I remain haunted by my stupidity. Still feel the absurd embarrassment and wretchedness from having sex on a desk. Still feels like I stepped over a line, or through a portal, stepped onto another path.
Have barely thought of Philo since then. It feels wrong to. I have this sense she doesn’t want me thinking about her. Maybe at first she was amused by my sexual tomfoolery, but not now. Not now that the dust has settled and she’s had a chance to think about it.
Now she’s dead, she only lives on when people think about her. That makes sense, right? When someone thinks of her, she survives, she’s there, she exists through the thoughts in that person’s head. Yet now, for the first time since she died, it feels like she doesn’t want me to be thinking of her. She doesn’t want to exist in my head, or exist because of my head. Her husband, the weak cuckold, he’ll be thinking about her today, and she won’t be torn. She’ll be there, with him, continuing to exist because of him.
Jesus in blue didn’t really help. I had a brief respite of a few minutes, Mary in my arms, feeling some comfort. But she had to get on with her preparations, and I had to get to work, and it was over. And once she’s gone, the chances of me going by the Old Kirk and finding it open are virtually nil. It wasn’t just Mary who was going into that old church for the last time.
Thirty-three people in a room. How many of those are men? Thirty-three. It’s pretty fucking funny, isn’t it? How shit an organisation is this? It’s a surprise we’re not here to discuss women’s issues.
Yes, I know, they’ve intentionally made sure there are no women in the room so I can concentrate.
‘Look, gentlemen, we all know how this could go,’ says the man at the front. The Chief Constable of All Scotland. Jefferson. The highest officer in the land. First time I’ve sat in the same room as him. I wonder if I’m actually legally entitled to even open my mouth in his presence.
Itching to say something, although I’m not even sure what yet.
Concentrate!
‘We’re still some way off making a significant advance on any one of these investigations. They seem so disparate, so otherworldly in some ways, I can well understand why there are reservations about their interconnectedness. But perhaps, within this inherent contradiction, we see their true similarity. Their very diversity, and the fact they seem so unsolvable, perhaps points to the correlation between them.’
He’s boring me. Maybe because he’s just saying what I already think. Only, in a more long-winded way.
‘Each of you, the teams working the four individual murders, will continue to pursue your investigations. However, management at superintendent level of each of the cases within your regular chain of command will be removed, and you will report to a single officer here in Dalmarnock. Chief Constable Tobin will take overall responsibility for the umbrella operation, with you feeding every piece of knowledge gained in your investigations into his office. I don’t need to tell you...’ But you will anyway... ‘that as you do not have sight of what the other investigations are involved in, and cannot necessarily know what is relevant and what is not, we request you feed everything back to the centre, regardless of how trivial or irrelevant it may seem. It may well be such a piece of information that finally leads to the breakthrough in this case. If at any time...’
On and on. Finally zone out. I’ll tune back in if people start laughing.
Not sure why I’m here. Under strict instructions from Connor to keep my mouth shut. Under even stricter instructions to make sure that should, for some obscure reason no one could possibly understand, I do somehow open my mouth, the name Clayton does not emerge.
Naturally, of course, I’m now sitting here trying to stop myself saying Clayton. The little boy in me. The part of me that’s just the same as it’s always been.
When you’re young, you think somehow it’ll be different being an adult. You’ll feel different, and you’ll think differently. Yet it never happens. Perhaps you grow up a little, you don’t laugh at Monty Python so much, and you become a little more aware of the feelings of others and how you impact on them – although, of course, awareness need not necessarily lead to decency – but the real you, who you are and how you think, you’re stuck with it from about the age of three. That’s just how it is.
And now, while the grown up part of me knows I should keep my mouth shut, the other part, the part that’s always been happy to stick my hand into a bunch of nettles, even better if I’m taking someone else’s hand with me, is itching to let rip. Connor be damned.
Uh-oh. Get the sudden feeling everyone is looking at me. And yes, everyone is looking at me. Thirty-two men. Or, thirty-one men and the demi-god at the head of the table. All looking my way.
Must have switched off at the wrong moment.
I look the big man at the front in the eye. Of all those other bastards looking at me, I can feel Taylor’s eyes the most. He’s the one who’s disappointed, the one who knows I drifted away.
‘Sergeant?’ says the beak at the front.
Now, I would normally be predisposed to think ill of this guy. It’s just how it is. He’s in a position of authority, and by the very dint of wanting to be there, and conducting his career in such a manner as to reach that position, then he must be a dick. Weirdly, though, I like the cut of his jib. And here, right now, I can see him looking at me, and he knows I wasn’t listening, and I can tell he’s going to be cool about it.
‘I was saying that really, the reason we’re all here is because of the e-mail messages and the text you received.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any insight into why someone might have chosen you? I know Superintendent Connor said you were reviewing all your old cases.’
The name is right there. In my mouth, the tip of my tongue, on my lips, and by God I can’t stop it, and boom! here it comes, spewed out onto the table in amongst the thirty-three bold and brave men of the Scottish Police Service.
‘Clayton,’ I say. Doesn’t come out quite right, so I repeat the name.
There follows a murmuration of raised eyebrows. I can sense Taylor’s deep breath, and the jagged stare of Connor, stabbing into my head. The poor man must be silently screaming, don’t mention the fucking crows!
‘That would be Michael Clayton,’ says the beak.
‘Yes,’ I say, my estimation raised further by the fact he knows who I’m talking about. He’s done his research.
He glances around the room, gauging the reaction of those present who know the story, and then comes back to me.
‘You never established anything on this man before. Indeed, the Police Service was fortunate not to end up in court. Do you suppose he’s continuing the murderous ways we were unable to previously prove, or do you think he might have seen these murders are taking place and is taunting you? Taunting the police. Trying, perhaps, to lure us into further acts of indiscretion.’
That there is a good point. It could well be, despite his position, this man is really not a complete idiot.
Don’t mention the crows!
‘He’s a very clever man,’ I say. ‘I don’t doubt it’s him who’s contacting me. There’s no one else, no one else who would care enough. We know he’s got the technical computer ability to carry it off –’
‘You suspect it,’ begins Connor, ‘and have absolutely –’
He’s silenced by a move of the beak’s hand. Jesus, there’s authority. Also, to be fair to Connor, someone with respect for it. I think I’d just keep talking all the more if someone did that to me.
All right, I’m not mentioning the crows, but everything else is on the table.
‘He was suspected by a predecessor of ours, DCI Lynch, in a murder/rape case a few years ago. He couldn’t pin him down, Clayton managed to sue the police...’ The beak looks like he knows what I’m talking about, but I keep going anyway. ‘... and then he came to Lynch afterwards, a few months after it was all done and dusted and we’d basically had to shelve the case and place it in the Unsolved c
olumn, and told him he’d done it.’
The beak lifts his head. Hadn’t heard that part before.
‘Now maybe he was just blowing smoke up Lynch’s arse. Maybe. But Lynch was convinced he had him, and the guy was always just that little bit ahead of the game. Just enough, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Which is what happened with us. He played us all along, always one step ahead, set us up the whole way, and at the end of it walked into my hospital room and laughed in my face.
‘I know, I know it proves nothing. And all it does is put us in the same position as the previous two times. If we think he’s the one sending the e-mails, then he’s taunting us and we’re going to have to go after him if we want to prove it.’
Jefferson’s hands are on the table, fingers steady. He looks at Connor.
‘Does he have any sort of police harassment case against us, or anything specifically against the Sergeant that would interfere with us tackling this?’
Glance at Connor. He looks concerned, but then, if it goes tits up this time it’s not going to be on him, so he could probably do with taking the poker out his arse.
‘Nothing specific,’ he says. ‘But then, that might well be because he wants us to blunder in and make total fools of ourselves again.’
He looks at Taylor and me as he says it.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ says Jefferson, ‘when you go and see him later today, you’d better make sure you don’t blunder.’
24
We drive back to Cambuslang in silence. Since I’m the one at the lowest pay grade, I’m driving. Connor sits sternly in the back, his presence a succubus to the atmosphere. At one point Taylor can see me contemplating sticking Bob on the CD, catches my eye and gives me a just don’t look.
Bob remains silent. Given my balls out performance in there, casually tossing Clayton into the mix for all the world like he was a teaspoonful of cinnamon and the investigation was one of those pumpkin pies people talk about, I consider just sticking Bob on anyway. On this occasion, however, it would be Taylor I’d be pissing off, not Connor, so I don’t bother.
Do we know what kind of music Connor listens to? I don’t think so. I don’t remember ever knowing. Jim Reeves, probably, or some other funeral-music-loving miserablist.
We get back to the office, and as we walk into the open plan Taylor indicates for me to follow him into his room, indicating to Morrow, as he passes his desk, for him to join us. We are aware, as we walk in, that Connor, clinging to us like a ringwraith intent on crushing every last living spark in our bodies, has not been shaken off.
He closes the door and stares daggers at Taylor and me. Morrow might as well not be here. I expect he’s got something of an oh Jesus, what the fuck have I done? look on his face.
Connor looks like he’s having to do some major composing of himself, before letting rip. You can see various sentences and words formulating in his mouth and not quite making it out. Perhaps he’s imagining the puritanical Mrs Connor looking censoriously at him from behind his shoulder.
‘Don’t fuck this up,’ finally shoots from his lips, like evil, black sperm ejaculated from Sauron’s wizened old penis.
Jesus, where did that come from? Not a great image.
He turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
We stand in silence for a few seconds, as the atmosphere lightens. Morrow has both eyebrows raised, which is fair enough. It is, without question, a double eyebrow moment.
‘What’d I miss?’ he says, unsure whether or not he ought to be smiling.
‘Detective Sgt Hutton couldn’t keep his mouth shut,’ says Taylor. ‘Fortunately, at least, there were no women in the room, so he managed to keep his trousers on.’
Morrow smiles fully now. I don’t have a lot to say to that.
‘We need to go and speak to Michael Clayton,’ says Taylor. ‘Boss’s orders. The Chief Constable, not him,’ indicating Connor with a dismissive thumb. ‘So, before that happens, the three of us are going to sit here and think of things to say to Clayton so we don’t sound like the fucking Muppets, although I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going to end up happening.’
‘Do we really want to be going anywhere near Clayton?’ asks Morrow. ‘I mean, why are we even thinking about it?’
Taylor looks at me, to allow me to explain myself. I give Taylor the official bugger off look of disapproval, and then turn to Morrow.
‘My dreams are being haunted by crows. I think they’re telling me something.’
Morrow holds my gaze, then looks at Taylor to see what his face is doing – nothing – and then turns back.
‘You said that to the Chief Constable? And you still have a job?’
‘No, I didn’t. Nevertheless, whatever it was I did say, and I can’t exactly remember what that was, it was enough to convince the old man we should be allowed to pursue Clayton in the course of our enquiries. So, it’s happening, and as our good friend Connor said, we better not fuck it up.’
The old man? Ferguson can’t be more than five years older than me. Perhaps the confident man, or the non-wastrel, would be a better nickname for him.
Morrow gives another glance to Taylor, who confirms the fact this is a real thing and not a crappy leftover from April Fools Day.
‘So, sit down, and let’s start going over it,’ says Taylor.
He gives us a moment, the sound of the chairs being dragged across the floor, and then the three of us are around the desk.
‘Right, we’ve got four murders, one of which was a double. All in the Glasgow area, which basically is the only thing to connect them. Which means, of course, they may not be connected at all. We also have to be wary of the possibility that two or three of them are connected, but one of them isn’t. One of them could be completely unrelated, but just happened to fall within the same timespan. Right, Sergeant, first up...’
Standard practice police work. Going over everything you know.
‘Tandy Kramer, pushed in front of the train. We have CCTV, there’s no doubt it wasn’t an accident. We’ve been unable to identify the person who pushed her, just as we’ve been unable to identify any person who might have held a grudge against her. A genuine, straight up mystery.’
Taylor stares blankly at the desk while I talk, then makes a small gesture towards Morrow.
‘Double beheading in a converted church. Looks like a terrorist, or at least, racially-motivated, murder. First victim, Reginald Silvers, forty-seven, unemployed. Second, Claire Hanlon, forty-three, three kids, worked as a phlebotomist at Monklands General, no idea what she was doing in Clarkston. She had a tattoo on her left forearm that exercised the squad for a while. A couple of detectives got quite excited about it. Turned out it was a Radiohead symbol.’
He smiles, Taylor just looks pissed off.
‘Unbelievers written next to the two bodies. They’ve been searching for a connection between the two victims, or a connection between them and the Islamic Centre or the old church as it was. Nothing. The CCTV outside the centre was switched off, which is obviously different from what we have at the train station. As far as we’re aware, there had been no previous threat against either the victims, or the centre itself.’
He pauses, can’t think of anything else.
‘Personally, I’d say if any of the four are unconnected, it’s this one,’ he adds.
‘If it was an act of radical Islam, you’d think at least the killer would have been able to write unbelievers in Arabic,’ I say.
‘And spell it correctly,’ adds Taylor. ‘There’s the thing that makes it look like it wasn’t Clayton. It’s sloppy. That’s what makes it look less like a terrorist, and more like a couple of fuckwits trying to stir up trouble.’
‘Unless that’s what Clayton wants us to think,’ I say.
He gives me a doubtful look.
‘You can ask him,’ he says.
‘Third guy had been at a party. Billy Thomas, regular bloke, twenty-seven, father of eight by six different women. Lived wit
h one of the women and three of the kids. He left the party to walk home on his own – reportedly very drunk – and never made it. Got accosted, beaten to a pulp. First indications are he wasn’t dead at this point. He was then killed by having a massive dose of heroin injected into him. Shit quality too. Here, it’s definitely the latter that makes it suspicious. He was unemployed, moved in an extensive social circle, a lot of interconnections, a lot of rivalry, a lot of small-time hoodlum stuff. Black market fags from Eastern Europe, dope, extortion on various levels. Looks like there might be a queue of people quite happy he’s dead.’
‘The Treasury,’ throws in Morrow.
‘Unfortunately, it’s too late for the gene pool,’ says Taylor.
‘The thing to set this one apart,’ I continue, struggling against my glib colleagues who refuse to take this seriously, ‘is the heroin. The guy was unconscious. If someone had wanted him dead, then why not stand on his throat or cover his nose and mouth for thirty seconds? These people, the ones the plods over in Springburn are lining up as the potential suspects, they wouldn’t waste that amount of heroin. Not even shit stuff. Very weird. It’s like... this is the one, despite it looking like a petty, ugly little gangland-type hit, this is the one that says there’s something else happening.’
Taylor has the same look on his face as before, taking it in, thinking it through, trying to remember if there’s anything I might have missed.
‘Maybe it is significant the heroin was lousy,’ says Morrow. ‘Maybe that was one of his things, maybe that’s why he was killed. Selling crappy shit for too much money. This was someone’s way of getting him back.’
‘They’re looking at it,’ says Taylor. ‘It’s a possibility. There’s a lot of argument going on between the various stations, but it’s not like any of them are doing a shit job within their own area. Still, I’m inclined to agree. It’s a good point for someone to make, but who exactly is it aimed at, since the victim himself would never get to see the point?’ He starts nodding, as if someone, somewhere is pulling him up on the statement. ‘Course, it’s completely out of our patch, it might well be aimed at someone over there. But however lousy this stuff was, it was still of a standard that would’ve been getting sold on the street, so someone was happy flushing several hundred pounds worth of shit away when they could’ve made the same point, with the same result, with a lot, lot less.’
DS Hutton Box Set Page 89