A sniff from the Dunk. ‘Got to be a record, that.’ He had another napkin tucked into his polo neck, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, leaning forwards as he delicately nibbled at a sub-of-the-day from the Happy Haggis. ‘We only discovered Olive Hopkins, what, hour and a half ago? And some sod’s already leaked it to the press.’ Pausing to realign a wayward cucumber slice. ‘You’d think we could keep something like that secret till at least teatime.’
‘...Police Scotland declined to comment, but neighbours believe the victim to be Miss Olive Hopkins...’
Lucy chewed a mouthful of coronation-chicken-salad roll, not really tasting much other than bitterness and disappointment. Gazing out at the rusting pumps and boarded-up kiosk. The weeds forcing their way up through the cracked concrete forecourt.
With the Bloodsmith all over the news again, it wouldn’t be long before Craig Thorburn’s mother was on the phone, slurring with gin and crying about her son’s missing heart.
Yeah, way to go, Lucy: the poor cow was grieving for her child. Didn’t matter if he was in his thirties when the Bloodsmith ripped him open and drained his blood, he’d always be Judith Thorburn’s little boy.
‘...that the victim lay undiscovered for two and a half months.’
Lucy sagged just that little bit further.
When did she get to be so cynical? So callous? So devoid of any—
‘Sarge, you still with us?’
‘Hmm? Yeah.’ She took a sip of Irn-Bru, suppressed an orange burp. ‘Just wondering who keeps tipping the media off.’
‘...calls for a judicial inquiry as the hunt for the Bloodsmith enters its seventeenth month.’
‘Maybe somebody in the control room? You’d have access to all sorts of info up there.’
They’d swung past DHQ to pick up Lucy’s new phone, and now it sat on the dashboard in front of her. Waiting.
‘...embattled Business Secretary, Paul Rhynie, has hit back at his critics, claiming the attacks against him are “politically motivated” and “fake news”...’
Yes, there was instant gratification to be had by calling Dr McNaughton up right now and telling him precisely what she thought of him and his unethical lying-bastard practices, in a VERY LOUD VOICE. But then he could always hang up. However, if she stomped around there and yelled at him in person, he’d have no choice but to sit and take it.
And McNaughton deserved everything he had coming to him — if he hadn’t lied about her not attending therapy sessions, DI Tudor wouldn’t have torn a strip off her. He would’ve been singing her praises for finding Olive Hopkins.
‘...as new photographs emerged, which appear to show the Business Secretary being intimate with Russian embassy staff...’
‘Or maybe it’s one of the senior officers?’ The Dunk had another dainty bite of his sandwich. ‘It’s always us plebs that get blamed, but no one looks at the upper classes, do they?’
She’d have to ditch the Dunk first, though, and he was being more than a little clingy right now. That’s what she got for telling him about growing up with the Nesbits. And she’d given him the sanitized version: Christ knew what he’d be like if she’d told him about the darker stuff.
‘...Prime Minister’s complete support.’
A familiar blustering voice brayed through the car’s speakers. ‘Look, I think we all know the public aren’t interested in tittle-tattle like this; everyone wants to see us getting on with the job...’
The Dunk wiped up an errant blob of mayonnaise with his thumb, before it could drip on his beatnik-black outfit. ‘I read somewhere that loads of High Heidyins on company boards, or in politics, or pretty much any hierarchical thing, score off the charts on tests for psychopathy. Makes sense, when you think about it — to get to the top you have to be more ruthless and underhand than any other bugger in the organization, and manipulative enough to get away with it.’
‘...hunt continues for missing teenager Sophia McKellar. Sophia was last seen at the Camburn Woods Outdoor Adventure Centre on Wednesday...’
Should probably send the Dunk on some sort of Bloodsmith-related errand. How about digging through the missing-persons database again, going back three or four years, like she’d suggested to Charlie? That would work.
Right now he was nibbling away like a gerbil. ‘Probably better get Craig Thorburn done after lunch. See if we can’t crawl our way back into the Boss’s good books.’ A little shudder. ‘Sure you don’t want to talk about why DI Tudor had a traffic cone up his arse at the crime scene?’
‘Positive.’
‘...with any information. Entertainment news, and Donny “Sick Dawg” McRoberts has announced three dates at City Stadium in January...’
‘I heard Tudor’s wife’s... well, what’s the best way to put this... shut up shop in the bedroom department?’ A raised eyebrow. ‘Mind you, it was Monster Munch who told me, and you know what she’s like. Woman could gossip for Scotland and you still couldn’t believe half of it.’
Lucy gave up on the roll, stuffed it back in its paper bag, and dumped it in the rear footwell. Wiped her curried fingers on a napkin. ‘Any noise about Benedict Strachan?’
‘...after his reality TV show was cancelled. Tickets are on sale now and going fast...’
‘Murdered homeless people, you mean? Nah. Not last night, anyway.’ The Dunk frowned. ‘At least not that we know of. Maybe he’s lying low, working on a plan? Or he might’ve just been pulling your metaphorical plonker, so we’d keep our eyes on Oldcastle while he sodded off up to Aberdeen, or pastures south?’
It was difficult imagining Benedict being that cunning. He’d have to sober up first. But perhaps he didn’t have to do his own thinking this time? Perhaps he had help. ‘We should go see his mum again: Nikki. Have to get her away from the husband first, though.’
‘...rain forecast to continue for the next few days, as yet more cold air moves in from the Arctic...’
The Dunk froze, mid bite, eyes widening as he pulled back from his sandwich. ‘You are kidding, right? You saw DI Tudor this morning: he went berserk at us after we’d just made the biggest break Operation Maypole’s seen in seventeen months! What’s he going to say if we—’
‘I’m talking about a ten-minute diversion, Dunk. It’s practically on our way.’
‘Noooo...’
She offered him the half-drunk tin of Irn-Bru. ‘Consider this a bribe.’
The Dunk suppressed a belch, grimaced, then rubbed a fist against his breastbone. ‘Ow...’
Served him right.
‘Told you — you shouldn’t have shotgunned it.’ Lucy leaned on the doorbell again.
That huge BMW four-by-four sat all alone on the driveway outside the Strachans’ bungalow. No sign of the Audi. Which, hopefully, meant Benedict’s dad was off doing something else.
The Dunk checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes.’ Shuffling his feet in a little nervous dance.
‘Will you cut it out? Looks as if you’re bursting for a wee.’ Still no response from the bell, so she tried a policeman’s knock instead. Putting a bit of weight into each of the three loud raps.
He groaned. ‘Did you have to say that? I didn’t need to go, till you put the idea in my head.’
‘Your bladder: your responsibility.’ She raised her fist for another knock, but there was a rattling sound on the other side of the door, followed by a clunk, and the door creaked open a couple of inches till the chain pulled tight — making just enough space for a bloodshot eye to peer out.