by Tony Black
Brennan took a deep breath. What was the point of going over old ground?
He got up and looked to the other body. They were about four yards apart; the reason for the bigger tent seemed obvious now. Brennan called out, ‘When are you moving these?’
A shrug. ‘When we’re ready.’
Brennan walked towards the white-suited SOCOs. ‘What you got there?’
One of them held up a little clear plastic bag; inside was a piece of metal. As Brennan took the bag, moved it towards the light that was streaming in through the front of the tent, he turned the item over. It was a bullet casing.
‘You know what that is?’ said a tall SOCO.
‘Oh, yes… Do you?’
The SOCO smarmed: ‘Are you serious?’
Brennan pointed to the bullet. ‘And this?’
‘Some kind of residue.’
‘These bullets are gold-washed… I’ve seen this before.’
The SOCO took the bag back, peered deeply. ‘I think you could be right.’
Brennan smarmed back: ‘I fucking know I’m right. These bullets are serious — this was a pro hit.’ He left the SOCO staring at him as he walked out of the tent and found McGuire. The DC was on his mobile; he hung up when Brennan approached.
‘Well?’ he said.
Brennan halted in his stride, motioned up the hill to his car. ‘Back to the office.’
McGuire followed on his heels. ‘I’m waiting…’
‘It’s a professional hit, no question. High-calibre rifle. Gold-washed ammunition. Close range.’
‘What’s that about the ammo?’
‘Makes it all the more lethal; rare as hobby-horse shite. Only serious craftsmen insist on it. Someone had this pair of dafties knocked off, and paid a high price for it. I want to know why.’
McGuire jogged ahead of his boss, raised the blue-and-white tape. ‘Any ideas who?’
Brennan looked at him. ‘I’d say someone who’s fucking shitting themselves.’
As he spoke, the reporter from the News approached. She came running from the edge of the road with a digital recorder in her hand. ‘Detective, are these killings related to any other ongoing investigation?’
Brennan halted, stared at her. ‘Who’s pulling your strings, love?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Don’t come the innocent.’
She lowered her hand; the digital recorder dropped out of range. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
Brennan put his hands in his pockets, tilted his head to one side. He loomed over the reporter. ‘So am I. My job’s about catching murderers and scum, keeping the streets safe. What’s yours for?’
She looked perplexed, narrowed her eyes. ‘ What?’
Brennan eyed her up and down. He’d had just about enough of seeing her at his crime scenes. ‘If you don’t know the answer to that question, maybe you’re in the wrong job.’
As he walked away and got into the car, Brennan caught sight of the reporter again. She hadn’t moved from where he had left her. When he started the engine she jutted a hip and slapped a palm off it. He knew he’d given her something to think about: it was never a good idea for reporters to get on the wrong side of the police.
‘She’s not pleased with you,’ said McGuire as they pulled out.
‘Good. She’ll get hers.’
‘You still think she’s being fed a line from inside the station?’
Brennan took second, pulled from the side street. ‘I’d bet a pound to a pail of shite she’s going flat out, probably on her back, to work her contact.’
McGuire laughed. As he did so, his mobile phone started to ring. He took it out his pocket. ‘Shit. It’s Galloway. Do you want me to answer it?’
Chapter 37
Brennan looked at McGuire, who held out his mobile. ‘Dump her,’ he said.
‘You sure?’ The DC looked pensive now.
Brennan nodded. ‘As shooting.’
They continued back to the station. Brennan turned things over in his mind. First there was the situation with Peter Sproul. The plan had been to pull him, rattle some details about his living situation with the Donalds in Pitlochry. But finding him in a pool of his own blood had put paid to that. He couldn’t see the minister revealing anything about him — he had been too wary of letting details of his life slip. Brennan wondered if the Donalds knew more about Sproul than was good for them. If they believed the sex offender to be the father of their grandchild then perhaps that was why they had been so cagey. It was a delicate situation, thought Brennan, but the time for treading gently was over. Time had run out.
Brennan gripped the wheel tighter the closer they got to Fettes. He had thought he wanted back to the city when he was in Pitlochry but now he’d got home he realised how wrong he was — the sensation was like picking up a cold beer on a warm day, and finding the bottle empty. He rolled up the window. The air outside was heavy with fumes; he could almost taste the diesel. As he stared out the buildings looked dirtier than he remembered. Everywhere he looked the stone was grey or blackened. The streets were awash with litter, the bins overflowed and spilled into the gutters — cans, fag dowps, crisp bags, all blowing like bunting in the foetid wind. He worked though the gears as he hit a quiet stretch of Orchard Brae. ‘We have to call in the minister, find out what the hell was going on there.’
McGuire stretched round in his seat to face Brennan. ‘For a father to take in a repeat sex offender, with a young daughter at home, defies logic.’
‘Just what I was thinking.’ Brennan knew the minister was blinded by some sense of religious duty — that had been obvious from the start — but why had he kept Sproul’s presence a secret from the police?
McGuire said, ‘Unless he wanted to rehabilitate Sproul. Y’know, if he was taken in by a sob story, perhaps some claim about him being a changed man.’
Brennan smirked. ‘Or having found the Lord in Peterhead.’ The DI had answers of his own, but he knew he would be making a mistake applying his logic to the minister’s situation. Carly was dead, though. A man’s daughter had been killed and he’d shielded a potential suspect from the investigating officers. Why? Worse, Beth was still missing. The minister’s granddaughter, his innocent flesh and blood, was who knows where and still he hadn’t revealed Sproul.
Brennan knew the case was in chaos. Nothing was fitting together. He knew there was a bigger picture, something that linked up the missing pieces of the assassinations at the Water of Leith, but he couldn’t pull it into focus. They were drawing near to the station. He lowered his speed as he went into the car park, pulled up. He turned off the engine and moved to face McGuire.
‘Why?’
‘Why what, sir?’
Brennan’s voice rose: ‘Why have two minor-league scrotes professionally hit?’
‘Someone wanted them knocked off quickly.’
‘Obviously. But who? And why?’
McGuire looked straight ahead. ‘Well, for a start, someone with the money to pay for it.’
It didn’t make sense; their necks weren’t worth the price or the trouble. ‘If someone higher up the food chain was going to put up money to have that pair wiped out then they must be scared shitless.’
McGuire returned his gaze to Brennan, tapped the top of the gearstick. ‘You know, they’ve most likely seen the News piece and thought we were getting close… Shat themselves.’
‘Are we getting close?’ said Brennan.
McGuire turned up his palms. ‘Maybe we’re closer than we realise.’
Brennan hoped he was right. He turned to face the windshield, looked at the station. He felt his stomach tighten, sighed, ‘Galloway’s waiting in there to kick our arses all over the place.’
‘You’re right there, sir.’
‘Get your phone, call Lou… See what he’s got on the door-to-door.’
McGuire reached into his coat pocket, removed the phone and dialled. Brennan watched his movements and facial gestures. The DC spoke to Lou for a few minu
tes then hung up.
‘So?’ said Brennan.
‘You’ll like this. Flat above says they heard a baby screaming all hours for the last few days.’
Brennan’s head snapped to the side. ‘Really?’
‘More yet — folk next door said they saw a young girl with the woman… No positive ID as Carly but a definite maybe. They haven’t seen the girl again; she just disappeared.’
Brennan slapped the dash. ‘That bastard’s had his, Stevie… We might just be getting closer.’ He opened the car door, leaned out. ‘Come on then, let’s go face the dragon!’
As he opened the station doors, strode in, the desk sergeant got up and called Brennan over: ‘Rob, hear about Lauder?’
‘Not now, Charlie.’ He waved him away, made for the stairs.
The sergeant sat back down as Brennan and McGuire took the staircase.
Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway was waiting for Brennan and McGuire as they reached their floor. She was dressed in a black trouser suit and a cream-coloured silk blouse that had elaborate collars pulled out across the shoulders. As ever, she wore heels that added an extra three inches to her height. Brennan composed himself for a confrontation, tried to make a straight eye contact but Galloway turned her head and pointed a palm to her office. Brennan and McGuire led the way with the Chief Super following, her heels clacking on the hard flooring like a tribal drumbeat.
As they entered, the door was closed quietly behind them and Galloway directed them to seats. The atmosphere in the office was heady; added intensity came from an expensive perfume that the Chief Super had applied liberally. She was always groomed, thought Brennan, but today she looked like something from an eighties soap opera. Dynasty or Dallas — one where the shoulder pads came from the AFL.
‘Quite a body count you’ve amassed over the last two days, is it not?’ said Galloway.
Brennan crossed his legs, undid the button fastening his jacket. He turned to McGuire. ‘Stevie, perhaps you could fill the Chief Super in on Peter Sproul.’
‘I know about Sproul, I’ve seen the file,’ she bit back. ‘What I don’t know is how he ended up dead in Carly Donald’s bedroom.’
McGuire cut in: ‘It was a suicide: the lab have confirmed the wounds were self-inflicted and we have a note of sorts which he added to a social networking site.’
Galloway’s face held firm; her lipstick seemed to have been baked on. ‘So, let’s have a stab at tomorrow’s headline in the News… “Repeat Paedo Tops Himself in Murder Victim’s Bedroom and Leaves Message on Facebook.”’
Brennan turned to McGuire. Neither was smiling. ‘It’s our belief Sproul had good reason to want a fast route out of the picture.’
‘Oh, you think?’ Galloway put a finger to her chin and pulled a ditsy expression. ‘Why? Maybe he didn’t want to go back to Peterhead… I’ve read that report too, the one about the sharpened chicken bone he got in the lung.’
‘I think, in time, we’ll establish Sproul’s involvement. It’s my assumption he might be the father of Carly’s child.’
Galloway slapped the desk. ‘I’m not fucking interested in assumptions, Rob. Yours or anyone else’s. I’m interested in facts and what we can prove to the Fiscal, and more than that I’m interested in having a murderer under lock and key and a missing child back with her family. I’m interested in proper police work and not having my force traduced all over the papers.’
Brennan rose, closing up his jacket. ‘Then I’ll get back to work.’
Galloway got up too, faced him. ‘You’ll do what I tell you, Rob.’ She turned to McGuire. ‘Go and gather the team in Incident Room One, Stevie.’
McGuire eased himself from the chair. He looked at Brennan, said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
The Chief Super watched McGuire as he went. Her eyes were wide, piercing. ‘Tell them I’ll be in there in a minute. I want as many of the team as you can find.’
McGuire closed the door.
Galloway leaned over the desk and put a bead on Brennan. He spoke first: ‘What are you doing?’
‘My job, Rob… Some of us still care about that.’
He leaned over the desk too, staring her down. ‘You’re not the only one in this room who’s given more than they’d like to consider to the job.’
Galloway sat down. She seemed to be gathering her thoughts, choosing her words carefully. ‘I haven’t seen much evidence of a result coming any time soon.’
Brennan pushed himself away from the desk, put a hand in his pocket. ‘The footage flushed out Tierney and Durrant. When the SOCOs have been through their flat we might have our murderers. I’d call that a fairly definite result.’
Galloway thinned her eyes. ‘It’s not a result yet… And we still have a missing child.’
Brennan looked away, exhaled slowly. He felt an urge to grab her by those floppy collars and shake some sense into her but he held firm. There was too much at stake. He had come this far with the case and wasn’t about to let a burst of temper ruin everything. After all, that’s what she wanted, and he hated giving in to her.
‘Tierney’s neighbours have confirmed a baby crying in their flat and there’s a possible sighting of Carly at the address. I have Lou and Bri hauling in all of Tierney’s known associates. I anticipate a result imminently.’
The Chief Super closed her mouth, pouted. She seemed to be running her tongue over the front of her teeth. She was definitely thinking. ‘Do you know what today is?’
Brennan answered quickly, ‘It’s your final interview for the Chief Constable’s job.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, it’s that all right. I wasn’t referring to that, though.’
Brennan shrugged his shoulders. ‘What were you referring to?’
She got up again, walked towards the water cooler, took down a small paper cone and filled it. ‘Today’s the day we wrapped up the pub shooting… Or should I say Lauder did. Haven’t you heard?’
The news must have just come in. Brennan chided himself for not stopping to talk to Charlie on the way up. ‘Oh, really?’
Galloway drained the paper cone, dropped it into the bin. ‘Yes, really. So, you see, I do have one clear-up to be happy about.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Brennan. ‘Is that a first for Lauder?’
Galloway flicked her hair back. ‘Tut-tut, Rob, you really shouldn’t be jealous just because one of my inspectors has got a result. In the nick of time too: this force needs some positive press, wouldn’t you say?’
Brennan felt his mouth dry over. He had no words. She was playing him, goading him. She had tried everything else and seemed to be delighted that her latest approach was getting the desired result — Brennan was riled.
The Chief Super straightened her jacket front, brushed her sleeves at the elbows, said, ‘Now DI Lauder will be presenting the case to the Fiscal, but that’s a lot of his workload reduced. I’m wondering if perhaps he would be put to better use on the Carly Donald case.’
Brennan let his hands fold behind his back, scrunched them into fists. ‘I’d sooner not disrupt the team dynamic.’
Galloway laughed, tipped her head back again. Her hair floated behind her. ‘Jesus, Rob, where did you find the management-speak?’
He bit down hard on his back teeth, then released his jaw. ‘Let me put it another way, then: my team is tight and won’t take kindly to a glory hunter coming in at this stage and stealing all the credit for their hard work.’
Galloway tilted her head towards her shoulder. Her eyes were wider than ever as she spoke: ‘Well, well, harsh words indeed, Rob. Perhaps we should ask the team just what they think… Let’s go see the troops.’
Chapter 38
Incident room one was quiet as Brennan walked in, two paces behind Galloway. As she entered, he noticed her stride became a strut. The woman loved the attention her rank afforded her; it was probably why she was in the job, he surmised. It certainly wasn’t to catch criminals, protect the public, or keep the streets clean.
‘R
ight, listen up,’ said Galloway.
The people in the room had already gathered round the end desks, in front of the whiteboard, where the images of the victims had been stuck up. A couple of WPCs looked at each other, whispered, but most of the team were held in awe of Galloway. She moved in front of the board, took a glance, allowed her jacket to flap open and then attached her hands to the desk as she spoke: ‘Is this it?’
McGuire nodded. ‘We have two teams going door to door and there’s a few more here and there.’
Galloway looked out on the group, raised her chin at a right angle with the floor and then she opened her mouth wide. ‘I am not in the habit of shaking up investigations for the hell of it, but it is clear to me you are pretty far from a result in any shape or form here…’ A murmur went round the room. ‘ Quiet… Thank you. So I am here to tell you all that as of oh-nine-hundred hours on Monday I am putting DI Ian Lauder in charge of all investigations arising from the murder of Carly Donald.’
A flurry of voices went up; heads shook, papers were slapped on the table.
‘That’s enough,’ said Galloway. It didn’t calm the room. ‘That’s enough… I’d like to thank DI Brennan for his hard work-’
‘Hear! hear!’ No one could place the first male voice, but a chorus of approval rang out.
‘Right, Rob, over to you.’ Galloway exited the room. Her strut seemed to have left her; each clack of heel on floor resounded with less force than before.
