Ghost in the Machine (29 page)

Eventually, Cullen replied to the message from Martin Webb.
"Please call me."
He put his mobile number in and sent the message.

Cullen walked through the Technical Support Unit floor, heading towards Kidd's desk.
 

"How are you getting on with that new pipe, or whatever you called it?" said Cullen.

"I'm getting there."

Cullen grabbed a chair from an adjacent desk. "Good."

After a few seconds, Kidd sighed. "What are you after? I'm busy here. I could do with either you asking me something or pissing off."

"I might have done something stupid," said Cullen. "I added Martin Webb as a friend."

Kidd glared at Cullen for a few seconds. "Why on earth did you think that was a good idea?"

"I don't know," said Cullen, "I wasn't thinking. I just did it."

"You're an absolute idiot."

"I know I am," said Cullen. "But he accepted me."

Kidd frowned. "You're pulling my leg."

"No," said Cullen. "Do they have automatic acceptance on that site?"

"Nope," said Kidd. "It's all active. Was chatting to the new guy at Schoolbook this morning about that. They're trying to be like the anti-Facebook. They don't do anything to your data you haven't explicitly agreed."

"Other than give it to the police," said Cullen.

Kidd chuckled.

"Can you look at the IP address?" said Cullen. "He's still on there."

"I can't just now," said Kidd. "I'm not getting another extract until ten this evening."

"I'll see you first thing tomorrow then."

"I don't doubt it," said Kidd. "You're a total cowboy."

Cullen got up to leave. He had a thought and sat down again, gesturing at the machine corpse on Kidd's desk. "How's it going with the PCs from Caroline and Debi's offices?"
 

Kidd slumped back in his chair. "I've had six voicemails from Bain asking me the same thing."

"Have you replied to him?"

Kidd laughed. "No. We've been flat out since we got them this morning." He pointed at the contents of his desk. "I'm just about finished going through Debi's work PC just now."

"And?"

"Nothing," said Kidd. "Not a sausage. She wasn't using the chat app on it, so there's no dice, I'm afraid."

"Did you look at anything from Gail?" said Cullen.

"That prick Irvine brought her netbook up which I'll do next," said Kidd.
 

Cullen nodded. "Okay, I'll come back and see you tomorrow."

Kidd slowly exhaled. "Fine. Can you piss off now?"

*
*
*

McNeill was sitting at her desk when Cullen got back to the Incident Room. "How did your idea turn out?"

"Not bad." Cullen sat down, thinking about telling her he'd added Martin Webb as a friend. "I managed to speak to Amy Cousens, Steve Allen and Caroline's father. None of them know about the death threats. We've now got four people actively denying them, though one of them is Rob Thomson."

"We need to get to the bottom of this," said McNeill. "Who gave us this information in the first place?"

Cullen stopped. "No idea. Caldwell made the call."

They looked over at her desk and walked over.

Caldwell looked up at them. "I get worried when it's both of you."

"How many people have corroborated the death threats story?" said Cullen.

Caldwell looked down her list. "None."

"And Miller?" said Cullen.

Caldwell shrugged. "No idea."

"Where is he?" said Cullen.

"Not got back from Ayr, I suppose." Caldwell picked up a sheet of paper. "Nope, doesn't look like he's had any either."

"Who was it told you about these death threats?" said McNeill.

"Hang on." Caldwell flicked through her own notebook. "There you go - some guy called Duncan Wilson."

Cullen froze. "Did you say Duncan Wilson?"

McNeill was frowning as well.

"Who's he?" said Caldwell.

"He's the DBA at Schoolbook," said Cullen. "The techy Kidd's been dealing with."

"Are you sure it's the same one?" said McNeill.

Caldwell woke up her computer and navigated to Schoolbook. She tapped a few keys then pointed at the screen. "Here's his profile. He's a friend of Caroline's."

Cullen looked at a moody photograph of the same man they'd met at Schoolbook. "That's him. When was the last time you spoke to him?"

"First thing this morning," said Caldwell. "He was going to try and remember who told him about the threats and call me back."

"And has he?" said Cullen.

"No," said Caldwell. "I was going to chase him, but I've been busy."

"Do you think there actually is anyone?" said McNeill.

"Seems unlikely," said Caldwell.

"Call him back," said McNeill.

Caldwell picked up her phone and dialled. "Voicemail."

McNeill played with her notebook for a few seconds. "Have you got his home address?"

Caldwell ran her finger down the screen. "Portobello, by the look of things."

McNeill got up. "We're going to go and see this guy. I'm fed up being pissed about. Scott, you're coming with me."

"What about me?" said Caldwell.

"Finish checking through her friends list," said McNeill. "We need to keep Bain happy."

Caldwell looked disappointed.

Miller arrived, a smirk on his face. His tie was loosened at the collar and he carried his suit jacket over his shoulder.

"Where the hell have you been?" said McNeill.

"Me and Wilko were over at Gail's folks in Ayr," said Miller. "Just got back now. I was wondering, can't find the gaffer. Do you mind if I slope off early to go to the football?"

McNeill looked him up and down, then grinned mischievously as she shook her head. "Grab your coat, we've got a job for you."

McNeill got out of Miller's silver Saxo just as Cullen parked alongside. Wilson's flat was just off King's Road roundabout in Portobello, not far from Cullen's flat.

"This is your neck of the woods, isn't it?" said McNeill.

"Aye," said Cullen. "I stay just along the high street."

Cullen looked up at the block of flats, a red sandstone building called College House. He knew a little of the history of the place. It had been a chocolate factory then became a technical institute in the fifties - WM Ramsay Technical Institute was still emblazoned on the front in brass lettering - before being redeveloped into flats in the early nineties.

McNeill nodded at Miller. "Keith, stay here and keep an eye out."

"Fuck's sake." Miller looked over towards Easter Road, a couple of miles distant. "They'll be kicking off soon.

"Forget about the football." McNeill led Cullen round to the door at the front of the building. "Buzz it."

Cullen pressed the intercom labelled Wilson for a few seconds. No answer.

"Give it ten seconds," said McNeill, "then try again."

They waited in silence, looking at each other nervously. Ten seconds up, he buzzed again, pressing for longer this time. Still no answer.

McNeill pushed the adjacent buzzer, which had the name Gillespie in pencil. The door clicked open, no questions asked.

Cullen held the door open for McNeill. "Very chivalrous," she said as she stepped through.

They set off up the stairs. Cullen looked up at the elaborate glass ceiling, the shadow from the chimneys cast across it. The door to the first flat on the second floor was ajar, fairly unimaginative dance music booming out accompanied by an unmistakable sweet smell.

"Hash," said Cullen.

McNeill gestured for Cullen to lead. He got out his warrant card and moved inside. McNeill closed the door behind them.

"Through here, Jim," said a voice from the living room. Male, Glaswegian.

"It's the police." Cullen was struggling to be heard over the music.

"Aye, like fuck it is, Jimmy." A cackle followed.

Cullen entered the living room. A man in his late twenties sat in a dressing gown, looking away from them, through the front window down King's Road towards the promenade and the beach. He held a joint in his hand and took a hefty toke. "Sit down, Jimmy."

Cullen crossed the room and held his warrant card in front of the man's face.

Gillespie's head whipped round and he did a double take. He jumped to his feet.

"Jesus fuckin' - the fuck are you - get the fuck out."
 

"Mr Gillespie," said Cullen, his voice steady, "we're from Lothian & Borders Police."

"It's for personal use," said Gillespie.

"You might want to turn the music down a bit," said Cullen.

Gillespie fumbled for a remote control and turned the stereo off.

"We're not interested in your drugs," said McNeill. Gillespie seemed to relax. "Not today anyway. We're looking for your neighbour, Duncan Wilson."

"He's out of town," said Gillespie.

"Where?" said Cullen.

"Working in Glasgow for a couple of days, I think," said Gillespie.

Cullen frowned. "I thought he worked in Livingston?"

"No idea." Gillespie shrugged. "He told us he was away through west for a few days."

"Do you know when he'll be back?" said McNeill.

"No idea," said Gillespie. "He's coming round for the football after work on Friday."

"Do you have a contact number for him?" said Cullen.

"No, I don't." Gillespie laughed. "Don't really need to phone him given he just lives next door."

"Do you know where he's working?" said Cullen.

Gillespie shrugged again. "No, just that it's Glasgow."

"In future," said McNeill, "you should make sure you know who you're letting in."

"And keep the music down," said Cullen.

"Aye, I will do," said Gillespie.

They left the flat. McNeill crossed to Wilson's door and peered through the letterbox. "Definitely nobody in."

"What next?" said Cullen.

"Keep trying his mobile, I suppose," said McNeill. "If we don't get anything back tonight, we'll put out a call for him."

They walked to the car in silence. Miller was nowhere to be seen.

Before he opened his door, Cullen thought of something. "This fits perfectly for Caroline's murder, doesn't it?"

"How do you mean?" said McNeill.

"Well, you know," said Cullen. "It's all back roads from here up to Minto Street, through the park. No one's going to see a thing. He could have walked home just as easily as Rob Thomson."

"You could be right," said McNeill.

Miller wandered over. "Nothing round the back."

"Thanks." McNeill smiled. "Keith, I want you to stake out the building."

Miller looked crestfallen. "But I've got tickets for the game."

"And we've got a triple murder investigation," said McNeill, her voice hard.

"Fine," said Miller. "What am I supposed to be doing?"

"You're training to be a detective, Keith, show us some of your detection skills. If Duncan Wilson turns up, I want to know."

*
*
*

Cullen drove them both back, leaving Miller and his car at Wilson's flat. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know," said McNeill. "Do you think Wilson is a suspect?"

"He's definitely someone we need to speak to."

"I don't think we should go to Bain with this yet," said McNeill.

"Why not?"

"He's running around trying to pin this on Rob Thomson," said McNeill. "The last thing we want is to point him at another innocent person."

"Agreed," said Cullen. "I'm going to get to the bottom of these death threats. Tonight."

"Do it," said McNeill. "And try and get hold of Wilson."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "I can't believe I've been so sloppy."

"How?"

"If it's him, I can't help but think Gail McBride might still be alive," said Cullen.

"You can't allow yourself to think like that," said McNeill. "You're exhausted. You were supposed to be off on Saturday and Sunday, instead you've been putting in fourteen-hour shifts. And you've been pulled from pillar to post by Bain."

"I guess you're right." Cullen sighed. "Doesn't make it feel much easier."

"I don't think you putting two and two together earlier would've swayed Bain anyway," said McNeill. "In his world, he's looking for a five not a four from a pair of twos."

"And we don't know Wilson is the man we want, either," said Cullen. "Back to your point - we don't want another innocent man in the frame here."

Cullen sat back in his chair and looked around the Incident Room. There was still a large number of officers in the room, with at least the same again off doing the rounds in the various channels of investigation Bain was running.

He'd been trying to contact Wilson for an hour, in amongst attacking his portion of the list, which now felt like pointless admin. He picked up his phone and dialled the number for Gregor Aitchison - Wilson's boss - figuring he might know where he was.

"Hi, this is Gregor." There was pub noise in the background.

"Mr Aitchison, it's DC Cullen of Lothian & Borders."

"What do you want?" The sound was getting quieter in the background - he was clearly going outside.

"I want to speak to Duncan Wilson," said Cullen.
 

"He's not been in today."

"That's what I was calling you about," said Cullen. "I believe he's through in Glasgow."

"I wouldn't know."

"Isn't he full time at Schoolbook, then?"

"No, he just does three days a week," said Aitchison. "He's been in for the last seven days solid, mind, but he's normally only part time. He's self-employed. He gets a decent rate, I can tell you, but we just pay him by the day. I know he's got other clients, but it's usually last minute work he picks up online when he's not working for us. It can be quite lucrative, too. The banks are big on it. Keeps people off the payroll."

"Is Mr Wilson due in tomorrow?"

"No."

"I see," said Cullen. "I've got his mobile number and his flat address. Do you have any other contact details?"

Aitchison yawned down the line. "Sorry, that's all I've got as well. Don't even have an email address for the guy."