Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries)

by Ed James

  "We'd had a big disagreement - me and my boys - about the future of the company," said Crombie, with a snort. "Fraser wanted to sell up, Iain and I wanted to continue as we were and stay independent."

  Cullen scribbled it down in his notebook. "Was there an offer on the table?" he asked.

  "There was," said Crombie. "Scottish Distillers."

  "Was that the last takeover bid you've had?" asked Cullen.

  "Almost," said Crombie. "Diageo have been sniffing around recently. We've got a board meeting next week to discuss strategy."

  "How had Iain been before the trip?" asked Cullen.

  "He'd found it difficult being at war with Fraser," said Crombie. "They were so close, you know."

  "But they managed to resolve their disagreement?"

  "They did," said Crombie. "I was the peace-broker in this. We had a family meal - myself, the boys, and my late wife." He looked away. "Iain disappearing broke her heart, you know." He stared at Cullen. "She passed away in 1998. Cancer."

  "When did you report Iain as missing?" asked Cullen.

  "It was about a week after Fraser had returned from Glastonbury," said Crombie, frowning. "Iain never came back, so we went to the police."

  "Did they not return together?" asked Cullen.

  "No," said Crombie. "They had both stayed on for a few days after the festival. They fell in with some crowd and they stayed on at the site for a few days. Fraser had to come back to start on the next batch of barrels. As soon as we've distilled one lot, we're blending the next and we need to sort out the barrels. He'd been lucky to get three weeks off because we desperately needed him."

  Cullen scribbled some notes down. "So Fraser is key to the process here?" he asked.

  "He is, aye," said Crombie. "Wish that weren't the case, but he makes a decent fist of it."

  "Do you not get on well with your son?" asked Cullen.

  "Ach, I don't mean it that way," said Crombie. "Anyone who's studied business knows how bad it is if you've got a key man dependency."

  "Okay, so you're saying that Iain didn't return at the same time as Fraser?" asked Murray.

  Crombie looked at him and nodded. "Aye," he said. "Iain stayed for a few days more, and then..."

  "You reported Iain as missing a week after Fraser returned?" asked Cullen.

  "Correct," said Crombie, fixing his eyes on Cullen. "The body in the barrel is not my son, Detective."

  Cullen held his gaze but eventually had to look down at his notebook. He didn't think that they could get anything more from Crombie until they had a positive ID on the body, which he sincerely hoped would be soon, but he knew now not to hope for a quick closure when it came to these things. "Can I ask you a few questions about the barrels?" he asked.

  Crombie shrugged. "I doubt that I can help," he said, "but by all means."

  "Doug Strachan said that they found the barrels when they did a stock take in 1997," said Cullen. "They thought that the whisky might have been for you or Iain."

  Crombie spluttered. "Neither of us bothered with private malts for a few years," he said. "We were trying to expand at the time - we didn't have the whisky to spare. We were fighting tooth and nail to be an independent company."

  "Did Fraser or Strachan ever have a private malt?" asked Murray.

  "Douglas Strachan is not a director of the company," said Crombie. "He would have been asked to pay for it, and he never would. Fraser has had just the one over the years, but I only allowed it when he was thirty and, even then, half of the bottles are stored here."

  Cullen looked at Crombie for a few seconds before speaking. "Do you have any idea what happened with these barrels?" he asked.

  "Those barrels are nothing to do with me or my son," said Crombie, shaking his head.

  "And the barrels only appeared on the inventory in 1997, is that right?"

  "There is that, yes," said Crombie.

  "Can I just ask one thing?" asked Cullen. "Why did you earmark these two barrels for a special edition if you didn't know how or when they were made?"

  "That's none of your business," said Crombie.

  Cullen stared at him. He decided to press the point - Crombie was proving slightly truculent and he wanted to show who was in charge here. "It is very much our business, Mr Crombie," said Cullen. "May I remind you that this is a murder investigation? Whoever is in that cask was murdered, so I would appreciate if you gave us as much information as possible."

  "Very well," said Crombie. He was lost in thought for a few moments. "The reason why I selected those particular barrels for a special edition was twofold. First, the types of wood that we have used in the barrels will give us a unique blend. The second reason was that 1994 was a very good malt and if we promoted any old fourteen year old to such an exalted position in the history of this company, then it would be a gamble, and one that I am not willing to take. I had strong hopes for those casks that they would prove worthy of commemorating such a momentous occasion."

  Cullen hadn't learned anything of particular note, but it at least put Crombie in his place. "If it is Paddy that's in there," he said, "do you have any idea of who would want to kill him?"

  Crombie closed his eyes. Cullen thought that Alec Crombie realised that somebody was in the cask and had been murdered on his watch.

  Crombie finally looked up at Cullen. "I have no idea, I'm afraid," he said. "I barely knew the man. I only saw him to give him his weekly pay packet."

  "Can I just remind you that this is a serious matter we are investigating," said Cullen, handing Crombie a business card. "Someone has been murdered here and it happened on your watch. I want you to think through exactly what could have happened here and call me if anything comes up."

  Crombie's eyes narrowed until they were tiny slits. "Very well," he said.

  Cullen picked up the bundle of ledgers and got to his feet. "We'll show ourselves out."

  nine

  Cullen stretched back in his chair and let out a deep breath. He glanced at the display on his iPhone - 8pm already.

  He'd headed back to Leith Walk after finishing with Crombie, returning to the distillery to pick Caldwell and his car up and get away from Bain. There had been radio silence for the last few hours, allowing Cullen to get on with looking through the ledgers.

  He looked over at Caldwell - she had a pair of glasses on, the first time he'd seen them, and was looking through the stack of MisPer reports, having received the actual case files early. He was about to start speaking to Caldwell, but he caught Bain heading their way, quickly walking through the floor, hands in his trouser pockets, grinning away, chewing on gum.

  "Incoming," said Cullen.

  Caldwell glanced up and hurriedly tore her glasses off. "Thanks," she said.

  Bain sat down at his desk, just across from Cullen, and put his feet up. He slyly grinned at Caldwell. "Hope you don't think I didn't see the glasses, Batgirl," he said. "Right little Lois Lane with them on, aren't you?"

  Caldwell rolled her eyes at him. "I'm hardly a little anything," she said.

  "There is that," said Bain. He looked over at Cullen. "Hope you two have been busy out here while the rest of us have been doing some proper police work."

  "Have you actually been doing some?" asked Cullen. "I thought you'd just been irritating the Desk Sergeant in Garleton until he gave you his whiteboard."

  "Shut it, Sundance," said Bain, looking amused. "He gave me it, though."

  "I take it from the gum that you've been speaking to Irvine?" asked Cullen.

  Bain nodded. Cullen knew that Bain would always steal some gum from the seemingly endless supply that Irvine had. He would get through pots and pots of Wrigley's Extra every week. "Pissed off that I've nicked you off his little skive. Had to remind him who he works for."

  "Cargill?" asked Caldwell.

  "Less of that," said Bain.

  "He's getting nowhere with that case," said Cullen. He didn't want to dwell on the subject too long, or at least didn't want Bain to dwell on
it too long, in case he got thrown back into Irvine's Astra for another fruitless week. "How's it going back at the Distillery?"

  "Need to get a warrant if I want to crowbar open the other barrels," said Bain.

  "We may need to at some point, maybe," said Cullen, frowning.

  "The PF knocked me back," said Bain. "I was asking to X-ray them if I couldn't open them."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Of course I am," said Bain. "It's essential. Could be a fuckin' treasure trove of bodies down there. Fuckin' PF said I need probable cause that there's more than one body down there."

  "There's two disappearances," said Caldwell.

  "Don't get me wrong," said Bain, "I did bring that up. She wasn't havin' it."

  Cullen had been involved in some dealings with the Procurator Fiscal over the previous eighteen months and knew that she wasn't the sort to support Bain's nonsense, especially as it didn't appear to be sanctioned by Turnbull in this instance.

  "How's Deeley getting on?" asked Cullen.

  "Don't fuckin' start me on that work shy bastard," said Bain. He picked the gum out of his mouth and threw it in the general direction of the nearest bin - Cullen watched it stick to the side. "Earliest he can get out to look at the body is Monday. Had a house fire in Dalkeith, in case you hadn't heard - some Polish boy got turned into a crisp. Another body in Linlithgow and one in Queensferry." He screwed up his nose. "This fuckin' summer is a fuckin' nightmare."

  "There's no hurry with ours, though, is there?" asked Caldwell.

  "We are goin' to fuckin' solve this, Batgirl, believe you me," said Bain. "How's the detailed forensic analysis of those case files goin'?"

  "Slow," she said, "like any detailed forensic analysis."

  "Aye, very good," said Bain. "Summary, now."

  She held up a white A4 notepad, at least ten sheets already written and folded over. "I've been focusing on Paddy Kavanagh," she said. "His file turned up early. Everyone is pointing at him being the likely victim. I've got ten pages of notes already. I can give them to Murray tomorrow."

  "Do it," said Bain. "And Iain Crombie?"

  "Still waiting on the file," she said. "I was going to get a couple of hours in on the Edinburgh disappearances before I headed home."

  "So you'll have somethin' for me at tomorrow's briefing?" asked Bain.

  "Don't expect much," said Caldwell.

  Cullen thought that she looked a bit nervous - he remembered back ten months on the Schoolbook case and the hours he was putting in. He hadn't had to put in a stint like that - at the time, Caldwell had matched him hour for hour. He was beginning to think that she was pushing hard for the full DC position and that she thought that putting in long shifts was the way to get there. He doubted that Bain would see it that way, but if she had it documented then she had some hard evidence at least.

  Bain's eyes settled on Cullen. "How's it goin' in the National Library of Scotland there?" he asked, pointing at the ancient ledgers.

  Cullen had taken the full collection from Crombie, stretching back to the pre-Dunpender illicit still days. He had only had to focus on the last two, but he wanted to make it appear like he'd been busier than he actually was.

  "Tough going," said Cullen. "The system they used was pretty weird. Took me about an hour to get my head around it, and I had to look back to the earliest ledgers. At some point in the forties, they decided to make the system indecipherable to the common man, but I think I've cracked it."

  "You think?"

  "Well, I spoke to both Fraser Crombie and Doug Strachan about it," said Cullen. "They did most of the data entry in the computerisation, so they know how the system works."

  "Long and short of it, Sundance," said Bain, visibly losing patience.

  "First things first," said Cullen, "there is no trace of the two barrels. They're not in any records in 1994."

  "What about earlier or later?"

  Cullen ignored him. "Second, I found a loss of 780 litres of whisky in 1994," he said. "In response to your question, I'd say it's unlikely that the barrels were from earlier than 94 as there wasn't the whisky to fill them with."

  "And this 780 litres would do it?" asked Bain.

  "Strachan told me that a barrel would contain 650 litres," said Cullen. "Having a body in there would only need about a hundred to a hundred and fifty litres to fill it, according to Anderson."

  "But we don't know that it was actually filled in 1994?" asked Bain.

  "It's highly likely," said Cullen, "but it's only an assumption at this point. We've got the distinct possibility that the whisky was stored somewhere and then used before they discovered it. It's less likely but not something we should get rid of."

  Bain grinned. "Good effort for once, Sundance," he said. "Were there any suspicious splashes of whisky at any point?"

  "Nobody's mentioned any," said Cullen.

  "Have you asked?"

  "Not directly," admitted Cullen.

  "Well, let's ask tomorrow," said Bain. "I'll get one of those two Haddington jokers onto it." He checked his watch. "Either of you two fancy a pint?"

  Caldwell shook her head. "Some megalomaniac has asked me to finish looking through some files by 9am tomorrow," she said.

  Bain laughed. "Who said 9am?" he asked. "Briefing is at eight in Garleton."

  "Great," she muttered.

  Bain looked at Cullen. "Wee swally, Sundance?" he asked.

  "I wanted to write up my report from today," said Cullen, "keep on top of the paperwork."

  "Fine," said Bain, sounding a bit pissed off. "Bottle of Peroni out of Tesco it is, then."

  He got up and slowly walked towards the central stairwell. Once he was out of sight, Caldwell looked over at Cullen.

  "Thought you'd already written your notes up?" she asked.

  Cullen laughed. "Of course I have," he said, "but there's no way I'm going for a pint with him. Besides, I might be able to catch the second half of Poland-Russia in the Euros."

  "He's been talking all year about spending three weeks watching football," she said, referring to her husband Rod, who she never referred to by name, just he or him.

  "You not heading back out to East Lothian to see lover boy then?" asked Cullen.

  "That's not even funny," she said, scowling. "I'll see you out there tomorrow, first thing. No need to pick me up."

  "Very convenient," he said, getting to his feet.

  "Scott, I'm serious," she said, "stop joking about this. It's not funny."

  Cullen suddenly felt bad. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

  She gave a deep breath. "It's not going well, put it that way," she said.

  "Are you talking about the promotion?"

  She closed her eyes. "Yes, Scott," she said. "Think of it that way."

  ten

  Cullen was sitting in the hall in the shared flat he lived in, sipping from a can of Staropramen, a string of adverts filling the wall-mounted TV screen. Rather than have a living room, the flat had a large open area in the hall that they used as a living room, with TV and hi-fi and a large dining table. It wasn't how Cullen would choose to furnish a flat, but he'd got used to it over the years he'd lived there.

  His flatmate, Tom Jameson sat next to him, fiddling with his iPad.

  "More comics, is it?" asked Cullen.

  Tom let out a sigh. "Wish I'd never told you," he said. "I'd kept it a secret long enough…"

  "It's not healthy keeping secrets, comic boy," said Cullen.

  Tom clicked his iPad screen off. "And here was me thinking that it was good to actually be able to spend time with my oldest buddy," he said.

  Cullen smiled and took another drink. He and Sharon had been talking about moving in together but he'd not mentioned it to Tom - he decided to keep it quiet until it was definitely going to happen. A school friend of Cullen's - Richard McAlpine - had moved in just before Christmas, but Tom and Rich didn't get on. Cullen felt guilty, but they were all in their 30s now, so it was their own responsibility.
>
  The TV went back to the studio, four middle-aged men in open-necked shirts and casual suits sitting vaguely near a football stadium that was virtually two countries away from the stadium that was actually hosting the match they'd just watched. Tom put the volume back on and listened to the chat for a few minutes.

  "Did you see all the press at the weekend?" asked Tom. "They were saying that Arshavin was having a great tournament but it was just one game. He was pish tonight."

  He was referring to the Russia - what? Midfielder? Attacker? Striker? Winger? Cullen struggled to place the small Arsenal player in a particular position, something that his club and country managers struggled with. He'd been poor that evening, remarkably different to his form against … Cullen couldn't remember who Russia had played in the first match. "Who was it they were playing the other night?" he asked.

  Tom scowled at him. "Very funny," he said.

  "Eh?"

  "You know full well not to mention that."

  Cullen held up his hands. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

  "Russia beat the Czech Republic," said Tom.

  "Oh," said Cullen, suddenly realising his mistake. Tom had got into a diatribe the other night about how Scotland should have qualified in their place, which they would have done except for one infamous night in Prague where the Scotland manager fielded no attacking players.

  "Tell you, Scotty," said Tom, "if it wasn't for that bloody 4-6-0 formation, we'd have been there."

  "You wouldn't," said Cullen.

  "Course I would," said Tom. "I'd have loved seeing the boys at a national final."

  "I don't think you'd have bothered your arse," said Cullen.

  Tom sighed. "Whatever."

  "If you'd gone," said Cullen, "it would have been Scotland getting turned over by Russia, not the Czech Republic."

  The TV switched to a trailer for the Spain vs Ireland match on Thursday.

  "Odds on favourites now," said Tom. "Spain by a country mile."

  Cullen let out a breath. "I'm so bored of them, though," he said. "I hope Germany or Italy tear them apart. This tiki taka shite is so boring."