Her solicitors probably had a set, too. Maybe that was worth chasing up? Maybe the Bloodsmith was—
Lucy’s phone warbled into life and, when she dug the thing out, ‘DC TALLADALE’ glowed in the middle of the screen. Their very own deep-fried-kebab-eating, hungover birthday boy. ‘Stan.’
‘Please, please, please can I go home now?’
‘Depends. How did you get on with the CCTV?’
‘Louden’s on a couple of cameras, hot-footing it from Markies in the afternoon, being chased by a security guard. Then we’ve got him getting pished on the steps of the cathedral from half three till five. After that it gets a bit ropey. Couple of sightings around the city centre — begging outside John Lewis, eating a burger on Harvest Lane, and that’s pretty much it. Last seen disappearing down Parditch Road at half eleven.’
‘Anyone with him? Anyone who looks as if they shouldn’t be there? Anything unusual happen?’
‘He throws his empties at some pigeons, if that helps? Now I’m begging you: my head’s killing me, my stomach’s like a tumble drier full of gravel, and I just want to go home and die.’ Sounded a bit like a sob at the end, there.
‘OK. But let this be a lesson to you: old people can’t get blootered on a school night.’ She hung up.
‘Sarge?’ The Dunk appeared through from the living room. ‘FSSER are on their way over. So’s the boss. He sounds... stressed.’
She checked her watch: 17:17.
Two hours thirteen minutes till she had to go pick up Benedict Strachan.
‘When’s your show start?’
‘Curtain’s up at seven.’ He looked down at his dirty polo neck. ‘Could do with a shower. Maybe slope off home at half five? Six at the latest.’
‘Yeah.’ She closed the cabinet, then did the same with the cupboard, hiding the cheap coats away again. ‘Well, we probably don’t have to worry. It’s not as if we get to follow things up any more.’
DI Tudor marched over the threshold, face even more creased than usual. Mouth pinched. A curl of hair had broken free of his gelled quiff, wafting about as he turned to survey the living room. ‘Where is it?’
Lucy pointed down the hall. ‘Master bedroom. In the wardrobe.’
A grunt and he was off.
You’re welcome. A pleasure to be of sodding service.
The Dunk pulled a face.
Then a new figure appeared in the apartment doorway. Black Police Scotland fleece on over the standard-issue clingy T-shirt. The fleece had much fancier epaulettes than normal — which could only mean one thing: Big Boss. He had a thin military moustache perched beneath a Roman nose, narrow eyes, thinning brown hair cut short. He pulled off a pair of black gloves and tucked them into his fleece pockets. Posh-as-you-like Inverness accent. ‘And we are?’
The Dunk actually snapped to attention. ‘Detective Constable Duncan Fraser, sir.’
‘DS McVeigh.’ Lucy gave him a small wave. ‘We found the message.’
‘I see.’ He stared off down the corridor, in the direction Tudor had disappeared. Then marched into the living room instead. Stood there, surveying the contents. ‘What do we know about the victim?’
Lucy followed him in. ‘Inherited a fortune from her parents, no siblings, no living relatives, no friends. Murdered eight months ago. Her family lawyers reported her missing.’
‘Hmmm...’ He strode over to the fireplace, forehead creasing as he stared at the rolled-up umbrella. A rippled version of the school crest was visible amongst the damp folds of black fabric. ‘And I see she went to St Nicholas College.’
‘Actually no, Boss, that’s mine.’
‘Is it now?’ A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. ‘Assistant Chief Constable Findlay Cormac-Fordyce, Major Investigations and Operational Engagement.’ Out went his hand. ‘How nice to meet an alumna from my old alma mater.’
‘DC Fraser and I were there this afternoon, talking to one of their pupils. They gave me an umbrella, because it was raining.’
‘Ah.’ The hand was lowered and the smile disappeared. ‘Well, it’s good to know St Nicholas College hasn’t lost its sense of civic engagement.’ One last look around the room. ‘Now, where’s this message from the Bloodsmith?’
The Dunk huffed out a lungful of smoke, crossed his arms, uncrossed them again. Had another puff on his cigarette. ‘I’m only saying.’
Out here, on the decking, their view of the city faded in and out of focus as drizzle swayed across it in thick sheets, smothering all colour from the river and Castle Hill beyond. Lucy’s new brolly kept the worst of it off, but that didn’t stop the chill from leaching into her bones. ‘Well, don’t.’
‘When he found out you didn’t go to the same school, he dropped you like a sock full of warm diarrhoea.’
‘Dunk, this isn’t helping.’
‘Double-barrelled dickhead.’
The patio doors cracked open behind them, and there was DI Tudor, looking as if it was his sock. He grimaced as he stepped out onto the balcony and slid the doors shut behind him. Then slouched back against the glass, eyeing the Dunk’s cigarette. ‘Wish I still smoked...’
She didn’t offer to share the umbrella. ‘We met your friend.’
‘Urgh...’ Burying his face in his hands.
‘Yeah’ — the Dunk nodded — ‘he seemed really nice.’
Tudor shuddered, shoulders coming in as he curled up into a semi-standing ball. ‘DC Fraser, could you give DS McVeigh and me a minute?’
‘Boss.’ The Dunk took one last sook on his fag, pinged the butt out over the handrail, then let himself back into the living room.
Once the doors were safely closed, Tudor hauled himself upright, head doinking off the double glazing. ‘I swear to God, Lucy... It’s like being a ring-piece at the World’s Roughest Prostate Exam Competition. I get one more “motivational” speech from a senior officer, I’m going postal with a claw hammer.’
Maybe not the most tactful of metaphors, given what had happened to Jane Cooper’s skull.
Down on the river, a dilapidated trawler chuntered by, pulling a thick cloud of pale-blue diesel fumes behind it. Herring gulls screamed and swirled in its wake, angular white-and-black shapes against the stainless-steel water.
Tudor snuck a sideways glance at her. ‘Good work finding the message.’
‘He’s revisiting every crime scene he can. Probably stops off to masturbate on the way home, assuming he doesn’t do it while he’s here. Reliving the memories, phone in one hand, cock in the other.’
‘Phone?’
‘You never wonder if he films the bodies while he works on them?’
Tudor buried his face again. ‘Thank you for that image.’ Another sideways glance. Then he fixed his gaze on the rain. ‘We’re going to reseal the crime scene. Get the FSSER in to do another sweep. Which means—’
‘You want me and the Dunk to sod off.’
A sigh. ‘Lucy, it’s not—’
‘No, I get it. We’re surplus to requirements.’
‘You’re not surplus to... Look, you found the message out in the woods, you found it here. That matters. It gives us another chance to catch him.’
Be still her beating heart.
Tudor cleared his throat. ‘You know I’ve had patrol cars swing past your house all day, right? Well, I got a couple of uniforms to door-to-door your neighbours, too. All three houses’ worth. Nobody’s seen anything.’
Shock horror.
‘Mind you’ — he tried on his charming smile, the one that never worked — ‘according to PC Sullivan, everyone in Ballrochie looks like they could give first-hand accounts of the Boer War, so it’s not surprising.’