Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  Cullen remained leaning against the wall, musing that Turnbull and Bain were under pressure from on high to get convictions for the murders. This was four in one, an easy statistic.

  Bain wandered over. "Sloped off a bit early last night, didn't you?"

  "Wasn't in the mood," said Cullen.

  "You need to be more of a team player, Sundance."

  "I wasn't aware that I wasn't."

  "You need to accept the plaudits and celebrate a decent collar."

  Cullen sighed. "What do you want me to do now?"

  "I won't pretend that I know anything at all about what you found on Schoolbook, but I want you to tidy all that up and get it linked to Rob Thomson properly."

  "Fine," growled Cullen.

  "And cheer up, you miserable bugger," said Bain, almost smiling.

  "Cullen, you really are a stupid bastard," said Kidd.

  "I know, I know, I know," said Cullen. "You don't need to keep reminding me."

  They both sat at Kidd's PC. They'd been investigating the effects of Cullen making friends with Martin Webb on Schoolbook. There was a big audit trail, like giant neon lights pointing at Scott Cullen.

  Data danced across the screen. Cullen struggled to concentrate. His vision was blurry from the lack of sleep.

  "Oh ho!" exclaimed Kidd.

  "What?" Cullen leaned in close, trying to focus on the screen.

  "See this?" Kidd pointed to a row of data. "This is the audit trail of him accepting your message. It's all blank values on his side, but the record is still there. It looks like the database writes a new record when he does something, and then he overwrites it immediately."

  "How difficult is that to do?" asked Cullen.

  "If you had admin access it would be easy."

  "So if you were a DBA there?"

  Kidd laughed. "Not so fast, cowboy. Their security is a bit shit. They've had some big hacks this year. If you had access to the server remotely it would work. Anyone could have set this up."

  Cullen tapped his pen rhythmically against the desk. "And their data is stored on servers at Alba Bank, right?"

  "Think so, aye. That's what they said."

  "So Rob Thomson could have had access to it?" asked Cullen.

  "Maybe. I'm sure there would have been some sort of audit on it at their end."

  "Can you look into it?"

  Kidd sighed. "I suppose I'd better, aye."

  "So does this mean we've worked out how he's been doing it?"

  "Yeah."

  "So, I'm not such an idiot, then," said Cullen.

  "I wouldn't go that far, ken? This is probably not admissible as evidence, given that you've gone in two fuckin' footed and ripped your own kneecap off."

  Kidd started tapping away again, leaving Cullen to feel slightly positive about adding Martin Webb as a friend. Still, he just knew that Bain would no doubt give him a proper doing if he came clean.

  "What can you tell about my actual message?" asked Cullen.

  "The 'call me' one?"

  "Aye."

  He pulled it up on the screen. "Well, he's read it." He ran his finger along the line. "Hang on. This is a different access record."

  "What?"

  "Every time he accesses the account," said Kidd, "it logs it on a table." He went into another screen. "Here we go. This is a list of all the times the Martin Webb account has been accessed."

  "And this is the first time you've looked at it?" asked Cullen.

  "It's the first time I've been able to. I only got this extract nonsense sorted out last night. That security firm have given me access to a backup at the Schoolbook end, so I'm dialling in to their server rather than having them send stuff here." Kidd searched along. "Got it. He's using the same values to default the record."

  "Eh?"

  Kidd sighed. "Keep up, Cullen. As I said, every time he accesses the site it generates a new record. The database doesn't allow a permanent delete, so what he does is he alters all the values in the record to a blank."

  "Any way we can see what it was before?"

  "Only if a copy was taken at the exact millisecond the record was created." He tapped the screen. "This wiping activity is pretty much immediately after the creation of the record, so we'd have to be really fluky. It'd be like winning the lottery."

  "So you were saying this is the same pattern for both records."

  "Aye. Must be a program he's got that just resets the values to blanks after the record is created."

  "So you could check that say Jeremy Turner and Martin Webb have the same pattern?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye, exactly." Kidd tapped away. "I've searched for all matching records. And here he is, Jeremy Turner. Exactly the same values on the records." He pointed to the screen.

  "This is good," said Cullen. "So the Jeremy Turner and Martin Webb accounts are accessed using the same method." Cullen looked down the screen. He stopped at a particular line that looked different. "What about that one?" he asked, pointing at the screen.

  Kidd frowned. "Looks a bit funny. Let's have a wee looky at it." Kidd tapped away at the keyboard, his fingers a blur.

  "Do you not use a mouse?" asked Cullen.

  "Just slows me down. Keyboard shortcuts, ken? Magic." Kidd brought up another screen. "Here we are. The account name is under Jenny Scott."

  "What did you say?" asked Cullen, suddenly looking up.

  "Lassie called Jenny Scott."

  The name rang a bell. "Bring up her profile for me," he said.

  Jenny Scott's profile filled the screen. Cullen looked at the photograph; he recognised her. But where from? He looked at the message board on her page.

  There was a message from Kim Milne.

  "What is this?" asked Kidd. "Who is she?"

  "Friend of Kim Milne's," said Cullen.

  "That lassie that got killed yesterday?"

  "Aye, her."

  He flicked through his notebook, stopping at Friday afternoon. He'd gone to Rob Thomson's flat to check his alibi with Kim Milne. Jenny Scott had been there. She had been flying to Thailand on Friday evening.

  "Any idea what he was up to with this account?" asked Cullen.

  Kidd scrolled through a few screens. "Sending messages."

  "Can I have a look?"

  "Aye."

  There was a series of five messages on the screen, all using Jenny Scott's account. All to Kim Milne.

  Cullen read through them quickly. The first and the last were the most important.

  The first message mentioned something about having a serious argument with her boyfriend and flying back to Edinburgh.

  The last was about them meeting up at Kim's flat, at 6.30pm the previous evening.

  "You've gone all quiet for once," said Kidd. "What does this mean?"

  Cullen tapped his pen against the edge of the desk and thought it through. "One of two things - either Jenny really did arrange to meet Kim at her flat last night, or whoever's behind this is trying to frame Rob Thomson."

  "Or Rob Thomson's trying to throw you off the trail."

  Cullen glared at him. "This is messed up enough without that sort of crap." He scribbled it all down in his notebook regardless. "Don't even begin to think about mentioning that to Bain, by the way."

  Cullen had noticed in his notebook that he'd got Jenny Scott's number. His thinking at the time was that they might need to check any alibis, or get further character references for Kim Milne. That, or his latent prowling nature that Miller had accused him of earlier. He hadn't known it would lead to this.

  He called the number but it just rang and rang. Eventually it went to voicemail. He left a message and ended the call.

  "No joy?" asked Kidd.

  "Nope." Cullen put his phone down on the desk. "Typical of this bloody case."

  "Tell me about it."

  "How did it go with Gail's netbook?" asked Cullen.

  Kidd nostrils flared. "Even worse than you twatting about, trying to befriend murderers on Schoolbook," he said. "I
got an IP address."

  "Isn't that good?"

  "Hold your horses, cowboy. The IP address traces to a server in Iraq."

  "Iraq? Do they have computers there?"

  "I expected more of you," said Kidd. "Of course they do. Loads of dodgy ones, ken? I've got no chance of getting any further with that search, it's all blocked there. It's virtually lawless, so they can do whatever they like to block searches and checks."

  Cullen slumped back in his chair. "So what do we know about what's happened to Jenny Scott's account? Bain wants me to tie the Schoolbook stuff together, and this just seems to be making it messier."

  Kidd shrugged. He seemed generally disinterested and just tapped away at the computer.

  "Whoever is doing this hacked into Jenny Scott's account and arranged to meet Kim Milne at her flat," said Cullen. He had a sudden insight. "And at a specific time," he added.

  Kidd turned around. "Eh?"

  "It wasn't just 'I'll see you at any time'," said Cullen, "it was, 'I'll be there at half six'."

  "And that means?"

  "Well, whoever is doing this is planning the whole thing out in detail, in advance. He probably knew when Rob Thomson would usually be leaving work."

  Kidd grinned. "Or it was Rob Thomson."

  Cullen almost laughed. "Indeed."

  "Aye, well." Kidd pointed to the screen. "I've found another while you were on the phone there."

  "You're joking."

  "No way." He scrolled through the messages on the screen. "Some couple arranged to meet at the Travelodge at Haymarket last night."

  Cullen felt sick. Another killing...?

  forty-six

  "We need into room 217," called McNeill, warrant card out. "Now."

  The receptionist at the Travelodge was wide-eyed, hesitant. "I can't." Polish accent.

  Cullen and McNeill had gone in, leaving Miller out back in the car park, just in case the killer made a run for it again. Caldwell was similarly stationed outside the front entrance. Buxton and another uniform were in a car outside, with the engine running.

  "We have reason to believe that a murder may have been committed in that room."

  "O-okay," she stammered.

  "Can you get me a key."

  "Y-y-yes."

  The receptionist fiddled with the key card machine, eventually producing a card coded to the required room. She handed it to McNeill with a trembling hand.

  "Come on," she called to Cullen.

  He ran to the lifts, hammered the call button. The door on the right opened immediately.

  "This better be right," she said, getting in.

  "Part of me really hopes it's not."

  They burst out onto the corridor, Cullen leading. The brass plaque on the wall indicated that rooms 210-220 were to the left.

  "This way," he said.

  They ran along the corridor. 217 was on the left, just before the turn. A 'Do Not Disturb' sign hung from the door handle.

  McNeill pulled the key card from her pocket. "Better knock first."

  She rapped on the door. No answer. She knocked again. They both extended their batons.

  "On three," she said. "One. Two. Three."

  She slid the card down. The light turned green and the door clicked.

  McNeill pushed it open. There was a door to the left, presumably the bathroom. The bed was ahead, round the corner.

  There were sounds of a struggle.

  Cullen rushed forward.

  "What the fuck is going on?" shouted a man.

  He was on top of a woman. Cullen grabbed the man, jamming the baton over his throat, and pulled him to his feet.

  He was naked, hairy and overweight. His penis was erect and encased in a condom.

  The woman sat up in the bed, pulling the covers up over her. "What are you doing?" she screamed.

  "Police," said Cullen. "We're investigating a murder."

  The man was trying to resist him, so he tightened his hold.

  "Well, there's no murder going on in here!" she shouted.

  Cullen loosened his grip.

  "What is going on?" asked McNeill.

  The woman looked at her, her face enraged. "What does it look like, you cow? We were having consensual sex when you pair barged in."

  "Nice try, Scott," said McNeill.

  They were outside in the car park with Miller and Caldwell.

  Caldwell couldn't stop giggling. "Angie, can you stop that, please?" pleaded Cullen.

  "Aye, aye, all right," she said. "So what was their story then?"

  "Just having an affair," says McNeill. "The bloke works at Schoolbook. He was changing the logs to cover their tracks. They were worried about the woman's husband guessing that the two of them were involved, so he created a fake account."

  Caldwell's laughter had finally subsided. "Aye, well, there's easier ways of having a fling, surely? Pay as you go mobiles, sneaky email accounts. Christ."

  "You seem knowledgeable on the subject," said McNeill.

  "Aye, well, you know. I've got a suspicious mind."

  Miller scowled. "So they wurnae the killers?"

  Cullen was about to abuse him when his mobile went. He didn't recognise the number but answered it anyway. It could be any number of snouts, both new and old, maybe with a nice juicy bit of information. He moved away from the group and answered it.

  "Cullen."

  "Scott?"

  He struggled to place the voice. "Who is this?"

  "Jesus, Scott, it's Katie."

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  "Can I speak to Alison?"

  Cullen frowned. Why was Katie asking him this?

  "Why would I know where she is?" he asked.

  She paused. "Aren't you two an item?"

  "No," he said. "What makes you think we are?"

  "Just what she's been saying - you've been getting close."

  "Well, we haven't."

  "So you haven't seen her then?" asked Katie.

  "I saw her last night. We had a bit of an argument."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure," he spat. "She came round to my flat and I brushed her off."

  "You brushed her off," she said, sarcastically. "Some things never change."

  "When you see her, can you make sure she's got the message that we are not an item?"

  "I'll try, but I'll need to speak to her first. Her boss just called me. She's not turned up for work."

  "She's probably just upset with me telling her the truth."

  "Scott, you really are such a callous bastard."

  She hung up.

  He wandered back over. Caldwell and Miller were getting into the back of the squad car.

  "Who was that?" asked McNeill.

  "Nobody," he replied.

  "So have you tried calling Jenny Scott again?" asked Bain.

  They were in the Incident Room at Bain's desk.

  "Of course I have," said Cullen. "She's not answered yet."

  "Have you tried going round to her flat?"

  "I don't know if she's even in the country. I very much doubt it."

  "Fuck sake, Cullen," said Bain, "this is a massive part of this bloody case. This could definitively prove to Rob Thomson that we've got him."

  "We don't know it's him that's in Schoolbook," Cullen replied. "I mean, we don't know that it's not, but we've got no direct evidence."

  Bain smacked the table. "Cullen, you are supposed to be linking Rob Thomson to these murders, not blowing the fuckin' case wide open. I've got Wilkinson down interviewing Thomson again, and I've enough spanners being shoved in by that wanker McLintock, without more from one of my own bloody officers. I heard about you and your bloody girlfriend bursting in on some couple ruttin' away in a hotel. I want you to focus exclusively on linking Rob Thomson to Schoolbook."

  Cullen sat back. "I don't know how many times I've told you this, but I don't think we'll find anything that will link him. Whoever it is - and I'll even assume it's Rob Thomson if it'll
make you happy - whoever it is, they're not leaving a breadcrumb trail in there. Everything is covered over. It would be virtually impossible to catch them at it."

  Bain sat and glowered for a minute. "In that case, I need you to bury this."

  "What do you mean, 'bury it'?" asked Cullen.

  "I mean get rid of any evidence pointing to Schoolbook. We don't use it in the case."

  Cullen folded his arms. "I can't do that."

  "Yes, you can," snarled Bain, leaning forward. "I've got enough without it."

  "Are you sure?" said Cullen, sitting up straight. "You've already committed yourself on tape asking Rob why he was using the name Martin Webb. McLintock will tear you to shreds."

  "The Fiscal will just have to deal with it. I want to get this all covered up and passed on to her."

  "Fine."

  "Last warning, Sundance. If you're not going to help collar this fucker, then keep yourself out of my hair."

  forty-seven

  "Don't you think you're being just a little bit mental?" asked McNeill.

  "Mental?" exclaimed Cullen. He took a drink of coffee. "You think I'm the one that's being mental?"

  They'd both realised that they now had very little work to do, so headed for a sit-down lunch in the canteen. Cullen had opted for a chicken pie and chips, McNeill a baked potato with coronation chicken.

  "You're going against what Bain and all the senior officers are saying," she said. "To them, Bain's pretty close to an air-tight conviction, and you're running around picking holes in it."

  "Yeah, you said it, air-tight to them," said Cullen, dropping his fork on the plate. "He needs to see the holes and deal with them. If it's not me doing it, it'll be McLintock in front of a jury. Does he want a failed conviction?" He drank the last of the coffee. "Besides, it was you that started this the other night."

  "Yeah, well, I've given up," she said. "I can't fight him any longer. That hotel room this morning was the last straw for me."

  "Are you blaming me for that?"

  She put her cutlery down. "I'm not, but I just don't have the energy for this."