The Unburied Dead (17 page)

'Fuck…'

'Anyway, we've got a bit of a better description out of it, but who knows? It's a distinct third photo we've got now, anyway, rather than an evolution of the first or second. These people are just fucking useless. The lot of them.'

Takes his feet down, drums his fingers on the desk. 'Useless,' he repeats. 'Still, he blew it, and we should be a step closer.'

'So, how come you're sitting here with your feet up while everyone else is in ferment?'

'Thinking. Got to think in this job, Hutton, I've told you before. That's why you're still a sergeant.'

One of the many reasons.

'Where's Bloonsbury?'

'Still down there. Got the crew going house to house and the SOCOs going over the flat. Jonah's in charge, and bloody miserable that the guy got away. Has this theory that now he's blown one, the guy'll back off and disappear and we'll never get him.'

'What do you think?'

'I think he'll show his hand. These headcases can't keep their knives to themselves. Bloonsbury's too busy wallowing in J&B to be positive about anything. Had a pickled napper for the last ten years. Still don't know how the fuck he solved that murder case last year.'

Used to wonder about that myself. Now might just be time to tell Taylor, but I hold back. I have to know more and I haven't the faintest idea how I'm going to find it. CID just doesn't train you well enough in investigation.

Change the subject.

'How'd you get on last night?' I ask.

He snorts, shakes his head.

'Awful. Just awful. Those arseholes were as bad as usual, then Debbie gets a call about half nine and was on the phone for God knows how long.'

'King Dong?'

That one hurt, hold my hand up in apology.

'Aye,' he says eventually. 'Bastard. I ended up coming in here, didn't go home until about three.'

'Get anything done?'

'Worked like a dog. Took my mind off it.' Indicates the desk, and there's a lot less shite lying on it than usual. 'You should try it some time.'

Ignore that remark. 'What are you going to do?'

'About Debbie?' he says, shrugging. 'No idea. Don't know why she doesn't just leave.'

'Maybe he doesn't want to take her in.'

'Aye, maybe.' Nods, purses his lips. Looks resigned and miserable. 'Suppose that's what she's doing. Trying to get me to leave, so she can have the place to herself.'

'Why don't you talk to her about it?'

Shakes his head and I realise I'm out of my depth with this. I'm no counsellor. I've always just accepted my marriage break-ups with a Calvinistic resignation. It's not like I haven't realised why they were happening.

'We haven't talked in years, Thomas,' he says.

He looks terrible and I wish I hadn't reminded him of it. We'd been doing fine, and the juxtaposition of that with my own Christmas Day – my marriage going in the opposite direction, if I want it to – makes me feel guilty.

Change the subject again.

'So what have you been thinking?'

He sits back, toys with his tea. Think I've got his mind on to it just in time.

'Just wondering if it's worthwhile trying to flush him out, albeit that stuff's mostly a load of shite.'

'How you going to do that?'

'Bait. This one last night saw him in a pub. He didn't speak to her there, but followed her when she left. Follows the pattern of Monday, where we think he followed her out of the cinema.'

'Don't know that for sure.'

'But it's possible. Anyway, the guy is going for girls with dark brown hair and he's working in our area. We've already checked out the pub from last night, spoken to the staff that were on, a few of the regulars. No one can remember him. Not a known face around town.'

'But we have to know the public places he's likely to frequent.'

'Fuck,' says Taylor, 'we're talking about Rutherglen and Cambuslang, not New York. There ain't that many pubs. We've got to think about the way he's worked so far, decide which are his likeliest haunts, see if we can set a trap. So that's what I was doing. Thinking.'

Very commendable. More than Bloonsbury will have been doing. More than me too, with my preoccupation with Charlotte Miller and the relationship of that to the possibility of reopening hostilities with Peggy.

Focus.

'How many officers with dark brown hair have we got?' I say.

'Three, maybe another couple who could pass. I'm sure we could manage to get wigs from somewhere, however,' he says, voice condescending. I deserve it. Of course we could get wigs. It's time I switched the personal stuff off and actually thought about this. It's the usual flawed bunch riding into the sunset for justice and liberty: Bloonsbury soiled with alcohol; Herrod drunk with the desire to arrest anyone – in this case probably everybody in Glasgow over the age of twelve with a penis; the cuckolded Taylor, consumed by doubt and depression by the actions of his wife; and me, consumed by doubt and… haunted.

Someone's got to be doing some clear thinking and I can't leave it all to Taylor.

'We could even get a few of you young constables and sergeants dressed up as women,' he says, smiling. 'I see you in red,' he says, 'or pink maybe. Pink stretch cycling shorts, wonderbra and a hair net.'

'Very funny. I see you with a boot up your arse.'

Smell the perfume first, then look up. Charlotte Miller stands in the doorway, arms folded, looking down on us both. Wonder how long she's been there, because Taylor wouldn't automatically have deferred to her.

'Interrupt a serious debate, did I, gentlemen?'

'What can we do for you?' says Taylor.

'Some work would be nice, or do you think you can do your jobs without ever getting up off your backside?'

'The job's getting done,' is all he says. Cool, better than I would be if I was here on my own.

'See that it does,' she says, and the voice is just the way you'd expect it to be. Sharper than a pint of freshly squeezed lemon juice. 'Nice of you to come in, Sergeant. Where have you been all morning?'

'Something to follow up,' I say.

'You want to share it with me?'

It's absurd, but there's just something about her makes me feel like I'm at school. Despite everything.

Now here we are. She doesn't usually keep track of my movements; I slept with her, and now she's going to treat me like dirt for the rest of my life.

'It's a little awkward,' is all I can say.

She gives me the dog shit look.

'Perhaps then you'd like to come into my office and explain it to me,' and before the words are out of her mouth, she's turned on her heels and gone. I look at Taylor, he smiles at me, then laughs.

'What'd you do to deserve that?' he asks.

Shake my head – I'm not about to tell him that either – then get to my feet.

'So where were you this morning?' he says.

Breathe heavily. 'Tell you later,' I lie, and walk out.

Walking through the office I start to wonder if she's asking me in there so she can jump me across the desk.

Get to her office, step through the open door, close it behind me. She's sitting at her desk, reading a file. I can feel a strange sensation of arousal. I can smell her and it makes me nervous. Wish I could feel more in control, as I picture her standing topless beside her desk.

She lifts her head. The eyes tell it. I'm not in here on any romantic expedition.

'Now, Sergeant, where you were this morning?'

Curse silently to myself.

'I was pursuing an independent line of inquiry,' I say. Sounds lame.

'And are you going to keep this independent line of inquiry to yourself?' She says the words 'independent line of inquiry' with mockery.

No idea what to say, no intention of telling her what I was doing. I'm not protecting anyone – maybe Bathurst – because I don't care about most of these bastards. I just can't go mouthing off about this when I don't know yet whether any of it's true. There is also the possibility that Charlotte Miller already knows all that there is to know.

'Could it possibly be related to our ongoing murder inquiry?'

'I don't know.' Found the voice, at last. 'Might be.' Although, I don't think Crow had anything to do with Monday night. Gut feeling. 'However, I don't think it is,' I add, under the weight of the stare.

'Very well, Sergeant, if you must keep these things to yourself. However, can I remind you that this is a very public inquiry and everyone is demanding quick results. The Chief Constable more than anyone. We work under enough tight constraints as is it, without being able to afford the time for senior Detective Sergeants to swan off for four hours on a whim. Do we understand each other?'

I nod. Nothing to say. She has most definitely managed to dampen my ardour.

'That will be all then, Sergeant,' she says, and I know when I've been dismissed. Turn to go. Get a quick look at a picture of her in uniform on the wall. Looks severe. Seductive as fuck, but severe.

'Thomas?' she says to my back. Almost at the door, I turn round. Harsh, then the sudden use of the first name. The usual management technique.

There's a smile on her face – of sorts – which I naturally can't read.

'I hope we can be mature enough to keep these things separate from our private life.'

Our private life? Nice. I shrug.

'Sure.' Nothing else to say. She's in charge in so many different ways.

She hesitates, as if she's not sure. Shyness in someone else, you might think.

'Frank's away to Italy at the weekend,' she says. Missing another game at Ibrox. What kind of fan is he? 'I was wondering if we could do something?'

'Sure,' I say again, and manage what I hope is a smile. Be cool and calm, and I quickly make my exit before I betray myself.

Stand outside her door and ward off the curious looks from one or two constables and non-uniform staff in the office. Immediately excited at the prospect of spending more time with her, immediately guilty at what Peggy and the kids would think if they knew. Due to phone her this evening, and I know they'll want to see me at the weekend.

Already thinking about my excuses as I make my way back through the office. Crack open a fresh packet of Marlboro's, nip outside, and smoke three of them before returning to address the mountain on my desk.

Nearly nine o'clock, still in the office. As always when there's some big murder inquiry on, there's even more crime than usual. I got farmed off to deal with an aggravated assault and an attempted bank robbery. Seriously. A bank robbery, for fuck's sake. Suspects were apprehended in both instances. In the first case it was a wife turning on her husband – after fifteen years of abuse, she says, and there was a time when you would have believed her. Now, you just can't tell anymore.

The bank robbery was a joke. Amateurs. Even so, they would probably have still managed to get away with the fifteen quid they'd nicked if they'd remembered to fill the getaway car with petrol.