‘I thought we had a good shot at identifying—’
‘Are you trying to give me an aneurism? I’ve got DCI Ross clambering halfway up my rectum, it feels like I’m wearing the Chief Super as a bloody backpack, the Assistant Chief Constable won’t leave me alone, and half the country’s media are hacking away at my knees. I don’t need you going off the sodding script!’
‘But, Boss, we—’
‘I have cut you a hell of a lot of slack, Detective Sergeant, and I expect a bit of loyalty in return!’
The Dunk raised his eyebrows and tapped a finger against his watch.
What was the point of arguing? DI Tudor wasn’t listening anyway. ‘Yes, Boss.’
‘I should bloody well think so!’ Then he was gone.
The moment she lowered the phone, the Dunk scurried over, hand out to take it back. ‘Sounds like he read you the Riot Act.’ A huff of breath, then he polished the mobile’s screen on his black polo neck. ‘So, I guess we’re off to Blackwall Hill and Craig Thorburn’s place?’
After all, it’s what DI Tudor wanted.
‘Of course we are, Dunk, because I’m a good little girl who always does what she’s told.’
He groaned and sagged. ‘We’re going to get in a massive shedload of trouble, aren’t we?’
‘Probably.’
28
‘You sure we should be doing this?’ The Dunk took the next right, onto a winding country road, lined with drystane dykes on both sides.
‘Nope.’
The sky had darkened, its low clouds like ink dropped onto wet paper. Drizzle turned to rain, dampening the windscreen wipers’ lament.
This far south of the city, the fields were rough and stubbled with reeds. Lots of gorse and broom tumbling along the crumbling walls. Hills and clumps of dark-green forest lurking in the background.
He gave a little shudder. ‘Because DI Tudor sounded pretty pissed, and I wasn’t even on the phone with him. That’s from standing, like, twenty feet away.’
‘Don’t, OK?’
‘I’m just saying, with Professional Standards sniffing around, maybe now’s not the best time to ignore orders?’
No doubt the idiot Charlie would have something to say about that when they finally got back to DHQ. After he’d finished sulking about being left behind, of course.
Urgh...
She sagged in her seat. Watched the fields go by. Then watched the Dunk for a bit.
How could he think she was a bigoted, sour-faced bag-of-pus like Mrs Hawthorne? And why did she care what he thought? He was a beatnik tribute act, a junior officer with delusions of socialism, not her best buddy. But, somehow, it still mattered.
‘I’m not, by the way.’
‘Sarge?’
‘I don’t give a toss what religion anyone is. I just...’ Get it out. Get it over with. ‘After my mum died, I ended up in this care home run by a minister and his wife.’ A snort. ‘“Care” home. Oh, they’d walk around the village like they were God’s gift, and everyone would bow and scrape — tell them what a lovely couple they were, and what a kind thing they were doing taking in all those waifs and strays.’
More fields. More miserable sheep.
The Dunk kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. Mouth shut.
The rain fell.
The windscreen wipers sang a song of pain and loneliness.
Lucy chewed on the inside of her cheek.
Seemed to be a week for confessions.
‘Mrs Nesbit kept a diary, marking down every “sin” we committed during the week, and then, every Sunday, after church, the Reverend Jason Nesbit would get staggering drunk and beat those sins right out of us.’
The Dunk bit his top lip.
‘You were late down to dinner: that’s a sin. Don’t like broccoli? Sin. Didn’t make your bed properly? Sin. Answered back? Sin. Caught crying after lights out? Sin.’ She frowned out the passenger window. ‘So, no: I don’t like priests much.’
The Dunk cleared his throat. ‘Did the police—’
‘He fell down the stairs and broke his neck. She got breast cancer and drank herself to death. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer couple.’
‘Jesus, Sarge.’ Looking at her as if she was an injured puppy.
‘Just don’t, OK? Was a long time ago. I didn’t want you thinking I was anything like that old bag back there. And if you tell anyone, I’ll break your knees.’ She unlocked the Dunk’s phone and checked the map. ‘Should be round about here, somewhere.’
He pointed off to the left. ‘Is that it?’ Slowing the car.
A tiny whitewashed house sat at the end of a rutted driveway, the straight rods of Forestry Commission pines crowding in on three sides. The wooden sign at this end of the road had ‘BARRADOON CROFT’ painted on it, along with what was probably supposed to be a horse, but looked more like a goat. No sign of any horses in the two weedy paddocks out front, though.
Lucy checked the paperwork. ‘That’s it.’
‘Right.’ The Dunk hauled their pool car onto the lumpy track, clearly forcing a bit of levity into his voice. ‘But if the Boss does his nut, I’m going to say you kidnapped me.’
‘“Abducted” you. It’s only kidnap if someone makes ransom demands.’ Back to the form. ‘Olive Hopkins, thirty-three, worked as an adult literacy tutor till the pandemic hit. Now she stacks shelves at that big Winslow’s in Logansferry. Didn’t turn up for three shifts in a row, so their HR department tried to get in touch, and when they couldn’t, reported her missing.’
‘They didn’t just fire her?’
‘Maybe they were angling for some sort of HR-department-of-the-year award?’
The pool car lurched onto a flat area of grass in front of the house. Up close, the whitewashed walls were tainted with brown and green streaks, the guttering drooping at one end. Couple of slates missing. One window sat on either side of the front door, two more above them in what must’ve been an attic conversion. A rust-flecked pea-green Mitsubishi Mirage was parked outside, nettles snaking out of the wheel arches.
The Dunk pulled up next to it. ‘What do you want to bet Uniform didn’t even bother coming out here?’
Lucy flipped the hood up on her raincoat. ‘Come on, then.’
He grimaced out at the long, wet grass. ‘Going to get soaked, aren’t we?’
‘Yup.’
They squelched their way around the house, peering in through every window. A frosted, rippled one at the back of the house was probably the bathroom. No patio this time, and no gnomes either, just a small rectangular outbuilding with a sagging corrugated roof. Rain hissed in the trees surrounding the property, making the bushes shiver.
The Dunk stretched up to his full height and ran his fingertips along the frame above the back door. Then slumped back to his full shortness and sparked up a cigarette, puffing smoke out into the rain. ‘Ah well, it was worth a try.’
No spare key.
He peered through the narrow window into the kitchen again. ‘What do you want to do now?’
Only one thing for it.
Lucy pointed. ‘You better try the front of the house again. And maybe sing yourself a little song while you’re there.’
‘Oh, Sarge... you’re not going to—’
‘Make it something nice and loud. Go on, off you squelch.’
He shook his head as off he squelched. ‘Going to get in so much trouble.’
She gave him a count of ten, then pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves, marched out into the back garden, and selected a good fist-sized rock from the wall. Marched back and—