Cullen came up behind Falconer, readying himself to grab hold.
Miller's eyes darted from the knife to Cullen.
Falconer spun round and lashed out, catching his knife in the bark of a tree.
There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other - Cullen with his baton still retracted and Falconer with his knife stuck.
Falconer tugged at it. Cullen extended his baton and lashed out. Falconer dodged at the last minute, much faster than Cullen had expected, and lurched forward, slashing the knife at Cullen, missing by inches. Miller jumped in but caught an elbow in the face from Falconer, sending him sprawling on the ground.
"Fucking pig scumbag." Falconer lashed out at Cullen with the knife, each slash getting closer and closer.
Cullen moved quickly forward, flicking out with his baton, cracking Falconer's wrist and making them both drop their weapons. Cullen kicked the knife towards Miller, lying prone on the ground. Falconer moved his knees up quickly, almost battering Cullen in the groin. He grabbed Cullen by the hair and tried to punch him. Cullen yanked Falconer backwards, pulling him down. He rolled over, putting Falconer in a hold he'd learned long ago in his training days. Breathing hard, he reached behind his back for his handcuffs.
Falconer elbowed Cullen in the stomach and pushed him over, kicking him in the side - twice - before running off.
Cullen tried to get up but couldn't.
Falconer dashed into the middle of the road - cars screeched to a halt.
Cullen thought about giving chase but decided assessing Miller's condition was his highest priority. He jogged over, Miller still lying on his back, staring up and making a lot of noise.
"Are you okay?" said Cullen.
"I'll live," said Miller. "Did you catch him?"
"He got away."
"Fuck's sake," said Miller. "I took a kicking for nothing. Next time that happens, go after him, right?"
Caldwell appeared beside them. "That's gratitude."
"Tell me about it," said Cullen. "Did you see where he went?"
"Rosebank cemetery, I think," said Caldwell. "There's like a hundred ways out of there."
Cullen closed his eyes. If he could have run after Falconer, he would. "I'm going to get such a doing."
This wasn't going to look good on his record.
Cullen yawned as he walked down the corridor in Leith Walk police station, heading back to his desk, trying to ease out the lactic acid in his legs. It was Friday lunchtime at the end of four straight day shifts and he was knackered, and not just from the incident in Pilrig Park. He carried his lunch - a BLT clutched in one hand, a coffee in the other, steam wafting out of the hole in the lid.
Detective Sergeant Sharon McNeill was walking alongside. She stopped, looked around at him and laughed.
Cullen frowned. "What?"
"You haven't listened to a word," she said, with a grin.
"Sorry," said Cullen. "I'm starving. I've not eaten since six this morning and I've had too much excitement for one day."
McNeill was tall, early thirties, her dark hair loosely tied back in a ponytail. She was maybe carrying a few extra pounds, but if Cullen could ever be described as being selective enough to have a type, she was it. She wore a charcoal trouser suit and a cream blouse, open at the neck. "Yeah, well, at least you're not in tomorrow." She led on.
"What was it you said anyway?"
McNeill's eyes darted over at him. "I asked if you had any plans for your days off."
"Avoiding detective inspectors."
McNeill grinned. "Other than that?"
"Just out drinking with my flatmates tonight," said Cullen. "If the pain in my side eases any, that is."
"Messy one?"
Cullen smiled. "Hope so."
She stopped outside their office space, a small portion of the third floor. Egg mayonnaise roll in one hand, tea beaker in the other, McNeill struggled to push the door. Cullen had learnt the hard way not to offer his assistance. Eventually, she barged it open.
Cullen's four-man team occupied a bank of desks by the window. Leith Walk station had opened the previous summer and now housed the bulk of Edinburgh's CID, though there was still a presence in Torphichen Street and St Leonards stations.
Cullen and McNeill both reported to Detective Inspector Brian Bain, who sat at his desk poring through a file, an open can of Red Bull in front of him. He was early forties, tall and thin with a neat moustache and grey hair shaved almost to the bone. He wore a black suit and white shirt with a red tie hanging loose from the collar. He glanced up, made eye contact and looked back down again.
Cullen sat at the desk across from Bain and logged in to his computer.
Bain made eye contact again. His face grew into a rictus of a smile. "Need to get an appraisal done on you, Cullen."
Cullen had been working for Bain for the last three months since receiving his full DC tenure. He wouldn't exactly describe it as having lucked out - far from it. "Let me know where and when."
"Less of the cheek," said Bain. "It's your responsibility to arrange time with me."
Cullen was determined not to rise to the bait. "Fine."
Bain had already given Cullen the requisite doing for the morning's disaster. Falconer was finally apprehended just off Broughton Street, a mile or so from the incident, and it looked like he might finally be going away.
Not that Bain saw any of it in a good light - Cullen had fucked up. He'd been shouted at in a meeting room for a good forty minutes, becoming numb to it after twenty. If it wasn't for the fact Cullen had been pestering Bain for three months to lead some investigations, he'd be able to let it go. As it was, the failure stung - he'd not get another chance for months, if at all.
Bain threw a file across the partition onto Cullen's desk. "Anyway, here you go. Get reading that. You and Butch are digging this one up. No fuckin' it up, now."
Butch was Bain's less than affectionate nickname for McNeill, now sitting at the desk to Cullen's right. Ignoring him, she took a bite of her roll, daintily covering her mouth with her hand as she chewed, staring into space.
Cullen bit his tongue. "I'll get on it."
Bain got to his feet and stretched out. "Right, I'm off for a shite." He crumpled the can. "That stuff goes straight through me."
Cullen started eating his own roll, sifting through the file as he chewed. It was a cold case still open from the previous November, the trail long since frozen over, though Cullen couldn't see why the Cold Case Unit had pushed it back to active CID. By the time he finished his lunch, he had no new insights the previous investigating team hadn't found. Standard protocol would involve re-interviewing victims, relatives and witnesses - weeks of work.
There was a sound from across the partition and Cullen looked up. At Bain's desk stood Detective Chief Inspector Jim Turnbull, Bain's boss, clutching a sheet of paper. He was the hairiest man Cullen had ever seen - thick tufts sprouting from everywhere - the top of his collar, between the buttons on his shirt, down his neck.
"Jim, how can I help?" said McNeill with a warm smile.
"Sharon, always a pleasure." Turnbull nodded at Bain's desk. "I was looking for DI Bain, but I see he's not around." His voice was deep and syrupy, the accent Borders, most likely Melrose.
McNeill grimaced. "He's off to the toilet."
Turnbull grinned. "Ah, I see. I take it he drilled down to a sufficient level of granularity in terms of what he would be producing?"
McNeill just raised an eyebrow.
Turnbull bellowed with laughter.
Bain approached, drying his hands on his trousers. "Boss."
"At least you washed your hands for once," said Turnbull.
"Always do," said Bain. "Now, what can I do you for?"
"Just had Queen Charlotte Street on the phone," said Turnbull. "They've got a MisPer case, wondered if we could have a look at it."
Bain exhaled. "We're pretty much flat out here, sir."
McNeill shook her head in disbelief at Bain, out of sight of Turnbull. "Lying bastard," she said, just loud enough for Cullen to hear.
Cullen leaned over. "Why's he lying?"
"His stats are looking good at the moment," she said, "doesn't want anything else to lower his average like your trip to Pilrig Park did this morning."
Turnbull sat on the edge of Bain's desk, both turned away from Cullen and McNeill, continuing their chat with lowered voices.
Miller, the fourth member of their team, wandered over and sat at the desk next to Bain, across from McNeill. He was tall and skinny with it, his spiky dark hair as long as was permitted for a police officer. He always looked uncomfortable in a suit, as if it wore him rather than the other way round. "You been for a roll yet?"
McNeill shushed Miller and leaned closer to Turnbull and Bain, her finger pretending to scan through the lines of the report in front of her.
Turnbull stood up and turned around, causing McNeill to pretend she was reaching for the phone. Cullen could hear them clearly now.
"I understand what you're saying, Brian, but this is of the utmost importance. We've got to build bridges with our uniformed brethren, you know that. We can't just cherry-pick the low-hanging fruit all the time or storm in and demand resource as we see fit. It cuts both ways."
"I'll see what we can do," said Bain.
Turnbull handed the sheet of paper to Bain then play-punched his shoulder. "Thanks, Brian. I've already assigned the case to you." He checked his watch, nodded at Bain and set off towards the stairwell.
Miller sprang from his seat like a greyhound out of the traps, intercepting Turnbull by the door.
Bain glared at them and muttered something under his breath. He turned around and logged in to his computer, tapping furiously at the keys. He lifted the mouse up and slammed it on the desk a couple of times. He glared at the sheet of paper, now face up on his desk.
Miller wandered back over, smiling to himself.
"What were you up to?" said Bain.
"Nothing. Just asking Jim there about getting my DC role made permanent."
Bain glowered. "All that shite's supposed to go through me."
"You weren't doing anything about it," said Miller.
"You're a cheeky wee bastard." Bain grinned then turned his glare to McNeill. "Right, Butch, you probably overheard anyway but we've been given a case. Seems like tedium. I want the Sundance Kid here on it to help with his development, so you're on your own with that cold case."
Cullen closed his eyes in frustration -
Sundance Kid
again. He hated the nickname.
Bain handed him the sheet. "Young woman from Leith has been missing since Wednesday night. Name of Caroline Adamson."
"You know what they say about women from Leith," said Miller, looking for a laugh.
Bain glared at him. "Miller, this is serious. CID wouldn't be getting called out if it was some scrubber disappearing after a night out, all right?"
"Sorry, Gaffer." Miller's eyes looked anywhere but at Bain.
"It's got the address of her pal who called it in." Bain looked straight at Cullen. "There's a uniform round there now." He nodded at Miller. "Take Monkey Boy here with you. And try and keep him away from superior officers."
"Is this anything to do with what happened in Pilrig Park?" said Cullen.
"It might or it might not," said Bain. "Far as I'm concerned, what goes on in Pilrig Park stays in Pilrig Park."
Cullen turned the pool car off Leith Walk onto Dalmeny Street, taking a left at the end and driving down Sloan Street, a generic block of tenements between Leith Walk and Easter Road. They struck lucky - a car pulled off from outside number ten, allowing Cullen to park in the space. They could just as easily have walked down from the station - it was less than half a mile - but it was standard policy to drive.
"Used to live round the corner from here," said Miller.
"Very interesting," said Cullen.
He picked up his notes off the back seat and opened the MisPer report. It told him very little. Someone in Queen Charlotte had done some legwork already, checking the hospitals and crossing off the few dead bodies that had turned up across Scotland and the north of England since Wednesday. He checked the MisPer's description - five foot four, thin, dark hair and brown eyes.
The address they'd been sent round to was the home of an Amy Cousens.
"Come on," said Cullen, "let's go."
"What's the story with you and Sharon?" said Miller as they walked down the street.
Cullen reddened. "Story?"
"You're following her round like a little lost puppy," said Miller. "Slipping her a length, are you?"
"No."
Miller laughed. "Aye, aye. I've touched a nerve there."
Cullen had clocked early on that Miller didn't exactly have a positive attitude to women. He wasn't Mr Sensitive himself, but Miller seemed like a caveman. He'd decided ignoring him would be the best policy.
Like so many tenements in the city, the front door intercom had been vandalised, the stairwell open to the street. They climbed the stairs to the third floor and chapped on the flat door.
A bald-headed PC answered, looking like he should have retired years ago. He came out onto the landing, pulling the door to behind him and grunted an introduction. "PC Willie McAllister. Who are you then?"
Cullen got out his warrant card and introduced himself and Miller. "Care to bring us up to speed?"
"Her pal disappeared," said McAllister. "Didn't show up to collect her wee boy yesterday. The lassie through there gave Queen Charlotte station a buzz this morning. Someone came over, did a report, that's all I know. Our Inspector was a bit suspicious about it, so he called you lot in."
"I've read the file," said Cullen. "Dredged up anything else since?"
"Nothing so far. You'd better speak to the lassie herself." McAllister pulled his Airwave out of his jacket pocket. "I'd better get off and do some proper police work, let you boys go in and chat her up." He headed down the stair, a slight limp in his stride.