DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  Whatever. The guy lost his daughter. If he wants to make a play, if he wants to own the bereavement while spouting shit to the media, he might as well go ahead.

  First word from Morrow is that things are a bit strained in Dalmarnock, but not as bad as they might be under the circumstances. He likes Collins at any rate, which is something. Trouble is, while the e-mails sent to me – and the fact the murders stopped as indicated – imply these seven deaths were all connected, they’ve found nothing else to join them, with the obvious exception of the two people dying together at the community centre.

  Seven deaths, six acts of completely random violence. There are a few potentially useable pieces of evidence in there, every now and again, but they’ve all turned out to be on a par with our guy caught on CCTV. They mean nothing, they go nowhere. They are the killer perfectly covering his tracks, they are red herrings, they are ghosts placed in the machine to keep the police occupied. Like the ghosts Clayton placed in my machine, through the mouth of Dr Brady.

  These deaths may look random, and perhaps some of them owed something to chance, but they had been planned well in advance. The killer knew what he was doing, knew when each murder was going to be committed, must have had an intricate plan mapped out. This wasn’t him getting up in the morning, rifling through his Dylan albums and thinking, oh, OK, I’ll do this one today.

  So, yes, I wonder what would’ve been next. And who was the lucky bastard who escaped?

  And the other thing. Should I be feeling guilty about not working it out earlier? If I had done, fewer people would have died.

  Some time after eleven, Taylor stops at my desk, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Glances round the station.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

  ‘Chasing up Clayton’s backstory. Is it possible he was actually involved in any of those murders he described to Brady, or is he taunting? And if it’s the latter, how in the name of fuck did he manage to find all that shit out?’

  ‘Getting anywhere?’

  ‘Believe it or not... no. I’m learning things I’d forgotten, but nothing about Clayton. This is just... what was that Woody Allen movie... Zelig, it’s Woody Allen in Zelig. The guy has placed himself at the centre of the action, even though he wasn’t there. Clever, clever bastard. And... well, I don’t know. He knows so much about me, I can’t begin to wonder where the Hell this is going to end up.’

  ‘You think he got the doctor to seduce you, and then tell you this stuff, specifically yesterday afternoon?’

  Puff out my cheeks, stare straight ahead.

  ‘Where are we going to go with it, that’s the question?’ I say, looking back at him.

  ‘Yep,’ says Taylor. ‘This is, indeed, the damned question. One of them, at least.’

  He starts to turn, then says, ‘Well, keep at it for now. Before we go anywhere with this I’d like to get right down to the bottom layer of it. Write me a report. Everything he said to the doc, how it ties in with your own experience, where he was and what he was doing at the time of each of the crimes.’

  He starts walking away, then stops and turns back.

  ‘And look... look, you know we’re not supposed to be on this at all anymore. Do this thing, send the report over, and then we’re going to leave it to the boys over in Dalmarnock. I’m going to need you to look at –’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘I’ll give Ramsay a shout, see what’s happening.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  And off he goes. I watch him for a second, and then turn back to the computer screen, which has powered down during my brief chat with Taylor.

  A blank screen, nothing to be learned. That there, my friend, is an actual fucking metaphor if ever there was one.

  SITTING IN THE CANTEEN eating a ham and cheese panini, drinking a Coke Zero and eating a packet of sea salt and blood-of-my-enemies vinegar crisps. I’m not celebrating the fact we prevented further death after Sunday – because we probably should’ve worked it out more quickly – but I’ve yet to beat myself up about being so late to arrive at the party.

  There’s plenty of time for that. Maybe I need to read some misery stories from the families of the victims.

  ‘Hey.’

  Look up, and here comes my sergeant-at-arms, Eileen Harrison, sitting down opposite, a bowl of pasta and a bottle of water. Having not seen her previously today, I notice she’s dyed her hair. The same blonde as before, but now the colour is richer, the roots lightened.

  ‘Hair,’ I say, approvingly.

  She smiles and settles into the seat, pours water into a glass, and immediately starts twiddling spaghetti around her fork.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ she asks.

  ‘Broke a wine glass.’

  ‘Drunk, or fit of rage?’

  ‘Neither. Slumping in pathetic fashion, head down, onto the table while listening to Bob Dylan.’

  ‘So Dylan is to blame for another injury?’

  ‘It’s fine. I won’t be contacting his lawyers. Good day?’

  ‘Hmm...,’ she says, continuing to eat pasta. ‘Got a woman who says her son has been slowly poisoning her by giving her thick cut marmalade.’

  She sucks up a few strands of spaghetti which hang from her lips, briefly making her look like the Ood from Dr Who.

  ‘She thinks thick cut marmalade is poisonous?’

  ‘Yes. It’s dangerous to eat too much of the skin, she says. Her son knows this, so is intentionally feeding it to her.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she just refuse to eat it?’

  ‘He forces her.’

  ‘And thin cut marmalade would be OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Good luck with that one.’

  ‘Well, unsurprisingly it looks like she’s on the Alzheimer’s scale, and I’ve spoken to the doctor to confirm it. But on the other hand...’

  ‘Oh, nice, there’s another hand. Go on.’

  More pasta, more sucking up of spaghetti strands. Try not to watch. She chews, dabs her chin with a napkin, although she didn’t need to.

  ‘On the other hand,’ she continues, ‘the doctor has admitted her health is on the decline and he can’t explain it. And this is coupled with the fact the son is, well... he comes across as a bit of a cunt.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘So, I’m wondering, you know... Maybe he’s not poisoning her with thick cut marmalade at all.’

  ‘Maybe he’s poisoning her with something else?’

  ‘Yes. And the marmalade’s a distraction.’

  That’s the kind of thing that happens. Well, it’s the kind of thing that happens in a certain kind of crime fiction narrative. I don’t know if it ever happens in real life.

  ‘I wondered if you wanted to speak to him?’ she says, before sticking another huge forkful of pasta in her mouth.

  ‘You in a hurry?’

  ‘Absolutely stacked this afternoon,’ she says, ‘and I need to go down to Rutherglen for a thing. So what d’you think? I reckon it requires some detective work. Thought of you.’

  Funny.

  ‘Sure. Bring it to me when you’ve got the time. I’ll speak to the son. Cunts are my specialty.’

  40

  Got nowhere further with Clayton, of course. Feel like I should be round there, pounding the fuck out of him, or shooting him, or doing something. Anything. Instead, Taylor told me to take a step back, and now I’m doing this. I’m here. I’m having to listen to this level of bullshit.

  ‘Can I ask what the fuck this is?’ says the Cunt.

  ‘Ian! Show some respect.’

  ‘Mum, shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like –’

  ‘If the fucking polis are coming into our house, then they can fucking expect what’s coming to them.’

  ‘I asked them here!’

  ‘Aye, well, you should be in a fucking home. They can come and see you there.’

  She turns to me.

  ‘I’m really sorry, officer
.’

  I give her the don’t-worry-about-it hand.

  ‘Aye, you’ll be sorry soon enough, mum. You, get the fuck out the house,’ he says to me, then adds, ‘unless you’ve got a warrant.’

  A warrant. He says it because it’s the kind of thing people say on the TV. As it happens, I do have a warrant in my pocket, the paperwork completed by my good friend Sgt Harrison, which was a bonus, as I hate paperwork, but she knew what she had to do to get me to take on the job. However, I don’t need it yet.

  ‘Who owns the house?’ I say to him.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I do,’ says the mum.

  ‘I thought I told you to shut the fuck up?’

  ‘The owner of the house, the principal named resident of the house, the bill payer, invited me in,’ I say. ‘And so I came in. If you want to call the police to get them to come and remove me, then you’re welcome.’

  ‘Fuck you, you pious cunt.’

  I hold his gaze – just a regulation, zip it, you useless, dumbass piece of shit look – and then turn back to Mrs Thornwood.

  ‘Why d’you think your son is poisoning you with marmalade?’ I ask.

  ‘Fuck, here we go,’ comes from the cheap seats.

  ‘It’s the only thing I eat every day. Toast and marmalade, every morning for breakfast. And every day, every single day, I get twinges in my stomach within an hour or two of eating the marmalade...’

  ‘Jesus suffering fuck...’

  ‘... and every day I feel worse. I’m dying, Detective Sgt Hutton, I can feel it. As sure as you’re sitting in front of me now.’

  ‘We’re all dying,’ chips in the moron, ‘you’re just not doing it fast enough.’

  ‘And you’ve been to the doctor to make sure it’s nothing else, like an ulcer or...’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Right as rain until this started.’

  ‘When did it start?’

  ‘When he got that new marmalade.’

  The idiot snorts.

  ‘You’re aware my colleague took the marmalade away with her already?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve had it checked. It’s fine,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing in the marmalade.’

  He laughs this time.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘What d’you mean there’s nothing in it? There are huge chunks of skin, huge thick things.’

  ‘Yes, there are, but they’re not actually poisonous.’

  ‘Aye, but I don’t like them.’

  ‘Jesus suffering fuck.’

  ‘Maybe not, Mrs Thornwood, but that in itself isn’t going to make you ill.’

  ‘Well, what is then?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake...’

  Beginning to doubt my decision to let this clown stay in here while we talked, but I wanted to see his reactions. Obviously I’m wondering if anything will happen when I leave, but I imagine they live in this perpetual state of ill-humour and abuse, regardless of whether the police have just been round.

  We see this all the time, and of course there’s nothing we can do. She probably needs him here for various things, and he’s just waiting for her to die. No excuse to be the way he is, but some people are like this. We’re here to make sure laws aren’t broken, not to force them to be nice to their parents.

  ‘You said marmalade is the only thing you have every day,’ I say.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You said you have it on toast.’

  ‘Aye.

  ‘So you have toast every day as well.’

  The arsehole barks out a laugh, the mum tuts.

  ‘Aye, but the bread hasn’t changed. It’s still the same plain loaf.’

  ‘And there must be butter on the toast.’

  ‘Aye, but the butter’s the same.’

  ‘Jesus...’

  ‘And you drink tea, there’s milk in the tea, there’s sugar in the tea.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  She stares off to the side with a quizzical look. Starting to think it through. I’m also beginning to think Sgt Harrison was just trying to get rid of some work. It’s not like there’s a great deal of detecting to do. Then again, if we’re talking about attempted murder, then it’s good the detective branch is in early.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘is there anything else you have every day, d’you think? So far there’s toast, butter, tea, milk, sugar...’

  ‘Coffee,’ she says. ‘I have my Nescafe.’

  ‘D’you want to check her fucking bog roll ‘n’ all? I could have poisoned the fucking Andrex and the poison’s being ingested through her arse.’

  There’s a thought. I wonder if anyone’s ever done that before? Probably in a crime novel, although I’m not entirely sure what type. Some sort of rectal-death sub genre, popular with elderly ladies.

  ‘What d’you put in the Nescafe?’ I ask. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Sweeteners,’ she says. ‘And milk, of course. I heat the milk up.’

  ‘Jesus, I’ve heard enough of this.’

  I finally turn and look at the Cunt. He’s been defensive from the off, but the more I ask, the worse he’s getting. Still not sure I’m prepared to accept this clown is capable of slowly poisoning his mother, but then you can learn to do anything on the Internet.

  ‘Tell you what I’m going to do, Mrs Thornwood. I’m going to take away all your basic foodstuffs...’

  ‘No’ you’re fucking no’!’

  ‘But what’ll I do for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Within the hour I’ll get someone round here with replacements for everything I’ve taken away. They’ll be newly bought from the shops, so you’ll be sure they’re fine. Is that all right?’

  She’s not looking like she thinks this is all right.

  ‘You’re not fucking taking anything, by the way.’

  I turn and give the son a look, then turn back to his mother.

  ‘There’s really no need to worry, Mrs Thornwood. I’ll get all your food checked, and very soon someone from the Police Service will be round with replacements. You’ll be fine for tea and toast and coffee, and you’ll know you don’t need to worry about whether or not they’re poisoning you...’

  ‘You’re taking nothing.’

  I take the piece of paper out of my pocket, two pages of A4 folded in thirds. I mean, it could be a list of movie stars I want to shag for all he knows, but he straight away accepts the threat as it’s intended, and doesn’t even ask to see what’s written. And then, surprise, surprise, he’s on his feet and heading for the kitchen.

  I look at Mrs Thornwood, giving the lad a moment to continue to be stupid.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she says.

  ‘We’re fine,’ I say. ‘I just need to leave you briefly.’

  ‘Oh, all right. The toilet’s upstairs on the left.’

  I lean forward and pat her hand, then walk into the kitchen. And there he is, the next winner of British Master Criminal’s Got Talent, tipping the contents of the bag of sugar into the sink, the tap already running. I walk up slowly behind him – he doesn’t even seem to think I’d be coming – snatch the bag off him, turn off the tap, and step back.

  He turns quickly, looking like he’s about to go on the offensive.

  ‘How far d’you want to take it?’ I say.

  He hesitates. You see the calculation running through their heads so often. Do they want to take the chance of adding police assault to the list? In this case, to be honest, he might as well. If he really is poisoning his mum, the daft bastard is facing attempted murder. Police assault won’t really up the stakes that much more. He might as well go for it, but he’s too stupid I reckon.

  Maybe he thinks he can’t take me. That would be odd.

  I stuff the bag into my jacket pocket. Before he’d walked out of the sitting room I’d been about to give him the if-anything-happens-to-your-mum speech, but now there’s no point.

  Now, however, we get into the question of whether or not she’s capable of looking after herself.
Within a few minutes she’ll be facing the fact that, despite their dysfunctional relationship and despite believing he was trying to kill her, she won’t actually want him to go, because she’ll be on her own and won’t know what to do.

  ‘Come on, Moriarty, back into the sitting room. I need to make some calls.’

  ‘Fucker,’ he mutters, and I let him walk past me, wary of him growing a pair and deciding to lash out. ‘I’m calling my fucking lawyer.’

  ‘You’ve got a lawyer?’

  He pauses in the doorway, doesn’t turn, then walks on through to the sitting room.

  Trying to poison his mum using the sugar she put in her tea? Yep, Harrison was right. The guy’s a cunt.

  41

  Walk back into the office just after six, having conducted further interviews with the lead suspect in The Case Of The Poisoned Sugar. Pause for a second by my desk, look around the office. Not much activity. Don’t see Harrison. Taylor’s door is closed, Morrow, who must have come back from Riverside, in with him.

  Just about to insert myself in position when Taylor catches my eye and indicates for me to join them. I walk through and close the door behind me.

  I look at them both expectantly, then Taylor indicates for Morrow to speak.

  Taylor is behind his desk, while Morrow is standing by the window, like he’s taking his turn to get a view of the carpark. Have a sudden notion this is Morrow in my place, Taylor’s new sidekick. And why not? He’d make Taylor’s life a damn sight easier.

  Time for me to be leaving, I suddenly think, like the realisation is another nail in the coffin.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ he says.

  ‘Ah,’ I say, ‘thought maybe you might have got somewhere.’

  ‘Nah. There’s a lot of industry, but for now they’re just churning out pink elephants. Can’t say it’s a waste of time, because obviously it has to be done, but so far...,’ and he lets the sentence go.

  ‘White elephant,’ says Taylor. ‘Not pink.’