Windchill (16 page)

Methven stepped across the clear areas and snatched it from him. "What is it?"

"Not had a chance to look at it yet. We'll process it back at the lab." Anderson grabbed it back. "You can get it later, okay?"

Cullen looked around. The walls were covered with sporting posters - the Ryder Cup, Chelsea FC, Scotland's rugby team from the early nineties and a wall chart of the 2014 World Cup fixture list. "Boy liked his sport."

"Indeed." Methven took a step back into the corridor to let Buxton get a better view.

Cullen got out of the way of a SOCO laden with evidence bags. "So, what's the deal with this flatmate then? Were they a couple?"

"We don't believe so."

"But it was just the two of them living here?"

"Yes." Methven pointed at the bedside table nearest them - a plastic cockerel displaying the time on his chest, a matching one lay on the other side. "Mr Lyle's alarm clock woke her up. She went to switch it off and found the body."

"I take it you want us to interview this flatmate?"

"If you could." Methven started off down the corridor. "She's at a friend's flat just down the road."

Chapter 40

Cullen knocked on the flat door, two up from Keith Lyle's flat, and waited, his breathing even harder. "He makes my blood boil."

Buxton rolled his eyes. "What is it this time?"

"Constable this, constable that. Wanker."

"He doesn't mean anyth-"

The door opened and a young woman peered out, squinting into the gloom of the stairwell. "Can I help?"

"Police. The door downstairs was open." Cullen flashed his warrant card. "We need to speak to Pauline Quigley?"

"Oh, okay. Come on in." She opened the door and held out her hand. "Beth Armstrong."

Cullen shook her hand. "DC Cullen and ADC Buxton."

"She's in the kitchen." Beth led them inside. The hall walls were covered with old film posters -
Taxi Driver
,
Breakfast At Tiffany's
,
Annie Hall
. Two mud-caked mountain bikes obscured a radiator. She entered the room on the right, a bright kitchen with a view of the tenements running west down the street. "Pauline, it's the police for you."

Pauline looked up, her eyes red. She sat forward, leaning her athletic figure across the kitchen table, tugging her dark hair into a long ponytail. Baggy grey tracksuit bottoms and an orange t-shirt. Her wide jawline betrayed Czech or Russian ancestry, with a deep scar just to the left of her mouth.

Beth patted Pauline on the arm. "I'll give you some peace." She left the room, leaving the door open to the hall.

Pauline's bright blue eyes tracked her friend's movement, staying on the hallway when she was out of view. "How can I help?"

Cullen motioned for Buxton to take the only spare chair before looking around for any more. Bugger it. He leaned against the fake granite counter and got out his notebook, his gaze darting around the room. Dirty dishes in the sink, cheap electric cooker, ancient kettle, the metal sides of the toaster dimpled in a couple of places. "We understand you found Keith Lyle's body?"

"That's right."

"Tell us what happened this morning."

Pauline let out a deep breath, hands shaking. "I was woken up at about eight o'clock. Keith's got this cock-a-doodle-doo alarm clock." A long sniff, deep breath. "Two of them as I found out. He was always late for work so I made him get one. I knocked on his door, telling him to shut the thing up. The door just opened. I went in and switched it off."

"That's when you saw him?

"Aye. Keith was just lying there." She rubbed her left eye, the knuckle probing the socket. "I just wanted to get back to sleep." She clenched her jaw. "Did Keith die last night?"

"We think so."

"My God." She put a hand to her face, almost slapping it. "So he was just lying there all night?"

"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."

"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."