Windchill (26 page)

"Buxton and I are going to find Vardy and get him in a room."

Chapter 65

"Bastard." Buxton pulled the pool car up at the crossing, finger stabbing right across the street. "It's over there, isn't it?"

"Corner of Viewforth and Montpelier." Cullen nodded as he looked around, the street they were after stuck behind a wide railing. He waved up ahead. "Pull in behind that bin."

Buxton waited for the school kids to finish crossing before shooting off and parking on the single yellow. "Can't believe there's a street in Edinburgh called Montpelier."

"There's a nice bar just round the corner named after it."

"Really?"

"It's a bit style bar for you, Simon."

"Piss off. You're the one who always insists we drink in the Elm."

"No, I don't."

"Really? You're turning into Bain, mate."

Cullen got out of the car and slammed the door. "I'm
not
turning into Bain."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"Are, are, are." Buxton grinned as he locked the door, trying the handle. "Just accept it, mate."

"No danger." Cullen crossed the side street then jogged over the main road at the crossing, before making his way between bollards and heading to Vardy's stairwell. "Top floor, right?"

"Yes it is, Bain."

"Fuck. Off."

Buxton smirked. "Sorry, getting really angry about it isn't going to make me stop it now, is it?"

"Whatever." Cullen held down the buzzer for a few seconds. No reply. He held it again, longer this time, eyes on the flat window. Curtains drawn, lights off. He took a step back. The others were all the same, apart from a flat on the first floor with lights on. He hit the buzzer. "This better work."

"Hello?" Woman's voice, elderly, Morningside accent.

"It's the police. We're looking for Dean Vardy."

"Have you tried his buzzer, officer?"

"We have. There's no response." Cullen stared at the flickering light of the intercom. "Have you seen him?"

"I think I saw him leave early this morning."

"In a car?"

"No, on foot."

"What time was this?"

"Oh, it would've been about nine thirty."

"Which way was he heading?"

"Up towards Bruntsfield Links."

Cullen looked back the way, Bruntsfield Place almost visible in the gap at the end of the street. "Okay, thanks for your help."

"You are actually police, aren't you?"

"Do you want my warrant card number?"

"No, I can see you."

Cullen looked up at the window. Nothing. The other one, an old lady waving down at them. "The name's DC Scott Cullen if you're concerned."

"Very well." The curtains twitched and she was gone.

Cullen headed back to the car. "Where the hell's Vardy?"

"I've no idea, mate." Buxton zapped the car. "So - pub, bookies or taxi company?"

"Bookies, I think." Cullen shook his head. "We seek him here, we seek him there but Dean Vardy's not fucking anywhere."

Chapter 66

Cullen put his phone to his ear, dialling Vardy again. No answer. Voicemail. "Where the hell is he?"

"Hopefully in there." Buxton pulled in on double yellows outside the YouBet shop on Dalkeith Road, orange and purple paint gleaming in the sun, the front door on a corner with a leafy side street.

Buxton undid his seat belt and got out. "Still not answering his phone?"

"Aye. Convenient." Cullen slammed his door. "You came up here last week?"

"We did, aye. Me and Chantal. Copies of their books relating to Lyle are in the case file. It all checked out, backed up by their bank statement."

"Good." Cullen pushed past two men in their forties leaning against the wall either side of the door and opened it, avoiding breathing too much of their smoke.

The interior shared the same colour scheme, the walls a matte orange, with the woodwork and floor in purple. An array of large TVs filled most of one wall, a ten-strong crowd of men watching a greyhound race, dogs tearing around a track to a wall of cheering and swearing.

Cullen went up to the counter, the tattooed brute behind the grille as intent on the screens as the punters. He got out his warrant card and waved it. "We're looking for Mr Vardy."

Tattoos sniffed before checking the screen again. A dragon crawled up his neck, red flames reaching one ear, balanced by a saltire behind the other. "He's not been in the day, pal."

"Are you expecting him?"

"He's not that hands on."

"Have you heard from him?"

"I told you, he's not that hands on. If I hear from him, I know I'm in trouble. I don't hear from him, things are good."

"Anyone in here know where he might be?"

Tattoos folded his arms, tight muscles flexing. "No. If I was you, I'd head down to the taxis or the boozer. He's not here."

Cullen took a final look around, the punters' attention diverted to fruit machines and form guides now the race was over - nobody queuing for winnings. "Fine."

"You could say thank you."

Cullen ignored him, leaving the door open for Buxton. "He was a lovely man."

"Should see the woman who was on when Chantal and I visited last week. He'd not last two rounds with her." Buxton unlocked the car and they got in. "Where next?"

Cullen tugged on his seat belt. "Taxi firm, I reckon."

"Okay." Buxton started the car and pulled out. He hammered the brakes as a Mini thundered round from Dalkeith Road, swerving to avoid them. "Cheeky fucker."

"Watch it. Don't want to end up writing off another car."

Buxton waited for a gap in the traffic. "Speaking of which, why haven't you replaced yours yet?"

"Apathy, to be honest." Cullen got out his notebook and started searching through the entries - where was Vardy? "I just can't be bothered with it. I should really get something new. It's a pain in the hoop not having the Golf any more."

"Thing was a tank, mate." Buxton finally joined the stream of traffic heading west.

"Better than walking everywhere."

"I'm not sure." Buxton smirked. "I take it you owed money to the insurer after they wrote it off, right?"

"Aye, very funny." Cullen rubbed his forehead as they hurtled down the street, the high walls of the rear of Blacket Place to the right, red tenements on the left, soon thinning out to Victorian mansions. "Did you ever get round to looking through that journal we found in Lyle's room?"

"I did, yeah. We got another four of them from his room. Took an afternoon to get through the whole lot. Barrel of fun that was."

"So?"

Buxton exhaled as he stopped at the crossroads, the long row of private hotels to their right leading into town. "It was full of poetry, worse than that guy we found under the Royal Mile."

Cullen nodded at the memory. "Hopefully not as mental?"

"Well..."

"Oh, bloody hell. Why does every fragile wee flower have to write their thoughts down like that?"

"Looking for attention?"

"Maybe." Cullen tapped his pen on the notebook. "Was there anything about Dean Vardy?"

"I'm not the best to assess, but there was stuff about 'the devil in charge'."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"What about Pauline?"

"Now you're talking." Buxton got a green and drove over the road, passing houses neither of them would afford in a thousand years of work. "The boy was clearly in love with her."

"What did he say?"

"There were quite a few lines devoted to his 'Quine Pal'. Had to look quine up, mind. Means girl in bloody Aberdonian." Buxton stopped at the end of the road, indicating left. "Anyway, QP. You know, her initials reversed?"

"Right." Cullen looked up at the church spire, partially obscured by empty branches, the clock face stuck at the wrong time. "What was he saying about her?"

"Talk about running away if only she'd see it."

"And the idiot was doing this in Vardy's flat?"

"Yeah. I know."

Cullen scribbled in his notebook to check it out in further detail. "Did you speak to her about it?"

"Only looked at it yesterday, mate. Last thing." Buxton turned left, heading south. A Punto belched out dark fumes in front of them; he reached over to fix the circulation. "This morning, we were out at some geezer's flat with a knife hanging out of his guts."

"Fair enough."

Buxton cut across the oncoming traffic to pull in beside Southside Cars, blocking the cycle lane. "You want to speak to her again, don't you?"

"The thought has crossed my mind." Cullen undid his seat belt before getting out of the car.

"Well, hopefully we can speak to Vardy this bloody week." Buxton opened the black gates before storming inside the taxi firm.

A young woman sat behind the counter; navy trouser suit, white blouse, blonde hair hauled back from her scalp and the sort of dark tan that looked genuine. "Can I get you a car, gentlemen?"

Cullen got out his warrant card. "Police. We're looking for Dean Vardy."

"Mr Vardy's not been in today, I'm afraid." She patted her hair flat on the top of her head. "He's not been in for a few days."

Cullen exhaled through his nostrils. "Do you know where he might be?"

"Have you tried YouBet?"

"We've just been there."

"What about the Debonair?"

"Not yet." Cullen tapped at the desk. "What contact numbers do you have for him?"

"Just his mobile." She held up a Post-It with an 079 number on it.

Cullen cross-checked it against his phone. "Already got that." He nodded at Buxton. "Come on."

Buxton held the front door open for Cullen. "Think her or the geezer with tattoos is covering for him?"

"No doubt." Cullen let the door slam shut behind him. "We've got no evidence to say they are though. Where is he?"

"Pub?"

"Pub."

Chapter 67

"I'm getting really fed up of this." Cullen leaned forward on the dark oak bar in the Debonair, trying to determine if there were any staff actually working. "Excuse me!"

He scowled at the optics in front of the large mirror, seeing his reflection - the mid-brown of the tan a few shades darker than the sunburnt pink he'd been all holiday.

Buxton looked up, thumbs still tapping his phone. "So where could he be?"

Cullen stared at the beer pumps, part of his brain tempted to sample the fizz of the German, Dutch and Spanish lagers on display, another part glad he was cleaning out his liver. "At home?"

"What about at Pauline's?"

"I'd hoped she was on today." Cullen looked around at the brickwork, the vaulted ceiling harking back to a previous lifetime as a cellar. A few drinkers sat on their own at the far end of the wide room, across from the entrance. "Doesn't look like anyone's working, though."

"Can I help you?"

Cullen spun around.

A heavy-set man stood behind them, arms folded, dressed in black, the red Debonair logo embroidered on a pocket. He took a white bar towel from his shoulder and dried his hands. "You look like police."

"We are." Cullen showed his warrant card. "We want to speak to Dean Vardy."

"Right you are, son."

"Who are you?"

"Gareth Cuthbertson. I'm the bar manager here."

"Has Mr Vardy been in today?"

"Nope." Cuthbertson shifted his bulk over to the opposite end of the bar, resting on his hands just by the large, chrome coffee machine. "Been a bit quiet, truth be told, but Deano's not been in the day."

"Could he be at home?"

"Might be. Stays up Viewforth way. Just past Boroughmuir school, you know?"

Buxton held up his notebook. "It's okay, sir, we've got his address."

"Right."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Is Pauline Quigley on today?"

"She's not in till six, pal." Cuthbertson checked his watch, chunky and metallic. "It's just past four, buddy."

"Fine. Keith Lyle used to work here, right?"

"Aye. That's true." Cuthbertson folded his meaty arms again, resting his bottom against the bar. "I spoke to some officers about him a week or so back." He frowned at Buxton. "Weren't you one of them?"

Buxton nodded. "I was."

"Damn shame what happened to Keithy. You lot not caught who did this?"

"No, we haven't." Cullen folded his own arms. "Keith was good friends with Pauline, wasn't he?"

Cuthbertson frowned. "Aye."

"How close were they?"

"They were flatmates, all right? That's it."

"You're sure about that?"

"She was seeing Deano, pal."

"Okay. One thing I'm struggling to understand is why Mr Vardy rents a flat to the pair of them?"

Cuthbertson shook out the bar towel and started inspecting it. "Pauline wanted a place of her own a year back. She'd been staying with her folks and got fed up of it. Deano rented her that flat."

"He didn't want her to move in with him?"

"None of my business, buddy." Cuthbertson snorted. "Deano was particular about who she shared with."

"So Mr Vardy approved of Keith Lyle moving in?"

"He did, aye."

"How close were Dean and Pauline?"

"They spent a fair bit of time together, you know? Dean does like to be on his own sometimes. Like that Madness song."

A couple in their twenties entered the bar, nervously looking around as they approached.

Cuthbertson squeezed behind the bar, smiling at the new customers before glancing at Cullen. "We done?"

Chapter 68

"Yeah, Angela, I can wait." Cullen held the phone to his head as they walked down Polwarth Gardens, the wind cutting through his suit jacket and overcoat - should've brought the scarf.

Buxton hammered the intercom button. "You reckon she's still staying with Beth?"

"She's not in her flat, so probably."

Buxton nodded at Cullen's phone. "Angela got anything for you yet?"

"Off to check for me." Cullen looked back down the dark street, across the roundabout and into Merchiston, the tenements switching to mansions, the yellow sodium streetlights to bright white. "Do you reckon it's ten minutes' walk up to Viewforth from here?"

"Yeah, if that." Buxton pressed the buzzer again. "We can take a stroll up there after this if you fancy."