Devil in the Detail (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (29 page)

Irvine pulled in just past a large Co-op on the long straight street Cullen supposed would lead through to Macmerry, Pencaitland and on to Haddington.

"What did you say this felly's name was?" asked Irvine as they got out of the car.

"Keith Green," said Cullen.

They quickly found the block of flats which looked ex-council to Cullen. Irvine pressed the buzzer and waited. "Bet this fucker's not in," he said, then pressed it again.

"Aye?" came a short, sharp burst on the intercom.

"Mr Green, it's the police," said Irvine, "we need to come inside and speak to you."

"Fine."

The buzzer didn't sound, the door didn't click.

Irvine closed his eyes. "Mr Green," he said, "will you let us up."

There was a delay. "Aye," came the voice and the door opened.

"Little prick," muttered Irvine, as they entered the building.

Green lived on the second floor. His door was slightly open. Irvine gestured to Cullen to go in first. Cullen entered slowly. The flat was in a state - the paint flecking off the door surrounds, the walls mostly unpainted and the carpet worn down to the underlay in places.

"Mr Green," said Cullen, getting his warrant card out and walking down the hall, "it's DC Cullen and DS Irvine of Lothian and Borders CID."

The voice came from a door at the end of the hall. "I'm on the bog."
 

"Fine," said Cullen, "we'll just wait for you here."

Irvine shut the flat door behind them. He whispered in Cullen's ear. "I'm beginning to think that this is Lamb fucking us about," he said.

"What makes you think that?" asked Cullen.

"This just feels like amateur hour."

"We can't all aspire to your levels of professionalism," said Cullen.

The expression on Irvine's face made it clear to Cullen that he didn't know how to take the remark.

The toilet flushed and Keith Green appeared. Cullen noticed that his hands weren't wet and made a mental note not to shake his hand. He was tall and skinny, with short dark hair in the same style as John Terry. He was wearing grey Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a Super Dry t-shirt that had seen better days.

"C'mon through," he said, and led through into the kitchen which doubled as a living room. It was a yellowing melamine affair with strips coming unstuck. An old bottle green three piece suite was at one end of the room, not many shades darker than Cullen's car, set in front of a cheap LCD TV on a unit covered in copied DVDs. An electric fire sat in a dark wooden surround, a large bong taking pride of place on the mantelpiece. Green spread himself out on the armchair in front of the TV. Cullen and Irvine remained standing.

"What do you want?" asked Green.

"Mr Green, is this your home?" asked Cullen.

"It is, aye," said Green. "I pay the rent. I work as a joiner, eh? This is mah day off so you're lucky to get us, ken?"

"I believe that you're acquainted with a Jamie Cook," said Cullen

"I ken Jamie."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Are you looking for him, likes?" asked Green.

"Yes."

Green gave a little chuckle. "He's a daft wee bastard," he said.

"That aside," said Cullen, his voice severe, "do you know where he is?"

"I haven't seen the boy in weeks," he said.

Cullen caught Irvine's look.
 

"Do you know anyone who might have?" asked Cullen.

"Big Alan McArthur would," he said.

"And do you know where big Alan McArthur is?"

Green gave them an address a few streets away.

*

"Did you see his drugs and DVDs?" asked Irvine.

"I did," said Cullen. "We could get Lamb out there to bust him if we wanted."

"Give that useless bastard something to do you, you mean?" asked Irvine.

Cullen was beyond fed up with Irvine's attitude to the local CID. "I didn't say that."

They were driving towards Alan McArthur's parents' house in the middle of an estate halfway out of Tranent. The houses were generic 50s post-war council housing, none particularly well presented.

All Cullen knew about the town was that its focus had been coal-mining but before it had been killed off in the 80s. Scotland struggled to generate industry at the best of times - leaving a huge vacuum in the worst of times. Cullen had seen what social cleansing had done to local communities from years of working in West Lothian. From the loins of the salt of the earth emerged generations of lost kids with no future, no prospects and no hope. The social structures of strong patriarchs disappeared along with the men's self-respect, replaced with cheap alcohol, heroin and crime. Kids that Cullen had dealt with in the west were scumbags, but in reality the crimes they committed were minor misdemeanours compared with crimes committed by those who should have been looking after the best interests of the country rather than lining their own pockets.
 

Irvine pulled up in front of a badly run down semi-detached house. The front lawn was mostly bare and with puddles of water. A battered Vauxhall Cavalier sat on bricks.

"Help me out with something here," said Cullen.

"What?"

Cullen pointed at the house. "This doesn't look like the best house in East Lothian," he said, "if you catch my drift."

Irvine looked out of the side window. "What's your point, caller?"

"Jamie Cook is from a well-off family," said Cullen. "His Dad runs his own business, lives in a big house in Garleton."

Irvine looked around. "I'm still not getting you, Cullen."

"Why's he mucking about with guys from Tranent that live in places like this?" asked Cullen.

Irvine shrugged. "I've seen it happen before," he said. "I'm a bit surprised that you haven't. Cultural slumming, I think it's called."

"Of course I know what you mean," said Cullen, "but I've never seen it like this."

"Aye, well," said Irvine, stretching out, "let's just see what this boy has to say."

They walked up to the house. All the blinds and curtains were drawn.

"Fuck sake," said Irvine. "Nobody's in."

"You've not even tried yet," said Cullen.
 

He reached over and pressed the doorbell. It was answered quickly by a woman who looked mid-40s, her ginger hair full of streaks of grey. She was wearing a dressing gown. Cullen checked his watch - it was just after 3pm.

"Mrs McArthur?" asked Cullen.

She nodded. "Who's asking?"

"We're police officers, Mrs McArthur," said Cullen, holding up his warrant card. "This is DS Irvine, I'm DC Cullen."

"And?"

"We're looking for your son," said Cullen.
 

"Which one?" she asked. "I've got four."

"Alan."

She tutted. "Right."

"Is he in?" asked Cullen.

"No."

"Do you know where he is?"

"He's at his pal's."

Cullen took a deep breath. "Mrs McArthur, can you please tell me exactly where your son is."

She scowled at him. "Across the road, number fifteen," she said. "His pal's called Paul."

"Thank you," said Cullen.

She turned around and pulled the door shut.

"Charming," said Irvine, looking across the road.

"Your turn next," said Cullen.

"Come on, then," said Irvine, "show you how it's done."

Irvine crossed the road. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a green drum of Wrigley's Extra. He threw a handful of pieces into his mouth.

"Are you not going to offer it around?" asked Cullen.

Irvine stared at him. "You want some?"

"Not really but you never offer it around," said Cullen.

"Did you offer around the sausage roll you had with the gaffer?" asked Irvine.

"That's not the same thing."

"How not?"

"It just isn't," said Cullen.

Irvine stopped outside the front gate. "Keeps me off the fags," he said.
 

"Fair enough," said Cullen, suddenly losing interest in winding Irvine up.

Irvine looked up at the grey concrete building, part of a terrace of six. It looked barely one room wide. "Time to do this properly," he said. He hammered on the front door.
 

Cullen heard a muffled voice through the door. "Get that will you?"

He shared a look with Irvine while they waited. The door was opened by a tall, heavyset man wearing a saggy grey jumper and light blue jeans.
 

"What?" asked the man.

"We're looking for Alan McArthur," said Irvine.

"You've found him."

"Mr McArthur," said Irvine, "I'm DS Alan Irvine of Lothian and Borders. This is DC Cullen. We're looking to track down an acquaintance of yours, a Jamie Cook."

McArthur's face was blank. "Who?"

"Jamie Cook," said Irvine. "Lives in Garleton."

Cullen held up the photo they had of Jamie, taken at a party a few months before. McArthur's face continued to look blank for a few moments. Suddenly, it was as if a light switch came on. "Oh, you mean Biscuit, right?"

"Biscuit?" asked Irvine.

"Aye, that's the boy," said McArthur. "Skinny wee bastard. Curtains haircut. Gets called Biscuit or Cookie." He tapped the photo. "That's him."

"Well, have you seen him?" asked Irvine.

"Not since last weekend," said McArthur.

"What, the 14th?"

"Sounds about right," said McArthur.

"And you haven't heard from him since?"

"No."

"No texts or emails?" asked Irvine. "Nothing on Facebook, Twitter or Schoolbook?"

"Do I look like I tweet?" asked McArthur.

"Mind if we have a look in here?" asked Cullen.

A wave of panic crept across McArthur's face. "Eh, you got a warrant?" he asked.

"No," said Cullen, "I'm just looking for Jamie Cook."

"He's not here," said McArthur. "This isn't my place, eh?"

"Then you won't mind me having a look inside," said Cullen.

Cullen pushed past McArthur. The flat was sparsely furnished, like Keith Green's flat. Cullen headed into the living room - there were three people in there, sat round a 42" LCD and an Xbox, playing a shooter. Cullen looked at each of them: one woman, who seemed bored with the game and was flicking through a celeb magazine; the two men were mid-20s, overweight, shaven heads, nothing like Jamie Cook.

"Have any of you seen Jamie Cook?" he asked, holding the photo up.

They looked up from the game long enough to glance at the photo and shake their heads.

Cullen went upstairs. There was a bedroom and a bathroom. Jamie Cook was in neither room. He headed back outside.
 

"You satisfied now?" asked McArthur.

Cullen looked at Irvine. "He's not here," he said, "and none of the three people present recognised him."

"Do you know of anyone who might know where Jamie is?" Cullen asked.

"Have you checked with his bird?" asked McArthur.

"Excuse me?"

"He's got a bird in Dunbar," said McArthur. "Works in the Asda there. Think her name is Kirsty."

*

Cullen waited at the customer service desk. The assistant put out a call on the PA system for a Kirsty-Jane Platt. Cullen took out his notebook and scribbled the name down.

Irvine went to the toilet while Cullen asked for her. Irvine's leg had been jigging up and down all the way from Tranent to Dunbar.
 

Dunbar was a seaside town in decline. It sat atop a hill at the far east of the county and still had a functioning harbour. The mainline London trains still stopped at the station but, to Cullen, that was about all Dunbar had going for it. It had some charm but had been disconnected from Edinburgh for too long. The town had been handed a lifeline with the extension of the A1 dual carriageway from Edinburgh and had consequently seen an upsurge in house building, leading to the opening of a new Asda, just off the second roundabout as the road led south to Berwick-upon-Tweed and England.

"Excuse me?"

Cullen turned back to the desk. The attendant was looking at him.
 

"That's Kirsty there," she said, pointing away from Cullen.

"Thanks."

He turned around and spotted Irvine coming over, tugging at his trousers. In front of him was a girl wearing a green Asda jacket. She looked at the service desk attendant then at Cullen.

"What is it?" she asked.

Up close she looked really young, barely over sixteen. He showed her his warrant card. "DC Scott Cullen of Lothian and Borders," he said. Irvine caught up with them. "This is DS Alan Irvine.

"Right."

"Ms Platt," said Cullen, "I believe that you are acquainted with a Jamie Cook of Garleton."

She looked at him for what felt to Cullen like minutes. "Jamie?" she asked.

"Yes, do you know him?"

"I do." She pulled her fleece tighter around her. "If this is about the rape then I've told the police to drop the charges."

Cullen and Irvine sat across from Kirsty-Jane at a plastic table in the corner of the supermarket canteen.

Cullen had been stunned by the revelation and it left him on the back foot for a while. Fortunately, for once Irvine had the common sense to insist they went somewhere private. The only place free was the canteen. There were no big shift breaks due for another hour, so the only other person in the place was the cleaner, sitting reading the Sun by the counter at the front of the room.
 

Cullen couldn't work out why they hadn't been informed of the rape - surely Lamb or his officers would have found something out by now.

"What did you mean by the rape?" asked Cullen.

"Nothing," she said.
 

"Come on," said Cullen. "

"I don't have to say anything, right?"

Cullen decided to leave it for a bit. "Can you tell me about your relationship with Jamie Cook?" he asked.

"Why?"

"We are looking to interview him in connection with a case," said Cullen.

She closed her eyes. "What's he done now?" she asked.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," replied Cullen. "Can you please describe your relationship with Jamie?"

"I'd rather not," she said, and tugged her fleece tighter.