by Ed James
Lennox was on the phone to someone, behind the windscreen of his squeaky clean Škoda Yeti.
An approaching car made Cullen squint, the headlights lighting up Yvonne’s face. One of those squashed new Range Rovers, gleaming white even in the faint glow of the street lamps. Methven. He parked next to Lennox, his face like stone.
Cullen groaned. ‘Just when I couldn’t feel any sicker.’
Yvonne snorted into her cup, making the lid burst off and a jet of coffee shoot out, just as Methven stepped out of his car.
‘Ah, good evening, Sergeant. Nice to see you back in Edinburgh and on such a joyous night.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Dean sodding Vardy is dead!’
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘Might have been even funnier if you hadn’t already told me the punchline.’
Yvonne choked on her coffee and had to walk away in a coughing fit to catch her breath. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Methven looked after her, seething. Then he looked Cullen up and down, his focus settling on his curry-splashed shirt. ‘I thought you’d stopped drinking.’
‘I wasn’t on duty, sir.’ Cullen faced Methven’s glare with one of his own. ‘Look, can we see the proof that Vardy actually is dead?’
Cullen took the clipboard from Buxton and signed him and Yvonne in. ‘You get all the good jobs, Si.’
Buxton took it back and thumbed behind him, clearly not in the mood. ‘Body’s in the bathroom off the hallway.’
Cullen hauled the mask over his head, snapping the goggles in place. He gave Yvonne a nod, then led the way into the flat, his own breath hissing in his ear, the crime-scene mask making his boozy sweat circulate. He stopped by two figures, shrouded in white boiler suits, examining the glossy red paint on the open front door. One of them looked up and shuffled out of the way, letting him move on to the next obstacle.
Another SOCO worked away at the varnished floorboards in the broad hallway. ‘For crying out loud.’ Anderson.
Cullen pushed past them and stepped into Vardy’s flat, his heart hammering.
What if this is like when Vardy killed Xena Farley? No chance of recognising her, so he assumed it was Amy Forrest. What if this time someone’s mistaken Vardy for someone he’d killed?
‘Christ.’ A figure stepped through a door and groaned. Jimmy Deeley, judging by the timbre of the groan. ‘Good evening, detectives.’ He gave them each a grave look. ‘This is ugly.’
Cullen joined him by the door, but another pair of SOCOs blocked his view into what he assumed was a bedroom. ‘How ugly?’
‘Like Bain on the toilet.’ Deeley stared at the floor, his eyebrows twitching like he’d seen such a thing. ‘I’m estimating the time of death as roughly an hour ago, with half an hour each way. Same MO as with Campbell, though.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No, I’m joking at a crime scene. What do you think?’ Deeley stepped aside. ‘I’ll let you see for yourself. I’m off to repeat myself to your boss.’ He headed down the hallway, stopping to talk to one of the SOCOs kneeling on the floor.
Cullen set off, slowing as he passed a huddle of SOCOs working around a doorway. ‘Coming through.’ He stepped over them and their tuts into the bathroom, all glossy white marble and shiny gold fixtures. For a moment, Cullen felt like he was in a posh hotel.
Then he saw the body in the bath. Dean Vardy, naked, lacerated with cuts, lying in a congealed puddle of his own blood. Whatever else Vardy had been, he had always been overflowing with life, but now every last drop of it had left him. Looking at this corpse was one of the hardest things Cullen had ever had to do.
I’ve wished this kind of death upon him for over a year. Now a genie’s granted my wish, it’s just… another life taken… more suffering. And what good will it do? Another bastard will rise up to take his place and—
‘Fuckin’ look at that.’ The figure standing in the doorway, shrouded in white, pointed at the dead man like some avenging angel. Bain – no mistaking him. ‘Cock like a fuckin’ acorn!’ Then he squealed with delight. ‘I really expected him to have a bigger wanger, you know? Fuckin’ driving all those shagging wagons, running a massive gang of drug pushers, acting the big man…’ He shook his head like he was disappointed. ‘Guess he never saw old Campbell in the gym locker room, eh? Poor wee guy.’
Cullen looked at Yvonne, shaking with the effort of suppressing her laughter. ‘And here was me saying he was better.’
Methven stepped between them, a twitch in the corner of his mouth. ‘Alright, Sergeants. I appreciate that you’ve had a hard day and clearly a much harder evening, but I need you to go the extra mile again for me.’ He gave them a brave smile. ‘Sergeants, can you please speak with Mr Vardy’s girlfriend.’ He closed his eyes and motioned at the bathtub. ‘She’s the one who found him. Neighbour heard her screaming and called the cops.’
Cullen gave the door a tentative knock, then waited in the stale corridor that smelled of third-hand cigarettes and cat piss. Down the spiral stairwell, the bedlam still engulfed Vardy’s flat.
Yvonne leaned against the wall. ‘He deserved it, right?’
I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Vardy deserves to be off the street, paying for all the suffering he’s caused. Is this really that bad, given our complete inability to put anything resembling a case together? He can’t destroy any more lives. Someone’s done us a favour.
Cullen gave Yvonne a shrug. ‘Maybe.’
Footsteps thumped towards them inside the flat and the door opened slowly. Sheena Douglas, a Family Liaison Officer Cullen had dealt with a few times, peered out. Mid-thirties with twinkling eyes. ‘Hey, Scott. Yvonne? Long time, no see.’ She stepped out into the stairwell. ‘She’s holding up remarkably well, considering. Trouble is, I can’t understand a word she says.’
‘What?’
‘She’s Polish. I think. Can Vardy speak Polish?’
Cullen frowned. ‘No. Wilko had an informant who was from Krakow, said he could talk about Vardy in front of his face in Polish, never let on.’
‘So Vardy’s in a relationship with someone he can’t communicate with?’ Sheena nodded. ‘Guy like that, he’s not after a nice chat, is he? Just all about the body and the face.’ She frowned at the door. ‘This is her flat, but Vardy owns it, from what I can gather. I think her name is Wioletta Pawlok.’
‘Mind if we have a word?’
‘By all means.’ Sheena led them into the flat. The place was battered and tattered, seeming a thousand miles from Vardy’s polished bachelor pad. ‘These detectives need a word, Wioletta. Is that okay? Can I get you a coffee?’
Wioletta was sitting on the sofa by the window. She gave Sheena an abstract nod but didn’t acknowledge the detectives. ‘Coffee, yes. Please.’
Cullen nodded a silent thank you at the FLO, then crossed the large room, nice and slow so as not to startle her. ‘Miss Pawlok… may I call you Wioletta?’
She reacted to the sound of her name with that vague nod. No signs of guilt or insincerity. Her shock seemed real, even if nothing else did – the bleached blond hair, the pouting lips, the inflated breasts. Vardy sure had a type.
Yvonne took a seat next to Wioletta, careful to keep a respectful distance while still communicating a sympathetic presence. ‘I understand this is a difficult time for you, so I’ll make this brief. Okay?’
Wioletta turned her head to face Yvonne. ‘Yes.’
Yvonne registered her reply with a warm smile. ‘Wioletta, may I ask where you’re from? I only ask in case you’d like a translator present.’
A slight frown crept on Wioletta’s vacant face. ‘Yes?’
Yvonne nodded. ‘Your country?’
The frown disappeared and Wioletta went back to her vacant gaze. ‘Poljska.’ She blinked a few times. ‘Poland.’
Yvonne pointed at herself, then at the door. ‘I’ll get you a translator. Back soon.’
No reaction.
Yvonne skipped down the stairs. ‘Got our work cut out for us, Scotty boy.’
‘I’m struggling to keep that curry down.’ Cullen followed her, the petrol station coffee burning in his gut.
‘If you were going to lose it, it was when you saw Vardy.’
‘Thank Christ for Bain’s penis obsession.’
On Vardy’s floor, Methven was making an arse of taking his crime-scene suit off. ‘Sodding, sodding hell.’ He finally kicked the second leg off and passed it to the attending SOCO for processing. Then he clocked them. ‘Well?’
Yvonne just shrugged. ‘She’s Polish.’
Methven frowned. ‘That’s a bit harsh, Sergeant.’
‘No, no, I mean she hardly speaks a word of English, so I haven’t been able to question her.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Methven shook his head. ‘I can never understand how—’ He peered downstairs. ‘Is that Paula Zabinski? Paula! It’s Colin!’
Footsteps clambered up, then DC Paula Zabinski stopped on the stairs. Pale blonde hair, her rosy cheeks dotted with freckles. ‘What’s up, sir?’ Spoke with all the boredom of someone who’d fended him off for years.
‘Do you speak Polish as well as your surname suggests?’
‘It’s too late to wind you up for offending me, Colin.’ A smile crept over her lips. ‘Yes, I’m bilingual, if that’s what you’re asking.’
Methven chuckled. ‘Let’s see if you’re as quick getting answers as you are giving them. I’ve a special mission for you. Let’s see how fast you can get Miss Pawlok to tell us about the circumstances of her discovery here. Extra points for any details of Vardy’s criminal enterprises.’
Zabinski trudged up the stairs towards Wioletta’s flat.
Outside, Cullen took a look around to make sure nobody was in earshot, then glanced at Yvonne. ‘So, how about when we get back to—’
‘Scott?’ The flat door slammed and Zabinski stomped across the path towards them. ‘Is Crystal still about?’
‘He was just here a—’
‘Paula!’ Methven bounded over, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Did you manage to—’
‘Of course I did.’ Zabinski yawned. ‘She says she was working at Sunset Beach, a tanning studio in Dalry. Left at eight to meet a friend for a drink in the Debonair. Vardy was supposed to meet them, but she didn’t see him. Then she came home, found him in the bath around eleven. She screamed out and the neighbour came in. They called the cops.’
Methven checked his watch. ‘How the sodding hell did you get all that out of her so fast?’
‘Told her if she helped, you’d find the murderer by the end of the week. Extra points if you can do it by Friday.’
‘How…’ Methven stared at her. Then laughed out loud. ‘I like the cut of your jib, Constable. Excellent work. Excellent. I don’t need to ask you to validate the timeline, do I?’
‘You know me, Colin. Remember, extra points for Friday.’ She winked and walked off towards the huddle of plainclothes cops standing around doing bugger all.
Methven watched her go, a confused look on his face. When she was out of earshot, he leaned over to Yvonne and made sure his voice was a whisper. ‘As a woman, would you say she was flirting with me?’
Cullen rubbed his face.
Yvonne bit her lip, her forehead creased. ‘Well, I think you’ll find out on Friday, sir.’
‘Quite.’ Methven dropped his gaze to his feet and cleared his throat. ‘Now. The delightful DC Zabinski gave us a timeline for tonight, assuming it can be validated. Between that and Deeley’s estimated time of death, we can narrow down the murderer’s window of opportunity.’
Cullen nodded. ‘Problem is, sir, we’ve got far too many suspects. You could go through the phone book and—’
‘I know, Sergeant.’ Methven’s eyes were shut, the lids flickering. ‘But this is a standard case. We have suspects, so we can see if they fit the timeframe.’ He opened his eyes. ‘And I just so happen to believe there’s an obvious one we’ve been ignoring for a long time.’ He looked at them expectantly.
Cullen saw his blank look reflected on Yvonne’s face. ‘Who?’
Methven shook his head. ‘Sodding hell. Amy Forrest, of course. She went against Vardy, even promised to go on the stand. He probably threatened her and her friends, but the trail went cold. We never found her. Maybe she became frustrated enough to take matters into her own hands.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose.’ Cullen nodded. ‘Especially after the other witness who agreed to testify against him was killed. That might’ve tipped her over the edge. Trouble is, we’ve no idea where she’s hiding. Or if she’s still alive.’
‘Sergeant, a year and a half ago, Ms Forrest tried to kill Vardy. Her and her friend Xena Farley, who ended up dead by his hand.’
Cullen exhaled slowly. ‘Makes you glad somebody finally got to him.’
Methven gave him an uncertain look. ‘Does it?’
‘No.’
Methven took another sharp breath and cleared his throat. ‘Right, we need one more stab at finding her…’ He let that hang in the air between them. ‘Can you—’
Cullen’s phone rang.
‘Sorry, sir.’ He pulled it out and checked the display. Buxton. ‘What’s up, Si?’
A crackle on the line: ‘Got another vigilante sighting.’
23
Cullen’s scuffing footsteps on the stone staircase sounded as tired as he felt. He reached for the door handle and stepped out into the night air, half of his brain still processing what was going on between him and Yvonne and what the hell he was—
‘Watch out!’ Buxton grabbed his shoulders. ‘Steady, mate.’
‘Si.’ Cullen did a double take. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Eh? Waiting for you? I just spoke to you.’
‘What?’ Cullen stared at him. ‘No I mean—?’
‘Are you drunk?’ Buxton jerked his head forward and sniffed Cullen’s breath. ‘What the hell, mate? You can’t interview a witness like this.’
‘I’m fine.’
Buxton lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘Not like this, mate, seriously.’
‘Mate, come on.’ Cullen let out a deep breath and watched it mist in the air. Then almost toppled over. Maybe he’s right. ‘Fine. Just tell me what this witness saw.’
‘Right…’ Buxton pointed at the building over the road. ‘Dear old girl, lives over there. I was waiting here to go back in with you, but… Mate, you should hear her. She said she’s some grande dame of the publishing world, runs her own agency with fabulous writers to wine and dine everywhere. That’s why she’s up this late. Jetlagged from a transatlantic flight, hashing out some hush hush deal she really couldn’t tell me about, darling. Course she did and—’
‘Si, did she see Batman?’
‘She’s as pissed as you are, mate, going off on a tangent every other sentence and they just go on and on and on and—’
‘Si, for Christ’s sake!’ Cullen stared at him, narrowing his eyes. ‘Did she see a superhero?’
Buxton glanced back over the road. ‘She saw someone dressed in a black leather costume sneak out of the block, a well-built man by the looks of it, but he was wearing a mask, so she couldn’t see his face.’
‘Get a full statement. I’m off to brief Methven.’
Cullen rushed up the stairs.
‘Scott!’ Lennox was skipping up the stairs after him, hardly making a sound he was so light on his feet.
Cullen reached for the handrail and steadied himself before his wee wobble. He gave Lennox his most professional frown. ‘What’s up?’
Lennox raised his hands in mock apology. ‘Simon Buxton has a—’
‘I just spoke to him.’
‘Right. Have you told Methven?’
‘If you’ll bloody let me!’ Cullen turned, his sole scrunching on the stone step, and started up the stairs again.
‘Chaos, mate.’ Lennox was on his heels, mouth-breathing all the way up. ‘Absolute chaos.’
Methven was standing in the doorway, frowning at Lennox. ‘Terry?’ He held out a hand and,
rather than some mason’s handshake, they did an elaborate slapping ritual, like two blinged-up footballers celebrating a goal. ‘Been a long time.’
‘Got another witness saying she saw a superhero flee the scene.’ Lennox gave a polite smile. ‘That’s two, isn’t it?’
Methven’s scowl turned into a sneer. ‘Is it?’
‘Last night.’ Cullen patted his scraped cheek. ‘At McLintock’s.’
‘Heaven help us.’ Methven shot a glare at Lennox. ‘Can you escort DS Cullen and DS Flockhart back to Tulliallan?’
Cullen got in first. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Sergeant, I need to ruminate further.’ Methven pushed past them and started walking down the stairs, delivering his parting shot over his shoulder. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll see you at St Leonards at seven on the dot. Sober, if you can manage that.’
The knife sliced through the air in front of Cullen, slicing through his jacket, cutting his chest open. Pain screamed in his ears.
Batman was licking his lips. ‘You okay, Scott?’
‘Get the fuck away from me!’
Batman slashed out again, jabbing the knife in Cullen’s throat. ‘You okay, Scott?’ He leaned forward and started lapping at the blood spilling from the wound, like a thirsty dog.
‘Get the fuck—’
‘—off me!’ Cullen jerked awake.
Lennox and Yvonne were both staring at him from the front seats. The Tulliallan car park glowed behind them, far too bright. The dashboard said it was the back of two. Up in five hours. Shite.
‘Christ.’ Cullen glanced at them in turn, then rubbed his eyes and got out of the car. Had to brace himself against the door to stop himself falling. He held on to it until the world stopped spinning.
A phone rang. Cullen patted his pockets, found his phone in his trousers. Not ringing, at least not any more.
Lennox put his mobile to his ear and signalled that it was a private call. ‘Sir, we’re just—’
