by Tony Black
He stood for a moment, stared at the posters on the walls. One of them was a Pop Idol winner, or was it X Factor? He didn’t know, but he recognised her face – Leona something? There was another larger poster of a boy band. Brennan didn’t know who they were – he thought they looked like tossers, though. All the posing and gesturing made him wonder what was going on in their heads. He bounced the elastic-band ball off the poster, said, ‘Come on, Carly, give me a sign here.’
Nothing came.
He stood for a moment longer, turned, went to place the ball on the desk but something stopped him. He felt some kind of comfort holding it, a connection he didn’t want to lose. Brennan held the ball in his hand for a moment longer, stared at it as if there was a message inside. He’d felt this before, a strange channelling from artefacts of the dead, but he always dismissed it as the mind playing tricks. He smiled, shook his head, then put the little ball back on the desk and headed downstairs.
In the kitchen McGuire and Napier were talking over cups of tea. There was no sign of Peter Sproul. When Brennan came in their chat ceased at once.
‘Hello, boss.’
Brennan nodded.
‘Anything?’
A shake of the head. ‘How far is this Thompson girl’s house?’
Napier put down his cup. ‘Just a minute or two away.’ He twisted his neck, raised a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Round that way.’
Brennan fastened his jacket. ‘Finish your tea. I’ll wait in the car.’
McGuire rose and took his cup to the sink. Napier followed him.
In the car Brennan drummed fingers on the dash, held his thoughts in check. There was a call he had to make. He didn’t want to speak to his wife but Sophie was on his mind now. He needed to know she was okay, that she had come home and her antics had all been another attention-seeking prank. He knew his daughter was too sensible to get mixed up in anything that would bring real worry to her parents – she’d been well briefed on the subject – but Brennan couldn’t help his concern surfacing.
He dialled home.
Ringing.
An answer, ‘Hello.’
‘Joyce . . . it’s me.’
‘Yes.’ Her tone was frosty. Had she kept the mood going all this time? he wondered.
‘Did you get hold of Sophie?’
A sigh. ‘Where’s this sudden concern came from?’
Brennan snapped, ‘Stop messing about, Joyce!’ He had just sat in a murdered schoolgirl’s bedroom and was in no mood to joust with his wife. ‘Is she home or not?’
Joyce’s voice lowered: ‘Yes. She’s home. You can go back to your job now with a clear conscience.’
Brennan hung up. As he did so McGuire and Napier returned, got in the car.
‘Okay, sir . . . Ready to roll,’ said McGuire.
‘This Sproul character, what’s his story?’ said Brennan.
McGuire took out his notebook. ‘He’s a kind of factotum.’
Brennan shook his head at the DC’s pretentiousness. ‘An odd-job man.’
‘Yes, sir. Got a background in the trades, moved about a bit. Plenty of praise for the minister – says he gave him a job when he was at a low ebb . . . Sounded grateful.’
‘What kind of a low ebb?’
McGuire put his pencil in the corner of his mouth. ‘Erm, he didn’t really say . . . Unemployment, I think.’
Brennan turned round in his seat, put fierce eyes on McGuire. ‘Run him through the system.’ He turned round again, addressed Napier: ‘And you can keep tabs on him.’
Napier nodded. ‘Okay, sure. He’s sound though, Pete – plays in the dominoes league down the Lion.’
Brennan snapped, ‘I don’t give a shit if he helps old ladies across the road or rescues kittens. I don’t like the bloody look of him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Napier started the engine, pulled out. In a few minutes they had arrived outside a semi-detached house. It looked to have been built in the seventies – utilitarian architecture for families on budgets. The officers assessed it and then got out the car, walked up the drive. A dog barked inside as Brennan rang the bell. It sounded like a small dog, pitching itself above its size. Napier eased himself to the rear of the group, stepped back.
As the door opened a small white flash dashed past them, a Jack Russell ran into the garden, barking. The animal seemed to have a routine, turning left then right, before circling the group entirely.
‘Penny, get in!’ A small woman in a blue fleece and wellington boots greeted them: ‘Hello, you must be . . . the police.’
Brennan introduced himself, produced his warrant card. ‘I hope this is a good time to call.’
The woman had very red cheeks. As the dog rushed in at their feet she tilted her head and placed a hand on her hip; she gesticulated with the other hand as she spoke. ‘I just don’t know what the world’s coming to . . . I really don’t, when something like this happens.’
Brennan looked down the hallway behind her. He saw a thin girl with dark hair held back by a white Alice band. She watched the officers then moved out of their line of vision.
Mrs Thompson continued, ‘Carly and Lynne were like that’ – she crossed her fingers over. ‘Our Lynne’s lost without her. I can’t hardly get her to eat or anything. It’s terrible, just terrible.’ She brought her arms together, crossed them over her chest and touched one of her shoulders. ‘That poor girl, such a good family too . . . They must be devastated.’
Brennan spoke: ‘Do you think Lynne would be up to talking to us?’
She turned, eyes widening. ‘Oh, yes. Of course . . . Come through. Can I get you some tea or coffee?’
‘No, we’re fine,’ said Brennan. He could tell the enormity of the situation hadn’t registered with the woman – had we all become so desensitised? Were people inured to murder now? He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t like Prime bloody Suspect showed it on the television.
In the kitchen Lynne sat at a small folding table. There was a fruit bowl in front of her and she stared over it at a blank wall.
‘Lynne, this is the police officers I was telling you about.’ Mrs Thompson turned to Brennan. ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was again?’
‘Brennan . . . Rob Brennan. Hello, Lynne.’
The girl remained still in her seat, absorbed in herself. She looked fragile enough to shatter into tiny pieces if the slightest breeze blew her way.
Mrs Thompson rubbed the girl’s back. ‘Come on, love.’
Lynne turned to her; still not a word.
Brennan pulled out a chair, sat. He placed his hands on the table in front of them, spoke softly: ‘I hear you were good friends with Carly.’
A nod. No eye contact.
It was something, a start, thought Brennan.
‘In the same class at school?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded forced, too quiet, even for such a delicate frame.
‘Best friends?’
Lynne nodded again. ‘I don’t have any friends now. There was only me and Carly.’
Brennan got the picture: the pair of them weren’t top of the popularity stakes. He could see neither of them had that air of confidence that was required of class favourites. They were not part of the crowd of beautiful people, not performers soaking up adulation; they were followers, not leaders. ‘I know this must be hard for you, Lynne . . . Can you tell me, is there anyone that you can think of who might want to harm Carly?’
She looked at her mother, then back to the detective. She shook her head.
‘Are you sure, Lynne? . . . It’s very important.’
She shook her head again, began to pick at her fingernails.
Brennan sat further forward. He glanced at the fruit bowl – the oranges were developing a grey fur. ‘Lynne . . . did Carly have a boyfriend?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Another shrug; she turned her head away. A cat leapt onto the window ledge.
‘You knew Carly was pregnant, didn’t you?’
Lynne blushed. Her mother rubbed at her back again.
‘I guess.’
‘So, she didn’t get pregnant by herself . . . did she, Lynne?’
The girl started to bite her top lip. ‘I don’t know anything.’
Brennan knew she was holding out. He’d seen far better liars than her in his day; the girl didn’t even look as if she was trying. ‘Are you sure, Lynne? You wouldn’t be protecting anyone, would you?’
Mrs Thompson put an arm round her daughter, leaned in. Lynne spun in her seat and buried her face in her mother’s chest, sobbing. Mrs Thompson waved a hand at Brennan, said, ‘I’m sorry, she’s a bit emotional.’
Brennan leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked. ‘I understand.’
‘Maybe you could come back another time.’
The girl sobbed harder. It was all too early for her, she was too delicate to press any further. ‘Of course.’ He rose, motioned the other officers to follow.
In the car Napier spoke first: ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’
Brennan fastened his seat belt. ‘Not at all. We know for sure and certain she’s covering up for somebody.’
‘Who?’ said Napier.
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be contemplating spending the night in Pitlochry.’ Brennan lowered his window, removed his cigarettes. ‘You can take us to a half-decent B&B . . . if you can find one.’
Chapter 31
BRENNAN SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT. The bed sheets were too tight, like a hospital or one of the hotels he had stayed in as a boy, with his parents, and brother Andy. He couldn’t remember having slept in such tight-fitting sheets as an adult; at home he had a duvet and was used to more freedom of movement. Although the temperature dropped in the night-time, Brennan had been forced to get up and tug everything free. The action had given him more room to move about in the bed, but didn’t feel quite right either. Perhaps it was the fact that he was away from home, in unfamiliar surroundings, he thought. When they were young, Andy and himself had never been able to sleep on any of their trips away from home; it had been too exciting, like the time before Christmas or the day before a birthday.
Andy would have liked Pitlochry, thought Brennan. It was like their hometown – at least, how he remembered it before the economic collapse. They had now shuttered up all the shops in the high street, and all that was left was pound stores and bargain-basement outlets. The place used to have more prestige, when they were young.
Brennan could see Andy now – it was a summer holiday memory and made him smile. Andy was playing Swingball in the back garden in a Scotland football strip. His legs were stick-thin but he wore the red socks pulled tight below the knee, the white diamonds at the top turned over with precision. He was always very precise, thought Brennan.
The vision of his brother seemed to fade. The thought saddened Brennan; he wanted to return to the warm glow he felt when he remembered his brother but there was a part of him that said it was wrong to stay in happy moments for too long. Life wasn’t about the happy moments – there was too much sadness in the world. He knew that for every fond memory he had of Andy there was an unhappy one lurking close by; and now one appeared.
It was summertime again.
Brennan had came home from school, his papers signed by his housemaster – he was leaving.
Andy knew at once. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re lying.’ Brennan could never lie to his brother; he always knew when he wasn’t telling the truth.
He told him what he had done. ‘Do you think Dad will crack up?’
Andy tutted. ‘Bloody hell, what do you think?’
‘I want to go into the police. I’ve got no interest in the business.’
Andy looked away. ‘Do you think I do?’
Brennan pulled him back. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m joining the police.’
‘I heard you . . . Everyone listens to you, Rob. It’s me nobody pays any attention to.’
Brennan registered the point. ‘Andy, the police is a job, it pays . . . Who’s going to pay you to paint pictures?’ He smirked, felt cocky, too sure of himself.
Andy didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze. Brennan watched him walk off. The collar on his blazer had been turned up and as he went the wind caught it, ruffled the back of his hair. He watched his brother walk to the end of the driveway, then turn right into the street. He could only see the top of his head above the hedgerows for a few moments but the look on his face was something he had never forgotten. The memory stung as Brennan recalled it now; even twenty years ago, Andy was thinking of others before himself.
Brennan knew that he had thought of no one except himself when he had decided he wasn’t going into the family business. He was going to be a police officer and nothing was coming between him and his ambition. As he thought of Andy he wished he could have reversed the decision; even for a little while, to have given Andy some time to follow his own dreams like Brennan had followed his.
Brennan rose from the bed, sat on the edge and ruffled his hair, then surveyed the stubble on his chin. Before he met Lorraine, and started the therapy, when he got into moods like this there was no way out. He could spend hours, days in despair, blackness. Now he had developed what she called coping mechanisms. He had trained himself to think of distractions. Why was he here? What was the purpose of Rob Brennan’s life? The answers to those questions depended on the time of day, he thought. He knew, as he mulled over the answer now, that his purpose was to find the killer of a young girl. It wouldn’t bring back Andy, but it might make him feel like part of the human race again, and that was something to cling to.
Brennan showered and shaved. He dressed in a crisp white shirt from Burton and a sober navy tie. When he looked at himself in the mirror he saw the sleeves of the shirt were a little creased and crumpled. He had ironed the shirt himself. The days of Joyce taking care of such domestic duties had passed a long time ago – ironing shirts for a spouse was an act of love and there was precious little of that left in their relationship. If it wasn’t for Sophie, he knew he would have left her already. That’s what Lorraine wanted; she had pressed for it many times. Brennan didn’t like being pressed but there were other factors to consider now. He removed the picture of the baby scan she had given him, held it up. He permitted himself a smile – he was going to be a father again. The smile left as quickly as it had appeared; as happy as the thought of a new child made him, he knew it was going to bring complications.
Brennan removed his mobile, searched for Lorraine’s number.
He put the phone to his ear. It was ringing.
‘Hello, Rob.’
‘Lorraine, I don’t . . . I still don’t know what to say.’
‘Maybe there’s nothing to say.’ He hated the way she framed her responses like open-ended questions. It was shrink-speak.
‘There must be plenty. We have to talk about this . . . About what we’re going to do.’
Lorraine sighed. He could hear her moving on the bed, the sheets rustling, the springs sagging. ‘We’ve done all the talking, Rob. It’s time for action.’
He knew what that meant, but he didn’t know if he was ready for the next step. ‘It’s not so easy.’
‘You always said you couldn’t leave because of Sophie. Well, now you’re going to have another child to think about, Rob . . . Are you going to put Sophie before our child?’
‘Lorraine, don’t talk like that.’
She stayed quiet for a moment, then, ‘It’s a choice you have to make, Rob.’
‘It’s not as simple as—’
She interrupted, ‘Yes it is! It’s very simple.’
‘Lorraine . . .’
Her voice dropped: ‘I have to go, I have appointments in an hour.’
There was nothing more to say. The call had played out just as he’d expected it would; like all their talks recently, it left him feeling more l
ost than when they started. He wished he hadn’t bothered, but knew the effort was necessary, and there’d be more required.
Brennan hung up.
He stared at the phone for a short time, then put it in his pocket and rose. He tried to clear his thoughts, let his mind still, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to put off a decision for much longer. In the job decisions came easy – without thinking, even; it was in the wider world where he found most trouble deciding on the right path.
Brennan walked to the dresser, collected his wallet and some coins, put on his jacket and went down to breakfast. McGuire was already at the table, finishing off a cup of coffee.
‘Morning, sir.’
Brennan nodded.
‘Any word from Napier?’
He lowered the cup. ‘You’re kidding – it’s barely gone eight in the a.m. And there was a match on last night – Inter Milan.’
Brennan sniffed. A waitress came over. He ordered tea and eggs, some toast with butter. She smiled sweetly and left for the kitchen.
‘You sleep okay, sir?’ said McGuire.
‘Now you’re kidding. I was wrapped up like King Tut . . . Guess the duvet revolution hasn’t reached Pitlochry.’ As he watched McGuire grinning, Brennan’s phone began to ring in his shirt pocket. The caller ID showed it was from the office. He flagged McGuire quiet, answered: ‘Brennan.’
‘Have you seen the News?’ It was Galloway. She sounded irate, her voice shrieking down the line like a harpy.
‘I’m in Pitlochry.’
‘Well, think yourself fucking lucky . . . You’re page one in Edinburgh.’
Brennan didn’t like the sound of this. McGuire tilted his head, opened his mouth quizzically.
‘What’s this?’
Galloway shuffled the paper. ‘They have the scoop on the case. Missing child, the works.’
Brennan rested his brow in his hand. ‘Shit.’
‘Yes, you may well fucking curse, Rob.’ Galloway rustled the paper some more, slammed it down on a hard surface. He could hear her stomping around her office, high heels clacking, as she blasted, ‘Now, I know it was your bright idea to give the press the victim’s name, but tell me you didn’t release the fact that her baby’s missing.’
