Bottleneck (21 page)

"What's the plan of attack, then?"

Cullen thumbed at the door. "We need to speak to her. It's embarrassing how little we know about him."

"He was like that at school."

"I don't remember him."

"He was a pretentious little prick." Guthrie hammered the door again. "Even though he was three years younger than us he used to march around thinking he was so fucking cool."

"How come I've forgotten him?"

"You're just shit," said Guthrie. "It was the same with his sister and you sat next to her in French."

"Yeah." Cullen knocked on the door, his head throbbing from lack of coffee. "Open up, Ms Patterson."

"No!"

It was the first time she'd responded.

"Ms Patterson," said Cullen, "we need to speak to you about your brother."

"I know what you're trying to do!"

Cullen's already thin patience was stretched almost to breaking point. "What are we trying to do?"

"You want to rape me like my husband did!"

Cullen took a step back. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Guthrie rubbed his neck. "Long story. Remember Dean Patterson? He was in the year above us?"

Cullen pictured a neanderthal knuckle dragger in his sister's class. "I remember him."

"Well, he married her," said Guthrie. "We were out here all the bloody time, domestic after domestic. Anyway, push came to shove one night. He got drunk and raped her, said it was his marital right and all that shite. We put him away for it. Not much later, her brother went missing. She's not been the same since."

Cullen shook his head. "Christ."

Guthrie stepped forward and hammered the door again. "Come on, Audrey. This is about your brother. Don't make us get your parents involved again."

The door slowly opened. Audrey Patterson led them into the living room and sat on a futon. There was no other furniture, so they remained standing. The place was immaculately tidy. It was a different sparseness to the heroin addicts' flats, an active choice of minimalism rather than having sold everything to buy drugs.

Audrey looked up at Cullen. "Are you here to say sorry, then?"

Cullen took a long look at her, starting to recognise the young girl from his French class. "What am I apologising for?"

"The way you treated me at school!"

Cullen was used to people shouting at him, but knowing there was something personal and longstanding behind the anger was a lot harder to deal with than some abstract hatred for authority. "How did I treat you?"

"You used to take the mick out of me," said Audrey. "You and your friends. Every day for
two years
. I had no self-esteem by the time I left school." A tear slid down her cheek. "That's why I married Dean, the first man to show me the time of day. I still shake when I hear your name, Scott Cullen. I couldn't believe I saw you on
my street
."

Cullen kept a distance "Audrey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean any harm."

"You said I smelled!"

Embarrassment burnt its way up Cullen's neck. "Come on, I was just being childish."

"You said it and it hurt. You used to chip away at me, you and Gareth and Linda and Melanie. Chipped away at me all the time. I felt so small and tiny."

"I'm truly sorry, Audrey. I shouldn't have done that. I'm a police officer now. I protect people. I should have protected you back then."

Audrey's eyes locked onto his for the first time since they'd arrived. "But you didn't."

Cullen still couldn't remember taking the piss out of her though he vaguely recalled the other names. "I'm sorry."

"Scott is working on your brother's murder, Audrey," said Guthrie.

Audrey's eyes lit up and danced between them. "Jimi?"

"Yes," said Guthrie. "The police in Edinburgh are investigating. Scott is one of the detectives."

"Mum told me he'd been found. How can I help you?"

Cullen decided to get straight in while the clarity and focus remained. "I want to know if there was anyone who was upset or angry with your brother at any point leading up to him going missing."

Audrey thought about it for a few seconds. "Not really. I don't think so. I've been over it so many times in my head, you know?"

Cullen could well imagine. "And there's nobody? What about at school?"

Audrey gritted her teeth. "Jimi was bullied a lot by some of the boys in our year. Alan Thomson, Gregor Smith, Matt MacLeod. Those bad boys."

Cullen exchanged a brief look with Guthrie, who merely shrugged. "What sort of thing?"

"You know how cruel kids can be," said Audrey. "They used to beat him up and tease him for being gay."

"Was he?"

Audrey laughed through the tears. "God, no. Jimi was one for the girls."

Cullen had to be careful not to inflict his own personal opinion on the case, but Matt MacLeod and those idiots he was drinking with were starting to look like a lead. "Anyone else?"

Audrey shook her head, her long hair dancing.

"You've been a great help, Audrey," said Cullen. "Thanks."

He locked eyes with her.

"And I really am sorry for any hurt I've caused you."

They sat in a cafe, Cullen's head finally starting to push into gear with his second Americano. They were squaring off their notebooks should push come to shove with anything from the interview with Audrey.

"So, what do you think about her?" said Guthrie.

"She could be on to something," said Cullen. "Matt MacLeod lives in Edinburgh, right?"

"Has done for years, I think."

"Right," said Cullen. "If he bullied the boy when they were younger, then Christ knows what could have happened in Edinburgh."

"Killing him and leaving him down a tunnel, though?" said Guthrie.

"I've seen some strange things in my time. I could see it. I really could."

"It's worth a shot."

Cullen took a sip of coffee. "I still can't remember her from school."

"You're losing your mind, Skinky. It's hardly my fault if you can't remember people you were at school with. Maybe you've got Alzheimers?"

"Very funny," said Cullen. "My gran had that, you know?"

"Maybe you should get checked out?"

"I'm just tired," said Cullen. "Not sleeping much and I'm putting myself under so much pressure just now."

"Did you mean it when you said sorry to her?"

Cullen rubbed his neck. "I think so. You said I was a wanker at school. I probably was. You know what that place was like, though. It was dog eat dog. If you didn't piss on the heads of the people below you then you'd get fucked over by Johnnie Gardner or Craig Wilkie or one of those guys."

Guthrie nodded. "True. I think it's got a lot better since they moved to the new school."

"Couldn't get any worse."

Guthrie seemed to want to say something, but he kept quiet.

Cullen looked across the quiet cafe, thinking they might be starting to get somewhere.

He'd been running on fumes for the last few weeks. He was pushing himself so hard he was starting to worry he'd do himself a mischief. He'd been struggling with words, failing to finish sentences. Not remembering people he was at school with wasn't a great sign. He needed a holiday.

After he got a conviction.

Matt MacLeod was somebody he did remember from school. The boy was a total wanker and it seemed like the man was even worse. MacLeod was never in with the hard kids - the ones who ended up in prison or the army or both - but he knew how to deflect bullying onto others and was capable of a lot of it himself, way worse than anything Cullen had done.

The email.

"Fucking Black Matt," said Cullen, reaching into his pocket for the print-out. "Matt fucking MacLeod." He read the lines. "
Matte Black walls. Black Matt steals time."

"What the fuck is that?" said Guthrie.

"We need to bring MacLeod in."

The MacLeods lived at the other end of the street from Cullen's parents. The houses shared a design though they'd diverged over the years in rear extensions, conservatories and loft conversions.

"This it?" said Cullen.

"Aye," said Guthrie.

A man in his mid-sixties marched past them on the pavement, carrying his
Courier
and a bag of morning rolls, the lightweight packets of air and flour Cullen despised.

"It's too quiet these days," said Cullen. "I remember playing football on the street when we were kids."

"Might have been playing with MacLeod," said Guthrie, whose parents still lived at the other end of town, albeit in separate houses with new partners.

"The street is still full of people our parents' age growing old together, kids all left home," said Cullen.

"You're in a cheery mood, Skinky."

"Yeah, sorry," said Cullen. "Force of habit."

"MacLeod should be in," said Guthrie.

They marched past the collection of ceramic frogs on the tarmac and Cullen knocked on the door, warrant card ready.

MacLeod answered, wearing a dressing gown and looking like death. "Sorry, my parents are both at work." He started shutting the door.

Cullen's foot blocked it. "Mr MacLeod, we need to ask you a few questions in relation to the disappearance and murder of James Strang."

"Piss off," said MacLeod.

"I'm sorry?" said Cullen, as he pocketed his warrant card.

"You pair have a cheek after the state I saw you in last night," said MacLeod.

"This isn't something you have a choice in," said Cullen, "other than doing it here or down the station."

MacLeod pushed the door shut, knocking Cullen's foot back out, his toes sending waves of pain to his brain. The key turned in the lock.

Cullen looked down - MacLeod had torn a chunk out of his new shoes. "This isn't happening." He looked at Guthrie. "Wait here."

He jogged round the side of the house, getting his suit jacket caught on brambles in the back garden.

The back door was wide open.

Cullen ran for it.

The door slammed shut just before he got there, MacLeod's face grinning through the distorted glass.

Cullen tugged the handle, managing to push the door open again.

"Get to fuck," said MacLeod.

Cullen tried to keep his grip tight but eventually had to let go. The door slammed shut and MacLeod locked it.

Cullen swore. He lost sight of MacLeod in the kitchen and ran back to the front of the house.

"What's going on?" said Guthrie.

"He's locked both fucking doors."

Cullen knelt down and shouted through the letterbox. "Mr MacLeod, I can call your parents if you prefer. I'm sure our dads play golf together."

"I've not done anything," said MacLeod.

"Then let's talk about this down the station," said Cullen. "I don't want to have to charge you with obstruction or resisting arrest."

"Not done nothing."

"Come on down the station, then," said Cullen. "Prove your innocence."

No answer.

"Mr MacLeod," said Guthrie. "We can charge you with obstruction. You'll get a fairly sizeable fine."

The door finally opened.

MacLeod's solicitor turned up promptly, responding to the phone call Cullen allowed him before they left his street. He looked like a friendly PE teacher, wholly dissimilar to the usual lawyers Cullen dealt with in Edinburgh.

"Mr MacLeod," said Cullen, "did you know one James Strang?"

MacLeod glanced at his lawyer, who returned the briefest of nods. "Yes. I did."

"We have reason to believe you bullied him at school," said Cullen. "Is that correct?"

"Have you got anything official from the school or other appropriate education authorities to that effect?" said the solicitor.

"We have witness statements," said Cullen.

"You've got nothing," said MacLeod.

"What we've got, Mr MacLeod," said Cullen, "is someone you bullied at school being found dead in Edinburgh, the city you've lived in for the last twelve years. Is that a coincidence?"

"Of course it is," said MacLeod.

"I hate coincidences," said Cullen.

"Me too," said Guthrie. "Usually they're not coincidences."

"I knew Jimi lived through in Edinburgh," said MacLeod. "I bumped into the wee guy in HMV once and in a pub another time. We got on well, I think."

"Did you bully him?" said Cullen.

"Are you whiter than white?" said MacLeod. "I heard some stories about you and his sister, Audrey. Remember her?" He grinned. "Shouldn't you be under investigation?"

"Answer the question," said Cullen, not rising to the bait.

MacLeod threw his hands up in the air and laughed. "There's nothing to answer. Unless you've got something on me, pal, you're wasting my time."

"It's funny finding you back in your home town after James Strang was found dead," said Cullen. "You've not gone to ground or anything, have you, Mr MacLeod?"

"Mr Cullen," said the lawyer, "are you implying something about my client here?"

"There's no implying anything," said Cullen. "I'm investigating an avenue of inquiry."

"The reason I'm here is I've got a few things going on in my private life." MacLeod fiddled with his watch strap. "My girlfriend left me and I'm between jobs. I've kicked my tenants out of my flat and I'm just about ready to get back in there. I'm just staying with my folks while things sort themselves out in Edinburgh."

"And you are definitely not lying low?" said Cullen.

"Would I admit it if I was?" said MacLeod. "Would I go out on the lash in the town on a Monday night if I was lying low?"

"You are under police interview here," said Cullen. "This is on the record."

"Whatever," said MacLeod, waving his hands away.

"Did you know James Strang?" said Cullen.

"We've been over this," said MacLeod. "Yes, I knew him. A bit. If you're going to ask me what happened, I've told you. Any more of that and I'll stop co-operating until you charge me. I know my rights, Skinky."

"Don't call me that," said Cullen.

MacLeod smirked. "Have I touched a nerve?"

"Does
Black Matt
mean anything to you?" said Cullen.

MacLeod frowned. "Should it?"