The Unburied Dead

by Douglas Lindsay

  'You think these murders are happening because of you?' he says.

  'Yes,' she replies quickly.

  'Well, OK, fuck…' he says. It was possible. After all, her description of the ex-boyfriend being a scary, murderous freak, pretty much tied in with their total knowledge of the killer. 'Go on. Do you have a name for me?'

  It would be cool, he suddenly thinks, if this was the breakthrough, no matter how shit it sounds. Every case has one. And he's the one on the phone – Bloonsbury is asleep, Hutton's out somewhere doing God knows what, Taylor is staring at the ceiling.

  'I don't want him to find out I phoned. You have to promise.'

  He nods down the phone. 'Your secret, such as it is, is safe with me.'

  Another long hesitation. He hears her swallow, imagines her chewing her lower lip.

  'Healy,' she says, the word rushed. 'His name was Ian Healy. He was a lawyer in Tollcross, somewhere around there.'

  Herrod closes his eyes. Oh my God! Out of the blue. She has got to be kidding? This can't be for real. His fists clench. He looks around the office – it's busy with people going about their business. No one knows what he knows.

  'Ian Healy?' he says, voice lower. 'You're sure about that?'

  'Yes.'

  Herrod could kiss her. The lawyer Hutton had brought in, and whom he and Taylor and Bloonsbury had all been happy to dismiss. Bloonsbury had even spoken to the guy for about an hour, and come up with nothing. The man had to be permanently pickled. Ian Healy. He would go round and get him now. No reason for the guy to be suspicious, and it will be him that has the collar.

  Life is sweet. Out of nowhere, life is sweet.

  'Now, we can bring this man in, but you have to give me your name and a telephone number where I can reach you,' he says. He keeps his voice low, tries to sound reassuring, tries not to betray his excitement.

  'Can I not call you back?' she says, and Herrod shakes his head. But it doesn't matter.

  'It'd be better if you gave me the number,' he says.

  'I'm sorry,' she says, 'I'm frightened. I'll call you tomorrow,' and the phone clicks off.

  'Stupid arse,' says Herrod, but there is a smile on his face, and he taps his hands happily on the desk. Absurd, totally absurd, but sometimes these things are.

  Taylor appears from his office and looks at him.

  'Just found out someone else you don't like is dead?' he says.

  Herrod shakes his head, and mumbles. Taylor can take a fuck to himself, he thinks.

  'Where's Jonah?' asks Taylor

  'No idea,' says Herrod, lying. I'm not telling you he's home in bed, still drunk out of his face from last night.

  Taylor mumbles something himself, and walks back into his office. Herrod smiles. He hadn't got her details, but she'd call again. He had the feeling. Now, however, there were more important things to do. He would go and seek an interview with Ian Healy, then bring the guy in.

  He knows he should not go alone, but that's the way he prefers to work. Particularly on something as big as this, where all the credit would be his. Sees his name in lights.

  As he lifts his jacket, an earlier thought – how did the woman know to ask for him? – slips his mind.

  'Got a few calls to make,' he shouts through the open office door at Taylor, who mutters, 'You don't have to tell me what you're doing,' in reply. Then Herrod is gone.

  28

  Christ. Woke up at almost twelve o'clock. Not hungover for once, which left me disorientated for a start, compounded by being in someone else's bed. The curtains were open, the grey light of another dull day filled the room. Got up and stumbled around – wasn't until I looked out the window at the leaden Firth of Clyde that I remembered I was in Helensburgh. Charlotte was gone, to work presumably. So, I had a wander round. Took my time. Kept expecting to bump into a butler or a maid or something.

  Should have been in the office all day, of course, given the circumstances, but since I was already late, I thought I might as well make the most of it. Had a shower, made myself some bacon and eggs and a strong cup of coffee, left just after one.

  As I was walking down the drive to my car, who should walk in but Frank. Strangely, I had a moment's guilt about the fact that I hadn't washed up after breakfast, rather than the fact that I'd banged his wife. We nodded at each other. The guy must have known why I was there.

  'Charlotte at home?' he said.

  I looked over my shoulder, then back to him.

  'Nope,' I said. 'Work, I presume.'

  You could see him thinking, hear the question in his head. Well what the fuck are you doing here then?

  'Well, good day, Sergeant,' was all he said.

  'Frank,' I said, nodding, and we passed each other by.

  And so it is that I arrive in the station at not much before two. Herrod's nowhere to be seen and there's the usual scurrying activity from spotty constables. The door to Charlotte's office is closed, which means she's in town.

  Been awake for two hours and have so far managed to keep my mind completely clear of everything that's been going on; that way leads to confusion and worry.

  My phone had been switched off all night, had a few texts waiting for me when I finally turned it on over breakfast. A couple of where the fuck are you's from the station, and a couple from Peggy. Should have called her last night. Back in the dog house, and maybe it's where I want to be.

  Notice there's a Macbook sitting on my desk that isn't normally there. Walk into Taylor's office. For once he's attending to paperwork. Looks up, isn't impressed.

  'God's sake, Hutton, one of our number was murdered yesterday. Where the fuck have you been?'

  Immediately feel like an idiot. Shrug. Can't even be bothered lying, so I just don't answer.

  'Right, got something for you to do. We've got Bathurst's computer in. A delicate hand is required. Go through it, read everything. If you need some help from the techies, then get to it. And she was a girl of her times. Facebook, Bebo, Twitter, Google+, Blogger, Fucko, Wanko and all that modern shit that the kids do. You probably won't need the account passwords going in from her own laptop. Work them out if necessary.' He gestures back out to my desk. 'Read it all, see if there's anything there. Anything about Crow, you know, and the other thing.'

  Obviously I don't look impressed.

  'And you can take that fucking look off your face. If you hadn't been so late you'd be finished by now.'

  'Aye, all right, all right.'

  Start to walk back to the desk.

  'And if you find anything, you know, compromising, about her or anyone else at the station, forget it.'

  I nod, stop in the doorway, turn back.

  'Where are the great crime fighting duo?' I ask 'How come Herrod hasn't got hold of it?' Herrod would love this.

  He shakes his head.

  'Haven't a clue where Jonah is. Might be out there somewhere, but I suspect he's at home and not answering his phone because he's in his usual position.'

  'And the laptop?'

  'Fortunately I got my hands on it first. You've got it because we know what Herrod would be like. The bastard would be putting all sorts of shit on YouTube and God knows where else.'

  Ain't that the truth? I nod, and plod back to my desk.

  And so it is that I spend the next five hours in the private world of Evelyn Bathurst. One of the standards of detective work – spending hours at a time going over the mundane, hoping to find one small fact which might help you along. At first I thought it might be quite interesting, but inevitably it proved otherwise.

  Taylor was indeed right, the girl had truly embraced the modern era. Facebook, Bebo, Twitter, Google+, Blogger, Fucko and Wanko. And the rest. There was me thinking that perhaps she might have been intelligent underneath that stunning exterior, but by God, does anyone look good when the full weight of their collective consciousness is vomited forth on social media? How many times can one person write LOL and still retain any level of intellectual dignity?

  A
nd, of course, while she might have been a little too open and honest in the world of private matters, when spewing forth out into the internet, she made sure that she never mentioned her police work. In fact, most of the creeps that would have befriended her on these sites probably never even knew what she did for a living.

  Every now and again there was a reference from which one could draw a conclusion about it relating to the Addison case, or some such, but nothing concrete. Nothing even remotely solid.

  So what do I have after five hours in her world? Nothing. Well, I did get to see some photos of her naked that were lurking in the bowels of the computer, but under the circumstances even a randy bastard like me wasn't getting turned on.

  And that's that for dear young Evelyin. A life which will be forever immortalised on the internet. Or, at least, until social order breaks down and the very fabric of society collapses. Which might not be so far away. If we're lucky.

  By the time I'm done it's long been dark outside, well past seven o'clock. There's been a change of shift, but there's still the same crap going on. Charlotte emerged about three and walked on by. Acknowledged my presence and that was it. She looked tired, and I don't think it's only because of what we did last night. Still haven't phoned Peggy, although I've been meaning to most of the day. For her part, my phone hasn't rung either.

  Walk back into Taylor's office. He's been gone most of the afternoon, only came back about half an hour ago. Spent the time since staring at the ceiling.

  Plant myself in the seat, uninvited. He looks at me, eyebrows raised in question. Shake my head.

  'Nothing,' I say.

  'Shit,' he says.

  Lies his head back, lets out a heavy sigh.

  'There has to be something, Sergeant. There has to be something we're not getting. The same person killed Ann Keller and Evelyn Bathurst. So which is it? Was Bathurst's murder coincidental with her involvement with the Addison case – or was it connected, in which case Keller's murder must also be connected.'

  'I.e. Crow,' I say.

  'Exactamundo.'

  And maybe Charlotte, but that I keep to myself.

  'I wish I could think straight,' he says. He's not alone.

  'What'd you do this afternoon?' I ask.

  Shakes his head, stares at the floor.

  'Went home, went round to Jonah's place.'

  'And?'

  His eyes are glued to a piece of dirt on the carpet, his mind glued to something else. About to get further revelations on his marriage, I suspect. Brace myself, but I should be willing to hear them. Lets out a long sigh.

  'I could do without all this shit at the moment.'

  'What's happened?'

  'Jonah's just a fucking mess. Jesus.'

  'You go in? Share a bottle of Teachers?'

  'Wouldn't let me in. Opened the door after I'd been ringing the bell for about five minutes, just stood there breathing fumes over me. Jesus. This is it for him, Sergeant. There're going to be no sudden revelations this time, no great victory from the jaws of defeat.'

  'Unless he's behind it all like last time.'

  Shakes his head, laughs bitterly.

  'Not a chance. Look at the guy. I've always admired him and he did use to be the star that everyone took him for. I know he was past it by the time you met him, but the guy was up there. But it's been at least ten years now since he did any good work… at least that. And if all that about the Addison case is true, well the guy's just sold his soul to fucking Hell. The quicker he gets there the better.'

  'If he keeps on drinking...'

  'You think? I know for a fact that he was told by his doctor three years ago – three fucking years – that if he didn't cut out the whisky altogether, not just cut down, he was dead in six months. Well, it's been a long six months.'

  He's right. The guy is dead.

  'So do you think you'll get landed with it?' I ask.

  He lets out a low whistle.

  'Well, that's what I thought, but...'

  'But what?'

  Raises his eyebrows.

  'Heard a rumour,' he says.

  'Aye?'

  'Miller's thinking of taking over the investigation herself.'

  'You're kidding?'

  Shrugs his shoulders.

  'Just what I heard. I think Jonah's out, but the word is that she's hacked off at the lack of progress and wants to take charge.'

  'She can't!'

  'It's her station. She can do what she wants. She can clean the fucking toilets if she chooses.'

  That wasn't what I meant, but he didn't know that. I know she has the authority, but Christ! she had sex with Bathurst a couple of hours before the girl was murdered. She could be involved, for God's sake, how can she lead the investigation?

  A cover up. Pretty obvious really. So it seems.

  'Fuck,' is all I say, shaking my head.

  'Fuck, indeed,' says Taylor. 'And Debbie left me,' he adds as an afterthought.

  'What?'

  'She left. Confounded all the critics by moving in with her young man. So, I'm a middle-aged bachelor again.'

  'Jesus! You all right?'

  He stares at the floor, puffs out his cheeks, lets the air out slowly.

  'Don't know,' he says.

  'Want to go for a drink?'

  He nods.

  'Love to,' he says, and gets out of his chair. Takes a look at some of the papers on his desk, murmurs something under his breath and heads towards the door, putting the light off as he goes.

  'Any idea where Herrod went? He's been away all afternoon,' I say, following in his wake.

  'No idea,' he says. 'Lying dead in a ditch somewhere, if we're lucky.'

  *

  But Herrod does not lie dead in a ditch. He hangs dead on a wall, impaled by an ornamental sword through the lower chest cavity, his feet dangling three inches off the ground. The drip of blood from his mouth has long ago stopped, the pool on the floor disturbed by the scurrying feet of rats.

  29

  The only solace he has is the solace of pain.

  The pain of hurt; the pain of rejection; the pain of humiliation. The pain of defeat.

  Can't stop thinking about Jo. Consumes his thoughts. Bloody Jo. Face tortured, agonizing smile. Jo shouting at him. Jo telling him to fuck off. Jo slamming the door. Jo getting upset. Jo turning down presents. Jo turning her back. Jo running away, disappearing, so that he never knew where to find her. Jo walking out on her life just so that she could avoid him. The man who loved her, who would give her anything.

  He wants to take himself somewhere, somewhere within his imagination. A city; big, brassy, loud; where the action is. Just him and Jo hitting the clubs, hitting the night spots. Drinking, gambling, dancing. Fucking.

  How many times had they fucked? He forgets now. Too long ago. The actual number is gone, lost beneath exaggeration and self-deceit, beneath the most glorious memories of Jo's face during orgasm. Her mouth contorted, that look that almost spoke of pain but was in fact the most incredible pleasure.

  However, his dreams never work out. From the prison of his mind, he can't sort out the fantasy. Can't construct it. Like a sixties tower block, it looks good for five seconds, then begins to crumble and crack.

  He'll never see Jo again and, if he does, she won't be interested. Not bloody Jo. Jo with her knee-length boots, Jo with her knowing smile, Jo with her G-string and the Celtic tattoo on her thigh and the neatly shaved public hair and her face contorted in pleasure during orgasm. And his fantasies disintegrate into a sordid mess; him and Jo alone in a dark stinking room, getting nowhere, doing nothing.

  Eventually he will be purged. Eventually she will understand. She will be at one with him, and the hurt she inflicted upon him. Maybe then she will smile at him and they will be one. She will love him again, the way she loved him before.

  She never told him. That still hurts, perhaps even as much as the fact that she left. She never said she loved him, despite the amount of opportunities he gave her, desp
ite repeatedly expressing his love for her.

  That is one of the many things he does not understand.

  30

  Another day, another hangover. Four hours in the pub with Taylor, by the end of which I had persuaded him that he really didn't want to be married to Debbie anymore anyway. Did my bit for his peace of mind, although whether he'll still be happy about it this morning I doubt. He looked bloody awful when I saw him, but he wasn't in long before he left again. Away to speak to a couple of friends of Ann Keller's. A great believer in re-covering old ground. You always learn something new.

  Bloonsbury is in his office, doing God knows what. Door closed, hitting the sauce more than likely. Miller called for him about half an hour ago, dismissed him ten minutes later. He came out looking an angry man, but then he always looks like an angry man.

  Herrod has disappeared. Took a call yesterday morning and went out, no one knows where. May be dead in a ditch after all. The station is certainly a more pleasant place to be without him, however. Maybe he's accepted an expensive transfer offer from another station. Haven't seen a paper this morning; it could be on the back page – Herrod in Shock £35M Deal With Old Trafford.

  As usual I've been landed with the detritus of the weekend – muggings, rape, robbery. It's all showing how desperately undermanned we are. Dire straits. There's just far too much going on, and when we could do with all hands on deck for the murder enquiries, officers are continually getting pulled away on more mundane crime.

  Writing up the report on a break-in at a newsagents at the bottom end of Cambuslang Main Street when Miller appears from her office. Approaches, looking around her as she does so.

  'I'll need everything you've got on the Keller and Bathurst cases, Sergeant. Everything. Notes, random thoughts, vague ideas.' She stares at me, and I suppose I must be giving her a look. 'I've taken over from Chief Inspector Bloonsbury. I'll be leading the investigation. I want everything you've got as soon as possible.'

  She can't do this.

  'Where's Taylor?' she asks.

  'Speaking to a friend of Anne Keller's.'