do something about that, but not sure how you improve your guts. Bisodol, maybe.
'You let him go?' says Taylor, a man who still possesses guts of steel.
'Aye,' says Bloonsbury. 'It just wasn't right, you know. And it turned out the bastard was up to his neck in alibis.'
Look up. No way.
'You're kidding?' I say.
Shakes his head. 'Produced a couple of names, checked out. Think he was taking the piss when he was talking to you, stupid bastard. Last thing he did was threaten to sue, so I pointed out to him that that might not be a very good idea. Think he got my meaning.'
'Blood test?' says Taylor. Tone of voice that says he couldn't care less.
Bloonsbury shakes his head.
'No point,' he says. 'He's not our man, and if I start drawing blood from the bastard then we will get a law suit. You know what these lawyers are like. Anyway, says he was serious about the description he gave us, so we'll check it out. He's doing a photofit just now. Probably be totally different from the other one we've got. Maybe we should pick up that first bastard who came in.'
'You can't go arresting everyone who tries to help us, Jonah,' says Taylor. 'Bad for business.'
Bloonsbury grunts, get a whiff of J amp;B.
'Aye, whatever. I'm going to get something to eat. Any of you want anything?'
I hold up the worst sandwich on planet earth and Taylor shakes his head. Bloonsbury grunts again and wanders off. Glad he didn't stay much longer.
Plunge into the sandwich again, come up with meat.
'Seems a bit odd,' I say, 'don't you think? The lawyer suddenly coming up with alibis, I mean.'
'Fuck, who knows? Lawyers, they'll do what they want. If it makes the police look stupid, they don't care.'
'But to spend a night in a cell for nothing.'
'Probably got his reasons. Trying to get away from his girlfriend. Anything. More likely, fully intending to sue. And if that's the case, I'll bet he won't be put off by an idle threat from Jonah. Fucking lawyers. Not much business, so they go looking for it themselves.'
'Still got a bad smell to it.'
'That was Jonah's breath. Forget it, Thomas.'
What am I doing worrying about it, anyway?
Briefly wonder where this leaves the tentative theory about Bloonsbury being behind the whole thing. The further I get from the conversation with Bathurst, the more disinclined I am to believe it.
'Where now?' I say to Taylor.
He sighs heavily and leans even further back in his seat.
'Fuck knows,' he says.
*
Four-fifteen, daily roundup. The investigation has almost ground to a halt. All those of whom we were suspicious check out. The boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, anyone who has volunteered information, the family, the neighbours. We've got a hold of everyone that ever so much as kissed her and come up empty. A brick wall. And that's one of the problems with this job. We could at some point have spoken to the guy who wielded the knife, but you never know.
Bloonsbury seems even more depressed than normal. I'm trying to remember what he was like during the last murder case, because if Bathurst is right, then he knew all along that he was going to solve the crime. Any worry or exasperation on his part would have been feigned. All I can remember is the guy holding off the drink, and making us all suffer with him. Seen to be not drinking would be part of the plan, the anguish it caused him a genuine consequence.
This time, however, you can tell the difference. You can smell it on his breath, on his clothes and his skin, you can see it in his face — the man has not decided to hold off from the booze. Jonah Fucking Bloonsbury; legend. Not even good for an Elvis impersonation at the Christmas night out anymore. And that's what he's become. Elvis. Wasted, bloated, permanently smashed out of his face. Clinging to the songs of the past, but become a bitter caricature. In years to come people are going to be doing Jonah Bloonsbury impersonations around here. But at the moment, he's the one doing it.
But what should I care? I've been unimpressed since I started working with him, and now I know he's as much of a criminal as the scum we've been hauling in here all these years. He deserves what's coming to him. I have a vision of him in three years time — or three months — sitting on Argyll Street under the rail bridge into Central Station. A scab on his nose from where he drunkenly fell into the gutter, a dirty beard and wearing the same clothes he now wears; hat on the ground, growling at passers-by to give him some money for methylated spirits or brake fluid, or whatever it is that the jakes are drinking these days.
He's standing with his back to us, looking at the pictures of Ann Keller which still adorn the walls, and which will continue to do so until we catch our man, or until they are pushed aside by new photographs of new victims — the real fear and possibility. He turns, looking bloody awful, slumps against the edge of the desk. A liquid lunch.
'Sgt Harrison, give us what we've got,' he says.
Herrod's got the day off, hanging out with Bernadette, the kids, and most of her family. Wonderful Christmastime. Bet he's just itching to come into work, but she won't let him.
Wonder how Miller is getting on with her dull husband in Braemar. The thought of her gives me a warm feeling — hardened cop turns to mush over woman in authority — as it has most of the day. Love's sweet music.
Mind on the job. Sgt Harrison.
'We don't have much, sir. All avenues of enquiry have so far led to a dead end. We have had a big response from the public. Several people saw her at the cinema, and we can be pretty sure she was alone. We've had two sightings of her walking along the street, post-cinema, two descriptions of a man either talking to her or walking close behind. The descriptions don't match however.'
'Conclusion?' says Bloonsbury, butting in. The voice displays no interest.
Harrison shrugs. Here's a woman who enjoys her job but would rather be somewhere else.
'It was dark, too brief a passing glance. Somebody passes you by in the street, you've no reason to remember them, the mind is not going to have very good recall.'
Bloonsbury grunts. He was hoping for some illumination on whether one of them was lying, preferably the first one since he's already decided our lawyer friend is innocent. Harrison is right, however. These things are a joke at the best of times.
'So,' says Harrison, 'we're struggling with any witnesses from Monday night. We've spoken to her boyfriend, with whom she had a fight on Monday during the day, and to seventeen ex-boyfriends or lovers.' Seventeen? Hey, my kind of girl. 'Everyone checks out. Small family, but they all seem genuinely upset. There's nothing there to suggest a motive from any of them.'
'Again, conclusion?' says Bloonsbury. Wonder if he's even listening to her.
She thinks about this.
'Either her killer was someone who barely knew her, or did not know her at all,' she says eventually. 'Or, we've missed something in all our interviews,' she adds, not a concept to bet against.
Bloonsbury nods, sort of mumbles to himself — increasing the impression that the man is losing it. A low mutter, the words undistinguishable. Perhaps considering the possibility that he was the one to miss something. A drunk faced with his own fallibility — what else should he do but mutter? Or perhaps he curses the rest of us.
'Right, then. That seems to be about it… Any of the rest of you lot got anything to say?' he says, looks around. 'Hutton?' Bastard.
'Who knows? He carries a grudge beyond rational thought, either against her or someone who looks like her. If it's the latter, we're in deep shit, because he's going to be bloody hard to find. Who knows how much Ann Keller looked like the object of his hate? It could be any guy out there. Any fucking guy.'
Bloonsbury grunts. 'A bit of profile, no clues, no substance. That's all we've got.' He's right, and it doesn't amount to anything. 'Anyone else?'
