by Ed James
‘What in the name of the wee man was going on there?’
‘Looks like he was threatening him.’
‘Those are promising, Craig.’ I tear open the bar of chocolate. Nowhere near its date but fuck it, nobody’s looking. ‘Any idea how we can track them down?’
Hunter lets out a sigh he’s clearly learnt from his mate, Sundance. ‘Well, assuming they bought stuff in the last week, I could go through till records, find all reduced items, then use their Cashworth Member’s Card to get addresses.’
‘What’s stopping you, then?’
12
CULLEN
George Square meant the University of Edinburgh. Half a block of lovely old Georgian townhouses, a load of Sixties monstrosities, and some turn-of-the-millennium chrome-and-glass stuff. Shouting and grinding came from the nearby square that skateboarders had commandeered years ago. No matter what the university did, they still couldn’t shift them.
Cullen leaned back against his car and let out a sigh. ‘Haven’t been here in a while.’ He remembered the business department used to be in the William Robertson building, right in a horrendous wind tunnel, but it had moved round to one of the posh old houses. Maybe it had been in David Hume Tower, one of the two giant monstrosities that blighted Edinburgh’s southside skyline.
Angela was leaning against her car, shades on. ‘The old alma mater, right?’
‘Right. Time and a place for everything.’
‘And that’s called college. Yeah, yeah.’
‘Sorry, Yvonne’s got me watching old South Park episodes just now.’
‘Didn’t think that’d be her bag.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Still, Netflix and chill. Must be serious?’
‘It’s Amazon Prime, but yeah.’ Cullen found himself smiling. He sniffed it away. ‘You want to lead in here?’
‘Oh, that’d be super sexy.’ Angela rolled her eyes and skipped up the steps. She stabbed the button and waited, arms folded.
Cullen took his time climbing up. No messages on his phone, which meant Bain hadn’t set off any more fireworks. At least none that Methven had been made aware of. ‘I saw Sharon today.’
‘You okay?’
‘We’re fine.’
‘I heard she’s moving.’
‘Right, so you’re still in touch, then.’
‘One of the few who’ll even speak to me.’ She hit the buzzer again. ‘People are weird.’
‘They’ll come round. Don’t worry.’
‘Just wondering if returning to this job is the right move.’
‘You need a job and you’re good at this one.’ Cullen shrugged. ‘And I’ll need a sergeant once I’ve kicked Bain into touch.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Watch this space.’
The intercom rasped. ‘Hello?’
‘DC Caldwell here to see Professor McGarrigle?’
The door buzzed.
‘See what I mean?’ Cullen followed her inside. ‘Bain would’ve just tried to blag his way in. You called ahead.’
PROFESSOR PAUL MCGARRIGLE’S office looked across George Square. Despite the cold weather, the park was full of students chatting and drinking coffee. He was a thin man with a large belly. Early forties, so his tweeds seemed a bit out of place, especially in the business studies department, where they’d pioneered that open-collar look. ‘Look, I just can’t talk about it.’
‘But you are the head of department?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you won’t talk to the police about these allegations.’
‘It’s not a police matter, so I don’t have to.’
‘It is now.’ Cullen tossed a crime scene photo onto the massive desk. Nothing revealing, but with just enough veracity to spook the guy. ‘We found his body this morning.’
McGarrigle slumped back in his chair, eyes shut. ‘Shite almighty.’
Cullen motioned for Angela to give him space and time.
‘Shite, shite, shite.’ McGarrigle looked at them both, slowly. ‘How did he die?’
‘We’re working on that, sir.’ Angela collected up Cullen’s photos. ‘We need to assess whether his murder is rel—’
‘Murder?’
She nodded. ‘We believe so, yes.’
‘Heavens to Betsy…’
‘We need to determine if his murder was connected to what’s been going on here.’
‘Well, I can’t comment on it as it pertains to a member of staff.’
‘Sir, not only can you, but you must. This is a murder case.’
‘And we’re managing the matter internally. I can’t divulge sensitive information like that without a warrant.’
That old chestnut.
Cullen tried to see a way out of the maze. There were a few options he had, but all were pretty unlikely to get a truculent academic to budge, not without a court-ordered warrant. Still, the sooner he got on with it... He gave Angela a flash of his eyes and a tilt of the head. Keep at it, force him to talk. He made his way back out into the corridor.
The reception area was two desks, but only one secretary on. And scurrying back to her desk. He’d clearly interrupted her nosing in on their meeting. Late thirties, with wild curly hair.
Cullen got out his phone—still no messages—and called Methven.
‘Scott, I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I call you back?’
‘Having a bit of trouble at the university, sir.’
‘Edinburgh? This is what you texted me about?’
It would’ve been much easier if Methven had answered his phone earlier. ‘Right. Seems like Philip Turnbull was on suspension. Trouble is, the head of department isn’t speaking to us.’
‘You need me to figure something out? Sodding hell, Scott, this isn’t what I need just now.’
‘You’re better connected than I am.’
‘Indeed.’ Methven paused. Sounded like he was outside a room where a lot of people were shouting inside. ‘You need a warrant, I take it?’
‘Assuming you can get a friendly judge to sign one. I can be down at the courts in minutes.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. DCS Soutar knows the chancellor. Leave it with me.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ Cullen smiled, though only the secretary was there to see it, and pocketed his phone.
The secretary was still looking at him. ‘This about Philip Turnbull?’
Cullen took one look at the office door, deciding that Angela had it covered. Best to keep the Soutar-chancellor bombshell in his back pocket for now. He walked over and perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Strange business.’
‘I know.’ She waved a hand over at the other desk. ‘One of the many reasons why this place has gone to the dogs, not least since we moved here.’
So the spare desk was somehow connected? Cullen sat in the seat, trying to act all casual. ‘But your boss is the main reason, right?’
‘Tell me about it. So out of his depth. The old guy? He got Me-Tooed out of the door, golden handcuffs, no investigation. Probably why they don’t want to speak to you lot.’
‘Probably. Any idea what we should’ve been speaking to them about?’
‘Nah, he was just overly touchy-feely. Old school. I didn’t mind it, but Jenny thought he was a creep.’ She was eyeing up the other desk, the one Cullen sat at.
‘That why she’s not here?’
She leaned in close. ‘No, she got caught shagging a student.’
‘Here?’
‘Christ, what have you heard?’
‘Precious little, which is the problem.’ Her scowl showed Cullen he was losing her, so he leaned over to her. ‘Was the student Philip Turnbull, right?’
‘Right. I mean, he’s okay, but it’s not worth losing your job over, is it?’
‘She got sacked?’
‘Nah, just suspended.’
‘Oh?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Your boss isn’t talking to us.’
She shook her
head. ‘He’s such a dick.’ She patted the locked filing cabinet between them. ‘Jenny got caught stealing an exam paper for her young lover.’
CULLEN PULLED up behind Angela’s pool car and tried the number again.
‘We’re sorry but—’
Voicemail.
He pocketed his phone and looked at Jenny Black’s home. A two-storey ex-council house on the city’s southside. He’d lost track of the street names two turns back, but Angela had kept on going. Must be her satnav or she just knew the area.
Cullen got out onto the street. The morning’s sunshine had given way to lunchtime gloom. And that wind cut right through him. ‘Still can’t get hold of her.’
Angela locked her car manually. Definitely a case of drawing the short straw—one of those old undercover cars designed to blend in deep in the arse end of Muirhouse. ‘Any sign of her?’
Cullen checked the house again. Assuming hers was bottom-left in the block, which seemed okay judging by the number, then it looked dark as night. At midday. ‘Let’s see.’ He walked up the path and tried the door.
The bell chimed, but no sounds came from anywhere inside.
Cullen hit dial again, and the phone inside rang until the answerphone caught it. ‘Wish I had her mobile number.’
‘Wish you had a plan, Scott. What’s the logic here?’
‘Why don’t you talk me through it.’
Angela prodded the bell again. ‘She shagged this kid, thinks she’s going to lose her job, so she kills him. That about it?’
‘When you say it out loud like that, it does seem a bit of a stretch.’
‘This is just buying time until Crystal gets us a warrant, right?’
‘He should be here, but he’s brown nosing our boss. Why take a murder case if you’re going to just delegate it all?’
‘Why have a DI if you have to do all the work? Maybe he trusts you.’
Cullen laughed. ‘We really need to speak to her.’
‘She’s not in.’ A purple-faced man was standing in the small garden to the side, trying to get a handmower to do any cutting by the looks of things. ‘And you can clear off.’
‘Police, sir.’ Angela held up her warrant card. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Last night. She popped in, asking if I’d mind watering her plants. Poor thing’s not been the same since her divorce. And then all this business with the young lad… Taxi took her to the airport.’
‘She say where she was going?’
‘Magaluf for a week. Trying to ignore it all, wasn’t she?’ He bent down to claw at the mower’s blades. ‘Had a couple of journalists snooping around earlier.’
Cullen just knew he’d have to chase a few of them down. ‘You got her mobile number?’
His mower was free again. ‘Afraid not.’
13
BAIN
And Caz is still fuckin’ bumping my calls, isn’t she? Cow. After all I’ve done for her. After all I’ve got on her?
I chuck my moby on the table and it cracks like I’ve broken the screen. Have to take a look at it, but the thing’s tougher than I thought. Mind when I used to go through these things every few months. Should’ve jacked in policing and taken up industrial testing for fuckin’ Nokia.
Right, no point in getting angry about this whole shitshow.
Fuck it, of course there is. I hammer out a text:
Caz I really need to speak to you ok? Bri
Fuckin’ beauty of WhatsApp is you can see when it’s been delivered to their phone and—BINGO—when they’ve read it. Those beautiful blue ticks appear, like an oasis in the desert to a man dying of thirst. Only this is no mirage. And she’s starting to type.
Come on, come on, come on.
Fuckin’ downside is you can see them stopping. Fuck sake.
Still, there’s Elvis just popping into the canteen. Not with any of the staff, so I should probably figure out where he’s got to with all the actual work.
‘You found him?’
He just shrugs. ‘Not yet.’
Boy doesn’t seem himself. ‘You okay?’
‘It’s… I don’t know. Speaking to the public, sometimes I should just get on with checking CCTV.’
‘You stupid bastard. You should keep your trap shut in future, especially when you talk to Cullen.’
‘Aye, I will.’
‘Seen Hunter?’
‘Not for a while. He pissed off back to St Leonards, I think.’
‘What’s he fuckin’ doing there?’
‘Got a spreadsheet to look at.’
‘Can’t you do it for him?’
‘He said Cullen told him not to let anyone help. What can I do?’
‘Fuck sake. Sundance will be the death of me.’
The door swings open and Searle appears. He scans around like there’s anyone other than me and Elvis in there, then waltzes over. ‘Listen, have you seen DI Cullen?’
‘Not for a while.’ Almost smile at myself there. ‘Anything I can help with?’
‘Well, I’ve tried calling a DCI Methven, but he’s not answering.’
Fuckin’ class. He’s moaning about Sundance to the boss! ‘What was the nature of your inquiry?’
‘I keep getting pressure from management in Crieff to open this place up. DI Cullen passed on DCI Methven’s details. I need to get this place open!’
‘That isn’t going to happen.’
‘I’ll lose my job.’
‘How about I give him a bell and see what I can do?’
Seems to pacify the boy.
Not that I’ll actually do anything about it. This place is shut for the foreseeable and the daft sod needs to get used to that fact. ‘Leave it with me.’ So I point at the pew opposite. ‘Got a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.’
The jakey bastard sighs as he collapses into the seat. ‘What’s up?’
I give Elvis a click of the fingers. ‘Show him.’
Prick’s frowning. ‘Show him what?’
‘The CCTV.’
‘That was Craig.’
Fuckity fuck. Aha, but I took some sneaky little snapshots on the moby. ‘Never mind, I’ll do it myself.’ So I take it out and show the boy.
Searle’s a shady fucker, alright. Taking his time checking.
‘You know anything about these?’
‘I told your boss earlier about vultures. Yellow-item fiends.’ He rests my phone on the table and sits back. Another big Sundance-level sigh. ‘Phil worked some evening shifts. The last couple of hours, he scouts out which aisles need stocking the most during nightfill. He’s long gone by the time we’re facing up.’
‘Which is what?’
Elvis is grinning at us. ‘It’s when they turn the labels to all face the same way.’
Searle frowns at the wee bastard. ‘You worked in a supermarket?’
‘Willie Low’s, then Safeway, then the Ashworth’s in Clermiston.’
Searle loses his grin. ‘Bit weird that you worked for two supermarkets that went to the wall. Hope we’re not next.’
This is all lovely stuff—never knew that about Elvis—but c’mon tae fuck. ‘Right, so what was Mr Turnbull doing in that photo?’
‘Right.’ Searle runs a hand across his head, then picks up my phone again. Going to regret that, he’s getting his sweat all over it. He holds it up. ‘This guy…’ Shakes his head, like me or Elvis know. ‘We get him in here all the time. The guard told me about it. What he’s doing is a common trick, where these effing sods mis-price something.’
‘Explain.’
‘See that cake?’ He’s jabbing a filthy finger on my phone. ‘He’s got a sticker from a manky cake, marking it down from four quid to 99p—and you’d have to be desperate to buy that—and he’s stuck it onto a four quid sirloin steak.’
‘You say he’s doing it all the time?’
‘Right. Boy’s always trying it, most times he gets away with it. Sometimes he gets caught.’
It’s fuckin’ genius. The more I he
ar about it, the more I want to try it. Reckon those self-serve tills are wide open to it in the other places.
Elvis is interested. Eyes shut, fingers steepled in front of his face. ‘How does it work?’
‘Not following you, bud.’
‘Well, surely your tills aren’t still manual?’
‘What?’
‘Dude, I worked in one in 1999, and they hadn’t converted. It’s 2020, surely you’ve got barcode scanners.’
‘We do, but… The system is flaky as hell. If you go to Tesco or Asda, it’s very detailed, so the cashier can see the tin of tomatoes they’ve scanned is a tin of tomatoes. And the self-service stuff, which we don’t have, will show the punter what they’ve just scanned and not put in the bagging area.’
Bollocks. The weights would need to match. Would a cake be the same as a steak?
‘So I keep telling my bosses about it, but they’re very much of the “look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves” school. They don’t want to invest in anything.’
‘Jeez.’
Time to assert some bloody control here. ‘Okay, so the deficiencies of your tills aside, do you think this boy here had any gripes against Mr Turnbull?’
‘Well, Phil was the one who kept catching him. Knew what he was up to, so spotted him, then followed him at a distance, watching him do it with the security guard.’
‘Any way you can find him?’
‘We’ve not—’ Searle pauses, his ugly mug all screwed up. ‘Wait a sec. He bought something, at least according to the guard.’
THE GUARD WAS at least twenty stone of idiot shoved into a tiny wee cupboard by the stairs, a sagging chair in front of CCTV monitors that must’ve seen service in the Second World War. Shaved head, but an elaborate-as-fuck beard. And I know the boy from somewhere.
Our knees are almost touching. Christ knows how Hunter managed to sit next to him. ‘You used to be a cop?’
He nods at us. ‘Leith, aye. Got my twenty and got out.’ More like he did something and got booted.
‘What happened?’
‘I collared him.’ The boy taps the screen. ‘Phil said the boy had a six-pack of WakeyWakey energy drink in his basket, so when I collared him by the door, the suspect denied all knowledge of the steak. Said it was nowt to do with him.’
