by Tony Black
Napier rose. As he walked around the officers, Brennan straightened himself. ‘Hold on.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You’ll need these.’ He picked up the empty coffee mugs. ‘I’ll take mine black but I believe DC McGuire is partial to a drop of milk.’
Napier took the mugs and walked to the door, glancing back at Brennan and McGuire before going through and closing it gently behind him.
‘Bloody hell,’ said McGuire. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be like The Wicker Man!’
Brennan ran a finger over the desk, collected a burr of dust, held it up. ‘Welcome to the country.’
McGuire rolled eyes. ‘I think we can kiss goodbye to any cooperation from the local boys, then.’
Brennan barked, ‘Don’t be fooled. They all like to test the boundaries. I’d say they know where they are now.’ He picked up a blue folder: CARLY DONALD was written on a white label on the front. He opened it — there was one page inside.
‘What is it?’ said McGuire.
Brennan turned it over, held it between finger and thumb.
McGuire peered at it, dropped his head.
The page was blank.
Chapter 27
DI Rob Brennan knew it was true that the older you get the more cantankerous you become, but he drew the line at agreeing with the adage that age also gives you more clarity of thought. Some people, no matter what age they are, just aren’t capable of reasoning beyond tying their own shoelaces. He listened to Napier praising the minister and the town and dismissing any suggestion that anyone with a connection to the family could have been involved in Carly’s murder. He watched Napier’s moustache become flecked with spit as his temper, and face, darkened the deeper he got into his rant. Then, enough was enough.
‘At what stage are you going to move from conjecture to fact, Napier?’
The rotund man halted in his speech. ‘What do you mean?’
Brennan kept his tone monotonous: ‘I asked you for a summary of the case.’
‘And that’s what I’m giving you.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re giving me a bunch of assumptions and prejudices that you’ve came to, Christ knows how, and I couldn’t care less, but none of it is based on empirical research.’
Napier closed his mouth; he looked like a scolded child.
Brennan rose from the chair. The boards beneath the chair legs creaked. ‘Since you’re doing nothing else you can take us to the manse.’
‘Well, I am actually running an investigation of my own-’
Brennan cut him off: ‘The case of the open gate and the sheep on the road can bloody well wait. Get your coat and your car keys.’
‘Sir.’ Napier went to the corner of the room, removed a wax jacket from the stand. He checked in the pocket and produced a set of keys, said, ‘This way, gentlemen.’
McGuire smiled, cast eyes in Brennan’s direction as they left the office.
Napier led them to a navy Mondeo with mud splashes at the wheel arches. Inside, the car was covered in empty McCoy’s crisp pokes and Mars bar wrappers. As Brennan moved his feet an oily carton from a chip shop stuck to his shoe, added to the smell of the vehicle’s interior. That was the tipping point. ‘Jesus, Napier, when did you last clean this car out?’
‘Eh, this morning.’
‘Well, I’d hate to have seen it before then.’
McGuire handed over an empty bottle of Bell’s whisky from the back seat. ‘Hope you weren’t driving when you tanned this.’
Napier snatched the neck, said, ‘That’s going to the bottle bank!’
They drove in silence; Brennan lit a cigarette.
Napier wound down his window, spoke: ‘This is a real shock to the whole community, you know.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘We’ve never had anything like this before, nothing even close… It’s sent a shiver through us all.’
Brennan remained silent, took a pull on his Silk Cut, looked at the tip.
The manse house wasn’t far away — a substantial red sandstone building to the rear of the kirk. Brennan eyed the comfortable residence and tried to calculate in his head how many millions it would fetch in Edinburgh. Several, was his answer. The gardens surrounding the property were extensive and clearly well maintained.
‘Who does the lawns?’ said Brennan.
Napier shrugged. ‘Don’t know, to be honest.’
As they walked towards the front door, McGuire called to the inspector, ‘There’s someone in.’
Brennan stopped on the path, followed McGuire’s finger-point. There was a light on and curtains twitched in an upstairs window. There was a man standing there. ‘Who’s that?’
Napier squinted. ‘Looks like Pete.’
‘Who?’
‘Odd-job man… Maybe he does the lawns. You want me to ask him?’ Napier waved to the man at the window. A weak reciprocal gesture came.
Brennan strode for the door, pressed the ringer. In a few moments he heard footsteps, then the sound of the lock turning.
‘Hello.’ The man was in his thirties, short, shaved head and a muscular build beneath a Glasgow Rangers shirt. He looked first at Brennan, then peered over Brennan’s shoulder to Napier. ‘What’s all this, then?’
Napier eased through the door. ‘Just procedure, Pete. These officers are up from the city.’
The man’s gaze intensified, his hands dropped from the door’s edge and he retreated inside. ‘I see.’
Brennan spoke: ‘Forgive me, I don’t have any record of a… What is it you do here?’
‘I do the maintenance, whatever’s needed really.’ The man’s face seized.
Brennan nodded to McGuire — the DC removed his notebook. ‘What’s your full name, sir?’
‘Peter… Peter Sproul.’
Brennan made sure McGuire had a note of it. ‘And how long have you been employed at the manse?’
Sproul put his hands on his hips, seemed to be counting back the time. ‘I’d say it’s coming on for a year, now.’
‘A year, really?’
‘Yes. A year.’
Brennan watched as Sproul fidgeted, then folded his arms across his chest. ‘I suppose you’ll be here about Carly… Dreadful business.’
‘You must have known her very well.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t know about very well, but I certainly knew her. I live out the back.’ He turned, pointed to the rear of the house. ‘A granny flat so to speak.’ He smiled; no one returned the gesture. ‘Just a dreadful business, terrible really.’ He unfolded his arms, turned towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get you some tea?’
Napier’s face lit up.
‘No. We won’t trouble you,’ said Brennan. ‘If you can just point out Carly’s room.’
Sproul walked across the parquet flooring. He wore training shoes and they squeaked on the polished surface. Brennan watched him pitch himself on his toes and felt his curiosity piqued. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’
Sproul grabbed the badge of his football shirt. ‘It’s not St Johnstone!’ He smiled again, but it vanished quickly. ‘No, I’m from Glasgow, well, Paisley really. There’s a difference but you get tired of explaining it after a while.’
Brennan turned to McGuire, checked he was still writing the details down. ‘Mr Sproul, this is DC McGuire… He’s going to ask you a few questions.’
‘Oh, really.’
‘Yes, really.’
McGuire stepped forward, indicated the door to the kitchen. Sproul led the way as Brennan went upstairs.
‘What will I do?’ said Napier.
‘I saw a shop across the street — go get yourself a Mars bar.’
The stairs creaked as Brennan ascended. He felt a strange sensation, like he was going backwards in time. It reminded him of a famous point on the Carrick Hills near his hometown called the Electric Brae. Tourists went there and switched off the engines of their cars, let the handbrake off. As the cars rolled down the people inside felt like they were r
olling up the hill. It was all an illusion of course; the world was full of them, thought Brennan.
The manse was an old property. It could have done with redecorating, maybe even modernising, but that would destroy the feel of it. At the top of the stairs the carpet had worn thin. Brennan looked down at the torn surface, straggled wool fibres sticking up, and thought it was a trip hazard. He didn’t think anyone would care now — the occupants of the house had worse things to worry about.
He moved on. There was a picture on the wall he recognised: a small blonde girl leaning against a wall while a rough collie, ears pinned down, waited at her back. The image seemed intensely familiar and at the same time utterly alien to him. It was like seeing a flash of memory from childhood — a time, or a place, that wasn’t there any more — that existed only in the annals of his mind.
He looked away. His eye caught a door with a large paper sunflower stuck on it. The flower had a face drawn in the middle and the petals bore letters; they spelled
out: CARLY’S ROOM
Brennan felt his throat freeze as he thought of Carly. Until now she had been a corpse to him. At best, a pale young girl on a mortuary slab. She didn’t exist in the real world. She existed in blue folders and on whiteboards. She existed in pathology reports and photographs and newspaper stories, but Carly Donald, the young girl who once had a family, friends, a life, didn’t exist to Brennan in any real sense, until now. As he stared at the door to her room, he knew he was about to bring her to life for him. It always happened this way: he’d shut out the reality of murder as long as he could; the case, the investigation, came first. After a while, sometimes sooner rather than later, the victim showed up.
The detective took a deep breath, touched the handle on the door and walked into another world.
Chapter 28
Devlin McArdle sat with his head in his hands. ‘Can you not shut that kid up!’
Melanie paced the living room with the screaming child on her shoulder. ‘I’m trying.’
‘Not hard enough!’
McArdle got up, grabbed his black leather coat from the hall stand.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Out where?’
‘Just out… Away from that.’ He pointed to the red-faced baby in Melanie’s arms.
‘Then bring back some Pampers…’
McArdle flared his nostrils, let out a grunt. He pulled open the front door and headed for his car. He could still hear the child screaming as he got inside the vehicle and flung back his head. He couldn’t live with this for much longer. It wasn’t the noise — he could handle that. It was Melanie: she was changing. She’d stopped drinking and he didn’t like that — the drink made her bearable to be around. When she was sober she was full of questions. He couldn’t handle questions, he didn’t want to be quizzed about the child especially. The baby had to go, soon.
McArdle picked up his mobile, searched his contacts, found the one he wanted and pressed Dial.
Ringing.
Then, ‘ Hallo.’
‘Gunter… It’s Devlin McArdle.’
‘You have your money?’
‘Yes… The first payment got here fine.’
‘Then why do you call?’ The German sounded irritated, his voice crisp, serious.
‘I need to know when-’
Gunter interrupted, ‘I told you, I would collect the child as soon as I can. There is a lot to organise at this end. I can’t just jump on a plane.’
‘I know, but-’
‘There is no buts, Mr McArdle. Our agreement is that you hold the child until we collect.’
‘But when?’
A tut, throat-clearing. ‘Soon. I said soon. Now be patient, Mr McArdle. I’ll be in touch.’
The line died.
McArdle threw the phone on the back seat and hit the dashboard with the heel of his hand. His elbow caught the horn and Melanie came to the window. McArdle frowned at her, started the engine and pulled out of the driveway. He took the car straight to Muirhouse. The light was failing but he could still see enough of the neighbourhood to pass comment.
‘Fucking shit-hole.’ McArdle had been raised in Sighthill, another Edinburgh dumping ground for losers on the lowest rung, but he’d left. He remembered growing up in the scheme, people would tell him that when the flats were built they were highly sought after. The new high-rises replaced cold-water tenements with outside toilets. The boxes were nothing to look at but they had hot running water, toilets and bathrooms and — beyond luxury — fitted kitchens. People were easily bought, thought McArdle. He knew he was right in the case of Barry Tierney and Vee Durrant.
He had bought their first child and now he was taking another one from them for the same price. He tried not to think about the transaction. He didn’t fool himself that he was being benevolent; it was business, but he wanted it out of the way.
A mangy dog barked at him as McArdle got out the car. He stamped his foot on the ground and the beast went running. As he walked towards the open door that hung on one hinge, McArdle tapped the inside of his pocket. He was tooled up, knew better than to come down here without a chib, but he was also carrying the payment for Tierney and Vee.
A junkie on the stairwell asked him for a fag.
‘Fuck off.’ Scum. Just trash, he thought.
As he ascended the steps McArdle scrunched his nose — the stair smelled of piss and vomit. He hated being back in schemes like this. It was almost an insult to him, but at the same time it made him feel good to know he’d got out. He was better than the wasters that stayed there. He was the Deil; he was someone.
At Tierney’s door he thudded on the panel with the outside of his hand.
‘Open up, y’prick.’
He heard movement, coughing. He could already imagine the weak frame of the skinny man stumbling towards the door. There was a rattle of chains, a key in the lock, then a latch being slid. As a chink of light appeared in the gap between door and jamb he forced his way in.
‘Took your fucking time.’
Tierney smiled, a toothless grin. ‘Sorry, man. Sorry… Was, er, taking a dump, eh.’
McArdle poked him in the chest. Tierney recoiled. ‘Do you think I want to know what you get up to in here?’ He grabbed Tierney’s jaw, squeezed his lips together. ‘Keep that shut!’
Vee came through from the living room, draped in a long grey cardigan. She held herself in her arms and leaned on the wall for a moment. Straight away, McArdle knew she was wasted. ‘Look at the fucking state of you… Not going to get any punters paying for that skanky arse, are you?’
Vee slid down the wall. As her legs folded her buttocks rested on her heels. The belt of her cardigan curled behind her like a tether.
McArdle walked away from them shaking his head. In the living room he put his hand to his nostrils. ‘Jesus, it stinks in here… Can you not open a window?’
Tierney came scurrying behind him, grabbed the handle and pushed — a gust of air blew in from the sea. ‘Is that better, Deil?’
A nod was fired in his direction, but there was no real approval attached to it. ‘You live like animals, do you know that?’
Tierney shrugged. He looked over his shoulder to see Vee coming in on all fours.
‘Look, look at this… She even walks like a fucking animal.’ McArdle laughed hard, dropped his head and smacked his palm off his forehead.
‘If you say so, Deil…’ said Tierney.
The laughter subsided. McArdle strolled around the room. He passed Tierney and grabbed the dazed Vee by the hair, twisted hard. It took her a few moments for the pain centres to register, but when they did she screamed out and flapped hands around her head.
‘See this, see what I’m doing here…’ said McArdle. He twisted harder. ‘This is just a bit of fun.’ He dragged Vee to the open window. He could see Tierney growing anxious — the thin man drawing his hands to his mouth.
‘Deil, what are you doing?’ said Tierney.
&nb
sp; McArdle silenced Vee with a backhander; the force of the blow raised her on her knees for a brief moment and then her head struck a harsh angle with the floor and she collapsed, splayed out like a rag doll. McArdle suddenly grabbed her round the waist and tipped her over the edge of the window.
‘No! No!’ yelled Tierney. ‘Deil, please… No!’
McArdle held Vee by the ankles as he dangled her out of the high-rise. She was lifeless for a brief spell but when she regained consciousness she started to scream.
McArdle laughed, shook her legs, watched her head bang off the roughcasting on the side of the building; little stone chippings escaped. He could hear the dog he’d seen earlier barking as the chippings fell to the ground. ‘Is this not a bit of fun, Vee… eh?’ He felt Tierney approach, place a hand on his shoulder. McArdle released one of Vee’s ankles and swung a fist at Tierney. ‘Get back!’
He turned again, looked at Vee dangling over the window, and lost interest in tormenting her. He pulled her ankles in one quick sweep and dropped her back inside the flat. Tierney ran to her side and started to pat her back. She brushed his hand away.
McArdle watched the junkies, wiped his brow. He’d had some fun with them and he knew there was no other reason to come here, unless he was making money. He reached inside his jacket, removed the envelope with the cash and threw it in front of them. ‘Here… don’t spend it all in one shop.’
Vee was still shaking as Tierney lunged forward and ripped into the envelope. He tipped the contents into his hands, spread the notes apart, counted. ‘What’s this, Deil?’
McArdle loomed over them, spoke: ‘Your money, isn’t it.’
‘But… we agreed more.’
McArdle adjusted his jacket, brushed down his sleeves. ‘That was before.’
‘Before what?’
McArdle leaned over, pointed. ‘How much do you think it costs to keep a kid? Eh? I’m forking out a small fortune on fucking nappies and rusks and Cow and Gate this and that!’
