by Ed James
15
Cullen took another look at Elvis, standing there scratching his balls with one hand, while his other tapped away on his phone with his over-developed thumb. Buxton sat in the passenger seat playing with his dentures.
What a team. Christ.
Cullen looked round at Methven. ‘I’d much rather have Hunter here, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, in case this guy runs. Craig is the—’
‘We need to strike now, Scott.’ Methven smoothed down his wiry eyebrows. ‘Besides, I’m faster than Craig on foot.’ Methven was a few inches taller than Cullen, and he was always banging on about his triathlons, but he was still pretty much skin and bone.
‘But in a fight, sir? Much rather have Craig. Sorry.’
Methven smiled. ‘We shall leave DC Gordon in the car. He finished top of his class in Advanced Driving.’
’No way.’
‘I suggest you check up on your team’s service record on a more-frequent basis, Inspector. As luck would have it, DC Gordon is a bit of a hot rod.’
All Cullen could do was raise his eyebrows. All he ever got Elvis to do was donkey work. Running CCTV, phone records, anything technical. As much as he had an aptitude for it, he would make a dog’s dinner of anything else.
‘And besides, we’re just here to ask him a few questions about a historic property transaction, that’s all.’ Methven walked over to Elvis and kept his distance as he gave the orders, slow and steady, answered with a series of nods.
It was way more than that, and Methven knew it. A connection that hadn’t been owned up to. Never a good thing.
Cullen tried phoning Shepherd, but his call was bounced. Same with Bain. Bloody nightmare. And that was without thinking of the juice that Bain could be spilling to a potential mole.
No, Cullen had nothing to hide here. Of anyone, he was the cleanest. Well, he had some secrets, but didn’t everyone?
He waved at the uniforms over the road and got a thumbs up. Their car drove off in a belch of thick diesel, heading round the back. Looked like fields, still, though the housing estates were beginning to encroach on it, just like down in Gorebridge. Not that there was much work going on just now.
Methven walked back over, all casual, hands in his pockets. ‘Let’s do this.’ He led Cullen up to the door and tried the bell.
One of those fancy new ones, with that ascending chime. Probably meant they were being recorded, and on video too, with their presence being notified across the internet.
Leonard could be anywhere, and he’d know the police were onto him.
Either way, inside the house or not, Leonard wasn’t answering the door.
Methven let out an almighty sigh. ‘Well, that’s just sodding marvellous.’
‘Stay here.’ Cullen took the perimeter anti-clockwise, his feet crunching over pristine pebbles. The side gate was a bit stiff, but he got it open with a grinding tear. The back garden was all boxed-in beds and raised decking, with a section housing a hot tub. The tub was warm, but cool enough that it was more like nobody had been in there in hours.
Quite the place, though not in the same ballpark as Wedale House.
Cullen made his way across the pebbled path, clocking the squad SUV trundling across the field at the back. Three downstairs windows, but there was no sign of anyone inside, even through the warping and distortion of the uPVC glass.
He checked the kitchen window, but it was show-home pristine now, no cups or plates or anything. Leonard had tidied up.
And he didn’t seem to be home.
Cullen set off around the side of the house.
Methven had his head pressed against the door, eyes screwed up, mask raised over his eyebrows. ‘I think there’s someone inside.’
‘Sure?’
‘I can hear someone shouting.’
‘Could be a cat.’
‘Could be.’ Methven snorted. ‘But I don’t want to take the chance.’
‘Wise move.’ Cullen stuck his head to the door and, sure enough, it did sound like someone shouting. Muffled and distant. But it also could’ve been a cat screaming to get fed. Whether the little sod was hungry was another matter.
Methven nodded at the door. ‘On you go.’
No matter how high Cullen climbed through the ranks, he seemed destined to always have to smash through entrances. The positive side of Buxton’s unfortunate recent incident was that Cullen was a bit more cautious now. Small things, such as trying the handle before launching himself shoulder-first.
And it opened wide.
And those were definitely a woman’s muffled screams, not a cat’s.
Methven barged in first, following the sounds up the staircase.
Cullen waved back at the car, until he got Buxton’s attention and a thumbs up, then he piled up the stairs after Methven, their footsteps thumping hard on the bare wood.
Methven took the first door on the right, leaving Cullen with a choice between straight ahead and left.
The screams came from the left and were quicker and more desperate now.
A bedroom, beige paint on the walls, the furniture all dark wood. A woman lay on the bed, tied up, eyes wide with fear rather than arousal. Though the circles these people moved in, terror got confused with erotic.
Cullen made sure his mask was tightened, then raised his hands. ‘I’m going to let you go, okay?’
The woman stared at him like he was going to kill her. Hair darkened with sweat, and plastered to her forehead. Green eyes, getting wider and wider.
‘Just stay still.’ Cullen reached over to the bonds around her wrists, a pair of silk ties, and started to undo them.
Cullen pulled the gag out of her mouth, and got a blast of some language he didn’t recognise. Polish, maybe?
She gnashed at him with her teeth, but she was too far away, and something held her up, a rope hanging from the ceiling that he hadn’t seen before.
Cullen waved his warrant card at her. ‘Police.’ He pointed at his chest. ‘I am Scott.’
‘Scotland?’
‘No, Scott Cullen. I’m a police officer. Here to help you.’
She stared hard at him. However she’d got into this situation, the poor woman had no trust left whatsoever.
‘Who did this to—?’
‘Wayne!’ Her voice was a hoarse scream. ‘Wayne!’ Then more guttural cursing.
But she let Cullen at her wrists. He tugged at the ties and freed her right wrist, and she worked her left free.
Something crashed outside the room.
Another thump, like something hitting a doorframe.
‘Purple sodding buggery!’ Methven, out of breath. ‘Stop or I’ll—’
Another thump.
Cullen raced out of the room.
Methven hit the banister, then flipped over and fell. He hit the stairs hard, then disappeared.
Cullen stood at the top, staring down the steps. Methven slid down the wooden stairs, not even screaming. Just deathly still. No sounds.
Something thudded off Cullen’s head from behind.
16
‘Luke, my man, can you explain something to me?’ I’m driving along the road, the main one towards Pathhead, but it’s only what passes for a main road round here. This bend, for instance, fully ninety degrees left, then at least the same again back the other way. Why? Why not sort it out?
And as ever, I have to tap the brake a bit too often on account of the bumhead in front of us. I mean…
Need to calm down here. Blood pressure and all that.
Shepherd’s in the passenger seat. Honestly, when did being a cop become just fannying about on your moby all day? This boy’s constantly on it, and not even talking to people. Texts. Maybe he’s reporting to the mothership about what Cullen’s team are up to. Here’s hoping, eh? ‘What?’ He still doesn’t look up.
‘Mobile phones. You seem to be a bit of a connoisseur of the form.’
‘Do I?’ Still not looking up.
‘Aye, anyway. Whe
n they came in, it was all about being able to contact people, right?’
‘Still is, Brian.’
‘I mean by phoning them. When I started on the force, nobody had them. Maybe some City wideboys in London, right, or high-end drug dealers in Wester Hailes and Leith. But not coppers. Our radios were shite too, and anyone could hack in to them and hear what we were saying.’
He’s sighing at us. ‘Is there a point to this?’
I pull into yet another right turn, but at least we’re in Pathhead again, heading towards the new houses that weren’t here the last time I was in this infernal town. Feels like five minutes ago, but it was probably ten years. ‘Case in point. You’re trying to get hold of Su— Cullen, or Cry— DCI Methven, to get approval for this dunt on the Leonard boy’s home. And neither of them can bother themselves to answer.’
‘Neither of them will be playing Angry Birds, though.’
‘Farmville, maybe.’
‘Brian, I’ve already got authority to do this.’
‘Do you?’
‘You’ve been a sergeant, you know the rules.’
‘Aye, but I know the feeling of a size nine being lodged right up my bumhole.’
He actually laughs. Christ, maybe he wasn’t made on a table somewhere. ‘Relax, Brian, Cullen is only a nine in American sizes.’
‘Aye?’
‘No, he’s an eleven if I remember right.’ Shepherd waves his phone to the right. ‘In there.’
I follow his lead and ease the motor round the bend. It’s not quite like driving the Duchess this thing, but it’s not that bad. Not that bad at all. A weirdo cul-de-sac, one of those ones where the houses are all looking away from each other, but with snidey wee viewpoints so they can keep tabs on each other, where you can see what everyone’s up to. Makes you wonder why they bother. Must make the local Maureen’s life a living hell, not being able to just twitch her curtains to keep an eye on what’s going on outside. Having to peer round the bend? Drive her right round the bend.
Anyway, I get out onto the street and, lo and behold, there’s a bottle-green Golf parked out front, just like Cullen’s.
And Christ, is that Buxton? And Elvis? He’s still not speaking to us after that shite in America, so he just makes eye contact with us then looks away. I bore the brunt of all that, and he got off with it.
That’s gratitude, eh?
Buxton though, he’s keen as mustard, isn’t he? That, or he’s cowardly custard and soiling himself about that new sergeant turning up, even if Shepherd is just a temporary addition to the happy band. Buxton’s marching over and I’m struggling not to picture that python of his swinging in his trousers.
Time I show everyone who’s the best here, so I jog over to Buxton and meet the lad halfway. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting.’ Buxton points to a house. ‘Scott and Crystal are inside.’
‘Seeing Wayne Leonard?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if he needs his double glazing redone. Why do you think?’
Shepherd’s next to us, sticking his phone to his ear and using it like a normal human being for once. ‘You got back up?’
‘Me and Paul, plus a pair of uniforms in the field behind.’
‘Stay with them.’ Shepherd takes his phone away from his lug. Eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight together. ‘Okay, Si, call the uniform and get an update.’ He pats my arm as he brushes past. ‘Come on, Brian.’
I follow the boy across the tarmac then up the fancy paving slabs to the house, all the while feeling that excitement surging in my belly. Probably walking into a fight here, or at least an opportunity to arrest someone.
Because this Leonard boy has been telling porkies.
‘Try the door. I’ll do a perimeter sweep.’ Shepherd takes off down the side and the gate squeaks as he opens it.
A sweep. Christ, he thinks he’s in the FBI.
I chap on the door, but it slides open inwards. Inviting me in.
Ah, Christ. A moral dilemma. Great. I hate them. Much rather do nothing. But that’s a decision, isn’t it?
No sign of Shepherd, so bugger it, I head inside. ‘Hello?’
Place is empty. Tidy. Actually, it’s almost too tidy, if you catch my drift. Boy must be a neat freak. And not like he’s tidying up after kids all day, but like he’s not put anything personal into his living space.
Serial killer alarm bells are ringing in my head.
Sounds like the party’s going on up the stairs, though. Thumping and bumping. Maybe Cullen needs a hand from us, so I head towards the staircase.
FUCKIN’ SHITE.
Methven is lying at the bottom. Eyes open wide, not quite staring at us. Not even breathing, by the looks of it.
Someone’s definitely up there. Floorboards creaking. Trouble with these modern places, isn’t it?
I try Shepherd’s number but the arsehole bounces us. Christ, my hands are actually shaking here.
This is getting way too real for my liking.
Bugger it, I’ll show Shepherd what’s what here, show him how to do it.
I hammer out a text to Elvis, GET IN HERE. CALL AMBULANCE, and step over Methven’s body, then climb the stairs.
Three doors up there, but the action’s happening on the right. Christ on a bike.
Leonard is in there, and it looks like he’s tying up someone. And with some bondage gear. Ball gag in the mouth, chains, the whole nine yards.
It’s Cullen. Christ. He’s barely conscious, but sort of looking in my direction. He grunts something.
Making Leonard look at us.
Well, there goes the element of surprise, doesn’t it?
I snap out my baton but, Christ, the boy’s fast. He drops his sex toys and lurches across the room towards us. I try and parry his blow, but he pushes my forearm into my teeth, and wraps a hand around my wrist. My baton clatters to the floor and rolls away.
I stumble back into the hall and grab the banister. Get a kick in the side, and I go down, but this side of it.
Leonard just stands there, maybe realising that he’s attacked three cops now. But he kicks my side and scarpers off down the stairs, the floor thumping as he jumps over Methven.
Cullen is lying there too. He looks out of it, might’ve suffered a brain injury. I can stay with him and save him, or I can try and catch that arsehole.
It’s not much of a choice, is it?
17
‘—hear me?’ Someone clicked their fingers in front of his face.
Cullen lay there, blinking hard. The light was too loud. No, too bright. Aye, that. ‘Wuh?’ Words were beyond him, even grunts were a struggle.
‘Scott, can you hear me?’
It hit him. Methven. Falling down the stairs. Dying? ‘Where’s Methven?’
Shepherd’s face loomed over him, frowning hard. ‘You okay, Scott?’
‘Where’s Methven?’
Shepherd looked over to the side. ‘In an ambulance, on his way to the Royal.’
Cullen felt something snap inside his head.
‘Hard to say.’
Someone gripped his eyelids and a bright light shone into his skull. Then into the other eye. ‘Doesn’t seem concussed. He’s lucky.’
Cullen was sitting on a bed. Same duvet cover as another one he remembered. ‘The woman?’
‘She’s fine, Scott. Her name is Marta. Paula Zabinski’s talking to her.’
‘Where’s Leonard?’
Shepherd scowled at him. ‘We don’t know.’
Cullen felt around the back of his skull at the tender lump forming. If he wasn’t concussed, then he got off lightly. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. It’s going to take a lot of unpacking.’ Shepherd let out a deep sigh. ‘All I know is, Bain came running out and—’
Bain.
Cullen saw his face, saw him standing in the hall. Then sitting down, leaning back against the banister like he’d been attacked too. He could’ve come to hel
p Cullen, but he’d left. ‘Where is he?’
‘Drove off in a pool car.’ Shepherd put his phone to his ear. ‘Control, can you give me an update on the location of DS Bain’s pool car?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You said it was going to take a while five minutes ago.’ He shook his head. ‘No, an hour isn’t a while, it’s ages.’
Cullen tried standing and it felt like everything swum around, like he was underwater. If this wasn’t concussion, he’d hate to feel that. He blinked hard a few times, rubbed at his aching left ear, and something seemed to clear in amongst it all.
Bain hadn’t left him there out of mischief, he’d left him because he could still catch Leonard.
Maybe.
Best case.
Then again, it was Bain. Who knew?
Cullen grabbed the banister and took grandad’s steps down the stairs.
The street was the same as he remembered, but just way too bright. The sunlight attacked his eyes, stinging with a dull ache.
Elvis was leaning against a pool car, holding a laptop in one hand, typing with the other. He frowned at Cullen’s approach. ‘Scott? You okay?’
‘Not really. What happened?’
‘Some boy came battering out, then got into his motor and drove off. Then Bain did the exact same.’
Cullen’s turn to sigh now. Felt back in the game now, at least, something to distract him from the pain. ‘Paul, you should’ve gone after him.’
‘But what if there—’
‘There was a squad car in the field behind.’
‘Right. Sorry.’ Cheeky bugger was still focusing on his laptop. ‘Got a lock on Bain’s mobile location, if you want it?’
18
Thinks he’s smarter than me, doesn’t he? Well he can get to fu— France. I know these roads like the back of Little Brian, and I’ve hammered the Duchess around them a ton of times. Know where he’s going before he’s even at the bend before the one before he’s going to turn.
Busy road, mind, busier than it’s ever been. Bus hurtles this way, then a tractor covered in straw bales stops us overtaking and getting one ahead of him.
His brake lights glow up ahead, partly blocked by the Corsa in front, and he winds round the bend. Nothing coming for a bit.
