World's End (Cullen & Bain Book 2) Read online

  ‘What, you think I did it?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Mate. I found the kid. Of course I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Didn’t say you did.’

  Searle’s mouth hung open.

  ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot for someone who just happened to find the body.’

  ‘I’m trying to be helpful here.’

  ‘It wouldn’t the first time someone had pulled that trick. Pretending to find a body. I need to know your movements last night, sir. Right through until you found the body.’

  ‘Well, I clocked off here at the back of six. Bus home, then I watched the football.’

  ‘What was the score?’

  ‘Can’t mind.’

  More alarm bells ringing now. ‘Who was playing?’

  ‘Liverpool. Against Atlético de Madrid.’ Pronounced as if he’d grown up in the city.

  ‘And you can’t remember the score?’

  ‘I… fell asleep.’

  Cullen could smell it now, the telltale reek of second-hand booze, that thick musty scent, partly hidden by sweat and own-brand deodorant. ‘What time?’

  ‘No idea. Before half-time, I think. It was boring, to be honest. One of those ones they’d say was like a chess match. My old man was a huge Liverpool fan. Took me down a few times.’

  ‘And this morning?’

  ‘I told you. Turned up here, place was melting. I let the cleaner in, then found Phil. Dead.’ Searle shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, sobbing gently. If he was the killer and this was all an act, well, he was due an Oscar.

  Cullen was in two minds about what to do here.

  Treat him as suspect number one. He didn’t have too much, just a couple of assumptions married together to give some doubt. The meat was a clear signifier of guilt, that’s for sure.

  But was he really the killer?

  He needed to check it all out. ‘You said there’s no CCTV in here?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What about outside?’

  THE SECURITY ROOM was next to the manager’s office, a windowless box that smelled of mushrooms and muddy tea. It was filled with large TV screens and recording equipment. No sign of a security guard, though.

  ‘I was expecting your security officer in here?’ Cullen was standing in the doorway, partly with a view to blocking Searle’s exit, but mainly because there were two chairs and he’d let Angela sit in one.

  Searle was in the main chair, working the jog wheel and winding the footage back through hours of darkness in infrared. ‘Bob wasn’t due in till ten.’

  Cullen checked his watch. Ten past. ‘So why isn’t he here?’

  ‘Told him not to come in.’

  Cullen tried not to punch anything. ‘You need to run that past me and my team, okay?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Searle tapped the screen. ‘There you go.’

  The top-left quadrant of the display showed a young man unlocking the supermarket’s back door and entering. As the door swung shut, he tapped a code into an alarm, an act visible on the top-right screen. The code was 4:56.

  ‘That his usual arrival time?’

  ‘Right. He does a stocktake, clears the shelves of out-of-code produce then—’

  Angela was frowning. ‘Out of code?’

  ‘Out of date.’

  ‘Right. After he’s binned that, he waits until the bread delivery.’ Searle played with the jog wheel, showing nothing in particular for fifteen minutes until Phil Turnbull wheeled a trolley through and started tossing loaves of bread. ‘See, that’s it there.’

  The bottom left quadrant was blank, while the right showed a wide delivery door from outside, hidden in shadowy darkness.

  ‘What’s up with that camera?’

  ‘Broken.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About a month ago.’ Searle winced. ‘I have no end of hassle getting stuff fixed here. Head office up in Crieff insist on getting local firms to repair everything, no matter where the store is. If I want to change a lightbulb, some boy from Crieff needs to come down. That’s like a two-hour drive or something, with traffic. And we’ve got stores in Dumfries and up in the Highlands.’

  Cullen tried to pin it down to Searle, but sometimes it was just incompetence. ‘Is this on tape?’

  ‘Nope. It’s cloud-based. Server in, you guessed it, Crieff. We normally don’t have immediate access to it, but we’ve… We’ve had some issues with theft. We’re losing more out the back door than on the front-end, if you catch my drift. So we’ve got checks at the end of the shift and I’ve got to review this footage. Constantly.’

  Cullen had seen that before and was glad he didn’t have to chase up some Crieff-based corporate suit to get access. ‘Any signs of forced entry into the store this morning?’

  ‘All looked fine.’

  ‘Were the doors locked when you arrived?’

  ‘Sure.’

  On the other screen, a lorry pulled up with “West & Hall Baker’s” signage. Hazards on, mid-grey on the monitor. The driver hopped out and rang a bell. The other two displays showed Philip Turnbull’s movements as he walked over to the door.

  As the door slid up and over, Cullen braced himself for the delivery driver clonking Phil Turnbull on the head with a length of lead pipe. But he just helped him get the bread inside the store. Five minutes to unload, then he was gone, leaving Philip to shut the door behind him.

  Angela was frowning, though. ‘Play that again. The last cages.’

  ‘Okay.’ Searle jockeyed it back to them taking the last pair inside.

  ‘Stop.’ Angela leaned forward to point at the screen.

  Just as they wheeled the cages in, a shadowy figure sneaked past them into the store.

  3

  BAIN

  Tell you what this game is all about, when you get down to it.

  Control.

  Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. None of those twats taking courses at fuckin’ Tulliallan, or any of the fuds in charge of anything. It’s all about control.

  While Sundance is prancing around downstairs in the public café—obviously closed to the public and cleared out of all perishable products by yours truly—I’m up here in the staff canteen, frying up some fuckin’ lovely looking Spanish omelettes, even if I do say so myself. Someone’s left a chopped peppers mix and some chorizo in the fridge along with some organic free-range eggs. Well, I’m not letting that go to waste.

  And the boys are appreciating it. All three of the lads I’ve taken under my wing. Elvis, Hunter and Buxton, that big cockney wide-boy, acting like he’s selling marrows or whatever down some market in the fuckin’ East End. Though now I mention it, I think he’s from out west somewhere. Might be a QPR fan.

  And I’m in control. My boys are taking up three of the big round tables, each one interviewing a member of staff, the gorgeous smells must be making them hungry as fuck. Somebody’s stomach’s rumbling, mind.

  Not that many have pitched up, thanks to that fanjo Sundance is grilling downstairs. Searle, the boss, sending them all home.

  Speaking of grilling, I take the three omelettes out from under there and slide them on the plates. Sprinkle some of that grated gruyere on top—not my first choice—and fold them over. They look first-class. And the gas burner up here is the fuckin’ bambers. Need to get one at home, but my significant other doesn’t like gas, not that I get a fuckin’ say and I do all the cooking. All about electricity. Induction or whatever it’s called, and you can’t get the same control as one of these bad boys.

  Control, see?

  Anyway, mine is ready now and nobody will mind if I stick a ton more cheese on than the other ones. My mouth’s watering as I slice into the bubbly egg with a fork, then I’m drooling as I eat it. And it’s fuckin’ delicious. The sausage is all caramelised round the edges and the peppers are tangy.

  Man, I do need to get a burner. Control.

  That prick Hunter’s looking over at us, like he thinks I’d conceive of no
t making an omelette for one of my boys. Well, dream on, big guy. He might be a total fanny, but he’s getting some of Uncle Bri’s eggy goodness. I give him the nod and he goes back to listening to the cleaner.

  Big guy, got that metal warrior look, like he’s burst his eardrums hammering them with fuckin’ Whitesnake or Bon Jovi or those newer ones bands with big stupid trousers. Korn or something. Or those arseholes with the gimp masks.

  Hunter might be Sundance’s new bum chum—poor Buxton used to have that dubious pleasure, but he must’ve mislaid the golden ticket somewhere.

  Hunter’s not a bad officer, have to say. And boy does he need a nickname. I know Sundance wants me to stop using them so publicly, and telling me to lose my morals and be a backstabbing cunt like him. Only thing I’ve seen him hunting is his own fuckin’ tail, mind. What about Cunter? Too on the nose? ‘But you were here when Mr Searle found the body?’

  The big cleaner lad nods at him. His nostrils must be twitching at the heavenly scents coming his way. Bet he could snarf all four omelettes in one mouthful and still be back for more.

  Fuck this. I leave my plate and half the omelette, and head over. I’d pull up the chair, scrape the legs over the floor to unnerve the big bastard, but it’s all bolted in and locked down. All I can do is not go arse over tit as I sit between them. Give the boy a few seconds to look at us—when really it’s that bacon from downstairs repeating on us and I have to cover a burp with my fist. ‘I understand how hard it must’ve been to find that body.’

  The boy frowns. ‘I didn’t find him. It was Mr Searle.’

  ‘Right, but you were here?’

  ‘Aye, aye. I’d left my key at home and we had a wee chat and…’

  I wave at Elvis and he looks over. ‘Can you get a hold of these keys?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ But he just sits there.

  ‘Should only be three of us have them.’ The cleaner boy’s got a T-shirt reading “NO CHEMTRAILS”. The words are in that Ghostbusters thing, the red circle and it’s kind of scored out.

  I point at it. ‘Does that not cancel it out?’

  He looks at the T-shirt, then frowns at us. ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s like you’re saying no “no chemtrails”, so you want chemtrails.’

  Boy’s puzzled by that. ‘You know what they’re doing with them?’

  ‘I’ve heard a few things.’

  ‘It’s how the CIA puts mind-control drugs in the atmosphere. They just want us to be pliable, compliant subjects.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I like to keep an open mind.’ Have to cover another burp. ‘So, you talk to the young lad about chemtrails?’

  ‘Phil, aye.’ The big guy sniffs. Should really get his name, but he’s talking freely now so I don’t want to interrupt him. ‘He’s more into 9/11 truther stuff, and I dig that, don’t get me wrong.’ He looks right at us, crazy and swivel-eyed. ‘You see that new Art Oscar video about coronavirus?’ The way he says it, it’s like he’s seen the word written down a ton of times but never said it out loud. Even though he looks like the sort of weirdo who’s on YouTube 24/7. ‘He sent it to me. Big fan of Art Oscar.’

  ‘Right. I’ve heard of the boy.’ I glance over at Elvis. The number of times that idiot’s sent me links to his patter on the New Yorker, I tell you. Still haven’t clicked one.

  ‘That’s why I think he’s been killed.’ The big guy sits back, folding his tattooed arms across his manboobs. ‘They don’t want the truth to get out.’

  I’m fiddling with my phone here, checking the boy on YouTube, and I find that video, so I look this idiot in the eye again. ‘So I should be looking for another half a million corpses, aye?’

  ‘Eh?’

  I show him the screen, even let Hunter inspect it, though quite why he’s still sitting here is anybody’s guess as he’s being next to useless. ‘Half a million people have watched this. Means the message is already out there. Should we be warning Art Oscar?’

  The boy’s blushing. Whoever this clown is, he’s not got a clue who did this to Young Phil.

  ‘Thanks for your time, son.’ I get to my feet and step away, but can’t get my fuckin’ foot over the fuckin’ chair, so I go flying and sprawl all over the floor.

  Dead silence, then all the other fannies are laughing at us. Especially Hunter. Fuckin’ joker.

  Only one move here. Laugh along with them. I jump up to my feet and walk off, raising my hand to soak up the applause like I’ve just scored the third goal of a perfect hat-trick at Ibrox in front of the Govan stand.

  Elvis is over by the cooker, tucking into an omelette. ‘Cracking laugh there, Bri.’

  ‘Need an icebreaker in here, though it’s fuckin’ melting.’ I grab my plate and start on the rest of my omelette. ‘You getting anything?’

  ‘Not much. Cullen had me looking at some security footage. Couldn’t get much more from it than big Angie Caldwell could.’

  ‘Figures. I’ll keep you away from that pish, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Cheers, Bri. But I think we should speak to the cop who answered the call.’

  ‘Eh?’ I accidentally spit egg all over the boy. ‘That was you, you tube!’

  ‘Not here.’ He shakes his head. ‘Phil Turnbull’s got a police record, Bri. My lad said he tried to assault a neighbour when he was pished.’

  4

  CULLEN

  Searle was in his office talking on the phone, but so low he couldn’t be heard. Didn’t look like it was going the way he wanted, though.

  Cullen waited out in the corridor, checking his mobile for messages. Nothing, which wasn’t a good sign. He needed to pin down Bain and get an update from him. But he was nowhere to be seen and that was definitely never a good sign.

  ‘Scott?’ Angela was in the security room doorway, so Cullen inched closer to her. ‘Well, Elvis wasn’t much help.’

  ‘Did he say what he’s been up to?’

  ‘No, but I could smell eggs cooking.’ She hefted up a service laptop, that looked like it weighed more than she did. ‘Still, he helped me get it on this.’ She held it out.

  Cullen took the machine from her and it was almost too heavy to hold in one hand. A photo roll of maybe fifteen stills, from a dark boot appearing on the right side, to the same boot disappearing into the store. The best shot was the tenth, but that was still blurry as hell. ‘Anything he can do to make them sharper?’

  ‘Nope. Well, this is having been processed.’

  Bollocks.

  ‘This is no use, is it? We can’t pin it down to anyone.’

  Angela didn’t have anything other than a shrug. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Right.’ Cullen took the laptop into Searle’s office.

  He’d finished his phone call and was looking out of the window.

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘Jesus!’ Searle jumped like someone had plugged him into the mains.

  ‘Sorry.’ Cullen rested the laptop on the desk in front of him. ‘One last time, do you recognise them?’

  Searle gave it a good look, but pushed it away. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Where were you at this time?’

  Searle frowned. ‘That clearly isn’t me.’

  He wasn’t correct, though. The footage could’ve been anyone from the skinniest rake right up to the fattest bastard. ‘Even so.’

  ‘I was on the bus.’

  ‘You got a Ridacard?’

  ‘I do.’ Searle reached into his pocket for a brown leather wallet. He flipped it open to a photo card of him with more hair.

  Angela took it off him and snapped a photo. She handed it back and whispered to Cullen, ‘I’ll contact the bus company.’ And she left them to it.

  ‘You can’t think I killed Phil?’

  Cullen shrugged, but said nothing.

  ‘Christ.’ Searle gestured out of the window. Across the car park, two uniforms blocked the entrance, dealing with red-faced shoppers honking their horns. ‘Listen,
I’m under pressure from head office to open this place.’

  ‘Not going to happen for a while. We’ve got to run forensics and process CCTV. You’ll be lucky if it’s open by the weekend.’

  ‘Come on…’

  ‘If your boss is giving you hassle, have them speak to mine.’ Cullen handed over a business card. ‘This is my boss’s number. DCI Colin Methven.’

  He sighed. ‘Fine.’

  ‘How did Mr Turnbull get along with your other members of staff?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘No gripes with anyone?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Even the “Have a Phil” stuff?’

  ‘Look, that’s because someone tried to call him Phil McCracken.’ Searle winced. ‘Sometimes you need a decoy nickname, right?’

  Cullen knew full well. ‘Any run-ins with customers?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I need to speak to Mr Turnbull’s next of kin. You know where I can find them?’

  CULLEN PULLED into the parking space and got out. Gilmerton was still thriving and not seeing the sort of panic-buying happening elsewhere. Just a bunch of people going about their business as if the sky wasn’t going to fall.

  The Dark Horse pub was a grimy boozer that probably had sawdust on the floor to soak up all the spit. One of those places where it was at its busiest during the day, a huddle of men in their fifties and sixties supping pints of best and lager in front of the horse racing. Not that there was anywhere local to place the bets—the bookmakers a few doors along was shuttered, the owner dead a couple of years now and nobody picking up his business’s poisoned chalice.

  Except for the street drug dealing. Everyone wanted a piece of that pie.

  Between the pub and the dead bookies was Turnbull’s Craft Butchers, old-fashioned and traditional. Bright white interior showing a high level of cleanliness. A few industry posters in the window advertising how good meat was for growing kids. A handwritten sign advertising a freezer pack. The fridge ran round in a J-shape, with the strong reds of the mince, burgers and steaks nearest the window, next to the pinks of the pork and chicken, but walled off from the pies and the sausage rolls.

  A ruddy face behind the counter, joyfully chatting to an elderly customer, then a final wave and the bell tinkled as the customer left him to it. He sat back against the till and cradled a cup of coffee, his wrist almost doubled back.