Ghost in the Machine: An edge-of-your-seat serial killer thriller (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 1)

by Ed James

  Bain made eye contact again. His face grew into a rictus of a smile. "Need to get an appraisal done on you, Cullen."

  Cullen had been working for Bain for the last three months since receiving his full DC tenure. He wouldn't exactly describe it as having lucked out - far from it. "Let me know where and when."

  "Less of the cheek," said Bain. "It's your responsibility to arrange time with me."

  Cullen was determined not to rise to the bait. "Fine."

  Bain had already given Cullen the requisite doing for the morning's disaster. Falconer was finally apprehended just off Broughton Street, a mile or so from the incident, and it looked like he might finally be going away.

  Not that Bain saw any of it in a good light - Cullen had fucked up. He'd been shouted at in a meeting room for a good forty minutes, becoming numb to it after twenty. If it wasn't for the fact Cullen had been pestering Bain for three months to lead some investigations, he'd be able to let it go. As it was, the failure stung - he'd not get another chance for months, if at all.

  Bain threw a file across the partition onto Cullen's desk. "Anyway, here you go. Get reading that. You and Butch are digging this one up. No fuckin' it up, now."

  Butch was Bain's less than affectionate nickname for McNeill, now sitting at the desk to Cullen's right. Ignoring him, she took a bite of her roll, daintily covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed, staring into space.

  Cullen bit his tongue. "I'll get on it."

  Bain got to his feet and stretched out. "Right, I'm off for a shite." He crumpled the can. "That stuff goes straight through me."

  Cullen started eating his own roll, sifting through the file as he chewed. It was a cold case still open from the previous November, the trail long since frozen over, though Cullen couldn't see why the Cold Case Unit had pushed it back to active CID. By the time he finished his lunch, he had no new insights the previous investigating team hadn't found. Standard protocol would involve re-interviewing victims, relatives and witnesses - weeks of work.

  There was a sound from across the partition and Cullen looked up. At Bain's desk stood Detective Chief Inspector Jim Turnbull, Bain's boss, clutching a sheet of paper. He was the hairiest man Cullen had ever seen - thick tufts sprouting from everywhere - the top of his collar, between the buttons on his shirt, down his neck.

  "Jim, how can I help?" said McNeill with a warm smile.

  "Sharon, always a pleasure." Turnbull nodded at Bain's desk. "I was looking for DI Bain, but I see he's not around." His voice was deep and syrupy, the accent Borders, most likely Melrose.

  McNeill grimaced. "He's off to the toilet."

  Turnbull grinned. "Ah, I see. I take it he drilled down to a sufficient level of granularity in terms of what he would be producing?"

  McNeill just raised an eyebrow.

  Turnbull bellowed with laughter.

  Bain approached, drying his hands on his trousers. "Boss."

  "At least you washed your hands for once," said Turnbull.

  "Always do," said Bain. "Now, what can I do you for?"

  "Just had Queen Charlotte Street on the phone," said Turnbull. "They've got a MisPer case, wondered if we could have a look at it."

  Bain exhaled. "We're pretty much flat out here, sir."

  McNeill shook her head in disbelief at Bain, out of sight of Turnbull. "Lying bastard," she said, just loud enough for Cullen to hear.

  Cullen leaned over. "Why's he lying?"

  "His stats are looking good at the moment," she said, "doesn't want anything else to lower his average like your trip to Pilrig Park did this morning."

  Turnbull sat on the edge of Bain's desk, both turned away from Cullen and McNeill, continuing their chat with lowered voices.

  Miller, the fourth member of their team, wandered over and sat at the desk next to Bain, across from McNeill. He was tall and skinny with it, his spiky dark hair as long as was permitted for a police officer. He always looked uncomfortable in a suit, as if it wore him rather than the other way round. "You been for a roll yet?"

  McNeill shushed Miller and leaned closer to Turnbull and Bain, her finger pretending to scan through the lines of the report in front of her.

  Turnbull stood up and turned around, causing McNeill to pretend she was reaching for the phone. Cullen could hear them clearly now.

  "I understand what you're saying, Brian, but this is of the utmost importance. We've got to build bridges with our uniformed brethren, you know that. We can't just cherry-pick the low-hanging fruit all the time or storm in and demand resource as we see fit. It cuts both ways."

  "I'll see what we can do," said Bain.

  Turnbull handed the sheet of paper to Bain then play-punched his shoulder. "Thanks, Brian. I've already assigned the case to you." He checked his watch, nodded at Bain and set off towards the stairwell.

  Miller sprang from his seat like a greyhound out of the traps, intercepting Turnbull by the door.

  Bain glared at them and muttered something under his breath. He turned around and logged in to his computer, tapping furiously at the keys. He lifted the mouse up and slammed it on the desk a couple of times. He glared at the sheet of paper, now face up on his desk.

  Miller wandered back over, smiling to himself.

  "What were you up to?" said Bain.

  "Nothing. Just asking Jim there about getting my DC role made permanent."

  Bain glowered. "All that shite's supposed to go through me."

  "You weren't doing anything about it," said Miller.

  "You're a cheeky wee bastard." Bain grinned then turned his glare to McNeill. "Right, Butch, you probably overheard anyway but we've been given a case. Seems like tedium. I want the Sundance Kid here on it to help with his development, so you're on your own with that cold case."

  Cullen closed his eyes in frustration - Sundance Kid again. He hated the nickname.

  Bain handed him the sheet. "Young woman from Leith has been missing since Wednesday night. Name of Caroline Adamson."

  "You know what they say about women from Leith," said Miller, looking for a laugh.

  Bain glared at him. "Miller, this is serious. CID wouldn't be getting called out if it was some scrubber disappearing after a night out, all right?"

  "Sorry, Gaffer." Miller's eyes looked anywhere but at Bain.

  "It's got the address of her pal who called it in." Bain looked straight at Cullen. "There's a uniform round there now." He nodded at Miller. "Take Monkey Boy here with you. And try and keep him away from superior officers."

  "Is this anything to do with what happened in Pilrig Park?" said Cullen.

  "It might or it might not," said Bain. "Far as I'm concerned, what goes on in Pilrig Park stays in Pilrig Park."

  four

  Cullen turned the pool car off Leith Walk onto Dalmeny Street, taking a left at the end and driving down Sloan Street, a generic block of tenements between Leith Walk and Easter Road. They struck lucky - a car pulled off from outside number ten, allowing Cullen to park in the space. They could just as easily have walked down from the station - it was less than half a mile - but it was standard policy to drive.

  "Used to live round the corner from here," said Miller.

  "Very interesting," said Cullen.

  He picked up his notes off the back seat and opened the MisPer report. It told him very little. Someone in Queen Charlotte had done some legwork already, checking the hospitals and crossing off the few dead bodies that had turned up across Scotland and the north of England since Wednesday. He checked the MisPer's description - five foot four, thin, dark hair and brown eyes.

  The address they'd been sent round to was the home of an Amy Cousens.

  "Come on," said Cullen, "let's go."

  "What's the story with you and Sharon?" said Miller as they walked down the street.

  Cullen reddened. "Story?"

  "You're following her round like a little lost puppy," said Miller. "Slipping her a length, are you?"

  "No."

  Miller lau
ghed. "Aye, aye. I've touched a nerve there."

  Cullen had clocked early on that Miller didn't exactly have a positive attitude to women. He wasn't Mr Sensitive himself, but Miller seemed like a caveman. He'd decided ignoring him would be the best policy.

  Like so many tenements in the city, the front door intercom had been vandalised, the stairwell open to the street. They climbed the stairs to the third floor and chapped on the flat door.

  A bald-headed PC answered, looking like he should have retired years ago. He came out onto the landing, pulling the door to behind him and grunted an introduction. "PC Willie McAllister. Who are you then?"

  Cullen got out his warrant card and introduced himself and Miller. "Care to bring us up to speed?"

  "Her pal disappeared," said McAllister. "Didn't show up to collect her wee boy yesterday. The lassie through there gave Queen Charlotte station a buzz this morning. Someone came over, did a report, that's all I know. Our Inspector was a bit suspicious about it, so he called you lot in."

  "I've read the file," said Cullen. "Dredged up anything else since?"

  "Nothing so far. You'd better speak to the lassie herself." McAllister pulled his Airwave out of his jacket pocket. "I'd better get off and do some proper police work, let you boys go in and chat her up." He headed down the stair, a slight limp in his stride.

  "Old bastard," said Miller.

  Cullen gently knocked on the door as they entered. The flat was small, sparsely furnished and reasonably tidy. It was like every one bedroom flat in Edinburgh Cullen had been in over the years.

  "Amy Cousens?"

  The young woman sitting in an armchair in the living room was staring into space, her fingers drumming. She glanced at him then got to her feet. "That's me."

  Cullen figured she was quite pretty. She was in her late twenties, good figure and with blonde hair most likely out of a bottle.

  A small boy lay on the floor in the bay window, playing with some Doctor Who dolls, seemingly oblivious to the two strangers in the room. Cullen assumed it was Caroline Adamson's young son - he didn't remember the boy's name from the file. He was next to useless with children, figuring the kid could be anything from two to five years old.

  Cullen sat on the tattered leather sofa, with Miller at the far end.

  Amy returned to the armchair, her hands twitching against the fabric, her foot tapping. "Can I get you some tea? I've just made a pot."

  Cullen couldn't quite place her accent, West Coast somewhere, though less harsh than Glasgow. "I'm fine, thanks." He smiled.

  "I've just had one," said Miller.

  Cullen pulled his notebook from his coat pocket and turned to a fresh page. "I need to ask you some questions about Caroline Adamson. I'll apologise in advance if I go over anything you've already covered with another officer, but it's important I get a full account from you."

  She sighed. "Fine."

  "You reported Ms Adamson missing," said Cullen. "Do you have any idea where she might be?"

  Amy rolled her eyes. "That's why I phoned the police."

  Cullen smiled, trying to disarm her. "Can you tell me where she was going when she disappeared?"

  Amy took a deep breath. "She was out on a date with some guy. It was somewhere up the Bridges, near the Uni. Don't know where exactly. She just said it was on the Southside."

  "Was it a bar or a restaurant?"

  "I don't know."

  "Okay. What do you know about the person she was meeting?"

  Amy rubbed her eyes. "Not much to tell. She met him online. I don't even know his name. Caz could be like that. I think she's been chatting to him every day on the internet. It's been a few weeks at least."

  "I see. Do you know what site they met on? A dating site, maybe?"

  "Schoolbook."

  Cullen knew it - he had a profile on the site and had just downloaded the app for his mobile. He was constantly bombarded with friend requests from people at school, which he generally accepted then ignored. "When did you start worrying about Caroline?"

  Amy glanced at the small boy on the floor and bit her lip. "She dropped Jack off here from nursery after work on Wednesday. Caz was supposed to pick him up yesterday afternoon. I don't work Thursdays so I was keeping him."

  Cullen nodded. He drew a timeline in his notebook, running from Wednesday to now - Friday lunchtime - marking Thursday afternoon for the arranged collection. "So she's been gone almost two days?"

  "Aye."

  "When was the last time you actually heard from her?" said Cullen.

  "I got a text at about seven on Wednesday asking how Jack was."

  Cullen added it to the timeline. "What did the text message say?"

  "I let her know he was asleep," said Amy, "but she didn't reply. She'd been on the phone a few times before that. I think it was nerves."

  "Was it unusual she didn't reply?"

  "She likes to text, I suppose," said Amy, "and she likes to get the last word in. But I can go weeks without hearing from her."

  "Okay." Cullen sifted through his notes. "I assume you've tried to get hold of her on her mobile since then?"

  "Yeah, I called loads of times, but it just rang through to voicemail." Amy sat forward on her chair. "I left messages, sent a million texts. It's just not like her. She would always answer, just in case anything had happened to Jack."

  "Could she have gone back to this man's flat after their date?"

  Amy looked up at the ceiling. "Well, I suppose so, aye, but she should still have had her phone on." Her hand shook as she picked up her cup, tea spilling down the sides.

  Jack wandered over to Amy, his steps slow and unsteady - even Cullen now realised he couldn't be any more than two.

  "If she had gone back to his flat," said Amy, "that was two nights ago. She would've at least phoned me yesterday to see how Jack was, and to tell me she wasn't coming to pick him up."

  "Have you tried her flat?"

  "Aye, I've got a key," said Amy. "I was round there yesterday. I didn't want to barge in, in case they'd, you know, gone back there, so I just knocked. I went round again this morning. I let myself in, but she hasn't been back as far as I could tell."

  "And that's when you reported her missing?"

  "Aye."

  Cullen jotted some notes down - so far, he'd only confirmed what he already knew, though this mystery man was already digging at his synapses. "Have you contacted anyone who might know where she is? Any family?"

  "I phoned her parents, but they hadn't heard from her."

  "Any brothers or sisters?"

  "Caz is an only child," said Amy.

  "Where do her parents live?"

  "Carnoustie, near Dundee."

  Cullen knew it well - he was from Dalhousie in Angus, a small fishing town up the coast, the other side of Arbroath. The local football teams, Carnoustie Panmure and Dalhousie Trawlers, had a fierce rivalry in the Juniors league. If you asked anyone in Dalhousie, they'd tell you their golf course was the equal of their more famous close neighbour.

  Amy gave him contact details for Caroline's parents.

  "How about Jack's father?" said Cullen.

  Amy scowled. "Rob?" She looked away, her fingers gripping the armchair tight. "They divorced last year. They'd been together since they were at school, went to uni together, got married, had this wee fella then that scumbag had an affair with this girl he worked with, some tart called Kim. It tore Caroline in two."

  "What's his name?"

  "Rob Thomson." Amy stared at the floor for a moment - Cullen let her take some time. "He's a nasty piece of work."

  "Do you think he could have anything to do with her disappearance?"

  Amy hesitated for a moment. "I wouldn't know."

  "Do you have an address or phone number for him?"

  "Aye, Caz gave me some for when I had Jack." Amy sifted through her mobile and he noted them down.

  Cullen clocked Miller ogling Amy as she leaned forward to replace the phone, his tongue practically hanging ou
t of his mouth.

  "Could Caroline have run away?" said Cullen. "Maybe with this guy she was meeting?"

  Amy stared into space for a few seconds. "I doubt it. Jack's her life. She adores him."

  It seemed unlikely to Cullen - in his experience, most young mothers had at least some level of resentment towards their children, mixed with varying levels of maternal love. "She never expressed any frustration or irritation with her son?"

  "Not once, not ever." Amy shook her head, emphatically. "Caroline was very open about that sort of thing. She loved Jack. My other pals that have kids moan about them, but Caroline never did. I mean, she'd say if he'd been a nightmare that morning or whatever, but it never seemed to bother her."

  "Are there any friends or colleagues who might know where Caroline is?"

  Amy bit her lip. "You could maybe try Steve Allen. He was at school with her and Rob. Think he lives in Glasgow now. He's a really good pal of hers. He might have heard from her, I suppose. I tried but I couldn't get hold of him." She gave him a mobile number.

  "Anyone else?"

  Amy rubbed her nose for a few seconds. "There's maybe Debi Curtis. We both worked with Caroline a few years ago. I hardly see her now, but Caroline's still pretty close to her."

  Cullen noted her number down. "Where does Caroline work?"

  "The University. In the Linguistics Department. She's a senior secretary."

  Cullen noted the contact details. He reckoned he'd got all the information he could out of her. He needed to speak to Rob Thomson. "Is there any family Jack can stay with?"

  Amy nodded. "I spoke to her folks. He'll be fine with me until Caz shows up. If she's not turned up by the weekend, they'll come and get him."

  "What about her ex-husband?"

  "What about him?"

  "Have you spoken to Mr Thomson?" said Cullen.

  "He didn't answer my call."

  Cullen stood up, not sure whether to believe her or not. "You mentioned you had a key to Caroline's flat. Could I have a look around?"

  five

  The summer wind howled down the street as Cullen and Miller stood outside, having driven round in silence even though it would have been quicker walking. Caroline's top floor flat was on Smith's Place, a cul de sac just off Leith Walk full of ornate Victorian buildings now subdivided into flats.