by Ed James
‘Wilko’s having a fuckin’ laugh if he thinks that wee lassie will get Vardy to incriminate himself.’ Bain was up close, moaning into his ear. ‘I should still be running this. Load of—’
A gun shot, echoing up the stairwell. Cullen froze. Felt the pressure in his chest, took a sharp breath, glanced around, tried to—
Another shot.
Down there.
And another.
Shite, Amy’s flat.
Cullen sprinted down the stairs, a rush of blood like static in his ears, disembodied voices shouting, then along Amy’s floor, combat boots hammering along the corridor behind him, the door rushing towards him, his shoulder crashing through it, the force carrying him several paces into the flat before he stumbled to a halt. He jerked his head around to get his bearings.
There – bedroom door wide open, Dean Vardy’s back framed by the doorway, motionless, head bowed, arms loose by his sides, trousers round his ankles, a gun dangling from his right hand.
Cullen felt like he was staring at a picture – a perfectly composed still life.
Then Vardy spun around. His eyes shot to Cullen, fury flashing. But, just like that, it was over. He dropped the gun, grinning. ‘I found her like that.’
Cullen charged at him just as the first ARU cops piled into the flat, their shouts deafening in the confined space. He flew through the bedroom doorway, pushing Vardy sprawling onto the floor.
But Cullen’s gaze was drawn to the bed.
A woman lay tangled in the blood-soaked sheets, naked but for her torn underwear. It felt wrong to look at her exposed body, even more wrong that her chest was burst open by a gunshot wound. Her head was like some overripe piece of fruit used for shooting practice.
Amy Forrest.
Cullen’s mark.
Cullen’s fault.
He grabbed Vardy’s T-shirt and yanked him up. Fist poised, ready to strike – but didn’t. It took all his strength to stop himself from smacking that smug, smug face. ‘You’re going away for a long time.’
Vardy glanced around to make sure no one else was looking at him. Then he winked at Cullen, whispering, ‘Sure, sweetheart, you keep telling yourself that.’
2
Silence.
Then strained voices and the blur of movement – two of the Armed Response Unit pushing between Cullen and Vardy, cuffing the suspect. Vardy flashed another smile as they rushed him out of the room.
What the hell is he up to?
On the bed: Amy Forrest, shot through both breasts and once in the head.
This is my fault.
For the longest time there was nothing, just him and this cooling corpse. Used to be alive, but now she was decaying, another consequence of his failure to stop Dean Vardy.
A knock at the door. A haggard figure in a white boiler suit shuffled into the room. Jimmy Deeley, Edinburgh’s chief pathologist, his cheeky expression just visible through the goggles. ‘Afternoon, Sergeant. Standing there a while?’ He walked up to the bed, whistling, and set his case down as he started examining the gunshot wounds. He straightened up, the cracking of his spine loud, and made a gun out of his fingers, aiming at the body. ‘Tap, tap, tap. Clinical.’ With another crack of his spine, he took a Dictaphone out of a pocket and went back to work, muttering into the device.
Cullen left Deeley with his dead body. Out in the corridor, he barged through a crowd of masked faces, tugging on crime-scene suits like they were dressing for PE at school. He stopped outside the safe flat they’d been using – Wilkinson’s base.
Inside, the inspector was hunched over on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, brooding.
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘Looks like our friendly neighbourhood drug baron is modelling himself on Baltimore’s worst.’
Wilkinson’s stare went from brooding to blank. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Deeley reckons Dean Vardy has copied the MO of a fictional villain from The Wire.’
Wilkinson’s face remained a perfect blank. Either he hadn’t got the reference, or he was too busy contemplating the smoothest way of shifting the blame for this botched operation.
Cullen didn’t care to find out, and he cared even less about playing politics, especially at a crime scene. ‘Look, this is my fault. I should’ve prevented it. But I didn’t. I want to make sure this stops right here. Let me get a ballistics expert to match the shots to Vardy’s gun. Please make sure this bastard doesn’t get off, again.’
Wilkinson bristled. ‘Again?’ He exploded to his feet. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, you arrogant little shit? You want to make sure Vardy doesn’t get off again? AGAIN? Let me tell you something about—’
‘Sir?’ Elvis stuck his head in through the door. ‘Hate to interrupt, but you’ll want to hear this.’
Wilkinson let his arms drop. Still kept his glare locked on Cullen. ‘What?’
‘Got uniforms going door-to-door like you asked, sir, and I was just speaking to a certain Sammy McLean, the neighbour from across the hall.’ Elvis thumbed behind them like neither knew where the hall was. ‘Says he saw Vardy do it.’
‘Mr McLean?’
No reaction. The guy was sitting at his rickety kitchen table, his eyes roaming the Formica like he was counting the cigarette burns.
Cullen leaned back on his plastic chair.
The flat was a dump. At least it looked and smelled like a dump, since everything in it seemed to have come from one, including the tenant. Sammy McLean was supposedly forty-two, but the booze on his breath and the broken veins on his nose showed how hard those years had been.
Cullen cleared his throat, loudly, but the guy was too drunk to notice. That, or he was too used to police enquiries. ‘Mr McLean?’
Again no reaction. Seemed miles away.
‘MR MCLEAN!’
‘I made this when I got back, I’m fine.’ Sammy looked up from the table and reached a trembling hand for his tea cup. He looked from Cullen to Bain and back, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘I’ve no idea who you are or what you want from me.’
‘We’re here about the shooting next door.’ Bain slammed both hands on the table.
Sammy jumped at the loud bang. ‘Sorry, lads, you seem to be very upset. Is it about the shooting next door? Maybe you should talk to the polis. I’m sure they’ll be here any—’
‘WE. ARE. THE. POLICE.’ Bain threw his hands up.
Sammy glanced from one to the other. ‘You don’t look like polis to me.’
Cullen took his warrant card from the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and showed it to Sammy. ‘DS CULLEN.’ He pointed at Bain. ‘THIS IS DS BAIN. WE’RE PLAINCLOTHES OFFICERS.’
‘Oh, aye, like on the telly. Undercover, eh? Good stuff.’ Sammy gawped at them, more gaps than teeth in his mouth. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit deaf. Somebody got shot next door and my hearing’s been shot ever since.’
Cullen patted Bain’s arm before he could fly into a rage. ‘COULD YOU TELL US WHAT HAPPENED, SIR?’
‘Oh, aye, I was just getting back from work. I’m working nights the now. Went for a couple of scoops with some of the boys after. But I’m back on at ten, eh? Absolute killer, this. Already had my key in the lock when this bloke comes strutting down the hallway. Big lad, eh? Waltzes straight into the flat over the way there, not even a nod of hello. Queer thing is he left the door open. So I left mine open. Anyway, I came in here and I must’ve been making the tea in my kitchenette, so I got a good angle out of my front door and into the other flat. I could see right into the bedroom, not that I was perving or anything. Like I said, I was making my tea, but next thing I know there’s a gunshot, so I turn round and there’s the bloke in the bedroom door and bang bang he shoots the girl again.’ Sammy looked from one cop to the other, wide-eyed. ‘Shot her in the tits. One then the other. Jesus, it was so loud.’
Cullen glanced at Bain, then back at Sammy. ‘You saw him shoot the woman?’
Sammy frowned at him. Seemed to give the question some serious thou
ght. Then he shrugged and pointed at his ears.
Cullen took a deep breath. ‘YOU SAW HIM SHOOT THE WOMAN?’
Sammy nodded gravely. ‘With my own two eyes.’
Bain reached into his denim jacket, pulled out a stack of photographs and laid it in the middle of the table. ‘DO YOU RECOGNISE THIS MAN?’
Sammy looked at the photo. ‘Nope.’
Bain put down another one. ‘HIM?’
‘Sorry.’
‘This guy?’
Sammy froze.
‘You know this guy?’ Bain tore it off Sammy and showed it to Cullen. Not Vardy.
What the hell is going on?
Sammy took it back.
‘That’s my cousin. He looks like shit.’
Bain chuckled. ‘Sure he does.’
‘What was that?’
Bain laid out another mug shot. ‘What about his guy?’
‘That’s him there.’ Sammy tapped a mug shot with his index finger. ‘That’s your man.’
Cullen and Bain leaned forward.
Dean Vardy.
Bain took the photograph like he was stealing the conviction – slipped it back into his pocket and held out his hand for the rest of the pictures. Sammy reached over the table to return them to him.
Cullen shoved his chair back, hard enough to make the rubber stoppers squeak on the linoleum. He paced over to the other side of the small room and stood by the sink, forcing Sammy to look back and forth between him and Bain. ‘WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT YOUR NEIGHBOUR?’
Sammy glanced over his shoulder. ‘Which neighbour?’
‘WHICH ONE DO YOU THINK?’ Bain put the photos together and chapped them off the table. ‘THE ONE AT THE CRIME SCENE!’
Sammy turned back to him. ‘Oh, aye, they’re a pair of hoors so they are. Filthy slags.’
Cullen frowned. ‘PAIR?’
Sammy twisted around, a dirty leer on his face. ‘Huge pair. Like they’d hurt their backs.’
Bain barked out a laugh. ‘WHAT THE SERGEANT MEANT IS WHETHER THERE ARE TWO WOMEN LIVING IN THE FLAT?’
Sammy turned back to Bain, almost drooling. ‘Aye, two big lassies.’
‘AND HOW DO YOU KNOW THEY’RE HOORS?’
Sammy stared at his coffee table.
Bain waved a hand in front of his face. ‘MR MCLEAN, UNLESS YOU USED A BROTHEL, WENT KERB CRAWLING OR WERE INVOLVED IN SOME FORM OF PIMPING, YOUR RELATIONS WITH THESE WOMEN WILL HAVE NO LEGAL CONSEQUENCES.’
Sammy folded his arms, eyes still glued to the table. ‘Okay. I paid both of them for a shag. But before you ask, they didn’t tell me their names. Didn’t want to get personal, apparently. Wouldn’t even stick a fing—’
‘Okay.’ Cullen glanced into the sink and spotted a tea cup. Full. Still warm. Sammy’s cup was still on the table, also full.
‘MR MCLEAN, DO YOU LIVE ALONE?’
Sammy peered over his shoulder. ‘I do, why?’
Cullen strode over to the bedroom door, yanked down the handle and pulled the door open.
There, sitting on the bed with her knees drawn up and her arms slung around her legs, was Amy Forrest.
3
‘Amy, Amy, Amy.’ Cullen stared hard across the table of the brightly lit interrogation room. ‘How well do you know Mr McLean?’
Amy Forrest glanced down at her chest and tugged at the hem of her tight white top to reveal even more cleavage.
Cullen ignored them – not something that Elvis was able to do. ‘I asked you a question, Ms Forrest. How well do you know Sammy?’
Amy looked at her fingernails. Took her time with it. Then she started nibbling at a cuticle.
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘Is your hearing okay, Miss Forrest?’
‘What?’ She looked up at him. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You’re not answering my questions. A certain Sammy McLean’s hearing seemed greatly impaired by the gunshots fired in the flat opposite his. Yours.’
‘Sammy’s just having you on.’ Amy rolled her eyes. ‘His hearing’s fine, and so’s mine.’ She kept staring into space, like she was replaying something.
‘In that case, may I—’
‘Why am I here? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Then I’m sure you won’t mind telling us what happened at the crime scene?’
‘You think you can intimidate me?’ Amy glared at him. ‘I’ve dealt with way worse punters at the club than some copper with a tiny knob.’
One of the few cases where having a lawyer in the room would speed things up. ‘Why did you decide to change the strategy?’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Amy, you switched places with someone. A girl we’ve yet to identify. Due to your actions, she’s dead.’
Amy recoiled. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I had to improvise.’
‘You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.’
‘Look, I finished my morning shift and, like, I promised Dean a threesome with me and my flatmate. He’s always going on about how much he’d fancy it, so I reckoned it was the best way to get him to talk and—’
‘That wasn’t the plan.’
‘Aye, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. I’m the one with the brains here.’
Cullen bit his lip. ‘And this girl, your flatmate?’
‘Xena.’
‘Xena?’
‘As in the Warrior Princess. From some ancient TV show. Her mum liked the name.’ Amy swallowed. ‘Xena Farley. She’s from Elgin. Works at Wonderland with me.’
‘Worked.’
Amy took a sharp breath and held it for a moment. She closed her eyes and exhaled, long and slow. When she opened them again, she looked straight at Cullen. ‘I know, but…’
Cullen held her gaze. ‘Do you know any of Xena’s family?’
‘Eh?’
‘Amy, I need to know her next of kin. I need to inform her parents of their daughter’s death.’
‘No, I didn’t know her that well…’ She broke eye contact. ‘She talked about them, but it’s not like they were in the flat every week, you know?’ Then she made eye contact again, her tears smudging her make-up. ‘I’m sorry.’
Cullen leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘For what?’
Amy pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side. Stared into space again, like she couldn’t get far enough away from her memory.
Cullen kept staring at her like he’d seen it all before. ‘In your own time, Ms Forrest.’
She did a double take on Elvis. Another man in the room.
But Elvis was too busy ogling her breasts to notice.
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked back at Cullen. ‘I’m sorry for ruining your operation – sting – whatever it’s called.’ Her voice was a monotone at a hundred miles a minute, like she was six years old and had been caught stealing biscuits. ‘I’m sorry for putting Xena at risk. I’m sorry for thinking I could play Dean. I’m sorry I did you guys a favour by inviting him over to mine. I’m sorry I let you talk me into wiring my flat. I’m sorry he copped on when I kept asking him about drugs. I’m sorry he pulled his gun and aimed it at Xena, rather than me.’ She paused. ‘You’d have liked that better, wouldn’t you?’
Cullen didn’t even blink. Played it all through his head again, trying to focus on why the hell they were sitting in a stale little box down in Fettes. A woman was dead, someone who wasn’t supposed to even be there. He hadn’t heard anything on the tape that indicated someone else was engaging Vardy.
‘No, wait.’
‘I’ve got a wee surprise for you.’
‘Just like that. Oooh. Bite it. Aye, you too.’
Oh crap. There it was.
Amy had let Xena in. And Vardy was into it.
But it cost Xena her life.
Cullen leaned forward on the table, his forehead inches from Amy’s. ‘Why did Vardy shoot Xena?’
‘He said she’d been selling drugs on the side, and when she started freaking out, he—’ Amy shook her head
, lips sealed.
‘Miss Forrest, I dare say even you’d be surprised at how many inches thick your police file is. We know you had a sideline dealing drugs at the club. You sold a gram of coke to one of my colleagues.’
‘Mind, that was after we had a dance.’ Amy giggled. ‘Are you sure DC Simon Buxton was on duty?’
‘Aye, funny.’ Cullen reached for a manila envelope on the table and pulled out a stack of photographs along with an A4 sheet of paper. ‘For the benefit of the tape, I am showing the witness the evidence marked P01 through P12, and laboratory test results of a related case noted D01.’ He fanned out the pictures. ‘Miss Forrest, this is you selling the coke.’ He slid the paper across the table. ‘And here are the lab results on its purity. Admittedly, it’s not high-grade quality, but quite enough to warrant a few years at her majesty’s pleasure in Cornton Vale.’ He let the evidence soak in for a bit. ‘The old deal was, you help us nail Vardy, you walk away from these charges.’ He pulled the pages back. ‘This is no longer on the table, so you need to talk to us.’ He paused to let Amy picture what might happen to her should she refuse to co-operate. ‘Starting with whether Vardy shot Xena.’
Amy picked an imaginary key out of the air, locked her lips and threw away the key.
Cullen reached for the envelope again. ‘Let me show you something else. For the benefit of the tape, I am showing the witness photographs P13 through to P20. Miss Forrest, perhaps you’d like to have a look to see if these change your mind.’ He drew out the photos and carefully placed them in front of Amy, one by one. ‘This woman was a lap dancer who worked in Vardy’s strip club a couple of years ago, the same place you work. Wonderland on Lothian Road. Miss Forrest, this is what happens when Vardy finds out that one of his girls is turning tricks on the side.’ He looked up at Amy, waiting for her to meet his eye. ‘Do you see where I’m going with this?’
Amy didn’t move a muscle, but the pulse in her neck throbbed.
‘You see, if we know about your other sideline.’ Cullen looked at the photographs of the brutally slain prostitute. ‘Wonder if Vardy knew. Easy for him to find out, I suppose.’
