Good riddance.
Lucy returned everything, except the ‘What I did over the summer holidays’ essay, to the folder. Sat back in her chair and read.
‘Sorry, that took longer than I thought.’ Argyll bustled into the small working area, bearing a wicker hamper — opening it to pull out two china mugs; a thermos; and a collection of sticky-looking pastries, safely clingfilmed to a plate. All of which got arranged on the desk. ‘Thankfully, His Highness is going to be fine. Clean break, nothing complicated. I think our resident doctor was hoping for something more dramatic. He was an army surgeon in Iraq, and I always get the feeling he rather misses the excitement.’
Lucy eased her chair back on its squealing wheels and nodded at the hamper. ‘What happened to rule number one?’
Argyll actually had a very nice smile. It went well with the whole boyish-charm thing he had going on. ‘If you’re going to break the rules, you might as well go to town.’ The thermos top twisted off with a soft poooom, letting the bittersweet brown scent of coffee ooze out into the room. ‘So, what did you think?’ Not looking at her as he filled both mugs.
She picked up the essay. ‘It’s... disturbed. Disturbing? Thanks.’ Accepting the proffered coffee. ‘That kid had some serious issues. Still does.’ She took a sip — rich and warm and just sharp enough to perk up a half-nine slump.
‘He’s got an IQ of one-seventy-five, so he’s clearly an exceptionally bright kid, but some of the things he comes out with? I mean, take the anecdote about his neighbour’s dog. It’s obviously meant to be amusing, but—’
‘Comes off as incredibly sinister. Yes. And the part where he’s patrolling the neighbourhood to’ — Lucy made air-quotes — ‘“keep everyone safe”, and ends up watching that couple having sex in a Ford Mondeo? Then “coincidentally” finds someone else at it, in their own home, with the blinds open. He’s a peeper.’
‘I’d put money on the man in the Mondeo being his father, and the woman not being his mother. You know what politicians are like.’ Argyll unwrapped the pastries. ‘Everything’s lovely, but I can particularly recommend the millefeuille and the framboisier.’
Lucy helped herself to a custard slice. ‘And the story about his mother falling down drunk, and his dad yelling at the neighbours...’ It was tasty, but the crumbs of puff pastry went all down her top. ‘It’s a bit disloyal, isn’t it? Think he’s trying too hard to impress? Or maybe it’s just genuine contempt for his parents?’
‘Whichever it is, it’s not something we consider a virtue at St Nicholas College. Throw in the flirtation with eugenics and racism and, as I said, I’m surprised his application wasn’t rejected then and there.’ Argyll nibbled on an eclair. ‘The big question is: did any of that give you an idea of how to catch Benedict before he hurts someone else?’
Good question.
38
Argyll walked her to the car, hands clasped behind his back as if he was scared he might touch her by accident. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you again, Lucy.’
Wonder what would happen if he actually had tried physical contact. Maybe she’d be OK with it? Or maybe she’d put him into a full hammer-lock-and-bar, before smashing him against the pool car and slapping the cuffs on?
Kinda hard to tell...
Charlie was sitting in the passenger seat, frowning out at the pair of them. A disapproving maiden aunt in a cheap suit.
Wonderful.
‘Thank you for your help, Argyll. And the picnic, of course.’
‘Which we’ve sworn never to talk of again, on account of it being against the rules.’
‘So we have.’
They stood there, both scuffing their feet on the gravel, while Charlie gave them the evil eye through the windscreen.
‘Lucy, I wonder if—’
‘If we find anything—’
A little light nervous laughter, as pink rushed up Argyll’s neck and set his cheeks ablaze. ‘Sorry, after you.’
You know what? Sod Charlie. ‘Maybe I’ll give you a call next week, if you’re free?’
‘Great! Well, I have a few things on, but I can definitely shuffle them around. And there’s always Fandingo’s, if you didn’t like La Poule Française? Or I could cook? I’m told I do a very passable canard et échalotes au vin?’ All said with an earnest face, and that floppy fringe threatening to droop into his eyes at any moment.
Had to admit there was something weirdly appealing about him. Like a very posh, slightly awkward Labrador.
‘We’ll see.’ Lucy leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, before turning and marching over to the pool car, where Charlie was clearly seething. Good. She thumped in behind the wheel and waved through the windscreen at Argyll.
He stood motionless, cheeks blazing.
More than ‘slightly’ awkward, then.
Lucy started the car, reversed, turned, and headed back down the long drive, past the porter’s lodge — barrier up, its pugilistic operator nowhere to be seen.
Charlie shoogled around in his seat till he was scowling at her. ‘Well?’
Argyll was still there, a tiny figure in the rear-view mirror, but he’d finally recovered enough motor control to wave at the departing car.
Lucy gave Charlie a haughty sniff. ‘None of your business.’
‘Possibly.’ He transferred his scowl to the mirror. ‘You know fine well Assistant Headmaster Argyll McCaskill is sweet on you. Think he’ll be so keen if he finds out you betrayed his trust?’
She turned left, onto the main road, and put her foot down. ‘I’m doing what needs to be done.’
‘But then, betrayal’s the order of the day, isn’t it? I imagine, when DI Tudor said you could investigate whatever you liked, he probably thought you’d be out looking for the Bloodsmith, not wasting the whole morning on Benedict Strachan!’
‘I’ve got DC Fraser working on background, OK? This is just me making good use of my time till he’s done.’
The road was lined with hedgerows and trees, thickets of gorse spilling out their vivid-yellow blossoms.
‘Benedict Strachan isn’t your responsibility, Lucy, he’s—’
‘You want him to kill someone, is that it?’
A bus stop was nestled in at the side of the road, just up ahead, complete with ugly, rectangular plastic shelter. An old lady peered out of it at the pool car, as if hoping they were the number forty-seven.
‘Of course I don’t want him to kill—’
‘Then get off my bloody case!’ Lucy waggled the steering wheel from side to side as the car slowed. ‘What the hell?’ It drifted down to a walking pace, kangarooed forward in a teeth-rattling lurch, then stalled.
Lucy started the engine again. ‘Why can’t they ever service these damn things properly?’ She put the car in gear and— ‘Sodding hell.’ The Vauxhall jerked to a halt again, six feet short of the bus stop.
‘Have you tried pumping the clutch?’
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Then tipped her head to one side. ‘Charlie, when you left the car unattended for ages, even though I specifically asked you not to, did you check everything was OK before you got back in?’
‘Why would I check the car?’
‘Because I wouldn’t put it past that creepy little madam, Allegra Dean-Edwards, to stick a potato up the exhaust pipe or something. Just to screw with us.’
He looked over his shoulder, as if he could somehow magically see through the back seats and car chassis. ‘Does that even work?’