  Bain rubbed his moustache. ‘Thing is, Craig my man, Luke might be a DS, but I’m a DI so I don’t take orders from him.’ He put his radio to his thin lips. ‘Al, tell me you’re in place.’

  ‘Aye, Ferry Road’s locked down.’

  Bain stared round at Finlay, with the old wifie wandering away from him, her suitcase trundling behind him. ‘You got the Big Key, aye?’

  ‘Sir.’ Finlay held up a battering ram, his arm muscles straining with the effort. A peal of water sprayed off it.

  Bain focused on Cullen, then Hunter. ‘Lads, you can wait for your daddy to pitch up, or you can see how a pro does it. Choice is yours.’

  Cullen tried to make eye contact with Hunter, but he was getting nowhere. What was his problem? He still had a vision of that dream where Hunter hauled him around. Had to be an anxiety dream.

  And Bain was right. Blacking out wasn’t good, especially when it meant he was dreaming up weird shit like that.

  Hunter’s lips twisted into a scowl. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine, you’re coming with, or fine you’re grassing on me?’

  ‘Coming with. Let’s get this out of the way. And it’s your obbo, not ours. So when this goes south, it’s on you.’

  Cullen stepped forward, close to Hunter. ‘I’m in too.’

  ‘Fuckin’ sweet.’ Bain held up his radio again. ‘We are go!’ He set off past the cars.

  Cullen kept pace with Elvis, splashing in the fresh puddles. ‘Was Craig blanking me there?’

  ‘Did he break your heart?’ Elvis was grinning. ‘Or maybe he found you banging his girlfriend?’

  ‘Shut up. Nothing happened.’

  ‘Oh aye? There’s something going on?’

  ‘I walked her home. She was hammered, that was it.’

  Up ahead, Bain stopped outside a block of flats and held up a hand. ‘Steady.’

  Finlay leaned in and whisper-shouted, ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The address.’ Finlay waved behind the flats. ‘Old shop over there.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell.’ Bain shook his head and darted down a side lane.

  Cullen followed, just behind Hunter and McNeill, then emerged into a car park. In the middle, an old three-storey brick building huddled in the downpour, boarded-up windows battered by the rain. Just those three little words above to indicate what it would’ve been when open. Beers. Wines. Spirits. Would’ve been a goldmine at some point, but the massive Tesco and Morrisons nearby clearly undercut the business. No sign of any CCTV, so if Kenny Falconer was in there, he was there covertly.

  Finlay dropped his ram by a metal roll-down gate. ‘Fat lot of use this is going to be.’

  Cullen rounded the corner and was a bit stunned to be on Ferry Road. He felt like he’d jumped a few streets, but there it was. A steady flow of traffic, even at this time of day. Headlights and brake lights glowing through the drizzle. A few squad cars sat there, marking the territory, but maybe that was par for the course for half eight on a Friday morning. Prime fighting time. The mobility scooters were all parked outside the bookies, no doubt ready for the pilgrimage along to the gritty boozer. The shops further along were open. The building had a long balcony running along outside the upstairs offices. All lights off up there, most of the windows boarded up.

  Weird, weird place.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell.’ Bain was ruffling his moustache, then pointed at the bookies. ‘Get in there and see if we can barge through!’

  Cullen set off round to the back entrance.

  No sign of Finlay or his battering ram, except for a shout: ‘Sir!’

  Cullen shot off in that direction.

  Finlay was standing by a back door, cradling the ram like a newborn. ‘This is it.’

  Cullen tried the damp door handle, but it was locked. Wouldn’t even rattle. He looked back the way and caught a glower from Bain. ‘Sir, shall we—’

  ‘Fuckin’ get in there!’

  ‘Wanker.’ Finlay pressed the battering ram against the door. ‘Heave ho!’ He engaged it and it sank its teeth into the wood, sending the door toppling inside. Finlay planted himself against the side wall to let the others past.

  Cullen was first in, baton raised, charging into a long corridor. Dark, damp and smelling of mould.

  Ahead was a staircase leading up.

  McNeill blocked the entrance. ‘Secure the other two doors.’

  Hunter took the right, shining his torch around a storeroom. Looked empty, just a few empty cans of lager.

  Cullen took the other one, into the shop. The counter was still there, a plastic-y thing that ran the length of the shop. Some old fridges against both outside walls, empty and dead. Next door’s bookie’s TV droned through the walls. No sign of anyone or anything behind the till. ‘Clear!’ He went back into the hallway.

  McNeill pointed at Elvis, then at the shop door. ‘Guard that.’ She nodded at Cullen. ‘You, follow me.’

  Cullen walked up the stairs after McNeill and stepped out into an office space. One door, loads of windows, mostly boarded up. A few desks and office chairs.

  McNeill touched a finger to her lips and took the left side, leaving Cullen to take the other. ‘Up here!’

  Cullen darted over to her position.

  A woman sat on a sagging couch, eyes wide with shock and maybe relief. Long hair, tied loosely in a ponytail. Trousers, blouse, both black.

  McNeill stood next to her, keeping her secure, and reached out a hand. ‘You okay, Becky?’

  Becky Crawford.

  That didn’t make any sense. She’d been due to testify against Falconer’s associate, so why would she be here? Was he holding her?

  McNeill leaned in close to her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I thought he was going to kill me.’ Becky looked like she hadn’t slept all year. Deep lines under her eyes like used teabags. �
�He was making sure I didn’t testify against… him. They kidnapped me. He was going to kill me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kenny.’

  ‘Becky, is he here?’

  She frowned, then her eyes shot over to the door.

  ‘Get after him!’ McNeill stared at Cullen and pointed to the right.

  Christ.

  Eyes on the prize, hangover boy.

  Cullen gripped his baton and inched towards the door. Then stopped to listen. Just water dripping somewhere. The light was faint, but his eyes had adjusted to it now. And just smashing; a three-way split here. A toilet up ahead, and more offices to the right.

  Left was a big open-plan space, with the few windows still containing glass shining bright.

  Kenny Falconer stood in the middle of the room, brandishing a knife. ‘You can leave while you still have your balls.’

  Cullen stepped into the room. ‘Kenneth Falconer, I’m arresting you under suspicion of supplying a controlled substance.’

  ‘Aye, fuck that.’ Falconer jolted forward, lashing out with his knife and slicing the air in front of Cullen.

  Shite!

  Cullen swiped with his baton, but only caught tracksuit bottoms.

  Pain flared up from his balls, internal fire singeing up his guts and down his legs. Felt like he was going to throw up. And he went down to his knees. A crack off his cheekbone.

  And footsteps raced out of the room.

  Christ.

  He’d made a right arse of this.

  27

  Hunter

  Whatever magic beans Ricky Falconer had sold them, it hadn’t led to a beanstalk, just to an empty store room. The whole shop was empty. And had been for a good while.

  Well, almost empty — Elvis had found a box of Snickers bars and was tucking into one. ‘Ravenous.’

  Ricky Falconer… Another lie from a subhuman scumbag. Or, if Hunter was being generous, his intel was twelve hours out of date.

  Maybe if Hunter had been allowed to—

  Get over yourself, Craig.

  ‘Up here!’ A woman’s voice. That hard-arse DS who worked for that fanny Bain. ‘Both of you!’

  Hunter clambered up the stairs, baton raised, into an office. Hard to figure out who’d need an office here, but that was a mystery for another time.

  McNeill was crouching by a tattered old couch, next to a woman who looked a lot like Becky Crawford.

  ‘What the hell are—’

  ‘Go!’ McNeill was pointing behind him. ‘Your sidekick has gone after Falconer.’

  Just fantastic.

  Cullen. Against Falconer. Talk about being outmatched.

  ‘On it.’ Hunter powered on, grabbing his baton so tight it’d leave an imprint in his palm. And he’d need it. He knew Falconer, knew he was a knife guy. A quick smack to the forearm would loosen his wrist, shake the blade free. And an unarmed Falconer was just a skinny little sod with anger issues.

  Hunter stopped outside the doorway and waited for Elvis to join him. Quiet through there. Thin light, revealing a three-way junction. No clues as to which way they’d gone. Wait, what was that? Sounded like someone was groaning.

  He snapped out his baton, then gave Elvis a nod of three, then stepped around the corner into another office space. Three windows up ahead, all overlooking Ferry Road.

  Heavy breathing and loud moans.

  Cullen lay on the floor, clutching his balls.

  Hunter raced over to him. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘No idea.’ Cullen inched up to kneeling, but he was acting like his stomach had been kicked through his spinal column. Always one for exaggeration.

  ‘Useless twat.’ Hunter took another look around. Only one door out of there. Footsteps rattled a floorboard through there.

  Cullen tried to join him, but just couldn’t.

  Hunter put a finger to his lips.

  Glass smashed.

  Hunter walked over to the door, baton raised. A wash of cold, a taste of rain on the air. He tore open the door, ready to lash out.

  The room was empty. No sign of Falconer. Curtains flapped by the window.

  Hunter stepped over to the window, still holding his baton. The glass was smashed and biting air lapped at his face.

  And there he was.

  Kenny Falconer was out on the ledge above the shops, staring down at the squad cars, like he was checking for any gaps in the defensive wall.

  Hunter could see it — bounce down onto a car roof, then down the bonnet and onto the street, then shoot across the road. Lose himself in the housing schemes either side of the main road. As well as a knife guy, Falconer was a runner. He’d outstrip any of the cops in seconds, maybe with the exception of Cullen.

  No.

  Falconer was going down.

  Hunter stuck a leg through the smashed window, and a searing burst of pain climbed his arm. His shirt was torn open and a gash ran down the outside of his forearm. Idiot. He bit his teeth down and tried to keep his whimpering to himself, then put his other leg out onto the ledge. The teeming rain streamed off his face. Thick, heavy and ice cold.

  Falconer was still staring down, but was rocking back and forward, like he was timing his jump.

  ‘Stop!’ Hunter lurched towards Falconer, baton raised and ready to swipe.

  But Falconer clocked him, and swung around, swiping out with his knife.

  Hunter ducked under the blow, and smashed Falconer in the kidney with his free hand.

  A sharp elbow caught Hunter in the face and he went down. His baton clattered onto the balcony, then started rolling towards the edge.

  Hunter reached out for the baton, but it tumbled down onto street below.

  Falconer was on him, though, playing with the knife, swiping it through the air. All for show, trying to instil maximum fear.

  Hunter hopped up to standing and got a blast of pain down his arm. ‘Kenny Falconer, I’m arresting you for supp—’

  Falconer slashed out with the knife.

  Hunter just managed to skip out of the way in time. He stepped back, trying to keep his distance. A knife versus a baton was one thing, but a knife against fists? Forget it. ‘Why was Becky here? Were you going to kill her?’

  Falconer’s eyes were shooting all over Hunter, his knife hand tracking the motion. ‘Who cares about her?’

  ‘Her parents?’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, arsehole. Her folks hate her.’

  ‘You should hand yourself over now, Kenny. Let me arrest you. Then you can do time for supplying deadly drugs to people.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘From Rock Hard Gym. We know it was you.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Falconer jerked the knife towards his throat.

  Hunter was quicker this time, dodging the swipe and grabbing hold of Falconer’s wrist. A sharp tug and Falconer slipped forward, tipping facedown onto the balcony. The knife rattled against the wall.

  Hunter still had hold of the wrist. He twisted it around, trying to pull it up Falconer’s back. He stepped around and something under his feet rocked. Hunter tried to right himself, but he slipped on the slick surface and his back cracked off the window pane. He fell on his side, landing on his sore arm. Screaming out in pain.

  ‘You stupid bastard!’ Falconer kneeled on him, knees locking both arms down and pressing him against the wet balcony. He lowered the knife to Hunter’s throat.

  28

  Cullen

  Cullen’s balls were on fire.

  Christ, it felt like something had snapped down there.

  He sucked in a breath deep enough to let him stand up.

  Focus.

  Where did Hunter go?

  That door. He hadn’t come back out. So, he must be in there. Right?

  He managed to waddle over to the doorway and looked through. No sign of anyone in there, so he stepped in.

  The window. It was smashed, letting in the cold morning rain.

  Cullen wheezed over to the breeze and peeked out. A pile of s
mashed glass lay on the balcony. The noses of three squad cars down below.

  Kenny Falconer lay on top of Hunter, knees pinning his arms down.

  Hunter was struggling and trying to buck him off with strong hip thrusts, but Falconer was winning.

  Metal glinted in the harsh light.

  Knife!

  Cullen used his baton to free the rest of the broken glass, then eased through the window. The rain lashed his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth. His clothes were soaked. He stepped towards the wrestling pair, his baton clenched in both hands. Taking care to focus and time his strike perfectly.

  Now.

  He lashed out and connected steel with Falconer’s forearm. The knife spilled and Cullen kicked out, cracking his soggy shoe into Falconer’s head. Pushing him against the wall.

  Dazed. Stunned. Hungry fingers reached for his knife.

  Hunter jolted upright, then got on top of Falconer, fist raised above his face. ‘People are dying because of you!’ He smashed a fist into his face. ‘Do you remember Angus?’

  Falconer spat blood at Hunter.

  Another punch. ‘Angus Henderson.’

  Cullen grabbed Hunter’s arm. ‘Craig! Stop it!’

  Falconer was grinning wide. ‘Remind me?’

  ‘You bullied him.’ Hunter shook free of Cullen’s grip. ‘He killed himself.’

  Falconer laughed. ‘Not my fault he let his uncle bugger him.’

  ‘It’s your fault he jumped in front of a train!’ Hunter shifted to strangling Falconer. ‘All the abuse, the teasing. All from you and your mates. Then you chased after him, shouting about how he was a paedo. Then he killed himself. You’re going to pay for it!’

  ‘Craig!’ Cullen grabbed Hunter’s shoulders, pulling him back. ‘You’ll kill him!’

  ‘That’s kind of the point.’ Hunter pushed Cullen away with his free hand, a thick smack against his chest. ‘This prick is killing people and he just doesn’t care! He killed my friend!’ Tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘He did it. Made him do it! Bullied him! Made his life hell! Made him jump in front of a train!’