Cowboys and Indians (16 page)

Sharon shot him a look, then focused on Graham. ‘What happened next?’

‘Beth and Keith got cabs home. Me and Will went for another drink. One turned into many. We ended up in a club.’

‘Which one?’

Graham wiped his nose. ‘The Liquid Lounge.’

‘Again? What were you drinking?’

‘Jägerbombs.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Next thing I know, I woke up back in my flat. My arse felt like it’d been… There was blood all over the sheets. Fucking everywhere. The pain was … excruciating. Beth took me to the hospital. I saw Dr—’

‘We’ll come to that in a minute.’ Sharon leaned forward on the desk. ‘How did you get home?’

‘I’ve no idea. I don’t remember anything after the first drink.’

‘Were you in pain the night before?’

‘No.’

‘Did Mr Hart see you leave?’

‘I called him this morning. He left about midnight, needed to get home for work.’

‘You don’t remember seeing him?’

‘Nope.’

‘What were you doing when he left?’

‘I can’t remember. He said I was dancing.’

Cullen’s phone thrummed in his pocket, on mute. He let it ring out. ‘Do you remember speaking to anyone else last night? Bar staff? Bouncers? Someone in the toilet? At the next table, maybe?’

‘I don’t remember much in the club. Just doing shots. I’ve had flashes of dancing. Bits of music.’ Graham glared at him. ‘Someone spiked my drink. The doctor did a blood test. Can’t remember what she called it, but it’s basically Rohypnol.’

‘Mr Graham, what else happened at the hospital?’

He sat back and exhaled. ‘She did a rape kit on me.’

‘Did they find anything?’

‘Just spermicide.’

‘So your rapist used a condom?’

‘He tore my anus!’ Graham shut his eyes, fingers hammering his eyebrows. ‘I could’ve bled out in my bed.’

‘You’ve no recollection of getting home?’

‘None at all.’

‘What about your wife?’

‘She said she heard me get back at about two, maybe later.’

‘You were on your own?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Graham flared his nostrils and glowered at Sharon. ‘If you’d caught whoever did this to the others, they’d not have got me.’

‘I understand your anger, Mr Graham. We’re doing—’

‘You really should’ve caught him!’

‘Believe me, we’re doing all we can to catch him.’

Graham stood, fingers gripping the edge of the table. ‘Look, if—’ He sighed. ‘If there’s anything else you need from me, call my wife. I need to … I need to do something else. I’m sorry.’ He staggered over to the door, clutching his buttocks.

The man-mountain Custody Officer put a hand to his chest. ‘Mr Graham, please sit down.’

‘I’m finished here.’

He glanced at Sharon, receiving a shrug. ‘You’ll have to accompany me out of the station, sir.’

One last glare from Graham and he was gone.

‘Interview terminated at fifteen eighteen.’ Sharon ended the recording and leaned back in her seat. ‘What the hell’s going on with my case?’

Cullen exhaled. ‘Think he’s trying to throw us off the scent?’

‘How easy is it to do those injuries to yourself?’

Cullen crossed his arms. ‘I suppose you could lower yourself—’

‘Yeah, yeah, I get it.’ She shook her head. ‘He’ll be the death of me. Can’t believe he went back to the Liquid Lounge.’

‘Right place, wrong time.’ Cullen held up his notebook. ‘You need any of my interview notes?’

‘Email me them. I’ll get Rhona to speak to his doctor, given she’s at the hospital.’

Cullen checked his phone. The missed call was from Buxton. ‘That me done?’

‘That’s all for now. Send Chantal next time.’

‘Charming.’ Cullen got out his ringing phone. ‘Si, what is it?’

‘Get your dancing trousers on, Scotty. Think I’ve found her.’

‘Don’t see why I need my dancing trousers.’ Cullen stepped out of the pool car. Looked around the beige tenements of East Newington Place.

‘Cheer up, you dozy bastard.’ Buxton plipped the Vauxhall and nodded at the stone façade of the tenement. ‘That’s her flat up there. Top floor.’

‘You should’ve gone through me to get the warrant.’

‘You were too busy doing God knows what.’ Buxton crossed the road, jammed with parked cars. Buses hissed past at the end of the street. He jabbed a finger against the intercom. ‘Where were you?’

‘Helping Sharon.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Never mind.’ Cullen put his thumb over the buzzer. ‘She’s not in, is she?’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

Cullen moved his thumb to the ground-floor flat. ‘We’ll get in there and kick the door down.’

Static blasted out of the intercom.
‘Hello?’

‘This is the police. We need access to the stairwell.’

‘In you come.’

Cullen pushed the buzzing door and entered the stairwell, thick with cigarette smoke.

A small tabby cat shot up the spiral stairs, stopping to hiss back at them.

Cullen flashed his warrant card at the pair of glasses staring out of the ground-floor flat. ‘DS Scott Cullen. ADC Simon Buxton. We need to speak to one of your neighbours.’

‘The tart on the top floor?’ The woman stepped out of the doorway and sniffed. ‘Trollop has her wares always on display. Comes and goes at all hours.’

‘Candy?’

‘That what they call her?’ She snorted and retreated into her flat.

Cullen raced up, following the tabby to the top floor, before it disappeared into a cat flap with a final hiss. ‘That our flat?’

‘Nah, this one.’ Buxton hammered on the other door. ‘Candy? It’s the police. Open up.’

Nothing.

Cullen thumped the door. ‘Candy, we need to access your property.’

Nothing again.

He let out a sigh, spotting the tabby peering through the flap at them. ‘Have you got her real name?’

‘Christine Broadhurst.’ Buxton clattered the door again. ‘Comes from — not sure how to say this — Lochgelly in Fife.’

‘Brutal.’

‘That how you say it?’

‘That’s right. Ex-mining town. Hard as nails there.’

‘Well, this is the address she gave Sergeant Mullen when we brought her in the other night.’

‘Open it.’

Buxton took a step back and launched his shoulder at the door. Crunch. It twisted on the hinge and fell forward onto the clear lino. He entered the flat, snapping out his baton. ‘Dark in here.’

Cullen followed him in. Six doors led off the wide hallway. ‘Let’s stick together.’

Buxton flicked his baton against the first handle. An ironing board clattered out of a cupboard, bouncing off the opposite wall. He knelt down to pick it up and stuffed it back in. ‘Right, next.’

Cullen snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and tried the next handle. A bathroom, musty and dark. He nodded at the next door.

Buxton opened it. An empty kitchen. Next, an empty living room. A bathroom at the end. ‘This is great fun.’

‘Aye, smashing. Go on, Si. Through the last door.’

Buxton flicked his baton. ‘Finally, a bedroom.’

‘Wait here.’ Cullen trudged into the room. A wide, metal-framed bed with white sheets. Louvre-doored cupboards. Dark wood chest of drawers. Alarm clock showing the time in green. He opened the closet. Just clothes. Dresses, skirts, blouses, jeans. A flash of red.

He pulled apart a dress and a kimono. Tore the red cloak off the hanger and held it up. ‘Here we go.’

Buxton squirmed. ‘What’s that all over it?’

Cullen turned it round. The back side was covered in a white crusty stain. He sniffed it. ‘It’s semen.’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen kicked the door shut, killing the noise from the rest of the crime scene lab. ‘Time to pull your finger out.’

Anderson swung round from staring at his laptop, eyebrows raised. ‘Your finger’s still up your own arse, Cullen.’

‘I’m waiting on two crime scene reports — three if you separate out the sex room. And there’s our drug trace.’

‘Never ends with you lot, does it?’

Cullen handed him the cloak, wrapped in an evidence bag. ‘Check this, will you?’

‘What the fuck is it?’

‘A gateway to a parallel universe, what do you think? It’s a red cloak.’

‘What’s that on it?’

‘Spunk, I think. Run a DNA test, if you can.’

‘Look, son, your boss and his little Rottweiler are doing my head in.’

‘Bain?’

‘Aye, fucking Bain. The pair of them keep switching my priorities every five minutes. Van de Merwe’s office. The drugs. Van de Merwe’s house. His sex dungeon.’ He shook his head. ‘You lot need to make your minds up, okay?’

‘I’ve been crystal clear about what I want you to focus on, haven’t I?’

‘You’re only a DS, Cullen. A new one at that. Get your chiefs to agree with you, or at least toe the party line.’

‘How’s the house going?’

‘Got twelve rooms to report on. Still waiting for the DNA exclusion.’

‘Any early results?’

‘I like to keep everything to myself, so I can hamper the investigation as much as possible.’ Anderson shot daggers at him. ‘Of course there’s nothing.’

‘What about the office?’

‘Different matter, entirely. There’s a million and fucking one DNA traces in there. It’s going to take weeks. Even then, it’s unlikely you’ll get a result from it. Guy had meetings with every man and his dog in there, they’re probably not suspects. Besides, it’s not like he died in there.’

‘Keep at it.’

‘Where’s it sit in the priority list? Bain had it top.’

Cullen sucked in a deep breath. ‘Put it at the bottom, okay?’

‘You need Methven to sign off on this.’

‘Just do it. Seriously.’

‘Your grave, son.’

‘What about the sex room?’ Cullen smirked. ‘Now you’ve escaped, of course.’

‘Get to fuck.’ Anderson shut his eyes and chuckled. Then cleared his throat. ‘I did a fair amount of work on that before Bain told me to refocus.’

‘And?’

‘Lots of DNA traces to process.’ Anderson reached into a desk drawer, producing a magazine, which flopped open at a page. ‘You see this?’

Cullen snatched it off him. A dark room filled with seats, splashes of purples and light blues. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a black light test in a San Francisco porn cinema.’

Cullen shut his eyes, his stomach lurching. ‘This is horrific.’

‘Well, you saw what I found at the house. It’s on that scale. Bottom end, mind, but there’s a fuckton of jizz in that place.’

Cullen dropped the magazine on the desk. ‘You’re saying a lot of people have used the room?’

‘Aye.’

‘So, an orgy?’

‘Stands to reason he’d have one there. It’s that or your pal Van de Merwe was at it every night. Boy only took over the place a year and a half ago. That’s a ton of spu—’

‘I get it.’ Cullen got up. ‘Hurry, please. And check reprioritisation with me first, okay?’

‘You’re the boss.’

*
 
*
 
*

Methven dumped his keys on the desk, at least twenty hanging off a silver M stamped with “Iron Man Triathlete”. ‘Thanks for the update, Sergeant. I want her found.’

‘We’re trying, sir. ADC Buxton’s stepped it up.’ Cullen couldn’t take his eyes off the keys. ‘What’ve you been doing?’

‘Bain spoke to that journalist. Your ex-flatmate.’ Methven leaned against the wall, arms folded. ‘He’s cleared him of spying on an active police investigation.’ He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and rattled his keys. ‘We don’t want any more headlines like this morning.’

‘And I’ve said I’m not stupid enough to leak leads to him.’

‘Is there anything else from your team?’

‘We’re struggling with the numbers we’ve got, sir.’

‘You still need more resource?’

‘Stuart Murray’s coming back from his holiday tomorrow. Supporting the rape unit’s a real bottleneck. We didn’t have any big cases when they asked for assistance. Now, we’re swamped.’

Methven frowned. ‘Could we give her ADC Buxton?’

‘We’d have to explain to Sergeant Mullen why we’ve shunted one of his seconded resources onto another investigation.’

‘True.’

‘We could give her DC Jain.’

‘She’s your most senior DC, Sergeant.’

‘Murray’s got more experience. Besides, she’s demonstrated a competency for DS activities. Let her flourish.’

‘Are you suggesting we should make her an Acting DS?’

‘I’m suggesting you second her and see how she gets on.’

‘This is nothing to do with you not getting on with her, is it?’

‘She’ll do a better job on that case than this one, sir. That’s all.’

*
 
*
 
*

Jain crossed her legs, arms folded, eyes darting around the canteen. ‘Is being in Bollocking Corner a bad sign?’

‘We’re here because the meeting rooms are all busy.’ Cullen glanced over at the counter, the early birds of the back shift queuing for all-day breakfasts. The salad bar was empty. ‘I’ve got some good news for you.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘You’re seconded to Sharon’s team.’

‘The rape unit?’ Her forehead twitched. ‘You want rid of me?’

‘It’s nothing to do with that.’

‘Is this an Acting DS position?’

‘No, but if you play your cards right…’ Sweat trickled down Cullen’s back. ‘We deemed it inappropriate to have me support Sharon given our relationship status.’

‘You’ve been doing this all month, though. It’s not like you just started seeing each other.’ She leaned forward. ‘You don’t rate me, do you?’

‘I think you’re a good officer.’

‘Nothing to do with you telling Sharon I’m being a nightmare?’

He clenched his fists. ‘That’s one of your more positive traits, Chantal.’

‘Right. Bullshit.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that. You need to remember I’m your line manager, not your mate down the pub.’

‘After the way you spoke to Bain over the last few years?’

‘Do as I say, not as I do.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve been losing time supporting a case not on the MIT books.’

‘Jesus, you’re sounding more and more like Crystal.’

‘Makes an improvement on sounding like Bain.’ Cullen fluffed up his shirt, now soaked through. ‘Come on, this is good for you. These task forces are high priority just now. If you do a good job here, well…’