The Unburied Dead (19 page)

As she steps out onto the street and rounds the first corner, someone sees her, sees her dark brown hair dully reflect the orange street lamps, but she does not see him. She walks on, the dull ache in her leg muscles heightened from sitting in the car.

She thinks about Charlotte Miller, has vague thoughts of Thomas Hutton, but thinks not of the problems with which she stepped out that evening. Wonders whether to have coffee when she gets home, or whether she should go straight to bed.

She will, however, never get to choose.

Having a weird dream where Peggy and Charlotte are naked together on a huge front lawn somewhere, singing Aerosmith –
Crazy
– when the phone rings. It plagues the dream for a while, before I'm plucked from the fantasy into the cold early morning. Still dark outside, cold in the bed. First thing I think of is driving down to see Charlotte last night, and getting my rude awakening. Constable Forsyth's Peugeot 307 sitting outside her front gate. Forsyth. Fuck. So I sat there feeling like a total idiot, before turning around and heading back home. Resisted the pull of the vodka bottle, went straight to bed. I cannot believe she went for Forsyth. Course, I can't believe she went for me either, but at least I'm not some spotty constable for whom shaving is a distant dream. At least we'd had some sort of thing going on since the curious incident of the tits in the lunch time. But Forsyth? Had he ever seen her tits?

Look at the clock while my hand makes its tortuous way out from under the covers, on the long journey to the phone. Not yet seven o'clock.

'Yeah?' I mutter down the phone.

'It's Ramsey. You need to come in.'

*

Dawn's grey light begins to show behind the tenement buildings. The rain has stopped, the cold does not seem so cold. The small area at the bottom of the park where the body was found is log-jammed with police; the entire park is cordoned off from the public. The Saturday between Christmas and New Year, and not too many people have crawled out of bed. A few anoraks who've brought their dogs out to let them dump on the park, stand around and watch the police activity, such as it is. What are they expecting to see?

And what are any of us doing, these too many chiefs and too many Indians? The SOCOs are doing their business, while the remainder of us stand around in monstrous misery and anger.

The body of Evelyn Bathurst has already been removed.

The first officer at the scene did not recognise her, her face having been dealt with in the same manner as Anne Keller five days ago. Multiple stab wounds, so that she was utterly disfigured. The body was identified by the ID card in her inside pocket. Strangely, it wasn't until then that the constable on duty had to throw up.

The gang's all here, each and every one of us looking sick. What makes it worse? That she was one of us? That she was so attractive? Or is it just that it's happened again, the killer has struck once more?

Bloonsbury is still drunk from last night. Very fetching he looks in his abject misery and inebriation. Taylor at least has managed to sober up, just looks hungover – the same as that idiot Herrod. And Charlotte Miller stands alone. Even saw her shed a tear. Haven't seen her at the scene of a crime since she got here, but this is different. This is a combination of all our worst nightmares.

Tried speaking to her a few minutes ago, got nowhere. She looks in shock. That hard bitch act is exactly that, but you would have to be built of granite not to be moved by this.

'And when he was home, there lay his uncle smitten on the head, and his father pierced through the heart, and his mother cloven through the midst.'

That was what she said, those her only words. Her voice was small, and like all intellectuals who cannot speak the truth of their emotions, she hid behind some inappropriate literary reference. The usual source, I presume, but I don't know. Don't care. She does, at least, look genuinely distraught.

Forsyth walked past her not long after and they didn't even look at each other. And what were they up to no more than a few hours ago? Why would a Superintendent have a constable back to her house? There can be only one reason, and it's the same one that took me there on Christmas Eve. Makes me wonder why she's asked me away for Saturday night.

Tonight in a hotel looks extremely unlikely and if I don't spend the entire evening at the station, I can be glad of the fact that I did not dismiss Peggy's invitation. These, however, are trivial considerations at the moment. They would be, even if this latest murder had not been one us, and a popular member of the force at that.

I've got my back to a tree, the tenth smoke of the day in my hand, my mind all over the place. I'm going to have to talk to Taylor, no doubt. Who is there for me to betray, now that the only one of the gang of five whom I would have protected has been killed?

Sequence of events. Monday night – Anne Keller is murdered, and at the same time Edwards is mouthing off to Bathurst about the great conspiracy of last year. Two days later Bathurst fills me in on the full story. Doesn't want me to tell anyone else, so I have to presume she hasn't. I go to see Crow, he looks dumb about Monday night – and gut instinct says he's telling the truth – although there is something about Herrod and Bloonsbury, as if the conspiracy is still active in some way. Our killer tries to strike again, this time unsuccessfully, and the potential victim gets a good look at him. Bit of a vague description of course, since all these people are idiots, but it certainly isn't anything like Crow. The guts continue to say that he had nothing to do with the murder. I speak to Bathurst, advise her to go to Miller, and the next episode in the story is the one where she gets murdered.

So was she killed by the same man who did Keller – the same m.o. as far as anyone can tell at this stage – or was she murdered in copycat to keep her quiet, in which case, how did they know she was about to play the whistleblower? Could I have alerted them by my pointless trip to see Crow? That is the thing which consumes me the most. Was I to blame for her death?

Jesus, it's a horrible thought. But the gut feeling says that Bathurst was just another victim in the line. Dark brown hair, walking alone through the streets in the middle of the night, she fits the mould of the victims.

But then there's that other gut feeling, the one which says there is no such thing as coincidence. If she's dead now, it's because of her knowledge of what happened last year. And if somehow they know that she told me...

Get the shivers, feels like a hand at my neck. Light another cigarette as the cold morning continues its painful appearance. Another media crew pull up and I wonder how Bloonsbury's going to handle them in his state.

Taylor appears, looking hellish, much the same as the rest of us.

'You all right, Sergeant?' he says.

Cigarette in the mouth, I nod. Why is he asking me?

'I mean,' he says, 'you two, you had something going, didn't you?'

Aye, right enough. He thought I spent the night with her leading into Christmas Day.

'Nothing but another in a long line of rejections for me, sir,' I say, and the cigarette tastes awful. Serves me right for smoking more than a half packet before breakfast.

'Oh,' he says, and looks disinterested. Doesn't believe me, which is fine.

'This is a fucking mess,' he says, looking around at the commotion. And a hell of a bigger mess than he supposes.

'Telling me,' I say. Crush the cigarette under foot, determine not to have another until I've eaten something. 'I need to talk to you about something, sir.'

'Aye, sure, whenever. Not now, though. Someone's going to have to talk to the press. Jonah's in no fit state.'

'Still pissed from last night.'

'Still pissed from Monday night,' says Taylor – in one of our old jokes – as he walks off to talk to the gathering herd of TV, hungry for the story for the morning news. Nothing people like better with their Cornflakes than a bloody mutilation.

*

Been a long day. Our battered husband woke up and wants to press charges. Had to go and speak to him, and having found the wife unlikeable and hard to believe, he was just as bad. Perfect for each other, except that one of them is a brutal, lying bastard. Or perhaps, as occurred to me at some point during the day, they're both brutal bastards and they're both telling the truth about the other's brutality. Got a feeling it's going to be like Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner in
War of the Roses
and they'd save us all a lot of trouble if they just went off somewhere and fell from a chandelier together.

The shit has hit the fan, of course. The Chief Constable showed up, acting like he owned the place – I missed him fortunately, the guy's a moron – dragged back from his 'winter retreat' – that's what he called it, the fucking idiot – and not too happy about it. As it is the need of authority to dump on the next most senior in the firing line, Miller got it in the neck and everyone expected her to come firing thereafter. Didn't happen, however. She got them all together – missed this as well, at the hospital – and gave them some concerned talk, considerate, subdued, about the need for a quick result, not only for the benefit of the public, but for our own good. Stressed the need for good, honest work, to do the job well and not try anything that could backfire. Good police chatter, but not at all like Charlotte. Usually she's in amongst us like a headcase with a chainsaw. Never been around her when she's lost one of her people before, so you don't know what she'll be like.

Mirrors the entire mood of the station. Everyone's the same – subdued, miserable, determined. We've got to get the guy, there's going to be no messing about and every other crime that gets committed along the way is even more of an irritant than usual.

At some point in the afternoon Mrs Bathurst showed up from Inverness, all tears and anger. Never wanted her daughter to be in the police in the first place. Once she'd got her anger off her chest she broke down, and Charlotte spent a lot of time with her. Another surprise.

Two calls from Peggy, which I ignored. Ended up texting back that I'd call her later when I had time. About tonight, there's just no way. It's going to be a long evening and I'm just not in the mood for any happy families. She's got to realise it, though, and if she doesn't then we're no further forward than we were three years ago.

Into Taylor's office, finally, at some time after six. Been wanting to talk to him all day and been growing more frustrated at the delays which have piled up, at the rubbish which keeps getting in my way. Had hoped to make the late afternoon brief, but missed that as well, thanks to another aggravated assault in Rutherglen Main Street. Don't know what's happening down there.

Find Taylor staring at the wall, his usual position. Thinking. Shut the door behind me, pull up a seat across the desk.

'Got some bad news for you, Thomas,' he says.

What now? Taylor looks bloody terrible. Hope the bad news isn't going to be about him, that really it's bad news for him, not me.

'What?'

'Thistle lost two-one at Raith.'

'Fuck off.'

'Morton won, so did Ross, so you're down to ninth.'

'Fuck.'

'Winning one-nil, let in two goals the last five minutes.'

'Aw, fuck.' Bloody Thistle, bloody useless. Should start supporting one of those pish wee teams in the third division; you know the ones who draw a crowd of six and get pumped every week.

'I don't care anymore,' I say, in a voice that suggests otherwise. 'I'm an East Stirling fan these days.'

'They got beat, 'n all.'

'Very funny.'

He laughs, but it's not a day for laughing and it dies on his face.

Time for work. Got a small knot in my stomach.

'What have I missed?'