Truth Lies Bleeding drb-1

by Tony Black

  Truth Lies Bleeding

  ( DI Rob Brennan - 1 )

  Tony Black

  Tony Black

  Truth Lies Bleeding

  Prologue

  The girl’s screams were enough to give away their hiding place. It took a lot of noise, a racket, to have heads popping out of windows in a Muirhouse high-rise but it wasn’t the noise alone that alerted the neighbourhood.

  ‘Oh my God…’

  The young girl didn’t recognise her own voice — it was loaded with an emotion she hadn’t heard before. The tone was higher, seemed to tremble more. It was as if she had somehow tapped into a world she’d only encountered on the television, or at the cinema. It sounded alien to her.

  ‘What is it, Trish?’

  The three teenagers surrounded their friend. They’d been smoking, drinking, having a laugh and a joke, whiling away another day that they should have spent at school. But this wasn’t any other day; Trish knew it the moment she had started to scream.

  ‘Trish, what’s up?’

  The girl stood rigid. When her friends touched her she jerked herself away and started to shiver. Tears fell down her cheeks soon after. They felt cold on her hot skin.

  ‘Trish?’

  She didn’t answer, the words wouldn’t come.

  She felt the colour draining from her face. She closed her eyes tight, tried to shut it all out but the images were still there inside her head. She started to bite her lip. Her breathing altered, became shorter. She felt the corners of her mouth turning down and her whole head now seemed to be shivering out of control. More tears came. The shivers stopped suddenly, then instantly started again as she opened her eyes and held up her hands.

  Trish knew the streaks of blood were spotted by the others at once. They were dark red smears moving slowly down her fingertips towards her palms. It took her some time to register the blood was actually on her hands — nothing seemed real now — but when she became aware of what she was looking at her mouth opened wide and her throat tightened.

  No sound came from her. As the girls stared at her everything felt like it was locked inside her. Trapped.

  ‘ Trish… ’

  Her mouth widened some more; she started to gag, wanted to be sick but nothing would come out except a noise. A shrill, desperate animal wail. The others stepped back. They watched Trish shaking as she screamed out. She stared at her hands, and felt her eyes widening at the sight of the fresh blood.

  ‘Keep the noise down!’ A man hung his head from an open window in the high-rise above the alleyway. He turned to the girls below, looked down, but didn’t call out a second time.

  The girls stared at each other, looked scared. One shrugged. Another ran to Trish, clamped arms around her. As her wailing turned to sobs Trish fell into her friend, weeping and shaking. The young girl held her, trying to keep her steady on her feet but the pair were forced to slump onto the ground.

  ‘What is it, Trish?… What is it?’

  The other two girls watched for a moment, then one of them pointed back up the alleyway. There was a large bin on wheels, a communal bin, a dumpster. A few moments earlier Trish had gone over there to drop off an empty bottle. She watched the girls staring at each other, wondering what she’d seen. She could tell that thoughts were passing between them: they were curious.

  One of the girls started to walk; the other followed.

  Trish tried to call out, to bring them back, but words still wouldn’t come out.

  She watched them go. Tried to claw out to them, pull them back.

  They kept walking up the alleyway.

  It was a large bin, almost as tall as they were. When they got up close they pointed to the bloody finger-streaks. Trish watched as they turned to each other as if to ask, ‘What’s inside?’

  For a moment they stared on, frozen, then one spoke. ‘Go on, open it.’

  ‘No, you do it.’

  The girls stood, unmoving. Trish tried again to call to them but all that came from her now was screams, shrill roars she couldn’t control.

  They looked back, then, ‘We’ll do it together.’

  A firm nod. ‘Okay.’

  They reached out hands, raised the lid of the dumpster. Their breathing looked to have stilled as their thin arms pushed the black rubber lid back. The dark interior of the vault was exposed now. For a second or two the girls peered into the blackness, but didn’t seem to see anything. They drew closer, raised themselves on tiptoes.

  As they edged nearer the rim, Trish remembered the sweet smell that had come from inside. She knew it would take a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the bin, to make out the light and shade. To piece together familiar shapes, in an unfamiliar setting. To take in with their eyes what their minds wouldn’t want to believe.

  In the next few seconds the air filled with the screams of two more young girls; they were running from the alleyway.

  Chapter 1

  DI Rob Brennan stood outside the Chief Super’s door with his fist held tightly, knuckles out, hovering beneath the brassy nameplate. He thought about pounding the wood panel, thought again, then gripped the handle and stomped in.

  ‘You want me?’

  Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway, phone in hand, blasted some poor DC about the state of his handwriting in the mileage log for the new Cavaliers.

  ‘If it’s not a good time, I’ll call back,’ said Brennan.

  She turned, keeping up her rant, and flagged him to sit down. It was multi-skilling, or man-management, something like that, he thought; something women were always better at than men. Wasn’t that the received wisdom?

  Brennan walked over to the desk. It was immaculate. Little rows of yellow Post-it notes lined up with geometric precision on the carefully stacked files. A set of pens, only two, and a photo-frame containing a picture of a smiling man and two perfect young children — looked like a mortgage advertisement from an era before the banking crisis, before the ads had shifted towards images of cast-iron stability, more meat and potatoes, less gloss. Or maybe they hadn’t changed at all. Maybe it was the way he viewed them now; maybe everything had lost its gloss.

  Brennan took out a Silk Cut. Not a real fag: these were for Saturday smokers and teenies who bought packs of ten for a sly puff between home ec and maths… But something had to give. A lot of things had to give, thought Brennan.

  As he put the cigarette to his lips, the Chief Super hung up the phone. ‘Light that and I’ll have your guts for garters!’

  She probably meant it. He rolled the tip of the cig on his tongue, held schtum. He had no intention of lighting up; it was just a gambit, a needle for her. Galloway put her hands on her hips. She seemed to have him sussed — a let-the-laddie-at-his-game look. She smiled, sat.

  For a moment Brennan stood before her. She was a thin brunette in a tight-fitting skirt and jacket. He wondered, in other circumstances, could he fancy her? Doubted it — she wasn’t his type. There was a harshness there, a meanness of spirit that outweighed any other physical attractiveness. She was a ball-breaker, and Brennan liked his balls the way they were.

  ‘You called me in, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t call me that, Brennan… and stop playing the prick.’ She put a stare on him; what should have been an attractive pair of hazel eyes managed to burrow like hungry rats. He looked away. Whatever he thought of her, she was the boss and you didn’t challenge the boss… not unless you wanted your head in your hands to play with.

  The Chief Super took a file from the top of the neatly stacked pile on her desk. For a moment, she seemed engrossed; she completely ignored Brennan as she turned over the pages with her long fingernails. After some time she sat up, straightened her back and made
an apse of her fingers. Brennan felt uneasy as she stared over him, spoke: ‘I’ve been looking over your file.’

  ‘File?’ He knew exactly what she meant, but played dumb. It was the psych file compiled by Dr Fuller.

  ‘The recommendation is for you to return to…’ she stalled, held in her words, then, ‘the real world.’

  Brennan felt his pulse quicken. She was riling him. ‘That so?’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’ She wheeled back her chair, crossed her legs. Her heel slipped from her stiletto, the shoe dangling delicately on her big toe.

  ‘I’ve told you before: sooner I’m given a proper case the better.’

  Galloway stared. For a moment Brennan thought she was about to cave, then she reached out for the file, started turning pages. Every few seconds she stopped, stalled on a word or a phrase and let out a long sigh. Once or twice she wet her lips with her tongue and clicked her teeth together. She had done this to Wullie when he’d been up for early retirement and he’d said he felt the urge to give her teeth a ‘proper fucking clatter’. Brennan knew how he felt.

  ‘If this is about the murder out in Muirhouse,’ said Brennan, ‘I know you’ve got Lauder and Bryce out on the pub shooting, and there’s hardly enough bods to fill the rota as it is so-’

  Galloway raised an eyebrow. ‘So, what, I should just bring you back into the fold because we’re a wee bit short-staffed, eh?’

  ‘No, I, eh…’

  Her tone became shrill. ‘I should fucking think not. Never heard of force cooperation? I can draft in a full murder squad if I need it, Brennan.’

  He knew she was bluffing now — there was no way she wanted anyone else’s staff on her patch. She didn’t want anyone reporting back to the competition about her. Chief constable jobs were as rare as hobby-horse shite and she knew it; like she’d mess with her prospects when the promotion board were looking at her.

  ‘Look, I know you have some… factors to consider.’

  She laughed, near spat, ‘Factors! Hah… that what we’re calling it these days?’ She slammed the folder shut, got up and turned to face the window. Brennan found himself unconsciously checking out her arse. ‘These factors, Brennan… should they concern me?’

  He rolled on the balls of his feet. ‘They don’t concern me.’

  ‘The Hibs back row’s your top concern, Brennan. I didn’t ask what concerned you. Should they concern me, sunshine?’

  The DI’s palms started to sweat; he rubbed them together. There was a strong urge in him to put his hands around her neck, shake some manners into the bitch, but he resisted. ‘I’m fighting fit… Raring to go, boss.’ She liked that, being called boss — made her feel like one of the lads. She turned back to face him, slumped in the seat. Her body language, her posture, all screamed one thing: she had nowhere to turn.

  Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway drew another file from a drawer, scribbled in it momentarily then turned it over. She drummed her fingers on the top of the blue cardboard cover. ‘Stevie McGuire has been desking the information as it comes in-’

  Brennan sparked up, ‘Stevie fucking McGuire… Is it that bad?’

  Galloway frowned. ‘Look, he’s a DC now, Rob — give him the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘He’s a DC with no experience.’ Brennan’s pulse fired. ‘Don’t tell me you’re giving him this murder… Don’t tell me.’

  Galloway paused, touched the corner of her mouth, then picked up the file and handed it over. Her voice came softly, slowly: ‘Get down there, shake up the SOCOs… Don’t be afraid to put that big foot of yours in a few arses.’

  For a second Brennan wondered if he’d heard her right. He double-blinked, took a few breaths; that seemed to put his mind back into gear. He reached forward, grabbed the folder. There was a part of him that felt like he had been released from bondage, prison maybe. But there was no part of him that wanted to rejoice. He was never pleased to hear that a life had been taken, especially such a young one. It was a wrong that was always deeply felt in him. He turned for the door, got three, maybe four steps, then:

  ‘Brennan…’ Galloway was back on her feet now, pointing. Something about her posture, the harsh angle of her face to her neck, said she might lunge for him at any moment with those pointy fingernails. ‘You fuck this up, or even hint at fucking it up, and I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your days on traffic and I’ll make sure every time those lights go out at the top of Easter Road, you’ll be down there with a pair of white gloves, standing in the middle of that box junction.’

  Brennan strode for the door, said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Chapter 2

  Was this the way it was going to be? As Brennan took the case file from the Chief Super’s office, and walked for the front desk, he could feel eyes burning into him. He let it pass for a few moments, then stopped flat — spun on his heels. There was a momentary interlude where everyone seemed to wonder what he would do next, then rank — the old leveller — kicked in. Phones were picked up, drawers opened, conversations commenced once more. Brennan felt a surge of pride; it was a victory all right. He was back on the force — the proper force, not sitting at some desk counting paperclips and listening to wet-behind-the-ears DCs dicking on about stuff they knew nothing about.

  ‘You… What’s your name?’ said Brennan.

  ‘Sutcliffe, sir.’

  Brennan smirked. ‘Got to have balls to join up with a name like that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A brown-noser; Brennan hated those. ‘I want the main incident room cleared.’

  ‘But DI Lauder-’

  ‘Fuck Lauder!.. Shift the shooting caseload to IR Three.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The uniform stayed put. Everyone else in the room seemed to have frozen too.

  Brennan barked, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  The assembly sprang to life. Brennan was chancing his arm, but he knew he had to make his mark right away. The whole station would be looking for weakness, waiting for the first balls-up, the first ‘i’ undotted, ‘t’ uncrossed. It couldn’t happen. Self-belief was an inward direction, but an outward expression. A badly timed sigh, a tremor in the voice, a challenge to his authority or any one of a hundred poker tells would have them prattling in the canteen. It was start as you mean to go on, or face the consequences. He’d learned that tackling drunks when he was in uniform: you need to shout them down, set the boundaries fast, or they arked up, got lippy. After all that had happened lately, there was too much at stake to play anything other than the firm hand. His career had been on life support for the last few months; it was time to give it the kiss of life.

  In the lift he allowed his head to rest on the wall for a moment; just a moment, then his neck snapped forward and he opened the file. Straight away Stevie McGuire’s bullet-point listings riled him. McGuire couldn’t spell, or use grammar — if this was DC material then the public had a right to feel short-changed.

  ‘Parents should sue the public school.’ Brennan shook his head. He dreaded to think what state the scene was in if McGuire had been first on hand. Times were tough, budgets tight, but if the job was worth doing it was worth giving to decent officers. There were far too many shiny-arsed careerists about the place; too many graduates on the fast-track, and McGuire was a prime example.

  The lift doors pinged; Brennan stepped out.

  The desk sergeant was poring over the sports page of the News. Brennan greeted him in the usual manner: ‘All right, Charlie.’

  ‘Rob.’ He put down his paper, thinning his eyes.

  ‘What cars you got?’

  The older man sat upright, folded his arms. ‘All out.’

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  He shook his head, made a wide arc with his hand. ‘Nope, all out. Crime’s big business in Edinburgh… Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘So, tell me, Charlie, should I take the bloody bus to a murder scene?’

  The sergeant folded his arms again; his grey moustache twitched. �
��Look, don’t shoot the messenger.’

  Brennan slapped his folder down on the counter. ‘Gimme that radio.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The radio, Charlie…’

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’

  Brennan tilted his head. ‘See if I can get the bloody Archers on it… What do you think?’

  A slow, frail hand went over to the stand-mic. The desk sergeant handed it over. ‘I’ll bet you can’t work it.’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Charl… Get me McGuire on this.’

  ‘He’s at a murder!’

  Brennan snapped, ‘Aye. My investigation. Now get him on.’

  The radio crackled for a few seconds before the older man called out for DC McGuire. There was no reply.

  ‘He’ll be at the scene, Rob.’

  Brennan tapped the counter with his finger. ‘Again.’

  ‘ Rob.’

  ‘Try him again, Charlie.’

  The static on the line crackled momentarily, then the call went out once more. The line fizzed, then, ‘DC McGuire.’

  Brennan pressed the button. ‘Stevie, it’s Rob Brennan. I want you back at the incident room. Leave your car, I’ll need that later.’

  ‘Rob… Did you say leave my car?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with your hearing, then. Leave the car, and get yourself back here with uniform. Hurry it up, though. I need a run back there.’

  A lengthy gap played on the line.

  McGuire came back, ‘Received that, Rob.’

  ‘That’s DI Brennan… Stevie.’

  Another pause. ‘Yes… sir.’

  Brennan handed over the stand-mic. ‘That’ll do.’

  The desk sergeant shook his head. ‘You’re going to rattle his cage talking to him like that, Rob.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  A sigh. ‘You’re the boss.’

  Brennan took a deep breath, deciding not to reply. He took a seat by the front door and tapped at the blue file whilst he waited for the squad car to arrive. He didn’t look up but sensed the desk sergeant going back to the sports pages of the News. Fucking Hibs back four, he thought to himself. Galloway had some turns. Like to see how she’d take to him commenting on her copy of Hello! magazine he’d seen in her Mulberry briefcase. Cheeky sow. He knew not to engage, though: the battle of the sexes had been fought and lost.