by Ed James
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
by Ed James
Copyright © 2012 Ed James.
for C
Contents
Caroline Wednesday 28th July, 7.30pm
Friday 30th July 2011
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
Saturday 31st July 2011
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
Sunday 1st August 2011
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
Monday 2nd August 2011
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
Tuesday 3rd August 2011
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
forty-three
forty-four
Wednesday 4th August 2011
forty-five
forty-six
forty-seven
forty-eight
forty-nine
fifty
Afterword
About Ed James
Caroline
Wednesday 28th July, 7.30pm
Caroline Adamson sat and waited in the bar. Where was he?
She checked her watch; he was five minutes late. Felt like hours. She shouldn't have got there so early.
She looked for anyone vaguely resembling Martin's photo on Schoolbook. Nobody even came close. She didn't want to get herself a drink, in case he just turned up. That would be uncomfortable.
She rummaged around in her handbag, and found her mobile. She opened the Schoolbook app and picked out her train of messages with Martin, re-read the instructions again, just to make sure she hadn't messed up. No, there it was, meet in the bar of the Jackson Hotel at 7.30pm.
Her phone buzzed; a new text message from Steve Allen, one of her oldest friends.
"Just on my way to Parkhead, wanted to wish you good luck for tonight. Not that you'll need it."
The usual trivia from Steve, never getting to how he felt or anything real. Not that she could talk, she thought.
She replied. "I don't think I'll need it. Good luck though."
She had just set her phone down on the table when it rang, an unknown number. Her hands shook as she put the phone to her ear.
"Caroline, hi, it's Martin."
"Hi," she said, her voice a nervous croak.
"I'm really sorry, but I'm running late. I've just got back from the office, had a last minute meeting, and I'm just getting ready now. Have you got yourself a drink?"
"No, no I haven't."
"Tell you what, why don't you come meet me by my room and we'll go on from there? It'll save you getting hassle from the guy behind the bar."
"Sure," she said.
"It's just at the back, ground floor, room 20."
The phone clicked dead.
She got up, her heart was racing; she was finally going to meet him. In person. She wondered about meeting him by his room but they'd talked so often on Schoolbook that it felt like he knew everything about her, like they'd known each other for years.
She left the bar and walked through Reception. A brass plate on the wall pointed to the rooms, she headed for room 20, walking along the beige carpet, past the wood panelling. When she got to the room, the door was ajar. Frowning, she knocked on it. "Hello?" The door opened further.
A voice came from behind her. "Hello, Caroline."
She tried to turn around. A rope bit into her neck, a hand clasped over her mouth.
She was pushed into the bedroom.
Friday
30th July 2011
one
Detective Constable Scott Cullen yawned as he walked down the corridor in Leith Walk police station, heading back to his desk. It was Friday lunchtime at the end of four day-shifts. He carried his lunch - a BLT clutched in one hand, a coffee in the other, steam wafting out of the hole in the lid.
Detective Sergeant Sharon McNeill, walking alongside him, suddenly stopped, looked around at him and laughed.
Cullen frowned at her. "What?"
"You haven't listened to a word I've said."
"Sorry," he said. "I'm starving. I've not eaten since six."
McNeill was tall, early 30s, her dark hair loosely tied back in a ponytail. She was maybe carrying a few extra pounds, but if Cullen could ever be described as being selective enough to have a type, she was in it. She wore a charcoal trouser suit and a cream blouse, open at the neck.
"Yeah, well, at least you're not in tomorrow," she said, with a slight grimace. She led on.
"What was it you said?" he asked.
"I asked if you had any plans for your days off."
"Just out drinking tonight with my flatmates," he said.
"Messy one?" she asked, after a pause.
"Hope so."
She stopped outside their office space, a small portion of the third floor in the station. Egg mayonnaise roll in one hand, tea beaker in the other, McNeill struggled to push open the door. Cullen had learnt the hard way not to offer her his assistance. Eventually she got the door open.
Cullen and McNeill both reported to Detective Inspector Brian Bain. The four-man team occupied a bank of desks by the window. They worked in the Criminal Investigation Department of Lothian and Borders' A Division, covering Edinburgh City. Cullen had been based in West Lothian - F Division - for most of his career. He became an Acting DC the previous year and transferred to Edinburgh. He had been working for Bain for the last three months since he had received his promotion to DC. Lothian and Borders wasn't big enough to have many specialist units, so Bain's team investigated anything from robberies to the occasional murder. Leith Walk station itself had opened the previous summer and housed the bulk of Edinburgh's CID, though there was still a presence in Torphichen Street and St Leonards.
Bain sat at his desk; early 40s, tall and thin with a neat moustache and grey hair shaved almost to the bone. He wore a black suit, white shirt, with a red tie hanging loose from the collar. He was poring through a file, a biro in his hand, an open can of Red Bull in front of him. He glanced up, made eye contact and looked back down again.
Cullen sat down at the desk across from Bain and logged in.
"There you go," said Bain, throwing a file across the partition onto Cullen's desk. "Get reading that, Cullen. You and Butch are digging this one up."
Butch was Bain's less than affectionate nickname for McNeill, now sitting at the desk to Cullen's right. She ignored Bain, took a bite of her roll, daintily covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed, staring into space.
"Will do," said Cullen.
Bain got to his feet and crumpled his can. "Right, I'm off for a shite. That stuff goes straight through me."
Cullen started eating his own roll, sifting through the file as he chewed. A Cold Case, still open from the previous November, the trail long since frozen over. By the time he had finished his lunch, he had no new insights that the previous investigating team hadn't found. Standard protocol would involve re-intervi
ewing victims, relatives and witnesses.
Cullen looked up. At Bain's desk stood Detective Chief Inspector Jim Turnbull, Bain's boss, clutching a sheet of paper. He was the hairiest man Cullen had ever seen; thick dark hair sprouting from everywhere - the top of his collar, between the buttons on his shirt, down his neck.
"Jim, how can I help?" said McNeill with a warm smile.
"Sharon, always a pleasure," said Turnbull. He nodded down at Bain's desk. "I was looking for Brian, but I see he's not around." His voice was deep and syrupy, the accent Borders, most likely Melrose.
McNeill grimaced. "He's off to the toilet."
Turnbull grinned. "Ah, I see. I take it he drilled down to a sufficient level of granularity in terms of what he would be producing?"
McNeill just raised an eyebrow; Turnbull bellowed with laughter.
Bain approached, drying his hands on his trousers. "James," he rasped.
"At least you washed your hands," said Turnbull.
"Always do," said Bain. "Now, what can I do you for?"
"Had Queen Charlotte Street on the phone," said Turnbull, "they've got a MisPer case, wondered if we could have a look at it."
Bain exhaled. "We're pretty much flat out here, Jim."
McNeill shook her head in disbelief at Bain, out of sight of Turnbull. "Lying bastard," she muttered under her breath, loud enough for Cullen to hear.
"Why is he lying?" asked Cullen.
"His stats are looking good at the moment," she said, "doesn't want anything to lower his average."
Turnbull sat on the edge of Bain's desk and they both turned away from Cullen and McNeill. They continued their chat, their voices lowered.
Cullen spotted Acting DC Keith Miller, the fourth member of their team, wandering slowly over to them. He sat down at the desk next to Bain, across from McNeill. He was tall and skinny with it. While his spiky dark hair was as long as was allowed for a police officer, his stubble looked freshly trimmed. Cullen thought his look was half football casual, half Russell Brand. Miller always looked uncomfortable in a suit, as if it wore him rather than the other way round.
"Youse been for a roll yet?" asked Miller, his Leith accent all collapsed vowels and glottal stops.
McNeill shushed Miller and leaned closer to Turnbull and Bain.
Turnbull stood up and turned around. Cullen could hear them clearly now. "I understand what you're saying, Brian," he said, "but this is of the utmost importance. We've got to build bridges with our uniformed brethren, you know that. We can't just cherry-pick the low hanging fruit all the time or just storm in and demand resource as we see fit. It cuts both ways."
"I'll see what we can do," Bain growled.
Turnbull handed the sheet of paper to Bain and play punched Bain's shoulder. "Thanks, Brian. I've already assigned the case to you."
Turnbull checked his watch, nodded at Bain and set off towards the stairwell. Miller sprang from his seat and intercepted Turnbull by the door.
Bain glared at them and muttered something under his breath. He turned around and logged in to his computer, tapping furiously at the keys. He lifted the mouse up and slammed it down a couple of times. He glared at the sheet of paper, now sitting face up on his desk.
Miller wandered back over and sat down, smiling to himself.
"What have you been up to?" asked Bain.
"Nothin'," said Miller with a smirk on his face. "Just askin' Jim there about gettin' my DC role made permanent."
Bain glowered. "All that shite is supposed to go through me."
"Aye, well, you werenae doin' it," snapped Miller.
"You're a cheeky wee bastard," said Bain with a slight grin. "Right, Butch," he said, turning his glare to McNeill, "you probably overheard. We've been given a case. I want the Sundance Kid here on it, so you're on your own with that Cold Case."
Cullen closed his eyes in frustration; Sundance Kid again... He hated the nickname.
Bain handed him the sheet of paper. "Young woman from Leith has been missing since Wednesday night. Name of Caroline Adamson."
"You know what they say about women from Leith," said Miller, looking for a laugh.
Bain glared at him. "Miller, this is serious; we wouldn't be getting called out if it was some scrubber disappearing after a night out, alright?"
"Aye, sorry, Gaffer."
"It's got the address of her pal who called it in," said Bain, looking straight at Cullen. "There's a uniform round there now." Bain nodded at Miller. "Take Monkey Boy here with you. And try and keep him away from Senior Officers."
two
Cullen turned the pool car off Leith Walk onto Dalmeny Street. He took a left at the end and drove down Sloan Street, a generic block of Victorian tenements between Leith Walk and Easter Road. They struck lucky; a car pulled off from outside no. 10 and Cullen parked in the space. They could have walked round from the station - it was less than half a mile - but it was standard policy to drive.
"Used to live round the corner," said Miller.
"Very interesting," muttered Cullen.
Cullen picked his notes up off the back seat, and opened the MisPer report. It told him very little. Someone in Queen Charlotte had done some legwork already - the hospitals had been checked and the few dead bodies that had turned up since Wednesday had been crossed off. He checked the description - five foot four, thin, dark hair, brown eyes.
"What's the story with you and Sharon?" asked Miller.
"Story?"
"You're following her round like a little lost puppy. Slippin' her a length, are you?"
"No," snapped Cullen.
Miller laughed. "Aye, aye - touched a nerve there."
"Come on," said Cullen, "let's go."
They got out and entered the building. Like so many tenements in the city, the front door entry system had been vandalised, the stairwell open to the street. They climbed the stairs to the third floor and chapped on the flat door. Eventually the door was answered by a bald-headed PC, looking like he should have retired years ago.
"Willie McAllister," he grunted, coming out onto the landing. He pulled the door to behind him. "Who are you then?"
Cullen brandished his warrant card and introduced himself and Miller. "Care to bring us up to speed?" he said.
"Her pal disappeared," said McAllister with a sigh, "didn't show up to collect her wee boy yesterday. The lassie through there gave Queen Charlotte station a buzz this morning. Someone came over, and did a report, that's all I know. Our Inspector was a bit suspicious about it and so he called you lot in."
"I've read the file," said Cullen. "Dredged up anything else since?"
"Nothing so far," replied McAllister. "You'd better speak to the lassie herself." McAllister pulled his radio out of his jacket pocket. "I'd better get off and do some proper police work, let you boys go in and chat the bird up." McAllister headed off down the stair, a slight limp in his stride.
"Old bastard," said Cullen. He knocked on the door as they entered and they found their way through to the living room.
The flat was small, sparsely furnished and reasonably tidy.
"Amy Cousens?" said Cullen to the young woman sitting in an armchair. She had been staring into space, her fingers drumming.
She glanced at him then got to her feet. "That's me," she said.
She was quite pretty, Cullen figured; late 20s, good figure, blonde hair - most likely out of a bottle.
A small boy lay playing with some Doctor Who dolls on the floor in the bay window, seemingly oblivious to the fact that two strangers were in the room. Cullen assumed it was Caroline Adamson's young son. He was next to useless with children and figured that the kid could be anything from two to five years old.
"Can I get you some tea?" she asked. "I've just made a pot." He couldn't quite place her accent, West Coast somewhere, though less harsh than Glasgow.
"I'm fine, thanks."
"I've just had," said Miller.
Cullen sat down on the tattered leather sofa. Miller sat do
wn at the far end. Amy returned to the armchair, her hands twitching against the fabric, her foot tapping.
Cullen pulled his notebook from his coat pocket and turned to a fresh page. "Ms Cousens," he said, "I need to ask you some questions. I'll apologise in advance if I go over anything that you've already covered with another officer, but it's important that I get a full account from you."
"Fine," she said with a sigh.
"You reported your friend, Caroline Adamson, as missing," he said. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"
"No. That's why I phoned the police."
Cullen smiled, trying to disarm her. "Can you tell me where she was before she disappeared?"
She took a deep breath. "She was out for a date with some guy," she said. "It was somewhere up the Bridges, near the Uni. Don't know where exactly. She just said it was on the Southside."
"Was it a bar, a restaurant maybe?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Okay," he said. "What do you know about the person she was meeting?"
Amy took a deep breath. "Not much to tell," she said. "She met him online. I don't even know his name. Caz could be like that. I think she's been chatting to him every day on the internet. It's been a few weeks at least."
"I see. Do you know what site they met on? A dating site, maybe?"
"Schoolbook."
Cullen knew it; he had a profile on the site, had just downloaded the app for his iPhone. He was constantly bombarded with friend requests from people at school, which he generally accepted and then ignored.
"When did you begin to get worried about Caroline?" asked Cullen.
Amy glanced at the small boy on the floor and bit her lip. "She dropped Jack off here from Nursery after work on Wednesday. She was supposed to pick him up yesterday afternoon. I don't work Thursdays so I was keeping him."
Cullen nodded. He drew a timeline in his notebook, running from Wednesday to just now, Friday lunchtime. He marked on Thursday afternoon for the arranged collection. "So she's been gone almost two days?" asked Cullen.
"Aye."
"When was the last time you actually heard from her?" he asked.
