'I spoke to Mr Cartwright,' says Connor. 'He's fine. He's fine.'
He nods vigorously to himself, realising that he's convincing no one. If Cartwright is fine, it can only be because he's extracting his pound of Connor's flesh in one way or another.
'How did Reverend Jones know what Cartwright was doing?' he asks, when he finally stops nodding at how fine every fucker is.
'Don't know,' says Taylor. 'Will keep looking, but my guess is that Forsyth told him. But could have been any one of them, any one of those who ultimately Jones decided to kill. There are a lot of unanswered questions. We'll keep on it, but there are a lot of people dead, so it makes it harder.'
'And what about this girl in the grave?'
Taylor doesn't immediately answer that. He glances at me, which is fair enough. We've wrapped that one up, all the while ignoring the elephant in the room. Connor looks at me, although you can tell he's reluctant to do so.
I'm not usually capable of artifice, and this particular moment proves no different.
'She haunted me,' I say.
'What?'
Taylor gives me a bit of an eyebrow, but no more than that.
'What?' repeats Connor.
I had this uncle. His name was Malcolm. An accountant. Didn't know him that well. He lived up in Inverness, so didn't see him often. Never married, lived on his own. The dude was quite high up in the Masons apparently. So, you know, he probably knew where the Holy Grail's being hidden, that kind of thing. He knew stuff. Thinking about it, he was probably gay, but was of the generation where you hid it. Didn't tell anyone, didn't let it affect his standing in the community.
Told us a story one time. He said that weird shit had started happening in his kitchen. And more than once. Fridge door left wide open overnight. Dirty plates from the sink tossed onto the floor. Cupboards emptied, packets and jars strewn around. At first, of course, he thought someone was breaking in, but then he'd hear it happening, rush into the kitchen, and there was no one there. Decided it was a poltergeist. Spoke to some people, wondered about getting a priest in, some shit like that. Was advised to stand in the middle of the kitchen and tell the spirit to leave. That was all. So he did. That's what he told us. This middle-aged accountant, in his middle-aged accountant's suit, stood in the middle of his kitchen and told an unseen spirit to get the fuck out of his house, because it wasn't wanted.
And it worked.
I think about telling this little anecdote to Connor. To say, there's weird shit out there, man, it's not just me. This is the kind of thing that happens. Don't try to explain it, because you can't. Just take it at face value.
'I came across the fact of Reverend Forsyth's daughter having disappeared under unusual circumstances over four decades ago. She was never found, alive or dead. During the course of the investigation I began to have suspicions about one of the graves at the Old Kirk. I undertook to open the grave, and we found the body of Forsyth's daughter.'
'He killed her,' says Connor, a statement rather than a question.
'Maybe,' I reply, 'but we're unlikely to ever know for sure. She's dead, he's dead, and his ex-wife does not want the heartache of the case being brought up again. She just wants to give her daughter a proper burial.'
'What if the minister was covering up for his wife? What if it was the wife who killed her?' he asks.
He has a fair point.
'I don't think that's the case here, sir,' says Taylor, 'but if you want us to look into it, then we can do.'
Connor stares in that impressive way of his across the table. And we know, of course, that he's not thinking about the merits of re-opening the case, because if he was, he'd be asking more questions. He's thinking about the politics of re-opening the case, thinking about how it will look if Mrs Faraday troops along to the Daily Record or the Mail on Fucking Sunday.
'I'll think about it,' he says. 'Send me the paperwork.'
We both nod. I, at least, am thinking, if you're waiting for me to upload the fucking paperwork onto your stupid, dumb-ass computer system that you championed so much, then you'll be waiting a long time, buddy. Perhaps that is what he's thinking.
Then, without even looking at what he's doing, this Batman of police officialdom moves the file he's been working on into an out-tray and places another one in front of him. It seems our time here is at an end.
'Gentlemen,' he says.
No, no, really, it's fine, you don't have to thank us for the work. No really, come on, sir, you're embarrassing us. Stop it, now.
We leave. Close the door behind us and walk back towards Taylor's office, although I'm going to peel off before we get there.
'Nice recovery on the ghost story,' he says. 'Maybe next time...'
'Yeah, yeah.'
Make a slight acknowledging hand gesture.
'What have you got on?' he asks.
'Off to see a guy about a thing.'
I FIND MY EX-HSBC CLEANER at the toilets behind the shops on the lower side of Main Street. There's a yellow board propped up in the doorway. CLEANING IN PROGRESS. He's in a cubicle. There's an overwhelming aroma of bleach. Which is, at least, better than the usual overwhelming smell you get in public toilets.
'Hey,' I say.
'You're fine,' he says without turning. 'Just use one of the other cubicles if you need to.'
'It's the Fuzz,' I say.
He turns, straightens up. He's wearing gloves, has a cloth in his hands.
'Wow,' he says. 'Thought you'd forgotten about me.'
Walks out the cubicle, smiles, makes a small apologetic gesture for not being able to shake hands.
'Sorry, been pretty busy,' I say.
'It's cool,' he says. 'I saw that stuff on the news. You've got to figure that the mass slaughter of church-goers is more important than people writing you cock on a wall.'
I smile, look around the walls. The usual collection of insults and toilet-wall wisdom.
'It's been a while since I've had the time to work on this place,' he says. 'Enough trouble keeping it clean.'
I dig the piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it over. He removes his right glove.
'Spoke to this guy at North Lanarkshire. He works with the police on graffiti prevention. Apologised for not having got to work on this previously. Give him a call. He'll get the walls of the toilets, inside and out, done with graffiti-resistant paint. They run a course he said you can go on if you want. Graffiti prevention. He called it a masterclass, but you know, we'll let that one go.'
He laughs.
'What else... There are some CCTV cameras out there, and up at the shops at Hamilton Street. We'll turn them on the entrance to the toilets for a few days. We can't, obviously, catch anyone in the act, but we might get an idea. Some six-year-old walking in with a tin of paint or a collection of marker pens sticking out his back pocket. The guy will also speak to you about people going into the local schools, which is obviously something that works for more than just the beleaguered toilets of the area.'
'I can do that,' he says, nodding.
'You want to go and speak to school children?'
He laughs again.
'It'll get me out the office for a while.'
Bonkers.
'You sort it out with your guy,' I say, pointing at the piece of paper.
He looks at it and shrugs.
'I've spoken to this bloke before.'
'Didn't get anywhere?'
Shake of the head.
'Well, now he's got the Fuzz on his back, I could tell he didn't like it. Give me a shout if you don't get anywhere.'
'Sure.'
OK. That'll do it. The conversation is over, and we're just two guys standing chatting in the public toilet.
'Better crack on,' I say. 'Let me know how you get on. I'll tell you when we're going to do the CCTV thing.'
'Cheers.'
Out the door, back up the short ramp to the precinct.
Stop for a moment and look around. A few shoppers, but not much doing.
Not really. This town is dead.
A bright day, crisp, mostly clear skies. Look up at the tower block in front of me, and then over my shoulder.
What happens now?
Well, what usually happens? Life goes on.
Lunchtime. I wonder if I could go and sit in my own personal church for half an hour. Get some peace. Seems kind of weird to think about that now the investigation's over. And Mrs Buttler might not be so welcoming now that we've released Cartwright and found an unexpected corpse buried in her graveyard.
I should probably stay away and find my own peace for a while.
I head back towards the station with no particular thought in mind. Start wondering when the boss might get around to actually suspending me, and I can go off somewhere. North, I think. I'm going to go north.
As I reach the station I notice the coffee shop across the road, check my watch, decide to go in. I can sit in silence and think about looking at the cold northern sea, and I can choose to think about my lost love if I want, and if that's going to prove to be too traumatic, I can think about something else.
The café is quiet for lunchtime, but Sergeant Harrison is there, alone at a table. She smiles as I pass on my way to the counter.
'You all right, Sergeant?' she asks.
'Might be,' I answer. Really, who the fuck knows?
'You want to join me?'
Hmm. Now, I've got my cold northern sea to think about. And the other thing. And anyway, does she really want me to join her or is she just asking out of politeness or some sort of sisterly concern? Although, is that necessarily a bad thing? She's just being nice.
'Sure,' I say. 'Can I get you anything?'
She glances down at her nearly finished baguette and says, 'Americano with milk would be great.'
I head to the sandwich cabinet and grab my cheese and tomato ciabatta with that incredible Italian basil everyone's talking about.
~ The End ~
Book 4
See That My Grave Is Kept Clean
Prologue
So here I am, a gun in my hand, one bullet, and Michael fucking Clayton standing right in front of me.
Michael Clayton, for his part, seems unconcerned. He’s smiling, the smile in his eyes more than on the lips. He genuinely believes I’m going to use the bullet on myself rather than him. That was why he gave me the gun in the first place.
The weird fucking thing is, he’s right.
1
‘Got something that’ll be right up your street,’ says Ramsay.
Walking into the station. Nine-thirty-four. Late. Again.
Woke up at half-two, could feel one of those fucking birds pecking at my brain. Right inside. Like it was there. Lay there for I don’t know how long, finally got up, made a cup of tea and turned on the TV. Not much on at four in the morning. Watched half an hour of the Cubs at the Nationals. Tied game, into overtime, bottom of the fifteenth. The fifteenth. Jesus. Even that didn’t put me back to sleep.
Went back to bed, lay there like a lemon as the day got light, finally got back to sleep at seven, or something, just when I should have been getting up. And now I’m late and will have to deal with Taylor’s eyebrow, or however it is he’s going to express his disapproval.
Stop to talk to Ramsay on the front desk.
‘Why do I think I’m going to be offended?’ I say.
Ramsay laughs.
‘You look like shit, by the way,’ he says.
‘I know. Give me the thing.’
‘There’s a guy in Room 3 wants to complain about the people who live across the street.’
I lean on the counter, settling in for the duration of the story.
‘Those kind are certainly my favourites,’ I say. ‘Mowing his front lawn too early on a Sunday?’
‘Shagging his wife up against the window of their bedroom,’ says Ramsay.
I take a moment to process that one. Not just the fact someone somewhere is shagging his wife up against a window, or that someone who’s watched it wants to complain rather than get the popcorn in, but the fact he’s been saving it for me.
‘Are you making that up?’
‘Takes all sorts,’ he says.
‘And you think it’s a job for a detective sergeant?’
A defensive look crosses his face. I don’t think I’ve ever, in all my career, played either the detective or the rank card. Don’t know where that came from. Obviously not in the mood for exhibitionist sex acts.
‘Taylor said you weren’t busy and you could handle it.’
‘Did he?’
And just like that I’ve ruined it for him.
‘Whatever, Sergeant,’ he says, ‘if you’re going to be a dick about it. I’ll give it to Anderson.’
He sits down, back in front of the computer.
‘Sorry, Stuart, you’re right. It’s up my street. Bad night.’
Tap my head, as though he’s supposed to know what that means. As though I’ve been telling people about the fucking birds which, of course, I haven’t. Why would I tell anyone about the birds?
‘Room 3,’ I add. ‘I’m going, I’m going. Straight there.’
Walk away, waving off any objections he might have, but I don’t think there were going to be any anyway. He was going to have a laugh, I ruined it, and now we’re moving on. We’re all grown ups here.
THE CROWS ARE BACK. I don’t know why.
I mean, in my head. They’re still outside, of course, all over. More and more of them every year. But those crows never went away. The crows in my head though, those fuckers had gone.
After all the shit a year and a half ago, my head was full of them. This cacophony of noise. Crows, with their jibber-jabber. In my dreams at night, in my waking nightmares in the day.
I’d go and sit in the park at the top of the town, just to get some air, listen to the wind in the trees, and there would always be the ugly sound of the crows. Everywhere.
But it didn’t last. Not the ones in my head. A couple of months maybe, and then they flew off somewhere. I don’t know where they went. Just disappeared. The fucking plague. Had it one day, gone the next.
The real crows, the ones in the park, sitting on the roofs, waiting for spilled kebabs after closing time on a Friday night, they were still there, but they didn’t bother me anymore.
I could look at a crow and think, yeah whatever, your uncle nearly had the chance to eat my brain, but it didn’t happen, and so we’ve all moved on. Fuck you, you shiny, jet black asshole.
But now, the last couple of weeks, they’re back. Back in my head. Back in my dreams. Talking to me. I think they’re talking to me, but I can never remember what they say. And those crows out there, the ones on the telephone poles and sitting on walls. They’re looking at me again. I can feel them. Piece of shit, carrion scum bastards.
So, why are they back?
Jesus, how the fuck do I know? But there’s something. There’s one possibility. One thing standing out and crying, me, me, look at me, this is why!
It’s got to be that bastard, Clayton. Michael Clayton. He’s out there somewhere. Never went away. That’s what the crows are telling me.
Could we have snared the fucker if we’d gone for him after the absurd Plague of Crows crap?
We got the killer, and the suits upstairs were happy to assume it was a one-woman job. She was a serial killer. Serial killers don’t usually have evil masterminds behind them. We’d done what was needed, we’d caught her, and killed her, red-handed. The killing stopped. They weren’t about to go back out to the public and say, you know that case we cracked, you know how we said you could stop living in fear, you know how we were all self-satisfyingly licking our own balls – even though cracking the case was actually nothing to do with us suits in the first place – well we’ve only told you half the story. There was someone else involved and they’re still out there, so if you thought you were safe walking home from work tonight, think again. You’re all going to die.
They were never
going to say it, and sure enough, they didn’t. With Clayton having established his credentials as a walking law suit, and the main piece of evidence against him being the time he pitched up at the hospital and more or less confessed to me, the suits chose to leave him alone. Perhaps they would’ve been more credulous of my story if I hadn’t been so doped up on morphine at the time of the confession. Ultimately, I’m not sure I believe it myself. Can I even be certain he was in the hospital room at all?
Nevertheless, he’s back now. At least, that’s what I’m assuming, but I don’t think anyone higher up the food chain, starting with DCI Taylor, will take my word for it based on conversations with crows in the middle of the night. I need more.
I’m not going looking for it, though. If the crows are speaking the truth, and he is back, then the asshole will know where to find me.
Maybe the morning I wake up remembering what the crows have said to me in the night, will be the morning I die.
That would be a relief.
THE COMPLAINANT IS sitting across the desk from me, holding an iPad. An older version. One of the ones weighing eight or nine kilos. So far, he’s yet to show me anything.
I’m dying for a coffee, but since I made such an ill-gracious hash of receiving the assignment from Ramsay, I kind of rushed in here, not stopping on the way.
I have my notepad. Haven’t written anything yet.
‘What makes you think it’s aimed specifically at you?’ I ask.
‘Because no one else, no other house I mean, looks directly on to their front window. I know what they’re doing. They wait until there’s no one about on the street, and you know what it’s like up there. Those streets can be very quiet, particularly these days when parents don’t let their children outside without a bodyguard.’
He’s in his early sixties, small round glasses resting on the end of a large nose, mostly bald but with longish grey hair at the sides and back. Needs a cut, I’d say. I think he’s trying to cultivate some sort of professorial look, but I’ve already learned he’s in insurance. I elected not to go any further.
DS Hutton Box Set Page 78
