No Less the Devil

35

‘...but I think it’s pretty clear there’s no love lost between the pair of them.’

‘Thank you, Nina. Xavier, you’ve got a story from the Daily Standard for us?’

Lucy polished off the last crust of toast and dumped her plate in the sink. Glanced up at the clock: quarter to seven. ‘Sod.’

‘Yeah, buckle up, cos they’re using a lot of alliteration this morning: “Randy Rhynie’s Russian Rumpy-Pumpy Row!” And we’ve got three pages featuring some pretty explicit photos of the Business Secretary, two members of the Russian embassy staff, and what looks like an illegal substance—’

She clicked off the radio, unplugged her new phone from its charger, and hurried for the door. Maybe if she cut down Granite Drive instead of taking the scenic route along the River Wynd? At least it was Saturday, so rush hour should be pretty much non-existent.

Grabbing her keys from the bowl — and that set she’d found, so it could finally go in the Lost and Found — she stuffed them into her overcoat pocket, grabbed her new brolly from the stand, hauled open the front door, and—

‘DS McVeigh, are you all right?’ It was sodding Charlie, from Professional Standards, standing on her top step, face creased up with concern, one hand raised as if he’d been just about to knock. He lowered it. ‘I tried calling, but there was no answer.’

Of course not, because her bloody phone had run out of battery before she’d even got home last night.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘They had to pull the unmarked car; some raid on a puppy farm went a bit... sour. Soon as I found out: came straight over.’ Turning to point at a manky little Fiat Panda, parked on the other side of the road. ‘Why didn’t you pick up?’

She thunked the door shut and locked it. ‘Told you: I don’t need a babysitter.’

‘Might rain today.’ He hooked a thumb at her overcoat. ‘Probably better take the waterproof.’

Patronizing dick.

‘It’s in the wash.’ Which is what she got for chucking bin bags about for a large chunk of last night. She stomped across the drive to Dad’s Bedford Rascal. ‘Don’t you have someone else to annoy?’

‘Nope. Chief Inspector Gilmore says you’re my top priority. So, where are we going?’

‘We’re going nowhere. I’m going to work.’ But by the time she’d unlocked the driver’s door, the little sod was already sitting in the passenger seat, smiling his bland little smile as he pulled on his seatbelt.

‘Don’t worry, I can pick up my car later.’

‘AAAARGH!’ Lucy’s scream echoed back from the woods opposite, borne on a cloud of pale-grey angry steam.

Lucy put her foot down, wheeching across the roundabout, onto Kingside Drive, heading for Dundas Bridge.

‘So...’ Charlie stared across the car at her, ‘yesterday we found out who the Bloodsmith is, today we find out where he’s hiding?’

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. ‘That’s the general idea, yes.’

‘And I suppose you’ll want to go after Benedict Strachan again?’

Lucy forced the words out through gritted teeth. ‘Please, I just want to get to work. In silence. OK? Can we do that?’ Up and over the slate-grey water, still running high from nearly a week of solid rain.

All the way into town and he’d barely shut up once. As if he was actively trying to make the spiky headache, clawing away at the back of her eyes, as bad as possible.

Charlie drummed his fingers on the dusty dashboard, because God forbid he wasn’t annoying for two sodding seconds. ‘I don’t see him as the kind of guy who does things on the fly; Benedict’s more of a plotter and planner. And I get the feeling he’ll have done most of that while he was still inside — working out how to get away with it this time.’

She slowed the van as they made landfall in Castle Hill, coasting down to the roundabout, the ruins looming high on the clifftop above. ‘We’ve got door-to-doors, we’ve got lookout requests at every police station from Inverness to Edinburgh, we’ve got “Have you seen this man?” posters going up today, what else are we supposed to do? Can’t just magic him up out of nowhere.’

‘Odds are Benedict spent last night picking his target and working out the best route of escape.’ Charlie’s brow furrowed. ‘Biggest concentration of rough sleepers is around St Jasper’s Lane, isn’t it? Lots of CCTV down there: we might get lucky?’

She shook her head, waiting for a gap to leap into, round the roundabout onto the dual carriageway. ‘Loads of those small streets don’t have any cameras. If I was him, I’d be looking to pick someone up on Wool Lane, Needle Street, Porter Lane... maybe Waites Avenue? Or there’s all those little alleyways off Archers Lane.’

‘True.’

‘That way he’s got easy access to Camburn Woods. Loads of places to get rid of a body in there.’ Lucy took a left at the lights, along McLaren Avenue. ‘And it puts a hefty buffer zone between the murder and where he’s stashed his dad’s Audi. Be a long walk — through the woods, all the way to Lomas Drive — but he could be driving out of town in... twenty minutes?’

‘Probably more like half an hour, if he’s really moving. And he’ll still have to dig the car out, remember?’ More drumming fingers. ‘Or maybe he’s hunting in the forest?’ The deep green mass of Camburn Woods reared up ahead, spreading out on the right as they drove past the halls of residence. ‘Must be two or three illegal camps in there, sort of small shanty villages. Wouldn’t be hard to wait till the wee small hours and pick someone off?’

‘Hmmm... Don’t know.’ She slowed to let an auld mannie in pyjamas and an overcoat shuffle across the road, pulled along by a wee Westie terrier on the end of a tartan lead. ‘Benedict’s spent the last sixteen years in prison: he’s used to rules and routine. Out here, in the real world, it’s all new and strange and scary. He’s paranoid; he panics. So he’s going to want somewhere he’s familiar with. Somewhere he knows.’ Man and dog made the opposite pavement and disappeared into the trees. Lucy sped up again. ‘I think he’ll try the same area as last time. We should focus on where he killed Liam Hay.’

A smile. ‘Hey, look at us: working together.’ Charlie reached across and gave her a gentle punch on the shoulder. ‘We make a good team, DS McVeigh.’

God help her...

Lucy parked the Bedford Rascal in the same spot as yesterday, locking the van and marching off, leaving Charlie to scamper after her like the Dunk always had to.

If they were going to be a ‘team’ it wouldn’t hurt the boy from Professional Standards to learn his place.

He caught up with her far too quickly, not even breathing hard. ‘So, when you get your hands on Benedict Strachan’s file from Old Nick’s, do you think it’ll back up your theory? About him being a creature of habit?’

‘How did you know about—’

‘You told me, on the way over, remember?’

Did she?

Must’ve done. She’d been too busy fuming at the irritating sod to pay attention — that was the problem. Dr McNaughton was always banging on about that. Anger dulls the senses, Lucy... Being angry with people means you can’t pay proper attention to what they’re saying, Lucy... Being angry will never make you happy, Lucy.

At least he was right about that last one. It didn’t help the headaches, either.

They turned the corner onto St Jasper’s Lane and she nipped into the small Co-op for a packet of aspirin, one of paracetamol, and something to wash them down with.

‘So...?’ Charlie was waiting for her outside, hands in his pockets, as if they were out for a casual stroll.

She popped two of each pill from their blister packs, chasing them with a swig of Lucozade, then picked up the pace, swinging around onto Peel Place. ‘I already know Benedict’s a creature of habit. When I interviewed him for my thesis, that was about the only thing he was honest about.’

‘You’re probably right. We could...’ Charlie’s eyebrows went up, eyes widening as he stared down the road. ‘Oh dear.’

It looked as if every news agency on the planet had descended on O Division headquarters: outside-broadcast vans, bristling with satellite dishes and antennae; dented estate cars from the smaller channels with just a single cameraman and a presenter; grubby hatchbacks and saloons, their owners out enjoying a fag in the sunshine, with a couple of heavy-duty cameras hanging around their necks; men and women with mobile phones and domestic video cameras, filming themselves as they pulled serious faces and read their scripts. As if having a YouTube channel made you an investigative journalist.

They filled the space in front of DHQ, spilling down the steps and out onto the tarmac, where a couple of uniforms in high-vis did their best to keep the road clear so the police could go about their daily business of keeping Oldcastle from eating itself.

Nearly every one of the patrol cars that slid by the crowd of reporters whacked its lights and siren on as it passed, either to show off in an attempt to get on the news, or because someone up top had told them to spoil as many takes as possible.

Lucy and Charlie nipped across to the opposite side of the road, not making eye contact with anyone, ducking behind the war memorial.

He peered around the side. ‘Any sign of her?’

‘Any sign of who?’

‘Your nemesis, AKA: Sarah Black. She’s bound to be here somewhere... Yup, there she is: eleven o’clock. Today’s banner is “POLICE KILLER MURDERED MY LITTLE BOY!” all in caps, with a photo of Neil Black on it.’

No doubt peddling her lies to anyone gullible enough to listen. ‘Shite-faced old bag.’

‘Yes, but...’ Charlie grimaced. ‘What she’s doing is crappy, no two ways about it — harassing you, the name-calling, the spurious complaints — but she’s not doing it for fun, is she? She’s doing it because her son’s dead and she can’t cope with the thought that she raised a monster.’ Both shoulders came up in a what-ya-gonna-do-about-it gesture. ‘You killed her little boy; she’s got to blame someone.’

‘I didn’t want to kill him, OK? I had no choice! He did. He got himself a rape kit and he went hunting for someone to use it on. The only person to blame for Neil Black’s death is Neil Sodding Black.’

Charlie squeezed Lucy’s arm. ‘I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier on his mother.’

‘Screw her.’

‘Lucy, she’s only human.’

‘SO WAS GILLIAN!’ Shoving him away to bounce off the war memorial, the sunny morning wobbling at the edges, breath burning in her throat. ‘And screw you, too. I get enough analysis from that prick McNaughton; I don’t need any from you!’

She marched out from behind the statue, leading the bronze figures in a charge down the street towards the back entrance to Divisional Headquarters. Them with their bayonets fixed, her with the St Nick’s umbrella grasped like a cudgel. Scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

Charlie appeared at her side again. ‘Hey, at least it’s not all bad.’ Pointing back at the crowd. ‘Look, it’s whatshername, Craig Thorburn’s mother.’

‘Judith.’

She was wrapped up in a heavy coat and scarf, standing in front of the O Division sign, holding a placard in the shape of a heart — not a schmaltzy Valentine’s one, the proper anatomical human kind. Gesticulating wildly as she talked to someone from Sky News. Glancing at the camera every couple of seconds, as if she didn’t really trust it.

‘At least you know she’s got your back, right?’

Lucy curled her lip and kept on marching. ‘Can’t believe Judith Thorburn’s up this early; probably still drunk from last night. It’s a miracle she sobered up long enough to make a placard.’

‘Wow.’ Charlie stopped, letting the distance grow between them. ‘What the hell happened to make you so cynical?’

Neil Black.

When everyone had a mug of instant coffee and an off-brand Jaffa Cake, DI Tudor brought Morning Prayers to order. ‘All right: settle down, settle down.’

It took a moment or three, but finally Operation Maypole shut its communal cakehole and faced front. The whole team was in this morning, each group gathered beneath their dangling signs. And, for a change, most of them were actually smiling. And they weren’t alone: a dozen Uniform stood at the back, while a handful of support staff loitered by the filing cabinets. Extra resources, drafted in to help catch Dr John Christianson.

Tudor perched on the edge of a desk, at the front of the room, beneath the pull-down screen. ‘Now, you can probably all guess from the circus outside, we had a massive breakthrough yesterday, thanks to our very own DS McVeigh and DC Fraser, who—’

A cheer went up, as if they were at a football match and the home team had just fouled the opposition striker. There was even a scattering of applause.

Lucy buried her face in her mug, but the Dunk stood and gave everyone a bow.

When the noise died down again, Tudor nodded. ‘That’s right, they did a great job. Excellent work. What’s less great is that someone leaked that fact to the press last night!’ Scowling out at the assembled hordes. ‘Do I really have to give you lot the “Don’t talk to the media!” speech again? Because DON’T TALK TO THE SODDING MEDIA!’

Dead silence.

‘Jesus Christ, people, this is an inquiry into seven murders; what about that do you not take seriously?’

There was some shuffling of feet.

Tudor let the embarrassment fester for a long moment, then nodded. ‘We are now a zero-tolerance operation. Understood? Good. Someone kill the lights.’ He plucked a remote from the desk beside him and pointed it at the back of the room.

Two plainclothes shut the blinds while someone else clicked the switches, plunging them all into gloom.

A face appeared on the screen behind Tudor, partially covering him and casting a shadow.

‘Dr John Christianson.’

That familiar high forehead, with a fringe of brown hair curling around it. It must’ve been an old photograph, because Christianson had lost a fair bit of weight since then. This Christianson didn’t have the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes — the bags under them were barely visible. His beard and moustache were a lot neater in the photo, too, and he was smiling. Wearing the same little round glasses, though.

‘Christianson lectures in psychology at Dundas University, where he does paid studies on students and members of the public. That’s how he selects his victims — signs them up for research into loneliness, picks the ones he likes, and butchers them.’

A posh Inverness accent cut across the room. ‘It’s really rather clever, isn’t it?’ Then Assistant Chief Constable ‘Freaky’ Findlay Cormac-Fordyce sauntered over to perch on the opposite edge of Tudor’s desk. ‘Hope you don’t mind, Detective Inspector, I snuck in just before the lights went down.’

Difficult to tell if Tudor was going red in the gloom, but probably. ‘Not at all, Boss.’ He folded his arms, legs crossed at the ankle.

Yeah, because that didn’t make him look sulky and defensive at all. No, no, no.

‘Excellent.’ Findlay beamed out at them all. ‘As I was saying, it shows how intelligent our killer is: he performs a psychological analysis on each individual before deciding whether to kill them or not. In a way he’s not “selecting” them, he’s making them active participants. He’s recruiting them. And he only recruits the ones he thinks no one will miss — hence the focus on loneliness.’ A smile. ‘His case files make fascinating reading.’

And that was pretty much it — ACC Cormac-Fordyce took over the rest of the briefing, all except for the admin bit at the end, when he gave them what was probably meant to be a rousing motivational speech instead, then made his excuses and sodded off. Leaving a boot-faced DI Tudor to sort out who was on which team and what they were meant to do today.

Lucy and the Dunk sat there, in an ever-dwindling pool of personnel, as everyone else was given an assignment and sent on their way. Eventually, they were the only ones left. Well, them, DI Tudor, and Charlie — loitering by the coffee machine, helping himself to the not-quite Jaffa Cakes.

She stood. ‘Something wrong, Boss? Well, other than... you know.’ Tilting her head towards the door the ACC had swept out of. ‘What about me and—’

‘The man’s an arsehole.’ Scowling in the same direction. ‘Waltzes in here, like he’s Lord of the Flies. Oh yes, I’m in “sole charge” when they think it’s going down the crapper, but the minute we make progress, it’s—’

‘Only how come me and the Dunk didn’t get a job?’

Tudor’s whole face pinched — the muscles in his stubbled jaw clenching and unclenching, as if he was trying to grind his teeth into powder. Then a long, shuddering sigh. ‘I haven’t given you two a job, because unlike some senior officers, I learn my lessons. You went off dancing to your own tune yesterday, and I gave you a bollocking for it, but you’re the ones who made the only breakthrough we’ve had in over a year. So I’m cutting you free, Lucy.’

He was firing them? Shuffling them off to another operation? How was that fair?

‘Boss?’

‘You and the Dunk are now investigators without portfolio — you can look into anything you think warrants looking into. If you find something: shout and we’ll come running. I trust you.’ He pulled his shoulders back. ‘Now get out there and find me the Bloodsmith.’

36

‘Well, that was unexpected.’ The Dunk leaned on the handrail, staring out at Kings River as the wind whipped it against the tide — seagulls scudding sideways across a sapphire sky. The ash from his cigarette whirling away after them. ‘Who’d have thought?’

Lucy picked a stone from the path and hurled it out into the churning grey water. ‘Thanks, Dunk. It’s great to know you’re so completely shocked that someone thinks we’re not idiots.’

‘Yeah, but... “investigators without portfolio”. Makes us sound like Holmes and Watson, doesn’t it? Am I going to have to blog about everything we do and be really condescending about the local plod now? Because, clearly, Holmes is a posh twat and Watson is a doctor — which means he’s got a profession-based promotion to second-division posh twatdom — while the police are just working-class hoi-polloi thickies who need the gentry to come in and teach them how to do their jobs.’

Another stone went flying. ‘You finished?’

‘Barely even started.’ A sniff. ‘Think DI Tudor’s our Lestrade, now?’

Charlie hung back, sheltering in the lee of a notice board announcing upcoming attractions at Kings Park and Dundas House. Fiddling with his phone and, wisely, keeping his mouth shut, because engaging with the Dunk when he was like this only ever made it worse.

‘You do know this means we’ve got even more pressure on us to find the Bloodsmith?’

‘Yeah.’ The Dunk leaned even further forward, till his chest was up against the rail. ‘I noticed that, too.’ A sigh. ‘So, where do we start, Holmes?’

Lucy’s phone buzzzzzzz-dinged in her pocket. ‘How about we go back to Dr Christianson’s house and see what we can dig up? Might be some clue where he’s hiding himself.’ She pulled out her mobile. Two unread text messages — the one that had just come in, and one from last night.

‘Worth a try.’ The Dunk straightened up and pinged his dogend away into the river, because when you smoked, the world was your ashtray. ‘Search team must’ve finished with it by now.’

According to the timestamp, that first text had arrived just after midnight.

Sod. That’s what she got for not spending the extra cash on a phone with a better battery.

Text number two.

Squiffy? What kind of grown man used words like ‘squiffy’? Still, at least he hadn’t signed off with anything like ‘fondest regards’ or ‘yours sincerely’ this time. And he was going to give her Benedict Strachan’s file.

Question was: did she need to take the Dunk with her?

Now there was a romance killer.

Not that she was after any romance. But it might put Argyll off cooperating if the Dunk was there. So really she was helping the investigation by leaving him behind.

Lucy thumped a hand down on the Dunk’s shoulder. ‘I think you’re right about Dr Christianson’s house. But first, let’s get some background done: bit of context so we know what we’re looking at. Head back to the ranch and pull everything you can on him. Not just PNC stuff, either: the full Facebook, Google, Twitter, LinkedIn, and anything else you can find.’

‘No point, Sarge’ He sparked up another cigarette, cupping the lighter’s flame against the wind. ‘Tudor’s already got Emma’s team on research. They’ll be doing all that.’

‘Her IT guy’s DC Steve Johnson, isn’t he?’

The Dunk stiffened. ‘That prick?’

Lucy shrugged. ‘But he’ll probably do a decent job of digging up anything important about Dr Christianson, won’t he? You know, what with him being so good with computers. No way you’d be better at it, on account of him being such a genius and everything.’

‘Yeah, but...’ A long drag on the cigarette. A shuffle of the feet. ‘You see, Sarge, Christianson: he’s been targeting you, right? At your house, slashing your tyres, following you around all day? He’s doing that for a reason.’

‘If he really wanted to hurt me, he’s had plenty of opportunity to try. Instead he’s stuck with being a pain in the arse. Probably because he knows I’d kick his for him.’

‘Is it worth the risk, though?’

‘Don’t be daft, I’m fine.’ She pulled back her shoulders. ‘Now, can I count on you to dig up something useful, or can’t I?’

‘Course you can.’ Chin up, like a good little soldier.

And yes, strictly speaking, she was just getting shot of him for a couple of hours, but he liked all that computer nonsense, so what was the harm?

‘Meantime, give me the keys to the pool car. I want to go check something out.’

‘You’re like a bloody limpet!’ Lucy clenched her jaw as the pool car weaved its way through Auchterowan, following the diversion signs — which seemed to bypass the main square via the most meandering route known to man. As if they’d done it on purpose, so everyone would have to experience as much of the town’s neatly-laid-out-two-storey-sandstone-Scottish-vernacular bollocks as possible. Every now and then, glimpses of the farmers’ market responsible appeared down a side street, all gay and multicoloured and twee.

Bastards.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Charlie stretched out in the passenger seat, hands behind his head, irritating bland smile on his face as usual. ‘Limpets are an important part of the coastal ecosystem; they—’

‘I take it back, you’re not a limpet, you’re a barnacle.’ AKA: a huge drag on her arse.

That’s what she got for not locking the car soon as she got into it.

One more hard left and they were back on the road leading north out of town, following the signs for St Nicholas College.

She glowered at him. ‘I’m trying to get information out of this guy, and I don’t want you hanging around, spooking him. You stay in the car and you don’t interfere.’

The sandstone houses gave way to fields and drystane dykes. Happy clean sheep in the fields, unlike the soggy miserable things that had milled about outside Dr Christianson’s house.

Lucy put her foot down as they left the town limits. ‘I mean it, Charlie.’

‘I’ll be a ghost. They won’t even know I’m there, promise.’

Why did that sound sodding unlikely?

Argyll must’ve left word that she’d be coming, because the broken-nosed porter took one look at Lucy and waved the car through.

‘It’s huge.’ Charlie sat forward, gawping at the school’s façade — towers and turrets glowing in the sunlight, as if they’d been burnished. ‘How much do you think this place costs to run? Must be a fortune; no wonder the fees are crippling.’

She parked in the same spot as last time, but instead of under-prefect Skye McCaskill, it was Allegra Dean-Edwards waiting for her. She’d brought a great big lump of a boy with her — unruly blond hair, puppy-fat cheeks, and the kind of easy smile that implies not all the lightbulbs are working to full brightness. They were both wearing their school uniform, complete with academic gown and two white epaulettes. No brolly this time, though.

Lucy unfastened her seatbelt. ‘Stay — in — the — car!’

A nod from Charlie. ‘Like a ghost.’

She climbed out into the sunshine. ‘Allegra.’

‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh, how nice to see you again. When the assistant headmaster said you might be visiting us, I insisted on being allowed to escort you.’

Lucy thumped the car door shut, sealing Charlie inside. ‘That’s very kind.’ Which was a massive lie, but Allegra didn’t need to know that.

The three of them headed off through the archway, into the quad.

‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Ah, yes, indeed.’ The big lump stuck out a huge hand for her to shake as they marched along the path. ‘Hugo. Lovely to meet you, et cetera, pleasure’s all mine.’

Allegra shot her companion an indulgent smile. ‘Hugo’s my “academic brother”; the school pairs us up to—’

‘I know what an academic brother is.’ Lucy pointed at the ancient oak tree, now sporting a handful of small orange flags among the black and red ribbons. ‘They’ve started Trencher Day early this year.’

See? I know how the school works just as well as you do, you precocious little shite.

‘Yes. It’s getting so commercialized these days, isn’t it?’ Precocious and sarcastic.

They turned onto the path to the Moonfall Gate.

‘So what do you want to be when you grow up, Hugo?’

‘Aha, “To be or not to be, that is the question!” as mine dear papa would say.’

‘Hugo’s going to follow in the family footsteps and run for Parliament, aren’t you, Hugo?’ It didn’t sound as if Hugo had much of a say in it. ‘He’s going to lead the country, one day.’

‘Indubitably!’

The Moonfall Gate loomed over them, its ancient stones carved with the faces of mythical beasts.

‘Which country?’

Allegra frowned as they stepped out the other side, sounding genuinely surprised at the question. ‘You know, I haven’t decided, yet.’

They walked onto the playing fields in silence.

Given there were only thirteen kids accepted every year, nearly all of them must’ve been out here this morning. That would be, what, seventy-eight children in total? Half a dozen of them did laps of a professional-looking track, while a small troupe of five children, all dressed up in white karate outfits, went through a synchronized repertoire of moves and a very large man shouted things at them in Mandarin. Off in the middle distance, a trio of horses and riders headed out towards Holburn Forest for a hack. Leaving just enough kids for one game of cricket, one of rugby, and a five-a-side football match — the only spectators being a handful of teachers in their school uniforms.

Bit different from the rectangle of half-dead grass round the back of Moncuir Academy...

Here’s what you could’ve won.

Allegra broke the silence, leading the way towards the nearest rugby pitch. ‘I see you’ve managed to identify the Bloodsmith, Detective Sergeant McVeigh?’

‘I...’ That was a bit creepy, especially when the investigation hadn’t released who’d been responsible for IDing Dr Christianson. Perhaps she just meant ‘you’ as in ‘Police Scotland’? ‘We did.’

‘You’re too modest. One of the victims’ mothers was on the news this morning, telling everyone how brilliant you are.’

Urgh... Judith Thorburn strikes.

‘We have to do a project in first term: “Inspirational characters in real life from whom we can garner important life lessons.” I’d like to do mine about you, if you’d be happy with that?’

Hugo lolloped along at her side. ‘I’m doing Alexander the Third of Macedon. Chap might’ve been a bit of a woofter, but he’d still conquered half the known world by the time he was thirty.’

Oh joy, just what society needed: another half-wit, homophobic, overprivileged tosser destined for greatness. As if there weren’t enough of those already.

Yeah, Lucy was definitely spending too much time with the Dunk.

Allegra pointed towards the small knot of teachers watching the rugby match. ‘Do you want to let the assistant headmaster know we have his guest, Hugo?’

‘Yes. Indeed. Won’t be a tick.’ And he was off at a lumbering jog.

Lucy waited until he was out of earshot. ‘So... boyfriend?’

A full-on laugh rang out into the sunshine. ‘No. Hugo is many things, but my “boyfriend” is not one of them.’

‘He thinks he is.’

‘Hugo has connections. Leveraged properly, he really could go all the way to Bute House or Number Ten. With the right person to guide him.’

Over on the rugby pitch, a large girl with pale-brown hair scored a try.

‘And let me guess: you’re the right person?’

This time Allegra’s smile looked genuine. ‘As the saying goes: “If you’d be the power behind the throne, you must first find someone to sit in it.”’

An eleven-year-old Machiavelli. How lovely.

‘So, DS McVeigh, how did you find out who the Bloodsmith is?’

‘I followed the evidence.’

They’d reached the edge of the pitch, where the large girl was lining up to convert her try. A poooomph and the ball sailed over the bar and between the goalposts, eliciting a cheer and a round of applause.

‘Can I ask you a personal question, Detective Sergeant, as you asked about my relationship status with Hugo?’

‘Depends.’

Now they were closer, the figure of Argyll McCaskill was easy to pick out from the other two teachers. One was a dumpy man with a florid face and a flat cap; his colleague had her hair in a shiny shoulder-length bob with a fringe that nearly covered her eyes. All three wearing their dark-grey suits and academic robes.

‘When you left here, on Thursday, I looked you up online.’

Lucy could feel her shoulders being dragged down. No prizes for guessing where this was going. ‘Did you now.’ Picking up the pace a little.

‘Not everyone would’ve survived if they’d been in your position. I’m pretty sure ninety-nine percent of them would be dead, because they lacked the intelligence and fortitude to do what had to be done.’

‘It wasn’t a game.’ Not looking down at her.

‘No, but it was a test: can you triumph against overwhelming odds, or will you let this horrible little man kill you?’ Allegra skipped ahead, till she was in front of Lucy, then turned so she was going backwards at a matching pace. ‘That’s why I think you’d be great for my project. It’s not enough to be a smart and confident woman in today’s world, you have to be willing and able to take up arms against the predatory toxic masculinity and insidious rape culture endemic in our society.’

Ignore her, maybe she’ll go away.

‘You faced the ultimate expression of male violence against women, and you didn’t just endure, you crushed it.’ Allegra held up a hand, fingers splayed, then clenched it into a fist. Just like Gillian did on that horrible night. ‘That’s why I think you’re so inspiring.’

The trio of spectators were just up ahead — Hugo standing off to one side, grinning away like a bear. He was already nearly as tall as Argyll. No doubt about it, when that kid finally finished growing, he’d be massive.

Lucy frowned at Allegra. ‘Killing someone isn’t inspiring, it’s tragic.’

Allegra shook her head as they came to a halt. ‘If it comes to kill-or-be-killed, always plan to be on the side that doesn’t die.’

‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh?’ Argyll raised a hand. ‘How nice to see you again.’ As if this was all a big surprise and he hadn’t sent Allegra and Hugo to fetch her.

‘Assistant Headmaster McCaskill.’

‘Excuse me.’ He turned and frowned out at the pitch. ‘WILKINSON! PASS THE BALL, FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE, BOY! THERE ARE FIFTEEN PEOPLE ON THE TEAM, NOT JUST YOU!’ He rolled his eyes and shared a wry smile with Lucy. ‘We try teaching our students to be team players, but I tell you: it’s an uphill struggle with some of them.’

Lucy and Argyll stood side by side as the game lumbered on in a scrappy, messy, not-a-lot-happening fashion — both teams being blissfully free from the twin burdens of skill and talent.

‘So... you coach rugby now?’ Lucy looked him up and down. ‘Bit overdressed for it, aren’t you? Thought a Saturday-morning kickabout would be more of a hoodie-and-jogging-bottoms deal.’

‘That’s the joy of being on the faculty — you always have to set a good example. And without wishing to be my own brass section, I understand it’s important to impress the female of the species with tales of sporting prowess, so: there isn’t a single activity going on today that I haven’t coached over the years.’

One of the younger kids grabbed the ball from the grass at his feet and promptly dropped it again, making his whole team groan.

‘Horse riding, football, athletics, karate, and cricket?’

A smile. ‘Especially cricket. And I won trophies in my martial-arts days, thank you very much.’ The smile vanished and he clapped his hands a couple of times. ‘COME ON, DUNWOODY, RUN! YOU’LL NEVER GET ANYWHERE IF YOU DON’T PICK UP YOUR FEET!’ Back to Lucy. ‘So, Benedict Strachan.’ A grimace curdled his features. ‘I had a look at his file. Surprised he got as far as the entrance exam, to be honest. Not really our sort of student at all. OH, DO WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, FITZROY-SMITH! Honestly, that boy’s got the coordination of a drunken wildebeest. Of course we’ve come a long way since then; our analytical tools wouldn’t let a substandard candidate like that through the preliminary round. He was clearly unstable.’

‘Clearly?’

‘As in: someone should have called social services. Going by his entrance essay, Benedict Strachan was a very disturbed little boy. Would you like to see?’

Damn right she would.

37

Argyll waved at the woman with the shiny bob. ‘Mrs Blenkinsop, can you take over, here? I’ve promised Detective Sergeant McVeigh a tour of the facilities.’

‘My pleasure, Assistant Headmaster. YOU THERE, FARQUHARSON JUNIOR, HANDS OUT OF YOUR POCKETS, GIRL! THIS IS A RUGBY GAME, NOT A PRIMARY-SCHOOL DISCO!’

The sounds of unenthusiastic running around faded into the background as Lucy followed Argyll back towards the school buildings. Leaving Allegra and her minion behind.

‘Your Miss Dean-Edwards wants to do me as her first-term project. Apparently, I’m an “inspiration”.’

‘Well, you did make quite an impact on her with your first visit. That speech about not playing clever buggers with the police? She’s applied your advice to her schoolwork, too.’ He took hold of the front of his academic robes, like a barrister about to argue a case. ‘It’s only been a day and a half, and she’s like a different person. You know what we were talking about the other day? About her playing chess in her head, and being a bit...’ Pantomiming a shudder again. ‘Completely changed. Normally you’d have to break someone like Allegra down, then rebuild her from scratch, but you managed it in, what, half a dozen sentences?’ He pulled one shoulder up. ‘That sounds fairly inspirational to me.’

Hadn’t stopped Allegra being a creepy little madam, though. Even if Argyll couldn’t see through her sheep’s clothing to the wolf beneath.

They walked back through the Moonfall Gate into the quadrangle.

‘This way.’ Leading her across to the same ancient tower as last time. ‘Ten past nine’s a bit early for lunch, but perhaps I could tempt you to a spot of brunch in the Teachers’ Lounge afterwards? Our head chef worked at the Peat Inn, Moor Hall, and Le Gavroche.’

‘I’m supposed to be working a murder inquiry.’

‘Ah...’ He wilted a little. ‘Yes, of course, I quite understand. Priorities and all that.’ Forcing a smile. ‘The Bloodsmith. It was on the news this morning.’

Urgh... Why did he have to have those big brown puppy-dog eyes?

And it wasn’t as if he’d been anything other than nice and kind and decent.

Lucy huffed out a long breath.

Come on, take a chance for once.

She glanced up at that disappointed face. ‘But maybe we could take a rain check for when this is all over and life can return to normal? Or, at least, as normal as Oldcastle ever gets.’

‘Yes, please!’ There was a pause, then pink rushed up his cheeks. ‘Actually, that might have come across as a little less cool and laid-back than I’d been hoping for.’ He opened the door to the admin tower for her. ‘Can we forget that bit and pretend that I was all suave instead?’

‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

There was no one on the reception desk to watch the pair of them climb the stairs past rank after rank of ex-pupil portraits, up to the second floor. Its small landing was festooned with yet more photos — arranged around a single door: ‘RECORDS R — Z ~ STAFF ONLY’.

Argyll unlocked it. ‘Now, you understand that I shouldn’t really be showing you any of this? I shouldn’t even be letting you in here. But I’m trusting you, OK?’

Two people in one day: first DI Tudor, now him. It was weirdly touching.

‘Thank you’ — giving Argyll’s arm a small squeeze — ‘I appreciate it.’

‘Just don’t tell anyone.’ He pushed the door open, revealing a wall of... well, they were like filing cabinets, but instead of being shoulder height, they stretched all the way up to the high ceiling, forming an impenetrable barrier a couple of paces in. They weren’t made out of beige-painted steel, either: they were crafted from wood and burnished to a red-brown sheen. There were more on the wall to either side of the door, creating a filing canyon with a marble-tiled floor.

Lucy followed him inside, craning her head back to take in the upper drawers. A black metal rail ran the length of the stack, just beneath the ceiling, with a steep ladder attached at the top by rollers. She let out a low whistle. ‘I thought it’d be all computers in here.’

‘St Nicholas College is very careful about its students’ personal data. Too careful to leave it plugged into something that can be hacked from the other side of the world, or stolen on a USB stick.’ There was another bank of ceiling-height cabinets against the end wall, and Argyll walked into the narrow valley between the two rows, running his finger along the panelled wood. It wasn’t quite wide enough for the pair of them to walk side by side, so Lucy had to tag along behind.

The whole place smelled of cedarwood, beeswax furniture polish, and the faint smoky-sweet tang of pipe tobacco.

At the end of the row there was a ninety-degree left turn as the stacks followed the inner walls of the tower.

‘Bit of a maze.’

He nodded. ‘Our founding fathers had some interesting ideas about how to keep information safe.’ Halfway down this side there was an opening through into another layer — more ceiling-high cabinets facing each other across a narrow strip of marble. ‘Technically, it doesn’t qualify as a maze, but it does take a while to get your head around how to find anything. And every one of the four record rooms is laid out differently, because the aforementioned founding fathers were sadists.’

They were going back the way they’d come, past more and more wooden drawers, each one bearing a small hand-written label. Argyll took a left, a right, another right, a left... until finally they arrived at a small seating area complete with antique desk and modern office chair. It even had a view: a thin slice of the playing fields visible through a narrow window set into the thick tower walls.

‘If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch Benedict’s file for you.’ Argyll pulled the chair out for her, then disappeared off into the stacks again.

Lucy wandered over to the nearest filing drawer and read the label. Then the one next to it: nothing exciting, just names. Only they didn’t seem to be in any sensible order: ‘SINCLAIR, HELEN’ was wedged in between ‘TANAKA, ICHIKA’ and ‘VOLKOVA-KOVALEVSKAYA, MIROSLAVA’, with ‘TEMPLETON-BAIN, DAVID (III)’ next in line. You’d have to be psychic to find anything.

There didn’t seem to be any distinction between boys and girls, though — no pink drawers and blue drawers — so that was something. Even an establishment as fusty as St Nick’s had dragged itself into the twenty-first century.

Unfortunately, they were all locked. But that was OK. She was only here for Benedict Strachan’s file.

Mind you, it’d be interesting to see what hers contained. And even more interesting to see what the school had to say about everyone’s favourite Russian-embassy-staff-shagging idiot, Business Secretary Paul Rhynie. Bet the tabloids would love to get their hands on that.

And this floor was R to Z, so his file was bound to be in here... somewhere.

Lucy turned on the spot — the cabinets lining this small work area were only a fraction of the stacks that filled the place. Given the labyrinthine layout and completely random filing system, who knew how long it’d take to find Rhynie’s school records?

She went back to the desk and sat in the office chair, setting its wheels squealing as they rolled on the polished tiles. Frowned out the narrow window. Couldn’t quite see the rugby pitches from here, so no idea if creepy Allegra and her minion were still out there, watching the match. Or if she’d taken Hugo away to coach him in the grift and graft of British politics.

The Dunk would have a field day with that. Class warfare writ—

‘Here we go.’ Argyll reappeared, holding a manila folder in both hands. ‘Now, before I give you this, we need to go through the school rules.’

‘OK.’

‘One: no food or drink in the record rooms. Two: only St Nicholas College staff allowed in here. Three: no files are to be removed from this room by anyone other than the headmaster or his duly appointed representative. Four: no files are to be removed from school grounds under any circumstances, and that includes copies — electronic or otherwise.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not even with a warrant?’

‘Then we’re into a whole different set of rules, policies, and procedures.’

Of course they were.

‘So, if I find something that helps me catch Benedict Strachan before he kills again...?’

‘You either didn’t find it here, or you get a warrant and come back so we can make it official.’ Argyll held the file against his chest, crumpling his school tie. ‘I can’t begin to describe how much trouble I’d be in if anyone found out I was doing this.’ Then he placed the file on the desk in front of her. ‘But, like I said, I’m trusting you.’

‘Understood.’ Lucy opened the folder.

There was a fair bit of paper inside: maybe seventy or eighty pages? She slid it all out and flicked through the sheets. They’d kept every test Benedict had done as part of the entrance procedure — the same ones she’d taken, the year after — IQ test; EQ test; aptitude test; personality test; history, maths, science, and English tests. All of them filled out in black biro and an eleven-year-old’s handwriting. Each one came with an evaluation by one or more staff members, commenting on Benedict as a prospective student and boarder.

She sorted it all into piles, pretty much covering the desktop. ‘His mum and dad only live in the Wynd, why not commute?’

‘We don’t accept day-boys, or day-girls. If you come to St Nicholas, you’re here full-time. It’s the only way we can be sure our students get the full benefit of their education.’

Bet they said the same at Jonestown and Waco.

Lucy started at the beginning — the aptitude test.

Strange how the memory of taking it was so clear: what felt like hundreds of boys and girls, all crammed in with her, sitting in the draughty Grand Hall at their little wooden desks on their hard wooden chairs while a big clock tick-tick-ticked down the terrifying seconds until their fate was decided. The scent of panic, deodorant, and linseed oil filling the air till it was so thick you could chew it.

Argyll looked over her shoulder. ‘Ninety-six percent of all applicants fail the first test. When I reviewed Benedict’s this morning, it was obvious he was struggling with issues.’ Pointing. ‘It’s not so noticeable on the multiple-choice questions, but where he has to give actual written answers it’s clear there’s an undercurrent of tension to them. As if he’s doing his best to hide some fairly unpalatable opinions, but he’s proud of those opinions at the same time, if that makes sense?’

She frowned down at the test.

‘You got all that from this?’

‘When you’ve been reviewing student applications for as long as I have, you get a sense for these things. That talk about “bending evolution to the will of man”, and the casual racism towards French-speaking nations, all dressed up as scientific fact. It’s got “red flag” written all over it, for me.’ A shudder. ‘Next thing you know he’ll be asking the school library if they’ve got any books on eugenics, and taking an unhealthy interest in racism, antisemitism, and vivisection.’ Argyll poked one of Lucy’s piles of paper. ‘You should read his “What I did over the summer holidays” essay. If that doesn’t give you the heebie-jeebies, I don’t know what—’

Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ twiddled out from beneath Argyll’s academic robe.

‘Sorry.’ He answered it, turning to face the stacks for a cheery ‘Good morning, Myung-Hee, how can I help you?’ Then one hand came up to massage his forehead and the smile disappeared from his voice. ‘I see... Yes... OK... No, you did the right thing. I’ll be there right away... Yes... Bye.’ Argyll slipped the phone back in his pocket, stared up at the ceiling, and sagged. ‘Someone’s broken their arm on the football field, and given who their father is...’ He pursed his lips. ‘Well, let’s not go into that, but I have to pop out for a minute and supervise. Are you going to be OK in here, on your own, bearing in mind you’re really not supposed to be here at all?’

‘I promise not to burn the place to the ground.’

He blinked at her, chin pulled in as if that might actually have been a possibility. ‘Good. Er... No burning things.’ And then he was off, the clicker-clack of his brogues on the marble tiles fading as he navigated the technically-not-a-maze. Then, finally, the faint hollow thump of the records-room door closing.

Right — first things first.

Lucy pulled out her own phone and fired up the camera, spreading Benedict’s essay out to make it easier to—

‘What are you doing?’

Shit.

She flinched hard in her chair, spinning around, setting the thing squealing.

‘Oh, Detective Sergeant McVeigh...’ Charlie closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘What did the assistant headmaster specifically tell you?’

She whittled her voice down to a razor-edged whisper. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

‘He said no copies to leave this room. That includes pictures on your phone, and you know that.’

‘Nearly gave me a heart attack!’

‘He trusted you.’

‘I’m trying to catch Benedict Strachan before he kills someone else, OK?’ She turned back to the desk, holding her mobile up to get a whole sheet of A4 on the screen. ‘Watch the door.’

‘What if he asks to check your phone?’

‘Fine.’ Lucy held out a hand. ‘Give me yours, then.’

‘Oh, no. I’m having nothing to do with this. Argyll told you how much trouble he’d be in if anyone found out he’d helped you!’

Back to the essay. ‘Am I breaking any laws? No. So help me do my job and go watch the door.’ The photo app made that annoying fake shutter sound, clicking away as she took both sides of every sheet. Then did the same with the teachers’ comments.

‘Is this what you do when someone tries to get close to you? You don’t just push them away — you shove them down the stairs!’

Next up, the official evaluation: click, click, click, click.

‘Come on, DS McVeigh, don’t do this to him.’

‘You’re not watching the door, Charlie. You want to help, or not?’

Emotional Quotient test: click, click, click, click, click.

‘God’s sake... Apart from anything else, he’s expecting you to read this stuff while he’s away. What are you going to do when he gets back and asks you about it? Scroll through your phone?’

Yeah, Charlie maybe had a point about that.

She didn’t need the maths test, or the multiple-choice bits, or the IQ test, as long as she had the teachers’ notes — prompting another flurry of clicks.

She glanced up at him. ‘How did you get in here?’

He hooked a thumb towards the nearest stack of filing drawers. ‘I took the lift, like a civilized person. It wasn’t locked.’

So much for the founding fathers’ cunning plan to keep everything up here secret.

‘Then you can sod off back the way you came, before someone catches you.’

‘You’re a very difficult person to save from themself, you know that, don’t you?’ Charlie gave a long rattling sigh, frowned at her like a disappointed parent, then turned and walked away, disappearing through the gap between two sets of filing cabinets. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you...’

Good riddance.

Lucy returned everything, except the ‘What I did over the summer holidays’ essay, to the folder. Sat back in her chair and read.

‘Sorry, that took longer than I thought.’ Argyll bustled into the small working area, bearing a wicker hamper — opening it to pull out two china mugs; a thermos; and a collection of sticky-looking pastries, safely clingfilmed to a plate. All of which got arranged on the desk. ‘Thankfully, His Highness is going to be fine. Clean break, nothing complicated. I think our resident doctor was hoping for something more dramatic. He was an army surgeon in Iraq, and I always get the feeling he rather misses the excitement.’

Lucy eased her chair back on its squealing wheels and nodded at the hamper. ‘What happened to rule number one?’

Argyll actually had a very nice smile. It went well with the whole boyish-charm thing he had going on. ‘If you’re going to break the rules, you might as well go to town.’ The thermos top twisted off with a soft poooom, letting the bittersweet brown scent of coffee ooze out into the room. ‘So, what did you think?’ Not looking at her as he filled both mugs.

She picked up the essay. ‘It’s... disturbed. Disturbing? Thanks.’ Accepting the proffered coffee. ‘That kid had some serious issues. Still does.’ She took a sip — rich and warm and just sharp enough to perk up a half-nine slump.

‘He’s got an IQ of one-seventy-five, so he’s clearly an exceptionally bright kid, but some of the things he comes out with? I mean, take the anecdote about his neighbour’s dog. It’s obviously meant to be amusing, but—’

‘Comes off as incredibly sinister. Yes. And the part where he’s patrolling the neighbourhood to’ — Lucy made air-quotes — ‘“keep everyone safe”, and ends up watching that couple having sex in a Ford Mondeo? Then “coincidentally” finds someone else at it, in their own home, with the blinds open. He’s a peeper.’

‘I’d put money on the man in the Mondeo being his father, and the woman not being his mother. You know what politicians are like.’ Argyll unwrapped the pastries. ‘Everything’s lovely, but I can particularly recommend the millefeuille and the framboisier.’

Lucy helped herself to a custard slice. ‘And the story about his mother falling down drunk, and his dad yelling at the neighbours...’ It was tasty, but the crumbs of puff pastry went all down her top. ‘It’s a bit disloyal, isn’t it? Think he’s trying too hard to impress? Or maybe it’s just genuine contempt for his parents?’

‘Whichever it is, it’s not something we consider a virtue at St Nicholas College. Throw in the flirtation with eugenics and racism and, as I said, I’m surprised his application wasn’t rejected then and there.’ Argyll nibbled on an eclair. ‘The big question is: did any of that give you an idea of how to catch Benedict before he hurts someone else?’

Good question.

38

Argyll walked her to the car, hands clasped behind his back as if he was scared he might touch her by accident. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you again, Lucy.’

Wonder what would happen if he actually had tried physical contact. Maybe she’d be OK with it? Or maybe she’d put him into a full hammer-lock-and-bar, before smashing him against the pool car and slapping the cuffs on?

Kinda hard to tell...

Charlie was sitting in the passenger seat, frowning out at the pair of them. A disapproving maiden aunt in a cheap suit.

Wonderful.

‘Thank you for your help, Argyll. And the picnic, of course.’

‘Which we’ve sworn never to talk of again, on account of it being against the rules.’

‘So we have.’

They stood there, both scuffing their feet on the gravel, while Charlie gave them the evil eye through the windscreen.

‘Lucy, I wonder if—’

‘If we find anything—’

A little light nervous laughter, as pink rushed up Argyll’s neck and set his cheeks ablaze. ‘Sorry, after you.’

You know what? Sod Charlie. ‘Maybe I’ll give you a call next week, if you’re free?’

‘Great! Well, I have a few things on, but I can definitely shuffle them around. And there’s always Fandingo’s, if you didn’t like La Poule Française? Or I could cook? I’m told I do a very passable canard et échalotes au vin?’ All said with an earnest face, and that floppy fringe threatening to droop into his eyes at any moment.

Had to admit there was something weirdly appealing about him. Like a very posh, slightly awkward Labrador.

‘We’ll see.’ Lucy leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, before turning and marching over to the pool car, where Charlie was clearly seething. Good. She thumped in behind the wheel and waved through the windscreen at Argyll.

He stood motionless, cheeks blazing.

More than ‘slightly’ awkward, then.

Lucy started the car, reversed, turned, and headed back down the long drive, past the porter’s lodge — barrier up, its pugilistic operator nowhere to be seen.

Charlie shoogled around in his seat till he was scowling at her. ‘Well?’

Argyll was still there, a tiny figure in the rear-view mirror, but he’d finally recovered enough motor control to wave at the departing car.

Lucy gave Charlie a haughty sniff. ‘None of your business.’

‘Possibly.’ He transferred his scowl to the mirror. ‘You know fine well Assistant Headmaster Argyll McCaskill is sweet on you. Think he’ll be so keen if he finds out you betrayed his trust?’

She turned left, onto the main road, and put her foot down. ‘I’m doing what needs to be done.’

‘But then, betrayal’s the order of the day, isn’t it? I imagine, when DI Tudor said you could investigate whatever you liked, he probably thought you’d be out looking for the Bloodsmith, not wasting the whole morning on Benedict Strachan!’

‘I’ve got DC Fraser working on background, OK? This is just me making good use of my time till he’s done.’

The road was lined with hedgerows and trees, thickets of gorse spilling out their vivid-yellow blossoms.

‘Benedict Strachan isn’t your responsibility, Lucy, he’s—’

‘You want him to kill someone, is that it?’

A bus stop was nestled in at the side of the road, just up ahead, complete with ugly, rectangular plastic shelter. An old lady peered out of it at the pool car, as if hoping they were the number forty-seven.

‘Of course I don’t want him to kill—’

‘Then get off my bloody case!’ Lucy waggled the steering wheel from side to side as the car slowed. ‘What the hell?’ It drifted down to a walking pace, kangarooed forward in a teeth-rattling lurch, then stalled.

Lucy started the engine again. ‘Why can’t they ever service these damn things properly?’ She put the car in gear and— ‘Sodding hell.’ The Vauxhall jerked to a halt again, six feet short of the bus stop.

‘Have you tried pumping the clutch?’

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Then tipped her head to one side. ‘Charlie, when you left the car unattended for ages, even though I specifically asked you not to, did you check everything was OK before you got back in?’

‘Why would I check the car?’

‘Because I wouldn’t put it past that creepy little madam, Allegra Dean-Edwards, to stick a potato up the exhaust pipe or something. Just to screw with us.’

He looked over his shoulder, as if he could somehow magically see through the back seats and car chassis. ‘Does that even work?’

‘Will you just check, please?’

‘All right, all right.’ He undid his seatbelt and climbed out into the sunshine. ‘Because I’m fairly certain the whole potato-in-the-exhaust-pipe thing’s an urban myth.’

The second his door closed she flicked on the central locking, cranked the engine back to life and put her foot down. Leaving him standing there in the middle of the road.

Sucker.

Who the hell did he think he was, lecturing her about leading Argyll on? Maybe she actually liked Argyll, had he thought about that? Of course not, he was too busy scrambling up on his moral high horse. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault life was complicated.

And yes, she’d probably get a bollocking for abandoning Charlie, but it’s not as if she’d left him in the middle of nowhere, is it? There was a bus stop, right there.

Lucy clicked on the radio, found something cheery to listen to, and sang along.

Charlie would just have to find his own way back to DHQ.

In the same borrowed office as last time, Lucy pulled the room’s manky chair over to the desk, sank into it, and powered up the saggy grey computer.

It’d taken some doing — a lot of fiddling, even more swearing, and a blistering headache — to get her new phone connected to the fancy printer on the fourth floor, but she now had her very own hard copy of everything she’d photographed back at St Nick’s. It sat in neatly stacked piles as the computer chugged and bleeped away to itself.

She knocked back a couple of paracetamol, then logged in. Ejected the CD tray and slipped in the disk PC Manson had dropped off for her yesterday. The one with Benedict Strachan’s interviews on it, and, with any luck, some CCTV footage too.

Clicking on the CD revealed nothing but video files. So no transcripts. And none of the files were named for what they actually were; instead each was marked with the case number followed by a hyphen and a bunch of random digits. Hopefully, ordering them by their last-modified date would put them into some sort of useable order.

She clicked on the oldest file first and a window popped up on the screen, showing grainy, night-time footage, taken from about eighteen feet off the ground. Going by the kebab shops, chippers, and pizza places, it was Harvest Lane — at 03:12:06, according to the timestamp in the bottom right corner. No sign of anyone, just the rain-slicked tarmac, shuttered shops, and a couple of lonely streetlights casting their sickly yellow glow over proceedings. A car slid past in complete silence, its headlights blowing the image out for a moment, but when that passed, two figures were clearly visible, walking across the screen. Not tall enough to be adults, both dressed in dark hoodies, dark baseball caps, dark joggy-bots, and bright-white trainers. Benedict Strachan and his unknown accomplice. They hurried through the shot and off the other side.

End of footage.

Well, that was worth the wait...

She called up the next file in line. The camera was a little further along Harvest Lane: a bookie’s, another chip shop, and a tattoo parlour filling the screen — seen from a weird top-down angle that distorted everything. On came Benedict and his mate, shoulders hunched, walking fast, keeping their heads down. Looking about as suspicious as it was possible to be. They took a right at the junction, fading into the gloom between streetlights.

Her screen went blank again.

The third lot of footage was from Campbellmags Way, opposite Hallelujah Bingo — its shutters down and suspiciously free of graffiti for that part of town. Quarter past three in the morning, but the canopy above the doors was all lit up, the glowing white backboard boasting, in its red plastic moveable lettering: ‘GREAT BIG PRIZES TO BE WON EVERY DAY!’ The only thing out of place was the bundle of rags heaped up in the doorway, not much bigger than a coffin.

Right on cue, the two hoodies bustled into view. They crossed the street, stopping in front of the pile of debris. Stood there, looking up and down the road. Checking the coast was clear, even though there was a dirty-big security camera pointed straight at them from the other side of the road.

Idiots.

Then one of them rushed forwards and swung a trainer at the pile. Then another.

The second hoodie joined in, throwing punches as their mate kicked and stomped.

Jesus...

They were just children.

And it wasn’t debris, it was a person. Liam Hay, thirty-one. Former bus driver for Oldcastle City Council, before depression and supermarket-brand vodka got their claws into him. Father of two — Pamela, seven, and Alex, nine — though he didn’t have visiting rights. Ex-husband of Tracy Hogarth, who hadn’t bothered turning up to identify Liam’s body.

Benedict and his accomplice kept at it for nearly two minutes, then staggered onto the pavement again. Backs heaving, breath pluming above them in swathes of pale grey.

An arm flopped out of the doorway.

One more quick check to make sure no one was watching, and they snuck forward, grabbed hold of their victim and dragged him onto the road, leaving a trail of newspapers and bits of clothes and a sleeping bag and cardboard sheeting behind.

They hauled Liam up, then half carried, half dragged him around the corner of Hallelujah Bingo, onto Brokemere Street, out of view.

Next file: the camera was pointing along Brokemere, past a baker’s, a dry cleaner’s, the entrance to a set of flats, and a little place that did tailoring alterations. A small convenience store sat right at the very top left, its signage disappearing off the edge of the screen so only ‘AMILY STORE’ was visible.

Benedict and his accomplice wrestled Liam Hay along the pavement, then into the small alley that separated Angus MacBargain’s Family Store and the tailor’s.

Then nothing.

A speck of rain drifted by the camera. Then another one. And another. Until a slow steady fall turned the streetlights into glowing spheres of septic yellow.

Four minutes later, the two children lurched out onto the road again. One of them was clearly pumped: bouncing on the balls of their feet and punching the air. The other looked as if someone had just chained a couple of breeze blocks to their bowels.

Four minutes to stab someone eighty-nine times.

They stood on the tarmac, staring back into the alley, then the pair of them hurried away down Brokemere Street and vanished.

And that was it.

The next file wasn’t CCTV footage, it was an interview room in what would’ve been Oldcastle Police Force Headquarters, before the big Police Scotland merger came along.

Benedict Strachan was framed in the middle of the shot — a small, hunched figure with deep dark bags under his eyes, spots on one side of his mouth, blond hair cut in a sensible short back and sides, freckles standing out like blood spatter against his pale skin. Bottom lip wobbling as he pulled off his glasses and rubbed away the tears.

He clearly hadn’t been assigned a duty solicitor — the woman sitting next to him was far too well dressed for that, in her sharp suit and ninety-quid haircut.

Two police officers were sitting on the other side of the interview-room table, but because of where the camera was positioned, only the tops of their heads were showing — one fat and balding, one with a thick thatch of dishwater brown.

The dishwater-brown one did the time, date, and introductions in a hard no-nonsense tone, then she dropped into a much softer voice for, ‘Do you understand why you’re here, Benedict?’

He nodded. Wiped at his eyes again.

‘I’m afraid you have to say something; it’s for the tape. In case someone can’t see, OK?’

A sigh rattled out from the woman in the fancy suit. ‘Can we get on with it, please, Detective Sergeant Massie? My client is well aware of his situation and his rights. He has prepared a statement, so if we can skip the—’

‘Come on, Phillipa’ — the bald one poked the desk — ‘you know how this works. We ask questions; Benedict gets the chance to put his side of the story.’

‘For clarification of all doubt, Detective Inspector Morrow, my client will be answering every single one of your questions with “no comment”. So, if you want to go through the charade of asking them, go ahead and we’ll see how much of each other’s time we can all waste, shall we?’

Morrow patted DS Massie on the shoulder. ‘In your own time, Rhona.’

‘Where were you last Friday, Benedict, at around three in the morning?’

Benedict looked up at his solicitor.

She nodded at him.

He blinked at DS Massie, then forced out a strangled, high-pitched, ‘No comment.’

And that’s how it went for the next twenty minutes. Every single question, from ‘Why did you kill Liam Hay?’ to ‘Who was with you that night?’ and even ‘Do you like Star Wars?’ was met the same way: ‘No comment.’ Lucy had interviewed professional criminals who were less disciplined about it than Benedict Strachan was.

‘Now, are we all done, DI Morrow? Can my client read his statement?’

‘Urgh...’ Morrow slumped in his seat. ‘Might as well.’

‘All right, Benedict, like we practised.’ She reached into her pocket, produced a sheet of paper, and handed it to him.

Benedict cleared his throat and read aloud, sounding every bit as young and scared as he looked. ‘“My name is Benedict Samuel Strachan and last Friday morning I killed a homeless man. I did not know his name at the time, or who he was, but I now know him to be Liam Hay and I want to ex... express my deepest sympathy and regret to his family...”’ A huge sniff rattled out of the speakers as snot varnished Benedict’s top lip. ‘“I had no... no reason to do what... what I did. I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt anyone, but I have killed Liam Hay and I understand that I must face the consequences of my... actions.”’ He took off his glasses and scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes.

‘You’re doing fine, Benedict. Get your breath.’

He could barely speak now, rattling it out between sobs. ‘“I do not know why I killed Liam Hay, but in order to... save his family... save his family the trauma of a trial... I...”’ Staring at his solicitor as if she was asking him to swallow a rancid toad.

‘Almost there.’

‘“I wish to plead guilty to the murder of Liam Hay. I will not be making any... any further statements... or answering any further questions.”’

His solicitor plucked the statement from his trembling hands. ‘Good boy.’

Of course, DI Morrow and DS Massie tried to get him to ID his accomplice, or say where the kids had got the knives from, or where they’d ditched them, or why they’d stabbed Liam so many times... but Benedict Samuel Strachan wouldn’t deviate from ‘No comment.’

The next video file wasn’t any help — just DI Morrow and DS Massie, sitting opposite Benedict and his solicitor the next morning, trying to get him to say anything else and failing.

Lucy watched the first five minutes, then clicked the video through to triple speed, making everyone sound like chipmunks. She did the same with the last two sessions, then sat back in her chair, frowning at the blank screen.

Clearly Benedict hadn’t written that statement himself, so it was probably the work of his expensive-looking solicitor. Only, normally, when a family shelled out a small fortune for someone like that to represent their kid, or wife, or husband, the lawyer did everything possible to get them off. Even if it meant bending the rules, twisting the truth, and threatening all sorts of legal repercussions if the accused wasn’t released immediately.

So why had Benedict’s lawyer just sat there and encouraged him to read out an unforced confession? OK, so the investigation had the kid’s trainers with Liam Hay’s DNA on them — a quick scrub with washing-up liquid not being all that efficient at removing microscopic traces of blood. Probably didn’t want to throw out a brand-new pair of Nikes, or risk chucking them in a boil wash. And yes, they also had a whole bunch of circumstantial evidence against Benedict, and a witness statement from someone who’d been walking their dog down Brokemere Street that night, but surely a hot-shot solicitor wouldn’t have let that get in the way.

Why just let him confess?

She opened up the last chunk of footage again and when DS Massie did the introductions, Lucy copied down the solicitor’s name: Phillipa McKeever. Definitely heard of her somewhere before, but then if she was a high-flying criminal-defence lawyer, that wasn’t exactly surprising. Might be worth giving her a shout — see if she remembered anything about Benedict and the murder — but given her interview-room performance, the chances of Ms McKeever breaching client confidentiality were about the same as the Dunk buying a pair of red trousers, becoming best friends with a merchant banker, and joining the Conservative Party.

And the confession wasn’t the only thing... off about all this. The Benedict in the videos didn’t really match the picture she’d got from his answers to the St Nicholas College tests. You’d think a kid who’d written an essay like that would’ve been less terrified. More defiant. More like a cold-hearted little monster and less like a scared little child.

More like Allegra.

39

‘Thought you’d be in here.’

Lucy looked up and there was the Dunk, standing in the office doorway, holding two wax-paper cups that exuded the burnt-toffee scent of canteen coffee.

He eased the door closed behind him. ‘How’d you get on?’

‘Not sure. You?’

‘Dr Christianson’s not posted to any of his social media accounts since he took his leave of absence from the university. Before that: two, three tweets a day, half a dozen retweets, update on Facebook, couple of pictures on Instagram. After: tumbleweed.’ The Dunk put one of the cups on the desk, then produced a Penguin biscuit from his leather jacket. ‘Here, I definitely didn’t pilfer these, either. They... Eww!’ He snatched the biscuit back. ‘Nope. Your hands are filthy.’

‘Don’t be daft, they’re—’

‘Manky. No chocolate biscuit till you wash your hands. We’re not animals, Sarge.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with them. See?’ She turned her hands palms up to show him... but he was right. Every single one of her fingertips was covered in little black smears, as if she’d been squashing spider legs. A tentative sniff didn’t reveal anything. ‘OK, maybe they could do with a bit of a wash.’

‘Go. Before your coffee gets cold.’

Yeah... Might as well. In case it was something nasty.

She pointed one of the offending digits at her illicitly obtained printouts. ‘While I’m away, read that lot.’ Lucy left him to it while she headed for the ladies. No idea how she’d managed to get her fingers so dirty. It looked like biro, or something. But she hadn’t used one. Well, unless...

What if she’d spaced out again? Only this time Dr McNaughton hadn’t kicked it off with his horrible questions, which was worrying. Or maybe there was a biro on her borrowed desk, and she’d simply been fiddling with it, without realizing, while she’d watched the CCTV and interviews? That made a lot more sense.

Nothing to worry about at all.

She stomped her way to the stairwell, through the door, and into the toilets.

Someone sobbed quietly in one of the cubicles.

Probably best not to interfere, so Lucy washed her hands, scrubbing at her fingertips with her nails until at least some of the black ink shifted.

Whoever it was, they were still crying by the time Lucy had finished with the wheezy hand drier and thumped back into the corridor again, pulling out her phone and bringing up ‘DCI ANDREW ROSS’ on her contacts. Might not be a good idea to phone him out of the blue, but a text wouldn’t hurt.

SEND.

Lucy shoved back into her borrowed office. ‘Well?’

The Dunk was slouched against the filing cabinet — beneath that photo of the Queen and the auld wifie — frowning away at a handful of A4 sheets. ‘Give us a chance; you’ve only been gone five minutes.’

She gathered up the remaining printouts and slapped them against his chest. ‘You can read the rest in the car.’ Grabbed her overcoat and was out the door in twenty seconds, flat.

He caught up with her on the way down the stairs. Clutching both wax-paper cups. ‘You think our Dr Christianson’s holed up somewhere local, or further out?’

‘Nothing in his social media about a caravan, or a mate’s flat, or something?’

‘Nope. Holidays are either taken in Corfu, where he’s got a timeshare, or Brighton, where he’s got a mate who writes crime novels. But he’s not been to anywhere more exotic than Marks and Spencer since his wife died, five years ago.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Been a homebody ever since. Does this big “I’m so sad and lonely” routine every year on the anniversary of her death.’

They made the last turn and clattered down the final flight of stairs.

‘Suspicious?’

‘Natural causes.’ Holding out one of the cups. ‘You want this or not?’

It tasted terrible, but better than nothing. ‘Let me guess: his wife died of some sort of heart condition, waiting for a transplant match.’

‘Nah. It’d be nice and neat, what with him hacking out his victims’ tickers, but it was an aneurism. Dropped dead in the Asda car park.’

Lucy barged through the doors into the—

Froze.

Charlie from Professional Standards was standing at the other end of the corridor, hunched forwards, phone clutched to one ear, his free hand over the other, shutting out the screams echoing around the custody block. He was partially turned away, which meant he probably hadn’t seen her yet.

Fingers crossed...

Lucy did a quick about-face and slipped into the locker room instead.

The Dunk hurried after her. ‘Sarge, why are we—’

‘Just keep moving, OK?’ They clattered out the other side, into the corridor, wheeched past the muster room, and up a narrow staircase to the ground floor.

‘Sarge, much as I love cloak-and-dagger stuff, it’s—’

‘Would you rather spend the rest of the day dragging some dick from Professional Standards around with us? Because that’s what’s on offer.’ She entered the security code and pushed her way into Reception. Keeping up the pace till they were out through the main doors.

He was starting to go puce. ‘Sarge, can we—’

‘Shhhhh...!’

Eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning and the assembled media seemed to be half asleep. Certainly, none of them were awake enough to notice as she led the way across the front apron and down the steps onto Peel Place. Heading straight for the opposite side of the road and speeding up again. Putting a bit of distance between them and the cameras.

She didn’t slow down until they’d made the turn onto Guild Street.

Where the Dunk promptly limped to a halt and partially collapsed against the wall of an all-night bakery. Grabbing at his side. ‘Oh Christ... Argh... Oh Jesus, Mary, and buggery...’

Lucy gave him a minute. Drinking her horrible coffee while he wheezed. ‘Where’s Christianson’s wife buried? We need to check: see if he’s dug her up, trying to get his new hearts to fit.’

‘Stitch...’

‘Dunk!’

‘Argh...’ He levered himself upright, still clutching his side. ‘Why do we always have to go everywhere at a bloody sprint?’

‘Where — is — Christianson’s — wife?’

‘The North Sea. He scattered her ashes from the Aberdeen to Orkney ferry. Does the trip every year, writes a poem about how much he misses her, and posts it on Facebook. Told you he made a big thing of it.’

‘Oh.’ Well, at least they didn’t have to worry about his wife’s decomposing corpse mouldering away somewhere, like Norman Bates’s mother.

The Dunk limped after Lucy all the way to her ugly-pink Bedford Rascal. He stopped on the pavement, face pinched, shoulders dipped, like a kicked puppy. ‘Please tell me we’re not taking the Shagging Sausages Mobile.’

‘It’s this or we’re lumbered with Professional Standards.’ She unlocked both doors. ‘Take your pick.’

‘Urgh...’

Dr Christianson’s house had been a lot tidier when Lucy had last set foot in here. The search team had left their usual trail of devastation: every drawer and cupboard ransacked, their contents left strewn about as if a hurricane had ripped through the place.

The Dunk clunked the front door shut behind him and grimaced at the mess. ‘Where do we start?’

‘Master bedroom, then work our way out from there.’

It was a tip, too.

‘How?’ The Dunk did a slow three-sixty, scowling at everything. ‘How does anyone make this much mess?’ Clothes were all over the floor, along with a few dozen books, and a couple of cuddly toys. He curled his lip and pulled on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘You sure we can’t just pretend they did a good job, and we don’t have to go through everything again?’

‘You’re quite right, Dunk, because never in the history of O Division has a police search team overlooked something glaringly obvious that ended up being crucial to solving the case. They’re the poster boys for professionalism, competence, and efficiency. What was I thinking?’

‘Fair enough.’ He plucked a pair of jeans from the carpet, going through the pockets before folding them neatly and laying them on top of the chest of drawers. ‘One down...’

Lucy donned gloves of her own, and clambered inside the built-in wardrobe, going up on her tiptoes to peer over the top shelf. Empty. She stuck her hand out and bashed at the roof, then the sides, then the back. All sounded solid enough, so no hidden compartments. She did the same with the rest of the wardrobe, knocking and listening. Having a bash at pulling out the baseplate. Failing.

The Dunk seemed to be specializing in trousers, so Lucy went through the shirts and jumpers — the search team had chucked the hangers into a clattery pile in the corner, so everything she searched got hung up in the wardrobe.

‘These chinos are hideous.’ He went through the pockets of a perfectly normal pair of trousers. ‘You know what I think?’

‘Not everyone has to look as if they crawled out of a 1950s poetry recital, Dunk.’ A cashmere hoodie went on the next hanger. It was in a pale shade of pink, with the sweet musky scent of a feminine perfume. Maybe it belonged to Christianson’s late wife? Lucy’s dad was probably not the only one who hoarded things like that.

‘I was talking about Benedict Strachan’s essay. It’s... you know?’

‘Of course I do, Dunk. I’m psychic, didn’t you realize? I can tell exactly what you’re thinking at any moment in time.’ A couple of plain white shirts got hung up, too. ‘Which is depressing.’

‘If I’d handed in something like that at school, I’d be hauled up before the guidance teacher quicker than you could say “psych evaluation”, “trouble at home”, and “call a social worker”.’ Another pair of chinos got rummaged through.

‘True.’

‘So how come none of the teachers’ notes scream, “DO NOT ACCEPT THIS HORRIBLE, FREAKY, CREEPY LITTLE KID INTO OUR NICE POSH SCHOOL!”? They’re all talking about his sentence structure and good use of grammar, while completely ignoring the fact he’s clearly psychotic.’

Lucy hung up a couple of feminine jumpers. ‘You finding anything?’

‘Only that Christianson’s got terrible taste in clothes.’ The Dunk made a disgusted gurgling noise. ‘Cargo pants. Seriously?’

She searched all the pockets on a trio of denim shirts and added them to the wardrobe. ‘Starting to think we’re wasting our time here.’

‘Can you imagine reading that essay and thinking, “Yeah, this kid’s going to fit right in. Bet his roommates are going to have a ball with this one. No way they’ll all end up murdered in their beds.”’

More shirts. ‘What did you think about the dog story?’

‘Exactly.’ The Dunk shuddered and added another pair of trousers to his pile. ‘I wouldn’t let Benedict Strachan babysit a dead hamster, after reading that.’

The last shirt joined the collection, then a couple of tank tops. ‘His dad was a local politician: maybe the old man put a bit of pressure on so they’d admit Benedict?’

‘Nah, posh twats like that don’t take well to threats, especially from jumped-up little Hitlers like Ian Strachan. Bribery’s more their thing. Bet he promised them favours with business rates and planning permission, that kinda thing.’

Lucy closed her now-full wardrobe and moved on to the bedside cabinet. Hauling the drawers all the way out to check underneath for anything secret taped there. Nope. ‘If you had all of Oldcastle to hide in, where would you go?’ Scooping up an armful of scattered socks and pants and stuffing them one at a time into the gaping drawers.

‘Me? Jane Cooper’s swanky apartment. I’d burrow myself in there like a tick on a dog’s neck and never come out.’

‘Yes, but we know about Jane Cooper, so Christianson can’t do that.’ She stuffed the last loose sock into the drawer. ‘Help me flip the mattress.’

The Dunk did — the pair of them working their way around the outside, searching for little hidden compartments. Finding sod, and indeed, all.

‘OK, well, maybe he’s got another victim we haven’t found yet?’

Lucy went through the discarded duvet cover and pillowcases. ‘Risky. If someone reports them missing: next thing you know, Operation Maypole’s kicking your door in.’

‘There is that.’

They pulled the chest of drawers away from the wall, but it didn’t have a false back, or anything trapped behind it.

The Dunk shoved it back into place again. ‘Want to check under the carpet? Search team yanked it up anyway...?’

‘Not really, but we might as well be thorough.’

Fifteen minutes later they were giving the spare bedroom the same treatment, leaving it 2,000 percent tidier than it’d been before they started. Then the bathroom — including taking the front panel off the bath, and the medicine cabinet from the wall, after a judicious bit of unscrewing. Then the airing cupboard. Then the kitchen, living room, downstairs toilet. Then the attic. Until, finally, they both stood, clarted with dust and little shards of fibreglass insulation, in the garage.

The SEB had taken all the victims’ boxes away, along with the jars of blood from the freezer. They’d left the lid up, though, so everything else in there was busy defrosting. Lazy sods. Lucy thumped it shut again as something angry growled in the gloom. ‘Was that you?’

‘Starving, Sarge.’ The Dunk cupped his stomach in both hands. ‘Got to be well past lunchtime by now.’

She checked her phone: quarter past two, and DCI Ross had got back to her.

Two days? Surprised he was prepared to stick with it that long. The operation must be costing him a fortune.

‘Give the hall a quick rummage, would you? I need to make a call.’

She left the Dunk to it and marched back through the house, out into the back garden.

The search team had trampled the knee-high grass into submission, the flowerbeds all dug up till there was nothing but churned earth left. Maybe they thought Christianson had buried his victims’ hearts out here? When it was obvious he must’ve taken the things with him.

Well, unless he’d cooked and eaten them...

Lucy pulled up her contacts and scrolled through to ‘BENEDICT STRACHAN’, pressed the call button as she paced the length of the garden. If he had any sense, he’d have ditched the phone by now, but you never knew.

A harsh electronic voice grated out at her: ‘THE NUMBER YOU HAVE CALLED IS NOT AVAILABLE. PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE TONE.’

Bleeeep.

‘Benedict? I need your help, OK? Your mum’s in trouble and I need you to help me help her. You don’t want her to go through what you did, do you? In prison? It’s—’

‘Ahem.’ A voice, right behind her. ‘Thought you could give me the slip, did you? Again?’

‘JESUS!’ She nearly dropped her phone, spinning around, free hand curled into a fist — ready to fly.

Charlie from Professional Standards stood there, wearing his bland little smile. Only now it had a sad edge to it. Like Argyll’s smile, when he’d talked about his parents. ‘Hello, Lucy.’

‘STOP SNEAKING UP ON ME!’

He frowned at the house. ‘I take it you didn’t find anything?’

She jammed her phone back in her pocket. ‘Seriously — you keep doing that, and sooner or later someone’s going to knock your sodding teeth out!’

‘“Violence is the last resort of a gentleman and the first resort of a rogue.” Can’t remember who said that.’ He wandered down to the bottom of the garden, looking out over the rough fields and glum sheep. ‘I’m worried about you, Lucy.’

Oh, here we go.

‘Well, you don’t have to, because—’

‘Dr McNaughton thinks you’re struggling. He thinks you’re starting to unravel.’

She stiffened her back, folded her arms. Heat surging up her spine. ‘Dr McNaughton is a prick.’

‘He is.’ A shrug. ‘Doesn’t make him wrong, though.’

High overhead, a buzzard wheeled its way across the sky.

The sheep murmured.

Charlie didn’t move.

‘God’s sake, I’m fine! Better than fine: I identified the Bloodsmith, didn’t I?’

‘A long time ago, in a housing estate very much like this one, there lived a little girl called Lucy McVeigh. She was... troubled.’

‘Oh, spare me your schlock psychology.’

‘I did my homework, Lucy. They like us to be thorough in Professional Standards, you know that.’ He nodded out at the sheep. ‘This little girl had a next-door neighbour who was mean and grumpy all the time, and he had a dog. A big dog. A big dog whose name was Maximus, but Lucy called him Mr Bitey. Because that’s the kind of dog he happened to be.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ She turned on her heel and stomped back towards the house.

‘So, Lucy poisoned Mr Bitey.’

She stopped.

Silence.

‘I did not poison someone’s dog!’

A sigh. ‘The neighbour wanted to press charges, but there wasn’t enough evidence to do anything about it. Then, a couple of months later, Lucy’s mother died. Coincidentally, she’d consumed a large quantity of rat poison, too.’

‘You’re lying.’ The heat turned to ice, spreading out through Lucy’s lungs. ‘Mum had cancer; she wasn’t poisoned!’

‘Lucy’s dad told everyone his wife had been depressed for months. Which was sort of true. She was pregnant, you see, so they thought it must’ve been antenatal depression; she couldn’t cope, so she took her own life. But she didn’t, did she?’

‘Shut up.’ Lucy’s hands coiled into fists. ‘Shut — your — lying — mouth.’

‘Like I told you: I did my homework.’ The soggy lawn squelched beneath his feet. ‘When I said you identified with Benedict Strachan, I meant it. You and Benedict are a lot more alike than anyone else can ever know. That’s why you’re so obsessed with him. He’s you.’

Everything trembled. Each word forced out between clenched teeth. ‘I am not obsessed. We are nothing alike.’ Spittle glowing in the sunlight. ‘And I didn’t kill my mother!’

‘The only difference is: you got away with it.’

Her right fist lashed out, hard and fast, smashing straight into Charlie’s nose, lifting him up off his feet and sending him sprawling on the trampled grass, blood spurting out in gobbets of bright red.

40

Lucy stormed through the kitchen, every muscle in her back twitching, jaw aching. Blood beating a thunderous rhythm in her throat and head.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk stood in the doorway, holding a pile of junk mail. ‘Are you OK? Only you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘AAAAAARGH!’

He jumped out of the way before she mowed him down.

‘Sarge?’

‘YOU CAN TELL THAT PRICK HE CAN SHOVE HIS INSIGHTS UP HIS ARSE AND SET FIRE TO THEM!’ Thumping her way down the hall and wrenching the front door open.

‘Sarge, are you all right?’ Chasing her down the path to the kerb.

‘No, Dunk, apparently I’m some sort of sodding monster!’ Lucy clambered into her ugly-pink van and slammed the door shut again. Stabbed the key into the ignition. ‘Lying BASTARD!’

‘Sarge?’

She cranked the engine and jammed the Bedford Rascal into first, letting the gears scream in protest, because why should she have all the fun?

‘Sarge!’ The Dunk thumped his palm against the passenger window. ‘You forgot to unlock my door!’

The van juddered into a messy three-point turn as the Dunk retreated to the safety of the pavement.

Behind him, Charlie emerged from Christianson’s house, blood streaming down his face, arms waving about, as if that was going to make her heel, like a good doggie, so he could spout his crap again.

The Dunk looked back towards the house and Charlie gave him an exaggerated women-what-ya-gonna-do? shrug. Patronizing dick.

‘Sarge!’

She put her foot down.

So Dr McNaughton thought she was unravelling, did he? Thought it was OK to go blabbing to Professional Standards and breach patient confidentiality? Thought he could lie about her being mentally ill? Thought she’d let him get away with that?

Well, he was in for a great big sodding shock.

Lucy blinked. Frowned. Then climbed out of the van onto rainbow-slicked setts. Wincing as an electric drill screeched hole after hole through her skull.

How...?

She was on Woronieck Road again, down by Queen’s Quay, where the dilapidated warehouses and boarded-up businesses were. Back in the same part of town where she’d chased Dr Christianson through that Polish meat-processing plant.

‘Bastard...’ That’s what happened when you wound someone up to breaking point. When you lied to their face and dragged their dead mother into some sort of twisted fantasy. And if she was having an aneurism or a stroke, right now, it was bloody Charlie’s fault.

Probably way too soon to have another lot of painkillers, especially a double dose, but she swallowed the last four paracetamols in the pack, shuddering as they caught halfway down.

Bet he was back at DHQ, squealing bloody murder to his boss at Professional Standards. Look at my nose, look what she did to me! She’s unhinged. Unbalanced. She can’t be trusted. You have to suspend her. Throw her off the force!

The air was thick with the iodine-and-diesel scent of the river, a sharp-iron tang coming from somewhere upwind.

Her right hand throbbed — still curled in a fist — and when she forced it open, that set of keys sat in her palm. The ones she was meant to hand in to Lost and Found. All seven of their outlines pressed into the aching skin.

Well... maybe she should make a complaint about him. Go back to DHQ right now and tell everyone what an utter lying piece of shit Charlie was. See how he liked being on the receiving end of a Professional Standards investigation for a change.

Off in the distance, the clang, clang, clang of someone pounding metal with a big hammer rang out like a funeral bell.

Deep breath.

Lucy hissed it out.

Who the hell did he think he was, lying about her mother like that?

It was his own bloody fault she’d broken his nose. Lucky she hadn’t broken his jaw as well.

Lucy turned and thunked back against the van’s side.

Covered her face with her hands and groaned.

They were going to fire her, weren’t they? Do her for assault, and fire her.

And all because of sodding Charlie.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

She lowered her hands. Sagged.

The Bedford Rascal was parked outside what looked like an old chandler’s warehouse — all the windows boarded up with mouldy bloated chipboard. A ‘FOR SALE’ sign drooped on rotting supports, sticking out from an upstairs window frame.

The only difference is: you got away with it.

Was it supposed to be some sort of joke?

Ha. Bloody. Ha.

The chandler’s door was one of those steel-reinforced ones, peppered with rivets. The kind beloved of drug dealers on housing estates everywhere. And above it, carved into the red-brick frontage, was a lion’s head. The weather and years had blurred its features, but it was still clearly a lion, its mouth open in a silent roar...

Lucy looked down at the keys in her hand. At the chunky silver one with ‘DO NOT DUPLICATE’ embossed on it; at the one that looked a bit like an anvil; the rectangular security key with dimples recessed into its straight blade; the three Yales, each with a different coloured plastic cap; and the old-fashioned barrel key — its thick round bow stamped with a crude lion’s head; all bound together on a brass ring.

The lion was pretty much identical to the one above the door.

OK...

Well, that was self-explanatory, wasn’t it? Someone with access to the chandler’s dropped their keys, and she found them when she was here three days ago. No mystery there.

Lucy walked over and frowned at the door. It was far too modern to take an old-fashioned barrel key. But its Yale lock didn’t accept any of the three colour-coded keys on the ring.

Still, no point giving up now.

She made her way along the front of the building and down the narrow alleyway that lay between it and another derelict warehouse. The gloom stank of old fish and motor oil, so strong she could taste it at the back of her throat.

A door lay at the end of the alley, partially hidden by a rusting display rack — like the ones dumped outside the printer’s she’d chased the Bloodsmith past. Didn’t take much to lever it out of the way.

That old lion-headed barrel key slid into the lock and turned, smooth as if it’d just been sprayed with WD40. Click. The door’s hinges didn’t even creak when she pushed it open, letting out the damp-grey fug of mould and mildew, laced with something sharper. Something unwell.

‘HELLO? I FOUND YOUR KEYS!’

Lucy stepped through into a gloomy brick-lined corridor, where the only light oozed in from the alley behind her. She pulled out her phone and brought up the torch app, following its hard white circle deeper into the corridor. A couple of doors hung open, the rooms beyond filled with nothing but darkness, dust, mouse droppings, and mould. The corridor doglegged around to the right, ending in another door. This one was locked, but it took the same key as outside, swinging open on a wide flight of stone stairs, leading down.

No dust on the floor here — it’d been used recently.

She opened her mouth to shout, ‘Hello?’ again, then closed it. Maybe not the best of ideas to advertise her presence till she found out what she was dealing with here. Instead, Lucy crept down, and down, and down, until she had to be about the same level as the river — maybe even below that — where a third locked door awaited.

Yeah...

This probably wasn’t the best situation for a lone police officer to be in. The sensible thing would be to give the Dunk a call and get some backup over here.

For what?

To help return a set of lost keys? Not exactly a number-one priority for Police Scotland, was it? Don’t be such a wimp.

The lion key fitted this door, too, and it swung open on a long, low room that—

‘Christ...’ Lucy shrank back, free hand clamping over her nose and mouth as the stench of raw sewage and rancid BO stampeded out of the gloom.

She gagged.

Spluttered.

Blinked away the tears that sprang into her eyes.

Ducting and wires criss-crossed the ceiling, glinting in the torchlight. But someone had set up a kind of play office in the middle of the room, complete with a threadbare couch, a little coffee table, and a dead pot plant, all of which looked as if they’d been dragged out of a skip.

She stepped into the room, Cuban heels echoing back from the bare brick walls.

Something clinked and rattled in the darkness, beyond the torch’s reach.

Lucy’s stomach clenched. ‘I’M A POLICE OFFICER!’ Putting a bit of force behind it, as if that would cover up the tremble in her voice. ‘ON THE GROUND NOW! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!’

Assuming it was a human being making the noise and not a huge dog, of course.

Maybe backup wasn’t such a bad idea after all?

A thin, croaking voice rustled out from the shadows. ‘Lucy... Have you... Please, I’m so hungry...’ Coming from the same direction as the rattling.

She inched further into the room, torch held out in front of her. ‘Who’s there?’

A different voice this time, but right by her ear. ‘Who do you think it is?’

‘AARGH!’ She whirled around, free hand swinging a fist.

Thunk.

The blow reverberated up her arm as the person she’d hit went sprawling on the filthy concrete floor.

‘POLICE! STAY DOWN!’

The torch beam caught a dark-grey suit and mousy blond hair. Charlie.

He rolled over onto his back and smiled up at her. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

There wasn’t a single mark on him — no sign of the broken nose she’d given him at Dr Christianson’s house, not even a scratch where she’d punched him just now.

Charlie sat up. ‘That wasn’t very professional, DS McVeigh.’ He stood, suit clean and neatly pressed, not so much as a smudge or crease on it. ‘But it’s all right, I’m not going to report you. I’m here to help.’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Have to admit I’m a bit hurt by that.’ He wandered through the circle of torchlight, heading deeper into the room, towards those rattling noises. Disappearing into the darkness. ‘Don’t you want to see what all this has been building up to?’

He was off his bloody head.

Seriously, properly insane.

And quite possibly dangerous.

Why the hell hadn’t she brought an extendable baton down here with her? Or a can of pepper spray, or CS gas, or any sodding thing? Unless... She dug her hand into her overcoat pocket and yanked out the rape alarm DI Tudor had given her — the hundred-and-fifty-decibel one. Pointing it in the direction Charlie had gone, like an invisible sword.

Edging her way forwards, keeping the torchlight moving side to side like a search beam.

‘Charlie? Are you feeling OK?’

His voice came slithering out of the pitch dark. ‘Never better, DS McVeigh. Or do you think I should call you Lucy now? After all, we’ve got to know each other so well over these last few days...’

Should’ve got backup. Why the hell didn’t she call for backup?

She cleared her throat and kept moving. ‘It’s you, isn’t it? You set all this up. Dr Christianson isn’t the Bloodsmith, you are. You killed seven people and pinned it on him!’

‘Six people, Lucy. Six, not seven.’

The torch beam hit something pale. A bare foot, its skin a grubby shade of charcoal. Then the whole body came into view. It was a man, stark naked, so thin he wasn’t much more than a skeleton wrapped in tight pallid skin, peppered with bruises. Sharp cheekbones sat above a big, ragged beard — the hair around his high forehead long enough to curl down to just above his shoulders. Watery brown eyes squinting behind cracked round glasses. A twisted nose that looked as if someone had taken a hammer to it. He flinched back from the light, one bony hand coming up to shield himself from the glare. ‘Please...’ The knuckles were all swollen and twisted, the fingernails misshapen and caked with dried blood.

Thick chains were shackled around his wrists, another one around his neck, all bound together with a big padlock, the trailing edge leading to a loop of iron set into the floor next to a filthy stinking drain.

Lucy stared.

It was Dr John Christianson. A battered and starved version of him, but it was definitely him.

‘How...?’

Charlie appeared from the gloom behind him. ‘Too much?’

The ragged figure reached for her with those distorted claws. ‘Please, Lucy, I’m so hungry...’

‘But you’ve been following me!’

‘Lucy, I need you... I need you to listen to me.’ Christianson pressed his misshapen hands together, as if in prayer. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry for everything I’ve done. I confess: I killed those people and I’m so, so sorry for saying you’re unwell. You’re not, I was wrong, I can see that now. It’s all my fault.’

Lucy pulled her chin in. Took a shaky step closer. ‘Are you two in this together?’

‘But you came back! I didn’t think you’d come back, you didn’t leave me any food, and I’m so hungry...’

The stench was thick enough to chew. ‘Came back?’

‘You have got food, haven’t you? I’ve been good! I’ve done everything you wanted!’

Lucy opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘I don’t understand.’

Charlie stood behind the thin, grubby, starving Christianson. ‘He’s telling the truth, Lucy. You don’t need to punish him any more. You just need to remember.’

She stared. ‘You’re supposed to be Professional Standards! How could you do this?’

‘Lucy, please, I... just a little food. Please!’

‘Dr Christianson has told you what he did to his victims, what he did with their hearts, many, many times, but soon as you walk out that door you forget, don’t you? And the next time you come back, you...’ A frown. ‘“Torture” is such an emotive word, isn’t it?’

‘Jesus...’

‘Lucy, I’m begging you: I’ve confessed, I’ve told you everything, please, just arrest me. Please. Arrest me and put me in prison. I’ll plead guilty!’ Tears made tracks through the grime on his skeletal cheeks, disappearing into that unkempt beard. ‘I won’t tell anyone about this. I won’t, I swear!’

‘He’s even been trying to help you.’ Charlie thumped his hands down on Christianson’s naked shoulders. ‘Talking through your issues and your problems; getting you to confront what happened with Neil Black. And, OK, he’s only done it because he’s terrified of you, and you hurt him if he doesn’t, but he really has done everything he can. It’s time to let him go.’

‘Please, Lucy!’

‘This is...’ She backed away and the torchlight slid off the pair of them. ‘You’re... This is crazy. You’re trying to make me think I’m crazy. Well, I’m not!’

‘Poor Lucy.’ Charlie stepped out of the darkness. ‘If I tell you how you caught him, would that help?’

She stayed where she was, staring off into the gloom as Christianson moaned and sobbed.

Charlie smiled his bland little smile. ‘Once upon a time, there was a brave detective sergeant, called Lucy McVeigh...’

41

Jane Cooper’s flat is far too big and far too posh for one person. It must’ve been lovely, when she was alive, but the six months it’s lain unoccupied have given it an abandoned, dusty air. Desperation just beginning to mingle with the first gritty hint of mildew.

Doesn’t help that the SEB team left nearly every surface covered in a thin patina of fingerprint powder, the cupboards and wardrobes as gutted and empty as their owner — their contents scattered around the bedroom. Also like their owner.

Lucy wanders from the bleached remains of the bedroom to the ransacked study, to the bathroom, then the kitchen, before ending up in the living room with its impressive views over the sun-sparkled river.

She huffs out her cheeks. This is a complete waste of time.

Yes, but it’s been fifteen months and they still have no clue who the Bloodsmith is. So a little clutching at straws isn’t exactly unexpected.

Her footsteps echo, making the house sound even more empty. Well, not empty, empty: all of Jane Cooper’s stuff’s still here. Scattered all over the place by a search team that never tidies up after itself.

A small table lies on its side in the living room, tipped over and abandoned, the single drawer hanging out.

Lucy puts the thing back on its feet, scooping up the leaflets, and notepad, and pens, and various unidentifiable plastic things drawers like that always accumulate. And even though the search team will have been through every single one of them, she examines each piece before placing it back into the drawer and sliding it shut again.

Then frowns.

There was a leaflet...

She opens the drawer and pulls out the bits of paper, chucking away fliers for takeaways, and opera performances, and bookshop events, until she gets to the leaflet asking for people to take part in a study on loneliness. It’s got a name scrawled on it, in blue biro: ‘DR CHRISTIANSON’, along with a local telephone number. Worth a go.

She calls it.

‘Oldcastle Dundas University, Psychology Department.’

‘I need to talk to a Dr Christianson?’

‘One moment.’

After all, what did she have to lose?

‘I’m sorry, Dr Christianson’s working from home today, can someone else help you?’

‘Don’t suppose you can give me his address, can you?’

Lucy double-checks the address, then climbs out of her pool car into the blustery afternoon. The university might have a policy against telling random strangers where faculty members live, but a PNC search doesn’t have any such qualms. Which is why she’s standing in a nice cul-de-sac, on the edge of Castleview, that backs onto the glorious emerald riot of sunlit fields and trees.

She marches across the road and rings Dr Christianson’s bell. Stands there with her face warming in the afternoon sun and waits for him to answer.

Finally, a man appears, dressed like a geography teacher, even though he’s working from home.

She shows him her warrant card. ‘Dr Christianson? Police. I need to have a word with you about someone who might’ve participated in one of your studies.’

He blinks at Lucy’s ID, then at Lucy, then nods, turns and heads back inside, leaving the door open for her. ‘I’m just making tea, if you want one?’

It’s a nice enough kitchen, if you like faux-farmyard chintz — the welcoming scent of baking bread wafting out of the oven as Christianson busies himself brewing a pot of tea. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll be able to help you — I keep all my notes at the office. What was the name you were interested in?’

Lucy pulls her gaze away from the fields beyond the neat back garden. ‘Cooper. Jane Cooper.’

‘Cooper, Cooper, Cooper...’ Topping up a little milk jug with a carton from the fridge. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. But, as I said, all my notes are—’

‘In the office.’ The worktop is clarted with clichéd tat — ceramic cows and metal chickens and biscuit jars in the shape of cats. There’s even a bowl moulded to look like a cabbage leaf, hosting a handful of coins, an electronic fob for the Skoda estate parked outside, and a small bundle of keys.

‘Can I ask why you think this Jane Cooper was on one of my studies? Oh, and do you want a biscuit? I’ve got chocolate-covered ginger snaps — homemade, not bought?’

Seven of them, held together with a brass ring. One’s a high-security key, with a straight blade and dimples recessed into it, like the key to Jane Cooper’s swanky apartment. One has ‘Do Not Duplicate’ on it, like the key to Adam Holmes’ cramped little rented flat. Three Yales, each with colour-coded caps — Abby Geddes, Bruce Malloch, and Craig Thorburn’s homes all have Yale locks...

A sigh from behind her. ‘I’m sorry.’

Lucy tenses — Dr Christianson’s reflection in the kitchen window has a metal pan in his hand, raised like a hammer.

By the time she spins around, it’s too late...

She wakes up choking, head pounding like it’s full of dynamite and rock salt, concrete rough against her cheek.

‘Unngh...’ Lucy shoves one hand against the floor, sending pins and needles screaming up her whole arm as she flops over onto her back. Letting free a cry of pain that echoes against the exposed ducts and pipework suspended from the ceiling.

Her glasses are scratched, the pads digging into the side of her nose, but that’s nothing compared to the searing agony as her brain tries to batter its way out of her skull.

Everything’s the wrong way around.

What happened to the kitchen?

She’d been in a kitchen, hadn’t she? At someone’s house? Now she’s in a large, low room with a manky couch and coffee table sitting in the middle of the space, beneath a single spotlight. The rest of the place is barely visible in the gloom, but it’s far too big to be a garage.

‘Ah, you’re awake. That’s a shame.’ Someone fumbles with her jacket, hauling it off her. ‘Shhh... It’s OK. It’ll all be over soon.’ A face swims into focus: high forehead fringed with brown hair, a beard, little round glasses. Dr Christianson. He grabs the hem of her stripy top and tugs it upwards, turning it inside out as he pulls it up over her arms and head, till she’s lying there on the dusty concrete floor in jeans and bra.

‘Don’t...’ The words are heavy and slippery in Lucy’s mouth. ‘Don’t touch... me...’

‘It’s all right, Lucy, I know what happened to you from the papers, but I’m only taking off your clothes to make it easier to cut you open and remove your heart, OK? It’s nothing sexual.’ He folds her top and places it on her jacket, beside her boots and socks. ‘And after that, you’ll be free. No more worries, or troubles, or pain. No more being alone.’ He squats down beside her again. ‘Now, let’s get those trousers off, and—’

‘NO!’ Her fist smashes into his face, hard enough to snap his head back like a gunshot.

He crashes into the manky couch, sending up a plume of dust that glows in the spotlight, both hands trembling in front of his face as blood courses from his ruined nose. ‘Unnnnnnnnngh...’

And she’s on top of him, pinning him to the dirty upholstery, fists raining down like mortar shells. ‘DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T EVER TOUCH ME!’ Until he’s nothing more than a rag doll, twitching each time a blow lands, bright-red bubbles popping between swollen lips.

Lucy scrambles off Dr Christianson and into her clothes again. Running, barefoot, out of the long low room, up a flight of stairs, down a mildew-stinking corridor, bursting through an old wooden door into the warm fresh air. Folding over and vomiting, one hand clutching her stomach, the other braced against her knee — holding her upright.

When she finally wipes away the last spiralling string of yellow-green saliva and straightens up, she’s not in Castleview any more. She’s standing outside an old brick building, looking across Kings River at MacKinnon Quay, with its collection of brightly coloured boats and ships. While the sound of an angle grinder screeches from a workshop, somewhere nearby.

Lucy huffs out a sour breath.

Then smiles a cold hard smile.

Turns around.

And heads back inside.

Charlie held his arms out, as if he was about to take a bow. ‘And they all lived unhappily ever after. The end.’

‘Please, Lucy, I’m so hungry.’

She stared into the gloom. ‘Oh God...’

‘So, you see, you’ve been coming here for ages. Asking the same questions, over and over. And Dr Christianson does his best to help you get better, even though you won’t let him use his real name. He has to be Dr McNaughton, because that was your childhood therapist, remember? The one who spent all those years trying to fix you after Mum died? Who taught you that trick about smiling in the mirror?’

‘I’ve been keeping him prisoner?’ Backing away.

‘Arrest me! Please. Make it stop...’

‘Don’t you think he’s suffered enough, Lucy?’

Charlie was right: she is a monster.

Never mind getting fired, she’d go to jail for this. Or a psychiatric institution. Probably both.

‘Please, Lucy...’

‘You have to arrest him, Lucy. I know you can’t trust him — he can promise to keep it secret, but when they get him alone he’ll tell them all about what happened here. But that’s OK, isn’t it? This way you can get the help you need, and his victims’ families can finally bury their loved ones.’

The dark room danced and swayed, then warm tears spilled out onto her cheeks.

‘You owe it to the six people he killed.’

‘Seven.’ Scrubbing them away with the palm of her hand. ‘He killed seven people.’

‘Oh, Lucy... He’s been chained up in here for nearly eight weeks, how could he murder Malcolm Louden?’ Charlie pointed towards the back wall. ‘It’s six people. See?’

She let the torchlight drift upwards till something glinted in the darkness. More than one something. Stepping closer brought the beam near enough to pick out six large glass jars, like the ones pickled onions came in, only instead of little white spheres, each one of the six held a single human heart, surrounded by cloudy yellow-pink liquid. ‘Oh Jesus...’ She backed away.

Charlie followed her. ‘I know it’s hard, Lucy, but it’s the right thing to do.’

‘Lucy, don’t go! Please don’t go!’

‘Who are you?’ She pinned Charlie in the torch’s glow.

‘You know who I am.’

She jabbed the rape alarm at him. ‘WHO ARE YOU?’

‘I’m you.’

‘Sarge?’ It was the Dunk’s voice, right in her ear. ‘Sarge, you still there?’

Lucy blinked. Where the hell...

It was a quiet residential street, the kind of place that had neat little gardens out front and bigger ones out back. The sound of small children playing somewhere nearby. Magpies cackling. A lawnmower humming. The sweet smoky scent of a barbecue in full swing.

‘Sarge?’

‘What? Yeah. Sorry.’ When she turned around, the view dipped down towards Montgomery Park, with Kings River in the middle distance and Castle Hill on the other side. Which made this Blackwall Hill. She locked her knees to stop them giving way. ‘Got a bit distracted there. What were we talking about?’

A sigh huffed out of the phone. ‘You abandoning me at Dr Christianson’s house. Are you sure you’re OK? Only you’ve been acting even weirder since Benedict Strachan pushed you in front of that train. When you hit your head?’

Lucy rubbed a hand across her eyes.

Maybe that’s all this was: some sort of delayed concussion? She didn’t have Dr Christianson locked up in an old chandler’s warehouse down by Queen’s Quay, and Charlie wasn’t in on it. Because that really would be crazy. Benedict Strachan shoved her off the platform, she fell and bashed her head on one of the train tracks, and now she was... suffering from concussion. That’s all.

Should’ve gone straight to A & E for an X-ray or an MRI. Could be walking around with a fractured skull and swelling on the brain for all anyone knew. It would certainly explain a lot. Like assaulting a member of Professional Standards.

‘Sorry. For abandoning you. I wasn’t... How angry was he?’

‘Sarge?’

‘Never mind.’ She’d find out soon enough anyway. Concussion or not, Charlie was hardly going to look kindly on getting punched in the face. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Back at the station. Got a bus.’

You’d think Charlie would at least have given the Dunk a lift, but there you go. Probably too busy planning his revenge.

‘Sorry.’

There was something... familiar about the street: the way it curved around to the right; the post box sitting at the bottom, where the road joined onto a cul-de-sac; the stubby two-storey houses with their pink-grey pantiles and faux-mullioned windows.

‘DCI Ross is looking for you. Says they got a couple of pings off Strachan’s phone, but he’s only turning it on for brief flashes, so they can’t track him in real time.’

‘Right.’

Was this the street she grew up on? Well, until they took her into ‘care’, when Dad couldn’t cope. Which meant she hadn’t been back here since just after her sixth birthday.

‘And Tudor keeps asking for updates. Seems like our “roving brief” comes with a really short leash.’ He put on a nonchalant voice. ‘You coming back anytime soon?’

‘Probably.’

‘Only, I was thinking, we know Christianson did a heap of psychological studies, right? What if they weren’t all done at the university? What if he did some of them in the community? Might be some place he’s still got access to.’

‘Thought you were bored of Operation Maypole and wanted a transfer.’

‘Yeah, but that was when we weren’t getting anywhere. Now you and me have figured out who the Bloodsmith is, Tudor thinks we’re the terrier’s testicles. Imagine what it’ll be like if we catch him? They’ll probably put up a statue.’ Pause. ‘So, what do you think? Worth chasing up other places he might’ve carried out studies?’

She wandered uphill, towards number nine. ‘Good idea. You should definitely speak to his department head and get back to me. And if she gives you any crap about it being Saturday, dangle the possibility of a post-mortem report in front of her.’

‘Sneaky. Like it.’

‘Thanks, Dunk.’ Lucy hung up.

Number nine hadn’t changed all that much. The tree in the front garden was much, much bigger, and the new owners had painted the door British Racing Green, and put a satellite dish up, but other than that: identical.

No point asking the people who lived there any questions, but the neighbours either side would surely know something.

When she rang the bell for number seven, it was answered by a flustered-looking woman in a hijab and ‘KISS THE COOK!’ apron, flour dusting one olive cheek.

‘What?’

Lucy flashed her warrant card, keeping a finger over the name, just in case. ‘Police. How long have you lived here?’

‘Ten, eleven years? Is this about that racist wanker at number twenty-four again? We’re not running an illegal sweatshop! You can come in and check if you like.’ Throwing the door wide. ‘You should be arresting him, not harassing us. We’re not the ones getting stoned every weekend and playing heavy metal full blast at all hours!’

‘OK’ — backing away down the drive — ‘number twenty-four. We’ll definitely look into that. Sorry to bother you.’

‘Good.’ And the door thumped shut again.

A bright-yellow Volvo estate sat on the driveway outside number eleven, the boot partitioned from the back seats by a thin metal grille, the black carpet in there all furred up with white hairs. Lucy marched past it and rang the front-door bell.

Barking erupted on the other side of the door, hard and loud enough to make her retreat a couple of paces. God knew how big the dog was, but it sounded huge.

The clamour went on and on and on and on, until finally a fat old man in an Oldcastle Warriors top opened the door. Squinting at her through beer-bottle-bottom glasses that magnified his eyes like a manga character. No hair on his head, but plenty sprouting out the neck of his football top. ‘Yes?’ Then he turned his back on her for a moment. ‘MINIMUS, QUIET! DADDY’S TALKING TO SOMEONE!’ Scuffing around to face Lucy again. ‘Sorry about that: she gets very excited when we have visitors.’

Lucy gave her warrant card another brief flash. ‘Police. Have you lived here long?’

‘Oh, years and years. We bought this place in... must’ve been eighty-two. Of course, back then it was all shiny and new. We were the very first family to move in.’ A sigh. ‘Our eldest’s in Singapore now, married a local lass, and oh — my — God, you wouldn’t believe how gorgeous our grandkids are. Cute as buttons.’

‘Great.’ She jerked a thumb towards number nine. ‘Do you remember a family, next door? Mother, father, little girl? Name of McVeigh.’

He stiffened. ‘Oh, I remember Lucy McVeigh, all right.’ Baring his teeth. ‘Little horror burned down our shed, stole things from my garage, and she poisoned my Maximus! Killed him, stone dead! But would your lot do anything about it? No, they wouldn’t. “She’s just a child, Mr Denholm”, “She didn’t mean it, Mr Denholm.” Rubbish!’ Jabbing a finger at the house next door. ‘She wasn’t “just a child”, she was a nasty, vicious, vindictive little monster.’

‘I...’ Lucy retreated a couple more steps.

‘Then her mother “committed suicide”, and if you believe that, I’ve got a monorail to sell you. I’m not surprised her father had a nervous breakdown.’ He folded his fat little arms over his big fat chest. ‘Best thing that ever happened around here was when those social workers came round, carted her off, and stuck her in a home. If there was any justice, it would’ve been borstal. For life.’

Inside, the dog launched into another barking fit.

Mr Denholm jerked his chin up, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘So, what did she do, kill someone else? Because she killed that woman’s son, didn’t she? Neil Black. Smashed his head in. Is she on the run? Because if she is, and she shows her face round here, I’ll set the dog on her!’

Lucy sat in the driver’s seat of her dad’s stupid Bedford Rascal, blinking at the phone in her hands. The screen wobbled and distorted, then a tear splashed against the display, and when she wiped it away the contacts list scrolled — down and down, getting slower till ‘DR JOHN MCNAUGHTON’ appeared.

She’d... had an episode, that’s all.

Imagined all that stuff in the warehouse basement.

McNaughton would understand. He was a dick, but at least he’d try to help her.

She tapped his name, then the call button. Scrubbed a stripy forearm across her eyes as the phone rang. And rang. And rang.

None of it was real, and he’d help her. Like he always had.

Because he was a good man.

Deep down.

‘ANSWER THE BLOODY PHONE!’ Trembling, the new handset gripped tight in burning fingers.

More ringing.

Then a soft click, followed by a shaky woman’s voice, old and kind. ‘Hello?’

‘I need to speak to Dr McNaughton.’

Silence.

Lucy shifted in her seat. ‘Hello? I said I need to speak to—’

‘You again?’ The voice lost its kindness and grew some claws. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Brian died six years ago. STOP CALLING THIS NUMBER!’ And the line went dead. The old woman had hung up on her.

Dr Brian McNaughton, not John. Of course it wasn’t. She knew that. She’d seen him once a week for four years. Dr Brian McNaughton. The only man who ever really cared about a broken, damaged, twisted little girl.

Lucy clutched the phone to her chest, curling forward till her head grazed the steering wheel. Teeth clenched. Breath ragged in her throat. Pulse throbbing behind her eyes as the tears fell.

Oh God. It was all true...

42

‘Penny for them.’

Lucy didn’t need to look up to know who it was. ‘Charlie.’

‘Mind if I join you?’ He squatted down, then sat, wiggling forward on his bum until he was right beside her, on the edge of the damp concrete walkway, legs dangling over the river, forearms resting on the middle railing. ‘Something smells nice. When did you last eat?’

The scent of potatoes and garlic wafted over from the Tattie Shack as Shaky Dave got ready for the sneaky-chips-on-the-way-home-from-a-day’s-shopping crowd.

A quick glance made sure this was the Charlie without a broken nose.

‘You’re not real, are you?’ Staring out across the sun-flecked water at the blade of granite rearing up into the sky with the Old Castle’s remains perched on top like a carrion crow. ‘Benedict Strachan shoved me off the train station platform, I hit my head on the track, and now I’ve got some sort of brain damage...’ A humour-free laugh barked out into the sunny afternoon. ‘And Christianson battered me over the head too, didn’t he? Two months ago.’ Just before everyone started complaining about her acting strangely. Before the headaches and the blackouts. ‘It’s like scrambled egg in there. That’s why I’m seeing things, because apparently having blackouts wasn’t enough. It had to get worse.’ Curling her lip. ‘You’re nothing but a delusion.’

‘According to Dr Christianson, I’m an externalized projection of your psyche, remember? Or one element of it, anyway.’ That bland smile of his clicked on. ‘Your very own Jiminy Cricket.’

‘Lovely.’ She let her forehead thunk against the top rail. ‘I’ve gone insane...’

‘The human mind is a remarkable hunk of machinery, Lucy. Yours has been finding ways to help you cope with everything that’s been going on. Why do you think you kept seeing Dr Christianson, out in the wild? It was showing you who to look for.’ Charlie gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘And it’s why I’m here. To help you.’

‘And what about Dr Christianson? He a figment of my imagination, too?’

‘Oh, no: he’s real. Battered, bruised, broken, and starved half to death, but definitely real.’

She pressed her forehead against the rail, increasing the pressure until the skin throbbed. ‘You were right, I’m a monster.’

‘Come on, Lucy: you had a troubled childhood; you reacted the only way that made sense to you. It’s not your fault things turned out the way they did.’ A shrug. ‘Did you kill Mr Denholm’s dog with rat poison? Yes. But it was a horrible big brute of a thing, remember? Always lunging at the fence whenever you were out playing in the garden. Snarling and growling and barking its head off. You called it “Mr Bitey” for a reason, Lucy. That animal wasn’t safe around children.’

A small bitter laugh snapped out of her. ‘It certainly wasn’t safe around me.’ Deep breath. ‘Did I really kill my mother?’

‘What can you remember?’

Lucy took off her glasses, screwed her eyes shut, and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I don’t know. Fuzzy images of her shouting at me the whole time. Yelling and throwing things.’ A sharp knot tied itself at the base of her throat. ‘Is that why Dad had his breakdown? Because I killed her? He was... We used to be so close before Mum died, but he could barely look at me afterwards.’

They sat there in silence, listening to the clatter of pots and pans, and the tinny strains of something coming from a transistor radio in the distance.

Her voice was so small she could barely hear it. ‘I’m going to prison, aren’t I?’

‘We need to tell DI Tudor where the Bloodsmith is, before it’s too late. When the Dunk speaks to Dr Christianson’s boss, she’ll give him a list of all the outside venues the good doctor used for his research. He’ll find out that the chandler’s warehouse was part of a study on “sensory deprivation and its impact on fear-response mechanisms”.’ Charlie pointed across the water, off to the left, in the general direction of Queen’s Quay, just visible beneath the rising arch of Dundas Bridge. ‘And when DC Fraser goes charging round there to solve the case, what’s he going to find?’

Nothing good.

She buried her face in her hands. ‘God...’

The sound of a small child’s laughter wafted over from Montgomery Park, behind them. It was joined by the crackle and fizz of chips frying in hot fat, coming from Shaky Dave’s Tattie Shack, the mournful screams of wheeling seagulls, and the lub-whump-lub-whump-lub-whump of blood pounding in her ruined head.

‘Come on, Lucy, it’s the right thing to do. Tell them where he is, tell them you’ve been having blackouts and seeing things. You won’t go to prison: you’ll go to a hospital where they can help you.’

‘What about the real you? The one I punched in the face?’

‘There is no real me. Well, there used to be, but that was a long, long time ago. The Bloodsmith, and me, we’re all in here.’ Tapping Lucy on the forehead.

Next stop: padded cell, straitjacket, and all the tranquillizers she could eat.

Maybe it would be a relief?

Say goodbye to all of this...

Mind you, there was another way to do that.

After all, it wasn’t as if anyone would miss her.

She rubbed at her aching skull. ‘If you’re me; if you can remember all this stuff that I can’t — Dr Christianson, he confessed to everything? He’s definitely the Bloodsmith?’

‘One hundred percent.’

That was something, at least. What she’d done was horrible, but it had stopped him killing anyone else. Surely that counted?

‘Why did he do it?’

The pans clattered. The seagulls shrieked. A truck rumbled by.

Then, finally: ‘That’s... complicated.’ Charlie wriggled in place. ‘Hold on, maybe this will help.’ Grunting and straining, as if he was trying to herniate himself.

She turned, grimacing at him. ‘What on earth are you...’

His face twisted and changed, getting longer and thinner as the hair receded up his forehead and turned brown, his dark-grey suit fading into a corduroy jacket and chinos. Until she was sitting next to the Bloodsmith. That bland smile turned into something far more lupine. ‘Hey, Kiddo.’

‘Jesus...’ Flinching back.

‘It’s OK, I won’t hurt you.’ A wink. ‘You want to know why I killed all those people? Well, why the real Dr Christianson killed them.’

Up close, he smelled of malt whisky and old cigars.

And he sat there, Mr Hyde to Charlie’s Dr Jekyll, as if this was all perfectly natural and normal. As if she wasn’t losing her mind.

Lucy blinked. Swallowed. Turned her head to look at the river instead. Anything other than him.

The Bloodsmith sighed. ‘I wish there was an easy-to-understand explanation: a nice clean line from “A” to “B”, but in real life there are all these tiny little steps in between that build and build and build, till you end up so far away from “A” that you can’t even see it any more. Our motivations are always complicated. Truth is, he... I miss her.’

Lucy kept her eyes on the water. ‘That’s it?’

‘Well, there’s more to it than that, but deep down inside there’s this aching void where she used to live.’ The Bloodsmith’s voice caught a little, thickening with pain. ‘I know nothing is ever going to make that go away, but the human heart is full of love, Lucy. Sometimes it’s constructive, sometimes it’s not, but it’s all love.’

‘He... you killed seven people!’

‘Six. Malcolm Louden was someone else’s fault, remember?’ There was a sad smile as he wiped away a tear. ‘I don’t want to kill them. I just don’t want to feel like this any more. Why do you think I keep begging for help? Right up there, in three-foot-high letters, belting it out again and again, “HELP ME!”’ The Bloodsmith sagged against the railing. ‘And you keep erasing it.’

Lucy’s phone buzzzzzzz-dinged in her pocket.

She sat back and stared at him. ‘What about the kidneys, the livers?’

‘I assumed, if I could make you believe I was some sort of lunatic cannibal, it would skew your investigation in the wrong direction. Simple misdirection.’

At least their rambling forensic psychologist had got that bit right in her reports.

‘Thought you wanted to be stopped.’

‘Like I said: it’s complicated.’ He gave himself a little shake and wiped his eyes again. ‘Anyway, do you want some chips? I think we should get some chips. Been a long time since breakfast.’ The Bloodsmith wriggled his way back from the edge and stood. ‘You must be starving.’

‘I can’t really tell...’ But she got up anyway, brushed the grit off her jeans. Then followed him over to Shaky Dave’s Tattie Shack and stared at the menu as a smirr of drizzle drifted down like a cold breath.

The man behind the counter was one of those big, Buddha types, with a short-sleeved shirt and a semi-white apron stretched across his barrel chest and stomach. Both hairy arms were solid with oriental tattoos. He smiled a wide indulgent smile at Lucy. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Chips?’ She glanced at the Bloodsmith. Cleared her throat. ‘Please.’

‘One Kingsmeath salad, coming right up.’ Shaky Dave plucked a couple of large tatties from underneath the counter and used one to point at the menu. ‘You want them skin on, skin off, duck fat, dripping, vegetarian, dirty, cheesy, spicy, gravy, curry sauce, beany, or pickle-frenzy?’

‘Whatever’s best?’

‘Excellent choice.’ He grabbed a pen and a tiny pad, printed ‘#1 PFC&C’ on it, tore off the top sheet and handed it to her. ‘Normally I’ve got books of raffle tickets, but needs must. I’ll give you a shout when your order’s ready.’

He set to work with a knife as Lucy and the Bloodsmith made their way to the picnic tables — out of earshot.

They didn’t sit.

‘I know Charlie wants you to turn yourself in, Kiddo — let the police know what you’ve done with Dr Christianson. I’d like to make a counter-offer.’ He bit his top lip, creases lining that high forehead of his. ‘Yes, you could hand him in, and end up in a secure ward for the rest of your life, but what if we found some way to make him disappear instead? As long as you’re in there first, with the Dunk, when you “discover” the chandler’s warehouse, you can probably style out some of your DNA being there, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to douse the place in petrol and set fire to it first. Singe away as much trace evidence as possible, even if dank, subterranean, brick dungeons don’t burn very well.’

She stared out across the water again. ‘I can’t kill him.’

‘Sure you can. It’s like falling off a bicycle.’ The Bloodsmith perched his bum on the edge of the picnic table. ‘And you don’t have to stab him, or anything physical like that. Poison would work just as well. It’s not like he won’t wolf down anything you give him, is it? And I’m sure your dad has something lurking in that old shed of his that would do the trick, sneaked into a couple of sandwiches.’

‘I can’t kill him!’

‘If you don’t, they’re going to find him, and he’s going to talk. Time’s running out, Kiddo. You need to woman up.’

‘NUMBER ONE! PICKLE-FRENZY CHIPS AND CHEESE!’ Belted out across the car park, followed by the ridiculous ding of a hotel-reception-style bell.

‘Trust me on this: Charlie is wrong. You need to kill Dr Christianson.’

‘...last track of the day. This is for Marion Taylor, from Baskerville and Morrison Accountants, in Logansferry, who’s retiring after thirty-four years on the job. Good for you, Marion!’

‘You know, there’s something that’s just occurred to me.’ The Bloodsmith sat in the passenger seat, peering out of the rain-spattered windscreen as they took a left at the roundabout, onto St Jasper’s Lane. ‘If I talk to you while you’re interacting with other people, it’s probably going to get a bit distracting, isn’t it? Confusing, even.’

‘We’ve got the news coming up at five, then you lucky people better buckle up, because it’s Crazy Colin’s Weekend Drive-Time Club!’

‘I shall remain silent.’ A tiny pause. ‘Unless I have anything pertinent to add to the conversation, of course.’

‘Charlie never talked this much.’

‘True, but when he does it’s all tedious moralizing, isn’t it?’

‘Till then: happy retirement, Marion. Here’s Catnip Jane and “Monster In Me” to play us out!’ A heavy guitar riff made the Bedford Rascal’s speakers vibrate, completely out of time with the windscreen wipers’ groan-and-thump.

‘I’m a much better conversational companion.’

She suppressed a sigh, joining the queue of traffic backed up at the pedestrian crossing outside WHSmith.

He pointed. ‘You’re getting grease all over the steering wheel, by the way.’

That was the trouble with pickle-frenzy chips with cheese — very tasty, but they left their mark on everything. There was a thing of hand sanitizer squirrelled away in the door pocket of her Kia Picanto, a legacy of the Plague Times, but that was sod all use here. She peeled her right hand off the wheel and sooked at the fingertips, getting sharp vinegar and warming herbs, balanced on a raft of duck fat and smoked sea salt.

She went to have a sook at the left hand, too, then pulled back and frowned at the fingertips. In addition to the chip residue, two of her fingers were covered in black smears. More ink.

The Dunk would love that.

Must’ve been from the scrawled-on bit of paper Shaky Dave had handed over to mark her order.

Ah well, at least biro wasn’t poisonous.

She sooked the last remnants of lunch off her fingertips.

Then sat there, gob hanging open. ‘Wait a minute...’

A horn blared out from behind them as the cars in front disappeared off up the road.

‘Lucy? We should be moving now.’

The biro on Shaky Dave’s order note: it hadn’t had time to dry properly before he handed it over. How long did biro take to dry — not the strokes, they were almost instantaneous, but the blobby bits where the pen’s nib had rested a little too long — fifteen minutes? Half an hour, tops. It certainly wouldn’t still be wet after sixteen-plus years.

She’d assumed there was a pen on the desk, when she’d watched the footage of Benedict Strachan’s CCTV and interviews. But what if, instead, those smudges on her fingertips had come from the essay he was supposed to have written?

This time, the car horn behind them was joined by three or four others.

‘Lucy?’ The Bloodsmith patted her on the shoulder. ‘Crossing’s clear, we can go.’

‘Right...’ She accelerated away.

If the ink was still wet on Benedict Strachan’s essay from sixteen years ago, something was very, very wrong at St Nicholas College. But then that was a big “if”, wasn’t it?

The song on the radio crash-bang-walloped to a halt.

‘It’s five o’clock, you’re listening to Castlewave FM, and here’s the news read by Gabrielle Downie...’

What if she was imagining it? Maybe it was yet another one of her delusional symptoms? The result of a cracked skull.

‘The Metropolitan Police have confirmed that the journalist who broke the Paul Rhynie sex scandal was found dead at his London home this morning. Patrick Howden had been a vocal critic of the Business Secretary’s handling of various contracts awarded to...’

Maybe she should drive straight round to Accident and Emergency? Get herself admitted for some antipsychotics and an MRI scan.

‘...confirmed that Howden’s death is not being treated as suspicious. United States now, and tensions are running high after an explosion at the campaign headquarters of right-wing think tank “The 1791 Patriot Association” killed four and left dozens wounded. The think tank’s links to white supremacists are seen by many as...’

There was a way to check, though — the photos she’d taken of the essay. If they were all smudged, that would mean something, wouldn’t it? Or would it just prove that Benedict Strachan was a messy child? Maybe.

‘...appealed for calm. This afternoon Assistant Chief Constable Findlay Cormac-Fordyce confirmed that local police are looking for a Dr John Christianson in connection with a series of murders in the city...’

The Bloodsmith sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘They’re going to find out about that chandler’s warehouse sooner rather than later, Kiddo. I know you don’t like it, but we need to get this done.’

But why would anyone fake the ‘What I did over the summer holidays’ essay written by a little boy sixteen years ago?

43

Lucy sat behind her borrowed desk, working her way through the printouts of Benedict’s essay. Slow and steady. Ringing every smudge with a swoop of red biro. Not that it necessarily meant anything. Just because the pages had a few smudges on them, didn’t mean it was her that had smudged them. They could’ve been smudged years ago. There was no way to tell.

She slumped back in her seat.

Stared up at the manky ceiling tiles.

That sodding headache had returned, pulsing away as though something horrible was trapped inside her skull, breathing. And she was all out of painkillers. Didn’t matter that she’d already had much more than the recommended daily dose of paracetamol and aspirin.

Just have to struggle on, till she could buy some more.

She picked up the essay again. Skimmed through the bit about the neighbour’s dog for the fourth time since getting back to DHQ. How could anyone read that and not realize Benedict Strachan was a monster? But he wasn’t the only one, was he?

OK, so perhaps she could maybe believe she’d poisoned Mr Denholm’s dog, accidentally, when she’d been little, but her mother? It couldn’t be true — if Mum had been poisoned, it would’ve left a trail, wouldn’t it? An investigation: interview notes, post-mortem reports, door-to-doors, findings and conclusions.

She powered up the office computer and logged in. Sent a search creaking its way through the system. Sat back and waited for the results to come in. And waited. And waited.

Urgh...

Where was the Dunk when you needed him? He could always get this sodding stuff to work.

‘Ahem?’

She sagged. ‘What now?’

The Bloodsmith settled onto the edge of her desk and rummaged through the printouts of Benedict’s essay. ‘One thing occurs to me that you appear to have overlooked, Kiddo.’ He held up the first sheet of A4. Three or four smudges around the outside of the page were ringed in red. ‘Want to take a guess?’

‘I never thought losing my marbles would be this annoying.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I’m a manifestation of your subconscious, remember? So if I’m sitting here, annoying you, it’s because you’re trying to tell yourself something.’

A long breath rattled out of her. ‘Go on then.’

‘How many smudges do you see on this page?’

‘Four. I circled the bloody things.’

‘Exactly. Four smudges, all around the outside of the paper.’ He placed the printout in front of her and held up the next one. ‘What about now?’

‘Three.’

‘Well done.’ That sheet went beside its mate. ‘And this one?’

She snatched the third printout from his hands. ‘Are you finished?’

‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘Let’s approach this another way: remember when Benedict came in here, on Wednesday, and he was really struggling to smooth out the article he’d torn from the newspaper?’

‘Well, it can’t have been easy — they broke his left arm, and he’s left...’ She looked down at the sheet of paper, crumpled up in her fingers. ‘Benedict Strachan’s left-handed.’

‘And if there’s one thing we know about the world, it’s that it’s really not set up for left-handed people. When right-handed people write, their hand moves away from the letters they’ve just put down; a left-hander’s has to drag its way across everything they’ve written. But we’re supposed to believe an eleven-year-old Benedict can write twelve sides of A4, in a timed exam, and not smudge at least some of the words in the middle?’

‘Benedict Strachan didn’t write this.’ That’s why it felt so out of character: the frightened little boy in the interview room didn’t fit. It wasn’t him. She sat back in her chair. ‘Son of a bitch.’

The Bloodsmith poked her in the shoulder, voice bitter as battery acid. ‘Argyll lied to you. All that nonsense about how troubled Benedict was, about the eugenics and racism, when he’d faked the whole thing!’ Another poke. ‘Argyll thinks you’re an idiot. Thinks you’ll believe his lies.’ Poke. ‘Bet he’s laughing at you, right now. He’s sitting in his office, laughing, telling all his friends how he put one over on stupid, moronic, gullible old Lucy McVeigh.’ Poke. ‘Are you going to let him get away with that?’

The poking finger came up again, but Lucy slapped it away. ‘Bastard.’ She dragged out her phone. One unread text message, a missed call. Neither was from Argyll, so she went straight to her contacts and found his number. St Nick’s assistant headmaster was about to get a nasty shock.

‘That’s right: call him.’ The Bloodsmith smiled his wolf-like smile. ‘Tell him we’re coming for him. Tell him we’re going to make him suffer, the way we made Dr Christianson suffer. Tell him—’

‘Shut up.’ She jabbed the button, setting it ringing.

Argyll must’ve been hovering over his phone, because he picked up almost immediately. ‘Lucy? How lovely to hear from you so soon. Did the lure of my canard et échalotes au vin prove too much to—’

‘Were you in on it?’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

The computer finally chugged out a response to her query.

‘In on what, Lucy?’ Doing his best to sound reasonable. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re—’

‘Bet you thought you’d been so clever.’

Turned out there had been an investigation when Mum died — the screen was full of links to file numbers and document IDs. Sodding hell. The police didn’t investigate when someone died of breast cancer, they did that when there were suspicious circumstances. They did that when someone was murdered.

What if Charlie was right?

‘Lucy, are you feeling OK? Sometimes, after a blow to the back of the head, people can get a bit... confused about things.’

She copied the case number into her notebook, turning her voice into a snarl. ‘You did a great job, really convincing.’

‘Have you seen a doctor, because I’m worried—’

‘But you forgot one thing, Argyll: Benedict Strachan’s left-handed.’

Silence.

She gathered up her printouts, stood, and powered down the computer.

‘I’m sorry, Lucy, but I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. He pushed you in front of a train; what if your head injury is worse than you think? Have you been feeling dizzy, or sick at all?’

‘You lied to me!’ Grabbing her overcoat off the rack by the door.

‘Lucy, I don’t know what you think has happened, but I can assure you, I’ve not done anything — I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. That’s why I think you maybe need to get some help. I’ve got friends at Castle Hill Infirmary; we could get you seen right away. It’s—’

She hung up and thumped out through the door, storming down the corridor.

How stupid did he think she was?

Round the corner, onto the stairs, heels chattering against the concrete steps.

She reached the bottom, just in time to see the double doors through to the custody suite bump open and the Dunk bustle in, water dripping from his dark-grey leather jacket.

‘Hi, Sarge.’ He took off his soggy bunnet. ‘Spoke to Professor Rattray: she’s on a weekend break in Birmingham and, shockingly enough, forgot to pack details of where Christianson did every single one of his research studies. But...’ Dragging it out. ‘She said there might be someone knocking about at the department, you know, if they had a deadline on, so I headed up there.’ The Dunk gave himself a shake, like an oversized black terrier.

Lucy did her best not to look as if she was holding her breath. ‘Any joy?’

‘Nah. Place was locked up tighter than a millionaire’s wallet. We’re out of luck till the university opens on Monday morning.’

Thank God for that.

The Bloodsmith emerged from the stairwell, hands in his corduroy jacket pockets. ‘Which means we’ve got thirty-eight hours till DC Fraser here speaks to someone at the Psychology Department and finds out about the chandler’s warehouse.’

The Dunk raised his eyebrows at her. ‘We off out again?’ Sounding hopeful that the answer would be no.

And let’s face it, she didn’t want him tagging along.

‘Shift finished thirty minutes ago, Dunk. Got one wee job for you, then you can sod off home.’ She dug out her notebook and flipped back a few pages. ‘Phillipa McKeever was Benedict Strachan’s solicitor: Puller, Finch, and McKeever Advocates. I want to know why she let him confess to Liam Hay’s murder. Why didn’t she even try to get him off? You know the drill.’ The notebook went back in her pocket. ‘And as it’s Sunday tomorrow, let’s call it... half ten start?’

A smile split the Dunk’s fat wee face. ‘Cheers, Sarge.’

Behind him, the Bloodsmith shot out his wrist and tapped a finger against his watch, one eyebrow raised. Was that going to give them enough time to sort out Dr John Christianson?

‘Actually, let’s make it noon, Dunk. Pretend we’re civilized human beings for once.’ Hooking a thumb over her shoulder at the stairs: ‘Off you go.’

He scurried away up the stairwell, leaving soggy little footprints.

‘So, where are we going, Kiddo? Off to fill some jerrycans with petrol and burn away any trace evidence?’

‘Yes, because what we really need at this point is footage of me filling jerrycans at a petrol station just before a fire breaks out. I’ll top up the van on the way to R & P: we can siphon some out when we get home.’ It was a shame the Bedford Rascal was bright sodding pink, so not all that great for clandestine operations, but there was nothing she could do about that.

Sometimes you just had to work with what you had.

There was no sign of PC Manson in the Records and Productions Store. Instead, a small dumpy constable with a Lego-bob haircut wheezed his way out of the darkness and thumped a cardboard file box down on the table. Wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. ‘OK. Pfff...’ Then sank into a folding chair. ‘Surely it’s the right box this time!’

Lucy slid the thing through the hatch in the chain-link fence, pulled the lid off, and peered inside. The case numbers actually matched. ‘We have a winner.’

‘Thank Christ for that...’ He wafted a couple of evidence bags in front of his face, as a makeshift fan.

She emptied the contents out onto the table. Probably best not to start with the post-mortem photographs. Instead, she flipped to the two-page summary included with the Procurator Fiscal’s official decision, skimming through the usual police arse-covering doublespeak to the important bit:

Lucy read the report twice. Then placed it back in its folder. And returned it to the box.

Stared off into the gloomy warehouse.

The stress of losing her son?

All these years she’d been told she was an only child and that Mum had died of cancer, but there it was in black-and-white official police talk. Her mother really had been poisoned.

The Bloodsmith placed a hand on Lucy’s shoulder — warmth leaching through into her skin. ‘They didn’t find any grounds for prosecution.’

‘She was pregnant...’

‘I know.’

The fat little constable looked up from his fanning. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Lucy put the lid back on and slid the box through the hole again. ‘Thanks.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to read the PM report, Lucy? How about your dad’s statement? That might tell you something?’

‘No. I’ve seen more than enough.’

The PC nodded. ‘Glad to be of service.’ Then he groaned himself out of his seat, picked up the box, and humped it off into the darkness from whence it came, leaving her alone with her delusions.

‘Lucy, the important thing is that no one said you did it, did they?’ A shrug. ‘Well, that fat onanist Denholm did, but no one believed him. Perhaps, after we’ve dealt with Dr Christianson, we should consider paying him another visit. Teach him to mind his own business and not slander people...?’

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘I killed her.’

‘There’s no proof you—’

‘I killed Mr Denholm’s dog with rat poison! You think it’s a coincidence Mum died of the same thing? I killed her.’

‘You were only five, Lucy. After all this time, does it really matter? What would it change?’ The Bloodsmith wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, her forehead pressed against his chest. ‘Shhh... It’s OK.’

‘I’m a monster.’

A light kiss brushed the top of her head. ‘You’re amazing. You’re smart and funny and clever and you don’t give up. Whoever you were, that’s not who you are now.’ There was a pause. ‘Unless you want it to be, of course?’

No. She didn’t.

Lucy spat a bitter mouthful of saliva-and-unleaded out into the back garden. She’d parked Dad’s Bedford Rascal in the garage, shutting the door so the neighbours couldn’t watch as she filled three ancient metal jerrycans from the van’s fuel tank.

The Bloodsmith nodded. ‘Excellent job. Now, all we need is something to act as a fuse and we’ll be ready to go.’

She went into the house, returning with an empty bottle that used to contain elderberry and pomegranate cordial. Filled it up from one of the jerrycans, screwed the top on tight, and tied a rag around its neck. Then loaded it and the jerrycans into the van, snapped off her blue nitrile gloves, and headed back inside.

Sitting on the kitchen worktop, her phone launched into its bland ringtone — the name ‘ARGYLL MCCASKILL’ glowing in the middle of the screen. She didn’t answer it. Marched through the hall and into the lounge instead.

She stood in the middle of the room, with its massive murder board, staring at the victims and the suspects and the notes and the Post-its and the hours and hours of work and study and worry and trying to figure out what was going on and who the Bloodsmith was, when all the time she had Dr John Christianson locked up in a chandler’s sodding warehouse.

The Bloodsmith stalked in after her. He dug Dad’s secret stash of cigars out from under the sofa. Rolled one back and forth in his fingers. Sniffed it. Smiled. ‘My favourite brand.’ Then lit the thing, puffing out a thick veil of pungent smoke as he watched her like a cat watches a wounded bird. ‘You’re very quiet, Lucy. Are you feeling all right?’

‘No.’ Grinding her teeth. Hands clenched into aching fists. ‘It’s all lies, isn’t it? All of it.’

‘Lucy, you—’

‘I’m driving around in that crappy Bedford Rascal because you slashed my tyres. Only you didn’t slash them, did you? Because you’re not real. It was me.’ Getting louder with every word. Blood pounding in her throat. Headache screaming. ‘I did it. I slashed my own tyres; I cut the sodding telephone line, what, just to sabotage myself? BECAUSE LIFE WASN’T HARD ENOUGH?’

He tried to take her hand, but she jerked it away.

‘Lucy, I know it’s confusing, but you need to—’

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ She snatched at the nearest suspect and tore his photo from the wall, throwing it to the floor and grabbing the next one, and the next, ripping them down in handfuls now, hurling everything to the carpet at her feet. Then the victims and the post-mortems and everything else, stomping it into the faded Axminster and screaming and crying and yelling till there was nothing left but the pockmarked wallpaper and an aching throat.

Lucy swayed there, breathing hard.

All of it, nothing but a waste of time.

She bent and picked the photo of Mum and Dad from amongst the drifts of suspects and the dead. The glass was cracked into a jagged mosaic, but there they were, still smiling away behind it.

‘Lucy?’ The Bloodsmith settled onto her father’s couch.

‘All this time, he told me she died of cancer. Lying to the police about her being suicidal, when he must’ve known it was me. No wonder he could barely look at me after... after the funeral.’

‘He must’ve loved you very much.’

She sank down into the other settee, the photo on her knees, both parents smiling up at her. ‘I used to hate him. Why wasn’t he there for me? Why did I have to get put in a home with those bastards?’ A harsh laugh barked out of her. ‘Can you imagine what it must’ve been like, trying to raise the child that murdered your wife? I’m surprised he didn’t smother me in my sleep...’

‘Lucy, you need to forgive yourself.’

‘The world would’ve been a better place if he had.’ Scrubbing the tears from her eyes with the heel of her palm. ‘It’s all lies and shit and horror.’

‘Come on, Lucy, don’t—’

‘I CHAINED A MAN UP IN A BASEMENT AND TORTURED HIM!’

The Bloodsmith got up and knelt in front of her. Taking her hands. Cigar poking out the side of his mouth. ‘You’re just doing what you need to survive. That’s all. You didn’t have any option.’

‘There’s one other option: I don’t have to kill Dr Christianson.’ She pulled her hands free and stood. Lurched out of the room and up the stairs. Thumped through the tears and into the bathroom.

It wasn’t anything fancy — a bit old-fashioned, with a nice big enamel bath and clean white tiles. Even if the grout was going a bit grey and mouldy in places. A row of glass bottles and plastic containers were lined up along a low shelf above the bath. Lucy grabbed one, cranked the taps on full, and tipped in a good glug of ‘relaxing’ bubble bath, leaving the water running while she stomped back downstairs to the sideboard, where Dad’s bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich had lain for the last half-decade, gathering dust, awaiting a special occasion that never came.

Well, this was its lucky day, because today was going to be very special indeed: the last will, testament, and breath of Lucy Roxburgh McVeigh.

44

‘Lucy, are you sure this is what you want to do?’ The Bloodsmith perched on the toilet lid, legs crossed, brow furrowed, as if this was some sort of therapy session and she was lying on a couch instead of in a hot bath.

‘I told you to get out.’ Glaring at the bubbles that covered nearly every bit of her that poked out of the water.

‘Lucy, it’s all very dramatic — the bottle of whisky and the razor blades — but if this is a cry for help, no one’s coming to save you.’ He took a long draw on his cigar. ‘It’s just us in here, Kiddo.’

She picked off the foil that covered the bottle’s cork. ‘I don’t want to be saved.’ Pouring a stiff measure into one of Dad’s good crystal tumblers. The ones she was never allowed to touch. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Come on, Kiddo, things aren’t that bad. OK, so you’re not who you thought you were, but nobody is. We’re all different versions of ourselves every—’

‘Please!’ She screwed her eyes tight shut. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

The silence stretched.

Then, ‘OK. If that’s what you really want.’ A sigh, then a creak — that would be him getting up off the toilet. ‘But if you change your mind...’

Now the only noise was the faint effervescent susurrus of tiny bubbles popping. And when Lucy opened her eyes, she was the only one there.

The tumbler was heavy in her hand, the rich scents of warm peat and sharp ethanol mixing with the lavender-and-honey bubble bath. Been over a year since she’d last touched alcohol. Not much point staying teetotal any more — wasn’t as if she’d be around tomorrow for the hangover.

She knocked back a mouthful, setting her throat and chest on fire. Hooooing out a breath that tasted of baked apple, cinnamon, and oak. Maybe she should’ve gone for a splash of water in it?

Bit late to worry about that now.

She reached out and grabbed the pack of razor blades from the top of the cistern. Dad never did hold with those ‘new-fangled’ plastic disposable ones; instead each double-edged blade came in its own wax-paper wrapper. She was pulling one free when there was a knock on the door.

‘Lucy?’

It swung open and Charlie wandered into the bathroom, smiling his bland smile, hands in his pockets.

She screwed her face up. ‘Great.’

‘Thought you could use a bit of Jiminy Cricketing. You know, now that He’s gone.’ Charlie pulled the tails of his suit jacket in at his waist and climbed into the other end of the tub, sending a frothy tsunami sloshing out over the edge and onto the tiled floor as he sat. Dark-grey suit turning black as the water soaked into it.

‘Why can’t you both just leave me alone?’ Knocking back another mouthful.

‘Because I’m here to help.’ He scooped up a double handful of soapy water and doused his head with it. ‘What’s killing yourself going to achieve? What if the Dunk doesn’t find out about the chandler’s warehouse, because the Psychology Department hasn’t kept its records properly? Are you really happy about Dr Christianson starving to death, all alone, in the dark?’ Charlie plucked a bottle of Alberto Balsam from the glass shelf, lathering it into his wet hair.

‘He killed six people. Gutted them. Stole their blood and their hearts!’

‘Because he’s ill, Lucy. Because he’s grieving. Because he’s lonely. Not because he’s evil.’ Charlie used the palms of his hands to scoop his hair up into a tiny Mohican. ‘Have to say, this is a bit of an improvement on last time we shared a bath.’

‘What?’

‘We used to share a tub all the time, remember?’

She shrank away from him. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Charlie, silly. Your brother. Who died.’

The deceased’s husband has repeatedly stated that Harriet was still in considerable distress following the death of her son earlier in the year...

‘My brother?’

‘Who died. In a tub, just like this one, back at the house on Blackwall Hill.’ He flattened his mohawk. ‘Have to admit, I’m a bit hurt, Lucy. How could you forget your twin brother?’ Rinsing the soap out of his hair with another double scoop of water. ‘If nothing else, I’m the first person you killed; that should get me some sort of recognition, right? In the bathtub? You knelt on my chest and held me underwater till I drowned? There was me, struggling to get free, and you’re laughing and giggling. But then you’ve always loved a bath, haven’t you?’

‘Oh God...’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry!’ Breath coming in sharp ragged gulps. ‘You were right: I’m a monster!’ She chucked back another mouthful of whisky, half choking as it went down the wrong way mid-sob.

‘I was your imaginary friend for ages and ages, until Dr McNaughton convinced you I wasn’t real.’ Charlie’s bottom lip scrunched up in a pout. ‘Not sure what hurt more: being cast aside, forgotten, or drowned. Maybe it’s...’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve worked for, everything I think I am, it’s a lie.’

‘Will you shush for a minute?’ He half raised himself out of the bath — suit, shirt, and tie dripping as he stared at the bathroom door. ‘I think there’s someone in the house.’

She held her breath.

A creak sounded, out in the hallway. As if someone was climbing the stairs.

But she’d locked all the doors and windows.

What if it was Sarah Black and her idiot son — the one with the builder’s van?

Well, who else could it be?

They must have broken in. To her house.

They’d finally worked up the balls to come for her.

And she was stark naked, in the sodding bath.

There was a dressing gown, hanging on the back of the bathroom door — Lucy clambered out of the bath, reaching for it as the handle turned.

The door swung open, and in stepped a large man dressed nearly all in black. Only the neck of his white T-shirt broke up the gloomy ensemble. His shaven head gleamed in the light, topping off a hard face with puffy eyes and a sharp nose. Not a local accent — something a bit more like the posher areas of Edinburgh: ‘She’s in here.’

It wasn’t Daren Black.

Maybe they really had hired a thug to come and kill her.

A second figure appeared behind him — a woman, dressed nearly identically, with her hair trapped under a black knitted cap. ‘Lucy McVeigh?’ The woman stepped forward. ‘I’m Dr Meldrum; this is my associate, Dr Lockerby; we’ve come to take you to Castle Hill Infirmary. You’ve had a serious head injury and it’s gone untreated for nearly forty-eight hours. There’s a very real risk the impact has triggered swelling on your brain. That can cause long-term damage to your memory and make it difficult to think straight. Have you had any symptoms like that?’

Lucy scrambled back into the bath, covering herself with her hands.

‘If the pressure builds too much it can lead to delusions, paranoia, and if we don’t do something about it as quickly as possible, it can be fatal.’

Charlie frowned. ‘Actually, that would make a lot of sense. Especially after Christianson battered you over the head, back at his house. That’s when it all started going wrong, didn’t it? When you started having blackouts...’

‘How did you get in?’

‘The important thing is that you come with us right now, Ms McVeigh. I’m going to grab you some clothes, then we’ll get you to the hospital.’ Dr Meldrum ducked back onto the landing, leaving Lucy alone with Dr Lockerby.

He nodded. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.’ Slipping his right hand into his pocket.

‘Lucy, this is a good thing! They can help you get better: no more seeing dead people.’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand, there are things I’ve got to do...’

Lockerby took a step closer. ‘It’s all right, Ms McVeigh, there’s no need to get yourself all upset.’ That hand of his — the one in his pocket — he had a knife, didn’t he? Or a gun. Or maybe a syringe of something lethal.

‘Or maybe you’re just being paranoid, Lucy, like Dr Meldrum said?’

She glanced from the pocket to the man’s face and back again. ‘You need to step outside, so I can get dried and dressed.’

‘Sorry, can’t do that.’ His eyes drifted to the bottle of whisky, then the open packet of razor blades. At the lone blade, removed from its wrapper, sitting on the edge of the bath. ‘What if you slipped and fell, or collapsed because of your condition?’

‘Please, I’m naked. I need to get my clothes on.’

‘Just stay in the bath please, Ms McVeigh. My colleague won’t be long.’

What sort of doctor talked like that? Why were they both dressed in black? And why did this feel more like a home invasion than a house call?

‘Where’s your ID?’

‘You look stressed.’ Charlie put a hand on her bubble-covered knee. ‘Hey, come on, it’s going to be fine. I’m sure they aren’t—’

‘I want to see your ID.’ She jerked her chin up. ‘Now.’

Lockerby looked back over his shoulder. Then shook his head. ‘There’s no need to be rude, Ms McVeigh. We’ve all got jobs to do, right?’

‘Jobs like breaking into lone women’s homes and making them disappear?’

He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘What makes you say something nasty like that?’ Then his tongue darted out and moistened his top lip. ‘You psychiatric types like a bit of drama, don’t you. That’s why you kick off the whole time.’ Stepping closer. ‘You like when things get a bit rough.’

Lucy’s eyes drifted down to Lockerby’s other hand — the one not hidden in his pocket. It was gloved. Not a medical nitrile glove, but black leather.

‘It’s OK.’ Charlie stood up, water cascading off his sodden suit. ‘Come on, Lucy, nice calm breaths. It’ll all be all right. You want help, don’t you?’

Dr Lockerby loomed over the bath, grinning down at her. ‘But that’s all right, because I like it rough too.’

She grabbed the eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich and lunged to her feet, bringing with her a great swathe of water that crashed down on the tiled floor as she raised the bottle high and battered it down onto Lockerby’s head.

He staggered backwards, feet skidding in the soapy water, sending him crashing into the towel rail, then down to the floor, one arm and both legs flailing.

She clambered out of the bath, wielding the whisky like a cudgel.

He got his arm up in time and the bottle hammered down into the wrist, hard enough to send a shock reverberating all the way up to Lucy’s elbow.

Lockerby’s hand sagged at the end of the crumpled joint. ‘You BITCH!’ His other hand flashed out of his pocket, but it was too slow to stop the bottle raining down again. Bouncing off the crown of his head with a resounding clunk. ‘Gmnnnn...’ One eye rolled up in its socket.

One more thump and a sickening crack muffled out into the room. Lockerby keeled over, blood trickling from his nose as he lay there, on his side in the puddle of bathwater, left leg twitching, lips opening and closing like a drowning fish.

A clatter sounded on the landing and Dr Meldrum charged in through the door again, one of Mum’s floral dresses clutched in her leather-gloved hand. ‘What the bloody...’ Eyes wide as she took in the scene. ‘Sandy!’

‘WHO ARE YOU?’ Lucy swung the bottle, but Meldrum jerked backwards, getting just enough distance to let it fizz through the air millimetres from her nose.

Meldrum surged forwards, both fists up and curled, held tight in front of her face like a professional boxer. The first jab was so close it brushed Lucy’s cheek, but the second landed with a resounding clatter, jerking her head sideways.

Another fist smashed into her bare stomach, folding her in two. Then a knee flashed up, catching Lucy on the jaw and jackknifing her back into the side of the bath, setting it ringing like a muted bell as burning nettles scorched their way through her stomach, face, and spine.

Lucy slid down onto the drenched tiles, groaning.

Charlie stared at her over the lip of the bath. ‘What the hell just happened?’

Dr Meldrum took off her right glove, pulled out her phone, and thumbed at the screen for a moment. Holding it to her ear as she knocked the whisky bottle out of Lucy’s numb fingers with the toe of one black boot. ‘Yeah, it’s me... Uh-huh... No: listen. I think she’s killed Lockerby... No, I’m not “joking”! She battered his head in with a whisky bottle... Uh-huh...’

‘Lucy, I don’t think they’re real doctors.’

You don’t sodding say.

Dad’s eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich was almost empty now, its saved-for-special contents glugging out onto the swamped bathroom floor. Five years it’d lived in the sideboard and this was all it got.

‘I’m not kidding, Lucy. You have to get up and do something!’

‘Well, how am I supposed to know? This was meant to be a simple job, and now I’m standing here, up to my ankles in soapy bloody water while—’

Lucy launched herself forwards with a bellowing scream, bare feet squealing on the wet tiles as she sprinted the four paces from the bath to the doorway, slamming into Dr Meldrum.

The phone went flying as they careened across the landing, then a rattling boom filled the air as Meldrum’s back hit the handrail. She bounced, pushing forward, a fist slashing up like a sledgehammer into Lucy’s ribs.

Lucy’s knees buckled, and large, gloved hands grabbed her shoulders.

Next thing, she was sailing through the air, crashing into the door to the spare room and collapsing onto the carpet. Breathing hard, each inhalation rubbing gravel between her ribs.

Charlie hunkered down in front of her. ‘Lucy, you don’t have time for this, you need to run away or she’s going to kill you!’

‘Unngh...’ Lucy struggled onto her hands and knees, crawling to the top of the stairs.

‘Go on then!’ Meldrum grabbed a handful of Lucy’s hair. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ Yanking her forwards and up, over the top step, sending her tumbling downwards, end over end, steps cracking into Lucy’s back and arms and legs and arms and head and—

Thud: she hit the floor at the bottom. Rolled once, before coming to a jarring halt against the sideboard, knocking over the umbrella stand and the bowl with the keys. Then slumping over to lie, flat on her back, just inside the front door. Gasping for air.

Everything ached. And stung. And throbbed. Skin burning, even though it should be cold down here, stark naked and dripping wet.

Charlie paced back and forth across the tiled hallway floor. ‘Please, Lucy, you have to get up. She’s coming!’

45

Heavy boots thumped down the stairs. Taking their time. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Lucy’s bare heels squealed across the cold tiles, pushing her backwards, towards the door, hands scrabbling through the fallen walking sticks and keys and brollies.

‘Sandy was an arsehole’ — Meldrum stood over her, scowling down, hands flexing — ‘but he deserved better than—’

Lucy’s right fist punched sideways, each one of the Bedford Rascal’s keys poking out between her knuckles, slamming into the side of Meldrum’s right knee. Hard enough to stab two of them straight through the black fabric of her trousers and deep into the joint.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Both hands clutching the knee as blood and clear fluid welled up through the puncture wounds.

Lucy’s other hand wrapped around the shaft of Dad’s metal walking stick, swinging it to batter off Meldrum’s head.

She collapsed to the hall floor, still trying to protect that ruined knee as Lucy struggled upright and brought the stick down on Meldrum’s back. Shoulders. Legs. Head.

Teeth bared. Spitting out each word as if it was rat poison: ‘YOU — DON’T — COME — INTO — MY — HOUSE!’ The stick smashing down with every word until the so-called ‘doctor’ went limp. Lying there, cheek pressed against the skirting board, eyes closed.

‘Oh, thank... thank... God...’ Lucy staggered over to the sideboard, leaning heavily on the thing, breathing hard, one arm wrapped around her ribs, wincing with every inhale. Then froze. ‘Urgh...’ She lurched into the kitchen and over to the sink, grabbing hold of the taps and holding on as the post-adrenaline slump evicted the contents of her stomach in half a dozen bitter-spattering heaves. Leaving her slumped against the draining board.

A small round of applause clattered out behind her, and when she turned, there was the Bloodsmith — still puffing away on one of Dad’s stinky cigars.

‘You did good, Kiddo. You did good.’ He smiled his wolf smile, nodding towards the kitchen doorway and the unconscious figure in the hall. ‘Now, all we need to do is wait till she wakes up and ask her some questions she’s probably not going to enjoy a great deal.’ A small frown. ‘Your dad does have pliers, doesn’t he?’

And a lot more besides.

It couldn’t be the most comforting of feelings — waking up naked, gagged, and tied to a dining chair that had been positioned in the middle of a large plastic dustsheet, beneath the harsh glare of a single bare lightbulb, in a cold dark garage. Nice and roomy, now that the Bedford Rascal was out on the driveway.

Dr Meldrum’s eyes creaked open, then snapped wide. ‘MmmmmnnnNgngnnnnnPhhhh!’ Struggling against her bonds as Lucy dragged another chair over and clunked it down in front of her. ‘MmmmmmmMmmmmGhggggghhhhhh!’ Tears welling up as the pain kicked in.

It was quite the role reversal: Lucy in black jeans, a black Foo Fighters’ hoodie, black gilet, and old black trainers; Meldrum stripped bare — her clothes rolled up and laid in a circle around the chair. The only concession she had to modesty was the bloodstained bandage wrapped around her right knee. Which had to be really sore.

The Bloodsmith stepped onto the plastic sheet, walking behind Meldrum and placing his hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s OK, Lucy, you can do this.’

‘I... I don’t know if...’ Deep breath. ‘I don’t want to hurt her.’

‘Mmmmmffggnnnn!’

‘You need to know who sent her to kill you.’ A wink. ‘Come on, we’ll make a game of it, it’ll be fun.’

‘Can’t we just call it in?’

‘Mmmmnnn! Mmmmngh ggg nnnn!’ Meldrum’s eyes flashed from side to side, as if she was trying to spot who Lucy was talking to.

‘Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. When your colleagues get here, what are they going to think about...’ Pointing upwards, in the vague direction of the bathroom. ‘Battering one man to death is unfortunate; two begins to look a bit like a pattern. And while they’re questioning you about what happened, the clock’s ticking. Your little friend’s going to find out about the chandler’s warehouse, and then where will you be?’

Lucy sagged. ‘I really don’t want to do this.’

‘Mnnnggggnnnh!’

‘You’ve got no choice, Kiddo. It’s her or you.’ He gave Lucy a warm, paternal smile. ‘Now, remember, it’s important to set the scene before you start. Helps put our guest in a cooperative frame of mind.’

‘OK...’ Lucy pulled on her dad’s old butcher’s apron, then a pair of blue nitrile gloves. She pointed at the circle of clothing, arranged around the plastic sheeting. ‘It stops the blood from spreading.’

Meldrum’s struggles got a lot more pronounced.

‘Excellent.’ The Bloodsmith nodded. ‘Now show her your tools.’

Lucy untied the canvas bundle and unrolled it on the garage floor. ‘My father was a butcher. He was very good at it. I used to watch him taking carcases apart.’ Dad’s knives sparkled in the artificial light. ‘I know it looks like a lot, but they all do different things, and it’s important to pick the right one.’

At which point, Dr Meldrum went dead still. Eyes wide. Air hissing through her nose in short sharp panicky breaths.

‘That’s my girl. You’ve got her attention now.’

Lucy selected a long, curved blade from the set and sank into the empty chair. ‘Before we get started, I want to tell you a few things. First: I know you and your friend came here to kill me tonight, so don’t insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise, OK? Two: you’re going to answer all my questions, honestly, and truthfully, because if you don’t I’m going to start removing bits of you. Three: feel free to scream and shout all you want. You’ve seen where I live. We’re in the middle of nowhere and all my neighbours will be in bed with a mug of Horlicks and their hearing aids switched off by now.’ She held up the cimeter knife. ‘Any questions?’

‘Mmmmnnnngph.’

‘Good.’

She undid the gag, and sat back as Meldrum coughed and spluttered.

‘We... we didn’t come here to kill you, I swear! We’re doctors, we genuinely are doctors. Call Castle Hill Infirmary and ask! They’ll tell you!’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Ms McVeigh, you’re not well, OK? You’ve had a serious head trauma and you didn’t get treatment for it. This, all this, thinking we’re here to kill you, talking to people who aren’t there, it’s a sign something’s gone very, very wrong.’

‘She’s not cooperating, Kiddo. There have to be consequences for that.’ He leaned forward and patted Meldrum on her bandaged knee. ‘But start off small. If you go in cutting and stabbing, you’ve got nothing to escalate to. Even a tiny bit of pressure can focus the mind wonderfully, if you know where to exert it.’

‘Ms McVeigh, please, ask yourself why would anyone try to kill you? It makes no sense. But swelling on the brain can cause paranoia that—’

Lucy slapped her hand down on Meldrum’s knee, fingers curling around the joint, nails digging into the bandages as she squeezed.

A bellowing scream ripped through the air.

She let go and Meldrum slumped against the ropes, sobbing.

‘Good girl! That wasn’t so bad now, was it? You’re a natural.’

It took a bit of doing — swallowing down the knot in her throat — but she managed. ‘Who sent you? Was it Sarah Black?’

‘I’m a... I’m a doctor... at Castle... Castle Hill Infirmary... Please, I’m only here to help you. Please...’

‘This isn’t The Thirty-Nine Steps; you can’t just keep pretending to be someone you’re not and suddenly everyone will believe it. Now: who — sent — you?’

‘Please, I’m a doctor...! I swear, I’m a— AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

The Bloodsmith stalked around the outside of the plastic sheeting. ‘You know what I think? I think Sarah Black had nothing to do with this, Kiddo. I think they came here because you were asking awkward questions about St Nicholas College.’

‘Is that true?’ Lucy let go of the bandaged knee. Fresh blood darkening the fabric. ‘Did Argyll send you? He said he had friends at CHI, are you one of them?’

‘I... I don’t know anyone... anyone called Argyll, I promise! I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m a doctor and I came here to help you and you killed Sandy and it’s all horrible and I wish I’d stayed at home...’ Naked body jerking and wobbling as she sobbed and wailed. ‘I didn’t do anything...’

Why did everyone always say that?

The Bloodsmith shook his head. ‘She’s lying, but it doesn’t matter — we worked it out anyway. Argyll McCaskill sent her and her friend to kill you, because you found out he’d faked Benedict Strachan’s entrance exam. And for some reason, that’s an exceedingly big deal... You know, I’ll bet they’ve still got the real one on file. A place like that never throws anything out. We could find out why it matters so much?’

Lucy pulled off the bloody nitrile glove and dropped it on the plastic dustsheet. ‘We’re done here.’

‘Oh, thank God.’ Meldrum hung forward against the ropes. ‘Please, I need... I need to go to the hospital! Please...’ Tears falling into her lap.

‘The only trouble, Kiddo, is now we’ve got three bodies to get rid of, instead of one: Christianson, Lockerby, and her.’

Lucy unfurled an old tarpaulin on the bathroom floor. It was a bit paint-stained and manky, but it would do. She rolled Dr Lockerby onto it, then scrambled away from him as he groaned. He was still alive...

She grabbed the whisky bottle, ready to batter it down again, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Lucy lowered her makeshift weapon and reached out two fingers, pressing them against his neck, just below the jawline, where the jugular would be. Holding them there. And feeling nothing.

Must have been air shifting in his lungs when she moved the body.

This was all so much more difficult and worrying and horrible than she’d thought...

‘Come on, Lucy, you can do this.’ The Bloodsmith parked himself on the toilet lid again. ‘Think of Dr Lockerby as a Christmas present no one really wants.’ Miming wrapping a parcel.

OK.

When you looked at it that way, it only took ten minutes to get Lockerby rolled up in the tarp, the ends folded in, halfway through, to keep everything inside, like a burrito. She secured the bundle with bands of duct tape, going through nearly a whole roll, just in case.

‘Oh, and you probably don’t want to leave this lying around, Kiddo.’ A finger came down to point at a small rectangular black object wedged between the toilet brush holder and the wall.

The thing Dr Lockerby had been trying to pull out of his pocket, just before she caved his skull in.

It was a digital camera, the old-fashioned kind that didn’t come attached to a mobile phone. Turning it on made a little screen on the back light up, displaying the last picture taken: a middle-aged woman, lying pale and still in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and wires. Her hospital gown had been pulled up around her middle, showing off her genitals.

Lucy pressed the button to bring up the next photo and it was a different woman, only this time the gown was up around her neck. And the photo after that—

‘Urgh...’ Lucy turned the camera off again.

Now she didn’t feel anywhere near as bad about bashing his brains out.

The full moon hung low on the horizon, swollen and yellow, wearing a hazy shroud of mist as Lucy hauled the tarpaulin-wrapped bundle into the back of her Bedford Rascal. It was amazing how much heavier a dead body was than a live one. Suppose all the layers of tarp and duct tape didn’t help, but there was no point letting anything leak out inside the van. Trace evidence was a sod to get rid of, and it wasn’t as if she could afford to torch her only form of transport.

Mind you, if you thought about it, she didn’t have to use her own vehicle, did she?

Lucy went back into the house and rummaged through Meldrum’s clothes till they gave up a BMW fob, with a couple of keys attached. Then marched out onto the road, held the fob up high, and pressed the button.

A set of hazard lights flashed down the road, not far past where the ‘WELCOME TO BALLROCHIE’ sign lurked — as if four houses counted as an actual place.

She limped over there and climbed into a new-looking mid-range shiny-black Beamer. Leather seats. Swanky. The engine purred into life and she drove it back to the house, reversing up the drive, past the Bedford Rascal, and up to the garage door.

Just gone nine and there wasn’t a light on in the houses opposite. She hadn’t been kidding about Horlicks and hearing aids. So there was no one to watch her wrestle the body out of the van and into the BMW’s boot. Took a bit of effort to get Dr Lockerby in there, and it left no space for the jerrycans, so they’d have to go in the rear footwell.

Lucy headed back inside.

House was a bloody mess — all that soapy water had soaked into the upstairs-landing carpet, probably ruining it. The hall was a tip. A huge, splintered crack ran across the spare room’s door. There were scuff marks all the way down the stairs. And the bathroom looked as if a bomb had gone off in it.

Pfff...

She grabbed her overcoat from the rack, locked the front door from the inside, picked up the bulging bag-for-life from the kitchen, and headed through the linked door to the garage. Where ‘Dr’ Meldrum was still tied to her chair, shivering in the gloom, her breath steaming out through the cloth gag in wispy tendrils of white.

Lucy squatted down in front of her. ‘We’re going for a little drive.’ Resting her hand on that bandaged knee. ‘You’re going to be well behaved, aren’t you?’

Meldrum closed her eyes and nodded. ‘Mmmmfff!’

‘Good.’ Lucy produced a pair of cuffs. It didn’t take much to get Meldrum, bound and gagged, in the back of the car, lying there covered with the plastic dustsheet.

The garage door rattled down again, and when Lucy turned, Charlie was standing by the car, watching her. No sign of the Bloodsmith.

‘You coming?’

He dug a toe into the gravel driveway. ‘You don’t seem to want a Jiminy Cricket any more.’

Lucy tilted her head, then pointed. ‘In the car.’

There was some feet-dragging, but eventually he climbed into the passenger seat with the bag-for-life in the footwell — along with a rucksack stuffed with a few choice items from Dad’s toolkit. There wasn’t any point asking him to fasten his seatbelt, so she started the BMW up and pulled out onto the road. Clicked on the radio and fiddled with the buttons till it latched onto the local radio station and a jaunty ballad filled the car.

Charlie frowned at her in the dashboard light. ‘You seem to be taking all this remarkably well.’ He shook his head. ‘Lucy, this isn’t you, OK? You don’t have to be like... this. I’m begging you: go to the hospital. You’re not well; they’ll help you get better.’

The song jollied along to itself.

‘Lucy? I said—’

‘I don’t have any choice, OK? The tide’s way up above my head and there’s nothing I can do to change that. Either I swim with it, or I drown.’

Lucy stuck to the speed limit, all the way from Ballrochie to Woronieck Road, because it probably wouldn’t look too good if she got pulled over driving a vehicle without the owner’s permission, an abducted woman in the back seat, and a corpse in the boot. Traffic Division tended to take a dim view of that kind of thing, even in Oldcastle.

She parked in front of the chandler’s warehouse, strapped on a headtorch, opened the back door, and pulled Dr Meldrum out onto the pavement. ‘If you struggle or make any sort of noise, it’s not going to end well, understand?’

A wide-eyed nod.

Took a while to haul her down the alley, in through the door, along the corridor, and down the stairs — every thump and jolt eliciting a moan, sob, or whimper — but eventually Lucy got her new guest into the long, low, stinking room.

‘Is this really such a good idea?’ Charlie followed her in, arms folded tight as Lucy dragged Meldrum across the stained concrete to the filthy grate where Dr Christianson was shackled.

Christianson barely moved, just lay there and groaned as Lucy handcuffed Meldrum’s wrists to the thick length of chain.

You’d think she’d resist, or complain, or kick off, but Meldrum just sat there, staring, shrinking back from what was left of the psychologist. ‘What did you do to him?’

Good question.

Lucy left them to get acquainted while she levered Lockerby out of the boot and dragged his body down into the room. Dumping him on the couch in the faux therapist’s office. The next round trip brought the bag-for-life and one of the jerrycans, and a final visit fetched the last two cans of petrol. Setting all three in a line by the door.

‘You don’t have to do this, Lucy.’ Charlie stepped out of the shadows. ‘You could hand them both over to the authorities and tell Tudor what’s happened. He’ll understand. Hell, show him Lockerby’s camera and they’ll probably throw a parade in your honour. But the important thing is: they could help you get better.’

She nudged Christianson’s manky body with the toe of her trainers. ‘Can you hear me?’

His filthy, twisted hands came up to cover his face, hiding it from the torchlight. ‘Please...’

‘I’ll make you an offer, John. Someone sent your new roommate and her friend to kill me. Get her to tell you who, and why they want me dead, and I’ll think about letting you go.’ Lucy opened the bag-for-life and poured out a half-dozen clingfilmed sandwiches in front of Christianson. ‘Two egg mayonnaise, two cheese and pickle, one ham and mustard, and a peanut butter.’ A trio of bottled waters bounced and spun on the manky concrete. ‘You’ve got till I get back.’

She locked up, heaved the rusting display unit back over the door, and limped out onto Woronieck Road again. Taking in the scents of diesel, rotting seaweed, and old fish.

MacKinnon Quay’s lights blazed away on the other side of the river, the sweep of Castleview rearing up the valley behind it. The first drop of rain kissed her cheek. Then another, and another. Getting heavier as she slid in behind the BMW’s wheel, turned the blowers up full, and pulled away from the chandler’s warehouse.

Charlie fidgeted in the passenger seat. ‘You know it’s not too late to call this off?’

‘I know.’

‘Only, what if...’ Deep breath. ‘Benedict Strachan was always going on about a mysterious “Them” being after him. And now you’ve been attacked by Dr Meldrum and Dr Lockerby. What if Benedict’s not paranoid and “They” are connected to St Nicholas College?’

She smiled across the car at him. ‘That’s what I’m counting on.’

46

The Bloodsmith checked his watch. ‘How much longer?’

‘Soon.’ Lucy stretched out in the heated leather driver’s seat as the rain drummed on the BMW’s roof. It really was a lovely car; shame she’d have to torch it when they were done.

They’d parked on a narrow track, near the end of the golf course, partially shielded by a thicket of gorse bushes. The clubhouse was in darkness, but there were a few lights in the middle distance, flickering as the rain swept between here and the back of St Nicholas College.

He hissed out a lungful of thick grey cigar smoke. ‘Don’t let the boy get to you, Kiddo. You’re doing what you have to do.’

‘Do you have any idea how much secondhand smoke I’m getting off that thing?’

‘From an imaginary cigar, smoked by a man who doesn’t exist?’

Fair point.

Lucy reclined her seat all the way. ‘Charlie’s disappointed in me.’

A shrug. ‘That’s the trouble with having an externalized manifestation of your superego: it’ll always try to make you walk the straight, narrow path. Whereas I represent your id, getting you to trust your instincts, take chances in life, and live a little. That’s why I’m more fun.’

She risked a gentle prod of the ribs where Dr Meldrum had punched them. Stung a bit, but nowhere near as bad as they could’ve been.

The rain drummed.

The silence grew.

Lucy cleared her throat. ‘Before Neil Black, I was this normal happy person with friends and a great job and a social life. Now I’m... I don’t even know what I am.’

The Bloodsmith’s voice softened. ‘Can I give you a little unsolicited advice? Neil Black was a rapist scumbag and you did the world a favour, smashing his head to a pulp. Don’t ever give him credit for “breaking” you, because he didn’t. Oh, he may have primed the pump, and Dr Christianson opened the floodgates, but they didn’t make you like this, Kiddo. You’ve always been this way.’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

‘They forced the real you into remission — shackled you with psychotherapy and drugs, beat the real Lucy out of you every Sunday after church, till you learned to pretend you were the same as all the other people. And, eventually, you started to believe it too. But they couldn’t kill you, Kiddo; you came back.’ He patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’m proud of you.’

Welcome to the asylum.

‘It’s—’ Her phone sang its generic ringtone song and, when she pulled it out, ‘THE DUNK’ glowed in the middle of the screen. She pressed the button, forced her voice to be plain and normal. ‘Dunk.’

‘Sarge? Sorry, I know it’s late. Look, I couldn’t get anyone on the phone at Puller, Finch, and McKeever Advocates, cos it’s Saturday. But I’ve just had a wee brainwave and googled Phillipa McKeever.’

‘Phillipa...?’

‘McKeever. Benedict Strachan’s solicitor? Yeah, only she’s not actually a solicitor, she’s a QC. A proper, full on, Queen’s Counsel, and she’s representing an eleven-year-old in a murder case, but doesn’t even try to get him off? Even worse, she’s a nouveau-posh twat — they made her a “baroness” in 2019.’

Lucy buzzed her seat back up. ‘Thanks, Dunk.’

‘You know what I think? I think someone spent a lot of money making sure Benedict Strachan took the fall for killing Liam Hay. My guess is it was his accomplice’s family. Think they’ll give us a warrant to see Baroness McKeever’s files?’

Not a chance in hell.

‘Worth a go, I suppose. Don’t hold your breath, though.’

The Bloodsmith raised his eyebrows and tapped his watch.

Time to go.

‘Are you OK, Sarge? Only you sound kinda... you know.’

‘I’m fine. Been a long day, that’s all.’ Bit of an understatement. ‘You did good, Dunk. See you tomorrow.’ Lucy hung up, put her phone on silent, and slipped it back into her pocket. ‘Shall we?’ She pulled on a baseball cap and grabbed her rucksack from the passenger footwell. Donned a pair of nitrile gloves and flipped up her hoodie’s hood. Climbed out into the rain.

The Bloodsmith joined her, not bothering with waterproofing, because, as he said, he wasn’t real.

They crossed the boundary from the golf course onto the school’s playing fields.

‘What if they’ve got security cameras, Kiddo?’

‘It’s dark, it’s raining, I’m dressed completely in black, and you don’t exist.’

They squelched their way across two football pitches and the athletics track. The baseball cap’s bill kept the worst of the rain off her glasses, but things were still getting hazier.

‘When we get in there, I don’t want you distracting me, OK?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Sounding slightly offended.

The last playing field gave way to a manicured strip of parkland, complete with picnic benches and trees to lounge under. Then they were hurrying past the dorms and along the back of the school — stables in the far corner, then the gym, then a science lab, then the Moonfall Gate. Lucy crept through it into the quad, sticking to the outer wall, where the shadows were thickest.

Lights glowed pale yellow in a handful of the upper windows, misty in the drifting rain, but there was no sign of life.

‘There’s going to be some sort of fancy security system.’ The Bloodsmith wandered out onto the gloomy path, puffing away on his cigar, hands in his pockets, as if they were out for a Sunday stroll. ‘Can’t just break the glass with a rock this time.’

She stopped in front of the admin tower’s thick wooden door. Swung the backpack off her shoulders and went rummaging inside. The lock was old-fashioned, like the one back at the chandler’s warehouse, so nowhere near as secure as something more modern, but also nothing like as predictable. Maybe the cordless drill—

‘I know it’s going to make me sound a little glass-half-full’ — the Bloodsmith pointed — ‘but have you tried the handle?’

‘Yes, because they’re going to leave the admin tower unlocked, aren’t they? After all, it’s only full of all their top-secret files, why would they bother locking that?’

‘Humour me.’

‘Fine.’ She pulled on the handle: it clicked, then the door swung open without so much as a creak.

The Bloodsmith pulled his chin in. ‘Does that worry you as much as it worries me?’

Lucy gathered up her backpack again. ‘Want to call it quits and go home?’

‘What, and wait for the next pair of thugs to come knocking?’

‘Yeah, me neither.’ She slipped into the reception area and eased the door shut behind her.

No sign of any traitorous little red lights, winking in the darkness, and she hadn’t seen any motion detectors or security cameras the last two times she was in here, but that didn’t mean anything: these days you could buy a spy-cam off the internet that was smaller than a thimble. Still, too late to worry about that now.

She gave her glasses a quick dry-and-polish with a clean hankie, then pulled on the headtorch and clicked it to the lowest setting, tiptoeing up the stairs, past photo after photo of the great and the good, to the second floor. ‘RECORDS R — Z ~ STAFF ONLY’. She tried the handle, but the door was definitely locked this time. It was a more modern lock, too.

If this was a film, she could’ve poked about inside it with a kirby grip for thirty seconds and it’d pop open, but down here in the real world...

She dug the cordless drill out again and fitted a 6-mm metal bit into the chuck, then placed the point an inch below the keyhole and started her up nice and slow. Put a bit more speed into it when the drill had made a decent dent in the metal plate. Keeping her head back, out of range of the tiny flying curls of metal. The glasses would protect her eyes, but no point getting them scratched.

‘Look on the bright side, Kiddo, at least we know it’s not a trap. If it was, they’d have left this one unlocked as well.’

The drill was well into its stride now, squealing its way through the lock’s cartridge, juddering every time it hit a spring, before jerking forward into the next one.

Then there was no resistance at all — must have drilled through and out the other side. She put the drill back in the rucksack and pulled out Dad’s ancient flathead screwdriver. Turned it around the wrong way and chapped the wooden hilt on the lock’s face, four or five times, till a collection of little metal pins tumbled out of the drilled hole to click and ping against the marble floor.

‘Here we go.’ She turned the screwdriver the right way around and slid the flat head into the keyhole and turned. Clunk.

This time, when she tried the handle, the door swung open. The whole procedure had taken about seventy seconds.

Lucy stepped into the dark canyon between the opposing walls of filing cabinets, headtorch sweeping the polished wood like a searchlight.

Now for the tricky part: figuring out where the hell Benedict Strachan’s file was hidden in the school’s byzantine non-alphabetical filing system...

‘This is taking far too long.’

Lucy scowled down from the top of her ladder. ‘You’re not helping.’

The Bloodsmith shrugged in his pale spotlight, making a show of checking his watch. ‘It’s after midnight and we’re still no nearer finding Benedict Strachan’s file, Kiddo. At this rate they’ll be doing morning assembly and we’ll still be in here.’

She read her way across the next three drawers.

‘WAITIMU, NKASIOGI’, ‘WALKINSHAW, PETER’, ‘VOIGT, BARDUWULF’.

Moved down two rungs.

‘TULLOCH, GORDON’, ‘RUKHMABAI, BHAVNA’, ‘SYMINGTON-BROWN, MARTIN’.

He was right: this was going to take forever.

‘YUNG, TALIA’, ‘YOO, CHIN-SUN’, ‘WESTWATER, COLLIN’.

But what other choice did she have? There was no sodding logic to the system, at least none that she could see. It was all random.

‘ZAKHAROV, PAVEL’, ‘RHYNIE, PAUL’, ‘TILFORD-SMITH, ROBERTA’. And she was still at least twelve foot off the ground.

‘WRIGHTSON, BORRIS’, ‘VELÁZQUEZ Y GALDÁMEZ, CATALINA’, ‘YEADON, SAMUEL’.

Hold on.

She climbed up a couple of rungs again.

‘RHYNIE, PAUL’, as in Paul Rhynie, the Business Secretary?

Might as well, as she was already up here.

It was a bit of a balancing act, getting the drill out of the backpack without falling off the ladder, but at least the 6-mm bit was still attached, and the drawer locks were much less robust than the door’s had been. Thirty seconds and she was in.

The drawer was a good two-and-a-half feet deep and full of hanging files, each with its own named divider.

She pulled one out and laid it on top of the others.

The Bloodsmith gave a big, exaggerated sigh. ‘Do we really have time for that?’

‘Still not helping.’

It was full of newspaper clippings about Paul Rhynie’s rise to power: mostly bits from the Financial Times featuring contracts he’d awarded, many of which had a gold star stuck to them. No idea what that was supposed to signify. The next file contained handwritten notes, detailing a whole raft of deals that looked about as legal as a pallet-load of cocaine. And speaking of cocaine — the one after that held about half a dozen grainy hidden-camera photographs of the Business Secretary and a leggy blonde in a hotel room somewhere, snorting up before getting down to some pretty hard-core sexual activities. ‘Wow.’

Tucked in right at the back was a hanging file with an old manila folder in it, ‘ENTRANCE EXAM’ written on the front in a child’s careful printing. Inside were Rhynie’s IQ and aptitude tests, along with the obligatory rambling essay entitled, ‘WHAT I DID OVER THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS, BY PAUL LYNDON RHYNIE (AGED 11½)’. The IQ score was 116, so slightly better than average, but not exactly setting the world on fire. According to the assessment, what young Paul did have was a very rich and well-connected family, so the examiners had approved his application to join St Nicholas College.

The Dunk would’ve had something to say about that.

The last thing in the folder was a lumpy white C4 envelope with a black border around it.

Lucy tipped the contents out.

‘Bloody hell...’

Four glossy eight-by-ten photographs, taken with a telephoto lens; a single sheet of A4, covered in the same handwriting as the essay; and what looked like a grubby striped tie in a ziplock plastic pouch.

‘Holy shit!’

It was all there: dates, times; how he’d found her soliciting down by the docks in Logansferry and convinced her he was lost and there’d be a reward if she helped him find his way home; how he’d assaulted her in the car park of a disused cash-and-carry; strangled her with one of his father’s regimental ties; doused the body in lighter fluid and set fire to it...

The first photo showed two boys talking to a woman, beneath a streetlight, in front of a blank brick wall — ‘PIERSON ROAD’ visible on a sign above her head. The boys were dressed in hoodies and anoraks; she was in a grubby duffel coat, high-heeled boots, and a painfully short skirt. There was something... artistic about the image, as if it was destined for a gallery or a coffee-table book.

The next picture wasn’t. It caught the moment in the disused car park when both boys tackled their victim to the ground. They were garrotting her in the third photo. And in the last one, they stood over her body as blue and yellow flames licked along her back.

Lucy stared.

So Paul Rhynie was lying when he said he’d acted alone. He had an accomplice, just like Benedict Strachan did.

The grubby tie.

She held it up, focusing her headtorch’s light on the ziplock bag. There were scorch marks and smears of red on the green-and-yellow fabric — lipstick? Had to be, blood would’ve dried to a powdery brown by now. The tie wasn’t the only thing in there: something glittered at the bottom of the bag. An earring.

There was more than enough evidence here to put Paul Rhynie away for eighteen years to life.

Lucy stuck everything back in the folder, then stuffed the whole thing into her backpack.

Frowned.

Surely it couldn’t just be Paul Rhynie. It would be too huge a coincidence if the first file she looked at was the only one full of incriminating evidence. So she drilled through the next drawer along: ‘TILFORD-SMITH, ROBERTA’, skimming past the clippings and notes to the ‘ENTRANCE EXAM’ folder at the back. Another set of photographs and another signed confession.

The photos were in black and white this time, showing her and another girl stabbing a tall thin man in a suit. He had his trousers and pants around his ankles.

The Bloodsmith thumped on the ladder. ‘I think I can hear someone coming, Kiddo.’

So, including Benedict Strachan’s victim, the body count so far was one homeless person, one prostitute, and one pervert. All people that society wouldn’t miss too much. People the police might not put a lot of effort into finding.

Jesus.

The drill screeched through another lock.

‘I’m serious, Lucy, we need to get moving!’

‘Will you shut up for two seconds?’

It was as if they were all working off some sort of template confession, always making sure to claim they acted alone. Bet their accomplices’ confessions would be exactly the same: everyone covering up for each other.

‘Ahem.’

‘For God’s sake! All right, OK? I get the...’

She looked down, but it wasn’t the Bloodsmith standing at the bottom of the ladder, framed in the dim glow of her headtorch — it was Argyll and the headmaster. The pair of them staring up at her with a mixture of sadness and disappointment. Even though it was after midnight, they were both wearing their dark-grey suits and academic robes.

Lights flickered on, flooding the place with a warm white glow, sparkling back off the brass fittings and marble tiles as Argyll held up a file. ‘Is this what you were looking for?’

She licked her lips.

Sod.

47

Lucy threw Pavel Zakharov’s confession down at them. ‘So, what, this is your blackmail bank?’ Grabbing a handful from the other open drawer — clippings and notes detailing Roberta Tilford-Smith’s accomplishments and dodgy business dealings. ‘There have to be thousands of these in here.’

‘Ah, dear Lucy’ — the headmaster clasped his hands behind his back and frowned up at her as if she’d just said something stupid in class — ‘nice though it is to see you again, I have to admit that I’m a little surprised to find you here. Rummaging through our records. Having clearly broken in to conduct an illegal search without a warrant.’ The frown became a pained expression. ‘You will, I hope, understand if that rather taints what might otherwise have been a pleasant reunion.’

‘Really?’ She hurled the notes and clippings at his fuzzy-bald head, but they scattered on the way down, fluttering to the marble floor around him. ‘Because I got the feeling you didn’t like me very much. Especially when you SENT A PAIR OF THUGS TO KILL ME!’

There was a moment’s silence, then an indulgent sigh. ‘Thugs, Lucy? I’m sure I don’t know any—’

‘Dr Lockerby and Dr Meldrum. And in case you’re wondering, it didn’t end well for them.’

‘Oh dear. That does sound unpleasant.’ He turned to his assistant. ‘Argyll?’

‘I’m disappointed, Lucy. I know you’ve had a serious head injury, but this... wanton destruction is beneath you.’

‘Oh, I’ll give you wanton bloody destruction!’ She clambered down the ladder. Slammed her palm against one of the locked drawers. ‘Want to explain why every file I’ve looked at has a murder confession in it?’

‘I trusted you, Lucy. I let you read Benedict Strachan’s file, if you promised to obey the rules, but you didn’t, did you? You took photos on your phone, even though I expressly forbade it. And don’t bother denying it; did you really think we wouldn’t have security cameras in here?’

‘In what way is that even vaguely comparable? I’m talking about murder!’

‘If nobody follows the rules, we end up with chaos.’

‘ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?’

The headmaster put a hand on Argyll’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps I could interrupt, for just a moment?’ His voice was like golden syrup: ‘Lucy, I don’t want you to think I was eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhear you talking to someone as we came in. I’d hate to think of them running about the school at night, in the dark; they might injure themselves. Where are they, and how did they manage to avoid our security cameras?’

She blinked. ‘He’s... waiting outside the school gates, with the rest of my backup. Patrol cars, Operational Support Units, dogs, firearms team.’

‘Excellent.’ The headmaster clapped his leathery hands. ‘I do love an imaginary insurance policy. We know you don’t have any of those things, Lucy. So, I’m going to ask you again: where is your mysterious friend?’

‘Going for help. They’ll be here any minute now.’

‘No they won’t. Argyll, perhaps you’d be so kind as to locate DS McVeigh’s elusive friend for me?’

Argyll pulled out his phone and poked at the screen, wandering off a couple of paces as he held it to his ear. ‘Vanessa? Sorry to disturb you so late, but I’m afraid we have an intruder on school grounds. Can you get the house leaders to wake everyone up, please?... That’s right: we need every building and classroom searched. Oh, and there will be house points for whichever group catches our unexpected visitor... Thank you.’

The headmaster nodded. ‘There we are; he’ll be found, safe and sound. Now, you were saying something about a pair of doctors trying to kill you?’

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’ Jabbing a finger at Argyll. ‘Ask him.’

‘And you were able to defeat these doctor assassins? How very resourceful of you.’ A sigh. ‘I genuinely had hoped we could be friends, Lucy; your test scores really were quite remarkable. But I’m afraid your interest in St Nicholas College has caused some of our parents to feel concerned about the safety of their children. I do hope you’ll understand.’

‘Understand?’

‘I’ll just be a moment.’ He produced a mobile of his own, selected a contact and listened to it ring.

Argyll gathered up the fallen pieces of paper. ‘This was none of your business.’

‘You’ve got four floors full of crimes and scandals and corruption and BLOODY MURDER CONFESSIONS!’ She snatched one of the newspaper clippings from his hands — a photo of Roberta Tilford-Smith in all her angular fake-tanned glory, smiling away as she posed with some grim-faced fat bloke, both of them in hard hats and high-vis jackets, beneath the headline ‘DEVELOPERS TEAM UP TO BUILD NEW PANDEMIC QUARANTINE FACILITY’. This one had two gold stars on it. ‘She stabbed a man to death in Bristol, and you’re giving her “good girl” stickers?’

The headmaster turned his back on them. ‘Hello, Shauna? It’s Arnold, from St Nicholas College?... Oh, fine, fine, thank you. How are Gerald and the little ones?... Oh, how lovely.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Argyll snatched the clipping back and shuffled everything into a neat pile. ‘The stars are a merit system based on one ex-student assisting another, and, in this case, the school. There’s no need to pretend you don’t know that’s how the world works.’

‘Listen, Shauna, I’ve got a little favour to ask. Apparently there’s been some sort of a fracas at Detective Sergeant Lucy McVeigh’s home in Ballrochie... That’s right, the old grieve’s house. Would you be a sweetheart and send a team in to tidy up for me?... Oh, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but bodies, blood, incriminating evidence, that sort of thing.’

Lucy blinked. ‘How the world works?’

‘Honestly, Lucy, you sound like a broken parrot.’

‘Yes... Yes... Oh, that does sound helpful, thank you.’ The headmaster turned and peered at Lucy. ‘And I think we’ll need a bit of cleaning at the school as well... Two of them... Sometime in the next half-hour would be best... That’s right; if it’s not too much trouble?... Wonderful.’

‘So, let me guess — you “mould” these children, you “guide” them, and they all get into Oxford and Cambridge, and they become bigwigs in business and politics, and then you own them.’

Argyll grimaced. ‘You make it sound so... exploitative. We help them become their best possible selves and they very kindly look after St Nicholas College, but not because we “own” them; they do it because we’re always here for them. Their parents farm them out to nannies and boarding schools, but we support them. We care.’ He pulled one shoulder up, the smile on his face the same sad one he’d worn in the restaurant. ‘We’re the only family they know.’

‘All right, thank you, Shauna. Give my love to Gerald and the kids... OK... Bye.’

‘You make them kill people before they start here!’

‘We need to know they’re ready!’ Argyll stared at the ceiling for a moment, then tried what he probably thought was a reasonable voice. ‘There are certain traits that indicate whether someone is suited to positions of high power or not; we select the candidates that best align with those traits through rigorous tests and examinations and assessments, and we weed out anyone who isn’t suitable. We’re not asking random children to prove they’ve got the gumption to succeed at that level!’

The headmaster put his phone away. ‘My dear Lucy, remember, you yourself were deemed worthy. If your father had been able to afford the fees, I’m sure you would’ve passed your final exam with flying colours.’ His face softened. ‘All those wasted years “getting better” in psychiatrists’ offices, suppressing everything, when you could have come here and been seen and appreciated for who you really are.’

Argyll stepped closer. ‘You’re one of us.’

Lucy backed away. ‘Who did you kill?’ Waving a hand at the floor-to-ceiling stacks of filing cabinets. ‘It’ll be in here somewhere, won’t it? Your confession and the photos and the incriminating evidence.’

Closer. ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Lucy.’

‘Yeah, but you screwed up, didn’t you? With your little forgery of Benedict Strachan’s essay — oh, whoever you got to do it did a bang-up job, except for one thing: they weren’t left-handed.’

Argyll brought his left hand up, moving it across his body, fingers twitching as if he was writing with an imaginary pen. The wrinkles deepened on his forehead. ‘The letters should’ve been smudged.’

‘That and the ink hadn’t dried properly.’ She flashed up her stained fingertips.

‘You’re right. I should’ve known better.’ He lowered his left hand, the right one disappearing into his academic robe. ‘But sometimes one has to improvise. I’m sorry, Lucy, I really am.’ When the hand reappeared, it was wrapped around the handle of a knife. Not a big, flashy hunting knife, nothing showy or shiny — it was short and brutal, the kind of knife you used to kill people. ‘But I’m afraid you’ve left us no option.’

‘I’ll take that backpack, please.’ The headmaster held out his hand. ‘You have something in there that doesn’t belong to you, and rules are rules.’

Damn.

She slipped the straps from her shoulders.

Argyll spun the knife, so the blade pointed downwards from his clenched fist. ‘St Nicholas College has stood here for over three hundred years. What we’ve built is simply too important to let anyone ruin it.’ He twisted his wrist, till the blade lay back along his forearm. Which meant he actually knew what he was doing. And that was never a good sign. ‘Try not to worry, though, I’ll make it as quick and painless as possib—’

Lucy’s backpack slammed into the side of his head. The cordless drill and other bits and pieces gave it a decent amount of weight. Enough to bounce him off the wall of filing cabinets before he clattered to the marble floor.

The headmaster only had time to open his mouth before she barged past him, knocking the old man flying as she sprinted her way through the almost-maze of stacks and out onto the landing.

The Bloodsmith was waiting for her.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ She hammered past him and down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time as the school’s PA system bing-bonged into life.

Argyll’s voice echoed out from hidden speakers, the words hard and clipped. ‘All pupils and teachers: block every exit from the quad! There are now two intruders loose on school grounds. One of them has just assaulted the headmaster.’

‘You might want to pick up the pace there, Kiddo. He doesn’t sound happy.’

Lucy skidded her way around the first-floor landing and onto the next set of stairs, bouncing off the wall on her way, setting a handful of portraits flying. Clattering down the final flight to the soundtrack of their glass shattering and the frames splintering.

Her trainers squealed on the reception floor as she ran for the main door, shoving through it into the rain. Every window in every building shone with light, but it was still dark out here, the paths and that twisted old oak tree shrouded in the blue-grey gloom of a stormy night.

The Moonfall Gate was closest; all she had to do was get through it before anyone tried to stop her. Easy.

She accelerated, trainers splashing along the path, knees up, elbows out, the backpack swinging from one hand like a big black pendulum.

Almost there...

Then clack, and the whole quadrangle was flooded in bright white light.

Almost there...

It was less than two dozen feet away. This was going to work.

She made the turn into the Gate and—

‘Bastard!’

The thing was packed with children and teachers, standing shoulder to shoulder. Most of them were still in their pyjamas, but a few had made it into their school uniform. Some had armed themselves with hockey sticks or cricket bats, others with hammers or knives.

Lucy staggered to a halt.

Main gate.

She turned and sprinted down the path... Slowed. Then came to a standstill. Lungs burning, back heaving, ribs complaining, breath rising like smoke into the downpour.

The main gate was clogged with bodies, too.

They advanced, completely silent. And when she turned, the other lot were doing the same. Fanning out until they formed a big circle around her, closing in with the security lights blazing away behind them. Tightening their ranks. Their silhouettes bristling with makeshift weaponry. Seventy-eight children, thirty-two adults, all staring at her as if she were some sort of science experiment that hadn’t quite worked.

She turned on the spot.

They were everywhere. Just standing there in complete silence.

Then two of them stepped to the side, and Argyll strode into the circle.

He stopped a dozen feet from Lucy. ‘Thank you, all: good job.’ Cricking his head from side to side, limbering up. ‘Everyone not in Raxton House, I need you to keep searching — there’s another one, like her, somewhere on the school grounds. I — want — him — caught. Off you go.’

The teachers, support staff, and most of the kids slipped away into the buildings and out through the gates, leaving a dozen children behind. Some were clearly seniors, the others a mix of ages all the way down to the two first-years: Allegra and Hugo. They spread out, re-forming the circle.

Argyll held both hands in the air, the knife’s blade a dull glint in the spotlights. ‘I’m sorry it had to come to this, Lucy, but I’m afraid I have to make an example of you.’

Yes, she could charge the circle, batter through one of the smaller kids and run for it, but that would mean turning her back on Argyll and his knife, and there was no way in hell she was risking that.

He circled left, half crouched, keeping both eyes firmly fixed on Lucy as he hauled in a deep breath. ‘FIDES!’

The circle of children belted out a reply: ‘FAITH!’

‘SILENTIUM!’

‘SILENCE!’

‘POTENTIA!’

‘POWER!’

Argyll attacked, the knife slashing through the air — so dark it was nearly invisible.

48

Lucy staggered backwards as the blade sizzled past, barely an inch from her face — but it hit one of the backpack’s straps and sliced straight through it. Jesus, that was sharp. The return stroke caught her across the upper arm, before she could get her feet under her. Pain sparked like a firework, all the way from shoulder to elbow. ‘Son of a bitch!’

Argyll kept circling. ‘Dean-Edwards: what does Sun Tzu teach us about knowledge and the enemy?’

Allegra took a single step forward. ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles!’

Lucy swung the backpack at his head again, but he dodged it, then lunged forward, the knife searing across her shoulder — sending the backpack sailing free to crunch into the sodden grass. ‘AAAAARGH!’

‘Know the enemy! Very good.’

A dozen children glared at her.

‘Ooh...’ The Bloodsmith sucked on his teeth. ‘Not looking good, is it?’

She squeezed her burning shoulder with her good hand, the palm already slick with blood. ‘YOU’RE ALL UNDER ARREST!’

‘Nice try, Kiddo, but I get the feeling that isn’t going to work.’

Argyll feinted left, then right again. ‘To truly know your enemy, you must know what they fear most.’

Lucy scrambled away from the blade. ‘I’M A POLICE OFFICER, AND I’M ORDERING YOU TO PUT THE KNIFE DOWN!’

‘Come on, the man’s a trained killer. You’re going to die if you don’t do something.’

Argyll lunged again, but this time she got her arm up in time to block his wrist, keeping the blade away, but it left her side exposed and his knife-free fist slammed into her bruised ribs.

All the air whoomphed from her lungs and Lucy staggered.

He danced back. ‘So we must ask ourselves, what does Detective Sergeant McVeigh fear?’

Lucy dropped into the defensive pose they taught at Officer Safety Training: one leg forward, both knees bent, elbows in, hands up, palms out, ready to—

He dropped into a squat and swept her legs out from under her, sending her crashing into the wet grass. She clambered upright, but he’d skipped out of reach again, bouncing away as if he was standing on a tiny trampoline.

The bastard was playing with her.

‘DS McVeigh here was held prisoner by a rapist. I know because how, Farquharson Junior?’

The knife flashed — her left shoulder exploded in shards of broken glass. ‘AAAAAAARGH! You utter—’

His fist battered into the side of her head and the soggy grass rushed up to greet her again.

‘Google, sir?’

‘“Google, sir”! Your first weapon in any war is knowledge; I googled her. So what do we think Detective Sergeant McVeigh fears the most?’

She struggled to her knees, both arms barely working.

The Bloodsmith knelt beside her. ‘I believe in you, Lucy, and not just because I’m a figment of your imagination. I believe in you because I know who you really are. And I need you to believe in you, too.’

‘Come on, children: she was held prisoner by a rapist, what — does — she — fear?’

That big pre-teen buffoon, Hugo, put his hand up. ‘Rape?’

Oh Jesus...

‘Listen to me, Kiddo.’ The Bloodsmith brushed the rain-soaked hair from her eyes. ‘You need to embrace the real you. Not just the good you — the careful one who always does the right thing — you need to love the other one too. The Monster.’ He cupped her face in his hands, staring into her eyes. ‘Because you’re not the same monster you were when you were little — you’re a whole new monster. You’ve got power, remember?’

‘Correct.’ Argyll raised his foot and placed it against her chest, shoving her onto her back. ‘And what our enemy fears will bring them to their knees!’

‘And if you don’t use that power, he’s going to slice you open like a frog in science class and this bunch of little weirdos are going to cheer as he hauls out your innards.’ The Bloodsmith patted her on the blood-smeared shoulder. ‘Dig deep, Kiddo.’

Argyll stooped over Lucy, grabbed her overcoat and tore it open, sending buttons flying.

‘GET OFF ME!’ Scrabbling in her coat’s pocket.

‘You see, children? See what fear can—’

‘GRAAAAAAAGH!’ Lucy swung the rape alarm like an ice pick, stabbing it into his ear and pulling the pin with her thumb.

DI Tudor had only been partially right about it being mono-directional. A barrage of high-pitched wailing screeched out, hard and sharp enough to make Lucy flinch back into the wet grass. And she was only getting a fraction of its full volume.

Argyll screamed. Tumbling away, one hand clamped to his ruined ear as blood oozed through his fingers. That was what a hundred and fifty decibels got you.

‘Now would be the time, Kiddo.’

Lucy leaped on his back, her weight forcing him into the ground. Fingers clenched around the rape alarm like a knuckle duster as she slammed her fist into his face. Again and again and again. Getting stronger with every punch. Bellowing a scream of fury as the blows rained down.

He struggled over onto his side, but she stayed on top of him. Yelling and punching with both fists now, bright-scarlet droplets sparkling like rubies in the harsh spotlights. The knife fell from his fingers and she snatched it up, slamming the hilt into his face over and over and over. Keeping going till there was nothing left but mush and blood and shattered bones, and Argyll McCaskill wasn’t moving any more.

She sat back on his chest, breath rasping in her throat. Arms aching.

Rain pattered down against her burning shoulders as she stood and stared at the small circle of pale quiet faces.

Lucy hauled in a deep, snarling breath. ‘COME ON! WHICH ONE OF YOU MOTHERFUCKERS WANTS TO BE NEXT?’

A couple of the older kids looked as if they might have been thinking about it, but their gaze drifted to what was left of their assistant headmaster and then they wouldn’t meet her eyes any more.

Didn’t think so.

Lucy threw back her head and howled her rage and glory out into the dark sky. There was a small pause, then Allegra joined in, followed by Hugo, and one by one the other kids took up the cry, until all twelve of them were baying at the storm like a pack of wolves.

The King was dead, long live the Monster.

‘Here. You look like you could use this.’ The headmaster returned from his desk, holding out a tumbler with a very generous measure of whisky ambering the glass.

‘I don’t... You know what? Sod it.’ Took a bit of doing — what with her knuckles being all bloody and cracked and swollen and stinging like an utter bastard — but she accepted the tumbler and knocked back a good mouthful. Hissed out a fiery, smoky breath. Shuddered as all the hairs on her arms clambered to attention. Well, where they weren’t matted down with blood. Hopefully the whisky’s analgesic properties would kick in soon, and dull the stabbing, throbbing aches currently rampaging up and down her body.

Look on the bright side, though: the blistering headache she’d had for the last two months was finally gone.

Lucy winced her way into one of the two matching sofas. And if she left it covered in nasty dark-red stains, tough.

The headmaster’s office was warm and comfortable, pulling steam from her sodden clothes. He’d turned the lights down low, leaving most of the room in darkness, transforming it into a cave. A place to tell stories about the vicious beasts that roamed the world outside.

Even if it was obvious that the two most dangerous animals in the place were right here, having a drink together.

He placed a manila folder on the coffee table in front of her. ‘I believe this is what you were looking for: Benedict Strachan’s entrance exam. The real one.’

She grunted and fumbled out the ‘What I did over the summer holidays’ essay, trying not to get too much blood on the thing. It was nothing like the version Argyll had shown her in the records room. No creepy story about a dead dog, no peeping on screwing couples, no drunken mother, no father flying into a rage... Just a little boy proud of the experiments he was doing with the new chemistry set he’d got for his birthday, and fizzing with excitement about a trip to the Science and Natural History Museums in London.

Lucy flipped through to the aptitude test.

So much for the casual racism and eugenic tendencies that Argyll had been so worried about. Benedict had even dotted his ‘i’s with little bubbles.

Lucy put the essay back on the table and picked up the black-bordered envelope instead. ‘Doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of kid who’d stab a homeless man eighty-nine times.’

‘I don’t know why Argyll felt the need to mislead you, Lucy. If he’d come to me...’ A sigh. ‘Still, that’s all blood under the carpet now, isn’t it?’

‘He wanted us to think Benedict was always bad news. That him killing Liam Hay was inevitable and nothing to do with St Nick’s.’

The headmaster sank into the sofa opposite, holding a glass of his own. ‘I keep telling people: the cover-up gets you into trouble far more often than the crime.’ A sad smile. ‘But no one ever seems to listen.’

She slid the envelope’s contents out. One photo showed Benedict and his mystery friend attacking Liam Hay in the doorway of Hallelujah Bingo; the rest had been taken in the alleyway beside Angus MacBargain’s Family Store. At the bottom of the pile was the confession:

He hadn’t dotted the ‘i’s with little bubbles this time, and the paper was crinkled, as if someone had spilled drops of water on it.

The first photo proved he was definitely involved, but the rest?

Lucy held two of the pictures up. ‘None of these show Benedict stabbing Liam Hay.’ In both, his unnamed accomplice was slamming a knife into Liam’s torso, face a mask of glee, while Benedict stood in the background, one hand over his mouth, eyes wide and shiny.

He probably hadn’t stopped crying till long after he wrote his ‘confession’.

‘To be honest, Benedict didn’t really fit the psychological profile necessary to succeed at St Nicholas College, but his father had power over the planning authority and the school had just been gifted a large parcel of land in Shortstaine ripe for development.’ The headmaster shook his head. ‘Our Board of Governors overruled my objections and insisted Benedict be entered for the final exam anyway. “Greed and hubris are oft the downfall of weak men.”’

She went back to the photo of that gleeful face, the blade hammering down. ‘It was his academic brother, wasn’t it? The other boy. You pair them up and send them out to kill people.’

‘It lets them know they can always trust their fellow students. Because they have to.’ A smile. ‘Friendships forged at St Nicholas College are for life, Lucy.’

‘Who was he: Benedict’s academic brother? Who really killed Liam Hay?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Lucy. It violates our data-protection policy.’

‘Of course it does.’ She knocked back the last of her whisky, a nice warm pressure growing behind her eyes, wrapping her aching flesh in a soft cosy blanket. ‘What happens now?’

‘That’s a very good question.’ The headmaster levered himself out of the sofa and carried his glass over to the front of his office, gazing down through the window at the quad. ‘I see Shauna’s people have arrived. I shall have to send her some flowers as a thank-you.’

Lucy groaned her way upright and limped over there.

Caught in the harsh-white glare of the quadrangle’s floodlights, two figures in the full white SOC get-up were zipping Argyll’s battered remains into a body bag, while two others treated the ground with backpack sprayers that were probably full of trichloroethylene. Getting rid of any nasty contaminants and signs of blood.

‘So Argyll just disappears.’

‘It’s disappointing, to be honest. I wanted to retire in a couple of years, and now I have to train up a new assistant head. And I genuinely liked Argyll. He was a good man.’

‘He tried to kill me!’

‘That’s... unfortunate. But he paid the price for underestimating you, didn’t he? And now, instead of a prime spot in the St Nicholas mausoleum, a brass plaque in the quad, and his painting in the Noble Hall, he’ll be dismembered and hidden away in a number of unmarked graves, never to be spoken of again.’ The headmaster placed a warm papery hand on her forearm. ‘And there’s no need for you to worry about repercussions, Lucy; Shauna’s people are very discreet and extremely thorough. There won’t be any forensic traces to link you with the remains.’

‘And you expect me to trust you? What about the dozen witnesses?’

‘Witnesses?’ A smile deepened the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. ‘You asked if we keep all these files to blackmail our students, but how could we? If we release them to the world, don’t you think people would ask why we kept them secret for so long? Our destruction would be mutually assured.’ He plucked the empty glass from her hand and topped it up from a small decanter. ‘I reviewed your file again, Lucy, and after tonight’s events I’m more certain than ever that you would’ve made an excellent addition to our family. So, I have a proposition for you.’ He returned the filled tumbler. ‘Would you like to join the faculty here at St Nicholas College? I really think your... unique perspective on things might well prove instructive to our pupils, and you’ll find our salary rates are very generous.’ He clinked his glass against hers, then drank. ‘Or, if full-time academia doesn’t tempt you, perhaps you’d consider becoming a visiting professor?’

Charlie emerged from the shadows. ‘Oh, he has got to be joking! Work here? Covering up murders and corruption and God knows what else? Are we supposed to be OK with that?’

Yes, but given how well connected the school was, going against them would probably get her chopped into little pieces and disposed of ‘discreetly’, like Argyll.

‘Lucy, no!’ Charlie threw his arms out. ‘How can we let them get away with murder?’

Why not? They’d been getting away with it for years. Decades. Maybe even centuries.

At least, if she was on the inside, they wouldn’t touch her. And she had the power, now. Be nothing stopping her taking that job with ACC Cormac-Fordyce, getting the promotion, and becoming a visiting professor. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to have the great and the good owing her favours because she hadn’t burned this whole rotten place to the ground.

‘You can’t be serious. This is horrific, you can’t be part of it!’

Besides — her eyes slid to the crumpled backpack with its one working strap — she had a government-backed insurance policy.

‘Lucy?’ The headmaster waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Are you all right? You zoned out for a bit; perhaps you’ve got concussion? Let me get the doctor to look at you — he’s very good. Former army surgeon in Iraq, you know.’

‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Charlie looked her up and down. ‘Those cuts need stitching, and if you go to A & E they’ll have to inform the police you’ve been in a knife fight. And then you’ve got all that to explain.’

‘Lucy?’

She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure, I assure you.’ The headmaster pressed a button on his desk phone, setting it buzzing. ‘Vanessa, would you ask Major Redpath to come to my office, please? I have a young lady here that needs his attention.’

‘Yes, Headmaster.’

‘Thank you, Vanessa.’ He pressed the button again. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, you were about to accept my proposition and join us here at St Nicholas College!’

‘It’s been a long night.’ Lucy put her glass down. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Of course. One should never rush a lady.’ He fiddled with a letter opener, avoiding eye contact. ‘Don’t take too long, though. As I say, certain of our parents get nervous when there’s a potential threat to their offspring. And some of them have a whole country’s security services at their disposal, not to mention a somewhat casual approach to extradition and human rights.’

‘Understood.’

‘Excellent.’ The headmaster clapped his hands together. Pursed his lips. Frowned. ‘There is just one more thing: Shauna tells me that when her people went to “tidy” your home, they couldn’t find the two doctors you say tried to kill you. So, I was just wondering... what did you do with them?’