Ghost in the Machine (11 page)

Caldwell had been asking sensible questions and had stayed alert, while Willie McAllister had slouched and fiddled with his cigarette papers, continually glaring at Cullen.

"Is everything clear now?" said Cullen.

McAllister was still frowning. "I'm still struggling to get how would they be friends with her on this site, but not know her."

"I take it you've never used a social network, Willie?" said Caldwell, like she was speaking to a small child.

McAllister squinted at her. "Do I look like I'm on Schoolbook?"

"All you need to know is there are people on there who've become Caroline's friend without knowing her," said Cullen.

"How?" said McAllister.

"There are message forums on there," said Caldwell. "If you're talking about, say, a film or a record, then you might chat to someone and they might add you as a friend."

McAllister scowled. "That's a bit weird."

"Just accept it," said Caldwell.

"Fair enough." McAllister dropped his roll-ups, then slowly reached down to pick them up.

Caldwell rolled her eyes.

"Anything else?" said Cullen.

McAllister stopped playing around, then held his hands up. "What's the point in all of this? From what I see, we've been roped in to do your work for you."

Cullen glared at him. "I've been asked to do this by the Senior Investigating Officer. Yourself and PC Caldwell have been allocated to help me. There are forty-three potential leads sitting there. Would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror if the murderer got away with it because we didn't look through the list properly? If anyone can shed any light on this Martin Webb, it does the case good."

McAllister glanced at his cigarette. "Fair enough."

Cullen knew then he was going to have to double-check McAllister's list himself.

Caldwell stood by Cullen's desk. "Can I get you a coffee?"

He looked up at her - his head was still throbbing. She was possibly the tallest woman he had ever met - well over six foot and not a beanpole, either. He found it strange having to look up to a woman - he didn't have to with many people.
 

"I'm just away up to the canteen," she said, as if to elaborate.

Cullen decided a coffee might help. "Aye, go on, then." He reached into his pocket and handed her a fiver. "Get us a ham sandwich as well."

She smiled. "Last time I ask you."

"How are you getting on?"

Caldwell raised her eyebrows. "Not too bad. Made a few calls, got nothing so far."

"Good opportunity for overtime." They'd been at it almost two hours, but it felt like days. "Where's McAllister, by the way?"

"He's been out for a fag every two minutes," said Caldwell, "and he never stops complaining."

"I'll have to do something about that," said Cullen.

After she left, Cullen picked up her sheet and scanned through it. She'd made some solid progress, though there were a couple of clarifications he wanted. He was already dreading having to write it all up, but at least her notes were decent.

He went over and picked up McAllister's sheet, sitting back down and looking through it. As far as Cullen could see, he'd completed just one call compared with Caldwell's six and the notes he'd made were poor. Perhaps he'd made more calls but hadn't got through or found contact details - Cullen simply couldn't tell from the notes.

He leaned back in his chair. He was going to have to replace McAllister - it was his neck on the line for this.

McNeill sat without greeting him, her face white.

"You okay?" said Cullen.

"Just been at the post mortem," said McNeill. "Time of death looks like eleven thirty on Wednesday night, plus or minus an hour. She'd been strangled and stabbed."

"Any DNA?"

"None at all."

"None?" said Cullen. "Shite."

"Aye." McNeill took a drink from the bottle of water on her desk.

"What about that rope burn?" said Cullen. "Did they get anything from it?"

"Aye, they did," said McNeill, "but it's not exactly going to help. How many blue ropes get sold in Edinburgh every single day?" She sighed. "How's your stuff going?"

"Getting there. Nothing earth-shattering so far."

"It's important stuff, I guess." She seemed distracted.

"Did you get anywhere with her bank records?" said Cullen.

"Nowhere so far but then it is a Saturday. No doubt Bain will have a go at me for that as well." She tightened the cap on the bottle and set it aside. "The card used to book the hotel room was reported stolen on Wednesday morning. Dead end."
 

"Bollocks."

She nodded over his shoulder. "Here comes trouble."

Cullen turned to see Bain approaching, practically shouting into his mobile.

He slumped into his seat, ignoring them. "Paul, Paul, Paul, you'll have to take that up with Jim when he gets in. You're reporting to me, all right? Now get the other guests found." He paused. "Aye, whoever you need." Another pause. "No, not McNeill or Cullen. You can have Miller. Okay, there's another couple coming in from St Leonards, I'll get them up to you. Bye." He snapped his phone shut. "Fuckin' arse." He looked at Cullen and McNeill. "Have either of you seen Miller?"

"Not all day," said Cullen.

"Me neither," said McNeill.

"Got a lead," said Bain. "Wilko's turned up some CCTV footage at the hotel. I wish I could spare either of you two. In lieu of a safe pair of hands, I'll have to get Monkey Boy on it. I've got to lead the press conference at three. Christ."

"Got my RIPSA approved yet?" said Cullen.

Bain shot him a glare. "I'm seeing Jim in ten minutes, no doubt after Wilko's finished moaning about me." He picked up his bottle of energy drink. "Get back to your phone calls, Cullen."

*
*
*

Cullen finished a call with a man who seemed at best a vague acquaintance of Caroline's. He slammed the phone down.
 

Another half hour and nothing to show for it. He looked through his friends and saw no one else from Caroline's list. Another dead end.

McNeill grabbed his shoulder. "Come on, Scott. We've got our RIPSA approved."

They pulled into the car park at Schoolbook's office in McNeill's yellow Fiat Punto. Cullen would much rather they'd gone in a squad car as he wouldn't have had to put up with her music on the way over - he had discovered there was no volume setting too quiet for Lady Gaga.

Cullen looked across the Livingston skyline. Even if it meant having to work with Bain, he was glad he wasn't based there any more. "How do you want to play this?"
 

"We need to get an extract of their database," she said. "Charlie Kidd's supposed to be heading over, but I can't see his Mini."

Kidd was the Technical Support Unit analyst assigned to Turnbull and his teams. As far as Cullen knew, they'd only ever used him for scouring through suspects' laptops and mobiles.

"He wants a dump of the database to do whatever it is they do in Technical Support, right?" said Cullen.

"Other than drink Dr Pepper and eat cheese Doritos."

Cullen laughed. "So we can get IP addresses, messages, absolutely anything else Martin Webb has left on there."

"Quite the closet geek, aren't you?"

"Did a course on this stuff earlier in the year," said Cullen. "Part of my Acting DC tenure. It's going to become a much bigger part of our jobs."

A Mini Cooper pulled up in the next space, a vintage model - early eighties by the number plate.

"There he is," said McNeill.

"That's him?" said Cullen. "When you said a Mini, I thought you meant the new ones."

She laughed.
 

They got out and headed over. Kidd got out of the driver's side. He was a skinny guy in his late thirties with bad skin, his thinning hair tied tightly in a ponytail, shaved up to ear level.

As they shook hands, Cullen did a double take - Kidd was wearing one of Tom's t-shirts -
Isn't it 2000 already? Where's my jetpack?

"I was on my day off," said Kidd, in a rough Dundee accent.

"You're not alone," said Cullen.

McNeill led them inside.

Gregor Aitchison was sitting just inside the front door waiting for them, his leg jigging up and down. He'd clearly done something about letting the police in unsupervised the previous day. Cullen introduced Kidd.

"Got a DBA waiting at my desk," said Aitchison. "He'll help you with your extract."

Heads glanced up at them as he led them through the open plan office, looking away just as quickly. At Aitchison's desk sat a big man in jeans and a loose-fitting jumper. He got to his feet - he was taller and more muscular than he'd initially appeared.

"Duncan Wilson." His stare seemed to bore through Cullen. He grinned at them, revealing yellow teeth. "How can I help?"

"I'm sure Mr Aitchison has briefed you on DC Cullen's visit yesterday?" said McNeill.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. Gregor was just giving me the background. It seems strange."

"Well, as you'll be aware, the disappearance has turned into a murder investigation." McNeill brandished the RIPSA form. "We want to speak to whoever's using the name Martin Webb on your website. We now have authority to obtain a copy of your database."

Wilson frowned at Aitchison. "Are you happy with this?"

"Aye, I've spoken to the boss."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Are you really sure?"

Aitchison looked away from them.
 

Wilson moved close to Aitchison, seeming to loom over him. "Legal told us we shouldn't." He looked at Cullen and McNeill. "There's no way we can just hand this over, warrant or not. As well as the data, we would be handing over our intellectual property, our code and database structures. Our competitors would kill for some of the tricks in there."

McNeill rolled her eyes in despair. "Just read the form."

Aitchison made a show of reading the document. "Okay." He handed it to Wilson, who scanned through it.

"Gregor, you really should check with Clive," said Wilson.

Aitchison looked twitchy, obviously uncomfortable with the stance he was forced to take. Cullen wondered if it was the fact he had to take a stance at all.

"Look, we're a law-abiding company and we're more than happy to assist your search," said Aitchison. "But I can't pass this database on to the police. Our lawyer says I don't have to. This document only gives you access to the records pertaining to Martin Webb."

McNeill folded her arms. "If that's all you're prepared to deliver, then I'll see what the Procurator Fiscal has to say about the remainder."

Aitchison was perspiring. "I'll have to run this by the boss. He's based at our Head Office in Croydon." He picked up his big Samsung mobile and wandered off out of earshot.

Kidd tried to start a conversation with Wilson. "Didn't know Schoolbook was based in Croydon."

"I didn't know myself until I started," said Wilson. "I'm just a contractor. Self-employed. Pays the bills, but I don't take my work home with me, if you know what I mean."

"What is this place?" said Kidd.

"Data centre," said Wilson. "The entire database is stored in these buildings. There's a back-up on some servers in the states and on some Alba Bank servers as well."

Cullen raised an eyebrow. "Alba Bank?"

"Aye," said Wilson. "They're rock solid."

"Why Livingston, though?" said Kidd.

Wilson shrugged. "Proximity to Alba Bank? Their data centre's just down the road in an unmarked building. Also, they can hire decent people on cheap rates compared with London." He grinned. "The joke is the reason they're up here is they don't need to cool the servers because it's so cold outside."

Cullen knew from bitter experience how cold West Lothian could be.
 

Aitchison reappeared, the armpit area of his t-shirt dark with sweat. He tapped his mobile against the side of his head, his eyes closed.

"Well?" said McNeill.

Aitchison reopened his eyes. "Duncan, can you get an extract of the record for Martin Webb, please?"

Wilson scowled. "How much of it?"

"All tables." Aitchison sighed. "Full history."

"Are you one hundred per cent sure?" said Wilson.

"Just do it," said Aitchison.

Wilson tilted his head then started tapping at the workstation.

"That's all you're going to get with that document," said Aitchison.

"We'll accept the records for that account for now," said McNeill, "but we'll be back to get the rest."

"Fine," said Aitchison.

Kidd leaned over the back of Wilson's chair. "What are you up to?"
 

"What we agreed."

Kidd turned to McNeill. "This isn't right. His SQL statement's all over the place."

McNeill scowled. "Do we need to have a conversation about obstruction?"
 

Aitchison closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I've been told I can't give away any intellectual content relating to our database structures or data model, so the files you'll get will just be the raw data."

Kidd's eyes bulged. "You're kidding me."

"What does that mean?" said Cullen.

"Imagine a spreadsheet full of data with no column headings," said Kidd.

"So you'll be flying blind?"

Kidd nodded.

"You're just after messages and IP addresses," said Wilson. "I can show you that."

"It's not just that," said Kidd. "I need to look at everything to check for patterns. This boy has been elusive and anything on your database could help us find him. You'd be surprised at what I need to look at."

Wilson shrugged. "I'm not sure your RIPSA covers all of that."

"It does," said Kidd. "If you don't give us everything, then we're not much further forward."

McNeill looked at Wilson and Aitchison. "Is that right?"

Eventually, Aitchison nodded.

"This is a murder investigation," she said. "If I want to, I could have this entire place shut down. There's nothing we can do without that information."

Aitchison sat blinking. He reached for his mobile again.