‘Hmmmm... Worth a punt, I suppose. I’ll get someone to look into it while you’re identifying our latest victim. And before you whinge: no one’s stealing your credit. Right now, my number-one priority is getting Procurator Fiscal Frisky off my back, ASA-frigging-P.’
Now it was Lucy’s turn to sag. ‘Yes, Boss.’
‘I’ll get Gail to send you any relevant pics, when she’s finished taking them.’ Tudor pointed down the stairs. ‘Quick as you like.’
Lucy rolled her eyes, which probably wasn’t all that effective through the safety goggles, then picked her way down the creaking wooden steps again.
Tudor’s voice boomed out behind her. ‘And see if you can chase up that bloody pathologist for me. Hairy Harry should’ve been here half an hour ago!’
She kept her reply as quiet as possible as she stomped her way out of the tumbledown house. ‘Yes, Boss. No, Boss. Anything you say, Boss.’
Tosser.
Back at the caravan, a huge man was hauling an XXXL white Tyvek suit on over jeans and a sweatshirt. He’d a bit of a tummy on him, but the rest looked completely solid, as if he’d been built out of breezeblocks. A bushy beard reached down to the middle of his chest, more salt than pepper. His hair was the same, held back in a thick grey ponytail. The kind of eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled. ‘Well, well, well.’ Those crow’s feet deepened as Lucy took off her facemask and goggles.
She smiled back. ‘Harrison.’
‘If it isn’t my favourite Detective Sergeant. How are you holding up?’
Not more bloody sympathy.
‘DI Tudor’s waiting not-so-patiently for you.’ Hooking a thumb over her shoulder. ‘And he’s got our new PF with him.’
A shudder. ‘Knew I should’ve let Teabag take this one.’ Harrison tucked his beard into his suit and zipped it up. ‘And tell me: the risible pink van thing, with “McVeigh and McVeigh” on the side. Is that...?’ Both eyebrows raised. ‘Only I could do with half a pound of mince and some pork chops, if you’re moonlighting. Mates’ rates, as we’re both in the meat trade?’ The crow’s feet were so deep now, his eyes had nearly disappeared.
Cheeky sod.
‘Bye, Harrison.’ She stomped off, drizzle misting her glasses as she made her way back to the clump of police vehicles.
The Dunk was lurking under a tree, by the side of the track, phone pressed to his ear as he puffed away on a cigarette. Who said men couldn’t multitask? He looked up and grimaced at her, held a finger up. ‘Yeah... OK... Yeah, right... Will do.’ Then hung up. ‘Sarge.’ The Dunk ducked out from under the branches and joined her. ‘Got a pair of uniforms giving your house a drive-by every couple of hours. They swept your car for fingerprints too; maybe we’ll get lucky?’
‘He was wearing gloves. I saw them.’ The joys of living through a pandemic — every bugger had leftover PPE to commit crimes with.
‘Oh.’
They scuffed their way past the roadblock patrol car.
Then the Dunk froze. Chin pulled in. Mouth pursed. A one-eyebrowed frown on his face as he blinked at her Bedford Rascal. ‘Erm... Sarge?’
‘Don’t you start.’ She unlocked it and climbed in behind the wheel. ‘We’ve got a body to identify and sod all to go on.’
‘Only, are those sausages doing what I think they’re doing?’
‘Dancing, Constable. Those sausages are dancing.’
‘Because it looks like they’re—’
‘Well, they’re not!’
He dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets, puffing away. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Do a missing-persons search: I need everyone added in the last’ — going by the state of the body, the smell, and the unseasonably cold weather — ‘month and a half? Male. Somewhere between five-nine and six-two. Thin. Brown hair, greying at the temples, side parting on the left.’
‘Not a great deal of help.’ The Dunk pulled out his notebook and scribbled that down. ‘Eye colour?’
‘Don’t know, the rats got those.’
A full-body shudder curled him up for a moment. ‘Fingerprints?’
‘They got those too. We’ll just have to do what we can, till the boss or Hairy Harry decide to tell us something useful.’ She pointed off into the rain. ‘Go. Work.’
‘Sarge.’ He tipped his leather bunnet, turned, and sauntered off into the rain.
There was nothing else she could do to ID their victim without more information, so might as well head back to DHQ and chase up a couple of things. Maybe it’d keep Tudor from sidelining her again?
Lucy parked the Bedford Rascal out of sight, on Guild Street, outside the boarded-up carpet warehouse, tucking it in between an overflowing skip and the rusting remains of a fifty-seater coach.
Bad enough she’d had to drive her dad’s pink monstrosity to the crime scene this morning, without the added indignity of leaving it in the station car park for everyone to gawp and snigger at.
She worked her way around the van, locking each door individually — because why buy something with central locking, when you could make life difficult for yourself? — then froze, keys in the passenger door.
That feeling was back again. The pins and needles between her shoulder blades, as if someone was—
Lucy spun around, fists up...
But there was no one there. Just the road, curling away to the right, the tips of Camburn Woods just visible over the rooftops, lurking beneath the thick dove-grey lid of cloud as drizzle stole the colour from everything.
Could’ve sworn there was someone.
‘Going a bit paranoid on me, are you, Lucy?’ She pulled the key out and checked the doors were secure. ‘Bad enough everyone thinking you’re off your rocker without you confirming it.’
She stuck the keys in her pocket, pulled her hood up, and marched along the street, towards St Jasper’s Lane.
‘And while we’re at it: stop talking to yourself. You sound like a crazy person.’
Yes, but it wasn’t paranoia, was it? There definitely was someone following her. He’d even vandalized her car and hung around to take the credit. That wasn’t paranoia, that was fact.
She sped up a bit, heels clacking on the concrete paving slabs.
What if he really was building up to something more serious? Starts with stalking her, moves on to slashing her tyres, and before you know it, he’s...
Lucy pivoted on one foot, swinging around fast, ready to fight.
Stood there, breathing hard.
Rain dripped off the line of parked cars, their windscreens opaque in the drizzle. A small black cat, trotting across the tarmac, tail up. The grumble of passing traffic on the main road behind her.
Come on — it was broad daylight. Well, what passed for it at half eight on a miserable Thursday morning. No way he’d be arrogant enough to attack her here. Out in the open. So close to Divisional Headquarters.
She stood for a moment, watching the gaps between the cars, waiting for movement. But there was nothing.
Yeah.
Definitely going crazy.
Lucy strode up Peel Place, making for the ugly red-brick lump of DHQ.
No sign of the media yet. That’d change when they found out about the body in the woods. Then the hordes would descend with their cameras and microphones and shouted questions about how come O Division couldn’t catch one little serial killer.
Someone had been at the war memorial opposite DHQ, and now each of the three soldiers, in their World War One kilts and bowl helmets, sported a rainbow-coloured knitted scarf around their cold bronze necks as they charged, bayonets fixed. It was weird, the things people did to—