He bends forwards, starts shouting into Herrod's ear. Herrod's face drops onto the table and he looks morosely over at Bloonsbury. 'Shall I stay?' he's warbling, and no you bloody well shan't, is the reply. You're obviously out of here, mate, with crime to investigate. Taylor and I nearly reach over and kiss each other. No pleasure greater than thinking you're about to be dragged off then finding it's some other poor sod who's in the soup.
Herrod gets up, head shaking and looking like a pishing wet day in Largs. Taylor and I clink glasses and watch him mince over to Elvis and mutter something at him. Then with a 'Fuck's sake' shouted into the microphone, Bloonsbury removes himself from the stage and starts the long trudge back to work. Grabs his coat, gives the stankmonster a grimace and he and Herrod troop out to the ribald cheering of the rest of us.
It's times like this that make it all worthwhile.
I survey the scene with renewed good humour. Constable Edwards gets up and starts a passable Robbie impersonation, taking his top off as he goes – really, these young plods should learn to keep everything undercover until they've got some chest hair – and I, flushed with unexpected romantic bravado, decide it's time to make my move on Bathurst.
I down the rest of the glass and excuse myself from Taylor. He nods, doesn't mind – he's smiling at last – and I worm my way over. She's standing with her back to the wall under a picture of John Lennon in a policeman's helmet – some clown's idea of a joke – and looking gorgeous with a glass of white liquor in her hands. She smiles at me and she's alone. Good start. Like scoring a goal in the first minute. I manage to stop myself doing that drunk thing where you lean on the wall next to the girl and drool on her. Keep a respectful distance.
'How you doing, Evelyn?'
A reasonable opening. Nothing fancy, nothing smart. Nice and easy does it.
She smiles and nods, not intimidated by having a drunk, forty-four year-old detective sergeant hitting on her.
'I'm fine,' she says. 'You? That's a nice jacket you're wearing.'
Two-nil.
I smile – there's a lot of smiling going on. I hope nobody's watching or they'll vomit. It's got to be done, though.
'Thanks. You're not looking too bad yourself.'
'You like this dress?' she says. No, not says, gushes. Her lips are moist, her nipples are hard and straining against the material, her eyes are showing glorious signs of intoxication.
'Like it? It's fucking stunning, Hen.' Hesitate, think about it; might as well jump in head first. 'You're fucking stunning.' I'm all charm, me.
She laughs. Three-nil. Think she's going to say something, but doesn't. Her eyes say it all though. She's gagging for it. Probably heard about me from at least fifteen other women at the station. I'm drunk, horny, and I feel about eighteen years-old. There's no stopping me now. Caution to the wind. Give it half an hour and I'm going to be lying back on my bed and this wonderful young thing is going to be on top and fucking the absolute life out of me, those fantastic breasts right in front of my face. Picture it. I mean, really.
'I was thinking of leaving here,' I say. 'You know. All this karaoke crap. Fancy coming back to my place?'
She laughs again. I could shag that laugh.
'I don't think so.'
What? Time. Slows. Down.
Three-one.
'Why not?' Try not to sound desperate.
'Well, it wouldn't be right.'
Three-two.
What's she talking about?
'Why?' Maintain control.
'Well… it'd be like shagging my dad.'
Fuck.
An equaliser, a winner and at least fifteen more goals just to rub it in.
She has the decency to look a bit embarrassed after that remark but once the ball's in the net, it's in the net. Contemplate a rearguard action, possibly a scorched earth policy, decide the better of it. Everyone's interests will be best served by a quick withdrawal.
I shrug. 'Right enough, then,' I say.
She laughs, looks embarrassed again, doesn't say anything. The final whistle blows, I turn my back and walk off. Imagine that every other bastard in the place is laughing at me. Find Taylor sitting alone at the table, looking morose again.
'Didn't get a lumber, then?' he says.
I nod, sneer, start to make my way to the bar. There's a bubbling annoyance in my head born of embarrassment. 'Want something stiffer this time?'
Taylor thinks about it, then says, 'Johnnie Walker.'
Right. I mince off to the bar, feeling like I've had my balls cut off and determined to get even more tanked out of my face than usual. Look to the middle of the floor to watch Edwards nearing the end of his Robbie Williams performance. Not surprisingly, he's bollock-naked and making a total arse of himself. He may have no chest hair, but at least his knob is in fine form.
Fucking idiot.
6
Tuesday morning, the top end of Cambuslang, nearly to Halfway. A cordoned-off road, with the usual ghouls a few hundred yards away.
The body's long gone, and will currently be under the knives of Baird and Balingol, this year's pathologists. Butchery with a sharp knife and a smile. I didn't see it, of course. Only got here this morning. Herrod said it was horrific; a bloody mess. Shredded. Glad I missed it. Dead bodies give me too many flashbacks, and I have a hard enough time keeping all those buried memories in their place.
Crawled in, massively hung over, just after eight this morning, to find the place had gone berserk. A major murder three days before Christmas. All hands on deck, with Bloonsbury in charge of the sinking ship. Very brave. He's back at the station now, co-ordinating all the crap that has to go on. Taylor's been roped in as well, not too happy about having to answer to the call of drunken Jonah, but that's the police for you.
They didn't do much last night, but the shit's flying this morning. House to house all the way up this street, and back out along the main road. They'll branch out soon, see what they can get from the surrounding streets.
At the moment they're estimating the time of death between ten and eleven-thirty. Most of this lot were in their beds by then, or watching TV. The drudgery of normal life. The body was found by some bloke about to take the dog for a walk. Didn't recognise her, such was the disfigurement of her face, but we've since learned that he knows her. We'll ask the right questions. You never know what these idiots will do, but instinct says it wasn't him. The guy's in shock. He'll probably need therapy – it's the modern way. If he can find someone to sue, he'll do that as well. These days you can't solve anything in life without employing a psychotherapist and a solicitor and a life coach. The supermarkets'll be offering those services soon, wait and see.
Herrod's up the other end of the street, house to house. In a better frame of mind this morning. He enjoys murder. Thinks it justifies his existence. Sometimes you'd think he'd commit murder, just to give us all something to investigate.
Bathurst is out there somewhere too. Saw her briefly this morning and she was decent enough not to give me a 'made a dick of yourself last night, didn't you?' smile. Very professional, although she just looked miserable. Regrets turning me down, I expect.
PC Edwards approaches, closed notebook in hand, looking like a man who stripped naked in front of his peers last night, and is regretting every minute of it. He was another one to make an attempt at Bathurst, I believe, and was no more successful than I.
'Didn't get much sleep, eh, Constable?'
He shakes his head. Daft bastard.
'Nice y-fronts, by the way. Think you'll ever get them back?'
He shifts uncomfortably. Itching to tell me where to go, I suspect. Can't, of course. He goes for the quick change of subject, which is all he can do.
'There's a woman over here you might like to speak to, sir. Knew the deceased.'
Fair enough. Can't spend too much time laughing at prepubescent constables when there's murder to be investigated. I nod my head and follow him to a terraced house, not far from the close where the body
was discovered. Perhaps the street won't be such a barren desert of non-information after all. Don't feel up to interrogation, and hope that the woman wasn't a close friend of the victim who'll spend the interview blubbing. That's how it is nowadays. Everybody cries. We have the blessed Diana to thank for making it respectable. Or, at least, those who murdered her.
Walk into the front room. Ground floor house, where the sun never shines. Maybe in late afternoon. A drab little room, a few desultory Christmas decorations, and a drab young woman sitting in the middle of it, looking as if she's upset because she's run out of Frosties. A cup of tea held between the hands, TV on with the sound off.
I sit down opposite her and she notices me for the first time. Constable Edwards stands by the door. Hope I don't look as bad as he does.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say.
She nods, drinks a noisy sip from her tea, looks at the silent television.
'Mrs Eileen Sprott,' volunteers Edwards from the door.
Hold my hand up to him. Constables should be seen and not heard. See him nod and retreat further behind that rough exterior. Other things to think about, such as how to explain to his fiancée all those photographs of him naked which'll probably start turning up in the post. We polis are an unforgiving lot.
Mind on the job.
'I understand you knew Miss Keller.'
Wonder who's been dispatched to inform the parents. Hope it's not Bloonsbury himself. Feel sorry for them. Jonah breathing all over them, telling them their daughter's face has been shredded.
She looks at me, another noisy slurp.
'Well, aye. Not that well, but. Used to get the same bus from town sometimes.'
'And when was the last time?'
'Last night, you know. She seemed happy enough. Well you know, not great, but then, why should any cunt be that happy? It's a shit life, in't it? Now she's dead. Can't believe it, so I can't.'
'Where d'you get the bus from?'
'Buchanan Street. I work in a jewellers in the arcade, and she works in Frasers, something like that. Part time, I think. Saw her about town sometimes, but we weren't that friendly. You know.'
That's good. The automatic distancing. Doesn't want to associate too closely with the victim. A little bit of dishonesty never did anyone any harm, and it means she's less likely to go to pieces on me.
'And did you go out much in the evenings or weekends?'
'Do I go out much? What do you think I am? Some sad bastard with no mates?'
'No, not you. Did you go out with Miss Keller?'
'Oh.' Dozy bitch. Pay attention. 'Naw, naw, not much. Every now and again, you know, but not often.'
'When was the last time?'
'A couple of weekends ago. I can't remember.'
Nod the head, look serious. Pretend to think.
'Did she say anything on the bus yesterday about what she was going to do last night?'
She looks at me, nodding. Face like a kid who wants to tell the teacher who it was who threw the piece of chalk.
'Aye, that's the thing. She says she was going to the pictures, you know, that wee one along the road. The one that shows all that foreign shite. I was having a right go at her, so I was.'
'Did she say with whom was she going?'
I always end up throwing whom into a sentence when I'm speaking to one of these people.
'Aye. Some bloke.'
'Any idea who it might have been?'
She shrugs. Difficult to know if she's telling us everything.
'Not sure really, you know. Some guy she's seen a few times. Think he's from around here somewhere, you know Cam'slang, but I'm not sure.'
'Had you ever seen him?'
Big shake of the head. Drawing back before she gets too close.
'Naw, naw. I was always joking with her about getting a look at the guy, you know, but I hadn't seen him. Says he was good looking, but you never know, do you? I used to think my Malky was good looking, but look at the bastard now.'
I look around to see if there's a photo of Malky. She slurps her tea, then her eyes light up and she looks at the TV. Follow her gaze. It's some sad looking guy I've never seen before, and you can tell she's itching to turn the sound up. Time to leave her to it.
'Well, thanks very much, Mrs Sprott. We'll need you to come to the station later to make a statement.'
'Why? What have I done?'
'You haven't done anything. It's just procedure.' I love that innate trust of the polis. Course, she's right.
'Oh.' Looks back at the TV. Time to go.
I nod at Edwards, he opens the door and out we go, back into the cold of early morning. As we close the door behind us the TV is turned back up, and Mrs Sprott goes about the business of forgetting everything she knows about Ann Keller.
We stand outside the house and take a look up the street. At least twenty officers milling around doing the thing. Most of them will come up empty, but every now and again you get something like I just did. Put it all together, and you never know. There's a long way to go, and most of it'll be pretty boring. I start to trudge off, head down, wishing for once that I had a cup of tea, rather than a vodka and tonic.
'Why didn't you ask about Malky?' says Edwards, one pace behind.
I stop and look at him, shaking the head.
'Get me a cup of tea, will you Edwards?' I say, doing my best to look superior.
He looks chastened and walks off.
Because I'm hungover and I didn't think to, that's why I didn't ask about Malky. But he doesn't need to know that.
7
Almost four thirty and there's about fifteen of us in the room. What will become the daily roundup, assuming this thing isn't solved inside the first day. Waiting for Bloonsbury to arrive and take charge. He's in with Miller giving her all the latest, and probably getting his bollocks torn off for not having caught the killer yet.
So he'll get shredded in there, then after this briefing he'll have to go out and face the hounds of the press, when he'll probably get shredded again. He'll consider this a pleasant interlude, if discussing this kind of thing can be pleasant.
They've got the photographs on the wall. Before and after, and it's not noticeably the same woman. Sure, we get murder in these parts, although this is Glasgow not Juarez; but not like this. Domestic, casual, accidental, thuggery, we get them every now and again, a few a year. But this; violent, savage, psychotic.
Most of the folks around here are out of their depth. You can tell. They have the look. I wish I was there, out of my depth with them. I may not want to look at those photographs, I may hate the fact that this kind of death has found its way onto our patch, but fuck it, I've seen worse in the flesh. The bloody, torn and shattered flesh; and every one of those bloody photographs takes me back, which is why I'm not looking at them.
Dear old Bloonsbury must be shitting his pants over this one, and God knows what state he's in, given the alcoholic abyss into which he's been plummeting these last few years. Poor bastard.
There's some muted conversation, but not much. Not with this on, not with those pictures on the wall. We're all waiting for Bloonsbury so we can go out and get on with it, or go home and try to forget it for the night. Be thankful it wasn't our wife or daughter or whoever that had their entire body slashed to pieces, and hope that it doesn't happen again before we catch the animal who did it.
The domestic stuff keeps intruding there as well. It's inane, but you can't stop it. Still no idea what to get Rebecca for her Christmas. Seeing them tomorrow, although at this rate I might have to cancel. Pizza and presents, and I'll hand over the gift for their mother and hope I get something back. Gone a bit over the top this year. Diamond earrings, just under three hundred quid out of some place in town. Money I can't afford for a present for my ex-wife who's shagging someone else. I don't think I'm trying to get her back, but then why else am I spending so much money? I'm confused, but that's the best way to be.
The door opens, and I am torn from my worsening
morosity. DCI Bloonsbury, looking as if he's just been savaged himself. Think he needs hospitalised. He's a big man, six-five maybe. Back row forward in his day, played a Scotland trial. Nearly made it, although in those days all you got for playing rugby was a lot of sore joints and absurd ears. Well, the way he walks now he certainly got the sore joints. I'm five ten and I could head butt the guy without needing to stretch. He's got the ruddy face of the alcoholic, and looks way beyond fifty-three. The man's a disaster, but somehow he's been managing to get by the past couple of years.
There was a time last year when he was almost kicked into touch. His wife had just upped and left him for a plumber from Dundee, taking the kids and everything else of worth in the family. Bloonsbury went over the edge, yet somehow managed to claw his way back. Got a lot of help. He's a bit of a hero round here, for one reason or another. Used to be the star, and people still want to look up to him, even though more and more of us are seeing through him.
So this was his crowning glory from last year. Just as he was at his lowest ebb, he came up with a beauty. Big murder case out this end of Glasgow. A poor wee woman bought it from some ski-masked fellow wielding a kitchen knife. The feeling that he was going to be a repeat murderer quickly grew, women all over the city were panicking, and us lot were looking useless. Bloonsbury was in charge, the investigation seemingly stuck in neutral, and then boom, out of nowhere, it suddenly all fell into place. The big man put it together, made the breakthrough, and we got the guy. Some sleazoid from the west end who denied it all the way to the joint, but we had him. Enough evidence to put away a thousand murderers.
Bloonsbury was the hero, feted in the papers, got that ugly mug on TV, had all sorts of people queuing up to suck his dick. Don't know how he did it, given the state he was in at the time, but it was good to see. Trouble is, of course, he's been getting all the big ones ever since, and not been doing too well. This'll be the last chance, and all you can imagine is him hitting the bottle even harder, and maybe, if he's lucky, his liver'll give out and he'll die before he can blow it.
The Unburied Dead Page 3
