Rain bounced off the dirty-grey pavement, gurgling in the downpipes, as the three of them huddled beneath the stripy awning outside Kelly’s the Baker, wreathed in the crisp golden scent of fresh bread and pastry.
‘Dunno.’ The man in the tatty overcoat sniffed, then wiped his drippy nose on his sleeve. ‘But I could probably, you know, think better if, you know, I had, like, maybe some cash in my hand?’
The Dunk shook his head. ‘We’re not giving out cash prizes the day, Bingo. It’s soup and a sarnie from Lunchity Munchity, or nothing.’ Holding up a voucher. ‘Now, do you know the man in the photo?’
‘Maybe.’ Bingo had another sniff. ‘Depends what he done, don’t it?’
‘You can’t get him into any trouble.’ Lucy put on her concerned face. ‘No one can. Not any more.’
‘Oh. Yeah, yeah, I get you. He’s, like, you know, dead, isn’t he? Right.’ Then Bingo puffed out his cheeks. ‘So it’s a “definitely no” on the cash, yeah?’
A nod from the Dunk. ‘Lunchity Munchity do a really nice cream of mushroom, if that helps?’
‘Maybe he looks a bit like Malky. Used to hang about outside the King James, you know?’ Stubby fingers reaching for the voucher.
‘Thanks, Bingo.’
‘Nah, never seen him.’ Suspicious eyes squinted out from beneath the woman’s ragged fringe. ‘Why you got to keep hassling me?’ Shoulders forward, hands rammed deep into her pockets. Dark-blonde curls escaping from underneath a mud-brown woolly hat. A toast-rack-thin greyhound shivering next to her on a tartan blanket as the rain thumped down. ‘Haven’t done nothing.’
There was a man outside the King James Theatre, whistling a jaunty freestyle-jazz version of ‘God Save The Queen’ as he pasted up an ‘EXTRA DATES ADDED!!!’ banner on the poster for this year’s panto. Completely ignoring the handful of people gathered in the alley, either side of the stage entrance, where a portico kept the worst of the rain off. A mini cardboard-and-bin-bag shanty town, sheltering against the theatre wall.
Lucy shrugged. ‘It’s OK if you don’t know.’
The Dunk held out his voucher again. ‘Soup and a sandwich, Mags.’
Mags cricked her neck from side to side. Then snatched it out of his hand. ‘Don’t know. Sod off. Or I’ll set Ripper on you!’ The greyhound whimpered.
He dipped into his pocket and came out with another couple of vouchers. ‘Anyone else? Anyone seen this guy?’
Lucy showed them all the photo. ‘We’re not trying to get you into trouble. We’re just trying to find out who killed him.’
Four pairs of eyes scowled back at her.
Rain hissed against the buildings.
The man kept whistling.
‘Come on, don’t you want us to catch whoever it was?’ Jabbing DC Louden’s picture at them. ‘What if they come back for you? Or your friends? That what you want?’
A deep grunt rumbled out of a small man in an ancient parka jacket, then a groan as he levered himself to his feet. His thick beard stuck out in all directions, sprinkled with flecks of ash, the moustache stained yellow — a smouldering roll-up poking out between his teeth. Long grey-brown hair. A nose that had been broken at least two or three times. Broad Aberdonian accent. ‘Aye, I kent him weil enough.’
About sodding time.
14
If it wasn’t for Lucy, the Dunk, and their new friend, Dr Vincent Maurice Rayner — all squeezed around a table in the corner, furthest from the door — Lunchity Munchity would’ve been completely empty. It was one of those tiled-floor-and-pine-wainscotting places, the bright-white walls festooned with framed paintings from the local art college.
Dr Rayner slurped at his extra-large mug of milky builder’s, leaving little beige droplets clinging to his stained moustache. ‘Ah... Lovely.’
The Dunk had an espresso, with a glass of water on the side, as if this was some swanky trattoria in Bologna or Rome, rather than a greasy spoon with pretensions of grandeur in a slightly rundown bit of Castle Hill. Damp leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. ‘Come on then, Doc, dish the dirt.’
Another slurp.
Lucy checked her watch. Nearly noon. Still got two, maybe three hours to make some sodding progress. ‘No dirt, no soup, no sandwich.’
A sigh. Then Dr Rayner put his mug on the table, turning it until the handle was perfectly lined up with the rectangular metal cage of condiments. ‘Yer mannie’s cried Malky Louden, he wis a boabby afore he wis oan the streets, ken?’
‘What?’ The Dunk blinked across the table at her. ‘Did you understand any of that?’
That got him a wrinkled scowl as Dr Rayner poked the table with a tar-yellowed finger, beard jutting. ‘Are you mackin’ fun o’ the wie ah spik?’
She let some ice drip from her voice: ‘You’ve got a doctorate in comparative literature, Vincent. You used to lecture at the university. So drop the hillbilly-teuchter act.’
There was a lopsided shrug, then Dr Rayner went back to his tea again. ‘Can’t blame a man for injecting a bit of fun into the daily grind, can you? Brightening up all our days?’ Then he turned to the Dunk, placing a grubby hand on the sleeve of that perfect-black polo neck. ‘I said, “The gentleman you are enquiring about is called Malcolm Louden, and he was a police officer before he became homeless.”’
‘Right.’ The Dunk extracted his arm, lip curled as he examined it for smudges and dirt.
Wimp.
Lucy pointed across the table. ‘And you’re the one who reported Malcolm Louden missing?’
‘Society seldom notices when people like us disappear, Detective Sergeant — if we don’t watch out for each other, who will?’ A sigh. ‘It didn’t help Malcolm any, though, did it?’ Rayner picked a handful of sugar sachets from the bowl on the table and lined them up in a perfect grid. ‘He liked to keep himself to himself. I think it was the ex-copper thing: sometimes people reacted badly when they found out he was once on the jackbooted side of the social divide.’ He gave them a shrug and a hairy smile. ‘No offence.’
A tall thin woman in a chequered pinny appeared with a bowl and a plate. ‘Who’s the soup?’
‘That would be me. Thank you kindly...’ peering at her nametag, ‘Elizabeth, my darling. And I believe it comes with a freshly baked bread roll?’
She thunked the bowl and the plate down in front of him. ‘I’ll get your sandwich.’ Then stomped off with all the grace of a tumble drier.
‘Of course, we’d meet up from time to time, to pool our resources and expertise.’ Dr Rayner tore off a chunk of bread, slathered it with a pat of butter, then dipped it in his sweetcorn-and-smoked-haddock chowder. ‘Being ex-police, Malcolm was very good at distracting the security guards while my nimble fingers played amongst the wines and spirits.’ The dripping chunk of bread got stuffed into that beard-rimmed maw. ‘He was particularly fond of a good single malt, but you know what supermarkets are like these days. Anything better than own-brand blend and they just put an empty box on the shelf, so you have to ask at the checkout to get it filled. And they’re not so keen on you saying, “I just shoplifted this, and you didn’t catch me, so that means you have to hand over the actual bottle. Fair’s only fair. I don’t make the rules.”’