Cowboys and Indians (30 page)

‘Murder?’ The door opened wide. Proctor clutched a whisky tumbler filled with at least a couple of fingers, his pinstriped work shirt tucked into Adidas tracksuit bottoms. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Where were you last night?’

‘I was at the office until eight thirty. Then I came home.’

‘Straight here?’

‘I bought a ready meal in Waitrose. You can verify it with them.’

‘Do you have a receipt?’

‘I might do. Somewhere.’

‘And you didn’t hear from Mr Ferguson in that time?’

‘No. Listen, I’ve no idea what happened to Martin.’

‘Mr Ferguson checked into a hotel at twenty past eight last night.’

Proctor drained the glass and grimaced. ‘Do you think he was murdered?’

‘Do you?’

Proctor clutched the empty glass tight, inspecting the droplets of amber liquid inside. ‘Anything’s possible.’

‘Do you know of anyone else who might’ve been involved?’

‘Not really. He usually met them online, I think. Or using tags. A particular Stuart MacBride novel on public display on the bus. “Broken Skin”, I think it’s called. That sort of thing.’

‘Any names?’

‘Something Italian springs to mind.’ Proctor toasted with his empty glass. ‘Paul Vaccaro?’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen plonked himself into the seat next to Murray in the busy Incident Room. ‘There you bloody are.’
 

Murray looked up from his computer. ‘Sarge.’

‘How are you getting on with finding Vaccaro, Stuart.’

‘Still nowhere. Found out he had a flat in Edinburgh, but he moved out a few months ago. No forwarding address.’

‘Vaccaro’s part of Martin Ferguson’s dodgy BDSM ring.’

‘Is there a non-dodgy one?’

‘Aye, very good.’ Cullen sighed. ‘Look, can you get on to Vice and see if there’s anything on him?’

‘Right. I’ll do that.’

Cullen stood up. ‘Has your mate in the City got back about Van de Merwe’s offshore accounts yet?’

‘Going to get on to that next. Thought Vaccaro was higher priority.’

‘That’s Murray-ese for you’ve forgotten, right?’

‘Piss off.’

‘Sundance, there you are.’

Cullen swung round. ‘I thought you were supposed to be at the hotel?’

Bain winked at him. ‘Couple of bastards aren’t speaking there so we brought them here to frighten them.’

‘What do you want?’

‘A certain DCI’s looking for you. Told me to get your arse into her office.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Probably your boyfriend in the press.’

‘Make yourself at home, Sergeant.’ Cargill kept her eyes on her laptop. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

Cullen collapsed into one of the navy leather armchairs in the corner of her office. The window looked north across the top of new-build flats and the old bus station. He glanced over as Cargill battered her laptop’s keyboard.

It couldn’t be about Rich, surely? All that shite about leaking stories to the press?

‘Now.’ Cargill sat in the matching armchair, resting her hands on chunky thighs. ‘How’s it going on this case?’

‘You’ve been in the briefings, ma’am. It’s not the easiest I’ve ever worked.’

‘I want to know how it’s really going, not what DI Methven spoon-feeds me.’

‘We’re getting nowhere, ma’am.’ Cullen’s neck started to burn and sweat trickled down his back. ‘Nothing’s making any sense.’

‘That’s a common occurrence, Scott.’ She smiled, lips opening wide, showing rows of sharp teeth, gums bleeding top right. ‘How are you finding life as a DS?’

‘It’s good. I mean, it’s no walk in the park. Having to juggle the day job stuff with the side things, like the DC interviews and so on. It’s difficult, but I’m enjoying it.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ She frowned. ‘How are you getting on with DI Methven?’

Cullen shrugged. ‘Fine, ma’am. I appreciate him giving me this opportunity.’

‘And DS Bain?’

Cullen looked away. ‘Less said about him the better.’

‘Quite.’ She gave another flash of her teeth. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of him.’

‘More lives than a cat.’ Cullen clasped his hands. ‘How does he still have a job?’

‘Connections, pure and simple. He goes way back with Carolyn Soutar. Having the DCS on your side’s a powerful thing. Something you should learn from.’

The heat warmed his cheeks now. ‘I’m not following?’

‘Scott, I need to know everything about these newspaper leaks.’

‘I swear it’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Leaking information to the press is a serious matter. If we—’

‘You don’t have to tell me, ma’am.’ Cullen clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. ‘I used to share a flat with the journalist in question. Trust me on this — I’ve no idea where the information’s coming from.’

‘You need to persuade me.’

Cullen stifled a sigh. ‘Look, I met Rich at lunch today. He’s not giving up his source. He gave us some information which led us to finding Martin Ferguson.’

‘An unfortunate event. Your other flatmate, Tom, works at Alba Bank, doesn’t he?’

‘He’s not the source. He’s given me some useful tips Rich hasn’t published.’

She licked her lips. ‘Should we bring Mr McAlpine in for further questioning?’

‘DS Bain’s already spoken to him.’

‘Would it help if you and I did?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am. He’s not obliged to provide the information. The only good I can see coming from it is if Rich agrees to run the stories past us.’

‘And I can’t see that happening.’ Cargill flicked her hair behind her ear and gave another flash of teeth. ‘Now, I wondered if you wanted some coaching.’

‘On what?’

‘Sponsoring a uniformed constable to a DC role.’

Cullen raised his eyebrows and looked away. ‘It would’ve helped before yesterday, ma’am.’

‘Ah yes. Simon Buxton.’

‘I don’t feel comfortable about what happened there. Simon’s a friend and I was put—’

‘You acted with the utmost professionalism.’

‘Are you saying it was a test?’

‘Not as such. Scott, when we promoted you, we took a gamble. We’ve worked together for, what, two years? In that time, I’ve seen the good and bad in you. Your maverick streak, while it’s prone to getting you into hot water, is your greatest strength. You care about this job. If I had ten officers like you, my life’d be much easier.’

‘I’d hate to see the complaints, though.’

She grinned. ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’

‘I let Simon down. Should’ve tried harder.’

‘Scott, Donna Nichols lauded your actions throughout the interview process. We go way back, you know. She said you were professional to the hilt.’

‘Really?’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘Well, I wish we could’ve given Simon the role.’

‘It’s a shame we had to give the existing role to another candidate.’

Cullen frowned. ‘Existing?’

‘DC Angela Caldwell resigned this morning.’ Cargill grinned. ‘I’ve been scratching DCS Soutar’s back and she’s given me an additional DC in my headcount over and above the one already approved.’

‘I’m not following you.’

‘We wish to avoid the cost of another round of interviews with the same candidates.’ She reached across and patted his shoulder. ‘Scott, please inform Simon Buxton of his two-year tenure as Detective Constable.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen swung into the Observation Suite, Bain and Buxton interviewing a man with Wolverine sideburns on the monitor in front of Eva. He perched next to her and tapped the screen. ‘There he is.’

‘Bain?’

‘No, Buxton. Need a word with him.’

‘Bain’s got him interviewing those guests from the hotel. It’s been half an hour and they’re nowhere.’

He squinted at the screen. ‘What are you doing?’

She shrugged. ‘He told me to watch.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Cullen went back into the corridor and entered the interview room, shut the door behind him and leaned against it.

Bain snorted. ‘For the record, DS Cullen has joined the room.’ He focused on Wolverine. ‘You’re in a lot of shite here, son. You swear you’ve no idea who Martin Ferguson is?’

‘Should I?’

‘Of course you should. You killed him, didn’t you? Met him at his hotel, strangled him. Made it look like accidental death.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’

‘Come on, sonny. You should open—’

‘Sergeant, that’s enough.’ Campbell McLintock prodded a finger in the air, inches from Bain’s face. ‘My client will take his time to consider his testimony on this matter.’

‘I don’t think so, Campbell.’

‘You’re not getting anywhere with these bully-boy antics. Take a step back and let me work it out.’

‘You’ve got two minutes.’ Bain leaned over the table, eyes locked on the suspect. ‘Interview terminated at seventeen forty-six.’ He clicked stop on the recorder and left the room, leaving the door open.

Cullen followed him out and shut the door.

Bain hit his head against the wall. ‘Fuckin’ bastard.’

‘This you getting somewhere?’

Bain swung round. ‘Piss off, Sundance. We’ll get him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Boy stayed in the room across the hall from Ferguson in that fuckin’ hotel. Not playing ball so far.’

‘You got anything pointing to him killing Ferguson?’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s not done it.’

‘Typical.’ Cullen opened the door and thumbed at Buxton. ‘Simon, I need a word.’

‘Sundance, he’s my officer for this interview.’

‘It’ll only be a minute. You gave Campbell two.’ Cullen nodded at Buxton and started off down the corridor. ‘Come on.’

‘Fuckin’ get back here!’

Cullen twisted round as he walked, flicking the Vs at Bain. ‘Use Eva.’

‘Fuckin’ hell.’ Bain stormed off towards the Obs Suite.

‘Well played, Scott.’

‘Don’t know what the hell he’s up to. As ever.’ Cullen tried the door to the first meeting room they came to. Empty. ‘Right, in here.’

Buxton took the farthest-away seat. ‘Must be bad if we’re in a room.’

‘How’s it going in that interview?’

‘You called it. We’re getting nowhere.’ Buxton crossed his arms. ‘Typical Bain.’

‘How are you feeling about not getting this DC gig?’

Buxton looked away. ‘Pissed off.’

‘Understood. Glad you’re confronting it. Your head’s not dropped.’

‘Right.’

‘What if I was to say you’d got it?’

Buxton tilted his head. ‘What?’

‘I just spoke to Cargill.’ Cullen pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘DC Simon Buxton, welcome to Specialised Crime Division.’

‘If this is a wind-up…’ Buxton scanned the sheet and looked up, eyebrow raised. ‘Two years?’

‘That’s pretty good. I got that with my DS role.’

Buxton folded it up, face blank. ‘Let’s get a beer.’

‘I stopped drinking.’

‘You sure? Come on, mate, just one. You didn’t celebrate your own DS promotion.’

‘We had a Mexican at that place on Cockburn Street.’

‘This time, let’s have some lovely craft beer.’

Cullen stared at the grain on the table. ‘Fuck it, aye.’

Buxton put the paper in his jacket pocket. ‘Give me a chance to finish up this calamity, then we’ll head across the road, all right?’

‘Fine.’ Cullen watched him leave the room.

Drinking again. Really?

He fished out his phone. No messages. He dialled Sharon’s number.

‘Hey. How’s it going?’

‘Good and bad. You?’

‘Bad and worse. The hangover’s not great. What’s your good?’

‘Buxton got his tenure.’

‘I thought you had to knock him back.’

‘Angela Caldwell quit.’

‘Nice for some.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Cullen tightened his grip on the phone. ‘Do you mind if I go out for a pint with him?’

‘Drinking?’

‘Aye, drinking.’

‘Drinking as in drinking drinking?’

‘Is that okay?’

‘Scott, it’s been five months without a drop.’

‘It’ll be fine. I’ve got my head screwed on properly now.’

A pause, then a huff.
‘Just don’t be late.’

‘I’m working tomorrow. It’ll just be a couple of jars. Wouldn’t catch me doing what you did last night.’

‘Love you.’

‘Do you want to—’

The line went dead. He tossed his mobile on the table.

Just a couple. Nothing more.

Cullen felt a thrum in his pocket. He stabbed a finger at his phone. ‘Cullen.’

‘Aye, it’s DC McCrea. I’m interviewing an eyewitness at the hotel, but they’re not talking.’

‘So? Can’t DS Bain do it?’

‘The witness asked for you. Says Methven’s okayed it.’

Cullen followed the dark hotel corridor round, storming past a cleaning trolley. A door hung open, Coldplay blasting out of a phone inside the room, tinny and brittle-sounding. A woman folded sheets, humming along. He glanced at the next door. Room Twenty-three.

Must be round the corner.

Started off again. Took a right turn.

McCrea stood outside a hotel room. He nodded at Cullen and stepped under the crime scene tape. ‘Thanks for coming.’

Cullen frowned. ‘Care to enlighten me?’

McCrea folded his arms. ‘This guy’s been out all day and just got back. He’s being ultra-evasive.’

‘So do you need an adult to show you how it’s done?’

‘Shut up.’ McCrea cracked his knuckles, left then right. ‘I’ll let you lead.’ He entered the room.

Cullen followed him into the gloom. Curtains drawn, lights on low, press clippings taped to the walls. He glared at McCrea and stepped back outside. ‘What’s all that on the wall?’

‘You’ll see.’ McCrea smirked as he sat on the only chair, facing the man on the bed, overweight and balding. Dressed in a white hotel dressing gown.

Cullen settled on the edge of the wooden desk, covered in books, newspapers and journals. A Microsoft Surface flashed through its screensaver. He flicked a light switch, casting the room in darkness. Tried another. Full light.

McCrea gave a smile. ‘Mr Porteous, I’d like you to meet one of my colleagues.’