He stayed where he was, not moving, just staring. Face slack as a corpse.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Something the size and shape of a whiteboard marker, only brown. Was he lighting a cigar?
He was. The cheeky bastard was having a Hamlet moment...
A half-dozen thick clouds of smoke got puffed out into the damp afternoon, then he turned and sauntered off, no hurry, not a care in the world.
‘Sarge? Sarge! You OK?’
What was the point? Wasn’t as if the Dunk could actually do anything about it.
She huffed out a breath and turned her back on the window. Rubbed the palms of her hands into her closed eyes till little fireworks bloomed in the darkness. Wait a minute...
Lucy lowered her hands and frowned at the sideboard.
‘Sarge?’
Two steps and she was there, scooping up the bits of paper, rummaging through them till she got to the one about that psychological study into loneliness. Skimming the text.
Then a smile spread across her face.
‘Tell the nice lady we won’t be staying for tea, Dunk. We’ve got places to be.’
31
The Psychology Department reception room was far too hot and sticky, lined with framed journal articles and awards, a nice big window at the far end looking out over Oldcastle Dundas University’s sodden playing fields, trapped beneath a coal-scuttle sky.
‘Sarge?’ The Dunk shifted in his seat, setting its vinyl upholstery squeaking, face pulled into a droopy frown as he stared at the blank screen of his phone. ‘Are we still—’
‘Do you want DI Tudor to shout at you?’
His seat squeaked some more. ‘No.’
‘Then leave your phone switched off till we’ve got something positive to tell him.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Oh, of course, how silly of me! My trying to protect you from a bollocking is getting in the way of valuable Candy-Crush-playing time, isn’t it? You go ahead and switch your phone on, Dunk, and to hell with the consequences.’
He sagged, then put his phone away. ‘Fine.’
They sat there, in silence, as the room’s clock tick-tick-ticked, and the radiator grumbled, and the rain hurled itself against the windowpane. Until, at long last, the door behind the reception desk opened and a woman in a Breton top loped out, all long hair, long limbs, and toothy smile.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, it’s been absolutely mad here for ages.’ Settling herself down behind the desk. ‘It’s all go; I honestly don’t know how we cope.’
Yes, because working in academia was so much more challenging than, ooh, let’s think, catching murderers?
She shuffled the papers on her desk. ‘How can I help you today?’
Lucy checked the Dunk had his notebook and pen out, then pulled the leaflet from her pocket — now safely ensconced in a clear-plastic evidence bag. ‘Craig Thorburn. He was a student here.’
‘Was he?’ Clearly not trying to be evasive, just a bit dim.
‘We believe he was taking part in some psychological studies for money.’ Placing the leaflet on the desk.
‘Lots of students do. It’s a bit of a drain on the departmental budget, but it helps us meet our quarterly research targets. You know what it’s like these days: league tables, this; performance indicators, that.’ A shrug.
‘I need to know who ran this study’ — poking the evidence bag — ‘and if Craig was on it.’
‘Ah...’ She bared her teeth again, but not in a smile. ‘General Data Protection Regulations mean we can’t simply—’
‘He’s dead. Craig Thorburn was murdered, five months ago.’
The clock went tick-tick-tick.
The Dunk’s seat squeaked.
The rain rattled the window.
Lucy stared across the desk at her.
Finally, the receptionist’s shoulders drooped and a pained expression crawled across her thin face. ‘Well... let me talk to the head of department and see what I can dig up.’
Professor Rattray led them down the corridor, past office after office, none of which seemed to have anyone working in them. She was a short woman with long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. Purple denim jacket on over a white T-shirt, black jeans, and well-worn cowboy boots. A voice marinated in single malt and tobacco. ‘I know, I know: it’s five to five on a Friday, and the place is like a morgue.’
The Dunk had to semi-jog to keep up. ‘Actually, we don’t have morgues in the UK, it’s mortuaries. Morgues are a US thing.’
She flashed him the kind of smile that probably had male undergraduates going all sweaty in their dirty little dreams. ‘Well, how about that? I learned something new today.’
Pink rushed up his cheeks.
‘Strictly speaking, I should insist on a warrant to see anything, but given what you say happened to this young man, my department wants to make sure it does everything it can to help.’ The professor stopped dead, and the Dunk nearly crashed into her back. ‘We could even look at some of the evidence, if you like? Crime scenes, post-mortem reports, that kind of thing? We run a Forensic Psychology course here, and a little practical—’
‘Actually’ — Lucy made a show of checking her watch — ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but we’ve got a load more interviews to do before we finish today, so if we can...?’
‘Yes, of course.’ And they were off again. ‘I checked the roster for who was doing what research, and that flier is for one of Dr Christianson’s studies. His office is just down here.’ Pointing at a door near the end of the corridor. ‘I’m afraid he won’t be able to help, though.’
‘Let me guess, GDPR again?’
‘Oh, no. He took a leave of absence, a couple of months ago? Bethany will have the details. Something about his mother going in for chemotherapy so he has to look after his dad. Dementia. Terribly sad.’ Professor Rattray stopped in front of the door marked ‘DR JOHN CHRISTIANSON’, opened it, and ushered the pair of them through into a fairly large office with high corniced ceilings.
Two walls were lined with shelves, packed full of textbooks. Twin ranks of filing cabinets either side of the door. The desk was of the big mahogany variety, with a pair of stylish chairs arranged in front of it, a big leather status-symbol sitting behind it like a throne. There was even a Le Corbusier chaise longue, just to make sure all the cliché boxes were ticked. A trio of lancet windows gave a view down the hill, across the woods, to the River Wynd, then up the other side where fields and trees slowly faded into the rain.
The place smelled of lemon furniture polish, but there was something familiar lurking underneath that. Desperation? Or maybe it was mildew? Old buildings like this must be full of both.
Lucy turned and pointed at the filing cabinets. ‘I assume he kept records of who was on his studies?’
‘Of course. We have an A-star reputation for psychological research.’ Lines deepened on the professor’s forehead. ‘I suppose it’s got something to do with Oldcastle being fertile ground for the kind of work we do. Never short of something to look into here; opportunities abound! Especially when it comes to abnormal psychology. But then I don’t have to tell you that, do I? As a police officer.’
At least someone saw an upside to living in the serial-killer capital of Europe.
‘So...?’ Still pointing at those filing cabinets.
‘Yes.’ Professor Rattray pulled on a pair of glasses and ran a finger down the first cabinet, lips moving as she read the labels to herself. Then did the same with the second, third, and fourth cabinet. ‘Loneliness, loneliness, loneliness...’ Fifth. Sixth. ‘Ah, here we go.’ Rattling one of the drawers out and flicking through the tabs. ‘Just have to find the current academic year...’