‘The woman’s a bloody menace. Stay away from her, though, eh? Last thing we need is Sarah Cocking Black crapping in the swimming pool along with everyone else.’
‘She attacked me, remember? It wasn’t like I went looking for—’
‘It’s just, these last couple of months you’ve been... I don’t want her setting you off, OK? I need you focused on the Bloodsmith, not fighting with Sarah Black and her idiot offspring.’
The Dunk was staring at her across the car, eyebrows raised as they trundled along behind a bus.
Lucy placed a hand across her eyes and squeezed, just hard enough to make little black dots, circled in yellow, appear. Forcing the words out between clenched teeth. ‘Yes, Boss.’
‘I mean it, Lucy.’ A pause. ‘So, where are you?’
‘Me and the Dunk went looking for the little girl who gave Malcolm Louden his new coat. Just in case she saw or remembered something.’
‘Why am I hearing defeat?’
‘Tracked her down to Bellside School for Girls, but she’s left there. Goes to St Nick’s now.’
A low whistle. ‘Swanky.’
‘I’ve got DC Talladale digging through the city CCTV anyway, so we can probably do without traipsing all the way out to Auchterowan. Maybe talk to a few more of the homeless community instead? We could organize a—’
‘After what happened this morning, you’re better off staying as far away from DHQ as possible; Sarah Black’s still out there with her bloody placard. Go see the swanky schoolkid. You never know: maybe she saw someone hanging around? Cover all the bases.’
‘Wouldn’t it be more productive to—’
‘The top brass think ex-DC Louden’s criminal record is going to spin round and sink its fangs in our arse. They’re sending an assistant chief constable from Gartcosh to “liaise”. Like I don’t have enough arseholes breathing down my neck already! A hundred quid says he’ll be one of those anal, misery-faced, everything-by-the-book types, and if he finds out we didn’t follow up every — single — lead, no matter how crap or thin, it’ll be me getting kicked in the nuts with a size twelve. So, you’re definitely going to see that schoolkid.’
‘But—’
‘And how am I supposed to catch the Bloodsmith when I’ve got three million layers of management peering over my shoulder the whole time? It’s not—’
Lucy pressed the phone against her chest as Tudor moaned and whinged. ‘Change of plan, Dunk, we’re going to St Nick’s after all.’
‘Not more posh twats?’
‘Yes, more posh twats.’
‘Gah...’ He did a one-eighty at the next roundabout, heading back the way they’d just come. ‘Any chance we can stop for food along the way? Starving.’
Back to the phone.
‘—don’t trust me to run an investigation, then why lumber me with it? It’s like juggling handfuls of burning shite, Lucy, and I’m sick of it.’
‘Look, Boss, about this Sarah Black thing—’
‘Hold on, Spudzilla’s on the warpath again. Think we’re—’ Then the line went dead.
Lovely.
Lucy put her phone away.
‘So...’ the Dunk tried his hopeful-puppy face, ‘lunch?’
‘Yeah, why not.’
The sticky-brown scent of fried onions slithered across the car park and in through the pool car’s passenger window, courtesy of Bad Bill’s Burger Bar — parked outside the Beaton Wood Sports Centre, in the heart of the Swinney, trees pressing in on every side. If this was California, or somewhere swanky, it would’ve been called a ‘food truck’, but here it was just a manky old converted Transit van: painted matt black, so Bad Bill could chalk up the day’s specials on the sides. He had the serving-hatch flap raised, affording the Dunk a little protection from the slashing rain. But not much.
The soggy wee sod was at the counter, stretching his tiny frame and pointing at things on the menu board, like a small child at an ice-cream van. Not the most commanding of police presences.
Meanwhile, warmish and dry, Lucy sagged in her seat and frowned out at the dark mass of pine and birch that lined the business park. Raindrops crackled like fireworks against the Vauxhall’s bonnet and, for a moment, they were loud enough to drown out the saccharine hold-music droning out of her phone, which was nice.
Who on earth thought a pan-pipes rendition of Ricky Martin’s ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ would be a good idea? And on a loop?
She had to listen to the tootling horror three more times before a woman’s voice cut it off:
‘Miss McVeigh?’ About sodding time. ‘Sorry: been checking the schedule. We can fit you in on Monday, if that helps? Can’t do any sooner, I’m afraid — Kevin’s away in Vegas for his daughter’s wedding, and we’re stappit foo. Everyone and their neighbour’s dog want security systems fitted this month.’
Sod.
Lucy suppressed a sigh. ‘No, that’s... Monday. OK.’
‘I can put you on the wait list, if we get a cancellation?’
‘Please.’
‘Righty ho. Stay safe!’ They hung up.
So much for that. Definitely have to get a baseball bat now.
16
The Dunk hurried around to the driver’s side, hauled the door open, and scrambled in behind the wheel, bringing with him an extra-heavy waft of fried meat. A couple of Styrofoam containers balanced in one hand, a pair of wax-paper cups in the other. Dripping as he wriggled in his seat. ‘Like a lake out there.’ He gave himself a little shake, then held out one of the cartons.
‘What is it?’
‘You said, “Surprise me.”’
Fair enough.
He put his own on the dashboard, then passed her one of the cups. ‘Tea. Milk. No sugar.’ Then went into a pocket for a handful of paper napkins. Gave three quarters of them to her, before tucking one into the collar of his soggy polo neck.
Lucy creaked her polystyrene container open and peered in at what was probably the dirtiest burger known to man. A couple of what looked like Bacon Frazzles had escaped from beneath the bun, turned slightly limp in a smear of pink sauce. ‘OK: I’m surprised.’
‘Double Bastard Bacon Murder Burger.’ The Dunk opened his own container and dug at the brown-and-white sludge inside with a little wooden spork. Leaning forwards to take a delicate mouthful. Probably trying not to get anything sticky on his damp black ensemble. Chewing and swallowing before washing it down with a sip of tea. ‘You know what I’ve been thinking about?’
‘Is it me having a heart attack?’ Because there was clearly enough saturated fat in this thing to clog an elephant’s arteries. Didn’t taste bad, though. Pickles, cheese, Bacon Frazzles, two burgers, lettuce, a sesame bun, and all the sauces: tomato, brown, Marie Rose, chilli, and mustard too. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Stovies.’ Another dainty bite.
‘I like stovies.’
‘Yeah, I know. But that wouldn’t have been a surprise, would it?’ More stovies were delicately nibbled. ‘Anyway, what I’ve been thinking is: why did the Bloodsmith go back to the cottage in the woods? The first one, I mean, where he killed Abby Geddes. Why go back and write “help me” again?’
‘Because we bleached the first one away.’
‘Again: yeah, I know. But the words have to matter for him to do that, don’t they? Otherwise, why bother?’