Windchill (15 page)

Buxton let out a sigh. "That's no life, is it?"

"No. It's not."

Cullen slumped back in his seat, exhausted. "So, is he going down for it?"

"You've got a confession, Constable, I'd say so."

"Good."

Methven rubbed the gauze on his cheek, the material now encrusted with dirt. "Mrs McCoull's another matter, however. Lying in her statement..."

"Glad you can get her with something, sir."

"I'm not one to be malicious, but she's not getting away with what she's done." Methven grinned. "On the other hand, I just spoke to Campbell McLintock. It turns out Mrs McCoull wasn't due to inherit her husband's estate after all. The entirety was to be donated to the rugby club."

"You're serious?"

"Yes. Campbell was his personal lawyer. Strictly hush-hush, but if there was something there, we could have prosecuted her."

Buxton got to his feet. "Do you mind if I get off home?"

"Sure thing, Constable. You can get on with the paperwork tomorrow."

"I'm not in till Friday, sir."

"Then Friday." Methven smiled. "That's a fantastic result today, gentlemen."

"Cheers." Cullen got to his feet. "I'll be in tomorrow, sir."

"Just a second." Methven tugged at his sleeve. "Simon, I'll see you on Friday."

What now? Cullen shut his eyes as Buxton left the room, seemingly taking his time. "What is it you wanted to say, sir?"

"Just that you've done well today, Constable." Methven spoke with his eyes shut. "All my efforts in getting a sodding press release out have been in vain as you've managed to catch the culprit. I'm impressed."

"Thanks."

"I know it was just yourself and ADC Buxton, but you've done a decent job of leading this investigation."

"So you'll make me Acting DS again?"

Methven shook his head, laughing. "I can't give you a compliment without you asking for a promotion, can I?"

Cullen folded his arms. "I thought that's what we'd discussed yesterday?"

"Constable, I'm in no position to offer an Acting DS position to anyone."

"So Bain's getting a DS gig here then?"

Methven shook his head. "This again?"

"Deny it."

"I wish I could." Methven sat down again. "Have you done any thinking based on our discussion yesterday?"

Cullen stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to cut back on the drinking. Probably cut it out entirely."

"That's a brave decision."

"Thank you, sir."

"However, I'll believe it when I see it."

"Oh, you'll see it all right."

Chapter 37

"Jesus, Scott, you look like shit." Sharon held open the flat door, the smell of roasting chicken wafting out.

"I feel like shit." Cullen nodded as he sat on the sofa, dumping his phone on the coffee table. Fluffy ducked for cover. "I could do with a drink but I think I'll let it pass for now."

"You've thought about it then?" Sharon sat next to him.

"I have. I'm being a fucking idiot. I've been a fucking idiot. It's time to stop."

"You're being brave."

Cullen glanced over. "That's what Methven said."

"You told him?"

"Trying to get on his good side, right?"

"I suppose that's for the best." Sharon sighed. "I'll keep your glass in the bottle then?"

"Aye." Cullen put his feet up on the coffee table. "I saw CCTV footage of you and me leaving Tigerlily the other night. I didn't like what I saw."

"Oh." She reached over and pecked him on the cheek. "I know it's not easy but you've made the right decision."

"I hope so."

"How was work then?"

"Got there in the end. We arrested Phonebox Jimmy for it."

"You're kidding?"

"Wish I was." Cullen shook his head. "It's really sad what happened to him. He lost his family in a dodgy house fire and took to the streets."

"Oh my God."

"All the time I'd seen him and I'd been such an insensitive dick about it. I never knew."

"Nobody did."

"That's no excuse. Poor guy. He must've been totally fucked by the end. He was going to kill himself. I feel guilty for catching him now."

"It's okay. It's not your problem now. You've solved a case."

He put his arm round her, pulling her close. "I've missed you today."

"Me too."

"Thanks for cooking the chicken."

"You're not getting off. You're taking over now. Try to cook the tatties like your mum does."

"It'll help me take my mind off this."

"I told Mum we weren't going out to East Linton."

"Thank God. I just want to be miserable here with you."

Part 2 -

"Windchill"

Hogmanay

Tuesday

31st December 2013

Chapter 38

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Pauline opened her eyes and blinked a few times. Checked her clock radio - 8.00. She turned over, the bed springs groaning. "Keith!"

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

"Keith! Shut that fucking thing up!"

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

She hammered on the wall separating their rooms. Scrunched up her feet, trying to squeeze the ice blocks out.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

"Keith!" She tugged the duvet tighter, the double bed otherwise empty, the room freezing and spinning - Jaegermeister and Red Bull formed the bulk of the acrid taste in her mouth. Aniseed. Chemicals. She swallowed bile down.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Enough. "Keith, I'm coming through there! This isn't funny!"

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

She clambered out of bed. Woah. She slumped down, sitting on the edge for a few seconds, head thumping, the cold sucking up from the floor through her socks.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Reaching over, she flicked on the bedside light, the weak bulb barely illuminating half the room. Took a deep breath. Got to her feet, managing it this time.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

She tramped across the floor, the door squeaking as she opened it. The dim morning light crept down the hall floor through the patterned glass of the bathroom door, bouncing off the pale laminate flooring.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Supporting herself against the wall, she paced over to Keith's room, across the hall from the kitchen.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

"Keith, can you shut that bloody thing up!" She knocked on the door.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Resting against the stripped wood door surround, she sighed. "Keith, I'm going to come in there and smash it against the bloody wall!"

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

She pushed the bare wood above the handle. The door creaked open. The light was on.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Frowning, she pushed the door till it was fully open and stormed in, heading for the bedside table. Slammed the base of her hand on the snooze button.

"Cock-a-doo-"

Finally.

The bed was empty. She felt the duvet - cold, unslept in. It stank, needed changing. She looked around the walls at his posters, cursing every footballer and golfer beaming back at her, arms raised and fists pumping the air. Cheeky sod had gone out and pulled, leaving his alarm clock on.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Scowling at the thing, she sat on the edge of the bed and picked it up. How did it turn off? She fiddled with the settings. There. 8.05.

The light on the other bedside table was on. Leaning across the bed, she reached over to switch it off. She lay there. Comfy. Might just sleep here for a bit.

A shoe, lying at the edge of the bed.

She got up on all fours before creeping across the bed and peaking over the edge.

Keith lay on the floor. Knife hanging from his stomach. The rug stained red. Looking up at her, eyes dead.

Chapter 39

"It's bloody freezing." Cullen wrapped his wool coat tight around him as he walked down Polwarth Gardens, the Victorian tenements glowing in the morning sunshine, stopping by the SOCO van. "The wind chill factor must be infinite in Edinburgh. Takes a lovely sunny day like this and makes it feel like we're at absolute bloody zero."

"You need to chill out, mate." Buxton rubbed his hand over the stubble on his head as he looked at the uniform guarding the stairwell entrance. "Pardon the expression. Don't want to blow a gasket before you go on holiday tomorrow."

"Exactly. Crystal shouldn't have sent me on a new case. A day of paperwork would've been fine. Maybe a training course. And I need to get some new swimming trunks after work."

Buxton play-wretched, poking fingers at his mouth. "Christ, mate, I'm close to losing my breakfast."

"Come on, let's get inside." Grinning, Cullen headed over to the dark red door wedged between the two flats, the canopy of the corner shop next door fully extended, and signed them in. "Is DI Methven inside?"

The uniform managing the crime scene nodded. "Top floor flat. Causing the usual havoc."

"Got to love him." Cullen pushed open the tenement door, the maroon paint reflecting the sunshine. "Come on, Simon."

"Yes, boss." Buxton let the door slam shut behind them. "You're not even my boss."

Cullen smirked at him. "You act like I am, though."

"Must be your natural air of authority." Buxton chuckled as they trudged up the stone steps, the central balustrade laden with chained-up bicycles.

The whole stairwell reeked of second-hand cigarette smoke even at that early hour, like it was permeating the sandstone. The voices from the top of the stairwell boomed, the sound bouncing off the walls and multiplying, Methven's loudest of all.

"You're still cutting out the booze tomorrow?" Buxton was waiting on the second-floor landing.

"I've not had a drop since Christmas Eve."

"That's mighty impressive for you."

"Feels like a
very
long time so far."

"It's not like you're an alcoholic, mate."

"Yeah, I'm merely a piss artist." Cullen climbed the last flight and stopped at the top, more out of breath than he should be. "Good morning, sir."

Methven swung round. Next to him stood Jimmy Deeley, the city's pathologist, who tugged up his SOCO mask and tiptoed inside.

"Good morning, Constables." Methven folded his arms, the material of the suit crinkling. "Glad you could finally join us."

Cullen leaned back against the banister. "What've we got?"

Methven frowned. "You're heavily out of breath, Constable."

"You're telling me." Cullen gulped air down. Should've done more running in the last week. "What's happened?"

Methven closed his eyes as he spoke. "One Keith Lyle was found stabbed this morning."

"Have you got an exact time of death?"

"Jimmy?" Methven turned round, finding Deeley was gone. "Sodding hell, where's he gone?"

Buxton smirked. "Think he's back inside, sir."

"I can sodding see that." Methven shook his head. "Deeley thinks the boy's been there a good while. Maybe even since nine o'clock last night."

"Christ." Cullen took a deep breath, the endorphins from the climb kicking in. "Mind if we see the body?"

"Be my guest." Methven gestured to the uniform managing the inner locum. "Get yourselves suited up and signed in."

Cullen reached down to pick up a SOCO suit, putting his feet down each of the baggy trouser legs before pulling them up to his waist. "Any idea who killed him?"

"None. It appears Mr Lyle was stabbed through his t-shirt." Methven tapped a finger down the outside of the opposing wrist and hand in a chopping motion. "There are what look like defensive cuts on his wrists and the edge of his hand."

"So, someone's really gone at him?"

Methven nodded. "Indeed."

Cullen put his arms into the sleeves of the suit. "Anything else?"

"Anderson and his SOCO army are still scouring the place. They've got the murder weapon and they're pretty confident they can get some prints off it."

"That'll be a turn up for the books." Cullen zipped up the suit and signed them into the crime scene. "Ready when you are, sir."

Methven did up his face mask and entered the flat. "Come on."

Cullen followed him down the corridor, rustling as he walked, the laminate floor not quite blending with the stripped skirting and doors. Flashes of light from a SOCO camera pulsed off the light blue walls, seeming to come out of the first door on the left. "So what happened here then?"

"Mr Lyle's body was found by his flatmate." Methven stood outside the door. "A Pauline Quigley."

Cullen peered inside the room, packed with similarly-suited figures as they dusted, photographed and catalogued. At the far side of the floor, partially obscured by the bed and two SOCOs, was a pair of legs clad in stonewashed denim, monster-feet slippers at the end.

Cullen stepped into the room to get a better view of Keith Lyle, lying on the window side. A short, stubby knife hung out of his plain T-shirt, a pool of blood staining the material and the Persian rug. "That'll be the murder weapon then?"

Methven nodded. "According to Deeley's initial observation. For what that's worth."

A SOCO hovering over the body looked at them, a holdall open at his feet. "You know I can hear you, Colin."

Methven snorted, his mask constricting around his features. "Sorry, Dr Deeley. Didn't mean anything by it. Have you got anything else yet?"

Deeley held up the left hand. "Well, I think he's a southpaw."

"How can you tell that?"

Deeley held up the pinkie and ring finger, marked with blue. "There are ink stains on his left hand. Lefties get these, they smudge the page as they write. Looks like Mr Lyle here likes to write. A lot."

"What sort of thing are you talking about? A ledger at work?"

Deeley shrugged, the shoulders of his suit crumpling. "No idea. That's your remit, Colin. I give you the science, you do the art."

Methven grumbled behind his mask as he looked around the room. He scowled at a SOCO by the desk near the window, overlooking the street. "Mr Anderson, have your lot found any writing paper?"

"Maybe." The gruff voice was James Anderson, one of the senior Scenes of Crime Officers. He held up an evidence bag containing a Pukka Pad, the lime green of the cover dulled by the container. "Found this."