‘I was talking about Benedict Strachan’s essay. It’s... you know?’
‘Of course I do, Dunk. I’m psychic, didn’t you realize? I can tell exactly what you’re thinking at any moment in time.’ A couple of plain white shirts got hung up, too. ‘Which is depressing.’
‘If I’d handed in something like that at school, I’d be hauled up before the guidance teacher quicker than you could say “psych evaluation”, “trouble at home”, and “call a social worker”.’ Another pair of chinos got rummaged through.
‘True.’
‘So how come none of the teachers’ notes scream, “DO NOT ACCEPT THIS HORRIBLE, FREAKY, CREEPY LITTLE KID INTO OUR NICE POSH SCHOOL!”? They’re all talking about his sentence structure and good use of grammar, while completely ignoring the fact he’s clearly psychotic.’
Lucy hung up a couple of feminine jumpers. ‘You finding anything?’
‘Only that Christianson’s got terrible taste in clothes.’ The Dunk made a disgusted gurgling noise. ‘Cargo pants. Seriously?’
She searched all the pockets on a trio of denim shirts and added them to the wardrobe. ‘Starting to think we’re wasting our time here.’
‘Can you imagine reading that essay and thinking, “Yeah, this kid’s going to fit right in. Bet his roommates are going to have a ball with this one. No way they’ll all end up murdered in their beds.”’
More shirts. ‘What did you think about the dog story?’
‘Exactly.’ The Dunk shuddered and added another pair of trousers to his pile. ‘I wouldn’t let Benedict Strachan babysit a dead hamster, after reading that.’
The last shirt joined the collection, then a couple of tank tops. ‘His dad was a local politician: maybe the old man put a bit of pressure on so they’d admit Benedict?’
‘Nah, posh twats like that don’t take well to threats, especially from jumped-up little Hitlers like Ian Strachan. Bribery’s more their thing. Bet he promised them favours with business rates and planning permission, that kinda thing.’
Lucy closed her now-full wardrobe and moved on to the bedside cabinet. Hauling the drawers all the way out to check underneath for anything secret taped there. Nope. ‘If you had all of Oldcastle to hide in, where would you go?’ Scooping up an armful of scattered socks and pants and stuffing them one at a time into the gaping drawers.
‘Me? Jane Cooper’s swanky apartment. I’d burrow myself in there like a tick on a dog’s neck and never come out.’
‘Yes, but we know about Jane Cooper, so Christianson can’t do that.’ She stuffed the last loose sock into the drawer. ‘Help me flip the mattress.’
The Dunk did — the pair of them working their way around the outside, searching for little hidden compartments. Finding sod, and indeed, all.
‘OK, well, maybe he’s got another victim we haven’t found yet?’
Lucy went through the discarded duvet cover and pillowcases. ‘Risky. If someone reports them missing: next thing you know, Operation Maypole’s kicking your door in.’
‘There is that.’
They pulled the chest of drawers away from the wall, but it didn’t have a false back, or anything trapped behind it.
The Dunk shoved it back into place again. ‘Want to check under the carpet? Search team yanked it up anyway...?’
‘Not really, but we might as well be thorough.’
Fifteen minutes later they were giving the spare bedroom the same treatment, leaving it 2,000 percent tidier than it’d been before they started. Then the bathroom — including taking the front panel off the bath, and the medicine cabinet from the wall, after a judicious bit of unscrewing. Then the airing cupboard. Then the kitchen, living room, downstairs toilet. Then the attic. Until, finally, they both stood, clarted with dust and little shards of fibreglass insulation, in the garage.
The SEB had taken all the victims’ boxes away, along with the jars of blood from the freezer. They’d left the lid up, though, so everything else in there was busy defrosting. Lazy sods. Lucy thumped it shut again as something angry growled in the gloom. ‘Was that you?’
‘Starving, Sarge.’ The Dunk cupped his stomach in both hands. ‘Got to be well past lunchtime by now.’
She checked her phone: quarter past two, and DCI Ross had got back to her.
No movement on Ian Strachan’s Audi. No sightings of Benedict Strachan either. No reports of murdered homeless people. 2 more days then I pull the obs.
Two days? Surprised he was prepared to stick with it that long. The operation must be costing him a fortune.
‘Give the hall a quick rummage, would you? I need to make a call.’
She left the Dunk to it and marched back through the house, out into the back garden.
The search team had trampled the knee-high grass into submission, the flowerbeds all dug up till there was nothing but churned earth left. Maybe they thought Christianson had buried his victims’ hearts out here? When it was obvious he must’ve taken the things with him.
Well, unless he’d cooked and eaten them...
Lucy pulled up her contacts and scrolled through to ‘BENEDICT STRACHAN’, pressed the call button as she paced the length of the garden. If he had any sense, he’d have ditched the phone by now, but you never knew.
A harsh electronic voice grated out at her: ‘THE NUMBER YOU HAVE CALLED IS NOT AVAILABLE. PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AFTER THE TONE.’
Bleeeep.
‘Benedict? I need your help, OK? Your mum’s in trouble and I need you to help me help her. You don’t want her to go through what you did, do you? In prison? It’s—’
‘Ahem.’ A voice, right behind her. ‘Thought you could give me the slip, did you? Again?’
‘JESUS!’ She nearly dropped her phone, spinning around, free hand curled into a fist — ready to fly.
Charlie from Professional Standards stood there, wearing his bland little smile. Only now it had a sad edge to it. Like Argyll’s smile, when he’d talked about his parents. ‘Hello, Lucy.’
‘STOP SNEAKING UP ON ME!’
He frowned at the house. ‘I take it you didn’t find anything?’
She jammed her phone back in her pocket. ‘Seriously — you keep doing that, and sooner or later someone’s going to knock your sodding teeth out!’
‘“Violence is the last resort of a gentleman and the first resort of a rogue.” Can’t remember who said that.’ He wandered down to the bottom of the garden, looking out over the rough fields and glum sheep. ‘I’m worried about you, Lucy.’
Oh, here we go.
‘Well, you don’t have to, because—’
‘Dr McNaughton thinks you’re struggling. He thinks you’re starting to unravel.’
She stiffened her back, folded her arms. Heat surging up her spine. ‘Dr McNaughton is a prick.’
‘He is.’ A shrug. ‘Doesn’t make him wrong, though.’
High overhead, a buzzard wheeled its way across the sky.
The sheep murmured.
Charlie didn’t move.
‘God’s sake, I’m fine! Better than fine: I identified the Bloodsmith, didn’t I?’
‘A long time ago, in a housing estate very much like this one, there lived a little girl called Lucy McVeigh. She was... troubled.’
‘Oh, spare me your schlock psychology.’
‘I did my homework, Lucy. They like us to be thorough in Professional Standards, you know that.’ He nodded out at the sheep. ‘This little girl had a next-door neighbour who was mean and grumpy all the time, and he had a dog. A big dog. A big dog whose name was Maximus, but Lucy called him Mr Bitey. Because that’s the kind of dog he happened to be.’