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

by Ed James

  ‘Why the reaction?’

  Henderson locked eyes again. ‘Just shows how little you know the people who work for you, doesn’t it?’

  Cullen noted it. ‘Were you close to Mr Van de Merwe?’

  ‘I’ll be honest, VDM was just an employee. He guarded his private life. I can tell you his CV, but that’s about it.’

  ‘He’s married, isn’t he? We can’t find his wife.’

  ‘They divorced last year, I gather. Never knew her name.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Sorry. He never mentioned any family.’

  ‘Give us the CV stuff, then.’

  ‘VDM was born in South Africa. Durban.’ Henderson frowned. ‘Sorry, I’m conscious of the fact I’m using his nickname.’

  ‘That’s okay, just don’t use any of mine.’

  Henderson laughed and took another drink of coffee. ‘He grew up in London. Studied at Oxford, if I remember right. Went into consultancy. The usual suspects — IBM, Accenture, Deloitte. Then he moved into industry, as they call it, and took up a position at HSBC in Canary Wharf. They’d headhunted him.’

  ‘So he moved up from London?’

  ‘He was the perfect man for the job. He’s delivered countless programmes at many other institutions.’

  ‘Is his apartment part of the package?’

  ‘That’s confidential.’

  ‘It’s a large property, Mr Henderson.’

  ‘The apartment’s a drop in the ocean. VDM earned a million a year.’

  Cullen whistled. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of money.’

  ‘It’s the London rate. Half of that’s performance-related bonus, but we paid it both years. Once this referendum nonsense is out of the way, Scotland’ll be on fire. I’m sure you understand, given your FS background?’

  ‘I answered phones and typed up insurance applications.’

  Another sip of coffee. ‘I see.’

  ‘Could Mr Van de Merwe have been the subject of blackmail?’

  Henderson licked his lips. ‘Not that I heard.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies at work?’

  ‘VDM was well liked in the bank. Never heard of anything he’d done to annoy anyone more than was necessary. Nobody who’d want to kill him.’

  ‘But he annoyed people?’

  ‘To deliver this programme, we need buy-in from three other divisions, as well as the areas I own.’

  ‘So you’re saying he butted heads with a few people?’

  ‘Just some friendly jousting over the conference room table.’

  * * *

  Jain slammed the phone in the cradle. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  Cullen frowned at her, cramped tight in the DCs’ office space. ‘Tell me you’ve got something on Van de Merwe.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Did you check his background, like I asked?’

  ‘Methven told me to look into the coke on his coffee table.’

  ‘Christ on a bike.’ Cullen rubbed his forehead. ‘The background check’s the priority.’

  ‘Holdsworth gave me an action. I’m not pissing about with him again.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Crystal’s got him setting up an Incident Room.’

  Cullen shook his head. ‘Nothing like focusing on admin.’

  ‘Who’s in charge? You or Crystal?’

  ‘I’m in charge of you.’

  ‘Well, what do you want, O wise one?’

  Cullen tightened his grip on his notebook. ‘Start with a PNC check on Van de Merwe?’

  ‘Boss.’ Jain logged into her machine and hammered the keys. ‘Pretty sure you could’ve done that on your Airwave…’

  Cullen looked around again. A female DC he vaguely recognised sat at the other end of the room. ‘Where’s Eva?’

  ‘Don’t know. I’m not her boss. Is that Jonathan with an A or an O?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘At the end. A or O?’

  ‘A.’ Cullen folded his arms. ‘Do people spell it with an O?’

  ‘I’ve heard it happen.’ A click of the mouse and Jain ran her finger across the screen. ‘Here we go. Oh. Got his wife listed here. Elsbeth van de Merwe.’

  Cullen leaned closer. ‘They’re divorced.’

  Jain battered the keys. ‘Right. Different address.’

  Eight

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Jain took a right along a high-walled avenue, lined with parked cars. ‘I always think of Polwarth as the shitty flats.’

  ‘They’re hardly shitty.’ Cullen glanced over at her, silhouetted in the evening light, catching glimpses of grand houses set back from the road. ‘More than I’ll ever afford.’

  ‘Doesn’t JK Rowling live round here?’

  ‘Among others.’ Cullen counted the numbers, still at least ten away. ‘I’m still not happy with you.’

  ‘What? Christ, Scott, you’re getting so much like Bain.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You know something I don’t get? You deal with murderers and rapists all the time, but Bain’s the one you hate.’

  Cullen checked the house numbers, still too low. ‘These people usually get justice for what they’ve done. With exceptions.’

  ‘Like Dean Vardy?’

  ‘Can’t believe he got off.’

  ‘So, your problem is Bain hasn’t been done for anything?’

  ‘The number of times he’s wriggled out of serious shit. He should be in prison or off the force at least.’

  ‘You’ve not got any sympathy for him?’

  ‘He got dumped out of our team because he tried to batter Turnbull for prosecuting his son. His guilty son. Glasgow’s welcome to him.’

  ‘Crystal’s in the same ballpark.’

  ‘Not even close.’ Cullen tapped the glass. Number twenty-four. A Georgian mansion lined with trees, lights on downstairs. ‘Here we go.’

  Jain pulled in and got out without a word. She tightened her coat against the wind. ‘Want me to lead?’

  ‘Aye, go on.’

  She marched up the drive and stopped at an estate agent’s sign. ‘Place is for sale.’ She knocked on the door, tossing her hair as she waited.

  A woman opened the door. Looked late thirties, blonde hair out of a bottle. Navy jeans and white blouse. ‘Can I help?’ Forty-a-day croak, Home Counties accent. Plummy, whatever that meant.

  ‘Elsbeth van de Merwe?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘We need to speak to you about your husband.’

  ‘Jon no longer lives here.’

  ‘We know. It’s a matter of urgency.’

  She frowned. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Can we come in.’

  Elsbeth shut her eyes and ran her hand over her forehead. No rings. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Come in, then.’ Elsbeth led through a white-painted hall filled with artworks of varying styles, heels clicking off the flagstones. She went into a kitchen, dark oak cabinets and marble worktops, and grabbed a glass of red wine, downing it in one. ‘Good Lord.’ She collapsed onto a stool at a breakfast bar and refilled the glass. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He fell from Dean Bridge in the early hours of this morning and died as a result of his injuries. We believe he was murdered.’

  ‘Jesus. I was in London with my sister. Just got back an hour ago.’ Elsbeth took another drink, clearing half of the glass. ‘How can I help catch whoever did this to him?’

  ‘Let’s start with the last time you saw him.’

  ‘Two weeks ago. Sunday.’ Elsbeth swirled the wine around the glass, the liquid staining the sides. ‘We had a coffee in that place on Marchmont Road. Near the top.’

  ‘I know it. Think it’s called Toast.’ Jain got out her notebook and made a note. ‘Why were you meeting up?’

  ‘A few reasons. We’re trying to sell this place. I moved here with him from London but I want to move back home. I’ve bought a place in the Cotswolds. There’s
a long chain and the market’s quite slow. All this independence nonsense.’

  ‘What else were you talking about?’

  ‘Jon was behind on my maintenance payment.’

  ‘From your divorce?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Elsbeth sucked down more wine. ‘I won’t lie to you, our divorce was acrimonious. It took months to settle. Finally came through in November.’

  ‘Why’d it take so long?’

  ‘The sums didn’t add up. I believe Jon’d hidden a lot of money overseas.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence?’

  ‘Well, I enlisted a private investigator but he didn’t find much actual proof. It was hidden in some obscure jurisdiction. The Caymans or British Virgin Isles. Something like that.’

  ‘You got a maintenance order?’

  ‘With the disputed overseas cash, the judge couldn’t calculate the clean-break amount. I accepted a modest lump sum, this place and a maintenance order.’

  Cullen jotted down Offshore account. ‘Do you know if you’re in his will?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Any insurance policies in your name?’

  ‘We adjusted our protection when we divorced. I’m the only life insured against this place.’

  ‘Must be quite an expensive mortgage.’

  ‘Not helped by Jonathan not bothering to pay me for the last three months.’ Another slug of wine. ‘He’s not been good at paying up despite all the money he earns.’

  Jain smiled at her. ‘Why did you divorce?’

  ‘I don’t have to answer that.’

  ‘It might help this case.’

  ‘I fail to see how.’

  ‘Did your husband have many friends?’

  ‘Just work colleagues. Jon was a workaholic. Used to embody the whole work hard, play hard thing. You know how it is.’ Elsbeth drained her glass and grabbed the bottle, something French and expensive. ‘He’d be in the office until late most nights. Then a beer or two and a cab home. Usually be home around ten.’

  ‘Who would he have these beers with?’

  ‘Wayne Broussard and William Yardley. They’re colleagues, I think.’

  Cullen made a note. ‘No other friends?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Jonathan kept that part of his life secret.’

  ‘What about any other friends? Maybe the best man at your wedding?’

  ‘Morgan Allason. Knew Jonathan from university. We met at his wedding.’

  ‘You got a number for him?’

  ‘Died in 2009. A car crash.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Jain flipped over the page. ‘Do you have any children?’

  Elsbeth nibbled her lip. ‘Jon never had time even thought I wanted them.’

  ‘What about his family? Any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘He’s an only child. Both of his parents died in 2011.’

  ‘The same year?’

  ‘His father didn’t last long after his mother passed.’

  Jain cleared her throat, eyes narrowed. ‘Ms Van de Merwe, we found your ex-husband wearing only his underpants.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ She sipped more wine and tugged her hair. ‘Bloody bitch.’

  Jain scowled. ‘Excuse me?’

  Elsbeth’s eyes clamped shut. ‘Not you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Amber.’ Elsbeth topped up her glass. ‘Jon was having an affair. It’s why we divorced.’

  ‘That must’ve been hard to take.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. It broke my heart. She’s eighteen. Traded me in for a younger model. Such a cliché.’

  ‘Was he still seeing her?’

  ‘To my knowledge, yes.’

  ‘Why did you say “bloody bitch”? Think she could’ve killed him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past her.’

  ‘Do you know her surname?’

  * * *

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Jain pushed past Cullen. ‘Sudden urge for a drink?’

  ‘Hardly. This place has changed a hell of a lot.’ He waved around the Southern’s bar area, stripped back from a rugger-bugger hellhole to a modern style bar. White walls filled with framed photos — black and white film stills, fifties noir book covers. Burgers served on wooden chopping boards. Craft beer on tap. Just like the Elm. ‘Big change since my student days.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to reminisce, while I do some work.’ Jain sashayed over, winking at a pair of muscle men near the bar. She nodded at a barman, thin face lost beneath a wiry beard. ‘Looking for an Amber Turner.’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  A flash of her warrant card. ‘DC Chantal Jain.’

  ‘Sit over in the snug, hen. I’ll just fetch her.’

  Cullen followed Jain over to the small area at the far side, shaking his head as she bumped into one of the muscle boys. He settled into a booth and waited for her to finish apologising with a business card. ‘Nice work.’

  ‘Always on the lookout for a pretty boy like that.’

  ‘You’ll eat him alive.’

  ‘That’s part of the fun.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Buxton?’

  Jain burst into laughter. ‘Aye, right.’

  ‘Not your type?’

  ‘Looks the part but I try not to shit where I eat.’

  ‘Charming.’

  A girl leaned into the small room. Blonde hair, girl’s face, woman’s body — cut-off denim shorts and a Ramones T-shirt, ripped to show cleavage, tied off to show a flat stomach. ‘Chantelle?’

  ‘Chantal.’ Jain smiled. ‘Amber?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Cullen made space for her. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She sat, her bare thigh brushing against his leg. ‘What do youse want to know?’ Niddrie accent, with a snarl to go with it.

  ‘Do you know a Jonathan van de Merwe?’

  Her mouth hung open. Braces covered her teeth. ‘Right, I’ll see youse later.’ She got up.

  Cullen grabbed her arm. ‘Here or at the station. We’re not far from St Leonard’s.’

  ‘Youse arresting me?’

  ‘Have you done something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why leave us when we mention his name?’

  ‘Because I’m not speaking about that arsehole. Haven’t heard from him in months, anyway. What’s this about?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Amber blinked hard and collapsed back onto the bench. ‘What?’

  ‘We found his body this morning.’

  ‘Shite.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘I was working. Here.’

  ‘So your mate at the bar’ll confirm it?’

  ‘He wasn’t in. Shug was. He’s not in tonight.’

  ‘Tell us about your relationship with Mr Van de Merwe.’

  ‘Met him about a year ago. Thought he was my white knight, you know?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I met him on sugardaddies dot com. It’s a site where young girls like me can hook up with older guys like him.’ She ran her hands down her torso. ‘You know how long I spend in the gym every day to look this good?’

  ‘I can imagine. What happened?’

  ‘Met up with him a few times. He took me for dinner each time.’

  ‘Did you sleep with him?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to.’

  ‘But you did, right?’

  A shrug. ‘He seemed nice. But he just fucked me. Didn’t let me move in with him. Look for him on there, lots of girls mention him on the blacklist page.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I checked him out. Found out he was married, so I told his wife. She kicked him out. This was last summer.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  Amber smirked. ‘When she was hurling his suits across their front garden.’

  * * *

  ‘Wait for it.’ Jain switched off the engine, holding up he
r hand till the final groan. ‘There it is. Told you, these cars are all knackered.’

  Cullen let his seatbelt ride up, staring at the garage wall, pale concrete pillars holding the police station up.

  Across the car park, Methven clambered into his Range Rover.

  Cullen sighed. ‘I was hoping to catch Crystal, but he’s foxtrotting oscar.’

  Jain turned off the car. ‘Want me to do some digging into Amber?’

  ‘Please. What do you think of her?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like she’s been involved with him for a while.’

  ‘Got a motive, though. He didn’t follow through on what he promised.’

  ‘Maybe. Enough to kill him, though?’

  ‘Elsbeth seemed to think so.’ Cullen let out a sigh. ‘Do some more digging into her as well.’

  ‘As if I’ve not got enough to do. We need more men, Scott.’

  ‘Aye, I know. I’ll sort it.’

  ‘The joys of your extra stripe.’

  Nine

  ‘Sharon?’ Cullen dumped his wallet and keys on the chest of drawers in the hall, knocking a pile of unread post onto the floor. ‘Shite.’ He bent down to pick it up. It was all his. He yawned. ‘I’m home!’

  ‘Through here.’

  He frowned. The bedroom? He slipped off his shoes and padded across the laminate.

  Candles flickered against the cream walls. A rose petal lay on Cullen’s pillow.

  ‘Sharon?’

  Thin arms tightened around his torso from behind. Teeth nibbled his neck. ‘Hello.’

  Cullen let his head drop. ‘Hello.’

  Kisses up his neck. Tongue in his ear. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all day.’

  Cullen yawned as she tore off his shirt, dropping it on the floor. ‘Been a hell of a day.’

  ‘Lie down.’

  ‘Have you been reading Fifty Shades of Grey again?’

  ‘I’m on the third one now.’

  ‘That’s about my dad’s greyhounds—’

  ‘Lie. Down.’ She shoved him forward.

  His knees clattered against the bed frame. He tumbled face down onto the duvet.

  She straddled his back. Tight leg muscles against his soft flesh.

  ‘Sharon, watch it.’