by Ed James
‘After you chucked him out, has he tried—’
‘No. He’s been a ghost. I’ve only had texts from him.’
‘From his work number?’
Angela looked at him as though he had asked the question in German. She stared right through him. ‘No, a new one.’
Shite, a burner.
‘Scott, what’s going on?’
‘Can you give me the number?’
‘Only if you tell me what’s going on?’
‘Craig Hunter and I worked this case, a few years back. People in a gym, dealing steroids. One of them got ultraviolent. I’m worried about him, that’s all.’ Cullen got out his phone, mainly just to give him something to look at that wasn’t her pleading eyes. ‘I’ll get that number traced.’
‘Scott, cut the shite. What’s he done?’
Cullen took a deep breath. Tried to think of any other options. But she was his friend, had worked with him for years. She deserved the truth, no matter how badly it stung. ‘There’s a vigilante in Edinburgh and—’
‘That guy who killed Vardy and McLintock? You think that’s Bill?’
‘Come on, Angela. You’re a cop. You know we have to follow wherever the evidence leads.’
She flinched. ‘Sorry, you’re right.’
‘I need that number.’
She pointed through the open kitchen door. ‘My mobile’s charging…’ She headed through.
Cullen started following, but his own phone started ringing. He pulled it out of his inside pocket and glanced at the screen.
Hunter.
Shite, what does he want?
Cullen motioned at the front door. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’
She just shrugged.
He felt awful, leaving her alone like this, dazed and confused, but his phone kept ringing, so he stepped outside, closed the door behind him and took the call. ‘What’s up, Craig?’
‘Scott, this isn’t what I signed up for when I let you stay on my couch.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Sharon’s here. Said she wants to speak to you. I told her you weren’t in, but she called me a liar. She’s outside, waiting in her car. Didn’t sign up for this, mate.’
Cullen looked up into the dark night sky, trying to steady his nerves. It didn’t work. ‘Craig, I can’t deal with this shite right now!’
‘Don’t you ever shout at me.’ Hunter’s voice was as sharp as the winter air.
‘Sorry, Craig. That was uncalled for. It’s nothing to do with you. I’m just… Get rid of her, please.’
Harsh breathing. ‘Right.’ Then a door snapped open and traffic noises rasped out of the speaker. ‘Fine, I’ll tell her, but I’m not playing relationship therapist for you two if— What the hell?’
‘What’s up?’
‘She’s gone.’
‘She’s driven off?’
‘No, she’s gone. Her car’s still here, but the driver’s door is hanging open and—’ Hunter grunted and started shouting, ‘Get the hell—’ Then he was cut off. Sounded like the phone fell to the ground, clattering on the asphalt with a burst of static.
40
What the hell is going on?
Cullen gunned the engine, making the car fishtail as he clattered through Leith Links, the speedo reading eighty miles an hour, as the thirty speed sign flashed past. ‘Call Sharon’s mobile.’
The ringtone rattled out of the speakers. Straight to voicemail. Again.
What the fuck?
If Lamb took aim at Craig Hunter…
Fifteen stone of raw power and army violence…
Lamb’s not got ’roid rage, he’s got a death wish.
Cullen leaned on the horn, blaring past a trundling VW Tiguan still at close to seventy miles an hour.
What if Lamb got the jump on Hunter because he was distracted by my phone call?
And what if he’s behind Sharon’s disappearance?
But why?
Cullen floored it, hitting the tight curve outside Queen Charlotte Street police station close to ninety, the engine roaring.
Shite – that Pauline Quigley case. Another case that slipped through my grasp, only for Sharon and Hunter to run with it. And they’d not pressed a single charge on Vardy.
Meaning they were as bad as the others, at least in Lamb’s eyes.
He had to slow for the queuing traffic at the lights, but took the road down to Bernard Street and slipped through there. Another kickdown and he caught the amber lights and was on the home stretch, heading over the bridge. He slowed again, as the evening traffic weaved its way along the final—
Sod it.
Cullen stomped on the brake and skidded to a halt, the smell of burning rubber hot in his nostrils. He jumped out and sprinted along the road, then swung round the corner to Hunter’s street.
Sharon’s orange Focus sat there, the door still hanging open.
Hope I’m wrong. Hope that Sharon went to the shops and didn’t swing the door shut hard enough and the wind blew it open and—
Who am I trying to kid?
Cullen came to a stop, bracing himself on the door with both hands. He craned his neck and scanned the car’s interior, all cold and alien in the pale cabin light. Her phone sat on the passenger seat.
She’d never leave that, not in Leith.
Cullen spun around. Hunter’s door was hanging open. He put his phone to his ear.
Methven only let it ring once before he took the call. ‘Talk.’
‘She’s left her car door wide open and her phone on the seat. In Leith. Lamb’s got her. Must have.’
‘So?’
Cullen powered up the stairs to Hunter’s flat. ‘What do you mean, so?’
‘I mean it’s hardly evidence of an abduction, far less of the abductor’s identity.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Where’s Hunter?’
‘Just checking now.’ Cullen stopped by the front door. Somebody had left it ajar. ‘Craig?’ He walked through the flat, opening the bathroom door and peering inside.
‘Meow?’ Bubble peered up from inside the bath, her tail all fluffed up.
‘Good girl.’ Cullen walked back through and checked the bedroom. Still messed up from his sleep. ‘Sir, you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘The front door was left open and… Hunter’s gone, too. Bill must’ve taken them bo—’
‘Bill may have taken them both. You’re not helping matters by jumping to sodding conclusions.’
Cullen jogged back out of the flat, counting to ten as he descended the steps. He checked Sharon’s phone. Tried her passcode but she’d changed it. Bloody hell.
He set off back towards his car. ‘Sir?’
‘Mm?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘We’re just going through Lamb’s files. He’s put together his own chronological log, detailing who did what in each of the Vardy cases and… The way he’s written up our recent efforts makes it seem like he believes we’ve tried harder to bring him to justice than we ever did to prosecute Vardy of the rapes and murders, let alone the crimes of his money laundering friends in high places.’ Methven paused. ‘You still there?’
‘Aye, just trying to make sense of it.’ Cullen got in his car and twisted the key. ‘We’ve only just found out that his lawyers were helping him launder money.’
‘Some of us just found out about it today. DI Wilkinson’s known about it for a while, but he chose to sit on the information. Reading Lamb’s file, I get the sense he feels betrayed by his own side. His latest notes tar everyone who has ever worked the Vardy cases with the same brush. You, me, Wilkinson, Bain, Sharon. I suspect he’s coming after all of us.’
Cullen fell silent, the engine droning away.
‘Be careful out there, Sergeant. I need you to return to St Leonards.’ He hung up before Cullen got a chance to reply.
Cullen slid his phone back into his pocket.
What the
hell do I do now?
Go back to St Leonards?
Go looking for Lamb?
Or wait for him—
That burner… The one he’d been texting Angela with.
He got his phone back out and found a number. It started ringing through the dashboard, the tone drilling his teeth. He turned the volume down a couple of notches.
‘Yes?’
‘Tommy, it’s Scott Cullen, you got any—’
‘Aye, aye.’ Tommy Smith yawned. ‘As I thought, that number is a pay-as-you-go job.’
‘Can you get a location for me?’
Foot to the floor, one hand whipping the wheel around, the other hammering the horn. Two cars and three road bikes careening out of his way like flipper balls, as Cullen shot back out of Leith, weaving around the drivers who were too slow to react. He fought to keep the car on the road at sixty miles an hour where the council had lowered the limit to twenty, just as he skidded on to Leith Walk, losing traction in the rear. He flipped the wheel back the way. A double-decker trundled towards him, but he got control and hit the floor, shooting away up Leith Walk.
‘Stay on this road for one-point-five miles. Then, you have reached your destination.’
Cullen kicked the car back up to sixty – pubs and restaurants flying past him either side of the four lanes, the Friday night crowd getting denser and livelier the closer he got to the city centre. A fight was breaking out by the Tesco Express, a group of locals chatting to a hen party spilling out of a bar, a stag do in matching pink shirts getting between them.
‘After one hundred yards, take a right, then you will have reached your destination.’
Cullen looked ahead. Gayfield Square?
He slowed down, glancing around for signs of Lamb or his car. Nothing. He checked the location Tommy Smith had given him, checking out of the window to confirm he wasn’t fantasising, then pulled up by the police station.
‘You have reached your destination.’
Cullen got out and jogged down the cobbled street, the leather soles of his shoes slapping off the stones. The area was almost deserted, no sign of Lamb.
So where the hell is he?
‘Must be something in the Bavarian air, aye.’ A guy was sitting in the doorway of Powerhouse Fitness, huddled up against the shuttered front door, wrapped in a filthy sleeping bag, a smartphone stuck to his ear. Gleaming, box-fresh, the sort of high-end Samsung that Lamb had been toting around. ‘All of it one go, aye.’
Shite. That’s his phone!
Cullen walked up to him. ‘Police.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his warrant card, making the guy drop his frown. ‘Is that your phone?’
He put it to his chest. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I’ll call you back, Lenny.’ The homeless man hit the screen and put the phone away. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Look, did someone give you it?’
‘Why? You think I can’t just go into—’
‘Cut the crap. That model costs almost a grand.’ Cullen got a nod. ‘Was it a man wearing a tight leather jacket? Looks like he works out a lot. In his early forties and—’
‘Aye, it was him.’ The guy looked at Cullen as though he was mentally challenged. He waved the phone at Cullen. Then he tucked the mobile into the folds of his sleeping back. ‘It’s mine now.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t confiscate it. Sounds like you got it as a gift. Nothing illegal about that.’ Cullen let his words sink in, then cocked his head like he had been struck by a sudden idea. ‘How about this – you give me the full story on how you came by that phone and I’ll give you a tenner to top up your credit. How’s that sound?’
‘You some sort of pervert or something?’
‘No, that guy’s an old mate of mine. It’s part of a wild goose chase for my stag night. He gives phones to strangers and we have to track them down and… Never mind. I just need to know the exact details of what he said and did when he gave you that mobile.’
The homeless man squinted at him hard.
Cullen pulled a ten pound note out of his wallet, like it was too bizarre to be anything but the truth. ‘You got a name?’
‘Archie.’ The guy shrugged and took the money. ‘Alright. Your pal pulled up in a black Beemer, right over there outside the polis station.’ He pointed down the road. ‘Just stopped for a sec and buzzed down his window. Looked like he stuck out his hand to drop something in the street, but then he saw me watching him and reversed back to where you’re standing now. Must’ve been in a real rush to get to the next drop-off, because the boy went at it full pelt, tyres squealing and all. I thought he was going to run me over, but then he stopped and got out. That’s when I saw he was built like a tank. And his leather jacket, sweet Jesus, it looked painful it was so tight. I used to look like that myself, you know…’ He glanced down at his arms, stick thin despite the patched-up layers of thermals. ‘Anyway, your mate chucked the phone at me and told me to make a few calls to my friends. Didn’t matter who I called, just as long as I started using the phone. And then he flashed me a grin. Can’t say why exactly, but I got the chills. And don’t tell me it’s winter. That wasn’t it. I know I sound soft in the head, but… That game you guys are playing isn’t bringing out the best in your friend, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘You have no idea. But thanks.’ Cullen pulled another tenner out of his wallet and handed it over. ‘Here, get yourself into a hostel. Going to be a cold night.’ He rushed back towards his car.
Lamb must have anticipated we’d track him, so he gets this guy to make us think he’s where his phone is.
Good thinking.
And good sense of humour to drop the thing off next door to a police station, but there’s a whole lot of extra CCTV coverage around here.
Cullen tore open the driver’s door and jumped behind the wheel. ‘Hey Siri, call Elvis.’ He hit the start button and the car grunted to life, the dial tone switching from his phone to the dashboard speaker. Come on, come on, come on.
‘Scott, what’s up? Need a ride home from the pub?’
‘Paul, I need you to access the CCTV network around Gayfield Square, about twenty-five minutes ago. You’re looking for a black BMW.’
‘Alright, alright, alright, I’m on it like a comet. Don’t hassle me.’
Cullen clenched his teeth as he started the engine and followed the one-way system round.
Elvis huffed into his ear. ‘Got it! Right, I’ll track his journey and call out the route as you go.’
41
‘After four hundred yards, you have reached your destination.’
‘Elvis, that’s not funny!’ Cullen shot through Tollcross, his fists clenching the steering wheel. The five-way junction disappeared in his rear-view.
‘Sorry, Scott, didn’t know you’d left your sense of humour at the office.’ Elvis yawned. ‘Just so you know, you’re heading up towards where Ian Rankin and JK Rowling live.’
‘You’re sure this is where Lamb went?’
‘As in DI Lamb?’
Shite.
Cullen groaned.
So much for keeping a lid on it.
A red Volvo trundled out of the petrol station, black smoke belching out of the back.
‘Elvis, keep this to yourself, okay?’ Cullen slowed and flicked the air circulation on. ‘Lamb is the vigilante who killed Vardy and his lawyers. He’s taken Sharon and Hunter.’
‘Craig Hunter? Aye, bullshit.’
‘This isn’t a joke. Look, is he really—’
‘Gillespie Place should be on your right any time soon now. Number seven. Flat three. First floor, I think.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Believe it or not, that’s one of Dean Vardy’s properties. Had to go around there once. Nice building. Vardy’s flat’s up on the first floor, overlooking Bruntsfield Links over the road. You know, the pitch-and-putt course. And, oh man, the Treehouse does great pancakes wi
th—’
‘Shut up!’
Lamb’s black BMW was parked at the kerb, right outside a black door with a faint number seven on the glass panel above.
Cullen slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt in the deserted bus lane, inches from the BMW’s rear bumper. ‘Right, I’m going in. Stay on the line, record this call and keep quiet.’
‘I called for backup on another line, by the way. You can thank me later.’
Cullen jumped out of the car and stuck his phone in the front pocket of his jacket. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘Keep quiet.’
‘Roger.’
‘I mean it.’
Cullen tried the door to number seven and pushed it open, stepping onto a short hallway before a communal staircase winding upwards. He stopped, listening for any noise beyond the quiet creak of the unoiled hinges. Muffled shouts came from upstairs. He ran up the first flight of stairs, taking the scuffed steps three at a time. He clattered into a mountain bike chained to the banister and spun, catching himself on the railing.
Stupid bastard.
He sprinted over and stuck his ear to the heavy wooden door. Sounded like people were screaming into gags behind it.
He took a few steps back and barrelled into the wood, shoulder first. The bang echoed through the stairwell like a gun shot.
The door was still shut.
Cullen’s shoulder hurt as if he had been shot. His buggered shoulder, the one some psycho had taken a hammer to. He ignored it and took a few steps back, ready to go at it again.
The door swung open and Lamb looked out at him. ‘Scott? What the hell are you doing here? I thought I heard a gun go o—’
Cullen dropped his head and drove his shoulder into Lamb’s gut, his feet thundering on the wooden floorboards. Lamb stumbled back into the flat, gasping for breath, and clattered into a chest of drawers. Cullen was still driving through him like a rugby flanker when he felt Lamb take the impact with a shuddering thump. Lamb slid to the ground, so Cullen scrambled over him and ran towards the muffled shouts from the back of the flat.
