by Ed James
"Right," said Bain. He looked over at Caldwell. "How's it goin' with your search there, princess?"
Caldwell looked up. "Getting there," she said.
"You got anything?" asked Bain.
She nodded. "Aye," she said. She read from the list. "Seems like a lot of short men went missing at that time."
"The sort that would look up to you?" asked Bain, referring to Caldwell's towering height.
"Most do," she said, noticeably standing up straighter and looking down at Bain. "I've only got two matches on my list which are now with the Cold Case Unit."
"Is that Paddy boy on it?" asked Bain.
"He is," said Caldwell. "Padraig Sean Kavanagh."
"Good, good," said Bain. "I don't fuckin' like gettin' lied to."
"You're not going to like this, though," she said.
"As if I actually like anything," said Bain. "What is it?"
"They both have pretty much the same general description," she said. "Same height to within an inch, same build, same hair colour. Given the state that the body is in, it's going to be tough separating them."
Bain rubbed his moustache for a few moments. "Tell us about Paddy, then," he finally said.
"He's from Donegal," she said. "He was born in 1965, making him 29 when this barrel was filled."
"Assuming it was filled in 1994," said Bain.
"See, he does listen," said Cullen, for Caldwell's benefit.
"I don't believe it," she said.
Bain seemed to be humouring them for a while. Cullen wasn't sure how long that would last, probably only until the first update call with Turnbull.
"When did he go missing?" asked Cullen.
"Eleventh of June," she said.
"Bang on fuckin' target," said Bain. "That's when these were barrelled up, got to be him."
"Looks likely," said Cullen.
"One of the other disappearances was interesting, though," said Caldwell. "As I said, I got them to run a fairly wide search to include people who were only reported missing later and who actually might have disappeared earlier."
"Right, and?" said Bain. "You've fuckin' got me on tenterhooks here, princess."
"One Iain Crombie was reported missing in early July that year," she said.
"You are fuckin' kiddin' me," said Bain, eyes wide. "What relation is he?"
"Alec Crombie's number one son," said Cullen, echoing the distillery owner's own terminology. "Fraser told me earlier that Iain had been declared dead a few years ago."
Bain pointed a finger at Caldwell. "You fuckin' knew about this when you came in the room," he said. "You should have fuckin' told me."
Caldwell's eyes widened. "I'm sorry?"
"You should have told me that Crombie's son was in there," said Bain.
"You would have just done your usual," she said.
"My usual?"
"Jumping to conclusions," said Caldwell.
"Fuck sake," said Bain, glowering at her, his lips pursed. "What is the status of the case?" he asked, his voice shrill.
"It's still an open investigation," said Caldwell, "though nothing much has happened in the intervening seventeen years, not even a cold case investigation. He just never turned up. They got a Presumption of Death certificate in 2001."
"Right, good," said Bain. He looked at Cullen. "Could it be him in the barrel?"
Cullen frowned as he thought through what Fraser Crombie had told him.
"Earth to Sundance," said Bain.
"Huh?"
"Could it be Iain in the fuckin' barrel?" asked Bain, enunciating each word slowly.
"The time frame is out by a couple of weeks," said Cullen. "Assuming it was done when the stamp at the end says it was, that barrel was filled mid-June. Angela says that Iain was reported missing early July."
Bain nodded slowly. "Aye, but he could have gone missing earlier."
"And was only reported missing in July," said Caldwell, picking up Bain's thread.
"Could that have happened?" asked Cullen.
She shrugged. "It could have."
"I'm not sure this is a coincidence," said Bain. "Speaking of coincidences, are you telling me that two people that worked in the same distillery disappeared within a month of each other?"
"Coincidences do happen," said Cullen.
Bain closed his eyes. "I just fuckin' know that I'm goin' to have to open all the fuckin' barrels downstairs."
"I wouldn't do it immediately," said Cullen.
"Don't worry, I'm not fuckin' goin' to," said Bain. He checked his watch. "I'll give it till this evening, then the crowbar is comin' out." He snorted. "I've told Crombie that there's no more whisky gettin' made until this is cleared up. I'll need to get a judge to back that up."
They stood in silence for a minute or so. Cullen thought through the facts they'd just learnt - Caldwell had found two likely disappearances. With Iain Crombie, the owner's son disappearing was as much a mystery as nobody mentioning it in connection with the investigation so far. Everyone had pointed at Paddy Kavanagh, but not at Iain.
"What do you want us to do?" asked Cullen.
"Angie, sorry, Angela," said Bain, "can you get the original case files for both cases?"
"Already requested," she said. "All six are getting delivered to Leith Walk over night."
"Over night?" said Bain.
"You know how it is," she said.
"I usually find out how it is and then work out how to fuckin' do it properly," said Bain. "Can you not get out there?"
"Tried that," she said. "I've not got the security clearance to get through the front door. Needs an Inspector or above."
Bain's moustache danced on his top lip. "Well, tomorrow will have to do," he said.
"Fine," said Caldwell, grinning.
Bain wheeled round to point his glaring eyes at Cullen. "Right, Sundance, what are we going to do with you?" he asked, folding his arms.
"I want to speak to Alec Crombie about the original paper ledgers," said Cullen, "and this news that his son is dead."
"I've already grilled him," said Bain. "I don't want a complaint from him."
"Did you ask him about his son's disappearance?" asked Cullen.
"No, I didn't," snapped Bain. "Fine, grab Murray if you need any support."
"Isn't he looking into Paddy's disappearance?" asked Cullen.
"Aye, but he's just waiting on some boy in Ireland to call him back," said Bain. "If you could make him useful for once, rather than standin' around scratchin' his nuts, I'd appreciate it. Got to keep an eye on these regional boys, Cullen. You saw that shite in January that we had to put up with - abject ineptitude writ fuckin' large." He pointed a finger at Cullen. "Murray and his master can get up to some tricks so keep at least one of those beady eyes of yours on him. He was downstairs chatting up the Receptionist last I saw of him."
"Will do," said Cullen. "What about you?"
"Going to get us an Incident Room at Garleton nick," said Bain. "Need to get a bit of a structure around this case." His phone rang. "First thing's first, though, we need to get a fuckin' postmortem done on this body." He answered the phone. "Jimmy Deeley, you'd better fuckin' be outside."
eight
Alec Crombie lived in Gullane, a small town roughly four miles north west of the distillery, on the coast. The Crombie house was at the top of the hill at the Edinburgh side of the town - the Gillen end. It was part of an old Victorian mansion, with high stone walls and well-kept gardens - Cullen imagined that Crombie's grandfather had done more than well from the early whisky business.
After Bain had finished with him earlier, Crombie had headed home so Cullen had given him a call. Crombie had promised to retrieve the ledgers ahead of Cullen's visit - a local historian had been through them in the last few months to produce a history of the distillery as part of the centenary of the distillery. He told Cullen that the reason he had left earlier was that he was upset about losing his precious centenary edition, but Cullen couldn't help but wonder whether
the real reason was the shock of a body being found in his distillery - potentially his son. Cullen thought that Crombie saw himself as the robust type, but there seemed to be some sort of personal trauma lurking behind the facade.
Murray had driven, leaving Cullen's car parked at the distillery - he would need to head back there later on which would be a pain in the arse.
Cullen looked north down the street as they went over the top of the hill - there was a thin sliver of car park at the end which led down to Gullane Bents, an expansive sandy beach that was part of a continuous strip of sand from Aberlady right round to North Berwick. Cullen had taken Sharon out for a walk there a few weeks previously, on a rare day when they were both off, defending themselves against the pissing rain before giving up and going for coffee and cake in a German bakery in the town. The small car park was pretty much the only bit of the East Lothian coastline for miles that wasn't occupied by a golf course. Gullane itself was home to at least one world class course - Muirfield, which would host the British Open the following year - plus about six other private courses that lay between Gullane and North Berwick, one of which Cullen had heard carried annual fees of over £25,000, and had a few ex-Premiership footballers as members.
Murray parked his Golf, put the car in first and pulled the handbrake on extra hard.
"I've got a Golf myself," said Cullen.
"Yeah, I've seen it," said Murray. "Long after I've heard it usually."
"Aye, very good," said Cullen.
"It's not quite a classic, is it?" asked Murray.
Murray's had 58 plates on, a whole different numbering system to Cullen's N reg.
"It works," said Cullen. "Saving for a mortgage, anyway."
"I've got a flat in Haddington," said Murray. "Dirt cheap out here. Lovely, too."
"I thought North Berwick and Longniddry were expensive," said Cullen.
"They are," said Murray. "Haddington isn't."
They got out of the car and started walking down the street. They walked south - Cullen looked across the Lothian plane, five or six miles or so, and saw the sunlight bounce off rooftops in Drem and Garleton, further up the hill.
"Do you play?" asked Murray.
"Play what?"
"Golf," said Murray.
"No," said Cullen.
In truth, he should have been a keen golfer, what with being from Dalhousie - another Scottish course on the Open circuit - but, ever since some infuriating teenage dabbling on a driving range, he largely hated playing the sport, siding with Oscar Wilde's assertion of a good walk ruined. Or was it Mark Twain? He couldn't remember, but either way it had stuck with him.
"It's quite good to watch on the TV," he said.
"Totally looking forward to the Ryder Cup this year," said Murray. "Europe have a cracking chance at beating the yanks."
Cullen dreaded the impending Ryder Cup, the transatlantic Europe versus USA tournament. Everything that was good about watching golf on the TV with a hangover - the calm commentating, the gentle ramble of the fans as they followed the golfers round the course - disappeared when it came to the Ryder Cup, as the gentlemanly sport descended into football-style support and embarrassing, ill-fitting chants wedging 'Europe' into terrace anthems. Cullen wasn't a nationalist and he could fathom even less the support for one continent against a supra-nation. Why should he care about an Italian and a German against two Americans?
Cullen could have got into an argument with Murray about it, but couldn't be bothered. "Do you play?" he asked.
"Aye," he said. "I'm playing off four just now. Aim is to get down to two by the end of the year."
"That's impressive," said Cullen, wondering where Murray got the time.
They walked up the drive to Crombie's front door, past his old style Jag. The front garden was clearly well-tended and mature - a row of old fruit trees overhung the street, the branches filled with tiny apples and pears. Cullen imagined the pavement would be covered in rotting fruit come November.
A housekeeper showed them in and led them upstairs to a living room on the side of the house, which looked north across the sands and across the Forth to the East Neuk of Fife. It was one of those clear days where buildings in Anstruther and Pittenweem could be made out at the twenty-odd miles distance.
Crombie had been sitting in a green leather armchair, holding a crystal glass filled with whisky. He got up and gestured for Cullen and Murray to sit on a leather settee opposite Crombie. A large decanter of whisky and a stack of old ledgers, looking like they told the entire history of the distillery, sat on a coffee table between.
"Thanks," said Crombie, motioning for his housekeeper to leave them. She left and shut the living room door behind her. He sat down again with a groan. "The woman has been a godsend since I lost my wife."
"Thanks for agreeing to see us," said Cullen.
"It's not that I had a choice," grumbled Crombie. "I retrieved the ledgers for you," he said.
"Have you had a chance to look through them?" asked Cullen.
Crombie shook his head. "I'll leave that to you," he said. "Feel free to pick up with Fraser or Douglas regarding some of the more arcane annotations that they may have used. I'm afraid I would be of no use - the only reason I kept them was for posterity, not for any functional use."
"Can I take them away?" asked Cullen.
"By all means," said Crombie.
Cullen leaned forward and picked up the pile - it was heavy. "Thanks," he said, though he was dreading losing days to the infernal things, no doubt a fruitless search.
"We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about your son?" asked Murray.
Crombie frowned. "Fraser?"
Murray smiled. "DC Cullen informs me that Fraser told him that his brother passed away a few years ago," he said. "Iain, we believe."
"It's not him," said Crombie, fire in his eyes. "Those casks were sealed up in the June of '94, and Iain disappeared in early July. There is absolutely no chance that it is my son in there. None at all. It has got to be Paddy Kavanagh."
"We will determine whether the barrels were actually filled at that time," said Cullen. "We would like to go through what happened in the run-up to Iain's disappearance?"
Crombie sighed. "For what purpose?"
"If nothing else," said Cullen, "it can help us exclude him from our inquiries. Possibly."
Crombie composed himself. "The boys were away at Glastonbury festival that year," he said. "You heard of it?"
Cullen went to Glastonbury one year and stood through a White Stripes set with his ex-girlfriend, Katie, while Underworld played on another stage. Getting there and back had been an absolutely bloody nightmare - Cullen had borrowed his Mum's car and they'd filled it with muddy tents and clothes on the way back. He'd had to spend pretty much a whole day cleaning it up.
"I was a T in the Park boy in my youth," said Murray.
"Well, anyway," said Crombie, ignoring Murray, "my boys had talked about going there for years, ever since Iain was 18. They were both into music in a big way and they decided that they would go that year. A band that they both enjoyed were playing."
"When did they decide to go?" asked Cullen. He knew from experience that it wasn't just something you turned up at - it had taken him a good few weeks of organisation and interaction with a wide network of friends and acquaintances, and then he'd had to stay on a phone call for an hour in a queue to get their tickets. That said, Cullen knew that the security had been lax until the late 90s.
Crombie rubbed his forehead. "They'd been planning it a good few months beforehand," he said. "They had to clear the time off with me first before they could buy their tickets. I took some persuading, I can tell you."
"For what reason?" asked Murray.
"Well, there was the money, of course," said Crombie. "It wasn't just travel to the festival, it was their spending money." He took a deep breath. "And, of course, I wanted to make sure that they would both be focused on finishing the batch for the year, and not ju
st leave us in the lurch, or be daydreaming about it while they made the whisky."
"So when did they set off?" asked Cullen. He knew that Glastonbury was usually in late June, usually around the twenty something-th of the month. If he could ascertain that it was later that year, then they could confirm that the body had definitely been put in the barrel on the twelfth, then they could seriously start to think about eliminating Iain from the investigation and instead focus their attentions on Paddy Kavanagh.
"They left on the thirteenth, in the morning," said Crombie.
"That's fairly precise," said Cullen. He was usually suspicious of precision in dates.
"I remember that for two reasons," said Crombie, nodding his head quickly and leaning forward. "We had just finished the distilling for the year, pretty much that morning. The boys had been working hard, thanks to my insistence that they focus on the task at hand and not some festival, so I let them go early - Doug and myself could handle supervising the men for the most part." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, showing the wiry grey hairs on them, though the kilt mercifully stayed in the same place. "The second reason that I remember it was that it was the day after they had finally made up again. It was touch and go about whether they actually went."
"That's a bit of a gap between them leaving here and going to the Festival," said Cullen. "It's usually the twenty-third or twenty-fourth of June something like that."
"Aye," said Crombie. "They went on a long pilgrimage to the festival site," he said. "The idea was to go down the West coast of the country, through the Lake District and Wales. The boys were big on their hillwalking and their real ale." He smiled. "As well as their whisky."
Cullen was satisfied with the answer - he'd had the idea to do something similar when they went to the festival, but hadn't bothered in the end. "Can I ask what had they been arguing about?"
"I don't see how that can be pertinent to your investigation," said Crombie, glowering at Cullen.
Cullen leaned back on the sofa and crossed his left leg over the right, trying to appear more relaxed. "Let us be the judge of that," he said.
