Windchill (17 page)

Cullen noted it down. A great way to totally fuck yourself over financially. "What sort of spread betting are we talking? I don't imagine it's currency markets or the price of copper?"

"No, son. Football. Number of corners, number of yellow cards, difference in score, that sort of thing."

Cullen drew another leaf on his mind map. "Where did he bet? Online?"

"Aye. Did a few sites, I think." Lyle frowned. "He said he'd stopped that, though. That said, I think he went to a bookies on Dalkeith Road instead."

"Which one?"

"YouBet, I think it's called."

Cullen added it to the map. Vaguely knew the place, just down the road from St Leonard's. "Was Keith in any debt?"

"He was a bit, aye."

"How much are we talking?"

"About a grand, last I heard."

Cullen scribbled it down, underlining it a few times. "But Keith kept on gambling?"

"Tried to win his way out, didn't he? I tried to tell the laddie, but he wouldn't listen to me."

"So he could owe more?"

"It's possible, aye."

"Who did he owe this money to?"

"Boy called Dean Vardy."

Chapter 42

Cullen parked in front of a Co-op Pharmacy on Mayfield Road, stuck in the pit of a valley, a block of shops on its own amongst the villas and mansions of the Southside. "This the place?"

"Think so." Buxton looked up from his notebook before waving across the street at what looked like some allotments. "According to Google maps, that's it over there."

A white building sat in the middle,
Southside Cars
scrawled on the side in purple, the phone number in orange beneath.

"Think I called that lot last week." Cullen frowned. "They used to sell Christmas trees when I was a student."

"Still do, mate. My flatmate was on at getting one from here."

"You didn't want to, I trust?"

"Damn right." Buxton shook his head. "An artificial one's much better than all that pine needle shit. Can get it out again next year, too."

"You and this flatmate sounds serious."

"Piss off. We're just mates."

"I believe you. Come on." Cullen got out and locked the car, waiting for the traffic to clear before jogging across the wide road.

The section beside the building was paved over, a couple of silver Škodas sitting on the drive, sunlight bouncing off the bonnets. The wind tore at the tall trees in the wild area behind, pushing them almost horizontal.

"Bloody hell." Cullen shut his eyes to stop grit getting in. "This fucking wind."

"Got to love Edinburgh." Buxton eased past the taxis before marching over to the office.

A pair of French doors almost filled the front, a matte black panel adjacent displayed the opening hours.

Buxton scanned his finger down the list. "Supposed to be open today. New Year's Eve must be the busiest day of the year for taxi firms, right?" He opened the door, before heading up to the counter, warrant card out. "Police."

A burly man sat behind the desk playing with a giant Windows phone, tattoos crawling over his arms and neck. "What's this about?"

"We're looking for Dean Vardy."

"That's me." Vardy sniffed, eyes tracking between them. "What've I done now?"

Cullen looked around, the four fruit machines flashing through their attract sequence making the place feel more like a bookies than a taxi firm. Behind the desk was a set of doors leading out into the green wilderness beyond. "Need to ask you a few questions about a Keith Lyle."

Vardy set his mobile down on the desk. "Aye, I know Keith."

"Know him how?"

Vardy shrugged as he got to his feet, folding his arms, disco muscles pushing his t-shirt sleeves up. "Works for me in the Debonair."

"The bar?"

"Aye."

"You own it?"

"I do." Vardy switched his gaze between them. "Listen, boys, what's this about?"

"Mr Lyle's body was found this morning."

Vardy held Cullen's gaze for a few seconds. "This on the level?"

"Aye." Cullen nodded. "You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

Vardy pushed himself back off the counter, propelling himself towards the doors at the back of the room. He fumbled with the lock then shot through, slamming the door behind him.

"Fucking hell!" Cullen scrabbled about, trying to find a latch in the counter. Failing.

"Go round the front!" Buxton vaulted over, following Vardy out.

Cullen complied, heading back the way they'd come. As he emerged into the daylight, he saw Vardy tugging the handle of the furthest away Škoda.

"Stop!" He raced towards him, catching him with a shoulder barge and sending him flying against the car.

"You fucker!" Kneeling by the car, Vardy clutched his shoulder. He got to his feet, swinging with his good arm.

Cullen took a step back, the blow missing his head but catching his raised shoulder. He stumbled backwards, collapsing onto the bonnet of the other car.

Vardy sprinted onto the pavement lining the main road.

Cullen followed, his breath almost a distant memory. He sucked in a lungful. "Get back here!"

Vardy weaved into the next unit, wild with weeds and puddles of mud, then running across a strip of cobbles and onto the patch of earth beyond.

"Stop!" Buxton jumped off the stone wall separating the lots, almost landing on Vardy.

Vardy lashed out with a leg, smacking Buxton in the middle of the chest and knocking him to the ground. "Get the fuck away from me!" He raced on, tracing the line of the wall, before coming to a row of wooden sticks set out in a loose fence, just as Cullen gained on him.

Cullen snapped out his baton, holding it ready behind his head. "Stop it, now!"

"Fuck you!" Vardy darted to the side, avoiding Cullen's swing. He kicked out at the posts, flattening a couple of them, before jumping into the scrubland beyond.

Cullen set off after him but he was no match for Vardy's speed.

Buxton soon caught up. "Where's he gone?"

Cullen waved his baton in the direction of the rail tracks to their left. "He went onto the line just there."

Buxton set off down the hill. "The mad fucker can't have, can he?"

"Oh, he can."

Buxton propped himself against a birch by the side of the tracks. "Do you know what line this is?"

"South suburban, I think."

"Is it electric?"

"Don't think so."

"Fine." Buxton sprinted off, dust flying up from the ballast beneath the rails. "Stop!"

Vardy was running across the tracks, making for residential gardens backing onto the railway.

Cullen heard the distant rumble of rolling stock. "Shite, there's a train coming!"

As Buxton cleared the last of the four rails, he dived full length, catching Vardy with a rugby tackle, forearms locking around his knees.

Cullen ran across the tracks, eyes flicking between the two bodies rolling into the grass bank beyond and the oncoming goods train as it crawled round the bend.

Vardy lashed out, left hook connecting with Buxton's chin.

Cullen swung with his baton, smacking Vardy square on the back. He hit him again, clattering his head just as the goods trains trundled by, a long procession of shipping units covered in graffiti, the coach belching out diesel fumes.

Kneeling down, Cullen clicked the cuffs round Vardy's wrists.

Chapter 43

Cullen rubbed his shoulder, wincing as he touched the rapidly forming bruise, looking down the long corridor, the interview room still not yet occupied. "You all right?"

"I'll live." Buxton delicately stroked his nose, eyes closed, sucking in breath. "Fucker caught me good and proper, though. You?"

"I'll be fine. Nice few bruises for the beach." Cullen smirked before narrowing his eyes at the interview room door. "Why the fuck was Vardy running?"

"Usually implies guilt." Buxton stretched his shoulders back. "Boy who owes him a wad of cash turns up dead, we confront him, he scarpers. Two plus two, mate."

"Maybe."

"What do you mean maybe?"

"I'm just not so sure. When we told him in that little cabin, it was like he didn't know Lyle was dead."

Buxton leaned back against the door. "You think he's
not
done Lyle in?"

"Maybe." Cullen shrugged. "Still, he'll get a fine for trespassing on the railway."

"Yeah. I'll get him for clocking me one, too."

Cullen looked up and down the corridor. "Wonder where the fuck Methven's got to."

"Post mortem?"

"Too soon, surely?"

"Just be glad he's not up your trouser leg, mate."

"Yeah, there's that. I'm supposed to be his little boy scout at the moment. Don't want some other fucker getting promoted."

"Such a princess."

"Will you qui-"

The fire doors next to them flew open, the desk sergeant accompanying a tall man in a pinstripe suit. "That's him there."

The suited man nodded. "Thanks." He smiled at Buxton. "DC Cullen?"

Cullen offered a hand. "That's me."

"Neil Parker of Nelson and Parker." He gripped the hand firmly, eyes taking them both in. "I'm representing Dean Vardy."

Cullen got a good look at Parker. He was a few inches taller than both of them, though with neither's bulk, his pinstriped suit and white shirt hanging off bony shoulders. "I know the name of your firm from somewhere."

Parker nodded. "My partner, Michael Nelson, represented Evelyn McCoull."

"That's where it is." Cullen exhaled. Thank God that one's off our plates now. "We're ready to start."

"Do you mind if I have a minute with my client first?"

"We do, actually." Cullen pushed open the door. "He's lucky to get a lawyer after what he's just done."

"I trust you're joking." Parker barged past him, sharp elbows knocking into Cullen's arm. He sat alongside Vardy, now sporting a shiner, before taking great care to unpack a few items from a leather document pouch. "I suggest we get down to formalities."

Cullen sat opposite, leaning forward to speak into the recorder. "Interview commenced at twelve thirty-six p.m. on Tuesday the thirty-first of December 2013. Present are myself, Detective Constable Scott Cullen, and Acting Detective Constable Simon Buxton. The suspect, Dean Vardy, is present, along with his lawyer, Neil Parker."

He took a breath before continuing. "Mr Vardy, for the record, can you please state your occupation?"

Vardy smirked. "I'm a businessman."

"And what's the nature of your business?"

"I'm an entrepreneur."

"What kind of entrepreneur?"

"Got a few irons in a few fires." Vardy shrugged. "I run a taxi firm for starters. Southside Cars on Mayfield Road."

"Which is where we apprehended you?"

"Which is where you
assaulted
me."

"What other irons have you got?"

"I own a bookmakers on Dalkeith Road. Place called YouBet. Get a lot of coppers in there, I can tell you."

"Anything else?"

"A pub. The Debonair. It's on Bread Street. In Edinburgh."

Cullen ground his teeth. "Do you own anything else?"

"Got a few flats."

"Anything in Polwarth Gardens?"

"Maybe."

Cullen made a few scribbles in his notebook. "Now that's out of the way, can I just ask why you decided to run when we visited your premises?"

"I thought you'd try to fit me up."

"What for?"

Vardy sat back, staring at the ceiling. "For killing Keith Lyle."

Cullen held his gaze. "Well, did you kill him?"

Vardy broke the stare-out. "No fucking way did I kill him."

Parker reached across to cover Vardy's clenched fist. "My client has stressed the fact he didn't kill Mr Lyle. Please leave it at that."

Cullen stared at him for a few seconds before switching his focus back to Vardy. "How did you find out Mr Lyle was dead?"

"You told me when you arrived at my premises."

"Not before?"

"Nope."

"Please describe your relationship with Mr Lyle."

"He's a good lad. Solid worker."

"So, just an employer-employee relationship?"

"Of course." Vardy sniffed. "I trust him enough to share a flat with my bird."

"Pauline Quigley's your girlfriend?" Cullen sighed as he closed his eyes. Methven would have his balls for missing that.

"She is, aye. They both work for me at the Debonair."

"And they stay in one of your flats?"

"Maybe."

Cullen flicked back a few pages, underlining his previous note on flat ownership. "Must be very frustrating for you."

"What must?"

"Your employee having sex with your girlfriend in a property you own."

Vardy stabbed his finger at Cullen. "They weren't having sex, pal. Okay?"

"That's a bit of an extreme reaction."

"That's extreme bullshit from you." Vardy ground his chair backwards as he got to his feet, gripping the tabletop. "Complete fucking bollocks!"

Cullen looked at Parker. "Can you please get your client to sit down?"

Parker smiled at Vardy. "Dean, if you'd please comply with the officer's instructions."

Vardy sighed as he plonked himself down again. "Aye, fine."

"You're sure Mr Lyle and Ms Quigley weren't romantically involved?"

"Fucking right I'm sure. No danger were they at it."

"What would you do if there was something going on?"

"I'd ditch the bitch." Vardy shrugged. "I'm a businessman. I've learnt when it's advisable to sever ties."

"Do you mean murder her?"

"No I fucking don't."

Parker held up a hand. "Constable, please. You've asked enough. All you're succeeding in doing is angering my client. This is all after assaulting him for no good reason."

"Running when we ask a few questions seems particularly strange." Cullen folded his arms. "Besides, it seems like there's something in what I'm suggesting."

"Unless you've got proof of a romantic entanglement then please desist from this line of questioning."

"We'll come back to it later." Cullen licked his lips. "Do you manage the shifts at the pub?"

"Hardly. I pay a bar manager for that privilege."

"And yet you were working at your taxi company today?"