‘Please, you don’t have to do this!’ Tears made the dark little room blur.
‘Or, in your case, an unfortunate mix of the above.’
‘Stiff upper lip, old man.’ Hugo held the phone out for a close-up. ‘Nobody likes a cry baby.’
‘Please! I don’t—’
Then the hammer slashed down, and the world screamed its very last breath.
— bless me, Father, for I have sinned —
1
Right.
Michelle checked herself in the mirror again: make-up perfect, auburn waves hairsprayed into submission, bright smile without a hint of lipstick on her teeth. Cupping a hand over a huffed-out breath revealed a reassuring minty freshness, too.
First day on the job and she was good to go.
All she needed now was a customer.
There — the lanky middle-aged woman, scowling away at the shelves of painkillers. Black overcoat on over a red-and-white striped top, mousey-blonde hair that was far too long for someone that age, skin like blanched milk, and a strong chin with a dimple at its point. She’d clearly gone for the ‘natural’ look, and it didn’t suit her at all. And those thick-black-framed glasses didn’t exactly help. Still, it was amazing what a bit of make-up — properly applied by a newly qualified professional like Michelle — could do.
The woman plucked a packet of paracetamol from the shelf and clacked towards the checkouts on a pair of Cuban-heeled boots. Which meant she’d have to walk right past Michelle’s station, completely unaware that her world was about to become a little bit brighter.
Michelle nodded to herself, keeping her voice low. ‘Remember your training, Michelle, you’ve got this.’ Then cranked her smile up another notch.
It was time to make a difference!
Lucy squinted one eye shut against the knife-sharp sun slashing its way in through the shop window. Sparking off the harsh white floor tiles, glass bottles, and jars, as if it was trying to stab its way right into her already throbbing brain.
It was too hot in here as well, the heating turned way up to depths-of-winter levels — even though it was only early September — transforming the overcoat she’d pulled on that morning into an instrument of torture. Only been in here fifteen minutes and already her top was sticking to her back.
‘Excuse me, madam? Hello?’ An orange-faced horror with too much blusher, drawn-on eyebrows, and a white smock top, popped out from behind one of the make-up counters, blocking Lucy’s way. Holding up a palm-sized tub of something greasy. ‘I know crow’s feet can be such a worry for middle-aged ladies, but, great news, now there’s an organic alternative to Botox!’
‘Middle-aged?’ Lucy glared at her. ‘I’m twenty-six!’
‘Ah.’ The idiot hid the tub behind her back and snatched up a couple of lipsticks instead. ‘Well, perhaps, with your classical pale complexion, I could tempt you to a slightly brighter lipstick? Bewitching Coral? Or Pink Brandy?’ Pointing them both at Lucy’s mouth. ‘Because that shade’s really far too insipid for you.’
‘I’m not wearing any make-up!’
The fake smile faltered. ‘Then... now’s the perfect opportunity to start?’
‘Gah!’ Lucy pushed past her and stomped over to the queue for the tills.
Of course, the self-service ones were all out of order, so there was no option but to shuffle forward, inch by painful inch, past the newspapers, magazines, and low-sugar sweets — arranged to corral the punters on their miserable death march towards the counter. Which clearly should’ve been manned by three people, but had been abandoned instead to the care of a single teenager with a permanent sniff who scanned people’s purchases as if she was doing them a huge personal favour.
Insipid? Crow’s feet? Middle-aged?
Like that make-up-counter troll was a sodding oil painting, with her face like a constipated Oompa Loompa.
Cheeky cow.
Lucy kept her head down, avoiding the treacherous sunlight, her one open eye drifting across the publications: ‘LOVE ISLAND STD THREESOME SHOCKER!’, ‘STRICTLY COME DRUGS RAID’, ‘MY SECRET WEIGHT-LOSS HELL!’, ‘SEX-PEST POSTIE STOLE MY HEART & MY CAT!’ The crappy tabloids were just as bad: ‘RANDY RHYNIE’S “RUSSIAN ROMP” RUMOURS’, ‘MIGRANTS “SWAMPING NHS” SAYS HERO COUNCILLOR’, and ‘JOCK COPS CAN’T CATCH CREEPY KILLER’.
Which was a bit unfair.
Even if it was true.
That last headline sat above a grainy photo of an empty, dilapidated room — ragged holes in the floorboards, pale blotches bleached into the crumbling walls.
A smaller picture was set into it: Abby Geddes gazing out at the world with tired eyes, mouth drooping at the edges, short brown hair rumpled and unstyled. Almost as if she—
‘Hello?’ It was barked out in an imperious male voice, right behind Lucy, followed by a tut. ‘Are you actually in this queue, or are you just browsing?’
Tosser.
Lucy turned, nice and slow, straightened her glasses, and gave the gangly dick in the pinstripe suit a lopsided dose of the evil eye. Baring her teeth. ‘You want to repeat that, sunshine?’
Pink rushed up from the collar of his shirt, flooding his cheeks, making it look as if his tie was tied far too tight. He stepped back. ‘I... er...’ Taking a sudden interest in his polished brogues. ‘I was... It’s your turn.’ One hand coming up to tremble at the counter.
She nodded, then took her time, ambling over to the bored spotty teenager. Thumped her packet of paracetamol down on the till’s stainless-steel weighing plate.
There was a pause. Some chewing. Then words slumped out on a wave of stomach-clenching spearmint, twisted into a strangled Kingsmeath accent: ‘You want a Chocolate Orange? It’s on offer, like. Buy one, get one half price, and that.’
‘No.’
The till bleeped as the pills were scanned.
And then a smile bloomed across the girl’s face, rearranging the pattern of blackheads and zits. ‘Here, you’re that woman, aren’t you?’
Lucy dug the debit card out of her wallet. ‘No.’
‘Aye, you are: you’re that detective sergeant woman. We learnt all aboot you, in Media Studies! You and that bloke, whatshisname, Nigel something-or-other. Black. Neil Black! That’s the boy.’
The card reader chimed out the purchase and Lucy snatched up her pills. ‘No, I’m not!’ She marched off, heels hammering the tiles out onto Jessop Street, into the crisp morning air. Even if it was laden with the pale-blue scent of exhaust fumes as cars and vans rumbled by.
The Dunk raised an eyebrow as she tore her way into the paracetamol. He was barely taller than the post box he leaned against, with a plump little face besmirched by a thin goatee-soul-patch-and-moustache thing that didn’t make him look anywhere near as much like Tony Stark as he clearly thought it did. He’d squeezed himself into his trademark black polo neck, with black jeans, black sunglasses, and a dark-grey leather jacket. A languid cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.
Let’s face it, the boy was one French beret and a pair of bongos away from going full-on beatnik. But on the plus side, he’d done what he’d been told and got the coffees in.
The Dunk held out one of the two large wax-paper cups. ‘Caramel latte macchiato with chocolate sprinkles.’
‘Breakfast of champions.’ She knocked back a couple of pills, washing them down with a sip of hot sweet coffee goodness.