The stuff I've seen would seem over the top in a book."
"Try living the life of a detective," said Cullen. "Feels like everybody makes money out of policing except for the police."
"Well, I'll give you some kickbacks if I ever get published," said Rich.
"How you doing?" said Cullen.
"I'm okay," said Rich, grinning, "but I know that expression. This isn't a social call, is it?"
Cullen nodded. "Perceptive as ever. I was just at your work."
Rich's eyes shot to the ceiling. "Tell me you didn't mention me."
"Relax," said Cullen. "I can do discrete. Is Alexander Spence your boss?"
Rich grimaced. "He's kind of the boss's boss, but aye."
"He's a piece of work," said Cullen, retrieving the article from his jacket pocket and handing it to Rich. "I need to speak to this journalist."
Rich looked at it. "Sonny Bangs?"
"I'm investigating the death of James Strang," said Cullen.
Rich frowned. "That's the boy who disappeared a few years ago, right?"
"It is," said Cullen. "Do you know anything about it?"
Rich shook his head. "Don't look at me, mate. I was in London at the time."
"Okay," said Cullen, laughing. "Sonny Bangs, then. He seems to know a fair amount about him. Might even be a mate. Spence told me he was let go in the cuts. Is that right?"
Rich nodded. "Alan Stephens is his real name. Think he lives in Midlothian somewhere."
"Thanks."
"I'll text you his mobile number," said Rich.
"Cheers," said Cullen. "I still can't understand why you moved back from London. That place seems decimated."
"It is. I wanted to get away from London and focus on writing books. There was stuff happening at the paper, so I took the easy money. It's much cheaper to live up here, especially on London money."
"It's hard enough living here on Edinburgh money."
CHAPTER 32
Cullen knocked on the door of the modern bungalow in Penicuik and waited, encouraged by the lights and noise from inside.
Alan Stephens answered it, layers of stubble piling up on his face. Cullen's warrant card solicited a surprised look and entrance to the house.
Stephens showed him to the living room. "Sorry about the mess," he said, sitting down on an armchair. "My wife left me three weeks ago."
Cullen figured it was once a family room, but was now descending into bachelor squalor.
"I gather you were let go from the Argus . Is that right?"
Stephens nodded. "I've not worked since I was made redundant. I managed to pick up some agency work, but that dried up quickly."
Unlike him, thought Cullen - there were many half-empty bottles of spirits dotted around the place. "That must be difficult."
"Aye," said Stephens. "The cuts have been bad. Even the few lucky ones left will have to work twice as hard for the same money." He stroked his stubble. "The house is on the market. Doubt we'll get what it's worth. My savings are all gone. It's a bloody mess."
Cullen nodded as he took out The Invisibles concert review. "I'm looking for information about one James Strang. You probably knew him as Jimi Danger."
Stephens' eyes narrowed, lost on the page, finding focus for the first time since Cullen had arrived. "Jimi?"
"His body has been found," said Cullen.
Stephens swallowed. Cullen thought he might have sobered up in that instant, a spike of adrenalin purging his system of the alcohol. "I knew the lad had disappeared. He's dead?"
Cullen nodded. "I gather you knew him reasonably well?"
Stephens pinched the bridge of his nose. "I sort of knew him. He used to pester me for gig reviews and features. He had a lot of front, I'll give him that. He was living the life of a rock 'n' roll star, or at least trying to. In my business, it's quite important to build up a legend around the person. Jimi had that already."
"Tell me about that concert," said Cullen.
Stephens shrugged. "You've read my piece. What more do you want to know?"
"It was only a week or so before Mr Strang went missing," said Cullen. "We now believe he was killed at that time."
Stephens stared back at the
"Try living the life of a detective," said Cullen. "Feels like everybody makes money out of policing except for the police."
"Well, I'll give you some kickbacks if I ever get published," said Rich.
"How you doing?" said Cullen.
"I'm okay," said Rich, grinning, "but I know that expression. This isn't a social call, is it?"
Cullen nodded. "Perceptive as ever. I was just at your work."
Rich's eyes shot to the ceiling. "Tell me you didn't mention me."
"Relax," said Cullen. "I can do discrete. Is Alexander Spence your boss?"
Rich grimaced. "He's kind of the boss's boss, but aye."
"He's a piece of work," said Cullen, retrieving the article from his jacket pocket and handing it to Rich. "I need to speak to this journalist."
Rich looked at it. "Sonny Bangs?"
"I'm investigating the death of James Strang," said Cullen.
Rich frowned. "That's the boy who disappeared a few years ago, right?"
"It is," said Cullen. "Do you know anything about it?"
Rich shook his head. "Don't look at me, mate. I was in London at the time."
"Okay," said Cullen, laughing. "Sonny Bangs, then. He seems to know a fair amount about him. Might even be a mate. Spence told me he was let go in the cuts. Is that right?"
Rich nodded. "Alan Stephens is his real name. Think he lives in Midlothian somewhere."
"Thanks."
"I'll text you his mobile number," said Rich.
"Cheers," said Cullen. "I still can't understand why you moved back from London. That place seems decimated."
"It is. I wanted to get away from London and focus on writing books. There was stuff happening at the paper, so I took the easy money. It's much cheaper to live up here, especially on London money."
"It's hard enough living here on Edinburgh money."
CHAPTER 32
Cullen knocked on the door of the modern bungalow in Penicuik and waited, encouraged by the lights and noise from inside.
Alan Stephens answered it, layers of stubble piling up on his face. Cullen's warrant card solicited a surprised look and entrance to the house.
Stephens showed him to the living room. "Sorry about the mess," he said, sitting down on an armchair. "My wife left me three weeks ago."
Cullen figured it was once a family room, but was now descending into bachelor squalor.
"I gather you were let go from the Argus . Is that right?"
Stephens nodded. "I've not worked since I was made redundant. I managed to pick up some agency work, but that dried up quickly."
Unlike him, thought Cullen - there were many half-empty bottles of spirits dotted around the place. "That must be difficult."
"Aye," said Stephens. "The cuts have been bad. Even the few lucky ones left will have to work twice as hard for the same money." He stroked his stubble. "The house is on the market. Doubt we'll get what it's worth. My savings are all gone. It's a bloody mess."
Cullen nodded as he took out The Invisibles concert review. "I'm looking for information about one James Strang. You probably knew him as Jimi Danger."
Stephens' eyes narrowed, lost on the page, finding focus for the first time since Cullen had arrived. "Jimi?"
"His body has been found," said Cullen.
Stephens swallowed. Cullen thought he might have sobered up in that instant, a spike of adrenalin purging his system of the alcohol. "I knew the lad had disappeared. He's dead?"
Cullen nodded. "I gather you knew him reasonably well?"
Stephens pinched the bridge of his nose. "I sort of knew him. He used to pester me for gig reviews and features. He had a lot of front, I'll give him that. He was living the life of a rock 'n' roll star, or at least trying to. In my business, it's quite important to build up a legend around the person. Jimi had that already."
"Tell me about that concert," said Cullen.
Stephens shrugged. "You've read my piece. What more do you want to know?"
"It was only a week or so before Mr Strang went missing," said Cullen. "We now believe he was killed at that time."
Stephens stared back at the
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