Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  "How the devil are you, pal?" He thrust his hand out at Cullen.

  "I'm doing well, Billy."

  "What brings you here?"

  "Just caught a murder suspect. Need to keep him away from my DI."

  Dawes laughed. "Still playing games, eh?"

  Jain came out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Dawes looked her up and down. "Billy Dawes," he said, offering her the same red paw Cullen had just shaken.

  "DC Chantal Jain," she replied, coldly. She didn't shake his hand.

  Dawes looked at Cullen, obviously trying to keep the conversation going.

  "See you, Billy," said Cullen.

  "Aye, well, catch you later, Scott," Dawes finally said, shrugging as he wandered off down the corridor.

  "Yet another plod acquaintance of yours?" asked Jain.

  "Aye, well," said Cullen, "he's got a reputation as a useless, lazy bastard."

  She snorted with laughter.

  "But nice with it, I suppose," he added.

  "Our boy inside has still not said anything," she said once her laughter had subsided.

  "Well, this is our one chance to get to him before Bain does," he said, rubbing the muscles in the backs of his legs. "That was a good tackle you made back there, by the way."

  "Aye, well, my Dad made me play rugby when I was a wean. I thought I'd lost the pair of you. I'd been up and down the street a couple of times. I'm glad I hung around."

  "Not half as much as I am," said Cullen. "Losing two suspects in the same week wouldn't be good."

  "Or the same one twice."

  He grinned. "Quite."

  "So what's the plan here? Why are we hiding this guy from Bain?"

  "I'm not hiding him," he said. "I just want to get a statement out of him quickly."

  "This is supposed to be my collar," said Jain.

  "I know. I'll take the blame for it, okay? Me or DS McNeill anyway."

  Jain nodded. "Do you think he's our man?"

  "Don't know. Best see what he has to say, I guess," said Cullen. "He's just as likely as Rob Thomson."

  She raised an eyebrow. "As you say, let's see what he has to say, then."

  She pushed through the door. Cullen followed.

  Alistair Cruikshank was mid 30s and well turned out. He was a big guy, probably with some farming stock in him. He had huge hands and the traces of a ginger beard in his stubble. Cullen had the same affliction; sign of a true Scotsman according to his Dad - brown hair, ginger beard.

  To Cullen, he fitted the profile of the man in the CCTV footage. He was maybe slightly overweight, certainly much more than Rob Thomson.

  Jain opened her notebook, looked at Cruikshank and spoke into the tape recorder, going through the formalities. They hadn't upgraded the facilities to digital recorders at St Leonard's yet.

  "Mr Cruikshank," she said, "why were you running away from us?"

  Cruikshank's eyes darted between them. "No comment," he said.

  "If you have nothing to hide, then why did you run away from us?"

  "As I said, no comment," said Cruikshank, gulping.

  "Okay, if that's how you want to play it," she said, "can you tell us about your movements over the last couple of days?"

  "Certainly," he said with a smile. "When would you like me to start?"

  "When did you arrive in Edinburgh?" she asked.

  "I came down on Sunday afternoon."

  "And that's down from?"

  "Elgin," he said. "Had to change at Inverness. I got into Edinburgh early evening."

  "At roughly what time?" she asked.

  "Back of nine. Five past I think."

  "And you went directly to the hotel then?" asked Jain.

  "Indeed. And I spent the rest of the evening studying in my room."

  "Can I ask what you were studying?"

  "The bible," replied Cruikshank. "I'm training to be a minister. I would have come down on Saturday, but I was giving the early morning service. And I have an important role at the main service. I also had a bible class on Saturday evening."

  Cullen noted it all down. That was a lot of potential alibis he had for the murder of Debi Curtis. And CCTV would surely place him getting off the train at the time Gail McBride was murdered.

  "So what brings you to Edinburgh?" asked Cullen.

  "There's a conference at New College I'm attending as part of my studies."

  Cullen knew the New College. It was one of the old buildings on the Mound just off the Royal Mile, overlooking Princes Street.

  "Okay, Mr Cruikshank, can I now ask you to outline your movements last Thursday night?" she went on.

  "Well, I was in Inverness all day, at college. Thursday night was the church choir."

  Jain exchanged a look with Cullen, gesturing to the door. She paused the interview and they went outside.

  "Well?" she asked, once the door was shut.

  "How many alibis can one man have?" asked Cullen. "According to him, he was with a choir when Caroline was killed, at a bible class when Debi was attacked and on a train when Gail was killed."

  She nodded. "He's not our killer."

  "Not likely, no," said Cullen. Part of him felt disappointed, as Cruikshank had plausible motives against Debi and Caroline.

  "I think it's safe to hand him over to Bain," she said.

  "We could probably charge him with resisting arrest, wasting police time or something. Just wonder why he legged it like he did."

  "No idea," she said. "I'll maybe ask him after I get all those alibis checked out."

  "Not even Bain would touch him with that many."

  Jain laughed.

  Cullen's mobile rang. McNeill.

  "Hi, Sharon," he said, answering the call.

  "I've been looking for you," she said.

  "I'm helping Chantal out up at St Leonards."

  "I need to borrow you," she said. "I'll pick you up from there. I assume Chantal can get back here?"

  "Yeah, we've got a pool car," he said. "What do you want me to help with?"

  "We've got a potential witness for the person stealing Caroline's laptop."

  thirty-eight

  McNeill pulled up in front of a fairly rundown house on a grim street deep into Gracemount, a sprawling estate on the City's south side. It was notoriously feral, and Cullen knew it reasonably well, yet it was only five minutes drive from the sedate Morningside and the Grange.

  "Who is this we're going to see?" asked Cullen.

  "A guy called Jonny Soutar," she said.

  "And what's his tale?"

  "The story goes he left a flat on Friday night in the street where Caroline lived. It was his Mum that called it in, reckons he saw something."

  "Why did he not call it in?" asked Cullen.

  "This is Gracemount," was all McNeill said.

  They got out of the car, and walked up the path. The harled exterior walls would have been white originally, but had greyed with time and lack of upkeep. Cullen knew plenty of houses in Dalhousie like that, and had seen many similar out in West Lothian. The garden had long since gone past the point of neglect; it wasn't even a forest of overgrown grass, just a patch of rubbish-strewn dirt, with bits of old cars and motorbikes, discarded clothes and decaying shopping bags.

  McNeill rang the doorbell and waited. Cu1len looked down the street. In front of the decaying housing were several brand new Fords, Toyotas and Vauxhalls. "They've got their priorities right on this street," muttered Cullen.

  "What?"

  "The cars. Shite house, brand new car."

  She laughed.

  "Think there's anybody in?" he asked.

  She rang the bell again. "I don't know. She said that he would be."

  Cullen could make out a thumping noise from inside, probably someone coming down the stair. The door opened slightly on the chain, and an eye appeared, followed by a grunt.

  "Police," said McNeill.

  The eye looked them up and down then disappeared from the gap. The door opened.
>
  "In youse come, then," came a male voice.

  McNeill entered first. Cullen couldn't see the owner of the voice. He followed McNeill into the living room.

  A young guy ay sprawled on the sofa, clad only in boxer shorts. He was late teens, maybe early 20s. His skinny white body was hairless, with a slight paunch. He had dark spiky hair in a mullet, a dyed blonde rat-tail hanging at the back, which he stroked like it was a pet.

  "Put some clothes on, please," said McNeill, perched on an armchair across from the sofa.

  He picked up a green and white striped dressing gown and loosely tied it around him.

  "Johnny Soutar?" asked McNeill, as she showed him her warrant card.

  "Aye," he replied with an arrogant leer on his face.

  "Your mother called the helpline regarding the Caroline Adamson case," said McNeill.

  "Aye, so she did. She's off out, eh?"

  "Could you go over your story?"

  "Suppose I'd better." Soutar scratched his stomach. "I was shagging this bird, eh?"

  "Could you go from the start, please?" said McNeill.

  Soutar sighed. "Aye, okay," he said. "I was up town with my mates Stevie and Darren, eh? We were in that bar in the Omni Centre for a few jars, then we went in that club in there. I got fired into Darren's cousin who we met in there but she told us tae piss off, so I went for anything I could find, eh?"

  McNeill nodded along, though her body language had become aggressive, sitting further forward with her hands clenched on her trouser legs.

  "So I found some bird," continued Soutar, "can't even remember her name, eh? Jemma or something. Took her back to her flat and slipped her a length."

  "And her flat was on Smith's Place in Leith?" asked McNeill with a look of disgust.

  "Think that's the street, aye," said Soutar. "It was right at the end in the corner, eh? Just by that chippy. The Mermaid?"

  "Mr Soutar," said McNeill, "can you tell us about what you saw that night?"

  "Well, after I'd boned the bird, I was in no mood to stey, so I waited till she was asleep, then I snuck out, eh?"

  "Did you wake her?" asked Cullen.

  Soutar gave a chuckle. "No, pal, I'm an expert at sneakin' out." He scratched himself again. "So, aye, I saw some felly leavin' the flats in the corner, just as I came oot the stair door."

  Cullen was stunned at Soutar. As much at the casualness with which he described his conquest, as the ease he seemed to feel in front of the police. Not that Cullen felt he himself was much better, given his antics on Friday night.

  "Do you know what time this was?" asked McNeill.

  Soutar shrugged. "Would've been about five, somethin' like that." He sniffed and tugged at the back of his ear. "Hang on, I texted Darren on the wey oot of the street, tellin' him what I'd done, eh?" He chuckled to himself, then picked his mobile up from the sofa beside him. He fiddled with it for a few seconds. "5.11am," he said. "I also got a text fae Stevie sayin' that Darren had shagged his cousin in the bogs. Dirty bastard."

  "Mr Soutar," snapped McNeill, "what did you do after you left Smith's Place?"

  "I got a taxi, eh? Managed to get one at the corner of the Walk."

  "And what did the man from the flat do?" asked McNeill.

  "Punter just sauntered away along the street, turnin' right at the end."

  Cullen tried to work it out. Right would have taken him further into Leith, maybe into Lochend. The opposite way from that Rob Thomson would have taken. Assuming that he was going directly home that is.

  "Did you get a good look at the person you saw in the street?" asked McNeill.

  "Aye, I did," he said. "I just wanted tae git the fuck oot ay there, eh? But I do remember the felly, though. He was a big fucker, eh? Wearin' a hooded top."

  "Was he carrying anything?" asked Cullen.

  "He had a bag with him, I think. Aye, and he had one ay them fancy Apple computers that they have in John Lewis, eh?"

  Cullen looked up. This was moving into witness territory. He looked at McNeill. The last thing they needed was for some defence lawyer to tear his evidence apart on the grounds of being too drunk. "How sober were you?" he asked.

  Soutar frowned. "I'd had a skinful, likes, but I'd been dancing with this Jemma bird for hours, and we'd got chips on the wey to her flat. By the time I left I was pretty sober."

  Cullen wanted to check that the witness statement would hold up, and also to see if they could get any verification from a taxi driver. "What were you wearing at the time?" he asked.

  "Eh, I had my posh trousers on and my Ralph Laurent shirt. Got fuckin' sauce from the chips on it. Mum says it's ruined."

  Cullen reached into his pocket and retrieved the print of the CCTV footage from Saturday night in Gorgie. "Was this the man?"

  Soutar nodded immediately. "Aye, pal, that's him."

  thirty-nine

  McNeill and Cullen got back to the Incident Room to find Chantal Jain updating Bain on Alistair Cruikshank. She'd called McNeill as they drove back, looking for Bain. He had been at a Press Conference.

  "So where is this fucker then?" asked Bain. His tie was loosened; no doubt the tidiness of his appearance had lapsed somewhat since the Press Conference.

  "In the cells downstairs," replied Jain.

  Bain was grinning widely. "And he's in the clear, this Cruikshank boy?"

  "It looks that way," said Jain. "As long as those alibis check out."

  "I'll get some big uniform bastards in to grill him," said Bain. "You just make sure you nail those alibis."

  "Did you find out why he was running away from us?" asked Cullen.

  Jain grimaced. "Would you believe that Margaret Armstrong threatened to call the police?"

  "I can quite easily believe it," said Cullen. "Still doesn't explain why he ran."

  "She was threatening to get him done with all that stuff about Caroline years ago."

  Cullen frowned. "I thought that was just going on about her divorce?"

  "Turns out he had been hoax calling her."

  Cullen's eyes rolled. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Are you doing anything about it?"

  Jain shrugged. "There's nobody to press charges."

  "We'll get him with a fine," said Bain. "Good work, Chantal."

  "Fine," said Jain, then she marched off towards her desk.

  Bain stared at Cullen and McNeill. "Here they fuckin' are," he said, "the Scarlet Pimpernel and her boyfriend. They seek them here, they seek them there." He glared at Cullen. "Sundance, how the fuck is it that I find you in every little nook and fuckin' cranny on this case?"

  Cullen held his hands up. "Chantal asked me to help, alright? That's all."

  "I gather that you actually managed to catch the fucker this time?" said Bain. "Would have been better if you could've done that on Saturday night, though, eh? Gail McBride would still be alive."

  Cullen was speechless. His face reddened with anger.

  "We've got some good news for you," said McNeill, trying to derail Bain and Cullen. "We've got a witness."

  "Enlighten me," said Bain, sitting down on the edge of his desk.

  They'd taken Soutar into one of the better interview suites, where one of the DCs seconded from Torphichen Street was taking his statement for them.

  "That guy you sent me to speak to in Gracemount, Johnny Soutar? He reckons he saw a big man in a hooded top carry a laptop out of Caroline's flat stairwell door about five on Saturday morning."

  Bain folded his arms. "Are you on the level here, Butch?"

  "It's true," she said. "He's spilling his guts downstairs to Sandy Allen. We'll get a statement pretty soon."

  Bain nodded slowly. "I'm liking this. Can we get a line-up in front of him?"

  McNeill shrugged. "That's your call."

  "Right," he said, "let's you and me go and show this guy some pictures."

  Cullen produced the CCTV photo. "He's confirmed it's this guy," he said.

  "The fuck is this?" asked Bain, grabbing it off Cullen.
>
  "It's a screen grab from that CCTV footage you had me looking at yesterday."

  "Are you holdin' back on me?" asked Bain. "This is the same punter that bought the phone."

  "I know," said Cullen.

  Bain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Cullen," he said slowly, "can you get back to whatever task you're currently not bothering your arse to complete." He looked at McNeill. "Butch, I want a quick word with you."

  McNeill and Bain walked off towards the corner of the Incident Room.

  Cullen sat down at his desk, way past the point of having had enough. Caldwell appeared just as fed up as he was.

  "It's slow going," she said.

  "Is it still just you?" he asked gesturing around. "Thought McNeill said she'd secured a couple of officers?"

  "She got rid of McAllister pretty quickly," said Caldwell. "And Steve Thomas has a court appearance."

  "The truth?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Probably."

  "I didn't even know we had him."

  "Aye, well," she said, "when Miller went to Ayr, Bain gave us him."

  "So much for getting some help," he said with a sigh. "How are you getting on?"

  Caldwell had got through three and a half sheets of names. Cullen was halfway through his second.

  "There's got to be a smarter way of doing this," he said.

  "Wish there was," she said. "It's just good old-fashioned shoe leather work. Except instead of sore feed, I'm getting earache from the phone."

  Cullen picked up the sheets of paper of Gail's friends and looked through them, trying to figure out if there were other ways to approach the problem. He saw names he recognised, famous names – the guy out of Wet Wet Wet, that gay comedian that wore a leather kilt, a footballer who once played for Aberdeen that was going out with some Scottish pop star.

  He looked down the sixth sheet, and stopped in his tracks.

  He'd found a name he recognised that wasn't famous.

  "Jesus fucking Christ," he said.

  He logged into Schoolbook and checked it out; he wasn't wrong.

  "What is it?" asked Caldwell.

  He raced around the room, looking for McNeill and Bain, but they'd disappeared after their quick chat. He checked the Meeting rooms, no sign.