by Tony Black
Brennan sighed. The heavy rise and fall of his chest didn’t go unnoticed by the psychologist. Lorraine rolled her eyes in response. When she brought them back to Brennan he had eased himself onto the corner of the desk. A siren howled from beyond the window. ‘I had every intention of coming round but I stopped off at the morgue on the way home and . . .’
She looked at him as he spoke; her lips widened momentarily then dropped slightly. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘The victim was a young girl, barely sixteen.’
Lorraine stood up. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have come. I know this must be very stressful for you after . . .’
Brennan smiled. ‘It’s my job. It’s not stressful in the slightest for me, you know that . . . I hope that’s what you told Galloway as well.’
Lorraine leaned over, picked up her briefcase. As she did so, Brennan noticed more buttons than usual were open on her blouse. ‘Aileen only listens to what she wants to hear.’
‘We need to talk about that . . . and a few other things.’
Lorraine turned from him, walked for the door, said, ‘You know where to find me. I’m home alone most nights and the number hasn’t changed.’
Brennan placed a hand on her arm. The act made him feel self-conscious and he ceased it quickly. ‘Let me get a handle on this case . . . Once I’ve done that . . .’
She nodded. As she held her head firm a small muscle twitched in her neck. ‘Look, Rob . . . I have something to say.’
‘Well, say it.’
She lowered her grey eyes; her lids closed for a moment and then she lifted her head towards the ceiling in one swift movement. Brennan knew she was searching for strength. He was about to prompt her again but she seemed to find some steel, raised up her briefcase on one leg and popped the fastener. She appeared to know what she was looking for and found it quickly. As she removed her hand, Brennan spotted the small piece of card. She put it to her chest for a moment, shielded it, then turned it over and handed it to him.
Brennan took the card – it was a picture. Black and white, a bit fuzzy round the edges, but he’d seen something like it before. ‘What’s this?’
Lorraine stayed quiet, stared at him.
‘Is this a scan?’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t expect you to be overjoyed but I thought you might take it better than this.’
‘You’re pregnant.’
A tut. ‘Ever the detective.’
Brennan didn’t know what to say. He offered the picture back to Lorraine; she shook her head. ‘Keep it, I’ve got others.’
‘Lorraine, I-I . . .’
She turned around. ‘Take your time . . . You’ll find the words.’
As she left the office, Brennan tucked the picture in his pocket. He put on his jacket and collected the blue folder from his desk. His mind seemed to be ablaze, unable to settle on one set of thoughts. He took a moment to look out the window towards the city streets; it was cloudy, but there was no rain. He pitched himself on the rim of the ledge to see further into the distance but the view had no appeal. Brennan turned away and sighed. He knew Lorraine had every right to feel angry with him: she had stood by him, helped him straighten things out with the review board and with Galloway. She had even offered to resign her job so they could formalise their relationship, and he’d rewarded her how? By treating her like a tart. And now she was carrying his child. He had felt something for her, genuinely. He may not have known just what it was but there was a definite connection. Had it passed? Was it just another phase he was going through that made him think he had no more time for Lorraine? He didn’t know. All he did know was the situation had suddenly got more complicated than ever.
Brennan rubbed the stubble on his chin. So, there was more than one difficult situation that needed his attention, but they would all have to wait. Until he had that young girl’s killer before the courts, everything would have to wait. He headed out.
In the car park Brennan lit a Silk Cut and waited for McGuire to work out that he was waiting to be collected from the front of the building. He got three or four good pelts out of the cigarette before the silver Cavalier drew up beside him. He let McGuire sit with the engine running for a moment or two as he took short draws on the filter tip. He still couldn’t get a decent smoke out of the Silk Cut but he persisted. Life was all about perseverance, wasn’t it?
In the car Brennan opened the file and looked through some of the notes that had been made by Galloway that morning. She had scribbled some inane remarks about the pathologist’s preliminary report and double-underlined instructions to make the kind of checks even the most wet behind the ears on the squad would do without thinking. The woman infuriated him. She was completely unaware of her own unsuitability for a life in the force and seemed to be in full receipt of the kind of arrogance that made her stupidity even more galling to all those who noticed it. She was, however, racing up the ranks. She obviously had her protectors and backers and it wouldn’t be wise to get on the wrong side of her. Certainly not in a probationary period.
Brennan was first to break the silence in the car. ‘Where are they staying?’
‘The Travelodge, sir.’
‘Which one?’
‘The new one . . . Out at Cameron Toll.’ Brennan felt relieved – there was also a Travelodge on the same street as the morgue; staying there would have been more than a little odd.
‘You say they’re a bit . . . strange?’
McGuire spun the wheel through his hands. ‘A bit, yeah, you could say that.’
‘Well, you did. So explain it.’
The DC took a lower gear, rode the clutch a little. ‘Well, if it was me, and I’d lost a daughter like that, I’d be ropeable, but he just dragged his wife away and, well, seemed to want to shut her up, really.’
Brennan sized up the DC’s response. ‘But that’s you, Stevie. Different strokes for different folks.’
McGuire smiled, started to work his way back up the gears as the road cleared. ‘Yeah, I know. I guess you had to be there. It was all very odd, that’s all I’m saying. I had this gut feeling that the bloke had something to hide.’
Brennan went for broke. ‘Do you think he killed his daughter?’
‘Christ Almighty.’
He pressed, ‘Well, do you?’
McGuire was braking for a traffic light. He paused before he brought the car to a halt. ‘Are you asking me do I think he did it?’
Brennan shrugged.
‘I can’t make a wild guess like that, sir. I mean, I just can’t. But if you were asking do you think he was a possible, at this stage, going on what I’d seen of him I’d say he’s definitely suspicious enough.’
The lights changed. McGuire overrevved; the engine nearly cut out. He cursed as he found first again and heard the gears bite.
For a moment or two, Brennan replayed what he’d just heard from the DC. It did seem a bit odd, for sure, but weren’t all religious types a bit odd? And then they were from the north – stranger still. There was nothing solid to go on. Brennan had seen parents so shocked at the loss of a child that they entered a virtual state of catatonia upon hearing the news. There was no standard way of dealing with that kind of blow. He knew he would have to reserve judgement until he’d thoroughly quizzed the parents.
Brennan spoke: ‘Did either of them seem surprised to discover their daughter in Edinburgh?’
‘No. Not really . . . In fact, I can’t say there was a flicker. Why?’
Brennan frowned. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
This was a test – McGuire appeared to know it. He squinted, seemed to be searching the recesses of his mind for the answer. None came. ‘Not to me, sir.’
‘Well, where did you say they were staying?’
‘Travelodge.’
‘Not with friends, then?’
‘No.’
‘Well, could be because they don’t know anyone here . . . In that case, what the hell’s their daughter doing this far away from home, in a strange c
ity, where the family has no connections?’
McGuire’s eyes flickered. ‘I see. I didn’t think of that.’
‘Get the boys back at the office to check out any schoolmates, boyfriends or the like that have left her hometown recently. Anyone that the girl might have had a connection to, or reason to want to tie in with down here.’
‘Yes, boss.’
McGuire drove to the car park for the shopping centre at Cameron Toll and pulled up outside the front entrance. As they got out he pointed to the hotel across the road. It was the first time Brennan had seen the place; the last time he had been up this way it was a half-derelict building. It seemed like the city was changing everywhere he went. If you strayed into an area where you hadn’t been for some months, or weeks even, the chances were that you wouldn’t recognise the topography.
At the hotel Brennan left the formalities to McGuire. He listened as he spoke to the receptionist, requested she call the minister’s room. There was no answer.
‘Perhaps they’ve gone out,’ said the receptionist. She had a heavy Eastern European accent.
‘Have they dropped off a key?’ said Brennan.
The girl looked under the counter. ‘One moment, please.’
Brennan gave one of his looks to McGuire. It was a look that said: If you’ve lost the pair of them already then I’m putting your arse in a sling. The DC drummed his fingers repeatedly on the front desk.
‘Erm, no . . . they haven’t dropped off the keys. They might be at breakfast. I’ll check, if you’d like to wait.’
‘We’ll wait in the lounge.’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ said the receptionist. ‘Would you like some tea?’
McGuire nodded, smiled.
‘No, thank you,’ said Brennan. ‘We’ll be fine as we are.’
The DI strode off.
Chapter 21
BRENNAN LOOKED AROUND THE NEW hotel, sneered at the fittings. These places all looked the same to him. He was glad he wasn’t a travelling salesman, or someone who had to spend any length of time in places like this. They were soulless. What was the point in travelling around the country, the world, when you stayed in joints like this? You’d be as well staying at home, saving the money.
It had been some time since Brennan and his family had been on holiday. Sophie was too old for that kind of thing. In the last few months she had turned into a small adult. It just occurred, almost overnight. She woke up and suddenly she was no longer his little girl. It scared Brennan how alike they were: at Sophie’s age he had been just as wrapped up in himself. He’d wanted to make a difference, hadn’t wanted to be like everyone else. The idea of the nine-to-five existence had terrified him. He couldn’t see himself poring over the minutiae of business in some corporate black hole. He’d wanted to be out in the world, where life was. There had been lots of run-ins with his father then. He’d wanted his son to go into the family building firm but the idea horrified Brennan. His father had never got used to his son’s career choice; it had always smacked of rebellion, nose-thumbing to him. His father couldn’t understand that it went a lot deeper than that. Andy had known, his brother had understood, but then Andy had been an exceptional person; the thought burned Brennan again. It surprised him how fresh the wound remained at these times. It was something you never got over.
DC Stevie McGuire rose as the minister and his wife came into the foyer. They had been in the dining room but looked as if they might have just walked from a funeral service. Brennan eyed them cautiously; he could see what McGuire meant at once – they were queer fish. Their faces seemed expressionless, as though they spent their lives rationalising their every move. Even their clothes – deeply conservative brogues and tweeds – looked to be from another era. They unnerved Brennan. He stood up, approached them.
McGuire spoke first: ‘Hello, Minister, Mrs Donald.’ He nodded and extended a weak hand. Formalities over, he turned. ‘And this is Detective Inspector Brennan.’
‘Hello,’ he said.
The minister replied, ‘Hello, Inspector.’
‘I hope I’m not intruding, but I’d like to offer my respects.’
A nod; the slightest of turns showed on the minister’s mouth. ‘Thank you.’
Brennan continued, ‘If it’s convenient, I’d like to ask you one or two questions.’
The minister looked at his wife. She seemed horrified at the suggestion, her eyes moistening and several shades of colour draining from her cheeks. He replied, but seemed to be speaking to his wife: ‘Well, I suppose it’s quite necessary . . . In the situation.’
Brennan stayed quiet, watched them both for reactions, then, ‘It might be best to go to your room, if you don’t object.’
Mrs Donald walked away, headed for the lift. The minister spoke: ‘Yes. That would be fine.’ He watched his wife at the other side of the foyer, said, ‘You will have to excuse my wife, officers, I’m afraid she is in a state of some shock.’
‘I understand,’ said Brennan. He waved a hand towards the lift. The doors pinged and Mrs Donald walked in.
The room was surprisingly large. Part of the original building was Victorian and they had struck lucky with bay windows and high ceilings. The bed had already been made and stood at the far end of the room, tucked beside a writing desk decked out in hotel stationery and leaflets for all the usual Edinburgh tourist attractions – zoo, castle, palace.
Brennan watched the minister point to the chairs in the window. ‘Please, take a seat, gentlemen.’
As Brennan and McGuire sat themselves down in the window’s lee, the minister and his wife stationed themselves on the edge of the bed. The minister took his wife’s hand. They looked like a very old oil painting as they sat before the officers. Brennan glanced out the window as the pair shared a brief moment of reassurance; there was a dull sun breaking through the clouds.
‘I know this will be very difficult for you,’ said Brennan, ‘but I hope you understand we need to move as quickly as possible to build a picture of what happened to Carly.’
The couple seemed to grip each other tighter. ‘Yes, we understand,’ said the minister.
Brennan realised he had not heard a single word from the minister’s wife yet. ‘If I can begin by asking you a little bit about your daughter.’
The pair nodded.
‘Can you tell me when you became aware Carly had left home?’
‘It was a Sunday, the twenty-fourth,’ said the minister. ‘I remember because I was at the second morning service when Frieda alerted me.’
Brennan looked to the quiet woman. ‘You discovered she had gone?’
A nod; she deferred to her husband.
‘There was a note, of sorts. Her room was empty.’
‘Do you have the note?’ said McGuire.
‘I’m afraid not – it was very brief. No more than a goodbye really.’
‘And there was no subsequent contact with her, after the twenty-fourth?’
‘No, none.’
Brennan let the pair settle again, continued: ‘Did she give any indication as to why she was leaving, or where she was going?’
‘No.’
The information Brennan wanted was not forthcoming. ‘Why do you think she chose Edinburgh?’ he said.
‘I have no idea. She knows . . . knew . . . not a soul here.’
Mrs Donald seemed to be getting tired of the questions – she put down her husband’s hand and stood up beside the writing desk, resting a finger on top and staring out over their heads to the sky.
‘It would be best if I could get both your opinions,’ said Brennan.
‘Why would that be?’ said Mrs Donald. It was the first time Brennan had heard her speak and he was surprised by the calm in her voice. It was as if she’d decided the way forward was to block it all out. ‘Nothing’s going to bring her back now, is it? This is all pointless.’
Brennan stood up, indicated the edge of the bed where she had been sitting. ‘Please, Mrs Donald . . .’ He never got to finis
h his sentence – the minister turned and nodded and his wife returned to her seated position.
‘Was there any upset in the home, or school, at the time of Carly’s departure?’ said Brennan.
Head shakes in unison: ‘No, none.’
Brennan was tiring of the staccato answers. As he eyed the couple he tipped some grit in his voice: ‘Nothing at all?’
The minister answered brusquely, ‘Nothing.’
‘It seems very unusual that Carly would be so happy at home and then just leave, don’t you think?’
There was no answer from either of them. They held firm before the officers.
Brennan let the silence stretch out, watched their faces, then, ‘You don’t think that’s unusual, Minister?’
‘I thought that was a rhetorical question.’ He seemed to have grown irritable, his tone testy now.
‘I’d like an answer if you have one.’
‘Then no. I don’t think it was unusual.’ He blurted his words – his breath had shortened; he finished on a sigh.
‘Why would that be?’ Brennan watched Mrs Donald turn from her husband and raise a hand to her mouth.
‘She was a very headstrong child at times . . . She could be wilful when she wanted.’
‘In what ways?’
The minister rose from the bed. ‘Inspector, is this really necessary? I don’t see how this is helping us. My wife is very distressed.’
Brennan looked at Mrs Donald. She lowered her hand, placed it within her husband’s – he brushed it aside and sat down again. Brennan took this as his cue to continue: ‘Did your daughter . . . Had she made any enemies, had a row at school or something of that nature?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So it’s possible?’
‘I suppose so, yes . . . I didn’t follow her around every minute of the day.’
The minister’s abruptness lit a fuse in Brennan. He had reached the limit of his patience and thought it was time to reveal the fact. He turned to McGuire, shook his head, then rose and made for the door. As he looked back he spoke: ‘I’m going to need a full list of everyone that Carly had contact with in the weeks and months leading up to her death – friends, family, teachers, boyfriends. Everyone. I’d like you to compile that before you leave the city.’
