DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  He waves his hand to the door.

  ‘Can I do some proper work when I get back?’

  ‘If you can find some.’

  I stop at the door.

  ‘What d’you think about the cuts? They’ll look for volunteers, or there’ll be compulsory redundancies?’

  Taylor holds my stare. Can tell right there he’s been wondering about it himself.

  ‘Don’t know how it’s going to go,’ he says. ‘But this time, well, as they say in American movies, this shit is real. Maybe Connor will have something to tell us tomorrow.’

  Small wave of the hand in acknowledgement, then turn and off out the door.

  SITTING IN THE FRONT room, looking out over Gunville Road, taking tea with Mr and Mrs Hartwell. Thought I might as well. It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, and they weren’t offering food. Tea and biscuits will have to do.

  ‘My wife is an attractive woman,’ says Hartwell.

  I nod in agreement, although really, what the actual fuck? The only way that sentence makes any rational sense is if the woman sitting on the sofa holding his hand isn’t his wife.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, obviously hoping no one’s recording the conversation, ‘but you realise you can be charged for this. If Mr Gregson pursues his complaint, there’s a fair amount of shit could come your way. You could be in a lot of –’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, don’t get us started,’ she says.

  Her hand parts from her husband’s and she leans forward. The top she’s wearing is low cut, and suddenly the great chasm between her breasts is presented for my analysis. I look up as quickly as possible. As if I don’t have enough mental scarring.

  ‘That man is an egregious little prick.’

  Lovely.

  ‘So, why –’

  ‘We’re not harassing him, Sergeant, he’s harassing us!’ explodes the bloke. ‘He’s been pestering Lucinda for years. Well, fuck him. Really, fuck him. If he wanted to see my wife’s tits, I thought, well here you fucking go.’

  It’s hard to know where to start.

  Lift the mug up to my face, and decide to hide behind it for a while.

  BACK AT MY DESK, THE case of he said she said to write up. Neighbourly disputes, even ones with added porn, are just a gigantic pain in the arse. Give me a straightforward, drunken chibbing any day.

  Morrow’s not as his desk. The place seems kind of quiet. We all know the axe is coming, and it’s affected the building. It’s like there’s less work to do, the Crime Gods looking down and saying, you can’t complain about cuts, yous’ve got fuck all on.

  Taylor walks past, slows down.

  ‘All well?’

  I give him the look, but don’t reply.

  ‘Did they put on a show for you to demonstrate the simple naivety of their actions?’

  ‘Where’s Morrow?’ I ask, by way of moving the conversation on.

  ‘Down at the station,’ he says. ‘A woman flung herself in front of a train.’

  Again? Crap. Feel the weight of such a depressing thought.

  Our train station is one of those that makes a perfect suicide spot. The Glasgow to London trains fly through without stopping. Fuck knows what speed they’re doing, but Jesus, there’s something innately terrifying about them. So much power. Puts the shit up me, I have to say. I always stand well away, like I feel the force of it is going to suck me on to the track.

  Other people seem to not give a shit.

  Taylor stands for a second, as we both contemplate what was going through her head in the moments before she took the step, then he double taps the desk and walks on.

  4

  Having coffee across the road with Sgt Harrison. She’s my new go-to guy for intimate conversation. My gay best friend. She’s a bit messed up, and I’m a complete fuck up, so we kind of get along. And, of course, she’s damned attractive, coupled with the fact I never even make the effort of trying to get her into bed, so it all works out.

  Everyone at the station thinks I’m playing some sort of long game, believing I can wear her down, make the score, and then move on. And when I say everyone, I mean Taylor. I doubt anyone else cares. All those constables these days, they’re all twenty years younger than Eileen and me.

  When I think of the two of us sitting at a table, I see the attractive fortysomething lesbian and the office stud. The constables will see two old fuckers clinging on to each other like sad, middle-aged has-beens in a Woody Allen movie.

  ‘So, this happened,’ I begin, as we settle down across the table, a coffee and a muffin each. My turn to download, given that yesterday she owned the conversation with a fantastic tale of a couple of hours in bed with a nineteen year-old student who, when lying back naked at the end, smoking a joint, had told her it had been like having sex with her mum. Eileen hadn’t hung around long enough to establish whether that was a simile arising from actual experience, but thinking back, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  ‘Tell me you’re having sex again,’ she says. ‘I can’t be the only complete tart left at the station.’

  It’s been eight months. Haven’t had sex since the night I spent with Philo Stewart. It’s not that, after her murder, I made some sort of vow of celibacy. Just haven’t felt like it. Haven’t gone looking for it, and it hasn’t happened.

  ‘I spend all my time with a lesbian,’ I say, ‘how is it I’m going to get laid?’

  ‘I manage, despite spending time with you.’

  ‘Well, yes, but people probably think we’re both gay. Which works for you, because you are.’

  ‘No one thinks you’re gay.’

  ‘Whatever. Can I tell you what happened, or do you not want to hear it because it’s not got sex in it?’

  She laughs, breaks off a piece of muffin. Recently had her teeth whitened. Nice job. Let’s hope she doesn’t get her face punched in by one of our clients. That’s the kind of thing that happens, after all.

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘But, you know, I thought when we started hanging out, I was at least in for some vicarious hetero-sex. I mean, I’ve given you a lot – a lot – of lesbian stories, so one of these days you’re going to have to start pulling your weight.’

  ‘OK, I’ll have sex, just to keep you happy. But can I tell you the thing?’

  ‘Tell me the thing.’

  ‘Thank you. So, I was up at Philo’s grave at the weekend. Sunday afternoon.’

  She’s nodding, knows I go up there. One day she might look concerned at me and tell me I have to get over it and move on, but not yet.

  ‘And, her husband shows up.’

  She lets out a low whistle.

  ‘Uh-oh. First time that’s happened?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Did you see him coming?’

  That, of course, cuts straight to it. If I’d seen him coming, there wouldn’t have been half the trouble.

  ‘You didn’t see him coming, and you were talking to her. Out loud.’

  ‘You’re very perceptive,’ I say. ‘You should be a detective.’

  ‘So, how did it play out?’

  ‘Well...’

  Break off a piece of muffin, take another mouthful of coffee.

  ‘What exactly were you saying?’

  ‘Hmm... that’s the thing. It was... I think... he implied what I was saying was worse, because it was just general chitchat. I mean, obviously it would have been bad if I’d been pouring my heart out about how much I missed her, and what a great life we could have had together. But I wasn’t. Well, not at that particular moment. I was just having a chat.’

  ‘And was she talking back?’

  ‘In my head...’

  ‘And were you leaving gaps for her to talk back?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Hmm, not great. And what... were you standing over the grave, kneeling down beside it...?’

  I laugh, but not in a butgusting, just heard Frankie Boyle use the word cunt sort of a way. Just laughing at myself, because I know how this all sounds.

  ‘I wa
s sitting on the grave, leaning back against the headstone.’

  ‘Jesus, Hutton.’

  ‘Drinking wine.’

  She puts her hand to her face. There’s something of the Emma Thompson concern about her when she does that – you know, Emma Thompson’s concerned face, she uses it in every movie – and I get to see it rather often from Eileen.

  ‘Not from the bottle?’

  ‘Oh no, I had a glass. Two glasses.’

  ‘You poured Philo a glass.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have a picnic?’

  ‘Just a bag of crisps.’

  ‘Classy.’

  ‘Hey, they were Kettle Chips.’

  ‘Ah, right. Quality. You weren’t naked, were you?’

  ‘If I had been, I think it would’ve been on the news.’

  ‘OK, right, we’ve established the scene. What happened?’

  ‘He was upset.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘No idea how long he was standing there listening. I mean, cheeky bastard, it was none of his business. Then he storms up, kicks over the wine, stands over me calling me a fucking, cheating, marriage-breaking cunt. Those were his words.’

  ‘Cheating, marriage-breaking cunt?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, technically the guy who broke up his marriage was the bastard who killed his wife, not me.’

  ‘Technically. What did you do?’

  ‘I sat and let him rant for a while, then I thought we were getting to the stage where he was going to kick me in the face, so I got up.’

  ‘What was he saying?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the kind of things you’d expect. Who the fuck was I, how dare I...blah blah blah. Called me a cunt several times. I’d thought him a fairly mild-mannered chap, but seems I was wrong.’

  ‘I think maybe he was provoked.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Take another bite of muffin. ‘I didn’t react to him, although I suppose that might’ve made it worse. He was looking for a fight, and he didn’t get it. But it’s a fair cop. It’s just about the most intimate situation in which he’s ever going to find us. It’s the one-of-you-is-dead equivalent of being caught fucking on the kitchen table.’

  ‘How’d it end?’

  ‘Not so well. I apologised, which he didn’t seem keen on hearing. I didn’t apologise again. Didn’t, in fact, really feel like doing it at all by the end, because I have to say he was pissing me off. I loved his wife, she loved me, and he was a pussy. That’s just how it is, it’s not officially my fault. Nevertheless, I have some sympathy for him under the circumstances. But the whining... Anyway, when I wasn’t rising to the bait, he finally pushed me. He pushed me and took a step back at the same time. I haven’t seen someone do that since primary school.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I successfully fought the basic urge to fuck him one in the face. Didn’t say anything, turned and walked away. Was prepared to run because I know the shit would’ve hit the fan if I’d got into a fight. I don’t mind leaving the police, as you know, but I’d rather do it with a redundancy payment, than out on my arse.’

  ‘He didn’t come after you?’

  ‘I expect he thought about it, but no. Lets me get so far then shouts, ‘You left your cheap bloody plonk, you bastard!’’

  She laughs again.

  ‘And you know what? It was a Chablis! Fucking Chablis. Cheeky bastard. And he’d kicked the bottle over ‘n’ all, so there was hardly any left anyway.’

  She’s still laughing behind her coffee cup.

  ‘Well, well done for walking away. You took the moral high ground. Apart from the fact you shagged his wife and drank wine on her grave.’

  Nearly finished the muffin. As usual, at such times, one begins to accept it won’t be long before one has to return to work.

  ‘Your teeth look great, by the way,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Makes you look younger.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s what I thought, until Saturday night.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like she was looking at your teeth.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  5

  When I get back to the station Morrow still isn’t as his desk, then I notice him in with Taylor. I’m about to sit down when I get the shout of ‘Hoy!’ from the office. Marginally better than being whistled at. Maybe. Take a second, salvaging some self-respect about being treated like a sheepdog by not immediately responding, lift a piece of paper, toss it back on the desk without looking at it, and then walk into the room.

  Morrow nods at me, Taylor indicates his computer screen.

  ‘We got this from the station’s CCTV footage.’

  ‘What are we talking about?’

  ‘The suicide,’ says Morrow.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which wasn’t,’ he adds.

  The usual crappy grey film runs. There aren’t many people on the platform. North side of the station, where the southbound trains stop. Or fly by, incredibly quickly, in the case of the London-bound Virgin trains. There are five people in all. One sitting in the shelter, looking at her phone. Another older guy reading a newspaper standing at the far end. There’s a teenager holding a skateboard. I’m assuming he’s a teenager, actually, because of the skateboard, but who knows? Then there’s a woman standing more or less on the yellow line running a couple of feet from the edge of the platform, her phone in her hand. You can’t really tell just from this footage, but we’ve all seen her. The totally absorbed woman. Headphones in, lost in her own world, music on, either texting or scrolling through Tumblr.

  Fucking Internet.

  Then there’s a guy, walking towards her, just behind, about five yards away. Short coat, beanie, longish hair sticking out from beneath it. The coat and the beanie immediately make him stand out on a warm day like this.

  When the film starts there’s no sign of a train, even though you can see a hundred yards of track, but these fellows come quickly.

  And then there it is, the Euston express, whizzing towards us. When it’s fifty yards short of the station the guy in the beanie comes alongside the woman with the phone, pushes her in the back, and she’s falling over the edge just as the train passes the station.

  Perfect timing.

  Hard to watch something like that and not wince. The first time you see it at any rate.

  It only just happens in frame, so we don’t really see the aftermath. Something flies in the air, and the front of the train and the body are gone, the carriages hurtling past. The guy in the beanie turns, looking after her, shouting. The other three passengers seem to wake up to what’s happened. The beanie guy is pointing after the train, as though alerting people. The footage ends.

  Taylor clicks it back to the start and we watch it again. The same thing plays over, not revealing anything new on the second viewing. It is definitely apparent what we’re watching is no accident, no inadvertent stumble.

  ‘Murder,’ I say, mundanely.

  ‘Aye,’ says Taylor. He clicks the computer screen back to his wallpaper, a dramatic low moon over the Canadian Rockies scene. Very nice.

  ‘What happened to the guy in the beanie?’ I ask.

  ‘Gone gone gone,’ says Morrow. ‘The other three were still there when we got there. They said he was screaming, like, oh fuck, I tried to save her. Said he was going mental. The station guy comes down, but there’s not exactly pandemonium, because by the time the train’s stopped it’s halfway to England it’s going so fast, and there are only the three people, and since they didn’t see anything...’

  ‘Why d’you think he made the fuss if no one saw anything anyway? He had nothing to cover up.’

  ‘Not sure,’ says Morrow.

  ‘Maybe it was part of the plan,’ says Taylor. ‘He was always going to do it to cover himself, and didn’t want to risk looking to see if anyone was watching him. All part of the same flowing movement as tossing her under the train.’

  ‘The driver?’

  ‘Still waiting to s
peak to him,’ says Morrow. ‘The rail people came in and whisked him off. Said their people had to speak to him first, which I didn’t think was an issue. Didn’t think he’d have anything to tell us. Then I saw this.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, ‘we need to get on to him. Who’s the victim?’

  ‘Tandy Kramer,’ says Morrow.

  ‘Tandy Kramer?’

  ‘Tandy Kramer.’

  Whatever.

  ‘Have we notified –’

  ‘We’re only just getting started.’

  ‘Right, gentlemen,’ says Taylor, ‘time to get into this, all hands. Sergeant, speak to the driver, and don’t take any of their shite. We need to him to talk. Constable, get back down there with a couple of guys, look at CCTV from other angles, speak to anyone you can find, wrap the joint up even more tightly than it is already. Before you go, get me her next of kin and I’ll get round there. And I’ll speak to Ramsay, see who else we can rope in. Get one of the rooms set up. Let’s see if we can get this one someway towards a conclusion before Connor gets to hear about it and has us running in circles.’

  Not entirely impossible. But then, let’s take a walk down to the shops with realism here. We’re looking for a guy wearing a beanie with a wig sticking out from beneath, who then vanished. There’s a decent chance Connor’s going to be dead by the time we even know who we’re looking for.

  6

  8:17 pm, murder inquiry in full swing. And by full swing, I mean the media has got hold of it.

  They say it ain’t murder until somebody’s dead. It also ain’t murder until there’s a journalist asking you stupid questions.

  Have taken a break with Taylor to come to look at Tandy Kramer’s body. Sure enough, with a name like Tandy, she’s American. Student, studying at Glasgow Uni. We still don’t know what she was doing out our way. Parents back in California have been notified, the father is coming over to collect the body. We’re not really going to need to argue any odds about hanging onto her for any length of time. Cause of death is unlikely to be in question, although of course our good friend Balingol, the most miserable fucker to ever slice into a stiff with a scalpel, has to help out the investigation by extracting everything he can from the cadaver.