While the professor was flicking, Lucy had a quick look around the office.
Dr Christianson had the usual framed diplomas behind his desk — because what was the point of having a PhD if you couldn’t rub people’s noses in it — along with a handful of photographs, and an ancient map of Oldcastle. Back before Blackwall Hill, Castleview, Shortstaine, Cowskillin, or even Kingsmeath existed.
‘Aha! And voilà.’ Professor Rattray pulled out a thick suspension file and carried it over to the desk. Opened it up. ‘Now, what was the name you were looking for again?’
‘Thorburn. Craig Thorburn.’
More flicking.
Lucy turned from the map to the photographs. And froze.
‘Simpson, Summerville, Tarbert, Templeton, Thorburn. Here we go.’ Rattray pulled out two or three sheets of paper, stapled together. ‘Craig Thorburn was definitely part of the study.’ Professor Rattray held them out to Lucy. ‘Is there anything else we can help you with?’
God damn right there was.
‘Who’s this?’ Lucy took the proffered sheets and tapped them against one of the smaller photos — an intimate shot of a couple on a restaurant balcony, somewhere warm going by the clothes and tans. She was bright and blonde, hair in a spiky pixie cut, wearing a floaty top with bare arms, glass of something fizzy in one hand, her other arm wrapped around a man who appeared in most of the other pictures. High forehead, round glasses, beard, curly brown hair. He’d swapped the corduroy jacket for a Hawaiian shirt, but it was definitely him. ‘The man, who is he?’
Professor Rattray pursed her lips, eyebrows pulled in as if she was trying to work out how best to explain something really obvious to someone really stupid. ‘You’re standing in his office. It’s Dr John Christianson.’
Of course it was.
Lucy pointed at the filing cabinets again. ‘I need you to check six other names for me.’
‘...buggering about with your phone switched off when I specifically told you—’
‘WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP FOR TWO MINUTES AND LISTEN?’ Lucy braced herself against the dashboard as the Dunk rallied the pool car around the roundabout, siren wailing. They shot across the dual carriageway and onto Burns Road. ‘WE KNOW WHO HE IS: THE BLOODSMITH!’
‘You know who...?’
‘DR JOHN CHRISTIANSON. HE’S A LECTURER AT O.D.U. HE’S THE GUY WHO SLASHED MY TYRES. THE ONE WHO’S BEEN FOLLOWING ME!’
‘Where...? How...?’
Houses flashed by the car windows, a church whizzing past — what looked like a funeral in full swing.
‘WE’VE GOT AN ADDRESS; WE’RE ON OUR WAY THERE NOW. MIGHT BE NICE IF YOU GOT SOME BACKUP ORGANIZED!’
‘Jesus...’ There was something else, but it was lost beneath the siren’s cry. ‘OK, give me the address.’
‘EIGHTEEN BIRREL CRESCENT, CASTLEVIEW.’
Quarter past five and rush hour was in full crawl, but most of it was going the other way, heading up towards the Parkway, and the stuff that wasn’t had the sense to get the hell out of the way.
‘Done.’ DI Tudor must have turned away from the phone, his voice echoing off the office walls, ‘STAN: GET A CAR! ANGUS: ROUND UP EVERYONE YOU CAN GET YOUR PAWS ON AND FOLLOW US OUT TO CASTLEVIEW!’ Then he was back again. ‘I’ll get an OSU sorted, maybe some dogs. You and the Dunk are not to go in until we get there, am I clear?’
‘WE’RE GOING TO BE—’
‘Am I sodding clear, Detective Sergeant?’
Great.
Kingsview Hospital wheeched by, its ancient Victorian frontage partially concealed with scaffolding. Like a cage.
‘Lucy? I mean it.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘What? Can’t hear you over the... That better be a yes!’
‘I SAID, “YES, BOSS”!’
The Dunk slowed down for the T-junction at the end of Burns Road, waiting for the idiots to slam on their brakes before he roared out onto Langburn Drive, foot hard down, the back end slithering on the rain-slicked tarmac as he wrenched the steering wheel to the right.
Not long now...
They both had their seats reclined nearly all the way back, keeping a low profile as rain drummed on the pool car’s roof.
Lucy sat up a little — just far enough to see through the passenger window.
Birrel Crescent was a nice residential cul-de-sac on the westernmost edge of Castleview, backing onto a swathe of scabby fields — thick with reeds and bordered in gorse. A handful of miserable sheep squelched around in the rain behind the houses, looking as if they’d never be dry or happy again.
The curving road was lined with large bungalows on both sides, set back behind big front gardens. Twee names on cast-iron gates. Garages at the end of lock-block driveways. Nearly every home had an attic conversion, but a couple had decided to annoy the neighbours and added on an extra storey. Dr Christianson’s was one of those: surprise, surprise. As if being a serial killer wasn’t bad enough, he had to ruin people’s view of the countryside, too.
She scooted down again and checked her watch. ‘What the hell’s taking them so long?’
On the other side of the car, the Dunk cracked a big yawn, rounding it off with a stretch and a shudder. ‘Surely, this has to wipe out all debts, right? I mean, we’ve broken the case: we’ve IDed the Bloodsmith; it should be party time for Lucy and Duncan. Maybe even a promotion?’
Lucy scowled over the lip of her door for about the sixth time in two minutes. ‘Fiver says he’s not in.’
A dark-red Skoda estate sat outside number eighteen, its metallic paintwork turned matt with dirt. Windscreen, too.
‘Who do you think they’ll get to play us when they make a Hollywood blockbuster out of this?’
‘One: that car hasn’t moved in ages. And two: there’s no sign of the Mini he’s been driving.’ The one with the cracked rear window and dented roof. ‘Unless he’s parked it in the garage, of course...’
‘I see myself as a Brad Pitt, or a Chris Hemsworth. You want to be Charlize Theron, or Scarlett Johansson? Charlize has the range, but Scarlett’s got the box office.’
Lucy checked her watch yet again: quarter to six. ‘How long does it take to get over here from Peel Place, for God’s sake?’
‘Mind you, I bet if they do make a film, we’ll see sod all out of it. Police Scotland will claim the rights, won’t they? We do all the work, they take all the profits.’ A pout. ‘Maybe we should write a book? I know a journalist who could help — she did that one about the Coffinmaker, last year.’
‘Pass.’
Lucy’s phone rang, deep in her pocket, and when she dug it out ‘WITHHELD NUMBER’ glowed at her from the screen. ‘McVeigh?’
‘Very good. Now, are we planning on heading back to DHQ at some point?’
‘Who is this?’
‘You abandoned one Nichola Strachan in my cells this afternoon. Her duty solicitor’s been in with her for an hour, and they’re ready to talk. So...?’
She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Sergeant Weir, I’m sitting outside the Bloodsmith’s house, waiting for the cavalry to arrive. I don’t have time to sod about with a domestic.’