by Ed James
"So what is it you require again?" asked Crombie. "A letter expressing my permission to look at Iain's medical records?"
Cullen had been through this earlier, at least a couple of times. "That would be sufficient," he said. "I will pass it in for evidence in the case file when I get back to the station."
"Very well," said Crombie. He started scribbling on the paper - the way the ink appeared, it looked like high quality paper. Crombie wrote his name at the bottom.
The receptionist appeared just then.
"I need you to witness this," said Crombie. He signed and dated beside his name and wrote 'witness' below.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Come here," ordered Crombie, his deep baritone sounding even more resonant with her in the room.
Amanda went round to the other side of the desk and signed the letter. Cullen thought he saw Crombie letching at her as she bent over the desk.
"Thank you," said Crombie. "That will be all."
Amanda nodded and then left the room, closing the door behind her.
Crombie held the note out for Cullen. He reached for it but Crombie pulled it back. "Not so fast," he said. "You will desist when this proves fruitless?"
"Of course," said Cullen.
"Very well," said Crombie, handing the paper to him.
thirty-five
Cullen walked across the car park at the new Royal Infirmary, fuming. He couldn't believe how much the parking cost - he was glad he wasn't visiting someone who was ill. That said, he doubted that he would be able to expense the ticket given that he wasn't exactly officially on police business.
His phone rang as he approached the main entrance to the huge white building - he wasn't even sure it was the correct entrance. He checked the display - his mood got worse. Bain. His earlier calculations had been on the optimistic side.
"Cullen, where the fuck are you?" asked Bain.
"I've got to run an errand," said Cullen.
"Have you fuck," snapped Bain. "I've checked with Wilko and that fuckin' witch that Turnbull's got in and you're working for neither of them. What are you up to?"
"I'm just away to speak to a doctor who operated on Iain Crombie just before he disappeared," said Cullen.
"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?" asked Bain.
"I'm serious," said Cullen. "I don't know exactly what-"
"Why are you off doin' that, rather than what I fuckin' told you to do?" shouted Bain.
"I wanted to rule Iain Crombie out entirely," said Cullen.
"And I wanted you to do the paperwork on this," said Bain. "Murray's been in with Paddy's doctor. The boy definitely had a scar on his arm."
"Which one?" asked Cullen.
"I don't fuckin' know," said Bain.
"Well, I'll call you back in half an hour and let you know if Iain Crombie had one on the left arm," said Cullen. "In the meantime, I'd suggest you get Murray to check it matches."
He ended the call, turned the iPhone off and headed inside.
Mr Amardeep Singh was actually now a consultant, as Cullen discovered, and he had lost the title of mere Dr, though Cullen suspected it still applied when he was booking tables in restaurants - judging by the big man's gut, it was probably fairly often. Singh was a Sikh and had a dark turban and a long beard - Cullen had to admit that he was largely ignorant of the religion and had forgotten everything that multiple diversity seminars were supposed to have presented. He vaguely recalled that they weren't allowed to cut their hair - he didn't know why - and that the turban contained really long hair. There was something about the beard, he recalled, that they weren't allowed to shave, and were only allowed to cut the hair with a knife. He had dark skin, though it showed a slight pallor as though it had been bleached - no doubt the doctor's Scottish upbringing sucking all the colour out of him like the rest of the bastard nation.
His office was in the far end of the building and it had taken Cullen a good fifteen minutes to get there, getting lost several times over and ending up on the wrong floor at least once. For a new building, ease of navigation hadn't been one of the key drivers for the architects. Singh's room itself was full of many papers and filing cabinets, some chest x-rays adorning the walls. It looked out onto the section of the car park where Cullen's car was parked, but had a good view across the trees to Craigmillar Castle, perched atop a hill near the feral housing estate of Niddrie.
"This is not something that I am particularly happy with," said Singh, shaking his head as he looked again at Crombie's permission letter.
"Mr Singh," said Cullen, "this is a very serious matter. We have a body in a barrel in the distillery owned by Mr Crombie's father. Both Iain Crombie and another potential victim disappeared around the same time. We need to be able to identify the body. Unfortunately, it's in a minor state of decay and the face is completely unrecognisable. The teeth have all been removed from the skull so we can't even check the dental records. We could run a family trace on the DNA but that will take weeks and meanwhile we are burning taxpayers' money."
Cullen's sob story obviously had some effect - Singh nodded. "Very well," he said. He reached over and picked up a paper file, the red cover bleached around the edges from sunlight. "We have a document retention facility just near here. I went to the trouble of retrieving the file for you." He flicked through it. "As you know, I was working at the Edington Hospital in North Berwick. I'm from there originally, so it was a pleasant experience working there and seeing so many familiar faces. Mr Crombie was admitted in the May of 1994. He had a cut which required a number of stitches."
"Where was the cut?" asked Cullen.
"It was on the left arm," said Singh. He held up a black and white photograph. "Here." His finger traced the line across the arm, perpendicular to the vein. "I would describe as a deep laceration. It was not a clean separation of the flesh and there were signs of trauma and tearing."
"Do you know what caused it?" asked Cullen.
"It was some sort of sharp object, though not a knife," said Singh. "The cut was not clean."
"Do you mean hygiene clean?"
Singh smiled and rocked his head back and forth - Cullen thought it was a peculiar sight. "I mean both," said Singh. "The wound took much cleaning, but it was fairly rough. It was serrated around the edges. These wounds make it very difficult to get the sides to knit together. We were close to taking Mr Crombie to the old Royal Infirmary."
Cullen knew the place and had been in a couple of times in his student days - once for him when he fell across the car park at Appleton Tower and once for Tom getting the shit kicked out of him by a rugby team. The old Royal Infirmary was doing a slow march into a set of designer flats - the last time he'd been up there a swathe of new buildings had been erected, including a designer bakery, but the old hospital buildings were all still airing.
"We did manage, though," continued Singh. "I sewed the injury up, prescribed some painkillers, some antibiotics and some rest."
"Do you know who brought Mr Crombie in?"
Singh squinted for a moment. He leafed through the file. "No," he said, after almost a minute. "It doesn't seem to have been recorded. I only patched Mr Crombie up, I'm afraid. Admissions was another department entirely."
Cullen noted it down. "Okay," he said. "What would have caused it?"
Singh fiddled with the band on his wrist. "All I can say is that it was caused by a trauma," he said. "Whether it was a blow, a collision or a fall, I could not say, I'm afraid."
"Would I be able to have one of the photographs?" asked Cullen.
"I can arrange for a copy to be made," said Singh. "The quality of the copies is incredible these days."
Cullen smiled, feeling slightly relieved that his gamble was paying off. Unfortunately, he knew that the next hand he played would be with Bain.
thirty-six
Cullen returned to the Incident Room at eleven on the dot, clutching a copy of the picture in a paper file. Bain stood with his arms folded, staring at him. Murray, McLaren
and Caldwell were keeping a safe distance. Cullen made a beeline for Bain, slightly out of breath.
"Here he fuckin' is," said Bain, "John Wayne comin' in from the sunset." He pointed a finger at Cullen. "I've told you so many fuckin' times that I've lost count, but don't you ever fuckin' hang up on me again." He prodded the finger into Cullen's chest. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred fuckin' times."
Cullen ignored him. "It's Iain Crombie in the barrel," he said.
"Cullen, it's fuckin' Paddy Kavanagh," said Bain. He pointed over at Murray. "We've already fuckin' ascertained that fact."
"Can I at least say my piece?" asked Cullen.
"Can you fuck," snapped Bain. "You're at it again, fuckin' about here. Off on your wee trips. I fuckin' wonder what you are up to half the time, Cullen. I've not seen you for four hours, but I've fuckin' seen DI Cargill. You're playin' us off against each other, aren't you?"
"If anyone's playing, it's you," said Cullen.
Bain pointed the finger again. "Less of that, Cullen," he said. "Now, where the fuck have you been?"
"As I explained to you earlier," said Cullen. "I have been out speaking to Alec Crombie and the doctor that sewed up Iain Crombie's arm."
"Eh?" snapped Bain.
Cullen held up the copy of the file. "Iain Crombie was admitted to the hospital in North Berwick a month before he was reported missing," he said. "He had a deep cut to his left arm."
Bain gestured for Murray to come over. "We've already spoken to Paddy Kavanagh's doctor," he said. "Tell him, Murray."
Murray nodded. "He had a cut to the arm," he said. "We are just away to confirm it with Deeley."
Cullen opened up the file he had and showed them the photograph. "This matches the injury on the body," he said.
Bain snatched it off him. He looked at it for a long time. "Fuckin' hell, Sundance," he said, finally. He handed the photograph to Murray, then undid his tie. "Why do you have to be right all the fuckin' time?"
"I'd rather be right and trusted," said Cullen.
"These little fuckin' games you keep playin' don't help, you know that?" said Bain.
"I'll keep playing them as long as you do," said Cullen.
Bain turned to face the others and folded his arms. "We need to get this confirmed," he said.
Cullen was stood there with his mouth hanging open - Bain should have been fazed for being so wrong, but here he was off on a tangent 180 degrees away from his previous thread.
"Has anyone seen Anderson?" asked Bain. "He's still not finished his fuckin' report."
"Saw him downstairs," said Caldwell.
"What's downstairs?" asked Murray.
"Deeley's lair is what," said Bain. "They're taking the body out of the barrel. And very fuckin' slowly."
"It must be like Time Team down there," said Caldwell.
Bain bellowed with laughter. "Aye, well, there's no fuckin' yokel in denim shorts in my police station, that's for sure."
"So you're in agreement that it's Iain Crombie?" asked Cullen, finally.
Bain fixed a stare on him. "I'm sayin' that I'm open to the possibility again," he said. "Need to get an expert to confirm it."
thirty-seven
Bain barrelled into Deeley's office, leading Cullen, Murray and Caldwell behind him. Jimmy Deeley sat in his office chair, speaking into a dictaphone. He waited until he finished a particularly long and meandering section before stopping the machine.
"The body has proved difficult to identify for a number of reasons," he said into the machine. "The skull had been smashed in by a hammer and there are no teeth left in the skull. Now, I don't know under which assumptions our killer had been operating as to what the liquid would do to the body, but the corpse is reasonably well preserved. Not perfect, but good enough. The body was of a white male of five foot eleven. Whoever did this wasn't very good at it, as they left a distinguishing mark. This is compounded by the fact that the CID officers working on the case have two clear suspects with similar builds and distinguishing features who we have not yet been able to discriminate between."
Deeley was the Edinburgh Chief Pathologist, though his remit now extended to Midlothian and both East and West Lothian in these straitened times. His office was in the basement of the station, near the morgue, having been relocated from the Cowgate when they built the new Leith Walk station a few years previously. Cullen's nose told him that they'd managed to bring the stench of the old place with them.
"How can I help, Brian?" asked Deeley.
"Think that we've cracked it," said Bain.
Deeley smiled. "Chance would be a fine thing," he said. "Go on, then, Edinburgh's Finest, who is it in the barrel?"
"It's Iain Crombie," said Bain. He flashed the photograph up. "He had been admitted to hospital with an arm injury roughly six weeks before he was reported as missing."
Deeley took the photo and compared it with another. "Certainly a striking similarity," he said. "I'll need to speak to the doctor and check the medical records for veracity, of course. Wouldn't be the first time you've tried to pull a trick, Brian."
Bain screwed his eyes up. "You'll get yours," he said. Cullen was unsure if he was referring to the medical records or to something more sinister. "Where's your pal, Anderson?"
"He's in the barrel room," said Deeley, with a chuckle. "One of the investigation rooms has been repurposed for the time being. James has been collaborating with me today."
"And where is the room?" asked Bain.
"Just next door."
Bain nodded at Caldwell. "Be a good girl and get Anderson through here for Uncle Brian," he said.
Caldwell screwed her face up and headed off.
Bain rubbed his hands together. "Hopefully get some fuckin' answers out of that prick," he said.
"No love lost between you two, is there?" asked Deeley.
"Aye, well," said Bain. "He's a fuckin' liability."
"I'm sure the feeling's mutual."
A few seconds later Anderson, holding a wad of paper, followed Caldwell in. He headed over with a face like thunder. "What is it?" he asked.
"Could have sworn that somebody promised me a forensic report on this fuckin' barrel a week ago," said Bain, eyes wide and acting like a children's TV presenter. "I wonder who it could have been?" He looked around them, one by one, then finally pointed at Anderson. "Ah, yes, it was James Anderson." He glared at him. "Now give us a fuckin' update."
Anderson closed his eyes and exhaled. "The report is in your Inbox," he said.
"I'm not at my fuckin' desk," said Bain. "Summarise it."
"Fine," said Anderson. "I'll give you a summary, then, seeing as you're asking so very nicely."
"That would be fuckin' smashin'," said Bain.
"Couldn't get anything off the barrel," said Anderson, reading from his notes. "It's been contaminated and contaminated so many times. Christ knows how many times they move those things. We got two clear sets of prints matching Doug Strachan and Fraser Crombie."
"Fine," said Bain. "That narrows it down by exactly fuck all."
Anderson grinned at Bain. "The other thing that might actually interest you," he said, "is that the barrel has definitely not been opened since it was filled. We opened another one from the same batch and they were exactly the same, give or take very slightly different wear patterns to your barrel."
"Crombie let you do that?" asked Cullen.
Anderson smiled. "Just a case of asking nicely," he said. "One day you might get taught what that is on one of your jollies up to Tulliallan."
"So it's definitely from 1994 then?" asked Bain.
"I'm not saying that," said Anderson with a smirk. "That barrel has not been tampered with since it was filled and it's consistent with the barrels that were filled in 1994. I'll let you Detectives draw the conclusions and conjure that as evidence into your case. Happy to present that in court."
Bain's eyes homed in on Cullen. "Right, so given that they had enough missing whisky that year to fill the
two barrels, we can deduce that it was filled in 1994," said Bain. He stood there, stroking his moustache for a few seconds. He quickly turned to face Deeley. "Is the body in a fit state to show to people?" he asked.
"Like who?" asked Deeley.
"The family," said Bain.
Deeley exhaled. "Why?"
"Alec Crombie's son has been missing for eighteen years, Jimmy," said Bain. "I think he's allowed to see the body, don't you?"
Deeley nodded slowly. "Give me an hour to get it ship-shape," he said. Cullen imagined that he'd learned to just run with Bain's flights of fantasy rather than bother arguing, unlike his own behaviour.
"It'll take that fuckin' long to get the buggers found and over here," said Bain.
"I'll be off, then," said Deeley. He spun around and marched off out of the room. Anderson followed.
"Where do you think you're fuckin' goin'?" asked Bain.
Anderson turned around in the doorway. "I need to prep with Jimmy," he said. "I'll leave all the Sherlock Holmes magic to you boys, I'm merely a Doctor Watson."
He left the room, leaving Bain looking like he was going to kick some inanimate object.
"Right," said Bain, rubbing his hands together. "Let's fuckin' get back upstairs. This place gives me the fuckin' creeps."
thirty-eight
Deeley had set the investigation room up tastefully. The body lay on the slab in the middle of the room, ready to be put into the mortuary next door.
Cullen lifted the sheet off the face of the body. As Deeley had said, the face had been smashed in. Whoever had done it had really gone to town on it - the skull was totally collapsed in, the teeth all removed. He was surprised that parts of it hadn't floated off in the whisky and were all pretty much still attached. The body was well-preserved - there looked to be some blood underneath the skin and there was bruising on the skull. The scar was on the left arm - Cullen was surprised that the skin hadn't been sliced off with a knife, given that the killer had gone to the effort of smashing the head in. Then again, a hammer was much easier to come by in a distillery than a knife sharp enough to cut flesh.
