'Aye, but look at the guy. He's wasted, down there in his dingy little cottage. You think he's going to think straight? Maybe he threatens Jonah with it. Jonah can't pay up, he knows he's about to be found out, and he does what any self-respecting drunk does. Hits the sauce. Meanwhile, Crow clears out so that when the shit hits the fan he isn't around to catch any of it.'
'So, why hasn't the shit hit the fan yet? He's been gone three days.'
'He stopped somewhere to have a pint and is still stuck to the bar stool? Who knows? The guy's a fuck up.'
'And where does Healy killing Herrod fit in?' he says.
'I don't know. But if we can sort out the police end, we might find out. Where is Jonah?' I ask. 'If we just come straight out and ask if Crow is blackmailing him, do you think we'll get a straight answer?'
Taylor rubs his forehead. 'Jesus, I don't know. I doubt it. Haven't seen the guy today.'
'She hasn't suspended him, has she?'
He shrugs.
'Maybe just taken a day off to try and sober up. Who knows? Maybe he'll come in tomorrow wearing a blue and red skin tight jump suit, with big yellow pants pulled over the top.'
'So, how about we just go round there and ask him if Crow is blackmailing him over the Addison case?' I say.
'But so what if he is? Where does Healy killing Ann Keller fit into it? If there is something going on between Crow and Bloonsbury, it doesn't have to involve Healy. A connection between Healy and Crow on a small time rape charge over a year ago doesn't mean fuck all, Sergeant.'
Deep breath. He's right.
'Anyway,' he says, 'the fact is that Healy killed those two women and now he's disappeared. He's the guy we've got to find. Any connection with Crow might be entirely coincidental.'
'So where do we start looking?'
'No idea, Sergeant.'
'So, how about we go and speak to Bloonsbury about Crow. It might get us somewhere. If it doesn't, we're no worse off.'
Looks at his watch. Hope he's going to mention lunch. He doesn't.
'All right, we'll go with it. I'll go and see Bloonsbury. There's no point in us both turning up there like a delegation from Fucked Up Coppers Anonymous, and if you go on your own he'll tell you where to go.'
Nod. Fair enough. I'll get some lunch.
'You go and talk to your big shot banker rapist,' he says. 'See what he knows about Crow and Healy.'
'He's not going to tell me anything, is he?'
Stabs his finger at the side of his forehead.
'Use your napper. Be subtle, for Christ's sake.'
Subtle? I'm Scottish.
Stand up, ready to go.
'And you should call Peggy. She was looking for you last night after you left.'
Shite. 'What time?'
'I don't know. 'Bout two, maybe.'
Shite. Caught with my pants down. Every time. I'm such a useless liar. Walk out. Humble pie for lunch.
36
Be subtle.
Sitting in the waiting room outside the bank manager's office. Feels like a dentist's waiting area, except the magazines are more business orientated and the goldfish in the goldfish tank aren't goldfish – being of an altogether more exotic nature. Thick carpet – maroon, no pattern – cream walls. Wonder how I'm going to play this if I'm to get anything out of him. As detectives go, I've always been reasonably good at sorting things out in my head, seeing possibilities, that kind of thing. However, when it comes to making witnesses give up that little extra, I'm useless.
The secretary appears. Late forties, hair in a bun, blue suit. Wearing four pairs of knickers, although that's only a guess. Leads me through the door into the banker's office, announces me as if I was attending some royal court, then closes the door behind. Doesn't offer coffee.
The banker stands up from behind his desk.
'How do you do, officer? Please come in. Sit down.'
Check out the office as I walk to the chair. Expensive paintings, big plants, massive fish tank, the same rich carpet as the waiting room. Money. This is no banker dealing with the guy on the street and his deposit account of a hundred and thirty-five quid.
'How can I help you, Sergeant Hutton?'
'Won't take much of your time, Mr. Montague.' Had a geography teacher in first year called Montague. Hated him. Used to skelp you over the arse with the blackboard eraser. I could probably sue him now, if it wasn't for the fact he was murdered by one of the sixth years. 'Just like to ask you a couple of questions about Ian Healy.'
He looks vaguely curious, like he doesn't recognise the name.
'Your lawyer,' I add.
'I think there must be some mistake, Sergeant. All my affairs are handled by Harper, McCalliog and Brown of Ingram Street.'
Affairs? Harper, McCalliog and Brown? Bastard. Feel like arresting him for being an annoying bastard with a posh accent.
Subtlety edged to one side.
'Rape case, last year. Janie Northolt, one of your employees. Harper, McCalliog and Brown didn't handle that affair.'
Patronising smile disappears off face.
'Oh, him,' he says. 'What about him?' Looks at his watch. 'I really am rather busy, Sergeant.'
'Perhaps then you could come down to the station later to answer some questions?'
Gives me the look. That one always shuts them up. Trying to throw his weight around, but he ought to know better. No one gets away with that for long in Glasgow.
'Very well, Sergeant. But I really don't see how I can be of any help.'
'You know Ian Healy is wanted in connection with the murder of a woman and two police officers?'
He nods. Course he knows.
'We're just following up on all of his clients from the past couple of years. See what we can find.'
'Very thorough,' he says. Voice drips. What would I have to lose by punching this bloke in the face? Apart from, obviously, my job, and possibly my freedom for a few months?
'If all your affairs are handled by Harper, McCalliog and Brown, why did you go to a small time lawyer like Healy to deal with the rape charge?'
Stares down his nose at me.
'It was a delicate matter,' he says, voice thinner than cat gut. Looks at his watch.
'It was also a pretty big matter. A rape charge from one of your employees. Aren't Harper, McCalliog and Brown competent to deal with big matters?'
His teeth clenched behind pursed lips. Jaw pulses.
'The law may be black and white to you Sergeant, but there are some matters which you clearly don't understand.'
Right, that's it. Fuck this guy; fuck subtlety. Any more of that and I'm arresting the prick.
'Listen.' Lean forward. His head moves an inch or two back. 'I don't give a fuck about your sordid little rape. We know you raped the little fucker, we know you were arrested by Chief Inspector Crow, and we know you went to Healy because you found out he was a man who could deal with Crow. Money exchanged hands, Crow screwed up intentionally, and you walked.'
He starts to object, but I'm rolling.
'Fucking shut it. I don't care about your rape. I don't care about the pay off, about any of it. I'm worried about Healy. The guy's a murderer, we need to catch him. I just need from you everything you can tell me about him. That's it. Where you got his name, if you know why there's a connection between him and Crow. You can tell me now, or else there are certain people who can find out about your dodgy fucking dealing with serial killers.'
Say it all in about three seconds. Feels good. That's the thing about the police sometimes. You can let rip and they have to sit there and listen.
He fidgets. Fingers some papers which are lying on his desk. Toying with the idea, I suspect, of calling up some big cheese arsehole on the force that he plays bridge with on a Tuesday, and telling him to get the low-life cretin of a sergeant off his hands.
Fixes me with the look.
'I took it to Harper. He deals with my business.' That'll be Harper of Harper, McCalliog and Brown, presumably. Not Joe Harper
, once of Aberdeen and Hibs. 'When he heard the name of the policeman involved, he said he had a reputation. That we might be able to deal with him. However, he didn't think it would be appropriate for Harper, McCalliog and Brown to get involved.' I bet he didn't. 'They mentioned the name of Ian Healy.'
'And you know why Healy and Crow were able to do business together? Was there a history?'
Looks smug. Not getting any more.
'Businesses trust me to run their affairs and to take care of their money, Sergeant. They don't need to know how I do it, or my relationship with others in the banking world. I don't see that lawyers and policemen are any different, do you?' Point taken, but he continues to spell it out because he likes the sound of his own voice. 'I know nothing of the way these men work. I paid the money, I was released from that ridiculous and wholly unfounded charge.'
Class dismissed. The look says it all.
'Did you deal with Ian Healy on any other matters?'
'No Sergeant, I did not, and I must say I'm finding all of this rather tiring. I am a busy man, Sergeant, so if you wouldn't mind taking your leave.'
Don't know how she knows, but the Germanic weightlifter in a skirt appears at the door and stands there waiting for the uninvited guest to get the fuck out of Dodge.
Have to accept defeat. I can't possibly arrest them both, no matter how much I'd like to. Stand up.
'Just don't think of going anywhere in case we need to speak to you again.'
His face starts to go red. With anger. Hit the mark.
'As it happens,' he says, and you can hear him struggling to control his voice, 'I'm taking my wife to Austria tomorrow night to spend New Year in Vienna.'
We stare each other down. Like in a movie. Man stuff, and a complete load of shite it is too. Decide against annoying him further and retreat slowly from the office.
Out into the freshness of afternoon. The snow in the centre of town has turned to slush, but it still lies on the roofs. Low cloud and cold. Looks like it might snow again.
Grab a burger, having had a totally unsatisfactory sandwich on the way there, then head back to the office. Some time after three when I walk in. Taylor's in his office, feet on the desk, staring at the ceiling. Wonder if he's found our man. Should know better.
'Hard at work?' I say as I walk in.
Takes his feet down, straightens up.
'You're a fucking idiot, aren't you, Hutton?'
'What'd I do now?'
Looks at me. I should know. Realisation kicks in. Didn't take the wanker long to get on the phone.
'Be subtle. Remember that instruction?'
'The guy was an arsehole. He was lucky I didn't… I don't know, kick fuck out him.'
'Nevertheless, even though you elected not to do that I still had Miller in here like a fucking tornado. Seemed to think it was my fault.'
'Well, if you can't control your staff,' I say, with that cheeky grin I nicked from Ally McCoist.
'Fuck off.'
Puts his feet back on the desk.
'Well, before you offended the delicate banker, did he tell you anything?'
'Nothing much. He was put onto Healy by his solicitors, Harper, McCalliog and Brown.' Taylor raises his eyebrows at the name. 'Said that he was known as someone who would do business with the police. But that's it. Or at least, that was all he was saying. Waste of time, I suppose. Still, I enjoyed annoying him.'
'Great, Hutton. Well, you can go and annoy Miller now, 'cause she wanted to see you when you got in.' Looks across the desk at me. 'You've been in there a few times in the last week. You're not shagging her are you?'
'I am as a matter of fact.'
He snorts. 'Aye, you fucking wish.' Stares at the floor, runs a hand through tired hair. 'Might have a go at it myself,' he says, 'now I've no reason not to.'
Quick change of subject.
'What about Bloonsbury,' I ask. 'You see him?'
'Aye, I did,' he says.
'And?'
'Don't know. He was drunk.'
'You ask him about Crow?'
'Aye. Got nowhere. Just started muttering about him being a useless bastard. The usual drunken ravings.'
'And the Addison case. You mentioned we knew about that?'
'Told me to fuck off and mind my own business,' he says, shaking his head. 'Don't know what the hell we can do. Maybe bring him in, lock him up and deprive him of drink for a couple of days. But it's Jonah Bloonsbury, for God's sake. Don't think Miller would go for it.'
'You're in charge of the investigation.'
'I'm sure there's a line in the sand, Sergeant, and arresting Jonah Bloonsbury'll be some way on the other side. We're just going to have to get our information from other sources.' He rubs his hand across his forehead. Looks tired. 'Right, Hutton, away and take Charlotte across her desk, or whatever it is the two of you do in there.'
'Right,' I say. 'See what I can do.'
He smiles as I walk out the room. Across the office, nod at Morrow, knee deep in documents. Wonder what Taylor's got him looking at now. Knock on Miller's door, walk in. She looks up, doesn't offer me a seat.
'Just had Jonathan Montague on the phone,' she says. Tongue coiled. About to unleash. Make a snap decision.
'Why didn't you wake me up today?'
'What?' she says, surprised. Annoyed at me for talking back. Like I'm in primary school.
'You left me sleeping and came into work. Knew I'd be late. What the hell d'you do that for? And putting my phone on silent? What the fuck was that?'
Doesn't answer. Stares back across the office. See her look behind me to make sure the door's closed.
'You do not go into the offices of people like Jonathan Montague and start mouthing off,' she says eventually. Ignoring me. Daring me. 'Especially not on ridiculous charges like the one you took to him.'
Feel stupid, but have to fight anger at the same time.
'And what was all that about DCI Crow?' she says.
'It's still not right,' I say, choosing to employ her tactic of ignoring an awkward question. 'You may have put Taylor in charge, but you're not volunteering the information on you and Constable Bathurst…'
'You're not volunteering what makes you think that,' she fires back.
What can I say to that? That I drove down to her house on Friday night like a lovesick little puppy. It's bad enough feeling pathetic, never mind everyone else knowing about it.
'I thought so,' she says to my next bout of silence. 'Don't think you're getting any special favours, Sergeant,' she adds with bite, 'there's plenty more where you came from.'
Won't have to open the door when I leave. Just crawl under it.
Stare each other down for a few seconds more. Another binge of testosterone pumping – just this time there's a lot more of it in her than in me. Nothing else to be said. Turn to go. Wonder if she'll say something to my back, but she doesn't. Open the door and out into the freedom of the main office. Breathe the fresh air. Like stepping from a lift you've been trapped in for ten hours. Escaping a straitjacket.
Walk back to my desk wondering what other no-hope lead I can follow up, and why it is that Charlotte Miller has so quickly turned against me? Look at the watch. Less than twelve hours since she was glad I'd been around the past few days.
Part of the game. And if she called up tonight and ordered my attendance at her bedside, would I have the guts to refuse?
37
Tuesday evening, on my way out the office. Contemplate leaving without checking in with Taylor, but decide I'd better. Find him in the ops room, leaning back against a desk, staring at the photographs on the wall of Herrod, Ann Keller and Evelyn Bathurst.
There's nothing to say. I stand beside him for a while, looking at the pictures in companionable and grotesque silence. The door is closed, we can't hear anything of what is going on outside. Absurdly, it feels peaceful.
'I need to get some sleep,' I say eventually.
He nods. Still nothing to say. Engrossed, but acknowledging that
it's all right for me to leave.
'You should too,' I say, and he doesn't reply.
I almost pat him on the shoulder, but then remember that it's not my place, then head towards the door.
'On your way home can you call in and see Sergeant Harrison?'
He turns to look at me as I'm at the door. He reads the look on my face.
'She phoned in this morning,' he says. 'It was definitely her, so I don't think there's anything happened to her.'
I give him the what the actual fuck? look.
'It's just a bit fucking weird,' he says, annoyance coming in to his voice, 'and I don't like it. So go round there, knock on her door, make sure there's nothing I should know about. Then you can go home and get some sleep.'
Holy fuck. Deep sigh and turn to head out into the night.
*
I stand at her door for more than five minutes. That's quite a long fucking time to be standing at someone's door. Five minutes. Just do nothing for five minutes, then imagine you're standing at someone's door. Almost give up, but then she finally answers. Not sure how long I'd have given it. All the time I'm wondering how pissed off she'll be at me for dragging her out of her sick bed.
She stands looking at me in the cold of night, me illuminated by a street light, and her backlit by a small lamp in her hallway.
'Thomas,' she says. 'Come in.'
She doesn't look ill, as such, but she does look absolutely fucking terrible.
I stand there looking at her. I hadn't really envisioned going in. I hadn't envisioned anything beyond standing on her doorstep, making sure she wasn't dead, checking that she definitely had the plague or something, and then leaving.
On balance, come in isn't exactly a shock invitation though.
I follow her in, close the door behind me. We go into her front room, she sits down in a single arm chair, I sit on the sofa opposite. The room is warm, there's a single lamp on in the corner. Quick check on the walls. Paintings. Good taste. Or, you know, so it seems to me. Like I know. There's a TV in the corner, but it's off at the wall. Looks unused.
The Unburied Dead Page 19
