The Unburied Dead (26 page)

Yep, roll out the Beatles song. The time was never right, tomorrow never came. Never. I'd sit there, thinking
OK, this is it, this is it, now. Right now. Right fucking now. Say something!

I never said. And she knew. She knew there was a lot of shit in there, and she waited for me to tell her. It hung over us. We wouldn't really be a couple until I'd shared. And so we were never really a couple. Despite twelve years of marriage.

She's still waiting. And now, it's not so much going to be about diamond earrings, it's not so much about me lying about my whereabouts – although obviously it would be if she knew I'd been sleeping with the boss – it's about Bosnia, it's about me living in a war zone for two and a half years, it's about me getting completely mentally fucked up and never telling her about it. And the diamond earrings... you know what they were saying? They were saying,
all right, it's time for number seven to come in. I'm here, I'm back, and this time I'm talking. Honestly.

Honestly, for fuck's sake.

*

Two hours later and just about finished that report on the newsagents. Paperwork. It's not that I'm sitting on it; I keep getting interrupted. The usual crap of any given Monday. I've had enough. Need a holiday from all this. Murder, pointless little criminal investigations, Peggy, Charlotte. I need a break from it all.

Taylor arrives. Got a serious monk on. Walks past me, then stops, takes a second, turns round.

'What is it with you fucking sergeants?'

I glance at Herrod's desk. I don't equate, on any level, the fact that I was late for work yesterday with the fact that Herrod has been missing for twenty-four hours. He's a knob, and I – despite the occasional opinion to the contrary – am not. Vaguely resent being the same grade as him, although sadly neither of us is going anywhere.

'You fucking turn up when you feel like it, Herrod's god knows where, and now fucking Eileen Harrison calls in sick. Did you know that? Did you know she'd pulled a sicky?'

I just look at him. One of those occasions when it's best to let him spout. Authority has to spout off every now and again or else it loses its grip on the reality that it's an authority.

'We've got work coming out of our arse… I don't give a fuck if she's got a cancerous tumour in her neck which she broke falling down the stairs after suffering a fucking heart attack. Get the fuck in here, for God's sake…'

He's still staring at me like I'm the bad guy. I've been in here since eight this morning, and I'm saying nothing. Admit that I'm a little surprised, as I do think that Eileen Harrison is the type of ball-breaking workaholic that would come to the station regardless of being a heart-ravaged, broken-necked cancer victim.

Maybe I should call her.

That thought comes into my head, and then I think, for fuck's sake, you idiot, leave it alone.

Taylor is still looking at me like I'm the five-day-old leftovers of a chicken vindaloo when Charlotte Miller appears in front of us.

'Gentlemen.'

She has walked in on a lot of anger which doesn't immediately dissipate. She can't help but notice, but chooses to ignore it.

'I'd like to see you in my office, Chief Inspector,' she says to Taylor, then turns away.

Taylor watches her go, and then gives me a look before he follows her.

'She's probably going to make me a Sergeant so that there's someone to actually do all that fucking Sergeant type work that you lot don't seem to give a fuck about.'

He walks off; I watch him go. Manage not to let rip at his back by counting to ten. The phone rings before I get to three. I answer with very low levels of enthusiasm.

'Hutton?'

'Ramsey,' says the detached voice. Bloody Hell, just what I need. Another theft of Winnie The Pooh masks in Rutherglen.

'What is it, Stuart?'

'Got a woman down here wants to talk to Herrod.'

Tell her he's not here and get her to come back in three years time.

'It's about the Keller and Bathurst murders. Said she spoke to Herrod on the phone yesterday morning.'

Instant wake up call. They said that Herrod disappeared after taking a call.

'Can you show her to one of the rooms, Stuart. I'll be down in a minute.'

'Aye, no bother,' he says and is gone.

Put the phone down, drum my fingers on the table. Got a weird tingle. It's a police thing. Gut instinct. About to get a breakthrough.

Won't go leaping into the midst of the Taylor-Miller conflab just yet. Wait and see if my guts are in order for a change.

OK, guts appear to be mostly in the right place.

Just had a visit from Josephine Johnson. Twenty-six, dark brown hair, bit of a looker. Something of the Uma Thurman about her. Bit of an oddball face, but smouldering sexuality – you know the thing. Anyway, her sexuality really doesn't have anything to do with it; that's just me playing to the male stereotype.

She called Herrod yesterday because she thought an ex-boyfriend of hers might be the bloke we're looking for. Didn't give Herrod her name or a number because she was scared. Tried to call him again today, couldn't get him. Something made her change her mind, come in and cough up the beans.

Started rambling on about how she saw this guy for a while, and the whole thing was a bit weird. Got a lot of details before I got the name. To be honest, I wasn't pushing for the name because I presumed it was going to be someone we didn't know. Why wouldn't it be? It was just going to be any old name, and the detail, the story behind her belief that this bloke could be a serial killer, was going to be much more important. Then, of course, it turned out to be someone that we did know. Someone that we'd brought in for interview and whom we'd then let go.

Ian Healy.

So I left her sitting there with a cup of tea and a PC for company, grabbed Taylor and made big feet for Healy's office. Taylor had just emerged from Charlotte Miller looking moderately apprehensive. Just been put in charge of the whole murder inquiry, which is something of a relief, for me if not for him.

We could have come out like the fucking cavalry. Guns, back-up, the whole bit. But it's not Taylor's way. Doesn't want to go tramping all over town if we're going to look stupid. There's no such thing as coincidence in crime – apart from when it happens. Ian Healy might be our man; he might not.

Now we're on the road between Healy's office and his home, having come up empty. His secretary sat there playing the clown. Said she had no idea where he was, and if she knew and wasn't saying or if she didn't know and she was worried, she hid it perfectly. Police resentment to a tee.

Short drive to Healy's place somewhere in Parkhead. If I was him I wouldn't live so close to my business, but the guy obviously isn't rational. Not by a long way.

Taylor hits the London road. Not too much traffic – no need for any flashing blue lights. Briefly reaches ninety-five in the outside lane. He's pissed off.

'How long did Jonah interview this bastard?' he says.

'Don't know,' I reply. 'An hour, maybe more. Not sure.'

'Christ. I mean, what the fuck was the man doing? He's supposed to be a fucking detective. How can you interview a murderer for half the fucking day and then decide he's not your guy? Christ, you fingered him after two seconds in his office. Fucking Jonah spends all morning talking to the bastard and doesn't even bother getting a blood sample.'

'Come on. I let it pass. You said yourself you didn't think this was it.'

'Fuck that,' he says angrily. 'I spoke to the bloke for three minutes. Jonah practically shoved his head up the guys arse.'

'What do you expect? Bloonsbury's dead. He couldn't pick the murderer out of a line-up of four nuns and a blood-covered guy with a chainsaw. He's finished.'

I might be giving too much credit to the four nuns there.

'Dead right he's finished. Dead right.'

Another nail in Bloonsbury's coffin. Haven't even been thinking about nails in Herrod's coffin. Healy might be our man so there's a chance Herrod's dead. And for all that he's an open sore on the backside of humanity, you never want to see this happen to one of your own.

Up into a side street, then we're parked in front of Healy's tenement. No messing about. Up the stairs, third floor. Start to slow down as we reach the top. Walk more quietly as we near the door. Green paint, slowly peeling.

We stand at the door. Deep breath. Look at each other. Nervous. This could be it, this could be nothing. Wish we'd brought guns. Taylor rings the bell and we stand and wait.

'We should be armed,' I say to him.

'Don't be a girl.'

Tries the doorbell again, gives in to the inevitable.

'Right then, John Wayne,' he says.
John Wayne?
'Do your sergeant thing and kick the door in.'

Marvellous. Over fifteen years on the force and it's all I'm good for. Decide to have a go at something I saw in a movie once. Try the door handle.

With a click that echoes down the corridor, the door opens. Nice and easy. Give Taylor a look and he scowls in return.

Swing the door open, step inside. Taylor in front. Immediately feel it. The darkness, the silence. The curtains are drawn. Not a sound. Not even the faint hum of a fridge or central heating. Scary.

Taylor hits the light switch. Nothing. The electrics are out or the light bulb's gone. Either way, we're walking into a darkened house with every possibility of a psychotic killer hiding behind a door.

'We should've brought guns,' I say to him, voice low. He ignores me, starts walking slowly into the flat.

Leave the door open to let in some light. As we take the first few tentative steps, begin to notice the smell. Off milk. Not some rancid pungent stench. Just a hint of it.

The hairs start to spring up on the back of my neck. On my arms. Feel the shiver. A tightness in the chest. I hate this. Walking into the unknown. Who knows what kind of man Healy really is? If he leaps out brandishing a knife, fine, you get into a fight. Take care of it. It's the creeping around in the dark that's the problem. That's the fear. Waiting. For the shock.

I follow Taylor into a room. In the pale light from the door I can see the settee, the TV in the corner. Light behind the curtains. Taylor walks over and opens them and the grey light of another bloody cold and miserable Glasgow afternoon comes flooding in.

Look around the room, quickly behind the door; half expecting Healy to be there with an axe. Got to get a grip.

It's a sad depressing little room. Horrible 80's furniture; 15" flatscreen TV; drab wall paper, drab paintings; brown carpet; bin overflowing with rubbish; chipped coffee table, covered with magazines and photographs.

We go to look at them at the same time. Porn mags, photography mags – which pretty much look the same from the cover – newspaper supplements. They each have a picture of a woman with dark brown hair on the cover. They could be Josephine Johnson. They could be Ann Keller. They could be Evelyn Bathurst.

We look at each other. It's coming together. We have our killer. No doubt. I can feel it. If only we'd had the sense to break the door down when we first came to check on the guy.

Back out into the hall. Look into the bathroom, try the switch again, still nothing. We can see it fine, however, in the light from the other room. A nasty little room, unpleasant aroma. Move on.