The Unburied Dead (11 page)

*

Five o'clock in the morning, Christmas Day. Driving back into Glasgow. Just spent my best night with a woman in a long time. Got a disgusting warm feeling, which points to me being moderately in love. That's usual, and it'll pass. No chance of blundering into marriage this time. The best I can hope for is a rematch but even that can't be sure. I'm fully aware that the next time I see her it'll be like it never happened, and I'm liable to get my face punched in for being crap at my job. But for the moment I'm content to bask in the glow of post-absolutely phenomenal sex. Body like a twenty year-old, breasts you could lick ice cream off for weeks without getting fed up, a tongue on her like a knife and a technique honed over decades of experience. Spectacular.

Tongue like a knife? That sounds wrong.

Drive through Glasgow, wishing the roads were always this quiet. Haven't given all the other things going on a thought all evening, and now they start to intrude. Bloody murderers, dinner with Peggy and the kids, what to do about Bathurst. Kicking myself for being so stupid as to double date on Christmas Day. Don't know what to do. Overnight Bathurst has dropped from the sexual wish list. Women of my own age or older from now on, and banish all thoughts of young constables twenty years my junior.

Pull up outside the flat just after five-fifteen. Tired, but feeling pretty cool. First night in a long while that I haven't drunk too much, although had I been stopped by a zealous young police constable in the last half hour I would still have been in trouble.

Up the stairs, let myself into the flat. Two and a half hours sleep and then a frantic fifteen minute rush to get to the station in the morning. At least the roads will be quiet. Wondering whether to tell Taylor about my evening, but knowing I won't.

Walk into the bedroom, yawning. Don't turn on the light. The curtains are open and the street lights fill the room with dull orange light, dark shadows. Am in the process of undressing when I notice there's a woman lying on top of the bed. Fully clothed, but undoubtedly a woman.

Early Christmas morning. He lies awake. Imagining he hears sleigh bells outside, can see the snow on the ground. Thinking of Christmases past, the presents he never received.

Jo never gave him a present. He'd wondered for a while if that was why she'd dumped him when she had. One week before Christmas. A long time ago now, it seems. Was it last year, or the year before? So much in his head. So much work, so many tortured and difficult lives. So much of an effort not letting everyone in on the secret.

She didn't dump him to avoid buying a present though. That would have been too stupid. She had plenty of money. She dumped him because she was getting plenty of sex elsewhere.

He'd loved her, he'd cared for her. He'd bought her presents, lots of presents. Took a silver necklace along to their first date, let her know right from the start that she was on to a winner. He listened, he always listened. Let her do what she wanted. Let her breathe. Gave her space. He massaged her head when she had a headache, bought her dinner when she was hungry; he sent her flowers every day. Every day.

She had thrown that back at him the last time they talked. As if it wasn't a good thing. She was fucking other guys while he was sending her flowers, yet he was the bad guy? She was fucking other guys while he was waiting outside her house with a box of chocolates, yet he was the bad guy? She was fucking other guys while he was leaving ten romantic messages on her phone every night, yet he was the bad guy?

At first he'd wondered if he'd been the problem, if he'd been the one to blame. Yet that was absurd. The notion was absurd. He had given her everything. Everything. He had given her wild flowers every day. Every fucking day. And she'd fucked her way through entire rugby teams worth of men.

He'd been heroic in his romance, while she'd been a slut. She was a slut, one of the sluts, one of those fucking sluts who went to bedrooms at parties and took on as many guys as they could get hold of. Yet he'd been the bad guy.

She was at parties, stripped naked – if she even bothered taking the time to remove her clothes – lying on a bed, eating men. Fucking one, while sucking another one off, her hands wanking another couple at the same time. That's who she was. A complete fucking slut, fucking and fucking, pricks all over her, covered in semen, swallowing semen, squeezing her cunt lips on endless cocks.

'How does that make me… the fucking… bad guy?'

The words are spoken at an empty room.

She'd moved away. Moved house. He hadn't seen her in so long. Was it a year or two years? The time seemed so long. It dragged. He thought about her every day, yet there was no possibility of ever seeing her again. Unless she decided to come back.

Would she come back? It seemed incredible to him that she had not already regretted leaving. All those men, but what did they ever give her? Sometimes he wondered if something had happened to her. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was the things he'd said when she'd ended the relationship. She had never admitted the other men, but he could tell that he was right when he'd accused her. No one looks that guilty unless there's something for them to be guilty about.

Three o'clock in the morning, the non-stop clock ticking in his brain. Christmas Day. She should be lying beside him; instead, she was probably still at some hangover of a Christmas Eve party, still fucking blokes, still fucking. Still fucking.

He'd find her soon enough. These other women, the ones who looked like Jo, but who weren't Jo, they were all the same. They weren't Jo. Sometimes they might as well be her. They weren't Jo.

One minute past three in the morning. The non-stop clock ticking in his brain. He'd find another Jo. He'd find another one.

Fucking Jo. Fucking Jo. Fucking all those other men, yet he was the bad guy.

Fucking Jo.

'I wasn't co-fucking dependant…'

Fucking Jo.

Sitting in the lounge, small lamp burning dimly, coffee all round, the Christmas tree unlit and pathetic in the corner, one man's weak concession to seasonal spirit. On the settee Evelyn Bathurst sits, sleepy eyed, Nescafé Gold Blend, black, three sugars, in her hot little hand. Decided she needed to speak to me tonight, thought she'd come and wait for me, so let herself into the flat. Polis make the best criminals. I've hit the wall. Need sleep. I'm close on forty-five and massively unfit, not eighteen. I can't handle staying up all night shagging anymore. If she doesn't get to the point soon I'm going to fall asleep on her.

'I shouldn't be here. I'm sorry.' For the seventh time.

'Look, it's not a problem, Evelyn.' Another large draft of coffee, another cigarette; hope that they start kicking in. 'I don't mind. Just take your time, I'm not going anywhere. When you're ready.' Mr. Compassion, that's me. Course, I want to give her a shake and tell her to get on with it, but I can see when a young woman is troubled.

Glance at the watch. Almost six o'clock. Shit.

I look at her, the worry lines on her young face. At least this'll make it easier to get out of the thing tonight, assuming she actually talks to me in the next two hours. She looks like a wee lassie sitting there. About to tell her father that's she pregnant; or she's dropping out of university, to go and build water pumps for villagers in West Africa. Can't believe I tried to get her into bed.

She drains her coffee. Looks at me. I recognise it. This is it. If she's about to tell me she's pregnant or that she's going to drop out of the police to go and build water pumps for villagers in West Africa, I'll be disappointed.

'You have to promise me that you won't tell anyone about this,' she starts.

Looks on the point of tears. Better sharpen up, take her seriously.

'Don't worry, Evelyn, I'm not about to tell anyone.'

'If this gets out at the station...,' and she doesn't finish the sentence. Lifts the mug to her mouth, finds it empty.

'I'll get you another cup. You get yourself together and tell me about it when I get back in.'

She nods, wipes her eyes. I take the mug and head for the kitchen. Sounds serious.

Stare out of the kitchen window at the cold and empty streets while the kettle boils. Wonder what she's going to say. Start to get a bad feeling, and for the first time think that maybe I don't want to know what she's just about to tell me. Sometimes ignorance is best.

Make the coffee, take it back in, hand it over and sit down. This time there's no delay. Engages my eyes for a second, takes a deep breath, then she starts talking immediately. Words tumble out in a great rush, sentences tripping over each other.

And immediately I know I was right. I don't want to hear it.

Walking into the office, five to eight. Wide awake. Had a shower, still feel dirty. Brought Bathurst in with me and she's gone off to their locker room. She lifted the weight from her shoulders by transferring it to mine and came into work in a better frame of mind than she was in at my flat. Not that I can do anything for her, but I said the right things and she's made her confession. And now I'm stuck with the information.

The light is on in Taylor's office and I stick my head round the door. I'm glad that he wasn't part of what I've just heard about. Want to tell him, but know I can't.

'Morning.'

He looks up. Smiles, sort of.

'What were you up to last night then, you shagger? You were spotted three minutes ago promenading across the carpark with Bathurst.'

Christ, you can't do anything, can you? I'm about to go on the defensive but decide against. They can think what they like.

Don't smile. Don't feel like it.

'Any news?'

He nods.

'Aye. While you were out shagging last night, some of us were working.'

'Spare me.'

'We got your Healy character. Picked him up at a pub in town, steaming out his face, about half ten.'

What was I doing at half past ten? I was deep in the arms of Charlotte Miller. Already seems a long time ago.

'And?'

'He sobered up pretty quick. Got him in a cell overnight. Jonah's coming in to talk to him this morning.'

'And is he going to be sober?' Almost spit the words out, knowing what I now know about Jonah Bloonsbury. If Taylor notices the tone, he doesn't comment.

'Is he ever? He'll have the run of CID today without the witch in, so who knows what he'll be like.'

Nearly spring to her defence, but manage to zip it.

'What do you think of our guy?' I say instead.

He leans back in his chair, tosses a pen onto the desk. Purses his lips. Shakes his head.

'Don't know, to be honest. I see what you mean about him, but I think he's just a stupid little shit.'

Implied criticism, I shouldn't have been getting everyone excited.

'Aye, right. I wasn't sure. Bloonsbury was the one frothing at the mouth over it. Just a gut feeling.'

He nods. 'Aye, well my gut feeling says it's not him, but Jonah's the one to make the decision. Anyway, we can get a blood sample. That should sort it out.' Another shake of the head. 'Why would a guy invite the polis in?'

'To give us a false description. Lead us astray.'

'Aye, well, maybe you're right. Fuck knows, eh?'

'Aye, right. Anything else?'

'Naw. Pretty quiet, so far. The usual shite after the pubs shut last night, but not much for us. That desk of yours looks pretty crowded. Maybe you'd like to see to some of it.'

'Yes, boss,' mock salute, and out the door.