See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

  I said to Taylor I’d go and speak to Kramer to confirm his assessment. Then the next e-mail came in, and off we went on another tangent. I thought, there’s little point in seeing Kramer now. So that sparked the next thought, the one that said, maybe that’s what he’s expecting you to do. This might be the moment when you miss the thing. The breakthrough. You were going to do it. Regardless of what’s happened, you need to follow it through.

  So here I am, sitting in the bar of the Holiday Inn in the centre of town. Kramer’s getting the drinks. I thought I oughtn’t to drink alcohol while interviewing on a case, and then he said he was getting himself a gin and tonic and I crumbled and asked for vodka tonic. Just like that, the weak, pathetic wretch surrendered to one of his many vices.

  ‘You got a daughter, Sergeant?’ he says, after we’ve been sitting in silence for a second or two.

  ‘Don’t see her much.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Don’t deserve to,’ I say. At least it forces me to get going, because we’re certainly not here to talk about me. ‘Tell me about Tandy.’

  ‘I think you people have heard it all by now,’ he says.

  ‘Tell me something I haven’t heard. There’s always something.’

  I hold his gaze. I thought, coming here, it was going to be like looking in the mirror, looking into the same miserable depths I find myself in. Perhaps, even, it would be worse.

  Regardless of all my crap, self-inflicted and otherwise, there can be nothing like losing a child. I don’t know whether the newness of the event might make it worse or whether the real torment will take longer to kick in. Maybe there hasn’t been the time yet, for him to live every day, getting up, having the first thought of the day, day after wretched, shitty day, his daughter is dead and he’ll never see her again.

  But it’s not there. The look isn’t in his eyes. It’s not that I see a lack of concern. I don’t see guilt or fear, I don’t see disinterest. But I also don’t see heart-wrenching hurt and regret. The pain that ought to be there.

  ‘What’s there to say, Sergeant?’ he says. ‘She’s dead. Someone killed her. Maybe they knew who they were pushing in front of the train, I don’t know...’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘Your boss asked me already, Sergeant,’ he says. ‘Are you reading off the same cheat sheet? Is that all you’ve got?’

  And he’s right. It is pretty much all I’ve got.

  ‘You’re not here to ask any more questions,’ he says, ‘or any different questions. You’re just here to see what he’s like, scope out the Californian guy. That it? Look me over, see what you think? Is it possible I was nailing my daughter? Huh?’

  ‘You lied to DCI Taylor,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t believe I did,’ he says, ‘but go on, Sherlock.’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘You told him you spoke to Tandy at the weekend. You told him you spoke to her every weekend, sometimes during the week, too.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Take a drink. God, it’s good. Perfect amount of vodka, great mix, temperature colder than the kiss of a vampire lesbian.

  Yeah, whatever.

  ‘Well,’ I say, having left him hanging, ‘it’s correct that’s what you told him. It’s not correct that’s what you did.’

  He’s staring, trying to figure me out, trying to understand what I know, and where I’m coming from. Have I checked phone records? Have I spoken to anyone else in California? Have I, perhaps, spoken to Tandy’s mother.

  I’ve got nothing on him other than the look in his eyes. Tandy may have lived with him, but there was no great relationship there. Probably explains why she was studying in Scotland and not in California, or anywhere else in the US.

  ‘You have a daughter,’ he says, and his eyes are dropping.

  Is this all he’s been waiting for, I wonder. Another father to talk to?

  He goes quiet for a while. Stares at the floor. Holds his drink, but doesn’t lift it. Now there’s real feeling in those eyes, real thoughts rather than evasive thoughts running through his head, but there’s no need to push him further. It’s coming. Just need to wait until he decides the time is right.

  Wonder why he never talked to Taylor? Natural defence against the first line of attack, perhaps. Eventually the weight of lies start to kick in, take their toll.

  Finally he lifts his drink again, lifts his eyes at the same time, takes about a third of the glass in one go then places it back on the table.

  ‘We all want to be thought reasonable men, Sergeant. I’m a reasonable man. Decent. Tandy was... she was wild. After her mother left, I couldn’t do anything with her. She needed a mother. She was...’ The gaze drifts away over the hotel bar, coming to rest on the lower leg of a woman sitting at a nearby table. I’ll give the guy the benefit of the doubt and say he’s staring into space, not really focused on anything. ‘Always bringing boys home, always much older than her. I mean, when she was twelve, thirteen. She didn’t care what I thought. Wild... like I said.’

  Not the Tandy Kramer we’ve come to know from her lecturers and fellow students, but how often do you see that? The daughter, a completely different person from the friend.

  ‘Did you sleep with her?’

  He doesn’t look at me. A doleful smile on his lips, another drink.

  ‘No, Sergeant, I did not. I did not sleep with her. I did not understand her, and if I’m honest, I gave up on her, and she gave up on me, a long time ago. I don’t know what her plans were, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t coming back to California. Not to cross my front door, any road. California’s a big place. More than big enough for the two of us.’

  He drains the drink, turns back to face me.

  ‘About a year ago,’ he says, ‘to answer your question. The last time I spoke to her was about a year ago.’

  And that, I think, might just be that for Mr Kramer and this particular line of inquiry.

  END UP TALKING TO THE guy for an hour, albeit mostly on his part in dress-up battle re-enactments. You hear about people doing that kind of thing. In the UK, it’s usually going to be Civil War, or Bannockburn, some kind of shit like that. In the US, you’d think Civil War and Little Big Horn. This guy does Game of Thrones. He dresses up as characters from Game of Thrones and plays out battle scenes. Because that’s not weird.

  Fuck it, who knows? Could be the master tactic of the murdering father, engaging in chitchat with the investigating detective, and making him think you’re a sad, simpleton loser because you like to dress up as Stannis Baratheon.

  I suppose there are some of those Game Of Thrones prostitute sex scenes I might have inadvertently re-enacted.

  Get home some time just before ten. Nothing, I think, to report in the end, other than that Kramer should be allowed to return home with his daughter’s body, whenever we’re ready to release it. Could go back into the office, but decide against.

  Tomorrow might be Saturday, but it’s just going to be a regular working day. Get in early, find out how it went for Taylor and Connor. Perhaps the boss will expect me there now, but I’ve had enough for today. Enough of all this shit and death and of thinking that somehow someone is targeting me.

  To the fridge, bottle of wine, get a tumbler, stand in the middle of the kitchen turning the screw. If only I could remember what the crows said. I don’t believe, whatever powers he has, I don’t believe Clayton has the ability to put crows in my head. The crows are making that decision. They must be there to warn me. Or help me.

  First taste of the wine. Dry. Probably something about gooseberries and citrus fruits.

  The doorbell goes. I stand for a moment, not really sure about the sound. The doorbell? Not the buzzer from down on the street. The doorbell. Someone in the building ringing my bell. One of my neighbours come to speak to me, which is weird. My neighbours never speak to me.

  Set the glass down on the table, go to the door, don’t bother with the peep hole. And there’
s the explanation right there. A guy with a beard, in green Lycra, holding a clipboard with his green cycling gloves, wearing a political rosette with matching cycling helmet for the FSN.

  Who the fuck are the FSN?

  ‘Good evening, how are you?’ he says.

  Politics. Jesus.

  In fact, I think I’d prefer it if the guy was selling Jesus. And right there I think of sitting in the church at the top end of Cambuslang, the peace and quiet it afforded, and wonder if it might be worthwhile going back there some time.

  ‘I wonder if you’ve decided how to vote in next month’s council by-election, my friend?’

  Oh, for crying out loud. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do in the next five fucking minutes.

  Oh, wait. Start getting drunk. I have made that decision.

  ‘There’s a council by-election?’

  ‘Yes, there is. The councilor won last month’s Holyrood by-election. Did you vote then?’

  ‘I don’t vote,’ I say.

  He looks taken aback. Like, whoever heard of such a thing?

  ‘Why not? People died so you could vote,’ he says, although he doesn’t quite have the conviction of his words, like it’s a learned response. Like it’s what you’re supposed to say.

  ‘Who the fuck are the FSN?’ I ask.

  Possibly could have chosen words that were slightly less aggressive, but he started it. He rang the bell.

  ‘The Federal Scottish Nationalists,’ he says. ‘We’re an alternative to the SNP, for those who want independence but... well, who want an alternative to the SNP.’

  I stare at him from four feet away. There’s a silence, but it’s not an engaging silence. I think he’s waiting for me to be impressed. Or perhaps he’s guarded, in case I turn out to be one of those bulldog Nats, the walls of my bedroom covered in pictures of the Dear Leader with her Bay City Rollers hair, and I’m about to chib him for daring to suggest there should be another option.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ I say eventually.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Federal Scottish Nationalist?’

  ‘We want independence,’ he says.

  He suddenly doesn’t sound sure.

  ‘So what’s federal about it exactly? You want Scotland itself to be a collection of states in a federation? Millport and Orkney and Glasgow and Edinburgh, with little centralised power?’

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘How many of there are you?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘In the party? How many of there are you in the party?’

  He swallows, looks a bit lost. It’s not getting to me though. I’m not about to feel bad for picking on him. If you’re going to go around sticking your noses into people’s lives at ten o’clock on a fucking Friday evening, at least know what the fuck you’re talking about.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says.

  ‘Jesus...’

  ‘Take a leaflet,’ he says, holding it forward.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  Holy crap. Seriously, I could have drunk a glass of wine in the time I’ve spoken to this fucktard.

  Snatch it off him, don’t look him in the eye again, close the door quickly in his face. Fuck me. Stand there for a second, then walk through to the kitchen.

  Jesus. What a dick. And I mean me, not him.

  He’s just doing what he wants to do. Some harmless conviction, and it’s not like the independence movement doesn’t need an alternative. And what the fuck do I know about federalism?

  Glass in hand, my phone pings. Mutter grimly, for all the world like my life is plagued by interruptions, take a drink, phone out my pocket, read the message.

  No Sender. That’s who it’s from. It says No Sender, as though I have the name No Sender in my phone as a contact.

  You seem stressed. Relax. Maybe turn on the news. Something I prepared earlier.

  Close my eyes. Fuck. Immediately it seems obvious it’s from the same person who’s been sending the e-mails. An anonymous communication. That makes sense. And straight away, I think of Kramer, stupidly Kramer, the last person who I spoke to in relation to the investigation.

  Except, I wasn’t stressed. How would he know I was stressed? I sat in a fucking hotel bar, drinking vodka, talking about Game of Thrones.

  The FSN guy? What? Close my eyes. Picture him. The cycling helmet, the beard. The glasses. He was wearing glasses, so inconspicuous I barely noticed. And the bad teeth. He had noticeably bad teeth. And the gloves. He was wearing gloves.

  Straight back to the door, look out onto the landing. No sign of him, no sign of him having been here. Stand still, listening for the sound of footsteps, or laughter.

  He’s gone.

  Maybe turn on the news. Crap.

  Close the door, back inside. The glass of wine still in my hand, I down the rest of it in one, and turn on the TV.

  21

  BACK INTO THE STATION.

  Have you ever noticed how your life is like a sitcom? Sitcoms are low-budget TV, generally filmed in front of an audience. Therefore they mostly take place on a restricted number of sets. The work place. The bar. The trench in Blackadder Goes Forth, the sitting room in Big Bang Theory.

  And here’s my sitcom life. The sitting room. The station. The café. The bar. Other short, vague parts of it conducted on the street or in the bathroom or on the doorstep, pre-filmed and shown to the studio audience on a monitor.

  Taylor is sitting at my desk, talking to Morrow. He stands when he sees me approach. I’m tired and I don’t want to be here, but thought I’d better. I didn’t call in or anything, just came back as soon as I saw the news. I expect some sarcasm from him, but he just nods.

  ‘You saw it, then?’

  A body found in a basement in Milton of Campsie, as yet unidentified. Had been there for a week or so.

  ‘What’s the score?’ I ask.

  ‘On close inspection, this one seems a little different. I mean, Connor and me were with the suits in Riverside, and not really getting anywhere, when news of this came in. Fourth day in a row with a murder in the Glasgow area. That turned the tide in our favour at least. But looking at it, I’m not so sure. The other three were all murders in the last three days. This one... the victim has been dead at least a week. Haven’t got all the details yet. So, it could be... fuck, who knows, it certainly doesn’t seem to fit the bill.’

  I take out my phone, the text is still up there. Hand it over. He reads it, his expression hardens, he passes it on to Morrow.

  ‘What does it mean, you seem stressed?’

  I’ve been giving it thought on the way in here. Had to walk, after all, couldn’t bring the car with this much alcohol in me. Very circumspect. Would happily have done it in the past.

  ‘Three options,’ I say. ‘It’s someone who just happens to follow me, day to day, on the job. They’re going to know I’m stressed. Second, earlier tonight I had a drink with Kramer, so it would make sense. Except... I really wasn’t stressed. I know I wasn’t. I don’t think I would have come across that way to him, and it’s the only time I’ve seen him. And, of course, how would any of these people know I hadn’t already seen the news? Which leaves the third option. Thirty seconds before I got this text I’d had some political canvasser at the door.’

  ‘On a Friday night? SNP?’

  A reasonable assumption. They’re the only ones putting people out on the streets anymore.

  ‘Said he was from the Federal Scottish Nationalists.’

  ‘The who?’

  I shrug, having not already checked. We look at Morrow, Morrow turns to the go-to guy in anybody’s room, Google.

  ‘So what happened with the guy?’ asks Taylor.

  ‘I got annoyed at him. Didn’t want to take any of his shit, eventually closed the door in his face.’

  ‘You looked stressed?’

  ‘I dare say.’

  ‘And when did you get the text?’

  ‘Pretty quickly afterwards
. Within a minute. I was standing at the door – you know the front door opens straight into the sitting room – and he would’ve heard there was no TV playing.’

  ‘What’d he look like?’

  ‘That’s the thing. Everything about him said disguise. Middle-aged man in Lycra, ostensibly. Lime green, like one of those sad fuckers you see out on his bike. Wearing gloves, bit of a beard, glasses, still wearing his cycling helmet. If you were expecting someone in disguise, he looked like it. But I wasn’t. Brain was switched off. Seems really obvious now, but at the time, well he just looked like a sad fucker, doing sad political shit at ten on a Friday night. Yet remove all that shit, am I going to recognise him?’

  Of course, I’ve been thinking about that as well.

  ‘Well, are you?’ asks Taylor, and we both know what he’s asking.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No such party,’ says Morrow.

  Taylor looks back at the phone message, puts his hands in his pockets, walks off a little way, turns back, head down.

  ‘Something I prepared earlier...,’ he says.

  ‘What about the house where the body was found? The owners?’ I ask.

  ‘They say they know nothing about it, and you know... well, at the moment we’re inclined to believe them. A couple in their 80s. The man looked confused, the woman looked like she’s ready to sue someone. The police, if need be, like it’s our fault.’

  ‘And the victim?’

  ‘They claim no knowledge of her.’

  ‘How’d she die?’

  ‘She’d been bound with duct tape, but the duct tape equivalent of the girl getting painted gold in Goldfinger. Completely bound, completely covered, head to foot. They’re presuming she’ll have suffocated at some point, but we’ll see.’

  ‘I guess it wouldn’t have taken very long. I mean, to die.’

  ‘Possibly not. Waiting on that as well.’

  Taylor starts tapping the desk.

  ‘So, are we losing the case, anyway?’ I ask. ‘I mean, if it’s being centralised?’

  ‘No decision, but it’s likely. The Clarkston guys are super-reluctant to give up their racial hatred, double beheading, despite not having got anywhere. Everybody’s the same, Connor too, really, but we’re the little guys. Ultimately, I think we’ll find by tomorrow afternoon it’s off our hands. As usual, with one of these things, we just have to do as good a job as possible, hand over as much as we can, and hope we haven’t missed something glaringly obvious they discover in the first ten minutes.’