Douglas Lindsay - A Plague Of Crows

No one says anything, which is probably because we're all trying to work out what the fuck he's talking about. The footage was obviously taken by the killer while the victims died. It was never, at any stage, in the hands of the police. It wasn't police footage. Why even make that threat? Why even mention it?

That's how small a man he is. Needs to make up potential offences, just so that he can make up threats, just so that everyone can know he's a strong leader.

He has nothing else to add. He looks menacingly around the room, letting everyone know who's boss, and then walks quickly away, giving Taylor a filthy glance as he goes. Slams the door behind him.

What a complete arsehole. Really.

Taylor steps back to the head of the room and looks around us all. He probably wants to say something to show solidarity, to let us know that we're all in it together, not just against the killer. But against that level of stupidity from higher up, it would be unprofessional. So he does the sensible thing and acts as though the last minute and a half never happened.

'We're needing to check on all missing persons in the last couple of weeks. In particular we're interested in police, media, social services, but let's check every missing person that's out of the ordinary.'

He talks on for a while longer, divvying up the various tasks that have to be taken care of. Suddenly this has gone national — global — and there's going to be all sorts of shit hitting all sorts of fans. A lot of the work of the next few hours will be liaison with other authorities, as we try to get as much of the Plague of Crows stuff taken off the internet. The chances of getting it all removed seem incredibly slim.

Taylor, at least, looks keen to rise to the challenge. Finally, after three months, there's something to do on this case, other than stare at the ceiling and think.

*

Sitting in his office twenty minutes later. He called me in for a quick chat, before I go and spend the next however long it takes searching through as much of the various online footage of the murders as I can find. There's a lot of it out there, on many different sites, although most of it is replicated.

'We don't have much time, Sergeant,' he says, 'so glean as much as you can, as quickly as you can.'

'You reckon the guy's already lined up his next victims?'

I'm dying to go out for a fag. We used to smoke in here quite happily, until Connor arrived. I don't think anyone's risked having a fag indoors since the minute he walked into the building. That first morning he stopped as soon as he walked into the office. He smelled the air, looked around the room. 'There's a no smoking policy in the building, I take it?' he asked. Someone nodded. 'Good,' he said.

That was all it took. None of us have smoked inside since, although all of us immediately thought, wanker …

'Well, yes, I do, but it's not that. We're not getting left with this much longer.'

'How d'you mean?'

He waves a dismissive hand out at the station.

'The shit's hitting the fan, Sergeant. This isn't just a national story. It'll be global. It'll be on the news in … I don't know…everywhere. America, Brazil, fucking Vietnam… You think they're going to be happy about a no-name DCI from the arse end of Glasgow being in charge of a crime investigation that'll be in the New York Times?'

'You think Connor will take over?'

'Connor? No way. He was sent here to be a school teacher. To impose discipline on you lot.'

'And you,' I throw in quickly, but we're not really in the place for any light banter.

'He's an authoritarian, pen-pushing arsehole, as we just witnessed first hand. He's not getting to investigate anything, and neither will he want to. He's the kind that'll only take on what he's confident he'll succeed at.'

'So, who d'you think?'

'I think they'll bring someone in from outside.'

'Fuck.'

'Yeah, fuck,' he says.

He rubs his hands over his face, but he's not tired, he's not stressed. He's in a good place these days. Determined, if nothing else.

'So, we need to get somewhere before they breeze in and take it off us. Best case scenario is that they leave us working on it too, under some sort of umbrella operation. It'd be stupid not to. But the new guy might want us to have nothing to do with it. It's not like we can claim any sort of resounding success the last few months.'

Nod. Move to the door. 'Right, I'll crack on.'

'Frame by frame. Flag up the slightest thing, no matter how trivial.'

And I'm out the door.

Almost bump into DI Gostkowski as I step back into the office. She hasn't mellowed towards me over the last three months. The only real change in our working relationship is that, as so often happens with me, familiarity has bred attraction, and I've decided that actually she's pretty fit. A few warm summer days with her jacket off and the top buttons of her blouse undone.

She's still too much of a grown-up, and unlikely to touch me with a stick, but what the hell. I can dream.

'Detective Inspector,' I say, with a polite nod.

'Sergeant,' she says back.

Then I smile. Always good to hit them with a smile. You know, it doesn't cost anything. It's polite, it's friendly. She, on the other hand, heads off without a second glance. Work to do. Only the immature are going to bother with the slightest flirtatious smile at a time like this.

Well, there you have it. Time to address the issues at hand, not to be thinking about the endless search for the Holy Grail of convenient, fun and low maintenance office sex.

Mind on the job.

*

Some time later. Called back in to Taylor's office. Me and the boss and a constable from Strathclyde HQ in Pitt Street who's an expert in computer hackery and the like. Detective Constable MacGregor. Looks about twelve. Knows shit about computers, the way I know shit about types of fags and Bob Dylan. His thing is probably more useful than mine.

'You're not holding your breath, Sir, right?' he says.

Taylor shakes his head. 'Can we just try and trace this guy somewhere, even if it's to a cafe or a wi-fi network or something?'

'Not looking good,' he says.

'Fuck,' mutters Taylor, then he gives a small dismissive wave to indicate that the constable should continue. 'Talk me through it like I'm an idiot,' he adds.

'Yeah, me too,' I throw in from behind, which is mostly to let Taylor know that he shouldn't switch off on the basis that I'm going to be understanding what MacGregor's talking about.

'So, your dude's done everything through this e-mail account, PlagueOfCrows@freemail.jp. Now, you can only get a dot-jp e-mail address if you're in Japan. Or rather if your computer is in Japan. Or, and this is the thing, if your computer seems to be in Japan. So either he's now in Japan, which isn't completely impossible, as the crimes were three months ago and he could have, like, walked there by now, or he's sitting in Scotland somewhere and he used a proxy server… You know what a proxy server is?'

Well, do ya, punk? Taylor shakes his head, although it's not like he won't have some idea, because the clue's in the title. Our new friend the geek is trying to be dramatic and we're letting him.

'The proxy server is the thing that means we're fucked. Sure, we can get warrants and shit to track down the ISP and IP and the like, but if he created it while sitting in Starbucks, you're screwed. And if he created it while sitting in a library, then you're double screwed, with marshmallows and extra cream.'

'Just…' says Taylor, 'you know, just get to the good news.'

He laughs. 'You're kidding, right? This isn't a good news, bad news situation. You're probably thinking that we can get him when he uploads shit to Facebook, but you know, I can tell you now we're going to find the dude used a proxy server for that too. It's totally boss…'