Ghost in the Machine (18 page)

Cullen retrieved the Blackberry.

"And where's the Mortgage Centre?" said Bain.

Thomson sighed. "Edinburgh Park, just across from the train station."

Bain nodded. "Thank you."

Cullen realised Bain's game as he sat back down. Hermiston Gait Tesco was right beside the Alba Bank mortgage centre. If Thomson had popped in to buy a mobile phone, then he wouldn't have an alibi at work.

Bain leaned forward into the microphone, grinning like a demon. "Interview terminated at sixteen forty-nine."

Bain sat at his desk, having been deathly silent all the way up the stairs. "He's a big bloke, isn't he?"

Cullen shrugged. "Suppose so."

"Looks bigger in the flesh than on the CCTV." Bain put Thomson's bagged Blackberry and iPhone on his desk. "We've just about got him. Should be able to get something on Thomson off these. I'll get Miller onto it." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded piece of paper. He brandished a RIPSA form, obviously proud of himself. "Take a look at this."
 

Cullen scanned through the form. Bain had scrawled something entirely illegible in the section requesting an explanation of why the information required couldn't be obtained by less intrusive methods. Cullen wondered if it was intentional. It was signed and dated at the bottom, counter-signed by Wilkinson.

"How come you can get a RIPSA for a guy you've got a grudge against, but when I ask for one for the murder victim it takes forever?" said Cullen.

"Politics, Sundance."

"There's no politics with what you've done but there are with mine?" said Cullen.

"Right, Sundance. You were asking to snoop on a big company with clout. This is just one guy who's looking guiltier and guiltier by the minute."

Cullen gestured at the Blackberry. "That must have Alba Bank emails on it? Isn't that snooping on a big company?"

"We'll not be looking at any commercial stuff, just having a wee look at emails between Rob Thomson and Kim Milne and whatever else incriminates him."

Cullen handed it back. "What about the explanation on the form?"

Bain smirked. "I'll make something up once I've charged him."

McNeill had been listening in. "This is a risky game you're playing."

"No pain, no gain, Butch."

"What else have you got up your sleeve?" said McNeill.

"Just letting him stew for now," said Bain. "Sundance, can you get back to those bloody phone calls. I want this story about death threats corroborated by at least two people."

*
*
*

Cullen was going through the notes Caldwell had typed up, not particularly taking anything in, his mind focusing on the supposed death threats and how he could corroborate them.
 

McNeill grabbed his shoulder. "Scott, come with me."

"Huh?"

"Outside. Press conference."

She turned and sped off. He got up and followed, catching her up at the stairwell.

"Who's giving it?"

"Campbell McLintock," said McNeill.

"Jesus."

They raced down the stairs and through the security doors, hoping to catch some of the lawyer's play-acting.

McNeill pushed through the front door to the station. A large crowd had assembled outside McDonald Road Library next door. McNeill barged her way through, Cullen following in her wake. There were several TV cameras.

Campbell McLintock stood in the centre of the large semi-circle, his arms gesticulating as he gave his oration. "Now, someone once said libraries gave us power." He pointed over his shoulder - Cullen recognised it as a song lyric from somewhere.

"Today, tremendous power has been given to those who are supposed to protect us - the police. As I have said, my client, Robert Thomson, is a fine upstanding citizen. He has strong alibis for both periods when the crimes in question were committed. And yet, the powers of Lothian & Borders Police are being used to conduct a vendetta against Robert. This is unacceptable. I'm sure you'll join with me in insisting the police desist from this reprehensible behaviour. Thank you."

McLintock smiled as he posed for photographs.

McNeill's mouth was pursed in a slight smile. "He's got some style."

Bain's evening briefing was even more strained than his lunchtime diatribe. There was a discernible tension between Bain, Wilkinson and Irvine on one side, and Cullen and McNeill on the other.

Cullen had outlined the progress - or lack thereof - made in corroborating the death threats.

"Thanks for that, Sundance. I'm sure you'll solve the case for us all."

Cullen glared at him.

"Priorities for tomorrow are the street team and the phones," said Bain. "We've still got six flats to visit in Debi's street. Plus we need to interview the other people staying at the Jackson Hotel on the night of Caroline's death. We've got another press release going out tonight, looking for people who were at the supermarket or at the hotel at the times in question."

Bain neglected to mention that Cullen had discovered their only two leads. He knew Bain had a lot on his plate, particularly after being publicly humiliated by McLintock, but still.

"I know you'll have heard that bastard McLintock's spiel outside," said Bain. "We've almost got Thomson nailed on buying that phone. He definitely had the opportunity and was in the vicinity at the time. I've got him coming back in tomorrow to give a detailed statement."

"You've let him go?" said McNeill.

Bain rubbed his ear. "Aye. Just at the back of six there." He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Right, dismissed."

McNeill was first to leave the room, closely followed by Cullen. "He's a prick."

"You were the one defending him this morning," said Cullen.

"Yeah, well, a girl can change her mind."

Cullen checked his watch - it was far too late to be calling friends of Caroline. "I'm going to head off now. What about you?"

"Yeah, I think I'll make a night of it too. I'm shattered."

"Tell me about it," said Cullen. "It's just like being back on the beat. The number of times I got a call half an hour before the end of my shift and I'd have to stay in to process it."

They collected their coats from the deserted Incident Room, their colleagues no doubt all still trawling round the various search areas. They walked towards the stairwell.

"You heading home?" said McNeill.

"Aye. Curry and some music. Try to clear my head of all this crap for a bit."

"Where do you stay?"

"Portobello," said Cullen. "You?"

"World's End Close."

"Just off the Royal Mile?"

McNeill grinned. "I prefer to call it the High Street but yes, there."

"Isn't it a bastard for parking?"

"I've got a permit," said McNeill.

"And you drive in here?" said Cullen. "It's a ten minute walk."

She shrugged. "I'm always in the car in this job."

They were at the bottom of the stairs.

"You up to anything tonight?" said Cullen.

"Think I'm going to get a Chinese and watch some really bad TV."

"Sounds good."

McNeill bit her lip. "How about a drink first?"

It didn't take Cullen long to reply. "Not the Elm."

They cut out of the station's back entrance and headed through the outer reaches of the New Town, settling on the Basement Bar on Broughton Street, close enough for McNeill to walk home and for Cullen to walk back to the station for his car. They sat in a corner of the bar, the music loud enough that no one could hear their conversation, quiet enough to hear each other.

Cullen took another sip of Staropramen, the beer already going to his head. Just the one, he'd said - he had the car and he was knackered.

"Do you think it's Rob Thomson?" said McNeill.

"I'm struggling to see it," said Cullen, "I really am. I mean, what's his motivation?"

"Bitter at the divorce?"

"But why? He caused it by sleeping around."

"Child support payments?"

"Well, you tell me," said Cullen. "You looked at his bank accounts."

"Yeah, Bain wasn't best pleased at that."

"This is the first I've heard of it," said Cullen.

"Yeah, funny that. Bain didn't want it broadcast." She paused. "Thomson earns a
lot
."

"How much is a lot?"

"About sixty grand a year after tax."

"Jesus."

McNeill nodded. "Yeah. He's only shelling out about three hundred quid a month for Jack."

"Drop in the ocean," said Cullen.

"Precisely."

"Why's Bain so set on him?" said Cullen.

McNeill took a sip of her wine. "Easy collar, I presume. He's pushing for DCI, so getting a fast result would improve his stats a lot. Rumour is Turnbull is getting a promotion soon, which leaves the door open for Bain or another DI to step up."

"Christ, they're like sharks," said Cullen.

"Oh yes." McNeill took another sip of wine.

"Bain's got nothing concrete on Thomson," said Cullen.

McNeill ran her finger round the top of her glass. "I notice he got his own RIPSA approved pretty quickly."

"Yeah, by Wilkinson," said Cullen.

"What does he actually have on this guy? Any evidence?"

Cullen thought it through. "Just a flimsy motive, those supposed death threats, the CCTV footage and Thomson being at the Alba Mortgage Centre when the phone was bought at the Tesco nearby."

"It's not a lot, is it?"

"No." Cullen took a drink of his pint. "Could he get it to court with so little, do you think?"

"I've seen it happen."

"That Tesco footage," said Cullen. "It's just some guy buying the mobile used to call Caroline. It's a big man in a hoodie. It could be anyone."

She nodded, taking another sip. "What's the story with Amy Cousens?"

"Amy Cousens?" said Cullen. "What about her?"

McNeill stared right at him. "Bain and Miller are calling her your girlfriend."

He shook his head. "They are, are they? Funny bastards."

She picked up her glass, took a drink and looked at him through the clear liquid. "Do you have one? A girlfriend, I mean."

"I wish. I can feel my virginity growing back."

She laughed so hard wine came out of her nose.

He smiled to himself and finished his pint, wondering if he should get off home.

She pointed at the glass. "Another?"
 

He stared at it for a moment - he was right at the tipping point between getting hammered and going home. "Aye, go on."

Cullen pushed the flat door open. Tom looked up from the table, the Sunday papers scattered all over it, a couple of empty beer cans beside him.

Tom playfully checked his watch. "What time's this?"

Cullen giggled. "Half eleven, Dad."

"Aren't you back on at seven?"

Cullen collapsed on a chair and shrugged his suit jacket off. "Aye. Where's Johnny?"

"At Dawn's." Tom's nostrils twitched. "Have you been on the piss
again
?"

"Aye, a couple of jars. Well, four. Got the bus home."

"So this new squad of yours are a bunch of piss artists, then?"

Cullen belched. "No, just my DS tonight."

"What's his name?"

"Sharon."

Tom shook his head. "Scott, you really are some swordsman. Shagging your boss. After that bird on Friday."

Cullen held up two fingers. "First thing, I didn't shag DS McNeill tonight. We just had a few pints and some food. Second, Alison was just a one night stand."

Tom laughed. "Aye, right. Yet you're meeting her for a date tomorrow night."

Cullen looked away. "There's that, I suppose." He'd totally forgotten about meeting Alison. Was it too late to get out of it?

"How's this case you're on then?" said Tom.
 

"It's pretty brutal," said Cullen. "A double murder."

Tom held up the
Scotland on Sunday
, a family photo of Caroline splashed all over the cover, released before they'd announced Debi's death. "This is what you're working on?"

"Aye, only now it's two victims." Cullen exhaled. "I almost caught the killer yesterday but he gave me the slip."

Tom grinned. "Getting slow in your old age?"

Cullen couldn't help but laugh along. "Never was much of a runner."

"It says here she was tortured," said Tom. "That right?"

Cullen took the paper off Tom and scanned through the article. "It is." He realised the press interest had been light until now. The only direct contact he'd had with the media was at Campbell McLintock's ad hoc press conference outside the library. He looked up at Tom and pointed at Caroline. "Her ex-husband works at Alba Bank. Guy called Rob Thomson. Don't suppose you know him?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, tapping the table rhythmically. "Vaguely rings a bell. Where does he work?"

"IT, I think."

"Nope," said Tom. "I know a Rob Thomas, works in Corporate. I'm in Retail Sales, Scott. I never speak to IT unless it's about my laptop."

"Worth a shot." Cullen got up and stretched. "Right, I'm off to bed. Early start tomorrow."

Monday

1st August 2011

Cullen stood in the queue for coffee, half-asleep. It was ten past seven and the other side of the shortest, angriest Bain tirade he'd yet seen, rage at the lack of progress, particularly from the press releases. Cullen was given a grilling over the death threats and the desperate need to validate and verify them.

McNeill barged in beside him in the queue, a series of loud tuts coming from behind. "Morning, Scott."

"Sharon."

"Good curry last night?"

"Yeah, not bad." He smiled. "How was your Chinese?"

She winked. "Passable."

He laughed.
 

They queued in silence for a few moments, moving forward a few paces.

"Now he knows Campbell McLintock is Thomson's lawyer, Bain will be trying even harder," said McNeill.

"I kind of guessed that," said Cullen.

"Aside from the professional differences, Bain can't stand the fact McLintock's always in the papers with stuff for Amnesty or whatever."