Devil in the Detail (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (9 page)

Cullen casually shrugged. "Not really, no."

"Well, let me tell you something," said Mulgrew, leaning forward on his armchair and putting the tips of his fingers together. "God made us in his own image. It follows that anything that's true to him should ring true in us. If you feel that it's true in your heart then it's true."

"So why did you decide to branch out into your own sect?"

Mulgrew screwed his face up. "Sect is such an objectionable word," he said.

"Okay," said Cullen, "why did you feel the need to set up your own group."

Cullen caught Caldwell scowling. He was beginning to wonder himself if we was starting to push things too far but it would hopefully be useful information.

"Have you heard the term 'Apostasy', Constable?" asked Mulgrew, looking down his long, thick nose at Cullen.

"Not really."

"And you?" asked Mulgrew, suddenly looking at Caldwell.

"No."

"Okay." Mulgrew slowly rubbed his hands together. "Apostasy is the idea that the mainstream Christian religions have lost touch with the teachings of Jesus Christ, and have incorporated many pagan ideas to subsume the pagan masses in."

"What would an example of that be?" asked Cullen, suddenly interested.

"Christmas."

"Christmas?" said Caldwell.

Mulgrew laughed. "Jesus, son of Joseph was born in April, not December," said Mulgrew. "The early Roman Catholic church, once the Roman Empire had converted to Christianity under Constantine, used the date of December to replace the pre-existing pagan feasts in the wild pagan lands of Northern Europe." He gestured at Caldwell. "Another example would be the role of women in the church - the Roman Catholic church excised countless original Books of the Bible, most importantly the Gospels of Mary and Judas, which give a slightly different account of the life of our Lord and they edited those that they kept, in order to indoctrinate the masses."

"So why include Jewish and Muslim texts?" asked Cullen.

Mulgrew beamed again. "Jesus Christ was born and raised a Jewish man, so to exclude that from our work would be to reduce the context," he said. "It's also a little known fact that Jesus Christ was a prophet in the Koran. There are some useful parables that give a different insight into the work of our Lord."

There was a period of silence in the room as Cullen and Caldwell digested what Mulgrew had said. Cullen had encountered lots of strange schools of thought during his career but he had never encountered anything like this. This was new, some unique mutation of mainstream religion thriving out in East Lothian, hidden from the rest of the world.
 

"I see," said Cullen, finally. "How do you find that the group is working out?"

"Well, this is a good place to start, Detective," said Mulgrew, looking at the filthy glass of the front window. "There are a lot of bad people in this area."

Cullen thought back to the conversations he'd had with Sharon's sister. "I'd heard that Garleton was a good area," he said. "It's got the best school in East Lothian."

"Well, that's only one side of it," said Mulgrew, looking back. "There are some very bad kids around."

Cullen recalled a name from Charles Gibson - the local bad boy, Jamie Cook. "Would Jamie Cook be one of these bad kids?" he asked.

Mulgrew held his breath for a few seconds. "Jamie Cook is the son of two of our Parishioners," he said, looking down at the carpet. "Dear, dear people. I don't really want to speak ill of the boy." He paused. "I'm afraid to say that the boy has the devil in him."

"In the same way that Mandy Gibson had?" asked Cullen.

Mulgrew loudly exhaled through his nose. "No, I'm afraid that you misunderstand me," he said. "Mandy had a demon in her. Jamie Cook is an entirely different matter. The boy has the devil himself in him."

As Mulgrew spoke, his voice rose, like he was in the pulpit.

"I'll have to take you at your word," said Cullen.
 

"Believe you me, I had to excise him from the group to avoid his poison spreading further," he said.
 

"Could he have been involved in Mandy's death?" asked Cullen, recalling Gibson's earlier accusation.
 

Mulgrew briefly closed his eyes. "If you are looking for someone who was involved with wee Mandy's death," he said, his voice settling down to a soft whisper, "then Jamie Cook might be a good place to start."

Cullen noted it down. "Is there anything in particular about him?"

"There are no specifics, no."

"I see." Cullen jotted the name and address down - it would be something that they needed to look into. "Would he have had access to Mandy?"

"I'm not so sure," said Mulgrew. "You'd need to check with Mandy's poor, poor parents."

Cullen leaned forward in his chair. "One final thing I'd like to ask. We believe that Charles Gibson visited here last night, is that right?"

"That is correct."

"What time was this?"

"It would be roughly half past ten," answered Mulgrew.

"And what was the purpose of the meeting?" asked Cullen.

"Charles is my protégé, as I told you earlier," said Mulgrew, "and we have an arrangement where we have ad hoc coaching and mentoring, as required by Charles' needs. He's on a very intensive programme and I hope to expand the group into another Parish soon, with him taking over Garleton. Last night, his family had gone to bed and he came here to discuss some of the more technical points of the service that morning, to ensure that he had as comprehensive an understanding as possible. After all, one day Garleton will be his."

Cullen noted it down - he had no idea what to make of it.
 

They stood by Cullen's car, just outside Mulgrew's cottage. Cullen shook his head. "What did you think of that?" he asked.

"Interesting," she said. "All roads lead to this Jamie Cook boy."

"Indeed," he said.
 

He looked down the street. The kids were still there, the BMXers circling the others. They were laughing and joking. Two of them got up from a play fight.
 

"Come on," he said, and marched down the street towards them.

The one nearest to Cullen squared up to him as he approached, even though he was about a foot shorter than Cullen. He looked about fifteen, though his cheeks were already starting to sink down. There were seven of them, two of them on bikes, the remainder sitting on the kerb - they all wore hooded tops of various colours, hoods all up.
 

"Should you not be in school?" asked Cullen.

"What's it to dae wi you, eh?" asked the youth. He put his hand down his trousers, cupping his balls like some Harlem or South Central gangster. His trousers were hanging low, showing off the top of white trunks. The way Cullen was feeling after the encounters with Mulgrew and Bain, he had half a mind to pull them up.

"You should be in school," said Cullen.

"You gonna do aboot it?"

Cullen took his warrant card out. "Detective Constable Scott Cullen," he said, putting it away. "I can cause a lot of trouble for you. Do you know who lives in the cottage at the end?"

The youth grunted and nodded his head. "Aye, it's Father Mulgrew," he said. "Freaky old radge. Can't stand us, eh?"

Cullen couldn't wonder why. "Do you ever have any run-ins with him?"

"Nut," said the youth. "Keep fuckin' well awey fae that punter."

"Why?"

"Mah faither telt us, eh? Keep awey fae him."

"So you've never had any dealings with him?"

"Ah'm no a dealer, pal."

Cullen smiled. "I meant have you ever spoken to him?"

"Only time, ken, wis when he was oot preachin' his gospel at us a few weeks ago."

"Why would he do that?" asked Cullen.

The youth shrugged. "No idea why it wis us he picked oan, eh?" He snorted then spat on the ground. "The cops were oot here, somebody got thir windays panned in."

"Was it you?"

"Was it fuck, pal."

"But he thought it was you?"

"Must ay done, eh?"

"Do you know a Jamie Cook?" asked Cullen.

"Aye."

Cullen waved his arms around, trying to encourage him to expand his answer.

"He's sound, like. Good lad."

"Do you know him well?"

"Pretty well, eh?"

"Any idea where he is?" asked Cullen.

"Not doin' your dirty work for you."

"Right," said Cullen. "I will send a car round here this afternoon. I expect all of you to be in school by then."

The ned took a step back and looked Cullen up and down. "Aye, right."

"I mean it," said Cullen, pointing a finger at the ned.

Cullen turned around and led Caldwell back towards the car. He was surprised to find his heart thudding from the encounter.

"When will Bain be expecting another call?" asked Caldwell, when they were back at Cullen's car.

Cullen smiled. "He'll get one when he gets one."

She laughed.

Cullen had tried calling Bain just after they'd spoken to Mulgrew but there was no answer. He had resorted to texting, partly satisfied that it would seriously irritate Bain, text messages being yet another one of his pet hates.

His phone rang. The display showed it was Bain. "Here he is." He leaned against the car and looked back down the street - the kids were heading off somewhere. Cullen very much doubted they were going to put their uniforms on and go to school.

"Here, Sundance," came the nasal snarl down the line, "you were supposed to give me a call."

"I did," said Cullen, "you just didn't answer. I texted you."

"Don't start me on fuckin' text messages," said Bain. He paused for a few seconds. "Right, get yourself and Batgirl to the Garleton nick, I want to put my fuckin' arms around this."

"Ten minutes," said Cullen. He ended the call and pocketed his phone. He unlocked the car, climbed in the driver's side and looked over at Caldwell. "He used the phrase 'Putting your arms around this'."

She laughed. "Has he caught that from Turnbull?"

Bain's boss DCI Jim Turnbull was notorious for his use of management bullshit.
 

"That's one more for the bullshit bingo," said Cullen, turning the ignition.

*

"Can you believe that Mulgrew guy?" asked Caldwell, as Cullen turned onto the High Street.

"I'm trying to work out if it's our job to believe him," Cullen replied. "That's some pretty out there stuff that he's peddling. I'm astonished there's anyone interested in it these days."

"Tell me about it."
 

Cullen tried to find a parking space in the Garleton Police Station but it turned out that it didn't even have a car park. The station sat directly on the High Street but there was no space on that side of the road. He did a U-turn and pulled in across the wide high street from the building, next to the Starbucks and the Subway. Cullen looked at the shops - his stomach was starting to rumble. He figured that he didn't have enough time to find something to eat and meet Bain without getting a severe bollocking over timekeeping.

The station was an old building in the Scots Baronial style, turrets carved out of sandstone at either end of a front that was ten windows wide and three storeys tall. Cullen knew that the station had been a major hub in the area until the mid-90s - an old Sergeant he'd worked for when he started had been based there for a few years. Lothian & Borders was significantly restructured at the time and Garleton, along with the likes of Dunbar and North Berwick, lost out to the larger Haddington and Musselburgh stations, becoming local stations with at most four regular officers per shift. The building was sized for an operation several orders of magnitude larger than what it currently did - it was only a matter of time, thought Cullen, before they looked to rent out part of the building or to sell it off as private flats.

They went into the reception area, a cold, dark space with no natural light. It was painted a generic magnolia and at the far end was a security door and a partition, with a double mirror behind the desk. A thin, wiry Desk Sergeant stood behind the metal latticework, the kind that Cullen had last seen in an off licence in Glasgow. An elderly gentleman in tweeds and red trousers was remonstrating with him.

"But I don't think you understand how much that piano score was worth!"

"Have you filled in your insurance form?" asked the Sergeant, folding his arms.

"Of course I have."

"Well, then, it's an insurance matter now. Do you want me to check if that was in the report we did? If it wasn't, then I could have a word with the insurance company for you."

The man frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

"I could speak to your insurer about the fact that somehow a piano score worth ten thousand pounds was omitted from the inventory on your burglary report," he said. "I'm not sure how they'd view that."

"I'm sorry?"

"Look, is there something that you want me to do?"

"I want you to acknowledge my distress!"

"Fine, I will acknowledge it," said the Sergeant. "But I must insist that you stop shouting."

"I'm not shouting!"

The Sergeant sighed. "As I explained, the matter is now with your insurance company," he said. "Other than providing them a copy of the burglary report, which we have, then there's nothing further that we can do."

"Fine," boomed the man. "That David Cameron has the right idea, the police force are next to useless."

He stormed off out of the station.

Cullen approached the desk. "Charming," he said. He held out his warrant card.
 

"Get that sort of shite all the time," said the Sergeant.

"I believe that DI Bain has acquired a room," said Cullen.
 

"He can have the whole station if he fancies," said the Sergeant. He buzzed them through. "Through the door, turn left, go right to the end, then up to the first floor, third room on the left."

Cullen nodded and headed through the security door, Caldwell quickly following him.

They came to a long corridor that ran to the left, again starved of natural light. The right hand side seemed to be the extent of the active station - a few officers sitting at desks in an open plan portion, filling out forms by hand. A flimsy-looking sign pointed to cells at the opposite end from where Cullen had been instructed to go.