Cowboys and Indians (18 page)

‘I know that’s not your style, but I’m up for it.’

‘Fuck off, Sundance.’ Bain strolled off down the corridor, a grin on his face.

Cullen trudged after him. Total wanker.

Bain stopped outside an office.

A woman was staring at a laptop on her desk, glasses perched on her nose. Hair streaked with white. Grey trouser suit, a blue and maroon striped shirt underneath. She reached for a tall coffee beaker, a kiss of red lipstick around the hole in the lid.

Bain rapped on the door frame, warrant card out. ‘You Michaela Queen?’

‘That’s me.’ She looked round and frowned at his credentials. ‘And you are?’ Northern English accent. Liverpool, Manchester area. Maybe even Leeds.

‘DS Brian Bain. This is DC Scott Cullen.’

‘
DS
Scott Cullen.’

Bain frowned. ‘That’s right. You got promoted, eh?’

Michaela sat back in her chair and took a drink, her lipstick glistening under the spotlights. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘We’re looking to speak to the direct reports of Jonathan van de Merwe.’ Cullen nudged the door shut behind him. ‘You’re aware of his death?’

She nodded. ‘I received a few texts on holiday.’

‘We’ve been trying to reach you.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, nothing came through about that.’

Cullen sat opposite, leaving Bain by the entrance. ‘Were you well acquainted with him?’

‘Not in any way, shape, manner or form. We had a purely professional relationship, though that’s stretching his competence somewhat.’

‘You didn’t get on?’

Michaela smirked. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘The man’s dead.’

‘I don’t see many people grieving for him, do you?’

Cullen got out his notebook. ‘You’re being very candid with us.’

‘That’s what I do here. I keep everyone honest.’

‘And everything on track?’

‘How wonderfully innocent a view that is.’ She put her coffee down and placed her hands flat on the table. ‘I’m the one who watches all the deadlines whiz past and the annual budget shatter after two months of the year.’

‘So things aren’t going well?’

‘People will write MBAs on this programme for the next fifty years.’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘It’s rumbled on too long to cancel it. If they’d kicked Jonathan out, Alan Henderson and others would have dirt on their hands. Better to let it trundle on in the vain hope he delivered or his contract ran out.’

‘I take it he wasn’t delivering, then?’

‘All he’d have delivered is spending a billion.’

‘A billion?’

She smiled. ‘Do you need me to speak up?’

‘No, I thought the budget was two hundred million.’

Michaela tore the lid off her coffee, latte foam almost to the top. ‘It might’ve been, but they spent that in the first year.’

Cullen glanced at Bain. ‘So people are lying to us?’

‘Who’ve you been speaking to?’

‘William Yardley, Vivek—’

‘I’ll stop you there.’ She raised her cup. ‘Bill Yardley lies when he orders coffee.’

‘What the hell’s going on here?’

‘I wish I knew. They’ve got me on the mushroom diet.’

Bain smirked. ‘What, kept in the dark and fed shite?’

‘I wouldn’t be so crass, but yes.’

‘Someone intimated Mr Van de Merwe had let you go.’

‘Is that what you heard?’ She ran a hand through her hair, smiling. ‘Listen, we weren’t on great terms. Jonathan sacked my last Financial Controller from under me.’

‘When was this?’

‘December. I only joined in November.’

‘Why?’

‘Jonathan didn’t like what he’d put in a presentation. They’d over-spent and under-delivered. The Unholy Grail of project delivery. Every day you slip puts your costs up even more. Martin put together a presentation showing the projected spend was going to be seven hundred million.’

‘Thought you said it was a billion?’

‘Well, it’s gone up another three hundred since then. Every week that whooshes by, we slip another three.’

‘Christ.’ Cullen let out a sigh. ‘You said Martin?’

‘Martin Ferguson. Sadly, he took the fag packet they wrote the programme budget on with him.’

‘Can I see this presentation?’

‘You’ll need a warrant, I’m afraid.’

‘This is a mur—’

‘I know. The information’s commercially sensitive.’

‘But if we speak to him?’

She gave a wink. ‘He might still have it.’

‘Do you know where Martin is?’

A man stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring across the sprawl of the Alba Bank complex, a chunky old BlackBerry clamped to his ear, doing more listening than talking. He wore a mint shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a pair of tight navy trousers. His eyes were weighed down by heavy bags, his face lined. He turned away from Cullen. ‘Yep. Keep going.’

Bain stuck his warrant card in his face and got a fresh glare. ‘Mr Proctor, we need a word.’

He raised a finger and turned to the window, forehead almost touching the glass. ‘I actually do need to call you back, Miles. Sorry about this. No, it’s fine. Thanks.’ He stabbed his BlackBerry. ‘What?’

Bain held out a hand. ‘DS Brian Bain.’

‘Harrison Proctor.’ He shook it, gaze resting on Cullen. ‘And you are?’

‘DS Scott Cullen.’

Proctor steepled his fingers and narrowed his eyes at Bain. ‘What’s this about?’

‘We wanted to speak to Martin Ferguson. We understand he’s not in.’

‘That’s right.’ Proctor shrugged a shoulder, stared out of the window. ‘He’s been off for the last two weeks.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Stress.’

‘That a common thing with him?’

‘Hardly. Martin’s a contractor here. He doesn’t get paid if he doesn’t come in.’

‘What’s his role here?’

‘I’m the head of Group Project Tracking. He’s one of my deputies.’

‘Wish I knew what that meant.’ Bain grinned. ‘Not going to ask us to sit?’

‘I prefer to stand. It helps my back. Is Martin in trouble?’

‘I hope not. You heard about the death of Jonathan van de Merwe?’

‘There was an announcement yesterday morning.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘We had some dealings. I wanted to keep an eye on him, so I brought Martin here from OTP.’

‘Poacher turned gamekeeper?’

‘Quite. Martin knows where the bodies are buried on that particular mess.’

‘So you were responsible for the financials on OTP?’

Proctor held up a finger. ‘That mess was Mr Van de Merwe’s sole responsibility. My role’s to approve budgets and report to the board when programmes fail to adhere to them.’

Cullen jumped in. ‘I suspect you’ve done a lot of that recently.’

‘I want to cancel the whole bloody thing.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re spending a fortune and getting no benefit for our stakeholders.’

‘But you can’t cancel it?’

‘Correct. Jonathan’s charm seduced the executive.’

‘What did you mean by Mr Ferguson knowing where the bodies were buried?’

‘You’d need to speak to Martin about that.’

‘Do you know where we can find him?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen leaned against the wall in the meeting room and stared at the corridor outside, phone dialling against his ear.

‘I’m sorry but the caller is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.’

‘This is Detective Sergeant Scott Cullen of Police Scotland. I’m looking to speak to a Martin Ferguson in relation to an ongoing inquiry. Please call back on 101, asking for me. Thanks.’

Bain looked up from his own phone. ‘That both numbers?’

‘Aye. Voicemail on both. Found out where he lives?’

‘West Linton.’

‘Do you want to head down there?’

‘It’s a bit of a fuckin’ stretch, Sundance. Not sure we should bother.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m thinking it’s just Michaela Queen causing mischief.’

‘She seemed a bit too forthcoming.’

‘Made my Spidey-sense tingle, Sundance.’

‘Bet you wish you’d used that a few times over the years.’

‘I’m exactly where I fuckin’ want to be.’ Bain walked over to the window overlooking the corridor, his breath misting the glass. ‘Think Queen’s on the level?’

‘I don’t see why she’d lie. I’ve heard from a few people that the programme’s—’

‘—fucked?’

‘Not so explicitly, mind, but aye. How forthcoming she’s been is suspicious, though.’

‘Never trust a confession you don’t have to batter out of someone.’

‘What would she gain from telling us how bad it is?’

‘It’s like with our team, Sundance. Everyone’s grabbing at the fuckin’ ladder, trying to climb it.’

‘You slid down a snake.’

‘Fuck off, Cullen.’ Bain stepped forward. ‘You know what I’m saying, though. These wankers are just the same as Turnbull and Cargill and Crystal fuckin’ Methven. They’d shit on anyone else just to climb up a couple of steps.’

‘You think she’s trying to gain some advantage by talking to us?’

‘The big man’s gone. Stands to reason she’s got the chance to take out a few rivals, right? Didn’t have a nice word to say about Yardley, did she?’

Cullen’s phone rang. ‘DS Cullen.’

‘Scott, it’s Maggie in Bilston. Got an Elaine Ferguson on the line for you?’

‘Cheers for that. Put her through.’ Cullen waited for the line to click. ‘This is DS Cullen. Thanks for calling me back.’

‘What’s Martin done now?’

‘We need to speak to him in relation to an ongoing investigation.’

‘Well, he no longer lives here.’
A sigh down the line.
‘We’re going through a separation.’

‘Do you know where he is staying?’

‘I hope it’s Hell, but I suspect it’s with one of his cronies.’

‘You’ve no idea at all?’

‘Harrison Proctor would be my first choice.’

‘We’ve just spoken to him.’

‘Might be a hotel, then.’

‘Call me back if he gets in touch.’

‘Very well.’
The line went dead.

Bain placed his fist against the wall, shouting into his Airwave. ‘The guy’s not fuckin’ here! Get a lookout on him, okay?’

Cullen sat at the table. Who was Bain shouting at now? He picked up his phone and called Tom.

‘What now, Skinky?’

‘Ever heard of a Martin Ferguson?’

A long pause.
‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at Alba Bank.’

‘Meet me down in the canteen. Five minutes.’

*
 
*
 
*

‘Who were you shouting at?’

Bain barged through to the stairwell. ‘Eh?’

Cullen trotted down. ‘You were going ballistic at someone.’

‘That idiot McCrea. What’s the point in having a DC if he never does any fuckin’ work?’

Cullen held open the ground-floor door, espresso machines hissing. The bittersweet tang of the coffee hit his nostrils. ‘Don’t start me on DCs.’

‘I’m growing to like this DS Cullen.’ Bain wandered across the Caffè Nero, rubbing his hands together. ‘Who are we looking for?’

‘A contact.’

‘This that prick I had to interview yesterday?’

‘Rich? No, it’s someone else.’ Cullen clocked Tom at the other side of the café. A big man sat opposite, his back to them. ‘Morning, Tom.’

Rob Thomson twisted his neck round and locked eyes with Cullen. Then Bain. He sprang to his feet and stomped across the tiles. Grabbed Bain by the throat. ‘You motherfucker!’

Bain clawed at his hands, choking. ‘Get the fuck off me!’

‘You should fucking die for what you did to me!’

Cullen got between them, Thomson’s fingers clawing his shirt, Bain’s spit flecking his cheek. ‘Quit it!’

‘He tried to fucking frame me!’

‘You can fuck off, son!’

Cullen turned his back to Thomson and pushed Bain back. ‘Go to the meeting room!’

‘I’m not fu—’

‘Now!’

Bain took a step back and snarled at Thomson. Then walked off towards the stairwell, dusting himself off.

Cullen felt the fingers ease off and wheeled round. ‘You okay?’

Thomson tracked Bain’s progress across the café. ‘How the fuck’s he still got a job?’

‘I ask myself that every single day.’ Cullen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘Didn’t expect to see that motherfucker again.’

Tom patted him on the back. ‘Do you want another coffee, Rob?’

Thomson collapsed into a seat, a spotlight reflecting off his shaved head. ‘Latte.’

Cullen leaned in close to Tom. ‘What the fuck?’

‘He knows Martin Ferguson. Thought it might help you.’

Cullen stared at Thomson, now with hands over his eyes, then focused on Tom. ‘Is he your contact on the programme?’

‘No. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Americano, black. Cheers.’

‘Coming right up.’ Tom strolled over to join the queue winding down the street.

Cullen sucked in breath and checked his shirt. Nothing torn this time. He sat in Tom’s chair, the wood still warm. He smiled at Thomson. ‘You okay?’

‘What do you think?’ Thomson clenched his jaw. ‘If that fucker’d got his way, I’d be in prison now.’

‘There was evidence pointing to your guilt.’

Thomson shot his gaze up at Cullen. ‘Are you
defending
him?’

‘Look, he did what he thought was right. He was wrong and he’s been disciplined for that. Got demoted to sergeant.’

‘Because of what happened to me?’

‘That and a few other things.’ Cullen shrugged. ‘Tom said you know a Martin Ferguson.’

Thomson widened his eyes. ‘You really expect me to help you?’

‘He’s a possible lead on Mr Van de Merwe’s death. Were you close to him?’

‘A bit. We’d been out for a beer or two.’

‘Wouldn’t mind a word with him.’

‘Martin’s not replying to my texts.’ Thomson snorted, fists clenched on the table. ‘His wife kicked him out. Someone told me he’d left his wife for a secretary. Turned into a bit of a sex pest.’

‘Harrison Proctor said he’s on sick leave. Stress. Didn’t know where he is.’

‘That’s a good one.’

Cullen stretched out his legs under the table. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’