The Unburied Dead (35 page)

So, a few quick calls to warn off the rest of the search party, and then we're back out into the snow. Along Loch Long away from Arrochar, slither up the Rest and Be Thankful, down and along Loch Fyne, past Strachur.

The snow lessens as we go, but Taylor is concentrating on not driving off the road, while I let my mind wander through a variety of women. Peggy, Charlotte, the relatively forgotten Alison, even Eileen Harrison. Still feeling like a complete shit, and deserving of the opprobrium that will probably come my way at some point.

Women. Fuck.

Get to Dunoon, drive past a chippie on the way in, and the very idea of the smell proves too intoxicating. Fish suppers all round, and then we resort to the satnav to find the right street. Satnavs are another invention that make me wish I was living in the '50s. What was wrong with taking a bit of time to find somewhere? What is wrong with those fucking people who drive into a lake in the middle of a wolf-infested forest and say,
it's not my fault
? The damned satnav is just another way in which the human race can abdicate any sense of personal responsibility.

So we step out into the snow and the cold, still finishing off our dinner. Good fish supper too
–
crispy batter, tasty piece of fish, right amount of salt and vinegar, chips deep-fried to perfection.

We stand looking at the car. Kicking the tyres, various other forms of external examination, while we eat the last of the meal
–
Taylor a little behind 'cause he was driving.

'So what?' I say to him. 'He got the ferry over to Gourock? Got the train up to Glasgow?'

'Shite,' says Taylor as he drops a piece of fish into the snow. Bends down, scoops it up, pops it into his mouth before it gets too cold. 'No, doesn't sound right. What would be the point?'

'Trying to throw us off his trail.'

'Would he even think we were on his trail to that extent?' he says. 'Who can figure out the mind of someone like Gerry Crow? Need to speak to one of the useless had-his-teddy-bear-stolen-at-the-age-of-five brigade.'

Finish off the fish supper, stuff the paper into my coat pocket and wash my hands in the snow. Light up a cigarette. That post-fish supper nicotine experience.

Taylor fishes around in his pocket and tosses me a small black book. Crow's life in sixty small pages.

'Check through that. Look for anything in this area.'

Get to it in the dim light of the street lamps, while Taylor continues to circle the car kicking at various parts, nothing left of his dinner but chips. Finally says, 'You any good at breaking into these things?'

Look up from Crow's seedy list of acquaintances. Horrified to see that I'm down there.

'Naw. Herrod was your man for that.'

'Well he's not here.'

Good point. Lose interest in the book because I'm not getting anywhere; wander around the car. The lock on the boot looks pretty rusty, and since it's a hatchback that'll allow us access to the whole thing.

'Get a crowbar and jemmy the boot lock, or put in a window,' I say.

He finishes off his chips, tosses the paper onto the ground. The perfect citizen.

'Good fish supper,' he says. 'Right, I've got something in the boot you can use for that. Break the lock, it'll make less noise. No point in arousing the suspicions of the local constabulary if we don't have to. I expect Charlotte's slept with most of them as well.'

Very cutting. Pick up the paper he tossed on the ground and put it into a bin along with my own. Retrieve the small crowbar from the boot of Taylor's car.

'I could eat another one of those,' he says, as I return laden with crime committing goods.

'A second fish supper?'

'Aye.'

I think about it as I get to work. Two fish suppers in quick succession. Greedy but not outlandish. However, no matter the temptation, the second one is likely to be a disappointment.

Hold the cigarette between my lips, speak without managing to drop it into the snow.

'Well, I think we'll regret it, but why not? A second fish supper...,' pause for that bit of extra effort, 'might just be called for,' I say as the lock springs open.

Take another long draw on the smoke, remove the cigarette from my mouth.

'Might have a haggis supper this time,' I say.

'Aye, we can get them in a minute. Stop salivating and open the boot.'

It was your suggestion you bastard. Put the cigarette back in my mouth, lift the boot...need both hands, it's so rusted and stiff.

The boot opens, we stare at the contents; obvious despite the dim light. A vaguely unpleasant smell drifts out. The cigarette falls from my mouth into the snow.

'Fuck…'

'Shit…'

Taylor reaches forward and pulls at the head of the corpse which is lying bundled in the back of the car. It does not move to his touch, so we both pull at the body more vigorously. It is stiff and unyielding, but eventually we manage to pull it over, and the head comes round to meet us. Eyes and mouth open.

We stare at it for a while. Neither of us knows what to say. We've spent the last week and a half not having any idea what's going on. We pieced together what we could and came up with some sort of connection. And now everything that we thought made sense has been tossed out the window.

'Fucking hell,' says Taylor. 'I mean, really… Fuck.'

Still thinking of Jo. Always thinking of Jo. He doesn't realise that Christmas has passed, such labyrinthine paths has his mind wandered down. Still sees himself giving Jo a Christmas present, cuddling Jo under the duvet on a cold Christmas night, the lights of the tree twinkling in the corner.
All I want for Christmas is Jo
.

Head twitches. If only he can find her.

How long had she been missing before he realised? How many days had he stood outside her house waiting for her to come back before he discovered that she'd gone for good? How many days? How many fucking wasted days? How far could she have gone in that time? Time to go anywhere in the world.

He didn't know why she'd left. Why had she left? Why would anyone in her position leave like that? She had found someone who would do anything for her, who would love her and run after her and do everything for her, who would keep her warm and safe, who would protect her from the perils of modern city life, which are legion.

How could she walk out on him that? What kind of thoughtless, selfish slut had she been? Maybe when he finds her, when he finally gets to give her a present, it won't be jewellery and it won't be clothes or chocolates or flowers or tickets to the concert hall. Maybe it will be pain. Fucking pain. Payback pain for the pain that she's inflicted on him, for reasons he cannot understand. Payback pain. Fucking pain. Fucking Jo.

He is cold, cold to the bones. Hasn't had anything to eat for three days. He was fed at first, but now that's drifted off. Forgotten what food tastes like, forgotten the warmth of it as it slides down his throat. Water and the occasional shot of J&B is not enough. The whisky burns and warms, but still he does not like the taste; nothing can change that.

His wrists were sore, but eventually the numbness came to take the pain away and now he feels nothing; except for the occasional trickle of blood down his arms after he tries to wrestle himself free. Knows the way to no pain is to stay still, but sometimes he is gripped with a desperation to get away. Jo is out there
–
sweet Jo
–
and she needs him. He knows she aches for him the same as he aches for her. Imagines all kinds of things happening to her, and the anger wells within him at the thought of it, at the thought of him not being there to protect her.

There are so many criminals and dangerous psychopaths out there. And here he is, imprisoned, and there's nothing he can do about it.

The anger passes. He thinks of a quiet Christmas afternoon. Lights sparkling on the tree, Bing Crosby singing. And Sinatra and Nat King Cole; coal crackling in the fire. Holding hands, his ring around Jo's finger.

His hands around her throat.

There's never a ferry when you need one.

Heading back to Glasgow, the long way round from Dunoon; back the way we came. It's going to take at least a couple of hours in this weather, and we could call someone in Glasgow to do our work for us; but who's that going to be? Who do you call when you've just found your prime suspect dead in his own car, leaving you suspicious of the two most senior officers at the station?

Crow had looked as ugly in death as in life. I can't think of anyone I'd feel less sorry for, having found them long dead in the back of their own car. Alerted the locals, but asked them to keep it under their hats for a few hours. Do the necessary, but don't go phoning Glasgow with the news, 'cause Glasgow already knows.

Still plenty of snow on the ground, no talk in the car. Taylor concentrating on not driving too fast for the conditions, leaving me to concentrate on what the hell is going on. Can think of only two available options.

Out onto the dual carriageway past Balloch before the snow gives a temporary respite and driving becomes easier. About twenty minutes left of the year, and I can't wait to be done with it. As if tomorrow's going to be any better.

Taylor speeds through the night. Decides it's time we talked about it. Gerry Crow, dead in his own car.

'You worked any of it out, Hutton?' he says.

Gather the thoughts, try not to say them all at once.

'If Crow had anything to do with the other deaths, there must have been some accomplice who's now taken care of him. Alternatively, and more likely, he had nothing to do with it and has been dealt with, the same as the others, as part of the same deal. Forgetting Ian Healy for a second, 'cause I've no idea where he fits in, of the original gang of five only Bloonsbury is left.'

'Yep.'

'So, is it that Jonah's been taking care of all his co-conspirators, or does it mean that someone else is going after them all and Jonah's next in line?'

'Miller for instance,' he says. 'Or, fuck, I don't know. Since she knows about the Addison case then maybe she's going to be the next victim.'

'So who do we warn? Bloonsbury or Miller?'

'Maybe they're in it together.'

Jesus, maybe they are. Nothing would surprise me now.

'And what about Healy?' I say.

'I can't work that out. We know he killed Ann Keller and Bathurst. Herrod was killed at his place. I don't know. Maybe he's working with Bloonsbury. Jonah did let him go after all. Maybe they did a deal.'

Stare ahead into the thick mist of night. We need to be talking, but it's in the vague hope that we stumble across something relevant, rather than the actual possibility of working anything out.

'He realises Healy's the killer,' I say. 'At the same time he's wanting to get rid of all his co-conspirators, so he enlists Healy's help. Threatens to arrest him if he doesn't do his dirty work for him, something like that.'

'Fucking Jonah Bloonsbury,' says Taylor. 'Still don't believe it. That theory's still got to be on the sidelines. If he was going to shaft them, why get the help of a psycho? How are you going to control a guy like that? Why not just do it himself?'

We pass through Dumbarton
–
city of magic
–
still not much traffic, a few flakes of snow in the air, three quarters of an hour short of our destination. We're heading for Bloonsbury's house, although what will we say if we find him sitting there, a wee dram in his hand and angrily proclaiming his innocence?