bird he was with was mid-twenties maybe. Quite a fit lass."
Cullen got out his phone and flicked to a photo of McCoull, beaming, at a rugby club event. "Was this him?"
Johnson took hold of the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. "Afraid not."
Shite. "This definitely wasn't the man you saw?"
"Aye, buddy. Definitely not him. He was a slaphead." Johnson's eyes darted between Cullen and Buxton. "I mean he was bald. Plus this guy's more a back than a prop forward."
Cullen stared up at the ceiling. Not their man. "Mr Johnson, we're investigating a murder. Any information you can provide could be extremely useful. Did you see anything unusual in that street when you dropped him off?"
"Not really. Nice part of town, I suppose. Go there quite a lot, given I work in Currie. Wouldn't buy a house there, mind, global warming will knacker it. The Water Of Leith will burst its banks and where would you be? No thanks, Charlie, no thanks."
Cullen had half a mind to section the bugger. "Were there any other cars on the road?"
"Not really." Johnson screwed up his face, the stubble on his chin almost touching his eyelashes. "There was another cab, mind."
"You saw another taxi?"
"Aye. He flashed us on my way down the hill, just as he was coming up."
"So he was there first?"
"Aye. Be about twenty to nine, I reckon." Johnson reached down to tie a lace. "I know the boy, though."
Chapter 26
Cullen got out of the car and stormed off down Bath Street, stopping outside the taxi shop. Scowling, he stared back down the street, the cold air blasting from the beach to their right. The Chinese restaurant next door was already starting to fry up, the thick cooking smell spewing out of the vents high up on the shopfront.
The windows in the flats and houses revealed a mix of busy family occasions, empty rooms or - what he was missing at home - couples slumped in front of the TV, bottles already open. "Not been back here in a while."
"I'm sure someone will be organising an open-top bus tour to commemorate."
"Cheeky fucker." Cullen opened the door and entered the taxi office.
A fat man sat behind the counter. The only decoration was a plastic tree covered in a few strings of tinsel. He clicked his jaw and sucked his teeth. "Can I help you, pal?"
"Police Scotland." Cullen showed his warrant card. "I'm glad you're open today."
"Busiest day of the year for us, son. Except for New Year's Day, obviously." He cackled with laughter. "Keeps us away from our families, too. More of a blessing for them, I suppose."
"I can imagine."
"Anyway, how can I help? Take it you're not after a transfer to the airport, am I right?"
"Correct. We're looking to speak to one of your drivers, name of Billy Hogan."
"Aye, sure thing." The man got to his feet, stretching his shoulders back before thumbing behind him. "Billy's just through the back there on his break."
Cullen nodded at it. "Mind if we head through?"
"Be my guest, son."
Cullen pushed open the door behind him and entered the room. Two male telephone operators contended with the constant chirruping of incoming calls. The room stank of sweat, instant coffee and stale cigarette smoke. A waiting area lay off to the side of the office space, a skinny man with a moustache squinting at a golfing magazine, a mug of tea steaming in front of him.
Cullen walked up to him, standing over him. "Billy Hogan?"
"Aye." The thin man tossed the magazine on the coffee table in front of him. "Who's asking?"
"DC Scott Cullen." Cullen sat next to him, warrant card out. "We understand you had a fare to Juniper Green at about eight fifteen on the night of the twenty-third?"
"I did, aye." Billy coughed, his lungs rattling with the effort. "That Woodhall Millbrae."
"Where from?"
"George Street."
Cullen rummaged in his pocket for his phone. "Who was your passenger?"
"Boy in his forties, hailed the cab."
Cullen swiped to a photo of Steven McCoull. "Was this him?"
Billy took the photo and inspected it. "Could be, aye.
Cullen got out his phone and flicked to a photo of McCoull, beaming, at a rugby club event. "Was this him?"
Johnson took hold of the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. "Afraid not."
Shite. "This definitely wasn't the man you saw?"
"Aye, buddy. Definitely not him. He was a slaphead." Johnson's eyes darted between Cullen and Buxton. "I mean he was bald. Plus this guy's more a back than a prop forward."
Cullen stared up at the ceiling. Not their man. "Mr Johnson, we're investigating a murder. Any information you can provide could be extremely useful. Did you see anything unusual in that street when you dropped him off?"
"Not really. Nice part of town, I suppose. Go there quite a lot, given I work in Currie. Wouldn't buy a house there, mind, global warming will knacker it. The Water Of Leith will burst its banks and where would you be? No thanks, Charlie, no thanks."
Cullen had half a mind to section the bugger. "Were there any other cars on the road?"
"Not really." Johnson screwed up his face, the stubble on his chin almost touching his eyelashes. "There was another cab, mind."
"You saw another taxi?"
"Aye. He flashed us on my way down the hill, just as he was coming up."
"So he was there first?"
"Aye. Be about twenty to nine, I reckon." Johnson reached down to tie a lace. "I know the boy, though."
Chapter 26
Cullen got out of the car and stormed off down Bath Street, stopping outside the taxi shop. Scowling, he stared back down the street, the cold air blasting from the beach to their right. The Chinese restaurant next door was already starting to fry up, the thick cooking smell spewing out of the vents high up on the shopfront.
The windows in the flats and houses revealed a mix of busy family occasions, empty rooms or - what he was missing at home - couples slumped in front of the TV, bottles already open. "Not been back here in a while."
"I'm sure someone will be organising an open-top bus tour to commemorate."
"Cheeky fucker." Cullen opened the door and entered the taxi office.
A fat man sat behind the counter. The only decoration was a plastic tree covered in a few strings of tinsel. He clicked his jaw and sucked his teeth. "Can I help you, pal?"
"Police Scotland." Cullen showed his warrant card. "I'm glad you're open today."
"Busiest day of the year for us, son. Except for New Year's Day, obviously." He cackled with laughter. "Keeps us away from our families, too. More of a blessing for them, I suppose."
"I can imagine."
"Anyway, how can I help? Take it you're not after a transfer to the airport, am I right?"
"Correct. We're looking to speak to one of your drivers, name of Billy Hogan."
"Aye, sure thing." The man got to his feet, stretching his shoulders back before thumbing behind him. "Billy's just through the back there on his break."
Cullen nodded at it. "Mind if we head through?"
"Be my guest, son."
Cullen pushed open the door behind him and entered the room. Two male telephone operators contended with the constant chirruping of incoming calls. The room stank of sweat, instant coffee and stale cigarette smoke. A waiting area lay off to the side of the office space, a skinny man with a moustache squinting at a golfing magazine, a mug of tea steaming in front of him.
Cullen walked up to him, standing over him. "Billy Hogan?"
"Aye." The thin man tossed the magazine on the coffee table in front of him. "Who's asking?"
"DC Scott Cullen." Cullen sat next to him, warrant card out. "We understand you had a fare to Juniper Green at about eight fifteen on the night of the twenty-third?"
"I did, aye." Billy coughed, his lungs rattling with the effort. "That Woodhall Millbrae."
"Where from?"
"George Street."
Cullen rummaged in his pocket for his phone. "Who was your passenger?"
"Boy in his forties, hailed the cab."
Cullen swiped to a photo of Steven McCoull. "Was this him?"
Billy took the photo and inspected it. "Could be, aye.
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