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

by Ed James

  ‘What?’

  ‘Buxton had gone. Lorna’d gone. Same with Rich. Took me ages to get served, as well. I was completely locked and—’

  ‘Someone spiked my drink.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I’m serious. What about you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Another pause. ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Come on, man. How could you think that?’

  ‘A lot of my friends are betraying me just now.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Rich.’

  ‘Right.’ Yawn. ‘Mate, come on, there’s no way I’d do that.’

  ‘Even as a joke?’

  ‘If I did, don’t you think I’d at least video it and put it on YouTube?’

  ‘Very good.’ Cullen laughed despite himself. ‘Is Rich there?’

  ‘Are you guys still speaking?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You had a bit of a barney last night.’

  ‘He deserved everything he got. Is he there?’

  ‘I’m not going into his room after last time. I can’t unsee that.’

  ‘Tell him to call me when he gets up, all right?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘I need to see if Lorna’s okay. Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Broughton Road, I think. Not far from the Tesco. I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Cullen ended the call, grabbed his coffee from the barista and left the café, waiting for the text to arrive. His phone thrummed — Lorna’s contact details. He stabbed a finger against the mobile number.

  ‘You’ve reached Lorna. Can’t take your noise just now. Text me, I don’t listen to voicemails. Bye!’ Beeep!

  * * *

  Cullen passed the big Tesco and drove the pool car along Broughton Road, passing a left turn into an office development. He stopped by a tarmac playground and tried her number again. Voicemail.

  He checked Tom’s text for the address and clocked her flat — ground-floor, across from the Powderhall Arms. He got out.

  His phone rang. Buxton. He swiped to answer the call. ‘Cullen.’

  ‘Got your voicemail, mate.’ Buxton croaked down the line.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Too much booze. I’ll have a Berocca, then get in soon.’

  ‘Did you get home okay?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘My drink got spiked. Rohypnol.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I was completely out of it. I can’t remember much about last night.’

  ‘Have you got him?’

  Cullen gritted his teeth. ‘Not yet. Was yours spiked?’

  A pause. ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? You don’t sound good.’

  ‘Positive, mate. Someone had to drink your shots, didn’t they?’

  ‘Did you see anyone near our table?’

  ‘I was putting the booze away, mate. I can’t remember much. Everyone just disappeared. Tried calling, but nobody was answering.’

  Cullen swapped his phone to his other hand. ‘Look, I’ll need to get a statement when you get in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we think it’s related to Sharon’s attacks.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘That motherfucker could’ve got me. I could’ve been … raped.’ Cullen tightened his grip on the phone. ‘I’ll give you a shout later. Bye.’ He pocketed it and crossed the road, rapping on the blue door.

  It swung open. Lorna folded her arms across her T-shirt, “I’m Sick To Death Of Low”. She blinked against the daylight, swaying a bit. ‘Scott Cullen?’

  ‘Lorna, are you okay?’

  ‘It’s really early.’

  ‘I’ve tried calling, but you’re not answering your phone.’

  She yawned. ‘Sorry, I sleep like the dead when I’ve been drinking.’

  ‘I had my drink spiked last night.’

  ‘Shit, you too?’

  Cullen frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘I got done.’ She bit her lip. ‘Got spiked when I was a student. I recognised the signs last night and got a taxi back here.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I left as soon as I started feeling it. Lots of dodgy blokes hanging around. I downed a coffee when I got home. Think it cleared my system.’

  ‘You should’ve told me.’

  ‘I thought you were still dancing.’

  ‘What about Buxton?’

  ‘Your mate Simon? He’d left. Couldn’t find him anyway.’

  ‘My girlfriend’s been investigating male rapes over the last couple of weeks.’ Cullen got out a business card and scribbled Sharon’s mobile number on the back. ‘I need you to go speak to her. This might be connected.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Any idea who could’ve done it?’

  ‘When we were dancing for a bit, there was that guy sitting near us, kept trying to chat to me and Simon. Rich was flirting with him.’

  ‘Would you be able to describe him?’

  ‘Probably.’ She tapped the card. ‘I’ll get up there now.’

  ‘Do you need a lift?’

  ‘Give me a minute. I need to get changed.’

  * * *

  Cullen led Lorna down the corridor in the station. ‘How are you feeling?’

  No reply.

  He swung round.

  Ten feet back, she stumbled back against the wall. Hand to her forehead, knees buckling.

  ‘Shite.’ He jogged back and grabbed her arms. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Feel woooooooozy.’

  He wrapped an arm round her shoulders and helped her along the corridor, taking it slow. He kicked the meeting room door open. Photographs and papers pinned to the walls, case files all over the table.

  Jain stood near the window, talking into her mobile, McKeown next to her. ‘I’ll call you back, okay?’ She dumped the phone on the table. ‘She was in the club last night, right?’

  ‘One of Tom’s mates. She’s been drugged as well.’

  ‘Christ.’ Jain swung round. ‘Mac, can you bring the duty doc up?’

  ‘Aye, sure.’ McKeown stormed out of the room.

  Cullen winked. ‘Bossing people around, Chantal.’

  ‘Someone’s got to.’

  Lorna collapsed onto a seat. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ll make sure you’re okay.’ Jain crouched down, smiling. ‘We’ll do a blood test. Maybe a rape kit, as well.’

  ‘I didn’t get raped. I went home when I felt this kick in.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you were alone.’ Jain stood up again. ‘Be back in a second.’ She nodded at Cullen and left the room.

  He followed her out, pulling the door shut behind him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Is she on the level?’

  ‘I think so. Why?’

  ‘She looks pretty fucked. Worse than you did.’

  ‘She didn’t get injected with magic juice.’

  ‘True.’ Jain sighed. The sigh turned into a yawn. ‘I need my bed.’

  ‘You getting anywhere?’

  ‘Just finished interviewing the staff. Again. Still checking out the punters.’

  ‘You’re not interviewing them?’

  ‘Just took names and addresses. Got a hit against the sex offenders’ register.’

  ‘Sounds positive.’

  ‘Hardly. Guy stuck a traffic cone up his arse ten years ago. We’re getting nothing.’ Jain leaned against the glass and folded her arms, yawning. ‘You were fucked last night when we came round.’

  ‘Not my finest hour.’

  ‘Quite sweet, really.’

  ‘Why did you ask if she was on the level?’

  ‘Well, this guy isn’t targeting women.’

  ‘He’s been raping men. Might’ve been targeting men and women. Spiking drinks at the bar, scattergun, and seeing who’s tottering about.’

  ‘Well,
Mac’s been through the CCTV and found the guy who looked after your drinks.’

  ‘You bringing him in?’

  ‘When I said found, I mean you can see a grainy face on the screen. That’s it so far.’

  ‘Let me know if you need anything.’

  She nodded. ‘Have you spoken to the others?’

  ‘Tom’s clear and Buxton’s hungover. I can’t find Rich. He might’ve pulled.’

  ‘Pulled? You sound like an issue of Loaded from 1996.’

  Cullen checked his watch. ‘Shite. I’m late for Methven’s briefing.’

  Forty-Eight

  Cullen took another sip, the Starbucks coffee too cold to drink. Too tired to think. He pushed into the Incident Room.

  ‘—and I expect you to have a—’ Methven stopped and frowned at him. ‘Good morning, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sorry for being late, sir.’

  ‘DC Murray’s just given your update. I was just setting out my expectations from your team. Anything to add?’

  Cullen shrugged. ‘Please continue.’ He rubbed his forehead, trying to get the knitting needles out.

  ‘Anything more from you, Stuart?’

  Murray shook his head.

  Eva put up her hand. ‘Sir, I’ve finished going through the drug squad case files.’

  Methven shot a glare at Cullen. ‘Thought we agreed that was a dead end?’

  Eva swallowed. ‘Shite.’

  Methven folded his arms and nodded at Cullen. ‘Sergeant, a word after this.’

  ‘Fine.’ Cullen stayed focused on Eva. ‘Did you get anything?’

  ‘From what I’ve read, it’s ninety per cent certain the coke we found in Mr Van de Merwe’s flat came from the batch Vardy’s selling.’

  ‘That’s a dead end, understood?’ Methven glared at Cullen. ‘What’s today’s plan of attack, Sergeant?’

  ‘We need to determine whether Candy’s involved or not.’ Cullen yawned into his hand, trying to cover it with his cup. ‘And find this Vaccaro guy.’

  ‘Very well.’ Methven uncapped a different pen and turned back to the whiteboard. ‘DS Bain, can you give your team’s update, please?’

  Cullen shut his eyes, out of sight of Methven.

  ‘Aye, sure thing.’ Bain snuffled. ‘DC McCrea and the rest of my team were in late last night and we’ve made solid progress on the Ferguson case.’ A sniff. ‘Dean Vardy’s still not speaking.’

  ‘I expect you to resolve that this morning, Sergeant.’

  ‘See what I can do, Col.’

  Methven squeaked a new note on the board. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Interviewed everyone connected to him at work and in his private life. No additional suspects identified.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sodding hell.’

  ‘The question of whether Ferguson topped himself’s still open, sir. We’ve got a statement placing a woman with him, so we think it’s murder. Deeley’s veering to that side, as well.’

  ‘Do you have an identity for her?’

  ‘I think it’s Candy but there’s nothing on the CCTV or any of the witness statements.’

  ‘I’d like that identity confirmed.’ Methven scored through two actions. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Finished speaking to the Schneider people who worked at Alba Bank last year.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sundance wanted us to ask about these equity partnership rumours. They’re all remaining tight-lipped.’

  ‘Do you think that means anything?’

  ‘Not sure, Col.’

  ‘Anything else from you? No? Dismissed.’ Methven cut through the throng to Cullen and leaned against the white-painted pillar next to him. ‘You were seriously late, Sergeant.’

  ‘Had to drop someone off upstairs. It’s related to Sharon’s case.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Cullen looked away. ‘Somebody put Rohypnol in my drink last night.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Methven leaned in close. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I had four beers. Next thing I know, I wake up in the club and threw up in the toilet. The bouncers chucked me in a cab.’

  ‘Have they finally shut that place down?’

  ‘Too late, but aye. They’re still interviewing the staff and punters.’

  Methven leaned against the adjacent desk, the wood creaking. ‘Sergeant, do you think Sharon’s rapist tried it on with you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What were you even thinking going to the Liquid Lounge?’

  ‘Thought I was safe, sir.’

  ‘Are you okay to work today?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘Don’t let me down.’ Methven started counting through a handful of change. ‘Time for my coffee. Can I fetch you one?’

  Cullen held up the Starbucks cup. ‘I’ll microwave this after I’ve seen what my team’s been up to.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ Methven marched off through the Incident Room.

  Cullen leaned against the pillar and sucked cold coffee.

  ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Sundance.’ Bain looked him up and down. ‘You look like you went twelve rounds with a bottle of Absinthe.’

  Cullen folded his arms. ‘Feels like it.’

  ‘What time did you finish up?’

  ‘Midnight, I think.’

  ‘Bullshit. I was fuckin’ barrelling home along the M8 at midnight.’ A smirk danced across Bain’s face. ‘Sure you didn’t get chucked out of a club at three before finishing a bottle of whisky round Buxton’s house?’

  Cullen took another swig of coffee, not helping the stomach any. ‘Four beers, that’s it.’

  ‘Seriously, what did you do?’

  ‘Four. Beers.’

  Bain snorted. ‘Believe that when I see it.’ He walked off.

  Cullen clocked Murray and Buxton heading over. ‘Morning, boys.’

  Murray frowned. ‘Not going to thank me for deputising?’

  Cullen shrugged. ‘Aye, thanks for that.’

  ‘Take it you had a late one?’

  ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night.’ Cullen looked Buxton up and down. ‘How are you doing, Si?’

  ‘Feel like someone’s eaten my brain, but I’m raring to go.’ Buxton yawned. ‘Any ill effects?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  Murray did a double-take. ‘What’s he talking about.’

  Cullen looked away. ‘I got my drink spiked.’

  ‘What the fuck? In the club?’

  Cullen nodded. ‘Did you see anything before you left?’

  ‘There was that guy sitting between Si and that Lorna bird. Skinny boy.’

  ‘It’s not him. That’s my ex-flatmate.’

  ‘Seemed well dodgy. He brought a round back, didn’t he?’

  Cullen rubbed his neck. ‘Lorna had her drink spiked, too.’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Methven reappeared, glowering at Cullen, Bain lurking behind him. He snapped out a newspaper, the broadsheet sprawl of the Argus. ‘This Rich McAlpine chap’s at it again.’

  ‘You seen this, Sundance? “Consultancy Fraud At Death Bank”.’ Bain pointed at the headline and shook his head. ‘How the fuck did he get that?’

  Methven snorted, nostrils flared. ‘DS Cullen?’

  Cullen winced, eyes on his two DCs. ‘I’ve spoken to him about it. He said—’

  Bain pointed at another headline and cackled. ‘Check this. “Alba Bank BDSM Ring”. The boy’s got the inside track.’

  ‘You’ve both discussed this with him.’ Methven folded his arms. ‘I want to know how he’s getting this stuff. This has to stop. Now.’

  ‘I spoke to him about when the story went online. I don’t think his source is a police officer.’

  ‘Then who the hell is it?’

  ‘Someone at Alba Bank, most likely.’

  ‘Guesswork, Sergeant. I’m disappointed.’

  ‘Look, it’s not me.’

  ‘I know it’s not you.’

  Fin
ally listening… Cullen folded the paper in half. ‘I’ll go and have a word with him.’

  * * *

  Cullen tilted his head to the side. ‘You pissed on your own chips?’

  Buxton clenched his jaw, hands gripping the wheel. ‘Yeah, bought some chips on the way home last night. Went for a slash down a back street and put them on the ground. When I zipped up, I saw I’d pissed all over my chips. Hadn’t even eaten any.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Took me a few seconds to walk away from them. Long seconds.’

  ‘I hope a tramp didn’t pick them up.’

  ‘Not going to be the worst thing they’ve eaten, is it?’

  ‘True.’ Buxton pulled in on Portobello High Street and yawned. ‘Not sure I should be driving.’

  ‘The breathalyser’s clean.’ Cullen tightened his grip on the steering wheel and looked at the flat above the kebab shop.

  Buxton let his seatbelt slide up. ‘Who are we speaking to here?’

  ‘We’re not. I am.’

  ‘Come on, mate.’

  ‘You stay here. This is personal. You saw what Crystal was like back there. I’m in the toilet. I need to fix this.’

  ‘Suit yourself. That geezer seemed … dodgy. Sure you don’t need me?’

  ‘I’ll give you a call if I need corroboration.’ Cullen got out of the car and stood on the pavement, clutching Methven’s Argus. Two buses hissed as they crawled to a halt at stops on opposite sides of the road.

  A man walked past, face covered in scar tissue. Papers and rolls in his blue carrier bag, a three-legged dog following him.

  Cullen sucked in breath and pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Tom, it’s Scott. Is Rich back yet?’

  ‘Negative, amigo. Found a text from him at midnight saying he pulled. Gone to some guy’s flat.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Unreal, isn’t he?’

  ‘So he’s not there?’

  ‘Afraid not. Wasted trip. You should’ve called.’

  ‘Been trying for the last half an hour.’

  ‘Aye. Sorry, I was just having a du—’

  ‘Catch you later.’ Cullen walked over to the car and got in. ‘He’s not there.’

  Buxton locked his phone. ‘What?’