Post sex cigarette; the best there is. It might be a cliche, but it's right up there with sex itself and watching old film of Partick Thistle beat Celtic 4–1. Cool, bitter, biting at the inside of your throat. Like a smoky single malt by a warm fire on a cold day. Lie back, breathe it in, stare at the ceiling. Forget everything. Savour the smoke and savour the remains of the delicious sensations still lingering in your loins and stomach. You feel the tiredness, begin to give in to it, let it sweep over you. Like waves crashing on the ocean.
'What are you thinking?'
You swallow a gallon of sea water. Just as well. I was about to nod off and drop the smoking butt end onto my chest.
'Just enjoying the moment.'
She places her hand on my chest, starts drawing circles. God, she's not about to get romantic on me? She kisses my shoulder, snuggles her head next to my arm. Bloody Jesus. You'd think… oh, crap, I don't know what to think. I've spent the two years since my last marriage sleeping with all kinds of life's detritus. Charlotte Miller is the other end of the scale in so many different ways.
'I'm glad you've been around the past few days, Sergeant. I've needed you.'
For all the bitterness and tough guy act, it still sounds good to hear it. Charlotte Miller needs Sergeant Hutton. Sort of thing you'd scrawl on your desk at school. If you were a wanker.
Quarter past four. Just had ball-breaking sex and feel relaxed for the first time in a couple of days. Had intended going round to see Peggy when I was finished, but now that I'm here, post-sex, woman glued to my arm and absolutely exhausted, I've got a feeling I won't be going anywhere until it's time for work. Big Guilt means Big Denial. Try not to think about Peggy. There's someone else's wife to sleep with. Keep waiting for the guillotine to fall. Each time is more intimate than the last, however. Deeper into the mire. Falling in love. Me with her. Wrong person, wrong time, wrong planet.
Have stopped worrying about her and Bathurst. Accepted why they slept together, although I haven't asked her about it.
A thought comes into my head as I'm drifting off; something I should ask her. And hope she's set an alarm, cause there's no way I'm waking up at seven o'clock.
Roll over on my side, away from her, and she curls her arms around me and presses against my skin, her breasts beautiful and soft against my back.
'How come you haven't got rid of Bloonsbury? The guy's a mess.' Wrong question, wrong time.
Feel it immediately. Body tensed, then relaxed. Places a slight distance between our bodies, her skin detached. I'm almost asleep. Her body relaxes into mine once more, her breasts flush against me. I'm tired, giving into it.
'We can talk about it later,' she says. Dreamy voice. Don't care. She says something else, but I'm hardly aware of it, and finally I give in to the wall of sleep.
*
Shit! Tuesday morning wake up call. Don't know what drags me from sleep, but I sit straight up in bed. Already light outside, know I'm late without looking at the clock. Empty bed, bloody bitch already up and gone to work, leaving me lying here. Shit. Dare to look at the clock. Aw, shit. Shit. Half past fucking eight.
Look at my phone. Three missed calls, four texts, but the phone is on silent. I never did that. Holy suffering fuck, the bitch put my phone on silent…
The station; Taylor; Peggy. They were all calling. Jesus. Where were Craig Levein and the First Minister, didn't they need me as well?
Fly into a frantic rush of cold water, toothpaste and last night's clothes. Out onto the street. Snowed in the night — a light covering. Nearly slip on the stairs. Have trouble starting the car, lurch out onto the road and within five minutes I'm stuck in traffic.
Keep looking at the clock as it gets ever later. Switch the radio on and off. Good news, boring news, weather — I know it snowed! I can see the sodding stuff — shit music. The phone rings again and I ignore it. And again.
Finally arrive well after nine-thirty. Run into the station — raised eyebrow from Ramsey — up the stairs and into the office. The usual hum of activity. In the centre of the room Taylor stands talking to Miller. They stop, look at me as I approach. Taylor looks as if he wants to thump me, Miller plays the part. The disapproving superior. I shrug my shoulders. No idea what to say.
'I'll leave you to it,' says the woman who five hours previously had screamed with lust as I'd rammed my cock into her.
Taylor indicates his office and I follow him in. Realise there's a couple of DCs watching me go. Little bastards.
Taylor behind his desk. Gestures for me to close the door. Starts up. Low voice. Mad as fuck, not shouting.
'What the fuck are you doing?'
Raise the shoulders, let out a sigh. I can't explain.
'We've got a monumental case on here and you're lying in bed for fuck's sake. And by the look of you, someone else's bed. Can you not leave your dick be for two fucking days while we get some work done?'
Feel even more stupid now than I did a minute ago. Wish I had some defence.
'Bloody hell, Hutton, at least say something for yourself.'
I can't. He doesn't need to know about Charlotte.
He leans forward, elbows on the desk.
'Listen. Morrow's been in for the past two hours. Got some good ideas, doing some good work. Gone back out to check on some stuff. A good officer doing a good job. Any more of this shite and it'll be your job he's doing. Get out there and get on with it.'
Stupid, humiliated, feel like saluting. Think much the better of it. Nod the head, look embarrassed.
'We're done, Sergeant,' he says.
Right. Turn to go. Wait for the quieter words that all good man managers come out with to show they're not really mad at you. They don't come. Out the door, leave it open, and then back to my desk.
The papers that Morrow checked through yesterday are all still there, a pile on Herrod's desk. I lift them over, place them in front of me. Notice beside the phone a message. Peggy called — can you phone her.
Push it to one side, decide to think on it before I make the call. What do I say? Just ignored the uncomfortable thought while I was with Miller. Look up at her office, the closed door. Just like the closed door of her heart.
Fuck off Hutton, you stupid prick. Get on with it.
Lift the first paper and begin the trawl through for any mention of Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Crow.