Windchill (DC Scott Cullen Crime Series Book 6)

by Ed James

"We couldn't find you and we needed to speak to you. It's due process, I can assure you. However, I'd like to draw your attention to the fact you received the princely sum of two thousand pounds a month from a business known as Windchill."

  Jones swallowed. "That was an administration error."

  "Was it? They paid you this for fifteen months."

  "I contacted them and asked them to stop."

  "Oh?"

  "It's the truth."

  "Sounds very much like a lie to me. What about the payment of twenty thousand pounds in April of this year?"

  "I think they attempted to get a refund from me and accidentally put more cash in my bank account."

  "Sounds like rot to me." Methven flicked to the right on his phone. "What can you tell us about a William Abercrombie?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Looks like you gave Mr Abercrombie an alibi for murder in 2012."

  Jones put his head in his hands, his breath slow and heavy. "I need a lawyer in here."

  "Why do you need a lawyer?"

  "I just do."

  "Mr Jones, have you done something illegal?"

  "No comment."

  "You're not being recorded here, that won't wash."

  "Right."

  "Mr Jones, does that money relate to you giving William Abercrombie a false alibi?"

  "I know William, we used to go to schoo-"

  Methven smacked the table. "Mr Jones, this is utter poppycock. You provided a false alibi for Mr Abercrombie."

  "I didn't."

  "The parents of his victim have gone through hell for the last two years."

  "I'm not saying anything."

  Cullen shook his head. "Did you provide a false alibi for Mr Vardy?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "You and Mr Keogh in Teuchter's with Dean Vardy."

  "What of it?"

  "You weren't there, were you?"

  "No, I was. That's the absolute truth." Jones reached into his pocket for his mobile. He unlocked it and flicked through some screens. He held it up. "Here."

  Cullen took the phone. A selfie - Jones, Keogh to the left and Vardy to the right, holding up pints of beer. The distinctive mirror in Teuchter's. Time stamped at ten thirty on the thirtieth of December. Dave Weir stood behind them, scowling as he stacked up three empty pint glasses.

  Chapter 90

  "Mr Vardy, quit it." Methven sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the interview room table. "You still had a small window of opportunity to visit Mr Lyle's residence and kill him."

  "I didn't do it!" Vardy shook his head, turned to the side and focused on his lawyer. "Tell him."

  Alistair Reynolds cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Inspector, but my client maintains his innocence."

  "If we look at that evening's timeline, we know your activities up to the point of visiting a takeaway on Bread Street."

  Vardy smirked. "Aye, knew you'd get there in the end, pal."

  "We've nothing after that." Methven grinned. "We know for a fact Keith Lyle was murdered sometime between eleven and twelve that night."

  "So?"

  "Pauline Quigley found the body in the morning. Are we to doubt her statement?"

  A frown crept onto Vardy's forehead. "Why would you do that?"

  "Well, it's apparent she's complicit in Mr Lyle's murder."

  "Keep telling yourself that, mate."

  "Isn't she?"

  "You've got nothing, have you? Sweet Fanny Adams."

  "We've got your prints in the room."

  "How about on the knife, though?"

  "It'd save us all a lot of time if you just confessed, Mr Vardy."

  "It isn't even a murder."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, it isn't murder. Keith topped himself."

  Cullen felt his mouth go dry - this was bollocks. Wasn't it? "He committed suicide?"

  "Aye. The little fanny tried it on with my bird. I told him what's what. Good little worker and everything but I'm not having him thinking he can do that."

  "Which is why you killed him, right?"

  "No. He killed himself. Like I just told you."

  "Why do you expect us to believe that?"

  "Because it's the truth, maybe?"

  "Is it now." Cullen folded his arms. "What evidence is there?"

  "Pauline's got his suicide note."

  Chapter 91

  Cullen held up his phone. "That was Buxton. They've just picked her up from her flat. Should be here soon."

  "Excellent." Methven scowled as he paced around Deeley's office, the place rammed with papers, files and assorted medical equipment. "Well, of course it's not bloody excellent. I don't like being lied to."

  "No. You get used to it, though, right?"

  "Knock, knock."

  Cullen spun round.

  "Sorry I'm late, gents." Deeley stood grinning at them, dressed for the elements in his overcoat and scarf. "Had another gruesome crime scene to attend to and Kathryn's on another bloody course."

  Methven glowered. "We've been here for over half an hour."

  "Aye, sorry about that. Guess young Gerry didn't think I'd be so long." Deeley shut the door, hanging up his coat and scarf before sitting behind his desk, almost completely covered with paperwork. "Guess who I bumped into on the way over from the car park?"

  "I don't sodding care." Methven was jangling the keys hard.

  "Come on, Colin. Guess!"

  "No sodding idea."

  "Your predecessor. Brian Bain." Deeley shook his head. "Thought he was dead."

  "If he was dead, you'd have done the autopsy."

  "Good point, well made."

  Cullen clenched his jaw. "His name keeps popping up."

  "Indeed. Wonder what the hell he's doing through here? He was as cagey as ever. Reckoned he's going to be based in Edinburgh again." Deeley shrugged before getting out his ancient Nokia. "Got your voicemail, Colin."

  "And?"

  "Well, I shall need to have another wee look at Mr Lyle."

  Methven scowled. "Thought you'd ruled out suicide."

  Deeley exhaled slowly. "We had."

  "Even though there was only one set of prints on the murder weapon?"

  "That's the sort of puzzle I usually leave to you chaps." Deeley smirked. "Unless it's a time traveller we're dealing with?"

  Methven tutted. "Keep to the facts."

  "Sorry." Deeley cleared his throat. "The fact there's only a single set of prints on the knife made me think the killer wore gloves. That's more James Anderson's department, though. Usually to assess suicide, we check for things like whether they were stabbed through their clothes, defensive marks on wrists, you know the drill."

  Methven nodded. "I do."

  "And on your side, you'd be looking for financial and medical reasons. Debt, terminal illness and so on. You found none of these, am I correct?"

  "Right."

  "Well, come on through. Let's have another look at him." Deeley got up and led them through the double doors at the opposite end of the room, heading into the mortuary. He took a left into another room, stacked high with refrigeration units. He ran his finger along the edges of the doors and found the relevant one. "Here we go." He pulled it out - Keith Lyle's white face looked up at them, eyes shut.

  "Let's go through my thinking concerning this being a murder, shall we?" He pointed at a deep wound on Lyle's stomach, a clean cut into his flesh. "This is what killed him, okay? I checked the angle of entry - it was a nice clean blade, no serrations, so I've got a pretty good understanding of what happened. The blow just went in his abdomen here and cut the aorta there." He lifted up a flap of skin. "Nice and clean, like I say. Would've killed him in minutes at the most."

  "And why do you think it's not suicide?"

  Deeley held out a scalpel, thrusting the blade towards his guts but stopping just short. "The injury sustained is a perfect match with this knife. A ShivWorks Disciple, right?"

  Methven nodded. "Correct."

  "As I've told y
ou a few times now, the stabbing was through clothes. It's rare for a suicide to do that." Deeley widened his eyes. "Add in the defensive cuts and we've got a likely murder."

  "Could he have stabbed himself?"

  Deeley stared at the body for a seconds. "It's possible, aye. The angle of entry would support that."

  "What else is there?"

  "The big thing was the lack of a suicide note." Deeley folded his arms. "Remember that poor bugger on Christmas Day? Didn't even manage to kill himself, but he'd left a note. Most suicides do."

  Methven shut his eyes. "Is there anything to suggest Lyle took his own life?"

  "Like what?"

  "You're the expert."

  Deeley stared up at the lights for a few seconds, lips twitching, then focused on Cullen. "While you were drinking yourself silly in Tenerife, young Skywalker, I spent a good few days looking into what killed young Master Lyle here. Not himself was my conclusion."

  "But Anderson only found his prints on the knife?"

  "It happens." Deeley shook his head. "The injuries sustained weren't consistent with suicide."

  "Explain."

  "I look for hesitation wounds. This is where the victim has tried to kill himself - a knife entering your body bloody hurts. If you do it yourself, no matter how determined you are, you'll flinch."

  "So it's completely impossible?"

  "Well, I'm not saying no. I'm saying I just don't think it's at all likely based on the evidence." Deeley let his arms fall to his sides. "Now, if you'll let me get back to doing some proper work?"

  Chapter 92

  "Pauline, you should have a lawyer." Cullen sat back in the interview room chair. "I'm serious."

  Pauline patted the digital recorder, the red light blinking away on the table. "This thing's recording, right?"

  "Aye."

  "Well, just get on with it." She folded her arms. "I don't need a bloody lawyer."

  "Fine." Cullen sat back in the chair. "Can you please detail your movements on the morning of the thirty-first of December."

  "I've told you a few times over."

  "And every time you've given us a different story. When did you find Mr Lyle?"

  "That morning."

  "You're absolutely sure about that?"

  Pauline nodded. "Aye."

  "Not the previous night?"

  "No." She folded her arms again. "I got back about half midnight."

  "See, we believed Mr Vardy killed him."

  "Based on what I said?"

  "Yep. It certainly added up. All the facts. He had an alibi up to half eleven - just enough time to get to your flat."

  "You said you believed Dean killed him. What's the but here?"

  Cullen looked away. "We have a statement suggesting Mr Lyle killed himself."

  "Who from?"

  "I'm not at liberty to divulge that, I'm afraid. Usually people who take their own lives tend to want everyone to know why. It might be to do with a physical illness or a mental one. It could be financial. Or it could be to do with a girl or a boy."

  Pauline blinked a few times but didn't speak.

  "The trouble is, Mr Lyle didn't leave a note so we're struggling with that. Hence thinking it's most likely murder."

  Pauline inspected her fingernails before chewing her knuckle.

  Cullen rubbed his hands together. "At least, we weren't given a note."

  Pauline rubbed at her eyes. "He left one."

  Cullen frowned. "How do you know?"

  "When I found him. I just sat there with him for a few minutes. Then I spotted his note on his desk, looked like it had been torn out of his journal."

  "Okay, now we're getting somewhere." Cullen glanced over at Buxton. "Do you still have it?"

  She nodded. "It's in my drawer at home."

  "What did it say?"

  "I told you how Dean threatened to kill Keith, right?"

  "You did."

  "The note was full of that. It was... It was quite hard to read."

  "I'll ask again, what did it say?"

  Pauline wiped her cheek. "It blamed Dean. For threatening Keith. All that sort of thing, you know?"

  "He killed himself because Dean threatened him?"

  "And because of the debt. Dean was adding interest to it every day."

  "How much?"

  "Like those adverts on the telly, the APR was in four figures."

  "I see. And Keith couldn't cope with this?"

  "That's right." Pauline shook her head, her eyes red raw. "If I had my time over again, I'd have gone out with Keith over Dean any day. I just can't believe what's happened."

  "I understand." Cullen sat back in the chair. "Why did you keep the note from us?"

  "I thought you might think Dean killed him. That's the only way I can get away from him without him killing me."

  "That's why you've been so vague with us?"

  Pauline nodded. "I knew he left the pub at closing time. I know the barman there. Dave Weir. He used to work with us at the Deb. He reckons Dean was there to intimidate him. He texted me a few times during the night, he was really freaking out."

  "So you were framing Mr Vardy?"

  "I'm sorry."

  Cullen got to his feet, gesturing at Buxton. "Can you please accompany my colleague here to retrieve the note?"

  Chapter 93

  Methven leaned against the wall outside the interview room and checked his watch. "Where the sodding hell is he?"

  "Reynolds knows we want to get back in with Falconer, sir. Typical delaying tactics." Cullen thumbed at the shut door. "Falconer's fucked."

  "Eloquent as ever, Constable." Methven gave a quick shake of the head then stood up tall and dusted himself down.

  Alistair Reynolds made his way down the corridor, his suit jacket soaked through and a mangled umbrella in his hand, most of the spokes disconnected from the material. He stopped outside the interview room and nodded recognition at Cullen and Methven. "The wind in this city never ceases to amaze me."

  "Indeed." Methven placed his hand on the door. "Can we have a brief chat before we commence discussions?"

  "Another of the Nelson and Parker mop-up cases coming my way. Why, DI Methven, this feels like an honour."

  "The pleasure's mine, believe me." Methven took a step away from the door. "We've reason to believe Mr Falconer's alibi is false."

  Reynolds dumped his briefcase on the floor. "Oh?"

  "The person providing the alibi has now changed his statement to say Falconer wasn't there."

  Reynolds closed his eyes. "Well, let's just see what he has to say, shall we?"

  Cullen sat down next to Methven and started the recorder, eyes boring into Falconer. "Interview commenced at fourteen twenty-nine on Friday the ninth of January 2014. Present are myself, Detective Constable Scott Cullen, and Detective Inspector Colin Methven. Also present are the suspect, Kenneth William Falconer, and his lawyer, Alistair Reynolds."

  He folded his arms, still staring at Falconer. "Mr Falconer, you've still not submitted your ledger to a police station to go into evidence."

  "Keeps slipping my mind that, sorry."

  "It's the only proof you've got of the knife being sold to Mr Smith, you do know that?"

  "Aye. Can we just get on with this?"

  "Very well. Mr Falconer, when we were in here the other day, I asked you why you stabbed Andrew Smith."

  "I didn't."

  "See, we think you did."

  "You can think what you like, pal. It's a free country after all."

  "Mr Falconer, Darren Keogh has changed his statement. He's taking back the alibi he provided."

  "That's complete bullshit, pal."

  "Kenneth, you're not listening to us." Methven rested his elbows on the interview room table. "Mr Keogh has admitted he provided a false alibi regarding your whereabouts on the night in question."

  Falconer glanced over at Reynolds, the lawyer doodling on a pad of paper. "But I was there."

  "Were you really?"

>   "I was."

  "You like to drink in the pubs on William Street, do you? Mixing with the bankers and the lawyers?"

  Falconer pushed himself up. "What are you saying, like?"

  "You don't strike me as the type to drink on that street. It's full of boutiques and expensive pubs."

  "Where do you think I drink?"

  "Lothian Road, maybe? The Debonair?"

  "Not going in that place again, I tell you."

  "Is that because of the owner?"

  "Maybe."

  "Mr Falconer, where were you on the night of the thirtieth of December between leaving work and heading out to Armadale on the thirty-first?"

  "I told you, I was drinking in Teuchter's with Darren Keogh."

  "You weren't."

  "I fucking was!"

  "Mr Falconer, Darren Keogh has recanted his alibi."

  "Fucking waste of money that is."

  "Excuse me?"

  Falconer rolled his eyes. "Nothing."

  "Kenny, that was recorded. You said it was a waste of money. What was a waste of money?"

  "Nothing."

  "Really? It wouldn't be the alibi you paid for, would it?"

  "No comment."

  "Nelson and Parker? Windchill?"

  "No comment."

  Methven grinned. "You've no proof as to where you were that night, have you?"

  Falconer looked again at his solicitor, getting neither recognition or response. "No comment."

  Reynolds leaned over and whispered in Falconer's ear.

  Falconer shook his head. "No fucking danger!"

  Reynolds shrugged. "So be it."

  "Mr Falconer, do you wish to alter your statement?" Methven arched an eyebrow.

  "No. No fucking comment."

  Methven steepled his fingers. "Mr Falconer, we're offering you an opportunity here. We know you paid a thousand pounds a month to a limited company called Windchill. We know they set you up with an alibi that doesn't hold water."

  "Aye, fuck it. Over twenty grand I gave those wankers. And I get nothing in return."

  Reynolds covered his eyes with his hands.

  Chapter 94

  "Well done." Methven put the lid back on the pen. "I'm inviting you all to the pub once we've finished tonight."