Bottleneck (5 page)

"Was he from Edinburgh?" said Chantal.

Buxton shook his head. "Never heard of the place he comes from. Dalhousie?"

Cullen's eyes bulged. "That's my home town."

Buxton grinned. "Maybe I'll start asking you some difficult questions, then."

"Never heard of the boy," said Cullen.

"So what do you want us to do?" said Chantal.

Cullen thought it through for a few seconds. "Simon, let's you and I go and visit the guys who lease the rooms out to the bands. They might be able to confirm whether this Strang boy did."

"And me?" said Chantal.

"See if we can get a DNA trace done," said Cullen. "We might have him on file."

"You've got an Acting DC for that sort of shite," said Chantal.

"I resent that," said Buxton.

"I'm serious," said Chantal.

"I want a detailed background on this band," said Cullen. "I'm not yet convinced they don't know anything. Find out a bit more about them."

"Fine," said Chantal.

"And Methven was wanting to know about the screwdriver," said Cullen.

"This isn't punishment for me saying how pretty the singer was, is it?" said Chantal.

"Would I be so petty?" said Cullen.

"I'll not answer that."

The Ghost Tours office was a few doors down Niddry Street, past a new pub Cullen had never heard of, but not as far as Bannerman's at the bottom. They found a parking space on the Cowgate and walked up.

Buxton thumbed at Bannerman's. "Used to play gigs in there."

Cullen had been in once, on a pub crawl as a student, and could barely remember it. "Did you do a lot of gigs?"

"Played anything we could," said Buxton. "Weddings, christenings, bar mitzvahs." He laughed. "Best gig we did was the G2 in Glasgow. That was mental. They reckon there were about a thousand people there."

"What happened to the band?" said Cullen.

Buxton shrugged. "Take your pick. Apathy, lack of success, the singer getting knocked up by the guitarist while she was going out with me."

"Nightmare," said Cullen. "That's not quite how you told it to me last time."

"You surprised?" said Buxton. "It's belittling, mate."

"Tell me about it," said Cullen, as they entered the Ghost Tours office.

A skinny man sat at the desk clad in a black suit with matching black shirt and tie, bony fingers tapping on a laptop. He looked up, his expression as severe as his haircut - a close skinhead. "How can I help, officers?"

"Is it that obvious?" said Cullen, showing his warrant card.

"I've got a knack," said the man, reaching out a hand. "Paul Temple."

Cullen introduced them.

Temple frowned at Buxton. "Do I know you?"

Buxton nodded. "Used to rent a room here."

"That'll be it," said Temple.

"Have you owned this place long?" said Cullen.

"A few years," said Temple. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"The body found near the practice rooms," said Cullen.

"I've already spoken to DI Methven," said Temple. "That's your boss, I take it?"

"It is," said Cullen. "We don't have identification of the body yet but we have a potential lead. A James Strang, AKA Jimi Danger."

Temple turned back to his laptop. "In
The Invisibles
, right?"

"We believe so," said Buxton. "What can you tell us about him?"

"I've got names, addresses and phone numbers for the whole band," said Temple. "I trust you've got a warrant?"

"Could easily get one," said Cullen. "Alternatively, I could make it difficult for you to cash in on the find."

"How do you mean?" said Temple.

"Don't tell me it's not crossed your mind to run ghost tours down there," said Cullen.

Temple sniffed. "It might have done, aye."

"Well, I could keep that place closed off for a very long time," said Cullen, "or I could have a word with the city council to keep it shut permanently."

"Right." Temple slouched back, before clicking the mouse. A large laser printer behind him whirred to life and he swung round to collect a sheet of paper. "Here you go."

Cullen checked the sheet before pocketing it. "Why do you keep these?"

"We want to know who's renting from us in case we need to reclaim cash," said Temple. "You wouldn't believe how often people don't pay, deposit or no, even with a room full of vintage guitars, valve amps, PAs and drum kits."

"Did you know Mr Strang?" said Buxton.

Temple shook his head slowly. "Can't say I did. Get a lot of bands through here every year."

Cullen thanked him then led outside into the cold air. "What do you reckon?"

"Dodgy as fuck," said Buxton. "Still, as long as you got the list of names out of him we're doing okay."

Cullen took the list out again and scanned it. "Looks like this Alex Hughes who reported it was in the band."

"What do you want to do?"

"I'll start calling through the list."

"Sure thing."

"I better head home to see how Sharon is."

"Give her my regards." Buxton unlocked the car. "See you back at the ranch, Sundance."

Cullen scowled at him. "Less of that."

As Cullen hurried up the hill, he dialled the names on the list.

Beth Williamson's phone seemed to be disconnected.

The number for Alex Hughes was the one Buxton had already tried and still wasn't answered.

He tried David Johnson. The call went to voicemail. As he left his number, he wondered when it would feel natural to say he was calling on behalf of Police Scotland. He hoped Johnson returned the call as he didn't fancy trying to trace the band members, especially when it wasn't definite the body was Strang.

He turned into World's End Close and climbed the stairs to the flat. Sharon was sprawled on the settee, the cat lying trustfully at her feet while he turned a mass of used hankies into a nest. Her eyes flickered open and she groaned.

"How are you doing?" he said.

"Been sick all day," said Sharon.

"Sick?"

"Ill, unwell."

"Right," said Cullen. "I better not catch it."

"Always thinking about yourself," said Sharon.

"Who'll look after you if I'm ill?" said Cullen.

"It's the other way around, Scott."

"Okay, Grumpy-drawers," said Cullen. "Do you need anything?"

"Angela came round with the baby," said Sharon. "She got me some soup, so I'm fine."

"I bumped into her at the station," said Cullen.

"She said."

"Oh."

"You need to talk about your attitude to kids," said Sharon.

Cullen's phone rang. "Saved by the bell," he said, holding it up before answering, not recognising the number.

"Is that Detective Sergeant Scott Cullen?" The voice was English.

"It is," said Cullen. "Who am I speaking to?"

"To
whom
."

Cullen scowled - who was this?

"Sorry, force of habit. It's David Johnson. Just returning your call."

Cullen struggled to recall the name before it clicked. He pulled out the list of names. "Thanks for calling me back, Mr Johnson."

"I wondered when someone was going to ring about Jimi," said Johnson.

"Jimi?"

"Yes, James Strang," said Johnson. "I take it his body has turned up?"

"We're not sure," said Cullen.

"I'll take a wild guess and say it was wearing a Jeff Buckley t-shirt."

Cullen stopped for a sandwich on the way, eating as he hurried to Leith Walk station. He was slightly out of breath by the time he found the interview room Buxton had secured, one of the more presentable in the public section of the station, usually reserved for grieving family members.

Cullen pointed to the door. "Is he in there?"

"He is, yeah," said Buxton. "And he reckons it's this Strang geezer?"

Cullen nodded, gulping down air. "Said he was wearing a Jeff Buckley t-shirt. Don't know why that wasn't in the MisPer report."

Buxton shrugged. "You saw how many of them there were. Hard to get too excited about them, I suppose."

"I hope it's not you who did the report back in the day," said Cullen. "It was your patch, right?"

"It wasn't me. Trust me, mate. I'd remember." Buxton pointed at the door. "How do you want to run this?"

Cullen thought it over for a few seconds. "Let's just play it by ear. I don't think he's done anything dodgy, yet. He was a bit of a pedantic arse on the phone, though. Pulled me up for not saying 'to whom'."

"Schoolboy error," said Buxton.

"Aye," said Cullen. "Public schoolboy error."

"Good one," said Buxton.

"They didn't teach grammar at Dalhousie High," said Cullen, opening the door. "Come on."

He sat at the table before starting the interview, introducing himself and Buxton. A uniformed officer stood by the door, looking bored.

"Do I need a lawyer?" said Johnson. He was tall and athletic, much like Methven, though he looked a lot younger despite moderate hair loss.

"We're interviewing you to confirm it's Mr Strang we've found," said Cullen. "If at any point we deem you to be a suspect, we will pause the interview to allow you to consult a lawyer. For the record, Mr Johnson, you're not a suspect at this moment in time."

Johnson looked more nervous than he had sounded on the phone. "Okay."

"Can you recount the information you gave me earlier, please?" said Cullen.

Johnson cleared his throat. "Certainly," he said, a croak still present. "When you called me I instinctively knew it would be about Jimi."

"And, again, for the record," said Cullen, "Jimi would be James Strang?"

"Correct," said Johnson. "Everybody knew him as Jimi, though, like Jimi Hendrix. Of course, he got his stage name from
Gimme Danger
by The Stooges." He coughed. "I'm rambling, apologies."

"You don't appear the sort of person to be in a band influenced by Iggy Pop," said Buxton.

Johnson shrugged. "I love loud music. It's always the quiet ones you've got to watch out for, isn't that right?" He laughed, before tugging at the collar of his shirt, perhaps realising he shouldn't be joking. "Jimi asked me to play bass guitar in The Invisibles."

"Why you?" said Cullen. "You don't seem like a rock 'n' roller."

Johnson touched the tips of his fingers together. "Jimi was obsessed with image. Apparently, I fit the bill. We're all the same height. I think there was a quote attributed to Morrissey regarding Franz Ferdinand all being the same height, which made them look like a gang on stage. That's something Jimi clung to."

He smiled. "I'm a classically-trained pianist, though I'd given that up by university. I picked the bass up quickly, of course. There's also the fact I was studying English Literature and could help Jimi with some of his lyrics. He was very talented, both in terms of music and words - such
incredible
imagery - but he would sometimes struggle with the precise vocabulary. I suppose, in that sense, I added a fair amount to the band."

Cullen was sorry he asked. "Can you give us your account of what happened the night Jimi disappeared?"

"Well, we didn't know at the time it was the night he disappeared," said Johnson. "Nobody knew what happened to him, but it was certainly the last night we saw him."

"Had he gone off before?" said Cullen.

Johnson frowned. "Not as such. Jimi was someone who lived day to day, shall we say?"

Cullen knew he'd have to keep him on topic. "You had a gig?"

"Correct," said Johnson. "We were practising a lot. Jimi was really pushing us hard. We were building a following and things were starting to happen. We'd even been in the press. He was a driven man."

"So you'd rule suicide out?" said Cullen.

"Not for me to say," said Johnson, shrugging his shoulders.

"And this gig?" said Cullen.

Johnson nodded. "We had a concert booked in Glasgow, supporting Biffy Clyro. They were a big deal at the time. Still are, of course. We'd been in our practice room since six o'clock and finished up at nine."

He blinked away a tear. "That was the last practice before the concert. I think Jimi stayed behind to fix the intonation on his guitar. It sounded fine to me."

"That's making sure the guitar is in tune with itself," said Buxton, reading Cullen's blank expression.

"Right," said Cullen. "And that's the last time you saw him?"

"It is," said Johnson.

"What was he wearing?" said Cullen.

"Those preposterous big boots he always wore," said Johnson. "He used to say it was so if he bumped into racists or homophobes he could 'kick them in,' as he put it. I think that was for show. Jimi wasn't much of a hard man, despite his talk."

He took a sip from the plastic cup of water in front of him. "He was wearing jeans and his Jeff Buckley t-shirt. I gave it to him for Christmas one year."

"And this was when?" said Cullen.

"I think it was the third of September, two thousand and eleven," said Johnson.

Cullen looked over at Buxton, who gave the slightest of nods. "Was there something going on between you?"

"The t-shirt?" said Johnson, frowning. "Heavens, no. We all exchanged gifts. It was a band tradition. We'd play a Christmas show in the middle of the month, swap gifts and then pack up till early January. We all went back to our home towns for Christmas. It is merely coincidence Jimi was wearing that t-shirt, I assure you."

"And what was Jeff Buckley doing on this t-shirt?" said Cullen. He was vaguely aware of him - Sharon might have a couple of his albums.

"It was the cover of
Grace
," said Johnson, "his only true album."

"That's the t-shirt we found," said Buxton.

"Looks like he's our man," said Cullen, nodding. "We will, of course, be conducting DNA analysis to confirm it, if possible."

"Could I have a look at him?" said Johnson.

"I'm afraid not," said Cullen. "There's not much left to see."

Johnson nodded, looking disappointed.

"Tell us about the band, then," said Buxton.

Cullen hoped this was connected to the case and not just idle curiosity.