Cowboys and Indians (3 page)

‘Situation? Having a kid with me’s a situation?’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Come on, we’ve both got good jobs. It’s not like we’d be bringing her up on benefits or whatever.’

‘I can’t believe I let myself get pregnant.’

‘That takes two, you know. It’s my fault as much as yours.’

She pinched her nose. ‘Look, I need to work out how I feel, okay?’

‘Sorry, I just thought, you know…’ He shrugged.

‘It’s okay.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘Let’s try again in the morning. We’re both off work.’

He grabbed her in his arms, kissing her on the top of her head. ‘Take all the time you need, okay?’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen blinked at the light, sun streaming through the bedroom window. Warm skin caressed his back, fresh perfume. The firm stub of a nipple dug into his shoulder blade. ‘You’re awake, then?’

Sharon pecked him on the neck. ‘Do you need more sleep?’

‘It’s okay.’ Cullen spotted the alarm clock. 07:53. Way too early. He rolled over and put an arm around her.

Hair tied up. Some makeup. Lipstick glistened in the light. She leaned forward, eyes closing, and kissed him. Wet lips on his.

He pulled her close, his cock already erect, brushing her thigh through his shorts. Bursting for a piss. He sucked her nipple. Then lay back. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

She leaned back on the pillow, hand on her forehead. ‘I just cleaned the sink yesterday.’

‘Very good.’ Cullen hopped through, his abdomen tingling. He sat on the seat, still warm. Urine splashed on the porcelain. He let out a breath. That’s better.

His phone blasted out from the hall, clattering drums and jangling guitar.
Crystal
by New Order. He wandered through and checked the display.

Methven calling…

Stared at the bedroom door for a second before answering it. ‘Sir.’

‘Cullen, I need you to attend a crime scene at Dean Bridge.’

‘Supposed to be my day off.’

‘Mine too. Had to cancel my sodding triathlon.’

Cullen let out a sigh. ‘What’s happened?’

‘There’s a body.’

‘I’ll be about an hour.’

‘Now, Sergeant.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can. What’s—’
 

The line clicked dead.

‘—happened?’ Cullen sighed as he ended the call. He dumped the phone back on the ledge in the hall and stomped through to the bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘I’ve got to go to work.’

Sharon pulled the duvet up to her neck. ‘Right.’

‘I’m sorry. You know what it’s like.’

‘Don’t I just.’

Sunday

18th May 2014

Cullen pulled up at the side of the road, leaving just enough room for the Bell’s Brae traffic to scrape past Sharon’s orange Focus. Still hadn’t replaced the battered Golf he’d totalled last year. He got out and traipsed down the cobbles, damp from the morning’s rain. He turned right and trudged past wild trees, cars and a mill building. The water of Leith thundered on the left, heavy after a week-long deluge. Typical for an Edinburgh May.

A SOCO van filled the gap at the end. On the left, a few uniforms took statements on benches around an old millstone. Up ahead, police tape sealed off an old turreted building.

He flashed his warrant card at the uniform guarding access. ‘DS Cullen.’

‘Right you are, Sarge.’ He handed over a clipboard. ‘DI Methven said you’re to get through there ASAP.’

As he signed, Cullen glanced up at the curved bridge above them, maybe twenty metres away. Then at the SOCO tent below it, the perimeter’s guardian in full-on Smurf suit. ‘Take it we’ve got a faller.’

‘That’s what I heard, Sarge.’

‘Cheers.’ Cullen plodded across the tarmac towards the tent and grabbed a suit from the adjacent pile.

A figure stormed out of the white and blue fabric and tugged the mask down. Methven. ‘Try harder, Mr Deeley. This is clearly a murder.’

Jimmy Deeley, the city’s chief pathologist, followed Methven out of the tent and dumped his medical bag on the ground. He tore off his romper suit. Silver hair gelled into spikes, red trousers hiding underneath a Harris tweed coat with elbow patches. ‘That’s not for me to say, Colin. Let me do my job and you can do yours.’

‘I wish you’d do it with a tad more haste, that’s all.’

Cullen put a leg into his SOCO suit.

‘Sarge?’ The voice came from behind. DC Chantal Jain folded her arms, her jacket crumpling. Salon-perfect hair, pale lipstick clashing with her hot-chocolate skin. ‘How’s it hanging?’

‘Straight down the middle, as ever.’ Cullen zipped up the front of his suit, shaking his head at Methven and Deeley as they jabbed fingers at each other. ‘Haven’t spoken to our Lord and Master yet.’

‘That can only be a good thing.’ Jain’s zip caught halfway up. She tugged at it, freeing the mechanism. ‘Is that Sharon’s car back there?’

‘She’s off today.’

‘Bet she’s happy about you being in.’

‘Is that sarcasm?’ Cullen charged off towards Methven. ‘Sir.’

‘Cullen, right. Good.’ Methven focused on Cullen and Jain. ‘Thanks for your prompt arrival.’

‘Is the guy still alive?’

Deeley grimaced. ‘Landed on his head and neck. Fractured his spine. Snapped the carotid artery and bled out internally, though he’d have been unconscious for most of it.’

‘Poor guy.’ Cullen stared up at the bridge. ‘It’s not a big fall from up there, though.’

‘This boy’s just been unlucky.’ Deeley dumped his suit in the discard pile. ‘I’ll be off, Colin.’

Methven took a step back and clasped his hands. ‘I’ll speak to you later, Jimmy.’

‘You won’t.’

‘What?’

‘It’s my son’s wedding today. I need to be in my kilt at twelve. Katherine’s on her way in. She’ll do the PM for you.’

‘Then we’ll catch up tomorrow.’

Deeley gave a salute. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Cullen signed him and Jain into the crime scene. ‘Any idea who it is?’

‘Not yet.’ Methven led over to the tent’s entrance and pointed inside. ‘Uniform responded to a call from a jogger this morning. Local CID handed it to us half an hour ago.’

‘So it’s suspicious?’ Cullen nudged him aside to get a better look inside.

A middle-aged man lay on his front, naked except for white Calvin Kleins. Rolled over on one side, a deep tan stopping at his waist, heavy belly clinging to the tarmac. Long hair hauled back over a thinning patch, still in place.

Methven lifted the left hand and pushed out the ring finger. ‘He’s married.’

Two suited figures hauled the body over onto his back. The face was a riot of blood, the jaw hanging open, dead eyes half closed.

Methven walked over to the perimeter and unzipped his suit. ‘All we’ve got is six foot one IC1 male in his forties with a heavy build. Doesn’t match any active MisPers. No tattoos or other distinguishing features at present. Deeley reckons the time of death was four a.m.’

‘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.’

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?’