Cowboys and Indians (13 page)

‘Rich’s big scoop? Barely speak to him, Skinky.’

‘But you share a flat.’

‘He’s a tenant, that’s it.’

‘You didn’t leak it to him?’

‘I didn’t find out about this guy’s death until I got briefed at our daily stand-up.’

‘I don’t even want to know what that is. So it’s not going well with Rich?’

‘We’ve got into a groove where he pays me his rent and we keep away from each other.’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘I’m just winding you up. We get on fine. He came for a drink at a team night out a couple of weeks ago.’

Cullen frowned, tilting his head. ‘Who was there?’

‘Like, fifty people.’

‘Did he speak to any of them?’

‘Tried it on with one of the guys in the mailroom.’ Tom smirked. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because someone’s leaking stories. I just wondered if that’s where he found them.’

‘Well, I don’t think Post Jimmy’s got anything to leak.’

Cullen cracked his knuckles. ‘How’s he been?’

‘Busy. Stressing out about getting sacked. Working on a book as well as doing his day job.’

‘Crime fiction, right?’

‘Don’t pay much attention, to be honest. Says it’s like
The Wire
but set in London.’ A frown flickered across Tom’s forehead. ‘Why the meeting?’

‘Wanted to pick your brain about this Van de Merwe guy.’

‘Mate of mine got chucked onto that programme. Works for Rob Thomson. From what I hear, Van de Merwe was a total wanker. Not well liked. At all. Could sell sand to the Arabs, though.’

‘Ever hear anything about BDSM?’

‘BD-what?’

‘Sado-masochism.’

‘Nope.’ Tom frowned. ‘Why?’

Cullen glanced around the empty space. ‘I didn’t tell you this, but we found a sex room in his house.’

Tom shook his head. ‘What a guy.’

‘Never hear anything sordid about him?’

‘Not about that.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘My mate got this from one of the Schneider guys. When they were pitching for this, they took Van de Merwe out in London for the weekend. Went to a Chelsea match — corporate box and all that jazz. Few boozers in Soho, then a titty bar. Think they had some coke and the like. Van de Merwe was out of his skull and fired into a lap dancer at some place in Mayfair. Kicked up a stink about wanting to have sex with her.’

‘Sounds like an idiot.’

‘Then they took him to their hotel. Got a few girls in from a brothel.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Cullen jotted down a note. ‘And they just told you this?’

‘My mate, remember. Not me. Got it after a few shandies, when the truth serum kicked in.’

Cullen underlined
Brothel
. ‘Anything else?’

‘There was a corporate gig Schneider ran up at the Caledonian for their Edinburgh clients. “Scottish Consultancy of the Year Awards” or some nonsense like that back in February. Anyway, Van de Merwe turned up with this girl on his arm. Local, dolled up. Next week, Schneider hosted another one, a kickback for some clients. Lower key. Bottles of prosecco and decent red. Nibbles. Van de Merwe got Yardley to go instead. He pitched up with Van de Merwe’s girl.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Couple of their directors were at both events.’

‘Isn’t Yardley married?’

‘Wife lives down in Peebles with his kids. He’s got a flat in the New Town.’

‘Dirty bastard.’ Cullen tapped his pen off the page. ‘Was this girl called Amber?’

‘Cindy, something like that. She’s an escort. Guy said she was a lap dancer. Works in a bar on Lothian Road. Don’t know which one.’

‘Classy.’ Cullen shook his head as he made a note. ‘I need to get this in a statement.’

‘He’ll not speak.’

‘I meant from you.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Tom, get down the station soon.’

*
 
*
 
*

‘This’ll do.’ Buxton pulled in on some double-yellows on Lothian Road, just across from the Filmhouse. Stuck an “On Official Police Business” sign on the dashboard. ‘Which one do you think?’

Cullen looked out at the three lap-dancing bars. Bottoms Up and Wonderland on the street level, the Ambassador sauna on the first floor. ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.’

Buxton cleared his throat. ‘Careful there, Mr Clarkson.’

‘Eh?’

‘Someone leaked Jeremy Clarkson using the N-word on a
Top Gear
rehearsal the other night.’

‘I’m not falling for that.’

‘Don’t you read the news?’

‘Try not to.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Buxton got out his phone. ‘Here, I’ll—’

‘It’s okay, I believe you.’ Cullen stared at the bars again. ‘The sauna’s the least likely one, right?’

‘Best place for a hand job, not a lap dance. Bottoms Up’s less classy than Wonderland.’ Buxton pointed down the street. ‘Club Rouge down there.’

‘There’s a couple of places at the end of Princes Street. And the pubic triangle.’

‘Quite the expert.’

‘Shut up.’ Cullen chuckled, narrowing his eyes as he calculated. ‘I’m thinking Wonderland. It’s the newest and most upmarket. A big shot would go there.’ He frowned. ‘Used to be a model shop, didn’t it? Radio-controlled cars and train sets.’

‘Different type of models now.’

‘Boom, boom.’ Cullen got out onto the street, busy with Monday-night drinkers.

Buxton walked up to the door and nodded at the bouncer. ‘Evening.’

The doorman gave a curt nod and stepped aside for them, looking about five stone lighter than the usual front-of-house security. ‘In you go, gents. Pay on the left, please.’

Cullen followed Buxton up to the counter.

A woman sat behind it, chomping on gum. ‘Ten quid, boys. Each.’

‘Police.’ Cullen showed his warrant card. ‘Wouldn’t mind having a word with your staff.’

‘What about?’

‘It’s in connection with a case.’

‘Heard that before.’ She rolled her eyes and pressed a button. ‘Head through the turnstiles.’

Cullen nudged it. The metal dug into his thigh before it gave. He pushed through a door into a long hall, a stage filling the wall facing the street, booths lining another two. An empty dance floor flashed in the far corner.

He made for the bar.

A lumbering giant was cleaning some glasses, a pint of Guinness settling in front of him, thin arms poking out of a designer T-shirt, stretched tight across a large pot belly. His beard was a series of pencil dashes, his neck shaved. ‘What can I get you, like?’ Polish accent mangled by Edinburgh patois.

‘Police.’ Cullen held up his warrant card, then switched to a print of Van de Merwe. ‘Has this man ever visited here?’

The barman inspected the photo. ‘Looks very familiar. Definitely been in.’

‘His name’s Jonathan van de Merwe.’

‘Got it.’ The barman frowned at the photo again and clicked his fingers. ‘Mr VDM. That’s what he asked us to call him. Mr VDM. Used to come in at least once a week. Big player. Bought lots of champagne.’

‘Did he have any favourite girls?’

‘Everybody likes everybody in here.’

‘What about a Cindy?’

‘Cindy? Don’t have a Cindy here.’

Cullen glanced at Buxton. ‘Thanks for your time.’

‘Could it be Candy?’

Cullen spun round. ‘She ever dance with him?’

‘Couple of times.’ A leer. ‘More than a couple of times.’

‘She on tonight?’

He pointed over at the booths. ‘Second from the left.’

‘Cheers.’ Cullen nodded and left him to his drying cloth, wandering over to a table at the far end surrounded by chatting girls. ‘Candy?’

‘That’s me.’ A woman raised a hand in the gloom, head and shoulders above the other girls. Tanned legs and arms, dark hair in pigtails. Red school tie, white blouse struggling to contain her chest. Very Britney Spears. ‘You pair don’t look like you’re paying for anything.’ Fife accent, long vowels masked by pronouncing the Ts. ‘Cops?’

‘Very insightful.’ Another flash of the warrant card. ‘Wondering if we could have a word with you about Jonathan van de Merwe.’

She sniffed. ‘What about him?’

‘When was the last time he was here?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Need to speak to you in relation to his murder.’

She frowned. ‘His
murder?
’

‘We found his body yesterday morning.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ She kneaded her forehead. One of her colleagues massaged an arm. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

‘It’s just a few questions.’

‘And I told you I’m saying nothing.’

‘Right, let’s head down the station.’

‘Suits me.’ Candy gave a shrug. ‘I’ll call my lawyer first, though.’

Cullen stopped in the doorway and stared across the Incident Room. Virtually empty, just Holdsworth by the whiteboard. He nodded at Buxton, as he sat at the meeting table. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Bain ordered them back out on the street. Bet you regret moaning about resource.’

‘I needed it for me, not for him to arse about with.’

‘He must have photos of Soutar and a donkey or something.’

‘Don’t say that out loud again, Si.’ Cullen retrieved his notebook. ‘Where the hell’s my team?’

Buxton prodded his phone’s screen and put it to his head. ‘Yeah. In the Incident Room. See you soon.’ He dumped the phone on the table. ‘Just finishing up an interview.’

Cullen stretched out and looked through his notebook. ‘My actions list never seems to go down.’

‘How do you cope?’

‘Prioritise the ones Crystal will chew my balls over.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘It’s not. I need to get more organised.’

The door flew open and Jain stomped across the room, Eva following. She sat next to him and opened her orange notebook. ‘Where’ve you two been?’

‘Just up at a lap-dancing bar.’

Eva frowned. ‘Are you serious?’

Buxton smirked. ‘Got a suspect in number Three waiting for her lawyer.’

‘While we’re waiting, I need an update from you lot.’ Cullen smiled at Jain. ‘Anything on Amber?’

‘Finally got hold of her.’ Jain flicked through her notebook. ‘Spoke to her colleague as well. She’s in the clear. Alibi checks out. Doesn’t know anything about cock rings and ball gags.’

‘Our suspect was seen at an event with Van de Merwe. Was he seeing Amber then?’

‘They were finished by August, Sarge.’

‘Fine. What about Elsbeth?’

‘Looks clear. Sister confirmed the alibi with some Met officers.’

‘Good.’ Cullen scanned through his notes. ‘Anyone found Michaela Queen?’

‘Not yet.’ Eva darted her eyes between Buxton and Jain. ‘Got another angle that might work.’

‘What about Schoolbook?’

‘I’m looking at the stuff from Charlie, but I’m not getting anywhere.’

Jain dumped her notebook on the table. ‘We were just interviewing a Tom Jameson.’

‘Thanks for doing that.’

Jain clicked a finger. ‘He’s why you were up Lothian Road?’

‘Yup.’ Cullen switched his gaze to Eva. ‘What about the mobile stuff from Tommy Smith?’

‘Still waiting for that.’

‘Need me to chase it up?’

‘Said it’ll be first thing tomorrow. Drug squad found a load of burners. Orders from the Chief.’

‘Fine.’

Buxton stood to answer a call, turning away.

Cullen turned the page, spotting just one open item. ‘What about the offshore accounts?’

Eva nodded. ‘Reached out to the City of London lot a couple of hours ago.’

‘You reached out?’

Eva blushed. ‘Sorry. I spoke to a DI Coulson. Said he’s confident he’ll get it back to me tomorrow.’

‘Good work.’

Buxton held up his mobile. ‘That’s the lawyer turned up.’

*
 
*
 
*

‘Candy, Candy, Candy…’ Cullen got up and paced the interview room. He stopped by the door and locked eyes with the Custody Officer, a mountain of scar tissue and thread veins, thin rivers of red filling his cheeks. Then switched focus to Candy. ‘You need to speak to us.’

She twitched a nostril. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

‘You’ve not even given your real name.’

‘I’ll remind you that’s not an offence.’ Alistair Reynolds looked barely out of high school, let alone a qualified lawyer. A fresh welt of acne covered his face. ‘You’ve yet to charge my client with anything, so I suggest you let her leave.’

‘We need to validate statements we’ve received concerning her—’

‘—involvement with a murder case.’ Reynolds yawned. ‘I know, I know. She doesn’t have to comply with your requests, though.’

Cullen thumped the desk. ‘A man’s been murdered.’

She looked up, grinning. ‘That supposed to frighten me?’

‘Candy, I just want to find out who killed him.’

‘You think I did?’

‘Have we said that?’

‘Not yet. I didn’t kill him.’

Cullen sat, leaning back in the chair. ‘I need you to help us out.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘If you comply, you get out of here.’ Cullen checked his watch. ‘It’s half seven. I imagine Mr Reynolds will give you a lift to your place of work.’

Reynolds nodded at her. ‘If that’s what you want to do.’

Candy let her body sag, tanned arms hanging by her side. ‘Fine.’

‘We understand you accompanied Mr Van de Merwe to a business function.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’d prefer a straight answer.’

‘VDM asked me along to some corporate thing at the bank.’

‘VDM?’

‘What he told me to call him. He liked me. Had a few dances every couple of nights.’

‘He ever try to pay for anything else?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m a dancer, not a
whore
.’

‘What about William Yardley?’

‘Who?’

‘We gather you attended another corporate event on his arm.’

‘
Him
? His wife was out of town. VDM suggested he take me. Got five hundred quid for it.’

‘Did you do anything with him?’

‘I was his escort. Nothing more.’

‘You sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Did either man try it on? Wandering hands, that kind of thing?’

‘They were perfect gentlemen.’

‘You ever see them again?’

‘Not Yardley.’

‘But you saw Mr Van de Merwe?’

She lowered her gaze to the table. ‘VDM kept coming into the club. Stopped about six weeks ago.’