DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

‘I know.’

  ‘Run it by me.’

  I explain our theory, murder by murder, and how they tie in with the e-mails, in particular the killer two for the price of one which, whether by coincidence or listening device, seems another layer of confirmation of the theory.

  ‘So the little girl this morning was a Blood On The Tracks reboot, plus Slow Train Coming?’ she says, when I’ve gone through them all.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Hmm... you make a convincing case, but I wouldn’t want to be the one telling... well, anyone else on Earth. The suits are going to be incredulous, and the media will rip the shit out of you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there any particular order in those albums? I mean, can you tell from the sequence what he’s going to do next?’

  ‘Seems pretty random. They all date from the mid-70s to the mid-80’s, but...’

  ‘Are they just the obvious album titles to use as means for murder?’ she asks. ‘Insomuch, obviously, as any album title can be suggestive of a means for murder.’

  ‘Yep, that’s what we thought. It’s a push to know what he’s going to do next.’

  ‘Isn’t I Shot The Sherriff one of his?’

  ‘Bob Marley.’

  ‘Oh. What am I thinking of?’

  ‘Knocking On Heaven’s Door?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not an album title.’

  She sits back, stares at the desk, her cheeks puffed out, and then gets to her feet.

  ‘Well, good luck presenting that to a credulous public.’

  ‘We’re hoping we can pull it off without anyone actually realising what we said.’

  ‘Should be simple enough,’ she says. ‘Thank God there’s no, like, social media apparatus whereby everything said in public is dissected a million times over, with every conceivable theory put forward, and where the craziest theory, or the one where the authorities look the worst, is suggested as the most likely...’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good night, Sergeant. I’ve got the day off tomorrow. I’ll look out for you on the news.’

  ‘Got any plans?’

  Just asking. About to go home myself, just killing a few more seconds before I have to go back to the flat and sit alone, feeling shit.

  ‘Lie in, lunch at Marco’s, watch an old movie in the afternoon. The Apartment I think.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Too bad.’ She waves, heads for the door. ‘That’s the way it crumbles, cookie-wise.’

  33

  Clayton stands at the window, hands behind his back, looking out at the late twilight. From where he stands he can see the rear of his own house. The house where he lives. The house where the police will never find anything. The house where his bland life is conducted in mediocrity, each day passing by with him playing the required part.

  As the leaves of summer have flourished, the extent of the view has decreased. He makes a point of never even looking this way when he’s over there.

  He wonders how soon it will be before the police decide they need to get a warrant to search the house.

  ‘You should eat.’

  There’s no reply from the cage. He continues to stare out of the window, and then eventually turns and looks at Dr Brady, sitting in silence in the same seat as always, the tray of food still on the floor.

  ‘You don’t like chicken? I thought everyone liked chicken. Don’t pretend you’re a vegetarian.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, the words choking out her mouth.

  He grunts in reply.

  She really isn’t hungry. Doesn’t feel well, coming down off the tension of the afternoon. He’d made her take a cocktail of drugs to steady her hand and her nerves, and now the effects have worn off, the feeling in her stomach is horrible, twisted, sickening.

  She’d had the chance to run away and she hadn’t taken it. Of course she hadn’t. She could have talked to Taylor and Hutton, but she had believed everything Clayton had told her. She’d believed he was listening to the conversation, she’d believed he was watching her, she’d believed what he said would happen if she didn’t come back.

  ‘The chips will be cold,’ he says. ‘I didn’t have time to make them from scratch, I’m afraid. They’re oven chips. They’ll be awful now the heat’s gone out of them. The chicken should be all right.’

  ‘I want to see Chrissie,’ she says.

  Clayton has already turned away, once more staring out of the window. He doesn’t turn back. He sighs and shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

  He’d spent forty minutes making dinner, and she wasn’t going to touch it. So ungrateful.

  He is becoming more and more irritated by her, but she still has her uses, still has her part to play in the dismantling of Detective Sgt Hutton. So much so, in fact, that he hasn’t even decided how her part in the drama will end. It isn’t entirely out of the question she might come out of it alive.

  Unlike Detective Sgt Hutton.

  ‘HEY, ASSHOLE.’

  Open my eyes. Immediately aware of the damp of the ground, the cold leaves against my skin. Naked on the forest floor. Naked? Why am I naked? I don’t even sleep naked. When did someone take my clothes off? When did they bring me here?

  I try to get up, but can’t move. Not an inch, not a muscle. Lying dead still, staring up at the canopy of trees. It’s cold, and I want to cover myself, but there’s nothing I can do.

  ‘Hey, asshole,’ says the voice again.

  American. That doesn’t make sense either. Maybe it’s Tandy Kramer’s father. He’s American. He’s the only American I’ve spoken to recently. It doesn’t sound like him, though. An older accent. The kind of accent you don’t hear much anymore, not even on TV.

  Wait. How the fuck do I know what kind of accents you hear in America, if not from TV?

  ‘You awake, asshole?’

  ‘I’m cold,’ I say.

  ‘Sure you’re cold. You’re butt-ass naked, for crying out loud.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Wah-wah-wah, here you go, same thing every goddam night. Get over it, kid. Seriously, when the fuck you going to start addressing the issue here?’

  ‘I don’t know what the issue is.’

  ‘Jesus. It’s like talking to, I don’t know, a fucking plate of beans or, I don’t know, a fucking mushroom. It’s like you evolved personally into this species that doesn’t know the fuck how to use its brain.’

  God, it really is freezing. And I need to pee. I try to raise my head to look around, but I can’t. All I can see is straight up. If I just pee here in the forest, will anyone notice?

  ‘You could do with losing a bit of weight, buddy,’ says the voice to the side of my head.

  The crow. It’s a crow, although I can’t see him. How do I know it’s a crow? I must have heard that voice before.

  ‘I just need to get some clothes.’

  ‘Well get up and put them on, you dumbass.’

  ‘And I need the toilet.’

  ‘Jesus. You’re like a fucking kid. Are you hungry? Does the forest smell weird?’

  There’s a flapping of wings, a rustling of the leaves. The crow passes through the edge of my vision.

  ‘That’s your cock?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s it? Your cock? That itty bitty little thing?’

  ‘Of course it’s... What?’

  I need clothes. I need to pee. I need to get up off this fucking, freezing, damp forest floor.

  Start to pee. Can’t hold it in any longer.

  ‘There we go,’ says the crow. ‘Take control.’

  34

  Monday morning flits past, one thing quickly following another. A montage. A fucking montage of my life. Get up, hideously miserable, humour utterly wasted. Into the office, very early, sit and draft out a few words for the press. A snap conference in the morning, not much to say, not many o
f them there. Hopefully, however, that won’t matter. We just need Clayton (or whoever the fuck else this is) paying attention, and if it is Clayton, we know he always pays attention.

  A chat in Connor’s office alongside Taylor, then the show for the press, then in with just Taylor, then back to my desk. Said the two lines I’d thought I’d say last night, not much else. The press guys who were there didn’t seem terribly impressed. I wonder if one of them might work out the press conference was more about delivering a message than actually contributing anything to the narrative of the investigation, but hopefully they’re more likely just to think we want to be seen to be doing our bit, while not actually doing anything at all.

  And phht, suddenly it’s eleven-thirty in the morning and it already feels like it should be the middle of the afternoon, and I’m sitting at my desk waiting for the e-mail to pop up, not really able to think straight, but it’s nothing to do with anything much, just one of those fucking days when everything seems shit.

  I want to go and talk to Philo this afternoon, but I really doubt she wants to talk to me, and yes, Jesus, I know she’s dead and she’s not talking anyway and she’s not thinking anything about it, nothing at all, because, like we’ve already established, she’s dead! so it’s all a projection of myself, all of it. It’s all about me, the self-obsessed, narcissistic wanker.

  And you need to shut up!

  Then here it comes, the long-awaited e-mail, the one we’ve been hoping for. Sit back in my seat, read the words over a few times. Morrow’s not in, the desk opposite empty. Look into Taylor’s office, where he sits at his desk, glance at Connor’s door, which remains closed.

  Forward the e-mail on, copying them both in.

  Thank God! I can stop now! Such a shame you were too late for Rogers. Until next time, Sergeant...

  As I send it, my eyes are on Taylor, his back turned to me where he sits. I can see the physical slump of the shoulders. The moment. Composing himself, shoulders straighten a little, and then we’re back, and he’s up, and walking through into the open plan. Stops at Morrow’s desk, as ever.

  ‘Suppose that’s a good news/bad news situation,’ he says.

  ‘Not if you’re Rogers.’

  ‘The name doesn’t mean anything?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Right, I’ll go in and talk to Connor, we’ll sort out what we’re taking to the Chief Constable. No matter how absurd, it looks like we were right. Bob Dylan album titles. Jesus... You get onto the system, see if there’s anyone named Rogers been reported missing in Glasgow in the last few days.’

  ‘I’ll bring it in if I find anything.’

  ‘Cool.’

  And off he goes.

  Take a second. Let my eyes drift over the words in the latest e-mail. Processing. Allowing this new information to sink into the misery of the day. Recalibrate. Try to stop internalising. Internalising is for sitting at home with a bottle of wine or a bottle of vodka. Internalising is for 2am, can’t sleep, staring at the fucking wall. Internalising is for weekends with nothing to do.

  Rogers!

  Find the name straight away. Mr James Rogers of Rodden Drive, Kings Park.

  Pick up the phone, call the local station. Answered by one of those fantastic, ball-crushing female police sergeants you get.

  ‘Hi, Detective Sgt Hutton in Cambuslang.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ she says, the tone of her voice immediately signaling recognition. ‘Nice TV slot this morning.’

  ‘Thank you... You’ve got a missing guy called Rogers?’

  Pause. ‘Don’t know the name, just let me check.’

  Sit back, look around the office. Glance at the closed door of Connor’s office. Wonder how Connor’s enjoying the fact he’s going to stand before the collected beaks of Police Scotland and say we’ve managed to bring an end to the Bob Dylan murders.

  Jesus.

  ‘Hey. Yes, we’ve got him. Reported missing yesterday afternoon when he didn’t turn up for work. Was supposed to be in B&Q yesterday morning, didn’t respond to calls to his house or to his mobile. No reports of him calling a doctor. His work place called it in, doesn’t seem to have any family close by.’

  ‘And someone’s been round to his house?’

  Slight pause.

  ‘We knocked on the door, but the officers chose not to effect entry.’

  I’m not going to ask why not. You don’t go breaking into some guy’s house just because he doesn’t turn up at work. In fact, you don’t really call the police in that situation, and if someone did and we reacted to it at all, it must have been because it was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Kings Park.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep... we’ve got something... Those e-mails we’ve been getting? We got another one this morning pointing to Rogers. Too late for Rogers, that’s what it said. No idea at this point who Rogers is, but we need to check this guy out, just in case.’

  ‘OK, I’ll send someone round.’

  ‘Mind if I come over?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Cool. Be there in fifteen.’

  Hang up, stare at the boss’s door, contemplate just heading on out, but decide I’d better stick my nose in.

  Knock, open the door but don’t really go into the office. They look at me expectantly. Looks like I’ve got the room.

  ‘There’s a missing Rogers over in Kings Park. They haven’t put his door in yet, so I’m going round there now.’

  Taylor glances at Connor.

  ‘We can leave it to the Sergeant,’ says the boss, ‘we need to draft something here. Call it in as soon as you’re in the house,’ he continues, looking at me. ‘Including, obviously, a negative return.’

  And I’m out the door, heading down to the car park.

  IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. I don’t think I noticed the weather when I came out this morning, I didn’t see the glorious June sunshine. Too fucking miserable. That’s what happens when you’re forty-seven and you wake up having wet the bed because your head’s a piece of worm-eaten, petrified fuck.

  Four of us at the door. Detective Constable Hobbes, who seems like a reasonable bloke. Morrow, by another name, relocated fifteen minutes across town. And two female constables who I’m doing my damnedest not to objectify. I really am. Constables Clarence and Oates.

  Oates unlocks the door on the fifth key attempt, and in we go. I prefer a well-placed shoulder myself, but it probably makes sense not to burst a door off its lock if you don’t have to.

  She steps into the hallway, this morning’s mail on the carpet. Just a couple of white envelopes and a Lidl advert. Hobbes moves past her, into the front room. Walks straight in, and we follow.

  A plain old room, nothing interesting about it, except the obvious gap on the wall, where the large TV screen – forty-two inch maybe – has been taken down, and another clear space on a dusty shelf beneath, where perhaps the DVD player used to sit.

  Through into the room beyond, and now Hobbes stops in the doorway. The international sign of having found what we’re looking for. He moves further inside, and we follow him in.

  And there we stand, in a perfect line, staring.

  The television has been attached to the wall in the small room. Too big really for the front room, it totally dominates this room. Pretty unpleasant porn is playing, presumably on some kind of continuous loop. A young woman, five or six guys. She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself.

  Jim Rogers himself is on the floor, perched against the wall opposite the TV. The small dining table has been pushed out of the way to the back of the room. There are only two chairs, placed under the table.

  Rogers is naked. The manner of his death is not immediately obvious. There’s no blood. His penis is in his right hand, still erect it seems, although a quick glance suggests something has been inserted inside it to keep it that way. So, unnaturally stretched is probably a better description than erect.

  His left hand is on a large bottle of Bowmore, which
is nearly empty. If the rest of the contents of the bottle are inside him, that might point to one reason for him being dead. At first glance I thought there was shit smeared around his mouth, but then I notice the chocolate cake at his side. Most of it is gone too. And all around him, covering the floor, is money. Notes. Fives and tens and twenties. At a rough guess, several thousand pounds.

  ‘Well, this is fucking weird,’ says Constable Clarence after a minute or so.

  Almost laugh out loud. You think? Hobbes gives her a quick glance.

  ‘Fuck,’ he mutters. ‘This what you expected to find, Sergeant?’

  Couldn’t begin to know what I thought I’d find. It’s got a seven deadly sins feel about it, doesn’t it? Se7en. That’s what I think. Gluttony and greed and lust, though maybe not all of them. And the sound of the girl getting fucked by several enormous, porn star-sized dudes suddenly seems even louder than it was when we walked in.

  ‘I know we shouldn’t touch anything, but could you put that off, Constable, please?’

  I only ask because she’s nearest. Oates. She glances at Hobbes for confirmation, he nods, and she takes the two steps to the DVD player, pulls the cuff of her shirt down over her finger and presses the off button.

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll call it in,’ says Hobbes. ‘Can you look around, see what else there is?’

  Chocolate cake, money, booze and porn. Hmm... Bob did the Seven Deadly Sins song with the Wilburys, but that’s not it. The seven deadly sins aren’t represented here, not in their totality. It would be different from what he’s been doing, and it would be copying the Brad Pitt movie. That’s not Clayton.

  Then out of nowhere the word pops into my head.

  Desire.

  I’d thought it was almost too simple a title to have been used. Not sure, in fact, that it’s not a bit of a stretch. How exactly is this guy going to have been killed by porn, money or cake? Alcohol, well that’s fair enough. Kills thousands of us every year. It’ll be my turn soon enough.

  There I fucking go, making it about me again. Jesus.

  35