Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  He immediately regretted it. He put his phone down, feeling like an idiot. That's something that he can't undo, he thought.

  The phone pinged again. He picked it up. Another message from Alison - "I understand, but you need to make some time for me." He had no idea what she thought their relationship status was, but to him it was not what it said on her Schoolbook page.

  Another message pinged up on the screen. He and Martin Webb were now friends. He sat and stared at the handset for a few minutes, thinking it through. The account was not only active but Martin Webb was still using it. Cullen wondered if it was automatic or a manual action on the part of whoever was behind the account. Rob Thomson was not in police custody at the moment, so it played right into Bain's vendetta.

  Eventually, Cullen replied to the message from Martin Webb. "Please call me." He put his mobile number in and sent the message.

  Cullen walked through the Technical Support Unit floor, heading towards Kidd's desk. Kidd's desk was covered in the innards of a desktop PC, wired up to one of Kidd's own machines.

  "How are you getting on with that new pipe," asked Cullen, "or whatever you called it?"

  "I'm getting there," he said, grudgingly.

  Cullen paused. "Good." He grabbed a chair from an adjacent desk and sat down next to Kidd.

  After a few seconds, Kidd sighed. "What are you after?" he said. "I'm busy here, ken? I could do with either you asking me something or pissing off."

  "I might have done something stupid," said Cullen. "I added Martin Webb as a friend."

  Kidd glared at Cullen for a few seconds. "You twat," he said. "Why on Earth did you think that was a good idea?"

  "I don't know," he said, "I wasn't thinking. I just did it."

  "Cullen, you are an absolute idiot."

  "I know I am," said Cullen. "But he accepted me."

  Kidd frowned. "You are kidding me."

  "No," said Cullen. "Do they have automatic acceptance on that site?"

  "Nope. It's all active. Was chatting to the new guy at Schoolbook this morning about that. They're trying to be like the anti-Facebook. They don't do anything to your data that you haven't explicitly agreed, ken?"

  "Other than give it to the police," said Cullen.

  "Aye, well." Kidd chuckled.

  "So can you look at the IP address?" asked Cullen. "He's still on there."

  "I can't just now," said Kidd. "I'm not getting another extract until ten this evening."

  "I'll see you first thing tomorrow then."

  "I don't doubt it," said Kidd. "You are a total cowboy, ken?"

  Cullen got up to leave. He had a thought and sat down again.

  "How is it going with the PCs from Caroline and Debi's offices?" he asked, gesturing at the machine corpse on Kidd's desk.

  Kidd slumped back in his chair. "I've had six voicemails from Bain asking me the same thing."

  "Have you replied to him?"

  Kidd laughed. "No. We've been flat out since we got them this morning." He pointed at the contents of his desk. "I'm just about finished going through Debi's work PC the now."

  "And?"

  "Nothing," said Kidd. "Not a sausage. She hadn't been using the chat application on it, so there's no dice, I'm afraid"

  "Did you look at anything from Gail?"

  "That prick Irvine brought her netbook up which I'll do next," said Kidd. Cullen nodded. "Okay, I'll come back and see you tomorrow."

  Kidd slowly exhaled. "Fine. Can you piss off now?"

  McNeill was sitting at her desk when Cullen got back to the Incident Room from upstairs.

  "How's it going?" she asked. "How did your idea turn out?"

  "Not bad," he said as he sat down. He thought about telling her that he'd added Martin Webb as a friend but didn't. "I managed to speak to Amy Cousens, Steve Allen and Caroline's Dad. None of them had heard about the death threats. We've now got four people actively denying the death threats, though one of them is Rob Thomson."

  "We need to get to the bottom of this," she said. "Who gave us this information in the first place?"

  He stopped suddenly. "No idea," he said. "It was Angie that made the call."

  They looked over at Caldwell, got up and walked across to her desk.

  "What is it?" asked Caldwell, looking up at them.

  "How many people have corroborated the death threats story?" he asked.

  She looked down her list. "None."

  "And Miller?"

  She shrugged. "No idea."

  "Where is he?" asked Cullen.

  "Not got back from Ayr, I suppose," she said. She picked up a sheet of paper. "Nope, doesn't look like he's had any either."

  "Who was it that told you about these death threats?" asked McNeill.

  "Hang on," said Caldwell. She flicked through her own notebook. "There you go - some guy called Duncan Wilson."

  forty-two

  Cullen froze. "Did you say Duncan Wilson?" he asked, slowly.

  McNeill was frowning as well.

  "Who's he?" asked Caldwell.

  "He's the DBA at Schoolbook," said Cullen. "The techy that Kidd's been dealing with."

  "Are you sure it's the same one?" asked McNeill.

  Caldwell woke up her computer and navigated to Schoolbook. She tapped a few keys then pointed at the screen. "Here's his profile," she said. "He's a friend of Caroline's."

  Cullen and McNeill looked at a moody photograph of the same man they'd met at Schoolbook.

  "That's him," said Cullen. "When was the last time you spoke to him?"

  "First thing today. He was going to try and remember who told him about the threats and call me back."

  "And has he?" he asked

  "No."

  "Do you think there actually is anyone?" asked McNeill.

  "Seems unlikely," said Caldwell.

  "Call him back."

  She picked up her phone and dialled. "Voicemail," she said.

  McNeill played with her notebook for a few seconds. "Have you got his home address?" she asked.

  Caldwell ran her finger through the screen. "Portobello, by the look of things."

  McNeill got up. "We're going to go and see this guy. I'm fed up being pissed about. Cullen, you're coming with me."

  "What about me?" asked Caldwell.

  "Finish checking through her friends list," said McNeill. "We need to keep Bain happy."

  Caldwell looked disappointed.

  Just then, Miller appeared beside her, a smirk on his face. His tie was loosened at the collar and he carried his suit jacket over his shoulder.

  "Miller, where the hell have you been?" asked McNeill.

  "Me and Wilko were over at Gail's folks in Ayr," he replied. "Just got back the now. I was wondering, eh, can't find the gaffer, so, eh, do you mind if I slope off early to the football?"

  She looked him up and down, then grinned mischievously. "Grab your coat, Keith, we've got a job for you."

  McNeill got out of Miller's silver Saxo just as Cullen parked alongside.

  "This is your neck of the woods, isn't it?" McNeill asked Cullen as he closed the door.

  "Aye," said Cullen. "I stay just along the high street," he said.

  They were in the parking area at the back of Duncan Wilson's block of flats, a big red sandstone building. Cullen knew a little of the history of the place. It had been a technical institute in the fifties - WM Ramsay Technical Institute was still emblazoned on the front in brass lettering - before being redeveloped into flats in the early 90s. The building was now called College House.

  The building was just off King's Road roundabout, at the end of Portobello Road, the long stretch of road that led from the seaside suburb into the city centre. They were not far from Cullen's flat.

  She nodded at Miller. "Keith, stay here and keep an eye out."

  "Aw, fuck sake."

  Cullen noticed Miller looking over towards Easter Road, a couple of miles distant. They would be kicking off just then. Cullen wondered if he could hear t
he crowd noise from the football stadium.

  Cullen and McNeill walked round to the door at the front of the building.

  "Buzz it," she said.

  Cullen pressed the buzzer labelled Wilson for a few seconds. No answer.

  "Give it ten seconds, then try again."

  They waited in silence, looking at each other nervously.

  Ten seconds up, he buzzed again, pressing for longer this time. Still no answer.

  McNeill pushed the adjacent buzzer, which had the name Gillespie pencilled in. The door clicked open, no questions asked.

  Cullen held the door open for McNeill.

  "Very chivalrous," she said as she stepped through.

  The inside of the building was well maintained, with pot plants hugging the wall on the ground floor. The hall was carpeted and looked freshly hoovered. Every flat Cullen had stayed in had been a Victorian tenement, with stairwell flooring ranging from bare concrete to that red stuff, like in his current flat's stair. Cullen's Dad had once told him that they poured it out and it set in the swirly pattern.

  They set off up the stairs. Cullen looked up at the elaborate glass ceiling, the shadow from the chimneys cast across it.

  The door to the first flat on the second floor was ajar. Fairly unimaginative dance music boomed out at an antisocial level. An unmistakable sweet smell emanated from the flat.

  "Hash," said Cullen.

  McNeill raised an eyebrow and gestured for Cullen to lead.

  He took out his Warrant card and moved inside. McNeill followed him in and closed the door.

  "Through here, Jim!" called a voice from the living room. Male, Glaswegian.

  "It's the police," Cullen called.

  "Aye, like fuck it is, Jimmy, you bastard!" A cackle followed.

  Cullen entered the living room. A man in his late twenties sat in a dressing gown, looking away from them, through the front window down King's Road towards the promenade and the beach. He held a joint in his hands and took a hefty toke.

  "Sit down, Jimmy."

  Cullen crossed the room and held his Warrant Card in front of the man's face.

  The man's head whipped round and he did a double take.

  "Jesus fuckin' – the fuck are you – get the fuck out!" he screamed, jumping to his feet.

  "Mr Gillespie," said Cullen, his voice steady, "we're from Lothian and Borders Police."

  "It's for personal use!"

  "You might want to turn the music down a bit." Gillespie fumbled for a remote control and turned the stereo off.

  "We're not interested in your drugs," said McNeill. Gillespie seemed to relax. "Not today anyway," she added.

  Gillespie eyed them nervously.

  "We're looking for your neighbour," she said. "Duncan Wilson."

  "He's out of town."

  "Where?" asked Cullen.

  "Working in Glasgow for a couple of days, I think."

  "Glasgow?" said Cullen. "I thought he worked in Livingston?"

  "No idea," said Gillespie with a shrug. "He told us he was away through West for a few days."

  "Do you know when he'll be back?" asked McNeill.

  "No idea. He's coming round for the football after work on Friday. Season's already started but we've still pre-season friendlies."

  "Do you have a contact number for him?" asked Cullen.

  "No, I don't." He laughed. "Don't really need to phone him given that he just lives next door."

  "Do you know where he's working?" asked Cullen.

  Gillespie shrugged. "No, just that it's Glasgow."

  "In future," added McNeill, "you should make sure you know who you're letting in, Mr Gillespie."

  "And keep the music down," said Cullen.

  "Aye, I will do."

  They left the flat. McNeill crossed to Wilson's door and peered through the letterbox.

  "Definitely nobody in," she said.

  "What next?"

  "Keep trying his mobile, I suppose," she replied. "If we don't get anything back tonight, we'll put out a call for him."

  They walked down to the car in silence. Miller was nowhere to be seen. Before he opened his door, Cullen thought of something.

  "This fits perfectly for Caroline's murder, doesn't it?" he said.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well, you know. It's all back roads from here up to Minto Street, through the park. No one's going to see a thing. He could have walked home just as easily as Rob Thomson."

  "You could be right," she said, seeming lost in thought.

  Miller wandered over as they got to the cars. "Nothing round the back," he said.

  "Thanks." She smiled wickedly. "Keith, I want you to stake out the building."

  Miller looked crestfallen. "But ah've got tickets for the game."

  "And we've got a triple murder investigation," said McNeill, her voice hard.

  "Fine. What am I supposed to be daein'?"

  "You're training to be a detective, Keith, show us some of your detection skills. If Duncan Wilson turns up, I want to know."

  "So what do we do?" asked Cullen.

  He was driving them both back, having left Miller at Wilson's flat.

  "I don't know," said McNeill. "Do you think Wilson is a suspect?"

  "He is definitely someone we need to speak to."

  "I don't think we should go to Bain with this yet," she said.

  "Why not?"

  "He's running around trying to pin this on Rob Thomson," she said. "The last thing we want is to point him at another innocent person."

  "Agreed," he said. "I'm going to get to the bottom of these death threats. Tonight."

  "Do it," she said. "And try and get hold of Wilson."

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "I can't believe I've been so sloppy."

  "How?"

  "Well, if I'd known on Sunday that it was Duncan Wilson that gave Caldwell the death threats tip... I can't help but think that Gail McBride might still be alive."

  "You can't allow yourself to think like that. You're exhausted. You were supposed to be off on Saturday and Sunday, and instead you've been putting in fourteen-hour shifts. And you've been pulled from pillar to post by Bain."

  "I guess you're right." He sighed. "Doesn't make it feel much easier."

  "I don't think you putting two and two together earlier would have swayed Bain anyway. In his world, he's looking for a five not a four from a pair of twos."

  "And we don't know that Wilson is the man we want, either," he said. "Back to your point - we don't want another innocent man in the frame here."

  Cullen sat back in his chair and looked around the Incident Room. It was much more spartan than the mainstream offices with their plants and stylish furniture. There was still a large number of officers in the room, with at least the same again off doing the rounds in the various channels of investigation that Bain was running.

  Cullen had been trying to contact Wilson for an hour. He had been also attacking his portion of the list, which now looked like pointless admin to him. He picked up his phone and dialled the number for Gregor Aitchison - Wilson's boss. Maybe he would know where he was.

  "Hi, this is Gregor."

  There was pub noise in the background.

  "Mr Aitchison, it's DC Cullen of Lothian and Borders."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to speak to Duncan Wilson," said Cullen.

  "Aye, well, he's not been in today."

  "That's what I was calling you about," said Cullen. "I believe that he's through in Glasgow."

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Is he not full time at Schoolbook, then?" asked Cullen.

  "No, he just does three days a week," said Aitchison. "He's been in for the last seven days solid, mind, but he's normally only part time. He's self-employed, a contractor. He gets a decent rate, I can tell you, but we just pay him by the day. I know that he's got other clients, but it's usually last minute work that he picks up online when he's not working for us. It can be quite lucrative, too. The
banks are big on it. Keeps people off the payroll."

  "Is Mr Wilson due in tomorrow?"

  "No."

  "I see," said Cullen. "I've got his mobile number and his flat address. Do you have any other contact details?"

  Aitchison yawned down the line. "Sorry, that's all I've got as well. Don't even have an email address for the guy."

  "How has he been recently?"

  "Busy," said Aitchison. "I mean, that Kidd boy of yours has been keeping him on his toes for the last couple of days."

  "And before that?"

  "He's always been one to throw himself into his work," said Aitchison. "He's always looking into the security protocols we've got and adjusting them if needs be."

  "How has his mood been over the last few days?"

  "Look, what is this?" asked Aitchison.

  "Mr Wilson supplied some additional information to the case that may prove crucial, and I just wanted to get some background to his character."

  "Right, well," said Aitchison, "he's been quite upbeat over the last few days. Walking round like he owns the place."

  "Okay," said Cullen, "thanks for your time. I'll be in touch."

  Another hour later, Cullen had finally just about finished his portion of the list. It had been excruciatingly difficult to track down the last couple of friends. He was almost ready to go out and visit their homes.

  He tried Wilson again, the fourth time since they'd got back. It rang and rang. He was about to give up when it was finally answered.

  "This is Duncan." It sounded like he was driving.

  "Mr Wilson, this is DC Scott Cullen of Lothian and Borders."

  "And?"

  "You have been dealing with a colleague, PC Caldwell, about some alleged death threats made by a suspect in our murder inquiry. Have you managed to remember who told you about those death threats yet?"

  "Hasn't anybody else told you yet?" he asked.

  "No," said Cullen. "We need you to try and remember who it was that told you."

  Wilson gave a deep sigh. "Okay. I've been thinking this through, trying to remember. I was just about to give your colleague a call." There was a lengthy pause. "It was a woman called Kim Milne that told me."