Taylor and Gostkowski are still in his office. They barely look up when I re-enter and sit down. It's cold in here, since he opened the window some time during the afternoon and hasn't closed it yet. January seeps in.
'Nice job, sergeant,' he says. 'Might get you some work on The Bill, something like that.'
'They don't make that any more,' I say, pedantically.
He grunts.
'Long night ahead of us,' he says. 'You better get on.' Checks his watch. 'Don't work any later than eleven. Get some rest, back here before seven tomorrow.'
Since August, and even more so after November, we've been concentrating on people who might have had a grudge against the media, the police and the social services. There were more than you'd think. Well, perhaps not. Perhaps you might realise there are a lot of people with that kind of grudge. Given that the majority of the population are happy to blame everything that's wrong in their lives on someone else, there are probably many thousands with such a grudge.
All we could do was look for someone with an obvious chip on their shoulder. A documented case, something that we were going to be able to read about, and hopefully in the newspapers, rather than just in social services files, given the inclusion of journalists among the victims.
We identified about ten people who looked perfect for it, another fifty or so who weren't so perfect, another couple of hundred who were real outside shots. None of them fitted. It wasn't like they all had alibis for each of the murders, but we knew. These weren't people who were capable of doing this kind of shit.
So now, given the general air of desperation that hangs over the investigation, we've decided to expand the search by taking one of the three variables out of the equation, which we'd done a little of previously, but now adding in a broader scope and a more expanded timescale. Which one of the three — the police, the newspapers, the social services — is not obvious, not documented in any way. With someone like this, with this fantastic level of grudge, resentment and hatred, it might well be that the grudge is buried where only he can go, deep inside his head.
So we're spending the evening splitting it up, each of the three of us taking one of the variables out and searching for someone with obvious resentment against the other two. I get to look for someone who's mad at the police and the media. Holy shit. And I'm stopping at eleven, doing a little more first thing tomorrow morning, and then heading out to interview people.
Where am I ever going to find someone who distrusts the police and the media? Apart from on every street corner, in every pub, in every work place and in every house.
Ultimately it's not about finding a list of names, it's about prioritising and guesswork and hoping that the combination of the two pays off. And, of course, we're going to be covering much of the same ground as the Edinburgh lads. Trying to identify potential suspects working from no clues whatsoever was one of the mainstays of their investigation. They, very obviously, got nowhere. So with every name we pull out of a hat, there's a reasonable chance that they got there first and already crossed them off a list.
Maybe this new spirit of cooperation will allow us to talk to each other about it. I'll just hold my breath for that one, then see you in Hell.
*
We finish work just after 11:30. Taylor goes first, and then Gostkowski and me. We barely speak to each other, my buddy and me, and she follows me back to my place again. We do the same as the previous night, shower then bed, although this time we start in the hallway before we get to the shower.
And at the end of it she kisses me on the cheek, goes to the bathroom, then leaves with a nod and a slightly crooked smile.
I might allow myself the thought that she's almost the perfect woman, except that would be outwith the terms and conditions of the relationship. Instead, I don't think about anything, not even crows and trees, dark and foul deeds, before I fall asleep and dream of nothing.
29
'That was ballsy.'
Seventh interview of the morning. Decided to take a cup of coffee from this guy, because I was desperate. Six brief interviews, the time taken driving around, as usual.
I start off every interview with the same view. This is the guy. This guy sitting right in front of me. It's him. Guilty until he persuades me otherwise. Might as well. I'm not wandering around presuming innocence; where did that ever get anyone? We're not randomly interviewing people off the street, we're talking to people who are at least in the ballpark of suspicion, and although there's still going to be an element of stumbling across the right person by accident, it's not as much of an accident than if we bumbled around Buchanan Street bus station testing people to see if they were handy with a bone saw.
Of course, I usually change my mind in about five seconds. Most people have I Didn't Do It written on their forehead, whether they know it or not. Today, for some reason, I'm not feeling so forgiving. This bloke is the third I've not yet crossed off the list, the third name to take away and do a little more research on.
Started with the first guy on the list. It's not going to be him, though, is it? Not the first guy you speak to after having come up with a new line of enquiry. He was arrested for the rape of a young girl outside a night club. And when I say young, she was seventeen and pished out her face. Nevertheless, there was no question she was raped. The newspapers picked it up because his dad's been on the telly a bit. Nothing major, but it doesn't take much for a tabloid to decide you're worth putting on the front page. So overnight the whole country thinks he's a rapist. Then the DNA test falls flat on its face. It wasn't him. Some other fucker with short hair, a tattoo and his jeans round his ankles. He wasn't charged, off he goes.
The following day the newspapers carry banner headlines about how he's not a rapist.
Ha! As if. The following day the newspapers have moved on. Most of them don't even mention his release, and if they do, it's buried somewhere beside an advert for 2-for-1 at Iceland on page 57.
At some stage he picks up meagre compensation from a variety of sources, but the damage is done. Everyone thinks he's a rapist, and he has to live with it.
I spoke to him for ten minutes. Still wore the chip on his shoulder, still blamed everyone else. The girl, the police, the media, his parents. At no point had he ever asked himself whether he could have avoided any of it. Living in a reasonable house, with a reasonable car out front, and a wife and kids that he managed to hang on to despite the rape allegation, you'd think that maybe he would just move on. But he hadn't.
He stayed on the list.
Then there was the ex-footballer whose career frittered to a halt after being done for drink driving three times. Of course, it would be the police's fault he was done for that, and for driving without a licence. Perfectly reasonable for him to hate us, and not to blame himself in any way. His slow walk into the arms of disgrace, despite the fact that he played for a shitty wee team that was neither Rangers nor Celtic, nor even the great Partick Thistle, was well documented by the newspapers.
He lived in a squalid basement apartment in Dalmarnock. Miserable little shit more or less ranted the entire time at me for my part in his downfall.
He stayed on the list.
And now this guy. Comfortably middle class, living in a large house on the north side of the city. A Lexus in the driveway. No more than ten minutes drive from the hills and trees and the great outdoors. Similar to the first bloke. Wrongly accused by the police, wrongly arrested, name in all the papers. This one for the murder of a schoolgirl who lived on the same street as him. Several years ago now, but people hold grudges all their lives.