Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) Read online

  "And you got nothing?" asked Cullen. "No sightings?"

  Stanhope went through another notebook. "If memory serves," he said, "a few months after, there was a flurry of sightings in Yorkshire. It was mostly the Avon and Somerset boys that led it at that point, though. I think I spoke to some guys in the Yorkshire Constabulary who did most of the shoe leather work, but the sightings just seemed very tenuous, I'm afraid. They never found the girl, so I guess we'll never know."

  "What was Fraser's side of this?" asked Cullen.

  "As far as I recall, Fraser last saw Iain at Glastonbury," said Stanhope. "First of July. Just after the festival - as I said, they'd stayed on partying. Fraser came home that night, got an overnight coach up from Bristol to Edinburgh."

  "Did you have any clear suspects at the time?" asked Cullen.

  "Afraid not," said Stanhope. "We were split across two jurisdictions and pretty much just had posters and press releases to rely on. At the time, it was a missing persons case, not a murder. We didn't have a body." He laughed again. "In some ways, you're lucky - you've got the body, and it's eighteen years on. The advances in forensics in that time. In some ways I envy you."

  "If you knew my DI, you wouldn't," said Cullen.

  Stanhope snorted with laughter.

  "Besides," said Cullen, "at the moment, we don't know who the body is. We're just checking out possibilities and it turns out that we've got two."

  "I understand that," said Stanhope. "But I hope to goodness that you find out what happened to Iain Crombie."

  Caldwell had been quiet throughout, but her expression was getting darker as Stanhope ploughed on. Cullen decided to give her the opportunity, and motioned for her to take over.

  "Was Fraser Crombie the last person to see him?" asked Caldwell.

  "That we know of," said Stanhope.

  "What about before that?"

  "Before that," said Stanhope. He broke off and stroked his chin for a few moments. He picked up the original notebook and casually flicked through it. "Before that, it would be their father who saw Iain last." He frowned, and turned to a particular page in the notebook. Cullen gave him time. "On the twelfth of June it would be. They were in the pub in Gullane after a family meal, the day before they set off. If I remember it correctly, they'd had a big bust-up and Alec had taken them out to try and resolve it. The way both Alec and Fraser tell it, the boys were not going to go on their trip. The intention of the meal was to come to an agreement about the company, which I think they did, given that Dunpender is still independent eighteen years later. The boys made up that night, put their differences behind them. As I say, from what I could tell, prior to that, their trip was effectively cancelled and Iain had an advert in the Courier trying to flog their tickets. Nobody took them up - imagine if they had…" Stanhope broke off, lost to some strand of what-if.

  "Did Alec Crombie directly hear from Iain during their trip?" asked Caldwell.

  Stanhope frowned. "He didn't hear directly from Iain during the trip," he said, "but Fraser had called home every other night."

  "Just Fraser?" asked Caldwell, scowling.

  "I think so," said Stanhope. "This was before mobiles, remember."

  "He was calling his father, right?" asked Caldwell.

  "No, it was mostly their mother," said Stanhope. There was a pause. "She was a severe woman, believe you me, ran that house like an army camp. Never got involved in the whisky, mind." He took another slurp of tea. "She passed away a few years later. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to suggest that the strain of Iain's disappearance did it, if I'm being honest."

  Caldwell was frowning at Cullen, looking irritated. "What is it?" he asked, wondering if the same doubts he had were becoming present in her mind.

  "It's maybe nothing," she said, with a shrug, "but did you just take Fraser's word for what happened?"

  Stanhope's face suddenly changed, his eyes narrowing and his lips pursing. "Are you coming here and saying I've done a half arsed job, missy?" he asked, his voice low and harsh.

  Caldwell closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them. "No, I'm not," she said. "I simply asked if you'd taken Fraser Crombie's word for everything that happened on this trip."

  "Well, no," said Stanhope. He handed her a notebook. "Iain's wife got a phone call every other night as well. From Iain."

  Caldwell picked up the notebook and looked through the shorthand notes. She gulped. "We didn't know he had a wife," she said.

  Stanhope laughed. "And they call you two detectives," he said.

  "Steady on," said Cullen. "It's not mentioned in the file. It isn't us doing the sloppy work."

  "I'm ten seconds away from asking you to piss off, you know," said Stanhope.

  "And I'm ten seconds away from asking you if you want to continue this questioning in the station," said Cullen. "You're not a serving officer any more, you know."

  Stanhope took another drink of tea. His eyes scanned the horizon for a few moments, then switched to Cullen, a smile suddenly on his face. "There's no need for either," he said. "Her name was Marion Crombie, nee McCoull. I think she remarried a couple of years later, though I don't know her married name."

  Cullen smiled disingenuously. "Thank you," he said.

  Stanhope slowly rearranged his notebooks. Caldwell held the one up with the reference to Marion Crombie. "I'll bring this back once I've copied it," she said.

  Stanhope rolled his shoulders. "It won't exactly be needed," he said.

  They sat for a few seconds, finishing their cups of tea.

  "We never imagined that his body was here all that time," said Stanhope.

  "We don't know that it's Iain," repeated Caldwell.

  Stanhope winked at her. "Aye, well," he said, "I've got a policeman's hunch about this one. It's a useful thing to have, missy."

  "There's another possibility," said Cullen. "Alec Crombie thinks it could be an Irish worker they had there, a Paddy Kavanagh."

  Stanhope closed his eyes. "Another of my ghosts," he said. "I hadn't been directly involved in that one, but it still rankles."

  "I take it you mean another unsolved case?" asked Cullen.

  Stanhope grinned. "A purer mystery than young Crombie," he said. "We had no leads, nothing."

  "You never solved it?"

  "Nowhere near," said Stanhope. "It's a good while since I retired, who knows what my replacement has managed to do with it? I had a habit of looking at the cold cases every six months, seeing if I could dig something up. That one was pretty much shut again straight away every single time." He rubbed his nose. "It felt mighty strange how we had those two disappearances so close together at the time."

  "Do you think the body could be Paddy Kavanagh?" asked Caldwell.

  Stanhope exhaled. "I don't know," he said. "Either way, I sincerely hope that you pair can exorcise one of my ghosts."

  thirteen

  "This just isn't stacking up for me," said Cullen.

  They were in the Dunpender Distillery car park. Cullen hadn't bothered contacting Bain, but had decided that the next step should be speaking to Fraser Crombie again.

  "We're nowhere until we know who is in the barrel," said Caldwell.

  "I agree," said Cullen, "but there's something that just doesn't feel right to me."

  "Policeman's hunch?"

  Cullen laughed. "Aye, very good," he said. "You did well back there. I was thinking the same thing."

  "What, that he was looking down your top?" asked Caldwell.

  "Careful, you're in danger of becoming as focused as Bain," said Cullen.

  They got out of the car and walked across the gravel. It was quieter outside than the previous day, but there was loud machinery noise coming from inside the buildings. A few workers were taking fag breaks - one of them using the end of one to light another. Cullen knew there was a name for it, but couldn't remember.

  "Can barely hear myself think," said Cullen.

  "You thinking is always a danger," said Caldwell. "Seems like
everyone's forgotten what happened yesterday, though."

  Cullen opened the door to reception and gestured for her to enter first.

  The receptionist was behind her desk, leafing through a magazine. She wore a short skirt and had crossed her legs - Cullen could see why she was getting so much interest from Watson and Murray. He tried to look elsewhere. She looked up, her mouth chewing gum like a certain DS that Cullen could think of. She looked Cullen up and down.

  "Can I help?" she asked, her voice coarse.

  Cullen held his warrant card up. "We need to speak to Fraser Crombie," he said. "It's urgent."

  "He's in the cooperage," she said.

  Cullen placed his hands on the top of the reception desk. "Would you be able to show us where it is?" he asked, smiling.

  "Not allowed to leave my desk unless in an emergency," she said. She tapped a greyscale CCTV monitor to the side. "I'm security as well." She pointed to a door to the left of the desk, the opposite direction from the staircase they'd climbed the previous day. "Just head through there. End of the corridor, down the stair. You can't miss it."

  "Fine," said Cullen. He walked over and pushed at the door and headed on down the corridor.

  Caldwell caught up with him. "Bloody hell, shagger," she said, "you've fair lost your mojo since your thirtieth birthday."

  Cullen stopped and stared at her. "Shagger?" he asked. He shook his head. "I seriously do not need any more nicknames."

  Caldwell held her hands up. "Sorry," she said, sounding anything but.

  "Leave the nicknames to Bain," said Cullen.

  He set off down the corridor again, then went down the staircase. At the bottom was a mesh glass fire door, which he managed to open after a couple of pushes. There were two other doors leading off a small corridor - the one to the right read COOPERAGE. Cullen knocked on the door - no response. He put his ear against the door - it was the source of the loud noise they'd heard outside.

  "Reckon he's in?" asked Caldwell.

  "That's what the receptionist told us," said Cullen, "so it's not technically breaking and entering."

  Cullen pushed the door and it swung open. He went in and was immediately stunned by the sheer size of the room. He knew it was a relatively recent extension and it must have cost a small fortune to build. The walls were lined by rows of completed casks made from a variety of different woods. Bits of barrels lay around on the floor. There were at least forty workbenches dotted around the room in an organised manner - half on each side. At the far end the wall was covered by some complicated-looking machinery - conveyor belts, winches and some large funnels - which Cullen presumed would pour the whisky into the barrels.

  Cullen walked up the gap in the middle. Halfway down he spotted Fraser Crombie, sitting on an old wooden chair. Given the sheer size of the room, he wasn't surprised that he hadn't heard anything. His face was stretched with exertion as he tore away at a barrel, ripping the rim off in a smooth motion. He tossed it down in front of him and set about the body of the barrel, tearing the spars apart. There were another four men at work in there, Doug Strachan was one of them.

  Fraser looked up and saw Cullen approach. He sat back in the chair, set the barrel down on the floor and hung the hammer off the nearest workbench. He grabbed a towel, once white but now smeared with oil, and rubbed his hands. He wiped at his forehead, then got to his feet. "How can I help?" he asked.

  "We wouldn't mind asking you a few questions," said Cullen. "Is there somewhere private we could go?"

  fourteen

  The Distillery had a small canteen, just off the main office space by the reception. It was a tiny windowless room with a table, some chairs and a small section of old kitchen cabinets which housed a kettle, a fridge and a microwave. Fraser Crombie had led them there as a makeshift interview room - if anything particularly useful came up, then Cullen would take him up to Garleton for a formal interview with tape recorders and maybe lawyers. Fraser Crombie and Caldwell sat across the table from him.

  "Tell me about Paddy Kavanagh," said Cullen.

  Fraser scratched at his beard. "Nothing much to tell," he said. "I've worked here full time since I left school and Paddy had been there all that time until he disappeared. He kept himself to himself pretty much, but I got the impression that he was a drifter. I mean, I was just a laddie at the time, only 21, but I could tell a drunk from a mile off." He smoothed down his beard and set his hands down on the table top. "He liked a drink, did Paddy. Other than disappearing, he didn't do anything different to any other casual labourers that we've had in here. They tend to be Polish or Czech nowadays, rather than Irish. But they all drink themselves stupid. They're not that fussed about the whisky, mainly, it's usually beer with them, and lager at that."

  "Do you think it could be Paddy in the barrel?" asked Cullen.

  Fraser shrugged. "I've no idea who is in that barrel."

  "Do you know anyone who could have cause to harm Mr Kavanagh?" asked Cullen. "Anyone who might want to kill him and put him in a whisky barrel."

  "Paddy was a drinker," said Fraser. "He was staying up in Garleton, used to cycle down the back roads here every morning, usually still pissed. Back then, there were a lot more pubs in the town - they're down to the last three, I think. The place that's a Starbucks now used to be the Tanner's Arms and that was where he drank most nights. It was pretty rough. It closed about five years ago - they used to have some wild lock-ins and they ended up just giving their profit away. Starbucks swooped in and it's not a pub any more." Fraser clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, then shook it. "We'd been up there for a few pints with him every so often. Me, Doug and Iain. A couple of times he got into arguments at the bar. You know how it is."

  "Please," said Cullen.

  "Nothing particularly punchy, you know," said Fraser. "But he got chucked out at least once that I know of."

  "Did he ever get barred?"

  "He would be back in there again the next night," said Fraser, "getting stuck into the Guinness."

  "Did he get anyone else barred?"

  "The Tanner was a pub that didn't exactly have a door policy," said Fraser. "As long as they were pretty much sober going in, they'd forget about any misdemeanours in the recent past."

  "Are there any likely suspects from the crowd that he drank with?" asked Cullen. "Anyone he might have upset or maybe owed money to?"

  Fraser shrugged again - Cullen figured that the Olympic shrugging team was missing a potential gold medallist. "I wasn't that close to him," he said. "You'd have to track down some people from back then."

  "Tell me about your trip with your brother, then," said Cullen.

  Fraser screwed his eyes up. "I suspect you've heard it five or six times over already," he said. "What more's to tell?"

  Cullen smiled. "We've heard it a few times now," he said, "but we haven't spoken since we found out that it could be your brother in there."

  Fraser frowned. "Haven't we?"

  "No," said Cullen. "We've heard the story from a few people now, but not from you." He leaned forward. "What's interesting is that only once have we heard about a girl."

  Fraser looked away.

  "Your father didn't mention it either," said Cullen.

  "We agreed not to talk about it," said Fraser, looking back at Cullen. "He wasn't very proud of what Iain did." Fraser let out a sigh. "Iain was married."

  Cullen opened his notebook. "Marion Crombie?" he asked.

  "She was," said Fraser. "She remarried. She's called Marion Parrott now. Lives in Gullane."

  "Can we have her address?" asked Cullen.

  Fraser gave him it.

  "So, Iain was married," said Cullen, "and yet he got involved with this girl at the Festival?"

  "He did, aye," said Fraser.

  He didn't seem intent on providing any more information, but Cullen let him sit there.

  Fraser looked up at Cullen eventually. "We went there to see Spiritualized," he said. "They were Iain's favourite band at the time
, he'd been big into Spacemen 3. You ever heard them?"

  Cullen's flatmate, Tom, had been into them at one point at Uni. It wasn't the sort of thing that Cullen liked, droning space rock with distorted guitars and spaced-out vocals - he vaguely recalled some strong drugs link to them. Cullen much preferred techno - Carl Craig, Plastikman or something German.

  "They met right at the front in the middle of their set," said Fraser. "I can still remember it like it was yesterday. Their eyes just locked onto each other and that was it, they were away."

  Cullen decided to let Caldwell run with it for a few minutes. He gestured for her to take the lead. "And you left them at the festival?" she asked.

  "Aye," said Fraser. "They spent every minute of every day with each other. The bands stopped on the Sunday night. From the number of times I've had to tell this story over the years, I know off by heart that it was the twenty-sixth. I left on the first of July and we'd been sitting around drinking and partying up to that point - there were loads of hippies and crusties sitting around campfires, you know how it is. It's not like nowadays, they were pretty cool about you doing that. I mean, half of our group had just jumped the fence."

  "Why did you come home separately?" asked Caldwell.

  Fraser rubbed at a piercing in his left ear. "Dad told me to get back home," he said. "Needed to get on with the barrels for the next batch."

  Caldwell scribbled something down. "And why did your brother stay there?" she asked.

  Fraser shrugged yet again - Cullen was close to grabbing his shoulders and telling him to quit with the body language. "He was really into this girl," he said. "I mean really into her. Besides, he had nothing much to come home for - his work was mostly finished till the harvest time. We harvest in August, though it was September back then, and we let the barley mature in the building until the early summer. We have two batches - the second is done just before the harvest. That's what makes our whisky unique, more than anything - there are two types of maturation going on." Fraser licked his lips. "Anyway, Iain was treating it like he was on holiday. He knew he'd get a bollocking off the old man, but he didn't seem to care too much about that at the time. We were short on barrels that year so I had to come home and helped Doug sort out the twenty or so that we'd just got shipped over from America - we use second hand barrels from the big industrial bourbon companies."