‘Just... see if you can find something, OK?’ After all, it wasn’t as if Tudor was going to say no, was it? Not if it helped catch the Bloodsmith. Sod the budget.
The scene examiner puffed out her cheeks. ‘Fine. But if they fire you for wasting resources, don’t come whinging to me.’ She finished getting suited up, then scrunched her way across the forest floor, taking a mini version of the big stainless-steel box with her.
Well, it was worth a try.
‘Sarge?’ The Dunk appeared at Lucy’s shoulder, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his bracken-streaked leather jacket. ‘Boss says we should Foxtrot Oscar and go review the next crime scene.’
Lucy pulled her chin in. ‘But we found the writing!’
‘Yeah, he says we done good, but there’s sod all going on here till FSSER have finished, so we might as well see if there’s anything exciting lurking where Victim Number Two died. You know, cos we’re on a roll.’
‘FSS what?’
‘Forensic Services Scene Examination Resources. It’s what we’re calling the Scenes Examination Branch this week.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like.’
‘What was wrong with “Smurfs”?’ She frowned at the kitchen window — Tudor was just visible as a moving lump in the gloom, pacing back and forth again. ‘Do we really have to go?’
‘That’s what the boss said.’ The Dunk pulled out his phone and squinted at the screen, holding it just under his nose as he turned around three times. Then nodded, pointing off into the woods. ‘Car’s that way.’
‘Bastard...’
5
Shaky Dave’s Tattie Shack wasn’t huge — just a small shed-shaped trailer with a fake-shingle roof and faux chimney. A couple of plastic seagulls perched on top, beaming down on the punters with a bonhomie that was, quite frankly, hard to believe while their real-life brethren stalked the tarmac like starving velociraptors. The Shack’s side flap was levered up, forming a makeshift sunshade as the sweet-brown smell of baked potatoes oozed out into the sunshine, joined by the rustling-golden scent of chips and a delicious warm-green aroma of garlic.
Dave had parked his shack on North Esplanade, at the bottom end of Montgomery Park, where his clients could consume their tuber-based delights with a view across the river towards Dundas House and Kings Park, framed by neat little rows of Georgian terraces. All very genteel and civilized, even if the ugly bulk of Castle Hill Infirmary, looming in the background, kind of spoiled the view a bit — its tall twin chimneys spilling trails of white across the pale-blue sky as someone incinerated medical waste.
Lucy leaned against the guard rail, phone jammed against her ear, not doing a great job of ungritting her teeth. ‘We found the Bloodsmith’s message, Boss. Us. Me and the Dunk.’
DI Tudor let out a long, breathy groan. ‘So, you want to sit on your backside, watching the Smurfs do their jobs for the next three hours, is that it?’
‘No, but—’
‘The Chief Super’s already called about a dozen times, wanting updates. Oh, and DCI Ross has just “popped by” to see how I’m getting on.’
‘Sod.’
‘Oh, yes, when things aren’t going anywhere, they’ll cut us loose to fend for ourselves, but soon as they think we’re making progress? Bastarding vultures.’
‘Maybe—’
‘Which means I need you and DC Fraser, out there, digging up more breakthroughs.’ A small bitter laugh. ‘See if we can’t solve this thing before the High Heidyins wade in and bugger everything up.’
Her shoulders sagged, then she curled forward till the metal safety rail clunked, cool against her forehead. Staring down the grassy bank to the wide, iron-grey river. Sunlight flashed off the water’s surface, sharp as daggers.
‘Lucy?’
Wasn’t as if she had any choice, was it?
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Good.’ Pause. ‘And did you tell Denise she could swab a whole Scots pine for DNA?’
‘If the Bloodsmith really did write “help me” in the attic, then we know he’s been back there at least once. Why not more? I’m not saying it was definitely him I chased, but if it was...?’
A sigh. ‘You sure you didn’t get a good look at this man?’
‘Not enough to do an eFit — he was too far away. High forehead, beard, glasses, that’s it.’
‘Fair enough. But next time you order DNA tests you clear it with me, OK? OK.’
A little boat chugged past, bow forging a path through the water, dragging a curling V of white behind it.
‘Speaking of OK.’ DI Tudor cleared his throat in her ear. ‘Are you doing... you know? I mean, the last couple of months have been... Lucy, you were doing so much better, I thought you’d put Neil—’
‘Don’t even say his name!’ She straightened up, mouth pinched, holding it all in.
‘It’s just you’ve been... People are worried about you, that’s all.’
‘I’m fine. Never better.’
‘Yeah.’ Tudor’s voice softened. ‘Only your therapist says you haven’t been to see him for a while.’
This again.
She twisted the phone upwards, moving the microphone away from her mouth. ‘Boss? Hello? I can’t... it’s... reception. Hello?’
‘And if you’re about to go off on one about doctor — patient confidentiality, he didn’t tell me anything about your sessions, just that you’ve missed your last two appointments.’
‘Think... out of battery. Boss... Hello?’
‘Do you want signed off on the sick, is that what you want?’
Damn.
Lucy gritted her teeth that bit tighter. ‘All right, all right, I’ll go see him. You happy?’
‘Ecstatic. Then you can find me something that nails the Bloodsmith.’
The line went dead. Tudor had hung up.
‘Perfect.’ Because life clearly wasn’t bad enough that a senior officer couldn’t make it a whole lot sodding worse. She jammed her phone back in her pocket.
‘Sarge?’ The Dunk appeared at Lucy’s elbow, in all his muck-smeared glory, holding a couple of cardboard containers, about the size of old-fashioned video cassettes. Each with a bamboo spork sticking out of it, pinning a raffle ticket in place. ‘Shaky Dave was out of stovies, so I got you tartiflette. Which he says is kinda the same thing, only French. Gallic stovies. With garlic. Garlic Gallic stovies.’
‘Thanks.’ She pulled her spork from the cardboard and stuck it in the tartiflette instead, scooping out a creamy glistening mouthful.
‘So, this bloke you chased: any clue?’ The Dunk tucked one end of a paper napkin into the collar of his beatnik polo neck — as if it could get any dirtier — then stabbed a cheese-and-gravy-covered chip and popped it in his mouth. And immediately opened his gob like a howler monkey, panting out beef-scented breaths. ‘Hot, hot, hot, hot!’
The tartiflette wasn’t too bad, bit rich, but tasty with it. ‘Never seen him before today.’
‘Yeah, I know we did DNA and that, but it can’t be the Bloodsmith, can it? Be a huge coincidence if he just happened to be popping by when we were there, right?’
The Dunk had a point.
‘True.’
Another gravy-drenched chip got the howler-monkey treatment. ‘Could be a reporter? Spotted us this morning and decided to tag along in case we found something juicy?’