DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Morning.'

  He looks up. Smiles, sort of.

  'What were you up to last night then, you shagger? You were spotted three minutes ago promenading across the carpark with Bathurst.'

  Christ, you can't do anything, can you? I'm about to go on the defensive but decide against. They can think what they like.

  Don't smile. Don't feel like it.

  'Any news?'

  He nods.

  'Aye. While you were out shagging last night, some of us were working.'

  'Spare me.'

  'We got your Healy character. Picked him up at a pub in town, steaming out his face, about half ten.'

  What was I doing at half past ten? I was deep in the arms of Charlotte Miller. Already seems a long time ago.

  'And?'

  'He sobered up pretty quick. Got him in a cell overnight. Jonah's coming in to talk to him this morning.'

  'And is he going to be sober?' Almost spit the words out, knowing what I now know about Jonah Bloonsbury. If Taylor notices the tone, he doesn't comment.

  'Is he ever? He'll have the run of CID today without the witch in, so who knows what he'll be like.'

  Nearly spring to her defence, but manage to zip it.

  'What do you think of our guy?' I say instead.

  He leans back in his chair, tosses a pen onto the desk. Purses his lips. Shakes his head.

  'Don't know, to be honest. I see what you mean about him, but I think he's just a stupid little shit.'

  Implied criticism, I shouldn't have been getting everyone excited.

  'Aye, right. I wasn't sure. Bloonsbury was the one frothing at the mouth over it. Just a gut feeling.'

  He nods. 'Aye, well my gut feeling says it's not him, but Jonah's the one to make the decision. Anyway, we can get a blood sample. That should sort it out.' Another shake of the head. 'Why would a guy invite the polis in?'

  'To give us a false description. Lead us astray.'

  'Aye, well, maybe you're right. Fuck knows, eh?'

  'Aye, right. Anything else?'

  'Naw. Pretty quiet, so far. The usual shite after the pubs shut last night, but not much for us. That desk of yours looks pretty crowded. Maybe you'd like to see to some of it.'

  'Yes, boss,' mock salute, and out the door.

  Go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee before I face the paperwork, most of which has been put off for several weeks. I could work non-stop on it for the next month and not clear it all away. Meet Alison in the kitchen, looking far more cheerful than I care for anyone to look today. She smiles at me; I do my best to respond.

  'Merry Christmas,' she says, and gives me an almost lingering kiss on the lips.

  'Merry Christmas,' I say back, and the words sound totally different.

  She busies herself with the kettle.

  'What's the matter with you, Thomas, you miserable bastard? It's Christmas.'

  'It certainly doesn't feel like it. What are you doing up here, anyway?'

  'Sink's blocked downstairs. They don't want us using the kitchen. And the bloody lift's broken.'

  'Aye, I know.' Don't feel like making small talk, but I'm here now. No option. The woman did use to be my wife after all. 'So, you're not spending a cosy day with McGovern?'

  'Cosy night,' she says. 'We both finish at four, then we're going down to the Creggans' in Strachur for the night. Tomorrow off. What about you?'

  Have to think about it. Remember the wonderful family dinner coming up. Hope I'm more in the mood for it when it comes the time.

  'Dinner with Peggy and the kids after work.'

  She lets out a low whistle. 'Back in favour?'

  Shake my head, wait for the kettle to boil.

  'Who knows?' I say eventually.

  She lets me go first, and I make the coffee as strong as possible. Plenty of sugar, turn to go.

  'See you around. Have a nice time tonight,' I say.

  'You too. And Thomas,' she says, making me turn back, 'get some more sleep. You look fucking terrible.'

  Thanks.

  Back into the office, park my backside at the desk, stare at the mountain of paperwork. Not so much of a mountain, as I don't have a noticeable in-tray, more of a sprawling landscape of hills and forests. Drink coffee, feel depressed. Eventually turn the computer on and wait for it to crawl into life. Try to think of Charlotte Miller and the wonderful evening, but thoughts of what Bathurst told me insist on intruding.

  They, whoever they are, say that school days are the happiest days of your life, and I always thought that was total bollocks. But now, I'd give anything to be in the middle of three weeks holiday and be about to open up a barrel load of presents.

  Think of Christmases past, and start the trawl through the paper. Good Christian men rejoice, with heart and soul and voice...

  16

  Here's the story from Bathurst, and I've no particular reason to believe she's making it up. No motive, your honour. It dates from just over a year ago, and the big murder case that temporarily saved Bloonsbury's career.

  At first I didn't think it was going to amount to much. Another sordid tale of police corruption, no surprise to anyone, and just so long as the media don't get wind of it, no one gives a shit.

  Now Bloonsbury's wasn't the only career which was saved from the hangman with that case. There was also the matter of Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Crow, another drunken bastard who belonged at a 24/7 AA meeting. It was Bloonsbury's case, but it was so high profile that it was all hands on deck and Crow got in on the act. It was sort of a joint credit thing, although Bloonsbury managed to whip more of the cream from the top. Crow escaped getting kicked into touch and when he did eventually take early retirement five months ago, it was with a good deal more honour than he would have had a year earlier; or than he deserved. The guy got out of jail.

  A woman is found lying by the banks of the Clyde, not far from Carmyle. She's been assaulted, butchered with something the Interahamwe might have used in Rwanda in '94, and left to die. She briefly lives to tell the tale, relates the usual story about a guy in a ski mask and all sorts of ridiculous shit, then duly pegs it a couple of days later. Nevertheless, despite the attacker's weapon of choice, from what we could gather from the victim it appeared that it'd been an assault that had got a little out of hand.

  So, it's not that the press get everything, of course, not until the trial, but suddenly every woman within fifteen miles shits her pants. They ignore it at first, but once she dies, the papers pile in there and make it the latest big thing. it being a slow month.

  It's Bloonsbury's gig, and right from the start Crow is sniffing around in the background, breathing in Bloonsbury's alcohol fumes for extra sustenance.

  Anyway, the press are a mile up their backside with how dangerous this comedian is, and how every woman in the city really ought to be living in fear. So, every woman in the city starts living in fear because they've been told to, and there's a public outcry about the lack of police success.

  Things are going badly, with none of us looking good. A lot of pressure, something needing to be done, and now, whoever it is that solves it is going to be a hero. It's at times like this that the odd officer will resort to fudging a little evidence. Give him some vague idea who he's after and he does the rest himself. It ain't right, but as long as you know you're gunning for the right guy, it ain't wrong either. Trouble is, they haven't a clue who the right guy is. None. They have hair samples and skin samples, and two and a half million guys in Scotland from whom to choose.

  And in the middle of the feeding frenzy, when we're all looking like idiots and reputations are being exploded like the bridge at Mostar, the guy nearly does it again. Same story, different outcome, still no more clues to his identity. This time the victim is some idiot who's out looking for the guy. Some stupid bitch who's been watching too many Steven Seagal movies and fancies a pop at the killer. Has been out on the prowl for him every night for two weeks, then finally finds him. Only, it isn't quite on her terms as
she's anticipated. Comes from behind and raps her over the head with a brick before she has the chance to tell the guy she's a black belt in karate. Still, she's marginally more Buffy than Goofy. She manages to get him a good stiff crack in the balls, and the two of them make a tactical retreat.

  Course, the press don't give a shit that the woman's a bloody idiot. They love it, and it ends up being us who are queuing up to look stupid.

  And then, out of the thick fog of this confusion, comes an arrest. Having done the usual act of desperation of rounding up all the usual suspects, suddenly out of that lot, DCI Jonah Bloonsbury has his man, with Crow shuffling along in his wake taking as much of the credit as possible. The murderer is in custody, the streets are safe – these things are relative – and two careers have been saved. All out of nothing. There's a lot of suspicious looks cast between polis, but they've got the conviction, despite the guy denying it all the way. And more importantly, if it isn't him who did it, the real murderer never strikes again.

  And then.

  This is where Bathurst comes in. She isn't long in the force at the time, determined to become Chief Constable of Strathclyde by the time she's thirty-five, all that crap. But not wet behind the ears, no way, like they used to be in the old days. She knows what's going on, knows the sort of things that have to be done.

  So, she's thrown into the middle of the investigation, and one night in the Whale she's approached by Bloonsbury, breathing mint and looking sinister. Everyone knows his story, the wife having just walked out, and now desperate for a breakthrough with the case.

  He speaks in a hushed voice, gets all cosy and conspiratorial. Tells her that they have their man, but you know how it is, darlin', they just don't have enough to nick him. This is the first she's heard of it, but she's thinking, I'm just a constable, it's not likely that I'm going to know everything that's going on. So she buys it. They need her help, he says, but obviously there can't be too many who know about it. So keep it to herself. Lists the ones who were going to be in on it and no one else would know. A little evidence doctored, a few things placed where they shouldn't be, the odd clue left lying around, and they'd have their man. If she went along he would see that it benefited her greatly, and she doesn't need him to tell her that, because it's obvious.

  So it doesn't take long, and three quarters of an hour and a couple of whisky sodas later, she's in. Along with Crow, naturally, Sergeant Herrod – no surprise – and young Edwards, who belongs to the Hang 'Em High brigade. Five in the gang, and off they ride into the sunset to fight for truth, justice and liberty.

  I thought that was going to be the story, and I wasn't at all surprised. That's how these things go. I was beginning to wonder why she'd brought it to me now, because I've seen enough of these over the years to really not give a shit. Blind eye, and all that. Then she brings me up to date.

  Monday night, Christmas party. Everyone getting pissed, the usual thing. It was the second one she'd been at, so she knew what to expect, i.e. a queue of drunken guys attempting to get inside that tight white dress of hers; me included. One of the pished Lotharios was Edwards of course, not long after he had stripped for the benefit of us all. Destined to get nowhere with her, but desperate all the same. He goes for it, giving her all the shite he can think of, subjecting her to a three-quarter hour rambling monologue. Starts talking about their great breakthrough case of the previous year, starts telling her things she never knew. She had been a bit drunk herself to start, but this kind of thing sobers you up quickly enough.

  Bloonsbury and Crow had been in on it all along. Not just stitching up the guy, but the whole fucking thing. The murder, everything. The sick, demented bastard who committed the two attacks was Crow himself, with Bloonsbury's full knowledge. He carried out the first assault in an intended series, but of course got a bit carried away with himself, probably because he'd found his true vocation in life. Murdered the girl. Then they let the hysteria build up, feeding morsels to the scavengers every day to sustain and cultivate the frenzy, then timed the second attack to perfection, so that when things were at their wildest, when the heat was at its fiercest, they stepped in and picked up their man.

  Christ, no wonder he protested his innocence. The guy didn't have a clue, but they must have had their eye on him right from the start. I don't know how they did it, but they knew they had a guy who wouldn't have an alibi for either of the two nights. They must have planned it for weeks. All right, they had taken the guy from the list of usual suspects, so it wasn't as if they got a complete innocent. Justice is justice, however.

  Stitching guys up, when you know you're doing it to the right person, that's all right. Doing it to someone when you're not sure, but you need a break, well, you can understand it. Pretty stupid, and it can backfire, but we've all done it. But this was way beyond that. Committing the crime, so you can solve it and take the credit.

  Surprised? No way. Crow was a sick man, and Bloonsbury was just pathetic and desperate. Don't know what Herrod or Edwards were up to, but then Edwards told her there was a bit of infighting after the first assault turned to murder.

  So that's the story, and as she was telling me all this my mind wasn't working particularly quickly. I took it at face value, still vaguely curious as to why she thought she had to tell me everything. Then she dumps it on me, the thought that had occurred to her, the seed that had been sown and which was growing into a monster of a beanstalk.

  She was sickened on Monday night, and went home questioning herself and what she had allowed herself to get drawn into. Then Tuesday morning dawns in a wail of frantic activity. She gets down to it, the same as the rest of us. Then sometime during the day it hits her, a massive punch to the face. Maybe it's a repeat performance. Maybe it's another set up. Bloonsbury was getting himself drunk in front of us all, but who knows what Crow is doing these days? Hitting the bottle in the backwoods, certainly, but it's not as if we can account for his movements. So, maybe he's committed the crime in cahoots with Bloonsbury, and after another murder or two they're going to go through their tried and trusted stitching up routine.

  So, that's the story. All true, except the last bit which is speculation. The first lot is bad enough, and I'm clinging to the hope that the second lot is Bathurst's overactive imagination. I think I managed to persuade her as such, but it's got me thinking. Can't get a fix on a logical, clear argument. Not surprising. There are too many questions. What would be in it for Crow? Maybe it's nothing to do with Crow, and Bloonsbury's got someone else to do the dirty work this time. But what could Jonah Bloonsbury give anyone as payment for that kind of thing? All his money is in alcohol. Herrod, Edwards, they couldn't possibly condone this. The first was an assault that went wrong. What happened on Monday night was some miles beyond that.

  I don't know. I need to get away from it all, think clearly. I need to persuade myself that they had nothing to do with Monday night. The knowledge of the previous case is bad enough, without being lumbered with all this. I want to talk to Taylor and I'll need to if they're involved with this murder. But if they're not – and there's no reason to assume they commit every crime around here for their own ends – then I know Taylor won't want to know about it. I certainly don't.

  I need vodka and tonic, and lots of it.

  And fuck the tonic.

  17

  Made a decision. Going to go up to Arrochar and speak to Crow. Haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to say to him, but I know if I don't follow this up it's just going to eat away at me. After that, I don't know. Depends a lot on what he says, although I'm not sure how I'll raise the subject. Just have to wing it. Leave it until tomorrow, however. Tonight I've got dinner with my happy family and I'm not going to let it get in the way of that. A problem put off to another day is a problem solved.

  Lunchtime, sitting in Taylor's office chewing the fat. I mean that literally, having purchased a sandwich from the canteen. Taylor's preoccupied, presumably thinking of that wife of his.

  'Ever hea
r of Crow?' I say to him.

  He looks up.

  'Drunken Gerry?' Shakes his head, distasteful look on his face, as we all have when we think of Crow. 'Naw, and I don't want to either. Think Jonah went to see him last month or something. Said his place was a shit-tip.'

  I take another bite into the rubber of my sandwich, another swig of coffee to mask the taste.

  'Why do you ask?' he says.

  Can tell from the tone of voice that he doesn't care, making the question easier to avoid.

  'Just wondered.'

  Taylor grunts and resumes his morose reflections. Decide to plunge into the middle of them myself.

  'So, what you doing tonight?'

  He looks round, shrugs. 'Cosy Christmas dinner at home with the wife and the in-laws. Mum, dad, Betty, fucking Anthony and all fifteen fucking children, or however many it is they have. I lost count.'

  'You going to make it?'

  'Don't know. They're waiting 'til six and if I'm not in, they'll get on with dinner. And you can see how busy I am, so I'm not sure. Might just be held up at the station.' He puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling.

  I nod. Sound thinking. I've never met Anthony and the children but I've heard enough about them.

  I'd been on the verge of asking for an update on his marital status, but decide against. It's Christmas Day and I've already got enough on my mind without being burdened with all his troubles. Very fucking Christian of me.

  Another foray into the midst of the sandwich, followed by instant regret. Catch a whiff of alcohol in the air, look up to see Detective Chief Inspector Jonah Bloonsbury standing in the doorway. His nose glows effervescently red in the midst of a dour face. Fresh from interviewing our prime suspect.

  'Good work, Thomas,' he says, 'but it's not him. I see what you were thinking, though.'

  Aye, right. Don't care, having already had the thought myself. Gut instinct goes wrong again. Might have to do something about that, but not sure how you improve your guts. Bisodol, maybe.