DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  He's thinking about it, contemplating taking it to Connor and how that will go.

  'We don't know the bloke's time scale, whether this is an escalation, whether he'll wait another three months, whether he just does it when he's ready... but the leaves are gone until April or May. Any survey of possible woods that he could use will be extant until late spring. I say four guys on the job for a few days. If he's got any favours to call in with stations further afield, then go for it. Otherwise, get a team on to it. Split the country up, tell them to get going. We can concentrate on the other shit.'

  He claps his hand down on the desk before I can get into my full dogs-of-war, up and at 'em speech, and stands up.

  'You're right. If he wants us to make some headway, he's going to have to staff it properly. I'll ask for eight guys and hope we get four.' Glances at his watch. 'Right, you get us a list of bird experts. I'll put a submission together for Connor, and before we head out today you can get everything together on the cutting saw that we dug up last time.'

  'Yep,' I say, and immediately turn back to the screen. Have already started work on the bird experts thing, and so I get back down to it, nine names already on my list. Taylor marches off to put together his submission for Connor. Connor likes submissions. Makes him feel like a government minister. Hates people to approach him with an idea that's not been thoroughly thought out, laid down under a variety of headings and fully costed.

  You'd think all that FOI shit would have put him off having his people write ideas down – because let's face, there are a lot of people around here thinking all kinds of shit that would have the media pishing excitable anti-police diatribes all over the TV and newspapers if they ever found out it had been put in writing – but he's obviously not yet been burned. It'll happen one day.

  9:15AM. LEFT TAYLOR back at the station fighting his corner. He managed to finagle a few more staff out of Connor, and was gathering them together to give them their brief. Now I'm sitting in a small office at the University of Glasgow. Some part of me is attracted to the notion that we are likely to stumble across the killer completely by accident. The man is getting crows to apply the finishing touches to his sick death rite, and I have it in my head – in a way that I didn't in the summer – that he knows crows in some way. Not that he has a power over crows like someone might have in a superhero movie or some shit like that, but that he has some affinity with them, knows how to manipulate them, how to get them to do something.

  The man sitting across from me, Professor Tolbet of the Zoology Department, is putting me right on that one.

  'To me, they're the rats of the sky,' he says. 'They'll eat anything. I'm never like... holy shit, a crow ate that? The thing a crow won't touch, that's the thing that surprises me.'

  You know that saying about police officers looking younger as you get older? Well, it's not like us older police officers don't think that about all the spotty barely post-pubescent kids who pitch up in uniform on a daily basis, but in reality it applies to every walk of life. Like university professors, for example. This guy looks about twenty-three, and you can tell by the way he talks he's priming himself to be on some fucking documentary about birds on BBC4; a documentary that ultimately will be about him. Like there, I asked him a question about crows, and in his brief answer he mentioned himself three times. That's what they're all like these days.

  'So you think that if a crow is hanging around in a tree, and it looks down and sees exposed brain, it's just going to swoop on down there for breakfast?'

  He smiles, as if he's smiling at the camera. He's going to use the word extraordinary in a moment.

  'It's extraordinary,' he says. 'And I'll say this. To me crows are the most intelligent birds in Britain. Those guys are just shit-smart. If I'm walking along a street, a crow will make a determination about how threatening I am. Sure, at the last second, he'll get out my way just in case. But if I've got a gun, or anything that might look like a weapon, that sucker'll see it and it'll be off much faster. Now, they're animals, and like all animals they constantly want one thing. Food. That's all they're interested in, except obviously when they're trying to get laid. But food's their number one priority. I've seen crows peck at anything. Anything. They don't give a shit. If, after a peck, they don't like it, then sure, they'll move on. But in my experience, it's pretty rare that they move on.'

  'So you're saying they'd eat brains?'

  'Not only am I saying they'd eat brains, they'd recognise that there was no implicit threat in a human who was bound and gagged. And even if they were wary, we're talking about a flock of crows, man, and one of those suckers is going to get brave enough to come and have a look, and as soon as that happens, and he doesn't get nailed in some way, that's when the others follow.'

  'You ever been on TV?' I ask.

  That one came out of the blue for him but he takes it in his stride and smiles.

  'I've got a show in development with the BBC,' he says. 'Not been green-lit yet though. I'm still waiting. Apparently with that lot you wait and wait and wait and then suddenly someone higher up says, yeah, we'll take this, can we have it in the schedule in eight months? And everyone starts running around in a panic.'

  'Maybe now that everyone's talking about crows you'll have an in,' I say.

  'Oh, my show's not about birds, it's me trying to survive on nothing but insects in the Amazon for two months. It'll be, like, my most amazing adventure ever.'

  THE YOUNGER GENERATION, that lot you see on television all the time, I reckon they pick their career based on what they think is most likely to get them on television in the first place. Or else they elect to not have a career, other than a career based around trying to get into television. Rather chew my face off than be on TV.

  The next chap is at least more traditional. Two offices along the corridor from Talbot. Older, not a professor. Dr Weinstein. Wearing a shirt, bow tie and waistcoat. That's the kind of thing you want from an old duffer at a university. Now this guy might well go on TV, but if he did, he'd talk with enthusiasm on the subject that the show was about, not My Part In The Evolution Of The Species, in the way that they all do now.

  'Yes, pretty much,' he says eventually. I'd asked if crows would eat anything, as it appears to be the general consensus. He could have answered immediately, but likes to think things over before committing himself. I like this chap. Bet he's a Dylan fan. 'It's understandable where you must be going with this. Is it possible that some fellow might be in a position to manipulate these birds. Has he trained them or...' and he waves his hand in a dismissive manner '... is he able to control them? Maybe he keeps them in cages and lets them out beside the victims. Yes, it's understandable what you might be thinking, and I've given it a lot of thought since speaking to your colleague in the summer. But really... they are the vermin of the sky. They will, genuinely, eat anything. And once one of them has the courage to investigate a possible food source, and it proves successful, then that will just open up the floodgates.'

  He stares across the desk. I left the station forty minutes ago, full of energy and bravado and sure that a positive attitude would help bring a positive development. But what had I been expecting at this stage? For one of these guys to say, 'Well, as a matter of fact, these crows are showing just the kind of exceptional behaviours learned through extensive training, and there's only one man in the whole of Europe capable of manipulating an avian species to that extent. You need Dr Hans Wankoff of the University of St Andrews. Here's his phone number.'

  I just need to keep going. Someone, somewhere, might have something to add. Something different. This guy, despite being all the more professional and a much easier person to talk to, is just saying the same stuff as the last guy. Perhaps they all will.

  'You like Dylan?' I ask.

  He stares blankly across the desk.

  21

  I have a list of eleven people to talk to in and around Glasgow. From the professors and the civil servants to the enthusiastic amateurs.
r />   The opinion on crows appears to be fairly universal. They will eat any old shit. Including brains.

  Make it back to the station just after one.

  I'd left Taylor with the brain tools information, and he's spent the morning with that, making calls, trying to extend the little information that we have into something more meaningful.

  'How we doing?' I ask.

  'Nothing new. Got four officers, as we wanted, sent them out with instructions to find the perfect secluded woods, crows' nests combo. And to keep schtum. You?'

  'Crows are as crows do,' I say.

  'No one willing to go out on a limb and say that we're clearly in an Emma Peel type situation?'

  'Not so far. The consensus is pretty much as we had in the summer. Give a crow something a bit shiny and gloopy looking and they'll be all over it.'

  'People have started killing them,' says Taylor.

  'What?'

  'We've had a couple of reports this morning. Morrow called around a few other stations and they're getting the same kind of thing. It'll make the news by the end of the day.'

  'People are killing crows?'

  He nods.

  'So they don't get their brains eaten?'

  He nods.

  'Jesus. People are so...'

  'I know. First report was of a guy shooting them in the woods behind his garden.'

  'Woods on our list?'

  'No. Too small, too populated. Neighbours reported him, we show up, he's shooting crows with a hand gun. Missed more than he hit, but he appeared to have plenty of ammunition.'

  'Did he have a licence for the gun?'

  Shakes his head. 'Said he was doing a public service.'

  'Didn't take to being arrested, I suppose.'

  'Not at all. The fault appears to be ours. Then there were a couple of kids throwing rocks at crows. Didn't get any, but they did put in a few windows. They told Constable Forsyth to take a fuck to himself, that they were doing the police's job for them.'

  Big sigh. Need food. Enthusiasm slips away at the thought of heading out to do more speculative interviews with crow experts afterwards. There are so many people not really worth saving.

  'Lunch?' I ask.

  Quick check of the watch.

  'Sure, but just fifteen minutes across the road. If Connor sees us taking time to eat, he'll probably vomit indignation and outrage out his arsehole.'

  SMALL SOUP-AND-SANDWICH place. Been here for years. Most of our lot come in here at some point during the day, so we usually don't. Taylor likes to stand apart because he's the senior detective. I just like to stand apart.

  Pea and ham soup and a roll for me. He's got a prawn mayonnaise with side salad. That, of course, would be a Glasgow side salad, which features half a tomato and some chips.

  Taylor looks at his sandwich. A shadow crosses his face.

  'I shouldn't be sitting here,' he mutters.

  Typical. He'll be thinking that it's all right for me to take a break, and in fact, that I ought to take one, but that he doesn't have the time. I don't say anything. Spoon up some soup, yet his annoyance and hopelessness and need to keep banging his head against the brick wall of the investigation are infectious.

  He crams some chips into his mouth and at that point DI Gostkowski, who has entered the building without either of us noticing, sits at the table. Taylor looks at her, his mouth bulging with food. She looks amused in an annoyingly superior way, as if she never crams food in her mouth. She probably doesn't.

  'In a rush?'

  'Yes,' he says, through his chips, then he swallows and takes a drink to wash them down. 'You shouldn't be sitting with us, Inspector, too much chance your Edinburgh lot will come in here.'

  As he says it he lowers his voice and takes a quick glance around. He doesn't know who they all are, so they might already be here.

  'They sent out for food,' she says. 'Anyway, I believe there's no point pretending we're not speaking to each other and ultimately, if the Sergeant and I are seen together a lot, the likelihood, given his reputation, is that people will believe we're sleeping together.'

  'The Edinburgh lot aren't going to think that,' he says.

  'They'll ask around. They've already been asking around the station about you two, trying to get the full inside information.'

  'Did they ask you?' I say, to bring her attention to the fact that I'm at the table.

  'Yes,' she says, still looking at Taylor.

  Taylor lifts his sandwich from the plate and stands up.

  'Very well, Inspector, you're the one at the coal face. I need to get on. You two enjoy yourselves. Maybe you want to hold hands, keep the cover going.'

  He doesn't even smile at his own hilarious joke, and then he's off, leaving behind a small plate of chips and a bottle of freshly-squeezed hand-picked sun-ripened orange juice. Gostkowski pulls them over beside her and takes a chip.

  'I get the feeling you're not talking to me,' I say. I sound like some monstrously high-maintenance woman of the kind that I generally think should be carted off to a mental institution. She enhances the feeling of self-hatred by glancing at me as if I'm monstrously high-maintenance, and doesn't even bother humouring me with an answer.

  'The politics are picking up pace,' she says.

  Take some soup, don't look at her. But suddenly I have masses of respect for the woman. Me. Respect for a woman. Must be some sign that I'm maturely growing into my forty-five-year-old brain. Or not.

  'What's up?'

  'They've detailed a guy to shadow the pair of you so they know what you're doing.'

  Pause with the soup. Glance at her.

  'They tell you they were doing that?'

  'No, they didn't. The guy himself told me. Think he fancies me, thought he'd have some sort of in. Maybe thought that it would help get me on their side.'

  'So where is he now?'

  'Back at the office. He knows you came over here for lunch, so he'll have nipped back to grab a sandwich. He'll be hovering soon enough, waiting to see where you head off to.'

  'And he followed me this morning?'

  'Oh, yes.'

  Jesus. How fucking stupid is that? If it's not bad enough that I'm wasting my time, there's someone following me noting down how I'm wasting it.

  'Fuck,' is how I express my unease at that level of stupidity.

  'Yes,' she says. 'Quite.'

  'So, they're going to be aware of you and me seeing each other to talk over the case?'

  'Yes.'

  Glance at her – she's sitting next to me, a foot away, so it feels kind of weirdly uncomfortable to be looking at her, which is probably a sign that I'm not as mature as I thought I was a minute ago – then go back to my soup.

  'So what did you say about me?'

  'I said we were in a relationship, which would explain why we see each other at the Costa. And here.'

  Pause, soup spoon halfway to mouth. Another glance. She's eating chips, seems matter of fact.

  'Won't they be worried then about pillow talk?'

  She nods.

  'I expect so. Not a lot to be done. I didn't say to the DCI, but I wouldn't be surprised if they're phone tapping. I wanted to get all the facts before I took it to him.'

  Keep eating soup. Wonder if there's someone standing across the road, behind me, watching us.

  'Maybe they're tapping into this conversation through our mobiles,' I say.

  'Possible, although they're not MI5, so I don't think we should get too paranoid.'

  This is just too stupid. Too monumentally fucking stupid.

  'So they're just going to exclude you,' I say.

  She nods again. Nearly finished the chips. There hadn't been many left.

  'I expect so. They were heading down that road anyway. They needed me right at the start...'

  'The day before yesterday.'

  'Yes. The day before yesterday. I was there to help them bed down, but now they've got their feet under the table and they've been apprised of everything they
need to know about the investigation up to this point. I was always going to be pushed to the outside. The initial premise of the Superintendent was a little fanciful. But we might as well spin it out as far as we can.'

  Another quick glance. She's wrapped up the chips and is dabbing at her lips with a paper napkin.

  'Enjoy yourself in Edinburgh this afternoon,' she says. She knows I'm going to Edinburgh. Of course. 'Unless we hear from each other, I'll see you at Costa at seven.'

  I nod. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, then gets up and walks out.

  I look across the table, as if I'm in a sitcom and I'm staring at the camera. She just kissed me on the cheek. All part of the act, because we're apparently pretending that we're sleeping together.

  I think I need to talk to her about the fact that it's not really working. We'll need to take it a bit further.

  22

  People are killing crows. By mid-afternoon they're not just killing crows, but all kinds of birds, and the Chief Constable of Strathclyde is on air telling people there's no need to panic, and no need to become involved in avian slaughter. And it's a crime, apparently. Not sure how much of a crime it is, but he's telling people they're getting nicked if they're caught.

  People are such lemmings. I believe what we need is for the Justice Minister to introduce a bird protection, shoot-to-kill policy, wherein all police officers are armed and permitted to instantly gun down anyone caught shooting an unarmed bird.

  Now, don't go thinking I'm a Daily Mail-reading right-wing wanker. I firmly believe there should be a law in place permitting the police to shoot anyone caught buying the Daily Mail. Call it natural selection.

  Some part of me knows it's wrong to shoot someone just because of their newspaper choice.