Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (34 page)

The machinery was thundering in the cooperage, ready to deposit another batch of whisky. It was dark outside with the heavy rain and the lights were blaring away at 11am. Fraser Crombie sat at the far end of the room, clawing away at a barrel, muttering to himself. He looked up at Cullen approaching then looked away again. The room was empty apart from the three of them.

"I thought they weren't allowed to make any more whisky until Bain cleared it," said Cullen to Caldwell as they walked over.

"They seem pretty good at not following our orders," said Caldwell.

Cullen leaned back against one of the workbenches near Fraser. Caldwell sat alongside him. "Hello," he said.

Fraser nodded in recognition. "How can I help?" he asked, still not looking up.

"Keeping yourself busy?" asked Cullen.

"Place doesn't run itself," said Fraser. "My Dad is running this place into the ground. Strachan's drunk all the time. Useless. This meeting this afternoon, we'll not get anywhere, they'll not make the right decision."

"Who are
they
, Fraser?" asked Cullen.

"My Dad and his acolytes," said Fraser. "They're going to sell out for nothing and leave me with no future."

"The receptionist upstairs said that you had a meeting and were strategising about the meeting this afternoon," said Cullen. He pointed at the barrel. "Is your strategy in that barrel?"

Fraser looked up. "I'm sorry?"

"Is the strategy in the barrel?" asked Cullen.

"Fixing barrels helps me think," said Fraser. "It's very therapeutic, taking something damaged and repairing it, ready for use again. You should try it."

"I'm looking for Iain Parrott," said Cullen.

Fraser leaned against the rim of the barrel, resting his head on his forearms. "I've not seen him for a week or so," he said.

"Is that so?" asked Cullen. "We have reason to believe that he was coming to see you last night."

"Coming to see me and actually seeing me aren't the same thing," said Fraser. "As I said earlier, I haven't seen Iain for a week or so."

Cullen held his gaze for a few seconds before Fraser looked away. "Do you actually have anything specific to ask me?" he asked. "Or is it more fishing from you?" He got to his feet. "Look, I'm going to get another barrel. Maybe you should think if you're here for a reason or you're just starring in an episode of bloody
Columbo
." He walked past them into the maze of barrels and workbenches, quickly losing sight of him in the mess.

Cullen looked round at Caldwell and listened to the footsteps pace off up the room away from them. He stood thinking for a few seconds, running through everything in his head. "There's something not right about this," he said, in a low voice. "Has Tommy Smith called back yet?"

She checked her phone. "No missed calls," she said. "And I've got reception here."

"Call him."

"Yes, sir," she said. She held the phone up to her ear and waited.
 

Cullen looked around the room - the machinery was whirring away. Despite liking whisky, he knew next to nothing about the process of making the stuff. It had something to do with distillation - something he very vaguely remembered from school Chemistry classes - but, other than the tidbits he'd picked up on this case, they could be passing the stuff through a toad for all he knew. He had no idea why Fraser had the machinery running on his own on the day of a board meeting.

Caldwell tugged on his jacket sleeve. Her eyes were wide. "Cheers," she said, ending the call.

"Well?" asked Cullen.

"Iain Crombie is in this building," she hissed.

"What?"

"The cell trace placed him in this building," said Caldwell.

"I'm going to fucking find him," said Cullen.

He stood and turned around. The lights turned off.
 

"What the fuck?" asked Cullen.

He caught something flash. Caldwell screamed and slumped to the floor. Cullen ducked down and reached over for her. Her head was bleeding, her eyes were rolling in her head. She was still breathing.

He spun around and scrabbled away. Fraser Crombie was approaching him, a large claw hammer in his left hand. He swung it at Cullen, claw first. Cullen tried to swerve, but stumbled over. It caught him on his left shoulder, sending him sprawling, face first to the ground. The hammer tore through his suit. Cullen screamed. He glanced down - in the gloom he could see the wool and cotton were frayed and already turning red. Cullen's shoulder burned, as if it was on fire. He screamed again as Fraser kneeled over him, and pushed Cullen onto his front. He dug his knee into Cullen's back.

"Think you're fuckin' smart, do you?" spat Fraser into Cullen's ear. "I'll show you, you prick."

He flipped Cullen back over, the movement sending a jolt of pain through him. He raised the claw end of the hammer and hit Cullen again in the same spot. It dug in and Fraser yanked at it. Cullen almost passed out through the pain. He reached around with his right arm, trying to grab hold of something. He eventually caught hold of Fraser's wrist. His hand slipped.

Fraser stood up and turned the hammer around. Cullen rolled over, facing away from him. He tried kicking out. Fraser was just out of his reach.

Fraser smashed the hammer down at Cullen's head. Cullen reached his hand out, managing to deflect the blow across his body onto his cut shoulder. Fraser stumbled forward and caught himself on the edge of the workbench.

Cullen seized the opportunity. He scrabbled around, crawling away from where Caldwell lay. He got to his feet and started running, clutching the gash on his shoulder, blood now pouring down his arm and shirt. He looked around and saw Fraser following him.

He wove in and out of the workbenches, heading for the door. The worktops were empty - he was looking for a weapon but couldn't see anything that would do the job. He made it to the door. He tried the handle. Locked. Fraser must have locked it. He kicked at it. It was a solid old door, made of oak - it wasn't going to budge.

He turned around and put his back to the door. His shoulder was burning - blood was now dripping from his fingertips. He was feeling cold. His hands were shaking.

Fraser Crombie approached him. His face had transformed from the dour expression he usually wore into an evil rictus.

"What happened to your brother?" asked Cullen, his pulse racing.

Fraser laughed. "You'll find out soon enough," he said. He held up the hammer. "It's amazing how much damage that trained hands can do with one of these."

Fraser moved forward towards him. Cullen didn't think that he would be able to dissuade him from smashing his skull into a million pieces.

Fraser started swinging the hammer around, inching closer to Cullen. His shoulder was burning.

"Please, stop," said Cullen, pleading with him. "I'll let you go."

Fraser was still swinging the hammer in front of him. "No, you won't."

Cullen leaned back against the door. He knew that he had to act quickly. He made a snap decision. He waited for the swing of Fraser's hammer, then pushed off from the door at the top of the swing, catching Fraser on the backswing. Cullen ploughed into him, good shoulder first, knocking them both over and sending the hammer flying.

Cullen wriggled on top of him, raised his good hand up to punch him. Fraser moved quickly, prodding his thumb into the gash in Cullen's shoulder. A jolt of pain seared through Cullen's body. Fraser managed to kick him, sending him backwards. He rolled on top of Cullen.

Fraser's hand reached for the hammer. Cullen tried to grab at his arm, but just didn't have the strength. Fraser kicked him.

Cullen blacked out momentarily. He came to with Fraser Crombie standing over him, the hammer raised, ready to strike.

A wooden chair smashed over Fraser. There was a loud
thunk
as the seat connected with his skull. He collapsed in a heap.

Cullen looked up at his saviour. Caldwell stood there, rubbing her head.

"Can't let you get a reputation for getting Acting DCs killed," she said.

Cullen laughed through the pain. "Now I see why Bain calls you Robin," he said, slowly trying to stand up.

"Eh?" she asked.

"Batman always tells Robin to stay behind," said Cullen, "but he always ignores him and saves the day."

"Does he get battered on the head with a hammer?" asked Caldwell, clutching at the side of her head, her hair matted with blood.

Cullen tried to laugh again, but the searing pain from his shoulder made him draw breath.

She frowned at him. "Are you all right?"

"Not really," he said. He unbuttoned his shirt to get a better look at his shoulder. "What about you?"

"I was out cold," she said, her eyes locked on his fingers, hand feeling at the side of her head. "I don't think he caught me cleanly." She looked at his eyes again. "I hope I don't have to look at your peely wally chest."

"I might not be as rugged as Bill Lamb," he said, "but I'm not exactly peely wally."

"Watch it," she said. "Any more of that and I'll use his hammer."

Cullen had pulled the shirt open and could see the dark ridges of flesh that Crombie had ripped open with the hammer, the subcutaneous fat layer sliced open. Blood was already starting to coagulate.

"You need to go to hospital," said Caldwell.

"We're stuck until Bain gets here," said Cullen. "The door's locked, and unless we can find the keys, we're stuck. I hope they're in his bloody pocket."

"Great," she said.

Cullen looked at Fraser Crombie. He had started moving again. "Have you got your cuffs?" he asked. He couldn't reach his own without taking his jacket off, and his useless arm made that difficult.

She reached into her jacket and produced a pair with a click. "I never leave home without them," she said.
 

"Did you smash that chair?"

She shook her head. "It's still intact."

"Help me put him on it."

She looked at his chest. "Scott, you're in no state to do anything," she said. "Call back-up in while I get him up."

"Give him a blast with your pepper spray," said Cullen.

"Are you serious?" she asked.

Cullen grimaced. "No," he said.
 

The adrenaline spike was starting to fade, and he was feeling woozy with the pain. He got his iPhone out - fortunately in the other pocket - and called Bain, supporting himself against a workbench. He had to hold the phone in his right hand for once, which felt strange. He told Bain about what had just happened, feeling a sort of distance from the scene in front of him and the conversation, as he watched Caldwell haul Crombie onto the chair, tie his hands together under the seat, securing him in place. He figured that it was the shock kicking in. Fraser was starting to blink as he ended the call.

"Bain's on his way," said Cullen. "Along with an ambulance."

Caldwell prodded Fraser with her finger. "He's awake," she said.

Cullen staggered over to him. "Fraser!" he shouted.

Fraser had a large bump that ran along the side of his head, growing by the second. Caldwell was lucky that she hadn't taken his head clean off.

The machinery was still whirring in the background.

"Can you go and turn that off?" asked Cullen.

"I'll try," said Caldwell. She headed off to the far end of the room.

Cullen turned back to Fraser Crombie. He grabbed hold of his shirt collar. "Fraser," he repeated.

Fraser laughed.

Cullen had to stop himself from head-butting him. "You are in a lot of trouble, you know that?" he said.

"You've got nothing on me," said Fraser.

"You've just assaulted two police officers," said Cullen. "That counts as something."

Fraser closed his eyes. "Fair enough," he said.

"Fraser, what happened in 1994?" asked Cullen. "You and your brother."

"Nothing happened," said Fraser. "I don't know what you mean."

"We know that Paddy Kavanagh appeared a year later," said Cullen. "We know that Iain Parrott went to see you. We've had a trace done, and we know that he's here."

Fraser slumped back on the chair. "That's nothing," he said. "You attacked me first, I was just defending myself. We'll see where that gets us."

The machinery stopped and they sat in silence for a few seconds.

"Fraser," said Cullen, "what was your nephew wanting to speak to you about?"

"You'll have to ask him," said Fraser.

"Was it about Paddy Kavanagh?" asked Cullen.

"No idea," said Fraser.

Just then, Caldwell reappeared. She tapped Cullen on the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," she said. "You need to come and see something."

She led him to the other end of the room, to where Fraser had been mending a barrel. Off to the side, in the corner, sat a pair of large freshly made barrels, and both with their lids off, away from the long row of barrels on a conveyor belt. She pointed at the one nearest the corner. "Have a look inside."

Cullen peered over the edge of the barrel. There was somebody inside, unconscious. A man.

"Who is it?" asked Cullen.

"I can take a guess," she said. "I didn't want to move him."

"Give me a hand," said Cullen, reaching into the barrel. He put his hands under the man's armpits and pulled him. His shoulder burned anew. "Give me a hand!" he shouted.

Caldwell tipped the barrel over and pulled him out of the barrel. It was Iain Parrott. They sat him down on a chair. She clicked her fingers by Parrott's ears. She checked for a pulse. "Well, he's alive, but he is totally out of it."

"What about the other one?" asked Cullen.

"Empty."

Cullen slumped down on a chair across from him.

"You don't look very well, Scott," she said.

"I'm not very well," he said. His shoulder throbbed and he felt a wave of nausea. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"I have no idea," said Caldwell.

Cullen staggered to his feet and set off back to where Fraser sat.

"Scott, you need to sit down!" shouted Caldwell.

"I need to get to the bottom of this," said Cullen. He had to rest halfway back, leaning against a workbench.