Ghost in the Machine (Scott Cullen)

by Ed James

  Total prick, she thought. He just used her like Katie had warned. He shagged her on Friday and couldn't get away quick enough. Their date on Monday night had been a farce in hindsight - he'd seemed distant and evasive. And then he'd rushed off again, some crap about a murder - like there were that many in bloody Edinburgh.

  She walked past the five-a-side football pitches and realised that she didn't know where she was going or how the hell she was getting home. She stopped just ahead of the traffic lights at King's Road and waited for a taxi to come along.

  She couldn't reconcile the messages on Schoolbook to Scott's behaviour. They'd been so devotional - like she'd met the man of her dreams, Mr Right - and yet lately, in person and on the phone, Scott Cullen had seemed like such a prick. He'd been charm personified on Friday night, all those jokes about uniforms.

  Two occupied taxis rolled past in quick succession.

  She looked down at the kerb and wanted the drain to swallow her up. Her anger was subsiding, and she just wanted to be at home in bed with a glass of wine.

  "You needing a lift?"

  She looked up. A man in a silver car had pulled in, his window wound down. He was smiling, looked friendly.

  "Where you going?" she asked.

  "Southside," he said. "Marchmont."

  She thought about it for a split second - getting into a car with a stranger was stupidity, but she wanted to be home.

  She opened the passenger door and got in.

  "Can you drop me at Grange Loan?"

  Duncan Wilson stopped the car. They were halfway round the park at Arthur's Seat.

  "Why are you stopping?" asked Alison.

  He punched her in the mouth, grabbed her by the hair. He pulled the tape out of the door pocket and covered her mouth. He swiftly bound her wrists together, taping her hands to the dashboard.

  "Keep your mouth shut," he said.

  She whimpered behind the tape. He punched her again, knocking her out.

  He wasn't as comfortable with this one - it wasn't his main objective. It was like Debi or Gail, maybe one random killing too many.

  But that policeman, Scott Cullen. He'd met the arrogant bastard at Schoolbook, and spoken to him about those extracts he'd done for that idiot Kidd.

  When Cullen called just before eight, just after Duncan had killed Kim, he knew he had to act. He was getting too close, dangerously close to working out that it wasn't Rob that killed those women, dangerously close to working out that it was him.

  He hacked into Cullen's Schoolbook account, like he'd done so many times that week, and his course of action became clear. Alison, Cullen's girlfriend. They hadn't been going out that long, so they weren't hand in pocket - there should be an opportunity to grab her. He used Cullen's mobile to track him down by GPS - watched him at Rob Thomson's flat, back at the station, in a pub, then at his flat.

  Duncan had been outside Cullen's and saw Alison go in. He waited for an hour and saw Cullen arrive. Not long, after Alison left and he sprung into action, watching her head along Portobello High Street. He'd diverted via the park by Arthur's Seat so that he didn't make a big breadcrumb trail home.

  But now he was heading home with his bounty unconscious beside him. Maybe he'd take his time with her.

  forty-nine

  Cullen rushed forward. She had silver duct tape partially covering her mouth, like it had been done in a hurry. Cullen pulled the remaining tape off, started untying the rope.

  "Scott, oh my God."

  He held her. "It's going to be okay," he said.

  A scream came from the living room.

  "Wait here," he said.

  He went back into the hall, just as a figure disappeared into the stairwell. Cullen ran into the living room.

  Keith Miller lay on the floor, his white shirt slowly turning red. His eyes rolled, struggling to focus.

  "Fuckin'..."

  Miller clutched at his chest. Cullen kneeled down, pulled his mobile out. He struggled to control his fingers, as he called Bain to get the fuck over here with an ambulance.

  Miller tried to sit up. "Go get the fucker, Scotty, I'll be fine."

  Cullen hesitated for a moment, then ran out of the flat. He looked down the stairwell. An old man was slowly climbing the stairs, carrying a bag of shopping.

  "Did anyone come down the stairs?" called Cullen.

  "No, son," replied the old man.

  "Call the police!" shouted Cullen.

  Cullen looked up - the ceiling hatch was open. Cullen realised that Wilson was going to cut across the roof and descend another stairwell. Cullen didn't have time to work out which one. He'd have to go after him. If he waited outside, Wilson could hide in any of the flats. Cullen pulled himself up onto the ladder, which hung precariously over the centre of the stairwell, and climbed up onto the roof. He couldn't see Wilson.

  The blow sent him sprawling.

  He tumbled and slid to the edge of the roof. He stopped himself just in time, his fingers clawing away at the roof felt, eventually grabbing hold of the gutter pipe. Cullen's face hung over the edge, nothing between him and the car park far below.

  He pushed himself away from the edge, reaching round to feel the back of his head. It was wet. His hand was covered in blood.

  Wilson was coming towards him, a broken slate dripping with blood in one hand. Cullen tried to pull himself to his feet, but his legs failed to respond.

  "Thought you were pretty smart, didn't you?" shouted Wilson. "Finally caught up with me? Well, after I've finished with you, I'll go back and finish my work downstairs. Your friend down there can't have much time left. And as for your bird, well, I'll take my time with this one."

  Cullen's feet slipped on the moss, preventing him from getting up. Wilson was almost on him.

  "Should have brought my knife with me," said Wilson, "but it's hanging out of your mate's guts. Had to buy a new one, can you believe it? But this slate will do just fine."

  "Why did you do it?" yelled Cullen, desperately trying to buy time. His feet slipped again.

  "Why does anyone do anything?" asked Wilson. "Because they can. And because they can get away with it."

  From this angle, Wilson seemed gigantic. Cullen could never beat him in an even fight.

  "You won't get away with it," said Cullen. "You'll have killed two police officers. They'll hunt you all over the world."

  "Yeah? Oh well."

  Wilson raised the slate over his head, ready to bring it down on Cullen. Cullen kicked out wildly, his left foot connecting to Wilson's knee with a satisfying crunch.

  Wilson screamed, then staggered forward. He landed on Cullen. Wilson's fists pounded into Cullen; fire burned in Cullen's chest, head and arms. He couldn't breathe. Cullen felt something snap in his chest. His whole body seared with pain. Wilson straddled him and picked up the slate, ready to smash it back down on Cullen's head. Cullen brought his left knee up as hard as he could, sending a jolt of pain through his own body. He felt it connect with something soft.

  Cullen brought his knee up again. Wilson squealed and slumped forward, a dead weight. Cullen struggled to roll him off, his ears ringing from Wilson's yells. Ignoring the pain in his chest, he struggled to his feet.

  Wilson rolled over and tried to get up. Cullen stumbled towards the ladder, sliding on the slippery roof.

  Cullen could hear Wilson behind him. He turned; Wilson had picked up the slate again. He staggered forward towards Cullen and swung the slate at his head. Cullen lurched back, just avoiding the blow. He lost his footing and slid, towards the edge of the roof again. He managed to stop himself before the edge and scrambled to his feet, looking around. Wilson was limping towards him slowly, almost casually.

  It had all come down to this one moment. Wilson had killed four people. Miller lay dying, Cullen was next, and then Alison.

  Cullen edged up the slope. Wilson circled, holding the slate out in front of him like a knife. Cullen suddenly slid forward on the moss and kicked out. He connected solidly wi
th Wilson's damaged knee. The knee buckled and Wilson pitched forward.

  Cullen leaped onto Wilson and grabbed him in a half Nelson hold, arm locked tight behind his neck, his knee hard into the small of Wilson's back, immobilising him.

  Cullen reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He called Bain with one hand, the other gripping Wilson tight.

  "Where the fuck are you?" Cullen shouted when the call was answered.

  "Not far away," replied Bain. "Two minutes."

  "I've got him. I'm on the roof."

  He ended the call.

  "Duncan Wilson, you have the right to remain silent."

  fifty

  "I want to be in there," said Cullen.

  "Sundance," said Bain, "you are in no fit state to be interviewing anyone."

  They were back at the station, standing outside the interview room with McNeill. Cullen's head had been patched up by DS Holdsworth, in his remit as First Aid officer. His ribs burned but he didn't want to go to hospital until they'd put Wilson away. Miller had been rushed off to the Royal infirmary - it was touch and go at best.

  "I don't care," said Cullen. "I need to hear his words. I'll sit at the back."

  Bain raised his arms in the air. "Come on, then."

  Cullen smiled. "Thank you. How's Alison?"

  "Your bird?" said Bain. "She'll pull through."

  "Did they find anything in his flat?" asked Cullen. "Any evidence? There are two missing laptops."

  Bain shared a long look with McNeill, then slowly nodded. "Aye, we found something, not the laptops, though."

  "What then?"

  "We think we've found Caroline's flat keys. Irvine's around there now, checking that they fit the locks."

  Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. "Are you not going to say anything?" he asked.

  "Eh?" asked Bain.

  "Are you not going to apologise to me?"

  Bain scowled. "Don't fuckin' push it, Sundance. I will say that you did some good work there. I do need to give you a doing about something, though."

  "What's that?"

  "Doing more unauthorised phone checks."

  "Gail's number, right?"

  "Right."

  "Did anything come back?" asked Cullen.

  "Tommy Smith traced it to a phone from the same consignment as that one for Caroline."

  "You're kidding me?"

  "No, it was in the next transaction at that till," said Bain. "You fuckin' missed that one. Our killer bought two phones in separate transactions."

  Cullen ran his hand through his hair. His head throbbed when he touched the bandage.

  "So that links the killer to Gail and Caroline."

  "Got it," said Bain.

  "And Rob Thomson?" he asked.

  "I've let him go." Bain laughed bitterly. "We may have to use him as a witness against this chump," he said, thumbing towards the interview room.

  "Just hope he doesn't sue," said Cullen.

  "Aye." Bain rubbed his moustache. "The reason I was on the phone to Tommy Smith was to get a trace on that 999 call."

  "And?"

  "Untraceable," said Bain. "He did ask me where I wanted the bill sent, which pissed me right off, so I got him talking."

  "Well, some good came of it," said Cullen.

  "Aye, I suppose," said Bain. "Right, let's get in there and interview him."

  "I will refer you to the point about police brutality, Inspector Bain," said Wilson's solicitor. Ironically enough, it was Campbell McLintock. He was wearing a more sober outfit than when he'd defended Rob Thomson.

  Bain and McNeill were leading the interview, Wilson and McLintock facing them. Cullen sat at the back of the room behind Bain, with PC Simon Buxton standing by the door. "Your officer gave chase to my client and then assaulted him," added McLintock.

  "And I will remind you that your client had just stuck a knife in another of my officers," said Bain. "And the incident that you're referring to was actually your client clattering an officer on the head with a slate, as the officer popped his head out of a roof hatch."

  "Inspector, my client has suffered a severe injury to his knee and his shoulder as a result of the attentions of one of your men."

  "I'd also like to remind you that your client had the victim of a kidnapping in his bedroom, with the probable intention of murdering her. And that's in addition to the four murders we intend charging him with. So let's cut out all of this rubbish, shall we?"

  Bain looked over at Wilson. He sat there expressionless. Cullen hoped that there was no last minute surprise that he had in store to get him off.

  "Mr Wilson," said Bain, "I am going to charge you with the murders of Caroline Adamson, Deborah Curtis, Gail McBride and Kimberly Milne. I hope to God that I don't have to add Keith James Miller to that list. I'm also going to charge you with the abduction of Alison Carnegie, and the assault on DC Cullen here. Have you got anything to say in your defence?"

  Wilson shrugged. "Nothing."

  There was a knock at the door. Buxton opened it and took a paper message from the uniform on the other side. He moved over and spoke a few words into Bain's ear, but Cullen didn't catch it.

  "You do know that we've found keys in your flat. He have confirmed that they are for the door to the flat belonging to Caroline Adamson?" asked Bain. The message must have been Irvine's confirmation.

  Wilson and McLintock exchanged a look. "Inspector," said the solicitor, "I'd like to confer with my client. In private."

  Bain slowly got to his feet and spoke into the recorder, pausing the interview. He thumbed at Buxton by the door. "He's staying."

  He led Cullen and McNeill out. Cullen shut the door behind them.

  "What's he doing?" asked McNeill.

  "I don't think that it's good news, Butch," said Bain. "He's going to try and whitewash us. This is classic McLintock - he'll try and discredit them, suggest or infer a plant." He rubbed his moustache. "We've got him with those keys. Any jury's going to convict on those grounds alone."

  "Can't believe that he's representing both of them," said Cullen.

  Bain nodded. "He does not give a flyin' fuck about ethics. He's just after the cash." Bain stroked his moustache. "I want to get a line-up in front of Johnny Soutar arranged ASAP, but with this Wilson boy in it instead of Rob Thomson."

  "All of the circumstantial evidence you've got for Rob backs it up, though," said Cullen. "They're dead ringers, especially at a distance."

  "You might be right."

  "How do you want to play it?" asked McNeill.

  "See what he says, I suppose," said Bain. "But we've got him by the bollocks here."

  Buxton opened the door and nodded at Bain. "They're ready for you."

  Bain led them back into the room and restarted the interview.

  "So Mr Wilson, do you have anything to say?" asked Bain.

  "My client would like to say a few words," said McLintock.

  Wilson looked between Bain and McNeill, directly at Cullen. Cullen sat forward in his chair.

  "I'll admit to the abduction," said Wilson.

  "I'm not accepting that," said Bain. "We're throwing the whole book at you."

  Wilson looked down at the desk. When he looked up, it was at Cullen.

  "Actually," said Wilson, "I'd like to hear what DC Cullen's got to say about all of this."

  Bain looked round at Cullen and nodded.

  "You made a couple of mistakes," said Cullen.

  Wilson tilted his head at him. "I did, did I?"

  "The death threats," said Cullen. "That was your big mistake. You told us that Rob had threatened Caroline. You hoped that would push us towards charging Rob. It almost worked. But nobody backed you up. You made another mistake; you told me on the phone that Kim Milne told you about the death threats. You had just killed her."

  "Anything else?"

  "The keys we found in your flat," said Cullen. "They linked you to all of the murders. But if you hadn't made up the story about the death thre
ats, we'd never have found them. Shame we didn't find any of the laptops you'd stolen."

  Wilson smirked. "So why did I do it all then?"

  Cullen took his time, framing his words carefully. "I think you killed these women to get your revenge on Rob Thomson. He took Kim away from you. You lost your job because of him. And that really messed you up." Cullen took a deep breath. "You stalked Caroline on the Schoolbook site, read her private messages. You contacted her, posing as Martin Webb, and eventually you persuaded her to meet you. You used an image from a male model website as the profile photo. You set up a false paper trail that led us nowhere. You bought a Pay As You Go mobile phone, which we traced from CCTV footage. You dressed in clothing that made you look like Rob Thomson, if you were spotted." Cullen took another deep breath, fiddled with his bandage. "Gail and Debi, I'll admit, I'm struggling to understand why you killed them. But you killed Kim Milne to frame it all on Rob Thomson. You wanted him caught red-handed."

  "Very good," said Wilson. "Carry on, I'm enjoying this."

  "You could have done a much better job of framing Rob Thomson, though," said Cullen. "I mean, you didn't leave any DNA evidence linking him to the crimes, and you didn't leave a breadcrumb trail on Schoolbook. That would have been the clincher. I wouldn't have doubted your trail if it had led straight to one of Rob's computers. And then I wouldn't have doubted the stupid death threats story that you'd put out there."

  Wilson burst out laughing. "I'll remember that for next time I kill someone's girlfriend and ex-wife."

  "Mr Wilson," spluttered McLintock. "These allegations are unsubstantiated. You do not have to respond to them until they are laid before you in court, in front of a judge and jury."

  Wilson shrugged. "I think they've probably got enough on me now, though." He stared at Cullen. "Okay, I did it. I killed them all." He looked at McLintock. "I'll save the taxpayer a load of money by not having some long, drawn out court case. Besides, I think Rob is suffering enough now and that was always the main thing. His beloved is dead. I really, really don't care. I can take prison."