Nothing to worry about at all.
She stomped her way to the stairwell, through the door, and into the toilets.
Someone sobbed quietly in one of the cubicles.
Probably best not to interfere, so Lucy washed her hands, scrubbing at her fingertips with her nails until at least some of the black ink shifted.
Whoever it was, they were still crying by the time Lucy had finished with the wheezy hand drier and thumped back into the corridor again, pulling out her phone and bringing up ‘DCI ANDREW ROSS’ on her contacts. Might not be a good idea to phone him out of the blue, but a text wouldn’t hurt.
Hi Boss,
Did anything come back from the trace on Benedict Strachan’s phone, or the obs on his dad’s car?
SEND.
Lucy shoved back into her borrowed office. ‘Well?’
The Dunk was slouched against the filing cabinet — beneath that photo of the Queen and the auld wifie — frowning away at a handful of A4 sheets. ‘Give us a chance; you’ve only been gone five minutes.’
She gathered up the remaining printouts and slapped them against his chest. ‘You can read the rest in the car.’ Grabbed her overcoat and was out the door in twenty seconds, flat.
He caught up with her on the way down the stairs. Clutching both wax-paper cups. ‘You think our Dr Christianson’s holed up somewhere local, or further out?’
‘Nothing in his social media about a caravan, or a mate’s flat, or something?’
‘Nope. Holidays are either taken in Corfu, where he’s got a timeshare, or Brighton, where he’s got a mate who writes crime novels. But he’s not been to anywhere more exotic than Marks and Spencer since his wife died, five years ago.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Been a homebody ever since. Does this big “I’m so sad and lonely” routine every year on the anniversary of her death.’
They made the last turn and clattered down the final flight of stairs.
‘Suspicious?’
‘Natural causes.’ Holding out one of the cups. ‘You want this or not?’
It tasted terrible, but better than nothing. ‘Let me guess: his wife died of some sort of heart condition, waiting for a transplant match.’
‘Nah. It’d be nice and neat, what with him hacking out his victims’ tickers, but it was an aneurism. Dropped dead in the Asda car park.’
Lucy barged through the doors into the—
Froze.
Charlie from Professional Standards was standing at the other end of the corridor, hunched forwards, phone clutched to one ear, his free hand over the other, shutting out the screams echoing around the custody block. He was partially turned away, which meant he probably hadn’t seen her yet.
Fingers crossed...
Lucy did a quick about-face and slipped into the locker room instead.
The Dunk hurried after her. ‘Sarge, why are we—’
‘Just keep moving, OK?’ They clattered out the other side, into the corridor, wheeched past the muster room, and up a narrow staircase to the ground floor.
‘Sarge, much as I love cloak-and-dagger stuff, it’s—’
‘Would you rather spend the rest of the day dragging some dick from Professional Standards around with us? Because that’s what’s on offer.’ She entered the security code and pushed her way into Reception. Keeping up the pace till they were out through the main doors.
He was starting to go puce. ‘Sarge, can we—’
‘Shhhhh...!’
Eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning and the assembled media seemed to be half asleep. Certainly, none of them were awake enough to notice as she led the way across the front apron and down the steps onto Peel Place. Heading straight for the opposite side of the road and speeding up again. Putting a bit of distance between them and the cameras.
She didn’t slow down until they’d made the turn onto Guild Street.
Where the Dunk promptly limped to a halt and partially collapsed against the wall of an all-night bakery. Grabbing at his side. ‘Oh Christ... Argh... Oh Jesus, Mary, and buggery...’
Lucy gave him a minute. Drinking her horrible coffee while he wheezed. ‘Where’s Christianson’s wife buried? We need to check: see if he’s dug her up, trying to get his new hearts to fit.’
‘Stitch...’
‘Dunk!’
‘Argh...’ He levered himself upright, still clutching his side. ‘Why do we always have to go everywhere at a bloody sprint?’
‘Where — is — Christianson’s — wife?’
‘The North Sea. He scattered her ashes from the Aberdeen to Orkney ferry. Does the trip every year, writes a poem about how much he misses her, and posts it on Facebook. Told you he made a big thing of it.’
‘Oh.’ Well, at least they didn’t have to worry about his wife’s decomposing corpse mouldering away somewhere, like Norman Bates’s mother.
The Dunk limped after Lucy all the way to her ugly-pink Bedford Rascal. He stopped on the pavement, face pinched, shoulders dipped, like a kicked puppy. ‘Please tell me we’re not taking the Shagging Sausages Mobile.’
‘It’s this or we’re lumbered with Professional Standards.’ She unlocked both doors. ‘Take your pick.’
‘Urgh...’
Dr Christianson’s house had been a lot tidier when Lucy had last set foot in here. The search team had left their usual trail of devastation: every drawer and cupboard ransacked, their contents left strewn about as if a hurricane had ripped through the place.
The Dunk clunked the front door shut behind him and grimaced at the mess. ‘Where do we start?’
‘Master bedroom, then work our way out from there.’
It was a tip, too.
‘How?’ The Dunk did a slow three-sixty, scowling at everything. ‘How does anyone make this much mess?’ Clothes were all over the floor, along with a few dozen books, and a couple of cuddly toys. He curled his lip and pulled on a pair of blue nitriles. ‘You sure we can’t just pretend they did a good job, and we don’t have to go through everything again?’
‘You’re quite right, Dunk, because never in the history of O Division has a police search team overlooked something glaringly obvious that ended up being crucial to solving the case. They’re the poster boys for professionalism, competence, and efficiency. What was I thinking?’
‘Fair enough.’ He plucked a pair of jeans from the carpet, going through the pockets before folding them neatly and laying them on top of the chest of drawers. ‘One down...’
Lucy donned gloves of her own, and clambered inside the built-in wardrobe, going up on her tiptoes to peer over the top shelf. Empty. She stuck her hand out and bashed at the roof, then the sides, then the back. All sounded solid enough, so no hidden compartments. She did the same with the rest of the wardrobe, knocking and listening. Having a bash at pulling out the baseplate. Failing.
The Dunk seemed to be specializing in trousers, so Lucy went through the shirts and jumpers — the search team had chucked the hangers into a clattery pile in the corner, so everything she searched got hung up in the wardrobe.
‘These chinos are hideous.’ He went through the pockets of a perfectly normal pair of trousers. ‘You know what I think?’
‘Not everyone has to look as if they crawled out of a 1950s poetry recital, Dunk.’ A cashmere hoodie went on the next hanger. It was in a pale shade of pink, with the sweet musky scent of a feminine perfume. Maybe it belonged to Christianson’s late wife? Lucy’s dad was probably not the only one who hoarded things like that.