A Plague Of Crows

'You know, the fat, chav, singing girl thing. Her.'

He grunts, looks disinterested. Well, of course he does. No grown man is going to want to be reminded of the fact that they like listening to Adele.

'Got bored,' he says. 'Threw it out, I think… Maybe it's still in the car.'

'Back onto Bob?' I say.

'Been listening to Bach's Christmas Oratorio.'

I believe there follows what many would call a stunned silence. He doesn't even look abashed. In fact, judging from the glazed look in his eyes he feels so comfortable with this information that he's already forgotten he said it and is back in amongst the trees, searching for his killer.

'But Bob did a Christmas album…' is all I can find to say.

'What?'

'Bob did Christmas. Why are you listening to someone else's Christmas? And Bach… I mean… what the fuck?'

He shrugs.

'It's different. Heard it on Radio 3, quite liked it. Lasts just over eight minutes, which on most days takes up the entire drive to work.'

He shrugs again. Jesus. How can you casually say things like 'I heard it on Radio 3' and just shrug as if nothing's wrong.

'You were listening to Radio 3?'

'Aye. I do sometimes. At home. When I'm making dinner. Or breakfast. Have it on in the kitchen.'

'That's… that's…'

He's looking at me like I'm the weird person.

'Grow up, Sergeant. There are worse fucking betrayals than that in life.'

Suppose. Like listening to Guns 'N' Roses' version of Knocking On Heaven's Door.

'But you could listen to 'Cross The Green Mountain. That's just over eight minutes.'

'You know how many times I've listened to that song in the last ten years?'

Continue to stare at him. 'It's like you've suddenly become bipolar.'

'Fuck off, Sergeant.'

'You're implying that there's a finite number of times somebody can listen to any one of Bob's songs before they need to listen to…. Bach.'

He shakes his head then drains his pint. Settles the glass down on the table and stares at it for a moment.

'I'm leaving,' he says.

Glance at my own drink, my third vodka tonic, nearly empty.

'We haven't done the Plague of Crows,' I say. Pointless really. He's too bloody maudlin even for that.

'No, we haven't.'

He looks at me. Nothing to say. The time for talking ended about two months ago, since when there's been nothing new to talk about. We need something else to happen, and when it does, then the shit can hit the fan, the politicians can take charge, the media can fly in ferment, and we can talk again.

'See you in the morning, Sergeant. You probably shouldn't stay too late. The drink's starting to show on your face.'

He leaves. I don't watch him go. That's ironic.

Is it ironic? I think it's showing on his face and don't see it on my own, and he's seeing the same thing with me. Or is that only ironic in an Alanis Morissette type of way?

And do I care?

Drain the glass, head to the bar. A quiet night. The girl behind the bar seems happy with something to do.

'What can I get you?' she asks.

I try not to stare at her breasts while contemplating an all out shock amp; awe offensive.

Boo-yah!

*

There are crows high in the trees. None of them are sleeping, all awoken by the noise from below. A grey early morning. They look down and watch what is happening in the forest. Three people tied to chairs, another walking between the three. Extracting information.

There is a light attached to the head of the person who's moving around. The light bobs, here and there, up and down. Something glints in the light.

Crows like things that glint. One of them wonders if it might be food.

25

Interview Room 3. A man with a baseball bat. Well, he no longer has the baseball bat. When you're interviewing a suspect it's best to relieve them of all weapons. Learned that from CSI.

Have no sense of impending action. The room springing to life. No sense that everything is about to change. Sometimes that happens. Not today. Not so far.

The guy in front of me, who would be defined in any statistical analysis as a nineteen-year-old fuckwit, is not being given quite as hard a time as he ought to be by the interviewing officer — me — because he quoted Bob Dylan right at the start.

'Let me die in my footsteps.'

He said that. Let me die in my footsteps. People generally don't say let me die in my footsteps because it doesn't really make much sense. Although it makes sense in Bob's terms, when he was writing it in the early 60s about not wanting to spend his life hiding in an atomic bomb shelter. So, in that sense, the clown was being a bit over-dramatic, but all the same, he'd nailed his target audience.

For his part, I could immediately see that he had a bit more respect for the arresting officer when he discovered that he was a Dylan freak. Now we're almost mates, and the only thing standing between us is that this idiot banjoed some bloke in the pub over the head with a bat because he made some comment about the length of his girlfriend's skirt. That, and the fact that the Bob thing was only ever going to get him so far.

'That's how it is, man,' he says, when we finally move on from Bob and get around to addressing the issue of assault.

'What do you think Bob would have done?' I say. Even I'm aware of how stupid that question is as it leaves my mouth. Wonder what PC Corrigan is thinking as she stares vacantly across the room.

'What the fuck?' he says. 'I don't fucking know, do I?'

Hah. You may have seventeen Bob albums on your iPod, you little shit, but you're no fan. He just likes Bob Dylan because he thinks it makes him look cool and it sets him apart from his contemporaries who are all listening to God knows what. And really, I don't know. What are nineteen-year-olds listening to?

'You admit that you hit Stewart Addleston over the head with the bat in an unprovoked attack in the King's Head last night at just after 10.30pm?'

He looks across the table then shrugs.

'I'm not admitting anything.'

'You'll be waiting for your lawyer…'

'Of course I want a fucking lawyer.'

Hold my hand up. Waste of time. Well, it's a waste of time for me to be doing this. And guys like this should be banned from listening to Bob.

'Anything else you want to say before I end the interview?'

He shrugs.

'It is what it is,' he says.

Oh for fuck's sake. The stupid little prick. All right, he threw me off my game with the initial Bob quote, but now I think I might need to find an opportunity to get his baseball bat and whack the bastard around the head with it.

All in all a very unprofessional interview, something mercifully brought to a halt when the door flies open. Which is unusual. Often enough you get interrupted in the middle of these things, but usually you're going to get a gentle knock and then a wait for an invitation.

It's Morrow. He's flying, right enough.

'Sergeant, we're on again. Taylor's office.'

He disappears. Heart in mouth.

'Interview suspended, 8:17,' I say to the room, and then, with a quick glance at Corrigan, intended to indicate to her that she should deal with the suspect, I charge out of the room after Morrow. Up the stairs three at a time. Into the main open plan. Everyone is standing around looking at monitors. Some hands are at mouths. Some mouths are hanging open. A couple of people are looking squeamish. Just as I get to Taylor's office, he's flying out in the other direction.

'Come on, Sergeant,' he says. 'Think we've got it.'

'You're fucking kidding?' is all I venture in return, as I fall in behind him.

'Been waiting for this for two and a half months,' he barks, careering down the stairs.