by Ed James
‘And it’ll have to wait.’ Dr Yule stuck her hands on her hips. ‘He has sustained considerable head injuries and—’
‘Seriously—’
She cut Cullen off with a sharp shake of the head. ‘Just look at him! Does this look like a man who can focus on your questions?’
Cullen took another look at the body in the bed and could only agree with her.
‘Even when he’s well enough, I can’t promise he’ll remember enough about the incident to answer them. The brain…’ Yule frowned as though wondering whether Cullen even had one. ‘The brain is a complicated machine and memory’s a fickle thing at the best of times.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Now, I must insist that you leave. Now.’ She ushered them out of the room and closed the door firmly behind her. ‘Your questions will have to wait.’ She reached into her pocket for a small device and grunted at it. ‘Keep out of that room.’ She walked down the corridor, as brisk and sure-footed as a drill sergeant. No mean feat in a pair of Crocs.
Cullen waited until she turned a corner, then reached for the door handle to Sammy’s room.
‘Scott!’ Lamb was striding towards them from the other end of the corridor like some souped-up muscle-car bearing down on them. He’d been hitting the weights hard, put on at least two stone in the last year, all of it around the chest and shoulders. ‘Glad I caught you.’ He stopped far too close to Cullen, making him step away from the door. ‘How is McLean?’
Buxton grinned. ‘Scott tried to ask him, but a doctor got her teeth into him before he got a chance.’
‘He’s not in a good way, Bill.’ Cullen peered through the glass into the room. The hiss of each breath rattled the frame. ‘Dr Yule refused access. She doesn’t know if he’ll be in a fit state to testify at the trial.’
‘Shite.’
‘Reckons he may have suffered some memory loss.’
‘The guy wasn’t the full shilling anyway.’ Lamb leaned against the wall, kicking his left foot back against the paint as he strummed his moustache. He nodded to Buxton. ‘Stay here, okay? The minute McLean wakes up, I want you in there to take his statement. Until then, nobody gets in that room without your approval.’
Buxton gave a nod. ‘Noted.’
‘Now, Scott, I need you to find me whoever assaulted Sammy. Head back to the station and go through the CCTV.’
‘Come on, Bill—’
‘No, Scott.’ Lamb cut him off with a cheeky glint in his eye. ‘Someone’s tried to murder a witness. Vardy’s name’s all over it. Now, prove it for me, okay?’
‘Here you go.’ Cullen entered the CCTV suite, two paper bags in his hands. ‘A decaf cappuccino with extra cream and caramel sauce, and two haggis paninis with extra cheese.’
‘Breakfast of champions.’ Elvis glanced around from the bank of flat-screen monitors and snatched the bigger of the two bags. ‘Ah, buggeration, it’s all spilt.’
‘To your good health.’ Cullen pulled a polystyrene cup of black coffee from his own bag and toasted him. ‘You obviously value it.’
Elvis laughed, bits of semi-chewed haggis flying from his mouth onto his keyboard. ‘Good health’s overrated. What’s the point in living to a hundred, if you have to give up all the things that make living worthwhile?’
‘Never change, eh?’ Cullen took a pot of porridge from his bag and sniffed at the grey slime. Burnt. ‘You getting anywhere?’
‘Kind of.’ Elvis checked his watch. ‘I need to get back out to Bathgate for my shift soon, but this is another favour you owe me.’
‘Add it to the pile.’
‘Okay, well I’ve made a wee film for you.’ Elvis slurped coffee, then rinsed his mouth out with it and swallowed. ‘Should really have some popcorn.’ He took another bite of panini as he moved the mouse and clicked.
The blank wall-mounted screen lit up, showing Sammy’s beige-and-grey tower block in Dumbiedykes. Down below, a heavy-set man in a dark hoodie approached the front door, pushed through and disappeared inside the building.
Elvis clicked again and it cut to another camera. Inside view of a stairwell. The same man trudged up the steps, hood pulled down low, casting his face in shadow. Kept looking behind, below, took a few seconds to clear the first floor. Watching everything, every detail, his neck in constant movement like a midfielder looking for the next pass and the one after that. The man climbed up to Sammy’s floor.
And kept on walking.
Cullen frowned. ‘Is that not him?’
Still chewing, Elvis pointed at the screen. ‘Never take your eye off the ball, my man.’
On the screen, the hooded figure stopped halfway up the next flight of stairs and pressed himself against the inside wall. He stayed like that for just short of half an hour, according to the clock in the corner racing through the minutes as Elvis sped it up. The guy shifted his stance a little every so often to relieve the strain of sustained alertness, each small movement looking like a muscle spasm in fast forward.
Then Elvis switched it off and the guy was perfectly still again. Five seconds later, another man appeared in the frame, jogging up the steps from below. Sammy McLean stopped on the landing, clutching two shopping bags. He put one down as he opened the door to his corridor.
The recording seemed to snap into fast forward again, but Elvis hadn’t touched it. This was real-time.
The hooded figure shot down the stairs, grabbed Sammy from behind and hurled him over the landing. By the time Sammy reacted, he was already airborne, flying head first down the stairs. He tried to cover up, but his hands didn’t make it all the way to his face. His shopping bag caught in the railings and he crunched hard on the lower landing, his head cracking off the banister. He went limp, his legs buried underneath him. Burst milk cartons sprayed all over him, ready-meal boxes splatting a red tableau around him.
At the upper landing, the hooded figure stood and watched for a few seconds. Then he rushed down the steps, jumped over Sammy with surprising ease for such a big guy and ran down the rest of the stairs.
Elvis cut back to the outside camera. The front door flew open, the man raced out, jumped into a car parked kerbside and sped out of shot. The video froze on the empty street.
Cullen stood there, sipping bitter coffee. Looked like a professional hit, though more attempted murder rather than sending a message. Sammy’s milk and spag bol saved him from going all the way down. ‘Can you trace the number plate?’
‘Sure, but you won’t care about that when you see what else I got.’ Elvis flexed his fingers, reached for the keyboard and let them hover over it. ‘Expect to be amazed.’ He hit rewind and the images replayed in reverse, the car speeding back into shot and the door flying open. The hooded figure jumped out backwards and stopped on the street. Elvis adjusted the jogwheel until it slowed to a crawl then stopped. ‘Tada!’
Cullen leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. A gust of wind had caught the guy’s hood just before he ducked his head to get in the car. Blink and you’d miss it.
But Elvis hadn’t missed it. And it was a clear shot. ‘Gareth Irwin. Vardy’s bar manager.’
DI Lamb pushed through the swing doors and Cullen followed him into the Debonair. The doors sucked shut behind them but someone stopped them.
‘Hoy!’ Wilkinson marched in. Cullen hadn’t seen him for months – barely recognised the guy. He’d lost at least three stone and looked well for it, like he’d been attending the gym rather than just paying the monthly direct debit. ‘You pricks think you’re going in without me?’
‘This is my gig, Paul.’ Lamb stopped him with a hand to the chest. ‘You’re here to advise.’
Wilkinson stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Go on, then. You make an arse of it and I’ll pull a rabbit out of a hat.’
‘Believe that when I see it.’ Lamb led through to the bar area, the morning’s cold half-light slanting through the frosted windows. The place was mostly empty, save for two cleaning ladies who had been mopping the hardwood floor to a wet glos
s. Now they just stood there, framed by the bar on the one side and the window booths, where a group of lads tucked into a fry-up. Rows of round tables lined the far wall, stacked high with chairs, as motionless as the cleaners.
Lamb flashed his warrant card. ‘Good morning, ladies. DI Lamb, Police Scotland.’
Neither woman replied, instead staring at the card, frozen in the moment, an obvious question in their wide eyes. The lads in the window continued their breakfast.
Lamb slid his ID back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and tried again. ‘Either of you seen the manager?’
The cleaners glanced at each other. Neither spoke.
Lamb checked his watch, then nodded at Cullen. ‘Go through to the back and check the office.’ He paused. ‘And be careful. Irwin’s a big guy.’ He turned back to the cleaners. ‘Don’t worry, ladies, we’re not here to—’
Cullen stepped through the door marked ‘Staff Only’ and the overhead closer swung it shut behind him. A bright strip light illuminated a narrow hallway with several closed doors. If the signs could be trusted they led to a toilet, a cleaning cupboard and an office. Bingo. He stepped up to the last door and tugged it open.
A small room, darker than the hallway. Stale air, the quiet hum of electrical appliances, a desk stretching almost from wall to wall. And there was Gareth Irwin, leaning back in a chair, his face lit up by a laptop. Like a kid on a camping trip, reading monster stories to his friends with a torch held under his chin. But this ogre didn’t need dramatic lighting to frighten kids. He filled his lungs with a big breath. ‘What the f—’
‘DS Scott Cullen.’ Cullen took a step into the room, holding up his warrant card. ‘We’re arresting you on suspicion of assault—’
‘No!’ Irwin slammed his hands down on the desk, vaulted over it and charged.
Cullen just about dodged him with a late sidestep and Irwin shot past him, head first like a battering ram.
And straight into Wilkinson, smashing the DI in the solar plexus and yanking him clean off his feet, wrapping his arms around the backs of his knees, pulling tight and letting gravity do the rest. Textbook rugby tackle. Wilkinson went down hard, flat on his back, Irwin landing on top of him with a crushing thud. Game over.
Irwin started untangling his arms and made to scramble to his feet. Cullen lunged, pushing Irwin through the office door into the narrow hallway. The big man sprang back up and sprinted towards the door to the bar.
Cullen tried to jump over the prone Wilkinson, but Cullen tripped, landing on his hands and face. Cullen rolled over his shoulder but pushed up to standing, hitting the ground running – just when Irwin yanked the door open and made for the bar.
Cullen kept running, then the door started to close. Decision time. He put his head down and powered on, five more steps in an all-out sprint, four, three, two, one, he threw his right hand out like Superman to go through the gap at an angle, tucking his face behind his shoulder as he dived for it. The closing door grazed his hip and leg, but he was through, and with another quick roll he was on his feet.
Irwin was halfway across the room, but the sound of Cullen’s squeaking shoes made him check behind.
Lamb broke from the cleaning ladies and charged at Irwin, who ducked under his wild roundhouse punch, weaved around, straightened up and kicked him between the legs. Lamb doubled over with a breathless groan, all in one smooth motion.
But Irwin stayed where he was, breathing hard. Lamb twisted around and loaded up another punch. He fired it off, and hit nothing but air, but Cullen heeded Irwin’s lesson and he flew past Lamb, lower and with a longer run-up and hit the big guy below the waist, driving his shoulder into his relaxed hamstring and felled him like a tree.
Right at Wilkinson’s feet. He didn’t have far to go to get his revenge. Just pitched forward and collapsed on the guy’s face.
Smothered by Wilkinson’s big belly, Irwin’s voice was barely audible: ‘Vardy made me do it.’
9
Wilkinson pulled up outside St Leonards station, glowing in the morning sun, the reflection of his BMW X5 shining bright in the building’s glass front, a mosaic of colours in an inviting range of different-sized glass doors. Behind was the brown mountain ridge of the Salisbury Crags; the ancient rocks like some primordial sentry, cloaking the station in shadow. Seagulls rode the thermals – a snow-white condensation trail cutting across the clear-blue sky. ‘Right, out you get. I’ll catch up with you inside.’ He paused, looking straight at Cullen. ‘Oh, and thanks for taking Irwin down.’
‘Just make sure to put it in your report. “Detective Sergeant Cullen showed extraordinary grace under pressure to neutralise a severe threat to a senior officer. I therefore recommend him for promotion to Detective Inspector.” Something like that.’
Wilkinson slipped the car into Drive and revved the engine. ‘Like I said – get out.’
Cullen jumped out, struck by a blast of fresh February air, and stepped onto the kerb.
A squad car pulled up, the Battenberg blue-and-yellow pattern catching the sun, and Lamb got out of the passenger seat and stuck his head over the roof to look at Cullen. ‘Give us a hand with Irwin, would you?’
Cullen walked up to the car’s rear wheel and waited for Lamb to get into position. Then he nodded and Lamb opened the door. Cullen reached in, gripped the back of Irwin’s neck and angled his own body to give him space to get out. ‘Mind your head, sir.’
Irwin swung his feet on the pavement, placed his cuffed forearms on his knees and levered himself out of the car. His eyes were only half open, his cheeks about as pale grey as the piles of snow skirting the pavement.
Lamb closed the door behind him. ‘You got a lawyer—’
‘No need. I’m already here.’ A slender man in a pinstripe suit stood at the station’s front door, hands in his pockets. Hamish Williams, with the calm confidence only a shitload of money could buy. ‘Braw morning, is it not? My very favourite type of weather, this. Now, I should like to hold a brief private conference with my client ahead of any interview?’
Lamb gave him a curt nod.
Cullen gave Irwin an equally curt shove and walked him towards the building. On cue, two uniformed officers stepped out of the front doors and took over, guiding the lawyer and his client inside.
Lamb locked his gaze on to Cullen. ‘Why was that lawyer here so fast?’
‘Always got his ear to the ground, hasn’t he?’
Cullen looked away. ‘Coffee?’
‘Dying for one.’
‘My treat. Not that it’s—’ Lamb stopped dead.
Angela rounded the corner, her flat heels clicking off the flagstones, and stopped dead. She glanced at her husband. ‘Bill.’
Lamb looked at his wife, his face hard to read. ‘Angela.’ Then he got out his massive Samsung smartphone and put it to his ear, walking off with a tight nod. ‘I’ll see you inside, Scott.’
‘Good to see you, Scott.’ Angela towered a good few inches over Cullen and took his outstretched hand, giving it a brisk shake. ‘Still no wedding ring?’
He cringed. ‘You know what it’s like. We’re both busy, got lots of work… And of course you and Bill would be invited.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘What brings you here?’
Angela flashed him a coy smile. ‘You’ll find out.’ She opened the glass door and stepped inside the station. The door closed, but the glare of the sun turned it back into a mirror.
Hamish Williams looked at Lamb and Cullen like a chess grandmaster who has considered every possible move on their part and knows for a fact that this little game can only go one way – his client would refuse to provide a single answer, he himself would parry every question, and then the interview would be terminated with zero gain. See you in court, hope you get a favourable jury.
Lamb knew it, but he was still giving it his best shot. ‘Why were you here so quickly, Mr Williams?’
‘A laudable attempt at asserting control ove
r the conversational dynamic with a sudden change of direction, Inspector Lamb, but as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, my availability to my client, prompt or not, is not the subject of this interview.’
Lamb grabbed a biro and sublimated his frustration into a rapid beat of the table.
Williams glanced at the pen and his smile broadened.
Time for an intervention.
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘Mr Irwin, at your arrest you stated that, “Vardy made me do it.”’ He kept his voice in the same narrow band. ‘Can you please confirm this in the presence of your lawyer?’
Irwin just sat there, head bowed, just like when Cullen asked him to get out of the car.
‘Mr Irwin, you are under no obligation to answer my questions, but do please indicate that you have heard me.’
Irwin glanced at his lawyer, got a casual nod, and shrugged. ‘Alright, I heard you.’
‘And do you wish to answer?’
Irwin dropped his head again. Sat there like that, sticking to the silent treatment. ‘I heard you.’
Cullen scratched his nose to hide his reluctant appreciation of the guy’s sense of humour. ‘Very well, let’s move on to the nature of your relationship with Mr Dean Vardy. Can you confirm that you work for him in the capacity of bar manager at the Debonair on West Port, Edinburgh?’
Pause. ‘I heard you.’
Cullen folded his hands on the table. ‘Are you aware of the criminal charges brought against Mr Vardy?’
Another pause, but this one was longer.
‘Did you—?’
Irwin shot another glance at his lawyer, this time with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.
But Williams dropped his gaze to his manicured fingernails and calmly shook his head.
Irwin turned back to Cullen, stared him right in the eye and resumed his tried and trusted strategy. ‘I heard you.’
Cullen could see it in his stare. I’ve lost him. Bloody hell. ‘I asked if you are aware of the criminal charges brought against Mr Vardy?’
