Cowboys and Indians (29 page)

‘I see.’

‘Did he come home last night?’

‘He’s not been home, no.’

‘He was supposed to give a statement last night but he didn’t turn up. Now his name’s turned up in relation to another part of the investigation.’

‘Oh, Christ. When did you last hear from him?’

‘About six last night. He was still at his solicitor’s.’

‘Have you—’

‘They said he left at half past. Any idea where he could’ve gone?’

Proctor paused, footsteps echoing around a room.
‘Listen, there might be something. If he had a deadline, Martin’d work until he collapsed, then check in to a hotel. Saved him the long drive down to West Linton.’

‘Did he have any favourites?’

‘I didn’t go into specifics, I’m afraid. I’ll look over his expenses, see if he put anything through us, rather than his own company.’

‘Let me know.’ Cullen pocketed his phone.

Buxton perched on the edge of the desk. ‘His wife’s not heard from him.’

‘Shite.’

‘Been looking through the case file for you, Sarge.’ Murray tossed a folder at Cullen. ‘Nothing. We’re still waiting for Ferguson’s bank records from Charlie Kidd.’

‘Did he give you an ETA?’

‘Charlie?’ Murray laughed. ‘Of course he didn’t.’

Cullen nodded at Buxton. ‘Come on, Si, let’s get up there.’ He trotted across the room, bumping into Methven as he entered. ‘Afternoon, sir.’

‘Sergeant, do you have time for a catch-up?’

‘Not now, sir.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back soon.’ Cullen pushed into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He burped at the landing. ‘Christ, that pizza’s repeating on me.’

‘Lucky you.’ Buxton climbed up. ‘I had a tuna baked tattie.’

‘You’re getting the local lingo, Si.’ Cullen followed him across the floor, his tractor beam locked on Kidd tossing his ponytail and yawning. ‘Afternoon, Charlie.’

‘Here we go. Back to the Sundance ranch.’

Cullen rested on the edge of the desk and had a look around. ‘No sign of any bank statements here.’

‘Cos I don’t bloody print everything out like you.’

‘Have you done Martin Ferguson’s yet?’

‘Not had the time.’

‘Come on, Charlie…’

‘I do have other work to do, you know.’

‘This is critical, okay? The guy’s missing.’

‘God’s sake.’ Kidd hammered his keyboard and tapped a finger on the screen. ‘Here you go.’

Cullen peered at it. ‘What’s this?’

‘Bank account and credit cards. Last three months’ transactions. There’s more if you want it.’

Cullen scanned down the screen to the bottom. Nothing with today’s date. Only one with the previous day’s. A wide line of data, a long number beginning 4543 in the leftmost column. ‘What’s this?’

‘That’s his credit card. That’s a Tesco Bank number, I think.’ Kidd copied the narrative into another window and pressed a key. The string split out into multiple columns. He tapped a column. ‘It’s a hotel just round the corner from Alba Bank.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen flashed his card at the receptionist, the Leith Walk traffic trundling in the distance behind them. ‘DS Scott Cullen. This is ADC Simon Buxton. We need some help in locating someone who might be staying here.’

The receptionist swallowed, his eyes darting around the empty vestibule. ‘I’m not sure I can provide information like that.’

‘Listen, he’s a murder suspect. Just check he’s here first, please?’

‘Can I have the guest’s name, sir?’

‘It’s Martin Ferguson.’

He put a hand over his mouth. ‘Sorry, do you have a search warrant?’

‘One can be arranged if you explicitly need it. I was hoping you’d cooperate without that.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to call my manager to request permission.’

‘Look, we’ve identified a credit card transaction placing Mr Ferguson here last night. I don’t like getting the runaround.’

‘But I can’t just give you the information.’

‘Look, I’m pleading with you here. This is a murder case.’

A long breath exhaled through the nostrils. ‘Fine. I’ll look into it for you.’ He switched back to the computer. ‘Mr Ferguson’s staying here. Checked in at twenty past eight last night.’

‘Can we see the room?’

A glance out the front door. ‘Come on.’ He trotted over to a security door and swiped through.

Cullen and Buxton followed him down a long corridor. ‘Why’s it a zero value transaction?’

‘We ask for a card to secure the room. Guests are requested to pay the balance on departure.’

‘Isn’t that old-fashioned?’

‘That’s how we work, Sergeant. We trust our guests.’ He stopped halfway down. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the doorknob. ‘Here it is.’

Cullen knocked on the door. ‘Mr Ferguson, it’s DS Cullen. We need to have a word.’

No answer.

‘Have you got a skeleton key?’

The receptionist nodded and produced a card.

‘Wait.’ Cullen stuck his head to the door. ‘There’s music playing.’

Buxton put his ear against the wood. ‘Sounds like it’s playing from a phone.’

Cullen stepped back and snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. ‘We better get in there.’

The receptionist pressed the card against the white pad on the door. ‘After you.’

The door clicked. Cullen pushed it open. ‘Mr Ferguson, we’re coming in.’

A bathroom to the left, toiletries scattered above the sink. The end of a bed was visible round the corner. A chair lay against the window, a business suit thrown over it, work shoes tumbled on top of each other in front. “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye blasted out of a Samsung mobile on top.

Cullen raised a hand. ‘Wait.’ He snapped out his baton and crept forward, rounding the edge of the bathroom. ‘Shite.’

Martin Ferguson hung from the ceiling light by a rope. He wore a Batman costume, the grey trousers and blue trunks pulled down around his knees, his flaccid cock lost in a forest of pubic hair. A belt dug into his throat, a plastic bag over his head.

SOCO suit on, Cullen signed back into the crime scene, laughter pealing from inside the hotel room. He pushed the clipboard into the uniform’s grasp and entered the crowded space, his overshoes squeaking and suit crinkling.

A suited figure pointed at the body still hanging from the belt. ‘Fuckin’ Batman’s let himself go.’ Bain’s voice.

‘Sergeant, will you sodding grow up?’ Methven.

Another two figures inspected Ferguson.

Cullen got between them. ‘Sir, I’ve given a statement to DC Law.’

‘Excellent. I trust it’s consistent with your notebook.’

‘Aye.’

‘Afternoon, Sundance.’ Bain tilted his head back to the body, now gently swinging. ‘I’m wondering where fuckin’ Catwoman is.’

Cullen folded his arms. ‘You used to call Angela Caldwell Batgirl.’

‘Fuck, that takes me back.’ Bain rubbed a gloved hand across his mask. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘Not seen her in a while.’

‘I asked someone to shut that sodding thing off.’ Methven stomped over to the piled-up suit and stabbed a gloved finger against the phone’s screen, killing the song before Marvin Gaye started singing again. ‘Sodding hell. Someone look into this.’

A Smurf near the body cracked his spine. ‘You guys finished your hilarity?’

‘Mr Deeley.’ Methven turned to face him. ‘What have you got for us?’

‘Time of death’s twenty-three fifteen last night, plus or minus fifteen minutes.’

‘Suicide?’

‘I don’t know. In agreement with DS Bain, I have to admit the Batman costume’s a bit … weird. Then there’s this.’ Deeley swung the body round. A fox tail hung out between hairy arse cheeks. ‘I think it’s what’s known in certain circles as a butt plug.’

‘What the fuck’s a butt plug, Jimmy?’

Deeley shook his head. ‘Brian, I thought you were a man of the world.’

‘What the fuck is it? A dildo?’

‘A shorter form, but aye. Don’t want it travelling into the colon—’

‘We get the picture.’ Methven swallowed. ‘Why’s it there?’

‘Other than sexual gratification, Inspector, I’ve no idea.’ Deeley sniffed, the mask clouding against this face. ‘Have to say, it seems a bit adventurous for masturbation.’

Cullen waved a hand up at the body. ‘Shouldn’t he have an orange or lemon in his mouth to bite into in case he accidentally strangled himself?’

‘Good point.’ Deeley looked round at the figure next to him. ‘Mr Anderson, you should look for signs of other sexual partners.’

Bain patted Anderson on the shoulder. ‘Make sure you’ve got a key card on you at all times. Wouldn’t want you getting locked in again, would we?’

‘Fuck off.’

Methven pointed at Cullen, then Bain, and gestured for them to follow him out of the room. ‘Gentlemen, this case has just taken a turn for the … weird. Why would he kill himself?’

‘You sure this is an accident? He could’ve killed himself, I get that. But someone could’ve framed this.’

‘Fine, here’s what we’re going to do. Cullen, can you speak to people, his wife, colleagues, that sort of thing? Find out if anyone had opportunity to kill him.’

‘Sure.’

Methven glared at Bain. ‘Brian, speak to the guests in adjacent rooms and the employees. Find out if anyone saw anything.’

‘You wanting me to treat it as suicide, Col?’

‘Let’s keep our options open.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen squinted at the ornate carvings on the stone house’s gable end, as West Linton traffic burled past behind them. He knocked on the door, jaw clenched as he waited. He glanced at
 
Buxton. ‘Has she been told?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Right.’ Cullen prepared a smile as the door opened.

A thin woman leaning on a walking stick peered out. Middle-aged with dark hair, almost black — certainly dyed. Tracksuit bottoms and a plain white T-shirt. ‘Yes?’

Buxton flipped out his warrant card. ‘Mrs Ferguson?’

‘Call me Elaine.’

‘It’s ADC Simon Buxton. We spoke on the phone.’

Elaine frowned, her free hand flicking her fringe. ‘Is this about Martin?’

‘Can we come in?’

‘Is he okay? Is he dead?’

Buxton glanced at Cullen then nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

Elaine tightened the grip on her stick and looked up at the blue sky. ‘You’d better come in.’

Cullen followed her into the cottage. The vestibule led to a large kitchen filled with pale-blue units, a central Aga belching out heat.

Elaine pointed to a table that looked like it cost more than Cullen earned in a year. ‘Have a seat.’

Buxton smiled at her. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ve just had one.’ Elaine perched on a seat and rested her stick against the table. She kneaded her right leg, long motions up and down the thigh. ‘What happened?’

Buxton sat next to her. ‘We found your husband’s body in a hotel room.’

‘Death by misadventure?’ She propped her stick against the table, sighing. ‘It was always going to be this way.’

‘We believe he was into—’

‘BDSM?’ Elaine nodded. ‘That’s why I thought his death was accidental.’

‘Do you mind answering some questions?’

‘You don’t think he was murdered, do you?’

‘We’re investigating that possibility.’

Elaine picked up her stick, resting it on her lap, and let out a deep breath. ‘We started engaging in those activities when we were younger. Started out with fluffy handcuffs and spanking. But Martin kept pushing it. He wanted …
things
inserted. Got into breath control. I had to stop it when he started trying out edge play.’

‘What’s that?’

‘When there’s a genuine risk of harm.’ She rubbed her leg again. ‘I almost lost this when we were cutting each other. Six years ago. I was in hospital for a week. I told him I wasn’t going to do it again, but he was addicted. He continued with … others.’

‘You had an open relationship?’

‘Not voluntarily. He knew people and went away for weekends with them. Staying over in hotels. I’d had enough. I was terrified something like this would happen.’

‘Why did you kick him out?’

‘Stupid fool was messing around with girls and boys a lot younger than him.’

‘I thought it was because of an affair with a Lorna Gilmour.’

‘That was part of it. I just wanted out of it, to be honest.’

‘Do you know anyone else involved in these groups?’

‘I had nothing to do with them.’

‘What about any of his friends?’

‘Harrison Proctor was his only real friend.’

‘Was he involved?’

‘I seriously doubt it.’

*
 
*
 
*

‘He’s definitely not at Alba Bank, Sergeant.’

Cullen got out of the car first and stared at Proctor’s mansion, Airwave clamped to his head. ‘Definitely?’

‘Alpha six are there now. Mr Proctor left mid-afternoon.’

Cullen checked his watch. Twenty to five. An hour to West Linton, another back. ‘Okay, call me if you get an update.’ He crunched up the path to the side door. ‘Any sign?’

‘Bugger all.’ Buxton pressed the buzzer. ‘Mr Proctor?’ He waited a few seconds. ‘It’s the police.’

Cullen peered in the living room window. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s in.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Buxton rapped on the window. ‘Mr Proctor!’

‘Do you want to get it out of your system?’

‘What?’

‘This aggro against me.’

‘We’re cool, Scott. I’ll go back to the beat. Nothing’s changed.’
 

‘You sure?’

Buxton shrugged. ‘Got no choice, have I?’

The door opened a crack. ‘Hello?’

Buxton put his face near it. ‘Mr Proctor, it’s the police.’

‘You can’t come in.’

‘We’ve got some questions for you.’

‘My best friend’s just killed himself. I need space to grieve.’

‘How do you know about Mr Ferguson’s death?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘We’ve not announced it.’

‘Elaine told me.’

Buxton nodded. ‘Mr Proctor, we need to speak to you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘We need to determine whether your friend’s death was intentional or not.’