DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  That is one of the many things he does not understand.

  30

  Another day, another hangover. Four hours in the pub with Taylor, by the end of which I had persuaded him that he really didn't want to be married to Debbie anymore anyway. Did my bit for his peace of mind, although whether he'll still be happy about it this morning I doubt. He looked bloody awful when I saw him, but he wasn't in long before he left again. Away to speak to a couple of friends of Ann Keller's. A great believer in re-covering old ground. You always learn something new.

  Bloonsbury is in his office, doing God knows what. Door closed, hitting the sauce more than likely. Miller called for him about half an hour ago, dismissed him ten minutes later. He came out looking an angry man, but then he always looks like an angry man.

  Herrod has disappeared. Took a call yesterday morning and went out, no one knows where. May be dead in a ditch after all. The station is certainly a more pleasant place to be without him, however. Maybe he's accepted an expensive transfer offer from another station. Haven't seen a paper this morning; it could be on the back page – Herrod in Shock £35M Deal With Old Trafford.

  As usual I've been landed with the detritus of the weekend – muggings, rape, robbery. It's all showing how desperately undermanned we are. Dire straits. There's just far too much going on, and when we could do with all hands on deck for the murder enquiries, officers are continually getting pulled away on more mundane crime.

  Writing up the report on a break-in at a newsagents at the bottom end of Cambuslang Main Street when Miller appears from her office. Approaches, looking around her as she does so.

  'I'll need everything you've got on the Keller and Bathurst cases, Sergeant. Everything. Notes, random thoughts, vague ideas.' She stares at me, and I suppose I must be giving her a look. 'I've taken over from Chief Inspector Bloonsbury. I'll be leading the investigation. I want everything you've got as soon as possible.'

  She can't do this.

  'Where's Taylor?' she asks.

  'Speaking to a friend of Anne Keller's.'

  'And Herrod?'

  Shake my head.

  'Tell them both I want to see them when they get in.'

  She stares at me for a second, then turns away. She stops as she passes the closed door to Bloonsbury's office, perhaps considers going in. Walks on, back to her own office. Closes the door behind her.

  Well, Jesus, Taylor was right. The criminals have taken over the asylum; the suspect has taken over the investigation. Except, she's nobody's suspect except mine.

  Head in palm of my hand, eyes open. Ignoring the noise of the office going on around me. Certainly no bloody thought for this stupid newsagents. Criminals got away with several thousand cigarettes and a bunch of pornos. Christ, maybe this was Crow as well.

  Forget Crow. What am I going to do about Charlotte Miller? She's the last person to have seen Bathurst, she slept with her; then maybe an hour later, she's dead. And Charlotte Miller isn't telling anyone about it.

  But do I really believe she had something to do with it? If she didn't, then is there anything wrong with her leading the bloody thing? If the two of them were intimate, then maybe she'll be switched on to it – certainly a damn sight more switched on than Jonah.

  I stand up, decision made, even though I've no idea where it's come from. She can't do it. She's got thirty officers trying to discover where Evelyn Bathurst was on the night she died, and whose bed it was that she lay in.

  Knock on the door, don't wait to be invited in. Walk in, head up, full of aggression. She stares at me and I immediately want to forget it. I can live without confrontation. This isn't my problem. Really, if I say it often enough, I can persuade myself that it's not my problem.

  Can't think of the right words, so I just come out with the first ones that are there.

  'What the fuck are you doing?'

  Nice start. Suddenly have the image of me sitting on an inter-city train; first class ticket, eating one of these brie and black grape sandwiches, ice-cold v&t, on my way up north for a bit of a holiday.

  'Sergeant?'

  One word, but what a voice. A coiled snake. You can hear it in those two syllables, the anger just waiting to explode. No one talks to Detective Superintendent Miller like that. I'm going to just have to go for it. All guns.

  'You slept with Evelyn on Friday night.' Good opener.

  Her shoulders straighten. Face tightens.

  'What?' is all she says. The anger's gone, she no longer sounds as if she's about to machine gun me. Then again, she doesn't look taken aback; more surprised. But is she surprised that I know, or surprised at the suggestion?

  'You slept with Evelyn. Half the fucking force is trying to find out who her lover was on Friday night, and it's you.'

  Shut up, let the words sink in. She just stares at me, nothing to say – or doesn't know what to say. I can't read her at all, which is pretty much how it's always been.

  'What makes you think that?' she says.

  I'd imagined her crumbling before the shock and awe of my all out up-front attack, but these are not the words of a woman who's crumbled. This is a woman taking her time, assessing the situation, the extent of the damage.

  'I've known all along,' I say, which is a shit answer, and not one that is likely to put her under any pressure. Her face relaxes before my eyes.

  Fuck.

  'What are you going to do?' she asks. There's almost a smile there, or maybe I'm just imagining it because I've seen brutal fuckers up close and you can always tell when they're about to smile. Just before they bury the knife in the eye socket.

  So, what should I do? I should tell Taylor; I should tell anyone who wants to listen. Maybe it doesn't mean she had anything to do with the murder, but it's certainly pertinent to the investigation.

  I stand there looking stupid. Have lost all that sparkling fire I had when I first got in here, sixty-five seconds ago, once again proving to be not even remotely as cool as I like to think I am.

  Show some balls, Hutton, for God's sake.

  'You need to put Taylor in charge.'

  She doesn't answer. Looks up from behind the swathe of paperwork. Her mind is working and it's disconcerting to know that it's a hell of a lot sharper than mine. Having careered in here in the hope of establishing some sort of command, I'm now in a completely reactive situation.

  I could just turn and walk out. Get on a train. Go and live in the Highlands, in a forest by a river. Eat rabbits.

  'And if I don't?'

  I was hoping she wasn't going to ask that.

  'Just do it, Charlotte. I don't know what the fuck was going on between you and Evelyn, but you're too close. And if it ever gets out, you're fucked, especially if you take over the investigation. It's just going to look like you've got something to hide.'

  'And what do you think? Do you think I've got something to hide?'

  'I don't know.'

  She doesn't immediately reply. Looks across the desk. I feel like Partick Thistle playing Barcelona, and before the game starts you talk yourself into it being eleven against eleven and anything can happen, and you go out all guns blazing and maybe you even get a goal in the first two minutes, and you think, fuck yeah, we can do this; then, half an hour in, you're getting beaten seventeen-one.

  'Do you know why Evelyn came to see me?'

  Get swallowed up by those eyes. Try to think clearly. What's this about? Wants to know how much I know about these bastards and what went on last year? I'm lost. Big time denial, that's the only option.

  'No idea.'

  A long pause. I wish I knew what was going on in there.

  'Did you know she was coming before she came?'

  She's fishing. I'm such an idiot that if I let her fish, she'll catch something before too long.

  'How, when, it doesn't matter. I know, that's all. Are you going to put Taylor on it, or not?'

  'If I do, what will you tell him? What if he instructs you to spend all your time looking for Bathurst
's female lover? What then?'

  She gives me the shivers, for a hundred different reasons. Time to go.

  'I don't fucking know, Charlotte. Just do it.'

  If in doubt, resort to Nike marketing blurb. After all, nothing is impossible.

  Give her my best look of steel. Try to be hard. Really, I'd be better off not trying anything, just being myself. A fucked up miserable bastard who wants to run away. Turn on my heels and walk out before she can see through it – although I'm probably about five minutes too late for that.

  Close the door behind me, feel the relief. Have no idea what I'm going to do if she decides to go for a test of wills by completely ignoring me. All I can do is hope she gives in and lets Taylor get on with it. Otherwise...

  As I cross the open plan, the legendary Jonah Bloonsbury emerges from his office. Looks awful, but that's no surprise. Facing up to the fact that his career has finally disappeared round the u-bend. Some guys look good on the back of four or five days stubble – me for instance – and some guys just look terrible.

  He stops to talk to me as our paths cross. Looks broken. Shoulders hunched; clothes pretty much the same ones he's been wearing for the past week; eyes bloody red, might have been pierced with a knife; ruddy face, bulbous nose of the alcoholic, combined with the hollow cheeks of someone who hasn't eaten anything for months; thinning hair, matted, dirty. We get druggies in here who look better than he does.

  'The bitch tell you what she's done?' he says. Words trip over each other on their way out of his mouth. Can smell the whisky. Stale and fresh at the same time.

  'Aye,' I say.

  He slumps against a desk. Herrod's desk, as it happens. Head collapses onto the top of his chest, and then he appears to notice that Herrod isn't there.

  'Any idea where this bastard is?' he asks.

  'If we're lucky he's been transferred,' I say.

  'Who'd have him?'

  Aye, well, right enough.

  'Got a smoke, Hutton?'

  Go to my desk and dig out the packet of Marlboro's. Remove two, light up, and then hand him the other and the lighter. As usual, get a look or two from the odd spotty constable, but no one says anything. It shakes pathetically in his hand, flame flickering, and he takes several seconds to find the end of the cigarette. Wish I'd done it for him.

  'What you going to do now?' I ask.

  He doesn't answer immediately; starts coughing up a variety of revolting substances from his lungs the second the smoke hits the net. A young PC I don't recognise walks by, looks at Jonah as if he's scum. Perhaps assuming he's on the other side of the great law and order fence. Which he probably is.

  'The bitch wants us to resign.'

  'And?'

  Coughs some more as he tries again with the cigarette.

  'No chance. I'm here 'til they get rid of me. She can go fuck herself.'

  He looks up at me, points the cigarette.

  'I fucked that bitch before, you know. Long time ago, you know, but I did it.'

  Aye, I know. Back in the glory days, when Jonah Bloonsbury was worth it.

  'Now look at her. She's fucking me...'

  Don't know what to say to him. You're not the only one, big man.

  He stands up, attempts to straighten his shoulders.

  'Well, they can all piss off. I'm not resigning for any bastard. Especially not her. Hasn't heard the last of Jonah fucking Bloonsbury.'

  The phone rings behind me, just as he starts to walk off. Saves me from further discourse – not that I was going to say anything else to him anyway.

  'If that's for me, tell them I'm away getting pissed,' he says, and stumbles out of the office, bumping into PC Forsyth as he goes.

  If it's for you, they'll already know you're getting pissed.

  Lift the phone. 'Hutton.'

  'Thomas?'

  Peggy. Bugger. Had to happen sometime. Couldn't keep avoiding her for the rest of my life. Especially not if I want to marry her again.

  'Peggy, how are you?'

  'I'm all right, Thomas. I tried to get you all weekend. What were you doing?'

  Sounds annoyed. Here we go again. The same old story. Except, this time she's got a point.

  'Look, I'm sorry, Peggy, but you must have seen the news. Saturday morning...'

  'Aye, of course.'

  'It's been bedlam all weekend. I'm on the case, and I keep getting landed with all the other crap that's going.'

  'I understand, but you weren't there all Saturday night, were you? Or Sunday morning? What were you doing Thomas? You must have slept. You could have slept here. You could have called. You never replied to my texts.'

  It's a sixth sense thing. She's got me by the balls. Peggy's not one of those high strung neurotic types who disappears up the backside of insecurity as soon as you mention another woman's name or appear home fifteen seconds late for your dinner. The only reason she's annoyed at me for not showing on Saturday night is because she knows. I can feel it. So I'm going to have to put a lot more effort into lying.

  'Look, Dan's been sending me out on a whole bunch of shite. Just haven't stopped.'

  'He didn't know where you were on Sunday morning. Thought you were with me.'

  Shit. Backed up against a wall. Gun at my head.

  'The children were looking forward to it, Thomas. You could have called.'

  She pauses, but I've no idea what to say. She knows nothing, and yet I feel as if I've been well and truly caught with my pants down.

  'Look, I know we're not back together or anything,' she says, 'but Christmas Day...you know. I just thought... well, if there's someone else you could at least tell me.'

  Stand fast. Lie big time.

  'No, honestly, there's not. I was following up all sorts of shite that even Dan doesn't know about. This whole murder thing's getting freaky.' Can't believe I used the word 'honestly'. A sure give-away. 'Can I see you tonight, I'll tell you all about it. Promise.'

  'Is there any point?'

  'Honestly, there's a lot going on, Peggy.' Stop saying fucking honestly, you moron. 'I'll come over tonight when I can get away. Tell you all about it.'

  She hesitates, but I've got her.

  'All right,' she says. 'I'll wait up.'

  'Good. I'll try not to be late.'

  'Like I said, I'll wait up.'

  Right. The phone goes dead. Put the receiver back down. Feel like I've just got out of jail, but that I'll probably be going back in later on tonight. If I ever get there.

  Start going into my feelings on the whole thing. It was her who left me for another man. She divorced me. We had sex for a night, and then wham, I'm under obligation again.

  Suppose she's right. It was me that coughed up the diamond earrings. A few days ago I thought I was still in love with her. One infatuation later, and what? I don't know. I should be still in love with her, but I may be too much of a Muppet for that.

  Love, for crying out loud. Who am I kidding?

  Bloonsbury reappears. Smell him before I see him. He stumbles past the desk, leaning on anything he can.

  'Can't believe I forgot my fucking booze,' he says, heading back towards his office.

  Can't believe he's got a bottle in there that's not empty.

  31

  So I got back from Bosnia and talked to a psychiatrist for ten minutes. Haven't talked to anyone since. I don't want it to be about me. Ever. Doesn't matter what 'it' is, it's not about me.

  I know it's good to talk, and I know the only way I'm ever going to escape the awfulness of the memories I've carried around since then is to let it all out, but I just don't think it's ever going to happen.

  I used to think, when I'd come home – after I'd walked out on the professional psych-woman – that I'd find a woman to confide in. A lover. Always found women easy to talk to. And there'd be these women that I'd sleep with or do whatever with, and not once did I ever think, yep, I can talk to you, let me tell you all sorts of fucking shit that you won't believe. Not once.

 
I thought, romantically maybe... is this romantic?... that there'd be someone out there, and I'd know instinctively that she was the one and that I'd want to talk to her, and it would just all come out in a rush, and I'd probably end up crying like some fucking reality TV contestant. There'd be one, and I'd know.

  Well, I damn well knew it wasn't Jean Fryar. Holy crap, we never talked about anything, other than her and what she needed and what I was giving her and how I could make her life less shit.

  Peggy, however, she was different. Right from the start, I thought, this is it. This is the woman I'll talk to. This is the woman with whom I'll sit down, and she'll be my counsellor and I'll be able to get all that fucking crap out of my head. I'll spew it all forth, and she'll sit there and take it in, and it won't be in my head anymore because I'll have got rid of it, it'll be in her head, but it won't bother her the way it bothered me because it won't actually have happened to her, so it'll be like off-loading an illness to someone who can't get it. Peggy was the one, and I was going to tell her tomorrow.

  Yep, roll out the Beatles song. The time was never right, tomorrow never came. Never. I'd sit there, thinking OK, this is it, this is it, now. Right now. Right fucking now. Say something!

  I never said. And she knew. She knew there was a lot of shit in there, and she waited for me to tell her. It hung over us. We wouldn't really be a couple until I'd shared. And so we were never really a couple. Despite twelve years of marriage.

  She's still waiting. And now, it's not so much going to be about diamond earrings, it's not so much about me lying about my whereabouts – although obviously it would be if she knew I'd been sleeping with the boss – it's about Bosnia, it's about me living in a war zone for two and a half years, it's about me getting completely mentally fucked up and never telling her about it. And the diamond earrings... you know what they were saying? They were saying, all right, it's time for number seven to come in. I'm here, I'm back, and this time I'm talking. Honestly.

  Honestly, for fuck's sake.

  TWO HOURS LATER AND just about finished that report on the newsagents. Paperwork. It's not that I'm sitting on it; I keep getting interrupted. The usual crap of any given Monday. I've had enough. Need a holiday from all this. Murder, pointless little criminal investigations, Peggy, Charlotte. I need a break from it all.