at the ceiling. "Yes, he passed his test just two weeks after his seventeenth," he said. "We bought the car as a desperate attempt to try and bring him back from the abyss. It is pretty much the only test he's passed."
"Do you know where he is?" asked Cullen.
The Cooks exchanged a look. "I'm afraid not," answered Wilma. "We haven't seen him since yesterday."
"Have you any idea where he could be?" asked Cullen.
Cook shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid," he said. "As I say, our son is a troubled boy. We don't know where he is from day to day."
"You said you saw him yesterday?" asked Caldwell.
Wilma Cook slowly exhaled. "Yes, at lunchtime," she said. "He grabbed one of those microwave hamburgers, mumbled something at me and then went up to his room. We went to see some friends in Haddington with Sophie and Isaac then we went to the supermarket. When we got back, Jamie had already left."
"What time would this have been?" asked Cullen.
"It was late, back of eight, maybe?" said Cook. "One of the plates was out on the counter, so I presume that he'd just left."
"And you have no idea where he might be?"
Cook scowled at Cullen. "As I've explained, Jamie is a law unto himself," he said.
Cullen looked to Caldwell. "Any more questions?"
"Not from me," she said.
Robert Cook gave them Jamie's mobile number.
"Okay, thanks very much for your time," said Cullen, getting to his feet.
nine
Cullen lucked out and pulled into a parking space directly in front of the station. Caldwell was on the phone to Bilston to try and obtain Jamie Cook's record.
He sat and stared at the street and the cars in front of them, the harsh winter sun appearing from behind the clouds, lurking low in the sky, almost touching the tips of the spires at the far end of the street. The high street was at its widest point here, the ancient mercat cross in the middle of the road splitting the traffic around the circular stone base, which Cullen imagined would be full of flowers in the summer but was now a patch of mud. The rows of modern shops, intermingled with more traditional outlets, were in stark contrast with the upper floors of the buildings and their ancient Scottishness. It reminded Cullen of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, but also of the crow step gables in Culross in west Fife, an ancient town marooned in the Elizabethan era while the rest of Scotland moved on. Garleton had a similar feel but it hadn't been impervious to the march of progress - the old town centre had its chain shops, and with every passing year new housing estates were thrown up alongside supermarkets, dual carriageways and roundabouts.
Cullen saw Caldwell jot information down about Jamie Cook. They desperately needed to speak to him, if only to shut up all of the innuendo and hearsay that was already beginning to cloud the investigation.
Cullen couldn't get his head around the way that these high-earning professionals had been so rapidly converted to this faith. In Cullen's experience, religion was the province of three categories: older people frightened of death; people his age who were dealing with a tragedy, say the death of a parent at a young age; and the born-again, total fuck-ups who'd been alcoholics, gamblers, or just nasty bastards, and who were looking for absolution for their sins or crimes. The Gibsons and Cooks didn't obviously fall into any category. The world was pretty broken now, thought Cullen, with austerity measures and a failing global economy - maybe the end of days scenario meant that Mulgrew's group would thrive. Or maybe they were just another type of fuck ups looking to repent their many sins.
Cullen took his iPhone out of his jacket and dialled the number he'd been given for Jamie Cook. It rang a few times and then went to voicemail. He left a short, curt message and hung up.
"No answer?" asked Caldwell, snapping her phone shut. Cullen had abused her many times for her old phone, what the networks now called 'feature
"Do you know where he is?" asked Cullen.
The Cooks exchanged a look. "I'm afraid not," answered Wilma. "We haven't seen him since yesterday."
"Have you any idea where he could be?" asked Cullen.
Cook shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid," he said. "As I say, our son is a troubled boy. We don't know where he is from day to day."
"You said you saw him yesterday?" asked Caldwell.
Wilma Cook slowly exhaled. "Yes, at lunchtime," she said. "He grabbed one of those microwave hamburgers, mumbled something at me and then went up to his room. We went to see some friends in Haddington with Sophie and Isaac then we went to the supermarket. When we got back, Jamie had already left."
"What time would this have been?" asked Cullen.
"It was late, back of eight, maybe?" said Cook. "One of the plates was out on the counter, so I presume that he'd just left."
"And you have no idea where he might be?"
Cook scowled at Cullen. "As I've explained, Jamie is a law unto himself," he said.
Cullen looked to Caldwell. "Any more questions?"
"Not from me," she said.
Robert Cook gave them Jamie's mobile number.
"Okay, thanks very much for your time," said Cullen, getting to his feet.
nine
Cullen lucked out and pulled into a parking space directly in front of the station. Caldwell was on the phone to Bilston to try and obtain Jamie Cook's record.
He sat and stared at the street and the cars in front of them, the harsh winter sun appearing from behind the clouds, lurking low in the sky, almost touching the tips of the spires at the far end of the street. The high street was at its widest point here, the ancient mercat cross in the middle of the road splitting the traffic around the circular stone base, which Cullen imagined would be full of flowers in the summer but was now a patch of mud. The rows of modern shops, intermingled with more traditional outlets, were in stark contrast with the upper floors of the buildings and their ancient Scottishness. It reminded Cullen of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, but also of the crow step gables in Culross in west Fife, an ancient town marooned in the Elizabethan era while the rest of Scotland moved on. Garleton had a similar feel but it hadn't been impervious to the march of progress - the old town centre had its chain shops, and with every passing year new housing estates were thrown up alongside supermarkets, dual carriageways and roundabouts.
Cullen saw Caldwell jot information down about Jamie Cook. They desperately needed to speak to him, if only to shut up all of the innuendo and hearsay that was already beginning to cloud the investigation.
Cullen couldn't get his head around the way that these high-earning professionals had been so rapidly converted to this faith. In Cullen's experience, religion was the province of three categories: older people frightened of death; people his age who were dealing with a tragedy, say the death of a parent at a young age; and the born-again, total fuck-ups who'd been alcoholics, gamblers, or just nasty bastards, and who were looking for absolution for their sins or crimes. The Gibsons and Cooks didn't obviously fall into any category. The world was pretty broken now, thought Cullen, with austerity measures and a failing global economy - maybe the end of days scenario meant that Mulgrew's group would thrive. Or maybe they were just another type of fuck ups looking to repent their many sins.
Cullen took his iPhone out of his jacket and dialled the number he'd been given for Jamie Cook. It rang a few times and then went to voicemail. He left a short, curt message and hung up.
"No answer?" asked Caldwell, snapping her phone shut. Cullen had abused her many times for her old phone, what the networks now called 'feature
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