29
'That was ballsy.'
Seventh interview of the morning. Decided to take a cup of coffee from this guy, because I was desperate. Six brief interviews, the time taken driving around, as usual.
I start off every interview with the same view. This is the guy. This guy sitting right in front of me. It's him. Guilty until he persuades me otherwise. Might as well. I'm not wandering around presuming innocence; where did that ever get anyone? We're not randomly interviewing people off the street, we're talking to people who are at least in the ballpark of suspicion, and although there's still going to be an element of stumbling across the right person by accident, it's not as much of an accident than if we bumbled around Buchanan Street bus station testing people to see if they were handy with a bone saw.
Of course, I usually change my mind in about five seconds. Most people have I Didn't Do It written on their forehead, whether they know it or not. Today, for some reason, I'm not feeling so forgiving. This bloke is the third I've not yet crossed off the list, the third name to take away and do a little more research on.
Started with the first guy on the list. It's not going to be him, though, is it? Not the first guy you speak to after having come up with a new line of enquiry. He was arrested for the rape of a young girl outside a night club. And when I say young, she was seventeen and pished out her face. Nevertheless, there was no question she was raped. The newspapers picked it up because his dad's been on the telly a bit. Nothing major, but it doesn't take much for a tabloid to decide you're worth putting on the front page. So overnight the whole country thinks he's a rapist. Then the DNA test falls flat on its face. It wasn't him. Some other fucker with short hair, a tattoo and his jeans round his ankles. He wasn't charged, off he goes.
The following day the newspapers carry banner headlines about how he's not a rapist.
Ha! As if. The following day the newspapers have moved on. Most of them don't even mention his release, and if they do, it's buried somewhere beside an advert for 2-for-1 at Iceland on page 57.
At some stage he picks up meagre compensation from a variety of sources, but the damage is done. Everyone thinks he's a rapist, and he has to live with it.
I spoke to him for ten minutes. Still wore the chip on his shoulder, still blamed everyone else. The girl, the police, the media, his parents. At no point had he ever asked himself whether he could have avoided any of it. Living in a reasonable house, with a reasonable car out front, and a wife and kids that he managed to hang on to despite the rape allegation, you'd think that maybe he would just move on. But he hadn't.
He stayed on the list.
Then there was the ex-footballer whose career frittered to a halt after being done for drink driving three times. Of course, it would be the police's fault he was done for that, and for driving without a licence. Perfectly reasonable for him to hate us, and not to blame himself in any way. His slow walk into the arms of disgrace, despite the fact that he played for a shitty wee team that was neither Rangers nor Celtic, nor even the great Partick Thistle, was well documented by the newspapers.
He lived in a squalid basement apartment in Dalmarnock. Miserable little shit more or less ranted the entire time at me for my part in his downfall.
He stayed on the list.
And now this guy. Comfortably middle class, living in a large house on the north side of the city. A Lexus in the driveway. No more than ten minutes drive from the hills and trees and the great outdoors. Similar to the first bloke. Wrongly accused by the police, wrongly arrested, name in all the papers. This one for the murder of a schoolgirl who lived on the same street as him. Several years ago now, but people hold grudges all their lives.
Unlike the earlier guy, this one was on the front pages for days. You know the thing they do, where they get the creepiest photograph they can find and splash it as big as possible? They can't say he's guilty, they can't say, this is the guy who did it, but they're saying it anyway even if they're not using the actual words.
And worse for this bloke, even though he was ultimately released, even though it was proven that he hadn't killed her, the real killer was never caught. There was never anyone else splashed all over the front pages. The story was celebrated enough that the guy did get front pages to announce he'd been released, but you know what the public are like. No one believed it.
'What?' I ask.
'The press conference you gave yesterday afternoon.'
'You saw that, did you?'
This bloke reminds me of a businessman who's all smiles, and who you know is going to ram you up the arse just as hard as he can. As soon as your back is turned, obviously.
'You seemed to be offering yourself up as his next victim.'
'I don't think I was doing that,' I say, despite the fact that that's exactly what I was doing.
'Clearly you were,' he says, leaning forward and popping two sugar cubes into his cup. 'I wonder if you have some great plan to fall back on, or whether you think you're just going to be too strong for him. Was it intelligence of some sort, Sergeant, or were your words dictated by some misplaced bravado?'
'Tell me about your arrest,' I say. I'm not here to talk about me. And even if he hadn't come across as some dodgy fucker, turning the conversation away from himself is exactly the kind of thing that's going to make me suspicious.
'Are you looking for people with a grudge, Sergeant?'
They all ask that. It's fair enough. We can hardly sneak up on them.
'Tell me about your arrest,' I repeat.
He smiles, slurps at his coffee in an almost affected manner. I'd say he was gay, except for the photographs of the two children all over the place and the wife he's mentioned about four times. Maybe he's in denial. Maybe I haven't a clue.
'It was a long time ago, Sergeant. 2001. You must be really scraping the barrel. Desperate, are we?'
'The killer is working meticulously. So are we.'
'Well, you have to, yes. That'll be why your colleagues were here two months ago.'
Fuck. Inevitable. Bloody Edinburgh. I immediately want to ask him who he spoke to but I don't want him to know that I'm in a left-hand-knows-fuck-all-about-the-right-hand situation.
'As I said previously, and as I've said to you people many, many times in the past... I was arrested for a crime I didn't commit. What can I say? I was paid, in the end, just over two hundred thousand pounds compensation. Bought this place with the money. Can you imagine?'
He looks around. I don't follow his gaze. It's an old Victorian gaffe that would go for well over half a million now. Not that the price would have risen in the last four years. Just shows you how mental things were for a few years there at the start of the decade.
'Why would I be bitter?' he says. 'I understand totally what you're doing, and why you need to do it, but seriously? I've got all this, I met my wife, a fellow victim. I have two beautiful children.'
Can't help glancing again at one of the photos when he says that. They look like regular children to me. You know, fuck ugly.
'What d'you mean your wife's a fellow victim?'
He snorts.
'Used to be on High Road, you know, years back. They accused her of turning up drunk on set. Big scandal. Huge. All over the papers. Ruined her career. You must remember it?'
I don't read those kinds of papers. I shake my head.
'Mid-90s,' he says. 'Crazy times. I didn't know her then, of course. She was still fighting the press years later when I was doing the same. That's how we met. We had the same lawyer.'
'Who gets the lawyer in the divorce?' I ask glibly.
For some reason he doesn't seem to think that's funny.
I leave seven-and-a-half minutes later, and his name stays on the list.
BACK IN THE OFFICE just after six. Maybe subconsciously I thought I'd had enough, and I didn't leave any more on the list throughout the afternoon. Three people to check up on seems enough. Neither Taylor nor Gostkowski is there when I get back, so I grab a coffee an
d a Danish and settle down at my computer to do some more reading on the back story of the three blokes who stayed on the list.
Gostkowski returns a few minutes later, gets to work, doesn't speak to me. Taylor comes in just before seven. He whistles at the two of us like we're dogs. Seriously. The whistle that's all teeth and lips and sounds like a referee. I've never been able to do that. Naturally, like obedient police puppies, we follow him into the office. He's already sitting behind his desk. He doesn't indicate that he wants the door closed, and somehow we know that we shouldn't.
'Sir,' says Gostkowski, just as he's about to launch. He raises his eyebrows. 'You just whistled at us,' she says. 'Like we were sheep. Can I ask you not to do that again, please?'
God, she's bold, isn't she? I just take that shit. I don't think you whistle at sheep though. You whistle at the dogs that are rounding up the sheep.
He looks slightly taken aback – too used to pishing all over me and having me accept it – and then nods. 'Of course, Stephanie, I'm sorry.'
She nods. We can move on now, as I choose not to push for my own personal apology.
'First of all, nice job, Sergeant, we've had a lawyer on the phone, pretty much before you even made it back to the office.'
Jesus. I hate people. I hate all people. Literally. I hate fucking everybody. I need to go and live in a fucking yurt. Or die. I've had enough. I'm just trying to do my fucking job here. Can't I do a job?
'Hazelgrove,' he says. The rapist. Who wasn't a rapist. But whose life was ruined by the combination of the police and the media.
'Suing us, is he?'
'Not yet, but he will do if word gets into the newspapers that he's been questioned by the police in connection with the Plague of Crows.'
'Do we suppose that the next call Hazelgrove's lawyer made was to the Evening Times or the Sun to tell them that they would sue the police if it became public knowledge that they'd interviewed his client?'
Taylor smiles ruefully.
'If it wasn't, it was only because he'd called them first. I hope you were a little more circumspect with the rest of your interviews.'
He looks at me. I'm going to ignore that.
'Right, I'm not going to ask how you got on. Like me, I expect you came back with a few people on whom to make further background checks. Get to it, bring me something when you have it. There are, however, a couple of things that are going to shit on our parade...'
That's a nice analogy. Police work as a parade. Marching along the street while the crowds cheer us on, fully supportive and desperate for us to do well.
'One of the things that separates the human race from the rest of their fellow fucking awful species on planet earth, is the ability to see an opportunity and make the most of it. Consequently, the criminal collective, on realising that the police are going to be occupied with the latest serial killer on the block, are using the occasion to steal more shit, beat up more people and trash more shops and businesses.'
Actually, those wildlife shows would indicate that there are a lot of opportunistic species, but it seems pedantic to mention it.
'Maybe we could bring the army in and put the city in lockdown.'
We both look at Gostkowski with slight surprise. Sounds like she's been spending too much time with me.
'It might well come to that,' says Taylor, and he's almost smiling.
'What's the other thing?' I ask.
'Birds,' he says. 'There are just hundreds – literally hundreds – of reports of people killing birds, then inadvertently hitting buildings and people and all kinds of shit that isn't a bird. Then, inevitably, they're getting into fights because they think they're justified in going after the birds and that other people should be understanding of the fact there might be a little collateral damage. And of course, the folk going after the birds in the first place are already armed. Getting ugly out there.'
'Any deaths?' asks Gostkowski.
I hadn't even thought that. Was just assuming a bit of a bunfight.
'One so far. Who knows how many it'll end up with.'
That thing I was saying about hating people. Double it.
'I saw a couple of guys fighting not that far from here on my way back this evening,' I say. 'Didn't think anything about it at the time.'
Neither of them make the observation that I might have stopped to do something about the fight. Life's too short. Even for your average police officer.
'Well,' says Taylor, 'the suspects are piling up in the cells. Fullest they've been since last summer.'
'Jesus.'
'Yes. So, I'm afraid you're both getting some work divvied up to you. How many guys you got to follow up after today?'
'Three.'
'Ditto,' says Gostkowski.
'Well, whatever you were going to do this evening on those, I'd like you to try to fit it in. However, you both need to speak to Ramsay, get what's coming to you. The Edinburgh lot are the dedicated officers for the Plague of Crows, so we can't really argue it.'
A final glance between us and then he nods at the door and we're dismissed. Gostkowski leaves. I follow her out.
FIVE HOURS. INTERVIEW three members of the great British public charged with assault. Make further various investigations regarding battery and theft. Squeeze in a few hurried phone calls on my three suspects, but make no progress on narrowing them down. Probably what I need is some time to have a bit of measured thought, and I'd be able to eliminate one or two of them on the basis of realising that I was sucked into adding them to the list just through natural dislike on my part.
Don't get the time for measured thought.
Gostkowski walks past my desk at some point after eleven, glances at me and shakes her head slightly on her way by. That's a reasonable call, and I'm old fashioned enough to think that it's the lady's prerogative to make the decision.
Nevertheless, as the evening has suddenly changed from complete rubbish followed by delicious dessert, to just complete rubbish, I can't help but be disappointed. I'd enjoyed the release of the past two nights, and had been looking for it again.
Sergeant Jones catches me looking at her as she sits on the other side of the office. She smiles, which is unusual, and I smile awkwardly back and then turn back to the ever-growing mountain of paperwork. She probably thinks she caught me staring idly off into space, but really I was looking at her, wondering if it might be worthwhile suggesting that she and I become fuck buddies for the duration of the investigation.
Despite the illicit smiling that took place across the office, I'm never likely to suggest it. I don't have that kind of relationship with Sgt Jones.
LEAVE THE OFFICE JUST after midnight. Go home, make myself some tea and toast, wash it down with vodka and tonic. Drink the first one quickly, make another. Fall asleep watching a Danish movie about the aftermath of child abuse. Have vague thoughts that I oughtn't to be so hard on all the fucking awful people that live in Britain, because there are fucking awful people in every country. Fall asleep as I'm having the thought that there are plenty of people who would think that I'm fucking awful, as fucking awful as all those members of the public I so detest.
Wake up suddenly, darkly, shockingly, sweat on my face, mouth open, a strangled cry in my throat, flailing hand knocking over the near-empty glass, which lands on the carpet and silently spills the dregs. Sit bolt upright, trying to bring myself back down from the high of fear.
The forest is already fading. I'm not naked. I'm not naked. Still in yesterday's clothes. I look down, see it rather than feel it.
Peed myself. Sit staring at the damp patch in my trousers for a while. I peed myself. What the fuck is that about?
I know. I know what it's about. Not the first time since Bosnia, but the first in a long time. Stand up, feel a drip down the inside of my leg. Look down at the seat. Already damp.
What did I dream?
I don't want to know what I dreamt. I know what I dreamt. Walk out into the hall, tired, sore, hot, miserable, encased in fear and g
loom and darkness. Tired. Tired more than anything else. I could just go and lie down in bed. Me and my damp trousers. Hesitate. Seriously consider it for a moment, and then head for the bathroom. Look at my watch as I turn on the light.
Aw fuck. Couldn't be worse. Already after half-five. No time, no point in going back to bed. Isn't that just the worst feeling in the world? No time to do what you desperately want to do. No more time. No time for sleep.
Lean on the edge of the sink and look up at the mirror. Look fucking awful.
You know that thing that happens in movies where people look up into the bathroom mirror and then suddenly there's someone there behind them, waiting to bury a knife in their head?
I'd jump, and maybe I'd even pee myself again, but I wish that person was there right now. I wish he'd come. From nowhere. The man with the knife to finish me off.
The man with the knife.
Come on, you fucker. Come on.
30
Sitting in the office. A little before seven. Everyone looks tired. I feel more awake now than most of the rest of them look. Do I look awake though, or are they glancing at me as they walk past thinking, fuck he's knackered, or what happened to him? They don't know. They don't know I slept for less than four hours on a chair and woke up scared and miserable, trousers soaking like some incontinent old bastard.
Cried in the shower. Falling to pieces. Exhausted.
They don't know I cried in the shower.
The tears were dried off after the shower. The piss washed away, trousers stuffed in the washing machine. I drank coffee, I drank cold water, I cleaned my teeth. I'm awake. I'm not scared any more.
I'm still miserable.
I know what today brings in terms of the Plague of Crows investigation. I have five more people to talk to, and I need to reduce my list of three suspects to one. More than likely, to none. Finally got my few quiet minutes to think about it while I ate breakfast. And when I say ate breakfast, I didn't actually eat anything. I'll grab something later, probably on my way out. If I get the chance to go out. Cleared up all the outstanding crap last night, although mostly that means I found somewhere to park it, allowing me to work on the case that really matters, so the morning will depend on how much other stuff comes my way.
DS Hutton Box Set Page 40