With an irritated sigh Brodie tossed the doughnut into his dirty lap along with a five pound note, put one of the coffees down at his feet and headed inside the office. Raised voices from above caused him to take the stairs two at a time.
He burst into his office to find Cass arguing with a brick shithouse sporting a shaved head and a seriously pissed off look.
“Where’s my fucking wife?” boomed the man, trying to intimidate Cass with his size and voice. He didn’t know Cass.
“I suggest you leave right now,” was all she replied, body wound up tight, ready to defend herself should it become necessary which - judging by the redness of the man mountain’s face - was entirely possible.
“Hey you, do one,” said Brodie.
The red-faced man turned on him, face set in an angry snarl. “Are you the fucking wank who took my wife and kids from me?”
“I didn’t take them. They left because you are a controlling, abusive shitebag.”
“You bastard. I’m going to rip your fucking scrotum off.”
His charge was halted before it had even begun when Cass kicked him in the back of the knee. His red face looked comically startled before he toppled on top of her desk, which rocked alarmingly.
“That’s you out of here pal,” said Brodie, twisting his right arm up his back and dragging him upright. “Do you want to walk down the stairs or shall I arrange for you to fly?”
“Aargh, you’re hurting me,” grimaced the man as Brodie twisted his arm to breaking point.
“I know. Want me to snap it like you did to your six year old daughter you fucking scumbag.”
Cass watched impassively as Brodie hauled the man upright and marched him out the door. A couple of minutes later he stomped back up the stairs, scowling.
“Arsehole,” muttered Brodie. “Did he hurt you?”
“Not me,” replied Cass. “But my desk doesn’t look too happy.”
He looked to the desk, which sagged in the middle as the two rear legs had buckled. “We’ll get you a new one.”
“About time, that thing was ancient.”
“You can’t buy quality like that anymore.”
“Oh yeah, it looks a real class act,” she said sarcastically, drawing from him a reluctant smile, his mind already leaving the wife beater. “You look troubled Bossman. Don’t let that pillock get you down.”
“It’s not that prick. Fred’s gone.”
“Fred as in the homeless conspiracy theorist?”
“Aye. Someone else was on his patch and Fred never allows that so he must have been gone a while. Maybe the devil did come for him?”
“Before you start letting your imagination runaway with you why don’t you check that he isn’t in the hospital or been nicked?”
Instantly he cheered. “Good thinking.”
“There’s something else. Doctor Sandler from Lauren Creegan’s hospital called again. She really thinks it would help Lauren if you would visit her.”
Brodie sighed wearily. The Creegan case had been the first serial killer his investigative practice had tackled and they’d been successful. Sarah and Seth Creegan were serving life behind bars for torturing and killing several women. Lauren was Seth’s younger sister and she’d been sectioned for burning her mother to death after she’d been complicit in Seth’s activities. It was unlikely she’d ever be released. Lauren had struggled with mental illness her entire life, hardly surprising when not only had one of her brothers and her sister-in-law been serial killers, but her dad too. She had taken a huge shine to Brodie when their paths had crossed while he was investigating the case and had sent him endless requests for visits but so far he’d turned them all down. However Brodie was starting to feel guilty. Lauren had no one else.
“Well?” said Cass when he’d remained in thoughtful silence for a full minute.
“Tell her I’m not going.”
“You rotten sod.”
“Me?” he exclaimed, pointing at himself. “I get enough visiting people in loony bins just seeing Ricky.” Ricky was Brodie’s older brother who was also locked up in a secure mental unit for life after very brutally murdering their abusive father when he was just fourteen.
“I get that but maybe she has more information on the Creegan case? There’s still a missing victim and it would mean the world to her family if they could finally bury her.”
“Lauren wouldn’t know that, she had nothing to do with the killings.”
“Maybe Seth’s been in touch with her? Doctor Sandler says they write to each other.”
“Seth’s letters are always checked.”
“Maybe they have some sort of code?”
“I think you’re overestimating both of them hen. Why are you so keen for me to go anyway? Trying to get rid of me?”
“Course not. I suppose I feel sorry for Lauren. She’s just a victim of her family’s madness.”
She was looking at him with her big dark doe eyes and he felt himself weakening. “Oh…I’ll think about it, alright?”
“I can’t ask for more Boss,” she grinned.
They were interrupted by a knock at the door, which opened before either of them could react. In walked a small, thin man with round glasses and a large shiny forehead, his hair receding at an alarming rate, making him look like an aged mole.
“What do you want?” frowned Brodie.
“I do hope that awful noise isn’t going to continue all day? It’s very difficult for my clients to find their inner peace when from below sound voices claiming they’re going to rip someone’s scrotum off.” The man spoke in a snooty London accent that never failed to annoy Brodie. He ran an alternative therapy business on the floor above. He and Brodie couldn’t have been more opposite, which was why they constantly annoyed each other.
“We’re both fine, thanks for asking,” Brodie barked back.
“I’m not putting myself at risk, it’s not my business. If you want to deal with such awful people on a daily basis that’s your problem but some of us don’t want to risk physical injury.”
“Your loss,” grinned Brodie.
“So I’d appreciate it if you would keep the noise down. My clients and I have no wish to absorb so much negative energy.”
“Why don’t you toddle off back upstairs before I feng shui my boot up your arse.”
The mole man regarded him with a disdainful look. “You really are the most boorish brute I ever met.”
“Why thank you. Now get tae. No doubt some veggie munching, cabbage farting hippy freak is wasting away upstairs as we speak.”
“My clients do not fart,” he retorted indignantly. “Why do you have to be so rude all the time?”
“Because I enjoy it.”
“You should come to me for a cleansing. You’re rife with toxic energy. You really are an unhappy man, aren’t you?”
When Brodie’s eyes darkened into amber flints Cass hastily intervened. “I’m sorry we disturbed you Roger, we’ll keep the noise down, promise.”
“Thank you Miss Carlisle, I appreciate that. At least someone around here has manners.”
“Get tae fuck ya wee dick, you’re getting on my tits,” said Brodie.
An outraged Roger harrumphed before striding from the room, nose in the air.
“Now that cockwomble’s gone maybe I can get some work done,” said Brodie, picking up the phone. “You call round the hospitals about Fred, I’ll phone Pete.”
Detective Inspector Peter McLaren was Brodie’s friend from his time on the police force. When Brodie had decided to leave and set up his private investigative business Pete had agreed that he would do what he could to assist Brodie’s often less than legal investigations and he had plenty of those. On the surface Brodie took on the usual run-of-the-mill cases - cheating spouse investigations, surveillance, fraud, civil investigations, and so on. The other side of his business was much more covert and bypassed the books. He provided a specialist service offering justice for those who had been denied it legally - battered
wives and children, people threatened by loan sharks, victims of violent crime let down by the courts, his service extended to them all. Initially Brodie had gone into business with a partner, John Lyons, a fellow police colleague and one of his closest friends who had become equally disillusioned with the police force. But John hadn’t been able to walk the fine line between vigilante-style justice and criminality. He’d been seduced by the offer of huge amounts of cash to start drug dealing by the McVays, Glasgow’s most powerful criminal family. When Brodie had discovered what he’d done John had stabbed him and left him for dead. Fortunately Pete had figured out what was going on and got to Brodie in time to save his life, even though he’d been left with a long scar on his left side. John Lyons - hunted by not only Brodie but the police and the McVays after he’d ripped them off during a drug deal - skipped town and hadn’t been seen since. But Brodie knew their paths would cross again one day and when they did he’d let the Judas bastard know how much he’d pissed him off.
After ascertaining that Fred hadn’t been admitted to one of the hospitals in the Greater Glasgow area or stuck in a police cell, Brodie and Cass returned to the drawing board.
“He could have moved onto a different pitch,” offered Cass.
“Why now after all this time?”
“Have you checked to see if he’s come back? I mean, he’s not riveted to the spot. He might have gone to the loo or something.”
“All the other homeless know that’s his patch and none of them are stupid enough to try and take it from him, unless he’s been gone a while. He’s never done this before and he just happens to vanish when he says the devil’s coming for him.”
“Who wants his face, apparently,” she said sceptically.
“Please take this seriously Cass. I’ve got a gut feeling about this one.”
Her amused smile vanished. “Okay Brodie. What’s our next move?”
He loved it when she used his first name. Before he could reply, Christian and Ross returned. The smile Brodie gave them was positively predatory, halting them in their tracks.
“Just the wallopers I wanted to see,” he said, smile broadening.
“Whatever’s broken we didn’t do it,” said Christian.
Ross spotted the broken desk and his eyes widened. “That wasn’t us.”
“I know that you dick, I was here when it broke.”
“So you did it?” said Ross accusingly.
“Not exactly. I threw some big bastard down on it.”
“See, it’s easy to do, isn’t it?” he said triumphantly before going silent at the wrath in Brodie’s whisky-coloured eyes. “Sorry.”
“You finished?” said Brodie.
Ross nodded, pasty skin turning red.
“Good. I’ve got an assignment for you two.”
“What?” said Christian warily.
“Fred’s gone missing. I want you to search every squat, shop doorway, railway bridge and stinking shite-ridden hole he might be hiding in. Enjoy.”
“But…but…,” began Ross.
“Is that your impression of an outboard motor? Because it’s very good,” said Brodie sarcastically.
“That’ll take forever,” said Christian, finishing the sentence for his friend.
“Then you’d better get to it. Chop chop.” Brodie took pity on their downcast expressions. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I won’t take the cost of fixing the photocopier out of your wages and I’ll pay you overtime.”
This perked them both up. “Okay, we’ll get right on it,” said Ross before the pair of them left looking much more upbeat.
“You rotten sod,” said Cass when they’d gone. “They’ll be at it for days. There are loads of hidey holes for Fred to bolt to.”
“That’ll teach them to break my stuff. Anyway, who knows what they might turn up?”
“Now you’ve sent them off on a wild goose chase, what can we do?”
“I’m not sure. Yet. Hopefully Fred will turn up. Did you make copies of the data on the judge’s memory stick?”
“I did,” she said, handing him the memory stick. “Those letters were saucy stuff.”
“So I believe and maybe with their help the good judge will be persuaded to stop going so easy on rich, evil bastards.”
“Hopefully. She’s been calling. She’s anxious for that back.”
“Then I’d better not keep her waiting any longer.” He hesitated before adding, “actually, it’ll do her good to be taken down a peg or two. Stick the kettle on hen.” His grin dropped when she frowned at him. “I’ll make the tea.”
“Thank you,” she said, the corner of her mouth crooking into a grin.
Judge Jennifer Murphy wanted to meet in an art gallery, which wasn’t exactly Brodie’s style. He wondered if she’d watched one too many spy movies. She was the first to arrive, waiting for him on a bench before a huge painting of what appeared to be a smear of dark blue on a white background. He took his time before approaching her, studying each painting in turn, drawing out the moment, winding up her nerves to give him the upper hand.
She was a neat, attractive woman, short dark hair feathered about her pretty but serious face. When she saw him she shot to her feet, already extending her hand in anticipation of receiving the one thing that could destroy her life.
“Thank you Brodie,” said Jennifer with relief when he finally placed the memory stick in her hand. “Who was he?”
“Just some wee scrote who set up a dummy wi-fi account in your favourite cafe. A little tip your Honour, don’t use free wi-fi, it’s not secure.”
“I’ve learnt my lesson, believe me. How much do I owe you?”
“Call it a freebie, for now. I’ll call on you when I need a favour.”
Jennifer’s lips pursed but that was the only reaction she betrayed. Truth be told, she’d been expecting this. “If you prefer.” She looked up at the painting of the blue smear directly before them. “Do you like art?” she asked him.
“I’m too busy to look at art.”
“That’s a shame. We should all have something beautiful in our lives.”
“I’ve got the rugby.”
“I was thinking of something deeper than that.”
“Art’s not really my thing. I mean, look at that shite. What’s it supposed to be?”
“It’s abstract. It represents chaos and the futility of the human condition.”
“It represents some chancer trying his arm. Paint a load of meaningless crap and everyone will be too embarrassed to say they don’t get it so they spout any old fanny to make it look like they know what’s going through the artist’s head, when all the artist is thinking of is pound signs. This crap is for bloody mincy-heids. It’s a great racket though - chinless wonders with more money than sense pay for some bloke’s bodily fluids in a glass. Genius.”
“Despite what you just said, I think you might enjoy this,” she said, taking his arm and steering him towards the next room.
Brodie was surprised she wanted to remain in the company of the man who’d retrieved compromising e-mails for her but he got the feeling she was lonely. He guessed that was because she was married to a complete bastard. “Where are we going?” he said, thinly disguising his patience.
“There’s a new exhibition on, a brilliant new talent. I think you might appreciate his work.”
“I hope it’s not more of that modern art bollocks.”
“No, this is much more on the edge. I think you’ll like it,” she said enigmatically before pushing open the door.
Brodie came to a halt. “This is fucking freaky.”
“You really do have an eloquence all your own,” she said wryly.
There were faces everywhere - mounted on display stands, in individual frames, some facing one another as though they were in the middle of a conversation. But there was nothing plastic or fake about these faces, they looked real, like they’d been sliced off the head, leaving only the front section. He watched with mounting horror as someone pressed
a red button on the wall and two faces opposite each other began to chat, eyes blinking, lips moving with frightening realism.
“Why the bloody hell would you think I’d like this?” he exclaimed. “Are you trying to give me nightmares?”
“This is Lucas Thorne’s new exhibition. I thought you might find it intriguing.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s an artist, famous and extremely talented. He usually does life work, his paintings are exquisite. Now he’s extended his repertoire into animatronics.”
“Like those films with the dinosaurs?”
“Yes, I suppose,” she said with distaste.
“I love those films.” This encouraged him to take a closer look. Reluctantly Brodie ventured further into the room, mouth hanging open. They were surrounded by faces of every sex, race and age. There was no discrimination here. “They’re so lifelike.”
“Lucas is a very talented man.”
“You know him?”
“Slightly. We’ve met at his other exhibitions. I’ve travelled the country to see his work. I’ve got tickets for the grand opening tonight, this is just the preview. It includes a special meet and greet with the artist himself.” She hesitated before adding, “I’ve got a spare ticket if you’re interested?”
Brodie couldn’t imagine anything worse than spending an evening in the company of all this creepiness. “No thanks. Is all his work this realistic?”
“Not like this. I have to say this is his best,” she said, peering at the face of what appeared to be a young woman, an angry one, whose eyes blazed open, the lips flapping as a pre-recorded voice emanated from a small speaker inside the mouth, launching into a tirade, using a variety of colourful Glaswegian words, careful to avoid the worst words, this was a family show after all. Brodie couldn’t imagine what sort of moron would bring their kids here to get mentally scarred.
A chill ran down Brodie’s spine as he listened to the thing on the wall, watched the twitch of every muscle as its jaw continued to flap, genuine emotion seeming to run across its features. He found it unnerving.
Finally the face reached the end of its tirade and closed its eyes and mouth, to his relief. Another voice started up behind him and he whipped round to see the face of an elderly woman with rheumy eyes speaking in a gossipy tone, the face opposite it coming to life and talking back, like two old biddies indulging in a bit of gossip. Peering closely at the old women he saw the only thing not true to life were the eyes. From a distance they were effective but up close they were glassy, absent of emotion. The face was incredible though - small creases feathering the eyes and lips, lines cutting through the forehead and cheeks. There was even a mole on one of the faces with a black hair poking out of it.
Face in the Frame Page 2
