Cowboys and Indians (35 page)

‘Well, this guy isn’t targeting women.’

‘He’s been raping men. Might’ve been targeting men
and
women. Spiking drinks at the bar, scattergun, and seeing who’s tottering about.’

‘Well, Mac’s been through the CCTV and found the guy who looked after your drinks.’

‘You bringing him in?’

‘When I said found, I mean you can see a grainy face on the screen. That’s it so far.’

‘Let me know if you need anything.’

She nodded. ‘Have you spoken to the others?’

‘Tom’s clear and Buxton’s hungover. I can’t find Rich. He might’ve pulled.’

‘Pulled? You sound like an issue of
Loaded
from 1996.’

Cullen checked his watch. ‘Shite. I’m late for Methven’s briefing.’

Cullen took another sip, the Starbucks coffee too cold to drink. Too tired to think. He pushed into the Incident Room.

‘—and I expect you to have a—’ Methven stopped and frowned at him. ‘Good morning, Sergeant.’

‘Sorry for being late, sir.’

‘DC Murray’s just given your update. I was just setting out my expectations from your team. Anything to add?’

Cullen shrugged. ‘Please continue.’ He rubbed his forehead, trying to get the knitting needles out.

‘Anything more from you, Stuart?’

Murray shook his head.

Eva put up her hand. ‘Sir, I’ve finished going through the drug squad case files.’

Methven shot a glare at Cullen. ‘Thought we agreed that was a dead end?’

Eva swallowed. ‘Shite.’

Methven folded his arms and nodded at Cullen. ‘Sergeant, a word after this.’

‘Fine.’ Cullen stayed focused on Eva. ‘Did you get anything?’

‘From what I’ve read, it’s ninety per cent certain the coke we found in Mr Van de Merwe’s flat came from the batch Vardy’s selling.’

‘That’s a dead end, understood?’ Methven glared at Cullen. ‘What’s today’s plan of attack, Sergeant?’

‘We need to determine whether Candy’s involved or not.’ Cullen yawned into his hand, trying to cover it with his cup. ‘And find this Vaccaro guy.’

‘Very well.’ Methven uncapped a different pen and turned back to the whiteboard. ‘DS Bain, can you give your team’s update, please?’

Cullen shut his eyes, out of sight of Methven.

‘Aye, sure thing.’ Bain snuffled. ‘DC McCrea and the rest of my team were in late last night and we’ve made solid progress on the Ferguson case.’ A sniff. ‘Dean Vardy’s still not speaking.’

‘I expect you to resolve that this morning, Sergeant.’

‘See what I can do, Col.’

Methven squeaked a new note on the board. ‘Continue.’

‘Interviewed everyone connected to him at work and in his private life. No additional suspects identified.’

‘None?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Sodding hell.’

‘The question of whether Ferguson topped himself’s still open, sir. We’ve got a statement placing a woman with him, so we think it’s murder. Deeley’s veering to that side, as well.’

‘Do you have an identity for her?’

‘I think it’s Candy but there’s nothing on the CCTV or any of the witness statements.’

‘I’d like that identity confirmed.’ Methven scored through two actions. ‘Anything else?’

‘Finished speaking to the Schneider people who worked at Alba Bank last year.’

‘Why?’

‘Sundance wanted us to ask about these equity partnership rumours. They’re all remaining tight-lipped.’

‘Do you think that means anything?’

‘Not sure, Col.’

‘Anything else from you? No? Dismissed.’ Methven cut through the throng to Cullen and leaned against the white-painted pillar next to him. ‘You were seriously late, Sergeant.’

‘Had to drop someone off upstairs. It’s related to Sharon’s case.’

‘Oh?’

Cullen looked away. ‘Somebody put Rohypnol in my drink last night.’

‘Dear God.’ Methven leaned in close. ‘What happened?’

‘I had four beers. Next thing I know, I wake up in the club and threw up in the toilet. The bouncers chucked me in a cab.’

‘Have they finally shut that place down?’

‘Too late, but aye. They’re still interviewing the staff and punters.’

Methven leaned against the adjacent desk, the wood creaking. ‘Sergeant, do you think Sharon’s rapist tried it on with you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What were you even thinking going to the Liquid Lounge?’

‘Thought I was safe, sir.’

‘Are you okay to work today?’

‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

‘Don’t let me down.’ Methven started counting through a handful of change. ‘Time for my coffee. Can I fetch you one?’

Cullen held up the Starbucks cup. ‘I’ll microwave this after I’ve seen what my team’s been up to.’

‘Excellent, excellent.’ Methven marched off through the Incident Room.

Cullen leaned against the pillar and sucked cold coffee.

‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Sundance.’ Bain looked him up and down. ‘You look like you went twelve rounds with a bottle of Absinthe.’

Cullen folded his arms. ‘Feels like it.’

‘What time did you finish up?’

‘Midnight, I think.’

‘Bullshit. I was fuckin’ barrelling home along the M8 at midnight.’ A smirk danced across Bain’s face. ‘Sure you didn’t get chucked out of a club at three before finishing a bottle of whisky round Buxton’s house?’

Cullen took another swig of coffee, not helping the stomach any. ‘Four beers, that’s it.’

‘Seriously, what did you do?’

‘Four. Beers.’

Bain snorted. ‘Believe that when I see it.’ He walked off.

Cullen clocked Murray and Buxton heading over. ‘Morning, boys.’

Murray frowned. ‘Not going to thank me for deputising?’

Cullen shrugged. ‘Aye, thanks for that.’

‘Take it you had a late one?’

‘Didn’t get much sleep last night.’ Cullen looked Buxton up and down. ‘How are you doing, Si?’

‘Feel like someone’s eaten my brain, but I’m raring to go.’ Buxton yawned. ‘Any ill effects?’

‘Not too bad.’

Murray did a double-take. ‘What’s he talking about.’

Cullen looked away. ‘I got my drink spiked.’

‘What the fuck? In the club?’

Cullen nodded. ‘Did you see anything before you left?’

‘There was that guy sitting between Si and that Lorna bird. Skinny boy.’

‘It’s not him. That’s my ex-flatmate.’

‘Seemed well dodgy. He brought a round back, didn’t he?’

Cullen rubbed his neck. ‘Lorna had her drink spiked, too.’

‘Gentlemen.’ Methven reappeared, glowering at Cullen, Bain lurking behind him. He snapped out a newspaper, the broadsheet sprawl of the
Argus
. ‘This Rich McAlpine chap’s at it again.’

‘You seen this, Sundance? “Consultancy Fraud At Death Bank”.’ Bain pointed at the headline and shook his head. ‘How the fuck did he get that?’

Methven snorted, nostrils flared. ‘DS Cullen?’

Cullen winced, eyes on his two DCs. ‘I’ve spoken to him about it. He said—’

Bain pointed at another headline and cackled. ‘Check this. “Alba Bank BDSM Ring”. The boy’s got the inside track.’

‘You’ve both discussed this with him.’ Methven folded his arms. ‘I want to know how he’s getting this stuff. This has to stop. Now.’

‘I spoke to him about when the story went online. I don’t think his source is a police officer.’

‘Then who the hell is it?’

‘Someone at Alba Bank, most likely.’

‘Guesswork, Sergeant. I’m disappointed.’

‘Look, it’s not me.’

‘I know it’s not you.’

Finally listening… Cullen folded the paper in half. ‘I’ll go and have a word with him.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen tilted his head to the side. ‘You pissed on your own chips?’

Buxton clenched his jaw, hands gripping the wheel. ‘Yeah, bought some chips on the way home last night. Went for a slash down a back street and put them on the ground. When I zipped up, I saw I’d pissed all over my chips. Hadn’t even eaten any.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Took me a few seconds to walk away from them. Long seconds.’

‘I hope a tramp didn’t pick them up.’

‘Not going to be the worst thing they’ve eaten, is it?’

‘True.’ Buxton pulled in on Portobello High Street and yawned. ‘Not sure I should be driving.’

‘The breathalyser’s clean.’ Cullen tightened his grip on the steering wheel and looked at the flat above the kebab shop.

Buxton let his seatbelt slide up. ‘Who are we speaking to here?’

‘We’re not. I am.’

‘Come on, mate.’

‘You stay here. This is personal. You saw what Crystal was like back there. I’m in the toilet. I need to fix this.’

‘Suit yourself. That geezer seemed … dodgy. Sure you don’t need me?’

‘I’ll give you a call if I need corroboration.’ Cullen got out of the car and stood on the pavement, clutching Methven’s
Argus
. Two buses hissed as they crawled to a halt at stops on opposite sides of the road.

A man walked past, face covered in scar tissue. Papers and rolls in his blue carrier bag, a three-legged dog following him.

Cullen sucked in breath and pressed the buzzer.

‘Hello?’

‘Tom, it’s Scott. Is Rich back yet?’

‘Negative, amigo. Found a text from him at midnight saying he pulled. Gone to some guy’s flat.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Unreal, isn’t he?’

‘So he’s not there?’

‘Afraid not. Wasted trip. You should’ve called.’

‘Been trying for the last half an hour.’

‘Aye. Sorry, I was just having a du—’

‘Catch you later.’ Cullen walked over to the car and got in. ‘He’s not there.’

Buxton locked his phone. ‘What?’

‘Did Rich leave with you?’

‘Don’t know. I was a bit pissed.’

‘What about Lorna?’

‘Thought I was in there. She went home before me. Just bolted.’

‘What was I doing?’

‘Dancing like you were Hall or Oates.’

‘Shite, I don’t remember any of this.’

‘The joys of Rohypnol.’ Buxton leaned back in his chair. ‘All I can think of is that geezer hanging around us.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Wait, didn’t Rich ask this geezer to look after our drinks while we danced?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Cullen looked back up at the flat above. ‘Could Rich have done it?’

‘You think your mate drugged you?’

‘How else do you explain it? Me and Lorna got drugged and now he’s missing.’

‘I mean, yeah, maybe.’

‘Well, if it was him… I need to run this past Crystal.’

Cullen staggered into the Incident Room, blinking at the lights as he looked around. No sign of Methven. Murray sat next to Eva, both working at laptops. ‘Either of you seen Crystal?’

‘Think he’s interviewing someone.’ She frowned at him. ‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be working on.’

‘Can you find Richard McAlpine?’

Murray frowned. ‘Your mate?’

‘Aye. Eva, bring him in, okay?’

‘Right, I’ll try.’

Cullen retreated from the Incident Room, yawning his way to the Obs Suite. He checked the monitors for Methven. There, in Four. With Bain. He left and crossed the hall, knocking on the door. Didn’t wait for a response.

Methven and Bain sat at the table.

Opposite was a tall man, hands in pockets, leaning back in the chair. Stone-washed denims tucked into crocodile skin boots, casual shirt hanging loose. He winked at Cullen. ‘Well, hello there.’ American accent, polished and clipped.

Cullen nodded at Methven. ‘Need a word, sir.’

Methven hefted himself up. ‘I’ll just be a second, sir.’ He marched over and yanked the door behind him, folding his arms. ‘How did it go with our little Fourth Estate problem?’

‘Rich isn’t at his flat. Tom reckons he picked someone up last night.’

‘Well, you find him. Okay? Nip this in the bud, Sergeant.’

‘Sir, I think it could be him drugging people. Drugging me and Lorna.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve nothing concrete, sir, but I’m getting worried. He’s gone to ground and he had opportunity to do it.’

‘Sodding, sodding hell.’ Methven glared at the door. ‘I need to discuss this with DCI Cargill. Can you take over here?’

‘Who’s that in there?’

‘Wayne Broussard.’

‘The Schneider guy?’

‘He’s just flown in from the States, claiming he’s jet-lagged, though I suspect lying’s part of his professional training.’ Methven started off. ‘Ensure DS Bain doesn’t tear his head off, okay?’

‘Fine.’ Cullen watched him storm off down the corridor, prodding his Airwave. Jesus. He pushed open the door.

Bain leaned over to the microphone. ‘DS Cullen has entered the room.’

‘I assure you, officer, my firm’s clean as the pure-driven snow.’ Wayne Broussard crossed one leg over the other. ‘We’re audited by four global institutions. Plus, we’re benchmarked on a whole heap of metrics every single quarter. Takes a lot out of us, but I can put my hand on my heart,’ he thumped his chest, ‘and say we’re clean.’

Bain scribbled something in his notebook. ‘What about IMC? Are they as clean?’

‘Oh, those guys. Tell me, how do you think they got a gig this big?’

Cullen frowned. ‘A tender process?’

‘Very naïve.’ Wayne nodded at Cullen. ‘Who are you?’

‘DS Cullen. We spoke on the phone the other day.’

‘Right, the little guy.’ Wayne looked him up and down. ‘You’re bigger than I expected.’
 

Bain smirked. ‘You were saying about IMC…?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Wayne tapped his nose. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. Offshoring’s been a complete waste of time since the mid-nineties. Too expensive and the distance causes too many communication problems. Everything sloooooows down.’

‘I bet you’ve made a lot of money advising on it, though.’

‘Look, we know how to make it work, but nobody’s interested in spending the time or money. You need to get people over there, establish the relationships. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been to Bangalore or Chennai. Whether they choose to heed our advice is another matter.’

‘Was it Jonathan van de Merwe who didn’t heed your advice?’

‘Him and Yardley. Desperate men trying to cover their asses. Real rootin’, tootin’ cowboys. Alan Henderson busted his balls on a daily basis. Doing that shows they’re trying to save costs.’