‘Hmmm... Don’t know.’ She slowed to let an auld mannie in pyjamas and an overcoat shuffle across the road, pulled along by a wee Westie terrier on the end of a tartan lead. ‘Benedict’s spent the last sixteen years in prison: he’s used to rules and routine. Out here, in the real world, it’s all new and strange and scary. He’s paranoid; he panics. So he’s going to want somewhere he’s familiar with. Somewhere he knows.’ Man and dog made the opposite pavement and disappeared into the trees. Lucy sped up again. ‘I think he’ll try the same area as last time. We should focus on where he killed Liam Hay.’
A smile. ‘Hey, look at us: working together.’ Charlie reached across and gave her a gentle punch on the shoulder. ‘We make a good team, DS McVeigh.’
God help her...
Lucy parked the Bedford Rascal in the same spot as yesterday, locking the van and marching off, leaving Charlie to scamper after her like the Dunk always had to.
If they were going to be a ‘team’ it wouldn’t hurt the boy from Professional Standards to learn his place.
He caught up with her far too quickly, not even breathing hard. ‘So, when you get your hands on Benedict Strachan’s file from Old Nick’s, do you think it’ll back up your theory? About him being a creature of habit?’
‘How did you know about—’
‘You told me, on the way over, remember?’
Did she?
Must’ve done. She’d been too busy fuming at the irritating sod to pay attention — that was the problem. Dr McNaughton was always banging on about that. Anger dulls the senses, Lucy... Being angry with people means you can’t pay proper attention to what they’re saying, Lucy... Being angry will never make you happy, Lucy.
At least he was right about that last one. It didn’t help the headaches, either.
They turned the corner onto St Jasper’s Lane and she nipped into the small Co-op for a packet of aspirin, one of paracetamol, and something to wash them down with.
‘So...?’ Charlie was waiting for her outside, hands in his pockets, as if they were out for a casual stroll.
She popped two of each pill from their blister packs, chasing them with a swig of Lucozade, then picked up the pace, swinging around onto Peel Place. ‘I already know Benedict’s a creature of habit. When I interviewed him for my thesis, that was about the only thing he was honest about.’
‘You’re probably right. We could...’ Charlie’s eyebrows went up, eyes widening as he stared down the road. ‘Oh dear.’
It looked as if every news agency on the planet had descended on O Division headquarters: outside-broadcast vans, bristling with satellite dishes and antennae; dented estate cars from the smaller channels with just a single cameraman and a presenter; grubby hatchbacks and saloons, their owners out enjoying a fag in the sunshine, with a couple of heavy-duty cameras hanging around their necks; men and women with mobile phones and domestic video cameras, filming themselves as they pulled serious faces and read their scripts. As if having a YouTube channel made you an investigative journalist.
They filled the space in front of DHQ, spilling down the steps and out onto the tarmac, where a couple of uniforms in high-vis did their best to keep the road clear so the police could go about their daily business of keeping Oldcastle from eating itself.
Nearly every one of the patrol cars that slid by the crowd of reporters whacked its lights and siren on as it passed, either to show off in an attempt to get on the news, or because someone up top had told them to spoil as many takes as possible.
Lucy and Charlie nipped across to the opposite side of the road, not making eye contact with anyone, ducking behind the war memorial.
He peered around the side. ‘Any sign of her?’
‘Any sign of who?’
‘Your nemesis, AKA: Sarah Black. She’s bound to be here somewhere... Yup, there she is: eleven o’clock. Today’s banner is “POLICE KILLER MURDERED MY LITTLE BOY!” all in caps, with a photo of Neil Black on it.’
No doubt peddling her lies to anyone gullible enough to listen. ‘Shite-faced old bag.’
‘Yes, but...’ Charlie grimaced. ‘What she’s doing is crappy, no two ways about it — harassing you, the name-calling, the spurious complaints — but she’s not doing it for fun, is she? She’s doing it because her son’s dead and she can’t cope with the thought that she raised a monster.’ Both shoulders came up in a what-ya-gonna-do-about-it gesture. ‘You killed her little boy; she’s got to blame someone.’
‘I didn’t want to kill him, OK? I had no choice! He did. He got himself a rape kit and he went hunting for someone to use it on. The only person to blame for Neil Black’s death is Neil Sodding Black.’
Charlie squeezed Lucy’s arm. ‘I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier on his mother.’
‘Screw her.’
‘Lucy, she’s only human.’
‘SO WAS GILLIAN!’ Shoving him away to bounce off the war memorial, the sunny morning wobbling at the edges, breath burning in her throat. ‘And screw you, too. I get enough analysis from that prick McNaughton; I don’t need any from you!’
She marched out from behind the statue, leading the bronze figures in a charge down the street towards the back entrance to Divisional Headquarters. Them with their bayonets fixed, her with the St Nick’s umbrella grasped like a cudgel. Scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.
Charlie appeared at her side again. ‘Hey, at least it’s not all bad.’ Pointing back at the crowd. ‘Look, it’s whatshername, Craig Thorburn’s mother.’
‘Judith.’
She was wrapped up in a heavy coat and scarf, standing in front of the O Division sign, holding a placard in the shape of a heart — not a schmaltzy Valentine’s one, the proper anatomical human kind. Gesticulating wildly as she talked to someone from Sky News. Glancing at the camera every couple of seconds, as if she didn’t really trust it.
‘At least you know she’s got your back, right?’
Lucy curled her lip and kept on marching. ‘Can’t believe Judith Thorburn’s up this early; probably still drunk from last night. It’s a miracle she sobered up long enough to make a placard.’
‘Wow.’ Charlie stopped, letting the distance grow between them. ‘What the hell happened to make you so cynical?’
Neil Black.
When everyone had a mug of instant coffee and an off-brand Jaffa Cake, DI Tudor brought Morning Prayers to order. ‘All right: settle down, settle down.’
It took a moment or three, but finally Operation Maypole shut its communal cakehole and faced front. The whole team was in this morning, each group gathered beneath their dangling signs. And, for a change, most of them were actually smiling. And they weren’t alone: a dozen Uniform stood at the back, while a handful of support staff loitered by the filing cabinets. Extra resources, drafted in to help catch Dr John Christianson.
Tudor perched on the edge of a desk, at the front of the room, beneath the pull-down screen. ‘Now, you can probably all guess from the circus outside, we had a massive breakthrough yesterday, thanks to our very own DS McVeigh and DC Fraser, who—’
A cheer went up, as if they were at a football match and the home team had just fouled the opposition striker. There was even a scattering of applause.
Lucy buried her face in her mug, but the Dunk stood and gave everyone a bow.
When the noise died down again, Tudor nodded. ‘That’s right, they did a great job. Excellent work. What’s less great is that someone leaked that fact to the press last night!’ Scowling out at the assembled hordes. ‘Do I really have to give you lot the “Don’t talk to the media!” speech again? Because DON’T TALK TO THE SODDING MEDIA!’