Bottleneck (8 page)

Cullen thought it through for a few seconds. "You're going to the local station to ask around, see if he's got himself into mischief and been run out of town or anything."

"You hooking up with an old flame or something, Shagger?" said Buxton, a leery look in his eye.

"Worse," said Cullen. "I'm taking my parents out for dinner."

"He does know me and Sharon were supposed to be coming up tonight, right?" said Cullen.

"You know your father, Scott," said Cullen's mother. "In fact, he's very much like his son." She took a sip of wine. "They're very busy just now and they've got a lot of deals going on. He's called a way a lot." She reached over the table and prodded him in the chest. "Anyway, the first I knew you weren't coming to stay was when you turned up on my doorstep an hour ago. I've lots of food in for the weekend. You'll have to take it home with you."

"Fine," said Cullen. "Suits me."

"A weekend with the pair of you would have been nice. How is Sharon?"

"She's got a stinker of a cold," said Cullen. "Doesn't look like we'd have been able to come up anyway. As it is, I'm going to be stuck in this case for the whole weekend."

"I worry about you, son. There's too much pressure on you."

"Aye, well," said Cullen, "I'm an Acting DS now and I'm not letting it go without a fight. Besides Sharon wants a new house. I've got a lot of responsibility, people reporting to me."

"That's good."

The waiter brought their food - pizza for his mother and a salad for Cullen, though it looked like the less healthy option with the amount of olive oil, cheese and pesto drizzled all over it.

His mother daintily cut into her pizza. "Have you spoken to your sister recently?"

"I knew this was coming," said Cullen, rolling his eyes.

"Well, have you?"

"It's up to Michelle to get in touch with me," said Cullen. "I've tried loads of times."

"Scott, your sister lived in Edinburgh for a whole year and you didn't meet up with her once. It's not like you live out in the countryside, you're on the Royal Mile. Now she's working in Glasgow, I don't see how you'll ever do it."

Cullen ate a forkful of tuna and lettuce leaves. "She's ignoring me. She even unfriended me on Schoolbook. That's just petty."

"Will you at least try again for me? I think she's hurt."

"She shouldn't be so bloody precious," said Cullen, shaking his head, feeling the anger surge. "I didn't do anything wrong, nothing Dad wouldn't have said."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration, Scott."

"How is the old bugger?" said Cullen, desperate to change the subject.

"You know your father," she said, "he won't stop playing his games, he's always up to something. And I'm not talking about computer games, though he's finally stopped playing that infernal Xbox so often."

"That'll be where I get it from," said Cullen.

"Well, it's certainly not from me," said his mother, eyes wide.

"Do you know a James Strang?" said Cullen.

"I know his parents. He disappeared, didn't he? They were devastated by it."

"You knew?" said Cullen.

"Is that why you're here?"

Cullen nodded. "Found his body in Edinburgh. Shouldn't really talk about it." He took a drink of lemonade. "Do they have any ideas what happened to him?"

His mum smiled. "Am I a witness in this case?"

"At the moment, I could do with anything," said Cullen. "The guy was three years younger than me, I don't remember him. He'd still have been a wee laddie when I left Dalhousie."

"I'll see what I can dig up on the grapevine."

Cullen's phone started buzzing - a text from Buxton, chasing him up. "I'll have to go back to Edinburgh just after this," he said, finishing his salad, a puddle of green goop at the bottom.

"No time for a coffee?"

"Wish I did," said Cullen.

"Well, this has been nice," she said. "Thanks for seeing me. It's a shame you can't come through, but I understand. You're forgiven for that time you were in Carnoustie and didn't call."

"I hope I don't get a bollocking for this," said Cullen, putting a twenty on the table.

His mother smacked his hand. "You put that away, Scott Cullen. This is my treat."

Cullen smiled. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "I promise we'll be through soon."

"You make sure you fulfil that promise."

Cullen left the restaurant, feeling a tight knot in his stomach. Walking towards the car, he thought back to how much simpler life was when he was younger, part of him wishing he could go back.

The old town looked exactly as he remembered it, the same shops, same restaurants and people. One of the things he loved about Edinburgh was how much change there was. Dalhousie, despite his old man's best efforts, was stuck in a rut, at least in the town centre.

"Scott Cullen?"

Across the road, a plump woman in her early thirties was pointing at him. She came towards him, finger stabbing the air, a car swerving out of her way.

"You fucking arsehole!"

"I'm sorry?" said Cullen.

"You fucking arsehole!"

She tried to slap him but he grabbed her hand.

"You fuck off away from me, Scott Cullen!"

Cullen got his warrant card out. "I'm a police officer. Unless you clear off, I'll arrest you."

She took a long look at Cullen then marched off in the direction she'd come from.

Cullen had absolutely no idea who she was.

Back at Leith Walk station, Methven had been busy. He'd acquired an Incident Room and, though it was the smallest of the three, all four walls were covered in whiteboard paint.

They'd put several photos of Strang on the wall though no connecting arrows had yet been drawn. Cullen inspected the pictures - they were taken over the course of two years, but Strang had aged, lines appearing on his otherwise fresh face and hair greying at the sides.

He was good looking, in a fey way. His face was long and thin and seemed to be symmetrical. His brown hair was spiked up in most of the pictures, the sides shaved ever closer as more grey appeared.

Buxton and Chantal stood around while Methven doodled on one of the walls. Cullen joined them.

"So, who have we got?" said Methven. "James Strang. AKA Jimi Danger."

"That's just been confirmed," said Chantal. "Anderson finished his DNA test. Strang was done for a breach of the peace in his student days. The DNA was on file."

"That's a result," said Buxton.

"Would have been nice to know when we spoke to his parents, though," said Cullen.

Chantal waved the paper in front of Cullen's face. "It's only just come through. Besides, you and Simon barrelled in oblivious to anything else."

Cullen tried to decide whether to make something of it.

Methven made the decision for him. "The post mortem is back. There is sufficient evidence to confirm the screwdriver is the murder weapon. The blood on the handle matches the DNA on file and the flecks of blood on the t-shirt."

He rubbed his stomach through his pristine white shirt. "The state of decay meant there was very little to perform an autopsy on. That said, the initial forensics report is of some interest."

He pointed to a photo of a pair of jeans, blown up to twice life size and occupying almost a whole wall. Cullen thought that sort of expense would soon be killed off by the new Chief Constable of Police Scotland, a notorious penny-pincher from his days in Strathclyde.

Methven indicated dark marks at the bottom of the jeans with his pen, an expensive-looking ballpoint. "There are traces that show the body was dragged from somewhere. These are wholly inconsistent with usual wear patterns and there is sufficient blood mixed in to confirm our suspicions."

Cullen was irritated that Methven was taking over his investigation. "Which are?"

"It looks like he wasn't killed where the body was found," said Chantal.

Cullen frowned. "The steps are stone. Somebody should have seen something, the trail would have been visible."

"That's a good point," said Methven. "Our killer was lucky here. Nobody was looking at the steps or the passageway that far down. We visited the room Strang's band used. It was the only one on the bottom level so it's possible nobody else would have been down. We should check with the band who shared their room. Chantal?"

She nodded.

"Didn't the original investigating team look into this?" said Cullen.

Methven gave a shrug. "We'd need to ask them, but I very much doubt it. The time allocation for a MisPer is very different to a murder investigation. They wouldn't have had access to detectives, let alone forensics."

"Besides, they thought he ran away," said Chantal. "They wouldn't have searched these band rooms."

"I want to speak to the investigating officers," said Cullen.

"Fine," said Methven. "Just don't labour it too much."

"As if I would," said Cullen, with a wry grin.

Methven grunted. "We currently have no suspects."

"I'd agree with that," said Cullen.

"What about that guy in the band with him, Johnson?" said Buxton. "The stuff about the t-shirt weirded me out."

Cullen looked at Chantal and Methven then tapped a photo of the remains. "What Simon is alluding to, is the Jeff Buckley t-shirt was a gift from David Johnson, the bass player."

"Come on, Constable," said Methven, "that's hardly enough to suspect someone of murder?"

Buxton shrugged. "It's just odd."

"Let's move on," said Methven, turning back to his mind map. "We've only got five direct connections. His parents are two and the three bandmates."

"There's another," said Cullen. "His parents mentioned a girl called Jane. We don't know anything else about her."

Methven wrote it down. "Right. Hold that thought for now." He looked at the whiteboard. "We've spoken to two of the band already, is that correct?"

Cullen nodded. "David Johnson and Beth Williamson. We need to get Beth in to give a formal statement. The Johnson interview transcript should be with us tomorrow."

"I expect you two to close that out," said Methven.

"Will do," said Cullen. "The only blocker we've now got is we can't get hold of Alex Hughes."

"Is that suspicious?" said Methven.

"Could be," said Cullen. "Might be he's on holiday or has a new phone number."

"That's two phones we've tried, though," said Buxton. "I called Tommy Smith in the Phone Squad on the way back." He held his own mobile up. "He's got nowhere in tracking either phone down."

"What do you think, Sergeant?" said Methven, losing patience.

"I don't think he's a suspect," said Cullen. "Yet. Nobody has mentioned any antagonism between Hughes and Strang. Quite the opposite, in fact. He's been speaking to Strang's mother about her son."

"I want that on the top of your radar tomorrow," said Methven.

"The top of my what?" said Cullen.

Methven snorted. "Just get it done." He looked back at the board. "You've interviewed the parents?"

Cullen nodded. "Other than the Jane potential lead, we've got nothing. Some interesting background for a biography on him, but that's it."

Methven's gaze turned to Chantal "And the work colleagues?"

"Strang worked in a record shop, which Beth Williamson eventually went on to manage. He was casual labour with no formal employment contract. We've got the previous manager coming in tomorrow to give a statement, but he didn't remember much about Strang when I spoke to him on the phone. The one thing he did say was Strang was always in early every day, half an hour before his shift, so he could listen to the new music and talk to people, usually about his band.

Methven scribbled a link to the manager, prompting Chantal for the name. "Any other colleagues we should be bringing in?"

"Not spoken to anyone yet," said Chantal. "Still waiting on the list from Beth Williamson." She pulled a hand through her hair and refastened her scrunchy. "If that doesn't appear, God knows what we're going to do."

"Did they have a manager or an agent?" said Methven.

"Johnson told us Strang did all that," said Cullen. "He was a bit of an obsessive."

"Next," said Methven. "Flatmates."

"We've not progressed that yet," said Cullen. "From the discussions with Williamson and Johnson, it looks like it won't come to anything. He just had a room in a flat, didn't seem to interact with his flatmates."

"They might know something," said Methven.

"They might not," said Cullen, before looking at Buxton. "One for you, Simon."

Buxton grimaced. "Got a call back from Johnson earlier. The flat was on Marchmont Road. He also gave me a list of friends I should speak to."

Methven let out a deep sigh. "Okay, so we've got sodding nothing to show for a day's work."

"That's a bit harsh," said Cullen. "We know the victim."

"We need to do better," said Methven. "Hopefully tomorrow will be a bit more productive. You can all head home for the night."

Cullen got to the flat at the back of ten, dumping his stuff on the sofa and getting a glass of milk from the fridge, downing it in one. He spotted a note on the breakfast bar saying Sharon had gone to bed.

The cat bleated at him again, baring the large fangs in his pink mouth. Cullen reached down and picked him up. He weighed an absolute ton. He started tickling him under the chin, eventually making him purr.

"See, I'm not so bad," said Cullen.

He put the cat down, then retrieved Strang's stack of CDs. After a few minutes, he found his DJ headphones and plugged them into his stereo, the set of separates that had superseded Sharon's mini system, which Cullen couldn't stand the sound of.

He sat listening to the music for half an hour or so. He didn't know what to make of the band. It wasn't Cullen's cup of tea, squalling guitars and pounding drums, but they were offset against strange vocals, oscillating between screaming and shouting to the sweetest singing he'd ever heard. He struggled to find the talent and genius Johnson's hyperbole had attributed to his bandmate.

As he let the music wash over him, he wrote up an action list for the following day, his tired eyes drying from his contact lenses. It felt too short and they didn't have anywhere near enough to go on.