three white boys — silent fury and a gun to the back of the head for them, should he ever find them — but at the mother for phoning us. There's no justice like your own justice, and you keep yourself to yourself. Anyway, I got packed off with PC Grant to start the ball rolling. Did our stuff, looked like we were investigating, and now the girl's downstairs making a statement to a couple of female officers, all us men being bastards and incapable of sympathy, such is the modern way of thinking. Fine by me, and now I'm back on the murder case, detailed to follow up various reported sightings of Ann Keller the previous evening. Most of them are futile — nearly half are downright impossible, given what we already know of her movements, and the rest are dubious. The only one to make any sort of sense was the bloke who came to the station. Everything he said tied in with what we already knew, and he came up with a good enough description of the guy we're looking for. Assuming, of course, that this bloke isn't him. These headcases move in mysterious ways. We got a photofit out of it anyway, and that'll be on the news all day. These things never actually look human, but sometimes they get results. Course, I've to spend the rest of the day following up all the other crank calls to see where it gets us, which will be nowhere.
On my way out, I bump into Sergeant Harrison. I hope I look human, and experience has taught me to keep toothpaste in the desk drawer, so I'm no longer setting fire to everything upon which I breathe.
She's pinning something on the noticeboard about a police charity evening early in the New Year. I hate those things. Stand and watch her for a second, before realising I'm staring.
'Eileen,' I say.
She turns, smiles.
'Rough night last night, Thomas?' she says.
I ignore it. 'I need some advice.'
She sticks in the last drawing pin, checks it's straight, and steps back.
'Don't drink so much, and get to bed earlier.'
Everyone hates a comedienne.
'Very funny. What do you know about twelve year-old girls?'
She smiles. I like Eileen Harrison. Not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm pretty sure there's no chance I'll ever get her into bed. Respect, you see.
'Well, I was one once, if that's any help.'
'I need an idea of what to get Rebecca for Christmas.'
'Your daughter?'
'Aye.'
She purses her lips.
'How much money are you spending?'
Not sure that I want to divulge that information to Detective Sergeant Harrison. Don't want to be judged.
'Fifty pounds,' I say anyway.
'She mature for her age?'
Feel like I'm under investigation. Imagine Sergeant Harrison viciously interrogating suspects.
'Not sure. I mean, you can't tell, can you? Who knows what she's like when I'm not there. She could be doing drugs and boys and all that stuff, for all I know.'
Purses her lips again, looks disapproving. 'You've been in the job too long, Thomas. Not all children are baby adults, doing dodgy deals and out for what they can get.'
'Aye, but some of them are.'
'Fine. Get her a piece of jewellery then. If she's older than her years that'll do her, and if she's not it'll make her feel mature, and show that you respect her. How's that?'
I look at her; she smiles and turns. Why is it that woman have so much more common sense than men? Must be genetic. We got testosterone, they got common sense and all those orgasms.
'What kind of jewellery?' I say pathetically to Eileen Harrison's back.
She turns, still smiling. Pitying smile, this time.
'Use your imagination, Thomas, for God's sake, she's your daughter.' And off she goes to chew the bollocks of hardened criminals.
Suitably chastened, I make my way out of the station.
*
Three down, four to go. This is going to be a long day. Sitting in the drab waiting area of a small lawyer's office in Tollcross as a result of a phone call from an Ian Healy, who says he saw our murder victim on Monday night. Sounds a little more plausible than the others, particularly the last one, a seventy-three-year-old man who claimed to have seen her in Woolworths in Rutherglen at half past ten yesterday morning. Get a life, you sad bastard, I said to him, and walked out the door.
I'm sitting under the watchful eye of a curious secretary, all ravenously curly hair and lipstick. Face like bread and butter pudding, the typical Glasgow police sceptic. I want to arrest her for something.
The door opens, out steps Mr. Healy, preceded by a small man in tears, who looks suspiciously at me as he walks by.
'Don't worry,' says Healy to him, 'we'll get her back for you.'
The man half turns, gives a watery smile and is gone. There goes an interesting little story, the details of which I couldn't want to know less.
I stand up, take Healy's outstretched hand.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say. Firm grip, the guy's young and doesn't look like an idiot. We're a couple of goals to the good already.
'Come in, Sergeant,' he says, and ushers me past the secretary.
Walk in, simple enough office, sit down.
'Sorry about Mr McKay,' he says. 'Problems with his dog.'
'Ah,' I say. I really don't give a shit about the dog.
'Very weird situation,' says Healy.
'I believe you might have seen Ann Keller on Monday evening?' I say, cutting to the business end.
He nods, looks serious, leans forward. 'Aye. Monday night, on my way home from the pub. So it would have been some time not long after eleven.'
'Was she alone?'
He nods, looks even more serious. I hate lawyers. 'No, well, kind of, but there was a guy walking just behind her. I didn't pay that much attention, but I got the impression he was following her, hassling her…'
'So why didn't you say anything? Give her some help?'
He swallows, looks guilty. The question wasn't fair — implied that the woman might not be dead if he'd done something. Doesn't do any harm to keep them on their toes, however.
'I don't know. You don't, do you? He wasn't speaking to her or anything. It was just an impression I got. I forgot about it until I saw the television last night.'
'Aye, fine.' Shuffle about in the pocket, produce a photofit picture, pass it across the desk.
He studies it, shakes his head. 'No, definitely not him.'
Good. That was a picture of Herrod, and the first two I showed it to already identified him as the killer. It'd be pretty funny if it was, but unfortunately he's got a hundred and fifty police witnesses as an alibi.
Pass over another picture. He looks at it, shakes his head again. Pass the third over, the real one this time. He studies it closely, then shakes his head again.
'No, not him either. At least I don't think so.'
I take it back off him, look at it, shove it back in my pocket. These bloody pictures are crap. It could be anybody. It could be this guy sitting across the desk.
'Do you think you'd be able to come down to the station later and make up one of these for the man you think you saw?'
Slight twitch, hesitation — just enough — then, 'Sure. Not for a couple of hours, but I could do it this afternoon.'
Don't betray your thought. 'That'd be great, thanks Mr. Healy.' Wonder. You never know what these headcases are going to do. It takes a mad bastard to invite the police in when you've committed murder, but then it takes a mad bastard to knife a woman over a hundred times.
