Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (11 page)

Bain made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Good," he said. "Anything else?"

"Fraser Crombie thinks that suicide is a distinct possibility for his brother," said Cullen.

"Like that boy in the Manic Street Preachers?" asked Bain.

"Eh?" Cullen knew of the band, but didn't particularly like them or know anything about them.

"Some boy that played guitar in them ran away," said Bain. "He was never found and they put it down to suicide." He snorted down the line. "I liked their first couple of albums."

The more he learned of Bain's music taste, the harder Cullen found to pin it down. He seemed to have the archetypal catholic taste - though never with a capital C when Bain was concerned.

"Okay," said Cullen, "that's pretty much what Fraser Crombie was saying. Assuming that it's not Iain in the barrel."

"Are they still sticking to that line?"

"Aye," said Cullen. "They're all betting on it being Paddy in there. How's the hunt for him going?"

"Fuckin' slow," said Bain. "That Murray boy could show a fuckin' tortoise a thing or two about slowin' down, I tell you. He's just got back from Paisley, tail between his fuckin' legs." Cullen heard Bain take the phone away from his ear. "Aye, I'm talking about you, Stuart," Cullen heard before Bain laughed. "Cheeky bastard said that the tortoise beat the hare."

Cullen didn't want to get into another discussion with Bain. "So you've not found anything more about Paddy?"

"No, Murray has not," said Bain. "I've got him looking into some of the disappearances from 1996 and 97. I'm not a hundred percent convinced that the body was put in there when they said it was."

"We've been over this," said Cullen. "I thought we agreed it doesn't sound reasonable."

"Course it fuckin' is," said Bain, "I said it."

"Anything else?" asked Cullen.

"Anderson has turned up here," said Bain, "turns out his fuckin' laptop has run out of battery so he hasn't done the report. They've finished findin' fuck all at the distillery, anyway."

"That's a decent excuse to get close to you," said Cullen.

"Don't even go there, Sundance," said Bain. "Deeley's sent his goons over, too. Wants to get the body out of the barrel and shipped out."

Cullen heard a grinding engine approach from the main road. He half-suspected it to be a tractor for the farm, but it turned out to be a dark blue Audi 80. It flew across the car park and pulled into Doug Strachan's space.

"Strachan's just turned up," said Cullen. "I'll call you back."

"Aye, fine," said Bain. "I knew you were just fillin' time."

He hung up and hurried over to Strachan's car, just as he was struggling out of the driver's door.

"Mr Cullen," said Strachan, with a nod.

"Mr Strachan," said Cullen, "I need to speak to you about your relationship with Iain Crombie."

"Paddy Kavanagh was a real traveller sort," said Strachan.

They were back in the canteen, Strachan, Cullen and Caldwell.

"He used to head off somewhere every weekend," continued Strachan, "up to Aviemore, down to Northumberland, off to the islands off the West coast. There were a couple of times when we didn't see him at the start of the week. He'd pitch up on a Tuesday lunchtime and then just get on with it, as if he'd been here all that time. He would put in a solid shift - used to be caught right up by the end of day on a Thursday if he was late in at the start."

"So why did he get reported missing?" asked Cullen.

"I think it was actually the landlady at the B&B he was staying at in Garleton that reported him," said Strachan. "He used to cycle down here every day, you know, even in the depths of winter - he said it kept him fit. He hadn't turned up here on the Wednesday morning, so I gave her a phone to see if he was ill or something. She hadn't seen him either - he hadn't come back from his weekend adventuring and he'd always be home by a Tuesday. She'd been into the police station in Garleton that morning as it turned out, to see if he'd been in an accident or what have you. She wasn't used to him being away that long. He wasn't one for giving notice, mind, but even so."

"Do you have her name?" asked Cullen.

"I could try and look it out," said Strachan.

"So, in your opinion, could it be Paddy that's in that barrel?" asked Cullen.

"It could be, aye," said Strachan. "Seems almost likely, in fact." He suddenly frowned. "Thing is, he was a drinker, you know. Drinking in pubs tends to be the number one cause of aggro in my book. He was a regular in the Tanner's Arms up in Garleton."

Cullen jotted it down.
 

"You know how it is with these places," said Strachan, "there's always a wee bit of bother, but it was always forgotten about by the next evening."

"What about his past in Ireland?" he asked. "Any angry spouses or children?"

"Paddy always told lovely stories about his past," said Strachan. "He had never married or anything like that. Certainly not that he'd told us."

"Was there anyone here that he'd been involved with?" asked Cullen.

"Just Elspeth."

"Elspeth McLeish?"

Strachan nodded. "You've heard then?"

"I'm afraid not," said Cullen. "I just asked to speak to the current receptionist's predecessor, that's all."

Strachan hesitated for a few moments. "Well, Paddy'd had a thing with her," he said. "They'd been seeing each other for a good few months. They both liked a drink, so I don't think it was a particularly healthy relationship."

"Was Ms McLeish involved with anyone else?" asked Cullen.

"She always had a few guys on the go," said Strachan. "She never made a secret of it. Whether any of them would have wanted to kill Paddy, well you'd need to ask them that. I just know that there were some, that's all."

Cullen could see this case just exploding - hunting down ex-flames of an ex-receptionist for months. He didn't know what else to ask about Paddy - he suspected that Strachan could win
Mastermind
with 'the life and times of Paddy Kavanagh' as his specialist subject, and yet there really wasn't much to go on. If it was Paddy in the barrel, then the mystery of who killed him would be next to impossible. Ghoulish as it was, Cullen hoped that it was Iain Crombie in there - they were not exactly drowning in leads and suspects, but for Iain they at least had something to go on.

"Tell me about your relationship with Iain Crombie," said Cullen.

Strachan flinched slightly. He took a few seconds to compose himself. "Iain was a good lad," he said. "I knew him since he was yay high." He held his hand out at the approximate height of a seven or eight year old child. "I taught him everything he knew about whisky."

"So you don't think it's him in the barrel?" asked Cullen.

"I do not," said Strachan. "I think he's still out there."

"Any reason why?"

"I just do." Strachan rubbed his nose. "Iain left in strange circumstances, I'll give you that, but it doesn't mean that he's been murdered. One thing I'll say as well is that the barrel downstairs was filled three weeks before young Iain went missing. That's my biggest objection to your theory."

"We don't actually know that," said Cullen.

Strachan shrugged. "That's for your CSI boys and girls to show the rest of us, I suppose," he said.

"How did you get on with Iain?" asked Cullen.

Strachan rubbed at his nose again, almost polishing the surface. "Fine," he said. "He was a good lad. He knew his whisky, as I say. He was passionate about the product here. He was a fine heir to his father's legacy."

Cullen smiled at Strachan. "Go with me on this one," he said, "but assume that it's Iain in there, who would want to kill him?"

"It's not Iain in there," said Strachan.

"If it was," repeated Cullen.

Strachan took a few moments to think things through. Cullen watched his red face, a fat finger tracing the scar tissue across his bulbous nose. He tried to picture Strachan as the killer as Fraser Crombie seemed to be suggesting - assuming it was Iain in the barrel. He was a big man, grossly overweight now - his belly had stretched below the bottom of his polo shirt as he sat down - but Cullen tried to take eighteen years off. He pictured a strong man, one that liked a drink, one that was good with his hands. He'd waffled through his answers, barely requiring an interjection from Cullen, yet he wasn't prone to flowery language or answers. Cullen thought that Strachan was a simple man with a vice.

"I honestly can't think of anyone who would want to kill Iain Crombie," said Strachan.

"Nobody at all?"

"Honestly, no."

"What about the arguments he'd had with his brother?" asked Cullen, watching Strachan's eyes, the whites of his eyes stained yellow and lined with red.

"That was nothing," said Strachan. "They were always teasing each other. It's what boys do. That argument was just them posturing, you know? One said sugar, so the other had to say shite. It could very easily have been the other way round. It could so easily have been Fraser that was siding with independence and Iain that was pushing for a sale."

"Did it ever get violent?" asked Cullen.

Strachan didn't reply.

"What was the relationship between the brothers like?" asked Cullen.

Strachan screwed his face up. "It's not really for me to say," he said. "I've already told you all I know."

"Mr Strachan," said Cullen, "I would like to know if the relationship ever got violent."

Strachan took a deep breath. "Boys will be boys," he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Cullen.

"There were a couple of times where they got into heated arguments which turned into fights," said Strachan. "Usually when they'd been drinking."

"How bad are we talking here?" asked Cullen.

Strachan frowned. "Nothing too bad," he said. "Slaps and a bit of grappling. That's all."

Cullen jotted it down. He doubted that pressing Strachan any more on the matter would yield anything. He tossed a few ideas around his head. He decided to go for it. "Did Iain ever catch you stealing whisky?"

The yellowy eyes suddenly squinted at Cullen. "I beg your bloody pardon?"

"Mr Strachan," said Cullen, leaning forward, "I need to know if you had been caught stealing whisky from here."

Strachan closed his eyes. "Look, if you want to accuse me of murder, then I suggest that you do it in a police station, and make sure that I have a lawyer with me."

"Mr Strachan," said Cullen, smiling, "this isn't a formal interview, we're not officially on the record here. We're just gathering information."

"Aye, right," spat Strachan. His eyes swept between Cullen and Caldwell. "If you bloody think that I don't know that the two of you wouldn't use some comment by me against me, then you must think I'm a bloody fool."

"All we want to know is your relationship with Iain Crombie," said Cullen.

"And I've bloody told you," replied Strachan. "You're wanting to frame me, get some sort of easy conviction here if it turns out to be Iain. I've heard stories, you know, sonny, about what the police get up to. It's all targets and statistics with you lot now, and you'll be looking at this as a few easy points. Am I right?"

Cullen smiled at him, trying to disarm him. He was on shaky ground here and really needed to watch his step. "We don't know that it's Iain that's in the barrel," he said, holding his hands out, palms up. "It could be anyone. I just want to know what happened - as much as anything, so that I can eliminate you from our enquiries should it turn out to be him."

Strachan looked down at his shoes for a moment. "Fine," he said. He rubbed his face then looked up at Cullen. "He caught me taking some whisky one night. I'd got about 800 mils."

"What were you going to do with it?"

"I was blending it at home," said Strachan, "getting a personal supply of the good stuff."

"Why?"

Strachan took a few moments to himself before he answered. "Because I'm an alcoholic," he said. "It's an illness I can't escape. I've tried AA but I just can't give it up."

Cullen had seen a fair few functioning alcoholics in the force - guys who could tuck a fair few pints and whiskies away and then be fresh as a daisy the following morning. It was an occupational hazard and one that Cullen could feel the continual draw of, even in the modern police force.

"Do you still steal from here?" asked Cullen.

Strachan shook his head. "No."

"Did Iain threaten to relieve you of your duties here when he caught you?"

Strachan scowled at Cullen. "I'm sorry?" He laughed. "It would have been a bloody blessing. This place needs me far more than I need it!" He stabbed his finger in the air. "I've had offers from all over Scotland, sonny, I could have worked at any distillery I bloody wanted. They didn't rate Iain Crombie or his father, they knew who was really doing all the magic." He stabbed the finger on his chest. "Me."

"I see."

"Who told you about this?" asked Strachan.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information, I'm afraid."

"It figures," said Strachan, sighing.

Cullen looked over at Caldwell - she was looking slightly shell-shocked. "Anything else from you?" he asked.

"No, I'm good," said Caldwell.

"Thanks for your time," said Cullen.

"Aye, cheers," said Strachan, his eyes shut.

They got up and left the man looking destroyed.

Cullen chewed on a meatballs and cheese sub. He'd been across the road from Garleton Police Station to the Subway. His initial anathema to the brand had given way recently - Sharon was a big fan and they'd sometimes find themselves in there at the weekend. He had a large Coke and a bag of Walkers crisps, but he doubted he'd get tucked into them until mid-afternoon. Caldwell had gone for a chicken pesto special edition and Diet Coke.

"Where is he?" she asked.

The Incident Room was empty, save for a few hundred toilet rolls, some old chairs and desks, and a whiteboard, only slightly punched - a previous incident involving Bain had rendered one of its legs non-functional, so it rested against a wall.