Cowboys and Indians (27 page)

‘Dean Vardy.’

Cullen stood outside the
Southside Cars
office, the harled wall gleaming white in the sunshine, and nodded at Bain, then Buxton. ‘Other units in place?’

‘Yeah. Vardy’s not at his home, his bookies or his pub.’

Cullen looked around the small team. ‘Let’s go, gentlemen.’

Bain shook his head. ‘Crystal’s not okayed this, has he?’

‘Doesn’t need to. There’s no crossover with the drug squad’s operation.’

‘I’m glad you don’t work for me anymore, Sundance.’

‘Not as much as I am.’ Cullen pointed for Bain and McCrea to go round the back, then got the two uniforms to guard the silver Škodas on the drive. A blue Subaru sat next to them, a strip at the top of the windscreen reading DEANO. ‘Come on, Si.’

He led inside the office. Fruit machine lights danced on the left, Sky Sports News HQ on a TV mounted on the right wall. Ahead was a wide reception desk, the door behind closed. Hip-hop blared from somewhere, liquid bass and gnarly vocals. Eminem.

A blonde girl looked up from her nails. ‘Can I help?’

‘DS Scott Cullen.’ Cullen held out his warrant card. ‘Is Mr Vardy here?’

‘He’s not in, sorry.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Haven’t seen him for a couple of days.’

Cullen gripped the edge of the counter. ‘Look, you—’ He stopped. Frowned at Buxton. There it was again — a loud snort came from somewhere. ‘Can you hear that, Constable?’

Buxton pointed behind her at the locked door. ‘Think it’s coming from through there.’

The receptionist was on her feet. ‘You can’t go—’

Cullen flipped up the desk partition. ‘We can.’

She slapped his arm, her palm cracking off his watch. ‘You can’t!’

Cullen pushed her back and knocked on the door. ‘Mr Vardy, it’s the police. Can you come out, please?’

No answer.

Cullen kept the receptionist at arm’s reach and knocked again. ‘I’m giving you a final chance. We’ve got reasonable cause to enter.’

Nothing again.

He nodded to his left. ‘Constable.’

Buxton cracked his knuckles. Took a step back and lurched forward, kicking the door.

The lock snapped and the door toppled open.

Dean Vardy was crouched over the desk, facing away. Wide shoulders rippling with muscles, his T-shirt stretching around thick triceps. One finger over his nose, snorting up a line of white powder while Eminem rapped. He spun round. ‘What the fu—’

‘Mr Vardy, we need a—’

Vardy widened his eyes. ‘
You?
’

‘—with you about—’

Vardy lashed out, his camel boot crunching into Buxton’s groin. ‘You fucking cunt!’

Cullen grabbed Vardy’s arm. ‘Mr Vardy, I’m arrest—’

Vardy launched his head forward.

Bone crunched in Cullen’s face. His nose exploded in a riot of pain. A fist thumped his stomach. He tumbled to his knees. Blinded by blood and tears, he reached out. Caught Vardy’s wrist. Twisted it round.

‘Aargh, you fucker!’

Cullen pulled Vardy to the floor and got on his back, left knee into the spine. ‘You’re under arrest!’

Vardy struggled around, kicking out, lashing with his arm. He failed to connect.

Cullen pressed his forehead into the carpet.

Buxton got up, clutching his balls. He got behind Cullen.

‘Si, can you cuff him?’

A black boot appeared, connecting with Vardy’s groin. He screamed out. ‘Fuck!’

Cullen snapped a cuff on each wrist and turned to glare at Buxton, wincing through the pain. ‘What did you do that for?’

Buxton shrugged. ‘He was resisting arrest, right?’

*
 
*
 
*

Cullen prowled the interview room, going behind Dean Vardy and Campbell McLintock. Rubbed his nose, specks of blood on the back of his hand. Second time in two days. Something felt loose in there.

He locked eyes with Buxton. ‘Mr Vardy, you assaulted my colleague.’

‘You boys burst into my office.’ Vardy sniffed and tugged his nose, sniffing again. ‘You’d no right doing that.’

‘What were you doing in there? Other than lines of cheap coke?’

Vardy craned his neck to look at Cullen. ‘You didn’t have a warrant.’

‘We had reasonable cause. You were using a Class A substance.’

Vardy stared at the desktop. ‘It’s for my asthma.’

‘Your asthma?’ Cullen winked at Buxton. ‘That’s a new one on me.’ He leaned forward to growl into Vardy’s ear. ‘That coke’s with our forensic team. There’s a hell of a lot of a particular type on the street just now. Be a shame if it traced back to you, wouldn’t it?’

‘Sergeant.’ McLintock rolled a tongue across his dry lips. He didn’t turn to look at Cullen, just stared at his vacant seat. ‘My client’s instructed me to make a formal complaint about ADC Simon Buxton’s conduct.’

‘We’ll deal with that once we’ve received it. If we receive it. I want to know about your client’s drug use.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you, him or anyone.’ Vardy snorted a couple of times. Grunted. ‘I’ve done fuck all.’

‘I’ll take that to mean you’ve not done anything illegal.’

‘Aye. That.’

‘Mr Vardy, once we link that cocaine to the stuff being sold on the street, you’ll be —’

‘That stuff’s for personal use.’ Vardy screwed up his face. ‘That’s it, okay?’

‘There’s no personal use protection for a Class A.’

‘I’m not dealing! Fuck’s sake.’ Vardy folded his arms, bulky at the biceps but thin at the wrist. ‘What do you fucking want to know?’

‘Are you dealing this stuff?’

‘I’ve said I’m not. Are you deaf?’

‘Sergeant, please can you get to the point?’

Cullen leaned on the edge of the table with both hands. ‘I deal with murders and other serious crimes. I’m not part of the drug squad.’

Vardy raised an eyebrow. ‘You saying they’re investigating me?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘So why are you raising it?’

Cullen swallowed. ‘We need to—’

‘Why the fuck have you got me in here?’

Cullen reached over to Buxton’s papers and snatched up a photo, tossing it on the table in front of Vardy. ‘Ever seen this man before?’

‘Am I supposed to?’

‘His name’s Jonathan van de Merwe. He took a tumble off a bridge early on Sunday morning.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’

‘Know anything about it?’

‘Should I?’

‘We found a bowl of cocaine in his house on Belford Road.’ Cullen left a long pause, watching Vardy for any reaction. Nothing. ‘Our forensic chemical analysis shows it matches a batch you’re selling.’

Vardy laughed. ‘I’m a legitimate businessman.’

‘Ah yes. You own a pub, a bookies and a taxi firm. And you’re only twenty-eight years old. I wonder where you got the cash to start that little empire.’

‘Twenty-nine, mate. Birthday last month.’

‘Many happy returns. Bet you’re glad you weren’t inside for big Shug to give you a special present.’

‘What the fuck are you saying?’

‘You managed to wriggle out of some serious crimes last time we spoke in January. Impressive work.’

‘My client’s innocence has been proven, Sergeant.’

‘Not by a court of law.’ Cullen switched his gaze to the lawyer, locking eyes. ‘Cases collapsing due to witnesses pulling out isn’t the same thing as being proven innocent.’

‘You didn’t even have enough to take it before a judge.’

Vardy prodded his septum. ‘What’s your game here?’

‘Talk to us about Mr Van de Merwe and we’ll see what we can do about the coke charges.’

‘I don’t know nothing about no coke, pal.’

‘So many negatives… What about the stuff you were snorting?’

‘You planted that.’

‘Mr Vardy, did you kill Mr Van de Merwe because he owed you money?’

‘What?’

‘He’s got a bowl of your coke. Lot of cash in that. Maybe five hundred grams? How much is that on the street?’

Vardy folded his hulking arms. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘It’s high five figures, at least. Price per gram’s pretty low just now, isn’t it?’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Did he owe you any money?’

‘I. Don’t. Deal. Drugs.’

Cullen held his stare. Vardy wasn’t looking away any time soon. ‘Okay, tell us about Christine Broadhurst.’

‘Candy?’ Vardy shrugged. ‘She works for me in Wonderland.’

Cullen frowned, tilting his head to the side. ‘You own it?’

‘Bought it off the model shop boy. Got approval to turn it into a lappy.’

‘I still don’t get where all the money’s coming from.’

‘It’s all legit.’

‘You been sleeping with her?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re happy with her taking her clothes off for other men?’

Vardy gave a shrug. ‘Beats what you do for a living.’

‘Is she still working as an escort?’

‘What?’

‘We understand she used to accompany lonely men to functions or dinner. Maybe give them something extra.’

Vardy ran a hand across his nose. ‘I’m trying to take her away from all that.’

‘Does she still do extras, now she’s your partner?’

‘She’s stopped that.’

‘Did any of this work go through you?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Are you going to beat her up as well?’

Vardy stabbed a finger at Cullen. ‘Those charges got dropped.’

‘My client will not answer any questions pertaining to other investigations.’

‘I bet he won’t.’ Cullen reached over to Buxton’s pile of papers and pulled out a document. He snapped the paper tight. ‘Candy’s admitted to working as an escort. Said she serviced Mr Van de Merwe on a few occasions. We’ve also got him paying for dances at Wonderland.’

‘So?’

‘I want to know where you were when he died.’

‘Which is when?’

‘Sunday morning, three thirty a.m.’

‘That’s easy.’ Vardy gave a chuckle. ‘I was on George Street. Just been in Tigerlily’s.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘Of course I am.’

Cullen took his time treading the squeaking floorboards to his seat. He collapsed into it, arms folded. ‘You weren’t at home?’

‘Nope.’

‘So you weren’t with Christine?’

Vardy gripped the edge of the table, his eyes narrow slits. ‘What?’

‘She says you were at home with her.’

‘Fuck.’ Vardy shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, hands covering his face. ‘Right.’

‘So, what was it? Cuddling up to Candy, where you’ve got no evidence, or outside Tigerlily, where we’ll get you on CCTV?’

Vardy looked away. ‘Tigerlily.’

‘We’ve got two separate witness statements of a woman in a cloak with the deceased. In about an hour, Ms Broadhurst will go in front of two line-ups.’

‘Eh?’

‘Did she push Mr Van de Merwe off the bridge?’

‘I don’t fucking know.’

‘If you help us with Candy, we’ll see what we can do about the drug charges.’

Vardy leaned over to whisper into McLintock’s ear and listened to the response before nodding. ‘Right. Candy’s pregnant.’ He glanced away. ‘I think this Van de Merwe cunt’s the father.’

‘That what she told you?’

The door burst open. Methven stomped into the room, eyes blazing. ‘Sergeant. A word.’

Cullen leaned across the table. ‘DI Methven has entered the room. Interview terminated at eleven eleven a.m.’ He got up and nodded at Buxton. ‘Stay here.’

‘Not going anywhere.’

Cullen left the room, feeling Vardy’s gaze burning into his back. He shut the door and braced himself for Methven’s onslaught.

‘Sergeant, I don’t know what the sodding hell you’re up to in there, but I want it to stop. Now.’

‘We’ve burst Candy’s alibi apart, sir. We’ve just established a motive for her to murder Van de Merwe.’

‘You went over my head and progressed the drug—’

‘This is a valid line of investigation.’

‘Your methods leave a lot to be desired. I’ve just received a sodding fax about ADC Buxton’s conduct. He kicked Vardy in the sodding balls!’

‘It was reasonable force, sir. Vardy kneed him first. I was having difficulty subduing him.’

‘This doesn’t look good.’

‘Look. He’s a big guy. That was the only option we had.’ Cullen smirked. ‘I’m sure you know what it feels like.’

‘You don’t mention that again, Cullen. I’m lucky to be an expectant father.’

Cullen felt his stomach lurch. ‘I didn’t know, sir. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ Methven rubbed his neck. ‘Sergeant, DI Wilkinson visited me in person. He’s taking this to DCS Soutar. This investigation is one of the Chief Constable’s pet projects.’

Cullen ground his teeth together. ‘We’ve done everything by the book, sir.’

Methven shook his head. ‘I thought we were past your cowboy behaviour.’

‘This is solid police work, sir.’

‘Just make sure it stands up in court.’

Cullen stopped outside the witness interview room and nodded at Eva. ‘She ready to go?’

‘Aye, Sarge. Just a sec, though.’ She folded her arms. ‘Just got back from Fettes. Paula’s got Vardy on CCTV. Vardy was in Tigerlily till three on Sunday morning, then was chatting to his mates on George Street.’

‘It’s definitely him?’

‘We spoke to the bouncers on that night. They know him.’

‘Good work.’ Cullen stared at the door. ‘You done a line-up before?’

‘Did a couple when I was in Davenport’s team.’

‘You’re leading, then.’ Cullen followed her into the interview room and leaned against the wall. He smiled at Suzanne Marshall. ‘Thanks for agreeing to do this.’

‘Just doing my civil duty, Sergeant. Nothing special about that.’ Suzanne adjusted her summer dress. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to get back in touch with me about my statement.’

Eva cued up the DVD player app on the laptop. ‘Mrs Marshall, I’m going to show you a series of images of women matching the description you gave us. I need you to look at the women on the screen and tell me if you recognise any of them.’

Suzanne nodded, her earring twinkling. ‘Okay.’

Eva clicked the mouse. ‘Here we go.’

The VIPER logo swooshed across the display. It switched to a woman staring at the camera. Shoulder-length dark hair. Tall. Tanned. Number one at the top left, a grey wall behind her. She looked to her left. Then right. Then straight ahead again.