The Dunk pulled up at the kerb. ‘Anything I need to know before we go in?’
‘Give us a minute, would you? I need to make a call.’
‘Fair enough.’ He reached into the back for his leather bunnet, then climbed out into the dreich afternoon. ‘Don’t be long, though, eh? We’ve still got those two Bloodsmith crime scenes to go visit.’
She waited till he was at least six feet away, before bringing up Dr McNaughton’s number.
Might as well get it over with...
The bungalow was much bigger than it’d looked from the outside. Grander, too. Mr and Mrs Strachan were clearly worth a bob or five and wanted everyone to know it: from the big BMW tank and sporty-looking bright-red Audi TT on the driveway, to all those photos of the happy couple on fancy foreign holidays adorning the walls. Oh, and the whole place had been hoovered and dusted till it shone. Which just wasn’t natural.
The floral-print couch creaked as Lucy sat forward and curled her stockinged feet into the oatmeal-coloured carpet. Deep and rich and luxurious.
The Dunk had his feet tucked beneath his chair, trying to hide the holes in the toes of both stripy socks. At least the Strachans weren’t posh enough to bring on his class-induced muteness. And he had his notebook out — ready to be useful, for a change.
Mr Strachan took up centre stage on the other couch: flannels and an open-necked linen shirt; pale hair swept back from his widow’s peak; a wide, tanned face with a squishy nose; short, salt-and-ginger beard rippling across both of his chins. A voice that was clearly used to telling people what to do. ‘Of course we haven’t seen him.’ Strachan turned and scowled at a cougary woman in a tight knitted sweater and blue jeans, chest-length blonde hair betrayed by a thin stripe of grey at the roots. ‘Have we, Nikki?’
‘Definitely not.’ She worried at a string of pearls with her long Barbie-pink nails. ‘We haven’t seen him. Why would we have seen him?’
Lucy leaned forwards. ‘Because he’s your son?’
‘He’s no son of mine!’ Her top lip curled, but the rest of her face was held rigid in a Botox fist. ‘No child of mine would ever kill a homeless person.’
A snort from Benedict’s father. ‘And no son of mine would be stupid enough to get caught!’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute, I recognize you. You were that student who came round asking all those questions about... him. Years ago.’
‘Mr Strachan, it’s important we find Benedict. If we don’t, they’ll send him back to prison.’
A carriage clock on the mantelpiece tick, tick, ticked.
Mrs Strachan fiddled with her pearls.
The Dunk shifted in his seat, pen poised.
‘Good.’ Mr Strachan poked a finger at them. ‘He ruined everything. Have you any idea what we did for him? What we sacrificed? The strings I had to pull?’
Nikki placed a hand on his arm. ‘Ian was on the council. The Labour Party selected him to run as MP for Oldcastle South.’
‘And then that stupid little...’ Ian Strachan looked away. ‘Of course, I had to resign from the council. Then I got unselected and they found some chinless moron to stand in the general election. And he lost, by the way. I would’ve won.’
She gazed at him, like an adoring puppy. ‘You would’ve been a great MP, Ian.’
‘The scandal was just... It took years to get my business off the ground after that. No one wanted to be tainted by association. He ruined everything.’
Wow. With a loving family like that, how on earth did Benedict turn out the way he did?
His mother sat up straight. ‘We only visited him in prison once, and that was to disown him. Whatever he did, whoever he’s hurt, it’s nothing to do with us.’
‘And Benedict hasn’t been in touch since he got out?’
Ian went back to poking again, getting redder and redder with each word. ‘We spent every penny we had on that boy. Remortgaged the house. Made sure he had the brightest future money could buy, and how does he repay us? Goes out and stabs some... tramp to death. And when they catch him, he doesn’t even have the brains to say “no comment”, he gives them a full bloody confession!’
‘Has he been in touch?’
‘OF COURSE HE HASN’T BEEN IN BLOODY TOUCH!’ Trembling, spittle flying, eyes bugging.
‘Shhhhh...’ Nikki stroked her husband’s arm. ‘Shhhhh... It’s OK. It’s OK, Ian.’ A kiss on his flushed cheek. ‘Why don’t I go make everyone a nice cup of tea? Maybe the police officers will help me?’
Now why did that sound like an invitation to talk about Benedict behind Ian Strachan’s back?
Lucy stood. ‘We’d love to.’
19
Nice kitchen. Big. Retro. With windows looking out over a large garden and tidy patio.
Nikki Strachan stood at the open back door, vaping a cloud of marzipan-scented steam out into the drizzle. Keeping her voice down. ‘Sorry, he’s... It’s not been easy for us. Took Ian years and years to get over what happened with... with what happened. Then he built his business up from scratch and it was all going so well and we’d finally managed to pay off all the loans, and the debts, and actually have a nice holiday for once, then Covid-sodding-Nineteen comes along and bang: we go from employing two hundred and sixty staff to losing everything.’ A bitter-almond laugh. ‘So we’re back to square one. Up to our ears in debt, house remortgaged, and no one’ll take our calls because they let... they let him out of prison and suddenly our name’s all over the papers again.’
Lucy took a sip of lukewarm tea. ‘It must’ve been very difficult.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Detective Sergeant, I loved my little boy. I loved him so, so much. And then he went and did that.’ She wiped the heel of her hand across one eye. ‘And you ask yourself, “Where did I go wrong? How did my sweet little baby turn into this monster?”’
Out in the garden, the Dunk emerged from a large wooden shed, wiping cobwebs off the front of his leather jacket with nitrile-gloved hands. He waved at the kitchen window and shook his head.
Ah well, it’d been worth a try.
Then the Dunk squelched off through the wet grass towards the garage. Probably should’ve loaned him her new brolly, but it’d only get in the way of the searching.
‘My baby was such a perfect little soul. Do you know he could name all the constellations and recite the periodic table by the time he was six? Clever and kind and artistic and musical...’ Nikki stared out into the rain. ‘Then five weeks after he leaves primary school, bang. The whole world falls apart.’
‘And he never tried to keep in touch?’ Lucy jerked her head in the general direction of the living room. ‘Maybe without your husband knowing?’
Nikki was silent for a moment, not turning around, barely moving at all.
‘Mrs Strachan, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—’
‘He writes to me every week, has done for the last sixteen years. Ian doesn’t know. They all get delivered to a PO box in Blackwall Hill.’ Now she turned, eyes shiny and blinking. ‘Please, you can’t tell him. It would break... You’ve seen how he gets.’
Sixteen years’ worth of correspondence. Who knew what little nuggets Benedict let slip? Maybe even something that would identify his accomplice.
OK, Lucy, deep breath.
Don’t sound too keen.
Lucy had another sip of tea. Pitched her voice a little on the bored side. ‘Do you still have the letters?’
Please, please, please, please.