She’s not saying anything, but I can feel her hand still outstretched towards me, as though lowering it will be giving in, letting me keep the card.
I turn, look at her, extend the card into her fingers, and she takes it from me, does not do me the small honour of trusting me, takes the time to check that it is my current police ID, then she places it in her pocket.
‘What did you find out?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’
I shake my head, turn away. I can feel the drink calling.
‘I was informed that you stayed at the hotel for a little under three hours.’
That long, eh?
‘You learned nothing in three hours?’
An explanation of the course taken by the afternoon is on my lips, but I manage to keep it to myself. Chief Inspector Hawkins does not want to hear it, of course, so I’d only be saying it to spew spite at her. I’d be throwing it at her, like one of those fucked off chimpanzees in a zoo who masturbates, and then tosses the sperm at the lower lifeforms lined up to watch him in his cage.
I really ought to be a higher lifeform than a chimp, although sometimes you have to wonder.
I look away. I look at the vodka bottle.
‘She had nothing to say about the murders, other than that she knew about them. However, she does have the very solid alibi of having been up at that hotel for the last week. If you want, you could check their CCTV to see if she came and she went, but she and her partner both said she hadn’t left.
‘A friend of hers placed the article online. His name’s Derek and he works at the Chronicle. She said she’d try to get him to send her his subscriber list. If he’s done that, she hasn’t passed it on to me yet.’
It may have been just under three hours, but that was literally all I got. In relation to the investigation, at least.
‘Derek?’
‘Didn’t get a second name,’ I say. ‘He’s all yours. If I get something from her before tomorrow, I’ll let Inspector Kallas know.’
‘You will let me know,’ she says.
No further explanation looks to be forthcoming. That, at least, does not make sense, as the Chief Inspector, ball-busting young dude that she may be, is not a detective.
‘What happened to Kadri?’ I say finally, when the silence looks like it might become interminable.
‘She’s gone.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘That’s all. She’s gone. Detective Constable Ritter is now the highest-ranking detective on the investigation, pending the arrival of a replacement for Inspector Kallas from Rutherglen. Until then, I will be working with Emma. Should you come into any information pertinent to the investigation, you will please pass it on to me first. I do not want you dealing directly with Detective Constable Ritter. I do not want you speaking to anyone at the station. And now that I have corrected my oversight and taken control of your ID, do not, under any circumstances, attempt to pass yourself off as an officer of Police Scotland, as you are not currently one, and more than likely won’t ever be again.’
Another beat, the look growing steelier by the second, and then she turns to leave.
‘What happened to Kadri?’ I say to her back.
She gets to the door. Finally, I’m drawn from my seat, walking after her, aware that if I get too close I might do something stupid, might grab her, might fucking explode, and I stop in the middle of the room as she’s crossing the threshold.
‘What happened to Kadri?’ I repeat, more loudly this time.
She pauses, her back still turned, and then she closes the door with a sharp rap, and the sound of her footsteps ring out more loudly in the hallway on her departure than on her hesitant arrival, and she is on her way.
42
The rain is tipping down, the weather these days deserve, and I stand across the precinct, beneath the cover of the walkway, watching the front door of the station, waiting for Harrison. I could have texted, I could have called, I could have sent a fucking pigeon, what difference would it have made? I need to speak to her, at some point she will emerge, and I know from the way Eileen works, she will not already have done so.
Found an empty small bottle of vodka lying around, tossed into the bottom of a cupboard. I don’t know why it was there. Somehow it had escaped the fortnightly glass recycling collection. It must have known it had a purpose to serve, and that purpose is now, as I filled it to see me through the evening. I take a shot, then screw the lid on, and put it back in my pocket.
Already halfway through it, and I wonder how long I’ll survive out here if Eileen doesn’t come soon. Do I really want to be standing in the sodden cold, inappropriately dressed (of course), without booze? Trying to limit the frequency of slugs from the bottle, trying to limit the amount taken each time, trying to spin it out.
Look at my phone every now and again, part checking the time, part checking to see if there’s a message from Kallas, maybe from Eileen. I see you standing over there, Hutton. Go home!
What’s the plan? No idea. I’ve got nothing. I’m going to speak to Eileen, she’s going to tell me whatever she feels like telling me, and then, I don’t know. Sure, I want to saddle up, ride off to the rescue, save Kallas from the jaws of the beast – assuming she’s in the jaws of a beast, and hasn’t just gone back to Estonia to try to rescue her kids – but really, how practical is that? They’re in there, at the station, working their arses off for her. They’re not waiting for me. No one’s thinking, if only our hero Hutton was here to save the day. And certainly, no one’s looking out the window anticipating the arrival of Drunk Hutton, that even bigger arsehole. Drunk Hutton, only ever one sentence away from being a complete prick.
Another drink, another shiver in my wet clothes, another regret at not wearing a waterproof coat or bringing an umbrella, except I don’t own an umbrella, because I’ve never, in all my life, displayed the common sense required to buy one.
Another drink. And another.
Beginning to feel shitty. Beginning! Too much alcohol on an empty stomach, too much time spent walking through the pouring rain, too long standing still in the chill of the night, as the grim darkness seeps into me, my clothes having long ago given up any pretence at protection.
All my weight against the wall, eyelids beginning to droop regardless of the discomfort. Eyeing the ground, damp despite being undercover, and wondering if I might just sit down. It’d be so much easier. Or lie down. I could lie down, wait for Eileen like that, dosing, half an eye on the station door, leap heroically into action when she emerges.
God I’m tired. Tired and cold and old.
I can’t lie down, I’d be asleep in seconds. Half an eye? Seriously... But sitting down, that’s another thing. Clothes already soaking, what’s a little more dampness?
And so I slide down the wall, settle on my hard, bony arse, ease it forward so I’m leaning back, marginally more comfortable, vodka bottle out the pocket, tip it back, not as much left as I thought there was. Sit it out, sit it out, maybe the phone will ring, maybe the phone will ping, maybe everything will come together, maybe Kadri is already home, maybe her husband called and asked her to meet him in Estonia, maybe I could go to Estonia, maybe I could fly...
‘TOM!’
Gnawing, cold confusion.
‘Tom!’
A disembodied hand on my shoulder, pressing, shaking, pushing. A horrible sense of bewilderment, my brain coated in thick, dark sludge.
‘Tom! Wake up!’ A beat. ‘Jesus.’
Open my eyes.
One. Two. Three.
Fingers snapped in front of my face.
‘Jesus. I’ll call an ambulance.’
She stands, moves away from me.
‘Stop.’
The daring, exciting, exhausting rush of reality. Eyes coming in to focus, I see her turn. Behind her a wall of rain. Why does it always rain?
Need to get up. Try to force myself off the wall, don’t get very far, slump back with a grunt.
Fuck. Head
feels like shit, mouth feels like shit.
‘Is this all you’ve had?’ asks Harrison, holding the small, empty vodka bottle.
Did I finish it? I don’t remember finishing it. Must have spilled some.
‘Yes.’
How easily the lies spill from the lips of the drunk.
Rub my hands across my face, tense the muscles in my upper body, arms and shoulders and neck, prepare properly, then force my body up off the ground, stagger to my feet, lean against the wall.
I could use a drink. She sees me looking at the bottle.
‘We need to get you home.’
‘Tell me about Kadri.’
‘Really, Tom?’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s missing. We don’t know. Now come on.’
She reaches to take my arm, and I pull away from her. A misstep, a stumble, catch myself, steady against the wall. Shut my eyes for a moment, take the time to reacquaint myself with a clear head, as though there’s the slightest possibility of that.
One. Two. Three. Mind in gear, Batman!
‘What’s the story?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way home.’
‘I’m not going home.’
‘You’re going home, you’re going to bed. Come on.’
‘What happened with Kadri?’
She grits her teeth. I, in turn, grit mine.
‘We’re working on it, Tom. And what d’you think you’re going to be able to do? Look at you. Look at you!’
Her voice is raised, close to shouting, then I realise just how much noise the rain is making. One of those torrential downpours, timed by God, that total bastard, to coincide with stress and worry and panic and a need for action. A need to do something.
‘Tell me about Kadri.’
The phrase don’t make me choose stupidly comes into my head, and somehow I stop myself saying it.
‘Fuck it,’ says Harrison, shaking her head, glancing up at the station, then turning back. ‘She went out around two this afternoon. Went to see Gill Blair,’ and she finishes with a head shake, hands hopelessly tossed to the side.
‘That’s it? She hasn’t been seen since then?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve been round there?’
‘There’s no one.’
‘What about the husband?’
‘Gone.’
‘So, what? It’s Blair? It’s the husband? What?’
‘We don’t know, Tom. Now, you need to –’
‘Why did she go on her own?’
‘Really? She went on her own, Tom, because that’s what we do often enough when we’re stretched. We’re stretched, you know we are...’
She stops herself, she shakes her head.
‘Go on, say it.’
‘I’m not going to bother, Tom. We both know. Now, come on, you need to get home. You’re a mess.’
She looks up at the station, obviously thinking about calling for assistance.
‘Oh, fuck off, Eileen,’ I say.
Fuck Off Eileen, Dexy’s ill-remembered follow-up.
‘You’re going home, Tom. You shouldn’t be here, and certainly not like this.’
‘Have you got an alert out for her? For them? Is it –’
‘Emma’s all over it, the chief’s inserted herself at the top of the tree, we’re waiting for Collinge to come up from Rutherglen tomorrow –’
‘Collinge! That guy’s a fucking mor –’
‘It doesn’t matter, Tom, doesn’t matter who it is, and especially not to you. You removed yourself from the investigation. I know you can’t help it, I –’
‘Just, fuck off! Fuck off, Eileen.’
‘Come on, you’re coming home.’
She reaches out to take hold of my arm, and I slap her hand away, catching her hard. The anger flashes across her face, she grits her teeth. I know the look, I know how close I am to getting rid of her. And I don’t want her here, I don’t want her help, I don’t want her stopping me doing whatever the fuck it is I’m about to do now.
Of course, I have no idea what that actually is.
‘Leave me.’
‘I’m not leaving you.’
‘Fuck off, Eileen, really. Fuck off. You’re not my fucking mother. I release you from whatever obligation you feel.’ A pause, we stare at each other, I can feel her resistance breaking. At some stage you have to let the fool and his determination to self-destruct have its way. ‘Just get out of my sight,’ I toss into the rainy night, and she scowls, takes a couple of paces away, stops, fights the competing urges, and then walks quickly away to her right, back beneath the station, towards the car park.
I watch her for a short while, and then decide to move quickly. She might come back. She will come back. I know Eileen. She’ll get as far as the car, she’ll be hating herself, she’ll think about the fact that we might well have lost Kallas, and she can’t be losing me the same day, and she’ll be back.
I’m out into the rain, across the precinct at a run, keeping out of the low lights, running in the shadows beneath the main street. If I wasn’t already damp, I’d be soaking in five seconds. Aware, as I run, of just how terrible I feel, out of breath in an instant, all that vodka swilling in my stomach, looking to come splashing back up, like waves in a storm on the rocks.
The thought of being sick makes me feel worse, makes the vomiting more likely.
I stop beneath the shadow of the tower block on the east side of the precinct and look back. Nausea rising, the sound of the rain thunderous, the noise all-consuming. Heavy summer rain in early October, the deluge of a long hot day, having not troubled us with the long hot day beforehand.
I see her now, hurrying back, slowing as she realises I’m not there. I lurk in the shadows, so she doesn’t see me, and as she hurries on, round the far corner, I turn quickly away and run beneath the tower block, and then across the car park.
Don’t get very far, and then I’m in between two cars, on my hands and knees, spewing up that evening’s booze. One retch, then another and another. The pause, but I can still feel it, and I’m panting, and desperate, feeling like absolute shit, and then another splurge of sick rises within me, and I spew it out, as the rain bounces off the cars on either side of me.
I stay in that position, head hung forward, nose and mouth hovering over my own sick, waiting to see if there’s going to be any more, but that’s all for the moment. However it is the strange vomit mechanism works, it’s done its work for now, and finally I move a yard or two away and slump against the car, my head back, letting the rain wash my face, letting the rainwater into my mouth.
I spit, and repeat, and spit, and repeat.
I can apologise in the morning, that’s what I’m thinking. Because I’m a selfish bastard, and that’s how selfish bastards think. You can say and do what you like, you can use your friends as a punching bag, because when you’ve calmed down or sobered up or done whatever it is you need to do, you can apologise and they’ll still be there for you, no matter how many times you do it, because you, you selfish, narcissistic prick, are what matters.
God, I need a drink.
Phone starts ringing. Eileen. Has to be Eileen. And she’ll be somewhere, somewhere hereabouts, listening for the ring. I clip the ringer off while the phone’s still in my pocket, and only if she’s on the other side of the car would she have heard it, then I take it out, glance at it, end the call.
No other messages. Nothing from Kadri. Two minutes past midnight. Jesus. Eileen worked late. And I slept a long time, lying against a wall, a drunken bum.
The rain and the vomit sobers you up fast enough.
How long does it take to walk home? Forty minutes on a good day. In this state, in this weather, call it an hour. God, that sounds awful.
I’ll need to find an open bar in between here and there. What are the chances? Think along the route, head resting back against the car. Zero, the chances are zero, because all the damned bars will be shut! Then, when I straighten my shoulders a
nd look straight ahead, divine intervention.
A thought forms and spirals in a second. One tick of the clock to the next, three quick snaps of the fingers, and I burst out laughing. I mean, fuck it, why not?
St Stephens is right there, waiting for me. The house of God. Every useless bastard welcome! And the minister has her stash of booze.
That’s too funny. Break into a church to steal the communion vodka. That’s the stupid thought that forces itself into my head, and then I’m literally lolling to the side, laughing at the phrase communion vodka. Like that’s a thing.
Come on then, get to it. Break into the church. Steal the booze. God won’t mind. I mean, one of His son’s most famous miracles was helping folk get ratted at a wedding. Christianity loves drink. That’s why communion exists, for fuck’s sake. Blood of Christ, my arse.
Still laughing to myself, I crawl out from behind the car, and look back towards the precinct, towards the last place I saw Eileen.
No sign of her, no sound. I put my fingers to my lips, shooshing myself, even though I’m not making any noise, and, still giggling like a schoolboy, I start crawling in between the cars.
43
I stand still in the dark of the nave. The lights from outside, low at this time of night, dully illuminate the colours of the stained glass, allowing the most meagre of light into the church.
Every corner is dark, every pew enveloped in secrecy, the space a giant shroud, engulfed in silence as much as in shadow. Here now the quiet of the grave. The only sound had been my damp shoes, squelching down the carpet, and now that I’ve stopped walking, the rainwater drips from me, the sound of it hitting the floor cacophonous.
I take a seat, intending it will just be for a moment. That hilarious idea I had of breaking into a church suddenly seems stupid. Juvenile. Here it is, here it comes, the regret and the self-loathing, feelings that are only ever just around the corner. Sometimes they wait for morning, and sometimes they slap you right in the face at any time of day at all.
In My Time Of Dying: DS Hutton Book 5 Page 24
