Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  "We watched this at the Tesco," said Cullen.

  "Aye, but not on equipment like this," said Bain. He tapped Miller on the shoulder.

  Miller rewound the video until the display showed 11:24 then let it run. Cullen could just make out a large figure wearing a baseball cap walk across the screen towards the mobile phone area. He picked up a package from the GoMobile section of the display. Miller froze the frame.

  Bain grabbed Cullen's shoulder, his face like a kid on Christmas morning. "It's him."

  Cullen looked more closely at the image. "Who?" he asked.

  Bain's nostrils flared. "Rob Thomson!"

  Cullen squinted. "You think?"

  Bain sighed. "Not you as well." He leaned into the screen, pointed at the figure on the screen, pressing so hard that it deformed the display. "It fuckin' is him."

  Cullen leaned forward even closer, tried to see it, but just couldn't. "I think you're reaching."

  "Christ sake," muttered Bain. Bain drew a box around the figure with his finger. "Here, Miller, enhance that bit."

  "Eh?"

  "Come on, what's the matter with you? Make it clearer."

  "That sort of stuff only happens in films," said Cullen.

  Bain's grey skin flared purple at the cheeks. "Right." He cleared his throat.

  "Have you even seen him in person?" asked Cullen. As far as he knew, only he and Miller had actually met Rob Thomson.

  "Aye," replied Bain. "He's downstairs."

  "You've spoken to him?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye. I went in and had a wee chat, then I left him to stew in his own juice, waiting for his lawyer to turn up. Wait till I show him this."

  Cullen shook his head. "I can't see this being admissible as evidence."

  Bain glared at Cullen. "Miller, show him the other bit."

  Miller skipped forward to 11:30. The view switched to a self-service till, people looking bored, one middle-aged woman getting progressively angrier with the machine. Cullen's limited experience of the machines made him sympathise.

  "If he's using self-service," said Cullen to Bain, "you won't get a witness statement from a checkout operator."

  "Next bit," growled Bain at Miller.

  Miller skipped forward again; the screen now showed 11:32. The same man that they'd seen earlier was now waiting in the queue. Gradually, he moved through, scanned the phone and then paid with cash. Miller paused the video.

  "That's certainly the time it was bought," said Cullen.

  "Right." Bain leaned in. "And it is him."

  "Is there any more?" asked Cullen.

  Miller pressed play. The man walked away from the till, towards the front of the shop. Again, the display switched, showing the same man walking across the car park. All the while, Bain stayed silent.

  "That's our man," said Bain at the end of the clip.

  "Yes," agreed Cullen.

  "Rob Thomson."

  Cullen looked at the screen. "You can't see him clearly enough."

  Bain glared at him.

  Cullen took a big gulp of his coffee.

  McNeill joined them. "Could have got me one," she said, tapping Cullen's cup.

  "Here, Butch," said Bain, "you have a look at this."

  Miller repeated the playback. All the time, Bain watched her reaction.

  "And?" she said, hand on hip.

  "Oh, for Christ sake," spat Bain. "I need to speak to Jim about getting some proper bloody coppers in, you pair are fuckin' useless."

  "What am I supposed to see here?" asked McNeill. "Big man in baseball cap buys mobile phone."

  "It's Rob Thomson!"

  She shrugged her shoulders. "I wouldn't know, I've not actually met him."

  Bain cracked open another can of Red Bull. "So, what have you been up to, Butch?"

  "Apart from wasting another half tank of fuel getting stuck in Edinburgh traffic on a Sunday, Chantal and I have been out interviewing people who knew both Caroline and Debi."

  "And not Rob Thomson?"

  "No, I left that to you."

  "Aside from needing to get a whole load of witness statements taken," she looked at Miller, who swore, "I've got another suspect for you."

  Bain scowled. "Who?"

  "Alistair Cruikshank," she said. "He used to work with Caroline and Debi at Linguistics. Chantal ferreted it out. I gather that he is now training as a minister, some sect up north. Bit of a religious nut by all accounts, and he made some comments to Caroline Adamson when she was getting divorced from Rob."

  "And when was this?" asked Bain.

  "Last March," said McNeill. "Cruikshank was in his third year of a Divinity degree, mature student. He needed the cash, which involved sending prospectuses out. He kept going on about how it was unlawful in the eyes of God to get divorced. He went on and on about it, to anyone who'd listen. Caroline eventually made a formal complaint, backed up by Debi. He got the push."

  "And who told you this?" asked Bain.

  "Margaret Armstrong."

  "Caroline's boss, right?" Bain downed the rest of the can, then looked at Cullen. "Did she mention any of this when you went round, Sundance?"

  "I would have said if she had."

  Bain nodded. "Did anything else happen?" he asked McNeill. "Any threats? This seems pretty shaky stuff."

  "He dropped out of his course, I believe," she said. "Then he joined this sect."

  "So this guy joined a cult?" asked Bain. "That's your evidence?"

  She smiled. "He has previous. Control gave me a printout of his record. An ex-girlfriend had a restraining order taken out on him. He also made some phone calls to a girl on his course."

  Bain closed his eyes. "For Christ sake."

  "He has a clear grievance against Caroline and Debi, Brian. He's a strong suspect."

  He nodded slowly. "Maybe. Any idea where he is now?"

  "Up North somewhere. Inverness, Forres, Nairn, someplace like that. Armstrong couldn't remember."

  "Get Chantal on this," said Bain. "I don't care what Wilko or Irvine say, this is the highest priority. We need to discredit him as a suspect pretty fuckin' quickly."

  "You what?" asked Cullen.

  "Well, now we've got two suspects," said Bain. "And this punter looks like he's got something against the two victims. Our man is clearly Rob Thomson, so we need to eliminate this second guy."

  "Why is it a problem that Sharon's found another suspect?" asked Cullen. "This could be your AN Other."

  "It's a problem," he said, through gritted teeth, "cos I've got this video footage against Rob Thomson, and I'm away downstairs to give him a fuckin' doing about it."

  Bain stood up, buttoned up his suit jacket and tightened his tie.

  "Sundance, you're with me."

  twenty-two

  "Right, Sundance, I'm going to lead this, okay?"

  Cullen nodded. He had no intention of trying to lead over a DI. They turned the corner to the interview suites. Bain stopped in his tracks. "Oh, for Christ sake," he hissed.

  "Hello, Inspector."

  Outside the interview suite was a man Cullen recognised as Campbell McLintock, Edinburgh criminal defence lawyer and notorious pain in the arse. He was a tall thin man, wearing a purple suit, black shirt and matching purple tie. He was eye-catching, if nothing else.

  "Mr McLintock."

  "I hope you don't mind me sitting in on my client's interview, Inspector?"

  Bain's eyes narrowed to a slit. "Rob Thomson?"

  "The same."

  "Since when has he been your client?

  "Since about three o'clock on Friday when your gorilla here," he gestured to Cullen, "started prodding around at my client's workplace."

  Bain sighed. "And if I refuse to let you sit in?"

  "I shall remind you of the Cadder case, Inspector."

  The previous October's Cadder case had changed everything in criminal law in Scotland. Previously, the police had six hours grace with a suspect before a Lawyer got involved. Now, they had to be in from the
start of the first interview, like in England. Cullen had seen outright obstruction in some interviews, with every answer "no comment". McLintock was becoming a specialist at it.

  "Even if you get a judge and jury favourable to whichever distorted view of the world you're peddling this time, Inspector," said McLintock, "I seriously doubt that you will get a conviction."

  Bain just pushed past him into the interview room.

  Bain and Cullen faced Rob Thomson, whose hands gripped the wood of the tabletop tightly. McLintock sat next to him. The digital recorder had been silently recording the interview for more than twenty minutes.

  The Interview Room was as clinical as the rest of Leith Walk station. The walls were a light green, the colour of truth according to a Californian study that the police newsletter had printed when the station opened. It was supposed to relax the interviewee and encourage them to be honest. Rob Thomson appeared anything but relaxed.

  "Mr Thomson," said Bain with a sneer, "I'll ask you one more time. Did you, as several witnesses have informed us, on several occasions threaten to kill your late ex-wife, Caroline Adamson?"

  Thomson slammed his hand on the table.

  "For the purposes of the tape," said Bain, "that was the interviewee's hand hitting the table."

  "I refer you to my client's previous response," said McLintock. He'd used that trick all along, referring back to an initial 'no comment'. It probably looked marginally better on a transcript, Cullen figured. They had got nothing out of Thomson so far.

  "What is wrong with you?" shouted Thomson. "I've not done anything."

  "Mr Thomson," snapped McLintock, "please remain calm."

  "That would not appear to be the case, Mr Thomson," said Bain, ignoring the lawyer. "We've heard that you made death threats."

  "I was at work when Caroline went missing," shouted Thomson. "I've got alibis for the rest of the time. And you've checked it out, I know."

  "Mr McLintock," snarled Bain, "I hope that your client has not been monitoring an active police investigation. As you know, the Courts take a very dim view of that."

  McLintock glared at Thomson. "Mr Thomson, can I remind you to not be goaded by the aggression shown by these police officers?"

  "Okay, Mr Thomson, let's change tack shall we. Where were you on Saturday evening?" asked Bain.

  McLintock raised his hands.

  "As I already told you," said Thomson, "me and Kim watched some telly, had a takeaway, then went to bed early. Just ask her."

  "At what point did you sneak out and kill Debi Curtis?" asked Bain.

  "Inspector Bain!" shouted McLintock. "That is not appropriate and I insist that you strike this entire conversation from the record."

  "Mr Thomson," said Bain, "did you leave your flat on Saturday evening?"

  "No, I was watching TV. I know Kim will back me up on this."

  "Back to the monitoring, eh?" said Bain, stroking his moustache.

  "I did not kill Caroline or Debi."

  "But you did threaten to kill Caroline?"

  "Inspector!" called McLintock.

  "No I did not!"

  "Then why would people tell us that you did threaten her?"

  "Inspector!"

  Thomson jumped to his feet. "Why would I?" he roared. "Eh? Ask yourself that. I wanted out of our marriage. We both did. It was dead. When the divorce came through, I'd got exactly what I wanted, to be shot of Caroline and Jack. I wanted to be with Kim. I'm sorry about what happened, more than anything. I can't believe she's gone."

  He slumped down over the table, his head cradled in his arms, his shoulders heaving with sobs.

  Bain rolled his eyes at Cullen. "Stop with the histrionics, pal. You're the number one suspect in this case."

  "Inspector Bain," said McLintock, "can I remind you that you are interviewing a suspect in a murder case and not some hooligan at the football?"

  Thomson looked up, his face damp. "This isn't right," he said. "I. Didn't. Kill. Her." Stabbing his finger in the air, punctuating each word. He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, sniffing deeply. "You are wasting time speaking to me. You should be out there finding the bastard that killed her."

  "Seems to me we've found the bastard," said Bain.

  "Inspector!"

  Mucous dripped from Thomson' nose. "I told you. I was with Kim both times."

  "According to you," said Bain, "and according to your bird. But for now, I'd really like to know what happened after you divorced your wife."

  "Inspector," said McLintock, his face almost as purple as his suit jacket, "this has absolutely nothing to do with this current investigation."

  "Nothing?" spat Bain. "I think it's got everything to do with it."

  "I told you. Nothing happened." Thomson smacked his fist off the tabletop again. "Who told you I did?"

  "Mr Thomson, you know I can't tell you that."

  Thomson was on his feet again. "Who told you? Eh? It's a pack of lies. All lies!"

  "Mr Thomson, could you sit down, please?" asked McLintock.

  Thomson glared at Bain, then did as he was told.

  "Mr Thomson," said Bain, "like I've already said, we have it on very good authority that you made a succession of death threats against Ms Adamson. Apparently it's common knowledge in your home town."

  Thomson ground his teeth, but didn't speak.

  "My client would like to make no further statement on this matter," said McLintock, but he looked rattled.

  "Mr Thomson," Bain continued, ignoring the solicitor. "How did you access Schoolbook?"

  "What?"

  Cullen glared at Bain; what was he playing at?

  "Come on, tell me. This account you've got on there."

  "My client has no wish to comment on any accounts he has on any website."

  "Do you use the website Schoolbook?" asked Bain.

  Thomson nodded slowly. "I'm on Schoolbook, aye."

  "And were you Friends with Ms Adamson on the site?"

  Thomson sighed, the despair and tears echoed in his breath. "I think she added me, aye."

  "Now we're getting somewhere," said Bain. "Why did you choose the name Martin Webb?"

  Thomson frowned. "Sorry?"

  "Inspector Bain, can you please desist from these blatant accusations against my client."

  "Mr McLintock," snapped Bain, "I will ask the questions that I, the Senior Investigating Officer, deem relevant to the case. It is up to you to decide how you and your client respond to them."

  McLintock glared at Bain and folded his arms.

  "Martin Webb is the name you adopted on Schoolbook," said Bain. "The name you used while hunting down Caroline and Debi."

  "Nonsense. I'm Rob Thomson on Schoolbook."

  Bain raised his eyebrows. "So you say. You can have two profiles quite easily, though, I believe?"

  "My client refers you to his previous answer, Inspector. He has one account and one account only."

  "Mr Thomson, can you tell us your movements on the 24th of July between 11am and 12 noon."

  "What?"

  "Answer the question."

  "I'll need my Blackberry back," said Thomson.

  "Why?"

  "I'll need to have a look at the calendar and tell you exactly where I was."

  Bain looked at Cullen. "DC Cullen, can you give Mr Thomson evidence item A, please?"

  Cullen reached across and handed the bagged Blackberry to Thomson. Thomson tried opening the bag.

  "No, no, Mr Thomson, type through the bag," ordered Bain.

  Thomson swore under his breath. As Cullen watched everything he did, Thomson opened the calendar app and scrolled to the page. "24th July, I was at the Alba Bank Mortgage Centre most of the morning, went back to HQ for a meeting at noon."

  Cullen retrieved the Blackberry.

  "And where is the Mortgage Centre?" asked Bain.

  Thomson sighed. "Edinburgh Park, just across from the train station."

  "Thank you," said Bain with a nod.

  Culle
n realised Bain's game as he sat back down. Hermiston Gait Tesco was right beside the Alba Bank mortgage centre. If Thomson had popped in to buy a mobile phone, then he wouldn't have an alibi at work.

  Bain leaned forward into the microphone. "Interview terminated at 16:49." He pressed stop on the digital recorder.

  twenty-three

  Bain sat down at his desk. He'd been silent all the way up the stairs. "He's a big bloke, isn't he?"

  Cullen shrugged. "Suppose so."

  "Looks bigger in the flesh than on the CCTV," said Bain. "We've just about got him."

  Bain put Thomson's iPhone and a Blackberry, in their evidence bags, down on his desk.

  "Should be able to get something on Thomson off these," he said. "I'll get Miller onto it." He reached into his pocket and got out a folded piece of paper. "Take a look at this." He brandished a RIPSA form, obviously proud of himself.

  Cullen scanned through the form. One section requested an explanation of why the information required couldn't be obtained by less intrusive methods; what Bain had scrawled in the box was illegible. Cullen wondered if the illegibility was intentional. It was signed and dated at the bottom, counter-signed by Wilkinson.

  "How come you can get a RIPSA for a guy you've got a grudge against, but when I ask for one for the murder victim it takes forever?" asked Cullen.

  "Politics, Sundance."

  "There's no politics with what you've done but there are with mine?"

  "Right, Sundance. You were asking to snoop on a big company with clout. This is just one guy who's looking guiltier and guiltier by the minute."

  Cullen gestured at the Blackberry. "That must have work emails on it? Isn't that snooping on a big company?"

  "We'll not be looking at any commercial stuff," said Bain, "just having a wee look at emails between Rob Thomson and Kim Milne, and whatever else incriminates him."

  "What about the explanation on the form?" asked Cullen, as he handed it back.

  Bain smirked. "I'll make something up once I've charged him."

  McNeill had been listening in. "This is a risky game you're playing."

  "No pain, no gain, Butch," said Bain.

  "So what else have you got up your sleeve?" she asked.