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Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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door.
I'm sitting under the watchful eye of a curious secretary, all ravenously curly hair and lipstick. Face like bread and butter pudding, the typical Glasgow police sceptic. I want to arrest her for something.
The door opens, out steps Mr. Healy, preceded by a small man in tears, who looks suspiciously at me as he walks by.
'Don't worry,' says Healy to him, 'we'll get her back for you.'
The man half turns, gives a watery smile and is gone. There goes an interesting little story, the details of which I couldn't want to know less.
I stand up, take Healy's outstretched hand.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say. Firm grip, the guy's young and doesn't look like an idiot. We're a couple of goals to the good already.
'Come in, Sergeant,' he says, and ushers me past the secretary.
Walk in, simple enough office, sit down.
'Sorry about Mr McKay,' he says. 'Problems with his dog.'
'Ah,' I say. I really don't give a shit about the dog.
'Very weird situation,' says Healy.
'I believe you might have seen Ann Keller on Monday evening?' I say, cutting to the business end.
He nods, looks serious, leans forward. 'Aye. Monday night, on my way home from the pub. So it would have been some time not long after eleven.'
'Was she alone?'
He nods, looks even more serious. I hate lawyers. 'No, well, kind of, but there was a guy walking just behind her. I didn't pay that much attention, but I got the impression he was following her, hassling her…'
'So why didn't you say anything? Give her some help?'
He swallows, looks guilty. The question wasn't fair – implied that the woman might not be dead if he'd done something. Doesn't do any harm to keep them on their toes, however.
'I don't know. You don't, do you? He wasn't speaking to her or anything. It was just an impression I got. I forgot about it until I saw the television last night.'
'Aye, fine.' Shuffle about in the pocket, produce a photofit picture, pass it across the desk.
He studies it, shakes his head. 'No, definitely not him.'
Good. That was a picture of Herrod, and the first two I showed it to already identified him as the killer. It'd be pretty funny if it was, but unfortunately he's got a hundred and fifty police witnesses as an alibi.
Pass over another picture. He looks at it, shakes his head again. Pass the third over, the real one this time. He studies it closely, then shakes his head again.
'No, not him either. At least I don't think so.'
I take it back off him, look at it, shove it back in my pocket. These bloody pictures are crap. It could be anybody. It could be this guy sitting across the desk.
'Do you think you'd be able to come down to the station later and make up one of these for the man you think you saw?'
Slight twitch, hesitation – just enough – then, 'Sure. Not for a couple of hours, but I could do it this afternoon.'
Don't betray your thought. 'That'd be great, thanks Mr. Healy.' Wonder. You never know what these headcases are going to do. It takes a mad bastard to invite the police in when you've committed murder, but then it takes a mad bastard to knife a woman over a hundred times.
Five minutes later I'm walking down the stairs, staring at the photofit. It's not right, but it's not a million miles away. And our witness only got a brief look at him, so who knows how accurate the picture is in the first place? There was never enough there to suggest Healy's our man, just a suspicion, and if I'd still been hungover I would have missed it. There's a lot said for gut feelings, but I usually find they come to nought or make you look like an idiot. Sometimes, however, they pan out and then you look like a genius, so you have to go with them. Let the guy come into the station and then see what we can make of him. Won't be hard. Find out what pub he was in, who he was with, check it out. Could have asked him in there, but didn't want to give anything away. If the guy suddenly disappears and another fifty murders are committed, I can take the time
I'm sitting under the watchful eye of a curious secretary, all ravenously curly hair and lipstick. Face like bread and butter pudding, the typical Glasgow police sceptic. I want to arrest her for something.
The door opens, out steps Mr. Healy, preceded by a small man in tears, who looks suspiciously at me as he walks by.
'Don't worry,' says Healy to him, 'we'll get her back for you.'
The man half turns, gives a watery smile and is gone. There goes an interesting little story, the details of which I couldn't want to know less.
I stand up, take Healy's outstretched hand.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say. Firm grip, the guy's young and doesn't look like an idiot. We're a couple of goals to the good already.
'Come in, Sergeant,' he says, and ushers me past the secretary.
Walk in, simple enough office, sit down.
'Sorry about Mr McKay,' he says. 'Problems with his dog.'
'Ah,' I say. I really don't give a shit about the dog.
'Very weird situation,' says Healy.
'I believe you might have seen Ann Keller on Monday evening?' I say, cutting to the business end.
He nods, looks serious, leans forward. 'Aye. Monday night, on my way home from the pub. So it would have been some time not long after eleven.'
'Was she alone?'
He nods, looks even more serious. I hate lawyers. 'No, well, kind of, but there was a guy walking just behind her. I didn't pay that much attention, but I got the impression he was following her, hassling her…'
'So why didn't you say anything? Give her some help?'
He swallows, looks guilty. The question wasn't fair – implied that the woman might not be dead if he'd done something. Doesn't do any harm to keep them on their toes, however.
'I don't know. You don't, do you? He wasn't speaking to her or anything. It was just an impression I got. I forgot about it until I saw the television last night.'
'Aye, fine.' Shuffle about in the pocket, produce a photofit picture, pass it across the desk.
He studies it, shakes his head. 'No, definitely not him.'
Good. That was a picture of Herrod, and the first two I showed it to already identified him as the killer. It'd be pretty funny if it was, but unfortunately he's got a hundred and fifty police witnesses as an alibi.
Pass over another picture. He looks at it, shakes his head again. Pass the third over, the real one this time. He studies it closely, then shakes his head again.
'No, not him either. At least I don't think so.'
I take it back off him, look at it, shove it back in my pocket. These bloody pictures are crap. It could be anybody. It could be this guy sitting across the desk.
'Do you think you'd be able to come down to the station later and make up one of these for the man you think you saw?'
Slight twitch, hesitation – just enough – then, 'Sure. Not for a couple of hours, but I could do it this afternoon.'
Don't betray your thought. 'That'd be great, thanks Mr. Healy.' Wonder. You never know what these headcases are going to do. It takes a mad bastard to invite the police in when you've committed murder, but then it takes a mad bastard to knife a woman over a hundred times.
Five minutes later I'm walking down the stairs, staring at the photofit. It's not right, but it's not a million miles away. And our witness only got a brief look at him, so who knows how accurate the picture is in the first place? There was never enough there to suggest Healy's our man, just a suspicion, and if I'd still been hungover I would have missed it. There's a lot said for gut feelings, but I usually find they come to nought or make you look like an idiot. Sometimes, however, they pan out and then you look like a genius, so you have to go with them. Let the guy come into the station and then see what we can make of him. Won't be hard. Find out what pub he was in, who he was with, check it out. Could have asked him in there, but didn't want to give anything away. If the guy suddenly disappears and another fifty murders are committed, I can take the time
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