Dyed in the Wool (28 page)

Anderson scowled. "Like in a film?"

"Aye, or in CSI."

"This is reality, unfortunately. Besides, that shit takes up stacks of processing time to display. It's much quicker to just let it do its business in private. Much like what you need to do with me."

Bain smiled. "You fuckin' need supervision."

The progress bar ticked up to ninety-nine per cent.

Wilkinson appeared, looking flustered. "You bloody got anything yet?"

"He's keeping us in fuckin' suspense." Bain looked Wilkinson up and down. "You're not looking your usual self, Wilko."

"Try not being SIO on your own case."

"Don't have to imagine, Paul, it's my fuckin' life just now."

"You'll get something soon, gaffer." Irvine sat on the edge of a desk, mouth pounding on gum.

"There's a trend forming here, Irvine, and it's all about stuff slipping through my fingers."

Anderson crouched in front of the machine, frantically wagging the mouse.

Wilkinson groaned. "This better not have broken."

"Just give me a sec." Anderson's eyes darted over the screen, his brow creasing further as time progressed. He turned around, eyes blinking. "Holy fuck."

Wilkinson got to his feet. "Bloody spit it out."

"We've got a match." Anderson's eyes locked on Bain. "It's Kieron Bain."

"Let me fuckin' see that!" Bain pushed past Cullen and Wilkinson to look at the screen. "How's my fuckin' son even on there?"

"We all are." Anderson tried to block him. "For crime scene elimination. How else do you think we do that?"

"My boy hasn't got his prints on that fuckin' knife. No fuckin' way."

"Brian, you need to leave. Now." Wilkinson grabbed Bain by the shoulders. "You shouldn't be here."

"I'm fuckin' not leaving! Anderson's fucked it up again. It's just a partial!"

Cullen went to help Wilkinson. "You need to leave, sir."

"This is a fuckin' partial!"

Anderson peered at the screen. "Brian, it's just part of the thumb and index finger of the right hand but it's a one hundred per cent match. Your son handled that knife."

"That's not enough to convict. There could be a fuckin' innocent explanation for this." Bain glared at Anderson. "Some boys got slotted in a quarry. The knife's in some ned's flat. How the fuck could his prints be on it?"

"We'll find out." Cullen let go of Bain. He nodded at Wilkinson, trying to get him to take over. "DS Irvine and I are responsible for this. You two need to speak to Cargill or Turnbull."

Wilkinson grabbed Bain by the arm. "Come on."

Bain swiped his hand away. "Get the fuck off me."

"I don't want to have to use force."

"Fine." Bain ran his hand over his shaved scalp. "We're going to Jim Turnbull about this, not fuckin' Cargill."

"Come on, then." Wilkinson led Bain out of the room.

Cullen let out a sigh. "What a fucking mess."

Irvine slumped back against the desk. "What do you want to do next?"

"Eh? You're in charge here, Sarge. What do you want to do?"

"Aye, right. Just been thinking. Once the gaffer's been to see the powers that be, we need to speak to Cargill."

"We need to tell her now."

"We need to check whether Kieron was actually there." Irvine turned to look at Anderson. "Could the print have been placed after the event?"

"You've watched too many Bourne films. You'd need to be a professional in the secret service. CIA, MI6, shite like that. We're talking about a bunch of neds battering each other in a quarry. Besides, the blood pattern on his print's consistent with him using the knife."

"Right." Irvine looked to Cullen. "Let's you and me go and review Wilko's case file just now."

"We need to tell Cargill."

"She put me in charge, Cullen, not you. We need to prove Kieron Bain there."

Cullen folded his arms. "We've got a couple of people we know were there."

"Who?"

"Derek Miller and Dean Richardson."

"Maybe." Irvine put some more gum in his mouth. "We go through their files then we speak to Cargill."

*
*
*

"Seen Irvine?"

Cullen looked up from the file. Wilkinson. "Not for a bit, why?"

"Need to speak to him about Bain. Bloody hell." Wilkinson frowned as he looked at the file in front of Cullen. "What the hell's that?"

"Irvine's got me going through the case file for the quarry fight."

"My files?"

"Aye."

"Come on." Wilkinson grabbed Cullen by the arm and took him out into the corridor. "Why the fuck does he think he can go over my bloody team's work?"

"Don't shoot the messenger." Cullen wriggled free of his grip and started rubbing his arm.

"I'm ordering you to stop doing this." Wilkinson punched the wall. "I bloody knew this would happen soon as Cargill took this over."

"Calm down. You're being paranoid."

Wilkinson stabbed a finger in Cullen's chest. "Don't tell me to calm down."

"This is Irvine's idea, I'm only following his instruction."

"That's not like you, Curran."

"Yeah, well, I got a toasting off Methven, so I'm keeping myself to myself, if you know what I mean."

"What did Cargill say about it?"

Cullen looked away. "We've not been."

"You're fucking joking, aren't you?"

"No. Haven't you?"

"I took Bain to see Turnbull. He's not off the case, but he's to go nowhere near the quarry investigation. Just focus on Souness's background."

"Thought he'd use it to get shot of him?"

"He may yet." Wilkinson scowled. "I need to brief Cargill. Better it comes from one of us than Turnbull."

Cullen stopped him leaving. "We need to prove whether Kieron was there or not."

"We've got his fingerprints."

"We need to back it up."

"How?"

"Miller and Richardson were at the quarry. One of them might place Kieron Bain at the scene of the crime. We should speak to them."

Wilkinson screwed his eyes up. "Or they can clear him."

"Either way, we need to figure out if they know anything. Irvine had me going through the file to see if there were any other people you've already spoken to."

Wilkinson thought it through for a few seconds. "Richardson's still in, right?"

The door opened and Richardson was brought into the interview room, wearing handcuffs and standard custody attire, an unflattering one-piece. He sat down as if he owned the place.

The brick shithouse PCSO stayed by the door, eyes fixed on Richardson.

Alistair Reynolds followed them in, sitting next to his client before unzipping an A4 folio case. He took some sheets of paper and a black fountain pen out, arranging them neatly on the table.

Wilkinson grinned at the lawyer. "You ready?"

"Yes."

Wilkinson started the interview. "Mr Richardson, when we last spoke to you, you told us you retrieved a knife you found at Ginty's Quarry near Livingston in West Lothian. You showed us to your flat and we now have the knife in evidence."

He got a sheet of paper from the file sitting in front of him and handed it to Reynolds. "For the record, I'm passing a copy of the summary page of the forensics report to Mr Reynolds. A full copy of the detailed report will be made available after this interview."

Reynolds tossed it back on the table. "What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

"You'll note the analysis confirmed three people were stabbed with the knife." Wilkinson took out another copy of the sheet and read from it. "Liam Crossan, Gordon Beveridge and Kenneth Souness."

Richardson's eyes widened slightly but he kept quiet.

Reynolds lined the sheet up with the report. "And?"

"And we've therefore connected this inquiry with another ongoing investigation. Four murders."

"If you are implying my client was at all involved in any of the murders, I seriously hope you've got solid evidence to back this up and it's not merely police conjecture."

"What do you mean by police conjecture?"

"I mean you should really watch your words, Inspector." Reynolds pointed at the recorder. "We're on the record here."

"Perhaps you want to continue with the summary, sir?" Cullen tapped the sheet, trying to establish his good cop role.

"Okay, let's push on, then." Wilkinson held the sheet up. "In addition to the three victims, we've identified three distinct prints on the knife."

"Are any from my client? Because I assure you that-"

Wilkinson cut him off. "Your client's prints aren't on the knife." He smiled. "We've had more than enough opportunities to get a sample of your client's fingerprints and DNA over the years."

"Please continue."

"The three prints were those of Gordon Beveridge, Alexander Aitken and Kieron Bain, a serving police officer."

"Then why are you interviewing my client?"

"I want to understand what happened between the last user of the knife discarding it and Mr Richardson handing us the evidence."

Richardson sniffed. "We've been over this before."

Cullen smiled. "Then it won't harm your case to give us it again."

Wilkinson sat back, grinning. "Providing he tells us it the same again."

"Just let him speak, sir."

Wilkinson held up his hands. "Fire away."

Richardson looked at Reynolds, who shrugged. "I picked the knife up at the quarry. I had a plastic bag on us."

Wilkinson rolled his eyes. "That's convenient."

"I'd bought a sausage roll and a pint of milk from Tesco for my dinner." Richardson grinned. "I'm not in the habit of chucking bags away."

"That's very community spirited of you." Wilkinson smirked. "You must save a lot of badgers and seagulls every year."

"I got a lift home after the fight, back to Easter Road."

Wilkinson scowled. "Who from?"

"A mate."

"Who?"

Cullen held up a hand. "It's not important, sir." He looked at Richardson. "You don't have to name names but you do need to tell us if whoever gave you a lift knew of the knife or had it in his or her possession."

Richardson shook his head. "No. I stuck it in my jacket. Got a big pocket it fits in perfectly."

"Is this the jacket you were wearing when we brought you in?"

"It was, aye."

"We'll get some forensic analysis done on the jacket to confirm your story." Cullen scribbled in his notebook. "What happened when you got back to the flat?"

"I shoved it under my drawer."

"You didn't touch the knife?"

"No."

"Why did you take it?"

Richardson snorted. "Never know when it might come in handy."

"So you meant to use it?"

"No, pal." Richardson laughed. "In case anyone in the gang needed it. As ammo, likes. If any of this shite came up. Looks like it was smart of me to do it."

"And instead you gave it to us."

"Not that you gave us much choice."

Wilkinson leaned forward. "Mr Richardson, did you tamper with the knife in any way?"

"Did I what?"

"By, say, putting fingerprints on it?"

Reynolds pointed the nib of his fountain pen at Wilkinson. "Are you saying my client added fingerprints on that knife?"

"Me?" Richardson looked at Reynolds. "I'd be a bit sceptical about a wee bam from Ravencraig like me having technology like that, but not these boys."

Wilkinson hit the desk. "Mr Richardson, did you put those fingerprints on the knife?"

"No."

"Did you see who held the knife last?"

"No."

Cullen cut in. "I think you've asked enough questions."

"Do you?" Wilkinson glowered at Cullen. "I've got one more." He licked his lips. "What I'm wondering is whether Mr Richardson put the carrier bag on the knife handle then used it to stab someone."

Richardson looked over at Reynolds, eyebrows raised.

Reynolds glowered at Wilkinson. "Inspector, do you have any evidence which suggests that this might have happened?"

Wilkinson looked down at the sheet of paper. "Nothing that contradicts it. The knife has traces of the specific plastic the bag is made from. I can try to read the name out, if you're interested?"

Reynolds gave a tart smile. "That won't be necessary. Do you have any witness statements or other forensic evidence you could use to attribute my client with such an act?"

"I'm afraid not." Wilkinson scribbled a line on a notepad. "Does your client have any evidence suggesting he didn't do this? I'm sure someone as community spirited as Mr Richardson would present us with some evidence, so we don't waste man hours."

Richardson whispered something in his lawyer's ear.

Reynolds slowly put the lid back on his pen before nodding.

Richardson inspected his fingernails, heavily chewed. "There's someone that could confirm I didn't do it. One of my mates was with me pretty much all the time."

"Who?"

"Sketchy. Lives in Restalrig."

"Sketchy?"

"All right, Ian Archibald. Used to go to art college, so we called him Sketchy."

Cullen had heard a lot of shit nicknames over the years but that took the biscuit. "You said 'pretty much'?"

Richardson leaned forward. "Aye. There was a period where we weren't together."

"Convenient. We need it to be complete."

"Right." Richardson nibbled a nail. "I've got another witness I could use."

"And who might that be?"

"Derek Miller."

"Can't believe you've brought me in here again." Derek Miller looked around the interview room. "Came down to my work again."

Wilkinson folded his arms. "Derek, we need you to confirm you were at Ginty's Quarry."

"Where?" Derek smirked. "Never heard of it, man."

"You know exactly where I'm talking about. It's between Livingston and Bathgate. We've got you on bloody tape telling us all about the fight there."

Derek ran his hand over his head, tugging the gelled spikes backwards. "Look, I told you before, I wasn't there."

"We believe you were."

Derek leaned forward. "Something's changed since last time. Can't quite put my finger on it."