See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

  Taylor lets out a long sigh.

  ‘So he wants to give us murders suggested by two Bob Dylan album titles. Apart from the obvious question – which is why the fuck would he even do that – there’s the question of why just two? What about the other two?’

  ‘The Basement Tapes!’ I say. Mind whirring, suddenly got some sort of weird buzz. I mean, from just doing my job. Getting a buzz from doing my job! It’s like all those years of listening to fucking Bob finally paid off.

  ‘The girl in the basement, killed with tape,’ says Taylor, thinking aloud.

  ‘Exactly. Basement tapes.’

  ‘Hmm, okay...’ he says. ‘This is beginning to sound like us stretching the balloon into the shape of the animal we want it to be, but let’s keep going...’

  ‘The only other one is the guy. Knocked unconscious, killed with drugs.’

  The answer was bound to come quickly, and inevitably I get it first, as I’m buzzing and Taylor is riffing on scepticism.

  ‘Knocked Out Loaded,’ I say, and start laughing at the thought.

  ‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘Well, it fits, I suppose. Or, at least, the balloon stretches that far.’

  ‘Fucking Clayton,’ I say.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘He’s going after us. I mean seriously, the guy is coming after us, and he’s taking the fucking piss. He knows we’re Dylan fans. Or, God, I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t know about you, but he knows about me. He’s coming after me. He’s taunting me with Bob!’

  Laughing out loud now. Coming off the work rush. Seriously. What a dick!

  Taylor’s shaking his head, not looking at me, not sharing my enthusiasm for the absurdity of it.

  ‘I can’t take that to the Chief Constable.’

  I suppose it’s not really funny, is it? How fucking hilarious? A decapitated eleven year-old girl on the train tracks!

  ‘We need to think it through,’ I say eventually, after I’ve brought myself back and silence has crept through the room. ‘I mean, try to pin it down. Yes, it sounds stupid. Unbelievable. But then, if it’s Clayton, we’re dealing with a guy who orchestrated mass killing by crow. This seems tame by comparison. And if he’s specifically setting out to taunt us, or taunt me, then fucking good on him. He’s done his research. Taunt me with Dylan. Do these fucking awful murders, in some really obvious way, and yet it’s not obvious... it’s stupid, it’s contrived, it’s batshit crazy.’

  Taylor’s head has bowed a little further, hands go into his pockets. I give him the space to think it over. Do I really believe it myself?

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ he asks. ‘Wait to see what tomorrow brings? See if he murders two blondes on top of each other, or, fuck, I don’t know, kills someone in front of a slow train...’ Voice tails off.

  ‘Did that already,’ I say. ‘He got two for the price of one this morning.’

  ‘Fuck,’ mutters Taylor. ‘All right, put something together for me. Think of a way where we can present this to the boss tomorrow without sounding like we’re the fucking jokers.’

  I put my hand on the door, then stop, turn back.

  ‘Then there’s the other thing,’ I say. ‘He said work it out and I’ll stop. So, let’s say we’re right, and that’s us worked it out. What now?’

  Taylor turns at last and looks at me.

  ‘That simple, you think?’

  Open my hands. How the fuck should I know?

  ‘You can’t reply to the e-mails?’

  ‘No, no point,’ I say.

  ‘So how are we supposed to let him know?’

  ‘Go on TV. We know he watches.’

  ‘Go on TV? Go on, I don’t know, Reporting Scotland, and start calling them the Bob Dylan Murders. Are you serious?’

  Don’t have an answer. He’s damn right though, so I’m not going to argue.

  ‘Go,’ he says. ‘Pull something together, and I’ll try to work out how we’re going to communicate to the fucker without looking like clowns.’

  I open the door, walk back into the office. Seems even quieter out here than it was previously. Back to my desk, the usual check of the e-mails. And there it is. The latest one waiting for me.

  Did you like it? Two for the price of one.

  32

  ‘WE COULD GIVE A PRESS conference where everything we say is a line from a Bob Dylan song.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t know Dylan well,’ says Taylor.

  ‘He sounds like he knows Dylan.’

  ‘I’m not sure. You could do five seconds of research, go onto Wikipedia, and you’d get the list of Dylan albums. As far as we can work out, he hasn’t even bothered learning any of the songs. The lines could easily mean nothing to him.’

  ‘So, we do the press conference in Dylan album titles then.’

  ‘Seriously? Ladies and gentlemen of the press, welcome to the empire burlesque...’

  ‘Well, there are a tonne of albums to choose from. Let’s go through them, discard the obviously useless ones like Another Side of Bob Dylan and Nashville Skyline, and see what else we’ve got we could use. I mean, I know there’s no album entitled We’ve Detained A Man Who’s Helping Us With Our Enquiries, but it wouldn’t be much use if there was, because it would hardly be code. We need something that’s out of place enough he’s going to know we said it as a message to him, but not so out of place people are saying who the fuck is John Wesley Harding and why do they want to interview him?’

  He smiles. We’re sitting across the road in the café. The place is pretty quiet. Would much rather have gone to a pub, but Taylor thought we should a) stay nearer the office and b) not go out drinking.

  We’re here because the tech guys are currently checking his room to see if it’s bugged. We’ve also handed over our phones. Now, the phrase two for the price of one is enough of a cliché that the e-mail I received could have been a total coincidence. In fact, it’s a pretty dull platitude to say, and depressingly anyone would have said it. I’m inclined to suppose I’m dull enough for it, but that Clayton has too much wit for such banality, thereby pointing to the fact he, by whatever means, heard me say it.

  ‘OK,’ he says, ‘we might as well talk about it, but I don’t want to go anywhere near the possibility of anyone else picking up on it, because we’d either have to explain what we’re thinking, in which case we’re going to look unbelievably stupid, or else we’re going to have to say we stuck Dylan titles in there for a laugh.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be a good look.’

  ‘No, Sergeant, it wouldn’t. And, of course, if he has bugged the place he’ll already know we’ve worked it out. Presumably, though, he’ll want us to do something public anyway. All part of the game. So... what have we got?’

  ‘Album titles?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  I take the notebook out of my pocket, pen out, ready to jot some down.

  ‘How about Bringing It All Back Home?’

  Look up, waiting to see his reaction. I mean, none of them are going to be great, but we’ve got to try something.

  ‘Keep going,’ he says. ‘Just write down what you think is best.’

  ‘You know the album titles too,’ I say.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ he says glibly.

  I start scribbling, reading them out as I go.

  ‘Self Portrait... New Morning... Before The Flood... Hard Rain... Street-Legal... Under The Red Sky... World Gone Wrong... Modern Times... Tell Tale Signs...’

  Look up at that one, as it’s the only really obvious one to be able to use. He indicates for me to continue.

  ‘Shadows In The Night. Fallen Angels.’ Shrug. Think on in silence for a while. ‘That might be it. All the others are too basic or too completely inappropriate for you to be saying in a news conference.’

  ‘Not me,’ he says. ‘You.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘This whole thing is aimed at you. You’ve been getting the e-mails, it’s you who needs to bring it to an end.’

  He�
��s got me there.

  ‘So, yes, some of them would be ridiculous,’ he says, ‘but there are one or two that might be do-able. Work on something, show me in the morning. We can work out what else you’re going to say and how we’re going to play it.’

  Take my first drink of coffee, immediately realising I’ve left it too long and the heat has gone.

  ‘Maybe we can also manage to work out his next means of murder,’ I say.

  Taylor takes a long drink of coffee.

  ‘Counting on you to stop it before it happens,’ he replies.

  THE TECH GUYS CAME up empty. If Clayton really is pulling some shit, and knows everything we’re saying, he’s hiding it well.

  Still sitting at my desk, a little after ten in the evening. Have a few words jotted down, but largely working on other things. More inclined to just stand in front of the press and wing it, a course of action that’s unlikely to be popular with my many superiors.

  For now I’m going for opening with the phrase Before the flood of murders began... and throwing in tell tale signs somewhere along the way. That ought to be enough for Clayton, but not quite enough to have Drunk Copper In Dylan Outrage As Glasgow Put To The Sword newspaper headlines on Tuesday morning.

  Eileen stops by the desk. On her way out, out of uniform, jacket on.

  ‘Hey,’ she says.

  ‘Sgt Harrison.’

  ‘Good day?’

  ‘Any day that starts with the decapitation of an eleven year-old girl seems set fair.’

  ‘Yeah, Jesus,’ she says. ‘Any nearer anything?’

  ‘Well... the boss and I came up with a theory. I don’t think we’re ready to go public yet.’

  ‘Do I count as public?’

  Hold her gaze, take a quick look around the station room, turn back. Might as well run it by a non-combatant, non-Dylan fan and see what she thinks.

  ‘We think he’s using Bob Dylan album titles as inspiration for methods of murder, which would tie in with the killer sending me, in particular, the e-mails, because he knows I’m such a big Dylan fan.’

  She stares at the floor, and then walks round and sits down opposite. Leans forward, her elbows on the desk.

  ‘I’m not terribly familiar with Bob’s work.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Run it by me.’

  I explain our theory, murder by murder, and how they tie in with the e-mails, in particular the killer two for the price of one which, whether by coincidence or listening device, seems another layer of confirmation of the theory.

  ‘So the little girl this morning was a Blood On The Tracks reboot, plus Slow Train Coming?’ she says, when I’ve gone through them all.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Hmm... you make a convincing case, but I wouldn’t want to be the one telling... well, anyone else on Earth. The suits are going to be incredulous, and the media will rip the shit out of you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there any particular order in those albums? I mean, can you tell from the sequence what he’s going to do next?’

  ‘Seems pretty random. They all date from the mid-70s to the mid-80’s, but...’

  ‘Are they just the obvious album titles to use as means for murder?’ she asks. ‘Insomuch, obviously, as any album title can be suggestive of a means for murder.’

  ‘Yep, that’s what we thought. It’s a push to know what he’s going to do next.’

  ‘Isn’t I Shot The Sherriff one of his?’

  ‘Bob Marley.’

  ‘Oh. What am I thinking of?’

  ‘Knocking On Heaven’s Door?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not an album title.’

  She sits back, stares at the desk, her cheeks puffed out, and then gets to her feet.

  ‘Well, good luck presenting that to a credulous public.’

  ‘We’re hoping we can pull it off without anyone actually realising what we said.’

  ‘Should be simple enough,’ she says. ‘Thank God there’s no, like, social media apparatus whereby everything said in public is dissected a million times over, with every conceivable theory put forward, and where the craziest theory, or the one where the authorities look the worst, is suggested as the most likely...’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good night, Sergeant. I’ve got the day off tomorrow. I’ll look out for you on the news.’

  ‘Got any plans?’

  Just asking. About to go home myself, just killing a few more seconds before I have to go back to the flat and sit alone, feeling shit.

  ‘Lie in, lunch at Marco’s, watch an old movie in the afternoon. The Apartment I think.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Too bad.’ She waves, heads for the door. ‘That’s the way it crumbles, cookie-wise.’

  33

  CLAYTON STANDS AT THE window, hands behind his back, looking out at the late twilight. From where he stands he can see the rear of his own house. The house where he lives. The house where the police will never find anything. The house where his bland life is conducted in mediocrity, each day passing by with him playing the required part.

  As the leaves of summer have flourished, the extent of the view has decreased. He makes a point of never even looking this way when he’s over there.

  He wonders how soon it will be before the police decide they need to get a warrant to search the house.

  ‘You should eat.’

  There’s no reply from the cage. He continues to stare out of the window, and then eventually turns and looks at Dr Brady, sitting in silence in the same seat as always, the tray of food still on the floor.

  ‘You don’t like chicken? I thought everyone liked chicken. Don’t pretend you’re a vegetarian.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, the words choking out her mouth.

  He grunts in reply.

  She really isn’t hungry. Doesn’t feel well, coming down off the tension of the afternoon. He’d made her take a cocktail of drugs to steady her hand and her nerves, and now the effects have worn off, the feeling in her stomach is horrible, twisted, sickening.

  She’d had the chance to run away and she hadn’t taken it. Of course she hadn’t. She could have talked to Taylor and Hutton, but she had believed everything Clayton had told her. She’d believed he was listening to the conversation, she’d believed he was watching her, she’d believed what he said would happen if she didn’t come back.

  ‘The chips will be cold,’ he says. ‘I didn’t have time to make them from scratch, I’m afraid. They’re oven chips. They’ll be awful now the heat’s gone out of them. The chicken should be all right.’

  ‘I want to see Chrissie,’ she says.

  Clayton has already turned away, once more staring out of the window. He doesn’t turn back. He sighs and shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

  He’d spent forty minutes making dinner, and she wasn’t going to touch it. So ungrateful.

  He is becoming more and more irritated by her, but she still has her uses, still has her part to play in the dismantling of Detective Sgt Hutton. So much so, in fact, that he hasn’t even decided how her part in the drama will end. It isn’t entirely out of the question she might come out of it alive.

  Unlike Detective Sgt Hutton.

  ‘HEY, ASSHOLE.’

  Open my eyes. Immediately aware of the damp of the ground, the cold leaves against my skin. Naked on the forest floor. Naked? Why am I naked? I don’t even sleep naked. When did someone take my clothes off? When did they bring me here?

  I try to get up, but can’t move. Not an inch, not a muscle. Lying dead still, staring up at the canopy of trees. It’s cold, and I want to cover myself, but there’s nothing I can do.

  ‘Hey, asshole,’ says the voice again.

  American. That doesn’t make sense either. Maybe it’s Tandy Kramer’s father. He’s American. He’s the only American I’ve spoken to recently. It doesn’t sound like him
, though. An older accent. The kind of accent you don’t hear much anymore, not even on TV.

  Wait. How the fuck do I know what kind of accents you hear in America, if not from TV?

  ‘You awake, asshole?’

  ‘I’m cold,’ I say.

  ‘Sure you’re cold. You’re butt-ass naked, for crying out loud.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Wah-wah-wah, here you go, same thing every goddam night. Get over it, kid. Seriously, when the fuck you going to start addressing the issue here?’

  ‘I don’t know what the issue is.’

  ‘Jesus. It’s like talking to, I don’t know, a fucking plate of beans or, I don’t know, a fucking mushroom. It’s like you evolved personally into this species that doesn’t know the fuck how to use its brain.’

  God, it really is freezing. And I need to pee. I try to raise my head to look around, but I can’t. All I can see is straight up. If I just pee here in the forest, will anyone notice?

  ‘You could do with losing a bit of weight, buddy,’ says the voice to the side of my head.

  The crow. It’s a crow, although I can’t see him. How do I know it’s a crow? I must have heard that voice before.

  ‘I just need to get some clothes.’

  ‘Well get up and put them on, you dumbass.’

  ‘And I need the toilet.’

  ‘Jesus. You’re like a fucking kid. Are you hungry? Does the forest smell weird?’

  There’s a flapping of wings, a rustling of the leaves. The crow passes through the edge of my vision.

  ‘That’s your cock?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s it? Your cock? That itty bitty little thing?’

  ‘Of course it’s... What?’

  I need clothes. I need to pee. I need to get up off this fucking, freezing, damp forest floor.

  Start to pee. Can’t hold it in any longer.

  ‘There we go,’ says the crow. ‘Take control.’

  34

  MONDAY MORNING FLITS past, one thing quickly following another. A montage. A fucking montage of my life. Get up, hideously miserable, humour utterly wasted. Into the office, very early, sit and draft out a few words for the press. A snap conference in the morning, not much to say, not many of them there. Hopefully, however, that won’t matter. We just need Clayton (or whoever the fuck else this is) paying attention, and if it is Clayton, we know he always pays attention.