The Dunk drooped. ‘Yes, Sarge.’
Lucy waited till the Dunk and his pool car disappeared around the corner onto Siege Row, then unlocked her clapped-out, tiny, third-hand Kia Picanto. Which looked as if it’d been designed by Duplo. She sat there for a moment, then started the car. Might as well get it over with...
‘I don’t want to talk about it, OK?’ Lucy stretched out on the couch, lying flat on her back, stockinged feet on the armrest. Staring up at the out-of-focus grey ceiling with its pipes and cabling ducts as her voice echoed back from the bare brick walls. Whichever idiot decided ‘industrial chic’ was a thing needed a good stiff kick in the testicles. Having to see a therapist was bad enough without feeling you were doing it in an abandoned business park.
But that was architects for you.
They’d stuck a single spotlight up there, casting its soft white glow on Lucy, the couch, and the coffee table, leaving the rest of the room bathed in shadow.
‘Hmmmm...’ Dr McNaughton had taken his usual position, in the chair, just outside the pool of light, reduced to an indistinct blur now she’d taken her glasses off. Not that he was much to look at: beard, slouch, cardigan, and far too much jewellery. The kind of man who wore signet rings and ID bracelets, chains round his neck and wrists so he rattled like Marley’s sodding ghost. The kind of man who got off on being in charge of everything — asking the questions; making her talk about things she didn’t sodding want to; making her confess; because if she didn’t he’d report her to DI Tudor and get her signed off on the sick; revelling in his power over her. The kind of man who pretended to be a decent human being to your face, but stared at your arse soon as you turned around. Or, as they’re more commonly known: dicks. ‘And why is that?’
‘Maybe because I don’t — want — to — talk — about — it.’
He gave that long-suffering sigh of his and let the silence stretch.
‘Fine.’ She slumped even further back into the couch and draped an arm across her eyes. ‘I don’t remember, OK? My mother died when I was little, my father couldn’t cope, I went into care for a bit. Nothing special. You happy now?’
‘And how did that make you feel?’
‘Why do you think he cuts their hearts out?’
A pause.
Dr McNaughton shifted about in his seat, jewellery rattling away. Rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, and he’ll be an arsehole wherever he goes. ‘Lucy—’
‘The Bloodsmith — he cuts their hearts out and takes them with him. Even for Oldcastle that’s messed up, right?’
Nothing came from the dick in the shadows, but a mild air of disappointment.
‘We know he collects blood from his victims, but why the hearts?’
‘Lucy, it’s important to address your feelings, if—’
‘You said I could talk about anything I want. I want to talk about this.’
Another sigh.
‘You know what I think? I think... it’s because even though scientifically we know “love” is nothing more than chemical reactions in the brain — dopamine, norepinephrine, phenylethylamine, vasopressin, oxytocin — we still say we love someone “with all our heart”, don’t we? A heart means love. It is love. And the forensic psychologist says the Bloodsmith’s never had any in his cold, miserable life. So he harvests other people’s.’
The blurry outline shrugged, setting his jewellery going again. Not a single word.
God, why did therapists always have to do that? Sit there like silent sodding lumps and expect you to do all the talking. What was the point of the bastards doing degrees in psychology when a pot plant could do the same job?
‘Come on, Dr McNaughton, if—’
‘Lucy, we’ve been over this. Please don’t call me Dr McNaughton, it’s John, remember? John—’
‘I don’t need to be your friend, John. I don’t want to, either. Let’s keep things professional, Dr McNaughton.’ After all, it wasn’t as if a first name was going to make him any less of a dick. ‘So, the Bloodsmith’s cutting their hearts out to fill the void.’
A pointed sniff huffed out behind her, and it was back to the silent treatment again.
This time, the pause stretched and stretched and stretched...
Lucy cleared her throat. ‘Someone’s following me.’
‘I see.’ Voice flat and non-judgemental. As if that didn’t make him sound like a condescending prick.
‘I’m pretty sure he started this morning, near St Jasper’s. And the bastard was there in the woods: outside that cottage where the Bloodsmith killed Abby Geddes? Did a runner when I challenged him. Male, mid-forties, curly brown hair, dresses like a geography teacher. Constable Fraser thinks it’s a journalist, but what if it’s him, the Bloodsmith?’
Another pause filled with passive disappointment.
She lifted her arm from her eyes and glared at McNaughton. ‘You think I’m being paranoid, don’t you?’
‘Lucy, it’s simply not possible. You’re projecting—’
‘I saw him, OK?’ Putting a sharp edge into her voice. ‘I’m not some sort of nutjob.’
The sound of a truck reversing beep-beep-beeped away somewhere outside.
Motes of dust floated through the shabby spot of light.
A creak from the couch as Lucy turned back to glare at the ceiling instead.
The beeping died away.
Silence.
Dr McNaughton let loose yet another big jewellery-rattling sigh.
Lucy let her arm fall back into place again, shutting out all that industrial chic. ‘But the idiots I work with are all, “Oh, are you feeling OK, Lucy?”, “You’ve not been seeing your therapist, Lucy”, “We’re worried about you, Lucy.”’
This time, the pause didn’t feel artificial, it was more as if Dr McNaughton was trying to work out what to say. Which probably didn’t bode well.
‘When someone’s gone through what you have, it’s normal to feel that way. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can make everything seem—’
‘I don’t have PTSD.’
‘Are you still having flashbacks? Sweating? Nausea? Trembling? Blackouts?’
‘No.’ And scurrying out of Bruce Malloch’s house, trying to keep her lunch down didn’t count. Nor did the shaky hands. Or the sweating... ‘I have to go.’ She sat bolt upright on the couch and stuffed her feet back into her boots. Snatched her glasses off the little table.
‘Lucy, what Neil Black did—’
She marched for the exit, fists clenched, heels clacking on the concrete floor.
‘Lucy, don’t go — I’m just trying to help!’
Hauled the door open.
‘Lucy, please, it’s been so—’
And slammed it shut behind her.
Lucy leaned against the Kia’s roof, one hand trying to massage the headache out of her temples while the other clutched her phone. Keeping her voice as upbeat as possible in the circumstances. ‘We’re doing everything we can, Judith, I promise.’
‘It’s just... the press coverage, they’re saying all these things about the investigation being wound up.’ A little wobble there, as if pain and gin didn’t mix. ‘We just want him caught, so we can bury our little boy. So we can... get his... get Craig’s heart back.’