Cowboys and Indians (33 page)

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘Who?’

‘Paul Vaccaro. Mr UC Partners. The name you got from my phone.’

‘I could ask my source.’

‘You’re going to tell me their name.’

‘Fuck off, Scott.’

‘You’re really pissing me off.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, Skinky, but you don’t realise how fucked things are for me.’

‘Call your guy.’

‘Come o—’

‘
Now
.’

‘In the morning.’ Rich pushed him away and stomped across the club to the toilets.

Cullen glared at him. Cheeky fucker. ‘I’m heading home.’

Lorna finished her Sambuca and glanced up at him. ‘You sure?’ She slurred her words. Eyes weren’t staying open. ‘What was that all about?’

‘He’s being a wanker.’

She held Buxton’s hand up in the air. ‘We should go dancing! Right now! After another round.’

‘I’m good.’ Cullen finished his beer.

‘I’ve still got the corporate card, Scott. Another round, then you can do whatever you want.’

‘No.’

‘Come on. Simon’s just got promoted—’

‘It’s
not
a promotion.’ Buxton downed his Sambuca and took a suck of lager. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘Okay, whatever. Still deserves a toast. Come on.’

Cullen exchanged a look with Buxton. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Simon?’

‘Not had a Grolsch in ages.’

‘Tom?’

‘I’ll go for that. Get Rich one too.’

Cullen scowled. ‘Only if I can piss in it first.’

‘Back in a sec.’ Lorna sprang to her feet, grabbed the tray and darted off.

Cullen shook his head. ‘Seeing a different side to her tonight.’

‘She’s quite the girl. Professional as you like during the day, but get a wine inside her, and boom!’

Tap on the shoulder. Whisper in his ear. ‘We’ve caught him.’

Cullen shifted round in the seat and frowned at Sharon, Jain standing next to her. ‘The guy in the toilet?’

‘Pocketful of roofies.’ She kissed him on the lips, lingering. ‘I’ll see you when I get home. Don’t stay too late, okay?’

‘I’ll head soon.’

‘See you.’ Sharon squeezed his shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

Jain reached over and took a glug of Buxton’s beer. ‘Have another one, you big twat.’

Cullen rolled his eyes at her. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Come on, you’re off the lead. Man up, Scott.’

‘Now you realise why I gave you to Sharon.’

‘Watch it. Come on. Be thankful you’re not working like me and Shaz. Just one. For me?’

‘The more you push, the less likely I’ll have another one.’

Buxton leaned over to whisper something to Jain. ‘Can I fuck you?’ Far too loud.

Her eyes darted around. She leaned in and breathed into his ear. ‘Fuck off, Simon.’ She raced off after Sharon.

Buxton winked at Cullen. ‘See? I’ve got no chance with her.’ He stood up. ‘Need a slash.’

‘Might need to be more subtle, mate.’ Tom laughed and took another drink.

Lorna put the tray down, three fancy beer bottles and a glass of rosé. ‘Here you go.’

‘Cheers.’ Tom rattled the open cap and took a slug. ‘Fancy bottle, but it’s still the usual fizzy pish.’

Lorna sat down across from Cullen. ‘Where’s Simon?’

Cullen eyed Rich’s bottle, his mouth watering. ‘He’s gone to the toilet.’

‘Right.’

Tom took another drink. ‘Were you trying it on with him?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re such a cougar, Lorna. We’ll have to sift through your lair for his bones.’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ She gulped down wine. ‘That your girlfriend?’

Cullen shrugged. ‘Just collared a serial rapist, by the looks of things.’

She shook her head. ‘Fucking scumbags.’

‘Who, the police?’

‘No, rapists.’

‘Right.’ Cullen grabbed Rich’s bottle and took a long drink. ‘Shame for that to go to waste.’

Lorna rolled her eyes at him. ‘So you are drinking, after all?’

Cullen stared at the bottle. ‘Aye, fuck it.’

She shook her head. ‘Better get Rich another, then.’

‘Great idea. You’re the one holding the purse.’

She raised her bag. ‘Ha, very good.’ She put her glasses back on and wandered off towards the bar.

Tom clattered his bottle down, fizz boiling up. ‘Rich said you guys had lunch today.’

‘Aye, and?’

‘Seriously, mate. Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. Just had some…’ Another slug of beer. ‘Some bad news. That’s all.’

‘This about Rich writing that book about the Schoolbook killer?’

‘What?’

‘Shite.’ Tom tried to hide behind his bottle. ‘It’s not, is it?’

‘Is that what his crime novel’s about?’

‘Reckons it’ll be a big seller. Some publisher in Glasgow’s after it.’

‘What a total wanker.’

‘Asked me to set up an interview with Rob Thomson.’

‘Have you?’

‘Of course not.’

Cullen picked up the bottle, clattering the cap off the side, and took a pull of beer.

Lorna sat down with another Grolsch for Rich. ‘Here we go.’

Buxton sat next to her. ‘That’s better.’

She handed him a bottle. ‘Here you go.’

‘Cheers.’ Buxton necked half of it in one go. ‘Classy beer, this.’

Lorna tapped her wine glass against Tom’s, then Cullen’s. ‘Come on, boys. Drink up. Time to dance!’

‘Jesus.’ Cullen took his down to halfway. ‘You always like this with some booze in you?’

‘Quite a lot, yeah.’

Rich sat down. ‘You still got that corporate card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we get some more shooters in?’

‘Later, maybe. After we’ve been dancing!’

Cullen leaned over to Rich. ‘Tom told me about the book.’

‘What book?’

‘The one you’re writing about me.’

Rich pinched his nose. ‘Jesus.’

‘So you are writing it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You need to stop, okay? I don’t need any more shit at work.’

‘You’re not stopping me, mate. It’s my way out of this shite.’

‘I met someone else who’s writing one.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Guy called Porteous.’

Rich’s eyes bulged. ‘What?’

‘You heard—’

‘Would you two please stop arguing!’ Lorna bounced to her feet. ‘Come, let’s dance!’

‘Aye, go on.’ Rich got up and nodded at a guy at the next table. ‘Keep an eye on our drinks, will you? I’ll buy you one next round.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen opened his eyes. Music thumped from somewhere. Deep thuds like a migraine. Rumbling bassline.

Just him in the booth. Empty table. Where’s Tom? Where’s Rich? Where’s … thingy. Lorna. Where’s Lorna? Where’s Budgie?

Fuckers left me.

He swallowed, stomach growling. No food since the pizza at lunchtime. Saliva filled his mouth. Going to be sick.

He lurched to his feet, dizzy. His legs went and he collapsed back down. Stared at the table. Empty bottle of Grolsch in front of him. Empty wine glass opposite. Another empty next to it.

Where the hell were they?

Tom? Bastard.

Rich? Lying fucker.

Took another go at getting up. Swayed a bit. Jesus. His stomach lurched again. He stumbled across to the toilets and pushed the door, leaned against it, forehead touching wood.

What the fuck was going on?

He pushed into the toilet, swaying past the guy with the aftershave. ‘Fuck your perfume.’

Lurched over the tiles into trap one. Down to his knees. Opened wide. Vomit hit the pan, sharp in his nostrils. Burnt his throat.

He hugged the toilet bowl. Retched again. Shiiiiiiiiit. And again. Shit. Shite. Shit. Shite.

He rocked back on his heels. Tumbled against the door. Eyes shut, puffing in air.

Tried to get up. Nothing. Fumbled his phone out of his pocket. Dropped it on the tiles. Picked it up and held down the home key. ‘Call Sharon.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t get that.’

‘Call Sharon.’

‘Sorry, I’m not sure what you said.’

‘Call Sharon.’

‘I didn’t quite get that.’

‘Call Sharon.’

‘Ok, I didn’t think so.’

‘Call Sharon.’

‘Calling Sharon.’

The line clicked.
‘Hello, Scott.’

He held the phone out. ‘Help.’

‘Scott?’

‘Help.’

He dropped the phone. Christ. Shite.

Knock on the door. ‘Sir, are you okay in there?’

‘I’m fine.’

Another knock. ‘Sir?’

Stuffed his phone in his pocket. ‘Said I’m fine.’

‘You don’t sound it. We’re—’

‘Police.’

‘No, we’re door staff. We need you to leave, sir.’

‘Police.’

‘Sir, we’re coming in there.’

The door cracked into his back, the edge digging into his side. ‘Ow.’

A hand grabbed his arm and pushed him forward. Hauled him up.

He collapsed to his knees again.

‘Come on, sir. It’s time to leave.’

‘F-f-f-four drinks.’

‘This isn’t four drinks.’

Yanked up, feet off the ground. He opened his eyes, everything swimming around him. ‘Police.’

‘Sir, we can get the police involved once you’re outside.’

‘I’m police. Me.’

‘What?’

‘DS.’ Burp. ‘Cullen. Scott.’

A pause. ‘Let’s get you some fresh air.’ Another voice.

Eyes shut again. They dragged him through the club.

Cold air hit his face. The drone of traffic. Someone singing the Beach Boys, shouting
“Sloop John B”
. ‘Thank you.’

‘We’ll get you a taxi, sir.’

Cullen rested against something hard. A shoulder, rock solid under the T-shirt.

‘Aye, it’s fifty quid if he chucks his ringer, okay?’ A warm hand on his back. ‘I’ll take him home. Come on, son.’

Saturday

24th May 2014

The taxi driver let go of his arm. ‘You okay now, mate?’

Cullen grunted, holding out his mobile. Warm air on his face. The flat door in front of him. ‘Where’s Sharon?’

‘Who’s Chantal?’

‘
Sharon
.’

‘Oh, Sharon. No idea, pal. Look, in you go, okay? I’ve got to get back to work.’ Footsteps clattered down the stairs.

Cullen flopped against the stairwell wall and dropped his keys. He reached down to pick them up. Collapsed to his knees, head against the tiles. Christ.

His phone rang. Couldn’t focus on it. Just blurry. He swiped the screen. ‘Hello?’

‘Scott?’

‘Mm?’

‘Scott, where the hell are you?’

‘I’m here?’

‘It’s Sharon! Where the hell—’

‘Mm. Bye.’ Cullen frowned through the keys, picking out the front door one. Maybe. Looked up at the doors. Is this the right floor? Maybe. Keys in the lock. Opened the door. Stairwell light crawled across the laminate, the flat dark.

Fluffy cantered through from the living room, blinking into the light. ‘Ma-wow!’

Cullen knelt down and stroked him. Tumbled over onto his back.

‘Ma-wow!’

‘Is your mummy not here?’ He eased the door shut with a foot and got up on all fours. Then stood, started creeping through the dark hall into the living room. He flicked the light on. Empty.

‘Jesus.’ A sweet tang hit his nostrils. ‘Fluffy, you dirty—’ Burp. ‘Boy.’

‘Ma-wow!’

‘I’ll get you some food first.’ Cullen scooped the mug into his food tin and tipped biscuits into a clean bowl. They clattered all over the floor. He tumbled over again, cracking his head off the cooker. ‘Shite!’

Fluffy cracked biscuits with his teeth, splinters hitting the floor.

‘You could say thanks, boy.’ Cullen held up his phone, trying to focus on it.

Sharon calling…

The front door thudded open. ‘Scott, you’re really scaring the shite out of me. Where are you?’

Cullen stared up at the underside of the extractor unit. ‘In.’ Burp. ‘Here.’

Footsteps in the living room. Louder. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I can’t get up.’

‘Scott.’ A sigh. ‘For fuck’s sake. You’re shit-faced.’

‘Not my fault.’

‘Whose was it? Tom’s? Budgie’s?’

‘Not my fault.’

‘How much did you have?’

‘Four.’

‘Four bottles of Jägermeister?’

‘Beer. Gottles of geer.’

‘Why are you so pissed?’

‘Mm. Love you, sweety biscuits.’

‘You lying bastard.’

‘Four gottles of geer.’

‘Can’t believe this.’

‘And if one little bottle should accidentally fall—’

‘Scott, how much did you really have?’

‘—there’d be no sticks of dynamite and no fucking wall.’

‘Scott.’ She pinched his cheek. ‘How much did you have?’

‘Four gottles of geer.’

‘Scott, did you leave your drink alone in there?’

‘Are you dancing?’

‘Scott! Did you—’

‘Are you asking?’

‘Scott! I asked if you’d—’

‘I’m asking.’

‘Scott!’

‘I’m dancing.’

‘Did you go dancing?’

‘Mm. Dancing. Don’t leave the drinks!’

‘Shite.’ Silence. ‘Chantal? It’s me. Aye. Get the duty doctor round here. I think Scott’s been roofied.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen blinked hard. Was that Chantal Jain? ‘What, where am I?’

Jain shook his wrist. ‘It’s okay, Scott.’

‘Did you shag Buxton?’

‘What?’

‘Did you do the nicey nice with Buxton?’ Cullen closed his eyes again. ‘Mm. Sleepy.’

‘This won’t hurt, Sergeant.’

‘Mm?’

Tightness around his left arm. A sharp prick, just below the left elbow. ‘There we go.’

‘What?’ Cullen blinked his eyes open, struggling to focus on the blurry figure leaning over him, holding up a syringe full of blood. ‘Who are you?’

‘It’s Dr Carnegie, Sergeant. You know me.’ He got out another syringe. ‘Here we go.’

Another prick. Left wrist. Sharp.

‘Ow.’

‘That’s the Romazicon injected now, Inspector.’

Sharon appeared, frowning. ‘That’ll counteract the Rohypnol?’

‘Five minutes. Assuming he
was
spiked.’

‘Spiked?’ Cullen rubbed around the tingle in his arm. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Scott, could someone have put something in your drink?’