‘Granted it’s a bit odd, but why would that...? Lucy?’ He followed her across the road, past her Bedford Rascal, and most of the way down the row of garages. ‘I’m starting to rethink my assumption about your sanity.’ They stopped at the alleyway blocked with bin bags. DCI Ross stared at the pile, then at Lucy, then at the heaped-up rubbish again. ‘OK, now I see it.’
‘Someone’s emptied the communal bins and piled everything up here.’ To hell with worrying about stinky bin-water on her bare toes. She sploshed through the greasy foetid puddles and hauled a black-plastic bag off the mound — tossing it behind her. Then did the same with the next one, and the one after that.
Ross joined in, the pair of them flinging manky bin bags away until a partial avalanche revealed a swathe of red metal. It wasn’t shiny any more, but as the last couple of bags slithered off they exposed the four interlocked chrome circles at the front of the bonnet.
Ian Strachan’s Audi TT.
Lucy chucked a couple more bags away, revealing the driver’s door. ‘If you’re ditching a car, you ditch it. You park it somewhere remote and you torch the thing.’
To be honest, it was amazing Benedict Strachan had managed to drive his dad’s Audi this far, given he’d never had a driving lesson in his life. Unless that was a course they offered in prison these days? With elective modules on ram-raiding and skills for the modern getaway driver.
A cold hard grin twisted DCI Ross’s face. ‘He hid it, because he’s planning on coming back.’ One of those massive hands thumped down on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘How about we bury the car again, then get a wee surveillance operation set up to watch it? And when Benedict Strachan returns for his dad’s car, we nab him.’
And with any luck, they’d do it before he killed anyone else.
— there is no God, no redemption, no forgiveness —
only pain
35
‘...but I think it’s pretty clear there’s no love lost between the pair of them.’
‘Thank you, Nina. Xavier, you’ve got a story from the Daily Standard for us?’
Lucy polished off the last crust of toast and dumped her plate in the sink. Glanced up at the clock: quarter to seven. ‘Sod.’
‘Yeah, buckle up, cos they’re using a lot of alliteration this morning: “Randy Rhynie’s Russian Rumpy-Pumpy Row!” And we’ve got three pages featuring some pretty explicit photos of the Business Secretary, two members of the Russian embassy staff, and what looks like an illegal substance—’
She clicked off the radio, unplugged her new phone from its charger, and hurried for the door. Maybe if she cut down Granite Drive instead of taking the scenic route along the River Wynd? At least it was Saturday, so rush hour should be pretty much non-existent.
Grabbing her keys from the bowl — and that set she’d found, so it could finally go in the Lost and Found — she stuffed them into her overcoat pocket, grabbed her new brolly from the stand, hauled open the front door, and—
‘DS McVeigh, are you all right?’ It was sodding Charlie, from Professional Standards, standing on her top step, face creased up with concern, one hand raised as if he’d been just about to knock. He lowered it. ‘I tried calling, but there was no answer.’
Of course not, because her bloody phone had run out of battery before she’d even got home last night.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘They had to pull the unmarked car; some raid on a puppy farm went a bit... sour. Soon as I found out: came straight over.’ Turning to point at a manky little Fiat Panda, parked on the other side of the road. ‘Why didn’t you pick up?’
She thunked the door shut and locked it. ‘Told you: I don’t need a babysitter.’
‘Might rain today.’ He hooked a thumb at her overcoat. ‘Probably better take the waterproof.’
Patronizing dick.
‘It’s in the wash.’ Which is what she got for chucking bin bags about for a large chunk of last night. She stomped across the drive to Dad’s Bedford Rascal. ‘Don’t you have someone else to annoy?’
‘Nope. Chief Inspector Gilmore says you’re my top priority. So, where are we going?’
‘We’re going nowhere. I’m going to work.’ But by the time she’d unlocked the driver’s door, the little sod was already sitting in the passenger seat, smiling his bland little smile as he pulled on his seatbelt.
‘Don’t worry, I can pick up my car later.’
‘AAAARGH!’ Lucy’s scream echoed back from the woods opposite, borne on a cloud of pale-grey angry steam.
Lucy put her foot down, wheeching across the roundabout, onto Kingside Drive, heading for Dundas Bridge.
‘So...’ Charlie stared across the car at her, ‘yesterday we found out who the Bloodsmith is, today we find out where he’s hiding?’
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. ‘That’s the general idea, yes.’
‘And I suppose you’ll want to go after Benedict Strachan again?’
Lucy forced the words out through gritted teeth. ‘Please, I just want to get to work. In silence. OK? Can we do that?’ Up and over the slate-grey water, still running high from nearly a week of solid rain.
All the way into town and he’d barely shut up once. As if he was actively trying to make the spiky headache, clawing away at the back of her eyes, as bad as possible.
Charlie drummed his fingers on the dusty dashboard, because God forbid he wasn’t annoying for two sodding seconds. ‘I don’t see him as the kind of guy who does things on the fly; Benedict’s more of a plotter and planner. And I get the feeling he’ll have done most of that while he was still inside — working out how to get away with it this time.’
She slowed the van as they made landfall in Castle Hill, coasting down to the roundabout, the ruins looming high on the clifftop above. ‘We’ve got door-to-doors, we’ve got lookout requests at every police station from Inverness to Edinburgh, we’ve got “Have you seen this man?” posters going up today, what else are we supposed to do? Can’t just magic him up out of nowhere.’
‘Odds are Benedict spent last night picking his target and working out the best route of escape.’ Charlie’s brow furrowed. ‘Biggest concentration of rough sleepers is around St Jasper’s Lane, isn’t it? Lots of CCTV down there: we might get lucky?’
She shook her head, waiting for a gap to leap into, round the roundabout onto the dual carriageway. ‘Loads of those small streets don’t have any cameras. If I was him, I’d be looking to pick someone up on Wool Lane, Needle Street, Porter Lane... maybe Waites Avenue? Or there’s all those little alleyways off Archers Lane.’
‘True.’
‘That way he’s got easy access to Camburn Woods. Loads of places to get rid of a body in there.’ Lucy took a left at the lights, along McLaren Avenue. ‘And it puts a hefty buffer zone between the murder and where he’s stashed his dad’s Audi. Be a long walk — through the woods, all the way to Lomas Drive — but he could be driving out of town in... twenty minutes?’
‘Probably more like half an hour, if he’s really moving. And he’ll still have to dig the car out, remember?’ More drumming fingers. ‘Or maybe he’s hunting in the forest?’ The deep green mass of Camburn Woods reared up ahead, spreading out on the right as they drove past the halls of residence. ‘Must be two or three illegal camps in there, sort of small shanty villages. Wouldn’t be hard to wait till the wee small hours and pick someone off?’