Dyed in the Wool (5 page)

Cullen was about to continue his rant, but he spotted a familiar face approach their table.

DI Paul Wilkinson. "Sharon, Curren. Not at all surprised that I'd find you pair here skiving off, like." He sat, taking his coffee, paper and two link-sausage rolls off his tray which he lay against the table leg. He took a huge bite from a roll and shook his head slowly.

Sharon smiled. "What brings you back here?"

"Renovations at HQ ahead of April. They had some spare office space here on the third floor, just above your lot. Supposed to be six weeks but we'll bloody see. Don't know what's wrong with the current bloody system. Why do you Jocks want a single police force, anyway?"

"Wasn't aware that we did." Cullen scrunched his roll wrapper into a ball. "I don't remember the referendum."

Wilkinson wagged his finger at him. "I forgot how much I enjoyed your cheek, Curren."

"Cullen."

"Right, lad, right, No need to get all shirty about it, like."

Cullen's nostrils flared.

Sharon beat him to it. "Is that just two months you've been gone, Wilko? Doesn't feel that long."

"It'd feel a lot longer if I'd still been your boss." Wilkinson laughed. "How's old Bain doing? Still fighting that bloody nightmare woman?"

"You know exactly what he's like. And yes, he's still up to his tricks, mainly centred around DI Cargill."

Wilkinson finished chewing his first roll, sausage fat dripping down his chin. "Always one for his games is Brian and not one to give up easily, even when he's clearly lost."

"You think he's on his way out?"

Wilkinson shook his head. "Of course he bloody is. Writing's been on the wall for almost a year. Why do you think I've been trying to sort out my detachment?"

"What's your detachment?"

"Football hooligan unit. Little bastards are playing at it again." Wilkinson took a big slurp of coffee. "It's good for me, though. It's what I did back in God's own country, investigating Leeds, Bradford and Sheffield United fans. It's why they brought me up here in the first place, but it took them so bloody long to get budget approved that I ended up stuck with Turnbull and babysitting Bain. Still, I've got where I wanted, working on the strategy. It's a long-term investigation."

He took a big bite out of the second roll, over half of it going in. "It's come down from the Home Office. It's one of the Chief Constable's biggest priorities. I'm in a good position."

"I don't get football hooliganism." Sharon folded her arms. "Why do people fight about it?"

Cullen held his hands up in defence. "I've not been in a fight about football since I was nine."

Wilkinson laughed. "Blokes will fight over anything. Cameras, cars, computers."

Cullen nodded. "Absolutely. They're not fighting about football. They're generally just arseholes trying to prove how hard they are."

"Totally. I've seen it up and down the country. There are particular hotspots - Millwall, Chelsea and West Ham in London, Leeds United and, of course, your very own Hibs, Rangers and Aberdeen."

Sharon took a sip of tea. "What about Celtic?"

"They're not really big on it." Wilkinson finished his roll. "Funnily enough, same as your Hearts boys through here. That said, they are getting worse."

"Why?"

"Sectarianism."

"I thought that was getting better?"

"It's just been driven underground, that's all."

"I really do not get sectarianism." Sharon pushed her tray over to the other side of the table. "I grew up in a Catholic family and I got dog's abuse from Protestant kids at school. I didn't even go to church."

"I'm investigating a bloody stabbing with sectarian links." Wilkinson rubbed his hand across his mouth. "There was a fight in an old quarry in West Lothian. Something stupid like Hearts and Rangers against Celtic and Hibs. Two boys got killed." He held up the newspaper, open at a page. The headline read Police appeal for witnesses in quarry stabbings.

Cullen glanced through the first paragraph and spotted the names Beveridge and Crossan, neither of which meant anything to him.

Wilkinson put the paper back down. "Never trust a bloody hooligan. Supposed to be no knives at these things. Some fucker brought one along and used it. Not that we've bloody found it, mind." He finished his coffee. "Still, it's a high profile investigation."

Cullen narrowed his eyes. "Is this connected to our case?"

"Not you and all." Wilkinson folded his arms. "I've already had Bain up my trouser legs like a ferret. We sat down with a few of my boys late last night and there's no connection. Your pair weren't involved, as far as we can tell."

Cullen wondered how thoroughly Bain and Wilkinson had actually looked, neither being the most diligent officers. "No issue then, is there?"

"None at all." Wilkinson grabbed his newspaper and got up. "Better get back to the grindstone." He waddled off towards the lift, tugging at his trousers as he walked.

Cullen looked back at Sharon. "Never even asked about the case we’re working on."

Sharon laughed. "He's like that. I know you never worked with him that closely, but he's not that bad. Just a bit self-centred."

"Maybe I saw the bad side of him, but all DIs seem to only have a bad side."

"I tell you what, though, he's pretty good at spinning a story. Truth is Turnbull got fed up with him and sidelined him. Bain's worried he's next."

"And with good reason."

*
*
*

Just after eight o'clock, Cullen sat staring into space, haunted by what Buxton had said earlier.

Keith Miller. Dead in the line of duty. The reason for his counselling. The initial reason, anyway. Cullen still struggled with the guilt.

He picked up the phone and dialled Derek Miller, Keith's brother.

"What do you want?"

"Charming." Cullen leaned back in the chair. "How are you doing?"

"Fine." Derek's voice was clipped.

"What's with all the hostility?"

"Nothing. I'm at work and it's early. What do you want, Scotty?"

"I just wondered if you wanted to meet up for a pint. We've not seen each other for a few months."

"Here was me thinking you'd stopped fancying me."

Cullen rubbed his face with his free hand - Derek had a similar sense of humour to his late brother. "Do you want to meet up, then?"

"Aye, all right. I've got a spare ticket for Hibs-Dundee on Saturday. Three o'clock kick off."

"Go on, then. Windsor Buffet at two?"

"Deal. I'll warn you now, Scotty, it's twenty-five sheets."

"For Hibs playing Dundee?"

"Aye, tell me about it. Got to go, right. I'll see you at the Windsor at two, aye?"

"Aye." Cullen hung up and stared at his notepad, half-filled with scribbles.

Sharon slumped in the chair next to Cullen. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Derek Miller."

"Oh."

"Aye. Budgie mentioned Keith earlier and it made me think about him. I haven't seen Derek in months. I'm going to the football with him on Saturday."

"That's fine. I'm supposed to be at a baby shower in the afternoon."

"I know that."

"It's not like I want to go anyway." She grinned. "Where have you got to?"

"Nothing much." Cullen looked down at his pad. "Xander Aitken originally came from Ravencraig. By my reckoning, he grew up on the second roughest street in the town."

She chuckled. "What's the worst?"

"Next one over. You can see why I don't want to live there."

"Go on."

"Aitken was twenty-three when he died, three months from his next birthday." Cullen help up his crime sheet. "Had some misdemeanours in his teens, but he appears to have knuckled down from seventeen onwards. Well, nothing's been recorded."

"It could be he's just better at not getting caught."

"Right, except for the fact he worked for RBS. The banks have a strict policy on criminal records."

"More Tom info?"

"Right. Alba Bank, HBoS, RBS, they're all fairly similar." Cullen checked the pad again. "That's pretty much all I've got - age and profession."

"That's more than me." She got up and walked off.

Cullen looked at the pad. All roads lead to RBS. He called the central switchboard and asked to be put through to Alexander Aitken's desk. The phone rang for a few seconds before being answered.

"Xander Aitken's phone." The female voice was clearly out of breath.

"Can I ask who I'm speaking to?"

A gasp for breath. "This is Sheena O'Brien. I'm Xander's line manager. To whom am I speaking?"

"Ms O'Brien, this is Detective Constable Scott Cullen of Lothian & Borders. I need to speak to you concerning Mr Aitken."

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. "Is everything okay?"

"I need to speak to you. Urgently. It would be better done face-to-face."

"Okay." She paused and he heard a ruffle of papers. "I'm free until eleven."

"Where are you based?"

"Drummond House."

"I know it. See you at the back of nine."

"I'll book you a visitor space."

"Sorry, I've not got your number plate listed." The security guard held up a clipboard in his hut at the entrance to Drummond House.

Cullen ground his teeth. "Can you phone Sheena O'Brien, please?"

"It's not on the system, son."

Cullen held up his warrant card. "Just let us in, okay?"

The guard held up his hands. "Aye, on you go, then. But if anyone asks-"

"It wasn't you. Got it." Cullen drove off as the barrier raised. He glanced over at Caldwell. "What a wanker."

"Tell me about it."

Cullen found an empty parking space and pulled in. "Here we go." They got out and headed over to the front door.

A burlier security guard stood in front of the door.

Cullen flashed his warrant card again. "Police. Here to see Sheena O'Brien."

The guard pointed back towards the roundabout they'd driven across moments ago. "You'll need to go through the main entrance and get signed in, sir."

Cullen held the warrant card out for longer. "This is police business."

"Fire regulations, sir. You need to get signed in."

Cullen stared at him. Not worth getting into anything. "Fine." He stormed off across the car park, Caldwell having to job to catch up. He pushed through the revolving doors and found a reception desk manned by two young women, rather than ex-forces types. He leaned against the desk. "I'm here to see a Sheena O'Brien?"

The receptionist smiled. "I'll just call her." She pointed at a pair of cream sofas. "If you'll just have a seat?"

Cullen walked over and sat down, twitching from the two coffees he'd already had. "Bloody nightmare this place."

Caldwell sat next to him. "Thanks, by the way."

Cullen frowned. "What for?"

"Rescuing me from Incident Room preparation duties when Bain's back was turned."

Cullen shrugged. "I'm going to have a busy morning and I need corroboration in case anything juicy comes up."

"Good to get away from Holdsworth. Pompous twat."

Cullen nodded. "I thought you'd like that."

"Have you heard about his divorce?"

Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I'm obviously a lot less well connected than you are."

She grinned. "His wife kicked him out. Caught him looking at porn on the internet. She's really taking him to the cleaners. One thing about my divorce is it was just me, Rod and a house. Mrs Holdsworth is taking him for everything, including a grand a month in school fees."

"How does he afford that?"

"Think his wife was on a decent amount of money. Worked at the university, pretty high up. Doesn't stop her stinging him for more, though."

"You're coping well."

"Aye well, Rod isn't." She'd previously referred to Rod only as him but since her infidelity had become public knowledge, her terms of reference had changed. "He's been turning up at our flat at weekends and stuff, causing a nuisance."

"Are you serious?"

"Aye. Stupid bastard. That's two police officers he's pissing off." She looked out of the window to the car park.

"How's Bill?"

"He's fine. Oh, he was wondering if you fancied a game of golf with him and Stuart Murray."

"I don't play. Pub golf, maybe."

"I'll see if they're up for it."

"Scott Cullen?"

Cullen looked over. "Yes."

"Sheena O'Brien." She shuffled her large body over to them. "I've signed you in. Do you want to follow up?"

She led them through what looked like a call centre, legions of people of different ages sitting in front of computers with headsets clamped to their skulls. Cullen soon became bewildered by the layout, the building clearly going through some sort of renovation - half of it was all-glass meeting rooms and open spaces, the other half tight corridors and small offices.

O'Brien led them to a meeting room, six red chairs around a modern pine-effect table in the renovated part of the building, large glass windows giving a view across the office.

Cullen sat, draping his coats over the backs of adjacent chairs, Caldwell following suit.

O'Brien smiled. "I don't know how long you plan to be here, but I've managed to book this room for the whole morning."

"Thank you." Cullen took out his notebook. "You're probably wondering why we're here."

"I'm in suspense." O'Brien grinned. She was in her mid-thirties and overweight. She was tarted up - make-up, fashionable haircut, designer glasses, designer clothes a couple of sizes too small. She leaned across the table, tossing her dyed blonde hair, her huge breasts almost popping out of her top. As heterosexual as Cullen was, it made his cock shrink into his stomach.

Cullen fixed her with his hard policeman stare. "Mr Aitken's body was found last night, just outside Winchburgh."

O'Brien held her hand to her mouth. "Oh my God." She looked down at the desk and did that irritating fan thing with her hand that Cullen had seen come into vogue over the last few years.

"Xander worked for you." Caldwell tapped her pen on her notebook. "Is that correct?"

O'Brien looked at her, nodding slowly. "It is."