Doubtless the world is quite right in a million ways; but you have to be kicked about a little to convince you of the fact.
Not number twenty-one from the book of Useful Police Philosophy. From the writings of Robert Louis Stevenson. Now, I'm not denigrating the guy, but really I don't give a shit. Books are not my thing, particularly ones which were written way back, when making love to someone meant that you sat on the end of the bed and told the woman how good she looked in pink. And I think I speak for most of my colleagues when I say that. If any of us ever has the time to read a book — and with all the detecting and drinking that has to be done, it isn't often — we like to settle down with a good crime thriller. Pick up some handy detective-type hints. 19 ^ th Century literature just isn't on the list.
However, there are dark forces which conspire to thrust it down our throats, whether we want to hear it or not. The dark force, in particular, is Superintendent Charlotte Miller, BA Hons in English Lit. Not that she stomps around with her honours degree stamped on her forehead; she is a little more subtle than that, although not much. Lets her erudition spill out all over the place.
It's a management tactic that's supposed to make you respect her intelligence and insight, when in fact all it makes most folks want to do is place their hands around her throat and squeeze. The I'm a smart bastard and you're an ignorant little shit, so do what I say routine. The attitude that launched a thousand rebellions.
Stevenson is her favourite. Always throwing in quotes, or giving us some other little homily from his life. Very inspiring. I don't have a literary favourite — I go through life with no one to quote but myself.
The woman is forty-nine, and therefore younger than a lot of the chief inspectors at her fingertips. This is, as you will imagine, a source of friction. Most of these guys are in their early fifties, they're not going anywhere else, and they're from the 'women should be in the kitchen with the washing up' generation. Confronted with a woman who is a) smarter than them, b) in a position to tell them what to do, c) going places they can't even dream about, and d) much, much better looking, most of them spend their days in a foul mood, dumping on delinquent constables. And sergeants.
Point d) may seem the most trivial and sexist of the lot, but you have to be realistic. If this woman looked like one of those 1970's Czechoslovak shot putters, modelled for Hound Monthly, chewed tobacco and bent iron bars with her teeth, I'm sure they could cope with it a lot better. But she's a dream. I'd have her before any of these strapping, ball-crushing constables that pass through here — even the good looking ones like Bathurst — but there's no way Miller is going to go anywhere near the likes of me. It's not because she's married, because faithful she ain't. It's a power thing. She goes for people in power, people that can do things for her. And note that — people. Not just men. This woman would have fought on both sides of the Spanish Civil war, if you know what I'm saying.
Gorgeous and bisexual. Holy crap. Seriously, any time you meet a woman like that, it's like they've been invented. By me. The chances of me, Miller and another gorgeous bisexual woman all ending up in bed together might be nil, but at least they're not as nil as they would be if she wasn't bisexual in the first place.
Things did change a little between us a few months ago. I guess I'd always had the same opinion of her as most of the other men around here — that vague mixture of suspicion, revulsion and lust — then one day I blundered into her office without knocking just as she was changing to go out to an official lunch.
It was late summer. She'd been wearing a white blouse and I'm guessing, a white bra, and I walked in on her as she had both of them off and was standing by her desk in trousers and nothing else. As I entered she was bending over, but she straightened up, made no attempt to cover herself and looked at me as if she wasn't standing there topless.
It was a weird moment. We stared at each other for rather a long time; although, obviously when I say that we stared at each other, I mean that she looked me in the eye while I stared at her tits. I knew it was wrong, but by God I couldn't stop myself. I was keen to look her in the eye, I really was, but all I could do was stare at her tits, thinking, holy mother of all fuck, those are the best tits I've ever seen in my life, I want those tits. I couldn't speak, because all I would have said was, Wow, look at your tits, or Have you seen your tits, they're amazing or something equally stupid. So I stood there, mouth slightly open, staring at her tits, until she said, 'Sergeant?' and the spell was broken.
I finally managed to look her in the eye, said, 'It can wait,' and left. Closing the door behind me.
I remember walking out into the station thinking that it was utterly bizarre that a man — me — who had seen so many tits in his life, should be so enamoured by any pair of tits, but I was hooked. Must admit that I have viewed her with a lot more respect since then.
That's probably wrong, isn't it?
I like to tell myself it's because it was a moment when she proved that she transcended sexuality and was a woman of strength and power, but really it's because she's got great tits.
She's married to a boring suit called Frank, who sells oatcakes or some shit like that abroad. So the guy's never here, which gives her plenty of time for bridge building. Met the bloke a couple of times and nearly fell asleep talking to him. One of the camel coat Ibrox brigade, turns up there about once a season and talks as if he knows a shit load about Scottish football, when in truth he doesn't know any more than any other comedian who supports the Rangers. Believe he's got designs on becoming a director, and they're welcome to each other.
It's nearly ten o'clock and me and Taylor are sitting in the pub. I've just arrived, having smoked my fiftieth of the day on the way here. Taylor's been here since about five. Given that, he's remarkably cogent. Probably been making a pint last a few hours, since there was no one here to buy him a round.
The aggravated assault was the usual thing. Domestic, brothers, one of them ended up in hospital, the other's in a holding cell back at the station. They were fighting over a woman, which is no surprise, and she played the innocent, desperately concerned third party throughout. Playing one off against the other, and if any of them should be in the slammer, it's her.
'Your round,' says Taylor, with the detective's eye for detail. I think I could dispute that but choose not to bother. Make my way to the bar, catch the eye of the sultry barperson. Agnes.
'Vodka tonic, and a pint of heavy,' I say, and she nods and goes about her business. It's a quiet night, there's no one else within hearing range and I wonder whether I should go for it. She's wearing a tight white top, displaying adequate amounts of cleavage, and as she bends down to retrieve the tonic from the fridge, I get a good view of her massive buttocks. Very sexy. She stands up, slightly flushed around the chops, not a bad looking girl. Nevertheless, decide against. Go for idle chatter.
'Can you change the tape, Love?'
She listens to the music for a second and shrugs.
'It's Christmas,' she says, pouring the pint.
'There's more to Christmas than bloody Band Aid. You must have Bob's Christmas album.'
She watches the smooth brown liquid slowly fill the glass, the light reflecting off its deep hues. Sound poetic? Can't stand the stuff myself.
'Bob who?' she says.
Decide it was just as well I didn't go for it and hand over a twenty pound note. Then, drinks and change in hand, make my way back to the table. Sit down, suddenly occurs to me it's a few hours nearer Christmas and I still don't have anything for Rebecca. Look at the watch. Have to have something by five o'clock tomorrow evening. Bugger.
'What do you think of Bloonsbury?' says Taylor, licking the froth from his lips.
'What do I think of him?'
'Aye. Has he still got it? For a big case like this, I mean.'
'Fuck knows. I doubt it, but he seemed a bit more switched on this afternoon. But let's face it, the Addison case aside, what's he done in the last five years?'
No answer. There is no answer.
'So why,' I say, 'did she put him on this one?'
Taylor shrugs. 'So's he'll screw up, maybe.'
'Why?'
'It's like James Bond in The Man With the Golden Gun.'
'You mean there's an Asian dwarf?'
'No, not the film, the book.'
'Never read it.'
'James Bond is washed up, at a dead end. He's been brainwashed by the Russians. The Secret Service have no more use for him. But, fuck, he's James Bond. They can't just pack him off to a desk job. So they send him after Scaramanga, the deadliest assassin in the world. If he kills him then he's proved his worth; if he gets killed then they don't have the problem of what to do with James Bond.'
'Oh, aye. So what happens?'
'What do you mean, what happens? He's James Bond. What do you think happens?'
'But Jonah Bloonsbury ain't no James Bond.'
Taylor lifts an eyebrow.
'Fucking right he's not. She's sailing him down the river and when he fucks up, he's history.'
Take my first drink, screw up my face. Put in too much tonic. How do I manage to still do that after seven or eight million of them?
'So then what?'
'We get it,' he says, shaking his head. 'Would have been Crow, but now that he's buggered off to his one-bedroomed ruin in Arrochar, we'll get stuck with it. And it'll probably be after he's killed again, and the press are baying for blood. Bloonsbury's won't be enough.'
'So?'
'So, we'd better start thinking about how we're going to get this guy.'
'Oh.' Work. 'So that's what you've been sitting here thinking about, is it?'
'Not just that,' he says, and I'm not sure I want to know to what he is alluding. 'Anyway, someone's got to do it, 'cause Jonah's probably face down in a ditch by now.'
'So what have you come up with for your five hours ruminations?'
He takes an especially large drink, licks the froth from his lips, lays his hands on the table.
'Bugger all. I was waiting for you.'
Very funny.
'I'm serious,' he says in reply to the look on my face, and I believe him. 'So, what have we got? Some weird bastard who slashes a woman to pieces. Total rage, cutting her up to the extent that she is unrecognisable.'
'Why not just leave it to the profilers?' I say. They have these sad folk who just sit there all day inventing people. Someone pishes against a wall and they spend three weeks compiling the psychiatric profile of the man, before deciding his brother stuck a carrot up his arse when he was three. It's their job, let them do it.
He points his finger at me. I hate it when he does that. 'Because they don't know fuck all, son,' he says.
He's right.
'So why so brutal to the face?' he says. It's like being at school.
'Personal grudge.' Think about those photographs. 'Deep personal grudge.'
He nods. 'Either against her, or someone who looks like her.' Fits the bill. 'I'll go for the latter. If he knew her we'll find out about it, but it doesn't feel right.'
'Could be some psycho who sort of knew her. Worshipped her from afar and all that shite. She didn't know anything about it, he makes his approach one night after the cinema, she rejects him, he slashes her to pieces.'
He shakes his head. 'Maybe, maybe. I don't know. I like the sound of it being some fuck-up with no previous relation to her at all. Completely arbitrary. If she hadn't been there last night, she would never have got it. She was in someone else's place.'
'So, what? We're looking for some guy who's been dumped by a bird with dark brown hair? That could be me.'
'Aye, well you've been dumped by just about every size, hair colour, personality type combination, so I'm not about to drag you in.'
'Thanks.'
'Don't mention it.' Another drink from the glass. Funny how he's managed to speed up now he's got someone to buy him a round. 'What we need is a description of the guy. She was walking along a main road, for God's sake, just come out of a busy cinema.'
'There were like ten people at it.'
Shrugs. 'Whatever. You'd think the woman in the ticket booth would be able to remember a few more faces.'
'You just can't rely on people.'
'Ain't that the truth,' says Taylor, then with another long pull at his glass he finishes off his pint. 'Buy you another, Hutton,' he adds, to general astonishment.
I nod, mouth partially open in surprise. Taylor never buys a round at home. Now; two nights in a row.
Taylor makes his way to the bar, I look around the pub. The usual crew. One or two others from the station, but never too many. Most of them prefer the Whale, and they're welcome to it.
The door to the pub opens, and with a portentous gust of cold wind, in walks Charlotte Miller. Raised eyebrows from the Feds, and then we all try to pretend we haven't noticed.
Try not to choke on my vodka when she walks over to our table and sits down. Smile at her, try not to look at, or even think about, her tits. Smell her perfume, breathe it in. Don't imagine her naked… She's wearing a fuck-off blue trouser suit and, as usual after fourteen hours in the office, looks as if she just got dressed five minutes ago.
'It's a cold night,' she says, rubbing her hands.
I nod. Look her in the eye. Seems there's a bit of a spark there, as there has been ever since the tits incident. (In my head it's known as the Tits Incident.)
'What happened with the assault? Brothers, was it?'
'Aye.' Talk normally. 'We've got one at the station, the other's in hospital.'
'Over a woman?'
'Aye.' She smiles at this and shakes her head.
'You men are all alike.' Wait for the literary quote, but Stevenson mustn't have written anything about men only thinking with their dicks.
Taylor returns with the drinks and nearly drops his pint. Makes a quick recovery. Give the guy his due. He's suspicious of her, but she doesn't turn him into a quivering blob of jelly, the way she does some of his contemporaries.
'Hello, Dan. Been here long?' she says. Bitch. Will know exactly how long he's been here. Now me, that would have had me in a tangle of deceit and idiocy, trying to explain why I'd spent so long in the pub. But so what if Bloonsbury had given us this big Jock Stein speech? It was the end of the day and if we had nothing else immediate and wanted to sit in the boozer, we could. But I would still be trying to justify myself. Taylor's too cool for that; or past caring.
'About five hours,' he says. 'Can I get you a drink?'
She nods. 'Whisky, neat, thanks.'
He turns back to the bar. She taps her fingers on the table. Long fingers, and I imagine them all over my body. Sometimes I bore even myself with the ridiculous one-tracked-ness of my brain when this woman is around.
'What are you doing for Christmas?' she says.
'Working.' Stick to one word answers.
She smiles, almost looks understanding. 'Someone's got to. Frank and I are going to Braemar.'
I nod, not surprised. Braemar. Brilliant. Eat some smoked salmon and fucking quails' eggs for me.
'When are you seeing the children?' she asks.
'Tomorrow evening.' She asks about the children every now and again. I think she learned to do it on a management weekend. One of these things where they pitch twenty people into a bog on Benbecula with a box of matches, a pot noodle and three sheets of toilet paper, and tell them to survive for a fortnight.
'Oh,' she says. Taylor is labouring behind a guy at the bar trying to decide between cheese and onion and chardonnay wine vinegar flavour. 'You won't be out late, though?'
Starting to sort of gawp at her. She must know the look. What's she getting at? I don't see this coming at all. She almost sounds nervous, except that it's not a word I could possibly associate with her. I shake my head and say, 'I doubt it.'
She taps her fingers.
'I was wondering if you'd like to come over later. To the house, I mean. Frank's going to Aberdeen on business for the night. Just like him, Christmas Eve, for God's sake, but you know what he's like. Meeting him in Braemar on Thursday morning.'
Various thoughts flash around my head. Vague things about Aberdeen and Frank. Push them to the side. She's inviting me to dinner, at her place, when her husband's going to be out of town. Fucking hell. It'll be just me and her. And her tits.
'Aye, I think I could manage that.'
She smiles. I could eat that smile. 'Great. I'll speak to you tomorrow.'
Taylor returns, glass in hand, lays it down in front of her. Wonder if he notices how pale I've become. Feel white, but I may not have descended that far.
She smiles at him, lifts the glass. 'Cheers,' she says, and before we can make a grab for our drinks she's downed it in one. Looks at the two of us. Having said what she came to say, and realising she isn't about to get any meaningful conversation, she stands up.
'Right,' she says, 'thanks for the drink, Dan. See you both tomorrow.'
We nod, she turns and walks out, leaving a trace of French perfume in the air. We watch her go, then the door is closed behind her and we turn to alcohol, our only friend.
'What the fuck was that all about?' says Taylor eventually.
I'm not sure, and shake my head.
'When a woman brings her breasts to the party,' I reply, quoting the legendary Stevenson, 'chaos, pestilence and Armageddon cannot be far behind.'