'So she spoke to Miller, presumably about the Addison case, although we don't know, and then she went off somewhere else to some lover.'
'Yes.'
'And do you know who this lover was?'
I stare across the table, lowering the mug. I'm really not going to answer that, but then I don't have to. Eileen Harrison: the only known lesbian at the station, the two days off work, coming back after the visit from the other sergeant… it all plays out in his eyes as he looks at me, and then he nods. His face goes blank, he leans on his hands, then rubs his face.
'So we've had officers running about for the past five days trying to find out who Bathurst slept with just before she died…'
'It's just the way it's worked out,' I say.
He looks unimpressed with that. Unimpressed with me and Eileen Harrison.
'You could've told me, at least, that you knew Bathurst had been to see Miller. Why didn't you say?'
I really don't have an answer for that.
'You wanted it to be your own little secret? Was that it? Is it more than sex, Hutton? What are you saying?' I'm not saying anything, you're saying it all for me. 'You think you've got some sort of chance with her? You want to be Mr Miller? Fuck's sake, Hutton, what are you thinking?'
He's hit the nail on the head. He is a detective after all. I just sit there looking like a lump of lard.
'When are you seeing her again?'
'Don't know. She was fucked off about the Montague business. Think she might have dumped me.'
Don't know how pathetic my voice sounded just then. He shakes his head, the anger leaves his face to be replaced by a smile. Starts to laugh. Wonder what he's doing, but it becomes infectious and I join him. He's right to laugh at me, after all, I deserve it.
'She just used me for sex,' I say, and we both end up pishing ourselves laughing for five minutes over the absurdity of me and Charlotte Miller.
If you can't laugh, what can you do? Bastard.
When we get ourselves back together he asks the obvious question.
'What was it like then?' he says. I would have asked him the same thing if the situation had been reversed.
Look for the right words, but it's hard to find them. How to encapsulate such beauty in mere language.
'Fucking brilliant,' is as good as I can do.
He looks appreciative. 'I expect it probably would be.'
The waitress hovers nearby, Taylor orders another piece of chicken pie; no chips. She disappears again. He smiles, shakes his head, rolls his eyes, says, 'Shit, I should have ordered more tea.' Calls over to her, raises his cup. She nods at him, and there's a fifty percent chance she understood what he meant.
Glad I've told him at last. And it takes some more of the edge off this pointless infatuation. I needed a good kick in the arse to start getting over it, and her reaction to the Montague business was a reasonable start. Taylor pishing himself laughing at me is also what I needed.
'So, you think she's dumped you because of Jonathan Montague?' he asks.
'She hasn't said as much, but that's probably about it.'
'She's probably shagging him 'n all.' He smiles. 'Three times in six days, you lucky bastard…'
We sit in silence for a moment. The second piece of chicken pie arrives, suspiciously quickly. Really, did they even have time to heat that up in the microwave?
Taylor doesn't seem bothered by the indecent haste, and tucks straight in.
'So, Charlotte's mad about you going to Montague. She knows it's because we're checking out Crow. Bathurst has told her the whole story…'
'We assume, we don't know.'
'Whatever. She doesn't think the Addison case has anything to do with this, despite the three deaths, and so she doesn't want us digging away at old wounds. Leave them be and concentrate on finding Ian Healy.'
'Or,' I say, 'she knows they're connected because she's part of it. Wants to ensure we don't discover the truth.'
'Too scary, Hutton. Crow, fine, 'cause the guy's sick. But Miller. If that's the case, why not just put herself in charge of the case when she removed Bloonsbury?'
'She tried that.'
'What do you mean?'
'She said she was doing it. I threatened to reveal the fact that Bathurst went to see her on Friday night; told her to put you in charge instead.'
He looks at me, forkful of chicken pie in hand.
'You're jerking me off?' he says.
'Nope.'
'Jesus fuck, Hutton, you're full of little secrets. Anything else you'd like to tell me?'
'Well, it was odd, because at the time that I was ordering her about — and let's be clear, I was a lot less forceful than that sounds — I assumed she'd slept with her. So, even though she hadn't, she still thought the fact that they'd seen each other the night Bathurst was murdered was enough of a reason to withdraw from leading the investigation.'
Taylor nods away as he continues to wolf down the pie.
'Yep, that might be significant. Anything else?'
'Don't think so.'
'Good. I think I've heard enough secrets.'
I gesture to the waitress that I'd like some more tea.
'So what are we going to do?' I ask.
He spears another piece of pie.
'We're going to ignore her and go after Crow. Go back down to Arrochar later this afternoon. Speak to a few people, do a more thorough search of that horrible little house of his, and we're going to work out where he went.'
The tea arrives.
'Magic,' I say.
40
Some time after four o'clock. The evening has already arrived, but still the country is bright with the low cloud and the snow lying on the ground. Hogmanay, the usual busy night ahead. Still, it isn't like it used to be around here, that's for sure. Anyone's granny will tell you that. All that running around and first footing; turning up at the house of total strangers with a bottle of White amp; McKay at your armpit; singing strange songs without words which could be Cole Porter as much as Harry Lauder; all that has gone. We've become a nation of people who sit and watch rotten TV, and complain endlessly about how bloody awful it all is and how New Year just isn't what it used to be. As if it's everybody else's fault but our own.
No crap TV for us tonight, though. We're on the hunt for Crow, and after a few hours wasting time chasing reported sightings of Ian Healy, we're back on track. Might be the wrong track, but I have a feeling.
In the last two days nearly ninety people have reported seeing Ian Healy. Sounds good? Rubbish. If they'd all come from the same place, we'd be fine. But, as is always the case, we've had calls from everywhere. Down south as well, as his picture went out on the national news.
So Ian Healy is this week's Elvis. Working a petrol pump in Wolverhampton; sitting on a bench in Hyde Park; throwing up over the side of the Mull ferry in choppy seas; playing golf in Nairn.
That's the trouble with putting out photographs — you get all sorts of nutjobs calling in. Same last week with the photofit, which turned out to be a pretty poor resemblance of our man. Every poor bastard with no one to talk to wants to phone the police.
