DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

'You ever come in here and just sit?' I ask.

  'Every day,' she says, smiling.

  'It's beautiful,' I say. 'Doesn't look like it's under-used.'

  'It was in good order before the merger,' she says. 'The church was well enough off, had a lot of money bequeathed to us.'

  I think of a comment someone has made in the last couple of days, that this was the posh church of the four, the congregation that everyone else viewed as the snobs. Perhaps that's all it was. Jealous of their money. Another deadly sin to add to the list of un-Christian behaviour that is mounting by the day.

  Was jealousy one of the deadly sins? God knows. Sounds like it ought to have been. Typically, when trying to remember the seven of them, my thoughts have nothing to do with religion, going straight to the movie Se7en with Brad Pitt, before quickly giving up and heading off to check that I can still remember the names of The Magnificent Seven.

  'Since the merger, all the money's been spent by that lot down the road. God knows what they've done with it. A couple of pews and a kitchen cupboard. If you ask me, someone's got his hand in the cookie jar. This whole business... Well, it's got a long way to go, that's all.'

  I glance over at her. There's nothing on her face. No resentment. Perhaps sitting in here every day helps with that kind of thought process.

  'We'll do our best, but inevitably this place will start to go, deteriorate, you know, and then someone will say, why are we spending the money keeping it going when we rarely use it? And then there'll be some argument, but most of the people who feel passionate about it, good people from around here, they've already given up. And then it'll be sold. And that will be that...'

  Her voice trails off, a melancholic quality to it. I've been looking at her as she spoke. The whole time she's been staring up at the window at the back of the church.

  'This place was originally selected?' I ask. I know this stuff.

  She smiles, affords me a brief glance.

  'Well, you'd like to think that everyone had seen some sense right at the beginning, but to be honest, we had the biggest congregation so we had the highest number of votes. So we won. Unfortunately, in trying to be corporate, the various church positions were handed round, and that cunt from down the road got the position as property convenor.'

  In all I end up spending over an hour in the company of Mrs Buttler. That's the only time she swears. A bluntly effective denunciation of the man who remains property convenor at St Mungo's. Perhaps I should try that. Only swearing every now and again, so that it's really effective and powerful when I do it.

  I can add that to the list of aspirational items that I'll never get around to.

  'Excuse my language,' she says.

  'It's fine.'

  'He came up here and picked this place apart with a toothcomb. The nerve of the man, as if St Mungo's is perfect. Every little.... every single little thing he could think to say about the building. Everything. The long list of expenditure that was needed to meet health and safety this, and health and safety that. We'd already passed all that stuff! And then he found the rot in the roof of the halls.'

  She shakes her head. Her gaze has dropped and she's staring at the floor. She's not sounding so sanguine and peaceful anymore.

  'This is Paul Cartwright you're talking about?'

  She snorts. I didn't even need to ask. Every time this guy's name is mentioned you know you're going to get some sort of reaction.

  'And just look at what they've done down there,' she says. 'They twisted the vote, said that we couldn't use the Old Kirk because of the amount of money that'd be required, and then they've gone and spent all our money, our money, repairing their church.'

  Another shake of the head.

  I look back at the stained glass Jesus looking down on us from the rear of the church.

  'I'm sorry, Sergeant, I shouldn't be getting annoyed. Take a look around if you like, I'll just wait here for you to finish. We can talk further over a cup of tea.'

  I get up and walk down to the front. The pulpit is set low, and I'm tempted to climb the few stairs up there and stand and look down over the rows of empty pews. I'd probably do it if she wasn't here. Instead I stand at the lectern and look at the open Bible.

  Revelation 9.

  And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men. And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions...

  OK, so let's get this straight. We've got locusts that look like horses, with women's hair, men's faces and lion's teeth. Well, that makes sense. No doubt there's some of that metaphor going on in there.

  I glance up and contemplate reading some of this shit out, but if I did that I'd probably end up sliding into Sean Connery. Mrs Buttler looks upset enough as it is, what with me getting the conversation round to Paul Cartwright. It's not going to be helped by my saying, 'And the name of the shtar ish called Wormwood: and the third part of the watersh became wormwood; and many men died of the watersh, and they too had blackened fingersh and blackened tonguesh.'

  11

  My original intention had been to get around as many parishioners as possible, a broad spectrum, and then if there were any that I thought needed adding to the list, to seek them out tomorrow. However, it seems pretty obvious that I really need to speak to this Cartwright character to find out if he's as much of a bell-end as everyone implies. Given that I tend to have a low view of pretty much everybody, it's a fair bet that I'm going to dislike him even without him being as awful as they all say, but let's not let that stand in the way.

  He's an architect, and a quick phone call to his office tells me that he's at a project site in Largs all day. Won't be back in the office until Monday. I weigh the odds, two hours on a round trip to Largs to interview one person – and not a very long interview included – or spend that time on four of five people in the area? Contemplate calling Taylor, then decide that I need to speak to Cartwright regardless. Largs it is, and at least the drive won't take as long as it used to back when I was a kid, hitting the coast for the ferry to Millport.

  The project site is on the hill looking down over the town, the Clyde and Great Cumbrae out in the firth. A beautiful view from up here, even on a crappy day like this. This is at the point where the river has opened wide, and Cumbrae sits in the middle, with the low hills of Bute beyond, and behind Bute the hills of Arran and the hook of the mainland, as the Mull of Kintyre dips south, forever awash to the sound of Paul McCartney. To the right, the mountains of Argyll, although today they are obscured.

  The board at the entrance to the construction site promises a beautiful development of exceptional four and five bedroomed homes in a stunning location. I pull into the small car park beside the temporary office, take a moment to stand looking at the view, and then walk inside.

  There's a woman sitting behind a desk, a few seats, and everywhere lavish brochures, shiny with pictures of the view, artist's impressions of the houses, and polished off with an air of desperation.

  The receptionist is young and beautiful. Not much make-up, long hair tied back, a meticulously uneven fringe, dark-rimmed glasses. Looks as though she doesn't realise she's as attractive as she is, which is unusual these days.

  I know, I'm terribly old-fashioned – or, if you prefer, a sexist dinosaur – but when I see someone this good-looking behind a desk, I always think, Jesus, darling, you are way too gorgeous to be doing this. At the very least, go out with a footballer. Spend all his money.

  She smiles.

  Here's a top tip. I know she's just smiling because that's what she's supposed to do. She's paid to be nice. Receptionists are the whores of the business world. Wait a minute, I probably ought to re-word that. Anyway, you know what I'm trying to say. They're kind of paid to be nice, it's their job. So, of course she smiled at me. But here, at last, is the top tip. Ignore that shit. Ignore the fact that she would have smiled at the Shoe
Bomber if he'd walked in. Ignore it all, and just imagine that she's smiling at me because she wants to. She doesn't have to. It's a smile born of pure attraction. She's young, and she recognises an experienced guy with that look about him. The look of wisdom, mixed with a melancholic other-worldliness.

  'Good afternoon,' she says. Nice voice. Goes well with the rest of her.

  I turn and glance over my shoulder. Sitting at that desk of hers, she has a great view, out of two large windows, of the Clyde and Cumbrae and the rest of it.

  'Nice place to spend your days,' I say.

  'Thanks,' she says. 'It's better when the sun shines.'

  'That was three weeks ago on Saturday, wasn't it?'

  She smiles again. That there is a great smile. From nowhere I suddenly get a sense of dreadful middle-age, and a wish that I was at least twenty years younger so that there was some worthwhile reason to be flirting with her. Yes, I feel myself lurching uncontrollably towards flirtation.

  And just like that, it transpires that my flirtation isn't uncontrolled, and it leaves in a snap of the fingers.

  'Would it be possible to speak to Mr Cartwright?' I ask.

  She holds my gaze for a moment, glances at her computer screen – currently showing the building company's home page – then turns back with a questioning look.

  'Mr Cartwright?'

  'The architect. I was told he was on-site today.'

  'Of course,' she says. 'Mr Cartwright. I'll just put a call out to the site manager. Who shall I say is here?'

  This is the point where, if I hadn't already given up, I'd likely lose the girl.

  'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say, dipping my hand into my jacket pocket and showing my ID.

  'Of course,' she says again, with another smile, as though they'd been expecting me.

  AS WE TALK WE LOOK down over the view. The cloud has shifted in the last ten minutes, and the ever-changing landscape looks a little brighter. There's a ferry in the middle of the channel, making the short trip between Largs and the Cumbrae slip.

  'I'm getting one of the properties myself,' he says. 'Won't live in it for another ten years yet, but Jean and I will come down here when I retire. Already a member of the golf club, aiming to get my handicap into single figures by this time next year.'

  He's already talking a lot, and I haven't even asked him anything.

  'You could move now, couldn't you?' I say. 'Pretty short commute up to Glasgow these days.'

  'Look at that,' he says, and he throws his hands over the vista. 'I'd never get anything done. No, no, I'm aiming to retire here, when I'll have time to sit in the conservatory and watch the ferry. Back and forth, back and forth. You should see it on stormy days. Like a week last Thursday. Why was it you wanted to see me?'

  This guy is smooth.

  'The suicide of Mrs Henderson. Did you know her?'

  'Bah!' he barks. Yep, I think bah! just about covers the weird noise that he ejaculates. 'Crazy old bitch. Never spoke to her, never wrote to her, never had anything to do with her. She wrote to me often enough.'

  'How many times?' I ask.

  Being in possession of all the crazy old woman's correspondence, I already know the answer.

  'Seventeen,' he says, which is bang on.

  I give him a glance.

  'Can you believe it?' he adds.

  'That seems a lot,' I say. 'Also seems odd that you can remember the exact number.'

  'Got a head for detail,' he says. 'Jean says I'm on the spectrum, you know, that I've got no empathy, don't understand people or how my actions impact on them. And that I've got this extraordinary awareness and recall of detail. She's right about that, at least. Seventeen. At least she'd stopped.'

  That, too, I know. She'd finally given up on him, for some reason, if not most other people.

  'What made her so keen to write to you?'

  He takes a deep breath, but it's an ostentatious breathing in of the autumnal sea air, a gesture to indicate just how fucking great it is to even think about living in this spot where he's designed an elegant scrotum of enchanting homes for rich people.

  'I pissed her off. I pissed them all off, all those ruddy wankers up the hill.'

  He barks out another laugh, then shoves his hands in his pockets. Lord of the fucking manor.

  'Listen, Sergeant, don't go thinking that there's anything Christian about the running of the church. It's politics, pure and simple. Sunday morning, hymns, prayers and the sermon, yes, yes, religion. Christianity. The essence of what we are, kneeling before Jesus and before God. Trusting in him, believing in him. But the rest of it, it's all political. I'm not going to apologise because I recognised that and they didn't, because I had a war room and they didn't.'

  'A war room?' Nice.

  'Yes, Sergeant, a ruddy war room. You must do it yourselves, when you have a big investigation.'

  'I guess we do.'

  'Every organisation that succeeds needs one. A war room, where men sit down and plot and plan, down to the merest detail. If there's something you can take control of, you work out how to do it. You own it. If something's out of your hands, you establish how to minimalize it, or how to fight it. That's what we did. We had a war room, and what did they do? They walked into the merger and thought everything would be fine. Well, more ruddy fool them. I'm not going to apologise for my due diligence towards my church when they weren't prepared to do the same for themselves.'

  Weirdly, I don't dislike this bloke anything like as much as I thought I would. One might not associate a war room with the church – apart from, you know, all those wars that have been fought in the name of Christianity through the centuries – but it's hard to fault him. Most of human interaction is a game; he played it, and they didn't. No wonder they all hate him.

  'I spoke to someone from the Old Kirk in the last couple of days who called you a cunt.'

  I thought that might get the laugh barking out again, but he just continues to stare contemptuously out over the sea and the islands and the hills.

  'You know,' he says eventually, 'Mrs Henderson might have been an appalling irritant to me, and to many of us, but if the Old Kirk had had her as part of their team from the start, things might have turned out differently. Instead, they chose to never use her particular talents. She was always the outsider, always the irritating old woman who wouldn't shut up, who wouldn't accept defeat. I admired her. I won't say I'm not glad she's dead, but I admired her all the same.'

  'You think she killed herself?'

  'Didn't she?' he says, looking round, surprise in his voice. 'You think she was murdered?'

  'I didn't say that,' I lie. Shut up, you dick. Have never lost the tendency to say too much. Some women find it endearing.

  He gauges me for a moment and then turns back to his precious view, which I'm starting to believe he thinks he owns.

  'So you're not questioning me as part of a murder investigation, then?'

  'No,' I say. 'We're just following up on Mrs Henderson, to establish her state of mind before she died.'

  'She was ruddy miserable,' he says, 'but I doubt that's so different from how she spent her last eighty-odd years.'

  'Why did she stop writing to you?' I ask. 'She was still bugging plenty of other people.'

  He looks imperiously over his land and his sea.

  'God knows, Sergeant,' he says. 'Maybe she was beginning to see sense.'

  DRIVING HOME I HAVE a brief interlude of road rage. In my head I don't consider it road rage though. It's just rage to me, regular rage, the same kind of thing resulting from impatience that I'm liable to feel in the supermarket or watching TV when there are too many adverts. Road rage has a specificity to it that I don't feel is appropriate.

  Nothing more than the usual, stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle. A Peugeot 206 or something. I can see the sprouting of grey hair above the driver's seat headrest. An old woman driving, the kind who I would test every couple of years after the age of seventy, so we could get the licence off them a
nd make the roads safer. Not that my ensuing actions are liable to make any road safer.

  Try to control it for a while, then I start to go. Drive up really close behind her. She's doing thirty-four in a sixty zone. No long straights, too many cars coming from the other direction, no chance to overtake. My presence close to her rear end is enough to make her slow down even more. As her speed drops below thirty I have a brief contemplation of pulling her over, producing my ID and telling her I'm an unmarked traffic cop, and booking her for driving liable to cause an accident. The thought is brief indeed.

  Instead I lean on the horn, then start jabbing it repeatedly. My head is exploding with instant, uncontrollable fury, the kind of fury you can unleash from behind a wheel.

  'Fucking move!' I'm screaming at her. 'Jesus! Would you just fucking move!'

  Punching the horn. Punching the horn so hard it hurts. Spittle flying onto the plastic of the centre of the steering wheel.

  We approach a parking place. She slows down even more, then pulls in. I don't turn and stare at her, just gun the accelerator. Ultimately, of course, I'm not in a rush. I've no intention of thrashing the speed limit into non-existence. Within about a hundred yards, I hit a thirty zone, and I slow right down and am now driving more slowly than I was previously. A red Škoda catches me and sits in behind. Bang on thirty miles an hour.

  My rage passes. I forget that I was angry. I forget about the old woman, and do not wonder how long she sits in the parking area recovering her equilibrium.

  12

  'How's this?' I say. Taylor's office, me and Morrow, coffee and doughnuts. Yes, coffee and doughnuts. We're all Americans now, as the Muppet Blair said. 'There's a correlation between the sleeping drug and the semen, but not directly with the death. Someone drugged her and raped her. Maureen, unable to cope, killed herself.'

  'Hmm...' begins Taylor. 'Not bad. I know, just because a woman is raped, doesn't mean she's going to commit suicide, and you'd think that an older woman might be able to handle the situation better than someone much younger, but then... what do any of the three of us dicks know?'