See That My Grave Is Kept Clean Page 8

  ‘Might let the day develop a little more, but I think I’ll give the others a call, maybe get together, see if there’s anything to join up.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he says, although neither of us actually knows what I meant.

  Did I mean a genuine, hope you find something? A sarcastic, do that if you want, but make sure you don’t take me with you? An acknowledgement that the hardest part would be in getting three different Glasgow DCIs into the same room to talk to each other? And if Taylor is junior to the others, which he might well be, they’re really not going to be interested.

  ‘You look terrible,’ he says, as he turns and walks away.

  I look at his back, disappearing into his office. Mutter some expletive or other, much too quietly for him to hear.

  STANDING IN TAYLOR’S office with Morrow and a Detective Constable who’s come along from Dalmarnock. We’ve spoken to him before on tech matters. Back at the height of the Plague of Crows, when that bastard was stringing us along. Detective Constable MacGregor.

  Taylor’s not here, we just wanted somewhere we could close the door and keep out the noise, and this was available.

  MacGregor’s the kind of kid who makes me feel at least double my age. Not good on a day like today. He’ll probably even make Morrow feel long in the tooth. Maybe we can gang up and kick the shit out of him before he leaves.

  ‘Can I be honest with you, Sergeant?’ he says.

  ‘I think that’d be best.’

  Hands in his pockets. Jeans, collared t-shirt, unshaven. He’s been watching Serpico. You can always tell.

  ‘Didn’t really need to come over, but there’s a constable here... Tina, you know her?’

  I catch Morrow’s eye, and nod at McGregor. Everybody knows Tina. I mean, seriously, everybody. Wouldn’t be surprised if even Connor had attempted to get his wizened old manhood some action there.

  Worth knowing, though, I’ll give her that.

  ‘Met her a couple of weeks ago at Riverside. She was on a course we were running. I said I’d see her again, like to keep my word.’

  ‘Very noble,’ I say. ‘And why didn’t you need to come over here?’

  ‘Because, TBH, this is just a piece of piss, man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Honestly, Sergeant, if even you wanted to send that e-mail, you could. Remember the last time I came over here to help you guys out?’

  I acknowledge it, but we’re not thinking about it.

  ‘That guy was awesome, seriously. But this, fuck, I mean, this is just a simple joe job. You could put I want to send a bogus e-mail and pretend it came from Downing Street into Google and it’ll take you straight to a site that’ll do it for you.’

  ‘And the University aren’t going to be able to tell it’s happened or where it came from?’

  For about the fifth time in the couple of minutes we’ve been in here, he glances through the glass door.

  ‘They might, depends on what kind of protocols they’ve got set up. So, I know what you want, you want to know if we’d be able to trace it right to the terminal where some guy sat and sent the thing, right?’

  He glances over his shoulder.

  ‘She doesn’t work in this office, Constable,’ I say, ‘so if you could concentrate for about another two minutes, then you can go downstairs and try to find her.’

  He smiles and nods. Fucking lemon.

  ‘You spoke to the University’s people in San Jose?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’d they say?’

  ‘I didn’t understand them, so I thought I’d speak to you instead.’

  ‘I’m glad I could be of help,’ he says.

  ‘You haven’t been.’

  This seems to surprise him.

  ‘You want me to talk to them?’

  ‘Yes, please, that probably makes sense.’

  ‘Awesome sauce,’ he says.

  ‘I know, ultimately, you’re not going to be able to tell us anything...’

  ‘I’m glad I’ve been able to manage your expectations,’ he says.

  ‘... however, here’s what I’d like to know. Is this just the work of someone with my level of ability, who went onto Google and followed a link to FakeAnE-Mail.com, or is there a greater level of technical ability at play here? And if it was straightforward, presumably you might be able to track down where it came from, yes?’

  He purses his lips, head tilted to the side.

  ‘Possibly,’ he says. ‘Give me the numbers in San Jose, I’ll speak to some people, get everything I need, get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Awesome sauce,’ he says again. Looks over his shoulder for the first time since I told him not to. ‘Where do I find Tina, man?’

  17

  ‘DO YOU THINK I’M GAY?’

  He delivers the words with comedic flair. He’s been acting the role ever since he started using her as his psychiatrist. There has been something in his tone. A touch of camp on his lips. Just a perfect suggestion of it. Enough to make someone wonder.

  She doesn’t answer, so eventually he looks round. She’s staring at him, but today she doesn’t seem to be playing her part.

  Their eyes meet. She manages to hold his gaze for a second, but then looks away. Today she doesn’t have the strength for it. Today those eyes seem to burrow right inside her. She could kill him some days. Hates him every day. The fear comes and goes.

  She’s a psychiatrist. She knows. The response is normal. She has to examine herself, try to keep her head right. The circumstances may be peculiar, but what she’s going through, thousands of people have gone through before. Today, however, her head is not in the game. Beyond self-examination. Beyond help. Unable to remove herself from the situation, unable to convince herself all will be well.

  She knows he’s playing a game, and he’s not the kind of person with whom anyone would want to play. Not, at least, when it is so completely on his terms.

  He turns back to the wall in front. What is he looking at today? His eyes settle on the framed page from a 1920’s Sherlock Holmes omnibus. He’s always wondered who butchered the original book, to remove the page and put it in the frame.

  It’s from The Five Orange Pips, three-quarters of the page with text, and an illustration on the upper right of the page, although it isn’t of Holmes. Five men, standing around a table, staring in horror at the pips that one holds in his hand.

  ‘He thought I was gay,’ he says. ‘How funny. He did make me laugh.’

  He laughs, as if to emphasise the point. Eyes on the illustration. He likes the illustration. It, itself, makes him laugh. As often seems to be the case, it is not particularly representative of the scene as it’s described in the book.

  ‘We worked in the same office, my first job after graduation. Yes, you can see it, can’t you? School, university, first job. A natural progression. Very linear. Perhaps, however, I will go back some day. Go back in time. I mean, in my narrative. Obviously I can’t actually go back in time. Where, where... where was I? Yes. Gay. He thought I was gay. I played along, what did it matter? We went out for dinner a few times, but always far away. Never in Perth. Never anywhere we were going to be seen. He didn’t want people knowing. He was one of the bosses, you see. One of the suits. That was what was so perfect.’

  He pauses, but doesn’t look round at her. Curiosity crosses his brow. Is that the sound of her crying? He could confirm by looking at her – of course, he knows it’s the sound of her crying – but this is more about him talking, getting the story out there. He doesn’t want to tell the wall, he wants to tell an actual person. A psychiatrist had seemed perfect, though it’s not like he thinks he needs help.

  ‘It was hilarious. When we went out, even though it was in Dundee or Stirling, or some little pub in Perthshire somewhere, out in the country, I always wore a disguise. He thought it was perfect, he laughed so much. He thought I was doing it in case we were seen by someon
e from work. That, of course, wasn’t why I was doing it at all. And then the fourth time, when we arranged it would be at his place, I wore a gimp suit.’

  He giggles this time, a strange sound, a laugh such as she hasn’t heard from him before. She bites her lip, tries not to sob, tries to keep everything under control. She’s scared enough by him, but is even more terrified of the thought of him seeing her break down.

  She wipes away a tear. Sniffs as quietly as possible.

  ‘That was my character for this murder. The gimp. Not very original, and by God I looked dreadful. I arrived at his apartment in this absurd thing, wearing a coat, with the mask tucked around the neck. Hat and glasses, of course. There was someone who saw me leave, I think, and they gave a description to the police. Classic. Didn’t sound anything like me.

  ‘I get in, straight away, hat and spectacles off, pull the mask up. Me! Me in a rubber gimp suit. He looked so turned on, it was hilarious. Eyes lit up. God, he loved it, absolutely loved it. I mean, the main reason for the suit – and honestly, I found it really comfortable, but I’d never wear one again – was to throw him off his guard and, of course, the complete containment of me. Of me! You see? No hair, no fingerprints, no DNA left behind.’

  Another pause. She stares at the carpet, the small area inside her cage, inside this bizarre room that has been her home for the past six days.

  ‘I did wonder how far I’d let it go. I mean, God, he was on me like a wolf. Biting at the suit, his hand on my cock.’

  He snorts.

  ‘Yes, all right, my cock hardened. What was I going to do? When you’re wearing rubber, and someone puts their hand on it, it doesn’t know, does it? The cock doesn’t know whether it’s a man or a woman who’s caressing it, does it? Jesus. Don’t... don’t look at me like that.’

  She’s not looking at him. He knows she’s not looking at him.

  ‘He kissed me on the mouth. Ugh... His man-breath. Horrible. So, I broke away, I grabbed his crotch as some sort of cover, and said, wine! Lots of wine! Your finest bottle! He laughed, red or white, he says. White, always, of course. I looked around the room, in case there was something useful, which there wasn’t, and then he’s back with a bottle of, you won’t believe, Chardonnay. Anyway, we weren’t about to drink it. He pours two glass, but of course, I couldn’t possibly have put mine to my lips. We toast. I put the glass down on the table. I lift the bottle, I pour what’s left in it over his head. He looks annoyed at first, but then he’s laughing and licking at it as it spills over him. Then the bottle’s empty. Much easier to use an empty bottle than one with liquid sploshing around inside, making the weight unbalanced. Then I jabbed him in the eye with the open end. Ha! He staggers back a little, confused, curious. Is this part of the game? He didn’t say it, but I could see what he was thinking. Jabbed him in the Adam’s apple, then as he grasped at his throat, brought the bottle quickly up into his erection. Now he’s bent in half, still not sure if this is part of a game. I jump at him, he falls back, off balance of course, hurting, no idea what’s going on, and then I’m on top of him as he’s lying on the ground, and I put the neck of the bottle in his mouth and press down, pushing the opening right back against his throat. He can’t scream, of course, mouth full of glass. Now, at last, the fucking pussy, he starts to fight. Too bad. Too late. I squeeze the bottle in there, pressing it down against his lower jaw, breaking teeth, pushing it back up against the top of his mouth. And then, I don’t know, it was weird. The bottle broke. Would you think a wine bottle would break like that? Because of pressure against someone’s jaw? Weird.’

  He looks round at her, turns quickly away. Useless bitch, he thinks.

  ‘Just the neck, just at the part that was inside his mouth. Lucky, really. Meant I didn’t get cut, which was the main thing. So I lurched forward, of course, lost my balance a little bit, and the broken neck stabs into the back of his mouth. Oof! Messy. God he was thrashing now. Like a wild pig! It was hilarious, it really was. I thought, what are you doing? Settle the fuck down!’

  He sighs heavily, suddenly bored with the story, mimicking the fact this was the point in the narrative when he had decided enough was enough.

  ‘Well, I had to bring it to an end then, of course. He was becoming tiresome, and I couldn’t risk him catching me with, I don’t know, a stray blow. So I got off him and stood on his throat. I had control, you see. Stood on his throat. Got blood on my boots.’

  He rolls his eyes at the inconvenience.

  ‘Didn’t take long. Then, I don’t know, well he was dead, and I decided to enjoy myself. Stripped him naked...’

  He pauses, has come to a part of the story he doesn’t seem to enjoy so much.

  ‘Didn’t really know what I was doing,’ he says eventually. ‘No plan. You should always plan. I cut off his penis with a shard of glass. Sheesh. Don’t know why I did that. Traced some random stuff on his stomach. Then I turned him over and made a pentagram on his back. I mean, what the fuck? Jesus, I didn’t even know if it was a proper pentagram. Then I thought I’d insert the neck of the bottle into his anus... well, why not...? but, you know, I think I might have needed some lube to do it properly, and I was thinking, ugh, lube... Rather a half-hearted effort, so I left it there. Quite enough for one night.’

  He turns, gives her another glance, then looks away again, back to the Five Orange Pips, clearly unimpressed with her performance.

  ‘Stopped at Tesco on the way home and bought some Chardonnay. Had a taste for it that evening. And pizza. I bought a pizza, although I think I only ate half of it in the end.’

  18

  TAYLOR FINDS ME ACROSS the road, on my own, drinking coffee. Stepped out of the office for half an hour. Half my morning on the railway station murder – proceeding like a slow-moving train, arriving late at every place it stops – and half on the other endless stream of crap that crosses the desk of every detective sergeant in the country.

  Another aggravated assault? It’s all yours, sunshine.

  Sitting at a table on my own, stooped over a long-since finished flat white, shoulders hunched, terrible posture. Straighten up as Taylor enters, and he stops beside me.

  ‘You want another?’ he asks.

  ‘I should be getting back.’

  ‘It’s all right. You want another?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Flat white. And one of those long chocolate croissant things.’

  He gives me a look, then turns to the counter.

  So it’s back. My desire. My desire is back. And the thoughts that go with it. And the depression that goes with it too.

  There are two women at a table by the window. They haven’t noticed me at all, which is something. One of them... nah. There’s nothing about her. Nothing to look at, nothing to get interested in. Nothing. She’s someone’s mum, and she gave up a long time ago. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I imagine she’s sitting there talking about the kids and the school and the TV and the garden and what the fuck Peter is really doing when he says he’s working late for the third time this week and where the fuck they’re going on holiday.

  Her friend is a different kettle of potatoes. It doesn’t matter what she looks like. There’s a light about her. An openness. She’s not saying much, but when she speaks, the words will be more optimistic. She won’t just talk about the average goings-on of an average day, the kids and the supermarket and the school gate politics, and if she does, her perspective will be completely different.

  I like her. She doesn’t even know it, and she wouldn’t be interested in me even if she did. And already I’ve undressed her and, like my good friends the Hartwells, I’ve fucked her up against the window.

  Shit. I was supposed to follow up on the Hartwell crap. Something else that’s fallen through the cracks. Shouldn’t mention cracks, not in relation to Mrs Hartwell at any rate.

  Taylor places the coffee and pastry on the table for me, then goes back to get his own. Sits down, looks out of the window.

  ‘Contemplating the en
d of your football management dream?’ asks Taylor after a few seconds.

  ‘Something like that,’ I say.

  Take some coffee, continue to follow Taylor’s gaze out of the window. Slow day up this end of Cambuslang. Cars go by. A few pedestrians.

  ‘How are you getting on pulling the three murder investigations together?’ I ask.

  His mouth full of chocolate croissant, he answers with a roll of his eyes. Dabs at his lips with the napkin.

  ‘I mentioned it to Connor. Off the scale disinterest. Didn’t tell me not to pursue it, but thought little of it and didn’t care either way.’

  ‘You can always count on him to care about completely the wrong things,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. Spoke to DCI Taylor in Springburn, the one from yesterday. He seemed interested. We compared notes. Didn’t really get anywhere, but it’s a start.’

  ‘He’s also called Taylor?’

  ‘Yeah, I know, total mind fuck,’ he says dryly. ‘Then I spoke to DCI Waterbridge, who’s leading the investigation into the double beheading. The one everyone’s talking about. The poster child of this week’s murders.’

  ‘And he didn’t want you anywhere near it?’

  ‘Damn right. It’s his investigation. It’s a racially-motivated crime, and it very, very, very – and he really did use the word three times – clearly has nothing to do with either of our so-called murder investigations.’

  ‘He said ‘so-called’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a dick.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Taylor takes another bite of his croissant, still looking out of the window.

  ‘So, that’s that for now. It was always a slim hope, and really the best chance of success was putting all three together and seeing if it got us somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe there’s nowhere to get.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Three days and we come to the desperately-clutching-at-straws part of the investigation.’