The Unburied Dead (27 page)

Skin crawls! Feel it stretch and strangle; a noise from another room. Faint but distinct. A slight movement and then there's silence again. We are not alone.

Look at each other, walk slowly back out into the hall. Muscles tense. Every sense heightened. That smell getting stronger. Waiting for the attack. Small flat, only two rooms left. Kitchen and bedroom. Kitchen first, glance in. Can barely make it out in the dark. Large room, but plain. The fridge door is open, emits no light. A bottle of milk lies smashed on the floor. So much for the smell.

Bedroom. This is it. No light from the other room penetrates in here. We stand unsure in the doorway.

'Anyone there?' says Taylor. Silence. 'Healy?'

We wait. Nothing. Look at each other, barely make the expression out in the dark.

'Aw, bugger this,' he says after a few seconds. Walks quickly into the room, me behind. Straight to the curtains, starts to drag them open. Something scampers from underneath the bed, past our feet. Fuck! Heart jumps. Fists clenched. Realise it's a fucking cat. Look to the door as the curtains open and light pours in. No cat. It's a rat. Big and grey and ugly. Bloody huge thing.

Finally see it out the corner of my eye. Turn round. Big rat to keep my attention off this. Taylor is already staring at it. Hard to miss. On the wall beside the bed. Bloody; pale; dead. Detective Sergeant Herrod impaled through the stomach with an ornamental sword, suspended on the wall. The blood has long since stopped dripping. His mouth is open, blood congealed on his lips, his eyes stare blankly back at us. The weapon missed the tie, a subdued silk M&S job he must have got for Christmas. It hangs free, some of the blood from his mouth having dripped upon it. Squares of beige and blue, black marks streaked across. A new design. Shoes are gone. Herrod's feet in dirty white socks.

We stand and stare for some time. Drinking it in. One of our own, impaled on a bedroom wall. Try to get a grip on my train of thought. What it means for the murder inquiry. What it means for the station. The second officer down in two days. Think of Bernadette; bitter, she'll enjoy it in a perverse way. We stand and stare, as if expecting something to happen.

'Keep waiting for him to tell us to fuck off and mind our own business,' says Taylor.

Monday afternoon roundup. A bit later than usual as a result of the day's events. First one with Taylor in charge. Bloonsbury's back in the office having heard about Herrod, but he's staying out of our way. Sitting silently in his room with a bottle at his right hand. Don't know why Charlotte doesn't just send him on his way. The guy is on duty and embarrassing himself and everyone who has to come into contact with him.

Beginning to think Miller might be as far off the rails as he is, that maybe she's actually losing it. Two of her officers have been killed in the last couple of days, she's got a murder inquiry exploding out of her control, and she's lost. Saw her for a few seconds on her way to talk to the press. That self-assurance which she seemed to have earlier was gone. Pale, shocked, almost broken. She's still not returned, which is perhaps why she hasn't got hold of Jonah yet.

The door closes, the gang's mostly here. Taylor stands in front, done this loads of times. Never this big, though. Never for the killer of two of our own. Hard to fathom the feeling in the room. It wasn't as if any of us liked Herrod, the man was too personality-deficient for that, but a colleague's a colleague. If nothing else, it could have been one of us. Selfish, but that's how the mind works.

We've put an alert out for the guy. Picture in every paper, on every noticeboard. The first part of any murder inquiry is out of the way. We know who did it. Now we just have to catch him. Bloody frustrating that we had him here; locked in a cell too. And Jonah Bloonsbury decided to let him go. Don't know who to blame. Bloonsbury himself; Miller for putting him in charge in the first place; or me and Taylor for leaving him to it.

Taylor starts up.

'Right, people, here it is. I know this is hard, but we've got to think straight, be professional. There's a nutcase out there and we have to get him off the streets. We can be mad, we can be outraged, we can be depressed, we can feel guilty, whatever. But it can all wait. First off we have to be clear headed and we have to get our man.' He hesitates. 'And on that point – we all know we had him here and it was decided to let him go. If the press get hold of that we're going to look fucking stupid. So we keep our mouths shut. No one, all right? Not even wives and husbands and mothers or whatever. Mouths shut.'

A few heads nod, most of us stare blankly at him or at the floor. No one's going to tell anyone anything. Maybe if he doesn't go, Bloonsbury'll get his head panned in.

'So, what have we got? Herrod took a call from Josephine Johnson yesterday morning, putting him on to Ian Healy. Went round there on his own. Given what happened, he was a bloody idiot.' Pauses, takes a deep breath. No friends of Herrod here to offend. 'Whatever the exact turn of events, it ended with the sergeant dead. Healy, realising we're onto him, disappears. From hair samples in the flat, forensics have confirmed that it was Healy who killed Ann Keller and Police Constable Bathurst. Some of us may wonder why Evelyn was killed, but it looks as if she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

Looks around the room. Was that last comment directed solely at me? Might have been. He's right, anyway. Forget about Crow and some great conspiracy. Bathurst goes to see Miller to give her confession; for whatever reason they end up in bed, as you do; on her way home in the middle of the night, Bathurst is stumbled upon by Healy, and that seals her fate. Shouldn't have been walking alone through the streets in the middle of the night when there was a killer loose. No conspiracy.

'Now Herrod. Three murders and our killer has gone to ground. We know he's our man, we need to know where he is. We need to speak to everybody that's ever met the guy. Family, friends, clients, whoever. Hutton, you just been down to his office?'

'Aye. Brought back everything we could find. Just about to go and look through it all, see what we can get. The secretary's downstairs, trying to be stoic.'

'I know. I'll speak to her when we're done. But she won't tell us anything. Nothing to tell.'

He stops, looks around the room again. Not one for speeches our Dan. My mind strays again to Miller, as he starts dividing up the areas of responsibility. Who's to look where, talk to whom. I know what I've got for the next few hours. Looking through bloody file after file of Ian Healy's confidential papers. Landed with Morrow to help. Still be a long job. Look at the watch – almost seven o'clock already. Think of Peggy for the first time since this morning. Have to cancel again. She should understand. If she doesn't, then there just isn't any point, is there?

Too much is happening. Two women; a murder inquiry, which quickly consumes two colleagues; an old police conspiracy involving who knows how many idiots at the station. Too much crap going on at once. I just need a few hours to step back from it, assess the whole lot. Make some decisions, discard some of the garbage. But I'm not getting the chance. Every ten minutes there's something new. A revelation, a demand, whatever. At least today has simplified it a little. We're looking for Ian Healy, period. What I also need is for one of the women to tell me to take a hike – or both of them for that matter – and then things would be even simpler.

Switch back on for the wrap up.

'Right, people. You all know what you're doing. We need this sorted out quickly, so get out there and get on with it. And no fucking about.'

Taylor walks from the room and the meeting breaks up. Trail out near the back, no one saying anything. There's a job to be done, have to get on with it. Get back to my desk, Morrow comes trotting up.

'Right, Tom. Might as well sit at Herrod's desk. Seat should be cold by now.'

Raises his eyebrows, doesn't look too impressed. A dead man's seat. I push a box of papers over to him.

'What are we looking for?' he says.

'No idea, Constable,' I say. 'Let me know when you find it.'

Lift the phone. Get the call to Peggy out of the way before I start. One ring and she lifts straight away.

'Hello?'

'Hi…'

'Oh, God, Thomas,' she says. Sounds relieved. 'Are you all right? I heard about Herrod.'

'Aye, I'm fine. He's not doing so well though.'

'What's going on there, for God's sake?'

'Everything's cool. Herrod was just stupid.' I'm all sympathy. Peggy didn't like him any more than I did.

'Well, just you be careful.'

'Aye, I will. Look, I'm not going to be able to make it over tonight. This just keeps getting worse and worse.'

'Oh, please, Thomas. I'm worried. I want to see you.' Start to object, she doesn't give me the chance. 'I'm not going anywhere. It doesn't matter when you come, I'll be in bed whatever time it is. Just come over and join me.'

What the hell, it doesn't make any difference. Might as well sleep at their place as my own. Although, what happens if I've somewhere else to go tomorrow night?

'Aye, all right then. But really, don't wait up.'

'I won't.'

'OK. And as long as you're not going to be annoyed if I crawl in at half-five.'

'It won't matter.'

'Right then, I'll be there.'

'Thanks, Thomas. The children'll be delighted to see you in the morning.'

All part of the plan.

'Aye, it'll be good.'

Say our goodbyes, hang up. Morrow's got his head buried in his pile of paper, good lad. If Herrod had still been there he would have been listening avidly to every word and not attempting to hide the fact.

Phone goes again as soon as I hang up. Internal. If this is Ramsey with some apology for a crime, I'm going to give the bastard a doing.

'Hutton.'

'Thomas.' It's Charlotte.

Shit. Look up. Her office door is closed. She must have come back while we were in the meeting. I was wanting things simplified.

'Hi.'

I bet Morrow would want to listen to this if he knew who was on the phone.

'You'll be working late?' she says.

'No question.'

'I understand. Of course. But I was wondering if you could come over later?'

Come on... I don't need this. I'm supposed to go charging down to Helensburgh at three o'clock in the morning? I can't. Not tonight. Can't stand up Peggy again.

She is aware of my hesitation. Sounds anxious.

'Not Helensburgh. I've got a flat. Kelvinside.' Of course. 'You could just come over there when you've finished.'

She sounds like a normal human being. Alone. Vulnerable. Breathe deeply. You promised your ex-wife, your possibly soon to be next wife.

'Things are just getting a little out of hand,' she says. 'I need to talk, that's all.'

Why now? Why tonight? Why can't she want to talk tomorrow night? Where's the idiot Frank when you need him?

'All right,' I say. Fingers rubbing at my forehead. Thomas Hutton – the fucking idiot who can't say no.

'Thanks,' she says. Immediately sounds more assured. 'I'll be here late as well. I'll speak to you before I go.'

'Aye.'

She hangs up. Put the phone down. Stare at it. Wait for it to ring again with some other demand on my time for the middle of the coming night. When it doesn't, I lift the top paper off the pile and start to adjust myself to searching through the life and work of Ian Healy; see what I can come up with.

Haven't got two lines when the door to Bloonsbury's office opens and the broken man walks out. There are six or seven people in the room as he walks through and every one of us stops what we're doing to stare at the guy. Bloody eyes, face streaked and ugly. A mess. Appears to be walking in a bit more of a straight line than usual but his shoulders are hunched, shuffling gait. He stops halfway across the room. Has become aware that everyone is looking at him. Knows what we're all thinking. He catches a few eyes but no one looks away. There's no one left in this station who couldn't look him straight in the eye now and tell him what they think.