The unburied dead

What the hell, it doesn't make any difference. Might as well sleep at their place as my own. Although, what happens if I've somewhere else to go tomorrow night?

'Aye, all right then. But really, don't wait up.'

'I won't.'

'OK. And as long as you're not going to be annoyed if I crawl in at half-five.'

'It won't matter.'

'Right then, I'll be there.'

'Thanks, Thomas. The children'll be delighted to see you in the morning.'

All part of the plan.

'Aye, it'll be good.'

Say our goodbyes, hang up. Morrow's got his head buried in his pile of paper, good lad. If Herrod had still been there he would have been listening avidly to every word and not attempting to hide the fact.

Phone goes again as soon as I hang up. Internal. If this is Ramsey with some apology for a crime, I'm going to give the bastard a doing.

'Hutton.'

'Thomas.' It's Charlotte.

Shit. Look up. Her office door is closed. She must have come back while we were in the meeting. I was wanting things simplified.

'Hi.'

I bet Morrow would want to listen to this if he knew who was on the phone.

'You'll be working late?' she says.

'No question.'

'I understand. Of course. But I was wondering if you could come over later?'

Come on… I don't need this. I'm supposed to go charging down to Helensburgh at three o'clock in the morning? I can't. Not tonight. Can't stand up Peggy again.

She is aware of my hesitation. Sounds anxious.

'Not Helensburgh. I've got a flat. Kelvinside.' Of course. 'You could just come over there when you've finished.'

She sounds like a normal human being. Alone. Vulnerable. Breathe deeply. You promised your ex-wife, your possibly soon to be next wife.

'Things are just getting a little out of hand,' she says. 'I need to talk, that's all.'

Why now? Why tonight? Why can't she want to talk tomorrow night? Where's the idiot Frank when you need him?

'All right,' I say. Fingers rubbing at my forehead. Thomas Hutton — the fucking idiot who can't say no.

'Thanks,' she says. Immediately sounds more assured. 'I'll be here late as well. I'll speak to you before I go.'

'Aye.'

She hangs up. Put the phone down. Stare at it. Wait for it to ring again with some other demand on my time for the middle of the coming night. When it doesn't, I lift the top paper off the pile and start to adjust myself to searching through the life and work of Ian Healy; see what I can come up with.

Haven't got two lines when the door to Bloonsbury's office opens and the broken man walks out. There are six or seven people in the room as he walks through and every one of us stops what we're doing to stare at the guy. Bloody eyes, face streaked and ugly. A mess. Appears to be walking in a bit more of a straight line than usual but his shoulders are hunched, shuffling gait. He stops halfway across the room. Has become aware that everyone is looking at him. Knows what we're all thinking. He catches a few eyes but no one looks away. There's no one left in this station who couldn't look him straight in the eye now and tell him what they think.

Finally he looks at me and those eyes are bloody death; then he straightens up and walks from the room.

And if the man has any sense left whatsoever, he won't return.

*

'I've just been thinking about Crow,' says Taylor.

He looks tired. I'm not surprised. His wife has just left; he's been put in charge of a huge murder inquiry; instant results expected; under pressure. And besides, it's one thirty in the morning. And here's me, joined CID 'cause I thought it'd be nine to five.

'What about him?' I say.

End of the day. Looked through all of the papers that I'm going to. Morrow and I found a few things we'll have to check up on, but that'll be for the morning. Taylor spent a good three hours with the secretary, then sent her packing. She'd had the holidays off, then turned up for work as usual this morning. Healy was nowhere to be seen, no idea where he might have gone. And that was about it.

So. End of the day, last cigarette, last cup of coffee.

Then? Jesus. Charlotte left just after midnight, slipping me the address as she went. So I've got a choice. Charlotte or Peggy, and I've promised them both.

Mind on the job. Crow.

'Why did he just vanish like that?' says Taylor. 'We'd started to think about him. Possible suspect, possible link between the two. Who knows? We shouldn't lose sight of things. Saturday night we charged down there, kicking the door in. The fact that the bastard had buggered off seemed to implicate him. Now, we've got Healy stamped over everything. So, do we just forget about Crow? Mark his disappearance down as coincidence?'

'There's no such thing as coincidence.'

'Exactamundo,' he says.

'So we need a connection between Crow and Healy.'

'Aye. You didn't see anything when you looked through Healy's files did you? A mention of Crow having dealt with any of Healy's clients?'

'No, nothing. But then, Morrow checked half of them and he wouldn't have been looking.'

He looks at me. I know what he's thinking. See that mountain of paper that Morrow looked through. Fuck.

'Not tonight,' he says. That's big of him. 'Tomorrow morning. Have Morrow follow up whatever you dug up this evening. Don't need to tell anyone else what we're thinking. Might be a load of pish.' Champion.

Taylor rubs his eyes. Half one in the morning isn't the best time for clear and logical insight.

'I don't know, Sergeant. We're missing something here. Something obvious.'

'Come on,' I say, 'we all say that. All the time. You can't know it until you know it.'

Rests his elbows on the desk and yawns.

'Very deep, Hutton. Get that out of a Chinese fortune cookie?'

'Aye, I did as a matter of fact. And there's more. Always take your clothes off before you get in the shower.'

'Very funny. Piss off and we'll talk in the morning.'

He stands up. Lucky bastard is going home to an empty bed. Haven't decided where I'm going yet. Although, of course, I know exactly where I'm going.

'Any chance you spoke to Eileen Harrison today?'

I give him a quizzical look in reply.

'Don't look at me like that,' he says. 'You're always talking to women, or they're talking to you, or whatever the hell you have going on. Don't look so fucking, whatever could you mean, Chief Inspector?'

I shake my head, and start to head out.

'No,' I say over my shoulder, 'I didn't speak to Eileen Harrison.'

'Very well,' he says. 'Perhaps if she calls in sick again tomorrow, or we don't hear from her, you could go round there and see if she's all right.'

I stop, look at him.

'What? Seriously?'

'Yes. Look at my face. It's a serious face. There's enough weird shit going on around here for us not to at least make sure she's all right. Pretty fucking weird her not coming at all, particularly at a time like this.'

Now there he has a point.

I don't reply and turn and walk back out into the main office. The quiet of the middle of the night; CID at rest. Look at the watch. A little over five hours and the shite'll be flying once more.

Pick up the car keys and start tossing the mental coin; knowing that if it comes down on the side of Peggy I'll keep doing best of three 'til I get the right result.

34

Post sex cigarette; the best there is. It might be a cliche, but it's right up there with sex itself and watching old film of Partick Thistle beat Celtic 4–1. Cool, bitter, biting at the inside of your throat. Like a smoky single malt by a warm fire on a cold day. Lie back, breathe it in, stare at the ceiling. Forget everything. Savour the smoke and savour the remains of the delicious sensations still lingering in your loins and stomach. You feel the tiredness, begin to give in to it, let it sweep over you. Like waves crashing on the ocean.