Already I’ve got Clayton kidnapping Brady’s daughter, and then making her do stuff under threat to the kid. Why not? It’s a theory, and hardly the most outlandish.
Not that it’s given me too much enthusiasm for the task ahead. The days of suddenly getting the hint of a clue and thinking, this is it, this is going to drive us forward, are long dead.
Now I’ve got nothing. I need to get some sleep, and then I can get into it with Taylor in the morning. Maybe he can provide the enthusiasm, but it’s hardly any more likely.
And I could just go straight to sleep, but why skip the opportunity for food and alcohol when it’s there, regardless of how little it’s required, and so here I am, at the table, wine and a glass and a fork. Contemplate putting on the TV, then decide as usual to go for some dear old Bob, trying not to think of Dr Cairns’s thigh. Oh Mercy tonight. Slow, moody and sorrowful, just in a completely different way to Shadows In The Night, recorded back in the day when Bob still had a voice. Ha! Like Bob ever had that much of a voice.
Bite me, ye Bob Dylan fans.
Alcohol and a carry out, the national diet. Seems too late for me to make any other effort. My life is fucked, as good as over, and me, only forty-seven. I tried, I really did, but my one chance at redemption rested in the hands of someone who was killed within a couple of days of me realising what I could have.
And there will be no police redundancy. No pay off, no golden handshake. Stuck here, in this fucking awful job dealing with murderers and halfwits. All I can do is walk off into the sunset, bottle of wine in one hand, vodka tonic in the other.
Still thinking about Dr Brady, even though there’s nothing to be done until morning. I didn’t understand her, that was the thing. Didn’t get her at all. I was blinded by my own lust to start with, I guess, but afterwards, when we were eating lunch, I had nothing. I don’t even think she was putting up a wall to try and block my male superpower X-ray vision. She just sat there, talking or not, her mind working in a way I didn’t remotely understand.
It’ll be the kid. Introduce the kid into it, and it all makes sense.
Pour more wine, shovel more food.
We shovel Chinese carry outs, don’t we? All of us. The only way to eat it differently is to use chopsticks, but there’s something about eating a Chinese takeaway with chopsticks that just makes you feel like a bit of a dick, even in your own house, even with nobody watching.
The wine works its way quickly to my head. I relax, the tension of another crappy day in the stupid crappy office begins to fade. Another day over, another day in the bag, another day negotiated, another day nearer the grave.
I wonder about Dr Brady, and if she has indeed ever had sex with any of her clients. Has she been lying about everything, or does she keep that kind of thing from the boss upstairs, who once had Bob Dylan sign her thigh? I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?
I’m disposed to believe Brady has been lying, but nevertheless, as I sit eating dinner, I imagine her having sex with a variety of clients in her office, male and female, and gradually those clients are replaced in my imagination by me, and I shovel Chinese carry out and fantasise about fucking the woman I had yesterday, on her garden furniture and on her office furniture.
AS IT HAPPENS, DR BRADY has never fucked anyone in her office. Not in a chair, not on the floor, not on her desk, not at the door... as Dr Seuss might have written, had he ever written a book about a psychiatrist not having sex with her clients.
She sits in her cage, her hands on her knees, her head bowed. She’s not looking at Clayton. She’s not looking at the television, which has been set up just outside the cage.
Clayton is watching TV, his seat just beyond arm’s length of the bars. Perfectly positioned. If she reached out and took a swipe, she would miss him by less than an inch. Not that she thinks about it.
‘You should watch,’ he says. ‘You make a lovely couple.’
He turns the sound up, still not too loud, but loud enough.
The sounds of summer. A back garden. Birds in the trees. Cars in the distance. Two people having sex on a swinging seat and on the grass, in a small, secluded copse.
The couple are filmed from a bedroom window, and from a hidden camera in the trees. The microphone is in the structure of the garden chair. Great sound quality. The film has been edited, so it switches between angles.
The room is filled with the sound of her moaning, and of Thomas Hutton breathing heavily. She is lying back on the grass. He is kneeling between her legs, has hoisted her hips up off the ground, and is fucking her forcefully, the doctor nearing orgasm.
‘This is a great position,’ says Clayton, his voice slow and analytical, like a scientist dissecting a scene from a nature documentary. ‘Your breasts are small, but this displays them beautifully.’
Despite herself she looks up.
‘Fuck you,’ she mutters bitterly, before quickly looking away.
‘I don’t know why you’re upset,’ says Clayton. ‘Seriously, you look like you’re having the most tremendous fun. As does Sgt Hutton, bless him.’
He smiles, his fingers entwined in his lap. The Dr Brady on the television cries out, trying not to make too much noise, her body juddering, as Hutton presses against her tightly, thrusting into her as far as he can go. The caged Dr Brady hangs her head, determined she won’t cry. Determined she won’t break in front of this man.
‘Now,’ he says, turning the sound off, but leaving the video playing, ‘I don’t wish to upset you, but I think it might be time to bring Sgt Hutton to heel, so I’m going to tell you what we’ll do. I rather fancy one of those headlines where they imply that despite having lots of work to do, and a deranged killer to catch, the police are too busy having fun. So we’re going to put this video online...’
She gasps, then quickly closes her mouth. There’s nothing to be said, nothing to be done. He has dominion, and has already let her know just how pitiless he is. She cannot appeal to his compassion, for he has none.
‘Obviously it’d be tremendous if we could put this on YouTube, it’s the most wonderful platform, but we have to accept that YouTube just doesn’t want this kind of content. Not even something as magnificent as this. So, what we’ll do is use a proxy server and set up our own page, we’ll get... What am I doing? You don’t want to hear the mechanics, do you? You just want to know about the exposure. I mean, don’t worry, darling, you look magnificent. Look, look at yourself!’
She doesn’t look up. She knows what’s happening, despite the sound being off. She knows Hutton has not yet ejaculated, she knows he barely let her finish coming before withdrawing, then thrusting his head between her legs and sucking and licking her, while she was still tender and not ready for it, so that she was spasming and gasping, delirious, the fury of discomfort and pleasure.
‘Men are going to love you, women too, if they’re not jealous. You look fabulous, darling. Hutton just looks like a brute, but you... you’ll be the darling of the talk show circuit...’
‘I just want to see Chrissie!’
She says it through gritted teeth, closes her eyes after the exclamation.
Shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have let him see beneath the mask, let him see how much he was getting to her. And it had sounded so weak. But then, it was hardly a surprise, given the situation.
He stares at her, looking amused, his eyebrow raised, waiting for her to look back.
‘Gosh, you really ought to have said. Would you like me to bring her up?’
Now Brady raises her head, the anger and hurt quickly lost to her surprise.
‘She’s here?’ she says. ‘Chrissie’s in this house?’
Clayton looks surprised by the question.
‘Of course! Where did you think she was? How many houses do you think I own?’
‘Let me see her.’
Clayton stares, curiously, head tilted to the side.
‘Let me see her? What was that? Was that an order? I hardly think you’re in –’
>
‘I’ve done everything you asked of me. Everything. Now please, can I see her?’
Eyebrow raised again, this time accompanied by an appreciative look.
‘That’s better. Much better. I think she might be sleeping though, I doubt she’ll like getting woken up at this time.’
‘Please...’
‘You can see her in the morning. Now, I think it might be time for me to do some work. Things don’t post themselves on the Internet, you know.’
‘No!’
‘There is no ‘no’, my dear. I’ve got work to do. If you want to complain, well you can, but then I can be back up here with your daughter’s head in a salad bowl in less than a minute, and don’t think I wouldn’t. Do I need to tell you again what happened to the girl on the railway line?’
He talks through her gasps, the harsh breaths and restrained tears.
‘Is everybody cool?’ he says.
She leans forward, her hands in her hair, staring at the ground.
‘Is everybody cool?’ he asks again, his voice harder.
‘Yes.’ Voice strained.
‘Good, good. Right...’
He settles back in the seat, glances at the television. Hutton is still where he was before, the doctor’s thighs clenched around his head. Clayton smiles, lifts the television remote and turns it off.
43
‘You know this is coming to an end, right?’
Have a strange sensation, just behind my ear. My right ear, I think. It feels sore. There’s a pain there to suggest something or someone or some, I don’t know, some entity, is stabbing into it. But I can’t feel anything. It’s a pain I’m familiar with, and the pain is usually accompanied by a sensation of stabbing. But there’s no stabbing.
‘What?’
There’s a crow on my chest. The crow is talking to me. That also seems familiar, yet strange, at the same time.
‘This whole thing,’ says the crow. ‘We’re nearly done here.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I don’t know, pal, I’m just getting this shit from you. If you don’t know what I mean, then how the fuck’m I supposed to know?’
‘But things don’t just end.’
‘Games of sport end,’ says the crow.
‘What?’
‘Apart from baseball. Jesus...’
It feels cold. Why does it feel cold? The ground is damp, and I’m naked. That doesn’t make sense either.
‘Look, kid, you know things are coming to an end when you choose to end them. That’s it. Your choice. And you know what choice you have to make, right?’
I don’t answer. Looking straight up, the crow now at the edge of my vision. The branches of the trees are bare, and I can see the low, grey clouds. Looks like rain.
‘We understand each other?’ asks the crow.
I don’t reply. The branches high over my head move slowly in the chill breeze. There’s a small movement in the leaves behind my head, as though something else is approaching from behind. I can’t see what it is, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve got the crow to keep me safe.
And yes, finally, we do understand each other.
STANDING NAKED IN THE bathroom, not long out the shower. Dried, teeth cleaned. Looking at myself in the mirror. Don’t know how I do it. I mean, get women to sleep with me. Look at it. At that. At that, there, staring back at me. Saggy and ageing, only going to get worse from here on in. Love handles, bit of a paunch, chest going south, not a sign of a muscle anywhere.
Wonder what they think when they get to see me naked. Is this it? Jesus, didn’t realise you were this old? Oh well, too late now, you might as well add me to your list.
Introspection interrupted by the phone. Stare at myself for another few moments, then walk through to the bedroom, lift the phone. Ramsay or Taylor. No one else calls this early in the morning.
‘Sergeant, good morning,’ says Ramsay.
‘Stuart,’ I say. ‘Somebody dead?’
‘You need to look on the Internet,’ he says. ‘Thought I should give you a heads up.’
‘What’s happening on the Internet?’
‘Someone posted video of you having sex.’
Weirdly it doesn’t immediately fill me with horror. Resignation more. I mean, it was bound to happen some time. And I hardly need to be too embarrassed walking into the office. Plenty of the women in there have seen me having sex in the flesh, never mind on video.
‘Where?’
‘Where did they post it, or where are you having sex?’
‘The latter.’
‘In a garden, on the grass and on a double swing seat.’
Fuck. Well, that figures.
On the plus side, Dr Brady is not a known witness, nor known to be involved in the case at all. Even the suits in Glasgow didn’t know I was speaking to her. My Dylan-thigh-signature doctor aside, the only person really likely to be perturbed will be Taylor, and since he more or less ordered me to sleep with her, he’s not really in a position to say anything.
That’s just my natural positivity coming out there.
‘OK, I’ll take a look before I come in. Where do I find it?’
‘Oh, you’ll find it,’ he says, very unhelpfully, and then hangs up.
Mutter ‘bollocks’ at the room, then into the bathroom. Deodorant, last glance in the mirror. Notice the stirring of my penis at the mention that the wee fella is now some sort of celebrity, roll my eyes at my own cock – as though it does genuinely have a life of its own – then back into the bedroom to get dressed.
Over breakfast of coffee and toast and orange juice and water, I find Ramsay was not lying. The video is very, very easy to find. Plenty of people are talking about it, and sure enough, plenty of the press are already taking the moral high ground, for all the world like none of them ever had sex in their entire lives.
There is, fortunately, no mention of the doctor, no mention of any involvement she might have with Clayton or our investigation. The perspective is entirely about, and entirely aimed at, me. Some expert somewhere has decided what the time is from the position of the shadows in the garden, and that it must have been filmed on Monday, (which it was), therefore what was I doing having sex at that time on a working day when there were so many murders to solve?
I start watching the video. Twenty-three minutes of nicely edited porn. It’s not like I think I look great, but we make a good couple. It’ll play well on Pornhub if it ever gets that far.
At some point while watching it, and getting turned on again, it suddenly occurs to me my family will be waking up to this too. Peggy, well, that’s all right. She’ll roll her eyes and wonder quite how we managed to last as long as we did together. But it’s the kids. Last week of school. Both of them will be walking into the crucible of the playground.
Fuck.
The thought of it has the acute scythe of depression swinging down upon me, and I sit back. Almost put the video off, but I need to watch it all. I need to know what’s up there, I need to see if there was any message left for me.
The video runs its course, beautifully executed, right to its conclusion. Finishes with a bang. And there’s no obvious message, except the video itself.
Michael Clayton is in complete control. He even controls when I have sex, and he has cameras on hand to prove it.
The sexual excitement is long gone. Get up from the table and stand at the window, looking down on the drab street below. A dull morning, the heat of the start of the week having disappeared.
Wondering if I should call Peggy, and realise eventually my hesitation is because I don’t want to make the call, not because there’s a reason not to make it. Lift the phone.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘You sound terrible,’ she says.
‘Yeah. Look, I...’
‘We know already.’
I don’t say anything. There you are. Even they know. Everybody will know.
‘Andy showed it to me... You’ve put weight on.’
&nbs
p; ‘Are they all right going to school?’
‘They’re tough enough to take it,’ she says, then adds, ‘You didn’t want to check for cameras?’
Not a lot to say to that. Almost throw in that it could have happened to anybody, because it really could have happened to anybody. The thing I did wrong, which was sleep with someone we were interviewing in the course of the investigation, she doesn’t know. Nobody will know. But it could have happened to anybody isn’t worth saying. Because it didn’t happen to anybody. It happened to me.
‘Tell them I’m sorry,’ I say.
She doesn’t immediately say anything and I hang up.
Feel... wretched. That’s the word. Stupid and wretched.
Phone in my pocket, jacket and shoes on and out the door.
44
Start thinking about it again on the way in. Killing him. Killing Clayton. Taking myself out as I go. Make sure the life insurance policy is all right before I do it – and I took it out a couple of years ago, so putting a bullet in my own head shouldn’t nullify it – and then finish the two of us off in one go.
Decide to drive in. Not sure if there will be media hanging around the station, and I hate the thought of walking through them, but in the end there’s no one there. They’re much slower these days. Or, I guess I’m not interesting enough. If they had footage of Gwyneth Paltrow fucking Jennifer Lawrence they’d be quick enough off the mark.
Walk into the open-plan, go straight to Taylor’s office, getting a wolf whistle or two on my way. Catch Morrow’s eye, and he gives me a rueful, sympathetic look. Close the door, stand and await judgement.
Taylor hasn’t even looked at me yet. Lays down his pen, settles back in his seat.
‘You’re a walking suspension-waiting-to-happen, aren’t you?’
He sounds tired. Exasperated. The voice of a man who’s seen enough, or of a parent who’s seen enough.
DS Hutton Box Set Page 100