by Ed James
Cullen asked the guy at the nearest desk for Gregor Aitchison. He pointed to the far corner at a fat man with a beard, wearing combat trousers and a violent orange t-shirt.
They crossed the room and he lumbered to his feet as they approached.
"Gregor Aitchison?" asked Cullen.
"Aye."
Cullen showed his warrant card. McNeill had agreed that Cullen should lead, as she had not actually been assigned to the case.
"What do you want?" asked Aitchison.
"We spoke on the phone," said Cullen. "About a missing person."
Aitchison scowled. "I told you, you need a warrant."
"Mr Aitchison," said Cullen, "we could do with your help. It might lead to a successful result. All we're looking for is a little bit of information that may help us contact one of your users."
Aitchison closed his eyes and seemed to think it over. "Fine. I'll see if there's anything I can do. There is a limit to what I can give out, mind."
"Sure," said Cullen.
Aitchison's desk was covered in rubbish. Cullen moved a half-empty ham and mushroom Pot Noodle onto the floor. Aitchison grabbed a handful from a big bag of cheese Doritos, a two-litre bottle of Pepsi Max sitting next to it.
Cullen and McNeill found some unoccupied chairs and sat down.
"You might want to think about some sort of security here," said Cullen, "we just walked in."
Aitchison raised his eyebrows. "I'll get that looked at," he said, but Cullen didn't imagine he would.
"As I said on the phone earlier," said Cullen, "The missing person we are looking for is a user of Schoolbook. We have reason to believe that she had met someone on your site and had arranged to meet up with him, a man called Martin Webb. We believe that she went on a date with him on Wednesday, which is when she was last heard from."
Aitchison finished chewing and rubbed his orange fingers against his trousers. "What's this woman's name then?"
"Caroline Adamson," said Cullen.
Aitchison navigated to Caroline's profile and retrieved a list of what looked like Caroline's friends. "Which bloke is it that you're interested in again?" he asked.
"Martin Webb," repeated Cullen, trying for patience.
Aitchison wiped his hands on his trousers again and ran his finger down the screen. He tapped it, leaving a cheesy smudge. "You're right," he said. "He is a friend of hers."
"Can you check for any activity in the account since Wednesday?" asked Cullen.
"Sure." Aitchison went into another window and tapped some keys. "Got something. Somebody tried to access her account today."
Cullen's heart fluttered. "What?"
"About twelve thirty five," said Aitchison.
Cullen suddenly realised that it was him, earlier, at Caroline's flat. "It was me," he said.
McNeill frowned. "You were trying to log into her account?"
"It was already logged in," he said, "I was trying to look at his profile."
"He's right," said Aitchison, taking another handful of Doritos. "Says she was logged from Wednesday night. Account was sitting dormant till you got chucked out."
"Does it not time out?" asked Cullen.
"It's not that smart yet," said Aitchison. "Only chucks you out when you try to do something. Next release, maybe."
"Has there been anything else?"
"There's a fair amount of messages between these two accounts," said Aitchison. "Hundreds, goes back months."
McNeill was wide-eyed. "Did you say hundreds?" she asked.
"Aye," replied Aitchison. "At least eighty each."
"I appreciate your help," said Cullen. "Can you give us a copy of the messages and any information about this Martin Webb?"
Aitchison looked round at Cullen. "Look, pal, it's no me that sets the rules, okay? I told you on the phone, if you've not got a warrant, then I cannae give you anything, okay? If I got caught doin' this, my knackers would swing. And anyway I'd need a DBA for what you're after."
"A what?"
Aitchison rolled his eyes. "A Database Administrator. I'd have to get one of them allocated to this if you wanted any access to the tables or any extracts. It costs, you know. We run a pretty tight ship here."
Cullen thought about mentioning the lax security at the front door but let it pass. "Can you print them out?" he asked.
"On what?" asked Aitchison. "We dinnae have a printer here."
"You're kidding me."
"No. Naebody uses them for anything other than photies these days."
"What about personal details?" he asked. "Email addresses, house address, phone number?"
"I might be able to give you that," said Aitchison, "but it wasnae me that gave you it, right?"
Cullen nodded at him. "Your secret is safe with us."
Aitchison looked through screens of data, frowning. "There's no postal address." He tapped away. "Got an email address, mind. Big underscore Martin underscore Webb at intarwubs dot com."
"Shite," snapped Cullen. "That's obviously made up."
Aitchison narrowed his brow. "No, it's not, pal. We've got a ton of users on there. I've got an account myself."
"Intarwubs?"
"Aye, it's magic, man. Funny videos and that. Pisses all over YouTube."
Cullen scribbled the email address down in his notebook.
"What else can you tell us about him from your database?" asked McNeill.
Aitchison sighed. "Look, I've pushed it really wide here givin' you that. Any more and it's got to be a warrant."
She closed her eyes. "Can you access the messages they've exchanged?" she asked.
"I can."
"Could you?" Her voice was slightly flirtatious.
"I could."
"For us?"
He looked at her, his mouth practically hanging open.
"No," he said, "I can't."
McNeill was driving, heading up the back way along the A71. As they passed over the City Bypass, it was nose to tail, Friday early leavers contending badly with the relentless rain.
"Do you think we'll get a warrant for Schoolbook?" he asked.
"It's all up to Bain, really. We need a RIPSA request."
Cullen nodded - Regulation of Investigatory Powers (Scotland) Act. "I've used that before," he said, "but only to get texts or numbers off of a mobile, not to extract chunks of a private database."
"Aye. The form needs the authorisation of a senior officer – Bain would do – but it'll probably get referred up the way; who knows where it'll end up."
"Bad luck, by the way," he said.
"Eh?"
"You tried flirting the information out of that poor guy, didn't you?"
"Aye, fat lot of good it did us." She smirked. "Are you jealous?"
He felt himself redden.
seven
"That's not the issue right now," snapped McNeill. "Scott needs a RIPSA; can he get it?"
"Let me think about it," said Bain.
Bain and McNeill had been at it hammer and tongs since they got back to the station. McNeill getting increasingly aggressive, Bain digging his heels in more. Cullen kept catching people looking over, people who obviously knew Bain's reputation and just laughed it off.
"You've had more than enough time to think about it."
"I can't hear myself think with you nippin' my head all the time." Bain glared at her for a few moments. "Listen, Butch, I do need to have a proper think about this. It's political. I put Cullen on this one; you shouldn't even have been out there."
"Scott asked me for support."
"This true?" he asked Cullen.
"Yes," Cullen replied. He didn't want to get caught up in the middle, but by the same token it seemed to Cullen that Bain was clutching for reasons not to do something with this case.
"Fair enough." Bain smiled to himself then started nodding. "You know, I think this lot are spinning you a line, anyway."
"How?" asked McNeill.
"You don't need a warrant," said Bain, "we can get it und
er the RIPSA 2000."
McNeill rolled her eyes. She held out a form. "We know that; I've filled one in. We just need it authorised."
Bain grabbed the form from her and scanned through it.
"Can you just authorise it?" asked Cullen.
Bain tapped the tabletop for a few seconds. "I need to speak to Jim Turnbull about this."
"Why can't you just authorise it?" asked McNeill, her voice rising. "Why do you need to speak to Jim? This information might help us find a missing person."
"Calm it, Butch," snapped Bain. "There was a memo came out about this a couple of months ago. We need to be very careful with what we're doing with these powers." He sniffed. "The Press can be real arseholes when it comes to us nicking people's mobiles and hacking into their emails. It's all this shite about privacy, nothing about us catching murderers or anything."
McNeill grimaced. "Can you go and speak to Jim, or do you want me to?"
Bain's nostrils flared. "Right. I'll away and see if I can catch him." He got up and wandered off with the form.
McNeill pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why does everything have to be such a bloody ordeal with him?"
"Cos he's a prick?" offered Cullen.
"You're right," said McNeill, letting out a deep sigh. "Back to that cold case, then." She looked slowly around her desk. "I need to see James Anderson in Scene of Crime. If I'm not back in ten minutes, send a search party."
She got up and trudged off.
Cullen opened up intarwubs.com. It was full of techy jokes and cartoons, links to a few sites that looked like FHM but even less classy. Cullen eventually found a contact number for a company called Infinite Communications. A quick Google showed that the company ran several similar sites - yummymummy.com, chiefexec.com and premiershipbanter.com. Opportunists, thought Cullen.
He dialled the number and, after a few transfers, was put through to someone who could assist.
"Dan Robertson," answered a bright voice, with a south of England accent.
"Mr Robertson, I'm trying to find out who set up an email address on your site."
"Okay. I understand that you're with the police?"
Cullen gave him his warrant number.
"And it's for the user big underscore martin underscore webb at intarwubs? I'll see what I can do then get back to you, is that okay?"
"How long?"
"I'm not sure. There are a few procedures I need to go through before I can give the information out, but it shouldn't be too long."
"I'll wait."
Cullen sat and listened to hold music, tinny and slightly out of tune.
After three minutes of waiting, his mobile rang in his jacket pocket. He put the desk phone down on the desk and answered the mobile.
"DC Cullen?" A woman's voice.
"It is."
"This is Debi Curtis, we met earlier?"
He was unsure of why she was calling. "How can I help?"
"I was just checking my Schoolbook account," she said. "Just called to say that actually I hadn't heard from Caroline for three weeks. I think I said a week when we met. Sorry."
"That's okay," he said. Why was she calling about that?
"She was chatting about Jack in the message. She did say she'd got a new man on the scene. Oh and I think she'd had a row with Rob about Jack."
Cullen sat forward. "Did she say anything about this row?" he asked.
"He'd cancelled picking Jack up at the last minute. She said that was the second time in a couple of months."
"And did you reply?" he asked.
There was a pause. "No, I didn't – it was still sitting unread until I checked. Haven't had the time, I'm afraid. I thought it was funny how we both had new men."
"Can I ask when you last contacted Mr Thomson?"
"Not for a good six months," she said. "I went out for drinks with him and Kim. I think it was her birthday. I didn't really have anything to say to her, but I still get on with Rob. He occasionally makes a comment about some of my posts, but if you're asking about personal messages, then there's nothing."
"Okay, thanks," he said. "And if you do hear from Caroline, please give me a call."
He put the mobile down on the desk and picked up the other handset, still the same hold music. He wondered if the argument with Rob was anything important.
McNeill came back to her desk with a bigger scowl than the one she'd left with.
"No need for the search party," he joked.
"No," she replied. "Actually, I could do with a search party giving our Scene of Crime Unit a hand searching for a clue."
Cullen laughed. Just then, Dan Robertson came back on the line.
"Have you got anything for me?" asked Cullen.
Cullen could almost hear him smiling down the phone line. "Why yes, I have. The account was set up three months ago."
He read out the details that Martin Webb had provided; age 29, full name Martin David Webb, place of birth Belfast. And there's a CV as well."
"A CV?" asked Cullen, perplexed.
"Our site is heavily used by technology professionals for networking."
Cullen wondered why technology professionals would be posting public information about themselves on a site covered in glamour models.
"Can you send it through?" he asked and gave his email address.
"No problem." There were a few clicks and taps. "That should be in your inbox now."
"Is there any other information you can give?" asked Cullen.
"Nope, I'm afraid that's it."
"Okay, thanks for your help."
Cullen opened up his emails, and found the one from Dan Robertson, sitting at the head of the usual long list of memos. He clicked on the attachment. The machine took an age to open it.
"What's that?" asked McNeill, looking over his shoulder.
"Martin Webb's CV," said Cullen, absently as he read the document. "Holy shit," he said. "There's an address."
eight
Cullen struggled to find a parking space on Arden Street. McNeill had not said a word all of the way up.
There were cars double-parked on the street, so Cullen joined them. He scrawled "On Police Business" on an old envelope and placed it on the dashboard.
They got out and looked up and down the street. It was in Marchmont, the 1930s tenements lining the street having slowly emptied of owner-occupiers over the years to be replaced by students and young office workers. Cullen recalled looking at a flat here in his third year at University but it being too pricey.
They'd parked outside no 34, which was a stair door. The main door flats either side had no numbers on the doors.
"The numbers are low at the Warrender Park Road end," he said, pointing to the right. He then nodded at the main door on the left. "This must be 36."
McNeill raised an eyebrow. "Well deduced, Sherlock."
He grinned as he rang the bell.
The door opened slightly and a woman's head appeared in the gap. "Hello?" Her accent was American.
He showed his warrant card and introduced them.
She opened the door fully. An extremely fluffy ginger cat swarmed around her thin ankles. "Anne Smythe," she said. She was standing on marble. The inside of the flat looked expensively done, stripped and varnished wooden floor and skirting, cream walls.
"Ms Smythe," said Cullen, "we're looking for Martin Webb."
"Martin Webb?" she said, with a frown.
"Yes," said Cullen. "This is the address he gave on a CV."
"There's no Martin Webb here," she said. "Just myself and my husband."
"What about any old post you get?" asked McNeill.
"We've been here for ten years. I'm afraid I don't recognise that name at all."
McNeill furrowed her brow. "This is 36 Arden Street, isn't it?"
Anne Smythe smiled. "No, this is number 38."
"38?" asked McNeill. "Where is 36?"
Smythe laughed. "I've no idea why, but there is no 36 Arden Street."
"So it wa
s a wild goose chase?" asked Bain.
Cullen and McNeill were sitting at a meeting table just beside their desks, giving Bain and Miller a progress update. Bain had been busy in their absence; a Press Release was in the process of going out. Miller sat and picked his nose.
"Just another dead end case," said Bain. "Woman disappears, end of story. Christ knows we've got enough of them."
"There's a couple of things that are irritating me about this Martin Webb guy," said Cullen.
"Go on," said Bain, the words stretched out.
"First," said Cullen, "the address he gave on his CV on this Intarwubs site is fake."
"How's it fake?" asked Bain.
"It doesn't exist. There's no 36 Arden Street; it goes 32, 34, 38."
"Is that right?" asked Bain, looking at McNeill for confirmation.
McNeill nodded.
"Bloody hell," said Bain. "This bloody city."
"Also," said Cullen, "I just had a look through his CV in more detail. None of the companies he's listed on there actually exist. I checked with Companies House and through a few search engines. These places just don't exist."
Bain scowled. "Interesting. So he didn't give a wrong address, he gave an address that actually doesn't exist. And he's got a fake employment history as well."
"Suspicious or what?" said Cullen.
"So what are you planning to do about it?" asked Bain.
"I need you to authorise that RIPSA request so we can get access to his Schoolbook account."
"It's in hand," said Bain.
Cullen sat back and folded his arms. "Did you actually speak to Turnbull?" he asked.
Bain avoided Cullen's gaze. "No idea where he was this afternoon," he said. "I'll get him in the morning. Might be more pliable by then."
"There's a big gaping hole in this case," said Cullen. "Caroline Adamson goes on a date with some guy and then disappears. Turns out we can find very little about him and what we do find has been made up."
"Look," said Bain, "for all we know this Caroline could be setting this up herself so that she can escape her life. Wouldn't be the first time."
Cullen slouched back in his chair. "I'm not going to get this RIPSA form authorised, am I?"
