Mrs Strachan’s words were all mushy and wobbly, bringing with them the acetone wash of stale booze. ‘Now’s not... not a good time.’
Lucy didn’t move. Stood there staring back, instead.
The Dunk’s feet scuffed on the paving slabs.
A car drove by on the road behind them.
Finally, Mrs Strachan sagged, groaned, and closed the door. The chain rattled once more; then the door swung open, revealing a Nichola Strachan who didn’t look quite so cougary any more. Her other eye was ringed with red, the skin beneath it a rich aubergine colour. It was only visible for a moment, before she flipped a curtain of blonde hair over it, hiding the damage. ‘Suppose you’d better come in, then.’ Turning on her heel and limping away down the corridor and in through the open kitchen door.
‘So, Sarge’ — the Dunk raised his eyebrows — ‘you thinking what I’m thinking?’
Of course she sodding was.
Lucy followed Benedict’s mum through into the fancy kitchen. Two packets of painkillers sat on the worktop, next to a large cut-crystal tumbler. ‘Where’s your husband, Mrs Strachan?’
A small bitter laugh as she plucked the tumbler from the countertop and stuck it under the ice dispenser on the big American fridge. Setting cubes clatter-rattling into the glass. ‘What you mean is: did he hit me?’
‘Did he?’
The ice got drowned in a serious quantity of Tanqueray. ‘Why do you think I’m limping?’ A splash of tonic joined the party, then she took a long, slow drink. ‘Kicked the bastard so hard in the nuts, think I might’ve broken my foot. Raise his fist to me?’ Another swig. ‘Won’t be doing that again.’
Lucy leaned back against the worktop, arms crossed. ‘You should still report him.’
The Dunk took up position on the other side, notebook out, pen poised, shifting from foot to foot with an uncomfortable look on his face.
‘Ian wasn’t happy when I came home with...’ Deep breath. ‘You know what? To hell with Ian’s rules: Benedict.’ Raising her voice. ‘MY SON’S NAME IS BENEDICT!’ The last of the gin got thrown back and another huge measure glugged into the glass, not bothering with tonic this time. She limped to the kitchen door and flung it open, letting the sibilant whisper of the rain slither in.
‘Where is he? Where’s Benedict?’
‘You should’ve seen Ian: ranting and swearing and throwing things — the lounge is an absolute tip now, but I’m the one supposed to tidy it up, aren’t I? — then he hit Benny. Punched him to the ground. Kicked him. And all the time Ian’s crying and swearing and going on about how my beautiful Benny ruined his life...’ She pulled out her vape and huffed a marzipan cloud into the downpour. ‘But it was all his fault, wasn’t it? Ian’s. He was the one insisted Benny go to that stupid school. He was the one said we should mortgage the house to pay the first year’s fees — in advance! That it was an investment in the future.’ A mouthful of neat gin disappeared. ‘Have you any idea how much St Nicholas College costs? Of course you don’t. Well, it’s a bloody fortune.’
St Nicholas College. Interesting. Maybe—
‘Oh God...’ The Dunk’s dancing reached fever pitch. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Strachan, I really, really need to use your toilet?’
Lucy glowered at him. ‘Tie a knot in it. We’re in the middle of—’
‘It’s not my fault!’ Hobble-running out of the kitchen.
Mrs Strachan watched him go. ‘First door on the right. DON’T USE THE GOOD TOWELS!’
Useless little sod.
‘Sorry about that.’ Lucy dug out her new phone and set it recording. ‘Where’s Benedict now?’
‘If it wasn’t for that bloody school and its stupid tests and exams and everything... Benny was under so much stress, and he was such a sensitive little boy, and he’s running around doing all these evaluations and Ian’s telling him we’ll forfeit the fees if he doesn’t get in, and we’ll have to sell the house, and it’ll all be Benny’s fault for being stupid and lazy.’ She sucked her cheeks hollow on the vape, let the steam trickle out through her nose like an angry mother dragon. ‘He was eleven. How could you put that on an eleven-year-old?’
Yeah, Councillor Ian Strachan sounded like real father-of-the-year material.
‘Do you know where he is now, Nikki? It’s important.’
Mrs Strachan took another swig of tonic-free gin. ‘Benny didn’t mean to hurt you. He was going to jump. Going to... kill himself. But you got in the way and he panicked.’ She toasted Lucy with the glass. ‘So, I guess I have to thank you for saving my baby’s life.’
‘Nikki, we need to know where he is. What if he tries to hurt himself again? Or if he hurts someone else?’
That bitter little laugh was back. ‘It’s not been much of a life, though, has it? Most of it spent in that horrible prison.’
The sound of a toilet flushing came from somewhere down the hall.
Lucy stepped closer. ‘Benedict’s not well, Nikki. He thinks if he can kill another homeless person, and get away with it this time, then “They” won’t hurt him, or you.’
She didn’t look up. ‘He’s my baby. I’d do anything for him.’
‘You saw what happened when they printed his picture in the paper: you saw the bruises, the broken arm. You have to help us find him, before he gets attacked again.’
A dog barked in one of the neighbours’ gardens.
The rain hissed.
A distant stereo pumped out old-fashioned pipe-band music.
‘Ian never loved him, you know. It’s meant to be mothers who get postnatal depression, but for Ian it was like I’d given birth to this... rival. Someone he had to compete against.’ The last of the gin disappeared. ‘His own son.’
Down the corridor, a door opened and closed again.
‘Where’s Benedict, Nikki?’
Then another door opened.
‘I don’t know.’ She stuck her nose in the air, eyes hard and cold. ‘I gave him the keys to Ian’s car and told him to run as far away from this horrible city as possible.’
‘And your husband was OK with that? After everything that happened? Loaning his Audi TT to a boy who doesn’t even have a provisional licence, because he’s been inside since he was eleven?’ Because that sounded incredibly sodding unlikely.
‘JESUS!’ The Dunk’s voice boomed out from down the hall. ‘SARGE? SARGE, CALL AN AMBULANCE!’
Mrs Strachan nodded. ‘Benny’s my baby. I’d do anything for him.’
‘DI Tudor’s going to kill us.’ The Dunk stood on the top step, grimacing as the paramedics loaded Ian Strachan into the back of an ambulance. The rain hadn’t let up any, bouncing off its white roof, sparkling in the slow spin of its blue-and-white lights. A patrol car sat on the other side of the road, the two uniform officers out in their high-vis jackets, going door to door.
Lucy pointed. ‘Go: see what the medics are saying.’ She went back to her phone. ‘Number plate’s for a red Audi TT, last seen driving away from Torridon Avenue, the Wynd, sometime between ten past eight last night and... call it half an hour ago.’
The man on the other end hummed for a while, accompanied by the clicking of a keyboard. ‘Now then, let’s see what we can see...’
‘And I need a flag on that vehicle. It pops up anywhere, I need to know about it, ASAP.’
The Dunk had made it as far as the ambulance, waylaying one of the paramedics on their way to the driver’s door.