Back to Lucy. ‘And it’s so much better here than at my last school. Bellside spend all their money on flashy new buildings, management consultants, and PR campaigns; here it’s invested in the curriculum and equipment and facilities. You should see our science lab, it’s like something out of a Bond film!’
Difficult to tell if she was aiming for more Brownie points from the assistant headmaster, or just genuinely excited. Didn’t really matter in the end.
Allegra sighed. Shook her head. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help, Detective Sergeant McVeigh. I truly am.’
‘So am I.’ Lucy stood. Passed over a Police Scotland business card. ‘If you remember anything, doesn’t matter how small, get in touch.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘DC Fraser: we’re going.’
The Dunk groaned, sagged, then struggled to his feet. ‘OK, OK, but can we please take the lift this time?’
‘No.’
18
The Dunk stomped down the stairs, grumbling away under his breath like a sulky child.
Lucy paused every time she recognized one of the portraits that packed the walls on either side of the stairwell. Mostly because it wound the Dunk up to see her peering at another ‘posh twat’.
Served him right for being a useless unfit sod.
By the time they’d got to the fourth floor she’d spotted two controversial journalists, three business types that were always getting interviewed on the Today programme, two former cabinet ministers, and a whole heap of—
Her phone blared out its ringtone.
‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.
She pressed the button. ‘DS McVeigh.’
A banjo-country accent grated its way out of the earpiece. ‘Aye, aye, it’s Mike Scobie. Hiv you seen the boy, the day?’
‘What boy? Who is this?’
‘I telt ye: it’s Mike Scobie. Lucas Weir’s Criminal Justice social worker? Lucas Weir? Wink, wink, maybe no’ his real name, cos he got his heid kicked in when “They” found out far he lived?’
‘Benedict Strachan.’
‘The very loon. Far is he?’
‘How am I supposed to—’
‘He’s meant to report in every morning, like the court telt him to. But there’s nae sign. And yon halfway hoose I got him intil havnae seen him, the day, either. If we canna find him, he’s back ahin bars by dinnertime.’
Bit difficult to lock him up if they couldn’t find him, but fair enough.
She started walking again. ‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’
‘There’s only you and me gives a badger’s fart about the boy. I mak it official and he’s screwed. And if he doesnae turn up soon, I’m gonna have til.’
Maybe being sent back to prison would be the best thing for Benedict? He clearly wasn’t coping on the outside. The drink, the drugs, the paranoia. All that stuff about ‘Them’ knowing everything and being after him...
At least inside he’d get the help he needed.
Hopefully.
Not counting another round of budget cuts.
And there were always budget cuts.
And prison services were an easy target.
And—
‘You remembering I’m still on the phone, here?’
‘What? Yes. OK: look, I’m investigating a murder, I don’t have time to go chasing after people right now.’
‘Aye, weil, I’m heading oot and aboot to see if I can find him, because I actually give a toss. You think it’s OK for him to get hauled in and banged up again? That’s on you. Dinna come crying to me when he gets his throat slit in the prison showers.’
Then silence. Scobie had hung up.
‘Yes, because I can just wave my magic wand and make all the bad things go away.’ Cramming the phone back in her pocket.
The Dunk clumped down the stairs beside her. ‘Let me guess: bad news?’
‘Benedict Strachan’s done a bunk.’
‘Ooooh... Not good. Want me to start the paperwork? “Have you seen this man?” posters, media briefing, lookout request, etc.?’
She stopped. Stood there, staring up at the sloped ceiling. ‘If we make it official, that’s it for Benedict. He gets hauled in, done for violating his release conditions, and it’s right back to HMP Oldcastle for the next three or four years.’
‘Should’ve thought of that before he murdered a homeless guy.’
‘He was eleven, Dunk.’
‘Tell that to the victim’s family.’
They stomped down to the next landing in silence. Then the one after that.
The Dunk let out a big hissing breath, cheeks puffed out like a trumpet player. ‘OK, so you want to make it “off the books”, then? Could put out some feelers; ask Uniform to keep their eyes peeled, but don’t tell them why; maybe pay his parents a visit?’
That wasn’t a bad idea.
Lucy nodded. ‘We can pop past his halfway house, too. See if they know anything. After all, it’s not as if we can do a whole lot more till the post-mortem on Malcolm Louden is...’ She turned the final corner, and there, at the bottom of the stairs, was the headmaster. Waiting for them.
He held up a slim brown file. ‘Thought I’d catch you, if I was fast enough.’
Lucy nodded. ‘Mr Price-Hamilton. We’re finished with Allegra. Thank you for the use of your office.’
‘No, my pleasure, my pleasure. Civic duty’s a keystone of our curriculum, so it’s important to practise what we preach. Was she able to help?’
‘Didn’t see anything.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Anyway’— holding up the folder again — ‘look what I found.’
The Dunk had gone all pink and silent again, so Lucy shoved him towards the exit. ‘Go: get started on those feelers.’
His only reply was a deepening blush, then the Dunk zipped his jacket up, slapped that stupid leather bunnet on his head, and hurried out into the rain. Ridiculous little spud that he was.
The headmaster opened the folder and squinted at the contents. ‘I have to say that I’m impressed with your test results. Very impressed. Academic, psychological, physical... They’re some of the highest scores I’ve seen in years.’ He put a hand on her arm again, the grip warm and firm through her jacket. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t welcome you to our family, Lucy. I was right: you would have been perfectly at home here.’ A squeeze. ‘Imagine what you could have achieved if we’d had the chance to mould those raw talents of yours.’
Patronizing dick.
As if St Nicholas College was the centre of the sodding universe and no one could succeed if it hadn’t sprinkled its overprivileged, overpriced, overbollocksed pixie dust on them.
Chin up. ‘I’ve got an MSc in criminal psychology, first class honours; I own a three-bedroom house, in a lovely rural setting, with no mortgage; and I’m on the fast-track programme with Police Scotland. I’ll make DI before I’m thirty. Maybe superintendent by forty. I’ll be running the whole division by forty-five.’ A brittle smile. ‘So, yeah, I did OK, thanks.’
‘Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘O Division? You could’ve been running the whole country.’
Here’s what you could’ve won...
‘Yes. Well. Thanks again for the loan of your office.’ Then, with her back ramrod straight, Lucy marched out into the rain.
The whole country.
And somehow she got the feeling he wasn’t just talking about Police Scotland.