‘Erm, Lucy...’ Tudor picked at the desk with a bitten fingernail.
Oh God, it was Me Too time again. ‘Actually, Boss, I’m—’
‘It’s just, if someone is following you, we can’t rule out that it might be the Bloodsmith. And I don’t like members of my team being put at risk.’ He dug into a pocket. ‘Got this for you.’ Then placed a cardboard box, about the same size as a cigarette packet, on the desk in front of her.
What if it was jewellery? Or something else inappropriate?
She didn’t move.
‘Well? Open it.’
Sodding hell. It better not be jewellery.
Lucy took a deep breath, picked the box up, and opened the thing. Blinked at what Detective Inspector Tudor had given her: a metal cylinder, about the length of her thumb, with a bright-red plastic top. Oh, God, was it a vibrator? ‘Are you—’
‘It’s a rape alarm.’ Then his cheeks flushed deep pink. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to...’ Tudor cleared his throat. ‘It’s a personal-safety alarm. Normally they’re about one-twenty, one-thirty decibels, this is one hundred and fifty. Got it from that dodgy high-tech shop in the Tollgate. And it’s mono-directional — so you point the red bit at your assailant, pull the pin, and boom: loud enough to cause some serious pain. And possible permanent hearing loss.’
How romantic.
‘Thanks, Boss.’ She put it back in its box, then dumped it in her desk drawer.
‘Just keep it on you at all times, OK? Unless you’d like me to assign you a babysitter, twenty-four seven?’
‘Urgh... Fine.’ Lucy took the alarm out of its box again and slipped it into the inside pocket of her overcoat.
‘Good. Now: pub.’
‘Actually, Boss, I’m just going to head home: soak in the tub.’ She picked up the printout, then pulled on her overcoat. ‘Been a long day.’
He stood there, head on one side, staring at her like a concerned parent. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine.’
He was doing the sad-puppy-dog eyes now. ‘Lucy, it’s—’
‘All right, all right: one drink.’ Turning on her heel and marching off.
But the first person who brought up Neil Black was getting punched in the throat.
The Dumbarton Arms was reasonably busy, for a change. In addition to the Operation Maypole team, a whole bunch of OAPs had taken up residence and were now busy getting tanked into happy-hour booze while a balding ponytailed freak set up the speakers, screens, and microphones on the little stage at the back.
The oldies avoided the far corner, where Lucy’s fellow officers had made camp. Which was pretty sensible: crowds of off-duty police could get a bit... enthusiastic with a drink in them. Every single member of Tudor’s team was there, clustered into the booths, necking pints, talking far too loud, eating crisps, and slapping Detective Constable Stan Talladale on the back.
A cheery banner hung across the back wall, between the toilets: ‘WEDNESDAY NIGHT IS KARAOKE NIGHT!’ above ‘3 FOR 2 ON DRINKS* FOR SINGERS!!!’ Because what wasn’t to love about getting wankered and making a tit of yourself?
Hedgehog Dundee had a manky bar towel thrown over one shoulder, humming away to himself as he pulled yet another pint of Stella. Adding it to the collection lined up in front of Lucy. His long, straggly hair surrounded a bald patch the size of a dinner plate. Throw in a big round sweaty face, a manky goatee, sausage hands, and a physique that could best be described as ‘lardy’ — all wrapped up in a five-foot-two package of yuck — and he must’ve been beating the ladies off with a stick. ‘May I just say that it’s a pleasure to see you patronizing our establishment again, DS McVeigh.’
‘And a white wine. Pinot Grigio, if you’ve got it; something that doesn’t taste like drain cleaner, if you don’t.’ Not that it really mattered: she wasn’t planning on actually drinking it.
‘The usual, then.’ He turned and plucked a large wine glass from the rack. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been in since... well, since that thing happened.’
Oh God, not Hedgehog as well.
She pulled her chin in. ‘I don’t—’
‘I wanted you to know that everyone at the Dumbarton Arms was shocked and appalled when we heard what had transpired.’ Filling the glass with a new bottle from the fridge. He placed it on the bar in front of her. ‘This is a Domaine Rieflé-Landmann, Pinot Gris, Steinert, Grand Cru, Alsace, 2015. Decanter magazine rates it very highly. I ordered a bottle specially for when you came in next.’ He held up a hand. ‘On the house.’
She stared at the wine. Then at him.
Hedgehog stood there. Not moving. Not making a big thing of it.
And, technically, he hadn’t used Neil Black’s name, so maybe he didn’t need punching in the throat.
Lucy licked her lips. Nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Hedgehog nodded back. ‘Bastard got what he deserved.’
Then why did it still hurt?
9
Lucy slipped her phone out and checked the time. Eight o’clock. A whole hour pretending she was into all this team-bonding bollocks: surely that was enough. No one could whinge if she left now.
That glass of Hedgehog’s Pinot Gris sat untouched in front of her, joined by a forest of empty pint glasses, highballs, and tumblers that rattled like a crystal wind chime every time someone bumped against the table.
DI Tudor and Emma were up on the small stage, belting out an old Oasis number while a dozen members of Operation Maypole turned the little wooden dancefloor into an impromptu mosh pit — joining in on the chorus as the whole pub thrummed with the noise.
The Dunk was over by the bar, getting into it with a detective constable who looked as if someone had randomly applied Nair to a six-foot-tall baboon, leaving a bald head and Victorian set of moustache-and-mutton-chops behind. The pair of them leaning in close, jabbing fingers at each other’s chests. Only the Dunk had to stand on his tiptoes to do it.
Should probably rescue him before she left.
Lucy emptied her wine into four or five of the abandoned glasses — just so Hedgehog wouldn’t feel slighted that she hadn’t drunk any of it — and slipped from the booth.
She waved at the birthday boy on the way past, but he was too busy wanging on about how much the final season of Game of Thrones ‘sucked balls’ to notice. Can’t say she hadn’t tried, though.
Whatever DC Johnson and the Dunk were arguing about, they shut up pretty sharpish as she approached. Forced on a pair of unconvincing smiles.
‘SARGE.’ Johnson had to bellow over a particularly rowdy bit of singing and stomping.
‘STEVE. I NEED TO BORROW THE DUNK.’ Then she grabbed her sidekick’s elbow and steered him across the pub and out the door, into a blissfully quiet street, where the only noise was the ringing in her ears; every breath crisp and sharp, redolent with the scent of sizzling batter and vinegar that oozed out of Dougie’s ‘Famous’ Chipper, just down the road; streetlights glowing warm yellow in the darkness.
‘What can I do for you, Sarge?’ He glanced back at the closed door, his face flushed and pinched. Then dug out his cigarettes, lighting one in his cupped hands and hissing out an angry cloud of jaundiced smoke.
‘Just thought you needed a bit of a break from Steve Johnson, before you started throwing punches.’
‘Johnson’s a dick.’
‘Massive. Want to tell me what you two were arguing about?’
‘Nothing.’ The Dunk pulled one shoulder up to his ear, then let it drop again. ‘Just him being a dick. As per.’ A sniff. ‘You offski?’