CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Other Books by Ed James
Thursday 28th March 2013
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Friday 29th March 2013
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Saturday 30th March 2013
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Sunday 31st March 2013
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Monday 1st April 2013
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Tuesday 2nd April 2013
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Wednesday 3rd April 2013
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Thursday 4th April 2013
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Friday 5th April 2013
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Next Book
Afterword
Other Books by Ed James
About Ed James
BOTTLENECK
Ed James
Copyright © 2015 Ed James
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1499397089
ISBN-13: 978-1499397086
To Ian, the noisiest person I was ever in a band with.
OTHER BOOKS BY ED JAMES
THE SCOTT CULLEN SERIES
1GHOST IN THE MACHINE
2DEVIL IN THE DETAIL
3FIRE IN THE BLOOD
4DYED IN THE WOOL
5BOTTLENECK
6WINDCHILL (pre-order now)
Writing as Edwin James -
SHOT THROUGH THE HEART, a standalone supernatural thriller
Thursday
28th March 2013
CHAPTER 1
Alistair Cameron pushed the body of his guitar against its amplifier sending squalls of feedback coruscating through the room. His free hand reached down and adjusted the controls, making the noise swell. He looked over at Roddie pounding the drum kit and realised the song wasn't going to end any time soon.
Grinning, he unstrapped the guitar and propped it against the amp before setting to work on his pedal board, fifteen Boss and Fender units interconnected in an array he'd taken months to perfect. He applied a layer of delay before gradually increasing the reverb. On a beat, his right hand slammed down on an overdrive pedal then a distortion two bars later, while his left mimicked a foot and added a wave of wah wah.
Through the noise, he could just about pick up Roddie's clattering drum pattern signalling the end. He looked over at Gary, head down and noodling away on his bass, keeping some semblance of song together. Their eyes locked. Alistair nodded at Gary then over at Roddie who swept into a long snare roll stretching over four bars. Alistair gradually switched off pedal after pedal before carefully retrieving his guitar just in time to crash in on the final chord.
The sound stopped dead, echoes of the cymbals dying away.
"If there was an audience," said Gary, "they'd be going mental just now."
Alistair nodded as he looked around the practice room, four whitewashed walls and a bare ceiling above a concrete floor, the equipment of two bands rammed into the tiny space. "Not long till we have a proper crowd. And more than just my mates from Uni."
Roddie grinned. "You almost didn't make the last chord there. One pedal too many."
Alistair shrugged, trying to affect the cool the singer of a band should have. "I was tempted to put another one on." He sat down on his amp and flicked it to standby. "Reckon that's us for tonight?"
"Think so," said Roddie, before reaching round and tossing a can of beer over to Alistair.
"Cheers." He inspected it, a cheap supermarket brand. He wasn't one to turn down free beer, so tentatively opened it, careful not to catch the gush of foam on his clothes, shoes, guitar or pedals. The floor got it instead, another sticky patch that would take weeks to clear.
"That was a good practice," said Gary.
"Damn right." Roddie avoided the spray as he opened his can.
"Nice to kick back and relax now," said Alistair, feeling genuinely spent from the exertions of running through their twenty-five minute set four times, almost eradicating errors.
"Not quite," said Gary, taking a sip of vodka straight from the bottle.
"Eh?" said Alistair.
"Tonight's the night," said Gary, mouth twisting into an evil grin.
Alistair rolled his eyes. "You still on about that?" he said, trying to sound tired.
"Aye, and I won't stop until you finally do it." Gary picked up a copy of The List, the Glasgow and Edinburgh what's-on guide, and showed it to Alistair. "The deal was, I arrange the gig and you go for a wander down there."
Alistair shook his head. "You're such a bloody child." He looked around, desperate for an excuse. "I need a torch."
Gary grinned again as he took one out of his hoodie pocket. "Here you go. No more excuses."
"You really want me to do this?" said Alistair, trying to sound grown up, challenging Gary to see the error of his childish ways.
It didn't work. Gary prodded him in the chest. "A deal's a deal," he said, punctuating each word with a poke.
Alistair's eyes pleaded with Roddie.
"Don't look at me," said the drummer. "This is between you pair." He cracked open another bee
r before belching.
"Fine," said Alistair, feeling his blood rise.
Gary turned to a dog-eared page. "Here."
It was an interview with Expect Delays, the local band made good. Alistair was obsessed with them, almost as much as Gary. Top five singles, a number one album and supporting U2 at Hampden next week. Miles better than playing to the proverbial 'three blokes and a murderer' at Bannerman's, like they would on Sunday.
"What am I supposed to be looking for here?" said Alistair.
Gary's fat finger pointed to a chunk of interview text. "This bit."
Alistair read the interview with Neeraj Patel, Expect Delays' guitarist, talking about the practice room they used as an unsigned band in Edinburgh.
"I know they practised here," said Alistair. "That's why we got the room."
"That's not it," said Gary. "Read on."
"Right, so they went for a wander along an old street under the Old Town? Big deal."
"Says you can walk for miles under here," said Gary. "Can't believe they did that, man. It's fate. If we do it, maybe we'll get signed, too."
"I don't think it works like that," said Alistair, sweating despite the cold.
"You're not going back on our deal, are you?" said Gary.
Alistair tried again with the maturity act, this time folding his arms. He got nowhere. "Right, fuck it," he said, getting to his feet and snatching the torch from Gary.
"Good man," said Gary.
Alistair stormed out of the room, swinging the torch by its cord. They were on the second level down and the entrance was on the next, the lowest. He waited with Gary while Roddie locked the door then headed down the stone stairs.
He heard the sound of at least one other band bleeding through the walls. He checked his watch - still another fifty minutes till they had to lock up.
Alistair stopped by the heavy door and turned round. "You coming with me?"
Gary rubbed his hands together. "Of course."
"Wouldn't miss this for the world," said Roddie.
Alistair grimaced before marching on. The lack of whitewash was the only difference between the rehearsal space and the old street.
An old paraffin lantern hanging from a wall reminded him of Mary King's Close, the sanitised tourist attraction he'd visited with school.
This was different - an ancient road that led off Niddry Street before the buildings of South Bridge sprang up in the nineteenth century. The smell of damp - always present in their room - worsened as they progressed deeper.
They came to a crossroads that opened out slightly. Alistair quickly ascertained two of the paths were bricked up, leaving right as the only option. He shone the torch into the gloom, the beam dying long before it reached a distant wall. The hair on his arms pricked up. He marched on, trying to recall the exact terms of the deal - he reckoned another hundred footsteps ought to do it, but he didn't know whether Gary would see it that way.
"What was that?" said Roddie.
"Your burp," said Alistair, briefly turning round.
"No, I swear I heard something."
Alistair gritted his teeth and strode on, determined to get it over with. After another fifty or so paces, the path curved hard to the left. He was aware of their breath behind him, loud in the darkness. "This'll do."
"Nowhere near enough, mate," said Gary. "Keep going."
"Come on, man," said Alistair.
"Don't 'come on, man' me." Gary stabbed a finger at his chest. "I say when it's over, not you."
Alistair pushed on. After another twenty seconds, he stopped dead and turned to face the others. "I swear I heard something."
Gary scowled. "Quit it. Roddie's trick didn't work on you, so you're trying it on me now?"
Alistair swivelled back round, the torch dancing on the stone walls. The light bounced off something metallic. "What's that?"
"Enough," said Gary.
"I mean it," said Alistair, pointing down with the torch. "Look. Something's glinting."
"Might be some old money or something," said Roddie. He laughed and spoke in a stupid voice. "Maybe it's gold. Maybe a treasure chest."
"I doubt it," said Gary.
Alistair inched forward, flicking the torch across the ground. As they approached, he saw something long and thin. He stopped and looked closer. A screwdriver. He crept on, training the torch ahead. The light shone on something and he let out a gasp.
A body was propped against the wall.
CHAPTER 2
Scott Cullen unlocked the main door and started climbing the steps to his flat.
He turned the key in the door, thinking a hard day was now behind him, most of it spent dealing with the fallout from a domestic in Pilton. A couple in their forties had knocked lumps out of each other all morning before a neighbour called it in, fed up with the screaming and shouting.
Both needed hospital treatment, meaning a simple case was complicated and extended by a series of forms seeking approval to access medical records. The husband had come off much worse and they were both determined to press charges.
He closed the door behind him, safe in the knowledge the case was out of his hands and over the line to the Procurator Fiscal's office.
At his feet, an overweight ginger cat looked up, yellow eyes trained on him. Kneeling down, he tried to stroke the animal. "Hiya, Fluffy." The cat took a step back and started miaowing.
"That you?"
"Honey, I'm home," said Cullen. "Any danger you could get your feral cat out of my way?"
"He's not feral, he's just misunderstood," said DS Sharon McNeill.
Cullen hung up his woolly coat and suit jacket and headed through, carrying his mobile. The cat led the way, as if to keep himself between Cullen and Sharon.
The living room was the largest in the oddly-defined dwelling, effectively comprising the seating area, dining space and kitchen. The lighting was low and ambient, a world away from the all-lights-blazing approach Cullen preferred.
Sharon sat at the dining table intently focused on her laptop, U2 playing on the stereo. Cullen wandered over to his amp and turned the volume down to barely audible.
Sharon looked up. "How's my favourite Acting DS?"
Cullen shrugged as he took off his tie and hung it over the door. "It's just temporary. I'm looking forward to having a weekend off together, even if it's at my parents'."
"You're really lucky having parents like them," said Sharon.
"I suppose so," said Cullen, "but I'll have two days of interrogation from Mum about whether I've got in touch with my sister yet." He sat down beside her, putting his phone on the table. "What are you looking at?"
"Just houses."
"Right."
They'd been over this many times - Sharon wanted a house, Cullen wanted a two-bed flat somewhere in Edinburgh. Even that would be a push financially. Besides, he quite liked staying at Sharon's place in World's End Close. Being just off the Royal Mile was convenient for work and an easy stagger home from pubs, plus there were loads of decent shops nearby.
"There's a couple of nice ones," said Sharon. "A new build in Ravencraig and an old cottage in Garleton."
"I'm not moving to Ravencraig," said Cullen.
Sharon pointed at the laptop screen. "Four bedrooms for one eighty."
"There's a reason for that," said Cullen. "It's in Ravencraig. Besides, we don't need four bedrooms unless you're planning on starting a family."
"Very funny," said Sharon. She shut the laptop, reached over and kissed him. "Sorry, I should have shut that when you got back."
"Don't worry about it," said Cullen, kissing her on the neck. "I'll be arsing about on my phone before long, so we'll call it a draw then, right?"
Sharon play-punched him on the shoulder.
Cullen glanced at the table to see a copy of The List, half of Expect Delays looking moody on the cover. He picked it up and pointed to the singer. "Is his hair combed forward?"
"Are you jealous?"
"Seriously, is it?"
said Cullen. He looked at the magazine - the singer, Mike Roberts, definitely appeared to have grown the hair out at the back and tugged it into a fringe to cover his baldness.
"You're the only one I find sexy," said Sharon, fingers caressing the back of Cullen's neck.
Cullen nodded down at the cat. "What about him?"
Fluffy was sitting to attention, staring up at them.
Sharon reached down to stroke him. "He's just a pussycat."
"Very good," said Cullen. "I'll tell you that next time he scratches me."
"It'll only be because you deserved it."
"They're playing next Wednesday, right?" said Cullen, tapping the magazine.
"Yeah. I'm excited about it."
"I've got bad memories of Hampden from the football. And from that distance, I won't even be able to work out if it's a comb-forward or not."
"I appreciate you coming with me," said Sharon, "and just be thankful you've got a full head of hair." She grinned. "For now."
Cullen's phone started dancing wildly on the table. "Here we go," he said, answering it.
"ADS Cullen, it's DI Methven. I need you to come to Niddry Street. Immediately."
"Can't it wait?" said Cullen. He was knackered and going back out was the last thing he wanted. There was ice cream in the freezer and football on the telly.
"Absolutely not," said Methven. "I need my team out on this, pronto."
"Be there in about five minutes, sir," said Cullen, before hanging up. He tossed his phone on the table.
"Duty calls?" said Sharon.
"Yeah," said Cullen, getting to his feet. "Typical Crystal. He called me ADS Cullen, but referred to himself as DI Methven. No mention of the fact he's Acting as well."
"He's a pompous arse," said Sharon.
"Yeah, but he's my pompous arse," said Cullen. His stomach rumbled. "Got any food before I go out?"
"With my cooking?" said Sharon.
"Good point," said Cullen.
He decided on a samosa from the shop on the corner.
CHAPTER 3
Cullen walked up the High Street, a term he still struggled with - it would always be Royal Mile to him. The wind battered him and he pulled his coat tight. It might be late March, but this year had been unforgiving so far. At least the unseasonal snow had just about gone. Edinburgh was usually moderately temperate, but this spring made it truly feel like it was on the same latitude as Moscow.