Bit casual for a Michelin-starred restaurant. They might not let her in.
Urgh...
Bet men didn’t have to go through this nonsense. No: their one smart suit did for everything, didn’t it? Because the world was inherently sexist.
She sagged in front of the mirror.
Well, that’s what you got for burning all your dresses, isn’t it? And your skirts. And anything else that made you look in the least bit feminine. After Neil Black...
She hauled her shoulders back. Chin up. ‘Do you want information on Benedict Strachan, or don’t you?’
There was one other option, after all.
Lucy scuffed her Crocs through to Dad’s bedroom and over to The Forbidden Wardrobe. When she opened it the scent of lavender and mothballs collapsed out into the room like a corpse. Her mother’s things, hanging in here for years. And years. And years.
Strange, but now Dad was gone, the fact he’d held onto all this stuff didn’t bother her any more. No idea why it ever did, to be honest.
Maybe it was because she couldn’t really remember anything about Mum? Well, other than the screaming and throwing things. Even looking at photos of her didn’t spark any good memories. You’d think, if you lost your mother when you were almost six, there would be something nice worth remembering.
She selected a few dresses and laid them on the dusty bedspread — it was the first time she’d touched anything in The Forbidden Wardrobe since Dad caught her playing dressing-up in one of Mum’s old skirts and blouses, many, many times too big for her. Not long after the funeral. They probably heard the shouting and the swearing and the threats all the way to Fiddersmuir. Certainly gave her first-ever therapist something to talk about for months.
Wonder what happened to him...? Probably dead by now. Let’s face it, he wasn’t far off retirement age when he started treating her. Shame, though. He was nice.
Lucy tried the pink dress: far, far too short. The brown-with-orange-spots was hideous on. But the dark-blue wraparound maxi, with the floral pattern, wasn’t all that awful. It covered a multitude of unshaven sins, and wasn’t too revealing on the cleavage front. Wouldn’t be as warm as jeans and a top, but at least she looked the part, now.
Rummaging about in the bottom of The Forbidden Wardrobe produced a pair of strappy leather wedges that were exactly the right size. She wasn’t what you’d call stable on them, though — probably be a while till the muscle memory for how-to-walk-in-heels kicked in after all this time.
A pair of dangly jade earrings and a thin, silver necklace from Mum’s jewellery box finished the outfit off.
She stood in front of the mirror, frowning at herself. There was... just a vague hint — little more than a flash, really — of Mum screaming about whatever it was Lucy had done wrong this time. Then it was gone.
She shuddered. Teetered her way over to the window and pulled back one side of the curtains, just far enough to peer out.
The unmarked car sat across the road and down a bit. One of the two officers DI Tudor had assigned to watch her clambered out into the rain, jacket pulled up over his head in a makeshift hood, shoulders hunched as he lit a fly cigarette. Shuffling his feet on the soggy grass verge.
Silly sod.
Still, at least if Dr Christianson decided to come back and hammer on her door again, at three in the morning, he was in for a shock.
Lucy clomped back through to her own bedroom and stuffed her new phone, her wallet, a hankie, and a packet of Polos into one of her mother’s small leather handbags, with—
A voice echoed up from downstairs. ‘Hello?’
She whipped around, teeth bared. Grabbed the hair straighteners like an unextendable baton and crept out onto the landing.
But when she peered between the balusters, it wasn’t the familiar corduroy-jacketed stalker standing in her hallway, it was Charlie from Professional Standards frowning up at her. ‘DS McVeigh? Are you all right?’
‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE... HOW DID YOU GET IN?’
He backed away a couple of steps, hands up. ‘The kitchen door was open; I was worried about you.’
‘GET OUT OF MY BLOODY HOUSE!’
‘Given the Bloodsmith’s been following you around town and knows — where — you — live, I think you’re being a bit unreasonable, don’t you? I’m trying to help.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re in my house!’
He folded his arms and leaned against the sideboard. ‘You should get a security system fitted. And make sure you check all the doors and windows are locked. Imagine what would happen if the Bloodsmith decides it’s time to harvest your heart, and the kitchen door’s lying wide open.’
‘Aaaaaaargh...’ Lucy dumped the straighteners on the chest of drawers again, picked up Mum’s bag, and stomped downstairs, scowling at him all the way. ‘There’s an unmarked car sitting outside!’
‘All the more reason for Dr Christianson to sneak in round the back.’ Charlie rested his bum against the sideboard and smiled that bland smile. ‘You’ve had quite the day, DS McVeigh. First you find a missing Bloodsmith victim, then you make another massive breakthrough and ID our killer. Then there’s the big bunch of flowers and dinner date with a handsome and very wealthy young man.’ Tilting his head towards the bouquet sitting on the sideboard. ‘I hear you’ve had a job offer, too: working for Assistant Chief Constable Findlay Cormac-Fordyce.’
‘God: you really have been spying on me, haven’t you?’
‘Going to take the job?’
‘None of your damned business.’ She stepped closer, towering over him in her mother’s wedges. Spitting the words out. ‘You think, just because you’re Professional Standards, you can get away with anything, don’t you?’
‘What about the Dunk: planning on taking him with you to Gartcosh?’
Hadn’t thought about that.
‘We’re not joined at the hip.’
Charlie’s face pinched in. ‘I’m not entirely sure how to put this, but as we’re going to be stuck with each other for a bit — which means, you know, we’re basically colleagues — and I genuinely do want to see you succeed, I sort of feel I have to. Understand?’
Not even vaguely.
He squirmed a little. ‘You see, while I can’t speak in any professional capacity, because it would be unethical for someone from Professional Standards to talk about individual cases, or investigations, I...’ Charlie bit his bottom lip, brow furrowed like a battered accordion. ‘Let’s just say it might not be a great idea to hitch your star to Assistant Chief Constable Cormac-Fordyce.’
‘You’re saying he’s dodgy?’
‘Nope. Didn’t say that at all. Didn’t say anything of the kind. Because that would be unethical, remember?’
Interesting...
Lucy nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘See?’ The wrinkles faded as Charlie’s bland smile reappeared. ‘I’m not kidding when I say I’m here to help and support you, Detective Sergeant. Consider me your very own Jiminy Cricket.’
She pulled her raincoat on, zipping it up. ‘You ever read the original book: The Adventures of Pinocchio, Carlo Collodi, 1883?’
‘No. But I saw the film.’
‘Pinocchio batters Jiminy Cricket to death with a hammer.’ She grabbed her new St Nick’s umbrella from the stand.