'So, you think she's dumped you because of Jonathan Montague?' he asks.
'She hasn't said as much, but that's probably about it.'
'She's probably shagging him 'n all.' He smiles. 'Three times in six days, you lucky bastard…'
We sit in silence for a moment. The second piece of chicken pie arrives, suspiciously quickly. Really, did they even have time to heat that up in the microwave?
Taylor doesn't seem bothered by the indecent haste, and tucks straight in.
'So, Charlotte's mad about you going to Montague. She knows it's because we're checking out Crow. Bathurst has told her the whole story…'
'We assume, we don't know.'
'Whatever. She doesn't think the Addison case has anything to do with this, despite the three deaths, and so she doesn't want us digging away at old wounds. Leave them be and concentrate on finding Ian Healy.'
'Or,' I say, 'she knows they're connected because she's part of it. Wants to ensure we don't discover the truth.'
'Too scary, Hutton. Crow, fine, 'cause the guy's sick. But Miller. If that's the case, why not just put herself in charge of the case when she removed Bloonsbury?'
'She tried that.'
'What do you mean?'
'She said she was doing it. I threatened to reveal the fact that Bathurst went to see her on Friday night; told her to put you in charge instead.'
He looks at me, forkful of chicken pie in hand.
'You're jerking me off?' he says.
'Nope.'
'Jesus fuck, Hutton, you're full of little secrets. Anything else you'd like to tell me?'
'Well, it was odd, because at the time that I was ordering her about — and let's be clear, I was a lot less forceful than that sounds — I assumed she'd slept with her. So, even though she hadn't, she still thought the fact that they'd seen each other the night Bathurst was murdered was enough of a reason to withdraw from leading the investigation.'
Taylor nods away as he continues to wolf down the pie.
'Yep, that might be significant. Anything else?'
'Don't think so.'
'Good. I think I've heard enough secrets.'
I gesture to the waitress that I'd like some more tea.
'So what are we going to do?' I ask.
He spears another piece of pie.
'We're going to ignore her and go after Crow. Go back down to Arrochar later this afternoon. Speak to a few people, do a more thorough search of that horrible little house of his, and we're going to work out where he went.'
The tea arrives.
'Magic,' I say.
40
Some time after four o'clock. The evening has already arrived, but still the country is bright with the low cloud and the snow lying on the ground. Hogmanay, the usual busy night ahead. Still, it isn't like it used to be around here, that's for sure. Anyone's granny will tell you that. All that running around and first footing; turning up at the house of total strangers with a bottle of White amp; McKay at your armpit; singing strange songs without words which could be Cole Porter as much as Harry Lauder; all that has gone. We've become a nation of people who sit and watch rotten TV, and complain endlessly about how bloody awful it all is and how New Year just isn't what it used to be. As if it's everybody else's fault but our own.
No crap TV for us tonight, though. We're on the hunt for Crow, and after a few hours wasting time chasing reported sightings of Ian Healy, we're back on track. Might be the wrong track, but I have a feeling.
In the last two days nearly ninety people have reported seeing Ian Healy. Sounds good? Rubbish. If they'd all come from the same place, we'd be fine. But, as is always the case, we've had calls from everywhere. Down south as well, as his picture went out on the national news.
So Ian Healy is this week's Elvis. Working a petrol pump in Wolverhampton; sitting on a bench in Hyde Park; throwing up over the side of the Mull ferry in choppy seas; playing golf in Nairn.
That's the trouble with putting out photographs — you get all sorts of nutjobs calling in. Same last week with the photofit, which turned out to be a pretty poor resemblance of our man. Every poor bastard with no one to talk to wants to phone the police.
Problem is that it only takes one of those calls to be right; you can't ignore any of them. So I had four hours checking up on spurious calls from around Glasgow.
Bloonsbury charged around for a few hours until he hit the wall about three o'clock. Didn't see him do it, but you could smell the whisky on his breath, see it in his eyes. Can't keep a fuck-up away from his drink for long.
Just before I left I got another call on the Batphone from Charlotte. What are you doing tonight, Thomas? Frank's in Poland. Why don't you come down? Seriously…
Not sure what she's playing at. Fortunately, however, I'm not going to fall for it as badly as I was. I'm not completely over the hump, so it doesn't mean I'm not going to go down there, but at least I'm starting to get sceptical about it. Still not thinking straight, of course.
Anyway, the waste of an afternoon is behind us and we head on down to Crow's house. We can talk to a few of the people in the vicinity and not just the repugnant neighbour. Do a more thorough investigation of the house, try and see beyond the porn and empty beer cans, see if there's any note of where his ex might be.
We get to the house not long after five. Step out of the warmth of the car into the chill of night. Stop and look out over the loch. No cars on the road, low cloud and the snow muffling any sound. Silence. More snow in the air, but it hasn't started to fall with any force. The loch is still, hardly a wave washes upon the shore. The mountains covered in white. Beautiful. Scotland in all its silent, scenic grandeur. Clean and fresh.
Hear the faint murmur of the TV set from the house next door. Wild cheering from some ridiculous quiz show. The moment is gone. We turn back to Crow's house. The snow covered path virginal. He hasn't been about today, but then we hardly expected that.
'Right then,' says Taylor, 'let's get it over with.'
Up to the front door, push it open and into the house of fun. Lights on. Doesn't look as if anyone else has been in the place since we were here on Saturday night, which is good.
And so for another hour and a half we plunge back into the seedy, low-tech world of Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Crow. Go over everything, a much more thorough search than before. Look for scraps of paper, address books, telephone numbers, anything. Down the back of the sofa and armchairs, clearing out drawers, every filthy nook and every revolting cranny trying to find what we can. And at the end of it we've got an old book with old numbers of people he probably hasn't spoken to in years, plus a couple of addresses and numbers on bits of paper which long ago fell behind cushions and into holes. The sad state of Gerry Crow — no friends, and no life barring the putrid collection of illegal pornography.
Sitting in the lounge at the end of it. Lights on, watching the snow fall. Dying to step out into the cold.
'Almost feel sorry for the bastard,' says Taylor, and I know what he means. But, as I've said before, he's not a man to inspire much sympathy.
'Still like to stick him in jail, mind.'
'Aye. Right, I'm going to make some of these calls,' he says, taking out his phone, looking over the meagre list of numbers. 'While I'm doing this you can start the house to house. Begin with next door if you like.'
'Can I arrest him?'
'Feel free. Just remember you'll have to fill out a report.'
Good point.
Taylor starts to dial the first number; I head out into the cold. Snowing quite hard. Feels clean. Almost seven o'clock; wonder what the idiot with bad hair is going to be watching on the TV tonight. Haven't watched Hogmanay tele in about six years, so I wouldn't know.