by Ed James
Andrews swallowed, his large Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "About nineteen months ago."
"I see," said Cullen. "These emails, what do you mean by cryptic?"
Andrews screwed his face up. "Just bizarre." He picked up a foam stress ball from his desk and start squeezing it. "It was like he was writing sort of poetry, you know?"
"Do you still have the emails?"
"Let me check," said Andrews, before tapping on his computer. "Here we go. I'll just print it for you."
He left Cullen alone for a minute or so while he walked through the office. Cullen took in the open-plan space outside the pod. Andrews was clearly a big shot here - four people approached him on his way to the printer, apparently looking for approval for something or other.
Andrews returned and handed the pages over. "Printer was out of paper. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," said Cullen, focusing on the emails, eighteen or so lengthy messages over several pages.
"I'd asked him how the record deal was going," said Andrews. "He'd mentioned it in one of the previous emails, but it all went quiet."
Cullen found the paragraph, two months before the disappearance. Strang was telling a tale of how he was going to become a big shot. "Do you know anything else about the record deal?"
Andrews shook his head. "Afraid not. What Jimi sent back was a bit weird, though."
Cullen glanced through the last email. "Did you reply to this?"
Andrews shook his head.
Cullen read the email.
I could have paid it forward, but instead I'll pay it back
I could have moved forward, but instead I'll paint it black
Matte Black walls
Black Matt steals time
Time will get us all
When is our time up?
When is up down and down up?
When do I go under the waves?
Under the water
Let me drown
I'm not waving
I'm going down
I failed, but to succeed is to fail fully.
In failing, I failed to fail.
In the end, I was reduced to it.
Stealing what wasn't mine, taking what didn't belong to me, coveting my neighbour's wife.
Betrayal is the hardest part.
Dishonesty, theft, hiding.
Cullen tossed the sheets down on the desk. It was clearly the work of someone with a broken mind or who'd had a lot to drink. "What the hell does it mean?"
"I've no idea," said Andrews.
"Is there anything in there you can make head or tail of?" said Cullen.
Andrews shook his head. "I tried but I just gave up."
Cullen could picture the hours he'd lose to looking through the passage, trying to decrypt and decipher it. It would be like being back at university.
"When is the funeral?" said Andrews.
"You'll need to discuss that matter with Mr Strang's mother," said Cullen. "Is there anyone else I should speak to?"
"You'll have met the guys in his band, right?" said Andrews.
Cullen nodded.
"Other than that, no," said Andrews. "Sorry."
"What about Paul McKay?"
Andrews' eyes widened. "Well, you can certainly try. Jimi and Paul hadn't spoken since school."
Cullen collected the sheets and got to his feet. "Thanks for your time, Mr Andrews. That's been very helpful."
"Best get back to it," said Andrews. "This company won't run itself."
Cullen frowned. "Do you own this place?"
Andrews smiled. "I do."
Cullen got to his feet, trying not to feel insignificant compared to his success.
CHAPTER 54
Cullen finally got hold of Paul McKay and met him at his work, a nondescript office in the city centre. As Andrews had alluded to, McKay and Strang hadn't spoken since school and there was no string of emails to decipher, no hidden leads.
He drove back to Dalhousie, parking outside his parents' house. They weren't in. He toyed with whether to call Rarity and give her an update but, in the end, he decided to let her do the calling.
He had The Invisibles playing, trying to get inside Jimi's head and failing. All he was achieving was reasserting his hatred of guitar music. He reached over and put on some Ólafur Arnalds. Tom had lent him it a few months ago, heartbreakingly beautiful Icelandic piano music.
His tastes were moving away from techno a little, but maybe not too far - the music was minimal and sparse in the same vein as most of the other tunes he would listen to, just lacking the solid four-to-the-floor bass drum and off-beat hi-hat.
The rush of emotion he felt in his stomach, the piano chords and melodies intersecting with the caffeine in his veins, made him think of Sharon.
The baby.
Her promotion.
She hadn't called him, but then he hadn't called her. He hoped she was okay.
He realised he'd managed to distract himself from wallowing in his situation, wrapping himself in a cloak of work. It had been good for him - maybe Rarity was wiser than he gave credit for.
Rather than check if his old key still worked, he picked the stack of papers off the passenger seat. He flicked the light on then looked through the emails between Strang and Andrews.
The bulk of the older mails were full of the usual banality - weddings, bragging about successes, gossip about school friends and Strang talking about himself a lot. Cullen found it interesting that Andrews, the bona fide success of the two, barely mentioned anything about the fact he owned one of the most successful computer games companies in the world, let alone the UK.
Cullen finally gave in, focusing on the poem.
I could have paid it forward, but instead I'll pay it back
What was he paying back? There was that saying about 'paying your dues' in music. Was it that?
Paying it forward was an American concept Cullen remembered from sitting through a film with Sharon. The idea was about passing on good things to people rather than waiting for it to come to you, a modern twist on instant karma.
Strang was saying he hadn't paid anything forward. He was going to pay something back. Or pay someone back.
I could have moved forward, but instead I'll paint it black
Paint It Black was one of the few Rolling Stones songs Cullen's dad would allow in the house. He remembered his sister going through a Stones phase, mainly aimed at annoying their father, and he had a vivid memory of 19th Nervous Breakdown filling the house from her giant stereo.
Was Strang into the Stones? Cullen didn't know. The only thing he could remember was the poster on his wall, 'Who the fuck is Mick Jagger?' A quick search on his phone revealed it was Keith Richards, the Stones guitarist.
Either way, Cullen didn't know if it meant anything or not.
A quick search on Wikipedia told him the song was about a girl's funeral. He could spend hours decoding some hidden meaning but it was most likely just used to rhyme and fit the meter.
Matte Black walls
Black Matt steals time
Time will get us all
When is our time up?
When is up down and down up?
When do I go under the waves?
Who or what was Black Matt?
There were lots of nautical references. Sharon loved Jeff Buckley, the subject of one of Strang's posters in his room and the t-shirt he'd been wearing when his body was found. Cullen did a search and found he died of drowning. Was it a reference to that? Was there anything to it or just hero worship?
Under the water
Let me drown
I'm not waving
I'm going down
More water.
What was he on about? It just didn't make any sense to Cullen. His degree had attempted to train him in analysing imagery and so on, but it just left him cold and confused.
In the end, I was reduced to it.
Stealing what wasn't mine, taking what didn't belong to me, coveting my neighbour's wife.
> The only thing Cullen thought was it could be a reference to having an affair with someone but who?
Beth Williamson immediately sprung to mind. She was attractive and in the same band. She'd told them Jimi tried it on with her but he got the feeling nothing happened there.
With David Johnson, all Cullen could determine was he had been single for years, suspecting he was probably gay. It was maybe worth another look if they got even more desperate.
Strang's mother had mentioned a girl, Jane or something, but they'd failed to find her or anyone who could validate it.
The only other possibility was Marta, Alex's girlfriend.
She was a heroin addict with children. She wasn't bad looking, Cullen figured, and maybe Strang was bewitched by that rock 'n' roll thing. The allure of heroin captivated the whole seventies scene, giving the stupidity a hint of danger and a sense of rebellion.
Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse. Strang's own corpse certainly didn't qualify.
Could Strang have slept with Marta? Could Hughes have killed Strang in revenge? Stabbing someone with a screwdriver seemed desperate, a real crime of passion. An accident?
I failed, but to succeed is to fail fully.
In failing, I failed to fail.
It was just mumbo jumbo. What a fucking mess.
Cullen looked up. The light in his parents' house was now on. He chucked the paper on the passenger seat and got out, collecting his overnight bag and walking over, his heartbeat quickening with each step. Curtains twitched next door as he walked up the drive and rang the bell.
"Are you getting that?"
Looked like both were in.
Cullen's mother opened the door, still dressed for work. She looked him up and down. "Scott, what are you doing here?"
"Got a room for the night?"
CHAPTER 55
Dinner was ready by seven, giving Cullen time to talk football with his old man and how broken the Scottish form was these days. They ate in the dining room, as they did when he was growing up, the four of them round the table until Michelle went to university. Cullen's dad's two greyhounds sat on their sofa in the living room, intently watching for any scraps from the table.
Cullen had two helpings of lamb stew, rich and tender. He'd enjoyed talking to them, helping him forget all the shit of the last twenty-four hours. He struggled to recall the last time he'd just let that happen. Everything felt so hard these days.
At the back of his mind lurked all the demons that stopped him sleeping, stuff he needed to get out of his head and deal with.
"I got demoted back to DC," said Cullen.
"It's hard making it in the world, my boy," said Cullen's dad. "Remember that old saying though. 'That which doesn't destroy us can only serve to make us stronger'."
"I'll try and remember that, Dad."
His dad checked his watch. "Is that the time? The football's just about to start. Will you come and watch it with me?"
"Maybe later," said Cullen, remembering he was meeting Guthrie.
His old man got up and stretched his back. "Well, I'll leave you pair to it," he said, before waddling through to his reclining chair.
His mother poured another glass of wine for Cullen.
"Thanks." Cullen stared at the glass, thinking that one day soon he too would be a dad, leaving his son or daughter to talk to Sharon while he limped through to the living room.
"I know that look," said his mother.
Cullen looked up. "What look?"
"Your father gets it. Something's up, isn't it?"
Cullen rubbed his ear. "I'm fine."
"I know when you're lying to me, Scott James Cullen."
All three names never meant anything good. "Sharon's pregnant."
"That's wonderful news."
"Really?"
"Another grandchild," said his mother. "You always said you weren't going to have children."
"Wasn't planning on it," said Cullen.
"Oh, Scott, have you been a silly boy again?"
Cullen slammed his glass down. "What do you mean again? I've not got anyone else pregnant that I know of."
"You're usually to blame," she said, smiling.
"Thanks," said Cullen, shaking his head. "Why does everyone blame me?"
"You were always such a naughty boy, Scott. And it usually was your fault."
Cullen felt a tangle of emotion build up in the pit of his stomach.
"Do you want the baby?" she said.
Cullen sat quiet for a few seconds, mulling over just how much to tell his mother. The wine made the decision for him. "I just don't know. It's such a huge thing. Financially, I don't feel anywhere near ready to do it. I've got some money in the bank, but we need somewhere proper to live."
She looked disappointed. "I can see that."
"Do you think we should have it?" said Cullen.
"I don't know. I'm trying not to let my grandmotherly desire kick in." She took a sip of wine. "I don't think you're very mature, Scott. Remember what happened with you and Sharon last year?"
"How could I forget," said Cullen. "We've got over that, though."
"Have you? That was definitely your fault."
"The F-word again," said Cullen. "I was an idiot. Everyone knows that. I've admitted it to everyone. I've said sorry so many times."
"Do you love Sharon?"
"Yes," said Cullen. "Absolutely."
"Enough to say you'll commit to her for the rest of your life and give your child a secure home?"
Cullen looked away. "I'm not sure I'll ever be able to do that."
"With Sharon?"
"No," said Cullen, "but I'm an idiot, right?"
His mother laughed. "What do you want to do, Scott?"
Cullen drained his glass and got to his feet. "I want to get drunk and forget all about it."
CHAPTER 56
Cullen was ten minutes early. He stood outside the Dal Ferry and watched the waves crash off the town's redundant harbour, lit up in the cold night air. Years ago, a ferry ran to Leith but it stopped with the coming of the trains, the pub keeping its name in tribute.
He got out his phone and called Sharon. "Evening," he said when she answered.
"You've been drinking, haven't you?" said Sharon.
"Just a glass of wine with dinner," said Cullen.
"You're outside a pub now, though."
Cullen laughed. "You'd make a good detective."
"Very funny. How are you?"
Cullen's reverie evaporated. "I've had better."
"Sorry for being a selfish bitch earlier."
"Don't worry," said Cullen. "I was a selfish prick last night."
"I understand about the cave," said Sharon.
"I wish it had done me some good," said Cullen. "We should have had that talk."
"I'll remind you next time."
"You better not plan on getting pregnant again."
"Scott..."
"Sorry. Coming up here was definitely the right thing to do, though. I had a good chat with my mum."
There was a long pause on the line. "And?"
"And that's all," said Cullen. "My head is still full of shite, I just don't know what I think about it."
"I miss you," said Sharon.
"Yeah, me too. You know, this is the first night we've spent apart since I moved in."
"Really?"
"You've got a ready-made replacement, though," said Cullen.
"Fluffy isn't ginger enough."
"Very funny."
"So, what are you doing tonight?" said Sharon. "Watching the football with your dad?"
"I'm meeting up with Richard for a pint," said Cullen.
"McAlpine?"
"No, he's still in Edinburgh," said Cullen. "Guthrie."
"As in DC Richard Guthrie?"
"Don't tell me you know him?"
"Not in a biblical sense," said Sharon. "I was on a course with him a few years ago. He's from Dundee, isn't he?"
"Yeah, he was ba
sed there but he got kicked out to Dalhousie," said Cullen. "I was at school with him."
"Spooky."
"It's weird that you know him," said Cullen. "Such a small world." He spotted Guthrie's approach. "I'll probably be back tomorrow to face the mighty Rarity. Better go. Love you."
"Love you, too."
Guthrie grinned as he saw Cullen. "Evening, Skinky."
Cullen smiled. "Evening, Goth."
"Fuck me, I've not heard that one in a long time," said Guthrie.
"You've grown out of all that Marilyn Manson shit, though, right?"
"Never."
Cullen could still picture him. "I take it your colleagues don't know about you wearing makeup?"
"No way." Guthrie led them inside, before ordering pints of Peroni.
Cullen found a table by the window overlooking the North Sea, the waves seeming larger this close.
The football was on the large screen - Liverpool dishing out a solid hammering to Newcastle. The place was dead, only a few middle-aged men too tight to pay for Sky nursing their solitary pint well into the second half.
Cullen raised his glass. "Cheers."
Guthrie reciprocated. He pointed at the football. "Can't believe how bad Aberdeen are doing."
Cullen nodded. "It's depressing, isn't it? I'm glad Brown is going. Derek McInnes should be good."
"Anyone other than Brown, right?"
"Definitely," said Cullen. "Good win against Hearts on Saturday, though."
"Aye, decent," said Guthrie.
"Do you still go?"
Guthrie nodded. "Still a season ticket holder for my sins. One of the best things about CID is that it's nine to five, give or take, so I get my weekends off for football."
"I'm supposed to be the same, but it never quite works out like that," said Cullen.
"You were always ambitious, though, Skinky."
Cullen shrugged. "I guess."
"You got a bird?" said Guthrie.
Cullen nodded. "Turns out you know her. Sharon McNeill."
Guthrie's eyes bulged. "Holy shit. Punching above your weight there, mate."
