DS Hutton Box Set

by Douglas Lindsay

  This one has brought in the spectators, and I don’t mean the gawkers who assemble at every crime scene. Those sad bastards are to be expected. The hordes who aren’t quite fulfilled by CSI: Garrowhill on Channel 5 and need to see the real thing in action. Let them come.

  This time, however, the suits have come to see. Connor is visiting a crime scene for possibly the first time in his entire life. Don’t know much about the Chief Constable, but I imagine it’s been a few years since he tossed on a SOCO suit and stuck his hand into the metaphorical viscera of an actual investigation.

  Perhaps they came hoping the nasty porn would still be playing on the TV. They probably asked for it to be turned back on. Someone, somewhere, will of course have the job of watching it all, and more than once, to see if there are any clues to be had from the film. Won’t be us, though, it’ll go to one of the locals, in keeping with the general egalitarian nature of the investigation so far.

  I’m currently standing on the sidelines, waiting to be called back into action. I should probably have already headed back to the station, but for now, I think I might actually need some direction.

  Where are we going with is? Seven people murdered, plus the strange case of the missing psychiatrist. The latter is the only thing pointing to any peculiarity in Clayton’s actions over the last week, and yet the potentially missing psychiatrist herself has no obvious connections to the random series of murders.

  So we have nothing. At least, nothing on Clayton.

  Coffee in my hand. Someone came round with them, not sure who. One of our lot, though, not some random member of the public.

  Taylor and Connor emerge from the house, squeeze pass a couple more SOCO’s on their way in. Taylor eyes my coffee, looks around, doesn’t spot the source of the tasty beverage.

  Connor shakes his head, his cheeks puffed out. Lets out a long sigh. Hands in his pockets, looks around at the waiting crowd, all of them out of earshot.

  ‘So what do we think, gentlemen?’ he asks, his gaze over to the other side of the street, over the tops of the houses. Perhaps looking to see if he can see the floodlights of Hampden from here. Already looked. You can’t. ‘You’ve worked it out, and now he’s going to stop? Was it really that simple all along? A simple, stupid, parlour game? The Bob Dylan murders?’

  He grimaces at the artless stupidity of it. Unusually I find myself agreeing with him.

  ‘If he’s stopped,’ says Taylor, ‘then thank God. But it’s not as though we can just let it rest because there aren’t going to be any more.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyone else getting anywhere?’ I ask. ‘I mean, any of the other stations?’

  ‘No,’ says Connor. ‘I don’t know who this is, but they’re bloody good, I’ll tell you that. Not a fingerprint, not a suspicious phone call, not a name online or in a diary or in a text message, not a piece of CCTV footage. Whoever this is, they’ve thought of everything. Bloody good. Bloody good...’

  Yes, he is, just don’t say that in front of a TV camera. I look around again, making sure everyone really is out of earshot. If some fucker’s got a microphone... Asshole Cop Licks Killer’s Baws In New Establishment Shame.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he mutters.

  ‘What now?’ I ask.

  Taylor gives me a glance, then looks around the crowd of onlookers. Connor continues to do the same. Perhaps they’re both clinging to the old maxim about the killer returning to the scene of the crime. Looking for the face in the crowd, the eyes that drop when they see the police looking, the person who turns and walks away under scrutiny. Or the killer with ball-breaking confidence, who stares down the police, somehow knowing he’s untouchable.

  And that’s what our guy is, right now. Ball-breakingly confident and untouchable.

  ‘We shouldn’t be complacent,’ says Taylor. ‘He might just mean the bloody Bob Dylan murders are over. Maybe next he’s going to do the Neil Young Murders, or the Winnie the Fucking Pooh murders for all we know. And we’re going to need a more established, central point of the investigation. Rather than four or five teams working to the centre, we need one dedicated team, taking all the crimes together as a whole. It’ll piss a few people off, but they have to do it. I don’t care if we’re on it, and in fact, since the killer is trying to drag you into this, Sergeant, you at least certainly shouldn’t be.’

  Pauses, looks at his watch.

  ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘we’re back to Riverside in an hour. We should get back to the station, finalise our pitch, aggregate everything we’ve got, and get in there. Come in strong and, more than anything else, practical.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Connor.

  Out of his depth, as he has been since he arrived, due to the proverbial series of unfortunate events.

  Hmm, that’s not a proverb, is it?

  I don’t feel out of my depth, but still, in terms of enthusiasm at least, I’m as far away from Taylor as Connor appears to be.

  ‘Sergeant, you just keep on keeping on. Try and pin down Dr Brady, we need to find her. I want to be able to definitely rule Clayton out the game, or get something on him.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  And so it goes.

  36

  Monday afternoon, warm day, standing on the doorstep of Brady’s house. Back where I was yesterday evening, except the circumstances are completely different.

  Yesterday I was looking in hope, and finding nothing. Today I’m back because I called her number and, out of the blue, she answered.

  Look around as I wait for her to come to the door. Quiet street. Don’t see anyone around. Not so much as a warm afternoon lawnmower in use. Maybe I can hear one in the distance somewhere, someone else’s back garden, someone else’s life.

  Yesterday I spoke to three of the neighbours, all of whom had that inherent middle class suspicion of the police – totally different, of course, from the inherent working class suspicion of the police. Only the upper classes aren’t suspicious of the police, because they know if there’s any trouble, they can get the Queen or the head of the Civil Service or the Prime Minister to call off the dogs.

  The door opens, I turn, and there’s the vamp. Jesus. Same look as yesterday, this time built around a sheer white knee-length dress, holding a gin and tonic in her right hand.

  How, you ask, do I know it’s a gin and tonic and not a vodka tonic or a Bacardi and lemonade or even just a double lemonade?

  Not sure, but I can tell. Call it a superpower.

  ‘Sergeant, just in time. Come in.’

  She stands back, not giving me a huge amount of room, and I brush past her, close enough to get the scent of the gin on her breath and the full waft of whatever body spray she draped herself in. And there’s that old familiar feeling.

  Momentarily close my eyes, my back still to her, as I examine the inner mental workings to establish if there’s the slightest possibility I could try to carry out a proficient, coherent and professional line of questioning, and immediately acknowledge it’s not going to happen.

  I’m always about to leave the damn police anyway, right? What difference does it make if I do it in disgrace after getting drunk and fucking a witness?

  Who said anything about getting drunk? And as for the latter, well I have my boss’s instructions to which to adhere. Do whatever you have to do.

  She walks past me and I follow her down a short corridor and into the large kitchen at the back of the house.

  I already spent a few minutes in this place yesterday, when I broke in. It’s the kind of kitchen you get in magazines, albeit not the kind of magazines I read. Floored with great slabs of stone, a wooden island in the middle with cooking implements hanging above, and all around sleek and expensive tools of the part-time chef’s trade, tucked perfectly into beautiful units and sitting on marble worktops.

  Even I like the damn kitchen, and I consider it cooking when I make a bowl of Cornflakes.

  ‘Gin and tonic?’ she asks, taking up position at the counter, beside an
empty glass and half a lime.

  ‘Vodka if you’ve got it,’ I say.

  ‘Just gin.’

  ‘Gin it is.’

  I stand and watch as she goes through the ritual of the gin and tonic, one-third to two-thirds measure, lots of ice, lots of lime. The dress is hugging her body, down to just below the knee. No bra, her nipples evident against the material.

  She knows that while I’m watching her, I’m looking at her body, not at her make the drink. I’m undressing her, knowing that undressing her is something that would only take a few seconds to do.

  She turns, hands over the drink, we clink glasses, take a sip.

  ‘Shall we sit out in the garden?’ she says. ‘Beautiful day.’

  For a moment I’ve lost the power of speech to lust. The filthiest, most enjoyable kind of lust. The kind you know you shouldn’t have. Wanting something it’s going to be dangerous to go anywhere near.

  She opens the back door and leads me out. I stop for a second on the doorstep, eyes adjusting again to the bright sunlight, and look around the garden. As immaculate and big-ticket as the kitchen, like she had some TV makeover crew in for the week.

  ‘Take your shoes and socks off, Sergeant, the grass feels beautiful on your feet.’

  There’s a table with a couple of chairs on a patio just by the back door, but she walks past them, barefoot across the lawn, to the end of the garden, where there is a small copse of elm trees. I do as I’m told, and follow. All around are beautiful plants, the names of which are lost to me, and which I barely notice.

  In amongst the copse of elms there is a double swing seat. She sits down, looks my way, and I sit next to her. She sighs, moves the seat back, so that it starts swinging, and takes a drink.

  I take a look around. A perfect spot, secluded from all the surrounding houses. The only place from which it is overlooked is her own first floor. The warmth of the sun is still on us, but we’re protected from the brightness.

  She removes her sunglasses, tosses them to the side onto the grass, rubs her eyes briefly, and then settles her head back, staring straight ahead. I glance at her, let my eyes run over her body, then turn away and follow her gaze.

  ‘You’ve been asking about me,’ she says. ‘Is Mr Clayton really so bad?’

  Take another drink. Sharp and strong. Swill the ice cubes round in the glass. Business. We’ve got business to discuss. That’s why I’m here. Police business, with a barefoot seductress, drinking gin and tonic, in a hidden copse in a fairytale garden.

  ‘We think he is,’ I say. ‘We were worried about you. Your actions have been inconsistent.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  She takes a drink. I join her. At this rate we’re going to be heading back to the kitchen pretty quickly.

  ‘You should have brought a pitcher,’ I say, and she smiles.

  ‘I didn’t tell you everything.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘But it’s not necessarily what it seems.’

  I leave that one out there. The explanation is coming. I really ought to be looking at her, gauging her mood, looking for the gut feeling she’s lying, but it’s not so easy when you’re right next to someone on a swing chair.

  I stand up, turn my back to the house, and look down at her. She holds my eyes, the drink goes to the lips, the ice cubes clink in the glass.

  ‘Trying to exert some control, Sgt Hutton?’

  ‘Tell me the story.’

  Lowers the drink, holds it in both hands. Her fingers are going to be cold. Those cold fingers are going to feel fabulous on my skin.

  Yes, yes, all right. Concentrate!

  Despite having taken the positive step to stand up and look at her face on, I don’t know it’s helping my concentration. I may not be pressed against her now, but I’m looking at her, the legs crossed, the drink held in the slender fingers, the V of the neckline, her breasts beneath the thin cotton of the summer dress.

  ‘I’m facing court action,’ she says, and when finally it comes out, her voice is crisp, almost businesslike.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If I tell you, you might get ideas.’

  ‘I’ve already got ideas.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Can you just tell me the story, please?’

  ‘There have been a couple of complaints made against me, and finally the BMA put together a case, managed to add a few more to the pile, and now I’ve been suspended pending a full inquiry. That’s why all my appointments were cancelled this week. I booked myself a small cottage, not far away, just the other side of Lennoxtown, and decided to hole myself up there.’

  ‘What about Mr Clayton?’

  ‘He wanted to continue seeing me, I told him it would prejudice my case if I did, and he said he would make it worth my while. So he has been paying me, and... well, as you can see, I’ve been making a lot of money doing what I do, and things are going to be rather uncomfortable without it.’

  ‘But, like you said, won’t it prejudice...’

  ‘Yes, but then... all the complaints against me are absolutely true, so in fact, I really must make hay while I can, you see.’

  We both take another drink.

  ‘Sit back down, Sergeant,’ she says. ‘I’m really not hiding anything. You don’t have to stand before me looking so accusatory.’

  I think about it, decide where the stand is going to be made, and then come down on the side of the stand having already been made, then given up with barely a whimper.

  I sit back down, and get the immediate feel of her leg against mine, neither of us pulling away. She leans forward, and now as I look at her the overlap of the V in her dress is parted and I can see her left breast, small and perfect, the nipple firm and dark.

  Look away, but knowing she wants me looking. Wait, didn’t even Taylor want me looking? Everybody wants me looking. So why am I staring blindly off into the trees, a gin and tonic at my lips?

  I turn back. Her left elbow is on her knee, the drink held in her left hand. I stare at her breast, imagine my fingers around it, my tongue on it, licking it, taking it into my mouth.

  ‘I have sex with my clients,’ she says.

  Oh, Jesus, there we are...

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Most of them,’ she says.

  ‘And if I speak to the BMA they’ll confirm it?’

  ‘I’ll even give you the name of the little bastard who’s been after me for the last two years.’

  ‘If you have sex with most of your clients, why has it taken so long?’

  She turns and smiles, takes another drink, tipping the glass far back, not quite finishing it. She leans forward again, so that her breast is still evident.

  ‘I’m good,’ she says. ‘None of them ever complain.’

  ‘It’s just the wives?’

  ‘And the husbands.’

  I get a glance with that, and then she looks away again.

  ‘So obviously I slept with the first couple of BMA investigators who came sniffing around, and that kept it quiet for a while. But they wised up, and they put a vicious little middle-aged, sexless woman on my case. There was no chance of interrupting the investigation, and slowly...’ she says, closing her right hand into a ball, ‘she got me.’

  ‘And Clayton?’

  ‘Do I sleep with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, not Mr Clayton. I mean, he knows what I do with most of the others, but he’s not interested. As a psychiatrist, he is a genuinely fascinating case, unlike most of the narcissistic simpletons one sees these days.’

  ‘So why do you sleep with them?’

  She finishes off her drink, tipping it back, before tossing the glass casually onto the grass beside her sunglasses.

  ‘Two reasons,’ she says. ‘It’s much more interesting than talking to them...’

  I doubt anyone could argue that.

  ‘And I’m insatiable. I’m your dream, Sergeant. I’m every man’s dream. I c
an’t get enough, and I really don’t care. Seriously, they have help groups for this?’

  Well, I’m not sure you need to be a qualified psychiatrist to know that little piece of insight into the dreams of every man, but she’s bang fucking on.

  ‘And now, I’ve been stuck alone in a small house on a hill all week, and the only man I’d talked to before seeing you and your boss yesterday was a client who only wanted me for my qualifications, and you know, Sergeant, I could have had you and your boss over the table right there and then. I went back to my place and I was fucking myself senseless with anything I could find.’

  I may be getting toyed with, but right now I’ll happily take it. She can toy with me all she damn well likes.

  Lean forward, lips onto hers, and I can’t stop myself reaching for the breast that has been sitting there so invitingly. Hand inside her dress, pushing the material aside, and my fingers close around the nipple. She moans at my touch, and straight away her hand is on my hard cock, grabbing it, squeezing it.

  She breaks the kiss with a heavy moan.

  ‘Jesus, Sergeant, just fuck me. Right now. There’s plenty of time for everything else, but I just need your cock inside me. Come on!’

  I stand up, lift my shirt off, and she’s tearing at my trousers, belt and button and zip undone, then pulled off along with my NASA technology underwear. She’s forward on her knees, briefly takes my hard, damp cock into her mouth, her tongue all over it, and then she’s hauling me down, so I’m lying back, flat on the grass. She kneels over me, pulls the dress up to her waist, and now I see she came prepared, wearing no underwear at all, lowers herself onto my erection, and I thrust deep inside her.

  ‘Jesus!’ she says, not too loud, but a great sound, of desperation and relief and desire.

  Her pussy is tight and soaking, and she starts working herself up and down. I reach up and pull the dress off her shoulders, and it sits on her midriff, perfectly framing her breasts.

  I lie back and look up at her. Her eyes are closed, her movements becoming less frantic.

  ‘God, I love that feeling,’ she says.

  I watch her breasts, and then lean up, taking her left breast into my mouth. I put my hands on her hips and start thrusting back at her as hard as she’s thrusting onto me.