Bottleneck (12 page)

Rich frowned. "That's the boy who disappeared a few years ago, right?"

"It is," said Cullen. "Do you know anything about it?"

Rich shook his head. "Don't look at me, mate. I was in London at the time."

"Okay," said Cullen, laughing. "Sonny Bangs, then. He seems to know a fair amount about him. Might even be a mate. Spence told me he was let go in the cuts. Is that right?"

Rich nodded. "Alan Stephens is his real name. Think he lives in Midlothian somewhere."

"Thanks."

"I'll text you his mobile number," said Rich.

"Cheers," said Cullen. "I still can't understand why you moved back from London. That place seems decimated."

"It is. I wanted to get away from London and focus on writing books. There was stuff happening at the paper, so I took the easy money. It's much cheaper to live up here, especially on London money."

"It's hard enough living here on Edinburgh money."

Cullen knocked on the door of the modern bungalow in Penicuik and waited, encouraged by the lights and noise from inside.

Alan Stephens answered it, layers of stubble piling up on his face. Cullen's warrant card solicited a surprised look and entrance to the house.

Stephens showed him to the living room. "Sorry about the mess," he said, sitting down on an armchair. "My wife left me three weeks ago."

Cullen figured it was once a family room, but was now descending into bachelor squalor.

"I gather you were let go from the
Argus
. Is that right?"

Stephens nodded. "I've not worked since I was made redundant. I managed to pick up some agency work, but that dried up quickly."

Unlike him, thought Cullen - there were many half-empty bottles of spirits dotted around the place. "That must be difficult."

"Aye," said Stephens. "The cuts have been bad. Even the few lucky ones left will have to work twice as hard for the same money." He stroked his stubble. "The house is on the market. Doubt we'll get what it's worth. My savings are all gone. It's a bloody mess."

Cullen nodded as he took out The Invisibles concert review. "I'm looking for information about one James Strang. You probably knew him as Jimi Danger."

Stephens' eyes narrowed, lost on the page, finding focus for the first time since Cullen had arrived. "Jimi?"

"His body has been found," said Cullen.

Stephens swallowed. Cullen thought he might have sobered up in that instant, a spike of adrenalin purging his system of the alcohol. "I knew the lad had disappeared. He's dead?"

Cullen nodded. "I gather you knew him reasonably well?"

Stephens pinched the bridge of his nose. "I sort of knew him. He used to pester me for gig reviews and features. He had a lot of front, I'll give him that. He was living the life of a rock 'n' roll star, or at least trying to. In my business, it's quite important to build up a legend around the person. Jimi had that already."

"Tell me about that concert," said Cullen.

Stephens shrugged. "You've read my piece. What more do you want to know?"

"It was only a week or so before Mr Strang went missing," said Cullen. "We now believe he was killed at that time."

Stephens stared back at the review clipping. "Jimi looked like he hadn't slept in days. The boy was totally crazed, eyes all over the place. When he went onstage that night, he was drunk out of his head." He pointed at the photo of the singer. "He had a bottle of Jack Daniels on stage with him. Tanned half of it in ten minutes."

"Had you seen them live before?"

"Loads of times," said Stephens. "I used to go to gigs most nights, sometimes in Edinburgh but mostly in Glasgow. I didn't get to see a lot of stuff I liked, but I loved what that band did. My sort of music."

"How did Mr Strang seem over the few months leading up to his disappearance?" said Cullen.

"I saw them about six or seven times in that last year," said Stephens, "and I'd say he got progressively worse over the last few months."

"Worse in what way?"

"One of the things I heard Jimi talking about was a record deal," said Stephens. "I think it fell through and he struggled to cope with it."

"Can you elaborate?" said Cullen.

"He reckoned they were offered a contract," said Stephens. "They'd taken it through lawyers and so on and they were close to signing. Something happened. I don't know what. It was pulled. No idea why. Jimi just sort of imploded after that."

Cullen felt a flare of irritation. Why hadn't this come from the band?

He needed to speak to them again.

Back at Leith Walk station, Buxton was working at a laptop in the Incident Room.

"Have you seen Chantal?" said Cullen.

Buxton looked up. "Think she headed off to see a mate."

Anger started to well up in Cullen before he remembered the number of times he'd left early while a major investigation was underway. "I wanted an update from her. Crystal will be chewing my balls about it, no doubt."

"Sorry, mate," said Buxton. "Anything I can help with?"

"Doubt it," said Cullen. "How'd you get on with the workmates?"

"Needle in a bloody haystack," said Buxton. "Even figuring out who was working there at the time is next to impossible. They were all casual labour. The level of documentation is light, shall we say."

Cullen sighed - it was another Methven red herring. "Are you in tomorrow?"

"I can't, mate," said Buxton. "As I told Crystal earlier, I've got to go to a wedding. In Fife of all places. Arse end of Dunfermline. You?"

"No choice," said Cullen, feeling the entire case on his shoulders. "I've got a mountain of stuff to get through. Aside from this one, I need to get on top of just about every other case I've had in the last month. They all seem to be heading to court at the same time."

Buxton got to his feet and stretched. "I'll be thinking of you when I'm drinking Stella tomorrow."

"Yeah, in Dunfermline," said Cullen.

Buxton laughed. "You know, that paperwork sounds more appealing by the minute." He flicked his hair back again. "We got nowhere with the friends Johnson and Williamson gave us. Me and Chantal spoke to every single one of them. Nothing."

"What about the flatmates?" said Cullen.

"Nothing so far," said Buxton. "Only managed to track half of them."

Cullen furrowed his brow. "Remember his mother said something about a girl, Jane maybe? Did anyone mention it?"

Buxton flicked through his notebook. "Don't think so, mate." He tapped on a page. "Oh, Crystal got Charlie Kidd to go through his Facebook, Myspace, Google+ and Schoolbook accounts."

"No Twitter?" said Cullen.

"Not that we could find, but I wouldn't put it past him." Buxton shrugged. "Anyway, Charlie found nothing. Strang just spammed people about gigs and CDs. Not so much as a personal message in there."

"Worth a shot, I suppose," said Cullen, irritated by Methven going over his head.

"Need anything else from me?" said Buxton.

Cullen shook his head. "That's probably it. Have fun tomorrow."

Buxton sloped off, leaving Cullen alone in the Incident Room. He sat down at his laptop and starting sifting through the last few days' emails, which only added to his action list. He completed a few of the more important items, the tasks most likely to incur a bollocking if not completed.

He took a break after half an hour, deciding music would help. He opened the YouTube app on his phone and found a video for The Invisibles' only proper single -
Goneaway
- in amongst a load of concert footage taken on smartphones.

As he worked, typing up sections of his notebook, he listened to the video on a loop. He found himself singing another tune, eventually working out it was an Expect Delays song, an older one that irritated him as much as their new single.

The music cut off - he had an incoming call from Methven.

"Good evening, Sergeant."

"Evening, sir," said Cullen. "I tried looking for you, but couldn't see you anywhere?"

Methven groaned down the line. "Got a dinner party tonight. I'm on dessert duties. Had to get a selection of cheese in and now I'm making baked Alaska. The whole thing is costing me an arm and a leg."

"Your wife earns a fair wedge, though," said Cullen. He didn't know how much he wanted to push it - Methven was easy to get a rise out of, but he was certainly one to lash out quickly.

"Give me an update," said Methven, sounding in no mood for banter.

Cullen briefed him - other than discovering Alex Hughes' death, the only real progress he'd made that day was with Stephens.

"And Bain is running the Hughes investigation," said Cullen, closing off.

"DI Bain?" said Methven. "Sodding hell. I'll need to strategise with Alison on this."

"You got off lightly," said Cullen. "You didn't have to speak to him."

"Going back to this band, then," said Methven, "they were offered a record deal and it was subsequently rescinded. Is that correct?"

"That seems to be the size of it," said Cullen.

"And you got nothing of this from the other members of the band?" said Methven.

"Not even a sniff."

"Interesting," said Methven. "You mentioned Strang felt under a lot of pressure. Could it be suicide?"

"You were at the post mortem," said Cullen. "I wasn't. What did Deeley reckon?"

"It was Sweeney, not Deeley," said Methven. "He just attended."

Cullen rolled his eyes. "What did
she
reckon, then?"

"That suicide was highly unlikely," said Methven. "Given the forensic evidence we subsequently obtained, it was upgraded to impossible."

Cullen was glad Methven couldn't see him making faces. "We could use it to our advantage with Bain. Suggesting it's not a murder would clearly separate the cases."

"No games here," said Methven. "We do things by the book."

"Bain will play games," said Cullen. "You know he'll ride roughshod over this, try to find some easy suspect and we'll have to stop him from getting up to God knows what."

"You're probably right," said Methven, "but I don't like to play that way. What other leads do we have?"

Cullen looked at his notebook. "I need to speak to the other two about this record deal. Having access to the Strathclyde files on this Hughes guy might be a good idea as well. Other than that, Strang comes from Dalhousie, which is where I'm from. I could do some more digging up there."

"It's an option," said Methven.

Cullen didn't know where else he could steer the conversation. "I'm going to write up where we've got to, then I'm going to head. Is that okay with you?"

"I'll let you decide, Sergeant."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Cullen.

"You're a DS now, Cullen, I expect you to exert the judgment of one."

In the end Cullen decided to finish typing up his notes before going home, figuring any evidence Methven had of him falling behind wouldn't be in his favour. He left the station just before ten, leaving his car in the garage.

He walked onto Leith Street, passing the Saturday night crowds leaving the Playhouse or piling into the club in the Omni centre. He didn't know the name of it - he'd only been to the cinema with Sharon a few times. He crossed Waterloo Place onto North Bridge, the bitter wind slicing through him.

He passed the smokers outside the Royal Mile pubs and wondered where his life had got to. Usually, he'd just be starting to get into his Saturday night stride, already mentally navigating the optimal route between bars and clubs, but instead he'd worked until ten. All because of the restructure and the dangled carrot of promotion.

Monday was the big day of reckoning, when the force would change for good. At the back of his mind was the fact he'd heard nothing. Aside from Methven's innuendo and pep talks, nobody had formally briefed him. He hoped no news was good news.

At the entrance to the close, he spotted a teenager pissing against the bins just behind the stair door.

Cullen called after him, making the ned hurriedly tuck himself in before running off. He shook his head as he unlocked the main door, counting the number of times he'd done something similar.

As he hung up his coat, Fluffy started bleating again. Cullen knelt down. "Are you a guard dog trapped in the body of a fat cat?"

The cat reared up and rubbed his chin against Cullen's finger.

"He's sensitive about his weight," said Sharon from the bedroom.

Cullen walked through. He kissed her on the forehead then sat on the edge of the bed.

"No kiss on the lips?" she said.

"I don't want to catch your germs," said Cullen.

Sharon smiled. "Believe me,
I
don't want you to catch it."

"How are you doing?"

She groaned. Her hair was lank and greasy and her eyes puffy. "I've been in bed all day, choked with this bloody bug. I feel terrible. I'm shivering. That's not good, is it?"

"Could be flu," said Cullen.

"I told you I've got the flu."

"Not what most people call a cold," said Cullen. "
Actual
flu, as in influenza."

"Pedant," said Sharon, smiling. "I'm supposed to be back in on Monday but I don't know if I'll make it." She grimaced. "This is the worst possible time to be sick."

"Take it easy," said Cullen. "The most important thing is to get well. People die of flu."

"Thanks. That's really cheered me up."

"Have you had your ginger bed friend while I've been away?" said Cullen.

Sharon grinned mischievously. "I've substituted one ginger for another."

"I'm hardly ginger," said Cullen. "Fuck's sake."

She held his hand. "I'm just joking. You're clearly dark blonde."

"My hair is
brown
," said Cullen. "My stubble might be ginger, but I'm never doing Movember. Happy to pay for the privilege, mind, but nobody wants to see my moustache."

"I forgot you were so sensitive about your colouring," she said, smiling.

"What have you been up to today?" said Cullen.

"Just reading. Chantal came round for a bit."

"Right, so you're the friend she was going to see," said Cullen, looking away.