See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

  ‘Mum, shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like –’

  ‘If the fucking polis are coming into our house, then they can fucking expect what’s coming to them.’

  ‘I asked them here!’

  ‘Aye, well, you should be in a fucking home. They can come and see you there.’

  She turns to me.

  ‘I’m really sorry, officer.’

  I give her the don’t-worry-about-it hand.

  ‘Aye, you’ll be sorry soon enough, mum. You, get the fuck out the house,’ he says to me, then adds, ‘unless you’ve got a warrant.’

  A warrant. He says it because it’s the kind of thing people say on the TV. As it happens, I do have a warrant in my pocket, the paperwork completed by my good friend Sgt Harrison, which was a bonus, as I hate paperwork, but she knew what she had to do to get me to take on the job. However, I don’t need it yet.

  ‘Who owns the house?’ I say to him.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I do,’ says the mum.

  ‘I thought I told you to shut the fuck up?’

  ‘The owner of the house, the principal named resident of the house, the bill payer, invited me in,’ I say. ‘And so I came in. If you want to call the police to get them to come and remove me, then you’re welcome.’

  ‘Fuck you, you pious cunt.’

  I hold his gaze – just a regulation, zip it, you useless, dumbass piece of shit look – and then turn back to Mrs Thornwood.

  ‘Why d’you think your son is poisoning you with marmalade?’ I ask.

  ‘Fuck, here we go,’ comes from the cheap seats.

  ‘It’s the only thing I eat every day. Toast and marmalade, every morning for breakfast. And every day, every single day, I get twinges in my stomach within an hour or two of eating the marmalade...’

  ‘Jesus suffering fuck...’

  ‘... and every day I feel worse. I’m dying, Detective Sgt Hutton, I can feel it. As sure as you’re sitting in front of me now.’

  ‘We’re all dying,’ chips in the moron, ‘you’re just not doing it fast enough.’

  ‘And you’ve been to the doctor to make sure it’s nothing else, like an ulcer or...’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Right as rain until this started.’

  ‘When did it start?’

  ‘When he got that new marmalade.’

  The idiot snorts.

  ‘You’re aware my colleague took the marmalade away with her already?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve had it checked. It’s fine,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing in the marmalade.’

  He laughs this time.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘What d’you mean there’s nothing in it? There are huge chunks of skin, huge thick things.’

  ‘Yes, there are, but they’re not actually poisonous.’

  ‘Aye, but I don’t like them.’

  ‘Jesus suffering fuck.’

  ‘Maybe not, Mrs Thornwood, but that in itself isn’t going to make you ill.’

  ‘Well, what is then?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake...’

  Beginning to doubt my decision to let this clown stay in here while we talked, but I wanted to see his reactions. Obviously I’m wondering if anything will happen when I leave, but I imagine they live in this perpetual state of ill-humour and abuse, regardless of whether the police have just been round.

  We see this all the time, and of course there’s nothing we can do. She probably needs him here for various things, and he’s just waiting for her to die. No excuse to be the way he is, but some people are like this. We’re here to make sure laws aren’t broken, not to force them to be nice to their parents.

  ‘You said marmalade is the only thing you have every day,’ I say.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You said you have it on toast.’

  ‘Aye.

  ‘So you have toast every day as well.’

  The arsehole barks out a laugh, the mum tuts.

  ‘Aye, but the bread hasn’t changed. It’s still the same plain loaf.’

  ‘And there must be butter on the toast.’

  ‘Aye, but the butter’s the same.’

  ‘Jesus...’

  ‘And you drink tea, there’s milk in the tea, there’s sugar in the tea.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  She stares off to the side with a quizzical look. Starting to think it through. I’m also beginning to think Sgt Harrison was just trying to get rid of some work. It’s not like there’s a great deal of detecting to do. Then again, if we’re talking about attempted murder, then it’s good the detective branch is in early.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘is there anything else you have every day, d’you think? So far there’s toast, butter, tea, milk, sugar...’

  ‘Coffee,’ she says. ‘I have my Nescafe.’

  ‘D’you want to check her fucking bog roll ‘n’ all? I could have poisoned the fucking Andrex and the poison’s being ingested through her arse.’

  There’s a thought. I wonder if anyone’s ever done that before? Probably in a crime novel, although I’m not entirely sure what type. Some sort of rectal-death sub genre, popular with elderly ladies.

  ‘What d’you put in the Nescafe?’ I ask. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Sweeteners,’ she says. ‘And milk, of course. I heat the milk up.’

  ‘Jesus, I’ve heard enough of this.’

  I finally turn and look at the Cunt. He’s been defensive from the off, but the more I ask, the worse he’s getting. Still not sure I’m prepared to accept this clown is capable of slowly poisoning his mother, but then you can learn to do anything on the Internet.

  ‘Tell you what I’m going to do, Mrs Thornwood. I’m going to take away all your basic foodstuffs...’

  ‘No’ you’re fucking no’!’

  ‘But what’ll I do for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Within the hour I’ll get someone round here with replacements for everything I’ve taken away. They’ll be newly bought from the shops, so you’ll be sure they’re fine. Is that all right?’

  She’s not looking like she thinks this is all right.

  ‘You’re not fucking taking anything, by the way.’

  I turn and give the son a look, then turn back to his mother.

  ‘There’s really no need to worry, Mrs Thornwood. I’ll get all your food checked, and very soon someone from the Police Service will be round with replacements. You’ll be fine for tea and toast and coffee, and you’ll know you don’t need to worry about whether or not they’re poisoning you...’

  ‘You’re taking nothing.’

  I take the piece of paper out of my pocket, two pages of A4 folded in thirds. I mean, it could be a list of movie stars I want to shag for all he knows, but he straight away accepts the threat as it’s intended, and doesn’t even ask to see what’s written. And then, surprise, surprise, he’s on his feet and heading for the kitchen.

  I look at Mrs Thornwood, giving the lad a moment to continue to be stupid.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she says.

  ‘We’re fine,’ I say. ‘I just need to leave you briefly.’

  ‘Oh, all right. The toilet’s upstairs on the left.’

  I lean forward and pat her hand, then walk into the kitchen. And there he is, the next winner of British Master Criminal’s Got Talent, tipping the contents of the bag of sugar into the sink, the tap already running. I walk up slowly behind him – he doesn’t even seem to think I’d be coming – snatch the bag off him, turn off the tap, and step back.

  He turns quickly, looking like he’s about to go on the offensive.

  ‘How far d’you want to take it?’ I say.

  He hesitates. You see the calculation running through their heads so often. Do they want to take the chance of adding police assault to the list? In this case, to be honest, he might as well. If he really is poisoning his mum, the daft bastard is facing attempted murder. Police assault won’t really up the stakes that muc
h more. He might as well go for it, but he’s too stupid I reckon.

  Maybe he thinks he can’t take me. That would be odd.

  I stuff the bag into my jacket pocket. Before he’d walked out of the sitting room I’d been about to give him the if-anything-happens-to-your-mum speech, but now there’s no point.

  Now, however, we get into the question of whether or not she’s capable of looking after herself. Within a few minutes she’ll be facing the fact that, despite their dysfunctional relationship and despite believing he was trying to kill her, she won’t actually want him to go, because she’ll be on her own and won’t know what to do.

  ‘Come on, Moriarty, back into the sitting room. I need to make some calls.’

  ‘Fucker,’ he mutters, and I let him walk past me, wary of him growing a pair and deciding to lash out. ‘I’m calling my fucking lawyer.’

  ‘You’ve got a lawyer?’

  He pauses in the doorway, doesn’t turn, then walks on through to the sitting room.

  Trying to poison his mum using the sugar she put in her tea? Yep, Harrison was right. The guy’s a cunt.

  41

  WALK BACK INTO THE office just after six, having conducted further interviews with the lead suspect in The Case Of The Poisoned Sugar. Pause for a second by my desk, look around the office. Not much activity. Don’t see Harrison. Taylor’s door is closed, Morrow, who must have come back from Riverside, in with him.

  Just about to insert myself in position when Taylor catches my eye and indicates for me to join them. I walk through and close the door behind me.

  I look at them both expectantly, then Taylor indicates for Morrow to speak.

  Taylor is behind his desk, while Morrow is standing by the window, like he’s taking his turn to get a view of the carpark. Have a sudden notion this is Morrow in my place, Taylor’s new sidekick. And why not? He’d make Taylor’s life a damn sight easier.

  Time for me to be leaving, I suddenly think, like the realisation is another nail in the coffin.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ he says.

  ‘Ah,’ I say, ‘thought maybe you might have got somewhere.’

  ‘Nah. There’s a lot of industry, but for now they’re just churning out pink elephants. Can’t say it’s a waste of time, because obviously it has to be done, but so far...,’ and he lets the sentence go.

  ‘White elephant,’ says Taylor. ‘Not pink.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Taylor gives him the look. See? That’s the look he usually saves for me. It’s as though he’s already moving on, even though the moving on has so far only been taking place in my head.

  ‘Anyway, a lot of people are coming up with ideas, it results in a lot of work, and so far...nothing...’

  ‘Anyone talking about Clayton?’ I ask.

  Morrow holds my gaze for a second, looks at Taylor, I follow, Taylor nods at him, and so I look back expectantly. Sounds like someone’s been talking.

  ‘DCI Collins took me into his office this morning,’ he begins, ‘and we talked about Clayton for an hour. In fact, we talked about you for an hour mostly. He wanted my take on it all, on why you might have been getting sent the e-mails, on what I knew about Clayton, whether I thought it really was going to have been him who sent them...’

  He stops talking, although his tone suggests there’s more to be said. However, he really has just stopped, then when I raise my eyebrows at him, he shrugs.

  ‘It’s not unreasonable,’ I say, ‘so I don’t mind you talking about me. I don’t even care what you said. Is someone taking it on as a result?’

  ‘Hard to say at this stage. The DCI didn’t want me taking it on, that’s for sure. As to whether he’s given it to someone else... He certainly sounded sceptical about you’re level of involvement, and seemed to want to think the e-mails were directed at the station, and therefore at the Police Service as a whole, rather than just you.’

  ‘I hope you said that was bullshit?’

  ‘I queried why anyone would randomly pick you out of everyone in the Police Service. However, it was like... his attitude was almost like someone seeing a ghost, or something inexplicable occurring. There’s no rational explanation, or you don’t like the only explanation there is, so you choose to park it to one side and pursue a completely different line of inquiry. One based on something more concrete, or at least, more palatable. That’s the impression I got, but it’s not to say he’s definitely dropped the ball.’

  Turns to Taylor – they’ve obviously already had this conversation – looks back to me.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got,’ he says. ‘Thought it might be of use, but otherwise, you know, everyone over there is just pissing in the wind.’

  Taylor gestures to acknowledge Morrow is doing all he can. Long sigh.

  Odd phrase, pissing in the wind. Usually it’s used to refer to doing something that’s not getting anywhere. But when you piss, all you’re trying to do is void your bladder. Pissing into the wind achieves the objective just as well as pissing into a toilet. So it’s not that it doesn’t achieve anything; it achieves what you’re looking for, but just causes unnecessary mess. So, for example, if you see someone scrambling eggs with their fingers, that might be a situation where you could say, you’re pissing in the wind there, mate. Not so much this kind of getting-nowhere situation.

  I notice Taylor watching me, and manage to snap out of it. He’s going to say something, and then dismisses it, turns back to Morrow.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, indicating with a head movement for him to leave. Morrow nods, turns, and walks past me out the door, closing it again behind him.

  Taylor sits in silence again, elbow on the desk, rubbing his right eye. Other hand starts to drum.

  ‘You were working a different case this afternoon?’ he asks.

  ‘Attempted murder. Investigation, proof, and confession ultimately all came within about three minutes of each other. It’ll take the social services longer to sort out the leftovers.’

  He taps his fingers. I know there’s further conversation about Clayton to come, but will leave it to him to start it off.

  ‘OK, back to the more pressing matter,’ he says. ‘If they’re going to be ignoring Clayton... We’ll do what we can until such times as told otherwise. I’m interested in this doctor of yours. Do some more digging. Find out if she’s telling the truth about this BMA investigation. Doesn’t sound right, does it?’

  ‘You mean, saying she had a sex addiction is almost like something she made up just for my benefit?’

  ‘That, Sergeant, is exactly what I’m saying.’

  Can’t argue. I more or less thought the same thing as soon as she said it. At the time, however, I was happy to believe.

  He glances at the clock. ‘Make a start this evening, but don’t work it too late. Try and have something together by tomorrow lunchtime...’

  ‘Right,’ I say, and I’m out the office.

  AN HOUR LATER I’M SITTING in the bright shining offices of the practice run by EmMed International in the West End, waiting to be summoned for a chat with a Dr Cairns, the head of the medical practice which hosts our Dr Brady.

  Dr Cairns is a woman in her late sixties, I’d say, judging from the photograph, with an air of ball-busting confidence about her. I’m standing with my hands in my pockets, slouching more than likely, looking down on the street below, when the door to the small, antiseptic waiting room opens, and I get the call.

  The squirt from two days ago is still here, regarding me warily as he collects me, then leads me along the short corridor. He opens the door into Cairns’s office, gives me the final disdainful look with which we police are so familiar – it’s a bit like the Queen thinking everywhere smells of fresh paint – and I walk in to the small office of the doctor in charge. She looks up from a file, and offers me the seat across from her wooden, leather-topped desk.

  The place has a nice sense of order, the smell of old books, shelves of them on either side. From the large windows you
can see the university, although she sits with her back to the view. Her guests get the privilege. There are three family photographs on the desk, one single one of the husband, plus two different families of five.

  ‘Sgt Hutton,’ she says. ‘You wanted to speak about Dr Brady?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, settling into the seat. Haven’t been offered a cup of tea or, indeed, any alcohol. Must be pushed for cash. ‘I realise you won’t be able to tell me much, but she’s involved in a case we’re working on at the moment and –’

  ‘Not the Bob Dylan Murders?’ she says.

  There is what the ancients would have described as a pregnant pause.

  ‘The what?’ I finally say.

  ‘I saw you on the news, Sergeant.’

  ‘I never referred to them as the Bob Dylan Murders.’

  ‘No,’ and there’s a nice smile on her face, ‘I know you didn’t. But that’s what they are, even if no one’s saying it.’

  ‘How... I mean...’

  She laughs lightly.

  ‘I’m a Dylan fan, as are you, I daresay.’ I nod, but it’s only confirming something she was absolutely sure of in any case. ‘Every time I hear about a suicide on the railway lines, I always think, ah, yes, blood on the tracks. Thought the same last week, of course. And then, over the week as these murders started piling up... I don’t know, something just clicked.’

  Fuck. She got there faster than we did. If I’d thought blood on the tracks right away, this thing could have been over by Wednesday. This here is a real Dylan fan. Taylor and I look like rank amateurs beside her.

  ‘Then when you started your press conference with the words before the flood, well...,’ and she makes a small hand gesture to complete the sentence.

  ‘You haven’t seen it mentioned elsewhere?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I thought someone would’ve picked up on it. That did make me wonder if it was just me, but it seems you’ve confirmed it.’

  ‘We can’t have...,’ and I just let the sentence go.

  ‘You don’t want the media talking about the Bob Dylan murders?’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant, your secret’s safe with me. But someone, I would think, will work it out eventually.’

  ‘I expect so.’