Read Online The Unburied Dead by Douglas Lindsay - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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keep yourself to yourself. Anyway, I got packed off with PC Grant to start the ball rolling. Did our stuff, looked like we were investigating, and now the girl's downstairs making a statement to a couple of female officers, all us men being bastards and incapable of sympathy, such is the modern way of thinking. Fine by me, and now I'm back on the murder case, detailed to follow up various reported sightings of Ann Keller the previous evening. Most of them are futile – nearly half are downright impossible, given what we already know of her movements, and the rest are dubious. The only one to make any sort of sense was the bloke who came to the station. Everything he said tied in with what we already knew, and he came up with a good enough description of the guy we're looking for. Assuming, of course, that this bloke isn't him. These headcases move in mysterious ways. We got a photofit out of it anyway, and that'll be on the news all day. These things never actually look human, but sometimes they get results. Course, I've to spend the rest of the day following up all the other crank calls to see where it gets us, which will be nowhere.
On my way out, I bump into Sergeant Harrison. I hope I look human, and experience has taught me to keep toothpaste in the desk drawer, so I'm no longer setting fire to everything upon which I breathe.
She's pinning something on the noticeboard about a police charity evening early in the New Year. I hate those things. Stand and watch her for a second, before realising I'm staring.
'Eileen,' I say.
She turns, smiles.
'Rough night last night, Thomas?' she says.
I ignore it. 'I need some advice.'
She sticks in the last drawing pin, checks it's straight, and steps back.
'Don't drink so much, and get to bed earlier.'
Everyone hates a comedienne.
'Very funny. What do you know about twelve year-old girls?'
She smiles. I like Eileen Harrison. Not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm pretty sure there's no chance I'll ever get her into bed. Respect, you see.
'Well, I was one once, if that's any help.'
'I need an idea of what to get Rebecca for Christmas.'
'Your daughter?'
'Aye.'
She purses her lips.
'How much money are you spending?'
Not sure that I want to divulge that information to Detective Sergeant Harrison. Don't want to be judged.
'Fifty pounds,' I say anyway.
'She mature for her age?'
Feel like I'm under investigation. Imagine Sergeant Harrison viciously interrogating suspects.
'Not sure. I mean, you can't tell, can you? Who knows what she's like when I'm not there. She could be doing drugs and boys and all that stuff, for all I know.'
Purses her lips again, looks disapproving. 'You've been in the job too long, Thomas. Not all children are baby adults, doing dodgy deals and out for what they can get.'
'Aye, but some of them are.'
'Fine. Get her a piece of jewellery then. If she's older than her years that'll do her, and if she's not it'll make her feel mature, and show that you respect her. How's that?'
I look at her; she smiles and turns. Why is it that woman have so much more common sense than men? Must be genetic. We got testosterone, they got common sense and all those orgasms.
'What kind of jewellery?' I say pathetically to Eileen Harrison's back.
She turns, still smiling. Pitying smile, this time.
'Use your imagination, Thomas, for God's sake, she's your daughter.' And off she goes to chew the bollocks of hardened criminals.
Suitably chastened, I make my way out of the station.
*
Three down, four to go. This is going to be a long day. Sitting in the drab waiting area of a small lawyer's office in Tollcross as a result of a phone call from an Ian Healy, who says he saw our murder victim on Monday night. Sounds a little more plausible than the others, particularly the last one, a seventy-three-year-old man who claimed to have seen her in Woolworths in Rutherglen at half past ten yesterday morning. Get a life, you sad bastard, I said to him, and walked out the
On my way out, I bump into Sergeant Harrison. I hope I look human, and experience has taught me to keep toothpaste in the desk drawer, so I'm no longer setting fire to everything upon which I breathe.
She's pinning something on the noticeboard about a police charity evening early in the New Year. I hate those things. Stand and watch her for a second, before realising I'm staring.
'Eileen,' I say.
She turns, smiles.
'Rough night last night, Thomas?' she says.
I ignore it. 'I need some advice.'
She sticks in the last drawing pin, checks it's straight, and steps back.
'Don't drink so much, and get to bed earlier.'
Everyone hates a comedienne.
'Very funny. What do you know about twelve year-old girls?'
She smiles. I like Eileen Harrison. Not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm pretty sure there's no chance I'll ever get her into bed. Respect, you see.
'Well, I was one once, if that's any help.'
'I need an idea of what to get Rebecca for Christmas.'
'Your daughter?'
'Aye.'
She purses her lips.
'How much money are you spending?'
Not sure that I want to divulge that information to Detective Sergeant Harrison. Don't want to be judged.
'Fifty pounds,' I say anyway.
'She mature for her age?'
Feel like I'm under investigation. Imagine Sergeant Harrison viciously interrogating suspects.
'Not sure. I mean, you can't tell, can you? Who knows what she's like when I'm not there. She could be doing drugs and boys and all that stuff, for all I know.'
Purses her lips again, looks disapproving. 'You've been in the job too long, Thomas. Not all children are baby adults, doing dodgy deals and out for what they can get.'
'Aye, but some of them are.'
'Fine. Get her a piece of jewellery then. If she's older than her years that'll do her, and if she's not it'll make her feel mature, and show that you respect her. How's that?'
I look at her; she smiles and turns. Why is it that woman have so much more common sense than men? Must be genetic. We got testosterone, they got common sense and all those orgasms.
'What kind of jewellery?' I say pathetically to Eileen Harrison's back.
She turns, still smiling. Pitying smile, this time.
'Use your imagination, Thomas, for God's sake, she's your daughter.' And off she goes to chew the bollocks of hardened criminals.
Suitably chastened, I make my way out of the station.
*
Three down, four to go. This is going to be a long day. Sitting in the drab waiting area of a small lawyer's office in Tollcross as a result of a phone call from an Ian Healy, who says he saw our murder victim on Monday night. Sounds a little more plausible than the others, particularly the last one, a seventy-three-year-old man who claimed to have seen her in Woolworths in Rutherglen at half past ten yesterday morning. Get a life, you sad bastard, I said to him, and walked out the
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