Cowboys and Indians (4 page)

‘Less than half, anyway.’

Cullen took another bite and chewed. ‘We need to speed up.’

*
 
*
 
*

Methven dumped the map on his Range Rover’s dashboard. ‘You need to speed up.’

Cullen snatched it back and folded it in half. ‘We’re trying our hardest, sir.’

‘When I supported your promotion, it was because I thought I could rely on you for a result. Don’t let me down.’

‘Wasn’t planning on it.’

‘Good.’ Methven held out a wad of paper. ‘Here.’

Cullen took it, checked the top sheet. A man’s face, a computer image. ‘That was quick.’

‘The facial composite analyst in Stirling owed me a favour.’ Methven twisted the key in the ignition and the car growled. ‘The press release went out, too. Should be on TV and radio at the top of the hour.’

Cullen opened his door. ‘Reckon we’ll get anything from it?’

‘I live in hope.’ Methven smiled at him. ‘I appreciate you doing the legwork on this case.’

‘Thanks, sir. That’s ten days straight I’ve been in, though.’

‘Noted.’

Cullen hopped out and leaned back in. ‘If you want us to speed up, extra resource would help.’

*
 
*
 
*

‘And I can’t get my Fiat 500 parked because of the bins outside.’ Catherine Brown folded her arms across her chest. Long silver hair flowed down to her cardigan. Tight skirt, shiny, sequinned, magenta. Knee-high boots. ‘It still doesn’t stop my neighbours dumping bin bags onto the pavement. I mean, have you ever walked home from the opera and seen a fox ratting at a tin of beans? This is Learmonth, for crying out loud. Stewart’s Melville is just down the road.’

Cullen inspected the first-floor living room, adjusting his shirt against the stifling heat. The drone of Queensferry Road pulsed through the open window. Everything except the walls was pink, various shades from faint rose to acrylic purple. The upholstery, the sofa, the cushions, the tables, the mantelpiece. Even the wooden cabinet housing the TV and the pink stereo. Tiny porcelain figures. He checked his watch again. 15:47. ‘It’s something we’ll look into, Mrs Brown.’

‘I should think so, too.’

‘All I want to know is whether you saw or heard anything suspicious during the night?’

‘I’m a sound sleeper, I can assure you. My white-noise generator sees to that.’

Cullen stood, handing her a business card. ‘Give me a call if you recall anything about what happened last night.’

‘Of course.’ She stared at the small sheet, as if it might answer her refuse collection issues. ‘Can you make your own way out?’

‘We will.’ Buxton led them through the flat and the bright pink front door into the dim stairwell. ‘If I ever see any pink again, it’ll be too soon.’

‘It was like being in a womb.’ Cullen trotted down the steps. ‘She was, what, sixty?’

‘Think so, yeah.’

‘An older woman who dresses young. Right up your street, Si.’

‘Piss. Off.’

‘She’s about the same as … what’s her name? The one you danced with at Christmas?’

‘Surprised it’s taken you this long to start the Cullen bollocks machine up.’

‘Touched a nerve?’

‘Less said about Geraldine the better.’

Cullen’s Airwave chattered.
‘Control to DS Cullen.’

‘Receiving.’

‘DI Methven’s asked me to pass the first hit on the press release to you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Received a sighting of a man in his pants on Dean Bridge last night.’

Buxton powered the pool Vauxhall along Barnton Park Gardens, most of the bungalows disfigured by attic conversions. They rocked over another speed bump. ‘Which one is it?’

Cullen pointed down the street. ‘Last house.’

‘The other way would’ve been quicker.’

‘Six and two threes.’ Cullen pointed at a squat triangle in white harling, a more recent second floor overhanging the side entrance. ‘That’s it there.’

Buxton pulled into a long space and let his seatbelt whizz up. He got out and plipped the car locks.

Cullen crossed the road, pressed the doorbell and took a step back, warrant card out.

Buxton reset his cap and tightened his stab-proof vest.

The door scraped open. A white blur burst out, yapping at their feet.

‘Russell, stop that!’ A plump woman in a green summer dress crouched down to pick up the dog.

‘DS Scott Cullen. Constable Simon Buxton. I presume you’re Mrs Suzanne Marshall?’

‘That’s correct.’ She smiled at them, her long earrings twinkling in the breeze. ‘Come on in.’

Cullen followed her into a living room, vertical blinds obscuring the view of the street. White walls filled with photos of a family. A TV showed the
EastEnders
omnibus, the picture paused. He sat on a three-seater sofa and rested his notebook on his lap.

Suzanne collapsed into an armchair facing the settee, resting the squirming dog on her lap. ‘Is this about the phone call?’

‘We understand you saw a man on Dean Bridge in the early hours of this morning?’

‘That’s correct. It was about half past three.’

‘Can you be any more precise?’

‘Maybe just before.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Three twenty-seven. I looked at the clock when that song came on.’ She hummed a tune, unrecognisable. ‘Do you know it?’

‘Afraid not.’ Cullen smiled as he noted down the time. ‘What were you doing in town at that time?’

‘I was giving my son a lift home from a nightclub.’

Cullen glanced at Buxton. ‘Which one?’

‘The eighties one on Lothian Road. Next to what used to be the Caley Palais. You know, I saw The Smiths there when I was fifteen. I was a wild child back then.’

‘Does your son live at home?’

‘He’s just finished his sixth year exams. Off to Bristol in September.’

‘And you gave him a lift home from a nightclub?’

‘I don’t sleep at all well when he’s out, I’m afraid. Lord knows what I’ll be like when he’s in Bristol.’

‘What did you see on the bridge?’

‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ Suzanne clamped her jaw and cupped a hand round her mouth, whispering. ‘I saw a man in his underpants.’

Cullen handed her the photofit. ‘Was this who you saw?’

‘I didn’t get
that
good a look at him.’ She stared at the face for a few seconds. ‘It’s possible. The news just before
EastEnders
jogged my memory. Last night, I just wanted to get home. You see all sorts in Edinburgh at that time of the morning.’

Cullen took the sheet back. ‘Any idea who he is?’

‘None at all, I’m afraid.’

‘Could your son corroborate this story?’

Suzanne frowned. ‘What do you mean corroborate?’

‘Well, we get a lot of phone calls in response to press releases. If there’s anything we—’

She clutched a hand to her chest. ‘I’m not a liar.’

Cullen smiled. ‘Much as I’d like to take your word for it, we do need this backed up.’

Suzanne held his gaze. Then stood and bellowed. ‘Isaac, can you come down here for a minute, please?’ She frowned at the thumps coming from above. ‘He’s such a bright boy.’

Cullen tapped his pen off his notebook.

Suzanne put the dog on the carpet and shuffled to her feet. ‘I shall return.’ She marched into the hall.

Cullen leaned forward, trying to distinguish the voices mumbling in the hall. Nothing.

‘Lucky bastard.’ Buxton slumped back on the sofa. ‘Getting picked up from a club in town at the crack of sparrow fart… Bet she fried up some chips when they got back.’

A lanky boy in a dressing gown padded into the room, yawning wide. ‘Sorry, I’m just up.’ Deep voice, hair all over the place. ‘Mum said you wanted a word?’

Cullen glanced at Suzanne, waiting in the doorway. ‘Did you see anything on the way home last night?’

‘Saw a man on Dean Bridge.’ Isaac sprawled out in his mother’s seat. ‘Just wearing his pants. Pretty freaky, like.’

Cullen passed him the identikit. ‘Is this him?’

‘Maybe. Boy was pretty tall. Had dark hair.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Totes. Not too sure about the other punter.’

Cullen clenched his jaw. ‘There was someone with him?’

‘Shorter than him.’

‘Male or female?’

‘Think it was a woman. Wore this big freaky cloak, man.’

‘What colour?’

‘Think it was red but it was dark and I’d, you know, had a few.’

Cullen glanced over at his mother. ‘Did you see this person?’

‘Now Isaac mentions it, yes.’ She beamed at the boy. ‘I didn’t get a good look at her face, though.’

Cullen handed her a card. ‘Call me if you remember anything else.’

*
 
*
 
*

‘Jesus, Si. Slow down
earlier
.’ Cullen braced himself against the dashboard, his left wrist bending back. He tightened his right fingers around the Airwave.
 

Buxton snorted, eyes on the glowing brake lights of the cars in front. ‘Sorry.’

‘Are you okay, Scott?’

‘We’re fine, Chantal. Simon can’t find the brakes in this new Vectra.’

‘So, is that all you were after?’

‘Hang on.’ Cullen checked the scribbles on the map, a thick line now scored through Stockbridge. ‘Think so. Just needed a status update.’

‘Does that mean you’re letting me get back to my job?’

‘Goodbye.’ Cullen ended the call. ‘Does everyone get this much aggro from her?’

‘Just you.’ Buxton switched into the outside lane, the boxy houses of Queensferry Road blurring past. ‘How’s it looking?’

‘Like I need to speak to Methven again.’ Cullen dialled the DI’s badge number on his Airwave. ‘Sir, it’s Cullen. We’re heading back from that sighting.’

Methven huffed into the microphone, out of breath. Birds tweeted in the background.
‘Anything to report?’

‘Her son confirmed it. Our guy was definitely on the bridge.’

‘Unless they’re both lying.’

‘We’ve no evidence to support that, sir.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Our guy wasn’t alone. He was speaking to a woman in a red cloak.’

‘A cloak?’

‘That’s what the son said. The mother got a look at the face.’

‘That’s peculiar.’

‘The facial composite was helpful. Can you send the analyst round there to get a photofit of the woman?’

‘Not a problem.’
The car engine droned in the background.
‘I’m just back from the post mortem with some more sandwiches.’

‘Anything?’

‘The blue Stilton and sweet chilli chutney’s excellent.’

‘I meant at the PM.’

Another sigh.
‘Well, Katherine Sweeney confirmed everything Deeley told us this morning. Cause and time of death. There are traces of sperm on the underpants.’

‘His own?’

‘They were on the front, so we think so. Anderson’s running a DNA test. Lucky he fell on the footpath and not in the river.’

‘Not for him. He might’ve survived that fall.’

Methven ignored him.
‘How’s the door-to-door progressing?’

Cullen flipped the map over. ‘I think we’ve done about seventy-five, eighty per cent of the area in question.’

‘And you’ve got nothing?’

‘So far.’

Another sigh, deeper.
 

‘Do you want us to keep going?’

‘Crack on, please. Finish the initial area, then move into those surrounding. If he’s not from round there, then someone’s dumped him. Out.’

Cullen tossed the handset in the air and caught it. ‘Guy does my head in.’

Buxton swung the car around the bend at Orchard Brae, heading towards their search area. ‘There are worse DIs out there.’

‘Aye, but that one isn’t a DI anymore.’

*
 
*
 
*

19:04. Cullen blinked away tiredness, leaning against the wall next to a garage. Rothesay Mews, a tight corridor of old stables converted into yuppie apartments. Almost at the bottom of the hill. Why anyone would want to live there…

He let out a sigh and yawned. ‘Still no ID and we’ve checked pretty much every house within a square mile of that bridge.’

Buxton crouched and stretched out his arms, biceps straining his T-shirt. ‘Chin up, me old mucker.’ He sprang to his feet. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping me motivated here, not the other way round.’

‘Crystal will batter me, not you.’

‘I’ve missed doing this. Proper graft.’ Buxton ran a hand across his scalp. ‘I thought I’d left walking the beat behind me.’

‘And people say I moan.’

A car trundled over the cobbles.

Cullen squinted against the glare, just at the right height to dazzle. A Volvo’s sash on the radiator grille, stopped just outside the garage doors. ‘That house is one of our gaps.’

A man got out, grey hair slicked back, the rumble of the engine fighting with the bass voices on the radio. He flinched when he saw them. ‘Christ, you frightened me there.’

‘Police, sir.’ Cullen held out his warrant card. ‘Just wondering if you can help us with an incident on Dean Bridge last night.’

He frowned. ‘I’d love to help, but I was down in Melrose with the rugby club.’

‘We believe the victim may live around here.’ Cullen handed him the facial composite. ‘Do you recognise him?’

He took a look at the image and shut his eyes, nodding. ‘I know him.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Think I’ve played squash with him once or twice. Miles better than me. Clearly on his way to the top of the ladder.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Can’t remember, son. He’s a member of the sports club down the hill.’

*
 
*
 
*

The door chimed as Cullen entered Edinburgh Sports Club.

Cullen took in the small space, the acrid smell of chlorine wafting from a swimming pool somewhere. Squeaking shoes on a squash court. Nobody on the desk. Another door led deep into the building. ‘Police! Anyone here?’

A toilet flushed to the left and a tanned youth slouched out, the legs of his shell-suit bottoms thwapping against each other. He frowned at Cullen’s warrant card. ‘Who’re you?’

‘DS Cullen and PC Buxton. Need to speak to you about one of your members.’ Cullen held out the sheet of paper. ‘Do you recognise him?’