'Merry Christmas,' she says, and gives me an almost lingering kiss on the lips.
'Merry Christmas,' I say back, and the words sound totally different.
She busies herself with the kettle.
'What's the matter with you, Thomas, you miserable bastard? It's Christmas.'
'It certainly doesn't feel like it. What are you doing up here, anyway?'
'Sink's blocked downstairs. They don't want us using the kitchen. And the bloody lift's broken.'
'Aye, I know.' Don't feel like making small talk, but I'm here now. No option. The woman did use to be my wife after all. 'So, you're not spending a cosy day with McGovern?'
'Cosy night,' she says. 'We both finish at four, then we're going down to the Creggans' in Strachur for the night. Tomorrow off. What about you?'
Have to think about it. Remember the wonderful family dinner coming up. Hope I'm more in the mood for it when it comes the time.
'Dinner with Peggy and the kids after work.'
She lets out a low whistle. 'Back in favour?'
Shake my head, wait for the kettle to boil.
'Who knows?' I say eventually.
She lets me go first, and I make the coffee as strong as possible. Plenty of sugar, turn to go.
'See you around. Have a nice time tonight,' I say.
'You too. And Thomas,' she says, making me turn back, 'get some more sleep. You look fucking terrible.'
Thanks.
Back into the office, park my backside at the desk, stare at the mountain of paperwork. Not so much of a mountain, as I don't have a noticeable in-tray, more of a sprawling landscape of hills and forests. Drink coffee, feel depressed. Eventually turn the computer on and wait for it to crawl into life. Try to think of Charlotte Miller and the wonderful evening, but thoughts of what Bathurst told me insist on intruding.
They, whoever they are, say that school days are the happiest days of your life, and I always thought that was total bollocks. But now, I'd give anything to be in the middle of three weeks holiday and be about to open up a barrel load of presents.
Think of Christmases past, and start the trawl through the paper. Good Christian men rejoice, with heart and soul and voice…
16
Here's the story from Bathurst, and I've no particular reason to believe she's making it up. No motive, your honour. It dates from just over a year ago, and the big murder case that temporarily saved Bloonsbury's career.
At first I didn't think it was going to amount to much. Another sordid tale of police corruption, no surprise to anyone, and just so long as the media don't get wind of it, no one gives a shit.
Now Bloonsbury's wasn't the only career which was saved from the hangman with that case. There was also the matter of Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Crow, another drunken bastard who belonged at a 24/7 AA meeting. It was Bloonsbury's case, but it was so high profile that it was all hands on deck and Crow got in on the act. It was sort of a joint credit thing, although Bloonsbury managed to whip more of the cream from the top. Crow escaped getting kicked into touch and when he did eventually take early retirement five months ago, it was with a good deal more honour than he would have had a year earlier; or than he deserved. The guy got out of jail.
A woman is found lying by the banks of the Clyde, not far from Carmyle. She's been assaulted, butchered with something the Interahamwe might have used in Rwanda in '94, and left to die. She briefly lives to tell the tale, relates the usual story about a guy in a ski mask and all sorts of ridiculous shit, then duly pegs it a couple of days later. Nevertheless, despite the attacker's weapon of choice, from what we could gather from the victim it appeared that it'd been an assault that had got a little out of hand.
So, it's not that the press get everything, of course, not until the trial, but suddenly every woman within fifteen miles shits her pants. They ignore it at first, but once she dies, the papers pile in there and make it the latest big thing. it being a slow month.
It's Bloonsbury's gig, and right from the start Crow is sniffing around in the background, breathing in Bloonsbury's alcohol fumes for extra sustenance.
Anyway, the press are a mile up their backside with how dangerous this comedian is, and how every woman in the city really ought to be living in fear. So, every woman in the city starts living in fear because they've been told to, and there's a public outcry about the lack of police success.
Things are going badly, with none of us looking good. A lot of pressure, something needing to be done, and now, whoever it is that solves it is going to be a hero. It's at times like this that the odd officer will resort to fudging a little evidence. Give him some vague idea who he's after and he does the rest himself. It ain't right, but as long as you know you're gunning for the right guy, it ain't wrong either. Trouble is, they haven't a clue who the right guy is. None. They have hair samples and skin samples, and two and a half million guys in Scotland from whom to choose.
And in the middle of the feeding frenzy, when we're all looking like idiots and reputations are being exploded like the bridge at Mostar, the guy nearly does it again. Same story, different outcome, still no more clues to his identity. This time the victim is some idiot who's out looking for the guy. Some stupid bitch who's been watching too many Steven Seagal movies and fancies a pop at the killer. Has been out on the prowl for him every night for two weeks, then finally finds him. Only, it isn't quite on her terms as she's anticipated. Comes from behind and raps her over the head with a brick before she has the chance to tell the guy she's a black belt in karate. Still, she's marginally more Buffy than Goofy. She manages to get him a good stiff crack in the balls, and the two of them make a tactical retreat.
Course, the press don't give a shit that the woman's a bloody idiot. They love it, and it ends up being us who are queuing up to look stupid.
And then, out of the thick fog of this confusion, comes an arrest. Having done the usual act of desperation of rounding up all the usual suspects, suddenly out of that lot, DCI Jonah Bloonsbury has his man, with Crow shuffling along in his wake taking as much of the credit as possible. The murderer is in custody, the streets are safe — these things are relative — and two careers have been saved. All out of nothing. There's a lot of suspicious looks cast between polis, but they've got the conviction, despite the guy denying it all the way. And more importantly, if it isn't him who did it, the real murderer never strikes again.
And then.
This is where Bathurst comes in. She isn't long in the force at the time, determined to become Chief Constable of Strathclyde by the time she's thirty-five, all that crap. But not wet behind the ears, no way, like they used to be in the old days. She knows what's going on, knows the sort of things that have to be done.
So, she's thrown into the middle of the investigation, and one night in the Whale she's approached by Bloonsbury, breathing mint and looking sinister. Everyone knows his story, the wife having just walked out, and now desperate for a breakthrough with the case.
He speaks in a hushed voice, gets all cosy and conspiratorial. Tells her that they have their man, but you know how it is, darlin', they just don't have enough to nick him. This is the first she's heard of it, but she's thinking, I'm just a constable, it's not likely that I'm going to know everything that's going on. So she buys it. They need her help, he says, but obviously there can't be too many who know about it. So keep it to herself. Lists the ones who were going to be in on it and no one else would know. A little evidence doctored, a few things placed where they shouldn't be, the odd clue left lying around, and they'd have their man. If she went along he would see that it benefited her greatly, and she doesn't need him to tell her that, because it's obvious.