'Your point is?'
'It's all a load of shite.'
'You said that. We know. We're not here because it's fragrant. What are you saying?'
'That's my point. It used to make sense. You came in here on a Monday morning, you did your job, you took from it what you could, and every now and again you arrested some eejit and kicked fuck out him. Tell me that didn't make sense.'
'You sound like an advert for the force in the Sunday Times.'
He shrugs, spits out a sigh, shakes his head.
'I don't know. I've just had enough, you know. All this crap, all these eejits. I've had enough of them all. Every last fucking one of them.'
He finishes his lament, stubs the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. My heart bleeds for him. I almost want to give him a hug.
'Shut up you stupid prick and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're talking pish.'
He grunts at me and moves another report from In to Out without looking at it.
The door opens. One of those terribly young constables walks in looking like the before half of a Clearasil advert, followed by DCI Bloonsbury – a man who hasn't slept for a month – reeking of alcohol. The model detective. We nod at him; he ignores us, walks into his office and slams the door shut. A couple of shots of J&B, two cups of coffee, half pack of Bensons and he'll be ready for us.
The man's downhill slide has picked up some momentum in recent months. Word is the Super's on the point of kicking him into touch but, for all that hard bitch act, you can tell she's soft on stuff like that. Likes to take care of her men.
Bloonsbury's door reopens almost immediately, half an hour before schedule. Got a face on him like a flat tyre and a piece of paper in his hand, which he waves in the air. Looks like Neville Chamberlain.
'Herrod?'
'What?'
Bloonsbury looks at the piece of paper and gives it another shake.
'Rape case? Stonelaw Road?'
Herrod nods. Looks moderately sheepish, if so grotesque a man can even remotely resemble a sheep.
'Well, what the Hell are you doing sitting about when there's some poor lassie to get interviewed? Get your arse over there.'
The door slams shut. Herrod stares at the floor, then looks up as he fumbles for another smoke.
'See what I mean?' he says.
I ignore him and feel sorry for the victim. If getting raped wasn't enough, the poor girl has to be confronted with Herrod the following morning.
*
Quarter to three. Dispatched to the hind end of Rutherglen Main Street, Detective Constable Morrow, PCs Kelly and Bathurst in tow. Spent most of the day working on a big theft – two hundred TVs in a lorry up at Bothwell services – and I get called away to come and hold Morrow's hand while he does his best to ask the right questions. And it's a no-hoper right from the off.
Fight broke out between three morons not far from the town hall. Two against one, rather than all three for themselves. The one comes off worst, ends up on the ground getting his head beaten to a pulp. He'd already been whipped off to the Victoria by the time we got here, but there've been enough people to tell us what he looked like after the attack. Massively swollen head, face bloodied and purple, no teeth left to talk of. Horrible. A few of them thought he might be dead, but apparently he survived it. Probably because they didn't hit him anywhere near his brain. Seen enough of these stupid bastards who've had too much to drink, think they're Clark Kent and end up with heads the size of basketballs. Seen enough of that, seen far too much of a lot worse.
So at two fifteen in the afternoon, three days before Christmas, when there are more people on Rutherglen Main Street than you'd get on a Vietnamese refugee tanker, no one sees a thing. Plenty of folk saw the guy lying on the pavement looking like dog food, but no one saw the incident take place or the assailants in question.
There are two things to do at a time like this. Forget it and go back to the station; or hang around for five hours questioning everyone over the age of three, all the while getting absolutely nowhere. If the bloke stiffs, of course, then the papers will get hold of it and all of a sudden you've got to look as if you're doing something. But if he walks, then bugger it, what's the point?
Now I would have had Morrow down as a sad young bastard, keen to make his mark. Thank God that didn't pan out. Morrow turns out to be human. Seems as disinterested as I am. Asking the right amount of questions; looking concerned, being seen to do his bit, but fully aware that it's pointless; just dying to get back to the station for a slash and a cup of tea. I admire that in a young detective. Look good in front of the public, then forget about it half a minute later. The way forward.
Constables Kelly and Bathurst do their bit. Kelly looks moderately perturbed at the obvious lack of interest from CID, but he ought to know better. Hard to tell about Bathurst. A closed book. She has a very impressive cover mind, although perhaps too young for these old hands.
DC Morrow appears from a shop, looking like a man who wants to be somewhere else. I detach myself from an old wife who claims to have seen everything, but is obviously talking out of her prescription-drug-addled arsehole.
'What's the story, Tom?'
Consults his notebook. Very efficient.
'Got a bit of a description from the shop assistant. Not great, but enough to stick into the computer, see what we can get. Apart from that, not much at all, sir.'
I nod, turn away, look up and down the street. Cold, grey afternoon, the Christmas lights on and looking pathetic. A thousand shoppers and they all look miserable.
Still haven't bought anything for Rebecca. I have no idea what you buy twelve year-old girls these days. Don't want to look like an idiot. Buy her some toy they advertise on the TV, when for all I know she's already busy doing drugs and men. Can't go for the latest piece of tech, because I've no idea what her mother will have bought her recently. Tough decision. I'll do my usual and ask one of the women at the station.
Already got the boy his Rangers change strip. Nearly choked in the shop when I had to buy it.
I shrug. 'Fancy a cup of tea, Tom?'
Morrow nods. 'Sounds brilliant.'
A last look around the scene of the crime. Kelly and Bathurst appear to be running out of people to interview. Nothing much else to do. You might never know an incident had taken place.
'Right then, constable,' I say to him, and off we go.
*
Taylor's there when I get back. My immediate boss, sitting in his office behind the fog of depression.
The first time I ever talked to him was at a Dylan concert. We kind of bumped into each other, realised that we were at the same station. It was a bit awkward. Then we found that we were both Dylan freaks, and that was even more awkward. It was like, I want to be the Dylan weirdo around here, I don't want there to be some other bastard.
We ended up having this grudging kind of Dylan bitchslap comparison thing. He'd seen him seventeen times in concert, to my twelve; I had two iPods full of Dylan – about twelve hundred tracks – he's a traditionalist, doesn't like bootlegs or concert material, so just had all his studio albums. About four hundred tracks worth or so.
There are two kinds of people reading this. There are those who are thinking, fucking Dylan losers, get some proper music on your iPod, for fuck's sake. And then there are the genuine Dylan freaks out there who are thinking, seventeen concerts… twelve hundred tracks? That's not a Dylan freak, that's a passing interest. That's fucking barely knowing that Dylan exists.
When I was told I was working for Taylor I wasn't too impressed, but then of course we sat in his car to go somewhere on the first day and Knocked Out Loaded was on the CD player, and who the fuck else was likely to be listening to that around here? It's been fine ever since.
I stick my head around the door.
'How are we doing?' I say.
He looks away from his computer. Tired. Not thinking about work.
'Pretty quiet,' he says. 'You can take off early, if you li
ke. Go home and make yourself beautiful for tonight.'
'Seriously?'
The usual scowl comes back to his face.
'Of course not, you're not in the fucking Brownies anymore. Get us a cup of tea, eh?'
Comedian. Out the office and head for the kitchen.
4
He is at the cinema. Enjoying the dark. His common retreat, a small, art house cinema, a twenty minute bus journey away. Can't stand multiplexes. Comfortable bucket chairs, drinks and food at extortionate prices, virtually every film aimed at glutinous, popcorn-devouring children, and those damned adults with the viewing habits and mental capacity of the under-14s.
He comes here a few times a week, doesn't mind what he's watching. Tonight a small and beautiful Korean film. 3 Iron. He finds himself in love with the girl, even though she looks nothing like Jo. Elegy and melancholy, love and sadness. He is entranced, drawn in by the romance. The silence. With beautiful perfection, the lovers never speak.
There are less than ten people in the audience, as is often the case, but tonight there is someone special. At first he'd thought it was Jo herself, here in the flesh. She had come here often enough with him in the past, why wouldn't she be here now?
The more he looks, however, the more he sees the differences. It's not Jo, just someone who dares to look like her. Yet he also convinces himself of the similarities. She sits alone, and he wonders what kind of woman goes to the cinema unaccompanied, particularly to such a romantic film? What message is she sending out?
It will be dark when they get out; the streets will be quiet. He could talk to her. He could take it a bit further. He imagines leaning in towards her, her hair in his face, breathing her in. Hesitation before he kisses her or touches her. That lovely moment of anticipation. A finger drawn softly across her neck, his lips touching the bottom of her ear.
As the film progresses, he becomes agitated. He is distracted, until eventually the film has lost him. Not a long film, but by the end he cannot wait for it to be over. There's someone in the cinema with whom he has business, and that business knocks everything else from his mind.
And as the credits finally roll, and the woman who might well be Jo rises from her seat, he bides his time, listening to the thumping of his heart. It had been like this the first time with Jo too. And the last.
The cinema is quiet, the few people in attendance with nothing to say, as if influenced by the silence of the principal characters.
The woman who is not Jo is also distracted, also did not allow herself to be completely immersed in the film. As she leaves the cinema she wonders whether to call her boyfriend – getting as far as taking her mobile from her bag – but at the same time knowing that she will leave it until she gets home.
There is a stupid argument to be continued, and it would have to be continued that evening, but she's prepared to leave it for as long as possible.
However, on this particular evening, she will never reach her front door.
5
Monday night, Christmas bash. Private room at the Holiday Inn in the centre of town, well out of our patch. DJ playing all sorts of dance chart shit. Can't really expect him to play Dylan all night, can we? Still got the horrors of the karaoke to come. We're all expecting to hear Bloonsbury's drunken rendition of Can't Help Falling in Love for the three hundredth time, and a lot worse besides.
There's been a lot of ethnic cleansing in the world, but how come no one ever ethnically cleansed the fucker that brought karaoke to the western world?
It's just after midnight and already the party's beginning to break up. You get the sensible crowd who disappear home early, then you can guarantee the remaining hard core will be here until it's time to go to work tomorrow morning. There's always a lottery to get the day off, which I never win, but since Peggy kicked me out I spend half the year going into work straight from a long night before anyway. One more day just before Christmas doesn't make any difference.
The Super is long gone. The chocolates were hardly off the table and she was out the door. Her old man gets in from Washington tonight, so she's off back to the castle in Helensburgh to warm up the bed, though from what they say she'll probably be asleep by the time he shows up.
Herrod looks miserable. I expect Bernadette's got a chastity belt on him and has melted down the key. She's got her two kids and now there's no need for any further sex. Every time I meet her I wonder what the hell he was thinking. Not that the first Mrs Herrod was any better.
'Same again, Sergeant?' Dragged from people watching by the familiar chant. Raucous, bloody noise, Born This Way and a few poor saps making an arse of themselves on the dance floor. Including, I can't help but notice, PC Bathurst, absolutely stunning in a skin-tight white number. She's got a few of her type running after her but I think I might make a go of it myself, over twice her age though I am. Not quite drunk enough yet.
'Aye, no bother,' I say to the boss. He asks the same of Herrod then plods morosely off to the bar.
Taylor has been on edge all evening. Seems to think that if he lets his concentration slip he might end up in bed with DS Murphy from Westburn, as he did last year. Don't think he's told Debbie about it but it's plagued him ever since. I've said to him; if you're going to screw around behind your wife's back then it's the same as anything else. You've got to give it a hundred percent or it won't work out. He never listens. One drunken shag, then he fended Murphy off for a couple of months until she lost interest. He's spent the last year feeling like a total bastard, hoping that the wife never finds out. I suspect, however, that she might not even care.
Herrod drains a Bacardi and Coke. I mean, a forty-six year-old man drinking Bacardi and Coke, for God's sake.
'Jonah's been saying all month that he's not singing this year. It's offensive to the King, he says.'
I laugh, but have to admit to it being a snort by now. That's vodka for you.
'So what's he been doing for the last ten years?'
'Blaspheming. Says he's repented. Never again. The King is God, and all that shite.'
We both look over at Bloonsbury, the great Elvis apologist; three tables away, spectacularly fucked out of his face on cheap whisky and in the process of making a monumental idiot of himself over some young tart from out of our patch, who none of us has ever seen before.
'Who's that he's drooling over?'
Herrod shrugs. 'Some stupid bitch from Shettleston. Wee scrubber.'
'He's got a chance though.'
'No way. The man can't get it up when he's sober, never mind in that fucking state. His penis hasn't seen any action since Beattie walked out. Even then, it hadn't got behind enemy lines for about eight year.'
Bloonsbury rests a hand on the scrubber's knee, doesn't take long before he slips it under her skirt. The scrubber does not protest. Herrod grunts, shakes his head, and turns away. Jealous.
'Bastard.'
Taylor, the white knight, returns with the alcohol. Notice, with dismay, that he's moved onto orange juice. He parks himself, distributes the booze, looks morosely around the dance floor. In the midst of the tumult the DJ has for some reason stuck on that tragic ode to psycho-women everywhere, Someone Like You, sending most sane men running to the toilet to heave, and everyone else onto the floor in rapturous convulsions of concupiscence, slabbering all over each other and practically having sex where they stand.
'What's the matter with you?' I say to Taylor.
He doesn't notice. I repeat it. He looks round, shrugs.
'Just thinking about Debbie,' he says.
Have a horrible feeling that if I pursue my line of enquiry he's about to get maudlin and am in no frame of mind to listen to that. Change the subject.
'Herrod says that Jonah isn't going to do Elvis this year. Blasphemy, apparently.'
Taylor grunts. 'Fucking Elvis,' he says.
We look at Bloonsbury, his face now surgically attached to that of the scrubber. If she sucks all the alcohol out of him he might wake up to what he's letting
himself in for. As it is, even if he doesn't submit to the full horrors which await him, he's still going to suffer the ridicule of all fair-minded men for snogging a pit bull in front of us all. Idiot.
'If we're lucky, he'll be too carried away with Lassie there,' says Herrod, 'and the singing will pass him by. What do you think?'
Neither of us answer. There's no way he won't sing. We descend into morose silence and watch the doings on the dance floor. I could be wrong, but it seems that Police Constable Forsyth is having sex with some minger from up our way. Hard to tell and I strain to see properly. They're clamped pretty close together, her skirt's bunched up and I'd swear he's got his dick out. I laugh, take a large drain of the vodka tonic and sit back.
The music comes to a halt, couples detach, apart from Forsyth and his girlfriend who waddle over to a dark corner, and the DJ starts exhorting idiots to step up and sing. Everyone looks at Bloonsbury and the man does not disappoint. Accepting the rapturous and ironic applause, he removes himself from his hound dog and makes his way towards the microphone. Mumbles something to the DJ and turns to his audience. Winks and points at the wolf. Herrod and I laugh harshly. This could be even funnier than usual.
And then, as if Elvis is watching and can't stand to be blasphemed, we are treated to some divine intervention. A sober officer with a moustache walks through the room. Everyone looks at him. He stands out a mile. Makes his way towards our table. Me and Taylor look at each other and mouth 'fuck', just as Bloonsbury fluffs the first line of his song, smiling at the Rottweiler as he does so.
The moustache arrives. We are unimpressed. Bang goes my tryst with Bathurst that I've started to imagine is some sort of shootie-in. He stands at the table, looks down at us. The lot of the police officer: to get your life constantly interrupted by work, even when you're not having a good time.
The Unburied Dead Page 2