'Because after all, what are these people doing in church every Sunday, but trying to recreate the ministry of Jesus in their own local setting? So why not try parochially to recreate some other biblical prophecy?'
Actually, although I've already had the thought, when he puts it like that it sounds pretty good.
'So, what do you think?' I ask. 'Does the killer see himself as the fourth beast, crushing the others, or do you think soon enough we're going to find another victim, and the guy's going to have ten horns on his head, or whatever?'
'I think your killer is going to run into trouble with the parallels. The fourth beast has ten horns, and then a little horn pops up and kills three of the other horns.'
'OK. So what do you think?'
He looks across the desk and then makes another one of his slight facial contortions, his head shaking slowly.
'No idea.'
'Any other interpretations of Daniel 7 that might be appropriate?'
The look doesn't leave his face.
'Officer, you can more or less put any interpretation on Daniel 7 that you choose, and you'll find a passage from the text to back you up.'
28
Phone starts going as I'm leaving the University. Had thought of a walk down University Avenue, along Kelvin Way for a bit, maybe take a few minutes in Kelvingrove Park, cup of coffee, sit on a bench. A good place to get my head together. Not too many people about, a bright enough day, sitting beneath late autumn trees. Ignore the phone twice, a text and a call, but then it rings again almost immediately, and I can feel the few minutes sitting in the park being dragged away from me.
Taylor, telling me to meet him at the Old Kirk, although he's not forthcoming with information. I wonder if something's happened to Mrs Buttler, yet I can tell at least from his tone that he's annoyed rather than weighed down by another death.
I assume graffiti or some other strange act of religious vandalism. The fact that I couldn't even begin to guess what had actually happened points to just how out of my depth I am in this situation, and that I ought to be making more of a run at the learning curve.
TAYLOR'S CAR IS IN the small car park outside the church, along with two police vehicles and a small crowd of spectators. Instantly intrigued. Too small a crowd, and too slight a show of authority, for it to be another murder. On the other hand, way too much for a bit of vandalism.
Vandalism. Crap. The guy at the toilets. Must do something about that.
So, somewhere between vandalism and murder. Doesn't really narrow it down. Park the car, get out, approach the gate through the crowd. There's no need for the police to set up a barrier, as there's the six-foot wall and the heavy iron gates around the scene of whatever it is that's happened.
PC Wallace opens the gate to let me through. I step inside the grounds of the church. There are graves either side of the path. The path leads to the front door, and then away down to the right-hand side of the building. This is the enclosed side of the property, hemmed in by trees and a wall. To the left there is more open space, the bulk of the graveyard. The graves are old and worn.
Against the wall of the church, three people are standing with two police officers. Maureen Henderson's daughter, Margaret Johnstone, the church officer, Mary Buttler, with whom I've shared a few quiet moments inside the building, and a man in a dog collar I don't recognise.
Taylor is standing off to the side, about ten yards away from the church building, beside what looks like a newly dug grave. There's a guy in jeans and a Motorhead T-shirt talking to him with his arms folded. Must be freezing. Away to the side, lying on the grass, is a shovel.
I take in the scene for a few moments, trying to work out what's happened. A new grave, a gravedigger, a minister, the church officer, the deceased's daughter.
Maureen Henderson must be in the grave. Well, we had released the body after all, and this is a graveyard.
I approach Taylor. He sees me coming and dismisses Motorhead with a nod of the head, indicating for him to go and stand with the others.
I come alongside Taylor and we stand beside the grave, looking down at the neat mound of new earth.
'Maureen?' I ask.
'Aye.'
'What's the problem?'
He lifts his head and uses his chin to indicate the rest of the graveyard, then indicates the gang of four with a dismissive hand.
'Look at the graves, Tom. This place hasn't been used in decades. Been decommissioned.'
'So why'd they do it? Couldn't afford the crematorium?'
He smiles.
'Far more duplicitous than that. The last burial here was ninety-nine years ago. A couple of years after that, phhtt,' he says, dragging his fingers across his throat, 'they stopped using it. So, apparently graveyards cannot be sold within a hundred years of being in active use.'
'Ah...'
'So next year, this place, this ground could be sold. Sure, they could sell the building now, but it ain't that attractive when the garden's a graveyard. This time next year it can be sitting in an estate agent's window, glorious Victorian home in need of some work, 1.7 hectares of beautiful, well-fertilized garden, or however big this is.'
'I thought this building wasn't getting sold.'
He shrugs.
'That's not what they think. They reckon the committee down at the other church are just biding their time, and as soon as they can, this place is going to be sold as is or it'll become a deluxe development of two and three bedroomed apartments.'
'So...'
'So Mrs Johnstone got her mother's body from the undertaker's, they enlisted a former minister from this place, they got some young guy they knew, and they performed the ceremony.'
'Shit.'
'Aye.'
'Who's idea was all that?'
He points at the group again.
'The church officer for this building, Buttler. You met her, right?'
'Sure.'
'She seem the type that would come up with this kind of plan?'
I give it some thought. I'd come to think that sitting in her company was the most relaxing thing I'd found in the last twenty years, but there was no doubt that she was passionate enough about the building to have suggested something like this. I almost smiled at her use of the word 'cunt' when talking about Cartwright. This, after all, wasn't the most heinous crime in the world.
'Yep,' I say, nodding. 'She was pretty pissed off about the whole merger, and she was worried about what would happen to this place. But the daughter, she went along with this? There must be other family coming in, intending to go to the funeral.'
'The daughter's switched on, Sergeant. Had good reasons. Firstly, and there's just nothing to be said against this, she felt guilty about not having seen her mother on her final weekend. People feel guilt, because that's what they do. She's also aware that most people hated her mum, so there was never going to be a big turnout at the funeral. One of her brothers wasn't even going to come, and she says she'll handle the second one. She thought her mum would love that her body has been used in this way.'
'Can't we just dig it up? Take it back to the undertakers?'
'Do you know the legality of that? You know, once a burial has been carried out by an ordained minister in a graveyard?'
I look away from the small gaggle of perpetrators and turn back to Taylor.
'No. And neither do you,' I say, nodding.
'Exactly. So, whatever we're doing, we're not picking up that shovel.'
STANDING IN TAYLOR's office later when Connor comes in, closing the door behind him. We'd already discussed his imminent arrival, although he's been longer than anticipated.
He looks from one to the other of us, but he's not really interested in me. He's probably debating whether he should tell me to bugger off, but he goes for the alternative, where he just pretends I'm not there.
Several times he looks like he's about to start letting rip at Taylor, then he stops himself, thinks about it some more, tries to find other words. Finally he walks to the
window and looks out at the car park. Taylor gives me a glance and then looks at Connor's back.
'Are we to assume that there are now lawyers involved?' asks Taylor.
Ah, of course. I never think strategically like that, but it makes sense. There are two things that get superintendents in a fankle. One is heat from above, and the other is lawyers. Oh, and the press. So three things.
'Just had a meeting with the lawyer representing Paul Cartwright, the property convenor at St Mungo's. He's been hired by Mr Cartwright to represent the church.'
As he speaks, his voice seems to drift off almost, taking on a peculiar quality. He hesitates again. Neither Taylor nor I speak. Leave him to it, he'll get there in the end.
'This is like... you know, apparently the church merger business was desperately ugly, but things had begun to heal. As they do. They just needed time. Now we've got these murders, which... it's impossible to say, but two of the victims at least were against the merger, so people are, rightly or wrongly, assuming that it's someone from St Mungo's who killed them. To shut them up. And now we've got this burial, these people using the victim's body to their own ends.'
He shakes his head. Wasted words, telling us things we already know, as though we'd walked in halfway through the movie.
'It's opening it all up again, tearing the congregation apart just as they were beginning to accept the situation.' Another shake of the head. 'And now I'm stuck in the middle of it.'
Ha!
'How are you getting on with the legality of this thing?' he asks, finally turning to Taylor. 'The burial, I mean.'
'I've sent it up to legal. We can't just charge in there, dig up the grave and stick the body back in...'
'I need solutions, not problems,' snaps Connor. 'I don't think you people... you officers down in the trenches... understand what it's like in my position, how difficult it is. This is the tough end of policing, not your, whatever, your murders and your petty theft.'
Awooga! Awooga! Wanker alert!
No, really. Even if he'd been speaking to a couple of constables straight out of police school, his trenches remark would have been unbelievably condescending.
'Politics are the true crime,' he says, his voice displaying an affected weariness he must have learned from the movies.
'For the moment,' says Taylor, doing his best to get the conversation away from Connor's tortured id, 'the grave thing isn't really our business. We were called out by a complaint, but actually, someone was burying a legally declared dead body in a graveyard, with a gravedigger and a church officer, a family member and a minister. There's nothing we can do for the moment. What's more important is that we find out why three members of the congregation have been murdered.'
Connor lets Taylor finish his obviously absurd outburst of plain common sense, glances at me, and then starts walking to the door, shaking his head. He stands in the doorway and turns to give us another quick ejaculation of arrogant twattery.
'I need you to be part of the team, Dan. We all need to be on the same page. You're not dealing with a hold-up at the damned Pakis on the corner now. This is church and state. Doesn't get any bigger.'
He seems to remember I'm there and gives me a glance.
'Church and state,' he throws at the room, and leaves.
The door closes. Taylor and I stare at it for a second, then turn to each other.
'Can we be offended on behalf of the Pakistani community and get the arsehole sacked?' I ask.
'Deep breath, move on, forget what he said.' Taylor glances at his watch. 'Right, get everyone together, briefing room, fifteen minutes.'
29
You don't run around in those rare investigations, when you genuinely have no idea who to suspect, necessarily hoping for the big breakthrough, the giant sign pointing at someone, screaming, It was him! It was him!
Progress comes in inches; if you're lucky, in feet. Never in miles. All you can hope for is that one thing leads to another, until the chain leads you to the end.
So, a solid meeting in the briefing room, where lots of strands are opened up. There are so many people potentially involved in this, that the whiteboards at the head of the room are cluttered. Overrun with names and connections. Part of the early process is to eliminate as many people as possible.
For example, Morrow has discovered that young Tommy was using a Gmail account in the name of ywilson444. The account was empty. If it had ever been used, everything was deleted. There were no contacts listed. Nothing. The last use of the account, however, had been the day he died.
So, might be nothing, but on the other hand, why would you have a fake e-mail address? We need to get the paperwork done and get full access to the records of the account. Of course, even if he was up to something, it needn't be the church. God, he was a teenager, he could have been doing any old shit. Contacting grannies, for example.
Yet, we know. We get that feeling. There's some weird shit going on around this church. The kid was murdered, and now something else weird has come up. It's going to be related.
Lots of people are ruled out, names come and go, many names that I don't recognise. We are down to five or six favoured candidates to have killed old Maureen, through a combination of mutual anger and resentment, unable or unwilling to provide themselves with an alibi, and personal interest in the merger.
Paul Cartwright's name comes up again and again. He's everyone's favourite to have killed Maureen. No one seems to have any idea why young Tommy might have copped it. No one outside the police seems to have had any idea that Tommy and Maureen had had inappropriate sex. (Look, I think it was inappropriate.)
The names on the hate list for Agnes Christie have been similarly narrowed down, reduced to well under ten. Cross-checked with the list for old Maureen, three names appear on both. Taylor will take them forward tomorrow. Naturally, Cartwright was mentioned.
More work divvied up for the morning, everyone told to go home and get a decent night's sleep.
Where am I? Been a busy day, haven't really had time to wonder where my head is. Those are the best days. I'll work for another hour or two, then head home, grabbing some crappy food on the way. I think Thai tonight. And a bottle of wine, maybe. It's not healthy, but it's healthier than the mental implosions that forever lurk just around the corner.
A bottle of wine, maybe... Aye, some maybe that is.
I LEAVE THE OFFICE at 9.32 p.m. Slightly concerned about Taylor. He can pretend to be ignoring Connor's bluster all he likes, but there's some serious shit going on here, and when that happens you need your boss to have your back. Taylor comes to work every day of his life at the moment knowing that he's on his own. He has a boss only too willing to pass the blame on down to the level below.
I try to get him to leave with me, but he sends me on my way, telling me he'll only be doing another twenty minutes. I consider waiting, but he orders out. Ready for it, I finally hit the road.
Leave by the front door, look up at the night. Not many clouds around, some stars in the sky. Some stars? Like, several billion. I stay looking up for a few moments having a brief Total Perspective Vortex moment, but my heart's not in it.
Hey, want to have a real-life Total Perspective Vortex moment? Go online and find a running UK National Debt clock. Goes up by £5k a second. That, my friend, is a bit of a mind fuck.
I finally look down, for some reason smiling at the thought of the UK national debt, at the sound of approaching footsteps.
My heart skips a beat.
Jesus, it does as well.
Philo Stewart. She stops in front of me.
'Sergeant, good evening.'
'Hey. You were waiting for me?'
She nods.
'Sorry, didn't feel like phoning. Just been sitting in my car listening to music.'
'What were you listening to?' I ask, which seems like a really inane question, but I feel quite discombobulated by her arrival. That's what happens with sudden meetings with objects of your infatuation.
&nb
sp; 'Oh, Bob,' she says.
'Bob?'
'Dylan.'
'You're a Dylan fan?'
She nods.
'I know, try not to hold it against me.'
'I've seen him over a hundred and fifty times,' I say.
She seems taken aback by that for a moment.
'Wow,' she says. 'Me too.'
'No way.'
She nods. Jesus. She's a Dylan fan.
'You were at the SECC in June?'
'Of course,' she says. 'You seen him since?'
Shake my head.
'I went to the States last month. Saw him in Rhode Island, a couple of dates in Massachusetts. Toronto...'
'How'd he sound?'
We both laugh at the question. The laughter goes.
'Sorry,' she says. 'I shouldn't just spring on you like this. You called round the house earlier.'
'Yes. How d'you know?'
'I was in, sorry.' She makes a slight movement of the hand. 'You know, just had a lousy day. Couldn't talk. But I've felt bad about it ever since, so, you know, if you wanted to speak now. What was it you were after?'
'Eh...' I start encouragingly, then look over my shoulder and back. 'I'm going home, get a Thai takeaway, bottle of wine. You want to join me?'
'Sure,' she says. No hesitation.
We walk to her car. I don't ask where her husband is.
BOUGHT THE THAI FOOD on the way home, now sitting at the small table in my sitting room. First time it's been used to its full capacity in forever.
This is inappropriate. I know it. Wrong in the first place to take my questions about the Book of Daniel to her rather than going straight to someone outwith the scope of the investigation, and all kinds of wrong to invite her back here after she'd turned up at the station.
But I'm getting the vibe, the inescapable vibe. She could have called, she could have gone to reception, but she waited for me to come off duty. So, effectively, that's what this is. It's off-duty time. And I shouldn't be doing it.
She's wearing a similar top to the one she had on a couple of days ago. Hair looks a little untidy but, as is often the way, it makes her even more alluring. We've hardly spoken, but we have to start some time.
DS Hutton Box Set Page 66