by Tony Black
The room was still quiet.
Brennan slammed his fist down on a desk. A cup and some pens jumped. ‘Do you hear me?’
Together: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, now get to work. I want results . . . Nothing else will cut it.’
Brennan put one foot in front of the other, paced through to his glass-fronted office. He slammed the door, more for effect than anything. As he sat at his desk he watched the bodies pass his window; he knew they were a long way from finding out anything. The case had him mystified. He knew there was some piece of the puzzle that hadn’t yet come into view, but he didn’t know where to begin looking for it. What had happened to that girl back in Pitlochry that made her pack up her belongings and head for the big city? It had to be more than a tiff with her parents. Yes, the minister was a queer fish, as Stevie described him, but he wasn’t a monster. Surely there was family support there for the girl, and if it wasn’t there in sufficient quantities then she’d had some options available to her. At what stage did the best choice become to uproot herself from friends and family, with a baby, and head out into the unknown?
The more Brennan played over the events in his mind, the more it baffled him. Who was Carly Donald? He needed to find that out. He needed to get under the skin of the young girl from Pitlochry who had ended up in cold storage in the capital city. Brennan could see the whiteboards through the glass front of his office. The name of Carly’s school was listed at the top of a number of contacts that had been deemed worth chasing. Teachers, friends, a hockey coach and the family doctor.
‘Bullshit,’ mouthed Brennan.
He would have to check this out himself. He had to start pushing a few buttons; the information was out there, it always was, it was just a matter of finding it. The girl had a child, Jesus, a child that no one knew where to look for. Who had the child? Was the child still alive? The questions mounted but the answers remained elusive. A thought of Lorraine cross-hatched with the case: he was soon to be a father again – how would he feel if his child was missing?
Someone had fathered Carly’s child and Brennan wanted to know who. It was his experience that in small towns, information like that was never far from the lips of gossips; even if they were wrong, there were always theories. He didn’t know where finding the father would lead him, or the investigation, but that was the way things went. You upturned every stone, in the hope of finding what you were looking for there. It was when you left stones unturned that you ran into difficulties.
Brennan felt his conscience pull. He picked up the receiver of the phone, dialled home. His wife answered after a few rings.
‘Hello.’ Her voice immediately chided him for his infidelity. She didn’t need to say the exact words – his guilt drew its own meaning.
‘It’s me, Rob.’
‘Oh, decided to return my call, did you?’
He turned to his blotter to see if there were any messages. ‘What call? . . . First I’ve heard of it.’
‘I called about an hour ago.’ Joyce’s tone was indignant. He’d tired of that tone, and more besides. Even the things he had once admired and enjoyed in Joyce had become tiresome. The way she did her hair, the books she read, her pet phrases; her familiarity bored him. Lorraine was a very different woman; she didn’t need to be, all she needed to be was someone other than Joyce, but Brennan hadn’t realised that at the time.
‘What is it, then?’ he said.
A sigh. ‘What do you think, Rob? It’s your bloody daughter.’
Sophie had been testing her parents lately, but Brennan had more to worry about. Joyce could handle a stroppy teenager, surely. ‘Look, you know what she’s like . . . What they’re all like at that age.’
The volume seemed to have risen on the other end of the line. ‘Well, yes, I do know as a matter of a fact, because it’s me that’s dealing with it every day of the week, Rob, whilst you get to go off playing cops and robbers.’
That was unfair. ‘Is that right?’
A pause. ‘Well, it’s how I feel. I’m tired of all of this, tired of being the only one who raises our daughter and I’m tired of getting no support . . . I want to know what the point is, Rob? What’s the point any more?’
He didn’t have an answer for her. He stared into the open-plan office and searched for something to say, but nothing came. Maybe there was no point.
‘Well?’ said Joyce. ‘Are you just going to leave that one hanging?’
He watched one of the DCs walk over to the whiteboard and scribble something in red ink. He found some words: ‘I’m going away for a few days.’
A tut. ‘Well, that’s just great. Just bloody—’
He cut her off. ‘Joyce, shut up. I’m investigating the death of a young girl and her baby is missing. I’m going to interview her friends and people who knew her. She came from Pitlochry.’ He blasted his words. ‘Is that all right with you? Do you think you can manage a day or so with Sophie and her tantrums whilst I try and find out who cut up a young girl and left her body in a rubbish bin and what the fuck they’ve done with her child?’
There was no reply for some moments, then, ‘If you’re interested, Sophie, your own daughter, who was supposed to be sick and took the day off school, has left the house. She’s taken a bottle of vermouth and some of my housekeeping money . . . In case it’s of any concern to you, I thought I should let you know. I’ll be scouring the streets for her when I put down the phone.’
Brennan had no time to reply before she hung up.
Chapter 26
BRENNAN JOTTED DOWN THE NAMES listed as Carly’s ‘known associates’. He halted before placing a full stop, touched his tongue with the tip of the pencil, then planted it in the notebook.
‘Right, listen up,’ he addressed the team.
The room fell quiet.
‘DC McGuire and myself are going to be out of the office for a day or so . . .’
McGuire perked up as his name was mentioned; Brennan hadn’t told him he was going to Pitlochry.
‘We’re leaving for the north and we’ll be tracking down some of Carly Donald’s known associates, seeing what we can find. I do not want to hear anything second hand. I repeat: anything comes in, you dial this!’ Brennan held up his mobile phone. ‘You tell me right away if there are any developments in my absence. Got it?’
Together: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lou and Dave . . . I want you to handle the media.’
‘Sir.’
Brennan frowned, shook his head. ‘Now, what do I mean by that? This: you take it straight to the press office . . . After you’ve told me, of course.’
Both grinning: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t need to remind you the media are going to start jumping up and down as soon as they discover we have a missing child on our hands. We want to delay that eventuality for as long as we can. Hopefully, the first the press know about it will be when we announce the child is safe and well, but we have to be prepared for the worst. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan tucked his notebook in his jacket pocket, threw the jacket over his shoulder and paced for the door. ‘Come on, Stevie, we can collect your Clearasil on the way . . .’
The team jeered the DC. ‘Go get ’em, Stevie . . . Shag a sheep for me, mate!’
Brennan allowed himself a smirk. The way things were progressing on the case, there would be precious little room for laughter. He knew if he didn’t find Carly’s child soon the chances were slim that he ever would. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He wouldn’t have another young life on his conscience. He felt a surge of pity and tapped at his breast pocket where he kept the scan picture Lorraine had given him.
In the station foyer Brennan was stopped by the desk sergeant. ‘How’s it going, Rob?’
Brennan inverted a smile. ‘You know, Charl.’
Charlie leaned over the desk, acting conspiratorial. ‘What’s Princess Prada saying?’
He knew better than to feed office gossip. �
�Just the usual.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
Brennan motioned McGuire to get the doors, threw him the car key. ‘Bring round the Passat, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the DC left, Brennan leaned over the counter, lowered his tone. He could see Charlie’s eyes lighting up. ‘You know Lauder thinks she’s got a thing for him.’
‘That right?’
Brennan showed teeth. ‘I shouldn’t say, but I heard him talking about her coming on to him.’
‘Get away.’ Charlie’s mouth drooped.
Brennan straightened himself. ‘Probably just idle chatter – wouldn’t pay it any heed.’
The desk sergeant nodded. ‘You’re right. That’s how rumours get started, mate.’
Brennan winked at him as he headed for the door. Charlie’s old face was unreadable; like a piece of clay on a potter’s wheel, it waited for a new form to emerge.
Outside the wind cut. Brennan buttoned his jacket, stamped his feet on the pavement. He could smell the brewery on the breeze; he hated the smell. It was the city’s scent, the defining characteristic that seemed to sum the place up for him. Where he grew up the air was clearer; Ayr was famous for it. The wind that washed over the Irish Sea brought clarity, the smell of seaweed and promise. Edinburgh had none of that. It was the smell of squalor and confusion and desperation that summed up the city for Brennan. They said it was warmer on the east coast but he didn’t believe it. Growing up in Ayr it seemed to have been all sunny days, golden summers and smiling and joking with Andy. Those days were gone.
McGuire lowered the window on the Passat as he pulled up. ‘Ready to go, boss. Want to drive?’
Brennan walked to the passenger side, stayed quiet. When he was in he put on his seat belt and nodded. ‘Come on, then, let’s get going.’
It took them an age to get out of the city, onto the main road. When they started to pick up speed, Brennan opened his window a few inches. ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’ he said.
‘Well . . .’
‘Because if you do, there’s always the bus.’
McGuire nodded. ‘No, it’s fine.’
Brennan took out his cigarette packet, looked at the purple square on the front and frowned. ‘Got to get some proper fags.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Silk Cut . . . Think they’re for folk with sore throats.’
‘Trying to give up?’
‘Cutting back.’
‘They’ll kill you, y’know.’
Brennan pushed in the cigarette lighter, said, ‘There’s a lot of things that’ll do that.’
McGuire nodded. He put on the blinkers to overtake a heavy goods vehicle. There was an unfamiliar expression on his face. ‘Sir, can I ask you something?’
The lighter pinged; Brennan removed it. ‘If you like.’
‘Why did you join the force?’
Brennan lit his cigarette, held it between his fingers and exhaled his first drag slowly. ‘What kind of a question is that?’
McGuire took his eyes off the road, glanced at the DI then back to the car in front. ‘Most of the people I ask these days talk about the pension, or some bullshit about never seeing a policeman lose an argument . . . But I’d say you were different.’
Brennan took another drag, squinted at McGuire through the cigarette smoke. ‘Oh, I’m that.’
McGuire put the Passat into fifth gear, planted his foot. ‘You don’t rate many at the station, do you, sir?’
Brennan knew where this conversation was going. ‘Like Lauder, you mean?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Don’t concern yourself, son. Me and Lauder have a score to settle, that’s all.’
McGuire coughed on the back of his hand. ‘Is that your br—’
‘Stevie, change the subject, eh.’
‘Sir.’
They drove in silence for a few miles. Brennan noticed how the fields and trees altered his mood. It was a release to be getting out of the city. He wound up the window, stubbed out his cigarette. There was a twinge of regret building in him for the way he had treated McGuire. The DC was trying hard to make an impression. He was just a boy after all; Brennan could remember being his age, once.
‘I always wanted to be a police officer, even when I was very young. My brother wanted to be an artist then, but we were both told early on that we’d be going into the family business. My old man was a small-time builder – we were both to get trades. I was having none of it. I joined up as soon as they’d have me and that was that.’
McGuire smiled. ‘You rebel.’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘What about your brother – did he become an artist?’
Brennan looked out over the fields again. The sun painted a yellow glow on the grass. ‘No . . . Andy went into the family firm.’
McGuire seemed to have sensed it was difficult territory for Brennan – talking about his brother; he changed the subject now. ‘So, Pitlochry . . . Never been. Has it got its fleshpots?’
Brennan laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, it’s like any other small Scottish town.’
‘A shit-hole, then?’
At McGuire’s age, Brennan had thought every small town in Scotland was a shit-hole; it was funny how your opinions changed with maturity. ‘I suppose it depends what you’re looking for. We’re not going to paint the town red, Stevie, we’re investigating a murder.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brennan was happy that the tone had returned to a familiar formality. He withdrew his notebook, scanned the names he’d jotted down back at the station. ‘What sort of impression did the local woodentops make on you, Stevie?’
McGuire breathed out slowly, slapped his hand off the steering wheel. ‘Well, they were a bit shocked to get my call at the start, to be honest . . .’
‘More used to dealing with calls about some young farmer up to his nuts in a ewe!’
McGuire laughed, slapped the wheel again. ‘Nice one!’
Brennan clawed him back in: ‘Anyway, once they got over the shock of having a murder squad on the way up . . .’
‘Erm, quite cordial, I suppose.’
Cordial – where did he get these words? Brennan never used words like cordial, certainly never at McGuire’s age. The benefits of a private education no doubt, he thought. ‘Well, we’ll be putting their hospitality to the test, so we’ll find out. I hope they’ve got a phone line.’
‘I brought a whistle, just in case.’
Brennan put his notebook back in his pocket. ‘I want to start with Carly’s best friend. Lynne Thompson.’
‘Right, I’ll get her brought into the station.’
‘No, don’t do that. We’ll go to the home . . . Want her to be comfortable enough to speak, not frighten her off.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you spoken to the Thompson girl’s parents?’
McGuire creased his brows. ‘No, Lou did . . . They were very helpful, apparently.’
‘That’s country folk for you.’
‘Yeah, apparently the poor girl’s devastated. Off school, not eating.’
‘Did she give anything away?’
McGuire shook his head. ‘Sorry, boss . . . She’s bemused, by all accounts. They were best friends and the pair of them didn’t really mix with the rest of the youngsters in the town, so she’s a bit lost without her.’
Brennan lowered his voice. ‘She must have known about the pregnancy, then . . . Maybe she’ll know the father.’
McGuire nodded. ‘Yes, maybe. What you thinking? Local boy?’
‘One thing’s for sure: if she was seeing someone, a friend like Lynne would have heard about it. Teenage girls don’t keep that kind of thing from each other.’
McGuire dropped a gear, put the blinkers on again, pulled out to overtake a slow-moving caravan. ‘Why do they let those fuckers on the road?’
Brennan agreed; but steered the conversation back on course. ‘What about the head?’
‘Staggere
d. Seriously strung out. Carly hadn’t been at school for the last few months. She’d been kept off with – get this – depression. The school had no idea she’d given birth.’
‘Depression?’
‘Certified . . . I spoke to the doctor: he said she was depressed after the birth and it was quite normal.’
‘What about before? If he was signing her off school with depression before the baby was born then he must have had his reasons.’
McGuire eased the car back into lane. ‘He’s a family doctor, sir. Said there were a lot of issues surrounding the birth. He didn’t want to stress the mother out in her pregnancy with worry about small-town gossip and thought it was better for all if she was kept off school. Seemed genuine, and fair enough to me.’
Brennan drummed his fingers on the windowsill. He dipped his head, pushed in the cigarette lighter once more. ‘Okay, the girl first, then . . . Let’s hope Lynne’s got something that we can use to find out who killed her best friend.’
They spent the rest of the journey in silence, punctuated only by the pinging of the cigarette lighter and McGuire’s overrevving of the engine.
When they reached Pitlochry it was just as Brennan remembered it. He’d been there on a family holiday – when they still took family holidays – to the Highlands a few years back. He’d taken the road off the A9 to check the place out and remembered Sophie complaining because she wanted to get to the hotel to watch Friends. The town was small but not without its appeal, he thought. It had once been a popular tourist spot with the Victorians, who took to the scenic setting and the proliferation of spires and sturdy Scots baronial architecture. The town centre said solidity, a Presbyterian longing for respectability. Knowing what he did, it seemed like hypocrisy to Brennan.
‘Nightmare to get parked here,’ said McGuire.
Brennan soaked up the feel of the place – it screamed to him of a vanished country. The days of men in tweed and brogues were gone, he thought – that was all just dress-up for the hunting, shooting and fishing mob – but there was something about Pitlochry that said the look was still de rigueur. ‘Check out the Barbour jackets.’
McGuire sighed. ‘Christ, thought I’d seen the last of them at uni.’
