And I look forward to every single minute. Philo x
I read the note again. And again. By the fourth time I can't see the words for tears. But I know what it says.
51
Connor's office. Taylor and I waiting for the great man to pronounce. Two days later. The day after the bishop blew his brains out Connor wasn't seen much around the office. Out most of the day. Nominally reaching out to the community in an official capacity. More likely, desperately trying to save his own arse. The last thing he wants is a bunch of lawyers and bankers and the sort that frequent the churches here ganging up on him and marching on Pitt Street with pitchforks and lighted torches, demanding his removal.
He's making notes on a file while Taylor and I wait. Can't see what he's writing, but I'd bet it's the equivalent of rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb. He's not thinking about his stupid file, he's thinking, hmm, I wonder how much longer I'll leave them sitting there stewing. Oh dear, I wonder if they are stewing. Maybe they're looking at me with contempt. Maybe they think I'm shit. No, no, that's not it. They're awe-inspired with my capacity to take on so much work, and understand that my life is a desperate push to squeeze everything in. Either that or they think I'm a dick.
He looks up, closing the folder as he does so. Yes, he closed the folder without even watching what he was doing. The monkey can multi-task.
'Where are we, Chief Inspector?' he asks.
Good morning, gentlemen. It's been a rough few days. I appreciate all your hard work, though, and the long hours you put in. It must've been awful for you to witness the suicide. Obviously I'll be setting up a trauma risk assessment for the two of you on that, and if there's anything else I can do, or that you think you need, don't hesitate to ask.
That's what he really wants to say.
'Paul Cartwright has been more forthcoming on the matter of Reverend Jones, now that he's in the clear. It appears the two of them had a long-standing feud, and even though the situation of the churches was settled, they both still harboured designs on that which they didn't have. Small-town politics, as we knew all along. Cartwright was trying to engineer a takeover of St Stephen's, the vicar... well, who knows? Trying to destroy St Mungo's and have everyone troop along to his place?'
'There was something of the crazed dictator about him,' I chip in. That probably doesn't help. The grown-ups ignore me.
'I spoke to Mr Cartwright,' says Connor. 'He's fine. He's fine.'
He nods vigorously to himself, realising that he's convincing no one. If Cartwright is fine, it can only be because he's extracting his pound of Connor's flesh in one way or another.
'How did Reverend Jones know what Cartwright was doing?' he asks, when he finally stops nodding at how fine every fucker is.
'Don't know,' says Taylor. 'Will keep looking, but my guess is that Forsyth told him. But could have been any one of them, any one of those who ultimately Jones decided to kill. There are a lot of unanswered questions. We'll keep on it, but there are a lot of people dead, so it makes it harder.'
'And what about this girl in the grave?'
Taylor doesn't immediately answer that. He glances at me, which is fair enough. We've wrapped that one up, all the while ignoring the elephant in the room. Connor looks at me, although you can tell he's reluctant to do so.
I'm not usually capable of artifice, and this particular moment proves no different.
'She haunted me,' I say.
'What?'
Taylor gives me a bit of an eyebrow, but no more than that.
'What?' repeats Connor.
I had this uncle. His name was Malcolm. An accountant. Didn't know him that well. He lived up in Inverness, so didn't see him often. Never married, lived on his own. The dude was quite high up in the Masons apparently. So, you know, he probably knew where the Holy Grail's being hidden, that kind of thing. He knew stuff. Thinking about it, he was probably gay, but was of the generation where you hid it. Didn't tell anyone, didn't let it affect his standing in the community.
Told us a story one time. He said that weird shit had started happening in his kitchen. And more than once. Fridge door left wide open overnight. Dirty plates from the sink tossed onto the floor. Cupboards emptied, packets and jars strewn around. At first, of course, he thought someone was breaking in, but then he'd hear it happening, rush into the kitchen, and there was no one there. Decided it was a poltergeist. Spoke to some people, wondered about getting a priest in, some shit like that. Was advised to stand in the middle of the kitchen and tell the spirit to leave. That was all. So he did. That's what he told us. This middle-aged accountant, in his middle-aged accountant's suit, stood in the middle of his kitchen and told an unseen spirit to get the fuck out of his house, because it wasn't wanted.
And it worked.
I think about telling this little anecdote to Connor. To say, there's weird shit out there, man, it's not just me. This is the kind of thing that happens. Don't try to explain it, because you can't. Just take it at face value.
'I came across the fact of Reverend Forsyth's daughter having disappeared under unusual circumstances over four decades ago. She was never found, alive or dead. During the course of the investigation I began to have suspicions about one of the graves at the Old Kirk. I undertook to open the grave, and we found the body of Forsyth's daughter.'
'He killed her,' says Connor, a statement rather than a question.
'Maybe,' I reply, 'but we're unlikely to ever know for sure. She's dead, he's dead, and his ex-wife does not want the heartache of the case being brought up again. She just wants to give her daughter a proper burial.'
'What if the minister was covering up for his wife? What if it was the wife who killed her?' he asks.
He has a fair point.
'I don't think that's the case here, sir,' says Taylor, 'but if you want us to look into it, then we can do.'
Connor stares in that impressive way of his across the table. And we know, of course, that he's not thinking about the merits of re-opening the case, because if he was, he'd be asking more questions. He's thinking about the politics of re-opening the case, thinking about how it will look if Mrs Faraday troops along to the Daily Record or the Mail on Fucking Sunday.
'I'll think about it,' he says. 'Send me the paperwork.'
We both nod. I, at least, am thinking, if you're waiting for me to upload the fucking paperwork onto your stupid, dumb-ass computer system that you championed so much, then you'll be waiting a long time, buddy. Perhaps that is what he's thinking.
Then, without even looking at what he's doing, this Batman of police officialdom moves the file he's been working on into an out-tray and places another one in front of him. It seems our time here is at an end.
'Gentlemen,' he says.
No, no, really, it's fine, you don't have to thank us for the work. No really, come on, sir, you're embarrassing us. Stop it, now.
We leave. Close the door behind us and walk back towards Taylor's office, although I'm going to peel off before we get there.
'Nice recovery on the ghost story,' he says. 'Maybe next time...'
'Yeah, yeah.'
Make a slight acknowledging hand gesture.
'What have you got on?' he asks.
'Off to see a guy about a thing.'
*
I find my ex-HSBC cleaner at the toilets behind the shops on the lower side of Main Street. There's a yellow board propped up in the doorway. CLEANING IN PROGRESS. He's in a cubicle. There's an overwhelming aroma of bleach. Which is, at least, better than the usual overwhelming smell you get in public toilets.
'Hey,' I say.
'You're fine,' he says without turning. 'Just use one of the other cubicles if you need to.'
'It's the Fuzz,' I say.
He turns, straightens up. He's wearing gloves, has a cloth in his hands.
'Wow,' he says. 'Thought you'd forgotten about me.'
Walks out the cubicle, smiles, makes a small apologetic gesture for not being able to shake hands.
&nbs
p; 'Sorry, been pretty busy,' I say.
'It's cool,' he says. 'I saw that stuff on the news. You've got to figure that the mass slaughter of church-goers is more important than people writing you cock on a wall.'
I smile, look around the walls. The usual collection of insults and toilet-wall wisdom.
'It's been a while since I've had the time to work on this place,' he says. 'Enough trouble keeping it clean.'
I dig the piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it over. He removes his right glove.
'Spoke to this guy at North Lanarkshire. He works with the police on graffiti prevention. Apologised for not having got to work on this previously. Give him a call. He'll get the walls of the toilets, inside and out, done with graffiti-resistant paint. They run a course he said you can go on if you want. Graffiti prevention. He called it a masterclass, but you know, we'll let that one go.'
He laughs.
'What else... There are some CCTV cameras out there, and up at the shops at Hamilton Street. We'll turn them on the entrance to the toilets for a few days. We can't, obviously, catch anyone in the act, but we might get an idea. Some six-year-old walking in with a tin of paint or a collection of marker pens sticking out his back pocket. The guy will also speak to you about people going into the local schools, which is obviously something that works for more than just the beleaguered toilets of the area.'
'I can do that,' he says, nodding.
'You want to go and speak to school children?'
He laughs again.
'It'll get me out the office for a while.'
Bonkers.
'You sort it out with your guy,' I say, pointing at the piece of paper.
He looks at it and shrugs.
'I've spoken to this bloke before.'
'Didn't get anywhere?'
Shake of the head.
'Well, now he's got the Fuzz on his back, I could tell he didn't like it. Give me a shout if you don't get anywhere.'
'Sure.'
OK. That'll do it. The conversation is over, and we're just two guys standing chatting in the public toilet.
'Better crack on,' I say. 'Let me know how you get on. I'll tell you when we're going to do the CCTV thing.'
'Cheers.'
Out the door, back up the short ramp to the precinct.
Stop for a moment and look around. A few shoppers, but not much doing. Not really. This town is dead.
A bright day, crisp, mostly clear skies. Look up at the tower block in front of me, and then over my shoulder.
What happens now?
Well, what usually happens? Life goes on.
Lunchtime. I wonder if I could go and sit in my own personal church for half an hour. Get some peace. Seems kind of weird to think about that now the investigation's over. And Mrs Buttler might not be so welcoming now that we've released Cartwright and found an unexpected corpse buried in her graveyard.
I should probably stay away and find my own peace for a while.
I head back towards the station with no particular thought in mind. Start wondering when the boss might get around to actually suspending me, and I can go off somewhere. North, I think. I'm going to go north.
As I reach the station I notice the coffee shop across the road, check my watch, decide to go in. I can sit in silence and think about looking at the cold northern sea, and I can choose to think about my lost love if I want, and if that's going to prove to be too traumatic, I can think about something else.
The café is quiet for lunchtime, but Sergeant Harrison is there, alone at a table. She smiles as I pass on my way to the counter.
'You all right, Sergeant?' she asks.
'Might be,' I answer. Really, who the fuck knows?
'You want to join me?'
Hmm. Now, I've got my cold northern sea to think about. And the other thing. And anyway, does she really want me to join her or is she just asking out of politeness or some sort of sisterly concern? Although, is that necessarily a bad thing? She's just being nice.
'Sure,' I say. 'Can I get you anything?'
She glances down at her nearly finished baguette and says, 'Americano with milk would be great.'
I head to the sandwich cabinet and grab my cheese and tomato ciabatta with that incredible Italian basil everyone's talking about.
###
Also by Douglas Lindsay
The DS Hutton Novels
#1 The Unburied Dead
#2 A Plague Of Crows
#3 The Blood That Stains Your Hands
The Barney Thomson Novels
#1 The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson
#2 The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt
#3 Murderers Anonymous
#4 The Resurrection Of Barney Thomson
#5 The Last Fish Supper
#6 The Haunting of Barney Thomson
#7 The Final Cut
Other Novels
Lost in Juarez
We Are The Hanged Man (DCI Jericho #1)
Being For The Benefit of Mr Kite!
Barney Thomson Novellas
The End of Days
The Face Of Death
Barney Thomson, Zombie Killer
About Blasted Heath
Blasted Heath is an indie publisher of affordable and entertaining ebooks by new and established authors. If you enjoyed this book, chances are you'll like some of our others. Why not find out?
Sign up to our newsletter and get a book of your choice from our catalogue completely free!
Click here to sign up and become a blasted heathen:
http://eepurl.com/fjhaM
www.BlastedHeath.com
The Blood That Stains Your Hands Page 27