The Unburied Dead (24 page)

'Unless he's behind it all like last time.'

Shakes his head, laughs bitterly.

'Not a chance. Look at the guy. I've always admired him and he did use to be the star that everyone took him for. I know he was past it by the time you met him, but the guy was up there. But it's been at least ten years now since he did any good work… at least that. And if all that about the Addison case is true, well the guy's just sold his soul to fucking Hell. The quicker he gets there the better.'

'If he keeps on drinking...'

'You think? I know for a fact that he was told by his doctor three years ago – three fucking years – that if he didn't cut out the whisky altogether, not just cut down, he was dead in six months. Well, it's been a long six months.'

He's right. The guy is dead.

'So do you think you'll get landed with it?' I ask.

He lets out a low whistle.

'Well, that's what I thought, but...'

'But what?'

Raises his eyebrows.

'Heard a rumour,' he says.

'Aye?'

'Miller's thinking of taking over the investigation herself.'

'You're kidding?'

Shrugs his shoulders.

'Just what I heard. I think Jonah's out, but the word is that she's hacked off at the lack of progress and wants to take charge.'

'She can't!'

'It's her station. She can do what she wants. She can clean the fucking toilets if she chooses.'

That wasn't what I meant, but he didn't know that. I know she has the authority, but Christ! she had sex with Bathurst a couple of hours before the girl was murdered. She could be involved, for God's sake, how can she lead the investigation?

A cover up. Pretty obvious really. So it seems.

'Fuck,' is all I say, shaking my head.

'Fuck, indeed,' says Taylor. 'And Debbie left me,' he adds as an afterthought.

'What?'

'She left. Confounded all the critics by moving in with her young man. So, I'm a middle-aged bachelor again.'

'Jesus! You all right?'

He stares at the floor, puffs out his cheeks, lets the air out slowly.

'Don't know,' he says.

'Want to go for a drink?'

He nods.

'Love to,' he says, and gets out of his chair. Takes a look at some of the papers on his desk, murmurs something under his breath and heads towards the door, putting the light off as he goes.

'Any idea where Herrod went? He's been away all afternoon,' I say, following in his wake.

'No idea,' he says. 'Lying dead in a ditch somewhere, if we're lucky.'

*

But Herrod does not lie dead in a ditch. He hangs dead on a wall, impaled by an ornamental sword through the lower chest cavity, his feet dangling three inches off the ground. The drip of blood from his mouth has long ago stopped, the pool on the floor disturbed by the scurrying feet of rats.

The only solace he has is the solace of pain.

The pain of hurt; the pain of rejection; the pain of humiliation. The pain of defeat.

Can't stop thinking about Jo. Consumes his thoughts. Bloody Jo. Face tortured, agonizing smile. Jo shouting at him. Jo telling him to fuck off. Jo slamming the door. Jo getting upset. Jo turning down presents. Jo turning her back. Jo running away, disappearing, so that he never knew where to find her. Jo walking out on her life just so that she could avoid him. The man who loved her, who would give her anything.

He wants to take himself somewhere, somewhere within his imagination. A city; big, brassy, loud; where the action is. Just him and Jo hitting the clubs, hitting the night spots. Drinking, gambling, dancing. Fucking.

How many times had they fucked? He forgets now. Too long ago. The actual number is gone, lost beneath exaggeration and self-deceit, beneath the most glorious memories of Jo's face during orgasm. Her mouth contorted, that look that almost spoke of pain but was in fact the most incredible pleasure.

However, his dreams never work out. From the prison of his mind, he can't sort out the fantasy. Can't construct it. Like a sixties tower block, it looks good for five seconds, then begins to crumble and crack.

He'll never see Jo again and, if he does, she won't be interested. Not bloody Jo. Jo with her knee-length boots, Jo with her knowing smile, Jo with her G-string and the Celtic tattoo on her thigh and the neatly shaved public hair and her face contorted in pleasure during orgasm. And his fantasies disintegrate into a sordid mess; him and Jo alone in a dark stinking room, getting nowhere, doing nothing.

Eventually he will be purged. Eventually she will understand. She will be at one with him, and the hurt she inflicted upon him. Maybe then she will smile at him and they will be one. She will love him again, the way she loved him before.

She never told him. That still hurts, perhaps even as much as the fact that she left. She never said she loved him, despite the amount of opportunities he gave her, despite repeatedly expressing his love for her.

That is one of the many things he does not understand.

Another day, another hangover. Four hours in the pub with Taylor, by the end of which I had persuaded him that he really didn't want to be married to Debbie anymore anyway. Did my bit for his peace of mind, although whether he'll still be happy about it this morning I doubt. He looked bloody awful when I saw him, but he wasn't in long before he left again. Away to speak to a couple of friends of Ann Keller's. A great believer in re-covering old ground. You always learn something new.

Bloonsbury is in his office, doing God knows what. Door closed, hitting the sauce more than likely. Miller called for him about half an hour ago, dismissed him ten minutes later. He came out looking an angry man, but then he always looks like an angry man.

Herrod has disappeared. Took a call yesterday morning and went out, no one knows where. May be dead in a ditch after all. The station is certainly a more pleasant place to be without him, however. Maybe he's accepted an expensive transfer offer from another station. Haven't seen a paper this morning; it could be on the back page –
Herrod in Shock £35M Deal With Old Trafford
.

As usual I've been landed with the detritus of the weekend – muggings, rape, robbery. It's all showing how desperately undermanned we are. Dire straits. There's just far too much going on, and when we could do with all hands on deck for the murder enquiries, officers are continually getting pulled away on more mundane crime.

Writing up the report on a break-in at a newsagents at the bottom end of Cambuslang Main Street when Miller appears from her office. Approaches, looking around her as she does so.

'I'll need everything you've got on the Keller and Bathurst cases, Sergeant. Everything. Notes, random thoughts, vague ideas.' She stares at me, and I suppose I must be giving her a look. 'I've taken over from Chief Inspector Bloonsbury. I'll be leading the investigation. I want everything you've got as soon as possible.'

She can't do this.

'Where's Taylor?' she asks.

'Speaking to a friend of Anne Keller's.'

'And Herrod?'

Shake my head.

'Tell them both I want to see them when they get in.'

She stares at me for a second, then turns away. She stops as she passes the closed door to Bloonsbury's office, perhaps considers going in. Walks on, back to her own office. Closes the door behind her.

Well, Jesus, Taylor was right. The criminals have taken over the asylum; the suspect has taken over the investigation. Except, she's nobody's suspect except mine.

Head in palm of my hand, eyes open. Ignoring the noise of the office going on around me. Certainly no bloody thought for this stupid newsagents. Criminals got away with several thousand cigarettes and a bunch of pornos. Christ, maybe this was Crow as well.

Forget Crow. What am I going to do about Charlotte Miller? She's the last person to have seen Bathurst, she slept with her; then maybe an hour later, she's dead. And Charlotte Miller isn't telling anyone about it.

But do I really believe she had something to do with it? If she didn't, then is there anything wrong with her leading the bloody thing? If the two of them were intimate, then maybe she'll be switched on to it – certainly a damn sight more switched on than Jonah.

I stand up, decision made, even though I've no idea where it's come from. She can't do it. She's got thirty officers trying to discover where Evelyn Bathurst was on the night she died, and whose bed it was that she lay in.

Knock on the door, don't wait to be invited in. Walk in, head up, full of aggression. She stares at me and I immediately want to forget it. I can live without confrontation. This isn't my problem. Really, if I say it often enough, I can persuade myself that it's not my problem.

Can't think of the right words, so I just come out with the first ones that are there.

'What the fuck are you doing?'

Nice start. Suddenly have the image of me sitting on an inter-city train; first class ticket, eating one of these brie and black grape sandwiches, ice-cold v&t, on my way up north for a bit of a holiday.

'Sergeant?'

One word, but what a voice. A coiled snake. You can hear it in those two syllables, the anger just waiting to explode. No one talks to Detective Superintendent Miller like that. I'm going to just have to go for it. All guns.

'You slept with Evelyn on Friday night.' Good opener.

Her shoulders straighten. Face tightens.

'What?' is all she says. The anger's gone, she no longer sounds as if she's about to machine gun me. Then again, she doesn't look taken aback; more surprised. But is she surprised that I know, or surprised at the suggestion?

'You slept with Evelyn. Half the fucking force is trying to find out who her lover was on Friday night, and it's you.'

Shut up, let the words sink in. She just stares at me, nothing to say – or doesn't know what to say. I can't read her at all, which is pretty much how it's always been.

'What makes you think that?' she says.

I'd imagined her crumbling before the shock and awe of my all out up-front attack, but these are not the words of a woman who's crumbled. This is a woman taking her time, assessing the situation, the extent of the damage.

'I've known all along,' I say, which is a shit answer, and not one that is likely to put her under any pressure. Her face relaxes before my eyes.

Fuck.

'What are you going to do?' she asks. There's almost a smile there, or maybe I'm just imagining it because I've seen brutal fuckers up close and you can always tell when they're about to smile. Just before they bury the knife in the eye socket.

So, what should I do? I should tell Taylor; I should tell anyone who wants to listen. Maybe it doesn't mean she had anything to do with the murder, but it's certainly pertinent to the investigation.

I stand there looking stupid. Have lost all that sparkling fire I had when I first got in here, sixty-five seconds ago, once again proving to be not even remotely as cool as I like to think I am.

Show some balls, Hutton, for God's sake.