DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  In a cabinet in another room, Taylor finds the wholly expected and utterly massive DVD collection. Most of them are in unmarked boxes but we don't bother to check them out. He must have picked up most of this stuff from company hauls. We have warehouses jumping with this kind of crap, as well as a variety of other illegal products, and there are plenty of rozzers who'll use these places like a supermarket.

  No sign of a computer anywhere. Try to think if I'd seen one the previous day but I didn't notice. Crow was a simple man, whose familiarity and comfort with technology didn't really extend much beyond the TV remote and the ring pull on a beer can, so it's quite possible that he lived a life with his head buried in the non-tech sand.

  It's not a big house; half an hour and it's done. I need a shower, feel disgusting. We stand in the middle of the sitting room. Depressed. Morbid. This guy was one of us.

  'You surprised?' says Taylor.

  'No, but it's horrible. Jesus, the man's a slime. If he ever comes back and he's not the one committing murder, I want to get him for something. Weird porn, whatever.'

  Taylor nods his head, looks around, thinking.

  'He isn't coming back though, is he?'

  Rhetorical question. There's no way he's coming back.

  'You're right.'

  'So, what do you think?' he says, and he starts moving towards the front door as he says it. 'What does this make Crow? A murderer?'

  I nod my head as we step out into the cold darkness of night – the breeze off the loch feels refreshing, after the sleaze and stench of the house – and I close the door behind me. It shuts, but only just.

  'Aye, I think this makes him an anything.'

  We get into the car and sit and stare into the darkness. The windscreen is smeared with rain and it's like the fuzz in front of us stopping us from getting a clear view of the situation.

  'What now?' I ask.

  'Not sure. But I think we should just keep this to ourselves. Fuck, I don't know. If Crow killed Bathurst, does that mean Jonah was in on it?'

  'He must be. There were things done to the body that the press never got hold of from the first murder.'

  He nods again, then shakes his head. 'This is bad. Fucking Jonah. But then, maybe not him. Maybe it was Miller. We don't know she wasn't in on the Addison case. Or maybe, Crow had nothing whatsoever to do with Bathurst dying. Maybe he's just gone off somewhere. The guy's retired, he can go where the fuck he wants. Maybe he went to see some of those bloody awful children of his,' he says, then shakes his head again. 'All right, no way he did that, but who knows? All the evidence points to last night's killer being the same as Monday night's killer, and all the other evidence points to that not having been Crow.'

  Take a deep breath. A neat summation and basically we haven't a clue where to go next.

  'Either way,' he says, 'we keep this to ourselves for the moment. Hope no fourteen year-old delinquents decide to break into the place and find all that crap.'

  He starts the engine, gets the heater going full blast then turns the car round and heads back towards Loch Lomond.

  ARRIVE BACK AT THE station some time just before ten. The thought of spending a night in a hotel with Miller had long since vanished, but was then suddenly reactivated by a text from her asking me to ring her at home when I was done for the day. Decided not to do that while sitting in the car with Taylor. Pathetically, my heart has been thumping faster ever since.

  There's a light on in Bloonsbury's office, Taylor goes in to speak to him. The great man is head down on the desk, grunting in his sleep. An empty bottle of White & McKay sits openly at his right arm.

  Taylor lifts it, places it in the bin, then turns out the light as he closes the door behind him.

  26

  On the doorstep in Helensburgh, where I was three nights ago. Made a brief call to Miller and she asked me down. Don't know what the hell I'm doing here. Half expecting to find Crow waiting behind the door with a knife. Was tempted to tell Taylor before I left, but I couldn't. Kept my mouth shut, like a bloody idiot. Walking into the lair, completely defenceless. It's the sort of thing you watch people do in the movies, and you think, what are you doing, you idiot? Get some back up!

  But I could hardly come screaming down here with back up, could I? The demon's lair? It could just be that I'm the biggest and stupidest arse on the planet. So what if Bathurst and Miller had sex? Under other circumstances I'd have been watching the video.

  The door opens and Miller invites me in. Dressed similarly to the other night, but a different colour scheme. She smiles, doesn't say anything, looks nervous. Closes the door behind me and ushers me into the sitting room. The Christmas tree still burns, but it looks incongruous now.

  Half waiting for the appearance of Crow but my guts are telling me it won't happen. Stand by the warmth of the fire, wonder where Frank is, but don't really care. Remember Italy as I hear her pouring drinks behind, then she is beside me and I've got a vodka tonic in my hand.

  We stare into the fire. Think I'm going to let her do most of the talking. Need a cigarette.

  'Mind if I smoke?' I say.

  She shakes her head. Produce the packet, shake one loose and light up. Feels good tonight, probably because I haven't smoked many in the last couple of hours.

  'We are all busy in this world building Towers of Babel; and the child of our imaginations is always a changeling when it comes from nurse.'

  That's all she says. I've heard that one before; we all have. It's her favourite line, and she gives it to all the new recruits. Can't imagine that it means much to most of them, but it sounds good, and I know what she's thinking. She would have said those words to Evelyn Bathurst, and what Towers of Babel can she build now?

  'Did you know her well?' she says.

  Stare deep into the fire. It's the first time I've slowed down all day. Take a longer drink from the glass than I intended. Feels as good as the cigarette, the alcohol burns its way down, the chill hits my stomach.

  After the shock of the start of the day, it's gradually turned into just another murder. You have to stay focused on these things, can't let them get to you, but it doesn't mean your brain doesn't occasionally kick into overdrive. A warm fire, vodka tonic in your hand and a woman who might be implicated in the murder standing next to you.

  Your back was turned. The glass could be poisoned...

  Control yourself, Hutton, you fucking idiot.

  'No, not really. Not any better than the rest of us.'

  'No,' she says, and the voice is small and strange.

  'When was the last time you spoke to her?' she says, after another long silence in the crackle of the fire.

  Take another large swallow of the vodka, nearly drain the glass. Does she know that I told Bathurst to come and talk to her? Does she know what I know and that I know it? Christ, I could run rings round myself. I have to trust her, because why else am I here?

  'Last night, about five. She was just on her way out.'

  'How did she seem to you?' she asks quickly.

  'I don't know. Like normal, I suppose.'

  I may have decided to trust her, but I'm not telling her a thing.

  'She didn't say anything about what she was doing last night?' The eyes flicker at me, I wonder if she knows that I'm in possession of the facts. But how could she?

  Shake my head, drain the glass.

  'No. Said she was going out some place, but nothing specific.'

  She doesn't say anything. Out of sight her hand slips into mine, her fingers squeeze. Her touch electrifies and bemuses at the same time. Lift my glass without thinking, the ice cubes clink down to my mouth, with the dregs of tonic. I need another one.

  When she speaks again the voice is even smaller than before; the words stab out.

  'I heard you went into work together on Christmas Day,' she says. How the hell did she hear that? 'How was that, Thomas? You spent the night with me.'

  I can almost feel my flesh crawl. She sounds like a spurned lover, a
little girl lost in the deep fathoms of a relationship which she doesn't understand. But this is Charlotte Miller, I can't believe she's hurt.

  I look at her, and the first tear has started to trickle down her face. Jesus. Can't be real. Try to think rationally. Which is new for me.

  Her head rests on my shoulder, a tear drops onto the back of my hand. She's either toying with me or getting genuinely emotional. Either way, I'm out of my depth.

  It may not have lasted between Peggy and I, but by god it lasted forever by my standards, and all because she never went emotional on me. I stopped feeling emotions many years ago. I don't like emotions, especially in other people. I want to exist in another world, a hundred years ago, when everyone had stiff upper lips and just put up with shit and no one ever cried.

  'I think I'd better go.'

  Cheap, but fuck it, I didn't come here for her to go Jeremy Kyle. I'm kidding myself anyway.

  The hand squeezes a little tighter, something approaching a sob escapes her lips. This is the woman who rules the station with an iron hand in an iron glove.

  'Stay with me, tonight,' she says, her voice cracking as she speaks, and it feels like a hand squeezing my stomach. Why does she need me to stay the night?

  Christ, she's not going to kill me in her bed. Get a grip you stupid arse.

  I don't reply but I know the answer. She looks up at me and her face is streaked with tears, her eyes red. I'm getting sucked in and if she's playing me, I'm falling into the game. Blinded by her air of vulnerability, the sexuality of it – which may be as much blinded by deception, no matter how aware I think myself to be.

  She stretches a little, I lower my head, and our lips meet. I can taste the tears, I can feel her tongue gently probe into my mouth.

  We kiss for a long time in front of the fire, until her tears have dried, than we go to her bedroom and this time the lovemaking is more tender and infinitely more intimate than before.

  27

  It is a cold morning, winter finally seeming to have arrived, after an eternal autumn of mild and wet weather. The clouds are low, the threat of snow in the air. The night before has been busy, the usual Saturday fracas, enhanced by the time of year. Assaults, knifings, burglary, so much crime alcohol-enhanced. The station buzzes, more crime to be dealt with than anyone has time for. In the middle of two murder enquiries, Detective Sergeant Herrod is landed with an assault from the night before; all the while he ponders the state of his Chief Inspector. The night asleep at his desk, bundled into a taxi and sent home a couple of hours previously. A man to inspire loathing and the distant memory of respect.

  Herrod hates every minute of the work that he does, loves it at the same time. The perfect conduit for his rampant ill-humour, the perfect outlet for his paranoia, a brilliant excuse to escape his home and his wife.

  Nearly noon and he wonders about Hutton – yet to appear this morning. A Sunday perhaps, but this is no time for a day of rest. Taylor is at his desk, thinking as usual, but no Hutton, and he hopes he is not out investigating a lead. Hates the idea that it might be Taylor and Hutton who solve the murders.

  Has had a vague thought as to why Evelyn Bathurst might have been killed, but refuses to believe it, refuses to think about it. Sometimes he is aware of his own paranoia. There is always another reason.

  The phone rings as he is in the middle of putting together his report on the attempted assault, and he scowls at the ring. If this is some other piece of shite...

  'Herrod,' he growls down the phone, imagining it sounds hard. Sees himself as the tough cop.

  There is a slight hesitation, a small voice.

  'Sergeant Herrod?' says a woman. Doesn't recognise the voice. Sounds like a callbox.

  A callbox? Where did she find one of those?

  'Aye, I said that already.'

  More hesitation. Bloody women. If this is another one about to report some pointless piece of shite, he'll tell her to go and get a life and hang up.

  'What is it, Hen, I'm busy?'

  'I was told to speak to you. It's about these murders,' she blurts out.

  Herrod's eyebrows raise a fraction. Could be something, could be some stupid sad woman who wants a bit of attention. She does sound nervous, however.

  'All right, Hen. Take your time. Now, what's your name?'

  She doesn't answer, doesn't want to tell him. He controls the desire to shout down the phone. Something he's used to doing with the public.

  'I can't help you if you don't tell me your name, Hen,' he says.

  'I'm scared.'

  He tries to lower his voice and sound compassionate, although he knows it's beyond him.

  'Where are you phoning from?'

  'Not Glasgow,' she says, after a few seconds. 'I don't really want to say.'

  Herrod rolls his eyes. Bloody hell, here we go, he thinks. No name, no address. Are you on Planet Earth, he wants to ask.

  'All right, you don't have to tell me that either, just tell me why you're phoning.' On the verge of hanging up.

  'I went out with a man in Glasgow. About a year ago. Just a few times.' She stops, he wonders if she might be crying. 'Maybe a bit more than that. We... I guess we were an item, but it was one of those things. It just kind of happened, even though I didn't want it to.'

  Herrod holds the phone in front of his face and looks at it. Oh my God. She's phoning up to complain about her relationship. Wonderful. One step from being one of these people who dial 999 to complain about their dishwasher breaking down.

  'Yes?' says Herrod, tentatively. This is almost laughable, and he has that weird sense of humour that kicks in briefly before he completely loses the head.

  'Maybe three months all in, including a bit of... off and on.'

  She doesn't say anything else, not immediately. More money gets put into the machine. Herrod taps his fingers on the desk. Lightening up. What the Hell, might as well spend a day on the phone listening to someone's relationship issues.

  'Take your time,' he says again, feeling absurdly pleased with himself that he's actually managed to be nice to someone.

  He can hear her breathing. He looks around the station. Everyone else seems to be sensibly occupied. Why is it just him?

  'He was just... strange. We were friends for a while. We met at an evening Spanish class at the university. You know, one of those things you sign up for and go to once or twice. Friends, that was all really, that was all I thought. Then one day he comes on to me, really strong. Really pushing it....'

  More hesitation. Herrod cannot help himself.

  'And you shagged him?'

  She blurts out a rueful laugh.

  'And you got pregnant?' Herrod has seen the shows.

  'Nothing like that. No. No. It just sort of happened, and the sex was pretty decent. You know. I'm not... you know, I don't want you to think... I've been with a few blokes, and you get some, you know, some of them... quick tweak of the breasts, quick grope and within a minute their ejaculating. He was better than that. That's all.'

  Herrod thinks of the last time he had sex and wonders how close it fitted the description she's just given. Immediately stops thinking about it, and the annoyance creeps back. Bloody women, all so perfect at having sex. He holds the phone away from him and stares at it again. Gives it a withering look and brings it back in.

  'Go on,' he says. 'I've got all day. No, I have...'

  'It just got, very quickly, very quickly... in fact, looking back, even before it began, it was weird. He was weird. Obsessive. We fought, almost from the start. It was stupid of me to let it last as long as I did, but I couldn't face the big fight at the end. He was just everywhere, buying me presents, over-protective, smothering me. He smothered me.'

  'But not literally, because you're on the phone,' said Herrod.

  He could sense her staring at the phone, nonplussed by his quick-witted chatter.

  'No,' she said, uncertainly. 'I didn't mean it literally.'

  'All right,' says Herrod. 'And your point is,
caller?' Feels like he's Alan Green on Radio 5, taking some endless call where the caller refuses to ever come to the rub.

  'It was just freaky in the end. I ended it a couple of times, he started hassling me. It got...' She shivers. She has tried not to think about it in over a year and mostly she's been successful. The news of the last week had forced it once more uncomfortably into her head. 'He was always there, he was always phoning. I'd get home from work and he'd let himself in. He'd be there, waiting for me, dinner made, wine on the table. Jesus...'

  The words Jesus made dinner for you? are on his lips, but the time for sarcasm is past. However slowly, she is finally getting to the point.

  'We had a big fight one day, another one, another one... I said everything I was thinking. Everything. I said insults that I hadn't even been thinking. The size of his cock, his breath, his... fuck, everything. Sense of humour... like he fucking had one.'

  Her words are coming more quickly, the feelings are being dredged up as before. Anger and fear, loathing, desperation.

  'Fuck...' she mutters down the phone.

  'What happened?'

  'There were just a couple of days of it,' she says quickly. 'I changed the locks, then I saw him standing outside my house. Watching. Fuck, I got up in the middle of the night and he was still there. He turned up at my work. Fucking bastard. Really. He just creeped me out. Then he swiftly got to the death threats. Fucking freak.'

  'Did you call the police?'

  She snorts down the phone.

  'Oh yes. Like you lot gave a fuck.'

  'Well why the fuck are you calling the police now?' says Herrod, his disdain bursting to the surface.