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

by Ed James

  ‘Her son confirmed it. Our guy was definitely on the bridge.’

  ‘Unless they’re both lying.’

  ‘We’ve no evidence to support that, sir.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Our guy wasn’t alone. He was speaking to a woman in a red cloak.’

  ‘A cloak?’

  ‘That’s what the son said. The mother got a look at the face.’

  ‘That’s peculiar.’

  ‘The facial composite was helpful. Can you send the analyst round there to get a photofit of the woman?’

  ‘Not a problem.’ The car engine droned in the background. ‘I’m just back from the post mortem with some more sandwiches.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘The blue Stilton and sweet chilli chutney’s excellent.’

  ‘I meant at the PM.’

  Another sigh. ‘Well, Katherine Sweeney confirmed everything Deeley told us this morning. Cause and time of death. There are traces of sperm on the underpants.’

  ‘His own?’

  ‘They were on the front, so we think so. Anderson’s running a DNA test. Lucky he fell on the footpath and not in the river.’

  ‘Not for him. He might’ve survived that fall.’

  Methven ignored him. ‘How’s the door-to-door progressing?’

  Cullen flipped the map over. ‘I think we’ve done about seventy-five, eighty per cent of the area in question.’

  ‘And you’ve got nothing?’

  ‘So far.’

  Another sigh, deeper.

  ‘Do you want us to keep going?’

  ‘Crack on, please. Finish the initial area, then move into those surrounding. If he’s not from round there, then someone’s dumped him. Out.’

  Cullen tossed the handset in the air and caught it. ‘Guy does my head in.’

  Buxton swung the car around the bend at Orchard Brae, heading towards their search area. ‘There are worse DIs out there.’

  ‘Aye, but that one isn’t a DI anymore.’

  * * *

  19:04. Cullen blinked away tiredness, leaning against the wall next to a garage. Rothesay Mews, a tight corridor of old stables converted into yuppie apartments. Almost at the bottom of the hill. Why anyone would want to live there…

  He let out a sigh and yawned. ‘Still no ID and we’ve checked pretty much every house within a square mile of that bridge.’

  Buxton crouched and stretched out his arms, biceps straining his T-shirt. ‘Chin up, me old mucker.’ He sprang to his feet. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping me motivated here, not the other way round.’

  ‘Crystal will batter me, not you.’

  ‘I’ve missed doing this. Proper graft.’ Buxton ran a hand across his scalp. ‘I thought I’d left walking the beat behind me.’

  ‘And people say I moan.’

  A car trundled over the cobbles.

  Cullen squinted against the glare, just at the right height to dazzle. A Volvo’s sash on the radiator grille, stopped just outside the garage doors. ‘That house is one of our gaps.’

  A man got out, grey hair slicked back, the rumble of the engine fighting with the bass voices on the radio. He flinched when he saw them. ‘Christ, you frightened me there.’

  ‘Police, sir.’ Cullen held out his warrant card. ‘Just wondering if you can help us with an incident on Dean Bridge last night.’

  He frowned. ‘I’d love to help, but I was down in Melrose with the rugby club.’

  ‘We believe the victim may live around here.’ Cullen handed him the facial composite. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  He took a look at the image and shut his eyes, nodding. ‘I know him.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Think I’ve played squash with him once or twice. Miles better than me. Clearly on his way to the top of the ladder.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Can’t remember, son. He’s a member of the sports club down the hill.’

  * * *

  The door chimed as Cullen entered Edinburgh Sports Club.

  Cullen took in the small space, the acrid smell of chlorine wafting from a swimming pool somewhere. Squeaking shoes on a squash court. Nobody on the desk. Another door led deep into the building. ‘Police! Anyone here?’

  A toilet flushed to the left and a tanned youth slouched out, the legs of his shell-suit bottoms thwapping against each other. He frowned at Cullen’s warrant card. ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘DS Cullen and PC Buxton. Need to speak to you about one of your members.’ Cullen held out the sheet of paper. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  The youth swallowed as he collapsed onto a plastic chair behind the desk and shrugged at the photofit. ‘Never seen the punter, sorry.’

  Cullen gritted his teeth. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of lying to the pi— police. Besides, only been here a couple of months, like.’

  ‘Is there someone in charge here?’

  ‘Think Adie’s about, aye.’

  ‘Adie?’

  ‘Adrian Tronci.’ He slid fingers through his hair. ‘I’ll give him a buzz.’ He got out his phone, a chunky Nokia thing with a Windows logo, and stuck it to his skull. ‘Aye, Adie, it’s Paul. Police want to speak to you. Aye, okay. Will do. Cheers.’ He put the mobile on the counter. ‘He’s just in his office. Second on the left.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cullen pushed through the security door and marched down the corridor. He knocked on the door. A. Tronci, Manager stencilled into a plastic strip.

  ‘Come in!’

  Cullen entered the room, warrant card out. Double windows looked out over the tennis courts, floodlights shining on a game of mixed doubles, the wind blowing the ball around. ‘DS Cullen, PC Buxton.’

  ‘Adrian Tronci.’ Accent purest Morningside. Tall and lean, like he spent a few hours a day on the treadmill. A large iMac filled most of the desktop space. He pointed to a pair of chairs in front. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder. We believe the victim played squash here.’ Still standing, Cullen passed him the facial composite. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  Tronci stared at the sheet for a few seconds and waved across the tennis courts. ‘Plays in the squash ladder, I think. Swims a couple of mornings a week, too.’

  ‘So he’s a member?’

  ‘His name’s Jonathan van de Merwe.’

  Seven

  ‘You try running in full uniform, mate.’ Buxton stopped next to Cullen, doubling over and sucking in breath. ‘I’m fucked.’

  Cullen stopped outside a derelict office, breathing hard. Dean Bridge and the church were now lit up across the river. A row of Georgian town houses led up to Queensferry Road. The street sign listed two streets, Lynedoch Place sitting below Belford Road, for no reason he could identify. He checked the numbers — twenty-three was a seventies brick extension to the end house. ‘Is it that one?’

  Buxton wiped a hand across his beard. ‘Nah, over there.’

  Cullen followed his gaze. ‘Aye, you’re right.’ He trotted down the street, passing antique lighting, and stopped by a squat town house second from the end, three dark windows wide. Deformed dormers on the third storey, unlike the beige sandstone of the neighbours’ top floors. Black railings around a garden maybe ten metres deep. ‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s in.’

  Buxton tried the gate. ‘Shall we?’

  A couple of squad cars pulled in by the bollards blocking the road at the end, followed by a Range Rover. Four uniforms got out and jogged after Methven.

  Cullen waved at them and pointed at the house. ‘In here, sir.’

  Methven stared up at the building, rubbing his eyebrows. ‘You’re positive it’s this one?’

  ‘That’s what the sports club manager told us.’ Cullen waved at two of the uniforms. ‘Check with the neighbours.’

  They nodded. One went up the path on the left and knocked on the door. A woman answered it, a cat swirling round her feet. The other jogged over to the sprawl next door.

 
Cullen glanced at Methven. ‘Have we got the Enforcer if we need it?’

  Methven folded his arms. ‘Torphichen Place lent us theirs.’

  ‘Are you approving its use, sir?’

  ‘If needs be.’

  The first uniform returned, shaking his head. ‘She doesn’t know who lives there.’

  ‘Typical Edinburgh.’ Methven looked over. ‘Sergeant, this is your operation.’

  ‘Let’s get in there.’ Cullen waved at Buxton to lead. ‘After you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Buxton flipped open his Body-Worn Video camera. ‘PC Simon Buxton and DS Scott Cullen reporting to the last-known address of the deceased.’

  Cullen followed him up the path, flagstones cut from the same stone as the buildings. Six steps led up to a grey door, a dark overlight above. He knocked, the sound echoing inside. ‘This is the police requesting entry.’

  Nothing.

  Cullen stared around at Methven. ‘Sir, we need the Enfo—’

  ‘Sarge.’ Buxton pushed the door wide. ‘Wasn’t even shut, let alone locked.’

  Cullen frowned at it. ‘What?’

  Buxton switched on his torch and nudged the door against the wall. He sniffed as he entered the hall. ‘Doesn’t smell funny.’

  Black and white marble chequerboard led over to a staircase rising up into the house. A long dresser pressed against the magnolia walls on the left. Two doors to the right.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it’s been subdivided.’ Cullen pointed at two of the uniformed officers. ‘You two go upstairs.’

  They marched off, fiddling with their video cameras.

  Cullen gestured for Buxton to try the second door. He entered the first, Methven following.

  Dim light shone across the parquet flooring. The room looked back over the Water of Leith to the church over the far side of the river valley. A black leather sofa lay opposite a curved LED television, tuned to ESPN, baseball playing on mute.

  Methven marched across the room to inspect the tall bookcase, heavy and dark, lined with vintage hardbacks. ‘Not much in the way of personal effects here. No photos of children or a spouse.’

  ‘He wore a wedding ring.’ Cullen walked over to the mahogany coffee table and did a double take. Two long seams of white crystals dusted the wood, next to a rolled-up fifty-pound note. ‘Looks like cocaine.’

  Methven scowled at the bookcase. ‘Who the hell is he?’

  ‘Chantal’s looking, sir. We’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Get her looking at those drugs. You need a competent officer on it.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’ Cullen searched around the room for anything else. Nothing much — just some modern artworks. ‘Let’s try the other rooms.’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Methven swung something on the end of a rope. ‘Catch.’ He let go.

  It arced through the air and Cullen caught it. A work pass on a blue lanyard.

  Jonathan van de Merwe.

  Alba Bank.

  Cullen rolled the cord around the badge. ‘Guess I’m going back to the bank.’

  Methven tilted his head to the side. ‘You’ve got previous there?’

  ‘In a way of speaking. One of the suspects on the Schoolbook case a few years ago worked there.’

  ‘All I’m asking you to do is find out about this Van de Merwe chap, not apply for a sodding mortgage.’

  * * *

  Deeley slumped back in his chair, still in full kilt, his bow tie hanging loose, chomping on spearmint gum. A sole desk lamp lit up his office. The stink of cleaning chemicals almost overpowered the stench of second-hand whisky. ‘You know I shouldn’t be doing this, don’t you?’

  Cullen frowned. ‘Because you’ve been drinking?’

  ‘Ducking out of my son’s wedding while Katherine goes home to tend to her daughter’s fevered brow… I tell you…’

  ‘She’s five.’

  ‘True.’ Deeley tugged off his bow tie and dropped it in his desk drawer. ‘Off we go.’

  Cullen followed him through into the hallway, a long corridor crawling under the police station, their overshoes squeaking on the floor.

  Deeley eased into a room two down, banks of freezer units lining three of the walls. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  His assistant nodded and left them.

  Deeley adjusted the dials on a unit and hauled out the drawer.

  Jonathan van de Merwe stared up at the ceiling, what remained of his face ice-white. Dark hair plastered to his scalp. A green sheet covered him up to his chest, his jaw hanging open.

  Cullen looked away, his buttocks clenching at the sight of the injuries, and waved a hand at the body. ‘You better fix his mouth.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ Deeley reached over and pushed Van de Merwe’s jaw. It stayed open. ‘Rigor bloody mortis. Jesus H. Christ.’

  Someone cleared their throat behind them. ‘Need I remind you we don’t want any blasphemy in front of members of the public.’

  Cullen wheeled round. Methven stood there, hands in pockets. ‘Sorry, sir. We’re just about ready.’

  ‘Very well.’ Methven left and pulled the door to.

  Cullen got close to Deeley. ‘Can you fix this?’

  ‘Not without a cocktail stick or two.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  Deeley burped into his hand. ‘I’ve run out of ideas, Constable.’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Apologies.’ Deeley swallowed hard, eyes shut. ‘Too much bloody champagne. And whisky.’

  ‘Are you okay to do this?’

  ‘I’ll soldier through, as ever. Let’s see if I can get this bugger fixed.’

  Cullen paced over to the door, stopping to take another look at Deeley, swaying by the body. He shook his head as he tugged the handle and nodded at Methven in the corridor. ‘We’re ready now, sir.’

  Methven waved to the man next to him. ‘Mr Henderson, this is DS Cullen. One of my sergeants.’

  ‘Alan Henderson.’ Deep bags ringed his eyes. Hair fighting a losing battle against baldness, just a small tuft at the front. A racing-green jumper draped over his shoulders, tied at the neck, a crisp white shirt underneath. Designer scuffs on the knees of his jeans. Rimless specs and salt-and-pepper hair, chin shaved even on a Sunday. Standard attire for financial services senior management. ‘Can we get on with this, please?’

  Methven led inside, hovering a few feet from them. ‘This is James Deeley, the city’s chief pathologist.’

  Henderson locked eyes on the body, now covered in a sheet. ‘Is that him?’

  Deeley frowned. ‘Sorry, who are you?’

  ‘Alan Henderson. Jonathan works for me.’ Henderson thumbed at Cullen. ‘Your colleague’s call was diverted to me.’

  ‘I got that.’ Deeley grinned. ‘I mean what do you do at the bank?’

  ‘I’m the COO of Alba Bank. Sorry, Chief Operating Officer.’

  Deeley beamed. ‘My number one son works there. In Alba Corporate.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s a credit to the business.’ Henderson snorted. ‘Now, can I see this body?’

  ‘Of course.’ Deeley pulled back the sheet, Van de Merwe’s mouth now pressed shut. ‘Do you recognise—’

  Henderson gasped. ‘That’s Jonathan.’

  Methven raised a trimmed eyebrow. ‘Jonathan van de Merwe?’

  Henderson leaned against a freezer, arms folded. ‘Aye, it’s him.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Do you need anything else from me?’

  ‘Do you know his next of kin?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head. I’ll have to put one of my team on to that. Seldom use PeopleSoft myself, but I can get you a print of his employee record.’

  Deeley stood up tall. ‘I’ve got some paperwork, if you’ll just follow me.’ He wobbled as he led Henderson from the room.

  Methven let out a breath. ‘Is Jimmy okay?’

  ‘As long as someone drops him back at the wedding.’

  * * *

  Deeley yawned as he stood and snatched the form from Henderson. ‘I�
��ll leave you gents to it.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Cullen smiled at Henderson and pushed away from the filing cabinet now imprinted in his side. ‘I need to ask you some questions about Mr Van de Merwe’s death.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Henderson picked up a steaming mug, the reek of instant coffee filling the room. ‘You think he was murdered?’

  ‘We’ve reason to believe so, yes.’

  Henderson shut his eyes. ‘Good God.’

  ‘You said he worked for you?’

  ‘That’s correct. I’m the Chief Operating Officer. Fourth in line to the throne, I guess.’ Henderson swallowed. ‘I own HR, IT, Corporate Functions and Operations.’

  ‘Own?’

  ‘I’m responsible for them. VDM ran OPT for me.’

  ‘It’s been a while since I worked in financial services. Can you enlighten me on what OPT stands for?’

  ‘Operational Transformation Programme.’ Henderson collapsed back in his seat and drummed a tattoo on the table with his thumbs. ‘We’re building on the integrations I’ve delivered over the last ten years. It’s a three hundred million pound programme.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Full delivery will gain us almost one billion a year in cost savings.’

  ‘So there’s a lot of pressure to deliver?’

  ‘And then some. All on VDM’s broad shoulders.’

  Cullen circled VDM. ‘You said “full delivery”. Does that mean you’ve already completed some of it?’

  Henderson looked away and sniffed. ‘Not as yet. The first drop’s due in January next year. It’s been running two years now.’

  ‘That’s a long time with no pay-off.’

  ‘You’re telling me. That said, we’re on schedule. The plan of record indicates a 2016 finish.’

  ‘So another two years for this full delivery, then?’

  ‘Just over. August’s the date, I believe.’

  ‘Any idea why he’d be on Dean Bridge at half past three wearing only his underpants?’

  Henderson coughed his coffee up. He held the mug in front of his face and sneezed. ‘None at all.’