The Unburied Dead
Glasgow. A poor wee woman bought it from some ski-masked fellow wielding a kitchen knife. The feeling that he was going to be a repeat murderer quickly grew, women all over the city were panicking, and us lot were looking useless. Bloonsbury was in charge, the investigation seemingly stuck in neutral, and then boom, out of nowhere, it suddenly all fell into place. The big man put it together, made the breakthrough, and we got the guy. Some sleazoid from the west end who denied it all the way to the joint, but we had him. Enough evidence to put away a thousand murderers.
    Bloonsbury was the hero, feted in the papers, got that ugly mug on TV, had all sorts of people queuing up to suck his dick. Don't know how he did it, given the state he was in at the time, but it was good to see. Trouble is, of course, he's been getting all the big ones ever since, and not been doing too well. This'll be the last chance, and all you can imagine is him hitting the bottle even harder, and maybe, if he's lucky, his liver'll give out and he'll die before he can blow it.
    He comes to the front of the room, looks like shit. Stares at us; we stare back. You can see he would rather just be down the pub staring at a full bottle of Glen Ord, or one of these other single malts he occasionally fancies himself as being able to tell the difference between.
    'Right then, gentlemen,' ignoring the five women, 'all the facts. What have we got? You first, Herrod.'
    Herrod nods, looks at his notebook.
    'Victim, Ann Keller. Dark brown hair, twenty-seven, bit of a looker. Had two part-time jobs. Ancillary at the Victoria, sales at Frasers in Buchanan Street in the town. Worked in the shop on Monday, was due in the hospital today.' He pauses, looks through the notes. Try not to let my mind wander, having heard all this stuff already. 'Went to the Classic cinema to see some foreign film.'
    Herrod can't distinguish between countries. Never been abroad. There's British, and there's foreign. I talked to him about the Balkans once. But just the once. Knew not to do it again.
    'She was due to go with her boyfriend, one Christopher James from Cambuslang, although the usherette remembers her as being on her own. He claims to have cancelled the date.'
    Bloonsbury blurts in. 'You been speaking to him, Dan?'
    Taylor is roused from his perpetual melancholy. Either thinking about Debbie or the continuing depression over DS Murphy. Or maybe he's just miserable at having to do all this shit, same as the rest of us.
    'Been in with him most of the afternoon. No alibi for last night. Stayed in, watched tele. Can describe what was on, but that doesn't mean anything. Looks pretty upset.' He shrugs. 'Don't know. Forensics have been over his flat, we'll see what they come up with. I'm guessing it'll be nothing. Don't think he's our man.'
    'Why didn't he go to the pictures?'
    'Said they had a fight. Something to do with a necklace given to her by an ex-boyfriend.'
    'Got a name?'
    'Aye. Looking into it. We'll find him, get him in.'
    'Could he have made the story up? Deflect attention, and all that?'
    All right, it's not brilliant, but believe me, this is Bloonsbury a hell of a lot more switched on than he's been in months. Maybe he's going to go for this one. Wants to be the hero again. Get his name in the papers.
    'Don't know. We'll talk to the guy, see what we come up with.'
    'Right. Herrod, what else?'
    Herrod looks pissed off. I sometimes wonder if he reveres Bloonsbury or hates the sight of him. Or both. And sometimes I realise that I really, really don't care either way.
    'She leaves the pictures, walks home. Ten minute walk, she never gets there. Somewhere along the way she is accosted, strangled and stabbed.' Looks at his notebook. 'A hundred and twenty-five times, mostly in the face and chest.' Jesus. Who the fuck stabs someone a hundred and twenty-five times? Herrod looks at the women, slightly embarrassed, as if they might be delicate in some way. Old fashioned, Herrod. 'He

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