The offhand tone only made him sound more shifty.
Lucy pulled her chin in. ‘Why: shouldn’t I have?’
‘Just interested how St Nick’s connects with the Bloodsmith. I like to have all the pieces — that’s why I’ll be the next Chief Constable when the current one retires.’ His voice changed slightly, as if twisted around a smug smile. ‘You said you were talking to a pupil?’
Difficult to tell if that ‘Chief Constable’ comment was a boast: look how great I am; an enticement: look what I’ll be able to do for you; or a threat: look how screwed you’ll be if you cross me. Or maybe it was a combination of all three?
‘Allegra Dean-Edwards. She gave ex-DC Malcolm Louden a new jacket the day the Bloodsmith gutted him. We wanted to know if she’d seen anyone hanging around looking suspicious when she handed the coat over.’
‘And had she?’ Back to sounding all casual and unconcerned again.
‘No. Apparently she hands out a lot of coats to homeless people. Says, after a while, they all kind of bleed into one.’
‘Hmmmm...’ A nod. ‘It’s nice to know that you’re thorough, Lucy. I value that in my team, almost as much as I value loyalty.’ The ACC rubbed his hands together, setting the nitrile squeaking. ‘I think we should talk, once this Bloodsmith investigation is out of the way, don’t you?’
Promotion to Gartcosh, a roving brief, and the ear of the next Chief Constable. He was promising a lot more than she’d ever get here with DI Tudor and O Division. And maybe Assistant Chief Constable Findlay Cormac-Fordyce wasn’t so bad, once you got to know him? Possibly...
Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to play along, would it?
‘I’d like that, sir.’
‘Excellent.’ Then he marched out of the room, without another word.
Question was: had she just sold her soul to the Devil, or only rented it...
The Dunk was waiting for her, out in the marquee, watching as she clambered out of her SOC kit. ‘Everything OK, Sarge?’
‘We’re done for the day, Dunk.’
‘Right. Good. Time to celebrate!’ He fell into place behind her as she pushed out through the front flaps into the rain. ‘What do you think: hit the Bart first, or work our way over there one pub at a time? Ooh, how about cocktails at Wobbly Bob’s?’
Lucy marched down the path. ‘Maybe.’
‘What’s up, Sarge?’ Scurrying along at her side now.
‘It’s just... Nah, it’s nothing. Someone asked if I’d have dinner with them tonight, but I can blow him off. It’s not as if—’
‘Oh my God: do you have a date?’ Eyes wide.
‘It’s not a date.’ Well, maybe. Argyll McCaskill definitely thought it was. But that didn’t mean she had to.
They hurried across the road, the Dunk plipping the locks on their pool car and scrambling in behind the wheel, out of the downpour. Grinning at Lucy as she sank into the passenger seat. ‘Where’s he taking you? Better not be somewhere lame like Pizzageddon, or Big Tam’s All-You-Can-Eat Chinese Buffet.’
‘French place. La Poule something-or-other.’
‘Shut up! La Poule Française? The La Poule Française, with a Michelin star?’ Both his eyebrows came close to achieving escape velocity. ‘Wow. He must be seriously minted: that place costs a fortune.’
She fastened her seatbelt. ‘His family own big chunks of Skye and Argyll.’ Frown. ‘And I think Sutherland, too. Anyway, I haven’t said yes yet.’
‘Oh, Sarge...’ The Dunk’s whole face fell. ‘He’s that posh twat from St Nick’s, isn’t he? The assistant head. Tosser was making goo-goo eyes at you the whole time. Sarge, how could you?’
‘Haven’t said I would, have I? Besides, thought I could talk him into slipping us a copy of Benedict Strachan’s file.’
‘Bet that’s not all he wants to slip you.’ The Dunk must’ve felt her stiffen from the other side of the car, because he held up his hands in surrender. ‘Sorry. That was... sorry.’ He started the engine. ‘So, you’re basically using the posh twat so he’ll give you information. That’s cool. Clever.’
‘Good save.’
He hauled the car into a three-point turn, heading back towards town. ‘You’re going to wear something nice, though, yeah? Not your usual jeans and a top. Cos, no offence, Sarge, you might get more out of the guy if you flash a bit of leg.’
She tightened her jaw. ‘I’m not flashing anything.’
‘OK, but don’t come crying to me if he doesn’t put out at the end of the date.’
33
Lucy stomped along the pavement in the rain, heat flushing her cheeks. ‘You don’t have to walk me to my car, Constable.’
‘Nah, I do, Sarge.’ He bustled along beside her as they made their way down Guild Street, stupid leather bunnet bobbing at Lucy’s shoulder. ‘If this Dr Christianson’s been following you, it’s not safe. Besides, if he murders you, that’s yet another body we’ve got to find and clear up and investigate and that bloody forensic psychologist will write one of her horrible rambling reports without any punctuation and I’ll have to read it out to whoever they get to replace you.’ A smile. ‘So, letting me walk you to your car is really you doing me a favour, when you think about it.’ Like he was some sort of chivalrous short-arsed suitor.
Didn’t help that she was carrying the massive bunch of flowers Argyll had sent to the station that morning.
The Dunk stood there, waving, as she climbed in behind the wheel of her ridiculous pink Bedford Rascal, dumped the bouquet in the passenger footwell, and cranked the van’s engine into spluttering life.
She pulled out her phone and thumbed a text to Argyll.
OK, you’ve convinced me. Dinner tonight. What time?
SEND.
Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get a table? After all, it was Friday night and if the restaurant was as fancy as the Dunk seemed to think, a place like that probably got booked up months in—
Buzzzzzzz-ding.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Thank you for accepting my offer, Lucy.
Would 2030 be an acceptable time to eat?
I’m afraid I have a PTA meeting to attend beforehand, or I would make it earlier.
That gave her just under two hours to get home, run a swift bath, scrub up, and get back into town.
Doable.
See you there at half eight.
SEND.
When she looked up from her phone, the Dunk was still standing there, waving like an idiot.
Right, time to go home.
Lucy finished drying her hair and frowned at the scrawny pale lump in the saggy grey bathrobe, looking back at her from the full-length mirror. It was all very well the Dunk banging on about flashing a bit of leg: his probably didn’t look like knotted pipe cleaners that’d never seen the sun. And she wasn’t shaving them either.
Surprisingly enough, the blusher, eye shadow, and lipstick in her dresser hadn’t solidified after sitting there, unused, for over a year. They felt strange against her skin, though. Like a mask. Maybe that was a good thing? Might help her pretend to be someone she wasn’t any more.
She hauled on a sensible bra and a pair of hefty pants — after all, it wasn’t as if Argyll McCaskill would ever get to see them — then tried on her best suit. The one for weddings and funerals. Didn’t really scream ‘first date’, though, did it? Nor did her second-best suit. Or any of her fighting suits, come to that. A stripy top and black slacks made her look as if she hadn’t bothered to change after work. Blouse and jeans?