Heroes and Villains

by Ed James

  Heroes & Villains

  Scott Cullen book 8

  Ed James

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Other Books By Ed James

  Monday

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Monday

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Wednesday

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Thursday

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Friday

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Saturday

  Chapter 45

  Next book

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2014 Ed James

  All rights reserved.

  To James —

  Thanks for all of your help over the last few books in trapping my stupid mistakes. Click. But also thanks for the stupid chats about beer and metal, which keep me as sane as it’s possible to be.

  You’re one of the best.

  Other Books By Ed James

  SCOTT CULLEN SERIES

  GHOST IN THE MACHINE

  DEVIL IN THE DETAIL

  FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  DYED IN THE WOOL

  COPS & ROBBERS

  LIARS & THIEVES

  COWBOYS & INDIANS

  HEROES & VILLAINS

  CRAIG HUNTER SERIES

  MISSING

  HUNTED

  DS VICKY DODDS SERIES

  TOOTH & CLAW

  DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES

  THE HOPE THAT KILLS

  WORTH KILLING FOR

  WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU

  IN FOR THE KILL

  KILL WITH KINDNESS

  Monday

  10th August

  1

  Detective Sergeant Scott Cullen kept his gaze on the silver Range Rover three cars ahead as they followed it past the Scottish Parliament, which still looked like a municipal swimming baths from provincial Scotland, just with some Catalan window dressing stapled on. Showed where the country was these days.

  DC Paul ‘Elvis’ Gordon was behind the pool car’s wheel, giving off the vibe of his namesake’s final hours in Vegas, rather than his Hollywood pomp. He scratched at his massive sideburns, keeping the car a steady thirty as they passed through two roundabouts and two sweeping bends along the busy road from the city’s political heart to its social armpit, Dumbiedykes. He stopped to wait for an old man to cross, drumming his thumbs off the wheel, then headed into the former council estate. The high-rise blocks still seemed like a junkie haven, even though the flats were mostly leased to MSPs and bankers, and filled with designer furniture and bespoke kitchens. Mostly.

  The Range Rover pulled up outside a beige-and-grey tower block, the blacked-out windows hiding the driver.

  Cullen gestured for Elvis to drive on by the target – no slowing down, no turned heads, no suspicious behaviour. As they passed, Cullen angled the wing mirror.

  Dean Vardy hopped out of his pimp ride, his disco muscles and skin-tight T-shirt a cocky challenge to the afternoon’s fourteen degrees, the Edinburgh wind lowering the temperature. He strutted up to the front door like he owned the place. Not far off the truth – his legal businesses owned twenty flats inside. God knows how many his illegal ones did.

  Elvis cruised around the turning point at the end, doubled back to the neighbouring block and slowed to a halt at the side of the street. He killed the ignition and yawned, releasing a blast of coffee breath. ‘Hope you’re pleased I haven’t made a joke about you being the dumb guy in Dumbiedykes?’

  ‘Very pleased.’ Cullen reached for his Airwave radio and put it to his ear. ‘Suspect has entered premises at Holyrood Court, Dumbiedykes. Want us to follow him in?’

  ‘Negative, Sundance.’ DS Brian Bain’s Glasgow rasp hissed out. ‘We’ve got eyes on you from up here, so sit tight. Your front-left headlight is buggered, by the way.’

  ‘Look, she’s in that flat alone.’ Cullen tightened his grip on the ‘oh-shit’ handle even though they weren’t moving. ‘We’re just letting Vardy walk up there?’

  ‘It’s called a fuckin’ plan for a reason, Sundance. Boss’s orders. Now you make sure he doesn’t leave without us knowing.’

  Bloody hell.

  Cullen ended the call and slid the Airwave back into the sleeve pocket of his battered green bomber jacket.

  Across the street, by the entrance, some neds were playing football – none of them looking any older that ten.

  Nothing else happening.

  Elvis was stroking his lamb chops, a look of puzzled constipation stuck on his face, like the King of Rock ’n’ Roll on his resting toilet. ‘So we’re just to sit here?’

  ‘Those are the orders, aye.’

  ‘Tell you, this undercover stakeout’s been dragging on longer than one of Wilko’s morning briefings.’ Elvis shook his head. ‘Here we are, sitting on our arses, while that Vardy bastard runs around like he owns the place, raping and killing. And I’m only here because you pissed off the boss.’

  ‘You don’t need to remind me.’ Cullen gave him a glare, hoping it would warn him that a constable should watch what he says to a sergeant. Elvis looked the other way. ‘Fine, I’ll say it if it makes you happy. You’re here because I messed up Wilko’s case, but I did solve a murder in the process. And, for my troubles, I got a secondment to Operation Venus. Along with the rest of the Special Needs class.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Elvis chuckled despite himself. ‘Just saying, that’s all.’

  ‘You could put in for a transfer, you know.’

  ‘How did you…?’ Elvis settled even deeper into his seat, blushing. Something groaned. Could’ve been the back rest, could’ve been his stomach. ‘Sorry, Sarge. Might want to open a window.’

  Cullen held his breath as he got out into the blustery wind and leaned against the car.

  The sky looked like it had been in a fight. Hard winds from the North Sea pummelled grey clouds across the horizon. One seemed beaten up, a lumbering purple mass like a bloody bruise.

  Edinburgh in August. Got to love it.

  The car rocked as Elvis got out. He stepped around and settled his bulk on the bonnet, upwind of Cullen. ‘Look on the bright side, though. You’ve got me for company. Dragged me into this unexpected career development opportunity and I haven’t resented you for one moment. Must be my sunny deposition.’

  ‘You mean disposition.’ Cullen stuck his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘And you don’t mind this new gig because it means you’re not gawping at CCTV all day.’

  Elvis pushed himself off the bonnet and puffed up his chest. ‘Hold on a—’

  ‘Alright, Scotty?’ A big guy in a shiny blue muscle-shirt slapped Cullen’s shoulder with one hand, holding a tw
o-litre plastic bottle with the other. ‘Alright, my man?’

  ‘Aye, just walking the daftie here. What’s up?’

  ‘Your daftie looks fair exhausted, Scotty.’ Big Rob grinned at Elvis, killing any attempt at a witty comeback with a confused wink. ‘You boys doing interval sprints?’

  Elvis rolled his eyes. ‘Aye, that’s what we’re doing out here.’

  ‘Good effort, my man.’ Big Rob waved the bottle around, splashing water on the pavement. ‘Been working hard myself all morning. Today’s target is ten litres.’ He flexed a pair of bulging biceps. ‘Need to hydrate these bad boys.’

  ‘Ten litres?’ Cullen smirked at him. ‘Isn’t that going to dehydrate you?’

  ‘Science.’ Big Rob tapped his nose and wandered off.

  Elvis watched him go. ‘That your ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘Just some old CHIS.’

  Elvis did that particular frown, his features squishing up like a used chip wrapper. Usually meant he was thinking of something funny. ‘There’s nothing covert, human or intelligent about him, is there?’

  Cullen glanced at the heavy clouds pressing down on the tower blocks. ‘Elvis, you’ll need to drive me to A&E, I think I’ve split my sides.’

  ‘Come on, mate. That was funny. Got to admit.’ Elvis crossed his arms and did his best impression of a petulant toddler, huffing and puffing.

  Cullen closed his eyes, wondering what he’d done to deserve this. Then he remembered, in exact detail. When he opened them again, the dreich weather made him sigh for the four hundredth time that day.

  ‘Looks like a right cloudburst’s on the way.’ Elvis elbowed Cullen in the ribs. ‘Bet you’ve pulled yourself off so much in the shower, you get a hard-on every time it rains.’

  Cullen couldn’t even muster the energy to turn the radio back up. I need out of here. Or to get shot of this clown. ‘Me and Craig Hunter busted a steroid ring in a gym a few years back.’

  ‘Sounds like a great excuse for you pair to hang around with a load of naked blokes.’

  ‘That’s Craig’s thing, not mine.’ The first raindrops battered off the pavement, so he got back in the car and scanned the radio. Had to settle for TalkSport. Even though the caller sounded off his head, it was better than listening to Elvis in the Afternoon.

  Elvis got behind the wheel again, stroking his sideburns as he turned off the radio. ‘Load of pish.’

  In one of the towers, Dean Vardy was meeting a young woman. Unprotected, unguarded, and alone. With his record.

  It didn’t feel right.

  Elvis cleared his throat and spat out of the open window. ‘I was reading this article in the New Yorker by this boy called Art Oscar. Heard of him?’ He took Cullen’s silence as an instruction to keep talking. ‘Said the war on drugs was a political ploy cooked up by Nixon to take out people who weren’t going to vote for him. You know, blacks and anti-war lefties. Think that’s true?’

  Cullen cocked an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Said it was heroin and marijuana at the start. Makes you wonder what this war on drugs is all for, eh?’

  Cullen paused. ‘I mean, I didn’t know you could read.’

  Elvis rolled his eyes.

  Sod this for a game of soldiers.

  Cullen opened the door and pointed at Elvis. ‘Stay here and wait for Vardy. I’m going upstairs.’

  Cullen knocked on the door three times, the secret signal that was about as subtle as a brick in the balls. Or one of Elvis’s jokes.

  The door cracked open and half a face appeared in the gap: round suedehead, receding hairline, deep frown, squinty eyes, and a limp moustache. DS Brian Bain. ‘Sundance, I fuckin’ told you to wait downstairs, you tube.’

  ‘You did.’ Cullen looked down at him, letting Bain feel his height disadvantage. ‘How about you go and babysit Elvis?’

  ‘How about you fuck off?’

  Cullen stared at him, then lowered his eyes and unzipped his jacket to give his hands something to do other than punch the little bastard. ‘I need to speak to the boss. Move.’

  ‘You could ask nicely.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand nicely.’

  Bain stared at him, an uneasy smile twitching under his moist moustache. He recovered his cool, stepped back and swung the door open. ‘You charming fucker.’

  Cullen walked straight past him into the flat. Boarded-up windows, grotty old furniture, cold strip lighting making the place feel as inviting as a mortuary. Must be the last place in the tower block that hadn’t been turned into an IKEA showroom.

  In the kitchen, an Armed Response Unit loitered with intent. Four men, two women, dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, handguns strapped to their thighs, semi-automatic rifles slung tightly over their chests, index fingers resting idly on the trigger guards. The sight alone made Cullen twitchy.

  DI Paul Wilkinson sat at the kitchen table, fussing over some recording equipment. Well, one of his hands was. The other was busy stuffing his mouth with chocolate raisins. A pong of stale sweat radiated off him. He caught sight of Cullen and dropped the smudgy paw to give his balls a good scratch. The guy seemed to gain at least a stone of flab every week, his manboobs straining at his latest checked farmer’s shirt. ‘Well done, Cullen. You found us all the way up here.’ His Yorkshire accent was hiding behind an acquired Scottish one, just a few syllables off here and there. He gathered another handful of raisins and hoovered his wee sweeties up with a wet sucking noise. ‘Despite being told to stay down there.’ He chewed open-mouthed, a mess of brown and pink and purple.

  ‘I’m worried about Amy Forrest, sir.’ Cullen looked away from his jowly face. ‘More specifically, about Vardy murdering her.’

  Wilkinson stared at him for a few seconds. ‘We’re sticking to the plan. End of.’ He popped another chocolate raisin in his gob.

  Cullen glanced at the men and women standing to attention. ‘Come on, you’ve got this lot hanging around with their thumbs up their arses, while Vardy’s downstairs, right below our feet. With her. She’s alone. With him. We know where he is, what he’s capable of, and what he’ll do if we don’t stop him.’

  Wilkinson snorted, then rolled his eyes at the figures in black. ‘I said no.’

  ‘Come on, let’s just get in there. We can pick him up for the assault charge and collect evidence on the murder allegations while he’s in custody.’

  ‘Cullen…’ Wilkinson took another mouthful and chewed slowly, really taking his time with it, like he was provoking Cullen to do something rash. And get himself kicked off another case. ‘This isn’t a simple murder investigation, the sort you’re used to. You’re in the drugs squad now and you need a bit more of this.’ He tapped his temple, repeatedly, then kept his finger there.

  Even the ARU cops became so restless they started running unnecessary checks of their equipment, rustling in the awkward silence.

  ‘You need strategic thinking in this game.’ Wilkinson dropped his hand and leaned back on his chair. ‘That girl is risking her life for this operation, seducing Vardy into some dirty pillow talk, while we record it. You want to do him for some assault that’ll get him, what? Five years? Out in two? I want him bragging about his drug deals, I want him off the streets for life.’ He gave Cullen a stern look, then reached for his raisins and popped another load into his mouth. ‘That little enterprise nets him seven million quid a year, right? And you want him inside on assault charges. Leave the thinking to the big boys, yeah?’

  Cullen stared at him. Playing power games while an untrained mark lured a violent misogynist into a honey trap. He flexed his fingers and zipped up his bomber jacket. ‘Understood. Sir.’ He turned away and stepped over to the wall to await orders.

  I know all about your kind of ‘strategic thinking’. Throw bait to a shark, then wash your hands of any responsibility if the shark kills the bait, just as long as you catch the predator.

  The audio recorder on the table burst into noise. A door creaking, followed by a female
voice: ‘Why… why don’t we slow things down a wee bit, eh?’

  ‘Slow down? Slow down?’ Vardy’s voice, guttural and deep. ‘You having a laugh? Thought this was a booty call.’

  ‘Sure, but I want to get to know you first, Dean. I see you at the club all the time, but you’re my boss. You’re so distant. I mean you’re cool and that, but I want to get to know you. What you’re thinking.’

  ‘Right now, I’m thinking that I want to smash your back doors in before I get back to work. How about you get to work on this rager, eh?’

  ‘Okay, then. But I’ve got a wee surprise for you.’ Amy Forrest’s voice was close to the mic. Sounded like a door opening.

  ‘Now we’re talking!’ Bed springs creaked, followed by some slobbery noises. ‘Aye, that’s the game. Cup the balls, nice and hard. Work the shaft. Just like that. Oooh. Bite it. Aye, you too.’

  Cullen left Wilko glued to his recorder and stepped out of the flat into the dank corridor.

  ‘Here, Sundance.’ The door closed behind Bain. ‘What a fuckin’ farce.’

  ‘We need to stop it. Right now.’ Cullen powered over to the stairwell. One floor down, Vardy was in a flat with Amy Forrest. ‘We’ve got way more than enough on Vardy. We should be arresting him.’