‘Anything else?’
A frown. ‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Good. Now go see about those keys.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Sarge.’
While the Dunk scrunched off, Lucy snapped on a pair of purple nitrile gloves and tried the Saab’s door handles — definitely sticky, but locked.
The front door was tucked away down the side, behind the Saab. Crap-brown paint, peeling off the wooden door. Fliers for double glazing and stairlifts sticking out of the letterbox. A shabby catflap that looked about ready to collapse. She leaned on the bell and some sort of jazz standard started up inside, then faded away. Took all sorts. She gave it ten seconds before setting the thing playing again. Knocking didn’t produce any results, so she tried the handle. Also locked.
A small garage sat at the end of the drive, welded to the house on one side and Mrs Hawthorne’s garage on the other. Up-and-over door. Probably too much to hope for, but she tried the handle anyway.
Not locked.
Wow.
She hauled and the door rattled up on its springs, revealing an array of dusty shelves, covered in boxes and jars and things. A chest freezer humming away to itself against the far wall. You’d’ve thought, by now, someone would’ve been in and nicked the lot, but no.
There wasn’t a door through to the house, but there was one into the back garden — an overgrown jungle of knee-high grass and weeds landmined with cat shit, a pair of apple trees bent under the weight of blood-red fruit. Three gnomes leering at her from the undergrowth. They weren’t alone — eight fat furry felines prowled through the long grass, each one staring up at Lucy and licking its lips. OK...
A small area had been laid out with paving stones, grass sprouting up between the slabs. The planters were choked with it, too — green blades doing their best to choke out whatever was meant to be growing there.
‘Sarge?’
‘Round the back!’ She waded her way to the rear of the house, where a pair of patio doors gave a dusty view of the living room. Bigger than you’d think, from the kerb out front, with an ugly patterned carpet and heavy anaglypta walls. A grey suite — its sides all scratched and fraying.
Two times lucky?
Lucy gave the patio-door handle an experimental tug, but it didn’t shift.
The Dunk appeared from the garage. ‘You know what I think? I think he’s taking their clothes as trophies.’
‘Keys?’
‘Nope. But I did get an earful about how good, honest, God-fearing Protestants shouldn’t have to live next door to thieving papist scum. Didn’t think we had that kind of sectarian bollocks in Oldcastle, thought it was more of a Weegie thing. Who cares what imaginary man-in-the-sky you worship? I’m with Karl Marx on that one.’
Shock horror.
‘Hey puss-cat.’ He stooped to pet one of the tabbies, then stood and squinted in through the patio doors. ‘Lots of serial killers do that, though, don’t they? Take things from their victims, so they can have a little fantasy wank over them.’
‘Or maybe he’s just forensically aware?’ She pushed into the weeds again, making her way to the first window: a small room with a desk and shelves of old books. The last window showed a miserable dining room, with an ugly mahogany table and even uglier chairs. Thin, mangy, gingery moggy washing its backside on the tablecloth. ‘Wears gloves, so no fingerprints; probably wears a facemask, so he’s not exhaling his DNA over everything; taking their clothes is pragmatic — leaves us with less to examine for trace evidence.’
‘Suppose. Doesn’t explain the blood, though, does it?’
She pointed. ‘Check the patio; maybe he’s hidden a spare key under one of those planters?’
He hadn’t. It was in the lamp belonging to the ugliest of the three gnomes.
The Dunk turned the key in the lock and hauled the patio door open. Flinched back. ‘God, cat pee, much?’ Deep breath. ‘MR MCINTIRE?’ Stepping onto the nasty carpet and lowering his voice. ‘Or is it “Father McIntire”? Do you stop being called “Father” after you retire? I got excused RE at school, on account of my mum and dad being socialists.’ A pause. ‘Maybe he makes black pudding out of it?’
A sharp, ammonia reek stampeded out through the open door, burning eyes and throat and lungs. ‘What?’
‘The Bloodsmith. Maybe he collects all their blood and makes black pudding out of it, so he can eat it.’
‘Don’t be revolting.’ Lucy followed the Dunk inside, trying not to gag. The smell was even worse in here, making every breath scald on the way down. And it wasn’t just cat pee, there was a heavy undertone of shit, too. Jesus, you could actually taste it. She slapped a hand over her nose and mouth. ‘Better try the bathroom first. After the mess he made at Jane Cooper’s place, maybe the Bloodsmith’s learned his lesson.’
‘Well, you’d have to be a moron to drink it raw, wouldn’t you? No idea what kind of diseases someone has. Cooking it would kill any pathogens, hence the black pudding.’ The Dunk peered at the grey-screened TV. ‘What about you, Sarge?’
‘Never been a fan of black pudding.’
‘No: Religious Education, did you get to skive off, or did they make you go?’
‘Can we get on with some actual policework, before we’re gassed to death?’ She pointed. ‘Bathroom.’
‘Only asking. When you said Father McIntire was a priest, you were all...’ Contorting his face into a weird grimace. ‘Didn’t peg you for a Mrs Hawthorne.’ The living-room door was ajar, so the Dunk gave it a shove. Then froze. ‘Sarge?’
‘I’m not a sectarian bigot, thank you very much, Constable. I just don’t like priests, or ministers, or nuns, or any of that—’
‘No, Sarge: look!’
‘You found something?’ She squeezed past him into the hall. ‘Ah.’
‘I think we can rule out “Bloodsmith” as cause of death.’
A hatch in the ceiling hung open like the tongue from a gaping mouth, and the body — or what was left of it — lay entwined with a tipped-over stainless-steel stepladder, directly underneath. There was still some skin there, but mostly it was just dark patches clinging onto the filthy bones that stuck out of his clothes. That scraggy, ginger moggy sauntered through from the dining room, glaring at them on the way past, before clacking its way out through the catflap, leaving Lucy and the Dunk alone with the chewed remains. Scattered brushes and rollers surrounded the body, along with crumpled lumps of tarpaulin and tins of paint. ‘SALMON PINK’, according to the labels, so at least Mrs Hawthorne would get something for her hundred quid.
Seven down, two to go.
‘Oh, in the name of...’ DI Tudor sighed down the phone at her. ‘Do I not have enough to deal with, without you turning up even more dead bodies?’
Lucy unlocked the front door and stepped out onto the driveway, drawing in a blissful lungful of clean air. ‘Look on the bright side, Boss: it’s definitely not one of ours, and it’s not suspicious, so it’s the GED’s problem.’ And the General Enquiry Division were welcome to it. ‘Soon as they turn up, we’ll hand over the keys and Foxtrot Oscar.’ Let them deal with the rotting, half-eaten corpse and cannibal cats.
‘What were you doing there, anyway?’
The Dunk was leaning back against the pool car, arms folded, scowling at her as she used up all his minutes.
‘Chasing a dead end.’ Literally. ‘Do you know if the SEB got anything from the DNA or fingerprints they took at my house this—’
‘Lucy, you’re supposed to be checking the victims’ houses for the Bloodsmith’s messages, not running around chasing useless hunches!’