Little boy? Craig Thorburn was in his thirties, for God’s sake.
‘I’m sorry.’ Lucy took off her glasses and sagged forwards, till her cheek pressed against the car roof. Cool metal on warm skin. ‘We’re making progress. I know it’s hard, but you have to be patient.’
‘They said you’re giving up!’
Bloody reporters.
‘We’re not giving up, Judith.’
A gull screeched somewhere overhead, making discordant harmonies with Lucy’s headache.
The grumble of a distant diesel motor.
That iodine, seaweed, and dirty-clothes taint of the river.
‘Have you talked to your Family Liaison Officer?’
‘Urgh... What’s the point? He never tells us anything.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Judith.’ Lucy squeezed her forehead even tighter, but it didn’t seem to help. ‘I wish I could wave a magic wand and catch this guy, but it doesn’t work like that. I promise, if I find something, I’ll let you know.’
‘I need to bury my son!’ And Judith hung up.
Lucy stayed where she was, slumped against the car roof. Opened one eye to make absolutely sure the call had disconnected. ‘Shame you weren’t so interested in the poor sod when he was alive, isn’t it?’
DI Tudor was right: Lucy should never have given out her mobile number. But what was she supposed to do? Regardless of how screwed up Judith Thorburn’s family was, the poor cow couldn’t even grieve properly, not with the pathologist refusing to release her son’s remains. And even if, somehow, Operation Maypole managed to catch the Bloodsmith, there was no guarantee they’d find his victims’ hearts. Maybe he threw them away? Or buried them? Or maybe he ate them? Dr McNaughton would have a full-on psychologist nerdgasm about that: absorbing the love. Very Freudian.
Urgh: Dr McNaughton.
It was better when he was just sitting there with his mouth shut, to be honest. OK, so the silent-therapist-I’m-only-here-to-listen act was a massive pain in the arse, but it was better than him opening his gob and making everything worse.
Still, at least this time he hadn’t banged on about the id, ego, and superego the whole session. Cos God forbid anyone—
Her phone burst into its warbling ringtone, and when she opened her eyes a blurry ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’ sat in the middle of the screen.
Brilliant. More crap.
She hit the button. ‘McVeigh.’
A man’s voice, lumpen with the weird half-teuchter, half-Oldcastle accent of someone from up north of Fiddersmuir. Banjo country. ‘Aye, you the officer called us, the day, aboot Lucas Weir?’
‘Lucas...?’
‘No’ his real name, like. But I’m in an open-plan office, so I’m being circumspect and that.’
Which could only mean one person: Benedict Strachan.
‘Oh, that Lucas Weir. Yes.’
‘Good. Mike Scobie, I’m his CJ social worker. That’s “Criminal Justice”, like, no’ “Caffeine Junkie”.’ There was a little chortle there, as Mike Scobie laughed at his own crap joke. ‘I’ve found him a placey to stay, in Kingsmeath. Have you got yoursel’ a piece of paper? Cos here’s the address: Fifty-Fower Stirk Road. It’s a halfway house so he’ll need—’
‘Hold on.’ She raised her head off the car’s roof. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘So you can get him ower there.’
Cheeky sod.
‘Oh no you don’t. Police Scotland aren’t responsible for housing folk who’ve got out of prison. That’s your job, not mine.’
‘Thought you wanted to help.’
‘I did: I called you. Have you got him on a rehab programme yet?’
A snort. ‘You any idea how hard it is to get a place on one of those? I’d have more chance getting him on The Great British Bake Off.’
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘He was eleven when he got banged up, Mr Scobie. Eleven. Wasn’t even old enough to drink, but he’s come out with a drug habit. That sound fair to you?’
There was a long phlegmy groan. Then a sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll see what I can do for the wee loon, but no promises. Seriously: Bake Off.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’d say you’re welcome, but I’d be lying.’ And with that, he was gone.
Lazy sod.
Lucy put her phone away, before it caused any more trouble. Got her glasses back on. Turned. And froze.
She was on the south side of the river, opposite MacKinnon Quay.
But...?
Sunlight glinted on the battleship-grey water. A handful of trawlers were tied up to the harbour wall, along with a couple of the smaller offshore supply boats too cheap to pay the Aberdeen dock fees. On this side of the river it was all red-brick processing plants, chandler’s warehouses, lockups, and the kind of garages where you paid cash and didn’t ask any questions. All of it rundown and grimy. Lots of boarded-up buildings with weeds growing out of their roofs and gutters, waiting for a demolition crew to put them out of their misery. Even the road looked depressed, its granite setts drooping into gutters rainbowed with oily water.
How the hell did...?
Something crawled its way up her spine. Turned all the saliva in her mouth to sand.
What was she doing here?
Lucy stepped back from the car and something scrunched beneath her feet. But when she looked down, it wasn’t dried-up fly carcases this time, it was a set of keys: a chunky silver one with ‘DO NOT DUPLICATE’ embossed on it; one that looked a bit like an anvil; a strange rectangular one with a wide head and no serrations — just dimples recessed into the blade; three Yales, each with a different coloured plastic cap; and one old-fashioned barrel key with some sort of crude lion’s head stamped on its thick round bow; all bound together on a brass ring. Someone must’ve dropped them.
Should take the keys back to the station, stick them in the Lost and Found, so whoever lost the things could claim them.
She picked the keys up — cold in the palm of her hand. Jingling against each other as her fingers trembled.
And why did she have this weird, queasy feeling of déjà vu? Like she’d seen all this before, heard all this before, that every rib-constricting breath had already been breathed?
She leaned back against her manky little Kia.
Something else for Dr McNaughton to love: Are you still having flashbacks? Sweating? Nausea? Trembling? Blackouts?
No, of course she wasn’t. This kind of thing was totally normal, wasn’t it?
She didn’t have PTSD, she’d just... spaced out for a bit. Everybody did it. Like driving home on autopilot and you get there with no idea what route you took or what happened along the way. Nothing strange about that.
Lucy bent double and grabbed hold of her knees. Did the breathing exercise they’d taught her. Everything was fine. Neil Black wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t lurking in the dark, waiting for her.
It wasn’t real.
And slowly, breath by breath, she pulled it all back inside. Balled it up tight and stuffed it down. See? Didn’t need any help. Could manage this perfectly well on her own.
She straightened up, pulled her shoulders back.
Dr Bloody McNaughton could go stick his...
Lucy stopped.
That feeling of being watched had returned, even stronger than before.