No Less the Devil

10

Lucy leaned back against the worktop, crunching her way through breakfast — toast slathered in butter, mashed banana, and salt — washed down with a big mug of black coffee. Outside the kitchen window, a pair of coal tits squabbled over the bird feeder, a cock pheasant strutting about on the frost-crisped grass beneath it, like a vile priest in his dog collar waiting for scraps from above. The sky: a lid of pale grey, bruised with darker clouds. All to the soundtrack of crappy pop music, crackling out of a radio that was almost as old as Dad’s Neolithic toaster.

The awful song jangled to a halt, only to be replaced by some OTT idiot doing their best to sound like the world wasn’t a lonely, miserable, and brutal place on a cold September morning. ‘Hey, hey, hey! That was Mister Bones, and “Angela’s Calling Me”. What did I tell you, folks? It’s a smasharoooooonie!’ Comedy honking noise. ‘You’re listening to Castlewave FM, you lucky people; this is Sensational Steve’s Breakfast Drivetime Bo-nan-za; it’s seven o’clock and here’s Gorgeous Gabby with the Naughty News!’

Why was it that the world’s biggest dicks were always so immeasurably proud of their dickishness and so keen to share it?

‘Thanks, Steve. Westminster, first, and the Home Secretary has defended his handling of the latest migrant crisis as eighteen people are found dead, washed up on the Kent coast...’

Had to admit, the prospect of spending a couple of hours wading through the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, looking for potential female suspects, wasn’t exactly appealing. Might be an idea to draft in a bit of help. Spread the misery.

‘...facing prosecution. Polls have now opened for the hotly contested by-election for Thanet South, but the England-First National Party candidate, Rebecca Hughes, claims the vote’s been “rigged” by “lefties and foreigners”. Miss Hughes was expelled from the Conservative Party last year following a series of controversial tweets...’

Lucy unplugged her phone from its charger and texted the Dunk:

After all, what was the point of having a minion if you didn’t get them to do the boring bits?

‘...more allegations in the Guardian claim embattled Business Secretary, Paul Rhynie, has been having an affair with a member of the Russian embassy staff for over three years...’

Anyway: time for teeth, then better get a shift on if she was going to make it into the office before rush hour kicked in.

‘...statement saying Mr Rhynie had the Prime Minister’s complete support. The search continues today for Antonia Taylor. The eighty-two-year-old was last seen in Aberdeen on Sunday—’

Lucy clicked the radio off. Did her teeth in record time. And was out the door in five minutes flat. Waterproof jacket today, boots, and a faded blue Oldcastle Warriors scarf that still carried the burnt-leather ghost of old cigars. She locked the door behind her, turned and... froze.

Stood there, on the gravel driveway, staring at her car.

‘BASTARD!’

All four tyres were flat. Not just flat, slashed. And whoever had done it, they’d drawn a smiley face in the frost covering her windscreen too.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Wait a minute... The smiley face — it hadn’t iced over yet; the lines were still shiny and dark. Dripping at the edges of its mocking mouth and wide dot eyes. It was still fresh.

She clenched her fists. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ Turning slowly. ‘COME ON, THEN! YOU WANT SOME OF THIS?’ Thumping herself in the chest, like a silverback. ‘DO YOU?’

The three cottages across the road still lay in darkness, curtains shut against the early-morning light. Auld Dawson’s Wood looming behind them in all its malevolent glory. Nothing but the sound of magpies shrieking at each other.

‘OH, YOU’RE A BIG MAN HIDING IN THE SHADOWS, AREN’T YOU?’

She stomped out onto the frost-paled tarmac, breath puffing out in angry misted lungfuls.

‘WHERE ARE you...’

A man stood in the middle of the road, about two hundred feet away, just past the last cottage. Next to a red-and-white Mini, its pale exhaust pluming out into the cold morning air.

He wasn’t doing anything. Just standing there. Arms hanging by his sides. Motionless.

It was the same supply-teacher-looking bastard she’d chased yesterday. Tall, thin, big forehead, beard, small round glasses, chinos looking crisp and freshly ironed beneath the corduroy jacket.

He raised one hand in a small wave, showing off his purple nitrile glove, then turned and squeezed himself in behind the wheel of the idling Mini.

‘COME BACK HERE!’ Lucy broke into a run, heels clacking, the drumbeat getting faster as she picked up speed.

But she got nowhere near. The Mini’s engine growled and the wee car pulled away, leaving her in a cloud of bitter grey exhaust. Couldn’t even get the number plate — he’d done something to it, making the registration unreadable. Probably smeared it with mud.

‘AAAAARGH!’ She slowed to a jog, then a walk, then stopped, right where the car had sat — twin black lines in the frost that faded away until there was no sign left he’d ever been there.

‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ Lucy hunched her shoulders as the van rattled its way across a cattle grid, setting all the dashboard trim vibrating. Engine sounding like someone had trapped half a million wasps in a washing machine on spin cycle, then chucked in a brick. ‘Took me half an hour just to get this bloody thing started.’

The Dunk’s voice was barely audible over the racket, even though her phone was turned up full pelt, wedged in between the steering wheel and the instrument panel. ‘Yeah, but your tyres? Sarge, you live in the middle of Arse-Munch Nowhere, who the hell would go all the way out there to—’

‘Just tell Tudor I’m going to be late.’

The van grumbled its way up the hill, getting slower and slower, because Dad couldn’t have bought himself a decent van, like a Ford Transit, or a Peugeot Boxer, or even a sodding Renault Kangoo, could he? No. It’s distinctive, Lucy... People smile when they see it, Lucy... There’s nothing wrong with a Bedford Rascal, Lucy. Take a wardrobe, paint it bright fuchsia, shove it over onto its side, then slap on four wheels, a windscreen, a sign saying, ‘MCVEIGH & MCVEIGH ~ ARTISANAL BUTCHERS’, add some happy, dancing, cartoon meat products, and that was her dad’s Bedford Rascal.

‘You get a good look at whoever did it?’

‘Same dick who was following me yesterday.’

‘Oooh, that’s not good. If he’s a stalker and he’s been to your house—’

‘Dunk, I can barely hear you. Tell DI Tudor I’ll be there quick as I can.’ Assuming the stupid van didn’t fall apart before then.

It was hard to tell what was more worrying: that the guy who’d slashed her tyres had been following her for most of yesterday, or that he knew where she lived. Actually, no, it was definitely the latter. And there was no way he was doing all this for wholesome reasons.

First he slashes her tyres; what came next — her throat?

Well, he was in for a bloody shock if he tried.

Lucy drove through Blackwall Hill, then along Keirbarrie Drive — following the river west as a misty drizzle speckled the windscreen. Trying not to make eye contact with other drivers or pedestrians whenever she had to stop for traffic lights, because there was only so much humiliation one person could take in a morning.

Might not be a bad idea to get an alarm system fitted. Something with motion sensors. And maybe stop past the Argos on St Jasper’s Lane and get herself a baseball bat.

She’d almost made it as far as Dundas Bridge when her phone launched into its ringtone and ‘THE DUNK’ appeared on the screen.

‘God’s sake.’ She poked the green button. ‘I’m going as fast as I can!’

He was almost shouting, the noise of a siren wailing in the background. ‘CHANGE OF PLAN, SARGE, MORNING PRAYERS IS CANCELLED. IT’S THE BLOODSMITH: THEY’VE FOUND ANOTHER BODY. WE’RE ON OUR WAY NOW.’

She sat up straight, seatbelt tight across her chest. ‘Where?’

The Bedford Rascal lurched from side to side as it crawled along, every pothole rattling the suspension so hard it felt as if the ridiculous thing was about to tip over at any second. Trees crowded in on both sides, their branches intertwining, leaves overlapping, turning the rutted track into a tunnel.

A patrol car blocked the track ahead, parked sideways to make sure no one could get past, its blue-and-whites turned soft-focus in the drizzle as they swept across the trees. On the other side of it a couple of big police vans sat empty, squeezed onto the grass verge, along with a handful of unmarked vehicles, another two patrol cars, a Range Rover, and an SOC Transit.

As Lucy pulled up, a uniform emerged from the driver’s seat of the patrol-car blockade, pulled on his peaked cap, and glowered his way over — one hand held up, palm outward to stop her.

‘HOY, YOU! OUT OF IT!’

Lucy had to manually wind down her window, like an animal. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Tim.’

He lowered his arm, and a hideous smile broke across his lopsided face; crooked nose and uneven ears going pink in the cold. ‘Morning, Sarge. What — and I mean this with the utmost respect — the living hell are you driving?’

‘Where’s DI Tudor?’

‘Only, you know, all pink and rectangular like that, it looks a bit like Frankenstein’s cock.’

‘Frankenstein made monsters, not penises.’

That horrible smile widened. ‘You’ve not read my erotic fanfic, Sarge. I’ll email you a copy.’

‘Please don’t. Now: where’s the boss?’

Tim hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Crappy wee cottage, thataway. Be warned, though, he’s got the new Procurator Fiscal with him.’

Urgh.

Lucy struggled the window back up again, then climbed out into the drizzle. Pulled her hood up. ‘Keys are in the ignition, if you need to shift it.’

‘No offence, but I wouldn’t be seen dead driving that.’

She squeezed her way past the knot of police vehicles; nodded at a pair of constables having a sly fag in the undergrowth, out of the rain; and followed the sound of voices to a forward operations centre — a boxy white caravan, sitting on its own, where a handful of uniforms were struggling their way into white SOC suits.

‘Sarge.’ PC Hill zipped himself up, then dug about at his crotch. Face still sporting a half-dozen-teenagers’ worth of yellow-headed plukes. ‘You joining the search team?’

‘Looking for DI Tudor.’

‘In there: Grandma’s Cottage,’ nodding towards a grey outline, about sixty feet away, just visible between the closely packed trees. Twin lines of ‘POLICE’ tape stretched from this side of the track towards it, marking out the common approach path. ‘Better watch, though, he’s got Spudzilla with him.’

‘Yeah, Tim said.’ Lucy helped herself to a suit from the box. Peeled it out of its plastic wrapping before performing the ungainly and undignified dance needed to pull the thing on over her boots and clothes without falling over.

The others got their masks and goggles on, then grabbed gloves and disappeared into the woods while she finished dressing. Double-gloving it, just in case. Taking a pair of blue plastic booties for later. Then followed the common approach path in beneath the canopy of pine and beech. Boots scrunching through fallen needles and decaying leaves. Kicking up that garden-centre-compost scent.

There wasn’t much left of the building: two storeys of crumbling masonry not much wider than a double garage; the roof half caved in; no glass in any of the windows, just rotting outlines where the frames used to be. Looked as if a strong sneeze would bring the whole thing down.

Wasn’t much of a clearing, either. The trees huddled close to the bulging stonework, three white-suited figures rustling about on their hands and knees as they picked through the loam.

Lucy signed into the crime scene, then leaned on the sagging wall by the door to pull on her booties. Stepped inside.

The cottage where Abby Geddes died might have been a dump, but it was the Ritz Carlton compared to this place. Most of the floor was gone, the walls hanging onto only the briefest scraps of mould-blackened plaster. Doors missing.

A little avalanche of cracked black slate spilled out from one of the downstairs rooms, and when she stuck her head in, drizzle drifted down through the gaping hole where the ceiling used to be. Leaving nothing but a two-storey void and a couple of crumbling joists between her and the ugly grey sky.

Yeah, sneezing definitely wasn’t a good idea.

The other downstairs room must’ve had a bare earth floor, because now it was a sea of rosebay willowherb — the flowers drooping and pale. Raw stone walls. At least the roof was still intact on this side. Scuffed footsteps rattled down from overhead.

That would be their crime scene, then.

A narrow set of rickety stairs led upwards, towards the noise.

‘Yeah, because that looks safe...’

Lucy picked her way up them to a small landing at the top with two doors leading off it. The one on the right was sealed off with a big X of yellow-and-black ‘CRIME SCENE’ tape, presumably to stop some idiot from walking through it and plummeting down onto the collapsed roof in the room below. The door on the other side opened with a haunted-house creak. Which was appropriate.

The unmistakeable, throat-clenching stench of rotting meat crawled out onto the landing.

‘OK...’

Inside, three people in the full SOC get-up were standing around what was left of the man on the floor. One was taking photographs with a huge digital camera, its flash bright enough to sear the room onto the back of Lucy’s skull. The other two had their heads together, the tall thin one having to bend down a fair bit to reach the short tubby one, voices little more than a murmur, as if they were worried about disturbing the dead.

And the body lying spreadeagled on the blackened floorboards was very, very dead.

Stripped naked and hollowed out. And going by what was left of his face, ears, toes, and fingers, the rats had been at him too.

Lucy huffed out a breath and turned her back on the remains.

There, on the wall beside the door she’d just come through, were the same two words they’d found with every dead body. ‘HELP ME!’ smeared in big, dark-brown, capital letters. So it was definitely their boy. The Bloodsmith. Nothing for five months, and now this.

‘Where have you been since April...?’

A sharp, posher-than-thou Morningside accent slashed through the foetid air. ‘And what, exactly, do you think you’re doing here? This is a sealed crime scene!’

11

Lucy paused for a breath, pulled on a fake smile, and turned. ‘Mrs Edwards.’ A small nod. Then did the same to the other, taller figure in the SOC suit. ‘DC Fraser said you wanted to see me, Boss?’ Not strictly true, but the new PF didn’t know that.

‘Did he?’ Tudor didn’t sound convinced by her misquoting the Dunk, but he shrugged and went with it anyway. ‘Oh. Right. Yes. I want you to put the crime-scene review on hold for now and get me everything you can on our victim.’ Pointing at the remains.

‘Yes, Boss. We got an ID?’

Mrs Edwards snorted behind her mask. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Would DI Tudor need to ask you if he already knew who the victim was?’ Frumpy, fat, stuck-up bitch. She placed a hand on Tudor’s arm. ‘Now, is there anything else you need to discuss with this person, Alasdair, or can we get back to work?’

Oh, it was ‘Alasdair’ now, was it? Add ‘randy’, ‘hormonal’, and ‘deluded’ to the list.

He visibly cringed. ‘Sorry, Mrs Edwards. I need to go over an operational point with DS McVeigh.’

‘Please, Alasdair, it’s Kim to my friends.’ Swear to God, she actually simpered a bit.

‘Of course. Yes. “Kim”.’ Even covered from head to toe in PPE, Tudor looked creeped out. ‘I’ll just be a moment.’ Then he marched from the room and out onto the tiny landing, beckoning for Lucy to follow.

She squeezed out after him and shut the door behind her.

Soon as she did, Tudor sagged against the wall, gloved hands covering his facemask and goggles, voice a low muttering growl. ‘God, that woman is... challenging.’

‘Not the word I would’ve chosen, Boss.’

‘They couldn’t have assigned us a reasonable Procurator Fiscal, could they? Course they couldn’t.’ He sagged even further. ‘The Chief Super’s barely been off the phone since we got here. Not to mention Superintendent Spence and DCI Ross crawling out of the woodwork like... rats. They couldn’t wait to wash their hands of the whole thing yesterday, but now we’ve got a new body? Oh, now it’s all “appropriate oversight”, “high-level perspectives”, and “watching briefs”. Meanwhile muggins here will be neck-deep in the septic tank if it all goes wrong again.’

‘Have we got anything for me to go on? Does our victim have any distinguishing features? Possessions?’

‘You know, I had a “motivational” speech from Spence this morning that had me seriously thinking about going up to the castle and jumping.’

‘Anything that would help at all?’

Tudor’s head fell back to thunk against the old stonework. ‘Still, look on the bright side, at least we’ve got another body. Maybe the Bloodsmith will have cocked up somewhere this time and we’ll catch him?’

‘Boss!’

‘I know, I know.’ He raised a hand, then let it flop down again. ‘Can I not just enjoy one teensy little moan before I have to go back in there?’

She folded her arms, frowning at the closed door. ‘Nothing for five months, now this. Thought the Bloodsmith was supposed to be escalating? Six months between his first two victims, five between the second and the third, then four, then three, and we’re back to five again.’ She tilted her head on one side, picturing the remains. ‘Well, five minus however long he’s been lying in there.’

‘Maybe the Bloodsmith’s been out of town?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s bright enough to know he was getting out of control and reined himself in for a while? Can serial killers do that? Maybe that’s why he’s gone back to killing them in the woods? He’s starting again.’

‘No idea. Want to take it up with our behavioural psychologist?’

The one with the long rambling sentences? No thanks.

‘Erm... I think it’ll be better coming from you, Boss — what with you being in sole charge and everything. It’ll carry more weight.’ Quick, change the subject before he tries to pass the buck back again. ‘I’ve been wondering about the fact we’ve been looking for a man this whole time. What if it’s not?’

Tudor frowned off into the distance for a while. ‘But the behavioural evidence analysis all says—’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t. It’s all “he” this and “him” that, but nowhere does it actually say that the Bloodsmith’s definitely one hundred percent male. I checked this morning.’

‘Hmmmm... Worth a punt, I suppose. I’ll get someone to look into it while you’re identifying our latest victim. And before you whinge: no one’s stealing your credit. Right now, my number-one priority is getting Procurator Fiscal Frisky off my back, ASA-frigging-P.’

Now it was Lucy’s turn to sag. ‘Yes, Boss.’

‘I’ll get Gail to send you any relevant pics, when she’s finished taking them.’ Tudor pointed down the stairs. ‘Quick as you like.’

Lucy rolled her eyes, which probably wasn’t all that effective through the safety goggles, then picked her way down the creaking wooden steps again.

Tudor’s voice boomed out behind her. ‘And see if you can chase up that bloody pathologist for me. Hairy Harry should’ve been here half an hour ago!’

She kept her reply as quiet as possible as she stomped her way out of the tumbledown house. ‘Yes, Boss. No, Boss. Anything you say, Boss.’

Tosser.

Back at the caravan, a huge man was hauling an XXXL white Tyvek suit on over jeans and a sweatshirt. He’d a bit of a tummy on him, but the rest looked completely solid, as if he’d been built out of breezeblocks. A bushy beard reached down to the middle of his chest, more salt than pepper. His hair was the same, held back in a thick grey ponytail. The kind of eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled. ‘Well, well, well.’ Those crow’s feet deepened as Lucy took off her facemask and goggles.

She smiled back. ‘Harrison.’

‘If it isn’t my favourite Detective Sergeant. How are you holding up?’

Not more bloody sympathy.

‘DI Tudor’s waiting not-so-patiently for you.’ Hooking a thumb over her shoulder. ‘And he’s got our new PF with him.’

A shudder. ‘Knew I should’ve let Teabag take this one.’ Harrison tucked his beard into his suit and zipped it up. ‘And tell me: the risible pink van thing, with “McVeigh and McVeigh” on the side. Is that...?’ Both eyebrows raised. ‘Only I could do with half a pound of mince and some pork chops, if you’re moonlighting. Mates’ rates, as we’re both in the meat trade?’ The crow’s feet were so deep now, his eyes had nearly disappeared.

Cheeky sod.

‘Bye, Harrison.’ She stomped off, drizzle misting her glasses as she made her way back to the clump of police vehicles.

The Dunk was lurking under a tree, by the side of the track, phone pressed to his ear as he puffed away on a cigarette. Who said men couldn’t multitask? He looked up and grimaced at her, held a finger up. ‘Yeah... OK... Yeah, right... Will do.’ Then hung up. ‘Sarge.’ The Dunk ducked out from under the branches and joined her. ‘Got a pair of uniforms giving your house a drive-by every couple of hours. They swept your car for fingerprints too; maybe we’ll get lucky?’

‘He was wearing gloves. I saw them.’ The joys of living through a pandemic — every bugger had leftover PPE to commit crimes with.

‘Oh.’

They scuffed their way past the roadblock patrol car.

Then the Dunk froze. Chin pulled in. Mouth pursed. A one-eyebrowed frown on his face as he blinked at her Bedford Rascal. ‘Erm... Sarge?’

‘Don’t you start.’ She unlocked it and climbed in behind the wheel. ‘We’ve got a body to identify and sod all to go on.’

‘Only, are those sausages doing what I think they’re doing?’

‘Dancing, Constable. Those sausages are dancing.’

‘Because it looks like they’re—’

‘Well, they’re not!’

He dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets, puffing away. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Do a missing-persons search: I need everyone added in the last’ — going by the state of the body, the smell, and the unseasonably cold weather — ‘month and a half? Male. Somewhere between five-nine and six-two. Thin. Brown hair, greying at the temples, side parting on the left.’

‘Not a great deal of help.’ The Dunk pulled out his notebook and scribbled that down. ‘Eye colour?’

‘Don’t know, the rats got those.’

A full-body shudder curled him up for a moment. ‘Fingerprints?’

‘They got those too. We’ll just have to do what we can, till the boss or Hairy Harry decide to tell us something useful.’ She pointed off into the rain. ‘Go. Work.’

‘Sarge.’ He tipped his leather bunnet, turned, and sauntered off into the rain.

There was nothing else she could do to ID their victim without more information, so might as well head back to DHQ and chase up a couple of things. Maybe it’d keep Tudor from sidelining her again?

Lucy parked the Bedford Rascal out of sight, on Guild Street, outside the boarded-up carpet warehouse, tucking it in between an overflowing skip and the rusting remains of a fifty-seater coach.

Bad enough she’d had to drive her dad’s pink monstrosity to the crime scene this morning, without the added indignity of leaving it in the station car park for everyone to gawp and snigger at.

She worked her way around the van, locking each door individually — because why buy something with central locking, when you could make life difficult for yourself? — then froze, keys in the passenger door.

That feeling was back again. The pins and needles between her shoulder blades, as if someone was—

Lucy spun around, fists up...

But there was no one there. Just the road, curling away to the right, the tips of Camburn Woods just visible over the rooftops, lurking beneath the thick dove-grey lid of cloud as drizzle stole the colour from everything.

Could’ve sworn there was someone.

‘Going a bit paranoid on me, are you, Lucy?’ She pulled the key out and checked the doors were secure. ‘Bad enough everyone thinking you’re off your rocker without you confirming it.’

She stuck the keys in her pocket, pulled her hood up, and marched along the street, towards St Jasper’s Lane.

‘And while we’re at it: stop talking to yourself. You sound like a crazy person.’

Yes, but it wasn’t paranoia, was it? There definitely was someone following her. He’d even vandalized her car and hung around to take the credit. That wasn’t paranoia, that was fact.

She sped up a bit, heels clacking on the concrete paving slabs.

What if he really was building up to something more serious? Starts with stalking her, moves on to slashing her tyres, and before you know it, he’s...

Lucy pivoted on one foot, swinging around fast, ready to fight.

Stood there, breathing hard.

Rain dripped off the line of parked cars, their windscreens opaque in the drizzle. A small black cat, trotting across the tarmac, tail up. The grumble of passing traffic on the main road behind her.

Come on — it was broad daylight. Well, what passed for it at half eight on a miserable Thursday morning. No way he’d be arrogant enough to attack her here. Out in the open. So close to Divisional Headquarters.

She stood for a moment, watching the gaps between the cars, waiting for movement. But there was nothing.

Yeah.

Definitely going crazy.

Lucy strode up Peel Place, making for the ugly red-brick lump of DHQ.

No sign of the media yet. That’d change when they found out about the body in the woods. Then the hordes would descend with their cameras and microphones and shouted questions about how come O Division couldn’t catch one little serial killer.

Someone had been at the war memorial opposite DHQ, and now each of the three soldiers, in their World War One kilts and bowl helmets, sported a rainbow-coloured knitted scarf around their cold bronze necks as they charged, bayonets fixed. It was weird, the things people did to—

‘YOU, BITCH!’ bellowed out from somewhere behind her.

Lucy stopped.

The sound of footsteps getting closer, faster, turning into a run.

She whirled around for the third time since locking the van, fists coming up. But not fast enough. A slab of pale flesh battered into her, hurling her off her feet and sending her booming into the side of a parked Transit. Lucy’s head bounced off the liveried bodywork and the world filled with the sound of a church organ — all the keys and pedals being hammered down at once.

Hands grabbed at her raincoat’s lapels, smashing her against the van again.

‘YOU DIRTY, LYING, MURDERING BITCH!’ It was a woman, mid-forties, greying brown hair pulled back in a vicious bun. Hard eyes, surrounded by creases, underlined with dark-purple bags. Skin pale, mottled, and lumpen — like spoiled milk. Little sharp teeth, bared in a snarl, spittle flying from wide lips. Sarah Black. ‘YOU KILLED MY NEIL!’

Lucy pulled herself back against the Transit, away from the sprayzone. ‘Get off me!’

A shout rang out from the other side of the road. ‘HOY! WHATEVER YOU’RE DOING, CUT IT OUT!’ Followed by hurrying feet.

‘YOU KILLED HIM, YOU MURDERING—’

Lucy jabbed her knee up, hard, thumping into something soft that brought a whoomping grunt with it. She stuck both hands in the air, as if surrendering, then slammed her arms in and down, across Black’s forearms. Shoving them closer to Lucy’s body, bending her knees to apply a bit more weight to it.

Sarah Black let loose a guttural howl and collapsed to her knees.

Which was when the cavalry appeared around the side of the van — a pair of uniforms in soggy high-vis jackets, the lights blinking on their Body-Worn Video units. One even had his extendable baton out and drawn back, ready to strike.

Sarah Black took one look at them and hauled in a deep breath. ‘POLICE BRUTALITY! HELP! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

‘Well, that was... unfortunate.’ Chief Inspector Gilmore handed Lucy a glass of water. ‘How’s the head?’

She just shrugged, even though it was pounding. Took a sip. Cold and bland. Like the office.

Professional Standards had taken up residence on the fourth floor — presumably so they could look down on Plainclothes and Uniform alike — their offices decorated in magnolia and beige. Like a dentist’s waiting room. Only without the sense of happy anticipation.

Gilmore settled his large backside on the edge of the desk. He was one of those officers who looked wholly out of place in a Police Scotland black T-shirt and black trousers. Both of which were stretched tight. The hair on his head hadn’t managed to conquer the top bit; instead it’d retreated to a defensive circle from about ear-height downwards, leaving the crown of his head to shine pink in the room’s single light. He pulled off his narrow glasses, huffed a breath onto the lenses, and cleaned them with a blood-red cloth. Voice soft and warm, like a concerned uncle. ‘Mrs Black has made a formal complaint, alleging you attacked her on the street.’

Great.

Lucy opened her mouth, but Gilmore held a hand up before she could say anything.

‘I know, it’s nonsense, but if there’s one thing we learned from the Fatal Accident Inquiry, it’s that the Black family’s version of reality is somewhat... unique?’

‘Let me guess: there’s nothing on the station CCTV?’

‘Sadly, not. There would’ve been, if someone hadn’t parked a dirty big Transit van in the way. Well, I say someone.’ He popped his glasses back on, then peered over the top of them at his notebook. ‘“Daren Black, Building and Landscaping Contractors”. So I think we can be fairly sure the blind spot wasn’t accidental.’

‘I didn’t touch her.’

‘Yes. Well. As I said...’ He picked an oversized iPhone off the desk next to his big fat backside, fiddled with the screen, then held it out. ‘Unfortunate.’

It was a video, probably on YouTube, going by the controls along the bottom. The footage started just after Sarah Black battered Lucy off the van’s side for the second time. That bounce making it look as if Lucy was lunging for her. Slamming her arms down across Black’s and forcing the woman to her knees.

A cry of pain, then, ‘POLICE BRUTALITY! HELP! POLICE BRUTALITY!’ as the two uniformed officers hurried into shot, one with his baton back, ready to attack the old bag. ‘POLICE BRUTALITY!’

Another scream as Lucy put her in an armlock.

‘YOU’RE HURTING ME! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!’

The pair of cops shuffled about, as if they had no idea how all this police stuff was supposed to work.

On-screen Lucy glowered up at them. ‘Don’t just stand there, you gormless pillocks, arrest her!’

‘POLICE BRUTALITY! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

Finally, Gormless Pillock Number One produced his cuffs and snapped them on Sarah Black’s wrists. His mate launched into the official spiel as the pair of them dragged her to her feet. ‘I am arresting you under section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 for...?’ Pulling a face at Lucy. ‘What am I arresting her for?’

‘GET OFF ME! I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING!’

‘Assault.’

‘Okeydokey. I am arresting you under section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 for assault.’ The pair of them frogmarched her towards Divisional Headquarters, with whoever was filming it puffing to keep up — the sound going all shonky as the footage wobbled about.

‘YOU’RE BREAKING MY ARM!’

‘The reason for your arrest is that I suspect that you have committed an offence and I believe that keeping you in custody—’

‘HELP! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

‘—is necessary and proportionate for the purposes of bringing you before a court—’

‘I’LL SUE! I’LL SUE YOU FOR EVERY PENNY YOU’VE GOT!’

‘—or otherwise dealing with you in accordance with the law. Do you understand?’

‘HELP ME!’

Then the filmer’s voice: a hard Kingsmeath accent, with flat vowels in all the wrong places. ‘You bastards better get a good lawyer, cos you’re going down!’

At that, one of the officers let go of Sarah Black and turned, holding a hand out, blocking the man’s way. ‘All right, sir, that’s far enough. I need you to step back.’

‘CALL THE PAPERS, DAREN! TELL THEM HOW THIS BITCH ATTACKED ME!’

A bit more camera wobble as Daren tried to get past the officer, and then the footage came to an end. A little grid of images suggesting what to watch next appeared, all of which seemed to be cookery shows.

‘Sorry.’ Chief Inspector Gilmore shut the app and put his phone back on the desk.

Lucy stared at the blank screen. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘Posted by one Daren Black, along with a GoFundMe link to raise money so they can sue you, O Division, and Police Scotland.’

She covered her face with both hands and folded forwards, till her chest pressed against her knees. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want him to die, but I didn’t have any choice!’

Gilmore’s hand was warm against her shoulder. ‘I know.’ And the hand was withdrawn. ‘We can charge her for assaulting you — and we will if that’s what you want — but it might just add fuel to the fire.’

‘That whole family is insane.’

‘She’s claiming you attacked her, for no reason, as she was walking past the station. Her son, Daren, is telling the same story. The attending officers backed up your statement, till it was pointed out that because they were on the other side of the van, there’s no way they could’ve actually seen what happened. At which point they realized fibbing to Professional Standards probably wasn’t the wisest move.’ Gilmore huffed out a breath. ‘But we’ve got no doubts that Sarah Black is lying. As such, I’m not going to recommend you be suspended pending investigations.’

That was something at least.

‘Thank you.’

‘I imagine we’ll be putting out a statement about the incident, and the Black family will scream “cover-up” and “conspiracy” and “crisis actors” and “false flag” and “corruption”, like they always do; then people will get bored and it’ll all fade away till next time. So, maybe, given everything else that’s going on, it might be better if you made yourself scarce for a while. Before the media descend on us like a rain of frogs?’

Lucy sat back in her chair. Stared up at the ceiling tiles. ‘Urgh...’

‘I know it’s not your fault, Lucy, but it’s for the best.’

‘Fine.’ Lurching to her feet. There were a couple of things she’d been meaning to chase up anyway. One of which was nowhere near DHQ, the media, or Sarah Bloody Black.

She stood, back straight, and marched out of the office. Closed the door behind her. Slouched against it, eyes closed, head doing a decent rendition of the finale to Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’.

Sarah Sodding Black.

The whole family needed locking up. Or shot. Either was good.

Lucy fumbled a crumpled packet of paracetamol from her pocket — only two tablets left. She popped both out of their blisters, swished a bit of saliva around her mouth, then swallowed them dry. Shuddering as they tried to stick halfway.

A man’s voice: ‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh?’

Great.

She forced the pills down, then turned.

He was youngish — maybe mid-twenties? — with short dirty-blond hair that was a bit too spiky on top, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and a square jaw. Dark-grey suit, crisp shirt, neat tie, manila folder under one arm. Brown eyes narrowed in concern.

She waved him away. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last couple of days. I left messages?’

‘Good for you.’ She marched towards the stairs.

He strode along beside her, not a hair out of place. ‘Professional Standards aren’t your enemy, DS McVeigh. We’re not the scary Rubber Heelers of myth and legend, we’re here to support and guide officers through—’

‘Twenty seconds ago, your boss’s “guidance” was to make myself scarce, so that’s what I’m doing.’ Barging through the stairwell doors. ‘Bye.’

‘DS McVeigh, maybe we could stop and have a chat about Neil Black’s family and some management strategies to avoid further—’

‘I’ve just been assaulted and I’m busy with actual policework, so I’m going to say no.’ Lucy’s bootheels clattered back from the echoing walls.

He didn’t follow her this time.

When she took the turn at the landing he was still standing there, staring down at her, folder under his arm, the concerned expression swapped for one of disappointment. ‘I can make an appointment?’

Good luck with that.

12

PC Manson peered at Lucy over the top of his big square spectacles. ‘The rest of it?’ His skin had an unhealthy spoiled-milk tint, and the whites of his eyes were more of a yellowy-pink. Everything else was pinched and angular. As if he’d been supplied flat-packed and not assembled properly.

‘The file, Constable. Where’s the rest of it?’

Manson’s lair, AKA: the Records-and-Productions Stores, was a gloomy warehouse with narrow frosted windows up at roof height, letting in a thin whispering light that only seemed to make everything look darker. Everything clarted in dust and misery.

The racks and racks of storage space were divided into two — one laden with boxes full of files, the other groaning under the weight of physical evidence. A special cage sat at the far end for contraband items like seized drugs, and weapons, and counterfeit cash, segregated from the rest of the warehouse by twelve-foot-high barriers of chain link, topped with dusty razor wire. Another chain-link barrier sat between her and PC Manson. Two small desks, one on either side of the wire, formed an almost-shared surface between their worlds, with a little hatch marking the boundary. Lit by a single harsh white spotlight.

Manson puffed out his narrow cheeks, opened the hatch and reached for the faded orange folder with ‘BENEDICT STRACHAN’ written in wobbly biro letters on the flap. ‘He was the kid killer, right? Well, the kid who killed someone, not someone who killed kids. What’s wrong with the file?’ Opening it up to peer inside.

‘Most of it’s missing. Where’s the interview transcripts, the door-to-doors, the actions, his sodding confession?’

‘They’re not here.’ Whoever it was that assembled PC Manson, they seemed to have left him a few Allen keys short of a bedside cabinet.

Lucy made a big show of examining the chain-link barricade. ‘Is this here to stop people hitting you?’

‘Let me check.’ He turned on his heel and stalked away into the gloom. Footsteps echoing on the concrete floor, fading into the distance... Then silence.

And more silence.

And a bit more, after that.

Should’ve got the Dunk to do this. Maybe he could’ve bored PC Manson into submission with a monologue on structural capitalism, political corruption, and the class system.

Speaking of which.

She pulled out her mobile, but before she’d got as far as scrolling through her contacts the phone whirrrr-binged in her hand.

Email.

And for once it wasn’t spam, or some idiot memo from the top brass, it was a web link from one Gail McCarthy, with no message — just the subject line ‘DI TUDOR SAID YOU NEEDED TO SEE THESE’.

That would be the crime-scene photos, then.

Lucy followed the link through to a secure server, where a single folder was waiting. ‘FOR DS MCVEIGH’.

Deep breath.

Somehow, the pictures were worse than the real thing. All in blistering full colour, pin-sharp, and, to be honest, a bit too arty for what they were meant to be.

Gail had found a scar on their victim’s right hip. Another line of scar tissue reaching almost the whole length of the left shin. But the kicker was a shot of his back.

Hairy Harry, AKA: Dr Harrison Jenkins, must’ve asked for the body to be rolled over before they bagged and tagged it, exposing a ragged hole in the grey-green skin. Something black and sticky clearly visible inside. The gash was nearly five centimetres wide by seven tall, according to the black-and-white scale held alongside it for comparison. Looked as if something had been driven in through his stomach and out through... well, the back.

But the interesting thing was what surrounded it.

Little twisted scraps of skin ran around the edge of the hole — an old tattoo, its colours faded to blues and oranges. Whatever the Bloodsmith had impaled his victim with, it had torn through the tattoo on the way out, fragmenting it.

Wonder if that was fixable...?

Lucy parked her bum on the small desk and called up an image-editing app. Nothing as swish as Photoshop, but it would do. Hopefully. She loaded the last photo, zoomed in, and snipped out every bit of the tattoo that was still visible. Saved it to a new layer. Then played with the distorting tools — stretching and twisting the scraps until they were more or less back where they should’ve been.

There was a chunk missing from the centre of the image, where the skin was too fragmented to stitch together, but what she’d rescued was distinctive enough: a phoenix rising from the battlements of a burning castle, with a severed boar’s head underneath. The shield had two bears as supporters and was topped by a knight’s helmet with stag horns on it. ‘SEMPER VIGILO’ on a scroll across the bottom.

Sod.

She found ‘DI TUDOR’ in her contacts and hit the button.

It rang and rang and rang and—

‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Detective Inspector Alasdair Tudor. I’m currently unavailable, but you can leave a message after the beep.’

Ah, of course — he was at the post-mortem, and the new Procurator Fiscal was maniacal about people switching off their phones.

Bleeeeeeeep.

‘It’s Lucy. Call me when you get this.’ Then she hung up.

Had to tell somebody, though. Couldn’t just sit on something like this. Not without ending up in a whole shedload of trouble. And Professional Standards were looming over her already, so there was no point giving their new boy any more ammunition. Which left only one option: follow the chain of command upwards.

He picked up on the sixth ring. ‘DCI Ross.’

‘Boss? I think our victim’s a police officer.’

Detective Chief Inspector Ross’s mouth stretched outwards, lips thinning and turning down at the edges as he stared at the reconstructed image, Lucy’s phone looking tiny in his ham-hock hands. ‘Sodding hell.’ He stood, slightly stooped, in front of the small desk — dwarfing both it and her, bald head gleaming in the harsh glow of that single spotlight.

Any normal senior officer would’ve summoned her to their office so she could show them what she’d found, but DCI Ross had come to her, instead. Insisted on it. And unlike a lot of the other bosses, he wasn’t done up in some fancy, expensive, never-going-out Armani number. He was wearing a fairly cheap-looking grey suit that probably came from Asda. The kind of suit you could chuck in the washing machine if a member of the public was sick on it at chucking out/up time. The kind of suit you could wrestle a coked-up druggie to the ground in. The kind of suit real plainclothes officers wore. A fighting suit.

‘Well, that nails it, then.’ Ross handed her phone back and frowned off into the gloomy depths of the Records-and-Productions Store. ‘The victim’s one of ours.’

Because, let’s face it, not many civilians got the Oldcastle Police crest tattooed on their backs.

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘And it’s the old crest, from before they made us all rebrand as Police Scotland with that stupid little logo, so we can eliminate anyone who joined after April 2013.’ The creases on his forehead multiplied, then he pulled out his own phone and called someone. ‘Bob? It’s Andy. I need you to dig out the duty roster. Anyone gone AWOL in the last...?’ Raising his eyebrows at Lucy.

‘Month, month and a half? Won’t know for sure till they do the post-mortem.’

Back to the phone. ‘Call it eight weeks, Bob, just to be safe... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... OK, let me know if you find anything.’ DCI Ross hung up. Tapped the phone against his top lip as he embarked on another bout of frowning. ‘We should check missing persons, too. Our boy might be retired, or off on the sick.’

She nodded. ‘Got DC Fraser on it now, Boss.’

He stood there in silence for a couple of breaths. Then, ‘I hear you had a run-in with Neil Black’s mother this morning.’

Great. The O Division gossip tree had been at it again. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘I’m sure you can.’ Leaning back against the chain link, arms folded. ‘It’s not easy taking a man’s life.’ Looking away into the gloom. ‘Willy Thomson had a thing for knocking over Post Offices. He’d barge in there with his sawn-off and put a round in the ceiling, order everyone on the floor, then get the old woman behind the counter to fill a rucksack with all the cash, postal orders, and stamps in the place.’

Lucy raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Stamps?’

‘Do you have any idea how much a book of twelve first-class stamps costs? Anyway, I was a PC on the Firearms Response Team when the call came in that Willy had put a round in a punter as well. Some have-a-go hero in his seventies, ex-traffic warden — blew his chest wide open. Then Willy panics and now he’s got eight terrified hostages. I was given the green light and took the shot.’ His voice softened. ‘So I know what it’s like.’

‘Boss.’ Heat flushed through her cheeks and ears.

‘I understand they’ve lumbered you with an official therapist. Regular visits? Updates on your progress to the powers that be? “Tell me about your feelings”?’

A nod.

‘I was the same. I know it seems like a load of rancid New Age hippy bullshit, Lucy, but do yourself a favour and play along. You might be surprised how much it could help. And at the very least it gets them off your back.’ Then one of those massive hands thumped down on her shoulder and squeezed. ‘You did good, today: with the tattoo. Now go find out who our victim was.’

The Dunk was perched on the edge of an office chair, pen sticking out the corner of his mouth, poking away at a creaky old Police-Scotland-issue laptop. He glanced up as Lucy placed a mug of coffee on the desk in front of him. ‘Ooh, ta.’

The Operation Maypole office was empty except for the pair of them. Grey and lifeless, just the hummm of the fridge and the central heating’s ping-gurgle to accompany the Dunk’s two index fingers clicking away on the keyboard. That and the unwashed-feet smell of stale biscuits that seemed to ooze out of the carpet tiles.

‘Any luck?’

He took the pen out of his mouth. ‘Trouble with Oldcastle is loads of people go missing all the time. Do you want to know how many male—’

‘Yes, Dunk, I’d love a wee lecture on missing-person statistics for O Division. That would certainly be a lot more helpful than actually identifying our victim. Let me pull up a chair; I’m all ears.’

‘I see.’ He sniffed, then helped himself to a sip of coffee. ‘I had about two dozen possible IDs, then you said they’d be ex-Job, which brings us down to three.’ The Dunk poked one last key and the big printer in the corner whurrrrred into life. Chlack-whurr-chlack-whurr-chlack-whurr. He wandered over there, returning with three sheets of A4. Handed them over.

They were still warm.

A trio of missing-person files, complete with full-colour photographs. All men. Two looked youngish, the third was maybe DI Tudor’s age — complete with grey-flecked beard and silvered temples. Which ticked at least one box.

The Dunk settled on the edge of the desk. ‘PC Peter Barland, DI Christopher Gourley, and DC Malcolm Louden. Barland got signed off on the sick, four years ago. Gourley took early retirement, after an unfortunate incident involving a dawn raid, a Kingsmeath brothel, an Alsatian, and a prozzie with a paring knife. And they fired Louden for helping himself to little trinkets when he searched folks’ houses. Drugs and cash mostly, but the occasional bit of jewellery or electronics was fair game too.’

‘What about distinguishing features — any tattoos?’

‘Nothing on file, but let’s see what Mr Facebook has to say.’ He scooted back into his office chair, those two fingers pecking at the laptop’s keyboard again. ‘Barland, Barland, Barland... Here we go. Things got a lot easier when people started posting holiday pics on the internet.’

A photo stream filled the screen, featuring a thin man with a slight paunch and receding hair. He was on a beach somewhere sunny, dressed in nothing but orange Speedos, posing with a round freckly girl in a sarong. Big smiles for the camera, holding hands, and toasting Lucy and the Dunk with multicoloured cocktails. Barland had a big koi carp tattoo covering most of his left thigh. Which wasn’t in any of the crime-scene photographs.

‘Not our boy.’

‘OK, next up...’ The Dunk’s fingers went to work again.

The older man appeared on screen, in a back garden somewhere, kneeling behind an array of leeks. Grinning like a loon. Only he was fully clothed — polo shirt, chinos, sandals.

‘Hold on, here’s some marked “Malaga”...’

He was fully clothed in those, too.

‘Lossiemouth? Surely, you go there, you go for a swim, right?’

But when the Dunk brought the photos up, ex-DI Gourley was all wrapped up in a jacket, scarf, and welly boots.

‘Kind of get the feeling he’s not a “tattoo” kind of person. But we’ll keep him as a maybe.’ Lucy poked the last printout. ‘Try Louden.’

‘Ex-DC Louden, let’s be ’avin’ you...’ Clickity, click, click, click. ‘Not on Facebook. Weird. Thought it was, like, compulsory these days. Let’s see if he’s oot and aboot on Twitter...’ The Dunk sat back in his chair. ‘Half a dozen Malcolm Loudens. Or is it Malcolms Louden? Either way, none of them look anything like the pic we’ve got on file, and two of them are American.’

‘So, it could be him or Gourley.’ Assuming it wasn’t someone else entirely, of course.

‘Sorry, Sarge.’ A shrug. ‘On the plus side, as our victim was a cop, his DNA’s going to be on file. Soon as they run it, we’ll know.’

Lucy pulled in her chin and hissed a breath out through her nose.

It’d be nice to get back to DCI Ross with a result, instead of a maybe-maybe-not.

‘Try a PNC search.’

The Dunk hunched over his laptop and did as he was told. ‘OK. What’s Mr Louden been up to?’ Scrolling through a surprisingly long list of search results. ‘Well, he did three years in Glenochil for that “thieving things while being a copper” malarkey, and I’ve got recent arrests for shoplifting, starting a fight in St Jasper’s Cathedral, a fair few drunk and disorderlies, half a dozen urinating in publics... And a whole bunch of complaints from shop owners about him sleeping rough in the city centre.’

She checked her watch: twenty to ten. The post-mortem wouldn’t be over before two, maybe three if Hairy Harry was feeling extra thorough, so if she was going to save the day, now was the time to do it. ‘Get a car. We’re going out.’

13

It was all really rather... quaint. A small village on Kings River, about five minutes outside Oldcastle. Corracholm had been a proper fishing port once, but the industry had picked up its nets and lobster creels long ago, leaving the small stone harbour to the guest houses, antique shops, artisanal cafés, and tourist four-by-fours. But before the fishermen went, they seemed to have painted every narrow house on the waterfront terrace a different shade of the rainbow. It looked unpleasantly cheery, even in the drizzle.

The Dunk parked in front of a bright-pink three-storey affair, between a baker’s and a place advertising ‘LOCALLY PRODUCED AND FAIR-TRADE OBJETS D’ART’. Pulled on his leather bunnet. ‘Bet the houses here cost a fortune.’

Lucy climbed out into the rain. ‘We’re on the clock: in, establish the facts, and out, understand? Quick as we can.’

The Dunk followed her over to the house’s front door — painted gloss black, giving the place a slightly liquorice-allsort vibe. ‘THE PERCHES’ was engraved into a wooden sign, mounted to the wall. ‘Unless ex-DI Gourley is our victim, of course.’

‘True.’ She leaned on the bell. Then huddled into the doorway in an attempt to stay dry. Didn’t work, though.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk pulled his shoulders up, polo neck disappearing into the collar of his leather jacket like a beatnik turtle. ‘Can you smell something fishy?’

‘And try not to be too weird when we’re in there, OK? No big anti-establishment rants.’

‘It’s like...’ curling his top lip and sniffing, ‘you know when fish fingers go all fusty?’ He turned on the spot, nostrils flaring. ‘Think it’s seaweed? Or has a seagull been sick somewhere?’

‘Dunk, I swear to God, your bunnet’s on too tight and it’s strangling your brain.’

‘Bit harsh.’

Lucy was about to explain why it really wasn’t, when the door opened and a small woman in leggings, trainers, and a ‘FEEL THE BURN, BITCHES!’ T-shirt peered out at them.

Her face was a shiny shade of pink, just a little too purple not to clash with her house. A bit on the chunky side. Grecian curls of grey hair sticking to her damp forehead. ‘Can I help you? Only I’m doing an online aerobics class and—’

‘Mrs Gourley?’ Lucy flashed her warrant card. ‘Can we come in, please? We need to ask a couple of questions about your husband.’

Her shoulders rounded, eyes rolling as both arms dangled at her sides like damp spaghetti. ‘I suppose so. But make it quick — we’re working on our glutes today and I need a nice arse for our Marion’s wedding.’

‘Sorry’ — Mrs Gourley ushered them into a tiny family room at the back of the house — ‘I’d put you in the lounge, but we’ve got Americans staying for a week, and you know what they’re like.’ She waved Lucy and the Dunk towards an overstuffed sofa, inflicted with animal-print scatter cushions.

‘This is fine, thanks.’ The Dunk parked his bum. ‘Very cosy.’

‘Mrs Gourley, we need to talk to you about—’

‘Please, call me Daphne. Would you like some tea? It’s no trouble, really.’

Lucy tried again. ‘Daphne, we need to ask a few questions about your husband. Does he have any tattoos?’ Taking care to stick to the present tense, there. ‘Any distinguishing marks you could tell us about?’

‘Ah...’ Mrs Gourley wriggled back until the armchair enveloped her. The smile faded from her face. ‘I never really believed it’d happen, you know. Always thought he’d stumble in through that door someday, reeking of booze, and I’d have to give everything up again.’ She picked at the corner of a leopard-print cushion. ‘Have you ever tried living with someone who’s got proper depression? It’s so wearing. The slightest thing sets him off and he’ll be curled up in a darkened room, or screaming foul language, or storming around the house like an elephant with a hangover.’ Deep breath. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Christopher’s the man you found in the woods this morning.’

‘In the...?’ Lucy sat up straighter. ‘How did you—’

‘It was on the news when I was doing the washing up.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Christopher’s dead.’

O Division strikes again. A string vest would leak less than Oldcastle’s finest.

The Dunk elbowed Lucy in the ribs, jerking his head towards Mrs Gourley.

Yeah, he was probably right. Making comforting noises for the family was what you did when you were the senior officer.

‘Mrs... Daphne. Constable Fraser and I are just checking up on a couple of missing persons. It isn’t—’

‘They said it was that Bloodsmith person.’ Her head drooped, voice getting smaller. ‘I read the papers. I know what that means. He cut out my Christopher’s heart, didn’t he?’

The only sound was a grey-muzzled Labrador, snoring gently in a bed by the radiator.

Lucy cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry. I know this must be horribly upsetting, but there’s nothing to say the man we found this morning is your husband.’

Not yet, anyway. Not until you answer the damn question.

‘He was never the same after he left the police. Strange, isn’t it? He complained about the job the whole time, but after he stopped, he missed it like you’d miss an ear. I thought Christopher getting stabbed would be a good thing for us. Let us spend some proper time together. Go travelling.’ A small, sad smile; then her eyes glistened as the tears welled up. ‘I always wanted to do a cruise on the Nile, or all round the Caribbean. Hell, even the Isle of Wight ferry would’ve done at a push. Instead, I got to spend the last six years watching my Christopher die inside. Internal organs preserved in Tennent’s Export and Bell’s Whisky, like it was his own private formaldehyde.’

‘Daphne, did Christopher have any tattoos?’

Mrs Gourley nodded.

Gotcha.

‘His team broke up a people-smuggling ring — prostitution, drugs, modern slavery, very nasty — so they went out to celebrate. And when he sobered up, about two days later, there it was.’ She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her T-shirt, voice going tight and strangled. ‘He moaned about the bloody job so much, then the silly sod goes and gets that stupid police logo thing permanently inked into his body?’

They had an ID.

Time to let her know the truth, then.

‘Daphne, I’m sorry, but—’

‘They’d all done it, of course. The whole team. Even the new boys. “Semper Vigilo”.’ A big soggy-nosed sniff. ‘Must be Latin for “Easily Led”.’

‘Perhaps Constable Fraser could make you a nice cup of tea, and we can—’

‘At least he didn’t get it anywhere embarrassing.’ Mrs Gourley tapped herself on the shoulder. ‘Christopher’s detective sergeant got it tattooed right on her bum!’

Sod. If it was on his shoulder, goodbye ID.

‘She used to flash it at people when she was drunk. Anyone had a leaving do, or a birthday, or a funeral, and out would come DS Massie’s tattoo for all the world to see.’

Lucy stood. ‘I’ve got some good news for you, Daphne, the man in the woods definitely isn’t your husband.’

‘Oh...’ It was as if someone had pulled the bung from an inflatable mattress, letting all the air hiss out of her. ‘I see.’ Sounding a little bit disappointed.

‘Before we go, though: don’t suppose you’ve got a photo of Christopher’s old team knocking about?’

‘Sure as I can be, Boss.’ Lucy held the photograph up again, blocking her view through the windscreen as the Dunk took them left at the roundabout and onto Calderwell Bridge, making for the centre of town. In the photo, DI Gourley looked vaguely embarrassed as he stood in the midst of a team of twenty officers, all in plainclothes and all posing as if they were something off the television.

Some were pointing mimed guns, one doing that Bruce Forsyth thing, two blokes pretending to kiss, one woman showing off her muscles, another guy with his shirt unbuttoned, proudly displaying the Oldcastle Police crest tattooed on his chest...

And right at the back, doing his best tosser-from-the-Bullingdon-Club, DC Malcolm Louden. He wasn’t as junkie-thin as the corpse, spreadeagled on the bloodstained floorboards — and his hair was a sort of bouffant Hugh Grant tribute act, without a hint of grey — but it was definitely him.

Or at least ninety-five percent definitely him.

Maybe eighty-five at a push.

DCI Ross gave a little grunt. ‘I see. Hang on a minute...’ Then came the sound of some poor keyboard getting a spanking from those huge fingers. Then some muttering. Then silence.

The drizzle worked itself into a spitting rain, then something a lot heavier, as the bridge’s lights flickered on in a miserable wave ahead of the pool car — their photoelectric sensors triggered by the growing gloom.

Half ten in the morning, on a wet September Thursday, and it was already dark enough to need artificial illumination. Welcome to sodding Oldcastle.

Yet more silence.

Maybe DI Ross had forgotten about her? Maybe he was—

‘Lucy?’

‘Still here, Boss.’

‘Have you told Tudor yet?’

‘He’s attending the PM with that new Procurator Fiscal. Got his phone turned off.’

‘Fair enough.’ Another grunt. ‘I see our ex-DC Louden has a somewhat... chequered past. The press will make a three-course meal out of that, which isn’t going to help us any. Have you notified next of kin?’

Did Malcolm Louden even have next of kin?

She looked at the Dunk. He just shrugged back at her.

‘Actually, Boss, I wouldn’t want to do that till we’ve got hundred-percent confirmation. Louden’s DNA will still be on file, so once the PM’s over we should know for certain. If someone leans on the labs, anyway.’ Hint, hint.

‘I’ll get the Media Department working on a statement. Meantime, the only people who know are you, me, DC Fraser, and the Bloodsmith. Let’s keep it that way. And I need you to put together his final movements. Last known associates: who did he speak to, did they see anything? You know the drill.’

‘On our way now, Boss.’ Because it never hurt to look efficient in front of the senior brass.

Another silence.

The Dunk sailed straight through the junction with Nelson Street — which would’ve been a much faster way back to the station, but then he’d have to cross the dual carriageway and they all knew what a wimp he was about that.

‘Lucy, Malcolm Louden was a dirty cop, and no one hates a dirty cop more than me, but that doesn’t mean we’re not going to do everything we can to catch the bastard who killed him. Understand?’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Good work.’ And that was it — this time the silence was final. DCI Ross had hung up.

She slipped her phone back in her pocket. ‘Is it just me, or is Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Ross not a Teflon-shouldered, power-crazed, condescending, massive pain in the backside?’

A low whistle emanated from the driver’s side. ‘You’ve not got the hotties for him, have you, Sarge? Only he’s old enough to be your...’ The Dunk cleared his throat. ‘He’s far too old for you. And he’s married.’

‘Don’t be a dick, Dunk.’

‘No, Sarge. Sorry, Sarge.’ Sideways glance. ‘You know, we’ve been out and about for nearly an hour and you’ve still not said a word about what happened with Sarah Black this morning.’

‘Is that right.’ The gossip tree strikes again.

‘She’s a vindictive, scabby, fusty old shitebag, and you shouldn’t be expected to—’

‘Take the hint, Dunk, and drop it.’

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, lips pursed as if she’d just slapped him. But at least he kept his gob shut.

Good.

She pointed through the windscreen in the vague direction of Divisional Headquarters. ‘We’ll dump the car back at the shop, then hit the streets. See if we can find whoever reported Louden missing. Maybe they saw something and want to help?’

After all, there was always a first time.

‘It’s OK, take your time.’ Lucy held up the photo they’d cranked out on the office printer: DC Malcolm Louden’s last mugshot, taken after he’d been arrested for urinating in the doorway of CopyKwiK on Cupar Road. The Bullingdon bravado had long since disappeared, leaving behind someone who needed a shave, a bath, and a damn good going over with a hairbrush. One side of his face was swollen and red, from where the arresting officer had to wrestle him to the ground. ‘He used to hang around the city centre, if that helps?’

Rain bounced off the dirty-grey pavement, gurgling in the downpipes, as the three of them huddled beneath the stripy awning outside Kelly’s the Baker, wreathed in the crisp golden scent of fresh bread and pastry.

‘Dunno.’ The man in the tatty overcoat sniffed, then wiped his drippy nose on his sleeve. ‘But I could probably, you know, think better if, you know, I had, like, maybe some cash in my hand?’

The Dunk shook his head. ‘We’re not giving out cash prizes the day, Bingo. It’s soup and a sarnie from Lunchity Munchity, or nothing.’ Holding up a voucher. ‘Now, do you know the man in the photo?’

‘Maybe.’ Bingo had another sniff. ‘Depends what he done, don’t it?’

‘You can’t get him into any trouble.’ Lucy put on her concerned face. ‘No one can. Not any more.’

‘Oh. Yeah, yeah, I get you. He’s, like, you know, dead, isn’t he? Right.’ Then Bingo puffed out his cheeks. ‘So it’s a “definitely no” on the cash, yeah?’

A nod from the Dunk. ‘Lunchity Munchity do a really nice cream of mushroom, if that helps?’

‘Maybe he looks a bit like Malky. Used to hang about outside the King James, you know?’ Stubby fingers reaching for the voucher.

‘Thanks, Bingo.’

‘Nah, never seen him.’ Suspicious eyes squinted out from beneath the woman’s ragged fringe. ‘Why you got to keep hassling me?’ Shoulders forward, hands rammed deep into her pockets. Dark-blonde curls escaping from underneath a mud-brown woolly hat. A toast-rack-thin greyhound shivering next to her on a tartan blanket as the rain thumped down. ‘Haven’t done nothing.’

There was a man outside the King James Theatre, whistling a jaunty freestyle-jazz version of ‘God Save The Queen’ as he pasted up an ‘EXTRA DATES ADDED!!!’ banner on the poster for this year’s panto. Completely ignoring the handful of people gathered in the alley, either side of the stage entrance, where a portico kept the worst of the rain off. A mini cardboard-and-bin-bag shanty town, sheltering against the theatre wall.

Lucy shrugged. ‘It’s OK if you don’t know.’

The Dunk held out his voucher again. ‘Soup and a sandwich, Mags.’

Mags cricked her neck from side to side. Then snatched it out of his hand. ‘Don’t know. Sod off. Or I’ll set Ripper on you!’ The greyhound whimpered.

He dipped into his pocket and came out with another couple of vouchers. ‘Anyone else? Anyone seen this guy?’

Lucy showed them all the photo. ‘We’re not trying to get you into trouble. We’re just trying to find out who killed him.’

Four pairs of eyes scowled back at her.

Rain hissed against the buildings.

The man kept whistling.

‘Come on, don’t you want us to catch whoever it was?’ Jabbing DC Louden’s picture at them. ‘What if they come back for you? Or your friends? That what you want?’

A deep grunt rumbled out of a small man in an ancient parka jacket, then a groan as he levered himself to his feet. His thick beard stuck out in all directions, sprinkled with flecks of ash, the moustache stained yellow — a smouldering roll-up poking out between his teeth. Long grey-brown hair. A nose that had been broken at least two or three times. Broad Aberdonian accent. ‘Aye, I kent him weil enough.’

About sodding time.

14

If it wasn’t for Lucy, the Dunk, and their new friend, Dr Vincent Maurice Rayner — all squeezed around a table in the corner, furthest from the door — Lunchity Munchity would’ve been completely empty. It was one of those tiled-floor-and-pine-wainscotting places, the bright-white walls festooned with framed paintings from the local art college.

Dr Rayner slurped at his extra-large mug of milky builder’s, leaving little beige droplets clinging to his stained moustache. ‘Ah... Lovely.’

The Dunk had an espresso, with a glass of water on the side, as if this was some swanky trattoria in Bologna or Rome, rather than a greasy spoon with pretensions of grandeur in a slightly rundown bit of Castle Hill. Damp leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. ‘Come on then, Doc, dish the dirt.’

Another slurp.

Lucy checked her watch. Nearly noon. Still got two, maybe three hours to make some sodding progress. ‘No dirt, no soup, no sandwich.’

A sigh. Then Dr Rayner put his mug on the table, turning it until the handle was perfectly lined up with the rectangular metal cage of condiments. ‘Yer mannie’s cried Malky Louden, he wis a boabby afore he wis oan the streets, ken?’

‘What?’ The Dunk blinked across the table at her. ‘Did you understand any of that?’

That got him a wrinkled scowl as Dr Rayner poked the table with a tar-yellowed finger, beard jutting. ‘Are you mackin’ fun o’ the wie ah spik?’

She let some ice drip from her voice: ‘You’ve got a doctorate in comparative literature, Vincent. You used to lecture at the university. So drop the hillbilly-teuchter act.’

There was a lopsided shrug, then Dr Rayner went back to his tea again. ‘Can’t blame a man for injecting a bit of fun into the daily grind, can you? Brightening up all our days?’ Then he turned to the Dunk, placing a grubby hand on the sleeve of that perfect-black polo neck. ‘I said, “The gentleman you are enquiring about is called Malcolm Louden, and he was a police officer before he became homeless.”’

‘Right.’ The Dunk extracted his arm, lip curled as he examined it for smudges and dirt.

Wimp.

Lucy pointed across the table. ‘And you’re the one who reported Malcolm Louden missing?’

‘Society seldom notices when people like us disappear, Detective Sergeant — if we don’t watch out for each other, who will?’ A sigh. ‘It didn’t help Malcolm any, though, did it?’ Rayner picked a handful of sugar sachets from the bowl on the table and lined them up in a perfect grid. ‘He liked to keep himself to himself. I think it was the ex-copper thing: sometimes people reacted badly when they found out he was once on the jackbooted side of the social divide.’ He gave them a shrug and a hairy smile. ‘No offence.’

A tall thin woman in a chequered pinny appeared with a bowl and a plate. ‘Who’s the soup?’

‘That would be me. Thank you kindly...’ peering at her nametag, ‘Elizabeth, my darling. And I believe it comes with a freshly baked bread roll?’

She thunked the bowl and the plate down in front of him. ‘I’ll get your sandwich.’ Then stomped off with all the grace of a tumble drier.

‘Of course, we’d meet up from time to time, to pool our resources and expertise.’ Dr Rayner tore off a chunk of bread, slathered it with a pat of butter, then dipped it in his sweetcorn-and-smoked-haddock chowder. ‘Being ex-police, Malcolm was very good at distracting the security guards while my nimble fingers played amongst the wines and spirits.’ The dripping chunk of bread got stuffed into that beard-rimmed maw. ‘He was particularly fond of a good single malt, but you know what supermarkets are like these days. Anything better than own-brand blend and they just put an empty box on the shelf, so you have to ask at the checkout to get it filled. And they’re not so keen on you saying, “I just shoplifted this, and you didn’t catch me, so that means you have to hand over the actual bottle. Fair’s only fair. I don’t make the rules.”’

Another chunk got dunked.

‘When did you last see him?’

‘That would be... oh... four and a bit weeks ago? It was a Monday, because that’s the day we like to hit the Marks and Spencer on Cannard Street, opposite the train station? You can fill your pockets with little tins of pre-mixed G and T, quicker than a startled checkout assistant can say, “Someone’s knocked over the display of Percy Pigs again!”’

So she hadn’t been too far off about the body being in that crappy tumbledown cottage for a month and a half.

The last of the soggy roll disappeared. ‘I remember he was sporting a rather swanky-looking new coat. Some child had given it to him, as a gift, just like that, out of the goodness of her little public-school heart. Doesn’t that give you hope for the future, Detective Sergeant?’

‘Ham, cheese, and pickle.’ The waitress was back with another plate, this one garnished with crisps and a couple of green leaves.

‘That would be me again, lovely Elizabeth. And please give my compliments to the chef: this chowder is simply divine.’ Kissing his grubby fingertips.

She just grunted and stomped off again.

Lucy made a note. ‘What kind of coat?’ After all, it’d be a lot easier to pick Malcolm Louden up on CCTV if they actually knew what he’d been wearing.

‘A lovely padded one, very stylish. And I’m sure, if Malky is sadly no longer with us’ — making the sign of the cross: spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch — ‘then he would definitely want me to have it. Seeing as how we were so close?’

‘Nice try. Colour?’

‘It was what I like to call “Hemingway Burgundy”. Did you ever read The Old Man and the Sea, Detective Sergeant?’

‘Where did this altruistic gesture take place?’

Dr Rayner picked up half his sandwich and tore a big bite out of it, little curls of bright orange cheddar falling into his beard. ‘No one ever seems to read the classics any more, do they? It’s all romance and science fiction, and... crime novels.’ Imbuing that last category with nostril-flaring disdain. ‘I remember the days when—’

‘Vincent!’ She helped herself to one of his crisps. Cheese and onion. ‘Where did the kid give him the coat?’

‘All I’m saying is: what’s wrong with broadening the mind with a little Virginia Woolf every now and then? Milton, Hardy, Tolstoy, Cervantes—’

‘Where — did — she — give — him — the — coat?’

He chewed in silence for bit. Then sniffed. ‘Fine, if you want to wallow in cultural ignorance, who am I to stop you? Malky was in his usual spot, outside the train station, by the main doors. Same as every morning, regular as clockwork.’ Dr Rayner hunched his shoulders, curling over his soup and sandwich. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to eat my lunch, and philistines give me indigestion.’

‘...departure of the twelve fifteen to Dundee, from platform six.’

The announcement echoed around Oldcastle train station, coming back in distorted waves from the huge domed ceiling — the glass dirty enough to bring the midday gloom down to late-evening levels. Only half the station’s strip lights had come on, leaving the northbound platforms and most of the concourse swamped in darkness. The station’s vaulted iron framework was blistered with rust and pale dripping stalactites. Conspiratorial murmurs coming from the pigeons roosting up there, in between the anti-bird spikes. Everything wreathed in that greasy smell of hot metal mixed with grey-blue diesel fumes and the scent of mouldering bin bags.

‘Sodding freezing.’ The Dunk had his shoulders up and both hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

‘By the main entrance, you say?’ Mr Cartwright ushered them through a door marked ‘NO UNAUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE’ and into a narrow corridor that stank of disinfectant.

Lucy nodded. ‘Monday: four and a half weeks ago.’

‘Pffff...’ He led the way up a long flight of stairs, big round bottom wobbling in her face as he climbed. ‘Dunno about that. Budget cutbacks mean we’ve only got about half the tapes we used to. Well, I say “tapes”... But we can see what we can see.’

At the end of the corridor lay another ‘NO UNAUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE’ door, this one with a pin-code security lock. Mr Cartwright blocked it with his body, so they couldn’t spy as he clicked in the four digits, then turned the handle and waved them inside.

It was a cosy room with a row of monitors down one side and a filthy window overlooking the main concourse on the other. A portable heater sat on the end of an extension lead in the centre of the room, radiating lukewarmth at a pair of dented filing cabinets that looked as if they were given a stiff kicking on a regular basis. And, in the corner: a person-high rack of hard drives, little red and green lights winking away as they whirred.

Mr Cartwright lumbered over to a large cabinet and hauled up the roller door, revealing row after row of grey boxes about the size of a paperback book. ‘Last week’ — pointing at the top shelf. ‘Week before’ — next one down. ‘Week before that’ — down again. ‘And that’s four weeks.’

Get to the sodding point.

‘This, though’ — Mr Cartwright huffed his way down into a squat, both knees going off like starter pistols — ‘is anything older.’ He reached into the bottom shelf and scooped out an armful of grey boxes. Dumped them on the room’s only desk, in front of the monitors. ‘Don’t know if they’ll help, though. We had a stabbing here, round about then, and your lot confiscated a pile of our drives and never gave them back.’

Lucy picked one up. The grey plastic casing was littered with the tattered remains of dozens, if not hundreds, of white, lined stickers. Only one was still a hundred percent intact, with ‘09 AUG ➔ 11 AUG’ printed on it in squint Sharpie letters, above ‘CONCOURSE 3’. She put it down again. ‘Constable Fraser?’

‘Sarge.’ The Dunk went for a rummage.

‘This boy, your homeless man, he done something?’ Mr Cartwright dipped into one of the filing cabinets and came out with a partially deflated two-litre bottle of Diet Coke. ‘Only there’s a bunch of them get off the train from Dundee every morning, you hear about that?’ He took a long hard pull at the bottle, making the plastic creak and crunk.

‘Got it, Sarge.’ The Dunk held a box aloft. ‘Main entrance, seventh to the ninth.’

Mr Cartwright took it from him, cracked open the box, and pulled out the black-and-silver rectangle inside. ‘All done up in their “we’re so cold and homeless” rags. But they can afford the day-return from Dundee? Some of them have season tickets.’ He huffed a breath onto the connection strip at the end of the drive, then slotted it into a space on the rack, setting the built-in lights winking. ‘And you can see them all round town, you know, if you go out for lunch or you’re picking up some messages? Our Denise is vegan, so everything has to be such a sodding production at mealtimes. Kids, right?’

Lucy gave him the sincerest smile she could muster at short notice. ‘Kids.’

‘Exactly.’ Another swig of Diet Coke, then he thumped himself into a swivel chair that really didn’t look up to his weight. ‘What’s wrong with sausages all of a sudden? Used to love sausages, did our Denise.’ Mr Cartwright pulled over a knackered beige computer keyboard and poked at it with a single fat finger. ‘Or McNuggets? It’s not natural. Here we go.’

One of the screens stopped showing platform four and jumped to an exterior shot instead — looking down, from a height of about twenty or thirty feet, at the main entrance. The main doors were at the top of the screen, the rest of the image taken up with a big swathe of pavement, all the way to the anti-ramming bollards — installed in the wake of September the eleventh. Because apparently Al-Qaeda had a fatwa out against those Great Satanic Bastions of Western Imperialism, AKA: the concourse branches of WHSmith, Costa, and the wee kiosk that cut keys and sold lighters.

Still, at least the footage was in colour, which would help with identifying ex-DC Malcolm Louden.

Mr Cartwright’s finger poked the keyboard again and the footage lurched into fast forward, little people whizzing about their business. ‘If I’d told my mum and dad I was turning vegan, they’d’ve tanned my hide with a belt. Now, all of a sudden, it’s a “lifestyle choice”, “everyone’s doing it”, and you can’t eat prawn cocktail crisps any more.’

The screen got darker, then the station lights came on and a sea of humanity pulsed in and out of the station doors, every arrival or departure bringing a fresh wave with it. Until finally the last pulse broke on the pavement, spreading out and evaporating as a dumpy woman in her blue ScotRail uniform and yellow high-vis locked up. Then it was just the occasional drunk staggering past.

‘And don’t get me started on bacon.’

The night flickered by.

It was still dark when another ScotRail high-vis unlocked the doors, and a fresh wave of commuters broke against the station entrance.

Lucy pointed at the screen. ‘Slow it down a bit. Don’t want to miss him.’

‘Anyway, yes, those guys coming up from Dundee.’ Another swig of Diet Coke. ‘We caught one of them selling drugs outside the gents. Can you believe that? Bold as brass, right there. Bet it’s one of those county lines things you’re always hearing about.’

During one low tide, between throngs, a lone figure appeared at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. Hanging about for a loiter that only took a couple of seconds, but probably lasted fifteen minutes in real not-speeded-up time. He was pinched-in, thin, with shoulder-length greasy brown hair, a sharp face, grubby baseball cap, and a scabby jacket that had some sort of horrible brown stain all down the back. A bundle under one arm, a big wodge of cardboard under the other, a backpack over his shoulder. Then he glanced up at the camera.

‘Can you pause it there?’

Mr Cartwright did. ‘Someone’s making a fortune, that’s for certain. All those people, coming up here, selling drugs on our streets while we give them spare change for a cup of tea!’

The image was nice and sharp: that was definitely Malcolm Louden, looking pretty much identical to his final mugshot.

‘OK, fast forward. We’re looking for a little girl.’

The footage jumped to warp speed again — people whizzing by as Louden took up position just to one side of the entrance, laying out his cardboard and sleeping bag. He took off his hat, put it down for donations, and sat there, begging, until the timestamp hit 12:24:37.

‘Freeze it!’

A child stood right in front of Malcolm Louden. Long red hair, held in a pair of Pippi Longstocking braids. Maybe ten or eleven years old. She was wearing a blue school uniform: not the normal red-and-grey ones that state-school kids wore, this was a blazer-and-tartan-skirt combo. There was even some sort of crest on the breast pocket.

The girl had a big brown-paper shopping bag with her, a smudge of turquoise on it that might have been writing. Maybe ‘PRIMARK’?

‘OK: play.’

Mr Cartwright poked the keyboard, and the footage started again.

The little girl said something to Louden, then gave him the bag. He reached in and pulled out a padded jacket, holding it up and staring as she put something in his baseball cap.

‘Can we zoom in?’

‘Let’s see...’ Mr Cartwright fiddled with the keyboard and the screen clunked into a partial close-up. Then again, and again, and again. The picture didn’t start getting pixelated until the fifth or sixth go. ‘That any good?’

The footage might’ve been in full colour, but it wasn’t exactly great. There was a cold blue tinge to it, making the jacket look like old blood.

Lucy turned to the Dunk. ‘Recognize the uniform?’

He squinted at the screen, moving in till his nose was less than a foot away. ‘Oh, yeah. That’s Bellside School for Girls, Castleview. Very swanky. Exclusive.’ His bottom lip jutted out. ‘Hang on: four and a bit weeks ago, wasn’t that still school holidays?’

‘Our Denise was on holidays.’ Mr Cartwright glugged down some more room-temperature Diet Coke. ‘But then she doesn’t go to a posh girls’ school.’

As if it mattered.

A nod from the Dunk. ‘Bet this one wears it as a status symbol.’ Putting on a posh accent for: ‘“Look how precocious and special I am!”, “I’m so much more important than you little people!”, “My daddy drives a Bentley!”’

Lucy thumped him on the shoulder. ‘All right, Leon Trotsky. Less social commentary, more policework.’ She pointed at Mr Cartwright. ‘Keep going.’

The footage whizzed forward till the shabby, hairy figure of Dr Rayner turned up to collect Louden for their shoplifting expedition, 13:09:23. And that was it; neither of them came back to the train station.

‘OK. We need to see the same time period, every morning for the rest of the week.’

A confused look from the Dunk. ‘Sarge?’

‘You heard Dr Rayner: this was Malcolm Louden’s morning spot, regular as clockwork. It took Rayner a week to notice Louden was missing, but soon as we can’t find him on the footage...?’

‘We’ll know when he really disappeared.’ The Dunk nodded. ‘Got you.’

They ran through the other two days on the hard drive, then moved on to: ‘MAIN ENTRANCE, 10 AUG ➔ 12 AUG’, ‘MAIN ENTRANCE, 13 AUG ➔ 15 AUG’, and ‘MAIN ENTRANCE, 16 AUG ➔ 18 AUG’ just to be sure. But Malcolm Louden never appeared again.

Which meant the Bloodsmith probably abducted Louden on the same day the little girl gave him his nice new coat, sometime after the shoplifting trip to M&S.

Now all they had to do was work out where and when. And, with any luck, that would be on CCTV as well, because if it was: the Bloodsmith was screwed.

Back at DHQ, the only member of Operation Maypole not out searching the woods was DC Stan Talladale — though, to be honest, what with the baggy bloodshot eyes, pale grey-green face, and trembling hands, it looked as if he would’ve been better off in the mortuary. Awaiting his turn on the cutting table.

Waves of Irn-Bru and extra-strong mint spilled out of him like chemical warfare, wafted on a gurgling burp. Clearly turning fifty didn’t bring a whole heap of wisdom with it, if you couldn’t tell you were too old to be getting wankered down the pub with your colleagues on a school night.

He blinked up at Lucy and burped again. Grimaced. Rubbed at his chest. ‘Must’ve been something I ate.’

‘Yes, Stan, I’m sure that’s what it is. Nothing to do with several rounds of tequila, sambuca, Jägermeister, and whisky-Red-Bulls.’ She perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Should’ve taken today off.’

‘Can’t. Janet wants to spend a month in Australia with the grandkids. Going to max out my holiday allowance as it is.’ He shuddered, then took another scoof from his tin. ‘Now, would you mind sodding off, Sarge, so I can die in peace?’

‘Before you expire, I’ve got a job for you.’

He groaned and slumped that bit further into himself.

Lucy pulled out Malcolm Louden’s final mugshot and slapped it down on the desk. ‘This is our body in the woods. He’s one of ours: ex-detective constable.’

Stan hissed out an Irn-Bru-and-mint breath. ‘Poor sod...’

‘I need you to comb the city centre CCTV. Last seen on camera outside the train station: eighth of August, ten past one. That’s PM, not AM. I need to know where he went and who he talked to.’

There was a wheezy silence.

Then, ‘Please, Sarge, don’t make me sit in front of whizzy security footage all day, I’ll barf every—’

‘He’s one of ours, Stan.’ She thumped the useless dick on the shoulder, and not gently either. ‘Get a couple of support staff to help, but I want his movements on my desk by close of play.’

The door banged open, and there was the Dunk, with a folder tucked under his arm. ‘Media’s arrived.’

‘Of course they have.’

‘Setting up shop out front, getting ready for the lunchtime news. Superintendent Spence’s doing a presser at one fifteen. You wanna hang around for it?’

‘Of course I do, Dunk. Can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more. Can barely contain myself with excitement.’

‘Fair enough.’ He held up his folder. ‘Got the stills printed off.’

‘Good boy. Give a couple to Stan the Man; he’s kindly volunteered to find Malcolm Louden on the CCTV.’

‘Ouch.’ The Dunk produced a picture of Louden in his nice new coat, and one of the little girl who’d given it to him. ‘Surprised you’re in the day, Stanny. Monster Munch tells me you ate two deep-fried doners from Kebabarama, last night. Your innards must be like a Damien Hirst installation.’

‘Oh God.’ He tipped forward until he was half-prostrate on the desk. ‘Told you it was something I ate.’

Lucy thumped him again. ‘CCTV footage, Stan. By the end of the day. Or you’ll have more than dodgy guts to worry about.’

‘Kill me now...’

Tempting. But they had other things to be getting on with.

She collected the Dunk and headed out into the corridor. Stopped dead.

‘Sarge?’ He blinked up at her.

That sod from Professional Standards, the one who’d been lurking outside DCI Gilmore’s office, was lurking again, with his dark-grey suit and stupid spiky hair. A Police Scotland branded mug in one hand. ‘Ah, Detective Sergeant McVeigh. Thought I might run into you here.’

‘Dunk?’

‘Yes, Sarge?’

‘Get the car started. I’ll be down in a minute.’

A shrug and the wee lump shuffled off down the corridor.

When he was out of earshot, Lucy made a show of checking her watch. ‘I’m in the middle of trying to catch a serial killer.’

‘I still need to talk to you, DS McVeigh, or can I call you “Lucy”?’

‘No. And I don’t have time for “guidance” and “support” right now.’ Or ever. She marched off after the Dunk. ‘Sorry.’ Not meaning it.

The dick from Professional Standards appeared beside her, matching stride for stride. ‘I can make a formal request, through the chain of command if you like, but it would be easier for us both if we could just sit down and—’

‘Thanks for your concern, but I’m busy.’ She barged into the stairwell, then took a hard right, shoving through the door to the ladies’ toilets — letting it thump shut in his face.

His voice was muffled by the wood, but still audible as she made for the cubicles. ‘You can avoid me all you like, DS McVeigh, but you’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later. Might as well make it now.’

No chance.

15

The Dunk hadn’t been lying about the media. A handful of outside-broadcast vans sat by the kerb in front of DHQ, cameras and presenters braving the rain to do pre-records for the one o’clock news. Some of them already packing up to head in for Superintendent Spence’s press briefing.

Lucy popped a couple of paracetamol from their blister pack and scowled out the passenger window at the assembled hordes. ‘Sod...’

There was Sarah Black, elbowing her way in front of the ITV camera crew, holding a placard with ‘LYING POLICE MURDERED MY SON!!!’ on it in blood-red letters.

How could they let her out so quickly? Did they even give her a slap on the wrists? Or was it just, ‘Here, you have a nice sit down, a cup of tea, and a biscuit, while we forget all about you assaulting that nasty police officer.’

Didn’t exactly make you feel valued.

‘Ignore her, Sarge. Woman’s a Dundee cake.’ The Dunk sped the pool car up a bit, till the lard-pale lump of Sarah Black was nothing but a smear in the rear-view mirror.

Ignore her?

Easier said than done.

The Dunk turned their pool car off Keirbarrie Drive onto Bradley Avenue. ‘I mean, how could anyone in their right mind eat even one of those things?’

Bellside School for Girls sat on the left, behind a chest-high stone wall topped with chain link. Presumably to stop a rogue hockey ball from flying out and beaning a passer-by. And to keep the precious, over-privileged little darlings safe from the dirty outside world, of course.

They’d added to the old Victorian building over the years: a swanky new glass-and-steel wing off to one side, a brutal concrete seventies block off to the other. Playing grounds — marked out for hockey, lacrosse, and football — that stretched nearly all the way down to the slate-grey river. The sky a solid lid of ash, raining hard enough to make the windscreen wipers creak back and forth in grubby arcs.

The Dunk pulled up at the gated entrance. ‘Because it’s not just the doner meat they deep-fry, it’s the whole kebab. Pita bread, salad, chilli-and-garlic sauce — it all gets battered and chucked in boiling oil.’ He wound down his window and pressed the big red button on the intercom fixed to the wall. ‘You’d have to be absolutely blootered.’

A buzzing whine fizzed out into the rain, followed by a woman’s distorted voice. ‘Yes? Do you have an appointment?’

He held his warrant card out at the camera. ‘Police. We need to talk to someone about a student here.’

‘And do you have an appointment?’

‘You want us to come back with a warrant? Cos we can, if you like. Only that might not look too good when it gets in the papers: “Private school refuses to help police catch killer, shock!”’

‘Hold on. I’ll need to check school policy.’

Lucy glared at him. ‘You’re not supposed to tell people we’re investigating a murder!’

‘Oh, come on, Sarge: these posh twats need to learn a bit of—’

The intercom buzzed again and the gates swung open.

He grinned back at her. ‘See?’ The Dunk slid the car through onto school grounds, following the signs for ‘VISITOR PARKING’. Nodding to himself, as if he was the wisest person in the whole soggy world. ‘You’ve just got to know how to talk to these people. Show even a sliver of weakness and they’ll walk all over you.’

‘I see.’ Mrs Pablo’s office was in the new glass-and-steel bit of the school, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view south across the playing grounds as the rain hammered down. The headmistress herself was a twinset-and-pearls type, her grey hair cut into a trendy layered bob, with discreet gold earrings and a shiny crucifix dangling from one of those expensive charm bracelets. She wielded the kind of voice that could probably slice across an entire hockey pitch to cut a kid in half. ‘And you don’t have a warrant.’

Not a question, a statement.

She hadn’t offered them a seat, just sat there behind an ‘executive’ desk with her fingers steepled beneath the point of her sharp chin.

Lucy pulled out a printout of the little girl and placed it on the blotting pad. ‘We’re not looking to get anyone into trouble; no one’s a suspect. We think this child might have seen something that could assist us, that’s all.’

‘I see.’ Mrs Pablo pursed her lips and gave them both a cold hard stare.

The Dunk shifted his shoes on the polished floorboards, pink skin glowing above the collar of his black polo neck. Hadn’t said a single word since they’d been shown into the headmistress’s office. Stood there like a plank of wood instead. So much for his proletarian revolution and teaching ‘these posh twats’ a lesson.

‘If you could take a look, that would be a great help.’

A sigh, then Mrs Pablo put on a pair of half-moon glasses and peered down her nose at the printout. She stiffened. ‘Yes, I recognize this child.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. She no longer attends Bellside School for Girls.’ Mrs Pablo stood, doing up the buttons on her ugly cardigan. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s lunchtime and I have students to supervise.’ Then she swept out of the room, leaving the pair of them standing there like a couple of prats.

So much for assisting the police with their inquiries...

Lucy marched after her into a small reception area. The kind of place where wayward girls would squirm on hard wooden seats, awaiting their summons to the dragon’s lair. ‘Is that it?’

The headmistress nodded at the room’s small, and currently unmanned, desk. ‘Mr Marlins will see you out.’

‘You could at least tell us the kid’s name.’

‘We don’t answer questions about pupils without their parents’ permission. Present or former.’ Opening the outer door and raising her voice. ‘Mr Marlins! These officers are leaving.’

The reply came in a high-pitched obsequious Dundee accent. ‘Yes, Mrs Pablo.’

Then off she marched, head held high, back stiff, as if someone had jammed a flagpole up her backside.

The Dunk cleared his throat. ‘See what I mean? Come the revolution...’

‘Oh, now you’re brave enough to speak, are you?’ Lucy pointed at the open doorway. ‘Where were all your proud class-struggle speeches when Madame Twin-Set was fobbing us off?’

‘Excuse me?’ The owner of the squeaky Dundonian accent appeared. His tweed suit, paisley-patterned waistcoat, polished brogues, and short white hair made him look like the illicit love child of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland and Toad of Toad Hall. ‘I believe Mrs Pablo would like me to escort you back to your vehicle, if that’s all right? We don’t like unaccompanied adults on school grounds, for obvious reasons.’ He blanched, held up his hands. ‘Not that I’m suggesting either of you would... with the girls, but rules have to be rules for everyone, or there’s no point having rules at all, don’t you think?’ Then Mr Marlins ushered them out into the corridor. ‘Horrible day, isn’t it? Still, at least it’s not snowing. Small mercies.’

They followed him downstairs to the ground floor.

Lucy stopped, made a big show of rolling her eyes and sighing, throwing in a slap on the forehead for good measure. ‘What an idiot.’ She dug the printout out of her pocket again. ‘We came all this way and I forgot to ask Mrs Pablo if she knew who the girl in the picture is.’ Holding it so close to Mr Marlins’ face that he had to blink and back up a couple of paces to get it into focus. Put, literally, on the back foot.

‘What, Allegra Dean-Edwards? Oh, she doesn’t go here any more. Her parents got her into St Nick’s. Which I know has a great reputation, but we pride ourselves at Bellside School for Girls on our top-notch curriculum and teaching excellence.’

St Nick’s... Now there was a name she hadn’t heard in a long, long time.

The Dunk pulled his chin up. ‘What’s St Nick’s?’

‘St Nicholas College, Auchterowan?’ Mr Marlin’s voice dropped to an awed whisper: ‘Only one of the most exclusive boarding schools in the country.’

‘Yeah, not really the kinda circles I move in.’

Mr Marlins peered at the printout again. ‘Is she giving that homeless person a new coat? Well, I must say, that’s very “on brand” for our Allegra. Don’t think I’ve ever met a child quite as focused and sure of herself. Knew what she wanted to be from the start of primary one — the outreach stuff, the sandwiches and coats for the homeless, raising money for a hostel, that’s Allegra working on her “brand”. Thinks it’ll give her the edge when it comes to getting into Oxford. I kept telling her: “They don’t care about extra-curricular activities, Allegra. They only care about academic achievements.” But once she gets an idea in her head?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘And she’s only eleven.’

‘Sounds like a nice kid.’ Lucy took the picture back.

‘Oh, personality like nails down a blackboard, but sharp as you wouldn’t believe. And as I say: focused. She’s going to end up ruling the world one day, you mark my words.’

‘Penny for them.’

‘Hmmm?’ Lucy stayed where she was, staring out through the passenger window as the rain washed across the city in gritty-grey swathes, like smoke. Toning everything down. Leaching the life out of it.

‘Let me guess’ — the Dunk took the first exit at the roundabout, heading over Dundas Bridge, Castle Hill looming on the other side in all its twisted glory — ‘Sarah Black.’

‘Not everything is about Sarah Bloody Black.’ A long breath hissed out between Lucy’s pursed lips. ‘Well, kind of.’ A lopsided shrug. ‘I was wondering: the guy who’s been following me, what if he’s not some random stalker pervert? What if the Blacks have bunged him a few quid to harass me?’

‘Oooh... Yeah. Explains the slashed tyres, doesn’t it? Sending you a message?’

Hard to tell if that made him more or less dangerous. The kind of man who’d happily menace a woman for money was probably the kind of man who’d think rape was a perk of the job. That she was his for the taking. And Lucy’d had more than enough experience of that kind of crap to last several lifetimes, thank you very much. God knew enough women got murdered every year by toxic, horny shitheads.

And what if he attacked her somewhere more secluded than right outside Divisional Headquarters? After all, he knew where she lived...

Lucy reached into her raincoat pocket. No sign of DI Tudor’s rape alarm. It was back at the house, in her overcoat.

All that time, meandering about town this morning, did she take ten minutes to pop into Argos for that baseball bat? Of course she didn’t. Still hadn’t phoned anyone about getting the house fitted up with a security system, either.

Great. Well done, Lucy. Way to keep yourself safe.

The Dunk cleared his throat. ‘Maybe you should, you know, crash at mine for a couple of nights? Zoe won’t mind. Kind of. It’s only a couch, but maybe better than being on your own, out in the middle of nowhere?’

So, the daft little sod was a mind reader now, was he?

‘Thanks, Dunk, but—’

Her phone launched into its generic ringtone, and when she pulled it out, ‘DI TUDOR’ glowed in the middle of its screen. Think of the Devil. She hit the green button. ‘Thought you were in the post-mortem.’

‘Hairy Harry’s declared a tea break. Our beloved Procurator Fiscal is off shouting at someone on her phone, so thought I’d give you a bell. See how it’s going.’

‘We’ve got an ID for the victim. He’s—’

‘I know, DCI Ross filled me in. He says you had a run-in with Sarah Black this morning. She’s claiming you assaulted her.’

‘I already had this conversation with Professional Standards and—’

‘The woman’s a bloody menace. Stay away from her, though, eh? Last thing we need is Sarah Cocking Black crapping in the swimming pool along with everyone else.’

‘She attacked me, remember? It wasn’t like I went looking for—’

‘It’s just, these last couple of months you’ve been... I don’t want her setting you off, OK? I need you focused on the Bloodsmith, not fighting with Sarah Black and her idiot offspring.’

The Dunk was staring at her across the car, eyebrows raised as they trundled along behind a bus.

Lucy placed a hand across her eyes and squeezed, just hard enough to make little black dots, circled in yellow, appear. Forcing the words out between clenched teeth. ‘Yes, Boss.’

‘I mean it, Lucy.’ A pause. ‘So, where are you?’

‘Me and the Dunk went looking for the little girl who gave Malcolm Louden his new coat. Just in case she saw or remembered something.’

‘Why am I hearing defeat?’

‘Tracked her down to Bellside School for Girls, but she’s left there. Goes to St Nick’s now.’

A low whistle. ‘Swanky.’

‘I’ve got DC Talladale digging through the city CCTV anyway, so we can probably do without traipsing all the way out to Auchterowan. Maybe talk to a few more of the homeless community instead? We could organize a—’

‘After what happened this morning, you’re better off staying as far away from DHQ as possible; Sarah Black’s still out there with her bloody placard. Go see the swanky schoolkid. You never know: maybe she saw someone hanging around? Cover all the bases.’

‘Wouldn’t it be more productive to—’

‘The top brass think ex-DC Louden’s criminal record is going to spin round and sink its fangs in our arse. They’re sending an assistant chief constable from Gartcosh to “liaise”. Like I don’t have enough arseholes breathing down my neck already! A hundred quid says he’ll be one of those anal, misery-faced, everything-by-the-book types, and if he finds out we didn’t follow up every — single — lead, no matter how crap or thin, it’ll be me getting kicked in the nuts with a size twelve. So, you’re definitely going to see that schoolkid.’

‘But—’

‘And how am I supposed to catch the Bloodsmith when I’ve got three million layers of management peering over my shoulder the whole time? It’s not—’

Lucy pressed the phone against her chest as Tudor moaned and whinged. ‘Change of plan, Dunk, we’re going to St Nick’s after all.’

‘Not more posh twats?’

‘Yes, more posh twats.’

‘Gah...’ He did a one-eighty at the next roundabout, heading back the way they’d just come. ‘Any chance we can stop for food along the way? Starving.’

Back to the phone.

‘—don’t trust me to run an investigation, then why lumber me with it? It’s like juggling handfuls of burning shite, Lucy, and I’m sick of it.’

‘Look, Boss, about this Sarah Black thing—’

‘Hold on, Spudzilla’s on the warpath again. Think we’re—’ Then the line went dead.

Lovely.

Lucy put her phone away.

‘So...’ the Dunk tried his hopeful-puppy face, ‘lunch?’

‘Yeah, why not.’

The sticky-brown scent of fried onions slithered across the car park and in through the pool car’s passenger window, courtesy of Bad Bill’s Burger Bar — parked outside the Beaton Wood Sports Centre, in the heart of the Swinney, trees pressing in on every side. If this was California, or somewhere swanky, it would’ve been called a ‘food truck’, but here it was just a manky old converted Transit van: painted matt black, so Bad Bill could chalk up the day’s specials on the sides. He had the serving-hatch flap raised, affording the Dunk a little protection from the slashing rain. But not much.

The soggy wee sod was at the counter, stretching his tiny frame and pointing at things on the menu board, like a small child at an ice-cream van. Not the most commanding of police presences.

Meanwhile, warmish and dry, Lucy sagged in her seat and frowned out at the dark mass of pine and birch that lined the business park. Raindrops crackled like fireworks against the Vauxhall’s bonnet and, for a moment, they were loud enough to drown out the saccharine hold-music droning out of her phone, which was nice.

Who on earth thought a pan-pipes rendition of Ricky Martin’s ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ would be a good idea? And on a loop?

She had to listen to the tootling horror three more times before a woman’s voice cut it off:

‘Miss McVeigh?’ About sodding time. ‘Sorry: been checking the schedule. We can fit you in on Monday, if that helps? Can’t do any sooner, I’m afraid — Kevin’s away in Vegas for his daughter’s wedding, and we’re stappit foo. Everyone and their neighbour’s dog want security systems fitted this month.’

Sod.

Lucy suppressed a sigh. ‘No, that’s... Monday. OK.’

‘I can put you on the wait list, if we get a cancellation?’

‘Please.’

‘Righty ho. Stay safe!’ They hung up.

So much for that. Definitely have to get a baseball bat now.

16

The Dunk hurried around to the driver’s side, hauled the door open, and scrambled in behind the wheel, bringing with him an extra-heavy waft of fried meat. A couple of Styrofoam containers balanced in one hand, a pair of wax-paper cups in the other. Dripping as he wriggled in his seat. ‘Like a lake out there.’ He gave himself a little shake, then held out one of the cartons.

‘What is it?’

‘You said, “Surprise me.”’

Fair enough.

He put his own on the dashboard, then passed her one of the cups. ‘Tea. Milk. No sugar.’ Then went into a pocket for a handful of paper napkins. Gave three quarters of them to her, before tucking one into the collar of his soggy polo neck.

Lucy creaked her polystyrene container open and peered in at what was probably the dirtiest burger known to man. A couple of what looked like Bacon Frazzles had escaped from beneath the bun, turned slightly limp in a smear of pink sauce. ‘OK: I’m surprised.’

‘Double Bastard Bacon Murder Burger.’ The Dunk opened his own container and dug at the brown-and-white sludge inside with a little wooden spork. Leaning forwards to take a delicate mouthful. Probably trying not to get anything sticky on his damp black ensemble. Chewing and swallowing before washing it down with a sip of tea. ‘You know what I’ve been thinking about?’

‘Is it me having a heart attack?’ Because there was clearly enough saturated fat in this thing to clog an elephant’s arteries. Didn’t taste bad, though. Pickles, cheese, Bacon Frazzles, two burgers, lettuce, a sesame bun, and all the sauces: tomato, brown, Marie Rose, chilli, and mustard too. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘Stovies.’ Another dainty bite.

‘I like stovies.’

‘Yeah, I know. But that wouldn’t have been a surprise, would it?’ More stovies were delicately nibbled. ‘Anyway, what I’ve been thinking is: why did the Bloodsmith go back to the cottage in the woods? The first one, I mean, where he killed Abby Geddes. Why go back and write “help me” again?’

‘Because we bleached the first one away.’

‘Again: yeah, I know. But the words have to matter for him to do that, don’t they? Otherwise, why bother?’

The Dunk had a point.

The Bloodsmith didn’t—

Her phone rang, deep in her pocket.

‘Sodding hell.’ She placed the burger back in its Styrofoam coffin and sooked her fingers clean. Used one of the Dunk’s napkins as a makeshift glove to haul her mobile out and answer it. ‘McVeigh.’

A woman’s voice, slurred and heavy, as if every word weighed a ton. ‘I heard... it was... it was on the news juss... just now.’ Judith Thorburn. Again. Sounding even less sober than last time.

Don’t swear.

The Dunk raised an eyebrow at her, spork poised with a glistening mound of stovies balanced on the end.

‘Judith.’

He pulled a face and rolled his eyes.

‘They say... say you’re not... and he’s getting away with it!... He’s...’ Silence.

‘Judith, we’re investigating as fast as we can, I promise you.’

‘My Craig...’ A sob. ‘My little boy. I need his... his heart back! How am... how’s he supposed to rest without... without his heart?’ Her tears howled down the phone. ‘I want my baby’s heart back!’

‘I know you do, Judith. I know you do. We’re doing everything we can.’

‘I need his... heart.’ Then the line went dead.

Lucy sagged in her seat, head back, face screwed up.

‘Sarge.’ The Dunk hissed air in through his teeth. ‘I don’t mean to be insensitive or anything, but is it not a bit late for Judith Thorburn to play the doting mother? Last time I checked, she hadn’t spoken to Craig for about six months before the Bloodsmith got him.’

‘Does it matter?’ Estranged or not, it was impossible to deny the pain in the poor cow’s voice.

He didn’t answer that right away, just sat there frowning. Then: ‘No, I suppose not. You don’t know what you’ve got, do you? Not till it’s gone.’ He munched on another sporkful of stovies. ‘Anyway, yes: why does the Bloodsmith redo his “help me” messages?’

Lucy ate in silence for a bit, mulling it over. ‘What if it’s not a cry for help, what if it’s... a prayer? A sort of votive offering.’

‘Like, when you go to the Wailing Wall and fold up your prayer and stick it in the cracks?’ He nodded. ‘I can see that. And we bleached away his prayer at the cottage, so he had to write it again.’ The nod turned to a frown. ‘Didn’t need to do that at Bruce Malloch’s house, because it wasn’t cleaned off in the first place.’

‘But he wouldn’t know that — the blinds were down, remember?’

‘Oooh...’ The Dunk’s eyebrows went up. ‘Unless he broke in.’

‘Maybe he didn’t need to? Not if he helped himself to a set of keys when he killed Malloch.’ A dribble of Marie Rose escaped, snaking its way down Lucy’s wrist. She caught it with her tongue. ‘This thing is impossible to eat without it going everywhere.’

‘Adam Holmes’ flat must be driving the Bloodsmith up the wall. Whole place has been redecorated: his prayer’s missing, and he can’t paint it up again, because there’s people living there. Shouty, horrible people.’

‘We should check — see if the shouty, horrible people have had any weird notes pushed under their door lately. Or graffiti.’ Lucy crammed the last chunk of meat and sauce and bun into her gob. ‘Woosnrrrrrnoodnoo cheg mgnnno ooghnoow cwooemszheennn?’

‘Not with your mouth full, Sarge!’ The Dunk’s next two sporkfuls were done with exaggerated care. ‘God, it’s like having lunch with a Labradoodle.’

She wiped her hands on a napkin. ‘I said, “We still need to check the other crime scenes.” You rude little sod.’ Tossing the soggy, smeared napkin into the now empty Styrofoam container. Then had a tidy-up with a second one. And a third.

The Dunk went back to eating like a normal person. Munch, munch, munch. ‘Want to do it on the way home from school? Jane Cooper’s place is in Castleview, and Craig Thorburn’s Blackwall Hill. Not that far out of our way.’

‘Done.’ Lucy opened her tea and took a sip. Lukewarm, slightly bitter from being over-brewed, the teabag floating in the beige milky liquid like a drowned man. ‘Finish your stovies, then we’ll go see a precocious little girl about an altruistic gesture.’

‘Bloody hell...’ The Dunk stared as the pool car drifted to a halt. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open. The windscreen wipers thunk-squeaked back and forth, bringing the place into focus, before the rain blurred it all away again.

St Nicholas College, Auchterowan, sat just outside the little town, down a wide avenue of trees that shivered in the downpour. And. It. Was. Huge.

Looked pretty old, too: a vast Scottish baronial pile, complete with turrets, corbels, and steep-sloping roofs. Tall, narrow, mullioned windows. What looked like an old vampire’s castle looming up behind one corner.

A gatehouse, complete with raised portcullis, sat about a third of the way down the drive, with what was either a drained moat, or a ha-ha stretching away into the distance on either side. As if they were expecting Visigoths to come charging over the hill at any moment.

And the Dunk just sat there, gawping. ‘Can you imagine how much this place must be worth?’

‘Yes. Now any chance you can actually drive us over there?’

‘Sorry, Sarge.’ The Vauxhall’s gearbox made a horrible grinding noise as he struggled it into first. Then kangarooed forwards a couple of feet and stalled dead.

‘Not making the best of impressions, here, Dunk.’

‘No, Sarge, sorry, Sarge.’ That familiar pink tinge was working its way up from the collar of his polo neck again. But he finally got the car going, taking them up to the gatehouse, where a striped barrier was lowered to block their way.

A middle-aged man in a bowler hat and black suit stepped out in front of them, hand up, face like an unhappy spud. One of his ears was all folded in and swollen, and his nose had been broken so often it was barely there. Broad shoulders, big hands. That, and his black suit, made him look like a boxer on his way to a funeral. ‘Can I help you, sir? Madam?’

The Dunk shrank back in his seat, hands so tightly wrapped around the steering wheel his knuckles stood out like a row of white skulls. ‘I...’

God’s sake.

Lucy produced her warrant card and leaned across the car, holding it up so the porter could see. ‘Police. We need to talk to someone about a pupil of yours.’

‘Hmmmph...’ The shattered nose came up. ‘I shall have to contact the headmaster. Wait here.’ Then he stomped away back into his lodge again.

‘Hoy!’ Lucy gave the Dunk a serious thump on the arm. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

The blush deepened. ‘It’s not my fault, OK? I have... issues with—’

‘Right.’ And just like that, the porter was back. Didn’t make a sound, just appeared at the driver’s window, like a disapproving ninja. ‘You’re to go up to the main hall. Park out front.’ He produced a pair of lanyards and thrust them in through the window. ‘Wear these at all times.’ Then he raised the barrier and scowled at them until the Dunk finally got his finger out and drove off.

Up close, St Nick’s looked even bigger, towering over the pool car as the Dunk parked where he’d been told to.

A boy was waiting for them: mid-teens, tall and thin in a dark-grey suit, white shirt, and patterned burgundy tie. He was wearing a black academic gown over the top, reaching down to his knees, with a single gold epaulette on the left shoulder. Sheltering under a large black golf umbrella with the school crest on it: a mailed fist clutching a scroll and quills, with a Maltese cross on one side and three daggers on the other. The top half of a rampant lion roaring over the top of the shield, and ‘FIDES SILENTIUM POTENTIA’ on a scroll underneath.

As Lucy opened her door he stepped forward, shielding her from the rain with his brolly, before conjuring another one from behind his back and handing it to her.

His voice was stuffed with plums and cut crystal, the Scottish accent barely noticeable. ‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh? The headmaster sends his regards and asks if you and your colleague would accompany me to the Archers’ Gallery.’

‘Of course.’

The Dunk scurried around from his side of the car, plipping the locks, and squeezing in under Lucy’s borrowed umbrella. Mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out.

Not exactly his finest day.

Their escort turned and marched along the front of the building, taking a hard left through an open archway flanked by small turrets. It led through into a quadrangle that was probably big enough to hold a full-sized football pitch, enclosed on all four sides by more Scottish baronial buildings, tall windows looking out over the flagstone paths, grass, and an ancient oak tree. Its branches were heavy and twisted, the lower ones fluttering with black and red ribbons. That vampire’s castle made up the far corner, jagged and dark against the lowering skies. Looming.

A group of four teenagers — two boys and two girls, dressed in identical dark-grey suits, white shirts, burgundy ties, and black gowns — swept out of a door to the side. Black golf umbrellas clacked up and the kids bustled along one of the paths, like a tiny murder of crows. Making for a door on the opposite side.

The Dunk kept his voice down. ‘Jesus. Hogwarts, much?’

Lucy matched his whisper. ‘Good grief: it speaks!’

He pointed at their escort as they followed him out into the quad. ‘And what’s with the outfit? Fancy-dress time?’

‘The one gold epaulette means he’s an under-prefect. Two gold makes you a prefect. Single red means you’re a house leader. Blue: class monitor. And white’s for new students.’

They passed the twisted oak, rain clattering down on the shared brolly.

‘How come you know so much about St Nicholas College?’

Their escort cast a smile over his shoulder at them. ‘Not far to go now.’ Then took a right, onto an intersecting path, making for an older-looking, two-storey bit of the school — its sharp-pitched roof lined with gargoyles, water spewing out of their mouths. The windows here were little more than slits.

A heavy wooden door opened on a wide hallway with a sweeping stone staircase, the walls thick with coats of arms, each one picked out in carved wood or moulded plaster. They lined the staircase, too.

Their escort closed his brolly and slipped it into an elaborate brass holder by the door, then held his hand out. ‘If I may...?’ He relieved Lucy of her umbrella and put it next to his. Then took the stairs up, pointing at a crest on the way. ‘That was my great-grandfather’s. We’ve been coming here for six generations.’

The Dunk’s face went even pinker.

At the top of the stairs was a wide corridor with a vaulted ceiling. Big lancet windows sat at either end, vivid with stained glass. They glowed, casting multicoloured shapes across the flagstones, even though A: there was sod-all sign of any sunshine outside, and B: the buildings flanking this one were both a storey taller.

One side of the corridor had three ancient wooden doors leading off it, each bearing a small engraved nameplate: ‘MR WINCHESTER ~ FINANCIAL STATISTICS’, ‘MRS WELLS ~ STOCK MARKET ANALYSIS’, and ‘MS PESTON ~ INTERNATIONAL TAX LAW’.

The other wall held more rows of family crests, broken up by those thin deep windows overlooking the quadrangle.

Their escort held up a hand. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting here.’ Then he knocked lightly on the door to Ms Peston’s class, slipping inside only when the word ‘Enter!’ boomed out through the wood. A trio of children, each with two white epaulettes on their academic gowns, sat at individual, fancy-looking desks, behind swanky laptops with the school crest on them. They didn’t look around, just kept their eyes on whatever the teacher had projected on the far wall.

Soon as the door closed behind their escort, the Dunk sagged. ‘Bloody Norah. Did you hear him?’ Putting on an exaggerated posh accent for: ‘“We’ve been coming here for six generations.”’ A snort, and the Dunk was back to his normal voice again. ‘And where does he get off ordering us about?’ Stomping over to the nearest window and glaring out at the rain.

‘Yes, because you definitely put him in his place, didn’t you? With your trademark not-saying-anything-and-blushing-like-a-nervous-teenage-girl.’ Lucy gave him a slow round of applause. ‘Made quite the impression. I had goosebumps.’

‘That’s what hereditary privilege gets you. Everyone in the whole sodding world only exists for your convenience, because you’re better than them. You earned their obsequious kowtowing servitude just by dropping out of some stuck-up rich bint nine months after she shagged the footman. That’s not an “accident of birth”, no, that’s destiny! Here, why not have a seat in the House of Lords while you’re at it, you unqualified, unelected, toffee-nosed twat!’

‘Are you finished?’

‘Know what we should have? Hundred percent taxation on all inherited wealth over... a hundred grand. Then the buggers would have to spend it before they died — put it back into the economy, where it’ll do a bit of good, instead of these Swiss-bank trust-fund wankers’ pockets. They hoard money, they hoard power, they hoard privilege, and to hell with the rest of us!’

‘Bravo.’ It was a man’s voice, right behind them: warm, round, and rich as a mahogany sideboard, with more than a hint of a chuckle to it. ‘I see we have a maverick economic theorist in our midst.’

The Dunk’s mouth shut so fast you could hear his teeth clatter together. Then his face paled a couple of shades, before the blush resurfaced again.

Lucy turned. ‘Headmaster?’

The man beamed back at her. He was in the same dark-grey suit and burgundy tie as the pupils, but his academic robe was a deep shade of crimson, edged with gold. A wispy tuft of white hair clung on for dear life at the top of his head, while the rest was reduced to little more than fuzz. Piercing blue eyes, a hooked nose, and lots and lots of laughter lines. He stuck out a liver-spotted hand. ‘Arnold Price-Hamilton, at your service, Detective Sergeant McVeigh.’ He turned to the Dunk. ‘I don’t believe our head porter got your name, young man...?’

Nope. You’d have more luck getting a reply out of a doorstop.

‘This is Detective Constable Fraser. He’s your basic strong, silent type.’ As if. ‘We need to talk to one of your students, an Allegra Dean-Edwards?’

‘I see.’ The headmaster’s smile turned into a frown. ‘May I ask why you need to talk to Ms Dean-Edwards?’

The door to the classroom opened again, and out slithered their escort. Clicking it shut almost silently behind him. Then stood there, not saying a word, hands clasped in front of his crotch.

‘Allegra’s not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re worrying about. She bought a new coat for a homeless man, about five weeks ago; we’re hoping she might have seen something that could help with our inquiry. It’s a long shot, but we have to be thorough about these things.’

‘Hmmm...’ Then a nod. ‘Skye? Fetch Mr McCaskill for me, would you? We’ll be in my office.’

‘Yes, Headmaster.’ And off the young man trotted. Six generations of wealth and privilege, and he was still stuck running errands.

Lucy raised an eyebrow. ‘Sky? They named him after a TV station?’

‘“Skye”, with an “E”. His family own large chunks of it.’ The headmaster turned on his heel, crimson robe swirling out behind him as he set off for the stairs at an impressive clip. ‘Skye’s got an older brother called Argyll, and a sister called Sutherland, for much the same reason. I guess you could say they’re a family that finds a theme and sticks with it.’

The Dunk was already falling behind, but Lucy kept up fine.

‘McVeigh, McVeigh, McVeigh.’ The headmaster’s eyes kept flicking in her direction. ‘Excuse me if I seem nosy, but the name rings a bell.’

Of course it did, because after a year of Sarah Black banging on to any scumbag media outlet who’d listen, why wouldn’t it?

She cleared her throat. ‘There was an... incident last August; it was in all the—’

‘No, I’m sure that’s not it.’ At the bottom of the stairs he marched straight for the door, snatching one of the brollies from the stand on his way past. Snapping it open like a magic trick. ‘McVeigh. I’m sure we had a student here called McVeigh. Any relation?’

‘Don’t think so.’ She grabbed the other umbrella, wrestling it up as she followed him out into the rain. ‘I almost went here, when I finished primary school. Did the aptitude tests, interviews, and exams, then my dad...’ Had another breakdown was probably oversharing a bit. Besides, that was no one’s business but hers, now. ‘Turned out we couldn’t afford the fees after all. Never did the final assessment.’

The headmaster stopped. Put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. If it’s any consolation, we now have a bursary scheme so children from less fortunate backgrounds can attend St Nicholas College.’

Which was both nice to know and insulting all at the same time. Here’s what you could’ve won. If you hadn’t had such a threadbare pauper basket-case for a father.

Then the headmaster was off again, taking one of the paths that branched towards the far back corner, where the vampire-castle bit reared up into the grey skies. Unlike the rest of the quad, the thick square tower had been Frankensteined together with random-shaped dark blocks, and was clearly a lot older than the neat sandstone buildings grafted onto either side of it.

At the end of the path, he shoved open the thick wooden door and held it for Lucy. ‘I shall have to look out your records.’ Throwing in a wink for good measure. ‘See how you fared.’

Not sure she really wanted to find out...

17

The headmaster looked over Lucy’s shoulder, out into the rain. ‘Your friend, the financial revolutionary, he’s not the fastest, is he?’

Difficult to tell if that was a dig at the Dunk’s physical or intellectual speed. Didn’t matter, though, because you didn’t take the piss out of your fellow officers in front of civilians. Even civilians who were right on both counts.

When Lucy turned, the Dunk was still only halfway across the quad, one hand holding that stupid leather bunnet to his head, the other pinching his jacket’s neck shut as he scurried through the rain on those short little legs of his. ‘We probably better wait for him. Unaccompanied adult on school grounds and all that.’

A chuckle broke free, dark and patronizing. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it, Detective Sergeant. When we say our aim is to prepare our young academics for the world, we really mean it. Self-defence is one of the first classes anyone takes when they get here — it teaches discipline and self-control. Besides, you’re police officers. If we can’t trust you, whom can we trust?’

‘You’d be surprised how seldom we hear that.’ She stepped into a large open space, with a stone staircase on one side and a set of lift doors on the other. The whole scene promptly disappeared as her glasses misted up. Giving the lenses a polish revealed that the blurry wallpaper was really hundreds and hundreds of photographs, some black-and-white, some full colour, all head-and-shoulders portraits of middle-aged people wearing the familiar dark-grey suit and school tie. Most of the older photos were white men, but the more modern pics had a fairly even split of men and women from all ethnicities — the pictures squeezed in so tightly that there was barely an inch of wall on show. A big reception desk was manned by someone who seemed to have looked up ‘spinster’ in the dictionary and decided it’d be a good look for her. Poking away at a fancy new computer, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed behind her pointy glasses.

She looked up from the screen and smiled. ‘Headmaster. Mr McCaskill wanted you to know he’s on his way over now.’

‘Thank you, Vanessa. If you’ve got a moment, could you be a star and whip up some...’ He raised an eyebrow at Lucy. ‘It’s tea you police officers drink in all the crime novels, isn’t it? That or whisky.’ Back to Vanessa and her spinster cosplay. ‘Better find some doughnuts too; if we’re going for the cliché we might as well do it properly.’

‘It’s a kind offer, but Detective Constable Fraser and I will be fine.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Striding off towards the stairs.

Lucy followed him. Jerking a thumb at the photos on the way. ‘Ex-teachers?’

‘Oh goodness me, no.’ The headmaster paused, one foot on the bottom step. ‘These are our alumni. As we only accept thirteen new students every year, I think it’s nice to celebrate each and every one of them, don’t you?’

She leaned in and peered over the top of her glasses at the nearest one, so the nameplate was in focus. ‘JEREMY OLDHAM CBE ~ SCOTIA PETROLEUM PRODUCTS, CFO’. Your average puffed-up white bloke with squint teeth and an expensive haircut. Then a proud woman with hard eyes and skin the colour of burnt umber: ‘ADAKU IGWE CFR ~ GOVERNOR OF BAUCHI STATE’. Followed by, ‘PORSCHE FITZROY-SMYTHE OBE ~ BROADCASTER & COLUMNIST’, ‘ZHŌU XIÙYĪNG ~ SHENZHEN FÈNGHUÁNG DĀO TRADING CO. LTD., CHAIRWOMAN’, ‘BARONESS PHILLIPA MCKEEVER QC’...

Lucy straightened up again. ‘Never heard of any of them.’

The headmaster looked slightly pained at that. ‘My dear Detective Sergeant, you are surrounded by captains of industry, political movers-and-shakers, innovators, and leading academics from all across the globe.’ Sweeping an arm out to indicate the vast array of faces beaming out of their individual frames. ‘Entrepreneurs, philanthropists, influential thinkers, the very pinnacle of humanity. We take only the best, we mould them, we equip them for the world and they, in turn, mould the future.’

Bit up himself.

‘If it’s any consolation, I recognize this one.’ She pointed at the portrait of a man who clearly loved himself more than he’d ever love anyone else. Sharp features; hair swept back, greying at the temples; a smug smirk pulling one side of his face up; cold eyes. ‘PAUL RHYNIE ~ H.M. GOVERNMENT, BUSINESS SECRETARY’. Not exactly a success story, given all the scandals getting aired on the news right now. Probably best not to mention that, though.

‘Some of the most powerful people in the country have emerged through our doors.’ A sigh. ‘Which is why it’s such a shame you couldn’t join us. Still, onwards ever upwards.’ Taking the stairs two at a time, all the way to the next floor.

Thanks for rubbing it in.

Lucy took her time, following him at a slow climb. Frowning at all the double-barrelled posh people in their school robes. Industrialists; doctors; lawyers; members of parliament, both Scottish and Westminster; overseas politicians; foreign royalty; editors of right-wing newspapers; editors of left-wing newspapers; the people who owned those newspapers; the heads of massive media corporations...

The headmaster wasn’t kidding when he said they were powerful.

‘Gah...’ The Dunk squelched through the main door and stood there, dripping on the flagstones in all his short-and-squishy glory.

‘Serves you right for being a slowcoach.’ She went back to full speed, leaving him struggling to catch up, yet again.

The first floor was less impressive than the ground. Still lined with photos, but it was little more than a wood-panelled corridor with four or five doors leading off from it.

The headmaster’s feet pounded ever upwards.

Second floor had a small landing with a single door: ‘RECORDS R — Z ~ STAFF ONLY’.

Third floor was M to Q; fourth: G to L; and fifth: A to F.

The sound of the Dunk puffing and wheezing echoed up the stone staircase. Sounded as if he’d swallowed a set of leaky bagpipes.

The sixth floor had a much grander landing than the ones below, complete with pot plants and a trio of padded leather armchairs arranged around a coffee table. On a sideboard in the corner, a pair of crystal decanters and matching set of glasses glittered on their silver tray. More photos.

Four doors this time: the lift, one marked ‘BURSAR’, one ‘ASSISTANT HEADMASTER’, and one lying wide open. That would be the headmaster’s, then. Lucy stuck her hands in her pockets and wandered through it, doing her best nonchalant, not-impressed-by-this-in-the-slightest act.

His office wasn’t quite as big as the one Operation Maypole had been given, but it wasn’t that far off it. Only instead of cubicles, whiteboards, and filing cabinets, this one was like a very rich family’s sitting room. It stretched the whole width of the tower: dark, wooden panelling, hung with oil paintings; display cabinets laden with school trophies; matching leather couches and armchairs; spectacular antique Persian carpets in rich tones of gold and burgundy; shelves upon shelves of books; and a huge, ornate wooden desk. The windows weren’t large, but the views out over the surrounding countryside were quite something, even in the drowning rain.

‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’ The headmaster poured himself something from a small crystal decanter.

‘I don’t. But thank you.’

‘Very wise. It’s a terrible habit.’ Then he took a sip, smiled, and lowered himself onto the edge of the desk. ‘But so good for the soul, don’t you think?’

She wandered over to the north-facing windows. Between here and Holburn Forest lay an array of playing fields that put Bellside School for Girls’ to shame, complete with tennis courts, a walled garden, and what looked like a covered swimming pool. Another quadrangle sat behind the main one, separated from the school buildings by a small orchard. That would be the dormitories. Though, going by the rest of the place, you could bet the kids weren’t sleeping in big draughty rooms on rows of hard metal-framed beds. With only thirteen new students a year, the overprivileged little sods probably had their own luxury suites. They must be rattling about in a school this size.

‘Do you think I would’ve liked it here?’

‘Of course you would. We don’t believe in the sackcloth-and-ashes approach to boarding school; we keep numbers low so we can really look after our students. No crowded classrooms and underfunded, under-resourced teaching here: every single young person matters.’ Another sip, followed by a faux-modest tilt of the head. ‘That might be why our alumni are so very generous to us when they find success in their chosen careers.’

Here’s what you could’ve won...

A knock on the doorframe. ‘Headmaster?’

Lucy turned.

The newcomer was mid-thirties — maybe early forties? — with a strong jaw and big brown eyes. One of those floppy haircuts only posh blokes could carry off. Wearing the standard-issue dark-grey suit and burgundy tie, but his academic robe was midnight-blue edged with silver. He strode into the room and cranked his boyish smile up to full beam, bringing with him the antiquated musty scent of sandalwood aftershave. Sticking out his hand. ‘Hello, you must be the Detective Sergeant that Skye was so excited about.’

She ignored the proffered hand. ‘You didn’t see a detective constable on your way up, did you? Only I’ve lost one.’

‘Ah, the sweaty, wheezing chap in the 1950s counter-culture getup? We may have to send a St Bernard to revive him with a tot of brandy.’ The assistant head must’ve realized he was still proffering his hand, because he cleared his throat and used it to brush that floppy fringe out of his eyes instead. Smooth. Then turned to the headmaster. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of collecting Allegra from Organisational Politics; she’s outside.’

‘Excellent, thank you, Argyll. Can you keep DS McVeigh company while she talks to Allegra? Not that we suspect you of ulterior motives, Detective Sergeant, but there are policies and procedures for these sorts of things.’

‘That’s fine. I wasn’t expecting to interview her without a responsible adult present. Policies and procedures.’

‘Policies and procedures.’ He toasted her with his glass, drank, then placed it on a coaster. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a rummage on the third floor. See what I can dig up.’ Rubbing his hands together. ‘Do check in when you’re finished, Detective Sergeant; I’d feel very guilty if you left before I could say goodbye.’ And he was off.

Lucy tilted her head to one side. ‘Argyll. You’re Skye’s older brother.’

‘Much, much older, for my sins. Now, why don’t you get settled in’ — pointing at one of the couches — ‘and I’ll fetch Allegra?’

A huffing, wheezing, sweaty lump lurched into the office. The Dunk. He’d unzipped his soggy leather jacket, bunnet clutched in one hand as he bent double. Back heaving. Face the colour of strawberry ice cream. ‘...stairs... God... stitch...’

Lucy settled into the leather sofa — much more comfortable than the ones at home — pulled out the two printouts they’d been showing round town that morning and placed them on the coffee table.

The Dunk staggered over, collapsing into an armchair, arms dangling, head hanging over the back of the chair, peching and heeching. ‘...dying...’

She placed her phone on the coffee table too, bringing up the voice memo recorder, because given his current state, there was no way the Dunk would be much use on the note-taking front. ‘How did you ever pass the bleep test this year?’

‘...why so... why so many... bleeding... stairs?’

‘Allegra, this is Detective Sergeant McVeigh.’ The assistant headmaster was back, bringing a young girl with him. ‘She needs to ask you a few questions.’

Allegra was dressed in the same school uniform, but her academic gown had the two white epaulettes marking her out as a new girl. Long red hair, pulled back in a shiny ponytail. Freckles standing out against her pale skin. Blue eyes. Pretty, in a conventional kind of way.

Lucy nodded in the direction of the panting sweaty lump in the armchair — which probably wasn’t the best of looks when it came to interviewing little girls. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Fraser.’ Just in case she thought he was as sketchy as he looked.

Allegra skipped over there, as if the Dunk was a lovely puppy, instead of the kind of man Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t let within a hundred feet of their delicate princess. Her voice was soft and saccharine. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ She did a cute kind of curtsey and shook his hand. Sneakily wiping it on the back of her academic robe when he wasn’t looking.

Then she stuck the same hand out to Lucy. Firm grip. Direct eye contact. No curtsey.

Interesting...

Allegra pulled her chin up. ‘It’s simple neuro-linguistic programming.’ Sounding less saccharine and more strychnine. ‘Your colleague now feels that he holds a degree of patriarchal power, which means he’ll underestimate me in any business dealings. While you know that we are equals and will afford me due respect, during our interactions.’

Mr Marlins, back at Bellside School, had been right about her personality, anyway.

Lucy pressed the button that set her phone’s voice memo recording. ‘Allegra, we’re here because you bought a coat for a homeless man, four and a bit weeks ago.’

‘Did I?’

Lucy pointed at printout number one: the security camera shot of Allegra handing the bag over.

‘I’m not trying to be arch, Detective Sergeant McVeigh, it’s just that my charitable works all tend to bleed into each other. I’ve lost track of the number of coats I’ve been able to supply for poor, unfortunate, cold souls like that.’

Since when did eleven-year-olds talk like that? As if they were mini-grown-up people with mortgages and stock portfolios and dinner parties, instead of pre-hormonal monsters about to be unleashed upon the world...

‘Do you recognize this man?’ Lucy poked the close-up of Malcolm Louden.

‘I think it’s important to give back to the community, don’t you, Detective Sergeant McVeigh? Those of us born with a certain degree of... let’s call it “privilege”, have a responsibility to help out members of society less fortunate than ourselves.’

‘I notice you’re not answering my question, Allegra.’

A little girl shouldn’t have a smile as cold as that. ‘Am I in trouble for helping a homeless man stay warm and dry?’

‘You’re not in any trouble. We’re trying to piece together this man’s movements and we think you can help.’

‘So is he in trouble?’

‘No, he’s dead.’

The smile got even colder. ‘That sounds like a great deal of trouble to me.’ She picked up Malcolm Louden’s picture, little creases forming between her pale eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry to hear that he died, but I don’t see how I can possibly help you. I bought him a coat, because he looked cold. My allowance is generous enough that I can do good deeds like that on a fairly regular basis. I also volunteer at a soup kitchen once a month, help with fundraising for an outreach programme, and support my local art gallery.’

Lucy matched the arctic smile. ‘This isn’t a competition, Allegra.’

‘Everything is a competition, Detective Sergeant McVeigh. Everything is a test. And I intend to pass with flying colours.’

Argyll raised his eyebrows, rocking on the balls of his feet — setting his academic robes swaying.

OK...

‘Let me give you some unsolicited advice, Allegra. Something that’ll stand you in good stead for the rest of your life.’ Lucy sat forward and gave her a good dose of the evil eye. ‘When you evade a police officer’s questions like that, it doesn’t make us think, “Gosh, isn’t this little girl smart and self-assured!” It makes us think, “This one’s got something to hide. I’d better keep an eye on her. Maybe take a much closer look and see what I can find out.”’

Those creases between Allegra’s eyebrows deepened. ‘I see.’

‘It doesn’t make you clever, it makes you a person of interest.’

The only sound was the Dunk’s wheezing breath.

Then Allegra nodded, and the frown was gone. ‘Thank you for the advice, Detective Sergeant McVeigh.’ The smile defrosted too. ‘I always value the opportunity to learn new things, and grow as an individual.’

Because that didn’t sound at all creepy.

‘Good. Now, tell me about—’ Lucy’s phone buzzzzzzz-dinged at her — incoming text message. The preview appeared on the screen, hiding the recorder.

Oh shut up, you condescending—

Buzzzzzzz-ding.

God’s sake, could the bloody man not leave her alone for five minutes?

DISMISS.

Shame there wasn’t a button for SOD OFF.

‘Sorry: work.’ Lucy made sure the app was still recording. ‘Tell me about Malcolm Louden.’ A short pause. ‘Please.’

Allegra swished her academic gown out of the way and perched on the edge of the sofa opposite. ‘I’d seen him outside the train station a number of times, wearing this grubby thin jacket, covered in stains. He looked colder than usual that day, so I bought him a new coat.’

‘Just like that?’

‘I’m planning on going to Oxford to study Philosophy, Politics, and Economics. Then a DPhil in either Politics or International Relations. It’s not like it was in the old days, when you could simply waltz into Oxbridge with a good family name and a crate of Dom Pérignon; now you need top marks in every subject. Except everyone applying to Oxbridge has top marks, or they wouldn’t be applying.’

‘Your old teacher, Mr Marlins, says Oxford and Cambridge don’t care about extra-curricular activities.’

‘If you have two identical candidates, with the same academic scores, who are you going to pick: the one who’s done nothing, or the one who’s done everything?’

Suppose she had a point. ‘OK.’

‘It’s a war, Detective Sergeant McVeigh, and whatever gives you an edge against the enemy is a weapon to be wielded.’ Allegra shrugged. She probably meant it to come across as self-deprecating, but it looked artificial. Forced. As if she’d practised it in front of the mirror. ‘I think a summer job helping underprivileged children in Africa, or South America, for UNICEF or Oxfam will seal the deal.’

‘So, you don’t actually care about the homeless, you’re just using them to climb the ladder.’

‘Does the starving man care why you feed him, or does he only care that he’s got enough food in his belly to live another day?’

Oh yeah, this one was definitely destined for a job in politics.

‘And you thought buying Malcolm Louden a jacket would help get you into Oxford?’

‘Helping him helps me, what’s wrong with that?’ She placed the photo back on the coffee table. ‘I bought him the coat: he was very grateful. He was happy because unlike everyone else who’d marched past that morning, not looking at him, pretending he wasn’t there, I actually stopped and helped.’

Suppose she had a point.

‘Did Malcolm Louden say anything about what he was going to do later? Was he planning to meet someone, or go somewhere?’

‘No. To be honest, I got the impression he was mostly trying not to cry. Some people do that when no one’s been kind to them for a long, long time.’

‘And did you see anyone hanging around when you gave him the coat? Anyone suspicious? Anyone paying a bit too much attention to him?’

‘Hmmm...’ The frown was back. She chewed on her bottom lip for a bit. Then shook her head. ‘No one that comes to mind. But I was a little preoccupied with preparing for my final assessment for St Nicholas College.’ Allegra shared a bright smile with the assistant headmaster. ‘Wanted to do my best.’

Argyll doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Flying colours.’

Back to Lucy. ‘And it’s so much better here than at my last school. Bellside spend all their money on flashy new buildings, management consultants, and PR campaigns; here it’s invested in the curriculum and equipment and facilities. You should see our science lab, it’s like something out of a Bond film!’

Difficult to tell if she was aiming for more Brownie points from the assistant headmaster, or just genuinely excited. Didn’t really matter in the end.

Allegra sighed. Shook her head. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help, Detective Sergeant McVeigh. I truly am.’

‘So am I.’ Lucy stood. Passed over a Police Scotland business card. ‘If you remember anything, doesn’t matter how small, get in touch.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘DC Fraser: we’re going.’

The Dunk groaned, sagged, then struggled to his feet. ‘OK, OK, but can we please take the lift this time?’

‘No.’

18

The Dunk stomped down the stairs, grumbling away under his breath like a sulky child.

Lucy paused every time she recognized one of the portraits that packed the walls on either side of the stairwell. Mostly because it wound the Dunk up to see her peering at another ‘posh twat’.

Served him right for being a useless unfit sod.

By the time they’d got to the fourth floor she’d spotted two controversial journalists, three business types that were always getting interviewed on the Today programme, two former cabinet ministers, and a whole heap of—

Her phone blared out its ringtone.

‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.

She pressed the button. ‘DS McVeigh.’

A banjo-country accent grated its way out of the earpiece. ‘Aye, aye, it’s Mike Scobie. Hiv you seen the boy, the day?’

‘What boy? Who is this?’

‘I telt ye: it’s Mike Scobie. Lucas Weir’s Criminal Justice social worker? Lucas Weir? Wink, wink, maybe no’ his real name, cos he got his heid kicked in when “They” found out far he lived?’

‘Benedict Strachan.’

‘The very loon. Far is he?’

‘How am I supposed to—’

‘He’s meant to report in every morning, like the court telt him to. But there’s nae sign. And yon halfway hoose I got him intil havnae seen him, the day, either. If we canna find him, he’s back ahin bars by dinnertime.’

Bit difficult to lock him up if they couldn’t find him, but fair enough.

She started walking again. ‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’

‘There’s only you and me gives a badger’s fart about the boy. I mak it official and he’s screwed. And if he doesnae turn up soon, I’m gonna have til.’

Maybe being sent back to prison would be the best thing for Benedict? He clearly wasn’t coping on the outside. The drink, the drugs, the paranoia. All that stuff about ‘Them’ knowing everything and being after him...

At least inside he’d get the help he needed.

Hopefully.

Not counting another round of budget cuts.

And there were always budget cuts.

And prison services were an easy target.

And—

‘You remembering I’m still on the phone, here?’

‘What? Yes. OK: look, I’m investigating a murder, I don’t have time to go chasing after people right now.’

‘Aye, weil, I’m heading oot and aboot to see if I can find him, because I actually give a toss. You think it’s OK for him to get hauled in and banged up again? That’s on you. Dinna come crying to me when he gets his throat slit in the prison showers.’

Then silence. Scobie had hung up.

‘Yes, because I can just wave my magic wand and make all the bad things go away.’ Cramming the phone back in her pocket.

The Dunk clumped down the stairs beside her. ‘Let me guess: bad news?’

‘Benedict Strachan’s done a bunk.’

‘Ooooh... Not good. Want me to start the paperwork? “Have you seen this man?” posters, media briefing, lookout request, etc.?’

She stopped. Stood there, staring up at the sloped ceiling. ‘If we make it official, that’s it for Benedict. He gets hauled in, done for violating his release conditions, and it’s right back to HMP Oldcastle for the next three or four years.’

‘Should’ve thought of that before he murdered a homeless guy.’

‘He was eleven, Dunk.’

‘Tell that to the victim’s family.’

They stomped down to the next landing in silence. Then the one after that.

The Dunk let out a big hissing breath, cheeks puffed out like a trumpet player. ‘OK, so you want to make it “off the books”, then? Could put out some feelers; ask Uniform to keep their eyes peeled, but don’t tell them why; maybe pay his parents a visit?’

That wasn’t a bad idea.

Lucy nodded. ‘We can pop past his halfway house, too. See if they know anything. After all, it’s not as if we can do a whole lot more till the post-mortem on Malcolm Louden is...’ She turned the final corner, and there, at the bottom of the stairs, was the headmaster. Waiting for them.

He held up a slim brown file. ‘Thought I’d catch you, if I was fast enough.’

Lucy nodded. ‘Mr Price-Hamilton. We’re finished with Allegra. Thank you for the use of your office.’

‘No, my pleasure, my pleasure. Civic duty’s a keystone of our curriculum, so it’s important to practise what we preach. Was she able to help?’

‘Didn’t see anything.’

‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Anyway’— holding up the folder again — ‘look what I found.’

The Dunk had gone all pink and silent again, so Lucy shoved him towards the exit. ‘Go: get started on those feelers.’

His only reply was a deepening blush, then the Dunk zipped his jacket up, slapped that stupid leather bunnet on his head, and hurried out into the rain. Ridiculous little spud that he was.

The headmaster opened the folder and squinted at the contents. ‘I have to say that I’m impressed with your test results. Very impressed. Academic, psychological, physical... They’re some of the highest scores I’ve seen in years.’ He put a hand on her arm again, the grip warm and firm through her jacket. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t welcome you to our family, Lucy. I was right: you would have been perfectly at home here.’ A squeeze. ‘Imagine what you could have achieved if we’d had the chance to mould those raw talents of yours.’

Patronizing dick.

As if St Nicholas College was the centre of the sodding universe and no one could succeed if it hadn’t sprinkled its overprivileged, overpriced, overbollocksed pixie dust on them.

Chin up. ‘I’ve got an MSc in criminal psychology, first class honours; I own a three-bedroom house, in a lovely rural setting, with no mortgage; and I’m on the fast-track programme with Police Scotland. I’ll make DI before I’m thirty. Maybe superintendent by forty. I’ll be running the whole division by forty-five.’ A brittle smile. ‘So, yeah, I did OK, thanks.’

‘Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘O Division? You could’ve been running the whole country.’

Here’s what you could’ve won...

‘Yes. Well. Thanks again for the loan of your office.’ Then, with her back ramrod straight, Lucy marched out into the rain.

The whole country.

And somehow she got the feeling he wasn’t just talking about Police Scotland.

Which really didn’t sodding help.

What was she supposed to do with information like that? Oh, yes, Lucy, you could’ve been First Minister, or Prime Minister, if only your poor father had been able to afford the fees.

Well, he couldn’t, so there was no point—

‘Leaving so soon?’ A large figure appeared at her shoulder, bringing with him that familiar musty aroma of sandalwood. Just like Dad used to wear. The blue academic robe, trimmed in silver, was the clincher, though.

‘Mr McCaskill.’

‘It’s Argyll, please. Oh, and here.’ There was a click, then a whoooom as a school brolly popped open above them both. The downpour thrummed against the tight black fabric. ‘Can’t have you getting wet on the way back to your car.’

‘What happened to Allegra?’

‘Ah.’ His smile turned into a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Yes, she can be a bit...’ He pantomimed a shudder. ‘Don’t get me wrong, a lot of the first years have... challenging personalities when they get here, but I have to admit there’s something decidedly unsettling about Miss Dean-Edwards. Like she’s, I don’t know, playing chess in her head every time she talks to you?’

‘More like something out of a Brothers Grimm story, emerging from the deep dark woods, wearing the skin of a little girl, trying to pass for human.’

They stepped out into the quad.

‘Thanks, I’m probably going to have nightmares about that now.’ Argyll moved closer, making sure they both stayed dry. ‘Mind you, having met her parents, I’m not surprised she’s a little monster.’ That boyish smile was back. ‘But luckily I like a challenge: keeps life interesting. We’ll get those sharp corners polished off her in no time. After all, she’s only eleven.’

The same excuse she’d given the Dunk for Benedict Strachan’s behaviour.

‘The kids are always a little rough around the edges when we get them. They’re used to being top of the class in their primary schools, spoiled at home, feted by their friends. It usually takes a while to realize that the whole world doesn’t actually revolve around them.’

They marched past the twisted oak in the middle of the quadrangle, Argyll slowing his pace to an amble, so she had to either slow down too, or march out into the rain.

Lucy matched his pace. ‘A whole school full of creepy wee egomaniacs.’

‘By the time she hits the second term, you won’t recognize her. Promise.’ He cleared his throat, looking out straight ahead as he and Lucy strolled down the path. ‘You gave Allegra your card. I wondered, you know, if it’s not being too forward or anything, if you’d like to give me one too?’

She raised an eyebrow at that, and pink rushed up his cheeks.

‘I mean, a card. If you’d like to give me a card too.’ Going redder by the moment. ‘Or not. It’s understandable. I didn’t mean to... Yes.’ Picking up the pace again. ‘Anyway, right now, Allegra has been assigned her academic brother, so it’s all about establishing peer-to-peer support networks, and next term she’ll get an academic father and mother from the senior years. That’s when the pupils really get into their stride.’

‘And learn they’re not the centre of the universe.’

He licked his lips. ‘You may not have noticed, but I might be babbling somewhat.’

Really?

They’d reached the archway back out into the real world, where the Dunk was sitting in the pool car, engine running.

She pointed. ‘This is me.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. About the babbling.’ Getting all flushed again. ‘Here.’ Holding out the brolly and stepping back, so she was the only one underneath its swollen black wings.

‘My car’s just over there.’

‘I know, but... you might get wet later. And it’s good advertising for the school, of course. With my compliments.’

‘Fair enough.’ She took the proffered umbrella.

He stood there in the downpour, smiling and blushing at her. Like something from the closing scenes of a particularly cheesy romcom.

To be painfully honest, he wasn’t actually that bad-looking. Maybe even attractive, in an upper-class cry-havoc-for-Harry-and-St-George kind of way. Or however that quote went. The point being: he was a nice guy, and not a complete arse-faced minger, so would it kill her to throw him a small bone?

Pfff... Lucy rolled her eyes, pulled a face, then dug a hand into her inside pocket. ‘Fine.’ She handed him one of her Police Scotland business cards. ‘My mobile number’s on the back, in case Allegra remembers anything.’

‘Definitely.’ He tucked the thing away, inside his jacket. ‘I’ll be in touch. I mean, if she remembers anything. Definitely.’

And with that, Lucy turned and marched off towards the pool car, leaving him in the rain. ‘Bye, Mr McCaskill.’ Not bothering to hide her smile, now that he couldn’t see it.

His voice boomed out behind her. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you!’

‘You OK, Sarge? Only you look a bit... you know.’ The Dunk took a right at the junction, into the sprawling nest of housing estates that formed the northernmost edge of the Wynd, windscreen wipers making slow-motion, groaning arcs through the drizzle. ‘It was those snotty posh twats, wasn’t it? Tell you, they give me the willies.’

‘Yeah, I noticed, what with all the terrified looks and awkward silences.’

‘It’s not my fault! I have... issues.’

‘You certainly do.’ Lucy frowned down at the phone in her hand and the text sitting at the top of the list. Rereading DI Tudor’s message for about the fifth time since leaving St Nicholas College.

Now why did that read as if he was covering his backside, in case she tried suing the force for constructive dismissal? Here is written evidence that I have done my best to ensure that DS McVeigh got the help she needed, but she would not cooperate, m’lord. Therefore, she can’t sue us, because we did everything right and she’s just an obstinate, bloody-minded, thrawn, scrawny bitch.

Or maybe they were going to sign her off on the sick? When they started talking about ‘taking some time off for your mental health’ you knew you were in trouble. Wouldn’t be long before they stuck you out to pasture, like ex-DI Christopher Gourley, drinking yourself into oblivion, till one day you just upped and disappeared... And it wasn’t as if anyone would even bother to report Lucy missing. There was no one to miss her.

So much for her good mood.

Why could no bugger ever let her be?

Fine, she’d make yet another sodding appointment to see Dr McNaughton. Play along, like everyone wanted. Maybe then they’d all sod off.

‘And dear God, was that Allegra kid creepy enough?’ The Dunk turned left, into a wide, curving cul-de-sac. ‘With her “neuro-linguistic programming” and her “Oh, my allowance is so huge I can hand out new jackets, willy-nilly, to the oiks and tramps, for I am Lady Muck from the Manor!”’

‘That’s it, up there.’ Lucy pointed through the windscreen at a large fifties bungalow, set back from the road, like all the other large fifties bungalows on this street. Every drive boasted at least one four-by-four, every lawn a couple of large trees and a collection of well-tended flowerbeds. The kind of place where it’d be safe to raise a kid.

Only it hadn’t really turned out that way. Not for Benedict Strachan.

The Dunk pulled up at the kerb. ‘Anything I need to know before we go in?’

‘Give us a minute, would you? I need to make a call.’

‘Fair enough.’ He reached into the back for his leather bunnet, then climbed out into the dreich afternoon. ‘Don’t be long, though, eh? We’ve still got those two Bloodsmith crime scenes to go visit.’

She waited till he was at least six feet away, before bringing up Dr McNaughton’s number.

Might as well get it over with...

The bungalow was much bigger than it’d looked from the outside. Grander, too. Mr and Mrs Strachan were clearly worth a bob or five and wanted everyone to know it: from the big BMW tank and sporty-looking bright-red Audi TT on the driveway, to all those photos of the happy couple on fancy foreign holidays adorning the walls. Oh, and the whole place had been hoovered and dusted till it shone. Which just wasn’t natural.

The floral-print couch creaked as Lucy sat forward and curled her stockinged feet into the oatmeal-coloured carpet. Deep and rich and luxurious.

The Dunk had his feet tucked beneath his chair, trying to hide the holes in the toes of both stripy socks. At least the Strachans weren’t posh enough to bring on his class-induced muteness. And he had his notebook out — ready to be useful, for a change.

Mr Strachan took up centre stage on the other couch: flannels and an open-necked linen shirt; pale hair swept back from his widow’s peak; a wide, tanned face with a squishy nose; short, salt-and-ginger beard rippling across both of his chins. A voice that was clearly used to telling people what to do. ‘Of course we haven’t seen him.’ Strachan turned and scowled at a cougary woman in a tight knitted sweater and blue jeans, chest-length blonde hair betrayed by a thin stripe of grey at the roots. ‘Have we, Nikki?’

‘Definitely not.’ She worried at a string of pearls with her long Barbie-pink nails. ‘We haven’t seen him. Why would we have seen him?’

Lucy leaned forwards. ‘Because he’s your son?’

‘He’s no son of mine!’ Her top lip curled, but the rest of her face was held rigid in a Botox fist. ‘No child of mine would ever kill a homeless person.’

A snort from Benedict’s father. ‘And no son of mine would be stupid enough to get caught!’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute, I recognize you. You were that student who came round asking all those questions about... him. Years ago.’

‘Mr Strachan, it’s important we find Benedict. If we don’t, they’ll send him back to prison.’

A carriage clock on the mantelpiece tick, tick, ticked.

Mrs Strachan fiddled with her pearls.

The Dunk shifted in his seat, pen poised.

‘Good.’ Mr Strachan poked a finger at them. ‘He ruined everything. Have you any idea what we did for him? What we sacrificed? The strings I had to pull?’

Nikki placed a hand on his arm. ‘Ian was on the council. The Labour Party selected him to run as MP for Oldcastle South.’

‘And then that stupid little...’ Ian Strachan looked away. ‘Of course, I had to resign from the council. Then I got unselected and they found some chinless moron to stand in the general election. And he lost, by the way. I would’ve won.’

She gazed at him, like an adoring puppy. ‘You would’ve been a great MP, Ian.’

‘The scandal was just... It took years to get my business off the ground after that. No one wanted to be tainted by association. He ruined everything.’

Wow. With a loving family like that, how on earth did Benedict turn out the way he did?

His mother sat up straight. ‘We only visited him in prison once, and that was to disown him. Whatever he did, whoever he’s hurt, it’s nothing to do with us.’

‘And Benedict hasn’t been in touch since he got out?’

Ian went back to poking again, getting redder and redder with each word. ‘We spent every penny we had on that boy. Remortgaged the house. Made sure he had the brightest future money could buy, and how does he repay us? Goes out and stabs some... tramp to death. And when they catch him, he doesn’t even have the brains to say “no comment”, he gives them a full bloody confession!’

‘Has he been in touch?’

‘OF COURSE HE HASN’T BEEN IN BLOODY TOUCH!’ Trembling, spittle flying, eyes bugging.

‘Shhhhh...’ Nikki stroked her husband’s arm. ‘Shhhhh... It’s OK. It’s OK, Ian.’ A kiss on his flushed cheek. ‘Why don’t I go make everyone a nice cup of tea? Maybe the police officers will help me?’

Now why did that sound like an invitation to talk about Benedict behind Ian Strachan’s back?

Lucy stood. ‘We’d love to.’

19

Nice kitchen. Big. Retro. With windows looking out over a large garden and tidy patio.

Nikki Strachan stood at the open back door, vaping a cloud of marzipan-scented steam out into the drizzle. Keeping her voice down. ‘Sorry, he’s... It’s not been easy for us. Took Ian years and years to get over what happened with... with what happened. Then he built his business up from scratch and it was all going so well and we’d finally managed to pay off all the loans, and the debts, and actually have a nice holiday for once, then Covid-sodding-Nineteen comes along and bang: we go from employing two hundred and sixty staff to losing everything.’ A bitter-almond laugh. ‘So we’re back to square one. Up to our ears in debt, house remortgaged, and no one’ll take our calls because they let... they let him out of prison and suddenly our name’s all over the papers again.’

Lucy took a sip of lukewarm tea. ‘It must’ve been very difficult.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, Detective Sergeant, I loved my little boy. I loved him so, so much. And then he went and did that.’ She wiped the heel of her hand across one eye. ‘And you ask yourself, “Where did I go wrong? How did my sweet little baby turn into this monster?”’

Out in the garden, the Dunk emerged from a large wooden shed, wiping cobwebs off the front of his leather jacket with nitrile-gloved hands. He waved at the kitchen window and shook his head.

Ah well, it’d been worth a try.

Then the Dunk squelched off through the wet grass towards the garage. Probably should’ve loaned him her new brolly, but it’d only get in the way of the searching.

‘My baby was such a perfect little soul. Do you know he could name all the constellations and recite the periodic table by the time he was six? Clever and kind and artistic and musical...’ Nikki stared out into the rain. ‘Then five weeks after he leaves primary school, bang. The whole world falls apart.’

‘And he never tried to keep in touch?’ Lucy jerked her head in the general direction of the living room. ‘Maybe without your husband knowing?’

Nikki was silent for a moment, not turning around, barely moving at all.

‘Mrs Strachan, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—’

‘He writes to me every week, has done for the last sixteen years. Ian doesn’t know. They all get delivered to a PO box in Blackwall Hill.’ Now she turned, eyes shiny and blinking. ‘Please, you can’t tell him. It would break... You’ve seen how he gets.’

Sixteen years’ worth of correspondence. Who knew what little nuggets Benedict let slip? Maybe even something that would identify his accomplice.

OK, Lucy, deep breath.

Don’t sound too keen.

Lucy had another sip of tea. Pitched her voice a little on the bored side. ‘Do you still have the letters?’

Please, please, please, please.

‘I burn them.’ Mrs Strachan curled her shoulders in, vape cupped against her jumper. ‘What if Ian found one and then he’d know I’ve been speaking to... to him. I can’t do that to Ian. Not after everything he’s been through.’

Bastard.

Couldn’t catch a break today.

Lucy put her mug down. ‘Did Benedict ever talk about the boy who helped him kill Liam Hay? Or why they did it?’

‘We never talk about... what happened. It’s too upsetting. Besides, you never know who reads your letters when you send them, do you? People at the prison.’

‘What about since he got out?’

This time the silence stretched on for a long, long while.

‘Mrs Strachan? He’s been in touch, hasn’t he?’

She stared down at the kitchen floor, pulling her top lip in.

‘Did he come to the house?’

Nikki wiped at her eyes again. ‘You don’t understand how hard it is.’

‘They’re going to catch him sooner or later. And when they do, he’s going to be in a lot of trouble.’

‘It’s not fair. It wasn’t his fault!’

‘If we find Benedict now, today, no one else needs to know. We slip him back into the system, so he doesn’t get arrested for violating his release conditions. He doesn’t get stuck back in HMP Oldcastle till his thirty-first birthday.’

Nikki didn’t raise her eyes from the kitchen floor. ‘I can’t. He trusts me.’

‘Help me to help him, then! If we can keep him from getting locked up, Benedict can focus on getting better.’

‘I promised...’

‘He needs you, Nikki. He needs his mother to help him do the right thing.’

‘Oh God.’ Her free hand came up and covered her eyes, shoulders quivering; then her back hunched as she heaved out a huge, jagged sob. Followed by another one. And another. Knees bending till she was slumped forwards against the doorframe.

The summer house was tucked away behind a trellis festooned with honeysuckle — the blooms wilting and grey, battered into submission by the week’s rain. But their sickly-sweet perfume still scented the air, leaves glistening in the cold drizzle.

Nikki stood in the middle of the wooden floor, beneath the peaked roof, eyes screwed shut, one hand pressing the vape against her forehead as if she was trying to trepan herself with it. The other held her phone. ‘I know, sweetie, I know, but it’s—... Yes... No, I know that, but—... It’s—’ Her shoulders drooped even further. ‘You have to understand it from your father’s—... Please. We have to—... No.’

Lucy sat on the edge of a folding chair, frowning up at the remains of a wasps’ nest. It hung from one of the joists that held the summer house’s roof up. Not a big nest, just a little ash-coloured circle the size of a golf ball, with a hole in the bottom.

‘Sweetie, we need to—... I understand that, but it’s important.’

That was a queen’s nest. Where the future mother of all wasps would hibernate her way through the winter.

‘I know you do, but I need to see you. In person... Uh-huh.’ She opened one eye and glanced at Lucy. Then closed it again. ‘No, just you and me. I’ll... I’ll bring you some sandwiches. Egg and onion. Your favourites... Yes... I know, I know.’

Surprised the nest was still there. Maybe the queen emerged too early and just starved to death? Even so, you’d think the Strachans would’ve got rid of it by now. Must’ve been there since last winter.

A silent empty home for dead little monsters.

‘Good. Yes... I’ll see you there... No, I promise, sweetie, I promise.’ Nikki nodded. ‘OK. OK, bye. Bye. Bye... Bye.’ She hung up. Hissed out a long breath. Then hauled in another one through her vape. Puffed a thick plume of marzipan steam at the summer-house roof, enveloping the wasps’ nest.

Lucy stood. ‘He’ll be there?’

She pinched her lips together, fixed her gaze on the garden outside. ‘You swear you won’t hurt him?’

‘Of course I won’t.’ Well, not unless he kicked off. Or tried to get away. Which he probably would. But Nikki didn’t need to know that. ‘I swear.’

‘Then he’ll be there.’

The Dunk clumped his way down the drive, past the swanky BMW four-by-four and the sporty Audi, over to the manky pool car. Hauled open the driver’s door and thumped in behind the wheel. ‘Urgh... For someone who keeps such a clean house, her shed, garage, and attic are a disgrace.’ He took off his soggy dust-streaked bunnet and tossed it into the back of the car. ‘And what are you looking so damned cheerful about? Is it because you didn’t have to go rummaging about in the filth, looking for Benedict Buggering Strachan?’

Lucy gifted him the most annoying smile she could muster. ‘Blackwall Hill: there’s a coffee shop on Brindle Road, opposite the train station.’

The Dunk unzipped his grubby leather jacket. ‘If that’s supposed to get my Y-fronts in a swirl, it’s not working. Unless you’re buying?’

‘Benedict Strachan’s going to be there at half seven tonight.’

‘Oooh...’ Eyes widening. Then, ‘Sod.’ The Dunk checked his phone. ‘I’m going to the theatre with Zoe tonight. Had the tickets booked for months.’

Lucy pulled her seatbelt on. ‘It’s not as if I can’t handle Benedict Strachan.’

‘I’d cancel, but her sister and brother-in-law are in it.’

‘Isn’t even an official operation. You go, enjoy your show.’

‘Yeah.’ He grimaced, then started the car. ‘An am-dram musical version of Silence of the Lambs. No way that’s going to be a festering sack of old garbage.’ The Dunk hauled the wheel round in a three-point turn, till they were heading out of the cul-de-sac again. ‘Where next? You wanna hit Jane Cooper’s flat in Castleview first, or Craig Thorburn’s place in Blackwall Hill?’

Victims number four and five.

‘Jane Cooper. Then I need you to drop me back at the station. DI Tudor wants me to talk to someone.’ Whether she liked it or not.

Jane Cooper’s flat was one of the swanky new ones on St Bartholomew’s Road, down by the river. Eight storeys of ‘luxury apartments’, most of which were still sitting empty — either not sold yet, or snapped up as an investment by people with more money than brain cells.

Jane’s was near the top, with floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out across gunmetal water to the long, thin stretch of Dalrymple Park, then on to the bit where Cowskillin merged into Castle Hill. A balcony of wooden decking sat outside, complete with a patio set — the rattan furniture tainted green where patches of moss and algae had taken hold. Damp and soggy in the permanent drizzle.

The Dunk let loose a long, low whistle, standing there with his nose pressed against the living-room window. ‘She must’ve been absolutely minted.’

Not that it had helped her any. The Bloodsmith had killed Jane Cooper just as dead as the others.

Lucy furled up her brand-new umbrella and leaned it against the oversized fireplace, then slapped the case file down on the dining table — a big chrome-and-beech thing with matching chairs, sitting beneath a complicated chandelier festooned with LED lights. ‘Read.’

‘Man, I would love to live somewhere like this.’

‘Case file, Dunk, read. Out loud.’

A sigh and he wandered over, running his fingertips along an expensive-looking sideboard punctuated with tasteful ornaments. Leaving parallel tracks in the dust and fingerprint powder. ‘Imagine the dinner parties you could have...’

Lucy did a slow tour of the living room while he opened the folder and dug out the paperwork.

It was all very nice, and the furniture and artworks had clearly cost a small fortune, but the place was somehow devoid of personality. As if Jane Cooper had handed the whole thing over to an interior designer and asked them to make it look as if someone rich lived here.

‘Right, off we go.’ The Dunk performed a theatrical clearing of his throat. ‘Jane Izabella Cooper; twenty-four; shoulder-length curly brown hair; heart-shaped face with a fairly uncomfortable smile. The features look a bit too small for it, too. You know, like she’s one of those spooky porcelain dolls little girls used to play with in the Victorian times?’ A sigh. ‘She looks sad.’

Lucy wandered out of the lounge and into a long corridor lined with doors and original artworks.

He followed, nose in the file. ‘Pretty enough, I suppose, if you’re into that sort of thing.’

The kitchen wasn’t quite as big as Lucy’s dad’s, but it had a lot more gadgets in it. Their gleaming metal surfaces dulled by time and the SOC team’s powders.

The Dunk thumped his bum against the work surface and pouted. ‘Oh...’

Lucy opened a cupboard at random, exposing three shelves full of pots and pans that still had the paper price tags dangling from the handles. ‘“Oh”, what?’

‘She worked in that bookshop on Castlewall Terrace. I like that place; they do great coffee.’

The next cupboard held a pasta machine, fancy blender, and some sort of vacuum packer. None of which looked as if they’d ever been used.

Lucy closed the cupboard door and moved on to the fridge. ‘She bought this place by working in a bookshop?’

‘Nah: inherited a massive chunk of cash when her parents died in a scuba-diving accident off Mauritius. Dad was some sort of investment banker; Mum was a corporate lawyer.’

The fridge was still fully stocked: mostly Marks & Spencer ready meals, all now eight months past their sell-by date, their plastic films swollen and stretched taut. The milk carton had blown up like a rugby ball, its contents separated into dirty liquid and a thick layer of yellowy sludge.

She shut the fridge before anything in there went off with a bang. ‘Who reported her missing?’

‘Erm...’ He followed Lucy across the hall, into a spacious bathroom with a freestanding bath and fancy shower. ‘Ah, OK. It was a Russell Fowler, of Robinson, Fenton, and Fowler Limited. They’re solicitors. Been working for her family since before the accident.’ The Dunk sniffed. ‘Now that’s just depressing.’

Next up was a cosy study. The views weren’t as good on this side of the flat — looking out across a building site to the unconverted warehouses and ratty little alleyways that used to cover this whole area.

The search team must’ve had a field day in here: all the drawers were open, the contents heaped up in wobbly piles on an antique desk. They’d even emptied out the wastepaper basket. Looking for clues. Finding sod all.

‘Says here she was meant to attend a “financial management and planning consultation”, which is sketchy lawyer talk for squirrelling cash away in the Cayman Islands where the taxman can’t get his hands on it. Because, you know, why should rich people pay their fair share?’ A snort. ‘Anyway, when they couldn’t raise her over the next couple of days, Fowler called the local station.’

‘Why didn’t the bookshop call it in?’

‘She was only part-time.’

No family. No friends. Not even colleagues who gave a toss. It had been down to the lawyers to report her missing.

The Dunk was right, that really was depressing.

He looked up from the file. ‘You want PM results next, or crime-scene photos?’

Neither.

But she held her hand out anyway. ‘Photos.’ Took them out into the corridor again without looking at the bloody things. Down to the master bedroom at the end.

Another long, low whistle. ‘Wow.’ The Dunk scuffed into the middle of the space. ‘I mean, waking up to that every morning.’ Standing there, with his hands on his hips, looking out through the patio doors, across the balcony, and off towards the castle — balanced on top of its granite blade — fading in and out of focus as the rain drifted by.

Didn’t seem to bother him that the rest of the room was a disaster area.

The crime-scene cleaners had been in, hacking big random chunks out of both carpet and underlay, exposing the mottled chipboard flooring below. They’d sprayed the wall behind the bed with their industrial-strength bleach, replacing the Bloodsmith’s prayer with a large patch of urine-yellow blotches, but clearly the mattress, sheets, and pillows had been too contaminated to rescue. Now only a purple furry throw lay draped across the naked bedframe.

Like the study, all the bedside-cabinet drawers were open, their contents rummaged through. Same with the make-up stand. Only the built-in wardrobes looked as if they hadn’t been ransacked. Or at least someone had bothered to hang Jane’s clothes up again, afterwards.

‘How much do you think a place like this would set you back?’ The Dunk unlocked the patio doors, sliding them open to let in the muffled roar of the city beyond. Dampened by that thick blanket of drizzle. ‘I should start buying lottery tickets.’

Lucy risked a glance at the crime-scene photographs.

Jane Cooper lay spreadeagled on her bed, stripped naked, eyes and mouth hanging open. Chest and stomach, too. He’d draped Jane’s innards across her thighs, hiding her crotch. Pale skin smeared with dark scarlet. The bedding saturated with it. ‘HELP ME!’ on the wall above what was left of her.

The next pic was a close-up of her face, frozen forever in an expression of horrified surprise. The Dunk had been right about that too — she really did look like a porcelain doll. One some angry child had taken its rage out on.

After that was a shot of her left arm, where a faded circular mark surrounded a small dark dot.

‘You want PM results now?’

‘Might as well.’ Lucy lowered herself onto the end of the bedframe.

‘OK. Back of her skull was partially caved in. Must’ve hit her a bit too hard this time. Organs were removed after death, again, and instead of slitting her wrist, the Bloodsmith drained her with a large-bore needle. Pathologist estimates eighteen to twenty gauge, but doesn’t think he would’ve got much before her heart stopped, because of the head wound.’

‘Why do it in here?’ Pointing at the room.

‘Says it’s probably the same kind of needle they use for blood donations. The larger gauge means you don’t damage the red blood cells as they go through the needle on their way to whatever tubing and bags you’re using to collect it. Something to do with fluid dynamics and shearing forces?’

She turned, setting the frame creaking. ‘He knows it’s going to be messy, but he doesn’t take her into the bathroom like Adam Holmes or Craig Thorburn. He does it here.’

‘Cause of death was the brain trauma. Like I said: hit her too hard.’

‘Maybe they were romantically involved? Maybe that’s why they were in the bedroom?’

‘Took her heart, a big chunk of liver, and a kidney.’

‘What about the profile? They speculate about why here?’

The Dunk juggled his paperwork. ‘OK, right. Blah, blah, blah, “I don’t know how to use punctuation properly, and everything is one big run-on sentence.” Blah, blah... “Given that the readily accessible and sizeable bathroom was ignored in favour of exsanguinating Jane in the bedroom we can conclude that either the Bloodsmith was less concerned with making a mess, given that the flat below remains unoccupied, was confident that his new methodology for extracting blood through a big needle wouldn’t cause as much mess, or there was a sexual element to this encounter that wasn’t present with the previous victims,” deep breath, “though it’s unlikely that this was planned, given his modus operandi to date, if it occurred organically during his encounter with Jane it is likely to have taken him by surprise and his sudden arousal may well have startled and revolted him in equal measure, which could explain the excessive use of force when attempting to render her unconscious with a hammer.” So, maybe you were half right about the romance. “This may also explain why the Bloodsmith placed Jane’s intestines where he did, covering her genitalia, because he was ashamed of becoming sexually stimulated by her physical presence,” then it just sort of rambles on for a bit, about platonic love versus spiritual love versus just wanting to jump someone’s bones.’ Turning the page. ‘On and on and on...’ The Dunk curled his top lip. ‘People shouldn’t get to be Police-Scotland-approved forensic psychologists if they can’t write in proper sentences.’

‘No sign of sexual activity, though.’

‘Not according to the PM report.’

Lucy stood. ‘Right, let’s check the other rooms. See if he snuck back in here and rewrote his prayer.’

20

Twenty minutes later, they were back in the master bedroom.

The Dunk had returned to his spot in front of the patio doors, being all starry-eyed about the balcony and the view, doing far too much wistful sighing for a grown man. His already dirty beatnik outfit had picked up an extra layer of dust and fingerprint powder, fading everything to a mottled grey.

Lucy stared at the stained patch of wall above the hollow bedframe.

If the words ‘HELP ME!’ really were important to the Bloodsmith, why wouldn’t he come back and rewrite them here? He must’ve known that the crime-scene cleaners had scrubbed it away with industrial-strength bleach. Didn’t even have to visit the sites to know that — soon as the police guard had been removed from the cottage where Abby Geddes was killed, the press swooped in with their cameras and Dictaphones. That empty, rat-gnawed room had featured on the front page of every newspaper in the country. His prayer was gone, but it mattered enough to make him rewrite it in that manky attic bedroom.

So why not here?

Three bedrooms, one bathroom, two en-suite wet rooms, a kitchen, study, and lounge. No sign of ‘HELP ME!’ in any of them.

Maybe he couldn’t get in?

Yes, but he would’ve taken keys to the apartment, wouldn’t he?

Lucy flicked through the file, but there was nothing in it about missing keys. Then again, how would the search team know how many spare sets Jane Cooper had?

‘Pfff...’ She placed the folder on the bed.

‘You know what I think?’ The Dunk still had his nose pressed to the glass, like an urchin outside a sweetshop. ‘I think we, the people, should be allowed to occupy places like these. You can’t sell your overpriced flat? It’s sitting empty? Good, honest, working people should be able to move in.’

‘Then why would anyone ever build flats like these again?’

‘Maybe they shouldn’t. Maybe they should build places that normal folk can afford, instead of pandering to super-rich tax-dodging bastards.’

Lucy peered into the bedside cabinet.

One drawer for socks. One for pants. One for bras. All spilling out over the sides like their owner’s innards.

‘Seriously, Sarge, there’s so much income inequality in the country, and they’re building places like this to sit empty, because some hedge-fund tosser has decided it’s a quick way to make a buck when property prices go up? Makes you sick.’

Wonder why the search team put her clothes back in the wardrobes? They didn’t bother with Jane’s underwear, so why her clothes?

Lucy stood.

Knowing O Division, there would be some bras and pants missing. Bet any sex toys Jane had hidden in her bottom drawer were long gone, too. That kind of thing probably went for a lot of money on the Dark Web, to sickos who collected serial-killer memorabilia.

The Dunk waved his arms about. ‘We’ve got people dying, homeless, on the streets, and what, three-quarters of this building has never been occupied?’

She crossed to the nearest wardrobe. It wasn’t a cheap mirror-doored job, it was a bespoke wooden one, crafted to fit the space perfectly, with drawers and racks and rails. Jane’s shoes were in a pile on the floor, and so were her jeans and jumpers, but the stuff on the coat hangers was all where it should’ve been. Maybe not hung up in any sort of logical order — more crammed back in at random. No system to it. As if it was OK to mix up colours, basics, formal, and casual all in one disorganized lump.

‘We’re never going to have equitable distribution of opportunity, till we have equitable distribution of wealth.’

Some nice stuff in here. She checked the labels on a couple of cocktail dresses: one from Dolce & Gabbana, the other Prada. Gucci leather trousers that probably cost more than Lucy made in a month. Eminently nickable, but somehow they and everything else had escaped the long sticky fingers of the law.

Which made it all the more suspicious that they’d been hung back up after the search team had gone through everything else like a threshing machine.

‘And we’ll never have equitable distribution of wealth as long as we’ve got overprivileged posh twats running the country.’

Lucy bent down and shoved her hands in between a cashmere dress and a silk jacket. Like the pans in the kitchen, both still had the price labels attached. She pushed them apart.

‘They don’t give a toss, Sarge, because inequality works in their favour. The whole sodding system’s corrupt and it’s the poor that get beaten about the head with the shitty end of the stick every single time.’

‘Dunk?’

‘The whole class system only exists to keep the poor in their place. These posh—’

‘Dunk!’ Lucy unhooked the jacket and hurled it onto the skeletal bedframe. Did the same with the dress.

‘Sarge?’

‘Get the SEB over here, now.’

‘You mean the Forensic Services Scene Examination Resources, right? They’re—’

‘Now, Constable!’

Shirts, blouses, slacks, skirts: they all went flying, till she’d made a gap in the wardrobe three feet wide. And there, right at the back, still partially hidden by the remaining clothes, were two words, written in big, dark-brown, dripping letters: ‘HELP ME!’

The Dunk stood in front of the living-room window, one finger in his ear as he curled over his phone. ‘Uh-huh... Yeah, OK.’

Lucy left him to it, heading out into the hall instead.

In a normal house, there would be a coatrack by the front door, but Jane Cooper’s place had a cupboard instead. Hiding away any potential messiness. Inside was a collection of remarkably cheap-looking coats and jackets — compared to the stuff hanging in her wardrobe.

A thin cabinet was mounted on the cupboard wall closest to the front door. It opened to reveal rows of hooks, about a third of which held various keys, all with labelled fobs. A big bunch marked ‘SHOP’. Two sets of Aston Martin keys marked ‘CAR’. A small bunch marked ‘HOLIDAY COTTAGE (CORNWALL)’ and another marked ‘HOLIDAY COTTAGE (SPAIN)’. And two identical single keys marked ‘HOUSE’.

Not ‘HOME’, ‘HOUSE’.

They were those fancy-pants security keys — the ones that didn’t have serrations on the blade, just little dimples that matched up with whatever fancy-pants locks they had in a fancy-pants apartment like this one.

A row of empty hooks sat beneath the last row of keys. One would be for the set the Dunk had unlocked the door with, three-quarters of an hour ago. One for the keys the Bloodsmith used when he came back to rewrite his votive prayer in the back of Jane’s wardrobe.

Her solicitors probably had a set, too. Maybe that was worth chasing up? Maybe the Bloodsmith was—

Lucy’s phone warbled into life and, when she dug the thing out, ‘DC TALLADALE’ glowed in the middle of the screen. Their very own deep-fried-kebab-eating, hungover birthday boy. ‘Stan.’

‘Please, please, please can I go home now?’

‘Depends. How did you get on with the CCTV?’

‘Louden’s on a couple of cameras, hot-footing it from Markies in the afternoon, being chased by a security guard. Then we’ve got him getting pished on the steps of the cathedral from half three till five. After that it gets a bit ropey. Couple of sightings around the city centre — begging outside John Lewis, eating a burger on Harvest Lane, and that’s pretty much it. Last seen disappearing down Parditch Road at half eleven.’

‘Anyone with him? Anyone who looks as if they shouldn’t be there? Anything unusual happen?’

‘He throws his empties at some pigeons, if that helps? Now I’m begging you: my head’s killing me, my stomach’s like a tumble drier full of gravel, and I just want to go home and die.’ Sounded a bit like a sob at the end, there.

‘OK. But let this be a lesson to you: old people can’t get blootered on a school night.’ She hung up.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk appeared through from the living room. ‘FSSER are on their way over. So’s the boss. He sounds... stressed.’

She checked her watch: 17:17.

Two hours thirteen minutes till she had to go pick up Benedict Strachan.

‘When’s your show start?’

‘Curtain’s up at seven.’ He looked down at his dirty polo neck. ‘Could do with a shower. Maybe slope off home at half five? Six at the latest.’

‘Yeah.’ She closed the cabinet, then did the same with the cupboard, hiding the cheap coats away again. ‘Well, we probably don’t have to worry. It’s not as if we get to follow things up any more.’

DI Tudor marched over the threshold, face even more creased than usual. Mouth pinched. A curl of hair had broken free of his gelled quiff, wafting about as he turned to survey the living room. ‘Where is it?’

Lucy pointed down the hall. ‘Master bedroom. In the wardrobe.’

A grunt and he was off.

You’re welcome. A pleasure to be of sodding service.

The Dunk pulled a face.

Then a new figure appeared in the apartment doorway. Black Police Scotland fleece on over the standard-issue clingy T-shirt. The fleece had much fancier epaulettes than normal — which could only mean one thing: Big Boss. He had a thin military moustache perched beneath a Roman nose, narrow eyes, thinning brown hair cut short. He pulled off a pair of black gloves and tucked them into his fleece pockets. Posh-as-you-like Inverness accent. ‘And we are?’

The Dunk actually snapped to attention. ‘Detective Constable Duncan Fraser, sir.’

‘DS McVeigh.’ Lucy gave him a small wave. ‘We found the message.’

‘I see.’ He stared off down the corridor, in the direction Tudor had disappeared. Then marched into the living room instead. Stood there, surveying the contents. ‘What do we know about the victim?’

Lucy followed him in. ‘Inherited a fortune from her parents, no siblings, no living relatives, no friends. Murdered eight months ago. Her family lawyers reported her missing.’

‘Hmmm...’ He strode over to the fireplace, forehead creasing as he stared at the rolled-up umbrella. A rippled version of the school crest was visible amongst the damp folds of black fabric. ‘And I see she went to St Nicholas College.’

‘Actually no, Boss, that’s mine.’

‘Is it now?’ A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. ‘Assistant Chief Constable Findlay Cormac-Fordyce, Major Investigations and Operational Engagement.’ Out went his hand. ‘How nice to meet an alumna from my old alma mater.’

‘DC Fraser and I were there this afternoon, talking to one of their pupils. They gave me an umbrella, because it was raining.’

‘Ah.’ The hand was lowered and the smile disappeared. ‘Well, it’s good to know St Nicholas College hasn’t lost its sense of civic engagement.’ One last look around the room. ‘Now, where’s this message from the Bloodsmith?’

The Dunk huffed out a lungful of smoke, crossed his arms, uncrossed them again. Had another puff on his cigarette. ‘I’m only saying.’

Out here, on the decking, their view of the city faded in and out of focus as drizzle swayed across it in thick sheets, smothering all colour from the river and Castle Hill beyond. Lucy’s new brolly kept the worst of it off, but that didn’t stop the chill from leaching into her bones. ‘Well, don’t.’

‘When he found out you didn’t go to the same school, he dropped you like a sock full of warm diarrhoea.’

‘Dunk, this isn’t helping.’

‘Double-barrelled dickhead.’

The patio doors cracked open behind them, and there was DI Tudor, looking as if it was his sock. He grimaced as he stepped out onto the balcony and slid the doors shut behind him. Then slouched back against the glass, eyeing the Dunk’s cigarette. ‘Wish I still smoked...’

She didn’t offer to share the umbrella. ‘We met your friend.’

‘Urgh...’ Burying his face in his hands.

‘Yeah’ — the Dunk nodded — ‘he seemed really nice.’

Tudor shuddered, shoulders coming in as he curled up into a semi-standing ball. ‘DC Fraser, could you give DS McVeigh and me a minute?’

‘Boss.’ The Dunk took one last sook on his fag, pinged the butt out over the handrail, then let himself back into the living room.

Once the doors were safely closed, Tudor hauled himself upright, head doinking off the double glazing. ‘I swear to God, Lucy... It’s like being a ring-piece at the World’s Roughest Prostate Exam Competition. I get one more “motivational” speech from a senior officer, I’m going postal with a claw hammer.’

Maybe not the most tactful of metaphors, given what had happened to Jane Cooper’s skull.

Down on the river, a dilapidated trawler chuntered by, pulling a thick cloud of pale-blue diesel fumes behind it. Herring gulls screamed and swirled in its wake, angular white-and-black shapes against the stainless-steel water.

Tudor snuck a sideways glance at her. ‘Good work finding the message.’

‘He’s revisiting every crime scene he can. Probably stops off to masturbate on the way home, assuming he doesn’t do it while he’s here. Reliving the memories, phone in one hand, cock in the other.’

‘Phone?’

‘You never wonder if he films the bodies while he works on them?’

Tudor buried his face again. ‘Thank you for that image.’ Another sideways glance. Then he fixed his gaze on the rain. ‘We’re going to reseal the crime scene. Get the FSSER in to do another sweep. Which means—’

‘You want me and the Dunk to sod off.’

A sigh. ‘Lucy, it’s not—’

‘No, I get it. We’re surplus to requirements.’

‘You’re not surplus to... Look, you found the message out in the woods, you found it here. That matters. It gives us another chance to catch him.’

Be still her beating heart.

Tudor cleared his throat. ‘You know I’ve had patrol cars swing past your house all day, right? Well, I got a couple of uniforms to door-to-door your neighbours, too. All three houses’ worth. Nobody’s seen anything.’

Shock horror.

‘Mind you’ — he tried on his charming smile, the one that never worked — ‘according to PC Sullivan, everyone in Ballrochie looks like they could give first-hand accounts of the Boer War, so it’s not surprising.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks for trying.’

‘The Dunk tells me you think the guy following you might be some sort of heavy, hired by Sarah Black? Maybe you should stay somewhere else, tonight. Just in case?’

‘Got my hundred-and-fifty-decibel rape alarm, remember?’

‘Yes, you do.’ He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit. Frowned out at the rain again. ‘Anyway, one more crime scene to go and then we can talk about where best to deploy your and the Dunk’s talents.’

‘Can’t.’ Lucy hooked a thumb at the living-room window. ‘The Dunk’s got a prior appointment and I’ve got to go see a man about a couch.’

‘But—’

‘Hey, it was your idea, remember? “You need to talk to your therapist, Lucy”, “I’ll get you signed off on the sick if you don’t, Lucy.” Unless you want me to cancel?’ She pulled out her phone. ‘Not a problem, believe me.’ Scrolling, one-handed, through the contacts till she got to ‘DR JOHN MCNAUGHTON’. Thumb ready to pounce. ‘Honestly, it’ll be my pleasure.’

‘That’s not fair: I never threatened to get you signed off!’ Tudor stepped out to the edge of the balcony, leaning on the railing in what was probably meant to be a casual and manly way. ‘When you came back after... Neil Black, I was amazed at how well you seemed to be coping, but these last couple of months?’ A huffed sigh, then a shake of the head. ‘You’re spiky and abrupt and sarcastic. OK, you’ve always been sarcastic, but you weren’t usually cruel with it.’

‘I am not cruel!’

‘Maybe it’s all this crap with Sarah Black? Or maybe you came back to work too soon? And maybe going off on the sick would be good for you. Help you figure out how to be the real you again.’

Bastard.

Her jaw tightened, teeth making squeaking noises in her head as the pressure grew. ‘You — just — said — I was — doing — good — work.’

He stared out at the miserable rain-soaked view. ‘When’s your appointment?’

‘Earliest I could get was six.’

Tudor checked his watch. ‘Better get a shift on, then.’

Lucy popped her brolly up and marched out the front of Jane Cooper’s building onto a wide area laid with paving slabs. They’d planted a handful of trees in amongst the stones, their wilting branches already losing swathes of yellowed leaves in the rain. Because that’s what life was: disappointment and death.

The Dunk hurried out after her, face pink, air wheezing out of him in shallow panting breaths. ‘Hold up, hold up...’

A couple of patrol cars sat by the kerb, an SOC Transit parked behind them — the driver had his head buried in a tabloid, while the passenger foostered about on her phone.

Lazy sods.

Lucy banged on the driver’s door.

He looked up from his paper — face like a ruptured beanbag — then buzzed the window down a couple of inches. ‘What?’

‘Should you not be up there doing things?’

He curled his lip, setting both chins quivering. ‘Nah. His Holiness the ACC says we gotta wait here till he gives the all-clear.’

The passenger leaned over the gearstick. ‘I’m saying nothing.’ Then went back to playing with her phone again.

Yeah.

Lucy looked up at the seventh floor, where Jane Cooper’s flat was. Forced the burning wedge of bile out of her voice: ‘Do me a favour and sweep for body fluids. Could be our boy gave himself “a little treat”, before heading home.’

The driver closed his eyes and said something under his breath. Then, ‘Why do I always have to get the wankers? Why can’t I get a nice wholesome murder-suicide for a change?’

‘Perks of the job.’

The Dunk dropped her off on Guild Street, back where she’d parked the Bedford Rascal in all its embarrassing pink glory. He grimaced at the jolly meat characters painted on the sides. ‘I still say those sausages look like they’re shagging.’

Lucy watched him drive off, then checked her phone. Ten to six. Should be just enough time to make her appointment with Dr John Tosspot McNaughton.

Because who wouldn’t relish the opportunity to drag something horrible like Neil Black out into the open all over again?

‘God...’ She sagged her way into the driver’s seat and cranked the rattling engine into life.

Next stop: the thing Lucy swore she’d never talk about.

21

A long pause from Dr McNaughton, then: ‘And how does that make you feel?’ He’d positioned his chair in its usual place, just outside the circle of light, lurking in the shadows of his industrial-chic office. Rattling his jewellery every time he moved. Asking stupid questions. Being a pain in the arse.

‘How the hell do you think it makes me feel?’ Lucy scowled up at the ceiling with its stupid exposed ducting and pipes. ‘They’re basically threatening to sign me off on the sick, and I’m the only bastard making progress on this damn case! How is that fair?’

Silence.

Always with the bloody silence.

Ask the same ‘how do you feel’ question, then sit there, not saying anything, like a pot plant, as the world slowly dies.

Well, two could play at that game.

She folded her arms and thumped further back into the couch’s seat cushions. It sent a little flurry of dust motes out to dance in the spotlight’s glow.

And wasn’t he supposed to be on her side? Little sod should be defending her, sticking up for her, telling her that DI Tudor was a dick and that she was completely right to feel hacked-off and betrayed.

Tosser.

‘AARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!’ Going rigid as a crowbar. ‘That’s how it makes me feel.’ Then sagging into the cushions again.

McNaughton might have been all hidden away, but his reflection wasn’t — caught in the brushed-stainless-steel surface of a decorative chunk of faux machinery that some idiot designer had probably been paid a fortune to come up with. If anything, the dimpled metal reflected back the real Dr McNaughton. Not the face he presented to his friends and family, or his employers, or his patients, or his students: the real him. Twisted and distorted, greedy and devouring, hazy and monstrous. Like the minotaur, lurking in the gloom at the centre of its labyrinth, waiting to rip Theseus apart and feast on his bones...

Yeah.

Thinking in metaphors based in Greek mythology, now. Clearly going back to St Nicholas College after all this time hadn’t stirred anything up at all.

‘And why do you think Detective Inspector Tudor wants you to talk about what happened with Sarah Black?’

Urgh.

She let the silence stretch for a while, but there wasn’t a lot of point, was there? McNaughton would win in the end, because people like him always did. One word to Tudor, or DCI Gilmore, would be all it took to get her thrown off the job.

‘Because he thinks I’m going to obsess about what happened with...’ A small, unfunny laugh hiccupped out of her. ‘Even after all this time, I can’t say his name out loud. How stupid is that?’

Oh God, Tudor was right, wasn’t he?

Wonderful.

She draped an arm across her eyes.

Groaned.

What was DCI Ross’s advice again? Something like, Do yourself a favour and play along. You might be surprised how much it could help. And at the very least it gets them off your back.

Or just give up and let them sign you off on the sick.

OK then.

Deep breath.

After all, what did she have to lose?

‘It all started on a Friday night, at the Fisher King, on Smithchris Road...’

Five past nine and Gillian’s already hammered. That’s what happens when you adopt eatin’s cheatin’ as a religious belief. Still, at least she’s not been sick yet, so that’s something.

Might be a good idea to not sit opposite her, though. Just in case.

Lucy shifts one chair to the left and knocks back the last mouthful of Pinot Grigio. ‘How’s our birthday girl doing?’

That gets her a blurry two-thumbs-up, a broad grin, and a burp. Gillian’s got her long, curly red hair pulled back in what had started life as a ponytail, but turned into a frizzy pompom somewhere between the Bart and the Postman’s Head.

‘Budge up, losers.’ Mandy — back from the bar with both hands clamped around an unfeasibly large collection of glasses. Wine glasses, beer glasses, and most worrying of all: shot. They click-rattle onto the sticky tabletop. ‘Tequila!’ She probably thinks her new asymmetric bob makes her look chic and stylish, but it just makes her face look fat.

Not that Lucy would ever tell her that, of course. After the divorce, Mandy needs all the self-esteem she can get.

All three of them, done up to the nines in their best party frocks, like civilized human beings for a change. Instead of a lawyer, a cardiothoracic specialist, and a detective sergeant.

Gillian wobbles forwards, one eye screwed half-shut as she peers at the drinks. ‘Thought... thought we were... flaming Drambuies?’

‘You set fire to your fringe last time, remember?’ Lucy helps herself to the glass of white. ‘Flaming Drambuies are banned, and so’s flaming sambuca, and anything else that poses a risk of tonsorial ignition. It’s in the Most Excellent Girls’ Night Out Constitution.’

‘Oh...’ Then the grin is back as she picks up one of the shot glasses, accidentally slopping a little onto the back of her hand. ‘Slippery.’

Mandy raises the toast, ‘Happy birthday, Gills!’ Pronouncing it ‘Gills’ as in ‘like a fish’ rather than ‘Jills’, and hurls back her shot of tequila. Shudders. ‘Ghaaaa...’

‘Happy birthday, Gillian.’ Lucy raises her new glass of Pinot Grigio, leaving the tequila the hell alone.

‘Yeah, happy birthday.’

Mandy and Lucy turn in their seats to look at the newcomer.

It’s a man: early twenties, thin, pointed face, one of those chav haircuts — almost shaved at the sides with a short, greasy, combed-forward fringe. Rugby shirt with the collar popped. Combat trousers. Sovereign rings on most of his fingers, thick gold chain around his neck. Little diamond stud earring. One of those boys whose default expression is a leer.

He’s got a pint of something lagery in one hand — uses it to salute the table. ‘Gillian, isn’t it? You’re very pretty, Gillian.’

‘Not... not interested.’

‘Double negative, that. Means you are interested.’

Mandy rolls her eyes. ‘Men. Don’t take a hint, do you? Go bother someone else.’

‘Hey!’ He pulls his chin in, shoulders flexing. Making himself look bigger. ‘Just being nice to the pretty lady, aren’t I? Nothing wrong with buying a girl a drink for her birthday.’

There’s always one on every night out. Some bloke who’s seen too many romcoms where all you need to do to get the girl is keep pestering her. Because in the movies it’s ‘romantic’. In real life it’s called ‘stalking’.

‘Hoy, cockwomble’ — Mandy’s half out of her seat now, jerking a thumb towards the door — ‘sod off.’

‘Hey, don’t be so rude, fatty. Wasn’t talking to you, was talking to the birthday girl.’ And there it is, the threat hidden just below the skin of every arsehole like this: the aggression. Women aren’t fawning all over you? Just throw your weight around a bit and they’ll be gagging for it. ‘Wasn’t I, Gillian?’

Probably been watching those ‘how to pick up women’ videos on YouTube, posted by even bigger arseholes than he is.

Lucy puts her wine down. ‘She’s got a boyfriend, OK? And he’s a police officer, so...?’

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, radiating his menace.

‘Is this dickhead bothering you?’ Another man, but this one’s in a decent suit and open-necked shirt. He’s a good three inches taller than the arsehole. Broader, too. Wide shoulders and serious eyes. Nice haircut. Voice like a newsreader. Stepping between the table and the arsehole. Putting himself in the way. ‘Lady said she’s got a boyfriend.’

‘Fuck’s it got to do with you?’ Puffing out his chest.

The newcomer rolls his shoulders and clenches his fists. Cricks his neck from side to side in complete silence.

‘You want some of this? Do you?’ More puffing. ‘Do you?’ But the arsehole’s backing away all the same, mouth pinched before it gets punched.

Still no reaction.

‘Yeah.’ The arsehole takes a gulp of lager. ‘Didn’t think so.’ He jerks his chin at the three of them. ‘Later, bitches.’ Then slopes off, back to whatever rock he crawled out from under.

The man in the suit shakes his head. Turns. ‘Sorry about that. I know it’s not the done thing to say “not all men”, but genuinely: we’re not all misogynistic wankers.’

Mandy toasts him with her empty tequila. ‘Thanks.’

‘Nah, my pleasure.’ Then he checks his watch. Frowns. ‘Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.’ Nods at Gillian. ‘Hope you enjoy your birthday.’ And slips away towards the crowded bar.

Lucy smiles. ‘Did I imagine that, or did a man just stop another man from being a dick, and leave without expecting to be patted on the back?’

‘Oh yes.’ Mandy reaches for Lucy’s untouched tequila. ‘And I would so shag the living hell out of him for it.’

Then Gillian bangs on the table. ‘The birthday... birthday girl... demands more drink!’

Of course she does.

‘Oh, Jesus, Gills!’ Mandy holds Gillian’s hair out of the way as her back heaves and a torrent of yuck spatters into the alley behind the Falling Down, next to the big council wheelie bins full of empty bottles, lit from above by a sickly yellow streetlamp. Mandy dances her feet out of the way as Gillian retches again and again and again.

Lucy grimaces at the spreading puddle of vomit. ‘OK, new amendment to the MEGNO Constitution: no snakebites. And maybe: eat something first.’

‘Are you all done? OK.’ Mandy pats Gillian on the back, top lip curled as the stench of an evening’s alcohol and bile wafts up from the tarmac. ‘There you go, that wasn’t so bad.’

‘On second thoughts: definitely eat something first. Eatin’s cheatin’ is hereby banned. All in favour?’

A nod from Mandy. ‘Seconded.’

Gillian raises a thumb, then is sick again.

‘Nah. No way. Not going to happen.’ The taxi driver shakes his head, setting his dreadlocks rattling. Not a great look on an overweight lump of gristle with skin the colour of cold porridge. ‘She’s gonna puke all over the car.’

‘Come on!’ Mandy throws her arms wide. ‘She needs to get home!’

‘Not in my taxi she doesn’t.’ Then he buzzes up the window and pulls away from the kerb, leaving the three of them standing there.

Well, two of them standing. Gillian’s slumped sideways against the lamp post, hair all anyhow. Reeking of booze and puke.

‘BASTARD!’ Mandy steps into the road and gives the departing car the finger.

Lucy sighs. Then shrugs. ‘On foot it is, then.’

‘Urgh... I’ve got a breakfast meeting with new clients, like at seven thirty. And it’s Saturday! What kind of monsters schedule a breakfast meeting at half seven on a Saturday morning?’

‘It’s OK. I’m off tomorrow, I’ll take her.’ She hooks an arm under Gillian’s, hauling her upright. ‘We’re off to see the wizard. You ready?’

‘Mmmmnnnt. Everything... tastes... tastes funny...’

‘And whose fault is that?’

Mandy leans in and kisses Lucy on the cheek. ‘Thanks, babe, I owe you, OK?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

She stays there, watching as Mandy hails another taxi, clambers in the back, and drives off into the night.

‘Right, you drunken monkey, let’s get you home.’

You’d think, at this time on a Friday night, there would be more people going about. Instead the street is deserted, just a black-and-white cat prowling its way between the parked cars. Trees line the road, casting rippling shadows as their leaves block out the streetlight one moment only to let it through the next, like scrambled Morse code signals from the great beyond.

Gillian has her head on Lucy’s shoulder, leaning on her as they walk-stagger down Newman’s Lee. ‘I love you, I really do. You’re my best... best friend.’

‘You’re only saying that so I don’t abandon you.’

‘No! No, you’re my best friend.’

The junction with Camburn Walk looms up ahead in the undulating darkness.

‘Remember... remember when... when Steve left?’ Pronouncing his name as if it was a venereal disease. ‘And... and he took everything. He took... took everything, Lucy! Even Mr Rumples! What... what kind of... sick... sick bastard takes a... takes a person’s dog?’

‘He was a dick.’

‘He was a dick.’ A little whimpering sound makes its way out of her, escaping into the night. ‘I loved him so... so much, and he... he took my doggie.’

‘Come on, we’re nearly home.’

‘And you... and you found out where... where he was staying.’ Gillian swings out her spare arm, hand curled into a claw. ‘And... and you went over... over there... and you got... you got Mr Rumples back.’ She pulls her claw down hard, as if she’s ripping the testicles off a very tall gentleman. ‘And kicked him in the nuts!’

‘I didn’t kick him in the nuts, Gillian. He fell down and injured himself.’ Honest, officer.

‘Pow!’ Pausing to lash her foot out. ‘Right in the nuts!’

‘No: because that would be assault, and I didn’t...’ Lucy freezes. Is that footsteps? Behind them? But when she whips her head around to check, there’s no one there.

So why is that familiar feeling back? The one that crops up every time she walks down a street at night. The one that came free with being born female. Like pins and needles, prickling out across the base of her neck.

Like she’s being watched.

Dark street, late at night, not too far from Castle Hill Infirmary — the sort of place a certain kind of man would think is a good hunting ground for nurses. Where you can sneak up on them and do what you like.

‘Come on, Gillian, let’s get a shift on, eh? Could murder a cup of tea.’

‘Sod... sod tea.’ But she starts moving again. ‘I’ve got... nice bottle of... bottle of vodka from... from a very grateful-to-be-alive... patient. We’ll put... put on some music... and... and dance all night!’ A rattling burp. ‘And... and we don’t have to shhhhh...’ — finger to her lips — ‘cos no one’s bought... bought poor old Mr Rayburn’s house yet.’

‘Great. Let’s do that.’ Lucy picks up the pace, works her spare hand into her jacket pocket and grabs hold of her keys. Fiddling with them until one pokes out between each finger in her clenched fist.

There’s the sound of footsteps again. Speeding up now. Getting closer.

She swings around onto Gillian’s street. Twin terraces of sandstone townhouses face each other across the wide stretch of tarmac, big pavements, small front gardens, expensive cars. More trees. Not just on either side — the looming mass of Camburn Woods lurks at the end of the road. About as inviting as a fairy-tale wolf.

She keeps her voice low. ‘Come on, Gillian, faster. We’re almost there.’

Number six is just up ahead, a little light glowing above the door. The houses on both sides are empty — the one on the right crawling with scaffolding, a skip sitting outside, full of rubble where the contractors have ripped the building’s guts out. The one on the left lies in darkness, just a drooping for-sale sign to mark the death of its owner. All the other homes have their curtains shut, blinds drawn, letting light and life leach out. Which means no witnesses. No one to help.

Almost there.

The footsteps are so close now, she can almost feel the rasp of his breath on the back of her neck.

‘Up the stairs, quick, quick!’ Hauling Gillian up the six steps to the front door. ‘Keys. Keys!’

‘I can’t find them!’ She fumbles through her pockets, dropping things to ping and clatter on the stone.

A footstep on the stairs behind them.

Lucy spins around, shoving Gillian behind her. Drops into the fighting stance they taught her at Officer Safety Training.

It’s the man from the Fisher King. Not the arsehole — the one in the suit.

He stops where he is, hands up, eyes wide as he clocks the makeshift knuckleduster in her raised fist. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ Backing away a couple of paces. ‘Your friend dropped this at the pub.’ Holding up a bulging tatty purse. ‘I’m...’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I know this isn’t the best way to make a good impression, and normally I wouldn’t chase after women on dark streets, but her address was inside and her keys, and I thought if I caught you then you wouldn’t have to break in...’ He licks his lips. ‘I did shout, but you didn’t seem to hear me.’ His cheeks darken in the jaundiced streetlight. ‘I’ve kind of made an arse of this, haven’t I? Sorry.’ Clears his throat. ‘Didn’t mean to make you think... Yes.’ He offers Gillian the purse. ‘Sorry.’

Lucy lowers her key-studded fist as Gillian unlocks the door. ‘It’s just, we thought you were—’

‘I know, I’m an idiot. And kicking myself right now.’

The door swings open and Gillian staggers inside. ‘It’s my birthday. Vodka, vodka, vodka, vodka...’

He tries for a smile. ‘Think your friend’s going to have a very sore head in the morning.’

‘Oh, like a complete beartrap.’ Lucy smiles back. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s Neil, by the way. Neil Black.’

‘It was nice of you to return her purse, Neil, we—’

His fist smashes into Lucy’s cheek, sending her stumbling back over the threshold to crash down onto the tiled hallway floor as the world screams and jagged shapes writhe in the darkness.

‘Yeah.’ He steps in after her. Closes the door behind him. Locks it. ‘Let’s see if we can find a way for you both to thank me.’

22

Silence reigned supreme. Not so much as a breath to break the weight bearing down on Lucy’s chest as she lay on Dr McNaughton’s dusty old sofa.

Then a rattle of jewellery as he shifted in his seat.

Then more silence.

Lucy cleared her throat. ‘If you say, “And how did that make you feel?” I’m going to come over there and break your knees.’

She shifted on the couch, setting free another plume of dancing dust motes. ‘How does that make me feel.’

Thumped her head back against the cushion a couple of times.

Jaw clenched, fists too.

‘He was a rapist.’ Sitting up. Snarling it out: ‘Neil Black was a violent, drug-taking, rapist arsehole. For two days, three nights. No food, no drink, not even bathroom breaks. You happy now?’

A sigh rattled out from the gloom. ‘I’m sorry, I truly am.’

‘He’d looked so normal.’ She collapsed onto the couch again, glaring up at the fake ducts and pipes. ‘But then the worst ones always do, don’t you? Men.’

Nothing back from the good doctor — not rising to the bait.

‘His rape kit was right there, waiting in the living room. When he stole Gillian’s purse, he must’ve seen the address and the keys and thought, “Why not let myself in and case the joint?” Maybe he was going to lie in wait for her? But that wouldn’t have been as much fun, would it? He’d have missed the thrill of the chase.’

The quiet stretched again.

Stretched and stretched and stretched.

God’s sake...

McNaughton really wanted his pound of flesh, didn’t he?

‘The hospital got worried when Gillian didn’t turn up for a surgical consultation on the Monday morning. We could hear them leaving messages on the answerphone.’

‘Hi, Dr Harper? This is Sophie, from the surgical team, again? We were supposed to be meeting at ten, and it’s quarter past, and I’m just calling to make sure everything’s OK. Can you call me back to reschedule? I’ll try you on your mobile.’

The answer machine gives a long sharp beeeeeeeeep, then the only sound is Gillian’s muffled crying.

It stinks in here. The sharp-yellow stench of stale urine, mingled with dried vomit, smeared shit, and the warm-iron tang of blood. All of it oozing out of the sodden, stinking carpet.

Neil Black stretches his arms along the back of the couch, a huge joint smouldering away between his lips, nostrils swollen and dark pink as if he’s got a heavy cold. But it’s what he’s been putting up there that’s caused the problem.

A mirror sits on the coffee table in front of him, still bearing the tell-tale dusting where two powdery white lines had been less than five minutes ago. What’s left of a six-pack of Stella sits next to it, the empties rattling about beneath the table.

Cocaine to rev you up, cannabis to level you out, lager to keep you good and angry.

The bastard’s pulled on a pair of boxers, indulging in a bit of post-rape modesty.

Through in the hallway, Gillian’s mobile phone launches into its ringtone: ‘Shiny Happy People’. It jangles away to itself for thirty seconds, as if it’s never heard of irony, then falls silent as the call’s transferred to voicemail. That’ll be Sophie from the surgical team again, still wondering why Gillian hasn’t turned up...

But Gillian’s in no state to do a cardiothoracic consultation. Her face is a swollen mess of purples, blues, and greens. Both eyes puffed up like blood oranges. Dark-scarlet flakes crusting her battered lips and broken jaw. A mashed-up nose that’ll never be straight again.

The rest of her is a map of bruises.

He’s tied her hands behind her back, leaving both legs free. Not that Gillian can actually go anywhere: not with her left leg all twisted and misshapen from when the bastard stamped and stamped and stamped on her knee. Blood smeared on the inside of her thighs.

Through all of it, he hasn’t forced himself on Lucy. Not yet, anyway. Not since she woke up, stripped naked and tied to the living-room radiator — thick knots around both wrists, the rope in the middle looped behind the radiator pipe, so she can’t go anywhere as he attacks Gillian over, and over, and over again.

And while he does, he doesn’t look at the woman he’s raping, he stares at Lucy. And if she doesn’t stare back, if she dares to look away, if she doesn’t watch what he’s doing to her friend, he hurts Gillian even more.

He’s forced them both to swallow pills, but they don’t stop the horror, they just make everything fuzzy and heavy. The bastard still gets the screams that seem to turn him on so much. And with the buildings on either side being empty, there’s no one else to hear them. No one to call the police. No one but Gillian and Lucy and Neil Black.

Lucy peers at him, head hanging forwards so her hair hides her eyes. He only likes to be watched while he’s rutting away, not when he’s limp and flaccid.

Neil Black doesn’t know she’s watching him; he’s too wrapped up in whatever bastards like him think about when they’re not hurting women. Assuming he can think at all, because he’s pretty stoned right now. Eyes half closed and bloodshot, ash from his spliff crumbling onto his naked chest. Those grey flakes sticking to the suntanned sweaty skin.

‘Mmpphhh...’ He wipes the ash into curling smears. ‘You bitches don’t know you’re born. You know that, don’t you? Nah, course you don’t.’ A long draw on his joint sets the tip glowing angry orange. ‘But doesn’t matter really, does it? Nearly done here.’ Pointing at the answering machine. ‘I reckon they’re going to send someone round, sooner or later. Don’t worry, though: I’ll be long gone by then.’

He sits forwards and selects a tin of Stella. Clicks back the ring-pull and takes a deep swig. ‘I’m thinking a fire. That’ll do you, won’t it? Get rid of all that DNA and fingerprint nonsense. Just be two charred bodies, lying under a whole heap of burning rubble.’ Another swig. ‘You got any cash knocking about the place, Gillian? Course you do, you’re a big-shot doctor, right? Bet there’s all sorts of valuables in a swanky house like this, stashed away somewhere safe. You’re not going to need them, only fair that you share.’

Tears roll down Gillian’s battered face.

‘So where’s the safe, then?’ Levering himself out of the couch. ‘Well? Where — is — it?’

But all she can do is mumble.

‘ANSWER ME, BITCH!’ He hurls the tin at her head. It bounces off the side of her face, falling to the floor where it glugs out its piss-yellow froth into the carpet. Adding to the stench. ‘WHERE’S THE BLOODY SAFE?’

Lucy glares back. ‘You broke her jaw, you moron. She can’t!’

‘What did you say to me?’ Neil Black’s eyes bulge. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’

‘I said... you broke her jaw.’ Walking it back fast. ‘She... she can’t answer you.’

‘Nah, you called me a moron.’ He lunges forwards, grabs Lucy’s face in one of his rough hands, fingers digging into her bruised cheeks. Bringing his nose so close to hers that the smell of second-hand cannabis overpowers even the stink rising up from the carpet. ‘Who’s the moron now, bitch?’ Shoving her down. ‘You sluts are all the same. That cow at the depot thinks she can fire me and get away with it? Oh hell no she can’t.’ Banging Lucy’s head off the drenched carpet, setting her ears ringing. ‘Said I’m not a team player.’ Bang. ‘Said I’ve got “attitude problems”.’ Bang. ‘What even is that?’ Bang. ‘“Attitude problems”, my thick throbbing cock.’ Straddling her now. Leaning in close again. ‘Your mate’s turned a bit too... saggy for me. All used up. But I bet you’re ripe and ready, aren’t you? I’ve seen you watching me; getting all riled up and horny. Desperate for your turn.’

‘GET OFF ME!’

He slams a hand down on Lucy’s face, shoving her cheek into the damp carpet, digging his thumb into the bridge of her broken nose, making sharp-edged fireworks explode through her head. ‘Play nice and I might be kind: put you out of your misery before I torch the place.’ Neil Black sits back on his haunches. ‘But first I’m off for a slash.’

He saunters out of the living room, humming ‘Shiny Happy People’ as he goes.

When he’s out of sight, Gillian mumbles something, but it’s impossible to know what.

‘I’m sorry.’ Lucy blinks hard to shift the tears that make the room swim. ‘I should’ve...’ What? ‘I’m a police officer, I should’ve been able to stop him.’

Gillian’s hair is drenched where it touches the carpet, hanging limp, darkening as the lager soaks into it. The tin of Stella is lying there, on its side, like they are, mouth open and hollow. Silently screaming.

Maybe...?

Lucy glances over her shoulder at the door. He’s going to be, what, five minutes? Slightly longer if he bothers to wash his hands?

They could make a run for it.

Lucy lowers her voice to a hissing whisper. ‘Get up! We need to get out of here!’

‘Gnnnnn fnnnnnt...’ Gillian shakes her head, good leg shoving at the carpet, the other one flopping uselessly with its distended ruined knee.

OK. So they can’t both make a run for it. But if Lucy gets out, she can raise the alarm. Call the police. Get someone to burst in here, kick the shit out of Neil Black, and rush Gillian to hospital.

All she has to do is get free from this bloody radiator.

No sign of a knife, or scissors: nothing to cut the rope.

But there’s that empty tin of Stella.

Lucy shuffles her way down as far as she can go, stretching out her whole body, reaching for the tin with her toes. Straining towards it until every muscle in her body screams...

Her toes brush the edge of the cold metal, turning it slightly, then a little further, pulling it closer, till it’s near enough to cup with the arch of her foot. Bending her knee and dragging the thing towards her. Twisting and contorting herself till the can’s up at her head. Pushing it towards her hands.

Got it.

One tin of lager.

This has to work. Because they’re both dead if it doesn’t.

Lucy crumples the tin in half, then clacks it back again, scrunching it back and forth, twisting until the metal separates with a squealing creak. Unravelling it, so she’s left with a long curl of razor-sharp metal with a rounded lump — the base and the lid — at each end.

She presses her makeshift blade against the rope between her bruised wrists and saws.

‘Come on, come on, come on...’ Pressing harder, gritting her teeth as the tin slips with every other shove, slicing thin bloody ribbons into her forearm.

COME ON, YOU BASTARD!

It’s working: hacking away, slowly, through the unravelling rope.

Warm red dribbles run down her lacerated skin and drip into the filthy carpet.

She saws and saws and saws—

From the bathroom overhead comes the sound of a toilet flushing.

— and saws and saws and saws.

Then finally the last strands give way and she’s free.

It worked.

Jesus Christ, it worked.

Lucy scrambles to her knees.

Gillian gazes up at her, tears streaming down her battered face. ‘Pllllssss, dnnnt leeeeee mmmmm!’

‘I’ll get help. I promise!’ Scrambling for the open living-room door.

‘Dnnnt leeeeee mmmmm!’

Out into the hall.

Footsteps thump on the landing upstairs.

RUN.

Lucy grits her teeth and runs for the front door. No key, no key, no key...

There — Gillian’s purse on the little table.

The contents spill and clatter out onto the tiled floor. WHERE’S THE SODDING KEY?

She drops to her hands and knees, bloody fingers skittering through the bits and bobs till she finds a little bunch of keys. Lucy snatches them up. One has a red fob with the word ‘HOME’ on it.

‘WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?’ Those footsteps are hammering down the stairs, now.

Lucy jams the key in the lock, turns it, hauls the door open, and lunges out into the morning rain. ‘SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP!’

‘No you don’t!’

Her head yanks backwards, razors slashing across her scalp as Neil Black grabs a handful of her hair, his other arm wrapping around Lucy’s throat. Hauling her back inside and kicking the door shut.

‘You stupid BITCH!’ Letting go of her hair to slam a fist into her kidneys. ‘YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH!’ Flinging her against the wall hard enough to send framed photos crashing to the ground.

Lucy’s legs give way, and she falls, landing on the cold tiles, amongst the debris.

‘Oh, you are so dead.’

‘NO!’ She snatches a shard of glass from its broken frame, big as a carving knife. ‘GET AWAY FROM ME!’ Swinging it at him.

‘What, you think someone’s coming to help?’ He kicks her, right in the ribs. He’s not wearing shoes, but it’s still enough to smash her back into the wall again. Sending the glass blade flying to shatter against the skirting board. ‘Think the cavalry’s going to break down the door and rescue you?’ He curls a fist into her hair and drags her back to the living room. ‘No one cares. I could strangle you right out there, in the middle of the street, and the most anyone would do is film it on their sodding phone.’

‘GET OFF ME, YOU BASTARD!’ Legs kicking out, both hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to stop him ripping out a chunk of scalp.

He dumps her next to Gillian. ‘But I’m going to strangle you right here, instead.’ Shoving Lucy over onto her back. ‘You can die knowing your mate’s going to burn, because of you. She’ll still be alive when the flames get her.’ He straddles Lucy, pinning her to the ground, both hands wrapping around her throat. ‘Bye, bitch.’

She pulls at his wrists, jerks her hips up, doing everything they taught her about ‘how to escape being strangled, from a prone position’ at Officer Safety Training... but he’s too big, too heavy, and too into it.

Claws. She rakes at his face with her nails, but he’s just out of reach.

‘You having fun, yet?’ Grinning as he leans his full weight on her throat.

Blood whooooosh-whumps in Lucy’s ears. The pressure growing behind her eyes. No breath. No breath...

That ripped-open can of Stella — it’s lying right there.

The living room dims, as if there’s an eclipse outside, getting darker and darker...

Lucy’s fingers scrabble for the tin, snatching it up, and slashing it across his forearms. The thin metal tugs in her fingers, but nothing seems to happen. Damn thing isn’t as sharp as it—

‘AAAARGH!’ Blood wells up across both of Neil Black’s arms, in a bright-red straight line, left to right, as the skin opens wide. His hands leave her throat, and he stares in horror at the damage, thick waves of scarlet pulsing out of his wounds.

Air screeches back into Lucy’s lungs; throat burning, head pounding.

‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? YOU BITCH!’ Fingers curled and useless.

Maybe she’s severed a couple of tendons? Can’t strangle someone if your hands don’t work.

She gasps in another breath and swings her makeshift blade again — only he’s leaning forwards now, unable to support his weight on his arms, so the tin carves its way across his right cheek, then on through his nose and out the other side.

His scream gets higher pitched as he rears backwards, blood raining down. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Another slash across his arms and he tumbles off her, trying to get out of the blade’s reach. Crawling towards the door.

Lucy gets to her knees, staring around her: magazines, a couple of romance novels with the spines all creased, an empty wine rack, wilting flowers in a vase. Geode. It’s heavy in her hand, about the size of a large baked potato, cut through to expose the blues and purples sparkling away inside. It’ll do.

Two strides and she’s standing over Neil Black, breath wheezing in her tortured throat.

Her whole arm shudders as she smashes the geode down on the back of his head. There’s a muffled thunk and he jerks.

Then pushes himself over onto his back, one eye partially shut, the other glaring at her as if she’s out of focus. ‘Bitch...’

Lucy raises the geode and cracks it down again, right into his bloody face. Then again. And again. And again. And again. Hitting, battering, and hammering away, until there’s nothing left but dark-red mush and Neil Black is never going to hurt anyone ever again.

23

This time, the silence was so thick you could choke on it.

Dr McNaughton’s jewellery rattled.

The blood sang in Lucy’s veins. Fingers trembling. Breath coming in shallow panting gasps. As if the bastard’s hands were still wrapped around her throat.

‘And you still feel responsible?’

‘I killed him.’

‘Lucy’ — Dr McNaughton’s voice softened — ‘you were traumatized and drugged. He tortured your friend and made you watch. He subjected you both to unimaginable horrors.’

‘They couldn’t even identify him from dental records.’

‘His actions were what led to his death. All you did was defend yourself.’

She blinked up at the ceiling, trying to keep the knots in her throat from tightening. All those stupid pipes and cables up there, going nowhere, doing nothing. Just gathering dust.

Like her.

‘We wanted to keep it as quiet as possible, not tell anyone what actually happened, but Neil Black’s family...’ A deep shuddering breath. ‘We were liars; it never happened; we faked the PM tox report so we could ruin his reputation by saying he was a junkie; we planted drugs in his flat, too; Gillian was a crisis actor; the whole thing was staged, a false-flag event to cover up Neil’s murder.’

McNaughton had gone back to being a pot plant again. Giving her enough quiet to hang herself. As usual.

‘Dad had a stroke when he heard about what happened. Took an hour for the ambulance to arrive, and by then there wasn’t much left of him. Died in hospital six weeks later, a hollowed-out figurine of a little old man. Never said another word.’

All those stupid pipes and cables and ducts.

‘Gillian tried to get over it; she really did. Took a leave of absence. Put the house on the market — because you wouldn’t want to live there, would you? Not after everything he’d done. Only no one wanted to buy the “Horror Rape House”.’

What was the point of them?

‘We found her three days after Christmas. She’d been dead for nearly a week, full of pills, in the bath, with her wrists slashed all the way to the elbow.’

What was the point of any of it?

‘And the pain Neil Black caused, just goes on and on and on...’

What was the point of anything?

‘Lucy, it’s no surprise that you’ve been having these episodes. The things you’ve been through would’ve broken anyone. You need to not blame yourself; you need to give yourself time to get better.’

As if that was ever going to happen...

Lucy blinked at the Bedford Rascal’s dashboard. Seven twenty-five, according to the dusty clock.

Where the hell...?

It had actually stopped raining. Sunlight brushed the top of the buildings in front of her with a sliver of gold, making the pantiles glow.

She leaned over, staring into the wing mirror. Down the valley, across houses and rooftops, to the river, then on to Castle Hill and Logansferry. The twin red lights on CHI’s incinerator chimneys glowing away in the twilight.

How did...?

She had her phone in her hand; had she been calling someone? But when she unlocked it, the screen showed an unsent text message.

But what?

Lucy swallowed. Let loose a trembling breath.

Why should it be her job to make contact first? If Mandy didn’t want to talk to her, she could go screw herself. Not like Mandy was the victim here, was it? Not like she’d been trapped in that bloody living room with the bastard. Had to watch what he did to Gillian.

So what if they’d been friends since university? That was just something else Neil Black had taken away.

Lucy deleted the text, opened the van door, and stepped out onto tarmac.

It was a parking lot, outside a small line of shops.

A man’s voice — bored, crackling, and echoey — boomed out through a tannoy, somewhere behind her: ‘Passengers are advised to take care, as the platform may be slippery due to weather conditions.’

She turned.

That small, branch-line train station in Blackwall Hill sat on the other side of the road. The one that was meant to be the start of an integrated transport project, twenty years ago, that hadn’t integrated anything and got cancelled in the next round of budget cuts.

Nearly half seven, and here she was, at the wee shopping centre where Benedict Strachan was due to meet his mum. Must’ve driven over here on autopilot.

That was Dr Sodding McNaughton’s fault. Same thing happened last time she saw him — stirring up things that should be left alone. Making her go through all... that again. As if it wasn’t bad enough at the Fatal Accident Inquiry, or the internal investigation, or when all the bloody press were shouting questions through her letterbox. No wonder she’d been sending Mandy a text — he’d torn the wound open again and filled it full of salt.

Why could no bastard ever leave anything alone? Why did they have to pick, pick, pick at the scab, and then act all surprised when the bleeding started? Why did...

Lucy froze.

That feeling was back again — the one where all the hairs on the back of her neck rippled, as if waves of electricity pulsed through them. But when she spun around, there was no one there. Just the fading evening sky, the spreading web of streetlights glittering away down the valley and up the other side, the glowing lump of the tiny train station, and the little row of shops.

Still, hard to shake the notion that someone was out there, watching her. Someone who definitely wasn’t friendly.

God’s sake.

Bet that was Dr McNaughton’s fault as well: getting her all wound up and jumping at shadows.

OK. Deep breath.

The coffee shop was second from the end, sandwiched between a dry cleaner’s and a place that did shoe repairs and key cutting. The other shops’ shutters were down, but ‘MOLLY’S BEAN MISSING YOU’ had a big ‘OPEN TILL NINE, EVERY NIGHT!’ sign in the window. All lights blazing.

The only other vehicle in the car park was a big BMW four-by-four. The one that’d been parked outside Mr and Mrs Strachan’s house earlier. No one in it now, though. Mrs Strachan would be inside.

Lucy wandered over to the coffee shop, doing her best to look casual, as if she was out for an early-evening stroll and fancied an overpriced hot beverage. Not a police officer looking to pick up an idiot before he fatally violated his release conditions and needed carting back to the nick.

No sign of him through the window, but his mum was sitting all alone at a table near the counter, facing the door. Fidgeting with a napkin while a large mug steamed away in front of her.

The door bleeped as Lucy entered into the earthy fug of freshly ground coffee.

Benedict’s mum, Nikki, stood, mouth pursed.

Lucy ignored her, walked up to the counter instead and made a big show of examining the menu chalked up on the back wall. Kept her voice low. ‘It’s probably best if you pretend I’m not here. Don’t want to scare Benedict off, before we can help him.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ She flushed pink, then sat down again. Went back to fiddling with her napkin. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

A young man appeared behind the counter, all spots and jutting chin, bumfluff clinging to his jaw, but nothing on his top lip. ‘Help you?’

‘Latte: hazelnut syrup, chocolate sprinkles, and a raspberry muffin, please.’ Then she helped herself to a copy of that morning’s Daily Standard from the small selection of papers on the rack. After all, if she was going undercover, she might as well look the part.

Dear Lord, but the Daily Standard was an awful right-wing rag. If it wasn’t ranting on about migrants, or travellers, or the EU, or lefties, or ‘woke’ celebrities, it was praising the idiots in government, or bowing and scraping to the royal family, while having a pop at anyone daring to be brown-skinned in public life. Not in a racist way, of course. No, no, no, it was simply reflecting the thoughts and fears of its loyal readership. ‘Will of the people’, and all that rancid... Lucy scowled. The bloody Dunk was rubbing off on her, wasn’t he? If she wasn’t careful, next thing you knew she’d be dressed head-to-toe in black, shouting, ‘Smash the system!’ and ‘Groovy, daddio!’

‘Hello?’

When she looked up from the paper, there was Benedict’s mum, Nikki, holding her coffee mug as if it were a security blanket. ‘Mrs Strachan.’

‘I’m really sorry, but I don’t think he’s coming.’

Quick glance at the clock above the counter: ten to eight. Benedict was twenty minutes late.

Nikki pulled out the chair opposite and sank into it, shoulders slumped. ‘He used to love coming here. I mean, this was when it was one of those places that did sweet and savoury pancakes? He’d have a Nutella-and-banana stack and watch the trains going to and from the distilleries for hours.’ She stared into the half-drunk depths of her mug. ‘Before it all went wrong.’

Might as well face it, Lucy was going to have to call Benedict’s CJ social worker and tell him to get the paperwork started. Their good deed for the day was a complete failure.

‘Ian used to work as a management consultant at Glendorchadas, you know, when he was on the council. People said it was a conflict of interest — city councillor working for a distillery — but he always maintained it was good for Oldcastle. That if local businesses didn’t thrive, neither could the city.’

Still, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. In the end, Benedict only had himself to blame. Again.

‘We used to be such a happy little family...’

Lucy folded the paper and placed it on the table. ‘Did he fall in with a new crowd? Or maybe there was a girl he was trying to impress?’

Frown. ‘What, Ian?’

‘Benedict.’

‘Oh...’ The creases between her eyebrows deepened. ‘No. Not really. Benny...’ She cleared her throat. ‘He was always very young for his age. Romance hadn’t even registered on the horizon: too busy with astronomy and palaeontology. It’s hard for a girl to compete with quasars and dinosaurs.’

‘What about new friends?’

‘He was working hard, gearing up for the first term at a new school, looking forward to getting his hands on some fancy science kit. Then...’ Nikki shook her head. ‘He wasn’t like that. He was such a sweet little boy. He was my angel.’

Not exactly helpful.

Maybe try another tack? ‘When I spoke to him, yesterday, he kept saying “They” were after him.’

Nikki shuddered. ‘Please, just the word’s enough to...’ Her mouth hung open, eyes fixed over Lucy’s shoulder at the coffee-shop window. ‘Oh my God.’ She stood. ‘My little boy...’ Then she was out of her seat and hurrying through the door.

By the time Lucy caught up, she was wrapping her son in a hug, kissing his forehead, tears glistening on her cheeks.

‘Oh my baby, what have they done to you?’

Benedict’s arms hung limp at his sides, the cast on his left arm a lot filthier than before, face turned to one side, those bruises looking dark and heavy in the streetlights’ glow. ‘Mum, I need some money.’

‘I’ve missed you so much.’

That bored voice buzzed out from the tannoy system again: ‘Passengers are advised to take care, as the platform may be slippery due to weather conditions.’

‘There’s things I need to do. Things... You and Dad aren’t safe, because of me, but I’ve figured it out!’

‘Shhh... Shhh...’ Stroking his lank hair. ‘It’ll be OK, I promise.’

‘I need to fix things. I need to...’ And that was when he looked at Lucy. His swollen mouth clacked shut.

‘Hi, Benedict.’ Lucy stepped forward. ‘I’m here to help you.’

‘What’s she doing here, Mum?’ Wriggling his way free and backing off a couple of paces. ‘You were supposed to come alone!’

‘Shhh... Baby, shhh... It’s—’

‘You didn’t report to your Criminal Justice social worker today, Benedict. I need you to come with me and speak to him, or they’ll find you in breach of your release conditions.’

He turned on Nikki. ‘You lied to me!’ Shoving her away from him.

‘Oh my poor baby, I didn’t—’

‘They’re going to throw you back in prison if you don’t come with me, Benedict.’ Advancing slowly, being as unthreatening as possible. ‘It’s not too late.’

‘Baby, we can—’

‘YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO COME ALONE!’ The fingers on his good hand curled into a fist.

OK, this was going downhill fast.

Lucy inched closer. ‘It’s all right, Benedict, everything’s going to be fine. You’re not in any trouble.’

His unswollen eye went wide. ‘They got to you, didn’t They? You’re working for Them now!’ Paranoid and stoned, all over again.

‘Come with me, Benedict, and we’ll sort things out with your social worker.’

‘You’re going to kill me because I got caught!’ Lurching backwards, as if the tarmac shook beneath his feet. ‘I never told anyone! I didn’t! I kept the secret!’

Should’ve brought her collapsible baton with her, or at least some pepper spray. ‘You’re safe now. No one’s trying to kill—’

‘I KEPT THE SECRET!’ He turned and ran.

Damn it.

Lucy chased after him, as that same bored voice tried something new for a change: ‘Please stand behind the yellow line. The next train at Platform One will not stop.’

Why did everyone have to run?

Though, to be fair, he wasn’t running very fast.

He hurpled out of the car park and across the road, Lucy closing the gap at an easy jog. Whoever had beaten him, they’d done a thorough job and now his top speed wasn’t anything to worry about.

‘Come on, Benedict, I’m trying to help you here.’

No answer, just huffing and panting as he lumbered up the steps to the train station.

‘They’re going to send you back to prison if you don’t come with me.’

It’d been a manned station at one point, but now the ticket office and the waiting room were all boarded up, the walls clarted with bills advertising local bands and car boot sales. A ticket machine sat inside a bus-shelter affair, and a footbridge connected this side to the other platform — though, from the looks of things, no one had used that one for years.

‘Please stand behind the yellow line. The next train at Platform One will not stop.’

He lumbered down the platform, making for the bridge.

‘Benedict, don’t be stupid: there’s nowhere to go.’ An eight-foot-high chain-link fence ran the length of Platform Two, blocking off both ends, the mesh woven through with drooping purple stalks of rosebay willowherb and the grasping claws of coiled brambles.

The train tracks pinged and sang, sounding like far-off laser blasters.

She followed him up the stairs. ‘All you’re doing is making things more difficult for yourself.’

Onto the bridge. Metal bars lined both sides, arching above their heads to join together, like a bird cage. A broken gate halfway along, hanging open.

‘Come on, Benedict, don’t be a dick.’ No point rushing now: he was barely limping along. A proper low-speed chase. ‘It’s over.’

‘Please stand behind the yellow line. The next train at Platform One will not stop.’

‘Mr Scobie’s happy to turn a blind eye, this time. We can get it sorted and you can stay out of prison.’

Benedict hobbled down the stairs on the other side, lurching out onto Platform Two, which would’ve been cloaked in darkness if not for the leftover, greasy yellow glow from the station across the tracks. Weeds snaked their way out through cracks in the concrete surface; small heaps of crisp packets, crumpled beer tins, empty Buckfast bottles, and used condoms sprawled against the metal control box.

The laser blasters got louder.

‘I never told anyone!’ He stumbled to a halt, halfway down the abandoned platform. Trapped.

Reason wasn’t working, maybe she’d get on better humouring him, instead?

So Lucy nodded, walking out after Benedict. ‘I know. You did well. They’re very pleased with you.’

‘They are?’

‘Definitely.’ The low grumbling roar of a big diesel engine joined the twangs and peeeeoows. ‘In fact, They’re so pleased with you They want you to come with me, so you can get your reward.’

A smile blossomed on his bruised face, then faded. ‘You’re lying, aren’t you? They want you to kill me because I failed. We killed Liam Hay, but I got caught. I wasn’t supposed to get caught! I can do better this time, I promise!’

‘No, honestly, Benedict, it’s OK. They don’t care about that, because you didn’t tell anyone. You passed the test!’

His head snapped to the side and back again.

The front end of a huge shed-like engine rumbled into view — flat-faced, with a slightly peaked roof, painted in grubby shades of red and rust-brown, ‘WHISKYFREIGHT’ stencilled in yellow down the louvred side. Hauling the first of what was probably a long line of unmarked wagons behind it.

He tensed, shuffling closer to the platform edge.

The train might not have been going full pelt, but it was still moving at a fair click — thirty, maybe forty miles an hour?

Lucy raised her hands. ‘Come on, Benedict: you passed. That’s great, right?’

He moved again. Licking his split and swollen lips. Knees bent.

The engine passed the signals a hundred yards from the end of the platform, bearing down on them fast.

‘Don’t!’ She closed the gap, blocking his way with an outstretched arm. ‘You can’t jump the gap; you won’t make it. This isn’t the movies, you can’t—’

‘I’m not.’ And he shoved her. Hard. Sending her sailing over the edge to crash down on the gravel below: tumbling backwards, limbs flailing, then sprawling to a halt with a sickening jolt, stretched across the two sets of tracks, right in front of the train.

24

Lucy’s head bounced off the metal rail with a ringing clatter, hard enough to make her teeth throb. One arm stretched out above her head, draped over the vibrating metal as the train growled towards her like a huge angry animal. ‘AAAAAAARGH!’

She jerked sideways, rolling onto the filthy gravel, arms and legs curled up against her chest as the stench of hot diesel washed over her. The air greasy and acrid in her mouth, burning its way into her lungs as the train wheels yelled their song into the rail, inches from her head, the warm foetid wind tugging at her hair.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

She rolled again, flinching away as the freight trucks lumbered past.

Then thump: her back hit the other set of tracks. Finally, out of harm’s way.

Lucy scrambled across them to the platform and pulled herself upright. Stood there, staring, as the train rumbled by, breath heaving in her lungs, head pounding, full of burning glass. Then turned. ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU...’ But there was no sign of Benedict Strachan on the platform. ‘WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?’

He wasn’t on the footbridge.

‘YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU COULD’VE KILLED ME!’

Truck after truck after truck after truck rattled past.

‘I HOPE THEY SEND YOUR ARSE BACK TO PRISON WHERE IT BELONGS!’

By the time Lucy had limped her way across the road — one hand clutching the back of her head — her bright-pink Bedford Rascal was the only vehicle in the car park. Benedict Strachan’s mum had disappeared, too. Maybe she’d given him a lift? Or maybe she’d just sodded off. Either way, Nichola Strachan was in for a not-so-friendly visit.

To hell with playing nice and doing Benedict favours, it was time to get the bastard picked up and thrown in jail. No more Miss Nice Girl.

Lucy pulled out her phone.

Blinked at it.

Perfect. That was just... ‘BASTARD!’

The screen looked as if someone had taken a hammer to it, a spider’s web of cracks radiating out from a big round impact crater. Wouldn’t turn on, either, just sat there in her hand like a sodding paperweight.

A voice, right behind her: ‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh?’

Lucy dropped her phone and whirled around.

Man. Dark-grey suit. Short dark-blond hair. The dick from Professional Standards, getting out of one of O Division’s manky pool cars.

Perfect.

Because that just rounded off the whole day, didn’t it?

She stormed towards him, flinging a finger at the train station. ‘WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU? I COULD’VE DIED!’

‘Are you all right, DS McVeigh, only you seem a little... stressed.’

‘STRESSED?’ Her whole face felt as if someone was crushing it in a vice, jaw clenched, eyes bulging. ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

‘Stop who? I only just got here.’ Holding his hand out for shaking. ‘It’s Charlie, by the way. Hope you don’t mind me popping past, but your DC told me where to find you. Thought we could have that chat you’ve been avoiding. And, as we’re both off duty, it won’t interfere with you catching your serial killer.’ Big bland smile. ‘Everyone wins.’

She slapped his hand away. ‘Give me your phone.’

‘My phone?’ He frowned, leaning sideways to peer at her head. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Only I think you’re bleeding.’

Idiot.

Lucy grabbed her shattered mobile off the tarmac. ‘Mine’s broken; I need to call this in.’

‘Ah, my phone.’ He dipped into his pocket. ‘Won’t do you any good, though. Battery’s flat.’

Wonderful. Better and better.

‘Thanks.’ She unlocked the driver’s door. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

‘You’re definitely bleeding.’ Charlie pointed as she climbed in behind the wheel. ‘Are you sure you’re safe to drive, DS McVeigh?’

She slammed her door and cranked the Bedford Rascal’s awful engine into life. Threw it into gear and screeched out of the car park.

If she couldn’t call it in, she’d just have to do this the old-fashioned way.

The police station on Forbes Drive looked more like a high-security prison, with its high boundary wall topped with razor wire and punctuated with CCTV cameras. But that was Kingsmeath for you.

On the plus side: it was a damn sight closer than driving all the way back to DHQ.

It wasn’t a huge station: just big enough for half a dozen officers, all of whom must’ve done something pretty terrible to end up here. In any normal city it would’ve been part of the Great Police-Estate Selloff, but that would leave Kingsmeath without a visible police presence, and that was just asking for trouble.

Lucy waited in the tiny canteen — barely big enough for two kitchen cabinets, a microwave, kettle, sink, fridge, and a small round table — checking her watch every two minutes and sighing. How long did it take to get a sodding lookout request under way?

She pulled another green paper hand towel from the dispenser and ran it under the cold tap, dabbing it against the huge throbbing lump growing out the back of her skull. Wincing at every touch. The first lot of paracetamol hadn’t even put a dent in her blistering headache, and the second dose wasn’t helping much either.

Bloody Benedict Bloody Strachan...

When she checked the paper towel it was still spotted with soggy scarlet patches, but at least they were getting smaller. Lucy dumped the sodden stained wodge in the bin, with the others, and dug out another fresh towel.

A knock on the door.

About sodding time.

But it wasn’t the Duty Sergeant who slipped into the room, it was the Charlie from Professional Standards. ‘There you are.’ Jerking his chin up. ‘How’s the noggin?’

‘Are you following me?’

‘Given how upset you were, back outside the train station? Yes.’ He leaned against the room’s tiny table. ‘Besides, when you drive a bright-pink Bedford Rascal, covered with copulating sausages, you’re not as hard to track down as you might think.’

Lucy pressed the dry towel against her lump. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I see.’ He picked at his nails, not looking at her. ‘Your colleagues are worried about you, DS McVeigh.’

‘Are they now.’ She made herself a cuppa, filching one of the day shift’s teabags, and helping herself to a slug of semi-skimmed from a carton marked, ‘DUNCAN’S MILK ~ HANDS OFF, YOU THIEVING BASTARDS!!!’

Didn’t bother making Charlie one, because sod him.

He kept his mouth shut while she was doing it, though, so that was something.

Lucy leaned back against the work surface and took a sip, scowling at him over the rim of her mug. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Have you considered going to Accident and Emergency? You must’ve hit your head pretty hard.’ Glancing at the bin with its collection of bloodstained paper towels.

Did they go out of their way to recruit only the most annoying of bastards for Professional Standards?

‘I’m not your enemy, DS McVeigh, I’m really not.’

‘Then why — are — you — here?’

‘DCI Gilmore thinks I should keep an eye on you, help out where needed. Said you were under a lot of pressure, what with the case and Sarah Black and this guy who’s been harassing you and everything. Said it would be a shame to lose you.’

There was no mistaking the threat in that last sentence: play the game, or else.

Lucy cleared her throat.

Antagonizing the little git wasn’t helping, was it? If anything, it was making things worse.

‘Is that right.’

‘Have you seen the size of the bump on the back of your head? It’s like a hard-boiled egg.’ He pointed at the notice pinned up above a shabby old piggy bank. ‘And you should really put money in the kitty for that cuppa.’ He wandered over to the canteen’s narrow window, peering out through the grime, across the barbed wire to the grubby terraces and council flats. ‘If I’m honest, what concerns me the most is that someone’s been following you. Slashing your tyres. Knows where you live. I mean, what if they’re working for Neil Black’s family?’

Hark at Captain Sherlock.

Lucy bit back the sarcastic reply, opting for something more neutral instead: ‘I had already thought of that.’

He stood on his tiptoes to get a better look. ‘Even worse: what if it’s the Bloodsmith? Your visit to the cottage where Abby Geddes died was all over the news yesterday. Today it’s all about our finding DC Malcolm Louden’s body in the woods. He knows you’re getting closer.’

She sipped her tea.

Dr McNaughton wasn’t the only one who could do the silent treatment.

Charlie looked over his shoulder at her. ‘It’s worth considering, isn’t it? Apart from anything else, you saw him, which means you’ve got a physical description. You can circulate it around the Division, see if he’s come up in the investigation.’ Staring out the window again. ‘Someone has to know who this guy is.’

She let him have a little more silence.

Charlie gave up on the view, turned, and rested his bum on the windowsill instead. ‘Look, we appear to have got off on the wrong foot. So, how about we get you over to A & E, have you checked over for a concussion, then I can buy you a collegial drink.’ One hand against his chest. ‘As an official representative of Professional Standards. Show you we’re not all horrors.’

‘I don’t drink.’ Not any more, anyway. Not after what happened last time. She forced a smile. ‘But thank you for your kind—’

Another knock on the door, but this time it was the Kingsmeath Duty Sergeant who stuck his big bald head in. ‘You McVeigh?’

She hid the illicit tea behind her back. ‘Any news?’

‘Lookout request’s active, citywide. Got a patrol car popping past the halfway house on Stirk Road every now and then, but they lock the doors at nine, so...?’ A shrug. ‘Got someone watching the train station, too.’

‘What about his mother?’

‘Officers on their way now. And I got the Automatic Number Plate Recognition team to put a flag on her BMW, just in case she does a runner to Aberdeen or Dundee with the boy hiding in her boot.’ He nodded, setting his chins rippling. ‘Now you are going to remember it’s fifty pence in the kitty for that tea you pilfered, right? We might not chuck scallywags in the cells here any more, but wayward police officers are another matter entirely.’

Lucy clomped out into the car park, round the back of the station, bathed in the wan yellow glow of a security spotlight that didn’t seem able to get properly going.

Charlie followed her over to the Bedford Rascal.

‘So, Benedict Strachan gets picked up, night in the cells, then back to prison tomorrow. You OK with that?’ Climbing inside and fastening his seatbelt.

Lucy stared at him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Coming with you to A & E. I can pick up my car tomorrow.’

She tightened her hands around the steering wheel. ‘I’m not going to A & E.’

‘Ah... You’re not thinking of going after Benedict Strachan again, are you?’ A sigh. ‘Do you never worry that you’re a little... obsessed with him?’

‘I dobbed him in, didn’t I? Just now — you saw me!’

‘Yes, but you like him. And I don’t mean like, like, I mean you identify with him.’

Lucy started the engine and crawled the van over to the exit gate. ‘He killed a homeless man.’

‘I know.’

The gate buzzed open and Lucy accelerated out onto Forbes Drive.

‘But...’ Charlie held up a finger. ‘A: Benedict’s a former child prodigy.’ Another finger. ‘B: he was prevented from reaching his full potential.’ Finger number three. ‘C: he has a difficult relationship with his father.’

‘I do not have a...’ She cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t have a difficult relationship with my father. My father loved and supported me.’

‘You do realize that your therapist submits formal reports to O Division, don’t you?’

Lucy took her foot off the accelerator, letting the Bedford Rascal drift to a halt outside a dimly lit kebab shop. Then turned and stared at him. ‘You’re reading my therapy reports?’

‘Of course we are. How else are we supposed to know if you’re OK to be at work, or what support you need? Do you really think we don’t care if you’re going off the rails or not?’ He pointed at her head. ‘No pun intended.’

‘My therapy reports?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s not some sort of blow-by-blow recording of your sessions, just a high-level summary: Dr McNaughton’s impressions, how he thinks you’re getting on, that sort of thing. It’s all on a strictly need-to-know basis.’

‘You don’t need to know!’

‘Anyway, where were we?’ A frown, then one last finger joined the others. ‘D: Benedict Strachan killed someone, too.’

Lucy’s jaw clenched. ‘Don’t you dare!’

‘I know, I know — the situations were completely different. He had a choice about that, he chose to go out and murder Liam Hay; you didn’t have any option. While Neil Black deserved everything he had coming.’ Charlie brought one shoulder up, palms facing the van roof. ‘I’m just saying: maybe that’s why you’re spending all this time chasing about after Benedict Strachan when you’re supposed to be out catching the Bloodsmith instead?’

‘My shift ended nearly four hours ago! What I do in my spare time isn’t anyone’s—’

‘Is it just your spare time, though, DS McVeigh? Again, I’d remind you: your — therapist — sends — in — reports.’

That did it: she was going to bloody well kill Dr John Dickhead McNaughton.

Lucy hauled on the handbrake. ‘Get out.’

‘I’m on your side, Lucy.’

‘Are you deaf? Get — out.’

‘Come on.’ Charlie tried a chummy smile. ‘You wouldn’t leave a fellow police officer stranded out here in the middle of Kingsmeath, would you?’

‘GET OUT OF THE VAN, BEFORE I THROW YOU OUT!’

‘Jesus. All right, all right, I’m going.’ He climbed down onto the pavement. ‘You know, I really am on your side, Lucy. Take a deep breath, OK, and—’

She put her foot down, letting the van’s forward motion slam the passenger door shut.

He could bloody well walk home.

The van’s headlights swept across the front of her house as she pulled the thing into the driveway, gravel scrunching under the wheels.

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

No sign of her Kia Picanto, just an empty oil-spotted stretch of chuckies where it should’ve been.

‘You were supposed to bring the damn thing back with new tyres!’ Hauling out her phone and... swearing, because it was still broken. Funnily enough.

Bloody garage.

Lucy clambered out and slammed the driver’s door. Sod the neighbours. Then grumbled her way around the van, making sure everything was locked, and slumped her way into the house.

She dumped her keys in the bowl, hung up her raincoat, stuck her new brolly in the umbrella stand with all of Dad’s old walking sticks, then opened the sideboard’s drawers. Rummaging through the contents for her old phone. The charger was in there too, which was about the only bit of luck she’d had today.

She took both through to the kitchen, swapped over the SIM card from her broken phone, and put the old handset on to recharge: one red bar, glowing away on the battery icon.

Next: another two paracetamol and a pair of aspirin, washed down with a big glass of cold water. And finally: a bag of peas from the freezer, pressed against the back of her head. ‘Urgh...’

Lucy stood there for a while, eyes closed, till the throbbing headache eased a bit.

Bloody Benedict Bloody Strachan.

And she did not identify with him, thank you very much.

The phone still displayed that single red stripe, so Lucy left it charging. Plucked the Blairrachan Garage business card from the corkboard by the fridge, made a cup of tea and took both through to the living room. Gave the useless gits a call from the landline, scowling while it rang and rang and rang.

‘Aye, aye, you’ve got through to Blairrachan Garage, we’re a’ awa’ the noo, but you can leave a messagey oan the thingie aifter the beep.’

Beeeep.

Well, of course there was no one in, it was after nine on a Thursday night.

‘This is Lucy McVeigh. Where’s my car, Fergus? You promised me it’d be back today!’ Then hung up with as much venom as she could muster with a thumb and a button, and stood there, seething for a while.

When her jaw unclenched, she had a sip of tea and went over to stare at her murder board in all its frustrating and ineffable glory. And, of course, she had a new victim to add to the wall.

Lucy nipped out to the hall and dug a chunk of paperwork from her raincoat pocket. AKA: everything she’d managed to nick from Operation Maypole about ex-DC Malcolm Louden. She stood there, frowning at the pocket. There was something else in there. Something heavy.

‘Sod.’

It was the little bunch of keys she’d found yesterday, down near that meat-packing place. Supposed to have handed those in at the Lost and Found.

Ah well, they’d just have to wait till tomorrow. They went in the bowl with her house, car, and van keys, then Lucy took the printouts through to the living room and pinned them up with the others. No crime-scene photos yet — just the one of Louden’s back, with the broken tattoo — but she could print those out tomorrow, when she was back in the office, along with anything else the teams had found out about him.

Right: so now they had a software engineer; a molecular biologist/call-centre worker; an unemployed project manager; a debutante/part-time bookseller; a philosophy student; and an ex-detective constable/homeless person. They didn’t look alike, they weren’t all the same age, they weren’t even all the same gender, but something had to connect them.

A long breath hissed out of her.

Not getting anywhere tonight at all.

A little light winked away on Dad’s old answering machine. Probably a marketing call, or a scammer, or something. It wasn’t as if she’d given the landline number out to anyone. But she pressed the button anyway.

A loud bleeeeeep sounded, followed by:

‘Did you know the Scottish Government has put aside money to help you buy a new boiler? Well—’

Delete.

‘Miss McVeigh? It’s Mr Unwin, from Unwin and McNulty. I just wanted to remind you that your father’s ashes are here and ready for collection whenever you feel ready. There’s no rush.’

Delete.

‘Congratulations! You may already have won—’

Delete.

So much for that.

She sagged. Grimaced. Rubbed a hand across her face.

God, what a day.

Should really go have another crack at her wall of suspects. Try to achieve something. As if that was going to happen by sheer force of will.

Yeah...

Back in the Before Times, pre-Neil-Sodding-Black, it would’ve been bottle-of-Pinot-Grigio o’clock. But now? Just have to make do with a nice hot bath instead. Because, while that wouldn’t fix anything, it would make life feel a hell of a lot better.

The Bloodsmith and the dead would just have to wait.

25

The ten o’clock news burbled away in the background as Lucy scuffed through to the kitchen; dressing gown, slippers, damp hair wrapped in a towel.

Clunking open the fridge revealed the usual depressing array of not-very-much. Some milk. A bag of salad that’d turned to dark-green mush. Carton of eggs. Pat of butter. Jar of pickled onions. Chunk of mousetrap cheddar, wrapped up in clingfilm. Half-empty jar of blackcurrant jam with white mould furring its dark-purple surface. Not like Jane Cooper, with her stacks of swanky ready meals.

Wonder what a search team would make of the contents here. What it’d say about the body lying upstairs in the bath. Or maybe they’d find her at the bottom of the stairs? Or out in the garden. Or right here in the kitchen. On her own. All alone.

Here lie the mortal remains of Detective Sergeant Lucy McVeigh, unloved, unknown, and unmourned...

Cheese on toast with pickled onions it was.

She stuck the grill on and checked her old phone. Still only one red bar, and that was, what, an hour it’d been charging?

Lucy picked it up, leaving the power cord plugged in, and turned it on.

Took a moment, but the screen finally flickered into life as the system booted up. That was something, at least. She unlocked it and the thing buzzed and dinged in her hand. Three text messages — one from the Dunk, the other two from unknown numbers — and a couple of voicemails — both unknowns as well.

‘I’m not a weak and feeble woman, Dunk.’

DELETE.

Don’t know why physicists got so excited by the speed of light — it travelled at a snail’s pace compared to gossip through O Division.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Apparently, Argyll didn’t send a lot of text messages. Probably got all confused about where to put the stamp, or why he didn’t have to tie it to a pigeon’s leg any more.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Presumably that would be Mr Scobie, Benedict’s CJ social worker.

‘Didn’t see you getting chucked in front of a moving sodding train.’

DELETE.

And last, but probably least — voicemails.

YOU HAVE — TWO — NEW MESSAGES AND — NO — SAVED MESSAGES.

MESSAGE ONE:

A plummy posh-boy voice bounced out of the phone. ‘Hello, DS McVeigh, erm... well, Lucy, if I may. Yes. I, erm... Whoooo, this is a bit more... than I thought. Look, I’ll cut to the chase. I know we, erm... you know, chaps, we’re supposed to play it all cool, but I thought I’d... break with tradition and say I was rather taken by you and I’d like to get to know you better?’ You could almost hear him fiddling with his floppy fringe. ‘Oh, it’s Argyll, by the way. Argyll McCaskill? I’m the assistant headmaster at St Nicholas College? Anyway, erm... yes, so I wanted to say... that... and ask if you’d, perhaps, like to... erm... you know, we could go to the pictures, or a play, or concert, or something. If you’d like to? Or for dinner, or even just a coffee?’ There was a pause, then a long, huffing sigh. ‘You can probably tell I don’t do this very often... call women up out of the blue, I mean.’ The words getting faster and faster. ‘But you’ve got my number now, and if you want to get back in touch that’s great, and if not, erm... I’m sorry to bother you. Bye.’

Well, that was slick.

Bleeeep.

With patter like that, bet Argyll McCaskill was a massive hit with the ladies. Like Casanova on steroids. Ahem...

MESSAGE TWO:

The next voice wasn’t anywhere near as posh, but still had that Castleview-upper-crust edge to it, along with a sibilant, missing-teeth smushiness, accentuated by the speaker being obviously drunk and/or stoned. ‘I’m sorry. I hope... hope you’re... all right. I don’t know if you’re... all right, but... but I hope you’re all right.’ Benedict Strachan. ‘If you... if you are all right, if... if you’re listening to this... I want you to know... know I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just...’ A couple of wheezing breaths and a whine. ‘I cocked it up! I wasn’t... wasn’t meant to get caught, but... but I got caught and I... I kept the secret, but I cocked it up and the only way... the only way I can... can make it right...’ Silence.

Lucy made sure the power cable was still plugged in.

Maybe he’d hung up?

‘I have to... to do it properly. Do it properly and not get caught... like last... last time... If you’re... if you really are working for... for Them, tell Them I’m... Don’t hurt my mum and dad. I’m going... going to get it right this time. Promise.’

Bleeeep.

She sagged back against the kitchen table.

Well, that was just... Yeah.

Do it properly and not get caught.

He was going to find himself another homeless person to kill.

She marched through to the living room, grabbed the landline handset, dialled, and took it back into the kitchen, listening to it ring on the way.

‘O Division Control Room, how can I—’

‘DS McVeigh. I need you to put me through to DCI Ross. And I know it’s late, and I know he’s off duty, but just do it. Please.’

‘Can I ask what it’s—’

‘Possible attempted murder.’

A keyboard clattered in the background. ‘Putting you through now.’

The O Division hold music was utterly terrible, but finally a gruff voice cut it off. ‘DS McVeigh. I assume this is—’

‘Benedict Strachan’s breached his release conditions and he’s planning on killing someone, possibly tonight. He’s doped up, delusional, paranoid, and dangerous.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m telling you, because he left me a message on my phone, which means I’ve got the mobile number he was calling from, which means—’

‘We can trace his whereabouts.’ Some muffled crumps and banging. ‘I’ll get a warrant.’ The sound of breathing, then, ‘You’re sure he’s going to hurt someone?’

‘Can play you the message, if you like.’ Lucy held her mobile up to the phone and hit the button.

The geode’s heavy in her hand — so heavy she can barely raise the thing high enough to smash it down on—

Lucy scrambled out of bed, pyjamas sticking to her back, face: cold and clammy. Chest heaving as she dragged in urgent wheezing gasps. Trembling. The bedside rug cool beneath her bare feet. The only thing that broke the darkness was the alarm clock, glowing ‘03:02’ at her in blurry red digits.

Jesus.

She slumped forward and grabbed her knees, closed both eyes, and tried to calm her breathing down. Going through the exercises they’d given her. In and out. In and out. In and out.

Hadn’t had a nightmare like that for months and months.

Thank you, Dr Sodding McNaughton, for stirring everything up again.

Eventually, her breathing slowed to something more like normal and Lucy straightened up. Wiped a hand across her damp face.

Why did psychologists always have to make things worse? Surely the whole point of therapy was to...

What was that?

She padded her way to the bedroom door and eased it open.

The landing was shrouded in gloom; what little light there was seeped in through the window at the end. Cold grey slivers of moonlight traced the top of the trees opposite.

Maybe she’d imagined it? Still jittery after the dream. It wasn’t as if—

A noise downstairs: scratching, scraping.

She absolutely didn’t imagine that.

Lucy inched out to the balustrade and peered down into the dark.

Why was it that the first thing anyone did in books and films, when they heard some weird noise in the night, was shout, ‘Hello?’ Instantly letting the axe-murdering psychopath know exactly where they were. Presumably because all fictional people were idiots.

She crept along the landing to the stairs.

Maybe it was mice? Old house like this, middle of nowhere, bound to get the odd mouse or six. Gnawing on the wiring, breeding in the gaps...

The top step creaked beneath her bare foot. Not loud enough to stop the scrabbling noise, though. She eased her way down the stairs, slow and steady.

It was even darker down here, the air scented with tendrils of mildew and dust.

That sound was coming from the front door. A shadow covered the stained-glass panel set into the wood. There was someone outside.

Lucy stayed close to the wall as she snuck forward. Eyes on the door handle. Did that just move? Because she’d made sure all the doors and windows were locked before going to bed. Hadn’t she?

It did. It definitely moved.

This was it. The bastard in the corduroy jacket had finally come to finish the job. Following her, slashing her tyres: it had all been building up to this moment.

Should’ve bought that bloody baseball bat.

Well, just have to improvise, wouldn’t she?

Lucy slipped one of Dad’s old walking sticks from the umbrella stand. A nice hefty metal stick with a Bakelite handle, the rubber tip long since crumbled to dust. Old, but perfect for caving someone’s head in.

The door handle twisted.

Time to give them a helping hand.

She reached for the handle, but it snapped back into place before her fingers touched it. Then the whole door rattled as a fist slammed against it on the other side, the booming sound nearly deafening in the silence.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

She flinched back.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

OK.

Didn’t matter.

She had the walking stick.

Yes, but what if they had a knife? Or a shotgun?

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

Her hands tightened on the cold metal.

What if there were two of them?

Yeah...

Wouldn’t hurt to have some backup.

Lucy grabbed her keys from the bowl on the sideboard — jammed the front-door one in the lock and twisted it all the way over. Leaving it in there, so they couldn’t pick it from the outside, before sprinting into the living room.

She snatched up the house phone and pressed the green button. Nothing. No dialling tone. It was dead. They’d done something to the line.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

Lucy edged over to the bay window and eased one side of the curtains open an inch. Just enough to see out.

A red-and-white Mini sat on the drive, next to Dad’s old van, engine idling a curl of exhaust into the night, running lights glowing blood-scarlet. He’d reverse parked, ready for a quick getaway, which gave her a blurred view of the number plate. Squinting didn’t make it any clearer, nor did rubbing her eyes. Should’ve put on her glasses, but the stupid things were still lying on the bedside cabinet, upstairs.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

She shifted around another couple of inches, till the front door came into view. It was her stalker — the bastard who’d slashed her tyres. And he was alone. Didn’t look as if he had a shotgun, either. Hammering on the door with both gloved fists.

Right.

Lucy marched back into the hall, raising the walking stick on the way, ready to batter it down. Grabbed the key, unlocked the front door and threw it open. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Swinging as she lunged over the threshold.

But he wasn’t there — he was scrambling in behind the Mini’s wheel. Engine roaring as he put his foot down.

Got to put it in gear first, idiot.

She leaped after him — gravel cold and sharp beneath her feet — swinging the heavy metal walking stick in a slashing arc. It smashed down into the Mini’s roof, making a long puckered dent in the bodywork, sending a network of jagged cracks curling across the rear windscreen.

Sharp little stones flew from beneath the wheels and the car shot forward, accelerating out onto the road before she could get another swing in.

‘YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT: RUN AWAY!’ Lucy staggered after the Mini, across the painful gravel, waving her dad’s walking stick like a sword at the disappearing tail-lights. ‘AGAIN!’

She stood there, in the middle of the road, feet frozen and aching. Breath whoomping out in thick grey lungfuls.

Turning up here, in the dead of night, to hammer on her door like something out of a horror film. Well, if the plan had been to terrify and intimidate her, it hadn’t sodding worked. All it did was make her even more pissed off. And if Sarah Black thought she was winning this one, she was in for a nasty surprise.

Lucy limped back into the house. She had some calls to make.