by Tony Black
Brennan swayed on the balls of his feet, pinched the tip of his nose with thumb and forefinger. ‘They never saw anything on the road … car, punter, fucking milk-float?’
‘Not a thing, boss.’
‘Right, Brian … you’re up,’ said Brennan, he pointed to the DS, clapped hands together. ‘Come on, chop-chop, eh.’
Brian rose, ‘I just checked with Dr Pettigrew about an hour ago, the postmortem’s not been done yet.’
‘What?’
Brian shrugged, ‘He’s due in later on … I tried to tell him you wouldn’t be pleased.’
‘Fucking right I’m not … So, is that it?’
Brennan watched Jim Gallagher get up and walk back to the door, he was putting a cigarette in his mouth as he went, mouthed a silent ‘Catch you later’ to the DI. Brennan scanned the rest of the room, looking for a grain of information.
‘Un-fucking-believable. Right, who’s doing the door-to-door?’
McGuire looked in his file, ‘Smeeton’s heading it up. He’s out now. Still early days yet, boss.’
Brennan frowned, ‘Try telling that to the press office when the hacks start on us … Call Smeeton, tell him to update us on the hour, sooner if he turns anything up. And that goes for the rest of you as well, anything comes in I do not want to hear about it second hand. Got it?’
Together, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Right, that’s it. Off you trot.’
Brennan walked towards the whiteboard at the other end of the room. Some pictures the SOCOs had taken had been stuck up there; he removed the photograph of Lindsey Sloan from the file McGuire held and stuck it beside the others. He was writing her name beside the picture when McGuire spoke.
‘Pretty girl?’
Brennan nodded, placed the cap back on the pen. ‘What was Jim Gallagher after?’
McGuire shrugged. ‘Search me.’
‘Let me know if he starts sniffing about, I don’t want him big-footing us.’
McGuire ran a thumb over his chin, ‘Is that likely?’
‘He’s a glory hunter isn’t he. Find out what he’s working on and let me know, eh.’
McGuire nodded. ‘Aye, sure.’
‘And whilst you’re at it I want you to get hold of a profiler.’
‘OK, we’re owed a favour by Northern, I’ll get them to send down McClymont.’
Brennan shook his head, ‘No I want Joe Lorrimer.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s Strathclyde. They might not owe us any favours, though.’
McGuire creased back the corners of his mouth. ‘Benny won’t like it coming out our budget.’
‘Fuck Benny,’ said Brennan. ‘I’ll deal with him in my own way.’
Chapter 8
DI ROB BRENNAN knew people didn’t like you when you were police. When they found out, they were over cautious around you. They’d hold back, make jokes about watching what they said; but they weren’t joking. The job followed you everywhere, and when someone knew what and who you were their attitude changed. It was always perceptible – pointed, blatant. There were some officers in the ranks who became different people out of uniform, off duty. They changed their personalities and became like class clowns, over eager to please, joking and affecting a false bonhomie. It never helped, thought Brennan, it worsened the situation. People were instinctively wary and raised their guards higher, they thought you were trying to inveigle some useful information out of them or, worse, catch them out.
This was something they never told you about at the training academy; they told you how to think, feel and react on the job, to get the end product they wanted, but the toll the job took on the individual didn’t concern them. Training was pointless, there were some aspects of the job you just couldn’t be taught. Brennan remembered a spell on traffic as a young uniform, he was with another new recruit, a young woman from Stirling called Elsie. They were supposed to be no more than a speeding deterrent, it was a confidence builder for the pair of them – out on their own without a senior officer, free of the buddy system for the first time.
An old Cortina had come haring over the brow of a hill.
‘Jesus, look at the speed of him,’ said Elsie.
Brennan had run to the side of the road instinctively, ‘He’s going to hit that truck if he doesn’t straighten up.’
There was a stationary row of traffic on the other side of the hill and the Cortina veered from side to side when the brakes were applied.
Elsie raised her voice, ‘Rob, he’s going to hit it!’
Brennan felt helpless, what could he do? Suddenly there was a loud thud, a dull noise, a dunt. Not what he had expected. The Cortina connected with the rear of the dump-truck which shuddered slightly but remained largely unmoved.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Elsie, her voice was a shrill wail.
The pair of them jogged to the site of the collision; the driver of the truck was getting out of his cab as Brennan arrived first.
‘Stay inside, sir.’
Brennan saw the two front wheels of the Cortina raised off the ground, the front end of the vehicle was wrapped round the axle of the dump-truck like tinfoil. About a quarter of the bonnet had survived, the windscreen had been destroyed; at least that’s what Brennan’s first thought was.
As he got closer to the car, he saw the driver was still in the front seat, but he could see now that the windscreen had not shattered, it had popped out and severed the driver’s head clear from his shoulders. The driver’s torso, though intact, was showered in bright blood. On the back seat his head had come to rest in a pool of crimson.
‘No. No.’ Elsie appeared behind him, became hysterical.
‘It’s OK.’ Brennan didn’t know what to say. She was in shock. He turned her away from the car. ‘Don’t look, don’t look.’
But she had looked, she had seen a severed head, doused in a profusion of blood, the arteries of the neck still pumping it out. Brennan remembered Elsie now, she was barely twenty at the time. She left the force soon after. As he recalled the accident he knew there were some things no one should have to see, and knew he had seen more than his fair share of them.
‘This is the worst part of the job,’ said McGuire.
Brennan turned in his seat; they were coming into Pilrig. ‘I can think of worse.’
McGuire flitted eyes towards the DI, seemed to be assessing him. He quickly returned his gaze to the road, negotiated a speed bump. ‘Well, what I mean is …’
Brennan cut in, ‘I know, Stevie, it’s not a favourite task of mine.’
‘There just never seem to be the right words.’
‘To tell a parent their child is dead … no, there never are the right words.’
It was one of those unseen aspects of the job, the kind of thing that Brennan had done a thousand times without blinking. There was no way of knowing how to conduct yourself in such situations, he had seen parents fold, crumple, dissolve before his eyes and he had seen others react with utter disbelief. Some had even laughed, thought it was a joke. No two were the same. They all required a different approach, it was about looking into their eyes and delivering the worst piece of news they had ever encountered and understanding that any reaction – even violence – was justified. There was no training manual that could teach you how to do it.
Brennan knew his world – life on the force – was tough, aggressive. It was the pressure of policing, it caused those on the job to change whatever they were before they joined up and become like the rest. It was the culture, but it was a self-defence mechanism too. You smoked, drank, cursed and talked crudely, acted aggressively because that’s how the people that inhabited this world acted. The stress levels rose, the tension rose, and you had to find a way of releasing the valve that held them inside.
What continued to surprise Brennan, the longer he was on the force, was the sympathy, the heartfelt sorrow that officers showed those in grief; it affected those on the force every bit as much as the family. Even old hands, those who had
learned to compartmentalise the job, showed their hurt, their disgust, from time to time. Grief could seep out over a pint or after revealing the death to the victim’s family, but the abreact came and, when it did, it drew a squad closer together. The family’s pain touched you, became your pain.
Brennan knew that another family’s hurt was about to become his own. It was a perverse form of vicarious sadism, to know that he was about to share the burden of strangers’ misery, worse was to know he had done it before and continued to do it. How could he remain human, how could he continue to function? At times like this, the job was a test of sanity. He could halt his reaction, lock it away and forget about it. But he knew he was kidding himself, it would still be there, and would surface at some moment when he was unawares. It didn’t matter how it was triggered, over a crossword puzzle, a familiar patch of carpet that reminded him of the victim’s home, it didn’t matter, it would be waiting, and that was that.
‘Over here,’ Brennan pointed to a small end-terrace house on the road McGuire had just turned into. The garden was neatly tended and the property looked to have been well cared for, one of the few in the street. ‘One with the silver Corolla outside.’
‘I see it,’ said McGuire. He pulled up behind the car.
Brennan nodded, released his seatbelt. ‘Well, we can be glad the press haven’t got here before us.’
McGuire tutted, ‘We’re ahead of the posse for now you mean.’
In the street two teenage boys kicked an empty can of Cally Special between themselves, they laughed loudly as they went; the noise from the can and their laughter rattled up and down the street. Brennan looked at them in their skinny jeans, arse cheeks on show beneath exposed underwear and then he looked at the Sloans’ house. He approached the pair, adopted a gruff tone, said, ‘Pack that clatter in.’
The boys stopped still, turned to each other and passed a long stare between them; one of them kicked the can again. Brennan produced his warrant card, closed in on the teenager. ‘Pull your head in, son, or I might be tempted to run you in.’
The boy flicked his long fringe, sparked up, ‘What for?’
Brennan jutted his head forward, ‘Insulting a police officer, jaywalking, having ginger hair or cheek and bloody impudence … the choices are endless. Tempt me.’
The boy swept back his fringe, pushed his friend roughly to the side; they stropped off towards the other end of the street. Brennan watched them go – waited for the inevitable single-digit salute – then walked towards the house. McGuire was already at the gate, holding it open with an outstretched arm. He tipped his head towards the DI, said, ‘Ready for this, sir?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
The doorbell chimed, a dog barked behind the frosted glass. It was a small dog, the white blur of its outline was seen at their feet as the door was opened by a man in his fifties. His hair was grey and wiry, sitting flat on his crown but sticking out from behind his ears. His skin looked mottled, he seemed tired, like he hadn’t slept for days.
He coughed, then, ‘Yes.’
Brennan showed his card again, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brennan and this is my colleague, DS McGuire … may we come in and talk to you?’
At once the man shrunk before them, his knees seemed to have buckled. ‘Oh, Jesus. God, no.’
Brennan reached out, steadied him with a hand on his elbow. ‘It would be best if we came inside.’
The man turned slowly, there was a call from further in the house, a woman’s voice. ‘Davie, who is it?’
He didn’t answer, merely led the officers through the narrow corridor to the living room. Brennan took in the surrounds, it was a small house, nothing flash, but had been well taken care of. The carpets were new and the furnishings didn’t look to be that old; in some of these council properties the décor was like stepping back in time. It said a lot about the family, he thought. They cared about appearances, and those that cared how they looked often cared what was said about them in such neighbourhoods; of course it could just be that they thought they were a cut above the rest. One wage, never mind two, was a rarity in these homes.
‘What’s this?’ A woman was standing in the middle of the floor, she drew her cardigan tight. On the couch behind her sat a man in a tracksuit and trainers. The man who had answered the door went to her side, placed an arm around her.
‘It’s the police, love.’
She shook her head, said, ‘No. It’s not my Lindsey … Have you found her?’
‘It would be better if you sat down, Mrs Sloan,’ said Brennan.
The man in the tracksuit stood up. He was a thin, angular man with outsized hands that sliced the air like rotor blades as he showed he was holding some papers, said, ‘I should probably be on my way now, Mrs Sloan.’ He fumbled with the papers, looked unsure of what to do with them, then bunched them together and placed them on the couch behind him. He seemed at a loss now his large hands were empty, stood rubbing them together in front of Brennan and McGuire.
Mr Sloan spoke, ‘That’s fine, Mr Crawley.’ He turned to the officers standing in his living room. ‘This is, I’m sorry I don’t know your first name …’
‘Colin …’
Mr Sloan took his lead, ‘Colin is from Lindsey’s old school … The kids were putting out posters, with her picture and, well …’ He lost all enthusiasm for his explanation, exhaled slowly, turned to his wife. Mrs Sloan’s lower lip trembled, her husband guided her to a chair, eased her into it. He watched her for a moment, ran a palm over her back and then went to the window ledge and removed a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
Brennan shook his head.
‘It’s a terrible business,’ said Mr Crawley. He continued rubbing his hands, seemed suddenly conscious of the action, then stopped abruptly and placed them in the pockets of his tracksuit. ‘She was never one of my pupils but the school is a small community and when we heard, well, the kids wanted to do something.’ He turned to the couch, leaned over and picked up one of the small posters the pupils had been sticking up in the neighbourhood. ‘They designed them themselves.’ He held it out.
Brennan looked at the man for a moment then reached out a hand to take the poster. He was from Edinburgh High; Brennan knew the school well – his daughter went there – the thought brought the Sloans’ grief even closer to home. ‘Thank you.’
Mr Crawley smiled and nodded, made his way to the door, said, ‘I’ll see myself out, Mrs Sloan. God bless.’
Brennan watched him leave the room, thought about questioning him but knew this wasn’t the time or place; he waited for the sound of the front door closing, the room seemed to bristle with energy. The Sloans focused on the DI as he spoke, ‘I’m afraid I have some very distressing news for you.’
The woman cried out, ‘Oh, no.’
The man watched her lower her head into her hands and sob. ‘Is it … Lindsey?’
Brennan nodded, ‘We found the body of a young woman that we believe to be your daughter this morning.’
The woman started to rock gently on her chair, the man approached her, placed a hand on her head. She buried her face in his side and gripped him round the waist. He continued to pat the back of her head. ‘What happened?’
Brennan caught McGuire’s gaze shifting to meet his, he turned back to the man. ‘We’re still trying to ascertain that; there will be a postmortem later today, or tomorrow.’
The word seemed to pass a bolt through the woman, she sobbed uncontrollably.
The man raised his cigarette to his lips, his face was firm, stoic. ‘I don’t understand. Why?’ He shook his head, ‘I mean, who would want to …’ He looked down towards his sobbing wife, started to rub her back again. His eyes grew red and moist.
Brennan knew they needed time to take in the information. ‘Is there anything we can do … Someone we can call maybe?’
‘No. We’re all that’s left.’
Brennan rose, ‘When you feel ready, I’d appreciate it if you’d get in t
ouch,’ he removed a card from his pocket, passed it to the man, ‘there are one or two formalities.’
He took the card, stared at it. ‘I just don’t understand.’
Brennan stepped back, ‘When you’re ready, just give me a call. I can have you collected.’ He motioned McGuire to the door. ‘Please, we’ll see ourselves out.’ He stalled for a moment as McGuire passed through the door; the man was still holding out his card, staring at him. ‘I’m just so very sorry for your loss, Mr Sloan.’
Outside Brennan removed a packet of Embassy Regal, lit up. He walked to the end of the garden path, closed the gate delicately behind him and peered back into the Sloans’ little home. He knew their lives would never be the same, he felt a hollowness open up inside him as though he’d been presented with all his sins. As he walked back to the car he began to feel queasy, the whole situation weighed on his heart.
‘Everything OK, boss?’ said McGuire.
Brennan closed the car door, inhaled deep on his cigarette. ‘I want everything there is to know about Lindsey Sloan.’
Chapter 9
DI ROB BRENNAN chose to remain silent on the drive back to Fettes Police Station. He had allowed himself a rare moment of introspection after revealing to the Sloans that their daughter was dead. He felt their grief, but didn’t want to lug it around with him. There was sympathy and there was empathy; the latter meant taking on too much of the grief and he needed to keep a clear head if he was to catch their daughter’s killer. Though he knew it wasn’t healthy, he locked away the meeting with the Sloans; he would address his true feelings about what had happened at a later date. Of that he had no doubt.
When they reached the station Brennan realised he was holding the stub of a cigarette he had forgotten to smoke; it had burnt down to the filter tip and there was a dusting of ash on his trouser leg. He quickly brushed it off, placed the dowp in the ashtray as McGuire parked up.
‘What now?’ said the DS once he’d stopped the car, removed the key from the ignition.
