Cowboys and Indians (9 page)

Cullen cleared his throat. ‘We need another word, sir.’

‘I’m busy here.’ Yardley glanced around, jaw clenched. ‘The morning prayers dredged up an issue with the system architecture. I’m trying to fix it now.’

Cullen sat at the meeting table just inside the door and gestured for Jain to shut it. ‘Don’t you have people for that?’

‘They need guidance.’

‘Is that part of your role, as well?’

‘I wish it was.’ Yardley fixed his gaze on a point halfway up the wall. ‘Throwing myself into my work’s how I deal with things. How I handled my second divorce and the death of my parents.’

The door thudded open.

Lorna stepped into the room and handed Yardley a tall Caffè Nero cup. ‘Here you go.’

Yardley sucked coffee through the lid. ‘Thanks.’

‘Need anything else?’

‘No, that’s all.’

Cullen smiled, eyebrow raised. ‘Could’ve got us one.’

‘Sorry.’ Lorna folded her arms. ‘What can I get you?’

‘It’s fine.’ Cullen nodded at the door. ‘I’ll let you get back.’

She shut it behind her, gaze lingering on Jain.

Cullen joined Yardley at the whiteboard. ‘We’ve spoken to Mr Sadozai. He insinuated an “old boys’ network” here.’

‘God damn it.’ Yardley pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. ‘That punk needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.’

‘Is there anything in it?’

‘What he’s referring to is Jon’s loyalty.’ Yardley took a deep breath. ‘Programme delivery’s based on trust. You’ve got to believe in the guys working for you. Jon’s built up a team over the years, people he can trust to deliver.’

‘That’s all it is?’

‘There’s nothing sinister here.’ Yardley tore off the lid and gulped the mid-brown liquid. ‘Whoever killed Jon does
not
work here, I swear.’

‘He mentioned a Michaela Queen.’

‘Michaela’s on leave.’

‘Have you got her number?’

Yardley got out his BlackBerry, hammering his left thumb against the joystick in the middle. ‘Here you go.’

Cullen jotted down a note, flicked back a page and spotted a note about IT. ‘I’m struggling to find anyone here who had an axe to grind against Mr Van de Merwe. That sound right?’

‘It’s quite a collegiate environment here. Big programmes aren’t always like this.’

‘So, everyone’s everyone else’s best friend?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Mr Sadozai intimated some issues with IT?’

‘Always one bad apple, I suppose. Jon was at loggerheads with them. They kept blaming us for lack of servers and infrastructure. Everything’s either late or just broken. And it’s never their fault, always ours.’

‘So this was a professional disagreement?’

‘They used to go off the deep end at each other at the weekly status meeting and the architecture forum.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’

‘Because it slipped my mind. Listen, Jon’s tried to sack the lead for chronic lack of delivery.’ Yardley glanced at the clock. ‘I spoke to Rob at morning prayers. He’s free at eleven if you want to chat to him.’

‘Rob?’

‘The IT Delivery Lead. Rob Thomson.’

Cullen clenched his fists, digging nails into his palms. ‘Rob Thomson?’

‘You know him?’

Cullen scribbled his name down, a bead of sweat trickling down his back. ‘The name’s familiar.’

*
 
*
 
*

Beeep!
‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Colin Methven. Please leave a message after the tone.’
Beeep!

Cullen tightened his grip on the phone and stared through the glass to the Alba corridor outside, a hulking local man and an Asian woman walking past. ‘Sir, with reference to my last voicemail, I really need your help.’ He ended the call and stared over at Jain. ‘Getting anywhere?’

‘Michaela Queen’s not answering.’ Jain shrugged as she pocketed her mobile. ‘I saw you shit a brick back there when he mentioned Rob Thomson.’
 

‘Was I that obvious?’

‘You were.’ Jain sucked air through her teeth. ‘The Schoolbook case, right?’

‘Forgot you worked it. Thomson’s ex-wife was victim number one. Then Buxton found his girlfriend’s body in his flat, him next to it. Not sure how well he’ll react to us pitching up.’ Cullen got out his throbbing mobile. ‘This’ll be Crystal.’

Text from Rich.
A lady never names her sources.

He hammered out a reply.
Is it Tom?

Just a zipped mouth icon in response.

He scowled at it for a few seconds, then texted Tom.
Did you tell Rich about what happened at Alba Bank?
He waited a few seconds.

A text popped up.
Alba? What do you mean? What’s happened?

Cullen tapped out another text to Rich.
Need to know your source.

A knock on the door. Lorna tugged her hair behind her ear. ‘I had to collect one of your colleagues from downstairs?’

Buxton entered the room, wearing a business suit. No beard. ‘Sarge.’

Cullen smiled at Lorna. ‘Can you give us a minute?’

‘Sure thing.’ She shut the door, the metal digging into the carpet.

‘Where’s the beard, Si?’

‘Must’ve lost it.’ Buxton rubbed a hand over his smooth face. ‘Four months of growth down the sink. Literally.’

Jain snapped her compact shut. ‘You look a lot younger without it.’

‘Cheers.’ Buxton grinned at Cullen. ‘Did an Abraham Lincoln on the way down.’

‘It’s either that or a Metallica, right?’

Jain rolled her eyes. ‘Did Methven send you over?’

‘Grabbed me before I started my shift. Says I’m a short-term loan as an ADC. “Don’t get used to it, Constable.” Guy knows how to make a man feel wanted.’

Cullen nodded at Jain. ‘Chantal, can you get back to base and get stuck into the drugs?’

‘Got a tenner I can roll up?’

‘Very funny. Annoy Anderson till he gives you what you want.’

Jain pretended to scrawl in her notebook. ‘Take a leaf out of Scott’s book.’

Buxton roared with laughter. ‘Brilliant.’

Cullen winced. ‘And get everything you can on Elsbeth and Amber.’

‘Will do.’ Jain hefted up her handbag and left them to it.

The door rattled open. Methven perched on the edge of the desk, staring into space. ‘I got your voicemail, Sergeant. You’re telling me you’ve got previous with this Robert Thomson?’

Cullen wrapped his hands around a cooling coffee beaker, looking away across the meeting room to the corridor outside. A group of Alba Bank employees chatted. ‘The Schoolbook guy killed his fiancée and ex-wife. Must be almost three years ago. We tried to frame him.’

‘
We
did?’ Methven dropped his pen onto the rim under the whiteboard. ‘Was this your cowboy antics?’

‘Not mine, sir. My DI at the time.’

Methven glanced at the door and winced. ‘Bain?’

‘Him.’ Cullen folded his arms and exhaled. ‘Rob sued Lothian & Borders, as was.’

Buxton cleared his throat. ‘He settled out of court, though, Sarge.’

Methven shot him a glare. ‘Why do we need to speak to Thomson?’

‘He’s a suspect. Sounds like Van de Merwe was trying to sack him.’ Cullen took a slug of lukewarm coffee. ‘I’m worried about what’ll happen if I speak to him.’

Buxton raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m happy to—’
 

‘Back-up’s here, Sundance.’

Cullen clamped his jaw shut, his stomach lurching. What the
fuck
?

DS Brian Bain leered at him from the doorway. He’d regrown his moustache, thicker than when Cullen worked for him. His hair had filled in from a skinhead, enough for a little flick at the front. Still the same reptilian menace in his dull eyes. He handed a coffee to Methven and sucked on his own. ‘What’re you fuckin’ up now?’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Methven nodded thanks. ‘DCI Cargill went cap in hand to DCS Soutar. She got Glasgow South MIT to free up DS Bain and DC McCrea—’

Cullen shifted his gaze between Methven and Bain. ‘With all due respect, sir, what the hell are you doing?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Come on, Sundance. Haven’t you missed me?’

‘This’ll just throw petrol on the fire, sir.’ Cullen couldn’t look at Bain, locked his eyes on the floor. ‘He’s the reason Thomson sued us, sir.’

‘Can’t you fuckin’ look at me when you speak about me?’

‘This is me trying.’

‘Sergeants!’ Methven held out his free hand. ‘You are to work together, do you understand?’

Cullen finished his coffee and dumped the container in the basket. ‘Sod it. I’ll go see Thomson myself.’ He stabbed a finger at Bain. ‘Keep him up here.’

Rob Thomson stretched back in his chair, headset clamped to his skull. Still looked like he would know his way round a combine harvester.

Cullen let out a deep sigh and shut his eyes for a few seconds. He reopened them and sucked in a breath as he knocked on the door.

‘Come!’

Cullen pushed through the door, heart fluttering.

Thomson switched his focus from the Caffè Nero across the wide corridor to glance over at Cullen. He did a double take. Then held out the microphone. ‘Sorry, Pauline, something’s come up and I need to dial out. I’ll catch up offline.’ He stabbed a finger at the phone, tossing the headset onto the desk as he stood. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

Cullen raised his hands. ‘The alternative’s much worse, believe me.’

Thomson slumped down in his chair, the leather creaking. He focused on the floor and raised his gaze. Shot it back down again. ‘Why the fuck should I help
you
?’

Cullen collapsed into the seat opposite. ‘Because I fought tooth and nail to clear your name.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Almost lost my job over it. I found out who killed your fiancée and ex-wife. That got you off. Because of what I did, he’s over in Shotts for the next forty years.’

‘They’ve got names. Kim and Caroline.’

‘I know.’

‘You expect me to believe this tale?’

‘I don’t care if you do or don’t. It’s the truth.’ Cullen took out his notebook. ‘Do you ever visit him?’

‘Every month. On the third. Just to see that fucker inside there, suffering. It’ll never be enough but it takes a tiny bit of the sting away.’

‘How’s your son?’

Thomson picked up a packet of Rizlas from his desk and rolled a cigarette, tipping in tobacco from a pouch. ‘Jack’s living with Caroline’s folks up in Carnoustie. I still see him when I visit my parents.’

‘It’s good you’re back at work.’

‘Only way I could cope.’ Thomson licked the underside of the paper and folded it over. ‘You can’t act like we’re fucking mates, pal.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened.’ Cullen gazed at the smooth ceiling for a few seconds, then focused on Thomson, his eyes watering. ‘I was involved with a girl at the time. He took her and tortured her. I saved her, but it broke her apart.’

Thomson put the roll-up in the pouch. ‘Am I supposed to applaud you?’

‘I lost a colleague.’

‘Well done, hero cop. That’s what the papers called you, right?’ Thomson pushed his cigarettes away. ‘You never reached out to me. Why bother now?’

‘I need to speak to you as part of our investigation. Got a few questions about Jonathan van de Merwe.’

‘That wanker.’ Thomson shook his head. ‘Good riddance.’

Keep him talking… Cullen narrowed his eyes. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Friday’s status meeting.’ Thomson rubbed his neck. ‘Had a big ding dong with him.’

‘About what?’

‘Usual shite. Guy was a complete wanker.’

‘So you’ve no idea why he’d be in his underpants on Dean Bridge at—’

Thomson burst out laughing. ‘What?’

‘You think it’s funny?’

‘I’ve got a different view on the world these days.’ Thomson fiddled with his headset, righting it on the desk. ‘Look, I hated the guy. He was a bully and a liar, but I didn’t kill him.’

‘Why all the antagonism?’

‘Because that daft bastard kept pushing things too far. Kept cutting our budget and headcount. They gave us shite requirements and we were supp—’

‘Who did?’

‘That American prick Broussard. Has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.’

‘What’s a requirement when it’s at home?’

‘It’s how the business tell us what they want the system to do.’

‘The business?’

Thomson flicked up his eyebrows. ‘It’s what we call the end users.’

‘I see. Go on.’

‘It’ll be things like, it must let them search by name, put a valid postcode in, validate age from date of birth. All that stuff.’

‘With you now. What do you do with them?’

‘We use them to design and build a system. We try to do things properly here, but IMC and the previous idiots were complete cowboys. No requirements or just the most minimal rubbish you’ve ever seen. ’

‘Why is that bad?’

‘Because they cut corners. Speed things up.’ Thomson jabbed a finger in the air. ‘And don’t get me started on Schneiders, either. They’re a bunch of yes men charging three grand a day for the privilege of lying to us. If you wonder why we’ve overspent, look at them.’

‘You’ve overspent?’

‘I haven’t. Van de Merwe had. I know a few people in the PMO—’

‘That’s Michaela Queen’s team, right?’

‘Good luck getting hold of her.’ Thomson flicked up his eyebrows. ‘She gave him some bad news, so he told her to go on holiday.’ He reached for his tobacco. ‘The IMC bill was higher than he’d expected. Like, a lot. I heard Van de Merwe was thinking about sacking IMC, even though they’ve only been here since January.’

‘What?’

‘Yup. They’re supposed to save money and deliver faster. What these clowns never get with offshoring is you can’t replace one UK-based guy on four hundred quid a day with an Indian guy on a hundred. You need at least four offshore for every one they replace here. You need more guys onshore to manage the whole process. My costs have
doubled
.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye. And those Indian clowns are utter shite. Look, I’m not being racist here, okay? If you tried to offshore from India to here it’d be the same. It’s a fool’s game.’

‘So why offshore?’

‘Because it worked for some American bank in 1996, when it was ten quid a day for Indian resource. And you could get the pick of them. Ever since then, it’s been a law of diminishing returns. Unless you throw something massive at them, you’ll get piss-poor resources back.’