DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  He walks ten paces behind, wondering whether he should make his move. What does he have in mind? He's not sure and whenever he thinks of Jo under his bloody knife, he winces. How many times would he have to kill her for it to make a difference?

  In an occasional moment of clarity he knows that not all women with dark brown hair are Jo, but the moments pass.

  The woman stops ahead of him and turns. She looks at him, he slows his pace, stops five yards away.

  'Well, are you just going to follow us all night, or are you actually going to talk to us?'

  He stares. This isn't Jo. The mouth is too big, the eyes too wide, the voice is different – wrong accent. Sweet Jo. Doesn't really know what to say. Much easier to talk with a sharp instrument.

  'What's your name then, pal?'

  Should he tell her the truth?

  'Ed,' he says, with hesitation.

  'So, you do speak?' she says. 'Is that your real name?'

  He feels intimidated. Maybe this is Jo. It's like he has this giant ball of sludge or fudge or mud or something in the middle of his brain, preventing him from thinking clearly. 'No... it's not,' he says eventually.

  She's standing beside a close into an old tenement and nods at the door. A dirty grey building, damp and depressing under the orange glow of the street lights. The door has a voice entry system but the lock is broken.

  'You want to come up?' she says.

  She's inviting him in... He doesn't say anything, can't, and as she enters the close he follows her in. The beat of his heart quickens.

  Up the stairs. She smiles to herself, and wonders how much money he will have in his pocket. She imagines she recognises the type. Rip them off and they're too embarrassed to come back and trouble you about it. You can always tell the quiet, pathetic, easy ones a mile away.

  'You don't say much,' she says, opening the door.

  He swallows. He has to find some confidence, has to stop feeling like an awkward child. A woman has asked him into her flat. It's not Jo. She's not Jo. Maybe this could be someone other than Jo. He could move on. Forget about her. Forget Jo. Maybe he can forget Jo. Stop thinking about Jo. Stop thinking about Jo.

  'You didn't ask me up here to talk,' he says with a good deal more confidence than he feels.

  The doorway leads straight into a large sitting room, sparsely furnished. Old TV in the corner, a settee and matching seat, picture of Wallace and Gromit on the wall.

  'Would you like a drink?' she says.

  'What's your name?' he asks.

  'Margaret,' she replies, but he hears Jo. Because of the mess in his head. Because of the giant ball of sludge. He shakes his head as if that might clear it; she notices the strange movement and has the first pang of doubt. No messing around, slip him the powder, take his money, bundle him out.

  'A drink?' she repeats.

  'Just water,' he says, and watches her walk through to the small kitchen.

  'Take your jacket off,' she says. He wonders what to do with the knife in the inside pocket. He doesn't need it yet. Maybe he won't need it at all. This isn't Jo. He leaves the jacket on a chair by the door. Maybe he shouldn't use the knife. It's not Jo. Relax, enjoy himself. The woman wants sex, give her what she's after.

  She comes back into the room. She has removed her coat, and is holding a glass of water in one hand, white wine in the other. She hands him the water. He stares at her breasts. Large breasts, a lot of cleavage showing, beneath a cheap pink t-shirt.

  'Like what you see?' she asks, taking a drink of wine. It has been open too long, cheap to start with. She swallows it anyway, does not let the taste, bitter like lemon, show on her face.

  He holds the water, but doesn't drink it, which is bad. He is mesmerised by her chest, and she straightens her back to emphasise it. She reaches forward, holds his hand – which is a little too clammy for her liking – brings it up to her right breast and leaves it there. His fingers take a grip, tentatively squeeze. She suddenly feels horrible, and wants him out of her house. Is beginning to recognise the personality type she has attracted tonight. How can she be so wrong when reading these men? When she brought them back to her place, she had to be certain she had the quiet, pathetic ones. The ones who wouldn't cause trouble. Not the nutters. Not the ones who would overreact.

  She sees it in his eyes, knows what she's got here.

  He presses on her breast. It's been a long time since he touched a woman's breast. This one is bigger than Jo's. Much bigger. This isn't Jo. The size of the breast confuses him, but excites him at the same time. His mouth is watering. He is erect.

  'Sorry,' he says, voice measured, surgically detaching his hand from her breast. 'I'll have to go to the bathroom.'

  'Oh, aye, right.' Thank God for that. 'Through that door there,' she says. 'First on your left.'

  He starts to walk away, remembers the knife, but there's nothing he can do that would not be obvious. He gives her a strange look, then walks from the room.

  This is an odd guy; she decides to not waste time thinking about it. There is a jacket to be searched. She picks it up, is about to put her hand into the outside pocket, when she notices what rests in the inside. Just the butt of the knife, that's all she sees, but it is enough. She drops the jacket back onto the chair.

  If this guy had been a hard man or a ned – the fact that she would not have invited him back in the first place notwithstanding – she could have understood him carrying a knife. Might even have expected it. But not this man. Nothing hard about him, and the threat is all psychological. He is strange, troubling. Possessed of something other than sanity.

  She stands up, no time to think, and makes her decision.

  He stands in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. Trying to imagine he's someone he's not, but doesn't know who he wants to be. Lover. Killer. Both. He wants to be someone with confidence. Jo crushed him, made him feel so small. He'd been a different person before Jo. She'd ruined him. It was time to get the old man back, the old confidence. Once he had confidence, it didn't matter, didn't matter what he did. He could kill with confidence and he could make love with confidence. He could go out there, right now, and he could hold her and he could see what he felt like doing right at that moment.

  She had asked him back, she had been attracted to him, she had been drawn in by him. Why not make the most of it?

  A final look in the mirror – into confident eyes – then he heads back out into the hall. Expecting her to still be standing in the sitting room, but she is gone.

  'Margaret?' he calls out. The front door is closed, her wine lies on the small table beside the glass of water. 'Margaret?' again. No reply.

  He checks the kitchen. Has the thought that perhaps she has gone into the bedroom and awaits him, naked, prostrate, ready and beckoning. Desperate.

  He walks over to his jacket and picks it up, realising as he does so that it is not as neatly hung as he'd left it. He finds the knife, searches the other pockets for his wallet. Nothing has been taken, but if she went through his jacket, she knows about the knife. Shit. He looks round.

  'Jo?' he shouts. 'Where are you?'

  He lifts the knife and runs into the bedroom. He flicks the switch, the unclean room is bathed in harsh light. He notices the giant poster of Manhattan on the wall, but Jo is not there. Runs back out into the hall, then goes through every room in the house, every possible hiding place. It is a small flat; it doesn't take him long.

  She's gone.

  He seethes. This has tipped the balance between all those personalities raging inside. He stands in the middle of the lounge, and pointlessly looks at his watch. He must have been in the bathroom for at least three or four minutes. How far could she have gone?

  Far enough.

  There is no possibility that he can wait for her to return. She could have gone for the evening, and in his rage he kicks at one of the seats. Picks up a vase and throws it at Wallace and Gromit. Catches Gromit on the ear. He picks up the small table and breaks the legs
of it on the floor.

  Suddenly he explodes in an orgy of violent rage, room to room, breaking and smashing. Massive destruction. He swears as he does it, curses Jo for bringing him to this. Sees her face when he looks in the mirror, smashes his fist into the glass. His hand comes away bloody, but he doesn't notice the pain. Picks up a lamp in both hands, the clay breaks beneath his grip, such is his wrath. Attacks the mattress with the knife, stabbing violently, eyes closed, furious slashing. The mattress becomes Jo, her face wielding to the strength and vicious fury of his attack. He's screaming at it, screaming at Jo as he tears her apart, the knife ripping through her flesh, every muscle twitching and firing and blazing, Jo's face being slashed to bloody pieces. Sometimes the words fucking Jo form in amongst the screams, but mostly it is a wordless howl of rage.

  There is a knock at the door.

  He stops. A piece of glass from a picture frame tinkles to the ground, a light, friendly sound. A sound like Christmas. He stands in the still of the bedroom, breathing heavily, sweat on his face. It is near dark, the lights having yielded to his fury, the flat dimly illuminated by the street lamps outside.

  Gentle tapping at the door again. Insistent. He is curious. It is not the knock of an angry neighbour. It insinuates itself into the room. Still he does not move, listening to the beating of his heart, pondering what to do.

  The quiet knock at the door continues; his curiosity triumphs over trepidation. He walks back through the hall and sitting room to the door. Is the visitor still on the other side? Imagines he can sense them, feel them breathe. It is a man. Some other lover of Jo's perhaps.

  He turns the handle, the lock clicks, the door opens. He looks out into the dark, surprise registering on his face. He knows this man, doesn't understand. Backs off, but leaves the door open. His visitor smiles, walks into the room. Closes the door behind him; the click of the lock the only sound.

  20

  It's a typical Boxing Day. Grey, cloudy skies, the threat of rain, mild and miserable, not even a chill in the air. A day with nothing to recommend it, the barrenness of it made all the more stark by the night before, the second consecutive night of fabulous passion.

  Driving along the Loch Lomond road on the way to Arrochar. The loch looks bleak and humourless, the surrounding hills lost in the low cloud. In the winter it is unutterably depressing, and in the summer, when it looks good, half a million people swarm from Glasgow to check it out. There's usually about one day in late March when it's worthwhile.

  Other things on my mind. Spectacular sex with Peggy. Then we sat up in bed for three hours, reading Calvin & Hobbes. A perfect evening, which finished up with the expected result – she asked me back. Not in a direct, unsubtle, come on back Hutton, kind of a way, but the suggestion is out there, hanging, waiting for me to pluck it out of the air. And I'm at a loss.

  Two days ago I would have jumped at it. Now, because of a night with Charlotte Miller – another man's wife, a woman completely out of my league – I hesitate. I'm being an idiot but I can't do anything about it. I know I'm not about to lure Charlotte away from her boring suit of a husband, but there exists the possibility that I end up in her bed again. Go back into the bosom of the family and that door is closed.

  I was nervous going into work this morning. Waiting to see what her reaction would be towards me, waiting for a sign. As it was, she never showed up. Things were pretty quiet, and at shortly after ten I made my excuses and set out for the unclean hole that will be Crow's abode.

  So, general confusion on the women-front – no change there – and I try to think about what to say to Crow. But I can't. No idea how to confront him.

  Drive into Tarbet, dull and empty, and up the hill past the Black Sheep. Its doors optimistically open, two sad cars parked out front.

  Know I can't just come down here for a chat, that I have to force something from Crow. Also know that he will be a reluctant interrogatee. Why should he be anything else? If Edwards was telling Bathurst the truth, Crow isn't going to go volunteering the information to a member of the force who wasn't part of their gang. Have also considered the possibility that Edwards was bullshitting, in the mistaken hope that he would impress Bathurst – he was drunk, after all, and desperate. Consequently, I know I can't barge in there and start smacking Crow about.

  Down the hill, turn the corner, past the hotel and into the village, such as it is. Loch Long looks as grey and depressing as Lomond, the mountains on the other side completely obscured above a few hundred feet. Keep wondering what I'm going to do with any information I come up with; keep wondering how I'm going to tell Peggy that I'm not coming back; wonder if I should go back anyway, or what part Charlotte Miller will play in the decision. I don't know, and I should stop thinking about it.

  Round the head of the loch, up a small side street, pull up in front of the house. Mind on the job, but I can smell Charlotte Miller. Taste her.

  Crow's old Vauxhall is parked outside, still in need of massive bodywork repair. There's a spit of rain in the air. Feels colder down here, underneath the hills.

  Mobile rings just as I'm getting out the car. Herrod. I'm not answering that. Throw it onto the passenger seat, pull my jacket tighter and go to the door, ring the bell. Can hear the faint sound of a television. Creaking floorboard, then a second later the door opens.

  Crow stands before me. He breathes, I nearly choke on the fumes. He never went in for spirits. Beer man, and a bottle of wine if he felt like it. His face is a disaster site, and he looks like every jake you ever passed in the centre of town.

  The smell from the house isn't too fine, and I'm not sure that I want to get invited in. Wonder how long his pension will keep him in this, before he gets kicked out of the house and ends up where he belongs.

  'Hutton?' he says, unpleasantly. 'What?'

  'Thought I might have a word, Chief Inspector.' Show respect, even though I can think of no one less deserving.

  'Jonah sent you on an errand?' he grumbles. 'Let you in on the secret. Herrod told him to piss off, I expect. Need someone to do their dirty work after last month. Well you can tell him to fuck... off.'

  He begins to close the door.

  'This has nothing to do with Jonah. I don't know what you're talking about.'

  He stops. A half-truth – I haven't the faintest idea what that was all about. I can worry about it later.

  'What is it, then?'

  'Christmas. Thought I'd just come and see you, see how you're getting on.' An absolute shitstorm of bollocks. Serves me right for not giving it more thought on the way down here.

  He steps back from the door, ushers me in.

  'Fucking shite, Hutton, but you might as well come in since you're here.'

  He walks down the short hall and into the room with the TV playing. I close the front door behind me.

  The room is a tip. Empty wine bottles, beer cans, dinner plates, microwave oven-ready meal containers. Crow's wife left him ten years ago, taking all four of the kids with her. He moved into this place just after that, and some of this stuff looks as if it's been sitting here since then.

  He slumps into his favourite chair – the one surrounded by the greatest amount of detritus – and stares at the television. A Morcambe and Wise re-run. At least, you have to assume it's a re-run. The bloody BBC will do anything to try and get an audience.

  'Have a seat,' he says, and gestures to an old settee. I sit on the edge, clearing junk out of the way.

  'Here,' he says, and tosses me an unopened can of warm McEwan's. Seriously.

  'Thanks.' Rather drink my own urine, but I try not offend. Open it, take the merest sip and put it on the coffee table with all the other litter.

  I really don't know what to say – beginning to feel stupid – so sit and watch the TV. Eric and Ernie are in bed together. By God, the '70s were innocent times.

  'Well, what is it Hutton?' he says. 'You didn't come down here to drink my fucking Export.' Ain't that the truth.

  Consider subtlety, but t
hat's not really an option. It would have required some prior thought. Have no option but to be straightforward. Not completely straightforward, however. I have learned the odd thing about interviewing suspects in the last twenty years.

  'Heard a rumour,' I say.

  He looks at me. Can tell he's interested.

  'What kind?' he says.

  'About you and Bloonsbury stitching up your man over the murder trial last year.'

  He nods, takes a loud slurp from the can.

  'What about it?'

  What about it? I don't know.

  'Did you do it?'

  'What?'

  'Plant evidence? Incriminate him, because you didn't have enough to put him away?'

  He looks me full in the eye. Contempt.

  'What is this, Hutton? You working for some polis commission? You on some fucking crusade against injustice? Fighting on behalf of the wrongfully imprisoned Fucking Headcase Killer Bastard One?'

  'What did you mean about Bloonsbury needing someone to do his dirty work after last month?'

  He barks out a laugh, chokes on a swallow of McEwan's, washes it away with another loud slurp from the can.

  'Listen, Wee Man, why don't you just fuck off? You obviously don't know fuck, so take a hike. You're out your depth, Wee Man, out your fucking depth.'

  Stand up to go. This is getting me nowhere and I'm not going to tell him everything I know. And what difference does it make if he did murder that woman last year? Really?

  As crusaders for truth go, I'm completely shit.

  One last question, because I don't care what he thinks about me asking it.

  'You have anything to do with the murder the other night?'

  He looks up at me, but there's nothing in those eyes. No giveaway, no hint.

  'What the fuck are you talking about?'

  'Ann Keller. She was murdered in Cambuslang on Monday night.'

  He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. Plenty of drink, no acting. Nothing to do with it. Gut instinct.

  'Wee Man, the only times I've left this seat in the last five months is to go for a shite, and to open the door to you. Now fuck off. And excuse me if I don't see you out.'