Cowboys and Indians (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 7) Page 3

  ‘Where do you want us to start?’

  ‘Anderson’s getting DNA traces, fingerprints, dental and blood tests arranged.’ Methven let the suit flap down his back. ‘I want you to identify this chap.’

  Over by the body, Jain crouched down and held her metallic HTC phone over the victim’s face, her click giving a blast of flash. She wandered over, eyes on the screen. ‘This’ll give us something to go on.’

  Cullen stared at the mangled body. ‘We can’t show a photo of him looking like that to anyone.’

  ‘So describe it. We know what he looks like.’ She stabbed at the screen. ‘Sent it to you, anyway.’

  Cullen focused on Methven. ‘Any danger we could get a facial composite analyst in?’

  ‘Let me see what I can do.’ Methven dumped his suit in the discard pile and stormed off. ‘Dig into what’s happened. Get me an ID.’

  * * *

  Cullen staggered across Dean Bridge, shielding himself against the battering gale as it sucked air from his lungs. Cars crawled in both directions. The ancient mill buildings of Dean village sprawled below them, contrasting with the New Town grandness on the hill to the left and mansions to the right. In the river below, a fake otter sat on the rocks just metres from the SOCO tent. Cullen pulled up his shirt collar. ‘Bloody wind.’

  Jain stopped partway across the bridge, just above the tent, and tapped the stubby metal spikes, rising a couple of inches from the stone wall. ‘These won’t stop anyone from falling, will they?’

  ‘Did he fall or was he pushed?’

  Jain peered over at the church to their right, its squat spire gouging the overcast sky. ‘Tenner says pushed.’

  ‘You’re probably right. If he jumped, it’d be a couple of uniform going door to door.’ Cullen folded his arms, resting his elbows on the cold spikes. ‘You don’t get an MIT out unless you’re certain it’s a murder.’

  ‘Whatever. The guy’s in his pants. That’s not your typical suicide.’

  Farther over, a skinny man leaned over the edge, the wind ballooning his hoodie, baggy jeans flapping in the breeze. Shaved head, the ridges of his skull visible.

  Next to him, a tall woman in a blue leather jacket clicked away with an SLR, a telephoto lens resting between the spikes.

  Cullen walked over and tapped him on the shoulder from behind. ‘Police. Richard McAlpine, I need you to come with me.’

  Rich stood up straight, still facing away, hands in the air. ‘I’m just doing my job!’

  ‘I understand.’ Cullen grinned at Jain. ‘Still need the contents of that memory card and a word with you down the station.’

  Rich turned around, his shoulders pinched tight. ‘Skinky.’ He let out a breath. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I’ve not seen you in months, mate. This isn’t Features.’

  ‘I do whatever gets paid.’

  ‘I need you to clear off.’

  Rich leaned against the wall. ‘Can I get a quote?’

  ‘I’m not a police source, okay? I’m not revealing anything to you. Any links between you and me in this case and we’ll have words. Serious words. Lots of sweary ones.’

  ‘Can I expect a press release soon?’

  ‘We’ll see.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Rich smirked at the photographer and started off towards the city centre. ‘Come on, Ali.’

  Cullen gripped his shoulder again. ‘Have you got something?’

  Rich spun round. ‘Working on a few leads, Skinky. Nothing worth sharing yet.’

  ‘Let’s have a chat later.’

  Rich looked him up and down. ‘As long as you show me yours first.’

  ‘Have you any idea who it is?’

  ‘That’s interesting…’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Nope.’ Rich nodded at the photographer and wandered off. ‘See you later, Skinks.’

  Jain watched them go. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Ex-flatmate. Known him since school.’

  ‘You’d better watch your arse, Scott. If Methven gets wind of you knowing a journalist…’ She made a scissors motion with her fingers, aimed it at his balls. ‘Snippety snip…’

  Cullen gripped the stone and peered over the edge. ‘Someone must’ve seen something. We need to get out speaking to people.’

  Five

  Buxton jogged to catch up, his uniform rattling. ‘Why are we over this side?’

  Cullen passed the Gothic church and stopped outside the first town house on Buckingham Terrace. ‘Assuming someone’s not dumped him there, his state of undress means he’s not far from home.’

  ‘You’ll make Sergeant one day.’

  ‘Cheeky sod.’

  Buxton thumbed behind them. ‘So why not start on the other side?’

  ‘Luck of the draw. Chantal and her uniform might get a result.’

  ‘Her uniform?’ Buxton rubbed a hand against his forehead and swooned. ‘Is that all I am to you?’

  ‘Don’t push it.’ Cullen pressed the first buzzer. Three storeys of bay windows, a small balcony on the top. Probably not used in a hundred years.

  The door slid open. A man peered out, head tilted, his cravat crinkling. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Police, sir.’ Buxton cleared his throat, thumbs tucked into his stab-proof vest. ‘We’re wondering if you were aware of an incident on the bridge in the early hours of the morning?’

  ‘I wasn’t in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’re investigating the death of a man in his forties. Approximately six foot one with dark hair.’

  The man glared at him. ‘I don’t know anyone fitting that description.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not around here, anyway.’

  ‘Are there any other flats inside?’

  ‘Flats?’ He glowered at them. ‘This is a town house.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime?’

  ‘Thank you for your time, sir.’

  He slammed the door.

  Cullen rolled his eyes at Buxton. ‘I’m wishing we’d taken Dean village.’

  * * *

  Cullen checked his watch as they sauntered back down the hill. 12:32. ‘You’ve felt the last six in your water.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’ Buxton glanced at his Airwave. ‘Four hours and bugger all to show for it.’

  ‘And you miss being a DC.’ Cullen crossed the small lane. ‘This should remind you what it’s like.’

  ‘Beats moving on vomiters every Saturday night, mate.’ Buxton shook his head. ‘This city’s supposed to be civilised.’

  Cullen spotted the rest of his team by the crime scene.

  Surrounded by uniforms, DC Eva Law tapped her gelled quiff, dyed bright red, and frowned down at Jain, a few inches shorter. She folded her arms tight to her chest, stretching her top to its limits. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘You guys having a break or something?’

  Jain tossed a roll at Cullen. ‘Crystal got us some sandwiches.’

  Cullen leaned against the wall and unwrapped the cellophane. He sniffed the contents. ‘Last Tuesday’s egg mayonnaise. Smashing.’

  Buxton raised his. ‘I’ve got ham.’

  ‘Swap?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Cullen took a bite, hunger just about greater than revulsion. ‘Take it we’ve got nothing?’

  ‘Just had updates from all five teams.’ Jain tossed over an Ordnance Survey map. ‘Except yours.’

  Cullen unfolded it and marked their lack of progress. He checked the streets on Jain’s side of the river. ‘This is, what, about forty per cent?’

  ‘Less than half, anyway.’

  Cullen took another bite and chewed. ‘We need to speed up.’

  * * *

  Methven dumped the map on his Range Rover’s dashboard. ‘You need to speed up.’

  Cullen snatched it back and folded it in half. ‘We’re trying our hardest, sir.’

  ‘When I supported your promotion, it was because I
thought I could rely on you for a result. Don’t let me down.’

  ‘Wasn’t planning on it.’

  ‘Good.’ Methven held out a wad of paper. ‘Here.’

  Cullen took it, checked the top sheet. A man’s face, a computer image. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘The facial composite analyst in Stirling owed me a favour.’ Methven twisted the key in the ignition and the car growled. ‘The press release went out, too. Should be on TV and radio at the top of the hour.’

  Cullen opened his door. ‘Reckon we’ll get anything from it?’

  ‘I live in hope.’ Methven smiled at him. ‘I appreciate you doing the legwork on this case.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. That’s ten days straight I’ve been in, though.’

  ‘Noted.’

  Cullen hopped out and leaned back in. ‘If you want us to speed up, extra resource would help.’

  * * *

  ‘And I can’t get my Fiat 500 parked because of the bins outside.’ Catherine Brown folded her arms across her chest. Long silver hair flowed down to her cardigan. Tight skirt, shiny, sequinned, magenta. Knee-high boots. ‘It still doesn’t stop my neighbours dumping bin bags onto the pavement. I mean, have you ever walked home from the opera and seen a fox ratting at a tin of beans? This is Learmonth, for crying out loud. Stewart’s Melville is just down the road.’

  Cullen inspected the first-floor living room, adjusting his shirt against the stifling heat. The drone of Queensferry Road pulsed through the open window. Everything except the walls was pink, various shades from faint rose to acrylic purple. The upholstery, the sofa, the cushions, the tables, the mantelpiece. Even the wooden cabinet housing the TV and the pink stereo. Tiny porcelain figures. He checked his watch again. 15:47. ‘It’s something we’ll look into, Mrs Brown.’

  ‘I should think so, too.’

  ‘All I want to know is whether you saw or heard anything suspicious during the night?’

  ‘I’m a sound sleeper, I can assure you. My white-noise generator sees to that.’

  Cullen stood, handing her a business card. ‘Give me a call if you recall anything about what happened last night.’

  ‘Of course.’ She stared at the small sheet, as if it might answer her refuse collection issues. ‘Can you make your own way out?’

  ‘We will.’ Buxton led them through the flat and the bright pink front door into the dim stairwell. ‘If I ever see any pink again, it’ll be too soon.’

  ‘It was like being in a womb.’ Cullen trotted down the steps. ‘She was, what, sixty?’

  ‘Think so, yeah.’

  ‘An older woman who dresses young. Right up your street, Si.’

  ‘Piss. Off.’

  ‘She’s about the same as … what’s her name? The one you danced with at Christmas?’

  ‘Surprised it’s taken you this long to start the Cullen bollocks machine up.’

  ‘Touched a nerve?’

  ‘Less said about Geraldine the better.’

  Cullen’s Airwave chattered. ‘Control to DS Cullen.’

  ‘Receiving.’

  ‘DI Methven’s asked me to pass the first hit on the press release to you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Received a sighting of a man in his pants on Dean Bridge last night.’

  Six

  Buxton powered the pool Vauxhall along Barnton Park Gardens, most of the bungalows disfigured by attic conversions. They rocked over another speed bump. ‘Which one is it?’

  Cullen pointed down the street. ‘Last house.’

  ‘The other way would’ve been quicker.’

  ‘Six and two threes.’ Cullen pointed at a squat triangle in white harling, a more recent second floor overhanging the side entrance. ‘That’s it there.’

  Buxton pulled into a long space and let his seatbelt whizz up. He got out and plipped the car locks.

  Cullen crossed the road, pressed the doorbell and took a step back, warrant card out.

  Buxton reset his cap and tightened his stab-proof vest.

  The door scraped open. A white blur burst out, yapping at their feet.

  ‘Russell, stop that!’ A plump woman in a green summer dress crouched down to pick up the dog.

  ‘DS Scott Cullen. Constable Simon Buxton. I presume you’re Mrs Suzanne Marshall?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ She smiled at them, her long earrings twinkling in the breeze. ‘Come on in.’

  Cullen followed her into a living room, vertical blinds obscuring the view of the street. White walls filled with photos of a family. A TV showed the EastEnders omnibus, the picture paused. He sat on a three-seater sofa and rested his notebook on his lap.

  Suzanne collapsed into an armchair facing the settee, resting the squirming dog on her lap. ‘Is this about the phone call?’

  ‘We understand you saw a man on Dean Bridge in the early hours of this morning?’

  ‘That’s correct. It was about half past three.’

  ‘Can you be any more precise?’

  ‘Maybe just before.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Three twenty-seven. I looked at the clock when that song came on.’ She hummed a tune, unrecognisable. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ Cullen smiled as he noted down the time. ‘What were you doing in town at that time?’

  ‘I was giving my son a lift home from a nightclub.’

  Cullen glanced at Buxton. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The eighties one on Lothian Road. Next to what used to be the Caley Palais. You know, I saw The Smiths there when I was fifteen. I was a wild child back then.’

  ‘Does your son live at home?’

  ‘He’s just finished his sixth year exams. Off to Bristol in September.’

  ‘And you gave him a lift home from a nightclub?’

  ‘I don’t sleep at all well when he’s out, I’m afraid. Lord knows what I’ll be like when he’s in Bristol.’

  ‘What did you see on the bridge?’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ Suzanne clamped her jaw and cupped a hand round her mouth, whispering. ‘I saw a man in his underpants.’

  Cullen handed her the photofit. ‘Was this who you saw?’

  ‘I didn’t get that good a look at him.’ She stared at the face for a few seconds. ‘It’s possible. The news just before EastEnders jogged my memory. Last night, I just wanted to get home. You see all sorts in Edinburgh at that time of the morning.’

  Cullen took the sheet back. ‘Any idea who he is?’

  ‘None at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Could your son corroborate this story?’

  Suzanne frowned. ‘What do you mean corroborate?’

  ‘Well, we get a lot of phone calls in response to press releases. If there’s anything we—’

  She clutched a hand to her chest. ‘I’m not a liar.’

  Cullen smiled. ‘Much as I’d like to take your word for it, we do need this backed up.’

  Suzanne held his gaze. Then stood and bellowed. ‘Isaac, can you come down here for a minute, please?’ She frowned at the thumps coming from above. ‘He’s such a bright boy.’

  Cullen tapped his pen off his notebook.

  Suzanne put the dog on the carpet and shuffled to her feet. ‘I shall return.’ She marched into the hall.

  Cullen leaned forward, trying to distinguish the voices mumbling in the hall. Nothing.

  ‘Lucky bastard.’ Buxton slumped back on the sofa. ‘Getting picked up from a club in town at the crack of sparrow fart… Bet she fried up some chips when they got back.’

  A lanky boy in a dressing gown padded into the room, yawning wide. ‘Sorry, I’m just up.’ Deep voice, hair all over the place. ‘Mum said you wanted a word?’

  Cullen glanced at Suzanne, waiting in the doorway. ‘Did you see anything on the way home last night?’

  ‘Saw a man on Dean Bridge.’ Isaac sprawled out in his mother’s seat. ‘Just wearing his pants. Pretty freaky, like.’

  Cullen passed him the identikit. ‘Is this him?’

  �
��Maybe. Boy was pretty tall. Had dark hair.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Totes. Not too sure about the other punter.’

  Cullen clenched his jaw. ‘There was someone with him?’

  ‘Shorter than him.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Think it was a woman. Wore this big freaky cloak, man.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Think it was red but it was dark and I’d, you know, had a few.’

  Cullen glanced over at his mother. ‘Did you see this person?’

  ‘Now Isaac mentions it, yes.’ She beamed at the boy. ‘I didn’t get a good look at her face, though.’

  Cullen handed her a card. ‘Call me if you remember anything else.’

  * * *

  ‘Jesus, Si. Slow down earlier.’ Cullen braced himself against the dashboard, his left wrist bending back. He tightened his right fingers around the Airwave.

  Buxton snorted, eyes on the glowing brake lights of the cars in front. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you okay, Scott?’

  ‘We’re fine, Chantal. Simon can’t find the brakes in this new Vectra.’

  ‘So, is that all you were after?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Cullen checked the scribbles on the map, a thick line now scored through Stockbridge. ‘Think so. Just needed a status update.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re letting me get back to my job?’

  ‘Goodbye.’ Cullen ended the call. ‘Does everyone get this much aggro from her?’

  ‘Just you.’ Buxton switched into the outside lane, the boxy houses of Queensferry Road blurring past. ‘How’s it looking?’

  ‘Like I need to speak to Methven again.’ Cullen dialled the DI’s badge number on his Airwave. ‘Sir, it’s Cullen. We’re heading back from that sighting.’

  Methven huffed into the microphone, out of breath. Birds tweeted in the background. ‘Anything to report?’