Sometimes you just know when you've reached the limit of all you're going to get.
'Aye, right, on you go.'
He grunts some sort of base insult or other and slams the door. Away back to Mel Gibson, you sad bastard.
Turn away from the door just as Taylor emerges from Crow's place. Looks none too happy, but he rarely does.
'Get anywhere?' I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders.
'Spoke to three people. Julia, the ex. Hasn't heard a thing from the guy in five or six years. Says that if we find him we've to remind him of his alimony responsibilities.'
'Some chance.'
'Aye. The other two, don't know who the hell they were. Wouldn't say, but we can check up on them. Just a couple of shady sleazoids that Crow does his dirty work with, I suspect. They both sounded pissed off at the mention of his name. I'd guess he owes them money, and neither of them knows where he is. What about you?'
That's police work for you. Hours of crap for little reward. Point in the direction of the Rest and be Thankful.
'Left at about one in the morning and went that way.'
He looks into the snow, along the road which runs beside Loch Long, then rises up the hill away from the loch, giving way to turn-offs which offer at least three choices of what route to take. The snow is already thick on the road and hardly a car has passed along it since we arrived. Only a fool would head up into the hills on a night like this; particularly when the man we're following went five days ago, and his trail will be colder than the water in the loch we're standing at the head of.
'You're going to follow him, aren't you?' I say.
He grunts and looks at me as if I'm an idiot.
'Get out of here, Hutton, it was five days ago for God's sake.'
Oh. 'What then?'
'You're going to go and interview some more of the neighbours, while I go back inside and watch the tele. Lethal Weapon 3 's on.'
Bloody marvellous. The usual division of labour.
'And Hutton,' he says, 'brush the snow off your hair. You look like an idiot.'
41
Get back into the house half an hour later. Frozen to the bone, in need of a hot drink. Or alcohol. Find Taylor with his feet up watching one of those shows on the execrable BBC3 with a name like Too Young To Kill Your Mum or Under 10 And Pregnant.
'Anything?' he says.
'They all thought he was a creep. Some of them had stories to tell, but nothing relevant.'
He grunts a reply, keeps watching the TV.
'What about you?' I say. 'You find out who the bad guys were in Lethal Weapon 3?'
'You might be surprised to hear I've been working.'
'Shocked.'
'Put a call through to all the stations in the surrounding area. Asked them to go out looking for Crow's car, call if they found anything.'
'I'll bet you were popular.'
'Just used my natural authority.'
Have a picture of fifteen desk cops trudging out into the snow, cursing him with extravagantly colourful words of dissent.
'So what if he drove outwith the surrounding area?'
He looks at me. 'We do it tomorrow. But if it's nearby we can go looking for it tonight. So we sit and wait. Give them an hour or two. Told them to call in with nil returns. Fine, he could be anywhere, but if his car's in one of the smaller towns out west here, then we might get him.'
Fair point. Might work.
'Couldn't we go and sit in a bar somewhere?'
'Don't be a girl, Hutton. Park your arse. There's some warm McEwan's beside the settee.'
Thanks.
And that's it for a long time. We sit and wait, enduring awful television as we go. The phone rings every now and again with some random station informing us they've checked the one carpark in their one carpark town; but the rest of the time we're quiet, as Taylor shows a peculiar liking for watching shows about teenagers who hate their parents and shows about teenagers who are parents. Says it helps him understand out clientele.
About an hour and a half into the ordeal, when we're on the point of giving up, we get the one we're waiting for. Dunoon. The local Feds have found his car parked up a small street at the back of the town. Taylor gets the location, tells them to leave it as it is; says they can bugger off and we'll be along to check it out ourselves.
So, a few quick calls to warn off the rest of the search party, and then we're back out into the snow. Along Loch Long away from Arrochar, slither up the Rest and Be Thankful, down and along Loch Fyne, past Strachur.
The snow lessens as we go, but Taylor is concentrating on not driving off the road, while I let my mind wander through a variety of women. Peggy, Charlotte, the relatively forgotten Alison, even Eileen Harrison. Still feeling like a complete shit, and deserving of the opprobrium that will probably come my way at some point.
Women. Fuck.
Get to Dunoon, drive past a chippie on the way in, and the very idea of the smell proves too intoxicating. Fish suppers all round, and then we resort to the satnav to find the right street. Satnavs are another invention that make me wish I was living in the '50s. What was wrong with taking a bit of time to find somewhere? What is wrong with those fucking people who drive into a lake in the middle of a wolf-infested forest and say, it's not my fault? The damned satnav is just another way in which the human race can abdicate any sense of personal responsibility.
So we step out into the snow and the cold, still finishing off our dinner. Good fish supper too — crispy batter, tasty piece of fish, right amount of salt and vinegar, chips deep-fried to perfection.
We stand looking at the car. Kicking the tyres, various other forms of external examination, while we eat the last of the meal — Taylor a little behind 'cause he was driving.
'So what?' I say to him. 'He got the ferry over to Gourock? Got the train up to Glasgow?'
'Shite,' says Taylor as he drops a piece of fish into the snow. Bends down, scoops it up, pops it into his mouth before it gets too cold. 'No, doesn't sound right. What would be the point?'
'Trying to throw us off his trail.'
'Would he even think we were on his trail to that extent?' he says. 'Who can figure out the mind of someone like Gerry Crow? Need to speak to one of the useless had-his-teddy-bear-stolen-at-the-age-of-five brigade.'
Finish off the fish supper, stuff the paper into my coat pocket and wash my hands in the snow. Light up a cigarette. That post-fish supper nicotine experience.
Taylor fishes around in his pocket and tosses me a small black book. Crow's life in sixty small pages.
'Check through that. Look for anything in this area.'
Get to it in the dim light of the street lamps, while Taylor continues to circle the car kicking at various parts, nothing left of his dinner but chips. Finally says, 'You any good at breaking into these things?'
Look up from Crow's seedy list of acquaintances. Horrified to see that I'm down there.
'Naw. Herrod was your man for that.'
'Well he's not here.'
Good point. Lose interest in the book because I'm not getting anywhere; wander around the car. The lock on the boot looks pretty rusty, and since it's a hatchback that'll allow us access to the whole thing.
'Get a crowbar and jemmy the boot lock, or put in a window,' I say.
