Cowboys and Indians (10 page)

Cullen jotted it down. ‘While we’re talking about rumours, I heard your position’s under threat.’

‘That’s bullshit. I’m a permanent member of staff and my boss knows how much of a disaster this programme is.’

‘Thought it was a success...’

‘Pissing four hundred million against a wall isn’t success.’

‘Alan Henderson told me the total budget was three hundred million.’

‘So, you see what I’m dealing with here.’ Thomson rolled his eyes. ‘They’re rushing things and it’s just not working. Why do you think this programme keeps slipping? They’ve massively overspent and now they’re forced to do it on a shoestring. It’s completely fucked.’

‘Yardley suggested you had a grudge against Mr Van de Merwe.’

Thomson bellowed with laughter. ‘That’s brilliant. The only thing I’d do is go to
Private Eye
about this clusterfuck. Tell them how much money we’ve pissed up the wall on this disaster.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Because I believe in this bank. I want to do everything possible to deliver this programme.’

‘So who’d want him out of the way?’

‘Vivek Sadozai.’

‘Why?’

‘If they lose a fifty million quid contract, it’s his bollocks on the chopping block.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen got back to the meeting room and opened the door so hard he hit the wall. No Bain or Methven, just Buxton fiddling with his phone. ‘On your lonesome?’

‘You’ll break the glass if you’re not careful.’ Buxton dropped his mobile on the desk. ‘Bain and Crystal are speaking to Henderson again. Get anything?’

‘A few nuggets. Second time Vivek’s name has come up.’ Cullen checked the seats for one to collapse into.

A knock on the door followed by the carpet digging up.

‘Morning, boys.’ James Anderson scowled up at Cullen, a good six inches shorter than him, patches of stubble along his jawline flanking his greying goatee. His curtains haircut needed a good wash. A SOCO suit hung from his waist, flapping behind him. ‘Heard you were here. Quite the big boy, now you’ve got your extra stripe.’

Cullen tried to stand up even taller. ‘Found anything in his office?’

‘Might get some DNA and prints. Sent the computer off to Charlie Kidd.’

‘He’ll love that.’

‘Your wee Indian lassie’s been nipping my boys’ heads.’

‘That’s what I asked her to do.’

‘You’re a fu—’

Another knock on the door, still open. Vivek. He stepped into the room, his hair now dry. ‘Sergeant, you called me?’

Cullen motioned towards a seat. ‘We’ve got some questions, if you don’t mind?’

‘Right.’ Anderson wandered off.

Vivek sat in the chair, arms folded. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘We understand IMC were in danger of losing the contract here.’

‘That’s incorrect. We’re the only ones VDM could rely on to deliver.’

‘So why am I hearing these rumours?’

‘That’s what happens here.’ Vivek took off his glasses and misted the lenses, rubbing them against his shirt. ‘The programme is red.’

‘Red as in red, amber, green?’

‘Like traffic lights. Red means it’s in bad way.’

‘So, it’s stopped?’

‘It’s in danger of slipping. All the milestones are red.’

‘What’s a milestone?’

Vivek snorted. ‘We mark out tasks on the plan. Some of them we call milestones. It lets us track progress. The key dates have delayed at least six months since we started here. It’ll take another year, at least. Which means a lot more money.’

‘Why?’

‘The requirements we got from Cranston were terrible. We couldn’t do anything with them. I called it out at VDM’s status meeting. He told us to just get on with it.’

‘Have you got any proof of this?’

‘I could dig out the minutes.’

‘That might help.’ Cullen made a note —
Follow up
. ‘Was there any other reason?’

‘The environments from IT were always late.’

‘Environments?’

‘I mean the server where we do our development. IT provide these to us. Supposed to be on Alba Bank kit, but we had to use the cloud to meet the timescales. Bringing them back in will add months to the programme end date.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. Did Rob Thomson handle this?’

‘Yes.’ Vivek shook his head. ‘He kept blaming us. VDM just told us both to shut up and get on with it.’

‘You seem to have a lot of resentment towards him.’

‘VDM said do things cheaper and faster. All the time. Every single assumption we’d made blew up. Everything took longer. There’s no governance on this programme.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Someone has to look after all the cowboys. Make sure milestones are met. Manage the risks and issues. Deliver dependencies on time.’

‘Whose job should that be?’

‘Michaela Queen.’

‘And she’s not around.’ Cullen made a couple of notes next to her name, just about running out of space. ‘So you’d say she’s not doing her job?’

‘Van de Merwe and Yardley got in her way, put so many obstacles in the way that she
couldn’t
do it.’

‘Why didn’t you mention any of this earlier?’

‘I can only apologise.’

‘We’ll need this in a statement.’ Cullen handed him a card. ‘I trust you can find your way to Leith Walk police station?’

‘Of course.’ Vivek left them to it, eyes locked on the card.

Buxton sat on the edge of the table. ‘What the fuck’s going on in this place?’

‘They all hate each other. And they’re all covering their arses.’

‘You got any suspects?’

‘I’ve not ruled anyone out yet.’

An alert chimed on Cullen’s phone. He checked it —
Lunch with Sharon at 1
. ‘Ah, shite.’

‘You missing the beard?’ Cullen marched down Leith Walk, flickers of sunshine clearing the mid-May gloom.

Buxton ran a hand across his smooth face. ‘I’m just glad it’s not December, mate.’

Cullen passed the posh furniture shop and café, glimpsing the station round the corner, the glass and chrome glinting.

Sharon stood outside, a brown paper bag in her hands. ‘Get away from me!’

‘Let him go!’ A woman in her early twenties stabbed a pudgy finger in the air at Sharon. She wore a tight dress, white with red polka dots, hugging her chubby body. Barely five foot tall, she looked at least that wide. ‘He’s done nothing!’

‘I’m warning you, I will arrest you for assault if you persist with this.’

The woman slapped a hand across Sharon’s face. ‘You bitch!’

‘Shite!’ Cullen sprinted down the street.

‘That’s it.’ Sharon dropped her shoulder bag and grabbed her attacker by the wrist. She pushed down with her other forearm, digging into her triceps. The woman swivelled round in front of her, landing face down on the ground. Sharon put a knee in her back. ‘I warned you!’

Cullen stopped a few feet away. ‘Do you need any help?’

Sharon pointed at two nearby uniformed officers with her free hand. ‘Arrest her!’

They jogged over and hauled the woman to her feet. ‘Come on.’

Sharon dusted herself down and crouched to collect both bags. ‘Shite, I’ve got tea all over my bloody sandwich.’

‘Let’s go to a café.’ Cullen helped her up. ‘My treat.’

‘Fine.’ Sharon nodded at Buxton. ‘Weird seeing you back in a suit. I miss the beard.’

‘Don’t get used to it.’ Buxton grimaced as he took the spoiled bag from her. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

‘Bin it.’ Cullen pointed up at the station. ‘Get the team together for quarter past two, will you?’

‘Sure thing, boss.’ Buxton trotted up the steps.

Cullen gripped Sharon’s hand and led her back up the street. ‘Who was that?’

‘Beth Graham. Kyle’s darling wife. Doesn’t believe her husband’s been raping young men.’

‘That’s a hard message to take.’ Cullen opened the door to the café and clocked a pair of stools in the window. He offered her the pick of the seats and sat next to her, grabbing a menu. ‘This where you got your lunch from?’

‘Last ham salad, too. Think I’ll have a soup.’

Cullen checked the sign above the counter. Tomato and bean. He caught a passing waitress’s eye. ‘Two soups, please.’

She scribbled in her pad and walked off.

Cullen put the menu down again. ‘How’s it going?’

‘We’re not getting anywhere with Graham.’

‘He’s still denying it?’

‘Until the end of time. I agreed an extension with Campbell but we need to arrest him today. Methven got round to telling me you’re off the case.’

‘Doesn’t waste any time, does he?’

Sharon reached into her bag and took out a wad of papers. ‘Finally got a profile of our rapist.’

He flicked through the pages. ‘Wouldn’t mind having a look at this.’

‘Even though you’re no longer on the case?’

‘I’m still interested.’

‘What’s Crystal got you working on?’

‘This banker’s death.’

‘Must be hard to have sympathy for the victim.’

‘Sympathy for the devil, more like. Spent a morning up at Alba Bank getting the square root of hee-haw done. They all hated him.’

‘Least you’ve got Budgie back, though.’

‘Keeps me out of mischief, I suppose.’ He took his bowl of soup from the waitress. Beans and sprigs of parsley sat on a red splurge, a slice of seeded bread hanging off the side of the plate. ‘When I was there, I met Rob Thomson.’

She dropped her spoon. Red splashed up. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Nope. Brought a lot of stuff back.’

‘You okay?’

‘I’ll live. And Crystal’s rustled up Bain.’

‘Scott, quit it. I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m serious. Him and McCrea, though I’ve not seen him yet, thank God.’ Cullen dipped his bread into the soup. ‘When do you think you’ll finish tonight?’

‘Next Wednesday.’

*
 
*
 
*

Buxton waved a hand in front of Cullen’s face. ‘Thanks for turning up on time, Sarge.’

Cullen looked up from Sharon’s profile. His team stood there, Buxton, Eva and Chantal Jain. ‘Shite, the update.’ He folded up the profile and took a second to think as they sat. ‘You should all know we’ve got Simon working for us on secondment for a few days. Let’s get straight into your updates. Eva?’

She flipped open her notebook and reattached the elastic at the bottom. ‘Chantal asked me to look into Elsbeth van de Merwe. Don’t think there’s much there, though. Before Edinburgh, she lived in London. Three last-known addresses all check out.’

‘And Amber?’

‘Going to check the alibi this afternoon.’ She turned the page. ‘The street team have spoken to his neighbours and people at the sports club. They’ve re-interviewed everyone we did yesterday. Neighbours say he kept himself to himself.’

‘This is a summary.’ Jain passed over a sheet of paper. ‘Guy doesn’t have many friends.’

‘Tallies with what I hear.’ Cullen checked the page. ‘Three lines?’

‘There’s just not a lot on this guy.’

‘Have we got anyone running over his Schoolbook profile? Twitter? LinkedIn?’

‘Charlie Kidd’s pulling Schoolbook for me.’ Jain adjusted her scrunchy. ‘I’ve had a look at the others this morning. My sister posts absolutely everything that happens to her. Photos, updates, location, the whole lot. Van de Merwe’s the complete opposite.’

‘So he’s quiet?’

‘No Twitter account. LinkedIn has three hundred-odd contacts, but it’s all recruitment agents, that kind of thing.’

‘Can you and Eva dig into that? Just see if there’s anything anomalous.’ Cullen noted the action. ‘What about his drugs?’

‘Still with the SOCOs for analysis. They’re confident we can track them back to a dealer.’

‘That’s unusually bold for them.’

‘That Owen guy bored the tits off me about this new machine the drug squad paid for. I’ll let you know when they get anything.’

‘What else?’

‘I’ve looked through his bank accounts.’ Jain held up another sheet. ‘The only thing was a payment for a hundred grand, later reversed.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘Don’t know. Could be a genuine error.’

‘Could be something else, though. We know he might’ve been messing about with offshore accounts.’

‘Still nowhere on that.’

‘Right. Keep digging.’ Cullen glanced over at Eva. ‘Have you got hold of Michaela Queen yet?’

‘Nowhere on that, Sarge. Her and this Wayne Broussard.’

Cullen stared at Eva. ‘Have you called him?’

‘The number you gave me went straight to voicemail. Message was recent, though, said it was a week ago last Friday.’

‘Thanks for that.’ Cullen stood up and stretched out. ‘Another update at six, okay?’

Jain folded her arms. ‘What have you two got to share?’

‘Basically, Van de Merwe was running a big IT project. Nine-figure budget. Lots of staff, including two third-party suppliers. Don’t think there’s much in it, with the possible exception of our old chum Rob Thomson.’ Cullen nodded at Buxton. ‘Simon can tell you all about it. I need to update Methven.’

‘Anything else you want from us, Sarge?’

‘Get me copies of the street team’s statements. Cheers.’

Jain made a note. ‘I’ll see what your last slave died of.’

*
 
*
 
*

Bain finished the last of his energy drink, “WakeyWakey” graffitied in green on the side. He crushed it and chucked it at Methven’s office bin. A spray dribbled across the carpet. ‘Doesn’t feel like you’re doing much, Sundance.’

Cullen held his gaze, fists clenched. ‘I seem to be the only one doing anything.’

‘Same old fuckin’ Messiah complex.’ Bain scratched his moustache, flakes of skin wafting up into the air conditioning. ‘Got your work cut out with this boy, Col.’

‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Brian.’ Methven got up from his desk and strolled over to the whiteboard. ‘Can we go through our list of suspects, please?’

‘That’s the thing, sir.’ Cullen leaned back in his chair. ‘They’re all suspects.’

‘They can’t
all
be.’

‘Every single person we’ve met at Alba Bank has some kind of a grudge against Van de Merwe.’

‘You’ve got motives, Sundance. Just fuckin’ missing the means and opportunity.’