Look down at him. Had enough. The stench, everything is leaving a bad taste in my mouth. And I hate getting called Wee Man, particularly by drunken old farts who're about a foot shorter than me.
I see myself to the front door, step out into the rain. It feels clean and cold, and the grey day seems a lot fresher than it was ten minutes ago.
21
I was sitting by the side of the road. It had been raining, but the sun had just come out and the heat was making steam rise from what tarmac there was left on the road. I hadn't slept in a couple of nights, but at some point in the Balkan summer that seemed to have begun in March, my body had become used to it.
Sleep was when bad things happened. When you lay still the world around you changed. You went to sleep in a bed in a small room in a quiet house in a nondescript village, and woke up to find you'd been surrounded by armoured vehicles, or that there were soldiers from God only knew what side, going from house to house. Your body got to learn that no sleep was bad, but that sleep itself could be much worse.
I had a bottle of water in my hands. I'd dropped my backpack on the ground behind me and lain my camera on a large stone set back from the road. I hadn't taken a photograph in five days. There were probably a couple of editors back in London wondering what the fuck I was doing, but I wasn't thinking about them at the time.
There was a kid walking towards me along the road, dragging a tired old doll alongside. I could see that she was crying before I could hear her. A kid walking alone in the middle of a forest, miles away from the nearest town. Jesus, I couldn't have wanted to know her story less. At the very least it would have been a great photo, but I was through with that. I was only picking up my camera again to move it from one shit hole to another.
She got closer, walking in my direction, but she had no interest in me. She possibly couldn't even see me. She was walking along a road, and I doubt she had the faintest idea where she was going. The tears had made lines through the dirt on her face, her mouth was open in a frozen grimace. I think I knew as soon as I saw her that it wasn't a doll that she was pulling along beside her. It had a weight that a doll would never have had.
The thing that really got me about the fact that she was dragging a baby beside her along a potholed road, was that she was holding it by one ankle. The baby was wearing some rudimentary all-in-one, which was dirty and torn; the other leg hung limply, the shoulders and head bumped silently along the ground with the arms. The baby's face was looking at me as the kid approached. It was a face that had been dragged through the dirt for many miles.
The girl walked past me in silence, never noticing I was there. Lost in her own disaster. It didn't even cross my mind to ask if she wanted my help, as if the fact that she was ignoring my presence absolved me from having to provide any assistance.
I didn't move, but watched her all the way down the road, until she had disappeared out of sight behind the trees. The last sight I had was of the baby, its head bouncing out of a pothole.
I stared into the trees across the road. There was silence. No birds. The birds had got the fuck out of Dodge as soon as the war had started. They had more sense than the rest of us. Even the insects appeared to have given this place a rest.
The kid might have gone, but the baby's face was emblazoned in the back of my eyes. At some stage I realised that my face was wet with tears.
Some time later I heard the low rumble of a truck, coming from the same direction as the kid. The day was so quiet that I could hear the truck for some time before it appeared, slowly negotiating its way around the holes in the road. It was an open-topped green 4 tonne military vehicle with no plates. There were two guys in the cab at the front, seven or eight slouched unhappily in the back. Hot, dirty, miserable. Croatians, leaning on guns, or slumped over, their elbows resting on their knees. Most of them looked at me as they drove past. They didn't stop.
I wondered for a while what they did when they came across the kid in the road. The kid with the baby. Maybe they slowed down.
WALK BACK INTO THE office just after lunch, having helped myself to a Little Chef all day breakfast on my way home. Herrod called five times while I was out, but I let the phone ring out each time. Not in the mood.
Can tell something's happened. Herrod's there, talking agitatedly to someone on the phone. There are a few more constables about the station than should be on Boxing Day, and they all look as if they've got something to do. One of them calls over that Taylor wants to see me, then scurries off. The door to Miller's office is open and I can hear her speaking to what is obviously an inferior. Recognise the tone. All connects with the press hanging around outside the front door. The place is in a state of controlled excitement. Wonder if we've got our man, and where General Bloonsbury is amidst the turmoil.
Herrod slams down the phone as I walk past.
'Where the fuck have you been?' he growls at me, and I've a good mind to tell him what I was doing, and that if he ever talks to me like that again I'll get him thrown in jail. Ignore him. He gets up, and walks quickly out the office.
'I'm getting your mobile surgically attached to your arse,' he grumbles as he goes.
Stupid bastard.
Another constable buzzes past. Catch the faint trace of alcohol in the air. Called in unexpectedly over Christmas – what do you expect? Walk into Taylor's office, expecting to find him feverishly arresting criminals. He's leaning back in his chair, feet up on his desk, a cup of tea in his hand. Looks as if he's just enjoyed a nice bit of lunch. An oasis of calm. Pull up the seat across the desk but don't go so far as to put my feet up.
'Can I take it I missed something?'
He takes a drink from his tea, places the cup back on the desk, puts his hands behind his head.
'Where've you been, Sergeant?'
'Pursuing an independent line of inquiry,' I say.
He nods. Trusts me enough to know he'll find out about it when I'm ready to tell him. Although, in this case, who knows when that's going to be.
'We think our man had another go last night. Followed a woman back to her flat in Rutherglen, she asked him in...' raises his eyebrows as he says it, and he's right. Don't these people read the papers? 'She starts thinking there's something a bit weird about him. He goes to the toilet, she looks in his jacket, discovers a knife. Usual thick bitch with her head in the sand, doesn't know anything about the murder on Monday night. But she does know she's got some heid-the-ba' in her bathroom, so she gets out. Goes to a friend's house. The friend is a bit more switched on, shows her our first photofit in the paper, and she thinks it's him. Waits until this morning...'
'What?'
He shrugs. 'That's the helpful public for you. Anyway, she gets one of us to go back to her flat with her, just in case he's lying in wait. Long gone of course, but not before he's ripped the shit out the joint. Stupid bitch is still downstairs peeing her pants.'
'Fuck...'
'Anyway, we've got a bit of a better description out of it, but who knows? It's a distinct third photo we've got now, anyway, rather than an evolution of the first or second. These people are just fucking useless. The lot of them.'
Takes his feet down, drums his fingers on the desk. 'Useless,' he repeats. 'Still, he blew it, and we should be a step closer.'
'So, how come you're sitting here with your feet up while everyone else is in ferment?'
'Thinking. Got to think in this job, Hutton, I've told you before. That's why you're still a sergeant.'
One of the many reasons.
'Where's Bloonsbury?'
'Still down there. Got the crew going house to house and the SOCOs going over the flat. Jonah's in charge, and bloody miserable that the guy got away. Has this theory that now he's blown one, the guy'll back off and disappear and we'll never get him.'
'What do you think?'
'I think he'll show his hand. These headcases can't keep their knives to themselves. Bloonsbury's too busy wallowing in J&B to be positive about anything. Had a pickled napp
er for the last ten years. Still don't know how the fuck he solved that murder case last year.'
Used to wonder about that myself. Now might just be time to tell Taylor, but I hold back. I have to know more and I haven't the faintest idea how I'm going to find it. CID just doesn't train you well enough in investigation.
Change the subject.
'How'd you get on last night?' I ask.
He snorts, shakes his head.
'Awful. Just awful. Those arseholes were as bad as usual, then Debbie gets a call about half nine and was on the phone for God knows how long.'
'King Dong?'
That one hurt, hold my hand up in apology.
'Aye,' he says eventually. 'Bastard. I ended up coming in here, didn't go home until about three.'
'Get anything done?'
'Worked like a dog. Took my mind off it.' Indicates the desk, and there's a lot less shite lying on it than usual. 'You should try it some time.'
Ignore that remark. 'What are you going to do?'
'About Debbie?' he says, shrugging. 'No idea. Don't know why she doesn't just leave.'
'Maybe he doesn't want to take her in.'
'Aye, maybe.' Nods, purses his lips. Looks resigned and miserable. 'Suppose that's what she's doing. Trying to get me to leave, so she can have the place to herself.'
'Why don't you talk to her about it?'
Shakes his head and I realise I'm out of my depth with this. I'm no counsellor. I've always just accepted my marriage break-ups with a Calvinistic resignation. It's not like I haven't realised why they were happening.
'We haven't talked in years, Thomas,' he says.
He looks terrible and I wish I hadn't reminded him of it. We'd been doing fine, and the juxtaposition of that with my own Christmas Day – my marriage going in the opposite direction, if I want it to – makes me feel guilty.
Change the subject again.
'So what have you been thinking?'
He sits back, toys with his tea. Think I've got his mind on to it just in time.
'Just wondering if it's worthwhile trying to flush him out, albeit that stuff's mostly a load of shite.'
'How you going to do that?'
'Bait. This one last night saw him in a pub. He didn't speak to her there, but followed her when she left. Follows the pattern of Monday, where we think he followed her out of the cinema.'
'Don't know that for sure.'
'But it's possible. Anyway, the guy is going for girls with dark brown hair and he's working in our area. We've already checked out the pub from last night, spoken to the staff that were on, a few of the regulars. No one can remember him. Not a known face around town.'
'But we have to know the public places he's likely to frequent.'
'Fuck,' says Taylor, 'we're talking about Rutherglen and Cambuslang, not New York. There ain't that many pubs. We've got to think about the way he's worked so far, decide which are his likeliest haunts, see if we can set a trap. So that's what I was doing. Thinking.'
Very commendable. More than Bloonsbury will have been doing. More than me too, with my preoccupation with Charlotte Miller and the relationship of that to the possibility of reopening hostilities with Peggy.
Focus.
'How many officers with dark brown hair have we got?' I say.
'Three, maybe another couple who could pass. I'm sure we could manage to get wigs from somewhere, however,' he says, voice condescending. I deserve it. Of course we could get wigs. It's time I switched the personal stuff off and actually thought about this. It's the usual flawed bunch riding into the sunset for justice and liberty: Bloonsbury soiled with alcohol; Herrod drunk with the desire to arrest anyone – in this case probably everybody in Glasgow over the age of twelve with a penis; the cuckolded Taylor, consumed by doubt and depression by the actions of his wife; and me, consumed by doubt and... haunted.
Someone's got to be doing some clear thinking and I can't leave it all to Taylor.
'We could even get a few of you young constables and sergeants dressed up as women,' he says, smiling. 'I see you in red,' he says, 'or pink maybe. Pink stretch cycling shorts, wonderbra and a hair net.'
'Very funny. I see you with a boot up your arse.'
Smell the perfume first, then look up. Charlotte Miller stands in the doorway, arms folded, looking down on us both. Wonder how long she's been there, because Taylor wouldn't automatically have deferred to her.
'Interrupt a serious debate, did I, gentlemen?'
'What can we do for you?' says Taylor.
'Some work would be nice, or do you think you can do your jobs without ever getting up off your backside?'
'The job's getting done,' is all he says. Cool, better than I would be if I was here on my own.
'See that it does,' she says, and the voice is just the way you'd expect it to be. Sharper than a pint of freshly squeezed lemon juice. 'Nice of you to come in, Sergeant. Where have you been all morning?'
'Something to follow up,' I say.
'You want to share it with me?'
It's absurd, but there's just something about her makes me feel like I'm at school. Despite everything.
Now here we are. She doesn't usually keep track of my movements; I slept with her, and now she's going to treat me like dirt for the rest of my life.
'It's a little awkward,' is all I can say.
She gives me the dog shit look.
'Perhaps then you'd like to come into my office and explain it to me,' and before the words are out of her mouth, she's turned on her heels and gone. I look at Taylor, he smiles at me, then laughs.
'What'd you do to deserve that?' he asks.
Shake my head – I'm not about to tell him that either – then get to my feet.
'So where were you this morning?' he says.
Breathe heavily. 'Tell you later,' I lie, and walk out.
Walking through the office I start to wonder if she's asking me in there so she can jump me across the desk.
Get to her office, step through the open door, close it behind me. She's sitting at her desk, reading a file. I can feel a strange sensation of arousal. I can smell her and it makes me nervous. Wish I could feel more in control, as I picture her standing topless beside her desk.
She lifts her head. The eyes tell it. I'm not in here on any romantic expedition.
'Now, Sergeant, where you were this morning?'
Curse silently to myself.
'I was pursuing an independent line of inquiry,' I say. Sounds lame.
'And are you going to keep this independent line of inquiry to yourself?' She says the words 'independent line of inquiry' with mockery.
No idea what to say, no intention of telling her what I was doing. I'm not protecting anyone – maybe Bathurst – because I don't care about most of these bastards. I just can't go mouthing off about this when I don't know yet whether any of it's true. There is also the possibility that Charlotte Miller already knows all that there is to know.
'Could it possibly be related to our ongoing murder inquiry?'
'I don't know.' Found the voice, at last. 'Might be.' Although, I don't think Crow had anything to do with Monday night. Gut feeling. 'However, I don't think it is,' I add, under the weight of the stare.
'Very well, Sergeant, if you must keep these things to yourself. However, can I remind you that this is a very public inquiry and everyone is demanding quick results. The Chief Constable more than anyone. We work under enough tight constraints as is it, without being able to afford the time for senior Detective Sergeants to swan off for four hours on a whim. Do we understand each other?'
I nod. Nothing to say. She has most definitely managed to dampen my ardour.
'That will be all then, Sergeant,' she says, and I know when I've been dismissed. Turn to go. Get a quick look at a picture of her in uniform on the wall. Looks severe. Seductive as fuck, but severe.
'Thomas?' she says to my back. Almost at the door, I turn round. Harsh, then the sudden use of the first name. The usual manag
ement technique.
There's a smile on her face – of sorts – which I naturally can't read.
'I hope we can be mature enough to keep these things separate from our private life.'
Our private life? Nice. I shrug.
'Sure.' Nothing else to say. She's in charge in so many different ways.
She hesitates, as if she's not sure. Shyness in someone else, you might think.
'Frank's away to Italy at the weekend,' she says. Missing another game at Ibrox. What kind of fan is he? 'I was wondering if we could do something?'
'Sure,' I say again, and manage what I hope is a smile. Be cool and calm, and I quickly make my exit before I betray myself.
Stand outside her door and ward off the curious looks from one or two constables and non-uniform staff in the office. Immediately excited at the prospect of spending more time with her, immediately guilty at what Peggy and the kids would think if they knew. Due to phone her this evening, and I know they'll want to see me at the weekend.
Already thinking about my excuses as I make my way back through the office. Crack open a fresh packet of Marlboro's, nip outside, and smoke three of them before returning to address the mountain on my desk.
22
Nearly nine o'clock, still in the office. As always when there's some big murder inquiry on, there's even more crime than usual. I got farmed off to deal with an aggravated assault and an attempted bank robbery. Seriously. A bank robbery, for fuck's sake. Suspects were apprehended in both instances. In the first case it was a wife turning on her husband – after fifteen years of abuse, she says, and there was a time when you would have believed her. Now, you just can't tell anymore.
The bank robbery was a joke. Amateurs. Even so, they would probably have still managed to get away with the fifteen quid they'd nicked if they'd remembered to fill the getaway car with petrol.
Found time for a brief word with Bathurst. Curious about that remark of Crow's when I first arrived. Bumped into her downstairs, on her way home at the end of her day. I was wondering if she had told me everything there was to tell. People very rarely do.
DS Hutton Box Set Page 11
