See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

  A chat in Connor’s office alongside Taylor, then the show for the press, then in with just Taylor, then back to my desk. Said the two lines I’d thought I’d say last night, not much else. The press guys who were there didn’t seem terribly impressed. I wonder if one of them might work out the press conference was more about delivering a message than actually contributing anything to the narrative of the investigation, but hopefully they’re more likely just to think we want to be seen to be doing our bit, while not actually doing anything at all.

  And phht, suddenly it’s eleven-thirty in the morning and it already feels like it should be the middle of the afternoon, and I’m sitting at my desk waiting for the e-mail to pop up, not really able to think straight, but it’s nothing to do with anything much, just one of those fucking days when everything seems shit.

  I want to go and talk to Philo this afternoon, but I really doubt she wants to talk to me, and yes, Jesus, I know she’s dead and she’s not talking anyway and she’s not thinking anything about it, nothing at all, because, like we’ve already established, she’s dead! so it’s all a projection of myself, all of it. It’s all about me, the self-obsessed, narcissistic wanker.

  And you need to shut up!

  Then here it comes, the long-awaited e-mail, the one we’ve been hoping for. Sit back in my seat, read the words over a few times. Morrow’s not in, the desk opposite empty. Look into Taylor’s office, where he sits at his desk, glance at Connor’s door, which remains closed.

  Forward the e-mail on, copying them both in.

  Thank God! I can stop now! Such a shame you were too late for Rogers. Until next time, Sergeant...

  As I send it, my eyes are on Taylor, his back turned to me where he sits. I can see the physical slump of the shoulders. The moment. Composing himself, shoulders straighten a little, and then we’re back, and he’s up, and walking through into the open plan. Stops at Morrow’s desk, as ever.

  ‘Suppose that’s a good news/bad news situation,’ he says.

  ‘Not if you’re Rogers.’

  ‘The name doesn’t mean anything?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Right, I’ll go in and talk to Connor, we’ll sort out what we’re taking to the Chief Constable. No matter how absurd, it looks like we were right. Bob Dylan album titles. Jesus... You get onto the system, see if there’s anyone named Rogers been reported missing in Glasgow in the last few days.’

  ‘I’ll bring it in if I find anything.’

  ‘Cool.’

  And off he goes.

  Take a second. Let my eyes drift over the words in the latest e-mail. Processing. Allowing this new information to sink into the misery of the day. Recalibrate. Try to stop internalising. Internalising is for sitting at home with a bottle of wine or a bottle of vodka. Internalising is for 2am, can’t sleep, staring at the fucking wall. Internalising is for weekends with nothing to do.

  Rogers!

  Find the name straight away. Mr James Rogers of Rodden Drive, Kings Park.

  Pick up the phone, call the local station. Answered by one of those fantastic, ball-crushing female police sergeants you get.

  ‘Hi, Detective Sgt Hutton in Cambuslang.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ she says, the tone of her voice immediately signaling recognition. ‘Nice TV slot this morning.’

  ‘Thank you... You’ve got a missing guy called Rogers?’

  Pause. ‘Don’t know the name, just let me check.’

  Sit back, look around the office. Glance at the closed door of Connor’s office. Wonder how Connor’s enjoying the fact he’s going to stand before the collected beaks of Police Scotland and say we’ve managed to bring an end to the Bob Dylan murders.

  Jesus.

  ‘Hey. Yes, we’ve got him. Reported missing yesterday afternoon when he didn’t turn up for work. Was supposed to be in B&Q yesterday morning, didn’t respond to calls to his house or to his mobile. No reports of him calling a doctor. His work place called it in, doesn’t seem to have any family close by.’

  ‘And someone’s been round to his house?’

  Slight pause.

  ‘We knocked on the door, but the officers chose not to effect entry.’

  I’m not going to ask why not. You don’t go breaking into some guy’s house just because he doesn’t turn up at work. In fact, you don’t really call the police in that situation, and if someone did and we reacted to it at all, it must have been because it was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Kings Park.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep... we’ve got something... Those e-mails we’ve been getting? We got another one this morning pointing to Rogers. Too late for Rogers, that’s what it said. No idea at this point who Rogers is, but we need to check this guy out, just in case.’

  ‘OK, I’ll send someone round.’

  ‘Mind if I come over?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Cool. Be there in fifteen.’

  Hang up, stare at the boss’s door, contemplate just heading on out, but decide I’d better stick my nose in.

  Knock, open the door but don’t really go into the office. They look at me expectantly. Looks like I’ve got the room.

  ‘There’s a missing Rogers over in Kings Park. They haven’t put his door in yet, so I’m going round there now.’

  Taylor glances at Connor.

  ‘We can leave it to the Sergeant,’ says the boss, ‘we need to draft something here. Call it in as soon as you’re in the house,’ he continues, looking at me. ‘Including, obviously, a negative return.’

  And I’m out the door, heading down to the car park.

  IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. I don’t think I noticed the weather when I came out this morning, I didn’t see the glorious June sunshine. Too fucking miserable. That’s what happens when you’re forty-seven and you wake up having wet the bed because your head’s a piece of worm-eaten, petrified fuck.

  Four of us at the door. Detective Constable Hobbes, who seems like a reasonable bloke. Morrow, by another name, relocated fifteen minutes across town. And two female constables who I’m doing my damnedest not to objectify. I really am. Constables Clarence and Oates.

  Oates unlocks the door on the fifth key attempt, and in we go. I prefer a well-placed shoulder myself, but it probably makes sense not to burst a door off its lock if you don’t have to.

  She steps into the hallway, this morning’s mail on the carpet. Just a couple of white envelopes and a Lidl advert. Hobbes moves past her, into the front room. Walks straight in, and we follow.

  A plain old room, nothing interesting about it, except the obvious gap on the wall, where the large TV screen – forty-two inch maybe – has been taken down, and another clear space on a dusty shelf beneath, where perhaps the DVD player used to sit.

  Through into the room beyond, and now Hobbes stops in the doorway. The international sign of having found what we’re looking for. He moves further inside, and we follow him in.

  And there we stand, in a perfect line, staring.

  The television has been attached to the wall in the small room. Too big really for the front room, it totally dominates this room. Pretty unpleasant porn is playing, presumably on some kind of continuous loop. A young woman, five or six guys. She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself.

  Jim Rogers himself is on the floor, perched against the wall opposite the TV. The small dining table has been pushed out of the way to the back of the room. There are only two chairs, placed under the table.

  Rogers is naked. The manner of his death is not immediately obvious. There’s no blood. His penis is in his right hand, still erect it seems, although a quick glance suggests something has been inserted inside it to keep it that way. So, unnaturally stretched is probably a better description than erect.

  His left hand is on a large bottle of Bowmore, which is nearly empty. If the rest of the contents of the bottle are inside him, that might point to one reason for him being dead. At first glance I thought there was shit smeared around h
is mouth, but then I notice the chocolate cake at his side. Most of it is gone too. And all around him, covering the floor, is money. Notes. Fives and tens and twenties. At a rough guess, several thousand pounds.

  ‘Well, this is fucking weird,’ says Constable Clarence after a minute or so.

  Almost laugh out loud. You think? Hobbes gives her a quick glance.

  ‘Fuck,’ he mutters. ‘This what you expected to find, Sergeant?’

  Couldn’t begin to know what I thought I’d find. It’s got a seven deadly sins feel about it, doesn’t it? Se7en. That’s what I think. Gluttony and greed and lust, though maybe not all of them. And the sound of the girl getting fucked by several enormous, porn star-sized dudes suddenly seems even louder than it was when we walked in.

  ‘I know we shouldn’t touch anything, but could you put that off, Constable, please?’

  I only ask because she’s nearest. Oates. She glances at Hobbes for confirmation, he nods, and she takes the two steps to the DVD player, pulls the cuff of her shirt down over her finger and presses the off button.

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll call it in,’ says Hobbes. ‘Can you look around, see what else there is?’

  Chocolate cake, money, booze and porn. Hmm... Bob did the Seven Deadly Sins song with the Wilburys, but that’s not it. The seven deadly sins aren’t represented here, not in their totality. It would be different from what he’s been doing, and it would be copying the Brad Pitt movie. That’s not Clayton.

  Then out of nowhere the word pops into my head.

  Desire.

  I’d thought it was almost too simple a title to have been used. Not sure, in fact, that it’s not a bit of a stretch. How exactly is this guy going to have been killed by porn, money or cake? Alcohol, well that’s fair enough. Kills thousands of us every year. It’ll be my turn soon enough.

  There I fucking go, making it about me again. Jesus.

  35

  THIS ONE HAS BROUGHT in the spectators, and I don’t mean the gawkers who assemble at every crime scene. Those sad bastards are to be expected. The hordes who aren’t quite fulfilled by CSI: Garrowhill on Channel 5 and need to see the real thing in action. Let them come.

  This time, however, the suits have come to see. Connor is visiting a crime scene for possibly the first time in his entire life. Don’t know much about the Chief Constable, but I imagine it’s been a few years since he tossed on a SOCO suit and stuck his hand into the metaphorical viscera of an actual investigation.

  Perhaps they came hoping the nasty porn would still be playing on the TV. They probably asked for it to be turned back on. Someone, somewhere, will of course have the job of watching it all, and more than once, to see if there are any clues to be had from the film. Won’t be us, though, it’ll go to one of the locals, in keeping with the general egalitarian nature of the investigation so far.

  I’m currently standing on the sidelines, waiting to be called back into action. I should probably have already headed back to the station, but for now, I think I might actually need some direction.

  Where are we going with is? Seven people murdered, plus the strange case of the missing psychiatrist. The latter is the only thing pointing to any peculiarity in Clayton’s actions over the last week, and yet the potentially missing psychiatrist herself has no obvious connections to the random series of murders.

  So we have nothing. At least, nothing on Clayton.

  Coffee in my hand. Someone came round with them, not sure who. One of our lot, though, not some random member of the public.

  Taylor and Connor emerge from the house, squeeze pass a couple more SOCO’s on their way in. Taylor eyes my coffee, looks around, doesn’t spot the source of the tasty beverage.

  Connor shakes his head, his cheeks puffed out. Lets out a long sigh. Hands in his pockets, looks around at the waiting crowd, all of them out of earshot.

  ‘So what do we think, gentlemen?’ he asks, his gaze over to the other side of the street, over the tops of the houses. Perhaps looking to see if he can see the floodlights of Hampden from here. Already looked. You can’t. ‘You’ve worked it out, and now he’s going to stop? Was it really that simple all along? A simple, stupid, parlour game? The Bob Dylan murders?’

  He grimaces at the artless stupidity of it. Unusually I find myself agreeing with him.

  ‘If he’s stopped,’ says Taylor, ‘then thank God. But it’s not as though we can just let it rest because there aren’t going to be any more.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyone else getting anywhere?’ I ask. ‘I mean, any of the other stations?’

  ‘No,’ says Connor. ‘I don’t know who this is, but they’re bloody good, I’ll tell you that. Not a fingerprint, not a suspicious phone call, not a name online or in a diary or in a text message, not a piece of CCTV footage. Whoever this is, they’ve thought of everything. Bloody good. Bloody good...’

  Yes, he is, just don’t say that in front of a TV camera. I look around again, making sure everyone really is out of earshot. If some fucker’s got a microphone... Asshole Cop Licks Killer’s Baws In New Establishment Shame.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he mutters.

  ‘What now?’ I ask.

  Taylor gives me a glance, then looks around the crowd of onlookers. Connor continues to do the same. Perhaps they’re both clinging to the old maxim about the killer returning to the scene of the crime. Looking for the face in the crowd, the eyes that drop when they see the police looking, the person who turns and walks away under scrutiny. Or the killer with ball-breaking confidence, who stares down the police, somehow knowing he’s untouchable.

  And that’s what our guy is, right now. Ball-breakingly confident and untouchable.

  ‘We shouldn’t be complacent,’ says Taylor. ‘He might just mean the bloody Bob Dylan murders are over. Maybe next he’s going to do the Neil Young Murders, or the Winnie the Fucking Pooh murders for all we know. And we’re going to need a more established, central point of the investigation. Rather than four or five teams working to the centre, we need one dedicated team, taking all the crimes together as a whole. It’ll piss a few people off, but they have to do it. I don’t care if we’re on it, and in fact, since the killer is trying to drag you into this, Sergeant, you at least certainly shouldn’t be.’

  Pauses, looks at his watch.

  ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘we’re back to Riverside in an hour. We should get back to the station, finalise our pitch, aggregate everything we’ve got, and get in there. Come in strong and, more than anything else, practical.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Connor.

  Out of his depth, as he has been since he arrived, due to the proverbial series of unfortunate events.

  Hmm, that’s not a proverb, is it?

  I don’t feel out of my depth, but still, in terms of enthusiasm at least, I’m as far away from Taylor as Connor appears to be.

  ‘Sergeant, you just keep on keeping on. Try and pin down Dr Brady, we need to find her. I want to be able to definitely rule Clayton out the game, or get something on him.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  And so it goes.

  36

  MONDAY AFTERNOON, WARM day, standing on the doorstep of Brady’s house. Back where I was yesterday evening, except the circumstances are completely different.

  Yesterday I was looking in hope, and finding nothing. Today I’m back because I called her number and, out of the blue, she answered.

  Look around as I wait for her to come to the door. Quiet street. Don’t see anyone around. Not so much as a warm afternoon lawnmower in use. Maybe I can hear one in the distance somewhere, someone else’s back garden, someone else’s life.

  Yesterday I spoke to three of the neighbours, all of whom had that inherent middle class suspicion of the police – totally different, of course, from the inherent working class suspicion of the police. Only the upper classes aren’t suspicious of the police, because they know if there’s any trouble, they can get the Queen or the head of the Civil Service or
the Prime Minister to call off the dogs.

  The door opens, I turn, and there’s the vamp. Jesus. Same look as yesterday, this time built around a sheer white knee-length dress, holding a gin and tonic in her right hand.

  How, you ask, do I know it’s a gin and tonic and not a vodka tonic or a Bacardi and lemonade or even just a double lemonade?

  Not sure, but I can tell. Call it a superpower.

  ‘Sergeant, just in time. Come in.’

  She stands back, not giving me a huge amount of room, and I brush past her, close enough to get the scent of the gin on her breath and the full waft of whatever body spray she draped herself in. And there’s that old familiar feeling.

  Momentarily close my eyes, my back still to her, as I examine the inner mental workings to establish if there’s the slightest possibility I could try to carry out a proficient, coherent and professional line of questioning, and immediately acknowledge it’s not going to happen.

  I’m always about to leave the damn police anyway, right? What difference does it make if I do it in disgrace after getting drunk and fucking a witness?

  Who said anything about getting drunk? And as for the latter, well I have my boss’s instructions to which to adhere. Do whatever you have to do.

  She walks past me and I follow her down a short corridor and into the large kitchen at the back of the house.

  I already spent a few minutes in this place yesterday, when I broke in. It’s the kind of kitchen you get in magazines, albeit not the kind of magazines I read. Floored with great slabs of stone, a wooden island in the middle with cooking implements hanging above, and all around sleek and expensive tools of the part-time chef’s trade, tucked perfectly into beautiful units and sitting on marble worktops.