by Ed James
‘Piss off!’ Bain swatted his hands away. ‘Seriously, what’s going on between you and him?’
Cullen glanced at the garage entrance. A black Audi skidded to a halt, the tyre-screech echoing off the walls. ‘Let’s just say that I wasn’t always such a gentleman with the ladies, and unbeknown to me, one of them was…’ He looked back at the Audi. ‘Well, here’s your dear friend Bill.’
Bain groaned.
Lamb leapt up from the driver’s seat, swung the car door closed with obvious delight and strutted towards them. ‘Scott, good to see you.’ He walked right up to Cullen and stuck out his hand. ‘Congratulations.’
‘What for?’
‘Amy Forrest?’
‘What have I done now?’
‘You got us the long-awaited break. As we speak, DC Gordon and DC Zabinski are taking a detailed statement on Vardy.’
Cullen shook his hand. ‘Thanks, Bill, but…’ He inclined his head at Bain. ‘Much as I hate to say it, you need to extend your praise to old silver tongue here. Couldn’t have done it without his sweet talking.’
Lamb narrowed his eyes at Bain. ‘What?’
‘I’m not just a pretty fuckin’ face.’ Bain nodded. ‘Dealt with a few poor wee lassies in my time. Always pays to empathise, you know?’
Lamb stared at him for another second, his face a mask. Then he offered his hand.
Bain took it and returned the squeeze. Seemed to wince.
‘Well, thanks, Brian.’ A smile crept into the corners of Lamb’s eyes. ‘You’ve done a cracking job.’
Bain nodded at him, deadpan.
Lamb focused on Cullen. ‘Anyway, all that’s left to do is the paperwork, but that can take as long as it needs to.’ He clapped Cullen on the shoulder. ‘Good to have you back in the land of the living.’
‘Thanks.’ Cullen tried for a smile. ‘I still have massive regrets about what I did back when—’
A horn honked, the loud boom echoing round the close confines of the garage. A white Daimler sped up to them, much too fast for comfort.
‘Shite!’ Bain squeezed his eyes shut and braced for impact.
The car stopped, with a tight little squeak of the tyres, no more than a foot in front of him.
The driver’s door swung open. ‘German precision engineering.’ A posh male voice. Then nothing. He seemed content to just sit there, obscured by the glare of the overhead strip lighting that turned the windscreen into a distorted mirror. But Cullen would have recognised the smarmy git’s haughty tone anywhere.
Campbell McLintock, lawyer of the rich and ruthless. Bain and Lamb were squinting at the windscreen as McLintock heaved his bulk out of the seat and stepped out of the car. He gave a throaty chuckle, the sort he’d given to any number of juries over the years. Late fifties and grossly overweight, he wore a purple suit with a lime shirt and a yellow tie. He cleared his throat and took a surprisingly dainty bow. ‘I aim to please, and my aim is as true as my word.’
‘What brings you—? Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re—’
‘Dean Vardy, yes.’ McLintock pointed his car key at the Daimler and locked it with a smug little blip. ‘Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll need a few minutes with my client.’
The bright light hurt Cullen’s eyes. He squinted at McLintock’s fat fingers, folded on the interview table like a bunch of bananas. Cullen blinked and tried to focus on Lamb’s voice, but it was just a drone, sending Cullen to sleep. He was crashing – hadn’t eaten in hours, dehydration making his head throb. So he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
‘DS Cullen?’ Lamb’s voice.
Cullen opened his eyes and looked at him. ‘Aye?’
‘As I was saying, you were the first officer on the scene.’ Lamb gave a Cullen a good look, up and down. ‘As such, would you like to start the questioning?’
Cullen squared his shoulders and glanced at his notes, pretending to search for the best opening gambit. He blew out his cheeks, reached for one of the plastic water cups and drained it. Then he scrunched it up in his hand and shot a sharp look at Vardy. ‘Why did you kill Xena Farley?’
McLintock puffed out his chest. ‘Sergeant, how dare you—’
‘Campbell, it’s cool.’ Vardy laughed as he rested a placatory hand on McLintock’s chest. ‘Haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’ He winked at Cullen. ‘Just went to Amy’s flat for a nice quickie.’ He glanced at his lawyer. ‘That French thingy with the eggs and onions, right?’
McLintock sniggered. ‘I believe the word you have in mind is quiche.’
‘That’s the one. So, I’m having my quickie with young Amy, when in walks Xena, acting all sexy. Who knows, maybe she’d brought some dessert, if you know what I mean.’ Vardy nudged McLintock and got another snigger. Sounded like he’d poked an old set of bagpipes.
‘Let me refocus your attention on the reason you’re here, Mr Vardy.’ Cullen grabbed Lamb’s water and sipped at it. Starting to feel a bit more human. ‘Why did you murder Xena Farley?’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Easy now.’ McLintock patted Vardy’s arm. Looked like he was trying to calm down a bloodthirsty pit bull.
‘Yes, Mr Vardy, easy now. It’s a simple question. Why did you—?’
‘I heard you the first time.’ Vardy hissed at Cullen through clenched teeth. ‘I didn’t kill that bitch.’
‘Here’s the thing, though. You did.’
Vardy was panting hard now, trying to control his anger. ‘You think?’
‘Always. You might want to try it.’
Vardy stared at him, a spark in his eyes. It wasn’t humour, though. ‘Aye, funny. But you’re wrong. I didn’t kill her.’
‘So who did?’
‘You’re the cop, you tell me.’
‘Okay, so before this cunning escape artist vanished into thin air, they magicked the murder weapon into your hand, right?’
‘He didn’t magic anything!’ Vardy’s voice was a hoarse roar. One glance at his frowning lawyer and he took a few quick breaths to cool his temper. Then he was calm again, his breath slow and shallow. Like switching off a blow torch. ‘I was busy with Amy, right, and Xena went to get this candle. Wanted me to pour hot wax on her. Kind of into that sort of thing, you know what I mean? Then some guy broke into the flat. Never seen him before. Old boy, wino nose, rotten teeth, face like a melted welly. Amy seemed to know him, but he didn’t give her a chance to introduce us. Just pulled his gun and shot Xena. No idea why, man. Looked like a bampot to me, though. Real headcase, if you know what I mean.’ He twirled his finger next to his forehead, like he was concerned for the man’s mental wellbeing.
Cullen put a hand to his own throbbing forehead. ‘You know him?’
‘Amy said he was her neighbour from over the way.’ Vardy pursed his lips and put on a comical frown, then slowly nodded his head. ‘Aye, now you mention it, Amy called him Sammy. She tried talking him down, like “Hey, Sammy, it’s okay. Just put the gun away.” Christ’s sake, man. The boy didn’t, did he? Just shot her. Would’ve done Amy and me if I hadn’t disarmed him.’
‘Of course. And are we to believe this gun I saw you hold is his, not yours?’
Vardy grinned. ‘Now we’re on the same page, pal.’
Cullen dropped his hand from his head and let it land on the table with a bang. ‘Then why were you holding it?’
McLintock whispered: ‘Careful.’
‘Like I said, I got it off the boy.’ Vardy kept grinning. ‘But I tell you, I was traumatised, Sergeant. That bastard killed Xena, man. I made him drop the shooter but the prick ran out of the flat before you lot arrived. It all happened so fast. I was confused, acting on autopilot, know what I mean?’
‘I can see how deeply it has affected you, Mr Vardy. Unfortunately we’ve been reliably informed that you – how shall I put this to spare your delicate feelings? – well, allegedly you RAPED THESE WOMEN!’
Vardy flinched.
McLintock opened his mouth. ‘Sergeant, that is comp
letely—’
Vardy was laughing. ‘You were reliably informed, were you? That’s priceless, that is. How reliable do you reckon that source is? You’ve met these girls, right? Little tramps to a woman. How could I have raped them? Hoors like that, they’re always ganting for it—’
‘Enough.’ Lamb clapped his hands. ‘Mr Vardy, we’re charging you with aggravated assault, rape and drug conspiracy. We’ve got a team of forensic accountants going through your books as we speak. It’s a hell of a lot of paperwork, but trust me when I say this. You’ll be going away for a long time.’
Vardy’s turn to open his mouth.
Lamb cut him off with another sharp clap of the hands. ‘Now, do you wish to add anything before we conclude this interview?’
Vardy took a breath.
McLintock patted his arm again, a lot firmer this time.
Vardy glanced at him, then looked back at Lamb, gritted his teeth and shook his head.
‘For the benefit of the tape, the suspect shook his head.’ Lamb checked his watch. ‘The interview ends at eighteen forty-four.’ He switched off the audio recorder and hauled himself up to standing.
McLintock hefted his bulk up. ‘I wish to hear both recordings from the flat in question.’
Cullen stared at Lamb, saw his confusion mirrored. ‘Both?’
‘Yes, both. I gather young Ms Forrest had two radio microphones in her flat?’
‘You knew one of them broke, didn’t you?’
McLintock chuckled. ‘How imaginative, Inspector.’
Lamb took one last look at McLintock then went out into the corridor.
‘The Custody Sergeant will be along shortly.’ Cullen joined Lamb outside, wedging the door open with his foot to keep an eye on them. ‘What was that about?’
‘Search me.’ Lamb looked off down the long corridor. ‘Time to celebrate. Take the team over to the Elm for a few, aye?’
Cullen groaned. ‘I’m not drinking these days.’
Lamb clapped him on the shoulder and led the way. ‘Sure, Scott. Just the one.’
6
‘—of the faaaaamous in-ter-na-tional playyyboys!’ Bain was swaying on the tiny stage, bellowing into the microphone at the top of his voice, mangling Morrissey almost beyond recognition.
Cullen looked around the crowded pub, blurry figures everywhere. A pair of uniforms pushed past him to the bar, jostling for attention as they shouted their orders, waving cards at the busy staff. Somewhere along the way he’d asked someone to hold his jacket, Bill Lamb probably, he couldn’t remember, but it was too hot for more than a T-shirt and even that was soaked with sweat. The bright lights behind the bar stung his eyes, all those multicoloured optics, a whisky collection as wide as the wall, countless shiny golden taps of lager and beer. Someone pushed from behind.
What the hell are all these people doing out on a Monday night?
August in Edinburgh. Festival season. Sod that, I’m going home.
Cullen turned to the door and pushed his way through the noisy hordes, head down, elbows out.
‘Watch it, you prick!’ An athletic brunette in a fitted white blouse and snug black trousers spun around and froze, her scowl melting to a puzzled smile. ‘Scott?’
‘Sharon?’ Cullen gawked at her. ‘I, um, I’m just heading home.’
DI Sharon McNeill held her hand behind her ear. ‘I can’t hear a word you’re mumbling.’
Cullen stepped closer and spoke into her ear, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. ‘I was saying, I was just about to head home.’
‘Were you now?’ She smirked. ‘I’ve just got here. You looked like you were fighting your way to the bar.’ She leaned in closer. Cullen thought she was going for a kiss and went to meet her halfway. Instead, she sniffed his breath and pulled back. ‘Jesus, you smell like a brewery.’
He straightened up. ‘What? I only had—’
‘Save it.’ She gave him a hard stare. ‘You’re not supp—’
‘It was alcohol-free.’
‘Believe that when I see it.’ She turned away from him to look at the woman next to her.
DS Chantal Jain nodded at him. ‘Scott.’ She kept her expression neutral, just stared at him. Her delicate features gave away little about what she was thinking. Her jet-black hair was tied back – her cappuccino skin flawless as ever.
Shite, is that racist?
A cheeky smile crept into her almond-shaped eyes, then she gave him a quick hug – only to pull back even quicker, wiping both hands on her cream skirt. ‘Eww, you’re soaking.’
‘Aye, well, it’s roasting in here.’ Cullen glanced at Sharon, then quickly back at Chantal. ‘Anyway, I saw your boyfriend today.’
‘Craig?’ Chantal raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s weird. I was just talking to him and he never mentioned it. Did you piss him off again?’
‘Hardly.’ Cullen kneaded his temples to cover his discomfort. ‘Must’ve just slipped his mind.’
Over the far side of the pub, Lamb was waving at him, beckoning him over to the huddle near the gents, a few colleagues Cullen only vaguely recognised. He turned back to the ladies. ‘Have you spoken to Lamb yet?’
‘We’ve just got here.’ Sharon looked like she was about to turn around and leave.
Chantal gave her a nudge. ‘We’re only here because we heard you’d cracked that big case. Thought we’d join the celebration.’
Sharon let him take her hand, gently lift it to his lips and kiss it. She rolled her eyes, but let him lead her through the crowd.
‘Jesus, Brian.’ Lamb shook his head as Bain clambered off the stage. ‘Someone call the police. You murdered that song.’
Bain took a theatrical bow. ‘I gave it a good bash, eh? But I left it alive just enough to give it another go next time, if you catch my drift.’ He thrust his groin out with all the grace of a horny terrier looking to mount a slipper. Then he noticed Cullen. And Sharon. And Chantal. ‘Sundance! You’ve been propping up the bar so long, you missed my karaoke performance.’ He pouted. ‘I’m hurt.’
‘I didn’t miss a single thrust.’ Cullen laughed. ‘You need someone to pop your pelvis back in?’
Bain blew him a kiss, just as he caught Sharon’s eye, peering around Cullen’s back. He treated her to his best leery stare. ‘Butch! Lovely to see you.’
‘You know that I’m a grade above you now?’ Sharon examined him from head to toe, making sure to be obvious about it. ‘Sod it. You know what? Whatever. Just point me in the direction of Elvis. I need someone for a bit of surveillance work.’
Bain grinned. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but Elvis has left the building.’
Lamb got in on the act. ‘What surveillance do you need?’ He thumbed at Cullen. ‘Catching lover boy sneaking off for a pint or five? Eh, Scott?’
Cullen groaned. ‘It was alcohol—’
‘Aye, aye, Scott, you’ve never been a man for a drink.’ Lamb slapped him on the shoulder, again. ‘It’s just not your thing, is it?’
Sharon shot him a pointed look. ‘Cut it out, Bill.’
Lamb stepped back. More of a stagger. He steadied himself on a colleague, but seemed less interested in what she was trying to tell him than in hitting her with another gag. ‘You know what they say about the typical copper – he’s a policeman with a drinking problem. Scott, on the other hand, he’s a drinker with a policing problem.’
More howls of laughter, more backslapping.
‘Is that why you two haven’t got any kids yet, is it? No time for a family when there’s so much drink—’
Sharon slapped him.
Stunned silence from the lads. It seemed to hit them like a shockwave.
Lamb touched his hand to his burning cheek.
All around, the song and dance of the crowd continued, but Cullen just stared at his girlfriend, lost for words.
Sharon stepped forward, her nostrils flaring wide. ‘Bill, how dare you try to embarrass a woman for being unable to have children.’
‘Sharon, I�
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‘Do you think it’s funny? Just because you can stick your little maggot up someone and knock them up doesn’t mean it’s—’
Cullen reached for her hand, but Sharon shook him off. ‘Go on, Bill, say something. I mean, nothing’s off limits with you, is it? Just as long as your idiots here laugh. Right?’
Lamb bit his lip.
Cullen tried to get between them.
But Sharon shoved him out of the way and got right in Lamb’s face, snarling. ‘Don’t you like it when a woman talks back? Are you worried I might have a go at one of your many, many embarrassments? Like your piss-poor arrest record? You were a shambles out in East Lothian and you’ve been worse here in Edinburgh. You’re just relying on the old boys’ network to keep your career afloat, aren’t you? And let’s talk about that big Vardy collar Scott got you today.’
Again, Cullen tried to get between them. Again, she shoved him out of the way.
‘Let’s be honest, if you’re the one preparing the case for court, Vardy won’t get convicted.’
Lamb took a step back, raising both hands to signal he meant no harm. And to fend off another slap, which was looking likelier by the second.
Instead, Sharon turned on her heel and made her way to the front door, cutting right through the swaying crowd.
Cullen started after her.
Lamb caught his arm. ‘Scott, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I wasn’t trying to have a go at her.’
‘Bill.’ Cullen turned to face him. ‘Instead of taking the piss out of me, maybe you should’ve put yourself in her position. She even tried to tell you, but you were too busy acting the big man. Now I have to pick up the pieces.’
‘Sharon!’ Cullen burst through the front door. It felt like breaching the water surface after a deep dive. The fresh air hit him in the face. The image of his girlfriend slapping his boss flashed across his memory. Then the door closed behind him and cut the pub’s drone to a dull throb. White and maroon buses rumbled up and down Leith Walk, multicoloured rickshaws weaving through gaggles of pedestrians, a family with painted faces, a burly man with two black eyes. A black cab darted in and out of the nearby parking bay to pick up a group of drunks, trying to open the doors before he stopped.
