by Tony Black
Brennan’s picture of Angela Mickle’s final moments was coming together the more he spoke to the pathologist, but he still had questions he wanted answered. ‘And what about the mutilation… How does that compare to the other victims?’
There was a gap on the line, ‘Yes, I thought you’d ask that.’
‘I am asking that,’ said Brennan.
Pettigrew cleared his throat, spoke, ‘The Gow and Sloan cases had striking similarities, the genital mutilation and the eyes, obviously, but there was also the fact that they had clearly been recently killed before any of the mutilation took place… Mickle, I’m not so sure. The strangulation was the cause of death but that could have happened some time before the desecration. And I have to say, the mutilation was frenzied and rough — not clean like the others — and you realise there were no undergarments found on this victim, whereas they’d been inserted into the mouth cavity with the genitalia…’
Brennan felt his shoulders tense as he listened to the doctor’s assessment. He knew he’d been proven right. ‘You’re saying then, that it’s your opinion we have two separate killers?’
‘One for Gow and Sloan, and I would have to conclude another for Mickle.’
‘So Mickle’s a copy-cat case.’
‘It would appear so, yes.’
Brennan massaged his jaw, bowed his head. As he raised his hand to his brow he felt a layer of moisture had settled there. He experienced no level of vindication to have been proven right by the pathologist’s report; another young woman had died, it didn’t matter to the DI that he believed he had her killer in custody already because there was nothing he could do about her death now. The law could take its course, justice could be served, but Angela Mickle would play no part in it; she would play no part in anything ever again.
Brennan spoke, ‘Thank you, Doctor. I’ll let you go.’
‘My pleasure.’
He hung up.
Brennan eased himself back on the desk, the rim cut into his thighs as he leaned forward. He felt at once assailed by a mixture of hurt and anger. He saw the swaggering Henderson in his mind’s eye and the image cut into him like a saw blade. He had met his type before, boys from the schemes, wide as gates. They all felt the world owed them a living, felt justified in expressing their loathing for their bitter existences. Brennan didn’t want to think too much about Henderson, or his type; when he did that he always found himself delving into other people’s concerns. He didn’t want to find excuses for why someone like Henderson would turn into a vicious killer. He didn’t want to think about the social reasons, the economic exclusion, the deprivation, the way Edinburgh, or even Scotland, had developed. That was not his job, that was not for him to consider. He dealt in facts: provable, reasonable facts; the ifs and the buts were an intellectual exercise for middle managers and senior civil servants to debate between courses at New Town dinner parties. To Brennan it was black and white — he wanted the scum behind bars.
The DI raised himself from the desk, walked to the edge of the room and opened the venetian blinds. He faced the murder squad through the window as they went about their work in Incident Room One. He knew they had reached a fork in the road now; the case had split in two. He had three murders to think about and two killers to put away. He couldn’t see any obvious link between the recent killing and the earlier two. He could guess at Henderson’s reasons for copying the MO of the other killer but it was just that: guess work. He knew there was a wider set of possibilities at play; he only hoped they would come into focus soon. The media had been hovering since the disastrous press conference, they could only be kept at bay for so long, and there was the fact — as Wullie had pointed out — that there was a killer out there who was likely to strike again at any moment. Brennan felt the pressure of time gripping him as he turned the handle on his office door.
‘Right, Collins, get over here,’ he called out.
Collins made his way towards the DI, said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What did the SOCOs get out of Mickle’s flat?’
The sergeant tucked a yellow pencil behind his ear, put his hands in his pockets, ‘Nothing, so far as I know.’
Brennan bit, ‘What do you mean nothing? They must have got fucking something!’
Collins removed his hands from his pockets, shrugged, ‘Nothing in the way of evidence; there was blood in the kitchen but it wasn’t the victim’s.’
‘Well whose was it?’
‘His… Henderson’s. Says he cut himself when he was drunk; there’s a gash on his chest as well. Nasty. Had to get it looked at.’
Brennan shook his head, ‘Cut himself when he was drunk, my arse.’
‘Aye, more like cut himself trying to choke the life out of a brass with a knife in her mitt.’
Nods of approval. ‘That’s more like it.’ Brennan raked the room with his gaze. ‘Where’s Gallagher?’
‘Search me. Haven’t seen him since this morning.’
Brennan thinned his eyes, looked further down the room as the door from the landing opened up. DS Stevie McGuire entered, started to remove his coat. He was hanging it on the stand as he spotted Brennan and Collins at the other end of the room watching him. McGuire nodded, reached into his coat pocket and removed a plastic bag with a small mauve-coloured object inside.
‘Got the diary, boss.’
Brennan beckoned McGuire towards him, ‘Right, bring it down here, we’ll take a look at it in my office.’
‘Diary?’ said Collins.
‘Angela Mickle’s… according to Henderson.’
‘And are you going to believe that scrote, sir?’
‘Depends what’s in it… Might suit us to believe him.’
Collins creased up his brows, edged to the side as McGuire swept past him and followed the DI into his office.
‘Where was it?’
‘Believe it or not,’ said McGuire, ‘exactly where he said it was.’
‘And why’s that surprising to you?’
‘Well, it was the truth for a start… I’d say bugger all else we’ve had out of him adds up.’
Brennan held out his hand, took the clear plastic bag from McGuire and opened the closed edge. He looked at the diary for a moment, glanced to the DS, then removed it and retreated to his seat. As he thumbed the first page over, he noticed the name was correct, written in a looping scroll that seemed to resemble his daughter’s handwriting — little circles sat above the i’s and the j’s. As he took in the first few lines, he noticed it seemed to have been written by a much younger girl; he raised his head, addressed McGuire: ‘Well, if he wrote this he’s a good mimic, or knows something about channelling young lassies.’
McGuire looked confused, sat forward in his chair and stared at the page Brennan was reading, ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘I mean, Stevie,’ he looked up, ‘this is genuine.’
‘Then it might be of some use after all…’
‘I don’t know about that.’
McGuire rose, walked round to the same side of the desk as the DI, said, ‘Well, there’s only one way we’ll find out.’
Brennan huffed, lifted the diary and flicked through the pages, ‘Suppose we’ll have to read it all.’
‘Maybe we could just skim.’
The DI frowned, turned back to the page. It felt somehow like an intrusion — Angela Mickle was dead — Brennan still remembered how her corpse looked in the field, exposed to the cold and rain of the Scottish morning. He wondered what it was about the artefacts of the dead that somehow made them feel sacred; was it a learned response? This was just a diary, words on a page, how could it be any more sanctified than any other piece of young girls’ writing. But it was; he knew it. As Brennan read through the small pages he felt himself building an image of another side of Angela; she was no longer the murdered prostitute to him. Angela Mickle had some level of intelligence, that was evident, she had some integrity too and the words she put on the page revealed all of this and more.
&nbs
p; ‘Look at this,’ said Brennan.
McGuire read where the DI pointed, ‘Gymnastics… another one.’
Brennan turned to face McGuire, ‘I should be the one to tell you this, Stevie: I caught Jim Gallagher with his fingers in the cookie jar…’
‘You what?’
Brennan sighed, marked his place in the diary and spoke, ‘There was a teacher, a gymnastics coach called Crawley, linked to Gow and Sloan… and he buried the fact.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As shooting. There’s no way he couldn’t have known. I’ve sent Lou and Bri out to pick the teacher up; if he turns out to be our man…’
‘Jesus, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Have you told the Chief Super?’
Brennan turned back to the diary, ‘No.’
McGuire touched the DI’s elbow, ‘Sir, you have to tell him… that sort of thing will be around the station like wildfire before you know it.’
‘I know, Stevie.’ Brennan thought about McGuire’s remark for a moment; he did indeed have an obligation to inform the Chief Super, and he knew just how he would take it: badly. Benny had put his store of faith in Jim Gallagher and he’d wasted it all; it was going to look bad for the Chief Super, not as bad as it would for Gallagher, but bad enough. Brennan thought he would derive some form of satisfaction from being proven right about Gallagher but instead he felt only an emptiness inside. He didn’t want to see a man’s career ruined; he didn’t want to see the man ruined, but he knew that was just what was going to happen. Suppressing evidence in a case of this magnitude was a serious matter, it went beyond any reprimand Benny could dole out. One question remained unanswered for Brennan, though: why? To risk his career, and more, had to come backed with heavyweight reasons. Detective Inspectors didn’t take those kinds of risks unless they had no other choice and Brennan wanted to know what made Gallagher do it.
‘Here, you take over, Stevie.’ Brennan handed McGuire the diary, rose from his seat. He walked towards the window and looked out into Incident Room One. WPC Elaine Docherty was parading down between the desks with a clutch of papers in her hands. As she reached Brennan’s office, prepared to knock on the door, he opened up.
‘What have you got for me?’
‘It’s the backgrounder you asked for on that teacher…’ Elaine handed over the bundle of papers.
‘Does he have form?’
‘Er, no, sir. This is all Education Department data…’ she paused for a moment, ‘I think you’ll be interested in the stuff on page four.’
Brennan turned to the page she mentioned, it was a list of the places Crawley had taught; Elaine had highlighted Portobello Academy and Edinburgh High. In the margins beside the schools she had written in red ink the dates Fiona Gow, Lindsey Sloan and Angela Mickle had attended those schools — they all matched.
‘Good work, Elaine,’ said Brennan, he raised the sheets of paper in acknowledgement, turned back to his office; as he did so he was waylaid by DS McGuire brandishing the mauve-coloured diary.
‘What was the name of that teacher?’ said McGuire.
Brennan dipped his brows, turned towards the DS. ‘Colin Crawley.’
McGuire dropped his arms, he seemed to be deflating, but in a second he raised the diary again, presented it to Brennan, ‘I think we’ve found our man, sir.’
Chapter 45
DI Rob Brennan did not feel good about what he was about to do. As he headed for the Chief Super’s office he felt a slow trickle of sweat run the length of his spine. There was a dull ache in his chest, not a pain exactly, more like an emotion lodging itself there. He had felt the same ache when he had heard of his brother’s death; he seemed to remember the ache started small, covered an area about the size of an egg, but then grew bigger until it had engulfed his entire chest, then later, his entire being. Brennan didn’t anticipate the same reaction this time round, but he knew that the emotion he felt was for a passing: Jim Gallagher was finished.
Brennan realised he wasn’t a brutal man, if anything, at times he felt too soft. He had spoken to Wullie about the way he felt some people operated and the old man had said they were just ‘acting out their nature’. As a race we were a mix of personalities; where there were brutes and self-servers, there were also the oppo-sites. Brennan knew he wasn’t a polar opposite to the brutes — but there was enough humanity in him to know that a man was a man and he identified with Jim Gallagher’s fall. He knew there were men on the force who, in his situation, would have been getting the rounds in — counting it as a result. But not Brennan. He felt saddened, if not sickened, and wanted more than anything to understand what had driven Gallagher to it. As he approached the Chief Super’s office, reached out for the handle, and stepped in, he felt no level of satisfaction for the news he had to deliver.
Dee, the secretary, lit up as Brennan walked into the room. She gazed at him for a moment, seemed to take stock of his demeanour and suddenly changed her expression. ‘Is there something wrong, Inspector?’ she said.
‘I need to see him,’ Brennan raised a hand, ‘no, don’t get up, I’ll announce myself.’
They both knew this was irregular, but somehow the news he carried with him automatically merited the change in procedure.
Dee nodded, ‘Of course.’
As Brennan entered the long window-filled room, the Chief Super stayed bowed over a blue folder at his desk; it took some moments for him to register that Brennan was there. When he raised his head, the Chief Super looked first at Brennan and then at the door, as if checking it was properly closed. He motioned him to sit.
‘You look like you’ve lost a pound and found a penny, Rob,’ he said.
Brennan forced a smile onto his face, it sat there like an interloper for a second and then vanished. ‘The murder investigation has taken a… turn, sir.’
Benny removed his glasses, ‘For the better?’
‘Well, the answer to that would be yes and no.’
The Chief Super closed the folder on his desk, laced his fingers. ‘I think you better explain, Rob.’
Brennan leaned forward in his chair as he spoke, ‘We have a prime suspect…’
‘Excellent,’ Benny opened his palms, clasped them together.
‘Not quite, sir.’
‘Well, are you bringing him in?’
‘I have Lou and Bri on the way now…’ Brennan scratched his forehead, ‘there’s complications, sir.’
‘Go, on.’
‘It’s my belief that Detective Inspector Jim Gallagher identified this suspect some time ago, perhaps as far back as the Fiona Gow killing, and has suppressed it for reasons unknown.’
The Chief Super’s eyes widened, a little gap appeared in his tight lips. For a moment he seemed frozen, closed off to the world and then he blinked rapidly and found words, ‘That’s quite an allegation, Inspector… You do realise that; I mean, you realise what you are saying?’
Brennan nodded slowly, ‘Sir, there’s a very definite paper trail; I wouldn’t be stating this otherwise.’
The Chief Super rose from his desk, turned to face the window. He crossed his palms behind his back and looked out towards the sky and the line of the horizon. For a few seconds he was silent, and then, ‘That’ll be all, Rob.’
Brennan stared at the back of the Chief Super’s head, ‘I’ll send in the paperwork.’
There was no reply.
As the DI raised himself from the chair, the dim scrape of the chair legs on the carpet tiles seemed to stir the atmosphere of the long office.
‘Oh. One more thing, Rob,’ the Chief Super turned, ‘where is Inspector Gallagher?’
Brennan had reached the door, held the handle in his hand; he released it, turned to face Benny. ‘Last I saw of him, he was at the scene in Straiton. He should be on his way in… I have instructed the team, those on the needs-to-know, to play dumb.’
‘Thank you, Rob. Send him downstairs when he appears… And let me know, please.’
‘Sir.’
; Brennan reached for the handle, turned. As he walked out the door he spotted the Chief Super returning his gaze to the wide window.
The DI dipped his head towards Dee on the way out, ‘Thanks,’ he said.
In the hallway he took a deep breath, then removed his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. He felt somehow unclean to have talked to the Chief Super about Gallagher — like he was a schoolboy telling tales. He wondered if Wullie would have approved, he wondered if he approved of himself. Brennan tramped towards the coffee machine and rested a hand on the fascia; he ferreted for coins in his pockets and slotted the amount required for a black coffee. As the machine spat and gurgled, he waited, silently staring at the slow drain of black liquid into the plastic cup. When the machine quietened, he watched the last drops of coffee escape and then the bubbles resting on the surface, first in the centre, and then drifting to the sides. He reached down and removed the cup, walked away.
On the stairs, Brennan was met by DS Stevie McGuire, ‘Ah, it’s yourself… Ready for round two with Henderson?’
Brennan raised his coffee cup to his lips, blew. He looked towards McGuire, turned and continued towards the interview rooms without uttering a word.
A few steps from the bottom of the staircase, McGuire spoke again, ‘Lou and Bri called in… Crawley’s home’s deserted.’
‘What do you mean, he’s fled?’
‘Well, it’s empty. There was no sign of him, but… Jim turned up.’
Brennan halted where he was. ‘Jim lobbed up to Crawley’s house?’
McGuire nodded, ‘Lou and Bri spotted him.’
Brennan scrunched a handful of hair from his fringe, ‘Christ Almighty… That means he knows we’re onto him. Where is he now?’
‘Lou and Bri are bringing him in.’
Brennan shook his head, ‘Right, cells. But you tell me when he’s in — and before Benny knows…’
‘Yes, sir.’
