No Less the Devil

26

Lucy finished up her tea and toast, then yawned her way towards the living room. One eye screwed shut against the headache pounding away behind it. Waiting for the pills to kick in.

She shambled across the hall and unlocked the living-room door. Hadn’t been easy, keeping everyone out of there last night, but if she hadn’t it’d be halfway around O Division by now: Detective Sergeant McVeigh’s been nicking case files from Operation Maypole! Her walls are plastered with them! DI Tudor would’ve had her suspended, signed off on the sick, and probably fired as well.

She dumped the key back in the bowl on the sideboard as the doorbell chimed out its two miserable notes.

Urgh...

Probably one of the OAPs from the farm cottages across the road, wanting to know what all the excitement had been about last night, with the patrol cars and SEB Transit van. Normally, the old buggers only communicated via passive-aggressive notes, pushed through her letterbox. ‘YOUR FATHER ALWAYS PUT HIS BINS OUT ON THE MONDAY MORNING’; ‘YOUR FATHER ALWAYS KEPT THE FRONT LAWN SO TIDY’; ‘YOUR FATHER ALWAYS CLEARED UP THE GRASS VERGE OUTSIDE HIS HOUSE...’

The Grim Reaper couldn’t come fast enough for the lot of them.

She hauled on an artificial smile, then unlocked the front door and threw it open.

Only it wasn’t a boot-faced pensioner standing on her top step, it was Charlie, the dick from Professional Standards, waving at a patrol car as it drove off down the road. He turned to face her. ‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh. I understand you had an unwelcome guest?’

Tempting to give him the same treatment she’d given the Mini last night, and cave his skull in with that walking stick. But it wouldn’t exactly help, would it?

No, she had to be a good little girl and play the game.

She fixed her fake smile in place. ‘Colin, wasn’t it?’

‘Close. It’s Charlie.’ If getting his name wrong annoyed him, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he peered up at the front of the house. ‘And whoever it was, they cut the phone line, too? That’s the trouble with these old houses — it’s all external boxes, isn’t it? Easy to sabotage with a pair of wire cutters.’

‘Was there something specific you wanted?’

He pulled out a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘Says here they dusted the front door for prints and swabbed for DNA. Think they’ll get a match on the database? Be great if they did, wouldn’t it? Especially if he really was the Bloodsmith.’

‘Well, thanks for popping by.’ Moving to close the front door again.

‘And shouldn’t you have been in the office...’ Charlie checked his watch, ‘nearly an hour and a half ago?’

She threw the door wide again. ‘For your information, Sergeant, Forensics didn’t finish here till after five. Tudor doesn’t want me in till noon.’

‘That’s very kind of him.’

Lucy folded her arms.

He smiled his bland little smile at her.

Blackbirds pop-hopped across the tufted lawn.

Wind rustled in the trees opposite, as Auld Dawson’s Wood stirred.

Lucy sagged. ‘You’re not going to go away, are you.’

‘Why thank you, DS McVeigh, I would love a cup of tea.’

Of course he would.

She retreated down the hall, making sure the living-room door was still shut before pointing at the kitchen. ‘In there.’

He gave her a small nod, then followed her finger through into Dad’s kitchen. ‘Nice house you have here. Must be worth a fair bit?’

‘If you’re asking, “How can I possibly afford somewhere like this?”, it was my father’s.’ Which probably made her a low-rent version of Jane Cooper. No holiday homes in Spain and Cornwall, though, just a static caravan somewhere outside Portsoy.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He leaned back against the work surface as she refilled the kettle. ‘I suppose that’s the only consolation of not having any living relatives: no one fighting over the will.’

Mug. Teabag. Milk.

The kettle rumbled to a boil.

Lucy sloshed the hot water in.

‘Are you always this... taciturn, DS McVeigh?’

She handed him the mug. ‘Yes.’

The kettle clicked and ticked as it cooled.

The fridge hummed.

Charlie smiled his bland smile.

Then the ancient mobile, still plugged in and displaying a single red bar, burst into life. Its screen lit up as the handset buzzed and dinged with a new text message.

Lucy pulled off her glasses, screwed up her eyes, and pressed her fingertips into the sockets till little yellow-black bubbles popped across her vision. Tuesday. That’s what she got for trusting a doddery old fart who did jobs for cash, instead of a proper bloody garage: four more days stuck driving that stupid pink Bedford Rascal.

By the time she’d pulled on her police officer face, straightened up, and turned, Charlie from Professional Standards was nowhere to be seen.

Sod.

She hurried out of the kitchen, into the hall, and froze.

The lounge door was wide open, and there was Charlie, standing in the middle of the room, gob hanging open as he stared at her completely unauthorized and possibly illegal murder board.

He pursed his lips. ‘It’s all a bit... Please tell me you have permission from DI Tudor to take sensitive case material home with you?’

‘You’re not supposed to be in here.’

‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh, you do realize how this looks, don’t you?’ Turning to point at her walls of victims, crime scenes, notes, and potential killers. ‘It’s like something out of a movie. The lone-wolf detective retreats to their lair and obsesses over the case they couldn’t crack.’

There was that word again: obsess.

‘I’m just trying to catch the Bloodsmith.’ She pulled her shoulders back, chin up. ‘At least I’m doing something.’

Charlie puffed out his cheeks and settled onto her green leather sofa, blinking at the wall of suspects. ‘I mean, does Dr McNaughton know? You’d think he would’ve mentioned something like this in his reports. As a warning bell...’ There was a pause, then he took a sip of tea, not taking his eyes off the array of faces. ‘It’s... Why are these seven separate from the rest?’

Heat pulsed in her cheeks. ‘The profile says he’s probably had a string of one-night stands.’

‘Ah, I get it.’ Charlie leaned forward. ‘So you’ve isolated the suspects who women would probably find attractive.’ His eyebrows went up. ‘It’s certainly one way to whittle down the field.’

‘Look, it’s been seventeen months; we need to do something different or we’ll never—’

‘I take it someone’s checked that they’ve all got alibis for when Malcolm Louden was murdered?’

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Maybe, maybe not. You never could tell with DI Tudor — depended on how martyred he felt at any given moment. ‘Of course someone’s checked. Not sure what the result is, though.’ Because no way she was ratting Tudor out to Professional Standards.

Charlie peeled himself off the couch and plucked the framed photo from the mantelpiece — the one nestled in amongst her possible Bloodsmiths: a man and a woman, standing together in a back garden, arms around each other as they smiled for the camera. ‘How come these two don’t have names and details?’

‘Because they’re not suspects, they’re my parents.’

‘Ah.’ A nod. ‘Your mum’s really pretty; is she...?’

The silence stretched.

God’s sake.

As if it wasn’t all in Dr McNaughton’s sodding reports.

Lucy sighed. ‘Fine: she died. Cancer. I was five. Happy now?’ The heat was building in her cheeks again. ‘I’m surprised there isn’t a whole volume dedicated to it: “Lucy McVeigh and Her Terrible Childhood”.’ Getting louder with every word as she flung her arms out. ‘Roll up, roll up: see the little girl whose mother hated her! Laugh at her pain and trauma! Cheer as her dad has a breakdown and she’s sent off to live in a home run by sadists!’ Glaring at him as she lowered her arms again. Blood fizzing behind her eyes. Ready for a fight.

‘Sorry to hear that. Must’ve been tough.’ He wandered over to the wall dedicated to the Bloodsmith’s victims. ‘Have you noticed how none of them are smiling?’

Jesus, talk about a sudden change of topic.

‘What?’

‘They all look so sad.’

Same thing the Dunk had said about Jane Cooper.

‘How happy would you be?’

Charlie paused for a moment, head on one side. ‘Yes, but when these photos were taken, they’d no idea they would end up slit open with their hearts ripped out. It’s almost like they know they’re going to have a horrible death.’

‘Don’t be such a...’ She swallowed it down. Not helping, remember?

Besides, had to admit: he had a point. Normally, when it came to getting photos of the deceased from their families, everyone produced pictures taken at birthdays, anniversaries, barbecues, parties, graduations. Happy times. Something that showed the victim was a real person who was loved. But everyone on Lucy’s wall really did look sad, if not borderline miserable.

But then that wasn’t surprising, was it?

There was Abby Geddes, with her tired eyes and drooping mouth — she’d dreamed of being a molecular biologist, and ended up working in a call centre. Barely known by the people she worked with. And Bruce Malloch, with his brow puckered in a partial frown — who still had his ex-fiancée down as next of kin, even though she’d dumped him months before. Adam Holmes, with his serious face, mouth pinched — laid off from work a year and a half ago. Jane Cooper, with her gloomy Victorian-doll’s face — an orphan devoid of friends. Craig Thorburn, with a forced smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes — lying dead in his one-bedroom flat for three weeks before anyone bothered to report him missing. Malcolm Louden, with the bruises and haunted look — sleeping rough, while the closest thing he had to a friend was the old man he saw once a week to go shoplifting with.

Charlie rested his bum against the back of the couch, arms folded. ‘I know the profiles say the Bloodsmith doesn’t really have a type, but it doesn’t take a genius to see he likes them lonely and miserable.’

Lonely...

Lucy unpinned Bruce Malloch’s missing-person report from the wall and scanned down to the section saying who’d reported him missing: ‘ARTHUR POPE [MISPER’S LINE MANAGER]’. And Jane Cooper was reported missing by her family solicitor. Craig Thorburn was only reported missing by Oldcastle Dundas University because they finally noticed he hadn’t turned up to class for nearly a month. Ex-DC Malcolm Louden didn’t get reported missing until well over a week after the fact, when he failed to turn up for the planned raid on M&S’s booze aisle. There wasn’t even a missing-person report for Adam Holmes: he’d been found when his landlord went round to check on complaints about the smell coming from his flat.

‘Are you all right, DS McVeigh? You’ve gone even quieter than normal.’

‘The only victim reported missing by their family was Abby Geddes.’ Lucy unpinned the report. Even then, according to this, it’d taken her mother nearly a week to do it. How did it take a week to report your daughter missing, when she lived at home with you? What kind of crap parent did you have to be? ‘They weren’t just lonely, they were alone. Every single one of them.’

‘Suppose.’ Charlie looked over his shoulder at the wall of potential killers. ‘Doesn’t really help us any, does it?’

‘Maybe.’ Lucy cracked open her laptop and powered the thing up. Logged in... And swore.

‘What?’

‘No wireless.’ But then there wouldn’t be, would there? The bastard cut the phone lines last night.

‘Lucy?’

She clunked it shut again. ‘Grab your coat, we’re going.’

He followed her out into the hall. ‘Thought you said DI Tudor didn’t want you in till noon?’

‘Change of plan.’ Pulling on her raincoat and hauling the door open. ‘We’ll take your car.’ She stepped outside into the crisp morning drizzle. The sky was a blanket of gunmetal grey, so low it skimmed the top of Auld Dawson’s Wood, hiding the tips of the trees. Lucy stopped on the wet gravel. ‘Where’s your car?’

The only vehicle in sight was her dad’s old van, its pink paintwork glistening in the rain.

Charlie emerged out onto the driveway, pulling the house door shut behind him. ‘Got dropped off by a patrol car, remember?’

Oh, that was just... great.

‘Hmmm...’ Charlie ran a finger through the dust coating the van’s dashboard. ‘It’s a little unfair, isn’t it? Inspector Morse gets a classic Jag to swan about in, and you’re stuck with a prolapse-pink Bedford Rascal?’

The van’s windscreen wipers moaned and groaned, the drizzle building up in their wake, frosting over the view of muddy-green fields, before being swept away again. Miserable-looking sheep glared back at her, their coats flattened and darkened by the rain.

He wiped his finger clean on his trouser leg. ‘So, are you going to tell me what your earth-shattering epiphany is?’

Nope.

Less than a minute later she was pulling into the car park outside Sainsbury’s, perched on the northernmost edge of the Wynd, its flattened boxy warehouse not exactly fitting in with the general Edwardian gentility of the place. The locals had probably wanted a Waitrose.

She parked her horrible van as close to the entrance as possible.

‘Wait here.’

‘DS McVeigh, I’m Professional Standards, remember? I promise not to steal the credit for your insight, idea, or revelation.’

Might as well throw him a scrap to whet his appetite.

She hopped out onto the tarmac and pulled the school umbrella from the back. Snapped it up. ‘The shortest time the Bloodsmith’s gone without killing someone is three months.’

‘Yes, but Malcolm Louden was four and a bit weeks ago.’

‘Exactly.’ And with that, she turned around and marched for the supermarket’s entrance.

The savoury fug of sausage butties coiled its way through Divisional Headquarters, even though it was far too early for tenses. Half nine, and the place was nearly deserted — everyone off trying to keep Oldcastle from slitting its own throat.

Lucy marched up to the counter. ‘Morning, Bob.’

The Duty Sergeant didn’t look up as she signed in, just raised his pen from the sudoku book he was fiddling with and used it to point at a big bouquet of flowers sitting on a desk behind the counter. ‘Those came for you.’

It was clearly a cut above anything you’d get on a garage forecourt, or even in your more medium-sized supermarkets: a riot of pinks and yellows and reds and whites, framed with assorted greenery, all presented in a cellophane-wrapped vase of some kind.

‘Oh. Yeah...’ Lucy pulled her chin in. ‘Did you check that for razor blades, dirty needles and the like?’ Just in case they were another message from Sarah Black and her family of horrors.

‘Like I care enough?’ But he turned and plucked a small white envelope from the red ribbon holding the whole ridiculous package together. ‘Came with this.’ He tossed it onto the counter.

She took a deep breath and tore it open, keeping her fingertips clear of anything that might be sharp or contaminated. A small card fell out onto the scarred wooden surface, the words churned out on the florist’s printer:

At least he’d stopped adding his job title; maybe he was loosening up a bit? ‘Warmest wishes’, though...

Charlie sooked a breath in through his teeth. ‘I hope that’s not some sort of bribe, Detective Sergeant. Or have you landed yourself a boyfriend?’

‘Oh, bugger off.’

The Duty Sergeant went back to his sudoku. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

Charlie leaned against the filing cabinet, arms folded, watching as Lucy swallowed a couple of paracetamol and unpacked her new phone. Not the cheapest model in the shop, but nothing too fancy either. It was SIM-free, so she fiddled the one out of her old mobile and slid that into the vacant slot. Clicked the back into place again.

She’d grabbed an abandoned office on the second floor, its usual occupant off on the sick and probably never coming back. They hadn’t made much of an effort to personalize the place, before they’d left — just a couple of wilting pot plants and a framed photo of the Queen shaking hands with some auld wifie in an ugly hat.

It was a bit of a fight, getting all the phone’s bits and bobs out of their plastic tombs, but eventually she had her new handset plugged in and charging.

‘There.’ Lucy powered up the office’s ancient creaky desktop and logged in. Left it chugging while she smiled at Charlie in what was hopefully a very annoying manner. ‘Figured it out yet?’

A shrug. ‘I’m in no rush.’

Lucy called up the missing-persons database and sent a search scurrying off through its rows and columns.

A knock on the door and the Dunk appeared, bringing a couple of coffees with him and what looked like a packet of fancy biscuits. ‘How’s the head?’ He gave her one of the mugs, then held the biscuits up like a captured flag. ‘Wagon Wheels! But don’t tell Backshift, OK? They’ll think it was Smith’s team of shiftless thieving bastards.’

‘Oh dear...’

Lucy glanced at Charlie, then back to the Dunk. ‘Constable Fraser, while I appreciate the joke, I’m sure you actually brought these in from home, or bought them on your way to work, as you would never steal biscuits from another shift. Especially not when there are members of Professional Standards’ — jerking her eyes in Charlie’s direction — ‘knocking about.’

‘Ah. Yes.’ The Dunk nodded. ‘In that case, I absolutely didn’t pinch them.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘It’s all right, I’ll overlook the petty Wagon-Wheel-flavoured larceny this time. I’m only supposed to be observing, so why don’t you both just pretend I’m not here? Won’t say another word.’

‘Good.’ Lucy poked at the keyboard again, but nothing was coming back.

‘Oh, before I forget, Stan’s looking for you, and...’ The Dunk reached into his pocket and came out with a jewel case. ‘... PC Manson dropped this off. Said he’s been rummaging through the files and found that. It’s a DVD of Benedict Strachan’s interviews and there might be some CCTV on there, too.’

She took the case, turning it over to frown at the hand-printed evidence label. ‘Where’s the rest of it? The transcripts, door-to-doors, impact assessments, shift rosters, reports, actions?’

A shrug. ‘Maybe the mice ate it?’ The Dunk sidled his way around the desk till he could see the screen. ‘What you doing?’

‘Trying to get the misper database to work.’ Poking at the keyboard again.

The Dunk cricked his head from side to side. ‘Budge over and let the search-meister have a crack.’ He settled into her vacated seat, hands poised like a two-fingered concert pianist. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘All missing-persons reports in the last five months where a relative or loved one didn’t report them missing.’

‘Hmmmm...’ His fingers stayed where they were. ‘Not as easy as you’d think. I mean, imagine you work in Burger King and your shift manager reports you missing: how are we to know if you’re boinking them in the walk-in fridge, on the boxes of wee individual tomato-sauce sachets?’

Charlie raised a hand. ‘Those wouldn’t be in the fridge. They’re pasteurized so you can store them at room temperature. The mayonnaise and mustard, too.’

Lucy stared at him.

‘What? Oh, right: not saying another word.’ Miming padlocking his lips.

‘Tell you what’ — the Dunk’s two fingers clattered across the keys — ‘how about we start by eliminating everyone who’s got the same last name as the person they’ve reported missing, or who’s listed as next of kin?’ He sat back and nodded at the screen. ‘Since April, that leaves us with ninety-two.’

‘What about boyfriends, girlfriends, that kind of thing?’

‘There’s a box you can put “relationship to the missing person” in, but half the buggers never bother.’ More clattering. ‘OK, that takes us down to forty-one.’

‘They’ve got to say where they live when they report it, right? Abby Geddes is the only victim who lived at home, so get rid of anyone living at the same address as their misper.’

‘Dinky-doo... There we go: we’re down to nine.’

‘Bring them up.’

‘Mr Printer, do your thing.’ The Dunk hit a button, then sat back and gulped down half his coffee as the machine in the corner clanked and whirred. ‘I take it you want a pool car, to go a-visiting?’

‘Ring round first: see if anyone’s turned up back home, but they haven’t bothered to tell us yet.’

‘Sarge.’ He took his coffee, the printouts, and the packet of Wagon Wheels with him.

Charlie gave Lucy a slow round of applause. ‘Have to admit I’m impressed. Let me guess: you said the shortest time the Bloodsmith’s gone without killing anyone is three months — Jane Cooper in January, Craig Thorburn in April — but he’s been getting quicker, hasn’t he? Six months between Abby Geddes and Bruce Malloch, five between him and Adam Holmes, four between him and Jane Cooper, three between her and Craig Thorburn, but four between Thorburn and Malcolm Louden.’ A nod. ‘Everyone assumed the Bloodsmith took a break, but you think he’s killed someone else, don’t you? Between Craig and Malcolm. And as he likes them lonely, you went looking for someone whose friends and family didn’t care enough to report them missing.’

Damn straight.

‘Assuming they’ve been reported missing at all.’ Lucy logged out and powered the computer down. ‘We’ve probably got about fifteen minutes, so if you want to go stretch your legs, now’s the time to do it.’

‘You know it’s a long shot, don’t you?’

‘Better than nothing.’ Making for the door. ‘Out front: fifteen minutes. And if you’re not there, we’re going without you.’ She slipped into the corridor, shutting the office door behind her, leaving him inside. Shame she couldn’t lock him in there, too.

Instead, Lucy hurried along the corridor and into the stairwell.

Footsteps echoed up from the floor below, getting further away with every step.

‘Dunk?’ She rushed down the first flight, wheeched around the corner onto the next.

The Dunk was on the landing below, printouts tucked under his arm, looking up as she clattered towards him. ‘Sarge?’

She didn’t stop. ‘Change of plan — we’ll call from the car.’

‘But I was going for a—’

‘Arse in gear, Constable!’

‘Urgh... Yes, Sarge.’

And with any luck, they’d be long gone before that right and proper Charlie from Professional Standards even noticed they were missing.

27

Lucy hunkered down in the passenger seat, watching as Divisional Headquarters shrank in the rear-view mirror.

‘You OK, Sarge, only you’re acting all... squirrelly. I mean, more than usual.’

No sign of Charlie waiting for them out front. He was probably off having a wee, or a fag. Or perhaps he was reporting to his superior officers? Didn’t really matter as long as he was somewhere else.

Yesterday’s media circus had moved on from outside Divisional Headquarters. Ex-DC Malcolm Louden was already yesterday’s news, because who cared about one more dead copper? The only remnants were Sarah Black and her placard: ‘LYING POLICE MURDERED MY SON!!!’ All dressed up with no one to protest in front of.

Poor thing.

Lucy glared at Sarah Black’s reflection. The rotten cow attacks her in the street, gets someone to slash her tyres, gets them to follow her, gets them to hammer on her door at three in the morning, and what happens? Nothing. No prosecution, no arrest, no caution, not even a warning. Because why should O Division stand behind its officers when they could be busy worrying about the ‘optics’ instead?

‘Sarge?’

They turned the corner onto St Jasper’s Lane and Lucy sat up again. ‘Just making sure that dick from Professional Standards isn’t following us.’

‘Professional Standards...’ The Dunk’s mouth stretched out and down. ‘Have we done something we shouldn’t have? Only I’ve never been in trouble with Professional Standards before.’ A small shudder. ‘Professional Standards.’

‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She reached into the back for Dunk’s collection of printouts: misper reports for their nine possible victims. Each one came with a photo, supplied by whoever reported them missing. They didn’t all look lonely and miserable — a couple were actually smiling — but if the Bloodsmith got his hands on them, that wouldn’t have lasted long.

First form on the pile: ‘Tristan Solomon, twenty-five, receptionist at a dental practice in Blackwall Hill. Reported missing by his boss when he didn’t turn up for work six weeks ago.’

A nod from the Dunk. ‘Sounds promising.’

‘Give me your mobile.’

‘Sarge?’ Not sounding too keen.

‘I had to buy a new phone this morning, OK? To replace the one that got knackered when Benedict Strachan tried to kill me? It has to fully charge, or the battery’ll be ruined.’

He groaned, then dug his mobile out, one-handed, as he slowed for a zebra crossing. Passed it over. ‘Well, I can’t afford a new one, so don’t break it. Passcode’s six, zero, one, nine. And don’t use up all my minutes!’

There were three phone numbers listed on the first form: Tristan’s mobile, his boss’s mobile, and the dentist’s main number. Lucy tried Tristan first — straight to voicemail. She hung up and tried his boss instead — it rang and rang and rang.

The Dunk took them around the roundabout and onto Harvest Lane. ‘You see DI Tudor this morning? Looks like someone forgot to take him out of the washing machine.’

And rang and rang and rang.

‘He was out at my house last night, with the SEB.’

‘Don’t know if he got any sleep after leaving yours, but he’s got bags under his eyes you could hide a frozen turkey in.’

And rang and rang and— She hung up and tried the dentist’s instead.

‘Hello, Danbroch Dental Practice? It’s the perfect day to feel great about your smile! How can I help you, today?’

‘I’m calling about Tristan Solomon; is Dr Rutherford free?’

‘Speaking. Well, it’s not Dr Rutherford speaking, it’s me. Tristan. Is this Chloe’s mum? Tell her I’m really sorry, I really want to make this work, and I really, really love her very—’

Lucy hung up. ‘It’s not him.’ She shifted Tristan’s form to the bottom of the pile. Next up: ‘Joan McTavish — now there’s a name to wrangle haggises with. Thirty-one, missing for eight weeks, reported by one Derek Garland, doesn’t say what his relationship is with her.’

This time it was picked up on the second ring, and a man’s voice, brash and cheerful, boomed out of the earpiece, ‘Hello?’

‘Is this Derek Garland? I’m calling about Joan.’

‘Hold on a minute, she’s hanging the washing out.’ There was a muffled clunk, then, ‘JOAN! JOAN, PHONE!’

Lucy poked the red button and gave Joan’s form the bottom-of-the-pile treatment. Number three: ‘Errol McIntire, seventy-one — so a lot older than any of the other victims. Urgh...’ She held the printout away from herself. ‘Retired priest. Reported missing by his next-door neighbour three months ago.’ It went against her principles, but Lucy dialled anyway.

‘Who is this?’ A woman’s voice: wobbly, but hard with it. ‘I don’t want to take part in your bloody survey.’

‘Mrs Hawthorne? I’m calling about your neighbour, Errol McIntire. Is he—’

‘That thieving Fenian shite was meant to paint my hallway salmon pink in June. June! He took money, up front, for paint, and just buggered off! Never trust a Catholic. A hundred pounds, I’m down. When am I going to get that back?’

Well, she sounded... nice.

‘Is he still missing?’

‘No, he’s in my living room right now, celebrating Holy sodding Communion. Of course he’s still missing! And if I ever get my hands on him, I’ll wring his papist neck. Where’s my money?’

‘OK, well, sorry to bother you.’ Lucy hit the red button again. This time, the form went on her lap. ‘Errol McIntire’s a possible.’

Three down, six to go...

Lucy checked the form again. ‘This is it.’ The bungalows had that soulless seventies look: pantiles and salt-and-pepper harling, with small rectangular gardens — mostly given over to gravel and planters — and a short driveway for off-road parking. Move two cul-de-sacs over and you’d be looking at Shortstaine’s swankiest four-bedroom new builds, but here it was all crumbling pavements and potholed tarmac.

The Dunk climbed out after her and locked the pool car. ‘I hear this was like a little village before they built the bypass. Must’ve had a pretty good view, till the developers moved in.’

Net curtains twitched in the bungalow next door. That would be the neck-wringing, bigoted OAP harpy: Mrs Hawthorne. Lucy gave her a cheery wave.

An old Saab sat on the driveway beside Errol McIntire’s house, the windscreen nearly opaque with a tacky grey film that was flecked with leaves and seedpods. Probably courtesy of the sycamore tree, drooping in the gravelled-over garden.

‘What do we think?’ The Dunk scrunched his way past it to the house. ‘I hope he’s not dead. I mean, can you imagine a seventy-one-year-old man, lying there, stripped naked, everything on show? Enough to make you lose your Shreddies.’

She handed him the form. ‘Apparently none of our lot really bothered looking.’

‘There’s a surprise.’ He skimmed the paperwork, then stuck it in a pocket. ‘And they wonder why some people have no confidence in the police.’ The Dunk stood on his tiptoes, cupping his hands either side of his face to peer in through the nearest window. ‘No sign of “help me” in the kitchen.’ He tried the next one along. ‘Curtains are closed... so maybe?’

‘Go see if the neighbour’s got spare keys.’

‘Why do you think he strips them naked, Sarge? What if Jane Cooper wasn’t the only sexual encounter, and our forensic psychologist hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about? And what’s he doing with all the blood: drinking it?’

‘Anything else?’

A frown. ‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Good. Now go see about those keys.’

His shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

While the Dunk scrunched off, Lucy snapped on a pair of purple nitrile gloves and tried the Saab’s door handles — definitely sticky, but locked.

The front door was tucked away down the side, behind the Saab. Crap-brown paint, peeling off the wooden door. Fliers for double glazing and stairlifts sticking out of the letterbox. A shabby catflap that looked about ready to collapse. She leaned on the bell and some sort of jazz standard started up inside, then faded away. Took all sorts. She gave it ten seconds before setting the thing playing again. Knocking didn’t produce any results, so she tried the handle. Also locked.

A small garage sat at the end of the drive, welded to the house on one side and Mrs Hawthorne’s garage on the other. Up-and-over door. Probably too much to hope for, but she tried the handle anyway.

Not locked.

Wow.

She hauled and the door rattled up on its springs, revealing an array of dusty shelves, covered in boxes and jars and things. A chest freezer humming away to itself against the far wall. You’d’ve thought, by now, someone would’ve been in and nicked the lot, but no.

There wasn’t a door through to the house, but there was one into the back garden — an overgrown jungle of knee-high grass and weeds landmined with cat shit, a pair of apple trees bent under the weight of blood-red fruit. Three gnomes leering at her from the undergrowth. They weren’t alone — eight fat furry felines prowled through the long grass, each one staring up at Lucy and licking its lips. OK...

A small area had been laid out with paving stones, grass sprouting up between the slabs. The planters were choked with it, too — green blades doing their best to choke out whatever was meant to be growing there.

‘Sarge?’

‘Round the back!’ She waded her way to the rear of the house, where a pair of patio doors gave a dusty view of the living room. Bigger than you’d think, from the kerb out front, with an ugly patterned carpet and heavy anaglypta walls. A grey suite — its sides all scratched and fraying.

Two times lucky?

Lucy gave the patio-door handle an experimental tug, but it didn’t shift.

The Dunk appeared from the garage. ‘You know what I think? I think he’s taking their clothes as trophies.’

‘Keys?’

‘Nope. But I did get an earful about how good, honest, God-fearing Protestants shouldn’t have to live next door to thieving papist scum. Didn’t think we had that kind of sectarian bollocks in Oldcastle, thought it was more of a Weegie thing. Who cares what imaginary man-in-the-sky you worship? I’m with Karl Marx on that one.’

Shock horror.

‘Hey puss-cat.’ He stooped to pet one of the tabbies, then stood and squinted in through the patio doors. ‘Lots of serial killers do that, though, don’t they? Take things from their victims, so they can have a little fantasy wank over them.’

‘Or maybe he’s just forensically aware?’ She pushed into the weeds again, making her way to the first window: a small room with a desk and shelves of old books. The last window showed a miserable dining room, with an ugly mahogany table and even uglier chairs. Thin, mangy, gingery moggy washing its backside on the tablecloth. ‘Wears gloves, so no fingerprints; probably wears a facemask, so he’s not exhaling his DNA over everything; taking their clothes is pragmatic — leaves us with less to examine for trace evidence.’

‘Suppose. Doesn’t explain the blood, though, does it?’

She pointed. ‘Check the patio; maybe he’s hidden a spare key under one of those planters?’

He hadn’t. It was in the lamp belonging to the ugliest of the three gnomes.

The Dunk turned the key in the lock and hauled the patio door open. Flinched back. ‘God, cat pee, much?’ Deep breath. ‘MR MCINTIRE?’ Stepping onto the nasty carpet and lowering his voice. ‘Or is it “Father McIntire”? Do you stop being called “Father” after you retire? I got excused RE at school, on account of my mum and dad being socialists.’ A pause. ‘Maybe he makes black pudding out of it?’

A sharp, ammonia reek stampeded out through the open door, burning eyes and throat and lungs. ‘What?’

‘The Bloodsmith. Maybe he collects all their blood and makes black pudding out of it, so he can eat it.’

‘Don’t be revolting.’ Lucy followed the Dunk inside, trying not to gag. The smell was even worse in here, making every breath scald on the way down. And it wasn’t just cat pee, there was a heavy undertone of shit, too. Jesus, you could actually taste it. She slapped a hand over her nose and mouth. ‘Better try the bathroom first. After the mess he made at Jane Cooper’s place, maybe the Bloodsmith’s learned his lesson.’

‘Well, you’d have to be a moron to drink it raw, wouldn’t you? No idea what kind of diseases someone has. Cooking it would kill any pathogens, hence the black pudding.’ The Dunk peered at the grey-screened TV. ‘What about you, Sarge?’

‘Never been a fan of black pudding.’

‘No: Religious Education, did you get to skive off, or did they make you go?’

‘Can we get on with some actual policework, before we’re gassed to death?’ She pointed. ‘Bathroom.’

‘Only asking. When you said Father McIntire was a priest, you were all...’ Contorting his face into a weird grimace. ‘Didn’t peg you for a Mrs Hawthorne.’ The living-room door was ajar, so the Dunk gave it a shove. Then froze. ‘Sarge?’

‘I’m not a sectarian bigot, thank you very much, Constable. I just don’t like priests, or ministers, or nuns, or any of that—’

‘No, Sarge: look!’

‘You found something?’ She squeezed past him into the hall. ‘Ah.’

‘I think we can rule out “Bloodsmith” as cause of death.’

A hatch in the ceiling hung open like the tongue from a gaping mouth, and the body — or what was left of it — lay entwined with a tipped-over stainless-steel stepladder, directly underneath. There was still some skin there, but mostly it was just dark patches clinging onto the filthy bones that stuck out of his clothes. That scraggy, ginger moggy sauntered through from the dining room, glaring at them on the way past, before clacking its way out through the catflap, leaving Lucy and the Dunk alone with the chewed remains. Scattered brushes and rollers surrounded the body, along with crumpled lumps of tarpaulin and tins of paint. ‘SALMON PINK’, according to the labels, so at least Mrs Hawthorne would get something for her hundred quid.

Seven down, two to go.

‘Oh, in the name of...’ DI Tudor sighed down the phone at her. ‘Do I not have enough to deal with, without you turning up even more dead bodies?’

Lucy unlocked the front door and stepped out onto the driveway, drawing in a blissful lungful of clean air. ‘Look on the bright side, Boss: it’s definitely not one of ours, and it’s not suspicious, so it’s the GED’s problem.’ And the General Enquiry Division were welcome to it. ‘Soon as they turn up, we’ll hand over the keys and Foxtrot Oscar.’ Let them deal with the rotting, half-eaten corpse and cannibal cats.

‘What were you doing there, anyway?’

The Dunk was leaning back against the pool car, arms folded, scowling at her as she used up all his minutes.

‘Chasing a dead end.’ Literally. ‘Do you know if the SEB got anything from the DNA or fingerprints they took at my house this—’

‘Lucy, you’re supposed to be checking the victims’ houses for the Bloodsmith’s messages, not running around chasing useless hunches!’

‘I thought we had a good shot at identifying—’

‘Are you trying to give me an aneurism? I’ve got DCI Ross clambering halfway up my rectum, it feels like I’m wearing the Chief Super as a bloody backpack, the Assistant Chief Constable won’t leave me alone, and half the country’s media are hacking away at my knees. I don’t need you going off the sodding script!’

‘But, Boss, we—’

‘I have cut you a hell of a lot of slack, Detective Sergeant, and I expect a bit of loyalty in return!’

The Dunk raised his eyebrows and tapped a finger against his watch.

What was the point of arguing? DI Tudor wasn’t listening anyway. ‘Yes, Boss.’

‘I should bloody well think so!’ Then he was gone.

The moment she lowered the phone, the Dunk scurried over, hand out to take it back. ‘Sounds like he read you the Riot Act.’ A huff of breath, then he polished the mobile’s screen on his black polo neck. ‘So, I guess we’re off to Blackwall Hill and Craig Thorburn’s place?’

After all, it’s what DI Tudor wanted.

‘Of course we are, Dunk, because I’m a good little girl who always does what she’s told.’

He groaned and sagged. ‘We’re going to get in a massive shedload of trouble, aren’t we?’

‘Probably.’

28

‘You sure we should be doing this?’ The Dunk took the next right, onto a winding country road, lined with drystane dykes on both sides.

‘Nope.’

The sky had darkened, its low clouds like ink dropped onto wet paper. Drizzle turned to rain, dampening the windscreen wipers’ lament.

This far south of the city, the fields were rough and stubbled with reeds. Lots of gorse and broom tumbling along the crumbling walls. Hills and clumps of dark-green forest lurking in the background.

He gave a little shudder. ‘Because DI Tudor sounded pretty pissed, and I wasn’t even on the phone with him. That’s from standing, like, twenty feet away.’

‘Don’t, OK?’

‘I’m just saying, with Professional Standards sniffing around, maybe now’s not the best time to ignore orders?’

No doubt the idiot Charlie would have something to say about that when they finally got back to DHQ. After he’d finished sulking about being left behind, of course.

Urgh...

She sagged in her seat. Watched the fields go by. Then watched the Dunk for a bit.

How could he think she was a bigoted, sour-faced bag-of-pus like Mrs Hawthorne? And why did she care what he thought? He was a beatnik tribute act, a junior officer with delusions of socialism, not her best buddy. But, somehow, it still mattered.

‘I’m not, by the way.’

‘Sarge?’

‘I don’t give a toss what religion anyone is. I just...’ Get it out. Get it over with. ‘After my mum died, I ended up in this care home run by a minister and his wife.’ A snort. ‘“Care” home. Oh, they’d walk around the village like they were God’s gift, and everyone would bow and scrape — tell them what a lovely couple they were, and what a kind thing they were doing taking in all those waifs and strays.’

More fields. More miserable sheep.

The Dunk kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. Mouth shut.

The rain fell.

The windscreen wipers sang a song of pain and loneliness.

Lucy chewed on the inside of her cheek.

Seemed to be a week for confessions.

‘Mrs Nesbit kept a diary, marking down every “sin” we committed during the week, and then, every Sunday, after church, the Reverend Jason Nesbit would get staggering drunk and beat those sins right out of us.’

The Dunk bit his top lip.

‘You were late down to dinner: that’s a sin. Don’t like broccoli? Sin. Didn’t make your bed properly? Sin. Answered back? Sin. Caught crying after lights out? Sin.’ She frowned out the passenger window. ‘So, no: I don’t like priests much.’

The Dunk cleared his throat. ‘Did the police—’

‘He fell down the stairs and broke his neck. She got breast cancer and drank herself to death. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer couple.’

‘Jesus, Sarge.’ Looking at her as if she was an injured puppy.

‘Just don’t, OK? Was a long time ago. I didn’t want you thinking I was anything like that old bag back there. And if you tell anyone, I’ll break your knees.’ She unlocked the Dunk’s phone and checked the map. ‘Should be round about here, somewhere.’

He pointed off to the left. ‘Is that it?’ Slowing the car.

A tiny whitewashed house sat at the end of a rutted driveway, the straight rods of Forestry Commission pines crowding in on three sides. The wooden sign at this end of the road had ‘BARRADOON CROFT’ painted on it, along with what was probably supposed to be a horse, but looked more like a goat. No sign of any horses in the two weedy paddocks out front, though.

Lucy checked the paperwork. ‘That’s it.’

‘Right.’ The Dunk hauled their pool car onto the lumpy track, clearly forcing a bit of levity into his voice. ‘But if the Boss does his nut, I’m going to say you kidnapped me.’

‘“Abducted” you. It’s only kidnap if someone makes ransom demands.’ Back to the form. ‘Olive Hopkins, thirty-three, worked as an adult literacy tutor till the pandemic hit. Now she stacks shelves at that big Winslow’s in Logansferry. Didn’t turn up for three shifts in a row, so their HR department tried to get in touch, and when they couldn’t, reported her missing.’

‘They didn’t just fire her?’

‘Maybe they were angling for some sort of HR-department-of-the-year award?’

The pool car lurched onto a flat area of grass in front of the house. Up close, the whitewashed walls were tainted with brown and green streaks, the guttering drooping at one end. Couple of slates missing. One window sat on either side of the front door, two more above them in what must’ve been an attic conversion. A rust-flecked pea-green Mitsubishi Mirage was parked outside, nettles snaking out of the wheel arches.

The Dunk pulled up next to it. ‘What do you want to bet Uniform didn’t even bother coming out here?’

Lucy flipped the hood up on her raincoat. ‘Come on, then.’

He grimaced out at the long, wet grass. ‘Going to get soaked, aren’t we?’

‘Yup.’

They squelched their way around the house, peering in through every window. A frosted, rippled one at the back of the house was probably the bathroom. No patio this time, and no gnomes either, just a small rectangular outbuilding with a sagging corrugated roof. Rain hissed in the trees surrounding the property, making the bushes shiver.

The Dunk stretched up to his full height and ran his fingertips along the frame above the back door. Then slumped back to his full shortness and sparked up a cigarette, puffing smoke out into the rain. ‘Ah well, it was worth a try.’

No spare key.

He peered through the narrow window into the kitchen again. ‘What do you want to do now?’

Only one thing for it.

Lucy pointed. ‘You better try the front of the house again. And maybe sing yourself a little song while you’re there.’

‘Oh, Sarge... you’re not going to—’

‘Make it something nice and loud. Go on, off you squelch.’

He shook his head as off he squelched. ‘Going to get in so much trouble.’

She gave him a count of ten, then pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves, marched out into the back garden, and selected a good fist-sized rock from the wall. Marched back and—

‘You know, you really shouldn’t do that.’

Didn’t need to turn around to see who’d just sneaked up on her; the voice was familiar enough.

‘Charlie.’

He waded through the wet grass, wearing a high-vis waterproof over his dark-grey suit. He’d borrowed a police cap from somewhere and wrapped it in one of those ridiculous clear-plastic shower-cap things. ‘Only that’s definitely breaking and entering.’

‘Not if the occupant’s dead.’

‘Doesn’t matter, you should still get a warrant and a locksmith. Not a rock.’

The sound of the Dunk murdering ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ wafted around from the front of the house.

Charlie pulled his chin up. ‘Suppose you thought that was clever: telling me you’d be fifteen minutes, then running for it? Why? Because you didn’t want me to find out you were disobeying DI Tudor’s orders?’

‘Because I don’t need a babysitter.’ She weighed the rock in her hand. Heavy enough to do some serious damage... ‘How did you find me?’

‘Wasn’t difficult. Your sidekick, DC Fraser, forgot to clear the printer’s memory before he left. I just reran the print job.’ He reached into his high-vis and pulled out a folded clump of paper. ‘Simple process of elimination and here I am.’ Hooking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Parked in a lay-by and walked over, just in time to stop you doing something stupid.’

A dark-blue Vauxhall sat in the entrance to a field, just up the road from Olive Hopkins’ house. Should’ve noticed it when they got here. But then Lucy hadn’t been looking out for devious Professional Standards scumbags.

She glanced down at the rock, then up at Charlie, then round at the house. A frown on her face. Head cocked on one side. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Oh please, DS McVeigh, don’t be stupid. This is wrong, OK? It’s—’

‘Shhhh...! I’m sure I heard someone crying for help.’

‘That’s just DC Fraser doing the “let me go” bits!’

‘It’s my duty, as a police officer, to assist members of the public in distress.’ And the Dunk’s singing certainly sounded as if someone was in terrible pain.

‘You’re not thinking straight. We need to—’

She swung the rock, cracking it into the glazed panel on the back door, aiming for the bottom corner of the glass, just up and in from the handle. It wasn’t even double glazed, so the whole thing just collapsed in a loud shattering clatter. ‘Oops.’

‘God’s sake: I’m Professional Standards! Do you want to be suspended?’

‘You do what you need to.’ The handle was cold against her palm as she reached in through the empty frame. ‘I’m going to make sure the householder is all right.’

She twisted the handle, but it didn’t budge. Key was still in the lock, though, and once she’d turned it the back door swung open on a galley kitchen that probably hadn’t been decorated since Harold Wilson was in power.

It led onto a small gloomy lounge with a brown corduroy sofa and a wonky coffee table. ‘Can you smell that?’ Rich and rancid, a sort of brown sticky scent, like the one lurking beneath all the disinfectant at the mortuary.

‘DS McVeigh, you shouldn’t be...’

But she’d already moved on to the hallway. No point trying the small bedroom, or the tiny study — they’d looked in through all those windows. The only room they hadn’t seen was the bathroom. And given that the mortuary odour got stronger and stronger the closer she got, there were no prizes for guessing what lay behind the door.

Charlie scurried after her. ‘Have you got any idea how much trouble you’re in right now?’

‘Will you shut up and be a police officer for once?’ She took hold of the handle and pushed. The door swung open and a tsunami of stench burst over them.

‘Oh Christ...’ Charlie covered his nose and mouth with one hand, backing away, blinking.

The floor was thick with little dead black bodies, the white walls smeared with dark brown. Olive Hopkins was in the bath. Or at least, what was left of her. And above the body, on the tiles, in three-foot-tall letters, the words ‘HELP ME!’ screamed.

There was a selection of keys hanging on hooks in the hall: a couple of Yales, two sets for the Mitsubishi Mirage parked outside, a couple that looked as if they probably belonged to the tiny outbuilding in the garden, and a pair of stubby brass numbers with heads like anvils. Lucy went through them till she found one that unlocked the front door, and stepped out into the blessedly clean air.

Turned her face up to the rain.

Maybe she’d get lucky and it’d wash away some of the stench?

The Dunk sidled over, fag poking out the corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed against the smoke. Then they widened and he flinched backwards, snatching the leather bunnet from his head and wafting it in front of his face. ‘Wow...’ Coughing a couple of times. ‘Did we find what I think we found?’

She turned, but there was no sign of Charlie behind her. Probably out spewing his ring in the back garden.

‘Call it in: DI Tudor, Procurator Fiscal, Pathologist, SEB, the whole circus.’

At least, this time, Tudor couldn’t complain about them not obeying orders.

Hopefully...

She left the Dunk pulling out his phone and headed through the house into the back garden again. Charlie was over by the outbuilding, bent double, spitting into an overgrown flowerbed.

‘You OK?’

‘No.’ His shoulders curled in, but nothing came out but a dry heave. Another gobbet hit the weeds and long grass. ‘Before you say anything, I... It must’ve been something I ate.’

‘Course it was.’ She leaned back against the outbuilding, as far away from the bitter stench of partially digested yuck as possible. ‘Olive Hopkins was reported missing about ten weeks ago. She hadn’t turned up for work in three days.’

He straightened up, one hand wiping the yellow-green strands from his lips, face pale and shiny in the rain. ‘And no one bothered popping over to see if she was OK?’

‘Even if they did, what would they see? Bathroom’s got a privacy window.’ Lucy stuck her hands deep in her pockets. ‘Given the Bloodsmith’s been at this for nearly two years — that we know of — might be an idea to get a team going through all the missing-person reports for the last... five? Maybe Abby Geddes wasn’t his first, after all?’

‘What are you telling me for?’

Good question.

‘Oh, I’m sorry’ — she stiffened — ‘I thought we were all on the same side, trying to catch a serial killer.’

Charlie huffed out a sour breath and sagged a bit more. ‘I just mean... I can’t authorize stuff. Being Professional Standards doesn’t give me superpowers; I’m the same rank as you.’

The only sound was the rain pattering against the hood of her raincoat.

‘Look, because you were right about Olive Hopkins, I won’t tell anyone you broke into the house. How’s that? Far as they know, you entered the place legally — there won’t be any trouble. But...’ He shook his head. Spat into the long grass again. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You need to think about what you’re doing, DS McVeigh. Where you’re going to end up with all of...’ He waved his other arm at the broken kitchen door. ‘Is this really the kind of cop you want to be?’

Whatever.

Still, at least he wasn’t going to land her in it with his bosses.

She aimed a kick at a small thistle, popping the head right off it. Keeping her voice neutral. ‘And are you hanging around?’

He looked at the bathroom window and shuddered. ‘Think I might leave you and DC Fraser to it. Otherwise we’ll have to explain what I was doing here in the first place, and do you really want DI Tudor—’

‘Fine with me.’ She patted him on the shoulder — all colleagues together, being supportive. ‘Thank you.’

She stood there and watched as he climbed over the garden wall and disappeared into the pine trees. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all?

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk had gone the long way around, rather than through the house. Either avoiding the stench or following proper crime-scene-management practices. Which she really should’ve done, too. ‘The Boss is on his way.’

‘How’d he sound?’

‘Ha. Yes.’ The Dunk winced. ‘Not happy.’

The Dunk leaned forward and rubbed a clear porthole in the fogged-up windscreen. Sat back with a pointed sigh. Peered at Lucy with his mouth pursed.

She turned as far sideways in the passenger seat as possible and transferred the Dunk’s phone to her other ear. ‘Emma?’

‘Sorry, I missed that last bit.’ The wail of a siren dopplered past in the background. ‘What?’

‘I said: when you’re double-checking everyone’s alibis, are you making sure they’ve got one for when Malcolm Louden went missing?’

What sounded like cars and buses grumbled by.

Someone shouted.

More vehicle noises.

‘Emma, you still there?’

‘Sodding, buggering, fuck-fingered wank!’ That would be a no, then. ‘You have any idea how much of a pain in the hoop this is already? Going through every sodding sighting of every sodding victim to make sure we know for sodding sure when they sodding disappeared, then going through every sodding witness for every sodding alibi for every sodding suspect?’

‘It’s just: Professional Standards are taking an interest, so...?’

‘Arrrrrgh!’ Then a groan, followed by more background shouting. ‘OK, OK, I’ll check.’

‘And if anyone asks, you were doing it all along.’

‘All right, thanks. Got to go. I’ve suddenly got a cock-tonne more work to do.’ She hung up.

Lucy handed the Dunk’s phone back. ‘See? I didn’t use all your minutes.’

‘Hmmmph.’ He polished the screen again, as if she’d got girl-cooties all over it.

Through the porthole, a constant shuffle of figures wearing white oversuits stomped in and out of Olive Hopkins’ house, taking empty blue plastic crates in, full ones out. In, out. In, out. Like ants.

Lucy stretched in her seat. ‘How long we been here for?’

‘Since we arrived, or since we called it in? Cos either way it’s ages.’ The Dunk hid his phone away. Sagged. ‘You know what gets me? There was only one cat bowl in the kitchen. Father McIntire only had the one cat. But you see how fat the neighbourhood moggies were?’

She let her head fall back. ‘At least he was good for something.’

‘They ate his face, Sarge.’ A shudder. ‘James Herbert missed a trick there.’

Rain drummed on the car roof, battered the bushes and long grass.

The porthole started to mist over again — those white figures getting fuzzier with every breath.

He reached for the dashboard. ‘I could put the radio on, if you like?’

‘You’d think he’d have been all, “Hey, great work IDing a victim we never knew was out there, Lucy and Dunk! Maybe this time we’ll find the clue that cracks the case. Here’s a commendation for using your initiative.” Wouldn’t you?’

‘No point dwelling on it, though, Sarge. Think about something else, like... remember you said Benedict Strachan told you he was going to kill another homeless person and get away with it this time, so They don’t beam messages into his brain via his fillings, or whatever?’

‘But no, it was, “Go wait in the car, I’ll deal with you later!”’

‘Well, what if we only think Malcolm Louden was killed by the Bloodsmith? What if it was really Benedict Strachan? That’d be a way to do it, wouldn’t it? To get away with killing Louden by pinning it on a serial killer. Even if we can catch the Bloodsmith, if he says he didn’t kill Louden we’re not going to believe him, are we?’ A nod. ‘That’s your perfect crime, that is.’

‘You’re right, Dunk. Absolutely perfect. Except for two things.’ She closed her eyes. ‘One: no one knows the Bloodsmith writes “help me!” on the wall in his victims’ blood, because that’s just about the only part of Operation Maypole we’ve managed to keep secret. And two: Benedict Strachan was still in prison when Malcolm Louden was killed. So, unless he’s some sort of deadly ninja version of Uri Geller, I think we’re probably safe to assume Benedict’s not our guy.’

‘Sarcasm again. Great. Thanks.’ Big huffy sigh. ‘You notice his parents couldn’t even say his name? Imagine having a kid and you can’t bring yourself to say its name. That’s...’ The Dunk poked her on the arm. ‘Incoming.’

Lucy sat up straight again, peering out through the cloudy porthole at a white-clad figure advancing on their pool car. Tall and broad-shouldered. He threw back the hood of his SOC suit, revealing a Peaky Blinders short back and sides.

DI Tudor hauled open the Dunk’s door, voice a hard flat line. ‘DC Fraser, time for you to take a walk.’

‘Boss.’ The Dunk grabbed his leather bunnet and scrambled out of the manky Vauxhall as if it was about to explode, scurrying away into the rain.

Tudor thumped himself down into the vacated seat and pulled off his facemask. His cheeks were a trembling shade of puce. Staring straight at the windscreen, not looking at her. ‘What, exactly, the hell were you thinking?’ Almost shouting now, little flecks of foamy white spittle landing on the dashboard. ‘You gave me your word!’

‘I figured it out, OK?’ Jabbing a finger at the house. ‘If I’d just gone trotting off like a good little girl, we’d never have found Olive Hopkins! We’d—’

‘Not that!’ He turned to face her now, eyes bulging, mouth pinched. ‘You promised me you’d go see your therapist! I kept you on this investigation when I could’ve had you signed off on the sick, like that.’ Snapping his nitrile-gloved fingers. ‘I trusted you and you lied to me.’

‘What?’ She stared back. ‘I was there yesterday! And the day before.’

‘Don’t, Lucy. OK? Don’t.’

‘I’ll prove it.’ She went to haul out her phone... but, of course, it was sitting back at DHQ, charging up for the first time. ‘Son of a bitch.’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I don’t know what he told you, but I’ve been going. He’s playing some sort of... mind game, with us.’

‘Lucy, you—’

‘Bad enough I had to go through the whole Neil Black thing with the bastard yesterday, but to pretend I hadn’t even been there?’ She slammed her palm down on the dashboard. ‘I’ll kill him!’

‘Lucy, it’s—’

‘Fine: I’ll make a formal complaint.’

And then she’d kill him.

29

The one o’clock news burbled out of the car radio as they sat, parked on the forecourt of an abandoned petrol station, eating sandwiches in the rain. Which was pretty much a metaphor for her whole life, right there.

‘...Bloodsmith, as police discovered a second body in two days...’

A sniff from the Dunk. ‘Got to be a record, that.’ He had another napkin tucked into his polo neck, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, leaning forwards as he delicately nibbled at a sub-of-the-day from the Happy Haggis. ‘We only discovered Olive Hopkins, what, hour and a half ago? And some sod’s already leaked it to the press.’ Pausing to realign a wayward cucumber slice. ‘You’d think we could keep something like that secret till at least teatime.’

‘...Police Scotland declined to comment, but neighbours believe the victim to be Miss Olive Hopkins...’

Lucy chewed a mouthful of coronation-chicken-salad roll, not really tasting much other than bitterness and disappointment. Gazing out at the rusting pumps and boarded-up kiosk. The weeds forcing their way up through the cracked concrete forecourt.

With the Bloodsmith all over the news again, it wouldn’t be long before Craig Thorburn’s mother was on the phone, slurring with gin and crying about her son’s missing heart.

Yeah, way to go, Lucy: the poor cow was grieving for her child. Didn’t matter if he was in his thirties when the Bloodsmith ripped him open and drained his blood, he’d always be Judith Thorburn’s little boy.

‘...that the victim lay undiscovered for two and a half months.’

Lucy sagged just that little bit further.

When did she get to be so cynical? So callous? So devoid of any—

‘Sarge, you still with us?’

‘Hmm? Yeah.’ She took a sip of Irn-Bru, suppressed an orange burp. ‘Just wondering who keeps tipping the media off.’

‘...calls for a judicial inquiry as the hunt for the Bloodsmith enters its seventeenth month.’

‘Maybe somebody in the control room? You’d have access to all sorts of info up there.’

They’d swung past DHQ to pick up Lucy’s new phone, and now it sat on the dashboard in front of her. Waiting.

‘...embattled Business Secretary, Paul Rhynie, has hit back at his critics, claiming the attacks against him are “politically motivated” and “fake news”...’

Yes, there was instant gratification to be had by calling Dr McNaughton up right now and telling him precisely what she thought of him and his unethical lying-bastard practices, in a VERY LOUD VOICE. But then he could always hang up. However, if she stomped around there and yelled at him in person, he’d have no choice but to sit and take it.

And McNaughton deserved everything he had coming to him — if he hadn’t lied about her not attending therapy sessions, DI Tudor wouldn’t have torn a strip off her. He would’ve been singing her praises for finding Olive Hopkins.

‘...as new photographs emerged, which appear to show the Business Secretary being intimate with Russian embassy staff...’

‘Or maybe it’s one of the senior officers?’ The Dunk had another dainty bite of his sandwich. ‘It’s always us plebs that get blamed, but no one looks at the upper classes, do they?’

She’d have to ditch the Dunk first, though, and he was being more than a little clingy right now. That’s what she got for telling him about growing up with the Nesbits. And she’d given him the sanitized version: Christ knew what he’d be like if she’d told him about the darker stuff.

‘...Prime Minister’s complete support.’

A familiar blustering voice brayed through the car’s speakers. ‘Look, I think we all know the public aren’t interested in tittle-tattle like this; everyone wants to see us getting on with the job...’

The Dunk wiped up an errant blob of mayonnaise with his thumb, before it could drip on his beatnik-black outfit. ‘I read somewhere that loads of High Heidyins on company boards, or in politics, or pretty much any hierarchical thing, score off the charts on tests for psychopathy. Makes sense, when you think about it — to get to the top you have to be more ruthless and underhand than any other bugger in the organization, and manipulative enough to get away with it.’

‘...hunt continues for missing teenager Sophia McKellar. Sophia was last seen at the Camburn Woods Outdoor Adventure Centre on Wednesday...’

Should probably send the Dunk on some sort of Bloodsmith-related errand. How about digging through the missing-persons database again, going back three or four years, like she’d suggested to Charlie? That would work.

Right now he was nibbling away like a gerbil. ‘Probably better get Craig Thorburn done after lunch. See if we can’t crawl our way back into the Boss’s good books.’ A little shudder. ‘Sure you don’t want to talk about why DI Tudor had a traffic cone up his arse at the crime scene?’

‘Positive.’

‘...with any information. Entertainment news, and Donny “Sick Dawg” McRoberts has announced three dates at City Stadium in January...’

‘I heard Tudor’s wife’s... well, what’s the best way to put this... shut up shop in the bedroom department?’ A raised eyebrow. ‘Mind you, it was Monster Munch who told me, and you know what she’s like. Woman could gossip for Scotland and you still couldn’t believe half of it.’

Lucy gave up on the roll, stuffed it back in its paper bag, and dumped it in the rear footwell. Wiped her curried fingers on a napkin. ‘Any noise about Benedict Strachan?’

‘...after his reality TV show was cancelled. Tickets are on sale now and going fast...’

‘Murdered homeless people, you mean? Nah. Not last night, anyway.’ The Dunk frowned. ‘At least not that we know of. Maybe he’s lying low, working on a plan? Or he might’ve just been pulling your metaphorical plonker, so we’d keep our eyes on Oldcastle while he sodded off up to Aberdeen, or pastures south?’

It was difficult imagining Benedict being that cunning. He’d have to sober up first. But perhaps he didn’t have to do his own thinking this time? Perhaps he had help. ‘We should go see his mum again: Nikki. Have to get her away from the husband first, though.’

‘...rain forecast to continue for the next few days, as yet more cold air moves in from the Arctic...’

The Dunk froze, mid bite, eyes widening as he pulled back from his sandwich. ‘You are kidding, right? You saw DI Tudor this morning: he went berserk at us after we’d just made the biggest break Operation Maypole’s seen in seventeen months! What’s he going to say if we—’

‘I’m talking about a ten-minute diversion, Dunk. It’s practically on our way.’

‘Noooo...’

She offered him the half-drunk tin of Irn-Bru. ‘Consider this a bribe.’

The Dunk suppressed a belch, grimaced, then rubbed a fist against his breastbone. ‘Ow...’

Served him right.

‘Told you — you shouldn’t have shotgunned it.’ Lucy leaned on the doorbell again.

That huge BMW four-by-four sat all alone on the driveway outside the Strachans’ bungalow. No sign of the Audi. Which, hopefully, meant Benedict’s dad was off doing something else.

The Dunk checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes.’ Shuffling his feet in a little nervous dance.

‘Will you cut it out? Looks as if you’re bursting for a wee.’ Still no response from the bell, so she tried a policeman’s knock instead. Putting a bit of weight into each of the three loud raps.

He groaned. ‘Did you have to say that? I didn’t need to go, till you put the idea in my head.’

‘Your bladder: your responsibility.’ She raised her fist for another knock, but there was a rattling sound on the other side of the door, followed by a clunk, and the door creaked open a couple of inches till the chain pulled tight — making just enough space for a bloodshot eye to peer out.

Mrs Strachan’s words were all mushy and wobbly, bringing with them the acetone wash of stale booze. ‘Now’s not... not a good time.’

Lucy didn’t move. Stood there staring back, instead.

The Dunk’s feet scuffed on the paving slabs.

A car drove by on the road behind them.

Finally, Mrs Strachan sagged, groaned, and closed the door. The chain rattled once more; then the door swung open, revealing a Nichola Strachan who didn’t look quite so cougary any more. Her other eye was ringed with red, the skin beneath it a rich aubergine colour. It was only visible for a moment, before she flipped a curtain of blonde hair over it, hiding the damage. ‘Suppose you’d better come in, then.’ Turning on her heel and limping away down the corridor and in through the open kitchen door.

‘So, Sarge’ — the Dunk raised his eyebrows — ‘you thinking what I’m thinking?’

Of course she sodding was.

Lucy followed Benedict’s mum through into the fancy kitchen. Two packets of painkillers sat on the worktop, next to a large cut-crystal tumbler. ‘Where’s your husband, Mrs Strachan?’

A small bitter laugh as she plucked the tumbler from the countertop and stuck it under the ice dispenser on the big American fridge. Setting cubes clatter-rattling into the glass. ‘What you mean is: did he hit me?’

‘Did he?’

The ice got drowned in a serious quantity of Tanqueray. ‘Why do you think I’m limping?’ A splash of tonic joined the party, then she took a long, slow drink. ‘Kicked the bastard so hard in the nuts, think I might’ve broken my foot. Raise his fist to me?’ Another swig. ‘Won’t be doing that again.’

Lucy leaned back against the worktop, arms crossed. ‘You should still report him.’

The Dunk took up position on the other side, notebook out, pen poised, shifting from foot to foot with an uncomfortable look on his face.

‘Ian wasn’t happy when I came home with...’ Deep breath. ‘You know what? To hell with Ian’s rules: Benedict.’ Raising her voice. ‘MY SON’S NAME IS BENEDICT!’ The last of the gin got thrown back and another huge measure glugged into the glass, not bothering with tonic this time. She limped to the kitchen door and flung it open, letting the sibilant whisper of the rain slither in.

‘Where is he? Where’s Benedict?’

‘You should’ve seen Ian: ranting and swearing and throwing things — the lounge is an absolute tip now, but I’m the one supposed to tidy it up, aren’t I? — then he hit Benny. Punched him to the ground. Kicked him. And all the time Ian’s crying and swearing and going on about how my beautiful Benny ruined his life...’ She pulled out her vape and huffed a marzipan cloud into the downpour. ‘But it was all his fault, wasn’t it? Ian’s. He was the one insisted Benny go to that stupid school. He was the one said we should mortgage the house to pay the first year’s fees — in advance! That it was an investment in the future.’ A mouthful of neat gin disappeared. ‘Have you any idea how much St Nicholas College costs? Of course you don’t. Well, it’s a bloody fortune.’

St Nicholas College. Interesting. Maybe—

‘Oh God...’ The Dunk’s dancing reached fever pitch. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Strachan, I really, really need to use your toilet?’

Lucy glowered at him. ‘Tie a knot in it. We’re in the middle of—’

‘It’s not my fault!’ Hobble-running out of the kitchen.

Mrs Strachan watched him go. ‘First door on the right. DON’T USE THE GOOD TOWELS!’

Useless little sod.

‘Sorry about that.’ Lucy dug out her new phone and set it recording. ‘Where’s Benedict now?’

‘If it wasn’t for that bloody school and its stupid tests and exams and everything... Benny was under so much stress, and he was such a sensitive little boy, and he’s running around doing all these evaluations and Ian’s telling him we’ll forfeit the fees if he doesn’t get in, and we’ll have to sell the house, and it’ll all be Benny’s fault for being stupid and lazy.’ She sucked her cheeks hollow on the vape, let the steam trickle out through her nose like an angry mother dragon. ‘He was eleven. How could you put that on an eleven-year-old?’

Yeah, Councillor Ian Strachan sounded like real father-of-the-year material.

‘Do you know where he is now, Nikki? It’s important.’

Mrs Strachan took another swig of tonic-free gin. ‘Benny didn’t mean to hurt you. He was going to jump. Going to... kill himself. But you got in the way and he panicked.’ She toasted Lucy with the glass. ‘So, I guess I have to thank you for saving my baby’s life.’

‘Nikki, we need to know where he is. What if he tries to hurt himself again? Or if he hurts someone else?’

That bitter little laugh was back. ‘It’s not been much of a life, though, has it? Most of it spent in that horrible prison.’

The sound of a toilet flushing came from somewhere down the hall.

Lucy stepped closer. ‘Benedict’s not well, Nikki. He thinks if he can kill another homeless person, and get away with it this time, then “They” won’t hurt him, or you.’

She didn’t look up. ‘He’s my baby. I’d do anything for him.’

‘You saw what happened when they printed his picture in the paper: you saw the bruises, the broken arm. You have to help us find him, before he gets attacked again.’

A dog barked in one of the neighbours’ gardens.

The rain hissed.

A distant stereo pumped out old-fashioned pipe-band music.

‘Ian never loved him, you know. It’s meant to be mothers who get postnatal depression, but for Ian it was like I’d given birth to this... rival. Someone he had to compete against.’ The last of the gin disappeared. ‘His own son.’

Down the corridor, a door opened and closed again.

‘Where’s Benedict, Nikki?’

Then another door opened.

‘I don’t know.’ She stuck her nose in the air, eyes hard and cold. ‘I gave him the keys to Ian’s car and told him to run as far away from this horrible city as possible.’

‘And your husband was OK with that? After everything that happened? Loaning his Audi TT to a boy who doesn’t even have a provisional licence, because he’s been inside since he was eleven?’ Because that sounded incredibly sodding unlikely.

‘JESUS!’ The Dunk’s voice boomed out from down the hall. ‘SARGE? SARGE, CALL AN AMBULANCE!’

Mrs Strachan nodded. ‘Benny’s my baby. I’d do anything for him.’

‘DI Tudor’s going to kill us.’ The Dunk stood on the top step, grimacing as the paramedics loaded Ian Strachan into the back of an ambulance. The rain hadn’t let up any, bouncing off its white roof, sparkling in the slow spin of its blue-and-white lights. A patrol car sat on the other side of the road, the two uniform officers out in their high-vis jackets, going door to door.

Lucy pointed. ‘Go: see what the medics are saying.’ She went back to her phone. ‘Number plate’s for a red Audi TT, last seen driving away from Torridon Avenue, the Wynd, sometime between ten past eight last night and... call it half an hour ago.’

The man on the other end hummed for a while, accompanied by the clicking of a keyboard. ‘Now then, let’s see what we can see...’

‘And I need a flag on that vehicle. It pops up anywhere, I need to know about it, ASAP.’

The Dunk had made it as far as the ambulance, waylaying one of the paramedics on their way to the driver’s door.

‘This is going to take a while. There’s a massive amount of footage to search through. And there’s no guarantee I’ll find anything.’

The Dunk lumbered back up the drive, rain drumming on his shiny, black leather bunnet.

Lucy put her other hand over the phone’s microphone. ‘How is he?’

‘Not great. As in: might not even make it as far as A & E.’ The Dunk peeked over Lucy’s shoulder, back into the house. ‘Looks like she battered the living crap out of him with a sledgehammer. Well, you know, assuming it wasn’t Benedict. Or maybe they took turns?’

Great. That was all they needed.

A high-pitched, electronic wail tore through the downpour, then the ambulance pulled away from the kerb, the engine getting louder as the driver floored it, lights and siren going full pelt.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk’s forehead wrinkled. ‘What if we got the uniforms to say it was them who turned up and found Ian Strachan? Maybe we were never here? They take the credit, and DI Tudor doesn’t shout at us again?’

Lucy nodded. ‘That’s a great idea, Dunk. I’m sure Mrs Strachan will be happy to play along. You know, while she’s confessing to her husband’s attempted murder. After all, why wouldn’t she lie to protect us? We’re only the ones who caught her.’

‘OK, OK. But for the record, I said we should’ve gone straight to Craig Thorburn’s place.’

‘I know.’

But right now? They were both screwed.

30

‘Come on, Trev, finger out!’

One of Sergeant Trevor Weir’s spartan eyebrows made the long climb up his narrow forehead as he stared at Lucy from behind the custody desk. He was so thin he could’ve been fashioned from pipe cleaners. God knew who he thought he was fooling with the straw-coloured hair, but if that mop was any less convincing it would’ve come with a chinstrap. ‘These things take as long as they take, DS McVeigh.’

‘Trev, I’m begging you here. We need to be gone before DI Tudor gets finished at Olive Hopkins’ house. And I mean long gone.’ And given they’d been buggering about here for nearly an hour, time was running out fast.

A sigh, then Weir went back to his paperwork. Making slow methodical notes with a pen as he worked his way down the form.

The clock ticked.

Someone in the cell block started singing a slow, sad Scottish ballad.

Someone else screamed at them to shut up.

Weir turned his form over and went to work on the other side.

The singing and screaming continued in discordant harmony.

‘Trev!’

Finally, he pulled the sheet of paper from its clipboard and slipped it into a pigeonhole. ‘Done. I’ll let you know when the duty solicitor turns up.’

‘Thanks, you’re a star.’ Lucy turned and hightailed it out of the custody suite, into the corridor, and—

‘Well, that wasn’t unedifying at all.’

She jerked to a halt. Swore. Turned.

Charlie from Professional Standards was leaning against the breeze-block wall. Face like stone, voice flat with disappointment. ‘Tell me, DS McVeigh, when I cut you a bit of slack, back at the cottage, did you not think to yourself, “Maybe I should use this opportunity to take a good long hard look at what’s been going wrong in my professional life and mend my ways”?’

‘Sorry, can’t stay and chat, I’ve got—’

‘To make yourself scarce before DI Tudor gets back? Because when he finds out you’ve been spending your time looking for an ex-con who’s violated his release conditions, instead of revisiting the Bloodsmith’s crime scenes like he’s told you to, multiple times, he’s going to be less than impressed?’

She licked her lips. ‘Something like that.’

‘So, you’re what: rushing off to Craig Thorburn’s in the vain hope you’ll find something there to crack the case, and Tudor will forget all about you ignoring yet another direct order?’

‘Nichola Strachan battered the living crap out of her husband. If we hadn’t turned up when we did, he’d be dead by now.’

Charlie pushed himself off the wall. ‘You’re playing a very dangerous game here, DS McVeigh. The margin for error is vanishingly small.’

‘You’re going to dob me in?’

‘It’s not me you have to worry about, it’s DI Tudor. Think I’ve done about as much as I can.’

‘Good.’ She turned on her heel, marched down the corridor and out the back doors.

The Dunk was waiting for her, sheltering under the narrow concrete canopy just outside, on the phone, kicking his heels on the painted concrete floor.

She flipped her raincoat’s hood up and swept past him into the downpour. ‘Quick as you like, Constable.’

‘Yeah, OK. Thanks, Mr Myers... No, I know... Yup, terrible. Got to go. Bye.’ He hung up and rolled his eyes. ‘God, that man can moan.’

‘“Quick as you like” means get a shift on.’

He lumbered after her. ‘That was the guy who moved into Adam Holmes’ old flat, in Ruthkopf House? Says he did get little notes through the letterbox with “help me!” on them, but they stopped a couple of months ago. And he thought it was the guy in Two G screwing with him, so he threw the lot out.’

‘You tell him, if he gets another one, he has to keep it?’

‘In a sandwich bag and everything.’

Who knew, maybe they’d get DNA or fingerprints off the thing? Probably not, though.

They scrambled into their pool car, the Dunk gunning the engine, down the ramp and out onto Peel Place. ‘Blackwall Hill?’

‘Blackwall Hill.’

And one last chance for redemption...

Cardon House was a six-storey block, mouldering away at the end of a short street lined with tired terraced housing. It had probably looked pretty stylish when it was put up sometime in the late sixties, but its sleek curves and bold lines had greyed and streaked over the years. Some of its cladding had been replaced with cheaper brown panels where the original white had crumbled. Now the building looked more like a brutalist sculpture of a decaying tooth than somewhere anyone would want to live.

Thankfully, the rain had stopped for the first time today, leaving the air crisp and clear — a lone shaft of sunlight piercing the coal-coloured clouds, as if the Rapture was struggling to find anyone in Oldcastle worth saving.

The Dunk locked the pool car and held up a manila folder. ‘You want to be the reading person this time or shall—’ He flinched as his phone launched into something punk-rocky. He pulled it out and grimaced at the screen. ‘It’s DI Tudor.’

Damn.

‘Let it go to voicemail.’ Lucy dug her mobile from her pocket and put it into sleep mode.

‘Oh dear...’ The Dunk held his phone as far away as his little arms would reach, till it fell silent.

‘Now switch it off.’

‘He must’ve heard about Mrs Strachan.’

Yup. Tudor would be pacing up and down the Operation Maypole office right now, wearing a groove in the carpet tiles, face all pink and trembly, looking for someone to shout at.

Still, it was too late to worry about that now.

Lucy made for the block of flats’ entrance. There would’ve been an intercom system at one point, but all that remained was a rectangle of plywood with people’s names written on white stickers, partially covered by a big green, yellow, and black graffiti tag. More graffiti in the stairwell.

To be honest, some of it was quite good, but every three or four steps someone had drawn a squirting knob or some boobs or just scrawled a fistful of obscenities.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk trotted along behind her, already breathing hard as they hit the second landing. ‘DI Tudor, do... do you think he... think he... pfff...’ Puff, pant. ‘Can we slow down a bit?’

‘We’re on a deadline, Constable.’ Around the corner, onto the third floor.

‘Yeah, but... do you think... the Boss... is going to blame... blame me?’ Sounding like a broken steam train now, falling further and further behind. ‘Cos it’s not... not really my... fault...’

By the time she’d reached the fifth floor there was no sign of him, just the sound of peching and heeching echoing up the stairwell, accompanied by the slow scuff of shoes.

Lucy leaned over the handrail. ‘COME ON, SLOWCOACH!’

‘Arrgh... Stitch. Stitch...’

Four doors led off the landing, but only one of them, 5C, still had fragments of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape attached to the frame. Someone had removed the little plastic plaque that had once sat above the letterbox. Maybe a souvenir for sickos to buy on eBay. God knew, if you were into serial-killer memorabilia, Oldcastle was like a cash-and-bloody-carry.

The door to flat 5D creaked open and an old lady squinted out from a shadowy hallway, bringing with her the scents of lavender and shortbread. A black cat wound itself around her legs like a small hairy tentacle. ‘You kids aren’t allowed to play in the stairwell!’

Lucy dug out her warrant card. ‘Police. We’re here about Craig Thorburn.’

‘Oh, you’re back, are you?’ She pulled out a pair of smudged glasses and gave Lucy’s warrant card a good looking at. ‘It was terrible what happened to poor Craig. Terrible.’

‘Has anyone else visited his flat? You know, recently?’

‘Lying in there, dead as a dog, for three weeks. They said the smell was quite something, but I lost mine in the second wave. Covid.’ Tapping her wrinkly button-mushroom nose. ‘So I never noticed. It comes in handy when you live with lots of students, I suppose. Being all sweaty and smoking weed and whatnot.’

‘A man, or a woman. They might have had keys to Craig’s flat?’

‘Oh God... Argh... Dying...’

‘Don’t get me wrong, students are fine, really.’ The old lady smiled, face creasing like a shammy leather. ‘I mean, I enjoy a good spliff as much as the next person, but the music they play is awful. Whatever happened to Led Zeppelin, or Rainbow, or the Sex Pistols? Why does it all have to be so bland these days?’

Ah well, it’d been worth a try.

‘OK, sorry to bother you.’

A sweaty heaving lump staggered up the last flight of stairs onto the landing, then stood there, one hand against the wall, holding himself up as he coughed and wheezed.

‘I think your friend could do with a decent burial, dear.’

Lucy gave the Dunk a poke. ‘Keys?’

‘In... in... in here...’ He doubled over, one hand still clutching the wall, the other holding the folder out.

She dug into it, finding a Yale key in a clear-plastic evidence bag.

The old lady shuffled forwards, voice cranked up in volume, as if the Dunk was deaf instead of hideously unfit. ‘DO YOU WANT A GLASS OF WATER?’

Lucy pulled on a fresh pair of nitriles, unlocked the door, and stepped into a small hallway.

Gloomy in here, and stale-smelling, that lingering odour of industrial bleach seeping through from when the cleaning crew must’ve got rid of the blood.

A pile of mail sat on the bare floorboards. She stuck the folder under her arm and scooped it up, flicking through envelopes and fliers. Junk, mostly: leaflets for takeaways, affordable funeral solutions, double glazing, please vote for me, have you seen my cat? Three official-looking envelopes turned out to be threatening letters from the Royal Caledonian Building Society, demanding to know why Craig Thorburn wasn’t keeping up with his mortgage payments. They were a bit late for that.

Halfway down the hall, a coatrack bulged under the mass of about a dozen jackets, all piled up, three or four on each hook. Two pairs of muddy trainers on the floor beneath them. The search team would’ve been through all the pockets, but Lucy had another trawl, just in case, coming up with the usual collection of pens and scraps of paper and receipts and fliers for the Samaritans.

Three doors led off the small corridor, all closed.

The first opened on a room barely big enough for the double bed that’d been squeezed in there. Clothes lay strewn across it, the built-in wardrobes — much cheaper-looking ones than Jane Cooper had in her swanky Castleview flat — hollowed out and empty. No hidden messages in there.

Door number two revealed the bathroom where Craig Thorburn had breathed his last. The stench of bleach was strongest in here, a large clean patch on the tiles above the bath showing where they’d got rid of the Bloodsmith’s message, plea, prayer... Taking the grout from a mould-darkened grey to dirty ivory instead.

Lucy stuffed the fliers and letters into her jacket pocket, pulled the folder out from under her arm and rummaged for the crime-scene photographs. Held up the wide shot, so it more or less lined up with the room.

Craig Thorburn lay on his back in the bathtub, head and right arm hanging over the side. His hand was open, the palm facing towards the camera, a small purple bruise visible in the crook of his arm. That would be where the eighteen-gauge needle had gone in. But it faded into insignificance compared to what had happened to Craig’s torso. Chest split open, the contents sagging into his gaping stomach.

Urgh...

She stuffed the photo back in the folder and sank down onto the closed toilet lid. Shut her eyes and breathed for a moment, till the stench of bleach and pain made her stomach clench.

Nope. Sod this.

Lurching out into the hall and through the final door.

It was the largest room in the place, with a living area on one side and a galley kitchen on the other. The search team had left all the kitchen cabinet doors open, their contents stuffed in willy-nilly, without any apparent thought or order.

A tatty old couch sat side-on to the room’s only window — a view out over a rectangle of dying grass, featuring four sagging whirligigs, and off towards another bland beige housing scheme. Lucy lowered herself into the couch, setting the frame and springs creaking.

She sat there, not moving, till her churning innards stopped threatening to spatter the threadbare rug with a mixture of bile and coronation chicken.

Wonder what Dr McNaughton would make of that? Never been sick at a crime scene before — not since she was a probationer, anyway. And a lot of what she’d seen over the years was just as bad as anything the Bloodsmith did to his victims. But now, somehow, even the photographs were enough to set her off. Definitely had to ask McNaughton, after she’d finished beating him to death with his own severed genitals.

The Dunk slumped into the room, all pink-faced and shiny. ‘The lovely Mrs Pearce is making us a nice cup of tea.’ He collapsed onto the sofa next to Lucy with a dying-beanbag whoomph. ‘Why does everywhere have to be up so many stairs?’

She slapped the folder against his chest. ‘Read.’

‘Let me get my breath back!’ Wheezing for effect. ‘Nearly had a heart attack, coming up here.’

Lucy abandoned him on the sofa and wandered around the living area instead. In addition to the half-dead couch, there was a smallish TV, a decrepit sound system with an ancient MP3 player plugged into it, a wooden stool with half the paint flaked off, and a sideboard squatting on four fat little legs. There was more junk mail piled up on top of it, along with a couple of opened letters. That would be the search team again. At least they’d done a tidier job than they had in the bedroom.

Lucy had a quick nosey through the mail. Mostly takeaways, but there were a couple of leaflets for the local church’s outreach coffee mornings and a handful of fliers from the university about various psychological studies you could take part in for extra credit and a bit of cash in hand. The money wasn’t great, but looking at the state of this place, Craig probably needed all the help he could get.

She opened the sideboard’s doors: a DVD player lurked inside, along with a collection of unmarked jewel cases — all of which contained plain disks with film names printed on them in blue Sharpie. Craig hadn’t even pirated the latest blockbusters; this lot were at least two years old. Oh, and there was some pretty nasty porn in there too, going by the titles. God knew what Shitty Titty Gangbang was like, but Lucy had no intention of finding out. And no intention of ever sitting on that couch again, given what he must’ve been doing while watching it.

The heavy breathing coming from that direction settled down to sub-pervert levels, then the Dunk cleared his throat. ‘Right. OK. Craig Thorburn, thirty-one, studying philosophy. So a mature student. Had a part-time porter’s job at Straik Infirmary. Used to work as a mechanic down by MacKinnon Quay.’

Which explained how a philosophy student could afford his own place. Even if it was tiny. And crappy. She put the DVD back with the others. ‘But the hospital didn’t report him missing?’

‘Nah. No one gives a toss about part-timers. Next of kin’s down as his mum, but we all know how that worked out.’

The joy of families.

The Dunk turned to the next stapled lump of paperwork, lips moving silently as he traced a finger down the page. ‘Post-mortem says he died from blood loss. Then his heart, both kidneys, and about a third of his liver got hacked out. Looks like our boy’s worked on his blood-extraction technique, but hasn’t really bothered improving his knife skills.’

‘Why would he, if it works?’ Lucy shut the sideboard doors and stood. To be honest, given the porn collection, it was probably best not to touch anything else in here. Even with gloves on. But when she went to put her hands in her pockets, the left one scrunched into all those fliers, leaflets, and the three mortgage demands.

No point taking them with her.

‘True.’ The Dunk nodded. ‘But it probably means we can rule out anyone who knows what they’re doing: butchers, surgeons, anatomists, vets, or anything like that.’

She dumped the lot on the sideboard, where the pile promptly slithered apart, half of it falling straight onto the floor. ‘Sodding hell.’

‘You want the Behavioural Evidence Analysis, too, or shall we take the babbling run-on sentences and lack of proper punctuation as read?’

‘Go for it.’ Lucy scooped the junk mail up and deposited it back on the sideboard. Frowned.

‘Gluttons for punishment, we.’ He dragged out another stapled-together wodge of paper. ‘So... Rambling introduction. Blah, blah. Meandering summary of previous profiles, et cetera...’

There were only two letters from the building society now. She dug in her pocket, but it was empty.

‘Warning that this is all supposition and not to be taken as gospel...’

Perhaps the third letter had fallen down the back of the sideboard and got stuck?

‘Here we go: “The Bloodsmith demonstrates further learning in his exsanguination methodology,” because why use normal words when you can sound like you’ve just had a thesaurus suppository, “suggesting he has either started giving blood recently, or has befriended someone who works for the Scottish National Blood Transfusion Service and a possible line of inquiry will be to examine records appertaining to those—”’

‘Did we?’ Lucy hunkered down and peered underneath the sideboard. ‘Look into the blood-donor angle?’

‘Yeah, Angus got a team on it. No prizes for guessing what that turned up.’

There were a couple of bits of paper poking out between the wall and the bottom edge, but the sideboard’s legs were too short to get her arm in there and pull them out.

‘Where was I? OK: “...to those activities, it may also be beneficial to see if official blood-transfusion clinics have experienced any thefts of equipment, especially needles and blood bags, as it is unlikely that having become more proficient and professional in his extraction of the blood”’ — the Dunk hauled in a big pantomime breath — ‘“he is still using old jam and pickle jars to store it.” Ladies and gentlemen, we have a full stop!’

Scuff marks scarred the floorboards where the sideboard had clearly been moved many, many times. Which meant that losing stuff down the back of it must’ve been a regular occurrence for Craig.

Only one thing for it, then: Lucy went round to the end of the sideboard, grabbed it with both hands and half lifted, half dragged that side away from the wall. An avalanche of trapped papers tumbled to the floorboards.

‘“Given the increase in the volume of tissue removed from his victims after death, it is tempting to say that the Bloodsmith’s possible earlier experimentation with cannibalism has proven fruitful for him, and now that he has a taste for it is looking to take away as much comestible material from the bodies as can practically be consumed while fresh”’ — another exaggerated breath — ‘“however it is also possible that the Bloodsmith is removing these organs for another, more ritualistic purpose, or doing it as a diversionary tactic in order to purposefully mislead the investigation into following avenues not applicable to the series of crimes at hand...”’ Silence. ‘Did that make any sense to you at all?’

She picked up the papers.

The missing building-society letter had been joined by a flier for a kebab shop, one for an exhibition at Oldcastle Art Gallery, a hand-written shopping list, another leaflet about taking part in a psychological study — into loneliness this time — and a birthday card from the old lady next door.

Not much to show for a life, was it? Some scraps of paper and a mutilated corpse.

Lucy placed the lot back on the sideboard.

‘New sentence: “Clearly we can’t ignore the fact that Operation Maypole has been widely reported on in the media, therefore the Bloodsmith may well be monitoring the coverage and adapting his behaviour in order to mislead or even discredit the investigation, as such, all evidence, in addition to being taken at face value, must also be evaluated as if it has been purposefully staged by the offender.”’

She wandered over to the window, looking down at the miserable whirligigs. Little blue bags dangled from the sagging washing lines, where dog walkers had decided a bit of festive faecal decoration was needed. Imagine standing here, every day, looking out at that depressing vista. Estranged from your family, no friends, no one to even notice you’ve been dead for three weeks.

A horrible death, in a horrible little flat.

‘You know, Sarge, I’m thinking of retraining as a forensic psychologist. Apparently you can spend your days churning out nonsensical rubbish and Police Scotland will pay you a fortune for the privilege. You don’t even have to get anything right: load your reports up with enough weaselly caveats, and you can get away with murder.’ A snort. ‘It’s like being a weather forecaster, only with more dead bodies.’

Lucy narrowed her eyes and moved closer to the glass.

There was a figure down there, a man in a corduroy jacket, high forehead surrounded by curly brown hair. Staring right back up at her.

Her back tightened. Jaw, too.

No point charging down there: he’d be long gone by the time she’d even reached the third floor, and they both knew it. He was mocking her.

He stayed where he was, not moving, just staring. Face slack as a corpse.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Something the size and shape of a whiteboard marker, only brown. Was he lighting a cigar?

He was. The cheeky bastard was having a Hamlet moment...

A half-dozen thick clouds of smoke got puffed out into the damp afternoon, then he turned and sauntered off, no hurry, not a care in the world.

‘Sarge? Sarge! You OK?’

What was the point? Wasn’t as if the Dunk could actually do anything about it.

She huffed out a breath and turned her back on the window. Rubbed the palms of her hands into her closed eyes till little fireworks bloomed in the darkness. Wait a minute...

Lucy lowered her hands and frowned at the sideboard.

‘Sarge?’

Two steps and she was there, scooping up the bits of paper, rummaging through them till she got to the one about that psychological study into loneliness. Skimming the text.

Then a smile spread across her face.

‘Tell the nice lady we won’t be staying for tea, Dunk. We’ve got places to be.’

31

The Psychology Department reception room was far too hot and sticky, lined with framed journal articles and awards, a nice big window at the far end looking out over Oldcastle Dundas University’s sodden playing fields, trapped beneath a coal-scuttle sky.

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk shifted in his seat, setting its vinyl upholstery squeaking, face pulled into a droopy frown as he stared at the blank screen of his phone. ‘Are we still—’

‘Do you want DI Tudor to shout at you?’

His seat squeaked some more. ‘No.’

‘Then leave your phone switched off till we’ve got something positive to tell him.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘Oh, of course, how silly of me! My trying to protect you from a bollocking is getting in the way of valuable Candy-Crush-playing time, isn’t it? You go ahead and switch your phone on, Dunk, and to hell with the consequences.’

He sagged, then put his phone away. ‘Fine.’

They sat there, in silence, as the room’s clock tick-tick-ticked, and the radiator grumbled, and the rain hurled itself against the windowpane. Until, at long last, the door behind the reception desk opened and a woman in a Breton top loped out, all long hair, long limbs, and toothy smile.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, it’s been absolutely mad here for ages.’ Settling herself down behind the desk. ‘It’s all go; I honestly don’t know how we cope.’

Yes, because working in academia was so much more challenging than, ooh, let’s think, catching murderers?

She shuffled the papers on her desk. ‘How can I help you today?’

Lucy checked the Dunk had his notebook and pen out, then pulled the leaflet from her pocket — now safely ensconced in a clear-plastic evidence bag. ‘Craig Thorburn. He was a student here.’

‘Was he?’ Clearly not trying to be evasive, just a bit dim.

‘We believe he was taking part in some psychological studies for money.’ Placing the leaflet on the desk.

‘Lots of students do. It’s a bit of a drain on the departmental budget, but it helps us meet our quarterly research targets. You know what it’s like these days: league tables, this; performance indicators, that.’ A shrug.

‘I need to know who ran this study’ — poking the evidence bag — ‘and if Craig was on it.’

‘Ah...’ She bared her teeth again, but not in a smile. ‘General Data Protection Regulations mean we can’t simply—’

‘He’s dead. Craig Thorburn was murdered, five months ago.’

The clock went tick-tick-tick.

The Dunk’s seat squeaked.

The rain rattled the window.

Lucy stared across the desk at her.

Finally, the receptionist’s shoulders drooped and a pained expression crawled across her thin face. ‘Well... let me talk to the head of department and see what I can dig up.’

Professor Rattray led them down the corridor, past office after office, none of which seemed to have anyone working in them. She was a short woman with long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. Purple denim jacket on over a white T-shirt, black jeans, and well-worn cowboy boots. A voice marinated in single malt and tobacco. ‘I know, I know: it’s five to five on a Friday, and the place is like a morgue.’

The Dunk had to semi-jog to keep up. ‘Actually, we don’t have morgues in the UK, it’s mortuaries. Morgues are a US thing.’

She flashed him the kind of smile that probably had male undergraduates going all sweaty in their dirty little dreams. ‘Well, how about that? I learned something new today.’

Pink rushed up his cheeks.

‘Strictly speaking, I should insist on a warrant to see anything, but given what you say happened to this young man, my department wants to make sure it does everything it can to help.’ The professor stopped dead, and the Dunk nearly crashed into her back. ‘We could even look at some of the evidence, if you like? Crime scenes, post-mortem reports, that kind of thing? We run a Forensic Psychology course here, and a little practical—’

‘Actually’ — Lucy made a show of checking her watch — ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but we’ve got a load more interviews to do before we finish today, so if we can...?’

‘Yes, of course.’ And they were off again. ‘I checked the roster for who was doing what research, and that flier is for one of Dr Christianson’s studies. His office is just down here.’ Pointing at a door near the end of the corridor. ‘I’m afraid he won’t be able to help, though.’

‘Let me guess, GDPR again?’

‘Oh, no. He took a leave of absence, a couple of months ago? Bethany will have the details. Something about his mother going in for chemotherapy so he has to look after his dad. Dementia. Terribly sad.’ Professor Rattray stopped in front of the door marked ‘DR JOHN CHRISTIANSON’, opened it, and ushered the pair of them through into a fairly large office with high corniced ceilings.

Two walls were lined with shelves, packed full of textbooks. Twin ranks of filing cabinets either side of the door. The desk was of the big mahogany variety, with a pair of stylish chairs arranged in front of it, a big leather status-symbol sitting behind it like a throne. There was even a Le Corbusier chaise longue, just to make sure all the cliché boxes were ticked. A trio of lancet windows gave a view down the hill, across the woods, to the River Wynd, then up the other side where fields and trees slowly faded into the rain.

The place smelled of lemon furniture polish, but there was something familiar lurking underneath that. Desperation? Or maybe it was mildew? Old buildings like this must be full of both.

Lucy turned and pointed at the filing cabinets. ‘I assume he kept records of who was on his studies?’

‘Of course. We have an A-star reputation for psychological research.’ Lines deepened on the professor’s forehead. ‘I suppose it’s got something to do with Oldcastle being fertile ground for the kind of work we do. Never short of something to look into here; opportunities abound! Especially when it comes to abnormal psychology. But then I don’t have to tell you that, do I? As a police officer.’

At least someone saw an upside to living in the serial-killer capital of Europe.

‘So...?’ Still pointing at those filing cabinets.

‘Yes.’ Professor Rattray pulled on a pair of glasses and ran a finger down the first cabinet, lips moving as she read the labels to herself. Then did the same with the second, third, and fourth cabinet. ‘Loneliness, loneliness, loneliness...’ Fifth. Sixth. ‘Ah, here we go.’ Rattling one of the drawers out and flicking through the tabs. ‘Just have to find the current academic year...’

While the professor was flicking, Lucy had a quick look around the office.

Dr Christianson had the usual framed diplomas behind his desk — because what was the point of having a PhD if you couldn’t rub people’s noses in it — along with a handful of photographs, and an ancient map of Oldcastle. Back before Blackwall Hill, Castleview, Shortstaine, Cowskillin, or even Kingsmeath existed.

‘Aha! And voilà.’ Professor Rattray pulled out a thick suspension file and carried it over to the desk. Opened it up. ‘Now, what was the name you were looking for again?’

‘Thorburn. Craig Thorburn.’

More flicking.

Lucy turned from the map to the photographs. And froze.

‘Simpson, Summerville, Tarbert, Templeton, Thorburn. Here we go.’ Rattray pulled out two or three sheets of paper, stapled together. ‘Craig Thorburn was definitely part of the study.’ Professor Rattray held them out to Lucy. ‘Is there anything else we can help you with?’

God damn right there was.

‘Who’s this?’ Lucy took the proffered sheets and tapped them against one of the smaller photos — an intimate shot of a couple on a restaurant balcony, somewhere warm going by the clothes and tans. She was bright and blonde, hair in a spiky pixie cut, wearing a floaty top with bare arms, glass of something fizzy in one hand, her other arm wrapped around a man who appeared in most of the other pictures. High forehead, round glasses, beard, curly brown hair. He’d swapped the corduroy jacket for a Hawaiian shirt, but it was definitely him. ‘The man, who is he?’

Professor Rattray pursed her lips, eyebrows pulled in as if she was trying to work out how best to explain something really obvious to someone really stupid. ‘You’re standing in his office. It’s Dr John Christianson.’

Of course it was.

Lucy pointed at the filing cabinets again. ‘I need you to check six other names for me.’

‘...buggering about with your phone switched off when I specifically told you—’

‘WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP FOR TWO MINUTES AND LISTEN?’ Lucy braced herself against the dashboard as the Dunk rallied the pool car around the roundabout, siren wailing. They shot across the dual carriageway and onto Burns Road. ‘WE KNOW WHO HE IS: THE BLOODSMITH!’

‘You know who...?’

‘DR JOHN CHRISTIANSON. HE’S A LECTURER AT O.D.U. HE’S THE GUY WHO SLASHED MY TYRES. THE ONE WHO’S BEEN FOLLOWING ME!’

‘Where...? How...?’

Houses flashed by the car windows, a church whizzing past — what looked like a funeral in full swing.

‘WE’VE GOT AN ADDRESS; WE’RE ON OUR WAY THERE NOW. MIGHT BE NICE IF YOU GOT SOME BACKUP ORGANIZED!’

‘Jesus...’ There was something else, but it was lost beneath the siren’s cry. ‘OK, give me the address.’

‘EIGHTEEN BIRREL CRESCENT, CASTLEVIEW.’

Quarter past five and rush hour was in full crawl, but most of it was going the other way, heading up towards the Parkway, and the stuff that wasn’t had the sense to get the hell out of the way.

‘Done.’ DI Tudor must have turned away from the phone, his voice echoing off the office walls, ‘STAN: GET A CAR! ANGUS: ROUND UP EVERYONE YOU CAN GET YOUR PAWS ON AND FOLLOW US OUT TO CASTLEVIEW!’ Then he was back again. ‘I’ll get an OSU sorted, maybe some dogs. You and the Dunk are not to go in until we get there, am I clear?’

‘WE’RE GOING TO BE—’

‘Am I sodding clear, Detective Sergeant?’

Great.

Kingsview Hospital wheeched by, its ancient Victorian frontage partially concealed with scaffolding. Like a cage.

‘Lucy? I mean it.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘What? Can’t hear you over the... That better be a yes!’

‘I SAID, “YES, BOSS”!’

The Dunk slowed down for the T-junction at the end of Burns Road, waiting for the idiots to slam on their brakes before he roared out onto Langburn Drive, foot hard down, the back end slithering on the rain-slicked tarmac as he wrenched the steering wheel to the right.

Not long now...

They both had their seats reclined nearly all the way back, keeping a low profile as rain drummed on the pool car’s roof.

Lucy sat up a little — just far enough to see through the passenger window.

Birrel Crescent was a nice residential cul-de-sac on the westernmost edge of Castleview, backing onto a swathe of scabby fields — thick with reeds and bordered in gorse. A handful of miserable sheep squelched around in the rain behind the houses, looking as if they’d never be dry or happy again.

The curving road was lined with large bungalows on both sides, set back behind big front gardens. Twee names on cast-iron gates. Garages at the end of lock-block driveways. Nearly every home had an attic conversion, but a couple had decided to annoy the neighbours and added on an extra storey. Dr Christianson’s was one of those: surprise, surprise. As if being a serial killer wasn’t bad enough, he had to ruin people’s view of the countryside, too.

She scooted down again and checked her watch. ‘What the hell’s taking them so long?’

On the other side of the car, the Dunk cracked a big yawn, rounding it off with a stretch and a shudder. ‘Surely, this has to wipe out all debts, right? I mean, we’ve broken the case: we’ve IDed the Bloodsmith; it should be party time for Lucy and Duncan. Maybe even a promotion?’

Lucy scowled over the lip of her door for about the sixth time in two minutes. ‘Fiver says he’s not in.’

A dark-red Skoda estate sat outside number eighteen, its metallic paintwork turned matt with dirt. Windscreen, too.

‘Who do you think they’ll get to play us when they make a Hollywood blockbuster out of this?’

‘One: that car hasn’t moved in ages. And two: there’s no sign of the Mini he’s been driving.’ The one with the cracked rear window and dented roof. ‘Unless he’s parked it in the garage, of course...’

‘I see myself as a Brad Pitt, or a Chris Hemsworth. You want to be Charlize Theron, or Scarlett Johansson? Charlize has the range, but Scarlett’s got the box office.’

Lucy checked her watch yet again: quarter to six. ‘How long does it take to get over here from Peel Place, for God’s sake?’

‘Mind you, I bet if they do make a film, we’ll see sod all out of it. Police Scotland will claim the rights, won’t they? We do all the work, they take all the profits.’ A pout. ‘Maybe we should write a book? I know a journalist who could help — she did that one about the Coffinmaker, last year.’

‘Pass.’

Lucy’s phone rang, deep in her pocket, and when she dug it out ‘WITHHELD NUMBER’ glowed at her from the screen. ‘McVeigh?’

‘Very good. Now, are we planning on heading back to DHQ at some point?’

‘Who is this?’

‘You abandoned one Nichola Strachan in my cells this afternoon. Her duty solicitor’s been in with her for an hour, and they’re ready to talk. So...?’

She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Sergeant Weir, I’m sitting outside the Bloodsmith’s house, waiting for the cavalry to arrive. I don’t have time to sod about with a domestic.’

‘Attempted murder.’

‘Don’t care. Give it to Stan, or Emma. I’m busy.’

A long, disappointed sigh huffed out of the phone. ‘Very well. But don’t come crying to me if they get a conviction and take all the credit.’

‘Sarge?’ The Dunk sat up and poked her. Then pointed back towards the main road as the growl of multiple engines raced up Birrel Crescent. ‘We’re on.’

‘Got to go.’ She hung up.

A police van was in the lead, riot grille up, lights off, followed by two unmarked Vauxhalls and a couple of patrol cars.

The van put on one final burst of speed, mounting the kerb outside Dr Christianson’s house and slamming on the brakes — the side door flew open and four very large officers hammered out into the rain. They were dressed in the full Method-of-Entry kit: crash helmets; shin guards, kneepads, forearm protectors, and elbow pads; thick gloves; dirty big boots. Shoulders up, backs hunched as they charged along the garden path. The officer at the rear wielded the big red door key, and as her colleagues flattened out on either side of the front door, she smashed it in with a single blow of her tactical battering ram.

Lucy was out of the car, running across the road through the downpour, the Dunk bringing up the rear, hitting the opposite pavement as the Operational Support Unit swarmed in through the broken doorway.

Their voices boomed out from inside. ‘POLICE, EVERYONE STAY WHERE YOU ARE!’

‘NOBODY MOVE!’

‘POLICE!’

DI Tudor and DC Talladale clambered out of their Vauxhall, joining Lucy and the Dunk in Dr Christianson’s front garden.

Bangs and crashes. The occasional ‘CLEAR!’

Then silence.

Tudor shifted his feet, scuffing up the long grass. Not looking at Lucy. ‘We’re sure this is our guy?’ Sounding a lot less thrilled than he should’ve been, given they’d just IDed the Bloodsmith.

‘Well, I suppose it could be a massive coincidence, what with him harassing me, slashing my tyres, and every single victim being part of his loneliness study at ODU? Yeah, you know what, maybe it’s not him.’

The Dunk cleared his throat. ‘Well, not every single victim. Ex-DC Malcolm Louden wasn’t.’ He held up his hands as Lucy scowled at him. ‘But everyone else was!’

Tudor nodded. ‘OK. You two did good.’ Huffing out a breath. ‘Just have to hope this Dr Christianson is...’ He stared at the hole where the front door used to be, as one of the massive officers in MOE gear lumbered out into the rain again.

The officer raised her helmet’s visor. ‘No one home. Hasn’t been for a while.’

‘Sod.’ Tudor sagged, head in his hands.

‘You think that’s bad, wait till you see what we found in the garage.’

32

The faint glow of a rainy evening seeped in beneath the garage door, but other than that, the place was wreathed in darkness — the only strip light hung lifeless and littered with the ancient corpses of long-dead moths. But the harsh white circles of half a dozen police torches were focused on the contents of a large chest freezer.

Lucy stared.

Someone cleared their throat.

Someone else let out a long, hard sigh.

‘Wow.’ The Dunk fidgeted, his SOC suit rustling like a scrunched-up crisp packet.

It was easily big enough in here for Christianson’s Mini, or even the estate car parked outside, but instead there was a row of modular shelving, mounted to the garage wall, full of cardboard boxes and other household junk. A couple of bicycles. A lawnmower.

And the chest freezer.

Light glittered back from the dozens of glass jars, neatly stacked inside it, their surfaces beginning to fur with frost. Some were pot-of-jam sized, others big enough to have taken a hefty amount of pickles or sauerkraut, before they were repurposed to contain something a deep purple-scarlet colour. Next to them was a stack of plastic pouches — the kind they used when you donated blood. One of the Forensic team lifted a bag free from the pile. It was half filled and frozen solid, sparkling with a thin fur of ice crystals.

The SEB tech whistled. ‘He’s even put the names on them. See? This one’s Olive Hopkins.’

Their rambling forensic psychologist had got that bit right at least — Christianson had upgraded more than just his exsanguination method.

‘Jesus...’ DI Tudor pulled one of the smaller jars from the stack, turning it in his gloved hands till a white label appeared. ‘Bruce Malloch.’

Lucy backed away from the freezer and had a squint at the shelves instead. Some of the cardboard boxes had labels on them, too. She pulled out the one marked ‘JANE COOPER’. Blew the dust off. Opened it. A neatly folded blouse sat on top of a pile of other clothes. All of them stained with dark spatters of what had to be blood.

She moved onto the next one. ‘CRAIG THORBURN’. It contained a pair of jeans, trainers, and a ‘WOLFRABBIT WORLD TOUR 2004’ T-shirt covered in little dark-brown spots. There were four more marked boxes: ‘ADAM HOLMES’, ‘BRUCE MALLOCH’, ‘ABBY GEDDES’, and ‘OLIVE HOPKINS’, each one full of folded bloodstained clothes. It didn’t take long to rummage through the unmarked boxes, but they were full of random crap — old wedding presents, broken toasters, dusty crockery, and a fondue set. No sign of a large dark-red padded jacket. ‘Is it just me, or is anyone else wondering what happened to Malcolm Louden’s stuff?’

There was a pause, then Tudor clapped his gloved hands. ‘All right, everyone who isn’t a Forensic Services Scene Examination Resource: out. Those of you who are, I want this lot catalogued, fingerprinted, and every container of blood matched with a victim. Maybe our boy mixed and matched, or maybe DS McVeigh is right and Malcolm Louden is missing. Either way, we need to know what goes with who.’ Another clap of the hands. ‘Come on, move it, people, daylight’s wasting!’

The Dunk peeled off his SOC suit in the small Identification Bureau marquee, set up in Dr Christianson’s front garden — bridging the gap between the house’s front door and the outside world. The blue tarpaulin gave everything a sickly hue, shrouding them in gloom as rain thrummed against the marquee’s roof. He wodged up the crinkly white Tyvek and stuffed it into a black bin bag marked ‘CROSS-CONTAMINATION DISPOSAL’, followed by booties, facemask and gloves. Then stood there, waiting for Lucy to do the same. ‘Well, that’s been quite a day.’

Bit of an understatement.

She’d only got as far as unzipping her suit when Tudor appeared in the house doorway, still done up in the full SOC kit. Arms crossed. Voice hard and flat, muffled by the facemask. ‘DS McVeigh: with me. Now.’ Then he turned and disappeared back inside.

God’s sake, what had they done wrong this time?

The Dunk grimaced at her. ‘You want me to get the pool car warmed up, in case we have to make a quick getaway?’

She zipped her suit up again and scuffed into the house.

Tudor was in the kitchen, arms still folded, glowering at her through his safety goggles. ‘Close the door.’

Lucy did what she was told. ‘Is there a problem, Boss?’

The room was large enough for a small dining table at one end, the rest of it done up in country-farmhouse style, with patterned tiles on the splashback, pictures of sheep and cows on the walls, and over-elaborate cabinet doors. A knitted chicken-shaped cosy brooded over a basket of eggs that would be well past their sell-by date. Dust everywhere.

Tudor turned his back on her and frowned out the kitchen window. Never a good sign when a senior officer wouldn’t look you in the eye. ‘What do we know about this Dr John Christianson?’

OK...

She’d just cracked the whole sodding case, so why was Tudor acting like someone had jammed a jagged stick up his backside?

‘He’s a psychology lecturer at Oldcastle Dundas University, runs three or four studies a term, using students and members of the public as subjects. They get paid a small fee; he uses their data to apply for research grants and publish papers. Took a leave of absence nine weeks ago to look after his dad while his mother’s having chemo.’

A nod.

‘Only, when I checked: his mum’s been dead six years, and his dad’s in a home down south. Bristol, to be exact. They say Christianson hasn’t visited since before the pandemic. So best guess is—’

‘He thought we were getting close, and he did a runner.’ Tudor unfolded his arms, leaning both fists on the worktop. Still staring out at the rain. ‘Bet he hasn’t been back here in nearly two months. He’s found himself another lair; could be anywhere by now.’

‘Only we know he’s still local. He’s been following me. Saw him this afternoon outside Craig Thorburn’s flat.’

Tudor groaned, back hunched as if she’d just dumped a huge load on those broad shoulders. ‘You saw him?’

‘Well, I didn’t know he was the Bloodsmith at that point, did I? Thought he was some thug Sarah Black hired. Didn’t find out who he really was till we went to the university.’ Lucy stiffened her back, chin up. ‘You want to tell me why you’re acting like I just poisoned your dog?’

‘I spoke to your therapist. Again.’ A proper growl worked its way into Tudor’s voice. ‘Dr Abernathy says you’ve never even—’

‘Abernathy? Who the hell is Dr Abernathy?’

‘YOUR THERAPIST!’ At that, Tudor did turn around, fists trembling. ‘Jesus, Lucy, how am I supposed to trust you, when you—’

‘Oh for... I was assigned to Dr McNaughton! And I know he sends in reports every week, because Professional Standards have been reading the damn things. You’ve been chasing up the wrong bloody psychologist!’

He froze. Cleared his throat. ‘McNaughton?’

‘Typical!’ Lucy stormed out of the room, down the hall, and out into the SEB marquee again.

The Dunk was loitering by the front flap, staring at her like a lost little boy. ‘Sarge? Are you...’

You know what? Screw him: Tudor didn’t deserve to get off that easily.

‘Sarge?’

Lucy turned around and marched back into the kitchen. Right up to DI Tudor. Poking him in the chest hard enough to make him flinch. ‘How dare you!’

‘I... They told me Dr Abernathy—’

‘How can you “trust me”?’ Jabbing her poking finger towards the garage this time. ‘I JUST FOUND YOU THE FUCKING BLOODSMITH!’

‘Lucy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘If it wasn’t for me and the Dunk, they’d be using this case to bury you. And you know that’s the only reason they put you in sole charge. You’re here as a scapegoat for when this whole operation dissolves into a festering pile of shite!’

He put his hands up. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry, it’s—’

‘But we just saved your arse.’

Rain hissed against the kitchen window.

Through in the garage, one of the SEB launched into a muted a cappella version of an old Coldplay song.

The miserable sheep bleated in the field behind the house.

Tudor stared at his blue plastic booties, Tyvek suit rustling as he brought his shoulders up. ‘I’m sorry.’

Should bloody well think so too.

He huffed out a breath. ‘Look, it’s...’ He stared at the closed kitchen door, as the Dunk’s voice rattled down the corridor, unnaturally loud.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Cormac-Fordyce, how nice to see you again, sir.’

Their very own canary in the coal mine.

‘Sodding hell.’ Tudor curled forwards for a moment, hands twisting into blue-nitrile claws — then straightened up. Stared at the ceiling for a couple of breaths. ‘Why me?’ A heavy sigh and he was back again. ‘Look, the scene examiners are going to be a while before they come up with anything. Hours. Why don’t you check up on the lookout requests and call it a day?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘So now you’re trying to get rid of me.’

‘I’m trying to say, “Well done.” I’m trying to say, “Thank you,” and, “I’m sorry.”’ He sagged. ‘You did a damn good job today — you and DC Fraser. They’ll probably bump you up to DI for this, and you’ll deserve it.’ A sigh. ‘Now go have some time off. Rest. Back in tomorrow, seven sharp, and we’ll see if we can’t finally catch this bastard. OK?’

She gave him a one-shoulder shrug. ‘Yeah.’

‘Good. Now we need to—’

The kitchen door thumped open and there was the man himself, ACC Cormac-Fordyce. The full SOC get-up might have rendered him anonymous, but it couldn’t conceal the posh Invernesian accent. ‘DI Tudor.’ A pause. ‘Alasdair. I understand congratulations are in order: you’ve identified the Bloodsmith!’

‘Actually, it was DS McVeigh and DC Fraser.’ Pointing at Lucy.

‘Good man. A successful general always gives his troops the credit.’ The ACC turned and graced Lucy with a small nod. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t my almost fellow pupil. So, you managed to crack the case with the aid of this DC...?’

‘Fraser.’ She hooked a thumb towards the front of the house. ‘That was him outside.’

‘Of course it was. Excellent work, the pair of you.’

‘Right, well, if you’ll excuse me.’ Tudor headed for the garage. ‘I’d better go see how the team’s getting on.’

‘Yes, of course.’ The ACC stayed where he was. ‘I’ll join you in a minute. Just want to have a quick word with the Detective Sergeant here.’

Soon as Tudor was out of the room, Assistant Chief Constable Cormac-Fordyce leaned back against the worktop. ‘Alone at last.’

Why did that sound like a bad thing?

‘Sir?’

‘I have to say that I’m impressed, DS McVeigh, or can I call you Lucy?’ He didn’t wait for permission, but then some men never did. ‘Seventeen months this investigation’s been spinning its wheels, but here we are, standing in the Bloodsmith’s kitchen. All because you figured it out.’ He tilted his head to one side, looking her up and down. ‘I understand you’re on the graduate fast-track programme, Lucy. How would you like to accelerate that even more? I’m always looking for high-fliers — or more accurately, high-achievers — to join my team at Gartcosh.’ The ACC made a little see-saw motion with one gloved hand. ‘It’s clear that DI Tudor, though he means well, is perhaps... a little less suited to the rigours of command than someone with your talents. Perhaps you’d flourish in a more constructive environment? Out from his shadow.’

‘And into yours?’

‘Only in that you’d be under my wing, Lucy. It would mean promotion, of course. “Inspector McVeigh” has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?’

Had to admit that it did. And a good few years ahead of plan, too. Just a shame that she’d have to work for this slimy tit.

‘My team has a... let’s call it a “roving brief”. It allows us to get involved in all sorts of interesting things and I think someone of your unique abilities would fit in very well indeed.’ He turned to look out the window, at the soggy sheep, his voice light and nonchalant. ‘Tell me, yesterday, when you said you’d been out to St Nicholas College, why was that?’

The offhand tone only made him sound more shifty.

Lucy pulled her chin in. ‘Why: shouldn’t I have?’

‘Just interested how St Nick’s connects with the Bloodsmith. I like to have all the pieces — that’s why I’ll be the next Chief Constable when the current one retires.’ His voice changed slightly, as if twisted around a smug smile. ‘You said you were talking to a pupil?’

Difficult to tell if that ‘Chief Constable’ comment was a boast: look how great I am; an enticement: look what I’ll be able to do for you; or a threat: look how screwed you’ll be if you cross me. Or maybe it was a combination of all three?

‘Allegra Dean-Edwards. She gave ex-DC Malcolm Louden a new jacket the day the Bloodsmith gutted him. We wanted to know if she’d seen anyone hanging around looking suspicious when she handed the coat over.’

‘And had she?’ Back to sounding all casual and unconcerned again.

‘No. Apparently she hands out a lot of coats to homeless people. Says, after a while, they all kind of bleed into one.’

‘Hmmmm...’ A nod. ‘It’s nice to know that you’re thorough, Lucy. I value that in my team, almost as much as I value loyalty.’ The ACC rubbed his hands together, setting the nitrile squeaking. ‘I think we should talk, once this Bloodsmith investigation is out of the way, don’t you?’

Promotion to Gartcosh, a roving brief, and the ear of the next Chief Constable. He was promising a lot more than she’d ever get here with DI Tudor and O Division. And maybe Assistant Chief Constable Findlay Cormac-Fordyce wasn’t so bad, once you got to know him? Possibly...

Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to play along, would it?

‘I’d like that, sir.’

‘Excellent.’ Then he marched out of the room, without another word.

Question was: had she just sold her soul to the Devil, or only rented it...

The Dunk was waiting for her, out in the marquee, watching as she clambered out of her SOC kit. ‘Everything OK, Sarge?’

‘We’re done for the day, Dunk.’

‘Right. Good. Time to celebrate!’ He fell into place behind her as she pushed out through the front flaps into the rain. ‘What do you think: hit the Bart first, or work our way over there one pub at a time? Ooh, how about cocktails at Wobbly Bob’s?’

Lucy marched down the path. ‘Maybe.’

‘What’s up, Sarge?’ Scurrying along at her side now.

‘It’s just... Nah, it’s nothing. Someone asked if I’d have dinner with them tonight, but I can blow him off. It’s not as if—’

‘Oh my God: do you have a date?’ Eyes wide.

‘It’s not a date.’ Well, maybe. Argyll McCaskill definitely thought it was. But that didn’t mean she had to.

They hurried across the road, the Dunk plipping the locks on their pool car and scrambling in behind the wheel, out of the downpour. Grinning at Lucy as she sank into the passenger seat. ‘Where’s he taking you? Better not be somewhere lame like Pizzageddon, or Big Tam’s All-You-Can-Eat Chinese Buffet.’

‘French place. La Poule something-or-other.’

‘Shut up! La Poule Française? The La Poule Française, with a Michelin star?’ Both his eyebrows came close to achieving escape velocity. ‘Wow. He must be seriously minted: that place costs a fortune.’

She fastened her seatbelt. ‘His family own big chunks of Skye and Argyll.’ Frown. ‘And I think Sutherland, too. Anyway, I haven’t said yes yet.’

‘Oh, Sarge...’ The Dunk’s whole face fell. ‘He’s that posh twat from St Nick’s, isn’t he? The assistant head. Tosser was making goo-goo eyes at you the whole time. Sarge, how could you?’

‘Haven’t said I would, have I? Besides, thought I could talk him into slipping us a copy of Benedict Strachan’s file.’

‘Bet that’s not all he wants to slip you.’ The Dunk must’ve felt her stiffen from the other side of the car, because he held up his hands in surrender. ‘Sorry. That was... sorry.’ He started the engine. ‘So, you’re basically using the posh twat so he’ll give you information. That’s cool. Clever.’

‘Good save.’

He hauled the car into a three-point turn, heading back towards town. ‘You’re going to wear something nice, though, yeah? Not your usual jeans and a top. Cos, no offence, Sarge, you might get more out of the guy if you flash a bit of leg.’

She tightened her jaw. ‘I’m not flashing anything.’

‘OK, but don’t come crying to me if he doesn’t put out at the end of the date.’

33

Lucy stomped along the pavement in the rain, heat flushing her cheeks. ‘You don’t have to walk me to my car, Constable.’

‘Nah, I do, Sarge.’ He bustled along beside her as they made their way down Guild Street, stupid leather bunnet bobbing at Lucy’s shoulder. ‘If this Dr Christianson’s been following you, it’s not safe. Besides, if he murders you, that’s yet another body we’ve got to find and clear up and investigate and that bloody forensic psychologist will write one of her horrible rambling reports without any punctuation and I’ll have to read it out to whoever they get to replace you.’ A smile. ‘So, letting me walk you to your car is really you doing me a favour, when you think about it.’ Like he was some sort of chivalrous short-arsed suitor.

Didn’t help that she was carrying the massive bunch of flowers Argyll had sent to the station that morning.

The Dunk stood there, waving, as she climbed in behind the wheel of her ridiculous pink Bedford Rascal, dumped the bouquet in the passenger footwell, and cranked the van’s engine into spluttering life.

She pulled out her phone and thumbed a text to Argyll.

SEND.

Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get a table? After all, it was Friday night and if the restaurant was as fancy as the Dunk seemed to think, a place like that probably got booked up months in—

Buzzzzzzz-ding.

That gave her just under two hours to get home, run a swift bath, scrub up, and get back into town.

Doable.

SEND.

When she looked up from her phone, the Dunk was still standing there, waving like an idiot.

Right, time to go home.

Lucy finished drying her hair and frowned at the scrawny pale lump in the saggy grey bathrobe, looking back at her from the full-length mirror. It was all very well the Dunk banging on about flashing a bit of leg: his probably didn’t look like knotted pipe cleaners that’d never seen the sun. And she wasn’t shaving them either.

Surprisingly enough, the blusher, eye shadow, and lipstick in her dresser hadn’t solidified after sitting there, unused, for over a year. They felt strange against her skin, though. Like a mask. Maybe that was a good thing? Might help her pretend to be someone she wasn’t any more.

She hauled on a sensible bra and a pair of hefty pants — after all, it wasn’t as if Argyll McCaskill would ever get to see them — then tried on her best suit. The one for weddings and funerals. Didn’t really scream ‘first date’, though, did it? Nor did her second-best suit. Or any of her fighting suits, come to that. A stripy top and black slacks made her look as if she hadn’t bothered to change after work. Blouse and jeans?

Bit casual for a Michelin-starred restaurant. They might not let her in.

Urgh...

Bet men didn’t have to go through this nonsense. No: their one smart suit did for everything, didn’t it? Because the world was inherently sexist.

She sagged in front of the mirror.

Well, that’s what you got for burning all your dresses, isn’t it? And your skirts. And anything else that made you look in the least bit feminine. After Neil Black...

She hauled her shoulders back. Chin up. ‘Do you want information on Benedict Strachan, or don’t you?’

There was one other option, after all.

Lucy scuffed her Crocs through to Dad’s bedroom and over to The Forbidden Wardrobe. When she opened it the scent of lavender and mothballs collapsed out into the room like a corpse. Her mother’s things, hanging in here for years. And years. And years.

Strange, but now Dad was gone, the fact he’d held onto all this stuff didn’t bother her any more. No idea why it ever did, to be honest.

Maybe it was because she couldn’t really remember anything about Mum? Well, other than the screaming and throwing things. Even looking at photos of her didn’t spark any good memories. You’d think, if you lost your mother when you were almost six, there would be something nice worth remembering.

She selected a few dresses and laid them on the dusty bedspread — it was the first time she’d touched anything in The Forbidden Wardrobe since Dad caught her playing dressing-up in one of Mum’s old skirts and blouses, many, many times too big for her. Not long after the funeral. They probably heard the shouting and the swearing and the threats all the way to Fiddersmuir. Certainly gave her first-ever therapist something to talk about for months.

Wonder what happened to him...? Probably dead by now. Let’s face it, he wasn’t far off retirement age when he started treating her. Shame, though. He was nice.

Lucy tried the pink dress: far, far too short. The brown-with-orange-spots was hideous on. But the dark-blue wraparound maxi, with the floral pattern, wasn’t all that awful. It covered a multitude of unshaven sins, and wasn’t too revealing on the cleavage front. Wouldn’t be as warm as jeans and a top, but at least she looked the part, now.

Rummaging about in the bottom of The Forbidden Wardrobe produced a pair of strappy leather wedges that were exactly the right size. She wasn’t what you’d call stable on them, though — probably be a while till the muscle memory for how-to-walk-in-heels kicked in after all this time.

A pair of dangly jade earrings and a thin, silver necklace from Mum’s jewellery box finished the outfit off.

She stood in front of the mirror, frowning at herself. There was... just a vague hint — little more than a flash, really — of Mum screaming about whatever it was Lucy had done wrong this time. Then it was gone.

She shuddered. Teetered her way over to the window and pulled back one side of the curtains, just far enough to peer out.

The unmarked car sat across the road and down a bit. One of the two officers DI Tudor had assigned to watch her clambered out into the rain, jacket pulled up over his head in a makeshift hood, shoulders hunched as he lit a fly cigarette. Shuffling his feet on the soggy grass verge.

Silly sod.

Still, at least if Dr Christianson decided to come back and hammer on her door again, at three in the morning, he was in for a shock.

Lucy clomped back through to her own bedroom and stuffed her new phone, her wallet, a hankie, and a packet of Polos into one of her mother’s small leather handbags, with—

A voice echoed up from downstairs. ‘Hello?’

She whipped around, teeth bared. Grabbed the hair straighteners like an unextendable baton and crept out onto the landing.

But when she peered between the balusters, it wasn’t the familiar corduroy-jacketed stalker standing in her hallway, it was Charlie from Professional Standards frowning up at her. ‘DS McVeigh? Are you all right?’

‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE... HOW DID YOU GET IN?’

He backed away a couple of steps, hands up. ‘The kitchen door was open; I was worried about you.’

‘GET OUT OF MY BLOODY HOUSE!’

‘Given the Bloodsmith’s been following you around town and knows — where — you — live, I think you’re being a bit unreasonable, don’t you? I’m trying to help.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re in my house!’

He folded his arms and leaned against the sideboard. ‘You should get a security system fitted. And make sure you check all the doors and windows are locked. Imagine what would happen if the Bloodsmith decides it’s time to harvest your heart, and the kitchen door’s lying wide open.’

‘Aaaaaaargh...’ Lucy dumped the straighteners on the chest of drawers again, picked up Mum’s bag, and stomped downstairs, scowling at him all the way. ‘There’s an unmarked car sitting outside!’

‘All the more reason for Dr Christianson to sneak in round the back.’ Charlie rested his bum against the sideboard and smiled that bland smile. ‘You’ve had quite the day, DS McVeigh. First you find a missing Bloodsmith victim, then you make another massive breakthrough and ID our killer. Then there’s the big bunch of flowers and dinner date with a handsome and very wealthy young man.’ Tilting his head towards the bouquet sitting on the sideboard. ‘I hear you’ve had a job offer, too: working for Assistant Chief Constable Findlay Cormac-Fordyce.’

‘God: you really have been spying on me, haven’t you?’

‘Going to take the job?’

‘None of your damned business.’ She stepped closer, towering over him in her mother’s wedges. Spitting the words out. ‘You think, just because you’re Professional Standards, you can get away with anything, don’t you?’

‘What about the Dunk: planning on taking him with you to Gartcosh?’

Hadn’t thought about that.

‘We’re not joined at the hip.’

Charlie’s face pinched in. ‘I’m not entirely sure how to put this, but as we’re going to be stuck with each other for a bit — which means, you know, we’re basically colleagues — and I genuinely do want to see you succeed, I sort of feel I have to. Understand?’

Not even vaguely.

He squirmed a little. ‘You see, while I can’t speak in any professional capacity, because it would be unethical for someone from Professional Standards to talk about individual cases, or investigations, I...’ Charlie bit his bottom lip, brow furrowed like a battered accordion. ‘Let’s just say it might not be a great idea to hitch your star to Assistant Chief Constable Cormac-Fordyce.’

‘You’re saying he’s dodgy?’

‘Nope. Didn’t say that at all. Didn’t say anything of the kind. Because that would be unethical, remember?’

Interesting...

Lucy nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘See?’ The wrinkles faded as Charlie’s bland smile reappeared. ‘I’m not kidding when I say I’m here to help and support you, Detective Sergeant. Consider me your very own Jiminy Cricket.’

She pulled her raincoat on, zipping it up. ‘You ever read the original book: The Adventures of Pinocchio, Carlo Collodi, 1883?’

‘No. But I saw the film.’

‘Pinocchio batters Jiminy Cricket to death with a hammer.’ She grabbed her new St Nick’s umbrella from the stand.

‘Just watch out, OK? Not everyone has your best interests at heart.’

So Professional Standards were sniffing about the ACC? Did that mean he’d been up to something? Mind you, the top brass were always up to something; it’s how they became the top brass in the first place.

Still, had to admit Cormac-Fordyce hadn’t exactly sounded squeaky clean when he’d offered her the job.

And what was it he’d said about her being his ‘almost fellow pupil’? She’d told him St Nicholas College only gave her that brolly because it was raining — ‘almost fellow pupil’ made it sound as if he knew she’d been a prospective student at St Nick’s. Which meant he must’ve been speaking to someone at the school. Probably the headmaster. Or maybe even her date for tonight? And that meant the ‘why were you there’ question was a test. The ACC already knew why.

Didn’t matter, though: she’d told the truth. Passed the test.

Lucy pointed at the front door. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to dinner.’

‘Of course. And it’s OK, I locked the kitchen door when I came in.’ Charlie levered himself off the sideboard, pointing at the bowl next to the flowers as he sauntered past. ‘Don’t forget your keys.’

Patronizing dick.

She snatched her house keys and the van keys from the bowl. Then swore. Those sodding keys she’d found — the ones she should’ve handed in to Lost and Found — they were still sitting there.

He stepped outside into the rain. ‘And you’d better take some comfy shoes with you, in case you get sore feet.’

‘Don’t push your luck.’ She killed the lights, popped up her brolly, and marched out the front door — shutting it behind her and making a big show of checking it was locked.

By the time she turned around again, a drenched Charlie was climbing into the back of the unmarked pool car.

With any luck, he’d catch pneumonia and die.

Lucy clambered into the Bedford Rascal, cranked the engine, and stuck her foot down hard enough to make some gravel fly.

Why did men have to be such complete arseholes?

Lucy parked her motorized embarrassment a good distance from the restaurant, popped open her new umbrella, then tottered her way along Motte Row — already regretting wearing strappy leather wedges when wellington boots would have been more practical — clomping from one patch of jaundiced streetlight to the next. Wind snatched at the hem of her mum’s maxi dress. Rain rattled against the St Nick’s brolly, filling the gutters and spilling out across the corbels. The Old Castle’s crumbling remains were all lit up on the other side of the road, glowing red and blue and green, like something out of a nightmare. Behind it, the land fell away — straight down a jagged granite cliff, the lights of Castleview and the Wynd glittering in the storm-soaked darkness beyond.

Had to hand it to Argyll, the setting was impressive enough.

La Poule Française sat halfway along a curling terrace of huge sandstone townhouses. Doubt you’d get much change from two million around here. The restaurant’s mullioned windows glowed with dim candlelight — discreet enough to hide the diners’ identities from the vulgar gaze of any passer-by.

A man in a kilt opened the door for Lucy, ushering her into the warmth. Small round tables, booths, and crisp white linen. Sparkling glasses and silverware. The place was busy, but not crowded, bathing the room in a muted hum of candlelit conversation.

Definitely far too fancy in here for jeans and a top.

The kilted man didn’t ask who she was, or if she had a reservation, just took her umbrella and raincoat, then escorted her straight to a booth in the corner, where Argyll was nursing a gin and tonic.

Argyll struggled as upright as he could get, trapped between the seating and the table, and smiled. ‘DS McVeigh! I mean, Lucy, I’m so glad you came.’ He’d ditched the school uniform for a tan suit. ‘Please, sit, sit. You look lovely, by the way.’ Then his forehead puckered. ‘I hope that’s OK for me to say. I know there are times when it’s inappropriate to compliment a woman on her appearance, but—’

‘It’s OK.’

The kilted man gave her a nod and headed back to his station.

‘So...’ Argyll rubbed his hands. Puffed out his cheeks. Looked down at his cutlery. ‘Have you been before? The turbot is spectacular, and so’s the soufflé au fromage, or the sweetbreads, or...’ It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but that definitely looked like a blush. ‘Sorry.’ A glug of gin and tonic. ‘Babbling my way through the menu, like an idiot.’

A woman in a crisp black suit appeared at Lucy’s elbow, her French accent soft and musical. ‘Compliments of Mr Garvie.’ Setting two glasses of something fizzy down on the table.

Lucy didn’t move. ‘I don’t drink.’

‘My apologies, madam,’ and one of the glasses disappeared, ‘may I suggest a sparkling elderberry and rhubarb pressé instead? It is — how you say — quite delicious. Oui? Bien. My colleague, Marguerite, will be along momentanément with your amuse-bouche and menus. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to let me know.’ Then she swept off, just as silently as she’d arrived.

Argyll fiddled with his complimentary glass of fizz. ‘You don’t drink?’

‘Not since... Not for a while, no.’ Lucy forced a bit of jollity into her voice. ‘Besides, I’m driving. And a police officer. Not that police officers don’t drink, but not when they’re driving, because it wouldn’t look good, would it, for public confidence, if we behave like the law doesn’t apply to us.’ Smooth, Lucy. Very good. Now the pair of them were babbling away like spotty teenagers at their first school dance.

‘Yes, I see, definitely. I...’ Still fiddling with his glass. ‘Is it OK if I do, though, because I’m just a little bit more nervous than I thought I’d be, because I think I mentioned I really don’t do this very often, because... yes.’ He downed the rest of his gin and tonic in one. ‘Sorry.’

Then they both cleared their throats and stared at the tablecloth for a while.

Oh God. It was going to be one of those nights...

Had to admit, Argyll had been right — the turbot was lovely.

He was tucking into veal short ribs, telling stories about how great St Nicholas College and its staff and pupils and facilities were. To be honest, it should have bored the large sensible pants off her, but there was something endearing about the man’s passion. He’d put away the nervous teenager along with half a bottle of Sancerre, then two large glasses of shiraz. The rosy glow in his cheeks coming from something other than embarrassment for a change.

Lucy scooped a new potato through a glob of wobbling hollandaise. ‘I spoke to one of your alumni today, Findlay Cormac-Fordyce?’

A beaming smile. ‘Freaky Findlay? How’s the old bugger doing?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable.’

‘Of course he is. We were Raxton House boys. There was us, Spoony Simpson, Matchbox Morrison, and Rhino Rhynie.’ Argyll must’ve seen the look on Lucy’s face, because he shrugged. ‘What can I say: alliterative nicknames were all the rage. The five of us were inseparable in our never-ending battle to get one over on Glenogil House. And yes, I know that makes me sound like a character out of Billy Bunter, but when you’re twelve and you’re away from home ten months of the year, this kind of nonsense seems like the most important thing in the world.’

She kept her voice neutral, hopefully doing a much better job of it than ACC Cormac-Fordyce had done. ‘You still keep in touch?’

‘Spoony’s Senator for North Carolina; Matchbox is some sort of UN bigwig; Rhino ended up as Business Secretary; and Freaky you know about. We try to have a reunion every five years or so, if we can carve a slot in everyone’s diaries.’

‘Would’ve thought “Freaky” might have popped in for a visit, seeing as he’s in town?’

‘Hope so. Be good to catch up.’ Argyll eased another chunk of meat off his short rib. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to try this? It’s like butter.’

So much for getting him to rat out ‘Freaky’ Findlay for checking up on her. Unless Argyll didn’t know, of course. Could be that the ACC went straight to the headmaster. Or that she’d read too much into that ‘almost fellow pupil’ comment.

Lucy waved away the proffered forkful of dark glistening meat. ‘Doesn’t it bother you? They’re all these high-fliers and you’re stuck back here, working at the same old school.’

He spluttered at that, going red in the face as he tried to cough, laugh, and swallow at the same time. Followed by a big gulp of fizzy water. ‘Dear Lord, no. Quite the reverse!’ Argyll sat forward. ‘There isn’t a single one of them who wouldn’t sell their firstborn’s kidneys to have my job. And to put that in context: Spoony? The Republican Party are probably going to nominate her to be their next presidential candidate.’

‘No.’

‘Honestly! We’ve got seven crown princes with us, right now. We’ve got the sons and daughters of diplomats, captains of industry, heads of state, world leaders, and I get to mould and shape them. I get to help forge the future of the whole planet — every — single — day.’ He raised his water in a toast. ‘And when Gabrielle Simpson is President of the United States, I’ll be able to walk right into the Oval Office and tease the leader of the free world about how she used to run around the playing fields dressed as the Mighty Spoonwoman, Dread Avenger from the Mysterious Cutlery Drawer of Fate.’

Lucy shook her head. ‘You posh people are all weird.’

They lingered over dessert, the candles burning low in their holders, the murmur of other diners like whispers in a warm, dark forest.

Argyll had finished his shiraz and moved on to some sort of sticky pudding wine with his raspberry posset. He’d also loosened his tie, undone his top button, and was all smiles and rosy cheeks. Which meant, by Lucy’s reckoning anyway, that he was well and truly lubricated.

Hopefully, just enough to be useful.

He beamed at her again. ‘How’s your crème brûlée?’

‘Delicious.’ She scooped out another wobbly spoonful. ‘Argyll, you keep all the files on prospective pupils, don’t you?’

‘You want to see how you did on the tests? Well, I can tell you, you did very well indeed, Lucy Roxburgh McVeigh. Spectacularly well.’

‘Actually, I was thinking more about someone else’s test results: Benedict Strachan.’

The sound of other people eating and drinking seemed to get louder in the silence that followed. The scrape of cutlery on plates, the icy ping-and-chime of glasses, the whispers in the dark forest.

Argyll frowned across the table. ‘Can I ask why you want to see them?’

OK — time to turn on the charm and a sincere look. ‘Benedict’s just got out of prison. He’s scared, he’s paranoid, he’s alone, and there’s a very real risk he’s going to hurt himself or someone else.’ She even threw in a poignant shake of the head, for good measure. ‘When he pushed me in front of a train last night, he told me... I know it sounds crazy, but Benedict thinks if he can kill another homeless person, and get away with it this time, somehow everything will magically be OK, and his life will go back to the way it should’ve been.’

‘He pushed you in front of a train?’ Argyll raised his eyebrows and huffed out a breath. ‘Bloody hell. Right, well, definitely. Clearly this is in his best interests. I mean if he’s going to kill somebody. Of course. Pop past tomorrow and I’ll give you a seeing to.’ A grimace. ‘It! I’ll give it a seeing to. See to it. I’ll see to it.’ Loosening his tie a little further. ‘They must’ve turned up the heating in here...’

‘You’re working on a Saturday?’

‘Well, a boarding school never really shuts, does it? Not even for Christmas.’ He polished off the last of his posset, cheeks bright as cherries. ‘Some of our parents can be a bit... hands off.’ The smile was back, but there was something sad about it now. ‘Still, nothing wrong with that, am I right? Never did us any harm. Teaches self-reliance and initiative when you don’t have someone fawning over you the whole time.’ Deep breath. ‘Anyway, maybe it’s time to have a nice large brandy!’ Looking around to get the waitress’s attention.

She put a hand on Argyll’s arm. Gave it a little squeeze.

Not a huge amount of affection, but all he’d be getting tonight.

It banished all traces of gloom from his smile, as if she’d given a Labrador a custard cream. Shaper of the free world, indeed.

If he thought being left at school over Christmas taught self-reliance, he should try being abandoned in the care of psychopaths, because your mum’s dead and your dad’s having a nervous breakdown. But he didn’t need to know any of that: he was going to get her Benedict Strachan’s file.

And that was all that mattered.

34

‘You sure we can’t give you a lift?’ Argyll beamed up at Lucy from the taxi’s back seat.

‘It’s fine, I’m parked just down the road.’ Pointing in the vague direction of her hideous van as the rain battered against her St Nick’s brolly.

‘In that case, it only remains for me to say, “Thank you for a lovely evening!”’ He patted his driver on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t she pretty?’

The taxi driver didn’t reply, just pulled away from the kerb and headed off down the hill.

Lucy clomped her way to the Bedford Rascal and climbed in behind the wheel. Sagged there for a minute. ‘Pfff...’

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Argyll — he was actually quite nice, to be honest — but spending that long with another human being she wasn’t working with? Bit of a strain. But then let’s face it: it was a long, long time since she’d been out on a ‘date’. And the food had been delicious.

She rummaged in her mum’s handbag, pulled out the new phone and turned it back on again. Three messages, and two texts.

Buzzzzzzz-ding.

Make that three texts.

God, he didn’t hang about, did he? ‘My fondest regards’ wasn’t exactly romance on toast, but it was a definite improvement on ‘All the best, and with warmest wishes’. And she’d never been called ‘delightful’ before.

She added Argyll to her contacts list — so at least now the phone would know who he was — then called up her voicemails.

YOU HAVE — THREE — NEW MESSAGES AND — ONE — SAVED MESSAGE.

MESSAGE ONE:

Sarge? It’s me: Duncan. Just wanted to make sure everything’s OK and Lover Boy hasn’t tried anything. Drop me a text or something when you get home, so I know. OK? Good. Right. By-eeee.

Bleeeeeeeep.

MESSAGE TWO:

This is a message for DS McVeigh from PC Tim Dawson, night shift? DI Tudor got me to do all the PNC stuff on Dr John Christianson? Yeah, anyway, he said I had to keep you in the loop. So, I’ve been onto the Land Registry and they’ve got no record of him owning property in Scotland, other than the house on Birrel Crescent. And I couldn’t find anything when I did a PNC, so I had a word with the DVLA. They say he’s never been the registered keeper of a red-and-white Mini. Maybe he’s borrowing or renting it? Anyway, probably worth someone checking the car-hire places when they open in the morning. Cheers.

Bleeeeeeeep.

It didn’t help that she hadn’t got a sodding number plate either time she’d seen the car.

MESSAGE THREE:

Detective Sergeant McVeigh? Abid Hammoud, from the CCTV team, we spoke earlier? I’m kinda stunned, but we managed to find your Audi TT. Give us a shout and I’ll walk you through it. And don’t worry about the hour: we’re pulling an all-nighter, on a people-smuggling ring. OK, bye.

Bleeeeeeeep.

Just because they knew where the car was, didn’t mean Benedict Strachan was anywhere near it. Was worth a go, though.

She fastened her seatbelt and called Abid back. ‘Where’s the car?’

‘Your Audi TT’s tucked down a little alleyway off Lomas Drive. I managed to pull the footage from a police van doing a sweep for drug dealers. Can you believe it?’

Lucy started the engine. ‘Still there now?’

‘That, I can’t tell you. It was definitely there at twenty-six minutes past two this morning, and I can’t find it on any of the ANPR cameras in the area since. Which means it’s either still there, or the driver knows the network well enough to avoid every single camera. Difficult, but not impossible.’

‘Excellent work.’ Pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear as she hauled the van around in a juddering four-point turn. ‘While I’ve got you: I need you to find a red-and-white Mini for me. Didn’t catch the number plate, but I can tell you it’s got a dented roof and a cracked rear windscreen. Or it did when it scurried away from Ballrochie at about quarter past three this morning, heading east.’

‘OK, that’s going to be a challenge... Erm... Look, leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do. Not promising anything, though. OK.’ And he was gone.

She put the brakes on, just before the narrow, cobbled road turned into Shand Street, and dialled Control, wedging her phone in between the wheel and the instrument panel before heading off again. ‘It’s DS McVeigh. Who’s Duty Inspector tonight?’

‘Let’s see. OK: we’ve got Inspector Fred Murchison down as—’

‘Good enough.’ Accelerating down the hill. ‘Tell him we’ve got a possible location for Lucas Weir, AKA: Benedict Strachan. I’m on my way now. On my own. Off-duty. With no backup. After he tried to kill me, last night. So, you know, maybe someone would like to get a couple of unmarked cars over there ASAP?’

‘Not asking for much, are you?’ A groan. ‘Give me an address and I’ll see who’s free.’

Should think so too.

By the time the Bedford Rascal had made it as far as Lomas Drive, there was an unmarked Vauxhall cruising along behind her.

The road straddled the uncomfortable middle bit between Castle Hill and Cowskillin, not quite posh enough to be the former, and not quite post-war-housing-estate enough to be the latter either. The twin monoliths of Willcox Towers loomed on the right — both blocks twenty storeys high, their concrete façades painted green, blue, and red, as if that would make them any less horrific. They were set back behind a row of terraced buildings that featured kebab shops, all-night bakeries, and a lap-dancing club, lights glowing in the flats above.

A small street led between a bookie’s and a vape shop. Lucy drove the van into it, peering through the windscreen as Willcox Towers grew larger and larger.

No sign of Ian Strachan’s Audi TT.

A right turn at the end put her in front of the tower blocks on a street lined with cheap hatchbacks and knackered estate cars, where someone had sprayed a string of bollards with pink graffiti, so they looked like oversized knobbly willies.

On the other side of the road, a long row of lock-up garages was punctuated by a series of narrow alleyways. Which looked a lot more like Abid Hammoud’s description of where the Audi had been planked. The streetlights didn’t reach that far, though, leaving each one a featureless tunnel into darkness.

Lucy parked the Bedford Rascal across the front of two garages, opposite a half-dozen big council communal bins, grabbed her brolly and a torch, then climbed out into the rain.

That unmarked Vauxhall pulled in behind her and a couple of bruisers in cheap suits and heavy waterproof overcoats got out. If either of them was bothered by her standing there, all dolled up in a maxi dress and strappy leather wedges, they kept it to themselves.

The bigger of the two marched over. ‘You McVeigh?’ She must’ve barely fitted into the pool car — easily a head taller than her colleague, with broad shoulders and greying hair half trapped under a flat cap. She poked herself with her thumb. ‘DC Linton, and this is DC McKeeler.’ Hooking the thumb in his direction.

McKeeler bristled his soup-strainer moustache and nodded at Lucy, pulling out a pair of huge Maglite torches. ‘Sarge.’ He clicked them on and played the twin beams down the nearest alleyway as raindrops bounced off his big bald head.

‘But you can call us Bonnie and Tim.’ DC Linton’s smile wasn’t very warm. ‘No jokes about how he should be called “Clyde”, eh?’

Fair enough.

Lucy pointed. ‘CCTV on a police van spotted a red Audi TT down one of these alleys. Driver is Benedict Strachan, may or may not still be in the area. Consider him violent and uncooperative.’

A grunt from McKeeler. ‘Great. Drugs?’

‘Yup. And he’s probably got a knife, too.’

‘Right then.’ Linton cricked her head from side to side, rolling those massive shoulders. ‘Better get to it, hadn’t we?’

They searched the nearest alley, then did the next one along, Lucy tottering about on her stupid wedge shoes. Bloody things were eating her feet — crunching on the bones, gnawing at the flesh. And there were probably a whole heap of blisters forming under the straps, too. Should’ve listened to Charlie and taken a pair of sensible shoes with her after all.

Probably would have, if he hadn’t been such a dick about it.

By the time they’d searched alley number four she was seriously hobbling.

The three of them slogged on through the rain, torch beams roving across potholed tarmac and sodden brickwork.

Linton squelched her way into alley number six. ‘Maybe he stashed the Audi in one of these lockups?’

‘God, I hope not.’ Lucy limped in after her. ‘Can you imagine how many warrants we’d need?’

McKeeler slid his torch across a stack of soggy cardboard. ‘I wouldn’t leave an Audi TT anywhere near Willcox Towers: be lucky if there’s anything left of it by now. Whole thing: stripped down for parts.’

‘Come on, Tim’ — Linton marched down to the end of the alley — ‘it’s nowhere near as bad as Mason Court, or Millbank Park.’

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t leave a dog unattended for fifteen minutes in Kingsmeath and not expect the poor thing to be up on blocks by the time I got back.’

A five-foot-high mound of glistening black-plastic bags filled a big chunk of alley number seven, pretty much blocking it, their burnt-rubber-and-bin-juice stench barely dented by the deluge. Greasy rainbows shone as Lucy’s torch danced around the stinking puddles.

‘You know what I think?’ McKeeler wiped something nasty off his shoe, using the edge of a pothole as a scraper. ‘I think the car’s long gone.’

Lucy sidestepped the worst slick of manky liquid, because, let’s face it, her wedges were open-toed. ‘Probably.’

Linton squeezed past the mound of garbage. ‘No point wimping out now, though.’

Even if he had stashed the car, Benedict Strachan would be long gone by now. He’d somehow managed to drive the thing over here from his mum and dad’s house, ditched it, then gone off in search of somewhere safe to lie low and work on his plan.

Which meant it was probably worth looking into squats and abandoned properties in the immediate area. Or was it? Anyone with half a brain was bound to know the police would find the car eventually, and put a fair bit of distance between themselves and it. Mind you, as that was the obvious thing to do, maybe the clever thing was to stay local, because no one would expect that.

Which left her right back where she started.

‘No car.’ Linton was back again, squeezing her way past the bin bags and brushing a hand down the front of her raincoat as if there was something sticky on it. ‘Looks like you’re gonna need those warrants after all.’

‘Sodding hell...’ Lucy stood out on the road, rain thrumming on her umbrella, feet aching like someone had been playing Spanish Inquisition with them. ‘Thanks for the backup, anyway.’

McKeeler shrugged. ‘Least we’re out in the fresh air.’

‘True.’ A smile from Linton. ‘It was this or a late-night raid on a puppy farm out by Fiddersmuir, and those places always depress the living hell out of me. And the smell!’ Pulling her chin in. ‘Sometimes I think the bastards running them use the stench as a deterrent. How hard is it to clean up a bit of dogshit and put down a squirt of Jeyes Fluid?’

‘Preach.’ He held up a hand till his partner high-fived it.

‘Suppose we should really get back to the ranch...’ Not really oozing with enthusiasm, there. ‘Maybe, if we hurry, we can make the raid?’ Linton scuffed a foot along the tarmac. ‘Yup. Hurry, hurry, hurry.’

Never let it be said that Lucy McVeigh couldn’t take a hint. ‘If you like, you could check Willcox A and B — see if there’s any squats, or unoccupied flats someone could break into? Benedict Strachan might’ve stayed local.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘I can email you a photo, in case anyone recognizes him.’

‘Yeah, we could take a shufti, couldn’t we, Tim?’

‘Always like to help out, when we can.’

After a bit of sodding about with email addresses, Lucy sent the pair of them Benedict’s last official police photo, then watched them stride across the road, past the willy-bollards, and into the lobby of Willcox A.

It was worth a try, anyway.

She slumped. Rubbed a hand across her face. Didn’t bother hiding or suppressing the jaw-creaking yawn that shuddered its way through her. Been a long day. Shame it couldn’t have ended on a high note.

Still, no point hanging around till Bonnie and not-Clyde had finished. Might as well head home. Couldn’t do anything about the warrants till tomorrow anyway.

Headlights swept around the corner as she limped over to her Bedford Rascal, and by the time she’d got there a crappy old flatbed truck had pulled up alongside — its sides blistered with mud that even this monsoon couldn’t shift. The driver’s door clunked open and out climbed the huge form of DCI Ross.

Perfect. Just in time to witness her disaster.

He was wearing one of those big, waxed duster coats that almost reached his ankles, and a wide-brimmed leather hat, like something out of a western. Ross thumped his door shut and lumbered over. ‘DS McVeigh.’ Looking her up and down, no doubt taking in the long floaty dress, make-up, and strappy wedges. ‘If I’d known this was a formal crime scene, I’d have worn my tux.’

‘Boss.’ Standing up straight. ‘Thought Murchison was Duty Inspector tonight?’

‘You called me about Benedict Strachan yesterday, remember? I take people trying to kill my officers pretty seriously.’ Then he pursed his lips and frowned at the embarrassing-pink Bedford Rascal. ‘Are those sausages doing what I think they’re doing?’

‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip, Boss. We’ve searched the alleyways and there’s no sign of Ian Strachan’s Audi.’

His shoulders curled a bit. ‘Wish you’d said that before I traipsed halfway across town.’

‘Didn’t know they’d called you.’

The two of them stood in the rain.

A little old man hobbled out from the lobby of Willcox B — bent over a walking stick and carrying a small white bin bag.

A scooter whined past, its driver leaning forward, as if that was going to make the thing go any faster.

Water gurgled from an overflowing gutter.

What sounded like a couple of cats having a barney.

Well, this wasn’t an awkward silence at all.

Ross stuck his paws in his coat pockets. ‘DI Tudor’s put you up for a commendation, by the way. For IDing the Bloodsmith. I, on the other hand, am going to recommend promotion.’

Twice in one day?

She smiled. ‘Thank you, Boss.’

The little old man had made it as far as the communal bins, opposite Lucy’s awful van, using the tip of his walking stick to hinge the lid up far enough to chuck in his rubbish. When it hit the bottom, the whole bin rang like a gong.

‘That was some great policework, Lucy.’

She faked a modest shrug. ‘It was a team effort, really. Me and DC Fraser. He’s...’ She stared across the road at the bins.

The little old man was hobbling his way back towards the tower block.

‘Lucy? Are you—’

‘Sorry, hold on, I’ll just be a minute.’ She limped across the road in her stupid wedges. ‘Excuse me?’ Luckily the old geezer was even slower than she was, so she caught him by the main doors. ‘Hello? Excuse me?’

He glared at her with rheumy eyes. ‘I DON’T WANT ANY OF YOUR BLOODY DRUGS!’ Waving his walking stick in her face.

She batted it away and pointed back the way they’d come. ‘Police. When’s bin day?’

‘Same day it always is: tomorrow. Saturday. I haven’t done anything wrong!’

Lucy hurpled back to the bins.

‘THIS IS HARASSMENT! YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO SEARCH MY RUBBISH WITHOUT A WARRANT!’

Six bins: two with blue lids — they would be for the recycling; four with black — for general landfill waste.

The nearest bin’s black lid was partially melted on one side. She grabbed the lip and threw it open. Then did the same with the next one along. And the one after that.

DCI Ross stalked across the road to watch as she flipped back the last of the black lids. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t gone insane, Detective Sergeant?’

‘Look at them; they’re all empty.’

He peered into the nearest bin. ‘So?’

She hauled up one of the blue lids: the bin was stuffed full of tins and cans and paper and cardboard and plastic containers. The other blue bin was too. ‘Bin day’s tomorrow, but out of two whole tower blocks, the only thing anyone’s throwing out is recycling?’

‘Granted it’s a bit odd, but why would that...? Lucy?’ He followed her across the road, past her Bedford Rascal, and most of the way down the row of garages. ‘I’m starting to rethink my assumption about your sanity.’ They stopped at the alleyway blocked with bin bags. DCI Ross stared at the pile, then at Lucy, then at the heaped-up rubbish again. ‘OK, now I see it.’

‘Someone’s emptied the communal bins and piled everything up here.’ To hell with worrying about stinky bin-water on her bare toes. She sploshed through the greasy foetid puddles and hauled a black-plastic bag off the mound — tossing it behind her. Then did the same with the next one, and the one after that.

Ross joined in, the pair of them flinging manky bin bags away until a partial avalanche revealed a swathe of red metal. It wasn’t shiny any more, but as the last couple of bags slithered off they exposed the four interlocked chrome circles at the front of the bonnet.

Ian Strachan’s Audi TT.

Lucy chucked a couple more bags away, revealing the driver’s door. ‘If you’re ditching a car, you ditch it. You park it somewhere remote and you torch the thing.’

To be honest, it was amazing Benedict Strachan had managed to drive his dad’s Audi this far, given he’d never had a driving lesson in his life. Unless that was a course they offered in prison these days? With elective modules on ram-raiding and skills for the modern getaway driver.

A cold hard grin twisted DCI Ross’s face. ‘He hid it, because he’s planning on coming back.’ One of those massive hands thumped down on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘How about we bury the car again, then get a wee surveillance operation set up to watch it? And when Benedict Strachan returns for his dad’s car, we nab him.’

And with any luck, they’d do it before he killed anyone else.