No Less the Devil

49

Huddled under the brolly, Lucy checked her watch — just visible between her jacket sleeve and the black leather gloves — only wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the stitches in her shoulder. ‘Three, two, one...’

On the other side of the road, a huge guy in the full Method-of-Entry gear smashed his big red door key into the chandler’s warehouse door, popping the ancient lock right out of the wood and sending the whole thing wooming in to bang against the brick walls.

‘GO, GO, GO, GO!’

The six-person team swarmed inside, extendable batons drawn. They were followed by the Dog Unit — PC Clark being dragged into the building by PD Bawheid, the huge Alsatian’s paws scrabbling on the paving stones, desperate to find someone to bark at, and, if at all possible, bite.

Not a bad way to spend a Monday afternoon.

The big OSU Transit van was parked next to the Dog Unit’s smaller one, Lucy and the Dunk’s pool car behind that, and last, but not least, DI Tudor in an old Jaguar — rusty rather than antique — with his phone clamped to his ear. Doing a lot of listening by the look of things, and not enjoying it much.

The Dunk puffed out his cheeks, gazing up at Lucy. ‘Sarge?’ He’d got himself a brolly from somewhere — a bright-green-with-pink-spots one, which didn’t really go with his traditional black beatnik outfit. Puffing away on a fag as the rain drummed down. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘No, Dunk, I’m at death’s door. That’s why I’ve organized this massive raid on a random building down the docks: because I’m suffering from a serious head injury.’ Which didn’t seem quite so worrying, now the permanent headache was gone. Maybe it wasn’t scrambled eggs up there, after all?

‘Only you look like you fell asleep at a six-year-old’s birthday party, and they all coloured your face in with blue, green, and purple felt-tips.’

‘Told you: I tripped on a loose stair rod. House needs some new carpets, anyway.’ What with Shauna’s people having ripped the old ones out, after dousing them in trichloroethylene to get rid of any blood or DNA from Dr Lockerby and Dr Meldrum.

He shuffled his feet and went back to staring across the street. ‘Do you think this is our boy? I think it’s our boy. I can feel it in my doodahs.’

The Bloodsmith leaned against the car roof, immune to the downpour as he lit up a big fat cigar. ‘Well, he’s not wrong there. Just twenty-four hours too late.’

DI Tudor climbed out of his Jag, turned up his collar and hurried over, ducking in under Lucy’s brolly.

‘Any news?’

‘Only just gone in, Boss.’

Another BOOM echoed out from inside — that would be them battering down the door at the top of the stairs.

‘I’ve had DCI Ross, Superintendent Spence, and ACC Cormac-Fordyce crawling up my fundament all morning. “Why haven’t you found him yet, Detective Inspector?”, “You’ve known who he is since Friday, Detective Inspector!”, “Do I have to come down there and do it myself, Detective Inspector?”’ He spat out into the rain. ‘Bunch of bastards.’

The Dunk stood on his tiptoes and peered down the alley. ‘This could be it, though, Boss.’

One final muffled BOOM marked the door through to the long, low, subterranean room.

‘Let’s hope so, for all our sakes.’ Tudor raised an eyebrow as he stared at Lucy. ‘What’s with the black leather gloves? Planning on assassinating someone later?’

She shrugged. ‘Just feeling the cold, Boss. You know, after I fell down the stairs. And everything.’ It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the scabs puckering the skin across her swollen knuckles.

Tudor checked his watch. ‘What’s taking them so long?’

Two minutes later, all six members of the Operational Support Unit lumbered out into the rain again.

‘Please God, let this be it...’ Tudor marched over there, Lucy and the Dunk hurrying in his wake. ‘Anything?’

‘Not any more.’ Sergeant Niven’s voice was solid Kingsmeath, half the vowels flattened and nasal as he parked the big red door key on his shoulder as if it barely weighed a thing. ‘But someone’s gone to a lot of trouble covering their tracks.’ He clicked on an oversized torch, turned, and led the way back inside, motioning for them to follow. ‘You smell that?’

The harsh acidic tang of bleach hung in the corridor, mingling with a fug of scorched plastic and tarry soot. It got thicker as they turned the corner and thumped downstairs. By the time they stepped into the long, low room, it was choking.

Lucy cupped her hand over her face, eyes watering. ‘Dear God...’

The whole room was blackened and charred. A small pile of carbonized rubbish smouldered in the middle of the place. None of it recognizable as a manky couch and coffee table.

‘Whoever it was, they didn’t want us finding anything. You can get the FSSER down here, but I’d put cash on this place being cleaner than a priest’s conscience.’

Lucy stiffened. ‘Those are dirtier than you’d think.’

While DI Tudor dug out his phone again, and organized a forensic team, she did a circuit of the room, stopping to nudge the length of chain where Dr Christianson used to live, setting it rattling. ‘Dead end.’

‘Sod.’ The Dunk drooped. ‘Really thought I’d got him, there.’

She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Never mind, it was a good bit of detective work. We were just a wee bit too late.’

Thank God.

The call came in at twenty past five, as the Operation Maypole office was emptying out for the day. Everyone heading off to the Bart for a post-not-achieving-anything drink.

‘DS McVeigh? Yes, hi, it’s Abid Hammoud. You wanted to know about a missing red-and-white Mini with a dented roof and cracked rear windscreen?’

Lucy sat up at her desk. ‘Hold on.’ Pulling out her notebook, then snap-snap-snapping her fingers at the Dunk. ‘OK.’ Pen poised.

‘You will not believe how much of a struggle we had, especially without even a partial number plate to go on, pretty much impossible really, but I had a brainwave and expanded the search parameters—’

‘You found it? You found the Mini?’

‘Erm... Yes. Red-and-white Mini, dented roof, cracked rear windscreen, spotted by a traffic camera on the A9402, about three miles south of Shortstaine. It was turning onto a single-track road, which is a dead end, so there’s no way out but back the way it came. And there’s no sign of it leaving. I’ll email you the map coordinates.’

‘Thanks, Abid, you’re a genius. Can you throw in a screengrab, too?’

‘Will do.’

She scribbled down the details, hanging up as the Dunk scuttled over from the coffee machine.

‘Got you a latte.’

She ignored the proffered mug. ‘No time. Get a car, we’ve got a sighting.’

Even with the siren going, it took a good thirty-five minutes to fight their way through rush-hour traffic and onto the single-track road — the Dunk driving hunched over the wheel, teeth gritted, elbows out, but not quite brave enough to put his foot flat to the floor.

He slowed, killing the lights-and-music as the road twisted through a small patch of woods. ‘Aren’t we going to need backup, here?’

‘Probably. But I want to check it out first. Don’t want a repeat of this afternoon.’

He wilted a little at that. ‘Yeah, probably best.’

The road curled around to the left — the grey bones of a standing circle reaching out through the earth on the hill above them — then right — past the tumbledown skeleton of an ancient croft — over a crumbling bridge and into a big chunk of Forestry Commission pines, where the tarmac ran out, leaving the car’s tyres growling over muddy yellow gravel. Rain pounded down on the road, but a pale-grey mist clung to the tree trunks on either side, haunting the forest floor, beneath that dense green canopy of needles.

Lucy pulled out her phone and checked the screengrab Abid Hammoud had sent through: a red-and-white Mini, its rear windscreen covered with what looked like bin bags and duct tape, a long narrow dent creasing the back end of its roof.

Definitely the car she’d bashed with Dad’s metal walking stick.

Which... wasn’t really possible.

Had to hand it to them: St Nicholas College’s cover-up squad were good at their job.

She zoomed in on the Mini’s number plate, copied it down into her notebook, then forwarded the email on to Monster Munch. Gave it a minute, then called her.

‘Operation Maypole, DC Stockham speaking?’

‘Monster Munch? Just sent you a screengrab from a traffic camera. I need you to run a PNC check on the Mini’s number plate.’

‘Urgh... Bad enough I get lumbered with the crappy back shift, without people piling on extra work.’ A rough sigh, followed by the noise of a keyboard click-clattering away. Monster Munch’s voice dropped to a gossipy whisper. ‘Tudor’s still here and he’s got a face like a walloped backside. Superintendent Spence was in with him for half an hour, and just between you and me, he’s torn Tudor a new one. God, you should’ve heard the shouting — it was like Christmas at my mum and dad’s house. Right, here we go... Number plate belongs to a Volkswagen Touran, registered to one Julie Wilkinson, seventy-two, who’s been dead for three months. So she’s probably not the driver.’

The St Nicholas team were very, very good indeed.

‘Thanks.’

‘You hear about Tudor’s wife? Vow of chastity is what I heard, which is a polite way of saying—’

‘That’s great, got to go.’ Lucy hung up.

The Dunk glanced across the car at her. ‘Anything?’

‘Christianson nicked the number plates off some dead old lady’s people carrier.’

‘So we couldn’t trace him through the car. He’s a sneaky bastard, I’ll give him that.’

The further they went on the forestry road, the worse the potholes got. Water surged out in dirty arcs as the pool car wallowed through them. Rain thrumming on the roof, windscreen wipers grunting and groaning, blowers howling — filling the interior with the twin scents of pine and dust.

‘There!’ The Dunk bounced up and down in his seat. ‘You see that?’

As if it was hard to miss.

The track widened out into what was probably a turning circle — access to the rest of the woods blocked by a padlocked metal gate. Sitting in front of it was the burned-out carcase of a small car. It sat on four grubby alloys, the tyres turned to ash, paintwork scorched to a pebble-dashed brown. All the plastic trim had gone, and so had the headlights, windows, and windscreens, the interior reduced to its metal framework...

‘Sodding hell.’ The Dunk pulled up a good dozen feet away and killed the engine. ‘I’ll call it in.’ Digging out his phone as Lucy grabbed her umbrella and winced her way out into the downpour.

She popped the brolly up, holding it tight in her aching gloved fist, and limped over there.

The driver’s charred remains were slumped behind the wheel. Not that there was a lot left of it, or him. His torso was more or less intact, if scorched to a cinder, but there was no sign of his head, or his arms — just a few blackened lumps.

Lucy peered inside.

A second body lay curled up in what would’ve been the boot. It was just as bad as the driver.

‘Lucy?’ Charlie waved at her from the gate. ‘Over here!’

On the other side of the five-bar metal gate, someone had set up a row of large glass jars. Each one held a human heart, suspended in a pink-tinged liquid, a drift of brown making a layer at the bottom of the jar.

There’d only been six, back at the chandler’s warehouse, but now there were eight. One for each of the Bloodsmith’s real victims. And she’d put good money on the other two belonging to Dr Meldrum and Dr Lockerby.

Yes, but if that was the case, they were short a body, because the one in the driver’s seat had to be Dr John Christianson, didn’t it? Why would the headmaster set all this up and leave that thread messy and unfinished? And Lockerby was already dead, so you’d be daft not to stick him in the boot. Which left...

Malcolm Louden.

‘Old Nick’s is cleaning house, isn’t it?’ Charlie squatted down in front of the jars. ‘No one’s going to look for who really killed Malcolm Louden. If it’s all solved, why would you bother?’

And of course they’d have his heart, just lying around at the school, ready to add to the real Bloodsmith’s collection. It would be the physical evidence tying Allegra Dean-Edwards and her academic brother, Hugo, to Malcolm Louden’s murder.

All they’d had to do was write ‘HELP ME!’ on the wall in his blood, after they gutted him, and everyone blamed the Bloodsmith. The one secret Operation Maypole had managed to keep was the thing that let Allegra and Hugo get away with murder. Because nothing was ever really secret when you had the kind of reach St Nicholas College did. Especially with ex-pupils like Assistant Chief Constable Cormac-Fordyce in charge of Police Scotland.

Which raised the question: what did St Nick’s do with Dr Meldrum?

Charlie leaned back against the gate. ‘Maybe they made her “discreetly” disappear, like Argyll?’

The Dunk came scurrying over from the car, pink-and-green brolly trembling in the downpour. ‘They’re on their way, Sarge. What have you...? Holy crap! Are they what I think they are?’ He stared at the jars. ‘We did it. We solved the whole sodding thing! Hoooo-rah!’ Doing a little victory dance in the rain.

At least someone was happy.

50

‘All I’m saying is it wouldn’t hurt us to have the patter of tiny feet about the place, would it?’ Charlie scuffed along the pavement, hands in his pockets, dirty-blond hair caught in the glow of a streetlight like a small fuzzy halo.

Brokemere Street was quiet for a Wednesday night, the kerb lined with parked cars and wheelie bins. Tenements ran the length of the road, the ground-floor shops dark and shuttered, lights glowing in the flats above. Only two businesses were still open: Angus MacBargain’s Family Store — its blue-and-white signage shining like a beacon, while its window promised ‘40 % OFF MCEWAN’S EXPORT!’, ‘ALL TAMPONS ~ 2 FOR 1!’, and ‘GUARANTEED £6M JACKPOT THIS FRIDAY!!!’; and the sex shop that had replaced the tailor’s, on the other side of the little alleyway where Liam Hay had been stabbed eighty-nine times.

Its windows were blacked out, an LED sign pulsing red in the gloom: ‘XXX!’, ‘ADULTS ONLY!’, ‘FETISH!’, ‘BONDAGE!’, ‘TOYS!’, ‘LUBE!’, then back to ‘XXX!’ again.

The Bloodsmith lingered on the corner, washed in the scarlet glow. ‘I’m not sure we’re quite ready for that level of commitment, yet.’

Lucy limped into the alleyway. If her arms were another three inches longer — and she could extend the things without grimacing in pain — she could probably touch both sides of it at the same time.

It was cleaner than you’d think, for a narrow lane running between a convenience store and a sex shop. No piles of garbage, or old cardboard boxes. No stacks of plastic wrapping.

She stopped outside the loading door to Angus MacBargain’s.

A rectangle of concrete was raised out of the tarmac, just big enough for a dead body. There was something on the other side of the plinth, tucked in beside the wall, nestling up to the bricks.

She wrestled a pair of blue nitrile gloves over her black leather ones, and clicked on the little torch from her pocket. Played its soft white beam over whatever was hidden there.

The Bloodsmith appeared at her shoulder. ‘Told you.’

It was a bunch of flowers. Nothing big and flashy, just the kind of thing you could pick up from a supermarket for a couple of quid. Or steal from a graveyard for free. Her ribs screeched, bruising and scar tissue growling, as she bent over and retrieved it. Turning it in her squeaky blue fingers.

There was a card, tucked into the foliage. Two words, in wobbly, smudged letters: ‘I’M SORRY.’ But then writing wasn’t easy, with your dominant hand in a cast.

Charlie was waiting for them, out on the pavement. ‘Was he right?’

‘Of course I was.’ Swaggering past, puffing on his cigar. ‘For who knows better the secrets of the human heart than one who’s carved six of them from his victims’ chests?’

Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘He’s going to be impossible all night now, isn’t he?’

‘Probably.’

She hobbled after the pair of them, up to the end of the street, then around the corner, and onto Campbellmags Way — enveloped in the seductive scents of garlic, vinegar, and hot grease wafting over from the takeaways on Harvest Lane.

Sixteen years after that grainy CCTV footage had been taken, and Hallelujah Bingo was still there. It hadn’t aged well, though. The canopy over the main entrance was propped up by scaffolding that didn’t quite manage to stop it sagging on one side. A barrier of weather-bloated chipboard ran around the outside of the poles, projecting out onto the pavement and blocking off the old doors. Fliers and posters lay in thick layers on the barricade, advertising festivals and concerts and bands and DJ rave parties that had happened ages ago, overlaid with badly spelled graffiti tags and half-arsed attempts at sub-Banksy stencilling.

The lights that had once bordered the canopy were cracked and darkened, the red plastic letters on the sign set forever at ‘TO LET / MAY SELL’.

The Bloodsmith rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, who’d like to place a small wager that I’m right about this next bit, too? Charlie? No? How about you, Kiddo?’

‘No one likes a show-off.’ She dug out her phone and scrolled through the contacts as she crossed to the opposite side of the street, stopping under the CCTV camera that still watched the derelict bingo hall. OK, so it was a bit late to be calling a senior officer, but DCI Ross did say he wanted to be kept up to date.

‘Hello?’ The sound of some sort of sitcom chortled away to itself in the background.

‘Boss? DS McVeigh. Just wondered if there was any update on your surveillance op: Ian Strachan’s Audi?’

‘At ten to eleven on a Wednesday night?’ There were rustling noises, followed by a muffled thump, shutting off the canned laughter. ‘Are you about to have another breakthrough, like you did with Operation Maypole? I’ll have to watch out; you’ll be after my job next.’

‘Do my best, Boss.’

‘There’s been no movement on the car since we found it. Meanwhile, nobody’s murdered one of our homeless population — that we know of — and the residents of Willcox Towers are complaining about all the rats hanging round the huge pile of bin bags we won’t let the council clear up.’

That was good to know.

‘Believe me, Lucy, if it’d been anyone else, I’d have cancelled the obs days ago. But you seem to be on a streak at the moment, so I’m willing to let it run till the end of the week. After that, I’m pulling it, the council are taking the rubbish off to landfill, and Ian Strachan’s Audi’s getting towed.’

‘Thanks, Boss.’

‘Unless you can get me a result sooner than that...?’

‘I’ll give you a shout when I know.’

‘You do that.’ And he was gone.

She put her phone away. ‘Right, boys, shall we?’

Charlie pointed. ‘This looks promising.’

There was a door set into the chipboard-and-graffiti barricade, with a big Yale lock on it, presumably to allow access for the selling agents and anyone mad enough to consider buying a dilapidated bingo hall that had been falling apart for at least the last dozen years.

There wasn’t a handle, and no sign of hinges, so it had to open inwards. Lucy gave it a gentle push, just in case.

‘Before you do what I think you’re going to do, Lucy, are we all remembering that there’s a security camera right across the road, pointing this way?’

‘Come on, Charlie, live a little. Boot it in, Kiddo.’

She stepped back, took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and slammed her heel into the chipboard, just left of the lock, putting her weight behind it. The thing sprang open, bounced off one of the scaffolding poles and juddered closed again. But the lock was buggered now, so Lucy gave it a shove, clicked on her torch, and limped inside. Wincing with every step.

Might not have been a great idea: kicking a door in, when most of her body was one big paisley-patterned bruise. Still, too late to worry about that now.

Rancid yellow light seeped in through the gap between the barricade and the drooping canopy, leaving the interior wrapped in monochrome gloom, the shadows solid black.

She ran her torch across the floor till the beam caught a large bundle of rags, huddled against the boarded-up doors.

A pale face stared out at her from the folds of a manky sleeping bag, eyes red-rimmed and watery, pupils like stitched-on buttons. His skin was greasy grey, smeared with dirt, a week-old beard matted around the corners of his chapped-lipped mouth.

He scrambled backwards, legs struggling in the sleeping bag’s depths, arms shoving at layers of drooping cardboard and filthy newsprint. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God...’ His shoulders pressed against the side of the doorway, but he kept on going till he was sitting upright, both arms covering his face. ‘PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!’

Lucy let the torchlight drift away from Benedict Strachan’s face. ‘I’m not going to kill you, you idiot.’

‘I’M SORRY, I COULDN’T DO IT! I COULDN’T! I TRIED, BUT I COULDN’T!’

‘He doesn’t half go on. Whinge, moan, whimper.’

‘Leave the poor guy alone, he’s just scared.’

‘Will you two shut up?’ She propped herself up against one of the scaffolding poles, hissing breath through her teeth, till the screeching pain settled into a burning ache instead. Doing her best to ignore how Benedict’s rancid BO and rotten breath were strong enough to flavour the air. She even managed a smile for him. ‘You’re safe now.’

‘Please don’t kill me...’

‘No one’s going to kill you.’ She held up the little bouquet of flowers. ‘You didn’t murder Liam Hay, did you? It was your accomplice. It was never you: you were just a wee boy, pressured into playing along and too scared to say no.’

‘I tried...’

‘And they let you take the fall, didn’t they? Whoever your academic brother was, he got away with it. He got to attend St Nick’s, and university, then off to some high-powered job, while you rotted in prison. And he’s never given you a minute’s thought since.’ Lucy creaked her way down till she was right in front of Benedict. ‘So why are you protecting him? Tell me who he is and I’ll make sure he pays for what he did to you.’

‘I...’ Benedict blinked at her, then looked away.

‘Come on, he’s a powerful man now, isn’t he? And he’s never lifted a finger to help you.’

A shudder, then both shoulders curled up and in, head drooping. ‘I...’

‘He’s had a life of luxury and privilege, and what have you had? Sixteen years in a crappy prison cell, people spitting at you in the street, your own father turned against you. While he sits in a gilded boardroom laughing at you.’

Silence.

Come on, come on.

You can do it.

All she needed was a name.

Benedict’s tongue slithered across his cracked lips. ‘I...’ Deep breath. ‘I, Benedict Samuel Strachan, do hereby and of my own free will take full and sole responsibility for the murder of Liam Hay...’

So close.

Lucy used the nearest scaffolding pole to pull herself upright again. ‘Benedict Strachan, I am arresting you under section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 for breaching your release conditions.’ She gestured. ‘On your feet.’

He did what he was told, quiet and meek as she slapped on the cuffs, finished the official script, and marched him out into the night.

51

Lucy checked her make-up in the bedroom mirror. Not exactly ready for the cover of Vogue, but it would do.

Three weeks and the bruising had completely gone. If it wasn’t for the puckered scar tissue where Argyll’s knife had slashed across her arm and shoulders, you wouldn’t know anything had happened. And, according to St Nick’s ex-army surgeon, they’d fade over time. Till then, she’d just have to avoid sleeveless tops. Not exactly a hardship in Scotland, in October.

For some reason, the person in the mirror didn’t look like a stranger any more. And this time, when Lucy pulled on that therapist-mandated smile, it spread much, much easier. More naturally. Even if it did have a distinctly lupine edge to it now.

‘I’m proud of you, Kiddo.’ The Bloodsmith gave her a round of applause as she slipped her old warrant card out of its wallet and replaced it with the new one: Detective Inspector Lucy McVeigh.

Charlie was perched with his backside on the windowsill, basking in the dawn’s anaemic glow. ‘Are we sure we’re doing the right thing?’

‘No.’ She pulled on her suit jacket. ‘But I’m doing it anyway.’

He followed her downstairs. ‘Now, on the subject of the pitter-patter of tiny feet, can I suggest—’

‘Oh, give it a rest, Charlie!’ The Bloodsmith was waiting for them at the front door. ‘Lucy’s got an exciting new position and a career to take care of. We don’t need another mouth to feed.’

She grabbed her raincoat and backpack, unlocked the front door, and stepped outside. Half seven and the sun had just scraped its way above the horizon, turning the fog a slightly lighter shade of grey. Her breath hung in the air as she scrunched across the frosted gravel, pointed her key fob at the Kia Picanto — setting its hazards flashing — and climbed inside. The engine started first time.

The Bloodsmith stretched out in the back seat. ‘I know this might sound controversial, but I rather miss the old Bedford Rascal, with its creaky gears and rattling suspension and humping sausages down the sides.’

‘They’re not humping, they’re dancing!’

‘Oh, Kiddo, everyone knows they’re humping. Shagging. Making the sausage with two backs. Isn’t that right, Charlie?’

He pulled on his seatbelt. ‘I just think having something real for Lucy to focus a bit of love and affection on would be good for her. She can spend as much time as she likes with you and me, but we’re not real. It’s not the same.’

Lucy reversed out of the drive. ‘Are you going to bang on about this all the way there?’

‘Probably. You should give in now: it’ll save you a lot of bother.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Kiddo. Stand firm!’ The Bloodsmith produced one of his stinky cigars, lighting up and filling the car with imaginary smoke.

Charlie scowled. ‘You’re not smoking that filthy thing in here.’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Would you two please just—’ Her phone launched into its blandest ringtone and she pulled it out, pinning the thing between her shoulder and her ear as she accelerated. Not exactly legal. ‘DI McVeigh.’

‘Lucy? It’s Findlay.’

‘Boss. I’m leaving now; should be with you in a couple of hours, roadworks permitting.’

‘Excellent; the team’s buzzing to meet you. We’ve got a rather interesting case just come in, on Mull. Have you heard of the Rammach Brotherhood? If not, I won’t spoil the surprise, but let’s just say they won’t be getting a Michelin star anytime soon. Not unless they start awarding those for cannibalism.’

The Bloodsmith rubbed his hands. ‘Yummy.’

‘Doesn’t sound like one of ours, Boss, so I’m assuming...?’

‘A certain highly respected technology tycoon and peer of the realm’s daughter joined the Brotherhood six weeks ago and hasn’t been heard from since.’

That was more like it.

‘I’ll be there soon as I can.’

‘And I’ve been giving a little thought to your dilemma, vis-à-vis Sarah Black and her less-than-delightful family. Now that you’re officially part of the St Nick’s family, I think I have a few ideas that might tickle your fancy.’

A smile tugged at Lucy’s cheeks. ‘Thank you, Boss.’

‘Welcome on board, Professor McVeigh.’ Then ACC Cormac-Fordyce hung up.

Charlie held up a hand. ‘So, back to my perfectly reasonable suggestion that—’

‘Put the radio on, Kiddo, let’s drown the bugger out.’

‘I’m not saying she should get married and have kids, I’m saying we should get a dog. We could call it “Lucyfer”. Ooh, or how about “Mr Bitey”?’

‘We are not having a dog called “Mr Bitey”. Tell him, Lucy: it’s just asking for trouble.’

‘Well, I don’t hear you coming up with any better suggestions.’

‘Here we go!’

Lucy tightened her grip on the steering wheel. ‘If you two don’t play nice, right now, I’ll go to my new police shrink, get them to prescribe a whole shedload of antipsychotics, and then where will you be?’

Silence.

The Bloodsmith cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Lucy.’

‘Yes, sorry, Lucy.’ Charlie shifted in the passenger seat. ‘But he started it.’

Oh, for God’s sake.

Lucy clicked on the radio and turned it right up.

It was going to be a long, long day...