Murder Mile drb-2

by Tony Black

  The broad officer padded towards Brennan and removed a bunch of keys attached to a chain on his belt. He looked like he might speak, pass comment on the cell’s occupant, but then he thinned his lips as if suddenly thinking better of it. Brennan spoke as he entered the cell, ‘I’ll give you a shout when I’m done.’

  ‘OK, sir.’

  In the cell, Gallagher sat on the edge of the narrow bed with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt open at the collar. His laces had been removed from his grey shoes and their tongues sat upwards like gravestones. He looked at Brennan when he walked in the room but then lowered his head as if resigned to his fate. He displayed a bald patch at the back of his head, stray hairs scraped over the pate showed like fence palings. For a moment Brennan stood before Gallagher, listened to the key turning in the door, and then he paced towards him.

  ‘There’s no way back, Jim,’ said Brennan; he reached into his pocket for a cigarette and then recalled he had finished the pack. ‘The Chief Super knows all about your antics…’

  Gallagher huffed, ‘Antics?… And what would they be, Rob?’

  Brennan positioned himself on the adjacent wall, planted the sole of his shoe there to support him, ‘Crawley… You cut him out the investigation. Why?’

  Gallagher brought his hands up to the sides of his head; he splayed out his fingers and touched the temples. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Why Jim? Why did you cover for him… If there is some kind of excuse, if he had something over you, I can live with that, but you have to tell me.’

  Gallagher’s fingers started to massage his head, first the sides, and then the crown, mussing what remained of his hair. ‘You’ve no fucking clue, Rob.’

  ‘Well, fill me in…’

  Gallagher sat up straight; his eyes were rimmed in red. His face seemed to have lost several shades of colour as he spoke, ‘Do you have a cigarette?’

  Brennan tapped at his pockets, shook his head. ‘Hold on, I’ll get some.’ He walked to the door and opened the Judas hole to attract the duty officer. When Davie appeared he motioned with two fingers towards his mouth to signify he wanted cigarettes. The officer opened up the door, held it ajar. ‘Hold on, I’ve got a pack in the doocot,’ he said.

  As Brennan waited for Davie to return, the main door to the cells opened up and DS Stevie McGuire passed through; as he saw Brennan he increased his pace. ‘All right, boss…’

  ‘Stevie, what did you get for me?’

  He held up a single sheet of paper, ‘Not much to go on, but…’

  Brennan raised his hand, read the copy of an original charge sheet that detailed the manslaughter of John Burnside by Colin McCabe, both residents of Dungarn Boys Home. He turned his gaze back towards Gallagher in the cell as he spoke again, ‘Right, Stevie, go on…’

  ‘I ran the name through… Colin McCabe… it’s Crawley.’

  Davie appeared with the cigarettes; Brennan took the packet of Silk Cut and a box of Swan Vestas matches and returned to the cell. As the door closed and the key turned once more, Brennan lit two cigarettes and handed one to Gallagher. The strong smell of tobacco lingered in the enclosed area as he walked back to his place at the wall and looked at the charge sheet. He kept the paper in his hand for a moment then leaned forward, placed it on the bed next to the prisoner.

  Gallagher picked it up, read. His voice came weakly, ‘That’s good work, Rob… You were always a good copper.’

  Brennan raised his cigarette, inhaled deep. ‘Tell me what happened at Dungarn, Jim.’

  He sneered, thin white lines appeared at the sides of his red eyes. ‘It would be easier to tell you what didn’t happen at that place.’

  Brennan allowed Gallagher a moment, then pressed again. ‘That boy, on the charge sheet…’

  ‘Colin McCabe… It’s Crawley, he changed his name years back, way before the Education Board started looking into that kind of thing.’

  Brennan frowned, ‘No, I didn’t mean him… The victim, John Burnside, tell me about him.’

  Gallagher raised the cigarette to his mouth and took a deep draw on it; his hand seemed to flutter before his face as he held the cigarette. He pinched his lips and blew out a thin trail of blue smoke as he spoke with a trembling voice, ‘He was a cunt… What do you want me to say, Rob. He arse-fucked us all… He was a fucking animal. What we did, he had it coming.’

  Brennan watched the ash fall from the tip of Gallagher’s cigarette, stepped forward. ‘What we did?’

  Gallagher’s head turned sharply; his eyes were wide as he took in the DI. ‘You’re the detective… Why the fuck do you think I’m here?’

  Brennan stood before Gallagher, bent his knees to face him. He had taken in Gallagher’s words, absorbed their implication, but their true meaning seemed to have escaped him. The logical answer had been given, but Brennan’s mind seemed to be having difficulty keeping up. ‘ We, Jim?’

  Gallagher lowered his head again, the cigarette in his fingers fell to the ground as he clutched at the back of his neck and sobbed. ‘Colin and me, we killed him… Colin took the weight, they had it down as manslaughter but it should have been murder because we killed him, we both did.’

  Brennan felt an urge to reach out to Gallagher, to place a hand on his shoulder and offer him some comfort; the man was hurting, but there was no sympathy on offer to him. Brennan rose, turned away towards the cell door. As he gathered his breath, his strength, he tried to process the information he had just received.

  Gallagher called out to him, ‘What’ll they do to me, Rob?’

  Brennan turned back, his heart was pounding beneath his shirt front. ‘What’ll they not do to you, Jim.’

  Chapter 47

  DI Rob Brennan made his way towards the main staircase at the front of the station. He paused before placing a foot on the first step and felt himself pulled towards the main desk; as he turned, Brennan locked eyes with Charlie for a moment. The desk sergeant had observed the earlier arrival of DI Jim Gallagher and had been silenced by the shock of his removal to the cells. The unusual display of taciturnity sent a jolt through Brennan: he knew Charlie was a barometer of the station’s mood, and looking into his hollowed, lined face, the reading he took was for stormy weather to come.

  It unnerved Brennan to think of the way he would be perceived in the station after Gallagher’s betrayal, but he shoved it to a part of his mind where he seldom retreated to. What people thought of him was of little concern to Brennan at this stage of his life — he had never been one to cultivate colleagues for his own ends, or any other reason — nor was he concerned with winning any popularity contests. The force could think what it liked about him — he’d stared down opprobrium in the past but he knew now the rest of them would have to get used to being on the receiving end. This was what bothered Brennan more: the force was going to share the blame for Gallagher’s wrongdoing; he had no doubts about that at all.

  Brennan kept a fixed glare on Charlie for a moment and then the older man tipped back his head in acknowledgement; it was an unspoken concurrence — passed between them like radio waves, and would have been just as impossible to execute without the correct equipment. They had both been around long enough to know that the shame Gallagher had brought on himself, and all of them, was not a perennial experience; it was as if the sheer scale of what he had done was beyond words, beyond reason. Brennan returned Charlie’s nod and took the first step towards the Chief Super’s office.

  The DI had vowed to inform Benny of Gallagher’s return to the station right away — he hadn’t done that, but disobeying direct instructions from the Chief Super seemed like a low-grade offence today. He knew his superior would have to reassess his priorities too: it was not the time to go after slightly wayward DIs when his own best boy had stepped beyond the limits of all known boundaries. Benny’s priority would now be damage limitation — his own arse was on the line, thought Brennan, why would he care about settling old scores? The DI replayed recent decisions he
’d been challenged on by Benny: there was the overtime ban; the appointment of a profiler from Strathclyde; and there was the press conference which had descended into complete and utter farce. Brennan felt himself gripping the banister tighter as he ascended the stairs; he knew that, even a few hours ago, he would not have been able to go to the Chief Super to seek support for his next move, but the axis of power had shifted now. The DI knew Benny was a greatly diminished force; he would have to put his faith in solving the case — that would be his redeemer — and there was only one man left capable of delivering that for him since Gallagher had dropped out of the picture.

  Brennan grabbed the handle to the Chief Super’s door; he felt ready to flay any opposition to his desired course of action, but he knew that the situation would require some degree of subtlety. It never helped to overplay your hand, he thought, and he knew that what he was about to propose was risky; getting Benny’s support would be the easy part.

  The boards beneath the carpet tiles creaked as Brennan entered the Chief Super’s office. Benny stood staring out of the window, in much the same position he was when Brennan had last seen him, only now he seemed preoccupied with a ruckus of seagulls as they caterwauled over fresh deposits in the station’s bins. The DI scratched at his cheekbone as he waited for the Chief Super to turn around; the sky had settled into a dark-purple wash.

  ‘Ah, Rob, you’re here,’ said Benny.

  Brennan lowered his hand, nodded, said, ‘I thought you’d like to know that Detective Inspector Gallagher is…’

  He cut in, ‘Yes, I know… I still have some ears and eyes in this station, Rob.’

  Brennan let the remark slide, but absorbed its implication. He watched the Chief Super take a seat, motion him towards the chair in front of the desk. As he sat down, the DI felt the atmosphere in the room tighten around him; ‘I spoke to him,’ he said.

  Deep lines creased Benny’s brow, two dark declivities sat beneath his eyes as he wet his grey lips, ‘Was there any… justification?’

  Brennan felt a corkscrew turn in his gut, he gripped the chair’s arm with his closed hand as he spoke. ‘Murder; you could call that justification… of sorts.’

  The Chief Super cleared his throat, made a guttural noise as his facial muscles tightened into the shape of incredulity. ‘ What?’

  As Brennan outlined Gallagher’s confession, and his claims of abuse, Benny groaned audibly; his eyes receded and his gaze looked distant, out of focus, as he slumped further into his chair. It started to darken in the room and the silence between the two men added to the unwholesome air. Brennan felt his earlier thoughts coalesce with an entirely new emotion: pity; he felt sorry for the Chief Super. As he watched him, almost writhing before him, Brennan knew the man felt unable to withstand the latest barrage to his authority. He wondered if Benny too entertained thoughts, doubts about whether he had chosen the right career path. The notion seemed fantastic, he was always so sure of himself, ‘a puffed-up wee prick’ Wullie had called him once; but now he appeared all too human and the thought gored Brennan. For a second or two he wondered how many times in the past he had made ill-founded decisions about people and then he checked himself, corrected his thinking. He was a DI, he reminded himself, and he had a triple murder case on his hands. The press were talking about an Edinburgh Ripper.

  ‘Sir, I need to ask your approval for the next stage of the investigation,’ said Brennan.

  The words seemed to fall on Benny like blows, ‘What?… I mean, what do you need, er, want to do?’

  Brennan leaned forward in his chair, ‘I believe our suspect may make a move to kill again, sir.’

  Benny cut in, ‘Yes, yes… Well, that doesn’t change if Angela Mickle was killed by Henderson.’

  Brennan watched the day closing through the window, said, ‘Our suspect doesn’t know about the Mickle killing, but the press pack will soon enough, if not already; we need a blanket ban on reporting on the case for the next twenty-four-hours.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, Rob…’ The Chief Super shook his head. ‘Have you any idea of the complexity, the hoops I have to jump through to…’

  Brennan raised a hand, ‘Sir, in about an hour it’s going to be pitch dark. I think that’s going to be our last chance to catch this bastard… He doesn’t know Mickle is dead, he thinks she’s alive and he thinks she’s holding incriminating evidence…’

  ‘The diary?’

  ‘Yes.’ Brennan rose, tapped an index finger heavily on the desk in front of him, ‘I think he’ll try and reclaim it, and I think he’ll try and silence Angela Mickle… if we can convince him she’s alive.’

  The Chief Super picked up a fountain pen from his desk, started to roll it between thumb and forefinger. His eyes darted, left to right. ‘You’re talking about a set-up… Something at Angela Mickle’s flat?’

  ‘I’m talking about that yes, but we’d need to bait the trap.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus…’ Benny’s face fell like a stone.

  ‘I think there’s a WPC on the team who would fit the bill, and I’d supervise the operation personally.’

  The Chief Super rose from his chair, faced Brennan across the desk. As he spoke, he pointed at the DI with the tip of his fountain pen, ‘You are asking me to sanction putting a member of my force into the clutches of the worst serial killer we’ve seen in a generation…’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘I think we can contain the risks, sir… And I don’t think we have any other options. When the press reveal Mickle’s death, and Gallagher’s involvement, we’re not going to see Crawley again… He’s resourceful; if he goes to ground, we miss our chance.’

  Benny gnawed on the edge of his lip, his eyes slanted towards the darkening window and then he lunged forward and flicked on the desk lamp. His face became illuminated in a bright white light that seemed too strong for him; he turned towards the window again and started to roll his fountain pen between his palms. His sloped shoulders seemed to deflate as he leaned towards the glass and spoke. ‘OK, Rob, you make this work,’ he turned around, his skin sat in grey-white folds beneath his eyes, ‘because if you don’t, it’s not just your neck on the line.’

  Brennan rose from his chair; as he put eyes on the Chief Super he noticed his lips seemed dry, chalky. There was a sensation of relief playing in his chest but he knew the hard work had not even begun. The DI turned for the door and listened as the boards creaked once again. He made a half smile as Dee greeted him; she was putting on her coat, heading for home. Brennan felt the extent of her world wouldn’t fill the four walls around them. She would get in her car, collect some groceries and cook for an ungrateful brood before watching some brain-wash television and then go to bed. He didn’t know whether to feel sympathy or envy for her.

  As he entered Incident Room One, Brennan felt he had stepped into a spotlight; the squad stilled all activity and turned towards him. As he looked around the room he wondered what they all wanted as they stared at him, and then his thoughts aligned with theirs.

  ‘If you’re looking for the latest on Jim Gallagher, you’ll have a long wait,’ said Brennan. He walked towards the coat stand and fished in the pockets of his overcoat for cigarettes, but found none.

  Collins walked towards Brennan with an outstretched hand; as the DI looked down he saw the packet of cigarettes and a plastic Bic lighter. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  ‘So, what now, boss?’ said Collins.

  Brennan removed a cigarette from the packet of B amp;H, looked at the clock on the wall. He knew what he wanted to be able to say, but it relied on one more person offering him the support he needed. ‘Where’s Elaine?’ he said.

  ‘Erm,’ Collins seemed unsure of his response. ‘Good question.’

  As the room turned, started to hum with possibilities, the WPC and DS Stevie McGuire walked through the door; they were smiling together, but the smiles evaporated as they came into contact with the others’ stares.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said McGuire.

  Brennan lit hi
s cigarette, blew smoke into the room. He set his gaze on Elaine, ‘I need a volunteer, I need a WPC to tease out our suspect.’

  McGuire turned from Brennan and walked towards his desk; the DI tipped back his head as he awaited a response. ‘Well, do you think you’re up to it?’

  Elaine nodded briskly, ‘Yes, sure… What do I have to do?’

  As she responded, Brennan felt his pulse settle, he brought the cigarette towards his mouth and inhaled deeply. ‘That’s great, Elaine. I’ll fill you in on the logistics soon,’ he flicked ash from his cigarette tip onto the carpet tiles, ‘but you’ll be impersonating our recent victim, playing possum at her flat.’

  She smiled, ‘Will I need my high heels, sir?’

  ‘You just might.’

  Brennan patted Elaine’s shoulder, returned the cigarettes and lighter to Collins and walked towards McGuire’s desk. The DS was poring over a folder, making annotations in the margin with a Biro.

  ‘Stevie, got time for a word?’ said Brennan.

  The DS dropped the pen, slapped the folder closed, and stood up. He made no eye contact with Brennan as he quick-stepped towards his office at the end of Incident Room One. As Brennan watched McGuire, he felt as if he had made a miscalculation somewhere along the line, but he wasn’t sure where. In his office, Brennan closed the door gently, then walked around to the other side of the desk, said, ‘Take a seat, Stevie.’

  ‘I’d sooner stand… sir.’

  Brennan turned down the corners of his mouth, ‘Suit yourself.’ He watched as McGuire turned away from him, folded his arms. It seemed a petulant stance, like one a teenager would adopt. It was tempting to slap sense into the lad thought Brennan, and then he calmed his spirits. ‘Is there something bothering you, Stevie?’

  The DS sighed audibly, ‘Oh, let me see… Now what could that be, sir?’

  ‘She’ll be perfectly safe, she’ll be wired.’