Read Cowboys and Indians Online
Authors: Ed James
Cowboys and Indians
Day 1 - Saturday 17th May 2014
Day 5 - Wednesday 21st May 2014
Day 6 - Thursday 22nd May 2014
Day 8 - Saturday 24th May 2014
Cowboys & Indians
Ed James
Copyright © 2015 Ed James
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13:
To Ginty, Dawn, Kay, Ed, Jon, Ron, Kim, Sam, Barford, Flocky, Rich, Jim, Stef, Mandy, Spencer, Tizzard, Mose, Liana, David, Stephen, Mike, Mike, Andy, Rakesh, Hang, Marion, Karen, Caroline, Steve, Mark, Lee, Alan, Graham, Tom, Arthur, Angus, Isobel, Alex, Shagger, Derek, Brian, Séan, Gary, Willis, James, Damian, Andrew, Welshy, Jarrod, Kirsty, Lisa, Joan, Lucy, Peter, Graeme, Mark, Daegal, Richie, Jon and all the other survivors of IT programmes I’ve worked on.
Saturday
17th May 2014
Detective Sergeant Scott Cullen barged through the crowd at the bar, clutching a metal tray. Six tumblers rattled as he carried them, each containing sparkling amber and a shot glass filled with black liquid. A bleary-eyed man in a tight shirt nudged into him, spilling some. Cullen glared at him and walked on, dumping the drinks on the high table. ‘Here we go. Jägerbombs all round.’
Acting DI Sharon McNeill grabbed one and kissed Cullen on the lips, her familiar taste mixing with Red Bull. She tugged her purple top, showing off her bare arms, almost stick thin. Her ponytail smoothed out the worry lines on her forehead. Could get away without wearing a bra these days. She raised the glass, her gaze wandering around the busy club. ‘Cheers.’
Four other hands snatched a drink.
Cullen raised the last one in the air. ‘One, two, three!’ He necked it, the shot glass chinking off his teeth, the contents blending with the Red Bull, and slammed it on the table. ‘First!’ He wiped the dribble on his chin.
Sharon finished hers next and winked at him. She leaned over to peck him on the cheek. ‘Cheers, Scott.’
Cullen leaned in close. ‘You think he’s here?’
‘Not sure yet.’ She peered around the bar again, nudging her empty tumbler across the table. ‘That’s a great idea, by the way.’
‘What, Coke instead of Jägermeister?’
‘Thank Budgie for me.’ She nodded back to the bar, the queue three deep, an array of tenners in the air. ‘Hope our guy’s not working with the bar staff.’
‘You’ve interviewed them, what’s your take?’
‘I think they’re as worried as we are.’ She raised her eyebrows at a man near them, grinding away at the edge of the dance floor. ‘What about him?’
Tall and lithe, maybe late twenties. Fists pumping the air in time with the beat. Skinny jeans, patterned shirt open to the waist, a thin line of hair tracing down his flat stomach. His sculpted beard would take more effort every morning than Cullen spent in a month.
Cullen rubbed his chin and sniffed. ‘More likely he’s a potential victim. He’s out of his tree.’
‘Drink or drugs?’
‘Maybe both.’
The man spun around, moving away from them, stomping his feet in time to the song’s heavy thud. He stopped by a pair of men — rich students, judging by their jeans and jumpers. Both tall and athletic-looking. He worked one of them away from the other, like a lion separating a gazelle from the herd. Got in the guy’s face, shouting the song’s lyrics at him. He grabbed his hand and led him across the dance floor. Stopped at the bar and raised a finger at the barman.
‘Nice queue jumping.’ Sharon leaned in to Cullen, her perfume cloying. ‘This is looking possible. Do you think he’s being helped?’
‘Let’s see.’ Cullen watched their target take two shot glasses and lead his prey towards a booth, his hand passing across the top of a glass. What the hell was that? ‘Shite, he’s put something in one of them.’
Sharon spun round to her team — two men and two women. ‘Think we’ve got a suspect. You know the drill.’ She marched across the crowded club.
Cullen followed her. The first pair of officers headed to the front door, the other towards the toilets.
The men reclined next to each other on a red banquette, the fake leather frayed in a few places. The older one slapped a hand on his prey’s thigh and raised his glass, glowing in the UV light.
‘DI Sharon McNeill.’ She held up her warrant card. ‘Police Scotland Sexual Assault Unit. I’m detaining you under—’
Liquid splashed across her face.
Cullen reached into the back of his jeans and snapped out his baton.
The older man leapt towards him. His skull thudded into Cullen’s forehead. He tumbled backwards, slipping on the floor and collapsing on the sticky tiles.
He made it up onto all fours, blood spurting down his face, covering his mouth.
Black trainers darted away from him through the crowd.
The younger man cowered in the booth. ‘What happened?’
‘You had a narrow escape.’ Cullen got to his feet and pointed at the glass, rubbing his bleeding nose. ‘Don’t drink that.’ He jogged through the gap in the crowd as it parted further, nostrils stinging.
DC McKeown hunched over by the bar, hands over his groin, eyes screwed up.
Cullen shook his shoulder. ‘Did he get you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Out the front. Rhona’s gone after him.’
Cullen shot off towards the front door, passing the cloakroom. The other two officers overtook him and barged past the gorillas on the door. He climbed up the steps into the warm night air and stopped on the pavement, getting out his Airwave. ‘Control, this is DS Cullen. Requesting immediate support outside the Liquid Lounge on George Street.’
‘Receiving. DS Lorimer and DC Lindsay are in pursuit of a suspect down Frederick Street, heading towards the New Town.’
‘On my way.’ Cullen wove between crowds of staggering drinkers and confused tourists and slid round the corner. He wiped his bloody nose.
The two who’d outflanked him in the club were chasing a man down the hill, footsteps and shouts echoing off the grand buildings.
Cullen squinted at their target. Definitely him. ‘Control, suspect’s now on Queen Street.’
‘Received. Alpha fifteen are attending an incident on Great King Street. Want me to redirect them to support you?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Acknowledged.’
Cullen sprinted across Queen Street, his outstretched warrant card stopping the long queue of evening traffic. He powered on down the hill, passing the darkness of Queen Street Gardens on his right. No sign of his quarry or the other officers. ‘Control, need an update.’
‘Suspect has entered Jamaica Street.’
Shite. Cullen bolted past Howe Street’s Georgian town houses and swung a left into a side road. Boxy sixties concrete lit up in sodium yellow. Footsteps clattered from the right. He curved round the bend to a row of stone mews houses.
One of Sharon’s male officers lay on the ground, blood bubbling from his mouth. ‘Fucker got me.’
‘Support’s on its way.’ Cullen raised his baton and jogged on.
His target punched out, cracking a fist into Rhona’s face. She tumbled backwards, her head crunching against the pavement.
Cullen wheeled round to him, baton poised just as a uniformed officer stormed round the corner. He swung out, thwacking the backs of the suspect’s knees.
The man fell forward, hands slapping against the cobbles. ‘You bastard!’
Cullen stuck a knee in his back and applied his cuffs. ‘What’s your name?’
The man from the club twisted his head round, as if he was sucking it into his neck. ‘No comment.’
Cullen nodded at the uniform. ‘Thanks for the help, Si.’
‘Let me help in future, mate.’ PC Simon Buxton unclipped his stab-proof vest and let it hang open. ‘This weighs a ton.’ He ran a hand through his full beard, then across his shaved head, the dark stubble ending in a line with the tops of his ears. His forehead creased. ‘You know you’re bleeding, right?’
Cullen put a hand to his nose. Wet. Warm. ‘Christ.’
‘This your guy?’
‘I think so.’ Cullen hauled the suspect to his feet, grip tight on the cuffs. ‘Let’s read him his rights down the station.’
Cullen smoothed down the plaster across his nose, blinking at the lights on the ground floor of Leith Walk station. ‘This can’t be doing anything, can it?’
Buxton winked. ‘Might hold your brains in.’
Cullen reached over and tugged at Buxton’s hairy chin. ‘You’re such a fashion victim.’
Buxton jerked his head back. ‘I’ve grown quite attached to it.’
‘See you in a bit, hipster.’ Cullen patted his aching nose as Buxton entered the uniform locker room.
‘Here, Sundance!’
Cullen clenched his jaw, catching his tongue between his teeth. He swivelled round, hands balled into fists. And breathed out.
Just Gary Mullen, the Desk Sergeant.
Cullen glared at him. ‘I told you to quit that. It’s bad enough when Buxton does it.’
‘Gets you every time.’ Mullen cleared his throat. Took a few goes. ‘Got a text off Bain, by the way. Boy was asking how you were doing. Well, whether you’d made a mess of anything.’
‘We’ve seen and heard the last of him. Let’s keep it that way.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Mullen thumbed into the public reception. ‘Wondering if you could escort your lad’s lawyer up to the room.’
‘Fine. Got a name for the suspect yet?’
‘Kyle Graham.’
‘You owe me one.’ Cullen wandered over to the waiting area. He stopped and sucked in a breath.
Campbell McLintock stared up from his leather-bound legal pad, covered in scribbles. He wore a navy suit with pale yellow chalk stripes. Must’ve chosen the green shirt and purple tie in the dark. His charcoal hair was a couple of shades too dark for his grey skin.
‘You’re his lawyer?’
‘Mr Graham’s father received a personal recommendation.’ McLintock lumbered to his feet, kneading his back. ‘You could do with some new chairs in here. I’ve a mind to sue.’
‘Austerity’s a bitch.’ Cullen led him through the station towards the interview rooms. ‘Been a while, Campbell. Not long enough.’
‘Need to thank you, Cullen. Billables have been through the roof thanks to your efforts in January.’
‘If I’d known my work would line your pockets, I wouldn’t have bothered.’
‘That’s the way of the world, Sergeant.’
‘Isn’t it just.’ Cullen swiped through and held open the security door
Sharon stood in the corridor, swapping her phone to the other hand. She nodded at the door to room four. ‘In there.’
McLintock entered and nudged the door shut behind him.
It bounced off Cullen’s foot. ‘Keep it open, there’s a good boy.’
‘Very well.’ McLintock dumped his pad on the desk and sat next to his client.
Kyle Graham leaned forward, massaging his forehead. His shirt was now done up to the top button.
Sharon stabbed her mobile with a finger and pocketed it. ‘That us good to go?’
Cullen glanced into the room, McLintock whispering into his client’s ear. ‘Give them a minute.’
She brushed a hand over his nose. ‘That’s going to be some shiner.’
‘I’m sure you’ll soothe it better when we get home.’ He stroked her bare arm. ‘You didn’t give chase.’
‘Someone had to stop the target from leaving. Name’s Alistair Jeffries. His drink’s clear, in case you were wondering.’