Murder Mile (Di Rob Brennan 2)

by Tony Black

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Tony Black

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Copyright

  About the Book

  In a cold, windswept field on the outskirts of Edinburgh, lies the brutally mutilated body of a young woman. As DI Rob Brennan looks at the tangled mass of limbs and blood, he feels his heart freeze.

  Like Fiona Gow five years earlier, this girl has been strangled with her own stockings, sexually mutilated and her eyes have been gouged out. Is this the work of an Edinburgh Ripper? The press certainly think so.

  Rob Brennan is determined to uncover the truth – however painful that might be. But truth is hard to come by in a world of police rivalries, media hysteria and copycat crime.

  About the Author

  Tony Black is an award-winning journalist who has written for most of the national newspapers. He is the author of Paying for It, Gutted, Loss, Long Time Dead and Truth Lies Bleeding. For more information visit www.tonyblack.net

  Also by Tony Black

  Paying for It

  Gutted

  Loss

  Long Time Dead

  Truth Lies Bleeding

  TONY BLACK

  Murder Mile

  For Cheryl

  (Now I know what all the fuss is about)

  Prologue

  THE CAR ROUNDED the bend a little too fast and the tyres aquaplaned on the wet road; it was enough to send the girls on the back seat from giggles to screams. They were not real screams, more for show, silliness. They were the type of screams that presented themselves after a night of hilarity and heavy drinking. The aim was to keep the boys focused; focused on them. It had the desired effect.

  ‘That’s my hearing gone,’ said Ben.

  The girls giggled again, started to scream again.

  ‘I’m not kidding, that’s me fully deaf now!’

  The driver lowered the revs, dropped speed. The night was wet, the rain had stopped but there was a lot of water sitting in potholes and puddles by the side of the road that splashed up every time the tyres made contact.

  ‘You pulling over?’ said Ben.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re slowing down …’ He had to raise his voice, the girls had started to sing on the back seat now. ‘I’m only saying, if you’re stopping …’

  ‘I’m not stopping … I want to get home.’ Garry nodded to the pair behind them, singing, and now attempting to dance in the confined space.

  Ben turned to face the driver, bunched his brows. ‘Go on, mate, just pull over for a minute or that … I need a slash.’

  Garry frowned, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ben. Can you not wait?’

  Headshakes. ‘Want me to pish in your glove box?’

  Ben started to fiddle with the handle beneath the dashboard, opened the glove box. ‘Maybe there’s an empty bottle in here; mind you, I was never a very good aim … especially after a few pints.’

  Garry snapped, ‘Right. OK.’ He flicked on the indicators, applied the brake. The girls were jolted forward, giggled again as their stretched arms reached out to balance them.

  ‘Whoa … what’s up?’

  ‘We stopping?’

  The car pulled off the road, into a lay-by. It was a deserted stretch, not another car had been seen for miles on this road. There were no houses, not a barn or any other kind of farm building within sight. They were in the wilds, a deserted place, hidden beneath an inky darkness.

  Ben opened his door, ‘Call of nature, ladies.’

  More giggles.

  As he got out of the car Ben put his foot into a deep declivity in the tarred road. His shoe got wet, he shook it, cursed. ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘Hurry up, eh!’ yelled Garry.

  ‘Give me a minute, I just got out.’ As he went, he looked around. It was cold, much colder than he had imagined it would be. It was darker too, there were no street lamps on the country road. He tensed for a moment, then raked fingers through his hair.

  Behind him the girls called for the stereo to be turned up, started singing along to a Rihanna song. They were getting out of the car, beginning to dance as Ben headed to the lay-by’s bourne. When he got to the fence he could make out the girls in the lights of the car; he didn’t want them to see him taking a piss, climbed over the fence. There was a beaten path through the high grass, he followed it.

  The grass was wet, soaking. Ben’s trousers started to dampen, then he felt moisture seeping through to his shins but he walked on; he could still hear the music from the car, the girls singing along. The night air was cold on his face, each breath he took seemed to chill his lungs. He started to rub at his arms as he walked.

  The illuminated hands of Ben’s watch caught the glare of the moon; it wasn’t quite a full moon, but near enough. He could see the outline of the city of Edinburgh – further down the bypass – and the orange fizz of the street lights glowing and flickering like the place was on fire. It was a strange sight; he thought he had seen the city from just about every angle, in every guise, but this was a new one. Ben felt unnerved, uncomfortable in this territory.

  The path petered out and he was suddenly walking in heavy, waist-high grass, then he found the incline of the ground subsiding, his shoes slipping. He looked back, he couldn’t see the car any more – it was above his line of vision. The wind raised his hair as he walked. For a moment he wanted to bolt back to the others; he couldn’t explain the feeling – it was like an unconscious fear of the dark. Like when he was a child and he didn’t want the light to be turned out at bedtime. He wondered what was out there, in the blackness.

  He shook it off, said, ‘Get a grip, Ben.’

  He started to undo the buttons of his fly; the relief was instant.

  ‘Ah, fucking bliss …’

  There was enough light from the reflective mirror of the moon for Ben to see the steam rising from the ground as he emptied his bladder. His arms – bare in only short shirtsleeves – started to feel colder as he stood still. He heard the wind emit a low whistle, then the rustling of branches. He looked around. Where was he? Middle of nowhere. He checked himself, it was a field, some farmer’s pride and joy off some B-road. He didn’t care, though, he just wanted away. He felt spooked there, freaked out. It was too quiet now. Where were the others?

  ‘Guys?’ he called to t
hem.

  Silence.

  He stood still for a minute, then quickly gave himself a shake, started to button up.

  It was too quiet, they wouldn’t have left without him, would they?

  ‘Guys?’

  There was no answer. Thoughts swirled in his mind.

  They were taking the piss, they’d have driven off – it would have been Garry’s idea, to put the shits up him – what a laugh, eh.

  Ben began to jog towards the path; the place looked different facing the other way. His head spun too. He could feel the effects of alcohol rising in him as he jogged. His stomach cramped, his vision blurred. He upped his pace, but soon realised there was no path now. He knew there had been a path, but he couldn’t find it. It was too dark to see, the moon slinking behind amethyst clouds.

  He stumbled.

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  Ben expected to have seen the lights of the car by now, heard the stereo and the girls giggling and dancing, singing along. But he heard nothing.

  What was going on? he thought.

  ‘Where the fuck am I?’

  He called out again, ‘Garry … Steph …’

  Nothing.

  He felt his foot sink into another deep hole. ‘Shit!’

  There was a loud squelch as Ben removed his foot from the soggy ground. He tried to shake off the water, the mud, and then he tried to wipe it on the long grass. As he dragged his foot, he looked about; it was pitch dark. The path he had followed was nowhere to be seen, hidden in the blackness. He knew the others were playing games with him; if they hadn’t driven off, then they were sitting with the lights out and trying hard not to giggle.

  ‘Put the fucking lights on, eh … I’m fucking lost here!’

  There was no reply. His breathing ramped.

  ‘Fuckers.’ As he started off again he continued to curse his friends. The ground was wet and treacherous; he wondered if he would be better staying still but immediately brushed the thought aside in favour of keeping moving. He had managed only another few yards when the cloud covering receded and the moonlight came out again. As he looked ahead to the newly lit field, he stopped still. He felt as if he’d been struck in the chest.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’

  There was a pale, white object sticking out of the ground. It looked familiar to him, but in such an unfamiliar setting he couldn’t be sure.

  Ben slit his eyes, tried to get a better view. The object remained elusive. He edged a step or two closer, tilted his head towards the light but he still couldn’t see it clearly enough. As he took further paces, another cloud passed over the moon and the light weakened once again. His vision diminished and he was suddenly aware of a heady scent. The smell caught in the back of his nostrils and throat, it was like something from the science labs at school, he thought.

  His hand shot up to his mouth, it was an involuntary action. Was he going to gag? he wondered. His stomach grew heavy, he sensed the bile rising. Then the light returned and he was facing two bright yellow eyes.

  Ben’s heart stilled.

  He screamed out.

  The sky brightened some more and the fox he had been staring at took off for the long grass. When he regained his composure he realised the pale, white object he had seen was indeed familiar: it was a woman’s leg.

  ‘Ben, you all right?’ It was Garry.

  ‘Ben … Ben …’ And the girls.

  The car headlights were shone into the field. Ben took another look at the pale, white leg. It was attached to a pale, white body.

  He looked away quickly.

  Ben’s shoulders tensed, his throat constricted.

  As his stomach heaved, he bent over and vomited on the ground.

  Ben was still retching when the girls appeared, running towards him through the lit-up grass.

  ‘Ben … what is it?’

  He tried to straighten himself in time, to stop them from seeing what was there, but he was too late.

  The girls’ loud, frightened screams were for real this time.

  Chapter 1

  THE FLUORESCENT GREEN of the alarm clock stung DI Rob Brennan’s eyes as he awoke, but it was the ringing phone by the bedside that did the real damage. He reached out, knocked it off its cradle and heard it clatter to the ground. His next instinct was to turn round and see if his wife was still asleep beside him, but she wasn’t there; he remembered now.

  Brennan eased himself upright, leaned over the edge of the bed and retrieved the receiver; his voice rasped as he spoke, ‘Yes, Brennan.’

  ‘Hello, sorry to wake you …’ It was DS Stevie McGuire – the lad still hadn’t learned how to handle him, thought Brennan. He didn’t like people who opened conversations with the word ‘sorry’.

  ‘What is it?’

  The line crackled a little. There was a pause, Stevie preparing his words carefully – he knew that much then. ‘Boss, there’s been a call …’

  ‘There better have been more than a bloody call if you’re getting me out of my kip at this hour, Stevie.’

  The DS coughed gently, was he thinking of another apology? ‘Yes, well … There was a call and we had uniform check it out. By all accounts it’s not pretty.’

  Brennan’s interest was aroused. He massaged the back of his neck with his hand and then he rose from the bed, walked towards the window and stuck his fingers in the blinds. It was still dark out. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The early reports are a female, looks sexually motivated.’

  ‘Have you been to the scene?’ Brennan knew he hadn’t; if he had he wouldn’t be relaying the uniforms’ report. He was reaching, making assumptions.

  ‘No.’ Stevie sounded defensive now. ‘The victim’s half naked, bound and tied.’

  ‘So it looks sexually motivated, Stevie.’ He let the implication hang.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Brennan removed his fingers from the blinds, turned towards the bed. The wind outside worried the window latch. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Just off the bypass … Straiton will be about the nearest if you’re mapping it.’

  ‘She’s in the wilds?’

  McGuire’s tone softened, he seemed to be relaxing again. ‘A field … The boffins are setting up, or on their way there now.’

  Brennan gouged a knuckle into his eye, rubbed. He was awake now, but not fully functioning. It was cold in the room, it would be colder outside; the chill air would wake him, he thought, if the job didn’t get there first. ‘OK, Stevie, pick me up in fifteen.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He hung up.

  Brennan returned the phone to its cradle and looked at the pillow lying beside his; it didn’t look slept on. His thoughts zigzagged for a moment. He turned away, flicked the light switch on, immediately his eyes creased in a defensive move as the shadeless bulb burned. He let his vision adjust for a moment or two and then he headed towards the wardrobe. He stood firm footed as he tried to grasp what his next move should be. He grabbed the first shirt he came to – pale blue, button-down collar – and matched it with the first pair of trousers he found – grey, chino-style – they had been put away with the belt still in the loops and were saggy kneed; he dressed quickly.

  In the bathroom the strip light was even brighter. Brennan ran a cold palm down his chin but knew a shave, even a quick run over with the electric razor, was out of the question. He looked at his stubble, it had started to lighten, there were white spikes poking through; he wondered why the greying hadn’t reached the hair on his head yet. In a moment the passing thought was expunged from his mind; he had more serious matters to consider now. The demands of the job always came first and he felt vaguely guilty to have let himself forget that, even for a second. There was a woman lying dead in a field – that was his focus now.

  Outside the bathroom, Brennan stood in the top landing staring at his daughter’s bedroom door. A light flickered on the inch or so of exposed jamb – she had fallen asleep with the television on again. He’d told her about that a doze
n times but had always been ignored. He sighed; there was another talk he needed to have with Sophie – one he didn’t want to have – and he wondered how she would react.

  Brennan grabbed his jacket and overcoat from the banister, headed downstairs. He looked at his watch as he went, it read 3:42. McGuire would be arriving in under five minutes. In the hallway outside the kitchen door Brennan put on his jacket, fastened the buttons, then fitted himself into his overcoat. He felt bulky as he thrashed about looking for his cigarettes. He tried all his pockets; they weren’t there.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he mumbled.

  Brennan turned the handle on the kitchen door, walked in. He saw his wife straight away; she was sitting with her face towards the wall, smoking one of his cigarettes. He looked at her for a moment, tried to discern some kind of meaning from the tableau but could find none.

  ‘Joyce …’

  She had heard him come in, couldn’t have failed to, but she refused to acknowledge him. He stared on, she was still for a moment longer and then she brought the filter tip of the cigarette up to her lips and inhaled deeply. Brennan continued watching her for a few seconds longer and then retreated through the door, closing it gently.

  In the hallway, he shook his head and made for the front door. He opened up and stepped outside. At the end of the driveway Brennan felt his mind jam with incoming thoughts, none of them aligned with what he knew he should be occupying himself with. Was this the way it was going to be now? Day after day fading into one another, into insignificance. Did nothing matter any more? Certainly nothing he did made a difference. Every emotion he felt was pastiche – a throwback to childhood or adolescence when feelings meant something, indicated a mood shift or a new sensation. There were no new sensations in adulthood. Nothing was new. All that was left was the husk of experience. Life was drudge. Endless routine. It took something painful – the shock of hurt, tears – to bring back the unsettling realisation that you could still feel.

  Brennan wondered if this was why he stayed in the job. It certainly wasn’t the rewards. There was no satisfaction – even capturing a killer and seeing justice served came after the event, after the killing. He could never do anything about that. His job was making sense of the mess, sweeping up after it; but never halting anything. He saved no one. If he knew this, understood this, then what did that make him: a ghoul? Did he simply get off on witnessing other people’s hurt? Did it make him feel more alive – just alive, in any way – to be so close to death and to people’s encounters with death?