A Plague Of Crows

'Crows are as crows do,' I say.

'No one willing to go out on a limb and say that we're clearly in an Emma Peel type situation?'

'Not so far. The consensus is pretty much as we had in the summer. Give a crow something a bit shiny and gloopy looking and they'll be all over it.'

'People have started killing them,' says Taylor.

'What?'

'We've had a couple of reports this morning. Morrow called around a few other stations and they're getting the same kind of thing. It'll make the news by the end of the day.'

'People are killing crows?'

He nods.

'So they don't get their brains eaten?'

He nods.

'Jesus. People are so…'

'I know. First report was of a guy shooting them in the woods behind his garden.'

'Woods on our list?'

'No. Too small, too populated. Neighbours reported him, we show up, he's shooting crows with a hand gun. Missed more than he hit, but he appeared to have plenty of ammunition.'

'Did he have a licence for the gun?'

Shakes his head. 'Said he was doing a public service.'

'Didn't take to being arrested, I suppose.'

'Not at all. The fault appears to be ours. Then there were a couple of kids throwing rocks at crows. Didn't get any, but they did put in a few windows. They told Constable Forsyth to take a fuck to himself, that they were doing the police's job for them.'

Big sigh. Need food. Enthusiasm slips away at the thought of heading out to do more speculative interviews with crow experts afterwards. There are so many people not really worth saving.

'Lunch?' I ask.

Quick check of the watch.

'Sure, but just fifteen minutes across the road. If Connor sees us taking time to eat, he'll probably vomit indignation and outrage out his arsehole.'

*

Small soup-and-sandwich place. Been here for years. Most of our lot come in here at some point during the day, so we usually don't. Taylor likes to stand apart because he's the senior detective. I just like to stand apart.

Pea and ham soup and a roll for me. He's got a prawn mayonnaise with side salad. That, of course, would be a Glasgow side salad, which features half a tomato and some chips.

Taylor looks at his sandwich. A shadow crosses his face.

'I shouldn't be sitting here,' he mutters.

Typical. He'll be thinking that it's all right for me to take a break, and in fact, that I ought to take one, but that he doesn't have the time. I don't say anything. Spoon up some soup, yet his annoyance and hopelessness and need to keep banging his head against the brick wall of the investigation are infectious.

He crams some chips into his mouth and at that point DI Gostkowski, who has entered the building without either of us noticing, sits at the table. Taylor looks at her, his mouth bulging with food. She looks amused in an annoyingly superior way, as if she never crams food in her mouth. She probably doesn't.

'In a rush?'

'Yes,' he says, through his chips, then he swallows and takes a drink to wash them down. 'You shouldn't be sitting with us, Inspector, too much chance your Edinburgh lot will come in here.'

As he says it he lowers his voice and takes a quick glance around. He doesn't know who they all are, so they might already be here.

'They sent out for food,' she says. 'Anyway, I believe there's no point pretending we're not speaking to each other and ultimately, if the Sergeant and I are seen together a lot, the likelihood, given his reputation, is that people will believe we're sleeping together.'

'The Edinburgh lot aren't going to think that,' he says.

'They'll ask around. They've already been asking around the station about you two, trying to get the full inside information.'

'Did they ask you?' I say, to bring her attention to the fact that I'm at the table.

'Yes,' she says, still looking at Taylor.

Taylor lifts his sandwich from the plate and stands up.

'Very well, Inspector, you're the one at the coal face. I need to get on. You two enjoy yourselves. Maybe you want to hold hands, keep the cover going.'

He doesn't even smile at his own hilarious joke, and then he's off, leaving behind a small plate of chips and a bottle of freshly-squeezed hand-picked sun-ripened orange juice. Gostkowski pulls them over beside her and takes a chip.

'I get the feeling you're not talking to me,' I say. I sound like some monstrously high-maintenance woman of the kind that I generally think should be carted off to a mental institution. She enhances the feeling of self-hatred by glancing at me as if I'm monstrously high-maintenance, and doesn't even bother humouring me with an answer.

'The politics are picking up pace,' she says.

Take some soup, don't look at her. But suddenly I have masses of respect for the woman. Me. Respect for a woman. Must be some sign that I'm maturely growing into my forty-five-year-old brain. Or not.

'What's up?'

'They've detailed a guy to shadow the pair of you so they know what you're doing.'

Pause with the soup. Glance at her.

'They tell you they were doing that?'

'No, they didn't. The guy himself told me. Think he fancies me, thought he'd have some sort of in. Maybe thought that it would help get me on their side.'

'So where is he now?'

'Back at the office. He knows you came over here for lunch, so he'll have nipped back to grab a sandwich. He'll be hovering soon enough, waiting to see where you head off to.'

'And he followed me this morning?'

'Oh, yes.'

Jesus. How fucking stupid is that? If it's not bad enough that I'm wasting my time, there's someone following me noting down how I'm wasting it.

'Fuck,' is how I express my unease at that level of stupidity.

'Yes,' she says. 'Quite.'

'So, they're going to be aware of you and me seeing each other to talk over the case?'

'Yes.'

Glance at her — she's sitting next to me, a foot away, so it feels kind of weirdly uncomfortable to be looking at her, which is probably a sign that I'm not as mature as I thought I was a minute ago — then go back to my soup.

'So what did you say about me?'

'I said we were in a relationship, which would explain why we see each other at the Costa. And here.'

Pause, soup spoon halfway to mouth. Another glance. She's eating chips, seems matter of fact.

'Won't they be worried then about pillow talk?'

She nods.

'I expect so. Not a lot to be done. I didn't say to the DCI, but I wouldn't be surprised if they're phone tapping. I wanted to get all the facts before I took it to him.'

Keep eating soup. Wonder if there's someone standing across the road, behind me, watching us.

'Maybe they're tapping into this conversation through our mobiles,' I say.

'Possible, although they're not MI5, so I don't think we should get too paranoid.'

This is just too stupid. Too monumentally fucking stupid.

'So they're just going to exclude you,' I say.

She nods again. Nearly finished the chips. There hadn't been many left.

'I expect so. They were heading down that road anyway. They needed me right at the start…'

'The day before yesterday.'

'Yes. The day before yesterday. I was there to help them bed down, but now they've got their feet under the table and they've been apprised of everything they need to know about the investigation up to this point. I was always going to be pushed to the outside. The initial premise of the Superintendent was a little fanciful. But we might as well spin it out as far as we can.'

Another quick glance. She's wrapped up the chips and is dabbing at her lips with a paper napkin.

'Enjoy yourself in Edinburgh this afternoon,' she says. She knows I'm going to Edinburgh. Of course. 'Unless we hear from each other, I'll see you at Costa at seven.'