DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  The door opens, and I am torn from my worsening morosity. DCI Bloonsbury, looking as if he's just been savaged himself. Think he needs hospitalised. He's a big man, six-five maybe. Back row forward in his day, played a Scotland trial. Nearly made it, although in those days all you got for playing rugby was a lot of sore joints and absurd ears. Well, the way he walks now he certainly got the sore joints. I'm five ten and I could head butt the guy without needing to stretch. He's got the ruddy face of the alcoholic, and looks way beyond fifty-three. The man's a disaster, but somehow he's been managing to get by the past couple of years.

  There was a time last year when he was almost kicked into touch. His wife had just upped and left him for a plumber from Dundee, taking the kids and everything else of worth in the family. Bloonsbury went over the edge, yet somehow managed to claw his way back. Got a lot of help. He's a bit of a hero round here, for one reason or another. Used to be the star, and people still want to look up to him, even though more and more of us are seeing through him.

  So this was his crowning glory from last year. Just as he was at his lowest ebb, he came up with a beauty. Big murder case out this end of Glasgow. A poor wee woman bought it from some ski-masked fellow wielding a kitchen knife. The feeling that he was going to be a repeat murderer quickly grew, women all over the city were panicking, and us lot were looking useless. Bloonsbury was in charge, the investigation seemingly stuck in neutral, and then boom, out of nowhere, it suddenly all fell into place. The big man put it together, made the breakthrough, and we got the guy. Some sleazoid from the west end who denied it all the way to the joint, but we had him. Enough evidence to put away a thousand murderers.

  Bloonsbury was the hero, feted in the papers, got that ugly mug on TV, had all sorts of people queuing up to suck his dick. Don't know how he did it, given the state he was in at the time, but it was good to see. Trouble is, of course, he's been getting all the big ones ever since, and not been doing too well. This'll be the last chance, and all you can imagine is him hitting the bottle even harder, and maybe, if he's lucky, his liver'll give out and he'll die before he can blow it.

  He comes to the front of the room, looks like shit. Stares at us; we stare back. You can see he would rather just be down the pub staring at a full bottle of Glen Ord, or one of these other single malts he occasionally fancies himself as being able to tell the difference between.

  'Right then, gentlemen,' ignoring the five women, 'all the facts. What have we got? You first, Herrod.'

  Herrod nods, looks at his notebook.

  'Victim, Ann Keller. Dark brown hair, twenty-seven, bit of a looker. Had two part-time jobs. Ancillary at the Victoria, sales at Frasers in Buchanan Street in the town. Worked in the shop on Monday, was due in the hospital today.' He pauses, looks through the notes. Try not to let my mind wander, having heard all this stuff already. 'Went to the Classic cinema to see some foreign film.'

  Herrod can't distinguish between countries. Never been abroad. There's British, and there's foreign. I talked to him about the Balkans once. But just the once. Knew not to do it again.

  'She was due to go with her boyfriend, one Christopher James from Cambuslang, although the usherette remembers her as being on her own. He claims to have cancelled the date.'

  Bloonsbury blurts in. 'You been speaking to him, Dan?'

  Taylor is roused from his perpetual melancholy. Either thinking about Debbie or the continuing depression over DS Murphy. Or maybe he's just miserable at having to do all this shit, same as the rest of us.

  'Been in with him most of the afternoon. No alibi for last night. Stayed in, watched telly. Can describe what was on, but that doesn't mean anything. Looks pretty upset.' He shrugs. 'Don't know. Forensics have been over his flat, we'll see what they come up with. I'm guessing it'll be nothing. Don't think he's our man.'

  'Why didn't he go to the pictures?'

  'Said they had a fight. Something to do with a necklace given to her by an ex-boyfriend.'

  'Got a name?'

  'Aye. Looking into it. We'll find him, get him in.'

  'Could he have made the story up? Deflect attention, and all that?'

  All right, it's not brilliant, but believe me, this is Bloonsbury a hell of a lot more switched on than he's been in months. Maybe he's going to go for this one. Wants to be the hero again. Get his name in the papers.

  'Don't know. We'll talk to the guy, see what we come up with.'

  'Right. Herrod, what else?'

  Herrod looks pissed off. I sometimes wonder if he reveres Bloonsbury or hates the sight of him. Or both. And sometimes I realise that I really, really don't care either way.

  'She leaves the pictures, walks home. Ten minute walk, she never gets there. Somewhere along the way she is accosted, strangled and stabbed.' Looks at his notebook. 'A hundred and twenty-five times, mostly in the face and chest.' Jesus. Who the fuck stabs someone a hundred and twenty-five times? Herrod looks at the women, slightly embarrassed, as if they might be delicate in some way. Old fashioned, Herrod. 'He pulled her into a close entrance before he did it, then left the body where he killed her. Found by some poor bastard who lives on the third floor. The deed couldn't have been done more than three or four minutes. The guy checks out, by the way.'

  There's a bit of a silence. We're all mad, tough bastards here, but this kind of thing is always going to stick in the throat, regardless of how many thugs you've arrested, regardless of how many bodies you've seen decapitated and dumped in a pile in the middle of a forest.

  'Why do you suppose he did that?' says Bloonsbury.

  'What?'

  'Stab her over a hundred times.'

  Herrod shrugs. 'I don't fucking know, do I?' he says bluntly. I can't help smiling at that, but quickly wipe it off.

  'Aye, right, fine. Any ideas people?' says Bloonsbury looking around the room.

  He wants to ask some idiot doctor with letters after his name and a mind for lunatics, not a bunch of Feds more used to dealing with car theft.

  DS Harrison speaks up. An attractive woman in her way, if a little brutish. Reminds me of my Aunt Maureen. I've heard tell she wears a chain around her waist, although have never had the desire to try and see for myself. Anyway, there's a rumour that she prefers the company of women, which is something I have to admire, because so do I.

  'He knew her, hated her, got carried away with an act of vengeance.'

  'Maybe,' says Bloonsbury. Never know with the guy if he's being cagey or slow.

  I shrug and decide to participate. 'The guy was hardly rational. From the ferocity of the attack we know that he absolutely lost it. You stab someone over a hundred times, you're not thinking straight.'

  Bloonsbury sighs, shakes his head. 'Aye, I suppose you're right.' Starts rubbing his eye. The man needs a drink. 'I'll speak to that doctor, what's his name?'

  'Arkansas,' volunteers a voice from the floor.

  'Aye, right, how could I forget a fucking stupid name like that? All right, anything else? Did the knobs at pathology have anything illuminating to tell us?'

  Herrod. 'Aye. Apparently she'd had sex yesterday afternoon. There were still traces of semen in her,' and he looks shyly around the women folk again, 'you know, inside her. Unrelated to the murder. From that we've got male, mid-thirties, blood group AB neg, and that's our lot.'

  I tell you, Baird and Balingol are something else. How did they manage to work out that the guy's male just from his semen?

  'Ties in with the boyfriend, presumably,' says Bloonsbury, looking at Taylor.

  'Aye,' says Taylor. 'Did it in the afternoon, in the toilets in his work in town, he says. It was after that she told him about the present from her ex. They argued, the usual thing. She left without it being resolved whether he'd go to the cinema. He thought about it, and decided not to.'

  'Right,' says Bloonsbury.

  He looks around the room, not sure where else to go with this.

  'Right,' he says again, 'this is a sick bastard we've got here. People are g
oing to be shitting their pants, so we need this guy off the streets before Christmas. So, I know we've all got things to do at this time of year, but the quicker we get this out the way, the more time we can spend on enjoying ourselves. So let's give it everything we've got for the next couple of days.'

  Very inspiring.

  'Right. We've got descriptions of the lassie going out on the news, phone lines open, and all that. You all know what you're doing, so get out there and get on with it. I've got to go and speak to the fucking papers.'

  The meeting starts to break up. All hands on deck. Let's hope there's no more crime in the area for the next few weeks. Bloonsbury leads the way out the room and then we all start to shuffle after him. Taylor puts his hand on my shoulder.

  'I need a drink, Sergeant. You coming?'

  Where better to increase pressure in the investigation than from the pub? I nod and lead the way. The group disperses around the station, each with things to do. Not much conversation. All this is very intense. The thought that at some stage we're going to come face to face with this guy. And if we don't, it's because we'll have failed to do our jobs.

  Almost out the door when Sgt Ramsey stops my steady progress towards the first vodka tonic of the day.

  'Got something for you, Thomas.'

  'What?' I don't look impressed.

  'Aggravated assault in Westburn. Your show.'

  Oh, for fuck's sake.

  Taylor shrugs. 'See you in a couple of hours, Sergeant. I'll still be there.'

  Aye, right.

  8

  Doubtless the world is quite right in a million ways; but you have to be kicked about a little to convince you of the fact.

  Not number twenty-one from the book of Useful Police Philosophy. From the writings of Robert Louis Stevenson. Now, I'm not denigrating the guy, but really I don't give a shit. Books are not my thing, particularly ones which were written way back, when making love to someone meant that you sat on the end of the bed and told the woman how good she looked in pink. And I think I speak for most of my colleagues when I say that. If any of us ever has the time to read a book – and with all the detecting and drinking that has to be done, it isn't often – we like to settle down with a good crime thriller. Pick up some handy detective-type hints. 19th Century literature just isn't on the list.

  However, there are dark forces which conspire to thrust it down our throats, whether we want to hear it or not. The dark force, in particular, is Superintendent Charlotte Miller, BA Hons in English Lit. Not that she stomps around with her honours degree stamped on her forehead; she is a little more subtle than that, although not much. Lets her erudition spill out all over the place.

  It's a management tactic that's supposed to make you respect her intelligence and insight, when in fact all it makes most folks want to do is place their hands around her throat and squeeze. The I'm a smart bastard and you're an ignorant little shit, so do what I say routine. The attitude that launched a thousand rebellions.

  Stevenson is her favourite. Always throwing in quotes, or giving us some other little homily from his life. Very inspiring. I don't have a literary favourite – I go through life with no one to quote but myself.

  The woman is forty-nine, and therefore younger than a lot of the chief inspectors at her fingertips. This is, as you will imagine, a source of friction. Most of these guys are in their early fifties, they're not going anywhere else, and they're from the 'women should be in the kitchen with the washing up' generation. Confronted with a woman who is a) smarter than them, b) in a position to tell them what to do, c) going places they can't even dream about, and d) much, much better looking, most of them spend their days in a foul mood, dumping on delinquent constables. And sergeants.

  Point d) may seem the most trivial and sexist of the lot, but you have to be realistic. If this woman looked like one of those 1970's Czechoslovak shot putters, modelled for Hound Monthly, chewed tobacco and bent iron bars with her teeth, I'm sure they could cope with it a lot better. But she's a dream. I'd have her before any of these strapping, ball-crushing constables that pass through here – even the good looking ones like Bathurst – but there's no way Miller is going to go anywhere near the likes of me. It's not because she's married, because faithful she ain't. It's a power thing. She goes for people in power, people that can do things for her. And note that – people. Not just men. This woman would have fought on both sides of the Spanish Civil war, if you know what I'm saying.

  Gorgeous and bisexual. Holy crap. Seriously, any time you meet a woman like that, it's like they've been invented. By me. The chances of me, Miller and another gorgeous bisexual woman all ending up in bed together might be nil, but at least they're not as nil as they would be if she wasn't bisexual in the first place.

  Things did change a little between us a few months ago. I guess I'd always had the same opinion of her as most of the other men around here – that vague mixture of suspicion, revulsion and lust – then one day I blundered into her office without knocking just as she was changing to go out to an official lunch.

  It was late summer. She'd been wearing a white blouse and I'm guessing, a white bra, and I walked in on her as she had both of them off and was standing by her desk in trousers and nothing else. As I entered she was bending over, but she straightened up, made no attempt to cover herself and looked at me as if she wasn't standing there topless.

  It was a weird moment. We stared at each other for rather a long time; although, obviously when I say that we stared at each other, I mean that she looked me in the eye while I stared at her tits. I knew it was wrong, but by God I couldn't stop myself. I was keen to look her in the eye, I really was, but all I could do was stare at her tits, thinking, holy mother of all fuck, those are the best tits I've ever seen in my life, I want those tits. I couldn't speak, because all I would have said was, Wow, look at your tits, or Have you seen your tits, they're amazing or something equally stupid. So I stood there, mouth slightly open, staring at her tits, until she said, 'Sergeant?' and the spell was broken.

  I finally managed to look her in the eye, said, 'It can wait,' and left. Closing the door behind me.

  I remember walking out into the station thinking that it was utterly bizarre that a man – me – who had seen so many tits in his life, should be so enamoured by any pair of tits, but I was hooked. Must admit that I have viewed her with a lot more respect since then.

  That's probably wrong, isn't it?

  I like to tell myself it's because it was a moment when she proved that she transcended sexuality and was a woman of strength and power, but really it's because she's got great tits.

  She's married to a boring suit called Frank, who sells oatcakes or some shit like that abroad. So the guy's never here, which gives her plenty of time for bridge building. Met the bloke a couple of times and nearly fell asleep talking to him. One of the camel coat Ibrox brigade, turns up there about once a season and talks as if he knows a shit load about Scottish football, when in truth he doesn't know any more than any other comedian who supports the Rangers. Believe he's got designs on becoming a director, and they're welcome to each other.

  It's nearly ten o'clock and me and Taylor are sitting in the pub. I've just arrived, having smoked my fiftieth of the day on the way here. Taylor's been here since about five. Given that, he's remarkably cogent. Probably been making a pint last a few hours, since there was no one here to buy him a round.

  The aggravated assault was the usual thing. Domestic, brothers, one of them ended up in hospital, the other's in a holding cell back at the station. They were fighting over a woman, which is no surprise, and she played the innocent, desperately concerned third party throughout. Playing one off against the other, and if any of them should be in the slammer, it's her.

  'Your round,' says Taylor, with the detective's eye for detail. I think I could dispute that but choose not to bother. Make my way to the bar, catch the eye of the sultry barperson. Agnes.

  'Vodka tonic, and a pint of heavy,' I say,
and she nods and goes about her business. It's a quiet night, there's no one else within hearing range and I wonder whether I should go for it. She's wearing a tight white top, displaying adequate amounts of cleavage, and as she bends down to retrieve the tonic from the fridge, I get a good view of her massive buttocks. Very sexy. She stands up, slightly flushed around the chops, not a bad looking girl. Nevertheless, decide against. Go for idle chatter.

  'Can you change the tape, Love?'

  She listens to the music for a second and shrugs.

  'It's Christmas,' she says, pouring the pint.

  'There's more to Christmas than bloody Band Aid. You must have Bob's Christmas album.'

  She watches the smooth brown liquid slowly fill the glass, the light reflecting off its deep hues. Sound poetic? Can't stand the stuff myself.

  'Bob who?' she says.

  Decide it was just as well I didn't go for it and hand over a twenty pound note. Then, drinks and change in hand, make my way back to the table. Sit down, suddenly occurs to me it's a few hours nearer Christmas and I still don't have anything for Rebecca. Look at the watch. Have to have something by five o'clock tomorrow evening. Bugger.

  'What do you think of Bloonsbury?' says Taylor, licking the froth from his lips.

  'What do I think of him?'

  'Aye. Has he still got it? For a big case like this, I mean.'

  'Fuck knows. I doubt it, but he seemed a bit more switched on this afternoon. But let's face it, the Addison case aside, what's he done in the last five years?'

  No answer. There is no answer.

  'So why,' I say, 'did she put him on this one?'

  Taylor shrugs. 'So's he'll screw up, maybe.'

  'Why?'

  'It's like James Bond in The Man With the Golden Gun.'

  'You mean there's an Asian dwarf?'

  'No, not the film, the book.'

  'Never read it.'

  'James Bond is washed up, at a dead end. He's been brainwashed by the Russians. The Secret Service have no more use for him. But, fuck, he's James Bond. They can't just pack him off to a desk job. So they send him after Scaramanga, the deadliest assassin in the world. If he kills him then he's proved his worth; if he gets killed then they don't have the problem of what to do with James Bond.'