Windchill (21 page)

Methven sat on a chair. "We don't currently believe Dean Vardy killed Keith Lyle."

Cullen flicked back through his notebook. "What about the NCA?"

Methven inhaled deeply. "Mr Vardy's known to them. They've never been able to pin anything on him however, even going back to their SOCA days."

"He's Al Capone, isn't he?" Cullen scratched at the back of his head. "So, what? We're just dropping it?"

"That's correct." Methven nodded, his eyes shut. "I'm not prosecuting Mr Vardy yet because he has an alibi. We've already spoken to him again. The NCA aren't comfortable with us harassing him."

"Even though he might've killed someone?"

"Correct."

"I take it he's being prosecuted for trespassing on the railway?"

"Our colleagues in the British Transport Police are leading on the matter. You pair are in the clear for it, though expect a court appearance soon."

"Cheers." Cullen sighed. Need to get notebooks synchronised. "Did you dig into how much debt he was in?"

Buxton nodded. "Yeah. Just over ten grand. Spoke to the actuary at YouBet, the geezer who does all the odds and that. He showed me Lyle's account. Every bet was signed for."

Cullen focused on the whiteboard. "Okay, so what do we do next?"

Methven jangled his keys in his pocket. "The Kenny Falconer case."

"
Him?
"

"Indeed. Mr Falconer's selling knives again, illegally. This is one of the cases your better half was working on before she was sent out to West Lothian. They had an informant on his operation. A man called Andrew Smith."

"So?"

"The trail's long since gone cold, Constable." Methven stopped jangling. "I want you to pick it up for me."

Chapter 50

Cullen let the seat belt ride up, looking west along Fountainbridge towards Fountain Park and the tenements beyond. "Can't believe he's dumping Sharon's caseload on me."

Buxton killed the engine. "You keep bitching and moaning about how you're doing a DS job. He's calling your bluff, mate."

"Didn't tell me the briefing timing had changed, either. I was just lucky Sharon was dropping me off early." Cullen got out of the car, tall black hoardings blocking out the empty site of the old brewery to the left. He blinked away the early morning sun. Smith's address was a tenement just ahead, almost the only old building left on the strip. "Used to be a sauna here, right?"

"Frequent it, did you?"

"Hardly." Cullen smirked as they walked over, pausing to press the intercom. "Had to do a raid on it once with Bain."

"Which reminds me." Buxton held up his mobile. "Got a text from a mate in Glasgow MIT last week. He reckons Bain's heading back through here as a DS."

Cullen felt his mouth go dry. "Really?"

"Aye." Buxton's tongue hovered between his open lips as he winked. "Brilliant, eh?"

Oh for fuck's sake. Cullen loosened his shirt as sweat trickled down his back. "If it's not a load of shit, I'll no doubt end up working for him again."

"That'll bugger up any chances of me getting a full DC gig, won't it?"

Cullen held up his phone. "Think I should call him and find out?"

"You want to put up with him going on about saving your life, be my guest."

"Good point." Cullen pressed the buzzer again. "Anything else I've missed?"

"Well, Turnbull's been through in Glasgow and at Tulliallan a few times."

"Fucking hell. What does that mean?"

"No idea. Getting his conkers toasted by the looks of things."

Cullen sighed. Being shat on here - Methven dumping the extra caseload on him while the dangled carrot was swinging away.

Shielding his eyes from the low sun, he looked up at the flat, the top left of the block of nine apartments. There were no lights on inside, no stream of central heating exhaust, no signs of life at all. "Where the hell is he?"

"Methven reckoned he's gone to ground, didn't he?"

"You've been here before, right?"

"Yeah. Came here with Chantal last Thursday."

"Did you get in?"

"Nope."

"I meant inside the house."

"Piss off."

"Right, come on." Smirking, Cullen tried the stair door. It opened. "I seem to have a magic touch."

"You're like that Genesis song."

"Wasn't that an invisible touch?"

"Whatever." Buxton took out a pair of gloves, stretching them before slipping them on. "You'd better get some gloves on to cover your magic touch if you're thinking what I'm thinking."

Cullen laughed as they entered the building, pitch dark except for a light at the back giving an intermittent flicker. He started up the staircase, spotting a ceiling window at the top. The place stank of too much washing powder. "It's like someone's shoved a whole packet of Persil in."

"I know, it's totally rank, mate."

Cullen stopped at Smith's stairwell, three doors leading off. On the right, a Post-It stuck to the door read
Flat 9 - A. Smith
. He rapped on the wood, the sound rattling down the staircase. He waited a few seconds then turned to Buxton. "What do you think?"

"We've not got a warrant."

"True." Cullen knocked on the door in the middle. No answer. He tried the door on the left. Nothing.

A bolt released behind the middle door. It opened a crack, an eye surrounded by lined skin peering out. "Hello?"

Cullen showed his warrant card. "Police. We're looking for Andrew Smith."

The door opened wider. An old lady checked them out, seventies at the youngest, five foot at most. She screwed up her eyes at the warrant card. "Aye, I've not seen young Andrew for a wee while."

"How long's a wee while?"

"Couple of weeks, maybe."

"Do you know him well?"

"He looks after my cats when I'm away to my sister's. I water his plants when he's away."

"Has he asked you to water them recently?"

"Not for a few months, no. When he went to Ibiza in September."

Cullen glanced at Buxton, wondering if he was thinking the same thing - Smith had bolted.

"Why do you want to speak to young Andrew?"

"We need to ask a few questions about an important investigation. Do you have a key for the flat?"

"Just a second." The door slammed shut.

Cullen glared at Buxton. "Didn't think to try the neighbours the other day?"

"Of course we did, you cheeky fucker." Buxton shook his head. "No response. Must be your natural charm and elegance."

"Or my magic touch." Cullen thumbed at the door. "Thought she'd be more in your target age range."

Buxton stared up at the ceiling. "Fuck's sake, mate. I put up with this Budgie shit from you for ages and now I've got to listen to this cougar shi-"

The door opened again. The woman held out a set of keys. "Here you are, son. Drop them off when you're done."

"Will do."

The door slammed again.

Cullen sighed. "Charming." He headed to Smith's door, putting on a pair of gloves before twisting the key in the lock. "Here goes."

He pushed open the door and entered the flat. Red carpet, lime green walls, white woodwork. His nostrils twitched. "Something doesn't smell good in here."

"Agreed. I hope he's just left a pint of milk on the counter." Buxton strolled down the hall. "Mr Smith?" He waited a few seconds before trying the first door on the left. A bathroom. Empty.

The door opposite was slightly ajar. Cullen nudged it open with his foot. A bedroom - the bed messy, clothes heaped up in a pile on a chair. "Looks clear."

Buxton led down the hall, taking it slow, opening the final door - a living room cum kitchen. Laminate floor, IKEA sofa and chairs. Wooden kitchen units, dirty pots and pans.

The grey rug in the middle of the kitchen had a white trainer on it, obscured by the island.

Cullen leapt forward. A man lay on the floor, legs at crooked angles, hands cupped around the handle of the knife sticking from his guts. Blood caked on his tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt.

Cullen rested on the island. "Shite."

Chapter 51

Cullen looked out of the window, the white SOCO suit creasing with the motion. Below, Methven got out of his Volvo SUV and looked up at the flat, making eye contact. He turned to Buxton. "Here comes trouble."

Buxton joined him at the window. "Great."

Cullen looked back across the room, the SOCOs already taking great care in their work.

Clad in a suit, Deeley stood over the body.

Andrew Smith lay on the linoleum, the pool of blood now congealed and dried in places. The knife jutting out of his stomach looked very similar to the picture Methven had stuck on the board. ShivWorks something or other.

Deeley shook his head and wandered over. "Well, the boy's certainly dead."

"Even I can see that." Cullen grinned. "When do you think?"

"Looks like he's been there a while. A week or so. Maybe longer. Won't know until I get the lad back to the lab."

"I take it stabbing's the cause of death?"

"Most definitely." Deeley looked around the room. "Where's Colin?"

"Right here." Methven stood in the doorway, eyes on the body, a SOCO suit already on, eyebrows revealing his identity. "This does not look good."

Cullen nodded. "Agreed."

"It's definitely Smith?"

"Aye." Cullen pointed at the sideboard. "We found his wallet. The face matches the driver's license, give or take a few pints of blood."

"Cut the sodding humour, Constable."

"Sorry." Cullen led over. "You see this?" He knelt down by the body and pointed to an envelope just to the side, pinned down by a numbered tag. "It says
Ken Fa
and then cuts off."

Methven stared at it. "You mean he's trying to tell us who killed him?"

Cullen shrugged. "Only logical explanation."

"I trust you've got an APB out on him?"

"Aye." Cullen let out a deep breath. "I've dealt with Falconer a couple of times before. One thing about him is he's very good at keeping away from us. He almost stabbed my partner a couple of years ago, if you recall."

"We need to bear that in mind." Methven tugged a SOCO's sleeve. "Mr Anderson, I need an update."

"Morning, Colin." Anderson slowly stood to his full height, stretching his back out. "These suits are supposed to disguise us from you lot."

"Cut the banter, please. I need an update right now."

"Fair enough." Anderson pointed at the body. "Well, we've got the murder weapon. We'll check it for prints. Kenny Falconer's on file. Processed the little shit's prints a couple of times myself. Hope you're going to put him away this time."

"We'll do our best." Methven focused the eyebrows on Deeley. "Have you had a look at him?"

"Aye, I have. Not much ambiguity."

"What about time of death?"

"I was telling your laddies here, I've got no idea yet. More than a week, probably."

"Sodding hell." Methven folded his arms, his suit crinkling. "How long's it going to take?"

"I'll get right on it once you let me breathe."

"Very well." Methven pointed at Cullen and Buxton then gestured towards the hallway. "You pair, with me now."

Cullen followed him out of the flat, glad no-one could see his scowl until he took the mask off. "What is it, sir?"

Methven tugged his mask down. "I don't like this one sodding bit."

"Me neither." Cullen undid the zip on the suit. "What do you want us to do?"

"I don't like Smith turning up dead like this. This doesn't look good at all."

"So...?"

"Find Falconer."

"How?"

"I don't sodding know! Just make sure you do!"

Chapter 52

Cullen leaned against the car and swapped the phone to his other ear. There were so many police and related vehicles on the street that Fountainbridge was virtually closed off. "Anyway, Methven's put me on the Kenny Falconer case."

"Really? Thought that had gone cold."

"It's just heated up a bit. We found your informant dead at his flat."

"Andrew Smith? Oh, Jesus."

"What was he doing for you?"

"Just giving us information." Sharon sighed down the phone. "He was working with Falconer. You know he had that knife shop on Leith Walk, right?"

"Aye, behind the Polish shop opposite the Chinese supermarket."

"That's the one. Well, he's selling knives again from a bookshop in Gorgie."

"Whereabouts?" Cullen flicked out his notebook and opened it against the roof of the car. He clicked his pen.

"Just by Tynecastle, I think. It's in the case file."

"Okay."

"According to him, you go in there and get a copy of a book. One called
Two-Way Split
, I think, can't remember who it's by. Take it up to the man at the till and you get to see the catalogue for the under-the-counter stuff. If you're a
very
good boy, you get to go through the back."

"How dodgy is the stuff he's selling?"

"Not too bad. Nothing like his old shop. Standard American assault knives, that sort of thing."

"And Smith told you all this?"

"Aye. We managed to shut down the knife operation, but we didn't get anything on Falconer, as per bloody usual. Didn't even find anything tying him to the place."

"Perfect." Scowling, Cullen tugged up the front of his hair. "Is the shop still open?"

"I think so."

"Okay, cheers for that. I'll give you a call later."

"You haven't even asked how well it's going out here."

"Shit. Didn't I?"

"No."

"How is it going?"

"Fine. Just catch that wee shite for me."

"Will do. Love you. Bye." Cullen ended the call and dialled Angela Caldwell's number. Engaged. He pocketed his mobile and waved to Buxton, phone clamped to his ear.

"Hold on a second." Buxton put his hand over the mouthpiece. "What is it, mate?"

"You on with Caldwell?"

"Yeah, why?"

Cullen reached over and grabbed the mobile. "Angela, it's Scott."

"Great, what have I done now?"

"Nothing, I hope." Cullen stared at the ground. "Have you got the Falconer case file there?"

"It's around somewhere. Hang on." Silence.

Buxton folded his arms and leaned against the car. "What are you being such a rude fucker for?"