In My Time Of Dying: DS Hutton Book 5

by Douglas Lindsay

  I can hear the vodka laughing. That doesn’t make sense. Vodka doesn’t laugh. Anyway, why should it laugh? It’s scornful, that’s all. Mocking me. Sitting there, calling out, the fucking Siren. Just have one, it says. Stop the tremble. Maybe have another in a little while. Take your time.

  Like there’s such a thing as having one and then waiting. Like there’s the slightest possibility I could have one drink, period.

  I get up abruptly, hands at a shake, turning my back on Neptune, and the rest of his cohort. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Brain screaming.

  Do something. Do something that isn’t taking a fucking drink. Do something that occupies your mind.

  Fall forward on the carpet. On my knees, head in my hands. This is how it goes. This is how it plays out. I do this, I fold like a pack of cards, I drink vodka. Kallas comes, and I am ashamed.

  What was it they called Hitler? Carpet muncher. Ha! Got a different meaning now. He was fucking mental, literally eating the rugs in his rage, so they said. Maybe some propagandist just made that shit up.

  Head forward, face scrunching into a contorted rag of misery, crying invisible tears.

  Drink, you fuck! Drink! Will it be fine? No, it fucking won’t! But drink, and be damned! Drink!

  ‘Drink!’ cries the vodka bottle. ‘Come on Hutton, you walking septic tank of human waste! You sack of shit! You colostomy bag of shame! You suppurating, pus-filled, rancid wound in the anal crevice of humanity! Drink!’

  That is a mouthy bottle of fucking vodka.

  Straighten up, straighten shoulders, look round at it.

  You win. You win...

  I need to give myself something to do while I plummet into the abyss. At least that. Please, at least that. Vodka, tonic, ice, lime, try to mitigate the ensuing disaster, hope that Kallas isn’t too late.

  She won’t be late. She’s got her kids to get home to.

  Fucking jigsaw. Sorry, Rebecca, I can’t do the jigsaw. It won’t slow me down.

  What was I doing before? What was the last useful thing I did in my life? The writer. That was it. Leia Fisher. The writer. Great tits. Sure, I decided she wasn’t part of it, that someone had read what she wrote, but she’s a starting point.

  Anyway, she might be dead. Hasn’t posted anything online in a week. How long ago was it that I found that out about her? An hour? Two? Five? What the fuck is the time anyway?

  Jesus.

  Lift the glass, into the kitchen, toss the old ice cubes into the sink, another three into the glass. Close the freezer door, open it again, put in a fourth ice cube, cut a slice of lime, grab the tonic from the fridge, pour the vodka, hand trembling, bottle clinking off the top of the glass, not too much, not too much, not too much, stop! Then the tonic, with the glass sitting on the table on a small mat, wondering how long I can leave it there, thinking I can go and get my MacBook, look up Leia Fisher, get into it before I actually take a sip, then I lift the glass, take a long drink, maybe a third of it, the ice cubes already at my lips, and Jesus, that is such a wonderful feeling, and I manage to lay the glass back down this time and go and get the computer.

  Slow down, boss, slow the fuck down.

  SITTING AT THE TABLE, glass of vodka tonic to my left – my third – MacBook open on top of the jigsaw. The jigsaw is starting to irritate the fuck out of me. I need to get rid of it.

  Bob playing on Spotify, coming through the small speaker I added to the apartment at some stage along the way. Spotify’s random This Is Bob Dylan playlist, an endless stroll through Bob’s career, back and forth, and absolutely perfect.

  Have come at the search for Leia Fisher from a different angle. Could be wasting my time, of course. I have no idea what they’re doing back at the station. Whether someone’s doing what I’m doing now, whether they’ve already found her, whether they’ve found her corpse, victim of a thousand cuts, random parts of her skin flayed.

  I have followed who she follows and who follows her, and have tracked their posts and their movements, looking for the picture that wasn’t tagged with Fisher’s name, the random clue to her whereabouts that crops up out of the blue.

  God, it’s pathetic, really, isn’t it? Kicked out of work, set free to go and do as I please, and what’s the only thing I can think of? Be a police officer. Fucking hell. And what do I care anyway?

  It appears that I do.

  The street buzzer goes. Kallas is not late. Not long after seven. I wait by the open door as she comes up the stairs, and then I stand back and let her in. I feel the discomfort walk in with her, then I close the door and the two of us are standing in the room, me and Kallas, Bob singing, with immaculate timing, Tangled Up In Blue.

  We hold the gaze for a few moments – Jesus, I wish I could read it, or wish I could think of something to say, or wish she would say something at least, anything – then she turns away and walks to the window, passing the table and the jigsaw and the bottle of vodka.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ I ask. ‘Cup of t –’

  ‘Vodka tonic, please,’ she says.

  Hmm.

  ‘Sure.’

  I make the drink, I feel her presence all around me as I do so, then I place it in her hand, and we stand side by side at the window.

  There are times I wished I lived by the sea, rather than on a dull little street in Rutherglen. This is one of those times. To be honest, every time I stand at the window is one of those times.

  This is easier. We have an activity. We’re watching the street, rather than looking at each other, waiting to see if the other person will have something to say.

  ‘The chief will push for your dismissal,’ says Kallas. ‘I do not think I will be able to protect you.’

  ‘That’s OK. About time I was dismissed.’

  ‘You are a good officer.’

  ‘Was, maybe.’

  ‘I did not work with you before. I work with you now. You are a good officer.’ A beat. ‘I like your theory that someone read the writer’s account of the connection between the film and Cambuslang. It is a good theory, it makes sense, it requires no coincidence or contortion of the facts to make it work. I would still like to find the writer.’

  I think I just found the writer, shacked up in a romantic liaison in Perthshire.

  I don’t say anything. Not sure why. Maybe I don’t want to admit to working, or maybe I want to find the writer, surprise the watching audience by pulling something out of the bag, as if it might save me. As if I want saved. Which is stupid, of course, because if I obviously continue working, and subsequently reveal my work, I’ll be in even more trouble. I’ve been suspended, I need to keep my head down, keep the fuck out of everyone’s way, and wait my turn to be kicked out the force.

  ‘Did you go down to Troon and speak to Anderson again?’

  It was Acting Assistant Secretary Anderson who was the fourth name listed in Fisher’s article about having been involved in the movie and connected to Cambuslang. Given that up until we read that, he’d been a guy who played golf from Troon, it’s the kind of thing that leaps out and grabs you by the knackers.

  ‘I did. He said Harry Lord was always talking about film financing. Not just film financing, though of course, film is something that people like talking about. Anderson heard about the low budget film, and because the producer was Cambuslang-based, even if the film was not, he got interested. He said he only invested fifty thousand pounds, and it was entirely for tax purposes.’

  ‘You think his involvement could go much further than that?’

  ‘I am not sure. I do not yet think so, but we shall see.’

  ‘You put a man on his door in case he’s next on the list?’

  ‘We did.’ And then, with barely a pause for breath, ‘You are drinking.’

  Her eyes drift to the bottle, and then back to the street outside.

  ‘This is the first bottle you opened today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jesus, you’d know if this was my second.

  ‘Thi
s is your second or third drink?’

  ‘Third.’

  ‘Your drink is a similar strength to this one?’

  I nod, even though she’s not looking at me.

  ‘You will drink all night?’

  ‘I have no reason not to.’

  A beat. Uh-oh. I feel the awkward discomfort creeping back in, even though we’re looking out of a window. This was supposed to prevent the discomfort. We have an activity, dammit.

  ‘I would like you not to drink,’ she says.

  I let those words hang there, hovering in the room, over here, by the window, somewhere in between her and me. Did that mean that her not wanting me to drink is a reason I shouldn’t be drinking? Because that, in its way, could be taken as an acknowledgement of the elephant, and as soon as you acknowledge that fat grey fucker, the cat’s out the bag.

  ‘I can’t promise.’

  Now the clinking of the ice in her drink, as she puts the glass to her lips and more or less downs the entire thing in one go. I’m looking at her by the end of it, and holy fucking shit, that’s sexy.

  She lowers the glass, tips it back again to drain it, then sets it down on the table.

  ‘You need to buy better vodka, Sergeant,’ she says, and I can’t help laughing. Kallas again with the kind of pitch-perfect delivery that made Bob Newhart’s career.

  ‘You’re funny,’ I say, which is something I regularly say to women when I’m hitting on them. I mean it this time, although I don’t think it’ll make any difference to her. Chances are Kallas does not consider herself funny. ‘Would you like another? I mean, despite the vodka.’

  I know she doesn’t want another, just as she knows I know, so there’s no point in her answering. The silence comes back, and together we stand there and look down onto the street. I still have most of my drink left, the ice slowly melting, diluting the vodka even further.

  Lightweight.

  A movement, and then from nowhere she touches my arm. A gentle touch, her fingers cool and soft. She doesn’t look at me.

  ‘I will come and see you again tomorrow evening. Try to take better care of yourself.’

  She gives my wrist the slightest squeeze, and then turns away, and I can’t stop myself, even though the words are stupid and wasted and pointless. ‘You need to get home for the kids?’ and she pauses, but does not look at me, and then finally she moves away, lifting her feet out of the sludge of the moment, heading towards the door.

  Why did I have to come out with that? Really, Hutton, you abject pile of fetid putrescence.

  She stops at the door. I have not followed her. I cannot stand beside her there, because I will want to stop her going. I will want to touch her and take her into my arms, I will want to embrace her, to bind her lost melancholy to my own.

  ‘He took the children.’

  This time, those words, they were not delivered in the usual monotone. How could they be?

  She turns and looks at me.

  ‘Anders took the children back to Tallinn. He has moved in with his parents. I’m sorry I lied to you yesterday evening.’ A beat. ‘They are gone.’

  ‘Jesus. Isn’t there something you can do?’

  ‘I have spoken to lawyers. We wait and see.’

  Holy shit. What a bloody awful thing to have happened, and she’s in the middle of this shit, and then I go and complicate her life by being a dick.

  And now we’re standing here.

  Except, the reason we’re standing with things complicating by the second, isn’t because I had sex with the victim’s daughter/potential witness/potential suspect. It’s because of the thing. The thing.

  ‘Stay for another drink,’ I say, at least managing to stop the words, there’s no reason not to.

  There’s always a reason not to stay at Hutton’s house!

  A beat, another, a long look across a short room, then she says, ‘No,’ her voice soft and low, just that, all that needs to be said, and she opens the door and is gone.

  40

  Heading to Gleneagles. Have never been before, will be happy to avail myself of a cup of tea and a sandwich or two while I’m there. Not on duty, of course, so nothing to rush back for.

  One presumes that the woman Leia Fisher has come away with has the money in the relationship. Fisher may have made the odd penny or two from her writing, but the desperation with which she produced, and the bitterness of much that she wrote, suggests that a living was not really being made.

  And now she’s gone quiet, and perhaps it’s for the simple and basic reason that she’s found money out of nowhere. Or, at least, she has found someone with money, someone to spend some of it on her.

  Into the hotel car park, and then quickly out the car and it’s only a couple of seconds before I’m accosted by an eager young chap in tartan plus fours.

  ‘Can I help you with your bags, sir?’

  Now, in her rush the chief made a crucial error. She obviously doesn’t have too much experience of suspending people. Never got me to hand over my ID. And sure, perhaps it’ll go out on the wire, do the rounds of police stations, Detective Sergeant Hutton is a leper, do not go near him, nor let him near you!

  Makes no difference. It’s not as though they can either tell everyone on earth, or make my ID vanish by remote control.

  ‘No bags,’ I say, flashing my ID, not stopping to talk. ‘I’ll only be half an hour,’ and he smiles and nods, and I notice that flicker in his eyes, the one that caught the whiff of alcohol. Such a familiar flicker. Then I’m inside, and as I enter I take the mask from my pocket and slip it on – more about limiting my projection of stale booze than either common sense or the notice at the door – and up to reception, and aware enough to stand back a little from the desk, rather than lean over and pour my be-masked alcoholic’s stench over the two ladies and two men sitting back there.

  Hey, I didn’t have anything to drink this morning, so there’s that. And I was only sick once last night. Might have cried once.

  I cried once.

  Today’s good humour is very delicately balanced.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Hutton,’ I say, ID extended.

  ‘Sir,’ says the young chap. ‘I’ll get the day manager.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. There’s really no issue, I’m just looking to speak to one of your guests. It shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘I’ll get the day manager,’ repeats the guy, and he’s lifting the phone as he says it.

  I nod, step away from the desk. Rummage about in my pockets, find the mints, work them from the small box without taking it out, then pop a couple a little awkwardly behind the mask.

  Reception. What you’d expect. Carpets and wallpaper; photographs as art, of the glen and the golf courses; the deer’s head, the open fire, the aroma of smoke and wealth, the comfortable armchairs; the busboys in plus fours, the girls in tartan waistcoats and tartan skirts; an American couple talking too loudly about Sunday afternoon’s round, the guy laughing at himself, which doesn’t seem so American, because Americans are incapable of laughing at themselves, even though they all, no doubt, think they laugh at themselves better than anyone else on earth, so maybe the guy’s Canadian, and I take a longer look at him and his attractive wife – yes, she’s attractive, bite me – and I’m thinking, yes, probably Canadian, and then he says, ‘I cannot believe the ball stayed out the hole,’ and the way he says out is the clincher, and I relax. Canadians I can take.

  I once said to Taylor I was thinking of moving to Canada, to get away from all this shit, and Taylor said, ‘Why would you do that? It’s so boring. Canadians are like stunned Swedes,’ and I laughed, and I think of that now and, as ever, as with every thought of Taylor, it brings everything that happened this summer flooding back, so that by the time the hotel day manager arrives, I’m standing in the middle of reception, my mind a hundred miles away, mired in self-hate and guilt, already thinking about the bottle of vodka that’s waiting for me at home, wondering why I bothered coming up here, when I�
�m not even working for the damned police anymore.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Hutton?’

  ‘Hey,’ I say, managing to switch on at the mention of my name.

  I suppose one advantage of social distancing is that we never get close enough to shake hands, and so there’s slightly more chance of being far enough away for them to not notice the stench of booze. Slightly more chance.

  ‘You have a guest staying here, Leia Fisher. I’d just like a quick word with her.’

  The day manager, a women in her late thirties, the kind of woman who got her hotel management qualification at the best hotel school in Switzerland, and who eats other authority figures like me for breakfast, before spitting out the remnants and squashing them like dog shit, smiles in the only way she knows how. And doesn’t say anything. The why? is implicit.

  ‘It pertains to an investigation we’re undertaking in Glasgow South.’ A pause. She continues to look at me, a succubus, drawing more information without opening her mouth. ‘There will no trouble,’ I say, and my voice is beginning to head south. If she continues to look at me like that for much longer, I’m going to have to threaten to bring the entire force along. A threat I naturally don’t want to make, as I’m the most one-man of one-man teams there is. ‘She’s not implicated in the investigation in any way, the interview is entirely for background. I’m happy to have a chat with her wherever she chooses, and –’

  ‘Why didn’t you phone ahead?’

  That’s not an entirely shit question. I suppose, really, it’s an entirely obvious question. I choose to answer it with the kind of stony silence she’ll respect. Sure, I can’t call in the reinforcements, but she won’t know that. She’s unlikely to push this and phone the station to find out what’s going on, and my silence just speeds up the time until she makes her decision. Who’s she going to be?

  We have something of a stand-off, her cold blue eyes burrowing into mine, stripping everything away, peeling back the skin on my face like the killer did to Margaret Malone, then she turns away without a word, speaks quickly to reception, the receptionist looks past the day manager’s shoulder at me, then lifts the phone.