Truth Lies Bleeding

by Tony Black

  Killean balanced the bag on his left shoulder, the other side being unable to bear that amount of weight. When he reached the water’s edge he looked down towards the first bend, a copse of trees. He glanced back and forth, tried to estimate the distance between the point he occupied at present and the spot where the trees provided cover. He thought it must be two hundred yards at most – that was a good distance, an easy distance.

  Killean set out for the copse, the bag cutting into his shoulder. His left leg dragged on the pavement and his thigh burned. The moon had gathered some cloud covering now and the sky darkened, but the water still reflected enough light to make the job easy, thought Killean. As he stationed himself behind a sycamore he lowered himself towards where the bag rested on the ground, unzipped. Inside he removed the rifle covering and attached the scope-mount. He seized the barrel and looked down the stock, tested the sights to see they were clean and then he lowered the rifle.

  He opened the box of ammunition and checked it was as he’d specified, then he loaded the gun.

  Killean rested the rifle against the sycamore, removed his overcoat and turned it inside out. He took the coat to the slightly elevated edge of the copse and lowered it onto the ground, outside facing up, then returned to collect the rifle.

  As he settled onto the ground, on top of his overcoat, Killean raised the rifle’s scope-mount to his right eye and put the water’s edge in his sight. He had a clear view of the path and enough light to identify anyone who came into view. He rested in that pos ition for a few seconds, making minor adjustments to his shoulder and elbow position, and then he held himself steady, firm.

  Killean waited for approximately fourteen minutes, then fired his first shot. The second followed within seconds.

  Chapter 36

  THREE BODIES IN TWO DAYS – that was all DI Rob Brennan needed. He closed the car door and took the road towards the twisting path that led down to the Water of Leith. Uniform had been out with the blue-and-white tape, sealed off the entrance. It hadn’t kept out the reporter from the News; Brennan caught sight of a young WPC leading her by the arm towards the brow of the hill. She hadn’t seen Brennan; he was grateful for that. He hadn’t caught the morning’s paper yet, but he knew it wasn’t going to include hearts and flowers for Lothian and Borders Police. He had ordered McGuire to keep the latest find from Galloway until she arrived at the office. She had her promotion board interview this week and that made her unpredictable. Brennan knew the Chief Super might choose to take the case off him, hand it to someone else. She could also make good on her promise to transfer him to traffic, but Brennan was hoping she might do neither and opt not to attract any attention to herself before the interview. If she landed the job, chances were her mood might improve – she’d be demob happy – and leave him alone. If she didn’t get her promotion – that didn’t bear thinking about.

  Brennan pushed his way through the cordon of uniforms, approached the SOCOs in their white tent. He noticed the tent was larger than the standard size he’d been used to – he stared for a moment, not quite sure what to make of the makeshift structure.

  ‘Sir.’ It was McGuire. As he emerged from the tent he pinned a yellow rubber-tipped pencil behind his ear, pulled off a disposable glove and put it in his pocket.

  ‘What have you got for me?’

  McGuire removed his other glove, repeated the process of putting it in his pocket, then opened a black notebook. ‘It’s our boy from the bus station footage . . .’

  ‘You sure?’

  Nods, a gesture towards the tent. ‘There’s a wallet and cards in the tray, got his name stamped all over them: Barry Tierney.’

  Brennan sighed. ‘Bastard’s not going to be much good to us now, is he?’

  McGuire shook his head. ‘Lou ran his name through the system last night after the calls came in off the television news slot. He’s got a colourful record.’

  ‘Fucking Technicolor, I bet, and his bit of stuff.’ Brennan took the notebook from the DC, ran a finger down the spine. ‘This the other one?’

  McGuire peered into the page. ‘Durrant . . . Yeah, she copped a bullet too.’

  ‘Fucking hell. You kept this from the Chief Super, I hope.’

  McGuire curled his nose up, nodded, then turned to the side and spoke: ‘She’ll be in sooner or later, boss. I can’t keep blanking her for ever.’

  ‘As long as we’ve got something to fend her off with, we’ll be in with a shout.’

  McGuire retrieved his notebook, stared into Brennan’s eyes. ‘It’s not looking good, is it?’

  ‘That’s nothing for you to worry about.’

  McGuire dropped his voice to a whisper: ‘I don’t want to see you taken off the case now; you’ve come too fucking far for that.’

  Brennan wondered if the remark was genuine or arse-kissing; decided on the former. He tapped McGuire’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about me, son. I know the ropes so well my palms are red.’ He took off, headed for the tent, called out on his way, ‘Get Lou and Brian going door to door with the victims’ neighbours.’

  ‘Already on it, sir.’

  Brennan stalled, turned and shouted, ‘Don’t tell me you’re learning now.’

  McGuire raised his middle finger in a salute. Brennan laughed. ‘Known associates . . . Pull them, then. I want to talk to everyone who knew Tierney and Durrant. Even their fucking window cleaner.’

  In the tent the SOCOs in their white overalls busied themselves trying to erect a trestle. Brennan eyed their movements for a moment or two, then turned to the pale corpses on the ground. It had been a cold night and the flesh had quickly lost colour – as he kneeled closer he saw the lips of the man, Barry Tierney, had turned blue. There was a dark black hole in the top of his left temple where a bullet had entered and ended his life instantly. The sight of the bullet hole set Brennan’s nerves jangling, and his memory lit. When he had gone to identify his brother’s corpse there had been a bullet hole in the left temple. It was higher up, closer to the hairline, but it had looked similar and the sight of another one jolted Brennan. He recalled looming over Andy’s face; the life force had departed – there was no sign of his brother. He had touched his cold flesh and had tried to hold back his tears for Andy. He had tried to warn him about taking that job at the big house. He’d told him about Grady, about his Ulster connections, about the ongoing investigations . . .

  Brennan took a deep breath. What was the point of going over old ground?

  He got up and looked to the other body. They were about four yards apart; the reason for the bigger tent seemed obvious now. Brennan called out, ‘When are you moving these?’

  A shrug. ‘When we’re ready.’

  Brennan walked towards the white-suited SOCOs. ‘What you got there?’

  One of them held up a little clear plastic bag; inside was a piece of metal. As Brennan took the bag, moved it towards the light that was streaming in through the front of the tent, he turned the item over. It was a bullet casing.

  ‘You know what that is?’ said a tall SOCO.

  ‘Oh, yes . . . Do you?’

  The SOCO smarmed: ‘Are you serious?’

  Brennan pointed to the bullet. ‘And this?’

  ‘Some kind of residue.’

  ‘These bullets are gold-washed . . . I’ve seen this before.’

  The SOCO took the bag back, peered deeply. ‘I think you could be right.’

  Brennan smarmed back: ‘I fucking know I’m right. These bullets are serious – this was a pro hit.’ He left the SOCO staring at him as he walked out of the tent and found McGuire. The DC was on his mobile; he hung up when Brennan approached.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  Brennan halted in his stride, motioned up the hill to his car. ‘Back to the office.’

  McGuire followed on his heels. ‘I’m waiting . . .’

  ‘It’s a professional hit, no question. High-calibre rifle. Gold-washed ammunition. Close range.’

  ‘What’s that about the amm
o?’

  ‘Makes it all the more lethal; rare as hobby-horse shite. Only serious craftsmen insist on it. Someone had this pair of dafties knocked off, and paid a high price for it. I want to know why.’

  McGuire jogged ahead of his boss, raised the blue-and-white tape. ‘Any ideas who?’

  Brennan looked at him. ‘I’d say someone who’s fucking shitting themselves.’

  As he spoke, the reporter from the News approached. She came running from the edge of the road with a digital recorder in her hand. ‘Detective, are these killings related to any other ongoing investigation?’

  Brennan halted, stared at her. ‘Who’s pulling your strings, love?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Don’t come the innocent.’

  She lowered her hand; the digital recorder dropped out of range. ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  Brennan put his hands in his pockets, tilted his head to one side. He loomed over the reporter. ‘So am I. My job’s about catching murderers and scum, keeping the streets safe. What’s yours for?’

  She looked perplexed, narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

  Brennan eyed her up and down. He’d had just about enough of seeing her at his crime scenes. ‘If you don’t know the answer to that question, maybe you’re in the wrong job.’

  As he walked away and got into the car, Brennan caught sight of the reporter again. She hadn’t moved from where he had left her. When he started the engine she jutted a hip and slapped a palm off it. He knew he’d given her something to think about: it was never a good idea for reporters to get on the wrong side of the police.

  ‘She’s not pleased with you,’ said McGuire as they pulled out.

  ‘Good. She’ll get hers.’

  ‘You still think she’s being fed a line from inside the station?’

  Brennan took second, pulled from the side street. ‘I’d bet a pound to a pail of shite she’s going flat out, probably on her back, to work her contact.’

  McGuire laughed. As he did so, his mobile phone started to ring. He took it out his pocket. ‘Shit. It’s Galloway. Do you want me to answer it?’

  Chapter 37

  BRENNAN LOOKED AT McGUIRE, who held out his mobile. ‘Dump her,’ he said.

  ‘You sure?’ The DC looked pensive now.

  Brennan nodded. ‘As shooting.’

  They continued back to the station. Brennan turned things over in his mind. First there was the situation with Peter Sproul. The plan had been to pull him, rattle some details about his living situation with the Donalds in Pitlochry. But finding him in a pool of his own blood had put paid to that. He couldn’t see the minister revealing anything about him – he had been too wary of letting details of his life slip. Brennan wondered if the Donalds knew more about Sproul than was good for them. If they believed the sex offender to be the father of their grandchild then perhaps that was why they had been so cagey. It was a delicate situation, thought Brennan, but the time for treading gently was over. Time had run out.

  Brennan gripped the wheel tighter the closer they got to Fettes. He had thought he wanted back to the city when he was in Pitlochry but now he’d got home he realised how wrong he was – the sensation was like picking up a cold beer on a warm day, and finding the bottle empty. He rolled up the window. The air outside was heavy with fumes; he could almost taste the diesel. As he stared out the buildings looked dirtier than he remembered. Everywhere he looked the stone was grey or blackened. The streets were awash with litter, the bins overflowed and spilled into the gutters – cans, fag dowps, crisp bags, all blowing like bunting in the foetid wind. He worked though the gears as he hit a quiet stretch of Orchard Brae. ‘We have to call in the minister, find out what the hell was going on there.’

  McGuire stretched round in his seat to face Brennan. ‘For a father to take in a repeat sex offender, with a young daughter at home, defies logic.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking.’ Brennan knew the minister was blinded by some sense of religious duty – that had been obvious from the start – but why had he kept Sproul’s presence a secret from the police?

  McGuire said, ‘Unless he wanted to rehabilitate Sproul. Y’know, if he was taken in by a sob story, perhaps some claim about him being a changed man.’

  Brennan smirked. ‘Or having found the Lord in Peterhead.’ The DI had answers of his own, but he knew he would be making a mistake applying his logic to the minister’s situation. Carly was dead, though. A man’s daughter had been killed and he’d shielded a potential suspect from the investigating officers. Why? Worse, Beth was still missing. The minister’s granddaughter, his innocent flesh and blood, was who knows where and still he hadn’t revealed Sproul.

  Brennan knew the case was in chaos. Nothing was fitting together. He knew there was a bigger picture, something that linked up the missing pieces of the assassinations at the Water of Leith, but he couldn’t pull it into focus. They were drawing near to the station. He lowered his speed as he went into the car park, pulled up. He turned off the engine and moved to face McGuire.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what, sir?’

  Brennan’s voice rose: ‘Why have two minor-league scrotes professionally hit?’

  ‘Someone wanted them knocked off quickly.’

  ‘Obviously. But who? And why?’

  McGuire looked straight ahead. ‘Well, for a start, someone with the money to pay for it.’

  It didn’t make sense; their necks weren’t worth the price or the trouble. ‘If someone higher up the food chain was going to put up money to have that pair wiped out then they must be scared shitless.’

  McGuire returned his gaze to Brennan, tapped the top of the gearstick. ‘You know, they’ve most likely seen the News piece and thought we were getting close . . . Shat themselves.’

  ‘Are we getting close?’ said Brennan.

  McGuire turned up his palms. ‘Maybe we’re closer than we realise.’

  Brennan hoped he was right. He turned to face the windshield, looked at the station. He felt his stomach tighten, sighed, ‘Galloway’s waiting in there to kick our arses all over the place.’

  ‘You’re right there, sir.’

  ‘Get your phone, call Lou . . . See what he’s got on the door-to-door.’

  McGuire reached into his coat pocket, removed the phone and dialled. Brennan watched his movements and facial gestures. The DC spoke to Lou for a few minutes then hung up.

  ‘So?’ said Brennan.

  ‘You’ll like this. Flat above says they heard a baby screaming all hours for the last few days.’

  Brennan’s head snapped to the side. ‘Really?’

  ‘More yet – folk next door said they saw a young girl with the woman . . . No positive ID as Carly but a definite maybe. They haven’t seen the girl again; she just disappeared.’

  Brennan slapped the dash. ‘That bastard’s had his, Stevie . . . We might just be getting closer.’ He opened the car door, leaned out. ‘Come on then, let’s go face the dragon!’

  As he opened the station doors, strode in, the desk sergeant got up and called Brennan over: ‘Rob, hear about Lauder?’

  ‘Not now, Charlie.’ He waved him away, made for the stairs.

  The sergeant sat back down as Brennan and McGuire took the staircase.

  Chief Superintendent Aileen Galloway was waiting for Brennan and McGuire as they reached their floor. She was dressed in a black trouser suit and a cream-coloured silk blouse that had elaborate collars pulled out across the shoulders. As ever, she wore heels that added an extra three inches to her height. Brennan composed himself for a confrontation, tried to make a straight eye contact but Galloway turned her head and pointed a palm to her office. Brennan and McGuire led the way with the Chief Super following, her heels clacking on the hard flooring like a tribal drumbeat.

  As they entered, the door was closed quietly behind them and Galloway directed them to seats. The atmosphere in the office was heady; added intensity came from an expensive perfume that the Chief Super h
ad applied liberally. She was always groomed, thought Brennan, but today she looked like something from an eighties soap opera. Dynasty or Dallas – one where the shoulder pads came from the AFL.

  ‘Quite a body count you’ve amassed over the last two days, is it not?’ said Galloway.

  Brennan crossed his legs, undid the button fastening his jacket. He turned to McGuire. ‘Stevie, perhaps you could fill the Chief Super in on Peter Sproul.’

  ‘I know about Sproul, I’ve seen the file,’ she bit back. ‘What I don’t know is how he ended up dead in Carly Donald’s bedroom.’

  McGuire cut in: ‘It was a suicide: the lab have confirmed the wounds were self-inflicted and we have a note of sorts which he added to a social networking site.’

  Galloway’s face held firm; her lipstick seemed to have been baked on. ‘So, let’s have a stab at tomorrow’s headline in the News . . . “Repeat Paedo Tops Himself in Murder Victim’s Bedroom and Leaves Message on Facebook.”’

  Brennan turned to McGuire. Neither was smiling. ‘It’s our belief Sproul had good reason to want a fast route out of the picture.’

  ‘Oh, you think?’ Galloway put a finger to her chin and pulled a ditsy expression. ‘Why? Maybe he didn’t want to go back to Peterhead . . . I’ve read that report too, the one about the sharpened chicken bone he got in the lung.’

  ‘I think, in time, we’ll establish Sproul’s involvement. It’s my assumption he might be the father of Carly’s child.’

  Galloway slapped the desk. ‘I’m not fucking interested in assumptions, Rob. Yours or anyone else’s. I’m interested in facts and what we can prove to the Fiscal, and more than that I’m interested in having a murderer under lock and key and a missing child back with her family. I’m interested in proper police work and not having my force traduced all over the papers.’

  Brennan rose, closing up his jacket. ‘Then I’ll get back to work.’

  Galloway got up too, faced him. ‘You’ll do what I tell you, Rob.’ She turned to McGuire. ‘Go and gather the team in Incident Room One, Stevie.’