A Plague Of Crows

'Where do we find her?'

Hesitation, then, 'Oh, I can get you her number. It's in my phone. She's working in the city at the moment doing some consultancy work for a firm of accountants on St Vincent Street. Parker amp; Howles.'

'And your wife?' says Taylor. 'What's the story there?'

'Ah,' he says. 'Well, it's as well you got me now, as a few months ago even, I doubt I'd have been able to talk to you about it. Still hurt too much. We met while I was at my lowest ebb during that dreadful affair. She knew what the police were like, what the media were like. She knew the lies they told. She gave me extraordinary support. It was really rather touching. We married in the middle of it all although, in retrospect, perhaps we shouldn't have done.'

Taylor stares coldly. Says nothing. The standard technique, playing the game of being cool just as much as Clayton's been doing it. Meanwhile I take my phone out and Google Parker amp; Howles. Without looking at him I notice the surreptitious glance in my direction

'You probably want to speak to her,' he says. 'Of course, of course. I can get all her details. They're in the other room, if you just bear with me for a moment. And I can get you the direct line for Samantha too, save you looking up the company on the website, Sergeant. She's just there temporarily, sorting out some client database or other.'

He leaves the room. I glance quickly up at Taylor.

'We're just letting the suspect walk out the room,' I say.

Taylor smiles grimly. 'He'll be back. And if he runs… if he runs, then he might as well sign a confession.'

'And we'll be the ones who let him get away.'

'I'll make sure you get all the credit, Sergeant,' he says. 'You find Parker amp; Howles?'

'Nothing,' I say. 'Don't exist according to Google.'

And then we hear the car starting.

'Ha!' barks Taylor. 'Got the bastard.'

We're both up and running to the front door, but that last remark proves to be somewhat premature.

*

I hate car chases. Sure, there's a certain adrenalin rush if you're driving, but the lead car is always the one with the odds on its side. It knows roughly where it's going, or at least can choose the way, and chances are that the chasing car is the police car. When accidents happen during car chases, the police get the blame. It's as if the guy running away, the criminal, well he gets a free pass, because he's doing what all fun-loving criminals do on the TV. He's doing what people expect him to do. Run. The police, on the other hand, have a duty of care to make sure members of the public don't get hurt. So when shit happens during a car chase, you can bet your arse it's the police who end up looking bad.

I particularly hate car chases when I'm sitting in the passenger seat. Then it's just like being on a fucking rollercoaster and usually ends up with me vomiting over the driver or out the window or onto the floor. Doesn't take much. And I'm usually petrified and spend the entire time with my eyes shut.

This time, however, I don't even get as far as beginning to worry about the car chase, or even as far as fighting Taylor for the honour of driving so that at least I won't be scared and I won't vomit.

The front door is locked.

Taylor barks, 'Fuck', no time to look for the key, and we run through to the front room. The library, he probably calls it. The white Lexus is legging it down the driveway. Taylor grabs the nearest wooden chair and smacks it into the window. It's some fucking glass, doesn't even crack. The chair buckles, and one of the legs breaks off. This is a man with money to spend on his windows.

Quick look around the room. There's a large glass paperweight or ornament or some such. Jesus, there's all sorts of shit on cabinets and sideboards and all sorts of middle-class furniture accessories. The paperweight looks the best option.

'Stand back, Sir,' I say, and Taylor edges away from the window as he looks over his shoulder. Hurl the paperweight at the window with the kind of ugly chuck that would usually precede a leg break on the sub-continent. The paperweight sails straight through the window, leaving an almost perfect cartoon hole, cracks emanating from it in all directions.

Taylor is still holding the chair, and now he attacks the window. I pick up some other piece of heavy ornamental junk — a bronze golfing trophy — and go over beside him.

It doesn't take long before we've broken out, the whole escapade taking barely half a minute. Of course, Clayton is gone, and as added insurance he's closed the large metal gate at the driveway entrance that was open when we arrived. Taylor climbs out through the window, cursing as he snags his jacket on the edge of the glass, and I follow.

We stand in the cold morning, and already the sound of the car is lost and we're standing still in stupid impotence, having let the man slip through our fingers.

'Fuck it,' mutters Taylor. 'Seriously, fuck it. What was that?'

He looks angrily at me, as if it's my fault we let the guy get out of here right enough.

'Is that the signed confession?'

'It feels like it,' I say, 'but we hadn't gone anywhere near the Plague of Crows.'

'No, we hadn't.'

He kicks the ground again.

'Bollocks. Get on the radio, Sergeant. Get the word out for that car. Time to call in the guys from Edinburgh.'

33

Three hours later. Still in Clayton's driveway. We've gone into overdrive. Currently about forty guys all over his house. Ours and Edinburgh's. A blitzkrieg of forensic examination. Other officers going door to door up and down the street. Found his car in the centre of town parked near Glasgow Central. That doesn't really help, does it? He could have got a train to anywhere. It wouldn't even have been that far for him to run up to Queen Street, thinking he was throwing us off the scent by parking near Central. Or he could have got on a bus. Or he could be sitting in a Costa just round the corner.

For the moment he's gone to ground.

Managed to get hold of a couple of cups of coffee, and me and Taylor are standing by his car looking at the surrounding crime-fighting stramash. So far no one has found any evidence that implicates Clayton in anything other than being a social climbing fuck.

We're not speaking, just standing there, one hand in pocket, the other clutching caffeine and both of us thinking the same thing. What was he thinking? Why attract attention to yourself when the only thing that really makes anyone suspicious is that you're attracting attention to yourself?

'You feel like we've been set up?' I say after a long silence.

Taylor doesn't immediately answer. Turns and looks at the house, and in every window we can see evidence of the investigating team. And on the ground floor there is, of course, the evidence of us smashing a window to try to get after him.

'I have that feeling, Sergeant, yes,' says Taylor.

'What about Montgomery?'

'Not sure yet. The jury's still out, but we can hardly be optimistic about a verdict in our favour. They're going to have to find something in there.'

'Has he gone national?'

'No. Needs to find something first. Something we can hang onto as proof.'

'And there's no proof.'

'Exactly. He just acted suspiciously. Strangely, in fact. Don't know what's going on in his head.'

We turn at the crunch of footsteps on gravel as Montgomery approaches. Looking round at the house I can see a few of the guys walking out the front door, and suddenly there's no evidence in the windows of the SOCOs going about their business. Like the ghosts have all left.

'Got a phone call,' says Montgomery.

Taylor gives him the eyebrow. I look away. Montgomery doesn't speak to me. Not worthy of his time. If I want to know what he's saying, I just need to blend into the background and he'll ignore my presence. I'm like the royal servant who got to hear all the shit from Charles and Diana because they just acted like he wasn't in the room.