Heroes and Villains

by Ed James

  ‘Order!’ The judge sat back down and nodded at the clerk of court, a small bald man sitting at the table in front of the judge’s bench. His shiny head was glistening with sweat in the sickly yellow hue of the overhead lights as he turned around, craned his neck up at the judge and muttered a few unintelligible words.

  Cullen was at the back of the crowded room, but standing, so he had a clear view over the densely packed benches of the public gallery and press box, lined with journalists leaning forward to hear what was being said at the judge’s bench.

  Dean Vardy sat at a table next to his lawyer, both in sharp suits, both facing the judge. Vardy leaned forward to peer around McLintock at the jury box. A couple of jurors noticed his stare and turned to look at him. When he was sure of their undivided attention, he pointed at the empty witness box. Then he dropped the hand and tapped his heavy gold watch with his right index finger.

  The judge pulled back the sleeve of his black gown and looked at his own watch. He nodded to himself and cleared his throat with a solemn cough. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues of the Court, the prosecution has now been granted as much time as the law allows in order to produce a witness.’ He glanced at the Procurator Fiscal, standing by her team. ‘I have no option but to defer the prosecution’s case for one month.’

  A hush sailed around the room.

  McLintock was first to his feet. ‘My lord, I request that you dismiss this case.’

  ‘Campbell, that is not going to happen so please do not push your luck.’

  ‘Then I request that my client, a respectable businessman and pillar of the community, be released on bail until such time as the prosecution can present any evidence whatsoever of wrongdoing on his part.’

  The judge looked at Vardy, his stern gaze lingering as the entire court seemed to hold its breath. ‘Bail set at three hundred thousand pounds.’

  14

  Cullen drove through a flicker of street and headlights, lancing through the black February night sky, stinging his eyes like disco strobes.

  When did I last eat? Or sleep?

  Can’t remember.

  Fettes appeared ahead, the floodlights making the car park look like a massive cardboard box, same shade of brown, same brutal geometry. He slotted the Volvo into a free space near the entrance, just in time to see Lamb disappear through the front door.

  Cullen killed the engine and jumped out into the cold. He rushed after Lamb, again just in time to see him disappear through a door. He flashed his ID at the reader and followed Lamb through into a small conference room.

  Empty, but it felt like a graveyard.

  Lamb stood just inside the door, a confused frown deepening on his forehead. ‘Take it you’ve heard?’

  Cullen perched on the edge of the table and nodded. ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Bill!’ DCI Alison Cargill stormed into the room, trembling with rage. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Lamb gave Cullen a questioning look, then turned back to Cargill. ‘I don’t know what to say, ma’am.’

  ‘Were you not in court?’

  ‘I was at Tulliallan, teaching the DS cohort—’

  ‘Silence.’ Cargill stood there, breathing hard, staring at Lamb. ‘Inspector, this does not happen on my watch. Am I clear?’

  ‘I understand, ma’am. Look, DI Wilkinson was in charge of—’

  ‘Don’t you dare try and—’

  ‘I’m not trying to wriggle out of this, ma’am. We had two witnesses. One was assaulted at his home this morning. We’ve got the culprit in custody but he’s not speaking. I was assured by DI Wilkinson that Sammy McLean would be fit to stand up in court.’

  Cullen spun around, arms in the air. ‘What? He was in intensive care!’

  ‘Well, Wilko reckoned he’d be fit to testify and because I was teaching, I didn’t think—’

  ‘Teaching is all you’ll be able to do once I’ve finished with you.’ Cargill’s nostrils flared like she was about to breathe fire. Instead, she roared at him. ‘Am I clear?’

  ‘Loud and clear, ma’am. Look, I’ve got an email from Wilko saying Sammy was fine to stand up in court.’

  ‘An email?’

  ‘Aye. I honestly didn’t think it was that bad. Thought he’d just tripped in the snow or something. Wilko even said the bruises would add to his testimony.’

  ‘Someone shot him.’ Cargill was still shaking. Nothing would calm her down. ‘And have you found the culprit?’

  ‘We’re a long way away, ma’am.’

  She shook her head hard. ‘We still have one witness, though. So why the hell is this not in court?’

  Lamb cleared his throat. ‘Amy Forrest, ma’am. She’s gone to ground.’

  ‘The case has been deferred and we’re looking like a bunch of clowns because we don’t seem to be able to take people from their homes to the court.’ Cargill grunted. ‘Find this Amy Forrest, Inspector. I don’t want to have to play the recorded statement from eighteen months ago. We don’t look good in it. If we can find her, we can go into court with both balls in our own hands rather than Vardy squeezing them.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Cullen paused, gruesome images flashing in his head – Vardy shooting Xena Farley in the face, then in the chest, twice. Same with Sammy McLean. He swallowed. ‘People who agree to testify against Vardy have a habit of ending up dead.’

  ‘That’s not what I want to hear.’ She glared at him. ‘This is your fault, Sergeant. And you, Bill. Both of you. You’ve made a dog’s dinner of prosecuting Vardy twice now.’

  ‘How is this my fau—’

  ‘Shh!’ She pointed at the door. ‘Sergeant, get me that witness. Now.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Cullen took a step back and did as he was told. He went to shut the door but it slammed, the echo thrumming in his ears. Then Cargill’s voice droned through the thin walls as she tore Lamb apart with her words.

  Cullen paced past the receptionist to the front door and out to the floodlit car park.

  Jesus Christ.

  How the hell am I going to find Amy?

  And now Vardy’s back on the streets, hunting for the only witness his people haven’t murdered. Assuming she’s still alive.

  Cargill’s right. This is all my fault.

  I asked for this and I’ve made a right mess of it.

  His phone rang.

  Cullen snatched it out of his pocket. Buxton. ‘What?’

  A startled gasp. ‘Umm, sorry, is this a bad time?’

  ‘Yes. What?’

  ‘I… well, I’m still at the hospital. Got something off the CCTV review. It’s not much, but it might be useful, so I thought I’d call you straight away. There’s no audio, so we can’t verify the shots, but—’

  Cullen clenched his teeth. ‘Cut the foreplay, Si.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got footage of a guy, at least I think it’s a guy. He’s wearing scrubs and a facemask, so he looked like a surgeon, and he waited for me to leave my post to go for a slash—’

  ‘You left the room?’

  ‘I was bursting, mate. It was up to my eyeballs. I asked the nurse to look after the room for me, but she let him in to check the chart or something.’

  ‘Tell me you’ve found him.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Si, come on.’

  ‘Look, there’s a high-res frame of him approaching the door on the way in. There’s a bulge in his coat at the small of his back. Looks like a gun.’

  ‘Have. You. Found. Him?’

  ‘No, but we’ve got him on the way out, still wearing the surgical mask. All we’ve got to identify him by are the eyes.’

  Cullen swore under his breath. ‘Last time I looked at our criminal database, it wasn’t exactly full of eye-prints.’

  ‘Ha-bloody-ha.’

  ‘Si, call me when you’ve got something better than a brief sighting of a stranger with no identifying features.’

  Buxton said nothing, but his hollow breathing sounded like he was scraping the barrel. H
is breath caught. ‘I’ve just got access to the CCTV from the entrances. I’ll see if we can find this guy.’

  Cullen bit his tongue. ‘Tell me when you’ve got him.’ He cut the call and took a deep breath, squinting up at the night sky. The floodlights burnt his eyes, but he forced himself to keep staring, to keep looking for something beyond the fluorescent mist hanging in the moist air.

  He couldn’t see a thing.

  When the first tears blurred his vision, he lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut until the neon halos faded.

  The short walk to his car wasn’t nearly long enough to clear his head.

  Amy unable to look at her rapist’s child in case she saw Dean Vardy.

  And Vardy himself, grinning at the impotent judge, seconds before his people produced three hundred grand like it was pocket change.

  And Buxton’s words painting the picture of how Sammy McLean’s killer had got into the room. Three quick shots and he was gone. Tap, tap, tap. Like Marlo Stanfield in The Wire. Quick and efficient. In and out.

  But distinctive. One man’s MO.

  Or rather, one man’s group’s MO.

  Someone knew who’d killed Sammy McLean. And knew where that raping, murdering bastard would be.

  Cullen waited in a doorway across from the Debonair, lurking in the shadows. Traffic squeezed through the narrowed road, walled in by flashy SUVs on both sides, each one more expensive than his annual salary. Vardy’s rich friends, out to celebrate the bastard giving the courts a two-fingered salute. Again.

  The drive should have given him enough fresh air to cool his temper, but the sight of all this illicit wealth on wheels fired him up even more. Every car was paid for with dirty money, either by some career criminal or by an upstanding member of the community who’d made a tidy profit from the clean side of Vardy’s empire. Cullen didn’t know what made him feel dirtier. Or what made him feel more frustrated. Knowing this went on, or knowing he couldn’t do anything about it.

  He got the pool car fob out of his pocket and flicked out the key. A minute of scratching expensive paintwork would only get so much satisfaction and a shitload of trouble.

  People like Vardy got away with raping and murdering and assassinating witnesses, because people like Cullen wouldn’t suspend the due process of law, even when they knew the bastard was guilty.

  Each thought pulled Cullen further down a rabbit hole of vigilante fantasies. Keying their cars seemed like small beer compared with what he was going to do to Vardy.

  Two men walked down the hill from Lothian Road, heading towards the Art College, their heels clipping the pavement, the sound echoing off the walls like shrapnel. They stopped outside the club and continued their relaxed conversation. The bouncers from Wonderland.

  A large figure stepped from the shadow of the bus shelter and bundled towards them. He drew wary looks from the doormen, who knew what was coming.

  When he was fifteen yards out, they dropped their heavy shoulders.

  Ten, they settled into tense boxing stances.

  Five, they—

  Shite, it’s Wilko.

  Cullen shot off after him, dancing round the back of a black cab. ‘Paul!’

  All three turned to face him, the bouncers frowning.

  Cullen grabbed Wilkinson’s shoulders, his hands throbbing as hard as his temples.

  Wilkinson glared at him, his fists clenched by his sides.

  The bouncers scanned him for signs of imminent violence, then relaxed their shoulders and stood up straight. Again, they knew the score as well as he did. It was over. At least for now.

  Cullen led Wilkinson across the street, having to weave between a pair of black Land Rovers as he retreated into the shadow.

  The smarter of the two touched his Bluetooth earpiece and spoke into the mic. ‘Hey, it’s Kenny, down at the front door. Tell the boss some cop just rocked up. Looked to get handsy with us. Name wasn’t mentioned, but he might be back to tell me in a minute. Got a boyfriend with him, too. That prick who was looking for Amy.’

  Wilkinson’s turn to grab hold of Cullen. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘You were about to get into a fight with those two, weren’t you? Unprovoked. They’d have sued you for harassment and police brutality and God knows what else.’

  ‘They’re Vardy’s men.’ Wilkinson looked back across the street. ‘They’re working for a rapist and murderer and—’

  ‘I know that. Believe me. I’ve worked this case long enough to know. But you’ve got to check your temper if you want us to get a conviction. You can’t just go ballistic at—’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Across the street, Vardy stood on the pavement, a smug look on his face. Wearing the same navy suit as in court, his gold watch catching the street lights. Behind him, a posse of men with more money than taste, tailored suits, their wrists and fingers shining as well, pecking cigarettes and nipping frosted champagne flutes. ‘Oh, you poor things. You’re standing out here in the cold all by yourselves, too polite to ask if you can come in and celebrate with us.’

  Cullen stared at him, clenching his teeth. Keeping it calm, making sure not to say anything that would have Vardy reaching for his phone to report them to Campbell McLintock.

  ‘And what are we celebrating?’ Vardy pursed his lips and frowned at them in mock thoughtfulness. ‘What did my clever barrister call it? Oh yes, the smooth workings of our incorruptible justice system.’

  Wilkinson was out of the bus shelter like a rocket, powering towards Vardy faster than Cullen had ever seen him move.

  The bouncers closed ranks in front of Vardy and grabbed hold of Wilkinson, leaving him hanging over one man’s shoulder, pointing his finger at Vardy, roaring like a trapped wild animal.

  ‘Just you wait! I’ll burn that shithole of a pub to the ground, and I’ll do it with you in it!’

  Vardy just patted his pockets, took an imaginary notebook out, and made as if to write down Wilkinson’s words. Then he paused, scrunching up his forehead in cartoonish concentration. ‘How do you spell shithole? Is it hyphenated? Oh, wait, stay like that. I’ll just draw a wee picture of your mouth.’

  Amid the boisterous laughter of Vardy’s entourage, Wilkinson roared and started flailing with both arms to get at their leader, but the bouncer whose shoulder he was leaning over had already had enough. With a quick dip of the knees, he got under Wilkinson’s centre of gravity, bear-hugged the large man and simply lifted him off the ground. Wilkinson yelped with surprise, then kicked out at his shins. And missed. He tried again, and missed again, even worse. He looked like an enormous toddler having a tantrum.

  Cullen raced across the road and yanked Wilkinson free of the doorman’s grip. Wilkinson thrashed around, nearly knocking Cullen off balance with a wild roundhouse punch aimed at Vardy.

  Before he could have another go, Cullen grabbed Wilkinson in a headlock and hustled him up the road.

  ‘Are you cool yet?’ Cullen sat in the driver’s seat, staring at Wilkinson. ‘Eh?’

  Wilkinson was counting his change, hands between his legs, his lips mouthing each new number.

  Still can’t believe this. I came so close to committing property damage, came so close to barrelling inside like Bruce Willis in a Die Hard film, but without the clue as to how to take out a building full of armed thugs.

  And I let Wilkinson hand Vardy another victory, another humiliation. And good old Wilko did it at the top of his voice with words so filthy they should have come out of the other end.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  Wilkinson looked over but didn’t say anything. He went back to his change. ‘I’ve bloody lost count.’

  Cullen grabbed his wrist, stopping him. ‘When you were watching Vardy’s pub, were you drinking?’

  Wilkinson laughed. Minty breath covered Cullen’s face. Was he covering alcohol?

  I can’t tell. And I couldn’t care less. I’ve got my own problems.

  ‘You need to tell Cargill about this.’


  ‘I’m not speaking to that bloody witch.’ Wilkinson reached into his pocket for some more change. ‘Two eighty-five. Two ninety-five.’

  Any other night, Cullen would have laughed, but not tonight. ‘Get out.’

  Wilkinson looked over. ‘You’re not going to drive me home?’

  ‘No. You’ve got enough for the bus. Get up to Lauriston Place and you can get a 47 most of the way home.’

  ‘You should give me a lift.’

  ‘Get out.’ Cullen reached across him and flung the door open. ‘Now!’

  Wilkinson gave him one last glare then complied. ‘You’re making a mistake here.’

  ‘Just pissed off.’ Cullen shut the door and drove off, leaving Wilkinson to rail at random strangers like a drunk idiot.

  Cullen walked into the World’s End Close and stood there in the dark, staring up at the bright windows of his flat.

  Shite.

  My car’s still in Dumbiedykes.

  He yawned into his fist. No chance I can be arsed getting it tonight. He let himself into the communal stairwell and trudged up the steps. He stuck the key in the lock. It was pulled from his hand.

  The door swung open and Sharon stood in front of him, looking right through him.

  ‘Sorry it’s so late, but I—’

  ‘Don’t.’ Sharon’s face was ice. And venom.

  He frowned. ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t bother, Scott. I want your stuff out. I want you out. I want out. Full stop.’ Sharon looked at him, long and hard. Then tossed the engagement ring at him and slammed the door in his face.

  15

  ‘Sharon!’ Cullen kept knocking until she opened up. ‘Come on, let me in.’

  The door cracked open, the chain rattling, an eye peering out. ‘Scott, go.’

  ‘Look, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just leave me alone.’

  ‘If you want me and my stuff gone, you need to let me in.’