Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (33 page)

"It doesn't look like the bed's been slept in," said Cullen, pointing at the meticulously tucked duvet.

"Iain's like that," she said. "I'm the only one of my pals that's never had to moan to him about keeping his room tidy. Wish my other two were like that…"

Beside the bed was a large computer desk. On it sat a sleeping laptop, with what looked like a million cables running out of the back, and several stacks of papers and notebooks.

"Mind if I have a look through the papers?" asked Cullen.

"Fill your boots," said Marion, leaning against the back of the door.

Cullen sat at the desk and looked through a stack of papers. It looked like notes relating to the obsession with his father's disappearance. The hand-writing was small and neat, much tidier than Cullen's own. The notes were all dated, starting at a date in early February and leading through to early April.

Cullen picked up another pile and went to the end - it was dated the previous day. He looked through the last few days, hoping that he would find something useful.

A photograph fell to the floor.

He bent over and picked it up. He looked at it - it was two men, smiling, shaking hands, in mid-90s colour. He flipped the photo over - on the back was a scribble.
With Paddy Kavanagh, June 1995
.

Cullen's heart started racing. Paddy went missing in June 1994. Was it a mistake? Had he returned, unbeknownst to everyone else?

He looked at the front of the photo. Caldwell squeezed in beside him to get a look. The Morrissey-alike Paddy was easy to place. The other man looked vaguely familiar. He screwed his eyes up, squinted at it, held it far away from him, tried to take seventeen years of ageing away. Then he finally placed the face.

Eric Knox.

It was pissing it down by the time they got up to Eric Knox's flat on Queen Street in Garleton. Cullen got them buzzed up while Caldwell stared at the photograph again.
 

"What does this mean?" asked Caldwell, as they climbed the stairwell.

"That Paddy was alive a year after Iain Crombie was murdered."

"Yeah, I
know
that," she said. "What does it mean for the case?"

"Not only did Paddy Kavanagh disappear," said Cullen, "but he returned. You know what they say about a killer returning to the scene of the crime."

"Yeah, but after a year?"

Cullen shrugged. "Let's just see what Knox has to say about it," he said.

When they reached the landing, the flat door was open, so they headed inside. Knox sat in his armchair and looked seriously hungover. His yellowy eyes were even more bloodshot and his struggle to focus were even worse than the previous week when they'd visited. When he saw them, he reached down to a glass of whisky and knocked half of it back.

"Is this your photograph?" asked Cullen, handing the shot to Knox. Caldwell sat down across from him, while Cullen remained standing.

Knox squinted at the shot. "I've no idea, pal," he said.

Cullen stood over him and pointed a finger in his face. "Mr Knox, it's you in the photograph," he said. "Can you please confirm the fact?"

Knox reached past Cullen for the glass. Cullen grabbed his hand.

"You'll get your whisky soon," said Cullen. "First, please confirm that it's you in the photo."

Knox sank back in the seat, his eyes locked on the glass of whisky. "Aye, it's me," he said.

"And it was taken in 1995?" asked Cullen.

"Aye," said Knox, grudgingly.

"Mr Knox, that's a year after Paddy Kavanagh disappeared," said Cullen.

"I ken that, son," said Knox.

"You told us that you don't know what happened when he disappeared," said Cullen.

Knox evaded his look. "Did you get it on tape, son?" he asked.

Cullen grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet. "I've had it with you," he said. "You said you didn't know what happened to him, and yet I've got a photo of you and him a year later."

He let Knox go and he fell back into the chair.

"I said I couldnae mind what happened," said Knox. "I didnae lie to you, it just slipped my memory, ken?"

"I'm going to take you into the police station across the road and have you booked with about seven different charges," said Cullen. He started counting them off on his finger. "Wasting police time, withholding information-"

"Okay, fine," said Knox. "See, if I can remember the information the now, will you drop it?"

"We'll see," said Cullen.

"Well, okay," said Knox. He reached past Cullen for the whisky - Cullen let him have it this time. His trembling hand put the glass to his lips, letting him take the rest of the drink in one go, spilling a bit of it on his cardigan. "Paddy turned up a year later, pretty much to the day. He said he was going to make a killing. His boat had come in, ken?"

"Where had he been?" asked Cullen.

"Up north somewhere," said Knox. "Up past Inverness, I think, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, ken?"

"Why did he leave in the first place?"

"He wouldnae say, ken?" said Knox. "Kept it to himself."

"If I find that you knew," said Cullen, "then we can add a few more charges to the list…"

"I swear, son, it's the God's honest truth," said Knox. His eyes were already looking around for the next glass of whisky.

Cullen took a step away from him. "Who took the photo?" he asked.

Knox closed his eyes. "Doug Strachan," he said.

It was Cullen's turn to close his. "Are you serious?"

Knox nodded. "Aye," he said. "Paddy wanted the photo as evidence." He held the photo up again. "Here." He pointed to the photograph - Knox held up a copy of the Sun, a story about Oasis on the cover. "He swore us to secrecy."

"Did you ever hear from him again?" asked Cullen.

"No," said Knox, "and neither did Doug."

"And you didn't think of going to the police with this?" said Cullen, grabbing the photo back and thinking of Frank Stanhope's long quest for justice.

"We swore ourselves to secrecy," said Knox.

"So how did Iain Parrott get this photo, then?" asked Cullen.

"Aye, well," said Knox, rubbing his hands together. "He was a persuasive wee bugger, I'll give him that." His fingers started beating a tattoo on the arm rest. "He was here the other night. Wednesday, I think. I was a bit drunk, you know, and I passed out, ken? The wee bugger started goin' through my stuff and he found that photograph. He was in my face, asking me all these questions about his Dad and Paddy."

"Was this the last time you saw him?" asked Cullen.

Knox shook his head slowly. "He was here last night an' aw," he said. "Pitched up at the back of nine." After Cullen had met up with him. "He was asking me loads of questions about the photo. I couldn't answer half of them."

"Such as?"

"Ach, my memory isn't as good as it used to be," said Knox.

"Do you know where he went afterwards?" asked Cullen.

"Said he was off to see his uncle."

"Cheers, Tommy," said Caldwell, and she ended the call. She'd been on the phone to Tommy Smith of the Lothian & Borders Forensic Investigation Unit, which was in charge of the investigation into all manner of telephones - mobile, satellite and common or garden land lines. Cullen had dealt with him a few times and deemed him one of the good guys.

"Well?" asked Cullen.

"Says it'll be ten minutes," she said. "He'll call me back."

"That's quick," said Cullen.

"Said they've got nothing on," she said.

Cullen turned right at Drem, heading along the main road to East Fortune. His phone rang. He pulled in beside a row of post-war cottages and checked the display. Bain. He put the call on speakerphone.

"Better be some fuckin' good news from you, Sundance," said Bain, "cos it's fuckin' shite out here."

"We found a photo of Paddy Kavanagh taken a year after he was supposed to have disappeared," said Cullen.

"Are you kiddin' me?" asked Bain.

"I'm serious," said Cullen. "Iain Parrott had it. It's of Paddy and Eric Knox, who used to work at Dunpender. It was taken by Doug Strachan."

"Are you sure?" asked Bain.

"Positive," said Cullen. "It's got a newspaper on it - we've just checked on Angie's phone and it matches. The paper is from 1995. Paddy swore them to secrecy."

"So these pricks are fuckin' lyin' to us?" asked Bain.

"It would appear that way," said Cullen. "Have you got hold of Strachan yet?"

"Aye," said Bain, "he was out of his fuckin' skull. Still managed to get in to work, mind. Can think of a few officers like that… He's given us a statement that McLaren is chasing up. Strachan reckons that he was on holiday at the time of Iain's arm injury. I've been thinking that it's this Paddy boy and your photo just confirms it. I'm goin' in there with renewed vigour, I can fuckin' tell you. Strachan has been hidin' stuff from us, and that gives me a big fuckin' stick covered in shite to beat him with."

"You think this confirms that it's Paddy?" asked Cullen.

"Fuckin' right I do," said Bain. "He's got these boys lyin' for him."

"There's something else," said Cullen. "He told them that his boat had come in and he was making a killing."

"Is this where Strachan's rant about killin' comes from?" asked Bain.

"What did he say?" asked Cullen.

"Nothin'," said Bain. "Said he can't remember it."

"I'm going to speak to Fraser Crombie," said Cullen. "Iain Parrott went to speak to him last night and I want to know what it was about."

"You're fuckin' not," said Bain. "Not without me, anyway. Those pricks are a baw hair away from makin' a complaint against us, so I'd rather you had some senior officers with you." Bain's hand went over the mic at the other end and Cullen could make out him shouting at Murray. "Better go, Sundance - I need to get this Strachan boy a lawyer."

Cullen hung up.

"So what are we going to do then?" asked Caldwell.

"We're going to ask forgiveness rather than permission," said Cullen, turning the key in the engine.

"Not something I'd recommend in a sexual situation," said Caldwell.

Cullen laughed. He drove them out of Drem, down the road with fields on one side and the train line on the other. They crossed the railway bridge and headed down the hill to the bottom, turning into the Dunpender Distillery car park at the chicane.

"Why was Iain Parrott seeing Fraser Crombie?" asked Caldwell.

"That's why I want to speak to him," said Cullen, killing the engine. It coughed and spluttered and gradually switched off. "Iain Parrott is nowhere to be seen and the last person he was going to see was his uncle. He calls me and doesn't speak to me, and his phone is just ringing and ringing. That's strange."

"We should get a trace on him soon," said Caldwell.

"Here's hoping," said Cullen. "In your book, where does Fraser Crombie sit?"

"Top three," she said. "Behind Paddy and Doug Strachan."

Cullen sat back in his chair and thought things through for almost a minute, trying to consolidate all of the revelations from the last hour.

"See, I'm thinking that there may be something more behind this," he said. "Aside from the stuff with his nephew, I'm beginning to wonder if he and Iain did go to Glastonbury."

"What?" hissed Caldwell.

"Well, it's only Fraser's word that he was away," said Cullen. "This stuff about a woman is only coming from him. I went down to Harrogate and all that they had on her was some statements relating to sightings based on a photofit that Malcolm provided. There's nothing in the file that shows that she was real. There was nothing in the file from Avon & Somerset that linked to there actually being anyone who placed Iain at Glastonbury."

"The photofit came from Fraser," said Caldwell. "What's to say that he didn't forge it based on someone from Harrogate so that there would be sightings?" She checked through her own notebook. "What about the phone calls from Iain that Marion got?"

Cullen thought about it. "She could be colluding with Fraser," he said. "She could have lied."

"You seriously think that?" she asked. "Why the hell would Fraser kill his brother, though?"

"There are loads of reasons," said Cullen. "The argument. Getting demoted by his father. As well as killing his brother, he's managed to totally fuck up his father."

"Eh?"

"His old man has been waiting for 18 years for his son to turn up," said Cullen. "Fraser worked here, clocking in every day, no doubt watching his Dad worry about where Iain was. His mother died of cancer - could have been the worry that caused it, or certainly helped it along."

Cullen closed his eyes. He recalled Fraser's expression when they showed them the body - he closed his eyes and nodded. It had puzzled him at the time but it made more sense now. "The more I think of it," he said, "the more I'm putting him in pole position." He unbuckled his seat belt. "Come on."

Cullen ran across the pebbles from his car, through the passage to the distillery building, the pouring rain soaking his suit jacket. Caldwell followed, a tiny umbrella telescoping above her head. The car park was fuller than at any other time that Cullen had been there. They hurried inside to the dry of the reception, a trail of wet footprints following across the wooden floor up the stairs. Cullen made a beeline for the desk.

"Is Fraser Crombie in?" he asked.

Amanda looked up from her magazine. She gave him a smile. "I'm afraid he can't be interrupted," she said.

Cullen scowled. "What's he doing?" he asked.

"He's got a strategy meeting ahead of the board meeting," she said.

"I really need to speak to him," said Cullen. "You'll know that this is a police matter and that you don't want to be accused of obstruction."

Amanda's sass seemed to disappear. "He's down in the cooperage," she said.

"Thank you," said Cullen. "One other thing - has Iain Parrott been here?"

Amanda frowned. "I think so," she said.

"When?"

"I can't remember."

"I thought you were supposed to be in charge of security," said Cullen.