'Well, I was one once, if that's any help.'
'I need an idea of what to get Rebecca for Christmas.'
'Your daughter?'
'Aye.'
She purses her lips.
'How much money are you spending?'
Not sure that I want to divulge that information to Detective Sergeant Harrison. Don't want to be judged.
'Fifty pounds,' I say anyway.
'She mature for her age?'
Feel like I'm under investigation. Imagine Sergeant Harrison viciously interrogating suspects.
'Not sure. I mean, you can't tell, can you? Who knows what she's like when I'm not there. She could be doing drugs and boys and all that stuff, for all I know.'
Purses her lips again, looks disapproving. 'You've been in the job too long, Thomas. Not all children are baby adults, doing dodgy deals and out for what they can get.'
'Aye, but some of them are.'
'Fine. Get her a piece of jewellery then. If she's older than her years that'll do her, and if she's not it'll make her feel mature, and show that you respect her. How's that?'
I look at her; she smiles and turns. Why is it that woman have so much more common sense than men? Must be genetic. We got testosterone, they got common sense and all those orgasms.
'What kind of jewellery?' I say pathetically to Eileen Harrison's back.
She turns, still smiling. Pitying smile, this time.
'Use your imagination, Thomas, for God's sake, she's your daughter.' And off she goes to chew the bollocks of hardened criminals.
Suitably chastened, I make my way out of the station.
*
Three down, four to go. This is going to be a long day. Sitting in the drab waiting area of a small lawyer's office in Tollcross as a result of a phone call from an Ian Healy, who says he saw our murder victim on Monday night. Sounds a little more plausible than the others, particularly the last one, a seventy-three-year-old man who claimed to have seen her in Woolworths in Rutherglen at half past ten yesterday morning. Get a life, you sad bastard, I said to him, and walked out the door.
I'm sitting under the watchful eye of a curious secretary, all ravenously curly hair and lipstick. Face like bread and butter pudding, the typical Glasgow police sceptic. I want to arrest her for something.
The door opens, out steps Mr. Healy, preceded by a small man in tears, who looks suspiciously at me as he walks by.
'Don't worry,' says Healy to him, 'we'll get her back for you.'
The man half turns, gives a watery smile and is gone. There goes an interesting little story, the details of which I couldn't want to know less.
I stand up, take Healy's outstretched hand.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say. Firm grip, the guy's young and doesn't look like an idiot. We're a couple of goals to the good already.
'Come in, Sergeant,' he says, and ushers me past the secretary.
Walk in, simple enough office, sit down.
'Sorry about Mr McKay,' he says. 'Problems with his dog.'
'Ah,' I say. I really don't give a shit about the dog.
'Very weird situation,' says Healy.
'I believe you might have seen Ann Keller on Monday evening?' I say, cutting to the business end.
He nods, looks serious, leans forward. 'Aye. Monday night, on my way home from the pub. So it would have been some time not long after eleven.'
'Was she alone?'
He nods, looks even more serious. I hate lawyers. 'No, well, kind of, but there was a guy walking just behind her. I didn't pay that much attention, but I got the impression he was following her, hassling her…'
'So why didn't you say anything? Give her some help?'
He swallows, looks guilty. The question wasn't fair – implied that the woman might not be dead if he'd done something. Doesn't do any harm to keep them on their toes, however.
'I don't know. You don't, do you? He wasn't speaking to her or anything. It was just an impression I got. I forgot about it until I saw the television last night.'
'Aye, fine.' Shuffle about in the pocket, produce a photofit picture, pass it across the desk.
He studies it, shakes his head. 'No, definitely not him.'
Good. That was a picture of Herrod, and the first two I showed it to already identified him as the killer. It'd be pretty funny if it was, but unfortunately he's got a hundred and fifty police witnesses as an alibi.
Pass over another picture. He looks at it, shakes his head again. Pass the third over, the real one this time. He studies it closely, then shakes his head again.
'No, not him either. At least I don't think so.'
I take it back off him, look at it, shove it back in my pocket. These bloody pictures are crap. It could be anybody. It could be this guy sitting across the desk.
'Do you think you'd be able to come down to the station later and make up one of these for the man you think you saw?'
Slight twitch, hesitation – just enough – then, 'Sure. Not for a couple of hours, but I could do it this afternoon.'
Don't betray your thought. 'That'd be great, thanks Mr. Healy.' Wonder. You never know what these headcases are going to do. It takes a mad bastard to invite the police in when you've committed murder, but then it takes a mad bastard to knife a woman over a hundred times.
Five minutes later I'm walking down the stairs, staring at the photofit. It's not right, but it's not a million miles away. And our witness only got a brief look at him, so who knows how accurate the picture is in the first place? There was never enough there to suggest Healy's our man, just a suspicion, and if I'd still been hungover I would have missed it. There's a lot said for gut feelings, but I usually find they come to nought or make you look like an idiot. Sometimes, however, they pan out and then you look like a genius, so you have to go with them. Let the guy come into the station and then see what we can make of him. Won't be hard. Find out what pub he was in, who he was with, check it out. Could have asked him in there, but didn't want to give anything away. If the guy suddenly disappears and another fifty murders are committed, I can take the time to feel bad.
Another check of the list. Four down, three to go.
11
Two o'clock – the time I fixed for Healy to pay us a call – came and went without a sign of the guy. Gave him some time to be late and then we all leapt into action. I had communicated my doubts about him to Bloonsbury, so when he didn't show, Jonah pissed in his pants.
Taylor and I went round there. The office had been closed up, but then it was Christmas Eve. Went to his house and he wasn't there, went to the secretary's house, found her up to the armpits in Christmas cooking and looking as miserable as ever. She told us that Healy had left the office not long after twelve for a lunch appointment and that as far as she knew he intended going to the station thereafter. Claimed ignorance as to where he was having lunch but the woman's his secretary for God's sake, she must have had some idea. Taylor persuaded me not to employ thumbscrews and we left without any further information.
Now nearly five and I've got to get going. Pizza and presents with the children. Found five minutes to disappear into a jewellers this morning, in between interviewing suspects, and got Rebecca a gold chain. Good for women of all ages, according to the lassie in the shop. Bit nervous about what their mother is going to think of the diamond earrings. Shall see her briefly when I hand back the kids. Not as nervous as I am about what is to come later in the evening. Dinner with Charlotte Miller.
Walk into Taylor's office to say goodnight. We're all just out of the afternoon meeting, where we had the usual exchange of ideas. Things are moving forward. Plenty of calls from the public to follow up and now a juicy suspect has hoved into view. Pretty much decided that the boyfriend is off the hook. Doesn't have the right look about him. Checking out a few others from Ann Keller's roll-call of friends and relatives, including the ex who gave her the necklace that caused her fight with the boyfriend, but I still go for it being some psycho who hardly knew he
r.
Anyway, all we've got at the moment is our lawyer. However, once the initial gut feeling has passed, you have to be sceptical. It can't possibly be this simple. The guy wouldn't just present himself to us, no matter how much of a headcase he is. He probably hasn't turned up at the station because he's been knocked down by a bus, or he simply forgot. Anything. Hasn't stopped Bloonsbury breaking out into assholes and shitting himself with excitement, however.
Taylor looks up from his desk. Tired eyes, puffy face, the man needs a break. That and vast amounts of alcohol.
'I'm off, sir. Got to go do the good father routine.'
He grunts. His desk is an unruly mass of paper. I've got a feeling that's the way he wants it, to keep him here well into the evening. Debbie must be out with her well-hung gymnastic instructor again. Feel huge pangs of sympathy for the man. Know what it's all about and all he has is his job.
'Exchange of presents?' he says, voice weary.
'Aye. God knows what they'll have bought me this year.'
He grunts out a laugh, face doesn't change.
'Right. I'm going to stay here for a while. Think Jonah's going to be working late. Two sad bastards together. See if I can help him save his career again.'
'He still ain't James Bond.'
Taylor stares into the morass of paper on his desk. Might be thinking about what I just said, might be thinking about a lot of things. Looks up eventually.
'Whatever. At least he seems to be going for this one. Mind in gear, cut back to one bottle of whisky a day. We'll see. Want me to let you know if we find your man?'
Hold up fingers in a sign of the cross. Not a chance.
'No way. I'm in at eight tomorrow. That'll do me.'
'Oh, aye? What are you doing after you've got rid of the children?'
Can't keep a bit of a smile off my face, but there's no way I'm telling him where I'm going.
'Things to do, Chief Inspector, things to do.'
He grunts again, no hint of a laugh this time.
'Shagging, eh?' he says, and it pains him to say the word. Can see him thinking of Debbie as he opens his mouth.
'Why don't you leave her?' I say, with accompanying instant regret. I don't have the time to get into this discussion at the moment, certainly don't have the inclination. Hold up my hand. 'Sorry, that was out of order. None of my business. Look, I've got to go. Will I see you tomorrow?'
Rubs his hand across his forehead. Tired, doesn't care, too much on his mind, even if it is only the one thing.
'Fuck knows, Sergeant. Don't know what I'm doing tomorrow. Don't know what she's doing tomorrow.' Looks pathetically up at me and shrugs. Poor bastard.
I nod, try an expression of compassion but don't know if it's anywhere near the mark. Shrug.
'Merry Christmas, Sir,' I say, and turn away.
'Ho fucking ho,' he says to my back.
Back to the desk. Herrod isn't in the immediate vicinity, which is good, because I can't be bothered with any smart arse remarks about bunking off early. Last look at all the paper. Hundreds of things to do but nothing which can't wait until tomorrow.
Jacket on, house keys, car keys, phone, head for the door. Good nights to the few polis still lingering about the office, don't bother trying to kiss any of the women. Pass PC Bathurst on the way out. Smile, wish her a merry Christmas, she sort of winces back at me. Fine. Along the corridor to the top of the stairs. Look out the window to the dark of night. You can see the cold. Hear footsteps behind me and I turn, hoping it's not going to be work. Greeted by Bathurst, all rosy red lips and worried expression.
'Can I talk to you, Sergeant?' she says. Voice low.
'Sure. What do you want to talk about?' I say. She smells good up close, looks good, all that other stuff.
She glances over her shoulder, bites her lower lip. Can I help you with that?
'Not here. Can I talk to you later? After work, maybe. Are you doing anything tonight?'
Tonight? Why tonight? My night is packed solid. The one night of the last three years when I don't have time for PC Bathurst. Still, she does look as if she really wants to talk, which isn't what I'd be suggesting.
Shake the head and she looks disappointed.
'Sorry, Evelyn, tonight's the wrong night to ask.'
She bites the lip again, looks over her shoulder. I run through the course of the evening, wondering where I can make time. I could cut the kids short, I suppose, but hardly even consider being late for Miller. About to open my mouth but manage to stop myself. Bugger it, I see little enough of them as it is.
'Really, I can't. Got two things on tonight. Christmas presents for the kids.' And I'm shagging the boss. At least, I presume I'm shagging the boss. Maybe she's just asking me out there because she wants to interview me for some Grand Lodge of the Knights Templar. Cover myself in tar and get to find out who's got the Holy Grail.
She smiles nervously and nods.
'All right. Maybe some other time,' she says.
'How about tomorrow?' I suggest. 'We could do lunch. No, not lunch, expect I'll be too busy. After work?'
'Aye,' she says after a hesitation. 'It's not urgent, I just need to talk to someone, that's all.'
'You don't have any plans for the evening? No parents or fifteen year-old strapping boyfriends to see?'
'Parents are in Inverness. I'm going up for New Year. I wasn't really planning to do anything other than watch Mission Impossible 3 again.'
'All right, I think I can save you from that.'
We stare at each other for a minute. Crosses my mind that she really is young enough to be my daughter, and almost feel paternal. Reminds me of my real daughter.
'Look, sorry, I've got to go.'
She smiles. 'I'll see you tomorrow. And I'm sorry about the other night. I was rude.'
Don't know what to say to that.
'Right. See you,' I say, and turn out the door, the smell of her still with me. Along with that bloody nuisance, curiosity.
12
Standing on the doorstep of Miller's house. The doorbell has just rung with a comforting lack of affectation. I was expecting it be the Hallelujah Chorus, or something equally grandiose and pretentious, but instead it was a fairly close approximation of ding dong.
God, I'm talking pish. I have to relax. She's only a woman. I've had hundreds of them. No, really. Try not to wonder why I'm here, because that's not going to get me anywhere. I've been thinking about her since I saw her topless; maybe she's been thinking about me. There's weirder shit than that in life.
Maybe she wants to talk about all the war shit. She knows a little of the story, and every now and again she makes some comment about how she must learn more about it, it's so interesting, and on and on… I don't believe she's interested in my part in the Balkan wars any more than I want to go back there.
My part in the Balkan wars, for crying our loud.
Still in a mild state of excitement after the first meal of the evening. The kids were all over me, after ignoring my instructions and opening the presents there and then. They went down a bomb. I'll have to thank Harrison. Nearly fell out with Andy over the ridiculous fusty moustache he's attempting to grow, but then he's a teenager and he'll do a lot more stupid things than that before he hits his twenties.
Anyway, their mother arrives, not just to pick them up, but to sit and have a drink. So there we were, the happy family. I hand over the gift to Peggy, she does the same opening it there in front of me routine, then nearly freaks. In a good way. You could tell the kids loved it. All the while I was wondering what Mr No Personality would make of it if he were to walk in but then the way the conversation went, I got the impression that he had taken his deficient character back to Paisley and was leaving my family alone.
They all ended up pleading with me to come and spend Christmas dinner, to which I agreed, leaving myself with the quandary of what to do about the delicious Bathurst. Almost asked if I could bring her along, but thought better of it. So I'll check out of w
ork tomorrow at five, and rejoin the family; and if the merchant wanker has just walked out, it looks like I timed my expensive present to perfection. There are two things women never fail to fall for – diamonds and occasional displays of maturity. They work every time, and I managed to pull both off in the same day.
The door opens. Superintendent Charlotte Miller. I stand and stare at her. Her eyes, I'm looking at her eyes. She leans against the door.
'Are you going to come in, Thomas? You look freezing.'
I'm no fashion freak – another plus to my character – so I don't know what you'd call what she's wearing. Sort of pyjamas. And blue.
Walk tentatively into the house, not sure whether I'm going to find anyone else there. Had the sudden thought on the way down here that maybe she was inviting about twenty people from the station and we were all keeping it quiet thinking we'd been specially selected.
I wander into a dining room, low lights, roaring fire, soft music, two place settings at the table, one very obvious bottle of champagne. Christmas tree in the corner.
'Can I take your jacket, get you a drink?'
I take my coat off, hand it to her. I've got that weird feeling in the throat you get sometimes when you know you're about to have sex.
'Vodka tonic, please.'
'All right,' she says, and shimmers out the room.
Jesus. Just bugger the questions as to why I'm here, I can worry about them tomorrow. Plenty of time. Relax and enjoy yourself, Hutton. And it might finally be time to stop feeling guilty about all those lascivious breast-related thoughts.
I start looking at the pictures on the walls. Sailing ships and big seas mostly. I've heard tell she's a member of the Royal and Northern Yacht Club just around the corner. Doesn't sail, just goes there to hang out with the rest of the local money and to shag whatever big stick she can get her hands on. Very admirable.
The mind rambles on. If I had to guess I'd say the music was Mozart, but that's only because I saw Amadeus twenty-five years ago.
She comes back into the room, rid of the jacket, and clutching a bucket of ice and a bottle of expensive looking French white. Pitches up at the drinks cabinet and sorts out my v&t. Pours herself some wine.
The Unburied Dead Page 6
