No Less the Devil

1

Right.

Michelle checked herself in the mirror again: make-up perfect, auburn waves hairsprayed into submission, bright smile without a hint of lipstick on her teeth. Cupping a hand over a huffed-out breath revealed a reassuring minty freshness, too.

First day on the job and she was good to go.

All she needed now was a customer.

There — the lanky middle-aged woman, scowling away at the shelves of painkillers. Black overcoat on over a red-and-white striped top, mousey-blonde hair that was far too long for someone that age, skin like blanched milk, and a strong chin with a dimple at its point. She’d clearly gone for the ‘natural’ look, and it didn’t suit her at all. And those thick-black-framed glasses didn’t exactly help. Still, it was amazing what a bit of make-up — properly applied by a newly qualified professional like Michelle — could do.

The woman plucked a packet of paracetamol from the shelf and clacked towards the checkouts on a pair of Cuban-heeled boots. Which meant she’d have to walk right past Michelle’s station, completely unaware that her world was about to become a little bit brighter.

Michelle nodded to herself, keeping her voice low. ‘Remember your training, Michelle, you’ve got this.’ Then cranked her smile up another notch.

It was time to make a difference!

Lucy squinted one eye shut against the knife-sharp sun slashing its way in through the shop window. Sparking off the harsh white floor tiles, glass bottles, and jars, as if it was trying to stab its way right into her already throbbing brain.

It was too hot in here as well, the heating turned way up to depths-of-winter levels — even though it was only early September — transforming the overcoat she’d pulled on that morning into an instrument of torture. Only been in here fifteen minutes and already her top was sticking to her back.

‘Excuse me, madam? Hello?’ An orange-faced horror with too much blusher, drawn-on eyebrows, and a white smock top, popped out from behind one of the make-up counters, blocking Lucy’s way. Holding up a palm-sized tub of something greasy. ‘I know crow’s feet can be such a worry for middle-aged ladies, but, great news, now there’s an organic alternative to Botox!’

‘Middle-aged?’ Lucy glared at her. ‘I’m twenty-six!’

‘Ah.’ The idiot hid the tub behind her back and snatched up a couple of lipsticks instead. ‘Well, perhaps, with your classical pale complexion, I could tempt you to a slightly brighter lipstick? Bewitching Coral? Or Pink Brandy?’ Pointing them both at Lucy’s mouth. ‘Because that shade’s really far too insipid for you.’

‘I’m not wearing any make-up!’

The fake smile faltered. ‘Then... now’s the perfect opportunity to start?’

‘Gah!’ Lucy pushed past her and stomped over to the queue for the tills.

Of course, the self-service ones were all out of order, so there was no option but to shuffle forward, inch by painful inch, past the newspapers, magazines, and low-sugar sweets — arranged to corral the punters on their miserable death march towards the counter. Which clearly should’ve been manned by three people, but had been abandoned instead to the care of a single teenager with a permanent sniff who scanned people’s purchases as if she was doing them a huge personal favour.

Insipid? Crow’s feet? Middle-aged?

Like that make-up-counter troll was a sodding oil painting, with her face like a constipated Oompa Loompa.

Cheeky cow.

Lucy kept her head down, avoiding the treacherous sunlight, her one open eye drifting across the publications: ‘LOVE ISLAND STD THREESOME SHOCKER!’, ‘STRICTLY COME DRUGS RAID’, ‘MY SECRET WEIGHT-LOSS HELL!’, ‘SEX-PEST POSTIE STOLE MY HEART & MY CAT!’ The crappy tabloids were just as bad: ‘RANDY RHYNIE’S “RUSSIAN ROMP” RUMOURS’, ‘MIGRANTS “SWAMPING NHS” SAYS HERO COUNCILLOR’, and ‘JOCK COPS CAN’T CATCH CREEPY KILLER’.

Which was a bit unfair.

Even if it was true.

That last headline sat above a grainy photo of an empty, dilapidated room — ragged holes in the floorboards, pale blotches bleached into the crumbling walls.

A smaller picture was set into it: Abby Geddes gazing out at the world with tired eyes, mouth drooping at the edges, short brown hair rumpled and unstyled. Almost as if she—

‘Hello?’ It was barked out in an imperious male voice, right behind Lucy, followed by a tut. ‘Are you actually in this queue, or are you just browsing?’

Tosser.

Lucy turned, nice and slow, straightened her glasses, and gave the gangly dick in the pinstripe suit a lopsided dose of the evil eye. Baring her teeth. ‘You want to repeat that, sunshine?’

Pink rushed up from the collar of his shirt, flooding his cheeks, making it look as if his tie was tied far too tight. He stepped back. ‘I... er...’ Taking a sudden interest in his polished brogues. ‘I was... It’s your turn.’ One hand coming up to tremble at the counter.

She nodded, then took her time, ambling over to the bored spotty teenager. Thumped her packet of paracetamol down on the till’s stainless-steel weighing plate.

There was a pause. Some chewing. Then words slumped out on a wave of stomach-clenching spearmint, twisted into a strangled Kingsmeath accent: ‘You want a Chocolate Orange? It’s on offer, like. Buy one, get one half price, and that.’

‘No.’

The till bleeped as the pills were scanned.

And then a smile bloomed across the girl’s face, rearranging the pattern of blackheads and zits. ‘Here, you’re that woman, aren’t you?’

Lucy dug the debit card out of her wallet. ‘No.’

‘Aye, you are: you’re that detective sergeant woman. We learnt all aboot you, in Media Studies! You and that bloke, whatshisname, Nigel something-or-other. Black. Neil Black! That’s the boy.’

The card reader chimed out the purchase and Lucy snatched up her pills. ‘No, I’m not!’ She marched off, heels hammering the tiles out onto Jessop Street, into the crisp morning air. Even if it was laden with the pale-blue scent of exhaust fumes as cars and vans rumbled by.

The Dunk raised an eyebrow as she tore her way into the paracetamol. He was barely taller than the post box he leaned against, with a plump little face besmirched by a thin goatee-soul-patch-and-moustache thing that didn’t make him look anywhere near as much like Tony Stark as he clearly thought it did. He’d squeezed himself into his trademark black polo neck, with black jeans, black sunglasses, and a dark-grey leather jacket. A languid cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.

Let’s face it, the boy was one French beret and a pair of bongos away from going full-on beatnik. But on the plus side, he’d done what he’d been told and got the coffees in.

The Dunk held out one of the two large wax-paper cups. ‘Caramel latte macchiato with chocolate sprinkles.’

‘Breakfast of champions.’ She knocked back a couple of pills, washing them down with a sip of hot sweet coffee goodness.

He pursed his chubby lips. ‘Have you still got that headache?’

‘We’re going to be late.’ She strode off down the street — the Dunk struggling to keep up on his short little legs.

He broke into a semi-jog, drawing level with her shoulder. ‘Only I’m pretty sure that if a hangover lasts more than two months, you should see a doctor.’ He shook his head. Thinning a bit at the back there. Not very Tony-Stark-like at all. ‘At the very least, cut back on the booze.’

‘Very funny. You’re like a modern-day Bernard Manning. And for your information, this’ — tapping her forehead — ‘is probably stress-induced. Caused by having to work with weirdos like you all day.’

A busker had set up on the corner, by the lights, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops — a brave fashion choice for Scotland in September — warbling his way through a bland reggae cover of something vaguely recognizable:

Not exactly in the best of taste.

They bustled across St Jasper’s Lane, nipping between a bendy bus and a grubby-brown Renault van, emerging opposite the King James Theatre with its elaborate yellow-brick-and-pink-granite façade, featuring lurid billboards for upcoming performances — ‘CHRISTMAS PANTO: SKELETON BOB AND THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE SANTA, TICKETS ON SALE NOW!’, ‘CASTLE HILL OPERA SOCIETY PRESENTS: THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS’, and ‘SIGN UP FOR SUPERSPANKYBINGOSWANKY — WEDNESDAYS! ~ BIG PRIZES EVERY WEEK!!!’ Because, apparently, being classy was overrated and...

Lucy stopped outside a small newsagent with one of those fake sandwich-board things screwed to the wall by the door. ‘CASTLE NEWS & POST: FAMILIES’ FEARS AS HUNT FOR BLOODSMITH FALLS FLAT’.

‘Sarge?’

A flush of heat spread across the base of her neck, creeping upwards as it turned into that horrible, familiar prickling feeling — as if someone was watching her. Snatching the breath in her throat, setting her heart rattling. But when she spun around, fists clenched, it was just the usual assortment of shoppers and tradespeople, going about their business. Both legal and otherwise.

Wait a minute, there was someone watching her from the other side of the road: a tall, thin man, with a big forehead surrounded by curly brown hair. Beard and moustache. Corduroy jacket, like a supply teacher. Small round glasses that hid his eyes, but not the bags underneath them. And he was just standing there, staring.

Like a weirdo.

A large white van drifted by, blocking him from view, ‘HAVE YOU TRIED SCOTIABRAND CHICKEN MACSPORRANS YET? THEY’RE CLUCKING TASTY!’ in a lurid typeface down the side, with a happy mother feeding her little boy something revolting and flattened-Dalek shaped. And when the van had passed, there was no sign of the man.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk poked her arm. ‘You OK, Sarge? Only you look like someone’s just shat on your grave.’

‘Never mind.’ Probably just a pervert anyway. Wasn’t as if the city didn’t have more than its fair share. And as long as he stuck to staring, that was fine. Creepy, but Christ knew it was better than the alternative. Lucy strode off again, going a bit faster this time so the Dunk had to abandon his semi-jog for a full-blown scurrying run instead.

The wee sod puffed and panted at her side, cigarette bouncing along — spilling ash down his jacket’s lapels. ‘Seriously, though: who’s Bernard Manning?’

‘God’s sake, I’m only three years older than you, I’m not your granny. Because, let’s face it, if I was related to you, you wouldn’t be so repugnantly ugly.’

‘All right, all right. Thank you, Sergeant Sarcastic.’ The Dunk dodged a couple of schoolkids who probably should’ve been in class at quarter past ten on a Wednesday morning, instead of hanging about outside a shuttered off-licence smoking fags. ‘So, what do you think the big briefing’s going to be about?’

‘Probably giving us all medals and a bonus for doing such a bang-up job of catching the Bloodsmith.’

‘Oh...’ He drooped a bit at that. ‘Well... maybe there’s been a breakthrough, or something, you know?’

‘You’re probably right. After all, it’s early days, isn’t it? Only been after the bastard for seventeen months.’ She took a left onto Peel Place. ‘What’s a year and a half between friends?’

Halfway down, O Division Headquarters loomed in all its brutalist glory. The big, red-brick Victorian monstrosity jutted out from the picturesque ivory-sandstone buildings that lined the street, as if the genteel terrace had suffered a prolapse.

‘Yeah, but it’s not like we haven’t been trying, is it?’

‘Seventeen months, Dunk. And we’re no nearer than we were on day one.’

Lucy slipped out of the briefing room, closing the door behind her, shutting off the bored chatter of two dozen plainclothes and uniformed officers.

DI Tudor paced back and forth along the corridor, face creased and taut at the same time, one arm hugging a stack of paperwork like a teddy bear, leaving the other hand free so he could chew at his fingernails. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a jet-black Peaky Blinders short back and sides that somehow didn’t look ridiculous above serious eyes and salt-and-pepper designer stubble. In another life, he could probably have been a catalogue model — a rugged middle-aged man on a cold-looking beach somewhere, with his fake ash-blonde wife, both wearing matching chinos and rugby shirts: ‘BUY TWO, SAVE £10!’

‘You OK, Boss?’

He kept on pacing. ‘Everyone ready?’

‘Is something wrong?’

His mouth pulled out and down. ‘They’ve put me in charge of the investigation. Sole charge.’

‘Oh...’ Lucy frowned. Bit her top lip. Nodded. ‘That’s not good.’

‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, DS McVeigh!’

‘You know that’s not what I mean, Boss.’

‘Apparently DCI Ross has more active investigations requiring his supervision, but, and I quote, “The High Heidyins have complete faith in my ability to bring Operation Maypole to a swift and satisfactory conclusion.”’ Tudor stopped pacing and covered his face with his chewed hand. ‘I am so screwed.’

Hard not to feel sorry for the poor sod. ‘So, first Superintendent Spence bails and lumbers DCI Ross with it, now DCI Ross hands you the stinky baby and does a runner.’

‘Bad enough as it is, without you rubbing it in.’ Tudor slumped back against the wall. ‘Think it’s too late to go off on the sick?’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and solve this thing?’

His face soured. ‘Fat bloody chance.’ Then Tudor gave himself a shake. Smiled the kind of smile that was meant to convey sincerity and sympathy. ‘Listen to me, moaning on. I should’ve asked how you’re doing.’

She froze for a couple of breaths, then mirrored his fake smile. ‘Never better.’

‘Only, if you need to talk or anything...? My, you know, my door’s always open, right?’

God, could this get any more awkward?

‘I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Keen to get on with things: catch this bastard.’

‘Yeah.’ Tudor sniffed, then gave himself another shake, like an old spaniel coming in from the rain. ‘Show no fear.’ He pulled himself up to his full six-three and nodded at her. ‘Come on, then.’

Lucy opened the door and he strode through, into the office, as if the world lay at his feet.

Amazing what a bit of self-delusion could do.

She followed him in.

Operation Maypole filled the big incident room on the third floor. Four mean, narrow windows punctured the far wall — separated by corkboards thumbtacked with memos and mugshots and crime-scene photos — glaring across the potholed car park behind O Division Headquarters to the boarded-up carpet warehouse that backed onto it. Vague hints of Camburn Woods just visible over the rooftops in the distance. Digital whiteboards lined the whole side wall, covered in notes and lines and boxes and process-flow diagrams. A small kitchen area was recessed into the grey rank of filing cabinets opposite the whiteboards, leaving the last wall to pinned-up actions and the kind of posters Police Scotland mistakenly believed were motivational, rather than deeply depressing.

The rest of the room was packed with cubicles, desks, office chairs, and DI Tudor’s team — all two dozen of them. There were even signs hanging from the ceiling, marking out each specialist unit: ‘HOLMES’, ‘FAMILY LIAISON’, ‘SEARCH’, ‘DOOR TO DOOR’, ‘INTERVIEW’, ‘PRODUCTIONS’, and ‘COMMAND’. Which had seemed like a good idea at the time, even if it bore no real relationship to the way things actually worked.

‘All right, people!’ Tudor thumped his stack of paperwork down on the table at the front of the room and the babble of voices stuttered to a halt. ‘Thank you. I’m sure you’ve all seen the papers this morning.’ He picked up a copy of the Glasgow Tribune in one hand and a Daily Standard in the other, holding them up so everyone could see the front pages. ‘OLDCASTLE POLICE “INEPT AND FLAILING” SAY GRIEVING FAMILIES’ and that old favourite: ‘JOCK COPS CAN’T CATCH CREEPY KILLER’.

Someone at the back of the room booed.

‘My feelings exactly.’ The papers got dumped on the floor. ‘As of today, I’ve been placed in sole command of Operation Maypole.’

A few of the older officers made eye contact with Lucy and winced at that, but they kept their mouths shut.

‘I know it feels like we haven’t made a lot of progress in the last seventeen months, but that changes now. Angus?’

One of the officers who’d shared a wince held up a biro in his podgy, hairy hand. He’d probably been clean-shaven at the start of the shift, but now his jowls were coloured a heavy blue-grey, tufts of black sprouting out of his shirt collar. Just a shame he couldn’t grow any of it on his big shiny boiled-egg head. ‘Guv.’

‘Your team goes over the interview transcripts and witness statements. I want everything reviewed.’

A small grimace of pain, but Angus kept it out of his voice. ‘Will do.’

‘Emma? Your team does the same with our twenty-six ex-suspects. Have another crack at their alibis: see if we can’t move a few of them back into the “might-be-our-killer” column.’

A middle-aged woman with an explosion of rusty curls and a hard teuchter accent nodded. ‘Guv.’ But you could tell she’d just died a little inside.

Then, section by section, Tudor handed out all the back-to-square-one assignments — trying to make it sound as if this was a real chance for progress, rather than a massive setback — and sent the teams on their way, until there was no one left but him, Lucy, and the Dunk.

She nodded at the whiteboard, with its list of ticked-off tasks. ‘What about us, Boss?’

‘I need you and DC Fraser to go over all the crime scenes again. Fresh pair of eyes. Start at the beginning and work your way through.’ His smile slipped a bit. ‘There has to be something we missed. Something that’ll—’

A knock on the doorframe and a chubby PC stuck her head into the room. ‘Sorry, Guv, but there’s a visitor downstairs for DS McVeigh? Won’t talk to anyone else. Says it’s urgent.’

Tudor licked his lips. ‘Is it about the Bloodsmith?’

A shrug. ‘Like I say: he won’t talk to anyone else.’

‘I see...’ Tudor’s smile kicked back in again. ‘Maybe our luck’s about to turn after all?’

Or maybe it was about to get a whole lot worse?

2

Lucy followed the PC into the stairwell, making for the ground floor. ‘This visitor: does he have a name?’

‘Lucas Weir.’

Never heard of him.

They clattered around the landing and onto the next flight. ‘And he didn’t say what it was about?’

‘Nope. Just that it was urgent. Oh, and someone’s kicked the living...’ She cleared her throat and they descended again. ‘Sorry, Sarge. I mean: someone’s assaulted him.’ A smile stretched her cheeks, putting dimples in them. ‘He didn’t say that, though, I deduced it from all the bruises and things.’

Hark at Sherlock Sodding Holmes.

She held open the door at the bottom of the stairs, following Lucy into a corridor lined with yet more ‘motivational’ posters and the odd Health and Safety one too. Like the cheery black-and-red ‘UNIVERSAL BLOOD & BODY FLUIDS PRECAUTIONS’. How could anyone fail to be buoyed up by that?

The PC pointed a chunky finger. ‘Your man’s in the Visitors’ Room. Want me to come in with you, in case he kicks off or something?’

Yeah, because she’d be a whole heap of help.

‘Thanks, but I got this.’ Lucy marched down to the last room on the left, the one that lurked just inside the no-unauthorized-personnel-allowed part of Divisional Headquarters.

Lucy straightened the sleeves of her stripy top, knocked twice on the door, and let herself in without waiting for a reply.

She stopped, dead. Blinking. The smell was — bloody hell — it was like being attacked with a deadly weapon. The first thing that hit was the sharp piddly stench of clothes that hadn’t dried properly, followed by the swift one-two of unwashed hair and rancid sweat. But the knockout blow was the eye-nipping reek of sour alcohol, wafting out on an uppercut of halitosis.

The man responsible for the onslaught fidgeted on the other side of the scarred Formica table, his plastic seat creaking and groaning as he rocked back and forth. Scrawny was the first word that came to mind. Scrawny and stinky. Scrawny, stinky, and battered. In a grubby brown hoodie, left arm trapped from elbow to fingertips in a bright-white plaster cast. One side of his mouth was swollen like a bee sting; the eye above it wasn’t any better, the skin a deep mix of blues and purple. The other eye bloodshot, the pupil dark and big and shiny. Nose hooked and discoloured, its bridge covered in surgical strips. More bruising on his knife-sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. His right hand fiddled with the toggles on his hoodie. Well, two fingers and a thumb did — his pinkie and the one next to it were taped together, as if he was practising his Vulcan salute.

But even under all that, he was instantly recognizable.

Lucy pulled out the seat opposite and sank into it, keeping her face still as granite. ‘You told the officer you were “Lucas Weir”. Want to tell me why?’

A sniff. ‘It’s my name now.’ He’d managed to hold onto the posh Castleview accent, but the words came out soft and slurred and mushy, a gap showing where two of his front bottom teeth should’ve been. ‘The court gave me it so They wouldn’t... wouldn’t find out where I lived.’

Clearly stoned. Either high on his own supply, or the hospital had given him some industrial-strength painkillers when they patched him up. Shame they hadn’t given him a bath too.

Lucy settled back in her chair. ‘So, how have you been?’

He dug into his hoodie’s marsupial pouch, pulled out a crumpled-up sheet of newsprint, and dumped it on the tabletop. Holding one corner down with his cast so he could smooth the newspaper out with his thumb and two unbroken fingers. Tongue poking out of his mouth as they fumbled their way through the task. Not easy when you’re left-handed, and all you’ve got to work with are three digits on the wrong side.

It was the front page of yesterday’s Daily Standard, the headline, ‘KILLER KID SICKO LIVES NEAR PLAYGROUND’, with a big ‘EXCLUSIVE!’ roundel, above a photo of the man sitting opposite. They’d clearly taken it from a distance, the image pixelated and grainy, catching him as he emerged from a corner shop. Smiling and unaware. Not knowing he’d been caught.

‘Oh.’ That wasn’t good.

There was a smaller picture, inset into the larger one. This was the photo they’d used in all the news reports at the time, and the BBC documentary, and the appeal for more information, and then once a year on the anniversary of the murder. The photo of a smiling young boy with his whole life ahead of him. Glasses, strawberry-blond hair, freckles on his nose and cheeks. All dressed up for his primary-seven photo, in a white shirt and blue-and-red-striped Marshal School tie. The caption underneath it read, ‘BENEDICT STRACHAN (11), TWO MONTHS BEFORE THE MURDER.’

A tear plopped onto the paper, turning it a darker shade of grey as it seeped into the text. ‘You see?’

‘I’m so sorry, Benedict.’ Lucy reached across the table and placed her hand on his unbroken arm. ‘You didn’t deserve this.’

He nodded and another teardrop landed in the middle of the photo.

‘Do you know how they found you?’

He shook his head, pulling his hand free to wipe the tears away. Voice ragged and jaggy as the crying started for real. ‘I only... I only got out three weeks... weeks ago!’

Sodding hell.

Lucy turned the paper around and frowned at the introduction.

‘They... they printed my address!’ Benedict wiped his eyes again. ‘I can’t... I can’t go back there. What if They find me?’

‘“They”, who, Benedict?’ She folded the paper and placed it off to the side. ‘The people who did this to you?’ Pointing at his cast and his bruises. ‘Didn’t they already—’

‘No: Them!’ The rocking back and forth got more pronounced, wringing a tortured wheeeeek-whonnnnng-wheeeeek-whonnnnng out of the plastic chair. ‘Them. The Them that live in the shadows, controlling everything!’

Ah.

There was stoned, and there was stoned.

Lucy softened her voice about as far as it could go, as if she was talking to a small child with its foot stuck in a bucket of broken glass. ‘Benedict, I need you to tell me what you’ve taken, OK? Do you know how much you’ve had?’

He sat forward, face creasing into a teeth-baring rictus. Probably got a few cracked ribs under that grubby hoodie. ‘They’re everywhere and They’re always watching. They can see everything you do, everywhere you go.’

‘Did the doctors give you something for the pain? Did you take something else along with it? Something of your own?’

‘No one suspects Them, but They’re always there. Always.’

‘I think you need to get some help, Benedict.’ Reaching for his arm again.

‘WHY DO YOU THINK I’M HERE?’ That one bloodshot eye wide and watery and staring. Face flushed where it wasn’t bruised. Little pink flecks of spittle landing on the tabletop between them. Then he shrank back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. They... Don’t let Them...’

She tried for a reassuring smile. ‘Sometimes medication can make people a bit paranoid, especially if they’ve mixed it with alcohol and maybe cocaine? Heroin? Temazepam?’

‘I’m not on jellies, OK? I’m... trying to warn you. They don’t want me telling anyone what I know.’ He was starting to talk a bit faster now, the words slipping and slurring. ‘But They know you spoke to me in prison. I bet They read your thesis. I bet They know all about you.’

Maybe it was time to have a word with Benedict’s Criminal Justice social worker? Get him enrolled on a rehab programme. Assuming there were any still open after the latest round of budget cuts.

‘Have you talked to anyone about these feelings of—’

‘LISTEN TO ME!’ And the tears were back. ‘Why does no one ever listen to me?’

‘OK, OK.’ She held up her hands. ‘Why are “They” so interested in you? Help me understand.’

‘Because.’ Lowering his voice to a slurred whisper. ‘Because of what happened when I was a kid. Because of what I did.’ A grubby fingertip — poking out the end of his cast — came down to rest on the folded newsprint. ‘They know everything.’

Or maybe he’d just become institutionalized? After all, Benedict had spent more than half his life behind bars — he wouldn’t be the first person to emerge from prison unable to cope with the outside world. Maybe his subconscious decided he’d be better off getting locked up for paranoid delusions instead?

And while it wasn’t exactly ethical to take advantage of him while he was in this state, there was one question still unanswered from that bloodsoaked night sixteen years ago.

Lucy didn’t move. ‘So they know who you were with, that night? The other boy on the CCTV footage?’

‘Of course They know! How could They not know? Are you insane?’ Benedict jerked around in his seat, setting the rubber feet scraiking across the grey terrazzo floor. As if checking for someone lurking over his shoulder. ‘They know everything.’

‘I could help you better if you told me who your friend was, Benedict.’ Trying not to hold her breath as the silence stretched.

His mouth hung open like a battered gargoyle, showing off those missing teeth and the bloody gums they’d been kicked from.

Come on, come on.

Just give up the other boy’s name.

You can do it, Benedict.

Please...

Then Benedict’s one good eye narrowed. His mouth clicked shut. And he stood. Trying to scoop up the bit he’d torn out of the newspaper with the fingertips on his broken arm. And failing. He shoved his plaster-cast into the hoodie’s pocket instead. ‘I gotta go. I... Yeah.’

‘It’s just a name, Benedict, what could it hurt after all these years?’

‘I’ve — got — to — go!’

Sod.

Lucy suppressed a sigh. Nodded. ‘Can you at least tell me who beat you up, so we can arrest them?’

‘Yeah. No. No one. I... I fell down the stairs.’

‘Benedict, you don’t have to—’

‘I FELL DOWN THE STAIRS!’ Then his shoulders curled forwards, head lowered, not looking at her any more. ‘Can I go now? I need to go.’ Sounding more like a scared eleven-year-old boy than a man of twenty-seven.

He fiddled with his hoodie’s toggles again.

Fidgeted.

Chewed on his bottom lip.

Left leg picking up a tremor, till his heel beat a rattling staccato on the floor.

She’d lost him.

Lucy pushed her chair back. ‘OK, Benedict. I’ll see you out.’

And she’d been so close...

The moment Benedict was out through the main doors, he was off. Sort of halfway between a limp and a lopsided jog. Putting as much distance between himself and DHQ as possible.

Lucy stood there, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, watching till he hurpled around the corner onto Camburn Road and out of sight.

Given the state he was in, probably wouldn’t be long before he was either back in custody or Castle Hill Infirmary. Just had to hope it wouldn’t be because of an overdose... Mind you, at least with his left hand in a cast, he wouldn’t be shooting up any time soon. Not unless he’d turned ambidextrous in prison.

When she turned to go back inside, there was the Dunk, lounging against a low concrete wall, head buried in today’s Castle News & Post, cigarette smouldering away between two yellowed fingers. He didn’t look up from whatever article he was reading. ‘Says here that Paul Rhynie’s been handing out government contracts to firms owned by his mates. No tender process, no penalty clauses, no questions asked. He’s the Business Secretary, for God’s sake, how’s that even legal?’

‘Get a car sorted. I need to make a call.’

‘Millions and millions of taxpayers’ cash, spaffed into his buddies’ pockets.’ One last puff, then he pinged his dogend away. ‘Makes you think we’re after the wrong class of criminal, doesn’t it?’

‘Car, Dunk, as in “go get one.”’ She headed back through into reception.

The Dunk scurried in ahead of her, casting a leering look over his shoulder in the direction Benedict Strachan had gone. ‘Your new boyfriend seems... nice. Not too keen on his aftershave, though: eau de wheelie bin?’

‘And while you’re at it: I need a copy of all the Bloodsmith crime-scene reports and victim profiles.’

‘I mean, I know dating at your age can be tough, but you can probably afford to raise your standards a bit.’

‘Car and reports. Now. ASAP.’ She marched across to the security door, fast enough to make the cheeky little sod trot.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I know you ladies like to slum it every now and then, but Junky Jake there wasn’t exactly—’

‘You know’ — she stopped, one hand on the keypad — ‘I can always get another sidekick, Dunk.’

‘No need to get all sniffy about it, Sarge.’ A wee leer slithered its way onto his face. ‘Especially given how bad your boyfriend smells.’

‘Seriously: Mags is probably free, or PC Gilbert. Even Urpeth would do, at a push.’ Lucy punched in the code and hauled the door open. ‘I hear DS Smith’s got space on his team: you could go work for him.’

The Dunk blanched. ‘Come on, Sarge, joke’s a joke!’ Shuddering as the door swung closed behind him. ‘That’s a horrible thing to wish on anyone.’ He jogged along beside her, down the corridor and into the stairwell. ‘So, you going to tell me who Stinky the Loverboy is, or are you keeping it a secret till the church’s booked?’ Launching into the ‘Wedding March’: ‘Dum, dum-tee-dum, dum dummm-tee-dooooo...’

Lucy paused on the first landing. ‘And while you’re at it, dig up everything we’ve got on Benedict Strachan.’

‘Benedict Strachan?’ The Dunk pulled his chin in, eyebrows pinched. ‘Why do you want...’ Then his whole face opened out. ‘You’re kidding! That was Benedict Strachan? The Benedict Strachan? Wow!’ Staring back down the stairs, as if he could see through the walls of DHQ to watch her visitor hurple off into the distance. ‘Benedict Strachan. Bloody hell!’

‘Don’t just stand there. Off. Go. Work.’

A low whistle. ‘I always thought he’d be taller in real life.’

Useless.

Lucy headed up the stairs again. ‘You’re not working, Dunk.’

‘So how come the Benedict Strachan is coming to see you, and only you, and it’s urgent, and he won’t speak to anyone else?’

Good question.

She frowned her way to the next floor. ‘I did my MSc dissertation on “Children Who Kill” — dash — “The Role of Dissociative Personality Disorders in Non-Nurture-Related Psychopathy Resulting in Under-Aged Homicidal Acts”.’

‘Catchy title. Think I saw the film.’

‘I interviewed Benedict a few times, when I was writing it. He was... troubled.’ Bit of an understatement. ‘Can you imagine growing up in prison? Eleven years old, behind bars, moving through the system till you’re old enough to be locked away with all the other murderers.’

‘Ah, I get it.’ A nod from the Dunk. ‘So, because you showed him a teensy bit of kindness, when he’s known sod all but brutality and fear, he’s glommed onto you. You’re his good Samaritan. His bestest buddy. His confidante. His bosom friend. His—’

‘Just get your backside off to Records. Then find us a car.’

The Dunk pulled a face. ‘Sarge.’ He turned around and trudged back down the stairs again.

She leaned on the railing, raising her voice so it boomed out after him. ‘And make sure it’s a good car this time — not some mobile skip half full of crap and takeaway wrappers. Something that’s been cleaned in the last three years!’

Right.

Now she had that call to make.

3

‘See, what I don’t understand’ — the Dunk steered their almost-clean pool car around the Logansferry Roundabout and onto Robinson Drive — ‘is, if you did your dissertation on Benedict Strachan, how come you’ve never read his file?’

Outside, the industrial buildings on the left gave way to row after row of bungalows, with yet another business park rising up behind them. They’d probably looked quite cheerful in their day, but seventy-odd years had left their mark on the lichened pantiles and dirt-streaked walls.

‘Hmmm?’ Lucy flipped over to the next page: a statement from the bread-delivery man who’d discovered Liam Hay’s body, halfway down an alleyway off Brokemere Street, lying face down, partially covered in cardboard, outside the side door to a manky wee shop called ‘ANGUS MACBARGAIN’S FAMILY STORE’.

‘And aren’t we supposed to be making breakthroughs in the Bloodsmith case?’ Right turn, onto Morrissey Street, the bungalows giving way to tightly packed two-up-two-downs instead. A sigh. ‘Not that we’re exactly breakthrough-adjacent.’

‘Did my dissertation before I joined the force, Dunk — they wouldn’t let me anywhere near the official files. Had to make do with what was in the public domain. Well, that and whatever I could get out of Benedict.’

The next page was a photo of Liam Hay, lying flat on his back in the alleyway, after the paramedics had confirmed death. Not that it would’ve been a tough call to make.

The crime-scene photographer had captured the body in all its gory glory. Liam’s stained corduroy jacket was punctured in at least two dozen places, its faux-sheepskin lining turned a dark shade of scarlet. His fleecy top, black shirt, and brown T-shirt were pulled up to expose the pale-blue skin of his belly, smeared with more red. The gash across his throat deep enough to let little glimpses of bone shine through the hacked mess. A sunken-cheeked face, fringed with a smear of greying stubble. Eyes open, staring out over the photographer’s shoulder. Baseball cap half falling off.

Poor sod.

Lucy hissed out a long gravelly breath.

‘Frenzied attack’ barely began to cover what Benedict Strachan and his unnamed accomplice had done to Liam Hay. The next photo was even worse — a close-up of the stab wounds. Eighty-nine of them in total, most of them so deep that the knife’s hilt had left its outline indented on the skin.

She turned the photo over, hiding the brutality. ‘Not that anyone should take what Benedict says as gospel.’

The Dunk grunted. Stopped at the junction with North Moncuir Road, waiting for a couple of hatchbacks to growl past on oversized exhausts. ‘To be honest, it’s kinda surprising no one chibbed him in prison. Normally, you end someone famous like that? You get yourself a whole heap of respect from your fellow inmates and lauded in the right-wing press. If you’re in for life anyway it’s win-win.’

She got to the last page and frowned. ‘Where’s the rest of it? Witness statements, interview transcripts, productions, door-to-doors?’

‘Dunno, Sarge. That was all Manson had. You know what Records are like, it’d take four years and a search party to find anything in there.’ They pulled out onto the road, Moncuir Wood looming large on the other side. Reaching off into the distance as they followed the wee boys in their not-so-hot hatchbacks.

Lucy shut the Benedict Strachan file and slipped it into the rear footwell. ‘You would’ve been quicker taking the turning by Fife Street.’

‘Don’t like crossing a dual carriageway, you know that.’

‘Such a baby.’ She pulled out the other file the Dunk had signed for. ‘OPERATION MAYPOLE — VICTIMOLOGY REPORTS’.

He glanced at the manila folder in her lap. ‘You know what I think? I think we’ve had seventeen months of getting nowhere, because they lumbered us with “Operation Maypole”.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Lucy dipped into the file and came out with the Bloodsmith’s first victim.

‘Everyone knows you don’t reuse operation names, it’s bad luck.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Abby Geddes, twenty-four. Graduated with a BSc in Molecular Biology, ended up working in that big call centre in Logansferry Industrial Estate, opposite Homebase and Lidl. Way to go, post-Covid economy.

‘Honestly, a quick google would’ve shown HMRC used it already. By the time we got the name, they’d sooked out all its mojo. Phuttttt: this operation name is mojo-less.’

‘I said, “Uh-huh.” That’s code for, “You can stop talking now.”’

Abby was still living at home with her mother and stepfather, because the call centre didn’t pay enough for a flat of her own. No boyfriend or girlfriend that anyone could think of. No best friend or group of mates to hang out with. And no one at work had much to say about her, other than that she kept herself to herself. Liked reading romance novels and watching Strictly. So not exactly the life and soul of the party.

‘That’s why you should never reuse operation names. “Maypole” got wrung dry on a fifty-four-million-quid VAT fraud — and that was in 2007, back when fifty-four million quid was a lot of—’

‘Dunk!’ Lucy glowered up from Abby’s file. ‘Don’t make me break out your rank and surname.’

‘We’re jinxed, that’s all I’m saying. It’s—’

‘Detective Constable Duncan Fraser: hud yer wheisht!’

He made a dying-frog face. ‘All right, all right.’ Then pulled into a small lay-by at the side of the road, opposite Moncuir Park. ‘We’re here.’

Should think so too.

Lucy slipped the paperwork back in its folder and stuck the thing under her arm. ‘Better grab a torch from the boot.’

‘Ah...’

‘You did remember to bring torches, didn’t you?’

‘Erm...’ A sickly smile slithered its way onto that frog face. ‘Define “remember”.’

‘Oh yes, I’m so glad I took you with me.’ She climbed out of the pool car and into the sunshine. Turned her back on the park, with its duck pond and its trees and bushes and playground, marched across the road, and waded into the long, damp, yellowing, September grass. Seed heads sticking to her jeans, standing out against the darkening denim as last night’s rain seeped through the material.

Making for the woods.

The Dunk huffed and puffed to catch up, struggling to light a cigarette as he jogged after her. The grass might’ve been thigh-high on Lucy, but it was way up over his waist. He took his first puff, then held his elbows out at shoulder-height, hands curled inwards in front of his chest, as if he was doing a crap velociraptor impersonation, voice mumbled around his fag. ‘Well, how was I supposed to know we’d need a torch?’

‘You’re right, I’m sorry, Dunk, I’m being unfair.’

He smiled at that. ‘It’s OK, Sarge, we—’

‘After all, it’s not as if Abby Geddes’s remains were found in an abandoned building, buried way, way deep in the woods, is it? How could you possibly have guessed we’d need some way of actually seeing things when we get there? I mean, what are you, psychic?’

The chunk of waste ground ended in a riot of jagged brambles and bracken — glistening and dark green. Lucy stopped just in front of it.

Peching and heeching like a broken bellows, his black outfit clarted in grass seed and bits of leaves, the Dunk drooped to a halt at her side. ‘Sorry about the torch, Sarge.’

She patted him on the back. ‘Don’t worry, you can make it up to me by forging a path through that lot.’ Pointing at the soggy bracken.

‘Oh’ — he drooped even more — ‘arse...’ Then groaned and stomped into the undergrowth.

Gnarled grey tree trunks as far as the eye could see. Which probably wasn’t all that far, given how closely packed everything seemed to be, here in the depths of Moncuir Wood.

The sun was a distant memory, shut off by a serrated canopy of pine and greasy oak, leaving everything shrouded in a gloom that cut visibility to twenty, maybe thirty feet? That dark-brown scent of mouldering vegetation tainting everything as the leaf litter broke down. Cold, too. It might’ve been a brisk September day, out there in the real world, but in here every breath turned into thin wisps of white as Lucy and the Dunk lumbered their way through the never-ending ranks of trees.

‘Urgh...’ His face had a shiny pink quality to it that suggested an imminent heart attack or aneurism. ‘God, how... how much... further?’ He slumped against an old Scots pine and dug the cigarettes out of his leather jacket again. Sparking up. Sagging as a cloud of smoke headed for the canopy of leaves. ‘You know this is a complete waste of time, right?’

Probably been going round and round in circles for the last half-hour. Be lucky if they weren’t discovered in six months’ time, wearing nothing but squirrel fur and mud. Assuming, of course, she hadn’t eaten the Dunk by then. Not that he looked particularly appetizing, with his sweaty-beetroot face sooking on a fag as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

‘Would it kill you to at least pretend to give a toss?’

‘Oh come on, Sarge, you know and I know this whole thing’s a disaster. We’re back to square one, because we haven’t got a clue how to catch the Bloodsmith.’ He howched up a gobbet of something brown and spat it out. ‘Seventeen months, chasing our tails, going over the same ground, getting nowhere’ — waving his cigarette at the woods — ‘I’m bored with it. Aren’t you bored?’

‘He’s killed five people, Dunk.’

‘I know, but... Pffff.’ A wee shifty squirm as he looked the other way, not meeting her eyes. ‘Been thinking: maybe we should jump ship before this whole thing collapses? Cos that’s why they dumped the whole thing on DI Tudor, isn’t it? The High Heidyins want a scapegoat for when they declare Operation Maypole a useless farce, and it’ll be on our permanent records too. Failure, failure, failure.’

‘Don’t be a dick.’

‘We could be making a difference somewhere else, that’s all I’m saying.’ He hollowed his chubby cheeks, then hissed out a billow of work-shy smoke. ‘Let someone else carry the can.’

She scowled at him. ‘We’re supposed to be—’

A snapppp rang out from somewhere behind her and Lucy whirled around, eyes raking the gloom.

No sign of life.

She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’

‘Shhhh!’ Lucy stood perfectly still, head cocked to one side, listening.

But the only sound was the Dunk’s wheezy breathing.

Maybe it was just a dead branch, breaking under its own weight? Must happen all the time in a forest this size, right? Didn’t have to be anything sinister. Nothing to worry about.

Yeah...

Then why did she have that weird feeling she was being watched again? Like spiders crawling up the skin of her back.

Lucy did a slow three-sixty, squinting out into the shrouded woods. No sign of anyone.

Been wandering about in here too long, that was the problem. Starting to see and hear things. Next stop: squirrel fur, mud, and Dunk tartare.

She pulled out her phone and checked the map again. The cottage they were after wasn’t considered important enough to feature, and the satellite image showed nothing but a lumpy green sea of treetops. ‘Why the hell didn’t the search team put some sort of GPS marker on the place, so we could actually find it?’

‘Cos they’re idiots?’ A rapid series of rasping coughs barked out of his gob, followed by another gobbet of brown and a grimace.

Well, there was no point just standing here, was there?

‘Maybe this way?’ She headed off, deeper into the forest with the Dunk wheezing along behind her.

The house, when they finally found it, buried away in the woods, couldn’t have looked less like a gingerbread cottage if it tried. Its roof sagged, one gable wall exposed where the harling had crumbled away, the mortar missing between the rough lumps of sandstone it’d been built out of. Two small windows, devoid of glass, one either side of the gaping doorway, turned the building into a howling skull. A chimney breast should’ve poked up from each gable end, but the one on the left had collapsed at some point, leaving a ragged stump that played home to a trio of jackdaws — lurking shadows in the gloom. They stared down with glittering gimlet eyes as Lucy and the Dunk staggered into the dank little clearing out front.

There must’ve been a garden at some point, but all that remained was a bunch of straggly bushes and overgrown weeds, delineated by nothing more than the vague memory of a tumbledown wall partially consumed by ferns and moss.

‘Oh, thank... thank God.’ The Dunk grabbed his knees, bent over like a broken paperclip as his back heaved. Hauling in the breaths. ‘Thought we’d... never... never get... here.’

According to the file, it had been a gamekeeper’s cottage, back when most of Moncuir Wood was still part of Lord Dundas’s hunting estate. A rough place, thrown together to house some bastard whose job it would’ve been to clype on anyone hungry enough to risk a backside full of buckshot in exchange for a rabbit to feed their starving family.

The Dunk let go of his knees and slumped back against a tree instead, wafting a pudgy hand in front of his flushed and sweaty face. ‘One thing... one thing’s for sure... the Bloodsmith knew where... this place was.’

‘You’re a wreck.’ Lucy opened the Operation Maypole folder and pulled out the sheets on Abby Geddes again. ‘Right: two years ago, fifteenth of October; Abby was seen leaving work at five past six by one Byron Moore. Byron said they were meant to go to the pub, but she begged off.’

‘Oh, I remember Byron Moore — greasy as a chip pan. Me and Emma interviewed him, but his alibi was sound.’

Right: first things first. Lucy pulled out her phone, brought up the map, and added a GPS marker for the cottage. At least this way it’d be easy enough to find again. ‘How long do you think it’d take to walk here from the call centre? Half an hour?’

‘Yeah, if you didn’t get lost in these buggering woods.’ He pulled out an off-grey hanky and wiped the back of his neck. ‘And even if you didn’t, why would you? Not like it’s a tourist destination, is it?’

True. ‘Come on then.’ Lucy clambered over what was left of the garden wall and picked her way across the uneven ground to the cottage. Its front door had disappeared at some point, leaving nothing but the rusty strap hinges behind, poking out from the darkness beyond.

The Dunk peered over her shoulder. ‘Wow. Creepy. We going in?’

‘No, Dunk, we came all that way to stand in this lovely garden, enjoying the view.’ She killed the map on her phone and called up the torch app instead.

Its hard white circle swept across the doorway, pulling a crappy crumbling floor into view — rectangles of chipboard, with big rat-chewed holes in them. You could tell by the liquorice-coloured jelly-bean droppings that ran along the skirting boards. What little wallpaper remained was faded and peeling, unblemished by graffiti. Because who in their right minds would schlep all the way out here just to do a little light vandalism?

Lucy stepped over the threshold and the floor groaned beneath her feet. It was cold enough outside, but in here her breath came out in a cloud of bright white where it hit the torchlight, fading to a ghost, then gone for good. ‘OK, so we can be pretty sure Abby Geddes didn’t meet the Bloodsmith here. She’d never be able to find the place.’

Lucy swept her torch beam around a shortish corridor, leading off left and right. A closed door lurked at either end, three more doors on the wall in front of her, paintwork flaking and mouldy. A large hole in the flooring, showing off woodwormed joists like hollow ribs.

She picked her way along the outside where the chipboard butted up against the skirting board — just in case the middle bit gave way — inching closer to the hole. ‘Did you get anything on CCTV?’

The Dunk stuck his head into the cottage. ‘Can you smell that? Kind of nippy, sour, and widdly.’

‘It’s the rats. Now: CCTV?’

‘God, I hate rats.’ But he crept into the corridor anyway. ‘Call-centre security cameras show her walking away from the front of the building about ten past six. Normally went out back to the car park, but her Ford Ka was busy failing its MOT at the time, so she got the bus that morning.’

Those joists didn’t look particularly trustworthy — the pale wood was all crumbly at the edges and pocked with little black holes as if someone had thrown hundreds of darts at it. The first joist moaned like a dying dog when she put her foot down, but didn’t collapse, so she tried the next one too. ‘Business park?’

‘Seems Logansferry Industrial Estate is in dispute with the company that’s meant to maintain the security cameras. Haven’t been working for two-and-a-bit years. Emma and me went through every company on the estate, but there’s no footage of Abby Geddes walking past.’

Interesting. So, either she purposefully took a route that avoided CCTV, or she met someone who did. Or maybe she didn’t show up walking on the pathways because someone gave her a lift?

The third joist complained even more when Lucy put her full weight on it, and so did the one after that. Little flakes of dry rot crumbled beneath her feet to fall away into the darkness.

‘What about cars? Did you run plates for everything driving in or out of there from, say, half five to seven o’clock?’

One more creaking joist and Lucy was at the far door. She reached for the grimy Bakelite knob, then stopped. ‘Dunk?’

‘Ah. Don’t know. We weren’t doing that bit; Emma and me were on interviews.’

So worth chasing up, then.

Lucy pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and turned the grubby handle. The door needed a couple of dunts with her shoulder — not easy while balancing on crumbly floor joists — but, eventually, its bottom edge scraped a squealing arc into the chipboard on the other side.

It was a small living room. Well, dying room would probably be more accurate, going by the crime-scene photographs. Environmental Health had been past with a big thing of trichloroethylene, and bleached Jackson Pollock spatters into the walls and floor, getting rid of any residual bodily fluids. Not that there would’ve been much left, not after all that time. A hollowed-out rectangle marked the middle of the opposite wall, where someone had ripped out the fireplace and mantel. Leaves and twigs made little drifts in the corners, mingling with the rat droppings. More holes in the floor, showing off the joists underneath, but this time wobbly lines scarred the chipboard sheets — where the Scenes Examination Branch had cut through them to get underneath. They’d nailed everything down again, but only just enough to stop some uniformed idiot going through the floor and suing. The room’s single window had long ago given up its glass, leaving nothing behind but a rotting wooden frame.

Lucy tested her weight on the first segment of nailed-down chipboard. It shifted a little underfoot but seemed safe enough. Kind of. So she stepped inside and flicked through the file till she got to the pictures. Held the first one out, shuffling her way further into the room until it lined up with the real thing — creating her own little time machine of horror.

4

The photo was less graphic than others in the Bloodsmith collection, but only because Abby Geddes had lain here, undiscovered, until May last year. A seven-month-long all-you-can-eat buffet for the rats. What was left looked more like something from a World War One documentary than a contemporary crime scene. Abby’s skull was tipped up on its side against the skirting board, no sign of her bottom jaw, ribs spread out across the chewed chipboard. The femurs were more or less where they should’ve been, but the pelvis had gone and so had all the fingers and toes.

A shattered jar sat between the radius and ulna of one arm, lid still on, the remnants of something dark sticking to the jagged glass.

Forensics identified it as Abby’s blood.

There was more of it on the far wall: ‘HELP ME!’ spelled out in three-foot-high letters, dried to a thick burnt umber. The message didn’t exist any more — erased by liberal application of trichloroethylene, but even though the super-strength bleach had removed all traces from the manky wallpaper, somehow the whole house still echoed with those two words, as if they’d been etched into the soul of the place.

The Dunk squeezed himself into the room. Pursing his lips as he looked around. ‘Can you imagine dying someplace like this?’

There wasn’t any reason to tiptoe, but Lucy did it anyway, picking her way over the patchwork boards to the largest hole in the floor. Peered down into the darkness. ‘The rats took everything small enough to carry.’ The beam from her phone’s torch picked out churned grey earth at the bottom of the hole, peppered with more droppings. ‘They only found about half the missing bits.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t the rats, maybe he took them.’

‘He didn’t take anyone else’s fingers. Other things, yes, but not fingers. Besides, all the bones had gnaw marks on them.’

‘Urgh...’ A shudder. ‘Did I mention how much I hate rats?’

She straightened up and frowned at the bleached wall again. ‘“Help me”. Do you think it was meant to be Abby talking? Is it her crying out, or is it him? Who are we supposed to save?’

‘Tell you, that James Herbert’s got a lot to answer for. Books gave me nightmares for—’

‘Shhh!’ Lucy switched off her faux torch and crept towards the hollow window. Keeping to the side, out of sight. ‘Did you hear that?’

The Dunk froze. ‘Is it rats? Gah... Please don’t let it be rats!’

She honed her voice into a hard sharp whisper. ‘Will you shut up and listen?’

He did what he was told, holding his breath.

There it was again: a rustling sound, like someone creeping through fallen leaves over rough ground.

The Dunk sidled up next to her. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

‘Clean your lugs out: there’s someone out there.’

He flattened himself against the wall on the other side of the window. Peered around the edge. ‘Could be a deer, or a badger, or something?’

Lucy narrowed her eyes and stared out into the gloom. Letting her eyes drift out of focus so the trees, bracken, and brambles all merged into a green-brown mush. Not looking for shapes, just motion...

A flicker of tan-coloured fabric, and the rustling stopped.

Got you.

She slipped out of the dying room and picked her way across those crumbling joists to the front door, with the Dunk creeping along behind her.

The pair of them hunkered down beside the empty doorframe.

‘Where we going, Sarge?’

‘Ten o’clock: thirty, thirty-five feet away. He’s slipped behind a Scots pine.’

A nod. ‘On three?’

‘Two, one.’ And Lucy was out through the open doorway in a silent crouching jog. Skimming over the tussocked front garden. Hurdling the tumbledown wall. Glasses misting as they hit the warmer air.

The sound of puffing and panting boomed out behind her, then a strangled ‘Shite!’ and a crash.

She slithered to a halt, spinning around... and there was the Dunk, sprawled flat on his front at the end of a three-foot skidmark in the bracken.

He spat out a mouthful of pine needles. ‘Go, go!’

Clumsy sod.

She was off again, making for the Scots pine. No point trying to be stealthy about it now — not with the Dunk going his full length. ‘STOP, POLICE!’

Whoever was hiding behind the tree ran for it — the sound of snapping branches joining the thump-thump-thump of their feet. Going at a fair speed, too.

Lucy picked up the pace, elbows pumping, boots digging into the forest loam, huffing the breaths in and out, hands jabbing the air. Dodging between trunks, leaping over twisted knots of roots and lumps of vegetation. Ducking under low-hanging branches.

Trying to close the gap... and failing.

Whoever it was: they were fast. Leaving nothing behind but those flashes of tan fabric, glimpsed between the boughs of closely packed trees. Some sort of suit? No, the jacket was definitely a couple of shades darker than the trousers.

And what the hell was he doing in the middle of Moncuir Wood? Lurking outside the cottage where Abby Geddes became the Bloodsmith’s first victim? No — no way there was an innocent explanation for that.

He crashed through a waist-high expanse of dead nettles, setting the grey stalks crackling.

Lucy gritted her teeth and smashed through them too, lungs burning.

Come on: faster.

He jinked off to the right, and she followed. Up a steep slope, feet slipping in the fallen leaf-litter, thighs aching, grabbing branches to keep herself upright and shredding her nitrile gloves in the process. Bastard was like a mountain goat, leaping up the hill as if it was barely there. Stretching his lead. Getting away. Disappearing over the crest.

Another push and Lucy scrambled to the top of the slope and—

‘AAAAARGH!’

The ground fell away right in front of her, plummeting straight down, about twenty feet, to a mound of fly-tipped crap. Most of which looked very rusty and very sharp.

Her arms windmilled, hauling her shoulders and head backwards, feet slithering on the pine-needle floor. One hand grabbing onto the ragged branch of a dead spruce. Keeping herself from tipping over the edge onto the death-trap rubbish below.

Lucy pulled herself back to safety. ‘Jesus...’

Where the hell did he...?

She stood there, breathing hard, eyes scanning the forest.

There: on the other side of the hollow. A man. Curly brown hair with flashes of a high forehead. Corduroy jacket and chinos. Still running, and too far away to catch now. He slowed to a jog, then a walk. Looked back over his shoulder at her, showing off his beard and moustache. The light glinting off his small round glasses.

Son of a bitch.

It was the guy from that morning, the one who’d been staring at her across St Jasper’s Lane. Had he followed them here?

He stopped for a moment and stood there, watching her watching him, then turned and disappeared into the woods.

She’d lost him.

The Dunk was sitting on the tumbledown wall outside the cottage when she got back. His expression wasn’t exactly what you’d call happy. Anyone would think he’d just fallen flat on his face and ended up covered in dirt, mud, bits of pine needles, and smears of green. Could curdle water with that face, Tony Stark beard or not. A fresh cigarette glowered away in the corner of his mouth, the end slightly crumpled, as if he’d landed on the packet.

He picked a couple of needles from his filthy black polo neck. ‘You lost the guy?’

Startling powers of deduction, there.

‘Loving your new look.’ Lucy snapped off what was left of her gloves and stuffed them in her pocket. ‘Sort of like a Goth Worzel Gummidge.’

He held up his mobile phone, screen out. ‘I’ve called the boss; they’re on their way.’

‘Not much point: he’s long gone. Was off like a whippet with a firework up its—’

‘Oh, there’s a point all right.’ The Dunk hopped down from his wall and stomped back towards the cottage. ‘Trust me, Sarge, you need to see this.’

OK...

At the front door he pulled out his phone and fiddled with the thing till a circle of cold white LED light played across the manky hallway. But this time the Dunk didn’t go into the dying room, instead he balanced himself on the exposed floor joists at the end of the corridor and hauled open the last door on the left-hand wall. It opened towards her, hiding whatever was inside. ‘You’re going to want to put on fresh gloves.’ Then he disappeared.

She snapped on a new pair of nitriles, turned on her mobile’s torch, and picked her way across the joists.

The door hid a narrow set of stairs that was almost steep enough to qualify as a ladder — its dark wood speckled with more tiny woodworm holes. Probably not the safest, then.

His voice echoed down from above. ‘You coming?’

‘No, I’m having a nap.’ The steps creaked and moaned beneath her feet, but they held as she climbed the half-dozen or so treads, until her head emerged into a semi-floored attic with a landing at the top of the stairs so narrow that the Dunk pretty much filled it.

The air was thick with the sharp gritty stench of rats and mildew, the only light filtering in through a narrow, cobweb-frosted pane in the roof. Most of the space to the left was open rafters and curled dust-grey loft insulation, but someone had erected a wooden partition just to the right of the stairs — with what looked like a wardrobe door set into it.

‘Ready?’ The Dunk took hold of the small metal catch and swung the door open. ‘Better stay out here, though.’

It’d be tempting to say he was milking this, but going by the expression on his face, the Dunk wasn’t enjoying it much.

Lucy climbed up into the loft space and squeezed past him. Peered around the wardrobe door.

Narnia had gone downhill a bit.

It was a cramped little room, with rough floorboards and a threadbare brown rug. A window the size of a shoebox graced the gable end, lifting the gloom just enough to make out vague shapes. Her torch did a much better job, revealing a collapsed metal bedframe, complete with ruptured horsehair mattress; a steamer-style trunk, lying open for the spiders to decorate; and a dilapidated armchair that was missing a leg, tilted over to one side like a drunken pirate.

‘So, what am I—’

‘On your left.’

She swung her phone around and its light raked the water-stained coombed ceiling. At some point in the distant past, whoever lived here had nailed boards up between the roof joists, but the wood had rotted away in a couple of places, exposing the rags and straw stuffed in there for insulation.

And then her torch beam settled on what the Dunk’s pantomime mysterious act had been all about. ‘Sodding hell...’

Two words were scrawled on the boards in three-foot-high letters. They’d probably been bright scarlet, once, but they’d dried to a coagulated brown: ‘HELP ME!’

DI Tudor paced the length of the kitchen and back again, one hand squeezing his temples, the other gripping his phone to his ear tight enough to turn the knuckles pale as frozen butter. A wraith in the gloom. ‘Yes, sir, I’m absolutely positive it definitely wasn’t there before.’ He stopped pacing to stare at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Because we’ve got photographs of every room in the house, and the only wall the Bloodsmith wrote on was where we found Abby Geddes’s remains.’

The room had been stripped bare, leaving nothing but the corpse of a cracked Belfast sink, a couple of sagging shelves, and the rusted body of a long-dead wood-fired stove. Not too many holes in the floor, which made it perfect for pacing up and down, looking miserable, and talking to senior officers on the phone.

Lucy backed out and eased the door closed, leaving him to it.

An SOC-suited figure lumbered into the cottage, carrying a big square stainless-steel case as if it weighed as much as a small child. Then stood there, blocking the corridor while a couple of his mates kicked and shoved the attic door back as far as it would go — digging the Bakelite handle into the plaster wall — then forcing a brand-new sheet of sterling board down, creating a makeshift floor on the no-longer-exposed joists.

They gave their mate the thumbs up and he clambered up the near-vertical stairs and out of sight, taking his case with him.

Who knew, maybe they’d get lucky and find something?

Probably not, though.

Lucy slipped through the front door into the dingy clearing.

A quad bike and trailer were parked just beyond the garden wall, where a lone, large, pink-faced woman was wriggling her way into a rustling white Tyvek suit.

Lucy caught her as she was pulling a pair of blue plastic bootees on over her Dr Martens. ‘I need a favour.’

‘Oh aye?’ Zipping herself up before plucking a facemask from its box. ‘And is this favour legal?’

‘Someone was hiding behind that tree, there.’ Pointing at the Scots pine. ‘If they’ve left fingerprints...?’

She curled her lip. ‘Fingerprints on bark? And what do you want for your second wish, a unicorn? World peace?’

‘OK: DNA, then.’

‘And you’re authorized to approve the additional budget for DNA testing, are you? Cos this stuff don’t come cheap.’

‘Just... see if you can find something, OK?’ After all, it wasn’t as if Tudor was going to say no, was it? Not if it helped catch the Bloodsmith. Sod the budget.

The scene examiner puffed out her cheeks. ‘Fine. But if they fire you for wasting resources, don’t come whinging to me.’ She finished getting suited up, then scrunched her way across the forest floor, taking a mini version of the big stainless-steel box with her.

Well, it was worth a try.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk appeared at Lucy’s shoulder, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his bracken-streaked leather jacket. ‘Boss says we should Foxtrot Oscar and go review the next crime scene.’

Lucy pulled her chin in. ‘But we found the writing!’

‘Yeah, he says we done good, but there’s sod all going on here till FSSER have finished, so we might as well see if there’s anything exciting lurking where Victim Number Two died. You know, cos we’re on a roll.’

‘FSS what?’

‘Forensic Services Scene Examination Resources. It’s what we’re calling the Scenes Examination Branch this week.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like.’

‘What was wrong with “Smurfs”?’ She frowned at the kitchen window — Tudor was just visible as a moving lump in the gloom, pacing back and forth again. ‘Do we really have to go?’

‘That’s what the boss said.’ The Dunk pulled out his phone and squinted at the screen, holding it just under his nose as he turned around three times. Then nodded, pointing off into the woods. ‘Car’s that way.’

‘Bastard...’

5

Shaky Dave’s Tattie Shack wasn’t huge — just a small shed-shaped trailer with a fake-shingle roof and faux chimney. A couple of plastic seagulls perched on top, beaming down on the punters with a bonhomie that was, quite frankly, hard to believe while their real-life brethren stalked the tarmac like starving velociraptors. The Shack’s side flap was levered up, forming a makeshift sunshade as the sweet-brown smell of baked potatoes oozed out into the sunshine, joined by the rustling-golden scent of chips and a delicious warm-green aroma of garlic.

Dave had parked his shack on North Esplanade, at the bottom end of Montgomery Park, where his clients could consume their tuber-based delights with a view across the river towards Dundas House and Kings Park, framed by neat little rows of Georgian terraces. All very genteel and civilized, even if the ugly bulk of Castle Hill Infirmary, looming in the background, kind of spoiled the view a bit — its tall twin chimneys spilling trails of white across the pale-blue sky as someone incinerated medical waste.

Lucy leaned against the guard rail, phone jammed against her ear, not doing a great job of ungritting her teeth. ‘We found the Bloodsmith’s message, Boss. Us. Me and the Dunk.’

DI Tudor let out a long, breathy groan. ‘So, you want to sit on your backside, watching the Smurfs do their jobs for the next three hours, is that it?’

‘No, but—’

‘The Chief Super’s already called about a dozen times, wanting updates. Oh, and DCI Ross has just “popped by” to see how I’m getting on.’

‘Sod.’

‘Oh, yes, when things aren’t going anywhere, they’ll cut us loose to fend for ourselves, but soon as they think we’re making progress? Bastarding vultures.’

‘Maybe—’

‘Which means I need you and DC Fraser, out there, digging up more breakthroughs.’ A small bitter laugh. ‘See if we can’t solve this thing before the High Heidyins wade in and bugger everything up.’

Her shoulders sagged, then she curled forward till the metal safety rail clunked, cool against her forehead. Staring down the grassy bank to the wide, iron-grey river. Sunlight flashed off the water’s surface, sharp as daggers.

‘Lucy?’

Wasn’t as if she had any choice, was it?

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Good.’ Pause. ‘And did you tell Denise she could swab a whole Scots pine for DNA?’

‘If the Bloodsmith really did write “help me” in the attic, then we know he’s been back there at least once. Why not more? I’m not saying it was definitely him I chased, but if it was...?’

A sigh. ‘You sure you didn’t get a good look at this man?’

‘Not enough to do an eFit — he was too far away. High forehead, beard, glasses, that’s it.’

‘Fair enough. But next time you order DNA tests you clear it with me, OK? OK.’

A little boat chugged past, bow forging a path through the water, dragging a curling V of white behind it.

‘Speaking of OK.’ DI Tudor cleared his throat in her ear. ‘Are you doing... you know? I mean, the last couple of months have been... Lucy, you were doing so much better, I thought you’d put Neil—’

‘Don’t even say his name!’ She straightened up, mouth pinched, holding it all in.

‘It’s just you’ve been... People are worried about you, that’s all.’

‘I’m fine. Never better.’

‘Yeah.’ Tudor’s voice softened. ‘Only your therapist says you haven’t been to see him for a while.’

This again.

She twisted the phone upwards, moving the microphone away from her mouth. ‘Boss? Hello? I can’t... it’s... reception. Hello?’

‘And if you’re about to go off on one about doctor — patient confidentiality, he didn’t tell me anything about your sessions, just that you’ve missed your last two appointments.’

‘Think... out of battery. Boss... Hello?’

‘Do you want signed off on the sick, is that what you want?’

Damn.

Lucy gritted her teeth that bit tighter. ‘All right, all right, I’ll go see him. You happy?’

‘Ecstatic. Then you can find me something that nails the Bloodsmith.’

The line went dead. Tudor had hung up.

‘Perfect.’ Because life clearly wasn’t bad enough that a senior officer couldn’t make it a whole lot sodding worse. She jammed her phone back in her pocket.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk appeared at Lucy’s elbow, in all his muck-smeared glory, holding a couple of cardboard containers, about the size of old-fashioned video cassettes. Each with a bamboo spork sticking out of it, pinning a raffle ticket in place. ‘Shaky Dave was out of stovies, so I got you tartiflette. Which he says is kinda the same thing, only French. Gallic stovies. With garlic. Garlic Gallic stovies.’

‘Thanks.’ She pulled her spork from the cardboard and stuck it in the tartiflette instead, scooping out a creamy glistening mouthful.

‘So, this bloke you chased: any clue?’ The Dunk tucked one end of a paper napkin into the collar of his beatnik polo neck — as if it could get any dirtier — then stabbed a cheese-and-gravy-covered chip and popped it in his mouth. And immediately opened his gob like a howler monkey, panting out beef-scented breaths. ‘Hot, hot, hot, hot!’

The tartiflette wasn’t too bad, bit rich, but tasty with it. ‘Never seen him before today.’

‘Yeah, I know we did DNA and that, but it can’t be the Bloodsmith, can it? Be a huge coincidence if he just happened to be popping by when we were there, right?’

The Dunk had a point.

‘True.’

Another gravy-drenched chip got the howler-monkey treatment. ‘Could be a reporter? Spotted us this morning and decided to tag along in case we found something juicy?’

Lucy shrugged.

The Dunk did a slow three-sixty, squinting at the Tattie Shack and parked cars. ‘Probably lurking somewhere near, like a nasty little rat, creeping about, following us. And speaking of rats: which crime scene do you want to hit next?’

‘Bruce Malloch.’

Victim number two.

Bruce Malloch’s house was nestled halfway down a terrace of identical, narrow, yellow-brick two-up-two-downs in Blackwall Hill. Roysvale Crescent: a nice, respectable street, where the only way to tell one home from another was the colour of their front doors and the occasional shrub in the tiny gardens. Well, that and the fact number fifteen had spent three weeks appearing on the news and in all the papers. ‘HORROR HOUSE OF BLOOD, SHOCK’, ‘“BRUTAL MURDER WAS LIKE JACK THE RIPPER” SAYS TOP COP’, ‘SICK PSYCHO STRIKES LEAFY SUBURB’...

Still: nice view.

From up here, Oldcastle was laid out in all its tumorous glory. The crumpled-up-cardboard sprawl of Kingsmeath on the left, with its nasty little council houses and soulless tower blocks. On the right, the genteel Georgian streets of the Wynd and the fancy houses of Castleview. And straight ahead, down the valley and across the curling cul-de-sacs of Blackwall Hill to the twisted steel ribbon of Kings River. On the other side: Logansferry, with its harbour and industrial estates; Cowskillin, with its fifties post-war prefabs and the football stadium; Shortstaine, bloated and heavy with bland housing developments; and right in the middle, Castle Hill — Victorian streets twisting around each other, circling the huge granite shark’s fin that broke through the valley floor, with the ruined castle perched on top — wreathed in its cocoon of scaffolding. The whole city brooding, and malevolent, and miserable, and oppressive.

AKA: home.

‘You know what bugs me?’ The Dunk dipped into his pocket and came out with an evidence bag. Tipped a shiny key into the palm of his hand. ‘There’s no consequences any more. Take that Business Secretary thing — millions of taxpayers’ cash, our cash, going into Paul Rhynie’s mates’ pockets and nothing happens.’ He unlocked the dark-green door. ‘We’re being robbed blind, but everyone just shrugs their shoulders and gets on with it.’ The Dunk stepped back and wafted Lucy over the threshold. ‘Whatever happened to accountability?’

She stepped into a hallway gritty-grey with fingerprint powder; mud and dirt tracked in across the no-longer-oatmeal-coloured carpet. The stairs leading up to the second floor were just as bad. Bruce Malloch’s living room had a couple of movie posters on the wall: Back to the Future, The Empire Strikes Back, Die Hard; a black leather couch, faded a couple of shades where they’d tried to lift prints off it; big flatscreen TV; newish PlayStation; glass coffee table. All of which screamed ‘bachelor pad’.

And loneliness.

‘All that dodgy procurement wank during the pandemic — hundreds of millions spaffed away on PPE that didn’t work, from companies owned by government cronies — just normalized it. That’s why we get tossers like Rhynie.’

The Smurfs had covered Bruce Malloch’s kitchen in fingerprint powder too. It wasn’t quite as bright in here: some sunlight oozed through the frosted glass of the back door, but a roller blind obscured the window.

‘Tell you, Sarge: people in power? They haven’t got a clue what it’s like to actually work for a living, so why would they care? Why not give your best chums, Quentin and Jacinda, a hundred-million-quid contract for doing sod all, or cocking things up? Why—’

‘Dunk!’

He stared at her. ‘What?’

‘Any chance we could concentrate on the actual job?’

He pulled one shoulder up to his ear. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘Thank you.’ She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. A couple more goes established that it probably never would, meaning Bruce Malloch’s expensive kitchen toys couldn’t shine in all their glory. Even then, what drew the eye wasn’t the fancy-looking coffee machine, the Thermomix, sous-vide machine, or plethora of other gadgets, it was the huge dark-brown patch on the ceiling.

The Dunk stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring up at it. ‘You’d think they’d’ve got rid of that by now.’

Lucy clumped up the stairs to a small landing. The bathroom door was open, showing off a tiled space just big enough for a toilet, sink, and shower cubicle. Master bedroom on the left, plain duvet crumpled on the floor, pillows scattered, drawers hanging out of the bedside cabinet, built-in wardrobes ransacked, clothes all over the place. Because God forbid a search team should tidy up after itself.

Which left the door straight ahead.

It opened on a small home office, wreathed in darkness. The vague outlines of a desk, swivel chair, and filing cabinet were just visible in what little light managed to work its way through the closed venetian blinds. Four monitors perched on arms above a beefy-looking laptop and ergonomic keyboard.

The carpet scrunched under Lucy’s feet as she stepped inside.

‘Bloody hell.’ She pulled her chin in and clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. The whole room stank as if someone had left a handful of batteries and a packet of sausages on the radiator. For months. ‘Dunk — open the windows, before we all choke to death!’

‘Sarge.’ He bustled over to the blinds and hauled them up.

Sunshine spilled in.

The search team hadn’t bothered cleaning up in here, either. Those four monitors were spattered with little brown dots, dried and shiny like beetles. A leathery slick of coffee-coloured yuck covered half the desk, but most of it was on the carpet, like a huge puddle of mud had died there. Half a dozen black clumps marked where internal organs had been dumped outside the body. And on the wall opposite the window, those familiar three-foot-high letters: ‘HELP ME!’

Worst of all were the drifts of shiny blue-black bodies. Flies. Had to be millions of them in here: born, lived, loved, and died on a dark-red diet of Bruce Malloch’s blood.

Urgh...

Lucy raised her right foot and desiccated fly carcases tumbled back to the carpet. Which explained those scrunching sounds.

‘Wow...’ The Dunk hissed in a breath. ‘And I thought the kitchen was bad.’ Then he opened the window as wide as it would go, letting in blessed fresh air. ‘Manky, manky, manky.’

Lucy handed him the folder as the stench dissipated a bit. ‘Out loud.’

‘Eh?’ He turned it over a couple of times. ‘You want me to read it to you? Haven’t you already—’

‘Rules for being a hotshot detective, number eight in an occasional series. You absorb more information when you consume it in multiple formats. Of course I’ve read the file — dozens of times. But now that we’re here, standing in the actual crime scene, I want you to read it. Out loud.’ She snapped on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves. ‘Right now.’

‘So how come we didn’t do that back at Rat Haven Cottage?’

‘Rule thirty-nine. Shake things up.’

‘Detective sergeants are weird.’ He rummaged through the folder and pulled out a chunk of paperwork much bigger than the one for Abby Geddes. Frowned at the top sheet, mouth moving in silence for a moment. ‘Right, here we go: Bruce Malloch, thirty-five, software designer with Camburn Logistic Services Limited. Line manager reported him missing when he didn’t come into work three days on the trot.’ The Dunk shook his head. ‘Imagine your line manager being the only one who cares enough to report you missing?’

‘No family?’ Being on the first floor afforded the room a miserable view of the narrow, overgrown rectangle of grass and plants abandoned outside the window. Could see into the next-door neighbours’ gardens, too: wee kids playing on a swing set; dirty big Alsatian chasing its tail round and round and round; wannabe yummy mummy hanging out the washing in a strappy top that was two sizes too small for her...

‘Next of kin’s listed as one Shona Porter, ex-fiancée. They interviewed her: said she hadn’t seen him since way before Christmas. And they found the poor sod’s body halfway through April. God, it gets sadder and sadder, doesn’t it?’

Suppose the surrounding houses explained why the search team had left the blinds down — didn’t trust Bruce’s neighbours not to let the press have a go with their telephoto lenses. Taking sneaky shots of the blood-spattered crapshow left behind, including the only clue O Division had managed to keep secret on this case: ‘HELP ME!’

The Dunk went to park his bum on the edge of the desk, took one look at all the dried blood and stood up straight again. ‘So, while Abby Geddes was the first victim, Bruce Malloch was the first one to be discovered. You want the psychological profile too?’

‘Might as well.’ Lucy frowned at the two words, daubed on the plain magnolia wall. A photo hung next to it: Bruce Malloch on the pitch at City Stadium, shaking hands with someone wearing a blue-and-white Oldcastle Warriors strip. Going by the way Bruce was grinning, whoever it was, they were some sort of big deal. As if he was meeting his hero.

The Dunk groaned. Then puffed out a breath. ‘Who wrote this? It’s like one big run-on sentence that’s allergic to punctuation... OK. Blah, blah, blah, “insufficient evidence or incidents to be certain at this early stage, but markers at the scene suggest that our killer’s primary motive was not to kill Bruce, but to create a dead body that would then allow our killer to live out his fantasy, making it a subcategory of necrophilia, even though there’s no sign that the remains have been sexually interfered with, stripping the body implies a degree of voyeurism that may be used to fuel masturbatory fantasies later,” deep breath, “which in conjunction with the message left behind, written in Bruce’s blood, does suggest that our killer is probably from a dysfunctional home...”’ The Dunk looked up from the report and grimaced. ‘I can see why we pay these academics the big bucks. And here was me thinking normal well-adjusted people carve strangers up all the time. “...where parental or inter-sibling emotional affirmation were irregular features of his childhood, if they existed at all, causing him to internalize his need for that emotional affirmation...” Has this bloody psychologist never heard of a full stop?’

‘Nope, and you’ve got three more pages to go.’

‘Sod.’ He skimmed through to the end. ‘Hey: there’s a summary at the back! “Killer is most likely an IC-One male,” which doesn’t exactly narrow it down, does it? Most of Oldcastle’s white and northern European. Anyway, “IC-One male, late twenties to early forties, in steady employment, with a position of trust. He’s not in a relationship, but when questioned will have had a string of one-night stands.” Suppose that’ll be him looking for “emotional affirmation” in all the wrong bedrooms. “It is highly likely that the individual will currently be reliving his kill and preparing to select another victim” — brackets — “assuming he hasn’t already.” Close brackets.’

‘Not a huge amount of help, then.’

‘Yeah.’ The Dunk stuck the report back in the folder. ‘But, to be fair, they only knew about Bruce Malloch, by then. Abby Geddes’s remains didn’t turn up till May.’

True enough.

He went back into the folder. ‘You want to see the photos?’

‘Not really.’

The Dunk produced them anyway, holding the things out as if they were infected. ‘What bothers me is: how does our boy walk out of here without anyone spotting he’s clarted head to toe in blood?’

Lucy puffed out a breath and accepted the proffered eight-by-ten.

It was a top-down picture of the room, in hideous technicolour. No skeletal remains here. Instead Bruce Malloch lay split open on the scarlet-sodden carpet: naked, head thrown back, mouth open, eyes half shut. One arm was hooked over the base of his office chair, the other lay out at ninety degrees to his body, hand curled into a loose fist — wrist slashed all the way down to the pale bone below. His legs were bent, knees splayed, the heels of his feet pressed together, like a frog in science class. Dark glistening coils looped out of his split stomach, draped across his thighs; a big chunk of purple liver by his left side; a slab of lung by his right.

She handed it back. ‘Poor sod.’

‘There’s more photos, if you want?’

‘No. I’m good.’ Lucy shook her head. Swallowed. Stepped out onto the tiny landing.

Breathe normally.

Don’t let the Dunk see.

Keep that tartiflette down, where it’s meant to be.

The Dunk followed her, tucking the pictures into the file again. ‘Next up: post-mortem. “Three blows to the back of the head caused catastrophic damage to Mr Malloch’s parietal and occipital lobe, but it is unlikely that death would have been instantaneous. The head wound is of sufficient severity to suggest that Mr Malloch must have been, at the very least, rendered incapable of independent movement, otherwise we would expect to see defensive wounds to the hands and forearms. Note this does not include the deep incision across Mr Malloch’s left wrist as that appears to have been deliberate rather than as the result of any struggle.”’

Just a photograph. That’s all. Seen hundreds of pictures just like it. Attended post-mortems of victims who’d suffered much, much worse.

‘“However, even if Mr Malloch was minimally aware of his surroundings when his assailant began eviscerating him, the sheer volume of blood lost in the first few minutes of this procedure would have been sufficient to cause cardiac arrest. As such, it is unlikely that his heart was still functioning when it was removed.” Urgh... See what I mean? The Bloodsmith would’ve been swimming in it. How come no one notices?’

So why this photograph? Why did this one make snakes writhe and knot deep in her stomach? Make her pulse thrum in her chest. Make sweat prickle between her shoulder blades. Make her hands tremble like someone in their nineties.

Maybe DI Tudor was right? Maybe it was time to go see her shrink again.

‘Sarge? You OK?’

She nodded, kept her eyes on the stairs. ‘Close the window, shut the blinds, and lock up will you, Dunk? I’ve got to make a call.’

6

She was putting her phone away when the Dunk shambled out of Bruce Malloch’s house and locked the door. To be honest, the wee lad looked more than a little disreputable, with his black-and-grey outfit clarted in streaks of pale brown and dark green. As if he’d recently crawled out of a septic tank.

He slipped the key back in its evidence bag, then fiddled a slightly crumpled cigarette from the pack. Puffing away as he stared at her, one eyebrow raised. ‘You sure you’re OK, Sarge? Only you look a bit peaky.’

Lucy forced a smile. ‘Think it was the tartiflette: all that cheese and ham and cream. Bit rich for lunch.’

‘Knew I should’ve got you the potato and fennel galette.’ He kicked his heels on the top step, smoking his fag. ‘Where next? Craig Thorburn’s closer, but if we’re going in order of death it’s Adam Holmes next.’

She edged around till she was upwind, because the smell of burnt tobacco definitely wasn’t helping her roiling stomach. ‘Neither — drop me back at my car, then you can go home and get changed. Don’t get me wrong: I appreciate the hedge-backwards look as much as the next person, but perhaps not while we’re on duty?’

The Dunk drooped. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

Lucy waited till the Dunk and his pool car disappeared around the corner onto Siege Row, then unlocked her clapped-out, tiny, third-hand Kia Picanto. Which looked as if it’d been designed by Duplo. She sat there for a moment, then started the car. Might as well get it over with...

‘I don’t want to talk about it, OK?’ Lucy stretched out on the couch, lying flat on her back, stockinged feet on the armrest. Staring up at the out-of-focus grey ceiling with its pipes and cabling ducts as her voice echoed back from the bare brick walls. Whichever idiot decided ‘industrial chic’ was a thing needed a good stiff kick in the testicles. Having to see a therapist was bad enough without feeling you were doing it in an abandoned business park.

But that was architects for you.

They’d stuck a single spotlight up there, casting its soft white glow on Lucy, the couch, and the coffee table, leaving the rest of the room bathed in shadow.

‘Hmmmm...’ Dr McNaughton had taken his usual position, in the chair, just outside the pool of light, reduced to an indistinct blur now she’d taken her glasses off. Not that he was much to look at: beard, slouch, cardigan, and far too much jewellery. The kind of man who wore signet rings and ID bracelets, chains round his neck and wrists so he rattled like Marley’s sodding ghost. The kind of man who got off on being in charge of everything — asking the questions; making her talk about things she didn’t sodding want to; making her confess; because if she didn’t he’d report her to DI Tudor and get her signed off on the sick; revelling in his power over her. The kind of man who pretended to be a decent human being to your face, but stared at your arse soon as you turned around. Or, as they’re more commonly known: dicks. ‘And why is that?’

‘Maybe because I don’t — want — to — talk — about — it.’

He gave that long-suffering sigh of his and let the silence stretch.

‘Fine.’ She slumped even further back into the couch and draped an arm across her eyes. ‘I don’t remember, OK? My mother died when I was little, my father couldn’t cope, I went into care for a bit. Nothing special. You happy now?’

‘And how did that make you feel?’

‘Why do you think he cuts their hearts out?’

A pause.

Dr McNaughton shifted about in his seat, jewellery rattling away. Rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, and he’ll be an arsehole wherever he goes. ‘Lucy—’

‘The Bloodsmith — he cuts their hearts out and takes them with him. Even for Oldcastle that’s messed up, right?’

Nothing came from the dick in the shadows, but a mild air of disappointment.

‘We know he collects blood from his victims, but why the hearts?’

‘Lucy, it’s important to address your feelings, if—’

‘You said I could talk about anything I want. I want to talk about this.’

Another sigh.

‘You know what I think? I think... it’s because even though scientifically we know “love” is nothing more than chemical reactions in the brain — dopamine, norepinephrine, phenylethylamine, vasopressin, oxytocin — we still say we love someone “with all our heart”, don’t we? A heart means love. It is love. And the forensic psychologist says the Bloodsmith’s never had any in his cold, miserable life. So he harvests other people’s.’

The blurry outline shrugged, setting his jewellery going again. Not a single word.

God, why did therapists always have to do that? Sit there like silent sodding lumps and expect you to do all the talking. What was the point of the bastards doing degrees in psychology when a pot plant could do the same job?

‘Come on, Dr McNaughton, if—’

‘Lucy, we’ve been over this. Please don’t call me Dr McNaughton, it’s John, remember? John—’

‘I don’t need to be your friend, John. I don’t want to, either. Let’s keep things professional, Dr McNaughton.’ After all, it wasn’t as if a first name was going to make him any less of a dick. ‘So, the Bloodsmith’s cutting their hearts out to fill the void.’

A pointed sniff huffed out behind her, and it was back to the silent treatment again.

This time, the pause stretched and stretched and stretched...

Lucy cleared her throat. ‘Someone’s following me.’

‘I see.’ Voice flat and non-judgemental. As if that didn’t make him sound like a condescending prick.

‘I’m pretty sure he started this morning, near St Jasper’s. And the bastard was there in the woods: outside that cottage where the Bloodsmith killed Abby Geddes? Did a runner when I challenged him. Male, mid-forties, curly brown hair, dresses like a geography teacher. Constable Fraser thinks it’s a journalist, but what if it’s him, the Bloodsmith?’

Another pause filled with passive disappointment.

She lifted her arm from her eyes and glared at McNaughton. ‘You think I’m being paranoid, don’t you?’

‘Lucy, it’s simply not possible. You’re projecting—’

‘I saw him, OK?’ Putting a sharp edge into her voice. ‘I’m not some sort of nutjob.’

The sound of a truck reversing beep-beep-beeped away somewhere outside.

Motes of dust floated through the shabby spot of light.

A creak from the couch as Lucy turned back to glare at the ceiling instead.

The beeping died away.

Silence.

Dr McNaughton let loose yet another big jewellery-rattling sigh.

Lucy let her arm fall back into place again, shutting out all that industrial chic. ‘But the idiots I work with are all, “Oh, are you feeling OK, Lucy?”, “You’ve not been seeing your therapist, Lucy”, “We’re worried about you, Lucy.”’

This time, the pause didn’t feel artificial, it was more as if Dr McNaughton was trying to work out what to say. Which probably didn’t bode well.

‘When someone’s gone through what you have, it’s normal to feel that way. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can make everything seem—’

‘I don’t have PTSD.’

‘Are you still having flashbacks? Sweating? Nausea? Trembling? Blackouts?’

‘No.’ And scurrying out of Bruce Malloch’s house, trying to keep her lunch down didn’t count. Nor did the shaky hands. Or the sweating... ‘I have to go.’ She sat bolt upright on the couch and stuffed her feet back into her boots. Snatched her glasses off the little table.

‘Lucy, what Neil Black did—’

She marched for the exit, fists clenched, heels clacking on the concrete floor.

‘Lucy, don’t go — I’m just trying to help!’

Hauled the door open.

‘Lucy, please, it’s been so—’

And slammed it shut behind her.

Lucy leaned against the Kia’s roof, one hand trying to massage the headache out of her temples while the other clutched her phone. Keeping her voice as upbeat as possible in the circumstances. ‘We’re doing everything we can, Judith, I promise.’

‘It’s just... the press coverage, they’re saying all these things about the investigation being wound up.’ A little wobble there, as if pain and gin didn’t mix. ‘We just want him caught, so we can bury our little boy. So we can... get his... get Craig’s heart back.’

Little boy? Craig Thorburn was in his thirties, for God’s sake.

‘I’m sorry.’ Lucy took off her glasses and sagged forwards, till her cheek pressed against the car roof. Cool metal on warm skin. ‘We’re making progress. I know it’s hard, but you have to be patient.’

‘They said you’re giving up!’

Bloody reporters.

‘We’re not giving up, Judith.’

A gull screeched somewhere overhead, making discordant harmonies with Lucy’s headache.

The grumble of a distant diesel motor.

That iodine, seaweed, and dirty-clothes taint of the river.

‘Have you talked to your Family Liaison Officer?’

‘Urgh... What’s the point? He never tells us anything.’

‘I don’t know what to say, Judith.’ Lucy squeezed her forehead even tighter, but it didn’t seem to help. ‘I wish I could wave a magic wand and catch this guy, but it doesn’t work like that. I promise, if I find something, I’ll let you know.’

‘I need to bury my son!’ And Judith hung up.

Lucy stayed where she was, slumped against the car roof. Opened one eye to make absolutely sure the call had disconnected. ‘Shame you weren’t so interested in the poor sod when he was alive, isn’t it?’

DI Tudor was right: Lucy should never have given out her mobile number. But what was she supposed to do? Regardless of how screwed up Judith Thorburn’s family was, the poor cow couldn’t even grieve properly, not with the pathologist refusing to release her son’s remains. And even if, somehow, Operation Maypole managed to catch the Bloodsmith, there was no guarantee they’d find his victims’ hearts. Maybe he threw them away? Or buried them? Or maybe he ate them? Dr McNaughton would have a full-on psychologist nerdgasm about that: absorbing the love. Very Freudian.

Urgh: Dr McNaughton.

It was better when he was just sitting there with his mouth shut, to be honest. OK, so the silent-therapist-I’m-only-here-to-listen act was a massive pain in the arse, but it was better than him opening his gob and making everything worse.

Still, at least this time he hadn’t banged on about the id, ego, and superego the whole session. Cos God forbid anyone—

Her phone burst into its warbling ringtone, and when she opened her eyes a blurry ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’ sat in the middle of the screen.

Brilliant. More crap.

She hit the button. ‘McVeigh.’

A man’s voice, lumpen with the weird half-teuchter, half-Oldcastle accent of someone from up north of Fiddersmuir. Banjo country. ‘Aye, you the officer called us, the day, aboot Lucas Weir?’

‘Lucas...?’

‘No’ his real name, like. But I’m in an open-plan office, so I’m being circumspect and that.’

Which could only mean one person: Benedict Strachan.

‘Oh, that Lucas Weir. Yes.’

‘Good. Mike Scobie, I’m his CJ social worker. That’s “Criminal Justice”, like, no’ “Caffeine Junkie”.’ There was a little chortle there, as Mike Scobie laughed at his own crap joke. ‘I’ve found him a placey to stay, in Kingsmeath. Have you got yoursel’ a piece of paper? Cos here’s the address: Fifty-Fower Stirk Road. It’s a halfway house so he’ll need—’

‘Hold on.’ She raised her head off the car’s roof. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘So you can get him ower there.’

Cheeky sod.

‘Oh no you don’t. Police Scotland aren’t responsible for housing folk who’ve got out of prison. That’s your job, not mine.’

‘Thought you wanted to help.’

‘I did: I called you. Have you got him on a rehab programme yet?’

A snort. ‘You any idea how hard it is to get a place on one of those? I’d have more chance getting him on The Great British Bake Off.’

Oh, for God’s sake.

‘He was eleven when he got banged up, Mr Scobie. Eleven. Wasn’t even old enough to drink, but he’s come out with a drug habit. That sound fair to you?’

There was a long phlegmy groan. Then a sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll see what I can do for the wee loon, but no promises. Seriously: Bake Off.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’d say you’re welcome, but I’d be lying.’ And with that, he was gone.

Lazy sod.

Lucy put her phone away, before it caused any more trouble. Got her glasses back on. Turned. And froze.

She was on the south side of the river, opposite MacKinnon Quay.

But...?

Sunlight glinted on the battleship-grey water. A handful of trawlers were tied up to the harbour wall, along with a couple of the smaller offshore supply boats too cheap to pay the Aberdeen dock fees. On this side of the river it was all red-brick processing plants, chandler’s warehouses, lockups, and the kind of garages where you paid cash and didn’t ask any questions. All of it rundown and grimy. Lots of boarded-up buildings with weeds growing out of their roofs and gutters, waiting for a demolition crew to put them out of their misery. Even the road looked depressed, its granite setts drooping into gutters rainbowed with oily water.

How the hell did...?

Something crawled its way up her spine. Turned all the saliva in her mouth to sand.

What was she doing here?

Lucy stepped back from the car and something scrunched beneath her feet. But when she looked down, it wasn’t dried-up fly carcases this time, it was a set of keys: a chunky silver one with ‘DO NOT DUPLICATE’ embossed on it; one that looked a bit like an anvil; a strange rectangular one with a wide head and no serrations — just dimples recessed into the blade; three Yales, each with a different coloured plastic cap; and one old-fashioned barrel key with some sort of crude lion’s head stamped on its thick round bow; all bound together on a brass ring. Someone must’ve dropped them.

Should take the keys back to the station, stick them in the Lost and Found, so whoever lost the things could claim them.

She picked the keys up — cold in the palm of her hand. Jingling against each other as her fingers trembled.

And why did she have this weird, queasy feeling of déjà vu? Like she’d seen all this before, heard all this before, that every rib-constricting breath had already been breathed?

She leaned back against her manky little Kia.

Something else for Dr McNaughton to love: Are you still having flashbacks? Sweating? Nausea? Trembling? Blackouts?

No, of course she wasn’t. This kind of thing was totally normal, wasn’t it?

She didn’t have PTSD, she’d just... spaced out for a bit. Everybody did it. Like driving home on autopilot and you get there with no idea what route you took or what happened along the way. Nothing strange about that.

Lucy bent double and grabbed hold of her knees. Did the breathing exercise they’d taught her. Everything was fine. Neil Black wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t lurking in the dark, waiting for her.

It wasn’t real.

And slowly, breath by breath, she pulled it all back inside. Balled it up tight and stuffed it down. See? Didn’t need any help. Could manage this perfectly well on her own.

She straightened up, pulled her shoulders back.

Dr Bloody McNaughton could go stick his...

Lucy stopped.

That feeling of being watched had returned, even stronger than before.

She spun around.

There — standing on the corner, twenty feet away, where the road played host to another row of crumbling warehouses. It was the man in the corduroy jacket. The one who’d been outside the cottage this morning. The one who’d got away.

Not this time.

7

There was no way the scumbag didn’t know she’d seen him. And even though he had to be at least a decade older than she was, they both knew he was faster.

On foot, anyway.

Lucy yanked open her car door and jumped in behind the wheel. She cranked the engine into life and floored it. No time to waste fastening her seatbelt. Working up through the gears. Unleashing the mighty Kia’s sixty-one brake horsepower as the engine roared like an angry chihuahua and the seatbelt-warning chimes rang out.

The man in the corduroy jacket ran for it, but not away from Lucy, towards her.

She slammed on the brakes, bracing herself against the wheel when momentum tried to evict her through the windscreen. But by the time the Kia had slithered to a halt, he was past. In the wing mirror, his reflection sprinted around the corner out of sight.

‘BASTARD!’

She hauled the steering wheel around and slammed the car into reverse, setting the nose dipping as the tyres screeched on setts. Rising out of her seat. Swinging the whole thing around, then slapping it into first and putting her foot down again. Acceleration shoving her into the upholstery.

Maybe a seatbelt wasn’t a bad idea after all?

She wrestled with it, one-handed — giving up when she hit the corner. Yanking the Kia around to the left, back end kicking out. More squealing tyres.

He was already a third of the way down the street and still going strong.

Jesus, that guy could run.

She hauled the steering wheel over, correcting the slide, then shoved the accelerator down hard, making the whole car thrrrrrrrrrrrummm across the uneven setts. OK, she definitely had him now.

Lucy pulled her phone out, holding it up at eye level. Well, she was already breaking the speed limit and not wearing a seatbelt, so what was one more road-traffic offence? Jabbing her thumb at the screen, unlocking it and—

‘SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!’

A forklift truck wheeched backwards out of an open garage, front loaded down with a large black plastic crate, nearly as big as her whole car.

The Kia’s tyres wailed again as she hit the brakes and wrenched the wheel to one side, her phone hand banging down on the horn and getting an apologetic whreeeeeep for its troubles.

Whoever was driving the forklift brought it to a juddering halt, swinging a fist in her direction as she roared by. It had the middle finger extended.

Couldn’t return the favour, not without dropping her phone, so a heartfelt ‘AND YOU!’ would just have to do.

Up ahead, the guy in corduroy took a sharp left, ducking into a narrow ginnel between a dodgy-looking workshop and a dodgier-looking printer’s. And there was no way even something as small as her Kia would get down it.

‘ARRRRRRRRRRGH!’ Lucy slammed the brake pedal to the carpet and the car skidded to a stop. She scrambled out, legging it across the pavement and into the gloomy narrow alley.

Cold wrapped its pale-blue tentacles around her.

She sped up into a proper full-on sprint, ginnel walls flashing by dark and damp on either side, speckled with green — doubt the sun ever made it this far — her Cuban heels clattering along, echoing back from those slimy bricks.

Where the hell was he?

A bunch of rusty leaflet-display stands sagged against one wall, abandoned and empty. Probably dumped there by whatever lazy scumbag ran the printer’s.

A much narrower alley branched off to the right, behind the small forest of discarded stands, not much wider than her shoulders. That had to be the way he’d gone.

She barely slowed for the turn, heels skittering as she grabbed the corner to swing herself into the constricted space. Sped up again.

There he was — right ahead of her, disappearing through a grimy black door marked ‘WIŚNIEWSKI DOBRE MIĘSO ~ TYLKO PRACOWNICY!’

Lucy surged forwards and barged through the same door, exploding into a large room, about the size of a tennis court, lined with stainless-steel panels. The tables and workbenches were stainless steel too — laden down with huge chunks of meat. Carcases hung from the ceiling on some weird track system. Brown tiles on the floor. And a lot of large burly men and women staring at her. All dressed in white from the hairnets and hats on their heads to the wellies on their feet. Blood-smeared aprons and butchers’ jackets. And every single one of them wielded a massive knife, cleaver, or saw.

The whole place reeked of iron and fat and sweat.

The nearest woman slammed what looked like half a lamb down on the tabletop in front of her, setting it ringing like Satan’s dinner gong. ‘Hej! Tutaj nie można wchodzić!’

Someone else joined in. ‘Tylko pracownicy, ty głupia suko!’

A fat man, slicing his way through a knee joint, jabbed his knife at her. ‘Wynoś się stąd! To nie higieniczne!’

No sign of the guy in the corduroy jacket.

Lucy hauled out her warrant card. ‘POLICE! What is it... POLICJA! There was a man came through here — where is he?’

Almost as one, they dropped eye contact, shuffled their wellies, and went back to butchering meat.

‘Come on: he was right in front of me! Where did he go?’

No reply.

‘WHERE DID HE BLOODY GO?’

A door at the side of the stainless-steel room battered open, and in shuffled another man, all dressed in white, hat clenched in his stained hands, bald head shining in the strip lights. Eyes lowered. Voice heavily accented and dripping with deference. ‘Proszę... please, we do not want to have trouble, here. I have papers for everyone. Good papers. Proper papers. No one is being illegal.’

‘Oh, for GOD’S SAKE!’ Lucy kicked the nearest table leg and a muffled clang reverberated through the room, making everyone flinch.

He must’ve gone somewhere.

A walk-in fridge or freezer was built into the wall opposite the office. But when Lucy clacked over there and hauled it open, there was nothing inside but pork, lamb, and beef. Carcases suspended from hooks, boxes of meat on shelves. No man in a corduroy jacket.

There had to be another door — one the meat got delivered through. That manky ginnel round the back couldn’t be the only way in and out. Fire regulations would never allow it.

‘You.’ She pointed at the man from the office, now working his cap around and around in his podgy fingers. ‘Where’s the main entrance?’

He let go with one hand and pointed at the far corner, where an opening was covered with wide plastic strips.

‘Thank you. You’ve been so helpful.’

The man actually smiled at that, as if she’d been serious. ‘Cała przyjemność po mojej stronie.’

She shoved her way through the plastic strips — thick and clammy against her skin — into a small loading bay, with steps leading down to Plouviez Road.

Lucy stepped out onto the narrow pavement, glasses fogging up as they hit the warmer outside air.

By the time she’d wiped them on her stripy top there was no sign of the guy she’d been chasing. Not up the street, nor down it. He’d gone.

Let’s face it, he’d had plenty of time while she’d been dicking about trying to get someone in the meat plant to help her. Could be in Dundee by now.

‘Buggering hell.’ It was meant to be a bellow of rage, but her heart wasn’t in it.

The Dunk was waiting for her when Lucy pulled her ancient Kia Picanto into the car park, round the back of DHQ. He’d swapped his stained clothes for an identical black polo-neck-and-jeans ensemble, his dark-grey leather jacket looking mottled as if it’d been sponged down. A cigarette sending lazy curls of smoke to taint the afternoon air as he lounged against a not-so-clean patrol car with a cracked windscreen.

She pulled into the only spare parking spot in the place, climbed out, and locked her car. ‘Don’t you own anything that isn’t black or grey?’

‘It’s called style, Sarge, look it up.’ Voice flat as a concrete floor. ‘Anyway, Forensics rushed through the analysis on that new “help me!” in the cottage. DNA matches: it’s Abby Geddes’s blood. No idea when it was painted there, though.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Total. They think he’s probably been keeping it in the freezer.’

‘So, definitely not a copycat, or a crank.’ She sagged a little, ran a hand across her face. ‘The guy from the woods — he was following me again, over by Queen’s Quay. Chased him down Ksenofontova Avenue, but he cut through a meat-processing plant and got away.’

The Dunk’s face pinched in around pursed lips. ‘Bit weird. I mean, if you’re a journalist after a story, why do a runner? Why not just ask for a quote, or, you know, offer a bribe for info, or something?’

‘Thought we would’ve caught him on their CCTV, but all the sodding cameras were dummies. What use is that?’

‘Unless he’s not a journalist at all, and you were right the first time...’ A frown. ‘Thing is, Sarge, why would the Bloodsmith be following you? Is that not way too dangerous for him?’

True.

‘Mind you’ — the Dunk’s eyes widened — ‘what if he’s scouting you out to be his next victim?’

‘Yeah... Now I hear someone else say it, it does sound batwank crazy.’ She pocketed her keys. ‘Probably just some sort of pervert stalker.’

‘Then we should definitely tell the boss. Never know what someone like that will get up to.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Can do it now, if you like? It’s only ten minutes till shift’s over anyway; think we deserve a gentle wee coast till home time.’

‘You still got that pool car?’

‘Crap.’ He slumped. ‘I should’ve legged it while I had the chance.’

Yup. But it was too late now.

The pool car’s radio popped and hissed as Lucy set it searching for something other than crappy boy-band pop music, finally clicking onto a woman’s voice, doing her best to sound as if she didn’t come from Kingsmeath. And failing. ‘...bringing the death toll to eighteen, with more expected in the next few days.’ Pronouncing every word as if it was in a foreign language.

‘God, I hate rush hour.’ The Dunk eased their car forwards another length, keeping them an over-cautious four feet behind the Ford Fiesta in front, crawling along Kingside Drive in a queue of stop-start traffic that stretched all the way back across Dundas Bridge and halfway around Castle Hill.

‘French police have shut all roads in and out of Avignon.’

‘Mmm...’ Lucy turned the page of the next report.

‘Jason Spiers, CEO of biotech firm BoltronVitica International, has been cleared of murdering his mistress, TV presenter Chelsea Lipinski, at the High Court this afternoon.’

Adam Holmes, thirty-two, unemployed project manager. Got laid off from his job at an IT company a year and a half ago.

‘Ms Lipinski, a former semi-finalist on Strictly Come Dancing, was discovered in woods near her home, after being battered to death.’

‘I bet he did it.’ The Dunk crept the pool car closer to the roundabout, keeping that four-foot buffer zone between them and the Fiesta.

The ‘before’ photo showed a slightly chubby bloke with a freckled forehead and dirty-blond hair in need of a trim. Round glasses. Serious face. Holding a hot dog in both hands as if it were an award of some sort that he’d never wanted to win. Heavy on the onion and ketchup.

A man’s voice boomed out of the car speakers. One of those posh Scottish accents that dripped with wealth and pomposity. ‘While I’m glad that the courts have finally thrown out this ridiculous case, I am deeply angered that the police have failed to make any progress in catching the monster that killed Chelsea.’

‘Oh, he definitely did it.’ The Dunk drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘These rich bastards get away with everything.’

‘My thoughts and prayers are with her family at this difficult time.’

The ‘after’ photo looked like a nightmare in dissecting class. Adam, stripped naked and flat on his back in a small family bathroom, head forced to one side by the toilet pedestal, left arm pressed to his body by the bath. Legs stretched out straight. Right arm bent at the elbow, the open hand thrown back, showing the deep wound across his wrist. Split from groin to throat and emptied out onto tiles that weren’t black and white any more. The words ‘HELP ME!’ were reflected in the medicine cabinet’s mirrored doors, above the sink, just over the shoulder of the blurry white figure in an SOC suit who’d taken the picture. As if they’d been snapping a macabre bathroom selfie for the world’s most ghoulish social media platform.

Lucy turned the photograph over as something sharp burned at the base of her throat. She swallowed. Cracked the passenger window open an inch, letting in the fug of rush-hour fumes.

‘Feeling OK?’ The Dunk was staring at her, as if she was an injured puppy. ‘I get all queasy reading in the car too.’

She nodded. ‘Never better.’

‘There was more criticism of Paul Rhynie at PMQs this afternoon, with the leaders of the Opposition, SNP, and Green Party all demanding answers to allegations the Business Secretary has awarded hundreds of millions of pounds’ worth of government contracts to—’

‘It’ll be better when we get past Tranton Roundabout. Half these idiots will be cutting up Burns Road to the Parkway.’

‘—without proper tendering processes, transparency, reporting, or penalty clauses.’

Lucy returned Adam Holmes’ file to the folder. ‘Why do you think he does it?’

‘What, Rhynie? Cos all these politician bastards watched Donald Trump get away with bloody murder for four years, and they think, “If he can do it”—’

‘Not the Business Secretary, the Bloodsmith.’

‘...Prime Minister’s complete support. Racing news and there’s been a huge upset at Uttoxeter as long shot Mellbell Bing-Bong won the Alanna Knight Memorial Handicap Hurdles at one hundred and fifty to one—’

‘Shut up.’ Lucy turned off the radio. ‘Can’t hear myself think.’

‘Why he cuts them open?’

‘No. He does that to get the hearts. Why—’

‘Yeah, but he doesn’t have to make such a big production out of it, does he?’ The Dunk shrugged and inched them closer to the roundabout. Only three cars to go. A frown. ‘Hold on, are we pretending we don’t know about Jane Cooper and Craig Thorburn yet? Because if we’re going to be all “fresh pair of eyes” about it, like the boss wants, we maybe should stick to the victims we’d know about if Adam Holmes had just died, instead of all the victims we actually do know about?’

‘Did that make more sense when it was still inside your head?’

‘Do you want to be fresh eyes, or don’t you?’

A massive sigh huffed its way out of her. ‘Fine, we’ll be “fresh eyes”.’

‘You’re in charge — I’m only asking.’ The car grumbled forward one more length. ‘No need to be sarky.’

A gaggle of teenagers skipped across the road, slipping between the slow-moving traffic. All spots and elbows and leggings with the knees ripped out of them.

The driver’s window of the Fiesta buzzed down and a scrunched-up crisp packet sailed out into the sunshine. One of the teenagers snatched it up off the tarmac and bunged the packet back through the window. Following it up with what looked like a few choice mouthfuls of foul language and some rude hand gestures.

Good for her.

Still nothing from the Dunk, though.

‘Stop sulking. I said we’ll be “fresh eyes”, OK?’

‘OK.’ Big squint-toothed smile. ‘So, it’s September last year and the Bloodsmith’s on victim number three. He’s had practice, right? He’s done it twice already: he knows where the heart is. So how come he guts Adam Holmes like a kipper to get it? Took a chunk of liver away with him, too.’

True.

‘What did the forensic psychologist say?’

‘Can’t remember. Something rambling and unpunctuated, probably.’ They’d finally made it as far as the roundabout, and the Dunk wheeched them straight across, joining the queue of traffic on the other side. ‘And you see the cut on the wrist? With Bruce Malloch he nearly took the hand clean off, would’ve been blood everywhere, like a fire hose, but look at the blood in the Adam Holmes crime-scene photos: it’s not all up the walls, right?’

Lucy slumped back in her seat and groaned. ‘We already know this, Dunk. By the time he kills Jane Cooper he’s—’

‘He’s not killed her yet, remember? That doesn’t happen till...’ creases bunched up between the Dunk’s eyebrows as that steam-powered brain of his tried to get the pistons moving, ‘January next year. Four months from now.’

‘Seriously?’ Lucy puffed out her cheeks. ‘This is a daft game; we can’t just forget everything we know about the Bloodsmith.’

‘Hey, it’s your rule, remember? Thirty-nine: “Shake things up”?’

Might as well humour him.

Lucy pulled out the picture and risked another look.

The bathroom’s tiled floor was smeared with blood, rather than drenched in it like Bruce Malloch’s home office. And it looked as if it’d come from the bits that’d been emptied out of Adam Holmes — lying there in slippery sticky mounds...

Swallow it down.

Breathe.

There was blood in the bath, too. Arcing lines and little red dots. Because he’d got better at harvesting it. Not wasting so much. Learning on the job.

Her stomach lurched.

OK, that was more than enough.

Lucy put the photo away before her tartiflette made a guest appearance all over the dashboard. ‘The papers are saying he’s smarter than we are.’

‘Not yet they aren’t. They don’t start printing that crap till October.’

‘Seventeen months, Dunk, and we’ve got nothing but a bunch of dead bodies.’

Maybe the papers were right.

8

‘Bit crappy, isn’t it?’ The Dunk locked their pool car and curled his lip at the small block of flats that blighted Ditchburn Road. Everything else was built in the local sandstone — nice homes with nice gardens, bay windows, two point four children, and a roses-round-the-door kind of feel. But Ruthkopf House was a four-storey abomination, clad in a mix of yellow panelling and strips of blackened wood. Like a massive Rubik’s cube that’d gone horribly wrong. With a car park out front.

Lucy handed him the Operation Maypole folder on the way past. ‘Flat Three F.’ Then pushed into a small reception area.

Had to hand it to the developers: just because it looked ugly on the outside, didn’t mean it couldn’t look ugly on the inside as well. They’d gone for the sort of ‘minimalist’ approach that meant slapping a coat of garish paint on the bare walls and pretending that made the building stylish, rather than a nasty concrete warren stuffed full of as many flats as they could legally get away with.

The stairwell rang to the sound of Lucy’s bootheels, all the way up to the top floor, while the Dunk puffed and panted along behind her.

Flat 3F was down a short corridor, the magenta door and lime-green walls fighting against each other in a headache-inducing contrast. A small plastic plaque was fixed to the doorframe: ‘MR & MRS MYERS’.

Lucy knocked.

Waited, while the Dunk leaned against the wall — huffing and puffing, as if he was expecting one of the Three Little Pigs to answer the door.

Instead, it was an equally pink-faced man with a screaming baby cradled half over his shoulder, patting it on the back as it howled. He had a fairly impressive set of bags under his watery bloodshot eyes. ‘What?’ Not sounding all that welcoming.

Lucy checked the plaque again. ‘Mr Myers?’ Then pulled out her warrant card. ‘Police. Can we come in, please?’

His mouth clenched like a fist. ‘If this is about that wanker in Two G: he’s lying. I never touched his bloody Majestic Wines delivery, or his Amazon parcels. He’s the one you should be harassing, with his loud bloody parties at all hours!’

She put her card away. ‘It’s OK, we’re not here about your neighbour, we’re here about Adam Holmes.’

That got Lucy a blank look. ‘Who’s Adam Holmes?’

The Dunk pulled his chin in, doubling it. ‘You’re kidding, right? Adam Holmes? He lived here? In this flat?’

Still nothing.

‘The Bloodsmith’s third victim? He died in your bathroom, mate.’

Those watery pink eyes widened. ‘He what?’

Lucy patted him on his unbabied shoulder. ‘Probably best if we come in. You might want to sit down for this.’

The flat’s bathroom was even smaller in real life. Only just wide enough to squeeze in a toilet and corner sink. Didn’t even have a full-sized bath — you’d have your knees up around your ears if you tried lying down in it. The black-and-white tiles were still there, though it must’ve been hell getting all that blood out of the grout.

Lucy and the Dunk stood in the bathroom doorway while Mr Myers stomped around the living room, with his screaming baby over one shoulder and his mobile clamped to his other ear. Voice raised to shouting level, trying to compete with the screeching cries, ‘NO, I’M NOT KIDDING, KAREN, THE POLICE ARE HERE RIGHT NOW. SOMEONE DIED IN OUR FLAT!’

The Dunk held up the crime-scene photo. ‘Right: it’s a year ago, remember?’

‘ACTUALLY, SCRATCH THAT. HE DIDN’T “DIE”, HE WAS MURDERED!’

‘Don’t think it was this noisy last year, or someone would’ve reported it sooner.’

‘YOU HEARD RIGHT, KAREN: MURDERED!’

‘Come on, Sarge, focus.’ He lined the photo up with the actual bathroom. ‘We don’t really know what happened with Abby Geddes, but Bruce Malloch was a complete mess. Blood everywhere. So, our boy tries something new.’

‘NO, THE BASTARDS DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT WHEN THEY SHOWED US THE FLAT. WE’RE RENTING A MURDER SCENE! I BET WE DIDN’T EVEN GET A DISCOUNT.’

‘See?’ The Dunk pointed at the body. ‘This time he makes a precision cut in Adam Holmes’ wrist. And does it over the bath, too. Much neater job.’

‘OH, DON’T YOU WORRY; SOON AS THE POLICE SOD OFF, I’M GOING RIGHT OVER THERE AND TEARING A STRIP OFF THOSE LYING MONEY-GRABBING SCUMBAGS!’

‘Still... it wouldn’t be easy, getting all that blood into jars.’ Hard not to imagine how horrible that would be — holding onto Adam’s wrist while it pumped out every last drop it could, spattering across the white plastic bathtub.

A shrug. ‘Maybe he used a funnel?’

‘I WANT AT LEAST THIRTY PERCENT OFF THE RENT, BACKDATED TO WHEN WE MOVED IN!’

‘Pathologist’s report?’

‘Hold on.’ The Dunk dipped back into the folder. ‘Right: this time it’s two blows to the back of the head. Then death by something called “exsanguination”. What the hell’s—’

‘He bled to death.’

‘Well, why not just say so, then? Pathologists always got to show off, don’t they?’

‘WHAT?’

He went back to the report. ‘Yeah, so basically Adam Holmes was definitely gutted after death. The heart was removed from the scene, as is our boy’s wont, and then there’s that six-inch chunk of liver he made off with.’ The Dunk pulled a face. ‘Reckon he’s done a Hannibal Lecter?’

‘THEY CAN’T EVICT US FOR COMPLAINING ABOUT SOMEONE GETTING HIS INSIDES RIPPED OUT IN OUR BATHROOM! HOW COULD THAT POSSIBLY BE LEGAL?’

‘Hope not.’

‘THEY SHOULD’VE TOLD US, IS ALL I’M SAYING, KAREN!’

He produced another sheet of paper. ‘Want the psychological profile?’

‘FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, CAN YOU NOT JUST SUPPORT ME FOR ONCE?’

Lucy turned her back on the bathroom. ‘Can you imagine living somewhere like this?’

The Dunk did the same. ‘Not exactly palatial, is it?’

‘NO, KAREN, I KNOW YOU PAY “ALL THE BILLS”, BUT I’M THE ONE STUCK AT HOME LOOKING AFTER BOSTON ALL DAY! I’M THE ONE SACRIFICING HIS CAREER!’

Two tiny bedrooms, a toy-sized bathroom, and a kitchen-living room that you couldn’t swing a hamster in, never mind a cat. And it probably cost a fortune too, because let’s face it, people in Castleview had more money than sense. Could rent somewhere twice the size in Blackwall Hill for the same price. Or buy a whole house in Kingsmeath. Mind you, then you’d have to live in Kingsmeath, and that wasn’t exactly—

‘Sarge?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘I WAS ON THE FAST TRACK FOR PROMOTION, KAREN!’

‘Want to leave them to it?’ The Dunk hooked a thumb towards the front door.

Definitely.

Sunlight kissed the buildings on either side of Ruthkopf House with gold, but left the block of flats as lumpen and ugly as ever.

The Dunk unlocked their pool car. ‘Where now? And, in case you’re worried, I definitely won’t be disappointed if you say we’re done for the day. Because it’s after six. And we’ve got two more crime scenes to go, so we might as well do them tomorrow or we’ll be here till midnight. And everyone else is off to the pub for Stan the Man’s birthday.’

‘He knows them, Dunk. The Bloodsmith knows them.’

‘Sure?’

‘He kills them in their own homes — he needs access to do that. Bruce Malloch in his home office, Adam Holmes in his miserly little bathroom. That’s not stranger territory, that’s someone you know.’

The Dunk leaned against the car roof. ‘Maybe not. I come over to your house, and suppose I’m dressed up like a BT engineer, or a plumber or something.’ Dropping into a mockney accent for, ‘“’Ello, guvnor, I’m ’ere cos we’ve ’ad complaints about the broadband being slow. Take us to yer router and I’ll sort it aaart.” Or, “’Ere, the building’s owners are finally doing something about the crap water pressure, ’ow ’bout showin’ us yer stopcock, darlin’?”’ Then he mimed smashing someone over the head with a hammer.

Lucy made a see-saw motion with her hand. ‘Risky. What if the potential victim wants to check your ID?’

‘Ah...’ His face scrunched up for a bit. ‘Yeah, but it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Remember Eric Ratcliffe? Used to dress up as a council sewage guy and con his way into people’s houses with that “there’s been a cock-up at the pumping station and people are getting blowback off the effluent line” routine. How many women did he rape before we caught him? Six? Seven?’

‘Nine.’

The Dunk boinked his palm against the roof. ‘There you go, then.’

Suppose... But it raised the unwelcome prospect that the Bloodsmith wasn’t targeting his victims: he was picking them at random based on who was prepared to answer the door and let him inside. And that made him a lot more difficult to catch. But if he was working to a plan there might be something that connected the victims. Something that could be used to work out how these five poor sods came into contact with him. Something that could help catch the bastard.

Because God knew they needed all the help they could get.

The building’s front door banged open and out strode Mr Myers, screaming child strapped to his chest in some sort of tartan papoose. ‘OH NO, MR MCCREADIE, I’M COMING OVER THERE RIGHT NOW, AND YOU WILL BE THERE!’ Stomping across the car park and off in the direction of MacMillan Road.

Yeah...

Lucy hauled open the passenger door. ‘Back to DHQ. We’re done for the night.’

‘What are you still doing here?’ DI Tudor leaned on Lucy’s desk, brushing that floppy fringe out of his eyes with one hand. Probably thought he looked irresistible when he did it.

He was wrong.

Lucy pushed the ancient Police-Scotland-issue laptop away and rubbed at her eyes. ‘Been working on an eFit of the tosser who’s been following me. You recognize him?’ Pointing at the screen.

A middle-aged face gazed back at them from the computer-generated image. It maybe wasn’t the greatest likeness in the world — a bit of guesswork going on around the eyes and mouth — but it was the best she could do given he’d done a runner every time she’d spotted him.

‘We’re all off to the Bart. Stan’s fiftieth, remember?’

‘The Dunk thinks it might be a reporter, or a pervert, but I haven’t seen the guy at any of the briefings.’

Tudor squinted at the image for a bit. ‘Not ringing any bells.’ He chewed his bottom lip. ‘Lucy, you are taking precautions, aren’t you? I know it can’t be easy, being followed by a strange man, after... what happened.’ He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. Held it there just a little too long.

She looked at his hand. ‘Boss, are we having a “Me Too” moment?’

‘No.’ Snatching it back, as if it’d been scalded.

Better.

Now: change the subject before he really got going about Neil Sodding Black.

‘How’s Superintendent Spence and DCI Ross doing?’

‘Don’t, OK?’ Tudor retreated a good six feet and leaned against a different desk, putting some safe space between them, but trying to make it look casual. ‘They were all over us till they realized the new “help me” wasn’t the massive breakthrough they’d thought it was. Why hang around for the hard work if a result isn’t about to land, gift-wrapped, smack bang into their sodding laps?’ Folding his arms and scowling at the nearest whiteboard. ‘Bastards.’

At least if Tudor was feeling sorry for himself he was too busy to aim his corrosive sympathy in her direction. Still, it probably wasn’t fair to leave him wallowing in it.

Lucy sent the eFit she’d been working on to the printer, then logged off and shut down her laptop. ‘On the plus side, we’re actually making progress. That’s something, right?’

‘Erm, Lucy...’ Tudor picked at the desk with a bitten fingernail.

Oh God, it was Me Too time again. ‘Actually, Boss, I’m—’

‘It’s just, if someone is following you, we can’t rule out that it might be the Bloodsmith. And I don’t like members of my team being put at risk.’ He dug into a pocket. ‘Got this for you.’ Then placed a cardboard box, about the same size as a cigarette packet, on the desk in front of her.

What if it was jewellery? Or something else inappropriate?

She didn’t move.

‘Well? Open it.’

Sodding hell. It better not be jewellery.

Lucy took a deep breath, picked the box up, and opened the thing. Blinked at what Detective Inspector Tudor had given her: a metal cylinder, about the length of her thumb, with a bright-red plastic top. Oh, God, was it a vibrator? ‘Are you—’

‘It’s a rape alarm.’ Then his cheeks flushed deep pink. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to...’ Tudor cleared his throat. ‘It’s a personal-safety alarm. Normally they’re about one-twenty, one-thirty decibels, this is one hundred and fifty. Got it from that dodgy high-tech shop in the Tollgate. And it’s mono-directional — so you point the red bit at your assailant, pull the pin, and boom: loud enough to cause some serious pain. And possible permanent hearing loss.’

How romantic.

‘Thanks, Boss.’ She put it back in its box, then dumped it in her desk drawer.

‘Just keep it on you at all times, OK? Unless you’d like me to assign you a babysitter, twenty-four seven?’

‘Urgh... Fine.’ Lucy took the alarm out of its box again and slipped it into the inside pocket of her overcoat.

‘Good. Now: pub.’

‘Actually, Boss, I’m just going to head home: soak in the tub.’ She picked up the printout, then pulled on her overcoat. ‘Been a long day.’

He stood there, head on one side, staring at her like a concerned parent. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

He was doing the sad-puppy-dog eyes now. ‘Lucy, it’s—’

‘All right, all right: one drink.’ Turning on her heel and marching off.

But the first person who brought up Neil Black was getting punched in the throat.

The Dumbarton Arms was reasonably busy, for a change. In addition to the Operation Maypole team, a whole bunch of OAPs had taken up residence and were now busy getting tanked into happy-hour booze while a balding ponytailed freak set up the speakers, screens, and microphones on the little stage at the back.

The oldies avoided the far corner, where Lucy’s fellow officers had made camp. Which was pretty sensible: crowds of off-duty police could get a bit... enthusiastic with a drink in them. Every single member of Tudor’s team was there, clustered into the booths, necking pints, talking far too loud, eating crisps, and slapping Detective Constable Stan Talladale on the back.

A cheery banner hung across the back wall, between the toilets: ‘WEDNESDAY NIGHT IS KARAOKE NIGHT!’ above ‘3 FOR 2 ON DRINKS* FOR SINGERS!!!’ Because what wasn’t to love about getting wankered and making a tit of yourself?

Hedgehog Dundee had a manky bar towel thrown over one shoulder, humming away to himself as he pulled yet another pint of Stella. Adding it to the collection lined up in front of Lucy. His long, straggly hair surrounded a bald patch the size of a dinner plate. Throw in a big round sweaty face, a manky goatee, sausage hands, and a physique that could best be described as ‘lardy’ — all wrapped up in a five-foot-two package of yuck — and he must’ve been beating the ladies off with a stick. ‘May I just say that it’s a pleasure to see you patronizing our establishment again, DS McVeigh.’

‘And a white wine. Pinot Grigio, if you’ve got it; something that doesn’t taste like drain cleaner, if you don’t.’ Not that it really mattered: she wasn’t planning on actually drinking it.

‘The usual, then.’ He turned and plucked a large wine glass from the rack. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been in since... well, since that thing happened.’

Oh God, not Hedgehog as well.

She pulled her chin in. ‘I don’t—’

‘I wanted you to know that everyone at the Dumbarton Arms was shocked and appalled when we heard what had transpired.’ Filling the glass with a new bottle from the fridge. He placed it on the bar in front of her. ‘This is a Domaine Rieflé-Landmann, Pinot Gris, Steinert, Grand Cru, Alsace, 2015. Decanter magazine rates it very highly. I ordered a bottle specially for when you came in next.’ He held up a hand. ‘On the house.’

She stared at the wine. Then at him.

Hedgehog stood there. Not moving. Not making a big thing of it.

And, technically, he hadn’t used Neil Black’s name, so maybe he didn’t need punching in the throat.

Lucy licked her lips. Nodded. ‘Thank you.’

Hedgehog nodded back. ‘Bastard got what he deserved.’

Then why did it still hurt?

9

Lucy slipped her phone out and checked the time. Eight o’clock. A whole hour pretending she was into all this team-bonding bollocks: surely that was enough. No one could whinge if she left now.

That glass of Hedgehog’s Pinot Gris sat untouched in front of her, joined by a forest of empty pint glasses, highballs, and tumblers that rattled like a crystal wind chime every time someone bumped against the table.

DI Tudor and Emma were up on the small stage, belting out an old Oasis number while a dozen members of Operation Maypole turned the little wooden dancefloor into an impromptu mosh pit — joining in on the chorus as the whole pub thrummed with the noise.

The Dunk was over by the bar, getting into it with a detective constable who looked as if someone had randomly applied Nair to a six-foot-tall baboon, leaving a bald head and Victorian set of moustache-and-mutton-chops behind. The pair of them leaning in close, jabbing fingers at each other’s chests. Only the Dunk had to stand on his tiptoes to do it.

Should probably rescue him before she left.

Lucy emptied her wine into four or five of the abandoned glasses — just so Hedgehog wouldn’t feel slighted that she hadn’t drunk any of it — and slipped from the booth.

She waved at the birthday boy on the way past, but he was too busy wanging on about how much the final season of Game of Thrones ‘sucked balls’ to notice. Can’t say she hadn’t tried, though.

Whatever DC Johnson and the Dunk were arguing about, they shut up pretty sharpish as she approached. Forced on a pair of unconvincing smiles.

‘SARGE.’ Johnson had to bellow over a particularly rowdy bit of singing and stomping.

‘STEVE. I NEED TO BORROW THE DUNK.’ Then she grabbed her sidekick’s elbow and steered him across the pub and out the door, into a blissfully quiet street, where the only noise was the ringing in her ears; every breath crisp and sharp, redolent with the scent of sizzling batter and vinegar that oozed out of Dougie’s ‘Famous’ Chipper, just down the road; streetlights glowing warm yellow in the darkness.

‘What can I do for you, Sarge?’ He glanced back at the closed door, his face flushed and pinched. Then dug out his cigarettes, lighting one in his cupped hands and hissing out an angry cloud of jaundiced smoke.

‘Just thought you needed a bit of a break from Steve Johnson, before you started throwing punches.’

‘Johnson’s a dick.’

‘Massive. Want to tell me what you two were arguing about?’

‘Nothing.’ The Dunk pulled one shoulder up to his ear, then let it drop again. ‘Just him being a dick. As per.’ A sniff. ‘You offski?’

‘Been quite a day. Got a long hot bath and an ice-cold bottle of Pinot Grigio with my name on it.’

‘OK.’ His brow furrowed, mouth twitching behind pursed lips, as if he was wrestling with something in there. ‘This guy who’s been following you—’

‘Don’t worry about it. Can take care of myself, remember?’ Then she dipped into her overcoat pocket and pulled out DI Tudor’s rape alarm. ‘Besides, the boss gave me this.’

‘Good. Yeah. Right.’ Nodding with each word. ‘You’re parked that way?’ He pointed away down the road. ‘Mind if I tag along for a bit? Johnson’s getting on my tits and I figure a poke of chips and a walk will help.’

She loomed. ‘I’m not some weak and feeble woman who needs protecting!’

‘Yeah, I know that, Sarge. But Johnson’s much bigger than me, and if I swing for him, he’ll probably take my head off.’

Her old Kia Picanto scrunched onto the gravel driveway, headlights sweeping across the three houses on the other side of the road, leaving them in darkness as she killed the engine. Only three miles north of the city, but from here you wouldn’t even know Oldcastle existed, if it wasn’t for the dirty orange smear, reflected off the low clouds. The rest of it was hidden from view by Auld Dawson’s Wood, lurking behind the homes opposite like a large dark beast. Its spines creaking and rustling in the wind.

Not that Ballrochie offered much to pounce on. A trio of farmworker’s cottages, and the grieve’s house — which merited a whole two storeys and a garage, because he’d been in charge and the lower classes needed to know their place.

Lucy grabbed her files from the back seat and let herself into the granite-and-sandstone status symbol. Locked the front door behind her and dumped her keys in a bowl on the sideboard. Hung her overcoat on its hook. ‘Honey, I’m ho-ome.’

No answer, as usual.

She took off her boots and lined them up with the other pairs arranged on the rack in the hallway. Looked at the stranger in the mirror. Practised smiling at them, like her therapist always used to bang on about:

It’s neuro-linguistic programming, Lucy... Smiling releases endorphins, even if you don’t feel happy, Lucy... Smile and you’ll trick your brain into feeling better, Lucy.

But then, like Detective Constable Steve Johnson, he’d always been a dick.

She gave one last rictus grimace a count of ten, then huffed out a breath. Sagged. And stomped off upstairs to change.

Her bedroom was smaller than Dad’s, which didn’t really make any sense. It was her house now: she could sleep wherever she liked. All she’d have to do was move his stuff out of the wardrobes and chest of drawers. Take it down the charity shop. Give the place a lick of paint. Buy some fresh bedding. Get herself a new mattress and pillows too. Easy.

Still, no point rushing these things.

Maybe after Christmas?

She swapped the work outfit for an old hoodie and pair of sweats. Turquoise Crocs rounded off the ensemble. Not exactly stylish, but who was going to see?

Next up: cup of tea.

Down in the kitchen, Lucy set the kettle boiling while she fished sliced white out of the bread bin. A bit stale, but it toasted up fine. Earl Grey, slice of lemon, toast with a smear of butter and Marmite. Crunching down on a darkly savoury mouthful as she wandered through into the living room, tea in one hand, files tucked under her other arm.

Twin couches sat on either side of the fireplace, their green leather looking a bit worn and shabby. A coffee table played host to a jar of markers and a carton of Post-its. The TV in the corner wasn’t one of those modern flatscreen jobs, so a technical antique. And last but not least, the reason the curtains were always shut in here: her murder board.

The one back at DHQ was big, but nothing compared to this. It covered all four walls, stretching from just above the skirting boards to as high as she could reach by standing on a dining-room chair. Photos and notes and memos, crime scenes and post-mortems, transcripts and reports — all of it copied from the Operation Maypole files. And OK, DI Tudor would probably have a fit if he found out she’d taken all this stuff home, but at least she was trying, right? Sifting through the evidence, searching for whatever it was that’d been overlooked these last seventeen months. The thing that would identify the Bloodsmith...

She’d annotated everything with Post-it notes. Lots and lots of Post-it notes. Extra sticky ones, in every colour you could buy. Each one of them covered in dense splodges of handwriting.

There’d been a brief dalliance with red ribbons, making a spider’s web between suspects and victims, like they did on TV and in the movies, but it was all a bit... melodramatic. That and it was a sod to move any piece without the whole thing unravelling. Ended up spending more time reweaving the red ribbon from point to point than analysing the evidence.

Victims took up the wall around the door, their ‘before’ photos in stark contrast to what the Bloodsmith had left behind — the crime-scene photos pinned up the wrong way around: images facing the wallpaper, so only their blank white backs were on show. Impact statements from their families were in the corner, each one treacly with remorse, and pain, and how loved the dead had been, even though most of them hadn’t seen the victim for months.

Suspects were on the wall opposite, the fireplace making a dark-brown mouth in the middle. They’d all been interviewed, and they’d all been cleared.

Transcripts took up most of the wall facing the big bay window, while a forest of Post-its clustered on both sides of the closed dusty curtains. Theories, questions, thoughts.

And none of it had helped one single sodding bit.

Lucy settled onto the couch. Her couch. Not the one Dad always used — with the pinhole burns in the leather from those revolting cigars of his — but the one he’d reserved for her not-particularly-frequent visits.

Right. Just because the suspects arranged either side of the fireplace had been officially marked as ‘no longer viable’, that didn’t mean she wasn’t looking at the Bloodsmith right now. Because she knew she was.

‘One of you bastards did it.’

Crunching her toast, sipping her tea.

The forensic psychologist’s profiles might be breathless unpunctuated rambles, but the conclusions in all five of the reports — one for each victim — were the same. The Bloodsmith was a man, in his late twenties to early forties, with a vehicle, a position of responsibility, and no significant affection in his life.

Of course, that didn’t mean he lived alone: he could be staying with an aged parent he had to care for, or trapped in a loveless marriage. Possibly because no decent human being could ever love a serial-killing piece of shit like him.

Which meant you couldn’t rule out anyone based on that.

But if they had to have a ‘position of responsibility’, that eliminated seven of the suspects, leaving nineteen to deal with. Not much of an improvement, but it was a start.

What about the ‘trying to establish an emotional connection by having a string of one-night stands’ angle? Who would women sleep with, out of this lot?

Suppose that would depend on how drunk he got them.

Maybe six you’d take home with you, if you were in the mood. Another three would be possibles after a bottle of white. Two more, if you’d had a couple of gins before that, providing they had a good sense of humour.

And not a single one of them looked like the man she’d chased. Nor did any of the ‘too ugly to shag’ crowd.

Lucy finished her toast, wiped the crumbs off her fingertips, then rearranged the photos, putting her six potential killers in a row. Relegating the wannabes to a pile on the coffee table, pinned down with the fist-sized lump of blue-and-purple geode she’d got in a dead friend’s will.

That left her with an architect, a self-employed accountant, a partner in a law firm, a junior doctor at CHI, a manager at the big Winslow’s in Logansferry, and a member of the city council. Six potential killers, all with alibis for the nights the Bloodsmith’s victims disappeared.

Need to go over all their statements and alibis again. Didn’t matter that Angus and his team were already doing that — Angus meant well, but he couldn’t think outside the box if you hacked his head off and chucked it in a vat of baked beans.

And she had one more suspect to add to the list.

Lucy headed back through to the hall, collected the printout of her eFit, and pinned it up with the other potential serial killers. Stepped back to frown at that slightly out-of-focus face. There was something... familiar about it. Not what you’d call classically handsome, but not bad-looking. There was maybe even something appealing about him, in a strange sort of way.

So definitely on the list.

Just a shame she had no clue who he was.

‘Urgh...’ Lucy rubbed at her gritty eyes till little orange and black spots burst behind her lids like fireworks. Yawned. Sagged. Sighed. Put her glasses back on. Took another swig of her fourth mug of tea. And squinted at the wall of victims.

They had to have something in common. But all five had gone to different schools; they didn’t look anything alike; none of them worked in the same industry; they weren’t the same sex; they hadn’t belonged to the same clubs; they hadn’t joined the same Facebook groups; they hadn’t even followed the same people on Twitter.

She glanced over at the new eFit, gracing her suspects board. ‘Why did you pick them? What was it about these poor sods that got you all hot and bothered?’

No reply.

OK, back to basics. Five victims: Abby Geddes, Bruce Malloch, Adam Holmes, Jane Cooper, and Craig Thorburn. Two women, three men. So, who said the Bloodsmith had to be male? Yes, statistically speaking, men were much more likely to murder other people, but that didn’t mean women couldn’t go on a homicidal rampage. As Oldcastle had proven over, and over, and over again.

Even the rambling forensic psychologist had hedged her bets on that one, hadn’t she? All her profiles used the male pronoun when talking about the Bloodsmith, but she’d left herself a big chunk of wriggle room with ‘Killer is most likely an IC-One male...’ And ‘most likely’ wasn’t the same as ‘definitely’. So, why not a woman?

A smile spread across Lucy’s face, followed by another jaw-cracking yawn.

Tomorrow, soon as Morning Prayers were over, she’d nab a HOLMES terminal and go through the actions: see if there was someone knocking about in the background who might be a good fit. With a bit of luck, if she came up with a viable suspect, there’d be no need to go schlepping around the last three crime scenes — she’d be off solving the case instead.

Lucy blinked.

Two.

Two crime scenes. Not three.

Yeah... She peered at her watch — nearly midnight.

No wonder she was too knackered to think straight.

Time for a quick soak in a lovely hot bath, and then bed.

It was going to be a big day tomorrow.