DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  Taylor appears, looking hellish, much the same as the rest of us.

  'You all right, Sergeant?' he says.

  Cigarette in the mouth, I nod. Why is he asking me?

  'I mean,' he says, 'you two, you had something going, didn't you?'

  Aye, right enough. He thought I spent the night with her leading into Christmas Day.

  'Nothing but another in a long line of rejections for me, sir,' I say, and the cigarette tastes awful. Serves me right for smoking more than a half packet before breakfast.

  'Oh,' he says, and looks disinterested. Doesn't believe me, which is fine.

  'This is a fucking mess,' he says, looking around at the commotion. And a hell of a bigger mess than he supposes.

  'Telling me,' I say. Crush the cigarette under foot, determine not to have another until I've eaten something. 'I need to talk to you about something, sir.'

  'Aye, sure, whenever. Not now, though. Someone's going to have to talk to the press. Jonah's in no fit state.'

  'Still pissed from last night.'

  'Still pissed from Monday night,' says Taylor – in one of our old jokes – as he walks off to talk to the gathering herd of TV, hungry for the story for the morning news. Nothing people like better with their Cornflakes than a bloody mutilation.

  BEEN A LONG DAY. OUR battered husband woke up and wants to press charges. Had to go and speak to him, and having found the wife unlikeable and hard to believe, he was just as bad. Perfect for each other, except that one of them is a brutal, lying bastard. Or perhaps, as occurred to me at some point during the day, they're both brutal bastards and they're both telling the truth about the other's brutality. Got a feeling it's going to be like Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner in War of the Roses and they'd save us all a lot of trouble if they just went off somewhere and fell from a chandelier together.

  The shit has hit the fan, of course. The Chief Constable showed up, acting like he owned the place – I missed him fortunately, the guy's a moron – dragged back from his 'winter retreat' – that's what he called it, the fucking idiot – and not too happy about it. As it is the need of authority to dump on the next most senior in the firing line, Miller got it in the neck and everyone expected her to come firing thereafter. Didn't happen, however. She got them all together – missed this as well, at the hospital – and gave them some concerned talk, considerate, subdued, about the need for a quick result, not only for the benefit of the public, but for our own good. Stressed the need for good, honest work, to do the job well and not try anything that could backfire. Good police chatter, but not at all like Charlotte. Usually she's in amongst us like a headcase with a chainsaw. Never been around her when she's lost one of her people before, so you don't know what she'll be like.

  Mirrors the entire mood of the station. Everyone's the same – subdued, miserable, determined. We've got to get the guy, there's going to be no messing about and every other crime that gets committed along the way is even more of an irritant than usual.

  At some point in the afternoon Mrs Bathurst showed up from Inverness, all tears and anger. Never wanted her daughter to be in the police in the first place. Once she'd got her anger off her chest she broke down, and Charlotte spent a lot of time with her. Another surprise.

  Two calls from Peggy, which I ignored. Ended up texting back that I'd call her later when I had time. About tonight, there's just no way. It's going to be a long evening and I'm just not in the mood for any happy families. She's got to realise it, though, and if she doesn't then we're no further forward than we were three years ago.

  Into Taylor's office, finally, at some time after six. Been wanting to talk to him all day and been growing more frustrated at the delays which have piled up, at the rubbish which keeps getting in my way. Had hoped to make the late afternoon brief, but missed that as well, thanks to another aggravated assault in Rutherglen Main Street. Don't know what's happening down there.

  Find Taylor staring at the wall, his usual position. Thinking. Shut the door behind me, pull up a seat across the desk.

  'Got some bad news for you, Thomas,' he says.

  What now? Taylor looks bloody terrible. Hope the bad news isn't going to be about him, that really it's bad news for him, not me.

  'What?'

  'Thistle lost two-one at Raith.'

  'Fuck off.'

  'Morton won, so did Ross, so you're down to ninth.'

  'Fuck.'

  'Winning one-nil, let in two goals the last five minutes.'

  'Aw, fuck.' Bloody Thistle, bloody useless. Should start supporting one of those pish wee teams in the third division; you know the ones who draw a crowd of six and get pumped every week.

  'I don't care anymore,' I say, in a voice that suggests otherwise. 'I'm an East Stirling fan these days.'

  'They got beat, 'n all.'

  'Very funny.'

  He laughs, but it's not a day for laughing and it dies on his face.

  Time for work. Got a small knot in my stomach.

  'What have I missed?'

  He lets out a long breath, runs a hand through his hair. Christ, he looks tired. He needs a break and when I think about it, I can't remember the last time he had more than a day off.

  'Same m.o. as before,' he begins. 'Exactly. Almost the same number of stab wounds, 'cept a hundred and twenty-seven this time. Got some skin samples and they've already checked out. It's the same guy. Strangled her first, but didn't kill her, then laid into her with the knife.' Feel sick, try to be dispassionate about it but this is Evelyn Bathurst. 'Mostly to the face and abdomen again, and some around the crotch.' Lets out another long breath. 'Only other thing, and I don't know what to make of this, they found evidence of her having had a sexual encounter with a woman. Small bite marks and bruises. Least, they presumed it was sexual.' Looks at me for the first time since he started talking. 'Did you know that about her?'

  Shake my head. Have that instant egotistical thought – this explains why she rejected my advances. Feel guilty for having thought it.

  'No one seems to know what she did last night. You any ideas?'

  Already been asked, of course. Shake my head again.

  'So, who knows where she was? Time of death was around six. Couldn't have been dead longer than about ten minutes when she was discovered. Night watchman on his way home from work. Apart from that, fuck knows. Aye, and one of those spotty little constables – Forsyth, I think – gave her a loan of his car, but he says he's no idea where she went with it. He was on duty all night and she brought it back and left it. You all right?'

  Try to keep my mouth closed. Fuck! Aw, Jesus Fuck. Feel that hand on my guts, squeezing, twisting.

  What does it mean? Look away from Taylor, stare at the floor, fumble with a pack of cigarettes, try to gather my thoughts. Bloody Jesus. It was her that was with Miller last night, not Forsyth. She went down there to tell her about the gang of five, and then what? They had sex? That doesn't make sense. And after she tells her, she gets killed. Coincidence again? It can't be. Too many coincidences. So, what? Miller is in on it and she followed Bathurst back up here and took care of her? No way. The same killer as the last time. A man, definitely a man. Maybe she phoned Crow, got him to do it.

  'Sergeant, you want to share this with me?' he says, and I suppose I owe it to him. But I can't tell him about Miller, not yet.

  Where do we go from here? Crow, it leads back to Crow. The guy reeks of more than just alcohol. He was the one who murdered the woman last year, he is the one capable of the crime. Ignore the gut feeling, because there's definitely something going on with him and Bloonsbury, something more recent.

  'Where's Jonah?'

  'What?'

  He looks at me funny. He's right. My thoughts are all over the place. What is Bloonsbury in all this? He's been too drunk all week to know any better. During the last murder case he was off the drink, you could tell he meant it, he had an eye for the crime – even though I didn't know how much of an eye at the time – but now he doesn't hav
e a clue what's going on. He's lost it.

  Crow was slime, you could see him doing this to someone, a fellow officer, anyone. But Bloonsbury is just a lush. A sad, pathetic bastard on a downward spiral.

  'Jonah?' I repeat.

  'Think he's gone to talk to some friends of Bathurst's. Not on the force. Ain't going to help, but he's desperate. Word is, and it's got to be coming, Miller's about to kick him off the case. Don't know though.'

  Then what? Us, probably.

  'Want to go for a drive?' I say.

  'Where?'

  'Arrochar. See Crow.'

  Leans forward onto the desk. Looks sharper.

  'Crow? What the fuck has Crow got to do with any of this?'

  Stand up, start to take a cigarette out the packet.

  'Come on, I'll tell you on the way.'

  25

  Driving along the miserable banks of Loch Lomond by the time I finish telling Taylor of the last few days. Nothing excluded, except the bit about me turning up in Helensburgh last night and seeing Forsyth's car parked outside Miller's house. That, and the sex.

  He's listened carefully, asked the occasional question, knuckles growing gradually whiter as we've gone on. When we got into the car we were listening to Dylan, as usual, but Bob got hoofed pretty quickly. I Dreamed I Saw St Augustine still plays silently in my head, although these days I find I forget the words.

  Just past Luss when I wrap up. He breathes deeply, shakes his head. I've finished with me telling Bathurst yesterday evening that she should go and see Miller, and left it at that. First thing he says:

  'We need to know where Bathurst went last night. You sure you've no idea?'

  I've watched enough people lying to know how easy it is to get caught out. Shake my head, say 'no' in as positive a voice as I can manage.

  'Well, if it was something to do with this conspiracy of yours, then why would she need the car? Not for Jonah. She could get a train easy enough. Herrod's a bit further away, but the same applies. That leaves Crow or Miller.'

  Hadn't really thought this through, because I already know what she did. Didn't think about how easily he might be able to come to the conclusion.

  'She could have got a train to see Miller. It's only Crow lives off a rail route.'

  'Aye,' he says, 'but you said she was scared the other day. If she really thinks Crow is the murderer, would she go charging down there on a Friday night?'

  Fair point – it was the last place she would have gone.

  'But Miller, that's far more likely. And if she went quite late, then she would know the trains might well be off by the time she got back. And...'

  He moves to the right and steams past a slow moving truck, the car groaning all the way. I'm not thinking straight, but I should know what he's about to say.

  'And what?'

  He raises his eyebrows.

  'Baird said she thought Bathurst had had lesbian sex.'

  It's where he's going, so I might as well go along with it. Not look like an idiot.

  'And we know Miller has a certain reputation.'

  'Exactamundo,' he says. 'Fuck's sake. Is there anyone in that station she hasn't shagged other than you and me?'

  Almost leave too long a gap, almost damned by silence.

  'She couldn't have shagged Jonah surely?' I say.

  He smiles ruefully.

  'You're kidding me?' I say, a little revolted. 'She shagged Jonah? He can still get a hard on?'

  He laughs. 'I doubt it. It was years ago, when Miller was a young detective constable, and Jonah Bloonsbury was Jonah Bloonsbury. Still wallowing in all the shite that got him started. At the time he helped her along the way.'

  Stuck in slow moving traffic, little chance of getting past. Where are all these comedians going on a shit Saturday night?

  'Anyway,' he says, and the laugh is gone, 'it doesn't make sense. Bathurst goes down there to reveal some great police conspiracy and Miller gets her into bed. And Christ, it couldn't have been Miller who killed her afterwards.'

  'Maybe it wasn't Miller she slept with,' I say, and I can feel the words choke in my throat – lying to the boss. 'Maybe she borrowed the car to go and see some girlfriend, something like that.'

  He nods. 'Aye, maybe. Certainly makes more sense. But if that was it, it was someone she kept quiet about, cause no one at the station knows anything about it.'

  'Wouldn't you?'

  Lets out a long sigh, says, 'Aye', and descends into silence.

  We approach Tarbet, glad to see all the slow traffic continue along the Lomond road while we turn off.

  'Did you know already?' I ask as we pass the Black Sheep, the ubiquitous two cars sitting out front.

  'Know what?'

  'What I just told you. That they stitched the guy up, not the bit about Crow.'

  'Not the specifics. Same as you, same as the rest of us. I knew they'd stitched him, but I didn't know exactly how and I assumed they still had the right guy. Not the rest of it, though.' Thank God for that.

  'And what about this? You think Crow is the killer?'

  'Don't know. Is he capable of it? Aye, course he is. But any identification we've had of the guy this week, none of it's indicated Crow. And you said yourself about the way he acted when you went to see him. He'd no idea why you were there. And the one thing about Crow was there was no artifice to him. The man was an open fucking book.'

  'What about Jonah?'

  Down into Arrochar, a few lights dotted around the head of Loch Long.

  Shakes his head again. 'Just don't see it, Sergeant. The guy's a lush. This week, he's no idea what he's doing. His career is disappearing down the toilet. He's about to get presented with his cheque and a pension, and in three months time it'll all be gone. We'll see him hanging out on the streets of Glasgow.' Slows down as we come to Crow's house. 'He ain't pulling any rabbits out the hat this time.'

  He turns off the engine and we step out into the wet, dark of evening. The house looks deserted, no sound from within, no lights. That old car of his has gone. We stand and look at the house, feel the light drizzle in my hair. Taylor leads the way up the garden path, says:

  'Think we've missed him.'

  He rings the bell and we stand out in the cold and wait. Look out over the loch, dark and dead in the night, a few lights away along its banks. Can hear the water lapping quietly on the shore, fifty yards away. Shiver.

  Taylor rings the bell again, shouts in through the letterbox.

  'Gerry! You in there Gerry?'

  Nothing. He tries the door but it's locked.

  'How's your shoulder, sergeant?' he says.

  My shoulder's fine, thank you. I'll use the soul of my right boot if you don't mind. He steps back. I'm about to kick at the lock when the door of the adjoining house opens up. Old guy appears, looking suspicious, annoyed about his Saturday night being disturbed.

  He stares at us, doesn't look happy. Taylor produces his badge, but it's dark and from the way the guy is squinting, he could have brought out a parking ticket and he wouldn't have noticed the difference.

  'Detective Chief Inspector Taylor, this is Detective Sergeant Hutton. We're looking for Gerry Crow,' he says.

  The old man stares warily, grunts after a while.

  'Well, you'll no find him,' he says.

  'Why not?' says Taylor, taking a step closer.

  'He's pissed off.' – A voice comes from within: 'Would you close the fucking door, it's freezing in here!' – 'Called me up, says he was going away for a few days, asked me to look after the place. Cheeky bastard. Look at it.'

  'When was this?'

  'Close the fucking door, ya eejit!'

  'When was what?' says the old guy.

  'When did he call you?'

  'I don't know, do I? Fuck's sake, you think I log every one of my fucking telephone calls?'

  Taylor continues, patient, understanding. I admire that in him. I'm ready to club the bastard.

  'Well, was it this morning, yesterday? When?'


  The old guy looks over his shoulder, sees something on the television.

  'Look, I'm going to have to go. I think it was this morning, all right?'

  'And did you see him go?'

  'Naw, naw. I told you, he phoned. Now, are you finished?'

  Taylor nods, the old guy turns away.

  'He didn't leave you a key, did he?' he asks as the door begins to close, and gets the negative reply as it slams shut.

  He turns and looks at me.

  'Don't you just love the public sometimes?' he says.

  'Think we should arrest him?' I say.

  'Bad hair?'

  'Aye.'

  He smiles then says, 'Right you, the door.'

  Haven't had to do this in a while. Usually there's some strapping young constable not long out of Kicking the Door Down School on hand to do the job for you.

  Boot to the door, as high up and close to the lock as possible. First kick and the whole thing creaks, and suddenly I'm not surprised because I remember what a shit-tip the entire house is. Second kick and the door smashes open, the lock flying backwards up the hall.

  'Feet of steel, or rotting door frame?' he says.

  'Very funny.'

  He leads the way – no need for subterfuge – and puts on the hall light. You can smell the alcohol, the decay, and we split up and go room to room, through everything.

  There are no surprises. The house looks much as it had done the previous day, certainly smells the same. Empty beer cans or wine bottles in every room. Liked his cheap German shite by the looks of things. The walls are bare and sad. Some of the drawers in the bedroom have been left open, a few clothes scattered about. Either someone else has been here searching – an incomplete search – or, more likely, Crow hurriedly packed a bag and grabbed a few stinking clothes before he went. Although it might be that he lived with drawers open and clothes strewn about his bedroom in any case.

  Don't bother to count but find approximately two hundred porn magazines under his mattress. That's really sad. That's where you keep them when you still live with your parents, but when you're a middle-aged man living on your own? Why not just have them lying out on the bedside cabinet? Habit, presumably. He's kept them under his mattress for forty years. There were a couple of them off-the-shelf from the newsagent, but most of them were a lot more disgusting. Sick Scandinavian things, with animals and women being used in ways that go far beyond the usual extent of women being used in pornography; the more we search his house, the sicker we realise he was.