by Ed James
Cullen groaned again. This case couldn’t get any worse now, and he’d not even seen the body.
‘Damo, good to see you.’ Bain grabbed him in a big hug and started singing The Boys Are Back In Town but got lost halfway through the chorus.
McCrea broke free and did a double take. ‘Cullen?’ He gave Bain a snide grin. ‘Christ, gaffer, you brought the village idiot with you?’
‘And I thought you were more than enough idiot for a whole city.’ Cullen gave him a wide grin, trying to hide his burning rage. ‘Brian works for me. I’m a DI now.’
‘Acting DI.’
Cullen let Bain have it, kept his glare on McCrea. ‘Are you bin raking, Damian?’
‘For my sins. Not found anything, mind.’ With a shrug, McCrea thumbed behind him. ‘You want to see the body?’
Bain started off. ‘Hold me back.’
The gorilla with the clipboard grabbed him by the jacket. ‘Get a suit on, you clown.’
‘I WANT to call it a dumpster, Sundance, but it’s . . . just a big fuckin’ bin.’ Bain wrestled a set of ladders into position and started clambering up. ‘Right?’ At the top, he peered inside. ‘In the name of the fuckin’ wee man.’ He started back down the ladder again. ‘Christ alive. I’ve seen some pretty fucked-up things in my time, but…’ His grey pallor had turned pure white. ‘Here, Sundance, you take a look.’
Cullen waited for him to shimmy down then shot up the ladder. Near the top, he got a blast of a bleach stink mixed with human shit. He almost lost his egg roll. Breathing through his mouth, he took the last couple of rungs a lot slower, his gut gurgling away, then stopped at the top, mindful of whatever the hell was inside had just done to Bain, a seasoned detective. He looked inside the bin.
IC1 male. Mid-forties, maybe. Thick hair covered his torso, right up his back. A puddle of clear liquid ran halfway up his chest. That’d be the bleach then. He lay face up, eyes open, staring right at Cullen. Naked except for an adult-sized nappy, white but soiled.
McCrea clambered up another ladder and started huffing yet another ladder over into the bin.
Cullen focused on him instead of the corpse. ‘Surprised to see you here, Damian. Thought your mob were too busy to take this case.’
‘Aye, my DCI caught a shooting down Pollockshaws way the other morning.’ McCrea finished resting the second ladder inside and grinned. ‘Can see you know the place, but can’t mind which one’s the posh bit? Way I remember the difference is, Pollockshiels shields you from Pollockshaws.’
‘I wasn’t, but thanks. Doesn’t explain why I’ve got you, though.’
‘This has all the hallmarks of a serial rape case I’ve been working.’
That prickled Cullen’s neck. ‘All the hallmarks, eh?’
‘You know what I mean. People waking up in bins, wearing adult nappies, but with no idea how they got there. And with very sore arseholes and fannies.’ Talking about rape victims like that didn’t seem to faze McCrea. ‘Anyway, this could be a copycat, could be unconnected, could be anything. The gaffer’s got me on it to stop you eastie beasties making an arse of it.’
‘If anyone’s an expert in making an arse of—’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’
Cullen looked around the lane. Only one camera he could see. ‘You got any CCTV?’
‘Two cameras in vicinity. Both gubbed.’
‘How?’
‘Austerity. They break down and they don’t get fixed.’
‘Get down from there, you hooligan!’ Sounded like a woman, the nasal rasp of a local. A very, very angry one. Cullen looked round. A masked figure was shaking her fists at him.
Cullen took his time getting down.
McCrea was back rooting around in the other bin, not taking much care as he tossed evidence bags on the brick paving. Astonishing how quickly a fat man can move when an authority figure appears.
At the bottom, the interloper was shouting the odds at Bain, her words muffled by her mask.
‘Tell me about it.’ Bain nodded. ‘Absolutely shocking who they let into crime scenes these days.’
She was scowling at Cullen. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘DI Scott Cullen.’ He got out his warrant card. ‘This is DS Bain. DCI Methven sent us through from Edinburgh.’
‘Ah, well. Come with me.’ The woman led them off to a safe distance, then tore off her crime scene mask. Ruby red lipstick and pale white skin, with a curl of ginger hair poking out of her hood. ‘Rachel Gibson. I’m one of the pathologists.’ She led them back towards the perimeter and the gorilla with his clipboard. ‘How much do you know?’
‘Assume fuck all.’ Bain let his own mask dangle free. ‘Give us the whole shooting match, darlin’.’
‘Do you mind not calling me that?’
‘Sorry. I’m a local lad, but been based through in Edinburgh for way too long. Some of their caveman ways must’ve rubbed off on me.’
‘Right.’ Gibson started unzipping her crime scene suit. ‘Well, I’ve finished my initial assessment. I was checking up on the whereabouts of the transport. I need to get our victim on the slab to complete the job.’
Cullen got between her and Bain, aware that he was pulling some alpha male bullshit, but it was the only language Bain understood. ‘You say victim. He was definitely murdered?’
‘I’ve not been up close and personal with him in my lab yet, but my initial assessment would be that he’s been asphyxiated by strangulation.’ She dragged a pale finger across her own throat. ‘Several bruises there. And I know you’ll want time of death, but all I can say is the poor fellow died last night. Livor mortis would suggest that he’s been in situ for roughly ten hours.’
Cullen tried to follow through a strand of logic. And he couldn’t.
Why the hell would a grown man wear a nappy? Aside from incontinence, he had a million reasons buzzing around his head, most of them pointing to some form of sexual deviance.
The links to McCrea’s cases, though. He needed to confirm that connection or shut it down.
He stared back at the bin. ‘What’s with the nappy?’
‘I had a… little prod and the nappy’s been heavily soiled, meaning the nappy was most likely on when he died. I’d suggest that either your killer’s a pervert—’
A big laugh from Bain interrupted her.
Her glare suggested it wasn’t the reaction she was looking for. ‘Or your killer wanted to utilise forensic countermeasures such as immersion in bleach, but morally they couldn’t stand the indignity of a naked body. Either way, gentlemen, that liquid he’s in is bleach. You’re not getting any biologicals off the body.’
Cullen nodded slowly. The logic was thinning out even more. Definitely someone covering their tracks.
‘If the cause of death turns out to be manual strangulation, you could measure the span of the hand and rule suspects in or out accordingly.’
‘If? What are the odds it’s something else, not murder?’
‘It could very well be death by misadventure. I need to conduct a full post mortem before we find out, but I’d say it looks like murder, yes, and strangulation.’
Either way, treating it like a murder was preferable to not.
Bain shrugged. ‘I mean, if you truss your victims up in nappies, it’ll stop the jobbies and that coming out when he dies. Makes them easier to dispose of and remove the traces.’
Gibson winced. ’While your colleague’s a tad crass, yes, it’d prevent a mess at death. The anal sphincter releases tension and excretes in a lot of cases. But like I say, I need to get him on the slab and confirm my findings.’
It was starting to turn into something, anyway. ‘You got any idea who found him?’
‘SO I FOUND THAT BLOKE, EH?’ Rich Petersen was leaning against a wall, his sharp South African accent slicing through the city drone. Top off, showing off his ripped torso and a giant tattoo of a Chinese dragon crawling round his neck. He shot a glare at Bain. ‘Hey, mate, you mind not checking me out, eh?’
&n
bsp; ‘You fancy putting on a top?’
‘Never wear one.’ Petersen folded his arms, seemed to flex his biceps. ‘Even in winter. Never gets that cold here.’
Cullen turned the page in his notebook. ‘So you were on a round this morning, right?’
‘Commercial bins today, mate. All the fucking shop waste, eh? Absolute fucking nightmare.’
‘These big bins…’ Bain sniffed. ‘Any idea what they call them?’
‘Dumpsters.’
‘Thought so.’ Bain flicked up an eyebrow at Cullen.
The pathology van peeped its horn and they got out of the way. Their unidentified body was heading elsewhere.
Cullen leaned in to whisper: ‘You’re cramping my style here. Can you take the other scaffie?’
‘The other what?’
‘The other binman.’
‘What the fuck is a scaffie?’
‘My gran used to call binmen scaffies.’
‘Teuchter bastard.’ Bain shook his head, then smiled at the bigger, older binman. He’d barely said a word. ‘Right, sir, let’s give these two some peace.’ He led over towards his car.
Cullen smiled at Rich Petersen. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Happens all the time, mate. But God sculpted me, eh?’
Cullen pretended to scratch his chin to stop himself laughing. ‘So you were checking those dumpsters?’
‘Damn right, I was.’ Petersen nodded over at the crime scene. ‘Usually, some fucker’s flytipped a tin of paint in one. Happens all the fucking time, mate, and makes a fucking massive mess.’ His expression darkened and he seemed to shiver. ‘But I found the fella in there this morning. Fucking weirdest thing I ever saw, mate, and I saw some shit back in Jo’burg.’
Cullen didn’t want to know, so he left him some space.
Petersen patted Cullen’s shoulder. ‘You mind if I leave, mate? These bins won’t clear themselves, eh?’
‘Just got a couple more questions, sir.’ Cullen gave him a cold smile and passed him the forensics tablet, showing a high-resolution image of the dead-eyed face from below. ‘You recognise this man?’
Petersen gave it a good look. ’Nah, mate. Sorry. Never seen this guy in my life until…’ He broke off, jaw clenched.
As far as Cullen could tell, Petersen had nothing to do with this, save finding a corpse. In a bin. Covered in bleach. Wearing a nappy. ‘Need to know your movements last night.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Afraid so.’
Petersen sighed. ‘Okay, so I was out on the piss with a mate, then back home for some sleep. Early start, eh?’
’He got a name, this mate?’
‘She. Her name’s Marie. Marie Gray.’
Cullen clicked his pen. ‘Can you give me her number?’
‘This is a fucking joke.’ But Petersen complied.
Cullen finished taking it down, then pocketed his notebook and gave him a business card. ‘Give me a call if anything jogs your memory, okay?’
‘Sure thing, mate.’ Petersen wandered off towards the bin lorry. He stopped to hoik up his trousers, muttering, ’Need some new strides…’
3
BAIN
Tell you, that Sundance is a fuckin’ cheeky bastard. Thinking he’s the boss of me. Used to be an arrogant prick of a DC, supposed to take orders from yours fuckin’ truly way back when, but now he’s an acting DI he’s even more fuckin’ annoying. And useless.
The binman gives us a frown. Big Jim. Hair coming out of his lugs. Keeps squinting too. Dirty big bastard, though, nose as red as the Aberdeen home top and just as fuckin’ dirty. And he’s wearing an old Celtic shirt, least it looks that way under all the muck it’s covered in. Enough said about him. Actually, he fuckin’ stinks. And not just ‘cos he’s a binman, or a fuckin’ scaffie as Sundance calls it, but the ripest BO. Can see the type a mile off: soon as he clocks off he’s in the boozer sucking down eighteen pints, then stumbles back home and straight to bed, then gets up without even a Bathgate shower, and I mean washing his oxters in the sink. ‘You even listening to me, pal?’
Takes a second to realise he’s talking to me. ‘Sure, I’m listening.’
Big Jim frowns at us. He’s a right shifty one, that’s for sure. No wedding rings under those great big binmen gloves, meaning he’s not that experienced at lying, if you catch my drift. Maybe there’s an ex-Mrs Big Jim, maybe Mad Ange or something, who he’s lied to. Got to keep an open mind about these things. ‘Well, like I was saying, I was at a mate’s last night.’
‘Aye? Any way you can prove that?’
‘Struggling to think of how, eh?’ Big Jim’s lost to me for a few secs, staring across the road. A young lassie walks past, pushing a pram, phone to her ear. Tight leggings. One of those where you wonder if that’s her kid or her younger brother or sister. Looks really fuckin’ young is what I’m trying to say here.
Either way, Big Jim is a dirty, dirty bastard.
I wave my hand in front of his face. ‘I said, what were you doing?’
‘Oh, aye. Yeah. Eh, watching some films.’
Probably the kind of pornos that’d make your eyes water, if this boy’s wandering eye that satisfies his soul has anything to do with it. ‘Anything good?’
He’s back staring at us. ‘A Van Damme and a Segal.’
‘Old ones?’
‘Nah, new ones. Well, new-ish. Utter shite too.’
‘Rightio.’ Take a few seconds to note it all down, but nothing else comes to mind. ‘Must’ve been pretty freaky finding that body?’
He nods. ‘Not my first rodeo, bud.’
‘Aye?’
‘Hear about these rapes? Few of them over the last six months or so. Well, yours truly found one of the lassies in a bin up in Partick. Out of her skelp on Christ knows what. It’s a bloody plague, I tell you.’
And you just put yourself in the fuckin’ frame, pal. He gets a wave of my notebook. ‘I’ll give you bell later, aye? Keep your phone on.’
‘Sure thing.’ He holds it up. Expensive-looking Samsung monster. And there’s this cute wee lassie’s face on the screen. Boy’s a pervert, that’s for sure. He lumbers off. Big Jim. Boy lifts weights, but he also lifts pints to his lips and stuffs as many carbs as he can fit in that fat pus of his.
Takes patting a few pockets until I find my blower, but there it is. Trouser, front left. Should’ve started there. Speed dial number three. ‘Elvis, bud, you busy?’
Cheeky sod sighs down the line. ‘Suspect I’m about to be.’
‘Need you to check the location of this boy’s phone last night.’
A deeper sigh. Worse than fuckin’ Sundance. That, or sighing is like that new plague from fuckin’ China or something. Coronavirus or whatever it’s called. Stick a fuckin’ lime in your neck! ‘I’ll see what I can find, Brian.’
‘Good man. We still on for Sunday?’
‘Aye, just got a delivery of IPAs from Canada. Some interesting stuff in it. Flying Monkeys, Nickelbrook and a new Collective Arts Double IPA. Mind how much you liked the last one?’
‘Looking forward to sampling this one, then. Cheers.’ The phone goes back in the trousers, so maybe next time I won’t have to hunt for it.
That other binman, the South African boy, hops up on the back and thumps the side. The lorry trundles off in a belch of dirty diesel. Top off like it’s the fuckin’ weather for it.
‘Tell you, Sundance, I’ve seen everything. A fuckin’ sexy binman.’
The snide bastard frowns at me. ‘Sexy?’
‘In my day, they were all big fat hoofers with drink problems. He’s a total deviant.’
A dark grey Range Rover pulls up next to us, the engine still running as the window rolls down. Fuckin’ Methven pokes his skinny bastard face out at us. Walrus eyebrows. ‘You getting anywhere?’
He gets a shake of the head. ‘Aye, give us a minute, Col, eh?’
‘I was talking to Scott.’
Before I go tonto, Sundance chips in. ‘Thought you weren�
�t coming through for a while, sir?’
‘Called in a few favours. Rachel’s going to run the PM now.’
Fuck it, I give him a flash of the old eyebrows. ‘Rachel, aye?’ Let him know I’m onto him.
‘Settle down, Brian.’ Prick glares at us. ‘Dr Gibson used to be based in Aberdeen when I was in Grampian police.’ His window starts rolling up. ‘If you need me, call me.’ And he fucks off down the street without even a glance at the lane.
‘Prick could’ve called.’ Give him a flick of the Vs.
Sundance laughs at us. Looks grudging, but fuck it. Beggars can’t be choosers. Bet he’s wishing Methven clocked me giving him the Vs. ‘Not many things I agree with you about.’
I wave over at the bin lorry. ‘What’s your take on this, Sundance?’
‘Until we get an ID, we’re snookered.’ He’s buggering about with the forensics tablet. ‘That’s just a dead guy in a bin. Forties, white, but that’s about it.’
‘Tell me about it, Sundance. Tell me about it.’
‘Hoy!’ Damo McCrea’s charging towards us, grinning away like a dog with two cocks who’s just found a third. ‘What did you think of the body? Pretty sick, right?’
Actually gives us a flash of the poor bastard in the bin. Almost makes us boak. ‘Something like that, aye. You cleared off sharpish when the doctor pitched up.’
‘Aye, well. She doesn’t like us.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. She’s a snob. End of.’
Sundance butts in, trying to act the wide bastard here. ‘You got any idea who the victim is?’
‘Aye.’
‘Care to share with us?’
Damo waves an evidence bag in Sundance’s face. ‘Found this in the other bin along with four empty bleach bottles.’
Sundance snatches it off him. A wallet. Prick rummages round, opening the thing, then shoves it in my face. Takes a good squint for us to focus, but it’s a driver’s license, belonging to one Paul Skinner. Give or take a few bottles of bleach, the ID photo’s a good match for the face on Sundance’s forensics tablet. That’s the boy in the bin, near as damn it.
