the light switch. A brief agitation in the dark, the flurry of an arm, and something flies through the air and thuds into the side of Taylor's head before he can duck out of the way.
He falls back, crumples to the floor. The chair is pushed aside into the tree; the figure appears from behind. Heading for Taylor, knife glinting red in the dull light. The tree topples over, all tinkling balls and rustling tinsel; the shadows roll around the room with the falling light.
Can make out the ugly face of Jonah Bloonsbury, contorted in exertion; can smell the whisky as his breath is angrily exhaled. He is almost on top of Taylor, unmoving on the floor. Throw the drink at him. The weight of the liquid shifts the flight of the glass, but still it hits him on the side of the head. Makes him turn, stumble, and before he can attack Taylor I'm on top of the guy, hand to his wrist, lifting it up, stopping him stabbing the knife.
Fall back, wrestle each other onto the floor. Gritted teeth, can smell the man. Still not thinking straight, propelled unprepared into the middle of the fight. He starts to drag the knife down. Stronger than me, always knew that. Brings it closer, and now all my efforts and thoughts are at stopping it. Six inches from the top of my head, even closer to his. But he has control, I'm totally defensive. Defensive. Think of the best way to play football, the best way to do anything. Go on the attack. Risk it. For an instant. Switch energies, and with everything I've got I bring my head up into his face. Miss the knife by a fraction. His nose and teeth crunch under my forehead, and I feel it as much as he does. But I'm ready for the shock, he isn't. The briefest second, that's all I have. Control his wrists, bring the knife down sharply. Feel the warm embrace of his neck around the blade as it plunges into him just beneath the chin. Instantly the fight goes from him, the body rests heavily on top of me. The chest still heaves, can feel the blood begin to pulse from his neck. Sickening, dark, warm. Push him off me, and struggle to my feet. Can hear his gasping on the floor, the deep breaths, low moans from Taylor lying next to him.
Light.
The room is full of it and Miller is standing in the doorway looking at the scene in the wasted middle of her sitting room. Taylor struggling to sit up, blood running down his face from a healthy wound; Bloonsbury lying on the floor, hand over the wound in his neck, the knife still cradled in the hand which stabbed him — I should take it off him, not thinking straight, don't do it; and me standing over them, blood across my face and the top of my coat.
Her mouth is open, but there's nothing coming out. Nothing to say. A well-placed profanity might be in order. She looks scared, I'll give her that. Taylor starts to struggle to his feet and I step over Bloonsbury towards him.
'I'm all right,' he says, holding his hand up. 'You'd better call an ambulance for him.'
'What happened?' says Miller eventually. Voice shattered. Bloonsbury continues to moan on the floor. Should be more wary of him, but he's been knifed in the neck. Still not thinking straight.
'He was waiting,' I say. 'It's him who's been killing off the others. Bathurst, Edwards, Herrod. Even that bastard Crow.'
'Crow?' she says. Completely lost. Close to panic.
'Everyone that knew about the Addison case. Presumably you were next.'
She stares down at him, open mouthed.
'Jonah?' she says. Thinks he's dying.
His head lifts for the first time. Ignores me and Taylor, looks straight at her. The movement of his neck starts the blood flow off again. Steady pulse. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse, choking with blood. Hate-filled.
'Fucking bitch,' he says. 'Bitch.' Blood spits from his mouth.
The look on her face changes. Shock to anger. Eyes burn. Seen the look before.
'Christ,' she says. 'I knew I should have done something about him ages ago. Jesus. Look at the state of this. I'll get an ambulance.'
Look at the state of this? What? The carpet?
She begins to walk from the room.
'Don't you turn your back on me, you bitch. Don't you run my life for me, then turn your fucking back.'
She hesitates, turns. Bloonsbury has hauled himself onto his elbows, breaths coming from him in great gasps; panting; gurgling. Taylor and I watch it, uninvited guests.
'Get back here you fucker,' he wheezes at her, voice seemingly on the point of giving up. She stares down at him, all the contempt that anyone could muster in those eyes.
'Fuck off, Jonah,' she says. Words spat out, and she starts to turn away.
I look at him, not really sure what's going on. He's still got the knife in his hands. Have a brief moment, see what's going to happen. Strange vision. And it paralyses me for a hundredth of a second.
From nowhere Bloonsbury finds the strength. Picks himself up, knife clutched firmly in his hands. Almost slow motion. Blood spills from the wound in his throat; he is covered in it. Leaps towards Charlotte, knife back, every last effort into taking his revenge. She senses the rush of movement behind her, turns her head. Time for the briefest flash of panic across her face.
But he's a dying man. As the knife is on its downward sweep towards the middle of Charlotte's back, I'm on top of him, wrestling him to the floor, and he collapses under my weight. The knife falls from his hands, lies useless and blunt on the carpet.
I look up at her, at that impassive face. Panic gone, no trace of fear. Can't read a thing into it. Push myself off Bloonsbury, and the blood gurgles in his throat from some desperate dying breath. Pick up the knife; Taylor and I stand and stare at Charlotte.
She gives all she gets. Bloonsbury might just have implicated her in all of his crimes, but she'll know whether there's any proof out there. The actions of a drunk psychotic aren't going to see anyone incriminated.
'Thank you,' she says. Small voice, but steady. 'You saved my life.'
I nod. Don't say anything. Taylor and I just stare at her in the brightly lit silence. He fingers the wound on his head.
A bauble topples from the Christmas tree with a tinselly shiver, settles on the carpet. Bloonsbury suddenly coughs a bloody cough, a strangulated breath wheezes from his body. Silence broken, the spell dispersed.
'I'll call an ambulance,' she says, because she has to. Although, might she not want Bloonsbury to die where he lies?
There's something in her eyes, then she turns and is gone from the room.
Look down at Bloonsbury. Too late for an ambulance anyway; the man is dying. From the hands of Detective Sergeant Hutton. I'd like to be able to say that he's the first man I've killed, but I can't. On good days, on days when I can block out the past, when I can turn the past into another lifetime, those are the days when I could say he's the first man I've killed. There aren't many of those days.
Look at Taylor, and can tell he's thinking the same thing. We are indeed uninvited guests. Silence over the house. A clock ticking somewhere. For some reason I start wondering what Frank is doing, and will he care?
Poland, that was it. Knee deep in gorgeous Central European women.
'Go and listen, Sergeant. Make sure she calls an ambulance. And the local plods 'n all,' says Taylor.
'Aye.'
46
Three o'clock, New Year's Day. Watery sun low in the sky; bright afternoon with the snow still thick on the ground, frost already in the air for the night ahead. Clear, chill, fresh, a beautiful day.
Sitting in the car across the road from the old family home. Have been sitting here for over twenty minutes. Can't decide whether or not to take the giant step across the road. I don't deserve for Peggy — or for any of them — to take me back, but if I go over there, clutching the small bunch of flowers that currently lies on the passenger seat, then take me back is what they'll do. Despite being a total fuck up over he past few days, my future is there if I want it.
Caught a couple of hours sleep, some time between five and eight. Woke up feeling as completely shit as I have for the previous few days. Looks like case closed, but it'll be weeks before the stench of this vanishes; and I can still feel the warmth of Bloonsbury's blood pulsing over my hand.
The Great Detective, Glasgow's one time police hero, lies in the morgue at the Victoria. Died on his way to
