A Plague Of Crows: The Second Detective Thomas Hutton Thriller by Douglas Lindsay Page A
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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been swiped off. There was a note inserted in the socket, squeezed in, so that it hadn't blown off when I'd been hitting eighty-five on the motorway. I had a fleeting moment of thinking that I wouldn't bother contacting the person who had left their name, address and an apology and that I'd just get it fixed myself – or, more than likely, never get it fixed, ever – and then I read the note.
You was parked in the middle of the fukkin road, you wanker. Ive got you're number.
And he's calling me the wanker. People wonder why the police beat the shit out of them sometimes, but really. Hopefully he'll come and find me. Well, I'm saying he, but who knows. All we're looking for is someone who doesn't know the arse end of an apostrophe, but that doesn't really narrow it down, does it?
'Fell over in the woods running back to the car.'
He looks at me and I look down the front of my jacket and trousers. Not that bad. I don't look like I was curled up in a ball like a fucked-up trauma victim. That wasn't what he meant.
He doesn't introduce any more awkwardness into proceedings by pushing me on it.
'Call Baird. Ask if he's got any opinion to offer. Don't bother trying to pin the bastard down. Anything'll do.'
Back out to my desk. Morrow's walking by.
'You seen it?' he says.
'Oh, yes.'
'Fuck.'
'Aye.'
All delivered without breaking stride, and he's off out the door. No idea what he's working on at the moment, but I presume it's not this. Maybe we're all on it until we at least find out where the victims sit, the soft parts of their bodies eaten away by birds.
As usual Baird answers the phone without actually saying anything. Hello is too many words.
'You've seen it,' I say.
'Yes,' he replies abruptly.
He and Balingol are the two pathologists for our part of town. Joint winners of last year's Miserable Cunt Of The Year award. That's a genuine award, I'm not making it up. And as you can imagine, there was some pretty stiff competition around these parts.
'Anything to tell us?'
'I thought you lot had been taken off the case, Sergeant,' he says.
'It's all hands at the moment.'
He grunts, then doesn't say anything. He's not one to fill a silence.
'Any idea how long those two might have lived after that footage was shot?'
'I knew you people were going to ask that,' he mutters.
'So you'll have an answer then.'
'And you know that I can't possibly say.'
'Ball park?'
He grunts again.
'Taking into consideration the level of deterioration you can see in the film, the activity of the birds, what do you think?' I ask.
'Sergeant, tell your boss… with the blood vessels in the brain, they could have bled to death in five minutes, and if one wasn't hit right away, maybe twenty minutes, half an hour.'
'Let's call it somewhere between five and twenty minutes, something like that,' I say.
He grunts. 'I don't think that was exactly what I said.'
'Thanks.'
I hang up, no doubt marginally before he does. He doesn't do goodbyes either. I think his dad must've walked out on him when he was a child.
Go back through to Taylor. He's still watching, leaning forward now, peering closely at the screen.
'What'd he say?' he asks without moving his eyes.
'Somewhere between five and twenty minutes.'
'He said that?'
I smile. God knows what my face looks like. Smiling. Not in the mood, not in the right place mentally to be smiling at anyone.
'That's what it boiled down to.'
'Well, at least we can presume the poor bastards are dead.'
'You're assuming this was recorded this morning?'
He shrugs.
'God knows. We might as well. Whoever these three are, chances are they've not been reported missing yet. This must be recent. Let's not get carried away with the weather similarity, but it was a reasonably bright day yesterday, today it's been pishing down everywhere.'
'Fair enough.'
'Right, need you to get an enhancement of the footage. That is one clear-as-fuck, stone-cold beaut of a shot of the terror on that woman's face. Let's see if
You was parked in the middle of the fukkin road, you wanker. Ive got you're number.
And he's calling me the wanker. People wonder why the police beat the shit out of them sometimes, but really. Hopefully he'll come and find me. Well, I'm saying he, but who knows. All we're looking for is someone who doesn't know the arse end of an apostrophe, but that doesn't really narrow it down, does it?
'Fell over in the woods running back to the car.'
He looks at me and I look down the front of my jacket and trousers. Not that bad. I don't look like I was curled up in a ball like a fucked-up trauma victim. That wasn't what he meant.
He doesn't introduce any more awkwardness into proceedings by pushing me on it.
'Call Baird. Ask if he's got any opinion to offer. Don't bother trying to pin the bastard down. Anything'll do.'
Back out to my desk. Morrow's walking by.
'You seen it?' he says.
'Oh, yes.'
'Fuck.'
'Aye.'
All delivered without breaking stride, and he's off out the door. No idea what he's working on at the moment, but I presume it's not this. Maybe we're all on it until we at least find out where the victims sit, the soft parts of their bodies eaten away by birds.
As usual Baird answers the phone without actually saying anything. Hello is too many words.
'You've seen it,' I say.
'Yes,' he replies abruptly.
He and Balingol are the two pathologists for our part of town. Joint winners of last year's Miserable Cunt Of The Year award. That's a genuine award, I'm not making it up. And as you can imagine, there was some pretty stiff competition around these parts.
'Anything to tell us?'
'I thought you lot had been taken off the case, Sergeant,' he says.
'It's all hands at the moment.'
He grunts, then doesn't say anything. He's not one to fill a silence.
'Any idea how long those two might have lived after that footage was shot?'
'I knew you people were going to ask that,' he mutters.
'So you'll have an answer then.'
'And you know that I can't possibly say.'
'Ball park?'
He grunts again.
'Taking into consideration the level of deterioration you can see in the film, the activity of the birds, what do you think?' I ask.
'Sergeant, tell your boss… with the blood vessels in the brain, they could have bled to death in five minutes, and if one wasn't hit right away, maybe twenty minutes, half an hour.'
'Let's call it somewhere between five and twenty minutes, something like that,' I say.
He grunts. 'I don't think that was exactly what I said.'
'Thanks.'
I hang up, no doubt marginally before he does. He doesn't do goodbyes either. I think his dad must've walked out on him when he was a child.
Go back through to Taylor. He's still watching, leaning forward now, peering closely at the screen.
'What'd he say?' he asks without moving his eyes.
'Somewhere between five and twenty minutes.'
'He said that?'
I smile. God knows what my face looks like. Smiling. Not in the mood, not in the right place mentally to be smiling at anyone.
'That's what it boiled down to.'
'Well, at least we can presume the poor bastards are dead.'
'You're assuming this was recorded this morning?'
He shrugs.
'God knows. We might as well. Whoever these three are, chances are they've not been reported missing yet. This must be recent. Let's not get carried away with the weather similarity, but it was a reasonably bright day yesterday, today it's been pishing down everywhere.'
'Fair enough.'
'Right, need you to get an enhancement of the footage. That is one clear-as-fuck, stone-cold beaut of a shot of the terror on that woman's face. Let's see if
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