Cowboys and Indians (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 7) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Day 1 - Saturday 17th May 2014

  One

  Two

  Three

  Day 2 - Sunday 18th May 2014

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Day 3 - Monday 19th May 2014

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Day 4 - Tuesday 20th May 2014

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Day 5 - Wednesday 21st May 2014

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Day 6 - Thursday 22nd May 2014

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Day 7 - Friday 23rd May 2014

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Day 8 - Saturday 24th May 2014

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Next Book

  Afterword

  Other Books by Ed James

  SNARED

  About Ed James

  Cowboys & Indians

  Ed James

  Copyright © 2015 Ed James

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  To Ginty, Dawn, Kay, Ed, Jon, Ron, Kim, Sam, Barford, Flocky, Rich, Jim, Stef, Mandy, Spencer, Tizzard, Mose, Liana, David, Stephen, Mike, Mike, Andy, Rakesh, Hang, Marion, Karen, Caroline, Steve, Mark, Lee, Alan, Graham, Tom, Arthur, Angus, Isobel, Alex, Shagger, Derek, Brian, Séan, Gary, Willis, James, Damian, Andrew, Welshy, Jarrod, Kirsty, Lisa, Joan, Lucy, Peter, Graeme, Mark, Daegal, Richie, Jon and all the other survivors of IT programmes I’ve worked on.

  Saturday

  17th May 2014

  One

  Detective Sergeant Scott Cullen barged through the crowd at the bar, clutching a metal tray. Six tumblers rattled as he carried them, each containing sparkling amber and a shot glass filled with black liquid. A bleary-eyed man in a tight shirt nudged into him, spilling some. Cullen glared at him and walked on, dumping the drinks on the high table. ‘Here we go. Jägerbombs all round.’

  Acting DI Sharon McNeill grabbed one and kissed Cullen on the lips, her familiar taste mixing with Red Bull. She tugged her purple top, showing off her bare arms, almost stick thin. Her ponytail smoothed out the worry lines on her forehead. Could get away without wearing a bra these days. She raised the glass, her gaze wandering around the busy club. ‘Cheers.’

  Four other hands snatched a drink.

  Cullen raised the last one in the air. ‘One, two, three!’ He necked it, the shot glass chinking off his teeth, the contents blending with the Red Bull, and slammed it on the table. ‘First!’ He wiped the dribble on his chin.

  Sharon finished hers next and winked at him. She leaned over to peck him on the cheek. ‘Cheers, Scott.’

  Cullen leaned in close. ‘You think he’s here?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’ She peered around the bar again, nudging her empty tumbler across the table. ‘That’s a great idea, by the way.’

  ‘What, Coke instead of Jägermeister?’

  ‘Thank Budgie for me.’ She nodded back to the bar, the queue three deep, an array of tenners in the air. ‘Hope our guy’s not working with the bar staff.’

  ‘You’ve interviewed them, what’s your take?’

  ‘I think they’re as worried as we are.’ She raised her eyebrows at a man near them, grinding away at the edge of the dance floor. ‘What about him?’

  Tall and lithe, maybe late twenties. Fists pumping the air in time with the beat. Skinny jeans, patterned shirt open to the waist, a thin line of hair tracing down his flat stomach. His sculpted beard would take more effort every morning than Cullen spent in a month.

  Cullen rubbed his chin and sniffed. ‘More likely he’s a potential victim. He’s out of his tree.’

  ‘Drink or drugs?’

  ‘Maybe both.’

  The man spun around, moving away from them, stomping his feet in time to the song’s heavy thud. He stopped by a pair of men — rich students, judging by their jeans and jumpers. Both tall and athletic-looking. He worked one of them away from the other, like a lion separating a gazelle from the herd. Got in the guy’s face, shouting the song’s lyrics at him. He grabbed his hand and led him across the dance floor. Stopped at the bar and raised a finger at the barman.

  ‘Nice queue jumping.’ Sharon leaned in to Cullen, her perfume cloying. ‘This is looking possible. Do you think he’s being helped?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Cullen watched their target take two shot glasses and lead his prey towards a booth, his hand passing across the top of a glass. What the hell was that? ‘Shite, he’s put something in one of them.’

  Sharon spun round to her team — two men and two women. ‘Think we’ve got a suspect. You know the drill.’ She marched across the crowded club.

  Cullen followed her. The first pair of officers headed to the front door, the other towards the toilets.

  The men reclined next to each other on a red banquette, the fake leather frayed in a few places. The older one slapped a hand on his prey’s thigh and raised his glass, glowing in the UV light.

  ‘DI Sharon McNeill.’ She held up her warrant card. ‘Police Scotland Sexual Assault Unit. I’m detaining you under—’

  Liquid splashed across her face.

  Cullen reached into the back of his jeans and snapped out his baton.

  The older man leapt towards him. His skull thudded into Cullen’s forehead. He tumbled backwards, slipping on the floor and collapsing on the sticky tiles.

  He made it up onto all fours, blood spurting down his face, covering his mouth.

  Black trainers darted away from him through the crowd.

  The younger man cowered in the booth. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You had a narrow escape.’ Cullen got to his feet and pointed at the glass, rubbing his bleeding nose. ‘Don’t drink that.’ He jogged through the gap in the crowd as it parted further, nostrils stinging.

  DC McKeown hunched over by the bar, hands over his groin, eyes screwed up.

  Cullen shook his shoulder. ‘Did he get you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Out the front. Rhona’s gone after him.’

  Cullen shot off towards the front door, passing the cloakroom. The other two officers overtook him and barged past the gorillas on the door. He climbed up the steps into the warm night air and stopped on the pavement, getting out his Airwave. ‘Control, this is DS Cullen. Requesting immediate support outside the Liquid Lounge on George Street.’

  ‘Receiving. DS Lorimer and DC Lindsay are in pursuit of a suspect down Freder
ick Street, heading towards the New Town.’

  ‘On my way.’ Cullen wove between crowds of staggering drinkers and confused tourists and slid round the corner. He wiped his bloody nose.

  The two who’d outflanked him in the club were chasing a man down the hill, footsteps and shouts echoing off the grand buildings.

  Cullen squinted at their target. Definitely him. ‘Control, suspect’s now on Queen Street.’

  ‘Received. Alpha fifteen are attending an incident on Great King Street. Want me to redirect them to support you?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Acknowledged.’

  Cullen sprinted across Queen Street, his outstretched warrant card stopping the long queue of evening traffic. He powered on down the hill, passing the darkness of Queen Street Gardens on his right. No sign of his quarry or the other officers. ‘Control, need an update.’

  ‘Suspect has entered Jamaica Street.’

  Shite. Cullen bolted past Howe Street’s Georgian town houses and swung a left into a side road. Boxy sixties concrete lit up in sodium yellow. Footsteps clattered from the right. He curved round the bend to a row of stone mews houses.

  One of Sharon’s male officers lay on the ground, blood bubbling from his mouth. ‘Fucker got me.’

  ‘Support’s on its way.’ Cullen raised his baton and jogged on.

  His target punched out, cracking a fist into Rhona’s face. She tumbled backwards, her head crunching against the pavement.

  Cullen wheeled round to him, baton poised just as a uniformed officer stormed round the corner. He swung out, thwacking the backs of the suspect’s knees.

  The man fell forward, hands slapping against the cobbles. ‘You bastard!’

  Cullen stuck a knee in his back and applied his cuffs. ‘What’s your name?’

  The man from the club twisted his head round, as if he was sucking it into his neck. ‘No comment.’

  Cullen nodded at the uniform. ‘Thanks for the help, Si.’

  ‘Let me help in future, mate.’ PC Simon Buxton unclipped his stab-proof vest and let it hang open. ‘This weighs a ton.’ He ran a hand through his full beard, then across his shaved head, the dark stubble ending in a line with the tops of his ears. His forehead creased. ‘You know you’re bleeding, right?’

  Cullen put a hand to his nose. Wet. Warm. ‘Christ.’

  ‘This your guy?’

  ‘I think so.’ Cullen hauled the suspect to his feet, grip tight on the cuffs. ‘Let’s read him his rights down the station.’

  Two

  Cullen smoothed down the plaster across his nose, blinking at the lights on the ground floor of Leith Walk station. ‘This can’t be doing anything, can it?’

  Buxton winked. ‘Might hold your brains in.’

  Cullen reached over and tugged at Buxton’s hairy chin. ‘You’re such a fashion victim.’

  Buxton jerked his head back. ‘I’ve grown quite attached to it.’

  ‘See you in a bit, hipster.’ Cullen patted his aching nose as Buxton entered the uniform locker room.

  ‘Here, Sundance!’

  Cullen clenched his jaw, catching his tongue between his teeth. He swivelled round, hands balled into fists. And breathed out.

  Just Gary Mullen, the Desk Sergeant.

  Cullen glared at him. ‘I told you to quit that. It’s bad enough when Buxton does it.’

  ‘Gets you every time.’ Mullen cleared his throat. Took a few goes. ‘Got a text off Bain, by the way. Boy was asking how you were doing. Well, whether you’d made a mess of anything.’

  ‘We’ve seen and heard the last of him. Let’s keep it that way.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Mullen thumbed into the public reception. ‘Wondering if you could escort your lad’s lawyer up to the room.’

  ‘Fine. Got a name for the suspect yet?’

  ‘Kyle Graham.’

  ‘You owe me one.’ Cullen wandered over to the waiting area. He stopped and sucked in a breath.

  Campbell McLintock stared up from his leather-bound legal pad, covered in scribbles. He wore a navy suit with pale yellow chalk stripes. Must’ve chosen the green shirt and purple tie in the dark. His charcoal hair was a couple of shades too dark for his grey skin.

  ‘You’re his lawyer?’

  ‘Mr Graham’s father received a personal recommendation.’ McLintock lumbered to his feet, kneading his back. ‘You could do with some new chairs in here. I’ve a mind to sue.’

  ‘Austerity’s a bitch.’ Cullen led him through the station towards the interview rooms. ‘Been a while, Campbell. Not long enough.’

  ‘Need to thank you, Cullen. Billables have been through the roof thanks to your efforts in January.’

  ‘If I’d known my work would line your pockets, I wouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘That’s the way of the world, Sergeant.’

  ‘Isn’t it just.’ Cullen swiped through and held open the security door

  Sharon stood in the corridor, swapping her phone to the other hand. She nodded at the door to room four. ‘In there.’

  McLintock entered and nudged the door shut behind him.

  It bounced off Cullen’s foot. ‘Keep it open, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘Very well.’ McLintock dumped his pad on the desk and sat next to his client.

  Kyle Graham leaned forward, massaging his forehead. His shirt was now done up to the top button.

  Sharon stabbed her mobile with a finger and pocketed it. ‘That us good to go?’

  Cullen glanced into the room, McLintock whispering into his client’s ear. ‘Give them a minute.’

  She brushed a hand over his nose. ‘That’s going to be some shiner.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll soothe it better when we get home.’ He stroked her bare arm. ‘You didn’t give chase.’

  ‘Someone had to stop the target from leaving. Name’s Alistair Jeffries. His drink’s clear, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘So this Graham wasn’t trying to date rape him?’

  ‘He threw the contents of Alistair’s glass at me.’

  ‘Right. Any roofie symptoms?’

  ‘The duty doctor’s with him just now.’

  ‘What if he’s not your guy?’

  ‘Our guy.’

  ‘This isn’t my case, Sharon. Crystal told me to provide brute force and ignorance. That’s it.’

  ‘Just how you make love, my dear.’ Sharon entered the room and sat opposite McLintock. ‘Good evening, Campbell.’

  Cullen followed her in, staying by the door as it clicked shut.

  Sharon leaned forward to the microphone. ‘Interview commenced at twenty-three oh six on Saturday the seventeenth of May, 2014. Present are DI Sharon McNeill and DS Scott Cullen. Kyle Owen Graham is also present along with his lawyer, Campbell McLintock. Mr Graham, can you please confirm your whereabouts earlier this evening.’

  Graham nibbled his top lip, stretching the skin out. ‘I was out for a drink with a few friends. They left about half nine.’

  ‘So you went to the Liquid Lounge on your own?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Cullen folded his arms. ‘You have a good dance in there?’

  Graham shrugged, eyes on Cullen. ‘No comment.’

  ‘You weren’t trying to pick up one Alistair Jeffries, were you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Cullen waved at him. ‘I see you’ve buttoned up your shirt.’

  ‘It’s cold in here.’

  ‘Tell us about Alistair Jeffries.’

  Graham sniffed. ‘I knew him from university.’

  ‘You’re a fair bit older than him, though.’

  ‘I’m a lecturer. Alistair was in one of my tutorials last year. He got a first in that class.’

  ‘We’ll check with him. In case you’re wondering, he’s pretty shaken up by what’s happened. Our colleagues are speaking to him right now. Quite a lengthy statement he’s giving.’

  ‘He’ll tell you the same story as mine. I bought him a drink. That’
s it.’

  ‘Was it Rohypnol you dropped in it?’

  ‘What?’ Graham scraped the chair back over the carpet tiles and stood up. ‘Rohypnol?’

  ‘Did you spike Mr Jeffies’ drink?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  Sharon ran a hand across her top. ‘It ended up all over me. There wasn’t enough to sample. That’s convenient for you.’

  ‘Are you going to let me go?’

  ‘You assaulted three officers.’

  ‘And you’ve assaulted my client, Inspector.’ McLintock leaned forward. ‘Given he has committed no crimes, I’d say that’s a score draw.’

  Sharon ignored the lawyer. ‘Edinburgh has a lot of bars for gay men to meet in.’

  ‘I’m not gay.’

  ‘Of course you’re not.’ Sharon untied her ponytail, letting her hair hang loose. She flicked one side behind her ear. ‘So, Mr Jeffries will confirm your story, right?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Graham narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a sec. You’re fitting me up for a crime because you think I’m gay?’

  Cullen crouched down next to him, voice just loud enough for the microphone to pick up. ‘Mr Graham, someone’s attacking young men in Edinburgh. They spike their drinks and take them home. They rape them. Brutally. Each victim’s suffered serious injury.’

  Graham swallowed, his Adam’s apple bulging. ‘It’s not me.’

  ‘Three of the victims met their assailant in the Liquid Lounge.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You bought Mr Jeffries a drink in there. Spiked it with Rohypnol. You were going to take him home and rape him, weren’t you?’

  McLintock gripped Cullen’s wrist. ‘Sergeant, given you’ve no evidence supporting these fanciful claims, I suggest you release my client.’

  Sharon bunched up her hair. ‘Mr Graham, we’re holding you while we obtain further evidence.’

  ‘You’ve got to let me go. My wife doesn’t know I’m here!’

  ‘Your wife?’

  Graham snorted and looked away. ‘Beth.’

  Cullen shook off McLintock’s grip and stood up straight, his knees clicking. ‘Maybe we should have a word with her and see what she’s got to say about your nocturnal activities?’

  Graham shrugged. ‘I don’t care, so long as you let her know I’m safe.’