by Ed James
"It is," said Cullen.
"Okay," said Harvey. "Someone gave me a note to call you back. Bit surprised that you're still on the line."
"Yeah, well, I'm known for my persistence," said Cullen.
"Is that Glasgow you're based, then?"
"Edinburgh," said Cullen, yet again astonished at the ignorance of Scottish geography by those south of Manchester.
"Oh, I've been to Edinburgh," said Harvey. "Lovely city."
"There's another side to it," said Cullen.
Harvey laughed. "I can well imagine," he said. "Reminds me of Bath. The stories I could tell you about that place."
Cullen had only seen Bath on the TV - what he'd seen looked similar to Edinburgh's new town, grand and austere. From the size of the place, he couldn't imagine it had a Niddrie, a Pilton or a Wester Hailes, though, or even a Leith or Gorgie.
"I gather that you were involved in the investigation into the disappearance of an Iain Crombie at Glastonbury festival in 1994," said Cullen.
"That's correct," said Harvey. "Strange case. One of the strangest. You know, we get five disappearances every time that festival runs from all over the country. Not all of them turn up."
Cullen had the original case file from the Lothian and Borders archive open in front of him. To his great disappointment, it hadn't named any officers in other jurisdictions who were active in the investigation, and Stanhope couldn't recall any names when Cullen had called earlier. All it had was a reference to a case number on the Avon and Somerset books that Cullen had spent all morning attempting to track down, leading to Harvey being identified. The original case file had him listed as DC Harvey, but eighteen years later he'd risen to the rank of Inspector and had moved back across to the operational side of the force.
"What can you tell me about Mr Crombie's disappearance," said Cullen.
Harvey gave him a long and drawn out anecdote about the original investigation, which ran for a period of months. Cullen stopped typing notes after eight minutes of the monologue. He gave Cullen a few minutes on Frank Stanhope's sojourn south, which seemed to involve the two of them pub crawling their way around Glastonbury, Bath and Bristol. Cullen's hunger started to get the better of him and he started drifting off. He spotted Irvine and a couple of others coming back from the canteen with polystyrene containers of food, the strong smell of vinegar on chips gradually coming his way.
"So the trail ended with Miss Wiley," said Harvey.
Cullen sat bolt upright, grabbing the handset with his left hand. "Say that again?"
"We believe that Mr Crombie had disappeared with a Mary-Anne Wiley," said Harvey. "She lived in Harrogate at the time."
"Did anyone speak to her?" asked Cullen.
"This is the difficulty with a case such as this," said Harvey. "We had two active constabularies involved, and then we needed to get a third. My DI at the time was under pressure to pass the case on. This was a Scottish disappearance, not a local one. So we passed it on to Yorkshire."
Cullen hurriedly flicked through the Lothian and Borders file but couldn't find any reference to a Mary-Anne Wiley, just a reference to Yorkshire police - Stanhope had mentioned it, but none of the detail had been recorded. He needed to speak to Stanhope about it.
"What was your source?" asked Cullen.
"We'd had a nationwide campaign running," said Harvey. "One of the main reasons that my DI wanted it shut down was that we were having to partially fund it. There was a photofit of the girl that your colleagues up in Scotland had got from the MisPer's brother, a Fraser Crombie according to my records here. That went out with the photo of Mr Crombie. Someone in Harrogate came forward."
"And you passed it on?"
"We did, I'm afraid," said Harvey. "I wasn't too keen, and that is an example of the sort of behaviour that I've spent the last eighteen years eradicating from our force. This 'you touched it last' nonsense is a blight on cases like this. We had a similar case a few years later where someone from Bristol disappeared in London, and the Met were playing games with us." There was a pause on the line. "I can send the case file up if you want."
"Thanks," said Cullen, "that would be a great help." He gave the address. "Do you have any Yorkshire reference numbers or contacts in the file?"
"There's a number here," said Harvey. "I'm not sure how reliable it'll be, mind, but you never know."
Cullen wrote down a mobile number, thanked him and ended the call.
He sat there, pleased that he'd managed to get a lead in the case. He had a decision to make - call Bain, call Yorkshire or get something to eat.
Twenty minutes later and Cullen threw the food container in the nearest bin. He had been on the phone all that time, calling from his iPhone and taking it upstairs with him. He quickly found a problem that almost had him calling Harvey back - there were three Yorkshire forces. He should have thought of it earlier, but he'd got too excited and been too hungry. He'd started with West Yorkshire, moved to South and was now in a queue in North Yorkshire, while someone in the York station found someone in Harrogate to pass Cullen on to.
"Is that DC Cullen?" came a deep Yorkshire accent.
"It is."
"PC Seth Neely, Harrogate station. How can I help?"
Cullen sighed in frustration at having to explain himself yet again. "I'm looking into the disappearance of an Iain Crombie," he said. He gave the case reference number. "I wanted to speak to anyone who worked on the case eighteen years ago."
Neely laughed. "Good luck with that," he said. "I'm in the document centre just now, so I'll dig the file out if you want to stay on the line."
The line went to hold. Cullen sat and started typing notes up on the case. After a few minutes, his iPhone showed a call waiting - Bain. He ignored it and continued with the notes.
"You still there?" asked Neely, after another ten minutes.
"Still on, aye," said Cullen.
"Just got the file," said Neely. "Had a look through it and I've got a list of the officers involved in the case at the time."
"How many are still active?" asked Cullen. "And if they're not still active, do you have contact details for them?"
"I'll need to check."
"How long will that take?"
There was a pause, then Neely exhaled down the line. "Might be about an hour or two," he said.
Cullen leaned back in his chair - he reckoned if he did a similar check, it would be twenty minutes tops, and most of that would be remembering passwords.
"Could you send the file up?" asked Cullen.
"No can do, like," said Neely.
"What about a copy?"
"I'm afraid not," said Neely. "They took all the photocopiers out of here to stop illicit copies being made. It was a big problem a couple of years ago."
"So the only way I'm seeing this is if I come down?" asked Cullen.
"Afraid so," said Neely.
"Where are you based?"
Neely gave an address on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Harrogate. It wasn't a town Cullen knew - he'd thought Harrogate was down by London, not in Yorkshire.
"I'll get back to you," said Cullen.
"Okay, well, I'll look forward to it," said Neely.
Cullen tossed his iPhone on the desk and tried to think his next steps through. Whichever way he looked at it, he needed to speak to Bain.
After he'd finished typing up the notes.
twenty-seven
A couple of hours later at 2pm, Cullen tried to sneak back into the Incident Room in Garleton without too much hue and cry from Bain.
"Here he fuckin' is," shouted Bain, as Cullen sat down. "He's been up to something important, obviously. Didn't bother to come and see his team at the actual fuckin' Incident Room of the case he's on."
Caldwell and Watson tried to avoid looking anywhere near Bain and Cullen.
"I've got a couple of leads," said Cullen.
"Fuckin' phono leads for your fuckin' stereo, no doubt," said Bain. He looked over Cullen's shou
lder. "Fuck me, we are lucky today. Feels like a fuckin' royal visit."
Cullen turned around. Murray and McLaren were sheepishly walking into the room.
Just then, Cullen's mobile rang. He didn't recognise the number, so he went out into the corridor while Bain's attentions were diverted.
"Cullen."
"Hi, lad, it's Seth Neely."
"Thanks for calling me back," said Cullen. He'd expected that he'd have to start chasing Neely later on, so he was relieved that Neely had bothered to call him.
"Not good news, like," said Neely.
"Hit me."
"Both officers on that investigation have since retired," said Neely. "Not good news either. Both died in the last five years - one from cancer, one from a heart attack."
Cullen jotted it down. Both deaths could have been deemed potentially suspicious, were it not for the fact that they were both effectively natural.
"Thanks," said Cullen. "I'll be in touch if I need to come and see that file."
"Be looking forward to it," said Neely.
Cullen pocketed his phone and returned to the Incident Room, ready for a pasting from Bain.
"So you've fuckin' got nothin'," said Bain, looking at Cullen.
Cullen frowned. "How did you know?" he asked.
"Not you, you fuckin' tube!" shouted Bain. He pointed at Murray and McLaren. "Fuckin' Murray and McLean here, provin' yet again how useless local plod are."
"McLaren," said Murray.
"What?"
"You've done it again," said Murray. "It's McLaren, not McLean."
"I DON'T FUCKIN' CARE!" shouted Bain. "YOU PAIR OF USELESS FUCKPIGS HAVE WASTED A TANK OF FUCKIN' PETROL GETTIN' FUCKIN' NOWHERE!"
"We got to Morpeth," said Murray.
Bain paced up to Murray and stared into his eyes. "You shut your fuckin' mouth, all right?" he snarled. "You've come back here with your tails between your legs so don't give me any of your lip, son."
"I don't think it was a-"
"Of course it fuckin' was!" shouted Bain.
"If you'll let me finish?" said Murray.
Bain held his hands up and took a step back. "Of course, I'll let you say your piece before I tear you another arsehole," he said. "That must be fuckin' six you've got now."
"As I was saying," said Murray, speaking through gritted teeth, "I don't think it was a waste of time. We've managed to confirm that his relatives haven't seen him in eighteen years. That's not nowhere."
"We're still fuckin' nowhere near fuckin' somewhere, though," said Bain.
"Still, that's not nowhere," said Murray.
"Right, enough of you pricks," said Bain. He looked over at Cullen. "The big prize fuckin' chopper, Captain Sundance. Tell me some good fuckin' news."
"Potentially good news, I'm afraid," said Cullen. "Managed to track this girl Iain fell in with to Harrogate in Yorkshire."
"I fuckin' know where it is," said Bain. "Cut to the fuckin' chase, Sundance, I'm a can of Red Bull away from explodin'."
"Well, the good news is that there's a case file on the search for Marie-Anne Wiley," said Cullen. "There was a publicity campaign based on a photofit of her from Fraser Crombie's description."
"Aye, your pal Stanhope told me," said Bain.
"There was a sighting of her in Harrogate," said Cullen. "The bad news is that they won't release the file. If we want to see it, we'll have to go there."
"Right," said Bain. He stayed quiet for a few moments, arms folded, looking at the whiteboard.
"Could I go and visit?" asked Cullen.
"No," said Bain.
"No?"
"No."
"But this is a lead," said Cullen. "We might get something from it."
"Aye, well," said Bain, avoiding eye contact. "Instructions from DCI Turnbull. Until this is confirmed as Iain or Paddy, then we are not to incur excessive expenses."
"But they've just visited Morpeth," said Cullen.
"Hence the fuckin' policy," said Bain. "Anythin' else from you, Sundance?"
"No," said Cullen.
Bain looked at Caldwell. She and Watson were sitting in the corner typing at their laptops, typing away and trying to avoid the bedlam. "Come on over, Batgirl," said Bain. "Uncle Brian won't bite."
Caldwell got up and headed over. Watson followed, but kept a distance. "From the din that's coming from you," she said, "I'd say that you might bite."
Bain laughed. "I feel like fuckin' shite," he said, "but you can make me laugh, you cheeky bitch."
Cullen raised an eyebrow. Bain was often close to the line, and had occasionally gone into the grey area that might be deemed to be over it. That was miles over. He'd be lucky to avoid disciplinary action. If anyone reported it.
"What do you want to know?" she asked, standing with her hands on her hips.
"Nothin' much, princess," said Bain, "just a fuckin' progress update."
"Fine," she said. "First, there's no DNA sample from Iain Crombie's arrest."
Bain's eyes almost popped out on stalks. "You are fuckin' kiddin' me," he said.
"No, just off the phone to central records," she said. "Wasn't policy until the early 90s and this was 1988."
"Fuck sake," said Bain.
Cullen could see this case stretch out to infinity. Bain had been holding onto the hope that the DNA test would be able to provide a positive ID and then they could get a proper investigation going. No such luck.
"What else?" asked Bain.
"The other thing is that the insurance policy search for Iain Crombie came back negative."
"So no policies?" asked Bain.
"That's generally what's meant by a negative result," said Caldwell, grinning.
"You wouldn't think you were lookin' for a positive reference from me," said Bain.
She smiled. "I doubt I'd get one or that it would be worth anything anyway," she said.
Bain laughed. "Brilliant," he said. "So we're fucked?"
"I wouldn't use those words, but yes," she said.
Murray cleared his throat.
Bain looked over. "You got somethin' to add?" he asked.
"I finally got a call from Ireland when we were driving back up," said Murray. "They've definitely not got our Paddy Kavanagh."
"Why did you not tell me this before?" asked Bain.
"I only got a call half an hour ago," said Murray.
"No, I meant earlier," said Bain.
"When you were talking about tearing me a new arsehole?" asked Murray.
Bain bristled. "Aye, then."
"Well, you turned your arsehole tearing attentions to Cullen," said Murray. "I didn't want to get a seventh arsehole."
"This is fuckin' fuckin' fucked," said Bain, shaking his head.
"What about Deeley or Anderson?" asked Cullen.
"Don't fuckin' start me on those fucks," said Bain. "They're still backed up, no chance we're gettin' anythin' for a fuckin' age of man." He rubbed at his forehead. "Fuckin' pair of them are just a pair of fuckin' walkin' excuses."
"So four excuses?" asked Caldwell.
Bain closed his eyes for almost a minute. He reopened them and looked at each one of them, slowly. "Right," he said, his voice low. "I'm going to lock this room and then I'm going to speak to Jim Turnbull. This investigation is comin' to a dead end. I want each of you to write everythin' up. Watson, Murray and whatever your fuckin' name is, I want you to send your reports to Leith Walk. End of the day. Then, you go back to your previous duties."
Cullen was going to say something to wind Bain up but decided against it. He realised that he was going back to working with Irvine.
Tuesday
19th June 2012
Five days later
twenty-eight
Cullen walked slowly down the street, carrying a plastic bag. Gorgie Road was heavy with foot traffic, cars and belching buses, as commuters headed home at the end of another day, just as Cullen's was beginning. Gorgie was an area that he didn't know particularly well, but he was beginning to g
et acquainted with it. He turned the corner, into a quieter side street, heading towards Tynecastle and the Heart of Midlothian stadium, and stopped at a black Vauxhall Astra. He opened the passenger side and got in. The car was conveniently parked for a view across the road at the block of flats.
He handed DS Alan Irvine three newspapers and took his own two out. TalkSport was on the radio, building up to some more Euro football commentary.
"You gone for your poof's papers again?" asked Irvine, pointing at Cullen's Guardian and Independent.
Cullen had once let slip to DS Irvine that his Degree was in English Literature and he'd survived no end of abuse in the canteen about it - the favourite being Irvine mincing about with a limp wrist, doing a very poor impression of Cullen's accent. Cullen hadn't seen that sort of behaviour since High School but it was alive and well in Bain's team. Cullen's choice of newspaper was another source of hilarity to Irvine.
"I'm not asking you to read them," said Cullen. "Besides, I've not seen any direct evidence that you actually can read. It's just the pictures you look at, isn't it?"
"Aye, very good," said Irvine.
They'd been sat there for four days straight, staking out a suspected drug dealer who was the lead suspect in a stabbing in Pilton. Gorgie wasn't strictly on their patch and Turnbull was embroiled in a political battle with the St Leonards crowd.
Cullen was beyond fed up of sitting with Irvine, almost to the point of feeling nostalgic for one of Bain's shambolic investigations. Irvine had previously put in a complaint against Cullen - fortunately Turnbull made it disappear - but their working relationship had gone from strained to almost a nuclear war. Cullen was glad to be working for DI Cargill on this investigation, though. The rumours of Cargill bringing in more Detective Sergeants meant that he might be able to get that promotion soon enough. That said, Cullen was close to putting his feelers out and seeing what else was available in Edinburgh, maybe back out in West Lothian.
They were settling in for the night - they'd just clocked on at 4pm and would get relieved in the morning, as happened every night. Cullen dreaded the next fourteen hours.
