know how it is, darlin', they just don't have enough to nick him. This is the first she's heard of it, but she's thinking, I'm just a constable, it's not likely that I'm going to know everything that's going on. So she buys it. They need her help, he says, but obviously there can't be too many who know about it. So keep it to herself. Lists the ones who were going to be in on it and no one else would know. A little evidence doctored, a few things placed where they shouldn't be, the odd clue left lying around, and they'd have their man. If she went along he would see that it benefited her greatly, and she doesn't need him to tell her that, because it's obvious.
So it doesn't take long, and three quarters of an hour and a couple of whisky sodas later, she's in. Along with Crow, naturally, Sergeant Herrod — no surprise — and young Edwards, who belongs to the Hang 'Em High brigade. Five in the gang, and off they ride into the sunset to fight for truth, justice and liberty.
I thought that was going to be the story, and I wasn't at all surprised. That's how these things go. I was beginning to wonder why she'd brought it to me now, because I've seen enough of these over the years to really not give a shit. Blind eye, and all that. Then she brings me up to date.
Monday night, Christmas party. Everyone getting pissed, the usual thing. It was the second one she'd been at, so she knew what to expect, i.e. a queue of drunken guys attempting to get inside that tight white dress of hers; me included. One of the pished Lotharios was Edwards of course, not long after he had stripped for the benefit of us all. Destined to get nowhere with her, but desperate all the same. He goes for it, giving her all the shite he can think of, subjecting her to a three-quarter hour rambling monologue. Starts talking about their great breakthrough case of the previous year, starts telling her things she never knew. She had been a bit drunk herself to start, but this kind of thing sobers you up quickly enough.
Bloonsbury and Crow had been in on it all along. Not just stitching up the guy, but the whole fucking thing. The murder, everything. The sick, demented bastard who committed the two attacks was Crow himself, with Bloonsbury's full knowledge. He carried out the first assault in an intended series, but of course got a bit carried away with himself, probably because he'd found his true vocation in life. Murdered the girl. Then they let the hysteria build up, feeding morsels to the scavengers every day to sustain and cultivate the frenzy, then timed the second attack to perfection, so that when things were at their wildest, when the heat was at its fiercest, they stepped in and picked up their man.
Christ, no wonder he protested his innocence. The guy didn't have a clue, but they must have had their eye on him right from the start. I don't know how they did it, but they knew they had a guy who wouldn't have an alibi for either of the two nights. They must have planned it for weeks. All right, they had taken the guy from the list of usual suspects, so it wasn't as if they got a complete innocent. Justice is justice, however.
Stitching guys up, when you know you're doing it to the right person, that's all right. Doing it to someone when you're not sure, but you need a break, well, you can understand it. Pretty stupid, and it can backfire, but we've all done it. But this was way beyond that. Committing the crime, so you can solve it and take the credit.
Surprised? No way. Crow was a sick man, and Bloonsbury was just pathetic and desperate. Don't know what Herrod or Edwards were up to, but then Edwards told her there was a bit of infighting after the first assault turned to murder.
So that's the story, and as she was telling me all this my mind wasn't working particularly quickly. I took it at face value, still vaguely curious as to why she thought she had to tell me everything. Then she dumps it on me, the thought that had occurred to her, the seed that had been sown and which was growing into a monster of a beanstalk.
She was sickened on Monday night, and went home questioning herself and what she had allowed herself to get drawn into. Then Tuesday morning dawns in a wail of frantic activity. She gets down to it, the same as the rest of us. Then sometime during the day it hits her, a massive punch to the face. Maybe it's a repeat performance. Maybe it's another set up. Bloonsbury was getting himself drunk in front of us all, but who knows what Crow is doing these days? Hitting the bottle in the backwoods, certainly, but it's not as if we can account for his movements. So, maybe he's committed the crime in cahoots with Bloonsbury, and after another murder or two they're going to go through their tried and trusted stitching up routine.
So, that's the story. All true, except the last bit which is speculation. The first lot is bad enough, and I'm clinging to the hope that the second lot is Bathurst's overactive imagination. I think I managed to persuade her as such, but it's got me thinking. Can't get a fix on a logical, clear argument. Not surprising. There are too many questions. What would be in it for Crow? Maybe it's nothing to do with Crow, and Bloonsbury's got someone else to do the dirty work this time. But what could Jonah Bloonsbury give anyone as payment for that kind of thing? All his money is in alcohol. Herrod, Edwards, they couldn't possibly condone this. The first was an assault that went wrong. What happened on Monday night was some miles beyond that.
I don't know. I need to get away from it all, think clearly. I need to persuade myself that they had nothing to do with Monday night. The knowledge of the previous case is bad enough, without being lumbered with all this. I want to talk to Taylor and I'll need to if they're involved with this murder. But if they're not — and there's no reason to assume they commit every crime around here for their own ends — then I know Taylor won't want to know about it. I certainly don't.
I need vodka and tonic, and lots of it.
And fuck the tonic.
17
Made a decision. Going to go up to Arrochar and speak to Crow. Haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to say to him, but I know if I don't follow this up it's just going to eat away at me. After that, I don't know. Depends a lot on what he says, although I'm not sure how I'll raise the subject. Just have to wing it. Leave it until tomorrow, however. Tonight I've got dinner with my happy family and I'm not going to let it get in the way of that. A problem put off to another day is a problem solved.
Lunchtime, sitting in Taylor's office chewing the fat. I mean that literally, having purchased a sandwich from the canteen. Taylor's preoccupied, presumably thinking of that wife of his.
'Ever hear of Crow?' I say to him.
He looks up.
'Drunken Gerry?' Shakes his head, distasteful look on his face, as we all have when we think of Crow. 'Naw, and I don't want to either. Think Jonah went to see him last month or something. Said his place was a shit- tip.'
I take another bite into the rubber of my sandwich, another swig of coffee to mask the taste.
'Why do you ask?' he says.
Can tell from the tone of voice that he doesn't care, making the question easier to avoid.
'Just wondered.'
Taylor grunts and resumes his morose reflections. Decide to plunge into the middle of them myself.
'So, what you doing tonight?'
He looks round, shrugs. 'Cosy Christmas dinner at home with the wife and the in-laws. Mum, dad, Betty, fucking Anthony and all fifteen fucking children, or however many it is they have. I lost count.'
'You going to make it?'
'Don't know. They're waiting 'til six and if I'm not in, they'll get on with dinner. And you can see how busy I am, so I'm not sure. Might just be held up at the station.' He puts his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling.
I nod. Sound thinking. I've never met Anthony and the children but I've heard enough about them.
I'd been on the verge of asking for an update on his marital status, but decide against. It's Christmas Day and I've already got enough on my mind without being burdened with all his troubles. Very fucking Christian of me.
Another foray into the midst of the sandwich, followed by instant regret. Catch a whiff of alcohol in the air, look up to see Detective Chief Inspector Jonah Bloonsbury standing in the doorway. His nose glows effervescently red in the midst of a dour face. Fresh from interviewing our prime suspect.
'Good work, Thomas,' he says, 'but it's not him. I see what you were thinking, though.'
Aye, right. Don't care, having already had the thought myself. Gut instinct goes wrong again. Might have to
