See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

  Even I like the damn kitchen, and I consider it cooking when I make a bowl of Cornflakes.

  ‘Gin and tonic?’ she asks, taking up position at the counter, beside an empty glass and half a lime.

  ‘Vodka if you’ve got it,’ I say.

  ‘Just gin.’

  ‘Gin it is.’

  I stand and watch as she goes through the ritual of the gin and tonic, one-third to two-thirds measure, lots of ice, lots of lime. The dress is hugging her body, down to just below the knee. No bra, her nipples evident against the material.

  She knows that while I’m watching her, I’m looking at her body, not at her make the drink. I’m undressing her, knowing that undressing her is something that would only take a few seconds to do.

  She turns, hands over the drink, we clink glasses, take a sip.

  ‘Shall we sit out in the garden?’ she says. ‘Beautiful day.’

  For a moment I’ve lost the power of speech to lust. The filthiest, most enjoyable kind of lust. The kind you know you shouldn’t have. Wanting something it’s going to be dangerous to go anywhere near.

  She opens the back door and leads me out. I stop for a second on the doorstep, eyes adjusting again to the bright sunlight, and look around the garden. As immaculate and big-ticket as the kitchen, like she had some TV makeover crew in for the week.

  ‘Take your shoes and socks off, Sergeant, the grass feels beautiful on your feet.’

  There’s a table with a couple of chairs on a patio just by the back door, but she walks past them, barefoot across the lawn, to the end of the garden, where there is a small copse of elm trees. I do as I’m told, and follow. All around are beautiful plants, the names of which are lost to me, and which I barely notice.

  In amongst the copse of elms there is a double swing seat. She sits down, looks my way, and I sit next to her. She sighs, moves the seat back, so that it starts swinging, and takes a drink.

  I take a look around. A perfect spot, secluded from all the surrounding houses. The only place from which it is overlooked is her own first floor. The warmth of the sun is still on us, but we’re protected from the brightness.

  She removes her sunglasses, tosses them to the side onto the grass, rubs her eyes briefly, and then settles her head back, staring straight ahead. I glance at her, let my eyes run over her body, then turn away and follow her gaze.

  ‘You’ve been asking about me,’ she says. ‘Is Mr Clayton really so bad?’

  Take another drink. Sharp and strong. Swill the ice cubes round in the glass. Business. We’ve got business to discuss. That’s why I’m here. Police business, with a barefoot seductress, drinking gin and tonic, in a hidden copse in a fairytale garden.

  ‘We think he is,’ I say. ‘We were worried about you. Your actions have been inconsistent.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  She takes a drink. I join her. At this rate we’re going to be heading back to the kitchen pretty quickly.

  ‘You should have brought a pitcher,’ I say, and she smiles.

  ‘I didn’t tell you everything.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘But it’s not necessarily what it seems.’

  I leave that one out there. The explanation is coming. I really ought to be looking at her, gauging her mood, looking for the gut feeling she’s lying, but it’s not so easy when you’re right next to someone on a swing chair.

  I stand up, turn my back to the house, and look down at her. She holds my eyes, the drink goes to the lips, the ice cubes clink in the glass.

  ‘Trying to exert some control, Sgt Hutton?’

  ‘Tell me the story.’

  Lowers the drink, holds it in both hands. Her fingers are going to be cold. Those cold fingers are going to feel fabulous on my skin.

  Yes, yes, all right. Concentrate!

  Despite having taken the positive step to stand up and look at her face on, I don’t know it’s helping my concentration. I may not be pressed against her now, but I’m looking at her, the legs crossed, the drink held in the slender fingers, the V of the neckline, her breasts beneath the thin cotton of the summer dress.

  ‘I’m facing court action,’ she says, and when finally it comes out, her voice is crisp, almost businesslike.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If I tell you, you might get ideas.’

  ‘I’ve already got ideas.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Can you just tell me the story, please?’

  ‘There have been a couple of complaints made against me, and finally the BMA put together a case, managed to add a few more to the pile, and now I’ve been suspended pending a full inquiry. That’s why all my appointments were cancelled this week. I booked myself a small cottage, not far away, just the other side of Lennoxtown, and decided to hole myself up there.’

  ‘What about Mr Clayton?’

  ‘He wanted to continue seeing me, I told him it would prejudice my case if I did, and he said he would make it worth my while. So he has been paying me, and... well, as you can see, I’ve been making a lot of money doing what I do, and things are going to be rather uncomfortable without it.’

  ‘But, like you said, won’t it prejudice...’

  ‘Yes, but then... all the complaints against me are absolutely true, so in fact, I really must make hay while I can, you see.’

  We both take another drink.

  ‘Sit back down, Sergeant,’ she says. ‘I’m really not hiding anything. You don’t have to stand before me looking so accusatory.’

  I think about it, decide where the stand is going to be made, and then come down on the side of the stand having already been made, then given up with barely a whimper.

  I sit back down, and get the immediate feel of her leg against mine, neither of us pulling away. She leans forward, and now as I look at her the overlap of the V in her dress is parted and I can see her left breast, small and perfect, the nipple firm and dark.

  Look away, but knowing she wants me looking. Wait, didn’t even Taylor want me looking? Everybody wants me looking. So why am I staring blindly off into the trees, a gin and tonic at my lips?

  I turn back. Her left elbow is on her knee, the drink held in her left hand. I stare at her breast, imagine my fingers around it, my tongue on it, licking it, taking it into my mouth.

  ‘I have sex with my clients,’ she says.

  Oh, Jesus, there we are...

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Most of them,’ she says.

  ‘And if I speak to the BMA they’ll confirm it?’

  ‘I’ll even give you the name of the little bastard who’s been after me for the last two years.’

  ‘If you have sex with most of your clients, why has it taken so long?’

  She turns and smiles, takes another drink, tipping the glass far back, not quite finishing it. She leans forward again, so that her breast is still evident.

  ‘I’m good,’ she says. ‘None of them ever complain.’

  ‘It’s just the wives?’

  ‘And the husbands.’

  I get a glance with that, and then she looks away again.

  ‘So obviously I slept with the first couple of BMA investigators who came sniffing around, and that kept it quiet for a while. But they wised up, and they put a vicious little middle-aged, sexless woman on my case. There was no chance of interrupting the investigation, and slowly...’ she says, closing her right hand into a ball, ‘she got me.’

  ‘And Clayton?’

  ‘Do I sleep with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, not Mr Clayton. I mean, he knows what I do with most of the others, but he’s not interested. As a psychiatrist, he is a genuinely fascinating case, unlike most of the narcissistic simpletons one sees these days.’

  ‘So why do you sleep with them?’

  She finishes off her drink, tipping it back, before tossing the glass casually onto the grass beside her sunglasses.

  ‘Two reasons,’ she says. ‘It’s
much more interesting than talking to them...’

  I doubt anyone could argue that.

  ‘And I’m insatiable. I’m your dream, Sergeant. I’m every man’s dream. I can’t get enough, and I really don’t care. Seriously, they have help groups for this?’

  Well, I’m not sure you need to be a qualified psychiatrist to know that little piece of insight into the dreams of every man, but she’s bang fucking on.

  ‘And now, I’ve been stuck alone in a small house on a hill all week, and the only man I’d talked to before seeing you and your boss yesterday was a client who only wanted me for my qualifications, and you know, Sergeant, I could have had you and your boss over the table right there and then. I went back to my place and I was fucking myself senseless with anything I could find.’

  I may be getting toyed with, but right now I’ll happily take it. She can toy with me all she damn well likes.

  Lean forward, lips onto hers, and I can’t stop myself reaching for the breast that has been sitting there so invitingly. Hand inside her dress, pushing the material aside, and my fingers close around the nipple. She moans at my touch, and straight away her hand is on my hard cock, grabbing it, squeezing it.

  She breaks the kiss with a heavy moan.

  ‘Jesus, Sergeant, just fuck me. Right now. There’s plenty of time for everything else, but I just need your cock inside me. Come on!’

  I stand up, lift my shirt off, and she’s tearing at my trousers, belt and button and zip undone, then pulled off along with my NASA technology underwear. She’s forward on her knees, briefly takes my hard, damp cock into her mouth, her tongue all over it, and then she’s hauling me down, so I’m lying back, flat on the grass. She kneels over me, pulls the dress up to her waist, and now I see she came prepared, wearing no underwear at all, lowers herself onto my erection, and I thrust deep inside her.

  ‘Jesus!’ she says, not too loud, but a great sound, of desperation and relief and desire.

  Her pussy is tight and soaking, and she starts working herself up and down. I reach up and pull the dress off her shoulders, and it sits on her midriff, perfectly framing her breasts.

  I lie back and look up at her. Her eyes are closed, her movements becoming less frantic.

  ‘God, I love that feeling,’ she says.

  I watch her breasts, and then lean up, taking her left breast into my mouth. I put my hands on her hips and start thrusting back at her as hard as she’s thrusting onto me.

  37

  SITTING IN THE KITCHEN, I don’t know how much later. An hour maybe. The sex slowed down, hardly became romantic or anything, but at least I stopped myself coming too quickly. Jesus, she looked fucking amazing sitting back on the swing seat, the dress at her waist, her legs open. Fucked her with my tongue for God knows how long. Every time she orgasmed, she’d squeeze my head tightly with her thighs. Could hardly breathe. Wonderful.

  Drinking another gin and tonic, sitting at the island, leaning on the expensive wood while watching her make a sandwich.

  ‘You’re supposed to be telling me about Clayton.’

  She hasn’t put the sunglasses back on, which is good. She’s changed her dress, but this one, simple, long, flowing, floral green and blue, is no less alluring.

  The smile has gone, which I noticed as soon as she’d come back down the stairs. All through the interview yesterday, and through the early exchanges today, and throughout the sex, the smile had been there. Coming and going, delicious and attractive, mostly unreadable.

  In the ten minutes she’s been back in the kitchen there have been no smiles. A troubled look that – just like the smile – I’m unable to read. Perhaps this is her usual demeanour post-sex. She troubles herself with her insatiable appetite. Hates herself for needing sex to deal with any situation.

  I mean, most people aren’t insatiable, most people don’t need to have sex with everyone they meet. I have my moments myself, of course, and I understand them. I know where they come from. Presumably she has her own reasons, but really, despite having a fucking ball the last hour, I don’t care. Nevertheless I really ought to take something back to Taylor other than an air of gratification.

  ‘He’s dangerous,’ she says.

  Wow, there’s a departure.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  The small kitchen knife, slicing through cucumber, stops mid-cut. Eyes close for a second. Her hands are steady, though, and shortly she opens her eyes, continues with the movement.

  ‘He tells me stories. I don’t know whether or not any of them are true. About things he did at school. Killing people who made him jealous. Almost... they’re almost too simple. Simple little stories, like they’re out of a crime thriller, or they’re taken from episodes of TV. I don’t know if I should believe him. He’s either telling the truth, in which case he’s very, very dangerous, or else...’

  She finally looks up. Her eyes are impossible. I don’t understand this woman at all.

  ‘Don’t judge me, Sergeant,’ she says.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Don’t judge me, because we had sex. Because I told you I have sex with everyone.’

  ‘I’m not judging you,’ I say. It’s not the time for her to get introspective, or to worry about what I’m thinking.

  ‘All men judge all women,’ she says, the knife cutting a little harder onto the board. ‘Especially after they’ve had sex.’

  I’m not sure about that. The judging goes on before the sex. Afterwards... not so much judging.

  ‘We need to talk about Clayton,’ I say. ‘If he’s not telling the truth...’

  Ham, cheese, cucumber, tomato and mayonnaise, your classic sandwich combo. You can’t beat a sandwich after sex.

  ‘He’s delusional,’ she says. ‘The actions of anyone displaying that level of delusion are going to be highly unpredictable. It could be it never moves beyond his imagination, but it could be if he ever finds himself in a dangerous or stressful situation, and he believes in the past he has dealt with these situations in a certain way, that... If he believes he has already committed murder, or that murderous acts are trivial enough to be casually admitted to, there’s nothing to say he wouldn’t then carry out such an act.’

  Slice of bread on top, perfectly cut from a thick loaf with one of those bread knives you see in supplements for several hundred pounds, then she slices each sandwich in half, places them on plates, and lifts them both.

  ‘Shall we eat outside?’

  She looks up, finally the smile is back, although this time a little forced.

  ‘Bring the drinks,’ she adds.

  TAYLOR LOOKS UP AS I walk into his office. Police work. It really is shit, sometimes. Here he is, nearly seven o’clock on a Monday evening. Hasn’t had a day off in forever, will be in here again first thing tomorrow morning.

  The papers won’t give a shit. All they see are unsolved murders. If he took the day off, or the afternoon off, or stepped out the fucking office for two minutes to grab a cup of coffee, there would be a damned photographer there to record the moment for the Lazy-Ass Polis Bastard Could Give A Fuck About Body Count headline.

  And right enough, he looks exhausted.

  ‘You speak to her?’ he asks. ‘You have an air about you.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine.’

  Close the door, take a seat.

  ‘You look knackered,’ I say. ‘You should go home.’

  He glances at his watch.

  ‘Going to give it another half hour. Tell me about her.’

  There’s something else to tell him about, but I’m not sure yet. Need to think while I talk, even though thinking about it on the way over here hasn’t really helped.

  ‘Says her clients were cancelled as she’s about to be struck off. She’s been staying in a small cottage in the Campsies. Clayton pays her privately for daily visits.’

  ‘Why she’s getting struck off?’

  ‘Sleeping with patients.’

  ‘Hmm. Does she also sleep with invest
igating police officers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did it help her talk?’

  ‘Quite changed the mood. The woman we met yesterday, the one who was waiting for me today, I could easily imagine that woman being the one she described herself as. Wanton. Post-sex, it was like I was talking to someone else.’

  ‘Maybe that’s her way. Maybe she hates herself for it. You must be used to women hating themselves for sleeping with you.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. What’d she say about him?’

  A second, lower my eyes.

  ‘This is what’s troubling you,’ he says.

  ‘He talks a lot about crimes he’s committed. Murders.’

  ‘Plague of Crows?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lynch’s case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s fucking weird. I mean, we suspect the guy’s been committing the Bob Dylan murders, aimed specifically at me, so why wouldn’t he... why wouldn’t he know this shit. It’s just...’

  ‘Sergeant...? What shit?’

  ‘He told her about a variety of people he said he’d killed. Some guy in school he was jealous of, some girl at university who pissed him off, some guy he worked with who wanted to have a relationship...’

  ‘And how’s that all connected to you?’

  ‘The school story. It happened when I was at Cathkin. It happened. Not in my year, but there was a guy killed in the fields down from the school, head staved in with a brick, just like Clayton described it. The –’

  ‘Could it have been Clayton?’

  ‘No! It was that little twat, John McGuire. It was McGuire. Everyone knew. Jesus, he was found with blood on his fucking hands.’

  ‘Maybe Clayton did something similar.’

  ‘I was at Glasgow Uni for four years. One person was murdered in all that time. A girl, been trying to remember her name, but it’s not there. She’d been in the Conservative party. Killed, not raped, never found her killer. Clayton told Brady the story. And then – and this is the fucking weird clincher to absolutely say he never did any of this shit – he told her about killing some guy at work, dressed in a gimp suit, by thrusting a wine bottle into his mouth. Jesus, I worked that case! I worked the fucking case, second year on the job. And we got the guy. And no, no, there was no question about the killer. We nailed him. He confessed. There was DNA, there was CCTV, it was as clear-cut a case as you could imagine. The guy’s still nicked. Clayton did not commit that murder. He’s appropriating it, to make himself look... fuck, I don’t know...’