Truth Lies Bleeding

by Tony Black

  McGuire eased himself from the chair. He looked at Brennan, said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The Chief Super watched McGuire as he went. Her eyes were wide, piercing. ‘Tell them I’ll be in there in a minute. I want as many of the team as you can find.’

  McGuire closed the door.

  Galloway leaned over the desk and put a bead on Brennan. He spoke first: ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘My job, Rob . . . Some of us still care about that.’

  He leaned over the desk too, staring her down. ‘You’re not the only one in this room who’s given more than they’d like to consider to the job.’

  Galloway sat down. She seemed to be gathering her thoughts, choosing her words carefully. ‘I haven’t seen much evidence of a result coming any time soon.’

  Brennan pushed himself away from the desk, put a hand in his pocket. ‘The footage flushed out Tierney and Durrant. When the SOCOs have been through their flat we might have our murderers. I’d call that a fairly definite result.’

  Galloway thinned her eyes. ‘It’s not a result yet . . . And we still have a missing child.’

  Brennan looked away, exhaled slowly. He felt an urge to grab her by those floppy collars and shake some sense into her but he held firm. There was too much at stake. He had come this far with the case and wasn’t about to let a burst of temper ruin everything. After all, that’s what she wanted, and he hated giving in to her.

  ‘Tierney’s neighbours have confirmed a baby crying in their flat and there’s a possible sighting of Carly at the address. I have Lou and Bri hauling in all of Tierney’s known associates. I anticipate a result imminently.’

  The Chief Super closed her mouth, pouted. She seemed to be running her tongue over the front of her teeth. She was definitely thinking. ‘Do you know what today is?’

  Brennan answered quickly, ‘It’s your final interview for the Chief Constable’s job.’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, it’s that all right. I wasn’t referring to that, though.’

  Brennan shrugged his shoulders. ‘What were you referring to?’

  She got up again, walked towards the water cooler, took down a small paper cone and filled it. ‘Today’s the day we wrapped up the pub shooting . . . Or should I say Lauder did. Haven’t you heard?’

  The news must have just come in. Brennan chided himself for not stopping to talk to Charlie on the way up. ‘Oh, really?’

  Galloway drained the paper cone, dropped it into the bin. ‘Yes, really. So, you see, I do have one clear-up to be happy about.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Brennan. ‘Is that a first for Lauder?’

  Galloway flicked her hair back. ‘Tut-tut, Rob, you really shouldn’t be jealous just because one of my inspectors has got a result. In the nick of time too: this force needs some positive press, wouldn’t you say?’

  Brennan felt his mouth dry over. He had no words. She was playing him, goading him. She had tried everything else and seemed to be delighted that her latest approach was getting the desired result – Brennan was riled.

  The Chief Super straightened her jacket front, brushed her sleeves at the elbows, said, ‘Now DI Lauder will be presenting the case to the Fiscal, but that’s a lot of his workload reduced. I’m wondering if perhaps he would be put to better use on the Carly Donald case.’

  Brennan let his hands fold behind his back, scrunched them into fists. ‘I’d sooner not disrupt the team dynamic.’

  Galloway laughed, tipped her head back again. Her hair floated behind her. ‘Jesus, Rob, where did you find the management-speak?’

  He bit down hard on his back teeth, then released his jaw. ‘Let me put it another way, then: my team is tight and won’t take kindly to a glory hunter coming in at this stage and stealing all the credit for their hard work.’

  Galloway tilted her head towards her shoulder. Her eyes were wider than ever as she spoke: ‘Well, well, harsh words indeed, Rob. Perhaps we should ask the team just what they think . . . Let’s go see the troops.’

  Chapter 38

  INCIDENT ROOM ONE WAS QUIET as Brennan walked in, two paces behind Galloway. As she entered, he noticed her stride became a strut. The woman loved the attention her rank afforded her; it was probably why she was in the job, he surmised. It certainly wasn’t to catch criminals, protect the public, or keep the streets clean.

  ‘Right, listen up,’ said Galloway.

  The people in the room had already gathered round the end desks, in front of the whiteboard, where the images of the victims had been stuck up. A couple of WPCs looked at each other, whispered, but most of the team were held in awe of Galloway. She moved in front of the board, took a glance, allowed her jacket to flap open and then attached her hands to the desk as she spoke: ‘Is this it?’

  McGuire nodded. ‘We have two teams going door to door and there’s a few more here and there.’

  Galloway looked out on the group, raised her chin at a right angle with the floor and then she opened her mouth wide. ‘I am not in the habit of shaking up investigations for the hell of it, but it is clear to me you are pretty far from a result in any shape or form here . . .’ A murmur went round the room. ‘Quiet . . . Thank you. So I am here to tell you all that as of oh-nine-hundred hours on Monday I am putting DI Ian Lauder in charge of all investigations arising from the murder of Carly Donald.’

  A flurry of voices went up; heads shook, papers were slapped on the table.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Galloway. It didn’t calm the room. ‘That’s enough . . . I’d like to thank DI Brennan for his hard work—’

  ‘Hear! hear!’ No one could place the first male voice, but a chorus of approval rang out.

  ‘Right, Rob, over to you.’ Galloway exited the room. Her strut seemed to have left her; each clack of heel on floor resounded with less force than before.

  Brennan stood by the edge of the photocopier, leaning on his elbow. He could feel his neck expanding in his shirt collar, a pulse beating hard on the knot of his tie. His first instinct was to push up off the copier, steady himself, but he didn’t seem able to engage his brain in time to meet the eyes around the room that waited on his words to follow. Brennan tucked a finger behind his tie, loosened the knot, and then undid the top button of his shirt. The relief was instant, but seemed at once to be replaced by a craving for nicotine. ‘Right, you heard the Chief Super . . . You have very few days left before we hand over to Lauder. If you want to avoid that fate, you better get bloody moving.’

  Brennan found his legs heavy as he went towards the office at the end of the incident room. Galloway had undermined him in a public fashion. He had seen scores of senior officers throw their weight about, it was nothing new to him – it was the way she had done it that rankled. The inference was that she wanted the case solved. But turning it over to a new DI wasn’t the way to go about that. What Galloway really wanted was to show him – and everyone else – who was boss.

  Brennan was two paces inside the door and lighting up a cigarette when McGuire came in.

  ‘This is a joke . . .’

  Brennan took a deep draw on his cigarette. He looked at McGuire then pushed past him and called out to a PC, ‘Ben, gimme a fag!’

  The constable took up a packet of Marlboro and handed them to Brennan. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He removed a cigarette and put it in his mouth, lighting it with the tip of the Silk Cut. He made to return the packet but the PC held up his hand.

  ‘Keep them, sir . . .’

  Brennan returned to the office, closed the door.

  DC Stevie McGuire was sitting down now, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What can I do? She’s got our balls in her handbag.’

  McGuire leaned forward in his chair. ‘You can raise a complaint.’

  Brennan grimaced. ‘Don’t be bloody daft. She has her promotion board today; she’d really be gunning for us after that.’

  McGuire moved his hand from the back of his neck, met it
with his other and placed them over his face.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Brennan.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘We still have a few days.’

  ‘And then?’

  Brennan took another pelt on the Marlboro – he approved of the strength of it. ‘I’m not thinking that far ahead.’

  ‘You can bet Ian Lauder is . . .’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune. I thought you pair were mates.’

  McGuire tutted. ‘I just think we’ve all worked far too hard on this case for Lauder to come in with Bryce and all the rest of his boys and start calling the shots.’

  Brennan removed his jacket, put it on the back of the office chair. He took a quick pull on the Marlboro, then put it on the edge of the desk, ash out, as he rolled up his sleeves. He sat. ‘Leave Lauder to me, Stevie. I’ve got a funny feeling he’ll not be as popular with the Chief Super in a little while.’

  ‘Eh? How come?’

  Brennan crossed his arms over, leaned on the back of the chair. ‘Do you trust me?’ He retrieved his cigarette.

  McGuire perked up. ‘Yes, course I do!’

  ‘Then when I give you the nod later on, be ready to help me out with a little bit of extracurricular activity.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I thought you trusted me.’

  McGuire bit: ‘I do. Count me in.’

  ‘Good, then wait for the nod.’

  Brennan held the cigarette in between his thumb and forefinger, took repeated little drags, then stubbed it on the back of the stapler and dropped the dowp in the bin. ‘What stage are the team at with Tierney and Durrant’s known associates?’

  McGuire scratched his head. ‘Not getting far . . .’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They’re, eh, in lockdown. No bastard’s talking.’

  Brennan squinted, pointed a finger at McGuire. ‘Right, the next lot they bring in, I want you to do the interviews, rough them up a bit . . . This lot are scum; Tierney and Durrant were the worst of the lot. They had dealers and they had pimps and they knew a string of ex-cons who don’t want to go back inside – hit them hard, rattle their cages. Put the heavy threat of the force taking a serious interest in their day-to-day activities if they don’t give us what we want and make sure they know we’re not pissing about.’

  McGuire smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But go canny, eh . . . Don’t have her down the way quoting us the tale of the slippery steps.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Brennan tweaked the end of his nose. ‘And where’s our minister?’

  ‘He’s still at the Travelodge. Knows not to stray too far.’

  ‘Right . . . Bring him in this morning, soon as.’

  ‘Sir.’ McGuire rose, turned his back to Brennan and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

  In the empty office, Brennan felt a twinge of shame creep up on him. He was close to losing the case to Lauder and he knew that wouldn’t look good among his colleagues. Wullie had said there was no way back for you in the force once people started to see you as someone who can’t come up with the goods any more. He had told him about an old hand who had started to lose respect when his wife developed mental illness. Simpson was a respected DI, had worked the big cases like Bible John, had brought in some big faces in his day, but when his wife started walking about the town in her nightie and slippers he was never the same man.

  ‘You know what Simy’s problem was, Rob?’ he’d said.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He lost respect for himself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He got to the stage where he was so worried about what folk were saying about him, that he questioned his own abilities. The mind’s a funny thing, Robbie lad, it’s all about tricking it into believing that you’re the bee’s knees. If you can convince yourself, who else is going to doubt you?’

  Brennan knew Wullie was right. He needed to keep his fears to himself. If he started to show weakness the entire force would be on him like a pack of wolves that had scented blood. There was just no place for self-doubt on the job – it was lethal. He had to be smarter than that, he had to search out other’s weaknesses, Lauder’s, and hold them up to public ridicule.

  He raised the phone, dialled an internal number.

  Ringing.

  It was answered: ‘DS Bryce.’

  ‘Hello, Brycey.’

  ‘Rob, how’s it?’

  ‘Not bad. I hear congratulations are in order.’

  Bryce’s voice quavered: ‘Yeah, we cracked the bastard late last night, full confession.’

  ‘Always good to hear another one’s off the street. Well done, lad.’ Bryce wasn’t a bad bloke, thought Brennan, just a little dim – like a forty-watt bulb to Lauder’s sixty-watt.

  ‘Look, Rob, you’ll have heard about the handover. Got to tell you, it wasn’t my idea, mate.’

  ‘Brycey, don’t worry about it. It’s just that cow playing divide and rule.’

  Bryce’s tone rose: ‘Setting man against man, that’s it.’

  ‘Look, I thought we should have a chat anyway, about the handover, so if you want to grab your boss and head up . . .’

  ‘Can go one better than that: why don’t you join us for a beer tonight? Having a few after work to celebrate.’

  Brennan smiled into the phone. ‘Might just do that. The Bull as usual?’

  ‘Yeah, say about six, seven . . .’

  ‘See you there, Brycey.’

  He hung up.

  As he put down the phone the door to the office was flung open. DC Stevie McGuire stuck his head in. ‘Minister’s on his way, sir. Be here in a half-hour.’

  Chapter 39

  BRENNAN ORDERED McGUIRE TO GO and prepare the interview room; he had a phone call to make. He knew it would have been better to meet face to face with Lynne Thompson, ask her the question he wanted to know about her friend Carly that she had been so reluctant to answer, and it would be clumsy with her mother there on the line, but he had no choice. Time had almost defeated him on the case, and he knew if he didn’t get a result before Lauder took over he was as good as finished.

  Brennan dialled the number.

  The phone started to ring.

  He knew there was no advantage to be gained from showing the Reverend John Donald that he had unearthed a secret, something he and his wife had tried so hard to keep from everyone, the police included, but it would give him something to prod the minister with. And he needed that. Brennan needed to have the minister onside for his next move. Without him, he felt pretty sure that the case was going nowhere; certainly not before Lauder pushed him out.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Thompson, it’s Detective Inspector Rob Brennan.’

  A pause. ‘Oh, hello there.’

  ‘And how are you keeping?’ Brennan loathed the formality of these situations, the small chat; life would be so much more straight forward if everyone just said what they meant.

  ‘I’m well, thanks . . . And you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs Thompson. You’ll no doubt have seen the news.’

  A clearing of throat. Her voice lowered a little: ‘Yes, I saw the, er, news about Mr Sproul.’

  Brennan listened to her intonation carefully – she seemed to have put a stranglehold on her vowels. ‘I think I mentioned on my last visit, about speaking to Lynne again.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  Brennan tugged at the phone line, started to twist it into little kinks. ‘Oh, really.’

  ‘She’s very upset about everything, as you can imagine, Inspector.’

  Brennan cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I can understand that, Mrs Thompson, but I’d like to stress how important your daughter is to our investigation . . . A young girl has been killed and her child is missing. We still have no idea of the whereabouts of . . .’ He suddenly became aware of a silence on the other end of the line that made him wonder if he was speaking to himself. ‘Hello?’


  There was no reply, then, ‘Lynne, here, take the phone.’

  ‘Hello, Lynne . . . Do you remember me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The girl’s voice came loaded with nerves but short on actual words.

  ‘And how have you been keeping?’ Formality again; it irked him.

  ‘Okay, I guess.’

  Brennan dropped the telephone cord, sat upright in his chair. ‘Lynne, I don’t want you to think too hard about what I’m about to ask you, all right?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think, by now, you know there’s nothing you can say that’s going to harm you, or get you into trouble . . .’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘If you are going to think about anything, you need only concern yourself with your best friend, Carly, and her baby, Beth. You knew all about Beth, didn’t you, long before anyone else did?’

  There was a gap on the line. It stretched out too long and Brennan jumped in again: ‘You knew about Beth before Reverend Donald and his wife, didn’t you?’

  The girl’s voice lowered yet further: ‘Yes.’

  Brennan raised his eyes, thanked above. ‘Now, remember what I said: no one can hurt you now, Lynne . . . Peter Sproul was the father, wasn’t he?’

  A gap. Brennan imagined the young girl looking at her mother and then a defiant nod coming. ‘Yes.’

  Brennan scrunched his eyes, and smiled into the receiver. ‘What happened, Lynne? . . . What happened with Carly and Peter Sproul?’

  The young girl started to cry. Brennan felt an enormous guilt for upsetting her. He heard her mother making encouraging noises, then, ‘He . . . he . . . raped her.’

  Brennan froze. The facts of the matter had crossed his mind many times before but hearing them uttered this way somehow gave them more power. ‘Did she tell you about that, Lynne?’

  More tears, sobbing. ‘Yes. More than once. He used to come into her room . . . She told her . . .’ The girl paused.

  Brennan prompted: ‘Carly told her parents – is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘Yes.’