He looked at the bathroom window and shuddered. ‘Think I might leave you and DC Fraser to it. Otherwise we’ll have to explain what I was doing here in the first place, and do you really want DI Tudor—’
‘Fine with me.’ She patted him on the shoulder — all colleagues together, being supportive. ‘Thank you.’
She stood there and watched as he climbed over the garden wall and disappeared into the pine trees. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all?
‘Sarge?’ The Dunk had gone the long way around, rather than through the house. Either avoiding the stench or following proper crime-scene-management practices. Which she really should’ve done, too. ‘The Boss is on his way.’
‘How’d he sound?’
‘Ha. Yes.’ The Dunk winced. ‘Not happy.’
The Dunk leaned forward and rubbed a clear porthole in the fogged-up windscreen. Sat back with a pointed sigh. Peered at Lucy with his mouth pursed.
She turned as far sideways in the passenger seat as possible and transferred the Dunk’s phone to her other ear. ‘Emma?’
‘Sorry, I missed that last bit.’ The wail of a siren dopplered past in the background. ‘What?’
‘I said: when you’re double-checking everyone’s alibis, are you making sure they’ve got one for when Malcolm Louden went missing?’
What sounded like cars and buses grumbled by.
Someone shouted.
More vehicle noises.
‘Emma, you still there?’
‘Sodding, buggering, fuck-fingered wank!’ That would be a no, then. ‘You have any idea how much of a pain in the hoop this is already? Going through every sodding sighting of every sodding victim to make sure we know for sodding sure when they sodding disappeared, then going through every sodding witness for every sodding alibi for every sodding suspect?’
‘It’s just: Professional Standards are taking an interest, so...?’
‘Arrrrrgh!’ Then a groan, followed by more background shouting. ‘OK, OK, I’ll check.’
‘And if anyone asks, you were doing it all along.’
‘All right, thanks. Got to go. I’ve suddenly got a cock-tonne more work to do.’ She hung up.
Lucy handed the Dunk’s phone back. ‘See? I didn’t use all your minutes.’
‘Hmmmph.’ He polished the screen again, as if she’d got girl-cooties all over it.
Through the porthole, a constant shuffle of figures wearing white oversuits stomped in and out of Olive Hopkins’ house, taking empty blue plastic crates in, full ones out. In, out. In, out. Like ants.
Lucy stretched in her seat. ‘How long we been here for?’
‘Since we arrived, or since we called it in? Cos either way it’s ages.’ The Dunk hid his phone away. Sagged. ‘You know what gets me? There was only one cat bowl in the kitchen. Father McIntire only had the one cat. But you see how fat the neighbourhood moggies were?’
She let her head fall back. ‘At least he was good for something.’
‘They ate his face, Sarge.’ A shudder. ‘James Herbert missed a trick there.’
Rain drummed on the car roof, battered the bushes and long grass.
The porthole started to mist over again — those white figures getting fuzzier with every breath.
He reached for the dashboard. ‘I could put the radio on, if you like?’
‘You’d think he’d have been all, “Hey, great work IDing a victim we never knew was out there, Lucy and Dunk! Maybe this time we’ll find the clue that cracks the case. Here’s a commendation for using your initiative.” Wouldn’t you?’
‘No point dwelling on it, though, Sarge. Think about something else, like... remember you said Benedict Strachan told you he was going to kill another homeless person and get away with it this time, so They don’t beam messages into his brain via his fillings, or whatever?’
‘But no, it was, “Go wait in the car, I’ll deal with you later!”’
‘Well, what if we only think Malcolm Louden was killed by the Bloodsmith? What if it was really Benedict Strachan? That’d be a way to do it, wouldn’t it? To get away with killing Louden by pinning it on a serial killer. Even if we can catch the Bloodsmith, if he says he didn’t kill Louden we’re not going to believe him, are we?’ A nod. ‘That’s your perfect crime, that is.’
‘You’re right, Dunk. Absolutely perfect. Except for two things.’ She closed her eyes. ‘One: no one knows the Bloodsmith writes “help me!” on the wall in his victims’ blood, because that’s just about the only part of Operation Maypole we’ve managed to keep secret. And two: Benedict Strachan was still in prison when Malcolm Louden was killed. So, unless he’s some sort of deadly ninja version of Uri Geller, I think we’re probably safe to assume Benedict’s not our guy.’
‘Sarcasm again. Great. Thanks.’ Big huffy sigh. ‘You notice his parents couldn’t even say his name? Imagine having a kid and you can’t bring yourself to say its name. That’s...’ The Dunk poked her on the arm. ‘Incoming.’
Lucy sat up straight again, peering out through the cloudy porthole at a white-clad figure advancing on their pool car. Tall and broad-shouldered. He threw back the hood of his SOC suit, revealing a Peaky Blinders short back and sides.
DI Tudor hauled open the Dunk’s door, voice a hard flat line. ‘DC Fraser, time for you to take a walk.’
‘Boss.’ The Dunk grabbed his leather bunnet and scrambled out of the manky Vauxhall as if it was about to explode, scurrying away into the rain.
Tudor thumped himself down into the vacated seat and pulled off his facemask. His cheeks were a trembling shade of puce. Staring straight at the windscreen, not looking at her. ‘What, exactly, the hell were you thinking?’ Almost shouting now, little flecks of foamy white spittle landing on the dashboard. ‘You gave me your word!’
‘I figured it out, OK?’ Jabbing a finger at the house. ‘If I’d just gone trotting off like a good little girl, we’d never have found Olive Hopkins! We’d—’
‘Not that!’ He turned to face her now, eyes bulging, mouth pinched. ‘You promised me you’d go see your therapist! I kept you on this investigation when I could’ve had you signed off on the sick, like that.’ Snapping his nitrile-gloved fingers. ‘I trusted you and you lied to me.’
‘What?’ She stared back. ‘I was there yesterday! And the day before.’
‘Don’t, Lucy. OK? Don’t.’
‘I’ll prove it.’ She went to haul out her phone... but, of course, it was sitting back at DHQ, charging up for the first time. ‘Son of a bitch.’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I don’t know what he told you, but I’ve been going. He’s playing some sort of... mind game, with us.’
‘Lucy, you—’
‘Bad enough I had to go through the whole Neil Black thing with the bastard yesterday, but to pretend I hadn’t even been there?’ She slammed her palm down on the dashboard. ‘I’ll kill him!’
‘Lucy, it’s—’
‘Fine: I’ll make a formal complaint.’
And then she’d kill him.
29
The one o’clock news burbled out of the car radio as they sat, parked on the forecourt of an abandoned petrol station, eating sandwiches in the rain. Which was pretty much a metaphor for her whole life, right there.
‘...Bloodsmith, as police discovered a second body in two days...’