Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

Wilson shrugged. "I'm not sure your RIPSA covers all of that."

  "It does," said Kidd. "If you don't give us everything, then we're not much further forward."

  "Is that right?" asked McNeill, looking at Wilson and Aitchison.

  Wilson looking away. Eventually, Aitchison nodded.

  "Mr Aitchison," she snapped, "this is a murder investigation. If I want to, I could have this entire place shut down. There is nothing we can do without that information."

  Aitchison sat blinking. He reached for his mobile again.

  "No, you don't," she said, grabbing the phone out of his hands. "You're giving us headings and anything else that Mr Kidd here needs to unpick this."

  Aitchison slumped back in his chair. "Okay. Fine. Duncan will note which fields and which tables are which."

  "And I need primary keys, joins and all that."

  Cullen thought it sounded good but he had no idea what Kidd was talking about. He hoped that Wilson and Aitchison did.

  "Fine, fine."

  Kidd reached into his pocket. He handed a Lothian and Borders branded memory stick to Wilson. "Put it on here." He looked at McNeill. "We're going to have to set up an extranet socket to get the full database though, Sharon."

  "That's for the lawyers," said Aitchison. "As I've said, we're a law-abiding company."

  Kidd pointed at Aitchison's screen. "If you're so law-abiding, how come you've got ten torrents running?"

  Aitchison glared at Wilson, who blushed. "They're all legal."

  fourteen

  Willie McAllister got up and kicked the chair back under the desk. He glared at Cullen, a look of fury in his eyes, then marched off towards the exit without saying anything.

  Cullen called after him. "Get back here!"

  McAllister stood in the doorway and laughed at Cullen. "No way, pal. I'll see you the morn's morn." He turned around and left the Incident Room.

  The room was half-empty, with most officers either out of the station on one of the many investigations that Bain was running, or on phone calls. Cullen breathed a sigh of relief - hardly anyone had witnessed the exchange, only Caldwell had been paying attention. He sat down in his chair and leaned back. He could feel his heart thudding from the confrontation.

  It was only an hour since McNeill, Kidd and Cullen had got back from Schoolbook. Kidd had taken the data in the rawest format - extracting it and making anything meaningful of the data would take time. Cullen himself had come back to continue sifting through Caroline's friends list, a painstaking and tedious exercise that didn't look like yielding anything useful.

  "He's an arse," said Caldwell from across the desk.

  Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "I know that. But I'm the one who'll look bad."

  "No you won't," she said. "Just speak to Bain, get him reallocated."

  "Yeah, I would if I thought it would do any good." He put his pen down on the desk and rubbed his eyes. "What time are you in till tonight?"

  "I'm back shift. Ten."

  He picked up McAllister's sheet, scanned down it. "Jesus Christ. It's worse than I thought. He's only done two. What the fuck has been doing all day?"

  Caldwell sighed. "Smoking, drinking coffee. I worked with him on the beat a few years ago, you know. He's the laziest person I've ever met."

  "Fucking hell," spat Cullen. "How do these people not get found out?"

  "Here," she said, taking the sheet off him. "We'll split the remainder. I've finished mine."

  "Already?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye, but I must have had the easy list though, and I wasn't over at Schoolbook," she said. "It didn't get me anywhere, mind. Six of them had emailed her about films from the discussion boards, three of them hadn't seen her since school, and the other five were acquaintances from University who hadn't seen her since 2002." She pointed to her laptop. "I've just been typing the notes up. How are you getting on?"

  He looked down his list. "I've done nine."

  "Well I'll take eight off Willie's list; you take the other four."

  "Make it nine and five, I don't trust that he's done the first two correctly."

  She smiled. "Race you."

  Cullen grinned. "What does the winner get?"

  "Not to write the report up?"

  He laughed. "You're on."

  "Enough flirting, you pair."

  Cullen swung round. Bain was standing behind them, hands on his hips.

  "We weren't-"

  "Leave it, Cullen."

  Bain crossed the Incident Room to his desk and sat down, cracking open a can of Red Bull clone. They'd temporarily given up their desks in the main part of the office, while they had the Incident Room.

  Cullen followed him over, pulled up the chair next to him. "There's something I need to speak to you about," he said.

  "Cullen, if you love me, I've told you - when we're off duty."

  "This is serious," said Cullen.

  Bain put his feet up on the desk and took a long look at Cullen. "Right, go on then. Fire away."

  "It's McAllister," said Cullen. "His attitude stinks. He's only completed two calls all day, which Caldwell and I will have to redo. Angie has finished her list already. He's dead weight."

  Bain yawned. "Aye, well, he's resource, unfortunately." He took another sip. "You struggling to manage him?"

  Cullen paused. He knew that he shouldn't have taken this to Bain. Any problem would inevitably be seen as a result of Cullen's inadequacies. "He's unmanageable," said Cullen, finally.

  Bain eyed him, seemed to make a judgment. "I'll see what I can do, maybe get him on the door-to-door. That might be more his thing." He winked at Cullen. "This managing people thing is a learning curve, though, Sundance."

  "I suppose it must be." Cullen was fed up being patronised.

  Bain drained the can then crushed it. "How did it go with that RIPSA form?" he asked. "Am I going to get a doing for it?"

  "We sort of got what we wanted."

  "Sort of?" asked Bain.

  "Well, we were after the full data set, but they just gave us the Martin Webb stuff."

  "Do we need the rest of it?"

  "It could prove useful," said Cullen.

  "Useful and could aren't good enough," said Bain. "We're trying to get personal data about members of the public. We've got to have very good reason for that."

  "I'll leave the RIPSA with you then."

  Bain did a double take. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, I'll leave it for you to arrange getting the rest of it, should it prove necessary."

  Bain smiled broadly at Cullen, a twinkle in his eye. "Sneaky little bastard, aren't you?"

  Cullen tried to laugh along, to see if that stopped the nonsense.

  "Speaking of sneaky wee bastards," said Bain, "where the fuck is Miller?"

  "No idea," said Cullen. "Thought you had him looking through the CCTV footage from the hotel?"

  "Aye, but he can't be taking that long, can he?"

  "Why do you need him?" asked Cullen. "Surely if there's anything on there, he'll find you."

  "Aye, maybe." Bain smacked his hand down on a brown envelope lying on his desk. "Got Caroline Adamson's mobile records from the Forensic Investigation boys. I wanted Miller to look through it. Maybe that way he'll keep out of Turnbull's way."

  "How's it going up at the hotel?" asked Cullen.

  "Wilko's making an arse of it as usual," said Bain in an undertone. "Jain and Irvine have interviewed everyone staying there, and they've turned up absolutely nothing. Now they're trying to find everyone who's stayed there over the last week. Needle in a bloody haystack. See what happens when the Press Release goes out."

  "Well, if you don't need me, then I'll go back to flirting with DC Caldwell."

  Cullen walked through the Technical Support Unit office on the fifth floor of the station. The building had only been open a matter of months, and yet the tech guys had already made the place look like a pigsty. The desks were covered in junk; soft drink bottles, bags of crisps and
tortilla chips, fast food containers. There was nothing natural or nutritious in sight, thought Cullen, not that coppers were much better. The window blinds were all closed, making Cullen feel like he was down in the mortuary, even though it was the middle of summer. Kidd's desk was an IT paradise - two big flat panel displays, four desktop units and a wealth of dark grey boxes, all with various unobvious interfaces tangled together by a nest of cables covering the entire table top.

  Charlie Kidd was at his desk, ploughing through a screen of data. It looked like gibberish.

  "Have you finished extracting the data yet?" asked Cullen finally, after giving up on waiting for Kidd to notice him.

  "Fuck!" Kidd seemed to jump off his seat. "Christ, Cullen, you pure gave us a fleg!"

  "Sorry."

  Kidd relaxed again, started playing with his ponytail. "What was it you wanted?" he asked.

  "How are you getting on with the extract?" asked Cullen.

  Kidd pointed at the screen of gibberish on the right-hand panel. "Here's the raw data."

  Cullen had a look at it, he could make out certain text fields, dates, things like that, but it was mostly full of odd characters.

  Kidd pointed to the screen on the left. "Here it is all tidied up."

  It looked like a Word document, with a big table at the start showing information on Martin Webb. Kidd scrolled down the page - it was full of messages between Webb and Caroline Adamson.

  "This looks great," said Cullen. "Can you print it out?"

  "It's already spooling."

  "Cheers," said Cullen. "Did you get an IP address or anything out of it?"

  "That's my next task," said Kidd. "Shouldn't take too long to search it out, really."

  "Good. Is there anything else we can do?"

  "Aye," said Kidd with a nod. He went to Martin Webb's Schoolbook profile. He pointed to the image of Martin Webb. "I was thinking earlier, you can see why she'd go on a date with this punter."

  "How?"

  "Well, I'm no a bufty, right, but he looks like a model."

  Cullen looked at the image and saw Kidd's point. "Aye, he does."

  "Want me to run a search for him?" asked Kidd.

  "A search?"

  "Aye. That's something I can actually do. We've got access to image banks that all the law enforcement agencies pay for. They mostly use it for anti-terrorist stuff, but I think this would be a good excuse to use it. Google are gonnae introduce a public one soon."

  "So what does it do?" asked Cullen.

  "Searches every image on the internet, looks for a match."

  "So we can see where else Martin Webb is?" asked Cullen. "And maybe who he actually is."

  "Aye."

  Cullen thought about it for a moment. "Right, do it."

  He collected the printout and headed back downstairs.

  Cullen pinched his nose. His eyes were stinging - he'd had his contacts in for over 36 hours. The words on the pages were starting to dance before his eyes. He either needed to get some sleep or some more coffee.

  The bulk of the messages were between Caroline Adamson and Martin Webb, mostly tallying with the story that Cullen had collated so far, as vague as it was. He started finding potentially useful nuggets, though they were mostly about Caroline. There were messages between Caroline and a few of her other friends, such as Steve Allen. Cullen realised that the extract they'd received was obviously not fully secure, as it contained other users' messages, but he wasn't in a hurry to tell Schoolbook.

  He scribbled a note in the margin to follow up on a piece of information about Martin - he was in town on business at the time. It was likely another tale that he had spun Caroline, but it was something that should be checked out.

  Cullen checked the next message, between Caroline and Debi Curtis. It agreed with the date Debi had told them, though not the content. Cullen realised that he still hadn't received a copy of the message from Debi. In the message, Caroline said that she had to slam the phone down on Rob Thomson, going into detail about the number of times that he had failed to show up to take his son as agreed, and putting strain on Caroline. There was a rambling passage about how much it cost her, not being allowed to start a new life. Cullen initially thought that she meant about having Jack, but it quickly became apparent that she meant Rob not taking Jack for some of the time to let her go out and have a social life. She didn't resent her son, but did resent her ex-husband.

  The next message alarmed him - it was from Debi Curtis. He checked his notebook - she'd said she hadn't replied to the message from Caroline. Cullen read the message again, and almost fell off his seat - the message was between Debi Curtis and Martin Webb.

  His pulse started racing as he scanned through the message:

  "Hey there! That was really funny what you said on Caroline's message board. I think exactly the same thing about that film - really tedious. I can't believe she likes it. Have you seen Superbad? It's much better. Debi x"

  He realised that Debi was introducing herself to Martin, similar to the way that Martin had introduced himself to Caroline - using some conversation on a message board.

  Cullen flicked through the remaining sheets - in amongst the messages between Caroline and Martin was a rich seam of messages between Debi Curtis and Martin. He turned to the last few sheets and looked at the final message - it was from Martin to Debi, sent that morning.

  "See you there, Debi. x"

  He looked at the previous message. Debi gave Martin Webb her home address. They were meeting at 6.30pm.

  Cullen checked his watch - it was 7pm.

  Debi

  Saturday 31st July, 6.30pm

  Debi Curtis sat and waited in her living room. Where was he?

  Fifteen minutes late, and he hadn't phoned. If he'd warned her, she could have done something useful, like getting stuck into the MBA work or cleaning the house again.

  She was so nervous, Christ, she didn't need this. Where was he?

  The buzzer went.

  She shot over to it and answered it. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Debi," he said, "it's Martin."

  She buzzed him up and opened the flat door, standing waiting in the doorway, listening to him trudge up the stairs, slow and steady. She looked at the wall opposite, nervous of making eye contact too early.

  A fist slammed into her face.

  fifteen

  Cullen, Bain, McNeill, Caldwell and two uniforms stood outside Debi Curtis' flat on Bryson Road. It was a low-end street in the West side of Edinburgh, between Gorgie and Fountain Park. The flats on this stretch were all brick, unusual for Edinburgh.

  "Remember," said Bain, "we're to be subtle here, okay?"

  Bain had acted quickly, resisting bringing an Armed Response Unit in, telling Cullen that he preferred to take those around him, those he could trust. Or as near to trust as Bain got, Cullen thought.

  "Cullen, Caldwell, I want you in the flat with me," said Bain. "The rest of you cover the exits - two at the back, two on the street. Let's go."

  The stairwell door lock was broken, just like many in the city. Debi Curtis' flat was on the first floor. The carpeted stair was straight with a landing at each half turn, not the curving stairwells Cullen was used to. There were a few neglected pot plants on the landing in the space between the two flat doors.

  Bain marched up to Debi's door and knocked. "Ms Curtis, this is the police. Please open the door."

  He waited a few seconds. Nothing.

  "Right, Cullen. Break it down."

  Cullen had done this a few times before, mainly in his uniform days in Livingston. The trick was to lead with the shoulder. It took him three attempts.

  Bain burst past as Cullen clutched his aching shoulder.

  There was a scream from the room immediately to the right.

  They ran into the room. Debi Curtis lay on the bed, naked and covered in her own blood. "Help me," she croaked. Her throat had been lacerated.

  There was a crash from behind. Cullen spun round. Caldwell clutched he
r head and crouched down. "Ah, you bastard," she spat. A cereal bowl lay broken on the floor at her feet.

  The flat door slammed.

  "I've got it," shouted Cullen, running for the door.

  He fumbled with the door handle and pulled but it didn't give. The door was on the snib. He flicked the catch and tore the door open. There was a noise from below, a door slamming shut. He leapt down the stairs, three at a time.

  A uniformed officer lay prostrate on the floor, clutching his head.

  McNeill appeared in the stairwell from the front. "What's going on?" she asked.

  "Bastard smacked my head off the wall," he muttered. He pointed to the door behind him. "He went that way."

  "Fuckin' get after him," shouted Bain as he came down the stairs.

  "Come on," said Cullen to McNeill.

  The rear door led to a car park. Cullen saw a pair of legs disappear over the wall at the back.

  He clocked a Volvo estate, backed up against the wall. He ran for the car, jumped onto the bonnet, over the car roof and clambered onto the wall. There was a sharp drop to another car park below.

  As he set himself for the jump, he spotted the figure running away between the houses. A big, stocky man, not exactly a million miles from Rob Thomson's build.

  Cullen jumped down onto the pavement, his ankle almost snapping as he landed. Limping, Cullen followed the path between the houses, onto Angle Park Terrace beyond.

  The road ran left to right, Ardmillan Place just across. He looked up and down but couldn't spot his target anywhere.

  He turned around As McNeill and Bain closed on him. He gestured for them to go left and right, and for him to head across the road.

  He stepped into the traffic, waving his warrant card. Cars reluctantly stopped. He staggered on across the street, then around the bend opposite, coming out across from the cemetery.

  There was no sign of his quarry.

  sixteen

  "I can't believe it," said Bain. "I cannot fuckin' believe it."

  They were back at the station - Bain, Cullen and McNeill, having left SOCOs crawling all over the crime scene. Debi had been rushed to the Royal Infirmary at Little France, the Paramedics suggesting that she had very little chance of pulling through.