A Plague Of Crows: The Second Detective Thomas Hutton Thriller by Douglas Lindsay Page B
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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organised person on earth, is appropriately dressed.
Stand in classic pose, one hand in pocket, other with a fag, eyes closed. I'm not even thinking about her.
'Dylan?' she says. As if she knows exactly how loud she'll need to speak for me to hear her above the music.
Earphones out and back in my pocket, don't fiddle about with the MP3 to turn it off.
'You like Dylan?'
'Some of it,' she says. 'Haven't listened to him in a while. You and the boss listen to nothing else?'
'Pretty much.'
She nods. That'll be it, then. She planned a four-sentence conversation. And some of them were pretty fucking short sentences. Now I'm stuck with the dilemma of whether or not to put the earphones back in.
What a stupid dilemma. It shouldn't even be a dilemma, but it is. I don't want to stand here in silence, I don't have anything to say to her. If I try to force conversation it'll be awkward and uncomfortable and just generally shit, but then I'm standing here thinking that if I put my earphones back in she might think I'm rude.
For God's sake.
'You ever see him in concert?' I ask.
The kind of small talk that normal people have.
'Is it true about you and DI Leander?' she asks. 'Well, Leander's wife.'
'You don't believe the stories?'
'People make things up,' she says. 'They exaggerate.'
Acknowledge that with slight head movement. Doesn't take much. She's got a nice voice. I like DI Gostkowski.
Jesus, and what are you basing that on? Her voice, she's more organised than I am and she looks good in a coat. Get a grip, Sergeant.
'It seems very cavalier,' she says. 'Once, maybe, because that's what happens. But an affair, a public affair that everyone knows about. Seems curious behaviour.'
She doesn't add, for a grown-up , but she might as well have done.
So I do that thing that ultimately proves very dangerous. I don't try to employ artifice of any kind, don't measure my words, don't try and sound something I'm not, to try to impress her. I'm just honest. Women have this weird view of honesty, as if it's a positive.
Start by shrugging, albeit a shrug that doesn't get any further then a casual movement of the cigarette.
'I thought the same thing too. Just once. Makes sense. You get a taste, you know what it was like, add her to the list, she can add me to her list, everybody's happy…'
'Except DI Leander…'
'Well, at that stage I guess he wouldn't have known. But, of course, you're lying to yourself, aren't you? Maybe if it was shit, if the sex was shit, then sure, once is going to be enough. But we're both in our 40s, we know what we're doing. The sex wasn't shit. It was fantastic. Loud, raucous, tender in places, fast and slow. When she went on top… man, you should have seen her… Jesus.'
Take another draw from the fag. Getting a little carried away. Happy days. Look at DI Gostkowski. She's staring at me, but there's nothing in her face.
Shake my head.
'What are you going to do? Once is never enough. And you know… you know if the first time is brilliant, if it's brilliant from the start, it's only going to get better. It always gets better. So you do it once, and you think, all right that'll do, enough already. But there's a voice, and the voice is saying, imagine what it's going to be like a month from now. Two months from now. You know there'll be a point where you've done it enough, when it stops getting better, when it's no longer fresh, but it ain't after the first time. Never is…'
I'm not looking at her. I've got her hooked though. And the reason she's hooked is because I wasn't trying to hook her. I look across the car park to the dull houses on the street. Some lights on, some people already in bed.
'Well, I had sex with PC Grant once. That was a relationship with a natural lifespan of one night.'
As soon as the words are out my mouth I kick myself. Fucking idiot. Really. For months now I've been priding myself on the fact that I've managed not to tell anyone about Grant, and quite liked the fact that
Stand in classic pose, one hand in pocket, other with a fag, eyes closed. I'm not even thinking about her.
'Dylan?' she says. As if she knows exactly how loud she'll need to speak for me to hear her above the music.
Earphones out and back in my pocket, don't fiddle about with the MP3 to turn it off.
'You like Dylan?'
'Some of it,' she says. 'Haven't listened to him in a while. You and the boss listen to nothing else?'
'Pretty much.'
She nods. That'll be it, then. She planned a four-sentence conversation. And some of them were pretty fucking short sentences. Now I'm stuck with the dilemma of whether or not to put the earphones back in.
What a stupid dilemma. It shouldn't even be a dilemma, but it is. I don't want to stand here in silence, I don't have anything to say to her. If I try to force conversation it'll be awkward and uncomfortable and just generally shit, but then I'm standing here thinking that if I put my earphones back in she might think I'm rude.
For God's sake.
'You ever see him in concert?' I ask.
The kind of small talk that normal people have.
'Is it true about you and DI Leander?' she asks. 'Well, Leander's wife.'
'You don't believe the stories?'
'People make things up,' she says. 'They exaggerate.'
Acknowledge that with slight head movement. Doesn't take much. She's got a nice voice. I like DI Gostkowski.
Jesus, and what are you basing that on? Her voice, she's more organised than I am and she looks good in a coat. Get a grip, Sergeant.
'It seems very cavalier,' she says. 'Once, maybe, because that's what happens. But an affair, a public affair that everyone knows about. Seems curious behaviour.'
She doesn't add, for a grown-up , but she might as well have done.
So I do that thing that ultimately proves very dangerous. I don't try to employ artifice of any kind, don't measure my words, don't try and sound something I'm not, to try to impress her. I'm just honest. Women have this weird view of honesty, as if it's a positive.
Start by shrugging, albeit a shrug that doesn't get any further then a casual movement of the cigarette.
'I thought the same thing too. Just once. Makes sense. You get a taste, you know what it was like, add her to the list, she can add me to her list, everybody's happy…'
'Except DI Leander…'
'Well, at that stage I guess he wouldn't have known. But, of course, you're lying to yourself, aren't you? Maybe if it was shit, if the sex was shit, then sure, once is going to be enough. But we're both in our 40s, we know what we're doing. The sex wasn't shit. It was fantastic. Loud, raucous, tender in places, fast and slow. When she went on top… man, you should have seen her… Jesus.'
Take another draw from the fag. Getting a little carried away. Happy days. Look at DI Gostkowski. She's staring at me, but there's nothing in her face.
Shake my head.
'What are you going to do? Once is never enough. And you know… you know if the first time is brilliant, if it's brilliant from the start, it's only going to get better. It always gets better. So you do it once, and you think, all right that'll do, enough already. But there's a voice, and the voice is saying, imagine what it's going to be like a month from now. Two months from now. You know there'll be a point where you've done it enough, when it stops getting better, when it's no longer fresh, but it ain't after the first time. Never is…'
I'm not looking at her. I've got her hooked though. And the reason she's hooked is because I wasn't trying to hook her. I look across the car park to the dull houses on the street. Some lights on, some people already in bed.
'Well, I had sex with PC Grant once. That was a relationship with a natural lifespan of one night.'
As soon as the words are out my mouth I kick myself. Fucking idiot. Really. For months now I've been priding myself on the fact that I've managed not to tell anyone about Grant, and quite liked the fact that
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