The Grim Reaper couldn’t come fast enough for the lot of them.
She hauled on an artificial smile, then unlocked the front door and threw it open.
Only it wasn’t a boot-faced pensioner standing on her top step, it was Charlie, the dick from Professional Standards, waving at a patrol car as it drove off down the road. He turned to face her. ‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh. I understand you had an unwelcome guest?’
Tempting to give him the same treatment she’d given the Mini last night, and cave his skull in with that walking stick. But it wouldn’t exactly help, would it?
No, she had to be a good little girl and play the game.
She fixed her fake smile in place. ‘Colin, wasn’t it?’
‘Close. It’s Charlie.’ If getting his name wrong annoyed him, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he peered up at the front of the house. ‘And whoever it was, they cut the phone line, too? That’s the trouble with these old houses — it’s all external boxes, isn’t it? Easy to sabotage with a pair of wire cutters.’
‘Was there something specific you wanted?’
He pulled out a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘Says here they dusted the front door for prints and swabbed for DNA. Think they’ll get a match on the database? Be great if they did, wouldn’t it? Especially if he really was the Bloodsmith.’
‘Well, thanks for popping by.’ Moving to close the front door again.
‘And shouldn’t you have been in the office...’ Charlie checked his watch, ‘nearly an hour and a half ago?’
She threw the door wide again. ‘For your information, Sergeant, Forensics didn’t finish here till after five. Tudor doesn’t want me in till noon.’
‘That’s very kind of him.’
Lucy folded her arms.
He smiled his bland little smile at her.
Blackbirds pop-hopped across the tufted lawn.
Wind rustled in the trees opposite, as Auld Dawson’s Wood stirred.
Lucy sagged. ‘You’re not going to go away, are you.’
‘Why thank you, DS McVeigh, I would love a cup of tea.’
Of course he would.
She retreated down the hall, making sure the living-room door was still shut before pointing at the kitchen. ‘In there.’
He gave her a small nod, then followed her finger through into Dad’s kitchen. ‘Nice house you have here. Must be worth a fair bit?’
‘If you’re asking, “How can I possibly afford somewhere like this?”, it was my father’s.’ Which probably made her a low-rent version of Jane Cooper. No holiday homes in Spain and Cornwall, though, just a static caravan somewhere outside Portsoy.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He leaned back against the work surface as she refilled the kettle. ‘I suppose that’s the only consolation of not having any living relatives: no one fighting over the will.’
Mug. Teabag. Milk.
The kettle rumbled to a boil.
Lucy sloshed the hot water in.
‘Are you always this... taciturn, DS McVeigh?’
She handed him the mug. ‘Yes.’
The kettle clicked and ticked as it cooled.
The fridge hummed.
Charlie smiled his bland smile.
Then the ancient mobile, still plugged in and displaying a single red bar, burst into life. Its screen lit up as the handset buzzed and dinged with a new text message.
FERGUS — GARAGE:
Got your message. Tried phoning back. No answer.
Car needs new brake discs & pads. Not legal to drive. Front suspension is shagged.
Can’t get parts till Tuesday.
Lucy pulled off her glasses, screwed up her eyes, and pressed her fingertips into the sockets till little yellow-black bubbles popped across her vision. Tuesday. That’s what she got for trusting a doddery old fart who did jobs for cash, instead of a proper bloody garage: four more days stuck driving that stupid pink Bedford Rascal.
By the time she’d pulled on her police officer face, straightened up, and turned, Charlie from Professional Standards was nowhere to be seen.
Sod.
She hurried out of the kitchen, into the hall, and froze.
The lounge door was wide open, and there was Charlie, standing in the middle of the room, gob hanging open as he stared at her completely unauthorized and possibly illegal murder board.
He pursed his lips. ‘It’s all a bit... Please tell me you have permission from DI Tudor to take sensitive case material home with you?’
‘You’re not supposed to be in here.’
‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh, you do realize how this looks, don’t you?’ Turning to point at her walls of victims, crime scenes, notes, and potential killers. ‘It’s like something out of a movie. The lone-wolf detective retreats to their lair and obsesses over the case they couldn’t crack.’
There was that word again: obsess.
‘I’m just trying to catch the Bloodsmith.’ She pulled her shoulders back, chin up. ‘At least I’m doing something.’
Charlie puffed out his cheeks and settled onto her green leather sofa, blinking at the wall of suspects. ‘I mean, does Dr McNaughton know? You’d think he would’ve mentioned something like this in his reports. As a warning bell...’ There was a pause, then he took a sip of tea, not taking his eyes off the array of faces. ‘It’s... Why are these seven separate from the rest?’
Heat pulsed in her cheeks. ‘The profile says he’s probably had a string of one-night stands.’
‘Ah, I get it.’ Charlie leaned forward. ‘So you’ve isolated the suspects who women would probably find attractive.’ His eyebrows went up. ‘It’s certainly one way to whittle down the field.’
‘Look, it’s been seventeen months; we need to do something different or we’ll never—’
‘I take it someone’s checked that they’ve all got alibis for when Malcolm Louden was murdered?’
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Maybe, maybe not. You never could tell with DI Tudor — depended on how martyred he felt at any given moment. ‘Of course someone’s checked. Not sure what the result is, though.’ Because no way she was ratting Tudor out to Professional Standards.
Charlie peeled himself off the couch and plucked the framed photo from the mantelpiece — the one nestled in amongst her possible Bloodsmiths: a man and a woman, standing together in a back garden, arms around each other as they smiled for the camera. ‘How come these two don’t have names and details?’
‘Because they’re not suspects, they’re my parents.’
‘Ah.’ A nod. ‘Your mum’s really pretty; is she...?’
The silence stretched.
God’s sake.
As if it wasn’t all in Dr McNaughton’s sodding reports.
Lucy sighed. ‘Fine: she died. Cancer. I was five. Happy now?’ The heat was building in her cheeks again. ‘I’m surprised there isn’t a whole volume dedicated to it: “Lucy McVeigh and Her Terrible Childhood”.’ Getting louder with every word as she flung her arms out. ‘Roll up, roll up: see the little girl whose mother hated her! Laugh at her pain and trauma! Cheer as her dad has a breakdown and she’s sent off to live in a home run by sadists!’ Glaring at him as she lowered her arms again. Blood fizzing behind her eyes. Ready for a fight.