by Tony Black
Brennan entered first, called out: ‘Police!’
He checked the doors, left and right, a cupboard and a grimy bathroom. At the end of the narrow hallway was a dark room; he flicked the light switch and a bare bulb burned in the centre of the ceiling. He saw a filthy mattress in the middle of the floor, and a doorway leading to a small kitchen. He nodded Collins towards the kitchen, ‘Check it out.’
Brennan looked over the mattress, it was stained and worn; empty condom packets and cigarette stubs lined its edges. He shook his head.
‘All clear, sir … Stinks of disinfectant.’
‘Oh, really …’ The DI walked towards the kitchen; it looked scrubbed, quite a contrast to the rest of the flat. ‘Get the SOCOs up here, Collins.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The DS removed his radio.
One of the uniforms had moved from the stairwell to the living room of the flat, he walked to the edge of the mattress and addressed Brennan. ‘Sir, there’s an old dear out here says the girl hasn’t been in today.’
‘That would be because she’s up in Straiton, son.’
The uniform lowered his head, looked at his shoes.
‘I’ll have a word with her.’
Brennan followed the uniform back to the landing, the door to the flat next door stood open now. A woman in her bad sixties stood with a tabby cat in her arms, stroking its back. The cat purred like a Geiger counter.
‘Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Brennan.’
The old woman’s voice was reedy and high, ‘Are you here about the noise? … Oh, the noise from that place was unbearable … I told them, you know.’
‘Them?’
‘The pair of them … Her and her fancy-man.’
Brennan put his hands in his pockets, tilted his head towards the open door he’d just walked through. ‘There were two occupants of this flat?’
‘Well, originally there was only the one, the girl.’
‘That would be Angela Mickle?’
‘I’ve no idea what her name was; she had a foul mouth, we never spoke.’
‘And the other … The fancy-man?’
The woman removed her hand from the cat’s back, raised a finger, ‘Ah, now he was called Henderson. I know that because there was a tremendous scuffle on the landing outside the flat one day and he was bellowed at by another man … I think it was over money.’
‘Henderson, that was the name he used? You’re sure about that?’
The cat opened its eyes and stopped purring; it was a cue for the old woman to recommence the stroking of its back. ‘Quite sure, Inspector.’
Brennan confirmed the uniform had taken a note of the name, returned his gaze to the woman, ‘And when did this Henderson fellow move into the flat?’
‘Oh, not long ago … Hardly any time at all. But my goodness, the rows, day and night.’ She thinned her eyes, squinted beyond Brennan’s shoulder, ‘Has there been some sort of bother?’
The DI removed his hand from his pocket, touched the old woman’s elbow, said, ‘Thank you very much, love … That’ll be all. If you could just give your details to the officer, I’d appreciate that a great deal.’
Brennan edged back towards the flat. Collins was putting away his radio as he entered the living room. ‘Well?’
‘Get back on that …’ said the DI.
‘What for?’
‘Ask the station to check on any ex-cons called Henderson released in the last few weeks.’
Collins removed the radio again, held it before his mouth, but spoke to Brennan. ‘Who’s this, boss?’
‘Likely our man … He was staying here,’ Brennan waved a hand over the carnage of the room, ‘I don’t think you could call it living.’
Collins spoke into the radio, relayed Brennan’s request and then held the hand-piece clear of his ear whilst he waited for a reply. ‘So, he’s a scrote?’
‘By the sounds of it … A scrote that owes someone money too.’
‘Money?’
Brennan looked around the room, picked at the peeling plaster on one of the walls. ‘According to the neighbour there was a scuffle on the stairs … Sounds like Henderson was being noised-up for money.’
The radio crackled; Collins spoke into the hand-piece: ‘Go ahead.’
The operator’s voice came through a cloud of static: ‘Only one … Neil Henderson released from Saughton; in for aggravated assault.’
Brennan nodded, ‘That’ll do us.’
‘Thanks,’ said Collins. ‘Can you pull the files and drop them in Incident Room One?’ He clicked off, turned to face Brennan. ‘So what now, sir?’
‘We punt Neil Henderson’s face to the wooden tops …’
‘And what about us, sir?’
Brennan started to fasten his coat, walk towards the open door. ‘Well, you’re coming with me. To check a few traps?’
Collins called out, ‘Come again?’
‘He’s in hock …’ said Brennan. ‘And I don’t think it’s to the Royal Bank, do you?’
Collins smiled, ‘I hear you.’
Brennan’s quick footsteps made a steady repeating beat on the stone steps as the officers descended the stairs. A number of doors that were being held slightly ajar were closed tight as the officers came into view. Brennan smiled to himself and allowed a note of optimism to seep into his thoughts. He had a lead, a name. He’d been there before though, nothing could ever be taken for granted. But something told him that he now held information that was useful. The DI couldn’t quite see where this Henderson character fitted into the overall scheme of things, but that was often the way an investigation went. What was opaque often became transparent only after a few shakes of the dice. He knew Henderson was no serial killer, that was for sure; the chaotic nature of his lifestyle didn’t fit with Lorrimer’s profile and, unless he was very much mistaken, he was dealing with a diminutive intelligence; how else could he account for the fact that he was confident he would have him in custody before the day was out.
On the street, some pigeons scratching for scraps on the paving flags scattered when Brennan and Collins appeared. As the pair headed for the Passat, the DI called out, ‘Chuck me the keys over, eh.’
‘You driving, boss?’
‘Oh, I think so …’
Collins removed the keys from his trouser pocket, lobbed them towards the Inspector. ‘So, where’s first on our shady loanshark hit-list?’
Brennan pointed the keyring at the car; the blinkers flashed on then off, ‘Well, I’m all for starting at the top … Where’s Boaby Stevens hole up these days?’
Collins nodded, ‘Shaky … Still the Wheatsheaf, isn’t it?’
‘Well, let’s go and give him a wee rumble, eh.’
Chapter 43
AS DI ROB BRENNAN walked into the interview room, Neil Henderson turned his eyes towards the blank wall and sighed. DS Stevie McGuire entered after Brennan and slapped a blue folder down on the table: as he did so, a gust of dry air swept past Henderson catching his fringe. The sergeant removed a chair, dragged its legs across the floor as he kept a firm gaze on Henderson. When the chair was positioned adjacent to the interviewee, McGuire sat down and crossed his legs. He smiled at Henderson and then turned to Brennan and let out a wry laugh. The DI smiled back, walked to the other side of the desk and placed his hands either side of the folder; he tilted his head up to face Henderson and spoke, ‘Well, well, Neil … Not had much luck have we?’
‘Get fucked!’ said Henderson.
Brennan turned over the folder and looked at the top page, scanned insouciantly. ‘Quite a record you’ve got here.’
‘I want a fag,’ said Henderson.
‘A fag … Tell me, Stevie, isn’t that what they call arse-rape inside these days?’
McGuire sneered, ‘I think so … That’s where he’s going anyway.’
‘For sure and certain …’
Henderson leaned forward, extended his index finger and waved it at the officers, ‘You pair can both fuck off …’
Henderson stared at the packet of cigarettes. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean, it took me under an hour to find you … You’ve no friends left in this town. If you ever had any.’
Henderson tapped his chest, ‘I’ve got friends.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Brennan. ‘And was Angela Mickle one of them?’
‘Listen, you’re not pinning that on me …’
Brennan knew he was engaged in a delicate balancing act. He was sure Henderson was responsible for Angela Mickle’s death, but he didn’t know how or why. The SOCOs’ initial search of the flat had not turned up anything, but it was early enough for that to change. Still, without a definite link or a confession, the case against him was slight at the moment. Brennan knew he could pressure Henderson, make him sweat out a confession, but there was another matter to consider, two matters in fact: the deaths of Fiona Gow and Lindsey Sloan. The DI couldn’t explain why Angela Mickle’s death had been made to look like the others but he felt sure the postmortem would confirm his suspicions that he was dealing with a copy-cat killer. If Henderson was simply trying to cover his murdering of Angela Mickle by making it look like the work of someone else, Brennan would gleefully drag that confession straight from his throat, but the thought, the possibility, that Henderson was in some way connected to the other girls’ killer couldn’t be ignored.
‘Someone killed her, Hendy,’ said Brennan.
‘Look, I didn’t do it!’ He slapped his fist off the table, the papers in the blue folder shook. ‘And you’re not going to get me to say that I did.’
‘Who would want to harm Angela, then?’
Henderson huffed. ‘I’m saying nothing.’
Brennan turned to McGuire, then back to Henderson. ‘Why not? You think someone’s going to come to your rescue? No way, you’re the only one we’ve got down for this, Hendy.’
‘Then you’re not doing your job right, are you?’
McGuire got out of his seat, walked around Henderson and picked up the packet of Embassy Regal. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards Henderson as he spoke, ‘Sounds to me like you know something that you’re not letting on about, Hendy.’
He turned, put a stare on McGuire. He tapped his chest as he spoke, ‘I know lots of things. Fucking loads.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Brennan. ‘Well, tell us something.’
Henderson turned away from McGuire; his eyes widened as he took in Brennan, then he dipped his gaze towards the cigarettes. ‘Can I have one of them?’
‘Go ahead …’
Henderson took the packet of Embassy Regal, withdrew a cigarette and tucked it in his mouth. McGuire brought the lighter’s flame towards the cigarette and lit him up. ‘Look, I’m not saying I know who did it or that, I’m not a fucking grass … But, what you were asking there, about who’d want to harm, Ange …’ he paused.
‘Go on,’ said Brennan.
Henderson took a deep pull on the cigarette, took the smoke down into his lungs and held it there. As he spoke, the smoke escaped on his words, ‘A little while back, right, I found something …’
‘Found what?’ said Brennan.
Henderson leaned forward, drew on the cigarette again, lowered his voice. ‘It was … a diary.’
‘Whose diary?’
‘Well whose do you think? … Ange’s.’
Brennan creased his brows, ‘And why would I want to know about a brass’s diary?’
Henderson shook his head, laughed. ‘You fucking pigs, you just don’t get it do you?’
‘I don’t think we do, Hendy,’ said McGuire.
‘No, maybe you should explain it to us,’ said Brennan.
Henderson leaned back in the chair, he crossed his leg, raised his ankle and sat it on his knee. His white sports socks showed beneath his trouser leg. ‘That diary, right, was all about a certain … individual.’
‘And?’
‘And … Well, that individual is the one that you should be asking the questions to.’
Brennan put his elbows on the desk, exhaled into his balled hands. ‘Who are we talking about, Hendy?’
‘I’m saying nothing more …’ he flicked ash from his cigarette, ‘nothing more, you’ll have to read the diary. Surprised you haven’t already, it’s in the flat, under the bed isn’t it.’
Brennan closed the folder in front of him and looked towards McGuire; the DS stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. As he rose, Brennan kept his tone low and serious, ‘OK, Hendy, we’ll check out this diary. But if this is stalling, you’re not going to be doing yourself any favours.’
He shook his head, laughed. ‘Fuck off the pair of you.’
Brennan and McGuire left the interview room. In the corridor, Brennan turned to the DS, said, ‘What do you make of that?’
‘He’s very sure of himself.’
‘Sure of himself … He’s acting like he’s fucking bullet proof.’
‘Or nuts.’
Brennan scratched behind his ear, ‘Well, he’s that all right. Look, get the SOCOs to check for this diary; if they turn anything up, give it a look and get back to me … I’ve got some other stuff to check on.’
McGuire tapped his forehead, ‘OK, boss.’
Brennan turned for the stairs; as he glanced out the window, a butyric sun melted on the rooftops. He took a moment to eye the scene, felt somehow calmed by the sight of a neon-red sky fading into the limitless distance. The world seemed to hold possibilities again; only a few short hours ago he had despaired, wondered if he would ever fit the puzzle together. He knew he was still some way from a resolution, but there was a peaceful, quiet feeling that came from having Neil Henderson in custody. Brennan couldn’t explain it, it wasn’t instinctual – optimistic, perhaps – but he felt a level of ease to have removed him from the streets. He knew he hadn’t made the city a safer place – there would be a hundred others waiting to step into Henderson’s place – but there was an assured feeling of release, relief.
Brennan ascended the remaining stairs and headed for Incident Room One; as he opened the door he nodded to the first person he saw, WPC Elaine Docherty.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Elaine … Any news on the postmortem?’
She touched the sleeve of her shirt, loaded the request in her mind, said, ‘Erm, I haven’t heard … Will I give the morgue a call?’
Brennan heard the door’s hinges sing out, turned to look behind him as Lou and Bri walked in. ‘Yes, Elaine, call the morgue.’ He turned to the others, ‘Right … My office, now!’
Lou was removing his coat, ‘Can I catch my breath first, sir?’
‘No you fucking can’t! … Office, now.’ He pointed down to the other end of the room, stretched out his stride. As he walked, Brennan looked left to right, took in the level of activity, said, ‘Right, come on you lot, we’ve got plenty to be getting on with now, I don’t want to see anyone twiddling their fucking thumbs!’ A blast of electricity ignited the room, seemed to jolt bodies into action. Brennan clapped his hands to gee-up the team.
In his small glassed-off office the DI suddenly felt cramped; he looked out to the reddening sky and the setting sun and felt the confinement more keenly. He turned away from the window, pulled out his chair and balanced his elbows on the desk. He was lacing his fingers into an arc as Lou and Bri appeared. ‘Right, sit down,’ he said. ‘And tell me about Mr Gow’s visit to the station.’
Bri was first to lower himself into the office chair, he thinned his eyes into tiny apertures as Lou sat, began to talk; he spoke in generalities, his speech as discursive and rambling as a child’s.
Brennan raised a hand, ‘Lou, for fuck’s sake, I don’t want to go all around the houses …’
Bri cut in, ‘I think, what Lou’s
trying to say, boss, is that Mr Gow never really gave us very much.’
Brennan lowered his head, stared at the desk for a moment. He was still facing the laminated desktop as he spoke again, ‘Look, didn’t you get the folder I sent in?’
Lou lit up, ‘Oh, aye … Well, we got that all right.’
‘And?’ said Brennan, raising his head.
‘Fiona Gow did gymnastics, but we knew that, right?’ Lou turned to Bri; the DS was turning over pages in a spiral-bound notebook.
‘Erm, here we are,’ said Bri, ‘said she had champion potential … Well, her coach did, a Mr Crawley.’
Brennan felt his stomach tense, the muscles tightened like a cincture that sent a spasm all the way to his throat. ‘What did you say?’
‘What?’ said Bri.
‘The coach, Fiona Gow’s gymnastics coach … What was his name?’
Bri returned to his notebook, inflated his chest and exhaled slowly. ‘Let me see … Crawley.’
The DI absorbed the information like a blotter. He leaned back in his chair, raised his leg, resting his foot on an open drawer. ‘Are you saying we are just getting this information now? … What I mean to say is, Jim Gallagher never flagged this earlier?’
Bri turned to Lou; the pair seemed to be confused by Brennan’s reaction. Lou spoke, ‘No, boss … at least, it wasn’t in the file.’
Brennan rose, turned away from the others. He stood before the window and leaned over, placing his hands on the ledge. Clouds crossed the sky and the dying rays of the sun laced together in a liquid, bouncing light. The scene seemed to distract him, he couldn’t focus. As he closed his eyes, tightened his facial muscles, he felt assailed by an army of possibilities – the chief being Gallagher must have known Crawley was now teaching at Edinburgh High, which was Lindsey Sloan’s school. He thought back to their first encounter in the Sloans’ home after Lindsey’s death: Crawley had said she wasn’t one of his pupils; but there was still the possibility of contact if he had been her gymnastics coach. The implications were obvious, but Gallagher’s actions remained a mystery to him.
