A photo stream filled the screen, featuring a thin man with a slight paunch and receding hair. He was on a beach somewhere sunny, dressed in nothing but orange Speedos, posing with a round freckly girl in a sarong. Big smiles for the camera, holding hands, and toasting Lucy and the Dunk with multicoloured cocktails. Barland had a big koi carp tattoo covering most of his left thigh. Which wasn’t in any of the crime-scene photographs.
‘Not our boy.’
‘OK, next up...’ The Dunk’s fingers went to work again.
The older man appeared on screen, in a back garden somewhere, kneeling behind an array of leeks. Grinning like a loon. Only he was fully clothed — polo shirt, chinos, sandals.
‘Hold on, here’s some marked “Malaga”...’
He was fully clothed in those, too.
‘Lossiemouth? Surely, you go there, you go for a swim, right?’
But when the Dunk brought the photos up, ex-DI Gourley was all wrapped up in a jacket, scarf, and welly boots.
‘Kind of get the feeling he’s not a “tattoo” kind of person. But we’ll keep him as a maybe.’ Lucy poked the last printout. ‘Try Louden.’
‘Ex-DC Louden, let’s be ’avin’ you...’ Clickity, click, click, click. ‘Not on Facebook. Weird. Thought it was, like, compulsory these days. Let’s see if he’s oot and aboot on Twitter...’ The Dunk sat back in his chair. ‘Half a dozen Malcolm Loudens. Or is it Malcolms Louden? Either way, none of them look anything like the pic we’ve got on file, and two of them are American.’
‘So, it could be him or Gourley.’ Assuming it wasn’t someone else entirely, of course.
‘Sorry, Sarge.’ A shrug. ‘On the plus side, as our victim was a cop, his DNA’s going to be on file. Soon as they run it, we’ll know.’
Lucy pulled in her chin and hissed a breath out through her nose.
It’d be nice to get back to DCI Ross with a result, instead of a maybe-maybe-not.
‘Try a PNC search.’
The Dunk hunched over his laptop and did as he was told. ‘OK. What’s Mr Louden been up to?’ Scrolling through a surprisingly long list of search results. ‘Well, he did three years in Glenochil for that “thieving things while being a copper” malarkey, and I’ve got recent arrests for shoplifting, starting a fight in St Jasper’s Cathedral, a fair few drunk and disorderlies, half a dozen urinating in publics... And a whole bunch of complaints from shop owners about him sleeping rough in the city centre.’
She checked her watch: twenty to ten. The post-mortem wouldn’t be over before two, maybe three if Hairy Harry was feeling extra thorough, so if she was going to save the day, now was the time to do it. ‘Get a car. We’re going out.’
13
It was all really rather... quaint. A small village on Kings River, about five minutes outside Oldcastle. Corracholm had been a proper fishing port once, but the industry had picked up its nets and lobster creels long ago, leaving the small stone harbour to the guest houses, antique shops, artisanal cafés, and tourist four-by-fours. But before the fishermen went, they seemed to have painted every narrow house on the waterfront terrace a different shade of the rainbow. It looked unpleasantly cheery, even in the drizzle.
The Dunk parked in front of a bright-pink three-storey affair, between a baker’s and a place advertising ‘LOCALLY PRODUCED AND FAIR-TRADE OBJETS D’ART’. Pulled on his leather bunnet. ‘Bet the houses here cost a fortune.’
Lucy climbed out into the rain. ‘We’re on the clock: in, establish the facts, and out, understand? Quick as we can.’
The Dunk followed her over to the house’s front door — painted gloss black, giving the place a slightly liquorice-allsort vibe. ‘THE PERCHES’ was engraved into a wooden sign, mounted to the wall. ‘Unless ex-DI Gourley is our victim, of course.’
‘True.’ She leaned on the bell. Then huddled into the doorway in an attempt to stay dry. Didn’t work, though.
‘Sarge?’ The Dunk pulled his shoulders up, polo neck disappearing into the collar of his leather jacket like a beatnik turtle. ‘Can you smell something fishy?’
‘And try not to be too weird when we’re in there, OK? No big anti-establishment rants.’
‘It’s like...’ curling his top lip and sniffing, ‘you know when fish fingers go all fusty?’ He turned on the spot, nostrils flaring. ‘Think it’s seaweed? Or has a seagull been sick somewhere?’
‘Dunk, I swear to God, your bunnet’s on too tight and it’s strangling your brain.’
‘Bit harsh.’
Lucy was about to explain why it really wasn’t, when the door opened and a small woman in leggings, trainers, and a ‘FEEL THE BURN, BITCHES!’ T-shirt peered out at them.
Her face was a shiny shade of pink, just a little too purple not to clash with her house. A bit on the chunky side. Grecian curls of grey hair sticking to her damp forehead. ‘Can I help you? Only I’m doing an online aerobics class and—’
‘Mrs Gourley?’ Lucy flashed her warrant card. ‘Can we come in, please? We need to ask a couple of questions about your husband.’
Her shoulders rounded, eyes rolling as both arms dangled at her sides like damp spaghetti. ‘I suppose so. But make it quick — we’re working on our glutes today and I need a nice arse for our Marion’s wedding.’
‘Sorry’ — Mrs Gourley ushered them into a tiny family room at the back of the house — ‘I’d put you in the lounge, but we’ve got Americans staying for a week, and you know what they’re like.’ She waved Lucy and the Dunk towards an overstuffed sofa, inflicted with animal-print scatter cushions.
‘This is fine, thanks.’ The Dunk parked his bum. ‘Very cosy.’
‘Mrs Gourley, we need to talk to you about—’
‘Please, call me Daphne. Would you like some tea? It’s no trouble, really.’
Lucy tried again. ‘Daphne, we need to ask a few questions about your husband. Does he have any tattoos?’ Taking care to stick to the present tense, there. ‘Any distinguishing marks you could tell us about?’
‘Ah...’ Mrs Gourley wriggled back until the armchair enveloped her. The smile faded from her face. ‘I never really believed it’d happen, you know. Always thought he’d stumble in through that door someday, reeking of booze, and I’d have to give everything up again.’ She picked at the corner of a leopard-print cushion. ‘Have you ever tried living with someone who’s got proper depression? It’s so wearing. The slightest thing sets him off and he’ll be curled up in a darkened room, or screaming foul language, or storming around the house like an elephant with a hangover.’ Deep breath. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Christopher’s the man you found in the woods this morning.’
‘In the...?’ Lucy sat up straighter. ‘How did you—’
‘It was on the news when I was doing the washing up.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Christopher’s dead.’
O Division strikes again. A string vest would leak less than Oldcastle’s finest.
The Dunk elbowed Lucy in the ribs, jerking his head towards Mrs Gourley.
Yeah, he was probably right. Making comforting noises for the family was what you did when you were the senior officer.
‘Mrs... Daphne. Constable Fraser and I are just checking up on a couple of missing persons. It isn’t—’
‘They said it was that Bloodsmith person.’ Her head drooped, voice getting smaller. ‘I read the papers. I know what that means. He cut out my Christopher’s heart, didn’t he?’