'You haven't done anything. It's just procedure.' I love that innate trust of the polis. Course, she's right.
'Oh.' Looks back at the TV. Time to go.
I nod at Edwards, he opens the door and out we go, back into the cold of early morning. As we close the door behind us the TV is turned back up, and Mrs Sprott goes about the business of forgetting everything she knows about Ann Keller.
We stand outside the house and take a look up the street. At least twenty officers milling around doing the thing. Most of them will come up empty, but every now and again you get something like I just did. Put it all together, and you never know. There's a long way to go, and most of it'll be pretty boring. I start to trudge off, head down, wishing for once that I had a cup of tea, rather than a vodka and tonic.
'Why didn't you ask about Malky?' says Edwards, one pace behind.
I stop and look at him, shaking the head.
'Get me a cup of tea, will you Edwards?' I say, doing my best to look superior.
He looks chastened and walks off.
Because I'm hungover and I didn't think to, that's why I didn't ask about Malky. But he doesn't need to know that.
7
Almost four thirty and there's about fifteen of us in the room. What will become the daily roundup, assuming this thing isn't solved inside the first day. Waiting for Bloonsbury to arrive and take charge. He's in with Miller giving her all the latest, and probably getting his bollocks torn off for not having caught the killer yet.
So he'll get shredded in there, then after this briefing he'll have to go out and face the hounds of the press, when he'll probably get shredded again. He'll consider this a pleasant interlude, if discussing this kind of thing can be pleasant.
They've got the photographs on the wall. Before and after, and it's not noticeably the same woman. Sure, we get murder in these parts, although this is Glasgow not Juarez; but not like this. Domestic, casual, accidental, thuggery, we get them every now and again, a few a year. But this; violent, savage, psychotic.
Most of the folks around here are out of their depth. You can tell. They have the look. I wish I was there, out of my depth with them. I may not want to look at those photographs, I may hate the fact that this kind of death has found its way onto our patch, but fuck it, I've seen worse in the flesh. The bloody, torn and shattered flesh; and every one of those bloody photographs takes me back, which is why I'm not looking at them.
Dear old Bloonsbury must be shitting his pants over this one, and God knows what state he's in, given the alcoholic abyss into which he's been plummeting these last few years. Poor bastard.
There's some muted conversation, but not much. Not with this on, not with those pictures on the wall. We're all waiting for Bloonsbury so we can go out and get on with it, or go home and try to forget it for the night. Be thankful it wasn't our wife or daughter or whoever that had their entire body slashed to pieces, and hope that it doesn't happen again before we catch the animal who did it.
The domestic stuff keeps intruding there as well. It's inane, but you can't stop it. Still no idea what to get Rebecca for her Christmas. Seeing them tomorrow, although at this rate I might have to cancel. Pizza and presents, and I'll hand over the gift for their mother and hope I get something back. Gone a bit over the top this year. Diamond earrings, just under three hundred quid out of some place in town. Money I can't afford for a present for my ex-wife who's shagging someone else. I don't think I'm trying to get her back, but then why else am I spending so much money? I'm confused, but that's the best way to be.
The door opens, and I am torn from my worsening morosity. DCI Bloonsbury, looking as if he's just been savaged himself. Think he needs hospitalised. He's a big man, six-five maybe. Back row forward in his day, played a Scotland trial. Nearly made it, although in those days all you got for playing rugby was a lot of sore joints and absurd ears. Well, the way he walks now he certainly got the sore joints. I'm five ten and I could head butt the guy without needing to stretch. He's got the ruddy face of the alcoholic, and looks way beyond fifty-three. The man's a disaster, but somehow he's been managing to get by the past couple of years.
There was a time last year when he was almost kicked into touch. His wife had just upped and left him for a plumber from Dundee, taking the kids and everything else of worth in the family. Bloonsbury went over the edge, yet somehow managed to claw his way back. Got a lot of help. He's a bit of a hero round here, for one reason or another. Used to be the star, and people still want to look up to him, even though more and more of us are seeing through him.
So this was his crowning glory from last year. Just as he was at his lowest ebb, he came up with a beauty. Big murder case out this end of Glasgow. A poor wee woman bought it from some ski-masked fellow wielding a kitchen knife. The feeling that he was going to be a repeat murderer quickly grew, women all over the city were panicking, and us lot were looking useless. Bloonsbury was in charge, the investigation seemingly stuck in neutral, and then boom, out of nowhere, it suddenly all fell into place. The big man put it together, made the breakthrough, and we got the guy. Some sleazoid from the west end who denied it all the way to the joint, but we had him. Enough evidence to put away a thousand murderers.
Bloonsbury was the hero, feted in the papers, got that ugly mug on TV, had all sorts of people queuing up to suck his dick. Don't know how he did it, given the state he was in at the time, but it was good to see. Trouble is, of course, he's been getting all the big ones ever since, and not been doing too well. This'll be the last chance, and all you can imagine is him hitting the bottle even harder, and maybe, if he's lucky, his liver'll give out and he'll die before he can blow it.
He comes to the front of the room, looks like shit. Stares at us; we stare back. You can see he would rather just be down the pub staring at a full bottle of Glen Ord, or one of these other single malts he occasionally fancies himself as being able to tell the difference between.
'Right then, gentlemen,' ignoring the five women, 'all the facts. What have we got? You first, Herrod.'
Herrod nods, looks at his notebook.
'Victim, Ann Keller. Dark brown hair, twenty-seven, bit of a looker. Had two part-time jobs. Ancillary at the Victoria, sales at Frasers in Buchanan Street in the town. Worked in the shop on Monday, was due in the hospital today.' He pauses, looks through the notes. Try not to let my mind wander, having heard all this stuff already. 'Went to the Classic cinema to see some foreign film.'
Herrod can't distinguish between countries. Never been abroad. There's British, and there's foreign. I talked to him about the Balkans once. But just the once. Knew not to do it again.
'She was due to go with her boyfriend, one Christopher James from Cambuslang, although the usherette remembers her as being on her own. He claims to have cancelled the date.'
Bloonsbury blurts in. 'You been speaking to him, Dan?'
Taylor is roused from his perpetual melancholy. Either thinking about Debbie or the continuing depression over DS Murphy. Or maybe he's just miserable at having to do all this shit, same as the rest of us.
'Been in with him most of the afternoon. No alibi for last night. Stayed in, watched tele. Can describe what was on, but that doesn't mean anything. Looks pretty upset.' He shrugs. 'Don't know. Forensics have been over his flat, we'll see what they come up with. I'm guessing it'll be nothing. Don't think he's our man.'
'Why didn't he go to the pictures?'
'Said they had a fight. Something to do with a necklace given to her by an ex-boyfriend.'
'Got a name?'
'Aye. Looking into it. We'll find him, get him in.'
'Could he have made the story up? Deflect attention, and all that?'
All right, it's not brilliant, but believe me, this is Bloonsbury a hell of a lot more switched on than he's been in months. Maybe he's going to go for this one. Wants to be the hero again. Get his name in the papers.
'Don't know. We'll talk to the guy, see what we come up with.'
'Right. Herrod, what else?'
Herrod looks pissed off. I sometimes wonder if he reveres Bloonsbury or hates the sight of him. Or both. And sometimes I realise that I really, really don't care either way.
'She leaves the pictures, walks home. Ten minute walk, she never gets there. Somewhere along the way she
