The Unburied Dead

by Douglas Lindsay

  'You want me to kick the door down again? That'll keep our arrival a secret.'

  He gives me his Chief Inspector look, reaches out, tries the door handle. The door, in mockery of my dramatic suggestion, clicks open.

  Give each other a right, keep your gob shut look, and walk into the house. Close the door silently behind and stop and listen.

  Nothing.

  Lights are on in the hall. Door to the lounge is open and we can see the faint red of the Christmas lights, although the tree is out of sight. He gestures to me to check out the rooms on the other side of the hall and I start tentatively looking in the first one, as he goes into the lounge.

  A library, the sort of room that normal people just don't have in the house. Rows of books that will remain forever unread; a writing desk untouched by human hand; an old-fashioned globe from a time when the Far East was just a vague mass, and Manhattan was a swamp; a small lamp burns in the corner, for whatever reason. To aid the investigating officer, perhaps.

  Walk through the room to the door at the far end. Gently. Open it, into the next. In the dim light cast by the small lamp in the library I can see the outline of the billiards table. The overhanging light above the board dominates the room in its shady darkness. Nothing to look at here. Through the room and into the one behind – the room at the back of the house.

  It's dark in here, the dim light from the library not penetrating. Looks like a sitting room, the large TV in the corner. 46” screen. This will be where Frank comes to watch the Rangers on those rare occasions he can't make it to the game. Through the room to the door on the other side, after a cursory glance. We're looking for Charlotte, not carrying out a close scrutiny of the place.

  Back out into the hall. Taylor already coming out of the kitchen. Shakes his head, indicates up the stairs with his thumb as he walks past.

  It's a big hall, allowing a large sweeping staircase to run up the right hand side; elaborate balustrade, which includes a figurehead at the top of the stairs. You'd think it might be a composer or something pretentious like that. But it's even worse – it's some old Rangers player from the forties or fifties. George Young, or someone like that. Christ but Frank's a sad bastard. I nearly laughed the first time I saw it. Decided that he deserved to have had me sleep with his wife. Walk up behind Taylor – not a creaking floorboard to be heard – and he stops for a look at the small figure. Not a word, shakes his head, walks on.

  He stops on the landing and we stand and listen. Nothing again, the house still silent. Don't know exactly what it is we're looking for. The sound of someone being murdered? The screaming sounds of sex? Can't be that – I was the one lined up for the job.

  'Bedroom?' he says very quietly to me.

  Point along the hall. Feel a tingle of excitement at the very mention of it. The thought that Charlotte will be lying in there waiting for me. Don't think she's going to be too impressed with me turning up with company. Can hear her saying, 'Think you couldn't cope, Sergeant?' Can also hear her losing her temper and telling us where to go. Begin to have my doubts about just walking into the house unannounced. The gut feeling is still there, but Charlotte Miller is the boss after all, and she's about to have two comedians standing on the threshold of her bedroom. Uninvited.

  'You sure about this?' I say to him, voice as low as I can get it. 'Think we should go back and ring the bell.'

  'Don't be a girl, Sergeant,' he says.

  Stand outside the door. Look at Taylor. For all his hard words, can see he's not quite as sure as he wants to be. Not a sound from within. What if we just barge in there and all she's doing is sleeping? We're going to look like idiots. And I'm definitely killing off any chance that I've got; although my brief infatuation has already burned at its brightest and is waning.

  'What are you expecting to find?' I whisper.

  Looks at me. Can see he's definitely not as sure as he wants to be. But still, the guy's wife has only recently left him, and we're all at our most reckless when that happens. Just looking for something else to go wrong.

  Shrugs the shoulders. This is it. He opens the door, hand to the light switch, steps into the room. I blunder in behind, and the two of us stand there like a couple of Action Men in the middle of the room.

  Except there is no Action Man outfit for making a complete arse of yourself.

  Charlotte stirs in her bed, raises her head. Her eyes blink the sleep away and she sits up. Looks at us like she can't quite comprehend what it is we represent. The sheets fall away from her and she's wearing the same top she wore the first night I came here. Can see the wonderful outline of her breasts, but embarrassment prevents me from getting too excited.

  We stand there like a couple of great puddings waiting for her to say something, even though the onus really ought to be on us.

  'Chief Inspector?' she says eventually. The look on her face is moving slowly from surprise to lack of understanding, on its way to outrage. Taylor better make this good, 'cause I'm keeping my mouth shut.

  He hesitates, but knows he has to say something.

  'We've got to speak to you about Bloonsbury,' he says.

  Interesting.

  She stares at him; the withering, reduces constables to jelly stare. Taylor's got an in-built force field against it, and I'm just trying to hide behind him, like Ron and Hermione squeezing under Harry's invisibility cloak.

  She pushes the sheets away and stands up out the bed. The top slithers down her thighs, but not before she's allowed us the briefest glimpse of pubic hair; smooth and sensual thigh. Get that weird feeling at the back of my throat. Right place, wrong time.

  Shakes her head, eyes still squinting into the light.

  'What the fuck are you doing, Dan? What time is it?'

  'About two,' he says. Good command in the voice. The guy is not a bit intimidated. Balls of steel.

  She gives me the same withering look – obviously unaware that I'm protected by Taylor's balls of steel force field – then turns back to Taylor.

  'And you couldn't phone?'

  Doesn't bat an eyelid, Taylor. Very impressive.

  'Thought we should see you in person.'

  She stares at him again. Giving it her best, but she must know it doesn't work with him.

  'The doorbell?'

  He doesn't immediately answer. Come on, Dan, think of a good one. Have no idea what he's going to say, and then he does the obvious and completely ignores the question.

  'We found Ian Healy,' he says.

  The eyes light up, the face does a variety of different things. Takes a step forward.

  'Where?' she says.

  'Bloonsbury's house.'

  Brow furrows. Don't blame her.

  'What?'

  'Bloonsbury had him prisoner in his house. Had him there for a few days by the looks of things.'

  She stares at him for a while, a different kind of stare now. Sits down on the bed, shaking her head. Then the hand goes to the forehead and she starts rubbing. Stress. The bane of our times. This is a reasonable time to be stressed, however. Can hear all that this piece of information entails running through her head. Or maybe she's already thinking of her own position. How she's going to explain it to the media, to the Chief Constable; how much will she have to bear the burden of responsibility?

  If she already knows that Healy's been imprisoned at Bloonsbury's house, as one of our theories went, this is a command performance.

  Looks up after a while. Can see the complete lack of assuredness in her eyes.

  'Right, go downstairs and wait in the lounge. I'll be down in a minute,' she says. 'Fix yourselves a drink,' comes as an afterthought. A good afterthought. Need it.

  We stand there staring at her, but we're already dismissed. The allure of a woman in her pyjamas, or a reluctance to let her out of our sight. Don't know. Finally Taylor leads and we walk out. Miller and I exchange a glance, but I can't even begin to try to read it.

  Surprised to find my legs are still fully functional. Along the h
all and down the stairs, past the bust of Wullie Thornton or whoever the hell it is.

  'Don't know how you do it,' I say to him, when I presume we're well out of earshot. 'It's like you've got this superpower.'

  'Piece of pish, Sergeant,' he says as we walk into the lounge. 'You've just got to remember which one of you has the balls.'

  'I always have my doubts about that.'

  'Got to use your napper. If we'd discovered nothing amiss, the minute it got nasty I just needed to drop in the bit about Healy and Bloonsbury. The shock of that was always going to completely alter the situation.' He raises his eyebrows at me to get my approval. I stare at him. Good point, but it wouldn't have stopped my legs from being jelly even if I'd thought of it. 'She's just a wee woman, Hutton, remember that.'

  Head for the alcohol.

  'I need a drink,' I say. 'Want a single malt, they've got some good stuff here?'

  He stands in the middle of the room, staring at the remains of the fire – a single low flame still struggling to escape the ashes – illuminated by nothing but the red glow from the Christmas lights.

  Check the ice bucket and find it fully equipped; make myself a v&t. Half and half. Take a long swallow. Cold and warm and smooth and sharp, the perfect drink.

  'They've got some Lagavulin here,' I say. 'You like that shit.'

  He's staring at me, forehead knotted, eyes squinting in the dim light.

  'There's something not right,' he says.

  'What do you mean?'

  He looks around the room, but mostly it is in warm darkness. Red glow, faint shadows. Still.

  'Don't know. Just something...' Lets his voice trail off.

  Looks away, into dark corners. Forget the drink for a second, follow his gaze. Have the first inclination of tension; a shiver down the spine. A suspicion of sound, of movement. Swallow. Muscles tense. Waiting.

  'Get the light, Sergeant,' he says.

  And then the movement from behind the seat by the tree. The words barely uttered, no time for me to get to the light switch. A brief agitation in the dark, the flurry of an arm, and something flies through the air and thuds into the side of Taylor's head before he can duck out of the way.

  He falls back, crumples to the floor. The chair is pushed aside into the tree; the figure appears from behind. Heading for Taylor, knife glinting red in the dull light. The tree topples over, all tinkling balls and rustling tinsel; the shadows roll around the room with the falling light.

  Can make out the ugly face of Jonah Bloonsbury, contorted in exertion; can smell the whisky as his breath is angrily exhaled. He is almost on top of Taylor, unmoving on the floor. Throw the drink at him. The weight of the liquid shifts the flight of the glass, but still it hits him on the side of the head. Makes him turn, stumble, and before he can attack Taylor I'm on top of the guy, hand to his wrist, lifting it up, stopping him stabbing the knife.

  Fall back, wrestle each other onto the floor. Gritted teeth, can smell the man. Still not thinking straight, propelled unprepared into the middle of the fight. He starts to drag the knife down. Stronger than me, always knew that. Brings it closer, and now all my efforts and thoughts are at stopping it. Six inches from the top of my head, even closer to his. But he has control, I'm totally defensive. Defensive. Think of the best way to play football, the best way to do anything. Go on the attack. Risk it. For an instant. Switch energies, and with everything I've got I bring my head up into his face. Miss the knife by a fraction. His nose and teeth crunch under my forehead, and I feel it as much as he does. But I'm ready for the shock, he isn't. The briefest second, that's all I have. Control his wrists, bring the knife down sharply. Feel the warm embrace of his neck around the blade as it plunges into him just beneath the chin. Instantly the fight goes from him, the body rests heavily on top of me. The chest still heaves, can feel the blood begin to pulse from his neck. Sickening, dark, warm. Push him off me, and struggle to my feet. Can hear his gasping on the floor, the deep breaths, low moans from Taylor lying next to him.

  Light.

  The room is full of it and Miller is standing in the doorway looking at the scene in the wasted middle of her sitting room. Taylor struggling to sit up, blood running down his face from a healthy wound; Bloonsbury lying on the floor, hand over the wound in his neck, the knife still cradled in the hand which stabbed him – I should take it off him, not thinking straight, don't do it; and me standing over them, blood across my face and the top of my coat.

  Her mouth is open, but there's nothing coming out. Nothing to say. A well-placed profanity might be in order. She looks scared, I'll give her that. Taylor starts to struggle to his feet and I step over Bloonsbury towards him.

  'I'm all right,' he says, holding his hand up. 'You'd better call an ambulance for him.'

  'What happened?' says Miller eventually. Voice shattered. Bloonsbury continues to moan on the floor. Should be more wary of him, but he's been knifed in the neck. Still not thinking straight.

  'He was waiting,' I say. 'It's him who's been killing off the others. Bathurst, Edwards, Herrod. Even that bastard Crow.'

  'Crow?' she says. Completely lost. Close to panic.

  'Everyone that knew about the Addison case. Presumably you were next.'

  She stares down at him, open mouthed.

  'Jonah?' she says. Thinks he's dying.

  His head lifts for the first time. Ignores me and Taylor, looks straight at her. The movement of his neck starts the blood flow off again. Steady pulse. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse, choking with blood. Hate-filled.

  'Fucking bitch,' he says. 'Bitch.' Blood spits from his mouth.

  The look on her face changes. Shock to anger. Eyes burn. Seen the look before.

  'Christ,' she says. 'I knew I should have done something about him ages ago. Jesus. Look at the state of this. I'll get an ambulance.'

  Look at the state of this? What? The carpet?

  She begins to walk from the room.

  'Don't you turn your back on me, you bitch. Don't you run my life for me, then turn your fucking back.'

  She hesitates, turns. Bloonsbury has hauled himself onto his elbows, breaths coming from him in great gasps; panting; gurgling. Taylor and I watch it, uninvited guests.

  'Get back here you fucker,' he wheezes at her, voice seemingly on the point of giving up. She stares down at him, all the contempt that anyone could muster in those eyes.

  'Fuck off, Jonah,' she says. Words spat out, and she starts to turn away.

  I look at him, not really sure what's going on. He's still got the knife in his hands. Have a brief moment, see what's going to happen. Strange vision. And it paralyses me for a hundredth of a second.

  From nowhere Bloonsbury finds the strength. Picks himself up, knife clutched firmly in his hands. Almost slow motion. Blood spills from the wound in his throat; he is covered in it. Leaps towards Charlotte, knife back, every last effort into taking his revenge. She senses the rush of movement behind her, turns her head. Time for the briefest flash of panic across her face.

  But he's a dying man. As the knife is on its downward sweep towards the middle of Charlotte's back, I'm on top of him, wrestling him to the floor, and he collapses under my weight. The knife falls from his hands, lies useless and blunt on the carpet.

  I look up at her, at that impassive face. Panic gone, no trace of fear. Can't read a thing into it. Push myself off Bloonsbury, and the blood gurgles in his throat from some desperate dying breath. Pick up the knife; Taylor and I stand and stare at Charlotte.

  She gives all she gets. Bloonsbury might just have implicated her in all of his crimes, but she'll know whether there's any proof out there. The actions of a drunk psychotic aren't going to see anyone incriminated.

  'Thank you,' she says. Small voice, but steady. 'You saved my life.'

  I nod. Don't say anything. Taylor and I just stare at her in the brightly lit silence. He fingers the wound on his head.

  A bauble topples from the Christmas tree with a tinselly shiver, settles o
n the carpet. Bloonsbury suddenly coughs a bloody cough, a strangulated breath wheezes from his body. Silence broken, the spell dispersed.

  'I'll call an ambulance,' she says, because she has to. Although, might she not want Bloonsbury to die where he lies?

  There's something in her eyes, then she turns and is gone from the room.

  Look down at Bloonsbury. Too late for an ambulance anyway; the man is dying. From the hands of Detective Sergeant Hutton. I'd like to be able to say that he's the first man I've killed, but I can't. On good days, on days when I can block out the past, when I can turn the past into another lifetime, those are the days when I could say he's the first man I've killed. There aren't many of those days.

  Look at Taylor, and can tell he's thinking the same thing. We are indeed uninvited guests. Silence over the house. A clock ticking somewhere. For some reason I start wondering what Frank is doing, and will he care?

  Poland, that was it. Knee deep in gorgeous Central European women.

  'Go and listen, Sergeant. Make sure she calls an ambulance. And the local plods 'n all,' says Taylor.

  'Aye.'

  46

  Three o'clock, New Year's Day. Watery sun low in the sky; bright afternoon with the snow still thick on the ground, frost already in the air for the night ahead. Clear, chill, fresh, a beautiful day.

  Sitting in the car across the road from the old family home. Have been sitting here for over twenty minutes. Can't decide whether or not to take the giant step across the road. I don't deserve for Peggy – or for any of them – to take me back, but if I go over there, clutching the small bunch of flowers that currently lies on the passenger seat, then take me back is what they'll do. Despite being a total fuck up over he past few days, my future is there if I want it.

  Caught a couple of hours sleep, some time between five and eight. Woke up feeling as completely shit as I have for the previous few days. Looks like case closed, but it'll be weeks before the stench of this vanishes; and I can still feel the warmth of Bloonsbury's blood pulsing over my hand.