The Unburied Dead (4 page)

'What's the matter with you?' I say to Taylor.

He doesn't notice. I repeat it. He looks round, shrugs.

'Just thinking about Debbie,' he says.

Have a horrible feeling that if I pursue my line of enquiry he's about to get maudlin and am in no frame of mind to listen to that. Change the subject.

'Herrod says that Jonah isn't going to do Elvis this year. Blasphemy, apparently.'

Taylor grunts. 'Fucking Elvis,' he says.

We look at Bloonsbury, his face now surgically attached to that of the scrubber. If she sucks all the alcohol out of him he might wake up to what he's letting himself in for. As it is, even if he doesn't submit to the full horrors which await him, he's still going to suffer the ridicule of all fair-minded men for snogging a pit bull in front of us all. Idiot.

'If we're lucky, he'll be too carried away with Lassie there,' says Herrod, 'and the singing will pass him by. What do you think?'

Neither of us answer. There's no way he won't sing. We descend into morose silence and watch the doings on the dance floor. I could be wrong, but it seems that Police Constable Forsyth is having sex with some minger from up our way. Hard to tell and I strain to see properly. They're clamped pretty close together, her skirt's bunched up and I'd swear he's got his dick out. I laugh, take a large drain of the vodka tonic and sit back.

The music comes to a halt, couples detach, apart from Forsyth and his girlfriend who waddle over to a dark corner, and the DJ starts exhorting idiots to step up and sing. Everyone looks at Bloonsbury and the man does not disappoint. Accepting the rapturous and ironic applause, he removes himself from his hound dog and makes his way towards the microphone. Mumbles something to the DJ and turns to his audience. Winks and points at the wolf. Herrod and I laugh harshly. This could be even funnier than usual.

And then, as if Elvis is watching and can't stand to be blasphemed, we are treated to some divine intervention. A sober officer with a moustache walks through the room. Everyone looks at him. He stands out a mile. Makes his way towards our table. Me and Taylor look at each other and mouth 'fuck', just as Bloonsbury fluffs the first line of his song, smiling at the Rottweiler as he does so.

The moustache arrives. We are unimpressed. Bang goes my tryst with Bathurst that I've started to imagine is some sort of shootie-in. He stands at the table, looks down at us. The lot of the police officer: to get your life constantly interrupted by work, even when you're not having a good time.

He bends forwards, starts shouting into Herrod's ear. Herrod's face drops onto the table and he looks morosely over at Bloonsbury. 'Shall I stay?' he's warbling, and no you bloody well shan't, is the reply. You're obviously out of here, mate, with crime to investigate. Taylor and I nearly reach over and kiss each other. No pleasure greater than thinking you're about to be dragged off then finding it's some other poor sod who's in the soup.

Herrod gets up, head shaking and looking like a pishing wet day in Largs. Taylor and I clink glasses and watch him mince over to Elvis and mutter something at him. Then with a 'Fuck's sake' shouted into the microphone, Bloonsbury removes himself from the stage and starts the long trudge back to work. Grabs his coat, gives the stankmonster a grimace and he and Herrod troop out to the ribald cheering of the rest of us.

It's times like this that make it all worthwhile.

I survey the scene with renewed good humour. Constable Edwards gets up and starts a passable Robbie impersonation, taking his top off as he goes – really, these young plods should learn to keep everything undercover until they've got some chest hair – and I, flushed with unexpected romantic bravado, decide it's time to make my move on Bathurst.

I down the rest of the glass and excuse myself from Taylor. He nods, doesn't mind – he's smiling at last – and I worm my way over. She's standing with her back to the wall under a picture of John Lennon in a policeman's helmet – some clown's idea of a joke – and looking gorgeous with a glass of white liquor in her hands. She smiles at me and she's alone. Good start. Like scoring a goal in the first minute. I manage to stop myself doing that drunk thing where you lean on the wall next to the girl and drool on her. Keep a respectful distance.

'How you doing, Evelyn?'

A reasonable opening. Nothing fancy, nothing smart. Nice and easy does it.

She smiles and nods, not intimidated by having a drunk, forty-four year-old detective sergeant hitting on her.

'I'm fine,' she says. 'You? That's a nice jacket you're wearing.'

Two-nil.

I smile – there's a lot of smiling going on. I hope nobody's watching or they'll vomit. It's got to be done, though.

'Thanks. You're not looking too bad yourself.'

'You like this dress?' she says. No, not says, gushes. Her lips are moist, her nipples are hard and straining against the material, her eyes are showing glorious signs of intoxication.

'Like it? It's fucking stunning, Hen.' Hesitate, think about it; might as well jump in head first. 'You're fucking stunning.' I'm all charm, me.

She laughs. Three-nil. Think she's going to say something, but doesn't. Her eyes say it all though. She's gagging for it. Probably heard about me from at least fifteen other women at the station. I'm drunk, horny, and I feel about eighteen years-old. There's no stopping me now. Caution to the wind. Give it half an hour and I'm going to be lying back on my bed and this wonderful young thing is going to be on top and fucking the absolute life out of me, those fantastic breasts right in front of my face. Picture it. I mean, really.

'I was thinking of leaving here,' I say. 'You know. All this karaoke crap. Fancy coming back to my place?'

She laughs again. I could shag that laugh.

'I don't think so.'

What? Time. Slows. Down.

Three-one.

'Why not?' Try not to sound desperate.

'Well, it wouldn't be right.'

Three-two.

What's she talking about?

'Why?' Maintain control.

'Well… it'd be like shagging my dad.'

Fuck.

An equaliser, a winner and at least fifteen more goals just to rub it in.

She has the decency to look a bit embarrassed after that remark but once the ball's in the net, it's in the net. Contemplate a rearguard action, possibly a scorched earth policy, decide the better of it. Everyone's interests will be best served by a quick withdrawal.

I shrug. 'Right enough, then,' I say.

She laughs, looks embarrassed again, doesn't say anything. The final whistle blows, I turn my back and walk off. Imagine that every other bastard in the place is laughing at me. Find Taylor sitting alone at the table, looking morose again.

'Didn't get a lumber, then?' he says.

I nod, sneer, start to make my way to the bar. There's a bubbling annoyance in my head born of embarrassment. 'Want something stiffer this time?'

Taylor thinks about it, then says, 'Johnnie Walker.'

Right. I mince off to the bar, feeling like I've had my balls cut off and determined to get even more tanked out of my face than usual. Look to the middle of the floor to watch Edwards nearing the end of his Robbie Williams performance. Not surprisingly, he's bollock-naked and making a total arse of himself. He may have no chest hair, but at least his knob is in fine form.

Fucking idiot.

Tuesday morning, the top end of Cambuslang, nearly to Halfway. A cordoned-off road, with the usual ghouls a few hundred yards away.

The body's long gone, and will currently be under the knives of Baird and Balingol, this year's pathologists. Butchery with a sharp knife and a smile. I didn't see it, of course. Only got here this morning. Herrod said it was horrific; a bloody mess. Shredded. Glad I missed it. Dead bodies give me too many flashbacks, and I have a hard enough time keeping all those buried memories in their place.

Crawled in, massively hung over, just after eight this morning, to find the place had gone berserk. A major murder three days before Christmas. All hands on deck, with Bloonsbury in charge of the sinking ship. Very brave. He's back at the station now, co-ordinating all the crap that has to go on. Taylor's been roped in as well, not too happy about having to answer to the call of drunken Jonah, but that's the police for you.

They didn't do much last night, but the shit's flying this morning. House to house all the way up this street, and back out along the main road. They'll branch out soon, see what they can get from the surrounding streets.

At the moment they're estimating the time of death between ten and eleven-thirty. Most of this lot were in their beds by then, or watching TV. The drudgery of normal life. The body was found by some bloke about to take the dog for a walk. Didn't recognise her, such was the disfigurement of her face, but we've since learned that he knows her. We'll ask the right questions. You never know what these idiots will do, but instinct says it wasn't him. The guy's in shock. He'll probably need therapy – it's the modern way. If he can find someone to sue, he'll do that as well. These days you can't solve anything in life without employing a psychotherapist and a solicitor and a life coach. The supermarkets'll be offering those services soon, wait and see.

Herrod's up the other end of the street, house to house. In a better frame of mind this morning. He enjoys murder. Thinks it justifies his existence. Sometimes you'd think he'd commit murder, just to give us all something to investigate.

Bathurst is out there somewhere too. Saw her briefly this morning and she was decent enough not to give me a 'made a dick of yourself last night, didn't you?' smile. Very professional, although she just looked miserable. Regrets turning me down, I expect.

PC Edwards approaches, closed notebook in hand, looking like a man who stripped naked in front of his peers last night, and is regretting every minute of it. He was another one to make an attempt at Bathurst, I believe, and was no more successful than I.

'Didn't get much sleep, eh, Constable?'

He shakes his head. Daft bastard.

'Nice y-fronts, by the way. Think you'll ever get them back?'

He shifts uncomfortably. Itching to tell me where to go, I suspect. Can't, of course. He goes for the quick change of subject, which is all he can do.

'There's a woman over here you might like to speak to, sir. Knew the deceased.'

Fair enough. Can't spend too much time laughing at prepubescent constables when there's murder to be investigated. I nod my head and follow him to a terraced house, not far from the close where the body was discovered. Perhaps the street won't be such a barren desert of non-information after all. Don't feel up to interrogation, and hope that the woman wasn't a close friend of the victim who'll spend the interview blubbing. That's how it is nowadays. Everybody cries. We have the blessed Diana to thank for making it respectable. Or, at least, those who murdered her.

Walk into the front room. Ground floor house, where the sun never shines. Maybe in late afternoon. A drab little room, a few desultory Christmas decorations, and a drab young woman sitting in the middle of it, looking as if she's upset because she's run out of Frosties. A cup of tea held between the hands, TV on with the sound off.

I sit down opposite her and she notices me for the first time. Constable Edwards stands by the door. Hope I don't look as bad as he does.

'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say.

She nods, drinks a noisy sip from her tea, looks at the silent television.

'Mrs Eileen Sprott,' volunteers Edwards from the door.

Hold my hand up to him. Constables should be seen and not heard. See him nod and retreat further behind that rough exterior. Other things to think about, such as how to explain to his fiancée all those photographs of him naked which'll probably start turning up in the post. We polis are an unforgiving lot.