‘DCI Ross is looking for you. Says they got a couple of pings off Strachan’s phone, but he’s only turning it on for brief flashes, so they can’t track him in real time.’
‘Right.’
Was this the street she grew up on? Well, until they took her into ‘care’, when Dad couldn’t cope. Which meant she hadn’t been back here since just after her sixth birthday.
‘And Tudor keeps asking for updates. Seems like our “roving brief” comes with a really short leash.’ He put on a nonchalant voice. ‘You coming back anytime soon?’
‘Probably.’
‘Only, I was thinking, we know Christianson did a heap of psychological studies, right? What if they weren’t all done at the university? What if he did some of them in the community? Might be some place he’s still got access to.’
‘Thought you were bored of Operation Maypole and wanted a transfer.’
‘Yeah, but that was when we weren’t getting anywhere. Now you and me have figured out who the Bloodsmith is, Tudor thinks we’re the terrier’s testicles. Imagine what it’ll be like if we catch him? They’ll probably put up a statue.’ Pause. ‘So, what do you think? Worth chasing up other places he might’ve carried out studies?’
She wandered uphill, towards number nine. ‘Good idea. You should definitely speak to his department head and get back to me. And if she gives you any crap about it being Saturday, dangle the possibility of a post-mortem report in front of her.’
‘Sneaky. Like it.’
‘Thanks, Dunk.’ Lucy hung up.
Number nine hadn’t changed all that much. The tree in the front garden was much, much bigger, and the new owners had painted the door British Racing Green, and put a satellite dish up, but other than that: identical.
No point asking the people who lived there any questions, but the neighbours either side would surely know something.
When she rang the bell for number seven, it was answered by a flustered-looking woman in a hijab and ‘KISS THE COOK!’ apron, flour dusting one olive cheek.
‘What?’
Lucy flashed her warrant card, keeping a finger over the name, just in case. ‘Police. How long have you lived here?’
‘Ten, eleven years? Is this about that racist wanker at number twenty-four again? We’re not running an illegal sweatshop! You can come in and check if you like.’ Throwing the door wide. ‘You should be arresting him, not harassing us. We’re not the ones getting stoned every weekend and playing heavy metal full blast at all hours!’
‘OK’ — backing away down the drive — ‘number twenty-four. We’ll definitely look into that. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Good.’ And the door thumped shut again.
A bright-yellow Volvo estate sat on the driveway outside number eleven, the boot partitioned from the back seats by a thin metal grille, the black carpet in there all furred up with white hairs. Lucy marched past it and rang the front-door bell.
Barking erupted on the other side of the door, hard and loud enough to make her retreat a couple of paces. God knew how big the dog was, but it sounded huge.
The clamour went on and on and on and on, until finally a fat old man in an Oldcastle Warriors top opened the door. Squinting at her through beer-bottle-bottom glasses that magnified his eyes like a manga character. No hair on his head, but plenty sprouting out the neck of his football top. ‘Yes?’ Then he turned his back on her for a moment. ‘MINIMUS, QUIET! DADDY’S TALKING TO SOMEONE!’ Scuffing around to face Lucy again. ‘Sorry about that: she gets very excited when we have visitors.’
Lucy gave her warrant card another brief flash. ‘Police. Have you lived here long?’
‘Oh, years and years. We bought this place in... must’ve been eighty-two. Of course, back then it was all shiny and new. We were the very first family to move in.’ A sigh. ‘Our eldest’s in Singapore now, married a local lass, and oh — my — God, you wouldn’t believe how gorgeous our grandkids are. Cute as buttons.’
‘Great.’ She jerked a thumb towards number nine. ‘Do you remember a family, next door? Mother, father, little girl? Name of McVeigh.’
He stiffened. ‘Oh, I remember Lucy McVeigh, all right.’ Baring his teeth. ‘Little horror burned down our shed, stole things from my garage, and she poisoned my Maximus! Killed him, stone dead! But would your lot do anything about it? No, they wouldn’t. “She’s just a child, Mr Denholm”, “She didn’t mean it, Mr Denholm.” Rubbish!’ Jabbing a finger at the house next door. ‘She wasn’t “just a child”, she was a nasty, vicious, vindictive little monster.’
‘I...’ Lucy retreated a couple more steps.
‘Then her mother “committed suicide”, and if you believe that, I’ve got a monorail to sell you. I’m not surprised her father had a nervous breakdown.’ He folded his fat little arms over his big fat chest. ‘Best thing that ever happened around here was when those social workers came round, carted her off, and stuck her in a home. If there was any justice, it would’ve been borstal. For life.’
Inside, the dog launched into another barking fit.
Mr Denholm jerked his chin up, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘So, what did she do, kill someone else? Because she killed that woman’s son, didn’t she? Neil Black. Smashed his head in. Is she on the run? Because if she is, and she shows her face round here, I’ll set the dog on her!’
Lucy sat in the driver’s seat of her dad’s stupid Bedford Rascal, blinking at the phone in her hands. The screen wobbled and distorted, then a tear splashed against the display, and when she wiped it away the contacts list scrolled — down and down, getting slower till ‘DR JOHN MCNAUGHTON’ appeared.
She’d... had an episode, that’s all.
Imagined all that stuff in the warehouse basement.
McNaughton would understand. He was a dick, but at least he’d try to help her.
She tapped his name, then the call button. Scrubbed a stripy forearm across her eyes as the phone rang. And rang. And rang.
None of it was real, and he’d help her. Like he always had.
Because he was a good man.
Deep down.
‘ANSWER THE BLOODY PHONE!’ Trembling, the new handset gripped tight in burning fingers.
More ringing.
Then a soft click, followed by a shaky woman’s voice, old and kind. ‘Hello?’
‘I need to speak to Dr McNaughton.’
Silence.
Lucy shifted in her seat. ‘Hello? I said I need to speak to—’
‘You again?’ The voice lost its kindness and grew some claws. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Brian died six years ago. STOP CALLING THIS NUMBER!’ And the line went dead. The old woman had hung up on her.
Dr Brian McNaughton, not John. Of course it wasn’t. She knew that. She’d seen him once a week for four years. Dr Brian McNaughton. The only man who ever really cared about a broken, damaged, twisted little girl.
Lucy clutched the phone to her chest, curling forward till her head grazed the steering wheel. Teeth clenched. Breath ragged in her throat. Pulse throbbing behind her eyes as the tears fell.
Oh God. It was all true...
42