He fiddled with his hoodie’s toggles again.
Fidgeted.
Chewed on his bottom lip.
Left leg picking up a tremor, till his heel beat a rattling staccato on the floor.
She’d lost him.
Lucy pushed her chair back. ‘OK, Benedict. I’ll see you out.’
And she’d been so close...
The moment Benedict was out through the main doors, he was off. Sort of halfway between a limp and a lopsided jog. Putting as much distance between himself and DHQ as possible.
Lucy stood there, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, watching till he hurpled around the corner onto Camburn Road and out of sight.
Given the state he was in, probably wouldn’t be long before he was either back in custody or Castle Hill Infirmary. Just had to hope it wouldn’t be because of an overdose... Mind you, at least with his left hand in a cast, he wouldn’t be shooting up any time soon. Not unless he’d turned ambidextrous in prison.
When she turned to go back inside, there was the Dunk, lounging against a low concrete wall, head buried in today’s Castle News & Post, cigarette smouldering away between two yellowed fingers. He didn’t look up from whatever article he was reading. ‘Says here that Paul Rhynie’s been handing out government contracts to firms owned by his mates. No tender process, no penalty clauses, no questions asked. He’s the Business Secretary, for God’s sake, how’s that even legal?’
‘Get a car sorted. I need to make a call.’
‘Millions and millions of taxpayers’ cash, spaffed into his buddies’ pockets.’ One last puff, then he pinged his dogend away. ‘Makes you think we’re after the wrong class of criminal, doesn’t it?’
‘Car, Dunk, as in “go get one.”’ She headed back through into reception.
The Dunk scurried in ahead of her, casting a leering look over his shoulder in the direction Benedict Strachan had gone. ‘Your new boyfriend seems... nice. Not too keen on his aftershave, though: eau de wheelie bin?’
‘And while you’re at it: I need a copy of all the Bloodsmith crime-scene reports and victim profiles.’
‘I mean, I know dating at your age can be tough, but you can probably afford to raise your standards a bit.’
‘Car and reports. Now. ASAP.’ She marched across to the security door, fast enough to make the cheeky little sod trot.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I know you ladies like to slum it every now and then, but Junky Jake there wasn’t exactly—’
‘You know’ — she stopped, one hand on the keypad — ‘I can always get another sidekick, Dunk.’
‘No need to get all sniffy about it, Sarge.’ A wee leer slithered its way onto his face. ‘Especially given how bad your boyfriend smells.’
‘Seriously: Mags is probably free, or PC Gilbert. Even Urpeth would do, at a push.’ Lucy punched in the code and hauled the door open. ‘I hear DS Smith’s got space on his team: you could go work for him.’
The Dunk blanched. ‘Come on, Sarge, joke’s a joke!’ Shuddering as the door swung closed behind him. ‘That’s a horrible thing to wish on anyone.’ He jogged along beside her, down the corridor and into the stairwell. ‘So, you going to tell me who Stinky the Loverboy is, or are you keeping it a secret till the church’s booked?’ Launching into the ‘Wedding March’: ‘Dum, dum-tee-dum, dum dummm-tee-dooooo...’
Lucy paused on the first landing. ‘And while you’re at it, dig up everything we’ve got on Benedict Strachan.’
‘Benedict Strachan?’ The Dunk pulled his chin in, eyebrows pinched. ‘Why do you want...’ Then his whole face opened out. ‘You’re kidding! That was Benedict Strachan? The Benedict Strachan? Wow!’ Staring back down the stairs, as if he could see through the walls of DHQ to watch her visitor hurple off into the distance. ‘Benedict Strachan. Bloody hell!’
‘Don’t just stand there. Off. Go. Work.’
A low whistle. ‘I always thought he’d be taller in real life.’
Useless.
Lucy headed up the stairs again. ‘You’re not working, Dunk.’
‘So how come the Benedict Strachan is coming to see you, and only you, and it’s urgent, and he won’t speak to anyone else?’
Good question.
She frowned her way to the next floor. ‘I did my MSc dissertation on “Children Who Kill” — dash — “The Role of Dissociative Personality Disorders in Non-Nurture-Related Psychopathy Resulting in Under-Aged Homicidal Acts”.’
‘Catchy title. Think I saw the film.’
‘I interviewed Benedict a few times, when I was writing it. He was... troubled.’ Bit of an understatement. ‘Can you imagine growing up in prison? Eleven years old, behind bars, moving through the system till you’re old enough to be locked away with all the other murderers.’
‘Ah, I get it.’ A nod from the Dunk. ‘So, because you showed him a teensy bit of kindness, when he’s known sod all but brutality and fear, he’s glommed onto you. You’re his good Samaritan. His bestest buddy. His confidante. His bosom friend. His—’
‘Just get your backside off to Records. Then find us a car.’
The Dunk pulled a face. ‘Sarge.’ He turned around and trudged back down the stairs again.
She leaned on the railing, raising her voice so it boomed out after him. ‘And make sure it’s a good car this time — not some mobile skip half full of crap and takeaway wrappers. Something that’s been cleaned in the last three years!’
Right.
Now she had that call to make.
3
‘See, what I don’t understand’ — the Dunk steered their almost-clean pool car around the Logansferry Roundabout and onto Robinson Drive — ‘is, if you did your dissertation on Benedict Strachan, how come you’ve never read his file?’
Outside, the industrial buildings on the left gave way to row after row of bungalows, with yet another business park rising up behind them. They’d probably looked quite cheerful in their day, but seventy-odd years had left their mark on the lichened pantiles and dirt-streaked walls.
‘Hmmm?’ Lucy flipped over to the next page: a statement from the bread-delivery man who’d discovered Liam Hay’s body, halfway down an alleyway off Brokemere Street, lying face down, partially covered in cardboard, outside the side door to a manky wee shop called ‘ANGUS MACBARGAIN’S FAMILY STORE’.
‘And aren’t we supposed to be making breakthroughs in the Bloodsmith case?’ Right turn, onto Morrissey Street, the bungalows giving way to tightly packed two-up-two-downs instead. A sigh. ‘Not that we’re exactly breakthrough-adjacent.’
‘Did my dissertation before I joined the force, Dunk — they wouldn’t let me anywhere near the official files. Had to make do with what was in the public domain. Well, that and whatever I could get out of Benedict.’
The next page was a photo of Liam Hay, lying flat on his back in the alleyway, after the paramedics had confirmed death. Not that it would’ve been a tough call to make.
The crime-scene photographer had captured the body in all its gory glory. Liam’s stained corduroy jacket was punctured in at least two dozen places, its faux-sheepskin lining turned a dark shade of scarlet. His fleecy top, black shirt, and brown T-shirt were pulled up to expose the pale-blue skin of his belly, smeared with more red. The gash across his throat deep enough to let little glimpses of bone shine through the hacked mess. A sunken-cheeked face, fringed with a smear of greying stubble. Eyes open, staring out over the photographer’s shoulder. Baseball cap half falling off.