Devil in the Detail (Scott Cullen Mysteries) (2 page)

Cullen and Sharon stopped by the car. "You did well," she said.

"Try telling him that," said Cullen, pointing at the car. He got into the passenger side back seat, steeling himself for the inevitable onslaught.

Bain twisted round to look at Cullen. "That wasn't in the fuckin' script," he said.
 

"If it had been," said Cullen, "you wouldn't have let me say it."

Bain shook his head. "Enough with these games, Cullen, okay?" he said. "You might think you're the big boy just now, what with catching that killer, but you've got to learn to toe the line."

Cullen didn't shrink back. "You need to learn to listen to me and McNeill," he said.

"Leave me out of it," she said, hands in the air.

Bain turned round to face forward and shook his head. "This isn't the end of it, Cullen."

Monday
23
rd
January 2012
 

 
five months later

The four slices of toast smoothly emerged from the polished steel Dualit toaster and Elaine Gibson tossed them into the clean white, ceramic toast rack. She put another four slices on then put the rack on the large dining table in the kitchen. She sat down with her mug of coffee and set about spreading crunchy peanut butter on the wholemeal toast. Before the first bite, she yelled up the stairs at her two children, Thomas and Mandy, telling them to hurry up. She took a bite of toast and sat looking out of the kitchen window, across the lawn at the Hopetoun Monument, perched on one of the hills that overlooked Garleton.

Her husband, Charles, came into the room, as ever in the middle of tying his necktie. "Morning," he said.

"There's coffee in the pot," she said.

"Good, good," he said. "Ah, toast today. Good. I'm starving."

He poured a cup of coffee and started whistling. Elaine sat and thought about how he had not always been a morning person - these days it was hard to get him to stay awake in the evening. He sat down and buttered the toast, reaching for the jar of marmite that Elaine had placed on the table earlier. The second batch of toast slowly emerged from the guts of the machine.

"Kids not up yet?" he asked.

"It's your turn today," she said.

He nodded his head. "I'll have my breakfast then I'll get on to them."

"Fine."

She finished her toast then added the slices to the toast rack on the table. She refilled her mug of coffee and looked up at the ominous rainclouds looming in from the west.

Thomas wandered in. He sat down and mumbled something that might have been "Morning." He immediately set about the toast, munching through two thickly buttered slices with barely any chewing. Elaine was almost castigating him again for not chewing but decided that it would just be falling on deaf ears.

"Have you seen your sister?" she asked.

"No," said Thomas, through a mouthful of slice three.

"Charles..."

Gibson raised his hands as he stood up. "Fine, I'll get her." He left the room, heading upstairs.

"Won't be back till seven tonight," said Thomas. "Got ATC."

"Fine," she said. She turned to look out of the window again. That was Charles's idea - Air Training Corps, get some discipline into the boy. They, like many of their friends, had decided to send their children to the local comprehensive, the best in the area and at least the same standard as the private schools in Edinburgh, but they were determined that he would get the same standard of extra-curricular activity as if they'd gone private.

"Any more toast?" asked Thomas.

She reached over and put another two slices into the toaster.

Just then, Gibson burst into the room. She turned to face him.

"She's gone," he said, locking eyes with her.

"You're sure?" she asked.
 

Thomas looked up at them.

"Yes," he replied. "I checked all of the rooms upstairs. Nothing. And the front door is locked." He went over to the back door and checked it.
 

"I'll check the conservatory," she said.

She rushed into the hall then into the conservatory, the bitterly cold air hitting her arms. She pulled her dressing gown tighter as she crossed the room. She tried the French doors. Locked.

She went through to the hall again and checked the large cupboards, both not exactly empty but not hiding her daughter. She went back into the kitchen.

"It was locked," she said.

"Same with the back door," said Gibson. "The utility room is empty, too."

She let out a deep sigh. "Not again," she murmured.

Gibson held her shoulder. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Do you think she's gone to Susan's again?" she asked.

"I'll check."

*

Morag Tattersall opened the gate beside the gatehouse at Balgone Ponds and walked through like she owned the place. She led her two greyhounds, Meg and Mindy, along what she still considered to be the public footpath.
 

The owners of the place - the new owners - had unilaterally taken the decision to block off the path and turn it into the garden for their gatehouse. This had irritated Morag and her neighbours in the cottages around the corner. She'd lived there for thirteen years, alone for most of the time, with her husband away on business most of the week. Every day during that time she had used the path to walk a series of dogs around the ponds. Until they had moved in. The only other way to the ponds was through the hedge behind the gatehouse but she didn't want to cut her jacket or the dogs' paws on the hawthorn.

She thought about leaving the gate open behind her but decided against being so petty. Besides it looked like they were away. She closed the gate and marched on.

She breathed in the fresh early morning air, bitterly cold but invigorating, and powered on down the path. The dogs were pulling on their leads - she tugged them to the side and they started to obey. The sun was just beginning its rise from its winter slumber, appearing over the slight hills in the middle distance. The trees were bare and the path was slightly damp underfoot as it led down to the two ponds.

She came to the downwards slope and let the dogs off, putting their leather leads in her jacket pocket. They set off slowly - tails raised, heads combing the ground for trails, their muscular thighs bouncing along like boxers shadow-boxing before a fight, occasionally stopping and sniffing at the same patch of ground.

As she overtook them, her thoughts turned to her planned itinerary that day - a yoga class in North Berwick in an hour and a half then meeting Liz for lunch afterwards. She was looking forward to both.

Morag continued on down the path, descending to the level of the ponds. She walked on for a minute or so, thoughts lost in getting round to Andrew's laundry and taking Meg to the vet for her boosters. She suddenly realised that she couldn't see the dogs.

"Meg!" she called. "Mindy!"

She was at the start of the first pond. She turned around and looked back the way she'd come. There was no sign. They'd no doubt seen a rabbit and ran off after it. They'd only caught one once - she'd had to practically pull Mindy away from the squealing animal - but they'd given chase countless times. She turned back and retraced her steps.

She climbed the rise back to where she'd let them off. To the left, away from the pond, was another path that ran along the higher ground. She could see movement through the trees, grey like Mindy.

"Mindy!"

There was a rustling. Mindy raced through, coming right up to Morag. She grabbed her collar and put her back on the lead.

"Meg!"

Morag marched through the trees in the direction that Mindy had come. She spotted Meg, sniffing at a spot between two trees a few metres apart, in front of a row of large rhododendrons.

"Meg, stop that," she called.

Meg turned around, looked at Morag and then went back to her sniffing. Morag paced over to her and grabbed her collar.

"Bad girl," she said.
 

Mindy started pulling on her lead. Morag fiddled with Meg's collar and managed to secure it with the lead.

Mindy lurched forward, almost pulling Morag's arm out of the socket. Mindy started digging with her front paws at what she could now see was a patch of loose earth.

"Stop!" called Morag. The dog ignored her.

Morag saw some pink cloth below where Mindy dug. She gasped then let go of the leads. She knelt down and started digging as well.
 

She dug away around the cloth and quickly revealed an arm.

Morag rocked back on her heels, reached into her pocket and fumbled with her mobile phone.

Cullen drove along the A199, the single carriageway that sliced East Lothian in two, the rain wriggling down his windscreen like snakes, the wipers at full power. They descended the hill, the rain slacking off as the vista widened out to show Dunbar on the coast, still basking in the winter sun - the rain hadn't made it that far yet.

ADC Angela Caldwell sat in the passenger seat, directing them. "Just off here," she said, as they approached the turning for East Linton.
 

Caldwell was tall and dark-haired. When Caldwell had been seconded to an investigation as a uniformed officer, she had worked closely with Cullen. She'd only recently been made Acting DC, the start of a training period to become a fully-fledged CID officer. She now insisted that people call her Angela and not Angie. Management of her had been given to Cullen as part of his personal development plan. While it was rarely mentioned, she was the replacement for Keith Miller.
 

Cullen took them into East Linton, past post-war council houses initially, before coming to the old Victorian houses of the village and an underpass that ran beneath the east coast train line, the steel girders in stark contrast to the stone buildings.
 

"You sure this is the right way?" asked Cullen. "We should have turned up at Haddington and gone through Garleton."

"This is quicker," said Caldwell.

Her phone rang and she quickly answered it. Cullen could hear the raised male voice bleed out of her speaker - it was Bain. "We thought it would be quicker," she said. Cullen heard Bain's voice getting louder. Caldwell occasionally said "Okay".

He started off up the old high street, parked cars dotting the road, the shells of two closed pubs passing on the left. Cullen had to pull in to let an Audi come through, not that he had much choice. He almost stalled the car setting off again.

As Caldwell spoke to Bain, Cullen's thoughts turned to the fact that it was Keith Miller's birthday that day. Cullen was usually bad with remembering birthdays but DS Alan Irvine, notionally Cullen's boss, had mentioned it that morning in the breakfast queue, with typical Scottish lack of sensitivity. In some parallel universe somewhere, Cullen thought that it would be Miller in the car beside him on the phone to Bain. The counselling had helped Cullen to a certain extent, but it was still something that he had to carry around with him on a daily basis. Talking helped, took the pain away inch by inch, but it left a hollow shell of guilt. He had another session on Wednesday and could feel the guilt as a tightness in his chest.

As they drove through East Linton, Cullen thought of Deborah, Sharon McNeill's older sister. She lived in the village - maybe it was a town, Cullen couldn't decide - with her husband, Peter, who Cullen didn't have a great deal in common with. In truth, other than a physical resemblance, the sisters were very different - Deborah was very community-spirited, involved with the church and local groups, and she didn't work. Arguably, Sharon was community-spirited - it's what made her join the police - but where Sharon was hard and cynical, Deborah was soft and optimistic. Their daughter, Rachel, who knew Cullen as Uncle Scott now, was due to go to High School in the summer. They couldn't decide which school to send her to - North Berwick or Garleton. Cullen couldn't decide which he'd rather hear more - that tale of indecision again or tales of Peter's golf club... Despite himself, he was becoming a decent uncle and actually enjoyed seeing Rachel, if not her parents. Sharon had told him a few times not to get any ideas.

Caldwell hung up the call and angrily threw her phone on the dashboard.

"Bain?" asked Cullen.

"Got it in one," she said. "Said he'd been trying to phone you."

"My phone's off," he said. "What was he wanting?"

"Just wondering where we were," she said. "I had to explain that part of the reason we're not there yet was your car."
 

She was referring to Cullen's battered, bottle green Golf - N reg and still running.

"Sailed through its MOT last week," he said.
 

"Bribing a mechanic is a criminal offence," she said.

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I do have a mortgage deposit to save up for," he said. "And besides, we should have turned off at Haddington and come through Garleton."

"Aye right," she drawled.

They left East Linton and headed up the steep hill leading out of the village, Cullen's car audibly struggling. He had to kick it down to second.

"Do you know anything more about where we're headed?" he asked.

"Not much," she said. "He was just shouting at me for not being there already."

All that they had been given when Bain called him at the Leith Walk station was that they were to head to Balgone Ponds in East Lothian, roughly two thirds of the way from East Linton to North Berwick.
 

"Who's there with him?" he asked.

"Irvine," she said. "And I think Scene of Crime and Pathology are as well."

"That must be why he's busting our balls," said Cullen. "He doesn't want us making him look bad."

They came to a T-junction at the top of a hill, having driven for miles through fields. Caldwell navigated them to the right.

Caldwell looked over at Cullen. "The girl is definitely dead," she said.