The Blood That Stains Your Hands (10 page)

The vicar shakes his head, a prelude to being positive, as it happens.

'Very. He was one of our bright young things. The average age of the congregation keeps growing, of course, same across the country in every church. And as the older generation die off they are not replaced, and so we come to situations like we find here where congregations have to merge. It's rare these days that we find teenagers so committed to the church. Tommy was a jewel.'

'You told us the other day you felt sure that Mrs Henderson must have been murdered. You don't think the same about Tommy?'

The minister lowers his head, doesn't look Taylor in the eye.

'That was just... that was foolish,' he says. 'Just the emotion of the day. I do rather regret those words, Chief Inspector, and would be grateful if I could, as it were, have them back.'

Oh, they're out there, chum. Just because you're wearing a dog collar, doesn't mean you're in charge of the time machine eraser button.

Hmm. Time machine eraser button. God, could I use one of those.

'Why did you say it when you did?'

'Heat of the moment, I suppose.'

'What moment?' says Taylor, leaving him wriggling on the line. 'You must regularly have to deal with the death of parishioners, you just said so yourself. You'd already heard news of her death, you'd had plenty of time to become accustomed to the fact of what had happened. There was no moment. We were fairly certain, up to the time we spoke to you, that Mrs Henderson had committed suicide, then you had us believing and suspecting otherwise. You changed the course of the investigation. You cannot, now, casually withdraw the remark.'

The fellow looks surprised. Good on Taylor, even if he is being slightly disingenuous, not taking any of his shit, just because he's got the whole Man of God thing going on. Probably thinks himself above this kind of interrogation.

'I don't know what to say,' says the vicar. 'My initial reaction was one of such disbelief that I could not accept Maureen would do such a thing to herself. It seemed clear to me. Yet, with the passing of time, the acceptance of much sadness, I realise that I was hasty. I should not have been so bold in my assertions, and I genuinely did not mean to lead you down any specific path in your investigation. In the cold light of day, and at some distance, I now feel sure that I was wrong.'

Neither Taylor nor I give him an easy escape from that. We do the taciturn cop routine, stare him out, wait to see if he's going to say anything else. You know, it's fair enough, people change their minds. And anyway, we've now got a lot more to go on to suggest there has been murder committed than the word of this clown. Nevertheless, never good to just let people off with talking shit.

'So,' he says after a few moments. 'I should probably be getting on.'

'Can you think of anything in your acquaintance with the two of them that might have pointed to them wanting to end their own lives?'

He looks slightly taken aback by the question, as though the very thought of them committing suicide – even though he's admitted that's what he thinks happened – is utterly unbelievable.

'I cannot think,' is all he says.

'Was there any connection at all between the two of them?' I ask, as I feel I've been standing here, somewhat superfluous to proceedings.

'How do you mean?' he asks.

'Did they know each other? Had they sat on the same committee, or had she helped at Sunday school, or had he done anything for her in relation to the church?'

'I really couldn't say,' says the vicar.

'Yes, you can say,' I reply sharply. 'Either you know something or you don't.'

He swallows, glances at Taylor, then back to me.

'I don't,' he says.

*

'Y
ou were a bit harsh on him there,' says Taylor. 'Good though, it worked.'

'You started it!'

'What?'

'You were harsh first,' I say.

'I wasn't harsh. I was thorough and professional. You were harsh.'

'Whatever.'

––––––––

S
itting in the canteen eating a mince pie. Not good for the waistline at my age. The line
who ate all the mince pies?
was first spoken for a reason. I have a box of them at home, which means that I'll likely have one with a cup of tea when I get in – if I don't go to the pub, and after last night, I'm really not going to the pub – and then probably have one later on, when I'm doing my best not to touch alcohol and flicking through endless channels of shit TV.

The box I've got at home is labelled Christmas mince pies, and they have a use by date of the end of November. Well, that's not a Christmas mince pie, is it, for fuck's sake? That's a fucking autumn mince pie, that's what that is. Or, you know, it's just a mince pie. Christmas needn't come into it. If I was rich, like those pointless rich people who have pointless wealth and can afford to do pointless shit with their money – like buying an apartment in Monaco that they use one weekend a year, or buying a round of drinks in an exclusive London club that ends up costing £100k, or buying their kid a horse, even though they don't have a kid – I'd get a lawyer on to them. Why say something's for Christmas when at the same time you're defining that it's a requirement of the food that it be consumed weeks and weeks before Christmas?

I know, stupid thing to get annoyed about. Like slow drivers and people taking too long staring at a shelf in the supermarket.

I take my last bite of mince pie and feel a certain self-loathing for having eaten it at all.

The seat opposite me is pulled out and DI Gostkowski sits down. DI Gostkowski, with whom I had a brief fling earlier in the year. A low point for both of us. Well, certainly, for her it was. She could do a lot better than me. It was only a low point for me in that I was feeling low at the time. Having said that, not a lot has changed in that department.

'How are things, Tom?' she asks.

We haven't worked together since I got back. Indeed, we've barely spoken, just the occasional nod as we pass each other in a corridor.

'Much as they usually are,' I say. 'How are you?'

She dumped me, that was how it went. So there's that inevitable stiffness of conversation. The dumper and the dumpee. Technically, of course, we'd just been fuck buddies, so there shouldn't have been any actual dumping, but in reality, when it came to it, I didn't want to stop and she'd had enough. So she dumped me. As a fuck buddy.

'Good,' she says. 'You looked a bit rough this morning. Who was she?'

I hold her gaze for a moment and then laugh.

'Just, you know.... didn't know her name.'

'Was she worth it?'

I take a sip of tea. Still too hot, even though I've already finished off the two hundred and seventy-five calories of the mince pie. Candour bubbles its way to the surface.

'You know,' I begin, then look up at her again and let myself fall into her eyes, 'it did the job. I wanted to go home, I wanted to... God, what am I trying to say...? I didn't want to kill myself. I don't want to die. Not yet. I don't think so. Not yet. Some time soon. But last night, my head was right there, right there waiting to explode, and if I hadn't gone out and got drunk and found some girl throwing up on the street who was ready to be taken home and fucked, well I was going home on my own and I was going to take a knife, and I was going to slash the fuck out of... I don't know... my arms, my legs. I don't know. Then I was going to throw up and fall asleep in my own puke and blood, and I was going to wake up, if I actually ever woke up, at six a.m. feeling like utter, total fucking death.'

She doesn't say anything to that. I wonder if she sat down thinking she'd have a couple of minutes idle chatter. I wonder why she sat down at all.

'So, I never got her name, and I know I couldn't find her house again, but yes, she was worth it. She got me through the night.'

'Have you spoken to anyone yet?'

I'm about to ask what she means, but I know what she means and she knows I know.

'No.'

'What happened with the doctor? Dr Sutcliffe?'

'Shagged her,' I say bluntly. 'Thereafter it didn't work out so well.'

She smiles ruefully, but the smile dies quickly.

'What is it you're not talking about, Tom?'

'Don't,' I say. 'I can't.'

We stare across the narrow canteen table. I'd been doing fine today. I mean, it's not like a great fucking day or anything, but I'd got my shit together enough to be able to get through it. Enough to be able to contemplate a night sitting alone at home watching lousy TV that was going to end with me going to bed well before midnight and without any alcohol tripping through my system.

'The alcohol,' she says, not picking up on the fact that I desperately want her to stop talking, or else, choosing to ignore it, 'is one thing. You're in the west of Scotland. Ninety per cent of people in Glasgow with a problem exacerbate it by adding alcohol to the list. The sex addiction is much more suggestive—'

'I don't have a sex addiction!'

A little too loudly. There were probably about six women in here with whom I've slept who heard that. I lean forward and lower my voice.

'I don't have a sex addiction.'

'How many women have you slept with this year?'

'What does that matter? I'm a man. I'm not currently married. And yes, fucking boo hoo, I'm lonely. I need the company, and, yes, yes, I admit, having fucked up several marriages, I'm a bit of a commitment-phobe. So, what's the answer? Casual sex, that's what.'

'There's a gap, and it's a pretty big one,' she says, 'between casual sex, and you, who would have sex with every single woman you ever meet.'

'That's...' I start to say, but then cut it off. I can't say that's not true. I'd be lying.

'You're forty-five...'

'Six.'

'You're forty-six,' she says. 'You ought to be at a stage where women are people, not just sex objects. You've worked with them, and worked for them, you've seen them as victims and as criminals, you've been married to them, and soon enough your daughter's going to be one of them. Women can be all things in life, just the same as men can be all things. Women aren't just there to have sex with.'

An intense look across the table. The narrow table. Her lips look great. Those are lips that have been everywhere on me. She's wearing a white blouse, open at the neck. My eyes start to drift.

I close them.

Jesus, stop it! It's not about her lips! It's not about her blouse! She's trying to talk to you!

'You need help, Tom,' she says.

Deep breath. I open my eyes. She's right. Jesus, of course she's right.

'Hey, guys, this is too funny, shouldn't laugh 'n' all, but you just can't help it sometimes.'

Morrow lays his tray on the table, sits down next to Gostkowski. God, here comes someone with even less empathy than I have. Even I'd have spotted that there were two people sitting in a giant bubble of fucking emotional tension.

He takes a spoonful of chicken, rice and plastic sauce then talks through it.

'Young Tommy,' he says, and he's smiling, 'was partial to granny porn. We got into his school locker, and there were, like, serious magazines in there. I mean, you know, it's pertinent to the investigation 'n' all, but it's too funny, man. You should see this stuff.'

Gostkowski gives him a glance, turns back to me, gives me one of those think-about-what-I-said looks, then gets to her feet.

'I'll leave you boys to your investigation.'

I watch her go. Morrow takes another mouthful.

'Man, and you know, I mean these days grannies can be anything, can't they? I mean, you get, like, thirty-year-old grannies, so actually granny porn needn't be all that bad. But young Tom, he liked 'em old. Old and wrinkly. And you should see some of this shit, man. Those grannies will do anything. Anything!'

––––––––

S
unday morning. Church. Taylor is at St Mungo's. He chose that one as Connor would be there and he wouldn't want to risk his loose cannon of a Detective Sergeant anywhere near the superintendent. So, I get to come to St Stephen's at the bottom end of Main Street. The church that went rogue.

Not so far from the immaculately fragrant public toilets.

The fourth church, the small one at Halfway, on the road out of town, has already been sold off. It's currently being converted into a house, in a kind of
Grand Designs
affair. Taylor had a look round, spoke to the new owners, decided there was nothing doing of interest to us.

Morrow's already had the job of speaking to those from the St Stephen's congregation to whom Maureen had dispatched her missives in the past couple of years. Those had rather tailed off in recent months, however, with St Stephen's unilateral declaration of independence.

Maureen was obviously cheesed off when she discovered that the congregation owned the building and were therefore in a position to make the move, while those at the Old Kirk were wedded to the greater church. However, grumbling about that aside, it seems there might be little else for St Stephen's to contribute to the story. They've gone their own way, and perhaps there's reason for others to be resentful of them, but seemingly little reason for that resentment to go both ways.

St Stephen's are like the man in an unhappy marriage, beset with unhappy teenagers and an unhappy, miserable home life. The parents split up, the mum is left at home with the kids, while the dad gets a job working in Boston or Singapore or Ouagadougou, buggers off on his own and gets to live the life of the merry bachelor, leaving the stresses, strains and aggro behind.

That's almost me in my marriage, without the moving to Singapore part.

So Maureen and some others at the Old Kirk were left bitter and resentful, while St Stephen's happily gets on with its life, a lone wolf among churches.

The word is that it's all the minister's doing, and I can see it now, sitting here, listening to the sermon. We've sung some songs, he's done his little bit for the kids – and there are lots of kids – there have been readings from the Bible, and I couldn't help but notice that one of the blokes seemed to affect a bit of a Sean Connery, and now the Reverend Jones is onto his sermon.