by Ed James
‘Christ, Scott, it’s like you want him to manfully take you over the counter.’ DC Angela Caldwell swept past him and entered the butcher’s.
Cullen almost regretted giving her her old job back. Then again, he needed some officers who could do their jobs, not just Bain and his clowns. He let out a sigh and followed her into the shop.
‘And this is DI Cullen.’ Angela smiled at the butcher. ‘Do you have somewhere we can talk, Mr Turnbull?’
‘Why?’ The butcher’s gaze swept between them, like a searchlight looking for hope in murky waters. ‘What’s happened?’
FOR A FLAT ABOVE A BUTCHER’S, Richard Turnbull’s home was surprisingly large and well furnished. The bay window looked along a street Cullen couldn’t remember the name of, but could vividly recall a drunken sexual encounter with a nurse in a flat halfway along.
Turnbull wasn’t coping well. He was slumped on a mid-brown leather sofa, sobbing into his hands. He looked up with bleary eyes. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’
‘His manager discovered the body, sir. He confirmed it was your son.’ Angela was sitting opposite him. Close, but not too close. Keeping up eye contact when he wanted it—and when he needed it—but giving him space and time to grieve, and to come to terms with the sudden extreme change to his life. Yeah, she was a pro.
Turnbull ran a hand over his face and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I see.’
Angela sat back, giving him space again.
Cullen paced around the flat, peeking into the kitchen. Smelled of glue and paint, like it had just been done. And not by the kind of cowboys he could afford, but high-end people. Decent equipment too, brands he couldn’t trace back to a language let alone pronounce or recognise.
Turnbull frowned at Angela. ‘Was he murdered?’
‘All we can say is that he was found dead at work in circumstances that seem suspicious. We are investigating and we will know more details once the pathologist has completed his examination.’
‘But you will catch the animal who did this to my boy, won’t you?’
‘We’ll try, sir.’ She gave a warm smile. ‘Anything you can give us about your son’s life would certainly help with that.’
‘You got kids?’
Angela nodded, but there was steel in her jaw. ‘Two boys.’
Turnbull focused on Cullen. ‘You?’
In most circumstances, Cullen would joke, ‘Not that I know of,’ and add in a cheeky wink. But not here, not now. ‘No, sir.’
‘Hell of a business this. Shouldn’t have to bury your own son.’
‘Is your wife around?’
‘She’s…’ Turnbull shuffled forward on the sofa and clasped his hands together. ‘My late wife inherited the business from her father. Sheena, her old man was a Richard too. Forbes, though. We renamed the place to our marital name.’
Angela creased her forehead. ‘How’s business been?’
‘Booming, an exception on the high street these days.’ Turnbull swallowed hard, then prodded his chest. ‘Never thought I’d bury both of them. Sheena and Phil. And I’m the one with the triple bypass. Should be me that’s on the slab, not my boy.’ Moisture surrounded his eyes now. ‘Christ, Phil. Why’d you have to leave me too?’
Angela sat back, flashing her eyebrows up for Cullen to take over.
He took the seat next to her and waited for eye contact with Turnbull. ‘Can I ask why your son doesn’t work downstairs?’
‘He used to. After school and on Sundays. Used to get him out on the delivery bike.’
‘But?’
Turnbull sighed. ‘But we don’t speak these days. Not since his mother passed on. Philip has been working at the supermarket most mornings, paying his way through university. He’s studying business at Edinburgh. Smart kid but very pig-headed, just like his mother.’
‘Do you mind me asking what happened between you?’
‘I don’t.’ Turnbull hauled himself to his feet. He was short, barely up to Angela’s head when she was still sitting. He walked over to the window and looked out along the street. ‘Phil blamed me for her death. It was a stroke.’ He shook his head. ‘How could it be my fault?’
Cullen gave him more space and waited for him to turn around to face them. ‘Did your son ever talk about anyone, any enemies?’
Turnbull sat back on the sofa and picked up his cup. Must be freezing by now. He didn’t drink it, just cradled it. ‘Like I say, we didn’t speak much. But I know one thing, his manager made his life hell.’
5
BAIN
Walking down the Royal Mile, I swear you smell so much ganja it’s like being in student halls of residence back in the Nineties. Not that those pricks let me in.
Tell you, the softening of drugs policing has made this place a lot fuckin’ worse. Like there, a pair of crusties openly smoking in the doorway of a shop. Dog on a string, dreadlocks, kaftans, skin-tight jeans. Pair of fannies. Proper grade-A skunk, too. Place is boarded up, mind, so it’s not like they’re preventing honest people getting in there. Used to sell woolly shite, never been in, but it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it?
The boozer on the corner has had a facelift though. Time was, I’d head in there for a snifter. Never knew who was around, usually find a few people willing to pour their heart out to an officer of the law and DS Brian Bain made it his mission to lend that ear.
Can’t believe I’m back there again, back at that rank. Fuck sake.
Anyhow, I head into World’s End Close and it stinks of pish, like half the city’s been using the place as a fuckin’ toilet. Just off the Royal Mile, so fair enough. All those gays and their cottaging, getting the public toilets shut down. Nobody thinks about the real victims, do they? Men like me who can’t go half an hour without a slash. And aye, nothing wrong with my prostate, thank you very much. Get the old thingy examined every three months whether it needs it or not.
Right, so the door’s hanging open and I can’t be arsed trying the buzzer, so I head on up. Knock on the door and wait. Five pockets until I find my phone. Five. Wish my subconscious would just stick it in the front right of my breeks, but no. Back right this time. One of those crusty arseholes could’ve just reached down and—
‘Brian?’ The door’s open to a crack and she’s peering out at us. Sharon, AKA DI Sharon McNeill of the East Division’s Sexual Offences Unit. Though I tell you she should be investigated, not investigating. Her hair’s really short nowadays at the sides, long fringe though. Used to call her Butch, mainly to wind up Sundance, but she’s actually fuckin’ tidy. Lost a ton of weight, hasn’t she, and not where it counts. Oof ya.
I give her the old, infamous Bain grin, known to warm the hearts of a million women and a good few fellas I’m not too proud to admit. ‘Hi, Sharon, you well?’
There’s a fucking massive cat swarming round her feet. Big ginger bastard. Well, blonde maybe. But he’s huge. And looks like a right cunt. I wave down at him. ‘You’ve got a thing for gingers.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, Cullen is a bit—’
‘We split up.’
‘Right, I know that but I was just—’
‘Is there a reason you’re here, Sergeant?’
Oooooh, get her. Time was, I was DI to her DS, but now it’s all flip reversed and… ‘You mind if I come in?’
‘I do, as it happens.’
‘Come on, Sharon, I need—’
‘Brian, for a detective, you’re not very attentive, are you?’ She picks up the cat and holds him in her arms, but the big bastard is giving me the purest evils, I swear. ‘It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m at my flat when I should be at work.’
‘Aye, aye. I spoke to your gaffer and he said you’re on holiday. So here I am.’
‘And the last person I want to see on my holiday is you.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Well, Scott is the only one worse, but you’re not much better.’
‘Ever the charmer.’ The smile isn’t going to work on her, is it? ‘Need to talk t
o you about a neighbour of yours, one Philip Richard Turnbull.’
A huff of a sigh, then she turns heel. ‘You better come in, then.’
So I follow her inside and shut the door behind me. Place is fuckin’ rammed with boxes. ‘You moving house or something?’
She puts the cat down and cups a hand round her ear. ‘Can you hear Sir Arthur Conan Doyle spinning in his grave?’ She shakes her head at me. ‘Talk of the master detective… Yes, Brian, I’m moving house.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Bought a three-bedroom place in Ravencraig.’
‘That’s brave. Eat their fuckin’ young there. How many cats can you fit in that place?’
‘I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I’d just spit in it.’
‘Sure it’d make it taste that little bit sweeter.’
As if she couldn’t narrow her peepers any further, she does. ‘What do you want to know about Philip Turnbull?’
‘Gather he assaulted you.’
‘Tried to.’ There’s a brass kettle on the hob. Looks like a proper gas job too. Has everyone got one apart from me? Either way, I’m not getting that tea, spit or not. Probably not a bad thing as tea ups my pish rate to every ten minutes. She leans back against the sink and runs a hand through her hair. ‘One night I was coming home late from work, and there was a lot of shouting. I came up here, baton out, and he was off his nut, ranting about something. Chemtrails and melting steel beams and secret space programmes and all sorts of crazy nonsense.’
‘Ranting at you?’
‘Nah. I didn’t know the guy, but… I attempted to calm him down, but he tried to punch me. Missed, so I overpowered him and arrested him.’
‘You do him for it?’
‘Last I heard, he pled guilty and got off with a caution and a fine.’
‘Ever see him again?’
She shrugs. ‘Not really.’
‘So you don’t know the boy?’
‘I never really see my neighbours. There’s an old man on the top floor, but that’s about it.’
‘Sounds like someone dodging the question to me…’
‘Listen, Sergeant, I’ve lived here for ten years now. I bought this place and it was fine for me at the time, but nine of those long years has been trying to move. It’s hard to afford anything else but I can now, finally. This is a one-bedroom flat in a block of five- and six-bedroom student places, all rammed in like sardines for eight months of the year where they’re getting drunk and making a racket and pissing on the stairs. Then one month of studying, more bedlam, then some peace over the summer until they’re rented out during the festival and it’s worse. I’m sick fed up of it.’
‘Don’t really buy him just attacking you, though.’
‘I’m not asking you to buy anything. It happened. He got arrested, charged and prosecuted for it. End of.’
‘The boy’s dead.’
She gasps and the cat shoots off like a banshee. The cunt scratches my leg as he goes. ‘Jesus Christ. How did he die?’
‘Found him at the supermarket this morning.’
‘The Ashworth’s?’
Got her. ‘How did you know that?’
She’s blushing. Won’t look at us. ‘I must’ve seen his uniform or something.’
‘Right. Sharon, see, in our old annual appraisals, I used to recommend you learnt to cover up your blushing. Make sure you take a sip of water or something to think through what you’re going to say before you blurt it out. If I was a fuckin’ defence lawyer, I’d tear your case wide open and my client would be walking out that fuckin’ door.’
‘Brian, what are you trying to say?’
‘That you knew the boy, didn’t you? And in the biblical sense too.’
‘Get out!’
‘You split up from Scott, looking for a bit of greasy ramrod action, so he—’
‘Shut up!’ She grabs my wrists and presses hard, makes us squeal like a pig. ‘Get the fuck out of my flat!’
But I’m not shifting, not even with that burning pain on my skin. ‘What the fuck are you hiding from—’
She fuckin’ punches us in the gut.
And I can’t help myself but let out a really big fart.
6
CULLEN
Cullen sipped machine coffee and looked out of the window across the St Leonard’s car park, over to Salisbury Crags, with Arthur’s Seat looming in the background. ‘You won’t have missed the coffee.’
Angela was letting the steam waft up her face. ‘Still tastes like warmed-up bleach.’
A gnarly-faced man passed through the fire doors in the corridor and walked over to them. He thrust out a hand, his nails dark with dirt like he was a keen gardener. Or just a manky git. ‘Chris Leslie. I’m Mr Searle’s attorney.’
‘DI Cullen.’ He reluctantly shook his hand. ‘Not had the pleasure.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’d explain it.’ Leslie grinned wide. ‘I’m a divorce lawyer.’
Not the kind of solicitor Cullen was used to dealing with, then. ‘I wasn’t aware that Mr Searle had asked for legal supervision, but he might need someone with more experience of criminal defence.’
‘I’m helping a friend. These are trying times, so we’ll all have to hunker down and get on with it.’ Leslie pushed past Angela and entered the interview room.
Cullen let the door shut. ‘We’ll give them a few minutes. How you doing?’
‘First day back. I’d say I’ve missed this, but…’ Angela shook her head, spraying her loose ponytail around. ‘You wanting me to lead in there?’
‘If you’re okay doing that.’
‘Anyone ever tell you how much of a dickhead you are?’
‘Pretty much everyone I meet, aye.’
Angela laughed. ‘Never change, Scott.’ She looked him up and down, then swallowed like she was going to say something but thought better of it. ‘Right, I’ll get the tape started.’
‘We haven’t used tape since I’ve been here.’
‘See what I mean about you being a dickhead?’ She pushed into the room.
Cullen finished his coffee alone. She was right about it tasting like bleach, but at least it had lost the temperature, so now it was just lukewarm bleach. The presence of a divorce lawyer meant they could push Searle hard, but the problem was they didn’t have much to go on, just the word of a grieving father.
Hard to explain the “Evil Scotsman” message.
Hard to explain the yellow stickers.
Someone knew, all right, and Cullen had seen plenty more stupid reasons for killing. He pushed into the interview room.
Angela leaned forward, closer to the foam-tipped microphones in the middle of the table. ‘DI Scott Cullen has entered the room.’
He took the seat next to her, sitting back, arms folded, his suit jacket creasing.
Angela flicked through her notebook. ‘Thanks for appearing here, Mr Searle.’
Searle didn’t fill her pause, just sat there. He was sweating like he was in midday Spanish sun, dots of perspiration on his forehead and all over his bald skull, damp patches under his armpit, darkening the orange polo shirt to a rusty brown.
‘When my colleague here spoke to you earlier, you were more worried about covering yourself, deflecting suspicion, than expressing grief. Why was that?’
‘Not sure what to say here.’ Searle looked at his lawyer. ‘Listen, when the cops show up, it’s effing stressful.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well. I found Have a Phil there and…’ Searle scratched at his neck. ‘And you’re asking me if I had anything to do with it.’
‘And did you?’
‘No!’
She gave him some more space, and chanced a look at Cullen, but he just nodded to continue. ‘What does “Evil Scotsman” mean to you?’
‘Eh?’
‘The message on the floor.’
‘Right. No idea.’
‘None? Really?’
>
‘No! Why would I?’
‘What about the yellow stickers?’
‘What about them? You think I know anything about this?’
‘We gather you were making his life hell.’
‘Eh? Who told you that?’
Angela sat back, arms folded again, just like Cullen so they were presenting a united front. ‘Interesting.’
‘What is?’
‘Well, again, you didn’t deny it. You asked who told us. That’s very interesting to me.’
‘Look, I’ve no idea who killed Phil so you’re wasting your time with me.’
‘From what we gather, you kept Phil back after his shift, knowing he’d miss his lectures.’
‘No, I didn’t. And besides, that’s company policy.’
‘What, making staff miss lectures?’
‘No! I have to make sure nobody’s stealing anything. Every employee is subject to a mandatory search at the end of their shift.’
‘Unpaid?’
‘Well, aye, but listen to me. It’s company policy. I don’t agree with the policy and just have to enforce whatever nonsense head office force on us.’
‘I gather the check is usually one minute, maybe two.’
‘Aye.’
‘But he’s supposed to finish at half past eight, correct?’
‘Half five to half eight, aye.’
‘But you were holding him back upwards of fifteen minutes.’
‘Come on… Look, the cleaner and… and some other staff clock off then.’
‘But given Mr Turnbull had to make it to a lecture at nine o’clock, surely you’d—’
‘He was always last to join the queue. Not my fault.’
‘But given his need to get down to George Square by nine, you could’ve—’
‘He should’ve had a car.’
Angela let him simmer for a bit. ‘But he had a bike. It’s a good twenty-minute cycle to the university buildings from here. Meaning he’d have to pedal extra hard to get there, meaning he’d have to take riskier roads, putting himself at danger.’
