Devil in the Detail (Scott Cullen Mysteries)

by Ed James

  The twitch in his groin suggested that he could, too. "Don't tempt me," he said.

  She kissed him on the lips. "We'd better wait till later," she said, "don't want to get caught at it inside HQ."

  She sat down on the chair next to his. He took her hand.

  "I was looking for your car," he said.

  "I got a lift," she replied. "Chantal Jain had to drop some evidence off."

  "Is she coming out tonight?"

  She shook her head. "She has a date."

  He nodded. "Do you want a drink?" he asked.

  "Not yet," she said. "Is the big, bad wolf here?"

  He nodded. "He just got a carpeting from Turnbull."

  "Oh?"

  "Aye," said Cullen, unable to hide his amusement. "Turnbull threatened to pass the case onto Cargill."

  "Jesus," she said, "that's all you need. Bain will be going loopy."

  Cullen knew that Sharon and Cargill had previous. They had fallen out five or so years ago, when they were DC and DS respectively, but she hadn't expanded on it any further. Unfortunately, that meant that, aside from moving to another division or conjuring a promotion out of thin air, Sharon was stuck with Wilkinson. Cullen was the other part of the equation - he could be moved away from Bain.

  "How is the case going?" she asked. "There's a lot of attention on it."

  He gave her a download of the case, save for the phone calls he'd received - he wasn't quite ready to share that with anyone yet.

  "I can see why Turnbull is talking about Cargill," she said. "This is classic Bain territory. He's like an unexploded bomb."

  "He's had a few explosions today already," he said.

  She laughed. "How are you coping?" she asked.

  "Eh?"

  "Child murder is among the worst that we deal with," she said. "I've been on courses on how to deal with it, Scott. You haven't."

  "Ach, you know me," he said.

  "I do," she said, "and that's why I'm so worried."

  "I'll be fine."

  "Okay," she said with a bright smile.

  "How's your day been?"

  Quickly her face turned sour. "Kenny Falconer is back on the scene," she said.

  Cullen knew the name - one of the first cases he'd worked on in CID. A nasty little ned who had stabbed a gang rival in Leith's Victoria Park. He managed to avoid a custodial sentence, pleading self-defence. His solicitor - the notorious Campbell McLintock - had managed to weasel his usual way through the criminal justice system.

  "What's he done now?" asked Cullen.

  "Stabbed a friend's mother," she replied.

  "Jesus Christ," said Cullen. "He continually manages to take it to new depths."

  "I've had him in for questioning all day," she said, "and of course he denies it. The problem is that he's got a solid alibi. We've been all over this guy and the alibi seems sound. There's nothing that we can find to discredit him."

  "Bastard."

  "You're telling me."

  She took a long, deep breath and looked into his eyes. He could have sat like that for ever.

  "Time for that drink," she said, getting to her feet.

  *

  "'Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care'," said Turnbull, his voice rising to a crescendo, "'An' dish them out their bill o' fare, auld Scotland wants nae skinkin' ware, that jaups in luggies, but, if ye wish her grateful prayer, gie her a haggis!'"

  He shouted the last line, finishing Burns' famous address to a haggis. He plunged the drawn knife deep into the haggis, slicing the gut wide open and letting the offal and oatmeal spill out onto the large serving dish it sat in. Cullen knew from bitter experience of attending many such events that Turnbull had missed the correct cue and that he should have put the knife in much earlier in the poem - the quantity of whisky swilling around the DCI's guts probably had something to do with it.

  His face was beaming, glowing in the attention from the assembled officers. Cullen figured that Turnbull was the third or fourth most important officer in the room. Bill Duffin - the ACC Turnbull reported to - stood beside him, also dressed in full Highland garb. Duffin had acted as the Master of Ceremonies, reading the Selkirk Grace before the traditional Scotch broth first course, though the gristly lamb and undercooked pearl barley meant that a fair few bowls had been left half full.

  The canteen serving staff now started handing round plates of haggis, neeps and tatties. Turnbull himself served the haggis for the first few plates until he seemed bored with it and wandered off to sit next to Duffin and DCS Whitehead at the top table.

  "Thought you'd be up hobnobbing with the big knobs, Brian," said Sharon.

  "I'd rather lose a fuckin' bollock," said Bain, his face already flushed red from the whisky. "Their chat is fuckin' rancid."

  "Not that ours is much better," said Irvine, as he put his wad of gum into a Tesco receipt as the Polish waitress handed him his plate.

  Cullen, Bain, Sharon, Irvine and Caldwell sat around a table at the window, overlooking the car park. DC Jain and DS Holdsworth were supposed to attend but had called off at the last minute for different reasons.

  "Speakin' of rancid chat," said Bain, "where is your boss, Butch?"

  Butch was Bain's nickname for Sharon which had consequently given rise to Cullen's Sundance nickname that he struggled to shake off.

  "Wilko?" she asked, referring to DI Paul Wilkinson. "He muttered something about not going to Scottish rubbish."

  Bain shook his head. "Turnbull gave me a rocket up my arse to attend," he said, "no idea why he got off with it."

  "Can't see why he went to so much trouble to get you here," said Cullen.

  Bain grinned. "Can I get you another whisky, Constable?" he asked.

  "Go on," replied Cullen, pushing his empty glass over.

  Bain had produced a bottle of Dunpender 18 Year Old single malt as they sipped at their broth earlier, a light Lowland whisky from East Lothian, not far from Garleton. Cullen had already had three nips and Bain gave out generous measures - a good couple of fingers in each. Sharon stuck to red wine - she and Caldwell had drunk the best part of a bottle already. Cullen was beginning to regret going onto the grain so early, after Bain's insistence on a 7am briefing the following morning, but it didn't stop him.

  Bain pushed the glass back to Cullen, at least three fingers worth this time. The bottle was nearing the end and it had only been Cullen, Bain and Irvine dabbling.

  Cullen saw Bain's eyes freeze, as he looked over Cullen's shoulder. "Oh for fuck's sake," muttered Bain.

  Cullen turned round and looked.

  "Don't fuckin' do that," said Bain and tugged on Cullen's arm.

  It was too late - Cullen had spotted the problem. DI Alison Cargill had turned up. She was tall and thin, her greying hair trimmed short with just long side-lappers down the front of her ears. The trouser suit she wore did very few favours for her pear-shaped figure. She sat down between Turnbull and Duffin at the top table. They both started making a fuss of her.

  "What the fuck is she doing here?" said Bain in a deep undertone. "Supposed to be in the fuckin' Canaries."

  "Maybe she got back early, gaffer," said Irvine.

  "I can fuckin' see that, Irvine," said Bain. "Christ."

  Sharon leaned low across the table. "What's the ice queen doing here?" she asked.

  "Seems like fuckin' guest of honour at the big boy's table," said Bain. "Maybe she'll do a dance for them, see how she can get a DCI post out of it."

  "There are very few things we agree on," said Sharon, "but she's one of them."

  "Aye, well, you lucked out in going to Wilko instead of her," said Bain.

  "Wouldn't call that luck," she said. "Least worst."

  "I hope that doesn't include me," said Bain.

  "No comment."

  Bain laughed.

  Just then, a white-haired officer came over, grinning from ear to ear. He had a bottle of the Likely Laddie - a cheap supermarket blend - and offered it round the table. They all politely re
fused. The man was clearly pissed and he sauntered off to another table. Cullen knew they'd rather stick to their single malt than hit the Likely Laddie, but there weren't that many drams left in Bain's bottle, the way he was pouring.

  Cullen leaned over to Bain and Irvine. "Who was that?" he asked.

  Bain grinned wide. "That's your mate, Sundance."

  "Eh?"

  "Don't you remember?" asked Bain, revelling in keeping Cullen wound up. "You spunked a few grand on getting a cell search done last summer. That's Tommy Smith of the Phone Squad."

  Cullen remembered the name - he'd had some checks done on a mystery mobile. The officer he had gone to had been Tommy Smith in the Forensic Investigation Unit, or the Phone Squad as they were more generally known.

  "That's Tommy Smith?" asked Cullen.

  "Doesn't look like he'll be doing many forensic investigations tomorrow," said Caldwell.

  Bain bellowed with laughter.

  *

  An hour or so later, the ceilidh band had finished setting up. They had started putting the drum kit together as soon as the cranachan was served from big bowls of the cream, raspberry and whisky-soaked oatmeal dessert, rather than the pre-prepared cocktail glasses Cullen was used to.

  Turnbull and Bain were leading Caldwell and Sharon through the Dashing White Sergeants with some couple Cullen vaguely recognised from St Leonards, the man much older than the female officer. Cullen managed a Gay Gordons with Sharon and then his antipathy to Scottish country dancing took root and he settled down with the booze. He wasn't naturally a whisky drinker but could stomach it when the lager choice was so bad. Tonight he was doing more than stomaching it.

  Bain's whisky had run dry and naturally Cullen and Irvine gravitated towards Tommy Smith and his seemingly never-ending bottle of Likely Laddie. The three of them sat at one of the few tables that hadn't been cleared away for the dance.

  "You're no a fan of Burns then, boys?" slurred Smith as he poured Likely Laddie into their glasses. His cheeks had turned deep red.

  Cullen sank half of the measure, enduring the acrid burn. "I can't say I am," he said. "He's like the Scottish version of Shakespeare - no relevance in modern society and yet he's forced down our throats at school."

  "Oh aye?"

  "I did English Literature at Uni," said Cullen.

  "Did you?" asked Irvine, jaws chomping on a fresh wad of gum. "Never knew you were a poof."

  Cullen took a deep breath, realising his loose lips had let slip another gem for the boys to goad him about. "What I studied at Uni has nothing to do with my sexuality," he said.

  "Ha, wait till I tell the gaffer," said Irvine.

  "Tell him what you like," said Cullen, arms folded, dreading another Bain nickname in the fullness of time.

  "I need some new curtains in my flat," said Irvine, "any danger you could help me pick some out?"

  "Fuck off," said Cullen, eyes glowering at Irvine.

  "Boys, boys, boys," said Smith, "I studied Scottish Literature for a bit in my youth. Christ knows how I got into the phone squad with that on my CV, mind - that's another tale entirely." He took another big gulp of whisky. "What you boys are missing is that Burns was a total deviant. There's a long line of Scots deviants from Burns right through to Billy Connolly and I suppose that Frankie Boyle boy. Sick bastards but funny with it."

  "How?" asked Irvine.

  "Okay, buddy," said Smith, "I shall recant thee some verse. 'Auld Lang's Syne' is a great example. You probably know the first line - should old acquaintance be forgot da dum da dum da dum - arms linked in with each other, Maggie fuckin' Thatcher outside Big Ben, crowds in New York and Tokyo. Well, the joke's on them." He took another drink. "It's about an old prostitute, Jo, thinking back on all the cock she's had in her life."

  "Is it fuck," said Irvine.

  Smith laughed. "Do you know 'Comin' through the rye'?" he asked.

  "Aye, who doesnae?"

  Smith sat forward and rubbed his hands together. "That is a classic example. The whore in 'Auld Lang's Syne' is mentioned in it but it's not all about her." He closed his eyes and then started recanting. "'Oh, Jenny's all weet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry: She draigled all her petticoatie, comin thro' the rye!'"

  "And what's deviant about that?" asked Irvine.

  Smith ignored him. "The chorus goes 'Gin a body meet a body, comin thro' the grain; gin a body kiss a body, the thing's a body's ain.'"

  "Aye, well done," said Irvine. "And your point, caller?"

  "That's the version you'll read in Burns collections," said Smith. "The original is slightly different." Again his eyes closed. "'O gin a body meet a body, comin' throu the rye: gin a body fuck a body, need a body cry. Comin' thro' the rye, my Jo, an' coming' thro' the rye; she fand a staun o' staunin' graith.'"

  "Shut up," said Irvine, laughing.

  "I'm not joking," said Smith. "It's about the same my Jo as 'Auld Lang's Syne' but she's young and shaggin' guys in a field. And you know what a 'staun o' staunin' graith' is?"

  "No."

  "It's a big cock," laughed Smith.

  "Is there any more?" asked Cullen.

  "Aye," said Smith, then broke off laughing. "The thing that's 'a body's ain' is the C-word in the original. I'm too polite to say it aloud here."

  "So you're saying that the bard was using fuck and singing songs about prostitutes and their fannies?" said Irvine, eyes screwed up.

  "Aye," said Smith, "you've got to think back to the times. Burns didn't make his money from books - hardly anybody could read. He went around whisky bars and gin palaces in Ayrshire and Glasgow and sang his songs. He had a version for the day time when the wives were there and one for the evening when he had a room full of pissed up lads."

  Irvine finished his whisky. "I'm off for a slash," he said. "Good story, by the way."

  "Cheers, buddy."

  Irvine staggered off in the direction of the toilet.

  "How is the phone squad?" asked Cullen.

  "Comme ci, comme ca," said Smith, laughing.

  "That search that you did for me got me into a load of trouble last summer," said Cullen.

  "Aye?"

  "The cost," he said. "Still, we got some good evidence from the second one, so thanks."

  "Aye, well, Buddy," said Smith, "it's pretty quiet just now. No gangs trying to kill each other, no serial killers, nothing juicy."

  Cullen had a secondary plan, other than stealing Smith's whisky. He wanted a search done on the unknown caller - he'd done some quick checks at Garleton before they left but nothing had come through. "I was wondering if you could do me another check?" he asked.

  "Sure thing," said Smith, "what's it for?"

  "Suspect in a child murder has gone missing," said Cullen. "He's made a few calls to me. I think it's another mobile."

  "Invoice to the usual place?"

  "Aye."

  Cullen was mindful of the fact that Bain had already had a trace done on Jamie Cook's mobile which had been switched off at lunchtime - if this turned out to be him as well, it could lead to actually finding him.

  He gave Smith the mobile number on the back of one of his business cards.

  "Should have something for you tomorrow," said Smith, pocketing the card and refilling his own glass in one smooth movement.

  "Are you telling me you're in tomorrow?" asked Cullen, feeling about a quarter as pissed as Smith looked.

  "In at nine," said Smith, "should be sober by then. I'll get onto your request first."

  Cullen smiled to himself - there was nothing as scientific in the world as the science of hangovers as practised by Scottish piss artists.

  "So you don't like Shakespeare either?" asked Smith.

  Cullen felt a hand on his shoulder. "Time for you to head home, Scott," whispered Sharon into his ear.

  He turned around - she had beads of sweat on her forehead. Cullen sometimes regretted being a drinker rather than a dancer - for one it would lessen the hangover.

  "Bain's heading off," sh
e said, "says it's my fault if you're not in Garleton at 7am."

  *

  Cullen tied up the condom, wrapped it in a tissue and put it on the bedside table. The alarm clock read 10.58. He lay back down again and Sharon snuggled up to him, placing her hand across his chest.

  "You're getting better," she said, eyes closed, looking blissful.

  "Must be all the practice," he said. "What is it that they say about woman reaching their sexual peak in their mid-30s?"

  She smacked him lightly and bit his nipple, much harder than he'd expected. "Ow!" he called as he sat up slightly.

  "Grow up," she said, and hugged him close to show there was no malice.

  He switched the light off, lay back down again and closed his eyes. The whisky in him made him feel like the room was spinning. He couldn't remember being that pissed in that specific way for a long time. He tried to sleep but his mind wandered through the case - images of Mandy, of chasing who they thought was Jamie Cook, the faces of the family, of Mulgrew. He felt Sharon's cat, Fluffy, jump onto the foot of the bed and lie on top of his feet.

  "What are you thinking about?" asked Sharon in an irritated monotone.

  "Who says I'm thinking about anything?" he asked.

  "I can tell," she said. "You've been on the coffee again."

  "Aye," he said, "but that's not the problem. This bloody case is."

  She propped herself up on his chest and looked into his eyes. "Anything in particular?"

  "Not really," he said. He reached over and turned the light on. He looked up at the ceiling, at the wooden panels painted white. "Okay, there's something."

  "I knew it," she said. "Spill."

  "There's this religious group in the town," he said.

  "You mentioned it earlier."

  "Aye, but what I didn't say was that they're talking of moving into East Linton," he said. "I can't help but think of Deborah and Rachel getting dragged into this sort of thing."

  "Deborah's strong," she said, "she's not going to get involved in this. Besides what are you worrying about? Getting some pamphlets thrust at you when Rachel's favourite uncle makes a visit?"

  He laughed. "I suppose."

  "There's something else, isn't there?"

  He laughed. "Would you stop with that psychic stuff?" he said. "It's freaking me out."