Briefly wonder where this leaves the tentative theory about Bloonsbury being behind the whole thing. The further I get from the conversation with Bathurst, the more disinclined I am to believe it.
'Where now?' I say to Taylor.
He sighs heavily and leans even further back in his seat.
'Fuck knows,' he says.
*
Four-fifteen, daily roundup. The investigation has almost ground to a halt. All those of whom we were suspicious check out. The boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, anyone who has volunteered information, the family, the neighbours. We've got a hold of everyone that ever so much as kissed her and come up empty. A brick wall. And that's one of the problems with this job. We could at some point have spoken to the guy who wielded the knife, but you never know.
Bloonsbury seems even more depressed than normal. I'm trying to remember what he was like during the last murder case, because if Bathurst is right, then he knew all along that he was going to solve the crime. Any worry or exasperation on his part would have been feigned. All I can remember is the guy holding off the drink, and making us all suffer with him. Seen to be not drinking would be part of the plan, the anguish it caused him a genuine consequence.
This time, however, you can tell the difference. You can smell it on his breath, on his clothes and his skin, you can see it in his face – the man has not decided to hold off from the booze. Jonah Fucking Bloonsbury; legend. Not even good for an Elvis impersonation at the Christmas night out anymore. And that's what he's become. Elvis. Wasted, bloated, permanently smashed out of his face. Clinging to the songs of the past, but become a bitter caricature. In years to come people are going to be doing Jonah Bloonsbury impersonations around here. But at the moment, he's the one doing it.
But what should I care? I've been unimpressed since I started working with him, and now I know he's as much of a criminal as the scum we've been hauling in here all these years. He deserves what's coming to him. I have a vision of him in three years time – or three months – sitting on Argyll Street under the rail bridge into Central Station. A scab on his nose from where he drunkenly fell into the gutter, a dirty beard and wearing the same clothes he now wears; hat on the ground, growling at passers-by to give him some money for methylated spirits or brake fluid, or whatever it is that the jakes are drinking these days.
He's standing with his back to us, looking at the pictures of Ann Keller which still adorn the walls, and which will continue to do so until we catch our man, or until they are pushed aside by new photographs of new victims – the real fear and possibility. He turns, looking bloody awful, slumps against the edge of the desk. A liquid lunch.
'Sgt Harrison, give us what we've got,' he says.
Herrod's got the day off, hanging out with Bernadette, the kids, and most of her family. Wonderful Christmastime. Bet he's just itching to come into work, but she won't let him.
Wonder how Miller is getting on with her dull husband in Braemar. The thought of her gives me a warm feeling – hardened cop turns to mush over woman in authority – as it has most of the day. Love's sweet music.
Mind on the job. Sgt Harrison.
'We don't have much, sir. All avenues of enquiry have so far led to a dead end. We have had a big response from the public. Several people saw her at the cinema, and we can be pretty sure she was alone. We've had two sightings of her walking along the street, post-cinema, two descriptions of a man either talking to her or walking close behind. The descriptions don't match however.'
'Conclusion?' says Bloonsbury, butting in. The voice displays no interest.
Harrison shrugs. Here's a woman who enjoys her job but would rather be somewhere else.
'It was dark, too brief a passing glance. Somebody passes you by in the street, you've no reason to remember them, the mind is not going to have very good recall.'
Bloonsbury grunts. He was hoping for some illumination on whether one of them was lying, preferably the first one since he's already decided our lawyer friend is innocent. Harrison is right, however. These things are a joke at the best of times.
'So,' says Harrison, 'we're struggling with any witnesses from Monday night. We've spoken to her boyfriend, with whom she had a fight on Monday during the day, and to seventeen ex-boyfriends or lovers.' Seventeen? Hey, my kind of girl. 'Everyone checks out. Small family, but they all seem genuinely upset. There's nothing there to suggest a motive from any of them.'
'Again, conclusion?' says Bloonsbury. Wonder if he's even listening to her.
She thinks about this.
'Either her killer was someone who barely knew her, or did not know her at all,' she says eventually. 'Or, we've missed something in all our interviews,' she adds, not a concept to bet against.
Bloonsbury nods, sort of mumbles to himself – increasing the impression that the man is losing it. A low mutter, the words undistinguishable. Perhaps considering the possibility that he was the one to miss something. A drunk faced with his own fallibility – what else should he do but mutter? Or perhaps he curses the rest of us.
'Right, then. That seems to be about it… Any of the rest of you lot got anything to say?' he says, looks around. 'Hutton?' Bastard.
'Who knows? He carries a grudge beyond rational thought, either against her or someone who looks like her. If it's the latter, we're in deep shit, because he's going to be bloody hard to find. Who knows how much Ann Keller looked like the object of his hate? It could be any guy out there. Any fucking guy.'
Bloonsbury grunts. 'A bit of profile, no clues, no substance. That's all we've got.' He's right, and it doesn't amount to anything. 'Anyone else?'
Most of us stare at the floor. There's nothing else to say. Christmas Day and we're sitting here with those pictures looking down upon is, if the cadaver with no eyes can look. None of us want to be here.
Bloonsbury sighs, heavy breath, you can smell the drink. Even at the back where I'm sitting with Taylor – a silent, preoccupied Taylor, other things on his mind.
'Right, folks, bugger off. Away home and enjoy your Christmas if you can,' and the words sound especially bitter from Bloonsbury's mouth, as we all know he has no home, no family, to which to go. 'We're going to have to start afresh tomorrow. Go over all the family and boyfriends again, see if we can come up with anything. If it was one of them, I want to know about it. If it wasn't...' and the words trail off.
If it's just some guy who chanced upon her and went about his business, then we're in trouble. Another clue might not come our way until the next woman with dark brown hair he chances upon ends up mutilated in a ditch.
18
His thoughts are never linear. Back and forth, back and forth. Mostly he thinks about the first time. The best time. When it was still fresh and pure, before there'd been any arguments, before she'd starting seeing all those others behind his back. He'd been at her house looking at old photographs. They'd been friends, although he already wanted more. Just hadn't been sure how she'd felt about it.
The photographs had been of a holiday she'd taken with friends in Greece. A lot of monuments – which was why she was showing them to him – and then in the middle of ancient Greek architecture there had been one of her and her two friends topless by the swimming pool. She'd been embarrassed, she'd quickly moved on. They'd looked at the photos for another minute or two together, and then she'd put the book away and offered to make another cup of tea.
As she'd stood with her back to him, he had realized. She wasn't embarrassed at all. She hadn't forgotten about the topless photograph. It was her way, her way of letting him know, of gauging his interest. And he had sat there and said nothing.
He stood behind her, silently. She was talking, but he wasn't listening. Then softly he kissed the back of her neck. She shuddered at his touch. Then his hands were upon her.
That was what he liked to remember. That moment. That first touch. Her shudder, her body tensing, and then the moment when she gave into him and relaxed, the moment he ran his hand over her breast and realiz
ed how hard her nipples had become.
That moment was so magical, so perfect. Yet it rarely stays that way in his head, the vision quickly sours.
Fucking Jo.
What was she doing sitting topless by a swimming pool in Greece? How many blokes had been there? How many had stared at her breasts? How many had she accommodated in the evening, how many had licked and sucked and bitten those breasts? And how many men had she lured with the innocent photograph collection once she'd come home?
She couldn't even stay sweet in his memories. Everything soured with Jo. Everything. That was why he'd had to kill her, that was why he would have to kill her again, that was why he would have to go on killing her until she was actually dead.
Fucking Jo.
*
The imitation log fire flames away in the middle of the room; the tree sparkles in the corner, green and red; the lights are low, dark shadows haunting the warm colours; candles flicker, glinting in Peggy's diamond earrings; Nat King Cole sings Mel Torme (we've already had Bob's Christmas album, and weirdly she refused to have it on again); there's a scent of spices, and in the air there's a feeling of Christmas. Large dinner, safely washed away with a bottle of 2008 South African red. We're sitting on the floor, backs against the sofa, staring into the fire. Holding hands. Warning shots are being fired, but they're obscured by the Christmas haze.
Arrived only a little late, and was immediately swamped by ex-wife and children, still glowing from yesterday's feel-good dinner experience. Spent half an hour looking at all the different presents, noticing that there was nothing from the suit from Paisley. Let it pass without comment, however. Masses of food, all good-natured, and a damn sight better atmosphere than we managed most of the Christmases we were still together. I may have detected a concerted family plan to win back the parent formerly known as Dad, but I'm not sure. Never jump to conclusions where women are concerned.
Stevenson must have written that one, somewhere.
And so we come to the crux of the evening. The kids are packed off to their rooms, quite happily for once, to play with their iCraps and all the other modern shite that we didn't have when I was a kid, while Peggy and I sit with our backs to the sofa watching the flames. I think I know where this might be leading, but sometimes these things do not always end there. She squeezes my fingers and I decide it's time to ask the question which has remained unasked these last couple of days.
'Out with it,' is how I broach the subject.
She looks at me and smiles.
'I love it when you talk to me as if I was a suspect.' Kisses me on the cheek. 'What are you talking about?'
'Brian.' The merchant wanker was called Brian.
'Oh.' The smile disappears and she looks vaguely detached. Chews her lip, which I know means she's about to tell me something she would rather have kept to herself. Wonder if she's murdered Brian, and his body rots underneath us in the cellar.
'He left me for some twenty year-old hairdresser.'
I don't quite manage to hold in the laugh, at the tone of voice as much as at the fact of it. She tries to look serious, but starts laughing as well. I always loved that laugh. The first thing that attracted me to her, and led me away from the acidic arms of Jean Fryar.
'What's the story?'
She sighs. 'That tells it all, doesn't it? It would be nice to have always intended to invite you for dinner, but this time last week I still thought it would be me and Brian.'
'He dropped you the week before Christmas?'
She gives me a look. 'Must you say drop? You make me sound like a footballer.'
'Who was she?'
'Don't know, don't care. Can honestly say I've had bigger disappointments in my life.' Another squeeze of the hand. 'It really was a lot nicer having you round, and the kids were a lot happier too.'
Well, of course. The kids would have been happier having their dentist round than Brian.
'Don't know what you saw in him in the first place.'
The answer is on her lips, and I know what it is, but she bites it back. Neither the time nor place. It wasn't as if she immediately married someone else when we split, the way one idiotic half of the partnership did.
'What about you?' she says, neatly changing the course of the discussion. 'Married any constables lately, or are you just slowly working your way through the station in a deliberate passage of sexual frenzy?'
Very funny. The tone is such that I let her away with the marriage jibe. The question has me thinking of Charlotte Miller, however. Decide that I'll refrain from telling Peggy about her, but don't acknowledge to myself the consequences of it. If she had been some casual shag I would have told her, but it was more than that. Or at least that's how I've blown it up in my head.
'Nothing much. Struck out with a twenty year-old constable at the party on Monday night.'
'You like them older these days?'
'Piss off.'
She laughs again, grabs the nearest wine bottle and fills up the glasses. She leans against me; her head rests on my shoulder. I look at her, can see down her blouse to the full sweep of her breasts, safely tucked away in a BHS 36D. Spectacular. Think of Charlotte Miller's breasts, but try and keep my mind on the job.
'But, I mean, there's no one special at the moment? It's so long since I've seen you.'
Someone special. Well, I've decided the Superintendent is special.
'Dan, he's special,' I say. Hide behind crap humour, the male way to deal with awkward questions.
'You know what I mean,' she says.
Am almost on the point of owning up to these new feelings for the boss, but decide not to be an idiot. She's met Charlotte Miller, so she'll pish herself laughing if I tell her what I'm thinking. It would also be goodbye to the night's entertainment.
'No, no one special,' I say.
Feel her head burrow a little further into my shoulder.
'The kids have missed you,' she says, letting the words fall out into the warm Christmas atmosphere.
What is she saying? It's obvious what she's saying and wasn't this what I wanted? Massively expensive Christmas present, remember? That was before last night.
Forget last night, you moron.
'A week ago you were snuggling up to Brian.'
Her hand rests on my stomach. A finger finds its way through my shirt, starts drawing circles on my skin.
'I know. I can't describe it. It's not like I miss him. I mean, the guy was, I don't know… something…'
'Boring as fuck?'
'Aye, I suppose you're right,' she says, laughing. 'Boring as fuck.' Another long pause. 'It's just been really nice having you around these last couple of days.'
She looks up at me, and I don't even hesitate before the inevitable happens. Lean down and kiss her warmly on the lips, feel her tongue immediately in my mouth. She always kissed like a goddess, Peggy, and three years of kissing a sea-anemone hasn't dulled her abilities.
Finally manage to expunge the thoughts of last night and give in to the moment. Let her dominate which was always what she liked to do. And when it begins, it's at a hundred miles an hour, and just keeps getting faster.
19
There's no snow, it's not even cold. Christmas Day, grey and mild, given way to dark and bleak evening, moisture in the air, relentless drizzle threatening. And what a night for Jo to be out. Why should she be out on her own on Christmas Day?
He had caught her eye in the bar. She'd smiled and hadn't flinched, so there was a chance she was interested. Or curious. Must be some explanation. On her own at a table, eyes wide, drinking white wine, looking around the bar. Dark brown hair, nice smile. Not at all like Jo really, but there was something similar. He wanted to go and speak to her, but couldn't bring himself. Nervous around women, even now.
She had finished her drink, and now was walking slowly towards the bus stop. Won't find many buses today.
He walks ten paces behind, wondering whether he should make his move. What does he have in mind? He's not sure
and whenever he thinks of Jo under his bloody knife, he winces. How many times would he have to kill her for it to make a difference?
In an occasional moment of clarity he knows that not all women with dark brown hair are Jo, but the moments pass.
The woman stops ahead of him and turns. She looks at him, he slows his pace, stops five yards away.
'Well, are you just going to follow us all night, or are you actually going to talk to us?'
He stares. This isn't Jo. The mouth is too big, the eyes too wide, the voice is different – wrong accent. Sweet Jo. Doesn't really know what to say. Much easier to talk with a sharp instrument.
'What's your name then, pal?'
Should he tell her the truth?
'Ed,' he says, with hesitation.
'So, you do speak?' she says. 'Is that your real name?'
He feels intimidated. Maybe this is Jo. It's like he has this giant ball of sludge or fudge or mud or something in the middle of his brain, preventing him from thinking clearly. 'No… it's not,' he says eventually.
She's standing beside a close into an old tenement and nods at the door. A dirty grey building, damp and depressing under the orange glow of the street lights. The door has a voice entry system but the lock is broken.
'You want to come up?' she says.
She's inviting him in… He doesn't say anything, can't, and as she enters the close he follows her in. The beat of his heart quickens.
Up the stairs. She smiles to herself, and wonders how much money he will have in his pocket. She imagines she recognises the type. Rip them off and they're too embarrassed to come back and trouble you about it. You can always tell the quiet, pathetic, easy ones a mile away.
'You don't say much,' she says, opening the door.
He swallows. He has to find some confidence, has to stop feeling like an awkward child. A woman has asked him into her flat. It's not Jo. She's not Jo. Maybe this could be someone other than Jo. He could move on. Forget about her. Forget Jo. Maybe he can forget Jo. Stop thinking about Jo. Stop thinking about Jo.
The Unburied Dead Page 9