us is going to look bloody awful when this gets out, and there'll be no one on the force thanking Taylor and me for having discovered it.
Which brings us to the last big question. The involvement of Charlotte Miller. Which side of the tracks are we going to find her on? We could have phoned her, but this is the sort of thing you have to say to someone's face. Gauge the reaction.
Don't really start talking about it until we're over the Erskine bridge, the snow has cleared and we're both chewing on nasty ham and cheese sandwiches we picked up at the petrol station. Nearly two o'clock.
'How we going to play this?' I say eventually.
He waves the sandwich at me.
'What the fuck you buy these for, Sergeant? They're minging.'
'It was after midnight. What choice d'you think there was?'
He grumbles, continues to eat the sandwich.
'Not sure, is the answer to your question,' he says. 'Been considering letting you go in yourself as planned.'
'To see if she kills me?'
'Aye.'
'Thanks.'
'Don't think it'll work,' he says. 'I mean, if she doesn't know anything about it, then she'll shag you and I'll be left sitting in the car freezing my balls off. And we'll both look like idiots when we have to tell her the truth. So, we'll just go in there, tell her what we've found. We think Jonah's been killing off everyone who knows about the Addison business, which means that she might be next on the list.'
'And what if she's in on it and pulls a gun?'
'Don't see it. What's her motive? Sure, if the Addison stuff got out it'd look bad, set her back a year or two, but how is she supposed to know if some of her officers are murderers? And she's Charlotte Miller, for fuck's sake. She can shag and connive her way out of anything. She doesn't need to conspire to murder her own officers.'
Takes the left fork at the lights, heads down towards Helensburgh. I have to agree with him. The woman I've become close to in the last week isn't any confederate of Bloonsbury. What he's done is sickening, but he's such a mess of a man that however much your belief is stretched, there's still some credibility about it. But Charlotte Miller?
'And if she is in on it,' he continues, 'which I really doubt, what's she to gain from doing anything to us? It's already out about Bloonsbury, everyone knows. No, if she's implicated she'll deny everything, get hold of Jonah and kill him so that he can't talk. That way, she suffers minimum damage.'
Sounds right, but this is such a mess you never know.
'So where's Jonah got to?' I say.
He shrugs. 'Fuck knows? Lying in a ditch, maybe. If he realised from what I said earlier today that we were on to Crow, maybe he's just done a runner. Off to London to sleep under a bag with the rest of his kind.'
'Or he could have come down to Helensburgh to kill Miller. The last of the people who know.'
'We know,' he says. 'He's still got us to take care of.'
Given the alacrity he's shown in polishing off the others, that's not the most comforting thought. Imagine my death at the hands of a crazed Jonah Bloonsbury. A drunk Jonah Bloonsbury. But fuck it, maybe death would be best at this point. The victim police officers will undoubtedly be hailed as brave heroes — like every other person who dies these days — while those officers not murdered during the course of this investigation will all be castigated for being a collection of criminally-inclined, incompetent wankers.
Still pondering what it would be like to have a sword driven up through your insides, embedding you to a wall in the manner of the late and little-missed Herrod, when Taylor pulls up outside the mansion. Stops the car, switches off the engine. Looks at me.
'This is it, Sergeant. Now, I know you usually have sex when you come here, but on this…
'Fuck off.'
He smiles and gets out of the car. I follow, once again feel the cold cut through the thin lining of the jacket. Boots crunch into the snow, an icy crust having formed on the top. Look up the path to the house. A couple of lights on, but don't see her face pressed against a window watching out for me. If she was expecting me, I'm a good deal later than she'd have thought I'd be arriving.
Push open the gate at the bottom of the garden, start the long walk up the path.
'Hope she's in,' says Taylor.
'And alone,' I add. 'And unarmed.'
'Jessie,' he says.
45
Stand on the doorstep, where I've been twice in the last week. Different kind of nerves tonight. Had hoped by this age I'd stop feeling nerves, but that doesn't appear to happen, no matter the shit that's gone before.
About to ring the bell.
'Wait,' says Taylor.
Look at him.
'Second thoughts?'
'Got a feeling in your guts, Sergeant?'
He's right. Police instinct. There's something wrong. Don't know what, don't know how. Just a feeling, but there's so much work done on the back of feelings like this. Something in your stomach; the hairs on the back of your neck; that extra sense that stops you walking into the unexpected, stops you getting a knife in the belly.
'You want me to kick the door down again? That'll keep our arrival a secret.'
He gives me his Chief Inspector look, reaches out, tries the door handle. The door, in mockery of my dramatic suggestion, clicks open.
Give each other a right, keep your gob shut look, and walk into the house. Close the door silently behind and stop and listen.
Nothing.
Lights are on in the hall. Door to the lounge is open and we can see the faint red of the Christmas lights, although the tree is out of sight. He gestures to me to check out the rooms on the other side of the hall and I start tentatively looking in the first one, as he goes into the lounge.
A library, the sort of room that normal people just don't have in the house. Rows of books that will remain forever unread; a writing desk untouched by human hand; an old-fashioned globe from a time when the Far East was just a vague mass, and Manhattan was a swamp; a small lamp burns in the corner, for whatever reason. To aid the investigating officer, perhaps.
Walk through the room to the door at the far end. Gently. Open it, into the next. In the dim light cast by the small lamp in the library I can see the outline of the billiards table. The overhanging light above the board dominates the room in its shady darkness. Nothing to look at here. Through the room and into the one behind — the room at the back of the house.
It's dark in here, the dim light from the library not penetrating. Looks like a sitting room, the large TV in the corner. 46” screen. This will be where Frank comes to watch the Rangers on those rare occasions he can't make it to the game. Through the room to the door on the other side, after a cursory glance. We're looking for Charlotte, not carrying out a close scrutiny of the place.
Back out into the hall. Taylor already coming out of the kitchen. Shakes his head, indicates up the stairs with his thumb as he walks past.
It's a big hall, allowing a large sweeping staircase to run up the right hand side; elaborate balustrade, which includes a figurehead at the top of the stairs. You'd think it might be a composer or something pretentious like that. But it's even worse — it's some old Rangers player from the forties or fifties. George Young, or someone like that. Christ but Frank's a sad bastard. I nearly laughed the first time I saw it. Decided that he deserved to have had me sleep with his wife. Walk up behind Taylor — not a creaking floorboard to be heard — and he stops for a look at the
