‘Lucy, are you feeling OK? Sometimes, after a blow to the back of the head, people can get a bit... confused about things.’
She copied the case number into her notebook, turning her voice into a snarl. ‘You did a great job, really convincing.’
‘Have you seen a doctor, because I’m worried—’
‘But you forgot one thing, Argylclass="underline" Benedict Strachan’s left-handed.’
Silence.
She gathered up her printouts, stood, and powered down the computer.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, but I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. He pushed you in front of a train; what if your head injury is worse than you think? Have you been feeling dizzy, or sick at all?’
‘You lied to me!’ Grabbing her overcoat off the rack by the door.
‘Lucy, I don’t know what you think has happened, but I can assure you, I’ve not done anything — I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. That’s why I think you maybe need to get some help. I’ve got friends at Castle Hill Infirmary; we could get you seen right away. It’s—’
She hung up and thumped out through the door, storming down the corridor.
How stupid did he think she was?
Round the corner, onto the stairs, heels chattering against the concrete steps.
She reached the bottom, just in time to see the double doors through to the custody suite bump open and the Dunk bustle in, water dripping from his dark-grey leather jacket.
‘Hi, Sarge.’ He took off his soggy bunnet. ‘Spoke to Professor Rattray: she’s on a weekend break in Birmingham and, shockingly enough, forgot to pack details of where Christianson did every single one of his research studies. But...’ Dragging it out. ‘She said there might be someone knocking about at the department, you know, if they had a deadline on, so I headed up there.’ The Dunk gave himself a shake, like an oversized black terrier.
Lucy did her best not to look as if she was holding her breath. ‘Any joy?’
‘Nah. Place was locked up tighter than a millionaire’s wallet. We’re out of luck till the university opens on Monday morning.’
Thank God for that.
The Bloodsmith emerged from the stairwell, hands in his corduroy jacket pockets. ‘Which means we’ve got thirty-eight hours till DC Fraser here speaks to someone at the Psychology Department and finds out about the chandler’s warehouse.’
The Dunk raised his eyebrows at her. ‘We off out again?’ Sounding hopeful that the answer would be no.
And let’s face it, she didn’t want him tagging along.
‘Shift finished thirty minutes ago, Dunk. Got one wee job for you, then you can sod off home.’ She dug out her notebook and flipped back a few pages. ‘Phillipa McKeever was Benedict Strachan’s solicitor: Puller, Finch, and McKeever Advocates. I want to know why she let him confess to Liam Hay’s murder. Why didn’t she even try to get him off? You know the drill.’ The notebook went back in her pocket. ‘And as it’s Sunday tomorrow, let’s call it... half ten start?’
A smile split the Dunk’s fat wee face. ‘Cheers, Sarge.’
Behind him, the Bloodsmith shot out his wrist and tapped a finger against his watch, one eyebrow raised. Was that going to give them enough time to sort out Dr John Christianson?
‘Actually, let’s make it noon, Dunk. Pretend we’re civilized human beings for once.’ Hooking a thumb over her shoulder at the stairs: ‘Off you go.’
He scurried away up the stairwell, leaving soggy little footprints.
‘So, where are we going, Kiddo? Off to fill some jerrycans with petrol and burn away any trace evidence?’
‘Yes, because what we really need at this point is footage of me filling jerrycans at a petrol station just before a fire breaks out. I’ll top up the van on the way to R & P: we can siphon some out when we get home.’ It was a shame the Bedford Rascal was bright sodding pink, so not all that great for clandestine operations, but there was nothing she could do about that.
Sometimes you just had to work with what you had.
There was no sign of PC Manson in the Records and Productions Store. Instead, a small dumpy constable with a Lego-bob haircut wheezed his way out of the darkness and thumped a cardboard file box down on the table. Wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. ‘OK. Pfff...’ Then sank into a folding chair. ‘Surely it’s the right box this time!’
Lucy slid the thing through the hatch in the chain-link fence, pulled the lid off, and peered inside. The case numbers actually matched. ‘We have a winner.’
‘Thank Christ for that...’ He wafted a couple of evidence bags in front of his face, as a makeshift fan.
She emptied the contents out onto the table. Probably best not to start with the post-mortem photographs. Instead, she flipped to the two-page summary included with the Procurator Fiscal’s official decision, skimming through the usual police arse-covering doublespeak to the important bit:
...and while the toxicology report shows Harriet McVeigh had a significant quantity of brodifacoum, difenacoum, and fluoxetine in both her stomach and bloodstream [see Appendix A], the possibility of self-harm can not be ruled out in this case. The deceased’s husband has repeatedly stated that Harriet was still in considerable distress following the death of her son earlier in the year and interviews with doctors at the Blackwall Hill Medical Centre confirmed that she was being treated for clinical depression [with the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, fluoxetine].
The rodenticides brodifacoum [more commonly known as ‘Formula “B”’] and difenacoum were both present in the family home, due to an ongoing rodent problem that Kevin McVeigh was unable to bring under control.
Allegations made by the neighbours [see Appendix D] appear to be malicious and part of a sustained campaign of harassment against the McVeigh family, after an acrimonious boundary dispute some years before.
It is considered highly likely that the stress of losing her son, along with a difficult pregnancy and antenatal depression, drove Harriet McVeigh to take her own life...
Lucy read the report twice. Then placed it back in its folder. And returned it to the box.
Stared off into the gloomy warehouse.
The stress of losing her son?
All these years she’d been told she was an only child and that Mum had died of cancer, but there it was in black-and-white official police talk. Her mother really had been poisoned.
The Bloodsmith placed a hand on Lucy’s shoulder — warmth leaching through into her skin. ‘They didn’t find any grounds for prosecution.’
‘She was pregnant...’
‘I know.’
The fat little constable looked up from his fanning. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Lucy put the lid back on and slid the box through the hole again. ‘Thanks.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to read the PM report, Lucy? How about your dad’s statement? That might tell you something?’
‘No. I’ve seen more than enough.’
The PC nodded. ‘Glad to be of service.’ Then he groaned himself out of his seat, picked up the box, and humped it off into the darkness from whence it came, leaving her alone with her delusions.
‘Lucy, the important thing is that no one said you did it, did they?’ A shrug. ‘Well, that fat onanist Denholm did, but no one believed him. Perhaps, after we’ve dealt with Dr Christianson, we should consider paying him another visit. Teach him to mind his own business and not slander people...?’