by Ed James
The receptionist swanned over, looking like she was suffering from a fit of smiling. Mid-twenties, wearing tight jeans and a pink T-shirt stencilled with WorkPlace. ‘Hey, can I help?’ Her accent was a mix of Paisley and Brooklyn.
‘Is this the IP Consulting office?’
‘Second floor. Two offices upstairs on permanent lease.’
‘DI SCOTT CULLEN.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘This is DC McCrea. Looking to speak to Iain Farrelly?’
‘Stuart McKendrick.’ McKendrick seemed surprised by him being a cop. Not the first time Cullen had received that reaction, just one of those rare occasions he didn’t use it to his advantage. But McKendrick looked like he needed to sleep, and not on his office floor like it seemed he’d done. Wild bed head hair, even wilder eyes hidden behind thick lenses. Checked shirt under a grey jumper with a logo Cullen didn’t recognise, not that it hid his surprisingly large gut. The rest of him was stick thin, but his belly made him look pregnant. He held out a hand to shake, but only McCrea took him up on it. ‘Come on in.’
His office was a glass-walled corner of the floor with a massive window looking back along the street to Cullen’s car.
Cullen stayed by the door. ‘So, is Mr Farrelly about?’
McKendrick sat behind a glass desk, but didn’t seem too sure. ‘He’s not in today.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Only ever have a couple of staff here at any time, usually out on site somewhere.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m the CFO.’
‘Chief Financial Officer?’ McCrea’s lower jaw jutted open.
‘That’s right. Obviously I don’t need to be on site, but the rest of the guys usually are. We have a development and testing capability, but again they’re off today.’
‘Any particular reason for this?’
‘Well, Paul—he’s the CEO—he gave them all the day off today. Big party last night.’
That all tallied with Gavin Whitecross’s story, his tale of his husband’s celebration after clinching a big deal.
‘What was this party in aid of?’
‘Well.’ McKendrick yawned into his fist. ‘Sorry, it’s billing day. Means I’ve got to be in to process all the invoices otherwise everything goes to sh— sugar.’
‘Anyway, can I speak to Mr Farrelly?’
‘Oh, sure. I’ve got his home address somewhere. Let me have a quick look.’ McKendrick opened a desk drawer and started rummaging around.
Cullen looked around the office. McKendrick was clearly a big Rangers fan, with a cabinet filled with memorabilia, not least a signed shirt with Hateley on the back, mounted on a legless dummy. Cullen turned back round to see what was keeping McKendrick.
He’d fallen asleep.
Cullen leaned over to prod him. ‘Mr McKendrick?’
He jerked awake. ‘—not my problem!’ He blinked hard a few times. ‘Sorry, who the hell are you?’
‘Police, sir. You were going to give me Mr Farrelly’s home address?’
BEARSDEN WAS Glasgow’s answer to Morningside, very well-to-do and upmarket, like its own little town inside the city limits.
Cullen got out of his car and leaned against the side, waiting.
Another Victorian villa but the other side of the city from Paul Skinner’s Southside home. Music pumped out of an upstairs bedroom, in time to some disco lights. A dance remix of The Killers, that one about a sex change or whatever. Bet the neighbours loved this house.
His phone rang. Methven. He put it to his ear. ‘What’s up?’
‘Do you have a mobile number for Jimmy Deeley?’
‘He not answering his office phone?’
‘He’s on the golf course, as far as his assistant can tell. Need him through here to give a second opinion.’
‘Dr Gibson will be happy with that.’
‘It’s at her insistence. Her colleagues through here are backed up with these murders, so I need to get hold of Jimmy. So do you have any other means of contacting him or am I completely wasting my time here?’
‘I do, as it happens.’
A car door slammed behind Cullen. McCrea tugging his trousers out of his arse.
‘Better go, sir. I’ll text you his number.’ Cullen ended the call and dug out Deeley’s contact details, then sent them to Methven. He put his phone away and turned to McCrea. ‘You took your time.’
‘Sorry.’ McCrea didn’t look it, judging by his grin. ‘You alright?’
‘I’ve had better.’ Cullen set off towards the house, storming up the path. He stopped and rapped on the door, doubting anyone inside could hear it over the music. ‘You get anywhere with the alibi for Rich Petersen?’
‘Aye.’
‘And?’
‘Still got a few things to check.’
‘I take it that means you haven’t got in touch with this Marie Gray, then?’
‘Something like that.’ McCrea shrugged. Upstairs, The Killers segued into Erasure and McCrea’s fierce look softened. ‘Love that tune, man.’
Thirty seconds since Cullen had knocked, and nobody had answered. Cullen walked across the pristine lawn to peer in through the front window.
Past a wall of pot plants, a man and a woman lounged back on an L-shaped Chesterfield, wearing dressing gowns. A Nintendo Switch rested on a duck-egg blue coffee table, and they were each holding a small grey controller, swaying as they played a game. Probably Mario Kart, if Cullen could guess. Dark, dark rings around their eyes. Hard to tell if they were a couple or just friends.
Cullen thumped the glass and waved.
They both jerked forward. The woman shot to her feet and hurried out of the room. The man covered his mouth, then reached for a smartphone next to the Switch. Erasure stopped playing, but the lights still flashed.
The front door had opened by the time Cullen trudged back over.
The woman stepped out onto the steps, barefoot, hugging her cream dressing gown tight. Dyed-blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail. Tanned skin, but from a bottle rather than natural sources. ‘Can I help?’ Broad Glasgow accent.
‘DI Scott Cullen.’ He held out his warrant card. ‘And this is DC Damian McCrea. Need a word with an Iain Farrelly.’
‘If it’s about the noise, I can—’
‘It’s about Paul Skinner.’
That got a flick of eyebrows. A response, at least. ‘Oh. Come on in, then.’ She slipped inside the house, her bare feet slapping across the stripped wooden flooring, then into the living room. Wooden skirting to match the floors, stark white walls. Four pot plants sat in galvanised buckets near the window.
Iain Farrelly looked like a fat potato stuffed into a silk gown. Ginger hair softened by silver streaks. He frowned at Cullen’s warrant card. ‘Oh Christ.’ Sounded like he was Australian, with an outside chance of being a New Zealander. ‘What’s going on?’
Cullen stayed standing, while McCrea perched on an armchair. ‘Mr Farrelly, we need to talk to you about Paul Skinner. Gavin Whitecross told us you and Mr Skinner are business partners?’
‘That’s right. We co-own IP Consulting.’
‘And when was the last time you saw him?’
‘Last night.’
‘Where and with whom?’
‘A few guys from work, at a restaurant in the West End.’ Farrelly swallowed hard. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Mr Skinner is dead.’
‘Oh Christ.’ Farrelly shut his eyes and his shoulders sagged. His face screwed up tight. Seemed like a genuine show of grief rather than playacting. And Cullen had seen both enough times to know the difference. ‘What happened?’
‘We believe he was murdered. Strangulation. How did he seem last night?’
‘Good. We, uh, closed a deal yesterday, selling sixty percent of the business to a big firm. Golden handcuffs for three years then we get a premium for the other forty percent. We took the team out for dinner, then a few of us came back here for a small party.’
‘Can you name the attende
es?’
‘Well, there was me and Paul. Er, look I’m not that comfortable sharing this with you.’
‘Was Gavin Whitecross here?’
‘Gav? No.’
‘Well, Mr Skinner is undergoing a post mortem just now. Anything you want to own up to, now’s the time.’
Farrelly just shook his head.
Cullen’s phone rang. Elvis. With a sigh, Cullen got up. ‘Better take this.’ He nodded to McCrea to take over, then walked into the hall. ‘Elvis, you got something?’
‘Under the bloody cosh, Craig.’
‘It’s Scott. You did mean to call me?’
‘Aye, right. Sure. Sorry, Scott, I was just speaking to Craig and my wires are a wee bit crossed. You boys sure know how to ride me hard.’
Cullen looked back through, but it didn’t look like McCrea was getting anything more out of Farrelly. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Just got the phone records through. Apols for the delay, but the network were being twats. Looks like Skinner was at an address in Bearsden.’
Cullen nodded. Right where he was now. ‘You got the same for Whitecross?’
‘I used to go out with a lassie from Bearsden when I was at uni, dirty as hell.’ Keyboard sounds in the background. ‘Yup, Whitecross was at home from seven, or his phone was anyway.’
‘Shite. You’re sure?’
‘Afraid so. Round there just now. Got one of those Ring cameras just like half the world does. Got the credentials and it shows Whitecross getting home and not leaving until the morning. I mean, he could’ve turned it off, but it was backed it up with activity on his Netflix account. Did that thing where the autoplay asks if there’s anyone still there and he was. The telly in their front room was playing two episodes of Unbelievable. Damn good show, that.’
‘So he was at home. Bugger. Cheers, Elvis. That’s good work.’ Cullen ended the call and gave himself a few seconds to figure it all out.
So Whitecross was telling the truth. He’d been at home while his husband was out playing. And his husband had been right here.
Assuming he’d picked someone up at this party, they’d either killed him or had a bloody good idea who had.
But if he’d left alone, then maybe he’d gone somewhere. A gay bar maybe, met someone there. Or the same on Grindr or, like Bain suggested, found someone on the street.
Either way, they’d drawn a blank on Whitecross. Maybe Bain and Hunter would get lucky with their side of the coin, but Cullen needed answers on who was at the party, so he headed to the lounge.
McCrea was coming back from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of coffee. He leaned in to whisper: ‘Just plunged it and it’s a two-litre job. You want one?’
‘No.’
McCrea rested the cups either side of the Switch. ‘Here you go.’
‘Cheers.’ The woman took hers and held it up, soaking in the aroma.
‘Thanks.’ Farrelly didn’t take his. ‘I can’t believe this. Paul was right here.’
Cullen took his seat again. ‘Mr Farrelly, I need to know who was here. Okay?’
‘Fine. Paul and I, plus a few people from our senior team. Dave H, David F, John, Keith. Oh, and Stuart.’
Cullen had seen first-hand the state Stuart had got into. ‘Anyone seem particularly friendly with Mr Skinner?’
‘Not that I can think of. I mean, they’re all married. Not that that stops that kind of thing, I guess.’
‘So it was just yourself, two Davids, a John, a Keith and a Stuart?’
‘Well, Marie came home at about eleven with her pal. As usual, she stuck on the tunes and we had some fun.’
McCrea leaned forward on his armchair, frowning. ‘What’s your surname?’
She twisted her lips into a pout. ‘Gray?’
Confusion clouded Cullen’s head like a hangover in a post-session sleep. Then it clicked. He knew who Marie was now. Rich Petersen’s alibi. ‘See, I’ve been trying to phone a Marie Gray all morning. You know a Rich Petersen?’
She nodded. ‘We were out for some cocktails, then we came back here.’
Cullen felt the confusion clouding him again. None of it made any sense now. ‘Mr Petersen found Paul Skinner’s body.’
She covered her mouth with a hand. ‘What?’
Cullen’s heart was thudding in his chest. He tried to play it cool, but everything screamed in his head. ‘Did you see him speaking to Paul Skinner?’
‘Well, yeah. They went home together.’
8
BAIN
I chuck the balled-up wrapper out the window and take a glug from the bottle of WakeyWakey. Smashing chips. Only downside is choosing the small bag.
Trouser pocket, front right. Phone’s not fuckin’ there. Shite.
Suit jacket pocket. Thank fuck. Did not want to have to hunt this bugger. I hit up Hunter and he answers. Nice when someone respects a hierarchy. Years of being in the army did that to the poor bugger. Sounds like he’s not driving like I hoped he’d be. ‘Where are you?’
‘Dalmarnock.’
‘What the fuck are you doing there, you dope?’
‘Verifying Big Jim’s story. That’s where the card game was.’
‘With you now. You getting anything?’
‘It’s not him, Brian. He’s got a nails alibi.’
Fuck’s sake. Big Jim was my number one suspect. ‘Spill.’
’He was here all night. Got him on street CCTV outside the house. Arrived at nine, left about two in the morning. Unless he climbed out of a third-floor window and shimmied down, he was there all that time.’
‘The size of that boy, the only thing he’s climbing is the walls in Bar-L when I get him for kiddy fiddling. Craig, mosey on back to the station, I’ll meet you there.’ I kill his call and see a text from Elvis:
Jane Munro in that flat. Definitely not matching Big Jim’s description.
Aye, no fuckin’ shit. Would’ve been useful to know that before I sent Hunter round on that wild fuckin’ goose chase.
Phone’s ringing again, so I hold it out to see who’s calling. Sundance. Never gives up, does he? Giving him another promotion just made him even worse. Acting DI. Acting Dead Important more like.
Switch over. ‘What’s up, Sundance?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Getting something to eat. That Hunter boy… Never seen anyone eat so slowly as him. Takes him hours to eat a slice of bread, I swear.’
‘Is Hunter with you?’
Another glug of WakeyWakey. That’s the ticket! ‘He’s making himself useful.’
‘Where?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
Never fuckin’ are, but I don’t say that. ‘He’s just spoken to some boys about a card school. Turns out that Big Jim lad is up to his conkers in debt. He’s not our guy. Solid alibi.’
‘I know. It’s why I’ve been trying to speak to you! Paul Skinner was last seen with Rich Petersen.’
‘What?’ Sounds like it’s time to start up the Duchess and get round there.
’Your sexy binman is—’
‘I fuckin’ told you to—’
‘Brian, I need you to head to his home address. I texted you it. Okay?’
‘On my way.’ A cheeky look at the display while Sundance rabbits on. I know the place. Just round the corner. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at the bin depot.’
‘We were just there.’ Stop at the junction, indicating right and the glass in my boot rattles. ‘There’s a smashing wee microbrewery down the road from there. Stocked up on some bottles.’
‘McCrea’s on his way over. Get hold of Hunter and use them as back up, okay?’
‘Probably caught up in traffic. I’ll head in when I get there.’
‘Wait for Hunter and McCrea!’
‘You saying I can’t arrest some wee arsehole? Piss off.’
‘Stay and wait.’
‘What was that?’ I kill the call. Cheeky bastard. Act
ing Deaf and Ignorant now.
9
CULLEN
Cullen pulled up in the recycling centre car park, wedged between a load of ageing Audis, BMWs and Volkswagens. Old, most likely predating the introduction of electronics into motors, turning them more into computers than machines, the kind of cars you could still fix yourself.
Like everything in Glasgow, the recycling centre was three times the size of its Edinburgh equivalent, like the massive IKEA he’d seen signs for. That place was huge, big enough that they still had stock when Edinburgh ran out. Cullen had made that trip a few times, usually against his will. Not even the promise of a plate of meatballs and chips could make up for it.
He got out into the thin rain.
Rich Petersen was the last person seen with Paul Skinner. The one who found his body. All this time they’d focused on Gavin Whitecross and Big Jim. All along, it’d been the other man who’d discovered the body.
Right?
A bin lorry hurtled past, two men hanging off the back, gloved hands clutching on tight. Looked like extreme sports types.
Cullen clocked a guy who looked like a foreman standing by a metallic grey box, the corner roof turned up like a hipster’s haircut. His acid yellow safety jacket screamed into the brief flash of sunshine. The supervisor, judging by the green stencilling on his jacket, wandering over, pulling his gloves off. ‘Can’t park there, bud.’
‘DI Scott Cullen.’ He held up his warrant card, long enough for the bloke to read every single character on there and process each dot that made up his photograph. ‘Need a word with Rich Petersen.’
‘Davie Parrott.’ He thrust out a hand, so mucky that it was like he hadn’t bothered with the gloves. ‘I’m his supervisor.’
Cullen didn’t take it, instead putting his warrant card away. ‘Is he here?’
’Nah, buggered off home about an hour ago. Said he couldn’t cope with the stress. First time he’s found a body.’
‘Been a few, though, right?’
