by Tony Black
Inside the station Charlie looked up from the front desk and tapped a finger off his forehead, ‘Morning, Rob.’
‘Charlie.’ The DI approached the desk and readied himself for the morning’s first bulletin.
‘The hack pack’s in.’
Brennan nodded. ‘Good numbers?’
‘Telly crew and the usual suspects…’ He leaned over the counter, folded his arms, ‘Fucking Benny’s in there already, giving the glad hand.’
‘It’s his job.’
Charlie turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘I thought it was yours.’
Brennan knew Charlie well enough to pick up the subtext to his chatter. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The desk sergeant looked down the hall, nodded. ‘You better get moving, mate; way it’s looking Jim Gallagher’s going to be fronting things.’
Brennan felt a flash of heat in his chest, his shirt collar seemed to tighten suddenly. He knew Charlie was watching him for a reaction, and he knew to hide it. ‘I see.’ He let the words escape slowly and eased himself away to the corridor. ‘Catch you later, Charlie.’
‘Away to kick up are you?’
Brennan smiled, a subtle one. He walked off slowly.
If Benny had put Gallagher in the press conference then the task had just got a lot more difficult than it needed to be. Brennan knew the press were used to seeing only one representative of the force on the podium and if Gallagher was there too that could make for awkward questioning. He felt his grip on the document wallet tightening as he reached the door to the press conference. DS Stevie McGuire stood on the edge of a group near the Chief Superintendent; he caught sight of Brennan and eased himself away. As he crossed the floor he raised open palms. ‘Good morning, boss.’
‘Is it?’ said Brennan. ‘What the fuck is Gallagher doing in here?’
‘Ah, I know… First I knew of it was when I got in ten minutes ago. Apparently you’re sharing the stage.’
Brennan tipped back his head, ‘Jesus fucking Christ… That’s all I need.’
McGuire put his hands in his pockets, stared down towards his shoes. ‘Erm, does it seriously mess things up for you, or are you just pissed at Jim?’
Brennan shook his head, ‘I don’t want Gallagher front of house, full stop.’ He edged around the DS, made a purposeful stride towards the Chief Super. As he reached the small gathering, Benny had already turned to face him. He placed a hand on Brennan’s elbow and led him off to the side.
‘I thought I’d put Jim in with you too…’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea…’
Benny stopped in his tracks, turned to face Brennan. ‘You mistake me, I’m not consulting you on the matter. I’m telling you how it is.’
Brennan tried to speak, ‘I really don’t think…’
Benny cut in, ‘Good. Don’t think, leave that to me. Now get over there and say your piece.’ The Chief Super moved away to the seating area and motioned the reporters and television crew to take their places.
Brennan felt his teeth click as he closed his mouth, walked towards the desk. There was a hum of movement, some chatter and the scraping of chairs on the hard flooring as the reporters moved into place. Two uniforms nodded towards the Chief Super as they were directed to leave the room, presumably, thought Brennan, to retrieve the Sloans. He didn’t want to think about how they might react in front of the press pack, but then, he didn’t want to think about how Gallagher would react either.
As he removed his overcoat, hung it on the back of the chair, Brennan checked the nameplates that had been put out — he was sitting next to Gallagher. He eased himself behind the long desk, and reached for the water carafe; he was half way to filling his glass as the Sloans appeared under the direction of the uniforms. Gallagher was behind them in a bright white shirt — obviously a new one — and a striped tie. He looked as if he was directing the uniforms, it set a cold needle of sweat running down Brennan’s back. He was in charge, not Gallagher; who the bloody hell did he think he was? It was his investigation and he would be the one giving the directions, if there were any to be given.
Brennan watched as the Sloans shuffled behind the desk; he removed his chair and stood up, ‘In here, Mrs Sloan.’ She was apprehensive, the colour of her skin a giveaway that she hadn’t slept. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, this will be over in no time. They don’t have that long a slot on the news for us…’
She returned a delicate smile, sat down. Mr Sloan pushed in the back of her chair, nodded towards Brennan, ‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Hello there… I was just saying, this won’t take too long.’
Mr Sloan held up a piece of paper, ‘I’ve got it all written down… What I need to say.’
‘That’s good. You better take a seat now.’
There was a moment of dead air, of silence and then the buzz of the overhead lights became apparent. Brennan felt the eyes of the room on him.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking the time to come out here today. If I make some introductions,’ he indicated the DI to his right, ‘this is Detective Inspector Jim Gallagher, who is assisting in the investigation.’ Brennan looked to his left, ‘And as you are aware we are investigating the death of Lindsey Sloan and these are her parents who will be making a brief statement in a moment or two.’
A reporter in the front row raised a hand; Brennan flagged him down. ‘I’d like you to keep all questions until after the brief statements if you don’t mind.’
The reporter withdrew his arm, slunk back in his seat and opened a spiral-bound notebook.
Brennan was first to speak, ‘Lothian and Borders Police Force is seeking the assistance of the public in the investigation of the death of Miss Lindsey Sloan.’ He felt movement from the Sloans at his side; he continued, ‘Lindsey was a local girl, raised in Edinburgh and schooled in Edinburgh. Her death has come as a shock to the community and all at Lothian and Borders Force. We would like to appeal to anyone who has any information, however slight, about her disappearance and subsequent death. I’d like to stress that no information can be considered insignificant in a murder investigation and I would like to assure everyone that all contact with the force will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
Brennan paused for a moment, then turned to Mr Sloan. ‘I’d now like to hand you over to Lindsey’s father who will make a brief statement on behalf of the family.’
Mr Sloan didn’t seem to register Brennan’s introduction, he sat holding the piece of paper before him and staring at the small printed words it contained. He looked cold, chilled to the bone. His hands trembled momentarily and the paper moved in time. Brennan wondered if he was going to bottle out but then a slow trail of words began to escape from his mouth.
‘Lindsey, our daughter, was the centre of our world. We loved her and we cared for her and my wife and I have been lost without her. It’s impossible to begin to describe how it feels to lose a daughter as young as Lindsey, and in the way we did, but we beg of you, please, don’t let another family go through what we have been through…’ He stalled; his wife gripped his hand and he raised his head once more, ‘Please, if you have any information, no matter what it is, let the police know. I beg you as the grieving father of a much missed daughter.’ On the last word Mr Sloan’s frame seemed to deflate in the chair, he shrunk before the reporters and then the couple were led away by the uniforms.
‘OK, any questions?’ said Brennan.
The hack in the front row was first with his hand up, ‘Do you have any suspects for the murder?’
Brennan provided a stock answer, ‘We are pursuing definite lines of inquiry. Next question…’
The same hack raised his hand again; Brennan ignored him, pointed to a young woman in a red blouse. ‘Yes, you have a question?’
‘Will there be a reconstruction of Lindsey’s final movements?’
Brennan rolled his eyes, ‘I think that’s a question for the television people.�
�
The pushy hack stood up, got his question out before being asked. ‘Can you tell us why there are two Detective Inspectors on this investigation?’
Brennan shot him down, ‘It’s a very complicated investigation; I’m delighted to have someone of Jim Gallagher’s experience on board.’ He allowed himself a glance at the Chief Super as he concluded his answer.
The hack wasn’t finished, ‘And what is Inspector Gallagher’s relevant experience?’
‘Jim is a murder squad detective with many years’ experience…’ Brennan asserted himself, raised his tone. He sensed the Chief Super rising from his chair and making his way to the edge of the table. ‘Look, I really don’t see the relevance, can we keep the questions relevant please?’
The hack wasn’t satisfied. ‘I seem to recall Inspector Gallagher took part in another high-profile murder investigation some years ago
…’ He inserted a hand in the pocket of his jacket, removed a newspaper cutting and held it up. ‘Fiona Gow was the girl’s name.’
The room’s attention became focused on Brennan’s reaction, he felt a flash of heat on the back of his neck. He saw the Chief Super walking towards the steps to the small stage the press conference desk was set upon.
The hack continued, ‘Inspector Brennan, are you actively investigating links between the murder of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan?’
The Chief Super increased his pace, crossed the final few yards to Brennan and clamped a hand on his shoulder and another on the table, ‘That will be all ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for your cooperation.’
A volley of voices erupted in the direction of the stage as Brennan and Gallagher were led from their chairs by the Chief Super.
Chapter 39
As Neil Henderson walked through the door of the flat he shared with Angela Mickle he gazed over the high bridge of his nose with vacant, shifting eyes. He seemed to have lost something, perhaps his sense of himself; or perhaps it was he who was lost. Angela rose from the mattress, stood before him, but he gazed through her as though she were glass. He stood splay-legged with his head tilted to the side. For a moment he was motionless, slightly groggy looking where he stood, and then a faint gleam entered his eyes. He registered her now, knew she was there. He jerked his head, his eyes front, and then he brought his feet together and shifted his weight to the right one. His demeanour altered too; it was as if Angela’s presence stirred thoughts in him; he eyed her cautiously for a moment and then he took a step forward.
‘Hello Ange,’ he said.
‘What is it, Hendy?’ Her voice was shaky, seemed to carry a loose rattle that started somewhere in her chest and worked its way up her windpipe to her throat. ‘W-what happened?’
He moved slowly, his broad shoulders easing forward and backward in harmony as each step sounded softly on the bare boards of the flat. His eyes narrowed now, took on a predatory glare as he started towards Angela. ‘I saw your wee friend.’
‘Crawley? You saw Crawley?’ The timbre of her voice changed, grew higher.
‘Aye, that’s right.’ Henderson watched Angela start to retreat from him; he smiled, a sly smile that slid up the side of his face and settled there like a scar.
‘What did he say? W-will he come back?’
‘Questions, questions…’
Angela put her hands out behind her as she backed up to the wall of the living room. Her thin frame looked insignificant against the broad expanse of plaster. She eased herself up to it and lifted her shoulder blades; the slow movement seemed to shrink her even more. ‘What happened, Hendy?… I need to know.’
Henderson swayed in the doorway for a moment, he removed his hands from his trouser pockets and then entered the living room. He stared for a second at the dim bulb as it burned in the centre of the ceiling, then he reached for the switch to extinguish it. When his gaze returned to Angela her skin was the pale grey of prison walls. He sneered at her, registered her sour look and then he felt an unfathomable connection to her eyes. It was as if thoughts passed visibly between them, as if they were communicating without words, conveying more than language ever could.
‘Hendy…’
The room felt cramped to him after the broad streets of Edinburgh with the wash of rain and the blow of wind. He felt closed in, not just within the confines of the room, but in his mind. He felt trapped there, with Angela. A succession of grim thoughts played tag inside his head. When he spoke, his voice was a coarse whispering rasp, ‘He said you’d had words, Ange.’
Her mouth clamped shut, she turned her head to the side as if looking for an exit route. Her eyes closed tight and then reopened quickly as she flicked her head back to the front, towards Henderson.
‘He said, he wasn’t afraid of anything I had to say now.’ His teeth gritted, ‘Do you know why, Ange?’
She shook her head; her mouth remained tightly closed. Her fingertips worried at the seam of her dress as she looked at him with wide, staring eyes.
Henderson drank in Angela’s fear, he bunched a fist, brought it before his face and bit into his knuckles. His eyes closed with the action, then reopened as he withdrew the knuckles from his mouth. ‘You put him off, Ange.’ His voice was louder now, firmer. ‘He thinks he’s safe because you fucked everything up.’
‘No.’
‘Yes… You ruined everything. All my hard work, wasted. What am I supposed to do now, Ange?’ He leaned forward, placed his bunched fist under her chin, lifted her head back until it touched the hard wall. ‘How am I supposed to get that beast bastard to pay up now, Ange?… You tell me that, eh…’
Angela tried to turn away from him, to push past his extended arm but he lowered his reach, splayed his fingers against the wall and blocked her path. She retreated, tried to manoeuvre herself in the other direction but Henderson stepped to the side and stood square-shouldered before her. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Ange?’
‘Let me go…’
‘Go… Go where? To Crawley? You going to go and see him and try and make it right?’ Henderson drew in more of her fear. He wanted to see her scared, he knew she was the cause of his troubles and it lit a fuse inside him. He felt his stomach muscles tighten as he reached out and clutched her by the hair. Angela screamed out. He grabbed her throat and held her against the wall; he smothered her mouth with his free hand and watched as she struggled in his grip. She was nothing, trash. That’s all she was. She had been useful to him once but she had outlived that usefulness a long time ago. ‘You had to fuck it up, didn’t you?… Just had to fucking ruin it. He was going to pay out, you knew that, and all you had to do was keep your trap shut, but you couldn’t could you?’
She struggled harder, seemed to sense the anger that was burning inside of Henderson. He pressed his hand deeper into her face but her mouth seemed to widen to accommodate his palm and then she jerked forward and he felt the bite of her teeth on the fleshy underside of his hand.
‘Ah, you fucking bitch!’ He recoiled, turning his hand under his arm and folding himself over. The pain shot through him, he took his hand out, saw blood.
Angela ran from him towards the kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the boards as she went.
Henderson heard her opening the kitchen drawers, rattling cutlery. He straightened himself, looked down at the hand Angela had bitten. The palm throbbed, the thin flesh was torn and blood ran in a narrow trail towards his fingers. He could see her teeth marks, little puncture wounds that sat white above the skin. He shook out the sting of the wound, cursed, and ran after her. As he entered the kitchen Angela stood before him with her arms outstretched, her hands clutching at the haft of a large knife. She seemed unsteady on her feet but her jaw had set firm, signalling her resolve. She swiped the air before her with the knife.
‘Are you off your fucking head?’ said Henderson.
‘You just fucking leave me alone!’ her voice screeched.
Henderson edged forward, smiling. He kicked out at the upturned drawer on the floor and cl
osed in on her, ‘I’m warning you, bitch, that knife comes anywhere near to connecting with me — even fucking close — and I’ll use it to gut you.’
Angela screamed, ‘Fuck off! Leave me!’
‘Oh, I’ll leave you… As I fucking found you.’ He lunged forward to grab her arm, knock the knife away; Angela withdrew; lunging out with the blade in a sweeping arc she caught Henderson across the face and chest. He yelled out as the knife fell to the floor.
Angela ran to the corner of the room and cowered there.
Henderson shouted out, ‘Look what you’ve done!’ He touched the blood spilling from his cheek and jaw, pressed the tear in his shirt fold. His chest tightened, the pain from the wound was intense but the rage beneath it felt as if someone had reached in and grabbed his heart, squeezed tight. ‘You fucking bitch!’
He bent over and kicked the knife across the kitchen floor. As he did so, Angela stood against the wall with her eyes wide and her lips quivering. She pushed herself flat against the bare plaster and screamed out. ‘Help!’
‘You fucking bitch!’ said Henderson again. His brain itched; he felt queasy, the whole situation had the unreality of dreams. He took steps towards her but his legs didn’t feel like his own, the sound of his footfalls was amplified, seemed to echo off the walls. ‘You fucking bitch!.. You fucking bitch!’ The words were a siren wailing in his head as his fingertips burned with a slow friction around her neck. He held her, pressed hard to the wall, for as long as it took the life to drain from her face. The eyes bulged out, then her mouth drooped open and her head lolled to the side, settled on her shoulder. He released his grip and watched Angela fall to the ground in a tangle of thin limbs. Her wide eyes protruded from within her grey-pink face as she lay on the floor.
