CAN'T FIGHT IT THIS evening. It's a night for going home and staring into the abyss. The death of young Tommy has really hit me for some reason. For some reason? It's kind of obvious why any teenager's death would affect anyone, yet you need to learn to be immune in this job. Of course you do. There's so much shit, so much sadness. We only see people at their worst, when they're at their lowest, or when they're at their most venal or abusive or most unpleasant.
As soon as it starts getting to you, you're done. Really. You have to be able to switch this stuff off, leave it at the desk, go home and get on with your life. If you can't, you're fucked. Life is just so sad. There are many jobs which involve working at the coal face of that sadness, and this is one of them.
But I don't want to take Tommy's death home with me. Tommy the teenager, only a year or two older than my eldest; Tommy who never saw his father, and me who so very rarely sees my kids.
I should stop drinking, go home and at least pick up the phone. Call my kids, listen to them. Of course, they're liable to grunt three or four words at me, if they can even be bothered coming to the phone, but it can be enough sometimes. It would do tonight, it's all I need. Maybe they'd even open up, and if they didn't I'd at least get a bit more from their mother.
But I don't stop drinking. Can't. I sit with one hand on the glass, and my mind sliding into the alcohol. It has the same effect as sitting in silence at the church; so much more destructive, yet so easy to sink into, to embrace, to cling to.
Can't go home alone tonight. Haven't felt this shit since the cigarette in the arm. Tonight would be another night for that. Having done it once, the thought is there to do it again. It's like anything. The first time is the breaking down of the wall.
But I don't want to lie curled up in a ball on my carpet, tears flowing for my fucked-up life, for all my faults, for my embarrassment, for my pain. I don't want to be angrily, desperately, mundanely stubbing the cigarette out on my arm like some teenage loser who can't handle the hormones.
I stumble out of the bar at just after eleven. My car is there, a testament to my initial intention to have only one drink, but at least I'm sensible enough tonight not to drive. I get a taxi into the centre of Glasgow, all of fifteen minutes at this time of the evening, and head for Hope Street. Bound to be a club or two that's just getting going, where I can show my face and pick up whatever's available. Maybe I can play on that moody, melancholic, been-there-done-that thing I like to think I've got going on.
As it is, I don't have to bother. I find her even before I get inside the first club I come to. She's drunk, might have already thrown up, I'm not sure. Twenty maybe, if I'm being kind to myself.
There's been a bit of a stramash, the usual club tipping out on a Friday night kind of thing. A couple of rozzers hanging around, trying not to get too involved. In these kinds of situations, you're trying to avoid too much paperwork. There's a guy being dragged off by his mates, still shouting abuse over his shoulder. Then there's the girl, the object of his abuse, in her red dress that barely covers her arse, leaning against a wall, crying, shouting at the wall, words that are aimed at whatever his name is.
There really isn't much to the dress. Not even sure you could call it a dress. More of a handkerchief really. Strapless, held up by God knows what, a wonderful amount of cleavage on display, great breasts, gorgeous legs.
Tricky situation. I just need to play it right.
I lean back against the wall next to her.
'Fuckers,' I say. I don't look at her.
She stops shouting abuse for a moment and looks round at me. She wipes her hand across her mouth, presumably taking away the vomit. I look at the ground.
I don't say anything else. Certainly I'm not enquiring about her. She turns away, but can't help looking back at me. I look drunk, lost, pathetic. I'm not even acting. I am drunk, lost and pathetic.
I take a packet of fags out, but drop the lighter, the fag and the packet in one carefully useless moment. 'Fuck,' I say, then make an abject effort to bend down for them, but quickly give up, with another expletive thrown out into the chill November night.
She bends down to get them for me. I stare down at her, get a wonderfully clear view of her breasts as they tumble out of the dress. Up to this point I'd just been thinking that I needed the company, on some purely practical level of emotional necessity. The sight of her in the dress, and those gorgeous breasts, goes straight to my groin.
I look away in plenty of time as she straightens up, sorts herself out with a very inelegant movement, and offers me the fags.
'You want us tae light one for you?'
I look at her as though I hadn't even noticed she's there.
'Wha'?' I say. I sound confused. A bit helpless.
She lights the cigarette for me and puts it into my mouth.
Result.
Get a slight taste of vomit from the end of the fag, but I don't care.
Twenty minutes later I'm back at her place, she's grinding her pussy into me and those gorgeous breasts are in my mouth.
14
Bad start. Slept in. Not much, but enough. Didn't have time to get home, muddled into work in yesterday's clothes, stinking of who knows what.
Slump down behind my desk. 08:57. Morrow looks up, stares at me for a moment, smiles awkwardly.
'Rough night, sir?'
'I need coffee,' I say.
The plus side of hooking up with whatever her name was – and, no, I never did find out – is that I'm not as hungover as there was the potential for me to be if I'd gone on drinking. Look over at the coffee machine. Jesus, even walking that far seems like an effort.
Taylor appears at my desk. Must have been waiting for me to come in; had been hoping he'd be out, that I'd not see him until later on in the morning.
'Walk with me, Sergeant,' he says.
I glance at Morrow, who looks back at his desk, then I follow Taylor out into the corridor. He stops when he thinks we're out of earshot of the office. I stop beside him and he noticeably takes another step away from me.
'Go home, sort yourself out. Shave, have a shower, clean your teeth. Get something to eat. Change your clothes. Don't take too long about it, but don't come back before you're in a fit state, and don't come back looking like that. I've been cutting you slack long enough, Sergeant. All right, you made it in before nine, and you haven't had the chance to fuck up, but you don't come into work looking and smelling like you do, so go home. Come back in and mean it. I've had Connor hold off from disciplinary proceedings against you for long enough, but if this happens again I'll happily start them off myself.'
He starts to walk by me.
'Sorry, sir...'
'Don't want to hear it.'
And he's gone.
I don't turn to watch him go. Drop my head to look at the floor. Sgt Harrison approaches along the corridor. She sees Taylor disappear round the corner, slows as she comes alongside me.
'You all right, Tom?' she says.
I look up. Smell like shit. Look like shit. Clothes like shit. Eyes like shit. Breath like shit.
'Been better.'
She hesitates, but there's not a lot else to say, then she's on her way. I look back down at the floor, and then, with my eyes on my shoes, I walk down the stairs and out the front door.
I FIND TAYLOR STANDING next to Balingol, looking down at three small bones in a metal dish. Neither of them is speaking, neither of them acknowledges my arrival. I glance at the detective and the doctor, and then follow their lead and stare meaningfully at the bones. Wonder how long I need to do this before I can ask what it is we're looking at.
Got my act together. Walked to the pub, collected my car, drove home – might still have been over the limit, although perhaps not, because of the earlier than expected cessation of alcohol consumption – shaved, had a shower, brushed my teeth, drank two litres of water, had a bowl of granola, drank a cup of coffee and two glasses of orange juice, took the time to iron a shirt, polished my shoes, sui
t on, walked back in. Found that Taylor had gone out, and got one of the constables to give me a lift down here.
'Ribs from a rat,' says Balingol.
I gather from Taylor's lack of reaction that this information is aimed at me rather than him.
'Where'd you find them?' I ask.
'Inserted in young Master Kane's throat.'
I glance at the two of them, but they're both still studying the bones.
'OK,' I say tentatively. Feel, in some way, like I'm being examined to see if I've recovered from being out of my face last night.
'You have anything else?' I ask.
'Of course,' says Balingol. 'We can confirm that Mrs Henderson had relations with this young man. The lad was also drugged with the same sleeping tablets as the first victim, and then presumably someone else slashed his wrists. We cannot rule out, however, that he slashed them himself before the sedative had completely kicked in, but that wouldn't explain the ribs at the back of the throat.'
'Feels like someone was leaving a message,' says Taylor.
I nod. That makes sense.
'What does it say?' I ask.
Taylor finally looks up from the bones.
'That's what we're trying to figure out, standing here looking at them. Any ideas?'
I look back at the bones. From somewhere the image of Maureen hanging from the bridge comes into my head.
'Might, in some way, be related to Maureen having wings on her back. That looked like a regulation suicide apart from the wings; this looks like a regulation suicide apart from the freaky, weird bones in the throat. Maybe there's some connection.'
Taylor nods as I speak.
'Hmm,' he says. 'You can look into that later.'
'Ribs and angel's wings,' I say. 'Does have that biblical vibe.'
'You're right.'
He nods again, straightens up.
'Right, Doc, we should be getting along. Anything else to tell us?'
'One more thing. Mrs Henderson used Tesco's own lube to smooth the act of love-making.'
We stare at him for a moment.
'Thanks for that image,' says Taylor.
'Tesco do their own lube?' I ask.
'Yes,' says Balingol, 'they do. Not, you know, in the way that they do their own bread, making it on the premises, but they have their own brand-name lube.'
Fuck.
'Isn't it possible,' I say, clutching at some sort of straw, because the thought of young Tommy and old Maureen coupling in inter-generational sex is just too grotesque for me, 'that someone extracted Tommy's semen and injected it into old Maureen with a turkey baster? You know, to make it look like they had sex.'
I get a glance from Taylor, but then he gives the question some level of validation by turning to see what Balingol has to say. Balingol smiles in that slightly weird way of his.
'Not bad, Sergeant, but no, I'm afraid not. There was clear evidence of penile insertion, and since the young lad's penis remains intact, for the moment you should work on the basis that the two of them had intercourse.'
And let's just celebrate the fact that there's no video.
Oh God, what if there is?
WE FIND THE MINISTER at the chancel of the nave of St Mungo's church. Me and Taylor. The gatekeeper let us into the church, saying we'd find the minister in the vestry, but he's out in the main body of the building, looking at the Bible which is open on the lectern.
St Mungo's was built in the 1950s, and looks every inch what you'd expect. A dump. Just walking in you wonder how on earth a group of presumably educated people could choose to come here every Sunday rather than the church up the road.
Paul Cartwright must have done one hell of a job. There's the guy you want on your side when you've got some negotiating to do. If we'd had him in 1936, Hitler would have become a sausage salesman and happily handed ninety per cent of Germany over to France and Poland.
The sun is shining outside, yet still this place seems cloaked in a clawing, Stygian murkiness. For the moment I feel like I have my head in the right place. Sure, in general I'm all over the damned shop, up and down and sideways, but that means there are moments of focus and competence. And I'd been having one now, until I walked in here. This place is enough to suck the life out of anyone.
'Detective,' says the vicar, looking up. 'I thought you might come.'
'You've heard about Tommy Kane?'
'Yes,' he says. 'Another suicide. It's almost too much to bear.'
Now that I'm in this place, I can understand it if that's what it was. Coming here every Sunday morning, I'd want to kill myself as well. Of course, in calling it another suicide he's contradicting himself from the other day, when he seemed certain we were in Murderland.
The minister approaches us, and now the three of us stand at the end of the aisle, beside the chancel, and take in the surroundings and the moment. Taylor looks up at the windows behind the pulpit. Dark glass, enhancing the mood.
'How well did you know Tommy?'
The vicar shakes his head, a prelude to being positive, as it happens.
'Very. He was one of our bright young things. The average age of the congregation keeps growing, of course, same across the country in every church. And as the older generation die off they are not replaced, and so we come to situations like we find here where congregations have to merge. It's rare these days that we find teenagers so committed to the church. Tommy was a jewel.'
'You told us the other day you felt sure that Mrs Henderson must have been murdered. You don't think the same about Tommy?'
The minister lowers his head, doesn't look Taylor in the eye.
'That was just... that was foolish,' he says. 'Just the emotion of the day. I do rather regret those words, Chief Inspector, and would be grateful if I could, as it were, have them back.'
Oh, they're out there, chum. Just because you're wearing a dog collar, doesn't mean you're in charge of the time machine eraser button.
Hmm. Time machine eraser button. God, could I use one of those.
'Why did you say it when you did?'
'Heat of the moment, I suppose.'
'What moment?' says Taylor, leaving him wriggling on the line. 'You must regularly have to deal with the death of parishioners, you just said so yourself. You'd already heard news of her death, you'd had plenty of time to become accustomed to the fact of what had happened. There was no moment. We were fairly certain, up to the time we spoke to you, that Mrs Henderson had committed suicide, then you had us believing and suspecting otherwise. You changed the course of the investigation. You cannot, now, casually withdraw the remark.'
The fellow looks surprised. Good on Taylor, even if he is being slightly disingenuous, not taking any of his shit, just because he's got the whole Man of God thing going on. Probably thinks himself above this kind of interrogation.
'I don't know what to say,' says the vicar. 'My initial reaction was one of such disbelief that I could not accept Maureen would do such a thing to herself. It seemed clear to me. Yet, with the passing of time, the acceptance of much sadness, I realise that I was hasty. I should not have been so bold in my assertions, and I genuinely did not mean to lead you down any specific path in your investigation. In the cold light of day, and at some distance, I now feel sure that I was wrong.'
Neither Taylor nor I give him an easy escape from that. We do the taciturn cop routine, stare him out, wait to see if he's going to say anything else. You know, it's fair enough, people change their minds. And anyway, we've now got a lot more to go on to suggest there has been murder committed than the word of this clown. Nevertheless, never good to just let people off with talking shit.
'So,' he says after a few moments. 'I should probably be getting on.'
'Can you think of anything in your acquaintance with the two of them that might have pointed to them wanting to end their own lives?'
He looks slightly taken aback by the question, as though the very thought of them committing suicide – even though he's admitted that's what
he thinks happened – is utterly unbelievable.
'I cannot think,' is all he says.
'Was there any connection at all between the two of them?' I ask, as I feel I've been standing here, somewhat superfluous to proceedings.
'How do you mean?' he asks.
'Did they know each other? Had they sat on the same committee, or had she helped at Sunday school, or had he done anything for her in relation to the church?'
'I really couldn't say,' says the vicar.
'Yes, you can say,' I reply sharply. 'Either you know something or you don't.'
He swallows, glances at Taylor, then back to me.
'I don't,' he says.
'YOU WERE A BIT HARSH on him there,' says Taylor. 'Good though, it worked.'
'You started it!'
'What?'
'You were harsh first,' I say.
'I wasn't harsh. I was thorough and professional. You were harsh.'
'Whatever.'
15
Sitting in the canteen eating a mince pie. Not good for the waistline at my age. The line who ate all the mince pies? was first spoken for a reason. I have a box of them at home, which means that I'll likely have one with a cup of tea when I get in – if I don't go to the pub, and after last night, I'm really not going to the pub – and then probably have one later on, when I'm doing my best not to touch alcohol and flicking through endless channels of shit TV.
The box I've got at home is labelled Christmas mince pies, and they have a use by date of the end of November. Well, that's not a Christmas mince pie, is it, for fuck's sake? That's a fucking autumn mince pie, that's what that is. Or, you know, it's just a mince pie. Christmas needn't come into it. If I was rich, like those pointless rich people who have pointless wealth and can afford to do pointless shit with their money – like buying an apartment in Monaco that they use one weekend a year, or buying a round of drinks in an exclusive London club that ends up costing £100k, or buying their kid a horse, even though they don't have a kid – I'd get a lawyer on to them. Why say something's for Christmas when at the same time you're defining that it's a requirement of the food that it be consumed weeks and weeks before Christmas?
DS Hutton Box Set Page 58
