DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  Interesting character study. You know, if you study characters. I prefer really just to bludgeon characters, or to squeeze them into some neat pigeonhole that exists in the prejudiced part of my brain.

  Clayton is being cool. Attempting to show that he's not at all rattled by being caught with his honesty trousers at his ankles. Attempting to show that he's not rattled by having two coppers in his house, because he has nothing to hide. Having some fantasy about your wife or your girlfriend, mixing them up for whatever reason, isn't in itself illegal. Nevertheless, he just looks all the guiltier for his suave urbanity in the face of an interrogator armed with the facts.

  'How does that tie in with your girlfriend, who you've only known a few months, and who was in High Road? Your girlfriend has the same lawyer, or your wife has the same lawyer?'

  He smiles now, as if Taylor is the simpleton, not really understanding.

  'I do apologise, Detective Chief Inspector,' he says, and already there's a tone about the apology that says, 'between you and me I just said any old shit to your monkey here, because he's not terribly important and I didn't think it mattered. Now that you're here, obviously you'll get the truth.'

  Maybe I've got a chip on my shoulder.

  'You don't need to,' says Taylor quickly, 'just tell me the facts.'

  'Obviously,' says Clayton, as if any of this is obvious, 'I meant my girlfriend. She did some acting a long time ago, but the press really did for her very early on. It wasn't just that they ruined her career, not really. It just made her realise that she didn't want a career. She's been very successful since then, in all manner of different enterprises. But yes, we do have the same lawyer, and yes, well, I'm rather afraid I do tend to tell people these days that she's my wife. A bit early perhaps, but she doesn't mind.'

  'We mind that you tell the truth when you're being interviewed in relation to a murder investigation.'

  Clayton makes a grand gesture with his hands, as if forgiving himself and acknowledging that we can now all be friends. I'd love to take a couple of strides over there, step on the edge of the sofa and bury my knee in his face. Wouldn't look so smug then, would you, you bastard?

  'Once again I apologise,' he says. 'You can be sure that everything you hear today is the truth. I really must learn to keep my...' and he hesitates while he tries to conjure up the correct word to describe the fact that he's a lying fuck, 'my foibles and fantasies to myself.'

  'What's her name?' asks Taylor. 'And where can we find her?'

  'My wife?'

  'This girlfriend,' says Taylor, 'who appeared on High Road. What's her name, and where can we find her?'

  'Oh,' he says, as if he hadn't been expecting that. What now? Another apology, and a confession that in fact there is no girlfriend? I hugely want this guy to be the Plague of Crows, but of course, the longer this goes on, the more he comes across as an annoying prick who likes wasting police time. Generally, in life, you don't have to go too far to find one of those.

  'Samantha,' he says. Of course. Suddenly I think of Grace Kelly in High Society. And you know, that's what this bloke aspires to. He found himself with money that he didn't deserve, and he used it to become part of a society to which he was never really meant to belong. 'Samantha Taylor,' he adds.

  If he's just making that up, he's giving her the name of the officer asking the questions. Nice. That's one step from giving her the name of whatever object he just happened to be looking at, like Samantha Window or Samantha Turner Print.

  Suppose Taylor's a common enough name around these parts.

  'And was that her name when she appeared in High Road?'

  'Far as I know,' he says. 'Obviously all that's behind her now. She doesn't talk about it much.'

  'Where do we find her?'

  Hesitation, then, 'Oh, I can get you her number. It's in my phone. She's working in the city at the moment doing some consultancy work for a firm of accountants on St Vincent Street. Parker & Howles.'

  'And your wife?' says Taylor. 'What's the story there?'

  'Ah,' he says. 'Well, it's as well you got me now, as a few months ago even, I doubt I'd have been able to talk to you about it. Still hurt too much. We met while I was at my lowest ebb during that dreadful affair. She knew what the police were like, what the media were like. She knew the lies they told. She gave me extraordinary support. It was really rather touching. We married in the middle of it all although, in retrospect, perhaps we shouldn't have done.'

  Taylor stares coldly. Says nothing. The standard technique, playing the game of being cool just as much as Clayton's been doing it. Meanwhile I take my phone out and Google Parker & Howles. Without looking at him I notice the surreptitious glance in my direction

  'You probably want to speak to her,' he says. 'Of course, of course. I can get all her details. They're in the other room, if you just bear with me for a moment. And I can get you the direct line for Samantha too, save you looking up the company on the website, Sergeant. She's just there temporarily, sorting out some client database or other.'

  He leaves the room. I glance quickly up at Taylor.

  'We're just letting the suspect walk out the room,' I say.

  Taylor smiles grimly. 'He'll be back. And if he runs... if he runs, then he might as well sign a confession.'

  'And we'll be the ones who let him get away.'

  'I'll make sure you get all the credit, Sergeant,' he says. 'You find Parker & Howles?'

  'Nothing,' I say. 'Don't exist according to Google.'

  And then we hear the car starting.

  'Ha!' barks Taylor. 'Got the bastard.'

  We're both up and running to the front door, but that last remark proves to be somewhat premature.

  I HATE CAR CHASES. Sure, there's a certain adrenalin rush if you're driving, but the lead car is always the one with the odds on its side. It knows roughly where it's going, or at least can choose the way, and chances are that the chasing car is the police car. When accidents happen during car chases, the police get the blame. It's as if the guy running away, the criminal, well he gets a free pass, because he's doing what all fun-loving criminals do on the TV. He's doing what people expect him to do. Run. The police, on the other hand, have a duty of care to make sure members of the public don't get hurt. So when shit happens during a car chase, you can bet your arse it's the police who end up looking bad.

  I particularly hate car chases when I'm sitting in the passenger seat. Then it's just like being on a fucking rollercoaster and usually ends up with me vomiting over the driver or out the window or onto the floor. Doesn't take much. And I'm usually petrified and spend the entire time with my eyes shut.

  This time, however, I don't even get as far as beginning to worry about the car chase, or even as far as fighting Taylor for the honour of driving so that at least I won't be scared and I won't vomit.

  The front door is locked.

  Taylor barks, 'Fuck', no time to look for the key, and we run through to the front room. The library, he probably calls it. The white Lexus is legging it down the driveway. Taylor grabs the nearest wooden chair and smacks it into the window. It's some fucking glass, doesn't even crack. The chair buckles, and one of the legs breaks off. This is a man with money to spend on his windows.

  Quick look around the room. There's a large glass paperweight or ornament or some such. Jesus, there's all sorts of shit on cabinets and sideboards and all sorts of middle-class furniture accessories. The paperweight looks the best option.

  'Stand back, Sir,' I say, and Taylor edges away from the window as he looks over his shoulder. Hurl the paperweight at the window with the kind of ugly chuck that would usually precede a leg break on the sub-continent. The paperweight sails straight through the window, leaving an almost perfect cartoon hole, cracks emanating from it in all directions.

  Taylor is still holding the chair, and now he attacks the window. I pick up some other piece of heavy ornamental junk – a bronze golfing trophy – and go over beside him.

  It doesn
't take long before we've broken out, the whole escapade taking barely half a minute. Of course, Clayton is gone, and as added insurance he's closed the large metal gate at the driveway entrance that was open when we arrived. Taylor climbs out through the window, cursing as he snags his jacket on the edge of the glass, and I follow.

  We stand in the cold morning, and already the sound of the car is lost and we're standing still in stupid impotence, having let the man slip through our fingers.

  'Fuck it,' mutters Taylor. 'Seriously, fuck it. What was that?'

  He looks angrily at me, as if it's my fault we let the guy get out of here right enough.

  'Is that the signed confession?'

  'It feels like it,' I say, 'but we hadn't gone anywhere near the Plague of Crows.'

  'No, we hadn't.'

  He kicks the ground again.

  'Bollocks. Get on the radio, Sergeant. Get the word out for that car. Time to call in the guys from Edinburgh.'

  33

  Three hours later. Still in Clayton's driveway. We've gone into overdrive. Currently about forty guys all over his house. Ours and Edinburgh's. A blitzkrieg of forensic examination. Other officers going door to door up and down the street. Found his car in the centre of town parked near Glasgow Central. That doesn't really help, does it? He could have got a train to anywhere. It wouldn't even have been that far for him to run up to Queen Street, thinking he was throwing us off the scent by parking near Central. Or he could have got on a bus. Or he could be sitting in a Costa just round the corner.

  For the moment he's gone to ground.

  Managed to get hold of a couple of cups of coffee, and me and Taylor are standing by his car looking at the surrounding crime-fighting stramash. So far no one has found any evidence that implicates Clayton in anything other than being a social climbing fuck.

  We're not speaking, just standing there, one hand in pocket, the other clutching caffeine and both of us thinking the same thing. What was he thinking? Why attract attention to yourself when the only thing that really makes anyone suspicious is that you're attracting attention to yourself?

  'You feel like we've been set up?' I say after a long silence.

  Taylor doesn't immediately answer. Turns and looks at the house, and in every window we can see evidence of the investigating team. And on the ground floor there is, of course, the evidence of us smashing a window to try to get after him.

  'I have that feeling, Sergeant, yes,' says Taylor.

  'What about Montgomery?'

  'Not sure yet. The jury's still out, but we can hardly be optimistic about a verdict in our favour. They're going to have to find something in there.'

  'Has he gone national?'

  'No. Needs to find something first. Something we can hang onto as proof.'

  'And there's no proof.'

  'Exactly. He just acted suspiciously. Strangely, in fact. Don't know what's going on in his head.'

  We turn at the crunch of footsteps on gravel as Montgomery approaches. Looking round at the house I can see a few of the guys walking out the front door, and suddenly there's no evidence in the windows of the SOCOs going about their business. Like the ghosts have all left.

  'Got a phone call,' says Montgomery.

  Taylor gives him the eyebrow. I look away. Montgomery doesn't speak to me. Not worthy of his time. If I want to know what he's saying, I just need to blend into the background and he'll ignore my presence. I'm like the royal servant who got to hear all the shit from Charles and Diana because they just acted like he wasn't in the room.

  'Mr Clayton has been to see his lawyer. Indeed, he's at his lawyer's office right now. Claiming harassment. Prepared to speak to us, if that's what we want, but only with his lawyer present.'

  Montgomery and Taylor stare at each other, Montgomery searching for any sign of weakness or excuse from Taylor.

  'You think he set us up?' says Taylor, which was what he'd already been thinking.

  'Starts to look that way,' says Montgomery.

  Taylor rubs his chin. Stares at the ground. Make the decision to chip in, even though the other DCI would prefer I keep my mouth shut.

  'He thought that out pretty quickly,' I say. 'He didn't know I was coming yesterday, had no reason to believe I was coming. Why would I question him, rather than anyone else? Again, he didn't know we'd be coming back today. So he told us lies yesterday to set us up for today, even though he didn't know that either visit was going to happen. That just... just doesn't seem right.'

  'Hardly impossible,' says Montgomery. 'He's manipulated the police before, he could easily have thought of it again. We spoke to him two months ago and eliminated him from the investigation, but it wasn't as though we told him that. He might well have been ready for someone coming back.'

  'He knows that we don't like him,' I continue. 'He knows he got the better of us before, and that we're not going to like him. So this could easily just be some kind of impromptu plan. Or even a well practiced plan to throw us off the scent should we get on it.'

  'But why are you on the scent?' says Montgomery. 'He was just a name on a list, and then you blunder in full of accusation and bravado. You don't like the way he acts, and so he gets worse. Starts firing off lies. Maybe it's been his strategy since day one, ever since he got his payout from the police. If they ever turn up again, lie to them, make things up, let them act foolishly and see where it gets him. Goodness knows he might have tried it with DI Marqueson, but at least he had his wits about him. At least he didn't do anything stupid.'

  Neither Taylor nor I speak.

  'You two gentlemen, however, played right into his hands. Perhaps his actions suggest that he's guilty of something, but we have absolutely nothing to attach him to the Plague of Crows other than you getting over-excited.'

  He looks at us, one after the other. He's not Taylor's senior officer, but he's spoken to him like he is. The tone was judgemental, the judgement being passed down from above. Glance at Taylor. He's not looking at him. I dare say he possibly never even heard him. Won't have been listening. Wrapped up in the case, thinking through Clayton's actions, trying to straighten them out in his head.

  Since he's not getting anything else from us Montgomery walks off to his car. All around us the police are starting their withdrawal. Immediate and all out. Complete capitulation in the face of a lawyer with some metal. I lean back against the car and join Taylor in staring at the ground.

  LATER ON WE SIT IN his office, the BBC news on his computer, and watch the lawyer in action. The usual beautiful stuff from any lawyer, fully implicating the police and fully casting his client as the victim.

  Everyone's a victim these days. Everyone.

  Even the Plague of Crows.

  34

  Long day. Shitty day. One of those long, shitty days you just want to end. It would end more quickly if you just got the fuck out of Dodge and went and sat in the pub from about five, but you've been made to look stupid, so you sit in work even later than normal, and normal's already become pretty fucking late.

  Leave halfway between midnight and one in the morning. Got called into Connor's office, along with Taylor and Gostkowski, at some point during the evening. Informed that Mr Clayton was suing the police for £1.3million. Under the circumstances, and given that for the most part the superintendent is a complete bell-end, one would have expected him to tear into us, rip the fuck out of us, and at least kick us off the case, if not suspend us.

  He did not disappoint, although he kept the red suspension card in his pocket.

  'It's time to hand the case in its entirety over to Montgomery,' he said. Looking tired again. He looks tired every day. Sorting out this station was going to be the making of his career. It was going to get him his gong of whatever colour it is these senior plods get. He was going to be turning up at Buckingham Palace, Mrs Superintendent and two mini-superintendent kids in tow. Instead he got here, and immediately the Plague of Crows struck him down. The Plague of Crows has been the bane of this station sinc
e not long after Connor arrived, and now it is already too late. His time here has been dictated by it, and even if it gets solved in the next few days, his term in charge of the station will always be remembered for it and defined by it. And now, pretty obviously, the call has come from higher up to yank his men completely. So even if it is solved – and that's not looking very likely – it's someone else's officers that'll be doing the solving.

  'Inspector Gostkowski and Sgt Hutton, you are reassigned with immediate effect. You will spend the remainder of this evening passing everything you've compiled on the case over to DCI Taylor. When you're done with that, then you can speak to Sgt Ramsay and begin to get back into the routine of the station. Chief Inspector, you can spend tomorrow with DCI Montgomery handing over the case files. I know you've done a lot on this. Ditch anything you think extraneous, hand over everything else.'

  He looked at him, and having dealt with me and Gostkowski, we might as well not have been there.

  'And I mean everything, Dan. It's finished. It looks like this Clayton character was just waiting for someone to come along, a police officer to come along, and it just happened to be you. Could have been any one of us, although I must say I do hope that if it'd been me I'd have been a little more circumspect, as Montgomery's man appears to have been.'

  Fuck. You.

  'So you pass it all along, and then you're finished. I don't want to see any sign of you continuing the investigation. The pictures on the wall, that absurd spot-the-forest nonsense, get rid of it. To be honest, don't even pass it on to Montgomery, he'll probably laugh at you.'

  None of us spoke. Me and Gostkowski weren't really there to talk in any case – we were the seen and not heard children of the little drama – and Taylor was saying nothing. Presumably, sitting there wondering how he would go about continuing the investigation without the superintendent knowing.