Truth Lies Bleeding

by Tony Black

  The minister and his wife followed Brennan’s actions as he buttoned his jacket.

  The detective continued, ‘I’ll also need full access to Carly’s personal effects, her room, diaries, computer, everything.’ He paused. ‘I am conducting a murder investigation here . . . I don’t want to have to go through this with the parents of another child any time soon.’

  As the DI exited, McGuire followed at his heels.

  The officers got as far as the foyer before Brennan spoke. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Queer all right. It’s what’s at the back of it that worries me.’

  ‘You think they’re hiding something?’

  Brennan glared at him. ‘I’d bet money on it.’

  As he turned for the car park, Brennan’s phone rang. He answered straight away: ‘Yes.’

  It was Galloway. ‘There’s been some developments.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the hotel . . . I’ve just interviewed the parents.’

  ‘Good. You’ll want to bring them in now.’

  Brennan swapped the phone to his other ear. ‘Come again?’

  ‘We just got the full pathology report in. The girl had given birth.’

  ‘What?’ Brennan’s thoughts seized. He felt his breath shortening.

  ‘Carly Donald had a child, and we’re talking about a very young child at that . . . Our victim had not long ago had a baby.’

  Chapter 22

  MELANIE McARDLE SANK INTO THE heavily padded white sofa. There was a slight buzzing in her head, but not enough. She reached for the Beaujolais bottle and tipped some more into her glass. The bottle’s rim chinked on its lip and she giggled. ‘C’mon, Mel . . . Keep the party clean!’ Her giggles descended into full-on laughter as she made another attempt to fill her glass. Some liquid escaped and fell on her chest, ran down into the lacy bodice she wore beneath her dressing gown. Melanie laughed harder now, sat up.

  ‘Jesus Christ, doll . . .’

  As she wiped away the wine, wrung out the edge of her cream-silk sleeve with her fingertips, Melanie’s laughter subsided. It was another item of clothing ruined; some wine had splattered onto the sofa too. ‘Oh fucking hell.’ She put down the glass, rubbed at the stains with her hands. It made no difference – only pressed the redness deeper into the fabric. Devlin would go mad. He would be home soon and see the state of the place, the state of her, and go mad. Melanie slumped onto her knees, lowered her head. He hadn’t hit her for weeks, since the hospital. When she came back with her face stitched he’d said that was it, no more. He’d said sorry – even looked apologetic – and she’d believed him, but that seemed like a long time ago now.

  Melanie shook herself, pulled a foot under her. Her head spun a little – she liked it, had another giggle to herself. She dragged her other foot forward, steadied her arms on the front of the sofa and pushed herself up. It wasn’t so hard to stand after all. She rested a hand on her hip and pointed the other to the ceiling in a victory salute. ‘C’mon, girl, you can do it!’

  As Melanie twisted, her foot caught the glass of Beaujolais resting on the floor and the contents flew into the air. They seemed to hang there for a moment as she watched the liquid escape, then the light caught the wetness and the scene became real again. When the wine landed there was an almost imperceptible splashing noise, and a three-foot red streak was etched in the pale carpet.

  ‘No. No. No.’ Melanie brought her hands to her head, scrunched her eyes. The image was still there when she opened them, however. She cried out, ‘No. God . . .’ She flopped to her knees again, began rubbing with the sleeve of her dressing gown, but the stain only, spread further into the fabric. As Melanie rubbed, she felt her wrists ache, her arms grow tired. She could feel the pressure on her knees as the carpet burned into the skin. Devlin was coming home soon. He would in all certainty go mental.

  ‘Oh Jesus, please no.’

  As she rubbed harder she felt her head spinning faster. She kept up the movement for a full minute, then slumped, exhausted. The carpet looked worse, far worse than when she had begun. She had managed to ruin the sofa and now the carpet. Her bodice was stained and the sleeves of her dressing gown were blackened. Melanie reached out for the bottle and raised it to her mouth. She slugged deep. The wine spilled from the tip of the bottle and overran her lips, dribbling down her front. She chugged harder, downed the contents as quickly as she could. If the Deil was coming to beat her senseless, she would get there before him. She finished off the wine and felt her head swim in response. She liked that feeling, the dislocated swirl that said nothing could come between you and true happiness. She knew it was an illusion, that it never lasted, but she didn’t care.

  Melanie threw aside the bottle. ‘Fuck you, Devlin McArdle!’ She staggered to her feet, swayed a little, then headed to the kitchen. As she went, she steadied herself on the walls. She knocked a lampshade on her way through the door; it made her grimace. The kitchen tiles felt cold on her bare feet but the sensation wasn’t altogether unpleasant. As she reached the refrigerator she had a craving for more alcohol. Her eyes were starting to slow-blink and her mouth had curled into a louche smile. She tugged the dressing gown round her as she opened the door, stared in. A bottle of Absolut vodka seemed to wink at her from the shelf. She reached for the neck. It was cold as she raised it, slammed the door shut in one swift movement.

  Melanie removed the cap and threw it on the ground. She downed a mouthful and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. ‘That’s the trick!’ She let out a long exhalation of breath as she steadied herself on the countertop. She took another deep swig and then she walked, shakily, towards the breakfast bar and sat down with the bottle of vodka in front of her.

  For a moment she stared at the clear liquid swirling in the bottom and then she sighed, raided the mug rack and poured until the brim was overflowing. She raised the mug, drank greedily until it was drained. ‘Fuck, Mel . . .’ she laughed at herself for a moment and then, inexplicably, her laughter turned to tears and she lowered her head in front of the bottle.

  Melanie didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, leaning on the breakfast bar, but when she heard the sound of car tyres on the gravel of the driveway, she knew it had been some time. The sky outside had darkened and the only light in the kitchen was coming from the cooker’s digital clock and some shafts through the windows where the garden security lamps had come on.

  Her mouth felt dry, her tongue harsh. She rubbed at her head – her temples burned. She had been slumped forward and the nape of her neck ached like it had been in a vice. She raised herself, tried to straighten her back, but her head swam, threatening to drop her on the floor. The physical discomfort was intense, but nothing compared to the realisation that she had returned to the real world – the drinking bout had done nothing but delay the fact that she had to face up to her actions, and Devlin.

  Melanie shuffled towards the sink, ran the tap. The water came out too fast, too hard. At first she threw up her arms, shielded herself as it splashed off the plates and cups and wetted her face and chest. When she gathered herself, she turned the tap the other way a little, diminished the flow. She cupped her hands underneath and splashed the cold water on her face. It made her eyes smart. As she fanned her hands under the tap, the beads of moist ure seemed to rouse her. She recouped her senses and retreated.

  Melanie was running her hands through her hair, tucking stray strands behind her ears, as the front door opened. She heard the heavy thud of the door closing, then Devlin’s keys being thrown on the little table nearby. She had expected to hear shouts, bellows after that, but as his footfalls made the living room she heard an altogether different noise to the one she expected.

  It sounded like a baby crying.

  She tugged the cord of her dressing gown round her waist and tapped the sides of her cheeks in an effort to waken her senses yet further. Shushing, she heard Devlin shushing. His voice
seemed lower than she had ever heard it; unnatural. Slowly, she edged herself towards the kitchen door.

  The floor felt cold beneath her feet as she walked but once through the door the carpet was soft. She was so intrigued by the noises coming from the living room that she managed to push the accident with the wine out of her mind. As she turned the corner into the seating area, she straightened the lamp she had knocked earlier, and switched it on.

  Light flooded into the room. Melanie felt her mouth widening but no words seemed to be forming on her lips.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said Devlin.

  Melanie pointed to him. ‘What the hell is that?’

  He turned towards the light and held out a small bundle. ‘It’s, well, kind of . . .’ He was searching for the words but none came.

  ‘It’s a baby, Devlin.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  Melanie walked towards her husband. He shook the small child up and down to try and calm it. ‘Come on now, that’s enough.’

  It was clear to Melanie he had not a clue how to look after a baby. Something leapt in her; she took the child in her arms.

  Chapter 23

  THE BABY CALMED IN MELANIE’S arms, gurgled. She looked at the small round cheeks and the pink nose and thought how cute they were. The child was like a toy, a squirming noisy toy. She lifted the baby onto her shoulder and started to walk around the living room, shushing and cooing. McArdle watched for a moment or two then threw himself down on the sofa. He seemed unaware of, or unconcerned about, the red wine stains.

  Melanie watched her husband as he took out his mobile phone and checked his calls. He scratched the back of his neck and sighed, returned the phone. ‘You all right with that nipper for a bit, doll?’ he said.

  Melanie turned round, looked him in the eye. ‘What do you mean?’

  McArdle sat forward, rested his elbows on his thighs. He looked, if not troubled, at least not his usual self. Melanie had expected shouting, screaming about the wine stains but he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. He seemed to be preoccupied; there was something troubling him. ‘It’s like this . . . I’m minding it, for a pal.’

  Melanie felt her brows crease, her jaw sag. He made the poor child sound like a car or something that was stolen from a building site – a generator or power tools. It was a child. ‘What the hell do you mean, minding it for a pal?’ she launched into him.

  McArdle rubbed his neck again, brought his hand up the back of his head, smoothed his palm over the stubble on his crown. His eyes darted from left to right; he was about to lie to her, she could tell. ‘See, there’s this couple and they have a bit of a problem and can’t mind the kid for a bit, so—’

  Melanie arked up, ‘So you said you would!’ It didn’t sound like Devlin McArdle to her. It sounded like a decent thing to do and she knew he wasn’t capable of a decent action. If he had taken this child he had done it for some other reason. ‘Oh, come on, do you expect me to believe that?’

  McArdle flared his nostrils, opened and closed his mouth, then, ‘Mel, you can believe what you want.’

  Was he testing her? She knew he was playing at some kind of game but she couldn’t work out the rules. He liked his psychological sparring as much as the physical, but this was all new to Melanie. She understood that someone had to look after the baby – and that someone was going to have to be her – so McArdle needed to keep her onside. If he lost patience with her, he’d have to look after the child himself, and that obviously wasn’t part of his plan; neither was letting someone else look after the child. If he had intended to leave the child elsewhere he would have already. There was a reason why he had brought a baby back to their home and Melanie wanted to know what it was.

  ‘I want the truth,’ she said. Her voice betrayed the seriousness of the situation, sounded harsh. The tone had surprised Melanie. Was she standing up to McArdle? She knew she would never do that herself, but she seemed to draw strength from the situation.

  ‘Okay, okay . . . Come here.’ McArdle motioned her towards the sofa. ‘Come and sit down, Mel.’

  ‘I mean it, I want the truth . . . This is a baby, not some knockoff gear you’ve brought home.’

  McArdle breathed in. His chest rose as he spoke: ‘I was out at Muirhouse today . . .’

  ‘I fucking knew it. You’re not doing anyone a favour!’ Melanie stood again. She felt light-headed.

  ‘Sit down, love.’

  ‘No. No way.’ Her adrenaline spiked at the mention of the scheme. Nothing good came of McArdle’s doings there. She knew he dealt drugs, but he had a small army of people to do that for him. If he’d been visiting the badlands it meant trouble: someone hadn’t paid up, or an old score had been settled. She prayed he hadn’t taken some poor mother’s child to put a scare on a bad debtor.

  As she walked away from her husband, Melanie McArdle suddenly wondered to herself, where was she going? She could flee to the kitchen, the upstairs bathroom maybe, but that was as far as she’d get. The thought stilled her. She turned, faced him. McArdle was fiddling with his watch strap. His teeth clenched as he readied himself to deal with Melanie’s rebellion. She felt her nerves shriek. The realisation of her situation was like a hard ball being bounced on her head. She scrunched her eyes and looked away. When she returned her gaze, McArdle had reclined in the sofa, crossed his legs; she could see the Adidas symbol at the top of his socks.

  He patted the cushion beside him. ‘Come on, Mel . . .’

  She sucked at her cheeks, pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth. She tried to keep her mouth closed, but the words wouldn’t stay in: ‘What’s going on?’ She wanted to know, she wanted to hear the truth, but at the same time she felt helpless to do anything about the situation. She couldn’t stand against him – he would kill her before he tolerated that.

  McArdle tweaked the tip of his nose with his finger and thumb, spoke: ‘Well, if you’re ready to listen, I’ll tell you.’

  She nodded; hugged the baby close.

  ‘As I said, I was in Muirhouse . . . Now, it’s not what you think. I had some legitimate business there and, well . . .’ he paused, cleared his throat, coughed into his fist, ‘well, how can I put this, love . . .’

  Something was wrong, she knew that the second he started to call her love. He was lying. McArdle never stalled for words. He was lying to her because he needed her to help him out of a fix. She’d seen the look before, when police were involved. It put a shard of ice in her spine. She gripped the child again.

  McArdle continued, ‘There’s this couple there and, well, they have their addictions . . . Nothing serious, mind, they take a bit of grass and a bit of skag and they’re payers, good payers, I’ve no worries with them on that score if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He rubbed his knuckles, fiddled with a heavy gold sovereign ring. ‘Melanie, it’s like this . . . The social services are coming down hard on them, threatening to take the kid away. Really shook them up, so it has . . .’

  Melanie couldn’t look at him any longer. She turned her head away, spoke: ‘So you said you’d take the kid . . . Why?’ It didn’t make sense to her.

  ‘Because, love, they need a break and they don’t want to lose the kid . . . Look, they’ve no family to speak of, so the social would just put the nipper into care. I couldn’t let that happen, could I?’

  She huffed; who was he kidding? Since when did Devlin McArdle give a shit about the people he supplied drugs to? He cared if they didn’t pay him. He cared if they short-changed him, lied about having money when they didn’t, or bought from someone else, but that was all. He wasn’t a social worker, and he thought about one person and one person alone: himself.

  ‘Mel, please . . . Hon, it’s not going to be for long. A week at the most. You can look after the kid for that long, can’t you?’

  Melanie stared at her husband. The blood surged in her veins. He had reached a new low and she hated him for it, but she knew she was powerless to do anything about it.

  He spo
ke again, his voice a pathetic low paean: ‘Mel, I know you can do it . . . I know you can, one week, that’s all I’m asking.’

  She felt a spasm in her neck tug her gaze from him. She took in the full horror of the winestains. Before she knew what she was doing, Melanie had answered him: ‘Okay. One week.’

  Chapter 24

  DI ROB BRENNAN PAUSED ON the way to the interview room, gathered his thoughts. He leaned against the wall and watched the flurry of activity around the station. The momentum of the case had seemed to stall not long after finding the body, then accelerated once they had identified her as Carly Donald. Things had lunged forward rapidly once more, but the mood of the investigation had altered. Nothing was being taken for granted.

  He had worked hundreds, thousands of cases in his time on the force but Brennan had never encountered anything like this before. There was, for sure, a reason why Carly’s parents had kept the details of their granddaughter Beth’s birth to themselves, but he couldn’t fathom what it might be. A child was a gift from God, in any circumstances – his mother had said that when Sophie was born, and she was not a religious woman, but the sheer significance of the event had prompted a spiritual outburst. How could a so-called man of the cloth carry on like that? It felled Brennan to think of it. Was life so cheap?

  He knew, when the case was over, complete, tidied up and all the loose ends put together into one nice neat bow, things would make perfect sense. They always did, then. The reasons for seemingly inexplicable behaviour always became clear; motives presented themselves. Sometimes it was money, sometimes lust. He had seen just about every variation in between, but for Reverend John Donald and his wife to lose not only a child but a grandchild too, and to keep quiet about it before the investigating officers, was perplexing. Brennan thought about the picture Lorraine had handed him earlier. He placed his hand into his pocket and removed the small photograph and stared at the tiny shape, barely recognisable as human. A small smile spread from the corner of his mouth. He touched the picture with his fingertip, then hurriedly returned it to his pocket.