DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  And on this occasion, he comes up trumps, right from the off, and he has more to work with than could have been expected under the circumstances.

  When Miss Kramer hit the train, she wasn’t plastered over the front, like Wily Coyote attached to a bomb or anything. It smacked into her and tossed her aside like a dead badger. Her body landed entirely in one piece, in the trees, about seventy yards further down the station.

  And now, lying there before us, covered bar the head, she looks like she could be sleeping. Apart from the complexion. Her complexion is terrible.

  ‘So, as you can see,’ says Balingol, about to give us a tour, ‘remarkably the head is unscathed. The train caught her in the side of the abdomen. Naturally, though, when you get an unblemished face like this in such a case, there’s an opposite effect elsewhere. Sometimes it might just be on the inside, and sometimes it’s like this...’

  He pulls the sheet away, revealing the crushing of her body. Always have to take a moment when looking at something like that. No blood, no breaking of the skin, just her entire body bruised up to the neck, the abdomen crushed and distorted. One of those injuries resulting in a person being so grotesque and misshapen, it looks like a movie special effect. Like you’re staring at a prosthetic.

  Taylor doesn’t look for long, then indicates for him to pull the sheet back up, which he does, once again leaving the face uncovered. She can be a witness to the discussion.

  ‘So, she was killed by the train,’ says Balingol, getting the obvious out of the way first. ‘There was nothing to indicate she might have had trouble stopping herself falling over. A little alcohol, some indication of marijuana use, but nothing today. Probably last night. What she had been doing today was having sex, and I’m going to say with an older man.’

  I let out an involuntary groan, and the two of them look at me. I catch Taylor’s eye, but don’t say anything.

  ‘Out with it,’ he says.

  ‘It’s going to be one of those granddad porn rings again, isn’t it? Does no one have sex with someone their own age anymore?’

  Taylor, unexpectedly, doesn’t rebuke me for the line, perhaps indicating he’s thinking the same thing, and we look at Balingol for confirmation.

  ‘You can relax,’ he says. ‘I’m thinking maybe forty, forty-five. Nothing too outlandish.’

  Taylor looks back at me, questioning.

  ‘Any thoughts?’

  ‘Still haven’t got anything on why she was in Cambuslang,’ I say, answering the question prosaically, ‘but I guess now we know.’

  ‘Aye,’ he says.

  Heavy sigh, a somewhat deflated, helpless hand gesture.

  ‘Anything else to report?’ he asks.

  ‘She was pregnant,’ says Balingol, with the casual, throwaway tone he might have used to tell us her height.

  ‘Better and better,’ says Taylor. ‘Would she have known?’

  Balingol makes the universal gesture of ignorance, for all the world like he’s an Italian New Yorker or something.

  ‘I’d say four weeks. Borderline. Maybe she did, maybe...’

  And he leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid.

  SITTING IN THE PUB with Taylor, after going back to the station and running through everything we know.

  We haven’t got very far, and certainly tomorrow morning we’re going to be presenting Connor with an unsolved murder, heading as yet in no particular direction, with a list of people still to talk to, and wondering if it might have had something to do with the fact she was pregnant, when the people we’ve spoken to so far didn’t think she was in a relationship.

  Two middle-aged, tired police officers in the pub. Just like the old days. We don’t do this so much anymore, but Taylor must have decided he needed to wind down. Asked Morrow if he wanted to join us, but he excused himself. It might just have been me, but I couldn’t help thinking he had a look on his face to say, ‘On you go, granddad, I’m hitting the cool bars.’

  More likely, he’s probably going home to study for his sergeant’s exam, whilst eating salad.

  ‘If it’s voluntary, are you going to apply for it?’ asks Taylor, breaking into a five-minute silence.

  ‘Redundancy, you mean?’

  ‘No,’ he says, dryly, ‘the free rectal exam that’s going round.’

  ‘Funny.’

  Long sigh.

  ‘I’ll look at the terms,’ I say, ‘but you know, it probably doesn’t matter. That would just be giving myself more time to make the decision.’

  ‘What would you do if you left?’

  Take another drink, listen to the great sound of the ice in the glass, although it does herald the need to go and get another one shortly. Taylor’s nearly finished his pint, and I’m hoping he’s not about to hit the road when he’s done.

  ‘Become a football manager,’ I say.

  He laughs.

  ‘Nice. You’re going for that, rather than rock god, gigolo or President of Space?’

  ‘I’m going to use the redundancy cash to do the courses, work my way up.’

  He looks curiously at me.

  ‘You’ve given it some thought?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That what you’ve been doing while you’ve not been sleeping with women?’

  ‘One of the many things.’

  ‘Well, at least you’ve got a plan,’ he says. ‘More than I can say. So what sort of manager are you going to be? Brian Clough or Ally McLeod?’

  Drain the glass.

  ‘I’m going to be a civilising influence on the world of football.’

  He laughs.

  ‘It’s not like it doesn’t need it,’ he says. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The trouble with football is, it’s full of fucktards. Diving and whining little bastards with their tattoos and their stupid fucking haircuts, moaning at the referee, mobbing the referee, faking this, cheating about the next thing. And then when they score, you can tell they’ve spent more time in training perfecting their fucking dumbass, thumb-sucking, baby-rocking celebration than they did controlling the ball or passing to one of their own fucking teammates. But why do they do all that shit?’

  ‘Because they’re wankers?’

  ‘Because they’re empowered by their managers. That’s where it starts. I’m going to be different. Day One, I’m getting rid of everybody on the team. Everybody. I don’t want anybody there who’s not one of my people. Then I’m going to bring in my own people. Youngsters I can mould. I’ll civilise them. Tell them there’ll be none of that shit. Soon as I see any of them do it, they’re off. They’ll play with dignity. They’ll be no drinking during the season. My team won’t be about how they look, with the hair and the boots and the whatever, but how they play the game. We’ll do the training in the morning, and then in the afternoon they’ll do stuff like learn French, play chess and practice kung fu techniques. I mean, for the meditative, life balance aspects, rather than the kicking shit out of people. It’s good for overall health and fitness.’

  ‘Great plan. Who are you managing here? Real Madrid, or a team of ten year-olds at a boarding school, who are going to have no choice?’

  ‘Thought I’d start with Cowdenbeath or Albion Rovers. Someone like that. I’m going to create a new breed of thinking, balanced footballer. They’ll be like Jedis. They’ll be able to feel where opponents are, they’ll be able to seek out teammates with a long through ball without even looking up. But more than that, they’re going to be decent, non-fuckwitted, sensible lads, playing a fair game. We’ll be successful, our guys will go to other clubs, and this dogma of decency and fair play will spread. I’ll be remembered as the man who civilised football, and society along with it.’

  ‘Fine words for a fucked up, sex addicted, chain smoking alcoholic. I’m sure you’ll inspire a generation.’

  Take another drink, although it’s already finished, so just get the dregs and the melted ice.

  ‘I’m having another. D’you want one?’

  ‘Why not? You c
an tell me your plan to rid the world of nuclear weapons, bring peace to the Middle East and stop people talking shite on the Internet.’

  7

  I’m lying in a forest. I don’t want to be back in the forest. It hasn’t been long enough. Eyes open, but I can’t get up. Unable to lift my head, although I can’t feel what it is that’s holding me down.

  I can feel the damp earth and leaves and twigs beneath me, the cold air on my chest and legs. Naked again.

  Have a sudden fear I’m not in a mild-mannered forest in Scotland, but somewhere else. Somewhere warmer, somewhere more continental. Somewhere the spiders are large, where the bugs are insidious. Then at the same time I notice the leaves in the trees, I recognise the smell in the air, and I remember I always have this thought. I always worry I’m somewhere large spiders are going to be crawling over me, before realising I’m in central Scotland. The Trossachs.

  I remember it’s not the spiders I have to worry about, then I hear it. The same thought process every time, with the same result. As though I can’t hear the crows until I’ve run through the progression in my head.

  There they are, right on cue. The crows. And I can feel the tension on my skin, the cold sweat starting up straight away. And I can’t turn, but I can hear the fluttering of the wings behind me, the ugly squawk getting closer. As usual, I worry about my head. Is my head all right? Has my scalp been removed?

  But my head feels normal. There’s no extra chill where my hair should be, because it’s still there. The rest of my body feels odd, naked in a forest, but my head feels normal. Feels as it should.

  And then the fluttering stops with the sound of a bird landing in the leaves, a few feet behind me. I try to look round, but I can’t move. I try. Want to turn. Can’t do it. The footfalls of the bird get closer, and then they stop. Right there. Right by my head, just behind my right ear.

  I look round as much as I can, and can just make out the wing. The black wing. The crow. I can’t remember what’s coming. I should know, I’ve been here so often. It taunts me, and although I can’t see it, I can imagine its head tilted to the side in curiosity. Or in mocking laughter.

  And then there’s the pain of the sharp jab. Its beak, stabbed into my skull, just behind the ear. A short break, and then another one. Another. Fuck, that’s sore. Same spot every time, just behind the ear. Is that a weak spot?

  Why there? Why not some soft part of the body? If he wants into the brain, why not go through the eyes? Stupid crow.

  Again, another three jabs in quick succession.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  I can speak! Ha! I can’t move, but I can speak. I’d settle for the reverse.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Do crows understand profanity? It’s the tone, isn’t it? Trying to scare him with noise. It’s all I can do. Maybe if I roar.

  I roar. Throaty, all the noise I can muster. It hurts, but it’s loud, before tailing off into a high-pitched yowl.

  Silence.

  I can see the bird thinking about it, its head still to the side, staring at me. But he hasn’t backed off. Maybe I’m going to need to scream again.

  ‘What was that?’

  A strange voice. I don’t know what the voice is. I understand the words, but the voice in itself is inexplicable. An alien sound.

  ‘Was that a scream? Were you, I don’t know, impersonating a lion? Jesus. I’ve got to tell you, pal, whatever it was, it failed.’

  ‘I was trying to scare you.’

  That’s all I can think to say. Really? That’s all I’ve got? And it hurts to talk. My throat hurts after the roar.

  ‘Oh, yeah, because that worked. Listen kid, you just lie there. I’m going to do my thing, you’re going to do your thing. Whatever it is. But enough with the roaring already, my ears hurt.’

  ‘What is your thing?’ I say. ‘Pecking at my head isn’t a thing.’

  ‘Sure it is.’

  ‘That’s not even half a thing.’

  ‘Buddy, accept it. It’s a thing. A whole, goddam thing.’

  ‘I want you to stop!’

  ‘Well, go ahead then. I’m only here because of you, so don’t try fucking with my shit.’

  ‘What d’you mean? What d’you mean you’re only here because of me?’

  ‘You’re the one with the fucked up head. You’re the one who wants someone to drill inside it and remove everything. You’re the one who wants to forget. So I’m here doing what I’m supposed to be doing, and you’re roaring! Jesus! What kind of fucked up shit is that?’

  ‘Yes, I want to forget, but not like this.’

  ‘Hey, kid, forgetting don’t come easy in life. You can’t just forget shit. It takes effort. Bad things have to happen. You need to think about what it is you really want. I’m not here because I want to be. Jesus, there are worms and shit to eat, why would I spend my time tapping away at solid freakin’ skull here? Any time you want me to leave, you know what to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what to do, kid, so just do it.’

  I wake up. Eyes wide open. Don’t sit up in bed, just lie there, naked, staring at the ceiling. The covers have fallen off. Cold. The middle of the night, still dark. Sweating.

  I cough. My throat’s sore.

  8

  Wednesday morning. The usual crew together in the hastily assembled ops room. It’s not quite all hands yet. Too early to know what we’re dealing with. Could just have been a drunken lout, although no one’s putting money on that.

  It’s not that anyone’s saying, dear God, a drunken lout on a train platform at eleven o’clock in the morning? Never in all my life! It’s the beanie, and the hair. Looks wrong, feels wrong.

  Taylor is majoring on the beanie.

  ‘Yep, there are guys wearing beanies all year round,’ he’s saying, ‘regardless of the weather, but the intent here, coupled with the peculiarity, and of course, there’s hair sticking out the bottom of the beanie because it’s a feature, and a couple of the others on the platform remember him wearing glasses... it all says disguise.’

  Six of us in the room in all. Taylor, Morrow and me, three constables. Cairns, Jones, and Ablett.

  Constables come and go, don’t they? It’s like this production line of spotty youths and flat-chested girls.

  I know, I know, the size of their chests has nothing to do with it.

  ‘Which also means we can rule out a random act of badness, some kid just having a moment of madness and thinking, fuck it, this’ll be funny. He, or she, went there with intent. So, was it with intent to kill Tandy Kramer specifically, or was he happy to just kill?’

  He looks around the room, glances back at the white board which has everything we know so far – yep, not very much – then turns back.

  ‘I think we ought to hope it was the former, because that way at least it ends here. And it hugely increases our chances of doing a quick job. If it was random...’

  He lets the sentence go with a wave, glances at the clock then looks at me.

  ‘I need to be in with Connor. Can you start divvying up, Sergeant? We’ve got to pin down who got her pregnant, so we need to speak to men in their forties with whom she had even the slightest contact. We should look at the CCTV footage from later on. We won’t be looking for the beanie, but it’s possible the killer returned. It’s going to be tough recognising him, but have somebody take a look anyway. And broaden the scope of her fellow students you speak to.’

  Another glance at the clock.

  ‘I’ll go and meet the girl’s father off the plane,’ he continues, ‘but that’s not for another few hours. Right...’

  He gives me the get on with it nod, and then leaves. I stand up and turn to address the crowd of four. This is where, if we were in a sitcom, they’d all start talking to each other and completely ignore me. No sitcom this. Just seems like it, ninety-eight per cent of the time.

  KNOCK AND ENTER. TAYLOR back at his desk, typing quickly. Eyes on the screen. I don’t think I’ve ever
seen him do that before.

  ‘Are you touch typing?’

  He turns. Looks more tired than he did thirty minutes ago. In no mood for the usual light-hearted frivolity I try to bring to any murder investigation.

  He doesn’t say anything, just answers the question with something of an impatient eyebrow.

  ‘How’d it go with Connor?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re not cutting staff,’ he says.

  The look of disgruntlement stays on his face.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Just like it sounds.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just thought... Everyone’s been talking about it. Just presumed there were going to be cuts.’

  ‘There are going to be cuts. But not staff cuts, just budgetary cuts. They don’t want to lose any more police officers. Not yet.’

  ‘Politics?’

  ‘Damned politics. Absolutely. That’s what it’s all about. The government have passed down the instruction. There’s less money, but they don’t want any headlines about cuts in frontline policing. They don’t want... fuck, whatever, you get the picture. There will be no cushy redundancy payments.’

  ‘So how do they make the cuts without cutting staff?’

  ‘They cut everything else. They close buildings, they put eight people in an office designed for two. They stop overtime payments...’

  ‘That’ll be a bastard.’

  ‘Yes, it will. We exist on overtime. There are occasions when we absolutely need it. They won’t stop it altogether, but it’s to be cut by eighty per cent.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘No, fuck on,’ he says, even though that’s not an actual phrase. ‘And so on and so on. There’ll be a pay freeze, and an actual pay cut is not out of the question. Allowances are gone, any other kind of monies paid out, forget it. That kind of thing. But no staff cuts, so the fucking government can stand up there and say they’re saving fucking money on the police, but front line services, all the bobbies-on-the-fucking-beat crap, hasn’t been affected. Which of course, it fucking will be.’