Delete.
So much for that.
She sagged. Grimaced. Rubbed a hand across her face.
God, what a day.
Should really go have another crack at her wall of suspects. Try to achieve something. As if that was going to happen by sheer force of will.
Yeah...
Back in the Before Times, pre-Neil-Sodding-Black, it would’ve been bottle-of-Pinot-Grigio o’clock. But now? Just have to make do with a nice hot bath instead. Because, while that wouldn’t fix anything, it would make life feel a hell of a lot better.
The Bloodsmith and the dead would just have to wait.
25
The ten o’clock news burbled away in the background as Lucy scuffed through to the kitchen; dressing gown, slippers, damp hair wrapped in a towel.
Clunking open the fridge revealed the usual depressing array of not-very-much. Some milk. A bag of salad that’d turned to dark-green mush. Carton of eggs. Pat of butter. Jar of pickled onions. Chunk of mousetrap cheddar, wrapped up in clingfilm. Half-empty jar of blackcurrant jam with white mould furring its dark-purple surface. Not like Jane Cooper, with her stacks of swanky ready meals.
Wonder what a search team would make of the contents here. What it’d say about the body lying upstairs in the bath. Or maybe they’d find her at the bottom of the stairs? Or out in the garden. Or right here in the kitchen. On her own. All alone.
Here lie the mortal remains of Detective Sergeant Lucy McVeigh, unloved, unknown, and unmourned...
Cheese on toast with pickled onions it was.
She stuck the grill on and checked her old phone. Still only one red bar, and that was, what, an hour it’d been charging?
Lucy picked it up, leaving the power cord plugged in, and turned it on.
Took a moment, but the screen finally flickered into life as the system booted up. That was something, at least. She unlocked it and the thing buzzed and dinged in her hand. Three text messages — one from the Dunk, the other two from unknown numbers — and a couple of voicemails — both unknowns as well.
THE DUNK:
You OK Sarge? Got a message from the Boss saying you got clattered a nasty one? Need me to do anything?
‘I’m not a weak and feeble woman, Dunk.’
DELETE.
Don’t know why physicists got so excited by the speed of light — it travelled at a snail’s pace compared to gossip through O Division.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Dear DS McVeigh,
I hope you are well. It was very nice meeting you today (at St Nicholas College) and I hope you are making good use of the school umbrella.
If you would ever like a tour of the facilities here, I would be delighted to show you around.
Yours sincerely,
Assistant Headmaster, Argyll McCaskill
Apparently, Argyll didn’t send a lot of text messages. Probably got all confused about where to put the stamp, or why he didn’t have to tie it to a pigeon’s leg any more.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Hope you’re pleased with yourself! The BULLY BOYZ just been round & they’ll be jackbooting Benedict back to prison soon as they find him.
YOU WERE MEANT TO HELP!!!!
Presumably that would be Mr Scobie, Benedict’s CJ social worker.
‘Didn’t see you getting chucked in front of a moving sodding train.’
DELETE.
And last, but probably least — voicemails.
YOU HAVE — TWO — NEW MESSAGES AND — NO — SAVED MESSAGES.
MESSAGE ONE:
A plummy posh-boy voice bounced out of the phone. ‘Hello, DS McVeigh, erm... well, Lucy, if I may. Yes. I, erm... Whoooo, this is a bit more... than I thought. Look, I’ll cut to the chase. I know we, erm... you know, chaps, we’re supposed to play it all cool, but I thought I’d... break with tradition and say I was rather taken by you and I’d like to get to know you better?’ You could almost hear him fiddling with his floppy fringe. ‘Oh, it’s Argyll, by the way. Argyll McCaskill? I’m the assistant headmaster at St Nicholas College? Anyway, erm... yes, so I wanted to say... that... and ask if you’d, perhaps, like to... erm... you know, we could go to the pictures, or a play, or concert, or something. If you’d like to? Or for dinner, or even just a coffee?’ There was a pause, then a long, huffing sigh. ‘You can probably tell I don’t do this very often... call women up out of the blue, I mean.’ The words getting faster and faster. ‘But you’ve got my number now, and if you want to get back in touch that’s great, and if not, erm... I’m sorry to bother you. Bye.’
Well, that was slick.
Bleeeep.
With patter like that, bet Argyll McCaskill was a massive hit with the ladies. Like Casanova on steroids. Ahem...
MESSAGE TWO:
The next voice wasn’t anywhere near as posh, but still had that Castleview-upper-crust edge to it, along with a sibilant, missing-teeth smushiness, accentuated by the speaker being obviously drunk and/or stoned. ‘I’m sorry. I hope... hope you’re... all right. I don’t know if you’re... all right, but... but I hope you’re all right.’ Benedict Strachan. ‘If you... if you are all right, if... if you’re listening to this... I want you to know... know I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just...’ A couple of wheezing breaths and a whine. ‘I cocked it up! I wasn’t... wasn’t meant to get caught, but... but I got caught and I... I kept the secret, but I cocked it up and the only way... the only way I can... can make it right...’ Silence.
Lucy made sure the power cable was still plugged in.
Maybe he’d hung up?
‘I have to... to do it properly. Do it properly and not get caught... like last... last time... If you’re... if you really are working for... for Them, tell Them I’m... Don’t hurt my mum and dad. I’m going... going to get it right this time. Promise.’
Bleeeep.
She sagged back against the kitchen table.
Well, that was just... Yeah.
Do it properly and not get caught.
He was going to find himself another homeless person to kill.
She marched through to the living room, grabbed the landline handset, dialled, and took it back into the kitchen, listening to it ring on the way.
‘O Division Control Room, how can I—’
‘DS McVeigh. I need you to put me through to DCI Ross. And I know it’s late, and I know he’s off duty, but just do it. Please.’
‘Can I ask what it’s—’
‘Possible attempted murder.’
A keyboard clattered in the background. ‘Putting you through now.’
The O Division hold music was utterly terrible, but finally a gruff voice cut it off. ‘DS McVeigh. I assume this is—’
‘Benedict Strachan’s breached his release conditions and he’s planning on killing someone, possibly tonight. He’s doped up, delusional, paranoid, and dangerous.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m telling you, because he left me a message on my phone, which means I’ve got the mobile number he was calling from, which means—’
‘We can trace his whereabouts.’ Some muffled crumps and banging. ‘I’ll get a warrant.’ The sound of breathing, then, ‘You’re sure he’s going to hurt someone?’