Mystery Tour

by Martin Edwards

  Bain’s car door slammed. ‘The victim’s a fuckin’ poof, Sundance. Can you believe it?’

  Cullen set off towards the house. ‘Was that Methven?’

  ‘Who else?’ Bain pocketed his phone and started across the road. ‘He’s a bummer, as well, isn’t he?’

  ‘Jesus, would it hurt your macho soul to quit with the homophobia? You sound like Roy Chubby Brown.’

  Bain gave him a fierce look. Then it softened. ‘Fuckin’ love that guy. Absolute legend.’

  Way, way beyond saving. Cullen stormed up the path to the house. Upstairs, The Killers segued into Erasure. He doubted anyone could hear him knock on the door. Thirty seconds later, nobody had. ‘Stay there.’ He left Bain at the door and peered in through the front window.

  Two men lay on an L-shaped Chesterfield, both wearing dressing gowns, feet resting on a duck-egg blue coffee table. Both had dark rings around their eyes.

  Cullen knocked the glass and waved.

  One of them started like he’d been shot. Then got to his feet and left the room. The front door had opened by the time Cullen made it there. Erasure had stopped playing, but the lights still flashed.

  The man stepped out onto the steps, barefoot. A thick garden of chest hair poked out of his dressing gown. Cullen clocked the wedding ring this time.

  ‘Can I help?’ Working-class Glasgow accent.

  Bain held out his warrant card. Looked like he was going the full Judge Dredd. ‘Need a word, sir.’

  ‘If it’s about the noise, I can—’

  ‘It’s about Paul Skinner.’

  ‘Dave Farrelly.’ He held out his hand. Bain didn’t shake it, just looked at it like he was afraid it had touched more penises than hands since it’d last been washed. ‘I know Paul. What’s he done?’

  ‘Gavin Crossan said they were at a party here last night.’ Bain peered inside the house. ‘Is that poppers I can smell?’

  Farrelly ignored him. ‘Gav and I go back a while. What’s up?’

  ‘Paul’s dead.’

  Farrelly threw his hands in the air, then clutched his chest. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘So were you—’

  Cullen stepped forward, trying to get in Bain’s way before he could commit a hate crime. ‘We understand he went home with a man. You know who?’

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Before Cullen could protest, Farrelly had slipped inside the house, his feet slapping across the stripped-wood flooring.

  Cullen followed him into the front room. Loud, rasping snores greeted them from the sofa.

  Farrelly nudged the man lying there. ‘Paul went home with a friend of Marcus’s.’ He nudged him again.

  The man blinked awake. Looked like a hairy potato stuffed into a silk gown. A matching platinum ring, though. Took a second to get his bearings, then he jolted upright and a part of him flopped out from under his dressing gown. ‘What’s up?’ He frowned at the two cops and calmly tucked himself back in. ‘Oh, Christ.’ Held out a hand. ‘Marcus Pretorius.’ Sounded like he was from New Zealand. Scratch that. With a name like that, he was another South African.

  Farrelly took a seat next to him. ‘Marcus, who did Paul go home with last night?’

  ‘It wasn’t his husband, I know that … What’s his name?’ Pretorius clicked his fingers a few times. ‘That Jo’burg scumbag, what’s his bloody name? The one with the dragon tattoo and all those lovely muscles.’

  Cullen pulled up in the Recycling Centre car park and wedged his car between an old Audi and a VW camper van festooned with stickers from around the world. Quick check for any South African ones. None. Right, onwards. Like everything in Glasgow – the massive IKEA just over the roundabout, for instance – the site was three times the size of its Edinburgh equivalent.

  A bin lorry hurtled past, two binmen hanging off the back, gloved hands clutching on tight. Looked like extreme sports types, baseball caps on backwards. It pulled into a depot, the rest of its activities hidden.

  Cullen clocked a guy who looked like a foreman standing by a metallic-grey box, its roof corner turned up like a hipster’s haircut. The man’s acid-yellow safety jacket screamed like a flash of sunshine.

  Then Cullen’s phone went. Bain. ‘Right, Sundance, I’m at this boy’s address. Heading in now. You got anything?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  ‘What’s keeping you? You’ve had half a fuckin’ hour. Keep me updated.’

  Click.

  Cullen looked at his dead phone. What a pointless call. As pointless as Bain.

  The supervisor was wandering over, pulling his gloves off. ‘Can’t park there, mate.’

  Cullen showed his warrant card. ‘Need a word with Steven Wright.’

  ‘Aye, good luck with that.’ He thrust out a hand so mucky he might as well not have bothered with the gloves. ‘Jim Parrott. I’m his supervisor. Good worker. Shame about that topless shite, but what can you do?

  ‘Need to speak to him about the body he found this morning. He around?’

  ‘What, you think he did it?’

  Cullen looked at him, a question stinging the tip of his tongue: What do you think? He went home with the victim.

  Deep breath. Instead of sharing his thoughts, he smiled. ‘Just a few follow-up questions.’

  ‘Aye, well, like I said, good luck. He pissed off home about an hour ago. Said he couldn’t cope with the stress. First time he’s found a body.’

  ‘Happen often?’

  ‘Once every couple of years.’ Parrott tugged one of his work gloves back on. ‘Found three myself. Tramps are the worst.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cullen set off back towards his car. When he was out of earshot, he called Bain. It rang. Then it kept ringing and ringing and ringing. ‘Shite.’ He started running.

  Cullen thumped on the door again and stepped back.

  Wright lived in a council flat in Craigton, a beige box of misery. As if to make things worse, it was downwind of the crematorium, which for once wasn’t burning, so instead the area stank of dog shit and fumes from a nearby factory.

  No answer. He tried again, same result.

  He checked his phone. Still nothing from Bain. He called him again. The faintest sound whispered out of the downstairs window: The boys are back in town…

  Shite.

  Cullen launched himself at the door, shoulder first. Ploughed it down, slid across shiny laminate, scrambled back to his feet. The flat was baking. He glanced around, saw a thermostat on the wall. Thirty degrees. Shot another glance down the hall. The two doors off it were open. Bain’s ringtone chimed from the one on the left.

  Cullen stormed in and stopped.

  A bedroom, the walls covered in pictures of musclebound men and women.

  Bain lay on the bed, eyes rolling round in his head, naked except for a nappy. ‘Sundance, I fuckin’ love you!’

  What the hell?

  CLATTER.

  Came from the other room.

  Cullen darted back out into the hall, then into a living room, a tiny kitchen in the corner. The window was open, dirty yellow blinds flapping in the breeze.

  Cullen hurtled towards the window and clambered out into a yard.

  Wright was crouched on top of a brick wall at the far end, looking like he was about to drop down the other side. He glanced back the way. ‘Fuck!’ And he was gone.

  Cullen bombed across the cracked concrete and jumped at the wall, grabbing the top with stinging palms. Felt like his arms were going to tear. He pulled harder, cleared the top and came to a swaying stand on the narrow brickwork. Catching his breath, he scanned round for Wright.

  No sign of him.

  Shite.

  Just a yard at the back of a factory, machines hissing away inside, a row of bins, some parked forklifts and a gang of workmen standing around, eating from Greggs bags.

  Where the hell was he?

  Shite, shite, shite.

  Cullen lowered himself into a crouch and dropped off the wall, landing with a thud. He powered on towards
the workies, warrant card already out. ‘Police! Have you seen a man come this way?’

  Just got shaking heads.

  Shite.

  Cullen scanned around. Where would he go?

  Aha.

  He stopped by the row of bins. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’ll just search these, one by one.’ He kicked the first.

  A cough came from the far end.

  Cullen went over and shook it. ‘Get out, now.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Cullen wheeled the bin out and tipped it over.

  Steven Wright tumbled out in a cloud of sawdust. ‘I want a fucking lawyer!’

  Bain lay in his hospital bed, the sheet pulled up to his neck. ‘Fuck me, Sundance, feels like someone’s skull-fucked me with a nail gun.’

  ‘Rohypnol.’ The doctor tossed a tub of pills at him. ‘The effects have just about worn off. Keep taking one every hour, on the hour.’

  ‘So, I can get out of here?’

  ‘There’ll be no lasting damage, so yes.’ The doctor smiled at Cullen. ‘Your friend here has to supervise you, though.’

  ‘Babysit him, more like.’

  ‘Quite.’ The doctor opened the curtains and left them to it.

  ‘You mind turning round, Sundance?’ Bain twirled his fingers. ‘Need to get dressed.’

  Cullen complied, getting a good view of the rest of the ward through a crack in the curtains. ‘Need to change your nappy?’

  ‘See if anyone hears about this, you’re fuckin’ dead. OK?’

  ‘You’re asking me to keep it out of my report?’

  ‘Sundance … don’t make me beg.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Bain was huffing and puffing behind him. Probably trying to remember how to tie his shoelaces. ‘I went in, asked the boy a few questions. Next thing I know, you’re standing over me and the room’s spinning.’

  ‘You remember telling me you loved me?’

  ‘Fuck off, Sundance.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Fuck. Off.’

  ‘So, did you drink a cup of his tea, or what?’

  Bain coughed. ‘Might’ve done.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘You caught him, right?’

  ‘He’s in your old nick, waiting for his lawyer.’

  Bain huffed behind Cullen. ‘Anyway, you think Wright is a lust murderer?’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘Trusses his victims in nappies. Makes them easier to dispose of.’

  ‘You think he lusted after you?’

  ‘Sundance, I fucking swear—’

  The curtain swooshed open. Methven stood there, scowling. ‘Jesus, Brian, put it away.’

  Cullen turned round.

  Bain was putting his shirt on, his distended belly hanging over his trousers. ‘Afternoon, Col. How’s tricks?’

  Methven shook his head, shutting his eyes like he was trying to expel the image from his head. ‘Christ, Brian, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothin’.’ Bain shot a glare at Cullen. ‘And if anyone says any different, I’ll fuckin’ kill them.’

  Cullen waited until Bain was bending over to tie his shoelaces before he leaned in close. ‘I found him roofied and wearing a nappy.’

  Methven wagged a finger at Cullen. ‘Those in glass houses, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Methven frowned at Bain, as he stood up tall, ‘the PM’s finished and Rachel’s checking something out for me. In the meantime, I just got a call. Mr Wright’s ready and waiting for his interview.’

  Cullen got up from his seat to move away from DC McCrea. He stank of rubbish, almost as bad as Steven Wright did. He paced around the interview room instead then leaned against the wall. ‘Why were you running, Mr Wright?’

  ‘I said “no comment”, mate.’

  ‘OK. Sure it wasn’t because you’d drugged and trussed up my colleague in your bedroom?’

  His lawyer looked up from his silvery tablet computer. ‘My client has reminded you of his wish to remain silent. I believe you are duty-bound to respect that, hmm?’

  Cullen switched his attention from the lawyer to Wright, waiting for him to look up. ‘What were you going to do to my colleague? Rape him like you did Paul Skinner?’

  McCrea leaned round and whispered, ‘We don’t—’

  Cullen’s glare shut him up.

  ‘You not listening, eh? No comment, mate.’

  ‘Well, the circumstantial evidence is quite compelling. You drugged him and dressed him in a nappy. You were going to rape him, weren’t you?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘DC McCrea told me about a few similar crimes. Men and women date-raped and dressed in nappies.’

  Wright hammered the table. ‘Fuck off!’

  Getting somewhere now.

  ‘Feels like it’s the same person, maybe they’re escalating. Got tired of emptying people’s bins, so you started raping them, did you? Then you got a bit bored with that, too, and went on to binning them off once and for all. Discovered a taste for killing. That about right?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, mate!’

  A knock at the door. It cracked open. Methven’s monster eyebrows came into view, along with his finger, beckoning Cullen out.

  ‘Interview paused at 15:23.’ Cullen left the room and pulled the door shut behind him. ‘Sir?’

  Methven propped himself against the wall. ‘How do you think it’s going, Sergeant?’

  Bain was next to Methven, silently fuming, fists clenched.

  ‘You’ve been watching it, so you’ll know how badly. Just about started getting a reaction, sir, but he’s not the sort to just spill his guts or take all the credit without a bit of goading.’

  ‘Well,’ Methven sighed and jangled the keys in his pockets. ‘I just received a call from Dr Flockhart. Rachel’s finished tying up the loose ends. She’s confirmed that the knife wound was inflicted post mortem.’

  Cullen frowned at Bain, then back at Methven. ‘What?’

  ‘The actual cause of death was a heart attack.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  Methven nodded. ‘I had her discuss her findings with Jimmy Deeley in Edinburgh. While he’s obviously not seen the body, he agrees with the logic, so I’m keen to see what our boy in there has got to say about that. Chop, chop, no time to lose, yes?’ He slipped off back towards the Obs Suite.

  Bain stepped forward. ‘Sundance, can you keep a fuckin’ lid on it, eh? Not everyone wants to hear about my … about what happened.’

  ‘Don’t get your nappy in a twist.’

  Bain lurched forwards. ‘Fuckin’ told you!’

  Cullen grabbed his wrists tight. ‘It’s part of the case, OK? Get over it.’

  Cullen let go and went back into the interview room. He restarted the recorder. ‘Interview recommenced at 15:29.’ He took his seat and waited until Wright looked up at him. ‘So, turns out the cause of death for Mr Skinner wasn’t the knife wound.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That happened post mortem. Turns out he died of a heart attack.’

  Wright stared at his lawyer for a few seconds, then at Cullen. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Sure about that?’ Cullen left him a few seconds. ‘Because, as it stands, you’re going to be charged with a load of rapes. Five, is it, Damian?’

  McCrea cleared his throat. ‘Five, plus this one. And another attempted at lunchtime there. Let’s call it seven.’

  ‘And we’re obviously going to charge you with the murder of Paul Skinner.’

  ‘But it wasn’t me!’

  ‘Heard it all before.’ Cullen sat back in his chair. ‘Tell me, who was it, then?’

  ‘I can’t…’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Back there again. Just when we were getting somewhere.

  ‘Mr Wright, like DC McCrea said, you’ll be prosecuted for th
e rapes. By my calculations, that’ll be probably ten years inside.’ Cullen flashed a grin at Wright as he glanced up. ‘I know, it’s hardly anything for what you’ve done. But when you add in this murder, that’s a life sentence. And given that there’s a clear escalation from rape to murder, I suspect the judge’ll make it two, just to send out a message to other filthy reprobates like you. So, you’re not getting out. Ever. Unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Look, if it wasn’t you, now’s the time to tell us who actually killed him, OK?’

  ‘No fucking comment, mate.’

  Cullen let out a sigh. He’s not going down without a fight. ‘Let me get this straight, then. You were at a sex party. After all the fun and games, you went home with Paul Skinner. Next thing we know, he’s in a bin, soaked in bleach and dressed in a nappy.’

  ‘It’s a fucking dumpster, mate.’

  ‘Whatever. You put him there. Dressed him in a nappy. Slashed his throat after he had a heart attack. Was it the fear? You drugged him, dressed him as a baby and, what? His heart just stopped?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, man! Someone was fucking this guy and he had a fucking heart attack!’

  ‘Who else did you go home with?’

  ‘I didn’t fucking go home with fucking anyone!’ The lawyer gripped his wrist, but Wright shook him off. ‘Now I’m getting blamed for this murder?’

  ‘You’re saying he died at the party?’

  ‘Fucking heart attack, mate. Right there.’ Wright let out a deep breath, like he’d been holding in the truth along with all the air. ‘He died, and one of the guys said we needed to cover it up, pretend like he was fucking murdered, eh? Told me to do it.’

  ‘And you just went along with it?’

  ‘Didn’t have a choice, man.’

  ‘Because they knew about you raping people?’

  ‘They cut his throat, man!’ Wright stared at the desk. ‘Fucking hell! Tried to make it look like he was murdered. We dumped his body, made it look like someone had just left him there.’