Windchill (23 page)

"Not until we've charged him."

"I see."

"Won't be long, I suspect." Cullen held open the interview room door. "After you."

Nelson smiled before entering the room. He stood beside his client, dumping the files on the seat next to him. "Good morning, Kenneth."

Falconer rocked back in his chair, a snarl on his face. "Nice to see you, Micky."

"Michael, if you will. Thank you for the call."

Falconer sniffed. He was late twenties, stick thin with a face full of freckles. While his ginger hair was shaved almost to the bone, a thin wave of red was still visible across his pockmarked skull. "Just get us out of this place. Otherwise, I could shift my allegiances."

Nelson stacked the files on the floor before taking off his suit jacket and draping it on the back of the chair. "I'll remind you our association has thus far been mutually beneficial."

Cullen sat down opposite and started the recorder. "Interview commenced at ten twenty-nine on Thursday the eighth of January 2014. Present are myself, Detective Constable Scott Cullen, and Acting Detective Constable Simon Buxton. The suspect, Kenneth William Falconer, is also present along with his lawyer, Michael Nelson of Nelson and Parker."

He raised his eyebrows for a moment as Nelson finished taking out his stationery, narrowing his eyes at Falconer. "Mr Falconer, why did you stab Andrew Smith?"

Falconer leaned back, his snarl blending with a smile. "No comment."

"We've got evidence against you, you do realise that, right?"

"Makes no difference."

"For the record, Mr Falconer, you've got a history of knife crime. In April of 2011, you stabbed a Wayne Dunbar and evaded arrest until you were eventually caught on Broughton Road."

Falconer thumbed at Nelson. "My brief here got me off. That case went to trial, as you well know, what with it being yourself who made a mess of it and everything."

Cullen took a few seconds to calm down. "Six months after that incident you allegedly murdered your friend's mother."

"Aye,
allegedly
."

"At best, you've been in the wrong place at the wrong time. You seem to associate with some fairly disreputable people."

"Didn't go down for either of them, though, did I?"

"No. You had alibis in both cases." Cullen ruffled some papers on the table. "Very suspicious, especially given the weight of evidence against you."

"They were valid alibis, pal."

"Your fingerprints were on the knives in both cases."

"Still, I wasn't there. Those boys stood up in court and cleared me. End of." Falconer looked at his lawyer. "Any danger you can stop this nonsense, Micky? I must be due some compensation for getting attacked by this lot." He rolled up a sleeve of his jumper, a plaster sticking to a patch of ginger hair. "See this? Burst into my mate's flat and pushed us down the stairs."

Nelson cleared his throat, eyes drilling into Cullen. "Constable, you're wasting my client's time here. Given I charge by the hour, it's costing him a sizeable sum. I trust you're leading somewhere?"

"I am."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

"No. Stop this interview now. You're clearly taking us on one of your infamous little meanders. In both previous cases you've referred to, my client was with two people, in his flat, at the times in question. If you recall - and I assume you do given you were in court on both occasions - all four witnesses testified. A jury of his peers exonerated my client."

"And yet here we are." Cullen waved around the room before settling on Falconer. "He's done it again."

"Done what again?"

"Become involved in a murder."

Nelson pushed his glasses up his nose and dropped his fountain pen on the table, navy ink splattering across his notebook. "I shall ask again, is this going somewhere?"

Cullen locked eyes with Falconer, heart pounding. "Mr Falconer, we're looking into the death of one Andrew Smith at a flat in Fountainbridge. We've found your prints on the knife."

"So?" Falconer rocked his chair forward, setting all four legs on the ground. "I've sold a lot of knives over the years, haven't I?"

"We're not talking Japanese cooking knives here, are we?"

Falconer thumbed at Nelson. "After legal advice relating to those close scrapes you referred to, I gave up any association with members of the criminal fraternity."

Cullen recognised the lines Nelson had been feeding the little shit. "With your record, Mr Falconer, I'm surprised you weren't a bit more careful to wipe them clean before selling them."

"Can't trust anyone these days, eh? Someone could just have been careless with my knives." Falconer smirked. "Besides, it could be some sort of legacy deal. My shop on Leith Walk was open a good few years before you lot shut me down. I imagine there's still a lot of stock out there with my fingerprints on."

Cullen checked the sheet in front of him. "In that case, who did you sell the weapon in question - a ShivWorks Disciple - to?"

"Well, I can tell you I sold one to young Andy."

"That'd be Andrew Smith?"

"Aye."

"I thought you weren't selling any more?"

Falconer leaned forward. "I sell to people for defence purposes only. Last I checked that knife was legal in this country."

"And you've got this transaction logged somewhere?"

"Aye."

"How much did he pay for it?"

"One-twenty."

"One hundred and twenty pounds?"

"That's what I said, pal."

"So you're suggesting Mr Smith stabbed himself with his own knife?"

"Must be, eh? Only thing I can think. Boy was quite an edgy punter, you know?"

Cullen glanced at his notebook. Mr Falconer, we need to ascertain your whereabouts for the period covering the thirtieth of December to the second of January."

"The whole time?"

"Of course."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

Falconer laughed, staring up the way. "Fuck off."

Cullen looked over at Nelson. "I suggest you ensure your client co-operates."

Nelson bristled. He replaced the cap on his fountain pen before whispering in Falconer's ear.

Falconer shook his head for a few seconds before nodding. "Where do you want me to start then, pal?"

"Let's just start with the thirtieth. The whole day."

Falconer picked his teeth. "If memory serves, I was at work from seven a.m. till seven p.m."

"And where's that?"

"Tesco. Corstorphine." Falconer smirked. "I'm trying to make a clean break with my life, right?"

"Yet you're still selling knives?"

"Boy's got to have a hobby."

"So, after work?"

"I went to the pub. Got the bus there. I've got one of them Ridacard things so you can check with Lothian buses if you want."

"Who were you with?"

"None of your business."

"Where were you?"

"None of your business."

"What time did you leave?"

"Be about eleven. Back of, maybe."

Nelson smiled, his head tilted to the side. "Constable, my client's given you his movements. Please move on."

"How did you get home?"

"Bus."

Cullen fixed a glare on Falconer. "What about the thirty-first?"

"Think I was at a house party in Armadale. Got there about ten in the a.m."

"This is near Bathgate?"

"Aye. Got a few buddies out that way. Wayne and Emily Newall."

"Got an address for them?"

"Aye. Drove Road. Number seventy."

"Now what about the first of January?"

"I was still at the house party."

"Really?"

"Aye. We like to let our hair down. 2013 was a hell of a year, you know?"

"You were there the whole day?"

"Aye."

"What about the second?"

"Went to my pal's flat."

"In Wester Hailes?"

"Aye. Been there ever since."

"You're not lying low, are you?"

"I've been ill. Had a tickly cough for a few days now."

"For over a week?"

"Aye." Falconer sniffed. "It happens, pal. I don't get enough nutrition in my diet, clearly."

"So you've not been into work?"

"No. Called in sick."

Cullen looked at Buxton, unsure what else they could do to progress. He reached over to terminate the recording.

Chapter 57

"So the upshot, sir, is he's got alibis for the whole period." Cullen folded his arms and leaned back against the meeting room door. "He's going to get away again, isn't he?"

"Maybe not." Methven stared at the whiteboard in the middle of the far wall. "Do you believe him?

"Of course not."

Methven shifted his gaze to Buxton. "Simon?"

"I don't believe him but I don't see what else we can do, sir."

"He's still downstairs, correct?"

Cullen nodded. "Aye."

"So, unless we can get him to recant his statement, it looks like we'll have to release Falconer."

"We've got another eight hours with him, twenty if we can get it extended."

"I know that, Constable." Methven tossed the whiteboard pen in the air and caught it. "Is another twenty hours going to tear this alibi apart, though?"

"This is the third time we've almost had him, sir. Sharon's had him once. I've had him twice now. He's literally getting away with murder."

"I know." Methven scratched his eyebrows for a few seconds. "Who's his lawyer?"

"Michael Nelson."

"And he's been up to his games, correct?"

"Aye."

"Well, we'll need to let Falconer go until we've got something more concrete."

"Oh, come on."

"Listen, Constable, do you have anything to charge him with?"

"Assaulting Simon and yourself with a baseball bat? Trying to stab Chantal? We can't just let him go."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"So?"

Methven glowered for a few seconds, chewing his cheek. "In lieu of letting him go, what are your next steps?"

"We've got Falconer's prints on the knife used to kill Andrew Smith."

"I know that, Constable, but we've got nothing proving Falconer killed him, have we?"

"Right. Fine. We'll get it."

"I'm not sure how you're going to achieve that. This is a forensics case."

"But, sir, if we ca-"

"You've got the rest of the day to pin it to him." Methven jangled his change. "He's been arrested. We've got time on our side for now."

"I don't like the little fucker one bit."

"Nobody does, Constable."

"What do you want us to do, sir?"

"What do you propose?"

Cullen frowned. "Well, first, we should get out to Armadale and check out this story."

"Go on." Methven tapped his watch. "Clock is ticking."

Chapter 58

Cullen pulled in at the end of Drove Road, the rolling hills of West Lothian lurking under a dark grey sky behind the houses. Getting out, he realised they were unprotected from the elements, the rain almost vertical as it cut along the street. "Fuck this. I want to go back to Tenerife."

"Cheer up, you bugger." Buxton slammed his door. Cullen marched up the street, pushing his scarf over his mouth. "I fucking hate this town."

"As much as you hate Methven?"

"Almost." Cullen crossed the road before taking in the house, a two-storey construction in brown-harled concrete blocks and brick. Up an embankment, eight steps leading to the door, the front garden a balding patch of grass. The thud of a bass drum. His nostrils twitched at something sweet. "Can you smell that?"

"What?"

"Hash, I think."

Buxton raised his head. "Proper hard-core skunk that."

"Fucking hell." Cullen clenched his fists and marched up to the door. He hammered then stood back, waiting.

The music volume increased.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Cullen rolled his eyes. He lifted up the letterbox and shouted. "Here, Wayne, it's Kenny!" He stepped to the side and got out his warrant card.

Over the bass drum, he could make out the thumping of heavy feet down stairs. "Just a minute, big man." The door opened wide and an overweight man peered out, belly hanging out of a stained Kangol t-shirt, tatty tracksuit bottoms lower than hip level. A handmade cigarette hung from his left hand, smelling like cannabis. "Get to fuck!"

Cullen stuck his foot in the door. "Mr Newall, we need a word with you."

"Like fuck! This is my house. I can play my music any level I like."

"This isn't about your music. We need to ask you a few questions about Kenny Falconer."

"Fucking having nothing to do with that thieving wee cunt."

"Excuse me?"

"Nicked my MiniDisc player at New Year."

What the fuck? Cullen frowned. "A
MiniDisc
player?"

"Aye. Cost me two hundred quid."

"In 1998, maybe." Cullen pocketed his warrant card, foot still in the doorway. "We need to know if Mr Falconer was here on the thirty-first."

"Aye, he was. Stayed till the first then fucked off with my MD, man."

"What was he doing here?"

"Usual." Wayne pinched the end of his spliff and rested it on the shelf to his left. "Drinking, smoking."

"How did he seem?"

"Fucking usual, pal. Trying it on with any bird in a skirt or tight jeans. Looking to nick anything not chained down."

"Didn't seem out of character at all?"

"No, pal. Boy's all over the place at the best of times."

"Wayne! You're letting that draught in." A woman appeared at the door, stunned eyes blinking at the daylight, dressing gown open to reveal most of a flabby breast, purple veins under white skin. She clocked them and tightened the robe. "Who the fuck's that?"

"It's the police, Em. I'm helping them."

"Have they got your MiniDisc player back? I really want to listen to that Sheryl Crow album."

"No, hon, they've not."

"Mrs Newall, was Kenny here over the New Year period?"

Wayne scowled at them. "Do you not believe me?"

"We need the story backed up." Cullen focused on Emily Newall. "Was he here?"

"Aye. Tried it on with my pal, Dannii. Wee scumbag."

"Thanks." Cullen noted it down.

Emily stared at Cullen's notebook then her husband. She put a hand to her hip, the boob almost popping out again. "You're a fucking idiot, Wayne Newall."