City of the Dead

by Ed James

  Damo’s shifting his gaze between us like an overkeen puppy. ‘So, we’re hotfooting round there, aye?’

  ‘Nope.’ Sundance fuckin’ grins at the boy. ‘We are, but you’re going to get your forensics guys to run the prints on this wallet.’

  ‘Ah, fuck sake.’

  ‘Just do it, okay?’ Even hands over a business card with something scribbled on the back. ‘Then I need you to check this alibi for me. This Marie Gray, who he was supposed to be with the guy who found the body. Bain’s sexy binman.’

  ‘Sundance, I fuckin’ swear—’

  4

  CULLEN

  Paul Skinner lived in a Victorian villa on the Southside. A storey and a half of beige stone, with a cream bay window poking out from behind a row of pot plants in the small front garden, filled with pebbles and grasses still thriving in the cold.

  ‘Nice pad, Sundance.’ Bain strolled up the front path, whistling, hands in pockets like he wasn’t visiting a murder victim’s home. ‘You want to have a wee practice at giving a death message?’

  ‘You’re assuming he wasn’t single.’

  Bain stopped outside the door. ‘So you missed his wedding ring?’

  Cullen felt himself blush. Never good when Bain had got more out of a crime scene than him.

  ‘His wife’ll need some comforting, Sundance. You up to it?’

  They had one of those fancy video doorbells. Ring, judging by the logo. Cullen pressed it and it lit up, letting out rising chimes.

  ‘You ignoring me?’

  ‘Let’s just get this over with, aye?’

  ‘Think we should get a few more bodies through here. Half your team’s pissing about on Schoolbook all day.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Not today, sorry.’ A disembodied voice burst out of a speaker, thin and shrill.

  ’Police, sir. DS Bain.’ He thrust out his warrant card. ‘This is DI Cullen.’

  The door opened. A thin man in his forties peered out through thick glasses. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Looking to speak to someone about a Paul Skinner.’

  The man seemed to deflate. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘You got a name, sir?’

  ‘My name’s Gavin. Gavin Whitecross.’ Red eyes flicked between them. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘His wife in?’

  ‘Wife? Paul’s my husband.’

  A frown flickered across Bain’s forehead. ‘Have you seen him today?’

  Whitecross clasped his hands together and dipped his head, like he was praying. ‘Not since yesterday. He… didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘That a common occurrence?’

  Whitecross scowled at Bain. ‘You need to tell me right now what he’s done.’

  Cullen stepped between them. ‘Mr Whitecross, I’m afraid we found your husband’s body this morning.’

  ONE THING GLASGOW had going for it was a much better-specced mortuary than Edinburgh. Cullen thought it was probably due to the higher frequency of murders in the city, but he wouldn’t say that out loud, at least not while he was still in it.

  Through a glass wall crisscrossed with thin mesh, Dr Gibson lifted up a sheet and showed Paul Skinner’s pale face.

  Standing next to her, Gavin Whitecross took one look, then nodded at Dr Gibson. ‘That’s him.’ His voice was distorted through the speakers, though Cullen couldn’t see any. Whitecross shut his eyes. Tears streaked down his cheeks and he had to grip the edge of a table.

  Dr Gibson opened the door and let Whitecross back out into their custody. She didn’t seem the sort to want to spend too much time with members of the public, at least not when they were still breathing.

  Whitecross stumbled towards Cullen, looking like he might collapse any second. And he did, but Cullen caught him. ‘Hey, let’s get you a cup of tea.’ His turn to nod at Dr Gibson, then he led Whitecross through the doorway into the family room, all subtle shades of beige.

  Bain was already in there, pouring tea into a small cup. ‘How do you take it?’

  Whitecross collapsed into a seat and slumped back. ‘Usually drink coffee. But milk, please.’

  Bain poured milk in, then gave a reptilian grin as he spooned in some sugar. ‘Here you are.’ He slid the cup across the table and started pouring another two cups.

  ‘Thanks.’ Whitecross sipped some tea, wincing slightly. ‘This is really hard for me.’

  Bain was scowling. ‘Just—’

  ‘It’s okay, sir.’ Cullen blew on his tea. He wanted to give Whitecross a few minutes, see if it shook anything loose. He smiled, warm and full of understanding, or at least he hoped so. ‘Take your time.’

  And Whitecross did, just sitting there, staring into space. Sometimes when you broke the news to someone, they broke in half there and then. Sometimes it never happened. But sometimes seeing their spouse’s body on a slab, that was when it hit. And it had hit Gavin Whitecross hard.

  The door opened and a uniformed officer strolled in, followed by Methven. She gave a warm smile. ‘Hi, Mr Whitecross, my name is Tracy Scott. I’m a Family Liaison Officer. I see they’ve got you a cup of tea.’ Another warm smile. ‘I think I can rustle up some biscuits. Any particular favourites?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Methven motioned for them to join him in the corridor. ‘This is where you tell me you’ve got something.’ He was staring hard at Bain. ‘Well?’

  ‘Nothing much, Col. Boy’s maybe hiding something, but I’m not the type to try and prise it out of him.’

  Methven stared at him like he knew that was utter bollocks. ‘Come on, gentlemen, let’s see how Rachel’s getting on.’

  ON THE OTHER side of the glass, Dr Gibson dumped a mound of human organs onto a set of scales.

  Time was Cullen would definitely lose his breakfast for the second time that morning just at the sight of it, but he’d seen so many dissections now. The stench from the bin, though… That was still new. He rested against the wall, feeling the tickle at the back of his throat.

  ‘Well I fuckin’ never.’ Bain was messing about on his phone. ‘So, a scaffie is short for “scavenger”.’

  Methven folded his arms and wouldn’t look at them, instead keeping his focus on Dr Gibson working away through the glass. ‘It’s Doric. I spent five years up in Grampian, as you well know.’

  ‘How the hell am I supposed to remember that, Col? Your boss punted me through here way before you pitched up. Almost like you got my job, eh?’

  ‘We all remember why you were sent through here.’

  Bain gave him a sharp look, but kept his peace for once.

  A rap on the glass and they all looked round. Dr Gibson was standing over Paul Skinner’s body, thumbing over to the door.

  ‘Let’s see what she’s got for us, then?’ Methven led them over.

  The door was like an airlock on a submarine, a giant metal thing designed to keep any and all foreign forensic traces out of the post mortem. A loud hiss and Dr Gibson walked out, tugging her mask away from her face. ‘Well.’

  Bain wrapped his hands around his throat. ‘So, death by the old Motherwell cuddle, aye?’

  ‘Well. I’m not so sure.’

  Methven frowned. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Initial blood toxicology shows a lot of alcohol in his system, but there’s also a substantial amount of cocaine.’

  ‘Cocaine.’ Methven blew air up his face. ‘Typical.’

  ‘And I believe he was having sex at or near the time of death. Anal sex, too given the traces of condom spermicide on his penis and in his own anus. He’d worn protection and so did whoever had sex with him.’

  Bain sniffed. ‘Well, the boy was married to a bloke.’

  But it got Cullen thinking. In this day and age, a lot more gay men were on anti-HIV medicine. He couldn’t remember the name of it, but it let them forego protection, instead putting them at the mercy of less-fatal infections while they had their fun.

  Bain was frowning. ‘See with gay sex, is it
like innings in cricket? “You go first, old chap.”’ He minced around a bit, arms waving. ‘“No, no, I insist, you first.” That about right?’

  The only sound was the jangling of Methven’s change in his pocket.

  The side door opened with the sound of flushing coming from the bathroom. McCrea walked out, drying his hands on his trousers. ‘What’s up?’

  Methven ignored him. ‘What I don’t get is why Mr Skinner was trussed up in a nappy like one of McCrea’s rape victims.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t rape them!’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Cullen put his hands in his pockets and let out a deep breath. ‘I can think of a good reason someone would murder him.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Well, if his husband found him cheating, that’d be as good a motive as any. Right?’

  Methven seemed to think it through. Jangle, jangle, jangle. Cullen wanted to force each bloody coin down his throat. ‘Okay, take him in for an interview.’

  5

  Cullen hated bringing a grieving spouse in for a formal interview while their loved one’s body was cut up and dissected on a slab in the pathology lab.

  ‘Interview commenced at 11.57.’ Bain sat back and folded his arms. ‘Could you start with the last time you saw your husband, please.’

  Whitecross took a deep breath. ‘Breakfast yesterday morning.’

  ‘I take it you have a job?’

  ‘I’m a corporate lawyer.’ And yet he’d not brought a criminal defence solicitor in. Could mean everything, could mean nothing. ‘I was busy all day at work. Never rains but it pours. Locked in meetings, working through contracts and I didn’t have anything to eat since my morning porridge.’

  ‘Did you hear from your husband at all?’

  ‘A few texts, you know how it is.’ And Cullen did, but his own phone had been quiet since first thing. ‘Paul called about three, maybe half past. I could check?’

  ‘Let’s do that later. What did he say?’

  ‘Paul and his business partner closed a big deal yesterday and were going out to celebrate. He was in the back of the taxi, as it happens. Asked if I wanted to join them.’

  Cullen leaned forward in his chair. Something concrete started to form. ‘And did you?’

  ‘As much as I wanted to, I just needed to get home. Have a bath, then watch something on Netflix with a bottle of wine and a Chinese.’

  ‘Did Paul say where they were going?’

  ‘Byres Road, I think. Maybe that restaurant where they wear kilts. Paul has such a thing for them.’

  ‘And you didn’t join them?’

  ‘No, I had my bath, watched two episodes of Unbelievable, then went to bed around eleven.’

  ‘When did you notice your husband wasn’t home?’

  ‘I went to the toilet in the middle of the night. Must’ve been about two?’ Whitecross tapped the black smartwatch on his wrist. ‘Again, I could check?’

  ‘That’s okay for now.’

  Whitecross seemed to relax.

  ‘We will need to take it into evidence afterwards.’ Cullen got the reaction he wanted. Slight fury at being inconvenienced. ‘We may settle for access to any cloud service which houses the data.’

  ‘Fine. Whatever.’

  ‘So you’ve been awake since you noticed?’

  ‘I, uh, went back to sleep.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cullen shrugged, but kept quiet. Let Whitecross break the silence.

  ‘I presume there’s a reason we’re in an interview room instead of my home?’

  Cullen nodded slowly. ‘Your husband’s post mortem revealed that he’d recently had sex with someone.’

  Whitecross shut his eyes. ‘I see.’

  ‘Was it you?’

  ‘I was at home, like I said.’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t me. Christ. If you must know, I masturbated when I got in.’

  Cullen noted it down. Hard to check unless it’d been to some internet porn. Another job for Elvis. ‘You any idea who your husband might have had sex with?’

  More silence, just the ticking of the clock on the wall over his head.

  ‘Mr Whitecross, your husband’s dead. We believe someone murdered him. I really want to find out who. If there’s something you’re not telling me, then I need to hear it. Whatever it is.’

  Whitecross stared at him, his eyes ringed by tears. As much as Cullen hated doing this to a grieving man, there was a murderer out there. Maybe it was McCrea’s rapist and he’d escalated to murder, maybe not. But Cullen wanted to catch him.

  Whitecross ran a hand down his face. ‘As much as we love each other and are committed to the life we’ve built together, it’s quite common that one of us doesn’t come home. Paul and I have an open relationship.’

  Bain raised his eyebrows. ‘I see.’

  Whitecross tilted his head back. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just sayin’, pal. You need to be careful in this day and age.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I get it. You’re talking about HIV.’

  Bain snarled, like he could catch it from sitting in the same room as a gay man. Time was, a lot of people would share that stupid idea. Bain seemed old enough to remember Princess Diana holding that ailing man’s hand, to remember the furore, to remember nothing happening to her, to remember a dark time when homophobes ran the world.

  Maybe the world wasn’t so much better now.

  ‘Paul and I are both on PrEP.’

  Bingo. That was the name.

  Bain was frowning, though. Hard to believe someone as depraved as him wouldn’t know. Maybe he was playing the daft laddie. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s a pill you take that protects you against HIV. And besides, AIDS isn’t the death sentence it was when I came out.’

  Cullen shot a glare at Bain, then gave Whitecross a smile. ‘Sir, do you have any idea who your husband was sleeping with last night?’

  ‘You mean who he fucked?’ Whitecross dabbed at his eyes. ‘I hate euphemisms. But no, I don’t know where Paul slept last night, or who he fucked or who fucked him.’

  ‘You said he was out on the randan with his business partner?’ Bain folded his arms across his chest.

  Whitecross sat there, like he was waiting for a question. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Well, could your husband have… you know… with them?’

  ‘Iain Farrelly is his name, and no; he’s extremely heterosexual.’

  Cullen kicked Bain’s ankle to shut him up. ‘You got a name or address for Mr Farrelly?’

  ‘Not a home address, no. Iain and Paul have an office on Blythswood Square.’

  Bain leaned over to whisper to Cullen: ‘Want me to head round there?’

  Now he’d decided to play the enthusiastic underling. Cullen shook his head, mindful of Dr Gibson’s lack of certainty over the cause of death. ‘Let’s speak to Methven first.’

  UPSTAIRS IN GOVAN STATION, Cullen opened the door and realised he’d been in this office before, looking across the wasteland that was southern Glasgow. Half a mile away, an Asda glowed in the morning gloom next to the Rangers football stadium, floodlights on full to help the midwinter grass grow. He shut the office door behind him. ‘Any update from the PM?’

  Methven sat behind the desk and joined Cullen in staring out across the cityscape. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So what do you want us to do, sir?’

  ‘I’ve thought about your update from the interview. We should get some bodies round to the Blythswood Square office and see what this business partner has to say for themself.’

  ‘Him, sir. Name is Iain Farrelly.’ Cullen flicked open his notebook. ‘Sounds like their business is specialising in data integration. Whatever that is.’

  Now Methven looked round. ‘It’s a real growth industry. Remember th
at case at Alba Bank a while back?’

  ‘What about it?’ Cullen shuddered, remembering it all in vivid detail. ‘They weren’t working there, were they?’

  ‘No, but a competitor was.’ Methven sighed. ‘I spent a very long hour listening to the CEO expounding on it. He was a suspect as— Well. It’s a lucrative business, let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘So we should progress a financial explanation for his murder?’

  Methven nodded. ‘It’s possible. And if it’s been happening, there could be demands. Emails, letters, anything.’

  ‘I’ll get someone on it, sir.’

  ‘Think that’s a waste of time, Col.’ Bain sniffed. ‘Way I see it, the boy was gay, right? Had an open relationship. Stands to reason he’d go out looking for some trade. Maybe he found it, had a bit of how’s your father in that lane, and the wee scrote swiped his wallet, emptied it and dumped it.’

  ‘Okay, Brian, get a few officers going door to door in the lane, see what you can dig up.’

  Bain beamed, but didn’t say anything.

  Methven looked round at Cullen. ‘How does that sound to you, Scott?’ Always a challenge with him, always playing people off against each other.

  ‘I agree we should devote some resources to that. The body was found there, so we might find some lead that points to whoever dumped it. But given the lack of forensics or blood trail, it looks like Skinner was just dropped there. Meaning he was killed elsewhere. The bleach points to someone having half a clue as to how to lose any evidence linking them to a corpse.’

  Methven jangled his coins and keys hard, thinking it all through. ‘So the culprit stole a wallet, strangled the victim, stripped him naked, put a nappy on him? And how heavy is a body to lift into the dumpster?’

  ‘Sir, I’m just saying how I see it. It’s likely he was killed elsewhere, then transported here.’

  ‘And our killer conveniently had a few gallons of bleach to hand?’

  Cullen could only shrug. ‘The bleach points to someone having half a clue as to how to lose any evidence linking them to a corpse. I think we need to put our eggs in a few baskets. Yes, we might get lucky around here but someone could’ve bought a ton of bleach in one go, for instance. You never know.’