The unburied dead

His wrists were sore, but eventually the numbness came to take the pain away and now he feels nothing; except for the occasional trickle of blood down his arms after he tries to wrestle himself free. Knows the way to no pain is to stay still, but sometimes he is gripped with a desperation to get away. Jo is out there — sweet Jo — and she needs him. He knows she aches for him the same as he aches for her. Imagines all kinds of things happening to her, and the anger wells within him at the thought of it, at the thought of him not being there to protect her.

There are so many criminals and dangerous psychopaths out there. And here he is, imprisoned, and there's nothing he can do about it.

The anger passes. He thinks of a quiet Christmas afternoon. Lights sparkling on the tree, Bing Crosby singing. And Sinatra and Nat King Cole; coal crackling in the fire. Holding hands, his ring around Jo's finger.

His hands around her throat.

43

There's never a ferry when you need one.

Heading back to Glasgow, the long way round from Dunoon; back the way we came. It's going to take at least a couple of hours in this weather, and we could call someone in Glasgow to do our work for us; but who's that going to be? Who do you call when you've just found your prime suspect dead in his own car, leaving you suspicious of the two most senior officers at the station?

Crow had looked as ugly in death as in life. I can't think of anyone I'd feel less sorry for, having found them long dead in the back of their own car. Alerted the locals, but asked them to keep it under their hats for a few hours. Do the necessary, but don't go phoning Glasgow with the news, 'cause Glasgow already knows.

Still plenty of snow on the ground, no talk in the car. Taylor concentrating on not driving too fast for the conditions, leaving me to concentrate on what the hell is going on. Can think of only two available options.

Out onto the dual carriageway past Balloch before the snow gives a temporary respite and driving becomes easier. About twenty minutes left of the year, and I can't wait to be done with it. As if tomorrow's going to be any better.

Taylor speeds through the night. Decides it's time we talked about it. Gerry Crow, dead in his own car.

'You worked any of it out, Hutton?' he says.

Gather the thoughts, try not to say them all at once.

'If Crow had anything to do with the other deaths, there must have been some accomplice who's now taken care of him. Alternatively, and more likely, he had nothing to do with it and has been dealt with, the same as the others, as part of the same deal. Forgetting Ian Healy for a second, 'cause I've no idea where he fits in, of the original gang of five only Bloonsbury is left.'

'Yep.'

'So, is it that Jonah's been taking care of all his co-conspirators, or does it mean that someone else is going after them all and Jonah's next in line?'

'Miller for instance,' he says. 'Or, fuck, I don't know. Since she knows about the Addison case then maybe she's going to be the next victim.'

'So who do we warn? Bloonsbury or Miller?'

'Maybe they're in it together.'

Jesus, maybe they are. Nothing would surprise me now.

'And what about Healy?' I say.

'I can't work that out. We know he killed Ann Keller and Bathurst. Herrod was killed at his place. I don't know. Maybe he's working with Bloonsbury. Jonah did let him go after all. Maybe they did a deal.'

Stare ahead into the thick mist of night. We need to be talking, but it's in the vague hope that we stumble across something relevant, rather than the actual possibility of working anything out.

'He realises Healy's the killer,' I say. 'At the same time he's wanting to get rid of all his co-conspirators, so he enlists Healy's help. Threatens to arrest him if he doesn't do his dirty work for him, something like that.'

'Fucking Jonah Bloonsbury,' says Taylor. 'Still don't believe it. That theory's still got to be on the sidelines. If he was going to shaft them, why get the help of a psycho? How are you going to control a guy like that? Why not just do it himself?'

We pass through Dumbarton — city of magic — still not much traffic, a few flakes of snow in the air, three quarters of an hour short of our destination. We're heading for Bloonsbury's house, although what will we say if we find him sitting there, a wee dram in his hand and angrily proclaiming his innocence?

'No proof,' I say to him.

'What?'

'We've no proof. Of any of it. It's all speculation.'

He nods. 'I know. That's why it's a pain in the arse.'

'We could be miles off the mark, pishing in the wind. Here's a scenario: Healy kills Keller, then Bathurst. Just in the natural course of his duties as, I don't know, the next Fred West. Josephine Johnson puts Herrod onto Healy, and he gets his comeuppance when he goes to see him. Healy, realising the polis are on to him, buggers off. The next day, Edwards is killed in a hit and run. It happens. Pretty big coincidence, but why not? Meanwhile, some scum confederate of Crow with whom he does business, gets fed up with our slime ex-colleague and does away with the guy. There are probably a thousand people out there who wanted to see Crow dead. So, five deaths and Jonah Bloonsbury has nothing to do with any of them.'

Taylor stares into the white gloom. Thinking. Likes the sound of it, I can see that. And it doesn't sound too far-fetched either. A little, perhaps, but not as outlandish as Jonah Bloonsbury enlisting the help of a psychopath.

'Maybe you're right. Hope you're right. Can you imagine the stench of this if Bloonsbury's our man?'

'Maybe we've been getting ahead of ourselves,' I say. 'So, there's been a coincidence or two. It happens. We'll charge in there to find Jonah sitting getting quietly pished along with Jools Holland, and we're going to look stupid.'

Drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

'Fuck, I don't know, Sergeant…'

We've talked ourselves in a circle, as you do. He descends into silence. Time to mention the other thing that I ought to have mentioned a few hours earlier.

'All right…' I say. 'Then I've got Charlotte Miller to think about.'

'What do you mean?'

Hit the Erskine Bridge; and somewhere bells are ringing to herald the arrival of the New Year. Party. The snow starts to thicken once again.

Here goes.

'She asked me down there tonight. Frank's in Poland, apparently. I mean, who goes to Poland?'

He looks at me. Fortunately not for too long, and turns back to the road.

'And were you going to tell me this sometime?'

'I'm telling you now.'

'For god's sake, Sergeant.'

What with him being right to be annoyed, I naturally go on the defensive.

'What's the problem? You're jealous?'

'Fucking hell. Where were we two minutes ago with this discussion? There are four officers dead. If it's not coincidence, if they're all dead for the same reason, and if it's not Bloonsbury who's done it and he's next on the list, it could be Miller. She knows you know. Why else would she ask you down there?'

He may be right, but I have my defensive annoyance to think about. 'If she was going to do it, then why not do it before now, for fuck's sake? She's had plenty of opportunity.'

'Fuck, I don't know, Sergeant. Just ask yourself why she's banging you in the first place.'

'I told you! Because of the incident with her tits.'

I look at him. The very act of describing the incident with her tits as the incident with her tits, makes me smile, but Taylor ain't smiling.

Silence again. And he's right. The incident of the tits doesn't really explain why a superintendent is going for the likes of me, yet it still doesn't make sense that it should be to keep me quiet. I didn't know a thing about all of this when I first went down there on Christmas Eve.

Nothing to say. The journey continues in silence; and the snow falls in ever more furious flurries, so that by the time we arrive in Hamilton we're driving through a white mass.