Those look like expensive shoes. Smart, brown Oxfords. Continuing with my head being detached from the game, I contemplate my own shoes, scuffed and a couple of years old, given the benefit of a clean once every six or seven months.
The three of us stand and look at each other. Hard to read the look on Clayton’s face.
‘Mr Clayton...,’ says Taylor.
Clayton smiles, broadly, cutting Taylor off.
‘I’m not sure I would entirely say I’ve been expecting you, gentlemen, but somehow I’m not surprised. A few unexplained murders in Glasgow, must be time to round up the usual suspects... Is that it?’
‘We’d just like a word,’ says Taylor.
Clayton holds his gaze for a few seconds, and then turns to me. The familiar detached amusement.
‘Have you the slightest, the remotest, the tinniest excuse for coming to talk to me?’ he asks. ‘At what point did one of you turn to the other and say, I know, some poor girl was pushed in front of a train in Cambuslang, let’s go and speak to Michael Clayton, he simply must be involved?’
All this with his eyes trained on me. Like he knows the crows are in my head. Like he knows it’s the only damned reason we’re here. Like he knows Taylor and I had the conversation.
‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry, Mr Clayton,’ says Taylor, ‘we’d just like a word.’
Clayton slowly shifts his gaze back to Taylor, and then with a theatrical movement, steps back and ushers us into the house.
‘You may as well come in, then,’ he says. ‘I’d hate to disappoint.’
HE’S BEHIND A DESK in a small office, Taylor and me in chairs opposite. We’d examined this room before, back during the Plague of Crows business, but we didn’t interview him in here.
An expensive office, two walls of old books, a large globe, paintings of battle scenes on the walls, an old desk lamp, heavy wooden furniture. The window is north facing, the light dim, the room cool. There’s no computer on the desk, the only device a retro dial phone. One could expect the place to be dusty, but unsurprisingly with Clayton, it’s immaculate.
Tea has been offered and turned down. Nevertheless, he left us sitting in here and took the opportunity to go and make himself a small pot. While he was out the room, we didn’t move. We sat here, not wanting to be caught looking through papers and books and files and drawers.
He slowly pours tea into a cup through a strainer, his movements precise. The pouring liquid is the only sound. The moment could almost be elegiac, one of those you want to capture and stop, stay in for as long as possible, except the guy pouring the tea is a psychopath.
He places one sugar cube in the cup, using tongs to lift it from the bowl, stirs slowly, and then adds a little milk. He is being so particular and meticulous he could be performing some ancient Asian tea ceremony.
‘Can you tell us what you’ve been doing this past week, Mr Clayton?’ asks Taylor.
Clayton continues as though he hasn’t heard the question, lays down the spoon, lifts the cup with the fingers of both hands, takes a silent sip, pauses for a second with the tea just beneath his mouth, then places it back in the saucer.
‘Almost perfect,’ he says. ‘Just needs another minute or two to cool down.’
Finally he engages Taylor, clasping his hands together, then resting his chin in them, his elbows on the table.
‘I’ve been here,’ he says.
‘Can anyone verify that?’ I ask.
His eyes move between Taylor and me, then he says, ‘I hardly think so.’
‘What have you been doing?’ asks Taylor.
‘Writing,’ he says. ‘A memoir.’
He leaves that comment in the air for a few seconds, and then continues, ‘And yes, both of you gentlemen are in it. How nice of you to come back and potentially add another chapter.’
I don’t look at Taylor, but I bet he’s thinking the same thing I am. The suits back in Dalmarnock will be pishing themselves when they learn this bastard is writing a book.
‘It’s called There’s Always A Reason And It’s Usually Stupidity. Just a working title of course, but my agent loves it. We’ll see. These books go through so many processes along the way, so many drafts. I’ve never done it before, feels quite tiresome now I’ve actually started.’
‘You’ve got an agent?’ asks Taylor.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I thought they were quite hard to come by?’ I say.
What the fuck do I know?
‘With the story I’ve got to tell, there was practically a queue.’
‘Who’s your agent?’ asks Taylor. ‘And has he found you a publisher yet?’
‘Davina,’ he says, ‘my agent is called Davina. Lovely girl. Works for Cooper, Baylor and Reibach in Clerkenwell.’
‘London?’
‘Of course.’
‘We’ll speak to her,’ says Taylor.
‘I’m sure you will.’
‘Has she found you a publisher?’
‘She hasn’t officially gone out yet. We’re perfecting the first few chapters. There was some talk of a ghostwriter, but I really did want to take care of it myself. When we’re settled on the first, I don’t know, five chapters I think, then she will go to auction. She’s already put out some feelers. She’s very confident. She thinks we could be looking at a six-figure deal.’
He makes a dismissive hand movement, the very idea of talking about money being so vulgar.
‘Have you seen anyone this week?’ I ask. ‘Have you played golf, been to the shops, out for dinner?’
His eyes rest on me. I get the feeling, like he’s thinking it through on the spot, that just for a second there’s something going on in there that hasn’t been calculated.
Everything about him seems premeditated, like he’s reading from a script he’s already written. Now, though, it looks as though he’s contemplating going off-message, like the politician goaded into a rogue moment, with his advisors covering their eyes and groaning. Except, Clayton makes every politician you ever watched look like a rank amateur.
‘I’ve seen my psychiatrist,’ he says. ‘If you must know.’
Taylor recognises the departure too.
‘How long have you been seeing a psychiatrist?’
‘Ha! Provided with that piece of information, I wondered how long it would take you to blunder into doctor/patient confidentiality. Three seconds, was it? Longer than I thought.’
‘Can you tell us the name of your psychiatrist?’ I ask.
‘You people...’ he says.
We get the look again, the eyes drifting between us, then he opens the drawer at his right hand, lifts out a business card, and tosses it across the desk.
‘You can call her, if you like. I rather presume she won’t tell you anything.’
Taylor lifts the card, glances at it, then slips it into his pocket.
‘Which day did you see her?’ he asks.
Another pause. Feels like Clayton’s back on script, which would be odd if he’d never intended telling us about the psychiatrist in the first place. Perhaps he writes these scripts in seconds in his head. Perhaps that’s one of his talents, one of the things to separate him from regular, everyday murdering scumbags.
‘I see her every day,’ he says.
‘Have you seen her today?’ asks Taylor.
Clayton flicks the switch to impatience, as it must suit whatever plan he has.
‘I just said I see her every day, didn’t I? Today was a day, wasn’t it? An actual day? So, yes, I saw her. Why don’t you call her and ask?’
‘I will,’ says Taylor.
There he goes, pushing the buttons. What a bastard. It’s one thing being quietly weird and smug, it’s what we expect; another thing altogether getting annoyed at us, when he knows fine well we have every reason to be here.
Mouth shut, I think to myself. Keep your mouth shut.
DRIVING AWAY, THE LIGHT of early evening beginning to dim a little further. Taylor looks th
underously angry. Bob remains silent. This is no time for Bob.
‘Pain in the arse it’s a Saturday evening,’ he says, eventually. ‘Nevertheless, we need to try to get these two people, at least before Monday morning. You take the agent, I’ll try to get the psychiatrist.’
I can feel the darkness descending – the deep dark of the long, drawn-out nighttime – as a result of seeing that bastard again. It all comes flooding back, despite my pathetic attempts to keep it at bay with glib, dry humour. Never likely to cut it.
Need a cigarette. Not smoking so much these days, but right now, I could use the whole packet. Will stand outside, in the carpark, when we get back to the station. I’ll stand out there and hope no fucker joins me.
I stare ahead into the evening and wonder how much alcohol it’ll take to get me through the night. Jesus, do I even care if I get through the night?
CLAYTON STANDS AT THE window, looking out on the warmth of a grey evening, the ends of his fingers tapping together, a pastiche of a comedy villain in this year’s big animated feature.
He’s asking himself questions, carrying out a conversation in his head. There is someone else in the room for him to speak to, but these questions aren’t for her. They might point to some interesting psychology, of course, but the fact that he’s asking himself the questions rather than the psychiatrist, is probably indicative of the fact he’s not particularly interested in hearing what she has to say anyway, regardless of the effort he’s made in getting her here.
It all seems so easy. Perhaps he should be doing something to make it a little more difficult. Create a problem of his own design, which he will then have to work to sort out.
Perhaps introducing the psychiatrist into the mix might bring something of a frisson to the game. He would wait to see how that played out, and then decide if he would toss any more alligators into the pit.
The police had already tried Dr Brady’s phone, it having rung within twenty minutes of Taylor and Hutton leaving his house. They would already be trying to track her down. Either way, it would be a mildly interesting spanner in the works for the next day or two. Nevertheless, all part of the plan.
The ends of his fingers tap slowly together, the clockwork wheels click round in his head.
26
AND SO 11:03PM FINDS me at home, drinking wine. Couldn’t even be bothered stopping off at the bar on the way back here. Felt like drinking vodka, but there’s none in the house. There’s wine, and it’ll do.
Couldn’t get hold of the agent, so I e-mailed. Left it at that. Not surprisingly, Taylor couldn’t get the psychiatrist either. The rest of the evening dribbled away in a descent into the old, familiar oblivion. Fucking hated being there by the end, but didn’t want to leave to come home.
Yet what else is there? Go out? Sit in amongst people? Listen to them talking, laughing, arguing, whatever the fuck else they were going to be saying?
And so here I am home, fuelling my descent. I don’t want anything else. I don’t want anyone else. There have been plenty of times when this would have had me trawling the streets, picking up someone, regardless of whether or not I had to pay for it. Hey, you always have to pay, one way or another.
Philo, that was as good and as healthy as it was ever going to be, and I’m sure as fuck paying now.
But no matter how shit I feel, and no matter how shit I want to feel, I don’t want any piece-of-fucking-shit woman who I’m going to hate the absolute fuck out of, lying in my bed.
So, no drugs – there are never drugs – and no one else. Just wine, and my favourite lesbian porn DVD. Haven’t watched it in, fuck, I don’t know... Haven’t watched any porn in God knows how long. Haven’t needed to. Haven’t cared.
You want to judge me? On any of it? Who gives a shit? Who gives a damned shit? Judge away, you bloody fools, then hide in your own corruptions.
Still drinking wine from the glass – soon enough it’ll be straight from the bottle – and flicking between scenes trying to find one that really gets me going, because I’m sitting here naked from the waist down, thinking I’d be spending my evening drinking and masturbating, but my cock is just like, ‘oh for God’s sake Hutton, you fucking arsehole, are you seriously doing this?’ when my front door buzzer goes from out on the street.
Down the rest of the glass, pour some more from the bottle, take another drink.
He knows where I live. That’s my first thought. There’s a peculiar moment of fear, because I don’t want him coming up here now, seeing me like this. Defences are down – yeah, as well as my trousers – and I’m no match for him. Not now. But he’ll know. He’ll know I’m here. He’s a sly fucker who knows things. That’s who he is.
The buzzer goes again.
Another slurp of wine, some of it splashing on my chin, wipe it away with my sleeve, stand up, trousers back on, leaving those M&S briefs that are made with, God I don’t know, some sort of NASA technology, lying on the floor, and go to the door. Pause, my head resting on the wall.
Maybe I could just let him kill me. That would be easy. You win. On you fucking go!
He doesn’t want to kill me yet, though, does he? Too much sport still to be had.
The buzzer goes again, and I angrily jab the button.
‘What?’
‘Hey,’ says the unexpected voice of Eileen Harrison. ‘Thought I’d come and check up on you.’
The tension floods out of me. Great waves of it. It could bring tears if I let it. Where was I ten seconds ago? Getting ready to die, right? Yep, that was it. Ready to stand before that fucker and let him do whatever he wanted.
‘Tom?’
‘Still here.’
‘You all right?’
‘No.’
‘What are you doing up there?’
I laugh, a wretched, contrived, desperate, stupid laugh.
‘Tom?’
‘Drinking wine and watching lesbian porn,’ I say.
A small pause, then she says, ‘And you didn’t invite me?’
I put my head back against the wall as I buzz open the door from the street, then I open the door to the flat and stand there, like the fucking wasted loser I am, listening to her footfalls on the steps.
Have a brief thought Clayton will be beside her, a gun at her head, but he’d hardly need the cover of Harrison to get in.
I stand away from the door as she comes up, she pushes it further open, looks at me, then closes the door and walks into the flat. She surveys the situation.
Nearly empty bottle of wine on the carpet beside the settee. A single glass. NASA technology M&S briefs on the floor. She looks at the television. It’s your classic scene of the older woman and the neophyte, played out in porn movies around the world and, I’m guessing, virtually never in real life.
‘Mum and the babysitter?’ she says.
I smile. You know, one of those black humour, everything’s fucking shit smiles.
‘I think it might be a stepmum and her son’s girlfriend, or something,’ I say. ‘The dialogue was a little complex. I got lost.’
She watches it for a few seconds, then bends down and lifts both the NASA pants and my wine glass. She tastes the wine, approves – you can’t go wrong with a Sauvignon Blanc – and feels the texture of the underwear.
‘Hmm, that’s nice, what kind of material is that?’
‘I don’t know. I think it might be from space... Maybe we’re getting a little too personal here, Sergeant.’
‘You think? Hey, we’re about to watch lesbian porn together, and I rarely do that with my underwear on either, so you know... I’ll get myself a glass.’
She throws the NASA pants at me, gives me a look that is understanding and compassionate, just a glance, just a if-this-is-what-gets-you-through-the-night look, then turns in to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a glass, another bottle of wine and the bag of Doritos I’d neglected to bring through in the first place.
She opens the bottle, fills her own drink, settles into the sofa
beside me and clinks my glass.
‘So, what are we watching?’
‘Lesbian Bonanza,’ I say.
‘Hmm... I thought I’d seen it, but I don’t remember this.’
‘This is Lesbian Bonanza 6.’
‘Ah.’
She opens the Doritos and offers me the bag. We both take a handful, stick them in our laps and then settle back. Wine, Doritos and porn.
The stepmum is lying back on the sofa, her clothes hanging off, her breasts glorious, and also oiled for some reason that is not entirely clear, while the babysitter or the son’s girlfriend or the plumber or the accountant or whoever the young lady is, is on her knees, completely naked, teasing the mum, her tongue running over the older woman’s thighs.
‘Fuck me with your tongue,’ gasps the mum.
‘I know it’s wrong,’ says Harrison, ‘but if I had to choose, I’d go for the twenty year-old.’
It’s a small sofa, her leg is unavoidably touching mine. At long last my penis starts to wake up to the fact there’s porn on the TV and a woman beside me.
27
INTO THE OFFICE JUST after eight. Wouldn’t have predicted that ten hours earlier. Weirdly feel all right, despite the three and a half bottles of wine we got through. Even managed to stumble into bed before falling asleep.
There was some recovery done, although it was from a long way back, so let’s not get excited about how switched on I’m going to be today, right bang smack in the middle of something this big. And I say we’re in the middle, but really, fuck knows where we are. If this is Clayton, God knows how long we could be here. He certainly played the long game with the Crows business. What was that in the end? Nine months maybe. Spun it out, kept us hanging, toyed with us perfectly.
Maybe he does the same again.
Maybe I need to take matters into my own hands. Go round there, put a bullet in his stupid fat head. I couldn’t be doing with a murder trial, any of that shit, I wouldn’t want the Police Service as a whole to take the brunt of it, as it would, so I’d probably have to also kill myself in the process.
See That My Grave Is Kept Clean Page 13
