by Ed James
‘Find somewhere else to sleep tonight. We’ll sort this out later.’
‘Sharon, come on.’ Cullen opened his palm, showing the engagement ring. The thin light from the flat caught it, making the diamond sparkle. ‘I want you to have this.’
‘I don’t want it. Didn’t throwing it—’
‘Look, can you hear me out?’
The door closed.
Shite. Well done, champ.
What the hell’s going on? What have I—
The door opened wide and Sharon stood there, hands on hips. Fluffy sat behind her, the cat’s chest all puffed up, his usual disappointed look even worse tonight. She turned and followed the cat through. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’
‘Okay, fine.’ Sharon stood in the kitchen, avoiding eye contact with him, stroking the cat on the counter until a huge clump of fur collected in her hand. ‘Look, when we got engaged it was already too late for me.’
Cullen couldn’t speak. She’d finally said out loud the words he’d only heard in his head, all the shit she’d left unsaid, at least verbally. The coldness, the distance. ‘But it’s been bad for longer than eighteen months.’
‘Scott…’ She took his hand, cold against the warmth of his. ‘You didn’t ask me to marry you because you thought you’d always love me. You only proposed because you were afraid I’d break up with you.’
Cullen felt like he had walked on stage in the wrong act. She was pages ahead in the script and had cut through his preamble, his bullshit. But he didn’t know his own lines. And bloody hell, she’s right. And deep down he knew it. ‘You’re wrong.’
She pulled her hand away and opened a bigger gulf between them.
‘We’re good for each other, Sharon. And I had good intentions when I asked you to marry me. The best.’
‘The best? You sound like Donald Trump.’ She at least gave him a smile, if only a bittersweet one. ‘Intentions are one thing, Scott, but your heart was never in this engagement, right?’
He bit his lip. ‘You know what I think? Most people aren’t with their first choice of partner, just the first one who comes along, or the best one at a point in time. And I just realised I’m not your first choice anymore.’
Her gaze flickered. ‘Hold on a minute, you are not my first choice anymore? How is this about me?’
‘You’re the one breaking up with me.’
‘How long have we been engaged now, Scott? A year and a half? And what have you done since proposing? We’re still living in my flat, you’re still not pulling your weight in cleaning and cooking and even just tidying up. I’m still waiting for a sign that you’ve at least thought about making wedding arrangements.’ She exhaled long and slow, all her energy seeming to drain from her. She was past caring.
And this silent proof of her withdrawal hurt more than anything she could’ve said.
She took another breath, short and sharp.
Cullen watched her mouth moving but couldn’t listen. Wished he was somewhere else. Back in time. Forward in time. Anywhere – just not here.
‘—Yvonne Flockhart, right?’
‘What?’
‘Scott, Chantal told me what happened. Yvonne was going out with Craig Hunter and you shagged her after some Christmas party.’
‘That was in the dim and distant past, before I even met you. I’ve changed.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. It was disgraceful, I know it was, but it was ages ago and I was out of my skull. Couldn’t even remember doing it.’ He looked away. ‘It’s one of the reasons I stopped drinking.’
She got up with a huff and walked over to the sink. And just stared into it. He knew her too well to be taken in by this jealousy act. It was the kind of thing you said when you needed a decent reason to break up.
When the truth was that she just didn’t care anymore. When she knew that would’ve been too hurtful.
‘Sharon, please. You’re talking about a mistake I made when I was someone else, when I still thought life was just about shagging and getting hammered so hard I didn’t mind who I was shagging. It was bad, I know, really bad. But I’ve apologised to Craig, we’re friends again, and I’m better than that now. I know I am.’
She half-nodded like she knew he was right, but then she sighed with a tiredness that had nothing to do with the time of night. ‘Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.’
‘Look, I had to interview Angela Lamb this afternoon.’ Cullen caught a flash of her giving her speech, seeming embarrassed by it. ‘I want what her and Bill have.’
‘You want it with me?’
‘Of course. It’s why I proposed, Sharon. I want to spend my life with you. I want to have kids with you.’
‘But I can’t have kids.’
‘We can at least try. You’ve been pregnant once. We can do IVF, we can—’
‘I’m not doing IVF, Scott. And I don’t want to try for kids with you. I feel like we’re in opposite corners of a shared prison cell. I feel trapped, Scott, and I want out. I want to be someone else.’
‘You want to be with someone else, is that it?’
‘For God’s sake.’ She pointed out of the small kitchen towards the front door. ‘Scott, do the right thing for once and give me some space.’
The football thudded off the driver’s door and the little toerag stepped forward, arching his body to deliver the perfect volley on the follow-up, smacking the ball off the window, then wheeling away, arms in the air like he’d just won the World Cup for Scotland, his hissing cheers like the buildings of Dumbiedykes were the crowd at Hampden.
‘You little shite!’ Cullen grabbed him by the arms and lifted him clean off the ground. Little bastard couldn’t be any more than eight. ‘That’s my car!’
‘Sorry, mister!’ His eyes went wide, his breathing hammering out of his lungs. ‘I didn’t know!’
‘You didn’t care, did you? Didn’t give a shite.’ Cullen dropped him on the pavement, but kept a tight grip on his shoulder. ‘That’s my car, you little bastard. Cost me ten grand. You know how long it takes to save up for that? Or how long it takes to pay the loan off? Do you?’
The kid was crying now.
Cullen gave him a shake. ‘Do you?’
‘Sorry, mister.’ Thick snot bubbled in his nose.
The ball trundled over to them. Cullen let go of the little sod, picked up the ball and battered it high in the air, arcing over to the lower flats across the road. Seemed to take ages to land, but it thumped against a garage door. ‘Now piss off.’
The little shite sprinted off in the direction of his football and hopefully his home. Shouldn’t be out at this time.
The driver’s door was splattered with marks where the balls had hit. He’d even knocked the wing mirror out. At least it was still attached. A quick adjustment and it was back.
Cullen reached down for his old gym bag and tossed it in the passenger seat. Then got in the Golf and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.
Where the hell am I going to sleep tonight?
Cullen pulled up in the half-empty car park. Tulliallan still looked like a cardboard box caught in the floodlights at this time of night. The bar was glowing, the sound of a load of drunk cops laughing and joking bleeding out through the open window. Must be a lot of them in there to need to open the window in mid-February. Made the place feel less like a police training college and more like a lonely hearts club, filled with the sad pricks who didn’t have families to go home to, seeking refuge in the subsidised booze, drinking enough to drown out the world.
And there were the ones not even down in the bar, the ones who sat in their rooms toasting dead souls with their bottle of single malt, only stopping when the bottle was empty and their supply ran out. Nothing left to drink.
Nothing left to do. Over and out.
Like it was with Sharon.
All that bullshit about Yvonne and Craig… She’d left the building years ago. Her heart was no longer mine way before I proposed. Had been
since… Since she’d lost that baby. And I hadn’t helped, had I? I should’ve been there for her, but she couldn’t even bring herself to tell me that she was infertile. Took her a year, maybe less, maybe more. But I should’ve been at the doctor with her, not finding out way after the event.
Two cops staggered out of the front door, trying to light cigarettes as they walked. They leaned against the side wall, hidden from the lights, just two tiny red dots glowing.
The last thing I want is to be back on the piss with those jokers, scoping out talent, drinking to the point of not caring about rejection, charming my way into some woman’s knickers, for one night only.
That’s not me, not any more.
All too depressing to even get out of the car, let alone into some strange bed. But Cullen climbed out of the car and took his time walking over to reception.
Just thinking about it made him tired. The projection of his best characteristics. The pretend enthusiasm for non-existent shared interests. And the inevitable dissatisfaction of the first sex. But the surprise intimacy of the second, caused by an errant stroke of her hips as they woke up or her getting back into bed after going to the toilet and spooning into—
Cullen stopped at the front desk. No receptionist, not even a bell. A door opened and wild laughs drifted through from the bar, and a greasy guy settled into the chair behind the desk, arched an eyebrow and gave Cullen the once over. ‘Mm?’
‘I’m on the MIT Sergeant Development Programme.’ Cullen laid his warrant card on the desk, letting the corner snap down. ‘Need a room for the night.’
The receptionist glanced at the card, then consulted his computer with the kind of aloof snort you’d expect in an Edinburgh luxury hotel. Not a police training college. ‘You’re in luck.’ Thick smoker’s voice. ‘One room left. Will you be here all week?’
Rest of my life, mate.
‘Probably. Stick it on the Edinburgh MIT account.’
‘Certainly.’ The receptionist produced a keycard and tossed it onto the desk. ‘First floor. Breakfast is served from six. Enjoy your stay.’
‘Thanks.’ Cullen took the card and let his feet lead him down the well-trodden path to the bar and annihilation, his mouth already wet with the taste of the night’s first pint.
His phone vibrated in his coat pocket.
Sharon? Has she changed her mind?
He snatched the ringing mobile and peered at the screen.
It wasn’t Sharon.
Number withheld.
He took the call. ‘Hello?’
A short pause filled with a quick breath and slight groan. ‘Sergeant, it’s Campbell McLintock. I’m Mr Vardy’s—’
‘I know who are you. What the hell do you want?’
Another pause.
‘Well? What do you want?’
A nervous cough. ‘I need you to come to my house. Eighteen Clinton Road.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Please. Now. I have come into possession of some highly sensitive information pertaining to the criminal charges levelled against my client. I’ll be waiting.’
‘—definitely him.’ Cullen knew Morningside, but couldn’t for the life of him remember which one was Clinton Road. The SatNav guided him past a lively boutique restaurant, the couple in the window looking like they were having a similar chat to the one he’d just enjoyed. A huddle of lads stood in the doorway of the designer bar next door, laughing and joking and sucking on fizzing pints of lager. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Tough one, Sundance.’
Can’t believe I’m asking him for advice.
Still, if this is a set-up, they’ll believe my worst enemy over my best friend.
‘You thought of calling Lamb or Methven?’
‘Tried. Neither are answering.’
‘So I’m your third choice? Thanks a fuckin’ bunch.’
‘So what should I do?’
‘Fuck it, go on, see what the boy’s got to say.’
‘Right.’ Cullen took the next left, and it was like he’d turned into another century. Georgian mansions lined both sides of a quiet street, each set back behind large front gardens, illuminated from below by ground lights, like they were exhibits in an architecture museum. Then the smooth asphalt gave way to a cobbled road, the houses shrouded in dark shadows, the soft glow of each lamppost hinting at the silhouette of a house, glimpsed through bare trees shaking in the February winds. The Golf’s headlights swept along a narrow curve, catching on the high stone walls, until a dark gateway yawned at him.
‘You have reached your destination.’
Cullen took it slowly through the gateposts and pulled up on a wide pebbled drive. Beyond, the house lay in darkness. He killed the engine and stepped out into the dark, then started crunching his way up the long drive. His eyes started adjusting to the monochrome half-light outlining the driveway’s thick foliage in cold silver.
He checked his Airwave radio was in his jacket pocket and glanced up at the canopy of stars. Something sharp grazed his cheek and Cullen dropped to the ground. A massive figure loomed over him, slightly less dark than the night sky. A sharp pain stung his face. Bastard’s cut me with a knife!
Cullen rolled back over his shoulder and was up on one knee, hands raised in a double guard to protect his face against the next swing of the blade.
But it never came.
Cullen squinted through the darkness, shuffling back to create more distance, but all he could make out was the attacker’s swaying arm. Right to left, left to right. He seemed content just standing there, playing mind games with his unarmed prey. Like that bastard with the hammer. The thought made his shoulder throb.
Then Cullen realised why his attacker wasn’t coming after him.
Because he was a tree – sprawling and towering with low-hanging branches and scale-like, razor-sharp leaves.
Cullen straightened up and touched his cheek, feeling the wet warmth at his fingertips, now covered in inky black smudges. He wiped his fingers on his trousers and set off again towards McLintock’s house, a four-storey mansion glowing in the moonlight, nestled between two massive oak trees. Not a single window lit, and something else about the place made him wary. No motion sensor lights, but two front doors. The one on the right was wide open.
Cullen covered the rest of the distance in a crouched run and skittered up the grand set of stairs. Sure enough, the door was open but the hallway beyond it was even darker. He pressed himself against the door frame, the smooth ridges pressing through his thin suit trousers. He cocked his head to the side and strained his ears. Quiet music drifted down from upstairs – sounded like the smooth cheese of Sade. But no voices talking anywhere in the house.
And no sign of Campbell McLintock.
Cullen slid his phone from his pocket and switched on the torch, angling the spotlight to the floor to ensure he didn’t trip as he tiptoed towards the music. The staircase was carpeted with a long Persian rug, swallowing the sounds of his footsteps. He stopped on the first-floor landing and listened. Still Sade, but there was also a faint noise of rushing water. Sounded like it was upstairs so he set off again and stopped on the second floor. The noise was louder, spilling out through the crack of light under the swing doors down a hallway.
What the hell?
Is McLintock having a shower?
Cullen tiptoed up to the doors and touched the handles, checking if they were locked. They swung open on well-oiled hinges, inaudible and smooth, all the way in. The bedroom beyond was grand in every sense, the indirect lighting soft and warm, the antique wooden furniture polished to a rich gleam, the cream silk sheets on the king-size bed spread wide like it was an upmarket hotel.
No sign of any speakers, but Sade sang about travelling coast to coast, LA to Chicago. The shower noise came from behind a closed door.
No sign of a disturbance, just a man getting cleaned up after a long day of rubbing shoulders with filth like Vardy.
Another noise, almost
faint enough to be drowned out by the sound of rushing water. Almost. Sounded like wheezing, coming hard and fast from inside the bathroom.
Cullen froze, holding his breath. What the hell? He stepped across the thick shag rug and tried the door handle. Starting to worry he might bust into some asphyxiation sex game.
Wrong.
He stumbled into a blood bath, the tiles slick and red, a blood trail smearing across the tiles to the fogged-up shower unit, the door hanging open.
Campbell McLintock lay face down on the floor, stark naked. Through the steam, a figure in a black gimp suit straddled his back. A man, his entire body covered in glistening wet latex, including the head, wheezing as he pinned McLintock down.
Cullen stepped closer.
The gimp stopped dead and stared at Cullen from behind his gleaming mask, one hand holding McLintock’s head up by the hair, the other raised high above him, a blood-stained blade catching the light in neon brilliance. He swung the blade down in a flashing arc, deep into McLintock’s throat, opening the neck like a dropped can of Irn Bru, spraying red mist over the white tiles instead of orange.
16
Cullen lurched forward, but the gimp lashed out with the knife, missing his face by millimetres. He slipped on the blood and went down hard on his front.
The gimp was standing in the open window. Then he disappeared.
Cullen scrambled to his feet and slid across the smeared tiles. Like trying to run on oil. He braced himself against the door and knelt down next to the dying man. He tried to turn him over onto his back and stop the bleeding from his neck, but the crimson puddle underneath him kept pooling out further and the slick skin slipped out of his grasp. He let go and jerked his head around to look for— There! He hit the tap and the shower stream stopped.
Silence.
No rushing water thrumming in his ears, no suppressed wheezing, no choked gurgling. Nothing.
The gash in McLintock’s throat had stopped bleeding. But it was over. The lawyer was dead.
Cullen stared at him, at the glazed eyes, at the countless stabbing wounds all over his pale, limp body, already washed clean by the shower, the forensic evidence all down the plughole.
