OK, guts appear to be mostly in the right place.
Just had a visit from Josephine Johnson. Twenty-six, dark brown hair, bit of a looker. Something of the Uma Thurman about her. Bit of an oddball face, but smouldering sexuality — you know the thing. Anyway, her sexuality really doesn't have anything to do with it; that's just me playing to the male stereotype.
She called Herrod yesterday because she thought an ex-boyfriend of hers might be the bloke we're looking for. Didn't give Herrod her name or a number because she was scared. Tried to call him again today, couldn't get him. Something made her change her mind, come in and cough up the beans.
Started rambling on about how she saw this guy for a while, and the whole thing was a bit weird. Got a lot of details before I got the name. To be honest, I wasn't pushing for the name because I presumed it was going to be someone we didn't know. Why wouldn't it be? It was just going to be any old name, and the detail, the story behind her belief that this bloke could be a serial killer, was going to be much more important. Then, of course, it turned out to be someone that we did know. Someone that we'd brought in for interview and whom we'd then let go.
Ian Healy.
So I left her sitting there with a cup of tea and a PC for company, grabbed Taylor and made big feet for Healy's office. Taylor had just emerged from Charlotte Miller looking moderately apprehensive. Just been put in charge of the whole murder inquiry, which is something of a relief, for me if not for him.
We could have come out like the fucking cavalry. Guns, back-up, the whole bit. But it's not Taylor's way. Doesn't want to go tramping all over town if we're going to look stupid. There's no such thing as coincidence in crime — apart from when it happens. Ian Healy might be our man; he might not.
Now we're on the road between Healy's office and his home, having come up empty. His secretary sat there playing the clown. Said she had no idea where he was, and if she knew and wasn't saying or if she didn't know and she was worried, she hid it perfectly. Police resentment to a tee.
Short drive to Healy's place somewhere in Parkhead. If I was him I wouldn't live so close to my business, but the guy obviously isn't rational. Not by a long way.
Taylor hits the London road. Not too much traffic — no need for any flashing blue lights. Briefly reaches ninety-five in the outside lane. He's pissed off.
'How long did Jonah interview this bastard?' he says.
'Don't know,' I reply. 'An hour, maybe more. Not sure.'
'Christ. I mean, what the fuck was the man doing? He's supposed to be a fucking detective. How can you interview a murderer for half the fucking day and then decide he's not your guy? Christ, you fingered him after two seconds in his office. Fucking Jonah spends all morning talking to the bastard and doesn't even bother getting a blood sample.'
'Come on. I let it pass. You said yourself you didn't think this was it.'
'Fuck that,' he says angrily. 'I spoke to the bloke for three minutes. Jonah practically shoved his head up the guys arse.'
'What do you expect? Bloonsbury's dead. He couldn't pick the murderer out of a line-up of four nuns and a blood-covered guy with a chainsaw. He's finished.'
I might be giving too much credit to the four nuns there.
'Dead right he's finished. Dead right.'
Another nail in Bloonsbury's coffin. Haven't even been thinking about nails in Herrod's coffin. Healy might be our man so there's a chance Herrod's dead. And for all that he's an open sore on the backside of humanity, you never want to see this happen to one of your own.
Up into a side street, then we're parked in front of Healy's tenement. No messing about. Up the stairs, third floor. Start to slow down as we reach the top. Walk more quietly as we near the door. Green paint, slowly peeling.
We stand at the door. Deep breath. Look at each other. Nervous. This could be it, this could be nothing. Wish we'd brought guns. Taylor rings the bell and we stand and wait.
'We should be armed,' I say to him.
'Don't be a girl.'
Tries the doorbell again, gives in to the inevitable.
'Right then, John Wayne,' he says. John Wayne? 'Do your sergeant thing and kick the door in.'
Marvellous. Over fifteen years on the force and it's all I'm good for. Decide to have a go at something I saw in a movie once. Try the door handle.
With a click that echoes down the corridor, the door opens. Nice and easy. Give Taylor a look and he scowls in return.
Swing the door open, step inside. Taylor in front. Immediately feel it. The darkness, the silence. The curtains are drawn. Not a sound. Not even the faint hum of a fridge or central heating. Scary.
Taylor hits the light switch. Nothing. The electrics are out or the light bulb's gone. Either way, we're walking into a darkened house with every possibility of a psychotic killer hiding behind a door.
'We should've brought guns,' I say to him, voice low. He ignores me, starts walking slowly into the flat.
Leave the door open to let in some light. As we take the first few tentative steps, begin to notice the smell. Off milk. Not some rancid pungent stench. Just a hint of it.
The hairs start to spring up on the back of my neck. On my arms. Feel the shiver. A tightness in the chest. I hate this. Walking into the unknown. Who knows what kind of man Healy really is? If he leaps out brandishing a knife, fine, you get into a fight. Take care of it. It's the creeping around in the dark that's the problem. That's the fear. Waiting. For the shock.
I follow Taylor into a room. In the pale light from the door I can see the settee, the TV in the corner. Light behind the curtains. Taylor walks over and opens them and the grey light of another bloody cold and miserable Glasgow afternoon comes flooding in.
Look around the room, quickly behind the door; half expecting Healy to be there with an axe. Got to get a grip.
It's a sad depressing little room. Horrible 80's furniture; 15" flatscreen TV; drab wall paper, drab paintings; brown carpet; bin overflowing with rubbish; chipped coffee table, covered with magazines and photographs.
We go to look at them at the same time. Porn mags, photography mags — which pretty much look the same from the cover — newspaper supplements. They each have a picture of a woman with dark brown hair on the cover. They could be Josephine Johnson. They could be Ann Keller. They could be Evelyn Bathurst.
We look at each other. It's coming together. We have our killer. No doubt. I can feel it. If only we'd had the sense to break the door down when we first came to check on the guy.
Back out into the hall. Look into the bathroom, try the switch again, still nothing. We can see it fine, however, in the light from the other room. A nasty little room, unpleasant aroma. Move on.
Skin crawls! Feel it stretch and strangle; a noise from another room. Faint but distinct. A slight movement and then there's silence again. We are not alone.
Look at each other, walk slowly back out into the hall. Muscles tense. Every sense heightened. That smell getting stronger. Waiting for the attack. Small flat, only two rooms left. Kitchen and bedroom. Kitchen first, glance in. Can barely make it out in the dark. Large room, but plain. The fridge door is open, emits no light. A bottle of milk lies smashed on the floor. So much for the smell.
Bedroom. This is it. No light from the other room penetrates in here. We stand unsure in the doorway.
'Anyone there?' says Taylor. Silence. 'Healy?'
We wait. Nothing. Look at each other, barely make the expression out in the dark.
'Aw, bugger this,' he says after a few seconds. Walks quickly into the room, me behind. Straight to the curtains, starts to drag them open. Something scampers from underneath the bed, past our feet. Fuck! Heart jumps. Fists clenched. Realise it's a fucking cat. Look to the door as the curtains open and light pours in. No cat. It's a rat. Big and grey and ugly. Bloody huge thing.
Finally see it out the corner of my eye. Turn round. Big rat to keep my attention off this. Taylor is already staring at it. Hard to miss. On the wall beside the bed. Bloody; pale; dead. Detective Sergeant Herrod impaled through the stomach with an ornamental sword, suspended on the wall. The blood has long since stopped dripping. His mouth is open, blood congealed on his lips, his eyes stare blankly back at us. The weapon missed the tie, a subdued silk M amp;S job he must have got for Christmas. It hangs free, some of the blood from his mouth having dripped upon it. Squares of beige and blue, black marks streaked across. A new design. Shoes are gone. Herrod's feet in dirty white socks.
We stand and stare for some time. Drinking it in. One of our own, impaled on a bedroom wall. Try to get a grip on my train of thought. What it means for the murder inquiry. What it means for the station. The second officer down in two days. Think of Bernadette; bitter, she'll enjoy it in a perverse way. We stand and stare, as if expecting something to happen.
'Keep waiting for him to tell us to fuck off and mind our own business,' says Taylor.