'She leaves the pictures, walks home. Ten minute walk, she never gets there. Somewhere along the way she is accosted, strangled and stabbed.' Looks at his notebook. 'A hundred and twenty-five times, mostly in the face and chest.' Jesus. Who the fuck stabs someone a hundred and twenty-five times? Herrod looks at the women, slightly embarrassed, as if they might be delicate in some way. Old fashioned, Herrod. 'He pulled her into a close entrance before he did it, then left the body where he killed her. Found by some poor bastard who lives on the third floor. The deed couldn't have been done more than three or four minutes. The guy checks out, by the way.'
There's a bit of a silence. We're all mad, tough bastards here, but this kind of thing is always going to stick in the throat, regardless of how many thugs you've arrested, regardless of how many bodies you've seen decapitated and dumped in a pile in the middle of a forest.
'Why do you suppose he did that?' says Bloonsbury.
'What?'
'Stab her over a hundred times.'
Herrod shrugs. 'I don't fucking know, do I?' he says bluntly. I can't help smiling at that, but quickly wipe it off.
'Aye, right, fine. Any ideas people?' says Bloonsbury looking around the room.
He wants to ask some idiot doctor with letters after his name and a mind for lunatics, not a bunch of Feds more used to dealing with car theft.
DS Harrison speaks up. An attractive woman in her way, if a little brutish. Reminds me of my Aunt Maureen. I've heard tell she wears a chain around her waist, although have never had the desire to try and see for myself. Anyway, there's a rumour that she prefers the company of women, which is something I have to admire, because so do I.
'He knew her, hated her, got carried away with an act of vengeance.'
'Maybe,' says Bloonsbury. Never know with the guy if he's being cagey or slow.
I shrug and decide to participate. 'The guy was hardly rational. From the ferocity of the attack we know that he absolutely lost it. You stab someone over a hundred times, you're not thinking straight.'
Bloonsbury sighs, shakes his head. 'Aye, I suppose you're right.' Starts rubbing his eye. The man needs a drink. 'I'll speak to that doctor, what's his name?'
'Arkansas,' volunteers a voice from the floor.
'Aye, right, how could I forget a fucking stupid name like that? All right, anything else? Did the knobs at pathology have anything illuminating to tell us?'
Herrod. 'Aye. Apparently she'd had sex yesterday afternoon. There were still traces of semen in her,' and he looks shyly around the women folk again, 'you know, inside her. Unrelated to the murder. From that we've got male, mid-thirties, blood group AB neg, and that's our lot.'
I tell you, Baird and Balingol are something else. How did they manage to work out that the guy's male just from his semen?
'Ties in with the boyfriend, presumably,' says Bloonsbury, looking at Taylor.
'Aye,' says Taylor. 'Did it in the afternoon, in the toilets in his work in town, he says. It was after that she told him about the present from her ex. They argued, the usual thing. She left without it being resolved whether he'd go to the cinema. He thought about it, and decided not to.'
'Right,' says Bloonsbury.
He looks around the room, not sure where else to go with this.
'Right,' he says again, 'this is a sick bastard we've got here. People are going to be shitting their pants, so we need this guy off the streets before Christmas. So, I know we've all got things to do at this time of year, but the quicker we get this out the way, the more time we can spend on enjoying ourselves. So let's give it everything we've got for the next couple of days.'
Very inspiring.
'Right. We've got descriptions of the lassie going out on the news, phone lines open, and all that. You all know what you're doing, so get out there and get on with it. I've got to go and speak to the fucking papers.'
The meeting starts to break up. All hands on deck. Let's hope there's no more crime in the area for the next few weeks. Bloonsbury leads the way out the room and then we all start to shuffle after him. Taylor puts his hand on my shoulder.
'I need a drink, Sergeant. You coming?'
Where better to increase pressure in the investigation than from the pub? I nod and lead the way. The group disperses around the station, each with things to do. Not much conversation. All this is very intense. The thought that at some stage we're going to come face to face with this guy. And if we don't, it's because we'll have failed to do our jobs.
Almost out the door when Sgt Ramsey stops my steady progress towards the first vodka tonic of the day.
'Got something for you, Thomas.'
'What?' I don't look impressed.
'Aggravated assault in Westburn. Your show.'
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Taylor shrugs. 'See you in a couple of hours, Sergeant. I'll still be there.'
Aye, right.
8
Doubtless the world is quite right in a million ways; but you have to be kicked about a little to convince you of the fact.
Not number twenty-one from the book of Useful Police Philosophy. From the writings of Robert Louis Stevenson. Now, I'm not denigrating the guy, but really I don't give a shit. Books are not my thing, particularly ones which were written way back, when making love to someone meant that you sat on the end of the bed and told the woman how good she looked in pink. And I think I speak for most of my colleagues when I say that. If any of us ever has the time to read a book — and with all the detecting and drinking that has to be done, it isn't often — we like to settle down with a good crime thriller. Pick up some handy detective-type hints. 19 ^ th Century literature just isn't on the list.
However, there are dark forces which conspire to thrust it down our throats, whether we want to hear it or not. The dark force, in particular, is Superintendent Charlotte Miller, BA Hons in English Lit. Not that she stomps around with her honours degree stamped on her forehead; she is a little more subtle than that, although not much. Lets her erudition spill out all over the place.
It's a management tactic that's supposed to make you respect her intelligence and insight, when in fact all it makes most folks want to do is place their hands around her throat and squeeze. The I'm a smart bastard and you're an ignorant little shit, so do what I say routine. The attitude that launched a thousand rebellions.
Stevenson is her favourite. Always throwing in quotes, or giving us some other little homily from his life. Very inspiring. I don't have a literary favourite — I go through life with no one to quote but myself.
The woman is forty-nine, and therefore younger than a lot of the chief inspectors at her fingertips. This is, as you will imagine, a source of friction. Most of these guys are in their early fifties, they're not going anywhere else, and they're from the 'women should be in the kitchen with the washing up' generation. Confronted with a woman who is a) smarter than them, b) in a position to tell them what to do, c) going places they can't even dream about, and d) much, much better looking, most of them spend their days in a foul mood, dumping on delinquent constables. And sergeants.
Point d) may seem the most trivial and sexist of the lot, but you have to be realistic. If this woman looked like one of those 1970's Czechoslovak shot putters, modelled for Hound Monthly, chewed tobacco and bent iron bars with her teeth, I'm sure they could cope with it a lot better. But she's a dream. I'd have her before any of these strapping, ball-crushing constables that pass through here — even the good looking ones like Bathurst — but there's no way Miller is going to go anywhere near the likes of me. It's not because she's married, because faithful she ain't. It's a power thing. She goes for people in power, people that can do things for her. And note that — people. Not just men. This woman would have fought on both sides of the Spanish Civil war, if you know what I'm saying.