by Ed James
Bain looked thoughtful for a few moments.
"The RIPSA might help," said Cullen.
"Aye, whatever," said Bain.
"You've struggled to find him," said McNeill. "It could be someone posing as Martin Webb."
Bain looked round at her. "Eh? Cullen, I thought you said you'd looked for Martin Webb?"
"I have," he said. "I didn't find him, though. He's not in any of our databases. There's nothing to match his profile picture. I put this stuff in the file - there are matches for the name, but they don't fit the profile."
Bain pinched his nose. He stared at the whiteboard. He scribbled under Martin Webb: 'Assumed Name?' "Right, so AN Other," he said. "This could just be a random crime, nothing related to Martin Webb, or to her ex. Is that likely?"
"Don't know," said Cullen.
"We can't discount it," said McNeill.
"We shouldn't discount it, no," said Bain. "But at the moment, we've got a hell of a lot of other stuff to think about before we're that desperate." He took another drink. "So this Schoolbook, when you add someone as a friend, can you see who's friends with who?"
"Yes," said McNeill.
Cullen could almost see the gears grinding behind Bain's eyes. "I need someone to look through her list of friends on that website."
He was looking at Cullen.
"Me?"
"Aye. Go through all of her friends, and try to find something to go on. Speak to them, ask questions. Usual drill."
"Fine," said Cullen. He felt deflated - from pretty much leading the investigation, he was now running a stupid little errand. "When do you need it by?"
"Yesterday would have been useful."
Cullen tried to think back to how many friends Caroline had. At least forty - there were pages and pages. "A couple of bodies might help."
"I can spare Caldwell and McAllister till the new Press Releases go out. They're yours today."
McAllister? Jesus. He needed detectives for this.
"Remember, Cullen, you're the detective. Get the uniform to do the donkey work, right?"
twelve
Half an hour later, Cullen was sitting with Caldwell and McAllister in the corner of the Incident Room. He was just finishing briefing them on what he wanted them to do.
Cullen had printed off the Schoolbook profiles for all of Caroline Adamson's friends and distributed them between McAllister and Caldwell, keeping a list for himself.
He had explained the process they were to go through, though McAllister had seemed to struggle with it. They were to find contact details for everyone on the list they'd been given - some had mobile numbers on the profile, some didn't, and then phone them. They had access to enough search engines to be able to find details for them all, unless there were other enigmas like Martin Webb on there.
Cullen had prepared a list of questions to ask - confirm that they were friends with Caroline; when they'd last heard from her; ask if anyone would want to harm her; finally, tell them that she'd been murdered and see if that jogged any memories.
"Is everything clear now?" asked Cullen. Looking at McAllister, he doubted it was.
McAllister was frowning. "I'm still struggling to get how they would they be friends with her on this site, but not know her?"
"I take it you've never used a social network, Willie?" asked Caldwell, like she was speaking to a small child.
PC Angie Caldwell was possibly the tallest woman Cullen had ever met - well over six foot, and not a bean pole, either. He found it strange having to look up to a woman; he didn't have to do that with many people. He'd worked with her on a previous case and rated her reasonably highly. She'd asked sensible questions throughout and had stayed alert. Willie McAllister, meanwhile, had slouched and fiddled with his cigarette papers, continually glaring at Cullen.
McAllister squinted at her. "No," he spat.
"All you need to know," said Cullen, "is that there are people on there who've become Caroline's friend without knowing her."
"How?"
"There are message forums on there," she said. "If you're talking about, say, a film or a record, then you might chat to someone, and they might add you as a friend."
"That's a bit weird," said McAllister with a scowl.
"Just accept it."
"Fair enough," said McAllister. He dropped his roll-ups, then slowly reached down to pick them up. Cullen exchanged a look with Caldwell, who rolled her eyes.
"Anything else?" asked Cullen.
McAllister held his hands up. "What's the point in all of this?" he asked. "From what I see, we've been roped in to do your work for you."
Cullen glared at him. "I've been asked to do this. Yourself and PC Caldwell have been allocated to help me. There are forty-three potential leads sitting there. Would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror, if the murderer gets away with it because we didn't look through the list properly? Remember that if anyone can shed any light on this Martin Webb, then it does the case good."
McAllister glanced down at his cigarette. "Fair enough."
Cullen knew then that he was going to have to double-check McAllister's list himself.
"Can I get you a coffee?"
Caldwell was hovering by his desk. Cullen looked up at her. His head was still throbbing; a coffee might help.
"I'm just away up to the canteen," she elaborated.
"Aye, go on, then." He reached into his pocket and handed her a fiver. "Get us a ham sandwich as well."
"Last time I ask you," she said with a smile.
"How you getting on?" he asked.
She raised her eyebrows. "Not too bad. Made a few calls, got nothing."
"Good opportunity for overtime," he joked.
They'd been at it almost two hours, but it felt like days. "Where is Willie?" he asked.
"He's been out for a fag every two minutes, and he never stops complaining."
"I'll have to do something about that," said Cullen.
After she left, Cullen picked up her sheet and looked through it. She had made some solid progress through the list and had kept decent notes, though there were a couple of clarifications he wanted.
He was already dreading having to write it all up, but at least her notes were decent. He still couldn't get his head around how much paperwork they had to get through in CID. A case like this was going to occupy fifty officers for a long time, just generating a paper trail - it would be even worse if they actually charged someone with it.
He went over and picked up the sheet from McAllister's desk. He sat back down and looked through it. McAllister had made one call as far as Cullen could see, compared with Caldwell's six, and the notes he'd made were poor. It could be that McAllister had made more calls but just hadn't been able to get through, or that he hadn't been able to find contact details - Cullen couldn't tell from the notes McAllister had made.
Cullen leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was going to have to replace McAllister - it was his neck on the line for this.
McNeill sat down without greeting him. Her face was white.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Just been at the PM," she said. "Time of death looks like 11.30 on Wednesday night, plus or minus an hour. She'd been strangled and then stabbed."
"Any DNA?" asked Cullen.
"None at all."
"None? Shite."
"Aye." She took a drink from the bottle of water on her desk.
"What about that rope burn?" asked Cullen. "Did they get anything from it?"
"Aye, they did. But it's not exactly going to help, is it? How many blue ropes get sold in Edinburgh every single day?" She sighed. "How's your stuff going?"
"Getting there," he said. "Nothing earth-shattering so far."
"It's important stuff, I guess," she said, distracted. "We've got no leads," she murmured.
"What about that credit card Bain had you looking at?"
"Oh, that." Bain had asked her to look into the card that had been used to book the hotel room. "Rep
orted stolen on Wednesday morning. Dead end." She tightened the cap on the bottle, set it aside. "Been trying to get a hold of her bank records, find out how much money Rob Thomson's been paying her. Got nowhere so far, no doubt Bain will have a go at me for that as well."
She nodded behind Cullen. Bain was approaching, practically shouting into his mobile. He slumped into his seat, ignoring them.
"Paul, Paul, Paul, you'll have to take that up with Jim when he gets in. Right now, you're reporting to me, alright? Now get the other guests found." He paused. "Aye, whoever you need." Another pause. "No, not McNeill or Cullen. You can have Miller. Okay, there's another couple coming in from St Leonards, I'll get them up to you. Bye." He snapped his phone shut. "Fuckin' arse." He looked at Cullen and McNeill. "Right, have either of you seen Miller?"
"Not all day," said Cullen.
"Me neither."
"Got a lead on this guy," said Bain. "Wilko's turned up some CCTV footage at the hotel. I wish I could spare either of you two. In lieu of a safe pair of hands, I'll have to get monkey boy on it. Got the press conference at three. Christ."
"Got my RIPSA approved yet?" asked Cullen.
Bain shot him a glare. "I'm seeing Jim in ten minutes. Probably after Wilko's finished moaning his coupon off at him." He picked up his bottle of energy drink. "Get back to your phone calls, Cullen."
"And you knew Caroline Adamson from discussions about whether the best fight scene is in 'Pineapple Express'?" asked Cullen.
Cullen was on the phone to Keith Law, who seemed at best a vague acquaintance of Caroline's.
"That's right," replied Law. "Now can I go?"
"Okay, and if you do hear anything, let me know."
"Will do."
Cullen slammed the phone down. Another half hour and nothing to show for it. He looked through Keith Law's friends and saw no one from Caroline's list. Another dead end.
McNeill grabbed his shoulder. "Come on, Scott," said McNeill. "We've got our RIPSA approved."
thirteen
Cullen and McNeill pulled into the car park at Schoolbook's office, in her violent yellow Punto. He'd much rather they'd gone in a squad car, that way he wouldn't have had to put up with her music on the way over. Cullen had discovered that there was no volume setting that was too quiet for Lady Gaga.
"How do you want to play this?" he asked.
"We need to get an extract of their database," she said. "Charlie Kidd is supposed to be heading over, but I can't see his Mini."
Charlie Kidd was the Technical Support Unit analyst assigned to Turnbull and his teams. As far as Cullen knew, they'd only ever used him for scouring through suspects' laptops and mobiles.
"He wants a dump of the database to do whatever it is they do in Technical Support, right?" said Cullen.
"Other than drink Dr Pepper and eat cheese Doritos."
Cullen laughed. "So we can get IP addresses, messages, absolutely anything else that Martin Webb has left on there."
"Quite the closet geek, aren't you?" she said.
"Did a course on this stuff earlier in the year," he said. "Part of my Acting DC tenure. It's going to become a much bigger part of our jobs."
He looked across the Livingston skyline. If nothing else, he was glad not to be working there any more, even if it meant having to work with Bain.
"There he is," said McNeill.
A Mini Cooper pulled up in the next space. It was a vintage model - early 80s by the number plate.
"That's him?" asked Cullen. "When you said a Mini."
She laughed.
They got out and headed over to the Mini. Kidd got out of the driver's side. He was a tall, skinny guy, in his late 30s. He had bad skin and his thinning hair was tied tightly in a ponytail, shaved up to ear level. Cullen remembered the style from school, some of the kids that were into metal had undercuts like that. The Technical Support Unit guys were civilians and didn't have to wear uniforms.
They shook hands. Cullen did a double take; he was wearing one of Tom's t-shirts – Isn't it 2000 already? Where's my jetpack?
"I was on my day off," said Kidd, in a rough Dundee accent.
"You're not alone," said Cullen.
"Who's in charge here, then?" asked Kidd.
"Me," said McNeill, then led them inside.
Gregor Aitchison was sitting just inside the front door, waiting for them, his leg jigging up and down. Someone had no doubt had a bollocking about letting the police in unsupervised the previous day.
Cullen introduced McNeill and Kidd.
"Got a DBA waiting through at my desk," said Aitchison. "He'll help you with your extract."
As he led them through the open plan office heads looked up at them, looking away as quickly. At Aitchison's desk sat a big man in jeans and a loose-fitting jumper. He got to his feet - he was taller and more muscular than he'd initially appeared.
"Duncan Wilson," he said, catching Cullen's eyes. His stare seeming to bore through Cullen. He grinned at them, revealing yellow teeth. "How can I help with this?" he asked Aitchison. His accent was West Lothian, maybe Linlithgow.
"I'm sure Mr Aitchison has briefed you on DC Cullen's visit yesterday?" said McNeill.
He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," he said. "Gregor was just giving me the background. It seems strange."
"Well, as you will be aware, the disappearance has turned into a murder investigation. We want to speak to whoever is using the name Martin Webb on your website." She brandished the RIPSA form. "We now have authority to obtain a copy of your database."
"Are you happy with this?" Wilson asked Aitchison.
"Aye, we've spoke to the boss," said Aitchison.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Are you really sure?"
Aitchison looked away from them.
Wilson moved close to Aitchison, seeming to loom over him. "Clive told us that we shouldn't." He looked at Cullen and McNeill. "Clive's the company lawyer. There's no way that we can just hand this over, warrant or not. As well as the data, we would be handing over our intellectual property, our code and database structures. Our competitors would kill for some of the tricks in there."
McNeill rolled her eyes in despair. "Just read the form."
Aitchison made a show of reading the document. "Okay."
He handed the document to Wilson, who scanned through it. "You really should check with Clive," he said to Aitchison.
Aitchison looked twitchy. He was obviously not comfortable at the stance he was having to take.
"Look, Sergeant," said Aitchison, "we are a law-abiding company and we're more than happy to assist your search. But I can't pass this database on to the police. Our lawyer says that I don't have to. This document only gives you access to the records pertaining to Martin Webb."
McNeill folded her arms. "If that's all you're prepared to deliver," she said, "then I'll see what the Procurator Fiscal has to say about the remainder."
Aitchison was perspiring. "I'll have to run this by the boss. He's based at our Head Office in Croydon." He picked up his big Samsung mobile and wandered off out of earshot.
"Didn't know Schoolbook was based in Croydon," said Kidd to Wilson, trying to start a conversation.
"I didn't know myself until I started," said Wilson. "I'm just a contractor. Self-employed. Pays the bills, but I don't take my work home with me, if you know what I mean."
"So what is this place?" asked Kidd.
"Data centre," he replied. "The entire database is stored in these buildings. There's a back-up on some Amazon servers in the states and on some Alba Bank servers as well."
"Alba Bank?" asked Cullen with a raised eyebrow.
"Aye," replied Wilson. "They're rock solid. Better than Amazon."
"Why Livingston, though?" asked Kidd.
Wilson shrugged. "Proximity to Alba Bank?" he offered. "Their data centre is down the road. They can get decent people in that are pretty cheap." Wilson grinned. "The joke is that the reason they're up here is that they don't need to cool the servers down here
because it's so cold outside."
Cullen knew from bitter experience how cold West Lothian was in early February. To Cullen, it was no surprise that the area was being developed now - they were desperate enough to settle the dark, drear moors of West Lothian to house the growing population of the Central Belt.
Aitchison reappeared, the armpit area of his t-shirt dark with sweat. He tapped his mobile against the side of his head, his eyes closed.
"Well?" asked McNeill.
Aitchison reopened his eyes. "Duncan, can you get an extract of the record for Martin Webb, please?"
Wilson scowled. "How much of it?"
"All tables," said Aitchison with a sigh. "Full history."
"Are you 100% sure?" asked Wilson.
"Just do it," snapped Aitchison.
Wilson tilted his head then started tapping away at the workstation.
"That's all you're going to get with that document," said Aitchison.
"We will accept the records for that account for now," said McNeill, "but we will be back to get the rest."
"Fine."
Kidd was leaning over the back of Wilson's chair. "What are you up to?" he asked.
"What we agreed," said Wilson.
Kidd turned to McNeill. "This isn't right. His SQL's all over the place?"
McNeill scowled. "Mr Aitchison, do we need to have a conversation about obstruction?" she asked.
Aitchison closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I've been told that I can't give away any intellectual content relating to our database structures or data model, so the files you'll get will be just the raw data."
"You are kidding me," spat Kidd.
"What does that mean?" asked Cullen.
"Imagine a spreadsheet full of data with no column headings," said Kidd. "They'll give me the data but not the headers. I'll be flying blind."
"You're just after messages and IP addresses," said Wilson. "I can show you that."
"It's not just that," replied Kidd. "I need to look at everything, look for patterns. This boy has been elusive and anything on your database could help us find him. You'd be surprised at what I need to look at."
