DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  ‘Sergeant,’ he says. ‘It’s time.’

  The seconds pass. The music comes back, as though someone has just turned it on, but it can’t have gone away. I just hadn’t been thinking about it. I haven’t heard it in several minutes. Sounds like a choir of angels, the perfect thing to hear before I pull the trigger, and send myself down where I belong, into the pits of Hell.

  ‘Tom! What the fuck are you doing?’

  I look at her. Sgt Harrison. Saying the right thing, just as Sgt Harrison usually does.

  ‘Put a bullet in his knee, cut our bonds and call for back-up! Tom! Come on...’

  Her voice starts to trail away at the end.

  ‘You fascinated me, Sgt Hutton,’ says Clayton. ‘After your outburst at my able assistant during that frightful crows business, I couldn’t help but examine your life. What had led you to such an attitude? Fascinating. You really, truly are fascinating. A smorgasbord of psychological disaster.’

  He laughs lightly. He’s laughing at me? And I’m the one with the gun in my hand.

  ‘Right, right, enough, Sergeant, time to get going, we can’t be dilly-dallying around any further. The text you sent to DCI Taylor will be coming to bear fruit soon enough. Chop chop!’

  Jesus, he really does know everything.

  He holds my gaze, then takes the phone back out his pocket. This is it, then. I can feel the relief. At last he’s shut up, and this can all be over.

  Place the gun in my mouth, momentarily catch my lip between the steel and my teeth, turn the barrel upside down so that it’s pointed upwards into my head. Towards that fucked-up, booze-binged, sex-addled brain, the one that deserves no more. No more than this.

  ‘Tom!’

  Eyes closed. It comes to this. And do I believe him, as I give him what he wants? That he’ll release the women, before disappearing off into the night? And how much longer before he resurfaces, to carry out further monstrous crimes? How many more lives will he destroy?

  Do I turn my back on justice so easily, so that he once again, for the third, or the fifth, or the tenth time in his life, walks away, untouched by the law?

  Hand surprisingly steady. One small movement of my finger on the trigger and it’s over. One bullet, one death; one life that few, if any, will mourn.

  Fuck it.

  Open my eyes to look for the last time at my tormentor, the man who has hounded me and killed me as sure as it’s him who has the gun in his hand.

  He stares back, cold and hard, no hint of smugness, no hint of triumph. Just a face in a crowd of one.

  Ah fuck it, fuck it, fuck it! Fuck it! How can I give this cunt the satisfaction?

  When I pull the trigger I have to be alone, I have to be doing it on my own terms. It can be tomorrow or next fucking week, but not now, not with this bastard looking at me.

  Gun out the mouth, and I toss it on to the floor. It bounces briefly, shallowly, and then comes to rest between us.

  We look down at the gun together, then our eyes lift so we’re staring at each other.

  I win. That’s the thought that comes into my head. He led me here, through twists and turns and connivances, all with the intention of us arriving at this moment. Me with a gun in my hand, yet me at his mercy.

  This is all I can do. This is the only way I can come out of this situation on top. By not pulling the trigger.

  There is a second, while this latest development feeds into the situation, while he processes it.

  He had planned for me to shoot myself.

  Perhaps he planned, as he handed over the gun, for me to shoot him.

  Now, has he also planned for me to toss the gun onto the carpet?

  ‘What’d I miss?’

  We turn to look at the door, and there he is, a late arrival to the party.

  ‘Ha!’ barks Clayton, in his buffoonish way. ‘I fucking knew it!’

  50

  Taylor quickly looks around the room, taking in the situation. Me, deranged and weeping, the television tossed and busted, Harrison and Brady bound to the sofa, Clayton, owning the room, completely in control, despite being armed with nothing but total self-confidence, and the gun on the carpet between us. If anything, marginally closer to Clayton.

  A few seconds ago the gun didn’t matter. Clayton gave it to me, I tossed it on the floor. Neither of us seemed to care who had it. Now, however, Taylor has walked in on the party.

  Am I in a position to get the gun before Clayton? Does he hold another concealed weapon?

  Fuck. This has brought me back to life. Didn’t take much, did it? When I’m consumed by self, I don’t care. Very easy to let go, because there’s so little to let go of. But now Taylor’s walked into the middle of the scene and the previous dynamic is out the window. No honour amongst thieves now.

  And so we stand, eyes moving between each other and the gun, absurdly like Eastwood, Wallach and van Cleef in that damn, fucking movie, and the heavenly choir still sings beautifully in the background. Jesus.

  ‘Isn’t this weird?’ says Clayton, and he’s smiling now. Fucking smiling, the bastard. ‘I mean, isn’t it? Weird and wonderful. The three of us standing here in some fucked up abortion of a Mexican stand-off, and there are two hostages just sitting here, wrapped in fucking duct tape like, I don’t know, sausages in clingfilm. Well, it’s remarkable.’

  He doesn’t get anything from either of us. We’re both making the same calculation. Who gets to the gun first? In this respect, at least, Taylor is out of the equation, being that extra few yards away. His part, such as it is, has possibly already been played. Has he called for back-up? That’s what will be running through Clayton’s mind.

  ‘Blah blah blah,’ he says, waving his fucking hand again, and I could break those bloody fingers, ‘this is all very well and good. And I wish we could stand here chatting. Time to go, however, time to go. I must say I’m disappointed you betrayed me, Sergeant, I really am. I thought we had a bond.’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake!

  I dive for the gun. Don’t even think there’s any positive thought in that direction. Just happens.

  Clayton is quicker. I’m a lumbering, unfit fool, he has the moves. The bastard has everything.

  Foot to the gun barrel, presses down, pushes the grip off the floor, and it’s in his hand. I’m upon him in the same movement, the gun is fired, the explosion of it booms in my ear, but the bullet doesn’t hit me.

  Tumbling back onto the floor, me on top. He brings his head down, but misses the sweet spot. Instead a clash of foreheads. Press my nails into his wrists, and then, another unthinking moment. Bite his hand, like a fucking kid fighting.

  And then Taylor is there, swinging, and Clayton and I are torn apart. I fall away, head hits against something, and Taylor is on top of Clayton, driving him backwards, driving strong and hard, and then Clayton’s head thumps into the wall.

  Can see it in his eyes, straight away, a knockout blow, and his head falls forward. The eyes are still open, but the fight has gone out of him, along with his awareness of what’s happening. For good measure, Taylor brings his fist up, a swift uppercut, under Clayton’s chin, smacking his head back against the wall again, and now Taylor steps back, lets him go, and Clayton falls to the floor.

  He steps over him, making sure he’s down and is staying down, speaks without turning round.

  ‘Get me some tape, Sergeant. Come on!’

  Off my feet, stop instantly.

  The doctor, looking shocked, her face still wrapped in silver tape. Harrison next to her, eyes open, looking up at me, a large soaking patch of blood on her side.

  ‘Jesus, Eileen.’

  ‘I’m good,’ she says. ‘I’m good.’

  She doesn’t sound good.

  AND SO THE NEXT FEW minutes pass in a blur, a flurry of desperation. The roll of tape flung at Taylor; Taylor binding Clayton; me removing the bonds from Harrison, as careful as I can, careful but desperate, and then ripping them with little care from the doctor, so she can attend to the
Sergeant; the call to the nearest station; Harrison lying on the floor, her buttocks raised so that the side wound is elevated above her heart, the doctor holding a compress against the wound; me running out of the room, running around the house, looking for the invisible girl, the girl without whom Dr Brady would never have been involved, and finding her, two rooms along, neither bound nor gagged, but asleep behind a locked door; taking her back to Brady, then taking over from her, kneeling beside Harrison, keeping her talking, making sure the flow of blood has been stemmed.

  And all the while, weirdly, bizarrely, the music plays on, while Taylor watches over Clayton, and Clayton lies still, now bound by his own tape.

  And then suddenly there are footsteps outside, growing in volume and number, and then the room is full, and people are shouting, and someone in green is pushing me away from Harrison, and I squeeze her hand, a last touch of the fingers, and then I’m pushed back and I will have no further part to play in the sergeant’s own small tale of survival.

  I step away, the scene playing out before me, still alive against all expectation. Clayton in handcuffs, on the floor, the paramedics beside Harrison, Brady and her daughter, still hugging, the swarm of officers, and Taylor barking at them not to touch anything.

  ‘Crime scene, crime scene!’ he shouts at one point.

  Epilogue

  Three days later. Small dinner table, Chinese carry out, a bottle (or two) of Sauvignon Blanc, my turn to go to Eileen’s house.

  She looks fine, not even pale. Just fine. Her movement’s a bit stiff, but just sitting here at a table eating dinner, you’d never know anything was wrong.

  The crows are gone. We’re done, for now. Three night’s sleep, restless, uneasy nights, but no crows. Gone for good, though? I doubt it.

  Maybe this little episode is over. But what happened in Bosnia, that’ll never be over. And if Clayton could go out his way to investigate my past, someone else could too. And everything he found out will be on his computer, and the computer is now in the hands of the police.

  And even if it’s never mentioned again, it doesn’t matter. What happened back then still happened.

  Clayton, for his part, will not go easily to prison, and once he’s there, there’s nothing to suggest he will rest on his past triumphs. Clayton’s story ain’t finished, not by a long shot. The crows, however, have decided to give me some respite.

  I’ve just sat down, having been in the kitchen getting plates and glasses and cutlery and distributing the food. Arrived five minutes ago, kissed her, shared one of those looks women give each other in American romantic dramas, then we hugged briefly, until she winced, then she sat down, and now I’ve joined her.

  ‘Getting shot looks good on you,’ I say.

  ‘My mum didn’t think so. She thought I was near death and should be in hospital for another month.’

  ‘How is she, by the way?’

  ‘In her element.’

  ‘She always knew you’d get shot if you joined the police?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You should have been an accountant?’

  She laughs, nodding.

  ‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘You on actual suspension yet, or is Taylor managing to keep you as his pet sergeant for a while longer?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I reply, taking the joke. ‘And yes, I’m suspended pending a full investigation into my habit of sleeping with people involved in an investigation. It’s been noted, apparently, that this isn’t the first time. And while the doctor might’ve been only acting to protect her daughter, she still aided a murderer, and the procurator’s looking at her for now. She’ll be fine. Me...? Whatever. Anyway, Taylor has my back, as ever, just as he’d have yours if you needed him to.’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Totally bummed, though, I’m not now going to get to complete the work on my taskforce. Or start it, for that matter.’

  ‘There goes your MBE.’

  ‘Exactly. Total bastard. Meanwhile, the boss says they’re turning up a decent amount of shit on Clayton’s files. Enough to really nail him. Apparently there’s been the odd muttering from above asking why we weren’t listened to sooner.’

  ‘Jesus,’ says Harrison.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Still, good to hear someone realises we haven’t been crying wolf for the last year and a half.’

  ‘Well, about time. You think you’ll still have a job?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just have to wait and see. Given the level of budgetary savings they’ve all been asked to make, kicking me out and replacing me with a sixteen year-old constable’ll save a pound or two.’

  She nods in agreement. Food is eaten, thoughts thought, or not. A lifted glass of wine, conversation lapses. Talking about the case feels like going through the motions. Has to be done, but that’ll do, Donkey, that’ll do, the case is over – until the inevitable, convoluted, God-awful trial – and it’s time to move on.

  ‘How about you?’ I ask ‘How long you signed off for?’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘Seriously? They know the bullet passed straight through, right?’

  ‘Fuck off!’ she says. ‘And don’t make me laugh, it hurts.’

  ‘At least a couple of those weeks must be sympathy weeks, though?’

  ‘Exactly what it said on the doc’s sick note. What about you?’

  ‘I have to appear before some dick in a suit to answer preliminary questions, three weeks on Monday. And not before.’

  ‘You’re getting paid all this time?’ she asks.

  ‘Including overtime.’

  ‘I bet. What you going to do with yourself?’

  Jesus, it’s just like, there you go buddy, there’s the fucking question. Three days ago you’d got yourself into a place where you’d been about to put a bullet in your head. So, what are you planning to do instead? Go to the pub? Binge-watch a couple of boxsets?

  ‘What about you?’ I say, to avoid the question.

  ‘Not sure. Mum wants me to go there for a few days. Or, well, forever actually. I think if I do go, she might break my legs and pull a Misery on me, then get a series of attractive male doctors to attend to me in the hope of curing my accursed condition.’

  ‘So you’re not going to your mum’s then.’

  ‘Nowhere bloody near.’

  Another silence, more food, more wine. There’s a solace in talking to Eileen Harrison I didn’t think was to be found. Nevertheless, the gun that rested so comfortably in my mouth will not easily be forgotten. That I did not pull the trigger was as a result of not wishing to give Clayton the satisfaction, not because it wasn’t the right thing to do.

  ‘So, we’re still talking to each other,’ she says after a while.

  I hold her gaze. I wondered coming over here how awkward it was likely to be, and it seems strange that so far it’s not been awkward at all.

  ‘Even though you turned down the chance to have sex with me,’ she continues. ‘I mean, I was strapped down, and you still didn’t want to do it. You, who’s had sex with more or less every woman you’ve ever met.’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘I thought the venue and the circumstances were pretty romantic,’ she adds.

  ‘Certainly how I envisioned it when I’ve fantasised about you in the past.’

  A beat, one of those rom-dram looks across the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Again. You keep not having sex with me. I appreciate it.’

  Jesus, don’t say that, Eileen. Don’t appreciate me. I don’t deserve it. Let’s just be normal. Two normal people, talking about normal stuff over a normal carry out.

  ‘There was a lot to take in on the video he showed us,’ she says, and the jokiness has completely gone from her voice, as she doesn’t yet share my desire for normality. Maybe she’s right. ‘You going to tell me about it?’

  Don’t reply.

  ‘Might do you some good to talk. I suspect, being a man ‘n’ all, talking about it isn’t really your thing.’

 
; She’s right, of course. Can’t say I haven’t been thinking the same thing. Because I have to do something. Talk or die. Maybe both.

  ‘The video’s already doing the rounds of the station, I expect,’ she says. ‘I can imagine they’re all loving that. You and me –’

  ‘Taylor’s doing what he can. He wants the investigation into this side of it undertaken by a complete outsider, trying to make sure it doesn’t get passed around, because, of course, it’s not just what we saw, it’s all the potential files and Jesus knows what else on Clayton’s computer. We’ll see, see if it works. He got me a copy of the disk, which was big of him. He thought I should talk to someone about it, though he didn’t offer up himself.’

  ‘Has he watched it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ she asks.

  ‘Seems to be the way forward.’

  ‘You want to talk to me about it?’

  Hold her gaze across the table. Mind a total fucking rollercoaster. Well, a dumbass, fucking rollercoaster that only ever manages to be on some sort of level pegging before plummeting miserably deeper into the abyss. There don’t appear to be any available highs.

  ‘You’re the only name on the list of candidates,’ I say. ‘But not today.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Today’s for unbridled meaningless chit-chat.’

  ‘And drinking.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Shall we watch it again?’ she says. ‘In better circumstances? You can talk me through it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, we can. Jesus... And I’ll stop it on every frame, every photo, every fucking clip of a damned forest, and I’ll tell you why it’s there... and... and I don’t know what state I’m going to be in by the time we get to the end of that, and I can’t begin to imagine how long it’ll last...’

  She reaches out and squeezes my arm. Fuck, I think I might be about to start crying again. Fucking Hell, Hutton, get a grip.

  ‘But not tonight,’ I manage to say.

  ‘No, I thought we’d watch High Society tonight,’ she says, and there’s the change of tone, Eileen rescuing me from the next descent.