A five-foot-high mound of glistening black-plastic bags filled a big chunk of alley number seven, pretty much blocking it, their burnt-rubber-and-bin-juice stench barely dented by the deluge. Greasy rainbows shone as Lucy’s torch danced around the stinking puddles.
‘You know what I think?’ McKeeler wiped something nasty off his shoe, using the edge of a pothole as a scraper. ‘I think the car’s long gone.’
Lucy sidestepped the worst slick of manky liquid, because, let’s face it, her wedges were open-toed. ‘Probably.’
Linton squeezed past the mound of garbage. ‘No point wimping out now, though.’
Even if he had stashed the car, Benedict Strachan would be long gone by now. He’d somehow managed to drive the thing over here from his mum and dad’s house, ditched it, then gone off in search of somewhere safe to lie low and work on his plan.
Which meant it was probably worth looking into squats and abandoned properties in the immediate area. Or was it? Anyone with half a brain was bound to know the police would find the car eventually, and put a fair bit of distance between themselves and it. Mind you, as that was the obvious thing to do, maybe the clever thing was to stay local, because no one would expect that.
Which left her right back where she started.
‘No car.’ Linton was back again, squeezing her way past the bin bags and brushing a hand down the front of her raincoat as if there was something sticky on it. ‘Looks like you’re gonna need those warrants after all.’
‘Sodding hell...’ Lucy stood out on the road, rain thrumming on her umbrella, feet aching like someone had been playing Spanish Inquisition with them. ‘Thanks for the backup, anyway.’
McKeeler shrugged. ‘Least we’re out in the fresh air.’
‘True.’ A smile from Linton. ‘It was this or a late-night raid on a puppy farm out by Fiddersmuir, and those places always depress the living hell out of me. And the smell!’ Pulling her chin in. ‘Sometimes I think the bastards running them use the stench as a deterrent. How hard is it to clean up a bit of dogshit and put down a squirt of Jeyes Fluid?’
‘Preach.’ He held up a hand till his partner high-fived it.
‘Suppose we should really get back to the ranch...’ Not really oozing with enthusiasm, there. ‘Maybe, if we hurry, we can make the raid?’ Linton scuffed a foot along the tarmac. ‘Yup. Hurry, hurry, hurry.’
Never let it be said that Lucy McVeigh couldn’t take a hint. ‘If you like, you could check Willcox A and B — see if there’s any squats, or unoccupied flats someone could break into? Benedict Strachan might’ve stayed local.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘I can email you a photo, in case anyone recognizes him.’
‘Yeah, we could take a shufti, couldn’t we, Tim?’
‘Always like to help out, when we can.’
After a bit of sodding about with email addresses, Lucy sent the pair of them Benedict’s last official police photo, then watched them stride across the road, past the willy-bollards, and into the lobby of Willcox A.
It was worth a try, anyway.
She slumped. Rubbed a hand across her face. Didn’t bother hiding or suppressing the jaw-creaking yawn that shuddered its way through her. Been a long day. Shame it couldn’t have ended on a high note.
Still, no point hanging around till Bonnie and not-Clyde had finished. Might as well head home. Couldn’t do anything about the warrants till tomorrow anyway.
Headlights swept around the corner as she limped over to her Bedford Rascal, and by the time she’d got there a crappy old flatbed truck had pulled up alongside — its sides blistered with mud that even this monsoon couldn’t shift. The driver’s door clunked open and out climbed the huge form of DCI Ross.
Perfect. Just in time to witness her disaster.
He was wearing one of those big, waxed duster coats that almost reached his ankles, and a wide-brimmed leather hat, like something out of a western. Ross thumped his door shut and lumbered over. ‘DS McVeigh.’ Looking her up and down, no doubt taking in the long floaty dress, make-up, and strappy wedges. ‘If I’d known this was a formal crime scene, I’d have worn my tux.’
‘Boss.’ Standing up straight. ‘Thought Murchison was Duty Inspector tonight?’
‘You called me about Benedict Strachan yesterday, remember? I take people trying to kill my officers pretty seriously.’ Then he pursed his lips and frowned at the embarrassing-pink Bedford Rascal. ‘Are those sausages doing what I think they’re doing?’
‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip, Boss. We’ve searched the alleyways and there’s no sign of Ian Strachan’s Audi.’
His shoulders curled a bit. ‘Wish you’d said that before I traipsed halfway across town.’
‘Didn’t know they’d called you.’
The two of them stood in the rain.
A little old man hobbled out from the lobby of Willcox B — bent over a walking stick and carrying a small white bin bag.
A scooter whined past, its driver leaning forward, as if that was going to make the thing go any faster.
Water gurgled from an overflowing gutter.
What sounded like a couple of cats having a barney.
Well, this wasn’t an awkward silence at all.
Ross stuck his paws in his coat pockets. ‘DI Tudor’s put you up for a commendation, by the way. For IDing the Bloodsmith. I, on the other hand, am going to recommend promotion.’
Twice in one day?
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Boss.’
The little old man had made it as far as the communal bins, opposite Lucy’s awful van, using the tip of his walking stick to hinge the lid up far enough to chuck in his rubbish. When it hit the bottom, the whole bin rang like a gong.
‘That was some great policework, Lucy.’
She faked a modest shrug. ‘It was a team effort, really. Me and DC Fraser. He’s...’ She stared across the road at the bins.
The little old man was hobbling his way back towards the tower block.
‘Lucy? Are you—’
‘Sorry, hold on, I’ll just be a minute.’ She limped across the road in her stupid wedges. ‘Excuse me?’ Luckily the old geezer was even slower than she was, so she caught him by the main doors. ‘Hello? Excuse me?’
He glared at her with rheumy eyes. ‘I DON’T WANT ANY OF YOUR BLOODY DRUGS!’ Waving his walking stick in her face.
She batted it away and pointed back the way they’d come. ‘Police. When’s bin day?’
‘Same day it always is: tomorrow. Saturday. I haven’t done anything wrong!’
Lucy hurpled back to the bins.
‘THIS IS HARASSMENT! YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO SEARCH MY RUBBISH WITHOUT A WARRANT!’
Six bins: two with blue lids — they would be for the recycling; four with black — for general landfill waste.
The nearest bin’s black lid was partially melted on one side. She grabbed the lip and threw it open. Then did the same with the next one along. And the one after that.
DCI Ross stalked across the road to watch as she flipped back the last of the black lids. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t gone insane, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Look at them; they’re all empty.’
He peered into the nearest bin. ‘So?’
She hauled up one of the blue lids: the bin was stuffed full of tins and cans and paper and cardboard and plastic containers. The other blue bin was too. ‘Bin day’s tomorrow, but out of two whole tower blocks, the only thing anyone’s throwing out is recycling?’