Taylor arrives. Got a serious monk on. Walks past me, then stops, takes a second, turns round.
'What is it with you fucking sergeants?'
I glance at Herrod's desk. I don't equate, on any level, the fact that I was late for work yesterday with the fact that Herrod has been missing for twenty-four hours. He's a knob, and I – despite the occasional opinion to the contrary – am not. Vaguely resent being the same grade as him, although sadly neither of us is going anywhere.
'You fucking turn up when you feel like it, Herrod's god knows where, and now fucking Eileen Harrison calls in sick. Did you know that? Did you know she'd pulled a sicky?'
I just look at him. One of those occasions when it's best to let him spout. Authority has to spout off every now and again or else it loses its grip on the reality that it's an authority.
'We've got work coming out of our arse... I don't give a fuck if she's got a cancerous tumour in her neck which she broke falling down the stairs after suffering a fucking heart attack. Get the fuck in here, for God's sake...'
He's still staring at me like I'm the bad guy. I've been in here since eight this morning, and I'm saying nothing. Admit that I'm a little surprised, as I do think that Eileen Harrison is the type of ball-breaking workaholic that would come to the station regardless of being a heart-ravaged, broken-necked cancer victim.
Maybe I should call her.
That thought comes into my head, and then I think, for fuck's sake, you idiot, leave it alone.
Taylor is still looking at me like I'm the five-day-old leftovers of a chicken vindaloo when Charlotte Miller appears in front of us.
'Gentlemen.'
She has walked in on a lot of anger which doesn't immediately dissipate. She can't help but notice, but chooses to ignore it.
'I'd like to see you in my office, Chief Inspector,' she says to Taylor, then turns away.
Taylor watches her go, and then gives me a look before he follows her.
'She's probably going to make me a Sergeant so that there's someone to actually do all that fucking Sergeant type work that you lot don't seem to give a fuck about.'
He walks off; I watch him go. Manage not to let rip at his back by counting to ten. The phone rings before I get to three. I answer with very low levels of enthusiasm.
'Hutton?'
'Ramsey,' says the detached voice. Bloody Hell, just what I need. Another theft of Winnie The Pooh masks in Rutherglen.
'What is it, Stuart?'
'Got a woman down here wants to talk to Herrod.'
Tell her he's not here and get her to come back in three years time.
'It's about the Keller and Bathurst murders. Said she spoke to Herrod on the phone yesterday morning.'
Instant wake up call. They said that Herrod disappeared after taking a call.
'Can you show her to one of the rooms, Stuart. I'll be down in a minute.'
'Aye, no bother,' he says and is gone.
Put the phone down, drum my fingers on the table. Got a weird tingle. It's a police thing. Gut instinct. About to get a breakthrough.
Won't go leaping into the midst of the Taylor-Miller conflab just yet. Wait and see if my guts are in order for a change.
32
OK, guts appear to be mostly in the right place.
Just had a visit from Josephine Johnson. Twenty-six, dark brown hair, bit of a looker. Something of the Uma Thurman about her. Bit of an oddball face, but smouldering sexuality – you know the thing. Anyway, her sexuality really doesn't have anything to do with it; that's just me playing to the male stereotype.
She called Herrod yesterday because she thought an ex-boyfriend of hers might be the bloke we're looking for. Didn't give Herrod her name or a number because she was scared. Tried to call him again today, couldn't get him. Something made her change her mind, come in and cough up the beans.
Started rambling on about how she saw this guy for a while, and the whole thing was a bit weird. Got a lot of details before I got the name. To be honest, I wasn't pushing for the name because I presumed it was going to be someone we didn't know. Why wouldn't it be? It was just going to be any old name, and the detail, the story behind her belief that this bloke could be a serial killer, was going to be much more important. Then, of course, it turned out to be someone that we did know. Someone that we'd brought in for interview and whom we'd then let go.
Ian Healy.
So I left her sitting there with a cup of tea and a PC for company, grabbed Taylor and made big feet for Healy's office. Taylor had just emerged from Charlotte Miller looking moderately apprehensive. Just been put in charge of the whole murder inquiry, which is something of a relief, for me if not for him.
We could have come out like the fucking cavalry. Guns, back-up, the whole bit. But it's not Taylor's way. Doesn't want to go tramping all over town if we're going to look stupid. There's no such thing as coincidence in crime – apart from when it happens. Ian Healy might be our man; he might not.
Now we're on the road between Healy's office and his home, having come up empty. His secretary sat there playing the clown. Said she had no idea where he was, and if she knew and wasn't saying or if she didn't know and she was worried, she hid it perfectly. Police resentment to a tee.
Short drive to Healy's place somewhere in Parkhead. If I was him I wouldn't live so close to my business, but the guy obviously isn't rational. Not by a long way.
Taylor hits the London road. Not too much traffic – no need for any flashing blue lights. Briefly reaches ninety-five in the outside lane. He's pissed off.
'How long did Jonah interview this bastard?' he says.
'Don't know,' I reply. 'An hour, maybe more. Not sure.'
'Christ. I mean, what the fuck was the man doing? He's supposed to be a fucking detective. How can you interview a murderer for half the fucking day and then decide he's not your guy? Christ, you fingered him after two seconds in his office. Fucking Jonah spends all morning talking to the bastard and doesn't even bother getting a blood sample.'
'Come on. I let it pass. You said yourself you didn't think this was it.'
'Fuck that,' he says angrily. 'I spoke to the bloke for three minutes. Jonah practically shoved his head up the guys arse.'
'What do you expect? Bloonsbury's dead. He couldn't pick the murderer out of a line-up of four nuns and a blood-covered guy with a chainsaw. He's finished.'
I might be giving too much credit to the four nuns there.
'Dead right he's finished. Dead right.'
Another nail in Bloonsbury's coffin. Haven't even been thinking about nails in Herrod's coffin. Healy might be our man so there's a chance Herrod's dead. And for all that he's an open sore on the backside of humanity, you never want to see this happen to one of your own.
Up into a side street, then we're parked in front of Healy's tenement. No messing about. Up the stairs, third floor. Start to slow down as we reach the top. Walk more quietly as we near the door. Green paint, slowly peeling.
We stand at the door. Deep breath. Look at each other. Nervous. This could be it, this could be nothing. Wish we'd brought guns. Taylor rings the bell and we stand and wait.
'We should be armed,' I say to him.
'Don't be a girl.'
Tries the doorbell again, gives in to the inevitable.
'Right then, John Wayne,' he says. John Wayne? 'Do your sergeant thing and kick the door in.'
Marvellous. Over fifteen years on the force and it's all I'm good for. Decide to have a go at something I saw in a movie once. Try the door handle.
With a click that echoes down the corridor, the door opens. Nice and easy. Give Taylor a look and he scowls in return.
Swing the door open, step inside. Taylor in front. Immediately feel it. The darkness, the silence. The curtains are drawn. Not a sound. Not even the faint hum of a fridge or central heating. Scary.
Taylor hits the light switch. Nothing. The electrics are out or the light bulb's gone. Either way, we're walking into a darkened ho
use with every possibility of a psychotic killer hiding behind a door.
'We should've brought guns,' I say to him, voice low. He ignores me, starts walking slowly into the flat.
Leave the door open to let in some light. As we take the first few tentative steps, begin to notice the smell. Off milk. Not some rancid pungent stench. Just a hint of it.
The hairs start to spring up on the back of my neck. On my arms. Feel the shiver. A tightness in the chest. I hate this. Walking into the unknown. Who knows what kind of man Healy really is? If he leaps out brandishing a knife, fine, you get into a fight. Take care of it. It's the creeping around in the dark that's the problem. That's the fear. Waiting. For the shock.
I follow Taylor into a room. In the pale light from the door I can see the settee, the TV in the corner. Light behind the curtains. Taylor walks over and opens them and the grey light of another bloody cold and miserable Glasgow afternoon comes flooding in.
Look around the room, quickly behind the door; half expecting Healy to be there with an axe. Got to get a grip.
It's a sad depressing little room. Horrible 80's furniture; 15" flatscreen TV; drab wall paper, drab paintings; brown carpet; bin overflowing with rubbish; chipped coffee table, covered with magazines and photographs.
We go to look at them at the same time. Porn mags, photography mags – which pretty much look the same from the cover – newspaper supplements. They each have a picture of a woman with dark brown hair on the cover. They could be Josephine Johnson. They could be Ann Keller. They could be Evelyn Bathurst.
We look at each other. It's coming together. We have our killer. No doubt. I can feel it. If only we'd had the sense to break the door down when we first came to check on the guy.
Back out into the hall. Look into the bathroom, try the switch again, still nothing. We can see it fine, however, in the light from the other room. A nasty little room, unpleasant aroma. Move on.
Skin crawls! Feel it stretch and strangle; a noise from another room. Faint but distinct. A slight movement and then there's silence again. We are not alone.
Look at each other, walk slowly back out into the hall. Muscles tense. Every sense heightened. That smell getting stronger. Waiting for the attack. Small flat, only two rooms left. Kitchen and bedroom. Kitchen first, glance in. Can barely make it out in the dark. Large room, but plain. The fridge door is open, emits no light. A bottle of milk lies smashed on the floor. So much for the smell.
Bedroom. This is it. No light from the other room penetrates in here. We stand unsure in the doorway.
'Anyone there?' says Taylor. Silence. 'Healy?'
We wait. Nothing. Look at each other, barely make the expression out in the dark.
'Aw, bugger this,' he says after a few seconds. Walks quickly into the room, me behind. Straight to the curtains, starts to drag them open. Something scampers from underneath the bed, past our feet. Fuck! Heart jumps. Fists clenched. Realise it's a fucking cat. Look to the door as the curtains open and light pours in. No cat. It's a rat. Big and grey and ugly. Bloody huge thing.
Finally see it out the corner of my eye. Turn round. Big rat to keep my attention off this. Taylor is already staring at it. Hard to miss. On the wall beside the bed. Bloody; pale; dead. Detective Sergeant Herrod impaled through the stomach with an ornamental sword, suspended on the wall. The blood has long since stopped dripping. His mouth is open, blood congealed on his lips, his eyes stare blankly back at us. The weapon missed the tie, a subdued silk M&S job he must have got for Christmas. It hangs free, some of the blood from his mouth having dripped upon it. Squares of beige and blue, black marks streaked across. A new design. Shoes are gone. Herrod's feet in dirty white socks.
We stand and stare for some time. Drinking it in. One of our own, impaled on a bedroom wall. Try to get a grip on my train of thought. What it means for the murder inquiry. What it means for the station. The second officer down in two days. Think of Bernadette; bitter, she'll enjoy it in a perverse way. We stand and stare, as if expecting something to happen.
'Keep waiting for him to tell us to fuck off and mind our own business,' says Taylor.
33
Monday afternoon roundup. A bit later than usual as a result of the day's events. First one with Taylor in charge. Bloonsbury's back in the office having heard about Herrod, but he's staying out of our way. Sitting silently in his room with a bottle at his right hand. Don't know why Charlotte doesn't just send him on his way. The guy is on duty and embarrassing himself and everyone who has to come into contact with him.
Beginning to think Miller might be as far off the rails as he is, that maybe she's actually losing it. Two of her officers have been killed in the last couple of days, she's got a murder inquiry exploding out of her control, and she's lost. Saw her for a few seconds on her way to talk to the press. That self-assurance which she seemed to have earlier was gone. Pale, shocked, almost broken. She's still not returned, which is perhaps why she hasn't got hold of Jonah yet.
The door closes, the gang's mostly here. Taylor stands in front, done this loads of times. Never this big, though. Never for the killer of two of our own. Hard to fathom the feeling in the room. It wasn't as if any of us liked Herrod, the man was too personality-deficient for that, but a colleague's a colleague. If nothing else, it could have been one of us. Selfish, but that's how the mind works.
We've put an alert out for the guy. Picture in every paper, on every noticeboard. The first part of any murder inquiry is out of the way. We know who did it. Now we just have to catch him. Bloody frustrating that we had him here; locked in a cell too. And Jonah Bloonsbury decided to let him go. Don't know who to blame. Bloonsbury himself; Miller for putting him in charge in the first place; or me and Taylor for leaving him to it.
Taylor starts up.
'Right, people, here it is. I know this is hard, but we've got to think straight, be professional. There's a nutcase out there and we have to get him off the streets. We can be mad, we can be outraged, we can be depressed, we can feel guilty, whatever. But it can all wait. First off we have to be clear headed and we have to get our man.' He hesitates. 'And on that point – we all know we had him here and it was decided to let him go. If the press get hold of that we're going to look fucking stupid. So we keep our mouths shut. No one, all right? Not even wives and husbands and mothers or whatever. Mouths shut.'
A few heads nod, most of us stare blankly at him or at the floor. No one's going to tell anyone anything. Maybe if he doesn't go, Bloonsbury'll get his head panned in.
'So, what have we got? Herrod took a call from Josephine Johnson yesterday morning, putting him on to Ian Healy. Went round there on his own. Given what happened, he was a bloody idiot.' Pauses, takes a deep breath. No friends of Herrod here to offend. 'Whatever the exact turn of events, it ended with the sergeant dead. Healy, realising we're onto him, disappears. From hair samples in the flat, forensics have confirmed that it was Healy who killed Ann Keller and Police Constable Bathurst. Some of us may wonder why Evelyn was killed, but it looks as if she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'
Looks around the room. Was that last comment directed solely at me? Might have been. He's right, anyway. Forget about Crow and some great conspiracy. Bathurst goes to see Miller to give her confession; for whatever reason they end up in bed, as you do; on her way home in the middle of the night, Bathurst is stumbled upon by Healy, and that seals her fate. Shouldn't have been walking alone through the streets in the middle of the night when there was a killer loose. No conspiracy.
'Now Herrod. Three murders and our killer has gone to ground. We know he's our man, we need to know where he is. We need to speak to everybody that's ever met the guy. Family, friends, clients, whoever. Hutton, you just been down to his office?'
'Aye. Brought back everything we could find. Just about to go and look through it all, see what we can get. The secretary's downstairs, trying to be stoic.'
'I know. I'll speak to her when we're done. But she won't tell us anything.
Nothing to tell.'
He stops, looks around the room again. Not one for speeches our Dan. My mind strays again to Miller, as he starts dividing up the areas of responsibility. Who's to look where, talk to whom. I know what I've got for the next few hours. Looking through bloody file after file of Ian Healy's confidential papers. Landed with Morrow to help. Still be a long job. Look at the watch – almost seven o'clock already. Think of Peggy for the first time since this morning. Have to cancel again. She should understand. If she doesn't, then there just isn't any point, is there?
Too much is happening. Two women; a murder inquiry, which quickly consumes two colleagues; an old police conspiracy involving who knows how many idiots at the station. Too much crap going on at once. I just need a few hours to step back from it, assess the whole lot. Make some decisions, discard some of the garbage. But I'm not getting the chance. Every ten minutes there's something new. A revelation, a demand, whatever. At least today has simplified it a little. We're looking for Ian Healy, period. What I also need is for one of the women to tell me to take a hike – or both of them for that matter – and then things would be even simpler.
Switch back on for the wrap up.
'Right, people. You all know what you're doing. We need this sorted out quickly, so get out there and get on with it. And no fucking about.'
Taylor walks from the room and the meeting breaks up. Trail out near the back, no one saying anything. There's a job to be done, have to get on with it. Get back to my desk, Morrow comes trotting up.
'Right, Tom. Might as well sit at Herrod's desk. Seat should be cold by now.'
Raises his eyebrows, doesn't look too impressed. A dead man's seat. I push a box of papers over to him.
'What are we looking for?' he says.
'No idea, Constable,' I say. 'Let me know when you find it.'
DS Hutton Box Set Page 17
