‘I burn them.’ Mrs Strachan curled her shoulders in, vape cupped against her jumper. ‘What if Ian found one and then he’d know I’ve been speaking to... to him. I can’t do that to Ian. Not after everything he’s been through.’
Bastard.
Couldn’t catch a break today.
Lucy put her mug down. ‘Did Benedict ever talk about the boy who helped him kill Liam Hay? Or why they did it?’
‘We never talk about... what happened. It’s too upsetting. Besides, you never know who reads your letters when you send them, do you? People at the prison.’
‘What about since he got out?’
This time the silence stretched on for a long, long while.
‘Mrs Strachan? He’s been in touch, hasn’t he?’
She stared down at the kitchen floor, pulling her top lip in.
‘Did he come to the house?’
Nikki wiped at her eyes again. ‘You don’t understand how hard it is.’
‘They’re going to catch him sooner or later. And when they do, he’s going to be in a lot of trouble.’
‘It’s not fair. It wasn’t his fault!’
‘If we find Benedict now, today, no one else needs to know. We slip him back into the system, so he doesn’t get arrested for violating his release conditions. He doesn’t get stuck back in HMP Oldcastle till his thirty-first birthday.’
Nikki didn’t raise her eyes from the kitchen floor. ‘I can’t. He trusts me.’
‘Help me to help him, then! If we can keep him from getting locked up, Benedict can focus on getting better.’
‘I promised...’
‘He needs you, Nikki. He needs his mother to help him do the right thing.’
‘Oh God.’ Her free hand came up and covered her eyes, shoulders quivering; then her back hunched as she heaved out a huge, jagged sob. Followed by another one. And another. Knees bending till she was slumped forwards against the doorframe.
The summer house was tucked away behind a trellis festooned with honeysuckle — the blooms wilting and grey, battered into submission by the week’s rain. But their sickly-sweet perfume still scented the air, leaves glistening in the cold drizzle.
Nikki stood in the middle of the wooden floor, beneath the peaked roof, eyes screwed shut, one hand pressing the vape against her forehead as if she was trying to trepan herself with it. The other held her phone. ‘I know, sweetie, I know, but it’s—... Yes... No, I know that, but—... It’s—’ Her shoulders drooped even further. ‘You have to understand it from your father’s—... Please. We have to—... No.’
Lucy sat on the edge of a folding chair, frowning up at the remains of a wasps’ nest. It hung from one of the joists that held the summer house’s roof up. Not a big nest, just a little ash-coloured circle the size of a golf ball, with a hole in the bottom.
‘Sweetie, we need to—... I understand that, but it’s important.’
That was a queen’s nest. Where the future mother of all wasps would hibernate her way through the winter.
‘I know you do, but I need to see you. In person... Uh-huh.’ She opened one eye and glanced at Lucy. Then closed it again. ‘No, just you and me. I’ll... I’ll bring you some sandwiches. Egg and onion. Your favourites... Yes... I know, I know.’
Surprised the nest was still there. Maybe the queen emerged too early and just starved to death? Even so, you’d think the Strachans would’ve got rid of it by now. Must’ve been there since last winter.
A silent empty home for dead little monsters.
‘Good. Yes... I’ll see you there... No, I promise, sweetie, I promise.’ Nikki nodded. ‘OK. OK, bye. Bye. Bye... Bye.’ She hung up. Hissed out a long breath. Then hauled in another one through her vape. Puffed a thick plume of marzipan steam at the summer-house roof, enveloping the wasps’ nest.
Lucy stood. ‘He’ll be there?’
She pinched her lips together, fixed her gaze on the garden outside. ‘You swear you won’t hurt him?’
‘Of course I won’t.’ Well, not unless he kicked off. Or tried to get away. Which he probably would. But Nikki didn’t need to know that. ‘I swear.’
‘Then he’ll be there.’
The Dunk clumped his way down the drive, past the swanky BMW four-by-four and the sporty Audi, over to the manky pool car. Hauled open the driver’s door and thumped in behind the wheel. ‘Urgh... For someone who keeps such a clean house, her shed, garage, and attic are a disgrace.’ He took off his soggy dust-streaked bunnet and tossed it into the back of the car. ‘And what are you looking so damned cheerful about? Is it because you didn’t have to go rummaging about in the filth, looking for Benedict Buggering Strachan?’
Lucy gifted him the most annoying smile she could muster. ‘Blackwall Hilclass="underline" there’s a coffee shop on Brindle Road, opposite the train station.’
The Dunk unzipped his grubby leather jacket. ‘If that’s supposed to get my Y-fronts in a swirl, it’s not working. Unless you’re buying?’
‘Benedict Strachan’s going to be there at half seven tonight.’
‘Oooh...’ Eyes widening. Then, ‘Sod.’ The Dunk checked his phone. ‘I’m going to the theatre with Zoe tonight. Had the tickets booked for months.’
Lucy pulled her seatbelt on. ‘It’s not as if I can’t handle Benedict Strachan.’
‘I’d cancel, but her sister and brother-in-law are in it.’
‘Isn’t even an official operation. You go, enjoy your show.’
‘Yeah.’ He grimaced, then started the car. ‘An am-dram musical version of Silence of the Lambs. No way that’s going to be a festering sack of old garbage.’ The Dunk hauled the wheel round in a three-point turn, till they were heading out of the cul-de-sac again. ‘Where next? You wanna hit Jane Cooper’s flat in Castleview first, or Craig Thorburn’s place in Blackwall Hill?’
Victims number four and five.
‘Jane Cooper. Then I need you to drop me back at the station. DI Tudor wants me to talk to someone.’ Whether she liked it or not.
Jane Cooper’s flat was one of the swanky new ones on St Bartholomew’s Road, down by the river. Eight storeys of ‘luxury apartments’, most of which were still sitting empty — either not sold yet, or snapped up as an investment by people with more money than brain cells.
Jane’s was near the top, with floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out across gunmetal water to the long, thin stretch of Dalrymple Park, then on to the bit where Cowskillin merged into Castle Hill. A balcony of wooden decking sat outside, complete with a patio set — the rattan furniture tainted green where patches of moss and algae had taken hold. Damp and soggy in the permanent drizzle.
The Dunk let loose a long, low whistle, standing there with his nose pressed against the living-room window. ‘She must’ve been absolutely minted.’
Not that it had helped her any. The Bloodsmith had killed Jane Cooper just as dead as the others.
Lucy furled up her brand-new umbrella and leaned it against the oversized fireplace, then slapped the case file down on the dining table — a big chrome-and-beech thing with matching chairs, sitting beneath a complicated chandelier festooned with LED lights. ‘Read.’
‘Man, I would love to live somewhere like this.’
‘Case file, Dunk, read. Out loud.’
A sigh and he wandered over, running his fingertips along an expensive-looking sideboard punctuated with tasteful ornaments. Leaving parallel tracks in the dust and fingerprint powder. ‘Imagine the dinner parties you could have...’
Lucy did a slow tour of the living room while he opened the folder and dug out the paperwork.