'He was doing it online? Facebook, that kind of shit?'
He stares at me again. 'You weren't paying attention at the briefing, were you?'
Look a bit sheepish.
'Fuck, Sergeant, head in the game. The next time you're in the same room as a bunch of women, stop trying to work out which one you want to sleep with.'
Hide behind my drink. No one likes to get read like a damned book.
'We're checking it out, but we've found nothing so far.'
'So, realistically, we're not going to know if there are any officers missing?' I ask, to move the conversation on from Facebook.
'No.'
'What do we do about that, then?'
He takes a long drink. Drags his hand across his face.
'If it was just the one station, if we knew it was on our patch, we could introduce a system... I don't know, a checking-in system, a buddy system… But shit, we can't city-wide. And what do we know? Maybe it's country-wide. Maybe the next one'll be in the south of England. Or in France. This level of planning, how in the name of God are we supposed to know?'
V&t to my lips. Getting near the end, and it's losing a little of its crispness. Clearly I'm going to need another one.
'He knows,' I say.
Taylor drains his pint and places it on the table. He looks into it as the last of the froth hugs the side of the glass and slides down.
*
Second night back at home. Already changed the sheets, did a bit of a tidy. Glad I did it yesterday, as I've already reverted to where I was four months ago. The weeks of clean living and communing with the Gods of the Scottish highlands have gone. I woke up yesterday morning at the foot of a mountain. This evening it feels like a hundred years ago.
Brought a prostitute home with me. I know. Filthy. Picked her up in town. Had to drive on the back of four v&ts to go and find her. No hookers on the streets of Cambuslang and Rutherglen anymore.
She wanted to do it in the car. I wanted her to come back to my place. She refused, which is quite right of course. These people are mental if they go home with anyone. Being a bit pissed, I showed her my badge. She still refused, but at least began to enter into negotiations. I paid through the nose in the end. She wouldn't come until I'd gone to a cash point and got several hundred. It's just sweetie money to me at the moment, because I've got four months wages in there that I've hardly spent.
Back to my place. I made her shower first. Didn't ask how many she'd scored earlier in the evening, didn't want to know. I was gallant enough to shower too. After all that, it was worth it. Every penny. Great tongue on her, absolutely beautiful body, she had the decency to try to earn her money and got stuck into it. Great fun.
A fair compensation for feeling like a complete and total loser for having to go to her in the first place.
Called her a cab, then fell asleep as soon as she was gone. The door was locked and I knew she wouldn't be coming back.
*
Went to see Bob the next night. He didn't disappoint. Not that he ever does. He disappoints some people, of course. The nostalgia brigade, not the fans. The kind of people that go and watch Cliff Fucking Richard and McCartney, the Rolling Stones even. They go along to hear Hey Jude and Livin' Doll and Jumpin' Jack Flash, expecting it to sound exactly like it does on their Best of The '60s CD, and by fuck, sure enough those guys are still peddling the same shit and still managing to sound exactly like they did in 1965.
Bob doesn't sound like he did in 1965. His voice is completely shot. Anyway, it wouldn't matter, because he changes the arrangements all the time, and these sad fuckers go along thinking that he'll walk on stage with his acoustic guitar and start warbling his way through Blowin' In The Wind; well he'll do you Blowin' In The Wind often enough, but it'll be with a full band and a completely different tune, if it's even got a tune, and to the uninitiated he'll be halfway through before they pick up a line they recognise, then they think, fuck me, this is shit, what a waste of £75, and they'll storm out and if they can find someone to tell how shit they thought it was they'll do so.
That lot, those people, they can take a fuck to themselves. Bob owes you nothing.
7
November
The games involving the Old Firm got a bit nasty at the weekend. Clyde pitched up at Ibrox on Saturday, and a few of their fans thought it might be fun to have a go at the Scottish lower division superpower. It was brief but nasty. I mean, seriously. Fucking Clyde. The Sunday Mail said that parts of Govan looked like Aleppo, which was just incredibly stupid, not to mention completely inaccurate.
Then, in the interests of even-handedness, some Aberdeen fans got the bug on Sunday, and rocked up at Parkhead looking for a fight, and a little of that spilled out our way, although by then I don't think they were Aberdeen fans, just drunk guys who thought they'd get into a fight because everyone else was. A few injuries, but they all got what they deserved.
Sure, every now and again you'll get an innocent walking down the street who stumbles into a gang of orcs and gets the complete fuck kicked out of him. I might occasionally feel some sympathy for that guy. If he exists. As long as he's not wearing a scarf or a strip, in which case, what did he think was going to happen?
Most of them go looking for it, though. They're looking for the fight, expecting to win in the first place or, failing that, expecting the emergency services to clear up after them. Generally, I think we should just let them bleed. You want to fight for whatever dumb-ass cause you think it is you're protecting, then on you go, but don't expect the rest of society to clean up the mess for you.
Some might argue that the same should apply to people who smoke and drink too much, and end up draining the NHS of all its funds. The healthy living are supporting the rest of us hard-living chaps. Maybe those folks would be right. I'm just hoping to peg it from some other cause before I get cancer and die a horribly protracted death, dragged out over several years with just my estranged family to pop in and see me once every few months.
Walking back upstairs after a two-hour interview with a bloke who bricked another bloke in the head. The other bloke is in a coma. Our bloke is in custody. Not getting out any time soon, although personally I'd just let him go. Let him back to his feral homeland, where he might well be about to suffer much greater retribution than the courts will be able to visit upon him.
One of those lost generation types. Broken home. Abused as a child. Generally didn't go to school, left officially at sixteen with sod all to his name. Never worked. A child of the benefit system. He can afford his Ibrox season ticket though, albeit they're giving them away like sweeties these days.
That he lives out our way, and not on the other side, does not speak well for his chances. He's also got a self-defence defence as he was being chased. So, all in all, the usual thing. On the surface it looks a clear-cut case of a ned bricking another ned, and then you get into it and there's all sorts of subtext.
The summer seems a long time ago, but sometimes I look back fondly on my days sitting on the side of Ben Ime, watching old people trudge by and Tornadoes low-flying and clouds coming in from the west. Happy days.
There's talk of a redundancy round coming up. They'll be looking for volunteers. I'll need to do the maths. The other side of the coin, the side where one doesn't take redundancy, is that there ain't going to be any less crime committed, but there will be fewer officers around to do anything about it.
To be honest, the lump sum on offer is going to have to be pretty fucking low for me not to go for it. But then, there's a damned good chance that the lump sum on offer will be pretty fucking low.
Back to my desk. The paperwork seems to have grown in my absence. That was one of those things that got mentioned in my annual report. It was made part of my objectives. Deal with paperwork in a more timely and organised manner. I even said that I'd do it. I've now had to add that I'll try not to get into fights with anyone from the station, so I've been concentrating on that one. The paperwork thing has slipped.
Morrow is sitting across the desk, head buried as usual. I'm really pleased he's not one of these officious cunts – and I know that's a word that a lot of people hate, but it is the actual dictionary-defined term for people who are just too organised – although naturally his paperwork pile isn't quite as apocalyptic as mine.
'Any word from the hospital?' I ask, slumping into my seat. Not hungover today, but beginning to think that on days when I'm not hungover, I have a kind of anti-hangover feeling caused by withdrawal.
He shakes his head without looking up. I stare at the paperwork for another moment or two. It's breeding. It's breeding so much that I can actually see two pieces of paper humping each other trying to produce more paper. I'd probably get a bollocking from someone if I poured water over them.
Straight back up again and over to Taylor's office. He's in his usual position. Sitting at his desk, albeit this time he's staring at his computer screen rather than at the ceiling. As police officers go, Dan Taylor is slightly more cerebral than others. Not that I want to imply he reads – I don't know – fucking Kierkegaard or anything, but he thinks a lot. Likes to take his time, think things through. He doesn't rush, doesn't jump to conclusions. Spends a lot of time staring into space. Working things out.
I'm more of an Action Man type of police officer. Leap in, punch a few people, a bit of shouting, sort things out. Taylor stares at the ceiling. I believe his methods are more effective than mine. Mine is more fun.
Today, however, he's looking at the computer screen. There's an intensity in his gaze. He'll be looking at a single image, trying to see the thing that everyone else missed. Or looking at a photograph, attempting to read the lie behind the eyes.
He hasn't noticed me yet. Given that I've pretty much just come in for a chat, and the vague hope that seeing me will remind him that he has an interesting case to investigate, I contemplate turning and walking back out again.
Decide that that's just what I will do. Watch him for a moment. Hesitate before leaving. There's something in his face. He's not trying to work something out. There's dread in his eyes, rather than curiosity or inquisitiveness.
'Chief Inspector? Everything all right?'
He doesn't answer for a moment, then finally says, 'Close the door,' without looking up. Shut the door, glance out at the office as I do so. In the far corner I can see three of the guys standing around a computer screen. None of them look happy. One of them is staring over in our direction.
'What is it?' I ask.
He doesn't answer. I watch him for a moment, the strong uneasy feeling growing. I realise that the guys out there are looking at the same thing as Taylor. I look back at them through the office window and can see they've been joined by a fourth, and I know I no longer need Taylor's permission to go and look at what he's watching.
Round the side of his desk with a strange feeling of fear. I've had to watch a lot of really nasty shit online in my time in this job. How bad can this be? And yet I know it's going to be awful.
I stand behind Taylor and look over his shoulder. Recognise it straight away, entirely because it's such a clear picture. Well shot using an expensive digital camera. The scene from the woods. Three people cemented to the ground surrounded by a chaos of birds. It appears that two of the victims are already dead. Maybe they're all dead, but the third is twitching massively beneath his bonds. Body convulsions. But it's impossible to tell whether the person is panicking, or whether the crows that are squabbling over his brain have hit the appropriate nerve, causing him to spasm.
Watch it for a few more seconds and then turn away and return to the other side of the desk. Notice that there are now seven people around the computer and that there are others on their way over. The entire office is being drawn in that direction.
'How?' is all I ask.
'Fuck,' is all he says in reply. Indeed, it isn't a reply at all, more an expression of oncoming disaster.
'Not sure how quickly this'll…' he starts to say, but I point in the direction of the gaggle around the computer and a brief moment of resignation and defeat flashes across his face. Doesn't last long, and he stands quickly.
'Fuck it,' he says. 'We're already behind the curve with this, we need to start getting a grip. I'm going in to speak to the Super, you get them together. Meeting Room A, ten minutes.'
He walks past me, stops at the door.
'Make it five,' he says, and then he strides off in the direction of higher authority.
8
Back in the operations room. This is what we've feared for the last three months. Worse, indeed, given that we didn't know the killer had filmed the twitching, bloody horrible deaths.
We don't know exactly when it started, but instantly the Plague of Crows is all over the internet. The Plague of Crows. That's what he's calling himself. Wanker.
Twitter, Facebook, Blogger, YouTube, all over. Every single social media site you can think of, hundreds of them, names being thrown around that I don't even know exist. Now, all right, that doesn't really mean too much. I couldn't begin to care about all that shit, but the young 'uns around here, and the experts, a lot of this is new to them too. And the guy has accounts coming out of his arse. The Plague of Crows is a new presence in the world of social media, he's well prepared, and suddenly he has unleashed a clusterfuck of online horror.
Straight off, we're diving in there, trying to get sites closed down, things taken off. Not from this station, of course; this thing flew straight to the top. This is the kind of thing that will have had the First Minister feeling his testicles squeezed. The police, however, look worse than anyone.
A few months ago there were three people killed in the woods, and we did a deal with as many influential people as we needed to play it down. And now, there on every single computer monitor in the damned world, is proof that we lied.
People love that shit. The media love that shit. Those who didn't know anything about it will be exploding in a masturbational paroxysm of police-hating frenzy, and those who knew but had been persuaded to keep quiet will now be unleashed.
This isn't the worst thing, of course. The media deciding that the police are a bunch of lying fuckers? We get that every day. 'We'll never trust the police again,' say public who believe everything they read in the papers. Yeah, whatever.
'Why now?' says Taylor, standing at the head of the room.
We haven't met like this to discuss the summer deaths since last month. It was full on for a few weeks, then it began to tail off. There really was nothing to find. The guy who'd done it, had done it well. Eventually we had to acknowledge that there were other crimes being committed. I got taken off it about four weeks ago. Taylor's still going, however. He has worked on nothing else for three months. The superintendent has been quite happy with that, aware of just how shit this whole business has the potential to be.
There were two things we've been scared of all this time. One was that the truth behind the killings would get out and a shit storm would be unleashed. The other was that he'd do it again.
'Is he going to do it again? Has he already done it, and out there, right now, there's a small group of people strapped to chairs, shitting themselves? We need to know. We need people looking, we need to work on the basis that the three victims targeted the last time were done so because of their professions. So let's start looking to see if any such people are missing. And not just around here, or around Glasgow. This could be all over. We've got…'
The door opens, the Superintendent comes in. He nods at Taylor, who immediately steps back and cedes the floor to the boss.
His name is Connor and he came down from Aberdeen when the vacancy arose. No way they were promoting anyone from around here. Given the stories that were going around about us being a complete bunch of fuck-ups and the total shitbucket of criticism that came the way of all of us once the full story of that tube DCI Bloonsbury was known, they were dedicated to sending in a hard bastard to clean up the joint.
Didn't
really help with me banjoing a fellow officer just a few months after Connor pitched up. Taylor must have really had to fight my corner, although there have been plenty of times in the last few months when I would have been grateful if they'd just left me sitting on my mountain.
So Connor comes in expected to be the hard man. A tough senior copper, sorting out the mess left by the previous incumbent who, in the opinion of most of these senior dinosaurs, suffered horribly from being a woman. We're not supposed to like him. We're supposed to think he's a wanker. If we like him he'll be doing a poor job.
Well, he's doing a brilliant job.
'We failed on this in the summer, gentlemen,' he begins, 'and now it's coming back to bite us on the arse. No one, and I mean that, no one… no one is to take any leave, any days off sick, anything, any-fucking-thing, until we have this man nailed to a fucking cross. We need twenty-four hour days, seven days a week…'
Because that's how people work best.
'… let no man stand aside at this time of need…'
Jesus suffering fuck. Quick glance round the room. Everyone is looking at him with the usual glazed expression. I love the fact that there are seven women in the room, but as far as he's concerned, they're men. And you know, I believe that he would think it was a compliment to them, as if being a woman in this job was an impediment.
Switch back on. He's taking a pause. His eyes settle on me for a moment and then move on. Not sure if he's trying to intimidate me, but I really really fucking hate him, so it's not happening.
'The release of this video footage is a serious matter, and one under which a line must be drawn with inordinate haste. If I find that anyone, regardless of rank or status, had anything to do with supplying the footage to this person, then they will be charged and dealt with as surely as if they had committed the murders themselves. Do I make myself clear?'
A Plague Of Crows: The Second Detective Thomas Hutton Thriller Page 4
