‘Buggering hell.’ It was meant to be a bellow of rage, but her heart wasn’t in it.
The Dunk was waiting for her when Lucy pulled her ancient Kia Picanto into the car park, round the back of DHQ. He’d swapped his stained clothes for an identical black polo-neck-and-jeans ensemble, his dark-grey leather jacket looking mottled as if it’d been sponged down. A cigarette sending lazy curls of smoke to taint the afternoon air as he lounged against a not-so-clean patrol car with a cracked windscreen.
She pulled into the only spare parking spot in the place, climbed out, and locked her car. ‘Don’t you own anything that isn’t black or grey?’
‘It’s called style, Sarge, look it up.’ Voice flat as a concrete floor. ‘Anyway, Forensics rushed through the analysis on that new “help me!” in the cottage. DNA matches: it’s Abby Geddes’s blood. No idea when it was painted there, though.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Total. They think he’s probably been keeping it in the freezer.’
‘So, definitely not a copycat, or a crank.’ She sagged a little, ran a hand across her face. ‘The guy from the woods — he was following me again, over by Queen’s Quay. Chased him down Ksenofontova Avenue, but he cut through a meat-processing plant and got away.’
The Dunk’s face pinched in around pursed lips. ‘Bit weird. I mean, if you’re a journalist after a story, why do a runner? Why not just ask for a quote, or, you know, offer a bribe for info, or something?’
‘Thought we would’ve caught him on their CCTV, but all the sodding cameras were dummies. What use is that?’
‘Unless he’s not a journalist at all, and you were right the first time...’ A frown. ‘Thing is, Sarge, why would the Bloodsmith be following you? Is that not way too dangerous for him?’
True.
‘Mind you’ — the Dunk’s eyes widened — ‘what if he’s scouting you out to be his next victim?’
‘Yeah... Now I hear someone else say it, it does sound batwank crazy.’ She pocketed her keys. ‘Probably just some sort of pervert stalker.’
‘Then we should definitely tell the boss. Never know what someone like that will get up to.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Can do it now, if you like? It’s only ten minutes till shift’s over anyway; think we deserve a gentle wee coast till home time.’
‘You still got that pool car?’
‘Crap.’ He slumped. ‘I should’ve legged it while I had the chance.’
Yup. But it was too late now.
The pool car’s radio popped and hissed as Lucy set it searching for something other than crappy boy-band pop music, finally clicking onto a woman’s voice, doing her best to sound as if she didn’t come from Kingsmeath. And failing. ‘...bringing the death toll to eighteen, with more expected in the next few days.’ Pronouncing every word as if it was in a foreign language.
‘God, I hate rush hour.’ The Dunk eased their car forwards another length, keeping them an over-cautious four feet behind the Ford Fiesta in front, crawling along Kingside Drive in a queue of stop-start traffic that stretched all the way back across Dundas Bridge and halfway around Castle Hill.
‘French police have shut all roads in and out of Avignon.’
‘Mmm...’ Lucy turned the page of the next report.
‘Jason Spiers, CEO of biotech firm BoltronVitica International, has been cleared of murdering his mistress, TV presenter Chelsea Lipinski, at the High Court this afternoon.’
Adam Holmes, thirty-two, unemployed project manager. Got laid off from his job at an IT company a year and a half ago.
‘Ms Lipinski, a former semi-finalist on Strictly Come Dancing, was discovered in woods near her home, after being battered to death.’
‘I bet he did it.’ The Dunk crept the pool car closer to the roundabout, keeping that four-foot buffer zone between them and the Fiesta.
The ‘before’ photo showed a slightly chubby bloke with a freckled forehead and dirty-blond hair in need of a trim. Round glasses. Serious face. Holding a hot dog in both hands as if it were an award of some sort that he’d never wanted to win. Heavy on the onion and ketchup.
A man’s voice boomed out of the car speakers. One of those posh Scottish accents that dripped with wealth and pomposity. ‘While I’m glad that the courts have finally thrown out this ridiculous case, I am deeply angered that the police have failed to make any progress in catching the monster that killed Chelsea.’
‘Oh, he definitely did it.’ The Dunk drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘These rich bastards get away with everything.’
‘My thoughts and prayers are with her family at this difficult time.’
The ‘after’ photo looked like a nightmare in dissecting class. Adam, stripped naked and flat on his back in a small family bathroom, head forced to one side by the toilet pedestal, left arm pressed to his body by the bath. Legs stretched out straight. Right arm bent at the elbow, the open hand thrown back, showing the deep wound across his wrist. Split from groin to throat and emptied out onto tiles that weren’t black and white any more. The words ‘HELP ME!’ were reflected in the medicine cabinet’s mirrored doors, above the sink, just over the shoulder of the blurry white figure in an SOC suit who’d taken the picture. As if they’d been snapping a macabre bathroom selfie for the world’s most ghoulish social media platform.
Lucy turned the photograph over as something sharp burned at the base of her throat. She swallowed. Cracked the passenger window open an inch, letting in the fug of rush-hour fumes.
‘Feeling OK?’ The Dunk was staring at her, as if she was an injured puppy. ‘I get all queasy reading in the car too.’
She nodded. ‘Never better.’
‘There was more criticism of Paul Rhynie at PMQs this afternoon, with the leaders of the Opposition, SNP, and Green Party all demanding answers to allegations the Business Secretary has awarded hundreds of millions of pounds’ worth of government contracts to—’
‘It’ll be better when we get past Tranton Roundabout. Half these idiots will be cutting up Burns Road to the Parkway.’
‘—without proper tendering processes, transparency, reporting, or penalty clauses.’
Lucy returned Adam Holmes’ file to the folder. ‘Why do you think he does it?’
‘What, Rhynie? Cos all these politician bastards watched Donald Trump get away with bloody murder for four years, and they think, “If he can do it”—’
‘Not the Business Secretary, the Bloodsmith.’
‘...Prime Minister’s complete support. Racing news and there’s been a huge upset at Uttoxeter as long shot Mellbell Bing-Bong won the Alanna Knight Memorial Handicap Hurdles at one hundred and fifty to one—’
‘Shut up.’ Lucy turned off the radio. ‘Can’t hear myself think.’
‘Why he cuts them open?’
‘No. He does that to get the hearts. Why—’
‘Yeah, but he doesn’t have to make such a big production out of it, does he?’ The Dunk shrugged and inched them closer to the roundabout. Only three cars to go. A frown. ‘Hold on, are we pretending we don’t know about Jane Cooper and Craig Thorburn yet? Because if we’re going to be all “fresh pair of eyes” about it, like the boss wants, we maybe should stick to the victims we’d know about if Adam Holmes had just died, instead of all the victims we actually do know about?’
‘Did that make more sense when it was still inside your head?’