by Ed James
Cullen tried to avoid shaking his head. McCrea was starting to come close to Bain in Cullen's ranking of least favourite officers. Instead, he had a look around the room. There were stacks of books on the floor, mostly fiction, but a few piles seemed to be rock biographies. Julian Cope, Joe Strummer, Morrissey, David Bowie, John Lennon.
"You got anything off the computer?" said Cullen.
"Like what?"
"Tell me you've had it looked at?"
"Why would we?" said McCrea. "Bit of a kibosh on spending on that sort of thing, big man. We live in a time of austerity. Might not seem like that in Edinburgh but it's certainly like that through here. We got his mobile."
One of the first things Cullen would have done was have a Forensic IT Analyst pore through files and emails. He looked around the room, fists clenched. Beside Hughes' computer was a stack of flyers. He went over and picked one up.
He showed it to McCrea. "Some band called The Ferocious Butterfly are playing at Stereo at two pm today. Do you reckon he could be involved?"
"Must be," said McCrea. "Look at the number of posters on the wall."
Cullen looked up. They were mostly gig posters for The Ferocious Butterfly with the occasional one for The Invisibles. "It's this afternoon. Do you fancy going?"
"Why not?"
CHAPTER 39
As McCrea drove them through the Glasgow lunchtime traffic, all Cullen could think about was that the flats looked just like parts of Edinburgh. It felt like he was being driven through his own city in some mad dream, the streets configured slightly differently.
"Never been to a lunchtime gig before," said McCrea.
"I didn't know you got them," said Cullen. "In my experience they're usually in dark rooms at eight o'clock, with bouncers trying to rush things through before they chuck everyone out before the club night."
McCrea chuckled. "That's about the size of it. Glasgow's a funny city, though. I think it's something to do with how big the place is but, as well as your neds and gangs and that, you've got this amazing music scene. It's full of scenesters and schmoozers and all that, but it's amazing how many big bands have come out of Glasgow."
"You sound like you're talking from experience."
"My wee brother was in a band that did quite well," said McCrea. "Played T in the Park a few times. Gigs in London and Manchester. Works in a bank now."
McCrea pulled them into a parking bay on Argyle Street and led them to a bohemian-looking pub next door to a more earthy boozer. Cullen resented the five quid on the door, but didn't want to resort to privileges of his job to get in.
The long, thin room seemed busy for a Sunday lunchtime and was full of skinny boys and girls with hipster t-shirts and trendy haircuts. Cullen felt out of place in his suit and shirt.
They headed for the bar and were quickly served by a man with dyed blonde hair.
"I'm a police officer," said Cullen. "I'm not going to cause any trouble, I'm just looking for The Ferocious Butterfly."
"Well, they're playing two sets today and they're between them just now. You'll need to wait until the end if you want to speak to them."
Cullen's stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten much all day. "Can I get a bacon roll?"
The barman folded his arms. "You know this place is vegan, right?"
"What does that mean?" said Cullen.
"No meat or animal products."
"So, what have you got?" said Cullen.
McCrea barged in. "Get us two burgers. Chips with both."
The barman passed the order through to the kitchen. "Can I get you boys something to drink?"
Cullen was sorely tempted by the impressive selection of bottled lagers - Czech and German - and a fair amount of British and American craft beer, but ordered a cola in the end.
The band returned to the small stage. They were a three-piece and didn't look like they belonged in the same city as each other, let alone the same band. The singer was skinny, the acoustic guitar strapped to his body looking like it would topple him over. The drummer had an undercut, his hair tied back in a ponytail and shaved around the sides. The female keyboard player looked like she was trying to hide behind her instrument.
Cullen and McCrea stood with their pints of organic cola and took in the show. It was far from being Cullen's thing, but McCrea seemed to be getting into it. Virtually all of their songs stemmed from Belle and Sebastian, one of the bigger Glasgow bands. Cullen wasn't a fan - an ex-girlfriend had been obsessed with their early output and he'd heard more than enough to last a lifetime.
The Ferocious Butterfly singer had an irritating habit of introducing his songs with lengthy descriptions along the lines of "This song is called The girl in Morrisons didn't give me cashback, it's about a girl in Morrisons not giving me cashback" and then singing "The girl in Morrisons didn't give me cashback."
"We should have waited outside," said Cullen, halfway through the show.
The barman handed over their food. Cullen lifted the lid on the roll and inspected the burger - it looked healthy, perfect for his new regime. He spooned relish on and devoured it. The chips were covered in Cajun spices and hit the spot.
Cullen pushed his plate away as the band finished, applause and whistles filling the room. Thankfully, they didn't indulge in an encore. Cullen walked towards them as they packed their gear up.
McCrea grabbed his wrist. "Give them five minutes."
"They'll get away," said Cullen.
McCrea shook his head. "No, they won't. They've got a load of people to speak to. Five minutes won't hurt."
CHAPTER 40
Cullen secured a back room, which stank of stale beer. It was filled with crates and barrels and was quite possibly the least glamorous place Cullen had ever been in.
"Alex couldn't bother himself to turn up to our last two practices," said James Preston, The Ferocious Butterfly's singer, his nostrils flaring. "Had to spend three hours last night sorting out our songs so they can be done without lead guitar. Fuck it, man, they're better for it." He shook his head. "He's dead to me."
"He's dead full stop," said Cullen.
Preston frowned. "I'm sorry?"
"Mr Hughes' body was found on Wednesday night," said McCrea. "He was stabbed. We believe it was murder."
Preston sat down heavily on a beer barrel, looking at the other two members. "Did either of you know?"
They both shook their heads.
"You didn't know he was dead, then?" said McCrea.
Preston glared at him. "Would we have played a gig if we'd known? Why the fuck has it taken so long for you guys to find us and tell us? We were his friends."
"Less of the language, please sir," said McCrea. "I get enough of that at the station."
Cullen picked up the thread. "We would appreciate any assistance you can give us. What can you tell us about Mr Hughes?"
"He was a good lad, you know?" said the drummer, playing with his ponytail. "He was a bit older than the rest of us. His last band had done well, so he could help us work out our shit. He found some labels who were interested in us."
"Really?" said McCrea. "Was there anything in the offing?"
Preston shook his head. "Nothing concrete. Someone in London sounded like she wanted to put our record out."
"Knowing the singer in Expect Delays can't exactly harm things," said Cullen.
"Eh?" said Preston.
"Hughes was friends with Mike Roberts."
"I don't believe you," said Preston.
"You didn't know?" said McCrea.
"No," said Preston, emphatically.
"Was Mr Hughes unreliable?" said Cullen.
Preston nodded slowly. "Not turning up wasn't an isolated incident. Happened a few times."
"Did Mr Hughes talk much about his Edinburgh days?" said Cullen.
Preston shook his head slowly. "Not really, no. Talked about tours and gigs and stuff. His last band fell apart when he split up with his girlfriend."
"Is that what he told you?" said Cu
llen.
"Isn't it true?" said Preston.
Cullen held up a copy of the morning's Sunday Mail, a photo of James Strang inset at the top right. "The singer disappeared. This guy."
"Jesus," said Preston.
"We believe Mr Hughes might have been a drug user," said McCrea.
Preston shrugged. "He didn't really mention it."
"Didn't really?" said McCrea. "Or did?"
"No comment," said Preston.
"I know this isn't a particularly comfy place," said McCrea, "but we can do this down the station instead if you'd rather. It's just down the road."
Preston rocked back on the barrel. "He liked to smoke, aye."
"Cannabis? Heroin? Crack?"
"Fuck's sake, man," said Preston. "Cannabis."
"You're sure?" said McCrea.
"I wouldn't be in a band with a smack head," said Preston.
"He had traces of heroin in his bloodstream," said McCrea.
"What?"
"He used to smoke heroin," said McCrea. "Are you trying to tell me you didn't know?"
"Alex would get us a half Q of resin every so often, that's all," said Preston. "That's not dealing, is it?"
"Sounds a lot like it," said McCrea. "And he sold the drugs to you?"
Preston looked away. "Aye. Look, I just like to have a smoke to help me sleep, man. That's it."
"Where did he work?" said Cullen.
Preston sniffed. "He didn't."
Cullen nodded - Hughes was looking more like a dealer. "Did he have any friends?"
"Kept himself to himself," said the keyboard player, looking deep in shock.
"Maybe a girlfriend?" said Cullen.
"There was a lassie, aye," said Preston, looking up at Cullen. "Lived in Pollockshaws, I think."
"Got an address?" said McCrea.
"Afraid not," said Preston. "You'll need to work your police ju-ju, won't you?"
"A name would be helpful," said McCrea.
"Rowan or something like that," said Preston.
CHAPTER 41
McCrea pulled up outside the flat, the street filled with rows of three-storey buildings, no doubt a mixture of flats and maisonettes, surrounded by multi-storey towers.
"How did you find her?" said Cullen.
"Magic," said McCrea, tapping his nose. "Police ju-ju."
"Quit it, Harry Potter," said Cullen. "You had a name and an area, and you managed to come up with Rowan Taylor and an address. How?"
"Connections," said McCrea.
"Come on."
"Okay," said McCrea. "You are a persistent bugger."
"It's one of my more endearing attributes," said Cullen. "Spill."
"I had a word with a couple of boys I know in the Serious and Organised Crime Agency," said McCrea, taking great pleasure in using the full name of SOCA. "They've got a drugs database that covers all their leads and sources and God knows what else. Rowan plus Pollockshaws gave us this."
"Assuming it's her," said Cullen.
"Of course."
"So, if it is her, she's known to SOCA?" said Cullen. "I don't like this. We spoke to Hughes' ex in Edinburgh the other day. She was smacked out of her head, with a troupe of kids she's lucky to still have."
"Were they his?"
"No," said Cullen. "Looks like she had a couple before they went out, then one since."
"Sure the one since isn't his?"
Cullen shook his head. "She said it wasn't. We checked it out and the timelines don't match."
"Right," said McCrea. "Wouldn't catch me getting anyone up the stick."
Cullen shook his head but he agreed with the sentiment, no matter how crassly it was put. "I'm surprised Strathclyde's crack murder squad didn't track down the fact he had a girlfriend."
McCrea stared at him for a good few seconds before nodding at the flats. "Shall we?"
They traipsed through the rough patch of grass at the front. One of the buzzers listed Taylor. McCrea got them let in.
Rowan Taylor stood in her doorway looking a total mess, eyes struggling to focus. She was thin and her head was shaved. She wore skinny black jeans and a baggy grey jumper. Cullen had to double-check she was a she.
McCrea held his warrant card up. "DS Damian McCrea of Strathclyde Police and DS Scott Cullen of Lothian & Borders. We need to speak to you about Alex Hughes."
Rowan scowled at them. "I've nothing to say to him."
"That's just as well," said McCrea. "He's dead."
Her eyes bulged. She stood shivering by the door, tears rolling down her cheeks. "What?" she said, her voice shrivelled up.
"I said Mr Hughes is dead," said McCrea. "We're investigating his murder. We'd like to come inside, if that's okay."
Rowan nodded slowly and led them inside the flat, showing them into the living room while she went to the toilet. Cullen kept an eye on the bathroom door in case she made a run for it. The place had the same number of rooms as Hughes' flat and was virtually empty, just a mattress in the middle of the living room.
"I keep expecting Sick Boy or Spud to show up," said Cullen.
"You know Trainpotting was filmed in Glasgow, right?" said McCrea.
"Is that because Glasgow is still as much of a dump as Leith was in the eighties?"
McCrea winced. "Hardly. I was in Leith last year. Still a dump."
Rowan returned, her eyes red. "What do you want from me?"
"Your boyfriend, Alex Hughes," said McCrea.
"He's not really my boyfriend," said Rowan. "Just a fuck buddy. Helps us get my gear. That's it."
"So, you let him have sex with you in exchange for drugs?" said Cullen.
"It's nothing like that," said Rowan.
"Does money change hands?" said McCrea.
"I'm not telling you boys nothing," said Rowan.
"So you're telling us something?" said McCrea.
"Eh?"
McCrea shook his head. "There are programmes you can go on to get off the drugs, you know?"
"I'm fine as it is," said Rowan. "Thanks for asking, though."
McCrea moved away from the window and approached her. "Rowan, someone stabbed him at his flat on Wednesday night."
"Stabbed?" She crumpled down to the mattress, hugging her knees close to her.
"Would you know anyone who would want to stab your fuck buddy?" said McCrea.
Rowan shot a look up at him. "No."
"Is that true?" said McCrea. "He didn't owe anyone any money or anything like that?"
"Not that I know of," said Rowan.
"Did Alex smoke heroin?" said Cullen.
Rowan looked over at him, eyes rolling in their sockets. "A bit."
"What about injecting?" said Cullen.
"Not so much," said Rowan, hugging herself tighter. "Can't believe he's gone."
Cullen kneeled down in front of her. "If you want to help us find his killer, tell us where he gets his drugs from."
"Do you think I'm stupid?" said Rowan, sneering. "He's not really dead, is he? You're just playing me."
McCrea shook his head. "He is dead, Rowan. An autopsy has been performed. His body's in the morgue. My boss has been speaking to his mother. She really wants to bury her son but she can't until we close this case."
Rowan looked away and wiped a tear from her cheek. "I don't know anything."
"That really true?" said McCrea.
"Aye," said Rowan. "He'd just get me my drugs, that's it."
McCrea had an evil grin on his face. "In exchange for sex. Is that right?"
"Not quite," said Rowan.
"But it's mostly right?" said McCrea.
Rowan shrugged. "I suppose."
"Did Mr Hughes ever make you have sex with any other men in exchange for drugs?" said McCrea.
Rowan threw her hands up in the air. "It was nothing like that. He was a good man."
"Then who did he get them from?" said McCrea.
Rowan looked away again. "I don't know."
Cullen caught a wink from McCrea. He co
uld tell what he was thinking - she definitely knew. They just needed leverage.
"I'll tell you a wee story, Rowan," said McCrea. "We went to see this band at lunchtime up in town. They were good, you know? Well, I enjoyed them, my colleague here didn't. Anyway, we spoke to them and they told us something we didn't know. We found out Mr Hughes had a girlfriend."
Rowan looked up at McCrea but said nothing.
"All they gave us was a first name and a district of this fair city," said McCrea. "The area was Pollockshaws. The name?"
"Rowan," she said, her voice almost a whisper.
"That's right," said McCrea. "We managed to find you based on a name and an area." He kneeled down in front of her. "You're known to the authorities, Rowan. Luckily for you, you're just a peripheral figure in a cavernous drugs organisation." He grinned. "Now, if I was to go back to my pals who provided me with your name and address, I suspect we could add a few more sections to your file. Seems like prostitution would be the start of it."
"I'm not a whore," said Rowan.
"Really?"
"I'm not."
McCrea nodded. "I'm willing to believe you." He turned away from her and winked at Cullen. "Do you believe her, Sergeant?"
Cullen folded his arms - he didn't know whether to play good cop or bad. "I'm not sure I do, Sergeant."
McCrea glared at him. He turned back to Rowan, a smile returned to his face. "See, my colleague is from Edinburgh. He doesn't know how we operate through here. He'd be perfectly happy to drop you with the boys in SOCA. It's a national squad, you know? They'll listen to an eastie beastie as much as they will me. I can protect you."
Rowan mouthed something Cullen couldn't pick up.
"What was that?" said McCrea.
"Shug McArthur," said Rowan.
McCrea beamed. "Big Shug?"
"That's who he told me he got his gear off," said Rowan.
McCrea patted her on the arm. "Do yourself a favour and get off the drugs, okay?"
"Right."
McCrea nodded at Cullen. "Come on, Sergeant. I think we're done here."
He led Cullen back to the car with renewed vigour, striding across the grass and getting in his Escort.
