Ghost in the Machine (8 page)

McNeill furrowed her brow. "This is thirty-six Arden Street, isn't it?"
 

Anne Smythe smiled. "No, this is number thirty-eight."

"Thirty-eight?" said McNeill. "Where's thirty-six then?"

Smythe laughed. "There is no thirty-six Arden Street."

Cullen and McNeill were sitting at a meeting table just beside their desks giving Bain and Miller a progress update, with Miller picking his nose and looking bored.
 

Bain had been busy in their absence - a press release was in the process of going out.
 

"Just another dead end case, then," said Bain. "Woman disappears, end of story. Christ knows we've got enough of them."

"There's a couple of things irritating me about this Martin Webb guy," said Cullen.

"Go on," said Bain.

"First," said Cullen, "the address he gave on his CV on the Intarwubs site is fake."

"How's it fake?" said Bain.

"It doesn't exist," said Cullen. "There's no thirty-six Arden Street. It goes thirty-two, thirty-four, thirty-eight."

Bain looked at McNeill for confirmation. "Is that right?"

McNeill nodded.

"Bloody hell," said Bain. "This bloody city."

"Also," said Cullen, "I just had a look through his CV in more detail. None of the companies he's listed on there actually exist. I checked with Companies House and on a few search engines."

Bain scowled. "So, he didn't give a wrong address, he gave a bogus one and he's got a fake employment history as well."

"Suspicious or what?" said Cullen.

"What are you planning to do about it?" said Bain.

"I need you to authorise that RIPSA request so we can get access to his Schoolbook account," said Cullen.

"It's in hand," said Bain.

Cullen sat back and folded his arms. "Did you speak to Turnbull?"

Bain avoided Cullen's gaze. "No idea where he was this afternoon. I'll get him in the morning. Might be more pliable by then."

"There's a big gaping hole in this case," said Cullen. "Caroline Adamson goes on a date with some guy then disappears. Turns out we can find very little about him and what we do has been made up."

"Look," said Bain, "for all we know Caroline could be setting all this up herself so she can escape her life. Wouldn't be the first time."

Cullen slouched back in his chair. "I'm not going to get this RIPSA form authorised, am I?"

"I didn't say that," said Bain.

"Why are you being so difficult about it?" said McNeill.

"As I said earlier, the RIPSA powers are sensitive," said Bain. "I need Jim Turnbull to be okay with it."

"But you haven't asked him yet," said McNeill.

"Just drop it Butch, all right?" said Bain. "I'm not convinced we need it. It's a big step."

Cullen sat back and folded his arms. "Has nothing we've said gone in? We can't find the guy she was on a date with, she still hasn't turned up after two days. This is highly irregular behaviour for her."

"Aye well, there are other avenues we haven't exhausted yet," said Bain. "This husband seems the most likely."

"You think?" said Cullen.

Bain nodded. "I'd say so. He's got a pretty clear motive. Messy divorce, maintenance payments, maybe she's just a nightmare. He might be trying to put the frighteners on her by abducting her."

"Seems a bit extreme," said Cullen.

"Nothing's ever too extreme in my experience," said Bain. "Now, is there anything more we can do with him?"

"Aside from putting a tail on him to see if he leads us to a secret underground lair where he's keeping her," said Cullen, "then no."

Bain narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose at Cullen. "Less of the lip." He looked over at Miller. "Did the Italian corroborate this boy's alibi?"

Miller looked up and wiped his hand on the underside of the table. "The boy couldn't say either way. It was busy that night. Lots of couples in."

"Are you happy with that?" said Cullen.

"We'll see," said Bain. "Let's not lose too much sleep over this, Sundance. She'll probably turn up tomorrow. It'll be some misunderstanding and then we can all go back to the cold cases until someone sticks a knife in someone." He got up and groaned as he stretched out. "Right, who's up for a pint?"

Miller immediately got to his feet. "Aye, count me in."

Cullen folded his arms. "Don't we need to find Caroline?"

Bain leaned over the table and got in Cullen's face. "Sundance, will you relax? There's fuck all we can do for now. We've got the press release going out tonight. Jim should authorise the RIPSA form tomorrow."

Cullen sighed. "I'm not in tomorrow."

"Well, you can come in on your day off, then," said Bain.

"If we want to find her, we need to keep moving," said Cullen. "Unless someone else is taking this over it'll just get left till I'm back in on Monday."

Bain checked his watch. "Cullen, it's half six on a Friday and we're bloody quiet. That sounds a lot like pub time to me. Come on, I want to get out of here before the Friday night crowd start murdering each other and giving me something to do. Are you up for a pint?"

Cullen was pissed off - he couldn't escape the feeling Caroline was out there somewhere and he should be doing something to help. "I'm not sure."

"Sundance, I'll be in tomorrow," said Bain. "I'll make sure this is kept ticking over. Come on, just the one."

Cullen hesitated for a moment. He looked at McNeill. "Are you going?"

"I am."

"Aye, go on then. I've got to meet some mates later, so I'll not stay that long."

"Aye, right." Bain put his suit jacket on. "Need one last dump. Something's the matter with my bloody innards. I'll see you lot downstairs."

"Could do with a slash," said Miller.
 

They both headed off.

McNeill looked around at Cullen, shaking her head. "He's some guy."

Cullen tapped his pen on the tabletop. "I'm not happy with this. Caroline's still missing and we still haven't found out who this Martin Webb guy is."

She put on a weary look. "This is Bain's case to screw up."

"Aye, right," said Cullen. "Do you think he'll be carrying the can when this goes tits up?"

"The ball's in his court now," said McNeill. "If he says there's nothing more to do, there
is
nothing more to do."

"What's his agenda here? Why haven't we got the RIPSA approved? We're missing out on something, I just know it."

McNeill gave a deep sigh. "Bain's obviously had his arse kicked a few times for that sort of thing. He's just covering himself."

Cullen's blood was close to boiling. "But why? I don't get it."

"Put it this way, if he approves the RIPSA and we tear off to Schoolbook and get a load of data from them, and she turns up tomorrow morning, he'll look like an idiot."

"He looks like one anyway," said Cullen. "Besides, that's a very big if. We're losing hours here, maybe days."

"Come on." McNeill got to her feet. "We'd best get over the road."

They went to the Elm, an old-fashioned pub just across from the station. It was at the Leith end of Elm Row, at least a block away from the actual trees - Cullen didn't know if they were elms or not. There was a horseshoe bar in the middle of the pub, with tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout the big room. The walls were covered with hundreds of mirrors advertising long-dead breweries.

DI Paul Wilkinson, Bain's peer, was playing pool in the back room with a couple of his officers. McNeill was at the other end of the bar, deep in what appeared to be a personal conversation with Chantal Jain, one of Wilkinson's DCs. Cullen reckoned he should sit with Bain and Miller, but he would much rather be with McNeill.

Bain set the tray down and distributed the three pints - Tennent's for Miller and himself, Stella for Cullen.

"Cheers." Cullen took the first sip from his pint.

Bain grunted.

"Celtic at home for you boys next weekend," said Miller. "Tough first game of the season."

Cullen had started a chat about football with Miller while Bain was at the bar, before quickly realising it was a big mistake - he'd let slip he was an Aberdeen fan. Miller was a Hibs season ticket holder and lived on Easter Road, just round the corner from their ground.

"No doubt we'll get turned over as ever," said Cullen.

Bain said nothing, but eyed Cullen suspiciously.

"Fancy going to Hibs-Barca on Wednesday, then?" said Miller.

"Maybe." Cullen had seen the match advertised in the papers - Hibs were playing Barcelona in a pre-season friendly, despite the Scottish football season already being underway.

"Could get you a ticket," said Miller. "My brother knows people."

"Didn't know you had a brother," said Bain.

Miller looked at his pint. "He's not the sort of punter I want you knowing about."

"Younger or older?" said Bain.

"Younger," said Miller. "Just turned twenty-one."

"What's he do?"

Miller laughed. "Fuck all. He's a dirty little dole bastard."

Bain snorted with laughter.

"He's a bit of a ned," said Miller. "Been in bother a few times."

"What sort of bother?" said Bain.

"Nothing too bad. Never in trouble with us lot."

"I thought your old boy was on decent money?" said Bain.

"Aye, he is," said Miller, "but we never seen him much when we were growing up. He was always busy with work."

Cullen reappraised Miller, having previously taken him for just another Leith ned. He now saw him fit another profile entirely. At his school, some of the kids with the wealthiest parents - rich from the Aberdeen oil - tried the least hard and ended up mucking about and joining gangs in Arbroath or Dundee, generally up to no good. Spoilt kid syndrome.

"Derek had trials with Hibs and Rangers a couple of years ago," said Miller. "Stupid bastard got pissed the night before both of them. He was good enough to make it as a professional. He's a casual now."

Bain shook his head. "Fuckin' Hibs casuals. By the way, I'm not exactly happy with him getting you free tickets for games. That'll no doubt blow up in my face."

"I'll watch my step," said Miller.

Bain took a long drink of his pint. "So you're an Aberdeen fan then, Sundance?"

"Aye," said Cullen, cautiously.

"I hate Aberdeen."

Cullen tried to smile. "I take it you're a Rangers fan?"

Bain grunted.

The rivalry between Aberdeen and Rangers stemmed back to before Cullen was even born. In the eighties, Aberdeen were one of the best teams in Europe - let alone Scotland - under Alex Ferguson but their fortunes had declined greatly since.

Cullen tried to engage Bain. "You go to Ibrox much?"

"Every game when I lived through there," said Bain. "Chance would be a fine thing these days."

"You fancy coming along to the Barca game then, Gaffer?" said Miller.

Bain glared at him. "I'd rather lose a bollock than stand in a stadium full of smack-head Hibs fans with a fuckin' ticket your brother's nicked off somebody."

"Suit yourself."

They sat in silence for a bit, drinking. Cullen caught McNeill's eye over Bain's shoulder.

Bain looked at Cullen. "I was on the phone to some boy in Bathgate earlier. You came over from F Troop, didn't you?"

"Aye." Cullen knew F Troop meant F Division - West Lothian. He only recently found out it was a reference to an old American TV series about a bunch of idiot soldiers in the American civil war. "I was in uniform there for six years. Livingston, Broxburn and Bathgate. Then I was an Acting DC at St Leonards."

Bain sat back, his arms folded. "St Leonards, eh?"

"I was in DI Ally Davenport's team," said Cullen.

Bain nodded. "Never heard of him." He put his glass back down. "How do you think you're getting on?"

Cullen had been in Bain's team for just over three months and had yet to have anything resembling a formal one-to-one, despite Bain's continual references to it.

"Well, it's early days." Cullen took a sip of his pint trying to buy time. "I've had a lot of autonomy and we got a result with the last case. It's why I wanted to join CID."

Bain sneered. "You're an idealist, then?"

"As opposed to what?"

"A realist," said Bain. "There are generally two types of detective. There's your idealist, and then there's your realist. The idealist feels like they're born to be this great detective, the realist just gets there by
being
one."

"So which type are you, then?"

Bain's eyes flickered with menace. "I'll let you decide that."

Cullen kept his mouth shut.

Bain smirked. "Definitely an idealist." He picked up his glass and finished it, then slammed it on the table. "Whose round is it?"

Cullen glanced at his pint, at least half full. "I'll get them in. Tennent's again?"

They both nodded.

"All right boys?"
 

Cullen swung round. DI Paul Wilkinson, his shirt untucked, his trousers stained, looking a total mess.

"All right, Wilko." Bain raised his glass. "Did you win?"

Wilkinson was the other DI who reported to DCI Turnbull. "Too right I did," he said in his Yorkshire accent, his ruddy face almost glowing. "Those bastards were trying to use some Jock rules - two shots carry, bollocks like that."

"I'm just off to the bar," said Cullen, "can I get you a drink?"

"Stella."

Cullen went to the bar and ordered. He checked his watch - he could really do with pissing off soon. He needed to go back to the station and change before he met his flatmates. He had half a mind to just leave and get an early pint on his own somewhere else, especially now Wilkinson had joined them.

"Having a good time there?"

McNeill.
 

Cullen shrugged. "Not exactly. You've managed to get out of it pretty easily."

"Chantal's just broken up with her boyfriend. Needs to get a lot off her chest."

"A likely tale."

The barmaid gave Cullen his change.
 

McNeill ordered two glasses of rosé. "How's it going with the stag party?"