Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  "We fuckin' had him."

  Cullen piped up. "Look, he got away, right? And he assaulted two officers in the process."

  "Aye, well, we still should have had him." He stroked his moustache. "How good a look did you get of him?"

  "Not much better than you," he said. "Big guy, shaved head."

  Bain raised an eyebrow. "That fits Rob Thomson, doesn't it?"

  Cullen nodded slowly. "Aye, it does, but I couldn't reliably identify him from a line up, put it that way."

  "For Christ sake."

  "How's Caldwell?" asked McNeill.

  "She's okay," said Cullen. "Just bruised."

  "Did she see anything?" asked Bain.

  "Nothing," said Cullen. "Came at her from behind."

  "What about the plod at the back door?"

  "Nothing either," said McNeill. "He'd been off to the side looking up at the flat."

  "Couldn't make some of this shite up," said Bain. He took a deep breath. "I could do with speaking to Caldwell, see if I can jog anything in her memory."

  "I sent her home," said Cullen. "Doubt we can keep her from coming in tomorrow, though. As I said, the attacker came at her from behind."

  "She's a decent copper," said Bain. "Much better than Miller. Any idea where he's got to this time? Could have used the lanky bastard tonight."

  McNeill shrugged. "Not sure. I haven't seen him for a while."

  "What do you want us to do now?" asked Cullen.

  "I want you to keep on checking through Caroline's friends and acquaintances, see what else you can find."

  "What about Debi?" said Cullen. "These attacks are related."

  "I know that," snapped Bain. "I want Irvine on it. I don't want you spread too thin, alright? Slow and methodical, okay?"

  "Fair enough," said Cullen.

  Cullen spent another ten minutes looking at the messages, before realising that he was taking nothing in. He got up and headed down the back stairwell to the garage. His car was still there from the previous day. He had planned to come in and collect it that afternoon.

  "I got those tickets, Scott."

  Cullen turned round. Miller. "Where have you been all day?" asked Cullen. "Bain's been looking for you."

  "Been doing some HOLMES stuff for Wilko, eh?" he said. "Stupid arse can't use it. Wait till I tell the gaffer."

  Cullen shook his head in amusement. "What tickets are you on about?"

  "You know, the Hibs game on Wednesday."

  Cullen had forgotten. "Oh, right, aye. How much am I due you?"

  "Nothing, eh? My brother and his mate couldnae make it, so I got the pair for nowt."

  "Thanks." Cullen yawned. "Right, I'm off home. Catch you tomorrow."

  "Nae bother, Scott," said Miller, then headed off towards his car.

  The prospect of sitting in the Hibs end as Barcelona thumped them didn't fill Cullen with anticipation. Still, when else would he get to see Messi or David Villa in the flesh?

  Cullen got into his car and fiddled about with his iPod, cueing up some German techno Tom had given him. He needed to chill out. He thought about what to get for tea; he'd hardly eaten anything all day. Curry he decided.

  His phone rang; he looked at the display but didn't recognise the number.

  "Hi, is that Scott?" It was a girl's voice, vaguely familiar.

  "Yes it is."

  "Hi, Scott, it's Alison."

  It took a moment for Cullen to remember who Alison was. Kimono girl. The one he'd shared bodily fluids with that morning. Shite.

  "How are you doing?" he asked, trying to recover from his pause.

  She spoke hesitantly. "I'm okay. I was just wondering if you fancied meeting up for a drink sometime? I mean you disappeared so quickly this morning and, well..."

  "That would be good," he said. "I'm really sorry about that. You know, it's the nature of my job, I'm afraid. I've got to be available 24/7."

  "I understand. When are you free?"

  "How about Monday night?" he asked. He half hoped that the case would still be too busy then, so that he had a good excuse to get out of it.

  "Sounds good," she said. "There's this great bar on Hanover Street, no 99. Can we say seven?"

  "I'll see you there."

  "Great."

  She hung up. He saved her number to his phone.

  With everything that had happened, he hadn't had a chance to think about their one night stand or whether there would be any other nights.

  Cullen struggled up the stairs, still limping from earlier. He had a curry carryout bag in his hand.

  Opening the door, he was serenaded by Dawn, Tom and Johnny, singing 'Sex Bomb' at him. Johnny got up and pranced around like Tom Jones.

  "Piss off, the lot of you," said Cullen, only half-joking.

  Dawn looked hurt, Johnny was frowning. "We're just arsing about, mate," he said.

  Cullen slumped down at the table with his head in his hands. "Yeah, I know, sorry. I've just been at work all bloody day."

  "Oh," said Dawn.

  "We thought you'd been boning that girl in the kimono all day," Johnny said. Dawn hit him on the arm.

  "No," said Cullen. "I got a call from my DI at the back of ten, had to go to a crime scene."

  "Jesus."

  "You seeing her again?" asked Tom.

  "Yeah. Monday night." He yawned. "Look, I've only had about two hours sleep, and I've got to be in for a briefing at seven tomorrow, so I'm eating my curry then I'm off to bed."

  Sunday

  1st August 2011

  seventeen

  Sunday morning, 7am on the dot and Bain stood at the front of the Incident Room, clutching a mug of coffee. He took a sip, then looked around the room at the forty-odd police officers before him.

  The majority were uniform, of which Cullen only recognised Caldwell and McAllister. A couple of faces Cullen remembered from the previous evening, including the guy who got clobbered at Debi Curtis' flat.

  Cullen knew a few of the CID officers: Irvine and DC Chantal Jain of DI Wilkinson's team, standing with the man himself; McNeill, Holdsworth and Miller. Holdsworth had pinned a list of the officers assigned to the case by the Incident Room door.

  Cullen hadn't slept the full night. He'd managed about four hours after his head hit the pillow, then he'd tossed and turned for the rest of the night. The killer escaping his clutches had continuously run through his mind, at times appearing to be Rob Thomson, at others someone else. He never clearly saw his face.

  At the front, Bain closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Caroline Adamson," he said, and paused. He pointed to the plasma screen, which showed a picture of Caroline taken from above, lying on the bed - naked, bruised, damaged. Dead. "You've all seen the photographs and read the briefing packs. You should all know her story, but I'll go through it anyway."

  He looked over at Cullen, held his gaze. Cullen folded his arms, determined not to look away. Bain glanced away at the screen.

  Bain briefed them on Caroline's background - Rob, Jack, Amy. He mentioned Martin Webb. He went over the searches at the hotel. Cullen zoned out - nothing new.

  Bain put his mug down on the desk and looked around the room again.

  "Caroline's body was found in the early hours of Saturday morning, at the Jackson Hotel on Minto Street. She'd been dead since Wednesday night and had suffered significant injuries. The post mortem was performed yesterday. Jimmy Deeley couldn't find anything that could help us identify the killer, the body having been thoroughly cleaned. The cause of death was a large knife cut to the throat. In addition, there were signs of prolonged strangulation using a rope, probably over a number of hours. It looks as if Caroline suffered a great deal during the last few hours of her life."

  He took another deep breath. He switched the plasma screen to a picture of Debi Curtis in a hospital bed, tubes coming from her mouth.

  "Deborah Curtis, one of Caroline's closest friends. Yesterday evening we discovered that Deborah Curtis, known as Debi, had also been in co
ntact with Martin Webb, and that they had arranged to meet at her flat in Gorgie last night. When we arrived, the attacker was still in the flat. We were distracted by cries from the bedroom, where Ms Curtis was still alive. The attacker fled the building, and we gave chase, but he lost us in the surrounding streets. Ms Curtis was taken to the Infirmary."

  He took another drink of the coffee.

  "She died during the night."

  Cullen felt as if the wind had been ripped from his lungs. He thought he'd saved her. Why hadn't Bain told him?

  "Scene of Crime are going over her flat as we speak. Given that the killer was still there when we arrived and subsequently fled, there is a significant chance that he's left some forensic evidence. The Post Mortem is this afternoon."

  Bain nodded at James Anderson; it was unusual for any of the SOCO team to be involved in a CID briefing, but there he was.

  "Both bodies had been strangled and we believe with the same piece of rope or the same type," said Anderson. "On Caroline's body, we found a few threads of a blue rope in the burn marks on her throat. We found similar threads on Debi, but more of them."

  Cullen looked round at McNeill, who looked to be as surprised as he was.

  "I can only assume that it is because we caught him in the act that he didn't have time to clear up after himself," continued Anderson. "We'll be running exhaustive forensic tests on the rope fibres. I doubt that we'll get anything, but we've already got some officers going round hardware shops in the City to see if they've sold this type of rope to anyone we know. We haven't found any traces from the killer - hairs, fingerprints, semen, nothing like that so far."

  "Thanks," said Bain, as he tapped a key on a laptop. A set of bullet points appeared on the screen behind him.

  "Here are the actions. DI Wilkinson will assist me in co-ordinating the investigation. You should all note that I am the Senior Investigating Officer, and that all formal requests go through me." Cullen noticed Wilkinson raise his eyebrows at this. "DS McNeill will lead the investigation into Caroline Adamson's death, DS Irvine will lead on Debi Curtis."

  Cullen looked round at McNeill. She nodded at him.

  "Our current prime suspect is Rob Thomson, Caroline's ex-husband. I intend to formally interview him at some point today. The divorce was fairly acrimonious, so there is an obvious motive there. He also knew Debi Curtis through Caroline, according to the Intel gathered by DC Cullen." Cullen frowned; he didn't like how information he had gathered was being touted as criminal intelligence. "Rob Thomson has an alibi for Caroline Adamson's killing which I strongly suspect to be false. DC Cullen will provide a detailed statement at some point today on who he saw escaping last night."

  Bain paused. Nobody knew whether to move off, or to stay. He started speaking again, slowly.

  "We are looking for a man who has killed a young mother and who has fucked up the life of a young boy. We strongly believe this same man also murdered another young woman in cold blood, one with a promising career. I want a result. I know you all do too. Let's get it."

  "What the hell is this?" asked Cullen, pointing to the car stereo. He had tolerated more than enough of it.

  "Texas," McNeill replied.

  "Texas."

  "The best of," she said.

  "I'd hate to hear the worst of," he muttered.

  "Not cool enough for you?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "I'm hardly Captain Metrosexual," he said.

  "Are you not?" she asked. "You with your nice tight suit, short haircut, DJ culture t-shirt. I bet you moisturise."

  He rolled his eyes.

  They were in McNeill's car, on their way to Carnoustie. They'd drawn the short straw in the actions lottery. Bain had allocated them to interview Caroline's parents, leaving Caldwell to continue calling through the list of Friends. Despite the number of officers Bain had acquired overnight, none were coming Cullen's way for the search through Caroline's Friends list.

  A contact of Bain's in some Met CID office had been given the task of going to see Debi Curtis' father, at his home in Twickenham.

  "Could you at least turn it down?" pleaded Cullen.

  She fiddled around with the buttons on the steering wheel and the music stopped.

  "We're about half an hour away," he said. It was a route he knew well, from seemingly endless bus journeys home to Dalhousie when he was a student.

  She glanced over. "You're from round these parts, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. Dalhousie."

  "Never heard of it."

  He laughed. "Not a lot of people have. It's not far from Carnoustie, between Arbroath and Montrose. It's like Carnoustie without the golf, and with a harbour."

  "I've been to Carnoustie," she said.

  "When?"

  "The Open in 1999," she said. "I was working on the bar in the big tent. Earned a packet, three of us slept on one of our mate's brothers' floors in Dundee. He was in Canada all summer, I think."

  "Was this at Uni?" he asked.

  "Indeed. I was at Aberdeen," she said.

  He'd attended the golf Open then with his Dad, down for the day on a crowded Aberdeen train. They'd had a good laugh, ending up going for a few pints in a pub by the station.

  "Thirty-three," she said.

  "Eh?"

  "You're working out my age from that, aren't you?" she said. "I was between third and fourth year at Uni."

  "Older lady," he said.

  She ignored it. "You went to Uni too, didn't you?"

  "Aye," he said. "Never graduated, though."

  "I got a First. Fat lot of good it did me."

  "What in?" he asked.

  "Criminology, would you believe."

  "Are you from Aberdeen? You don't have the accent."

  "No, Edinburgh. I'm a Trinity girl."

  "That's a posh way of saying Newhaven," he said.

  She laughed. "Yeah, well. It's probably closer to the truth."

  They drove on in silence, the dull greyness of Dundee appearing over the crest of the hill, doused in rain as ever, even in the middle of summer.

  "You've been a bit quiet," she said.

  "It's hard to talk when my ears are still bleeding from that CD you were inflicting on me."

  "Okay, but beside that, it took you over an hour to get me to turn it down."

  Cullen exhaled. "Didn't get much sleep last night. I can't believe that guy got away."

  They passed the city's small airport on the right.

  "Were you based up here, in Tayside police?" she asked.

  "No. I was at Edinburgh Uni and just stayed on after I dropped out. I worked for an insurance company down Dundas Street for a year and a half before I joined the police."

  "Why did you leave?"

  "Put it this way," he said, thinking of Miller's comments the previous day, "Even Bain is all right compared to some of the wankers you get in those companies."

  "I'll bear that in mind next time I think of jacking it in."

  Cullen looked at her in surprise; she wasn't smiling.

  "How long have you worked for him?" he asked.

  "Three years, coming up. He worked some big cases in the late 90s as a DS in Glasgow, and then got a transfer through to Edinburgh as a DI."

  "He's not exactly an inspiration, is he? Classic divide and conquer behaviour."

  "So you didn't buy his whole Al Pacino thing, then?" she asked.

  "Huh?"

  "Have you seen that film 'Any Given Sunday'?"

  "Don't think so."

  "Al Pacino plays the coach of this American Football team. At the end of the film, his team are losing at half time or whatever. He gives them this big inspirational speech." She paused. "That's Bain's favourite film ever. He played it to us at a team away day once. Our stats were shite for a couple of months running, so he took us out to get pissed and motivated. That was his big effort."

  Cullen watched the train station on the left as they drew up to a set of traffic lights.

  "So he sees himself as this g
reat inspirational figure?" asked Cullen.

  "Oh totally," she replied. "He's maybe not that bad at it. He's had enough training in it."

  Cullen didn't respond. He leaned back in his seat, thinking about what she'd said. After a while, a giant gas storage cylinder passed on the left as they pushed on, heading for Broughty Ferry.

  "So Bain likes his films?" he asked.

  "He does, aye. Why do you ask?"

  "Well he calls me after an American film festival."

  Once her laughing had subsided, she tried to explain. "The Sundance film festival was founded by Robert Redford, you rube," she said.

  "What's a rube?" he asked.

  "It's a redneck or something," she said. "Homer says it in the Simpsons."

  He laughed. "So who's Robert Redford?"

  "Oh, Scott," she said with a grin, "you're so young. He was an actor, played the Sundance Kid in 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid'. I think it was Paul Newman that played Butch Cassidy."

  He vaguely knew the name.

  "It's Bain making yet another joke at my expense," she said. "He's called me Butch Cassidy for a while."

  "You're not exactly butch," he said.

  She looked around at him, an impish grin on her face. "Why, Mr Cullen, are you coming on to me?"

  Caroline's parents, Joan and David Adamson, lived in a modern housing development at the far end of Carnoustie. A white van was parked outside, 'David Adamson Repairs' stencilled on the side.

  Cullen and McNeill sat on the sofa, facing a giant plasma TV. David Adamson, a thin grey man, sat on a reclining armchair, with his wife perched on the matching cream leather footstool in front. Bain had arranged for some local uniform to come round and break the news to them the previous day. A Family Support officer had stayed with them all afternoon, until David Adamson forced them out in the early evening for some privacy. Both parents' eyes were now bloodshot.

  Cullen and McNeill had sat and listened, probed, questioned, reassured, commiserated, but no new information or contacts came out. In truth, they had nothing more to go on than Cullen had already gained from Amy Cousens. Aside from the fact that their daughter was dead, Caroline's parents were mostly concerned about what was going to happen to their grandson, but McNeill told them that was a matter entirely out of their jurisdiction.