There's never a ferry when you need one.
Heading back to Glasgow, the long way round from Dunoon; back the way we came. It's going to take at least a couple of hours in this weather, and we could call someone in Glasgow to do our work for us; but who's that going to be? Who do you call when you've just found your prime suspect dead in his own car, leaving you suspicious of the two most senior officers at the station?
Crow had looked as ugly in death as in life. I can't think of anyone I'd feel less sorry for, having found them long dead in the back of their own car. Alerted the locals, but asked them to keep it under their hats for a few hours. Do the necessary, but don't go phoning Glasgow with the news, 'cause Glasgow already knows.
Still plenty of snow on the ground, no talk in the car. Taylor concentrating on not driving too fast for the conditions, leaving me to concentrate on what the hell is going on. Can think of only two available options.
Out onto the dual carriageway past Balloch before the snow gives a temporary respite and driving becomes easier. About twenty minutes left of the year, and I can't wait to be done with it. As if tomorrow's going to be any better.
Taylor speeds through the night. Decides it's time we talked about it. Gerry Crow, dead in his own car.
'You worked any of it out, Hutton?' he says.
Gather the thoughts, try not to say them all at once.
'If Crow had anything to do with the other deaths, there must have been some accomplice who's now taken care of him. Alternatively, and more likely, he had nothing to do with it and has been dealt with, the same as the others, as part of the same deal. Forgetting Ian Healy for a second, 'cause I've no idea where he fits in, of the original gang of five only Bloonsbury is left.'
'Yep.'
'So, is it that Jonah's been taking care of all his co-conspirators, or does it mean that someone else is going after them all and Jonah's next in line?'
'Miller for instance,' he says. 'Or, fuck, I don't know. Since she knows about the Addison case then maybe she's going to be the next victim.'
'So who do we warn? Bloonsbury or Miller?'
'Maybe they're in it together.'
Jesus, maybe they are. Nothing would surprise me now.
'And what about Healy?' I say.
'I can't work that out. We know he killed Ann Keller and Bathurst. Herrod was killed at his place. I don't know. Maybe he's working with Bloonsbury. Jonah did let him go after all. Maybe they did a deal.'
Stare ahead into the thick mist of night. We need to be talking, but it's in the vague hope that we stumble across something relevant, rather than the actual possibility of working anything out.
'He realises Healy's the killer,' I say. 'At the same time he's wanting to get rid of all his co-conspirators, so he enlists Healy's help. Threatens to arrest him if he doesn't do his dirty work for him, something like that.'
'Fucking Jonah Bloonsbury,' says Taylor. 'Still don't believe it. That theory's still got to be on the sidelines. If he was going to shaft them, why get the help of a psycho? How are you going to control a guy like that? Why not just do it himself?'
We pass through Dumbarton — city of magic — still not much traffic, a few flakes of snow in the air, three quarters of an hour short of our destination. We're heading for Bloonsbury's house, although what will we say if we find him sitting there, a wee dram in his hand and angrily proclaiming his innocence?
'No proof,' I say to him.
'What?'
'We've no proof. Of any of it. It's all speculation.'
He nods. 'I know. That's why it's a pain in the arse.'
'We could be miles off the mark, pishing in the wind. Here's a scenario: Healy kills Keller, then Bathurst. Just in the natural course of his duties as, I don't know, the next Fred West. Josephine Johnson puts Herrod onto Healy, and he gets his comeuppance when he goes to see him. Healy, realising the polis are on to him, buggers off. The next day, Edwards is killed in a hit and run. It happens. Pretty big coincidence, but why not? Meanwhile, some scum confederate of Crow with whom he does business, gets fed up with our slime ex-colleague and does away with the guy. There are probably a thousand people out there who wanted to see Crow dead. So, five deaths and Jonah Bloonsbury has nothing to do with any of them.'
Taylor stares into the white gloom. Thinking. Likes the sound of it, I can see that. And it doesn't sound too far-fetched either. A little, perhaps, but not as outlandish as Jonah Bloonsbury enlisting the help of a psychopath.
'Maybe you're right. Hope you're right. Can you imagine the stench of this if Bloonsbury's our man?'
'Maybe we've been getting ahead of ourselves,' I say. 'So, there's been a coincidence or two. It happens. We'll charge in there to find Jonah sitting getting quietly pished along with Jools Holland, and we're going to look stupid.'
Drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
'Fuck, I don't know, Sergeant…'
We've talked ourselves in a circle, as you do. He descends into silence. Time to mention the other thing that I ought to have mentioned a few hours earlier.
'All right…' I say. 'Then I've got Charlotte Miller to think about.'
'What do you mean?'
Hit the Erskine Bridge; and somewhere bells are ringing to herald the arrival of the New Year. Party. The snow starts to thicken once again.
Here goes.
'She asked me down there tonight. Frank's in Poland, apparently. I mean, who goes to Poland?'
He looks at me. Fortunately not for too long, and turns back to the road.
'And were you going to tell me this sometime?'
'I'm telling you now.'
'For god's sake, Sergeant.'
What with him being right to be annoyed, I naturally go on the defensive.
'What's the problem? You're jealous?'
'Fucking hell. Where were we two minutes ago with this discussion? There are four officers dead. If it's not coincidence, if they're all dead for the same reason, and if it's not Bloonsbury who's done it and he's next on the list, it could be Miller. She knows you know. Why else would she ask you down there?'
He may be right, but I have my defensive annoyance to think about. 'If she was going to do it, then why not do it before now, for fuck's sake? She's had plenty of opportunity.'
'Fuck, I don't know, Sergeant. Just ask yourself why she's banging you in the first place.'
'I told you! Because of the incident with her tits.'
I look at him. The very act of describing the incident with her tits as the incident with her tits, makes me smile, but Taylor ain't smiling.
Silence again. And he's right. The incident of the tits doesn't really explain why a superintendent is going for the likes of me, yet it still doesn't make sense that it should be to keep me quiet. I didn't know a thing about all of this when I first went down there on Christmas Eve.
Nothing to say. The journey continues in silence; and the snow falls in ever more furious flurries, so that by the time we arrive in Hamilton we're driving through a white mass.
Haven't been at Bloonsbury's house since he had a bachelor poker party two weeks after Beattie moved out. Really it was a poker/fuck movie/drugs/alcohol/whore party. The standard police fare. Filled the house up with a bunch of us, raided the warehouse and got what he could, dragged in a couple of tarts that they'd picked up specially the night before. You know the deal: 'come round and shag the lot of us tomorrow night or you're nicked.' Happens all the time. Anyway, sad to say, Detective Sergeant Hutton was in the midst of it all. Steaming out of my face, losing a shit load of cash at the cards, standing in the queue for the women. Jesus knows what number I was in line. Not a proud moment in my career. Some things are best forgotten.
Pull up outside the house, get out of the car into the cold. Up the path, the tangled mass of vegetation that is the garden still evident despite the snow. Wonder what state of decay the house is going to be in.
The place is quiet. Dead. No lights, no sound.
'He's either out, or he's collapsed on the floor,' says Taylor as he rings the bell.
'Probably out somewhere collapsed on the floor,' I say. Pull my coat closer around me; makes no difference. It's bloody freezing.
He rings the bell again and we stand and wait. In vain. Tries the door handle. Locked.
'You ready to put the door in again?' he says.
'You're kidding?'
'Come on, Sergeant, we're not standing out here all night waiting for the guy to wake up or come home.'
'But he could have nothing to do with it. He might just be a drunken pish head. How's it going to look if we go breaking into his house and nothing comes out of it?'
He looks at me — the Chief Inspector look.
'Sergeant, break the fucking door down. I'll take the responsibility. Just do it. If someone is taking them all out, Bloonsbury could be lying in there dead, anyway.'
Let out a long breath. Bloody hell, here goes. Glad I've got my boots on.
Foot up, kick hard at the lock with the soul of my boot. The door gives slightly, while I lose my balance, slip and fall on my backside. Into a soft bed of snow. Taylor ignores me, puts his shoulder to the weakened door and pushes it open. Looks back.
'Come on, Sergeant, off your arse,' he says, and walks into the house. Puts on the hall light, looks up the stairs.
'Jonah!'
I dig myself out the snow, brush it off best I can, walk into the house.
'Jonah!' he shouts again.
Dead quiet.
'Right, up the stairs, Sergeant, I'll do down here.'
Taylor walks off into the sitting room — the scene of a vast majority of the poker party — while I head up to the bedrooms; scene for another part of the poker party. Two bedrooms and a bathroom at the end is all there is up here, if I remember correctly.
Have a vaguely embarrassed feeling, walking into the house of someone who may well be perfectly innocent. Half expect to find him in bed with someone from the station, and I'm going to feel like an idiot.
To the top of the stairs, stop and listen. Nothing.
'Jonah, you there?'
No reply. Feels a bit creepy now that I'm here, even with the lights on. Vaguely unpleasant smell in the air. Wonder if it's death. Don't think so. Assume that anywhere Bloonsbury lives is going to smell vaguely unpleasant.
Walk along the top landing, floorboards creak beneath my feet. Past the regulation police photo — the young Jonah with the Secretary of State for Scotland of the day. Ian Lang by the looks of things. His glory days were that long ago.
Push open the door to the front bedroom.
'Jonah?'
Turn on the light. The place is a shit tip. The sort of state your room is in when you're twelve and your mother's forgotten to tell you to clean it up for the last year. The man lives like a pig. Hate to think what sort of lifeforms Taylor's going to come across in the kitchen.
Walk into the room, start poking around his things. Clothes everywhere, blankets tossed off the side of the bed. Sheets and pillows stained. Wonder if he's changed them since the whores were here along with all the guys from the station. By the looks of things, not.
Think I feel it first, rather than hear it. A noise; a whisper of sound. Niggling. Feel it in the shiver down my back. Drop the jacket, the pockets of which I've been looking through. Stand still. Silent. Taylor maybe.
It comes again. A murmur of noise. The next bedroom. A strange sound. Not like a man or woman's voice, but still human. A whimper.
Wish I had a gun again. Ought to start carrying these things around, but still the noise is not threatening. Out into the hall, and now I can hear it more clearly. Feel the pain of it. Hairs rise on the back of my neck.
A noise from downstairs. Taylor stumbling into something, a low curse; calls out for Bloonsbury again.
Stand outside the other bedroom. A second's hesitation. Wonder. Push the door open, no idea what I'm going to find. Half expecting to see a dog whimpering in the corner.
Light on.
Jesus Christ. The smell hits me as much as the sight of what is in front of me; get that instant shock like needles of water under a freezing shower.
Ian Healy, manacled to the wall. Unshaven, cheeks drawn, barely recognisable from the man I spoke to a week ago. He is naked, his arms attached to the wall above him, and from these he hangs limply. His feet can touch the floor, but they offer no support. And around his feet are several days worth of his own faeces and urine and vomit.
Take a step back, try to ignore the smell. He squints from the light, and then looks at me. Acknowledgement flickers across his face, a word tumbles silently from his lips.
'Boss!' I shout, 'think you'd better get up here.'