by Ed James
"It's likely." Cullen nodded slowly. "Were you here all last night?"
"Not all night, no. I was working till ten."
"Did you get back late?"
"Late-ish. Went for a bit of a dance in that Club Tropicana on Lothian Road with a couple of the girls. Beth and Gill. Got back here at half midnight, maybe."
Cullen noted it down. His stomach recoiled. Club Tropicana - shooters, cocktails, hen parties and the hits of the eighties. "So you were only there for a couple of hours?"
"Aye. You know how it is. We were tired but we needed to let our hair down. Gill knows one of the bouncers so we got in for free. Had some shots, did some dancing then I came home when the other two started chatting to some rugby boys."
"Were there any signs of disturbance when you got in?"
"No. None at all. I mean, our flat's never the tidiest."
"I see." Cullen made a note of it. "So there were definitely no signs of forced entry, nothing like that?"
"No."
"You didn't hear or see anyone when you got back to the flat last night?"
"No. Nothing."
"Did you check on Mr Lyle when you arrived?"
"I'm not in the habit of going to his room at night." She shook her head, looking away. "Besides, I would've found his body then, wouldn't I?"
"So, when was the last time you saw Mr Lyle?"
"Yesterday morning. Breakfast time. I was just getting up, he was just leaving. He was on the early shift, I was on late."
"So you work together?"
"Aye. At the Debonair pub, just off Lothian Road."
"I know it." Cullen noted it - a pretty rum boozer in a rough part of central Edinburgh. "Would Mr Lyle have gone out after work?"
"Doubt it. He finished at the back of six. Would've just come straight back here. He's never one for lingering and he doesn't really go out much. It looked like Keith'd had a microwave meal for his dinner then some beers."
"And it's just the two of you in the flat?"
Pauline wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup in front of her. "It is, aye."
"And you're just friends?"
"Aye." Her eyes blazed at him, the blue surrounded by red threads. "We've known each for years. We were both looking for a flat at the same time." She shrugged, moisture welling in her eyes. "It made sense."
Cullen looked her up and down before scribbling in his notebook. Probably more than flatmates.
Pauline stared past them, gazing out of the picture window behind. "We were supposed to go to Princes Street tonight for the Hogmanay thing."
"Just the two of you?"
She shook her head. "There's a group of us going. Got the tickets through the pub."
"We've just been to the crime scene. That's quite a nice flat you've got."
Her eyes narrowed. "Are you implying something?"
"Well, it looks pretty expensive and you both work in a pub."
Pauline shrugged. "Tips are good."
"Is that it?"
"Aye."
Cullen scribbled in the notebook again. Flat ownership? "How old was Mr Lyle?"
"Twenty-five. Same age as me."
Cullen stood up. "Do you have any idea who'd want to kill him?"
Her eyes shot around the room before settling on Buxton as he wrote a swathe of notes. "There's nobody I can think of."
"Nobody from the bar?"
"None. The staff all loved Keith."
"What about the customers?"
She shrugged. "It's not the sort of place that has regulars, you know? It's for people out on the lash. Pre-club drinks. Burgers, steaks, nachos, shooters. Tourists wanting a fry-up in the morning."
"Was Mr Lyle involved with anyone?"
Pauline glanced away. "Not that he told me."
Cullen held her gaze till she looked away. "What family does he have?"
"He's an only child. His mum died about ten years ago. It hit him really hard. He was still at school. He was off for about a month."
"So you knew each other from school?"
"Aye." She nodded, eyes blinking back tears. "We went to Firhill High together."
"Nobody from school he fell out with?"
She shook her head. "He was one of those kids who got on well with the geeks and with the hard kids. Never fell out with anyone, really."
"What about Mr Lyle's father?"
"He still lives up Oxgangs way. Name's Bobby Lyle."
"Got an address?"
"Aye. Swanston Park. Number twenty, I think."
"Thanks." Cullen frowned as he spotted something in his notebook. "Did Mr Lyle keep a journal, do you know?"
Pauline nodded slowly. "He did, aye. Kept a log of all the things he was thinking about."
"What sort of thing?"
"No idea, really. Never let me see it. He talked about it, how he wanted to become this writer." She sighed, eyes moist with tears. "He'll not get that chance now."
"That's probably all for now." Cullen handed her a card. "Give me a call if anything comes up, okay?"
Chapter 41
Cullen pulled in outside Bobby Lyle's house, the bulky seventies building reminding him of streets in his hometown - rows of square boxes, disfigured by extensions over the years. "Think she did it?"
"What, killed Lyle?" Buxton rubbed his scalp for a few seconds. "Could've done, I suppose. We've only got her word that she found him. Forensics might be our friends for once."
"You might be right. The motive's tricky. That said, I do think she was at it with him."
"Seriously?"
"Aye." Cullen got out his phone and dialled a number, listening as it rang through to voicemail. "Boy and a girl alone in a flat like that? Of course they were at it."
"You do know I live with a bird, right?"
Cullen frowned. "Just the two of you?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, Simon, sounds like there's something going on there. She's not in her forties, is she?"
"Fuck off." Buxton scowled out of the car window at the house. "You got hold of Methven yet?"
"Still not answering his phone. I'll text him." Cullen typed out a text. Heading to Lyle's father's house. Nothing to report yet. He pocketed his phone and got out, having to manually lock the pool car's doors. "Doesn't look like anyone's here. You up for giving a death message?"
"Aye, sure thing." Buxton led them up the drive. "Just be thankful we're not knocking on doors on that street, mate."
"True." Cullen followed him up the paving, a silver Citroën parked in front of a garage at the top. In front, a small expanse of lawn surrounded by evergreen bushes, still heavy with leaves.
Buxton knocked on the door at the side of the house, before taking a step back. "He better be in."
"He'll be in." Cullen pointed at the car. "Unless he's gone for a paper or a jog or something."
The door pulled open a crack, puffy eyes surrounded by a red face peering out. "Can I help you?"
"Police." Buxton held up his warrant card. "DC Simon Buxton and DC Scott Cullen. Are you Robert Lyle?"
"I am. Folks call me Bobby." Lyle opened the door to its full width. He folded his skinny arms, perching them on his swollen belly which stretched his polo shirt. He reached up to smooth down his hair, clinging to the last few strands, three or four clumps tugged across the middle of the red dome. "What's this about?"
"We need to have a word with you, sir."
"What about?"
"It's concerning your son, Keith."
Lyle rolled his eyes and sighed. "What now?"
"It would be preferable to do this inside, sir."
"Aye?" Frowning, Lyle gestured inside the house. He led them through a dark hallway, pastel green walls and beige carpet. A faint smell of mould mixed with charred bacon and fat, the drone of an extractor fan in a room to their left.
Lyle stopped by the staircase. Behind him, a wide sheet of obscured glass showed blurred shapes in the living room, at least a couple of lights on. "In here, then."
&n
bsp; "Thanks." Buxton perched on a dark brown sofa, the green corduroy on the arms and headrest now worn black in places.
Cullen sat next to Buxton, getting his stationery out as he assessed whether Lyle had been briefed. Didn't look like it.
Lyle slumped in a cream reclining chair. He glanced at them, then down at his lap. "Right. What can I help you with?"
Buxton shifted forward, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Mr Lyle, the body of your son, Keith, was found this morning."
Lyle briefly closed his eyes before giving a slight nod of the head. "Oh, Christ."
"Did you know?"
"No, son." Lyle stared at the ceiling, fingers digging into the chair's arms, bunching up the leather. "Tell me what happened to my boy."
"Keith's flatmate, Pauline, found his body just after eight o'clock this morning."
"Does she know who did it?"
"She doesn't, no." Buxton shifted his weight back a few inches. "We're investigating Keith's death as a murder." A glance in Cullen's direction. "A Family Liaison Officer will be appointed to make sure you're kept up to speed on the investigation."
"Right, right." Lyle sank back into the chair, his polo shirt riding up at the front, eyes screwed shut, his whole body rocking. He reached over to a side table and tore off a couple of man-size tissues, dabbing his eyes before blowing his nose. He glared at Buxton. "Who do you think killed him?"
Buxton ran his tongue over his lips, his forehead creased. "We're currently looking to establish a credible list of suspects. We wondered if you might be able to help us."
"Okay." Lyle sat up in his chair, cleaning the fingernails of his left hand with the thumbnail on the right. "My boy was a good lad, you know? Never said boo to a goose."
"So there's no-one he might've had a disagreement with?"
"Nobody really springs to mind. Sorry."
"We understand Keith worked at the Debonair bar."
"Aye, that's right. Nice little pub, so it is."
"Do you know of any arguments with staff or customers there?"
"Not the customers, no."
Cullen frowned. "But the staff?"
"Not really, no."
"But you're aware of something?"
"I might be." Lyle gave a deep sigh. "I used to pop in there to visit him from time to time. Like I say, my boy got on well with everybody in there."
"But?"
"Well, there's maybe something, I suppose." Lyle stared at the gas fire for a few seconds, the beige brick surround charred in a few places. "Like myself, the lad liked a wee flutter. Started with football but he soon got onto the horses. Before long, he'd got into that spread betting nonsense. A mug's game."
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 th
e 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?"
