Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

"I got a text at about seven on Wednesday," she said, "asking how Jack was."

  "What did the text message say?" he asked.

  "I let her know that he was asleep, but she didn't reply."

  "Was that unusual?" asked Cullen.

  "She likes to text, I suppose."

  Cullen sifted through his notes. "Okay. So I assume you've since tried to get hold of her on her mobile?"

  "Yeah, I called loads of times, but it just rang through to voicemail. I left messages, sent like a million texts. It's just not like her. She would always answer, just in case anything had happened to Jack."

  "Could she have gone back to this man's flat after their date?" he asked.

  She looked up at the ceiling, appearing to think it over. "Well, I suppose so, aye, but she should still have had her phone on."

  Amy's hand shook as she picked up her cup, tea spilling down the sides. Jack wandered over to Amy, his steps slow and unsteady; even Cullen could tell that he couldn't be any more than two.

  "If she had gone back to his flat," she continued, "that was two nights ago she was meeting him, she would have at least phoned me yesterday to see how Jack was, and to tell me she wasn't coming to pick him up."

  "Have you tried her flat?"

  "Aye, I've got a key," she said. "I was round there yesterday. I didn't want to barge in, in case they'd, you know, gone back there, so I just knocked. I went round again this morning. I let myself in, but she hadn't been back as far as I could tell."

  "And that's when you reported her missing?" he asked.

  "Aye," she said.

  "Okay." Cullen jotted some notes down. So far, he'd only confirmed what he already knew, though this mystery man was already digging away at his synapses. "Have you contacted anyone who might know where she is? Any family?"

  "I phoned her parents," she said, "but they hadn't heard from her."

  "Any brothers or sisters?"

  "Caroline's an only child."

  "Where do her parents live?" he asked.

  "Carnoustie, near Dundee."

  Cullen nodded. He was from Dalhousie, a small fishing town up the coast from Carnoustie, the other side of Arbroath. The local teams, Carnoustie Panmure and Dalhousie Trawlers, had a fierce rivalry in the Juniors league. If you asked anyone in Dalhousie, they'd tell you that their golf course was the equal of their more famous near neighbour.

  Amy gave him contact details for Caroline's parents.

  "How about Jack's father?" asked Cullen.

  Amy scowled. "Rob?" She looked away, her fingers gripping the armchair tight. "They divorced last year. They'd been together since they were at school, went to Uni together, got married, had this wee fella, and then, well. He had an affair with this girl that he worked with, Kim. It tore Caroline in two."

  "What's his name?" asked Cullen.

  "Rob Thomson." Amy stared down at the floor for a moment. Cullen let her take some time. "He's a nasty piece of work," she finally said.

  "Do you think that he could have anything to do with her disappearance?" he asked.

  She hesitated for a moment. "I wouldn't know."

  "Do you have an address or phone number for him?"

  "Aye. Caz gave me some contact numbers for Jack." She sifted through her mobile and gave him flat, work and mobile numbers.

  Cullen clocked Miller ogling Amy, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.

  "Do you think that it's likely that Caroline ran away?" asked Cullen. "Maybe with this guy she was meeting on her date?"

  She thought it over for a few seconds. "I doubt it. Jack here is her life. She adores him."

  "So she never expressed any frustration or irritation with her son?" asked Cullen. It seemed unlikely to him - in his experience, most young mothers had at least some level of resentment towards their children, mixed with varying levels of maternal love.

  "Not once, not ever," she said, emphatically. "Caroline was very open about that sort of thing. She loved Jack. My other pals that have kids moan about them, but Caroline never did. I mean, she'd say if he'd been a nightmare that morning or whatever, but it never seemed to bother her."

  "Are there any friends or colleagues that I could maybe get in touch with, who might know where Caroline is?"

  She bit her lip. "You could maybe try Steve Allen. He was at school with her and Rob, lives in Glasgow now. He's a really good pal of hers; he might have heard from her. I couldn't get hold of him."

  She gave him a phone number. "Anyone else?" asked Cullen.

  She rubbed her nose for a few seconds. "There's Debi," she said. "We both worked with Caroline a few years ago. I hardly see her now, but Caroline's still pretty close to her."

  She gave him a number for Debi Curtis. "Where does Caroline work?" asked Cullen.

  "The University," she said. "In the Linguistics Department. She's a senior secretary."

  Cullen noted down the contact details. He reckoned that he'd got all the information he could out of her. He needed to speak to Rob Thomson.

  "Is there any family that Jack can stay with?" asked Cullen.

  She nodded. "I spoke to her folks. He'll be fine with me until Caz shows up. If she's not turned up by the weekend, they'll come and get him."

  "Have you spoken to Mr Thomson?" he asked.

  "He didn't answer the call," she said.

  He stood up. "You mentioned that you had a key to Caroline's flat? Could I have a look around?"

  Caroline's top floor flat was on Smith's Place, a cul de sac just off Leith Walk, not far from Amy Cousens' flat. The street was full of ornate Victorian buildings, now all subdivided into flats.

  Cullen and Miller stood outside the block of flats. The summer wind was howling down the street. Amy and Jack had not come with them. They'd driven round in silence, though it would have been quicker walking.

  "Fuck me, man," said Miller with a lewd cackle, "that Amy would get it." He ground his hips for emphasis.

  "You're a dirty bastard," said Cullen, opening the front door of the building.

  "Who gives a shit? Tidy little piece."

  Miller certainly had a way with words, thought Cullen.

  "What do you make of the story?" asked Cullen, as they begun the climb to the top floor.

  "Don't know, man," said Miller, "something seems a bit fishy, eh?"

  "Could be," said Cullen, as they reached the top floor. He held up the brass key. "I'm going to have a look around. I want you to give Rob Thomson and Steve Allen a call, see if we can set some time aside to speak to them."

  "Eh?" said Miller, frowning.

  "Tell me you copied the numbers down," said Cullen with a sigh.

  "Aye, well, I thought you were, eh?"

  Cullen doubted that Miller would ever get past the Acting DC stage. He showed Miller the numbers in his own notebook.

  "There."

  "Aye, cheers," said Miller. He took Cullen's notebook.

  Cullen opened the front door and they went in. All of the rooms in the flat faced into the street. It was dark inside, despite it being mid-day at the end of July. They went into the open plan living room/kitchen. It seemed perfectly ordinary, nothing particularly amiss. Miller sat down on the sofa, started fiddling with his mobile. Cullen checked the calendar that was stuck to the fridge; the only allusion to going on a date was a note to take Jack to Amy's.

  He left Miller and went into the first room. It was obviously Jack's bedroom - it was small yet crammed with toys. Cullen wondered if they were presents from the guilty father.

  He went through to Caroline's bedroom, almost as big as the living room. On the dressing table sat an empty wine glass and a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, the top screwed back on. He took a look through the wardrobe. It was stuffed with clothes and shoes. He looked through the chest of drawers, full of underwear and cosmetics. Under the bed were two new looking suitcases.

  It looked like she hadn't run away.

  In the middle of the double bed sat a sleeping Apple MacBook laptop. Cullen
took a few seconds and then decided to wake it up. It was logged into Schoolbook. He sat on the bed and looked closer; there was a stream of messages between Caroline and someone called Martin Webb. He scanned through the message chain; this was definitely the guy she was meeting.

  He felt slightly guilty about reading through the personal messages, thinking how he would feel if someone did the same to him.

  He looked at the profile picture appearing alongside every message. He was either good-looking or had spent a lot of money on getting one professionally taken. Cullen's own profile photo had three days of stubble and he'd been hung over when his flatmate had taken the photo.

  Cullen clicked to Martin's profile. If he could find him, then he could maybe find Caroline. The icon in the middle of the screen spun round for a couple of seconds, then took him to the login screen. The password field stayed blank, no asterisks auto-populated. He tried to click back, but it took him to the same screen.

  "Shite," he snapped, angry at himself, angry at her bloody laptop.

  He got up and tried to think if there was anything else that he could glean from the flat, but came up short. He went back to the living room. Miller sat on the sofa, mobile in his hand, looking out of the window. He chucked Cullen's notebook over.

  "Anything?" asked Cullen, pocketing his notebook.

  "No answer fae either of them," replied Miller.

  "How many of Rob Thomson's numbers did you try?"

  "House and mobile."

  "Not the office?" asked Cullen.

  "Just away to, then you came back, eh?" said Miller. He smirked. "Finished sniffing her knickers?"

  Cullen laughed, despite himself. He got his phone out and called Steve Allen's number; engaged. He tried Rob Thomson's numbers. All went through to voicemail.

  "Believe me now?" asked Miller.

  "Aye, I suppose so."

  "Nice phone, though, Scotty. iPhone 4, eh?"

  Cullen shrugged. "It's just a phone."

  "Aye, right," said Miller. "It's more than a phone. Anyway, I did call that Debi bird. She works at the History Department at the Uni. Can see us this afternoon."

  "Good," said Cullen. "We can speak to Caroline's work colleagues while we're up there. Maybe you're not such a useless bastard, Miller."

  "I am if you listen to Bain."

  "For once, he might have a point."

  three

  "Just here, isn't it?" asked Miller.

  "Aye," said Cullen.

  He parked the car on the double yellow line across from Appleton Tower, one of two high-rise towers built by Edinburgh University in the late 60s, architecturally at odds with the surrounding buildings. They were on the Southside, a couple of miles from Leith Walk, a mile from Princes Street.

  Cullen knew the area well from his student days but just then he didn't recognise it. Bristo Square - usual haunt of skateboarders and teenagers - was now cordoned off to prepare for the impending Festival, the square becoming a number of different venues centred around the Student Union. For one month of the year, the centre of the city twisted into some parallel 24-hour version of itself. Cullen often wondered if some London couple who had only been in the city during the festival ever came up in November for a weekend and ended up trawling round half empty student union buildings for their first evening out. The Linguistics Department was in an old townhouse situated on George Square, one of the few remaining buildings that hadn't been replaced in the 60s.

  There was now a new office building standing across from Appleton Tower, like a stretched out sibling of the Leith Walk station. It had been a car park when Cullen was a student. He had once fallen headlong across the gravel on a drunken night in his first year, slicing his arm open. He was so drunk he didn't even notice until he was barred entry to the Student Union round the corner.

  "Seems like a different place now," said Cullen, as they got out of the car.

  "You studied here?" asked Miller.

  "English Literature."

  Miller snorted with laughter. "English? Is that not a poof's subject?"

  "Aye, well."

  "Did you finish?" asked Miller.

  "Dropped out after third year," said Cullen. "Got an Ordinary degree."

  "That when you joined the force?"

  "No," said Cullen. "I worked in a shitty office for a couple of years while I got myself fit."

  "It's a bastard, eh?" said Miller. "I hate runnin' but you've got to keep it up."

  "What about you?" asked Cullen.

  "Wasnae smart enough to go to Uni, eh? I worked in an office for a couple of years after school. Fuckin' hated it, man."

  "Why?"

  "Put it this way," said Miller, his expression the most serious that Cullen had seen on him, "Bain seems all right compared to some of the wankers I worked for."

  Cullen laughed as he pressed the buzzer. "Tell me about it."

  "How do you, eh, want to play this?" asked Miller as they waited.

  "You speak to the office staff," said Cullen, "I'll speak to the boss. There'll be Academics in the Department, but they won't know anything, I suspect. Then we'll go and see this Debi Curtis."

  "Aye, fine, sounds good, eh?"

  They were buzzed up to the office. A middle-aged woman stood at the top of the stairs, hand on her hip, glasses on a chain round her neck, looking every inch the sort of battleaxe that Cullen had been shit-scared of as a student.

  She held her hand out. "Margaret Armstrong."

  Cullen shook her hand. He flashed his Warrant Card. "Detective Constable Cullen." He pointed to Miller. "This is Acting DC Miller."

  "Can I ask what this is about?" she asked. She smiled politely, her forehead still betraying a frown.

  "We're investigating the reported disappearance of a Caroline Adamson, who we believe works here?"

  Her lined face creased further. "Oh."

  "I wanted to ask you a few questions about Caroline, perhaps generate a few leads we could investigate."

  "Certainly," she said, still frowning.

  "Could I speak to some of your staff?" asked Miller.

  Armstrong looked Miller up and down. "Very well. The girls are in there." She pointed towards an office door. The room was at the back and would face the car park behind Appleton Tower.

  Miller thanked her and entered the room.

  Armstrong led Cullen along the corridor in the opposite direction, into a plush first floor room overlooking George Square, the view of the gardens marred by the '60s abomination of the library and lecture theatres.

  Armstrong sat down at her desk and put her glasses on. There was a cup of black tea on her desk. "Can I get you a coffee?"

  "No, I'm fine, thanks," said Cullen, taking his notebook out. "I take it Caroline hasn't turned up for work?"

  "No, I'm afraid not." Armstrong grimaced.

  "Have you heard from her?" he asked. "Has she called in sick?"

  "She hasn't."

  "Has this sort of thing happened before?"

  "Absolutely not." She took a drink of the tea. "There were times when young Jack – that's her son – when he wasn't well, and she would always have called in by the time I got in. And I am always in early, I can assure you."

  Cullen didn't doubt it. "How would you describe your relationship with Caroline?"

  "Professional," she replied.

  "I see." Cullen imagined that she didn't have many close friends. "So you weren't friends as well as colleagues?"

  "No, I don't fraternise with my staff. She was on good terms with the girls that your colleague is speaking to just now. And there were the girls we had before Kelly and Lesley, of course, Amy and Debi. All three of them used to go out for a glass of wine of a Friday night."

  Cullen smiled. "Thanks. It was Amy Cousens that called this in, and we've arranged to see Debi Curtis."

  "Very well."

  "Do the current girls go out with her for a drink, do you know?"

  Armstrong gave a slight shrug. "I don't think so. Not with
Jack on the scene, no."

  He nodded. "Would any of the Academic staff know anything about Caroline?"

  "We operate a strict though informal demarcation between the Administration staff and the Academic staff in this office," she said. "It helps to keep the office working efficiently and effectively."

  "I see," he said. "So none of them would be particularly acquainted with Ms Adamson?"

  "Aside from asking her to photocopy lecture notes or re-arrange seminars, there would be very little direct interaction. All of the work would come through myself."

  "I know that you and Ms Adamson had a strictly professional relationship," he said, "but how had she seemed over the last few weeks?"

  She furrowed her brow and paused for a moment. "I would say that, on reflection, Caroline had seemed a tad distant. But then she was often like that. Having a young son has been quite a strain on her, what with her being on her own."

  "Did Caroline talk about her ex-husband often?"

  "Seldom. And never in good terms. She had a couple of weeks leave to get her affairs in order when the divorce was going through. Terrible business."

  "And did anything untoward happen at the time?"

  "Not that I knew of."

  "Okay, one last question then," he said. "Did she mention anything about having a new man in her life?" he asked.

  "Nothing at all, I'm afraid."

  "Thanks for your help, Mrs Armstrong," said Cullen. He had exhausted all avenues of questioning. He handed her a card. "If you hear from Caroline, please get in touch."

  Miller was waiting for Cullen in the corridor outside. They walked down the stairs and didn't speak until they were outside.

  "I'm fuckin' starvin'," said Miller. "Youse had been for your rolls when I got back, eh? Can I go get a sandwich the now?"

  "There's a decent place round the corner." Cullen led him past Appleton Tower and on to Potterrow. "Did you manage to get anything?" asked Cullen.

  "Only thing was they were worried about her weight," said Miller. "She'd been getting quite thin. Typical birds, eh?"

  "Did they know why?" asked Cullen.

  Miller shrugged. "New man on the scene, wanted to look her best."

  "Anything else?"