An hour later. Still sitting here. The ice has long since melted, the vodka and the tonic have flowed in and then back out the glass. The crisps are long gone. That was dinner. Crisps and vodka. Bob playing on the CD player. Oh Mercy on a loop. All those slow songs dredged in warm, sticky mud. Sucking me in, drawing me down to their level.
The small red light is flashing on the phone. There's a message, but I don't want to hear it. I don't want to listen to the sound of anyone's voice. No voices, no conversation. Just the sound of Bob crawling through my veins.
So, what now, Slim? Ready for bed yet?
I don't think so. I don't want to go to bed. If I lie there, I'll be lying where she was. The bed might still smell of her. And she's dead.
Drain the glass. Bitterness washes through me.
Is that what we want, the tragic poets of the world like me?
Did you just call yourself a tragic poet?
Hopeless, doomed love. So much better than that other thing, where you get to move in with the person you fall for, and everything goes smoothly, so that eventually, with nothing in the way, it grows stale and old and tired.
I can see her smiling at me from that table. Just over there. The table just behind me. Maybe if I look round, she'll be there now. Perhaps I can imagine her there forever. Sitting at that table as I looked over my shoulder on the way out the door. What was the last thing she said?
Of course.
That was it. Her final words to me. Of course. Hardly eternally romantic. Doesn't matter. The thought of her, the sound of her voice, her body beneath mine, the smile across the breakfast table, it's all there and the wave of grief floods over me, breaking down the walls and I bend double, face crumpled, and Bob's singing Most Of The Time, and oh fuck, he wasn't singing about someone who was dead, but he might as well have been, and I can see her and feel her and touch her and her body is next to mine, and that agonising, tortuous pain that comes with grief, the one that makes you think you can't possibly bear to be alive for even another fucking second, the one that fills your head and rips out your heart and tears you to bits and spits in your face and crushes you, it fucking crushes you, consumes you, pummels you so badly that you can barely breathe, that pain is squeezing me, crushing me into a tiny, helpless black ball, one that is nothing but pain, and I can't think of the next morning, or the next minute, and I fall forward off the chair onto my knees, lift the bottle and now I'm tipping the fucking thing into my mouth, pouring it so that it's glugging out, as much dripping down my face as is getting in my mouth, come on you fucking piece-of-fucking-shit drink, take it away, take away the fucking pain.
Please.
Please, take it away. That's all I want. I had someone to take away the pain and now she's gone.
You can do the job. Come on vodka, you fucking piece of shit, come on!
I know. I know, it's not the vodka that's the piece of shit.
Finished. Throw it at the TV screen. Misses, hits the wall. Breaks.
Fall forward, tears flowing, great retches.
Bent double, knees at my face, lying on my side.
Take me away.
*
'You need to get up.'
Cold. Have been shivering for some time, but haven't been able to move. Too tired. Feel terrible. Arms around my knees. How long have I been like this? It's still dark. Did I set an alarm? Of course not. I need to set an alarm. I should have set an alarm. I feel sick. That's why I'm not moving. I feel sick. When I move, I'm going to throw up.
'You need to get up.'
What?
Who said that?
The girl's voice. The young girl. Who is she? Why does she keep showing up? She wasn't there the night I spent with Philo Stewart.
Philo Stewart.
'You need to get up. Get up now. Please.'
Sharply drawn breath.
I sit up quickly. Look around the room. There's no one here. Street lights still on, no sign of the dawn.
Fuck, here comes the sick.
Bathroom.
36
The night before was one of those that could have led to me having a day off, but I couldn't afford that. Knew it as soon as I was awake. Knew it as I was leaning over the toilet, throwing up everything that had ever been in my stomach.
Didn't even check my watch, just knew that I had to get up and get on with the day. Drank two large glasses of water. Walked through to the kitchen, made myself some toast. Ate the toast. Back to the bathroom, threw up the toast and the water.
Showered, for half an hour. Began to feel better. The vomiting was over. Shaved, got dressed. Shirt and tie. Made myself some coffee and ate a bowl of granola. More water. Cleaned my teeth, gargled with mouthwash for a minute and a half. Hoped the stench of 1 a.m. vodka was gone.
Now walking into work. 8.15 a.m. Sunday morning, the streets are quiet. The utter desolation of the night before has gone. The sorrow has been washed away by the morning. The walls are back up. I don't know what's going to happen, but I need to tell Taylor. Get it out there. I suspect it's going to be a very short day on the job. He just can't leave me on the case when I slept with one of the victims. That's the kind of thing that the papers say causes outrage.
Outrage As Randy Copper Fucks Victim! they'd cry, without actually being able to specify who exactly is outraged by it.
Along Main Street, with its pound shops and charity shops and boarded-up windows. I always think of Springsteen as I walk along here. Not Bob. Just the Boss, with his songs of urban decay. Same thing this morning.
Nod at some old guy I helped out once, and who I often see on Main Street. He nods back. He doesn't wince at my appearance, thank God, so there's that. After a night like last night, the following day could be so fucking awful. Head in the right place for this, head in the right place.
Taylor worked late, so hope I get in before him. I want to be waiting for him, get him alone in his office. He won't get mad. He doesn't get mad about this. He'll think about it. He'll tell me to go home. But I'm not going home. I don't know where I'm going, but not home. Not today.
Home is the last place I saw her. Home is where the sheets will still smell of her, where a red light flashes relentlessly at me on the phone, with some message from Peggy or my mum with news of a dead relative or God knows what. I don't want to think about home. I don't want to think about anything.
Maybe I'll just go away somewhere completely different. That might be what I need. Up north. See some snow. Taste some different air.
Up the hill, into the office. Collins is on duty. I nod, he nods back. Again, nothing exceptional. I've pulled it together. There are practically commentators in my head, as though they're describing my comeback to the football pitch from a bad injury, or drug rehab.
Into the office. Morrow not in yet. Well, that's good. The Detective Constable has been looking better than me for the better part of two years now. I need to take these minor triumphs when they come.
Change of shift, the office slightly busier than normal as people come just before people go. Stand at my desk, to which nothing new has been added, and look at Taylor's office. No one there yet.
Right, need to do something useful before he gets in.
The Book of Daniel. Get back there. There's got to be some clue in it, but no one else is looking. I don't think anyone else is looking.
Hear footsteps first, and then suddenly, as I begin to turn my head, the cup of warm coffee explodes in the side of my face, the words, 'You fucking idiot, Hutton, get into my fucking office!'
Coffee across my desk, down my jacket, over my shirt and tie. The office stops. Taylor walks past me, looking straight ahead. Catch a glimpse of his face, filled with anger. He kicks his door open, barks out, 'Fuck!' kicks his desk, and stops by the window.
I'm still standing by my desk. Coffee drips from my face. The office is quiet. Pin drop. How many people are in here at the moment? Fifteen? Twenty?
They all stare at me. I look up. Catch the eye of Mrs Lowne
s. Her look is not at all judgemental. Sympathetic perhaps.
'Hutton!'
I wipe a hand across my face and go through to Taylor's office. Close the door. Stand just inside.
Taylor doesn't turn. Outside the door I can hear the office start to come back to life. They'll remember this. The last day that wanker Hutton came to work.
'What the fuck were you doing, Sergeant?'
I don't answer. He doesn't turn. I don't think I've ever seen Taylor this pissed off. This enraged. This is my level of rage, although I get angry at all that crap that's in my head, and at old people in the supermarket and at old people driving too slowly.
'You were seen, outside the fucking station, two nights ago, talking to Mrs Stewart. You were seen getting into her fucking car.'
He can barely restrain himself. He's trying. I can feel his rage. I know it. The anger where you want to grab something and kick fuck out of it. Hit it and hit it and keep on hitting it. And I'm the it.
'Sergeant!'
'Yes.'
'You slept with her?'
'Yes.'
'Fucking hell.'
He turns. His face is pale. Blanched with anger and betrayal.
'Is there anyone, I mean, fucking anyone on this entire fucking planet, that you haven't slept with?'
Nothing to say. She was going to be the last one. She was. Maybe she will be anyway, despite being dead with ten spikes in her head. That probably won't mean anything to him. Would probably sound pretty weak. Although I'd mean it.
'What the fuck were you thinking, Sergeant? And I don't want any of your glib, defensive crap. What were you thinking? You'd spoken to her as part of an on-going investigation. What?'
Exhale a slow breath. The only thing to do is tell the truth. That's all there is. It's not a defence, but it's all there is.
'She was the one,' I say.
Oh crap, did I have to put it like that?
'What?'
His voice is incredulous, and so it should be. I try not to be glib, I try to be forthright, and I end up sounding like the worst Hollywood fucking movie of all time, uttering a stupid fucking line that makes me sound like Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler and someone else completely shite all rolled into one.
'I could talk to her. She understood.'
'She understood what? That you were a fucked-up piece of useless, washed-out crap?'
Well, that pretty much nails it.
'You all know that's who I am,' I said. 'She understood why. I could talk to her. That's all.'
He takes a moment. Can see him step back from the precipice, the precipice where if he falls over it, he comes at me swinging.
That was better. Might still have been a bit Hollywood, but it cuts to it. He knows that's my problem. He knows that beneath all the shit, the fights and the alcohol and the women, he knows that what I've needed is someone to talk to.
His anger begins to dissipate, but it's not making this any easier.
'You didn't kill her,' he says. It's not a question. He knows. She died around midday, I'd been in work from before eight, although I had gone off on my own. Where had I been when she died?
'No, I didn't.'
'Why did you sleep with her, Sergeant?'
That, I don't have an answer to. And if I do answer it, it's liable to create a breach in the walls. Not these four walls in this room, as Taylor gets going again. My own walls. The walls that I've constructed to help me get up today, to allow me to not go straight back to the vodka bottle. The walls that separate me from her.
I don't want the walls to be breached. I can't let that happen. I don't want to go back to last night.
'Before you leave, is there anything that I need to know?'
Before I leave.
I shake my head. 'I'd told you everything prior to seeing her that evening. We didn't discuss the church. It was personal.'
'There's no hint of her being in a group with these other four?'
'No.'
'She talk about Cartwright when you spoke to her previously? You know, we're going to have to get that guy in. Is there anything we can use?'
Give it a second, but I'd been thinking about it on the way in here. One of the reasons I walked. So I could think. But she never mentioned him.
'Nothing. She was at St Stephen's, and they thought themselves quite detached.'
'She wasn't that detached if she was in collusion with the others.'
'I got no hint of that.'
Hands in his pockets, nothing else to ask. It would have been better if I'd had something else to give him, although, of course, the more involved I'd made her seem, the worse it would have looked for me.
He finally leaves his position at the window and goes to sit down behind his desk.
'What are you going to do today?' he asks.
'I don't know. Hadn't thought beyond seeing you this morning. Presumed you'd show me the door.'
'You knew I'd find out?'
'I was going to tell you. Was going to tell you last night, then Connor turned up.'
'You look terrible,' he says.
Nothing to say to that.
'If I send you home, are you just going to go to the pub for breakfast?'
'It's Sunday. There's a pub I can go to for breakfast?'
He smiles ruefully, puts his elbow on the desk, rubs his forehead.
'I'm sorry, sir. Didn't mean to give you the extra headache. I should get out of your hair. It doesn't matter whether you're suspending me, or whether I'm taking the day, or the rest of the week, or month, off sick. I should just go, and let you get on with the investigation. You can get someone to let me know what the situation is.'
'You had breakfast yet?'
'Some.'
'Go to the canteen. Eat breakfast. You all right to drive?'
'I feel all right to drive. Not entirely sure that I'd pass a breath test.'
'Give it an hour, eat something...'
'Not sure that'll make a huge difference.'
'We've been needing someone to go up north, speak to the Reverend Baxter.'
'He's in Golspie.'
'Yes, he's in Golspie.'
How long will it take to drive to Golspie? I don't actually ask the question, but obviously it's written on my face.
'About four hours. It's early enough. Take a while, eat something, try to get your head into as right a place as possible, then leave. Drive up there. Speak to the guy. Come home this afternoon. Come and see me when you get back.'
'Are you sure?'
'I'm getting you the fuck away from Dodge, Sergeant, but I can't promise you that Dodge won't be waiting for you when you get back.'
*
Sgt Harrison joins me at breakfast a few minutes after I've sat down. I've got bacon, sausage, two eggs, toast and coffee. She's got a poached egg and some toast.
She nods as she takes her seat across from me.
'I was wondering who he'd send,' I say.
'Who else was it going to be?'
'There are thirty people up there.'
'He knows you won't even countenance talking to men about anything personal, and I'm just about the only woman in the entire place you haven't slept with.'
She smiles as she says it, and what can I do but smile with her?
'You're not here to get me to spill my personal crap out over the table, are you? That would ruin breakfast for everyone.'
'No, probably not. I think it's more of a, you know, it's like putting paracetamol down in front of someone with a headache. Up to them whether they take it or not.'
I nod, slight smile on my face.
'Am I to have the paracetamol option all day on the drive to Golspie?'
You know, that wouldn't be too bad, I suddenly think. I'd been surprised by Taylor sending me off on a day out. I can see his management thought process, of course. If he did the natural thing and punted me off into the long grass, then I might never recover. Worried that I'm going to fall off the cliff. Instead he gives me something to do that n
one of us have had the time to, but which has needed doing. The thought of all that time on my own, Bob on the CD player, or not, was all right. Having a purpose, I was less likely to fall back into brain-splitting melancholy. But having Eileen Harrison along for the journey? That'd be all right too.
''Fraid not, kid,' she says. 'He probably thought if we spent all that time together you'd turn me.'
She laughs at her own line. God, I love lesbian police officers.
'You want to talk about her?' she says suddenly.
'Really, I don't. Can't.'
'You're actually hurting?' she says.
'I could be if I let it. If we keep talking about it.'
'Maybe that's what you need.'
'Jesus, Eileen, what are you trying to do? I thought you'd been sent here to help, not push me into the fires of Mordor.'
She laughs again.
'All right, all right.'
A moment, share a glance over the table, both look down at our food, take a bite. I remember the night when she was in exactly the same position that I'm in now. She'd had sex with a police constable, who'd then been killed. Worse, for Sergeant Harrison, it dragged on much further. There were people actively trying to establish with whom the deceased had slept. She got a couple of weeks in police purgatory for that, an investigation, escaped with a reprimand.
But that's not what I'm thinking about. I'm thinking of the moment when she told me about it, when I was the one to whom she confessed. And what use was I to her then?
'I probably don't deserve your time,' I say.
'Don't be daft,' she says. Knows what I was thinking. 'We were all pretty screwed up back then.'
'Now it's just me.'
'Don't kid yourself.'
We eat breakfast. We talk a little. The thought of Philo Stewart is a volcano spewing lava, but I've got my back turned, and am refusing to look at it.
37
OK. It's just me, Bob and the open road.
The Blood That Stains Your Hands Page 19
