‘At ten to eleven on a Wednesday night?’ There were rustling noises, followed by a muffled thump, shutting off the canned laughter. ‘Are you about to have another breakthrough, like you did with Operation Maypole? I’ll have to watch out; you’ll be after my job next.’
‘Do my best, Boss.’
‘There’s been no movement on the car since we found it. Meanwhile, nobody’s murdered one of our homeless population — that we know of — and the residents of Willcox Towers are complaining about all the rats hanging round the huge pile of bin bags we won’t let the council clear up.’
That was good to know.
‘Believe me, Lucy, if it’d been anyone else, I’d have cancelled the obs days ago. But you seem to be on a streak at the moment, so I’m willing to let it run till the end of the week. After that, I’m pulling it, the council are taking the rubbish off to landfill, and Ian Strachan’s Audi’s getting towed.’
‘Thanks, Boss.’
‘Unless you can get me a result sooner than that...?’
‘I’ll give you a shout when I know.’
‘You do that.’ And he was gone.
She put her phone away. ‘Right, boys, shall we?’
Charlie pointed. ‘This looks promising.’
There was a door set into the chipboard-and-graffiti barricade, with a big Yale lock on it, presumably to allow access for the selling agents and anyone mad enough to consider buying a dilapidated bingo hall that had been falling apart for at least the last dozen years.
There wasn’t a handle, and no sign of hinges, so it had to open inwards. Lucy gave it a gentle push, just in case.
‘Before you do what I think you’re going to do, Lucy, are we all remembering that there’s a security camera right across the road, pointing this way?’
‘Come on, Charlie, live a little. Boot it in, Kiddo.’
She stepped back, took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and slammed her heel into the chipboard, just left of the lock, putting her weight behind it. The thing sprang open, bounced off one of the scaffolding poles and juddered closed again. But the lock was buggered now, so Lucy gave it a shove, clicked on her torch, and limped inside. Wincing with every step.
Might not have been a great idea: kicking a door in, when most of her body was one big paisley-patterned bruise. Still, too late to worry about that now.
Rancid yellow light seeped in through the gap between the barricade and the drooping canopy, leaving the interior wrapped in monochrome gloom, the shadows solid black.
She ran her torch across the floor till the beam caught a large bundle of rags, huddled against the boarded-up doors.
A pale face stared out at her from the folds of a manky sleeping bag, eyes red-rimmed and watery, pupils like stitched-on buttons. His skin was greasy grey, smeared with dirt, a week-old beard matted around the corners of his chapped-lipped mouth.
He scrambled backwards, legs struggling in the sleeping bag’s depths, arms shoving at layers of drooping cardboard and filthy newsprint. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God...’ His shoulders pressed against the side of the doorway, but he kept on going till he was sitting upright, both arms covering his face. ‘PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!’
Lucy let the torchlight drift away from Benedict Strachan’s face. ‘I’m not going to kill you, you idiot.’
‘I’M SORRY, I COULDN’T DO IT! I COULDN’T! I TRIED, BUT I COULDN’T!’
‘He doesn’t half go on. Whinge, moan, whimper.’
‘Leave the poor guy alone, he’s just scared.’
‘Will you two shut up?’ She propped herself up against one of the scaffolding poles, hissing breath through her teeth, till the screeching pain settled into a burning ache instead. Doing her best to ignore how Benedict’s rancid BO and rotten breath were strong enough to flavour the air. She even managed a smile for him. ‘You’re safe now.’
‘Please don’t kill me...’
‘No one’s going to kill you.’ She held up the little bouquet of flowers. ‘You didn’t murder Liam Hay, did you? It was your accomplice. It was never you: you were just a wee boy, pressured into playing along and too scared to say no.’
‘I tried...’
‘And they let you take the fall, didn’t they? Whoever your academic brother was, he got away with it. He got to attend St Nick’s, and university, then off to some high-powered job, while you rotted in prison. And he’s never given you a minute’s thought since.’ Lucy creaked her way down till she was right in front of Benedict. ‘So why are you protecting him? Tell me who he is and I’ll make sure he pays for what he did to you.’
‘I...’ Benedict blinked at her, then looked away.
‘Come on, he’s a powerful man now, isn’t he? And he’s never lifted a finger to help you.’
A shudder, then both shoulders curled up and in, head drooping. ‘I...’
‘He’s had a life of luxury and privilege, and what have you had? Sixteen years in a crappy prison cell, people spitting at you in the street, your own father turned against you. While he sits in a gilded boardroom laughing at you.’
Silence.
Come on, come on.
You can do it.
All she needed was a name.
Benedict’s tongue slithered across his cracked lips. ‘I...’ Deep breath. ‘I, Benedict Samuel Strachan, do hereby and of my own free will take full and sole responsibility for the murder of Liam Hay...’
So close.
Lucy used the nearest scaffolding pole to pull herself upright again. ‘Benedict Strachan, I am arresting you under section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 for breaching your release conditions.’ She gestured. ‘On your feet.’
He did what he was told, quiet and meek as she slapped on the cuffs, finished the official script, and marched him out into the night.
51
Lucy checked her make-up in the bedroom mirror. Not exactly ready for the cover of Vogue, but it would do.
Three weeks and the bruising had completely gone. If it wasn’t for the puckered scar tissue where Argyll’s knife had slashed across her arm and shoulders, you wouldn’t know anything had happened. And, according to St Nick’s ex-army surgeon, they’d fade over time. Till then, she’d just have to avoid sleeveless tops. Not exactly a hardship in Scotland, in October.
For some reason, the person in the mirror didn’t look like a stranger any more. And this time, when Lucy pulled on that therapist-mandated smile, it spread much, much easier. More naturally. Even if it did have a distinctly lupine edge to it now.
‘I’m proud of you, Kiddo.’ The Bloodsmith gave her a round of applause as she slipped her old warrant card out of its wallet and replaced it with the new one: Detective Inspector Lucy McVeigh.
Charlie was perched with his backside on the windowsill, basking in the dawn’s anaemic glow. ‘Are we sure we’re doing the right thing?’
‘No.’ She pulled on her suit jacket. ‘But I’m doing it anyway.’
He followed her downstairs. ‘Now, on the subject of the pitter-patter of tiny feet, can I suggest—’
‘Oh, give it a rest, Charlie!’ The Bloodsmith was waiting for them at the front door. ‘Lucy’s got an exciting new position and a career to take care of. We don’t need another mouth to feed.’
She grabbed her raincoat and backpack, unlocked the front door, and stepped outside. Half seven and the sun had just scraped its way above the horizon, turning the fog a slightly lighter shade of grey. Her breath hung in the air as she scrunched across the frosted gravel, pointed her key fob at the Kia Picanto — setting its hazards flashing — and climbed inside. The engine started first time.