Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (24 page)

Murray slammed the phone down and started slapping his fingers against the keys.

Cullen wheeled himself over. "How's it going?" he asked.

Murray looked around, scowling. "Shite," he said. "This Paddy boy has just bloody disappeared. No chance we're finding him. Meanwhile, my caseload is building up back in Haddington and Bill Lamb will be down on me like a ton of bricks."

"Fancy heading back out east?" asked Cullen.

Half an hour later, and they were outside Marion Parrott's house in Gullane - they'd driven in separate cars but Cullen was surprised at how quickly they'd managed to get there in rush hour, especially compared with his problems that morning. The street was busy with a group of teenagers playing street football - a couple of them looked very talented to Cullen, pulling off the sort of Messi tricks that the modern football computer games promoted in their adverts. There were kids on bikes, something Cullen rarely saw these days, though he himself had been out on his bike most nights in summer when he was growing up in Dalhousie. The sun was hovering over the hill at the far end - the Crombie end - but it would still be light for a few hours. The earlier rain had just been a freak storm - typical for Scotland - and the pavements were almost dry again. There was the familiar smell of charcoal in the air, barbecues left to burn out after all the food was charred.

Cullen marched up and pressed the buzzer, Murray hesitating at the front gate. He had been quiet since they'd entered the street, preoccupied with something he wasn't telling Cullen.

There was a lot of noise from inside - through the living room window, Cullen could see two small children huddled in front of the sofa, watching TV, Marion Parrott and her husband sitting behind them. Cullen caught her dour expression as she got up for the door.

Seconds later, the door opened. She looked irritated and harassed. "What is it?" she asked, looking at Cullen.

"We need to speak to you inside-"

She cut over him, looking at Murray. "Have you found my son's attacker yet?"

Marion Parrott led them back out to the patio, just like she had the previous week, without getting confirmation one way or the other. In the kitchen, Cullen spotted his card on the counter, resting under a jar of pasta sauce.

"Just give me a minute," she said. "I need to get the boys' tea out." She turned and went back inside, shutting the back door firmly behind her. A small chunky tabby cat came through the cat flap almost immediately after. Cullen could hear the barking dog that he'd heard the previous week - no doubt the subject of a future ASBO.

As soon as the door shut Cullen turned and pointed a finger at Murray. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me that you'd been investigating an assault on her son?" he asked.

Murray closed his eyes. "I didn't know," he said, his voice quiet, "I thought you were going next door or something, but you just powered on without me."

"What about when we got to the street?" asked Cullen. "It would have been useful to know then."

"Look, I'm sorry, all right," said Murray. "Be thankful that you've never done anything wrong."

Cullen shook his head at Murray. "Bring me up to speed before she comes back," he said.

Murray rolled his shoulders. "What's there to tell?" he said. "He got assaulted coming home from a pub a few weeks ago on a Friday night, got done from behind. Got taken to Edinburgh Infirmary. Eight stitches to his crown. Ewan and I got assigned it, and we've drawn a total blank so far."

"You've got nothing?" asked Cullen.

"That's why I'm avoiding her," said Murray.

"For fuck sake," said Cullen, burying his head in his hands. "You need to be honest with people."

"And this is coming from you," said Murray, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't," said Cullen. "Just fucking don't."

The door shuddered open. Marion appeared, carrying a packet of cigarettes, her lighter clutched close. The little tabby decided to head back in at that point, causing Marion to mutter something about 'Tinkle'. Marion came over and sat down across from Cullen and Murray. "So have you found my son's attacker?" she asked.

"I'm afraid that's not what we are here about," said Cullen, after she'd sat down. "Unfortunately, we've confirmed that the body that was found in the whisky barrel was that of Iain Crombie."

Marion closed her eyes. She was silent for a few seconds then she nodded slightly. "I knew this day would come eventually," she said. Cullen watched Marion's eyes gloss over, lost to some ancient history that perhaps she'd already reconciled herself to. "I never thought that he'd be so close, though," she said, after almost a minute of silence. "I thought he ran away. I thought he'd be in Spain or South America or South Yorkshire, not in the storage cellar in his Dad's distillery."

"I understand that this is difficult for you," said Cullen, "especially after all these years of not knowing. We would like to ask you a few more questions, which will hopefully bring us closer to finding your husband's killer."

She wiped tears from her eyes - her make-up was smudging at the edges. "Go on," she said.

"First, we understand that Iain and his brother were prone to violence," said Cullen, "is that true?"

"Not any more than most brothers," said Marion. "My youngest pair are a nightmare for it. Iain is that bit older than them so he doesn't get involved."

It took Cullen a moment to realise that she was talking about Iain junior - the victim of the assault - rather than her late husband. "So there wasn't any particularly excessive violence?" he asked.

"Mostly just toy fights," she said. "Nothing too serious, it was like they were wee kids, even though they were both in their twenties."

"Can you tell us a bit more about the trip that they went on?" asked Cullen. "Start with the day they left."

"Okay," she said. She sat and thought things through for a few seconds. "I actually don't remember him going. He'd been out with his family the previous night in Garleton, I think, and they would usually stay out late on these things. The next day, I was working in Edinburgh at the time, so I'd got up early."

"Was Iain there when you left?"

She shrugged. "I think so."

"How certain are you?" asked Cullen.

She shrugged again. "How certain are you about who you woke up with eighteen years ago?" she asked.

"I'm sure that I would be pretty certain if it was the last night I'd spent with them," said Cullen.

She sighed at him. "I
think
my husband was in the bed that morning," she said, "but I can't confirm it, okay?"

"Fine," said Cullen. "We have discovered that Iain suffered an injury to his arm about six weeks prior to him being reported missing. It's on his medical records and, in fact, it's how we managed to identify that it was him in the barrel."

"I remember it," she said. "I had been on holiday with my parents and my sister in Spain. When I got back there was this big scar across his arm. He said he got it from an accident at work. I couldn't get any more out of him."

"So you don't know how he got it?" asked Cullen.

"No."

"He didn't tell you how it was caused?"

"I said no."

Cullen scribbled some notes down. "Another question," he said. "Is your son due to inherit a share of the company?"

Her nostrils flared and her eyes burned. "I'm sorry?"

"I'll repeat the question," said Cullen. "Is your son due to inherit a share of the company?"

"I refuse to answer that," said Marion, stoney-faced.

Cullen exchanged a look with Murray - the only way they were finding out anything was by taking her into the station for an interview.

"It would be very useful if you could give us an indication," said Cullen. "We have other ways of finding the information out."

Marion sparked up a cigarette, taking a deep puff. She exhaled slowly. "My son's ownership status is irrelevant here," she said.

"I'm not sure about that," said Cullen.

"Well, you'll just have to use your
other ways
, then," she said, through a wall of smoke, "because I'm not telling you."

Cullen grimaced. This wasn't going according to anything like a plan. The information would provide a motive, if indeed Iain Parrott did own a share in the company. He watched Marion sitting smoking and it struck him - he didn't really need to own a share in the company, she just needed to
believe
in 1994 that her son would inherit the company. They had enough to be going on with - other evidence would come. "Is Iain going to the board meeting tomorrow?" he asked.

She tipped the end of the cigarette into the overflowing ash tray. "If this is your
other ways
, then I'm disappointed," she said.

Cullen flicked through his notebook. He knew, from peering at the papers on Alec Crombie's desk, that the board meeting was over lunch, starting at noon. He also knew that the following morning was devoted to a preparatory meeting, not attended by the full board. "Would I be able to speak to your son?" he asked.

"I'll give him your number," she said.

Cullen and Murray sat in Murray's Golf, the engine running and the air conditioning cooling the car down. Cullen had to move a load of stuff from the passenger seat, including an Airwave handset.

"Sorry if I was bit of an arse in there," said Cullen.

"Water off a duck's back, mate," said Murray.

"I still think you should have told me earlier," said Cullen.

Murray looked round. "The boy's got a different name from his old man," he said. "And besides, nobody wrote Parrott up on the board."

"Marion Parrott is all over Bain's whiteboard," said Cullen.

"
Marion
is," said Murray, "her surname isn't."
 

"I told Bain about her," said Cullen. "He made a shite joke about her surname."

Murray exhaled. "Well, I wasn't there," he said. "I was shitting myself when you led us to that street, thinking that it was someone next door or something and she'd see that I wasn't looking into the assault and she'd complain and I'd get a real doing from Bill."

"Fair enough," said Cullen. He checked his watch - it was just after 6pm. He knew that he'd need to get to Irvine and his stake-out before too long - how ever much longer he dragged this out for, he'd inevitably break some unwritten rule somewhere and Irvine wasn't exactly the sort not to complain.

"Think she could have done it?" asked Cullen.

"Marion?" asked Murray. "Kill Iain Crombie?"

Cullen nodded.

"Why?" asked Murray.

"Her son maybe was going to inherit the distillery," said Cullen. "She could have found out about Iain's infidelity earlier than we assumed and then killed him."

"I'm liking this," said Murray. "She would need help."

"Because she's a woman?"

"Well, aye," said Murray.

"I wouldn't be too sure," said Cullen, thinking that some of the more brutal crimes he'd seen in West Lothian that had been perpetrated by women. "Hell hath no fury and all that."

"Think Bain would buy it?" asked Murray.

"Whether he buys it or not," said Cullen, "it's going on that fucking whiteboard."

Just then, Murray's Airwave crackled into life. "Control to DC Murray," came the voice. "Come in."

Murray reached back for the device and plugged in the headset. "DC Murray here," he said. He sat listening for a few seconds. "Whereabouts?" Another wait. "How long ago?" Another wait, longer. "Aye, I know where that is." He ended the call and looked over to Cullen. "Going to pop the siren up top?" he asked, pointing at the blue bulb that sat in the footwell.

"What's going on?" asked Cullen.

"Got a sighting of Paddy Kavanagh in Haddington."

Murray's Golf flew up the hill in a way that Cullen's just couldn't. They'd taken an unmarked road from Gullane and joined the main road heading south at Aberlady. As they drove through the west side of Garleton Murray had to slow to 40 for a stretch - Cullen recognised an old cottage from a previous case, now boarded up with vulgar graffiti on the chipboard.

"This is when I'm glad I went for the GTI," said Murray. "Cost an extra five grand but nothing can touch it in a pursuit."

The speedo was clearing ninety in a sixty, the blue siren blaring away.

"We're not technically in a pursuit," said Cullen.

They bounced over the top of a hill and began the descent into Haddington. The road went over the A1, the dual carriageway thundering away beneath them. Murray skidded to a halt at the oval roundabout - Cullen could see that he had been planning on going for it, but the combination of an articulated lorry and two white vans persuaded him otherwise. Eventually, he took a right onto the town's old bypass, long since superseded by the A1. Murray was quickly up to seventy, powering along through the 40 zone.

At the end of the straight stretch, they came to another roundabout, this one leading back onto the A1 for Edinburgh. Through the trees, Cullen could make out the blue lights of the squad cars that had the place surrounded.

"Just in here," said Murray. He turned into a concealed entrance just before the roundabout and parked alongside the row of panda cars. "Used to be a service station when the A1 dual carriageway ended here. Been derelict a good few years since they dualled all the way to Dunbar. Occasionally we get a call for some break-in. Supposed to be turned into a Sainsbury's soon. Can't come quick enough."

"So where was the sighting?" asked Cullen.

Murray had been quiet on the way over, focusing on the driving, rather than the information.

"In the old petrol station," said Murray. "The only building left standing."

They got out of the car and marched over to the throng of officers standing a couple of hundred metres away from the single storey petrol station. The old car park was overgrown with weeds - nettles and an assortment of thistles - that they had to navigate to reach them. The tarmac leading up to the building was cracked, many different grasses growing in the spaces - it astounded Cullen how short a period of time it took nature to reclaim the man-made. In a few years, the petrol station would look like some medieval remains rather than a public service that was in active use ten years ago.