course,' she says. 'Mr Cartwright. I'll just put a call out to the site manager. Who shall I say is here?'
This is the point where, if I hadn't already given up, I'd likely lose the girl.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say, dipping my hand into my jacket pocket and showing my ID.
'Of course,' she says again, with another smile, as though they'd been expecting me.
*
A s we talk we look down over the view. The cloud has shifted in the last ten minutes, and the ever-changing landscape looks a little brighter. There's a ferry in the middle of the channel, making the short trip between Largs and the Cumbrae slip.
'I'm getting one of the properties myself,' he says. 'Won't live in it for another ten years yet, but Jean and I will come down here when I retire. Already a member of the golf club, aiming to get my handicap into single figures by this time next year.'
He's already talking a lot, and I haven't even asked him anything.
'You could move now, couldn't you?' I say. 'Pretty short commute up to Glasgow these days.'
'Look at that,' he says, and he throws his hands over the vista. 'I'd never get anything done. No, no, I'm aiming to retire here, when I'll have time to sit in the conservatory and watch the ferry. Back and forth, back and forth. You should see it on stormy days. Like a week last Thursday. Why was it you wanted to see me?'
This guy is smooth.
'The suicide of Mrs Henderson. Did you know her?'
'Bah!' he barks. Yep, I think bah! just about covers the weird noise that he ejaculates. 'Crazy old bitch. Never spoke to her, never wrote to her, never had anything to do with her. She wrote to me often enough.'
'How many times?' I ask.
Being in possession of all the crazy old woman's correspondence, I already know the answer.
'Seventeen,' he says, which is bang on.
I give him a glance.
'Can you believe it?' he adds.
'That seems a lot,' I say. 'Also seems odd that you can remember the exact number.'
'Got a head for detail,' he says. 'Jean says I'm on the spectrum, you know, that I've got no empathy, don't understand people or how my actions impact on them. And that I've got this extraordinary awareness and recall of detail. She's right about that, at least. Seventeen. At least she'd stopped.'
That, too, I know. She'd finally given up on him, for some reason, if not most other people.
'What made her so keen to write to you?'
He takes a deep breath, but it's an ostentatious breathing in of the autumnal sea air, a gesture to indicate just how fucking great it is to even think about living in this spot where he's designed an elegant scrotum of enchanting homes for rich people.
'I pissed her off. I pissed them all off, all those ruddy wankers up the hill.'
He barks out another laugh, then shoves his hands in his pockets. Lord of the fucking manor.
'Listen, Sergeant, don't go thinking that there's anything Christian about the running of the church. It's politics, pure and simple. Sunday morning, hymns, prayers and the sermon, yes, yes, religion. Christianity. The essence of what we are, kneeling before Jesus and before God. Trusting in him, believing in him. But the rest of it, it's all political. I'm not going to apologise because I recognised that and they didn't, because I had a war room and they didn't.'
'A war room?' Nice.
'Yes, Sergeant, a ruddy war room. You must do it yourselves, when you have a big investigation.'
'I guess we do.'
'Every organisation that succeeds needs one. A war room, where men sit down and plot and plan, down to the merest detail. If there's something you can take control of, you work out how to do it. You own it. If something's out of your hands, you establish how to minimalize it, or how to fight it. That's what we did. We had a war room, and what did they do? They walked into the merger and thought everything would be fine. Well, more ruddy fool them. I'm not going to apologise for my due diligence towards my church when they weren't prepared to do the same for
This is the point where, if I hadn't already given up, I'd likely lose the girl.
'Detective Sergeant Hutton,' I say, dipping my hand into my jacket pocket and showing my ID.
'Of course,' she says again, with another smile, as though they'd been expecting me.
*
A s we talk we look down over the view. The cloud has shifted in the last ten minutes, and the ever-changing landscape looks a little brighter. There's a ferry in the middle of the channel, making the short trip between Largs and the Cumbrae slip.
'I'm getting one of the properties myself,' he says. 'Won't live in it for another ten years yet, but Jean and I will come down here when I retire. Already a member of the golf club, aiming to get my handicap into single figures by this time next year.'
He's already talking a lot, and I haven't even asked him anything.
'You could move now, couldn't you?' I say. 'Pretty short commute up to Glasgow these days.'
'Look at that,' he says, and he throws his hands over the vista. 'I'd never get anything done. No, no, I'm aiming to retire here, when I'll have time to sit in the conservatory and watch the ferry. Back and forth, back and forth. You should see it on stormy days. Like a week last Thursday. Why was it you wanted to see me?'
This guy is smooth.
'The suicide of Mrs Henderson. Did you know her?'
'Bah!' he barks. Yep, I think bah! just about covers the weird noise that he ejaculates. 'Crazy old bitch. Never spoke to her, never wrote to her, never had anything to do with her. She wrote to me often enough.'
'How many times?' I ask.
Being in possession of all the crazy old woman's correspondence, I already know the answer.
'Seventeen,' he says, which is bang on.
I give him a glance.
'Can you believe it?' he adds.
'That seems a lot,' I say. 'Also seems odd that you can remember the exact number.'
'Got a head for detail,' he says. 'Jean says I'm on the spectrum, you know, that I've got no empathy, don't understand people or how my actions impact on them. And that I've got this extraordinary awareness and recall of detail. She's right about that, at least. Seventeen. At least she'd stopped.'
That, too, I know. She'd finally given up on him, for some reason, if not most other people.
'What made her so keen to write to you?'
He takes a deep breath, but it's an ostentatious breathing in of the autumnal sea air, a gesture to indicate just how fucking great it is to even think about living in this spot where he's designed an elegant scrotum of enchanting homes for rich people.
'I pissed her off. I pissed them all off, all those ruddy wankers up the hill.'
He barks out another laugh, then shoves his hands in his pockets. Lord of the fucking manor.
'Listen, Sergeant, don't go thinking that there's anything Christian about the running of the church. It's politics, pure and simple. Sunday morning, hymns, prayers and the sermon, yes, yes, religion. Christianity. The essence of what we are, kneeling before Jesus and before God. Trusting in him, believing in him. But the rest of it, it's all political. I'm not going to apologise because I recognised that and they didn't, because I had a war room and they didn't.'
'A war room?' Nice.
'Yes, Sergeant, a ruddy war room. You must do it yourselves, when you have a big investigation.'
'I guess we do.'
'Every organisation that succeeds needs one. A war room, where men sit down and plot and plan, down to the merest detail. If there's something you can take control of, you work out how to do it. You own it. If something's out of your hands, you establish how to minimalize it, or how to fight it. That's what we did. We had a war room, and what did they do? They walked into the merger and thought everything would be fine. Well, more ruddy fool them. I'm not going to apologise for my due diligence towards my church when they weren't prepared to do the same for
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