Cowboys and Indians (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 7)

by Ed James

  * * *

  Sharon stormed into the meeting room and locked eyes with Cullen, letting out a deep sigh. ‘Another barman who doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘Complete sodding waste of time.’ DI Colin Methven loomed over Cullen, jangling keys in his trouser pocket. The other hand rested on his forehead, his eyebrows shorn to stubble. ‘I don’t need this. It’s half past sodding eleven and I’m doing a triathlon in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll try to avoid detaining suspects at inconvenient times in future.’ Sharon leaned against the wall. ‘This is going to be a long night. Kyle’s wife’s coming in soon.’

  Methven nodded. ‘I’m sure your own officers can support you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘If we’re not charging him, we shouldn’t be holding him. He’s not a terrorist.’

  ‘So you’re washing your hands of this case?’ Sharon snorted, jaws clamped together. ‘He’s a suspect for three rapes.’

  ‘I have to agree with Campbell McLintock.’ Methven scowled at the door. ‘You’ve got precious little to go on, Inspector. DS Lorimer’s still in hospital, DS Cullen and DC McKeown both have bloody noses and DC Lindsay is having his nether regions probed by the duty doctor.’

  ‘Do you prefer it when it’s your own bollocks getting battered, Colin?’

  ‘You’re trying my patience, Sharon.’

  ‘I’ve got to conduct another dozen interviews like that. That eats up resource.’

  ‘If you arrest him, you can investigate his flat. That’s your most likely source of evidence.’

  ‘I’m aware of how to do my job, Colin. I’m just not arresting him yet.’

  ‘You’ve got insufficient evidence. He was hitting on men in a nightclub. It’s not a crime.’

  ‘He’s not likely to stash Rohypnol in his house. His wife might find it.’ Sharon crossed her arms. ‘This is nothing to do with you being mates with Mr McLintock, is it?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘He always seems to know what’s going on here.’

  ‘I’d suggest keeping that to yourself in future.’

  Sharon held up her phone, the screen flashing up. ‘His wife’s just arrived, so I’ll bid you adieu.’ She tugged the glass door shut behind her, the mechanism clattering as she stormed across the empty office space.

  Methven glared at Cullen. ‘Sergeant, I need you to extricate yourself from this case.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’ve had strong reservations about seconding you to an investigation your — I hesitate to say “better” half — an investigation your other half’s running.’

  Cullen sat forward, the chair creaking. He sucked in air reeking of whiteboard pen and Methven’s deodorant. ‘I trust you to manage me in the correct way, sir.’

  ‘And I do. Supporting a task force with our present resource shortage is a tall order. Luckily, we’ve suffered no detrimental effect to our own work stack. I’ll be reallocating you on Monday morning.’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’ Cullen got up and left the room, shutting the door. He trudged across the office, passing an army of locked computers all showing the Police Scotland screensaver.

  The door to the Ladies screeched open. Sharon emerged from inside, scowling at it. ‘Someone needs to get that fixed.’

  Cullen shrugged. ‘I suspect a can of WD40’ll break the budget.’

  ‘True.’ She chuckled as she looked back at the meeting room. ‘How’d it go with Crystal?’

  ‘Thanks for leaving me with him.’

  ‘He’s your boss. I just used him to borrow you.’

  ‘Well, I think you’ve lost me and the other two. Better hope Graham’s your guy.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ She dabbed her eyebrow and winced again. ‘You heading home?’

  ‘I’m meeting Buxton for a pint.’

  ‘Scott …’

  ‘It’ll be a soft drink, don’t worry. I’ll head after that.’

  Three

  Cullen scanned around the newly refurbished Elm. Oak panelling, subtle spotlights and granite surfaces, craft beer taps lining the wall behind the bar. The serving hatch flopped down and a man with a thick beard passed a burger on a wooden chopping board to the barman. A pair of students sat at the piano, playing some Cockney music hall numbers.

  Buxton was fiddling with his phone at the table by the window, a half-full glass of beer fizzing in front of him. He waved at Cullen and joined him at the bar, clutching his glass. ‘Evening, squire.’

  ‘Pint?’

  ‘Caesar Augustus, cheers.’ Buxton took a long drink. ‘You having one?’

  ‘Wish I was, mate.’ Cullen stared at the taps behind the bar and focused on the barman. ‘Is the ginger beer alcohol-free?’

  ‘Brewed it myself. It’s all about the sugar.’

  ‘Ginger beer and a pint of Caesar, then.’

  The barman nodded and started pouring, facing away from them.

  ‘What’s that, five months now?’ Buxton took a sip. ‘It’s not like you were an alcoholic, though, is it?’

  Cullen avoided eye contact, instead waving a hand at the piano. ‘That’s your sort of music, isn’t it?’

  ‘Takes me back to Lambeth, me old China.’ Buxton finished his pint and set the glass on the bar. ‘Your doctor didn’t tell you to stop?’

  ‘Sharon did.’

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Odd. The weirdest thing is, I miss that … presentness, if that’s a word. Being in the moment. My head’s so full of shit these days. I’m worrying about what’s happened, what hasn’t happened.’

  Buxton scratched his beard. ‘Not a problem I’ve got.’

  ‘Didn’t think it would be. Sharon says I should try mindfulness.’

  ‘And you call me a hipster.’

  Cullen handed over a tenner and took his change. He grabbed his ginger.

  Buxton led to his table, sipping his fresh pint, getting foam all over his beard. He slurped it off. ‘That’s lovely. Sure you don’t want any?’

  Cullen perched on a stool. ‘I’m fine. How’s being back on the beat?’

  ‘Thinking about jacking it in, to be honest.’

  Cullen sipped his ginger beer. Sharp and full of elderflower. He hated elderflower. ‘You serious?’

  ‘I’m not winding you up, mate. Being back in uniform after two years as Acting DC? It’s not good.’

  ‘Wait till you see what happens with this new permanent DC gig, mate.’ Cullen swirled his glass around, the ice cubes tinkling. ‘You did apply for it?’

  ‘That form took ages.’

  ‘But you finished it?’

  ‘Sent it to HR with, like, an hour to spare.’ Another sip. ‘Thought I’d get my tenure when you got your DS.’

  ‘Methven had to soak up the cost, didn’t he? We’ve been two heads short for a year and the criminals don’t take it any easier. New financial year and it’s just getting worse.’

  ‘What, more cops on the beat?’

  ‘Got it in one. Fewer detective jobs. Political shite galore.’

  Buxton fixed a glare on Cullen. ‘I really need that job, mate.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ Cullen grimaced through another sip of ginger beer. ‘Confident QPR’ll win the play-off final?’

  * * *

  Cullen shoved his leather jacket on top of his fleece on the coat rack.

  ‘Ma-wow!’ Fluffy sat in the sitting room doorway, glaring up at Cullen. ‘Ma-wow!’

  Cullen crouched down and tickled his chin. ‘I take it that’s cat for “feed me, you bastard”.’

  Fluffy reared up and rubbed against his cheek. ‘Ma-wow!’

  ‘So you do like me?’ Cullen stood up, knees creaking. He went into the kitchen area and flicked on the TV. Lower-league English football highlights played out on BBC One. He got a can of cat food from the fridge and forked it into a bowl on the counter. He hefted Fluffy up. ‘You’re not getting any lighter, mister.’

  Fluffy spread out
on all fours, furry pom-poms sticking out as he ate, purring away.

  The flat door thunked open. Heels clicked on the laminate.

  Cullen leaned back against the counter. ‘That you?’

  Shoes thudded to the floor and Sharon stomped through the flat. ‘No, it’s the Easter bunny.’

  ‘Take it the interviews didn’t go as planned?’

  Sharon reached into the fridge for a half-drunk bottle of wine. ‘Could say that.’

  ‘You’ve released him?’

  ‘I don’t care what Crystal bloody Methven says.’ She sniffed the wine, poured out a glass and took a long drink. ‘This is my case and I’ll charge who I want, when I want.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  Fluffy chomped at a splodge of cat food. Half of it dropped onto the counter.

  Cullen stared at her wine. ‘You back in tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I’ve asked Rhona to lead.’

  ‘Take it you’re not that convinced of his guilt?’

  Her shoulders slumped. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Hey, hey.’ He went behind her and massaged her upper back, thumbs attacking tight flesh. ‘I’m almost cutting myself on your shoulder blades.’

  ‘Scott…’

  ‘You’re taking this too personally.’

  ‘And to think I used to worry about you doing the same.’

  Cullen pecked her on the neck, wrapping his arms around her. ‘You’ll get this sick bastard, you know you will.’

  ‘Scott.’

  Another kiss, further up. Hands on her hips. ‘Mm?’

  She flinched. ‘Stop.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘That.’ She stepped forward and smacked the glass down on the counter. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  Cullen raised his hands. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘What do you think, Scott?’

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘Of course it’s the baby.’

  ‘It’s been over a year.’

  ‘Scott, she’d be six months old now.’ She shut her eyes. ‘It takes years to get over something like that.’

  ‘Most people try again. Most people want it in the first place.’

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I want you to be okay.’

  ‘I still feel—’ She glared at him. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘You’re disgusted by me, right?’

  ‘It’s not you, Scott. It’s just … sex.’

  He swallowed. ‘I don’t want to force myself on you.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I just don’t know. There’s just so much crap in my head. Stuff I can’t pick out from all the noise.’ She nibbled at a fingernail and took another sip of wine. ‘Can’t believe I let myself get into that situation in the first place.’

  ‘Situation? Having a kid with me’s a situation?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Come on, we’ve both got good jobs. It’s not like we’d be bringing her up on benefits or whatever.’

  ‘I can’t believe I let myself get pregnant.’

  ‘That takes two, you know. It’s my fault as much as yours.’

  She pinched her nose. ‘Look, I need to work out how I feel, okay?’

  ‘Sorry, I just thought, you know…’ He shrugged.

  ‘It’s okay.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘Let’s try again in the morning. We’re both off work.’

  He grabbed her in his arms, kissing her on the top of her head. ‘Take all the time you need, okay?’

  * * *

  Cullen blinked at the light, sun streaming through the bedroom window. Warm skin caressed his back, fresh perfume. The firm stub of a nipple dug into his shoulder blade. ‘You’re awake, then?’

  Sharon pecked him on the neck. ‘Do you need more sleep?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Cullen spotted the alarm clock. 07:53. Way too early. He rolled over and put an arm around her.

  Hair tied up. Some makeup. Lipstick glistened in the light. She leaned forward, eyes closing, and kissed him. Wet lips on his.

  He pulled her close, his cock already erect, brushing her thigh through his shorts. Bursting for a piss. He sucked her nipple. Then lay back. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

  She leaned back on the pillow, hand on her forehead. ‘I just cleaned the sink yesterday.’

  ‘Very good.’ Cullen hopped through, his abdomen tingling. He sat on the seat, still warm. Urine splashed on the porcelain. He let out a breath. That’s better.

  His phone blasted out from the hall, clattering drums and jangling guitar. Crystal by New Order. He wandered through and checked the display.

  Methven calling…

  Stared at the bedroom door for a second before answering it. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Cullen, I need you to attend a crime scene at Dean Bridge.’

  ‘Supposed to be my day off.’

  ‘Mine too. Had to cancel my sodding triathlon.’

  Cullen let out a sigh. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s a body.’

  ‘I’ll be about an hour.’

  ‘Now, Sergeant.’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. What’s—’

  The line clicked dead.

  ‘—happened?’ Cullen sighed as he ended the call. He dumped the phone back on the ledge in the hall and stomped through to the bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘I’ve got to go to work.’

  Sharon pulled the duvet up to her neck. ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Don’t I just.’

  Sunday

  18th May 2014

  Four

  Cullen pulled up at the side of the road, leaving just enough room for the Bell’s Brae traffic to scrape past Sharon’s orange Focus. Still hadn’t replaced the battered Golf he’d totalled last year. He got out and traipsed down the cobbles, damp from the morning’s rain. He turned right and trudged past wild trees, cars and a mill building. The water of Leith thundered on the left, heavy after a week-long deluge. Typical for an Edinburgh May.

  A SOCO van filled the gap at the end. On the left, a few uniforms took statements on benches around an old millstone. Up ahead, police tape sealed off an old turreted building.

  He flashed his warrant card at the uniform guarding access. ‘DS Cullen.’

  ‘Right you are, Sarge.’ He handed over a clipboard. ‘DI Methven said you’re to get through there ASAP.’

  As he signed, Cullen glanced up at the curved bridge above them, maybe twenty metres away. Then at the SOCO tent below it, the perimeter’s guardian in full-on Smurf suit. ‘Take it we’ve got a faller.’

  ‘That’s what I heard, Sarge.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Cullen plodded across the tarmac towards the tent and grabbed a suit from the adjacent pile.

  A figure stormed out of the white and blue fabric and tugged the mask down. Methven. ‘Try harder, Mr Deeley. This is clearly a murder.’

  Jimmy Deeley, the city’s chief pathologist, followed Methven out of the tent and dumped his medical bag on the ground. He tore off his romper suit. Silver hair gelled into spikes, red trousers hiding underneath a Harris tweed coat with elbow patches. ‘That’s not for me to say, Colin. Let me do my job and you can do yours.’

  ‘I wish you’d do it with a tad more haste, that’s all.’

  Cullen put a leg into his SOCO suit.

  ‘Sarge?’ The voice came from behind. DC Chantal Jain folded her arms, her jacket crumpling. Salon-perfect hair, pale lipstick clashing with her hot-chocolate skin. ‘How’s it hanging?’

  ‘Straight down the middle, as ever.’ Cullen zipped up the front of his suit, shaking his head at Methven and Deeley as they jabbed fingers at each other. ‘Haven’t spoken to our Lord and Master yet.’

  ‘That can only be a good thing.’ Jain’s zip caught halfway up. She tugged at it, freeing the mechan
ism. ‘Is that Sharon’s car back there?’

  ‘She’s off today.’

  ‘Bet she’s happy about you being in.’

  ‘Is that sarcasm?’ Cullen charged off towards Methven. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Cullen, right. Good.’ Methven focused on Cullen and Jain. ‘Thanks for your prompt arrival.’

  ‘Is the guy still alive?’

  Deeley grimaced. ‘Landed on his head and neck. Fractured his spine. Snapped the carotid artery and bled out internally, though he’d have been unconscious for most of it.’

  ‘Poor guy.’ Cullen stared up at the bridge. ‘It’s not a big fall from up there, though.’

  ‘This boy’s just been unlucky.’ Deeley dumped his suit in the discard pile. ‘I’ll be off, Colin.’

  Methven took a step back and clasped his hands. ‘I’ll speak to you later, Jimmy.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s my son’s wedding today. I need to be in my kilt at twelve. Katherine’s on her way in. She’ll do the PM for you.’

  ‘Then we’ll catch up tomorrow.’

  Deeley gave a salute. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Cullen signed him and Jain into the crime scene. ‘Any idea who it is?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Methven led over to the tent’s entrance and pointed inside. ‘Uniform responded to a call from a jogger this morning. Local CID handed it to us half an hour ago.’

  ‘So it’s suspicious?’ Cullen nudged him aside to get a better look inside.

  A middle-aged man lay on his front, naked except for white Calvin Kleins. Rolled over on one side, a deep tan stopping at his waist, heavy belly clinging to the tarmac. Long hair hauled back over a thinning patch, still in place.

  Methven lifted the left hand and pushed out the ring finger. ‘He’s married.’

  Two suited figures hauled the body over onto his back. The face was a riot of blood, the jaw hanging open, dead eyes half closed.

  Methven walked over to the perimeter and unzipped his suit. ‘All we’ve got is six foot one IC1 male in his forties with a heavy build. Doesn’t match any active MisPers. No tattoos or other distinguishing features at present. Deeley reckons the time of death was four a.m.’