That left her with an architect, a self-employed accountant, a partner in a law firm, a junior doctor at CHI, a manager at the big Winslow’s in Logansferry, and a member of the city council. Six potential killers, all with alibis for the nights the Bloodsmith’s victims disappeared.
Need to go over all their statements and alibis again. Didn’t matter that Angus and his team were already doing that — Angus meant well, but he couldn’t think outside the box if you hacked his head off and chucked it in a vat of baked beans.
And she had one more suspect to add to the list.
Lucy headed back through to the hall, collected the printout of her eFit, and pinned it up with the other potential serial killers. Stepped back to frown at that slightly out-of-focus face. There was something... familiar about it. Not what you’d call classically handsome, but not bad-looking. There was maybe even something appealing about him, in a strange sort of way.
So definitely on the list.
Just a shame she had no clue who he was.
‘Urgh...’ Lucy rubbed at her gritty eyes till little orange and black spots burst behind her lids like fireworks. Yawned. Sagged. Sighed. Put her glasses back on. Took another swig of her fourth mug of tea. And squinted at the wall of victims.
They had to have something in common. But all five had gone to different schools; they didn’t look anything alike; none of them worked in the same industry; they weren’t the same sex; they hadn’t belonged to the same clubs; they hadn’t joined the same Facebook groups; they hadn’t even followed the same people on Twitter.
She glanced over at the new eFit, gracing her suspects board. ‘Why did you pick them? What was it about these poor sods that got you all hot and bothered?’
No reply.
OK, back to basics. Five victims: Abby Geddes, Bruce Malloch, Adam Holmes, Jane Cooper, and Craig Thorburn. Two women, three men. So, who said the Bloodsmith had to be male? Yes, statistically speaking, men were much more likely to murder other people, but that didn’t mean women couldn’t go on a homicidal rampage. As Oldcastle had proven over, and over, and over again.
Even the rambling forensic psychologist had hedged her bets on that one, hadn’t she? All her profiles used the male pronoun when talking about the Bloodsmith, but she’d left herself a big chunk of wriggle room with ‘Killer is most likely an IC-One male...’ And ‘most likely’ wasn’t the same as ‘definitely’. So, why not a woman?
A smile spread across Lucy’s face, followed by another jaw-cracking yawn.
Tomorrow, soon as Morning Prayers were over, she’d nab a HOLMES terminal and go through the actions: see if there was someone knocking about in the background who might be a good fit. With a bit of luck, if she came up with a viable suspect, there’d be no need to go schlepping around the last three crime scenes — she’d be off solving the case instead.
Lucy blinked.
Two.
Two crime scenes. Not three.
Yeah... She peered at her watch — nearly midnight.
No wonder she was too knackered to think straight.
Time for a quick soak in a lovely hot bath, and then bed.
It was going to be a big day tomorrow.
— tell me about your childhood —
10
Lucy leaned back against the worktop, crunching her way through breakfast — toast slathered in butter, mashed banana, and salt — washed down with a big mug of black coffee. Outside the kitchen window, a pair of coal tits squabbled over the bird feeder, a cock pheasant strutting about on the frost-crisped grass beneath it, like a vile priest in his dog collar waiting for scraps from above. The sky: a lid of pale grey, bruised with darker clouds. All to the soundtrack of crappy pop music, crackling out of a radio that was almost as old as Dad’s Neolithic toaster.
The awful song jangled to a halt, only to be replaced by some OTT idiot doing their best to sound like the world wasn’t a lonely, miserable, and brutal place on a cold September morning. ‘Hey, hey, hey! That was Mister Bones, and “Angela’s Calling Me”. What did I tell you, folks? It’s a smasharoooooonie!’ Comedy honking noise. ‘You’re listening to Castlewave FM, you lucky people; this is Sensational Steve’s Breakfast Drivetime Bo-nan-za; it’s seven o’clock and here’s Gorgeous Gabby with the Naughty News!’
Why was it that the world’s biggest dicks were always so immeasurably proud of their dickishness and so keen to share it?
‘Thanks, Steve. Westminster, first, and the Home Secretary has defended his handling of the latest migrant crisis as eighteen people are found dead, washed up on the Kent coast...’
Had to admit, the prospect of spending a couple of hours wading through the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, looking for potential female suspects, wasn’t exactly appealing. Might be an idea to draft in a bit of help. Spread the misery.
‘...facing prosecution. Polls have now opened for the hotly contested by-election for Thanet South, but the England-First National Party candidate, Rebecca Hughes, claims the vote’s been “rigged” by “lefties and foreigners”. Miss Hughes was expelled from the Conservative Party last year following a series of controversial tweets...’
Lucy unplugged her phone from its charger and texted the Dunk:
You like computers, don’t you?
How do you fancy a bit of IT shenanigans after Morning Prayers?
SEND.
After all, what was the point of having a minion if you didn’t get them to do the boring bits?
‘...more allegations in the Guardian claim embattled Business Secretary, Paul Rhynie, has been having an affair with a member of the Russian embassy staff for over three years...’
Anyway: time for teeth, then better get a shift on if she was going to make it into the office before rush hour kicked in.
‘...statement saying Mr Rhynie had the Prime Minister’s complete support. The search continues today for Antonia Taylor. The eighty-two-year-old was last seen in Aberdeen on Sunday—’
Lucy clicked the radio off. Did her teeth in record time. And was out the door in five minutes flat. Waterproof jacket today, boots, and a faded blue Oldcastle Warriors scarf that still carried the burnt-leather ghost of old cigars. She locked the door behind her, turned and... froze.
Stood there, on the gravel driveway, staring at her car.
‘BASTARD!’
All four tyres were flat. Not just flat, slashed. And whoever had done it, they’d drawn a smiley face in the frost covering her windscreen too.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Wait a minute... The smiley face — it hadn’t iced over yet; the lines were still shiny and dark. Dripping at the edges of its mocking mouth and wide dot eyes. It was still fresh.
She clenched her fists. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ Turning slowly. ‘COME ON, THEN! YOU WANT SOME OF THIS?’ Thumping herself in the chest, like a silverback. ‘DO YOU?’
The three cottages across the road still lay in darkness, curtains shut against the early-morning light. Auld Dawson’s Wood looming behind them in all its malevolent glory. Nothing but the sound of magpies shrieking at each other.
‘OH, YOU’RE A BIG MAN HIDING IN THE SHADOWS, AREN’T YOU?’