‘You OK, Sarge, only you’re acting all... squirrelly. I mean, more than usual.’
No sign of Charlie waiting for them out front. He was probably off having a wee, or a fag. Or perhaps he was reporting to his superior officers? Didn’t really matter as long as he was somewhere else.
Yesterday’s media circus had moved on from outside Divisional Headquarters. Ex-DC Malcolm Louden was already yesterday’s news, because who cared about one more dead copper? The only remnants were Sarah Black and her placard: ‘LYING POLICE MURDERED MY SON!!!’ All dressed up with no one to protest in front of.
Poor thing.
Lucy glared at Sarah Black’s reflection. The rotten cow attacks her in the street, gets someone to slash her tyres, gets them to follow her, gets them to hammer on her door at three in the morning, and what happens? Nothing. No prosecution, no arrest, no caution, not even a warning. Because why should O Division stand behind its officers when they could be busy worrying about the ‘optics’ instead?
‘Sarge?’
They turned the corner onto St Jasper’s Lane and Lucy sat up again. ‘Just making sure that dick from Professional Standards isn’t following us.’
‘Professional Standards...’ The Dunk’s mouth stretched out and down. ‘Have we done something we shouldn’t have? Only I’ve never been in trouble with Professional Standards before.’ A small shudder. ‘Professional Standards.’
‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She reached into the back for Dunk’s collection of printouts: misper reports for their nine possible victims. Each one came with a photo, supplied by whoever reported them missing. They didn’t all look lonely and miserable — a couple were actually smiling — but if the Bloodsmith got his hands on them, that wouldn’t have lasted long.
First form on the pile: ‘Tristan Solomon, twenty-five, receptionist at a dental practice in Blackwall Hill. Reported missing by his boss when he didn’t turn up for work six weeks ago.’
A nod from the Dunk. ‘Sounds promising.’
‘Give me your mobile.’
‘Sarge?’ Not sounding too keen.
‘I had to buy a new phone this morning, OK? To replace the one that got knackered when Benedict Strachan tried to kill me? It has to fully charge, or the battery’ll be ruined.’
He groaned, then dug his mobile out, one-handed, as he slowed for a zebra crossing. Passed it over. ‘Well, I can’t afford a new one, so don’t break it. Passcode’s six, zero, one, nine. And don’t use up all my minutes!’
There were three phone numbers listed on the first form: Tristan’s mobile, his boss’s mobile, and the dentist’s main number. Lucy tried Tristan first — straight to voicemail. She hung up and tried his boss instead — it rang and rang and rang.
The Dunk took them around the roundabout and onto Harvest Lane. ‘You see DI Tudor this morning? Looks like someone forgot to take him out of the washing machine.’
And rang and rang and rang.
‘He was out at my house last night, with the SEB.’
‘Don’t know if he got any sleep after leaving yours, but he’s got bags under his eyes you could hide a frozen turkey in.’
And rang and rang and— She hung up and tried the dentist’s instead.
‘Hello, Danbroch Dental Practice? It’s the perfect day to feel great about your smile! How can I help you, today?’
‘I’m calling about Tristan Solomon; is Dr Rutherford free?’
‘Speaking. Well, it’s not Dr Rutherford speaking, it’s me. Tristan. Is this Chloe’s mum? Tell her I’m really sorry, I really want to make this work, and I really, really love her very—’
Lucy hung up. ‘It’s not him.’ She shifted Tristan’s form to the bottom of the pile. Next up: ‘Joan McTavish — now there’s a name to wrangle haggises with. Thirty-one, missing for eight weeks, reported by one Derek Garland, doesn’t say what his relationship is with her.’
This time it was picked up on the second ring, and a man’s voice, brash and cheerful, boomed out of the earpiece, ‘Hello?’
‘Is this Derek Garland? I’m calling about Joan.’
‘Hold on a minute, she’s hanging the washing out.’ There was a muffled clunk, then, ‘JOAN! JOAN, PHONE!’
Lucy poked the red button and gave Joan’s form the bottom-of-the-pile treatment. Number three: ‘Errol McIntire, seventy-one — so a lot older than any of the other victims. Urgh...’ She held the printout away from herself. ‘Retired priest. Reported missing by his next-door neighbour three months ago.’ It went against her principles, but Lucy dialled anyway.
‘Who is this?’ A woman’s voice: wobbly, but hard with it. ‘I don’t want to take part in your bloody survey.’
‘Mrs Hawthorne? I’m calling about your neighbour, Errol McIntire. Is he—’
‘That thieving Fenian shite was meant to paint my hallway salmon pink in June. June! He took money, up front, for paint, and just buggered off! Never trust a Catholic. A hundred pounds, I’m down. When am I going to get that back?’
Well, she sounded... nice.
‘Is he still missing?’
‘No, he’s in my living room right now, celebrating Holy sodding Communion. Of course he’s still missing! And if I ever get my hands on him, I’ll wring his papist neck. Where’s my money?’
‘OK, well, sorry to bother you.’ Lucy hit the red button again. This time, the form went on her lap. ‘Errol McIntire’s a possible.’
Three down, six to go...
Lucy checked the form again. ‘This is it.’ The bungalows had that soulless seventies look: pantiles and salt-and-pepper harling, with small rectangular gardens — mostly given over to gravel and planters — and a short driveway for off-road parking. Move two cul-de-sacs over and you’d be looking at Shortstaine’s swankiest four-bedroom new builds, but here it was all crumbling pavements and potholed tarmac.
The Dunk climbed out after her and locked the pool car. ‘I hear this was like a little village before they built the bypass. Must’ve had a pretty good view, till the developers moved in.’
Net curtains twitched in the bungalow next door. That would be the neck-wringing, bigoted OAP harpy: Mrs Hawthorne. Lucy gave her a cheery wave.
An old Saab sat on the driveway beside Errol McIntire’s house, the windscreen nearly opaque with a tacky grey film that was flecked with leaves and seedpods. Probably courtesy of the sycamore tree, drooping in the gravelled-over garden.
‘What do we think?’ The Dunk scrunched his way past it to the house. ‘I hope he’s not dead. I mean, can you imagine a seventy-one-year-old man, lying there, stripped naked, everything on show? Enough to make you lose your Shreddies.’
She handed him the form. ‘Apparently none of our lot really bothered looking.’
‘There’s a surprise.’ He skimmed the paperwork, then stuck it in a pocket. ‘And they wonder why some people have no confidence in the police.’ The Dunk stood on his tiptoes, cupping his hands either side of his face to peer in through the nearest window. ‘No sign of “help me” in the kitchen.’ He tried the next one along. ‘Curtains are closed... so maybe?’
‘Go see if the neighbour’s got spare keys.’
‘Why do you think he strips them naked, Sarge? What if Jane Cooper wasn’t the only sexual encounter, and our forensic psychologist hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about? And what’s he doing with all the blood: drinking it?’