Bottleneck (10 page)

"Are you planning on going to one, Constable?" said Methven.

"I've got one tomorrow, sir," said Buxton.

"You'd better clear that with me," said Methven.

Cullen ground his teeth. "I don't usually work on a Saturday, sir."

Methven shook his head slowly and folded his arms. "Do you have good news for me to take upstairs?"

"Maybe," said Cullen. "Got an address for Alex Hughes."

Methven frowned. "DC Jain couldn't find one for him."

"We managed to get it off an ex-girlfriend," said Cullen.

"Hughes is the member of the public who reported Strang missing, right?" said Methven.

"He is," said Cullen.

"And?"

"Well, can we go and see him?" said Cullen.

"Are you asking permission?" said Methven.

Cullen shrugged. "Yes. I thought you'd want to do this by the book, what with all the restructuring."

"Just sodding go through there," said Methven. "I don't have time for this."

"Shouldn't we speak to Strathclyde CID?" said Cullen.

"Is Hughes under suspicion of murder or other serious offences?" said Methven.

"Well," said Cullen.

"Spit it out, Sergeant."

"We believe Hughes and Strang had some bust-ups," said Cullen.

"Hughes was a bit unfocused," said Buxton. "He struggled with some of the dynamics in their songs."

"Dynamics?" said Methven.

"The difference between the loud bits and the quiet bits," said Buxton.

"Right, go on," said Methven, hands jingling change in his pockets.

"He'd make mistakes," said Buxton. "He played loud in a quiet bit, that sort of thing. Strang didn't like it."

"Enough to kill him?" said Methven.

"It's a possibility," said Cullen. "We've got nothing to support it, though."

"Is he likely to be under surveillance by Strathclyde?" said Methven.

"No," said Cullen.

"Well, don't bloody bother asking them," said Methven. "Christ."

Cullen shared a look with Buxton. He didn't know what had got into Methven, but whatever it was, he wanted to be miles away from him. Glasgow seemed quite tempting for once.

Chantal entered the room. "What's going on here?"

"I've got to sign sodding permission forms for the children's school trip to Glasgow," said Methven.

The corner of Chantal's lip turned up. "DI Cargill caught up with you, then?"

"Yes, she sodding did," said Methven.

Chantal looked at Cullen. "I much prefer DIs who fucking swear fucking properly."

Methven reddened. "I want a status update from you.
Now
."

"Fine," said Chantal, flicking through her notebook. "Turns out the screwdriver is a local brand made by a small company out Dunbar way. According to the owner, that model was only on sale between February and August two thousand and eleven before the company went bust."

"How many stockists were there?" said Methven.

"Just sold direct from his house," said Chantal.

"I assume we can get a list of customers?" said Methven.

"I'm trying," said Chantal. "He's having problems with his computer, though. The old one broke and he didn't repair it when he got a new one."

"Get Charlie Kidd on it," said Methven. "Did you speak to the other band?"

Chantal nodded. "Tracked them down. They still use the room. Bunch of stoners, never saw anything."

"Buggery." Methven looked over at Cullen. "As for you pair, I want this Hughes character brought in for questioning by the time I have to clear off to my dinner party tonight. Clear?"

Crystal, thought Cullen, but he nodded instead.

"Missed my sodding triathlon," said Methven, "and I've got to bloody deal with this nonsense."

Cullen walked out of the Incident Room, heading for his car.

Buxton jogged to catch up. "The
fuck
is up with him?"

"No idea," said Cullen. "I'm keeping well out of his way."

"This looks like it," said Buxton.

Cullen slowed his Golf to a crawl as they drove down Loudon Terrace, trying to find the street Alex Hughes lived on. He inspected the numbers, quickly finding twenty-seven but no spaces.

"Better watch where you park," said Buxton. "Don't want some museum trying to claim your car."

"Very funny," said Cullen.

"Close to becoming a classic this," said Buxton. "Shame it drives like a bloody tank."

"It drives fine," said Cullen. "Might be a bit exciting for an amateur passenger like yourself."

Buxton laughed. "You never think of getting a decent motor?"

Cullen shrugged. "To be honest, I'm not really much of a car man," he said, mindful of Buxton being prone to lengthy anecdotes about his brother's collection of drag-racing cars. "We're supposed to be saving for a house, though I think I'd prefer a bigger flat. Not ready to move out to the country."

"Big step," said Buxton.

"Sorry, don't mean to rub it in," said Cullen, conscious that Buxton was a frustrated singleton.

Buxton just nodded.

Cullen drove on, through the west end of Glasgow, rows of red sandstone tenements on wide streets. He doubled back onto Byres Road.

"Used to live round here for a bit when I was in that band," said Buxton.

"Thought you were in Edinburgh?" said Cullen.

"Yeah well, we moved here at the end," said Buxton. "It was much better for music and we used to come here at the weekends to play gigs and go to record shops and so on. Moving was the last throw of the dice."

Cullen grabbed a space the second time round on Loudon Terrace. "This'll do."

They got out of the car and started walking.

"This it here?" said Buxton, outside the flat door.

"Think so," said Cullen, before consulting his notebook and confirming they were after twenty-seven. "Aye, it is. Flat six."

The stairwell was open to the street, the door intercom smashed in. Cullen started up the stairs, the lights flickering. He knocked on Hughes' door and waited.

Something hit him from behind.

He stumbled to his knees.

His shoulder was grabbed and his arm locked behind his back. He was pushed face down.

Across the red ceramic tiles, he could see Buxton in a similar position.

"You are under arrest!"

"We're police," said Cullen.

"Are you fuck," said the voice above, male with a harsh Glasgow accent.

"I'm DS Scott Cullen. My warrant card is in my coat pocket."

"Fucking likely tale. Returning to the scene of the crime, are you?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" said Buxton. "We're Lothian & Borders."

"Fucking English one as well, Davie."

"Chuck him in the fucking Clyde, Damo. Best place for them."

Cullen struggled against the hold. "We're Lothian & Borders CID. I can get my Chief Constable to have a word with yours if that makes any difference."

There was a pause. Eventually, Cullen felt the grip slacken.

"Show us your credentials, then."

Cullen was released. He struggled to see the figures in the glow from the failing strip light. He righted himself, then reached into his jacket pocket for his warrant card. He held it up, before calloused fingers snatched it away.

"Fuck's sake."

Cullen's card was tossed on the floor in front of him.

"You should have told us you were coming."

Cullen dusted himself off and stood up, Buxton doing the same. They got a good look at their assailants.

The one nearest Cullen was an overweight man in his late thirties, his head bald. He offered a hand. "DS Damian McCrea." He nodded at his colleague, younger and thinner. "DC Davie Lucas."

Cullen shook the offered hand. "DS Scott Cullen. And this is DC Simon Buxton."

"I'll ask you again," said McCrea. "What the fuck are you doing on our patch?"

"We're working a murder case," said Cullen. "We're looking for an Alex Hughes."

McCrea rubbed at his forehead. "For fuck's sake. Why?"

"He reported our victim missing nineteen months ago," said Cullen. "We've tried getting in touch with him, but no joy."

"Right." McCrea took a deep intake of breath. "You pair need to come back to the station and have a word with my DI. This is a fucking disaster." He shook his head. "Follow us."

They accompanied Cullen and Buxton back to the car. Cullen tried to figure out what the hell was happening. Where was Hughes? Why were Strathclyde at his flat?

An old Ford Escort drove past, Lucas leaning out of the passenger-side window and waving them to follow.

"When did they even stop making Escorts?" said Cullen.

"I'm struggling to think, mate," said Buxton. "Early nineties is my best guess." He grinned. "Bet you're glad someone's got a worse car than you."

"My shoulder is bloody killing me," said Cullen, "and I've no idea what's going on here."

"Cagey geezer, isn't he?" said Buxton.

McCrea led them to the M8, heading south before its meander out towards Greenock and Paisley. Their station was in Govan, just off the motorway, and Cullen managed to squeeze into a space next to McCrea, already out and locking his car.

As they walked to the station, Cullen pointed towards the floodlights above Ibrox stadium, home of Rangers. "That'll be convenient for you lot."

"With a name like mine," said McCrea, "would you be surprised to know I worship at a church that's not in the third division?"

Cullen held the door open for Buxton and Lucas behind them. "Celtic fan?"

"Aye," said McCrea, before signing them through security, the waiting room full of the bruised and damaged. "You?"

"Aberdeen," said Cullen.

McCrea laughed at him. "We're supposed to be moving to Gartcosh next summer."

"Being stuck with the Scottish FBI will be fun," said Cullen.

McCrea raised his eyebrows. "Tell me about it." He pointed to a vacant interview room. "Wait in there, if you don't mind."

"And if I do?" said Cullen, trying to keep his face straight.

"Look, do you need a towel for any cuts and bruises or anything?" said McCrea.

"No."

"Right, well, wait here and I'll be back soon," said McCrea.

They went inside the room. Cullen felt too edgy to sit down, instead leaning against the wall, arms folded, foot tapping, eyes continually flicking to the door.

Buxton sat, resting his head in his hands. "I'd like to know what the fuck is going on here."

"You and me both," said Cullen. "Let's just wait and see what happens."

The door to the next room opened and two men left in a hurry. Cullen frowned - he would recognise the comb-forward anywhere.

Buxton leaned over. "That's Mike Roberts. Expect Delays."

"What's he doing here?" said Cullen.

"He's helping us with our inquiries," said McCrea, entering the room. "The gaffer will be along soon."

Cullen sat down, his back to the door. "Why are you speaking to Roberts?"

McCrea sat opposite. "He was supposed to meet up with Alex Hughes. Hughes never turned up."

"I'm still not quite sure what the hell is going on here," said Cullen.

"They used to know each other from the music scene in Edinburgh, I believe," said McCrea. "Mr Roberts was helping out with some contacts, maybe getting him a job in a studio." He pointed a finger at Cullen. "I better not see anything about this on Twitter. Be bad if him being in a police station leaked out."

"Hardly." Cullen pointed a finger back at McCrea. "You really need to tell me what's going on here."

The door slammed shut behind them.

"Well, if it isn't the fuckin' Sundance kid."

Cullen stumbled to his feet, his heart racing. He took a step back, away from the desk.

DI Brian Bain marched forward and sat down alongside McCrea. "Fuck me, Sundance. I wish I had that effect on half the boys I have in here under arrest."

Cullen hadn't expected
this
.

"Bit weird seeing your old boss, Sundance?"

"I look back fondly on those eighteen months of misery, belittlement and swearing."

"Thought you'd have heard I was back in Strathclyde?"

"Working for an old croney, no doubt." Cullen straightened his tie and sat down, aware he was in danger of looking like a prize idiot. "You seem a lot more relaxed than when I last saw you."

"I'm away from that wanker Turnbull and his little pit bull," said Bain, rubbing at his top lip, now bereft of his trademark moustache. "Besides, I'm getting married again, got a wee Thai lassie."

Cullen couldn't believe it. "Mail order?"

"Don't be so crass, Sundance," said Bain. "It's love."

"I bet," said Cullen. "You don't know the meaning of the word."

Bain sniffed. "I'm not quite the swordsman you are. Is your better half still into other birds?"

"Shut up," said Cullen, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands.

"I went to see Alan Irvine in Bar-L a few weeks ago," said Bain. "He told me to congratulate you on getting your stripes."

Cullen was Acting in Irvine's old role. "He should
feel guilty."

"Don't talk about that case," said Bain, his smile disappearing.

"Is it a bit too close to home?"

Bain's nostrils flared. "What the fuck are you pair doing through here?"

"We found a body down an old close under the Royal Mile," said Cullen. "A rock star in the making. Got no leads other than Alex Hughes, who reported him missing nineteen months ago."

A flicker of amusement danced across Bain's face. "Hughes?"

Cullen hit his hand off the desk, much harder and louder than intended. "Can one of you tell us what's going on here?"

Bain and McCrea exchanged a look, grinning.

Bain folded his arms. "Now you know what it feels like to be kept in the dark, Sundance. I lost count of the number of times you went off on your lonesome and pulled a rabbit out of a fuckin' hat."

"Hughes," said Cullen. "Tell me now, or we're leaving and I'm getting DCI Turnbull involved."

Bain leaned back in the chair and started laughing. "I'm in charge of his murder investigation."