She nodded. ‘Thanks for trying.’
‘The Dunk tells me you think the guy following you might be some sort of heavy, hired by Sarah Black? Maybe you should stay somewhere else, tonight. Just in case?’
‘Got my hundred-and-fifty-decibel rape alarm, remember?’
‘Yes, you do.’ He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit. Frowned out at the rain again. ‘Anyway, one more crime scene to go and then we can talk about where best to deploy your and the Dunk’s talents.’
‘Can’t.’ Lucy hooked a thumb at the living-room window. ‘The Dunk’s got a prior appointment and I’ve got to go see a man about a couch.’
‘But—’
‘Hey, it was your idea, remember? “You need to talk to your therapist, Lucy”, “I’ll get you signed off on the sick if you don’t, Lucy.” Unless you want me to cancel?’ She pulled out her phone. ‘Not a problem, believe me.’ Scrolling, one-handed, through the contacts till she got to ‘DR JOHN MCNAUGHTON’. Thumb ready to pounce. ‘Honestly, it’ll be my pleasure.’
‘That’s not fair: I never threatened to get you signed off!’ Tudor stepped out to the edge of the balcony, leaning on the railing in what was probably meant to be a casual and manly way. ‘When you came back after... Neil Black, I was amazed at how well you seemed to be coping, but these last couple of months?’ A huffed sigh, then a shake of the head. ‘You’re spiky and abrupt and sarcastic. OK, you’ve always been sarcastic, but you weren’t usually cruel with it.’
‘I am not cruel!’
‘Maybe it’s all this crap with Sarah Black? Or maybe you came back to work too soon? And maybe going off on the sick would be good for you. Help you figure out how to be the real you again.’
Bastard.
Her jaw tightened, teeth making squeaking noises in her head as the pressure grew. ‘You — just — said — I was — doing — good — work.’
He stared out at the miserable rain-soaked view. ‘When’s your appointment?’
‘Earliest I could get was six.’
Tudor checked his watch. ‘Better get a shift on, then.’
Lucy popped her brolly up and marched out the front of Jane Cooper’s building onto a wide area laid with paving slabs. They’d planted a handful of trees in amongst the stones, their wilting branches already losing swathes of yellowed leaves in the rain. Because that’s what life was: disappointment and death.
The Dunk hurried out after her, face pink, air wheezing out of him in shallow panting breaths. ‘Hold up, hold up...’
A couple of patrol cars sat by the kerb, an SOC Transit parked behind them — the driver had his head buried in a tabloid, while the passenger foostered about on her phone.
Lazy sods.
Lucy banged on the driver’s door.
He looked up from his paper — face like a ruptured beanbag — then buzzed the window down a couple of inches. ‘What?’
‘Should you not be up there doing things?’
He curled his lip, setting both chins quivering. ‘Nah. His Holiness the ACC says we gotta wait here till he gives the all-clear.’
The passenger leaned over the gearstick. ‘I’m saying nothing.’ Then went back to playing with her phone again.
Yeah.
Lucy looked up at the seventh floor, where Jane Cooper’s flat was. Forced the burning wedge of bile out of her voice: ‘Do me a favour and sweep for body fluids. Could be our boy gave himself “a little treat”, before heading home.’
The driver closed his eyes and said something under his breath. Then, ‘Why do I always have to get the wankers? Why can’t I get a nice wholesome murder-suicide for a change?’
‘Perks of the job.’
The Dunk dropped her off on Guild Street, back where she’d parked the Bedford Rascal in all its embarrassing pink glory. He grimaced at the jolly meat characters painted on the sides. ‘I still say those sausages look like they’re shagging.’
Lucy watched him drive off, then checked her phone. Ten to six. Should be just enough time to make her appointment with Dr John Tosspot McNaughton.
Because who wouldn’t relish the opportunity to drag something horrible like Neil Black out into the open all over again?
‘God...’ She sagged her way into the driver’s seat and cranked the rattling engine into life.
Next stop: the thing Lucy swore she’d never talk about.
21
A long pause from Dr McNaughton, then: ‘And how does that make you feel?’ He’d positioned his chair in its usual place, just outside the circle of light, lurking in the shadows of his industrial-chic office. Rattling his jewellery every time he moved. Asking stupid questions. Being a pain in the arse.
‘How the hell do you think it makes me feel?’ Lucy scowled up at the ceiling with its stupid exposed ducting and pipes. ‘They’re basically threatening to sign me off on the sick, and I’m the only bastard making progress on this damn case! How is that fair?’
Silence.
Always with the bloody silence.
Ask the same ‘how do you feel’ question, then sit there, not saying anything, like a pot plant, as the world slowly dies.
Well, two could play at that game.
She folded her arms and thumped further back into the couch’s seat cushions. It sent a little flurry of dust motes out to dance in the spotlight’s glow.
And wasn’t he supposed to be on her side? Little sod should be defending her, sticking up for her, telling her that DI Tudor was a dick and that she was completely right to feel hacked-off and betrayed.
Tosser.
‘AARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!’ Going rigid as a crowbar. ‘That’s how it makes me feel.’ Then sagging into the cushions again.
McNaughton might have been all hidden away, but his reflection wasn’t — caught in the brushed-stainless-steel surface of a decorative chunk of faux machinery that some idiot designer had probably been paid a fortune to come up with. If anything, the dimpled metal reflected back the real Dr McNaughton. Not the face he presented to his friends and family, or his employers, or his patients, or his students: the real him. Twisted and distorted, greedy and devouring, hazy and monstrous. Like the minotaur, lurking in the gloom at the centre of its labyrinth, waiting to rip Theseus apart and feast on his bones...
Yeah.
Thinking in metaphors based in Greek mythology, now. Clearly going back to St Nicholas College after all this time hadn’t stirred anything up at all.
‘And why do you think Detective Inspector Tudor wants you to talk about what happened with Sarah Black?’
Urgh.
She let the silence stretch for a while, but there wasn’t a lot of point, was there? McNaughton would win in the end, because people like him always did. One word to Tudor, or DCI Gilmore, would be all it took to get her thrown off the job.
‘Because he thinks I’m going to obsess about what happened with...’ A small, unfunny laugh hiccupped out of her. ‘Even after all this time, I can’t say his name out loud. How stupid is that?’
Oh God, Tudor was right, wasn’t he?
Wonderful.
She draped an arm across her eyes.
Groaned.
What was DCI Ross’s advice again? Something like, Do yourself a favour and play along. You might be surprised how much it could help. And at the very least it gets them off your back.