The Unburied Dead

by Douglas Lindsay

  The Unburied Dead

  by

  Douglas Lindsay

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2012

  copyright © 2012 Douglas Lindsay

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Douglas Lindsay has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Photo by Graeme Maclean

  Visit Douglas Lindsay at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-17-0

  Version 2-1-3

  Also by Douglas Lindsay

  Novels

  Lost in Juarez

  Barney Thomson series

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson

  The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt

  Murderers Anonymous

  The King Was In His Counting House

  The Last Fish Supper

  The Haunting of Barney Thomson

  The Final Cut

  Novellas

  The End of Days

  Also by Blasted Heath

  Dead Money by Ray Banks

  Wee Rockets by Gerard Brennan

  Phase Four by Gary Carson

  The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson by Douglas Lindsay

  The Man in the Seventh Row by Brian Pendreigh

  The Killing of Emma Gross by Damien Seaman

  All The Young Warriors by Anthony Neil Smith

  Keep informed of new releases by signing up to the Blasted Heath newsletter. We'll even send you a free book by way of thanks!

  1

  They all say it around here. Why did we join? Why do we put up with this shit? Why do I bother coming to work? Sometimes I like to stand on my desk and shout will you all just shut the fuck up, you entitled, whining bunch of wankers? This is just how it is, so get the fuck on with it…

  Yeah, all right, I don't. I don't do that. It's not like our lot are that different from everyone else in the country. People complain, because that's what people do.

  This lot, they joined for all sorts of reasons. The need for power. The need to do good on your own terms. The desire to be above the law, so you can manipulate it, or break it. Legal thuggery.I joined in '96. I'd been back from Bosnia for over a year. Still drifting, still suffering. Didn't drink too much, didn't do drugs. I did women. Lots of women. Mostly they seemed quite happy about it, until I buggered off, or they found out what number they'd been that week.

  Yeah, I know, it just sounds like some kind of sexually-frustrated male fantasy, but it wasn't a carefree erotic expedition through the fertile female jungles of Glasgow; I was fucked up and taking out my PTSD on any woman I could get hold of. How could they know that when I was fucking them, I was seeing bodies dumped in the stinking heat of a Balkan summer? Really, it's not a great image. How could they know that when they screamed I was hearing wives scream for their tortured husbands?

  I never seemed to grasp that sex wasn't helping.

  Finally I got someone pregnant or, at least, someone finally told me I'd got her pregnant. This coincided with the arrival in the public consciousness of Detective Sergeant Jonah Bloonsbury.

  Jean Fryar left school at the first opportunity. No 'O' levels, no common sense. Started working in a newsagents up the old Edinburgh Road. I used to go in there sometimes on a Saturday for my twenty Marlboro. I had a detached look that the women liked. Never looked interested. Never looked like I wanted them.

  Works every time, although probably only because I wasn't trying to get it to work.

  Don't even remember whether the first time was at her place or mine. There was something about her, although it was probably just that when she sucked me off it was so fucking good that I almost managed to get the images out of my head.

  One night or other the condom got left in my pocket, along with my brain. I'd been doing a reasonable job up until then.

  Naturally I'd moved on by the time she called me up saying she was pregnant. She seemed to believe that I might be interested, and because I wasn't doing anything else at the time, I said I'd marry her.

  Didn't take long for her to start badgering me about getting a job. I think what she actually wanted was for me to go abroad again. She envisaged me sending my pay cheque home from a distant, war-torn land. She was keen on Chechnya. If things had worked out well for her, I would have been killed and she'd have received compensation from someone.

  However, a story started appearing in the newspapers at the time. A young sergeant in Glasgow called Jonah Bloonsbury cracked a murder inquiry which had defeated the most senior detectives in the city. The guy was nine years older than me and he had his fifteen minutes. Front page news, detective of the month. He'd acted alone on a hunch all the others had ignored and had nabbed his man after a long chase on foot over open moorland up beyond East Kilbride. Reading between the lines, it was apparent that in the end he had taken the guy down and kicked all kinds of fuck out of him before the bloke had been taken into custody.

  I could do that, I thought. I could kick the fuck out of people. And the police would give me shift work, and I wouldn't have to spend too much time at home.

  We got married on a staggeringly warm summer's day in 1996, then three weeks later Jean had a miscarriage. So the child was gone and, messed up and insensitive beyond reason, I immediately contemplated losing the wife as well. I didn't do it straight away, but that was the beginning of the end.

  The police no longer seemed necessary, but I was there, and right enough, it kept me out of the house for long periods. I didn't have to put up with her drinking, and she just didn't have to put up with me.

  By the time I'd finished my first year, I had met Peggy and was seeing her behind Jean's back, and by the time I finally met Jonah Bloonsbury, Peggy and I had been married for eight years and the marriage had long since drifted into disinterest. By then Bloonsbury was a drunken detective chief inspector, living on past glories and suffering the same sort of marriage as the rest of us.

  That first murder case wasn't his only big success. There were several others, though none so high profile. But somewhere along the way the pressure became too much for him, and he drowned in alcohol. Very last century. I don't know when he hit the downward spiral, but by the time Bloonsbury reached fifty he was wasted, viewing everyone with suspicion through the dregs of a bottle of cheap blended malt.

  There was one last crowning glory over a year ago, plucked from nowhere, to temporarily save his wretched career and wasted reputation, but since then his life has been nothing but a fast drop to the bottom of the ocean. And now he's just a guy, drifting through his fifties; overweight, ruddy-faced, bleary-eyed. A waste of a good man, but there are many more where he came from.

  So it could be said I joined up for two illusions – a child that never came, and the disingenuous festering bullshit that is the career of Jonah Bloonsbury – but in reality I joined because I felt like my brain had been taken out and refitted the wrong way round.

  I bumped into Jean Fryar again a few months ago. She slapped me across the face, we went for a drink, compared divorces and children – three and two for me, two and four for her – and nearly ended up in bed. I like to think we both thought better of it in the end, but really the decision was all hers. And that's all there is to say about Jean Fryar.

  The story of Jonah Bloonsbury limps on however, while the rest of us watch it pass by – mourners at a wake – as he reaches for one last success; or perhaps merely hangs on, hoping to recei
ve a full pension, with as much dignity as a man with a bottle of whisky attached to his face can do.

  Meanwhile my brain turns slowly, occasionally almost clicking back into position, but never quite making it.

  2

  Wild flowers? Is it wild flowers? Smells like wild flowers, but how can something actually smell of wild flowers? There are hundreds of wild flowers. They must all smell different. All the wild flowers together?

  His mind churns.

  Wild flowers. Wild flowers. I don't know any stinking, fucking wild flowers. Wild flowers. Wild flowers. The words tumble through his brain. His head twitches, a sudden snap, eyes closed for a second, and it's gone. Now all he can smell is the rotten cabbage of the underground tunnels. Rotten cabbage, sewage, decay. They should bottle those.

  He glances over his shoulder at the woman three seats behind. Dark brown hair. Almost black. Shoulder length. She's not looking at him. It must be her; there's no one else in the carriage that would wear that kind of scent.

  The train rumbles to a halt, emerging from the tunnels into the drizzle and cold dark night of Dalmarnock station.

  He doesn't turn all the way round, but looks at the woman's reflection, catching her eye in the window. A fleeting glimpse then she looks away. He smiles at her too late, but can feel her shudder.

  He looks along the length of the carriage. Two old women, grumbling, voices too loud; a man asleep, face pressed against the glass; four teenagers, talking about the weekend and passing around a bottle of cheap wine.

  He sucks his teeth, runs his hand across the stubble on his chin and looks at his reflection in the window. Five days growth. Needs to shave. Not good for business, but he likes it. It's more him than the man he has to present to the world every day. His mind rambles on, a trail of confusion, his eyes attracted over his shoulder every few seconds to the woman behind.

  Wild flowers. Wild flowers. If a wild flower grows in a garden, does that make it a garden flower? Maybe there's another name for it. Maybe it smells different. Would it smell different?

  The doors fizz slowly shut. He looks up at the route map. Seven stops to go, and she'll have to get off at one of them. He wouldn't do anything on the train. Too much chance of an interruption.

  A quiet back street, with gentle drizzle, broken street lights and a dog barking half a mile away. That was the place for your first murder.

  Is that what he's already thinking? Murder? Does he want to murder Jo? Of course not, but it's almost happened before. Must be realistic. He wants her. Wants to feel her and hold her. Smell that floral scent close up, breathe it in, taste it as he licks her neck. Feel her gasp as he thrusts his hand between her legs.

  Maybe she'll want it too, or maybe she'll fight. If she fights…. Then you can never know what's going to happen.

  He imagines the newspapers. He thinks about the newspapers all the time. Sometimes his name is in the papers, but not often. Never for something like this.

  If she wants him, if she comes willingly, will the newspapers care, will anyone care? And if he rapes her, will anyone care? But if he leaves her body on the ground, raped and dead, maybe then they'll notice. Maybe then they'll start talking about him.

  He looks out of the window, at the lights and wet streets of Rutherglen, as the train crawls towards the next stop. Shouldn't think like that. It's wrong. It's stupid. It's not very helpful. It doesn't help. Are you listening, Dad? It doesn't…fucking…help.

  His eyes slither round again and he looks straight at her. She avoids his gaze. He loves her hair. The same hair that Jo had, just touching her neck. The hair that fell over his stomach when she was sucking him off. Twitches at the thought of her, tries to push it from his mind. Bloody Jo. But the thought is there now. Her tongue sliding the length of his penis, and not because he was forcing her. She'd wanted it. All the time. Always wanted him, his cock ramming into her, her hands all over him, his tongue all over her. All the time.

  Then she'd started to fuck other people. And then she'd left.

  The woman bites her nails, looking round at the first damp run of the platform as the train shudders slowly into Rutherglen station. Pretty face, slightly overweight, small nose, glorious red lips, getting very frightened by the strange guy two seats away who is staring at her.

  The train comes to a halt beneath the M74. Again he glances over his shoulder at the woman as the doors open. Why should he hide it now? She knows what's coming to her.

  There's giggling from up the carriage as the four teenagers drunkenly make their way off the train, pushing, laughing, arguing, shouting fuck into the night as loudly as possible.

  He looks back to the woman. She's staring at him now, and this time looks away more slowly. He swallows. Maybe she does want him. Maybe she likes the attention.

  He turns away and looks up the carriage. He smiles. He lowers his head. He can smell her, her scent filling the air. The two old women are looking at him, as if they can read the intent on his face.

  'What?' he says, a bit disconcerted. 'What?' he repeats, and their eyes avert.

  The sleeping man's head bobs up from a silent slumber, then flops back onto his chest. The doors start their slow fizz. There's a stamping on the floor behind. He is still perturbed by the attention of the old women, the women who somehow looked into him and could read every thought that was running through his brain, every bloody nightmare splitting his head apart.

  He is slow to turn, and then suddenly realises what he's missing. Turns quickly now, but she's already out the door, the doors already closed. He runs to them, stands at the glass. She waits on the platform, crying out for the train to move off; breathless. He starts pulling at the rubber between the doors. Makes some headway. An inch. She doesn't wait. Two inches. She sees the teenagers disappear through the door into the waiting room, one other passenger making the slow walk along the platform, and runs after them. The train starts to move off. He's tugging desperately at the door but he's not getting any further. He's still there pulling at the rubber as the train pulls past the woman hurrying to the exit, and their eyes meet one last time. He drinks in the hair, hoping he will remember her, but all these women look the same. She shudders, then feels like crying with relief as he steps back from the doors and is gone as the train accelerates away into the rain, the still of the night.

  He returns to his seat. Looks at the old women, who stare back this time, and he feels intimidated. His eyes drop.

  'Bloody Jo,' he mutters.

  The woman climbs the stairs to the bridge over the railway tracks. A lucky escape. She feels the relief, and already she is beginning to put it out of her mind. Men. They're all the same; and she starts again to construct her defences for when she has to explain to her husband where she's been all evening.

  3

  Monday morning, three days before Christmas. Sitting at the desk with a colossal hangover, the memory of the weekend still hurting. The football didn't go well – Partick Thistle lost three-nil at Ross County – and I ended up in bed with something that crawled out of the drains. I know, who am I to talk? But really. Don't remember a thing about the night either, so I don't know if it was worth it. At least I wasn't called in, and any weekend without that is something of a success.

  Taylor isn't in yet, not that he'll care if he's judged. It's just me and Herrod and a collection of barely post-pubescent constables. The Superintendent's in of course, doing that woman in power thing. Letting all us men know who's boss and quoting obscure literature at us every ten seconds so that we know she's not just some totalitarian überbabe; that she's got as much brains as breast. Very commendable.

  Passed Alison on the way in this morning. I was married to her for twenty-nine days a year or two ago – something which I did in a fit of idiocy after my divorce from Peggy came through. She was working downstairs somewhere, walking by with a criminal on her arm. He looked good on her. We smiled. Very cosy. We get on a lot better since the divorce, although we avoided each other for nearly a year after
wards. She's marrying Sgt McGovern in June, which is unfortunate.

  Herrod lifts his head from some paperwork, tossing the file into the out-tray as he does so.

  'It's all a load of bollocks, Hutton,' he says.

  Can't argue with that.

  'That you found the meaning of life again?'

  He sticks his feet on the desk and lights a cigarette. Of course there's a no-smoking policy in the building, but there's no one here to police it. The man smokes B&H same as everyone else. That's one of the reasons he never gets any women, although, to be fair to the man, there's a long list of such reasons.

  I'm still smoking Marlboro, but generally don't at work. Trying to be a good little soldier, obeying all the directives from the top.

  'Got this guy, right?'

  Herrod's always got a guy.

  'The bampot says he was at his sister's all night. Who the fuck spends the night with their sister? I haven't seen my sister since she was twelve. I'd vomit on my sister.'

  I'm fully prepared to believe that Herrod has in the past, at some time, vomited on his sister.

  'But not this guy. This eejit spends the night with her. Very cosy. The sister backs him up, of course. Best buddies and all that shite. And all the while, as they're tucked up under the sheets, or whatever they're doing, his warehouse is going noisily up in smoke. Full insurance, nothing to do with me, mate, I was in bed with my fucking sister.'

  So what? You get a million of these a day. But you always know with Herrod that he's going to turn it into some conspiracy or other. Yet there's no way he'll get anywhere near investigating some small time insurance fraud anyway. Bloonsbury or Taylor will stick some fresh-smelling Detective Constable on it for ten minutes, before they move onto some other crime they'll never solve.