Douglas Lindsay - A Plague Of Crows

I'm not looking at her. I've got her hooked though. And the reason she's hooked is because I wasn't trying to hook her. I look across the car park to the dull houses on the street. Some lights on, some people already in bed.

'Well, I had sex with PC Grant once. That was a relationship with a natural lifespan of one night.'

As soon as the words are out my mouth I kick myself. Fucking idiot. Really. For months now I've been priding myself on the fact that I've managed not to tell anyone about Grant, and quite liked the fact that I'd obviously surprised her. And now I just blurt it out. Fucking moron. Gostkowski looks like a safe pair of hands, but you never know, do you?

Look at the ground. Embrace self-loathing. And although it has nothing to do with it, although a glib throwaway comment about a night spent with PC Grant really ought to have no bearing on the past, self-loathing always takes me back to the same place. Takes me back far enough, to a warm night in a forest. A long time ago. A different world. A different me.

That's what I want to think. A different me.

'When are you stopping? Tonight I mean?' she asks, pressing the butt into the ground with her boot.

Dragged back. The chord to the past temporarily snapped. Although it'll never be broken. At least, not until I face up to it in some way other than the odd moment of darkness, staring into the night.

'Don't know,' I say. 'He's a fucking idiot if he thinks he's going to get anywhere with no one getting any rest…'

'Yes.'

There's a movement behind us. One of those young constables whose name I haven't managed to learn yet since I got back. He addresses Gostkowski. Maybe it's because she's the senior officer, maybe it's because he knows her. Maybe I'm invisible in my smoky, melancholic haze.

Shut up!

'The DCI says everyone not on the night shift has to go home, be back in for eight.'

'Thanks Graham,' she says, and the young fellow heads back inside, out of the cold.

She glances at me as she turns towards the door. I've not finished the smoke, and am in no rush. There's a moment while we stare at each other. One of those stares. You know the kind. The one where you both know that at some stage you're going to end up in bed together, but not tonight. The mood might have been heading in that direction, but it's been broken.

The seed has been planted, however, if only because neither of us was planting anything.

'Good night, Sergeant,' she says.

I nod, she breaks the look and heads inside.

The door closes and I'm left on my own looking across the car park. I'm knackered, but tonight will be one of those nights when I don't sleep.

There are too many of those nights.

Seven minutes past eight. Made it into work ahead of schedule, mainly because I didn't have time to get drunk last night, hardly slept, was wide awake from about six. Got up, already wearied and worn out. Shaved, showered, made myself some bacon and toast and coffee. Drank orange juice. Watched the news. The Plague of Crows was all over. They had the Justice Minster on, announcing that this would be the government's top priority and that a team of top Edinburgh detectives were being put on the case.

He actually said that, used that very phrase. Top Edinburgh detectives. He didn't say that it was because Glasgow detectives are obviously shit, what with them being so provincial, but then he didn't say it in such a way as he said it.

So I got into work not long after seven, and now it's seven minutes past eight and Taylor and I are sitting in Connor's office. Waiting to be informed, presumably, that we've been put back on traffic duty what with us being so shit, 'n' all. If only we'd received our training in Edinburgh. We're so disadvantaged.

I reckon, and I'm just saying, that if we ever get to be independent, the nation will quickly descend into the kind of ethnic violence and hatred that you get in all those countries in the middle of Africa the minute the sensible (or vicious imperialist) authority buggers off. Catholics versus Protestants, Edinburgh versus Glasgow, Highlands versus soft southern lowland bastards. Someone, somewhere, will want to make amends for Culloden. We hold a grudge. It'll be shit.

I'm still going to vote for it, though. Time to stand on our own two feet, rather than get a piggy back for the rest of eternity.

'What the fuck are you thinking about?' says Taylor.

I glance over. Uh-oh. Must have been doing that thing where I was having an internal discussion and was letting it show on my face.

'Politics.'

He looks at me with that wry paternal smile.

'Trying to decide whether you'd shag Sarah Palin or Aung San Suu Kyi?'

The door opens behind us before I can puke my stomach out laughing, and Connor walks crisply into the office. Sits down across the desk. First time I've been in here since the Leander incident. Still feel that vague discomfiture at being forced to sit in the presence of authority. Even, or maybe especially, when it's a total ball sack like this bloke.

'You'll have heard the news,' he says.

He's tired. Hasn't slept at all. Must give him credit for that, I suppose. When he'd first made his preposterous 24/7 speech, I kind of imagined him buggering off home at some time after six, spot of dinner, game of bridge down the club, early night, swan into work about nine. He's still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Hasn't been home.

'There's a task force coming from Edinburgh,' said Taylor, who somehow manages to say the words task force without spitting.

'Yes,' says Connor.

He stares at us both for a moment, and I suddenly realise that he's pissed off. I'd been assuming he'd love it all, the attention, the murders on his patch, the meetings with senior constables and government ministers. But of course, of course he's pissed off. He loves being in charge, he's a micro-managing control freak. Needs everyone doing exactly as he wants. And this absurd task force of red-hot genius coppers who have solved every fucking crime they've ever stumbled across — which is why Edinburgh is such a shiny, beautiful, crime-free place to live — won't be coming in here under his charge. There'll be someone arriving to take over, leaving the Superintendent to do his usual thing, dealing with local crime and overseeing us bunch of shit Glasgow polis who are incapable of solving our way out of a paper fucking bag.

'It's understandable,' says Taylor. What the fuck? Connor gives him the imperious eyebrow, but Taylor never was one to be intimidated by authority. 'We thought we were looking for one guy who had committed a grotesque murder on our patch. Now… well, we know it was a pretty damned well-organised murder, and that level of organisation has continued. Maybe it wasn't just the one guy. The victims came from all round the city, and now we've got the internet thing. Presumably it's been done from within Britain, but we don't know if it's from Rutherglen and Cambuslang, do we? Could be anywhere. Indeed, anywhere in the world. I hate it as much as you, but it's understandable.'

'I'm glad you hate it,' says Connor glibly.

Taylor doesn't respond to that. He's said his bit. Makes sense, albeit it wasn't what I'd been thinking. I'm keeping my mouth shut. Not that I've got anything to say anyway.

'We've no option, of course,' adds Connor. 'They want a couple of local officers as liaison.'

He's looking at Taylor. I'm here, but I'm not entirely sure I need to be. Liaison. Taylor's going to be chewing my testicles off when we get out of here, as if it's my fault. Liaison, for fuck's sake.

'I've given them DI Gostkowski and Constable Grant. They've been involved before, they know everything… They do know everything?'

Taylor takes a moment to think about it. He's given the case far more time than anyone else. It's been his case, his priority. How much does he know, how many mental moves ahead has he made on the chess board of the investigation that he hasn't communicated to anyone else?