‘You know, you really shouldn’t do that.’
Didn’t need to turn around to see who’d just sneaked up on her; the voice was familiar enough.
‘Charlie.’
He waded through the wet grass, wearing a high-vis waterproof over his dark-grey suit. He’d borrowed a police cap from somewhere and wrapped it in one of those ridiculous clear-plastic shower-cap things. ‘Only that’s definitely breaking and entering.’
‘Not if the occupant’s dead.’
‘Doesn’t matter, you should still get a warrant and a locksmith. Not a rock.’
The sound of the Dunk murdering ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ wafted around from the front of the house.
Charlie pulled his chin up. ‘Suppose you thought that was clever: telling me you’d be fifteen minutes, then running for it? Why? Because you didn’t want me to find out you were disobeying DI Tudor’s orders?’
‘Because I don’t need a babysitter.’ She weighed the rock in her hand. Heavy enough to do some serious damage... ‘How did you find me?’
‘Wasn’t difficult. Your sidekick, DC Fraser, forgot to clear the printer’s memory before he left. I just reran the print job.’ He reached into his high-vis and pulled out a folded clump of paper. ‘Simple process of elimination and here I am.’ Hooking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Parked in a lay-by and walked over, just in time to stop you doing something stupid.’
A dark-blue Vauxhall sat in the entrance to a field, just up the road from Olive Hopkins’ house. Should’ve noticed it when they got here. But then Lucy hadn’t been looking out for devious Professional Standards scumbags.
She glanced down at the rock, then up at Charlie, then round at the house. A frown on her face. Head cocked on one side. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Oh please, DS McVeigh, don’t be stupid. This is wrong, OK? It’s—’
‘Shhhh...! I’m sure I heard someone crying for help.’
‘That’s just DC Fraser doing the “let me go” bits!’
‘It’s my duty, as a police officer, to assist members of the public in distress.’ And the Dunk’s singing certainly sounded as if someone was in terrible pain.
‘You’re not thinking straight. We need to—’
She swung the rock, cracking it into the glazed panel on the back door, aiming for the bottom corner of the glass, just up and in from the handle. It wasn’t even double glazed, so the whole thing just collapsed in a loud shattering clatter. ‘Oops.’
‘God’s sake: I’m Professional Standards! Do you want to be suspended?’
‘You do what you need to.’ The handle was cold against her palm as she reached in through the empty frame. ‘I’m going to make sure the householder is all right.’
She twisted the handle, but it didn’t budge. Key was still in the lock, though, and once she’d turned it the back door swung open on a galley kitchen that probably hadn’t been decorated since Harold Wilson was in power.
It led onto a small gloomy lounge with a brown corduroy sofa and a wonky coffee table. ‘Can you smell that?’ Rich and rancid, a sort of brown sticky scent, like the one lurking beneath all the disinfectant at the mortuary.
‘DS McVeigh, you shouldn’t be...’
But she’d already moved on to the hallway. No point trying the small bedroom, or the tiny study — they’d looked in through all those windows. The only room they hadn’t seen was the bathroom. And given that the mortuary odour got stronger and stronger the closer she got, there were no prizes for guessing what lay behind the door.
Charlie scurried after her. ‘Have you got any idea how much trouble you’re in right now?’
‘Will you shut up and be a police officer for once?’ She took hold of the handle and pushed. The door swung open and a tsunami of stench burst over them.
‘Oh Christ...’ Charlie covered his nose and mouth with one hand, backing away, blinking.
The floor was thick with little dead black bodies, the white walls smeared with dark brown. Olive Hopkins was in the bath. Or at least, what was left of her. And above the body, on the tiles, in three-foot-tall letters, the words ‘HELP ME!’ screamed.
There was a selection of keys hanging on hooks in the halclass="underline" a couple of Yales, two sets for the Mitsubishi Mirage parked outside, a couple that looked as if they probably belonged to the tiny outbuilding in the garden, and a pair of stubby brass numbers with heads like anvils. Lucy went through them till she found one that unlocked the front door, and stepped out into the blessedly clean air.
Turned her face up to the rain.
Maybe she’d get lucky and it’d wash away some of the stench?
The Dunk sidled over, fag poking out the corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed against the smoke. Then they widened and he flinched backwards, snatching the leather bunnet from his head and wafting it in front of his face. ‘Wow...’ Coughing a couple of times. ‘Did we find what I think we found?’
She turned, but there was no sign of Charlie behind her. Probably out spewing his ring in the back garden.
‘Call it in: DI Tudor, Procurator Fiscal, Pathologist, SEB, the whole circus.’
At least, this time, Tudor couldn’t complain about them not obeying orders.
Hopefully...
She left the Dunk pulling out his phone and headed through the house into the back garden again. Charlie was over by the outbuilding, bent double, spitting into an overgrown flowerbed.
‘You OK?’
‘No.’ His shoulders curled in, but nothing came out but a dry heave. Another gobbet hit the weeds and long grass. ‘Before you say anything, I... It must’ve been something I ate.’
‘Course it was.’ She leaned back against the outbuilding, as far away from the bitter stench of partially digested yuck as possible. ‘Olive Hopkins was reported missing about ten weeks ago. She hadn’t turned up for work in three days.’
He straightened up, one hand wiping the yellow-green strands from his lips, face pale and shiny in the rain. ‘And no one bothered popping over to see if she was OK?’
‘Even if they did, what would they see? Bathroom’s got a privacy window.’ Lucy stuck her hands deep in her pockets. ‘Given the Bloodsmith’s been at this for nearly two years — that we know of — might be an idea to get a team going through all the missing-person reports for the last... five? Maybe Abby Geddes wasn’t his first, after all?’
‘What are you telling me for?’
Good question.
‘Oh, I’m sorry’ — she stiffened — ‘I thought we were all on the same side, trying to catch a serial killer.’
Charlie huffed out a sour breath and sagged a bit more. ‘I just mean... I can’t authorize stuff. Being Professional Standards doesn’t give me superpowers; I’m the same rank as you.’
The only sound was the rain pattering against the hood of her raincoat.
‘Look, because you were right about Olive Hopkins, I won’t tell anyone you broke into the house. How’s that? Far as they know, you entered the place legally — there won’t be any trouble. But...’ He shook his head. Spat into the long grass again. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You need to think about what you’re doing, DS McVeigh. Where you’re going to end up with all of...’ He waved his other arm at the broken kitchen door. ‘Is this really the kind of cop you want to be?’
Whatever.
Still, at least he wasn’t going to land her in it with his bosses.
She aimed a kick at a small thistle, popping the head right off it. Keeping her voice neutral. ‘And are you hanging around?’