DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  The door opens. Superintendent Charlotte Miller. I stand and stare at her. Her eyes, I'm looking at her eyes. She leans against the door.

  'Are you going to come in, Thomas? You look freezing.'

  I'm no fashion freak – another plus to my character – so I don't know what you'd call what she's wearing. Sort of pyjamas. And blue.

  Walk tentatively into the house, not sure whether I'm going to find anyone else there. Had the sudden thought on the way down here that maybe she was inviting about twenty people from the station and we were all keeping it quiet thinking we'd been specially selected.

  I wander into a dining room, low lights, roaring fire, soft music, two place settings at the table, one very obvious bottle of champagne. Christmas tree in the corner.

  'Can I take your jacket, get you a drink?'

  I take my coat off, hand it to her. I've got that weird feeling in the throat you get sometimes when you know you're about to have sex.

  'Vodka tonic, please.'

  'All right,' she says, and shimmers out the room.

  Jesus. Just bugger the questions as to why I'm here, I can worry about them tomorrow. Plenty of time. Relax and enjoy yourself, Hutton. And it might finally be time to stop feeling guilty about all those lascivious breast-related thoughts.

  I start looking at the pictures on the walls. Sailing ships and big seas mostly. I've heard tell she's a member of the Royal and Northern Yacht Club just around the corner. Doesn't sail, just goes there to hang out with the rest of the local money and to shag whatever big stick she can get her hands on. Very admirable.

  The mind rambles on. If I had to guess I'd say the music was Mozart, but that's only because I saw Amadeus twenty-five years ago.

  She comes back into the room, rid of the jacket, and clutching a bucket of ice and a bottle of expensive looking French white. Pitches up at the drinks cabinet and sorts out my v&t. Pours herself some wine.

  'No art can compete with life whose sun we cannot look upon,' she says, as I stare at a picture of some old sea battle. Stevenson, I presume, but I don't encourage her by asking her to explain what in the name of all fuck she's talking about.

  She hands over the vodka, raises her glass.

  'Merry Christmas,' she says.

  Raise my glass in reply. 'Right,' is all I can think to say. I'll have to do better than that.

  She wanders over to the comfy seats by the fire, sits down. Her smell is intoxicating. I want to smother her in ice cream and spend hours licking it off. I want to rub chocolate sauce into her breasts and drink vodka from her belly button. I want to swathe her buttocks in cream and thrash them senseless. I want to pour syrup over her pubic hair and vagina, bury my head between her legs and emerge five hours later a sticky, gooey mess.

  'Sit down, Thomas, for God's sake. And relax, you look like you're scared shitless. I'm not going to eat you.'

  Damn.

  I take the hint and sit down on the next available seat. Take a large draw from the vodka, which contains a comforting lack of tonic. Feel the warmth of it descend into my stomach; instantly relaxed.

  I sort of smile at her and then stare into the fire. Hypnotic flame. Relaxed by it and by the smells in the air. Charlotte, burning wood, the real Christmas tree. A fantastic, festive erotic dream.

  Feel her looking at me, but keep staring into the fire. She asked me here, she can make the first move. Take another drink from the vodka and realise I've nearly finished it already. Better slow down or I'll be making a knob of myself.

  'We don't talk much, do we?' she says.

  I drag my eyes away from the flame. Her lips are moist, her nipples are obvious against the satin. I get that weird feeling at the back of my throat again.

  'We're all too shit scared of you,' I say. Not sure about my candour, but it's out there.

  She smiles. Sips her wine. Eyes shine in the light of the fire. 'It's good to get to know one's people a little better,' she says.

  I nod. I want to smother her backside in honey, and drink champagne from her ears.

  'I don't know what sort of things you'll have heard about me, Thomas. I'm sure I must have a reputation.'

  I nod again. I don't really think that about her ears. I'm just rampant and not looking at my crotch because I don't want to know how obvious my erection is.

  No idea what she wants me to say to that. Well, darling, we all think you're in it for the power, and you'll sleep with anyone who'll help you on your way.

  'Well, it's all true,' she says. Finish off the vodka. 'Frank and I have an understanding.' She runs her hand through her hair as she says it. Smiles. Fuck.

  'You sleep around and he doesn't mind?'

  She laughs. 'That's about it, although it's not that one-sided. He's spending the night with some Malaysian tart in Gleneagles.'

  The face betrays something as she says it.

  'Sounds as if it bothers you.'

  She shrugs.

  'Why should it?' Then, 'Well, maybe you're right. It's funny. I do it often enough to him, but sometimes I think he's driven me to it.' Could be about to get the marriage history. Usually I'd take this opportunity to go to the toilet and hope they'd changed the subject by the time I got back; but this I want to hear. She disappoints.

  'Sorry, I won't bore you with that.'

  'I don't mind.' A sensitive, new man.

  'Some other time, Thomas,' she says, shaking her head. 'I want to relax and enjoy myself tonight.'

  The fire crackles, the music trundles along, all string quartets and harpsichords. There is a semi-uncomfortable silence between us. Want to break it, but I haven't the faintest idea what to say to her. Stare once again into the depths of the flames, because when I look at her I'm back in her office on a warm day in late summer, and I can't look her in the eye.

  'I think about that day a lot too,' she says. 'I was surprised how much I enjoyed you looking at me.'

  I manage to look her in the eye this time too. The elephant in the room. I hadn't actually realised it was an elephant, but then maybe that's what elephants are when they're in a room.

  What in the name of God am I thinking?

  She stands, slightly discomfited by my continuing silence and says, 'Get you another drink?'

  Beginning to realise that maybe she's as uncomfortable as I am. You get impressions of people and usually it's more extreme than the reality. We're all made from the same mould, that's the cliché I'm pointing to. Some guy might be an idiot but he probably won't be too much more of an idiot than you are yourself. It's just how he comes across. Same for every cool bastard, every comedian, every Neanderthal. Every foible, every personality trait is magnified under the eyes of the rest of humanity, when underneath we're not really that different. And so it might just be with Charlotte Miller. Strong, sometimes bruising exterior, all the better for climbing up the ladder and putting men in their place; but underneath she's not that different from everyone else.

  Here we go. Hutton, the classical fucking humanist.

  We stare at each other, the back of my throat tingles and goes dry. Hand her the glass, our fingers touch. Feels like electricity stabs through me. Decide the signs are right and to go for it. She's only human, same as the rest of us, and she hasn't asked me down here to discuss whether Thistle'll ever get back into the Premier League. Stand up, imagine myself as James Bond – before he got brainwashed by the Russians, or whatever it was that happened to him.

  My head is about a foot away from hers, we stare at each other. My mouth waters. She smells glorious and I fight the urge for this to start in a frantic passion. I lean forward and kiss her lips – hardly any pressure – and taste the wine in her mouth.

  I run my fingers down her neck as we kiss and I feel her shudder, and then down her back and I slip them inside the silky material until my hands are resting on her buttocks. Absolutely beautiful soft skin, perfect shape to be caressed by two desperate, needing, wanting hands. Our kiss becomes more passionate, her arms are round my neck, and I sq
ueeze those fantastic butt cheeks, moulding them, caressing them. God, I'm so hard, so damp, my cock pressed against her. I can't wait to feel her, to slip my hands between her thighs to see if she's as damp as I am, so I move my hand round, feel the touch of her neatly shaved pubic hair, and then run my fingers down over her pussy and ease two fingers quickly inside her. She's soaking, as desperate for it as I am, and at the touch of my hand she gasps and thrusts herself against me, her mouth wide, her tongue all over me.

  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.

  13

  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.

  14

  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.

  Lo
oks 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.

  15

  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.