Windchill (18 page)

"Usual girl called in sick. Night boy doesn't start till seven."

"How close were you to Mr Lyle?"

"You've asked that."

"I'm asking again."

Vardy shrugged. "What's that supposed to mean? How close were we? We didn't exactly go for cocktails in the Dome."

"I meant, were you friends with him?"

"Like I told you, buster, Keith was an employee."

"Do you let all of your employees get heavily into your debt?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We understand Mr Lyle owed you a sum of money in relation to gambling."

Vardy shot a glare at Cullen. "Who told you that?"

Cullen smiled. "You're not denying it?"

Vardy glanced over at Parker, who tilted his head to the side. He stared at Cullen, teeth bared. "Aye, Keith was in debt to me."

"How did this happen?"

"Keith was a bit of a silly boy up at my shop on Dalkeith Road. He put a few big bets on the football and the golf. The lad was chasing a debt. Got himself in the hole to the tune of a grand."

"How did he get there in the first place?"

Vardy's tongue brushed across his teeth. "Thought he'd sussed out a gap in the odds my lad was offering. Reckoned he could make a mint on the number of corners in certain football matches. Put a hefty bet on and he lost. Big style."

"This was the grand he lost?"

"Aye."

"How was he chasing it?"

"Bigger bets. Lost eight grand in one Sunday. I'll give you an example - silly bugger had a spread on a Chelsea match, reckoned they'd get beat by Southampton. Now, you or I, we'd put a straight bet on. Odds were like elevens or twelves - this was at Stamford Bridge, mind. Not Keith, though. Silly bugger put a spread on the margin of victory in Southampton's favour, a grand a goal. Ended up with a minus three swing. Three grand from one result."

"And this is all legally binding?"

"Of course it is. I've got a boy up there does contracts as well as odds. Happy for you to speak to him, if you want."

"We'll pass for now." Cullen noted it down anyway. "How did you feel about this magnitude of debt?"

"I wasn't best pleased, was I? I knew Keith didn't have that sort of dosh just sitting around in the flat."

"So what did you do?"

"We came to an arrangement."

"The sort of arrangement that involves concrete shoes and a trip off the Forth Road Bridge?"

Vardy smirked. "I'm more of a Kingston Bridge kind of guy."

Cullen rolled his eyes. "Can I remind you of the magnitude of the investigation here?"

"Aye. Sorry." Vardy cleared his nose, left finger covering a nostril. "I let Keith pay the debt off slowly, you know? Took a small sum out of his pay packet every week, so long as he kept away from gambling."

"Did you threaten Mr Lyle regarding the debt?"

"No way."

Cullen frowned - complete bollocks. "Mr Vardy, what were your movements last night between six p.m. and midnight?"

Vardy looked at Parker for a seconds, his eyes contracting a few times before he faced Cullen again. "I was out drinking."

"Where?"

"I was in Teuchter's on William Street. That's in Edinburgh, Scotland, UK, Europe, Planet Earth, the fucking Solar System."

"Very cute. Who were you with?"

"A good buddy of mine, Darren Keogh." Vardy leaned over to the recorder. "That's K-E-O-G-H, pronounced Kee-Oh."

"Thanks." Cullen flicked back a page and added it to his timeline. "When did you arrive?"

"I think we met up about half six."

"And before that?"

"I was in the shop on Mayfield Road till about five then I went down to the Debs. Had a burger with my girl, just before her shift started."

"And what time did you finish up?"

Vardy grinned. "No idea, mate. It was late. Closing time, probably."

"Why didn't you go to your own pub?"

Vardy sniffed. "I don't like to shit where I eat."

"Okay, so what was the nature of the meeting?"

"Just two mates meeting for some beer. That isn't a crime, is it?"

"We'll see." Cullen folded his arms. "What did you do after?"

"I went home. That's Viewforth. Bruntsfield. Edinbu-"

"Okay, I get it." Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. Walking distance from town, maybe ten minutes from Polwarth Gardens. "And you just walked straight home, did you?"

"Well, I stopped for some chips. Can't remember where. Sorry." Vardy grinned at his lawyer. "Slipped my mind, Neil. I paid cash if that helps. Chips, cheese and coleslaw, I think. And a can of Dr Pepper."

"We will check, you know." Cullen leaned over to the recorder, eyes on his watch. "Interview terminated at twelve thirty-nine."

Chapter 44

Cullen looked around Chesser House's reception area. Why had so many people waited until the last day of the year to do their business? Whatever that was. "What do you think they do here?"

"No idea, mate." Buxton stayed focused on his mobile.

"I've been here before. We met some guy out in the car park on Gorgie Road."

"So why are we inside?"

"That was August, this is December."

"Good point." Buxton looked up. "What's keeping him?"

"You think he's done a runner?"

"Maybe. Wouldn't be the first one today."
 

"Bugger this." Cullen stood and walked over to the reception desk, clicking his fingers to get the attention of the receptionist. "How much longer's he going to be?"

"I've tried calling Mr Keogh a couple of times now." The receptionist tossed her hair back, holding it in position. "He said he's on his way."

"Can you give him another call, please?"

"Okay. Take a seat."

"Cheers." Cullen went back to sit down next to Buxton, thinking about hitting something. "You got hold of Methven yet?"

"Nope."

"Right, I'll try again." Cullen got out his phone and found Methven's contact entry.

"Sorry to keep you, officers." A middle-aged man stood in front of them, smiling. Brown tank top, pink and navy striped shirtsleeves underneath. Black trousers and brown brogues. Holding out his hand. "Darren Keogh, please to meet you."

"DC Scott Cullen." Cullen got to his feet and shook the hand, Keogh's grip weak and clammy. This guy went drinking with Vardy? Looked fifteen to twenty years older. "Thanks for seeing us, Mr Keogh."

"Not a problem." Keogh smiled at them, unsure who to concentrate on. "I've managed to get a meeting room."

Cullen waved a hand. "After you."

Keogh led them through a door, glancing at the receptionist, too focused on her magazine to care. He headed down a long corridor, glass windows on either side, an open-plan office at the end. He stopped halfway down and knocked on a door. No reaction. He nudged it open and cleared his throat. "Excuse me. I've got this room booked."

A fat, bald man in a suit stood and got straight in Keogh's face. "No, you don't, pal. We've got it booked all afternoon."

"Must be some mistake." Keogh reached into his pocket for a sheet of paper, unfolding it and holding it out. "I just printed this booking sheet off the system."

The man took a look at it before sighing. "Right." He gave a waving motion with his arms. "Come on, this boy thinks he's got it booked."

Keogh's head twitched a couple of times. "Thanks. Sorry to have to do this."

Cullen raised his eyebrows at Buxton, who averted his gaze and coughed into his hand.

They followed Keogh inside, letting him sit at the far end, trapping him in the corner.

"Thanks for seeing us, Mr Keogh." Cullen got out his notebook, writing a few notes to delay starting. "We understand you were with Dean Vardy last night."

"Dean Vardy?" Keogh creased his forehead. "Dean?" Keogh coughed. "Yes. Yes, of course I was."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Sorry, been a bit busy today what with closing everything off before the holiday. Got a bit of a thick head, too. And I didn't expect the police to come visiting and-"

"So you were with Mr Vardy?"

Keogh took a deep breath. "We were in Teuchter's on William Street."

Cullen ground his teeth - an easy conviction was getting away. "Between what times?"

"I got there about six but Dean didn't show up till half past, I think."

"And when did you leave?"

"Last orders, I believe. I can't quite remember."

"Half one? Ten?"

"Be nearer eleven, I think. Sorry."

Cullen leaned back in the chair. "If you don't mind me saying, you don't seem to be the sort to mix with Dean Vardy."

Keogh shrugged. "We're mates from back in the day, you know?"

"No. I don't. How old are you, Mr Keogh?"

"I'm forty-six."

"And how old's Mr Vardy?"

"I don't know."

"I'll tell you, shall I?" Cullen made a steeple with his fingers. "He's twenty-eight. When did you used to hang out together?"

Keogh looked away. "I don't remember."

"You're eighteen years older than him, Mr Keogh. It's not like you were at school or university together."

"Look, I used to go out with his auntie. Years ago. Lovely girl. I bumped into Dean a few years later and started going for a beer with him every couple of months, to catch up. He's a good lad."

"And that's it?"

"It's the truth."

"So, what you're saying is you're pretty much his uncle?"

"In a way, aye. I mean, me and his auntie didn't last very long, but Dean and I got on quite well."

"Does the name Keith Lyle mean anything to you?"

"Doesn't ring any bells."

"You're sure of that?"

"Of course I am. Never heard of him."

Cullen took a long look at Keogh; lines around his eyes, hair streaked with grey, red blotches on his cheeks, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. "What did you do after you left?"

"Got the twenty-six bus home. I live in Corstorphine."

"Did Mr Vardy mention what he was going to do?"

"He'd said something about chips."

"I see." Cullen got to his feet, business card in hand. "Thanks for your time."

Chapter 45

Cullen hadn't expected a queue in the pub at the back of two. "This is a load of bollocks."

Buxton shrugged. "It's New Year's Eve, mate."

"Hogmanay."

"Whatever. It gets busy early doors, doesn't it?" Buxton folded his arms as he leaned against the exposed stone wall splitting the two main areas. "You can get your warrant card out and barge to the front, if you want?"

"I'll leave it for now." Cullen held up his mobile and searched for Darren Keogh. Found his Schoolbook page at the top of the list. He clicked through - the page was mostly empty, like he barely used it. Keogh's profile photo was a few years old, his hair darker than now, his face the sort of confused scowl you'd see on a passport photo. Cullen selected it, saved it and showed his mobile to Buxton. "Dodgy photo of the day."

Buxton looked up from his own mobile and grinned. "People in glass houses, mate."

"Yeah, I need to change mine." Cullen pocketed his phone and flicked through his notebook, trying to figure out where the case was going.

Vardy had to have killed Lyle, surely. The debt, running away from them, Lyle most probably sleeping with his girlfriend - it all added up.

Unlike the alibi. Keogh and Vardy just didn't seem like they belonged in the same city, let alone each other's company.

He took a step forward as a wiry man carried three pints in triangle formation away from the bar, and glanced at Buxton. "Reckon the alibi's a lie?"

"I think so." Buxton nodded. "Chalk and cheese, them pair."

"Agreed." Cullen pocketed his notebook, retrieving his mobile. He searched through his missed calls - still nothing from Methven.

"What can I get you?"

"Police." Cullen smiled at the barman as he produced his warrant card. "DC Scott Cullen and ADC Simon Buxton."

The barman's eyes darted between them. "How can I help?"

Cullen rested his hands on the bar top, drinking in the smell of fresh beer and frying meat. "What's your name?"

"Dave Weir."

"Like the footballer?"

"Like it. He's David, I'm Dave."

"Well, Mr Weir, we're validating an alibi for last night. Someone reckons they were drinking in here."

"Oh aye?"

"Were you on?"

"Aye, I was. Till closing time. Just after eleven."

"From what time?"

"Noon."

"Do you know Dean Vardy?"

Weir shut his eyes for a few seconds, letting out a deep breath. He draped the bar towel on his shoulder. "I know Dean, aye."

"Did you see him here last night?"

"He was in."

Cullen showed him the photo of Darren Keogh. "Was he with this guy?"

Weir took a few seconds to examine the photo. "Could be."

"Could be or was?"

"Think it was him. Ninety percent sure, like."

Cullen still didn't believe it. "Okay. When did they arrive?"

"Be about seven. Maybe half six. Can't remember, really. That one on your phone was hovering about for a bit, though." Weir leaned in close, resting on a beer tap. "Look, pal, what's this about?"

"Mr Vardy's a suspect in a murder."

"Jesus Christ." The barman looked down at the bar top and started fiddling with a tub of wasabi peas. "Who's he supposed to have killed?"

"You know a Keith Lyle?"

Weir shook his head without looking up. "Sorry, mate."

"Where were they sitting?"

Weir gestured behind them, directing Cullen's gaze into the seating area through the archway. "They were through the back. On the sofas, you know? Dean and his mate were facing through here. I was just collecting glasses and dropping off pints for them."

Cullen frowned. "Didn't know you did table service?"

"We don't."

"But you did for Mr Vardy?"

"Oh aye."

"What were they drinking?"

"Brewdog Punk IPA. Same every round."

Cullen noted it - Brewdog was an edgy brand Vardy would associate with, but Keogh? He pinned him as a Deuchars IPA kind of guy, weaker and more traditional. "What time did they leave?"

"Closing time."

"What, five past eleven?"