A Plague Of Crows

heading to the woods. I know that's where we're going, because that's where my last judgement will be.

My last judgement. Fuck's sake.

My head rests against the floor. I need out of here. Out of this life.

43

The darkness seems to be coming early. A grim day. Drab and cold. Gostkowski stands at Clayton's door, ringing the bell. Suddenly wondering what she was thinking. Did they really think that Clayton was guilty? If he wasn't, then there was no point in her being here; if he was, then she'd come on her own to interview a man who had already murdered nine people.

Not thinking straight. Is she suddenly nervous? Are those nerves?

Deep breath. She has to be more worried about tact and diplomacy than about Clayton lurking behind the door with a knife or some other surgical tool.

Clayton answers the door. He's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Has an air about him that suggests he hasn't showered yet that day, that he's had a day of doing little around the house. Watching television and playing X-Box. Jeremy Kyle and Nazi zombies.

'Mr Clayton,' she says, and she holds out her badge. 'DI Gostkowski. Wonder if I could have a word.'

He stares at her for a moment and then snorts out a slight, rueful laugh. Shakes his head.

'Whatever,' he says. 'You fucking people…'

He stands back to let her in. And she has the impression straight away, an impression so strong that she knows it to be true. This guy has nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with the disappearance of Sgt Hutton. Whatever the Plague of Crows does when he spirits people away from their lives, he does not then go and play Call of Duty for several hours. He has the real thing.

He shows her into the sitting room, the room at the front of the house opposite the more business-looking lounge where he'd talked to Hutton and Taylor. The television is paused on a battle game. There is a pizza delivery box at the side of the large gaming chair which is positioned in front of the TV. There is a two-litre bottle of Diet Coke at the side of the chair, lying flat on the floor, top on, nearly empty. If you looked closely enough you'd see pieces of masticated pizza floating in the dark, flat liquid.

He sits in the large chair in the middle of the room, swivels it away from the TV and indicates the sofa for Gostkowski.

Everyone gets depression. Everyone has their day. This is Clayton's day. Not in the mood for playing games with the police, regardless of his guilt or otherwise on any previous crime.

'What?' he says.

In a way, she already has what she's come for. Really, she'd been thinking that if he is the Plague of Crows and if he's in the middle of putting together another crime, then he wouldn't even be home. She'd always known that she'd be making her mind up in the first few seconds.

'Your girlfriend not here?' she asks, perched on the end of the sofa.

He snorts quietly again, makes an ugly movement of his lips.

'She left.'

'Oh. That's too bad.'

A shrug. Another scowl. She wonders if he's been sitting here playing X-Box, eating pizza, since the girlfriend walked out. Has it so utterly ruined him?

'What was it you wanted?' he asks. 'You people can't stay away.'

She stares for a moment and then gets back to her feet.

'I think I've already got what I was coming for,' she says.

He looks at her. Quizzically for a moment and then he shakes his head. Whatever. Doesn't care.

'Sure,' he says.

She looks away. A glance around the room. Feels strange walking in and walking back out. What will she say to the Chief Inspector? That hunch of yours, about Clayton… it's shit. It's not him. Wherever we're going to find Sgt Hutton, it's not down at his place.

Clayton is all they have, and she is about to make the bold move of striking him off the list of one based on a feeling, and the fact that he's playing X-Box. It's going to be tough going back with nothing, but is there any point in asking?

What were you doing last night? What about earlier today? We really need to get hold of your wife so that we can ask her how much of a nutjob you are.

She stops. She stops thinking. The thought processes stop and are replaced by a slight confusion. Where has she seen that face? It comes back to her immediately, no searching around in the canyons of her brain for the information. One of the things that makes her a good officer. Instant access to everything she needs to know.

She crosses the room and lifts the photograph. Clayton standing with a woman on each arm. One of them is his wife. She recognises the other. The hair is completely different. The photograph is a few years old, but it's the smile. She knows the smile.

'This woman,' she says, turning to Clayton. He's watching her, annoyance beginning to stir him from his apathy.

'What?'

'This woman,' she repeats. 'Who is it?'

He snorts again.

'That's my wife,' he says. 'Or, at least, it was. Bitch. Don't ask me where she is now. Haven't seen her in fucking years.'

'Not your wife, the other one.'

He appears not to hear the question. He noisily rattles off several rounds of machine gun fire, his face expressionless. She waits for a few seconds, but soon realises that she'll be waiting forever.

'Not your wife,' she repeats.

He turns. He looks in the direction of the photograph, although she gets the feeling that he could be staring into darkness for all that he's seeing. He snorts again, another small and bitter laugh.

'You people are so shit,' he says.

Looks back at the screen, shaking his head. Enjoying knowing something that she doesn't.

'Tell me how shit we are,' she says.

She has to wait again. The sneer doesn't leave his face. He rattles off more gunfire. She glances at the television. He says 'fuck', as red is smeared across the screen.

'Tell me how shit we are,' she repeats.

He half glances in her direction, but his game is ended and now he's concentrating on what he's done and setting up another game.

'That's my sister-in-law. Jane. That's her name. Jane. Sounds so unassuming, doesn't it?' He laughs. 'Dick and Jane play in the woods, or Dick and Jane build a house. Then there was Dick and Jane fuck round the back of the studio while whacked out of their heads on crack.'

He laughs again.

'What?' she says. Becoming irritated. 'What?'

He doesn't reply. Clicking rapidly through pages. Concentrating on the TV.

'Would you look at me while I'm interviewing you?'

She has his attention.

He stops, stares at her. The sneer has died away and there's nothing on his face. Eyes are dead.

'Jesus…' he mutters. Shakes his head, turns back to the TV. Now, however, he stares at the set-up screen, but doesn't do anything.

'Tell me about Jane,' she says.

Slight movement of his fingers and he starts witlessly clicking and trawling, before the game sparks to life again.

'Met her through the lawyer. That's how I first met Caroline. Jane and I were going out. Jane was on