small figure. Not a word, shakes his head, walks on.
He stops on the landing and we stand and listen. Nothing again, the house still silent. Don't know exactly what it is we're looking for. The sound of someone being murdered? The screaming sounds of sex? Can't be that — I was the one lined up for the job.
'Bedroom?' he says very quietly to me.
Point along the hall. Feel a tingle of excitement at the very mention of it. The thought that Charlotte will be lying in there waiting for me. Don't think she's going to be too impressed with me turning up with company. Can hear her saying, 'Think you couldn't cope, Sergeant?' Can also hear her losing her temper and telling us where to go. Begin to have my doubts about just walking into the house unannounced. The gut feeling is still there, but Charlotte Miller is the boss after all, and she's about to have two comedians standing on the threshold of her bedroom. Uninvited.
'You sure about this?' I say to him, voice as low as I can get it. 'Think we should go back and ring the bell.'
'Don't be a girl, Sergeant,' he says.
Stand outside the door. Look at Taylor. For all his hard words, can see he's not quite as sure as he wants to be. Not a sound from within. What if we just barge in there and all she's doing is sleeping? We're going to look like idiots. And I'm definitely killing off any chance that I've got; although my brief infatuation has already burned at its brightest and is waning.
'What are you expecting to find?' I whisper.
Looks at me. Can see he's definitely not as sure as he wants to be. But still, the guy's wife has only recently left him, and we're all at our most reckless when that happens. Just looking for something else to go wrong.
Shrugs the shoulders. This is it. He opens the door, hand to the light switch, steps into the room. I blunder in behind, and the two of us stand there like a couple of Action Men in the middle of the room.
Except there is no Action Man outfit for making a complete arse of yourself.
Charlotte stirs in her bed, raises her head. Her eyes blink the sleep away and she sits up. Looks at us like she can't quite comprehend what it is we represent. The sheets fall away from her and she's wearing the same top she wore the first night I came here. Can see the wonderful outline of her breasts, but embarrassment prevents me from getting too excited.
We stand there like a couple of great puddings waiting for her to say something, even though the onus really ought to be on us.
'Chief Inspector?' she says eventually. The look on her face is moving slowly from surprise to lack of understanding, on its way to outrage. Taylor better make this good, 'cause I'm keeping my mouth shut.
He hesitates, but knows he has to say something.
'We've got to speak to you about Bloonsbury,' he says.
Interesting.
She stares at him; the withering, reduces constables to jelly stare. Taylor's got an in-built force field against it, and I'm just trying to hide behind him, like Ron and Hermione squeezing under Harry's invisibility cloak.
She pushes the sheets away and stands up out the bed. The top slithers down her thighs, but not before she's allowed us the briefest glimpse of pubic hair; smooth and sensual thigh. Get that weird feeling at the back of my throat. Right place, wrong time.
Shakes her head, eyes still squinting into the light.
'What the fuck are you doing, Dan? What time is it?'
'About two,' he says. Good command in the voice. The guy is not a bit intimidated. Balls of steel.
She gives me the same withering look — obviously unaware that I'm protected by Taylor's balls of steel force field — then turns back to Taylor.
'And you couldn't phone?'
Doesn't bat an eyelid, Taylor. Very impressive.
'Thought we should see you in person.'
She stares at him again. Giving it her best, but she must know it doesn't work with him.
'The doorbell?'
He doesn't immediately answer. Come on, Dan, think of a good one. Have no idea what he's going to say, and then he does the obvious and completely ignores the question.
'We found Ian Healy,' he says.
The eyes light up, the face does a variety of different things. Takes a step forward.
'Where?' she says.
'Bloonsbury's house.'
Brow furrows. Don't blame her.
'What?'
'Bloonsbury had him prisoner in his house. Had him there for a few days by the looks of things.'
She stares at him for a while, a different kind of stare now. Sits down on the bed, shaking her head. Then the hand goes to the forehead and she starts rubbing. Stress. The bane of our times. This is a reasonable time to be stressed, however. Can hear all that this piece of information entails running through her head. Or maybe she's already thinking of her own position. How she's going to explain it to the media, to the Chief Constable; how much will she have to bear the burden of responsibility?
If she already knows that Healy's been imprisoned at Bloonsbury's house, as one of our theories went, this is a command performance.
Looks up after a while. Can see the complete lack of assuredness in her eyes.
'Right, go downstairs and wait in the lounge. I'll be down in a minute,' she says. 'Fix yourselves a drink,' comes as an afterthought. A good afterthought. Need it.
We stand there staring at her, but we're already dismissed. The allure of a woman in her pyjamas, or a reluctance to let her out of our sight. Don't know. Finally Taylor leads and we walk out. Miller and I exchange a glance, but I can't even begin to try to read it.
Surprised to find my legs are still fully functional. Along the hall and down the stairs, past the bust of Wullie Thornton or whoever the hell it is.
'Don't know how you do it,' I say to him, when I presume we're well out of earshot. 'It's like you've got this superpower.'
'Piece of pish, Sergeant,' he says as we walk into the lounge. 'You've just got to remember which one of you has the balls.'
'I always have my doubts about that.'
'Got to use your napper. If we'd discovered nothing amiss, the minute it got nasty I just needed to drop in the bit about Healy and Bloonsbury. The shock of that was always going to completely alter the situation.' He raises his eyebrows at me to get my approval. I stare at him. Good point, but it wouldn't have stopped my legs from being jelly even if I'd thought of it. 'She's just a wee woman, Hutton, remember that.'
Head for the alcohol.
'I need a drink,' I say. 'Want a single malt, they've got some good stuff here?'
He stands in the middle of the room, staring at the remains of the fire — a single low flame still struggling to escape the ashes — illuminated by nothing but the red glow from the Christmas lights.
Check the ice bucket and find it fully equipped; make myself a v amp;t. Half and half. Take a long swallow. Cold and warm and smooth and sharp, the perfect drink.
'They've got some Lagavulin here,' I say. 'You like that shit.'
He's staring at me, forehead knotted, eyes squinting in the dim light.
'There's something not right,' he says.
'What do you mean?'
He looks around the room, but mostly it is in warm darkness. Red glow, faint shadows. Still.
'Don't know. Just something…' Lets his voice trail off.
Looks away, into dark corners. Forget the drink for a second, follow his gaze. Have the first inclination of tension; a shiver down the spine. A suspicion of sound, of movement. Swallow. Muscles tense. Waiting.
'Get the light, Sergeant,' he says.
And then the movement from behind the seat by the tree. The words barely uttered, no time for me to get to
