Dyed in the Wool (26 page)

"I never said it was. Being involved in a fight that resulted in two deaths would be."

"Eh?"

"We're very short on suspects just now and you certainly fit the bill." Wilkinson got out a sheet of paper and traced down it with his finger. "Your police record shows a history of violence. I'd imagine we don't have to dig too deep to link you to this."

Reynolds swallowed.

"Now, I'll ask you again." Wilkinson smiled. "Were you at Ginty's Quarry last week?"

Richardson looked at his solicitor then rubbed his cheek. "I was."

"Now we're getting somewhere. You know two people were killed there, cos I just told you. Do you know anything about their deaths?"

"What were they called?"

Wilkinson turned to another sheet of paper, showing autopsy photographs of both - skinny boys in their early twenties, skin now white. "Liam Crossan, Gordon Beveridge." He glared at Richardson. "Celtic and Hibs."

"I know Gogs Beveridge."

Wilkinson frowned. "How?"

"Through these sorts of things."

"Are you admitting to being a hooligan?"

"I don't think I've much choice. You've got witnesses. Might as well be honest, hopefully you'll go easy on me." Richardson winked.

"You'll face the full force of the law."

"I will, will I?" Richardson sneered and looked round at Reynolds. "Hear that, Ally? Says I'll face the full force of the law."

Wilkinson screwed up his eyes. "What's bloody going on here?"

"If you're prepared to listen to what my client has to offer, perhaps some sort of deal may be reached."

Cullen folded his arms. "Not for the phone."

Reynolds shrugged. "Fine, not for the phone but certainly for anything relating to hooliganism."

"I'll have to have a word with the PF." Wilkinson sniffed. "What I can do is promise I'll look into it once we hear your side."

"What I've got to offer is the murder weapon."

"Have you really?" Wilkinson narrowed his eyes. "We need the murderer."

Richardson shrugged. "Wish I knew who killed those two. I just saw a knife on the ground, covered in blood and picked it up. It's in a plastic bag."

"You're in the habit of just picking knives up?"

"I nicked your boyfriend's mobile, didn't I? Besides, you never know when you might need something useful like that."

Cullen leaned over to Wilkinson. "Can I have a word?"

They got up and went into the corridor.

Wilkinson slammed the door shut. "What is it, Curran?"

"Think he's on the level?"

"Only one way to find out." Wilkinson got out his mobile. "Give me a minute." He turned around as the phone rang. "Hiya, Kate, it's Paul Wilkinson. You good for a chat just now about Operation Housebrick? It'll literally be just five minutes."

Wilkinson slowly walked down the corridor, Cullen unable to make out much of what was being discussed.

He leaned back against the wall and tried to focus on the case. His natural instinct with Richardson was not to trust him. He felt he was offering the information up far too easily. Then again, his police record was longer than most Cullen had ever seen, so maybe he just knew how to play the system.

Wilkinson reappeared, grinning. "That was the PF. She's buying it."

"So we've got a deal with Richardson?"

"That we do, lad, that we do."

Richardson struggled with the handcuffs as he unlocked the door to his flat. "Just in here."

Wilkinson gestured for the two uniformed officers to wait outside. "Come on, Curran, let's get this over with."

Richardson led them into a bedroom decorated in mid grey paint. The walls were covered with Rangers posters and memorabilia. He nodded at a tall, old chest of drawers beside the bed. He held up his hands. "Going to be a bugger with these on."

"I'll do it." Cullen put gloves on before kneeling down and opening the bottom drawer. He rummaged around through pairs of Calvin Klein pants. "It's just your pants. I take it you've got receipts for these Calvin Kleins?"

"They're knock-offs from the Ravencraig Sunday market."

Cullen stopped sorting through the drawer's contents. "Where's the knife?"

"Underneath."

"Eh?"

"Take the drawer out. Unless you actually want to fumble about with my grundies."

"You need to change your detergent, I can still see the skid marks on these."

Richardson grinned. "They're not washed yet."

Wilkinson laughed.

Cullen screwed his face up. "Jesus Christ." He yanked the drawer out, shoving it on the floor. He leaned inside and fished out a Tesco carrier bag. "This it?"

"You're on the money."

Cullen opened the bag and peered inside.

The serrated blade was covered in dried blood and what looked like chunks of flesh.

*
*
*

"What the fuck is this?" Anderson peered inside the bag.

"A knife." Wilkinson playfully slapped him on the shoulder. "Get it looked at quick smart, will you?"

"You do know we're up against it, don't you?"

"Like I care." Wilkinson shrugged. "Can you get a couple of your SOCO bodies round to Richardson's flat for further investigation?"

"Fine." Anderson shook his head before walking off. "I'll get the prints started now."

"How long will that be?"

Anderson rolled his eyes. "If I drop everything, I can get the prints back to you after lunchtime."

"Perfect." Wilkinson led them back into the central stairwell. "Come on, Curran. Let's get some lunch. I'm starving."

They walked up in silence, Cullen trying to stitch things together in his mind. Nothing seemed to quite knit.

The canteen was dead so they managed to walk straight up to the servery, steam wafting up from the soup bowl.

Cullen nodded at Barbara. "I'll have some soup, thanks."

She started ladling it out. "And for you?"

Wilkinson smiled. "Burger and chips please, Babs."

Cullen paid for his soup and went over to a table by the window. He tore off some bread and dunked it in the soup. It was disgusting.

"Has someone shat in it, lad?" Wilkinson sat down and started squeezing tomato ketchup all over the plate.

"It's burnt soup and it tastes of black pepper." Cullen dropped the bread on the plate with a thud. "And the bread's stale."

"Complain."

Cullen looked over. Still no queue. "I just might." He took his tray back over. "Can I get something else?"

Barbara frowned. "What's the matter?"

"Taste it."

"I made it."

"Did you taste it?"

"I was in a bit of a hurry." She took a sip of the soup. "Right, what else can I get you?"

"The usual."

She turned around and waved her arms. "The soup's off. Ray, can you make some lentil?" She threw his roll together and handed the bag over. "No charge."

"Thanks." Cullen walked back to Wilkinson, who now had tomato ketchup smeared over his chin.

"You're doing a bloody good job, Curran."

"Thanks."

"I'll put in a good word for you with Cargill. I know you've been locking horns with that Crystal Methven."

Cullen paused from taking a bite. "Who told you that?"

"He did, himself. Says you were absolutely hammered the other morning."

"He's right." Cullen took a bite and chewed. "You know I'm going through some personal stuff. I'm just not finding it easy."

"Tell me about it."

Cullen glanced at Wilkinson's left hand - there wasn't a wedding ring there and he couldn't remember ever seeing one before. "Have you gone through this yourself?"

Wilkinson chuckled. "Never got involved. One of my first sergeants in West Yorkshire was going through a bloody messy divorce when I was just starting out. Taught me a solid lesson. Cops and happy marriages don't go together, lad."

"Unless it's with another cop. Then it's a double nightmare."

"As I think you're finding out now, it'll always end up in disaster. Never shit where you eat." Wilkinson took another big bite of his burger, swallowing it quickly. "I haven't had many dealings with you over the last two years. I thought you were another useless git like that Irvine boy."

"Thought you got on with him?"

"Public appearances, lad. Can't stand him. Never seen him do a day's work in the three years I've been here." Wilkinson picked up a couple of chips and practically inhaled them. "I'm permanently off Turnbull's payroll now." He finished the burger in one final mouthful. "I've had a pretty bloody dark period here in the last few years. Turnbull doesn't rate the likes of me and Bain. Never gave us a bloody chance."

"Why was that?"

"I've been to hell and back over this bloody Schoolbook nonsense. I had one lapse and I'm bloody hearing about it forever." Wilkinson picked his teeth. "Those bloody Complaints lads will be sniffing around soon enough, you mark my words. That meeting me and Bain had with the Case Review Unit is the starter for that."

Cullen recalled the email from the Complaints in his Inbox. He felt a cold sweat - had he replied to it? "What do you think will happen?"

Wilkinson shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? It won't be good for you, me or Bain. Bet your bottom dollar Turnbull will come out of it as if he'd caught the killer himself. We all bloody know it was DI Bain."

"It was me."

"What?"

"I caught him."

"Did you? I didn't know that." Wilkinson took a big drink from his Diet Coke, the dark liquid fizzing up. "Either way, I'm glad to be out of there. That twat Methven will get my job, you mark my words. Can only be a matter of time before Bain's out on his ear too."

*
*
*

"And here he is, Bain's Sundance Kid, trying to bend the laws of physics just like his master." Anderson folded his arms. "It's always the same with CID. Auditing our work, never enough to do yourselves."

Cullen grinned. "Okay, well tell us fat, lazy coppers how your genius-level intellect is getting on solving this for us, then."

"Solving it quickly as it happens." Anderson rubbed his goatee before tapping on a machine beside him. "I've got the blood type matches underway from the blood and flesh on the blade. Luckily for you, we've got the technique down to an hour these days. Not much longer now."

"What about prints?"

"I'm looking at the prints analysis on the handle as well. I've got three sets, though one is only a partial so it's going to take time to match." Anderson tapped his monitor. "The other two are running just now."

"What can I do to speed this up?"

"Stopping asking me stupid questions and slowing me down." Anderson put some goggles on and started messing about with test tubes. "Not brought a grown-up with you?"

"Just me. Wilkinson's got some other stuff to look into."

"Small mercies, I suppose."

Cullen looked around at the hulking machinery. "That's some pretty fancy technology you've got here."

"All part of the new station build. We're supposed to be a centre of excellence but I can see that all getting taken away next summer and punted through to Glasgow when Police Scotland hits the fan." The computer nearest Anderson beeped. He frowned at it. "Looks like you're in luck. Time to see some magic happening. Or at the very least, some proper work."

The screen filled with garbled information and some zoomed in photos of blood cells.

Cullen scowled. "Is that it?"

"It's all about the interpretation, Cullen."

"So interpret for me."

"Looks like your Crossan boy got slotted last." Anderson's hand traced out an area of the screen. "Got a definite blood type match on this knife with Crossan and Beveridge." He frowned. "Oh, this is a doozer."

"What is?"

Anderson beamed. "You've got a third stabbing here. Got some DNA traces on it, too, from the serrations on the knife edge."

"You're loving this, aren't you?"

"Do you need subtitles for the hard of understanding?"

"It'd help."

"There are three distinct fingerprints and three distinct DNA traces." Anderson sighed. "The DNA will be a while. The fingerprint matches are mostly complete now."

"Mostly?"

"Aye. Gordon Beveridge for definite. There's a partial, which is going to be a while."

"You said three, right?" Cullen frowned. "Are Richardson's prints on the knife?"

Anderson grinned. "The third set of prints belongs to one Alexander Aitken."

"Say that again." Wilkinson shut the door behind him.

Anderson rolled his eyes. "I said the third set of prints is definitely Alexander Aitken."

Cullen scowled - that didn't make any sense. "But we found Aitken in a Range Rover at the bottom of a bing."

"That's not my problem." Anderson shrugged. "The boy's prints are on record and he definitely used that knife."

"You said the other print is a partial, right?" Wilkinson folded his arms and leaned against the door. "How long till you resolve that?"

"A good few hours. It's a much harder search. More to eliminate. Actually requires thought and analysis, rather than point and click."

Wilkinson nodded slowly. "And the other print is Gordon Beveridge?"

"That's right."

"So, it looks like Aitken's bloody stabbed someone. As well as the fingerprints, you've got three blood matches, right?"

Anderson nodded. "Aye."

"Can you check them against Liam Crossan and Gordon Beveridge?"

"Doing that anyway."

"Who the bloody hell is the third one?"

"Is that rhetorical?" Anderson grinned.

"Of course it bloody is."

Cullen held up his hand. "Can you give me a minute to think this through?"

Wilkinson scowled. "You had at least two while I ran down the bloody stairs."

"Let me get this straight. Your case has two victims from the quarry - Liam Crossan and Gordon Beveridge. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Anderson has found two fingerprint matches - Gordon Beveridge and Xander Aitken. Right?"

"Go on."

"We've also just discovered that Crossan was killed last."

Anderson raised a finger. "Not necessarily killed but attacked with this knife, the last of the three."