Almost four thirty and there's about fifteen of us in the room. What will become the daily roundup, assuming this thing isn't solved inside the first day. Waiting for Bloonsbury to arrive and take charge. He's in with Miller giving her all the latest, and probably getting his bollocks torn off for not having caught the killer yet.
So he'll get shredded in there, then after this briefing he'll have to go out and face the hounds of the press, when he'll probably get shredded again. He'll consider this a pleasant interlude, if discussing this kind of thing can be pleasant.
They've got the photographs on the wall. Before and after, and it's not noticeably the same woman. Sure, we get murder in these parts, although this is Glasgow not Juarez; but not like this. Domestic, casual, accidental, thuggery, we get them every now and again, a few a year. But this; violent, savage, psychotic.
Most of the folks around here are out of their depth. You can tell. They have the look. I wish I was there, out of my depth with them. I may not want to look at those photographs, I may hate the fact that this kind of death has found its way onto our patch, but fuck it, I've seen worse in the flesh. The bloody, torn and shattered flesh; and every one of those bloody photographs takes me back, which is why I'm not looking at them.
Dear old Bloonsbury must be shitting his pants over this one, and God knows what state he's in, given the alcoholic abyss into which he's been plummeting these last few years. Poor bastard.
There's some muted conversation, but not much. Not with this on, not with those pictures on the wall. We're all waiting for Bloonsbury so we can go out and get on with it, or go home and try to forget it for the night. Be thankful it wasn't our wife or daughter or whoever that had their entire body slashed to pieces, and hope that it doesn't happen again before we catch the animal who did it.
The domestic stuff keeps intruding there as well. It's inane, but you can't stop it. Still no idea what to get Rebecca for her Christmas. Seeing them tomorrow, although at this rate I might have to cancel. Pizza and presents, and I'll hand over the gift for their mother and hope I get something back. Gone a bit over the top this year. Diamond earrings, just under three hundred quid out of some place in town. Money I can't afford for a present for my ex-wife who's shagging someone else. I don't think I'm trying to get her back, but then why else am I spending so much money? I'm confused, but that's the best way to be.
The door opens, and I am torn from my worsening morosity. DCI Bloonsbury, looking as if he's just been savaged himself. Think he needs hospitalised. He's a big man, six-five maybe. Back row forward in his day, played a Scotland trial. Nearly made it, although in those days all you got for playing rugby was a lot of sore joints and absurd ears. Well, the way he walks now he certainly got the sore joints. I'm five ten and I could head butt the guy without needing to stretch. He's got the ruddy face of the alcoholic, and looks way beyond fifty-three. The man's a disaster, but somehow he's been managing to get by the past couple of years.
There was a time last year when he was almost kicked into touch. His wife had just upped and left him for a plumber from Dundee, taking the kids and everything else of worth in the family. Bloonsbury went over the edge, yet somehow managed to claw his way back. Got a lot of help. He's a bit of a hero round here, for one reason or another. Used to be the star, and people still want to look up to him, even though more and more of us are seeing through him.
So this was his crowning glory from last year. Just as he was at his lowest ebb, he came up with a beauty. Big murder case out this end of Glasgow. A poor wee woman bought it from some ski-masked fellow wielding a kitchen knife. The feeling that he was going to be a repeat murderer quickly grew, women all over the city were panicking, and us lot were looking useless. Bloonsbury was in charge, the investigation seemingly stuck in neutral, and then boom, out of nowhere, it suddenly all fell into place. The big man put it together, made the breakthrough, and we got the guy. Some sleazoid from the west end who denied it all the way to the joint, but we had him. Enough evidence to put away a thousand murderers.
Bloonsbury was the hero, feted in the papers, got that ugly mug on TV, had all sorts of people queuing up to suck his dick. Don't know how he did it, given the state he was in at the time, but it was good to see. Trouble is, of course, he's been getting all the big ones ever since, and not been doing too well. This'll be the last chance, and all you can imagine is him hitting the bottle even harder, and maybe, if he's lucky, his liver'll give out and he'll die before he can blow it.
He comes to the front of the room, looks like shit. Stares at us; we stare back. You can see he would rather just be down the pub staring at a full bottle of Glen Ord, or one of these other single malts he occasionally fancies himself as being able to tell the difference between.
'Right then, gentlemen,' ignoring the five women, 'all the facts. What have we got? You first, Herrod.'
Herrod nods, looks at his notebook.
'Victim, Ann Keller. Dark brown hair, twenty-seven, bit of a looker. Had two part-time jobs. Ancillary at the Victoria, sales at Frasers in Buchanan Street in the town. Worked in the shop on Monday, was due in the hospital today.' He pauses, looks through the notes. Try not to let my mind wander, having heard all this stuff already. 'Went to the Classic cinema to see some foreign film.'
Herrod can't distinguish between countries. Never been abroad. There's British, and there's foreign. I talked to him about the Balkans once. But just the once. Knew not to do it again.
'She was due to go with her boyfriend, one Christopher James from Cambuslang, although the usherette remembers her as being on her own. He claims to have cancelled the date.'
Bloonsbury blurts in. 'You been speaking to him, Dan?'
Taylor is roused from his perpetual melancholy. Either thinking about Debbie or the continuing depression over DS Murphy. Or maybe he's just miserable at having to do all this shit, same as the rest of us.
'Been in with him most of the afternoon. No alibi for last night. Stayed in, watched tele. Can describe what was on, but that doesn't mean anything. Looks pretty upset.' He shrugs. 'Don't know. Forensics have been over his flat, we'll see what they come up with. I'm guessing it'll be nothing. Don't think he's our man.'
'Why didn't he go to the pictures?'
'Said they had a fight. Something to do with a necklace given to her by an ex-boyfriend.'
'Got a name?'
'Aye. Looking into it. We'll find him, get him in.'
'Could he have made the story up? Deflect attention, and all that?'
All right, it's not brilliant, but believe me, this is Bloonsbury a hell of a lot more switched on than he's been in months. Maybe he's going to go for this one. Wants to be the hero again. Get his name in the papers.
'Don't know. We'll talk to the guy, see what we come up with.'
'Right. Herrod, what else?'
Herrod looks pissed off. I sometimes wonder if he reveres Bloonsbury or hates the sight of him. Or both. And sometimes I realise that I really, really don't care either way.
'She leaves the pictures, walks home. Ten minute walk, she never gets there. Somewhere along the way she is accosted, strangled and stabbed.' Looks at his notebook. 'A hundred and twenty-five times, mostly in the face and chest.' Jesus. Who the fuck stabs someone a hundred and twenty-five times? Herrod looks at the women, slightly embarrassed, as if they might be delicate in some way. Old fashioned, Herrod. 'He pulled her into a close entrance before he did it, then left the body where he killed her. Found by some poor bastard who lives on the third floor. The deed couldn't have been done more than three or four minutes. The guy checks out, by the way.'
There's a bit of a silence. We're all mad, tough bastards here, but this kind of thing is always going to stick in the throat, regardless of how many thugs you've arrested, regardless of how many bodies you've seen decapitated and dumped in a pile in the middle of a forest.
'Why do you suppose he did that?' says Bloonsbury.
'What?'
'Stab her over a hundred times.'
Herrod shrugs. 'I don't fucking know, do I?' he says bluntly. I can't help smiling at that, but quickly wipe it off.
'Aye, right, fine. Any ideas people?' says Bloonsbury looking around the room.
He wants to ask some idiot doctor with letters after his name and a mind for lunatics, not a bunch of Feds more used to dealing with car theft.
DS Harrison speaks up. An attractive woman in her way, if a little brutish. Reminds me of my Aunt Maureen. I've heard tell she wears a chain around her waist, although have never had the desire to try and see for myself. Anyway, there's a rumour that she prefers the company of women, which is something I have to admire, because so do I.
'He knew her, hated her, got carried away with an act of vengeance.'
'Maybe,' says Bloonsbury. Never know with the guy if he's being cagey or slow.
I shrug and decide to participate. 'The guy was hardly rational. From the ferocity of the attack we know that he absolutely lost it. You stab someone over a hundred times, you're not thinking straight.'
Bloonsbury sighs, shakes his head. 'Aye, I suppose you're right.' Starts rubbing his eye. The man needs a drink. 'I'll speak to that doctor, what's his name?'
'Arkansas,' volunteers a voice from the floor.
'Aye, right, how could I forget a fucking stupid name like that? All right, anything else? Did the knobs at pathology have anything illuminating to tell us?'
Herrod. 'Aye. Apparently she'd had sex yesterday afternoon. There were still traces of semen in her,' and he looks shyly around the women folk again, 'you know, inside her. Unrelated to the murder. From that we've got male, mid-thirties, blood group AB neg, and that's our lot.'
I tell you, Baird and Balingol are something else. How did they manage to work out that the guy's male just from his semen?
'Ties in with the boyfriend, presumably,' says Bloonsbury, looking at Taylor.
'Aye,' says Taylor. 'Did it in the afternoon, in the toilets in his work in town, he says. It was after that she told him about the present from her ex. They argued, the usual thing. She left without it being resolved whether he'd go to the cinema. He thought about it, and decided not to.'
'Right,' says Bloonsbury.
He looks around the room, not sure where else to go with this.
'Right,' he says again, 'this is a sick bastard we've got here. People are going to be shitting their pants, so we need this guy off the streets before Christmas. So, I know we've all got things to do at this time of year, but the quicker we get this out the way, the more time we can spend on enjoying ourselves. So let's give it everything we've got for the next couple of days.'
Very inspiring.
'Right. We've got descriptions of the lassie going out on the news, phone lines open, and all that. You all know what you're doing, so get out there and get on with it. I've got to go and speak to the fucking papers.'
The meeting starts to break up. All hands on deck. Let's hope there's no more crime in the area for the next few weeks. Bloonsbury leads the way out the room and then we all start to shuffle after him. Taylor puts his hand on my shoulder.
'I need a drink, Sergeant. You coming?'
Where better to increase pressure in the investigation than from the pub? I nod and lead the way. The group disperses around the station, each with things to do. Not much conversation. All this is very intense. The thought that at some stage we're going to come face to face with this guy. And if we don't, it's because we'll have failed to do our jobs.
Almost out the door when Sgt Ramsey stops my steady progress towards the first vodka tonic of the day.
'Got something for you, Thomas.'
'What?' I don't look impressed.
'Aggravated assault in Westburn. Your show.'
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Taylor shrugs. 'See you in a couple of hours, Sergeant. I'll still be there.'
Aye, right.