Windchill (5 page)

Methven flicked up his eyebrows at Rarity. "What else did you get, Cullen?"

"They're both equity partners in a business called JG Markets & Investments. JG as in Juniper Green, apparently."

"So Evelyn slept with his business partner?"

"Seems like it."

Methven glowered at Cullen. "Anything else?"

Cullen flipped the page in his notebook. "They were both members of a rugby club. Juniper Green RFC."

"They're small beer that lot." Methven shot a withering look at Cullen. "Is that it?"

"It's some people to speak to." Cullen shrugged. "Thought you liked doing things properly, sir?"

Methven bristled. "So, should Mrs McCoull be on our list of suspects?"

"Not really, sir. I think she's just in shock."

"More's the pity." Methven focused on Angela Caldwell. "Can you do a few background checks on her?"

Angela patted her swollen belly. "About all I'm good for, sir. I'll do some digging."

"Thanks." Methven held her gaze for a few seconds. "Could you also get a background check done on Mr McCoull?"

Angela sighed. "Already doing that, sir. Taking some time, I'm afraid."

"Can you look into his business as well?"

"JG Investments, right?"

"Aye." Cullen checked through his notebook. "Stocks and shares company."

"That's all you got?"

"Sorry. His ex had very little idea what the business actually does."

Angela stabbed a pen on her notepad. "I'll see what I can dig up."

Buxton coughed. "She did mention a Donald Ingram."

Methven steepled his fingers in front of him. "In what context?"

"Used to be the rugby club president. McCoull was the treasurer."

"I tried calling after we spoke to her." Cullen shut his notebook. "Left a voicemail with him."

Methven nodded. "Okay. Anything else?"

"No family, I'm afraid. Well, there are, but she thinks they're highly unlikely. Shall I pass them to Angela?"

"Please do." Methven rubbed his fingers together slowly. "This neighbour, then. Eric Young. You said he had an affair with McCoull's wife, correct?"

"So she says."

"Can you go and speak to him and the other members of the rugby club as well?"

"We'll have our work cut out for us, sir." Cullen shut his eyes. "It's Christmas Eve. They'll all be down petrol stations buying last minute presents for their wives."

Methven let out a deep breath. "Always time for a sodding joke with you, isn't there?"

Cullen closed his notebook. Always time for sodding pomposity. "Sorry, sir."

"I want you straight back here when you finish. No messing about. Am I clear?"

Cullen pocketed his stationery as he stood up. Don't say crystal. "Absolutely, sir."

Methven got to his feet. "I need hourly updates from you."

Chapter 9

"I could've done with a nice simple stabbing. Something open and shut." Cullen tried Young's door, the last of the crime scene tape from next door attaching to the shared metal fence. He turned to take in the BMW 5 Series shining in the sunlight. He could smell frying meat and onions from somewhere.

The front door opened a touch. A man peered his head round. "Yes?"

"Police Scotland." Cullen showed his warrant card. "We're looking for Eric Young?"

"Yes, that's me." Young opened the door to its full width. His solid torso covered in a pink shirt underneath a grey apron with
'DAD'S COOKING!'
emblazoned in orange. His red face extended up to his bald head. "Is this about Steven?"

"It is."

"Well, I'm afraid the police have already been here."

"We need to ask some supplementary questions, sir, if that's okay."

"Look, I'm cooking steaks for my family. It's Christmas Eve."

"This is important, sir."

"Well, I certainly hope it is." Young took a step to the side. "You'd better come in, then." He led them down a long cream hallway, the nutty brown carpet dotted with kids' toys - trucks, dolls, cars, teddy bears - opening a door at the end. "If you could just wait in here. I need to sort the food out and inform my family."

"That's fine." Cullen entered the room, finding a plush office filled with modern equipment. Two white leather office chairs sat in front of two desks. He slumped down in one before checking his tie was done up, keeping an eye on the window in case Young made a dash for it. "This room's bigger than our flat."

"Don't know why you live there, mate."

"It's handy for work."

"Really? Get your arse down to Stockbridge is all I can say. Much handier for work and it's in a nice part of town."

"Need to earn proper money to buy down there, mate."

"Now." Young returned to the room, carrying another chair, his apron removed and his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy arms. "What do you want to know?"

Cullen got out his notebook. "We're interested in your relationship with Mr McCoull."

"I went over this with your colleagues earlier."

"We'd appreciate if you went into some further detail, sir."

"Fine." Young took a deep breath. "Steven and I played rugby together since university. About 1995, I think. We're both members of Juniper Green RFC."

"You're on the board there, right?"

"We are." Young pointed to the only photo hanging on the wall, a shot of twenty or so well-built men of varying ages, Young standing in the middle in a tight suit, arms outstretched. "He's treasurer whereas I'm the president."

"And you just played rugby with him?"

"No, we're neighbours, of course." Young smiled. "And Steven was my business partner in JG Markets & Investments." A sigh. "I'll need to get the whole arrangement unpicked and settle his estate. Believe me, his death will be an incredible encumbrance."

"Mr Young, we believe Mr McCoull's death was suspicious. We're looking for people with axes to grind with him."

Young swallowed. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're getting at."

"How's business been?"

"Booming. We've grown the company to a staff of six. We make a very solid profit."

"Would any clients or competitors have a grudge against yourself or Mr McCoull?"

"Not that I can think of. We're a very professional organisation."

"You don't seem particularly upset by his death, I might say."

Young stared at Cullen for a few seconds, as he swallowed. "I've never been one to let grief get in my way. I lost my mother as a boy and my father when I was sixteen."

Cullen didn't quite buy it. "So let me get this straight. You stayed in business with Mr McCoull, even though you slept with his wife?"

"You know about that then?" Young rolled his eyes. "Steven and I managed to sort out our differences. Evelyn was another matter. I think he was looking for any excuse to get out of their marriage. She gave him an easy out."

"Any idea why?"

"Just the way he was." Young rubbed his trouser legs, the khaki cargo pants rolling up to reveal his ankles. "Steven was very loyal to his friends. Didn't really have the best of marriages, shall we say."

"And yet you're still married?"

"I am. Took a long time to regain my wife's trust."

"You still keep in touch with Mrs McCoull?"

"From time to time." Young raised a finger. "There's nothing going on any more, though. My wife threatened my testicles."

"Do you know if Mr McCoull was seeing anyone recently?"

"No. He swore off women after his divorce."

Cullen frowned. Swore off women? He was last seen entering his house with a man. "What about men?"

"Steven? Gay?" Young laughed. "No chance."

Cullen made a note of it. Not quite buying it either.

Buxton leaned forward in his chair, flicking through his notebook. "What about Donald Ingram?"

"Ah, Donald." Young sucked his teeth. "Mr Ingram was the president before me. I was company sec at the time. He sold up here and shipped out to Nerja couple of years back. Me and a couple of boys at the club were going to head out there, but we've never got round to it."

"Was Mr McCoull one of them?"

"He was, aye." Young shook his head, his face softening as his eyes flickered. "I can't believe Steven's dead. I just can't."

"The body has been confirmed as that of Mr McCoull. There was a metal pin in his leg."

"I only spoke to him yesterday. He dropped off presents for my boys."

"When was this?"

"About five. Stopped in for a wee dram." Young rubbed his eye. "He was going out drinking in town with some lads from the club afterwards."

"Did Mr McCoull like a drink?"

"And then some. If Steven had a pint, he'd be out till after midnight."

Cullen frowned. Yet more leads coming out of nowhere. "Can I have any names?"

Young shrugged. "Steven just mentioned Robert. That'd be Robert Heald. He's the rugby club captain."

"Do you know where were they going?"

"I don't, I'm afraid. George Street, presumably."

"And you weren't with them?"

"No, I wasn't. Chance would be a fine thing these days."

"Where were you?"

"I swear, I didn't murder Steven."

"All the same."

"Myself and my family were with friends in Linlithgow. We left here just after Steven was in."

"We'll need their names, sir."

"Of course." Young scowled as he picked up a phone from the desk nearest him. He wrote a phone number on a Post-It note. "This is their number. Catherine and Brian Hudson. Do you need credit card receipts from the petrol station, too?"

"This'll do for now." Cullen pocketed the note.

Young got to his feet. "Now, is there anything else?"

"No, I think we're good."

Chapter 10

Robert Heald lived at the top of the hill in Juniper Green overlooking Woodhall Millbrae.

Cullen pressed the bell and turned around to look south across the rooftops, including McCoull's partially blackened slates and the scaffolding further down the street. To his left was the drone of the City Bypass, the stench of car fumes heightened by the dry winter air.

He chuckled. "It's like the Billy Goats Gruff down there."

Buxton looked up from his phone. "What are you talking about?"

"The troll lived under a bridge, right?" Cullen waved his hand at the dual carriageway as it sprawled across the valley over the river. "Just like that one."

The door opened. A bald man with a protruding belly stood there, arms folded. Combat trousers, rugby shirt, pink slippers. "Yes?"

"Robert Heald?"

"That's me."

"DCs Cullen and Buxton of Police Scotland." Cullen showed his ID, struggling to keep his eyes off the slippers.

Heald inspected the card before handing it back. "How can I help?"

"Need to ask you a few questions about a Steven McCoull?"

Heald smirked, his whole face lightening up. "What's Steve done now?"

"Mr McCoull died last night."

"Shit." Heald swallowed. "Right, you'd better come in then." He opened the door wide then led them into a sitting room, the wall-mounted TV paused in the middle of a rugby match. "Have a seat, lads."

Cullen perched on the edge of a sofa, the leather cold. "We understand you're acquainted with Mr McCoull?"

"Pretty well, aye." Heald rubbed his eyebrows. "How did he die?"

"There was a house fire."

"I saw the fire engines. That was Steve? Bloody hell." Heald gritted his teeth.

"How did you know Mr McCoull?"

"From the rugby club. Juniper Green. I'm the captain. Steve's the treasurer."

"We understand you were with him last night?"

"Aye, that's correct. We were out in town for a few beers."

"Whereabouts?"

"The Living Room on George Street. You know it?"

"I do. Were you there all night?"

"We were. Had a table reserved." Heald frowned as he crossed his legs, a pink slipper dangling off the toes of his right foot. "Actually, now you mentioned it, Steve wasn't there all night."

"What happened?"

"He just upped and left at the back of eight, I think."

"Suddenly?"

"Aye. Left half a pint, as well. That's not like him."

"Did anyone leave with him?"

"None of our lot, that's for sure."

"Who else was there with you?"

"Roger and Tim."

"Can we get names and numbers?"

"Sure." Heald got up and walked over to a hi-fi unit at the back of the room. He scribbled something on a blank sheet of paper and returned. "Here you go."

"Thanks." Cullen pocketed it. "Do you have any idea why he left?"

"None at all. Sorry." Heald shook his head as he hissed out breath. "It's a real shame. Steve was a great guy. Real solid guy. Loved his rugby. Loved coaching it."

"He was involved in coaching youths?"

"He was, aye."

"Could any of the players' parents have taken against him?"

"Don't think so. He was loved by the players, like an uncle. The lads in the club loved him too. Nobody was ever kicked out by him, even some of the spikier little shits. He worked with them to calm their anger and focus their attitude, you know. There'd even been offers from the SRU. Sorry, the Scottish Rugby Union."

"I know what SRU stands for. What sort of offers are you talking?"

"They wanted Steve to oversee junior level rugby in Edinburgh, but he didn't want to give up his business."

"Do you know much about the business?"

"Not really, sorry. I'm a teacher myself. Business isn't something I'm particularly interested in. Just give me the money and let me get on with my rugby. Watching, playing or talking about it, I don't care."

"Was there anyone in the club who'd taken a dislike to Mr McCoull?"

"No. Steve was well liked across the board."

"So nobody?"

"Not Steve, no."

"What about friends in the club, then?"

"If you're meaning anyone he was close to then there's only really Eric Young and me. Roger and Tim, maybe."

"I see." Cullen got to his feet and handed him a card. "If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call us, okay?"

"Will do. I just..." Heald sucked in a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he clenched his fists. "Give me a minute or two in a room with whoever did this."