Cowboys and Indians (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 7) Page 13

  ‘You’re getting too thin.’

  ‘Is that why you don’t want to fuck me?’

  He shut his eyes and rubbed them. Then stared at her. ‘Of course I still want to … make love to you.’

  ‘You sound like a Barry White B-side.’

  ‘I want to make love with you.’ Another glance at her arms. ‘It’s just … I’m worried about you.’

  ‘I’m glad somebody is.’

  ‘Look, I’m being serious. I want you to talk about losing a baby.’

  ‘It’s not that, Scott.’ Water welled in her eyes. ‘That’s not all there is.’

  ‘Are you keeping something from me?’

  She looked away, gasping against the tears. ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, Sharon. Be honest with me.’

  She wiped the back of her hand across her face. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Let’s get a meeting room. Or go to a pub or sit in your car.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Look. I want to talk to you about what’s going on. We need to.’

  She grabbed his hands, wrapping her fingers around them, cold and clammy. ‘Let’s go out for dinner tonight.’

  Cullen frowned. ‘Like a date night?’

  She laughed. ‘I hate the term, but aye.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  ‘Remember, room three at three.’ She checked her watch, the face rattling round to the back of her wrist. ‘You’ve got an hour.’

  * * *

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Cullen leaned back in the chair and stared at the meeting room ceiling. Not one of Leith Walk’s best rooms. He shut his eyes for a second, let out a breath, and looked at the team, one by one. Eva, Buxton, Jain. ‘I’ve been flat out all morning and you’re telling me we’re no further on?’

  Jain undid her scrunchy, her hair dropping to her shoulders. She ran a hand through it. ‘We can’t all be super cops like you, Scott.’

  ‘It looks like you’ve waited till teacher’s out of the room to start mucking about.’

  ‘We’ve been busy all morning, Sarge.’ Jain glanced at Eva, then Buxton. ‘Everything on this case is blocked. One wee step forward, then we can’t get any further forward for a week. You know how it is.’

  ‘Do I?’ Cullen folded his arms. ‘Right, what’s your biggest problem?’

  Eva gave a smile. ‘Charlie sent me the Schoolbook stuff. There’s no fresh leads from any of it.’

  ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘Here we go again.’ Jain tossed her pen on the table with a clatter. ‘The only thing we got is a Google+ account. It’s a stub because of his Gmail account.’

  ‘Have you requested the Gmail account?’

  ‘Need a warrant for it.’

  ‘So, have you asked for one?’

  ‘I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Chantal, can you take it up with DI Methven for me?’

  She picked up the pen, clicking it and scrawling a note. ‘Fine.’

  Cullen focused on Eva, mainly to avoid looking at Jain, his ears burning. ‘What else?’

  ‘I’ve got the mobile bills from Tommy Smith. Started going through them, but there’s nothing of note so far.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘The drugs are still stalled.’ Jain stared at her notebook. ‘I spoke to Owen and we agreed you and Anderson still need to have a chat.’

  ‘I’ll get round to it. What about the bank accounts?’

  Eva shrugged. ‘Still waiting for the details from the City cops.’

  ‘“Details” is a bit vague.’

  ‘He’s got a list of possibles. Needs me to get security clearance so I can look at them.’

  ‘So do it.’ Cullen waited for Jain to look at him. ‘Chantal, can you help out with that?’

  ‘Right, Sarge.’

  Cullen nodded at Buxton. ‘You’ve been quiet.’

  ‘Had something to do this morning, as you know.’

  Cullen switched his focus between them, sucking in a deep breath. ‘Come on, guys. I need more application from the three of you.’

  Jain arched a plucked eyebrow. ‘Is that us dismissed?’

  Cullen let out a sigh. ‘Fine.’

  Jain stormed off, Eva following close behind.

  Buxton stayed. ‘You should’ve warned me.’

  Cullen looked over at him. ‘About me interviewing you?’

  ‘No, about Chantal and Eva having a lesbian fling.’ Buxton shook his head. ‘Of course I meant about the interview. Why didn’t you tell me it was with you?’

  Cullen ground his teeth, one of the molars spearing pain. He winced. ‘Because Crystal threw me into it.’

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Last night.’

  Buxton folded his arms. ‘You definitely should’ve told me, mate.’

  ‘Look, Si, I’ve got to be professional here, okay? He told me to make sure the right candidate gets in.’

  ‘So it’s not me. Great.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I need to show complete impartiality.’

  ‘It’s going to be that bird in McMann’s team, right? Helen.’

  ‘I’m recommending you.’ Cullen leaned across the table. ‘The other three were bloody awful.’

  Buxton exhaled, smiling. ‘Thanks, mate. That’s great to hear.’

  ‘There are more interviews tomorrow.’

  ‘Hope they’re all shit.’ Buxton stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘You coming?’

  Cullen winked. ‘Just the way I’m sitting.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, you sound more and more like Bain by the day.’ Buxton left the room, shoving the door open.

  ‘Just a sec, Si.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you getting anywhere with Candy?’

  ‘Picked it up again after the interview. Halfway through all ten lappies in Edinburgh city centre. No sign of her.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as you find anything.’

  ‘Of course.’ Buxton stormed off down the corridor.

  The joys of rank.

  Cullen felt the flutter of his phone in his pocket and fished it out. Text from Rich. Who’s the barbarian you sent after me?

  Cullen replied. You’ve got to stop printing this stuff. I’m in the shit here.

  His phone buzzed again. I’m saving my job, mate. Desperate times and all that.

  Bloody hell. He tapped out another text — Who’s your source? — And waited for a reply, eyes locked on the mobile. He gave up after thirty seconds.

  Who was giving him this stuff?

  * * *

  Sharon stopped outside interview room three, the light above flickering. ‘I’m leading here, okay? You’re just supporting.’

  Cullen squinted against the broken strip light. ‘You sure you need a DS for this?’

  ‘I need someone competent. DC Lindsay hasn’t proven himself yet. Don’t start me on McKeown.’

  ‘You can have Chantal Jain.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘She’s getting right on my tits.’

  ‘Don’t make that formal, because I will take her.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Cullen opened the door and stopped, frowning.

  Kyle Graham hunched over the side of the table, hugging his arms around his torso.

  Cullen spun round. ‘Thought you let him go?’

  ‘We did.’ Sharon entered the room, taking the chair opposite Graham. She pressed record. ‘Interview commenced at fifteen oh four on Tuesday the twentieth of May, 2014. Present are myself, Acting DI Sharon McNeill, and DS Scott Cullen. Also present is Kyle Graham.’

  Graham didn’t look up, staying focused on the table. ‘I don’t need a lawyer for this, right?’

  ‘Mr Graham, this is an interview to determine the events of last night. Thanks for agreeing to meet us.’

  ‘I want you to catch this guy.’

  Sharon smiled at Graham, eyebrows inverted. ‘We’re trying our hardest.’

  Wasted on him
, his eyes now shut.

  ‘Please take us through what happened last night.’

  ‘After you let me go, Beth and I went for a meal. I bumped into a couple of my mates.’

  Cullen looked up from his notebook. ‘What were their names?’

  ‘Brian Craig and Will Hart.’

  Sharon shot him a look, then focused on Graham. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Beth and Keith got cabs home. Me and Will went for another drink. One turned into many. We ended up in a club.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Graham wiped his nose. ‘The Liquid Lounge.’

  ‘Again? What were you drinking?’

  ‘Jägerbombs.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Next thing I know, I woke up back in my flat. My arse felt like it’d been… There was blood all over the sheets. Fucking everywhere. The pain was … excruciating. Beth took me to the hospital. I saw Dr—’

  ‘We’ll come to that in a minute.’ Sharon leaned forward on the desk. ‘How did you get home?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t remember anything after the first drink.’

  ‘Were you in pain the night before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Mr Hart see you leave?’

  ‘I called him this morning. He left about midnight, needed to get home for work.’

  ‘You don’t remember seeing him?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What were you doing when he left?’

  ‘I can’t remember. He said I was dancing.’

  Cullen’s phone thrummed in his pocket, on mute. He let it ring out. ‘Do you remember speaking to anyone else last night? Bar staff? Bouncers? Someone in the toilet? At the next table, maybe?’

  ‘I don’t remember much in the club. Just doing shots. I’ve had flashes of dancing. Bits of music.’ Graham glared at him. ‘Someone spiked my drink. The doctor did a blood test. Can’t remember what she called it, but it’s basically Rohypnol.’

  ‘Mr Graham, what else happened at the hospital?’

  He sat back and exhaled. ‘She did a rape kit on me.’

  ‘Did they find anything?’

  ‘Just spermicide.’

  ‘So your rapist used a condom?’

  ‘He tore my anus!’ Graham shut his eyes, fingers hammering his eyebrows. ‘I could’ve bled out in my bed.’

  ‘You’ve no recollection of getting home?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘She said she heard me get back at about two, maybe later.’

  ‘You were on your own?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Graham flared his nostrils and glowered at Sharon. ‘If you’d caught whoever did this to the others, they’d not have got me.’

  ‘I understand your anger, Mr Graham. We’re doing—’

  ‘You really should’ve caught him!’

  ‘Believe me, we’re doing all we can to catch him.’

  Graham stood, fingers gripping the edge of the table. ‘Look, if—’ He sighed. ‘If there’s anything else you need from me, call my wife. I need to … I need to do something else. I’m sorry.’ He staggered over to the door, clutching his buttocks.

  The man-mountain Custody Officer put a hand to his chest. ‘Mr Graham, please sit down.’

  ‘I’m finished here.’

  He glanced at Sharon, receiving a shrug. ‘You’ll have to accompany me out of the station, sir.’

  One last glare from Graham and he was gone.

  ‘Interview terminated at fifteen eighteen.’ Sharon ended the recording and leaned back in her seat. ‘What the hell’s going on with my case?’

  Cullen exhaled. ‘Think he’s trying to throw us off the scent?’

  ‘How easy is it to do those injuries to yourself?’

  Cullen crossed his arms. ‘I suppose you could lower yourself—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I get it.’ She shook her head. ‘He’ll be the death of me. Can’t believe he went back to the Liquid Lounge.’

  ‘Right place, wrong time.’ Cullen held up his notebook. ‘You need any of my interview notes?’

  ‘Email me them. I’ll get Rhona to speak to his doctor, given she’s at the hospital.’

  Cullen checked his phone. The missed call was from Buxton. ‘That me done?’

  ‘That’s all for now. Send Chantal next time.’

  ‘Charming.’ Cullen got out his ringing phone. ‘Si, what is it?’

  ‘Get your dancing trousers on, Scotty. Think I’ve found her.’

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Don’t see why I need my dancing trousers.’ Cullen stepped out of the pool car. Looked around the beige tenements of East Newington Place.

  ‘Cheer up, you dozy bastard.’ Buxton plipped the Vauxhall and nodded at the stone façade of the tenement. ‘That’s her flat up there. Top floor.’

  ‘You should’ve gone through me to get the warrant.’

  ‘You were too busy doing God knows what.’ Buxton crossed the road, jammed with parked cars. Buses hissed past at the end of the street. He jabbed a finger against the intercom. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Helping Sharon.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Cullen put his thumb over the buzzer. ‘She’s not in, is she?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  Cullen moved his thumb to the ground-floor flat. ‘We’ll get in there and kick the door down.’

  Static blasted out of the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is the police. We need access to the stairwell.’

  ‘In you come.’

  Cullen pushed the buzzing door and entered the stairwell, thick with cigarette smoke.

  A small tabby cat shot up the spiral stairs, stopping to hiss back at them.

  Cullen flashed his warrant card at the pair of glasses staring out of the ground-floor flat. ‘DS Scott Cullen. ADC Simon Buxton. We need to speak to one of your neighbours.’

  ‘The tart on the top floor?’ The woman stepped out of the doorway and sniffed. ‘Trollop has her wares always on display. Comes and goes at all hours.’

  ‘Candy?’

  ‘That what they call her?’ She snorted and retreated into her flat.

  Cullen raced up, following the tabby to the top floor, before it disappeared into a cat flap with a final hiss. ‘That our flat?’

  ‘Nah, this one.’ Buxton hammered on the other door. ‘Candy? It’s the police. Open up.’

  Nothing.

  Cullen thumped the door. ‘Candy, we need to access your property.’

  Nothing again.

  He let out a sigh, spotting the tabby peering through the flap at them. ‘Have you got her real name?’

  ‘Christine Broadhurst.’ Buxton clattered the door again. ‘Comes from — not sure how to say this — Lochgelly in Fife.’

  ‘Brutal.’

  ‘That how you say it?’

  ‘That’s right. Ex-mining town. Hard as nails there.’

  ‘Well, this is the address she gave Sergeant Mullen when we brought her in the other night.’

  ‘Open it.’

  Buxton took a step back and launched his shoulder at the door. Crunch. It twisted on the hinge and fell forward onto the clear lino. He entered the flat, snapping out his baton. ‘Dark in here.’

  Cullen followed him in. Six doors led off the wide hallway. ‘Let’s stick together.’

  Buxton flicked his baton against the first handle. An ironing board clattered out of a cupboard, bouncing off the opposite wall. He knelt down to pick it up and stuffed it back in. ‘Right, next.’

  Cullen snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and tried the next handle. A bathroom, musty and dark. He nodded at the next door.

  Buxton opened it. An empty kitchen. Next, an empty living room. A bathroom at the end. ‘This is great fun.’

  ‘Aye, smashing. Go on, Si. Through the last door.’

  Buxton flicked his baton. ‘Finally, a bedroom.’

  ‘Wait here.’ Cullen trud
ged into the room. A wide, metal-framed bed with white sheets. Louvre-doored cupboards. Dark wood chest of drawers. Alarm clock showing the time in green. He opened the closet. Just clothes. Dresses, skirts, blouses, jeans. A flash of red.

  He pulled apart a dress and a kimono. Tore the red cloak off the hanger and held it up. ‘Here we go.’

  Buxton squirmed. ‘What’s that all over it?’

  Cullen turned it round. The back side was covered in a white crusty stain. He sniffed it. ‘It’s semen.’

  * * *

  Cullen kicked the door shut, killing the noise from the rest of the crime scene lab. ‘Time to pull your finger out.’

  Anderson swung round from staring at his laptop, eyebrows raised. ‘Your finger’s still up your own arse, Cullen.’

  ‘I’m waiting on two crime scene reports — three if you separate out the sex room. And there’s our drug trace.’

  ‘Never ends with you lot, does it?’

  Cullen handed him the cloak, wrapped in an evidence bag. ‘Check this, will you?’

  ‘What the fuck is it?’

  ‘A gateway to a parallel universe, what do you think? It’s a red cloak.’

  ‘What’s that on it?’

  ‘Spunk, I think. Run a DNA test, if you can.’

  ‘Look, son, your boss and his little Rottweiler are doing my head in.’

  ‘Bain?’

  ‘Aye, fucking Bain. The pair of them keep switching my priorities every five minutes. Van de Merwe’s office. The drugs. Van de Merwe’s house. His sex dungeon.’ He shook his head. ‘You lot need to make your minds up, okay?’

  ‘I’ve been crystal clear about what I want you to focus on, haven’t I?’

  ‘You’re only a DS, Cullen. A new one at that. Get your chiefs to agree with you, or at least toe the party line.’

  ‘How’s the house going?’

  ‘Got twelve rooms to report on. Still waiting for the DNA exclusion.’

  ‘Any early results?’

  ‘I like to keep everything to myself, so I can hamper the investigation as much as possible.’ Anderson shot daggers at him. ‘Of course there’s nothing.’

  ‘What about the office?’

  ‘Different matter, entirely. There’s a million and fucking one DNA traces in there. It’s going to take weeks. Even then, it’s unlikely you’ll get a result from it. Guy had meetings with every man and his dog in there, they’re probably not suspects. Besides, it’s not like he died in there.’