The only sound was a grey-muzzled Labrador, snoring gently in a bed by the radiator.
Lucy cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry. I know this must be horribly upsetting, but there’s nothing to say the man we found this morning is your husband.’
Not yet, anyway. Not until you answer the damn question.
‘He was never the same after he left the police. Strange, isn’t it? He complained about the job the whole time, but after he stopped, he missed it like you’d miss an ear. I thought Christopher getting stabbed would be a good thing for us. Let us spend some proper time together. Go travelling.’ A small, sad smile; then her eyes glistened as the tears welled up. ‘I always wanted to do a cruise on the Nile, or all round the Caribbean. Hell, even the Isle of Wight ferry would’ve done at a push. Instead, I got to spend the last six years watching my Christopher die inside. Internal organs preserved in Tennent’s Export and Bell’s Whisky, like it was his own private formaldehyde.’
‘Daphne, did Christopher have any tattoos?’
Mrs Gourley nodded.
Gotcha.
‘His team broke up a people-smuggling ring — prostitution, drugs, modern slavery, very nasty — so they went out to celebrate. And when he sobered up, about two days later, there it was.’ She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her T-shirt, voice going tight and strangled. ‘He moaned about the bloody job so much, then the silly sod goes and gets that stupid police logo thing permanently inked into his body?’
They had an ID.
Time to let her know the truth, then.
‘Daphne, I’m sorry, but—’
‘They’d all done it, of course. The whole team. Even the new boys. “Semper Vigilo”.’ A big soggy-nosed sniff. ‘Must be Latin for “Easily Led”.’
‘Perhaps Constable Fraser could make you a nice cup of tea, and we can—’
‘At least he didn’t get it anywhere embarrassing.’ Mrs Gourley tapped herself on the shoulder. ‘Christopher’s detective sergeant got it tattooed right on her bum!’
Sod. If it was on his shoulder, goodbye ID.
‘She used to flash it at people when she was drunk. Anyone had a leaving do, or a birthday, or a funeral, and out would come DS Massie’s tattoo for all the world to see.’
Lucy stood. ‘I’ve got some good news for you, Daphne, the man in the woods definitely isn’t your husband.’
‘Oh...’ It was as if someone had pulled the bung from an inflatable mattress, letting all the air hiss out of her. ‘I see.’ Sounding a little bit disappointed.
‘Before we go, though: don’t suppose you’ve got a photo of Christopher’s old team knocking about?’
‘Sure as I can be, Boss.’ Lucy held the photograph up again, blocking her view through the windscreen as the Dunk took them left at the roundabout and onto Calderwell Bridge, making for the centre of town. In the photo, DI Gourley looked vaguely embarrassed as he stood in the midst of a team of twenty officers, all in plainclothes and all posing as if they were something off the television.
Some were pointing mimed guns, one doing that Bruce Forsyth thing, two blokes pretending to kiss, one woman showing off her muscles, another guy with his shirt unbuttoned, proudly displaying the Oldcastle Police crest tattooed on his chest...
And right at the back, doing his best tosser-from-the-Bullingdon-Club, DC Malcolm Louden. He wasn’t as junkie-thin as the corpse, spreadeagled on the bloodstained floorboards — and his hair was a sort of bouffant Hugh Grant tribute act, without a hint of grey — but it was definitely him.
Or at least ninety-five percent definitely him.
Maybe eighty-five at a push.
DCI Ross gave a little grunt. ‘I see. Hang on a minute...’ Then came the sound of some poor keyboard getting a spanking from those huge fingers. Then some muttering. Then silence.
The drizzle worked itself into a spitting rain, then something a lot heavier, as the bridge’s lights flickered on in a miserable wave ahead of the pool car — their photoelectric sensors triggered by the growing gloom.
Half ten in the morning, on a wet September Thursday, and it was already dark enough to need artificial illumination. Welcome to sodding Oldcastle.
Yet more silence.
Maybe DI Ross had forgotten about her? Maybe he was—
‘Lucy?’
‘Still here, Boss.’
‘Have you told Tudor yet?’
‘He’s attending the PM with that new Procurator Fiscal. Got his phone turned off.’
‘Fair enough.’ Another grunt. ‘I see our ex-DC Louden has a somewhat... chequered past. The press will make a three-course meal out of that, which isn’t going to help us any. Have you notified next of kin?’
Did Malcolm Louden even have next of kin?
She looked at the Dunk. He just shrugged back at her.
‘Actually, Boss, I wouldn’t want to do that till we’ve got hundred-percent confirmation. Louden’s DNA will still be on file, so once the PM’s over we should know for certain. If someone leans on the labs, anyway.’ Hint, hint.
‘I’ll get the Media Department working on a statement. Meantime, the only people who know are you, me, DC Fraser, and the Bloodsmith. Let’s keep it that way. And I need you to put together his final movements. Last known associates: who did he speak to, did they see anything? You know the drill.’
‘On our way now, Boss.’ Because it never hurt to look efficient in front of the senior brass.
Another silence.
The Dunk sailed straight through the junction with Nelson Street — which would’ve been a much faster way back to the station, but then he’d have to cross the dual carriageway and they all knew what a wimp he was about that.
‘Lucy, Malcolm Louden was a dirty cop, and no one hates a dirty cop more than me, but that doesn’t mean we’re not going to do everything we can to catch the bastard who killed him. Understand?’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Good work.’ And that was it — this time the silence was final. DCI Ross had hung up.
She slipped her phone back in her pocket. ‘Is it just me, or is Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Ross not a Teflon-shouldered, power-crazed, condescending, massive pain in the backside?’
A low whistle emanated from the driver’s side. ‘You’ve not got the hotties for him, have you, Sarge? Only he’s old enough to be your...’ The Dunk cleared his throat. ‘He’s far too old for you. And he’s married.’
‘Don’t be a dick, Dunk.’
‘No, Sarge. Sorry, Sarge.’ Sideways glance. ‘You know, we’ve been out and about for nearly an hour and you’ve still not said a word about what happened with Sarah Black this morning.’
‘Is that right.’ The gossip tree strikes again.
‘She’s a vindictive, scabby, fusty old shitebag, and you shouldn’t be expected to—’
‘Take the hint, Dunk, and drop it.’
He chewed on the inside of his cheek, lips pursed as if she’d just slapped him. But at least he kept his gob shut.
Good.
She pointed through the windscreen in the vague direction of Divisional Headquarters. ‘We’ll dump the car back at the shop, then hit the streets. See if we can find whoever reported Louden missing. Maybe they saw something and want to help?’
After all, there was always a first time.
‘It’s OK, take your time.’ Lucy held up the photo they’d cranked out on the office printer: DC Malcolm Louden’s last mugshot, taken after he’d been arrested for urinating in the doorway of CopyKwiK on Cupar Road. The Bullingdon bravado had long since disappeared, leaving behind someone who needed a shave, a bath, and a damn good going over with a hairbrush. One side of his face was swollen and red, from where the arresting officer had to wrestle him to the ground. ‘He used to hang around the city centre, if that helps?’