'And Herrod?'
Shake my head.
'Tell them both I want to see them when they get in.'
She stares at me for a second, then turns away. She stops as she passes the closed door to Bloonsbury's office, perhaps considers going in. Walks on, back to her own office. Closes the door behind her.
Well, Jesus, Taylor was right. The criminals have taken over the asylum; the suspect has taken over the investigation. Except, she's nobody's suspect except mine.
Head in palm of my hand, eyes open. Ignoring the noise of the office going on around me. Certainly no bloody thought for this stupid newsagents. Criminals got away with several thousand cigarettes and a bunch of pornos. Christ, maybe this was Crow as well.
Forget Crow. What am I going to do about Charlotte Miller? She's the last person to have seen Bathurst, she slept with her; then maybe an hour later, she's dead. And Charlotte Miller isn't telling anyone about it.
But do I really believe she had something to do with it? If she didn't, then is there anything wrong with her leading the bloody thing? If the two of them were intimate, then maybe she'll be switched on to it — certainly a damn sight more switched on than Jonah.
I stand up, decision made, even though I've no idea where it's come from. She can't do it. She's got thirty officers trying to discover where Evelyn Bathurst was on the night she died, and whose bed it was that she lay in.
Knock on the door, don't wait to be invited in. Walk in, head up, full of aggression. She stares at me and I immediately want to forget it. I can live without confrontation. This isn't my problem. Really, if I say it often enough, I can persuade myself that it's not my problem.
Can't think of the right words, so I just come out with the first ones that are there.
'What the fuck are you doing?'
Nice start. Suddenly have the image of me sitting on an inter-city train; first class ticket, eating one of these brie and black grape sandwiches, ice-cold v amp;t, on my way up north for a bit of a holiday.
'Sergeant?'
One word, but what a voice. A coiled snake. You can hear it in those two syllables, the anger just waiting to explode. No one talks to Detective Superintendent Miller like that. I'm going to just have to go for it. All guns.
'You slept with Evelyn on Friday night.' Good opener.
Her shoulders straighten. Face tightens.
'What?' is all she says. The anger's gone, she no longer sounds as if she's about to machine gun me. Then again, she doesn't look taken aback; more surprised. But is she surprised that I know, or surprised at the suggestion?
'You slept with Evelyn. Half the fucking force is trying to find out who her lover was on Friday night, and it's you.'
Shut up, let the words sink in. She just stares at me, nothing to say — or doesn't know what to say. I can't read her at all, which is pretty much how it's always been.
'What makes you think that?' she says.
I'd imagined her crumbling before the shock and awe of my all out up-front attack, but these are not the words of a woman who's crumbled. This is a woman taking her time, assessing the situation, the extent of the damage.
'I've known all along,' I say, which is a shit answer, and not one that is likely to put her under any pressure. Her face relaxes before my eyes.
Fuck.
'What are you going to do?' she asks. There's almost a smile there, or maybe I'm just imagining it because I've seen brutal fuckers up close and you can always tell when they're about to smile. Just before they bury the knife in the eye socket.
So, what should I do? I should tell Taylor; I should tell anyone who wants to listen. Maybe it doesn't mean she had anything to do with the murder, but it's certainly pertinent to the investigation.
I stand there looking stupid. Have lost all that sparkling fire I had when I first got in here, sixty-five seconds ago, once again proving to be not even remotely as cool as I like to think I am.
Show some balls, Hutton, for God's sake.
'You need to put Taylor in charge.'
She doesn't answer. Looks up from behind the swathe of paperwork. Her mind is working and it's disconcerting to know that it's a hell of a lot sharper than mine. Having careered in here in the hope of establishing some sort of command, I'm now in a completely reactive situation.
I could just turn and walk out. Get on a train. Go and live in the Highlands, in a forest by a river. Eat rabbits.
'And if I don't?'
I was hoping she wasn't going to ask that.
'Just do it, Charlotte. I don't know what the fuck was going on between you and Evelyn, but you're too close. And if it ever gets out, you're fucked, especially if you take over the investigation. It's just going to look like you've got something to hide.'
'And what do you think? Do you think I've got something to hide?'
'I don't know.'
She doesn't immediately reply. Looks across the desk. I feel like Partick Thistle playing Barcelona, and before the game starts you talk yourself into it being eleven against eleven and anything can happen, and you go out all guns blazing and maybe you even get a goal in the first two minutes, and you think, fuck yeah, we can do this; then, half an hour in, you're getting beaten seventeen-one.
'Do you know why Evelyn came to see me?'
Get swallowed up by those eyes. Try to think clearly. What's this about? Wants to know how much I know about these bastards and what went on last year? I'm lost. Big time denial, that's the only option.
'No idea.'
A long pause. I wish I knew what was going on in there.
'Did you know she was coming before she came?'
She's fishing. I'm such an idiot that if I let her fish, she'll catch something before too long.
'How, when, it doesn't matter. I know, that's all. Are you going to put Taylor on it, or not?'
'If I do, what will you tell him? What if he instructs you to spend all your time looking for Bathurst's female lover? What then?'
She gives me the shivers, for a hundred different reasons. Time to go.
'I don't fucking know, Charlotte. Just do it.'
If in doubt, resort to Nike marketing blurb. After all, nothing is impossible.
Give her my best look of steel. Try to be hard. Really, I'd be better off not trying anything, just being myself. A fucked up miserable bastard who wants to run away. Turn on my heels and walk out before she can see through it — although I'm probably about five minutes too late for that.
Close the door behind me, feel the relief. Have no idea what I'm going to do if she decides to go for a test of wills by completely ignoring me. All I can do is hope she gives in and lets Taylor get on with it. Otherwise…
As I cross the open plan, the legendary Jonah Bloonsbury emerges from his office. Looks awful, but that's no surprise. Facing up to the fact that his career has finally disappeared round the u-bend. Some guys look good on the back of four or five days stubble — me for instance — and some guys just look terrible.
He stops to talk to me as our paths cross. Looks broken. Shoulders hunched; clothes pretty much the same ones he's been wearing for the past week; eyes bloody red, might have been pierced with a knife; ruddy face, bulbous nose of the alcoholic, combined with the hollow cheeks of someone who hasn't eaten anything for months; thinning hair, matted, dirty. We get druggies in here who look better than he does.
'The bitch tell you what she's done?' he says. Words trip over each other on their way out of his mouth. Can smell the whisky. Stale and fresh at the same time.
'Aye,' I say.
He slumps against a desk. Herrod's desk, as it happens. Head collapses onto the top of his chest, and then he appears to notice that Herrod isn't there.
