Lucy’s phone buzzzzzzz-dinged in her pocket.
She sat back and stared at him. ‘What about the kidneys, the livers?’
‘I assumed, if I could make you believe I was some sort of lunatic cannibal, it would skew your investigation in the wrong direction. Simple misdirection.’
At least their rambling forensic psychologist had got that bit right in her reports.
‘Thought you wanted to be stopped.’
‘Like I said: it’s complicated.’ He gave himself a little shake and wiped his eyes again. ‘Anyway, do you want some chips? I think we should get some chips. Been a long time since breakfast.’ The Bloodsmith wriggled his way back from the edge and stood. ‘You must be starving.’
‘I can’t really tell...’ But she got up anyway, brushed the grit off her jeans. Then followed him over to Shaky Dave’s Tattie Shack and stared at the menu as a smirr of drizzle drifted down like a cold breath.
The man behind the counter was one of those big, Buddha types, with a short-sleeved shirt and a semi-white apron stretched across his barrel chest and stomach. Both hairy arms were solid with oriental tattoos. He smiled a wide indulgent smile at Lucy. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Chips?’ She glanced at the Bloodsmith. Cleared her throat. ‘Please.’
‘One Kingsmeath salad, coming right up.’ Shaky Dave plucked a couple of large tatties from underneath the counter and used one to point at the menu. ‘You want them skin on, skin off, duck fat, dripping, vegetarian, dirty, cheesy, spicy, gravy, curry sauce, beany, or pickle-frenzy?’
‘Whatever’s best?’
‘Excellent choice.’ He grabbed a pen and a tiny pad, printed ‘#1 PFC&C’ on it, tore off the top sheet and handed it to her. ‘Normally I’ve got books of raffle tickets, but needs must. I’ll give you a shout when your order’s ready.’
He set to work with a knife as Lucy and the Bloodsmith made their way to the picnic tables — out of earshot.
They didn’t sit.
‘I know Charlie wants you to turn yourself in, Kiddo — let the police know what you’ve done with Dr Christianson. I’d like to make a counter-offer.’ He bit his top lip, creases lining that high forehead of his. ‘Yes, you could hand him in, and end up in a secure ward for the rest of your life, but what if we found some way to make him disappear instead? As long as you’re in there first, with the Dunk, when you “discover” the chandler’s warehouse, you can probably style out some of your DNA being there, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to douse the place in petrol and set fire to it first. Singe away as much trace evidence as possible, even if dank, subterranean, brick dungeons don’t burn very well.’
She stared out across the water again. ‘I can’t kill him.’
‘Sure you can. It’s like falling off a bicycle.’ The Bloodsmith perched his bum on the edge of the picnic table. ‘And you don’t have to stab him, or anything physical like that. Poison would work just as well. It’s not like he won’t wolf down anything you give him, is it? And I’m sure your dad has something lurking in that old shed of his that would do the trick, sneaked into a couple of sandwiches.’
‘I can’t kill him!’
‘If you don’t, they’re going to find him, and he’s going to talk. Time’s running out, Kiddo. You need to woman up.’
‘NUMBER ONE! PICKLE-FRENZY CHIPS AND CHEESE!’ Belted out across the car park, followed by the ridiculous ding of a hotel-reception-style bell.
‘Trust me on this: Charlie is wrong. You need to kill Dr Christianson.’
‘...last track of the day. This is for Marion Taylor, from Baskerville and Morrison Accountants, in Logansferry, who’s retiring after thirty-four years on the job. Good for you, Marion!’
‘You know, there’s something that’s just occurred to me.’ The Bloodsmith sat in the passenger seat, peering out of the rain-spattered windscreen as they took a left at the roundabout, onto St Jasper’s Lane. ‘If I talk to you while you’re interacting with other people, it’s probably going to get a bit distracting, isn’t it? Confusing, even.’
‘We’ve got the news coming up at five, then you lucky people better buckle up, because it’s Crazy Colin’s Weekend Drive-Time Club!’
‘I shall remain silent.’ A tiny pause. ‘Unless I have anything pertinent to add to the conversation, of course.’
‘Charlie never talked this much.’
‘True, but when he does it’s all tedious moralizing, isn’t it?’
‘Till then: happy retirement, Marion. Here’s Catnip Jane and “Monster In Me” to play us out!’ A heavy guitar riff made the Bedford Rascal’s speakers vibrate, completely out of time with the windscreen wipers’ groan-and-thump.
‘I’m a much better conversational companion.’
She suppressed a sigh, joining the queue of traffic backed up at the pedestrian crossing outside WHSmith.
He pointed. ‘You’re getting grease all over the steering wheel, by the way.’
That was the trouble with pickle-frenzy chips with cheese — very tasty, but they left their mark on everything. There was a thing of hand sanitizer squirrelled away in the door pocket of her Kia Picanto, a legacy of the Plague Times, but that was sod all use here. She peeled her right hand off the wheel and sooked at the fingertips, getting sharp vinegar and warming herbs, balanced on a raft of duck fat and smoked sea salt.
She went to have a sook at the left hand, too, then pulled back and frowned at the fingertips. In addition to the chip residue, two of her fingers were covered in black smears. More ink.
The Dunk would love that.
Must’ve been from the scrawled-on bit of paper Shaky Dave had handed over to mark her order.
Ah well, at least biro wasn’t poisonous.
She sooked the last remnants of lunch off her fingertips.
Then sat there, gob hanging open. ‘Wait a minute...’
A horn blared out from behind them as the cars in front disappeared off up the road.
‘Lucy? We should be moving now.’
The biro on Shaky Dave’s order note: it hadn’t had time to dry properly before he handed it over. How long did biro take to dry — not the strokes, they were almost instantaneous, but the blobby bits where the pen’s nib had rested a little too long — fifteen minutes? Half an hour, tops. It certainly wouldn’t still be wet after sixteen-plus years.
She’d assumed there was a pen on the desk, when she’d watched the footage of Benedict Strachan’s CCTV and interviews. But what if, instead, those smudges on her fingertips had come from the essay he was supposed to have written?
This time, the car horn behind them was joined by three or four others.
‘Lucy?’ The Bloodsmith patted her on the shoulder. ‘Crossing’s clear, we can go.’
‘Right...’ She accelerated away.
If the ink was still wet on Benedict Strachan’s essay from sixteen years ago, something was very, very wrong at St Nicholas College. But then that was a big “if”, wasn’t it?
The song on the radio crash-bang-walloped to a halt.
‘It’s five o’clock, you’re listening to Castlewave FM, and here’s the news read by Gabrielle Downie...’