Cowboys and Indians (28 page)

Suzanne blinked hard a few times. ‘It’s not her.’

‘Okay.’

The screen switched. Another woman, number two top left. Taller, thinner. She turned to her left.

‘That’s her.’

Cullen narrowed his eyes. Definitely Candy.

Eva clicked the mouse again, pausing the video. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

Cullen frowned. ‘You only had a glance at her.’

‘Aye, but that’s her.’

Cullen flicked back through his notebook. ‘When we spoke to you on Sunday, you told us “I didn’t get a good look at her face, though.” How can you be so sure it’s her?’

‘I swear it is. I could see her hair. It was just like that.’

‘This is a very serious matter, Mrs Marshall. When we get a conviction, you will be put on the stand and the defence will attempt to tear apart your statement.’

‘It’s her.’

‘You don’t want to look at the other six we’ve got?’

‘That’s enough for me.’

‘Dean Bridge has sodium lights, Mrs Marshall. They can distort colours. You’re positive it was her?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘Okay.’ Cullen nodded at Eva. ‘Can you get a formal statement from Mrs Marshall and escort her out, please?’

*
 
*
 
*

Candy tried to smile, skin flaking as her cracked lips parted. Her tongue traced across her teeth. ‘What do you want to know?’

Cullen glanced at Methven, then smiled at Alistair Reynolds. ‘Tell your client I’d prefer the truth.’

‘Ms Broadhurst has only told the truth.’

‘Right.’ Cullen leaned over the desk, resting on his elbows. His phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘Candy, Mr Vardy didn’t back up your alibi for Sunday morning.’

Her eyes bulged. ‘What?’

‘At the time Mr Van de Merwe was killed, Dean was outside Tigerlily on George Street.’

‘He was with me!’

‘Candy, we’ve got him on CCTV.’

She rubbed her forehead, tears rolling down her blotchy cheeks. ‘He was with me.’ Her voice was tiny, barely loud enough for the mic to pick up.

‘Mr Vardy believes your baby is Mr Van de Merwe’s.’

‘
What?
’

‘So you are pregnant?’

‘Three months. Just gone.’ Her hand went to her belly. ‘This isn’t helping me slide down the pole.’ She grabbed a breast through her T-shirt. ‘These are bigger, though. Should get the silicone taken out.’

Cullen glared at her. ‘Please take this seriously.’

‘I am.’

‘Where were you at that time?’

‘Like I told you, I was at home. I’d been working. I’m shattered. This bloody baby…’

‘Did you kill Mr Van de Merwe?’

‘No fucking way. Are you serious?’

‘Why, then, do we have a witness statement placing you on Dean Bridge at the time in question?’

Candy fanned her fingers against her chest. ‘What?’

‘You heard.’ Cullen licked his lips. ‘We have a sighting of Mr Van de Merwe on the bridge with a woman. A member of the public’s just identified you.’

‘How?’

‘Remember the video you posed for?’

‘Christ.’

‘So, care to change your story?’

‘I wasn’t there. Whoever’s telling you this is lying their arse off.’

‘We found a cloak in your closet.’

Candy locked eyes with Cullen. ‘What?’

‘A red cloak. Matches the witness’s description of the woman Mr Van de Merwe was with.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Mr Van de Merwe’s semen was splashed all over the cloak.’

‘What?’

‘We found it in your flat.’

‘You’d no right going in there?’

‘We had a search warrant.’ Cullen glanced over at Methven. Time for another tack. ‘How did Mr Vardy react to the news of the baby?’

She frowned. ‘He wants to protect me.’

‘Even though the baby’s not his?’

Candy shook her head, staring at the wall. ‘Fuck off.’

Cullen cracked his knuckles. ‘Candy, Dean thinks Mr Van de Merwe is the father.’

‘Right.’

‘You told us you didn’t have sex with him.’

‘And then you found all that evidence.’ She nodded, her head hardly moving. ‘Fine. I had sex with him.’

‘Unprotected?’

‘He paid extra. I forgot to take the fucking pill. That’s how I got into this shit.’

‘Did you tell Mr Vardy the baby’s his?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘To manipulate him?’

She looked away and sucked in breath. ‘It might be his.’

‘I’m not following you.’

‘That night, I was at this party at VDM’s. I went to Dean’s after it. We had sex when I got in.’ She ran the back of a hand across her face. ‘It hurt. But Dean wanted it… I didn’t refuse.’

‘So you told him it’s his?’

‘I did.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘You need to ask him that, don’t you?’

‘Are you arresting or charging my client yet?’

Methven thumped his notebook shut. ‘That’s still to be decided.’

Reynolds held up his Pebble smartwatch and tapped the screen. ‘The clock’s still ticking.’

Methven stood and adjusted his suit jacket. ‘We’re aware of the timeline.’

‘We’ll wait with bated breath.’ Reynolds clasped Candy’s hand.

‘Interview terminated at twelve oh nine.’ Cullen followed Methven out into the corridor, easing the door shut behind him. ‘Well?’

‘This is a sodding mess, Sergeant.’

‘What matters is whether Vardy believed it was Van de Merwe’s kid.’

‘We’ve placed him elsewhere, though.’

‘He could’ve paid someone. All it takes is for him to think Van de Merwe’s knocked her up and get angry. He clearly thinks she’s his property. Killing Van de Merwe might’ve been the next step.’

‘I’ll have another word with him.’ Methven pulled out his Airwave and fiddled with the keys before putting it to his ear. ‘DS Bain? Can you meet me outside interview room four? Thanks.’

‘You’re taking Bain in there?’

‘Your fingers are dirty, Sergeant.’ Methven wandered off down the corridor.

Cullen watched him go. Total wanker. He fished his phone from his pocket. A text from Rich —
Want to meet for lunch?

The waiter lugged two plates on one arm, presenting pasta to Rich and dumping a larger pizza plate in front of Cullen. ‘Would you like parmigiano? Black pepper?’

Rich smiled. ‘I’m good.’

‘Sir?’

Cullen smiled. ‘Can I have some Parmesan?’

The waiter tilted his head to the side. ‘On a pizza?’

‘Is that illegal?’

‘One moment.’ The waiter scuttled off.

Rich shook his head. ‘You’re still a freaky eater, Skinky.’

‘It’s a shame this place doesn’t have doner kebab pizza.’

‘It was a special last week, sir.’ The waiter spooned pale flakes of cheese over his pizza, dusting it all over the sea of mozzarella, dotted with red islands of pepperoni. ‘Enjoy, gentlemen.’

Cullen sliced into the crust. ‘See? Freaky eaters are the future.’

Rich’s gaze followed the waiter to another table. ‘I’d smash his back doors in.’

‘Come on, mate, I’m trying to eat.’

‘Right.’ Rich spiked a pasta shell. ‘That’s a fuckton of carbs, amigo.’

‘I might find time to go for another run tonight.’

‘Thought you’d given up.’

‘Nah. I jog home via Portobello once a week.’

‘And you don’t visit?’

‘You’d like me covered in sweat, would you?’ Cullen chewed a mouthful of pizza. The Parmesan ruined it. ‘This is on your expenses, right?’

‘Depends what you give me, Skinkster.’

‘What if it’s nothing?’

‘Then I’ll need a tenner.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Shite. Job’s going down the toilet.’

‘How bad?’

‘Another round of lay-offs looming. Talk of us merging with the Scotsman or the Herald. Maybe selling out to a London paper.’

‘That must be tough.’

‘And then some.’

‘Used to think how weird it was you coming back up here. Now, I get it. You’re a masochist.’

‘Damn right. Sucker for punishment.’

Cullen ate another bite. ‘Who gave you the story?’

‘No comment.’

‘Was it Tom?’

‘It wasn’t him.’

‘A cop?’

‘I’m not telling you, Scott. Jesus. I’ve got a source on the inside.’

‘Someone Tom works with at the bank?’

‘No comment.’

‘I need to speak to them.’

‘Why?’

‘To find out what’s going on there. You seem to get your info before we do.’

‘What can I do, Skinky? Turn it down?’ Rich picked up his fork and skewered another parcel. ‘I could teach you how to do your job, if you want.’

‘Just work with me, that’s all I ask. I need to speak to them.’

‘Let me think about it.’

Cullen sliced deep into the soggy middle. ‘Thanks for not printing any stories over the last couple of days.’

‘Do you want to stick the brownie points on my loyalty card?’

‘Am I going to have anything to explain to my boss tomorrow?’

‘Not sure.’

‘So there’s something brewing?’

‘We’ll see. I’m not telling you what.’

‘Come on…’

Rich dropped his cutlery on the table, rattling around the noisy space. ‘Sharon okay?’

‘Not sure. Just don’t know what’s going on in her head sometimes.’

‘Since the baby?’

‘Aye.’

‘You don’t talk about it?’

‘There’s nothing else I can do about that.’ Cullen folded up a wedge of pizza, hovering it in front of his mouth. ‘Things are getting better.’

‘Still, you’ve not been yourself either.’

Cullen chewed the wedge and wrapped a hand around the cold glass of water. He took a glance at his locked phone — no messages. ‘Sharon told me something the other night.’

‘What?’

‘She…’

‘Come on, Skinky, you can tell me.’

Cullen clenched his teeth. ‘She can’t have kids.’

‘So how did she get pregnant?’

‘It was when she lost the baby. Stopped her being able to have kids.’

‘Shite. What are you going to do? Adopt?’

‘I don’t want kids.’

‘Bullshit. Never met a bigger breeder than you, Skinky.’

‘I’m not having kids.’

‘You should’ve seen your face when you heard she was up the stick.’

‘Up the stick?’

‘You know what I mean. You looked like a pig in shit.’

Tears filled Cullen’s vision. ‘Christ.’ He lurched to his feet and tore off across the restaurant.

‘Scott?’

Cullen raised a hand. Pushed into the toilet and burst into the first cubicle. Kicked the door shut and locked it, collapsing onto his knees, tears burning his face.

Why hadn’t she said anything?

A whole year?

He rested his head on the toilet seat, the wood cold and dry.

Why? Why couldn’t she tell me? Am I that bad?

He rocked back onto his heels, propping his head against the stall door. He wiped a hand across his cheeks, soaked with tears.

Crying in a toilet… Get up, loser.

Need to let this out.

He clambered to his feet and unbolted the door. Leaned against the first sink, hands on the cold porcelain. He ran the tap and stared at his face, red and damp. Looking old. He splashed tepid water all over his cheeks.

Tell her I love her. It’s not about the kids. It’s about me and her. If she wants kids, let’s adopt. Or not.

It’s about the wall she built between us. Need to break it down.

He dried his face on the paper towels, harsh against his skin, and sucked in a deep breath. He smiled at the mirror then strolled back to their table, feeling a stone lighter. He sat and rolled up another wedge of pizza.

‘You okay, Skinky?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You were ages.’

‘This is a good pizza.’

‘Scott, do you want to talk about it?’

‘It’s nice. Even with the Parmesan.’ Cullen took another bite, stabbing the home key on his phone. A text message from Murray.
Paul Vaccaro lead proving fruitful.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Work.’ Cullen unlocked his phone and replied.
Let me know if anything comes of it.

‘Seriously, mate, your face—’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not fine. We were talking—’

‘Drop it.’ Cullen picked up the last wedge and bit into it. ‘Why are you taking me out for lunch?’

‘Can’t I treat an old mate?’

‘There’s always something.’

‘I want to see what you’ve got.’

‘I’m in enough hot water with all the scoops you’re getting.’

‘At least tell me before the press release goes out.’

Cullen dropped the pizza crust to the plate. ‘How did you hear this Van de Merwe boy was into a BDSM scene?’

Rich pushed his half-finished plate away and set his fork down. ‘I don’t name my sources.’

‘Come on, mate.’

‘This is off the record, okay? You’re not getting me on tape like Tom.’

Cullen held up his hands. ‘Fine.’

‘Another guy at Alba Bank was into the scene.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Martin Ferguson.’

Cullen stopped just outside the Incident Room and spun round to face Buxton. ‘So, Ferguson’s not at Proctor’s house?’

‘Uniform had a cheeky look through the windows. Nobody in.’ Buxton pocketed his Airwave. ‘Also had a unit out in West Linton. Not there either.’

‘So where is he?’

‘No idea. Dirty bastard, though. Hiding his deviant sexual practices. Naughty, naughty.’

‘Maybe.’ Cullen rapped his fingertips off the wall. ‘How are your bollocks?’

‘Still got a twinge, mate.’ Buxton grimaced. ‘Serves me right for laughing at Crystal.’

‘You’ll be all right.’

‘Once the swelling goes down. They’re like fucking grapefruits.’

‘Too much information, mate. Christ.’ Cullen entered the Incident Room, busier than he’d expected — Eva stood by the whiteboard, while Murray was by the window, working on a laptop. He leaned against the pillar. ‘Si, can you call Ferguson’s wife? You’ve got a good relationship with the older—’

‘Button it, mate.’ Buxton yanked his phone from his pocket and walked off.

‘Sorry.’ Cullen got out his phone and called Harrison Proctor.

‘Proctor.’

‘It’s DS Cullen. I’m looking for Martin Ferguson. He’s not at your house.’