by Ed James
Cullen’s phone burst into life. Calvin Harris. “Feel So Close”.
‘I need to take this.’ Cullen stuck it to his ear and turned away. ‘Hey.’
‘Scott, what’s up?’
‘Is Lorna still with your team?’
‘Chantal sent her home. I’m at the Liquid Lounge just now.’
‘Shite. When did she go?’
‘Hours ago. Back of twelve.’
‘Right, better go.’ Cullen ended the call and spun round. ‘They let her go.’
‘Sodding hell.’
‘Col, we really need to fuckin’ get a hold of all this shite.’
* * *
Cullen pulled in on Broughton Street, a smoker outside the pub frowning at him as he got out of the pool car. He checked over the road. There, the blue door.
Bain’s purple Mondeo screeched to a halt in front of him. Bain got out, nodding at Cullen as he straightened up. ‘This it here?’
‘Aye.’ Cullen jogged across the street, skipping between the traffic, his warrant card out.
Bain hammered a fist against the door. ‘Police! Open up!’
Nothing.
‘You okay, Sundance?’
‘No.’
‘What’s up with you?’
‘She’s been lying to us.’ Cullen wheezed, hammers drilling into his head. ‘She was involved with Van de Merwe.’
Bain banged on the door again. And another thump. ‘Fuck it. Let’s do this old school, Sundance.’ He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and lashed out with a high foot. The door rocked back on the hinges. He kicked it again, sending it flying. ‘Come on.’
Cullen jogged inside, head thudding. The hall was empty. Into the bedroom next, dark as night. He flicked the switch by the door. A double bed, maybe bigger. Fluffy pink handcuffs tied to the bedpost. Red and white bedding. And—
What the fuck?
A poster loomed above the bed, a dark-red circle in the middle, three stars inside a crest. He squinted. Hamilton Academical Football Club.
Christ on a bike. He checked under the bed. An empty suitcase.
Nothing in the en suite, either. The tiles were slightly damp.
He tore out a drawer. Handcuffs, vibrators, butt plugs. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Bain smacked the door against the wall. ‘Anything?’
‘She’s not here.’ Cullen tapped the sex toys with a foot. ‘See all this?’
‘Racy stuff, Sundance.’ Bain laughed at the poster. ‘An Accies fan? Christ, it gets worse.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Sure this is the first time you’ve been here?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Heard about your little bullshit story about getting date raped.’
‘It’s not bullshit.’
‘Reckon you were hiding the sausage with Lorna.’ Bain let out a peal of laughter. ‘Lorna sausage!’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ Cullen jabbed a finger in Bain’s chest. ‘I’ve had it up to here with your shite.’
‘Don’t you fuckin’ touch me again, Sundance.’
‘I got my drink spiked. That’s not funny. I could’ve been raped!’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I’m warning you. Shut your mouth.’
‘Warn away, you stupid prick. Slipping it to someone on the case. How fuckin’ stupid are you, Sundance?’
‘Fuck off.’ Cullen stormed out of the flat, into the sunlight. He glared at Bain. ‘Can you call in backup? Man-mark this place.’
‘Aye, boss. Three bags full, boss. What are you doing?’
‘I need to speak to Sharon.’
‘What, to tell her about fuckin’ that Lorna bi—’
Cullen took a step forward and rested his forehead against Bain’s. ‘Shut up before I boot the fuck out of you.’
Bain swallowed. He retreated a pace and sniffed. ‘You better call Methven, Cullen, cos I’m about to.’
‘Be my guest.’
* * *
Cullen held the lift open and stomped down the corridor to the meeting room. ‘Lorna’s not at her flat.’
Sharon stared at a laptop, twirling her hair in her hand. She looked over and smiled. ‘Crystal was in here about ten minutes ago. Spitting teeth.’
Cullen slumped next to her. ‘What was he after?’
‘Scott, did you hit Bain?’
‘What? No!’
‘Crystal wasn’t happy.’
‘Fuck him.’
‘Is there any chance you can help me?’
‘What with?’
‘I’m so tired I can’t focus on the screen.’ Sharon tossed him a package. A brown Jiffy bag, meticulous handwriting. LIQ LNG 22.00–03.00. ‘This is the CCTV from last night at the Liquid Lounge. I’m trying to see if Rich did it.’
‘It can’t be him, can it?’ His gut plunged a few levels as he tore it open. ‘I’ve known him since school. There’s no way.’
‘Just look at it and try not to overthink it.’ She pushed her laptop over to him and yawned. ‘Here. You drive.’
Cullen leaned in to slot in the first DVD. He waited for the app to load up, then adjusted the speed hard to the right until it hit 22:40. ‘There we go.’ He slowed it down.
Figures darted into the club, a few staggering out. The bouncers chucked someone out, getting a volley of abuse and spittle in return. Stuart Murray left just before eleven.
Cullen pointed at the screen. ‘This matched what I remember and what I’ve pieced together.’ He shuttled the speed down at 00:00. The bouncers hauled him out, stumbling all over the place, speaking into his phone. They led him over to a taxi, where they had a long conversation with the driver. Then they chucked him in the back. ‘Believe me now?’
‘It’s good to see the proof.’
He wound it back to 23:50.
Buxton staggered out, on his phone, looking around. He walked off to the right of the shot.
Cullen tapped the monitor. ‘His story’s checking out.’
Customers left on double-speed over the next ten or so minutes, mainly to the left of the camera.
Cullen sat up straight and wound it back to 23:45. ‘Here we go.’
A woman staggered out of the club. She glanced up at the camera and walked over to the right.
‘That’s Lorna.’ Cullen tapped the screen. ‘She left when she started feeling it.’
‘Where’s Rich, Scott?’
‘He can’t be the rapist. He just can’t.’ Cullen swallowed and checked his phone. Nothing. ‘There’s no way. No way at all.’
‘When was the last time you heard from him?’
‘Last night. Tom got a text. Said he’d pulled.’ Cullen hit play. ‘He’s got to have left the club, right?’
‘There’s no back door access until half four and that was one of the staff.’
At 00:12, Rich lurched out of the door, spilling a glass of wine across a bouncer. He sank to his knees, just his head visible, and vomited. The bouncer marched into the shot, helping Rich to his feet and escorted him up the steps, out of the frame.
Cullen let out a deep breath. ‘So it’s not Rich.’
‘Then who is it?’
‘Have you got footage from the other rapes?’
‘Aye.’ Sharon logged onto the machine next to him, CCTV footage filled the screen. ‘This is from the nineteenth. Monday. When Kyle Graham was attacked.’ She started playing it.
Graham stumbled out onto the street, the sole bouncer staying at his post as he collapsed in a drunken heap. He shouted something, then lay on the street for a minute, resting his head against the paving slabs. Ten minutes later, he crawled off the left of the screen.
Sharon tapped the mouse against the desk. ‘This was all we had.’
‘What if you wind it back?’
She slid the footage back ten minutes. A ghost emerged from the club, arms wrapped around her body, glancing up at the camera.
Cullen frowned, his gut descending another few flights. ‘What about
her? She knows where the cameras are.’
‘So?’
‘Wait a sec.’ Cullen wound his own footage back and let it run from 23:45. The same ghost appeared on the screen. ‘No, no, no.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Lorna. She’s your rapist.’
Fifty-Three
Cullen got up and paced over to the corner of Sharon’s meeting room, Airwave to his ear. ‘Control, is Lorna Gilmour at her flat yet?’
Hiss of static. ‘I’ve got a negative on that.’
‘She’s behind the rapes DI McNeill’s been investigating.’
‘Do you want me to escalate the search?’
‘Please.’
‘We’ve got a team up at Alba Bank and one through in Hamilton.’
‘Call the second you find her.’ Cullen pocketed the Airwave and looked at Sharon. ‘Getting anywhere?’
‘She was there last Friday when that guy in Leith was assaulted. She left the club before Egan got chucked out. This is good shit, Scott.’
The door shuddered open. DC McKeown entered, Buxton lurking outside.
‘Si, what are you doing here?’
‘Just giving my statement about last night.’ Buxton glanced at the screen in the room. ‘What’s that?’
‘Lorna’s the rapist.’
Buxton swallowed hard. ‘She was on my bloody lap.’
Sharon tapped Cullen on the arm. ‘You need to see this.’
Cullen perched next to her on the desk.
‘This is from the RBS ATM just round the corner.’ She slapped the spacebar on her laptop.
Rich staggered into the shot, across Hanover Street. Lorna trotted after him, stopping him and holding him tight, whispering into his ears. Then she flagged down a passing taxi.
Buxton reached across Sharon and stabbed a finger at the screen. ‘We need to get hold of that taxi.’
* * *
Cullen put the phone to his ear, looked across the Incident Room. ‘Aye, it was at twelve, maybe thirteen minutes past midnight this morning.’
‘That’ll be a lot of pick-ups, son.’
‘On the corner of Hanover Street and George Street.’
‘That narrows it a wee bitty. Just a sec.’ Clattering of keyboard.
Methven stormed into the room. ‘What on earth’s going on?’
Cullen put the mobile to his chest. ‘We’ve found out who’s—’
‘Sergeant, I’ve had a formal complaint raised against you by DS Bain.’
‘Sir, that’s a load of shite.’
‘A load of what?’ Methven turned purple. ‘Get off the phone now!’
‘Bain’s being a cock. Look, this is urgent.’
‘This is more—’
‘Hello?’
Cullen raised a finger. ‘I need to take this.’ Turned away and gripped his phone tighter. ‘Sorry, what have you got?’
‘There you are. Right. Got two fares from George Street at that time.’
‘Where were they dropped off?’
‘Just a sec.’ More clattering. ‘First was North Berwick. Marly Green.’
‘And the other?’
More clattering. ‘Not sure.’
Cullen swallowed. ‘Can you put me through to the driver?’
‘Let me see… Aye, Peem’s on today.’
Cullen poised his pen over his notebook. ‘What’s his full name?’
‘James Hunter. Just connecting you now.’
A click. ‘Aye?’
‘Mr Hunter, this is DS Scott Cullen of Police Scotland. I believe you had a fare from George Street last night.’
‘Aye?’
‘Who was in the car?’
‘Eh. A boy and a lassie, I think.’
‘Notice anything unusual about them?’
‘Let me think. Aye. The boy was blotto. Completely out of his skull. Had to warn him about chucking his ringer in— Hang on a sec.’ Honk! Honk! ‘You can get a bus through that, you fucking numpty!’ Hoooooonk! ‘Aye, sorry. Warned him about—’
‘Did you catch a name?’
‘Naw.’ Honk! Honk! ‘The girl paid cash, I’m afraid.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Tall. Not bad. Maybe a six or a seven.’
‘Anything distinct about her?’
‘Nothing. Look, do you mind—’
‘She wasn’t wearing glasses?’
‘Oh. Aye, now you mention it. Had big stupid ones on her head. Like that snooker boy. Dennis Taylor. You know, huge. Red.’
Cullen swallowed hard. ‘Where did you drop them off?’
‘End of Belford Road.’
Right by Van de Merwe’s house.
* * *
Cullen drove down Queensferry Street, away from the centre of Edinburgh. He grabbed his Airwave and called Buxton. ‘You on your way yet?’
‘Sorry, Sarge, just about there.’
‘How many with you?’
‘Squad of four. Is she there?’
Cullen took a sharp left. ‘I’m just about at Belford Road now.’
‘I see you now.’
‘Secure the road.’ Cullen tossed the Airwave onto the passenger seat and parked by the bollards. He tore out of the car and bombed down the street.
A squad car trundled over to block the road farther down.
Buxton stood at the open gate outside the town house. Uniformed officers lurked round the corner, out of sight of the house.
Cullen powered up the path. The police tape flapped in the breeze, cut in half. ‘Is she in there?’
‘I wasn’t entering until I got support.’ Buxton jogged to catch up. ‘Been burnt too many times.’
Cullen stopped outside the door and held up two fingers, waving for the nearest uniforms to follow. ‘Right, one of you guard the front door, the other’s guarding the staircase inside. Okay?’
Both nodded.
Then at the taller of the other two. ‘You’re with me.’ He gestured at the last uniform. ‘You’re with DC Buxton. Body Worn Videos on now.’
They both tapped a button on their vests, starting them recording.
‘Come on.’ Cullen snapped out his baton and stepped into the house. ‘The place should’ve been locked down. Any tramps been in here?’
Buxton got out his pepper spray. ‘Supposed to have been a security guard checking in.’
‘Stay here. I think I know where she’s gone.’ Cullen started up the stairs. The boards squeaked. He sighed and continued up.
His uniform followed him, heavy boots clattering on the wood.
Cullen took the first door on the left, waved for the uniform to take the other room and entered the bedroom. The panel was still wedged open. He took it slow as he crossed the room, torch out. He click it on, lighting up the sex room. He crawled through, swinging the light around. Nothing.
Wait, what was that?
He swung it back. There. A figure lay on the floor. He crept over, light trained on the body.
It was Rich. Naked, huddled in a ball.
Cullen stuck a finger to his neck. Still had a pulse. He shone the light in his eyes.
Rich’s pupils dilated, though he didn’t flinch. His eyes rolled and he let out a groan.
‘In here!’ Cullen got out his Airwave. ‘Control, I need urgent medical back-up to thirty-two Belford Road.’
‘Affirmative. It’ll be five minutes.’
Cullen swung the light around again. What the fuck was that smell? Shit. He took another look. Stopped the beam over a long object. White, plastic. A strap-on dildo, at least twelve inches. White cotton straps. A condom stretched partway down the shaft, blood and excrement covering it.
He looked over at the uniform as they entered the bedroom. ‘Can you bag this up?’
‘Aye, Sarge.’
Cullen knelt down and waved a hand in front of Rich’s face. ‘It’s Scott. You’re safe.’
‘Fuck off, you cunt.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fucking burst open.’
/> Cullen jolted upright and nodded at the uniform. ‘Stay here.’ He climbed the stepladder and swung his torch around the attic room. Nothing. He slid down, his jaw tightening as he passed Rich.
‘Fucking hell, Sarge, he’s bleeding out of his arse.’
‘Stay with him.’ Cullen shone his torch at the uniform. ‘Did you check the other room?’
‘Aye, Sarge. She’s not here.’
‘Wait with him till the ambulance gets here.’ Cullen crept through the passageway into the bedroom and thudded down the stairs. ‘Anything down here?’
Buxton came out of the living room. ‘Nothing here, Sarge.’
Cullen looked around. Where the hell was she? He held the handset up to his mouth. ‘Control, have we got an update on her location yet?’
‘Negative.’
Cullen stomped across the parquet, putting his Airwave away, and went back into the cold air outside. His Airwave chimed again. Bain.
He answered it facing away from the house. ‘Cullen.’
‘Sundance, you near a computer?’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll want to see this.’
‘Right.’ Cullen logged in to his police email on his phone. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Link’s in your inbox.’
‘Aye, what is it?’
‘Given how much of a fanjo you were earlier, you should be thankful I’m giving you this.’ A pause. ‘It’s a Body Worn Video feed. I’m out in Hamilton looking for this bird you porked.’
Cullen found the email and clicked the link. ‘Here we go.’
Grainy video filled the screen. The resolution sharpened, showing the inside of a dark flat.
‘I can’t see much.’
The camera swivelled round. Bain snorted at it. ‘You should fuckin’ smell this, Sundance. Like a granny’s—’
‘Where are you?’
‘Here, point at the bed.’
The camera switched over to the far side of the room. A fat man lay on the bed, naked and bloated, covered in flies, skin pale except for purple blotches.
‘Who’s that?’
‘We think it’s Eric Gilmour. Her uncle.’
‘Why kill him?’
‘Fuck knows. Boy’s been dead a few weeks.’
