City of the Dead

by Ed James

  ‘Happens once every couple years. Found three bodies myself in a fortnight. Weren’t related, either. Freakiest thing.’ He tugged the work glove back on. ‘You talking about the lassie Big Jim found out in Partick, right?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Jim’s a bit of a deviant, but his heart’s in the right place. His daughter’s a good girl, he couldn’t help but think it was her.’ He grimaced. ‘Weird business, that. Wait, you think Richie topped the boy him and Jim found?’

  Cullen smiled, trying not to set off any warnings. ‘Just got a few follow-up questions to ask. He a good worker?’

  ‘Good enough.’ Parrott blew air up his face. ‘Shame about that topless shite, but what can you do?’ He shook his head. ‘You need his address?’

  ‘Already got it. I’ll head there now.’ Cullen set off back towards his car and called Bain.

  Engaged.

  It just rang and rang. He tried McCrea’s number again.

  Answered straight away. ‘Afternoon, gaffer.’

  ‘You at the address yet?’

  McCrea belched down the line. ‘Sorry, had a black pudding supper. Big mistake. Repeating on me like an all-you-can-eat buffet.’

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Aye. Traffic’s a shambles. No sign of Bain, though.’

  ‘Can you see his car?’

  ‘Oh, aye. No mistaking that beauty.’

  Cullen started running. The daft bastard had gone inside on his own. ‘I’ll be there in two minutes. Hang tight.’ He tried Bain again.

  Still engaged. Everything felt wrong with that.

  10

  BAIN

  That sexy binman boy’s inside, I fuckin’ know it. And now I’m working for fuckin’ Sundance and he won’t me let me go in on my jack. Fuckin’ changed days, I tell you. Time was I was telling that prick what to do, now he’s got the pips. Wanker.

  But he’s right. I shouldn’t pile in there. Might be disco muscles the boy’s blessed with, but sometimes pricks like that know a few more martial arts than mine: the ancient Glaswegian art of Fuh Kyu. Headbutts, knees to the knackers, cheeky bit of hair tugging.

  No sign of McCrea or Hunter.

  Phone’s ringing.

  Check all my pockets and my phone’s not in any of them. Christ! It’s slipped out the right side, stuck between the door and the seat. Bloody hell.

  Hunter’s calling.

  So I answer. ‘You on your way over?’

  ‘I’m just about at the station.’

  ‘I texted you! Get over here.’

  Cheeky bugger tuts. ‘You should’ve called me.’

  ‘Just get your arse over here. Pronto.’

  ‘I’ll be ages with this traffic.’

  And I catch sight of Petersen inside the flat. Prick is in his bedroom, stuffing clothes and shite into a bag. Packing to leave. ‘Hurry.’

  I open the door and get out onto the street.

  Fuck Sundance, fuck Methven, fuck the lot of them.

  This cunt’s going down. Now.

  11

  CULLEN

  Petersen lived in a council flat in Craigton, a cream box of misery, downwind from the crematorium. Cullen got out onto the street. The crematorium wasn’t burning just now, so the street just stank of dog shit and fumes from a nearby factory, not that he could see any likely culprits.

  McCrea was lurking in a doorway out of the rain, tucking into a fish supper. He crunched at a chunk of golden haddock. ‘Scott.’ Or at least it sounded like that through the white and beige mush.

  ‘No sign of him?’

  ‘Nope.’ McCrea bit into a chip. ‘Sorry, I was starving. Actually, not sure why I’m apologising to you.’

  ‘Thought you’d had a black pudding supper?’

  McCrea shrugged. ‘Got hungry again, didn’t I?’

  ‘Right, finish that, then follow me.’ Cullen walked over to the flat door and hit the buzzer.

  No answer. He tried again, same result.

  He stepped back and checked his phone. Still nothing from Bain. He called him again. The faintest ringtone whispered out nearby.

  Shite.

  ‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can.’

  Sounded like Bonnie Dundee by the Corries, the crowd clapping along in waltz time.

  ‘Come saddle my horses and call out my men.’

  Cullen followed the sound to a downstairs window, open to a thin crack. The blinds were drawn. He tried to open it further but it didn’t budge.

  ‘Unhook the West Port and let us gae free…’

  The singing was louder over here. He tried to at least pull the blinds to the side, but he couldn’t get his fingers through the crack.

  ‘For it's up with the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee.’

  Cullen ran back to the tenement door. No sign of McCrea, either over the road or here. Brilliant.

  What the hell could he do? Bain was inside the residence of a murder suspect.

  Alone.

  Petersen looked hard, ripped too. Bain was just attitude. He didn’t stand a chance.

  Cullen tried the doorknob and it opened into the stairwell. Two doors on the left, two on the right. “Petersen” was handwritten on a white card above the spyglass of the nearest. Cullen thumped the door. No answer.

  Bugger it.

  He launched himself at the door, shoulder first. It cracked open, and he tumbled through, sliding across shiny laminate. He picked himself up and snapped out his baton.

  The flat was baking, like the thermostat was up to thirty. South African temperature. Two doors off the hallway, both hanging wide open.

  Cullen hit dial on his phone again and Bain’s ringtone chimed from the one on the left.

  ‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can.’

  Cullen stormed in and stopped dead.

  A bedroom, the walls covered in pictures of musclebound men and women. Bodybuilder types, all with shiny skin, posing and curling and whatever else they called it.

  Bain lay on the bed, eyes rolling round in his head, naked except for a nappy.

  Cullen raced over and crouched low. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fuckin’ never been better.’ Bain pawed at him, like he thought Cullen was inches away rather than feet. ‘I love you, big guy.’

  Cullen got out his phone and called McCrea. ‘Damian, where the hell are you?’

  ‘Just chucking my wrapper in the bin.’

  ‘Call an ambulance and get in here.’

  ‘Sundance, I want to fuckin’ have your little fuckin’ babies!’ Bain was staring at something over Cullen’s shoulders, his eyes bulging.

  Something blunt and hard hit Cullen in the shoulder. Felt like it’d torn open his old wound. He screamed and tumbled forward, landing on Bain. A swift kick hit his side.

  Cullen tried to stand up, but Bain was clinging on to him. Something wet touched his neck. ‘Mmm.’

  A loud clatter came from the other room.

  ‘Get off!’ Cullen pushed away from Bain, then stumbled up to standing. He darted out into the hall. A rattle came from through the door. A living room with a tiny kitchen in the corner. The window was open, dirty yellow blinds flapping in the breeze.

  Cullen raced in and clambered up onto the counter. He tore the blinds away from the wall so he could see out.

  A patchy backyard, barely a garden, just damp dirt. Petersen was halfway up a brick wall at the back, climbing like a cat. Then he was on top, looking like he was going to drop down.

  Cullen pushed through the window frame and dropped down onto hard ground.

  Petersen glanced back the way he’d come. ‘Aw, fuck!’ He disappeared over the wall.

  Cullen bombed it over the garden and jumped at the wall, grabbing the top and pulling himself up, feeling like his arms were going to tear. His shoulder gave way and he fell back into the mud. Luckily it was dirt, rather than dog shite, but another agonising jolt of pain ran up his collarbone.

  A wheelbarrow was propped against the wall. He flipped
it over and hopped onto the green metal. Let him get a run at the wall, hitting it at waist height, but at least he could see over.

  Just a yard at the back of a factory. Machines hissed and roared inside. Some parked forklifts. A row of chunky wheelie bins lined the wall. A gang of workmen standing around eating from Greggs bags.

  He vaulted over and landed on hard ground with a thud that juddered right up his spine. He scanned round for Petersen, his breath catching in his throat.

  No sign of him.

  Shite.

  Where the hell was he?

  Cullen jogged towards the workies, warrant card out. ‘Police. Have you seen a man come this way?’

  Just got shaking heads.

  Bollocks.

  Cullen took another look around. Where would he go? This was Petersen’s territory, and Cullen was forty miles from home. Thirty miles from anywhere he knew.

  Aha.

  He stopped by the row of bins. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’ll just search these, one by one.’ He prodded the first one with his baton.

  A sound came from the far end.

  Cullen went over and shook it. ‘Get out, now.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Cullen tried to wheel the bin out, but it was way too heavy.

  It tipped over and Rich Petersen tumbled out in a pile of sawdust, his bare torso slicked with sweat and totally covered in residue.

  Cullen held up his baton. ‘Stay right there!’

  But Petersen was halfway up, resting on hands and knees. ‘Fuck off, mate.’

  ‘I’m serious. Don’t move!’

  Petersen jerked up to standing and his left hand flashed forward. Pain seared Cullen’s arm, biting into his aching shoulder and up his neck. His baton clattered to the ground. Something crunched at his foot, like someone had driven a bus over it. His scream sounded like it was someone else’s. The pain was all his, coursing up his leg.

  Petersen pushed him back against the bin, gripping both of Cullen’s wrists tight.

  Cullen struggled against him, but he was losing. Petersen was strong. Much stronger than Cullen.

  Petersen swept his foot behind Cullen’s knee and pushed him forward. Cullen slumped against the bin with a crack.

  ‘Lie down!’ Petersen held Cullen’s baton in front of his face. ‘I’m going to insert this—’ He broke off, stepped away and raised the baton. ‘Get the fuck away from me, man!’

  McCrea stood next to him, holding his own baton like it was a golf club. ‘Drop it.’

  With his free hand, Petersen gave a come-on gesture. ‘Just bring it. I can take you!’

  ‘There’s a ton of cops heading here, pal. You’re getting—’

  In a flash, Petersen caught McCrea’s arm with Cullen’s truncheon. McCrea’s baton clattered to the ground, rolling towards the bin.

  Cullen tried to inch forward to take it, but his shoulder was on fire.

  McCrea was on his knees now. Petersen kicked him in the gut and pushed him backwards, on top of Cullen.

  Through the rain of footsteps racing away from them, McCrea chundered both deep-fried lunches all over Cullen.

  12

  Cullen stood in Petersen’s neighbour’s grotty bathroom, soaking, stinking and aching. He reeked of vomit that not even Glasgow’s rain could clear. And his shoulder felt like it’d dislocated. Didn’t even have to look at the bruise.

  He dabbed at his collar with the soaked grey towel, the white cotton stained with yellow stomach acid and chunks of second-hand chips. And the smell. ‘Where’s the nearest clothes shop?’

  McCrea scowled at him. ‘No idea.’

  ‘It’s your spew I’m covered in, you stupid bastard!’

  ‘How many times can I apologise?’

  ‘Once would be fine.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You let him go, Damian.’

  ‘So did you.’

  Cullen chucked the towel into the avocado bathtub on top of the other towel. ‘We let him go. Fine. I’ll clear it with Methven and own it.’ He still caught that rancid stench.

  ‘Here.’ McCrea held out Cullen’s baton. ‘Just lying on the street. Boy must’ve chucked it after he battered you with it.’

  Cullen put his baton into the holder at his back and stepped out into the hallway. Through in the kitchen, DC Angela Caldwell was pouring tea for the neighbour, a skinny old man who was almost as tall as she was. A shake of the head from her showed she wasn’t getting much useful for Cullen, so he left the flat and went out into the stairwell to check on the paramedics’ progress.

  In Petersen’s hallway, Bain lay on a stretcher on the floor, still just in the nappy, singing: ‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’ His eyes were glazed over. ‘Both of you.’ They covered his belly with a sheet and the female paramedic nodded at Cullen. ‘We’re taking him to Gartnaval. Ask for Dr McGovern, she’s the specialist for… this kind of thing.’

  ‘What kind of thing is that?’

  ‘Date rape.’

  ‘He’s been roofied?’

  ‘No.’ She scowled. ‘MDMA.’

  ‘So, ecstasy?’

  ‘Right, with a side order of sildenafil.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Vitamin V.’ She rolled her eyes at his continuing ignorance. ‘Viagra, you tube.’ She backed out of the small flat, followed by Bain, then her colleague shuffling out and bearing most of his weight.

  Cullen was merciful to not see anything under the nappy.

  McCrea shook his head, but there was a trace of a grin on his lips. ‘Pretty fucked up, eh?’

  ‘Come on, let’s a have a look round before the forensics guys turn up.’ Cullen tapped McCrea’s arm, right where Petersen had hit him with Cullen’s baton, right where it’d hurt the most.

  ‘Ah, you bastard!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Cullen went into the living room, a square box.

  The blinds in the kitchen area were still all mangled from his sharp exit. A flatscreen TV was mounted above a two-bar fire. No games consoles wired in, just a Fire stick poking out of the side. Maybe one of those ones some bloke down the pub had hacked to let it access countless pirate streams.

  A bottle-green sofa almost the exact colour of Cullen’s beloved old Golf, long since written off after a stupid chase on the streets of this infernal city.

  The room stank of stale cigarettes, with a patch of yellow above the sofa. Either Petersen, or the previous occupant, maybe an old pensioner who smoked and drank themselves to death in front of a smaller TV.

  All of which was a distraction from finding him.

  A chipped laminate coffee table sat off to the side, almost butting up against the kitchen units. An overstuffed ashtray sat on top, so maybe it was Petersen who was the chain-smoker.

  Wait, what was that?

  Wedged between the table and the sofa was a black laptop. Not a recent model, huge, should be described as a tabletop.

  Cullen snapped on some gloves as he perched on the settee to open it up. Bastard thing asked for a password. Luckily, it was old enough that it didn’t have those security measures that bricked the thing if you entered too many wrong guesses.

  He visualised Petersen. South African. A binman. Topless. Ripped. That dragon tattoo climbing his neck.

  He tried ”dragon”, ”DRAGON“, and any number of variations, “dr4g0n” in both upper and lower case. Nothing.

  He tried a few variations on “Springbok” and anything South African he could think of, but nothing got him in.

  McCrea peered over, frowning. ‘You playing Football Manager or something?’

  ’Found anything?’

  ‘Just lube and condoms.’ McCrea held up a clear evidence bag containing some pills. ‘Possible this is what he used on the gaffer.’

  Cullen frowned. He typed “molly” and still didn’t get in. ‘Christ.’

  McCrea leaned forward. ‘Try “lawn tennis”, all one word, lower case.’

&nb
sp; ‘What?’

  ‘Just try it.’

  Cullen typed it. ‘Bingo. How did you know that?’

  McCrea held out a Post-It. ‘Stuck to the bottom.’

  Cullen checked the screen, now filled with Petersen’s email. Cullen had a scan through, but it was just receipts and newsletters. He typed Marie into the search bar and found just one email from her, so their friendship was most likely based on phone calls or text messages, either SMS, iMessage or WhatsApp.

  Cullen couldn’t remember seeing Petersen’s phone. Maybe he didn’t have one, but that seemed unlikely. He looked up at McCrea. ‘You ever see a phone on Petersen?’

  ‘The gaffer warned me about you. You’re a phone tart, aren’t you?’

  ‘Damian, I’m trying to track down a murderer. His phone is the best way to do that. If he’s got an iPhone or a generic Android smartphone, we might be able to use this machine to find him.’

  ‘He gave us a mobile number, right? Means he’s got one.’ McCrea clicked his fingers a few times then winced. ‘Ah shite, I did see it. One of those Nokias. Like the old burner ones, but with a battery that lasts months between charges.’

  Meaning they had no chance in finding him using this laptop. Cullen rested in on the side table and stood up, getting a fresh stab of pain in his shoulder. He eased his own phone out of his pocket and called Elvis.

  He answered immediately. ‘Gordon’s phones and CCTV, how can I help?’

  ‘Mate, you busy?’

  Elvis gave a deep sigh. ’No, but I suspect I’m about to be.’

  ‘Need you to trace a mobile number for me.’

  ‘Text it through, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Cullen took the phone away from his ear and grabbed hold of McCrea’s mobile, then tapped Petersen’s number into a text. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Aye, gimme a sec.’ Elvis snorted. ‘Bad news is it’s off right now.’

  ‘What’s the good news?’

  ‘Last time it was on was half an hour ago. Hit the same cell towers as you just now.’

  ‘You’re tracking me?’

  ‘Methven’s been looking for you. So I had a wee search for you.’

  ‘Paul, that’s illegal.’

  ‘Aye? And half the shite you get up to isn’t?’

  ‘Tell him I’m following Bain to Gartnaval Hospital. I’ll see him there.’ Cullen killed the call. ‘Damian, those drugs you found. Is that the same as your serial rapist?’