See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

  He laughs without any amusement.

  ‘We started doing that long before now.’

  We watch the day go by. Two middle-aged bastards sitting in a sad outpost of Glasgow, looking out on a grey summer’s early afternoon. This is it. This is the real end of policing.

  ‘She looks like your type,’ says Taylor, voice low, indicating the woman at the window.

  The fact he knows me this well depresses me still further and I don’t reply. My chocolate croissant comes to an end, leaving, for the moment, a satisfying aftertaste.

  ‘D’you mind if I give Tandy Kramer’s father a call and speak to him?’ I say.

  ‘Might as well. Get another perspective. Maybe you’ll have a nose for something. Anything from MacGregor?’

  ‘Top of the list when I get back.’

  ‘Right.’

  Another drink of coffee, another couple of minutes pass, leading towards the end of the day. Time stagnates.

  ‘Try to get an answer from MacGregor before you speak to Kramer,’ says Taylor, bringing the latest melancholic silence to an end. ‘One of the reasons we started getting suspicious about Kramer was because of the e-mail you received. If it turns out... if it didn’t come from California, I don’t know if we have any reason to suspect his involvement. And, of course, he wasn’t even in California when it was sent anyway.’

  ‘He might have been able to do a thing,’ I say.

  He gives me a raised eyebrow.

  ‘A thing? You lost me there with your techno-babble.’

  ‘If he’s able to send an e-mail from California pretending it came from the University of Glasgow, doesn’t it sound reasonable there’ll be some thing, a thing he could do, to allow him to send a delayed e-mail?’

  Taylor stares expressionlessly across the café. A while later he nods.

  The woman at the window gets to her feet. Her friend is talking about how the last school her children were at was so much better. Another couple of women walk in the door, and stand surveying the café, wondering where to sit. They notice the two leaving from the window and decide to wait for them.

  THERE ARE TWO E-MAILS waiting for me when I get back to my desk, an unexpectedly long fifty-seven minutes after I left. Well, there are in fact thirty-seven e-mails waiting for me, but only two of any interest.

  One from MacGregor stating that the original e-mail, asking if I had worked it out yet, was sent from a small café on Dumbarton Road, about ten minutes walk from the University. He had already been along there, identified the terminal from which it was sent, established it was paid for with cash, and had had a look at CCTV footage to see the identity of the person sitting in the seat. The man had a moustache, and was wearing thick-rimmed glasses and one of those ‘60s leather hats, like the Beatles had in Help. He didn’t know the name for that kind of hat, and neither do I.

  In short, however, the guy was in disguise. They could also make out from the footage he was wearing gloves. Nowhere on the keyboard, regardless of how many times it had been used since, and it might not have been many, would there be any fingerprints worth collecting.

  The guy came and he went, leaving nothing behind.

  A decent job, the query followed down to the final detail, as far as it could go. My opinion of MacGregor rises a little.

  The other e-mail is a follow-up to the previous one, which has caused us so much consternation. Same e-mail address, the same blank e-mail title, and again a single line of text.

  If you work it out, I’ll stop.

  I stare at it for a while, running through the implications. Morrow is at the desk opposite, but as usual, he has his head down. Good lad.

  It doesn’t freak me out or anything, the way the last one did. No shock value this time. In fact, I’d been expecting it. I just sit there, reading it over and over, trying to decide everything it means.

  Eventually I forward it to Taylor and, same as last time, summon Morrow to come with me as I walk into the office.

  ‘I think you’re going to have to get in touch with your fellow DCIs again,’ I say.

  19

  I HAVE A REAL AND UNEXPECTED sense of sadness I don’t quite understand. It comes from what I did yesterday afternoon, that at least I know.

  It was as though I had a chance to redeem myself. Whoever is in charge, whatever force there is out there, I’d been given, or I’d given myself, the opportunity to atone. I’d wasted so many lives before, my own included, but finally I had found someone to believe in. I’d found Philo, and it didn’t matter it only lasted a few days. Maybe, in fact, it could only have lasted a few days. But it was enough, and it had given me the chance of a life again. All I had to do was stay true to her. True to that life.

  It didn’t even mean I couldn’t ever be with another woman, fall for another woman, love another woman. But it had to mean something, and that something was most definitely not jumping on the first woman I came across whose clothes were a little too tight, and who was as interested as I was.

  The woman in the office, and seriously I can’t even remember her name, was a test. That was why she was so easy. She wasn’t a teenager’s fantasy. She was a test. And I failed.

  Someone out there is unhappy with me. I don’t know who it is. I don’t even think it’s Philo. But whoever or whatever they are, they have turned their back, and no longer do their hopeful eyes look upon me. I’ve taken the hope and I’ve washed it away.

  That’s why I was sitting staring forlornly out of the window of the café across the road. That’s why I didn’t react the same way when the second message came in. That’s why I’m sitting here now with Taylor, in Connor’s office, barely interested in the conversation taking place, even though I’m at the centre of it.

  Connor is shaking his head. Doesn’t like this kind of thing, obviously. Reasonable, however, to say nobody does. No one wants one of their detectives to be part of the story, other than the part that solves the crime.

  Taylor had already told him about the first e-mail, which he’d been happy to pay not too much attention to, happy to believe it was aimed at the station rather than me, and happy to see it as confirmation of the story having something to do with the University.

  ‘Is it possible there’s something else going on at the University? A wider scandal, of which Tandy Kramer’s murder was just one part?’ asks Connor.

  I lift my head. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard him make a good point. He is, as usual, ignoring me.

  ‘We need to check,’ says Taylor. ‘The sergeant can go along there.’

  ‘It’s possible this act of murder is just one thing among many,’ says Connor. Of course, having made a good point he now feels it necessary to labour it. ‘If there are other incidents taking place, not interesting enough for the news media, but that have been getting reported to the police, we wouldn’t necessarily have heard about them.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Taylor.

  ‘I’d like you to check it out before I go off on some wild tangent, roping in other forces, and trying to weasel in on the Clarkston investigation where, I have to tell you, we would not be popular.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I accept that if, in some way, this has anything specifically to do with the Sergeant, and I think it’s far too early to make that presumption, then we will look at moving forward –’

  ‘I’ll call the University now,’ I say.

  I get a glance from Taylor, and the usual who-the-fuck-are-you and I-didn’t-realise-you-could-even-talk look from Connor.

  ‘But I’ve been up there a couple of times already and no one’s said anything. It’s a good point and we should have checked before we came in here, but I don’t think there’s going to be anything. Either way, it won’t take long to establish. So I’ll go and make the call now, while you discuss the way forward. That is, if we’re going to look at the possibility this last e-mail was referring to the other Glasgow murders.’

  I don’t wait for any approval. I think I’ve shoc
ked the meeting by making a decision above my pay grade, so will just leave them to talk about me in quiet tones of general astonishment.

  Walk out, close the door behind me. The last thing I hear is Taylor saying, ‘The sergeant has a point...’

  BY THE TIME I’VE GOT an answer, there must be thirty minutes have gone by. Having been so fucking bold, I don’t want to get it wrong. Speak to five people from different administrative areas at the university, another couple of calls, then wrap it up by making a quick call to the Partick plods.

  Nothing. There is nothing for anyone to stop, not in relation to someone getting pushed in front of a train. We know there’s not been a spate of weird crime around the streets of Cambuslang, so it can’t be that. I wonder, perhaps, if there have been other issues on the rail network, so put a call through to the transport police office and to Network Rail, and again there’s been nothing out of the ordinary.

  Should have thought of all this before we went in there, obviously. Taylor is going to be kicking himself for not going in with all the facts. Neither of us is thinking straight. Wonder what his excuse is.

  Nevertheless, he hasn’t emerged in all that time. I knock on the door, enter. Connor is on the phone and indicates with his usual superior air for me to sit down. Glance at Taylor.

  ‘We’re good,’ I say, quietly. ‘Sorry, should have thought of it bef –’

  ‘It’s fine. He just had to have his moment,’ says Taylor, voice low, as Connor is talking and wrapping up the conversation.

  Phone down, he looks across the desk.

  ‘The DCI and I are going into Riverside,’ he says. ‘Managed to pull it together without mentioning this second e-mail of yours. Is there anything?’

  ‘Looks pretty clear across the board,’ I say. ‘If we consider the various aspects of our case... Cambuslang, the rail network, the University connection, they all check out as having nothing particularly unusual happening crime-wise the last few days.’

  ‘You called Network Rail?’

  ‘And our Transport guys.’

  ‘Good good,’ he says. ‘I’ll save it for the meeting this evening, then. It should add weight.’

  He’s nodding, but not at me. Persuading himself he’s done the right thing.

  ‘We’ve just been discussing...,’ he continues, speaking slowly, sorting out his thoughts. ‘This could be directed at the station, or those e-mails could have been directed at you personally. If it’s the latter, and I’m really not keen to make that kind of assumption at this stage, but if it is the latter, is there anyone –’

  ‘Clayton,’ I butt in, not letting him complete the sentence.

  His lips purse, his face hardens. Taylor glances round, gives me a bit of an eyebrow, then turns back to Connor. The storm clouds continue to gather above Connor’s head.

  ‘No. Fucking. Way,’ he says.

  Curious. The Superintendent never swears at home.

  ‘Clayton,’ I repeat.

  ‘We are not going there again, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘We were burned once, we got our man, or woman, I should say, and we found nothing on Mr Clayton. You found nothing on him. The officers we had through from Edinburgh found nothing, and believe me, they looked. We’re bloody lucky he didn’t pursue it through the courts or we would have been absolutely screwed. Fucked beyond the wildest imaginings of any of us. All of us, all three of us in this room, barely got out of that mess with our –’

  ‘The crows are back.’

  He stops. He wasn’t expecting that. There’s a lovely silence in the room. You could cling to it, cling to it for as long as possible. Get lost in it.

  Under other circumstances, perhaps.

  ‘What?’

  He decently leaves the ‘the fuck’ off the end of the question. I can feel Taylor’s eyebrow on me again, but I don’t turn.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about crows. For a couple of weeks now. I wondered what was going on, why they were back...’

  ‘Ah.’

  The tension in his face goes, and he looks almost relieved.

  ‘Sergeant, I’ve seen this kind of thing before. You, clearly, are suffering some version of PTSD from your experiences in the wood. And the fact that somehow you managed to keep the crows in your head, the dreams of crows, at bay for this long... well, is remarkable in itself. But this, this now... Well, I don’t know why they’re back now, at this particular point, but it was inevitable.’

  I don’t say anything. Said too much already, of course. There will be words exchanged with the boss when we leave, I expect.

  ‘I think perhaps we need to get you back in touch with a doctor. That is of a higher priority to going back for Mr Clayton. I don’t want to say the man has a clear run at doing anything he pleases, but seriously,’ and now he turns to Taylor, ‘before we go after him again for so much as a parking ticket, I want to see absolute, irrefutable evidence. I don’t think a dream about crows quite covers it.’

  He looks back at me, and fuck me, but he actually looks sympathetic. He’s playing a blinder today.

  ‘I’m concerned for you Sergeant, and I want you to see a police psychologist within the next week. I need to know you’re still cleared for duty.’

  He looks back at Taylor.

  ‘Get everything you can together on our crime, and anything from our end to suggest there might be a connection with the others.’ Check of the watch. ‘Thirty-five minutes.’

  Taylor stands, walks to the door, and then I’m out after him and the door is closed on what, it’s safe to say, was a meeting with Connor Taylor didn’t see coming. He walks to his office, me a pace behind, knowing he’ll want me to follow him. Inside, close the door. He goes and stands at the window, hands in pockets. I go and stand beside him.

  Outside it’s grey and warm. The car park is quiet. I can see Gostkowski down there having a smoke. White blouse, unbuttoned at the neck, pencil skirt below the knee. Haven’t seen her around much the last couple of weeks. Not sure what she’s working on.

  ‘Can we talk about what just happened?’ he says.

  I smile, although he’s not looking at me. A sad smile. It goes quickly.

  ‘You dreamt about crows.’

  ‘Every night,’ I say.

  ‘And it started a couple of weeks ago?’

  ‘Think so. Not sure exactly. I think it had been going on a few nights before it really clicked. I wasn’t remembering at first.’

  ‘What happens in the dreams?’

  Don’t really want to think about it, but then I was the fool who just went and put it out there.

  ‘I’m in the forest. On the ground. Can’t move. I can hear the crows, and then one of them is on the ground beside me, tapping at the side of my head. Stabbing its beak into my skull.’

  ‘You think that’s a metaphor for something?’ he says, a rueful smile in his voice.

  I smile with him, the same, old sad smile. The Smile of the Fucked.

  ‘Then it speaks to me.’

  We’re both looking straight ahead.

  ‘Is there any point in asking what it says?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘It doesn’t, for example, mention Clayton? Because, you know if it did, if you had a crow in your dreams specifically implicating Clayton in the girl’s death at the train station, I think it’s the kind of proof Connor’s looking for.’

  Can’t help laughing.

  ‘I don’t know what it says,’ I say eventually.

  ‘And you think this is a sign of Clayton being back, because you still think he’s responsible for the crows business? Somehow your subconscious is tuned in to all this. Tuned in to Clayton in some way.’

  ‘Bang on.’

  I say the words bang on, but not in the way they’re supposed to be said. Not with any enthusiasm.

  ‘Connor knows Clayton came to see me in hospital, right? He knows he more or less confessed?’

  I know what Taylor’s going to say. The same thing I would say if someone was saying that
stuff to me.

  ‘He knows what you said. But we all came to speak to you. We all know what you were like, the level of drugs you were on, the state your head was in. And you know no one else saw Clayton at the hospital. If Clayton did come to see you...’

  And he pauses, waiting for me to insist he did. I stay quiet.

  ‘... he did so in the certain knowledge he could say anything he damn well pleased. And even if you’d been recording everything he said, he could just say he was messing with you, to get back at you for messing with him. The worst we could have got him on was wasting police time, and there’s no way Connor’s going after the guy for that. And I’d agree with him.’

  ‘You know where he is now?’

  ‘Clayton? Right this minute?’

  ‘Is he still in the same house?’

  ‘I don’t know. But whatever you do next, Sergeant, don’t go round there. Don’t go anywhere near him. Connor can be an absolute arse, we all know, but this time... this time he’s right. We can’t go near Clayton on the back of a dream crow.’

  ‘I know.’

  He finally looks at me. I keep my eyes out the window. Gostkowski has gone. The car park is deserted. Across the way there’s an old couple, the man walking ten yards ahead of the woman. We see them coming along that road all the time, the man always a few yards ahead of his wife, both of them with walking sticks.

  ‘I’ll get you an appointment with a psych.’

  We stand and stare out of the window. The day passes before us. The silence in the room is of a similar quality to the silence in Connor’s room.

  ‘A male one,’ he adds, a short while later. ‘Just in case.’

  20

  THINGS CHANGE SO QUICKLY. Investigations fly by, pieces of information here and there, slotting in perfectly, or hanging around on the periphery, waiting to be picked up, waiting to find their place. As so often seems to be the case, I feel like a passenger. I’m just there, while things happen around me. Bad things. Pointless things. Things that sometimes lead to results. What do I ever contribute?