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

by Ed James

"Aye, they did," said McNeill, "but it's not exactly going to help. How many blue ropes get sold in Edinburgh every single day?" She sighed. "How's your stuff going?"

  "Getting there. Nothing earth-shattering so far."

  "It's important stuff, I guess." She seemed distracted.

  "Did you get anywhere with her bank records?" said Cullen.

  "Nowhere so far but then it is a Saturday. No doubt Bain will have a go at me for that as well." She tightened the cap on the bottle and set it aside. "The card used to book the hotel room was reported stolen on Wednesday morning. Dead end."

  "Bollocks."

  She nodded over his shoulder. "Here comes trouble."

  Cullen turned to see Bain approaching, practically shouting into his mobile.

  He slumped into his seat, ignoring them. "Paul, Paul, Paul, you'll have to take that up with Jim when he gets in. You're reporting to me, all right? Now get the other guests found." He paused. "Aye, whoever you need." Another pause. "No, not McNeill or Cullen. You can have Miller. Okay, there's another couple coming in from St Leonards, I'll get them up to you. Bye." He snapped his phone shut. "Fuckin' arse." He looked at Cullen and McNeill. "Have either of you seen Miller?"

  "Not all day," said Cullen.

  "Me neither," said McNeill.

  "Got a lead," said Bain. "Wilko's turned up some CCTV footage at the hotel. I wish I could spare either of you two. In lieu of a safe pair of hands, I'll have to get Monkey Boy on it. I've got to lead the press conference at three. Christ."

  "Got my RIPSA approved yet?" said Cullen.

  Bain shot him a glare. "I'm seeing Jim in ten minutes, no doubt after Wilko's finished moaning about me." He picked up his bottle of energy drink. "Get back to your phone calls, Cullen."

  ***

  Cullen finished a call with a man who seemed at best a vague acquaintance of Caroline's. He slammed the phone down.

  Another half hour and nothing to show for it. He looked through his friends and saw no one else from Caroline's list. Another dead end.

  McNeill grabbed his shoulder. "Come on, Scott. We've got our RIPSA approved."

  twenty-three

  They pulled into the car park at Schoolbook's office in McNeill's yellow Fiat Punto. Cullen would much rather they'd gone in a squad car as he wouldn't have had to put up with her music on the way over - he had discovered there was no volume setting too quiet for Lady Gaga.

  Cullen looked across the Livingston skyline. Even if it meant having to work with Bain, he was glad he wasn't based there any more. "How do you want to play this?"

  "We need to get an extract of their database," she said. "Charlie Kidd's supposed to be heading over, but I can't see his Mini."

  Kidd was the Technical Support Unit analyst assigned to Turnbull and his teams. As far as Cullen knew, they'd only ever used him for scouring through suspects' laptops and mobiles.

  "He wants a dump of the database to do whatever it is they do in Technical Support, right?" said Cullen.

  "Other than drink Dr Pepper and eat cheese Doritos."

  Cullen laughed. "So we can get IP addresses, messages, absolutely anything else Martin Webb has left on there."

  "Quite the closet geek, aren't you?"

  "Did a course on this stuff earlier in the year," said Cullen. "Part of my Acting DC tenure. It's going to become a much bigger part of our jobs."

  A Mini Cooper pulled up in the next space, a vintage model - early eighties by the number plate.

  "There he is," said McNeill.

  "That's him?" said Cullen. "When you said a Mini, I thought you meant the new ones."

  She laughed.

  They got out and headed over. Kidd got out of the driver's side. He was a skinny guy in his late thirties with bad skin, his thinning hair tied tightly in a ponytail, shaved up to ear level.

  As they shook hands, Cullen did a double take - Kidd was wearing one of Tom's t-shirts - Isn't it 2000 already? Where's my jetpack?

  "I was on my day off," said Kidd, in a rough Dundee accent.

  "You're not alone," said Cullen.

  McNeill led them inside.

  Gregor Aitchison was sitting just inside the front door waiting for them, his leg jigging up and down. He'd clearly done something about letting the police in unsupervised the previous day. Cullen introduced Kidd.

  "Got a DBA waiting at my desk," said Aitchison. "He'll help you with your extract."

  Heads glanced up at them as he led them through the open plan office, looking away just as quickly. At Aitchison's desk sat a big man in jeans and a loose-fitting jumper. He got to his feet - he was taller and more muscular than he'd initially appeared.

  "Duncan Wilson." His stare seemed to bore through Cullen. He grinned at them, revealing yellow teeth. "How can I help?"

  "I'm sure Mr Aitchison has briefed you on DC Cullen's visit yesterday?" said McNeill.

  Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. Gregor was just giving me the background. It seems strange."

  "Well, as you'll be aware, the disappearance has turned into a murder investigation." McNeill brandished the RIPSA form. "We want to speak to whoever's using the name Martin Webb on your website. We now have authority to obtain a copy of your database."

  Wilson frowned at Aitchison. "Are you happy with this?"

  "Aye, I've spoken to the boss."

  Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Are you really sure?"

  Aitchison looked away from them.

  Wilson moved close to Aitchison, seeming to loom over him. "Legal told us we shouldn't." He looked at Cullen and McNeill. "There's no way we can just hand this over, warrant or not. As well as the data, we would be handing over our intellectual property, our code and database structures. Our competitors would kill for some of the tricks in there."

  McNeill rolled her eyes in despair. "Just read the form."

  Aitchison made a show of reading the document. "Okay." He handed it to Wilson, who scanned through it.

  "Gregor, you really should check with Clive," said Wilson.

  Aitchison looked twitchy, obviously uncomfortable with the stance he was forced to take. Cullen wondered if it was the fact he had to take a stance at all.

  "Look, we're a law-abiding company and we're more than happy to assist your search," said Aitchison. "But I can't pass this database on to the police. Our lawyer says I don't have to. This document only gives you access to the records pertaining to Martin Webb."

  McNeill folded her arms. "If that's all you're prepared to deliver, then I'll see what the Procurator Fiscal has to say about the remainder."

  Aitchison was perspiring. "I'll have to run this by the boss. He's based at our Head Office in Croydon." He picked up his big Samsung mobile and wandered off out of earshot.

  Kidd tried to start a conversation with Wilson. "Didn't know Schoolbook was based in Croydon."

  "I didn't know myself until I started," said Wilson. "I'm just a contractor. Self-employed. Pays the bills, but I don't take my work home with me, if you know what I mean."

  "What is this place?" said Kidd.

  "Data centre," said Wilson. "The entire database is stored in these buildings. There's a back-up on some servers in the states and on some Alba Bank servers as well."

  Cullen raised an eyebrow. "Alba Bank?"

  "Aye," said Wilson. "They're rock solid."

  "Why Livingston, though?" said Kidd.

  Wilson shrugged. "Proximity to Alba Bank? Their data centre's just down the road in an unmarked building. Also, they can hire decent people on cheap rates compared with London." He grinned. "The joke is the reason they're up here is they don't need to cool the servers because it's so cold outside."

  Cullen knew from bitter experience how cold West Lothian could be.

  Aitchison reappeared, the armpit area of his t-shirt dark with sweat. He tapped his mobile against the side of his head, his eyes closed.

  "Well?" said McNeill.

  Aitchison reopened his eyes. "Duncan, can you get an extract of the record for Martin Webb,
please?"

  Wilson scowled. "How much of it?"

  "All tables." Aitchison sighed. "Full history."

  "Are you one hundred per cent sure?" said Wilson.

  "Just do it," said Aitchison.

  Wilson tilted his head then started tapping at the workstation.

  "That's all you're going to get with that document," said Aitchison.

  "We'll accept the records for that account for now," said McNeill, "but we'll be back to get the rest."

  "Fine," said Aitchison.

  Kidd leaned over the back of Wilson's chair. "What are you up to?"

  "What we agreed."

  Kidd turned to McNeill. "This isn't right. His SQL statement's all over the place."

  McNeill scowled. "Do we need to have a conversation about obstruction?"

  Aitchison closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I've been told I can't give away any intellectual content relating to our database structures or data model, so the files you'll get will just be the raw data."

  Kidd's eyes bulged. "You're kidding me."

  "What does that mean?" said Cullen.

  "Imagine a spreadsheet full of data with no column headings," said Kidd.

  "So you'll be flying blind?"

  Kidd nodded.

  "You're just after messages and IP addresses," said Wilson. "I can show you that."

  "It's not just that," said Kidd. "I need to look at everything to check for patterns. This boy has been elusive and anything on your database could help us find him. You'd be surprised at what I need to look at."

  Wilson shrugged. "I'm not sure your RIPSA covers all of that."

  "It does," said Kidd. "If you don't give us everything, then we're not much further forward."

  McNeill looked at Wilson and Aitchison. "Is that right?"

  Eventually, Aitchison nodded.

  "This is a murder investigation," she said. "If I want to, I could have this entire place shut down. There's nothing we can do without that information."

  Aitchison sat blinking. He reached for his mobile again.

  "No, you don't." McNeill grabbed the phone out of his hands. "You're giving us headings and anything else Mr Kidd here needs to unpick this."

  Aitchison slumped back in his chair. "Fine. Duncan will note the relevant fields and tables."

  "And I need primary keys, joins and all that," said Kidd.

  Cullen thought it sounded good but he had no idea what Kidd was talking about - he hoped Wilson and Aitchison did.

  "Fine, fine," said Aitchison.

  Kidd reached into his pocket, retrieving a Lothian & Borders branded memory stick. "Put it on here." He looked at McNeill. "We're going to have to set up an extranet socket to get the full database though."

  "That's for the lawyers to agree," said Aitchison. "As I've said, we're a law-abiding company."

  Kidd pointed at Aitchison's screen. "If you're so law abiding, how come you've got ten torrents running?"

  Aitchison blushed. "They're all legal."

  twenty-four

  McAllister got up and kicked the chair back under the desk. He glared at Cullen, a look of fury in his eyes, then marched off towards the exit without saying anything.

  Cullen called after him. "Get back here."

  McAllister stood in the doorway and laughed at Cullen. "No way, pal. I'll see you the morn's morn." He turned around and left the Incident Room.

  The room was half empty, with most officers either on phone calls or out of the station on one of the many investigations Bain was running. Cullen breathed a sigh of relief - hardly anyone had witnessed the exchange, only Caldwell had really been paying attention. He sat in his chair and leaned back, his heart thudding from the confrontation.

  "McAllister's an arse," said Caldwell from across the desk.

  Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "I know that, but I'm the one who'll look bad."

  "No, you won't. Just speak to Bain, get him reallocated."

  "Yeah, I would if I thought it would do any good." Cullen put his pen on the desk and rubbed his eyes. "What time are you in till tonight?"

  "I'm on the back shift. Ten."

  Cullen picked up McAllister's sheet and scanned it. "Jesus Christ. It's worse than I thought. He's only done two. What the fuck's he been doing all day?"

  Caldwell sighed. "Smoking and drinking coffee. I worked with him on the beat a few years ago. He's the laziest person I've ever met."

  "How do these people not get found out?"

  "Here." She took the sheet off him. "We'll split the remainder. I've finished mine."

  "Already?"

  "Aye, but I must have had the easy list, and I didn't have to go over to Schoolbook. Not that it got us anywhere, mind." She pointed to her laptop. "Six of them had emailed Caroline about films from the discussion boards, three of them hadn't seen her since school and the other five were acquaintances from university who hadn't seen her since 2002. I've just been typing the notes up. How are you getting on?"

  Cullen looked through his own list. "I've done nine."

  "Well, I'll take eight off Willie's list. You take the other four."

  "Make it nine and five," said Cullen. "I don't trust he's done the first two correctly."

  She smiled. "Race you."

  "What does the winner get?"

  "Not to write the report up?"

  Cullen laughed. "You're on."

  "Enough flirting, you pair."

  Bain stood behind them, hands on his hips.

  "We weren't-"

  "Leave it, Cullen." Bain crossed the Incident Room to his desk and sat down, cracking open a can of energy drink.

  Cullen followed him over, pulling up the chair next to him. "There's something I need to speak to you about."

  Bain huffed. "Cullen, if you love me, I've told you - when we're off duty."

  "This is serious."

  Bain put his feet up on the desk and took a long look at Cullen. "Right, go on then. Fire away."

  "It's McAllister. His attitude's bad. He's only completed two calls all day, which we reckon we'll have to redo. Caldwell's finished her list already. He's dead weight."

  Bain yawned. "He's resource, unfortunately." He took another sip. "You struggling to manage him?"

  Cullen paused, realising he shouldn't have taken this to Bain. Any problem would inevitably be seen as a result of Cullen's inadequacies. "He's unmanageable."

  Bain eyed him, seemed to make a judgment. "I'll see what I can do. The door-to-door might be more his thing." He winked at Cullen. "This managing people thing is a learning curve, Sundance."

  Cullen was fed up with being patronised. "I suppose it must be."

  Bain drained the can then crushed it. "How did it go with that RIPSA form? Am I going to get a doing for it?"

  "We sort of got what we wanted."

  "Sort of doesn't sound good," said Bain.

  "We were after the full data set, but they just gave us the Martin Webb stuff."

  "Do we need the rest of it?"

  "It could prove useful," said Cullen.

  "Could and useful aren't good enough," said Bain. "We're trying to get personal data about members of the public. We've got to have a very good reason for that."

  "Well, I'll leave it for you to arrange getting the rest of it," said Cullen.

  Bain smiled broadly, a twinkle in his eye. "Sneaky little bastard, aren't you?"

  Cullen tried to laugh along, to see if that made him stop.

  "Speaking of sneaky wee bastards," said Bain, "where the fuck's Miller?"

  "Thought you had him looking through the CCTV footage from the hotel after the HOLMES stuff?"

  "Aye, but he can't be taking that long, can he?" said Bain.

  "Why do you need him?" said Cullen. "Surely if there's anything on there, he'll find you."

  "Aye, maybe." Bain smacked his hand on a brown envelope lying on his desk. "Got Caroline Adamson's mobile records from the Forensic Investigation boys. I wanted Miller to look through it. Maybe
that way he'll keep out of Turnbull's way."

  "How's it going up at the hotel?"

  "Wilko's making an arse of it as usual." Bain shook his head. "Chantal and Irvine have interviewed everyone who was there that night and they've turned up absolutely nothing. Now they're trying to find everyone who's stayed there over the last week. Needle in a bloody haystack." He exhaled. "Have to wait and see what happens when the press release goes out."

  "Well, if you don't need me," said Cullen, "I'll go back to flirting with PC Caldwell."

  twenty-five

  Cullen walked through the Technical Support Unit office on the fifth floor of the station. While the building had only been open a matter of months, the tech guys had already made the place look like a pigsty, their desks covered in junk - soft drink bottles, bags of crisps and tortilla chips, fast food containers, nothing natural or nutritious in sight, not that coppers were much better. The window blinds were all closed despite it being the middle of summer, making Cullen feel like he was in the mortuary.

  Kidd's desk was an IT paradise - two big flat panel displays, four desktop units and a wealth of dark grey boxes, all with various unobvious interfaces tangled together by a nest of cables covering the entire top. He was ploughing through a screen of data, which looked like gibberish.

  Cullen gave up waiting for Kidd to notice him. "Have you finished extracting the data yet?"

  Kidd jumped off his seat. "Christ, Cullen, you gave us a fright."

  "Sorry."

  Kidd started playing with his ponytail. "What was it you wanted?"

  "How are you getting on with the extract?" said Cullen.

  Kidd pointed at the screen of gibberish on the right-hand panel. "Here's the raw data."

  Cullen could make out certain text fields and dates, things like that, but it was mostly full of odd characters.

  Kidd pointed to the screen on the left. "And here it is all tidied up."

  A big table showed information on Martin Webb. Kidd scrolled down the page, showing messages between Webb and Caroline Adamson.

  "This looks great," said Cullen. "Can you print it out?"

  "It's already spooling," said Kidd.