frozen chicken pieces in Tesco, and stabbing folk in the back to get it, and I'm going to be dining on fresh meat.
In this modern world, there's probably a name for what I'm doing. Everything's got a name. In my head, however, it doesn't have a name. It's just what I'm doing this week. This month. I doubt it'll last into the winter, although I'm not giving Dr Sutcliffe anything on which she could recommend that I be allowed to return to work.
I just don't think they should have suspended me in the first place.
So, I don't know that I'd give what I'm doing a name, as such, but I've lost nearly twenty-five pounds, and I'm marginally less likely to die of a heart attack than I was a few months ago. Off the fags as well. What a fucking loser.
My mobile rings for the first time in over two months as the train pulls into Helensburgh station.
2
Sitting in the station café waiting for DCI Taylor to get the coffees in. Feeling, as I do most of the time these days, remarkably fresh and healthy. Bright. Sharp as a fucking tack. Haven't had coffee in three weeks, but the boss has come down here for a chat and if I drink water or some sort of fruit smoothie like the twenty-year-old wankers drink, he'll think I've lost it.
He comes back with two Americanos and parks himself across the table. First time I've seen him in three- and-a-half months. Hasn't changed.
Of course he hasn't.
'What's with you?' he says. 'Been to the Med or something?'
Ah, yes. Got a bit of a tan.
'Out on the hills every day. Windswept.'
'You've got a Scottish tan?'
'Aye.'
'Fuck me…'
He shakes his head and looks away. Glances around the café. Checking out the rest of the clientele. I know the look. Making sure there are no journalists. We take a sip of coffee at the same time.
'You're coming back to work,' he says, before he looks at me.
Strangely I hadn't expected that. I hadn't given any thought to why he would get on a train to the other side of Glasgow just to come and see me, so this possibility never entered my head. Not sure what else it was likely to have been, though.
'What if I don't want to?' I say.
I'm not sure what it is I've been doing the last few months, but I'm not finished.
'You're still getting paid, aren't you?' he says sharply.
Very true. I don't
'You start tomorrow morning at eight. I expect you'll spend the night in bed with God knows who, but wherever you lay your hat, you'll need to get out of there in time to get back to work.'
Don't immediately say anything. Another drink of coffee, look at the road outside. Traffic and people. I've grown used to the solitude of the hills.
'Surprised Doctor Sutcliffe thought I was ready,' I say.
Must have fooled her into thinking I was normal by doing what most blokes would have done. You know, by not saying anything. And staring at her breasts.
'Sutcliffe thinks you're so fucked up you're practically retarded. You've buried your past deeper than most war criminals bury the bodies, is what she says.'
Jesus. That didn't take much. Suddenly it's all back there in my head, the thing that I manage not to think about while I'm sitting on a quiet Scottish mountainside, looking out over the hills and lochs, the sea in the distance.
'So why are you bringing me back?' I ask. Just to keep the conversation going. Don't want to wallow. Wallowing can lead to many things, none of them good.
'I need you.'
I stare across the table. Don't know what to say to that. Don't even feel like sarcasm or bursting into some bloody awful romantic song.
He's got a bag beside him. I'd noticed the bag, what with me being a detective 'n' all. He reaches into it and pulls out an iPad.
'You been following the news?' he asks, as he keys in the code.
'In my world, America's still fighting in Vietnam.'
Seriously, I haven't the faintest idea what's happening in the news. And I like it that way. I've been sitting on the side of hills, staring into space, listening to Bob. Bob's timeless. News doesn't come into it. Occasionally on my trips up to Glasgow I've seen the odd Evening Times billboard, but invariably it'll be some pointless story about the city council or about some Hollywood movie filming in the centre because it so beautifully approximates an apocalyptic war zone without any extra work being done to it, or there'll be a story about some Old Firm player I've never heard of before.
That's my news.
He's found what he's looking for, looks up at me.
'There were three bodies found in a small wood up above Cathkin four days ago.'
Why is he bringing me this? I don't want to know about bodies in a wood. I've seen enough dead bodies in woods. It might have been a long time ago, but those bodies are still burned in my brain. It wasn't like it happened yesterday. It's like it's still happening, like there's something I could be doing about it.
'One police officer, one social worker, and a journalist.'
'One of ours?' I ask. 'The polis?'
'No. A constable from out Royston way.'
'The papers get it all?'
He hesitates. He's looking at a photograph. I'm looking at his face, not trying to see the photograph upside down. I don't want to see the photograph.
'They got a bit about there being three deaths in mysterious circumstances. One of them was a journalist after all, we could hardly keep it a secret. But the exact details of the murders… no. We've had to do some serious business to keep the lid on. Just making sure they don't go for some human interest angle. The public only ever care when the press want them to.'
He turns the iPad round. I'm still looking at his face. Finally I lower my eyes.
The photograph is of a clearing in a wood on a bright morning.
There are three cadavers in the picture, all sitting upright in a small triangle, facing each other. They have been strapped to wooden chairs, presumably while they were still alive, so that they would remain sitting upright throughout the process of their murder.
Despite the clarity of the picture, it still takes some deciphering at first glance, especially when I don't know what it is I'm looking at. From the angle that the picture has been taken, two of the faces are visible, the other showing the back of his head to the camera. Blood has run down and dried on the two faces. It's hard to make out what's going on with the other head.
The most obvious thing about the three victims, yet the thing that takes the longest to decipher, is that each of them has had the top of their skull removed. Cut clean away to reveal the top of the brain. What is visible, however, is not clear. On all three of them, what can be seen is a bloody mess.
'There are more,' said Taylor.
I hand the iPad back.
'Nice job,' I say. 'Bleed to death?'
'No,' says Taylor. 'The killer did a good job. Very precise. Managed to expose the brain without causing too much bleeding. Any that he did cause, he immediately cauterised with superglue. Knew what he was doing.'
