I wasn't sure about it, but the thought started off early in the meeting and wouldn't go away. Maybe the thought had started standing in a wood, not really knowing what was happening, feeling helpless and stupid, knowing that this guy was giving us the runaround, knowing that he still held all the cards, all fifty-fucking-two, despite Taylor putting in the hours so that he knew exactly where to go the second the latest killings went viral. That wasn't us taking any of the cards from him, that was him showing us a card or two and then saying, 'Here's what they look like, now fuck off because you ain't getting 'em.'
If anything, it helped him for the next time. It let him know that there were police officers out there who knew, who had absurdly checked the woods and who had some idea where to go. And the next time – for none of us doubt there will be a next time – he'll know to be more careful, or he'll know which boundaries to push, which to rein in. He'll know how much he can toy with us.
And I looked at that camera, and I knew he was looking back, and I thought, fuck you, you arrogant prick. You don't scare me. You can't do anything to me. What can you do? Seriously. Cut off the top of my head? You think I give a flying fuck if you cut off the top of my head? You think a few crows sticking their beaks in there is going to make the mess that constantly fucks up my mind any worse? I'm not scared. Really, I'm not scared. Come and get me. Get me, you fuck. I don't know these people you're picking up, but I bet you're going for the soft ones, the easy targets. That's all part of your plan. The soft targets. The ones who won't fight back, the ones who'll be straightforward. Kill the easy ones, strike fear into the hearts of the nation.
Well, fuck you. Come and get me. Come on. Man up and come and get someone who isn't going to cry, who isn't going to be scared.
I'm not hard, not especially tough, I'm not fearless. I just can't care any more. About life. You can't do what I did and move on. I've tried. I've been trying for over eighteen years. It's always there, and that's why this guy doesn't scare me, and that's why I looked into the camera yesterday morning, with a look that said come and get me. Come, you cowardly little fucker, and get me.
And at some point this afternoon, after many hours sitting in that room with Taylor and Gostkowski, long enough that he'd even allowed me to go and bring lunch in, I suggested that I do what I'm doing now. Stand before the press and taunt the fucker who's been taunting us.
He's seen me already. He saw me yesterday. And there's no way he's not watching the press conferences. He loves the press conferences. He loves being in control, loves watching us being dominated.
I use the cards line. People like clichés. The press like clichés. Society likes cliché and shuns the original. That's how things like Ice Age 4 happen.
'We're not going to promise the public anything we can't back up,' I'm saying. Got the prepared statement in front of me. Agreed with Taylor and Montgomery. Montgomery didn't look too desperate about putting me out front, probably just because I'm not one of his men, but then neither was Taylor, for different reasons. One side effect of saying 'Come and get me, yes me' might just be that he comes and gets me, dealing with me just as ruthlessly as he's dealt with three other police officers. I might well not care, but Taylor does. 'Nevertheless, with every crime this man commits, we are getting closer. With every crime he commits he makes mistakes. When he started he had all fifty-two cards, and with every crime he commits he hands some of those cards to us, so that he no longer holds anything like all of them. It is clear that the public at large do not need to worry about this man. His attacks have been profession specific, and…'
The Evening Times will lead its later editions with One Last Crow Of The Dice.
I burble on, saying all that shit that you have to say. The press conference. None of the rest of it is important. It's for the press, for the public.
But that first bit. That shit about the cards. That was for the Plague of Crows.
*
Back to the office afterwards. One or two looks from the rest of the brigade not used to seeing one of their sergeants on the TV, not used to that level of bravado. And all that shit about holding the cards… well, they know it's just that. Shit. We're holding nothing other than each other's impotent knobs.
Taylor and Gostkowski are still in his office. They barely look up when I re-enter and sit down. It's cold in here, since he opened the window some time during the afternoon and hasn't closed it yet. January seeps in.
'Nice job, sergeant,' he says. 'Might get you some work on The Bill, something like that.'
'They don't make that any more,' I say, pedantically.
He grunts.
'Long night ahead of us,' he says. 'You better get on.' Checks his watch. 'Don't work any later than eleven. Get some rest, back here before seven tomorrow.'
Since August, and even more so after November, we've been concentrating on people who might have had a grudge against the media, the police and the social services. There were more than you'd think. Well, perhaps not. Perhaps you might realise there are a lot of people with that kind of grudge. Given that the majority of the population are happy to blame everything that's wrong in their lives on someone else, there are probably many thousands with such a grudge.
All we could do was look for someone with an obvious chip on their shoulder. A documented case, something that we were going to be able to read about, and hopefully in the newspapers, rather than just in social services files, given the inclusion of journalists among the victims.
We identified about ten people who looked perfect for it, another fifty or so who weren't so perfect, another couple of hundred who were real outside shots. None of them fitted. It wasn't like they all had alibis for each of the murders, but we knew. These weren't people who were capable of doing this kind of shit.
So now, given the general air of desperation that hangs over the investigation, we've decided to expand the search by taking one of the three variables out of the equation, which we'd done a little of previously, but now adding in a broader scope and a more expanded timescale. Which one of the three – the police, the newspapers, the social services – is not obvious, not documented in any way. With someone like this, with this fantastic level of grudge, resentment and hatred, it might well be that the grudge is buried where only he can go, deep inside his head.
So we're spending the evening splitting it up, each of the three of us taking one of the variables out and searching for someone with obvious resentment against the other two. I get to look for someone who's mad at the police and the media. Holy shit. And I'm stopping at eleven, doing a little more first thing tomorrow morning, and then heading out to interview people.
Where am I ever going to find someone who distrusts the police and the media? Apart from on every street corner, in every pub, in every work place and in every house.
Ultimately it's not about finding a list of names, it's about prioritising and guesswork and hoping that the combination of the two pays off. And, of course, we're going to be covering much of the same ground as the Edinburgh lads. Trying to identify potential suspects working from no clues whatsoever was one of the mainstays of their investigation. They, very obviously, got nowhere. So with every name we pull out of a hat, there's a reasonable chance that they got there first and already crossed them off a list.
Maybe this new spirit of cooperation will allow us to talk to each other about it. I'll just hold my breath for that one, then see you in Hell.
*
We finish work just after 11:30. Taylor goes first, and then Gostkowski and me. We barely speak to each other, my buddy and me, and she follows me back to my place again. We do the same as the previous night, shower then bed, although this time we start in the hallway before we get to the shower.
And at the end of it she kisses me on the cheek, goes to the bathroom, then leaves with a nod and a slightly crooked smile.
I might allow myself the thought that she's almost the perfect woman, except that would be outwith the terms and conditions of the relat
ionship. Instead, I don't think about anything, not even crows and trees, dark and foul deeds, before I fall asleep and dream of nothing.
29
'That was ballsy.'
Seventh interview of the morning. Decided to take a cup of coffee from this guy, because I was desperate. Six brief interviews, the time taken driving around, as usual.
I start off every interview with the same view. This is the guy. This guy sitting right in front of me. It's him. Guilty until he persuades me otherwise. Might as well. I'm not wandering around presuming innocence; where did that ever get anyone? We're not randomly interviewing people off the street, we're talking to people who are at least in the ballpark of suspicion, and although there's still going to be an element of stumbling across the right person by accident, it's not as much of an accident than if we bumbled around Buchanan Street bus station testing people to see if they were handy with a bone saw.
Of course, I usually change my mind in about five seconds. Most people have I Didn't Do It written on their forehead, whether they know it or not. Today, for some reason, I'm not feeling so forgiving. This bloke is the third I've not yet crossed off the list, the third name to take away and do a little more research on.
Started with the first guy on the list. It's not going to be him, though, is it? Not the first guy you speak to after having come up with a new line of enquiry. He was arrested for the rape of a young girl outside a night club. And when I say young, she was seventeen and pished out her face. Nevertheless, there was no question she was raped. The newspapers picked it up because his dad's been on the telly a bit. Nothing major, but it doesn't take much for a tabloid to decide you're worth putting on the front page. So overnight the whole country thinks he's a rapist. Then the DNA test falls flat on its face. It wasn't him. Some other fucker with short hair, a tattoo and his jeans round his ankles. He wasn't charged, off he goes.
The following day the newspapers carry banner headlines about how he's not a rapist.
Ha! As if. The following day the newspapers have moved on. Most of them don't even mention his release, and if they do, it's buried somewhere beside an advert for 2-for-1 at Iceland on page 57.
At some stage he picks up meagre compensation from a variety of sources, but the damage is done. Everyone thinks he's a rapist, and he has to live with it.
I spoke to him for ten minutes. Still wore the chip on his shoulder, still blamed everyone else. The girl, the police, the media, his parents. At no point had he ever asked himself whether he could have avoided any of it. Living in a reasonable house, with a reasonable car out front, and a wife and kids that he managed to hang on to despite the rape allegation, you'd think that maybe he would just move on. But he hadn't.
He stayed on the list.
Then there was the ex-footballer whose career frittered to a halt after being done for drink driving three times. Of course, it would be the police's fault he was done for that, and for driving without a licence. Perfectly reasonable for him to hate us, and not to blame himself in any way. His slow walk into the arms of disgrace, despite the fact that he played for a shitty wee team that was neither Rangers nor Celtic, nor even the great Partick Thistle, was well documented by the newspapers.
He lived in a squalid basement apartment in Dalmarnock. Miserable little shit more or less ranted the entire time at me for my part in his downfall.
He stayed on the list.
And now this guy. Comfortably middle class, living in a large house on the north side of the city. A Lexus in the driveway. No more than ten minutes drive from the hills and trees and the great outdoors. Similar to the first bloke. Wrongly accused by the police, wrongly arrested, name in all the papers. This one for the murder of a schoolgirl who lived on the same street as him. Several years ago now, but people hold grudges all their lives.
Unlike the earlier guy, this one was on the front pages for days. You know the thing they do, where they get the creepiest photograph they can find and splash it as big as possible? They can't say he's guilty, they can't say, this is the guy who did it, but they're saying it anyway even if they're not using the actual words.
And worse for this bloke, even though he was ultimately released, even though it was proven that he hadn't killed her, the real killer was never caught. There was never anyone else splashed all over the front pages. The story was celebrated enough that the guy did get front pages to announce he'd been released, but you know what the public are like. No one believed it.
'What?' I ask.
'The press conference you gave yesterday afternoon.'
'You saw that, did you?'
This bloke reminds me of a businessman who's all smiles, and who you know is going to ram you up the arse just as hard as he can. As soon as your back is turned, obviously.
'You seemed to be offering yourself up as his next victim.'
'I don't think I was doing that,' I say, despite the fact that that's exactly what I was doing.
'Clearly you were,' he says, leaning forward and popping two sugar cubes into his cup. 'I wonder if you have some great plan to fall back on, or whether you think you're just going to be too strong for him. Was it intelligence of some sort, Sergeant, or were your words dictated by some misplaced bravado?'
'Tell me about your arrest,' I say. I'm not here to talk about me. And even if he hadn't come across as some dodgy fucker, turning the conversation away from himself is exactly the kind of thing that's going to make me suspicious.
'Are you looking for people with a grudge, Sergeant?'
They all ask that. It's fair enough. We can hardly sneak up on them.
'Tell me about your arrest,' I repeat.
He smiles, slurps at his coffee in an almost affected manner. I'd say he was gay, except for the photographs of the two children all over the place and the wife he's mentioned about four times. Maybe he's in denial. Maybe I haven't a clue.
'It was a long time ago, Sergeant. 2001. You must be really scraping the barrel. Desperate, are we?'
'The killer is working meticulously. So are we.'
'Well, you have to, yes. That'll be why your colleagues were here two months ago.'
Fuck. Inevitable. Bloody Edinburgh. I immediately want to ask him who he spoke to but I don't want him to know that I'm in a left-hand-knows-fuck-all-about-the-right-hand situation.
'As I said previously, and as I've said to you people many, many times in the past… I was arrested for a crime I didn't commit. What can I say? I was paid, in the end, just over two hundred thousand pounds compensation. Bought this place with the money. Can you imagine?'
He looks around. I don't follow his gaze. It's an old Victorian gaffe that would go for well over half a million now. Not that the price would have risen in the last four years. Just shows you how mental things were for a few years there at the start of the decade.
'Why would I be bitter?' he says. 'I understand totally what you're doing, and why you need to do it, but seriously? I've got all this, I met my wife, a fellow victim. I have two beautiful children.'
Can't help glancing again at one of the photos when he says that. They look like regular children to me. You know, fuck ugly.
'What d'you mean your wife's a fellow victim?'
He snorts.
'Used to be on High Road, you know, years back. They accused her of turning up drunk on set. Big scandal. Huge. All over the papers. Ruined her career. You must remember it?'
I don't read those kinds of papers. I shake my head.
'Mid-90s,' he says. 'Crazy times. I didn't know her then, of course. She was still fighting the press years later when I was doing the same. That's how we met. We had the same lawyer.'
'Who gets the lawyer in the divorce?' I ask glibly.
For some reason he doesn't seem to think that's funny.
I leave seven-and-a-half minutes later, and his name stays on the list.
*
Back in the office just after six. Maybe subconsciously I thought I'd had enough, and I didn't leave any more
on the list throughout the afternoon. Three people to check up on seems enough. Neither Taylor nor Gostkowski is there when I get back, so I grab a coffee and a Danish and settle down at my computer to do some more reading on the back story of the three blokes who stayed on the list.
Gostkowski returns a few minutes later, gets to work, doesn't speak to me. Taylor comes in just before seven. He whistles at the two of us like we're dogs. Seriously. The whistle that's all teeth and lips and sounds like a referee. I've never been able to do that. Naturally, like obedient police puppies, we follow him into the office. He's already sitting behind his desk. He doesn't indicate that he wants the door closed, and somehow we know that we shouldn't.
'Sir,' says Gostkowski, just as he's about to launch. He raises his eyebrows. 'You just whistled at us,' she says. 'Like we were sheep. Can I ask you not to do that again, please?'
God, she's bold, isn't she? I just take that shit. I don't think you whistle at sheep though. You whistle at the dogs that are rounding up the sheep.
He looks slightly taken aback – too used to pishing all over me and having me accept it – and then nods. 'Of course, Stephanie, I'm sorry.'
She nods. We can move on now, as I choose not to push for my own personal apology.
'First of all, nice job, Sergeant, we've had a lawyer on the phone, pretty much before you even made it back to the office.'
Jesus. I hate people. I hate all people. Literally. I hate fucking everybody. I need to go and live in a fucking yurt. Or die. I've had enough. I'm just trying to do my fucking job here. Can't I do a job?
'Hazelgrove,' he says. The rapist. Who wasn't a rapist. But whose life was ruined by the combination of the police and the media.
'Suing us, is he?'
'Not yet, but he will do if word gets into the newspapers that he's been questioned by the police in connection with the Plague of Crows.'
'Do we suppose that the next call Hazelgrove's lawyer made was to the Evening Times or the Sun to tell them that they would sue the police if it became public knowledge that they'd interviewed his client?'
A Plague Of Crows: The Second Detective Thomas Hutton Thriller Page 15
