She stomped out onto the frost-paled tarmac, breath puffing out in angry misted lungfuls.
‘WHERE ARE you...’
A man stood in the middle of the road, about two hundred feet away, just past the last cottage. Next to a red-and-white Mini, its pale exhaust pluming out into the cold morning air.
He wasn’t doing anything. Just standing there. Arms hanging by his sides. Motionless.
It was the same supply-teacher-looking bastard she’d chased yesterday. Tall, thin, big forehead, beard, small round glasses, chinos looking crisp and freshly ironed beneath the corduroy jacket.
He raised one hand in a small wave, showing off his purple nitrile glove, then turned and squeezed himself in behind the wheel of the idling Mini.
‘COME BACK HERE!’ Lucy broke into a run, heels clacking, the drumbeat getting faster as she picked up speed.
But she got nowhere near. The Mini’s engine growled and the wee car pulled away, leaving her in a cloud of bitter grey exhaust. Couldn’t even get the number plate — he’d done something to it, making the registration unreadable. Probably smeared it with mud.
‘AAAAARGH!’ She slowed to a jog, then a walk, then stopped, right where the car had sat — twin black lines in the frost that faded away until there was no sign left he’d ever been there.
‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ Lucy hunched her shoulders as the van rattled its way across a cattle grid, setting all the dashboard trim vibrating. Engine sounding like someone had trapped half a million wasps in a washing machine on spin cycle, then chucked in a brick. ‘Took me half an hour just to get this bloody thing started.’
The Dunk’s voice was barely audible over the racket, even though her phone was turned up full pelt, wedged in between the steering wheel and the instrument panel. ‘Yeah, but your tyres? Sarge, you live in the middle of Arse-Munch Nowhere, who the hell would go all the way out there to—’
‘Just tell Tudor I’m going to be late.’
The van grumbled its way up the hill, getting slower and slower, because Dad couldn’t have bought himself a decent van, like a Ford Transit, or a Peugeot Boxer, or even a sodding Renault Kangoo, could he? No. It’s distinctive, Lucy... People smile when they see it, Lucy... There’s nothing wrong with a Bedford Rascal, Lucy. Take a wardrobe, paint it bright fuchsia, shove it over onto its side, then slap on four wheels, a windscreen, a sign saying, ‘MCVEIGH & MCVEIGH ~ ARTISANAL BUTCHERS’, add some happy, dancing, cartoon meat products, and that was her dad’s Bedford Rascal.
‘You get a good look at whoever did it?’
‘Same dick who was following me yesterday.’
‘Oooh, that’s not good. If he’s a stalker and he’s been to your house—’
‘Dunk, I can barely hear you. Tell DI Tudor I’ll be there quick as I can.’ Assuming the stupid van didn’t fall apart before then.
It was hard to tell what was more worrying: that the guy who’d slashed her tyres had been following her for most of yesterday, or that he knew where she lived. Actually, no, it was definitely the latter. And there was no way he was doing all this for wholesome reasons.
First he slashes her tyres; what came next — her throat?
Well, he was in for a bloody shock if he tried.
Lucy drove through Blackwall Hill, then along Keirbarrie Drive — following the river west as a misty drizzle speckled the windscreen. Trying not to make eye contact with other drivers or pedestrians whenever she had to stop for traffic lights, because there was only so much humiliation one person could take in a morning.
Might not be a bad idea to get an alarm system fitted. Something with motion sensors. And maybe stop past the Argos on St Jasper’s Lane and get herself a baseball bat.
She’d almost made it as far as Dundas Bridge when her phone launched into its ringtone and ‘THE DUNK’ appeared on the screen.
‘God’s sake.’ She poked the green button. ‘I’m going as fast as I can!’
He was almost shouting, the noise of a siren wailing in the background. ‘CHANGE OF PLAN, SARGE, MORNING PRAYERS IS CANCELLED. IT’S THE BLOODSMITH: THEY’VE FOUND ANOTHER BODY. WE’RE ON OUR WAY NOW.’
She sat up straight, seatbelt tight across her chest. ‘Where?’
The Bedford Rascal lurched from side to side as it crawled along, every pothole rattling the suspension so hard it felt as if the ridiculous thing was about to tip over at any second. Trees crowded in on both sides, their branches intertwining, leaves overlapping, turning the rutted track into a tunnel.
A patrol car blocked the track ahead, parked sideways to make sure no one could get past, its blue-and-whites turned soft-focus in the drizzle as they swept across the trees. On the other side of it a couple of big police vans sat empty, squeezed onto the grass verge, along with a handful of unmarked vehicles, another two patrol cars, a Range Rover, and an SOC Transit.
As Lucy pulled up, a uniform emerged from the driver’s seat of the patrol-car blockade, pulled on his peaked cap, and glowered his way over — one hand held up, palm outward to stop her.
‘HOY, YOU! OUT OF IT!’
Lucy had to manually wind down her window, like an animal. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Tim.’
He lowered his arm, and a hideous smile broke across his lopsided face; crooked nose and uneven ears going pink in the cold. ‘Morning, Sarge. What — and I mean this with the utmost respect — the living hell are you driving?’
‘Where’s DI Tudor?’
‘Only, you know, all pink and rectangular like that, it looks a bit like Frankenstein’s cock.’
‘Frankenstein made monsters, not penises.’
That horrible smile widened. ‘You’ve not read my erotic fanfic, Sarge. I’ll email you a copy.’
‘Please don’t. Now: where’s the boss?’
Tim hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Crappy wee cottage, thataway. Be warned, though, he’s got the new Procurator Fiscal with him.’
Urgh.
Lucy struggled the window back up again, then climbed out into the drizzle. Pulled her hood up. ‘Keys are in the ignition, if you need to shift it.’
‘No offence, but I wouldn’t be seen dead driving that.’
She squeezed her way past the knot of police vehicles; nodded at a pair of constables having a sly fag in the undergrowth, out of the rain; and followed the sound of voices to a forward operations centre — a boxy white caravan, sitting on its own, where a handful of uniforms were struggling their way into white SOC suits.
‘Sarge.’ PC Hill zipped himself up, then dug about at his crotch. Face still sporting a half-dozen-teenagers’ worth of yellow-headed plukes. ‘You joining the search team?’
‘Looking for DI Tudor.’
‘In there: Grandma’s Cottage,’ nodding towards a grey outline, about sixty feet away, just visible between the closely packed trees. Twin lines of ‘POLICE’ tape stretched from this side of the track towards it, marking out the common approach path. ‘Better watch, though, he’s got Spudzilla with him.’
‘Yeah, Tim said.’ Lucy helped herself to a suit from the box. Peeled it out of its plastic wrapping before performing the ungainly and undignified dance needed to pull the thing on over her boots and clothes without falling over.
The others got their masks and goggles on, then grabbed gloves and disappeared into the woods while she finished dressing. Double-gloving it, just in case. Taking a pair of blue plastic booties for later. Then followed the common approach path in beneath the canopy of pine and beech. Boots scrunching through fallen needles and decaying leaves. Kicking up that garden-centre-compost scent.