Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (30 page)

He had just about missed the meeting with Iain Parrott.

Murray pulled into the car park outside the Old Clubhouse in Gullane. It was a curious building - it genuinely looked like an old golf clubhouse. There were three pitched roofs emerging from the bulk of the building, the fronting of each in a mock Tudor style. Behind a low wall was an outside seating area - despite the sun, there were only two tables occupied. One had two whippet thin men in their thirties sitting beside their road bikes nursing pints of Peroni in elaborate glasses. The other table had Iain Parrott sitting at it, looking furious.

"Wait here," said Cullen.

"Seriously?" asked Murray.

"He's all cloak and dagger about this," said Cullen. "I half expect him to hand over some fucking microfilm or some shite like that."

Murray laughed. "Well, 007, if you need any field help, I'll be … fuck, I don't know," he said. "Who did Sean Bean play in that one he was in? Wasn't he a goodie?"

"He's looking really fucked off with me," said Cullen, "so the Bond trivia will have to wait."

Cullen got out of the Golf and headed over to the table Parrott was at. He could tell that Parrott didn't quite recognise him from the brief grunting meeting that they'd had a week previously. As he approached, Parrott evaded eye contact.

Cullen sat down on the bench across from him. "Hello, Iain," he said.

Parrott nodded at Cullen, then looked over his shoulder towards Murray. "You're late," he said.

"I'm a police officer on an active investigation, Iain," said Cullen, "it's the nature of the beast." Cullen gestured at the pint glass on the table, full of Coke. "Can I get you another?"

"No, I'm good," said Parrott.

Cullen looked in through the window. It was busy inside, couples having meals, a few blokes sitting on their own at the bar. He figured that he'd get away without getting a drink. He looked at Parrott in the eye, tried to get the measure of the boy. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

"Is it my Dad in the barrel?" asked Parrott.

"It's Iain Crombie," said Cullen. "I don't know if he's your Dad or not."

Parrott looked up into the night sky. "Mum told me about my Dad when I turned seventeen," he said. "She said I deserved to know the truth. I like Craig, don't get me wrong, but he's not my real father."

"You know that he died when he wasn't much older than you," said Cullen. "You weren't even born when he died."

Parrott shrugged his shoulders. "I've been convinced for months that he was killed," he said. "Mum and my Grandfather and my uncle have all been living in this fantasy land that he might appear next week out of the blue. Ta-da!" He took a long drink, keeping quiet. "I
knew
."

Cullen was getting wary of the boy already - he'd dealt with enough zealots to know that he needed to be careful. Everywhere zealotry went, bad stuff followed.

Parrott wrapped his hands around the glass and leaned over the table. "It was a relief when Mum told me that you'd found him," he said. "But I want justice. I want to find who killed him and I want justice." He wiped at a tear forming in his eye. "I've lost a father. I'm seventeen and I should have had that time with my Dad and not Craig."

Cullen leaned forward over the table. He spoke in a low tone. "Craig has been your father," he said. "He'll continue to be your father, whether he's a blood relative or not. He's fed you, clothed you, given you everything you need. You need to make sure that he's not excluded just because of what you've learned. It doesn't change what you had. Or what you have still got."

Parrott leaned back, away from Cullen. "I hear what you're saying," he said. He looked down at the table, drummed his fingers on top of a notepad. "I think I'm onto something with Dad's disappearance."

"Go on," said Cullen, his eyes on the notepad.

"It's probably nothing," said Parrott. "In fact, I'm pretty certain it's nothing. If it turns out to be nothing, then it'll tell me something for certain."

"What is it?" asked Cullen.

"I'll tell you when I know for sure," said Parrott.

"Why don't you tell me now?"

Parrott shrugged. "I just want you to know that I'm onto something," he said.

Cullen exhaled. A wave of fatigue hit him. He rubbed at his tired eyes - he'd had enough of the boy. He seemed a bit deranged to Cullen, and that made him want to keep a distance. He got to his feet. "Are we done here?" he asked.

"Aye," said Parrott. "Like I said, I'll call you if anything comes up."

"Fine," said Cullen. He marched back to Murray's Golf, which was gleaming in the sunlight in a way that his old battered Golf just wouldn't.

Murray looked up from his mobile. "Turns out Sean Bean was 006," he said.

"He was a baddie, though," said Cullen.

"Aye," said Murray. "Still, he
was
a goodie. If you needed help, I should have said I'll be Felix Leiter. He was the CIA agent in a couple of films. Casino Royale."

"Great," said Cullen. "Now who's sounding like Bain?"

Murray looked over. "Cheer up, you bugger," he said. "What did the boy want?"

"Fuck all."

The Garleton Arms was a fairly generic sort of pub, the sort that was everywhere in Edinburgh - blackboards with special offers in chalk lettering, carpeting everywhere, and the standard offering of a premium lager, a standard lager, a heavy and the ever-present Guinness.

It was 8.45pm and Cullen had just missed the train back to Edinburgh by seconds - they'd seen it leave the station as Murray pulled in. The next one to Edinburgh wasn't until 9.27pm, so Murray had suggested a quiet pint up in Garleton. He'd parked his Golf outside the police station and said he'd drive Cullen back down to Drem for the next train.

Cullen bought two pints of the premium lager. The kitchen had just closed and the smell of steak and chips filled the place. Cullen remembered that he hadn't eaten much since he'd had a pair of Scotch Eggs from the M&S at Waverley before getting the train out, so he bought two bags of Kettle Chips. He wandered over to the table in the window that Murray had acquired.

"Cannot believe that I've got to get into Edinburgh for a 7am start tomorrow," said Murray. "Are you sure that Bain's not just winding me up?"

"You've seen him in action," said Cullen, after he'd finished chewing his mouthful of crisps.

Murray tore open the other bag of crisps, unevenly down the seam - yet another of Cullen's pet hates. "Do you think we're any further forward?" he asked.

Cullen took a long drink of lager. He checked his watch - still half an hour until they needed to leave for the train. "Don't really feel like we are," he said. "We're still a million miles away from having anyone vaguely resembling a suspect here."

"You think?" asked Murray. "I think we've got four clear suspects."

"Four vague possibilities," said Cullen.

"Whatever," said Murray. "That's still people we need to eliminate. That's still work."

"It's taken us nine days to get this far," said Cullen. "I can see this taking another nine to get nowhere."

"Who's your favourite?"

Cullen took another long drink and looked across the pub towards the flat screen TV, which was blasting out a Euro 2012 match. "Strachan at the moment," he said. "But it's not exactly odds-on. What about you?"

When Murray didn't answer, Cullen looked up. Murray was staring out of the window - he glanced at Cullen. "Look," he said.

Cullen looked down the street. He couldn't believe his eyes. Across the high street, was Caldwell walking hand in hand with Bill Lamb, a good two inches taller than him.

"Holy fuck," said Cullen. "Did you have any idea?"

Murray shook his head. "Me and Ewan had been bantering with him about it," he said, "but we didn't know it was actually
true
. Christ."

"Thought Bill lived in Gifford," said Cullen.

"He's just moved in to Garleton," said Murray. "Got a flat just off the high street. Think he's renting his house out."

Cullen watched as they walked past and headed on down the street. "That's not something I expected to see," he said. He took another big drink of the lager, now well under halfway full.

"Slow down," said Murray. "We've got ages."

"There's no way I want to miss that train again," said Cullen. "Unless you want to give me a lift back to Edinburgh?"

"Aye, fuck off," said Murray.

"Drink up, then," said Cullen.

Murray laughed, then his face set into a frown. "Sorry about all that shite yesterday about Iain Parrott," he said. "I've felt bad about it, what with him calling you up and everything. Might have been a link we needed to put on Bain's magic whiteboard earlier."

"Don't worry about it," said Cullen. He checked his watch - twenty-five minutes. He thought about it - the boy interested him and he wanted to know more about him. "Remind me again what happened?"

"He got battered around the back of the head on the way home from the pub on a Friday night," said Murray. "Nothing we can really do, other than pay lip service to it."

"What was he hit with?"

"Doctor said a blunt object," said Murray. "Could have been anything, though, length of pipe, a hammer."

"Is Gullane that sort of town?"

Murray shrugged. "It has been known," he said, "but like once every five years or so. It's not like Tranent or Musselburgh."

Cullen looked back out of the window, filling his face with crisp after crisp. He saw a man stagger up the road, out of his skull - Cullen hadn't been that drunk since he was a student. Well, maybe a couple of times. Since a year ago, then.

"Takes me back to being in uniform," said Murray, "picking up some pisshead on the street."

"Tell me about it," said Cullen. "I was based in Bathgate for a few years."

"Rough," said Murray. "I bet that was a regular occurrence."

"Twice a week," said Cullen, "mainly in the surrounding towns, though. I take the piss out of Bain about Bathgate but it's not that bad other than a Friday and Saturday night. Blackburn or Ravencraig are something else, though." He stared at the man staggering down the street - something about him was familiar, but he couldn't place it. He pointed at him. "Is that Eric Knox?" he asked.

Murray squinted. "Nah, don't think so," he said. He put his face closer to the glass. "Oh fuck."

"What?"

"It's Doug Strachan," said Murray.

Cullen closed his eyes briefly in despair. He checked his watch again - twenty minutes until the train. "Do you want to pick him up?"

"No chance," said Murray. "It'll be
months
until he's sober. We'll nab him tomorrow."

"I like your thinking," said Cullen. He put his jacket back on and finished his pint. "Come on, I am not missing this train."

Cullen trudged up the stairs to the flat, carry-out bag in his hand.

He'd gone back to Leith Walk station and picked his car up to drive back to the flat. He could have braved the 26 bus but the timetable got a bit strange after ten. His stomach was rumbling as he got off the train, the acid tang of the salt and vinegar crisps making his stomach feel more hungry. He'd picked up a shish kebab from one of the better places on Portobello High Street and was already salivating at tucking into the marinated lamb, the pitta, the onions, and the chilli sauce.

He pushed open the front door and was surprised that it wasn't in pitch darkness. Rich was sitting at the dining table, fiddling about on his iPad. He looked up and smiled. "Oh, you must be our new flatmate," he said. "I'm Rich."

"Aye, very funny," said Cullen, as he shut the door behind him. He put his rucksack and the kebab down on the table top.

Rich pointed at the blue bag. "Is that a kebab, Skinky?" he asked.

Cullen put his suit jacket on the back of a chair. It was Rich's fault that the name had been resurrected - he hadn't heard it since school. Now it was everywhere. "Yes, Richard," he said, "it's a kebab." Not only was Rich gay, but he was vegetarian and a fitness freak, pints of strong lager aside. "I got up at five, went to Harrogate for a complete waste of time, and then I had to arse about in East Lothian. I'm tired and hungry, so I'm having a kebab. And relax, it's not a doner."

"Donor, you mean," said Rich.

"Very good," said Cullen. He went through to the kitchen, looking for a plate - they were all dirty, piled up in the sink. He went back out into the hall. "Have you pair not done the fucking dishes again?"

Rich looked over. "Keep your wig on," he said. "When did you last do it, Skinky?"

"I did it on Saturday
and
Sunday," said Cullen.

"Well, you're hardly ever here," said Rich.

"Just as well," said Cullen. "You pair are made for each other."

He found a plastic chopping board in the cupboard and took it through to the hall along with a fork and knife.

"Are you going to eat it off that?" asked Rich.

"There's nothing else."

"You are such a barbarian," said Rich, shaking his head.

"I'm not getting gastroenteritis from the state of the crockery in this place," said Cullen.

"Stop moaning," said Rich, "and eat your bloody kebab."

Cullen sat down and decanted his kebab onto the chopping board. He left some of the sauce swilling around in the polystyrene container. "Where's Tom?" he asked.

"Gone to bed," said Rich. "Got an early start tomorrow."

"Haven't we all," said Cullen, chewing the congealed lamb. "Who was playing tonight?"

Rich laughed. "Czech Republic got tonked by Portugal," he said. "Of course, to Tom, it should have been Scotland in the second round. He was firing into his whisky again in the second half and he went off to his bed moaning about Craig Levein and his 4-6-0."

Cullen chuckled as he tore into the soggy pitta bread, the heat already building up in his mouth. "Fuck, I need some milk," he said, and headed off to the kitchen.

In the fridge, he found three two litre jugs. He pulled the one out of the door - it was best before tomorrow. He checked the others - they were the same. He poured out a pint glass - stolen from some pub at some point over the years - and downed at least half of it, the fire abating slightly. He refilled the glass, not feeling guilty at taking so much given that it was going out of date.