The stench was thick enough to chew. ‘Came back?’
‘You have got food, haven’t you? I’ve been good! I’ve done everything you wanted!’
Lucy opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘I don’t understand.’
Charlie stood behind the thin, grubby, starving Christianson. ‘He’s telling the truth, Lucy. You don’t need to punish him any more. You just need to remember.’
She stared. ‘You’re supposed to be Professional Standards! How could you do this?’
‘Lucy, please, I... just a little food. Please!’
‘Dr Christianson has told you what he did to his victims, what he did with their hearts, many, many times, but soon as you walk out that door you forget, don’t you? And the next time you come back, you...’ A frown. ‘“Torture” is such an emotive word, isn’t it?’
‘Jesus...’
‘Lucy, I’m begging you: I’ve confessed, I’ve told you everything, please, just arrest me. Please. Arrest me and put me in prison. I’ll plead guilty!’ Tears made tracks through the grime on his skeletal cheeks, disappearing into that unkempt beard. ‘I won’t tell anyone about this. I won’t, I swear!’
‘He’s even been trying to help you.’ Charlie thumped his hands down on Christianson’s naked shoulders. ‘Talking through your issues and your problems; getting you to confront what happened with Neil Black. And, OK, he’s only done it because he’s terrified of you, and you hurt him if he doesn’t, but he really has done everything he can. It’s time to let him go.’
‘Please, Lucy!’
‘This is...’ She backed away and the torchlight slid off the pair of them. ‘You’re... This is crazy. You’re trying to make me think I’m crazy. Well, I’m not!’
‘Poor Lucy.’ Charlie stepped out of the darkness. ‘If I tell you how you caught him, would that help?’
She stayed where she was, staring off into the gloom as Christianson moaned and sobbed.
Charlie smiled his bland little smile. ‘Once upon a time, there was a brave detective sergeant, called Lucy McVeigh...’
41
Jane Cooper’s flat is far too big and far too posh for one person. It must’ve been lovely, when she was alive, but the six months it’s lain unoccupied have given it an abandoned, dusty air. Desperation just beginning to mingle with the first gritty hint of mildew.
Doesn’t help that the SEB team left nearly every surface covered in a thin patina of fingerprint powder, the cupboards and wardrobes as gutted and empty as their owner — their contents scattered around the bedroom. Also like their owner.
Lucy wanders from the bleached remains of the bedroom to the ransacked study, to the bathroom, then the kitchen, before ending up in the living room with its impressive views over the sun-sparkled river.
She huffs out her cheeks. This is a complete waste of time.
Yes, but it’s been fifteen months and they still have no clue who the Bloodsmith is. So a little clutching at straws isn’t exactly unexpected.
Her footsteps echo, making the house sound even more empty. Well, not empty, empty: all of Jane Cooper’s stuff’s still here. Scattered all over the place by a search team that never tidies up after itself.
A small table lies on its side in the living room, tipped over and abandoned, the single drawer hanging out.
Lucy puts the thing back on its feet, scooping up the leaflets, and notepad, and pens, and various unidentifiable plastic things drawers like that always accumulate. And even though the search team will have been through every single one of them, she examines each piece before placing it back into the drawer and sliding it shut again.
Then frowns.
There was a leaflet...
She opens the drawer and pulls out the bits of paper, chucking away fliers for takeaways, and opera performances, and bookshop events, until she gets to the leaflet asking for people to take part in a study on loneliness. It’s got a name scrawled on it, in blue biro: ‘DR CHRISTIANSON’, along with a local telephone number. Worth a go.
She calls it.
‘Oldcastle Dundas University, Psychology Department.’
‘I need to talk to a Dr Christianson?’
‘One moment.’
After all, what did she have to lose?
‘I’m sorry, Dr Christianson’s working from home today, can someone else help you?’
‘Don’t suppose you can give me his address, can you?’
Lucy double-checks the address, then climbs out of her pool car into the blustery afternoon. The university might have a policy against telling random strangers where faculty members live, but a PNC search doesn’t have any such qualms. Which is why she’s standing in a nice cul-de-sac, on the edge of Castleview, that backs onto the glorious emerald riot of sunlit fields and trees.
She marches across the road and rings Dr Christianson’s bell. Stands there with her face warming in the afternoon sun and waits for him to answer.
Finally, a man appears, dressed like a geography teacher, even though he’s working from home.
She shows him her warrant card. ‘Dr Christianson? Police. I need to have a word with you about someone who might’ve participated in one of your studies.’
He blinks at Lucy’s ID, then at Lucy, then nods, turns and heads back inside, leaving the door open for her. ‘I’m just making tea, if you want one?’
It’s a nice enough kitchen, if you like faux-farmyard chintz — the welcoming scent of baking bread wafting out of the oven as Christianson busies himself brewing a pot of tea. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll be able to help you — I keep all my notes at the office. What was the name you were interested in?’
Lucy pulls her gaze away from the fields beyond the neat back garden. ‘Cooper. Jane Cooper.’
‘Cooper, Cooper, Cooper...’ Topping up a little milk jug with a carton from the fridge. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. But, as I said, all my notes are—’
‘In the office.’ The worktop is clarted with clichéd tat — ceramic cows and metal chickens and biscuit jars in the shape of cats. There’s even a bowl moulded to look like a cabbage leaf, hosting a handful of coins, an electronic fob for the Skoda estate parked outside, and a small bundle of keys.
‘Can I ask why you think this Jane Cooper was on one of my studies? Oh, and do you want a biscuit? I’ve got chocolate-covered ginger snaps — homemade, not bought?’
Seven of them, held together with a brass ring. One’s a high-security key, with a straight blade and dimples recessed into it, like the key to Jane Cooper’s swanky apartment. One has ‘Do Not Duplicate’ on it, like the key to Adam Holmes’ cramped little rented flat. Three Yales, each with colour-coded caps — Abby Geddes, Bruce Malloch, and Craig Thorburn’s homes all have Yale locks...
A sigh from behind her. ‘I’m sorry.’
Lucy tenses — Dr Christianson’s reflection in the kitchen window has a metal pan in his hand, raised like a hammer.
By the time she spins around, it’s too late...
She wakes up choking, head pounding like it’s full of dynamite and rock salt, concrete rough against her cheek.
‘Unngh...’ Lucy shoves one hand against the floor, sending pins and needles screaming up her whole arm as she flops over onto her back. Letting free a cry of pain that echoes against the exposed ducts and pipework suspended from the ceiling.