He pursed his chubby lips. ‘Have you still got that headache?’
‘We’re going to be late.’ She strode off down the street — the Dunk struggling to keep up on his short little legs.
He broke into a semi-jog, drawing level with her shoulder. ‘Only I’m pretty sure that if a hangover lasts more than two months, you should see a doctor.’ He shook his head. Thinning a bit at the back there. Not very Tony-Stark-like at all. ‘At the very least, cut back on the booze.’
‘Very funny. You’re like a modern-day Bernard Manning. And for your information, this’ — tapping her forehead — ‘is probably stress-induced. Caused by having to work with weirdos like you all day.’
A busker had set up on the corner, by the lights, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops — a brave fashion choice for Scotland in September — warbling his way through a bland reggae cover of something vaguely recognizable:
Not exactly in the best of taste.
They bustled across St Jasper’s Lane, nipping between a bendy bus and a grubby-brown Renault van, emerging opposite the King James Theatre with its elaborate yellow-brick-and-pink-granite façade, featuring lurid billboards for upcoming performances — ‘CHRISTMAS PANTO: SKELETON BOB AND THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE SANTA, TICKETS ON SALE NOW!’, ‘CASTLE HILL OPERA SOCIETY PRESENTS: THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS’, and ‘SIGN UP FOR SUPERSPANKYBINGOSWANKY — WEDNESDAYS! ~ BIG PRIZES EVERY WEEK!!!’ Because, apparently, being classy was overrated and...
Lucy stopped outside a small newsagent with one of those fake sandwich-board things screwed to the wall by the door. ‘CASTLE NEWS & POST: FAMILIES’ FEARS AS HUNT FOR BLOODSMITH FALLS FLAT’.
‘Sarge?’
A flush of heat spread across the base of her neck, creeping upwards as it turned into that horrible, familiar prickling feeling — as if someone was watching her. Snatching the breath in her throat, setting her heart rattling. But when she spun around, fists clenched, it was just the usual assortment of shoppers and tradespeople, going about their business. Both legal and otherwise.
Wait a minute, there was someone watching her from the other side of the road: a tall, thin man, with a big forehead surrounded by curly brown hair. Beard and moustache. Corduroy jacket, like a supply teacher. Small round glasses that hid his eyes, but not the bags underneath them. And he was just standing there, staring.
Like a weirdo.
A large white van drifted by, blocking him from view, ‘HAVE YOU TRIED SCOTIABRAND CHICKEN MACSPORRANS YET? THEY’RE CLUCKING TASTY!’ in a lurid typeface down the side, with a happy mother feeding her little boy something revolting and flattened-Dalek shaped. And when the van had passed, there was no sign of the man.
‘Sarge?’ The Dunk poked her arm. ‘You OK, Sarge? Only you look like someone’s just shat on your grave.’
‘Never mind.’ Probably just a pervert anyway. Wasn’t as if the city didn’t have more than its fair share. And as long as he stuck to staring, that was fine. Creepy, but Christ knew it was better than the alternative. Lucy strode off again, going a bit faster this time so the Dunk had to abandon his semi-jog for a full-blown scurrying run instead.
The wee sod puffed and panted at her side, cigarette bouncing along — spilling ash down his jacket’s lapels. ‘Seriously, though: who’s Bernard Manning?’
‘God’s sake, I’m only three years older than you, I’m not your granny. Because, let’s face it, if I was related to you, you wouldn’t be so repugnantly ugly.’
‘All right, all right. Thank you, Sergeant Sarcastic.’ The Dunk dodged a couple of schoolkids who probably should’ve been in class at quarter past ten on a Wednesday morning, instead of hanging about outside a shuttered off-licence smoking fags. ‘So, what do you think the big briefing’s going to be about?’
‘Probably giving us all medals and a bonus for doing such a bang-up job of catching the Bloodsmith.’
‘Oh...’ He drooped a bit at that. ‘Well... maybe there’s been a breakthrough, or something, you know?’
‘You’re probably right. After all, it’s early days, isn’t it? Only been after the bastard for seventeen months.’ She took a left onto Peel Place. ‘What’s a year and a half between friends?’
Halfway down, O Division Headquarters loomed in all its brutalist glory. The big, red-brick Victorian monstrosity jutted out from the picturesque ivory-sandstone buildings that lined the street, as if the genteel terrace had suffered a prolapse.
‘Yeah, but it’s not like we haven’t been trying, is it?’
‘Seventeen months, Dunk. And we’re no nearer than we were on day one.’
Lucy slipped out of the briefing room, closing the door behind her, shutting off the bored chatter of two dozen plainclothes and uniformed officers.
DI Tudor paced back and forth along the corridor, face creased and taut at the same time, one arm hugging a stack of paperwork like a teddy bear, leaving the other hand free so he could chew at his fingernails. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a jet-black Peaky Blinders short back and sides that somehow didn’t look ridiculous above serious eyes and salt-and-pepper designer stubble. In another life, he could probably have been a catalogue model — a rugged middle-aged man on a cold-looking beach somewhere, with his fake ash-blonde wife, both wearing matching chinos and rugby shirts: ‘BUY TWO, SAVE £10!’
‘You OK, Boss?’
He kept on pacing. ‘Everyone ready?’
‘Is something wrong?’
His mouth pulled out and down. ‘They’ve put me in charge of the investigation. Sole charge.’
‘Oh...’ Lucy frowned. Bit her top lip. Nodded. ‘That’s not good.’
‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, DS McVeigh!’
‘You know that’s not what I mean, Boss.’
‘Apparently DCI Ross has more active investigations requiring his supervision, but, and I quote, “The High Heidyins have complete faith in my ability to bring Operation Maypole to a swift and satisfactory conclusion.”’ Tudor stopped pacing and covered his face with his chewed hand. ‘I am so screwed.’
Hard not to feel sorry for the poor sod. ‘So, first Superintendent Spence bails and lumbers DCI Ross with it, now DCI Ross hands you the stinky baby and does a runner.’
‘Bad enough as it is, without you rubbing it in.’ Tudor slumped back against the wall. ‘Think it’s too late to go off on the sick?’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and solve this thing?’
His face soured. ‘Fat bloody chance.’ Then Tudor gave himself a shake. Smiled the kind of smile that was meant to convey sincerity and sympathy. ‘Listen to me, moaning on. I should’ve asked how you’re doing.’
She froze for a couple of breaths, then mirrored his fake smile. ‘Never better.’
‘Only, if you need to talk or anything...? My, you know, my door’s always open, right?’
God, could this get any more awkward?
‘I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Keen to get on with things: catch this bastard.’
‘Yeah.’ Tudor sniffed, then gave himself another shake, like an old spaniel coming in from the rain. ‘Show no fear.’ He pulled himself up to his full six-three and nodded at her. ‘Come on, then.’