Windchill (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 6)

by Ed James

  Cullen tugged on his seat belt. "Taxi firm, I reckon."

  "Okay." Buxton started the car and pulled out. He hammered the brakes as a Mini thundered round from Dalkeith Road, swerving to avoid them. "Cheeky fucker."

  "Watch it. Don't want to end up writing off another car."

  Buxton waited for a gap in the traffic. "Speaking of which, why haven't you replaced yours yet?"

  "Apathy, to be honest." Cullen got out his notebook and started searching through the entries - where was Vardy? "I just can't be bothered with it. I should really get something new. It's a pain in the hoop not having the Golf any more."

  "Thing was a tank, mate." Buxton finally joined the stream of traffic heading west.

  "Better than walking everywhere."

  "I'm not sure." Buxton smirked. "I take it you owed money to the insurer after they wrote it off, right?"

  "Aye, very funny." Cullen rubbed his forehead as they hurtled down the street, the high walls of the rear of Blacket Place to the right, red tenements on the left, soon thinning out to Victorian mansions. "Did you ever get round to looking through that journal we found in Lyle's room?"

  "I did, yeah. We got another four of them from his room. Took an afternoon to get through the whole lot. Barrel of fun that was."

  "So?"

  Buxton exhaled as he stopped at the crossroads, the long row of private hotels to their right leading into town. "It was full of poetry, worse than that guy we found under the Royal Mile."

  Cullen nodded at the memory. "Hopefully not as mental?"

  "Well..."

  "Oh, bloody hell. Why does every fragile wee flower have to write their thoughts down like that?"

  "Looking for attention?"

  "Maybe." Cullen tapped his pen on the notebook. "Was there anything about Dean Vardy?"

  "I'm not the best to assess, but there was stuff about 'the devil in charge'."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah."

  "What about Pauline?"

  "Now you're talking." Buxton got a green and drove over the road, passing houses neither of them would afford in a thousand years of work. "The boy was clearly in love with her."

  "What did he say?"

  "There were quite a few lines devoted to his 'Quine Pal'. Had to look quine up, mind. Means girl in bloody Aberdonian." Buxton stopped at the end of the road, indicating left. "Anyway, QP. You know, her initials reversed?"

  "Right." Cullen looked up at the church spire, partially obscured by empty branches, the clock face stuck at the wrong time. "What was he saying about her?"

  "Talk about running away if only she'd see it."

  "And the idiot was doing this in Vardy's flat?"

  "Yeah. I know."

  Cullen scribbled in his notebook to check it out in further detail. "Did you speak to her about it?"

  "Only looked at it yesterday, mate. Last thing." Buxton turned left, heading south. A Punto belched out dark fumes in front of them; he reached over to fix the circulation. "This morning, we were out at some geezer's flat with a knife hanging out of his guts."

  "Fair enough."

  Buxton cut across the oncoming traffic to pull in beside Southside Cars, blocking the cycle lane. "You want to speak to her again, don't you?"

  "The thought has crossed my mind." Cullen undid his seat belt before getting out of the car.

  "Well, hopefully we can speak to Vardy this bloody week." Buxton opened the black gates before storming inside the taxi firm.

  A young woman sat behind the counter; navy trouser suit, white blouse, blonde hair hauled back from her scalp and the sort of dark tan that looked genuine. "Can I get you a car, gentlemen?"

  Cullen got out his warrant card. "Police. We're looking for Dean Vardy."

  "Mr Vardy's not been in today, I'm afraid." She patted her hair flat on the top of her head. "He's not been in for a few days."

  Cullen exhaled through his nostrils. "Do you know where he might be?"

  "Have you tried YouBet?"

  "We've just been there."

  "What about the Debonair?"

  "Not yet." Cullen tapped at the desk. "What contact numbers do you have for him?"

  "Just his mobile." She held up a Post-It with an 079 number on it.

  Cullen cross-checked it against his phone. "Already got that." He nodded at Buxton. "Come on."

  Buxton held the front door open for Cullen. "Think her or the geezer with tattoos is covering for him?"

  "No doubt." Cullen let the door slam shut behind him. "We've got no evidence to say they are though. Where is he?"

  "Pub?"

  "Pub."

  Chapter 67

  "I'm getting really fed up of this." Cullen leaned forward on the dark oak bar in the Debonair, trying to determine if there were any staff actually working. "Excuse me!"

  He scowled at the optics in front of the large mirror, seeing his reflection - the mid-brown of the tan a few shades darker than the sunburnt pink he'd been all holiday.

  Buxton looked up, thumbs still tapping his phone. "So where could he be?"

  Cullen stared at the beer pumps, part of his brain tempted to sample the fizz of the German, Dutch and Spanish lagers on display, another part glad he was cleaning out his liver. "At home?"

  "What about at Pauline's?"

  "I'd hoped she was on today." Cullen looked around at the brickwork, the vaulted ceiling harking back to a previous lifetime as a cellar. A few drinkers sat on their own at the far end of the wide room, across from the entrance. "Doesn't look like anyone's working, though."

  "Can I help you?"

  Cullen spun around.

  A heavy-set man stood behind them, arms folded, dressed in black, the red Debonair logo embroidered on a pocket. He took a white bar towel from his shoulder and dried his hands. "You look like police."

  "We are." Cullen showed his warrant card. "We want to speak to Dean Vardy."

  "Right you are, son."

  "Who are you?"

  "Gareth Cuthbertson. I'm the bar manager here."

  "Has Mr Vardy been in today?"

  "Nope." Cuthbertson shifted his bulk over to the opposite end of the bar, resting on his hands just by the large, chrome coffee machine. "Been a bit quiet, truth be told, but Deano's not been in the day."

  "Could he be at home?"

  "Might be. Stays up Viewforth way. Just past Boroughmuir school, you know?"

  Buxton held up his notebook. "It's okay, sir, we've got his address."

  "Right."

  Cullen cleared his throat. "Is Pauline Quigley on today?"

  "She's not in till six, pal." Cuthbertson checked his watch, chunky and metallic. "It's just past four, buddy."

  "Fine. Keith Lyle used to work here, right?"

  "Aye. That's true." Cuthbertson folded his meaty arms again, resting his bottom against the bar. "I spoke to some officers about him a week or so back." He frowned at Buxton. "Weren't you one of them?"

  Buxton nodded. "I was."

  "Damn shame what happened to Keithy. You lot not caught who did this?"

  "No, we haven't." Cullen folded his own arms. "Keith was good friends with Pauline, wasn't he?"

  Cuthbertson frowned. "Aye."

  "How close were they?"

  "They were flatmates, all right? That's it."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "She was seeing Deano, pal."

  "Okay. One thing I'm struggling to understand is why Mr Vardy rents a flat to the pair of them?"

  Cuthbertson shook out the bar towel and started inspecting it. "Pauline wanted a place of her own a year back. She'd been staying with her folks and got fed up of it. Deano rented her that flat."

  "He didn't want her to move in with him?"

  "None of my business, buddy." Cuthbertson snorted. "Deano was particular about who she shared with."

  "So Mr Vardy approved of Keith Lyle moving in?"

  "He did, aye."

  "How close were Dean and Pauline?"

  "They spent a fair
bit of time together, you know? Dean does like to be on his own sometimes. Like that Madness song."

  A couple in their twenties entered the bar, nervously looking around as they approached.

  Cuthbertson squeezed behind the bar, smiling at the new customers before glancing at Cullen. "We done?"

  Chapter 68

  "Yeah, Angela, I can wait." Cullen held the phone to his head as they walked down Polwarth Gardens, the wind cutting through his suit jacket and overcoat - should've brought the scarf.

  Buxton hammered the intercom button. "You reckon she's still staying with Beth?"

  "She's not in her flat, so probably."

  Buxton nodded at Cullen's phone. "Angela got anything for you yet?"

  "Off to check for me." Cullen looked back down the dark street, across the roundabout and into Merchiston, the tenements switching to mansions, the yellow sodium streetlights to bright white. "Do you reckon it's ten minutes' walk up to Viewforth from here?"

  "Yeah, if that." Buxton pressed the buzzer again. "We can take a stroll up there after this if you fancy."

  "Driving's fine."

  "Lazy fucker." Buxton chuckled. "So, why do you want to speak to Pauline again?"

  "Fifty per cent chance Vardy's up there, right?"

  "Suppose. You hoping to catch them at it?"

  "Fuck off." Cullen shook his head as he laughed.

  The intercom crackled. "Hello?"

  Buxton leaned in. "Ms Armstrong, it's the police. Is Pauline there?"

  "Aye. She's in the shower just now."

  "All the same, can we come up?"

  A pause. "Okay." The buzzer sounded.

  Buxton pushed open the door and led up the stairs. "What's she still doing here?"

  "Would you let a friend stay where her flatmate's just been murdered?"

  "Maybe not."

  Cullen followed, climbing slowly, phone still to his ear.

  "Hey, Scott?" Angela sounded out of breath.

  Cullen stopped on the second floor, watching Buxton head up. "You got the journal?"

  "Aye, just found it. I thought Simon was supposed to have gone through this?"

  "He did. I wanted you to have another look."

  "Okay. So...?"

  "Look for the initials QP or the phrase Quine Pal. Start at the back."

  "Okay." Riffling of papers. "Got it. Last entry is for the thirtieth." Long pause. "Bloody hell, this is some dark shit."

  "In what way?"

  "It's all about blood and knives and dragons and tits."

  "About killing someone?"

  "Aye. 'The Dark Lord' is the target."

  "That's got to be Vardy." Cullen got out his notebook and wrote it down. "What about earlier? Is it always this dark?"

  "Okay. Middle of October..." Angela clicked her tongue. "It's all sweetness and light. Stuff about escape with QP."

  "That's what Buxton said."

  "Right." Pages flipped near the mic. "The death stuff seems to start in December. Actually, the first."

  "What's the previous entry?"

  "The thirtieth of November. Just says 'Tonight's the night'."

  Cullen leaned against the banister and swapped hands. "So something happened then, right?"

  "Right. St Andrew's Night."

  "The thirtieth? So it is." Cullen stared at the green door opposite. What happened on the thirtieth? Something so bad it changed Keith Lyle's hope into despair, rage and anger, most likely at Dean Vardy. "Did Vardy batter him?"

  "Scott, he might've done. What's in this book is flowery gibberish. It's like all writing stuff, you know? Paragraphs of havering nonsense. One of them has 'like something' three times."

  "Like a simile?"

  "Aye. It hurts my head to read it."

  "I feel your pain. I did a degree in English, remember?"

  "You poor sod." Angela snorted. "Anything else you want?"

  "No, that's cool. I'll see you back at the station."

  "I take it you've not found Vardy then?"

  "No comment." Cullen hung up the call and started up the stairs again. At the top, the flat door was open, a sliver of light creeping onto the red tiles. He entered. "Hello?"

  "Through here." Beth's voice came from the kitchen.

  Cullen went through, Buxton sitting opposite her, again leaving Cullen to stand. "You said she's in the shower?"

  "Aye. Sounds like she's just got out now." Beth folded her arms. "I was telling your colleague here - she's due into work this evening. I was going to give her a lift."

  Buxton smiled as he got out his notebook. "While we're waiting, are you okay to answer some questions?"

  "Sure." Beth let her shoulders relax again.

  "For starters, how has she been?"

  Beth looked outside, dinner preparation activities going on in both bay windows opposite. "Pauline's taken Keith's death pretty bad. I've been looking after her a bit. Driving her to work, listening, that sort of thing. I work at the Deb too, so I can be flexible when I go in."

  "She's still staying here, though?"

  "She is." Beth took a deep breath. "My flatmate's in Ireland for a month, so it's kind of convenient."

  "Has Pauline talked about moving out?"

  Beth nodded. "It's on the cards. She asked Dean to see what other flats he's got available."

  "How many has he got?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "So she's not going to move in with him, then?"

  "Hardly."

  Buxton frowned. "Why do you say that?"

  "They've not got that sort of relationship yet, have they?" Beth bit her lip. "Don't get me wrong, Dean comes round a lot and they go out together a fair amount, but he likes his own space. Always has."

  "Isn't there anyone else she can stay with? Parents, maybe?"

  Beth shrugged. "That's even less likely."

  "Was there anything going on between her and Keith?"

  Beth scowled at Buxton. "You're kidding, right? Keith and Pauline? No danger, son. Dean would go apeshit if he even got the whiff of any funny business going on. Besides, she was well out of Keith's league. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course."

  "Did Mr Lyle see it that way?"

  Beth sniffed. "Maybe not."

  The kitchen door snuck open and Pauline entered, wearing a dressing gown, her hair damp. She froze when she saw them. "Oh."

  Cullen smiled at her. "We wouldn't mind a word with you, if that's okay."

  Pauline nodded. "Okay." She squinted at the clock on the microwave. "I've got to get off to my work soon. Beth's taking me."

  "We can give you a lift."

  "I'd rather not, if it's all the same."

  Beth got to her feet and padded over, patting Pauline on the arm. "There's a chilli in the micro for you, Pauls. It just beeped before these two arrived."

  Pauline gave a slight smile. "Cheers, babes."

  "I'll give you a lift, okay? I'll be in my room." Beth left them to it, leaving the kitchen door wide open.

  Cullen waited until the bedroom door clicked shut before starting. "Ms Quigley, we need to speak to Dean Vardy."

  Pauline slumped down in the vacated seat, tugging at the long sleeve of her robe. "He's not at the pub?"

  "He's not, no."

  "Have you tried his flat?"

  "We have. No answer."

  Pauline ran a hand through her hair. Looked like she'd lost weight over the last week or so, not that she was heavy to start with. Her cheeks had started to sink in and the skin beneath her eyes was dark and blotchy.

  Cullen moved so he was between Pauline and the kitchen door, barring her exit. "We wanted to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Mr Lyle."

  "We've been over and over this." She looked at the table, bunching her fists up in the fabric of her dressing gown. "There was nothing going on. I swear."

  "From your perspective?"

  "Of course."

  "What about from Keith's?"

  "Eh?"

  "Did Keith thi
nk there might've been anything?"

  "No!"

  "Is that the truth?"

  "Yes!"

  Cullen returned to the cooker, leaning against it, the appliance stone cold. "Did you know anything about Keith's journal?"

  Pauline sat forward, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I knew he was writing something."

  "Did he ever show you it?"

  "No."

  "Okay. So, you'll know we found it in his room and took it into evidence." Cullen waved over at Buxton. "My colleague here has been through it, you know?"

  Buxton smiled at her. "It's quite interesting. It goes from being a very hopeful thing to suddenly full of despair. Seems to change around about St Andrew's Night."

  Pauline swallowed, her eyes blinking. "Does it?"

  "It does." Cullen clenched his jaw. "Pauline, what happened on St Andrew's Night?"

  "Nothing."

  "You're sticking to that story, are you?"

  "It's the truth!"

  "Let's agree something, shall we?" Cullen knelt down in front of her. "If you tell us the whole story, we'll consider dropping any charges regarding you not telling us. Deal?"

  Pauline nodded as she shifted even further back in her seat, trying to push herself away. She stared up at the strip light on the ceiling. "Keith tried it on with me on St Andrew's Night."

  Cullen got up and pointed a finger at her. "This is the sort of thing I'd have appreciated knowing a week ago."

  Pauline shut her eyes. "Look, I'm really sorry."

  Cullen nodded at Buxton. "Cuff her."

  "No!" Pauline raised her hands. "I swear I didn't mean anything by it!"

  "I'm thinking we could do you with perverting the course of justice. What about you, Simon?"

  "I'm thinking we could add in withholding evidence."

  "Agreed. That's probably enough for a custodial sentence."

  Pauline cowered back in the chair, pushing her body tight to the wall, the dressing gown riding up. "Look, please! I didn't think! That's all!"

  Cullen screwed up his face, tilting his head to the side. "Really?"

  "When I spoke to you, I'd just found Keith's body! I was upset!"

  "I'm listening. St Andrew's Night."

  Pauline dusted herself off. "Right, Keith tried it on with me that night after closing. We were alone in the bar."