See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

  Clayton looks surprised by the question.

  ‘Of course! Where did you think she was? How many houses do you think I own?’

  ‘Let me see her.’

  Clayton stares, curiously, head tilted to the side.

  ‘Let me see her? What was that? Was that an order? I hardly think you’re in –’

  ‘I’ve done everything you asked of me. Everything. Now please, can I see her?’

  Eyebrow raised again, this time accompanied by an appreciative look.

  ‘That’s better. Much better. I think she might be sleeping though, I doubt she’ll like getting woken up at this time.’

  ‘Please...’

  ‘You can see her in the morning. Now, I think it might be time for me to do some work. Things don’t post themselves on the Internet, you know.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘There is no ‘no’, my dear. I’ve got work to do. If you want to complain, well you can, but then I can be back up here with your daughter’s head in a salad bowl in less than a minute, and don’t think I wouldn’t. Do I need to tell you again what happened to the girl on the railway line?’

  He talks through her gasps, the harsh breaths and restrained tears.

  ‘Is everybody cool?’ he says.

  She leans forward, her hands in her hair, staring at the ground.

  ‘Is everybody cool?’ he asks again, his voice harder.

  ‘Yes.’ Voice strained.

  ‘Good, good. Right...’

  He settles back in the seat, glances at the television. Hutton is still where he was before, the doctor’s thighs clenched around his head. Clayton smiles, lifts the television remote and turns it off.

  43

  ‘YOU KNOW THIS IS COMING to an end, right?’

  Have a strange sensation, just behind my ear. My right ear, I think. It feels sore. There’s a pain there to suggest something or someone or some, I don’t know, some entity, is stabbing into it. But I can’t feel anything. It’s a pain I’m familiar with, and the pain is usually accompanied by a sensation of stabbing. But there’s no stabbing.

  ‘What?’

  There’s a crow on my chest. The crow is talking to me. That also seems familiar, yet strange, at the same time.

  ‘This whole thing,’ says the crow. ‘We’re nearly done here.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, pal, I’m just getting this shit from you. If you don’t know what I mean, then how the fuck’m I supposed to know?’

  ‘But things don’t just end.’

  ‘Games of sport end,’ says the crow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apart from baseball. Jesus...’

  It feels cold. Why does it feel cold? The ground is damp, and I’m naked. That doesn’t make sense either.

  ‘Look, kid, you know things are coming to an end when you choose to end them. That’s it. Your choice. And you know what choice you have to make, right?’

  I don’t answer. Looking straight up, the crow now at the edge of my vision. The branches of the trees are bare, and I can see the low, grey clouds. Looks like rain.

  ‘We understand each other?’ asks the crow.

  I don’t reply. The branches high over my head move slowly in the chill breeze. There’s a small movement in the leaves behind my head, as though something else is approaching from behind. I can’t see what it is, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve got the crow to keep me safe.

  And yes, finally, we do understand each other.

  STANDING NAKED IN THE bathroom, not long out the shower. Dried, teeth cleaned. Looking at myself in the mirror. Don’t know how I do it. I mean, get women to sleep with me. Look at it. At that. At that, there, staring back at me. Saggy and ageing, only going to get worse from here on in. Love handles, bit of a paunch, chest going south, not a sign of a muscle anywhere.

  Wonder what they think when they get to see me naked. Is this it? Jesus, didn’t realise you were this old? Oh well, too late now, you might as well add me to your list.

  Introspection interrupted by the phone. Stare at myself for another few moments, then walk through to the bedroom, lift the phone. Ramsay or Taylor. No one else calls this early in the morning.

  ‘Sergeant, good morning,’ says Ramsay.

  ‘Stuart,’ I say. ‘Somebody dead?’

  ‘You need to look on the Internet,’ he says. ‘Thought I should give you a heads up.’

  ‘What’s happening on the Internet?’

  ‘Someone posted video of you having sex.’

  Weirdly it doesn’t immediately fill me with horror. Resignation more. I mean, it was bound to happen some time. And I hardly need to be too embarrassed walking into the office. Plenty of the women in there have seen me having sex in the flesh, never mind on video.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where did they post it, or where are you having sex?’

  ‘The latter.’

  ‘In a garden, on the grass and on a double swing seat.’

  Fuck. Well, that figures.

  On the plus side, Dr Brady is not a known witness, nor known to be involved in the case at all. Even the suits in Glasgow didn’t know I was speaking to her. My Dylan-thigh-signature doctor aside, the only person really likely to be perturbed will be Taylor, and since he more or less ordered me to sleep with her, he’s not really in a position to say anything.

  That’s just my natural positivity coming out there.

  ‘OK, I’ll take a look before I come in. Where do I find it?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll find it,’ he says, very unhelpfully, and then hangs up.

  Mutter ‘bollocks’ at the room, then into the bathroom. Deodorant, last glance in the mirror. Notice the stirring of my penis at the mention that the wee fella is now some sort of celebrity, roll my eyes at my own cock – as though it does genuinely have a life of its own – then back into the bedroom to get dressed.

  Over breakfast of coffee and toast and orange juice and water, I find Ramsay was not lying. The video is very, very easy to find. Plenty of people are talking about it, and sure enough, plenty of the press are already taking the moral high ground, for all the world like none of them ever had sex in their entire lives.

  There is, fortunately, no mention of the doctor, no mention of any involvement she might have with Clayton or our investigation. The perspective is entirely about, and entirely aimed at, me. Some expert somewhere has decided what the time is from the position of the shadows in the garden, and that it must have been filmed on Monday, (which it was), therefore what was I doing having sex at that time on a working day when there were so many murders to solve?

  I start watching the video. Twenty-three minutes of nicely edited porn. It’s not like I think I look great, but we make a good couple. It’ll play well on Pornhub if it ever gets that far.

  At some point while watching it, and getting turned on again, it suddenly occurs to me my family will be waking up to this too. Peggy, well, that’s all right. She’ll roll her eyes and wonder quite how we managed to last as long as we did together. But it’s the kids. Last week of school. Both of them will be walking into the crucible of the playground.

  Fuck.

  The thought of it has the acute scythe of depression swinging down upon me, and I sit back. Almost put the video off, but I need to watch it all. I need to know what’s up there, I need to see if there was any message left for me.

  The video runs its course, beautifully executed, right to its conclusion. Finishes with a bang. And there’s no obvious message, except the video itself.

  Michael Clayton is in complete control. He even controls when I have sex, and he has cameras on hand to prove it.

  The sexual excitement is long gone. Get up from the table and stand at the window, looking down on the drab street below. A dull morning, the heat of the start of the week having disappeared.

  Wondering if I should call Peggy, and realise eventually my hesitation is because I don’t want to make the call, not because there’s a reason not to m
ake it. Lift the phone.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  ‘You sound terrible,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah. Look, I...’

  ‘We know already.’

  I don’t say anything. There you are. Even they know. Everybody will know.

  ‘Andy showed it to me... You’ve put weight on.’

  ‘Are they all right going to school?’

  ‘They’re tough enough to take it,’ she says, then adds, ‘You didn’t want to check for cameras?’

  Not a lot to say to that. Almost throw in that it could have happened to anybody, because it really could have happened to anybody. The thing I did wrong, which was sleep with someone we were interviewing in the course of the investigation, she doesn’t know. Nobody will know. But it could have happened to anybody isn’t worth saying. Because it didn’t happen to anybody. It happened to me.

  ‘Tell them I’m sorry,’ I say.

  She doesn’t immediately say anything and I hang up.

  Feel... wretched. That’s the word. Stupid and wretched.

  Phone in my pocket, jacket and shoes on and out the door.

  44

  START THINKING ABOUT it again on the way in. Killing him. Killing Clayton. Taking myself out as I go. Make sure the life insurance policy is all right before I do it – and I took it out a couple of years ago, so putting a bullet in my own head shouldn’t nullify it – and then finish the two of us off in one go.

  Decide to drive in. Not sure if there will be media hanging around the station, and I hate the thought of walking through them, but in the end there’s no one there. They’re much slower these days. Or, I guess I’m not interesting enough. If they had footage of Gwyneth Paltrow fucking Jennifer Lawrence they’d be quick enough off the mark.

  Walk into the open-plan, go straight to Taylor’s office, getting a wolf whistle or two on my way. Catch Morrow’s eye, and he gives me a rueful, sympathetic look. Close the door, stand and await judgement.

  Taylor hasn’t even looked at me yet. Lays down his pen, settles back in his seat.

  ‘You’re a walking suspension-waiting-to-happen, aren’t you?’

  He sounds tired. Exasperated. The voice of a man who’s seen enough, or of a parent who’s seen enough.

  I’d been sort of constructing my defence on the way over here. How exactly was it Taylor thought he could suspend me for this? Hadn’t I more or less been following his orders?

  The thoughts vanish, now that I’m standing in front of him. If I’d been going to do something unorthodox, or something veering dramatically from the standard police officer’s investigative playbook, then he didn’t want to know about it, and he certainly didn’t want anyone else to know about it. It was up to me to make sure something like this didn’t happen.

  ‘It’s not like I’m sitting here blowing sunshine up my own arse about my part in it, but –’

  ‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I know you gave me some sort of green light to do anything to get her to talk, but I shouldn’t have just walked in to this. I mean, with the Dylan thing... seriously, this person, Clayton, it must be Clayton, is out to get me. Me. It’s about me. And he’s owning me. I should be being careful, yet, as ever, I couldn’t help thinking with my dick.’

  He holds my gaze but doesn’t dissent. Doesn’t stop me. Does me the favour, at least, of not actually agreeing with me, but I’m not wrong.

  ‘You need to go,’ he says. ‘I’m not, just yet, suspending you from duty, but you need to get out before Connor arrives.’

  Glances at the clock, turns back.

  ‘I don’t care what you do today, but probably best if it’s not related to the investigation. And whatever it is, don’t go anywhere near Clayton or Brady. Go and play golf, go for a walk in the hills, go to fucking Millport and eat a snowball in the Ritz for all I care, just don’t touch this.’

  Hands in pockets, walk to the window, my back turned to him. Stand there in silence for a certain amount of time, something I quite lose track of. Cars arrive, one by one. Ablett and Jones. Milburn. I think her name is Milburn.

  It suddenly strikes me that perhaps I’ve said my goodbyes. Not many to make, but I’ve done the round. I called Peggy to apologise. The kids won’t care I never actually spoke to them. In fact, they wouldn’t have wanted to. I visited the old church for the last time at the weekend. I paid my respects to Philo last week, and I know she won’t want me going back. Now Taylor is telling me to go. One of these times he sends me packing from his office has to be the last. Perhaps this is it.

  Maybe, when he told me to go to Millport for the day, what he really meant was go and finish this. Maybe when he expressly told me not to go after Clayton, he meant go after Clayton. It doesn’t matter anyway, doesn’t matter what he meant. I’m going. Clayton is out to get me, and he’s going to be out there until I do something about him.

  And he’s beaten me, I’ll give him that. I should be able to get him through regular police investigative channels, but I can’t. I need to do something else. Go after him in a different way. And if, as a result, I get taken down too, well that’s just how it’s going to have to be.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  Last thing on the list. Apologise to Taylor. And he may not pick up on it, but I’m not just apologising for this. There are so many things over the past few years. Beyond counting.

  He doesn’t immediately respond, and I don’t turn. Not sure how long I’ve been standing here. Maybe he got up and walked out at some point. Then finally there’s the sound of his chair getting pushed back and then he’s standing beside me, and here we are again, two middle-aged fuckers looking down on a dull carpark together.

  At that moment, Gostkowski walks out and stands still, looking around. Taking in the day. Then she lights up her smoke, and folds her arms.

  There’s such an air of finality I wonder if he’s going to come out with some sort of male bonding shit, but when he finally speaks, while his voice is infected with the same weight of despondency, he plays it as straight as I might have expected.

  ‘Hand everything you’ve got over to Morrow before you go. He’ll be heading over to Dalmarnock in about half an hour.’

  I don’t speak.

  ‘Where are you anyway?’ he asks.

  ‘I am... closing in,’ I find myself saying, and then can’t stop the laugh.

  The laughter goes, we don’t look at each other. Both watching Gostkowski, although I daresay I see her through quite different eyes than the boss.

  ‘The doctor has an ex-husband and a daughter who live in Germany. Frankfurt. Eleven days ago the daughter disappeared.’

  I don’t turn, but feel Taylor’s eyes on me.

  ‘Didn’t manage to get hold of anyone in Frankfurt last night, but I don’t doubt for a second Clayton took the girl.’

  ‘Fuck,’ mutters Taylor.

  ‘Yeah. Fuck. The press would love to get hold of that angle. Missing kid, they love that shit.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She was lying about the suspension and being under investigation from the BMA. She’s a good doctor, there’ve been no problems. I don’t have all the proof, but I believe what we have here is Clayton using Brady’s daughter against her. All part of the game. The trap.’

  ‘Crap,’ he mutters.

  He steps away from the window. Stands in the middle of the small room, right hand worrying his chin, then, having gone through the available options, sits back at his desk.

  ‘You need to leave,’ he says, ‘but give me everything you’ve got. I’ll pass on to Morrow what I think he needs. If you have to write it up, go and do it now. Get on with it before Con –’

  The door opens.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ shouts Connor, letting rip before even slamming the door behind him.

  Well, that changes the mood in the room.

  ‘Sir,’ says Taylor, voice steady. ‘The Sergeant is just going to write up what –’

  ‘I want you out the building,’ says Conno
r, looking at me, ignoring Taylor.

  While I’ve got nothing to say to the pompous prick, I don’t immediately scurry to the door either. And though I say pompous prick – because it’s not like he isn’t one – I have to say that in this he has a point. I should be out the damn door, for all sorts of reasons.

  ‘I need the Sergeant to write up where he’s got to in the investigation,’ says Taylor. Still no urgency in his voice, no attempt to rise and meet Connor at whatever pitch he’s talking.

  ‘What are you writing up?’ asks Connor, still looking at me, still largely ignoring the boss.

  ‘I met with the head of Clayton’s psychiatrist’s practice yesterday evening,’ I say.

  ‘Clayton! What the fuck? Seriously, Sergeant, you are going to very quickly get the fuck out of this station. I don’t want to hear about Clayton, I don’t want anyone talking to him, I never want to hear about that fucking man again. Get out! Get out!’

  His voice is near a scream by the time he’s finished. Being spoken to in a way maybe only one of my wives has ever spoken to me before. I’d deserved it then too. And while I took it from her, I don’t feel like I want to take it from this dickhead. Especially when he’s basically telling us to never speak of the perpetrator of the crimes we’re investigating.

  I don’t move. His face is a mass of agitation, veins strained in his neck, fists clenching.

  ‘Sergeant,’ says Taylor, playing his own role in this little office drama, ‘you need to do what the Superintendent says. I know who you spoke to, I can chase it up. You need to get out.’

  ‘Get out!’ spits Connor, like some weird, hissing, expectorating echo.

  Jesus, I could just headbutt that cunt right now.

  I stand my ground. I haven’t moved an inch, or clenched so much as a fist or a jaw muscle. Just standing here, waiting my time.

  I’ve been wrapping it all up, haven’t I? Bringing everything to a conclusion. That’s how it seems. Why not go out in a blaze of glory? Headbutt the superfucktard, spend a short period in a cell, leave with my head held low, then go and see Clayton, kill us both.