Bottleneck (9 page)

He couldn't quite fathom out the strange t-shirt arrangement with Johnson. Was there anything there? He'd had a similar thing at school with his two best mates, both called Richard, where they'd buy each other CDs every Christmas. Eventually it became a joke, with Cullen stopping after he received
Never Mind the Bollocks
by the Sex Pistols, his old man's number one record.

Beth Williamson had gone from being a muscular drummer to a housewife in eighteen months, quite a rapid change. She looked like she was in a settled relationship and had been for quite some time.

Just like Buxton, Johnson and Williamson gave up on a music career without a second thought. The dream turned sour.

Alex Hughes was a mystery, still plugging away at music. Tomorrow's main action was to find him, most likely rooting around Glasgow.

He picked up the magazine by the sofa, half of Expect Delays staring out at him. They were still trapped in the belly of the beast, living the dream. He didn't know if they'd made enough to never work again. Maybe they'd have to retrain in a more useful vocation when it all fell apart, or exploit the next generation of musicians as managers.

He put the CDs back in a pile and went to bed.

As ever, Sharon was partly over his half. He spooned into her.

"Don't get any ideas."

Saturday

30th March 2013
 

Cullen got into the station at six that morning, trying to cobble together ideas to expand his sketchy action plan, determined to show Methven up. He kept coming up blank.

At the back of eight, he grabbed Buxton and they drove to Queen Charlotte Street station in Leith.

"It's your old mate Willie McAllister, isn't it?" said Buxton as he parked.

Cullen nodded. "His legend prevails."

"He worked for you on a case a couple of years back, right?"

"Aye. I had to move him on pretty quickly."

"What's he doing investigating uptown if he's based down here?"

"He was working at St Leonard's when Hughes called it in," said Cullen. "Another week and he'd have been back down here and I wouldn't have to deal with him again."

They entered the building and went through to the station's meagre canteen.

"Here's Robocop," said McAllister, not getting up. "Heard they made you a sergeant, that right?"

"Acting," said Buxton, sitting next to McAllister.

Cullen glared at him before taking the third chair, only discovering it had a wonky leg when he sat. The veteran cop looked worse than ever. "Only a couple of months to go, is that right?"

"Due my date from Personnel any day soon, son," said McAllister. "Not long now."

Cullen couldn't wait. "We just need to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of James Strang."

"Fire away."

"We believe it was reported by one Alex Hughes," said Cullen.

McAllister retrieved a battered notebook. He put on a pair of reading glasses, looking over the rims at Cullen, but still had to hold it at arm's length. "This Hughes boy called up to report his mate missing. I was covering a maternity at St Leonard's. Luckily, I got posted back down here not long after, which suits me fine as I live just up the road in Lochend."

"How much investigating did you do?" said Cullen.

McAllister looked thoughtful for a moment, then flicked through a few pages. "We spoke to some people who knew the laddie."

"Who?"

"Hughes," said McAllister. "Some lassie called Beth or Bess or something. We went up to sheep-shagger land to speak to the boy's family."

"They were all you spoke to?" said Cullen.

McAllister shrugged. "Standard practice, son. You'd know if you'd done proper policing recently. Shouldn't even have gone up to Dalrymple or whatever the place is called."

"Dalhousie," said Cullen, grinding his teeth. "Are there any open leads you didn't close down?"

"What are you saying?" said McAllister.

"Nothing," said Cullen, losing patience with him. "We're wondering if there was anything you couldn't investigate at the time. It's a murder investigation now. We've got more resources than you had back then."

"Nothing springs to mind," said McAllister.

Cullen nodded down at the now-closed notebook. "And in there?"

McAllister shook his head. "Afraid not."

Cullen got to his feet. "Thanks for your help. I'll keep you posted as to how it goes. I know how you old-timers dislike your loose ends as you head to retirement."

"Aye, fine," said McAllister.

Cullen marched off to the front entrance, through the security doors and out into the cold air.

"You need to start a fan club," said Buxton. "Do you think McAllister might start one for you when he retires?"

"Very good," said Cullen.

"Not in the mood?"

Cullen slumped back against the car and folded his arms. "This is a joke. We're getting nowhere with this."

"Come on, mate," said Buxton, "it's not like your career is resting on it."

"I thought you'd stopped trying to be funny?" said Cullen.

Buxton held his hands up. "Calm down. Whatever happens on Monday, happens."

Cullen could see the sense in what he said. "Right. We need to speak to the band again. I don't like not being able to get hold of Alex Hughes."

"What tack do you want to take?" said Buxton.

"I don't care," said Cullen. "Finding him seems to be our only hope. If we don't get anything from the pair of them, we'll need to get a search done in Glasgow."

"Where to next, boss?" said Buxton.

"Let's get Beth and Johnson in again," said Cullen. "See if they can point us towards Hughes."

Cullen and Buxton waited in the deserted canteen, eating bowls of lumpy porridge made by one of Barbara's stroppier girls, before Buxton got a call informing them Johnson and Beth had finally arrived. They raced down to the interview room.

Beth handed Buxton a sheet of paper as he sat down. "That's the list of employees from the record shop."

"Cheers."

"At present," said Cullen, eyes flitting between the two, "the only active lead we have is Alex Hughes. We've so far struggled to get hold of him." He held their gaze for a few seconds each. "One of you knows something about this and I would like to get it out of you."

Beth screwed her eyes up. "I'm
pregnant
. You can't do this to me."

"Do what?" said Cullen.

"Interrogate me like this."

"I'm investigating the murder of a former associate of yours," said Cullen. "Nobody is being interrogated here."

Beth folded her arms. "It feels very much like it."

Cullen smiled. "I can charge the pair of you with obstruction and get your lawyers in if you'd rather."

Johnson turned round to face her. "Beth, the officer is trying to do his best. I think we should assist him."

"Fine," said Beth, waving her hand in the air and looking away.

"What can you tell us about Mr Hughes?" said Cullen.

Johnson started. "Alex was a bit of a drifter, always doing casual jobs, never settling into anything long term. Technically, he was a fantastic musician in some ways, capable of creating the most wonderful textures with his guitar, but he could be so unfocused. He had an unfortunate tendency to forget where different sections of the songs started, that sort of thing."

"Jimi would shout and scream at him," said Beth.

Cullen's interest was piqued. "Tell me more about that."

"Nothing to tell, really," said Beth. "He just used to get angry with him." She shrugged. "Have you heard our music?"

Cullen nodded. "I received a CD from Mr Strang's parents."

Beth leaned forward, placing her hands on the tabletop. "Well, you'll know our sound was quite dynamic. We could make a racket, don't get me wrong, but we had some very pretty bits in our songs. The structure was very complex."

"So what you're saying is Mr Hughes would play a loud bit over a quiet bit?" said Buxton.

Beth shrugged. "That's about the size of it."

"Put it this way," said Johnson, "Jimi found it hard to sing a sweet song with a Marshall turned up to eleven screaming behind him with God knows how many pedals on."

Cullen nodded as he thought it through. Something tugged at the back of his mind. "Did this ever happen on stage?"

"A couple of times," said Beth, nodding slowly.

"Early on, mainly," said Johnson.

"But it still happened?" said Cullen.

Johnson nodded his head. "It did."

"Did Mr Strang ever blame Mr Hughes for your lack of success?" said Cullen.

"We
were
successful," said Beth, arms folded again, lips pouting.

"But you weren't signed," said Buxton. "I think that's what my colleague is getting at."

Beth stabbed a finger in the air, her accent getting coarser. "Jimi and Alex were the best of friends. Jimi disappearing like that really cut him up."

"I can imagine," said Cullen. "Which is why we need to speak to him. Is there anything you can think of?"

Beth and Johnson shared a look before she broke off.

"Alex did have a girlfriend," said Johnson, biting his lip. "I don't know if they kept in touch or not. She might be worth a shot."

"What was her name?" said Cullen.

"Marta Hunter," said Beth. "I think she lived in Niddrie."

"I think so, too," said Johnson.

Cullen ended the interview, satisfied they were finally a step forward.

It took them a while to find Marta Hunter. At some point in the last nineteen months, she'd changed her name to Phillips by marriage. But they did find her.

She lived on one of the new streets created in the ongoing urban renewal of Niddrie, in the top floor of a white house adorned with bright blue panelling.

As agreed on the way, Buxton would lead. He tried the door intercom and they waited a few seconds before pressing it again.

"Hello?" The female voice was frail and uneven.

"Marta Phillips?" said Buxton. "This is the police. We need to ask you a few questions."

"Just a minute."

It felt like five. They climbed the stairs to her flat and stood by the door.

Marta led them into the living room. It was bedlam - three young kids running around, all under five with the youngest just over a year old in Cullen's estimation.

He decided to stand and Buxton followed suit.

Marta sat in an armchair, the type Cullen had seen in many cheap furniture shops in Easter Road and Abbeyhill. She pulled her cardigan close and shivered, though the room was baking. She looked like she was on drugs, Cullen reckoning heroin was most likely from her sunken cheeks.

"It's not Phillips anymore, by the way," said Marta. She had a vaguely Slavic look but spoke in a broad Edinburgh accent. "Got divorced. Went back to my maiden name."

Cullen frowned - that was a quick turnaround. Not the quickest he'd ever heard of - one of Sharon's friends from university had managed to go from meeting a man to divorce in ten months. They'd just had invites for her next wedding.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Buxton.

Marta sniffed. "Shug was a wanker. No skin off my beak."

"We believe you were acquainted with an Alex Hughes?" said Buxton.

"Aye, Alex." Marta rubbed at her eye. "He was the love of my life, that boy. Can't believe he left me."

"Why did he?" said Buxton.

Marta looked away. "I don't know."

"Nothing to do with your kids?" said Buxton.

She shook her head. "No."

"Would it be the drugs?" said Cullen.

"Drugs?" said Marta, avoiding eye contact.

"I know heroin when I see it," said Cullen.

Marta slumped back in the chair. "Aye, it was the drugs. I'm a recovering smack head. You lot probably prefer to call me a recovering heroin addict."

Cullen was only slightly pleased his suspicion had proved true. His main thoughts were for her children.

"I'm on methadone. Just trying to wean us off the skag." She looked over at her kids. "Last chance saloon for me with my boys."

"Was Alex into drugs?" said Cullen.

"Just a bit of blow," said Marta. "He smoked the H a couple of times but he wasn't into it. He kept on at me to give it up."

"And that's why he split up with you?" said Cullen.

"Aye."

Cullen inspected her afresh. She was thin, but not as skinny as the stereotypical heroin addict, and her personal hygiene didn't seem to be too bad. That said, he struggled to see what Alex Hughes saw in her - she didn't seem particularly warm, intelligent, funny or good-looking.

"Are the kids his?" said Cullen.

"Before and after." Marta laughed and pointed at the children, now playing a game on the TV. "Wee Xander there, my middle one, he was born when I first met Alex."

"Did Alex ever want to become their father?" said Cullen.

Marta nodded. "He did, aye. In the end, though, he couldn't deal with me being the way I am."

Cullen decided he'd had enough of this - he knew her plight would haunt his dreams. "We need to speak to him."

"He lives in Glasgow now," said Marta. "Still doing the music."

"Do you have an address?" said Cullen.

Marta nodded. "He sent me a letter once." She got up, patting one of her sons on the head as she went, and rummaged around in a set of drawers at the other end of the room. She came back and handed a sheet to Cullen. "Here."

Cullen read the letter. It was impersonal and focused on his music. There was nothing to suggest the two had ever met, let alone been an item. He looked back at Marta, staring intently at her kids, a tear in her eye. "Mind if I take this?"

She shook her head. "Go for it."

Cullen knew the street on the top left of the page. It wasn't far from Glasgow University.

Cullen and Buxton entered the Incident Room, finding Methven wearing jeans, shirt and jumper.

Methven looked them up and down. "You look like a sodding pair of police officers. Nobody has worn a suit at the sodding weekend since nineteen fifty-eight."

"What about at a wedding?" said Buxton.