'No one sucks anything up any more, Sergeant.'
We both drink. Neither of us bought anything to eat. Another customer arrives, but they won't find anywhere to sit. Cold morning again, feel the draught as the door opens and closes.
'He's coming again,' says Taylor. 'He has to be. Why start all this shit off unless that's what he's doing? And he's confident he's not going to get caught at it. He knows he's not going to get caught. How does he know he's not going to get caught?'
He looks earnestly at me. I've just been thinking that my coffee could be warmer.
'I'm thinking.'
Rubs his chin. We both find ourselves looking over at a kid in a pram agitating to be given more chocolate, which the father inevitably hands over.
Have barely seen my own kids this year, which is shit. Can't think about that now, although that appears to be what I usually think when I think of my own kids. No time.
'Maybe we need to start looking at woods, the woods around here, further afield. Work out where he strikes next.'
'That's a lot of woods,' I say. 'An unworkable amount of woods. And we're assuming he does the same the next time.'
'Exactly,' says Taylor. 'He may have called himself the Plague of Crows, but maybe next time he's going to be the Plague of Chainsaws and tuck his victims away in a disused warehouse.'
I laugh, but we both know that's not going to happen.
'He's established an instantly identifiable corporate image,' I say. 'I don't think he's changing that.'
'Which means, if he's coming back, chances are he's doing the same thing again. Multiple killings in a wood. So how does he know he won't get caught?'
'He doesn't do it around here,' I say. 'Unless he's already done it.'
'Yep.' Quick, unnecessary glance at his watch. 'We've known about this less than twenty-four hours. Not impossible that it's happened in a wood in central Scotland, or anywhere else in Scotland, and the victims haven't been discovered yet. For all his careful planning, that is one thing he must have left to chance. How could he know that someone wouldn't be out walking? A hiker, someone walking the dog, whatever.'
'He could take care of them. Add them to the list. A more regular murder.'
'But he wouldn't know that they hadn't told someone where they were going. That's chance again. They don't come home, odds are someone goes looking for them… Shit, we've been over this before… He knew he was safe, and whatever it was he put in place the last time, he could have done it again.'
'One thing's different,' I say. 'The trees.'
'Fuck, aye. Decent thought, Sergeant, he's not going to have the same level of cover.'
'Which reduces the number of woods or forests he's going to be able to use.'
'Hmm…' he mutters. Hand drawn over the face, more coffee, another look around the joint. The whining kid is demanding something else. The dad immediately capitulates and hands it over. We ought to be able to arrest people for that kind of thing. Sure, they'd object at the time, but they'd thank us in the long run.
'We're looking for an evergreen forest,' says Taylor. 'You think that's it? A pine forest, something like that?'
'Do crows like pine?' I ask. He doesn't answer, but he isn't likely to. How the fuck do we know if crows like pine?
'All right,' he continues, 'since we've picked up the ball… We've got our pine forest. Where the fuck is it? There's not a lot of pine around here, but one of the things he's done in the last twenty-four hours is take it global. Why Scotland? He could be anywhere. Hell of a lot of pine in the world.'
'And if he was somewhere else, it wouldn't necessarily be pine. Could be any kind of forest. Could be in the middle of the fucking desert.'
Taylor nods, drains his coffee.
'We can't go everywhere with this. We need to keep it grounded. Small steps. We've got a wood or forest, we've got crows, and we've got crows' nests. He needs cover so he's likely to have to use an evergreen forest…'
'But not a densely populated one, not one of those they plant just so they can chop them down again a few years later…'
'Too dense for the crows, less likely to find a convenient, natural clearing in the middle of it.'
'Yes.'
'Yes, yes…' says Taylor, his mind going over the options, '…but there are still going to be woods with bare trees that just by their sheer volume or location provide cover, so we'll have to consider those too.'
Suddenly Taylor straightens, shoulders back, head up.
'You finished?'
He still drinks faster than me.
'No,' I say.
'Leave it then.'
'Where are we going?' I ask, as we make for the door.
'No point in us sitting around talking about trees. What do you know about trees?'
'Bugger all.'
'Same here. Let's go and find someone who knows about trees.'
'You know wh-'
'No, but we'll find someone who knows someone who knows about trees.'
There's probably a website for that.
12
In the office of the tree expert. Forestry Commission out at Aberfoyle. Forty-five minute journey. I drove. Might have been a waste of time for us both to come out here, but this is how Taylor works. He likes the time in the car. We can stick Bob on the CD player and think. Or we can stick Bob on the CD player, turn it down a little, and talk things through. Only in the most serious of circumstances is Bob sacrificed to the necessity of quiet.
Alice Whittaker is standing at the window looking out over the local woods. We can see the edge of the golf course. Played a round there once on a station day out. I think I shot a handy 136 or so. 70 over par. Not my best round, although sadly not my worst either.
Taylor is looking at maps on the walls, I'm standing with my bum against a ledge, arms folded. There's an informality about the whole thing that wouldn't be there if we were seated around a desk.
So far all we've had is general chitchat and a couple of questions about crows and trees. Nothing much. We didn't say why we were here, but it became pretty obvious the minute crows got a mention.
Taylor spoke to a crow expert last time. Maybe we'll go and see him again. What kind of job is that? Crow expert. I don't suppose it was his actual job title.
'You think your man is going to strike again?'
Taylor can do artifice and bullshit as much as the next man, happy to tell an interviewee as little as possible. He'll gauge the woman, make a call.
Alice Whittaker is all right. You can tell. She won't call a newspaper as soon as we walk out the door and let them know what the police are thinking. She probably won't even tell her husband over dinner tonight that the police called.
'Yes,' says Taylor.
'Which would explain why the man responsible has gone public with footage he's kept tucked away for several months.'
'Yes.'
We're on the first floor, allowing that view up to the woods and the golf course. Taylor, clutching the mug of tea we were given when we arrived, goes over and stands beside her and they look out at the view together. I'm a couple of yards away, feeling a bit left out.
