by Tony Black
McGuire offered an opinion: ‘It could actually play to our advantage.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I mean, we might get some leads from the telly slot.’
As Brennan watched McGuire write down his instructions, he knew he would have to have a word with him. More than a word, perhaps.
‘Or it might send our murderer running for the hills,’ said Brennan. Media interest was only useful up to a point. Mostly it meant added pressure, thought Brennan, and that he could well do without on this case. He hoped McGuire, naïve though he was, might be right, but he knew the top brass got fidgety when the news crews took an interest.
McGuire nodded, spoke up: ‘Yes, sir.’
Carpeting the DS was a risky strategy after the run-ins with Galloway and Lauder. Brennan didn’t want McGuire to go marching back to Galloway and give her more ammunition, but then he might do that anyway.
He watched the top of McGuire’s head. There was a strange parting there – hair sort of half spiked and half fringed. Brennan knew he didn’t understand this generation, couldn’t work them out – they seemed to be wired up differently. If that was the case, he’d have to rewire DC Stevie McGuire soon. The job at hand was too important not to.
Chapter 13
DI ROB BRENNAN KNEW MOST people were miserable. The first time he had encountered Thoreau’s dictum: ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’, was like an epiphany. Life is drudge; it affords the majority of people just enough comfort to stave off the nagging rage at the injustice of their existence. A bellyful of cheap booze; escape through vicarious sporting victory. It is a pathetic life for them, he thought. He passed judgement not in a critical, arrogant way – he meant it in the true meaning of the word, worthy of pity. It was what got him through the day. Dealing with the ignorant and ill-mannered was workable if you didn’t lower yourself to their base emotional states. He had always frowned on those who reacted to rude waiters or receptionists or bank tellers – what was the point? With people so low on the life-rewards scale, you can’t reason. Every action and reaction is aimed at redressing their low rating, clawing back some modicum of self-worth, levelling the world they despise. You can try to remonstrate, take them on on your terms, but it always ends the same way: with the rolling up of sleeves. It is easy to be brought down to their level – impossible to raise them to yours.
Brennan knew he had a difficulty with DC Stevie McGuire. The lad, and he was a lad, had never impressed him. He didn’t take the job seriously, and this was a job you could not take any other way. He had McGuire’s number, as they say, and it didn’t amount to a fraction of what it should. The boy was typical old-school Edinburgh: the type whose first question – once they’ve passed a favourable judgement on your accent – is what school did you go to? They never ask out of idle curiosity, or to make conversation like other people; in Edinburgh, they ask to see if you are part of their club. Brennan was a part of no club; he did not join in.
McGuire’s actions bothered him. It wasn’t his background – that was something he’d learned to deal with, couldn’t alter so didn’t try – but the sense of entitlement he carried soured him. Brennan held on to his rank with a similar sense of entitlement but it was different in one main regard: he had earned it. McGuire felt due rewards he hadn’t grafted for – or, so far as Brennan could see, was ever likely to, or capable of. If the lad had shown promise, or enthusiasm even, he would have gladly pushed him up the ranks, but his attitude as it stood created the opposite effect in him: Brennan wanted to expose his flaws. Was this wrong? Was it a failing on his part that he couldn’t warm to McGuire? Did he have some deep-seated class prejudice that kept him from identifying any good qualities in him? Surely not. Brennan knew when he was being hard on himself. It was almost a speciality. What he was being was analytically critical. He had to be. The life he led demanded it. There was your opinion, then there was the polar opposite, then there was every shade and nuance in between, and Brennan knew well to check them all out, because you never knew which one was going to get the job done.
‘Stevie, when you’ve a minute.’ Brennan nodded to the glassed-off office at the back of Incident Room One.
The DC looked up from the desk he was leaning over. The WPC he’d been speaking to turned as well. McGuire nodded. He straightened himself and walked towards the back of the room, tucking a yellow pencil behind his ear as he went.
Brennan moved behind the desk, removed his suit jacket and put it on the back of the chair. There was already a pile of files waiting for him to go over. He loosened off his tie and then undid the top button on the collar of his shirt. As he turned over the first file he saw more pictures of the murder victim. On the glossy photographic paper she looked unreal, like an image in a magazine, some celebrity still or a screen-grab from a movie. It unsettled Brennan to think like that. Did he have to remind himself that only a few hours ago she was flesh and blood? It annoyed him that modern life had desensitised so many people, himself included.
‘You want to see me, sir?’ said McGuire. He seemed breezy, almost smiling as he brushed in.
‘Shut the door,’ Brennan indicated the seat in front of the desk, ‘and sit down.’
The temperature of the room seemed to have lowered several degrees all at once. McGuire looked as if he’d just awoken from a premonitory dream. Self-preservation seemed to kick in. ‘Look, before you say anything, I just want you to know that I never went to Galloway about the arms.’
Brennan sat back in his chair. The backrest creaked as he let it take the weight of his frame. He placed his elbows on the armrests, crossed his fingers over his belly. ‘Is that so?’ The tone of his voice said much more than the words.
McGuire scratched his ear. ‘I, well . . . She had pulled me up when I came back from Muirhouse and told me to report everything to her first . . . not you.’
‘And you told her you had other plans, I’m sure.’ Brennan allowed a crease to appear in his cheek; tilted his head. He knew McGuire was too weak to stand up to the Chief Super.
‘Erm, well, not exactly.’
‘No?’ Brennan uncrossed his fingers, leaning forward. He tried to make his demeanour look interested. ‘Well, what did you tell her, Stevie?’
The DC’s eyes flickered. He touched his brow with the hand he had used to touch his ear a moment earlier. ‘I said . . . I would do, y’know, what she asked.’
Brennan leaned back again, allowing himself a full smile now, a headlamp grin. ‘Oh, I see, Stevie boy, I see . . . You thought you’d play both sides!’ He wagged a finger at him.
‘No, it wasn’t that.’
‘Looks like it to me.’
McGuire put his hands on his thighs, stretched out his fingers and looked towards the window. He seemed to have changed shape, grown smaller. It was as though a light had gone out in him.
Brennan lowered a hand into the pocket of his jacket that hung on the back of his chair. He withdrew a packet of Silk Cut and a lighter. For a moment he tapped on the box, let the intention rise, then withdrew a cigarette. He lit it, blew out smoke. He offered the pack to McGuire.
‘It’s a no-smoking office, sir.’
Brennan took another pelt on the cigarette, blew out some more smoke. ‘Arrest me.’
McGuire stayed silent. Rubbed his palms some more.
Brennan spoke: ‘No, you’ve not got the balls to take me on, have you?’ He took another draw. ‘Why don’t you go and tell Galloway? Get her to arrest me.’
The DC clenched his jaw. He seemed to know what Brennan was playing at, and didn’t like it. By contrast, Brennan was very happy with where he had him. He laughed out, ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t chuck your toys out the pram.’ He rose, stubbed out the cigarette in the paperclip tray. He moved round to McGuire’s side of the desk, rested his backside on the edge.
‘I had a wee chat with your buddy earlier,’ said Brennan.
‘Who?’
‘Lauder . . . He seemed to think I had a mo
le.’
McGuire firmed his jaw again. ‘Did he now?’
‘Oh, yeah . . . Thinks that’s the only way the girl from the News would have got to Muirhouse before the investigating officer. Got any thoughts on that?’
McGuire looked back towards the window. It seemed to be too uncomfortable for him to sit on the seat – he gripped the armrests tightly but he didn’t get up. ‘That’s a very serious accusation.’
‘Who said it was an accusation? . . . I didn’t say he’d accused anyone. At this stage, it’s merely a theory, speculation. Not even in the realms of allegation . . . Unless, that is, you have something you want to tell me.’
McGuire stood up, faced the DI. Brennan looked him up and down, noticing the knuckles on his hands were white where he had been gripping the chair. ‘I did not fucking tip off the press.’
Brennan watched his eyes. He was close enough to see the irregular brown flecks in the blue irises. He stared for a moment then moved away, returning to his seat. He was satisfied.
‘Okay. That’ll be all.’
McGuire blinked. His mouth widened as he ran the back of his hand across his lips. He seemed to be looking for the right words but didn’t find them; that or the courage to say them was lost. ‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan picked up the files again. He looked at them as he spoke: ‘Choose your friends in here very carefully, Stevie. The ones you think have your best interests at heart rarely do.’
McGuire opened the door. He was still twitchy; said, ‘Yes, sir.’
Chapter 14
IT HAD BEEN A LONG DAY. If this was what it was like being back on the squad, DI Rob Brennan wondered if he wasn’t better off shuffling paperclips. No, bollocks to it – this was what he had been born to do. There was no moment he could remember from childhood where he was suddenly aware of wanting to join the force; it had always been there. When they were boys, Andy had wanted to be an artist. Brennan could still see him now, pens and pencils spread over the kitchen table. They were fabulous pictures – colourful, sprawling. He’d had no shortage of imagination. Why he’d abandoned it to help Dad with the family firm was something Brennan could never figure out. Was it selfish to follow his own dreams? He didn’t know; it didn’t feel selfish. But Andy had been selfless, that was his failing. He’d put Mum and Dad before his own ambitions. Brennan could never have done that, not for anyone.
His mobile started to vibrate. The caller ID said Lorraine.
‘Shit,’ he mumbled. Brennan didn’t want to talk to Dr Fuller. He wanted a report from her. It annoyed him that people outside the force couldn’t be commanded within the normal regulations. Life would have been so much easier if they could be.
He pressed the answer button, ‘Hello there.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised, I told you I was going to call.’ She was scaling the limits of Brennan’s patience.
‘I’m still at the station.’
‘I saw you on television.’ It was as if she hadn’t heard the previous statement.
A sigh. ‘You’ll know why I’m here then.’
She tapped something down on a hard surface; it sounded like a wine glass. ‘I’ve had a hard day too.’
There were hard days and there were hard days – he was prepared to wager hers were nothing like his. ‘Really?’
He heard movement. She sipped, then, ‘Well, there was the call to attend Her Majesty . . . the Queen Bitch.’
She was referring to Aileen Galloway. Brennan needed to know what had been said. Life around the office was already difficult enough – getting the inside track when it was available was a necessary advantage. ‘I’ll try to get round—’
A tut. ‘On your way home.’ She let the sarcasm settle into her last word; her voice seemed to tremble.
Brennan knew it was pointless to take her on when she was like this. A row had been brewing for weeks, since he had failed to leave his wife and daughter on her first request some months ago. Subsequent requests had always resulted in bitter acrimony. Lorraine was prepared to sacrifice her career for him, to leave her job right away and avoid the ethical dilemma, not to mention the boys from Complaints. ‘How much have you had to drink?’ As soon as he’d asked the question he knew it was a mistake; he was getting tired, careless.
‘It’s not so much the quantity that’s the trouble, Rob, it’s the drinking on your own that’s the real danger.’
She always made her points in roundabout ways. She was a classic smart-arse, thought Brennan. She had been hard to work out at first, and that was interesting. And she was an unquestionably attractive woman – the mixture of mystique and beauty had been a lure worth testing at first, but Brennan now had his doubts. He knew many married men who had – what was the euphemism? – strayed; on the force it was almost an epidemic. But there was a difference between what Wullie used to call ‘being busy’ with someone, and making emotional attachments. That was an altogether different form of betrayal – that was adultery to Brennan. The other stuff, the physical side, that felt more like something you could easily detach yourself from. You could almost pretend it was nothing, beyond your control. He knew it wasn’t, he knew he’d made a conscious decision to pursue Lorraine, even though she was the force psychiatrist. He knew the consequences, but he never thought he would have to face them. People got together at the station all the time, it was just the way it was. Officially it was frowned upon but blind eyes were turned. You couldn’t expect people not to form attachments in such circumstances. Bonds form in the face of tragedy, isn’t that what they said during the war when people were getting it together in underground stations?
‘I’ll be there, as soon as I can. That’s all I can say.’
‘When?’
‘I can’t say when, you know that.’
‘Why? Why can’t you?’
‘Because I don’t fucking work for Standard Life.’ At once he knew this was a low blow. Lorraine’s ex had worked in insurance, some hotshot who had left her to set up home with an actuary in Basingstoke.
She hung up.
Brennan looked at the phone. The call had been timed at one minute thirty seconds: the rows were getting briefer, if not fewer. He sighed loudly, placing the phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. He lifted the jacket off the back of the chair by the little loop on the neckline and slotted in his arms. He scooped up the files on his desk and held them under his elbow as he headed for the office door, turning out the light in the small glassed-off room. He was just exiting when one of the team approached.
‘Sir, one of the street sweepers . . .’ He was breathless.
‘Yes, what?’
‘We have a possible murder weapon . . . A saw – we have a saw. The lab boys have it.’
This was something. Things were suddenly moving in the right direction. ‘Where was it picked up?’
‘Muirhouse, sir.’
‘Christ Almighty . . . everything’s been thrown to the winds. We got the arms in the same manner too.’
The young officer looked perplexed. Brennan patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s half-arsed . . . It’s either a half-arsed attempt at concealment by a fucking moron or it’s a half-arsed attempt at making someone look like a moron.’ He shook his head, walked away from the officer. ‘Get me on the mobile if we get an ID off that saw.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Or anything else. Right away.’
‘Yes, right away . . . Don’t you want to see it? It’s at the lab.’
Brennan shook his head. ‘No, I’m going to the morgue. The preliminary report’s in.’
As the DI walked through the incident room he looked about. There was a lot of leaning on elbows, chewing on pens. Tomorrow would be different. He could already hear Galloway screaming for updates on the hour, the press office passing on requests for interviews. He stopped at the desk of the WPC that McGuire had given the missing persons job to. ‘How’s the list coming along?’
‘We’ve got it narrowed down . . . There’s been some calls
, after the telly, sir.’
‘And?’
‘Two very good possible . . . erm . . .’ She shuffled some papers on her desk, picked up a black notebook with an elastic fastener. ‘This one’s been missing for six months. She’s from Leith.’
Brennan leaned in. ‘Go on.’
‘Elaine Auld . . . She’s sixteen and been seen about Muirhouse before. She’s not been seen for six months, though, like I said.’
The Muirhouse connection was promising. Brennan had it in his gut that the girl was local. Leith was close enough to Muirhouse for her to have known associates there, but it bothered him that she had been missing for six months. That was a long time – common sense told him people didn’t disappear for that length of time in their own town without some kind of sighting.
‘What’s the other one?’
The WPC put down the notebook. ‘Hang on, I was just printing that up now.’ She rose from her chair and walked over to the small printer that sat on the desk next to hers. As she walked back she read the page: ‘This is from Northern Constabulary, sir . . .’
‘What?’
‘She’s from Pitlochry . . .’
Brennan curled down the edges of his mouth. ‘Why do you think she’s a possible?’
She turned over the page. There was a badly pixelated picture of a young girl. It seemed to have been taken from the internet, a social-networking site perhaps. The image had been printed in black and white and it was difficult to make out any more than the fact that she was female, and blonde. ‘She’s the right weight and height . . . age too.’
The detective took the page, scanned the print. ‘There’s no city connection . . . She might never have been here.’
‘But if she’s a runaway, sir.’
She had a point, but it didn’t do to concede points to juniors in the ranks. ‘I’m not buying it.’ He handed her back the page. ‘Keep looking. I want an update on my desk before you go home. All possible, with the favourites on top. Okay?’
