Some time after four o'clock. The evening has already arrived, but still the country is bright with the low cloud and the snow lying on the ground. Hogmanay, the usual busy night ahead. Still, it isn't like it used to be around here, that's for sure. Anyone's granny will tell you that. All that running around and first footing; turning up at the house of total strangers with a bottle of White amp; McKay at your armpit; singing strange songs without words which could be Cole Porter as much as Harry Lauder; all that has gone. We've become a nation of people who sit and watch rotten TV, and complain endlessly about how bloody awful it all is and how New Year just isn't what it used to be. As if it's everybody else's fault but our own.
No crap TV for us tonight, though. We're on the hunt for Crow, and after a few hours wasting time chasing reported sightings of Ian Healy, we're back on track. Might be the wrong track, but I have a feeling.
In the last two days nearly ninety people have reported seeing Ian Healy. Sounds good? Rubbish. If they'd all come from the same place, we'd be fine. But, as is always the case, we've had calls from everywhere. Down south as well, as his picture went out on the national news.
So Ian Healy is this week's Elvis. Working a petrol pump in Wolverhampton; sitting on a bench in Hyde Park; throwing up over the side of the Mull ferry in choppy seas; playing golf in Nairn.
That's the trouble with putting out photographs — you get all sorts of nutjobs calling in. Same last week with the photofit, which turned out to be a pretty poor resemblance of our man. Every poor bastard with no one to talk to wants to phone the police.
Problem is that it only takes one of those calls to be right; you can't ignore any of them. So I had four hours checking up on spurious calls from around Glasgow.
Bloonsbury charged around for a few hours until he hit the wall about three o'clock. Didn't see him do it, but you could smell the whisky on his breath, see it in his eyes. Can't keep a fuck-up away from his drink for long.
Just before I left I got another call on the Batphone from Charlotte. What are you doing tonight, Thomas? Frank's in Poland. Why don't you come down? Seriously…
Not sure what she's playing at. Fortunately, however, I'm not going to fall for it as badly as I was. I'm not completely over the hump, so it doesn't mean I'm not going to go down there, but at least I'm starting to get sceptical about it. Still not thinking straight, of course.
Anyway, the waste of an afternoon is behind us and we head on down to Crow's house. We can talk to a few of the people in the vicinity and not just the repugnant neighbour. Do a more thorough investigation of the house, try and see beyond the porn and empty beer cans, see if there's any note of where his ex might be.
We get to the house not long after five. Step out of the warmth of the car into the chill of night. Stop and look out over the loch. No cars on the road, low cloud and the snow muffling any sound. Silence. More snow in the air, but it hasn't started to fall with any force. The loch is still, hardly a wave washes upon the shore. The mountains covered in white. Beautiful. Scotland in all its silent, scenic grandeur. Clean and fresh.
Hear the faint murmur of the TV set from the house next door. Wild cheering from some ridiculous quiz show. The moment is gone. We turn back to Crow's house. The snow covered path virginal. He hasn't been about today, but then we hardly expected that.
'Right then,' says Taylor, 'let's get it over with.'
Up to the front door, push it open and into the house of fun. Lights on. Doesn't look as if anyone else has been in the place since we were here on Saturday night, which is good.
And so for another hour and a half we plunge back into the seedy, low-tech world of Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Crow. Go over everything, a much more thorough search than before. Look for scraps of paper, address books, telephone numbers, anything. Down the back of the sofa and armchairs, clearing out drawers, every filthy nook and every revolting cranny trying to find what we can. And at the end of it we've got an old book with old numbers of people he probably hasn't spoken to in years, plus a couple of addresses and numbers on bits of paper which long ago fell behind cushions and into holes. The sad state of Gerry Crow — no friends, and no life barring the putrid collection of illegal pornography.
Sitting in the lounge at the end of it. Lights on, watching the snow fall. Dying to step out into the cold.
'Almost feel sorry for the bastard,' says Taylor, and I know what he means. But, as I've said before, he's not a man to inspire much sympathy.
'Still like to stick him in jail, mind.'
'Aye. Right, I'm going to make some of these calls,' he says, taking out his phone, looking over the meagre list of numbers. 'While I'm doing this you can start the house to house. Begin with next door if you like.'
'Can I arrest him?'
'Feel free. Just remember you'll have to fill out a report.'
Good point.
Taylor starts to dial the first number; I head out into the cold. Snowing quite hard. Feels clean. Almost seven o'clock; wonder what the idiot with bad hair is going to be watching on the TV tonight. Haven't watched Hogmanay tele in about six years, so I wouldn't know.
Ring the bell, wait for the explosion. Wish I'd brought my truncheon.
Ring the bell again. Can picture the old man inside, tutting and cursing, swearing at his missus. If he knew it was me he probably wouldn't even answer; then I'd get the chance to break the door in, wave a piece of paper at him pretending it's a warrant, and ransack the place. Might do that anyway.
Door opens. Hold out the badge.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton, CID. We spoke on Saturday.'
He looks at me with rude curiosity. That well-practiced who the fuck are you? stare which might just work with a constable with no testicles questioning a member of the public for the first time.
'About your neighbour, Crow.'
Lets out a long breath. 'Och aye, that eejit,' he says.
'Aye, that eejit. You seen him recently?'
Shakes his head.
'I told you before, did I no'? He fucked off. And I wish you'd do the same. Fucking polis.'
He starts to close the door. Pissed me off just a little too much. Put my foot across the line, hand to the door.
'Listen you old git, you either answer my questions properly this time, or I'll get a warrant and a team from CTIS and we'll come down here and rip your fucking house to shreds.'
He hesitates. The cry comes from the living room — ' What the fuck are you doing, you stupid eejit. Close the fucking door!' — g lances over his shoulder, then comes out onto the front step, closing the door behind him.
'Right, what do you need, 'cause I'm watching the tele?'
It worked. Some people realise you're bullshitting and threats don't get you anywhere. Some don't.
'No shite now, or you're in trouble. I need to know the last time you saw Crow, exactly what he said when he called you, if he'd had any visitors, anything. Think about it, take your time, I need to know everything.'
'What's that useless bastard been up to, then?'
'It doesn't matter. Just answer the questions, please.' Bit of civility never did anyone any harm. The urbane officer, that's me.
He breathes out; big sigh. Wants to show what a huge favour he's doing me.
'Me and the missus don't sleep so good, you know? Me with the sciatica, and her with the arthritis. Right bastard that sciatica, I'll tell you, and they doctors don't know shite, so they don't.' Patience. 'So we're quite often awake in the middle of the night, you know. Saturday morning, I don't know what time it was, maybe one o'clock, something like that, I hears a noise, you know. Something going on next door.'
'What kind of noise?'
'I don't know, do I? I wasn't in there, was I, you stupid bastard? So, whatever. I hears the door slam and I looks out the window. Seen him drive off up the road.'
'Which way?'
'Up yon. Loch Fyne way, you know.'
Right. Getting somewhere. Didn't head back to Glasgow.
'So when did he call you?'
'In the morning sometime. Can't remember exactly when, you know. Eight o'clock or something like that. Maybe earlier. Bastard got me out of my bed.'
'What did he say?'
Shakes his head, sucks his teeth. I hate this guy. But then, I hate most of the people I have to question.
'No' much. Says he was going away for a few weeks, could I look after the place. I mean, what a load of shite. That bastard couldn't look after his own prick.'
'OK. How'd he sound?'
'How did he sound? Fucking hell.' Looks over his shoulder at the closed door, a wistful glance. ' Lethal Weapon 3 's on, you know,' he says.
'Come on, Gramps, it's shite. You're involved in the real thing here. Much more interesting.'
He thinks about this.
'So how did he sound?' I repeat.
'I don't know. I didn't speak to him much, you know, but he sounded a bit different. Hard to describe. With a cold, or breathless or something. Ach, I'm no' one of they psychiatrist bastards, one of they educated bastards. I'm a working man. Forty year in the postal trade.'
'That'll explain the sciatica.'
'Aye, it does, but d'you think the Post Office wants to know about it? Do they fuck, mate.'
Nod, look sympathetic. The New Policeman.
'Anything else you can tell me?'
'Aye, there is. My bollocks are getting frozen off. Can I go back inside now?'
Sometimes you just know when you've reached the limit of all you're going to get.
'Aye, right, on you go.'
He grunts some sort of base insult or other and slams the door. Away back to Mel Gibson, you sad bastard.
Turn away from the door just as Taylor emerges from Crow's place. Looks none too happy, but he rarely does.
'Get anywhere?' I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders.
'Spoke to three people. Julia, the ex. Hasn't heard a thing from the guy in five or six years. Says that if we find him we've to remind him of his alimony responsibilities.'
'Some chance.'
'Aye. The other two, don't know who the hell they were. Wouldn't say, but we can check up on them. Just a couple of shady sleazoids that Crow does his dirty work with, I suspect. They both sounded pissed off at the mention of his name. I'd guess he owes them money, and neither of them knows where he is. What about you?'
That's police work for you. Hours of crap for little reward. Point in the direction of the Rest and be Thankful.
'Left at about one in the morning and went that way.'
He looks into the snow, along the road which runs beside Loch Long, then rises up the hill away from the loch, giving way to turn-offs which offer at least three choices of what route to take. The snow is already thick on the road and hardly a car has passed along it since we arrived. Only a fool would head up into the hills on a night like this; particularly when the man we're following went five days ago, and his trail will be colder than the water in the loch we're standing at the head of.
'You're going to follow him, aren't you?' I say.
He grunts and looks at me as if I'm an idiot.
'Get out of here, Hutton, it was five days ago for God's sake.'
Oh. 'What then?'
'You're going to go and interview some more of the neighbours, while I go back inside and watch the tele. Lethal Weapon 3 's on.'
Bloody marvellous. The usual division of labour.
'And Hutton,' he says, 'brush the snow off your hair. You look like an idiot.'