Read The Blood That Stains Your Hands Online
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
The Blood That Stains Your Hands (35 page)
Told us a story one time. He said that weird shit had started happening in his kitchen. And more than once. Fridge door left wide open overnight. Dirty plates from the sink tossed onto the floor. Cupboards emptied, packets and jars strewn around. At first, of course, he thought someone was breaking in, but then he'd hear it happening, rush into the kitchen, and there was no one there. Decided it was a poltergeist. Spoke to some people, wondered about getting a priest in, some shit like that. Was advised to stand in the middle of the kitchen and tell the spirit to leave. That was all. So he did. That's what he told us. This middle-aged accountant, in his middle-aged accountant's suit, stood in the middle of his kitchen and told an unseen spirit to get the fuck out of his house, because it wasn't wanted.
And it worked.
I think about telling this little anecdote to Connor. To say, there's weird shit out there, man, it's not just me. This is the kind of thing that happens. Don't try to explain it, because you can't. Just take it at face value.
'I came across the fact of Reverend Forsyth's daughter having disappeared under unusual circumstances over four decades ago. She was never found, alive or dead. During the course of the investigation I began to have suspicions about one of the graves at the Old Kirk. I undertook to open the grave, and we found the body of Forsyth's daughter.'
'He killed her,' says Connor, a statement rather than a question.
'Maybe,' I reply, 'but we're unlikely to ever know for sure. She's dead, he's dead, and his ex-wife does not want the heartache of the case being brought up again. She just wants to give her daughter a proper burial.'
'What if the minister was covering up for his wife? What if it was the wife who killed her?' he asks.
He has a fair point.
'I don't think that's the case here, sir,' says Taylor, 'but if you want us to look into it, then we can do.'
Connor stares in that impressive way of his across the table. And we know, of course, that he's not thinking about the merits of re-opening the case, because if he was, he'd be asking more questions. He's thinking about the politics of re-opening the case, thinking about how it will look if Mrs Faraday troops along to the
Daily Record
or the
Mail on Fucking Sunday
.
'I'll think about it,' he says. 'Send me the paperwork.'
We both nod. I, at least, am thinking, if you're waiting for me to upload the fucking paperwork onto your stupid, dumb-ass computer system that you championed so much, then you'll be waiting a long time, buddy. Perhaps that is what he's thinking.
Then, without even looking at what he's doing, this Batman of police officialdom moves the file he's been working on into an out-tray and places another one in front of him. It seems our time here is at an end.
'Gentlemen,' he says.
No, no, really, it's fine, you don't have to thank us for the work. No really, come on, sir, you're embarrassing us. Stop it, now.
We leave. Close the door behind us and walk back towards Taylor's office, although I'm going to peel off before we get there.
'Nice recovery on the ghost story,' he says. 'Maybe next time...'
'Yeah, yeah.'
Make a slight acknowledging hand gesture.
'What have you got on?' he asks.
'Off to see a guy about a thing.'
*
I
find my ex-HSBC cleaner at the toilets behind the shops on the lower side of Main Street. There's a yellow board propped up in the doorway. CLEANING IN PROGRESS. He's in a cubicle. There's an overwhelming aroma of bleach. Which is, at least, better than the usual overwhelming smell you get in public toilets.
'Hey,' I say.
'You're fine,' he says without turning. 'Just use one of the other cubicles if you need to.'
'It's the Fuzz,' I say.
He turns, straightens up. He's wearing gloves, has a cloth in his hands.
'Wow,' he says. 'Thought you'd forgotten about me.'
Walks out the cubicle, smiles, makes a small apologetic gesture for not being able to shake hands.
'Sorry, been pretty busy,' I say.
'It's cool,' he says. 'I saw that stuff on the news. You've got to figure that the mass slaughter of church-goers is more important than people writing
you cock
on a wall.'
I smile, look around the walls. The usual collection of insults and toilet-wall wisdom.
'It's been a while since I've had the time to work on this place,' he says. 'Enough trouble keeping it clean.'
I dig the piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it over. He removes his right glove.
'Spoke to this guy at North Lanarkshire. He works with the police on graffiti prevention. Apologised for not having got to work on this previously. Give him a call. He'll get the walls of the toilets, inside and out, done with graffiti-resistant paint. They run a course he said you can go on if you want. Graffiti prevention. He called it a masterclass, but you know, we'll let that one go.'
He laughs.
'What else... There are some CCTV cameras out there, and up at the shops at Hamilton Street. We'll turn them on the entrance to the toilets for a few days. We can't, obviously, catch anyone in the act, but we might get an idea. Some six-year-old walking in with a tin of paint or a collection of marker pens sticking out his back pocket. The guy will also speak to you about people going into the local schools, which is obviously something that works for more than just the beleaguered toilets of the area.'
'I can do that,' he says, nodding.
'You want to go and speak to school children?'
He laughs again.
'It'll get me out the office for a while.'
Bonkers.
'You sort it out with your guy,' I say, pointing at the piece of paper.
He looks at it and shrugs.
'I've spoken to this bloke before.'
'Didn't get anywhere?'
Shake of the head.
'Well, now he's got the Fuzz on his back, I could tell he didn't like it. Give me a shout if you don't get anywhere.'
'Sure.'
OK. That'll do it. The conversation is over, and we're just two guys standing chatting in the public toilet.
'Better crack on,' I say. 'Let me know how you get on. I'll tell you when we're going to do the CCTV thing.'
'Cheers.'
Out the door, back up the short ramp to the precinct.
Stop for a moment and look around. A few shoppers, but not much doing. Not really. This town is dead.
A bright day, crisp, mostly clear skies. Look up at the tower block in front of me, and then over my shoulder.
What happens now?
Well, what usually happens? Life goes on.
Lunchtime. I wonder if I could go and sit in my own personal church for half an hour. Get some peace. Seems kind of weird to think about that now the investigation's over. And Mrs Buttler might not be so welcoming now that we've released Cartwright and found an unexpected corpse buried in her graveyard.
I should probably stay away and find my own peace for a while.
I head back towards the station with no particular thought in mind. Start wondering when the boss might get around to actually suspending me, and I can go off somewhere. North, I think. I'm going to go north.
As I reach the station I notice the coffee shop across the road, check my watch, decide to go in. I can sit in silence and think about looking at the cold northern sea, and I can choose to think about my lost love if I want, and if that's going to prove to be too traumatic, I can think about something else.
The café is quiet for lunchtime, but Sergeant Harrison is there, alone at a table. She smiles as I pass on my way to the counter.
'You all right, Sergeant?' she asks.
'Might be,' I answer. Really, who the fuck knows?
'You want to join me?'
Hmm. Now, I've got my cold northern sea to think about. And the other thing. And anyway, does she really want me to join her or is she just asking out of politeness or some sort of sisterly concern? Although, is that necessarily a bad thing? She's just being nice.
'Sure,' I say. 'Can I get you anything?'
She glances down at her nearly finished baguette and says, 'Americano with milk would be great.'
I head to the sandwich cabinet and grab my cheese and tomato ciabatta with that incredible Italian basil everyone's talking about.
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The DS Hutton Novels
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#3 The Blood That Stains Your Hands
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