The Blood That Stains Your Hands (22 page)

'I was having tea with the Rev Forsyth a couple of days ago.'

'The former minister.'

'Yes.'

'He retired...?'

'He was minister here for around twenty years. Retired in '91. A very quiet man. Kept himself to himself, you know. I always thought there was an air of sadness about him. A bit like yourself.'

'Moving on...'

'When he retired he did some locum work around the place, but in the end he settled down here, and enough time had passed that everyone seemed happy when he came back and started coming to the church every week as a parishioner. He never got involved in the politics, though.'

'Not even after the merger was talked about?'

'He stayed well clear, although enough of us asked.'

'So what happened yesterday?'

She pauses, perhaps wondering if she's stumbling into talking too much. But then, perhaps that's just my natural suspicious police instinct. I don't think she has anything to hide.

'We were having tea on Wednesday.'

'Just the two of you?'

'Oh no, it was at our place. Wullie was there. Wullie and Compo are great pals. They could spend most of their lives talking about the bloody Rangers.'

'Compo?'

'The minister. Rev Forsyth. First name is Compton, and I'm rather afraid we all know him as Compo. I think he quite likes it.'

Compton's not a first name. It just isn't. Expect, despite what she says, most people actually call him Reverend Forsyth anyway; like Reverend Green, Reverend Moon and Reverend Spooner.

'Let's stick to Rev Forsyth for now.'

'Of course. He came to tea. They talked about football for God knows how long, then I managed to get the conversation on to the church at last. Wullie, of course, isn't interested, so he went off to wash the dishes and put the kettle on. There's a rumour going around, and it's just common sense really, we talked about it, that sooner or later they're going to have to sell our building. They don't need it, so why spend the money? Yes, they need the halls, but does it not make sense that they sell the church and the halls, and use the money to try to acquire something down there that they can use? The very idea sticks in my throat, but you can't argue that it's common sense.'

'So was it you or him who had the idea of burying someone?'

'Oh, good Lord, it was me.'

'You're sure? It wasn't that he put the idea in your head and made you think it was your idea?'

She looks me up and down, genuinely up and down, then shakes her head.

'I thought we had an understanding, Sergeant. Are you saying I'm just a woman whose easily pliable mind is ripe for manipulation by a man? Any man?'

Sigh, make a small hand gesture to indicate she should keep talking. It's a fair cop.

'No,' she continues, 'I had the idea a long time ago. A long time ago. Possibly the same day that talks of this ridiculous merger were first mentioned.'

'So you put this to Reverend Forsyth?'

'Yes.'

'What did he say?'

'Oh, he loved it. Thought it was a wonderful idea. He'd stayed out of the politics, but he couldn't bear to think of anything happening to this place. Imagine if it was turned into flats. Good grief.'

Over the church wall, I can see Wallace walking slowly back. Food in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. I'm not done yet, and it's not been fifteen minutes. He sits on a bench as I watch, and I know I'll have another few minutes with Mrs Buttler before her flow is interrupted.

––––––––

T
he guy lives in a small council house on the other side of the East Kilbride road. I decide to walk. Only takes about twenty minutes, and if I'm shouted for while I'm there, I can grab a taxi to get back if needs be. Along the top road, a couple of streets up from where Philo Stewart lives, past more of the same large old Victorian homes.

I've stopped thinking about her. Weird that. The infatuation bubble has been punctured, but not by despair or reality. Not that infatuation is ever punctured by despair. Infatuation is despair's sister in insanity. This, though, I don't remember ever feeling before. Infatuation has been replaced by serenity. Or some shit like that. I don't need to think about her all the time, because I know I'm going to be seeing her, and it's going to be fine.

I've found her, the one person I needed to find.

Weird, like I said.

Up by the new version of my old school, and then past the houses that replaced the place where I suffered through High School in the early '80s.

I stop as I come alongside the new blocks of flats and look back down the hill. A good view from here, over the top of the town, Glasgow sweeping away, the hills in the distance.

I notice a young girl playing in the trees down below, the other side of the path from the school. She's quite far away, but I know who it is. Running in amongst trees, running her hand across the long, dying grass. She doesn't look in this direction.

For the first time today I get the familiar feeling of unease, and suddenly I realise how genuinely awful I normally feel. On any given day, no matter what's happening, this is how I feel. Like there's something wrong.

I didn't see the girl last night. That feels unusual too. I hadn't been thinking about it, but now that I do, now that it's forced upon me, it does feel like she's there most nights. Prodding me. Trying to get me to do... something. I don't know what. Even that night, two nights ago, when I lay in bed with Mrs Christie's daughter, the doctor. Didn't I get up in the middle of the night and stand at the window? Wasn't the girl looking down at the road?

But not last night. Last night was fine. Last night I had Philo in my arms, and there was no strange visitor to drag me from my sleep. Or to enter my sleep.

Yet, now she's back. Why?

I turn away from the hill, and walk on up the road, the weight that usually drags me down suddenly having reappeared.

I find the ex-minister sweeping leaves in a small courtyard. He's in his mid-80s, I guess. Bit of a hump, exacerbated by being bent over a broom.

'Reverend Forsyth?' I say, standing on the other side of the gate.

He looks round a second and then he straightens up, his face breaking into a smile.

'Ah, you're one of the police officers from yesterday. Come to take me away, have you?'

'Just wanted to ask you a few questions.'

'Aye, well you'd better come in and have a cup of tea. If we stand out here the neighbours'll be all over us like a rash.'

He lays the broom against the wall, and I follow him inside.

*

'T
here you are, Chief Inspector,' he says, handing over a cup of tea, a bourbon biscuit placed on the saucer on the other side from the spoon. 'Sugar?'

'No thanks. And it'd be Detective Sergeant.'

'Ach, I'm sure you'll be Chief Inspector soon enough, son.'

That strangely doesn't seem as ridiculous today as it usually would, but let's not get carried away. If they were to make a league table of every detective sergeant in Scotland and their likelihood of promotion, I'd be dead last.

He settles down into the armchair on the other side of the rug. A regular sitting room, small, overcrowded with stuff. Ornaments and photographs everywhere, pictures on the walls and a couple of mirrors. It's an explosion of frippery, and it would drive me nuts to live here. Must be a nightmare to dust. And a quick glance at the side table next to me indicates that that's a problem he gets over by rarely dusting in the first place.

'So, if you're not here to arrest me, son, what can I do for you?'

'Just getting background,' I say. 'Every little piece of information helps.'

'Of course.'

'So, was wondering if you could talk me through the process of how you came to preside over a burial in a disused graveyard yesterday afternoon.'

He laughs lightly before slurping loudly at his tea.

And then he proceeds to talk at me, and talk, during the course of which he tells exactly the same story of how he and Mary Buttler arrived at the decision to plant Maureen's body in the ground, and how they approached her daughter and how they approached the undertakers.

Every now and again I try to ask a question, or to interrupt him, or to hurry him along, but he tells his story at a pedestrian pace, in complete control of the conversation. At some point it makes me think of driving round the Grand Prix track at Monte Carlo behind a slower driver who bosses the road and won't let you by.

The heating is up too high and I begin to feel tired. He talks on, his voice low and steady, and I wonder how hard that must have been for the congregation on a Sunday morning. Worried that I'm going to doze off, or at least quite openly display my tiredness, I stand up and take a small pace or two – it's a small room – while he talks.

I stay awake. The Reverend Forsyth keeps talking. Eventually he pauses to slurp at his tea again and I take my opportunity. I ask one more question, and then I leave.

The air outside is fresh and cool, and I turn right out his front gate and start walking quickly back to the station.

*

W
alk in, the place is the usual mid-afternoon bustle. Notice that Taylor's door is open. Morrow is in there with him. I stop for a second, take a look around, then go to my desk. Mountains of paperwork stare back at me. So much for computer systems.

From nowhere one of those little squeezy stress balls hits me on the forehead and bounces onto the floor. I look up sharply, but it's pretty obvious where it came from. Nice aim from Taylor, past Morrow, through the door and across the office, managing not to take out anyone else on the way.

Lucky for him that I'm in such a chipper mood.

Pick the ball up and toss it back into Taylor's hands as I approach the office. Stand in the doorway, eyebrows raised in expectation at what exciting new development could have had Taylor firing missiles across the room.

'Door,' says Taylor.

I guess he wants me to close the door, and isn't just randomly naming parts of the room. I close the door. Taylor nods at Morrow as he's obviously the one with the news.

'Our tech guys came up with the goods. The e-mail address was used to contact four other addresses. I have the names here, but again, they're all going to be cover names. What they managed to come up with, and man, I just love this shit—'

'Enough commentary,' says Taylor.

Morrow hesitates, then with a small shake of the head, continues.

'They've identified the locations from which these four e-mail addresses were operated. Three of them were used purely through home Wi-Fi systems. The one that wasn't, was used at the internet café we know Mrs Henderson to have frequented.'

'So, it was some sort of granny porn ring?'

He waves a finger.

'The three Wi-Fis are all at the homes of people related to the church. The first one, no surprise, is Agnes Christie. So, our three vics were all secretly e-mailing each other—'

'Did you just say vic?' says Taylor. 'As in short for victim?'

Morrow glances at him, then at me, as though I might give him some support.

'You have to stop watching American TV, Constable.'

'Yes, sir.'

'That's an order. Now, go on.'

Another hesitation. Taylor ain't in a great mood and Morrow is struggling.

'Constable,' I say, giving him a nudge.

'Yes. So, the next is from a home of a couple who, I think, are at the other church. St Stephen's. The guy is Mr Tony Stewart. You met him?'

Breath catches in my throat. One of those moments. An instant in time. It stops. Just for a second. The second extends, confusingly, and time and thoughts just become a jumble where nothing makes sense, and then with a great rush, like shooting to the surface of a deep loch, the cacophony of everything coming together, your breath is in your lungs and you're spewed back out into the present time.

'Yeah. No, not him, I met his wife. Spoken to her a couple of times, just saw the guy at church. Didn't speak to him.'

What was it that happened earlier? There was something that happened before I went to speak to the old vicar that took away the good feeling of the night before. I can't remember what it was. But I'd been fighting it. Fighting off the encroachment of anxiety. Of fear. And now there's to be no fighting it off. The fear comes barrelling in, an express train of instant torment.

'And then we've got, and this is the beauty, a Wi-Fi used at the address of Paul Cartwright.'

Still not thinking straight. That certainly doesn't make any sense.

'What?'

Morrow shrugs. I look at Taylor.

'Quite,' he says.

'Did you get access to what they'd been saying to each other? I mean, is it possible they were all into granny porn?'

What? My brain is like this tangled ball of yarn, strands of thought all wound together, impossible to tell one from the other.

'I'd say, definitely not granny porn,' says Morrow. 'There was very little substance in the e-mails. They were mostly discussing when and where to meet. It seems, however, that Cartwright – or someone at his address, or someone close by feeding off his Wi-Fi – was orchestrating it, meeting people one by one. There were some general instructions, but it's quite possible that the people in the group weren't aware of who everyone else was.'

'Why would the guy who was in charge of excluding the Old Kirk and Halfway, while making sure that St Mungo's won the merger building war, be in league with, well, at least a couple of his main opponents?' Trying to be coherent. 'Unless it wasn't him.'

'Possible,' says Taylor. 'We need to find out about his wife, any grown-up children that still live at home. And given that we've got the seventeen-year-old kid in this happy band, they don't have to be that grown up. What d'you know about this other couple? Which one of them is more likely to be part of this thing?'

Confusion edges its way back in. I really don't know. What do I know about Philo Stewart anyway, beyond the basics? She's told me little, and while I'm looking forward to finding out, all we've really settled on so far in the relationship, is that I'm the one going to be doing the talking.